I have returned from spending a weekend in Tennessee with a bunch of truly amazing bloggers and great friends of bloggers. If solitude and silence is your thing, a blogmeet is not for you. Get a bunch of half-assed writers in one place and the alcohol-fueled bullshit never stops flying. In addition, if such events were ever filmed (perish the thought!), a laugh track would not be necessary, because someone always seems to be laughing at any given time.

In addition to shit shooting, there was pool shooting (John Cox, artist extraordinaire, and Ken, my bodyguard pretty much ruled the roost at the table), pistol shooting, rifle shooting and shotgun shooting. Oddy, Erica and Elisson (Erica and Elisson being firearms virgins) dazzled the crowd with some kickass shooting.

John Cox, with the help of Johnny O, made a great fire, which provided a primo place to shoot the breeze and check out the stars. The fire also served to keep Dax warm at night, Dax being the only outdoor sleeper among us.

Zonker, probably the best known former blogger ever, gifted Ken and me with some Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka. I had read about the stuff at Joan’s place [fixed the incorrect link] and immediately looked on the web to see if it was for sale in Jersey. No! By a strange coincidence, Usual Suspect and fellow vodka hunter, Captain Art, called me while Ken and I were driving to Tennessee to tell us about the outrageous vodka he discovered while golfing in Myrtle Beach. Yep, it was Firefly. I told him that we would not be able to buy it in Jersey, so imagine my delight when Zonker handed me the gifties. Quite a guy, Zonker (and we share a birthday, so if figures he would be a cool guy).

Speaking of gifties, Recondo 32 and his wife, The Amazing Georgia, both longtime friends of bloggers and lifetime friend of the Late, Great Rob Smith, presented Zonker, Denny and me (all birthday boys) with gifts that … well … hmmmmm … some of what happens at a blogmeet stays at a blogmeet. Thanks youse guys for the gift. It was quite an eye opener.

Of course, Denny (the younger half of the Elderly Brothers) and I did our thing (John Cox handled the percussion, while Dax played guitar in the background, providing some class to the act), and on the second night we cleared the room faster than a beer fart. I think my singing a Bobby Vinton song in Polish did it. It was either that or when I swung into an Ink Spots number Mayyyyyyyybeeeee, yoooo’llllll think of meeeeee”; I’m not sure. I guess we played before people were completely oiled.

Other great bloggers were in attendance:

Bou, was there with sister, Morrigan and Sissy (who hasn’t blogged in a while). They arrived like the Marine Corps on Friday and whipped up a gorilla stompin’ batch of Eye-talian food for Friday night (speaking of food, Oddy brought homemade pies to die for). Bou, who could pass for a twenty-something and who is deadly funny and scary smart, is always a treat to be with. Morrigan, who may be the most radiant pregnant person I have ever seen, is as funny as Bou, and together they are simply deadly (I love how the exchange *blinks* upon hearing some goofy shit). Sissy is more reserved, but is as about as nice as they come.

Redneck (they tell me his site has caught a virus, so no link) was on the case, decked out in his Ohio State regalia and keeping the night shift at the Budweiser Brewery working. On the way home from Tennessee, Ken and I stopped at a Fireworks Superstore to marvel at all the explosives for sale (they’re contraband in New Jersey, you see), and who the hell was in the store buying stuff to blow up, but Redneck! Great minds.

I was very happy to see Jerry, because it gave me a chance to model the wonderful farmer duds he gifted me with last year. Even with the overalls, the Farmer Boy shirt and Indy Tractor hat, I just don’t think I could “pass” at the local feed store. ”Yo, how youse guys doin’? Yo, whadooo I feed dose bigass things out there? All dey eat is friggin’ grass. Dat can’t be good.”

Big Stupid Tommy took some time off work to hang with us. He’s big, but his very short on stupid and long on deadpan wit. Very good peeps.

Elisson and SWMBO were there, and they always light the place up. I believe I could shoot the shit with Elisson, who can whip out some doggerel at the drop of a colander, and who seems to actually know a lot about everything, and I say that in a good way. Hell, he may even know more stuff than I do, which pisses me off. Elisson was in charge of the Sunday eggs, while SWMBO made a Kugel that was so good I believe that several people were considering conversion.

Teresa arrived with her traveling companion, the Wiseass Jooette. Never was there a more unlikely pair of traveling buddies. Teresa executes her traveling arrangements with the precision of a drill sergeant, while Erica is about as together as a soup sandwich when it comes to travelling and keeping all her shit in one sock.

Teresa: I don’t know what’s keeping her. I texted her 8 minutes and 47 seconds ago, and she said she would be here in five minutes!

It’s a thing of beauty, I tell ya.

One of the great treats of attending a blogmeet is meeting new peeps. This year, I got to meet Richmond, who drove in from Wisfarookin’consin. She had me in stitches out by the fire doing her Fargo-Sarah Palin accent shtick. I also learned something about her that truly amazed me. She said in the course of a conversation where it really fit – no really, “I can whistle really loud.” So, naturally, a couple of us by the fire said, “Well, let one rip. We wanna hear.”

With that, she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled so loud my ear drums rattled. Caused the dogs within a quarter-mile radius to start barking, it did. Amazing, that. She ought to enter a damned whistling contest. I look forward to seeing her again.

Eric’s pals from the area, Gary and his wife Connie stopped by. Gary, originally from New Jersey, now sounds more southern than Eric. Wassup wit dat? Speaking of accents, Gary’s wife Connie is from Switzerland, and she has spent years speaking English in the South. You wanna hear a great accent!

Finally, a word about Eric, our host, and Mrs. SWG, our hostess. It is impossible to imagine anyone being able to make a gang of reprobates feel completely at home for an entire weekend, but they pulled it off with grace. When Eric wasn’t giving tours showing all the neat stuff he has assembled (while sporting his new pith helmet, which led to lots of “pith” jokes – “Oooh I have to pith!” he was serving as the firearms/safety instructor. When he wasn’t doing that, he was grilling up ten pounds of his special country-cut, boneless pork REE-yubs covered with his signature sauce. I thank them both for a great weekend.

The worst thing about blogmeets is how much it sucks when they are over.

Note: If I have forgotten anyone, I shall blame it on the fatigue and the refreshments. Drop me a note and I will correct the omission.

Yes, Peeps. Tomorrow morning, Ken, my friend and bodyguard, and I will toss our stuff in the trunk of the Caddy and head south to spend a couple days with some excellent bloggers and a few non-bloggers, many of whom have become close, personal friends over the years. I plan on making some new friends as well.

I will happily leave my computer home. We’ll listen to sixties music on satellite radio throughout the entire trip, and there will be no news and no campaign craziness — just music and bullshitting about nothing special. Sweet.

Once we and the others arrive, the serious blabbing will begin and will continue non-stop, accompanied by lots of adult beverages and punctuated from time to time with a bit of guitar pickin’, as the younger other half of the Elderly Brothers will be on the case. I suspect that more than a few games of pool will be played (I owe the Wiseass Jooette a righteous Jersey ass-kicking), a rocket or two will be launched and, weather and time permitting, we may put a couple hundred rounds down range (at a time during the day before the serious drinking begins).

Again, weather permitting, many will finish off the evenings sitting around a fire, exchanging goofy stories and, of course, drinking adult beverages.

I need it, big time.

See you in a few days. Play nice.

This Daffy Duck blabbering, loathsome sack of shit has gone right to the top of my Shit List — today’s edition of the Shit List, anyway.

For a less rage-producing, but highly instructive and amusing lesson on wealth redistribution, check this out, via Doug Ross.

That is all. I’m too goddamned crabby to write much of anything.

It seems that Rachel Lucas has been mocked by someone named James Wolcott from Vanity Fair magazine (some serious lah-dee-dah, right there). In the course of trashing Ms. Lucas as some sort of lunatic right winger, he opined that Rachel’s readers (that would be you and me) are “mental midgets.”

Positively nothing makes my day more than being called a “mental midget” by some snotty liberal puke who “attended” Frostburg State College for two years. Two whole years, James?

I’ll let Rachel take it from there, as she sure didn’t need my help to properly respond to this gnat.

I keep hearing that, with the passage of all the years between the time he set off bombs in federal and state buildings and now, William Ayers, who is not sorry for what he did, has become “rehabilitated.” I assume that he didn’t go to sleep one night an unrepentant domestic terrorist and wake up the next morning “rehabilitated.” Rather, I assume that his “rehabilitation” was a gradual process.

Wait a minute.

So, that must mean that this year Osama bin Laden, also an unrepentant terrorist, is a little bit less of a terrorist than he was last year and that next year he will be even less of a terrorist than he is now, and that with each passing year he becomes less and less of a terrorist until one day he will become “rehabilitated” and ready to host a high tea somewhere in the Upper West Side of Manhattan .

Someone call O.J., the unrepentant murderer, and tell him the good news, which is that if he lives long enough he won’t be a murderer any more.

Who knew?

BULLSHIT!

I was at Eric’s place, and I enjoyed the video of the drunk, mumbling British guy. That reminded me of the great Al Kelly, the master of “doubletalk.” Al Kelly was a regular on the old Candid Camera show.

Check out this hilarious clip of Al Kelly posing as a judge in traffic court. Cracked me up, it did.

Unfortunately, Al Kelly passed away in 1966, because I would love to have seen him ask a question to the candidates in the Town Hall Presidential Debate. I suspect their answers wouldn’t have made any more sense than the question.

I’ve been thinking about tonight’s upcoming presidential debate media-driven theatrical event. I have been following the election closely since the damned primaries, and I have already decided how I’m going to vote. While tonight’s event may possibly be useful for those people who just now are beginning to pay attention to the election, nothing either candidate will say this evening will change my mind.

If you have been following this process all along and still claim to be undecided, I question your honesty, I question your intelligence, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the waiter taking your dinner order.

For my part, watching the debate can only serve to make me angry, and my anger cup runneth over at the moment. I, therefore, plan to take a pass.

That is all.

Dear Non-Taxpayers:

If you are among the approximately 40% of Americans who don’t pay federal income tax, perhaps you have heard that Barack Obama has promised a “tax cut” for 95% of all Americans. Perhaps you have also heard or read that the “tax cut” for you who pay no tax will in the form of a check mailed to you. The amount I have heard is $500.00.

He is going to tax businesses and “the rich” to pay for this.

The only thing you have to do is elect Barack Obama president, and the government will send you your $500.00 check after the election.

Sounds sweet, right? Free money, right?

Consider this:

YOU will end up paying the tax by having to spend more on the goods and services sold by those businesses when they raise their prices in order to cover their increased tax burden.

If your employer is one of those businesses, and competition is such that your employer cannot raise his prices for his goods or services, he may well have to lay you off in order to cover his increased tax burden.

Nothing is free.

Please think about that before you sell your vote for $500.00.

Very truly yours,
Jimbo

Let’s sort some stuff out here.

We’ll begin by saying that if you are a person who would not vote for Senator Obama simply because he is black, please move along. There’s nothing for you here. Similarly, if you are voting for Senator Obama simply because he black, you can move along as well. I want to speak to normal people.

If you oppose Barack Obama, because his philosophy is that the government should provide everything for everyone from cradle to grave, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

If you oppose Barack Obama because, given his past associations, you don’t want to turn the American arsenal over to a person who wouldn’t be able to get a security clearance that would allow him to mop the floors at CIA headquarters, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

If you oppose Barack Obama’s plan to rescue the American economy by increasing taxes on “Big Corporations” and increasing capital gains taxes, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

If you oppose Barack Obama, because his only real accomplishments are the ability to run an effective campaign and to read well from a teleprompter, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

If you oppose Barack Obama, because his income redistribution plan is something that would make Karl Marx proud, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

If you oppose Barack Obama, because his plans for Iraq would have resulted in the surrender by American forces, go right ahead. You are not a racist.

That is all.