Category Archives: work

All The Live Long Day

So I got my ass a new job, and it’s friggin hard as hell. I can’t complain (even though I’m about to do just that) because I needed a job really bad, but let me go ahead and say that no matter how hard you think landscaping is, it’s about ten times harder. When you boil it down, I get paid just over minimum wage to grab a shovel and move dirt around for ten hours a day at a break neck slave speed. I’ve been working at this new job for about a month, and already I’ve lost fifteen pounds. And that’s not with a diet either, that’s pure-ass-hell-damn elbow grease. My diet consists of pizzas and dollar menu items from McDonalds, with the occasional gas station item. Do you have any idea how hard you have to work to lose fifteen pounds when your lunch is four McChicken sammiches, some beef jerky, and a two liter of Mountain Dew? My feet were covered with eleven (yes I counted them) blisters that still haven’t healed up yet after a friggin month of work. My feet look like a Vietnamese POW after a death march. And don’t even get me started on how many cuts I get. Just on the side of my left arm facing my head I can count twelve cuts. My farmers tan is so crucial I look like I’m wearing black face. And to top it off I think I’ve developed tendonitis because about half the time I loose all feeling between my fingers and my armpits.

But all in all it’s actually a nice job. I get to work with my hands, which I love. I get to be dirty all day, which I love. I get to cuss and sweat and bleed and tell dirty jokes. I’m re-learning spanish, picking up on the words and phrases I used to know back when I was living with Mexicans all week. Most of all I get to work with some really amazing people. I absolutely love blue collar people. We are bat shit crazy, and rough around the edges, but the most character filled, life loving, live in the moment people you will ever meet.

My direct boss, Tim, is a guy I’ve been friends with for about a decade. We go back to high school together, and we’ve done a lot of wild stuff. Now Tim is a funny guy, but before you even get to know him he’s just a funny looking guy. He’s skinny as a crack head, always has been. He might weigh 130 soaking wet. He’s got long curly heir that probably hasn’t seen a brush for years. And to top it all off he’s missing one of his front teeth. So anyone with a keen eye can pretty much size him up from a distance and know you’re dealing with a bit of a character. Now Tim isn’t exactly … how can I put this delicately … Tim and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues. We argue all the time, on just about every subject. Tim is kind of backwards on a lot of his views. He doesn’t like gay people. He’s very 40’s with his approach to gender roles. His actual reason for believing the Bible is true is because he want’s it to be true. And he spends most of his driving time soaking up the opinion of the day from Rush or Beck or Hannity.

Actually I really enjoy being around a stubborn, opinionated jack ass like Tim because it helps me solidify my own views. For a long time I couldn’t figure out why people like me and people like Tim disagree on such basic, fundamental issues. Take health care for instance. Me and Tim both want a similar end result, that everyone has access to health care. But we have such totally opposing ideas on how that should be put into place. And it just bugged me and bugged me until one day I had a bit of an epiphany. I realized that conservatives like Tim basically believe (erroneously) that the government got it right with our original constitution and that they shouldn’t do anything extra, while I believe that the constitution was a good start, but the government should change and grow as the world changes and grows. And so when I have to argue with Tim about seemingly obvious points, like for instance that only white property owning males could vote until they fixed that clearly unfair part of the constitution, it helps remind me of why I believe the things I do.

My boss one up from Tim is a yankee named Carl, who is hands down one of the wildest and craziest people I have ever met in my life. First of all he looks about ten years younger than he really is. He’s thirty eight and he’s engaged to a twenty four year old. So of course me and Tim give him pure shit for that. Asking whether she calls him daddy or grandpa in the sack, and suggesting that he’s on the edge of sterility. And it’s so funny because he’s so easy to get riled up. Even under perfect conditions he’s an easily agitated person, and he’s so hyper and his fuse is so short that it’s friggin hilarious to get him pissed off and just watch. He’ll get pissed off and just start randomly picking racial slurs to call people before he even knows what they are.

Somebody hit him with a car the other week, ran their mirror into his back pack leaf blower, and it spun him around. So he’s super pissed off, packs up and I end up in the same truck as him. He’s getting calls non stop, answering the phone screaming, and of course I can only hear half the conversation, but it’s hilarious. (Phone rings) “Holy shit if you see any n*****s on the way to the fucking park hit them with your fucking car! …. Some god damned spook just hit me with a car, fuckin bullshit, cause we’re working in the middle of coon town and none of these crack head mother fuckers can drive for shit! … (at car behind us) GET OFF MY FUCKING ASS YOU NO DRIVING SAND N****R! I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE RIDE MY ASS. … No I’m bringing my god damned pistol tomorrow and the first fucker who drives too close to me is getting a lead sammich. (Now driving no more than two feet behind an SUV) Hold on my mom is texting me. … What the fuck Mom! Look at this god damn shit! (hands me phone which has a picture of a cock and balls with a shamrock saying happy saint Patrick’s day) (calls his mom) What the hell is wrong with you, did you fall off the short bus or what? … Why would you think I would find a picture of a dick and balls entertaining? … Why don’t you go find me a picture of some hot chick showing her pussy?! …. I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT A DICK AND BALLS! … Ok mom, I love you too, see you later.”

So that’s pretty much all day every day with Carl. If he’s not pissed off he’s just saying something totally off the wall. I believe he described his night thusly: “I was so god damned tired. Went home. Ate two bowls of cereal, and tried to knock the bottom off a pregnant lady.”

Of course, most of the labor is Mexican guys, and those guys always come with the crazy. One of our more experienced workers is named Compost. Seriously, a Mexican working in landscaping named Compost. I don’t think he understands the irony. Apparently the Mexicans like me. They told me I’m part Mexican because I work so hard, and they believe if I could drive I would make supervisor in a few months, which makes me feel good about myself and also pisses me off knowing that I can’t drive. But Mexicans are always easy to get along with. All you have to do is make sure you work as hard as they work, and try to learn a little Spanish so you can converse while you work.

The other notable weird people are the owners, who are a mix of Japanese and southern. So you have a couple of good old boys who are as anal retentive as a Tokyo accountant. It can be frustrating at times, but they are good at what they do.

And of course, like any blue collar job I get to play with all kinds of specialized power tools and heavy equipment. I get to use tillers and chainsaws and stump grinders and the lot. But what I’m most excited about is learning how to use the Bobcat and the excavator. They haven’t let me get on either one of them yet, but it’s only a matter of time before I get the chance, and I am stoked. I mean every boy grows up dreaming about playing with these kinds of machines, but so many people never get the chance. I think that’s what I am most excited about with this job. It’s all worth it. I don’t mind towing around explosives and getting my arms shredded and getting bit up by ticks and chiggers, as long as I get a chance to dig a hole with a back hoe.

And to close out this post I have a PSA. If you’re towing mulch covered in burlap next to the same chemicals that were used to blow up the Oklahoma City building, don’t throw your cigarette butt’s out the window while you’re driving down the freeway. There’s a good chance you will set it all on fire and unless you have really cool bosses who cover your ass you will probably lose your job.

The Carport of Babel

There are times in a mans life where he takes on a task, nay, a mighty quest. This arduous undertaking consumes him, pushing him to his limits in the ultimate attempt to make himself a legend among men. A hero of sorts. And almost without fail, in the real world at least, men underestimate how impossibly fucking hard this task will be once it’s started and there’s no turning back.

My quest is building a place to live. My brother and I decided to close in his carport making it into a new laundry room and a large bedroom for me to live in, and after I move a new living room or possibly game room for their house. We looked at this old carport and said to ourselves, we know how to measure and cut things. We like using power tools. We’ve both worked construction and maintenance jobs for many years. This should be well within the comfortable bounds of our almost limitless knowledge of how to make things. So with our spirits high and our giant hairy balls swinging low, we started tearing shit apart and building walls. As it turns out, we only half way know how to build a house. And we most certainly don’t know how to build a house to government standards.

You see what happened was, we forgot one very important factor when evaluating our personal skills. Both of us have built a lot of crap, and learned a lot of things, but every job we’ve ever had has been some jack-of-all-trades bullshit, where the main focus was on *ahem* jerry-rigging the living hell out of whatever we were fixing. So I can guarantee I can build a functional house that never leaks or falls over, but when it comes to making sure the town of Garner building inspectors agree about my methods, well, that’s a whole different slice of pie now isn’t it.

But who needs professional or expert knowledge, we decided to wing it anyway, and have been met with nothing but trouble ever since. We spent an entire day moving the top of one exterior wall one inch so it would match up properly with the preexisting trim wood. We’ve found unbelievable things wrong with the house. A large section of the roof had the rafters completely unattached, possibly from a large limb falling on it. One corner of the carport was held up by nothing but a four by four, gravity, and paint. Seriously, we jacked it up to build a wall, and the post fell out, not attached in any way to either the roof, or the small cement wall it was sitting on. One man with a sledgehammer, or say, a CAR, could have collapsed the end of the house. And yet our inspection fails because we accidentally used 3/8ths inch bolts instead of half inch bolts. Suck a dick inspector man, you know good and well that wall wasn’t going anywhere. (shakey fist with extra !!!!!!!)

So anyway. Nobody besides us gives a crap about the details of our work. Let me just say that we’ve pretty much all been busting our collective asses in the middle of a very muggy summer to try and get this project done, and though our balls are still just as huge as ever, our spirits are all sinking a little lower as the weeks go by. We’ll get this bastard built eventually, but for now nobody has much energy for things like, oh, blogging regularly. Even my first love, pornography, has been seeing less of me lately. Oh yeah, and the woman too, don’t forget the woman!

(By the way it’s very hard to focus on writing when your woman is sitting next to your rough draft on the computer screen, deep throating a popsicle. Who am I kidding, I didn’t even try splitting my attention.)

So screw it, this is what it looks like.

This was the corner being frighteningly held up by one single 4x4 with no screws or nails whatsoever.

This was the corner being frighteningly held up by one single 4x4 with no screws or nails whatsoever.

No one was injured in my tool rage.

No one was injured in my tool rage.

This is called labor fuel, which weve been consuming in large quantities. Because, you know, power tools and alcohol are never a bad thing to mix.

This is called labor fuel, which we've been consuming in large quantities. Because, you know, power tools and alcohol are never a bad thing to mix.

This would be our former exterior wall, also the location of the rafters holding up the ceiling that were completely unattached.

This would be our former exterior wall, also the location of the rafters holding up the ceiling that were completely unattached.

You can only immagine how packed it is now that we also brought down everything in our attic to instal a new HVAC system.

You can only immagine how packed it is now that we also brought down everything in our attic to instal a new HVAC system.

Getting close to done. ON THE OUTSIDE! Mwahahahaha!

Getting close to done. ON THE OUTSIDE! Mwahahahaha!

After working it is necessary to cover your head with a liquor bag, and make your best preggers tummy.

After working it is necessary to cover your head with a liquor bag, and make your best preggers tummy.

I Have the Body of a Greek God

Well, to be fair, I would only really have the body of one of the lesser Greek gods. Maybe an alcoholic god, in poor physical shape, who smokes too much and makes poor diet and lifestyle choices.

So what happened was, I was sitting at work on Tuesday, chillin’ like normal, watching Domino during our lunch hour. (fucking brilliant movie in case you haven’t seen it. Get off your vag-lips and go rent that shit right now, you will thank me) I heated up some Jimmy Deans sausage biscuit thingy, and a Tombstone personal pizza, downed an energy drink, a can of Mountain Dew, and two tums, ate half a bag of chips, two oatmeal creme cookie sandwiches, a zebra cake, and a double pack of peanut butter wafer bars. Shortly after Keira Knightley tells Lucy Liu that she’ll be dreaming of her pussy when she goes to bed alone that night, I began to feel a little ill. Actually, I was fairly hung over already, so my general state of health started at a level normal people might call “sick”, but I was getting some red alert signals from my digestive track that shouted for attention over the background noise of my throbbing head and mild nausea.

I managed to make it to the good bathroom before my lunch made a hasty exit. I’ve hurled in the “bad bathroom” before, and let me tell you, there aren’t a whole lot of things less pleasant that sticking your bare hands in a sink full of vomit because the drain doesn’t really drain worth a fuck. The good bathroom on the other hand, you could ralph gravel in that sumbitch and it wouldn’t overflow.

So I watched my lunch disappear down the drain in roughly the order I had eaten it, except reversed. Yeah, that’s definitely pizza, and yup, there’s some sausage, and that would appear to be a fairly well mixed up witches brew of junk foods. But it was the last guest in my post lunch party that threw me for a loop. Blood. I couldn’t say for sure exactly what had happened the night before, but I could fairly certainly remember never eating any blood. And yet, there it was, gleaming up at me smugly from it’s crimson pool, as if taking some twisted pleasure in knowing it was completely screwing up my plans for the day.

Now for those of you who don’t know me, namely all of you, I hate doctors. It’s not that I dislike them as people, because they are usually very pleasant and intelligent as far as humans go, but I just hate having to go see them. Partly it’s cause I don’t like feeling like a pussy, and everyone knows real men never need medical attention. And partly it’s because I know that eventually, some doctor somewhere is going to walk into a room, force me to put on a “gown” and stick his finger up my ass, and with my luck I’ll get a boner and then I’ll be gay, and I’ll be damned if a little blood puke is going to turn me gay.

My coworkers on the other hand have no problem going to the doctor, and after throwing up some more, and beginning to get dizzy, they convinced me I should probably seek some kind of medical attention rather than finish out the work day. I was already dreading it. The waiting rooms. The long forms. The throngs of overweight, sickly, rapidly breeding minorities who while legally created equal are still a total pain in the ass when in public. Other peoples kids. Why was this happening to me? Was God punishing me for one day becoming gay when a doctor fingered my ass? Can he even punish people in advance? I figured if George Bush could do it, I wouldn’t put it past Jesus. My proactive hell sentence was about to start.

I had my insurance information faxed down from headquarters, stopped by the ATM, and drove up to the Urgent Care center. After waiting in line, I got up to the counter and this very nice, elderly black woman asked me what she could help me with. By now my head was spinning so bad I had to lean against the wall to keep from falling over, and I was fighting back wave after wave of nausea. I began to weakly mumble, “I am not sure if I should be here or go to the hospital but I just …”

“IM SORRY SUGAR, BUT i CAN’T HEAR VERY WELL, YOU GONNA HAVE TO SPEAK UP, TELL ME IN THIS EAR!” she said. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know if I should be here, or go straight to the hospital. I just threw up a belly full of blood, and I’m very disoriented. Can you handle this or not?

“OH LAWD!” she said, “COME ON AROUND HERE SWEET HEART AND SIT YOURSELF DOWN IN THAT THERE CHAIR. WE GONNA CALL YOU UP AN AMBULANCE, YOU DON’T NEED TO BE DRIVING AROUND LIKE THIS. COME ON BACK HERE. DOCTOR, COME OVER HERE AND CHECK THIS BOY OUT, HE SAYS HE’S BEEN VOMITING BLOOD. LORD HAVE MERCY.”

That was followed by twenty minutes or so of questioning and blood pressure checks, and various other general medical pokes and prods. Before I knew it I was buckled into a stretcher and being loaded in the back of an ambulance by a freakishly short lady with a dyke hair cut, and a super hot young girl who made me a little nervous even through my gagging and vertigo. Thankfully she was the driver, because if there’s one thing I hate more than medical attention while I’m sick, it’s adding on sexual intimidation to the whole pile.

So it was me and the middle aged lesbian and her student, (who was male) and they prepped me with several more blood pressure tests, some electric sensors glued to my chest, and a big fat needle. Up to this point I had been hoping to get through this without having a metal tube shoved in my body. I mean I’m not exactly scared of needles in quite the same way that I may react to spider that get on me unexpectedly, but they just give me the willies. In fact, it didn’t really hurt at all going in. The pain was really more afterwards when she rammed this fucking needle/tube around the inside of my arm for a while trying to get some blood to come out. Turns out she hit some kind of valve in my arm, and while her second try was much more successful, the first stabbing left me with a big ass track mark running down my bow-pit like some kind of junkie.

When we got to the hospital, she told me she had to rip off the four wires that were attached to my chest and stomach, and the best way to do so, in her medical opinion, was to rip it off like a bandaid. She was legitimately freaked out having to do this, which puzzled me somewhat because I felt almost no discomfort, unlike the needle in my bow-pit which was now taped to my arm for no apparent reason, and stabbed me internally every time I bent or straightened my arm.

But anyway long story short they gave me a doggy bag, ushered me in my wheelchair through the paperwork process, (at that point I still couldn’t walk without stumbling from dizziness) and plopped me in front of the TV where I could watch Dwayne Johnson completely destroy the credibility of the Rundown and Walking Tall as he starred in the Game Plan. About the time that all the special features and extra footage for Apollo 13 were finishing I got called back to triage, but not to see a doctor, just to make sure I wasn’t getting worse. By the time Freaky Friday was wrapping up and Dennis the Menace was starting I was told that I could see a doctor soon, maybe, if nobody else’s condition got worse. When I first got there, I was told by a security guard that there was absolutely NO SMOKING anywhere on hospital premises. By midnight I wasn’t even walking ten feet from the front door to smoke. I was sick, and I had been there for over ten hours with a fucking needle in my arm, and if they gave me one ounce of shit for smoking after the day I had, they would be thanking their god of choice that they had done so while at a hospital.

When I did get back to a room to be examined, the nurse told me to take off all my clothes, and put on the hospital gown. You know the ones, the light blue floral pattern gowns that kind of tie in the back, but still leave you entire ass hanging out. So of course I did, checking the room for any signs of lubricant or vaseline, suspiciously eyeing anyone who walked past the slits in the curtains. And at long last a doctor did come to see me. He checked my breathing. He poked around my stomach for a few seconds. We chatted briefly, clarifying some of the account from the paperwork he had, and then he informed me that I would just need a few blood tests and assuming they turned out fine I could be on my way.

I was frankly relieved that there would be no fingers going into anyone’s bung holes that evening. As he left I asked him if I could throw some drawers back on to cover up, and he suggested I just stay how i was until they had finished the blood tests. Suddenly my brief wave of relief vanished, replaced only with a sharp dread. Where exactly would they be drawing blood from that required me to leave my pants off? Surely no place good. I was feeling much better by then, I could probably still survive if I made a mad dash for the safety of the lobby. Surely the guards would understand and not charge me with public nudity.

Well as it turns out they only had to stick me in my arm, and I was allowed to put my clothes back on. The only problem was that they had not used the needle I had been stuck with in the ambulance ride. No sir, that needle was completely useless, and had only been stabbing me in my arm for twelve hours because nobody really knew if I might need one like it or not. A fucking precautionary needle, as if I would need immediate intravenous attention and would not have the two seconds it takes for a nurse to poke me on demand. And on top of that, I now had both arms taped up with needles in my bow-pits. I’m not sure if I can convey the mental image of what a man looks like trying to put on his clothing when both his arms are fairly immobile. The pants weren’t such a problem. Hell, even my shoes and socks went on pretty easily.

My shirts on the other hand proved to be a bit more problematic. By then my curtain was open, and I was clearly visible from a large section of the hospital. I held my wife beater over my head and slowly but determinedly wriggled into it like a crippled snake climbing into a condom. After a lengthy and exhausting bout with futility I managed somehow to get it on in approximately the right location on my body. Next came my button up work uniform. I got one arm in and held it high over my head while trying to turn my left arm behind my body to find the arm hole. But try as I might, no arm hole was to be found. In fact, after closer inspection I discovered the sleeve was inside out. But on top of that I looked up to see no less than five nurses snickering in amusement as I desperately tried to get my shirt on without stabbing myself. I jerked around for a second or two longer, looking I’m sure like a retard at a rave, until I finally gave up in shame.

So anyway, all that to find out I have gastritis, or something along those lines, and my stomach and throat has eroded the lining that protects them from my digestive acids. Life’s a bitch I guess, but overall it seems like a fairly small problem with a fairly easy solution. And the best part is, I made it through the entire fiasco without losing my flaming heterosexuality. And that my friends is something I will cheers to. (except I am not supposed to drink much anymore, or smoke much, or eat spicy or greasy food or caffeine. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See you all in hell)

They Live (mostly just me actually)

Yeah wow, so I really am still alive, and I do remember the password to get on my account. Not that I have teeming throngs of people waiting with baited breath for my next post or anything, but I really do enjoy having a bit of a creative outlet here, and honestly my life has just been too damn crazy lately to clear my schedule for blog posting. For instance, I got sentenced to jail. From now till April will be spending my weekends in the Johnston county jail. Hoorah, I can’t fucking wait. Cause nothing says rest and relaxation from work like spending all your time in ball stench filled room with fifty ignorant, racist black men who watch nothing but BET while you slowly starve to death. But hell, I could deal with the black supremacist homeys, the shitty child sized portions, and the extreme boredom, if only they would give me a fuckin pillow. I think that’s the worst part.

I’m kidding of course, the worst part is clearly the homeys. So anyway my sometimes clear weekends when I got most of my blogging done are now all full, so I guess I better stick to short, sweet posts for the time being. I have this really huge involved post I am working on about how our government has failed us in every way, and it involves actually researching stuff and might be several posts long, but I’m too tired to work on that right now, and every time I do I get really riled up and end up not sleeping well cause I’m too pissed about how much our leaders and system suck. So how about an update? Of course you care, who doesn’t love life stories?

First, a story that the judge who sentenced me actually shared with the court while they were finishing up everything. (I heard this all because the entire court was about the size of two bedrooms, and I was the only person in it) This is his year off from visiting with his family for thanksgiving, but every other year they get twenty seven people and all pile into one beach house on the outer banks for the weekend. Well of course all the normal family drama ensues. One year his chauvinist nephew was four wheeling on the beach and got his trucks tires stuck in the sand. Well, his oldest daughter, who’s a bit of a know it all, told him to let some of the air out and just drive his truck out. He insisted that would damage his truck so he called some towers to get him out. After paying them two hundred dollars they let the air out of his tires and drove it out of the ruts. Today’s moral is actually not to listen to women about truck problems, but rather how to get your truck out of the sand for cheap.

So anyway, my own Thanksgiving was not so family oriented. Actually I just spent a few hours with my extended family for a lunch and then left, although I did have one noteworthy moment. One of my youngest cousins (I don’t know how old he would be, I guess about three feet old) walked up to me while I was taking a smoke break and just kind of stopped and stared at me from about one and a half feet from where I was sitting. (my cousins are kind of creepy, imagine children of the corn mixed with the Flanders) After asking him what it was that he wanted, he kindly informed me that his older sister was supposed to be a twin but “the other one” died. I’m not really sure why that was important, but I actually found learning the news from a child much less painful than all the hemming and hawing and bullshit I would have had to endure had one of the “adults” told me. I thanked him and he happily went on his way to eat some pie. Good to know my family is still white trash, happy holidays to you too kid.

Speaking of white trash, how about some pictures from the last month or three!

Me and my buddy put this up on his kids wall over the Thanksgiving holiday. It was the centerpiece of a total UNC tarheel makeover for the room. Frankly, we are awesome.

Me and my buddy put this up on his kids wall over the Thanksgiving holiday. It was the centerpiece of a total UNC tarheel makeover for the room. Frankly, we are awesome.

Sami finally found the scat at Bensons mule days.

Sami finally found the scat at Benson's mule days.

So what happened was, we were drinking, and I had just bought Em a rebel flag bikini at mule days, and we were drinking, and somehow this seemed like a good idea. (ps - drinking)

So what happened was, we were drinking, and I had just bought Em a rebel flag bikini at mule days, and we were drinking, and somehow this seemed like a good idea. (ps - drinking)

Look out for Sami, she will cut you.Look out for Sami, she will cut you.
We have kitties at work now!

We have kitties at work now!

Actually this might need more than just a caption. See we had a family of feral cats living under a freight box at work, and our tree hugger secretary offered to pay us twenty bucks if we caught the kittens. And after her husband told her she wasn’t allowed to bring any more animals home, they somehow because shop kitties. The one walking right up to the camera, presumably to find it’s breathing holes and clog them with hair while it tries to eat, is named Joe. We named him after an idiot who works with us, who always begs for food, because this cat was dumb enough to get caught twice in one day for a free meal. And since Joe is an uber-christian, I named the other one Mr. Crowley, because I thought it would be funny for Joe to live with a famous occultist. In real life, Joe did not find this very amusing, but we assume this is just because one of the side effects of his terminal religion is a complete lack of humor about one’s self.

This is my dad grinding up some venison he brought back from a hunting trip. Notice he saved the hearts to cook separate.

This is my dad grinding up some venison he brought back from a hunting trip. Notice he saved the hearts to cook separate.

So I know Im from the south and I should probably know this for sure, but I believe this is a sheeps vagina.

So I know I'm from the south and I should probably know this for sure, but I believe this is a sheep's vagina.

And on that note I will save the rest of my 2008 State Fair pics and Halloween pics for a later post so I can just throw some crap together without any actual writing skills (skills in this case really just means effort)  involved. Christmas is like, tomorrow and shit, so if I don’t have time to get back here for a while, have fun getting drunk on eggnog and buying shit for Santa to give to Jesus or whatever you believe in. Unless of course you practice kwanzaa, in which case, go to hell you fucking poser.

For those about to rock (fire)

I shit you not, my job is full of completely insane people. I guess it shouldn’t really continue to surprise me after a year and a half working in the trailer industry, but still these lunatics find ways to amaze me with their own bizarre flavor of indecent behavior.

I can’t recall whether I told you all or not, but our last boss was fired under incredibly risque circumstances. He was audited by our corporate office, aka big brother, and during an eight hour day (which by the way was an amazing feat in and of itself seeing as how he only worked maybe twenty hours a week) he spent seven hours and fifteen minutes looking at porn on his computer. Well, to be fair he was only looking at porn for part of that time, the rest he spent surfing swinger sites, communicating with women he met online, and soliciting hookers on Craigslist.com. I’m assuming the other forty five minutes of the day were spent in our bathroom jacking off. Needless to say, he was fired.

The boss we had before that was a huge bitch. And I mean a literally huge bitch. And she was an angry bull dyke. And to make matters worse she was a UNC Tarheel fan, which is despicable. (Go State!) The very first time I met her she kicked me off the lot, in the middle of an interview with one of her subcontractors, because I didn’t have contractors liability insurance. She was infamous for flipping her wig over the tiniest flaw in a trailer, but expected everything to be fixed like new with a scrooge tight budget. She once tried to fire one of her employees for not picking up their feet enough when they walk. (although Joe is an annoying foot scuffling bastard, but still) She was so horrible to work with that the first question I asked when the company called me up to hire me was whether she was still working there, because I refuse to ever work for another boss like that ever again. She was fired for punching a hole through a wall in a trailer that was just finished because there was a small stain near the floor that nobody could get out.

From what I hear the boss before her was fired for embezzling from the company, and the one before that was fired for not bothering to show up ever cause they were rich and didn’t really give a fuck. So at this point we’ve had a pretty good record of corporate picking out complete douchebags to run our joint. Enter their latest Mona Lisa of management.

About eight months ago we got a new boss named Steve. Steve was fat as shit. He was arrogant and swaggered with that cock sure machismo synonymous with all those post college used-to-be-cool-jocks who still think they are cooler than your face, and your moms face, and probably never got the long series of merciless beatdowns they deserve which might have snapped them back into reality. He stunk. Literally, he smelled bad. His shit was so stanktastic that the other people in the office refused to let him crap there. So instead of using one of the other two bathrooms available in our shop, he would climb up in our stored trailers and drop a deuce or two in the toilets, leaving them there for us to deal with when we pulled them up to fix. He left corn filled landmines all over the lot behind trailers and bushes, marked for the wary passerby with spare toilet paper. He spat frequently with little or no regard to wind direction. His dog was ugly. He sucked at his job. Everything about him sucked. I thought we might have hit rock bottom with this one.

That was until the day his neighbor’s car got repossessed. For some reason he felt this was a sign from the powers that be that he should take half a day off, snag one of our salesmen, and go out shopping for guns. Now he was a Yankee, and I assume he was from a larger city. Not a country boy like most of the other guys who work there. So he had never owned a gun before in his life, nor had he shot one. His total fire arm experience was limited to what he had seen in movies, and this apparently did not bother him because he made absolutely no effort to learn anything about the legal aspects of shooting guns, or any of the finer points of gun safety.

Now we have shooting ranges around the area in which it is legal to practice shooting your shiny brand new shotguns. We have expansive stretches of woods and farmland in which one could safely and secretly test out your aim. In fact, there is a veritable plethora of options for the novice gun enthusiast. We are after all in dixie land. But rather than take advantage of any one of these convenient options, Steve decided it would be cooler to bring his guns to work. He came in on a Saturday, while a contractor was working, printed of a bunch of pictures of our district managers face, and headed to the back of our lot to climb up in a trailer we have marked for demolition.

This trailer is beyond repair, and we’ve been cannibalizing it for at least a year now. It’s worthless. But it is still the property of our company, not Steve. It is also adjacent to the next lot which has a 24/7 security guard that patrols it to guard their supplies. And it is also basically around the block from the Highway Patrol and Policeman’s training facilities, meaning that there are always a shit ton of pigs cruising around. The following pictures were taken by yours truly to show you what I couldn’t

One wall, with maybe thirty shells of birdshot stuck in it.

Fuck that wall.

Fuck that wall.

Blown out the other side of the wall.

Blown out the other side of the wall.

This would be the view from inside to out, aiming towards the property with the 24/7 guard on duty.

This would be the view from inside to out, aiming towards the property with the 24/7 guard on duty.

So long story short, my boss is gone and our branch is living in heaven, once again functioning how they should. Tell me how your boss got fired.

“Fishing” on Topsail Island

Well me and my buddies from work decided we needed to take a guys trip out to the beach to go fishing. We planned it for two months, got everything set up, and before you knew it the day had come to get ready. My good buddy Kenny who had taken me fishing on the Neuse river a little while ago (here) would be driving us, but since he’s married with children now, we couldn’t drink at his house. Everyone else decided that was lame as shit, so we all went out to my boss’s trailer in Smithfield. For those of you not familiar with the Johnston county area, that’s what you might call the ass end of nowhere.

I had driven my scooter to work that morning with one hand, carrying my biggest cooler in my left hand out to my side the whole way, cause I hadn’t really planned any better way to get a giant cooler to work on a scooter. That worked out well for me though cause all I had to tote out to the country on my death machine that evening was a folding chair, a case of beer, and a bag of clothes and supplies for the weekend. (which still left me looking a lot like a pack mule)

Now you have to understand, the ride from Garner to the back side of Smithfield on a scooter that only goes 30-35 mph is a long, bumpy, and hazardous one. The winding country roads, especially on a Friday afternoon, are filled with angry, potential drunk rednecks in a big hurry to get home and have fun. (it’s a fun county) But this means I have to straddle the side of the road for dear life the whole way there. Often I found myself attempting to ride the six inches between the painted line and the edge of the pavement, my feet being rhythmicly slapped by the tall grass, occasionally dodging stray tree limbs and dead possums. But with the prize of a weekend of booze and bars, bikinis and surf, I kept on the hour long ride until I found myself barreling down a rutted dirt path winding between trailers and a pond, and finally pulled up to Drew’s house.

Now Lee, the oldest guy on the trip, was already well lit, and was polishing off his first twelve pack of the evening. I got to meet Drew’s retarded brother, his little baby grandchild, and a fair number of his woman’s family, who were visiting from West Virginia. Let me tell you, those are some wide open broads, cause every one from the youngest who was about my age, all the way up to the ancient grandmother who had to be pushin seventy five, all cussed like sailors, had filthy minds, and actually had more sass and attitude than I do. Let me assure you it is very rare to find one, let alone four or five women, who can give my motor mouth and vulgarity a run for it’s money, but these kick ass bitches left me in the dust wondering what had just happened. But I will tell you more about them some other time. They invited me out to their family reunion to meet the whole clan, so hopefully I’ll have some really badass stories to share with you then.

But two cases of beer later, Lee, Drew, and myself were all drunk as hell and hit the sack around midnight or so. Dark and early at four fifteen Kenny came a knockin’ on the door, wraslin’ us all out of our deep sleeps, and we packed up his truck, loaded in, and hit the highways headed for Topsail Island. Of course Lee and Drew, the old men, wanted to go back to sleep, and Kenny and I were ready to party like it was 1999! So he threw on some old David Allen Co. and some Johnny Rebel and blasted it as loud as it would go until they finally woke up about half way there.

We got to the Jolly Roger Hotel and Pier around six thirty, before the sun was up yet, and we couldn’t check in till around noon, so we packed our crap in the cab and hit the pier for some good old fashioned Man vs Nature. Beer’s were cracked, lines were cast, and we settled in for the less intense part of the trip. A front was moving in so we didn’t get much sun, but the wind whipped the ocean spray up past us and the smells of a thousand fish and fish ghosts wafted in the breeze.

Lee onthe left, Drew on the right (with his queer juice)
Lee on the left, Drew on the right (with his queer juice)
The Jolly Roger pier just before dawn.

The Jolly Roger pier just before dawn.

I rock so hard it hurts. Also, I didnt realize that glow in the dark skeletons shirts were not as cool as camo when you are fishing. My bad.

I rock so hard it hurts. Also, I didn't realize that glow in the dark skeletons shirts were not as cool as camo when you are fishing. My bad. Apparently real fisherman wear camo shirts and hats to hide from the fish.

Well it turns out there are not only no fish in the ocean, but there are also hardly any women on the beach. It was rather disappointing. Later that evening as I was laying in the motel bed I described it, “that was fishing kind of like this is getting laid. I was in the right place but nothing was going on.” In fact, there were hardly any seagulls either. In fact I see more seagulls in the Walmart parking lot on a regular basis than there were on that beach. Bad bad Leroy Brown caught the biggest fish of the day.

Were gonna need a smaller boat.

We're gonna need a smaller boat.

Under the pier, Topsail, NC.

Under the pier, Topsail, NC.

So drew and I ended up getting wicked hungover, and took a nap while Kenny fished and Lee drank. But we all woke up around seven to go out drinking for real this time. It’s kind of weird meeting your girlfriend on your blog because it kind of makes you edit your stories so as not to get in trouble. But this was an especially wild night and I think it needs to be told. (Don’t be mad baby, I can’t help it that I attract fun) There was a little grill and bar across the road, which also happened to be the only bar on the island. We had stopped in for some lunch because the sign said they had the best pizza on the island. Surprisingly they sure did, it was some of the best food I have ever slid down my gullet. I had some pizza and later a steak and cheese sub, and both were incredible.

So we rolled up in the bar side of this joint to check it out. There were two pool tables, a jukebok, two tables and a bar. It was a fairly typical ocean side dive bar. No AC, no fans, just a bunch of open windows around a dimly lit room full of smoke with a few sad looking old people hanging around as if waiting for Jesus to take them, and a crabby, overweight, college age bartender. The sign on the door said it was raggae night, but at the moment it was library-in-the-vatican quiet in there. That immediately went as soon as we walked in.

Now you know me, I get a little wild from time to time, as evidenced by my legal record. Well Kenny and Drew both worked as bartenders in that honkytonk I went to. Drew and Lee are both bikers. Lee’s a crazy alcoholic who was already almost blacked out by this point. And every single one of us is looking to cause as much ruckus and mayhem as possible that night. Kenny jumps on the jukebox and throws on a bunch of Disturbed, and a variety of eighties metal. Drew grabs a pool table and racks up, and we all get started playing some pool.

Well Kenny is an amazing pool player, and Drew plays in tournaments every week, and Lee picked up at least a respectable amount of skill over his many many years on this earth, but I however suck realy bad at pool. I mean I don’t just suck a little, I suck so bad it creates a breeze in the room. I really enjoy playing pool, but I’m terrible and I know it. That’s no problem though, because they used me to make them look a little less badass, and as people started trickling slowly into this sad little bar they began fleecing them for all they were worth. Within an hour we had a table full of mixed drinks bough in lost games, and we were all well on our way to hedonistic debauchery.

With the exception of a few of the braver and younger men, everyone else in the bar was huddled as far away from our table as possible. It was almost comical. We were shouting and cheersing and singing at the top of our lungs, jumping around like wild men. We must have been the liveliest thing that has hit that town since hurrican Fran. A few hippies came in to check out the raggae, saw us, heard the metal, and promptly left.

Now by now Lee was rip roaring drunk off his ass. If he hadn’t been holding on to that table he probably would have fallen off the planet. So Kenny comes up to me and tells me, “HEY MAN, I THINK LEE HAS AN ADMIRER!” Confused I look around as to who has been paying Lee any attention. “CHECK OUT THAT OLD MAN AT THE BAR, THE ONE WEARING JIM DANGLE SHORTS. EVERY TIME LEE GOES TO DANCING HE GETS A BIG ASS SMILE ON HIS FACE AND STARTS DANCING TOO.” I broke out laughing, cause I had seen this fag sitting up there by the bar, and had found him comical enough already, but that took the cake. Well to make matters worse, a few minutes later Lee called me over. “JOSH! JOSH! COME HERE MAN. HEY, HEY … UH HEY CHECK THIS OUT MAN. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU KNOW THIS BUT THER ARE SOME DUDES WHO LIKE DUDES IN HERE MAN! NO KIDDING, I JUST HAD TWO OF THEM COME UP TO ME IN THE LAST FIFTEEN MINUTES.” To say I laughed would be an understatement. I had to go to the bathroom cause I laughed so hard. And by the way, apparently dive bars at the beach carry single ply toilet paper that is rough enough to literally cut your cornhole, so watch you self if you end up there.

Shortly before the raggae mon came out, this crazy bitch named Esch walked into the bar. Earlier at lunch she had been with her boyfriend, but now she was alone, and drunker than all hell. I saw the shark fins pop up around the bar, along to the theme of Jaws. Drew just happened to be right next to the stool she plopped down at. Now Drew may be a little rough around the edges, but that man is a huge charmer and no woman can resist him, it’s insane. Skip ahead two minutes and the wildest woman at the beach is playing pool with the wildest dudes at the beach.

I wasnt allowed to take many pictures during this part of the trip.

I wasn't allowed to take many pictures during this part of the trip.

She was on a team with Drew against me and Kenny. (cause I was apparently the closest thing to a bitch team mate for Kenny, insert my sincere laughter here) The testosterone started flowing, plenty of shit was talked, and before long, this bitch had her titties out distracting Kenny so he would stop kicking their ass. All the old people at the bar started getting pissed cause we were helping her get drunk and they all thought she was preggers. She was in fact not with child, she just had a little belly and a shirt that was poofy around the mid section, but we thought it was funny as hell. So she keeps getting wilder and wilder, and we keep thinking it’s funnier and funnier. She was (we think) pissed at her man and out to have some revenge, so she was trying her damndest to hook up with Kenny or Drew, neither one of whom wanted to bang her. They just wanted to have some fun, and didn’t give a fuck about her.

Lee on the other hand, who is 52 and single, and drunk, saw a twenty something hottie who wanted some action and began spitting his best game. In case you were wondering, his best game was horrible and offensive, but this chick was too drunk and stupid to care. Somehow it came out that one of the guys with us had a shaved dick, and at the top of her lungs Esch yelled, “drop your pants! If you shave I will suck your dick right now!” This was the second time in the evening the law was called on us. The bartender told us all to simmer down and stop making trouble. Esch started kissing random guys. I went outside to try and avoid getting arrested if they showed up again, and that was when Lee spit out this fucking gem. “Bitch, you better take four days, cause I will K. I. L. L. kill you. I won’t even bother unless you have four fucking days for me to fuck you to death.”

At this point the old women at the bar pulled the chick outside to get her away from us, and we all went back to the table to ask Lee what the fuck he was thinking exactly when he decided to communicate threats. We began gathering our shit up to leave, and Lee walked back over to Esch and the two old cock blockers with her and said, and I quote, “I’ve been with three women before, you could be the next three if you want. I’ll stick my dick in all three of your mouths!”

We dragged him out of the bar, stuck him in the hotel room, and told him if he left we would kick his ass. We hopped a taxi and headed to the next closest pair of bars. They sucked. We left and went back around closing time. Apparently the only fun to be had was in the deadest bar I’ve ever been in. We left for home the next morning and stopped for breakfast, some supplies, and then hit a tourist trap. What can I say, any building that has a giant gator on the front is cool with me.

I loves teh gatorz.

I loves teh gatorz.

I wish I knew how they made this, cause it rocks.

I wish I knew how they made this, cause it rocks.

I got a ton of things I shouldn’t have. By the time I left I had a slingshot, a pirate flag, a beer bong, two real gator heads, and a drivers liscence that says I’m Jesus. All in all a wild time was had by all, no one ended up arrested, or in the hospital, or cheated on their women, so I think it was a good trip. I’ve got some great stories about bosses being fired, upcoming halloween, and plenty of mayhem and madness, but for now I’m off to Mule Days in Benson, which is kind of like the redneck mardi gras around these parts. Tell me about your crazy stories from the beach, I’d love to hear some more.

I’m A Master Baiter!

For a while now my good buddy Kenny B. has been trying to get me to fishing with him. I’ve been a little tepid about the whole scenario for two reasons. One, last time I hung out with him he took me to a honky tonk in the middle of the country and I got waaaaay too drunked up and just about got myself killed. And two, I suck at fishing. Seriously, I am not just inexperienced, I really suck at it. I love nature, and I think fishing is cool, but I have no skills whatsoever. And I kind of dislike looking like a total failure in the world of manly activities. So he’s been bugging me to go out fishing with him forever, and finally I gave in. I kind of thought it would go something like Old Gregg the scaly man fish with his beaming mangina.

So I went and got my fishing license, and some beer, and woke my happy ass up at three in the god forsaken morning, and drove on my little scooter all the way to the middle of the next county over so I could get on the river before dawn. After much sleepy eyed bitching and running about we finally managed to rustle up the boat, fishin rods, rifle, and various other necessities we would be needing for the day. We dropped the boat off up in Smithfield and I sat with it while Kenny went off to get the bait and park his truck where we would be getting out of the river. I drank me a Faygo (which are hard as shit to find down here, and are delicious) and ate some McDonalds biscuits we had picked up, and kind of absorbed the peaceful vibes of the Neuse river while I waited for his pops to bring him back and drop him off.

Now from the way everyone else had warned me about fishing with Kenny, I would probably be stung to death by highly poisonous catfish barbs, bit up by tree leaping water moccasin, and not catch a damned thing all day. But as the sky lightened up and I chilled there on the river bank, it actually seemed like paradise for a southern man like myself. It was beautiful. Minnows swam all around the reeds, and dragon flies flitted from spot to spot. A cool mist floated off the calm waters, reflecting the pink and blue sky. Some random redneck showed up and started teaching his little girl how to fish. It was great.

Despite our drought, the river was flowing alright, and the water was just as calm and beautiful as anyone could ever ask for. Now I haven’t been fishing since I was a little kid, minus one little excursion I took with Kenny after our honky tonk shindig, and that wasn’t real fishing, just a little trip to the lake to keep his boys busy. I chopped up some minnows on my paddle, then noticed we were floating sideways and immediately dumped them in the water as I went to paddle us straight. Friggin dumbass. Then I asked him what I should do if a fish found my bait. Well it’s a good thing I did cause no sooner did the words come out of my mouth than one started nibbling on one of his lines. He taught me how to tell when a fish was biting, and when to try and hook it, but his got away. Then sure enough faster than I could turn around my red line got a bite. So I picked it up there and sat spring loaded to hook that little bitch the next time he so much as nibbled.

With all my attention focused into a ninja like trance of impending defeat, I felt for any vibration in my pole, any movement in the line. Then with no warning my other pole just about shot out of the boat. I dropped the red line and franticly snatched up my yellow pole, trying not to flip the boat over as I gained control of whatever behemoth was struggling furiously to rip the line in half. After a few seconds of straining, it got away, but I had tasted my first sweet mouthful of the ambrosia that is man versus fish. I was bummed, but I reeled my line in to rebait it hoping I could get him again. Well it got about ten feet from the boat and I realized the damn fish had not got off the hook at all, it was just swimming straight at me. It began to thrash and fight harder than ever. I pulled back with all my might, then gave it some slack, reeled in a little, and kept inching it closer to the boat, wearing it out little by little.

Well pretty soon it tired out and I pulled the sucker over to the side of the boat. Kenny picked it up and dehooked it, and I got my victory picture with it before I threw it on the stringer. Maybe fifteen minutes on the water and I had got the first and biggest fish of the day. It was a mudcat, and I named him Earl, cause I caught him early. 😉 Just go ahead and ignore the closed eyes. I was intensely rocking out when this was taken.

As a matter of fact, I caught the first three of the day if I remember correctly. Due of course to no skill of my own, just random beginners luck I suppose. Either way I couldn’t resist catching a quick shot when Kenny pulled one in. I guess the student has become the master.

We headed on down the river, floating from hole to hole, trying out any spots we thought might have some decent catfish. From time to time we’d spot deer drinking on the banks. One of them kind of freaked out when she saw us and literally scaled a twelve foot bank that was damn near vertical, at a full run no less. I have no explanation for this clear defiance of gravity besides … spider deer. She does whatever a spider deer does. Kenny was the navigator and I was the master baiter. I pretty much master baited all day long. It was awesome. Somewhere about half way between the two boat ramps we ran across what I dubbed shit creek. It was a water treatment runoff creek. I always imagined shit creek being somewhat gnarlier, but fortunately it didn’t stink any worse than we did after spending half a day elbow deep in fish guts and the summer sun. Plus we both had paddles, so we were fairly safe.

We were running out of bait quick, and had no luck catching any brim or gar, then our luck turned. Kenny hooked him an eel. I was siked. Kenny, having experienced eel before was not siked and gladly agreed to let me handle the chopping up of that sick little fuck. He shot it with the .22 he brought so we wouldn’t have to deal with a live eel in the boat. And that turned out to be a good thing, cause apparently eels are just about the slimiest creatures known to man. Imagine a long limp cock greased with the slipperiest slime you have ever felt in your life. So slippery in fact that simply grasping the bitch to cut it up is a huge challenge. I lost a knife in the process. The coating of slime is not water soluble, and once you touch the eel, it comes off on your hands, knives and clothing in sticky strands quite similar to human cum once it hits water. It just won’t come off, EVER! And the damned skin is like fuckin super rubber or something, making it damn near impossible to cut up. I finally managed to get four little segments cut off the thing, and we baited up our hooks with those.

The good news was that the unbelievable resilience of the eel made it perfect for bait. The catfish kept hitting it all day long, and even after catching several more fish and having countless nibbles from cats and gar all four of the hooks kept their bait. In fact, only one of them lost it at all for the rest of the day, which was a good five hours more. Anyway, next time we’ll probably let the dang thing dry out a little before we try to mess with it, but either way here’s what it looked like.

So we had a great time. All said and done, we spent ten hours on the Neuse river, and let me tell you, by the time that ten hours was over, my ass was so sore it had gone numb. Apparently ten hours is too long to sit on a metal bench. Eight would have been a good stopping point for me. Of course, when we got to the end ramp, the hard part had just started. My butt and my back were throbbing, and we had to load the boat and supplies back up in the truck, take them to their various destinations, make it back to Kenny’s trailer, and load up the catfish on my scooter. I was half burnt, tired as hell, stank like the ass end of a seal, and still had to drive with a big load of catfish an hour back to my house.

Here’s the fun part though. See catfish have these bones that stick out of their side and back fins. These bones are about as big as a really big nail, and have serrated edges, meaning that if they flop around and stab you with one, it could well go through whatever it hits, in this case, my feet. I didn’t particularly take to the idea of having a bone nail driven through my foot at 40 miles an hour, and these fish were still alive, but wrapped in three trashbags with bones sticking out in every direction like a pincushion of pain and death. In any case, I rode all the way home with my feet propped way up next to my ass where the passenger’s feet are supposed to go. I don’t care how retarded I looked, I never got stabbed or crashed.

I was so damn tired, I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right there in the driveway, but I went out back and started the mighty fun task of cleaning the fish. It was at this point that I learned that yellow jackets love catfish. I was not expecting that. I hate bees, wasps, hornets, and anything else that can fly around and sting me. Fuck that! I did a fair amount of running away and bitching like a pansy but finally my dad and I got all five fish fairly well chopped up and carried everything inside where I could at long last wash the guts off my body and get some sleep.

One particularly cool thing about cleaning fish that I had never experienced before was their overactive nerves. By the time I got them home, those fish were dead as a door knob, but every time I went slicing and dicing to get the meat off the bones, the whole fish would contract around my fingers. It was damn cool. In fact, even when I had a little piece left over for my cat, and I cut it up into smaller chunks, it continued twitching every time I cut it, no matter how small it got. It was weird. Also, I just about freaked out the first time I felt the intestines. I was expecting something squishy, and instead was treated with a gravely texture. Upon closer examination their diet appears to consist mainly of very small shellfish. Go fig, that’s why they love real meat so much.

I hit the sack after several full body scrubbings and a lingering odor of fish guts, and slept for sixteen blissful hours. No dreams, just the sweet embrace of exhausted sleep. I haven’t slept like that in months, and I loved it. And then Sunday night came and I got the big payoff. I cooked up dinner for my family!

I pan fried some of the catfish fillets in a Cajun cashew batter in bacon grease and peanut oil. Then I made some twice baked potatoes with cheese and butter mashed into the filling, and topped with bacon. My mom went out to get us some slaw from Carolina BBQ, cause even if I knew how to make vinegar based slaw the right way, we didn’t have the ingredients. And for dessert I whipped up some custard bread pudding with coconut and Abuelita swirls on top. And of course, some good old fashioned Luzianne sweet iced tea to wash it all down.

And if I may say so myself, I cooked a fuckin awesome dinner. It was one of the best I have ever made. I even made sure to get a piece of Earl for myself, cause he was my prize catch. Everyone loved the dinner. Hell my dad even said it was one of the best pieces of fried fish he has ever had. I was proud as a peacock. Anyway, that’s my big fish story. Thanks for listening y’all. Tune in next time for my plans of anarchist social commentary, or whatever strikes my fancy at the moment. I’ll leave you with a view of the feast you missed. Maybe next time you can drop by and have supper with us.