Permit me a post that may be of interest to only a very few Peeps.

It’s official. Yesterday, my friend and bodyguard Ken and I beat our two Usual Suspect Rivals (Jeff – da Chef of da Future and Captain Arthur) at horseshoes, making us the Season Champions yet again. Try as they might, these two dewemplins have never been able to come out on top by the end of the season, which runs from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

This year, the season was marked many fewer matches than before, because da Chef of da Future had somehow injured his shoulder (or so he says). The season also ended a week early, as neither of the Losers will be around next week for yet another beating.

Predictably, they did their usual grousing, replete with claims, such as “Da practice throws shoulda counted!” No surprise there: Jeff had thrown a ringer for one of the two practice throws per player. Boo-hoo. Tooooo bad, sooooo sad.

I suppose they can take some solace in know that there’s always next year, but they’ve been saying that for years now. BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Afterwards, as the merciless gloating and grousing continued over post-game cocktails, including a few chocolate vodkas to cap off the night, (there were also pre-game and during-game cocktails), Ken said, “You ought to blog this.”

Before I could respond that I hadn’t planned on blogging it, because I didn’t think that anyone outside our immediate circle would be interested in reading it, the two Knuckleheads started right in, “Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll write comments about how fulla shit you are and how WE wuz robbed and WE really are the season champs … blah blah blah.”

I explained that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can disable comments.

“Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll comment in other places. We’ll leave comments all over da place telling the troot about youse fulla shit guys!”

What I didn’t tell Da Losers is that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can EDIT their fulla shit comments in such a way that might surprise them.

Consider yourselves warned, sissy boys.

So now it seems that my cyber-pal Hoosierboy has followed the lead of the Wiseass Jooette and is taking shots at the Garden State, including our beaches.

OK, let’s toowalk beaches.

Here is Brooklyn’s “Premier” Beach, Coney Island, in its heyday. Be watchful for floaters coming from Sheepshead Bay.

Here is a more recent photo of Brooklyn’s Pearl by the Sea.

So much for Brooklyn.

On to Indiana.

Welcome to Indiana.

Here’s what passes for a beach in Indiana.

Truthfully, the closest Indiana Peeps ever get to salt water is the Epsom variety in which they soak after spending a fun-filled day shoveling shit out of the barn.

In Jersey, we have something like 120 miles of beaches. Here is a sampling.

And, we don’t pump our own gas.

A bit shy of two weeks ago I posted a couple pictures of the Badass Unit that (it turns out) was the thing that lays asphalt on the street after it has undergone a pavement peeling.

The job was finished a few days later, and, during my regular walk, I took the above picture with Mr. Cell Phone Camera.

Ain’t it purty?

P.S. No, the street is not blue, although it looks that way on my screen.

P.P.S. Can you tell that I have absolutely nothing to actually write about that is even remotely worth reading?

I have a new gadget. I thought I’d share.

One of the side benefits that came along with getting my new computer (Mr. Raptor) and my newfound Geekage was that I could actually take my fancy-schmancy 80 Gig iPod out of the box (It was an October giftie) and begin the process of loading in a gazillion CDs (Mr. Steam-Driven Computer didn’t have the horsepower to do iPod).

Seeing as how I’m afraid to use Mr. iPod while walking in the morning (I have to be alert for the sounds of killer cars), I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. I figure that driving with the “ear buds” (God, I’m so farookin’ hip now) stuck in my ears might well turn the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car into a Killer Car, which would be a bad thing.

It occurred to me that it would be really neat to have one of those docking things, particularly one that I would be able to take outside on the deck. I could also use it in the rooms where the bigass stereo isn’t.

I decided on this unit. There were lots to choose from, but the thing that caught my eye about this one was that it was heavy (approximately 14 pounds). To me, after having spent decades lugging bigass sound system speakers around, I’ve come to learn that real speakers = heavy.

My review of the gadget is quite simple. I like it a lot. I am more than a bit of a pain in the ass when it comes to fidelity, and I know that this widget can never sound like a serious sound system, but given its size, weight, portability and ease of operation, this one is a winner. It has two controls on the box – a plus and a minus, which serve as the volume control. There is also a teensy weensy remote that allows you to fool with more of its functions.

In sum, if you want something that sounds good and is a piece of cake for a techno-doofus, I highly recommend it.

I had a couple things I wanted to write about, neither of which would have won a Pulitzer Prize, but they wouldn’t have stunk, at least I think so. But, the truth is that I have been stoically dealing with an invasion of super microbial invaders into my digestive tract. It is nowhere as nasty or as colorful as V-Man’s encounter with the same or similar organisms. Still, it has been annoying enough. I thought I would share:

Colon: Yo, Jimbo. This is your colon speaking. I think you should listen up.

Me: Colon? Jesus, I have a talking colon?

Colon: Yeah, Asshole. I don’t talk often, but when I do, you’ll damned well know it, and you damned well better pay attention.

Me: OK, I have noticed. Now you have my attention. What’s up?

Colon: Yo, remember the other night when I was doing the Pony in your gut (Boogedy, boogedy, boogedy shoop), which sent your sorry ass to bed at 8:30 at night? EIGHT GODDAMNED THIRTY!

Me: Oh, do I ever. I slept for 11 goddamned hours, except for the bathroom breaks. It was pretty awful, turning over and over trying to deal with your antics.

Colon: I’m glad you remember, because I think you’re being a little cocky right about now.

Me: Waddya mean? I’m feeling pretty good now. Almost feisty.

Colon: Don’t screw around with me. Remember those “twinges” I sent your way today?

Me: Yeah, I do, but I figured it was your way of saying good-bye.

Colon: Good-bye my ass. It was a reminder that I am still around and still capable of kicking ass and taking names.

Me: OK, so what’s the deal here?

Colon Just remember who is da boss around here, and maybe you should consider stepping away from the Gottdamned computer until I say it’s OK. Any questions?

Me: Is there anything I can do to convince you to give me a break? You need a will? An Advanced Health Directive? A contract? What?

Colon: Don’t give me any of that lawyer shit. Colons don’t need lawyers. Just do what I say.

Sorry, folks. Looks like I’ll be stepping away from the computer this evening.

Former mayor of Newark (The Sanctuary City), Sharpe James, spews his latest barrage of bullshit.

I have a couple thoughts on this:

1. Raymond Brown, a well known defense attorney, does not come cheap, but, to me, it is equally as likely that Mr. Brown is not having an easy time dealing with his arrogant and profoundly stupid client and, therefore, wants gracefully out; or

2. Not-So-Sharpe wants to keep the whereabouts of his mountains of unlawfully obtained cash secret, lest it be seized by the government.

I guess he figures either that he’ll beat the rap and still have lots of cash, or he’ll have some serious walkin’ around money when he’s released from Lewisburg when he’s in his nineties.

Just another political crud brought to you by New Jersey voters.

What’s not to like about this blog?

If I were this guy, the water would have been seriously brown.

Via Hot Air

On Friday, after having had a rough week, which included the discovery of Mr. Stump, I headed to the deck to have a couple drinks of this on the rocks (clear ice, of course) in order to unwind and to get my psychic shit together. The skies opened, but the canopy on the deck kept me dry until the storm got super nasty. I took advantage of the occasion to take an artsy (for me, anyway) cell phone picture of the storm from behind a festive wind chime.

Fortunately, as you can see, there are more than a few trees left in the neighborhood.

Speaking of trees, did ya hear that Brooklyn actually has trees! I hear there are at least a hundred of them!

No respect at all …………….

This, from the Wiseass Jooette who lives in the armpit of the Western World.