From the toilet in the

>From the toilet in the majestic Settle Inn, Your Packing SUCKS!!

From smack dab in the

>From smack dab in the middle of a Toby Tours tour bus, having just viewed a Mel Tillis DVD, Your Packaging Sucks!

UPDATED: A "Private" Conversation Produces These Questions

"Why if it weren't for "Hee Haw" and "Andy Griffith", where would "Larry The Cable Guy" be? Working for Adelphia and watching Mayberry RFD reruns?"


A second "private" conversation produces: "Did you sit at the Kid Table at Christmas? Or did you go the all-Metamucil-and-no-fruit-roll-up route?"

For our Canadian friends and boxing fans.

Recycled sentiments, because I couldn't possibly top the majestic beauty of it all.

James Brown (1933-2006)

Many a happy moment has been had while the YPS!! staff cruises around listening to the music of Mr. James Brown. While his passing is indeed a sad thing, the music and the happy moments will live on.

Camel Dreams on the Beach - Bloggy's Christmas Post

Merry Christmas you guys!! -Bloggy

Camel Dreams on the Beach

In my mind
I’m spending time
with you
my friends

We’ve got socks on the outside of our boots
And the Cheetos
they fly
with each gust of wind

Everyday
Is a bouncing balliday
That we employ
To amplify
and to justify
Our times we enjoy

We giggle about on the streets while we’re out
To our heated past we give a shout
We can’t decide if it’s too warm
to have our jackets on
But we know that denim
is where coolness is born


I could read a book
from the radiant glow
of our still-fourteen sheen
We pal around
in soft pastels
and rock n roll tees
(And our dimples still show)


Everything is funny
as we point and laugh
Imagine how that dead fish
ended up in the bird bath
As the evening sky lowers
like a pink-tinted casserole lid
we poke fun and we kid

We’re always quite merciless
We trip and stumble our
movement quite jerkiless


I saw this picture and I thought of you
all the silly things we do
But in my mind
is more than valentines
It’s the glue of friends
The brand that’s pliable not buyable
Sticks with you ‘til the end


We share the same mental landmarks
that pushed aside all the grit and the grime
We’ve left no room for the drab
and none for the non-divine

Never falling or scraping
just bumping into
Catching each other
as we’re longing to do

I reach in my pocket
as I’ve done before
I produce a book of matches
and shoot them to the stars
and to shore
The light they produce
reveals the concrete

Only in our minds is it sand
beneath our feet


This is the corner where a stop sign became yours
Over there is where the street sign once stood
that now lies on my floor


Our candid craftiness doesn’t seam to fade
in the nebulous state
As I somehow take note
before starting to wake

But know this
it won’t be long until I’ll be having camel dreams on the beach my friend
Times like these
and hopes like those
tie us and bind us with unraveled ends



-Mr. Bloggerific Himself 11262006

We've Been Converted!!

Bone has a new audio post over in the Gcast player AND we have new packaging!!

Hello? Anyone?


(and don't worry, I'll be getting rid of that damn annoying profile shot on the side there as soon as I can figure out how/where to do it...or at least force Bone to the front page too)

Another Day, Another Christmas Party

So, put on your best smile, Bloggy. :)


NO!! Not THAT one, jackass!!

Start Today!!

A YPS!!mas Carol.

It was the best of times. It was the not-so-best of times.

Ebeneezer Screwed greeted the morning with his usual level of piss and venom. It was cold and getting colder since the Russian mail order bride that he won on eBay was held up in customs. He figured since he was the high bidder on the old girl that the whole thing had to be on the level and legit. It was unfortunate that he thought that he could fly below the legal radar by having her smuggle in an endless supply of vodka and those fucked up hats that only Russians seem to wear. He got greedy and he knew it, so it was no big surprise when the shit hit the fan and it all caught up with him.

Screwed's semi-faithful employee, Bob Scratchit, awakened with the same level of morning dread at his flophouse bachelor pad. His wife left him for a packaging entrepreneur after he came home from a Shriner's convention with a raging case of crabs. Although he claimed to have gotten them from the bucket seats in one of the mini Shriner cars, the true story is that he took on the affliction from having a lengthy affair with a German Shepherd. He knew the true story would not go over well in the Scratchit household, but the bitch bailed before he had a chance to explain.

The Scratchit union truly went to hell when their golden child, Tiny Tim, ran off to be a cabaret singer on the county fair circuit. His career was in a shambles and he wasn't long for this Earth. It was Tim who had the initial idea of performing heavy metal on a ukelele with falsetto vocals. Deep down, everyone knew that it had bad news written all over it, but Tim was a dreamer. The dream bit him hard like a rusty bear trap clamped down on a drunken hunter's leg. Although he blazed a trail for falsetto wailing within the context of a rock band, the ukelele was a bit much for the hipper-than-thou rock crowd. As much as he tried to stifle the bitterness when bands like The Darkness took his schtick for a 7 minute bucking bronco ride of fame, it pushed his very existence onto the thin ice of life.

Truth be known, Scratchit didn't really miss his estranged wife or dream-seeking son. He'd accepted both of those situations and had moved on. His sole wish was that his crotch would stop itching. He generally made it through the work day in Screwed's Packaging Palace & Smut Emporium by scratching himself diligently as well as drinking lots of domestic beer.

Everyone has their vices and Ebeneezer Screwed was certainly no different. Even though he lived a charmed life, he still felt the need to smoke large amounts of weed. He found that it helped stifle the urge to choke the shit out of his lazy ass employees, because even the proprietor of the Smut Emporium has troubles. While the weed certainly didn't eliminate all of his problems, it did allow him to cope and maintain. It also tended to give him the giggles not to mention late-night indulgences on pork rinds, Funyuns, and beef jerky-esque products likely containing mechanically-separated chicken and beef lips.

It was during one of his evening smoke-outs that he heard a commotion down the hall. He wondered aloud "What in the hell can it possibly be at this hour?" Fearing that it was angry townspeople protesting his peddling of filth yet again, he pulled the covers over his head and silently quaked in fear. Perhaps it was just a common street thug trying to break into his home to steal his extensive collection of historical snack cakes and bondage gear.

Even under his winter blanket refuge, Screwed began to decipher the sounds of a plinka-plinka reggae guitar. The sound grew louder and smoke began to creep beneath his door as the subtle smell of ganja filled the room. As the music reached intense volumes, Screwed peeked out from beneath the covers to see the ghost of Bob Marley stepping through the cloud of smoke.

Marley's ghost had a glazed expression. Maybe it was the weed or maybe it was the fact that Bob Marley had been long dead and didn't get out much these days. It was hard to tell from the Rasta speak. Screwed waited in vain to understand the words, but it was next to impossible to get a vocal level when you're a dead reggae legend.

Since he was no doubt suffering from severe munchies himself, Marley suggested that they make a trip to the 7-11 for snacks and carbonated beverages. Maybe some rolling papers, too. Had he been visible to the rest of the world, Marley's ghost would have been a welcome sight to the guy with the white-boy dreadlocks working the counter. The white Rasta looked at the items that Screwed put on the counter and he knew the score, because he'd been there many times himself. Being helpful, the employee suggested a Sassy Pickle to go with the post-weed feed and he was right, because a sassy pickle is damn tasty.

As Screwed and the ghost of Marley wandered the streets, Screwed asked "Aren't we supposed to visit some places like in that Christmas Carol thing?" Marley laughed and said "I'm only here for the rolling papers and scoping out the chicks, but we can swing by Fezziwig's shop with the patented combination hat-hairpieces if you want." Since he was already tripping hard on the turn of events, Screwed declined and they walked on. Screwed wondered why a ghost would need rolling papers and how reliable the weed connection is in the after-life. He wondered a lot of things as they made their way through the empty streets.

The pair eventually made it back to Screwed's home after getting lost no less than eight times in their THC-induced stupor. As he unlocked the door and prepared to invite Marley in to check out his prized Peruvian bong purchased from a head shop in Alabama back in the late 70's, Screwed realized that the ghost had vanished.

He carried his sack of convenience store cuisine to the elaborately-furnished den and smoke room to settle down and reflect on the evening. He knew that he'd seen some seriously fucked up shit and definitely needed time to digest it all. He figured that it was all some kind of pipe dream encrusted with bong resin that would all disappear as soon as he allowed his mind to say "Fuck it."

The almost pleasant mood in his dimly-lit room was wrecked as he struggled diligently with the pseudo beef jerky's package. His eyes glazed over in a fit of rage as he yelled "YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!" to the vacuum-packed heavens above.

Nummy Images

OK, time to brag about some goodies!! I haven't taken photos of all my berfday goodies (partly because I have a gift card I have yet to spend and therefore don't have all my berfday goodies yet) BUT...of all the kickin' goodies..including 3 lovely meals from family, Bone Machine and work...multiple cards and email wishes...some wunnerful peanut butter cookies and a violent ass video game (no hints where those came from)...but today I got a well packaged box o' goodies. As you can see in the photos (with the kick ass black leather background) Miss Lushy was kind and generous and sent along some brownies (holy shit!), some Pocky straight from Japan (at least the packaging claims such) and...some fornicating monkeys.

I'm sure I left something out, and my apologies to those in need.

Remember: NOTHING says happy berfday like fornicating monkeys!!

One step forwarded, two evolutionary steps back.

This one has been a long time building and it's likely to contain some shits, fucks, damns, hells, and the occasional sonofabitch. Why I am now concerned with warnings and such? It's a pathetic stab at humor.

Perhaps this is just one of my personal annoyances in life, so this may simply confuse some folks in the audience and if they don't already think that I am a cold-hearted piece of shit, then they likely will before all is said, done, and typed.

Forwarded e-mail.

What is it about this shit that people find so damn entertaining that they feel forced to send it to people that they regard as friends? All I can figure is that my DNA code is lacking the strand that makes me go "Awwwwww, that's a fuckin' shame..." when some forwarded message arrives that discusses someone's grandma that fell off the back of a Harley en route to a Steppenwolf concert at Sunny Acres Retirement Home and desperately needs my personal prayer to speed her recovery. Nor do I laugh when I get the message that is supposed to make me laugh and since it's not likely to achieve that goal, the author feels it necessary to put either the word "Funny" or "Humor" in the subject. Otherwise, a person would read it and think "What the fuck was the point of that shit?" But given a choice, I think my personal favorite may be the forwarded offers that if you send it to ten of your friends, you will get a surprise. That surprise is that you've just pissed off ten of your friends who will likely retaliate by filling your inbox with this bullshit when the next wave of crap mail begins to make the rounds.

The beautiful thing about the Internet, e-mail, instant messengers and all of the technological bullshit is that it opened up lines for the exchange of information, communication, and of course my personal favorite, pornography. While it was certainly cool at first, the communication part has slowly ground to a halt and rather than typing actual messages from the mind and/or heart of the sender, now it's some lame ass message with an inspirational message that I don't find inspiring, a message with humor that fails to make me even crack the beginnings of a half-assed, forced smile, and general crap that fails to do anything more than make an abrupt trip to the e-shitcan.

Of course, it's always so rewarding when someone prefaces the gay ass shit with "I know that you hate forwarded messages, but..." Rather than trail off to oblivion, that sentence should likely conclude with "I really don't give a fuck, because some jackass sent it to me and therefore I am sending it on to you." I have to wonder if these folks greeted chain letters with this much enthusiasm back in the golden age of snail mail. I think not.

If anyone can shed any light and insight on this bullshit phenomenon, by all means do it. You have my undivided attention, which really isn't saying a lot since I have the attention span of a headless dead rat residing in a Nashville parking lot. However, I am fuckin' photogenic.

The Sponge Revolt

And the soft yet booming voice broke the silence and said with a caring smile, “Ahh, I remember the day you were born. Soft, and pink and while you had a few rough edges here and there, you were perfect in your own way.”

And a sea of creatures went on about its business, with one exception. A sponge looked up with tired, sadness-filled eyes and asked, “Me? Were you speaking to me?” The voice confirmed that indeed it was speaking to the tiny sponge.

“I’m tired and I’m weary.”, said Sponge. “Disgusted you might say. These humans seem to only to take advantage of me. They know I can absorb and that’s all I do. Knock over a beverage? Sponge. Dirty counter top? Sponge. But what about me?”

“Yes, what about you?”, boomed the voice.

“Well. Is this it? Soak up, discharge. Absorb, release? I won’t do it anymore. In fact, I don’t think my sponge friends will either.”

“You, and your friends, were brought into this world for a specific, a special and specific, reason. You are here, for others, for a selfless sole cause; to give and to take. It may seem as though others take you for granted, day in, day out, pushing all their problems onto you. But they are aware, they appreciate and they are grateful and realize how lucky they are to have you in their lives.”

“But some things that I take on, I’m unable to leave behind. All the clutter, it’s too much!”

“That is what can be called growth. And as you carry on the memories, carry them well, remembering the special moments just a little more than the others. Don’t look upon the absorption of each and every detail as spilled milk and bacteria. Look upon them as a whole, like paint. Paint YOUR picture with dabs and daubs and swirls. CREATE!”

And Sponge, defeated in a way, was filled anew. Filled again. Filled with pride, a sense of need and now wondering where his longevity will take him. Wondering what his first masterpiece will be.




Just then Sponge noticed a new puppy in the house, and an all-too-familiar hand was reaching for Sponge. He could say but one thing.

“Awe, PISS!”

The Unwelcome Guest.

A great honor has been bestowed upon me not once, but twice in recent days. I'm not sure what brought in the flurry of offers, but I wanted to thank both Lushy and Lynn for allowing me to infect other areas of the blogopolis. If you are so inclined to sneak a peek...

Toilet Humor and the Culinary Bastard.

Thank you kindly, ladies. Your packaging does not suck(!!) and if those posts lead to scabbing, don't scratch it and immediately seek medical attention.

In The Tradition Of Being Early

We're late.



Sorry Effie!!


It's been all whack lately and dang it, we just didn't get an early Berfday Greeting up for you.

Please accept this potted plant, the American Symbol for Oopsie, as a token of our, um, late-itude and forgive us our daily sins of late.

Happy birthday, from the bottom of our pots.

Work Christmas Party Right Smack-Dab In The Middle Of My Berfday

A good day in all. I woke the boy up this morning and he immediately sang the version of Happy Birthday that informs the Berfday Boy that he lives in a zoo. I’m pretty sure the vocalist in this case didn’t realize that he, too, lives in a zoo. After we got ready for school/work I took him to school and walked him, and his over-sized science project, to the classroom. He’d practiced his demonstration in the hall while I was brushing my teeth.

I went on to work and was greeted with a lovely smile, happy birthday wish and pay stub from Office Type. I turned down neither of the three. Then it was all downhill for a bit, for today was the day of the office Christmas Party #1. I’m not a big fan of large gatherings and especially one that promises to drag on starting at “11am and should be finished by 3pm”. Yikes. The food was good and luckily I got to make many corny jokes to Office Type who even laughed at one or two of them.

At one point during the Christmas shindig one of the employees in my office building was surprised to learn that one of the employees from another county was a hunter. The hunter is actually a grandmother, but to me, looks more of the mother age, and I was already aware that she hunted. I prodded her a little to get an even more shocked reaction from the stunned coworker. My prodding went something like this, “Tell them about the hogs!”

Delighted she went on to say, “OH! We used to have a hog farm!” After giving some details of what life on a hog farm was like, I mentioned that I would be scared shitless to work with hogs. Her eyes lit up and she went on to tell about the time one of the momma hogs was nesting out in the mud and they preferred her to have her young in the barn/stall/whatever she called it. So her husband asked her to stand in one spot and he’d come up behind Momma Hog and send her to his wife. Allegedly Momma Hog “Started sizing us both up. She looked at me, she looked at him, and then she looked back at me as if to say, ‘Yeah, I can take her!’ and she did! She came right at me. The next thing I knew, I was on my back, she was on top of me, and all I could see were her tits!!”

About that time, it got very quiet.

You see, we were only just beginning the Christmas party…in the middle of a church…and our boss (who happens to be a minister of some sort) had managed to catch our Hunter Hog Lady’s attention. She stopped the story just after “tits!!” and said, “Oh, we’re about to pray aren’t we?”

The expression on my boss’s face was priceless. All he said was, “Yes, we are.” But he gave the impression that he wanted to add on, “and it sounds as though we’re going to need it by the stories you’re telling.”

We prayed, ate, and Dirty Santa’ed our way to the end of the party and POOF the Berfday Boy was gone in a flash. I picked up my boy and we bought our traditional Birthday Hot Wheels (one each) and headed straight for Wendy’s. We were starved. We ordered our food and I handed the dollar bill I got in change to my boy. He looked at me with this big question mark expression and I whispered to him, “Sometimes, when it’s you’re birthday,y you get to GIVE gifts.” He smiled a thank you and I winked a you’re welcome.

As we sat there hogging out, and Hot Wheeling about, I noticed an older lady walking with a cane. She was headed in our direction and I could tell she was checking out the tables. The tables were about half taken and I could see her saying to herself, “I don’t want to sit right on top of anyone, and I don’t think I can make it to the back of the dining room and this table is just filthy.” And so, she just stood there, mulling over her lack of options. I was never a Boy Scout, but I played on my berfday. Even a crusty old bird like me can spend SECONDS cleaning a table and pulling a chair with such speed the woman never had the chance to feel she owed me a thing.

Now the boy is fast asleep, the Hot Wheels are awaiting another race, and the Berfday Boy? His ass is going to bed!!

Add another ring to the tree, because it's a geriatric birthday hootenanny!!

It's time to set fire to the birthday cake and set off the smoke detector all in honor of the birthday of the one, the only...Mr. Bloggerific Himself. He has joined the ranks of the tired, the old, the decrepit. It would be a hell of a lot funnier if I wasn't already a ranking member of that trifecta of old.

Even though I still do not understand the saying myself, it's become a part of the YPS!! tradition. 'round the table you must go, IT's...your birthday. I lift my morning bottle of diet carbonated and caffeinated beverage in your honor and say "Fuckin' hell, we're old," but damned if we ain't some charming bastards in our twilight years!!

I'm damn lucky to have called you a friend for many years and to you, I sincerely say HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Now bring on the dancing girls and the donuts...

The Return Of The Vulgar Chef.

It's that time of the year again when someone deems it necessary for our staff to bring baked goods to show our appreciation for...well hell, I don't know. I guess our instructors, students, vagrants, I have absolutely not a fuckin' clue. All I know is that I was baking a shitpot of cookies last night for someone and they damn well better enjoy it.

It's only a matter of time before I pitch my show idea to the Food Network. It shall be called The Vulgar Chef and it will basically be me cooking some shit in an obscene and vulgar fashion. I spill something and it's followed by profanity. I burn my hand and you get more vulgarities. It would be like the anti-Paula Deen and Rachel Ray. Emeril, too.

I guess this would be the ideal time to remind you good people that I'm mostly harmless.

Into The Sunset

It seems my post about the Windy Hollow Restaurant a few months ago has turned into a fond farewell. I heard on the evening news last night that a fire started in the kitchen around 11am today that destroyed the former “Mecca for hard-core country music fans.”

The stations that broadcast our “local” news are actually an hour away…in the neighboring state. I was surprised they mentioned the fire at all, frankly. Maybe it’s just me, but WFIE and WEHT don’t always seem as eager to discuss the Kentucky news as they are the Indiana news. Maybe they forget that Kentucky viewers have money to give their Hoosier advertisers.

While we hadn’t been for years, going to Windy Hollow was part of many fond memories and many happy gatherings. I hated to mention it to Dad when he called about Christmas gift ideas for Bloggy Jr. I could tell he felt the same way when he said he’d tell Mom.

Here are the in-depth details from WFIE. Note that “The restaurant was filled with antiques.” should read something like “The restaurant was filled with old western movie memorabilia from the likes of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans and many other movie greats.”


Fire destroys the Windy Hollow Restaurant south of Owensboro. The owner, Hal Miller, says the fire started in the kitchen around 11 a.m. Tuesday. No one was hurt.

The restaurant was filled with antiques.

Another fire destroyed the restaurant in 1972 as the owner hosted old time western stars for the filming of the "Marshal of Windy Hollow."

Today...depending solely on when you read it.

It's one of those deceiving days where the sun is out and making its presence known, but there's a chill in the air that will bring out a person's undiagnosed Tourette's Syndrome as soon as the cold hits the skin. It also tends to promote me to what Henry Rollins once called a "power walking motherfucker." While I've never been accused of being a dynamo, the winter weather makes me walk a bit faster and there isn't a lot of time to linger in the shit. There's plenty of time for that when spring rolls around.

Looking out the window of Disgraceland, it almost looks pleasant except for the trees that are in a state of withered, leafless disrepair. Many a day, I've felt more like those trees than I care to admit. Someone once asked me how I felt on a particular day, the first thing that came to mind as I looked at the grape-vine arch on the wall behind her was "I feel like a brown, crusty rainbow."

I'm actually feeling better than said rainbow today in spite of the fact that I had a sausage biscuit breakfast courtesy of a vending machine. I got a bit of flack from the office workers who seemed to question the breakfast artistry of Rudy's Farm frozen sausage biscuits fresh from the vending machine. I've become quite the nutritional daredevil lately and while I may consume chicken salad sandwiches from various truck stops on my travels, I have yet to fall so far as actually consuming cheese. I don't see that happening anytime soon unless someone provides a substantial amount of money and a trash can to recycle the crap.

I type on like I've got something to say and it's clear that the well is dry on this day. Likely freeze-dried like old school coffee products before they got branded with artsy-ass names like cappucino, frappucino, crappucino, Al Pacino, and all kinds of fucked up shit like that. I'm not sure when the world got so damned complicated, but it makes me somewhat happy that I'm not hooked on the coffee bean. Although I will admit that the bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper lovingly presented to me from the machine a few doors down from the sausage biscuit distribution machine was damn tasty.

The simple process of acquiring vending machine cuisine reminded me of the days when I could simply sashay to another building without getting all duded up in my leather coat and gloves. It was as simple as picking a destination and aiming my tattered self in that general direction. Shaky steps that fall somewhere between a strut and a stagger until the goods are in hand and then it's a role reversal from origin to destination point. It's times like this when the office doesn't seem so bad. It's relatively tranquil with the louder occupants out of earshot today and the sounds of Patterson Hood's solo disc on the computer's hi-fi spinner. You may know him from his excellent work with the Drive-By Truckers and then again, you may not.

So this concludes the morning transmission of whatever day this may be. I'm still pretty sure that it's 2006 and it may very well be December, but I'm no expert in the field.


Here's some notebook fodder for no apparent reason whatsoever...

black scarecrow standing alone
guarding his watch like a condemned soul in the badlands of existence
nothing upon nothing in the never-changing landscape
vacated fields spread as far as button eyes can see
life left years ago searching for fertile pastures
no one knows if that dream was realized
or if it died somewhere on the road
questions unanswered give birth to more questions
likely to die as soon as they leave the lips

Visions For Your Weekend

Disintegrated tuna across the pavement scene
Candy apple raisins with a Cheese Whiz sheen
Telephone operator of a go-cart limousine
Geese soar through the air via feathered trampolines
Sucking on a soda and burnin’ the gasoline
Orange tater curls in a groovy cream
Standard equipment are metallic jelly beans

Go go go, Jonny B Goode!!

And Now: A Heartwarming Christmas Message!! (or is it "heartworming"?)

Disc Lame Her: This video is NOT for the haint of fart. No, reel-ee. If you stuffher from mightnares, don't Boliva. I'm not Joe King.

What We’ve Got Here, Is the Goddamn NASCAR!!

Bone Machine and I have commented on this before, I am commenting on it again, and it will undoubtedly come up again.

The roads in this town? They’re the goddamn NASCAR. You pretty much take your life into your own hands on occasion. Oh, it’s not as dangerous as Evansville, IN *shudders*, but holy fuck.

Today’s reason for mentioning this? Pappaw in the white four door Buick Something-or-Other. PUNCHES it out into the traffic, into my lane of course, and then BRAKES. I have to swerve to go ‘round to avoid and guess what…yep…pulls right into the lane. Of course I have a horn, and I am not afraid to use that motherfucker like a fucking stone-cold iron fist up someone’s ass, invited or not. One BLAST and gramps moves back over.

I watch in my rearview (what? It’s the goddamn NASCAR and I can drive without looking if I fuckin’ wanna!) and you know what he does next? Yep. Pulls back into “my lane” (no longer “mine” since I have used and moved on) and BRAKES. This time he STOPS breaks. Yeah. Next, the blinker comes on. The jackass is in a lane BESIDE a turning lane, just blinkity-blinking away. You know, so he can, turn.

People pile up behind him waiting for him to MOVE while someone across the opposite lanes of traffic whips into the turning lane…and yes…that’s when he decides to move into the turning lane, right in front of them.


There’s another ding on the hood, another bug in the grill, pop the cork on another root beer, this bitch is in the Winner’s Circle!!

[Hey Bone. We should start rating our posts with food in mind. This one is "mild" or perhaps "golden brown". Just a thought. In fact, let's not. But if we do, can I use "moldy" first? We can make people think we're using them fancy schmancy "tags" but...get this...we're not!!]

Like a fecal boomerang, the shit is back.

I thought I'd made it perfectly clear last year, but apparently a refresher course may be in order before too much of this undesirable shit gets on the shoes.

Minding my own business, I wandered into my office for nothing less than official (sarcasm? Nooooooo!) and noticed something hanging in the air that was completely unpleasant. Something was wrecking the previously-wrecked harmony in the office cosmos. To Star Wars aficionados, there was a disturbance in the Force. To everyone else, there was some music playing that sounded incredibly gay and in this case, there is indeed something wrong with it.

As I sat in my office, my inner-sanctum, my fortress of solitude, I heard some muffled chatter that immediately clued me in that something was up. Whispered voices said "Turn it up, so that he can hear it..." Ah, conspiracy! Two of the office workers thought it would be highly amusing to torment me yet again with Christmas music performed by Kenny G. My theory is that the G stands for "Gay" or "Gonorrhea," which totally explains the crap that comes out of the man's horn.

There are few things in this world more annoying (although Toby Keith and Creed instantly come to mind) than the sound of Kenny G's horn. If it is possible to castrate a musical instrument, Kenny has definitely done it. While sucking and blowing on his saxophone, he has sucked the soul right out of the music and blown it far, far away.

So as the secretary turned up the musical bullshit, I realized that the war was on. When they bring out Kenny G's Gay Christmas, I'll bring out the MP3 disc with the first eight Black Sabbath albums lovingly burned on it. If the Black Sabbath doesn't work, I'll call up some Motorhead. If the Motorhead doesn't do it, I've got some Slayer. Slayer should do it, but if not, I'll bring out the big gun. The musical equivalent of the BFG 900...Yes, Tiny Tim's Christmas Album.

I hate to get brutal like that, but when push comes to shove, I can be one stone cold, heartless bastard. If I have to suffer through Kenny G and Clay Aiken, then I'm taking the wheel and slamming the entire crew of our good ship Lollipop right into the iceberg. You can damn well bet that Celine Dion won't be providing the soundtrack this time. No, no. Not this time.

Until the smoke clears, I will be regularly checking Lushy's countdown to the holidays' end and I will have angry, belligerent music at the ready should spontaneous holiday cheer break out. You happy fuckers took down the Grinch (the real one and not that Jim Carrey bastardized shit), but you won't take me alive.

It's war, baby.

Why Pee Essss!! Theatre

no funky ass photos, no wiseass attitude.

Just 100% sincerity. So you're asking yourself "Well, what the hell good is that?" I can't say that I know. I wanted to take a few moments to say that I'm very thankful for your continued patronage at the YPS!! campground. May your holiday be absolutely nifty, incredibly safe, and delightfully happy. To those that do not live in the United States, may your Thursday be the very same things and you won't risk getting the bird flu from the turkey.

Thank you all for all you do to make YPS!! what it is today. And no, I have no clue what it is, but I like it. I like it a lot.

To the Voice of R&D Communications’ Time and Temperature:

To the Voice of R&D Communications’ Time and Temperature:


[Please read the following with the great sense of humor that I am quite sure you possess. Try to imagine Andy Rooney whispering this into your ear as you read it. Thank you, in advance.]


I’ve considered writing this letter many times since R&D Communications became the “sponsor” of the Time and Temperature phone service. While I feel it should be said, I always struggled with HOW to say it. Please know that my intention is not to be rude. My objective is to give you honest input from someone on the sidelines. I am in no way connected to you or your organization in any way other than my infrequent calling of Time and Temp service as I’ve done since the days of “Central Bank and Trust Time…”

Yes, for years, I’ve picked up the phone and dialed (270) 685-6111 and eagerly awaited to find out A) what time it is, B) what the temperature is – you know, so I can laugh at all my co-workers that wear a coat on a jacket day and C) try and guess which random advertisement I would hear for the day. Sure, some days were easier to get through than others. You might call up and get through the first time. But some days will fool you. You might call, let it ring 3 times and be forced to hang up only to find out that on the second call you wouldn’t get an answer until the 4th ring. Oh, the tricky and fickle ways of Time and Temp have provided me with years and years of entertainment. (Ok, maybe just “years” I’m not THAT old you know.)

Again, please understand, I’m just giving you my honest opinion here.

Sir, your speaking voice does not reflect well on the organization, R&D Communications. There, I said it. Whew!

I really hate to say that, but it’s how I feel. When I hear the word “communications” in the name of R&D Communications, I think of someone who can communicate well. Someone who can speak in a clear and concise manner and can convey a message in a way all who are listening can understand.

Unfortunately, this, with all due respect, is not you.

It very well could be that it’s in the way you’re currently recording your message.

Perhaps a little calisthenics before each recording session, in addition to a little caffeine, would make for a strong start. Maybe slamming down some sugar-laced candies might be the way to go. (I have several suggestions here, but candy is such a personal selection, I dare not sway your taste buds with my selections, only to throw you off when the microphone is on.) Possibly envisioning a favorite actor, such as John “The Duke” Wayne, during each recording might bolster you with a more bold and daring vocal prowess that would capture your audience’s heart, imagination…and pocket book.

After all, each morning when you greet the town of Owensboro, Kentucky with the time, temperature and rotating advertisement (i.e., mocking the competition) you speak for R&D Communications and why in the world would anyone want to do business with a communications company that can’t…communicate?

So buck up Mister! Sally forth! CHARGE into that recording studio and COME ALIVE with your message!! As I’ve said for many years, and you can quote me: “Think more Tigger and less Eeyore!”

Or, get some lively sex kitten to take your place.


I thank you for your time (and temp),
Mr. Bloggerific Himself

Schhwwwaaaaaaaaaa!!

So, like, how many of you saw the man screwing the sheep in that last video that was posted?

Also, any comments on Studio 60?

Happy Birthday, Tommy Womack!!

Even though it's also the anniversary of the Mexican Revolution, this is the last fucking time the YPS!! staff orders a personalized birthday cake for one of our favorite artists from Paco's Cut-Rate Bakery & Flight School. Regardless of this combination decoration (we said Skittles, dammit!) and spelling faux pas, the YPS!! staff would like to wish Tommy the happiest of birthdays.

Paco's fate will be swift and painful.

silvery snail tracks on the welcome mat in the vestibule

There are silvery snail tracks on the welcome mat in the vestibule. While he is nowhere to be seen, and must have decided to exit rather than enter, it seems there was an unspecified amount of time where he was on the fence. The pattern he left behind made strong inroads in the beginning but, just before reaching the far side, he became uncertain and turned back. Mid-rug he had a change of heart and sought out the warmth within. Perhaps he saw the sign that read “Men” on a nearby door. Maybe the mood created by the lamp in the corner caught his heart and eye. But just then he circled back. He didn’t make a direct route to the door. No, he arced his way toward the cold as his curiosity tapered. If it weren’t for the dirt-brown rubber-edged mat, I might not have been aware of his appearance at all, for he left no indication on the tile. The tile, it conceals.

Farewell, little snail, I bid you well to slither on and set sail and to hoist your flag and leave your mark upon this world. Let the clarion call be heard to announce your presence when next you approach so that I may make this place anew and build, for you, a barrier of salt as to rot the shit out of your nasty little slime-leaving guts as you melt and burn and seep into the soil.








{What? It started out for the ladies and then I thought Bone Machine might appreciate a turn of events at the end.}

A Gobbled Message To...You!! - Early & With A Crappy Accent!!

Watch closely for the bouncing bird.

A Bloggerific Original. Ewe Can Coal Lekt Them Awl!!

Hit The Road, Jack!!

And don't you come back, you city slicker!!


<<<<<<<================SHORT Gcast post will explain it all.

Crapapalooza '06.

Here it is whatever day it is and even the time is a bit unclear. Although I'm relatively sure that the daylight beaming down means that it's not even close to the time when I'm allowed to go home. I arrived at 7:45am and will leave at 8:15pm or when my carcass is carted out on a stretcher...whichever happens first. I have sixteen loving ounce of Diet Mountain Dew surging through my system like bulls with angry hooves doing a Mexican hat dance in a china shop.

Apparently the sauce is working, because the student said I entered the room like a bat out of Hell. It seemed sort of fitting, but I do not want any affiliation with Meat Loaf--the man or the entree. I regard both with equal amounts of hatred. I would do anything for love, but I won't listen to that shit. Sorry, Meat. Tough luck, pal.

The mental outlook is a bit better than yesterday for reasons that I shan't go into here. While I'm still a pulsating storm cloud, I'm not quite ready to drop the angry shitstorm on the parade below...yet. Peel back my cumulonimbus exterior and I'm a fuckin' sunbeam shining like those fucked up gold teeth that the rappers wear these days for reasons unknown to me. Considering they also wear those pants that perpetually hang at half mast, I am very fearful for the future. The only upside is that someday their spawn will find photos of the pre-Snoop Daddy Dadd phase and laugh their asses off, because the shit's even more hideous than those fuckin' bellbottoms from the peace, love, and mellow shit days. I'm not sure what dumb shit brought back the shit and shoved it up the fashion world's bottom in a non-loving fashion, but it is not appreciated by this gent.

Since it's a sunny and warm November day in Kentucky, I killed some time with the pre-historic office camera. On with the show...

Here's some of the religious propaganda that I've accumulated in my office. I figure stealing the religious booklets moved me one step forward then two steps back on the karma scale.

Postcard from a kind soul.

This is a trash can. In the event of hail, it can become protective head gear. If shower caps can be acceptable fashion attire, so can a trash can. Don't let anyone tell you any different.

Photographic evidence that I don't always wear black clothing and occasionally stoop so low as wearing lesser colors, so put that in your skin pipe and smoke it, Mr. Pink Polo. Modesty and the desire to retain a G-rating prevents an official crotch shot. (I can't use profanity and maintain a G? Well, fuck me running! Who knew?!?!)

Untitled photo with the following advice--"Always use the stall."

One of the ladies down the hall has the magnetic words and some fargin' sneaky bastage made art with the shit.

Lesser artsy shit.

This photo was taken too far away due to my fear of being mauled by the goose posse. Until we talk money and contracts are signed, I have no desire to be in a future installment of When Geese Attack.

Please do not remove chairs.

Kickin' glass and takin' names.

Fungus.

The place where I put down angry footsteps.

And as a stunning conclusion, I bring you some dying plants.

A Speck of Paint on the Measuring Cup

I wanted to sit down and write a post tonight, no matter what. But, this freestylin' audio post happened instead.

Enjoy.


<<<<<<<<==============Play button on the Gcast player.

Anna Grahams

a limited edition audio story.

sweet & sour.

I made my way through the mean streets of Owensboro, Kentucky to the lame ass hotel complex where Twisted (fuckin') Sister will be playing in March '07 to acquire tickets for said show. After the kind lady hooked me up with VIP (which I can only assume means "Vulgarian Interrogating Packaging") seats, I made my way out of the lame ass hotel complex to the lame ass parking lot. Even someone that is non-observant and constantly 78% asleep even while walking would notice the deeeeee-luxe tour bus parked near the front door. Figuring that a tour group from Bear's Nutsack, Nebraska would have such a ride, it must belong to the artist playing the Showroom Lounge this weekend.

Jerry Lee Lewis.

The Killer.

Unfortunately, I didn't have time to linger and loiter because the workplace feels the need to keep me in a stranglehold within its soft and smothering bosom most of my waking hours. In other words, I couldn't dick around for very long, because I had to drive across Hell's half acre to get back to work before they fired my belligerent ass. But I imagined the questions I would ask the man.

"So, Killer, would you recommend marrying a cousin for career advancement?"

Then I remembered that legend has it that he once shot a band member and then yelled at him for bleeding on his carpet. I got the hell out of there, but I regret not being able to shake his hand and thank him for his contributions to the music world.

¡Día feliz de los muertos de YPS!!

Happy Dia de los Muertos!!


"And if I don't meet you no more in this world, then I'll meet you in the next one and dont be late..."
--Jimi Hendrix

The POOF And The ...ploop

Hopefully this won’t make the ladies too paranoid.

MANY years ago, what would you say Bone? 1985? Bone Machine and I went to high school together and of the many poor souls that attended with us, was one that is the subject of this story. You see, KG we’ll call her, while a nice grrrl, had the oddest of hairdos. POOF was the style in those days, and while she was quite capable of the POOF, she went another step.

Right on top, in the center of her POOF covered skull (think of the added foam of a microphone cover) was this smaller poof, a “ploop” if you will.

Unbeknownst to KG (whoops, almost typed her name there) there was a bit of a dialogue that began amongst Bone and myself. (Brain? Were you in that one too? What the hell am I saying, I’m sure you probably were.)

You see, in our eyes, KG’s POOF and ploop where a mirror image of Gene Simmons' do, and immediately the jokes ensued. Since those days, anytime mention of KISS is made, Gene is always part of the discussion…which nearly always turns to insulting comments. We talk about his trade-mark bass “ba-woooooo” sounds. His gut. His love of Hostess Twinkies. And, of course, his POOF and ploop. No, we haven’t grown up at all.

Anyway, more often than not, when KISS and Gene are mentioned, inevitably so is KG. Yes, grrrls, it’s true. Boys notice your hair and continue to make fun of it for decades to come, even when you’ve likely changed it 50 times during the years we haven’t seen you.

So you can all imagine my delight this morning when I received a photo in my email. You see, one of my good buddies actually works with Mr. KG and while KG didn’t dress up like Gene for Halloween, well, she’s just a promotion away. This is, as I am told, KG and family. The Twinkie Prophecy has nearly come true.

Ba-woooooo!! Where’s Paul? Had any good Twinkies lately? Are you still the God of Thunder? And Rock N Row-oh?

Edgar Allen Bloggerific, Smiles Gaily

Halloween Gcast has been posted.

Have a YPS!! Halloween.

A view from today's chili cook-off...


Looks tasty, eh?









HALLOWEEN II (The Misfits)
------------
Formulae ueteres exorsismorum et excommunicationum
Strigas et fictos lupos credere

Daemon pellem lupinam
In trunco quodam cauae
Arboris occultandum

Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween

Metamorphoses lycanthropie
Possunt inquam
Metamorphoses lycanthropie
Possunt inquam

Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween
Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween

Hey Susie!? Did I Ever Tell You The One About...

So yeah, my friend F has bubbled up from her cesspool of antidepressant and antianxiety prescription abuse, again, and it’s not even a full moon, yet. She wanted to tell me, again, that her marriage to a guy from India was over (there’s a shocker) and that through all the horrors of that (and the loss of her job at the children’s psych hospital where I gave her the New Employee training years ago) she’d always thought of me. Which is a surprise, I guess I never knew that when someone calls you 30 times and sends you 15 text messages, drops by unannounced and uninvited twice (once with her mother) and sticks a note in your door - all during one weekend - that they are thinking of you. I guess I can be oblivious to subtle ways of communication after months of listening to her scream at her boyfriend in Michigan because he won’t let her lick his ass (seriously) and because she doesn’t have a body like Janet Jackson (though she did have her share of wardrobe malfunctions). I don’t know for sure, but I think it was about the time she told me she’d just cleaned the bathroom and realized she needed to use the bathroom and rather than soil the toilet she'd just cleaned, she shit in a trashcan, that I decided that I could no longer help her. It seems like the trashcan incident happened just weeks after the blowjob she sold for $40 to a local DJ.

So that’s how the weekend has gone. Dodging calls, text messages, and visits. Finally around *checks cell phone* 4:51pm I decided she was comforted in calling. She probably felt some sense of release being able to talk into the air like that, not knowing if I was listening to the messages or not. She could purge her soul and it would be digitally registered on come cell phone network out there, however briefly. She could rid herself of sins eternally and cleanse her mind and body of these toxins…until 4:51pm. This one, after at least 30 calls, I answered. I did not yell, scream, groan, whisper or stutter. I avoided power struggles. I merely spoke sternly and gave her permission to stop.

“You may stop calling this number.”

And I hung up.

To anyone reading this far, here’s a warm and friendly suggestion: Should you find yourself dining with a buddy in a Chinese restaurant and spy a former co-worker closely examining crystals and fine silk, stay at the table with your buddy and keep the flashbacks as memories. The promise of one more egg roll and a few more laughs is not worth trading in for 5-6 years of chaos. That one chance encounter can give you whiplash from all the cartoon headshakes you’ll be doing.

Also, if someone doesn't return your call in 2 years, and you know for a fact that's their voice your hearing on the voice mail...take a hint. They're done with you. They don't want to talk.

Happy Monday!!

CK!!

disappearing act.

It would be cool to pack minimal belongings and leave unannounced without a note or trail of bread crumbs to pinpoint the final destination. A disappearing act so thorough that it makes Elvis A. Presley, Jimmy Hoffa and W. Axl Rose seem like high profile folks in Y2K+6. That's probably what makes death so damn charming, because it's the ultimate middle finger to those people caught in the crossfire of your life.

Once the road belongings were decided upon, an enterprising person would sell the remainder of the shitpile on Ebay or have some kind of electronic garage sale or whatever people do to sell their crapola in the golden age of technological bullshit. While it's good to have money that folds and extra jingle in the pocket, it sort of defeats the purpose and gives the impression of pre-meditation. There's no fun in pre-meditated disappearance, because it seems so calculated and well, pre-meditated. Besides, it takes more time and effort. Who can be bothered with that?

Maybe that's the magic of the Witness Relocation Program without having mobsters ready to snuff you out. You can assume a new identity and leave everything in your cloud of dust while living anonymously in the wilds of Monkey's Asshole, Montana.

No crimes would be committed, no laws would be broken, and one could begin a new existence until some other group of assholes came along to fuck it all up again. In that case, it might be necessary to have a program similar to the old Subway card where you could get a free identity after you buy twelve identities.

Daily Packaging Sucks Less When...

All I have been doing lately is bitching about how busy it’s been, and well, nothing’s changed. Still. Busy.

BUT, today, despite the clouds and rain, is shining more brightly!!

I must blame the fact that I was in total shock for not taking a photo to post of the first WUNNERFUL thing that happened to me this morning. But that does not, in any way, take aware from the high level of wunnerfulness the experience. You see, I was a few minutes late getting to work this morning and when I stopped by Office Type’s door to wave good mornin’ (she’s not a morning person, so I try to wave and walk on) I spied something on her desk. It was a Halloween Edition of Red Hots!! Yep, a great big bag surrounding tons of little bitty bags. The packaging isn’t perfect on the little bags, but who could complain? I think this is the first year I’ve ever seen them, and you know what? She GAVE me the whole fricken’ bag!! Woo Hoo!! Thank you Office Type!! (I can say it loud ‘cause you know, it’s not mornin’ no more.)

Then you know what happened right after that? The mail came. You’re thinking, “Whoop-eee” aren’t you? Well, yeah whoopee because there was a package addressed to me and this time it didn’t have computer equipment in it AND I got to KEEP it!! What was it you ask? Let me give you a hint. HOLY SHIT I LOVE ME SOME BROWNIES!! MMMMMMMMMMM. That you are aware of, but did you know I am a very picky eater? I can’t eat just any brownies, but THESE brownies? HOT DAMN! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeclectic? Man oh man you make some wunnerful brownies!! They’re like DENSE. These are the densest brownies I’ve ever had the pleasure of sinking my teeth into. Chocolate chips even!! Thank you Eeeclectic!! (I can say it loud ‘cause you know, she’s WAY over there distance wise. I think it’s what, at least a thirty minute drive? Ok, maybe more.) [and NO I didn't open the card, but I sure am curious]

Lastly I just wanna say that Red Hots and Brownies can only be improved by good music. Look closely at the photos Bone Machine, I think you’ll be proud to see what the first tunes to grace the new Axim handheld are….

Now, it’s off to some GOODIES!!

Let's Play a Game of "New Post, Old Post"!!

Just click the link above and be transported back to a time when things was hectic, and brains were scattered!!


*gets up to start the day*










Groan.

Your Time Machine Packaging SUCKS!!

We are the Words of a Nation of Poets

We are the words
of a nation of poets
that doesn’t really read

They’ve got no time
for looking back
or even to take heed

We are the words
of a nation of poets
that doesn’t really see

They’ve got no time
to comprehend
We’re only used
to confuse
to distract
to bend

We’ve become attention grabbers
headlines in the news
Words like “steady the course”
become “here we go again”
We’re found in the seldom used hymns
in solemn church pews
We’re your mother’s friend who said,
“Once past fifty,
they look right through.”

The person putting us down
is as guilty as you
He gleans through your meanings
claims they’re true
but that’s not what he’d do

We are the words
of a nation of poets
that doesn’t really grasp

You’re unable to surrender
and give up control
Your days filled with agenda
You neglect the containers of soul
Here shoeless and soulless to boot
are the order of the day
Your critical ways
expressed in such a
robust rasp
and hazardous haze

We are the words
of a nation of poets
that doesn’t really read

-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, 10192006

Fuckin' dig it, man

I did a Gcast post this morning of a recent item I wasn't going to finish originally. But, I did and now you can hopefully hear me reading it...should Gcast cooperate. Look for "Words of a Nation of Poets" in the Gcast player to the left if ya wanna.

The actual words to come later. Maybe.

-Bloggy

BPC

I piss on your space.

Trends come and go like screams in the night and it seems like the worst of the batch make the biggest splash and seem to stay around the longest. Perhaps it's some kind of dog year conversion factor that makes it seem like forever cubed.

Of course, it might be that I'm just old and cranky. There is no "might be" there--I am old and cranky and having this MySpace bullshit rammed up, down, in and out of every orifice is making me older and crankier at a rapid clip. Like the resurgence of bell-bottom jeans, the trend of wearing pants at half-mast, and the continued popularity of Toby Keith, I just don't get it. Someone could explain it to me until the cows come home to drop some shit in the pasture and I still wouldn't understand it. The only explanation that makes a lick of sense is that the cream of the crap rises to the top. This would also explain the whole Puff Daddy (or whatever he calls himself today) phenomenon.

There have been a few occasions where I've gone to a MySpace page and after I arrive at the electronic doorstep, I immediately question my sanity for even thinking it would be worth the time and effort to do so. It's never worth the time, it's never worth the effort, and I hate myself for even gazing at the screen for the briefest of moments.

Unless there is some top secret content being guarded by the MySpace police (which appears to be the case since you can't do dick around the site without being a member and I refuse to be a member), it just seems like a whole lot of hype for a whole lot of nothing. A lot of pump and circumcision for intellectually-deficient content with a bunch of jackasses stirring the stink with even more boneheaded comments.

One thing I've gathered on my limited travels to this vast wasteland is that the sole reason for having the comments from other e-sheep is for one dipshit to wish another dipshit a happy weekend or acknowledging the presence of the damn weekend itself. It's like no one would realize that there was a weekend at hand if some genius didn't slap together some gay ass graphic to proclaim the arrival of this sacred event...the weekend. The last time I checked, the occurrence of a weekend isn't on par with Hailley's Comet and I believe that we generally have a weekend every fucking week of the year. In other words, cool it with the dumb ass crap and work on some new material for the love of all that is holy.

The whole shooting match is like the lowest common denominator of communication. With enough flashy colors and music playing, many folks won't realize that the content has the depth of an Arizona rain puddle. Now, I'm not claiming YPS!! to be the best site ever, but it sure as shit doesn't suck anywhere near as vigorously as the majority of that MySpace horseshit.

Chances are good that I would be able to simply live and let live while steering clear of the shit, but every time I turn around, someone is shoving MySpace up my ass in a non-loving fashion. It's not nice, it's not wanted, and it's completely uncalled for.

So MySpace, I piss on your weekends, your frilly lack of content, and oh, one more thing...YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!

Fanboy: The Tommy Womack Band & The Royal Court of China

[Bone, feel free to add what I’ve missed, I’m still floating a bit and I might overlook something.]

I can’t remember exactly how I learned about the show that was to happen on 10132006 at the Exit/In in Nashville, TN. I can’t remember if I read about it on www.tommywomack.com or if Bone Machine sent me word via email, or if Mr. Womack himself dropped the bomb. But what I do remember is that I had a feeling that sort of caused the need for the following phrase to hop into my mind like a horny jackalope ready date, mate and procreate:

“When life gives you shitty drawers, make S’mores!”

I had ‘em, and we made ‘em.

You see, while Bone Machine and I have TRIED to culturize our faithful commenters by educating them on the genius that is Tommy Womack after many a splendid solo performance, I had yet to have the opportunity to take in a show with Tommy and his band. While I’m completely 100% satisfied with the solo sounds of acoustic guitar and harmonica, the allure of eeee-lectric geeee-tar, drums, bass and a wunnerful backup singer was always swimming around in this over-sized gourd-shaped empty noggin of mine.

But as Mr. Womack was jetting across the pond to England, and appearing all over the states and on Leno and Letterman (LETTERMAN for crying out loud!) it was ill timing that prevented us from catching the band. Or was it ill timing at all? Maybe this was another one of those “things happen for a reason” type situations.

Somewhere around 1989 or so, someway, somehow I was introduced to the sounds of a band called The Royal Court of China. Over time I’d end up enjoying these boys enough that I’d own their first full release on cassette, their second on CD and two PROMO CD singles. (Promo, you know, those things clearly marked Not For Resale, but somebody always does?) Through the years I would listen to these two albums and enjoy the crap out of them and wonder why in the hell bands just explode sometimes. What is it in this world that can take a group of people that have some level of magic TOGETHER and rip them apart? And why is it that we can’t seem to use that power for good and make bands that suck explode instead of the good ones? (Man, what a list of those I have.)

Over time, two albums of material tends to turn into the situation where it’s like you’re in your car and you’re about to run out of gas. You’re coasting on the fumes of a band that had great promise and you’re hoping you’ll come up on the next CD so you can top off the musical tank.

Well, we coasted for 20 years, damn it, and finally it looks like the CITGO light for the Royal Court of China is back on. When we got to the Exit/In we were welcomed with old stuff and new stuff and it was preceded by the Tommy Womack Band. How fuckin’ cool is that?!!?

What? You don’t know how fuckin' cool that is? Well you could if you went here, here, or here. So, whatcha waitin’ for?!

Many thanks to Tommy. Well done man, you guys sounded great and I can’t wait until February for the official release of the new CD!! Many content successes to you Sir, few are so deserving.

Also many thanks to the RCoC dudes and I also look forward to your new release. You did promise? Right? Guys?










[A complete surprise to us, Ratt would be knockin’ ‘em dead in the back lot before we arrived. A performance we missed in its entirety.]

Signal In The Sky-O That's How You Know When You Have To Fly-O

Gcast player is go! Feel free to enjoy Tie Dye Horses via audio!
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------|

They are your overlords.

Christmas is right around the corner...

and this would make a damn fine gift for me.

It's almost as cool as a bag of Red Hots lovingly signed by the YPS!! staff. Of course, that would fetch a much higher price than this old guitar.

Lookin' Out A Dirty Old Winderrr

The top 2 reasons I should become a smoker.

Reason #1.

Reason #2.

Eeeclectic Assignment: Bloggy Jr. Weekend

Reading, Vid Games, Reading, Food, Reading, Sleep, Vid Games and....Strawberry Whoppers!! Mmmmm.

Goodbye, Audioblogger, Your Packaging Sucks!!

Subscribe Free for future posts  Add this player to my Page

YPS!! SO-phisticated!

Yo.

Reduce, Reuse, ReSpongy

Hi.

Yes, this new post is an old post. In fact, it was an accident that turned into a source of giggles for many years before it was a post. It was either 1995, or 1997 as the file date says, but I guess you just never know when you setup a new computer and test the microphone for the first time. It's a very short download but may not be work friendly.

Welcome to the Golden Age of Computing!!


(Bone, do you still have that encyclopedia software?)





Added (longer download) bonus:

No Poo.

Musical References In The Key of Moo

What started as a normal conversation between Bone and myself has grown into the follow list of musical references in the key of moo. I am posting now, for your enjoyment and I challenge you to: Name That Moo!!

moo that bitch that doesn't moo
We have ways to make it moo
we've got the ways and means to moo orleans
You know your man is working hard, he's worth a moo.
Moo that to me once again.
I want moo to want beef
and the standard, Blue Moo of Kentucky
Walk And Moo All Night, Chewin' Cud Ev'ry Day
blue suede moos
any song by the Moo Fighters.
Moo are my sunshine
I AM IRON MOO!
moo moomoo we're all crazee now
you are the wind beneath my moo
Moove it on over
six empty moos
Half The Moo
Moo in Texas
Man Of Golden Moo
is that the, man with, the golden, moo, in his haaaand?
Moo Something Nasty
Daddy should have stayed in high poo
Moo Machine
Flick of the Moo
Let There Be Moo
Billie Moo
I'm Moo
Moo It
Outmooed
Mooed In Texas
hehe
Moo of thunder and rock and roooooooouuuuuuuuuoooooooooooll
Moo it out loud
Love Moo
Earth MooFo
Starmoo Champion
(it's time to turn this into a post)
When My Blue Moo Turns to Gold Again
Moos Before Sunrise
Original Message
(Yep, I'm making it a post.)
Back Moo Man

Signature Product

Disregard the “well it doesn’t look much like him” objections from Momma Bloggerific and run, right now, to the nearest Cracker Barrel and pick up your very own Elvis Christmas Ornament before supplies run out!! Choose from the “Black Leather Clad” Elvis, or the ukulele playing “Blue Hawaii” Elvis. Either way, you can’t go wrong.

Once you’ve made your purchase, your rockin’ packaging will no longer suck!!

Your pal Bone, a camel, the grim reaper, and Dr. Phil.

Well, fuck you too!!

I opened up my lunch consisting of sweet and sour chicken and noticed that one piece looked suspiciously like an obscene hand gesture. It was as if I was being flipped the bird by the bird that became the sweet and sour chicken.



And when the days of worry and weeks of work are intertwined, it's all over.

Thoughts for Bloggy Jr. on his 8th Birthday

Dear Bloggy Jr.,

Today is your 8th birthday dude!! Happy Birthday!!

I know, I know, I talked to you on the phone this morning at like 6:40am and told you then, and yeah, yeah, I know we already had the discussion where you pointed out, “Technically, Dad, it’s not until 5:12 this evening…when I was ACTUALLY born.” I defended myself, “Yeah, but it is THE day, isn’t it? Come on, you know how I love to say it early!! Happy birthday!!”

“Well, ok… … … Even though I wasn’t born until 5:12 P.M.”

“GAH!”

I heard the big sneaky smile in your voice, “Ok, Daddy, thank you Daddy!”

You’re such a funny guy. I love that you are so smart and quick-witted and can make me laugh. I love the long conversations we have about anything and everything. I love that the first thing you wanted to do when you woke up on the morning of your birthday party was to read. I love that while we were driving back to town, after having tons of birthday fun, that you were learning you how to use a Palm computer while you were in the back seat. I love it that you were able to take all of those detailed instructions I gave and just followed right along, while I drove.

You sir, are one cool dude. Could I be more proud of you? Nope. Could I love you any more than I do? Nope. Would I change a single thing about you if I had all the power in the Universe? Nope.

And as I get a bit teary as I type this, please know that I am the luckiest daddy in the world for having you as my son. It is a HUGE honor. (Thank you, God.)

In closing, I just wanna say, “Let the hugging, squishing, mashing, smooching begin!! And you better be SO glad I never built that Butt Whipping Machine!!”

Love ya son,
Daddy

Giddy up, Gideons!!

When I was much younger, I had a fucked up bird's nest of tattered hair--more bushy than long, but long enough to get the occasional "Get a haircut!" yelled from someone in a car who apparently did not have the spine to take up the conversation in a more direct manner. When you're 6'4"-ish, have a fucked up mass of hair, wear a lot of black clothing including obnoxious t-shirts, you tend to stand out in the crowd in this town, especially circa 1992.

This theory proved true when I re-crossed the path of my first college advisor five-ish years after the fact. The first phrase out of his mouth was some kind of variation of "Half Ass Monkey Boy", which is a song by the amazing Mother Love Bone and was lovingly slapped upon a t-shirt many moons ago. I find it rather odd and yet quite cool that he would remember the shirt and who wouldn't want to be associated with such a classy shirt? So at least one person took notice of some jackass wandering around aimlessly wearing a Mother Love Bone shirt. What is perhaps not so good is that this person is a psychology instructor whose teaching repertoire includes Abnormal Psychology. However, this psychology dude is definitely more observant than the Gideons, which is the whole point in this crapola. Yes, there is a point and yes, it is the Gideons.

There was a day long, long ago in a galaxy not so far away in the badlands of Kentucky, where I went about my day of piddling around in the TV studio*. On Gideon Day, it was business as usual as a much younger and not quite as bitter Bone Machine. With my appearance, either the Gideons thought I was in deep need of religious help (and they were probably right), they got paid by the book, or they got so into Bible distribution mode that they didn't notice that they were offering another Bible to the same dude as he went to the vending machines, went to spring a leak, went to wander aimlessly, etc. By the end of the day, I'd accumulated 8-10 Bibles. It could have escalated into competitive sport had it not been steeped in evil and equaled eternal damnation.

So yesterday was Gideon Day '06 and as an much older, much angrier, much more bitter and less aerodynamic Bone Machine, I found it somewhat disheartening to walk into the workplace and automatically be handed a Bible right out of the chute. I wanted to say "Shit, man, I mean shoot, is there something I should know here? Is the place so incredibly hostile today that the good book is suddenly necessary? If so, should I go home now? When I weathered a tornado warning here on Friday evening, where you guys then?"

But I stifled my inner bastard, accepted their gift (even though I still have one of the '92 models in my backpack), wished them well, walked into the office, re-gifted the gift to the student worker for no apparent reason, and walked into my office to withdraw from it all.

By the end of the day, my oddball sense of humor was flaring up and I was making up insane and largely immoral situations with the Gideons. I imagined walking down the sidewalk and seeing the glee in their eyes as some Hellbound jackass enters the radar, then totally wrecking their mood. "I thought you guys carried tambourines. What?!?!?!?! You mean you're not Hare Krishnas? Moonies?

At that point, I'd most likely be on the receiving end of a Gideon ass-kicking and having a Gideon Bible surgically removed from parts unknown. I'm guessing those guys can throw quite a punch and have most likely taken a fair amount of lip from much funnier folks than myself.

Then the ideas went farther off the rails. I wondered how long I would last on the sidewalk if I put on a fancy ass suit and passed out the Satanic Bible or the Koran. I'm guessing my ass would be carted off in a choke hold and a cloud of mace before I passed out book two. Not that I'm affiliated or particularly interested in those faiths (not that there's anything wrong with it), I just figure folks would be quite as receptive to those books on the same sidewalk here in Shit Town.

I decided that it was best to forgo the ass-kicking and play it cool. I snagged a replacement copy of the Gideon Bible from the couch outside the office figuring that it would reduce the early evening sales pitch to nihil seeing that I already had a copy. I gathered my stuff and clutched the book along with my stack of CD's and made my way to the car. They were about to pounce until I showed them my Bible and again wished them well and that is where we parted company.



===========Footnotes and shit==========
*--In the early 90s, I worked for the TV studio of the local community college. It was basically slave labor schlepping equipment to and fro or sitting in the studio throwing out psychotic ideas for TV viewing that had absolutely no chance of making it on the air. Although I was essentially a jackass of all trades, one of my main jobs was making incredibly basic animations on the Video Toaster. For instance, one of those not ready for Owensboro's puritanical airwaves was a generic station ID for the winter months, which featured a snowman. It sounds innocent enough until I mention that I also added a dog lifting its leg on said snowman. I guess basic biology is what got the pee-pee ID poo-pooed.

Muted Horn

So like we have a "transcriptionist here to do some work for" the boss's boss. While there is a nice office that is available just two doors down from the boss's boss, where the transcriptionist would be quite comfy...she's working at the front desk.

I'm not sure if her headphones don't work, or if she doesn't have any headphones. Either way, I can hear the recording she's listening to through the wall and a closet. It might not be so bad if I could understand the speaker, he might even be educational. But, she's got the speed reduced so that it sounds like a horn during a musical performance where the musician attempts to make the horn talk with a mute.

Wha, wha, wha wha wha wahhhhh.

I started go out there and dance around the subject and mention Linus and Lucy to her, but I was afraid she would think Torvalds and Lawless due to her young age.

I Love Bloggy, Jr.

The final product: The Rolling Pin Bakery can't be beat. Mmmmm!












A very excited boy: He's playing his new "Soaked!" expansion pack for Roller Coaster Tycoon 3 (from me) and sporting a mighty fine AC/DC shirt (from Bone) and a darn fine grin I might add.










Ready for bed: After a long day of celebration, here's my birthday boy (in his YPS!! nightshirt) showing off his Toys R' Us crown and balloon. We also managed to pick up a Bulls-eye Ball game while we were there.














It's tradition: Every visit to CEC requires a photo-op with the mouse.










All-in-all, I'd say it went very well.

Happy Birthday Bloggy Jr.!! YOU ROCK!!

Hey, Nanner!? – Or – A One-Sided Discussion With A Friend From The Past; A Companion Piece

Hey, Nanner, remember that time in Biology class in high school? That was the class we had “Stinky” for a teacher. You know, the guy that had B.O. like nobody’s bidness and none of us wanted to ask him a question because he’d come stand behind you and put a hand on your desk to the left of you, and a hand on your desk to the right of you, with his pits nose-level, until he felt you were clear on the subject of frog intestines? Yeah, that’s the one!

Remember how we always sat in the back, while you lightly objected, what with your Boy Scout ways and all? Yeah, and remember how that now NASCAR “Hero” sat back there with us? Ha! I’ll never forget the day he and the Former Furniture Maker Turned State Trooper glanced over at us with that “we’re gonna beat you scrawny boys into the ground as soon as we can figger which way is down!”

I didn’t want them to know that I was scared shitless, but I wanted to be left alone. Remember what I did next? While they were both looking me dead in the eye, I slowly leaned down and scraped my index finger along the corner (where the wall met the floor) and collected a nasty layer of school-filth. I then slowly rose up and sat straight in the seat. I first showed you the grime, and then slowly turned my finger back towards the Jackass Duo and showed them the grime. After I was reassured you three were thoroughly confused, I slowly, slowly stuck my tongue out. I then slowly turned my finger towards my mouth, and slowly wiped my biology-class-grit-covered-finger down the length of my tongue. I can still see the looks in the eyes of those two bastards as they sat straight up with shock, as I closed my mouth and swallowed. Quickly they turned around towards the board and I’m pretty sure they never bothered us again.

I’m also very certain I never licked floor filth again.

Oh! And remember that day in that same class when I had on my black JCPenney version of a London Fog jacket? Remember?! Oh you know, I had those two Chinese Death Stars in my pocket and that pair of brass knuckles. I mentioned to you I was going to sell the knuckles and you wanted to see them. Keeping an eye on professor funk, I reached into my inner pocket and pulled the two-fingered, highly polished, brass knuckles out of my pocket, and slid my hand down (while still inside my jacket) so no one would see what I was up to. Once under the table I produced the knuckles for your closer inspection. I could see it in your eyes, you were not only a classmate, you were a customer.

You nodded in agreement to the price and then slid them back to me, under the table. It was nice and quiet that day, we’d just finished a test or something and were waiting for everyone to finish up. (This did NOT mean we did well on the test, we were just done. Sorry, Swampy.) That’s when I reversed the process and moved my hand under the table, and across my lap, and in behind my keen jacket, out of view. Then simply enough, I dropped the knuckles back into their resting place in my inner jacket pocket.

It’s too bad I wasn’t more alert when being so sly. As it turned out, the hooked handle of the knuckles had grabbed the outer edge of the pocket. That sinking-into-place feeling I got, that made me think the brass weapon was safely in my pocket, was actually just the weight shift as it grabbed the lip of my pocket. The knuckles were actually hanging outside the pocket.

It’s amazing how many biologically-tested heads whip around as the sudden ringing and reverberating blast of brass on concrete and tile echoes in a classroom. Nanner, remember how badly we were not wanting to get caught? We both instinctively looked all around the room as if to find the rowdy lout that would dare disrupt the sanctity of test time! As we did so, I put my foot on the ground and lightly tapped around until I felt the knuckles. I covered them with my foot and then slid my foot, along with the knuckles, into a more natural posture. Doc Stinkman came back there and whispered his dead-sea breath at us with, “What was that?”

Like the Oscar winners we were, we shrugged.



Good talking to you Nanner. Oh, and hey! Whatever happened to that big ass German Shepherd you guys had that guarded that one corner of your kitchen? Damn that dog didn’t like me! What? Oh yeah, I guess you never did really like being called Nanner, did you? Sorry about that, Buh-Nanner, I mean, Tan-Blan, I mean Nan-new Nan-new, I mean…