"Left arm gone clean up to the elbow. "
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Pictured are two nearly identical Teflon pans. The one on the right is about twelve years old, on the left, a brand new one. One might ask regarding the pan on the right, where did all the Teflon go? Sadly, the answer becomes quite clear when simple physics and basic logic are applied. There's only one place it could be. All that Teflon was ingested by me over the course of years, subtly seasoning my fried eggs, and sausage with its deadly contaminant.
Fragments of this insidious material are lodged within my body, doing incremental damage to internal organs every day. Or possibly, a legion of tiny, synthetic fluoropolymer (had to Google that) particles wait in the deep recesses of the digestive tract preparing to enter my bloodstream, and mount a full frontal assault on my central nervous system.
Maybe it already has, which might explain the tremors, drooling and some other things.
Oh Teflon, with your flowery promises of non-stick cooking and easy clean-up, you are a wicked deceiver!
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Always had an affinity for hogs, both two-wheeled and four-legged. When I was a young, too poor to afford the two-wheeled variety, man raising a family on a meager income I always raised and butchered a few hogs for the freezer.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Sometimes I fancy myself a Nigerian Princess sitting upon a throne of jackal skeletons and wearing a flowing robe of stone-washed Cape buffalo hides. There'd be be eleven pigmy house servants hand-feeding me seedless grapes and a pair of matched hyenas tethered to my bedpost. Balanced upon my regal head would be a five-gallon bucket of latex house paint and a pasta strainer, because my posture would be impeccable and my nipples in a constant state of stimulated readiness.
Sometimes, on the other hand, I just sit alone in the dark, drinking warm beer, and wondering if I left my phone in the truck.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Some rapper cuts off his penis; blames demons
Demons can be real motherfuckers. Demons force us to live in crowded, greasy communities rife with abandoned automobiles and bacteria. They make us to eat fried foods and inhale the toxic fumes of dry-wrapped vegetation. They weaken us with fermented grain and whisper sweet sonnets of lust into our ears, then deliver stinging urination and open genital warts. They gently subvert us into identical vinyl-clad boxes over a stinking labyrinth of subterranean rivers which run red with the blood of Juicy Juice and bloody feces. They will compel us to eat an entire package of Fig Newtons when a single serving would meet the daily nutritional requirements. Yes, demons are a disruptive nuisance, but we learn to live with them.
But, when your demons instruct you to sever your wang and jump off a two-story building, it’s time to get some new demons.
Just one man’s opinion.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
As the sun rises over another Jerkwater morning the faux Studebaker will rest comfortably in the shade of the leafless maple.
In the distance a baby cries as mother sets down her cigarette and lowers her dirty tube-top to suckle the next generation.
After all, children are our future.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
Walking boldly down the mean, back streets of some third world hell-hole, he fears no evil. A bushwhacker’s bullet bounces off the back of his head and drops to the dirty sidewalk, ineffectual and impotent. One of the locals dares to leer at him from behind a door and promptly loses his f@#kin’ teeth. Even without the spinach bolstering his confidence, Popeye is brash and audacious. The quintessential, swaggering ugly American.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Popeye’s relationship with Olive Oyl was a curious one, and quite Forrest Gumpian in nature. Flat-chested, fractious and rope thin, Olive was bawdy and lecherous. Their unlikely romance was always vexing. While Popeye was handsome, strong and dependable, Olive was flighty and unpredictable and quite simply a slut. Every time the odious Bluto would woo her with chocolates or flowers, she would succumb, leaving the faithful Popeye alone, frustrated and broken-hearted. Inevitably Bluto's deviant sexual appetite would get the better of him and he would begin to force himself on the hapless Olive. Brutish groping would quickly turn to a savage attack and Olive would find herself fighting to protect her sullen womanhood once again. Popeye would come faithfully to the rescue, and after being beaten nearly to death by his much larger adversary, would produce a can of spinach from under his shirt and incapacitate the would-be rapist, saving the day.
No matter how many times she betrayed him Popeye would rescue and forgive her. Popeye’s love for her was absolute and unconditional, which showcased a softer side to the sailor's many-faceted personality.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Popeye was one bad seaman. I recall rainy summer days as a young impressionable schoolboy, waiting for the afternoon soaps to finish and the Popeye and Janie Show to begin. I credit those many hours spent watching cartoons in front of the old black and white Magnavox for molding and shaping me into the solid Amërïkän citizen I am today. Never cared much for sixties-era, toned-down, made-for-TV version. I preferred the original, gritty, thirties-era Popeye. Produced as “shorts” to be played between movie features in stuffy, un-air conditioned movie theaters, the early episodes are distinguished by the ominous sliding door introduction and distinctly politically-incorrect themes. Popeye spent his days jacked up on cheap Jamaican rum and canned spinach, muttering incoherent gibberish while flexing his forearms and searching for his next fix. Each of those early episodes were classic, hand-drawn works of art.
Today’s cartoons are weak and uninspired by comparison. Japanese anime, SpongeBob Square Pants, poorly-animated talking dogs and computer-generated stalks of broccoli, all with the thinly-veiled undercurrent of totalitarian propaganda lying just beneath the surface. These unimaginative cartoons, complete with their hidden agenda, spawned a generation of unemployable slackers and confused, manicured metrosexuals hiding in their parent's house communicating with each other by way of mindless text messages on expensive phones mommy bought for them. The newest generation of cartoons are in no small way responsible for the increase in ADHD, the growing national debt and the continuing downward spiral of our once-proud nation.
Popeye had no agenda beyond throwing down cans of spinach and getting busy with Olive Oyl. Also, never forget, this dude could cut through half-inch plate steel using his pipe as a torch.
I hope to explore this issue in the coming days and weeks unless I’m overcome with laziness and apathy, as I am wont to do.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Long before twitter and instagram hot babes were posing and flashing skin on expensive automobiles with awkward, "come hither" smirks. Terms like "Twerking" and anachronyms such as "LOL" were meaningless to this flapper, and for that she she's fortunate.