RDCanecutter

Or tips on how to low-crawl into a Steak and Ale during Happy Gunfight Hour.

PVNCTVATIONISUNNECESSARYLATINHADTHERIGHTIDEA

Hello option football.

Counterpoint: sounds like a church where I'd feel inclined to stay awake. Can I throw this hymnal at the drummer if the Spirit takes me?

Yeah, in my case, something about me makes people of all sorts vomit forth their deepest thoughts. Sometimes benign, sometimes not. Maybe I could have been a priest, if we're talking some kind of Liam Neeson adventure priest who has a grown girlfriend and never diddles kids. Full Nazi is rare. More likely it's just some talk radio drivel, and it's tedious, but you just need your car fixed.

OK, @Biff Tannen, Frau Canecutter just told me I was awful to say that, and she is right. I wish to atone.

Probably you looked like an Untermensch. North Carolina.

She's nothing new. Back when I had a buzz-cut from OCS, randos would see me in civilian dress and assume I was a skinhead. They'd talk, oh how they'd talk. tldr/ your local locksmith thinks Hitler had no choice. Get a buzzcut, he'll tell you about it.

That's the opposite of what I'd expect. I have stocked up on liquor on the Georgia side, but I guess it wasn't Sunday. Phenix City now is not nearly as exciting as Phenix City of mob days/gambling/prostitutes-with-tattoos-inside-their-lips-so-their-pimps-can-hunt-them-down. IIRC the mob killed an investigating attorney, and his son wreaked Holy Vengeance on the place. The present day town is just aging sprawl, not like you're riding into Nuevo Laredo on payday. First time I heard of its rep I was riding with my prior-service uncle to Columbus. I was a perma-hungry teen, we were in Phenix City, he didn't want to stop there. I feigned death by starvation and so we stopped anyway, at a Dairy Queen. There were a couple of middle-school kids in there, doing their homework. Thus had the Ozymandius of Sin been brought low, transformed into kids doing worksheets.

If you ever need a zapping, just keep your eyes closed and you'll be done faster than getting your food in a slow drive-through line. I felt nothing, still don't. Doc said I might get a headache in a day or two.

We have a postage stamp yard so no hoses, no worries. The wild flowers died in the front yard after feeding the bees so I might mow it tomorrow and satisfy the control-freak urges of the local White People. (I am White too, but not that kind of White.) The cactus have a story. Around 2011 I found two detached nopal lobes baking on the sidewalk, one in the ghettoooo, the other outside a Sicilian pizza joint. I put them in a big pot out front by the oak tree and they thrived. A few years later I got a nastygram from an anonymous hussy who probably thinks we have an HOA (HA!) about how she hated the cactus. So I quietly broke off a couple of the old lobes from the plants out front, and potted them up on the back deck so that eventually I could put three big pots of cactuses out front for her. Except I forgot, even though the new ones grew into Feed Me Seymour tentacled horrors out back. Whenever I have to shift them, I suffer stabs. The one you saw in the photo is a tiny third-generation plant from where I knocked another lobe off. As for fucking with the squares by turning the front yard into Fort Cactus, instead, when the oak tree died I had the dudes leave a stump about 4 feet high, and it is grown up in things like sunflowers and is a hippy paradise for rabbits and goldfinches. Also, I let one of the main anonymous-letter suspects know that whoever left un-stamped message in my Federal mailbox was violating Postal Code [I used to know the number], and they could be fined $7,500. Also that I had kept all letters from local busy-body groups, and if I got another one I didn't like, I'd turn it all in to postal inspectors and Devil Take the Hindmost. All the cactuses in this yard are not plants.

Brah, it's a cactus. It's been getting rain splash. The dead one was a weed that grew in an empty pot full of dirt. I'm like, you chose this spot, it's on you. BREAKING NEWS: In the interest of internet harmony, I just now heaved some water on them.

My reaction to stress is to joke. My wife says the nurses aren't laughing, they are figuring out if I'm just crazy. So maybe one day I'll get to use your pro-tip.

Hot dog people don't play.

Ironic thing is they plopped their office down in the part of Birmingham where most people wouldn't piss in 1819's mouth if their stomach was on fire. I guess we should be honored. Jefferson County (Bham) is where the Blue Dot in a Big Red State bumper sticker was invented. On a good day, it's like Austin in the 90s. On days like this, I think we need to call more Federal artillery down on our position. The good thing is that for young people here, they generally loathe this kind of shit. It's the older ones in outer burbs and out in the fields who are scared to go downtown who support the 1819 worldview. Well hell, y'all mostly live in America too, you know the deal. 1819 are in a sad spot. Publisher looks like a bag of death, and if some of his kids grow up to think for themselves, he'll be a lonely old man. Monger has a semi-job running down homophobe stories, PLUS he cost his employer money. What real paper would hire him? He gets to sit around and hate himself.

From what I remember, it was the Southern Baptist hierarchy putting out the judgmental stink, not the people who knew him. Gotta admire Southern Baptists' desire to drive out anybody with a mental age of less than 80.

Good for him! Shooters shoot.

One of my highly-specific-number of Japanese friends told me "Gojira" meant "Gorilla-Whale. She taught Japanese, so I guess she knows.

GOJIRA!

If only she could fall out of a tower and be eaten by dogs.

It comes from a French word that has a vowel sound halfway between the two, so whichever one she preferred, she still sounded like a Hillbilly to us high-falutin folk. Maybe bring that up if you're bored and she won't stop calling you.

Aww hell now you've got me craving a castor bean smoothie.

Last I heard about Zimbabwe, people were panning gold all day until they had enough to sell the flakes to eat. Then I ran into a couple of Zimbabwean dudes eating in a nice restaurant here, didn't look like they had a care in the world. I suppose the place is part of the 90% of Planet Earth where you're either aristocracy, or else you grub in the mud to live.

Monger puts out a Figurelli vibe.

He seems to concentrate on a "closeted person did ____" type of story. Kinda like Torquemada going after the Conversos.