It seems that the upcoming Blogtoberfest has caught the attention of a genuine Bavarian blogger. He has posted twice about the Helen, Georgia Bash, here and here. It’s worked out well for him, as he reports that Dax Montana, Straight White Guy and Acidman have sent a shitload of traffic his way. For me (as a Blogtoberfest attendee), it has been fun, sort of, because Eric has me dusting off thirty year old German vocabulary to make a yeoman’s effort at translation.

In his most recent post, the Augsburg blogger wonders aloud whether he should begin posting in English. I can tell him that it would make my life a bit easier, and the other folks who will be attending the event in Helen might well get a kick out of what he has to say. I do not, however, think that anyone will be impressed with his sharona (don’t bother looking that one up, Augs), although tits, ass and red toenails are always a hit, particularly with one of our number – the red toenails, that is.

Yo, Augsburg dude, poste auf Englisch, bitte. Sicher wirst du ein shitload of traffic bekommen.

Life 101 today has prevented me from coming up with anything resembling original content. Therefore, I thought that you might like to kill a minute or two with these bears. You need only pass your cursor over them to the get the effect.

Speaking of bears, I think you might also get a kick out of this particularly cuddly bear, made in New Jersey. Be sure to turn up your sound, unless you are at work or around the kiddies. (I did say that is a Jersey Bear.)

Thanks to my friend Brian, the Air Force Vet.

Teresa: (Opens front door) “Who are you? I’ve seen you here several times before, and each time I instructed Pierre not to answer the door. I’ve had enough of this, and I demand to know who you are and what you want.”

Paperboy: “My name is Tommy, ma’am. I’m your paperboy.”

Teresa: “Paperboy? What is that?”

Paperboy: “I deliver your newspaper every day, ma’am.”

Teresa: “Oh, I see. What do you want?”

Paperboy: “Well ma’am, I deliver the newspaper every day here, even on weekends, and I stop by every other week to make my collections. I’ve been here at least four times, and no one has ever answered the door.”

Teresa: “I still don’t know what you want. Go away, and leave us alone.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I need to be paid for the papers I’ve delivered for the last eight weeks. You owe me thirteen dollars and fifty cents, and that includes today’s paper.”

Teresa: “Do you really expect me to actually give you thirteen dollars and fifty cents?”

Paperboy: “Well, yes ma’am, I do.”

Teresa: “I’ll bet you don’t speak French.”

Paperboy: “No, Ma’am, I don’t.

Teresa: “German?”

Paperboy: “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t.”

Teresa: “Italian?”

Paperboy: “No, ma’am. No Italian.”

Teresa: “I thought as much. I speak all those languages, you know. Do you know who I am?”

Paperboy: “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Teresa: “Well, then you know that I am a very important person, and you must be out of your mind, if you think I am actually going to hand you money. Have your Accounts Receivable Department send my Accounts Payable people an invoice, and don’t expect payment until sixty days after they receive the invoice.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I’m a paperboy. I don’t have an Accounts Receivable Department. I come by every other week to get paid. Everyone pays me that way.”

Teresa: “Listen, smartass, I’m not everyone. I am the next goddamned First Lady of the United States. And, if you plan on staying in business, you’ll just have to manage your cash flow better.”

Paperboy: “That’s the problem, ma’am. I have to pay for the newspapers I deliver to you, and if you don’t pay me, I am out that money, and I’m saving for a new bicycle so I can expand my route.”

Teresa: “I guess it sucks to be you, then, doesn’t it?”

Paperboy: “Please, ma’am. I really need to be paid.”

Teresa: “I told you. Send an invoice to my Accounts Payable Department, and they will pay you in sixty days.”

Paperboy: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but if you won’t pay me, I can’t deliver the paper here any more. I can’t afford to pay for your newspapers and not get my money.”

Teresa: “Are you telling the Future First Lady that YOU have decided on your own to stop delivering our paper?”

Paperboy: “Yes, Ma’am.

Teresa: “Try it, you little shit, and you’ll hear from my lawyers.” (SLAMS door)

John: “Who was that, Muffin?”

Teresa: “It was nobody.”

John: “Nobody? I heard you talking with somebody? Who was it?”

Teresa: “What the hell you think this is? ‘Ask Teresa Questions Day?’ It was just some street urchin.”

John: “Street urchin? Did you say street urchin?”

Teresa: “Yes, goddammit, I did, and I don’t want to hear any more from you. I bought you a new swiftboat model, didn’t I? Go to your room and put it together.

John:

Today I was honored to serve as the announcer for the Annual Truck Driving Competition held by the A. Duie Pyle Trucking Company at its New Jersey terminal. In prior years, I have served as a judge for this event, but this year when I was asked to be the announcer, I gladly accepted. I suppose it is the ham in me, born of so many years behind a microphone, while either piloting a set of drums or playing a guitar.

The event is one in which the company’s truck drivers (“professional class”) and other company employees who are not regular drivers, but who like to drive trucks (“amateur class”) have an opportunity to demonstrate their driving skills. It is not a wild, death-defying competition, bur rather it consists of a series of tasks that require driving precision and adherence to all the safety rules.

Indeed, an important part of the competition (specifically for the “professional class”) is the mandatory “pre-trip” inspection that each driver must conduct to demonstrate his ability to identify potential safety-related problems on one of the trucks.

Following the pre-trip inspection, the drivers take to the course where they are required, among other things, to drive through a set of narrow cones, to make precise turns with the front tire hitting a specific mark, to stop precisely at a certain point, and to back up to a loading dock as close as possible without hitting it. The drivers earn points for each task, but a violation of a safety rule (e.g. taking one hand off the wheel, or putting even an elbow out of the window) will mean zero points for that event.

There is a similar competition for forklift operators, in which they demonstrate their ability to safely move pallets and navigate within a confined area.

The winners in each class move on to a statewide competition, and if they’re successful there, they compete at the national level.

The company encourages all employees to attend the event and to bring families, which they do. There are special activities all day for the employees’ children. In addition, there is a wonderful array of good Jersey food, barbecued on site, souvenirs, and free pumpkins for the children to take home.

In the days when it is easy to be cynical about big business, this privately owned company has the right idea. I am told that the company pays its employees well, provides them with the best in equipment, and insists on safety at all times. Perhaps more importantly, the company’s attitude toward its employees fosters a sense of family, which is more than amply demonstrated by the enthusiastic support of the annual Truck Driving Competition by the employees who compete and those who come to be spectators and to enjoy the day.

What the Company gets in return are employees who obviously take pride in their work and who are proud of their considerable skills (I don’t think I could successfully drive my car through that course!). One does not need an advanced degree in economics to see the value in having skilled employees with a strong work ethic and pride in their performance.

I hope they invite me again next year.

Alas, we’re all getting older, even supermodels.

Here’s Cybill Shepherd then, and here is Cybill Shepherd now
now.

I have to say, my hair aged better. I think her current “doo” must have been inspired by this marginally famous woman
.

The “now” pic via Side Salad.

John: “May I have a moment, Muffin?”

Teresa: “Can’t you see that I’m watching television here? I bought you your own television, didn’t I? Go watch television in your room, and don’t bother me.”

John: “It’s just that the advance people have to know whether you will be coming with me to the South to campaign.”

Teresa: “The SOUTH? You mean that awful place where they eat those gricks, or grits – whatever – and other disgusting things? They’re not sexy. They’re not sassy. They don’t even speak French. They all have trucks and guns, but no teeth or shoes, and they marry their cousins. Is that the SOUTH you want me to campaign in? They can all shove it, and so can you. Now, scram.”

John: “I appreciate what you are saying, Muffin. Remember, I actually told you that I didn’t like the South before I told you I did like the South. But, our advisors say it will not look good if it appears that we have something against the South or southerners.”

Teresa: “Screw the advisors, and screw you. I’m not going!”

John: “Pretty please? There must be at least one place in the South you wouldn’t mind visiting. … Please?”

Teresa:

John: “It would mean a lot to me.”

Teresa: “Who gives a rat’s about you?”

John: “Sweetheart,…I……”

Teresa: “Quiet! I’m thinking. … You know? There actually is one place in the South I think I would like to visit.”

John: “Splendid, Muffin. Where would that be?”

Teresa: “Mayberry.”

John: “Mayberry??”

Teresa: “Absolutely. I would love to go to Mayberry. I know all about the place. I want you to have our advance people be sure to have that nice sheriff up on the stage with us. Oh, what is his name? Andy….Andy Taylor. That’s it. They should tell him to be sure to bring his little boy with him. Opie’s his name. What a cute kid. No thumb sucker, that one. They’re so cute together. How could I forget Andy’s Aunt Bee. I want her on the stage too.”

John: “Muffin….”

Teresa: “Dammit John, I’m making important plans here. Let’s see… Yes…. There’s Barney (that’s Andy’s deputy, you know).…I don’t think he should be on the stage. He’s a really nervous guy, and he does carry a bullet. I think the crowds might scare him..…”

John: “Muffin…..”

Teresa: “Make sure you tell them to keep that Otis fellow in his jail cell while we’re there. He’s a nice man, but he gets pretty drunk, and………..”

John: “MUFFIN!!”

Teresa: “Are you raising your voice with me, you turd? Have you lost your mind? Get moving on this with the advance people before I change my mind.”

John: “There’s a little problem, Muffin.”

Teresa: “Problem? I don’t do ‘problem.’ If there’s some kind of problem, straighten out with the staff.”

John: “Muffin, the problem is that there is no such place as Mayberry.”

Teresa:

John: “It’s a fictional town, and Andy Taylor, Opie and the rest of the people you mentioned are not real people. They’re actors in a television show that was popular in the sixties. You’ve probably seen them on Nickelodeon. The show has been in re-runs for years.”

Teresa:

John: “I’m sorry, Muffin.”

Teresa: “You miserable shitbag. If you EVER breathe a word of this conversation to ANYONE, I swear I’ll tell Matt Drudge about the helmet and flak jacket game you like to play in the bedroom.”

John:

Is this the face of one of those blow-up dolls, or what?

Via The Country Store

Teresa: “What IS that you are putting our plates, Pierre?”

Pierre: “Those are grits, madam.”

Teresa: “Gricks?”

Pierre: “No, madam; grits.”

Teresa: “Grits? I never heard of them. What are they? Are they French? Anyway, they look awful.”

Pierre: “Grits are a corn-based food substance that is eaten by many commoners in the South. I prepared them without sugar, the way the commoners prefer them.”

John:

Teresa: “If this is food that is eaten by southern commoners, why the hell are you serving it to us?”

John:

Pierre: “Master John asked that I prepare them in advance of your campaign activities in the South, Madam.”

Teresa: “Is that true, MASTER John?”

John: “Yes it is, Muffin. We will be swinging through the southern states in a week or so, and I know that we will be asked to eat grits, so I thought we had better acquaint ourselves with them.”

Teresa: “Oh, is that what you thought? Well, think again, Shit-for-Brains. I have no intention of eating this common slop. Pierre! Pour this shit into the garbage and bring us eggs benedict.”

Pierre: “Of course, madam.”

John: “I’m not hungry now.”

Teresa: “Is this a bit of attitude I’m seeing here? Is Johnny gonna pout because I wouldn’t sign on to eating gricks, or grits, or whatever that swill is called?”

John:

Teresa: “Don’t even think about pulling that whiney bullshit with me, mister. You’ll eat your goddamned eggs benedict, or you’ll be on the floor, wearing a dog collar and eating Kibbles ‘n Bits.”

John:

Teresa: “Goddammit, John! You knew I was sleeping, and you have the nerve to come into my bedroom, turn the light on and stand there wearing nothing but an Army helmet, a flak jacket and combat boots! What the hell is wrong with you?”

John: “Please, Muffin?”

Teresa: “’Please’ my ass. I’m tired, and my face hurts like a bitch from my injections today. Leave me alone.”

John: “But Muffin, it’s my very favorite game.”

Teresa: “I told you before that I am tired of being the ‘young beautiful Vietnamese peasant girl you rescue from the marauding Americans who are burning my village and trying to rape me and then cut off my ears’.”

John:

Teresa: “Now get lost.”

John: “Well then, how about a new game? We can pretend that the bed is my swiftboat and that you’re the young beautiful Vietnamese peasant who falls out of the boat and I come back and drag you from the water into the boat while everyone shoots at us and stuff.”

Teresa: “Asshole, how many times to I have to tell you to leave me alone. Now, go back to your room, put on your Doctor Denton’s, and go to bed.”

John:

When you’re standing around outside for 7 or so hours at a street festival with friends, with no place to sit, and when you have an unlimited supply of draft beer, and you have no place to set your beer down, you drink a helluva lot of beer.