After narrowly avoiding getting stranded at work for the evening, I've made my way back to the house. Survival supplies:

20-someodd beers, on ice in the cooler? Check.
XBOX? Check.
All systems go.

Maybe I'll post some pics if anything interesting happens. We're not supposed to be experiencing landfall for a few hours, and it's already soaking wet here. Hell, if it keeps up, I might have to trade in my flipflops for some gloshes.

I've been following both the Weather Channel and CNN this week, and it looks like I'm going to get slammed by a TROPICAL DEPRESSION tomorrow. The Wife and I went and stocked up on batteries, toilet paper, bottled water, and canned foods. We bough two tanks of propane, a bigass Honda generator, and also splurged on one of those survival rafts that they keep on transoceanic sailboats. At least that way, if we have to stick it out because George Bush won't send FEMA or a bus or some other shit to come get us, we'll have enough to last us before we have to resort to cannibalism.

I also put up a bunch of plywood shutters to protect the house. You may not realize it, but a 40mph gale can cause serious damage. My cousin DeRay lost his dog in similar conditions - just up and disappeared. Of course, DeRay'd spent the previous three days cooking meth in the bedroom of his double wide and subsisting on Busch Ice. But I think that's beside the point.

I tried to take the next two days off work, because I wanted to stay home to protect my family from the looters that will inevitably begin roaming the neighborhood. My boss actually threatened to fire me though. She's obviously got no idea what kind of storm we're dealing with here. That's okay though, I plan on packing up a survival kit, so that when the basement of my building floods, I'll still be able to make my way across town to my home.

So people, if you don't hear from me for a few days; just say some prayers. I could be huddled in an interior room saying prayers with my family, eating canned greenbeans, picking off looters and awaiting rescue.

We don't normally dabble in politics here at SBD, and there's reasons for that, but every so often I feel the need to give a nod to the subject.

The reson why I tend to not get too technical when it comes to politics has two parts. Firstly, most people's opinions aren't for shit. And by most people, I mean a good 98% of the population. The vast majority of the human species is made up of complete morons, and as a species we owe just about everything we ever did to a splinter, a virtually non-existent minority, of decently or highly intelligent minds. Which leads me to the second part - not only has your opinion already been expressed by the intelligent mind that originated it, they probably did it better than you or I could; so the best way to forward your opinion is to keep your goddamn yap shut, lest ye muddy the waters and make yourself and your ideological fellow travelers look like a bunch of dumbfucks.

That being said, I'd imagine 50% of you out there will think this post is ignorant, simplistic, lowbrow horseshit. Which, that 50% of you should know, is the undeniable mark of a humorless boor.

Amidst all the kerfluffle regarding Greg Mitchell's apparent re-editing, I decided to do a little investigative CITIZEN JOUNRALISM of my own. You see, most people don't know this; but I've got a Columbo Anthology Box Set that comprises the entirety of the series. Hey, I study tape like a pro footballer; and I'll have you know it really pays off. Nothing gets by me.

Anyways, I decided to focus my highly tuned powers of deduction and my rapier wit on none other than CBS. Yes, shank is going big time. I figure if I'm going to be taking down The MSM, I shouldn't be wasting my time with little fish - I should stand up and prepare to SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER! Besides, we all know that CBS has a history of, shall we say, allying itself with folks who don't always tell the truth. Yes Dan, I'm talking about you.

While rooting around the CBSMarketWatch site this morning I noticed something curious about the homepage. Now, to the untrained eye, it may look like nothing is afoot here. But to a gifted sleuth like myself, it stunk of a coverup. Drawing on my wealth of computer and hacking-related skills at the intarweb (believe it or not, everything that Ted Stevens guy knows about tubes he learned from yours truly), I copied the image to my harddrive for further inspection - knowing that CBS would probably pull the image in the future, should the heat of my truthiness become too intense. Upon closer study I discovered this.

As any economist knows, not only are crud futures not traded on any exchange in the US; but a crud market as we know it doesn't exist anywhere! I immediately refreshed the page, and what do you know; the headline and article had completely disappeared! Apparently, CBS was made aware by an third party that I was on the case As soon as they noticed my IP on their page, they scuttled their gob-smackingly vile error. So what we have here, is not only a clear attempt by CBS Networks to control public perception of the economy by fabricating stories about markets that don't even exist, but proof that they've attempted to cover up their dastardly deeds.

Or, I suppose it could just be a spelling error. TRUST AND VERIFY (or whatever)!!

Tower Records has filed for bankruptcy and some people seem to get it:

“The collapse of Tower is a sign of the evolution of music," said Phil Leigh, senior analyst at Inside Digital Media, a market research firm. It's pretty clear that recorded music is going to Internet distribution and right behind it will be video entertainment."

CD sales fell 6% last year while digital music downloads increased 188%. But some people still have their heads in the sand.

Like this guy, who, apparently, gets paid for his opinion:

"The transition to digital music has not happened by any stretch of the imagination," Card said…

…"If I want to buy something cheap or try a new band, maybe I'll go for the cheapest which is digital, but all else being equal I'd rather have the physical product, and I'll pay a few dollars extra for it."

Really? I haven’t been in a conventional music store in two years and I buy LOTS of music. In fact I took an informal poll of my friends this morning and out of ten people not one of them had bought a hard copy of a CD through a conventional music store in the last year. Two people said that they’d ordered from Amazon, a few discs that were hard to come by, but most people simply downloaded what they wanted.

But a walk-in, brick and mortar music store? Unless you’re looking for the crap that is floating around on the Billboard top 100 you’re not going to find it. Inventory=bad, sales=good. That's how business works. Don’t get me started on inventory turns.

I don’t know if this guy is completely out of touch or if he’s just trying to spin this, but he continues with another, even more moronic statement:

"A store is a place where you can show things, make an entertainment experience. I believe music retail can make it if someone can put together a one-two punch with digital stores and physical products. For example, you could buy an album online and pick it up in the store."

I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in a long time. Someone should probably tell him that Eisenhower’s no longer in office.

Yes, the quality of music in general has not helped the business. It sucks, and record execs have put the gun in their own mouths. And yes, other forms of entertainment may have taken a bit away from music sales, but anyone who believes that digital music is not about to completely eclipse CDs probably still has some 8-tracks lying around.

SO we're at this backyard BBQ last night, hanging out with some friends. We're all seated around a small patio table beside a large metal basin filled with beer and ice. There's some tiki torches stuck into the grass, the dogs are playing in the yard, and the conversation is flowing.

We're playing a kind of game, I guess if it had a name it'd be "Either Or", in which someone comes up with a pair of choices, and everyone has to decide which one they'd choose. In the midst of explaining why he'd choose to be an old woman's diaper for a day over being a hot woman's tampon for the same period of time; my very animated friend bumps into one of the tiki torches. The citronella bottle rocks out of its base, and while making it's decent to the grass, bursts into a liquid fireball.

Fortunately for my buddy, he manages to stamp out the flames on himself before he can sustain any injury. However, his dog did not escape so cleanly. As a matter of fact, the damn dog took off like...well, like it was on fire. So the poor bastard is running in circles around the yard, with a blaze on it's back that's a good foot tall. We're all screaming and scrambling, trying to catch him, trying to find something to put out the flames with; and the rest of the dogs are barking and howling along with us. The dog comes running up to me, flames and all, and before I even think about it, I'm pouring my beer all over him. If there's one thing that smells worse than burning dog hair, it has got to be charred dog hair that's soaked in beer.

After we'd hosed him off for good measure and checked for any serious damage, the dog decided he'd earned the right to do something completely assinine in return for being set ablaze. I guess as a big 'Fuck You' to all of us, he curled up in the icy cool water of the beer basin and stayed there for the rest of the night. Which is fine by me, because usually a dirty, singed dog laying in the beer cooler puts a real damper on actually drinking any of said beer.

I got this email the other day from The Spinster. It said, and I quote:

"Bitch. That is all."

Seriously, I go AWOL for two weeks and all I get in my inbox is penis enlargement spam and some scrunt calling me a bitch? I mean, it doesn't bother me that I'm not a man of the people or anything; but I'd like to think it would've been worth her while to make something of it. Christ, the creativity on that one.

I was actually only on the honeymoon for most of that time; the laziness just carried over. Well, that and the mountain of work I had in my office when I returned. For fuck's sake, next time I go on an extended vacation I'm going to hire a temp to come in for three hours a day and field phone calls, handle stupid problems, and call me for dire situations. I get back to my office on Monday and there's literally 140 emails in my inbox. 135 of them are from complete fucking idiots. I forwarded them to my CEO with the message: "Fire these people. Their emails are proof that I do their work anyway. C'mon, I'll split the salary savings with the company 70/30."

I was on the bus the other day, and this big motherfucker sitting behind me had the worst breath ever. He was speaking to some people sitting across from me, and everytime he opened his goddamn yapper, a wave of the most awful shit overcame me. It was like this sonofabitch had not only been smoking meth and eating garlic foccacia, but he was washing it down with shithouse waste water and refusing to brush. I'm pretty sure he only had a handful of teeth, the majority of which were either black or held together with some kind of oral fungus that grew like wild kudzu. Fuck.

At any rate, I'm back. Not that any of you care to reed my profanity riddled screeds, which mostly revolve around personal neuroses and border on the mildly intelligble. Which reminds me. My sister was chastising me the other day for wearing pleated slacks. Are they really out? I mean, they're not 80's style triple-pleat or anything, and I'm not a heavyset guy; so I figured a single pleat was flattering. Fuck. I hope I haven't been wearing ugly slacks all season. That would...just be...I don't care.

Blogging has been light due to circumstances beyond my control. I appreciate the emails inquiring as to my plight, but all is relatively well, I’ve just been busy. And it brought Jim out of retirement. I wondered what would happen the day the page turned white, and sure as eggs is eggs, Jim mounted up and rode onto the field. I am pleased.

On to new business.

If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s an unannounced visitor. When I’m at home relaxing after a hard day, the last thing I want to hear is the doorbell. I used to pretend I wasn’t at home—I’d quietly sneak up to the door and peer out the little hole to see who was invading my privacy, at which point I’d either slink away or open up, depending on who it was.

For some reason the doorbell only rings when my wife is out, leaving me to deal with it. She’s out a lot. I’m a homebody and she’s a social creature so it works out well, with me getting my alone time. Except for when the doorbell rings.

Neighbors are never given an audience. I don’t care if music was blaring and both cars were in the driveway. Yes, they know I’m in there and I don’t care. I’m not putting on pants for them. I generally opened up for my wife’s friends because I enjoy standing there in my underwear watching them try to look me in the eye instead of looking at my drawers, and they were always invited in to wait so that I might prolong the uneasiness. After a while they came to expect it and it was no longer fun, and in fact, started to present a danger.

But those days are over now. As soon as the doorbell rings my kid jumps up and runs towards the door yelping. There’s no way to pretend you’re asleep or not home with all the racket that kid makes. I long for the days of old, when a butler answered the door and visitors were expected to present a calling card, which would be brought to the master on a silver tray.

“Send them away, Throckmorton. I shan’t be receiving today.”

Since that’s not going to happen any time soon I have adapted. I generally just swing the door open and stand there in my drawers regardless of who might be on the other side. I imagine it’s a sight, what with the kid trying to get around me and run out like a mad dog and me standing there with a glass of scotch, but you know, that’s not really my problem.

[The Scene: After a long day of fishing followed by the application of high temperatures to brats and tube steaks we are relaxing outside the homestead. Kota (our chocolab) trots over for some lovin' and then settles down by my chair and starts licking my feet.

Sompopo: Oh, yeah. Licking the feet. That's got to feel good.

Me: Especially between the toes. Come on, baby. Suck out that toe jam!

Sompopo: [laughs] It feels good but sort of gross at the same time.

Me: Yeah. A bit gross and sort of freaky. Like, damn... I am sitting here getting a canine tongue bath...

Sompopo: Yup. Sort of like "Damn this feels good and I don't want it to stop, but does enjoying this make me a pervert?"

Me: Exactly! Just like sex with midgets.

Sompopo: [stunned silence]

Sompopo: [continued stunned silence]

Me: Dude, it's a joke.

Sompopo: I know, but I think you're going straight to hell anyway. Just for thinking that up.

I don’t know why this bugs me so much, but it does.

Why won’t people use their front doors? Last week I stayed with some friends and during the entire weekend we were not permitted to use the front doors. We had to go in and out through the garage. I’ve noticed that many people instill this rule and it makes me nuts.

Instead of opening the door and walking out we had to go through “the tunnels” as I began to refer to them. A roundabout ass-backwards route to the driveway. What the hell is so special about your front door that you can’t open it to general use?

I’ve also noticed that the same people who won’t use the front door also have “the museum room.” The “museum room” is one room in the house, usually a big room, that no one s allowed to go in. Years ago people called them formal living rooms. Old people insist on covering all the furniture in the museum room with plastic.

Regardless, a shitload of people still have a museum room that people are forbidden to enter. I guess they figure if no one ever walks on the carpet it will last forever, like a shrine. Museum rooms usually have at least one white couch. I think that’s in the handbook somewhere. Anyway, people spend a lot of money for a house and then they cordon off the biggest and best room and declare it off limits. I can only assume what’s in their heads, that maybe someday, maybe, someone important enough will visit and they will enter the museum room and sit very carefully on the furniture for a little while. I don’t know who will qualify, but I’m pretty sure it would have to be a royal, or at least a Baron or a Viscount.

It’s been my experience that no family members will ever qualify to enter the museum room. And since the Queen Mother will probably not be visiting the Detroit suburbs or wherever any time soon, the whole thing is moronic. Three hundred square feet of house is roped off like a police crime seen; completely unusable. I have seen people live in a house for twenty years and never use that room.

In addition, the people who do this don’t have fifteen dollar per square foot wool carpet, priceless oriental rugs or even decent furniture. All I ever see is the standard, middle-class fare, including a shitload of small, inexpensive knick-knacks. Usually white ceramic pieces that are terribly old-fashioned. Maybe some cut glass—certainly not Venetian.

I have also noticed that if the family has a dog, he has been beaten into submission and will never enter the museum room except to shit on the carpet, because that’s the logical place, it will not be found for while.

So. Go ahead people. Keep roping off a big room that your family could use on a daily basis. Keep it reserved for the occasional poodle turd. Because you never know when someone better than you might drop by for a cup of Earl Grey.

Bossman: It's Employee Appreciation Week. Why aren't you off at the picnic being appreciated?

Me: There's just too much ass around here and I'm the only one with a functional boot.

There's a lot of blogospheric twittering and rachetjaw regarding what Ahmadinejad will say or do on the 22nd. I'm just glad the 22nd falls after my vacation; at least I'll be relaxed and fresh when I'm ionized by the 'illumination in the sky on the Night of the Sira’a and Miira’aj'. Or whatever.

I suppose from the pragmatic perspective, there's nothing you or I can do to affect the situation. The way I see it, there's really only a couple people in the entire world who could stop any kind of craziness anyways. Unfortunately, these people are all politicians who've become notoriously hamstrung by second guessers and naysayers. Suffice to say, they're not people of action. I mean, if Teddy Roosevelt was president; we'd have answered Ahmadinejad's threats by hurling so many tons of explosives at Iran that it would become the eighth wonder of the world: the only glass bowl visible from space.

In light of these developments, I've begun getting my affairs in order. And by that I mean preparing to do all those things I ever said I would do if the world was ending. Granted, the world may not end; but I'd imagine nuclear warfare would probably mean the end of a lot of fun things for a pretty long time. That being said, I've taken out a huge cash loan under false pretenses (heh, 'small business'). I already spent a tiny chunk of it on a box of Cubans, a rental Ferrari and a week at the Mirage. The rest of it I'm going to gamble away in one roll of the dice. Or maybe a poker tournament, I haven't decided yet. Oh yeah, and I want a flamethrower too, not for anythign specific, just seems like it would be a lot of fun. Of course, all of this unsecured debt combined with my uncannily horrible luck prety much insures that there will be no fireworks. Which I see as a trade off; I mean, my bad luck will be what saved all of humanity. I figure everyone wouldn't mind slipping me a dollar to help pay back the small business loan right? So on the 23rd, do me a favor and hit the tipjar.

Shit. We don't have a tipjar. I should have known.

Do you guys have any plans?

The Wife keeps a feline. A calico house cat that's probably about as evil as Satan herself. Seriously, this cat has serious interpersonal issues: she doesn't like being touched below the neck, she doesn't like sudden movements, I've seen her kick a dog's ass, and she fucking barfs every once and a while. I mean, your life is easy Cat; you don't have to work and you get to shit in a box. What's your deal?

Well, I finally found out. That scrunt just needed to get fucked up! Yeah, I was flipping the channels the other day, and I ran across this show that was doing a spot on catnip. These cats were literally wallowing in this catnip bush, purring and meowing, rolling on top of eachother. If I'd not known any better, I would've thought it was a dramatization. So I dug out this plastic container of dried catnip from The Wife's cat supplies; and sprinkled a pile of it on a washcloth. I set it in front of The Evil One, and she began to roll around in it. Then she starting eating it, rolling the old terrycloth towelette around her paws. Not ten minutes later she was glassy-eyed and unresponsive to stimuli that usually send her scampering for a hiding spot.

I called a farm supply store in town and asked about plants. I figure the fresher it is, the better the buzz, right? They don't get plants in until the spring; but they have seed backets for a buck fifty. When I get back from vacation, I'm going to start growing my own plants. Dude, that damn cat is never going to be the same.

So, I was riding a bus today, and I had an odd experience. I'm kind of a tall guy, so I usually extend my legs underneath the seat in front of me, but i try to keep them out of the aisle. Well, as we pull up to the stop; this hugely obese fuckface in front of me stands up. And plants a hugely obese heel squarely on the toe of my shoe.

It was kind of strange. See, I couldn't move my toe in time to get out of the way, and once the full weight of this behemoth was resting on my foot, it sure as hell wasn't going anywhere. So I had no choice but to sit there for a second until Humongo shifted to the other foot; at which point I pulled my flatted shoe back towards myself.

"Oh. I'm sorry! Was that your toe?"
"Yeah." Yeah it was. Now it's probably more useful as a spatula. But yeah, that was my fucking toe.
"Hmm. I'm sorry dear." She purses her lips and smiles.
"No biggie." I manage to crease a grin across my face.

I looked down at my shoe, the shoes that I shine every weekend, and this woman's fucking heel print is burled into the leather. I get off the bus wondering if that shit's going to come out. I'm thinking probably not.

I'm considering applying for a job at AOL.

I'm thinking CEO. Judging by current standards I'm really overqualified, but I figure I could cruise under the radar for a while.

Okay, so I'm not high. But if I was, at least I'd have an excuse for posting this kind of crap.

Bored again, and I guess blogging's better for my health than 12 or so beers. The Wife and I walked the seawall today out to this little island. It was pretty cool to be out there on our own island; but I have to admit it had a pretty bad case of the crabs. Seriously, they were everywhere, and it was all I could do not trip myself while trying to avoid those scurrying little bastards.

Just watched 'Underworld' on TNT. It was pretty cool; and that Kate Beckinsale (or whatever her name is) can suck me dry anyday. Whew, that woman is stronger than train smoke.

By this time next week, I will be on a remote island and I can hardly stand the wait. I've already made checklists of the appropriate supplies needed (boards, bikes, clothing, etc) that won't already be there waiting for us. Vacation is the shit!

Didn't get the house. I think we got a fairly reasonable price (even though my personal opinion is that our market is inflated), but after running all the numbers, it was just too close to call. I think we're just going to focus on saving until The Wife finishes her RN; at which point we'll be in a much better place to fincially support a home.

I'm going to go back to being bored now.

God, I'm fucking bored.

Best movie lines?
"Maybe later you can chew the bark off my big fat log."
"Vern, you little sonofawhore you was under the porch!"

Hey, just out of idle curiosity, is buying a house all it's cracked up to be? We're thinking of getting one of those starter homes, you know, one of those patio homes. Probably something less than five years old. But I think we'll only be in this town for another 3-6 years. I mean, Im pretty sure we've got the income to cover mortgage (included taxes and insurance in escrow); but I'm worried there are hidden costs, like bills that you pay when you have a home that aren't usually paid by apartment dwellers. Are there signs I should look for around a house that tell me it's a shithole in disguise?

God, I'm fucking bored. You know what I miss? Chatrooms. They were like the best thing, because you could go in there, and sit and watch or join in - but without the hassle of real people. I mean, it didn't have an annoying speech pattern, it didn't smell funny, and if it was lame you could just leave without having to tell everyone "Oh, why am I leaving? Because you're fucking lame."

Why is it so fucking hot outside? It's too hot to do anything! WTF is with that? If I could go outside, I wouldn't have to sit here and blog as a default way of passing time.

"Although the main cure (to the situation) is the elimination of the Zionist regime, in this stage an immediate ceasefire should be implemented," Ahmadinejad thundered.

Pakistan Foreign Minister Khurshid Kasuri said that the uncalled for action by Israel had infuriated the Muslim world. "We do not want a clash of civilizations but all over the Muslim world a very negative feeling is arising on the street," he said.

(Warning, there's only one period for the rest of this post. Take a few deep breaths, and continue when ready.)

A negative feeling huh? Kind of like the negative feeling you get when a bunch of islamofascist nutjobs, high on transformational ideologies and pipe dreams of establishing a worldwide caliphate, pilot two airliners into your city and kill a couple thousand of your countrymen for no other reason than they believed it would send them to heaven? That kind of negative feeling? Or are you guys referring to the negative feeling you get when your multinational terrorist organization; funded by one country while shooting from behind civilians in another in hopes of turning the entirety of the Middle East into a place where gays, non-Muslims, and chicks who don't like to wear burkas suffer death by stoning; gets stuck between US forces in the east and some really pissed off Israelis to the west?

Just wondering, because if you're feeling that second one; it's technically referred to as "Having a Big 'Ol Mudhole Stomped in Your Ass...Bitch."

I haven’t been able to receive email for who knows how long but it seems to be fixed now.

My car is leaking something again. Just enough to worry about.

I have a world class migraine and a dinner meeting tonight.

Every time my computer comes out of sleep mode the CD door flies open.

My lawn has giant patches of yellow spots from the sprinklers not functioning properly. Soon to be brown spots. The HOA will likely throw a grenade through my window over this.

All of my friends appear to be MIA. Please make yours whereabouts known.

Every time I try to print something I get the message “incorrect ink cartridges installed” even though it’s new and they came with the damn printer and it has worked for the past two weeks.

That pretty much sums it up.

I have never gotten a traffic ticket before. In fact, I’ve never even been pulled over before for any reason. Until recently.

I was in a resort town and was completely unfamiliar with the area. I backed out of my friend’s driveway, put the car (a minivan) into gear and drove approximately 70 yards when officer lard-ass waved me over. I thought there must be some mistake.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“I didn’t even know I was pulled over.” I smiled. It still hadn’t dawned on me yet.

“You were going 37 MPH in a 25 zone. Let’s see your license and registration.” He had taken a very nasty tone.

Let first say that I have (had) a great respect for cops. I realize they deal with not only danger but a lot of bullshit so I always show them a great deal of respect. I guess that’s because I haven’t had much experience with them before. Anyway, I’m sitting there with my wife and kid in a minivan and it begins to dawn on me that there was no way I could have gotten up to 37 MPH in the short distance that I had driven.

I’m the first to admit that on the freeway, pending traffic and road conditions, I may go a little too fast. But I don’t tailgate, I have taken defensive driving courses and I’m a safe driver. But on residential streets, I never speed. I have a kid and I’m always conscious of other kids on residential streets. I also had never driven this vehicle before and was adjusting the seat as I started forward. There was no way in hell I was going 37 mph. But that didn’t matter because I was in shock that I’d been pulled over.

So I sat there waiting while this fat bastard sat in his car and wrote out the ticket which took thirty fucking minutes. Then he waddled his fat ass back towards me and explained that it was an $80 ticket and showed me where to sign. I signed it, nodded and drove off. He actually looked hurt that I didn’t thank him for it. My clean driving record was gone, thanks to an asshole that was tourist baiting.

I thought about it for the next hour. I should’ve asked how he knew my speed, I should have asked to see the radar or whatever. I should have done a lot, but as my wife said, “I’m too law abiding to know how to deal with these people.”

Later I went back to the scene of the crime, pulled out of the driveway, and floored it. I could not get up to 37 MPH by the time I got to the place I got pulled over. At least not without trying hard and looking like a maniac. What a prick. I guess they know a tourist won’t be around to fight the ticket so they hand them out like candy whether they’re deserved or not. I haven’t decided how yet, but I’m going to make it my life’s mission to tell everyone I know how much the place sucks, having the nerve to pull shit like that. Did I mention that as the asshole was talking to me in a very nasty voice he was hollering to his buddies as they drove by doing 50 mph, “When we goin’ fishing, Fred!” and shit like that. Maybe I’ll write a letter to the mayor and Chamber of Commerce thanking them for warning me off, as I almost booked my industry meeting at their convention center, but thanks to officer lard-ass, instead, I’m going to make it my life’s mission tell everyone I ever fucking meet how I feel about that shithole.

Yes, I imagine this sounds like sour grapes, and I suppose that’s what it is, but if you people knew me in real life you’d understand. If I’m caught I’m a very good sport; if I’m set up, I’ll remember it to my dying day. And I can be relentless.

What a nasty, goddamned, shit-heel, good-ole-boy fat fucking liar.