Underwear Model

Pappy got a new job. Yep, the ragin' bohemian is changing employers. On his blog, he says that he can't tell everyone what his new job is because it "isn't blog material", but I feel like everyone should know, so fuck him. Although he was a little vague when we last talked, I've narrowed down his new career to the following three possibilities:

1. Underwear model for Victoria Secret's "Furry and Feeling Foxy" Expectant Mothers Collection.

2. HBIC (head bohemian in charge) Operations for Teen-Aid Abstinence Program (http://www.teen-aid.org/). Clearly, their most qualified candidate ever.

3. Full time position as resident hippy-kicker at the local PETA office. (It's an unpaid position, but the job satisfaction would be very high.)

If you have other ideas, go ahead and post them in the comments to this entry. Maybe between all of us we can figure out just what the fuck that guy does for a living.

Drunken Idiots

It is 3:20 PM and I am officially over my hangover.

I figured it would be a good idea to meet the wife and her co-workers out at the bar last night. They had their holiday party (On January fucking 26!) and drank free booze for like 5 hours, and then decided to head to another place, so I met them after they moved.

REMINDER: Anytime you leave to go to the bar at 10:30 at night, the next morning is going to suck.

I have to be honest, financial analysts are a lot more fun to party with than attorneys. Then again, colored rocks would be more fun to party with than attorneys.

ouch

Have tried to start working out a little again.

Have discovered after two days that I am weak, slightly soft and have no endurance to speak of.

Have decided to stop working out.

I Love K-State

Today, President Bush delivered the 142nd Landon Lecture at Kansas State University. Fantastic.




































From what I understand, there were a couple of hippies protesting, but they stopped when they realized that nobody on the entire campus was listening to them. Things must have gone pretty good, because Bush reportedly stopped by Last Chance for a Big Beer and a spirited rendition of Wabash Cannonball before getting back on AirForce One.


I made that last part up.

Yep.

This pretty much sums up my feelings on Brokeback Mountain.

I Miss Chris LeDoux

These have been the most unproductive 3 days of work in my life. I have accomplished exactly jack shit. Mostly because I am becoming a super great procrastinator, but also because there is nothing that absolutely, positively has to be done immediately. So screw it.

Also, I am no longer watching any news on TV or reading any print newspapers. Those fucking asshats no longer even pretend to be balanced or to report the facts, and it is driving me crazy. You can barely tell the difference between the Chicago nightly news and the Daily Show. All of my news now comes through interpretive dance performed by my helper monkey.

Oh, and just so you know, I am no longer screening my calls, because that was making me feel guilty. Now, I just turn the phone and blackberry off.

Time to get out of town. I need a beach chair, a cooler of beer and a big fucking fishing pole.

Coffee

Mmmmmm . . . caffeine. I'm seriously considering just plugging into an I.V. and piping this wonderful stuff directly into the old bloodstream.

Yeah. It's Friday the 13th.

I hate rain. On the way to work, my stupid umbrella (one of the really cheap ones that you know is never going to work, but you carry anyway) turned inside out because the wind in this fucking city is insane. Of course, to fix the problem, I smashed it against the ground.

Fuck.

It isn't like it was pouring out, but just raining hard enough that (1) you couldn't just say it was "sprinkling" out and (2) you would want a fucking umbrella.

I HATE getting rained on. Sugar fucking melts, ok? So in the last two blocks that I walked in the rain, I managed to take that crappy little piece of shit and break it into lots of little pieces.

Shit Shit Shit.

The Compound -- Girls and Shit

Several people have pointed out that as architect/sunglasses-wearing guy/CEO of the Compound, I failed to provide for anything that would make women actually want to be a part of it. Um. . . that must have been an oversight or something.

First, even as currently envisioned, there would not be a total absence of the fairer sex in the compound. There are plenty of chicks that dig hunting and fishing and farming and stuff. All you have to do is watch the Gretchen Wilson "Redneck Woman" video to know that (she is so smoking hot). Sure, they are the type of women who always bum your last dip, but you are living in a fucking compound. Not like there wouldn't be strippers.

Second, even GW had Catherine, Big Jake had Martha, and Sean Thornton had Mary Kate Dannaher, so there must be some good middle ground. I like Pothead's idea about some sort of time limit. Not sure 8 hours is the right number, but not a bad starting point. Also, for some reason, girls seem to like that little sheep rancher Snot, so we would probably solve a lot of problems by appointing him as H-SICK -- "Head Snot In Charge of Kittens". Girls like kittens and they like Snot, so that should take care of it. Of course, Snot would still have to serve in his capacities as Hostage Delegate, Keeper of the Velcro, Weed Man (not that kind of weed Pothead) and Token Tall Skinny Guy.

See, everything is taken care of.

The Compound -- Hierarchy of Shit

Compounds need rules. And a clear hierarchy.

How Shit Works:

First 5 Years: You work the Wall. That's fucking it. Since it is a wood wall, there is lots of shit that is going to need to be replaced. By the time you get to the end of the Wall, it will be time to start over.

Years 6-10: You can run the cabless tractors, but only to rake hay and move bales. And you don't get a radio or a seat. Sometimes, you might still have to work the Wall. Any work you do with the cattle is from the ground, you don't get anywhere near the chute, and you definitely have to run the fucking gate when we separate cows and calves.

Years 11-15: Still running only the cabless tractors, but now have a radio (am only) and seat, and you can now also feed cattle. No more working the Wall, and you get to work cattle from a 4-wheeler. Also, you can pull the horse trailer and get to help grease and maintain the cab tractors. No access at all to the combines. You can look at the grain trucks.

Years 16-20: Now you can run the cab tractors, but only plowing terraces and chiseling. If we get busy, you might get to disk, but only over plowed ground that was worked too wet so there are big slap your momma sized slabs you have to drive over. You also get to tell the people working the Wall what to do, which is a pretty big deal, and you can help work cattle from horseback and at the chute. You get to drive the grain trucks to and from the field, but not into town, and you get to fuel and grease the combines.

Years 21-25: You run the combines, and do the disking and some field cultivating. You can watch the drilling and planting, but are not allowed to actually touch the drill or the planter. You drive the grain truck to the elevator, and are allowed minor gawking privileges regarding the hot scale girl. You supervise working the cattle and take them to the sale barn. You can sit on the steps of the house.

Years 26+: Full access to all farm equipment and cattle operation. You have first choice at all field cultivating, and do all of the drilling and planting. After watching it for 5 years, you are really fucking good. Full control, subject only to demi-god's veto, over all people with fewer years in the compound. Also, full gawking privileges regarding the aforementioned hot scale girl. Occasionally, you may be invited to dinner in the house, but you will have to bring all of the beer for the week.

The Compound -- General Shit

Talked to the Hobbit a couple of nights ago.

We are establishing a compound. It was going to be a commune, but only little hippies live in communes, and crazy heavily armed might-be-the-next-coming-of-John-Wayne people and all their followers live in compounds. Clearly, a compound. We get to rule like demi-gods over everything. I think I'll let my hair get real long and wear aviator sunglasses all the time. And camo shorts. All we are going to do is farm, ranch, fish and hunt. And drink.

There will be lots of people who want to live in the compound, so sorting them out may be a bitch, but we'll deal with that later. One definite qualification to get your ass through the gate is that all you must drive a flatbed truck no newer than 1995. Any computer shit must be replaced with actual metal parts.

Some general thoughts about the compound (I could take the time to organize these, but I'm lazy and would rather get the ideas down here and clarify/organize later):

The Wall: Around the entire compound is a wall. Not some pussy wall made out of fucking chain link or split rails or something. A real fucking, "keep the indians out" wall made of big damn logs sharpenend on the ends. The Wall would be like 7 or 8 miles long, because the compound sits on at least 700 acres.

House: The house will be like the one in McClintock. Weathervane and all. If you haven't seen McClintock, stop reading now, go watch the movie, and come back. Everything will make more sense. Very few people get to live in the house. The list starts with the group who lived at 1000K, although I'm still up in the air about HD since he only lived in the screened-in porch.

Shed: The rest of the people live in the shed. The shed is a big fucking Morton building. Half of it has concrete, and the other half is dirt. Living area is on the concrete side (separated from the dirt side by a big fucking blue tarp. The shed walls for the living area have that spray insulation shit on it. You have to be fucking tough to live in the shed, but that is part of the deal. Also, no furniture in the shed except bunks and footlockers. And gun racks.

Just a Reminder

France sucks.

Stupid cheese eating surrender monkeys.

Pothead

Pothead, the furry little Hobbit, turned 27 on January 5th. Since I always think that his birthday is on the 7th, and don't remember until the 6th (today) that I'm wrong, I've decided to back date this blog entry so that it comes up as the 5th. If you don't like it, take it up with H.D. I'm sure he'll be happy to shoot you.

In honor of the Furry One's birth, here is my Top 10 List of reasons Pothead deserves to live 365 more days.

10. Recently bought a big fucking Dodge. To part him from it would be cruel.

9. Science has not yet solved the mystery of his devil-brows. Seriously, only the spawn of satan would have eyebrows that sort of cowlick straight up in the middle.

8. Without him, the rest of us are just "Kill It, Clean It, Eat It and Bitch About It". Leaving out "Cook It" means there is going to be a lot of raw stuff on the plate. [Note: Buy more lemonpepper]

7. John Wayne afficionado.

6. Still not sure who is going to get the mini if he kicks the bucket. This should be straightened out as soon as possible. It's just good estate planning.

5. Has a good dog, Jasper. And a good wife.

4. We still have that outstanding bet as to whether Pothead will get skinny when Big Jake is born.

3. He is the first line of defense against liberal-ality on the East coast. It's a big job, but that is why God invented guns.

2. Sometimes, only a good dose of his randomness will get you through the day.

1. Without Pothead, there are fewer reasons to see Pothead's sister.

So, tonight when you are out at the bar, or driving down the gravel road spotlighting furry fuzzy things, or drinking alone pondering whether the chicks at AA put out, lift a few extra glasses for the Hobbit's birthday -- a damn good friend, a half-way decent shot, deadly with a salt shaker when he's been drinking whiskey, and an all around good Republican. May he have many more.

Monkey Shakespeare

Ok, so it has been a week or so since I posted anything. Work was nuts, then there were the holidays and stuff, and posting just sort of fell off the radar.

However, my helper monkey has graciously agreed to act out my Christmas and New Years holidays for you. Since I can't load video, I'll just describe it to you.

ACT I: Christmas

Scene 1: Helper monkey is bouncing off of walls, running circles on the floor, and pretending to be going through a metal detector (Flew home on Friday the 23rd). Helper monkey stops, flips off metal detector guy and then jumps up and down pretending he is an airplane. Runs into more walls (not entirely accurate, given the fact that my plane didn't crash, but what do you expect from a monkey?).

Scene 2: Helper monkey running around slapping his ass like he is on a horse and makes a lariat out of paper clips. Ropes Vern the Fern, nearly dies as Vern the Fern lists to the right before returning to precious balance. I think he is trying to show that I got a new pair of boots on Christmas Eve from the wife (carmel colored ostrich skin. fucking great). Not sure what he is doing now, but he continues to slap his ass.

Scene 3: Helper monkey rams his head into the wall repeatedly (Christmas Mass).

Scene 4: Now, he's walking around like a zombie, and throwing paper in the air (Got up early, went to Dad's, opened presents).

Scene 5: Helper monkey again rams his head into the wall, then takes a blue marker and stabs himself in the eye (the glass one he lost in the bottle rocket incident). This is the part where I got up at 2 AM on the 26th and flew my ass all the fucking way back to Chicago to work on getting a deal closed. I was very much tired and cranky.


ACT II: New Year's Eve (Eve)

Scene 1: Helper monkey is eating cotton balls, paper clips, that wierd ball of dust from behind my computer cords and my blackberry cord. Now he's licking the floor. (Wife and I went to Charlie Trotter's for dinner on the 29th. Best restaurant in Chicago.) Now, helper money is shaking his head and crying. (It was fucking expensive).

ACT III: New Year's Eve

Scene 1: Helper monkey shaking hands with imaginary guests (Pappy and friend came to visit for the weekend). Now, pushing them off imaginary balcony. That didn't happen, but you know how my helper monkey feels about Nebraskans, and bohemians in general--I caught him pissing in Pappy's coffee on Sunday morning, but since I was a little hung over, I didn't say anything.

Scene 2:

[For this scene, in the interest of artistic variety, my helper monkey will be portraying the exact opposite of Pappy's New Year's Eve experience at a Chicago bar.]

Helper monkey doesn't drink anything at all, gets laid and then doesn't throw up.

Thank you for coming to the show.