Hi Folks,
It’s been a while since I blogged. Did you notice? If so, then sorry. If not, then WTF or is it FTW? Anyway, I have been as busy as a hooker on a Navy base, so I only have time for a quickie. I was just thinking of something that you all have probably had thoughts about every once in a while – your first car. My first car was a 1963 (I think) Ford Falcon Futura. It was actually my Ma’s car. She bought it used and drove it for several years until she got another one. Then, I think she let my brother use it, but when he left home, I got to buy it from her for $100! My Ma believed that kids should work for their toys, so I got a job at a grocery store when I was 14, and then bought the car shortly thereafter when I turned 15. This was one cool car. I think I was able to make the tires squeal exactly two times as I “burned rubber”. On the second time, I got a flat tire. This did not impress the chicks.
The fastest I ever drove my car was 92 mph going down a steep hill with a wind to my back. I wanted to break 100 so badly that I made my friends roll up the windows to reduce the wind resistance. I’ll never forget how the steering column started shaking up and down when we hit about 60 mph. My friends were kind of scared. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be….We only made it to 92 mph. I sure liked that car though. It was a nice beige color with a tan interior, at least in those places that still had an interior. The upholstery on the driver side was a bit worn and had some holes in it, but I didn’t care. My ass covered them up anyway, so, in theory, it was still possible to look cool. My friend Corky had a light blue Rambler that he inherited from his folks after they drove it into oblivion. It was a fine ride for a 15 year old too, but it was light blue for god sakes. How are you going to impress chicks driving around in Little Boy Blue’s car? It was also a station wagon. Need I say more? My Falcon, on the other hand, was a lovemobile. Well, not exactly, but at least I knew it had the potential to be a lovemobile under the right circumstances.
Corky’s car and my car were both much better than some of the others that kids in my blue collar neighborhood drove. We knew this guy Chuck who lived down the street. Chuck had this old car dry rotting in his backyard for a while. His parents had thought about just pushing it into the empty swimming pool in their yard, but never had the motivation to expend the effort. So one day after school, Chuck got the keys to this tank and we went out joy riding. We were all surprised that it even cranked. Not long after we started cruising, Chuck yelled out “Open the doors and drag your feet on the road! We don’t have breaks!” At first, we all thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t. So all of us did exactly what Chuck suggested, and we managed to stop the car before we encountered an upcoming intersection. As it turned out, the car was sitting in the yard because it was old and IT HAD NO BREAKS. But Chuck thought we could always stop it if he didn’t go too fast, so he decided not to mention the break issue to us for fear that we would not accompany him on this adventure. We cruised around another hour or so until our feet got sore. We also attracted a lot of feminine attention from the babes in the neighborhood that afternoon, and thus, we were stoked. In hindsight, it was probably not the best kind of attention. I don’t think the neighborhood chicks found our terrified screaming at every intersection too sexy.
One day my Falcon just quit running. It sat in my front yard for a couple of months after it died. Every now and then, I would charge the battery and try to start it, but it never would crank. That was pretty much the extent of my auto mechanics knowledge….”Dude, charge the battery.” I mentioned my car dilemma to a guy at work who had a brother-in-law with a tow truck and $50. I sold my Falcon to his brother-in-law the next day. I felt pretty good getting $50 for that old clunker, but then two days later, I heard that the guy had it purring like a kitten. Oh well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain.
I got another car a few months later. It was much nicer and easily broke 100 mph regardless of wind direction, but you never forget your first ride. See ya’ later &
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sunday, September 14, 2008
When I Was A Young Man....
Hi Folks,
I have been working my butt off. I am thinking that if I don't sleep much this week, then I may be able to finish all the overdue stuff at work and just settle down with the "to do immediately" stuff. Nonetheless, I wanted to say "hi" to my readers - all two of you. I also wanted to share one small thought. (Small thoughts are all I have left these days. I spent all my big ones on my last research report.)
When I was in graduate school, I always wanted to go out on a first date with a hot chick in this car:
I always figured that if you can't score in the wienermobile, then there must be something physically or mentally wrong with you...very wrong with you. One time the wienermobile came to the USC campus, and the driver was constantly talking to hot babes. Wouldn't you like to be a fly on the bun of that ride?
I actually did quite a bit of statistical programming and forecasting work as a consultant for Oscar Mayer while I was in graduate school, but I guess I was never really running with the big dogs in the company because I didn't even know where they parked this bad boy. I also wanted to get a hold of Little Oscar's costume for Halloween one year, but I was told it would be blasphemy. In the end, the only lifelong impression I took from that gig was the distinction between a wiener and a frank.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
I have been working my butt off. I am thinking that if I don't sleep much this week, then I may be able to finish all the overdue stuff at work and just settle down with the "to do immediately" stuff. Nonetheless, I wanted to say "hi" to my readers - all two of you. I also wanted to share one small thought. (Small thoughts are all I have left these days. I spent all my big ones on my last research report.)
When I was in graduate school, I always wanted to go out on a first date with a hot chick in this car:
I always figured that if you can't score in the wienermobile, then there must be something physically or mentally wrong with you...very wrong with you. One time the wienermobile came to the USC campus, and the driver was constantly talking to hot babes. Wouldn't you like to be a fly on the bun of that ride?
I actually did quite a bit of statistical programming and forecasting work as a consultant for Oscar Mayer while I was in graduate school, but I guess I was never really running with the big dogs in the company because I didn't even know where they parked this bad boy. I also wanted to get a hold of Little Oscar's costume for Halloween one year, but I was told it would be blasphemy. In the end, the only lifelong impression I took from that gig was the distinction between a wiener and a frank.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The Snake
Hi Folks,
I haven’t posted in a while, but then again, that’s how I said it would be when I started this stupid blog. Ya’ get what you pay for.
Anyway, I want to tell you about “The Snake.” I don’t like snakes. They scare me. Not in the poop in your pants and cry for mama kind of way, but in a more rational “Is that thing close enough to bite me because if it is, I am going to shit in my pants and scream for help” way. Snakes seem to seek me out and find me. There is this bundle of neurons that fire in my head right before a snake encounter, and I get this weird, funky feeling. Really. It’s like my brain knows what is going on before I do, if that makes any sense. Maybe the snake is sending me ESP signals because it knows things might end badly. If I can’t figure out what kind of snake it is very quickly after I see it, then it usually ends up dead, and I end up at JC Penney looking for new jockey shorts. It’s not a good time for me or the snake. Now, I don’t want a bunch of OkeFenokee Joe types harassing the crap out of me through the e-mail about abusing snakes. I let the good ones live if I can tell that they are the good ones. Unfortunately, you’ve usually got to get really close to them to tell, and then, the next thing you know, you’re driving to JC Penney…
In the spring of 2007, I went turkey hunting in south Georgia with my ace turkey guide, "Bobby The Turkey Guide." We were driving along his property, and Bobby said “Hey. What have we got here?” And then I said “What” and he said “A rattlesnake”, and right then a shot of adrenaline pieced my entire chest, and I threw my neck back so hard to look as we passed it on the dirt road that I hit the roof of the truck cab with by head…Faen, that hurt. I had never seen a rattlesnake outside of a zoo display, and this was almost too much for my colon to handle. Bobby pulled over and I asked “What are you doing?” and he said “We gotta’ get it off the property. We gotta’ kill it. Do you want to do it?” Since I was the one with the shotgun, I said “Well, okay, I guess.” I got out, loaded up, and gave my 12-gauge a pump. That’s when Bobby said “Not with that. You’ll scare the birds!” I’m like, “WTF am I suppose to kill it with?” and he said “Pick up a stick or something.” At that point, I thought it was prudent to remind Bobby that a) he was the guide, b) I was the customer, and c) I was paying him cash monies to hunt for turkeys, not to hunt for a big stick. Especially not a big stick to kill some rattlesnake by the side of the road who would no doubt try to bite me and make me soil my new, ultra lightweight camo underwear. So, Bobby pulled a giant tractor tine (i.e., a big, heavy, metal pole) out of the back of the truck. He went over to the snake and poked it with the tine. It coiled up and began to rattle just like on Wild Kingdom. Bobby then took the tine and whacked the rattlesnake over the head a few times until it was unconscious. He then buried the head of the snake into the ground with the end of the tine and told me to hold the tine while he cut off its rattles. I held the tine tightly to make sure the snake did not get us while Bobby cut off its rattles. Bobby seemed happy about ridding the property of the poisonous snake. He started to laugh at me because I was holding the tine so damn hard as if the snake would rise up from the dead and bite me. We then went on with the rest of our turkey hunt. We got skunked! It was the dreaded rattlesnake curse! I’m sure of it.
About a month later, I was in the deer woods in east Georgia where I hunt in the fall. I was checking on my stand. I had cut a nice path through the woods the previous year, so I could walk at a pretty good pace. There was a tiny little ditch on the way to my stand, and I thought to myself – “Self, I bet that ditch would fill up with water if it would ever rain in Georgia. And I bet that if it did fill up with water, then snakes would come around and hang out here.” No shit, that’s really what I said to myself. I wasn’t too worried because I NEVER go into the woods without my Smith and Wesson revolver which I keep loaded with three snake shot shells (they are like really tiny shotgun shells for a revolver) and three 357 magnum rounds (i.e., big ass bullets). The first three are for snakes and the last three are for wild hogs, coyotes, or hillbilly perverts like those from Deliverance or The Hills Have Eyes. Plus, it had not rained in I don’t know how long, so I thought nothing more of it. Well I continued walking to my stand. When I got to my stand, it looked fine, so I headed back. I was going to call my hunting buddy on my cell phone to see if he wanted to go into town. However, something made me think better of it, so instead of talking on the cell, I decided to watch where I was going. Imagine that. Somebody who pays attention to what they are doing instead of talking on the cell phone! I’m such a dinosaur. Faen. Well, as I was walking up to that very same ditch I crossed minutes earlier, those neurons fired in my head, and I was overwhelmed with that funky feeling. Sure enough, there was a REALLY BIG snake about 8 feet away from me sitting right on the edge of the ditch to the side of my path. I recognized its skin pattern right away. It was a timber rattlesnake just like the one Bobby and I came across weeks before. I pulled out my revolver and began to shoot. Bamm!! The snake got pissed off and coiled up. Bamm!! I saw its head wobble and then the head plopped on the ground. Taking no chances, I shot it again! Bamm!! As it turned out, only the first shot was snake shot. The last two were 357 bullets. I lucked out. Well, as I passed by the snake, I thought to myself “Damn, that snake is huge. I’ve got to get these rattles like all those other southern boys do. It’s part of my heritage. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” I looked around for a big long stick to bury its head it the dirt. I found a stick, and proceeded to pin the snake’s head into the ground. It started to wiggle. “Ahhhh. Shit, I hope it’s dead.” All of those stories about fangs from long dead snakes pricking people and making them die were now flowing through my head. I got out the Swiss army knife from my pocket, and at that moment, I realized that physics was not on my side. I could not stand and hold this 5-foot long stick while simultaneously kneeling down to cut the rattles off this giant wiggling snake who would like nothing more than to bite me before it expired. I ended up letting go of the stick just barely while instantly sliding my right hand down a little at a time. I was so spastic, that it never occurred to me to drop my knife for a minute and use two hands. Anyway, once I spazzed my way to the ground, I tried to cut the rattles. They were huge too! But the snake kept wiggling every time I tried to cut. It was really weirding me out. Finally, I was able to cut them. I took the rattles and my knife, and I leaped away leaving the stick and snake behind, knowing that it’s spirit wanted revenge. I put the rattles in my pocket and got ready to leave. Just then, I had a thought. What if I come back through later in the week, and I see this rattlesnake in my path. I will shit my pants! So I decided to move it off of my path. I picked up the stick, and slid it under the now motionless snake. I lifted the snake up into the air and began to walk it off of the path. But all of a sudden, it started wiggling again. That creeped me out, and I dropped the snake. I went back to the path to get my knife and look at my rattles only to find that the rattles had disappeared. That’s right; they were nowhere to be found. They were not in my pocket. They were not with my knife. I looked all around, but they had vanished. All of this was taking its toll on my sphincter, so I simply left. I drove hysterically to my hunting buddy’s house a mile or so away, and I begged him to come and look at the giant killer snake that almost did me in. I knew if he did not come, then nobody would believe just how big the snake was and how lucky I had been to spot it before it got me. He reluctantly agreed to return to the scene of the horrific encounter.
My friend went into the woods with me to see the granddaddy of all serpents. When we came to the ditch, I described step by step what had transpired. He looked at the snake and then laughed and said “Why did you bury its head in the dirt? You shot half of it off!” As he was laughing, he was looking for the rattles, and I’ll be darn if the ole man didn’t find them. He has eyes like an eagle. Well, maybe a really old eagle, but he found those rattles. We counted 11 rattles and a button. A rattlesnake gets a new rattle every time it sheds its skin, so this monster had been slithering around for quite a while. Anyway, I was happy to be alive and happy that I had the rattles as proof of my experience.
The next time I went turkey hunting with Bobby down in south Georgia, we went to a Bar-B-Q joint in the nearest town for lunch on the first day. There was a farmer in there telling us that he killed a rattlesnake that was huge. He said it had 11 rattles, and if it would have bit him, it would have broken his leg! Bobby nudged me and said “Tell him about the snake you killed.” I said “Mine had 11 rattles too, and if I hadn’t have seen it when I did, it would have bit me, robbed me of my keys and stolen my truck.” The farmer said “Bullshiiiiiaaaat. You city boys would shit in your pants if you ever came across a snake like that.” I just looked at him and asked “And your point is?”.
I felt compelled to tell you this story today because, last week, I killed another rattlesnake about a mile from where I had my encounter with the giant demon snake from hell in the aforementioned story. This one was lying out on a dirt road in an astronomy village where I spend a lot of time. That’s right, I said astronomy village….one with observatories, and telescopes, and geeks, and stuff. They don’t let you use any white light at night there because they don’t want to “ruin” their night vision. So I spend most of my evenings there fumbling around trying to find stuff or trying not to pee on my shoes. I just knew that if I let that snake go, then it would not be long before somebody met up with it one night. So, I got out of my truck, and shot it three times. Again the first shot just made it mad, whereas the remaining shots did it in more or less. Just to be sure though, I ran it over with my truck three or four times. It still looked pissed off! So I went to a nearby shed to get a heavy steel rake and a shovel. I whacked it in the head with the steel rake and pierced its snake skull. It put one fang out just hoping that somehow I might spaz out and fall on it, and poison myself to death. Every time I touched its tail with the shovel, it would wiggle, but I still managed to cut off its wiggling rattles with the shovel. There were 7 rattles and a button. All of the astronomers came out of their cabins and homes because it’s against the rules to shoot a gun on the property. I yelled out my apology to the entire community, and I told them that I shot a rattlesnake. They were like “A rattlesnake? No problem. No problem. Did you cut off its head?” I’m like “No, I cut off its rattles. I’m not going near its head.” They suggested that I go back and shoot it some more and then cut off its head. Yeah, right.
Well, I haven’t written in a long time, but I made up for it today. Remember, there are good snakes out there, so don’t go crazy with all this new information I have given you. And don’t go putting any rubber snakes in my mailbox, or in my car, or on my front porch, or other stupid crap like that. I am running low on jockey shorts
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
I haven’t posted in a while, but then again, that’s how I said it would be when I started this stupid blog. Ya’ get what you pay for.
Anyway, I want to tell you about “The Snake.” I don’t like snakes. They scare me. Not in the poop in your pants and cry for mama kind of way, but in a more rational “Is that thing close enough to bite me because if it is, I am going to shit in my pants and scream for help” way. Snakes seem to seek me out and find me. There is this bundle of neurons that fire in my head right before a snake encounter, and I get this weird, funky feeling. Really. It’s like my brain knows what is going on before I do, if that makes any sense. Maybe the snake is sending me ESP signals because it knows things might end badly. If I can’t figure out what kind of snake it is very quickly after I see it, then it usually ends up dead, and I end up at JC Penney looking for new jockey shorts. It’s not a good time for me or the snake. Now, I don’t want a bunch of OkeFenokee Joe types harassing the crap out of me through the e-mail about abusing snakes. I let the good ones live if I can tell that they are the good ones. Unfortunately, you’ve usually got to get really close to them to tell, and then, the next thing you know, you’re driving to JC Penney…
In the spring of 2007, I went turkey hunting in south Georgia with my ace turkey guide, "Bobby The Turkey Guide." We were driving along his property, and Bobby said “Hey. What have we got here?” And then I said “What” and he said “A rattlesnake”, and right then a shot of adrenaline pieced my entire chest, and I threw my neck back so hard to look as we passed it on the dirt road that I hit the roof of the truck cab with by head…Faen, that hurt. I had never seen a rattlesnake outside of a zoo display, and this was almost too much for my colon to handle. Bobby pulled over and I asked “What are you doing?” and he said “We gotta’ get it off the property. We gotta’ kill it. Do you want to do it?” Since I was the one with the shotgun, I said “Well, okay, I guess.” I got out, loaded up, and gave my 12-gauge a pump. That’s when Bobby said “Not with that. You’ll scare the birds!” I’m like, “WTF am I suppose to kill it with?” and he said “Pick up a stick or something.” At that point, I thought it was prudent to remind Bobby that a) he was the guide, b) I was the customer, and c) I was paying him cash monies to hunt for turkeys, not to hunt for a big stick. Especially not a big stick to kill some rattlesnake by the side of the road who would no doubt try to bite me and make me soil my new, ultra lightweight camo underwear. So, Bobby pulled a giant tractor tine (i.e., a big, heavy, metal pole) out of the back of the truck. He went over to the snake and poked it with the tine. It coiled up and began to rattle just like on Wild Kingdom. Bobby then took the tine and whacked the rattlesnake over the head a few times until it was unconscious. He then buried the head of the snake into the ground with the end of the tine and told me to hold the tine while he cut off its rattles. I held the tine tightly to make sure the snake did not get us while Bobby cut off its rattles. Bobby seemed happy about ridding the property of the poisonous snake. He started to laugh at me because I was holding the tine so damn hard as if the snake would rise up from the dead and bite me. We then went on with the rest of our turkey hunt. We got skunked! It was the dreaded rattlesnake curse! I’m sure of it.
About a month later, I was in the deer woods in east Georgia where I hunt in the fall. I was checking on my stand. I had cut a nice path through the woods the previous year, so I could walk at a pretty good pace. There was a tiny little ditch on the way to my stand, and I thought to myself – “Self, I bet that ditch would fill up with water if it would ever rain in Georgia. And I bet that if it did fill up with water, then snakes would come around and hang out here.” No shit, that’s really what I said to myself. I wasn’t too worried because I NEVER go into the woods without my Smith and Wesson revolver which I keep loaded with three snake shot shells (they are like really tiny shotgun shells for a revolver) and three 357 magnum rounds (i.e., big ass bullets). The first three are for snakes and the last three are for wild hogs, coyotes, or hillbilly perverts like those from Deliverance or The Hills Have Eyes. Plus, it had not rained in I don’t know how long, so I thought nothing more of it. Well I continued walking to my stand. When I got to my stand, it looked fine, so I headed back. I was going to call my hunting buddy on my cell phone to see if he wanted to go into town. However, something made me think better of it, so instead of talking on the cell, I decided to watch where I was going. Imagine that. Somebody who pays attention to what they are doing instead of talking on the cell phone! I’m such a dinosaur. Faen. Well, as I was walking up to that very same ditch I crossed minutes earlier, those neurons fired in my head, and I was overwhelmed with that funky feeling. Sure enough, there was a REALLY BIG snake about 8 feet away from me sitting right on the edge of the ditch to the side of my path. I recognized its skin pattern right away. It was a timber rattlesnake just like the one Bobby and I came across weeks before. I pulled out my revolver and began to shoot. Bamm!! The snake got pissed off and coiled up. Bamm!! I saw its head wobble and then the head plopped on the ground. Taking no chances, I shot it again! Bamm!! As it turned out, only the first shot was snake shot. The last two were 357 bullets. I lucked out. Well, as I passed by the snake, I thought to myself “Damn, that snake is huge. I’ve got to get these rattles like all those other southern boys do. It’s part of my heritage. Yadda, yadda, yadda.” I looked around for a big long stick to bury its head it the dirt. I found a stick, and proceeded to pin the snake’s head into the ground. It started to wiggle. “Ahhhh. Shit, I hope it’s dead.” All of those stories about fangs from long dead snakes pricking people and making them die were now flowing through my head. I got out the Swiss army knife from my pocket, and at that moment, I realized that physics was not on my side. I could not stand and hold this 5-foot long stick while simultaneously kneeling down to cut the rattles off this giant wiggling snake who would like nothing more than to bite me before it expired. I ended up letting go of the stick just barely while instantly sliding my right hand down a little at a time. I was so spastic, that it never occurred to me to drop my knife for a minute and use two hands. Anyway, once I spazzed my way to the ground, I tried to cut the rattles. They were huge too! But the snake kept wiggling every time I tried to cut. It was really weirding me out. Finally, I was able to cut them. I took the rattles and my knife, and I leaped away leaving the stick and snake behind, knowing that it’s spirit wanted revenge. I put the rattles in my pocket and got ready to leave. Just then, I had a thought. What if I come back through later in the week, and I see this rattlesnake in my path. I will shit my pants! So I decided to move it off of my path. I picked up the stick, and slid it under the now motionless snake. I lifted the snake up into the air and began to walk it off of the path. But all of a sudden, it started wiggling again. That creeped me out, and I dropped the snake. I went back to the path to get my knife and look at my rattles only to find that the rattles had disappeared. That’s right; they were nowhere to be found. They were not in my pocket. They were not with my knife. I looked all around, but they had vanished. All of this was taking its toll on my sphincter, so I simply left. I drove hysterically to my hunting buddy’s house a mile or so away, and I begged him to come and look at the giant killer snake that almost did me in. I knew if he did not come, then nobody would believe just how big the snake was and how lucky I had been to spot it before it got me. He reluctantly agreed to return to the scene of the horrific encounter.
My friend went into the woods with me to see the granddaddy of all serpents. When we came to the ditch, I described step by step what had transpired. He looked at the snake and then laughed and said “Why did you bury its head in the dirt? You shot half of it off!” As he was laughing, he was looking for the rattles, and I’ll be darn if the ole man didn’t find them. He has eyes like an eagle. Well, maybe a really old eagle, but he found those rattles. We counted 11 rattles and a button. A rattlesnake gets a new rattle every time it sheds its skin, so this monster had been slithering around for quite a while. Anyway, I was happy to be alive and happy that I had the rattles as proof of my experience.
The next time I went turkey hunting with Bobby down in south Georgia, we went to a Bar-B-Q joint in the nearest town for lunch on the first day. There was a farmer in there telling us that he killed a rattlesnake that was huge. He said it had 11 rattles, and if it would have bit him, it would have broken his leg! Bobby nudged me and said “Tell him about the snake you killed.” I said “Mine had 11 rattles too, and if I hadn’t have seen it when I did, it would have bit me, robbed me of my keys and stolen my truck.” The farmer said “Bullshiiiiiaaaat. You city boys would shit in your pants if you ever came across a snake like that.” I just looked at him and asked “And your point is?”.
I felt compelled to tell you this story today because, last week, I killed another rattlesnake about a mile from where I had my encounter with the giant demon snake from hell in the aforementioned story. This one was lying out on a dirt road in an astronomy village where I spend a lot of time. That’s right, I said astronomy village….one with observatories, and telescopes, and geeks, and stuff. They don’t let you use any white light at night there because they don’t want to “ruin” their night vision. So I spend most of my evenings there fumbling around trying to find stuff or trying not to pee on my shoes. I just knew that if I let that snake go, then it would not be long before somebody met up with it one night. So, I got out of my truck, and shot it three times. Again the first shot just made it mad, whereas the remaining shots did it in more or less. Just to be sure though, I ran it over with my truck three or four times. It still looked pissed off! So I went to a nearby shed to get a heavy steel rake and a shovel. I whacked it in the head with the steel rake and pierced its snake skull. It put one fang out just hoping that somehow I might spaz out and fall on it, and poison myself to death. Every time I touched its tail with the shovel, it would wiggle, but I still managed to cut off its wiggling rattles with the shovel. There were 7 rattles and a button. All of the astronomers came out of their cabins and homes because it’s against the rules to shoot a gun on the property. I yelled out my apology to the entire community, and I told them that I shot a rattlesnake. They were like “A rattlesnake? No problem. No problem. Did you cut off its head?” I’m like “No, I cut off its rattles. I’m not going near its head.” They suggested that I go back and shoot it some more and then cut off its head. Yeah, right.
Well, I haven’t written in a long time, but I made up for it today. Remember, there are good snakes out there, so don’t go crazy with all this new information I have given you. And don’t go putting any rubber snakes in my mailbox, or in my car, or on my front porch, or other stupid crap like that. I am running low on jockey shorts
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Rabbits Don’t Like Bermuda Turf
Hi Folks. I’m back! I am almost as good as new, but unfortunately, I am not cool anymore.
When Dr. NanBob and I bought our house, we tried to save a few bucks by having the builder seed the backyard rather than sod it. Little did we know that Georgia would be plagued by a subsequent drought, and that the drought would last more than 15 months. Last month, our backyard looked really ugly with scant amounts of grass, crab grass, weeds and a lot of clay. The only living thing that found this yard appealing was a giant rabbit that came each evening to eat the crab grass. This thing was HUGE. If it would have had antlers, then it would score at least a 180 on the Pope and Young deer scale.
Anyway, the yard was looking pretty bad, so I decided to mow it. I thought that making the grass, crab grass and weeds the same short, flat height would improve the looks of the yard. I guess I skipped school the day kids were taught to avoid mowing clay in a drought. It was like a clay bomb went off. You know those pictures of the dust bowl you see in history books? It was much worse than that. The neighborhood looked like an enormous orange duster when I got through. There was an orange cloud of dust that followed me around. It covered our house and cars and those of our neighbors. We were not cherished members of the community when I was finished. It was then that Dr. NanBob and I decided to bite the bullet, bust the bank account, and have our backyard sodded.
As I said, we have a drought going on here where I live. Well, if you put in new landscaping in my county, then, and only then, you can water it a little bit every other day for 10 weeks, but you must first pass a landscape watering test. Talk about test anxiety….Faen. The thought of having to tell Dr. NanBob we couldn’t have sod because I flunked the sod watering test was pretty scary. The exam is preceded by a typical education component in which examinees (i.e., testes) watch a PowerPoint presentation filled with landscape watering facts. For all my former students who think statistics class is boring, well let me tell you, some things are worse; things like sod watering school. The training component is followed by a multiple choice test. I was bummed because I didn’t ace the test….I missed one out of twenty questions. You may think this is simply the neurotic rant of an overachiever here. No, it’s not. I had the damn PowerPoint slides printed out right there in front of me while I was taking the test….Only a moron would not be able to get 100%. Oh well, I guess I was dozing. The heat does funny things to your sleep cycle. In any event, I passed the test, and we got a permit to water our sod. I won, I won! I wanted to frame my sod watering school completion certificate and hang up it in the den. Dr. NanBob was not impressed with my accomplishment nor my decorating idea.
The sod installer was a good ole’ boy from Georgia that I knew, and when he came over, we did what all of us good ole’ boys do here. We talked about the heat, passing out from the heat, the drought, deer and snakes….especially snakes. (Note to self: If you pass out in your yard in the heat of the day, snakes will come and attack you.) During the animal conversation, I mentioned the giant rabbit that visited our yard during the evenings. I told the installer that if the rabbit eats our new sod then he would soon become a "Revereware Rabbit". The installer told me that “nawww, rabbits don’t like Bermuda turf.” Well, a few days went by, and I did not see the rabbit. I was out in the yard a lot trying to put every drop of water I could on that lawn, but I never saw the rabbit. (There may have even been some occasional “ninja watering” when the lawn did not look so good, but I have no memory for such events Sheriff, nor do I remember seeing the rabbit.) The rabbit was nowhere to be found. Wheew! The lawn was safe, at least from the giant rabbit.
Well after about a week, I started noticing all this animal crap over the new lawn. It looked kind of familiar, but I wanted to identify it on the internet to confirm my suspicion. (There are literally all kinds of crap on the internet.) Damn if it wasn’t rabbit crap. Moreover, there was a lot of it too. Remember how I said this was a giant rabbit? Need I say more? There was so much of it that both Dr. NanBob and I felt compelled to remove it with shovels before it killed off some of the new lawn. As it turns out, this mutant rabbit was eating tons of stuff at our neighbors’ houses, and then coming over to our place to relieve itself. I thought back to what the installer said… “rabbits don’t like Bermuda turf.” He was right. They don’t like to eat it. But they do find it useful nonetheless. This rabbit lives by the old Italian adage “Don’t shit where you eat.” It must be a giant, mutant, Italian rabbit. I will buy some really big Revereware, some pasta and a nice bottle of Italian wine later today. You defiled the wrong lawn signore big bunny.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
P.S. Yes, having a rabbit crap on your large investment is pretty frightening, but so is our horror presentation sensation “Homie Horror: The Beginning.” If you are on Facebook, then you can watch it here:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=15632178343
Please join our Facebook group too because it helps us to promote the “movie”. If you are not on Facebook, then you can still watch it here:
http://www.roberjam.acceleron.net/Behindthescenes.htm
Don’t watch it alone or with any giant rabbits!!! Especially if either you or the rabbit have just eaten.
When Dr. NanBob and I bought our house, we tried to save a few bucks by having the builder seed the backyard rather than sod it. Little did we know that Georgia would be plagued by a subsequent drought, and that the drought would last more than 15 months. Last month, our backyard looked really ugly with scant amounts of grass, crab grass, weeds and a lot of clay. The only living thing that found this yard appealing was a giant rabbit that came each evening to eat the crab grass. This thing was HUGE. If it would have had antlers, then it would score at least a 180 on the Pope and Young deer scale.
Anyway, the yard was looking pretty bad, so I decided to mow it. I thought that making the grass, crab grass and weeds the same short, flat height would improve the looks of the yard. I guess I skipped school the day kids were taught to avoid mowing clay in a drought. It was like a clay bomb went off. You know those pictures of the dust bowl you see in history books? It was much worse than that. The neighborhood looked like an enormous orange duster when I got through. There was an orange cloud of dust that followed me around. It covered our house and cars and those of our neighbors. We were not cherished members of the community when I was finished. It was then that Dr. NanBob and I decided to bite the bullet, bust the bank account, and have our backyard sodded.
As I said, we have a drought going on here where I live. Well, if you put in new landscaping in my county, then, and only then, you can water it a little bit every other day for 10 weeks, but you must first pass a landscape watering test. Talk about test anxiety….Faen. The thought of having to tell Dr. NanBob we couldn’t have sod because I flunked the sod watering test was pretty scary. The exam is preceded by a typical education component in which examinees (i.e., testes) watch a PowerPoint presentation filled with landscape watering facts. For all my former students who think statistics class is boring, well let me tell you, some things are worse; things like sod watering school. The training component is followed by a multiple choice test. I was bummed because I didn’t ace the test….I missed one out of twenty questions. You may think this is simply the neurotic rant of an overachiever here. No, it’s not. I had the damn PowerPoint slides printed out right there in front of me while I was taking the test….Only a moron would not be able to get 100%. Oh well, I guess I was dozing. The heat does funny things to your sleep cycle. In any event, I passed the test, and we got a permit to water our sod. I won, I won! I wanted to frame my sod watering school completion certificate and hang up it in the den. Dr. NanBob was not impressed with my accomplishment nor my decorating idea.
The sod installer was a good ole’ boy from Georgia that I knew, and when he came over, we did what all of us good ole’ boys do here. We talked about the heat, passing out from the heat, the drought, deer and snakes….especially snakes. (Note to self: If you pass out in your yard in the heat of the day, snakes will come and attack you.) During the animal conversation, I mentioned the giant rabbit that visited our yard during the evenings. I told the installer that if the rabbit eats our new sod then he would soon become a "Revereware Rabbit". The installer told me that “nawww, rabbits don’t like Bermuda turf.” Well, a few days went by, and I did not see the rabbit. I was out in the yard a lot trying to put every drop of water I could on that lawn, but I never saw the rabbit. (There may have even been some occasional “ninja watering” when the lawn did not look so good, but I have no memory for such events Sheriff, nor do I remember seeing the rabbit.) The rabbit was nowhere to be found. Wheew! The lawn was safe, at least from the giant rabbit.
Well after about a week, I started noticing all this animal crap over the new lawn. It looked kind of familiar, but I wanted to identify it on the internet to confirm my suspicion. (There are literally all kinds of crap on the internet.) Damn if it wasn’t rabbit crap. Moreover, there was a lot of it too. Remember how I said this was a giant rabbit? Need I say more? There was so much of it that both Dr. NanBob and I felt compelled to remove it with shovels before it killed off some of the new lawn. As it turns out, this mutant rabbit was eating tons of stuff at our neighbors’ houses, and then coming over to our place to relieve itself. I thought back to what the installer said… “rabbits don’t like Bermuda turf.” He was right. They don’t like to eat it. But they do find it useful nonetheless. This rabbit lives by the old Italian adage “Don’t shit where you eat.” It must be a giant, mutant, Italian rabbit. I will buy some really big Revereware, some pasta and a nice bottle of Italian wine later today. You defiled the wrong lawn signore big bunny.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
P.S. Yes, having a rabbit crap on your large investment is pretty frightening, but so is our horror presentation sensation “Homie Horror: The Beginning.” If you are on Facebook, then you can watch it here:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=15632178343
Please join our Facebook group too because it helps us to promote the “movie”. If you are not on Facebook, then you can still watch it here:
http://www.roberjam.acceleron.net/Behindthescenes.htm
Don’t watch it alone or with any giant rabbits!!! Especially if either you or the rabbit have just eaten.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Bad News
Hi folks,
I am a friend of Dr. JimBob's. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Dr. JimBob had an accident. I am attaching a headline from today's edition of "Ivory Tower" explaining everything. (If you click on the article, you can read it better.) I know you all will join me in wishing Dr. JimBob a speedy recovery.
Yours Very Truly,
Washoe Jr.
xxxxx
I am a friend of Dr. JimBob's. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Dr. JimBob had an accident. I am attaching a headline from today's edition of "Ivory Tower" explaining everything. (If you click on the article, you can read it better.) I know you all will join me in wishing Dr. JimBob a speedy recovery.
Yours Very Truly,
Washoe Jr.
xxxxx
Monday, June 2, 2008
My Wife Got A Booty Call
Really. Dr. NanBob was talking on her cell phone yesterday, and everything went on the fritz. The phone was just doing stuff on its own, and making all these strange beeps, chirps and whistles, and the screen was full of garbage text, and most of the buttons refused to do what they were suppose to do. She went to the cell phone store where we bought it, and of course, the phone acted fine after she stood in line for 30 minutes. Well, anyway, tonight Dr. NanBob came home and told me that she had a weird text message on her phone and that the screen said “BOOTY.” Neither my wife nor I are that big into the world of texting, but I know a little bit about that technology, so I found the suspect message in her Inbox and displayed it. There was a phone number, the word “BOOTY”, and a naked ass on the screen. Yes, a naked butt right there on the screen!!! I thought it was very funny. Dr. NanBob did not. I lol’ed. Dr. NanBob did not. She called the number that left the message, but there was no answer. She thought her phone’s wacky behavior was related to this booty call, so she also called the phone company. The phone company guy lol’ed too when she described her butt message predicament. However, during her conversation with the phone company guy, the booty caller called her back. My wife put the phone company guy on hold and began asking the booty caller a lot of questions like “Noooo, who is this?” “Did you send me a picture of somebody’s butt?” “Do you have kids?” “Do you have a butt?” “Do your kids have butts?” “Do you send all your friends pictures of your butt?” Etc…. In short, my wife got a booty call from a real butt head, and now her phone is messed up. She has a messed up porno-phone. It is kind of scary that a picture of a naked butt can whack your phone, but hey, she has the evidence.
Speaking of scary, go check out the new “horror presentation sensation” that my students and I made. It’s called “Homie Horror: The Beginning …” and it is located at:
http://www.drjimbob.com/Behindthescenes.htm
Stay safe, and DON’T ANSWER THE PHONE!!!
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
Speaking of scary, go check out the new “horror presentation sensation” that my students and I made. It’s called “Homie Horror: The Beginning …” and it is located at:
http://www.drjimbob.com/Behindthescenes.htm
Stay safe, and DON’T ANSWER THE PHONE!!!
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Goatees are Evil
Back in the day, when I was a kid, when Tinkerbelle was a Walt Disney character, and E.D. stood for “Editor”, I used to watch a lot of television. Television shows were still in black and white back then, and the only types of shows that I remember were news shows and children’s shows. I avoided the former and lived for the latter. One of my favorites was "Captain Kangaroo", a nationally syndicated masterpiece with a captain, a moose, a rabbit, a farmhand, a dancing bear, a smiling clock and a ton of ping pong balls. What more do you need for unbridled television success than a moose, a rabbit, and lots of ping pong balls? That show was over the top man. I loved it! We also had lots of cool local TV shows for kids like “The Jolly Jim Show” and “The Cactus Quave Show” (a.k.a. “Bar Q Ranch”), and later, “The Romper Room Show”, “The Mr. Knozit Show” and “The Stanley the Clown Show.” I loved watching these television shows. Moreover, they were all produced and broadcast in my hometown. It seemed to me like Columbia, SC was the Mecca of children’s programming. As I recall, there was no PBS back then. Besides, Cactus Quave could beat the crap out of that stupid Big Bird any day of the week! No contest.
One of the great things about having local children’s programming is that most of these shows would let kids be on the program as members of the studio audience. I was a very outgoing kid, and I begged my ma to let me go to all of these shows between the time I was 4-10 years old. Another wonderful thing about these shows was they were broadcast LIVE….What was said and done on the front side of the camera went out the back side and into the living rooms of millions, well, maybe hundreds of families in the local viewing area. The first show I recall attending was the Jolly Jim Show or maybe it was the Cactus Quave show… but that’s beside the point as you will see. The Jolly Jim Show had three main characters, Jolly Jim, Chief Silly Horse, and the notoriously evil J. P. Sidewinder. All I remember about Jolly Jim was that he was jolly. Chief Silly Horse was a funny guy dressed as an indian with a large feathered headdress and cool tassels on his sleeves. J.P. Sidewinder was a demon from hell in the silent movie tradition. J.P. was dressed in black (and this was before the Europeans made it trendy to wear black), and he wore a matching black cape and hat. He had a handlebar mustache that he would twirl while he let out an evil laugh, and a goatee, also in black, which made him look curiously similar to THE DEVIL. One reason my memory is fuzzy about my first TV appearance is because J.P. Sidewinder use to moonlight as the villain on the Cactus Quave Show too. Columbia had a lot of kids’ shows, but there were only so many villains to go around. Regardless, J.P. Sidewinder was evil and scary enough to appear in dozens of shows if needed. He was like a combination of Jason Voorhees, Jaws, Freddy Krueger, and Snidely Whiplash stuffed into a pair of black pants. His goatee gave me the willies.
Well, like a miracle from heaven, my ma took me and my older brother to the Jolly Jim Show where we got to be in the studio audience. How cool was that! At some point during the show, J.P. Sidewinder showed up and explained horrifically that he was going to kidnap a member of the audience, and then take that poor child back to his EVIL CAVE. Yes, you heard me right. To make himself just that much scarier, that much more of a badass, this incubus had an evil cave; and sure as shit, he would steal kids and take them there! That guy always made me nervous, even on TV, but now I was right there within a few feet of him, and the circumstances had me pretty worried. As fate would have it, J.P. saw the fear in my eyes, and he decided to snatch ME. He picked me up, and held me in his mighty arms, and that was all it took to initiate the fight or flight instincts that lay dormant deep in my psyche.
I immediately began screaming for my ma, kicking as hard as I could and trying to beat the chest of this archangel of doom to the point where he would release me, but he just wouldn’t let go. He began taking me back to his evil cave, and I was kicking and screaming the whole way. At that point, I think I may have been crying pretty loudly, and I remember the cameraman looking a bit anxious about the situation. Why shouldn’t he be? He was witnessing a kidnapping! As I was being kidnapped by this fiend, I recall seeing my older brother smiling from his seat in the studio audience and looking very satisfied with the way things had turned out. I was sure that Jolly Jim and Chief Silly Horse would come to rescue me at any moment if I just cried loud enough, but they turned out to be a bunch of pussies. What a hard lesson for a kid to learn in a pinch - don’t stake your future on a bunch of pussies.
When J. P. Sidewinder got me back to his evil cave, I was still kicking, but it did no good. If J.P. would have lowered me about a foot or so, I would have found out if he wore a protective cup under those black pants, but this was not my lucky day. By this time, I was crying so hard, I was close to passing out and/or peeing in my pants. It’s kind of a hazy memory for me now due to the lack of oxygen produced by my sobbing, but I think they took an unscheduled commercial break, and let my ma come and get me out of the evil cave. It appears J.P had enough of me after all. The river of tears and snot that flowed endlessly out of my head was, no doubt, screwing up J.P’s wardrobe, so the producer decided to call it quits with me. It’s a good thing too, because I was getting heavy, and J.P. had lowered me just about enough to attempt one last kick to the groin before I went limp from terror. My ma took me back to the parents waiting area where I had to sit in shame while my brother got to participate in the rest of the show.
Over the last decade or so, goatees have become very popular. Nonetheless, black goatees send chills down my spine till this day. Whenever I walk past a guy with a black goatee who is dressed in mostly dark attire, I get this overwhelming urge to kick him in the nuts and run away. This is something I hope to eventually deal with in therapy. I suppose my ma should have sued the TV station for inducing a lifelong trauma in an innocent kid, but people didn’t run around suing each other back then. It was the good ole’ days. Besides, we were only familiar with one lawyer, Perry Mason, and he had bigger fish to fry.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
One of the great things about having local children’s programming is that most of these shows would let kids be on the program as members of the studio audience. I was a very outgoing kid, and I begged my ma to let me go to all of these shows between the time I was 4-10 years old. Another wonderful thing about these shows was they were broadcast LIVE….What was said and done on the front side of the camera went out the back side and into the living rooms of millions, well, maybe hundreds of families in the local viewing area. The first show I recall attending was the Jolly Jim Show or maybe it was the Cactus Quave show… but that’s beside the point as you will see. The Jolly Jim Show had three main characters, Jolly Jim, Chief Silly Horse, and the notoriously evil J. P. Sidewinder. All I remember about Jolly Jim was that he was jolly. Chief Silly Horse was a funny guy dressed as an indian with a large feathered headdress and cool tassels on his sleeves. J.P. Sidewinder was a demon from hell in the silent movie tradition. J.P. was dressed in black (and this was before the Europeans made it trendy to wear black), and he wore a matching black cape and hat. He had a handlebar mustache that he would twirl while he let out an evil laugh, and a goatee, also in black, which made him look curiously similar to THE DEVIL. One reason my memory is fuzzy about my first TV appearance is because J.P. Sidewinder use to moonlight as the villain on the Cactus Quave Show too. Columbia had a lot of kids’ shows, but there were only so many villains to go around. Regardless, J.P. Sidewinder was evil and scary enough to appear in dozens of shows if needed. He was like a combination of Jason Voorhees, Jaws, Freddy Krueger, and Snidely Whiplash stuffed into a pair of black pants. His goatee gave me the willies.
Well, like a miracle from heaven, my ma took me and my older brother to the Jolly Jim Show where we got to be in the studio audience. How cool was that! At some point during the show, J.P. Sidewinder showed up and explained horrifically that he was going to kidnap a member of the audience, and then take that poor child back to his EVIL CAVE. Yes, you heard me right. To make himself just that much scarier, that much more of a badass, this incubus had an evil cave; and sure as shit, he would steal kids and take them there! That guy always made me nervous, even on TV, but now I was right there within a few feet of him, and the circumstances had me pretty worried. As fate would have it, J.P. saw the fear in my eyes, and he decided to snatch ME. He picked me up, and held me in his mighty arms, and that was all it took to initiate the fight or flight instincts that lay dormant deep in my psyche.
I immediately began screaming for my ma, kicking as hard as I could and trying to beat the chest of this archangel of doom to the point where he would release me, but he just wouldn’t let go. He began taking me back to his evil cave, and I was kicking and screaming the whole way. At that point, I think I may have been crying pretty loudly, and I remember the cameraman looking a bit anxious about the situation. Why shouldn’t he be? He was witnessing a kidnapping! As I was being kidnapped by this fiend, I recall seeing my older brother smiling from his seat in the studio audience and looking very satisfied with the way things had turned out. I was sure that Jolly Jim and Chief Silly Horse would come to rescue me at any moment if I just cried loud enough, but they turned out to be a bunch of pussies. What a hard lesson for a kid to learn in a pinch - don’t stake your future on a bunch of pussies.
When J. P. Sidewinder got me back to his evil cave, I was still kicking, but it did no good. If J.P. would have lowered me about a foot or so, I would have found out if he wore a protective cup under those black pants, but this was not my lucky day. By this time, I was crying so hard, I was close to passing out and/or peeing in my pants. It’s kind of a hazy memory for me now due to the lack of oxygen produced by my sobbing, but I think they took an unscheduled commercial break, and let my ma come and get me out of the evil cave. It appears J.P had enough of me after all. The river of tears and snot that flowed endlessly out of my head was, no doubt, screwing up J.P’s wardrobe, so the producer decided to call it quits with me. It’s a good thing too, because I was getting heavy, and J.P. had lowered me just about enough to attempt one last kick to the groin before I went limp from terror. My ma took me back to the parents waiting area where I had to sit in shame while my brother got to participate in the rest of the show.
Over the last decade or so, goatees have become very popular. Nonetheless, black goatees send chills down my spine till this day. Whenever I walk past a guy with a black goatee who is dressed in mostly dark attire, I get this overwhelming urge to kick him in the nuts and run away. This is something I hope to eventually deal with in therapy. I suppose my ma should have sued the TV station for inducing a lifelong trauma in an innocent kid, but people didn’t run around suing each other back then. It was the good ole’ days. Besides, we were only familiar with one lawyer, Perry Mason, and he had bigger fish to fry.
Best Wishes,
Dr. JimBob
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