A discussion with my colon regarding a 4 pound steak dinner.

Note: I've named my colon "Bob the Bolus" for reasons that are ridiculous and would take far too long to explain. Ed.



(Driving across the Texas panhandle heading into Amarillo for the night. Bob senses our rough location)



Bob: Excuse me, but are we heading into Amarillo?"
Me: "Um, yes...

Bob: Because why?
Me: Because I'm tired and hungry

Bob: And where praytell are you planning on eating?
Me: I thought maybe a little local steakhouse I know about

Bob: THE BIG TEXAN STEAK HOUE?????
Me: Um, yeah, is that ok?

Bob: HELL NO IT'S NOT OK!!
Me: Please? i promise i'll be carefull,

Bob: Yeah right, that's what you said last time
Me: Well, i got caught up in the moment

Bob: Moment hell, you had every intention of ordering that monster
Me: Ok, ok, I am very sorry, promise

Bob: Too late for that apology shit, I was in colon ICU for a week
Me: Yes, trust me, I remember every single cramp.

Bob: Well let me tell you something pendejo, you order that 4 pound steak this time and those cramps will be the least of your worries. I'll make you suffer like you won't believe. I'm talking a week before your first trip to the throne, I swear.
Me: But some of the other guys are doing it, why can't I?

Bob: BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT'S WHY.
Me: You always say that.

Bob: I have to because you are too stupid to make your own responsible decisions.
Me: Ok, can I assume that you are gonna order for me?

Bob: You damn straight I am.
(A few minutes later after being seated)

Waitress: Good evening, how are you tonite?
Me: Just fine, thank you.

Waitress: What you are having tonite?
Me: Um, my colon Bob will be ordering for me

Waitress: Well hi there Bob, you having a good evening?
Bob:Now that me and numbnuts got it straight, yes I am.

Waitress: Well, what can I get for you, sweetie
Bob: "We'll take the 6 ounce sirlon please

Waitress: Good choice, baked potatoe or brocolli?
Bob: Brocolli, raw please

Waitress: Soup or salad?
Bob: Salad, no dressing

Waitress: And to drink?
Bob:Water, please.

Waitress: Honey, I'ts not my call, but you just ordered a meal that sounds about as fun as a rectal exam.

Bob:Good thing it's not your call.
Waitress: Ok big boy, comin' right out

(Waitress wanders off)

Me: Thanks a lot, asshole
Bob: Glad you finally understand the human digestive layout

Me: Ok, ok, so anway, what do think about Chicago's draft picks?
Bob: Bunch of crap
Me: Yeah, gotta agree with you on that...
(Bob and I continue on a nice discussion about the football draft)

My Favorite World Records

As a kid, I was fascinated with world records. I had a Guiness book and read it ragged. I really wanted to have my own record so I started looking at some possibilities. Swallowing 30 swords at once, nope. Pulling a train with my teeth, no way. Sitting in a tree for 3 days. Maybe! I made all these plans and such but then forgot about it for a couple of years. I regained interest and checked the current record to make sure it was the same. nope, FIFTY SIX DAYS. So much for that brilliant plan. Most world records are so extreme that there is virtually zero chance of any normal human ever breaking one.

For example: Eating chicken - 27 two pound "pullets" at one sitting.
Who can eat 27 chickens?

Fastest working a Rubik's cube: THIRTEEN SECONDS. Yes, I saw the guy do it on TV. But worse, a guy worked it with his feet in about 30 seconds.

Cheese: 2 pounds in a minute or two (can't remember exactly). Sounds easy? HAH! you try it. after a half pound you won't be able to get another bite down.

Raw oysters: about 450. I saw the attempt on tv. A very large (fat) man was on a boat where the oysters were and they had a table full ready for his attempt. He went to wailing on them and somewhere around 450, he turned around and hurled. Can you imagine the mess on the floor after someone hurls 450 raw oysters? I'm glad i was not a deckhand on that boat.

A great bar bet is to bet someone that they can't eat more than 5 saltine crackers in a minute or less. They will guffaw and laugh at you while they slap that 20 on the counter. The first and second go down fast. But the third starts really getting thick because there is zero spit left in your mouth. The fourth becomes a goo ball that cannot be swallowed. Most people never get to the fifth. Grab that 20, order a beer for the loser and 5 for yourself.

They had a jalapeno eating contest in my hometown a long time ago, and although it did not break any world records, it was still fun to watch. the winner was a guy they called "the rabbit" because he nibbled his down in little bites. He ate over a hundred in a row. the other contestants all headed for the bathroom at some point and never made it back to knock the rabbit down.

Check this out cuz, there is a guy that ate A WHOLE CAR. No, not in one piece, you dumbass, he had it ground up into fine powder. Windows, seats, engine, shocks, rubber hoses, butts in the ashtray, the whole shootin' match. He put a few spoonfuls in his meals every day until it was all gone. They say he started out eating a bicycle before the car as practice.

Hamburgers: 77 at one sitting.

Smallest waist: 12 inches. No Kidding. Even these pathetic size 0 girls straggling around nowdays can't match that.

Fattest person. Over a thousand pounds. They buried him in a piano case. No kidding.

Deep Knee Bends in a Hot Air Balloon: What a stupid record. But anyway, I know the pilot that took him up. I am a balloon pilot and went to an event at this guys place one time. Anyway, Brian took up the guy and a witness/counter and the guy did over three thousand (3,000) deep knee bends.

Tallest person: Robert Wadlow at 8'10". The sad part about this is that Robert died in his 20s because a doctor incorrectly fitted a leg brace and it caused some sort of infection that killed him. If I could get my hands on that doctor I'd wrap him in barbed wire and throw him out in the desert to bake. And maybe tie him to an ant bed. One of those huge antbeds like 6 feet tall. Or better yet, handcuff him to a chair with a very large vase (like 4 feet tall) in front of him. Then drop the handcuff key down the vase and wander out. After a few minutes he will inch his chair forward and start trying to kick the vase over to get the key. Well, when that vase falls over cracks open, A THOUSAND SCORPIONS WILL COME OUT. They'll all climb up on him and one two three, out!

Hobo Opinons

Homeless people ("Hobos") fascinate me. I've researched this phenomenon, but the information I found really does not address my questions, so i have no choice but to make up my own facts.

It seems there are three categories of hobos: 1) mentally or physically disabled, 2)people who have had some serious situation and need help getting back on their feet, and 3) lazy-con artists.
Most of the hobos I have seen are either on road intersections with cardboard signs or hanging out in front of convenience stores drinking beer out of paper sacks. I'm willing to bet that the distribution is as follows:
Disabled - 5%
real problem - 5%
lazy people - 90%


Here's a few amusing (albeit disgusting) examples I've come across that disturb me

Con #1
A man approached me in a parking lot and said that he and his wife had come to town from San Antonio to look for work and they needed a few bucks for lunch. He looked sincere so I gave him a couple of dollars and went to my car. I then saw him back out of his parking space in a nice 2007 pickup truck with all the options, probably with a $35,000 rig. I bet he had a big engine, triple cup holders, leather steering wheel, heated massage seats, and those chrome naked girl mudflaps.

Con #2
I walked up to a convenience store and a shaggy looking guy asked for a dollar to get something to eat. I gave him a buck, got my stuff in the store and as i was leaving I saw him inside buying two "big boy" beers. On a later date, I saw the same guy digging through a trash can looking for food. I think he wound up with McNuggets (with honey mustard sauce), a half eaten wing rom "Red Cap Chicken), and a tepid cup of diet coke.

Con #3
My friend Jodi was at a red light and a cardboard sign guy approached him with the standard "Anything helps" sign. I bet there is a secret store where these guys buy these signs at. Jodi gave him a buck; the guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a large roll of bills. He folded back the 20s, then the 10s, then the 5s, and put Jodi's dollar with the 1s.

Con #4
I walked out of a corner store and saw a guy walk off the curb in the street and almost get hit by a car. I ran over and yelled at him to back up. He was totally blind. His eyes were a mess. He told me that he came in from Tennessee and was trying to get to a special shelter north of town that helped handicapped folks like himself. He needed to get to 11th street to catch a bus to this place and asked me for some money to get a ride up there. I told him there was a bus station a block away that would take him there. He said the buses don't stop there. I offered to take him on my scooter all the way to 11th street so he climbed on the back and off we went. This is a half hour ride so I thought I was being a pretty darned nice guy. Thirty seconds later he asked if I had 20 dollars to help him out. I told him I had no money (the truth). "You can let me off right here". I stopped and he got off.

Con #5
I saw a trashy looking cardboard sign guy: "hungry, need money to eat". A car pulled up and handed out a bag of food to the guy. He refused it and walked to the next car asking for money.

Bottom line: The vast majority of "homeless" people choose that lifestyle. They prey on soft hearted people to feed their booze and smoke habits while they eat out of trash cans.
They have no interest in working to stay alive. They know they can con people. This is bad because it hurts the people that actually need the help. The worst part about all this is that they are dirty and a total fashion disaster. Their shirts never match their pants, they rarely have a belt on, and they typically wear socks that are lighter than their pants. Gives me the shivers.

Here's the "phillip plan" that hobos could use if they really wanted to back on their feet.
1. Beg on a corner until you get 20 dollars.
2. Go to walmart and buy a razor, bar of soap, pair of scissors, a gallon of water, and a new collared shirt.
3. find some place to wash off with soap and water, shave, and cut your hair short.
4. Beg on a corner for another 20 dollars.
5. Go to salvation army and get pants, shoes and belt, and maybe a "dance moves" VHS tape.
6. Beg for another 20 dollars.
7. go to grocery and buy 20 dollars worth of peanut butter, bread, and other items that will keep you alive for a week.
8. Put on your nice clothes and go door to door asking if you can do any work for 5 dollars.
9. Repeat until you have earned the trust of a business owner and they hire you.


LESLIE The Homeless CrossDresser


There is a famous homeless guys in Austin named "Leslie". Leslie is a 60 year old crossdresser with shaggy hair and shaved legs. He always has a bra and fake boobs on (a D cup at least), and most of the time a miniskirt. He works at a hippy coffee shop bussing tables. Last year, some enterprising person designed a "Leslie mix and match clothing Refrigerator magnet set". It came with various clothing magnets that you could dress up Leslie with. He promised Leslie 25% of the cheddar. He sold TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS WORTH. They were the hit gift last Christma. Leslie took his five large and bought a big shed at Home depot and put it in some lady's backyard that liked him. He then bought a used big screen TV and a stack of VHS movies. Pretty cool use of that money, huh?

Cool iPhone rant I found on the internet

Here you go folks,

If you own one of these (iPhone), you may as well just wear a big sign around your neck that says,

"I AM TOO WEALTHY FOR MY OWN GOOD. PLEASE ROB ME."

Some people look at these things and seem to think if they just have this phone their whole lives will improve. They'll be satisfied and complete. But it's just a phone, people. Sure it's a phone that gets the internet but it doesn't even support Java or Flash and guess what? If you can afford this phone, you probably also have a laptop that can not only get the internet, but get Java and Flash applications and pages too!

It's a phone. And it is JUST a phone. It is not a new baby, a home or your grandmother Bessie resurrected from the dead. Get over yourself.

My friend Skinny got one of these and he says it RULES. Skinny is smart and does not put up with any bullshit whatsoever.

LLoyd has one but he is mostly interested in the fun stuff, like this "bubbles" application that just shows bubbles floating around and you can move them with your finger on the touchscreen.
He also showed me that bad-boy app that allows you to put the iphone next to your radio; it listens to the song playing for a few seconds, figures out what song it is, then shows you the song info and album art on the phone. We tried it out with that 80's Howard Jones song that goes "Oh Oh oh... oh oh oh ooooohhhhh". It worked perfect. Of course Lloyd is about 80 and was not enthused about this choice for the test.
Of course the real reason Apple developed this app was because of course it lets your purchase the song from iTunes ....

Mensa, a platter of bullshit

When I was a kid I used to hang out at my dad’s office after school. He was a clinical psychologist so he had all sorts of cool stuff laying around to play with. I remember seeing these tests laying around with pictures of squares and triangles and numbers and such; an “IQ” test. He worked with Special Ed folks and regularly had to assess their intelligence level.

A few years ago I thought about those tests and wondered how somebody that does not speak English and has never been to school would be tested. My extreme example was a 11 year old girl living with her grandfather on a farm high in the mountains of Lapland. This girl has never seen or talked to anyone except her grandfather. She’s never seen a book, pictures of shapes, language, machinery, social awareness, nothing. She also has an IQ well in above genius.
How would you test such a person? I thought if I could sit down with a dozen typical Mensa questions that I might be able to figure out a way to test her.
Well, I wrote MENSA, which is this obnoxious organization that consists of insecure people who are in the top 2 percentile of the country in IQ. I asked for a handful of example test questions, and also posed the Lapland girl example.

Dear Phil,
Mensa tests are private and so no, I am not going to send you any example questions.
And regarding your “Lapland girl” example, we have special tests for these situations, and no, I am not going to send you any examples of that test either. If you are interested in being tested for Mensa, please send in the fee and schedule a test.
Regards,
Mr. (soon to be “asshole”) Mensa.

Wow, is this guy friendly or what? I can just envision him sitting there with a smirk on his face puffing a pipe while writing me. I’d pay big money to witness her eat him alive.

My response:
Mr. Mensa,
I was not aware that you are fluent with both the Lapland culture and Sami (Lapland language)? If I pay the fee, can I take this test?
Rude boy never replied.

My friend Rick is a farmboy from Nebraska who went to a one-room schoolhouse and grew up chasing clouds for fun. He’s also one of the smartest and humble people I know. He went to a Mensa meeting because out friend Bobby goes and says they have free beer. Rick took the test and missed being accepted by one question. He later found out that guessing was legal. He left many answers blank because he was not certain of the answer. Clearly he is well into Mensa territory. I asked his opinion of the folks at the meeting. “Well, they are pretty impressed with themselves, that’s for sure. I thought they were kind of boring and loud, but the beer helped smooth out the meeting.
I asked him if he was going to take the test again. “nah, me and Bobby can drink cheap beer lots of places were we don’t have to put up with those people.

The sad part about all of this is that many Mensa members are good people but in my opinion, they are so insecure that they need this nonsense to feel like they can be better than regular people. Maybe I should storm a meeting, point a bazooka at rude boy’s head and yell “Run for your lives while there’s still time!!!!”.
I find the most enjoyable people to be around are those humble folks who quietly listen in group conversations, ask questions, and never talk about themselves. This is the finest example of a secure person.

The baffling habits of suburban house buyers

First, it's a "house" not a "home". The word "home" is used by real estate agents to make a house sound better than it is, something that will bond your family if you buy it.

I'll be dissing suburbanites pretty heavy here, mainly because they deserve it.
A large percentage of the housing disaster (foreclosure and such) is owned by suburbia. There's a good reason for this:
suburbanites don't have any money.

let's explore the lifestyle of suburbanites to find out why.

Many suburb parents put their kids on Ritlin because they have Attention Deficit Disorder, which was called "hyperactivity" when I was a kid. Back then, my mom just made me run around the block a couple of times and that usually calmed me down just fine. At school we had two recesses and a long lunch time, and we ran around and played like wild banshees for the entire recess. When we got back to class we were too tired to be hyper. Nowdays the kids just sit around during recess and text their friends or listen to iPods; no wonder they are restless.
And what is wrong with kids learning the art of patience.

Suburban housing is fascinating. Massive houses with tiny little yards. Suburbanites want as much square footage as possible and they are willing to use as much of their lot as they are allowed by city code. Because our society is centered around automobiles, the focus of the front of the house is the driveway and garage. When you drive down the street, you see a row of garages. In older neighborhoods central to the city, houses had front porches and were sized so that the lot had plenty of space. These houses were typically around 1200 feet and large families learned how to live together in this small space. In stark contrast, suburbanites will not buy anything less than 3,000 feet even though they only have 2 brats. What's funny is that these small central houses sell for 3 times what the burb houses go for.

"Two Trees"
Most burb track houses come with two (2) trees in the front yard. I say "tree", but really it is a "stick". They are about 6 feet tall and have a one inch trunk. These can be purchased for around 20 dollars each. The developers put them there only because they have too.
Half of them wind up dying and burbanites never plant anymore.

Another great thing in the burbs are "lawyer foyers". These ridiculous 2 story entries with round tops and massive (and cheap) chandeliers hanging over the $4,000 front door.
A new thing nowadays is the absolute necessity of granite counter tops. they cost a fortune, maybe $60 per foot, but they are now a "must have".

Burb houses are all about show. The front is huge and elegant. the back of the house is usually shitty siding and a crappy sloping roof down to a single story. The back yard is garbage surrounded by a "privacy" fence, essentially a 6 foot tall cedar fence that turns ugly gray within a year or two and then rots in a few years more. This fence is to keep their Ritlin addicts from associating with the neighbors. It is kind of like a prison; God forbid that you might have to actually talk to your neighbor.

And speaking of show, have you ever paid attention to the "Model home" at the front of the subdivision? It looks 10 times better than the track houses that you will be buying. Why?
They don't have a driveway.
Yep, where the driveway normally is, they have rich green manicured grass and two thousand dollars worth of landscaping. So you walk up to the model home and think how incredible your new "home" will be. Your subconscious will not let you see the lack of driveway because that would interfere with you spending 50% of your income on the new "house O' granite tops".
In my opinion this is false advertising to the extreme. Somebody needs to take these people to court. What the model "home" SHOULD show is reality; what your house will really look like.
Concrete driveway, garage door, and a backyard surrounded by the ratty ass fence, a trench of dirt around the perimeter (due to your bored dog running in circles), and a plethora of bright plastic kids toys strewn about.

Another thing about burb houses are their complicated roofs. Old neighborhood central house usually have a simple gable with maybe one extension. Burb houses have ZERO gables because they cost ten dollars more than hip roofs. Hip roofs are ugly but the burbanites could care less; remember, all they care about is granite counter tops, 5 bedrooms, and a plasma.
The "North Dallas Special" is a well known bullshit house with extraordinarily complex roof lines to make it look like a mansion.

Soccer Moms
One of the most ridiculed of all burbanites. Many years ago they all drove minivans, but after years of brutal insults, they all traded up to SUVs, which are the same as minivans except they cost twice as much. Here's an interesting description of a soccer mom:

I became a Soccer Mother.

Soccer Mother. The job spec isn’t great. You have to juggle schedules at a moment’s notice, drive forever, withstand the elements. You have to muzzle up, despite judgment calls that would throw Solomon for a loop. You learn to step over the wreckage at home that builds from chores left undone. And friends start writing instead of phoning because you’re hardly home.

Sooooo, you completely wreck your house and your family because why? So your little kids can play a game. The word "wreckage" is pretty powerful. Decades ago, kids went out and played in the neighborhood with their friends. They got twice the exercise and mommy could stay home in the evenings and keep the wreckage from occuring. When the kids came in, they were exhausted and happy. There was no need for SUVs. most families had a single car, some simple sedan.

The Story of Riki OH!, My band, Getting Shot At, and Oriental Toothbrush Fighting

Ridiculous title for a post, wouldn't you agree? I started out wanting to do a post about Randall's brother Ricky, "The Story of Ricky", which reminded me of one of the most ridiculous, disgusting asian gore/kung fu movies every produced, but I thought of so many interesting stories about the band we were in, I decided to just talk about the band.

Robert, Ben, me, and Ricky played together back in the early 80s and Ricky was the lead singer. Both our lead guitarist Ben and Ricky refused to do a gig unless a ice chest full of Heineken was on stage. They would drink one between every song, which resulted in two hammered people by the start of the 3rd set. Ricky also lit a smoke and would stick it between two guitar strings up on the head of the guitar and let it smolder during the song. But his most fascinating characteristic was that he could not remember the words to any of the songs, which amazes me since he was the lead singer. So we had a music stand on stage with a book of all the songs with the words. I've seen hundreds of bands and never witnessed a singer having to have cheat sheets. One night the book fell off the stand at the beginning of "Mountain of Love", a cheesy Johnny Rivers 50's song which has six verses. Ricky could only remember the first verse so he sang it six times. People paid to see this "entertainment".

Early on, Ricky decided to hire his psychotic friend "Dave" to be our manager. Dave works in a funeral home and takes naps in a coffin. At some point before I met him he was in jail for who knows what, and I guess he got a little irritable, because he set his bed on fire. It must have been a small cell because he wound up with burns all over his upper body and arms. Now if I would have been a normal responsible adult back then, I would have said "Rocky, I am not sure about having Dave involved in our band. He seems a bit irresponsible and could use some therapy". Instead all I said was "cool".

Anyway, he had this stupid idea of a graffiti campaign for our band, so one night Ricky and I grabbed a gallon of black paint and a roller and hit the town. Now, to take on a stunt such as defacing private property, you need plenty of booze. We had no money or beer, so I jacked a bottle of banana liquor from my dad's cabinet. This folks, is true desperation.

Wandering aimlessly through town, we saw a billboard that looked like the perfect candidate. Up I climbed, 30 feet in the air up on the platform of the billboard, the big ones you see on the side of the interstate. I grabbed the paint roller and proceeed to paint our band name, "The Kingpins" in huge 6 foot tall letters. Once finished I climbed back down and got in the car. Ricky looked at me and said "you asshole, LOOK!". I had painted "Kinpins", leaving out the G.

By the way, Ricky was married once when he was about 18. I went to their house one day and opened the refrigerator to see if they had anything to drink. There were precisely two items; A bottle of champagne and a rotted tomato.

For one gig, Dave had this brilliant idea that we should play "Can't Buy Me Love" by the Beatles and throw money out in the crowd. Let me quickly say that after paying roadies and a sound man, we made almost nothing on gigs. Well, we started the song and Dave threw roughly one hundred single dollar bills out into the crowd. There went our revenue for the night. To this day, I have no idea what that was supposed to accomplish.

Once we booked a gig in New Orleans in an area known as "Fat City" which for a brief period was a hot spot for dancing and drinking and such. We rented a big Semi, loaded up all our gear, and "Big Richard" drove us there. We setup and went on stage at 10pm. There were exactly TWO patrons in the place; A young couple that were clearly on date number 5 at most. We started our set and they did not even look up. For the remainder of the evening we played to these two people as not a single other living soul walked in. Total pay for the night; $4.00. Yes, four dollars. After paying Big Richard and the semi rental I think we went in the hole about $80.

I know you are chomping at the bit to find out about the "Getting Shot at" part of this blog.

Our normal practice location was the living room of the house that Robert and I lived in. One night during a typical session Dave and our roadie George were all drunk and goofing off while were trying to practice. George had a haircut that resembled a helmet and thus his haircuts became known as a "helmet fitting". He also was the champion of popping "wheelies" in this wheelchair that was laying around the house (to this day I have no idea where it came from).

So these two idiots were in the middle of the living room doing kung fu moves while swinging their weapons, toothbrushes, at each other, hence the name "Oriental Toothbrush Fighting". They knocked a mic stand over and popped the one nerve that Robert had left. He threw his bass down, grabbed them both, and threw them out the door while kicking them both in the butt at the same time. Robert is a rather docile person, but i think the toothbrushes did him in. We went back to practicing, and at this point I need to step back and tell you the layout of the room. I sat up against the front door with my drums, back to the door. the rest of the band was strewn around the room opposite from me.

So we are banging away and all of the sudden "BOOM BOOM!". I was leaning back against the door and it shook and glass flew out all over me. Dave and George had gone to George's house, grabbed his 12 gauge shotgun and decided to teach us a lesson. I'm not sure they realized that if the shot had been a foot lower, I'd have had a nice hole in the back of my head. I think that's called "murder" in a court of law.

Well, they denied it of course and I don't recall much of what happened down the road from there.

Ok, a few Ricky stories.

He was into magic and gags for a while and had this quarter with a nail attached to the bottom. He'd nail it down on the floor and "watch the suckers bite"

While working at a car dealership if he had a customer that he had close to a deal, he'd put a pen in the middle of the table and slightly lift his side, causing the pen to roll toward the customer. They'd grab it before it rolled off the table. "One step closer to signing !" he'd brag.

My (very) Brief Career in Auto Racing, Parachuting, And Footlball

When 17 years old or so, I had a nice 75 Camaro that I started hot rodding. (NOTE! the car to the left is a camaro, but NOT MY CAR!) My friends had cars that they too started ruining trying to go fast, or at least look fast. I spent every spare nickel I had on my car, and after a period of time, it started looking pretty darned good. I built the engine up for mild racing, painted stripes on it, and installed "Traction Bars". I think the stripes really help in top end speed. As time went on, I got more serious about having a "race car", so i yanked out the back seat and the passenger seat, put some racing stickers on the front fenders, installed a fire extinguiser and removed the air conditioner. None of that did a damned thing to make the car faster, but it looked cool. So the day came when we scavenged up enough money to go to the track and let 'er rip. When you are in the pits the safety guys come around and check your car to make sure it is not a recklessly built piece of shit that will sling a 40 pound clutch up in the crowd and take somebody's head off. They started looking at my car and asked if I had a "blow proof bellhousing". Hmm? Well, my car had a 4 speed stick, and with this type transmission you have to have a special bellhousing to keep said clutch from killing somebody. I told them "Well, I have one back home". My friends looked at me like I was possibly the stupidest person on the planet. Anyway, they let me race because I had lame tires and they knew I would not be able to generate enough power to sling a clutch.

So I get up to the starting line, having no idea what to do, the lights came down, and when it hit green I "dumped" the clutch and stood on the gas pedal. If you know anything about cars, you already know what happened; I sat there with my back tires spinning furiously with smoke going everywhere, but I was going nowhere. I finally eased up on the gas and headed down the track. I went through the finish line with a time of 15.5 seconds. That number probably doesn't mean a lot to you, so let me put it another way; a fully loaded school bus would finish in 15.8 seconds. We did a few more rounds and headed home. I knew the problem, i needed a set of back tires called "racing slicks", which are tires that are smooth and sticky and meant for traction. Take a look at the rear tires in the photo above. You'll notice that they are fat, smooth, and wrinkled on the bottom. These are racing slicks.

So I bought a used set and went home beaming with pride. My dad looked at them and with a sad look, said "Son, those tires don't have any tread". I could tell he felt like a failure of a dad, after all those years of teaching me, I go and buy bald tires.

Back to the track with my brother Tommy. Now I am a REAL race car driver with slicks! I get up to the line (with new blowproof bellhousing by the way), and when the light hit green I dumped the clutch and WHAM! I took out of there like a bat out of hell. Half way down the track, I smelled something burning and the engine died. I went across the finish line with a fire blazing under the car and leaking oil all over the track. Finish time was 20 seconds.

Now, when you "oil the track", that means the crews have to spend the next 45 minutes cleaning it up before anyone else can race. You can imagine your popularity with the gang after oiling the track. Me and tommy loaded the car up on the trailer and snuck out of the place hiding our faces with our hands. They were all glaring at me as we limped away.

That was my final time to go to the track, and the end to a blazing career.
Well, we did go one more time, but just for fun. We brought "the bomb" to race. this was our nickname for my dad's Oldsmobile Delta 88. After he was sick of it he gave it to my brother Robert and we used it to cruise around town. Now, The Bomb had a very special characteristic; it could burn rubber like nobody's business. One day I was out in the street in front of our house in the bomb and decided to really create some big smoke. I stepped on the brake with the left foot and stuck my right foot deep into the gas. this is teh standard technique for creating burnt rubber. Well, I stayed on it until an area encompassing half our street was thick with smoke and reeking with the smell of burned rubber. My dad was inside and heard the racket and watched from the window. Tommy was in there and heard my dad say in a low disgusted voice "I wish I money to burn up a good set of tires".
Well, we took The Bomb to the track and figured we would really have some fun. Robert took it up to the line and got the back tires wet in the water pit. The water is used by real race cars to help heat up their slicks better when doing a tire burn before taking off. Robert did the standard brake+gas and created more smoke than any dragster out there that day. Needless to say, the Bomb was the crowd favorite. The light went green and Robert took it down the track at a speed that can only be referred to as "lumbering". he went through the traps at 22 seconds at about 80mph. The crowd was cheering. We did a couple more runs and went home.

JUST IN FROM ROBERT:
The Bomb's time was 19.069. Don't ask me how I remember that, but I do (at least I think I do). I remember we drove it all the way from Hammond, about a 75 minute drive, and the transmission was so heated up that about a quarter way down the track, it started slipping and I had to let off the gas a LOT before it caught again. I did that a couple more times on the way to the finish line. If the transmission had been cold, I bet I'd have pulled 17s!

Parachuting.

I fly balloons, and about 8 years ago or so I took a few skydivers up to do a jump out of the balloon. I thought this parachuting thing was cool as hell. I think I just liked the gear. So I started acting like I knew all about skydiving and running my mouth about it and how I was going to get certified so I could have somebody else pilot my balloon and do jumps. I started throwing around phrases like "dropzone", "throwing out", "went in", "eight way", "zero P", "saber canopy", and so on and so on. Well, the big day came for my first jump. I went to the airport with 2 friends that were also going to do their first jump. Friend #1 went first and after landing commented that it was "Ok i guess". He seemed about as thrilled as a parking lot attendant. So now it is my turn and of course I am ranting on about dropping skydivers out of the balloon and blah blah blah. My jumpmaster and I (this was a tandam jump) got in this huge plane with 40 other people. Yes, unknown to me, it was a very special weekend where they have a big DC9 jet come in and take 40 at a time for contests and stuff. Skydiving usually consists of jumping off the wing of a crappy little Cesna 152, an airplane about the size of a minivan. Anyway, we get to 14,000 feet and the "forty-way" all go out the door at once. Amazing, a forty person evacuation in less than 2 seconds. Now it is just me and the jumpmaster standing at the door. I look down and realize that this was a stupid idea. Right about then, he pushes us both out the door and immediately initiates a couple of forward flips. I'm doing flips at 14,000 feet while falling at 140 mph. My brain tells me that this is the worst possible thing that could be happening to my body. the next 40 seconds were pure hell and i was counting them down until the chute went open. Now, my jumpmaster, "Larry Portman" weighs about 300 pounds and so with all this weight, we were falling at a much faster rate than other tandams. When that chute went out, we went from 140 mph to 5 mph in about 1 second. I took my first breath in over a minute and passed out. a few seconds later i came to, and counted the seconds until we hit the ground. My friends said I was "gray". This little stunt immediately stopped my swaggering around acting like some sort of real adventurer. To quote my good friend Julian who also despises skydiving ; "The jumps were the most terrifying period of my life. It escapes me how anyone can parachute for fun". Bingo. I hate people who go do a tandem and rave on about how much fun they had.

All these years later I have decided I must resolve this in my head so I have decided to go do another jump. this time at least I know what to expect. My plan is to ask for the lowest possible altitude to jump from, I am hoping for 4,000 feet max, so we open the chute like 5 seconds after going out. I also intend on calling my mom to acquire a small quantity of "mother's little helpers", i.e. "valium". I figure 15mg and a shot of gin will do the trick. Honest, I am not making this up, this is my real plan. I will report back after the jump.

FootBall
Around 8th grade (I think), I signed up for little league football. This consisted of daily "practice", which is; 1) putting on tons of gear and sweating to death in 90 degree heat with 90 percent humidity 2) doing all sorts of miserable exercises like "six inches", running laps, and getting run over by the fat boys who played linemen. After weeks of agony we finally had our first game! Before the game I was running around goofing off and I needed to get back, but I had to jump this 6 foot fence first. I climbed up, slipped and fell down the other side resulting in a nice sprained ankle. It stopped hurting after a while so I figured I could play if i was careful. Well, about midway through the game we were getting the shit beat out of us so the coach decided to let me play. I was skinny to the point of being gaunt, and for some odd reason the coach played me at middle linebacker. Anyway, I lined up, the ball was snapped and a big fat boy came through and rammed me square down, with my ankle sinking nicely in a hole in the ground. Now it REALLY hurt, so I hobbled off the field and simply told the coach "Send in Pat". Pat was worse than me.
The coach looked at me like with that "you are a pathetic sissy" look. I never went back to practice.

Quick note my my baseball career
oh! I forgot, I also played little league baseball but did much better although they put me in right field, which is the worst position on the field because nobody ever hits anything to right field. This position is usually reserved for kids who are mentally retarded, have cerebal palsy, are paralized, or just simply stupid. One time we played a game that the other team had to forfiet because they did not have enough players. Well, they were beating us 13-1 so the coach decided to let me pitch, i guess so the whole crowd could have a laugh. I never pitched before in my life. i got up on the mound and threw the first ball, which promptly went clear over the back fence and up in the crowd. The second pitch actually made it near the catcher. The third was a dead center strike. They pulled me from the mound after that pitch.

The Insanity of NASCAR

Note to readers:  I make much fun of rednecks in this post, but honest, I mean no harm. Hell, they laugh at themselves about this stuff.  I grew up with plenty of rednecks and many were worthless, but most were good people

Most folks associate NASCAR racing with rednecks, and with good reason;  most of the people that go to these races are rednecks.  Now, I grew up in south Louisiana in the epicenter of redneckville, Hammond, a skanky little town with a great college.  I was a redneck in my early years, complete with a chipped front tooth, beard, and a $400 pickup.  I never knew anything about NASCAR until several years ago when my brother Tommy went to a race with a friend.  Tommy is a hockey fan and pretty much knew nothing about racing either.  I talked to him a few days later and he said "NASCAR is FULL of rednecks; it's even worse than wrestling!"  This is a very, and I mean VERY strong claim.  As you know, I was a major fan of wrestling when I was around 11-12 years old and I can tell you that most of the fans at a wrestling match are challenged in every way, and are in need of substantial dental care.  My mom told Randall's mom that they should go with us one Saturday night wearing tight pink pants and curlers in their hair.  They'd blend right in.

So why all the fascination with NASCAR?  Because rednecks love watching wrecks!  Hell, we all do!  People like to see blood and guts and destruction of machinery.  The majority of the holdup in wreck-induced traffic jams is caused by people slowing to a near stop as they pass the wreckage hoping to see eyeballs and other such body parts strewn about.  I bet if the cops started taking license plates numbers and writing tickets that nonsense might stop.  People are so rude, they could care less that they are holding up everyone behind them.  A great deal of folks would be happy to pay a fine to have the chance to see a severed leg.

So anyway, I think the car race is like 500 laps or so, and I cannot conceive how watching cars go round and round 500 times can be entertaining.  Well, it's not, and that's why wrecks are so important to the sport.  Hats off to the engineers that design the cars;  these guys walk away from wrecks that consist of whacking a wall at 200 mph, flipping 46 times, smashing into Jeff Gordon (on purpose), catching fire, and finally ending upside down slowly spinning until the driver gets out.  In Talladega Nights, Ricky Bobby got out of his burning car and was convinced he was on fire, so he stripped down to his underwear and started running around with his helmet still on.  "RICKY BOBBY, YOU ARE NOT ON FIRE!" they shouted, but he just kept it up.  It's a stupid Will Ferrell movie, but there are a few great scenes worth the rental fee.

I mentioned this NASCAR stuff to my friend Kelly who's brother owns a helicopter and flys people home from the parking lot of the NASCAR track.  They pay a lot of money for this.  You know why?  Because the traffic caused by 200,000 educationally challenged people in huge trucks all trying to leave at once results in an EIGHT HOUR JAM.  Yes, you read correct;  it can take you up to eight hours to get out to the freeway.  Last year Kelly said that the even the wait for the chopper ride was up to a few hours.  Imagine being stuck in a truck (with a "lift kit") for eight hours, sunburned, drunk, full of hot dogs, and exhausted.  So I had this idea that all you need to do is park your car in somebody's driveway a few miles away (pay them 20 dollars or whatever), and simply walk.  On the way there, just stick your thumb out for a ride, and since country folks have good hearts, you'll get picked up right away.  After the race, even if you have to walk the whole way to your car, it will take you at most, an hour and a half.  but you can probably hitch it.  I advise riding in the back of the truck because inside it is going to smell like stale beer, hot dogs, and sweaty people.

Another fascinating part of NASCAR is how it is run.  How?  Major sponsors, that's how.  Every car has a massive sponsorship  that pays for the expenses.  Why would Home Depot piss away money on something as silly as car racing?  Well get this:  NASCAR fans are so rabid about their favorite driver that they buy all the products advertised on their car.  Yep, folks that follow the Tide car will only buy Tide detergent as well as stay only at Super 8 Motels, and buy only Kenmore washing machines.  NASCAR is totally, 100% about sponsorship.  Tommy said at the race he went to, the driver for Interstate Battery company got out of the car after the finish line and plopped an Interstate battery on the roof of the car, guaranteeing TV coverage for his sponsor.  And this is the best part... When the winner is being interviewed by the TV crews, people from the winner's  sponsor stand in the back of the driver and hold their product where the camera can see it.  I saw this on TV, these guys were holding bottles of Pepsi, moving as necessary to keep it in view at all times.  I think in the coat and tie world this is called "brand awareness".  I do see why this is so important, I mean, most folks have probably not heard of Pepsi.

Jeff Gordon is the most unpopluar driver in NASCAR.  Tommy says "He's queer and nobody likes him, but that guy can drive".   Fascinated by this statement, I searched a bit and found this on the web:

Jeff Gordon is too pretty to be in NASCAR.
Remember, NASCAR’s roots are in rebels souping up sedans and running whiskey away from the revenuers. When Jeff Gordon, a California boy, wanted to drive in NASCAR, Bill France should have stepped in with his mammoth fist and broke Gordon’s nose. Gordon’ probably would have decided that NASCAR is not a place for a California boy.

I bet Jeff is a nice guy,  and I figure his sexual preferences are his own business.  Tommy says he has a "hot" wife, although I can't back this statement up.  But if true, that aught to make the rednecks stop calling him a queer.

Note the cool sunglasses that Jeff is wearing.  NASCAR drivers wear sunglasses all the time, and also a ball cap.  It's required gear according to the rules.  If the officials see you wandering around signing autographs without these two items, they penalize you by putting 5 sacks of concrete in the trunk of your car for the race.

I love people who were sunglasses INDOORS when being interviewed on TV.  If I was the interviewer, as soon as the cameras were rolling I would ask "Oh, are these lights too bright, do you want me to dim them so you can take your sunglasses off?  No?,  well, you are too cool for me, so let me get another person to interview you."

But the insecure morons who wear sunglasses when the sun is not out is a whole 'nuther rant........