Aint nothin' Casual about Friday

Brothers and Sisters, I had the pleasure of doing something that I now believe we should all schedule at least once a year. No, it wasn't a colonoscopy, or a trip to the Keys. It wasn't getting up at dawn to watch the sun rise. It was sitting outside an insurance building on Friday afternoon, waiting to pick up my wife. Now, she doesn't work in insurance, but her company has an office in this large corporate hive downtown. I pulled up at the requested 4:45pm, and eased my seat back to take in one of the most entertaining and purely frightening shows I never knew existed. The mass exodus of the office cubical dweller. I have said many times that I could NEVER have such a job, toiling away in obscurity all day- nameless, faceless etc. It seems that the folks who are dealt this lot feel the same way. So, to balance out the universe, and keep from shooting up a mall food court somewhere, this is how they roll. Years ago, several big companies decided to ease the ho-hum by relaxing the employee dress code on Fridays. They figured this would help the employees feel more human, and express themselves. If you felt more at home, maybe you would be less likely to try and break out early. In the old days, it just meant necktie optional, or later, wearing a golf shirt instead of a button down. Like every other bend in a set rule, it has been pushed to the absolute limit. You get to come in to work and see just how flaky the flakes you thought you were working among can flake. You never asked fatty next cube over what his interests are, so now you will have them rammed down your throat. I saw so many brands of undercover freak, it made my head spin. The first I would like to outline, is my all time favorite. Its "white guy who thinks he's an Indian". This sad humanoid could only be detected during the rest of the week by a slight hint of patchouli in the air, or maybe a "medicine bag" around his neck, tucked down in the shirt. But on Friday, holy shit. A pair of skin tight 87' wranglers with a turquoise belt buckle, and the inevitable Wolf head t-shirt, tucked into said wranglers. Leather everywhere, and anything you can paint, stamp, screen a wolf onto. What is it with the wolf crap? I will go farther out of my way to avoid this type person than a man holding an axe outside a methadone clinic. He has an appointment in a sweat lodge somewhere this weekend, so don't get in his way. His Indian name is "Dances with white guys dressed like Indians" and his white name is Herbert.

The next person in the parade of sadness, is the black woman dressed like she's high stepping on the Serengeti. She has never been to Africa, and does not want to go. But on Friday, she is the ebony queen of Kenya, the mother of the whole planet, the black descendant of all things sparkly and royal of Egypt and any other thing Disney ever made a talking lion movie about. She also wears this get up to gamble in Balouxi, and eat shrimp cocktail at Red Lobster. This specimen usually requires a large hat of some sort, which will more than likely be gold or silver to represent the pillaged wealth of the Mother Africa. Or a head wrap with fruit on it, to represent Chiquita Banana.

Lastly, you have my least favorite brand of closet freak, the portly "Vampire Goth" girl/boy/thing. I don't think you really have to assign a gender to this type because I have never really seen any evidence of such characteristics displayed by them. The boys look sad, and weak. The girls look sad, and weak. Both wear makeup, lacy crap, and ugly silver jewelry. Both hang out in the same places where only Vampires dare to go, like the mall. They smell like cloves and failure, and have cool names like Ravensblood, Wrath, and Fatty Fatty Fat-Face. I don't think they have sex, or dreams, or a point. They buy junk trinkets at the Vampire supply store, Hot Topic, which I have recently learned is owned by the Gap. I want to see a Gap-like commercial for Hot Topic, with a bunch of sad Goth kids all swing dancing in their pointy shoes. But, enough of my needs, this is about them. Its Friday. Wolfe's will howl. Bats will flap. Africans will sing. Come Monday though, leave that shit at home- you got work to do.

Pit Bulls, the Great White of the Ghetto

Magoo ole’ boy, you’ve done it again! I think I may have killed two birds with one stone. You know, the only thing I hate more than seeing some ignorant ass turd strutting
around with a pit bull on a piece of chain they had cut at Walmart, is the God damn “Save the Breed” emails that I keep getting. That and bulletins posted on Myspace and
other such alleged social networking sites. You’ve seen them, the emailed slide show that is supposed to warm your heart with multiple shots of Pit puppies in shoes, and bath tubs,
playing with babies and all this. Now, let me start by saying that I do indeed know of Pit Bulls that are well raised, and quite lovable. However, for every dog that fits this description,
there are a couple thousand that are completely out of hand, and usually off the leash. I refer to these poor creatures as the “Great White of the Ghetto” or the idiots Pit Bull. You have seen
these guys, walking a twenty pound Pit pup with twenty pounds of weight around their neck. These sorry SOB’s will spend big cash on the dogs pimp chain, or even a chain and charm, but not
two dollars on a book about how to raise the damn thing. It makes me sick and I can’t even figure who to try to run over first. Home owners insurance has began shit-canning policies if they
find out you have one of this and a few other breeds in residence. That’s funny to me, that someone thinks these type jackasses own homes. So, without further ado, here’s the
solution. Permits. In order to own any one of the breeds that the insurance companies are trying to outlaw, including the Pit, the Doberman, German Sheppard, Chow, and lets not forget
the Rottweiler ( also known as the “Rock-Whilah”) you would be required to submit an explanation of why you require the services of such a breed. Then, you’d have to pass a state administered
exam to determine your knowledge of the selected breed, and training. Next, a code enforcement agent would go to your address and make sure you had suitable confine for the animal.
Finally, you would show proof of home owners or some other type liability insurance for the dog, in the event of an unavoidable accident. That’s it! You would then go down to the state regulated
breeder, not an open trunk in the Home Depot parking lot, and get your healthy puppy. The best way is rarely the easy way. I just feel like you should hold the owner responsible for the action
of the animal, within reason. I own a Jack Russel that I wouldn’t trust as far as I can kick it. So, I keep his ass locked up, or on the leash so he can’t destroy anything that I can’t afford to fix. There you are-
We found a way to save the breed, and the neighbors.

Beer or Shotguns, Part Deux

Just a quick thought folks. Took my daughter to the gun show today. Wow. We saw things I never knew you could run into on this planet, and I don't mean the weaponry. Anyhoo, all that freak and gun made us hungry, so we jumped in line at the concession stand. I saw a big ass Budweiser sign, and well, you know. I got up to the front and tried to order a hot dog and a brewski, and got flat denied. The nice lady told me that the gun show was the ONLY event that ever graced the fair grounds where they could not sell beer. She said that the "law" says that guns and beer don't go together. I said some crazy red neck something back to her, which at least made me laugh, and off I went with a giant Coke. My point was, again, that I could walk in or out of there with a gun that could literally take down a jet liner, but not have a beer while I shop. That is the last time I will bitch about it here. Thank you.

Floridas Missing "Kids"

Alright, alright. I admit, im completely talking out of my ass on this one because I have not been there. But I just have to comment on something that has bugged me for years. I have been married for around 16 years now, and I have kids. So, I think I can at least get on the required frequency to throw this out there. Every now and then, I have to go to Wal-Mart. And when I’m leaving, I always stop and check the “Florida’s missing children” wall to see if I recognize anyone. I have not yet, and I always walk away from that bulletin just a bit disturbed. It amazes me to see how many of these “kids” looked a lot like prostitutes before they went “missing”. I mean, it appears that they may not be so hard to find, if they wanted to come home. They are shown with six pounds of makeup on their face; tattoos all up their neck, cigarettes, etc. You feel me? If the kid had on a scuba mask and snorkel, I would look around the beach for them. If they had on a John Deere hat, and a piece of straw in their mouth, I would head to the heartland. However, the way these kids look, I would have to head down to the local “stroll” to maybe pick them up off the job. Its just that, I feel like if a kid has been so over exposed to the evil ways of the world, either by there own hand, or the cruelty of others, there’s just not much of a child left to be looking for. We have all known some kid that had great parents, loving siblings, and a better than fair start at life. Often, you can watch that child suddenly shift into some Hollywood avenue, heroin fiend piece of shit right before your eyes, without any visible cause. I guess im saying, some of these kids stopped being kids, and just left. Here’s part two of my pointless ramble. IF A CHILD IS WITH HIS PARENT, EITHER PARENT, HE’S NOT MISSING. Just because you had a shitty lawyer that totally flubbed your divorce and custody issues, it’s not the same as a kid stolen in the night by some psychopathic asshole. Don’t use my tax dollars, or ask for my time to help Wayne find Wanda and get little Cody back. Lets find the kids that are really missing, and in danger. In danger that THEY didn’t put (or keep) themselves in. The military says that at 17 years old, a kid can join if he has his parents co-sign. He can fight, kill, and die, and even be a hero. So, it seems to me that a seventeen year old who wants to be a prostitute has made their choice too. Now, go be pisssed at me, and keep your eyes open for those kids, the real missing kids.

All that glitters isn't gold, not even a Sacajawea dollar

First off, I have to give special thanks to my technical advisor, Bob Milam, for helping me center and stabilize my abstract thought process on this one. Here's the thick of the plot. One day last week, I was walking out the door to go and get some things we needed for dinner. My wife asked me to get a few bucks back for my daughter to take to school, to pay for lunch. When I got to the register, the smiling snapper head told me he was low on ones, and asked if I could take a couple Susan B. Anthony's, and a couple "Sacajawea" dollar coins. I was immediately intrigued with the idea of my daughter being forced to explain the "legend" of Sacajawea to the disgruntled lunch lady. You see, I am always trying to get her to be more assertive, and push her point across. Now, she likes to eat as much (or more) than i do, so I knew it would be a challenge that she would be FORCED to take to the next level, as they say. I based this idea on the fact that many (most?) folks have no idea what the hell a Sacajawea is, not to mention a Sacajawea dollar. When we got home, I immediately asked my wife if she knew, and as expected, she did not. I asked many other people, including Bob, and they did not. So, the stage was set. Now, Sacajawea was also known as Pocahontas. She was the servant, guide, and sex slave of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition. Of course, Disney didn't tell it like that. She was sold to the pair like a piece of meat, and quickly put on the job. I think she even had a kid or two with one or both of them. So, for some reason the mint decided to make an ugly ass, brassy looking dollar coin, possibly to commemorate her being such a swell sport about the whole thing. My buddies all laughed about the idea of my daughter spitting words and quoting facts like a coked up car salesman on the last Sunday of the month, trying to school up the lunch lady, and score her Sloppy Joe. I know, the whole thing was cruel. Funny as hell to me, but cruel. While standing there with my work Bro-hams, we started talking about the fact (?) that, unless the person you are bartering with appreciates the value of your currency, it really has no value. The truth is, there is NO real value of any currency, depending on the situation of the market. You always hear these assholes on the street and on TV talking about gold, and how it never loses its value even if the cash market fails completely. So, I like to pipe up and bait them by asking "say, what is the value of an ounce of gold right now?' They fall right into the trap by saying something like "89 dollars an ounce", and then I got em. I got em right where I want them. 89 what? 89 WHAT??? 89 DOLLARS FOOL! Your gold has NO value when it is based on the dollar, in a time of market collapse. Guess what, even a diamond has to be appraised. In a market crash, no value what so ever. Here's how you find what is true value in a crunch. Can you eat it? Can you cook on it, or warm your kids with it? Food and water, blankets, guns, nails, and batteries. Chickens, rope, plastic, milk. That's your gold. Maybe you could trade a chicken for some gold to fill a tooth. Maybe you could trade diapers for a sack of diamonds to put in the gold tooth. You get the point. Anyway, my Baby talked that lunch lady into getting on board with Sacajawea, and handing over the Joe. I guess that's another valuable commodity in a mess, the power and command of bullshit. If so, I must be rich.

Explain to your kids- Beer or Shotguns?

Yesterday, I finally got to fulfill a dream I have had for eleven years. I have waited for the day that I would take my daughter out into the Florida wilderness, and teach her how to use the family firearms. I was so proud as she stood there, so nervous and excited, pointing that urban combat 12 gauge shotgun at an old bucket. Then, pulling the trigger on my old Colt 45 auto, and watching it nearly come up out of her little hands. I wondered who she was seeing in that dirt mound she was destroying, and hoping it wasn't me. She did so well, I was glowing with pride. She is not a Tom boy, so I really didn't think she would go through with it. I will try to figure out how to get the camera phone video I shot onto this site for all to see. Now, here's the funny thing. Later on, she clearly expressed her new love of all things Ka-boom when she started asking about when she could hope to get her own guns. I told her of how I got a job, and bought my first Combat shotgun when I was only 18 years old, and how she could do the same. She asked "Daddy, how can you buy a gun at 18, but you have to be 21 to just buy a beer?" Well, out of the mouth's of babes, as they say. I then had to attempt to explain to her all of the ridicules laws we maintain in this country, even though they do not begin to make sense. She was so cute. I told her that, when she is 18, I will take her to get her own shotgun. We will blast the living shit out of something with a power of pure destruction that few folks will ever know. Then, I will stop off on the way home and get myself a cold one, and her a Pepsi, because even though she can own a tool capable of annihilating the store cashier, she sure as hell can't buy a can of beer from him- Draft age, drinking age, voting age, gun age, driving age?

Those days are over, part 1

Here's a little ditty I like to call "those days are over". Its a phrase I use when I see or hear a person or group trying to ignore the current state of affairs, and mix an ounce of ignorance to explain a situation. This weeks episode begins with the Teamsters and others trying to demonize the people of Mexico over the proposed opening of the border to truck drivers. About a year ago, I was on my way home from Atlanta, and stopped for gas in some tiny, south Georgia gas station. I saw a shitty looking tractor trailer park outside the store, and the door open. I then watched as an entire family of Mexicans climbed out of the truck to stretch their tiny Mexican legs. Mama, Papa, and about four little seesters were living in that God damned truck. I knew when I saw this, that the Mexicans had found trucking. So, we have established that they are working now as truckers. Twenty years ago, my father stopped doing floor covering for a living for two reasons. One, his knees were going bad. And two, Mexicans started laying carpet. My Pop got out of that biz and began learning a new, more lucrative way to earn money. Here's my point. Mexicans don't set prices. They accept the pay they are offered to do what are known as blue collar jobs in America. A truck driver has to be payed to deliver what they are hauling. Americans need to seek out the corporations that are cutting their throats, and stop blaming the Mexicans. Ten years ago, a company called E-Trade posted a billboard along a busy highway in Atlanta that read, "If your boss could pay you less, he would". The truth is, he would pay you less, and so would anyone for any service you could offer. People used to pay a little more to help out the folks they knew and lived around in this country. Those days are over. Here's my advice- learn to do a job that an uneducated 19 year old Mexican can't do, and learn to speak Spanish.

Something like Shabbot

Well, its Labor day, the holiday to celebrate the working man. I celebrate it like most folks- on my ass. Is this like Sh abbot? If any of my Hebrew Bro-hams care to help me out on this, please do. God Dammit Dude, I don't roll on Shabott!!!!! I'm sitting in front of the TV (total void) watching "Age of Love".I can feel my breakfast rising in my throat, as these shallow, soulless whores all compete to be the first one to be pumped and dumped by some fake ass "rich guy". I just watched as one of the hookers, or contestants as they are called, broke her leg trying to swim out to a yacht. I'm pretty sure that when a whore breaks their leg, like a horse, you are expected to put them down. I hope the producer does the right thing. It would be cruel to have this limping whore struggling to get around the dining area at Hooters. Its more humane to calm her down, and put her out of her misery. Say a few kind words about her life, then roll her in carpet and dump her by the railroad tracks. Then, in my perfect world, the producer, creator, and any person involved in making these kinds of "reality" shows would be rolled in their own little carpets, and laying next to her. Well, I got the Ghetto Bird flying over my street in the hood again, so I guess I will get up, violate Sh abbot, and go outside to see who died. Hollah-

Florida billboards- turns out old people still fuck.

Rolling down any highway in the state of La Florida, I have noticed a trend in the billboard clutter along the roadside. It seems that the story that is most often told is that of the future of our elderly. I have, after getting fine tuned to a frequency only insects could hear, noticed that all of the photos seem to be sexual in nature. They show your grandparents in a way that you yourself may have never seen them. You know that they perhaps have separate rooms, or at least separate beds. You know that they have their own agendas, and scream at each other all day. And, you know that their junk has not been activated since your uncle came home from "Tha Nam". But the owners and builders of the countless old folks villages, villas, vistas, and so forth advertise these joints by showing grampy all pushed up on grammys cool-locks (spelling?) and sitting in a canoe or some shit. They stand in groups, two men, two woman all scantly clad looking back at you like some shit is going down after bingo tonight baby! They got them on a beach all locked up, or on a trail in the woods, or a million other places you would never really find them. The message is always the same. Move away from your kids, get a tan, and start fucking. Welcome to Florida, Grampy.

The Invasion has Begun

Am I the only one that has the buh-jesus (yes, I changed the spelling) scared out of them every time the "E Harmony" commercial comes on?Lets just call a spade a spade- those people look fucked up. The only thing worse than the front view is their profile. They look alike beyond just a coincidence. That Mr. Roper looking spokesman is the devil, and the devil wants you to marry your sister, apparently. You cant force fate. Get out there and meet your mate the old fashion way, in a bar. Or in church if you are really desperate. Paying someone to hook you up is called prostitution. I'm going to start a service called E-Discord. I will pair you up with someone you will hate beyond belief. You will hate them so bad, they will look like you. You will hate the same shit, AND each other. I'm drunk.

Zsa Zsa

I was standing in line at the grocery store and started scanning headlines on the various magazines they post in that area. I noticed that they are mostly the celebrity worship type crap, not to much real info. I wondered if cows had magazine racks in the slaughter line, then something caught my eye. It was a nice close shot of Valery Bertonelli's ass. It was in need of some repair, and wearing a bikini. Just above that, was some word of a new zany mishap that Zsa Zsa Gabour's husband had got into. I looked at Valerie's ass again, and after reading the header about how she was in horrible shape and needed to think about NOT walking on the beach for a while, I thought about the schmuck that hid out in the dunes with a zoom lens camera for hours, waiting to get that life changing picture that saved the world. We are in trouble. Next time you stand in that line, look at the magazines on the side that the conveyor is on, then look on the other side. See if you notice anything odd. I did today, but it took a lifetime

Hot?

I want to know who decided Sarah Jesica witchy Jew face Parker was hot? And after I get that info, I want to know who also thought that Uma footface Thurman was hot. Those bitches are NOT hot. They are a couple of butterfaces (body looks good butter face needs work) that got really lucky. I saw SJ Parker on a commercial and thought for a second it was an SNL skit. I think she was dancing for chicken. Dont get me started on Renae ratface Zelwiger or however you spell her fd up name. Bitch could nibble the cheeseout of a combo. Word?

Calling all Racists

I'm calling every human on this planet a racist. Animals and fish are racists too. If anyone tells you they are not a racist, they are a filthy liar. Deep down, we all pull for our own team. Sometimes though, we get confused or even concerned for another race, and we step up to help out. Like defending a retarded kid on the playground from a pack of bullies, you just feel like you have to lend a hand from time to time. So, in the spirit of helping, I want to ask black folks if I can help out with something I thought they may be offended by. Have you ever noticed how almost every fried chicken commercial you see has a black dude dancing for the chicken? I used to laugh when KFC was doing it using that Sabian dude with the long dreads that was tap dancing while they showed a new chicken leg they were selling. Tap dancing. I shit you not. And just last night, I saw a NEW commercial for Popeye's with a baggy clothed "hip-hop" style sellout dancing for a chicken strip. I want to know why, when we are allegedly holding funerals for the N word in Detroit this week, we (and when I say we I mean you) are allowing this sort of Vaudeville Chicken George type shit to go down? I am ashamed of all of you black folks right now. Y'all need to hoot and holler about this. If you want me to go down there with you, I will.

My life, my way, my ass-

As a few of you know, I have lived for many years with the pain of a gravy addiction. It started small, a tablespoon here, a ladle there, and then I started hitting the hard shit. I own a gravy "boat", ladles, hand cranked flour sifters, I'm grindin' Jack. I got a can of Wondra in my cabinet right next to a bottle of Gravy Master. If you don't know what that is, you ain't in the game, so don't step to me like you are. This dependency has left me with a less than model shape, and a bad back from carrying it all around. Today, I had to have an epidural in my spine to bring some relief, and help me get better. I wanted the doctor to shove an eggplant up my ass so I could strip my wife (and any other Mom) of her "you have never known the pain of childbirth" bragging rights. He would not. I figured if I was having an epidural anyway, like most woman do to have a baby, I would go for the whole package. Besides, people have been telling me I look pregnant for years. Today could have been my special day, and that Doctor denied me that gift. Anyway, I'm still a little looped from the drugs they knocked me out with, and I don't remember what my point was. So, I'm going to go play a video game, and maybe whip up some brown gravy.

When you are ready to learn, the teacher will appear-

What the hell has happened to the stripping industry? I was up at Burger King buying dinner tonight (I know, please kill me) and got behind a "dancer" in the drive through. It wasn't the big DANCER bumper sticker, or the plastic dancer on the stereo antenna that gave her away. It wasn't that she was that hot either. I knew as soon as I saw a hot-in-a-skanky-way chick in a rusted, piece of shit late eighties Chevy Cavalier, that this was the new breed of underachieving stripper. I remember when I was a lad, a stripper rarely left the house before dark. When you did catch one in the light of day, you KNEW this girl had skills. They always had a driver/bouncer/bodyguard type with them, and looked like a million bucks. Now, most have some Joe Dirt with them and look like twenty bucks. Or a nice black dude, and look like they owe you twenty bucks. They have no clothes, no jewelry, no chance. I know some of you got the inside on this, and you know who you are. I have a theory that its either the drug influence or the fact (?) that strippers now pay taxes on tips. I used to visit the girls at the Gold Club in Atl, and in those days, about nine years ago I think, there were a couple knocking down 300K or better a year. I'm a proud pimp to say not one dime of it was mine, you know how we roll. I need to go back up there and take a look. They used to have the girls limos in the back parking area, I bet it looks like a sale lot for used Dodge Neon's now. Where are the Pimps that kept these girls going? Don't they still have a Daddy to answer to? I think that meth is wearing the pimp hat now, that and the I.R.S.- You bitches ought to be ashamed.

"You know Bong, man, He's cool!!!!"

One of the few nice things about being a middle age bastard is, that you get to pick your friends. You can shuck their ass too, if you choose. I was thinking the other day about how when your a teenager, or even into your twenties or so, you get new friends tossed at you by your other friends. Do you remember that shit? You would leave for a while, like to go stay with your other parent, or go on a long trip or boot camp or anywhere outside of your normal friend circle (jail?). Then, when you came back, you would be all excited and call your boys to come get your ass. They would show up with your replacement. Some asshole from out of nowhere that you never met or even saw in your town. And every mothafukr you knew would know this new prick and act like he was from way back. He would give himself some stupid nick name like "Bong" or "Doober" or some other drug related shit. You (I) would sideline my friends and be like "who is this douche bag?" and they would be like "Dude!, its Bonger man! "You know Bonger, he's cool as shit man!, he's a fucking madman!" After a while, Bonger would peter out and head back to Colorado, or Oregon or wherever clowns come from. I just hope that when THEY got home, their buddies came over to introduce them to their new homeboy, Doobsky

Another Jackass hits the ground running-

Well folks, here we go. I would like tell about all the crazy events that have brought me to this day, but I'm out of beer, and tight of lip. I will take a minute to look around this new home, and when I get comfortable, the shit will indeed fly. I'm not big on the whole "free site" deal, because we all know that nothing really is, but it will do for now. Stand by for stinking, shocking, poorly lit truth as I know it, and thanks for stopping by, C.L. Carter-