Early in the evening I couldn’t get to my site. I don’t know why. Sometimes goofy shit just happens. I went outside in the 94 degree temperature to do a little reading and to smoke a CAO Gold Robusto. The temperature dropped into the eighties. Like I said, sometimes goofy shit just happens. I put the cigar out and closed my eyes, and the next thing I knew it was dark and three hours later. The Booker’s Bourbon may have had something to do with it.

So, I came inside and fired up the net, and I was able to get to my site. Go figure.

Once there, I saw that V-Man is sporting a “Mr. Clean” tee shirt. Very cool, and it reminded me of a story that sounds like bullshit. I’m thinking I should tell it, knowing it to be true, but also knowing that it sounds like bullshit.

Anyway, here’s the story.

Back in the late fifties, I was a Boy Scout. In fact, I was a patrol leader. The troop met once per week in the basement of a local Presbyterian church. However, every other week, my patrol held a patrol meeting. Each meeting was held at the home of a different patrol member.

One week, the meeting was held at the home of Mike Morgan, a member of the patrol. (That is his real name. So, if there is a one a zillion chance that he will read this, he can confirm or deny this story.)

Anyway, Mike Morgan was damned near twice the size of the rest of us eleven and twelve year olds. We all wore the “stylish” shoes and clothes of the day, but Mike wore flannel shirts and work boots and looked seven or eight years older than the rest of us. He also seemed like a bit of a hick to me, but he was, nonetheless, a nice guy.

So, when I arrived at Mike’s house (actually it was an apartment over a store on the main street), I had expected to be greeted by a “mom,” which was what usually happened at patrol meetings. Instead, Mike himself came to the door and led me upstairs to the apartment, where several other patrol members had already arrived.

Before the meeting got underway, Mike explained that he lived in the apartment with his dad. I suppose he read the “mom-less” angst on everyone’s face. I remember secretly thinking that, being mom-less, might go a long way to explaining Mike’s general lack of “style” in shoes and clothing. I felt bad for having thought of him as a “hick”.

Then he dad walked into the room.

He was HUGE, and he had a completely bald head! (Only Yul Brynner had a completely bald head back then.) He was a lot bigger than Mike, and he wore the same kind of flannel shirt and work boots that Mike wore. He was a nice man, but I couldn’t help staring at this menacing looking giant.

Once his dad left the room, Mike explained that his dad was a professional wrestler, which I thought was pretty amazing. Then he said, “Do you know that stuff called ‘Mr. Clean?’ My dad was the model for ‘Mr. Clean.’” At the time, I had absolutely no doubt that Mike was telling the truth, and I believed that until this day.

So, when I came across V-Man’s post, I decided to tell my little “inside story.” However, for the hell of it, I Googled “Mr. Clean,” and I found THIS. WTF??? According to “Where Are They Now?” the original Mr. Clean was an enforcer for the mob, who was eventually plugged at the behest of Carlo Gambino, once he became too popular and began running his own scams.

Was Mike’s father the mob guy who would later wind up being shot in the head? Was he really a professional wrestler? Was he a guy who just happened to look like “Mr. Clean,” and maybe was a model for a then-current version of the label? Or, was the whole thing a Mike Morgan bullshit story?

Damned if I know.

And that’s the story.

PRS Operatives had listening devices placed in a Garden State Supermarket in connection with a classified mission. As sometimes happens, we were surprised by the following conversation that took place in the middle of the night when there are hardly any customers in the store:

Celery: Yo, what did you think about the Eliot Spitzer thing?

Mushroom Who’s Eliot Spitzer?

Celery: Jesus, you don’t know anything about the Eliot Spitzer and the prostitution ring mess?

Mushroom Nope. Don’t know anything about it.

Celery: Damn, you are really ignorant. Were you raised in a cave or some shit?

Mushroom What kind of racist remark is that?

Celery: It’s not a racist remark, asshole.

Mushroom Yes it is, punk-ass bitch.

Celery: No it’s not!

Mushroom Yes it is, and don’t give me any of that “It’s not easy being green” booshit either.

Celery: Speaking of shit, you were raised in it, Dickwad! Bwhahahahaha.

GARLIC: Yo, youse guys! SHUT THE F*CK UP! I’m tryin’ to sleep heah.

Celery: (whispering) Now there’s a real asshole.

Mushroom (whispering) Yeah, no shit.

Celery: (whispering) Probably mobbed up.

Mushroom (whispering) Word.

I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to the next Democrat Party debate. I figure here’s how it might shake out:

Wolf: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the 97th Democratic Party Primary Candidates’ Debates, hosted this evening by CNN. I’m Wolf Blitzer, and with us this evening are Senators Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama …

Edwards: Hey, Wolf! What about me?

Wolf: Oh, … right. Sorry. Former Senator John Edwards is also here. Let’s get right to it, shall we? Senator Obama, it has been observed that the fool who currently occupies the White House has damaged the image of the American Presidency, both at home and abroad. Do you feel that you are the best candidate to restore that tarnished image?

Obama: Well, I damned sure would do a better job at it than Fat Ass over there would.

Wolf: Senator Obama, ….. I don’t think ……

Hillary: Oh, you’re talking real tough tonight, asshole. Snort a couple extra lines before the debate, did you?

Wolf: Senators, please!

Obama: Lines? You wanna talk lines? How ‘bout that shit on yo’ face, bitch?

Edwards: Hey, I’m in this debate too.

Wolf: Senators! Maybe we should hear from John Edwards.

Obama: Nobody gives a shit what he has to say.

Hillary: Edwards? He can kiss my ass.

Obama: Nobody wanna kiss THAT ass. You and your punk-ass husband, common criminals, both of you. Your asses should be in stir. And you’re out there talking booshit about me? I oughta smack the shit outtta boaf o’ you!

Hillary: F****** N*****!

Obama: F****** C***!

The candidates had to be separated by Secret Service personnel. The debate was terminated when Mr. Blitzer fainted. Spokespersons for the candidates have refused comment on the likelihood of a 98th debate.

Yes, it’s true. I became one-year older today, and perhaps even a bit wiser largely as a result of having attended the non-stop partying symposia at this year’s drunken brawl that is the Jawja, Blown Eyed Blogmeet South Eastern Writers’ Conference. There is always much to learn at such a gathering of incurable blabbermouths who drink to gott-damned much highly talented and creative people.

Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I touched on eight states to cover the 800+ miles between our home base in the Garden State and Helen, Georgia. We drove through some truly beautiful country, we spent an evening in downtown Gaffney, South Carolina (Home of the Giant Killer Peach that ate Cleveland), we saw lots of hoofed animals eating grass and even caught more than a couple whiffs of the natural product of the biologically processed grass. OOOOOOH-fah!

When we arrived in Helen, we learned that the only peeps who had gotten there before us were Zonker (with whom I share a boitday), Sam and Barbie, who had moseyed over to the Troll (that is the name of the place – no booshit) to wash down a few, apparently to tune up for the rest of the day.

Having sat in the car for umpteen hours, we decided to take a pass on the Troll. Instead we popped open the trunk of the Cadoo exposing the beer and chocolate vodka – filled cooler and decided to serve as the greeting party. Within an hour or so, reprobates began pouring in from all over the place resulting in a full-fledged parking lot party that would rival most of the pre-game tailgating craziness that one would find at Giants Stadium (which happens to be in New Jersey, not New York).

Such marked the beginning of the adventure, which, over the next two days, would move from the parking lot, to the river bank, to one of the hotel rooms, back to the river bank, then to one of the cabins. Industrial-sized batches of Chatham Artillery Punch (a seriously dangerous concoction) were made and were available at the ever-changing venues. Other spirits and beer (lots of beer) were available at all times as well. We made sure that we continued our mission of educating the world about the wonders of Three Olives Chocolate Vodka, one Southeastern Writer at a time.

An amazing cast of characters showed up.

Sam showed up with Barbie, and they had begun the party on Thursday night! Sam is like the Eveready Bunny at these things. He goes non-stop, which this year included an early Saturday morning drive with Zonker back to Atlanta to pick up a rather special surprise guest. I “swear by the Maker” I don’t know how they managed to make that trip on Saturday morning, because I know they were still up and washing them down until 3:30 the night before. (Don’t ask me how I know this.) Barbie took a gazillion pictures with a veddy, veddy fancy camera, so I would advise everyone to be veddy veddy nice to Barbie.

Zonker sported a set of horns on his head (no shit — check it out!) and kept the Chatham Artillery Punch Bowl filled. I met Zonker three years ago in Helen, and I’ve seen him at damned near every blogmeet I’ve attended. He gets just a bit wackier each time. I’m afraid that this is what happens when a Jersey Guy abandons the Garden State.

Elisson, the Belidded One, and SWMBO arrived after having picked up The Wiseass Jooette and Leslie at the Atlanta Airport. I believe they were the ones responsible for actually providing a genuine punch bowl for the punch, which heretofore was served from a five-gallon plastic pail (I booshit you not). Elisson SWMBO always brings class to these get-togethers, and I’m quite certain she has never worn a colander.

Elisson delivered Leslie of Omnibus Fame and The Wiseass Jooette to Helen, having picked them up at the dreaded Atlanta Airport. Unlike most of the Blown-Eyes, Leslie is more of a listener than a blabbermouth. But, be not fooled, because talking with Leslie makes one feel as comfortable as lounging in a warm bath. By contrast, the Wiseass Jooette never missed a single opportunity to toss some of her unique Brooklyn Bullshit my way. But, that’s a Yankee thing, so I’m used to it. (Please remind her that Jackie Robinson was OUT when he stole home on Yogi in the ’55 Series, long before her sorry, built-too-low-to-the-ground ass was born.)

Denny, the other half of the Elderly Brothers, as usual, came with a big smile and guitar in hand. He bills himself as “Grouchy,” but he really isn’t. He even managed to crack us up when the peeps helping him down a set of stairs almost managed to break yet another chunk of his back. “Now, I feel realllllll confident about having you guys get me down the stairs!” They just don’t get any better’n Denny.

Catfish was there with his new “doo.” Damn, I think the guy is trying to play me with the hair thing. I could listen to Catfish talk all damned day long. The voice, the cadence, the inflections … It’s all beautiful music – even when he’s talking about “big, ol’ titties.” We spent some quality time reminiscing about Rob Smith, his friend of many years. He also insisted that I visit his place to behold the white alligator living in his pond. I’ll be doing that real soon, NOT.

Eric and the lovely Mrs. SWG popped in on Saturday, but they lost no time catching up with the lunacy. Eric did one of his trademark Robert Service recitations, which captivated the audience (See? We are a literary bunch). After that he was soliciting peeps (mostly women) to read Robert Service aloud. I guess that works better than “What’s your sign?” or “What’s your major?”

V-Man was there with Key. He stopped the show on Friday when he donned the dirndl gifted to him by Zonker and then dropped trou! Sam and Key have the pictures. Memo to Key Monroe: There is still time! Call your shrink!

Dax breezed in complete with leather lid and a Mexican serape, probably scaring some random children along the way. He looked like a Mexican Viking. He also brought his axe and put it to good use on Friday and Saturday.

GuyK and Sweetthing dropped by for an all-too-short visit. They tried to make it back on Saturday, but the traffic getting into Helen turned them around. They also introduced us to Sweetthing’s bro – a real nice guy.

Recondo 32 and Georgia were also there. Old friends of Rob’s, it wouldn’t be a proper blogmeet without them. Recondo 32 is about as soft-spoken as Gary Cooper (but way more funny), while Georgia is a verbal hurricane. I sat next to Georgia for dinner at an outside place on Saturday night, and she damned near blew out my right ear. At one point, cows were being walked down the main street in Helen as part of the Oktoberfest theme, and without any warning, she screamed, “MOOOOOOOO!” (with a Southern drawl), which was probably heard in Pittsburgh. I damned near shit, as did the people at the next ten or twelve tables away. Georgia is one of a kind.

RSM, recently having completed basic training, made two brief appearances looking for all the world like a kickass drill sergeant. I wish he would have hung out for a while longer.

I also got to meet some new peeps.

Shadowscope, also bedecked with a leather lid, was there with Holder, who amidst all the craziness, demonstrated a Mr. Wizard Science Experiment using a volatile gas. PFOOOOOOOF! It was really cool. Special props to them for permitting the herd to lay waste to their cabin on Saturday night. Shadowscope looked like a hurtin’ cowboy on Sunday morning. Nice peeps. Oh, and lest I forget, their friend Michelle was a genuine pisser. Quiet as a church mouse until the ethanol kicked in, then she morphed into a genuine party animal. She was one of “those people” who were up until the wee hours of the morning on Friday. Reprobates!

Kelly and the Senior Chief came in sorta late-ish on Saturday night, and I have rarely seen two people laugh as often and as heartily as those two. Definitely hope to see them again.

Special props to the Joanster of Primordial Slack and Jolly Roger. Joan is a Renaissance Woman – a painter, a sculptor, a wonderful writer, a story-teller, a singer and a guitar picker. What’s not to like? She also was responsible for the screeching monkeys that flew through the air as well as other blogmeet gifties, including genuine, ersatz Spanish doubloons, one of which now sits proudly on my bookshelf. Roger discovered how cool blogmeets can be when he found himself all jolly in a crowded guitar-playing filled room in a bed surrounded by women and one inflatable barnyard animal. He now knows that you can’t make this shit up.

Finally, a most special surprise was a visit by John Cox, the serious artist and the Cox half of Cox and Forkum. John was picked up on Saturday morning by Sam and Zonker, and when he arrived he didn’t know a soul. In less than ten minutes he knew everyone, and he fit right in. He came armed with a sketch pad and even caught a few of us off guard. He is an exceedingly friendly guy who sports a goatee that looks not unlike the nether regions (i.e the “Landing Strip”) on some of the unclad women who appear in many of the e-mails we all seem to receive from Catfish. Damn, if I could draw, I’d get even. Kidding aside, go to John’s site and check out, not only his huge body of Cox and Forkum work and other cartoons, but his fine art as well. It was kinda like meeting a rock star.

I still am exhausted, but I would happily do it all again tomorrow.

Elisson wrote a terrific post about made up languages, which as is often the case with Elisson’s stuff, is both informative and hilarious. Here is a snippet, which deals with a very specific made up language, namely Klingon (Whe knew?):

And, of course, there’s that perennial favorite of Trekkies: Klingon, created and designed by Mark Okrand, a linguist hired by Paramount Pictures. There have been books published in Klingon, including at least one Shakespeare play; furthermore, there are people who are able to carry on entire conversations in Klingon, generally in the context of trying to get laid at Star Trek conventions. A more futile quest is hard to imagine.

Read it all (but only after you’ve finished reading the rest of this most interesting post).

Elisson also noted that there are made up languages that are spoken by one person or only a few (even fewer than the number who speak Klingon, methinks), and such a languages is known as idioglossia.

The idioglossia stuff triggered a bunch of memories from my days as a yoot, when it was not uncommon to use made up words. Similarly, other words, while not made up by someone I actually knew, often would not have been understood beyond a couple dozen miles from where they were regularly spoken.

Here are s couple that I remember:

1. ”Dewemplin”. One of my favorites is the term “dewemplin,” as in “You’re a dewemplin!! (pronounced “doo-EMP-lin,” or sometimes con brio as “doo-EMMMMMM-plin”).

Defining the made up term “dewemplin” is particularly interesting, because it requires a two-cushion lexico-shot. You see, before you can define the term “dewemplin,” you first have to know what a blivit is. (Definitions within definitions – lawyers love that shit.)

A blivit is, “Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.” (I was surprised to see that the term has made it into the Urban Dictionary.

Sooooooo, the definition of a “dewemplin” is, “One who stuffs blivits,” or a “blivit stuffer.” At least that’s the technical definition of the made up word, although it came to be used to describe a feckless douchebag of a person.

2. Kerr. I think the same kid who made up the word “dewemplin” (Let’s call him Frank) also coined the term “kerr.” “Kerr,” was the made up term for “dog shit,” but wait, it gets better.

Frank and his buddies (all of whom were more than a bit twisted) took delight in flinging dog shit at people they thought warranted it Their criteria for who would get “splattayed” (“spla-TAYED” as they would say it) – are lost to history, but I am happy to say that I was never a splatayee.

What made it even more weird was that the shit flinging was very ritualistic, which brings me back to the word “kerr.”

When Frank and his buddies decided that someone was deserving of a “splattay,” they would use bits of paper to pick up the dog shit, and when they flung it they would all shout, “Kerrrrrrrrrrrrr forrrrrrrrrr yeeeeeeeeee!” (pronounced with rolling R’s).

I booshit you not.

Clearly, Frank and his minions were all dewemplins.

I think we are all very much aware by now of our pal Jimbo’s proclivity to nearly pop a ’roid (or get the—oy!—“hot squirts”) at the mere suggjoostion of “getting new shit,” and by that I, of course, mean procuring a brand new computer, to replace the “steam-driven” one he currently kvetches to no end about.

How many times have us SiteMeter Sherlocks seen in our referral logs, amidst everybody’s up-to-date Windows XP Operating Systems and Mozilla, Safari and Internet Explorer 7.0 web browsers, some poor nebech zhlub from New Jersey, ambling along to keep up with the rest of us, with his Internet Explorer 6.0 supported by a Windows 98 Operating System?

The running joke lately is ‘Honest Injun, I’m getting new shit’ after this, and after that, and when I get back from here, when I get back from there, when I get back from the Post, when I get back from the Thee-Ah-Tah, when I get back from bobbing in my Bodyguard, the Anal Cruise Director, Ken’s pool with the rest of the Usuals, when I get back from Texas, when I get back from Florida…Oy! It’s so silly already that one might almost expect to hear “I’ll get new shit…when I get back from playing footsies with Hillary in Nancy Pelosi’s hot tub in San Franfarookincisco!”

You may say to yourselves, though, “Yo, what’s it to ya?!” Well, lemme ask you this: Have you ever gone onto Parkway Rest Stop, tried to leave a witty comment, and it takes more than five minutes for the damn thing to digest? I’d fire off an email: “Yo, Jimbo…I been stuck on your blog for almost ten minutes!” to which he’d respond [paraphrasing], ‘Buying new stuff as soon as I get back from Florida. Honest.’ Maybe it’s related. Maybe not. Likely not.

The thing is, Jimbo claims he’s a technotard, and I used to call complete and utter booshit because the guy’s a frickin’ lawyer and so he’s gotta have some kind of a techno-cloo, especially if he’s got any comprehensive grasp of what judicial dissolution, dividend property or comparative negligence is. Nevertheless, we get this: “While some people change computers with the ease of changing socks, I am not one of those people. Still, it’s time.”

Anybody wanna take a guess when those words were written? Not last week, or last month, or even eight or nine, or ten months ago. Nah, not our Jimbo. A cursory search through the PRS archives yielded that that post was penned July 14, 2006. Yeah, it’s time. Ha. When alligators fly.

Remember this gem, post-Blogtoberfest, 2004: “…my finger found its way to the front of the farookin’ lens of the [shitty disposable] camera, leaving me with pictures of the center of Helen, Georgia along with my middle finger.” I remember. And so, when Hairboy, three years later, got himself another shitty disposable camera for the Blodger de Mayo in Kerrville, Texas a few weeks ago, I told him, out of the genuine goodness of my heart, “Yo, Jimbo…make sure your finger ain’t in front of the little glass lens thingy,” to which he snapped back, “Ay—don’t start with me!” Da noive-a dat guy.

Out of curiosity, when I asked him last week, “Yo, Jimbo…how’d your blogmeet pictures come out,” and he replied, “Shitty,” well…hell, Hairboy, don’t say I didn’t warn ya. But the funny thing is, in the same vein, he made sure to also mention [again, paraphrasing], ‘I’m definitely getting a digital camera…as soon as I get the new computer.’

[Yabu]
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
[/Yabu]

Boys and girls, I am not much of a betting woman, but I’d almost be willing to wager a paycheck that dodo birds will proliferate all over the State of New Jersey (a joke in there somewhere), and that California will, one day, become a Red State, when our lovable technodoofus finally does get himself this long-awaited computer and digital camera we’ve all been hearing so much about.

Ya know what, Jimbo…when you get your brand spanking new computer, which will surely put all of our computers to shame (“a big, badass, super-fast computer that will not become obsolete two minutes after I open the box”), why dontcha take a photo of it with your new digital camera, so we could all ogle it, drool, and bang our heads against the wall in Gott-damned farookin’ envy.

BEHOLD!

He wants to build a fifty foot robot in his likeness that would walk around the Las Vegas desert shooting laser beams.

I booshit you not.

You’ve Got Questions? I’ve got Answers.
Because I’m Very Smart, and You’re … Very Not.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I have lived in New York City all my life. I think you’re really swell and really smart. I plan on voting for you. My problem is that I have friends who also live in New York, and they support Rudy Giuliani. They always remind me of his handling of things during and after the incident on 9-11, and they call him “America’s Mayor”. They say terrible things about you, and they say I’m crazy for wanting you to be the president. Do you have any suggestions for responding to them?

Sincerely,

William J. Walters

Dear William,

Who are these bastard “friends” of yours anyway? Send me their names and addresses. I know people who might want to take them for a walk in the park, if you catch my drift.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I am a twenty-something progressive feminist, and I am planning to vote for you. Although I agree with you on virtually everything, the issue about which I am most passionate is protecting a woman’s right to choose. Therefore, I would appreciate it very, very much if you would confirm your views on abortion.
With warm regards,

Maryanne Hawkins

Dear Maryanne,

Abortion? I’m all for it. I married one, didn’t I? LOL!!!

Dear Senator Clinton:

I am a democrat, and I am dealing with a bit of a dilemma. You see, I am a twenty-eight year old black woman. As a black person, I always vote for black candidates, and as a woman, I always vote for women candidates. So, as a black person, I feel I can only vote for Barack Obama to make him the first black president, but as a woman, I feel that I can only vote for you to make you the first woman president. I’m really torn.

Very truly yours,

Linda Wilson

Yo Linda,

Peace, out.

Dear Senator Clinton:

I am a democrat, and I am dealing with a bit of a dilemma. You see, I am a twenty-eight year old white man. As a white person, I always vote for white candidates, and as a man, I always vote for male candidates. So, as a white person, I feel I can’t vote for Barack Obama to make him the first black president, but as a man, I feel that I can’t vote for you to make you the first woman president. I may have to vote for John Edwards or Senator Biden. I’m really torn.

Sincerely,

John Morrison

Dear Mr. Morrison:

You, sir, are a sexist and a bigot.

Previous Editions of “Ask Hillary”:

Vol. 1
Vol. 2
Vol. 3
Vol. 4
Vol. 5
Vol. 6
Comments (3)

When I went to Helen, Georgia in 2004, I bought a cheap, disposable camera. I’m pretty sure I dropped it more than a couple times, and I took most, if not all, of the pictures after having had a few refreshments. As a result of that (and my not being much of a photographer on the best of days), the pictures (prints) came out pretty crappy. I looked at them once, decided they were just about worthless, and stuffed them back in the drug store envelope, after which time they found their way to the bottom of a basket of things I don’t quite know what to do with. I suspect you may have such as basket at your place.

Now that Rob is gone, the “worthless” pictures are, to me, priceless. Here is the first of a few I’ll be posting over the next few days.

That is my friend and bodyguard Ken on the left. The guy in the center is, of course, Eric (The Ambassador of the Blogosphere), and Rob is on the right wearing shades. The name of the bar at which this picture was taken was The Troll. I booshit you not. That was the name.

I know that it may be difficult to believe that the following incident took place on the very day after I posted the blog about the curse of cell phones. But, I booshit you not. This happened to me this morning.

I was doing the morning walk and I was passing over the portion of sidewalk that crosses one of the entrance driveways into a convenience store parking lot. A large truck started to zoom directly into the convenience store driveway from the street and had to suddenly stop about two feet away from me in order to keep from sending me to the hereafter. I damned near shit myself. There were two women in the truck and one of them (the driver) was blabbing on a hand-held cell phone.

Here’s the best part.

It was one of the local ambulances!

The ambulance was obviously not “on call,” as its lights were not flashing and the siren was not blaring. Nope. I’m quite certain that they were making the morning coffee and bun run, as their headquarters is just down the street from the convenience store. The driver was probably taking last minute orders (three coffees, light, no sugar – that kind of thing).

Either that or the paramedics occasionally run down someone on purpose just to stay sharp. I suppose if I have to be hit by a truck, having the truck be an ambulance is probably a good thing.

Farookin’ cell phones. They just may be the death of me. Literally.