Goodbye/Hello

This blog is dead. Thanks to all who read it. I have a new blog that I will be premiering this coming Monday, June 29th. Hope to hear from all of you soon.

-Mike

www.MiketheBull.com

An Open Letter to Jesus and the Easter Bunny

Dear Fellas,

I just want to thank the both of you for Easter. This year was a blast. It was the first time Bekki and I got to host a formal dinner. Well, the only guests were her mother and father so I'm not sure how formal that all was. The food was exquisite. The old ball and chain whipped up a pork tenderloin flavored with garlic and Cabernet sauvignon. It was almost as good as knowing the Easter Bunny's real.

In keeping with Easter Bunny tradition, we also had a side of spinach. So, you're welcome Easter Bunny. And Jesus, I wanted to do something for you as well, but it turns out Bekki got all of her recipes from Weight Watchers so it was kinda hard to fake the whole 'guilt thing'.

It's been so long since we've talked. Lemme think, what's new. . . what's new. . . Oh! They elected some black guy as president! Can you believe that? Next thing you know we'll be banking with Asians and praying to Jews. Oops, sorry that just kinda slipped. He'll do fine, though. The black guy. Not you, Jesus. Of course you're doing fine. No one doubts that. But I do have some news you'll probably find disturbing. Um, how to put this delicately. Well, you've heard about Vermont, right? . . .

Long Hauls and Close Calls by Hank Williams III

Happy Easter from everyone below the Mason-Dixon!

For more info check out the website at Hank3.com.

Kissing the Devil

A recent post on the blog Georgia is Your Friend explores her memories of past romances via that special 'first kiss'. At the end of the blog she naturally asks her readers to try to remember their first kiss moments. I pretty much do whatever someone tells me, so I did.

"I was 15 and you were 17. You had a boyfriend at the time. The judge's ruling stated that you couldn't see him or any of your other friends who were there when that thing happened. I wasn't there or even knew you when that thing happened. So that's why I was hanging out with you instead of your boyfriend. We were in your bedroom. Your parents were in the other room. We could hear them watching television. You wrapped your arms around my waist and our stomachs touched. So I pulled you down to the bed and we kissed. Then we just looked at each other and smiled. It wasn't suppose to happen, but it did."

That was 10 years ago. I'm not sure exactly how I got roped into this marriage thing, but I think that first kiss might've sealed the deal.

http://georgiaisyourfriend.blogspot.com/2009/04/assorted-first-kisses.html

What the Economy Needs is a Healthy Dose of Methamphetamine

From the opening scene to the closing nightmarish climax, Requiem for a Dream made me wish I had never renewed my Netflix subscription. While heroin and cocaine addiction might be cool for Hollywood hipsters Marlon Wayans and Jared Leto, this country is in far too great of a depression for escapism. That's why I urge everyone to go to their local movie theater and see Hotel for Dogs. Nothing will encourage you to pull yourself up by your boot straps like a Dreamworks produced smile-fest.

I realize that film students and self proclaimed "counter-culturists" will probably not heed my warnings. So if you are compelled to watch Requiem, be sure to chase it with a nice long swig of Spongebob. Not to totally discredit the film, though, their were several uplifting points to the movie. For instance, I was unaware of how incredibly patriotic methamphetamines are. What is more American than artificial industriousness? And if increased energy and productivity aren't American values anymore then maybe I ought to just buy a Toyota.

Whatever your opinion of this hour and a half long anti-drug commercial, it will leave you with a completely altered opinion of Jennifer Connelly. From the lovable child-star of Labyrinth to the hauntingly flawled Marion of Requiem, we see Connelly brutally typecast. The latter character being addicted to cocaine and heroin while the former having an equally unhealthy addiction to David Bowie. If Jennifer Connelly doesn't do something quick, she might find herself as the helpless damsel in distress forever. Unless, of course, the orgy scene from Requiem was actually an exercise in the art of method acting. If this is true, she could possibly find a blossoming career in the pornography industry. Now please excuse me while I set my television on fire.

Why Would Anyone Live in Spartanburg?

I'd like to briefly mention the Trinity. It is an idea that the Catholics have used for centuries to confuse those they've conquered and enslaved. I, too, have wrestled with this concept. How can three entities be one and separate at the same time? Like Jennifer Lopez and J-Lo. You never see them in the same room together, but sources tell me that they're probably the same person.

I use this same logic for geographical questions as well. Now I'm not a linguistics professional by any means, but I feel by using the Trinity-Lopez school of thought it is safe to say that Sparta, Greece and Spartanburg, South Carolina are probably the same place. This is only relevant when you consider my lineage. Having a good deal of Greek blood via relatives from Athens, I consider the venture into Spartanburg today more than a grocery run, but an act of bravery not seen since days of yore.

It is common knowledge that the city-states of Athens and Sparta are sworn mortal enemies. So I was on guard today as I crossed the border between North and South Carolina. Indeed, the natives were hostile, especially when ringing up my purchases at their Petsmart. Upon first inspection I detected two distinctly different tribes. One was comprised of very loud and boisterous dark skinned individuals. They wore brightly colored clothing and traveled in large groups. The other was lighter in complexion. Their faces were gruff with stubble and their shoulders were drenched in either camouflage or plaid. The second group seemed tenser in demeanor, perhaps due to traveling in smaller, more guarded herds.

Whether these two factions are vying for control over Spartanburg is hard to say. As an outsider, it is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to live there in the first place. As an Athenian, however, it may prove useful to ignite some sort of conflict between the two. Indeed, their actions seemed far from civil as they raced about the crowded streets honking their horns and fighting each other for the best parking spot. So now that I'm safe at home I am left with two questions: How did I make it out alive? and Why would I ever want to go back?

The Sick Nurse

My wife is hot. She is also sick. As her mother put it, sick enough to snot out a few oysters. If that's the case then I'm pissed, because I've been cleaning up tissues for the past few days now and have yet to find a pearl. Perhaps she was referring to Mountain Oysters.

On a positive note, feeling under the weather will only speed up her weight loss. It's hard to eat when you're slowly dying. She's lost over 15 pounds now. I am so in love with this woman. I almost feel like I owe it to her to eat healthy and live better. The key word there being 'almost'. Hey, I quit cigarettes, but I'll be damned if I quit binge drinking.

If you divert your eyes from my wife's shapely bottom and look slightly to the right, you will see three red plants. Two of those plants are red daisies that I recently purchased. The third is a small red cactus who I named Marie* after my red-headed wife. Apparently, though, cacti do not fare well exposed to the cold North Carolina climate for prolonged periods of time. I say this because Marie is now dead. The weather man said that we have a 70% chance of snow tonight. Perhaps I better move the real Marie indoors as well. That or cover her with a blanket or a tarp.

*For all of you 'fact-checkers' out there, my wife's name is Rebecca Marie.

Things I Bought

I wanted to post something today, but I wasn't sure what to write. So instead I'll just list a few of my recent purchases. First, I bought Kellog's Fruit Harvest Cereal. It is delicious. It has real strawberries and blueberries in it. I'm slowly making the transition from junk food to a healthy, organic diet. I know Kellog's isn't the same as eating a bowl of oats harvested from a farm on the outskirts of town, but it's still the first cereal I've ever enjoyed without the words Cocoa or Crunch on the box.



Did you know that Best Buy isn't selling CDs anymore? I went in for something and all they had was one rack left of the stuff they couldn't get rid of. So I browsed the pile of scraps and came across 1998's Mos Def and Talib Kweli are Blackstar. So add that to the list of things I bought. The production is low-budget and really vibes with the organic message and mood of the album. "You're not strong, only aggressive because the power ain't directed. That's why we are subjected to the will of the oppressive" (Thieves in the Night).


My third purchase was not only organic, but local as well. This lady owns a dog boutique on Main St. She makes all of these quirky dog treats. I bought one shaped like a cannoli. My dogs just wanted to suck the white filling out. Ooh, I also bought a newspaper and read it in the park downtown. I felt like such a grown-up until some kid went flying by on a bike and yelled "Ahh!!" at me. Then I just felt like a doofus (sp?).

Pennsylvania Must Be a Scary Place to Live

This is Dear Deer by comedien Kate Micucci

Killing the Mailman with Calm-Assertive Energy

(Ernie, Red and Dixie)

I get a knock on the door today. So I push thru the barking dogs and step onto the front porch. The screen door shuts behind me as I ask in my most put-on baritone, "Can I help you?" The man in question is a good foot shorter than me, but still has the nerve to say, "I'm from the Post Office. Your mother called yesterday about the mailbox. . ."

My mother? Bitch, you don't know me! I quickly corrected him. "My wife?" "Yes, sorry. She said there was a problem with the height of your mailbox?" "No, that's not what she said. The mailman thinks there is a problem with the height of our mailbox. We think the problem lies in the fact that he has vandalised it". "Well, I don't see any issue with the height. I'll have to talk with him". "Well, you can talk with him, I can talk with him or the police can talk to him. Either way I don't wanna have to worry about the mailman breaking my stuff".

I was feeling a bit frustrated after the encounter. And with Bekki at work today there was no one to yell at. So even though it's been raining all day (all week), I decided to take the pack on a walk. I just finished the Cesar Millan book Be the Pack Leader as well as almost finishing off the entire first season of the Dog Whisperer with Bekki (thank you, Netflix) so I figure I could try and put some of those lessons to practice. The smell of the rain and the trees was invigorating. It just reemphasizes my belief that it's easier to find god in the woods than in the church. If you don't believe me then, hey, just ask my dogs.

Bare-Knuckled Bekki vs. the United States Postal System

I wonder how many times you can actually thump somebody in the temple until the pressure is so great that their head explodes. Bekki called the Post Office today. Some Irish prick who delivers our mail must have a real hard-on for us. Every time he comes by he's got some prank to pull. First it was scattering our mail all over our front lawn. It took me a while to get it, but I see the humor in it now. Then today he places the mail in the slot and rips off the face of the box and leaves THAT lying in the yard. I would have called the Post Office myself, but Bekki's PMS-ing so I figure I'd let her direct all of her pent up rage towards someone other than myself.

The Post Master says he's gonna send somebody out to asses the damage. I keep thinking of the Arlo Guthrie song Alice's Restaurant Massacre where a federal indictment is made out of a simple littering charge. I wonder if we'll have to give DNA samples. While we're at it we can kill two birds with one stone and find out if there's a gene that relates to intolerance of stupidity and petty vandalism. If it exists, I'm sure Bekki's a carrier.

Our minimum credit card payment is $50. We paid $400 this month. But apparently the fiber-optic scanner that reads checks sent in to the Credit Union mistook our 4 for a 9. I'm not that great at math but I believe that leaves a $500 overcharge on our account. Since the card is in Bekki's name, she again was forced to take off the gloves in a verbal beat down between us and the Credit Union. They pussed out, though, and told us to call our bank. Who, in turn, told us to call the credit card company directly. So now we have three agencies sending us complaint forms which will take 7 to 10 business days. By that time we will have entered another pay period, missed our mortgage payment, been foreclosed upon, forced to live on the streets and eat out of the dumpsters behind Ruby Tuesdays. We will have run out of money to pay for antidepressants and will probably realize what dismal existences we live and take our own lives in what will be classified as a murder-suicide (Bekki hates knives). So now the question is whether or not our bank will reimburse us for the funeral costs as our life insurance plans exclude suicide. Which reminds me, I've got to call the bank.

On second thought, I'll just get Bekki to call.

WNCW 88.7

I'll be on air tonight from 12am-4am EST (9am-1am PST). If you're in the Asheville, NC area, it's 88.7. In Charlotte it's 100.3. In Greenville, SC it's 97.3 and in Boone, NC it's 92.9. If you want to listen online just go to the WNCW website at WNCW.org and click on the Listen Live button in the upper left hand corner.

Morning Breath All Day Long

I've been obsessed with fresh breath recently. That doesn't even feel right to say. You should always be concerned with fresh breath I suppose. But with me this is mostly a new phenomenon. That's not to say that before this epiphany, this tidal wave of self-discovery that my breath was foul. But I did smell someone else's breath recently and was shocked. I can't remember who, so for the sake of a good story I'll say it was Ernie.

Ernie likes to eat things like vomit, feces and garbage. He's a dog and his breath is extremely foul, but recently it has started to smell like rancid roast beef. I suppose I should get his teeth cleaned. Ernie was a birthday present for my wife. He was her 25th birthday present to be exact. Not her last in a series of twenty five presents, but a present for her 25th year of life. I got him from the pound. I don't believe in breeders. They're nothing but practitioners of eugenics with less education. And if they are backyard breeders then they usually have no education. "How many people live at your residence?" "Just two. My wife and I". "Ok, she'll have to come down and meet the dog before you adopt him". "But it's a surprise. For her birthday". "I'm sorry, but she'll have to come down before we can release him". So I stopped by Lisa's house. She wasn't busy so I asked her if she could pretend to be Bekki for an hour. She found a ring in her jewelry box and squeezed it onto her ring finger.

Bekki was lying in bed when I walked through the door carrying Ernie. "What type of dog is he?", she asked. I told her he was a Fox Terrier. That's what the nice folks at the pound had told me. Come to find out Ernie is a Rat Terrier. The name is not nearly as impressive, but Teddy Roosevelt had a pack of 'em so I let it go. I carry a box of Altoids with me now for my breath. I don't know if they help. I give Ernie mint flavored dog treats and they sure as hell don't.

A Few Thoughts on Sex

I don't know why people have to mention pussy and tits in casual conversation. Why can't they just say boobs or vagina? Why do they have to mention it at all? Well I don't care to live in a world void of mammary discussion. It's just the linguistics that eat at me. But what's in a name anyway? And who in the hell is Michael DeAntonio? And why are there so many questions in this paragraph? Maybe I'm just feeling inquisitive. Or maybe the mention of female anatomy in the opening sentence hints at how I'm really feeling.

I planted eight blackberry bushes yesterday. I figure a green thumb is better than a thumb up my ass. Or wherever that little Dutch boy has his thumb. Vagina? If the damn things grow I should have a plethora of blackberries to eat. Ah, did you think I was going to say vagina again?

I have about 40 old Playboy Magazines on a bookshelf next to me. They were my grandfathers. It's interesting to see the stylistic changes in the women. Whatever happened to the natural women of the 1960s and '70s? Oh, there's another question! And here's another! Other than the sluts and porn stars, do you know what other group walk around with hairless vaginas? Prepubescent girls. Maybe there's a correlation between our quest for youth and our desire to see hairless vagina. Hey, I'm just trying to give you something to chew on.

PS. I've never had to make vagina plural before. Is "vaginas" accurate? Whatever. I'm going to wake Bekki up.

Hooray for Snow!

It snowed! And the real estate agent said it hardly ever snowed in this town. This makes it a little harder to buy into that global warming hype you always hear about. Oh, sorry for looking horrible. I just woke up.

Pepsi Courts the Original Spokesman

I don't know what to think. It's a beautifully done commercial. If it was advertising anything else, though, I think I might approve. A new record, a HBO special, Gold Bond Medicated Powder- Anything! Well, I've gotta go to the store and pick up a twelve pack of Pepsi. See ya later, suckers.

Help! I've Been Robbed By the Capitalist System!

Utah Phillips recited this poem during a concert of his where he performed songs from the Little Red Songbook. I think it is aptly suited to be read with the above picture of the Big Three CEO's.

The Two Bums

The bum on the rod is hunted down
As the enemy of mankind;
The other is driven around to his club
And feted, wined and dined.

And they who curse the bum on the rods
As the essence of all that is bad
Will greet the other with a winning smile
And extend him the hand so glad.

The bum on the rods is a social flea
Who gets an occasional bite;
The bum on the plush is a social leech,
Blood-sucking day and night.

The bum on the rods is a load so light
That his weight we scarcely feel,
But it takes the labor of dozens of men
To furnish the other a meal.

As long as you sanction the bum on the plush,
The other will always be there,
But rid yourself of the bum on the plush
And the other will disappear.

Then make an intelligent, organized kick,
Get rid of the weights that crush;
Don't worry about the bum on the rods,
Get rid of the bum on the plush!

Conan OBrien's Last Episode

It's the end of a era. I didn't watch the show from the begining back in1993, but it has been there with me since as far back as I can remember. Adolescence would not have been the same without this large pale man and his offbeat humor. Every night through highschool and college were spent waiting for Conan to come on. Sadly, I haven't watched him with as much regularity in the past year. I feel like my crazy uncle just died and all I can think is that I should have spent more time with him when I had the chance. Luckily he'll still be on the air. I just hope California doesn't eat him alive.

On a side note, did anybody else notice how horribly awful the White Stripes were?

Here Comes Success

I recently connected with someone on Facebook that I hadn't seen in more than fifteen years. The last time I saw her, we were both goofy-looking children. She's a model, now. I'm no model by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not as ugly as some of these busted-up mugs I've seen. Yeah, my weight gain diet didn't turn out the way I thought it would. My arms and shoulders are still scrawny, but I've got a nice gut to compensate. Physical attributes aside, life has been good to me. I'm not sure if I would have said the same a few weeks ago.

I haven't been too keen on turning 25. My father-in-law spent his 25th birthday in a state of mournful regret. Even though he'd accomplished alot for a young man, he still felt inadequate. I guess that's where I am. But there's alot to be thankful for. I've got Bekki. That doesn't sound like much of an accomplishment, but you try living with her for a week and you might have a new found respect for what I put up with. Getting married at 21 isn't an accomplishment. To remain married and still just as madly in love four years later is, though. We own a house. No one bought it for us. No one gave it to us. I guess no matter where life takes us I can be happy that we got there on our own grit and determination. Our families helped out, mind you, and I'm not dogging anyone whose family has helped out more, but we did it ourselves and that's something I can be proud of.

I haven't published a book, yet. I promised myself that I'd have a published book by the time I turn 25. I could sit here and wallow about my loss of professional success (and trust me, I have), but I have so much personal success that it all seems minute. The personal growth I've developed is deeply satisfying. I think having the energy and the attention span of a 3rd grader has brought my wife to her wit's end, but my personal discovery has only brought us closer together. And at the end of the day, our relationship is the true bar of success.

I promised my mother before I left Charleston that I would find Jesus. With as many churches as there are around here I regret to inform her that this has not happened yet. I am growing spiritually, which is not what she probably wants to hear, but it still means something. We all take different paths in life. I never would have thought that mine would lead me to this small Appalachian town, but it has and life is good. And no, I didn't cop out for a $25 "Life is Good" t-shirt, I used every waking thought to send me in a positive direction. I might have gotten distracted by a couple shiny objects, but I'm still on that righteous path.

I'm not sure who said it first or who I heard it from, but there's a quote I try to live by. It goes, "We are the thoughts we choose to entertain in our minds". I'm thinking mostly positive thoughts these days. Hopefully that paired with hard work will bring me to where I want to be professionally. I may never be a model or fill out a one-piece bathing suit the way some people do, but I'm happy. And at 25 that's about all I can say.

Bradley Cooper is Water and I am a Semi-Permeable Membrane

Valentine's Day is for lovers. He's Just Not That Into You is for lonely women who eat Ben and Jerry's ice cream while reading Cosmo. I wish someone would have told me that before I took Bekki to see it on our Valentine's Day date. Having to sit through awkward sex scenes with the voluptuous Scarlett Johansson while your wife mumbles "what a whore" was the least of my frustrations. The character that Johansson sleeps with is a married man! So now I've gotta be like "Yeah, that fuckin' home wrecker! She tried to do the same thing to me last week and I was like, Bitch, please! I'm married. I think you better go fuck Bradley Cooper instead!"

The film is also produced by and co-stars Drew Barrymore. Rather foolishly, I once informed my wife that I found Ms. Barrymore moderately attractive. Thankfully she appeared quite old and wrinkly looking. This helped me to look a tad less piggish. But just as I feel I'm dodging the hot seat, Jennifer Connelly discovers that her husband is smoking behind her back even AFTER her father died of lung cancer. That's me! I've been caught TWICE smoking behind my wife's back. Once was when we were teenagers, but still! So I'm looking out the corner of my eye at Bekki and wondering if she's engaged in some sort of chick-flick transference by subconsciously redirecting Cooper's follies onto me.

Luckily Ben Affleck shows up with Jennifer Aniston on his arm. They've been dating for seven years and are madly in love. She's a little upset that he hasn't asked her to marry him, yet, but I think they'll be ok. And then, what, wait, Aniston gives Affleck an ultimatum? Marry me or this relationship is over? Ben Affleck leaves Jennifer Aniston?!? What is wrong with you, Ben? You're making me look bad over here. And all I wanted to do was take my wife to see a nice romantic movie for Valentine's Day. Justin Long? Yeah, he's not much better. He ends up becoming the nice committed guy that Ginnifer Goodwin desperately craves, but he acts like a complete tool in the process. The film's synopsis? Don't ever trust your husband around Scarlett Johansson.

WNCW 88.7

I'll be on air tonight from 12am-4am EST (9am-1am PST). If you're in the Asheville, NC area, it's 88.7. In Charlotte it's 100.3. In Greenville, SC it's 97.3 and in Boone, NC it's 92.9. If you want to listen online just go to the WNCW website at WNCW.org and click on the Listen Live button in the upper right hand corner.

Penis Envy (Part II)

But when they did finally focus, I've got this huge fleshy "prosthetic" staring me in the face. Now that's not a position I'm too comfortable with normally, but considering the circumstances this was rather amusing. The 10 inch flesh colored prosthetic had a suction cup placed behind the "base" and was stuck to Alabama's bumper. He laughed and said Huckleberry. Apparently it's an ongoing gag between the two. One leaves said prosthetic for the other to find in some unusual place. Then the other tries to top that. I questioned whether it was hers and got the expected runaround.

We both agreed that said prosthetic placed on the back bumper was funny, but inappropriate. Hood ornaments belong on the front of the car. Not the rear bumper. So after correcting her error we concluded that Rolls Royce ought to ditch their winged mascot (The Spirit of Ecstasy).

We had a good laugh. We paused. And then we laughed a little bit more just to cover up the awkwardness of it all. I told him if he got pulled over by the Fuzz to play stupid. Well, he did and, of course, he played stupid right up to the hilt. In a small sleepy town the police have nothing better to do. Nothing better to do than question unusual auto body work. They never seem to question those mud flaps with the naked ladies on 'em. I wonder if there is some lingering homophobia around these parts. That or they've never heard of penis envy.

-FIN-

An Open Letter To A Big Red Girl

Dear Red,

I know you're scared tonight. Hell, I'm scared too. It's been snowing for an hour now. I coulda swore I saw a flake or two stick. It mighta been my cataracts. You're scared for different reasons, though. Going under the knife is pretty risky business. And not in the cool Tom Cruise jumping on couches way, either. I'm talking 'bout the hold your boots and shit your pants kinda risky business.

If I was the type to falsify statistics for dramatic effect, I'd say that I've got a 12% chance of sliding off the icy roads into a telephone poll tonight. You? I'd probably say you've got a one in four chance of sudden respiratory failure. That or a severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. But I'm not the type to make up bullshit like that, so cheer up. You'll be fine. I'm 85% sure of it.

Obama's inauguration is tomorrow. That's something to get optimistic about. I'm not sure how close you follow politics, but it's important. Some people don't think so. But it is. It affects everyone. Even you. The better the economy does, the more treats we can afford to buy you. Lord knows you love your doggy treats. A lot of churches around here are calling this the End of Days. Don't believe 'em. Even if Obama is the anti-Christ, it'll take him months to organize his army of demons. At worst, this is the End of Months- Years possibly.

Yo Momma's worried about you. She says she hates you, but she's worried. I'm not worried 'cause I know you'll do fine. Havin' a doctors cold steel tool slap against your wiffer can't be too different than Ernies wet fleshy tool. And hopefully the operation will decrease your fragrant girl smell. I'm pretty sure that's what causes Ernie to go so crazy for you. That and your sweet ass. Anyways, I'll see you tomorrow morning when I pick you up.

Love,
Yo Daddy

Penis Envy (Part I)

I got a coworker named Alabama. I call him that to protect his anonymity and, well, because he's from Alabama. Nice guy. Real thick southern accent. He's got a story for everything. If you've seen it, he's seen it bigger and better. If you've done it, he's done it twice and never returned its phone calls.

Huckleberry's a nice gal. She's got a real high-pitched voice and always wears colorful socks. She's kinda an oddball, but has a thing for rednecks. So inevitably her and Alabama hook up. After a few weeks of giggling and sending text messages she invites his homeless hillbilly ass to stay at her place. I like this. He's a swell guy. She's a swell girl. So, this thing that's happened, I like it.

We leave work at the same time last night, Alabama and I. I'm walking him to his car, because I'm parked right beside him. I don't normally walk dudes to their cars. In fact, I'm not sure why I said I "walked him to his car" at all. What I should have said was "we were both traveling towards similar destinations when our paths crossed for a prolonged period of time". A littler wordier, but it makes more sense.

So I finally get to my car and he finally gets to his car. We do this at about the same time. They were parked right beside each other. Alabama starts laughing. I don't know what the hell he's laughing at. So he points it out to me. "Look. You don't see that? On the bumper?" I had to get a little bit closer so my eyes could focus.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part IV)

You’re supposed to socialize your puppy from a young age. To expose them to as many different people, places and animals as possible. Not humanly possible, because I’m a human and I hate society. No, just plain old socialization will be fine. I’d like to think that I was sitting on that bench with Red today for that reason, but I wasn’t. No, I was hoping to run into Gregory. He owns a restaurant on Main Street. I know him on a first name basis because his restaurant is named Gregory’s. I don’t pretend to like him. Actually I do. No one can sauce up some chicken wings like Gregory can. But when I’m by myself there is absolutely no pretension whatsoever. I promise. Because honestly, I can’t stand the guy. Right before the recent election he’s got McCain-Palin signs decked out in all his windows. Now, I’m all for someone having their own beliefs and expressing those beliefs. This is America after all. But in a place of business? And it doesn’t help that those beliefs are in opposition to mine.

So I wait. I wait outside of Gregory’s for a man named Gregory to walk out and smoke his afternoon cigar. I could have gone inside to talk to him, but I had a dog with me. Poor planning on my part.

The truth is I pussed out. I had a whole notebook of questions about the GOP, but I pussed out. A scared journalist is like a dead soldier. Neither knew what they were getting themselves into. No Austin. No big doughy titties. No Pill Lady. And no Gregory. Back to the drawing board. Back to the day job, too.

-FIN-

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part III)

“Hey, you got a reel purty dog there. What kind is it?” We were up on Main Street, now. Red slunk down behind my legs like a bashful five year old. She’ll chase cats to Hell and back, but I’m not sure if she knows what to think around strangers. Especially strange old men who wear too much Old Spice.

I looked down at her inquisitively. “I don’t know. I think she might be a cocker spaniel”.

He was crouching down, now. He gave her a few strokes across her brow and scratched her chin. “Boy, I don’t know about no cocker spaniel. Ain’t they normally got long, curly hair? To me she looks like she’s got pitbull in her”.

I regretted having not properly trained her to attack pompous old fats who call men boys. I looked at her and scrunched up my forehead. “I don’t know, mister. I’m pretty sure she’s full bred cocker spaniel. That’s what the papers say at least”.

He looked up at me with a turned up lip. His teeth were off white, but denture-straight. My blank expression left him with no other option than to believe me. Or at least believe that I thought my dog was a cocker spaniel. “Well, whatever she is, she sure is purty”. We said our parting words and continued. I coughed my way out of his Old Spice mushroom cloud and back onto Main Street’s sidewalk.

Whenever I walk down a sidewalk I picture everbody as Shel Silverstein characters. At six foot six and a hundred and thirty pounds I could have easily been a caricature of someone far more handsome. Like Benicio del Toro. Red was pretty goofy, too. She hadn’t grown into her legs, yet. They sprung out like bean stalks with white socks dangling from her toes.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part II)

Pitbulls are supposed to get a lot of exercise. I’m not saying Red’s a pitbull or anything, but if she were she would definatley need a lot of exercise. She acts like a bulldog on occasion. I’m not sure if it’s just her natural temperament or if it’s on account of all the red meat I feed her. That and the neglect. The point is that she loves walks. Walks are great exercise for dogs. So we turn off Cleghorn onto Hill Street. Hill Street goes up at a seventy degree angle. That’s the type of exercise that makes me regret a steady diet of Hot Pockets and Slim Jims. Hill empties out into the back parking lot of the 1st Baptist Church. Before we bought our house, my wife asked the realtor why they called it the 1st Baptist Church. Apparently the town has two Baptist churches and this one was the first one built. Did they call it something else before the 2nd Baptist Church was built? Or did they always envision the town having more than one? I would have come up with a more creative name, but I’m not in the church-naming business. Hell, I’m not even in the soul-saving business. I’m in the dog walking business.

What the Fuck is an Irish Bulldog? (Part I)

The wind whips against my door like a slave driver. So I put Red on her leash and let her drag me out into the mud. A gust almost lifts me off the ground. She looks like a kid flying a kite at the beach. Or running down the street with a birthday balloon. I try to rein her in enough to where she can’t jump from the sidewalk to the street. I’m not sure how acute her fear of cars is yet, but I assume it’s minimal.

We took a left down Cleghorn. There’s a little Mexican boy that lives there. I call him Chunk. I call him that because he’s a fat little fucker. I haven’t seen him since the leaves began to fall. He never wore a shirt during the summer, so I assume he doesn’t got one. That would explain why he can’t be found in cold weather.

It’s not a Mexican neighborhood, though. I wish it was. Then I could get a decent chalupa. Austin’s family is across the street from Chunk. I think they might be Irish. I say this on account of Austin’s bright red hair. That and his sister’s big doughy titties. I’m not sure if Irish broads having big doughy titties is an actual stereotype or not, but I’d like to think so. I assume Red’s Irish as well. She doesn’t have tits, but her red coat makes her look like a Hell Hound.

Further up the street there lives the Pill Lady. She looks just like a sweet old lady. You walk by her house and she’ll be standing there on her porch waving and smiling. She’ll say something sweet like “Hey, what a pretty dog you got”. And then when you’re all comforted by this grandmotherly figure, she asks if you’re holding any pain killers. So, yeah, I was kinda looking forward to turning her down for the umpteenth time, but she wasn’t there. Either I’m the only one stupid enough in this town to walk against this wind or Pill Lady and Chunk are out shopping - for shirts and pills respectively.

Big Black and Nasty

"We can't change the world unless we change ourselves"
-Christopher Wallace

Clearly this years the Passion of the Christ, the major motion picture release Notorious will leave Mel Gibson not only doubting his faith, but his choice in films as well. Critics have already drawn many parallels between the two films. Both have troubled protagonists who were cut down before their time. Both are strong morality tales concerning the sins of mankind. And both have totally kick-ass soundtracks. Let us hope that it was just the film's tagline that the director butchered (crucified?) and not the film itself.

Gettin' High For Jesus by Holly Golightly and the Brokeoffs

Holly Golightly has released 14 albums since her debut in 1995. Her touring is as prolific as her recording with an almost unstoppable momentum propelling her across the globe. Her 2008 release Dirt Don't Hurt has earned her much critical acclaim and for good reason. Holly's blend of traditional American styles with a punk/garage rock grit has easily won the hearts of fans everywhere. For more information, visit her website at HollyGolightly.com.

Retro-Active

This post was inspired by Mr. Peter Varvel over at Plastic Bubble World. Thank you for the inspiration, Peter.

1. When I was 1 I slept in a wooden crib that my grandfather built for me.
2. When I was 2 my parents had sex for the second time and my sister was born.
3. I was being bathed once when I was 3 and managed to pee FROM the bathtub INTO the toilet that was across the room.
4. I slept in a wooded bed that I built for myself when I was 4.
5. When I was 5 my grandmother took a whole roll of film of just me eating vanilla yogurt. (She developed them in our basement/dark room)
6. When I was 6 my parents, believing married couples should have intercourse more than twice, decided to divorce and go their seperate ways.
7. I read alot of Shel Silverstein when I was 7 and was inspired to create the "Bridge to Nowhere" book series. Sadly, no publisher would take it up and I was forced to sell it to Sarah Palin.
8. At 8 years old I probably picked my nose alot.
9. When I was 9 I discovered my penis. We've been friends ever since.
10. I decided to turn 10 because I was sick of single digits.
11. When I was 11 I discovered cigarettes and pornography. (Thanks to my mother and father, respectively)
12. When I was 12 I discovered marijuana was easier to come by than alcohol.
13. By the time I was 13 I was peddling H to middle schoolers. Once they got hooked and strung out, I'd convince them to start hooking.
14. When I was 14 I kissed a girl for the first time.
15. During my freshman year of highschool, I took a creative writing class. I met my future wife in this class (I was 15).
16. I got my driver's license and started working when I was 16.
17. When I was 17, it was a very good year.
18. Graduated when I was 18.
19. I started working on a crabbing boat when I was 19.
20. After a successful day at work, Bekki made the joke that I had "got crabs". I immediately quit the crab boat.
21. I married my highschool sweetheart at 21.
22. When I was 22 my grandfather passed away.
23. Bekki and I moved up to North Carolina when I was 23.
24. When I was 24 I started writing again and discovered the wonderful world of blogging.
25. Who knows what 25 will bring. Children? Possibly.

Three Dogs Walk Into My Living Room. . .

The nails on my left hand are black right now. No, I didn't paint them black in a self-conscious attempt at becoming "emo" or "emo-like". And, no, I didn't accidentally crush my fingers with a hammer. Although, that wouldn't hurt to solidify my masculine persona. No, the cause of this androgynous stunt is purely coincidental. It seems one of my beloved pooches decided to steal a pen from the coffee table and disembowel it. I suppose a small amount of regret was felt, because the animal in question then decided that the pen deserved a proper burial- especially considering the horrific death it endured. The grave? Between the cushion of my favorite chair.

So I pull my hand up to see it covered in black ink. Then I pull the cushion up to see that it, too, is covered in black ink. The culprit, I concluded, might also be covered in black ink. My conclusions were right. I give each dog a solid inspection. Dixie? Clean. Ernie? Also clean. Red? Caught, well, red handed.