Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Christmas Comes Whenever It Wants

Christmas comes early and often for the Ewing family.  Santa forced his chubby butt down our chimney in the wee early morning hours this Sunday and he's coming back on the 25th.  Its two solid weeks of Christmas revelry.

We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around. 

I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas.  Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not

But it was unprecedented.  No one in our family knew what to expect.  Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.

1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should?  "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?"  "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?"  - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.

No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries.  Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.

It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching.  Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney.  It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.

We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."

It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

I Wish I Could Draw

I find myself in need of a better form of graphic communication than I can personally produce. I’m constantly in situations wherein if I could just DRAW a picture of what is actually going on compared to what I see in my mind – you would understand.

Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.

That’s me.

But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:
That’s my special little deer hunter, dead asleep in a deerstand leaning against my left leg and completely destroying my circulation.  When the pins-and-needles got to be too much - overcoming my entire being in waves of shrieking dead-limb sensation - I shifted. Slightly.

"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"

Ok. What about this:

If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater.  Get it away from me.

No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.

Classic case of communism at work.

How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:


GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture.  Tough lighting apparently.

She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.

Or this:
This appears to be a tough night out on the hot Macon, Ga street scene for some young hellion - sure to be followed by an exciting morning spent plumbing the depths of that porcelain-no-man’s-land at the front of the toilet with his chin bone. I hope the concert was GREAT because it has almost certainly left a mark. I also bet you dont know where your car is.  Yes you do. It was impounded wasn't it? Again.

I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Technically Family

I haven't quite gotten used to being technically "married" yet, so when the full magnitude of marriage hit me on the way to the mountains for my first Officially Sanctioned In-Law-Event - I suddenly I looked at Tyler and blurted "do you realize we're family now."

She blanched.

Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.

"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.

"Lets not talk about it."

Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:

"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."

We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.

On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"

God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.

The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.

After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.

Wouldn't you know it? We found some.

Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.

My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails.  There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.

Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state.  We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.

I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.

I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.

I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.

"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"

"Did you bring your wallet?"

Friday, November 19, 2010

Voodoo Lunch Magic

In some families I think its probably hard for the husband to tell when the wife is mad at him. I don't know that for certain, but I guess its probably so. There's a certain personality type that hides irritation, anger, and various forms of silent fury quite well. I guess it probably shows up in husband/wife interaction from time to time.

Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):

Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.

Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application.  I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on. 

Did I deserve it? Sure.

Was it an adventure?


Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Crowding My Action

The problem with having a blog is: ultimately your entire family wants to horn in on your action. It's not enough to have ONE person try to be funny - you post up a blog and pretty soon you've got a flock of half-crazed mini-Steve-Martins running around and it's complete chaos. There should only be ONE funny person at a time. The rest of you should clean up after the ONE funny person and generally take care of him and laugh at everything and make sure he's happy and well-primed with funny and red meats and cheeses.

Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.

See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.

Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.

Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.

Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.


We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.

Fair enough.

This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.

He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.

All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.

I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.

Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?

We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.

This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.

It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.

By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.

While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.

Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.

I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:

Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!

Me: Um, Hallloooo?

Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.

(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)

Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.

Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.

Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today

Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half

Me: Huh?

Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.

Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.

Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.

Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.

Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.

Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.

Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.

Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.

Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.

What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?

As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.

The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.

Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.

As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.

And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.

As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.

Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.

...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."

Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.

That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Feeeeeeelllinngggssssss, Oh So Wond'rous FEEEEELLLINGGGSSSS!!

We had an ongoing pre-wedding disagreement about Tyler’s wedding-day performance. She feared she would suffer from giant wracking sobs while walking the plank, err – aisle; and embarrass herself.

Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.

I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.

Ruined it.

I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.

I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."

To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.


Saturday, October 23, 2010

Live Short and Prosper

A brief follow-up word on The New Regime under which I have been duped and enslaved:

Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.

Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.

Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”

The new life will “help me live longer.”

The question is: do I want to?

Friday, October 22, 2010

Guest Post: Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq.

I generally only allow guest posts under extreme duress. However, I believe the following email received from my good friend Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq. is entirely worth your attention.

For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.

Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!

I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.

Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.

It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.

I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.

I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.

I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.

Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.

As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.

Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.

I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.

I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.

It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.

I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.

MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.

The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"

Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.

Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.

When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.

I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.

This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.

Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.

I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.

In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".

Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

A Regime Change

"Welcome to your new life" said my new wife, grinning, totally unfazed by the last 2 miles of my sweaty flailing and constant grumbling.

"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."

I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.

"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.

"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."

I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.

As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.

"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.

She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.

I hate kids.

Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.

Friday, October 08, 2010


I hear that certain Asian cultures believe the raw oyster is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.

Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.

I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.

In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Sometimes You Just Know

When I was little Mom told me that on a lovely spring day years before; she was seated in the garden outside her college sorority house when Mom felt Dad, who was standing behind her, lean gently in as if to whisper in her ear. She thought to herself "what lovely thing will he say to me next?"

Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."

Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"

I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:

Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.

Tuesday, October 05, 2010

Guess What We've Been Up To Lately?

Let's hear it for honeymoon activities, eh? How'boutcha? Eh?

In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.

It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?

I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.

Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.

We didn't scuba.

I never surfed.

We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.

For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?

My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."

I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.

So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.

While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010


During a recent dinner discussion wherein I attempted to convince My Future Bride (MFB) that I am worth the effort and small, occasional, difficulty created by my unique personality and various idiosyncracies such as: inability to clean things, ability to complain about food, inability to wash clothing regularly, inability to effectively communicate plans, inability to choose clothing to wear, inability to avoid hunting trips, ability to complain about waiting for anything....etc....this happened to me:

Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"

After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.

Somebody stop me.

Attack Mantis

Even the natural world does very strange things to me on a daily basis. I pulled out of the parking lot on Friday, checked my side-view mirror to merge left and when I looked back; this is the sight that greeted me:


A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.

I consider the experience "startling."

I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.

I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.

I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.

Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?

Monday, September 20, 2010

Grown Man For Sale: Hairy. Needs Constant Supervision

I've been in a veritable morass of wedding excitement lately. It's inescapable, and so are the people who delight in announcing your daily countdown to matrimonial servitude.

"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"

Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"

Oh, I believe it.

First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.

I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.

To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"

"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.

Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.

I am the Un-Funny.

The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.

I need constant supervision.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Horrifying Glimps of The Future

I was pulling through the drive-through liquor store at Weiuca and Roswell in search of bachelor-party supplies the other day and was shocked and saddened to see this:

It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.

But I wouldn't listen.

Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.


Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Hey Guys Watch This!

The whole point to a bachelor party is proving to your best friends that you're too stupid to die.

Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.

You may as well get married.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Bring Rocker Back

I was at a friend's house recently and noticed he had a bunch of yellowed Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper clippings up on the wall commemorating various Atlanta Braves baseball wins. It reminded me of the glory days of the Braves franchise.

It reminded me of them, because its been so long I had nearly forgotten.

Of the 30 people who may eventually read this I'm going to assume about 27 of you know me, and the other 3 had googled "Brick Distributor", instead got me, and don't care. So, I won't bore you with a long-winded philosophical view on professional team sports, or at least televised professional team sports. I'll make it simple: I loathe them.

But you knew that already.

I'm ambivalent about golf. I generally respect it because it's generally one-on-one-combative. I can appreciate that, but I still don't want to watch you play it.

I loathe professional team sports mostly because of the people who come to my house and scream furiously at the television, drone endlessly on about the completely mindless, irrelevant, on-field exploits of their favorite team when there are perfectly alive deer and quail to be killed; or otherwise bore me with talk about who did what with which kind of ball.

I just dont care.

I would much rather watch T-ball, JV Football, Olympic fencing or Jai-Alai; than spend a second of my time on college football or professional baseball or, God forbid - the miserable Atlanta Falcons. Oh man. The Falcons. A good PitBull fight, if somewhat unethical, is still the most interesting sporting event an Atlanta Falcon has been involved in since the Dan Reeves era SuperBowl.

I'm serious. Professional sports have nothing on their lowly un-professional counterparts. In T-Ball a kid could throw up or cry at any moment. Parents might fight. A parent might cry (that's the best). The fat kid might hit one and you might get to see the fat kid run. It's all very exciting stuff.

Jai Alai kills people regularly, Olympic fencing is hand-to-hand combat, and even JV Football has its finer moments; you've strapped a heat-trapping vision-impairing plastic device to an already addled pre-teen's head and sent him out into the Georgia heat to repeatedly bash himself against his friends while his Dad stands by screaming encouragement.

That has "potential for hilarity" written all over it.

No matter how brave a face I drink on before marching myself down to a SuperBowl party: I just can't wrap my head around professional sports. How many different-shaped balls do you need to move around how many different types of fields before somebody finally stands up and says "AAAUGHH!!! Fine! FINE!!!! HAVE YOUR STUPID BALL GAME!! BUT DO IT RIDING ON AN ELEPHANT!!"

That's what I want to see. If you got 10 elephents out on a slightly larger basketball court and said "Gentlemen start your elephants!!"; I'd watch that all day long. You're talking about a "ball" game that could easily squash you. If I thought there was a fair chance I'd get to see Kobe Bryant killed by an elephant during a rebound attempt: I'd have season tickets - and I don't even hate Kobe Bryant.

I used to love playing with a ball, but I just don't love it anymore - why? Because I'm not 4yrs old. I also no longer play with baby rattles or use a teething ring. Playing with a ball is for children. As an adult I want to see something reminiscent of life-and-death struggle happening before me; or if not that: at least something non-repetitive. More importantly - I don't want to watch, I want to DO.

Perhaps in my case the problem is more deeply-rooted. My toys as a 4yr old were (literally) a Barlow pocketknife my Dad ground the edge and point off of; a Red Ryder BB gun, an assortment of cap pistols, a black rubber military training bayonet from that unfortunate Vietnam Conflict, and a red bownarrer with a quiver that you slung over your back like a tabby-cat-stalking Robin Hood. What in the world did I need ballgames for? I was the single most well-armed person in Decatur.

Nurture could be the culprit; I guess we'll never know.

I feel a bit guilty for harping on baseball. I don't hate it, really, and I geniuinely don't want to bash baseball in excess of anything else, but baseball players are just too "good." The only thing that changes is the score - there are only so many places to hit the ball and so many ways to throw it. I just need more action and variety than that; with hopefully a little bloodsport mixed in. Blindfold the pitcher, mix pitfalls and non-lethal concussion mines in down the baselines, arm the catcher with pepper spray - just mix it up for me.

I know some of you love your sports - especially Atlanta baseball. That's ok. I don't mind, but I know you better than you think. I have the secret you've all been waiting for that'll put Atlanta back on top for good - and it's not coaching or money.

Bring back John Rocker, hand him a pipe wrench, a bat, two cans of Skoal and a ball glove - and roll film.

I'll pop the popcorn.


Monday, September 13, 2010

The Deadly Water Horse

I saw a blurb on the internet recently that said something along the lines of “all cases of polar bear attacks were instances where the bear was undernourished or provoked.” The statement was, of course, in response to an unprovoked polar bear attack.

I love it when animal people say stuff like that. I think what Mr. Animal Guy really meant was the polar bear in question hadn’t had any man-flesh to eat recently, so he was super hungry.

“Provoking” a polar bear by this guy’s standard could mean any of the below:
A. Throwing rocks at a polar bear
B. Poking a polar bear in the eye
C. Making rude faces at a polar bear
D. Snagging a polar bear with a fish hook
E. Insulting a polar bear
F. Backing into a polar bear with your car
G. Sleeping in a tent near a polar bear
H. Walking in the woods
I. Making fun of a polar bear
J. Looking “meaty”
K. Giving a polar bear a manicure
L. Tasting good
M. Screaming at a polar bear
In his world if you're breathing out-of-doors and it's cold out - you're probably provoking a polar bear. Step lively.

The writer didn’t want you to know the polar bear ate that guy, not because he was furious at the Inuit people for 2,000 years of oppression, or accidentally mistook him for a seal; but because he was hungry and the Inuit look, to a polar bear, suspiciously like a warm hearty snack.

"The Mis-identified Meal" is another of my favorite Mr. Animal Guy TV statements. When confronted with the teary, traumatized, walking-wounded leftovers from "2,000lb Great White Eats Almost All of Surfer"; Mr. Animal Guy basically looks at the crippled human remains before him and says "No big deal, the Shark thought you were a seal."

I've literally never heard a shark-attack interview in which Mr. Animal Guy said anything other than "Boy does your ass look like a seal!". Nevermind that a seal looks nothing like a surfboard, and you're surfing nowhere near a huntable seal population.

Now, if our maimed surfer were happily surfing in amongst a group of 4,000 bloody, frantic, seals - I can see a shark getting over-excited and accidentally slashing the surfer's tires to to speak. Great Whites are bullies, you have to know that going into it, but just out surfin' and WHAMMO! There goes my favorite leg? That's not a case of mistaken identity - thats an appetizer. That shark just ate your leg and he did it on purpose.

As a lifelong Member of The HuntFish Adventure Club (standing in direct opposition to the little-known and generally unrecognized HuntFish Widow’s Whine Club) it makes me really hoot when animal people get incensed about hunting animals. Animals hunt each other, and occasionally – us.

Pretty much everything out there kills us. In terms of nature – we’re embarassing. I saw a program the other night on the Hippo - apparently one of the deadliest African animals for humans to contend with. Seriously, the Hippo - God's fattest animal - is a huge problem for us. According to Mr. Animal Guy: Hippos generally kill people because the (very dead) people in question “got between the Hippo and water.”

I could see Mr. Animal Guy’s interviewer gently nodding in assent thinking “Of course. Well, if you get between a Hippo and water – there really isn’t much choice but for the Hippo to go ahead and chomp you.”


How about the Hippo just go on around you? Or hang back a bit and wait his turn for water? It hardly seems like the punishment fits the crime here, but we’re all going “Ooops better not get between the Hippo and water – or ELSE!”

That’s roughly equivalent to your Dad cutting your head off for slamming the screen door.

I’m personally humiliated that we, as a race, are subject to routine slaughter by an animal the ancient Greeks named “Hippopotamus” or “Water Horse.” Its just plain insulting. You don't ever read naturalist reports of giant Hippo-on-Zebra slaughters - it's always people. We're that stupid.

That in mind - I can’t see a moral issue with hunting animals if other animals hunt each other (and us). Maybe there is. I don’t know, but I delegate you to approach the free-ranging Yellowstone wolf pack of your choice at dinner time and inform them that they’re switching to beets.

I especially love it when an anti-hunter accosts me over the moral implications to animal killing - while wearing leather shoes. That’s my favorite. It’s like a tree-hugger using toilet tissue. I hate to say it: Charmin may be wonderfully comfortable and delightfully quilted, but it’s still made of TREES; and that cow didn't just hand over a strip of hide to protect your feet for free.

I am impressed with carnivores though, seriously. And the polar bear? What an animal! It’s the same color as its background (which is amazing), it has a shark’s toothy grin and the natural equivalent to arms ending in chainsaws. Do you know what I could get done around here if my skin matched the wallpaper? I'd sign up for that in a skinny minute.

To top it off; the polar bear was born with a razor-sharp sweet-tooth for delicious baby seals – perhaps the cutest animal ever to flop a flipper.

Don't you just love nature?


Thursday, September 09, 2010

Extra Mustard

I read a book once that told the tale of a man who was injured in a far away land. He crawled through the wilderness on his hands and knees for something like 200 miles before he reached a populated harbor and aid. When he was finally rescued, he was so famished that he suffered from delirium and various mental ailments.

Once hospitalized, his health returned and he came back unto himself. After a time he was pronounced healthy by the local physician and began making plans to travel – taking berth on a ship sailing for home.

He boarded the ship and pitched in with the sailors as a normal man would, but over time they began to notice a difference in him; he became withdrawn. Especially at mealtimes they noticed he carefully nibbled at his food, barely eating anything at all and greedily eyeing the other sailors’ meals. He finally took to his bed; suffering from severe delirium and raving bouts of lunacy.

The ship eventually reached land and, once in sight, the man recovered from his insanity. The sailors, who couldn’t have been more relieved to get rid of him – sent him ahead in a dinghy for shore and offered to pack up his belongings and send them in behind.

When they entered his room to gather up his things they were astonished to find that every nook and cranny of this room including his mattress, cracks in his bunk, and all of his baggage had been stuffed completely full of hardtack – the ship’s biscuits.

He had slowly pilfered the ship’s kitchen and garbage, and had even rationed his own meals to prepare against the coming starvation his fevered mind imagined.

So, with that in mind; today when I opened my cabinet at work and found this:

I had to briefly question my sanity. Note that its sauce packages hidden underneath a stack of paper AND a facedown picture.

Why do I hoard rip-off-top-type fast food sauces? I don’t hoard the food itself, and I don’t hoard packets like ketchup (ok, sometimes Horsey Sauce) - generally just the little box things like honey mustard and barbecue sauce.

I’d cross I-75 on a tricycle for an extra Chic-Fil-A Honey Mustard to stash away. I found a packet of Chick-Fil-A Honey Mustard sauce hidden in a box of 12ga shotgun shells (I hoard those too) in my truck last year. I even stooped so low as to come up with a clever ruse to get more than I really need from the drive-through Scrooge; just to make sure I don’t “run out.”

Like “running out” would be a major tragedy.

And why not ketchups? Talk about useful! White people absolutely drown themselves in ketchup. If you can think of a common food in the South – some white person somewhere is skeeting ketchup all over it right this second.

I guess I hoard the little sauce boxes because of the tiny Tupperware – it looks more valuable. Ketchup is just that little foil packet – not much value there, but somebody went to some trouble to squeeze that Polynesian Sauce stuff in that tiny box, then seal the little box with a sticky lid. Of course, nobody ever seems to think about how much glue got down in the sauce in the process.

I know I wonder about it.

And what kind of glue is it? If it’s like Elmer’s – no problem. We’re good there. I know for a fact eating Elmer’s glue won’t kill me - I practically sustained life with it until newborn Margaret was 2 and Mom started fixing lunch again.

I’m going to get better about hoarding one of these days though. I promise. In the meantime if you need a little dime bag of Honey Mustard to get you through (McDonalds, Wendy’s, Chick-Fil-A, or even Publix brand) you know where to find me.

One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately

I'm going to try to post a blog periodically entitled "One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately" and give you a solid glimps at how dangerous it is to be me, and how incredible it is that I'm alive.

Here's your first glimpse at the mindset behind One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately:

2:41AM: Boy it sucks trying to strip all the line off this fishing reel by hand. Plus, its 3AM and I want to go watch Eastbound and Down.

2:43AM: I wonder if I can just light this stuff on fire, then put it out real' quick before it burns the reel?

2:43:15AM: I better not do that.

2:44AM: If only I had a device that spins real' fast that I could tie the tag end of this line to, and just open the bail and strip all the line off! That would be the ticket.

2:44AM: (eyes scan room. see table saw): HEY! A TABLESAW! THATS A SPINNY THING!!

2:44:15AM: No I better not do that. I'm scared of the tablesaw already. The last thing I want to do is somehow tie something long and pointy to it and start it. Although, now that I've formulated that idea - I'm intrigued.

2:45AM: (still peeling line off reel). Boy does this SUCK. I wonder if Fred is up getting his gear together too?

2:46AM: (speaker phone dialing). Answering machine from Fred. Fred is asleep. No one in the world is up playing with fishing rods, except for me.

2:47AM: I wonder if Tyler is up. No, I already know she's been in bed since 7:59PM.

2:49AM: (eyes scan room. see power drill). I HAVE IT!!! I'll tie the tag end of this old fishing line to a wooden dowel and chuck it in my power drill, then put it on "high!"!!!

2:50AM: (drill spinning, line peeling off reel). I am a genius.

2:51AM: This is still taking a long time. I wonder if I can help it by snatching on the line a bit.

2:51:15AM: Help.

So, I managed to get my hand caught in the drill-end of the fishing line and before you could say skiddley-doo - I've got 10lb monofilament burying itself in my wrist skin until the drill stalls.

Boy did that hurt.

Then I had to to cut it out of my wrist skin with a rusty razor blade I found on my workbench - which also hurt. So, to recap: it hurt, then to fix it - it hurt more.

Then I went to bed.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010


I’ve noticed a fairly disturbing trend in the workplace lately: Shoe Removal. I constantly see women at work sitting at their desks entirely barefoot, playing with their toes.

Barefoot in the workplace – are you kidding me? And I have to keep my pants on ALL DAY!? It’s completely unfair.

No matter how you slice it - toes are appendages; and everybody knows - you're not supposed to expose otherwise-covered appendages to your co-workers. Plus, it's unsanitary. Can you imagine the sort of deadly, mutated, recombinant athlete's foot disease that could develop if we all went barefoot at work? It would probably kick off a modern-day Bubonic Plague.

Ostensibly it’s fine for women to take their shoes off because, generally, their shoes are miserably uncomfortable. At least – that’s the theory.

Well, you know what? My shoes aren’t really that comfortable either. Sorry ladies, but you don’t have the market cornered in uncomfortable footwear. Leather hard-bottomed loafers aren’t exactly the cat’s meow when it comes to bathing your feet in luxury, but can I snake my feet out of my socks and sit here, barefoot, at my desk rooting around in my toe crevices with a paperclip?

Not without eventually getting fired.

It’s yet another area in which women have the upper-hand in life. They’re smarter. They do better in school. Contrary to to popular belief they actually get paid better (http://www.forbes.com/2006/05/12/women-wage-gap-cx_wf_0512earningmore.html). They keep jobs longer and respond better to authority in the workplace. They even have higher pain tolerances and to add insult to injury: they live longer!

They actually LIVE LONGER!! Even nature hates men! Look at the facts! Being a man is no easy shakes. It’s tough to be stupid, broke, on the cusp of unemployment and always about to die, but you know what we have going for us?


They want kids and as far as I can tell - we don’t. Sure, we may go along with it; but I've never seen a man turn to his buddy at the campfire and say "you know Andy, I have this deep, powerful ache inside me for a new little baby and I just can't shake it."

Impregnation is nature’s ultimate bargaining chip.

I’m making my list of to-do’s now, and when they’re all wrapped up we’ll talk kids. But only boys!

The last thing I need is one more person outliving me.


Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Paddle Faster, We're Out of Moonshine

“Hey man, we’ve got a little bit of a problem” Charlton M. Bouchemeyer said from the knee-deep water of the slowly-turning eddy current.

He had an entire deadfall oak snag draped over his shoulders and a paddle in one hand, so I was terribly intrigued.

“What kind of a problem” I said, eyeballing the massive limb. “The kind of a problem where I have to duct-tape a 12-stich-needing gash in your chin back together again? That kind of a problem?”

“No, idiot – and that wasn’t my fault, you know that” he said, shrugging the massive, rotten limb off onto the sandbar I stood upon and reaching into his back pocket for a silver flask.

"There's some more firewood" he said as the rotten log began to crumble from its impact with the ground.

“I got ants all over me” he continued taking a long pull of his signature beverage, “Apple Pie Moonshine” and shivering slightly.

“So what. Everybody’s got ants all over them. What’s the big deal? You’re not seriously allergic to ant bites or something are you? Wimp."

CB squirmed uncomfortably, and said “Jimmy, I’ve got 40 fire ants between my knees and navel right now and I think I feel more in my hair. I’m A L L E R G I C and I don’t have any Benadryl or an epi-pen.”

“CB, if you have a serious insect allergy and you came on a South Georgia river trip with no epi-pen, then I’m face to face with natural selection and its taking sides against you.”

“CB– I got Benadryl!” George piped up from the fireside where he had been preparing hotdogs for dinner (extra sand, light pine bark, hold the bun), “Well. Not Benadryl exactly. Will Tylenol PM work?”

CB, relieved, accepted the proffered pills from George and said “You reckon it’d hurt me to take ‘em with moonshine?” “Nah!” everyone said; except Fred who said “mmppppmmmm!” with an emphatic shimmy, indicating his assent from a position face-down in the sand.

The two Tylenol PM seemed to calm CB down, or at least he didn’t say much more about it, so I figured all was well.

General revelry continued.

We polished off the remaining fruit roll-ups and beef jerky, then James produced a box of Triscuits and Bud dug a summer sausage out of his kit and we started in on appetizers.

Someone set Fred’s radio on fire and someone else got cheeky and burned up the 2lb bag of M&M’s, loudly proclaiming that “Candy Is For Girls.”

Hank pulled himself out of the fruit jar and offered to fight anyone interested, but had no takers.

James, the only one to erect a tent, began snoring from inside it. Judson pulled all his tent poles so it collapsed over him like a giant sack. He did not stir.

George and I had another hot dog.

A short while later I caught a glimpse of Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, East Tennessee River Rat, silhouetted against the fire; lower lip and eyelids bulging and swollen, face growing puffy and red.

“CB. You’re getting all swollen up!” I said drawing the attention of 8 sets of bloodshot eyes to his rapidly-deforming features. “Are you ok?”

“Nah. Not really.” He said.

“I really itch. Bad. Especially my eyelids and face and body and head. I think it’s about to get serious, but I think I’ll probably be ok because I got more moonshine and I just took those Bendadryl.”

“It’ll buff out” mumbled Judson.

When we awoke in the morning we were all relieved to find that CB wasn’t dead, and could only surmise that his fire ant allergy is not actually that serious.

We continued downriver the next day, having gone through nearly all our supplies and soaked all of our dry clothing; ultimately taking the canoes out another 12 miles downriver. We retired to the deer camp and proceeded to recover from our overnight float trip; then followed it up with a traditional southern dove hunt the next day. It was James Galloway, future brother-in-law,’s first shotgun experience.

Afterwards, having done quite well on the field of battle, James approached me and said “you know Jimmy, most people would look at me and see my appearance, physique, eyeglasses, bearing, and demeanor and, they wouldn't realize it; but I am quite the athlete. I may be a bit of an inside dog, but I have great hand-eye co-ordination."


He stood, borrowed 12-gauge shotgun in hand, gleam in his eye, and proudly held aloft two small gray birds."

“I did it!” he crowed, triumphantly.

All things considered: it was a good way to go out.

Adios single life, you’ve been good to me.


Friday, September 03, 2010

Beauty Is In The Eye of The BeerHolder

Tyler and I have been postulating about our future children(s)’ appearances and we decided they’re probably going to look like glorious cherubs, then coast through life floating on a fine mist of adoration and love from everyone they meet.

I’m nearly certain of it.

That, or they’ll have my profusion of pelt-like body hair, Tyler’s webbed toes, a cloud will pass in front of the sun and the nurses will run out weeping when they’re born. Right now I'd say it's a 50/50.

What I want to know is: if you have ugly kids (you're not fooling me - I know some of your kids and they’re pretty rough and gangly) – do you know it? I know your kids are ugly, but do you? I'm not so sure you do because people keep telling me: "All babies are precious and beautiful" and it's got to be one of the most fabulous lies I've ever heard.

In case you're wondering - your baby? It looks wrinkly and weird and I do not want to hold it. I've seen cuter Anacondas.

Are parents incapacitated by their parental nature?

Lets face it - to get ugly people you have to have ugly kids. It has to be done. Somebody has to take one for the gene-pool-team, so to speak, or everybody would be Cindy Crawford. We can't have that, can we? If everyone were Cindy Crawford we'd never get to experience the miracle of two horrendously-eccentric-looking people producing a future supermodel - and that's one of my favorite things.

Is there anybody with unfortunate-looking progeny out there? Do any of you look at your kids every now and then and just cringe? You must, or headgear would never have been invented. Think about it: you paid to have a metal bar strapped to your kids face; sometimes in public, and for YEARS! And to top it off - it hurts!!

If that's "love" I want a daily thrashing.

Lets hear it - I want to know before I have kids: Is there magic that makes me not know what my kids look like? I want that magic and I want it fast because I’m not getting progressively deeper as I age - that's been confirmed.

I had a (very beautiful) friend in college who used to say she didn’t want to have kids since she'd be unable to tell what they'd look like beforehand. She was afraid she couldn’t love a fat kid.

That’s a quote and yes, I'm fairly certain she'll go to hell when she dies.

She has kids now, interestingly enough - and they are not fat, but they are so damn ugly it makes my teeth hurt. Fortunately for them: she seems to love them just fine, or if not "love" - at least she hasn't sent them downriver in a bullrush basket. Not yet anyway. So, it must be love. Either that, or she’s faking it - and it's tough to fake love. I should know; I had a girlfriend who did it for years.

Ignored Warning Sign: she always smells like her ex-boyfriend.

So what’s the deal? Do you really think your chubby, pimply, little sausage-fingered Oreo-stuffers are beautiful, REALLY? Or are you secretly horrified by the fruit of your loins?

Any comments posted by my Dad will be immediately deleted, so don’t even think about it.

Wednesday, September 01, 2010


As part of our pre-marital merger activities we've been figuring out where we have duplicative expenses and whatnot. It's actually pretty complicated because apparently certain parties have an unusual emotional attachment to their particular banking relationship. Other items of interest are things like memberships and associations.

Me: Do you have AAA for your car? If not I can add you to my account.
Tyler: No, I've always had D AAA D, so I've never needed it.

Stalking The Halls

As I'm sure you've noticed I have a number of work-related issues. Most seem to be centered around the dehumanizing public bathroom experience (I see stalls. What is this, a dairy?); but there is more. Quite alot more, actually.

The biggest seed in my watermelon lately is this: The Hallway Encounter. It's messed up.

First of all: just because cars in America travel on the right-hand side of the road; it doesn't mean you are limited to the right side of every space you occupy. Pick a hallway-side and walk down it. Left. Right. I don't care, but if one more lump of human jello plays Hallway-Chicken with me over right-of-way - I'm going to end up on the news. SO WHAT?!?!? I SOMETIMES LIKE TO WALK ON THE LEFT. COPE WITH IT.

Anyway, I PREFER to walk down the left side because everytime somebody has to scurry out of my way - it asserts my dominance. Thats right! You BETTER move! In my mind I'm always in Africa, I'm always a lion, and I'm always hungry.

In my mind I'm surrounded by this:

Unfortunately, reality looks more like this:

This is what I'm reduced to.

Good friend Hank Farmer may have said it best last weekend when he ordered two beverages (called a "BearFight"), handed one to me, then promptly turned around and chugged his. I was still standing there holding a drink when he turned back around, eyes watering, and said "What are you doing?"

Me: Sorry. I didn't realize this was a race.
Hank: Jimmy, we're men. Everything is a race.

If you're a man and you can't identify a situation in life right now wherein you're locked in combat - it's probably because you already lost.

Secondly, even jellyfish at least flap their tentacles at each other when they come into hallway-close contact. Can't you figure out a comfortable way to acknowledge that someone else is breathing your air without blabbing incoherently or running off?

Personally, I go with strong eye contact and the tight-lipped smile. It's not a grimace. It's not quite a snarl. It's the hallway man-encounter-equivalent of this:

Its mostly inscrutable, but it does convey something. It says "I know you're over there and I'm watching you carefully."

For all you runner-offers this may help. Here's what I've observed from my 10 years of corporate hallway experience:

There is no escape.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Here's Your Hammer

Me: What should I get my groomsmen? I can't think of anything. I have a zillion great ideas, but they're all about $2,000.

Tyler: I dunno. I thought you had a few good ideas in that list you sent me.

Me: I couldn't really decide on any of those so I threw them all out. Got any ideas?

Tyler: How about a hammer?

Me: A Hammer.

Tyler: Right. A Hammer. You know. Bang bang. Hammer.

Me: Right. I got it. I just don't know what to say.

Tyler: What? Its useful! Your stupid ideas weren't any better! Everybody needs a hammer! Get it engraved!

Me: So your idea for a groomsman gift is an engraved hammer.

Tyler: Thats right, Bucko.

Sucking In

My family apparently stays current with my little writing efforts because last weekend I was terribly pleased to receive a real, live, Stihl 250 chainsaw as an engagement gift.

Looks like I may be able to make this "marriage" thing work for me after all!

I've been lobbying hard for tools and various armament as a "wedding gift" from my beautiful bride for months. I haven't seen a new firearm poking out from beneath the engagement tree yet, but it ain't over.

Also, thanks so much to my cousin Sarah for pointing out mid-present-opening-ceremony on Saturday that my middle shirt button had come unbuttoned, then suggesting, loudly, that I should "suck in."

Sarah: I know you planned it so your husband Marlin couldn't come to my bachelor party, but I've changed my bachelor party plans and I'm coming to your incredibly fun, almost-too-tempting-to-turn-down, baby christening this weekend after all.....



Keep Your Hands to Yourself

During a recent tour of a nearby eatery I noticed no less than four (4) loudly-posted handwashing signs proudly displayed throughout the establishment. And you know what? I’m glad.

I’m happy for you guys to wash your hands after the bathroom, before the kitchen, between customers – whenever. The more handwashing you do – the happier I get, but you know what I noticed? Everybody is all sorts of fired up about service industry handwashing post-lavatory. What concerns me is: I thought that was a given. Of COURSE you wash your hands after leaving a restroom and before you go back to a public-service kitchen.

Of COURSE you do that.

All these signs everywhere makes me think that for some people – maybe not. Maybe they’re not sure. Maybe they get confused – “Is this where I go to WASH my hands, or is this where I go to touch every damp, nasty thing in sight; then go make somebody a sandwich?”

We should take pairs of these folks, superglue their unwashed hands to each other’s faces and let them fend for themselves in bear country until it wears off.

The other thing I think about every time I see these signs is: OF COURSE you should wash your hands after a questionable activity of any kind; but I’m not that worried about that for me, personally.

Like my paternal Grandfather - I’m naturally antiseptic.

What confuses me a bit is - what are people most concerned about - somehow infecting other people with their filthy bodies? Or do you wash your hands to protect yourself from other people? Are you worried that you'll somehow spread your own germs around on your own body? Really?

What exactly are you doing in there anyway?

If you're afraid of what's living in your own pants you really do have a problem, but if you're concerned about keeping your nether regions pristine - I'd think you'd want to wash your hands BEFORE you enter the water closet, then just scurry out on your elbows.

I'm genuinely unconcerned about sullying my hands from a mid-day brush against an otherwise zippered region of my own body. That is a man’s cleanest, most treasured, best-cared-for region and chances are good he’s kept an extremely close watch on that area's daily whereabouts.

I don't know about you, but I'm going to wash up first, then walk in dangling my hands in the air like a surgeon. It ain’t my hands I’m concerned about.

As far as general handwashing goes: of all the fabulous activities in the world that could endanger a man’s paler portions; I’m going to be furious if its a simple handshake that sends me, itching, to the doctor with some kind of fungus.

So, wash up folks; but let's not shake hands anyway - just to be sure.


Monday, August 30, 2010

Get Down Party Wagon

During the after-party of yet another Summer wedding; I happened upon the youngest sister of the bride very studiously attempting to paint some appropriate language on the windows of the getaway car.

She, bless her virtuous, kind, sweet-spirited, 18-yr-old heart had chosen lovely "Just Married" type themes for most of the decorations. It did me some good to know that godly innocence is still afoot in this wicked world. Maybe that is why she seemed completely dumbfounded when I suggested "PENIS!!!" in large block print as a good bride-side-window alternative to the somewhat unimaginative "JUST MARRIED".

She also refused to hand over the paint, then refused to discuss the possibility of anything even the slightest bit dirty including such classic phrases as "Nekkid Dance Party", "Get Down Party Wagon" and "Honk If You Love Married Sex".

What is wrong with kids these days?

If you're going to send a wholesome, Christian, couple off into wedded union; I'm pretty sure the rule is you MUST include as many sexual or otherwise off-color references in very readable script as will fit on the automotive canvas.

Am I wrong about that?

I hope not because if so; I have recently suffered the wholly-inappropriate indignity of driving an airport getaway car (alone) from Florida to Atlanta that had been completely covered with large graphic representations of the male member (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2008/05/artistic-expression.html).

Lets face it - if you're a conservative-type living in the South, you're watching the married couple drive off and thinking "They're not fooling anyone - I know what they're up to!", but it's such a relief to see it spelled out properly in white shoe polish. That way you dont have to wonder, guiltily, if you're the only one who knows the awful truth.

So please - take a break from polishing your Buster Browns and decorate away! It's ok! It's the one time in your life you'll get to embarass your grandmother without getting in too much trouble.

Just don't do it to my car.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

A RingBearer Is Down

If you plan to utilize the services of a bagpiper in your wedding – I think you owe it to the crowd to prompt with a bit of warning; maybe even provide earplugs for the elderly or otherwise un-Scottish.

A sudden bagpiping can be extremely dangerous.

Don't get me wrong - I am definitely in favor of any instrument historically made from animal guts, but let's face it: nobody is really Scottish anymore, are they? Is Scotland still around? I feel like I don't hear much from over there.

Ireland - sure, they're still around and they're still hopping mad about something to do with religion, but not Scotland. When I think of Scotland I think of a 1973 Volkswagon Beetle with one of those weird European license plates on it and a bumper sticker that says "It's always tea time in Scotland!" There's a big hairy bagpiper behind the wheel and all he's pissed at is Ireland for not taking it easy.

A Bagpiper is like a cannon - if you're standing near one you definitely want to know when it's going to go off. I know when an ambitious bagpiper began soundly abusing his instrument 4 yards behind me at a wedding this Saturday – I was completely unprepared.

His first sonorous blast caught me full in the chest – knocking the program clean out of my hands and popping a brass button off my blazer ("I told you that button was loose" said an arched eyebrow, smugly, from my left). The Great British caterwauling that followed and my subsequent twitching sent Tyler’s left elbow firmly into my ribs – a move I've been told is intended to "comfort" and "soothe" me. “QUIT SQUIRMING” she hissed. “I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE.”

Oooomph” I exhaled in assent.

Our hushed discourse completed, the now red-faced gentleman lately stomping around the back of the church left off punishing his bag - just in time to save my last remaining brass button, but not quickly enough to salvage my ribs.

I will grant you this though: a bagpipe may indeed produce a lovely, haunting sound. Dad said if you hear it played over a Scottish moor at sundown – it will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

I definitely believe him about the hairs on your neck because this guy Saturday made the hairs on my chest fairly bristle in fear every time he roared.

Aggressive bagpiping aside, the wedding, mother of the bride, and bride herself were all quite lovely and everything seemed to be in order. Then, about 8 minutes into the ceremony - after
- massive bagpipery
- the tolling of the hour
- the entrance of the wedding party
- the entrance of the bride
- two hymns
- several piano solos
- a violin solo
- a word from the father-of-the bride

but before
- the unity candles
- the 4 individual readings
- the bride and groom duet (yup, you heard me)
- the homily
- the exchanging of rings
- the processional
(they are quite firmly married from every angle – no doubt about it); the second of the ring-bearers - a dapper young man of about 7 - leaned calmly over mid-stage and quietly puked his ass off right square at the foot of the unity candles.

This was no stifled gag either - it was serious and deep. I saw a tennis shoe come flying out of this kid.

Nobody moved.

Then, everyone (bride, groom, wedding party, preacher, attendants, witnesses, Esau, Isaac and Jacob), just one time - in unison - violently squirmed.

Then: crickets.

For a brief second I thought it hadn’t happened. I remained in a state of disbelief and self-doubt until one of the more alert groomsmen lifted the offending puker bodily off the stage and deposited him behind the organ to heave and lurch in peace. I looked around and the entire crowd was staring straight ahead at the preacher as if nothing was at all amiss.

Except for the sniffles emanating from underneath the organ - you might not have known anything had happened at all.

My squirming and general gawking-about immediately precipitated the rapid return of The Elbow of Silence, but not before I was able to confirm with Will Gaither, Brother-in-Law, that the kid had indeed made a deposit onstage. Ladies and gentlemen – it happened, I saw it, and it has been confirmed.

Naturally, the tiny over-eater had aimed his outburst with the calm, unerring, vomitous precision of a public school cafeteria frequenter; giving the bride the option of:
1. Omitting the Unity Candle step and damning her union for all eternity.
2. Dragging her train through the chunky puddle.

I consider myself a practiced evaluator of a female set jaw and I could see by the Bride's that no power on earth would keep her from the lighting of that Unity Candle.

By God, she did it; but it wasn’t pretty.

My congratulations to the Groom: she might not walk through fire for you buddy, but we know one thing that won't stop her.


Friday, August 20, 2010

The Mother Of Invention

I’m sure by now most of you know I am an amateur inventor. I’m not claiming to be Edison, but – I dabble.

For example: two days ago on my way into our Chicago office I invented the Roll-a-Clean - it’s a revolving door that dry cleans your clothes on your way in the lobby. I loathe revolving doors, but I love getting my clothes back from the dry cleaner; so I feel like The Roll-A-Clean is a great way to start your day.

I’m also working on the IndigiScrubby. It’s like a big street sweeper, but it roams the streets at night in the summer, gently lifting indigents and winos into a slowly-revolving drum of soapy water. I haven't figured out how to dry them yet, so it's more of a "seasonal" service. Don't be the only city left with unwashed bridge people.

I also invented "Flush Magazine" the magazine for toilet accessories and "Foot Flush" - an aftermarket chrome foot pedal flushing device for your commode.
"Lost Your Hands? Its OK!! Foot Flush Saves The Day!"

I have a few other things in the works too - like:
- Chefrolet - a small portable oven that uses heat from your engine block to bake while you drive.
- ScroogeDriver - a customizable electronic GPS device that kills the power to your wife's car if she gets within a certain distance of "problem stores".
- Mr. BelvedEAR - a spinning ear cleaner attachment for your electric toothbrush.
- Poopalicious - a tasty aerosol solution that dogs can't resist. You spray it on dog poop and the next dog to come along simply can't resist the now-tasty poopsicle. No more pooper scoopers! No more jogging around with warm little baggies of waste! Put the neighbor's dog to work for you!

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Long Division

Yesterday I spent ten minutes standing just inside the open doorway of an MD90 at O'Hare waiting on the 300lb structural marvel ahead of me to shoehorn her lumpy butt into a seat entirely too small for it.

Due to the immense quantity of lumbering flesh in my path, I found myself parked against my will right outside the bathroom. It soon became abundantly clear that someone was inside the airplane bathroom doing their best to destroy the atmosphere. We are not airborne. We are parked at the gate. The A/C is not running.

I don't understand why anyone would sit in an airport right outside a large, land-based bathroom for 2 hours and "hold it" until you get on the plane. I can certainly see "holding it" until you get off the plane, but the other way around just doesn't make sense. Perhaps one might do that if one had some kind of weird fetish, but I truly don't know what kind of fetish category that falls under. It certainly doesn't sound like the kind of wicked fun most fetishists seem to crave, but it must have seemed reasonable to the idiot in 2A.

I genuinely hope life punishes him for it long-term.

I'm standing there in the apex of a swirling smell storm with a 1" thick accordion-style folding door between me and an overpowering odor that I can only describe as "hot", and I'm landlocked by the morbidly obese. The whole front of the plane smelled like somebody snuck a dead zebra on in their luggage.

This is my day.

Naturally, I'm desperately casting about for something to take my mind off the aluminum-skinned box of hell Delta has put me in, so I look over my left shoulder into the cockpit and I see the captain sitting at the controls. He has a pad of paper clipped to the yoke in front of him and and he's staring at it hard, brow furrowed in intense concentration, pencil in hand. Upon that piece of paper he, the captain of an airplane full of unsuspecting people, has written this:

And you know what? That's fine. I'm sure there are millions of people out there who struggle with math, but it really, really, really worries me to find that a person in charge of something with this many parts:

can't perform long division.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010


I believe as husband and leader of a fledgling family unit, I deserve at least a modicum of respect. That is why I hardly think it is appropriate to be addressed as "Troll" by my future bride.

Tyler: Have you finalized the rehearsal dinner?
Me: I don't know.
Tyler: Can you please pick some readings for the wedding?
Me: No.
Tyler: Do you want to see my to-do list?
Me: I wanted to ELOPE.
Tyler: Either step it up, or get back in your cave, TROLL.

The Deer Camp

For those (12) of you who have regularly read my blog in the past for one reason or other - I'm sure you've noticed that The Deer Camp has factored prominently in my life since childhood. Ah, The DeerCamp.

I don't doubt that some of you may be confused by it.

What is it exactly?

Well, it's a Deer Camp - a camp for hunting deer. You know I do love aptly-named things.

Where is it?

It's just outside a tiny town south of Atlanta called "Smarr" - about 75 miles from my back door. If you've ever been through Macon on I-75 headed South from Atlanta - you've driven right past it.

Built in roughly 1990 by Uncle Buster and the Maddux family to accomodate kith, kin, and a fortunate few crossover not-quite-blood family; it is the site of the large majority of my deer hunting experience, the final resting place of my very best and third-best bucks ever, the site of my biggest hunting screwup ever (I got overexcited as I tend to do and I attempted to shoot buckzilla at 4 yards with "Jude The Obscure" in paperback), and it's the single property in the world most covered with things initialed by my pocketknife(seats, trees, bushes, sticks, steps, bullets).

I made my longest shot on a deer there as a nine-year-old in 1989 (200+ yards, walking between two trees 6" apart - shot square through the heart). I had my first extremely unfortunate, yet educational run-in with bourbon whiskey there in 2001. Two years would pass before I could safely whiff brown liquor without turning green.

I put diesel gas in a gasoline-powered ATV there in 1991 (sorry Uncle Buster - that was me), I almost shot a hole in my own ATV late one night chasing coyotes in 1996. I watched Tripp shoot a hole in his trailer while laying down a heavy line of covering fire on a marauding 'possum in the fall of 2007.

I shot a coke can full of cement literally out of sight through our homemade cannon. I got stung by bees and eaten alive by chiggers. I got covered with ticks. I cut myself. I fell into low things. I fell out of high things.

I fell in the lake in early March 1995 going fishing. Bud had to drag me out.

Quite a few young women heard about it, but only a handful ever saw it. It's just not a place for ladies. It's a place for men. It's a place for slightly unwholesome talk and fires and oyster shells and ammunition and Hoppes #9 and long arguments about the best way to do it - whatever "it" is.

I enjoyed some of my best dinners there in its kitchen. I met some of my favorite friends on its front porch.

But, all things must come to an end.

So, with a great deal of fondness in my heart and a lifetime of good memories in my head, I bid "Adieu" to The Deer Camp and the batallion of characters to have crossed it's threshold in the last 20 years. To Jack, Bryan, Ralph, Dad, Seth, Tripp, Thomas, Reid, Dick, Gene, Rayboy, "Hooty-Hoo-Hoo-O'Dillon", Beau, Buster, and John I say: Happy Hunting, it's been an honor and a privilege.

Keep your powder dry,

Atlanta, Ga
August 16, 2010