The musings of a madman...

     There’s some things that kids these days will never have to grow to understand.           Mexican brick-pack headache weed.           Waiting next to a phone that you CAN NOT move from for that lightskinned girl to never return your page.           Daily driving a $500 bucket while PRAYING it doesn’t inevitably do what a $500 bucket is bound to do. … and, naturally…           …   taking small town public transit from the spot where your above-mentioned $500 bucket stranded you to your place of employment. That last one is where we start off today…      On the city bus in anytown USA, size bedamned, you’re bound to encounter a ton of what one could refer to as, umm…   “Characters.”   In the late 90s/early 00s, the ubiquitousness of available digital media players was not NEAR what it is now.   If you wanted to have some portable music, you needed a small CD player and some EXPENSIVE-ass headphones.   Needless to say, a dude who is only on the bus because he ca

(yes, y'all have seen this image before)      Don’t call me.   Don’t call me unless someone is dead or fucking bleeding on the way to the upper room. My first several years of reasonably-compensated non-retail employment involved being tethered to a phone and I have learned to hate that shit now, even when that phone is my wireless for most other communication than texts.      June 18 th , day 23 of furlough, my phone rings.   I ignore it from across the room while I play GRID on the PlayStation. …   it rings again.   I holler to my wife in her office in the back “what the FUCK, are you calling me!?”   She is either asleep or ignores me. … it. rings. again.   What the HELL?!!?   I say as I pause the game and head over to the desk to take it off the charger.   It is a weird number, I Google and learn that it is from one of those weird Eastern European countries, like Moldova or Romania or Slavobia or whatever the fuck ever they’re named these days.   Well I ain’t callin

     You’ve seen them in the news and on the internets.  People showing up to the airport with the damndest of animals; squirrels, peacocks, sugar gliders, children, hamsters/gerbils, untrained dogs and basically any other animal they probably shouldn’t be trying to bring into the passenger compartment in an airplane.  Laws are catching up with these silly-ass attempts at shirking an otherwise ill-defined system and I guess it is all for the better.      But did I tell y’all about my emotional support rooster? Stop laughing, it was a real thing.  I didn’t even bother giving him a name. As the great both of you may be aware, I LIVE for a good inappropriate double entendre, and there is no doubler of the doubles of being able to talk about my cock and not having it exist as a reference to my winky.  One could go as far as to say that my gymnastics with the English language is important to normal existence for me, so the existence of my pet rooster was an exercise in emotional s

True Story©…                 Fact: EVERY dude will find himself in a bit of a drought sometime or another in his life.  Some take to extreme measures to get themselves out of their funk.  These measures include paying for it, thirsting at every juncture, begging for it, tricking off on a couple of bills or expensive meals or (perhaps most reasonably) investing in some internets porn and resolving the issue in-house. Anyway, a few years ago, I was in a bit of a slump and considering I don’t thirst, beg or pay and pr0ns was getting boring to me, I had to come up with something.                 It so happened that this was RIGHT around the time that the thwarted shoe and underwear bombers situations took place, so increased TSA scrutiny in airports began.  Soon after that, complaints of people being felt up by creepy TSA agents started rolling in. …  and I had an idea. I would book a quick cheap flight to somewhere close, like maybe Charlotte or DC or something like that so as