Uncle Enore’s update on being worthless (crippled,) with a loose discussion of the semantics of being gimped.

November 6:  Total left hip arthroplasty.  Not only that, they cut out the old hip and pounded in a new one.

November 8:  Home again, home again.  Did so well in the hospital that my surgeon decided to boot me out on the third day.  Suited me just fine. I mean, being in the hospital ain’t all that bad and most, if not all, of the nursing staff was cute, if not hot, but not once did any of ‘em come in to give me a hand job. OH, sure…sure, there was that one RN…yes, cute and hot…who yanked my catheter out, but…you may find this odd…when one is pulling a garden hose out of the end of your dick, sweet love is the last thing from your mind. Or it was mine. I know there are guys that get way into “sounding,” but that ain’t me.  I figure that whatever size the good Jew lord decided my urethra should be, it should remain. Besides…you guys ever have anything shoved up your dick? Yeah…avoid it if you can.

November 12:  Intake into home physical therapy.  Gay guy, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

November 13:  Home physical therapy began with Lory. Or it might be Lorri…Lorrie…or some other variant.  She gave me her card, of course, but also “of course,”  I didn’t bother to look at it.

November 21:  Was informed by good ole Lorry that, due to my high functioning,  home physical therapy would no longer be of value to me, that it was time for me to get into the clinic so I could get on the machines and get some hard work going.

December 3:  First day, post op, at PT clinic. I say “post op” to differentiate this visit from the other million times I’ve been there.   I’ve been going to this clinic for about four years now, maybe a little bit less, but always as a severe cripple.  This time I came back as less of a cripple than I was before…but herein lies a bit of a discussion we need to have.  (Ok, we don’t “need” to have it, but this is my blog, so if I wanna discuss something, however banal, I’m free to do so.  Watch and learn how this works…)

I was first ushered into the world of The Cripple when a loaded forklift smooshed my left foot.  As you might imagine, that pretty well fucks up one’s ability to walk, and I did not for about a year.  When I was able to begin trying to walk again, I found out that the more I “walked,” the more my left hip hurt, in addition to my foot.  Time goes by, and eventually the hip pain overshadows the foot pain (god, I sound like an old gimp…) and over the period of about two years, completely consumes my life.  The best I was ever able to walk after getting forklifted was two blocks, with two rest stops along the way,  and as time went by and my hip bones began to rub on themselves, my ability to walk virtually disappeared. I hobbled, and barely.

Ok, so from all this shit, you can see that there was no question that I was, indeed, a major…and a permanent…gimp. (adjudicated)

Well, now I have my hip fixed and am on the road to having that under control. 

So, what’s the issue? Well, first, on the question of my hip…with a prosthetic hip, am I still a hip cripple?  I would guess so, in the same sense that some fucker who gets a leg blowed off in Afghanistan and gets a fake leg.  Everyone calls him a hero and shit, but let’s face it…the dude can only be in the Gimp Olympics, right? Ergo, he must still be a cripple, even though he’s fixed.

Ok, so, by that reasoning, fixed or not, I have a hip full of ceramic, plastic, and titanium…every bit as much a prosthesis as the one legged war hero, but not nearly as cool, I’ll admit…so, yeah,  I guess I’m still a cripple, hip-wise.

Now that I’ve figured this out, we don’t have to discuss the gimp-worthiness of my foot.  I’m a cripple there, too.

Alrighty, then.  I’m glad we’ve had this little talk, I guess. I mean, I could have just thought it out myself instead of bothering you people with it.  Oh, well…this shit is free, it don’t gotta be good.

I also found out this morning at physical therapy that, while my cane-less walking is good, my left, operated-on leg measures shorter than my right leg. The hope is that, over time, that will correct itself…apparently it often does, but not always. 

Lessee, now…what else…OH, this is a beauty. Look, my car is very low to the ground and before surgery I had a hell of a time getting into or out of the damned thing.  I’ve not driven it since surgery for just that reason.  The Lesbian has been commuting to school in it, not because it’s new, she says, but because MY car gets 40 mpg and hers gets 20. 

Well, I’m pretty interested in getting out of our 12 mpg  big ole pickup (Tina’s Texas truck) and back into my car, but I found out this morning that if my butt is lower than my knees when I’m sitting in it…which it is…then I cannot get in it until I am released from my hip restrictions…another two to five months.  I could raise that up by sitting on a pillow, for example, but then my head would be sticking out the sunroof, and I suppose some fucking cop would piss and moan about it. I dunno, but there seems to be something fucked up about this, goddamned kid is gonna skate with my car again…

By the way, "hip restrictions” are the things I cannot do with my new hero’s hip, unless I want it to dislocate which, I’ve been assured by all concerned, ain’t fun.  Three months to six months, depending on how well I heal…or something.

Enough of this shit, don’t you think?

Hello?

Did FB block THIS, too?

Oh, hey, I forgot the pussy!

My bad!

Here…Carmen Electra’s pussy.

And now, here’s Uncle Enore with today’s news and commentary. And maybe some pussy, it IS Friday.

ALRIGHT, BITCH, GIMME 20!

I have long been a proponent of women being fully equal in all of the military services.  In fact, back in the sixties when men…boys…were being drafted as fast as they could send out the letters, I supported drafting the women…girls…right along with the men…boys. (Will you PLEASE stop that? We got the message.)

I came at this from two different angles, that were probably closely related. First, I never saw the reason for keeping women out of combat. The reasons that were given for doing so ranged from “do you want our girls in that kind of situation?” to the women not being able to cut it, neither thru basic training nor actual combat.  I always thought that was bullshit, just bald sexism. I still think that.

And, then, of course, women wish to be equal, and so should they be, so let them get drafted (when there’s a draft) and let them into combat to get their asses shot off just like the guys. I’ve been all for it for decades…EVEN THOUGH…the hypocrites in the Women’s Movement have been against it.

This woman marine isn’t all for it, however, and neither am I, any longer.  But not for the reasons this article expresses, but because sexual abuse and rape of women in the military is extremely wide spread. “Rampant” might be a good word to use to describe it. And as long as that’s the case, now freely admitted to by the military, themselves, it would only be worse in combat.  I see no compelling argument that would have me support women working their asses off to become a good “fighting unit,” only to be gang raped on the battlefield or some damned thing.

The military hierarchy of all branches of the service should, first, be horribly ashamed, and then they should be crucified for allowing this condition to exist.

Meanwhile, over in China…

I guess this isn’t all that funny, it just sounds funny…but check this shit out.  Over in China somewhere, who cares where? there is this 13 year old kid working at a gas station. So one day the guy that owns the station, and some other guy, grab this kid, hold him down,  stick the air compressor chuck up his ass, and fill him with air…LOL…ahem…I dunno. The article doesn’t say why they did this, but I’m sure it was some Buddhist cleansing ritual or some fucking thing.  Poor kid’ll be lucky if he doesn’t croak, too, not that it matters too much over in China. All those people look alike. How would you know if it was YOUR kid that was dead?  Well…

You dumb Mexican bastards…

Go ahead. Someone tell me I’m wrong, that these aren’t a bunch of fucking Mexican dumbasses.  My god, there is simply no end to their religious  idiocy…and THIS is the culture you people think doesn’t harm our society? 

Yeah…right. 

And a little personal note…

I loaned a friend (not a real close one,  more a family friend than a personal one) some money month before last, to be paid back monthly over a year’s time.  The first month I had to get in touch with her to actually get her payment, two weeks late.  

The second payment was also late, but, hey, I guess that doesn’t matter all that much, at least I got it.  Well, I got it after I reminded her via text that it was time to give me my money.

Still, I’m a bit offended and more than a trifle pissed about that second payment, since I’m holding a copy of her check, recently returned from my bank, stamped “Insufficient Funds.”

Fuck me if I can’t take a joke.

Alrighty, then…

I wandered away from blogging here on The Emporium a few months ago, after fighting with myself about it. Oddly enough, I fought with myself both before and after making the decision. 

I don’t know what motivates me to write, but whatever it is has been with me for  most of my life, pushing at me.  It flags now and then, I might not feel it for  a few days, but it always comes back and is there to one degree or another, feeding me the need to write.

Well, a few months ago that motivation began to lessen, then it faded drastically, and then it was gone completely.

I don’t know how to explain the whys of this, but I feel guilty when I don’t write every day, like there was something I should have done and didn’t, you know? Nags at me.  Annoys me. But apparently I accept the responsibility for “fucking up” and not writing, because I do feel that sense of guilt.  Too, when I was writing every day, sometimes multiple times a day, I was getting 400 hits a day on this silly blog and so I developed a certain sense of responsibility to those people (and thank you) and that added to the fight in my head about not writing.

But there wasn’t much I could do about it.  I couldn’t find it in me to write. Anything.

Look, there are times when I can sit down at the ole keyboard when I feel the need to write, with not one fucking idea in my head of what to write ABOUT, just that I need to do some writing.  At those times, I can simply begin to write anything, and my fingers  take over with some sort of finger-driven stream of consciousness thing…episode…and a couple hours later I’m proof reading something I didn’t know I was going to write that was, somehow, extruded thru the tips of my fingers.

And then there are times like this, when nothing worked.  I tried. I began to write multiple times, and there was simply nothing there. 

I gave up, and let the guilt (and pressure) go, and felt much better, on the one hand…but a bit sad on the other, as though I were missing an old friend.

Lately, that need to write has been building again, and I’m sure thankful for it, though I’m not too sure how strong it’s going to get or where it’s going to lead me.  Still, here I am plinking these fucking keys again, and it feels pretty good.  I suppose, but don’t know for sure, that a large component of the urge to write is the actual writing, itself, so I’ll try to keep at it and see how that goes.  You know, the act of writing feeds on the urge and the urge is made stronger by the accomplishment of writing and around it goes.

Not only that, but re-establishing the habit of writing daily, or nearly so, will, I think, help engender the urge to write.

Or maybe I’m full of shit. That happens a lot, too.

Did you plan on continuing this self serving bullshit much longer?  Because, I gotta tell you, you’re becoming annoying with this Shakespeare crap.

Look, I was just trying to explain why…

Yeah, I got it, already. Everyone gets it. You’re a fucking hack and you can’t cut it. Now, are you finished with the whining? You gonna write something someone might like to read?

Yes, but I don’t think there’s any reason to speak to me in that tone of voice.

What the hell has my tone of voice got to do with anything? Your period coming or something? Get on with it, I wanna take a nap, for god’s sake.

Alright.

So…ahem…moving right along…

Welcome to…the Doctor Unc Show!

(wild cheering and applause)

I figure if that Turkish guy, Dr. Oz, can have his own TV show, I should be able to too. Speaking of whom, what the hell kind of name is Mehmet Cengiz Oz? Holy shit! Cengiz? How would you pronounce that? Sen-gizz? Jesus Christ.  So the Wizard of Oz was a fucking Turk?  I dunno, this is all getting pretty confusing. 

Let me just get on with telling you about my impending liver failure, how would that be?

After more than four years with a trauma physician looking after my health, I’m now under the care of an internist.  I’ve seen him a couple times, am very impressed with the man’s approach and manner, his thoroughness, and his never-hurried answers to my almost never-ending questions. (Hey, he’s the one with the medical education. I was the truck driver. There is a lot for him to explain to me if I’m to understand what he’s talking about, and since it’s my body, I always insist on that.)  Well…

The very first thing he did was send me for a bunch of blood tests, just to get a baseline measurement of where my health stands.  Everything was terrific, lipid levels, thyroid, all my heart functions are terrific, I have zero plaque in my arteries (luck and genetics, they figure) my metabolism is nearly perfect. Everything was great.

Except my liver functions.

Cutting to the chase, as is said, (though I really don’t understand what it means…well…I mean, I understand it means getting thru all the bullshit to the meat of the subject, but how it came to mean that, I’ve no idea. And, even though I have the internet at my fingertips, I’m too fucking lazy and stoned to bother Googling it to find out. And what real difference does it make, anyway?) my liver is greatly inflamed and in danger of becoming cirrhotic and then falling out my asshole, is I think what eventually happens. 

And then I croak, is pretty much how it goes, I believe.

Or will be if I don’t get this under control.   AST, ALT…I dunno, go Google “blood tests for liver function,” and read all about…but…they tested for three things. Two are ok. One is extremely high.  The doc emphasized this to me twice, in the way he pronounced “extremely.” Extreeeemly high, dragging out the e in that way one does to mean “extremely,” and truncating the “high” to further emphasize the “extremely.”

He taught, I listened.

Here’s the sad fucking deal…

Remember those Magic Mexican pills that changed  my life?

THESE ARE THE MAGIC MEXICAN PILLS THAT CHANGED MY LIFE. CLICK HERE.

Well, turns out they contain two drugs, the names of which I can’t recall, and don’t care about, that are the reason the pills make me feel so well. They are also well on their way to destroying my liver.  All other medical reasons for the numbers on this particular liver test to test so high have been examined and dismissed as not causitive, leaving only the Mexican pills as the culprit.  These two drugs, unnamed on the ingredients list, are the reasons the FDA recalled the pills and forced Mexico to do the same thing.  (My new doc is not only smart, he’s thorough, and at my mention of these pills, did his own research into them.)

So, my choice is…was…either keep taking the pills and getting the major relief they afford me, at least until my liver stops working and I die, or stop the fucking things immediately since, really, no one knows exactly when my liver could shut down. Today? Tomorrow? Six months from now?  After a day of thinking over how to handle this, and after my kid, my girlfriend, and my physical therapist essentially telling me to get my head out of my ass, What choice is there? I did the only thing I could do, swore off the pills.

In case you are keeping track, this is one of the Indisputable Proofs That God Does Not Exist.  C’mon, after years of having to deal with ever-increasing osteoarthritis pain in many parts of my ole body, of being nearly immobile with it from time to time, I FINALLY find something that takes the pain away virtually completely (it can’t seem to touch my grinding hip bones as deeply, but even there it helps) and now the remedy is gonna KILL ME? And you think a decent god would allow THIS  Please.

But, ok, that’s the deal; take ‘em and die, or stop taking them  and live, but be achy. 

Last pill was taken yesterday evening, and I’m beginning to feel things turn to shit already.

BUT, my new foreign doctor assured me that he can blend a drug “cocktail” that will have the same effect as the Mexican shit, but not kill me.  That’ll be nice.

If he’s not full of shit.

TESTING…HELLO?…TESTING…

Is this thing still working? I guess so…let me try posting something, just to make sure the poster machine is still working.

The Enore Travel Diaries

I’ll be damned if I’m not getting ready to venture off again, this time heading north to Portland.  That’s in Oregon. It’s also in Maine, but not the real one. There are probably other places where there are Portlands, but I’m not going to any of them, either.  The one in Oregon, up north. That’s where I’m going.

Why?

Well, to eat at food trucks. Why else would anyone drive 600 miles thru the mountains?   I kid you not, check this shit out…

Oh, yes we are, too, gonna eat at every one of those 400 carts, or however many we can and not puke. 

We?

Well, wait…I’m getting ahead of myself…

The real reason I’m going to Portland is to have an excuse to take The Lesbian on a vacation with me, since that has never happened before.  Let me put it differently; Jeny has never been on a family or any other kind of good ole fashioned vacation. Not once that I can think of, and if there are isolated instances, they weren’t with me. I was always too fucking busy working to spend that kind of time with her…sigh…

Alright, so I can’t do anything about the past, but I can take my kid to Portland to eat ribs, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Forgetchur Paris and New York, never mind the Mexican Riviera, I’m takin’ MY baby to a food truck in Oregon.

Yes, it does sound kind of lame, but the truth is that Jeny and I both have an interest in food carts and trucks, both from a grub and a business vantage.  We are both looking forward to sampling all sorts of foods off them, probably splitting orders just so we can taste more, and both of us would really enjoy selling food from one of them. Jeny has “cooking food” thoughts along those lines, though I don’t think she’s quite sure what grub to cook and sell. And I’ve wanted a hot dog cart for decades…and there’s gotta be hot dogs there, right? So…you know, those things are draws for both of us.

Besides, we’ll have the dogs, Molly and Cupid, with us. What the fuck else you gonna do with dogs along, you know?

Right?  Nuthin’.

So we’re gonna take the dogs, grab some food, find a place to sit and eat it, and mock the assholes walking by, or talk about the hot chicks eating lunch (one of the many advantages of having a queer daughter.)

Speaking of such things, I’m going to be in a pretty good position to get cast-off pussy, too. Well, look, both dogs are little and cute and babe magnets, and all girls want to jump Jeny, and we’ll be in my car, which also seems to be babatized some kinda way…so I’m figuring I should be able to grab a little splash back myself, you know?

Oh, tsk, tsk…I keed, I keed…you know…keeding…unless I get half a chance…

I may as well fess up. 

Though I would have been perfectly content to take a long drive for a sammich off a food truck, I didn’t think Jeny actually would be, so we are gonna do one or two other things whilst we are out venturing around the Great Northwest, as those people call it, or en-route to there.

Here is the plan, and it’s a loose one. (However, if you’re muslim and trying to track me down, or some homicidal fucking lunatic who wants to rape and kill us, you this will probably help some.)

Saturday morning  we’re gonna leave and head to a big ole Injun casino in a place called, “Corning.”  I’ve never stopped there, but when working I watched it being built and grow, as I ferried noxious chemicals up and down the big road, across the highways and byways of America, at least the one that runs right in front of this joint, Interstate 5.  They are having some big hurrah up there Saturday all day, beginning with a hot air balloon launch at dawn. Jeny told me to forget it, we can see hot air balloons on fucking YouTube, and not have to get up at three in the morning. 

Ok, well, it’s hard to argue with that.

So we’re gonna blow off the hot air balloon sunrise, damn it, opting instead for gorging at their buffet at lunch time, and then enjoying the old car show they are having all day.  Jeny also informed me that she should probably try her hand at some slot machines…”…and I wanna learn how to play craps, daddy…” Yeah, well, they’ll give you an education, alright…

And then, some time after we’ve eaten all their food, seen all their cars, and been asked to leave by the casino people because we’ve won too much for one day, we’re gonna head up the road to Ashland, Oregon, just  a few miles north of California where, on Sunday evening, we will see, “As You Like It,” at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.  It’s shown in an outdoor theater, which is gonna be cool…and probably cool, too.

 What happens if it rains, Unc?

The fuck I know? I guess we buy raincoats and go to the play…

I’ve found a dog sitting service up there, of good repute, the owner of which I’ve spoken with at some length, and both Molly and Cupid will be going there Sunday afternoon, to be picked up after the play that evening. 

Then on to Portland the next day, Monday, for a day or two of wanton gorgery, if that’s a word. And if it’s not, it sure should be.

We’re going to head home from Portland, but I think I’mma take her along the Columbia River gorge so she can wave at Washington across the river, but also because it’s a beautiful drive thru gorgeous scenery.

We’ll run I-84 to Biggs Junction, then down 97 thru Bend and Klamath Falls to…you guessed it…Weed, California,  where Jeny will, I am sure, need to lean up against a town sign for photographs and all of that. 

Weed is where marijuana was invented I think.

As you can see, by the time we hit Weed, we will have come back round to I-5, and can head home from there, just  a few hours down the road.

I’ll be just fine with this, as will the dogs, but I have some question about how Jeny will do. She’s pretty easily bored, and I can see where that might be a problem. But she doesn’t seem to think so, not that we’ve discussed it directly from that point of view. But she has said she was excited about our trip, and that’s a good thing.

And, if she gets bored and pissy after all, hey, I’ve worked all over this area. I know all the truck stops where I could sell a short lesbian for a pretty good price, not to put too fine a point on it.

 

Hey, I’m just sayin’, is all…

A Keurig and Other Stuff Update

Keurig: 

I told you about this sucker the other day, but I thought a quick update might be in order.  I love this thing, I gotta tell you.  It’s easy, fast, interesting, and clean…and most important of all, makes a great cup of coffee.  I’m not one for drinking lots of different types of coffees, preferring my coffee to taste the same every time I drink some, and I don’t care for flavored coffees or anything like that, but I have found  two or three of the prepackaged, unflavored coffees that Keurig sells that are delicious.

Plus, I bought a little gadget that allows me to use my own, “traditional,” coffee in the machine, and that works pretty well, too. Except it’s messy. I mean, you have to get the coffee into the little K cup thing, not too much, not too little, and some always spills. Then, too, you have to make sure the surfaces on the gadget that mate and seal are free from coffee grounds. It’s just a pain. But it makes a good cup of coffee, for all of that.

I don’t know if I mentioned it in the other blog yammering or not, and I don’t care enough to look and find out, but the way this machine brews the coffee is right in the cup that the ground coffee comes in. There is never any coffee in the machine, itself, which means that there is no way flavors can get mixed if you brew more than one.  So if my kid wanted to have one of their flavored coffee drinks, mayhap one with chocolate in it, she could do so, and when I fixed my next cup of coffee, there would be no taste of her drink at all.  Very cool.

This machine is very cool in itself, the more I think about it.  It was well thought out, well designed, and a great gadget.

Plus…produces a great cup of coffee. You already said that. Yes, yes I did, didn’t I? Yeah, that’s what I just said. So maybe if you’re repeating yourself, it’s time to move on? Alright.

Moving right along…

The Farm Update:
reference

Things are moving way too slowly for me on this front, though there isn’t too much I can do about it.  The poor people who are living in one of the homes I’m buying are still in the place, though they have been served eviction papers and are assuring everyone they are actively looking for another place to live.  And…my real estate guy told me yesterday that the bank was offering the renters a cash incentive to get out their soonest, so they seem to have plenty of motivation.

The neat thing is that after they move out, I have five days to have the place re-inspected to make sure things are still fine, and then the bank MUST close with us inside of ten days. So from the day they move out till the day I close will be no more than 15 days, and it will be about fucking time.  As it stands now, closing is scheduled for July 9th, so if these people get the fuck off my property earlier, this date can collapse into something reasonable pretty quickly.

When that happens, I think I get really busy really quickly.  Gotta have a new roof put on the back house, gotta shop for and buy a garden tractor and some accessories, a shed to put it in, and an aviators leather cap and goggles to wear whilst on the tractor, tractoring.

And I gotta move, too.

I’ve lived here in Stockton since ‘87, and in this house for the last eight years.  It’s going to feel weird not to be here, not to be in Stockton, some place I thought I’d never leave. (Not like I’ve gone to Afghanistan or anything. It’s a lousy 30 miles from here.)

I read somewhere a few years ago, that it takes about two years to feel that your new place is “home.”  I’m paying attention, and I’ll let you know if that’s what happens.

I forget whose ass this is, some woman who has a cooking show of some sort, I really didn’t pay any attention to the article. I just liked her ass;  well, who wouldn’t?

There is no more to this, just some good old fashioned objectification of women, and their good parts. Well, really, why would anyone objectify the bad parts, am I right?

And, because I have no elegant way in my mind to end this crap, let me offer a picture of one of my very favorite fat chicks, looking smokin’ hot, as always…

And, no, I have no desire to hear her voice speaking to me at all, unless it’s “Deeper, baby, that’s my good baby…” or something similar.

The End.

Memorial Day News, and some other stuff.

I thought about writing a big screed on the decency and devotion of our military folks, and how poorly they seem to be treated after they are out of the service and all of that…but it’s trite, if true, and who wants to hear it? So I decided to poke thru the news and see what important shit is going on around the world. 

What’s the first one I see?

Bahrain?

I’m not sure I could even find it on the map, let alone give a shit about protest for political change going on there. But if I did care about any of that…yeah, oh,  sure, it would be  because this asshole decided not to eat for a few months.  Right.  Who cares? I love when people do this kind of silly and useless  “I’m pouting so I’m not gonna eat” crap. Of course, they are just grandstanding.  I mean, they can begin to eat any ole time they want to, right?

Now picture the poor Buddhist asshole who sets him or herself on fire. THAT, while stupid beyond amazement, and completely useless, is a fucking commitment to their beliefs.

Yeah, big fucking news story. He was hungry.

Then there are stories ad nauseum about “the massacre” in some Syrian city or some damned place. Yeah, ain’t that a bummer? Look, yeah, yeah, it’s terrible and all that, but what is really going on that is  any different now than any other time in that part of the world? Muslims playing their very favorite sport, killing other muslims.  It’s what they do, how they live, what they enjoy. And if muslims enjoy killing other muslims, there is a very convincing argument that the muslims that are being killed enjoy being killed, as long as it’s by other muslims. This isn’t news, it’s just history writ with the pen of politics.

No story there.

Here is a case where a news story’s weight is offset by a slavishness to political correctness that disallows the recognition of the real story.

You guys have probably read the story and seen the video, but if not, click on THIS LINK RIGHT HERE and scroll thru the article, and then the video is at the bottom.

The position the article takes, the position our foolish and voluntarily blind society takes, is that this fat ole preacher is a hateful piece of narrow minded shit, evil and mean spirited, who should be looked down upon and mocked, at the very least.

Oh, yeah? For what?

This fat old preacher is the very core and essence of what christianity believes about homos. The man is brutally honest, very direct, and represents the BIBLE and christian doctrine and dogma, in a non-apologetic and proud way.  On this subject, he IS christianity, no matter what any of them say about loving the sinner, but hating the sin and all that; that’s all bullshit and everyone knows it. This man’s King James Bible hates queers, which tells him god hates queers, and that is good enough for him. HE hates queers.

He’s honest and he’s brave, he has balls and a spine, and whereas I don’t agree with his point of view, he’s honest enough to have one, not be ashamed of it, and not be cowed by anyone who doesn’t like it.  That’s part of the definition of “a man.”

Good for him, the fat, sputtering fuck.

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It was at this point that I realized that there was no important shit going on in the world today, or that the important shit was  too damned boring to bother with.  I don’t know if that’s exactly the case, though it may not be.  I think it’s more that I am burnt out on the news, whatever it is, as sometimes happens.

Well, I mean, really, how much of this shit can anyone take? I LOVE reading the news, it’s my main source of entertainment, but I also have to admit that SO much of it is the same sort of shit day after day after day. Isn’t it? Yeah, sure there are specific incidents that are different and interesting, but overall, the muslims keep butchering and dying, the Africans keep butchering and dying of AIDS, our politicians continue to fuck everything up and over, and we all pretend like we’re outraged by it, but nothing changes, and the political rhetoric goes on and on and on, till it’s enough to make me puke.

I’m sick to death of all the fucking bullshit, the phony racial bullshit, the phony immigration bullshit, the phony illegal immigration bullshit, the phony muslim bullshit, the phony goddamned autistic kids bullshit, the phony bullying bullshit, god forbid anyone should be offended by anything, and of COURSE kids who wear helmets to school are retards, what the fuck else would they be? And I’m sick to death of the bullshit political election rhetoric.

I’m tired of it all.

Today.

Tomorrow I’ll love this shit again, but not today.

Unc’s coffee and coffee gear enters the current era.

Meet the new kid, Keurig.

I don’t know what happened, exactly, but there I was…

…standing in the Pet Products aisle in our way too fucking big Walmart, when it dawned on me that I was out of coffee filters. Pleased with myself for remembering, I began the trudge to Home Products where, I assumed, I would find some coffee filters, which I did. 

Just what I needed.

But…

…a friend of mine has been belaboring the positives of brewing my coffee in a French press, namely that there is no paper filter to taint the flavor of the coffee.  Seems reasonable to me that the paper would add some flavor of it’s own, and I made a mental note to discuss the permanent gold coffee filters with him, but never got beyond that. Well…

…so today, my left hand full of the package of paper coffee filters, I thought I’d go ahead and see if they had any French presses for me to look at whilst I was there  which, alas, they did not. But what they did have was…

…a fairly large selection of those new Keurig coffee makers. These are ones that use those cool looking little cup dealies, you know?  I didn’t look closely enough at them to know why some were bigger or more expensive than the others, but I did notice that they had…

…something they called  a Keurig “Mini,” I think it was, on sale…

Though admittedly on the bottom of the seniority list, there she be, taking her place in my electric coffee making arsenal, and holding her own thru the two cups I’ve had that she’s built.

I am, however, shocked at myself for buying it and enjoying it.  I tend to just stick with what works for me which, in coffee context, means for the past 40 years or so I’ve been building my coffee pretty much the same way.  Not any more, it appears.

I’m all…a fucking Renaissance man.

Who knew?

Capitalist Pig writ pretty large.

Ok, something needs to be said about this, but I don’t know what it should be.   Of course,  the whole point here, is to try and figure something out, hence have something to write about. See how cleverly that works, or would if I got to it?

Look, without going into that whole 1%, 99% crap, and the attendant discussion of the Occupy Assholes it would necessarily engender, I don’t have any trouble with Tim Cook, or anyone else, making as much money as their company decides to pay them.  Good for them, though I wish it had been  me.  The amount of money anyone makes is a function of the calculus of that person’s value to his or her employer, not a fucking political statement. So whatever monies can obtain from negotiation and value judgments, comparisons of value and all that, are well deserved and earned, even if they might seem overly capacious to us outsiders.

What people earn is none of anyone else’s business just on the face of it. Where is it written that you have a right to know anything about me as an employee of any company, CEO or not?

So, for me, I don’t give a fuck what these people make…but consider that amount of money for just a moment.

Fuck.

Ok, I’m not especially thing oriented, and I am not very good with money…never have been…but tell me true. Wouldn’t it be cool, just once, to have unlimited funds, and to have no end to the money you have and the shit you could buy and do with it?  I’m not one to sit and fantasize about that sort of thing, but when I see that some guy is turning down $75 million…which he earned, deserves, and has coming…well, it piques my interest, since I cannot imagine such a thing.

Well, the dude makes $300 million a year, not a paltry sum, and I first tried moving this into numbers that make some sense to me to try and understand it.  SO…like…if I made $300 a year, and turned down a $75 dividend, that would be the same thing, right?

Fuck, no.  It wouldn’t.

Ok, well, I should never have started this, because I really have no where else to take it.

Disregard.

The Enore Travel Diaries.

Alice, Texas
1895 miles

I am now safe and sound at my woman’s place in Waysouth, Texas, and all is well.

On Tuesday, court day, I got Molly out to the babysitter dog spa place, and was parked downtown, directly across the street from the courthouse by eight. I couldn’t believe how fucking slick it worked out. 

Court was equally as slick, compared to how it could have ended up.  I’ve always been against plea bargaining, but, of course, in my case, it was ok. $100 fine, some court costs, total about $425…and the four bucks for parking in that lot, out of which I drove at almost exactly 10:30.

The Pet Spa Lady wouldn’t take any money for taking care of Molly, telling me she was “…so cute and adorable, I just kept her here on my lap in the office…”  Well, of course you did.

So things couldn’t have gone much better, for which I’m thankful. (Or glad. I don’t know if there is a difference or not.  Seems to me like being “thankful” means one need to aim it somewhere, at someone…sorta…as though it implies a thankfulness to god and, as we all know, IF there is a god, he was a motherfucker for letting me get into trouble to begin with, so he’s the last person I’d thank.)

Though I didn’t know it at the time, I guess the court thing was weighing on me a bit, because I realized, as I got the fuck out of El Paso, never to go there again unless I have a gun to my head, that I NOW felt like I was on vacation.

That feeling remains, as I sit here killing brain cells (what?) and relaxing.  Life is pretty good, and threatens at all turns to get better.

Who woulda guessed it?