Monday, August 16, 2010

Step Number 1, I guess

When I was a kid, after a long day, my Dad would get a bottle out of the fridge and pour it into a glass. If the chosen glass was short enough, I would get to drink the last of the unable to be poured into the glass portion from the bottle. It burned my throat a little bit, but I liked it.

Fast forward 35 years or so. I’m hooked on it. I’m drinking one in the morning, usually before my breakfast of beef jerky. It’s cold and the throat stinging sensation reminds me of a by-gone time.

I don’t always have one for lunch, but during the workday at some point, I go over to the store and buy one to drink in the car. It never gets warm. It never lasts that long. Sometimes it’s a two-drinker…gone in two drinks. Cans only. The bottles don’t keep it as cold. I even liked the clear version.

We never keep it in the house, because the kids have no idea what it is yet and we aren’t going to tell them until they ask us about it. Also, it keeps me from drinking two or three a night.

I check into getting a machine that would dispense it installed at work. No one suggests an intervention, but that’s because I keep this addiction to myself. But while it is an addiction, I have no incidents of missing work, having problems at home or going on a crime spree to support my habit.

I make an acquaintance of someone who sells it for a living. I make friends with him, his wife and children with hopes of somehow defraying the expense of what has become a $3 a day monkey on my back.

And then, suddenly, he is no longer working there. In loyalty, I resolve to never buy one again. However, my life goes into a tailspin as I am forced to go “cold turkey.” I hang out at Maxwell’s, hoping someone will drop a can from their shopping cart as they go out to their car. I climb into dumpsters hoping a can has fallen upright still containing the life-giving elixir with carmel color and extra fizziness.

Distracted, I mentioned it in one of my columns. My sponsor calls me and accuses me of “falling off the wagon.”

I’m not made of stone, I tell my sponsor, I’m not made of stone.

And I wish I could substitute something else, but as I learned in 1995 during their national campaign, “Nothing else is a Pepsi.”

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Probably that you can't putt...

Apparently, I own 16 putters. This doesn't count the one in Southern Pines that is on permanent loan...

I've sold probably 20 of them over the years, but yet, I have 16 putters in my closet.

You decide what it means.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

It's obviously highway 64's fault...

Coming back from Waynesboro this evening, I pulled into a convenience store only to be almost run over by an ambulance...upon seeing him, I waved and expected him to do the same...but noooooo he gave me the head shake.

I know about the head shake, I've used it before to show my disgust with other drivers as they acted/drove like a dumbass.

Now, this is where my common sense leaves my body and is replaced by redneck guy, a guy I like, but sometimes gets me in trouble.

After the amubulance guy parks and gets out he is greeted by redneck guy who says, "hey, what's the deal with the head shake, you could have killed me."

"You mean you didn't see me?" he says.

"What I don't need is your head shake. You were just as at fault as I was, buddy."

Now I don't remember what he said, or how I replied, but my reply ended with "dumbass"

"Excuse me?" he said incredulously.

Redneck man replied, "Yeah, that's right...I said you were a dumbass."

Fine, said he and went back to his ambulance. I walked in the store knowing he was calling the police. With this in mind, I got a Dr. Pepper instead of the 40 ounce Shiltz Malt Liquor I was planning to guzzle on the way home. I also only got $10 in gas hoping for a quick gas and go before the authorities arrived.

I gassed up and backed out as he had me blocked in. He jumped out of the amubulance, waving his arms. I didn't understand why until I saw the police car behind me...and another one in front of me. I then remembered I was in the town RIGHT NEXT to the one Buford Pusser was Sheriff of back in the "Walking Tall" days.

Fortunately, the officer got out the car WITHOUT a baseball bat.

The cops were nice, I was a little excitable. I did admit I called him a dumbass, twice and that it wasn't my fault he was a dumbass and that it wasn't my fault he couldn't drive. And I said all of this in about five seconds.

The officer talked to the ambulance driver then told me this was road rage on both our parts, but in lieu of jail he would just let me go. He was pretty cool about it, even mentioned I could call him a dumbass if I wished and that they came because he called them, but obviously there was no problem. The amubulance driver left and I continued on my way.

In retrospect, I called him a dumbass and then he acted like one and called the cops on me. (I guess his big brother or his old man wasn't available.)

But redneck man needs to keep his dumbass mouth shut.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Freedumb....oh sweete freedumb...

Im soo dange tried of editting copie and making surre that al the wordz are spelt corectily that Im seinding this psoting this two my blog in protesst.

So there.

Paper comes out tomorrow.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Where else would she be, Ferguson?

I got a book called the Big Book of Questions and Answers to go over with the kids at night. It's written by some guy named Sinclair Ferguson. The only Ferguson I remember is the Ferguson on "Clarissa Explains it All," which I never watched, but since it was on every 15 minutes during my Nick at Nite years (I was watching Get Smart and Rocky and Bullwinkle re-runs, but Clarissa was ALWAYS coming up next or tomorrow or something) I do remember Ferguson. But since Clarissa was the one explaining it (I assume) I doubt this is the same guy. (I've also been told this Sinclair Ferguson fellow speaks with a Scotish or English or Welch accent - which means when he was a kid he said, "Well, its me name, yew don't need to be hitting me fer it," a lot I assume.)

Anyway...the second question in the Big Book of Questions and Answers is "Why am I here?" (Last night was "Who am I?")

Now this "Why am I here?" question is one that has caused many a man to ponder, dissertate and/or do recreational drugs or play golf or a lot of things. I had a whole class on it in college. It's really in the big question category and while I am pretty much at peace with the answer, it still was something I gave a lot of thought to, in order to bestow wisdom on my children, so they'd think I was smarter than Dora the Explorer.

So I asked, "Why are you here?"

She thought for a second and replied, "Because I live here."

Hmm...Ol' Ferguson hadn't anticipated this one, I bet.

Tomorrow we'll ask, "Why don't you like to clean your room?"

Monday, January 4, 2010

Man Impaled on Cemetary Post

Scoop went down to the local cemetary to take a photo of a tombstone of a famous citizen of the county, only to find the cemetary locked. Investigative journalist he was, scoop immediately phoned the local Funeral home to ask "how do you get into the cemetary."

(I should have also asked if he had Sir Walter Raleigh in a can, or how to get to Carnegie Hall)

After a guffaw or two, he was advised to go to a house down the street where the caretaker would let him in.

But, he decided to take a different approach.

Friday, January 1, 2010

Deadline U.S.A.

With the newspaper looming in eight days, the editor in chief took time to watch the 1952 movie of the above title about couple of days in the life of a newspaper and a newspaper editor that takes on a local mobster and makes things right with his wife all while running the paper and drinking about a fifth of liquor.

He's got 1500 employees, which may account for his having time to woo his wife, wear an ironed tuxedo to a party and go to the bathroom without having to make a few calls during the process.

Here in 2009, the editor in chief took a break from the 75 hours a week by watching the movie, dranking a glass or two of champagne and falling asleep in front of his computer about twenty minutes after the passing of the new year.

The guy didn't even have a blog, for pete's sake.