This is the blog of Rob 'Acidman' Smith, who passed away June 26, 2006. Acidman was a unique voice in the blogosphere; an extraordinary raconteur with a fascinating life from which to draw his stories, from his roots in a Kentucky coal-mining town through a career as a musician and as a journalist to his years managing the production of a sulphuric acid plant.

Whether writing about the best way to make boiled peanuts, his intense love and respect for his family and friends, commentary on the politics of the day, or blazingly honest revelations about his life's challenges, he had an extraordinary way of drawing the reader in and making them think. He singlehandedly created a massive community of readers, commenters, and friends from literally all over the world and was responsible for encouraging hundreds of people to take up blogging. For an idea of just how far-reaching an effect he had on the world, read the outpouring of comments on the posts from the week he passed away.

Writing about why he blogged, Rob described it as:

an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing. This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue. People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

It was Rob's express wish that Gut Rumbles remain online, especially for his son to read as he got older, and so it shall. As much as possible, the site remains in the state in which he used it. Current posts are drawn from his extensive archives and presented on the front page. To further experience this extraordinary man and his writing, wander through the links to his archives shown at the bottom of the sidebar on the left.

You are missed, Rob.

July 04, 2007

Helluva 4th, eh?

Originally published July 4, 2002

My modem died on me last night. Just upped and died, as we say down South. I turned the computer off and hoped that it would do like that Ox beetle and revive itself during the night, but it was still dead as Dillinger this morning.

Well, I was ready for a new computer anyway. I got one, too.

My daughter

Originally published July 4, 2004

Samantha and Stacey made it to mama's house shortly after 9:00 last night. I went to visit this morning. I don't really mean to brag (Oh, yes! I DO!), but I have a beautiful daughter. She got a lot of her looks from her mama, but I'm still proud to call her the spawn of MY loins. She's a looker.

I like Stacey a lot, too. She and Sam make an odd couple because Samantha has always been petulent, tempermental and quick to fly off the handle. Stacey is laid-back, mellow and the kind of person I feel comfortable around without being able to decide exactly why. Stacey is just good people. We had a nice, long visit today.

We're going crabbing on Wednesday. I checked the tides today and we need to leave early in the morning to catch the water right. I told them that I would pick them up at 7:00 AM and they both promised to be ready. I have no doubt that Stacey will be, and she'll probably bog a foot in Sam's ass to get her out of bed on time, too. I look forward to the adventure.

I hope we catch every crab in that creek.

Hear him weep

Originally published July 4, 2005

A great line I heard in a movie today: Some young chick comes flouncing through the kitchen wearing a pair of jeans with strategic cut-aways that leave half of HER bare ass hanging out. Her father says, "Put on a different pair of pants. You look like a slut dressed that way."

The girl bows up and says, "I can dress anyway I want to. I have a CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHT TO FREE EXPRESSION! I'm NOT changing pants!" And she flounces out of the room with her bare ass-cheeks jiggling.

I wanted to puke.

Honey, I hate to tell you this, but any "Constitutional Right to Free Expression" you once had vanished with the advent of political correctness in this country. YOU may be free to run around with your ass hanging out of your pants, but that's okay--- you're a woman--- and any man who LOOKS at your ass hanging out of those pants is a deviate, a rapist or a sexist.

Let ME walk down the street with the head of my dick hanging out of my pants and see how far my "Right of Free Expression" gets me. Straight to a jail cell is where that path leads.

Just use the forbidden "N-word" when you write. Righteous people will descend on you like a pack of hyenas. YOU CAN'T SAY THAT!!!

Those are the "new" rules today.

Yeah... this is also my thought on "Independence Day." Thanks to corrupt politicians and power-hungry rogues, we've managed to take a beautiful ideal and twist into something grotesque.
[Ed. Link goes nowhere. Was to Kim DuToit.]

Don't get me wrong--- the USA is STILL the best country in the world, but it ain't what it COULD have been. Hell--- it ain't even what it SHOULD have been. We have too many cowards and idiots surrounding us today.

I lost my job because of my blog. I was politically incorrect and what I WROTE scared the shit out of people who run a MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR corporation. They pissed right down their pants legs and got rid of me, lest they incur the wrath of government or an EEOC lawyer.

There's your "land of the free" today.

Jefferson would spin in his grave if he saw what has become of this country.

July 03, 2007

Boredom

Originally published May 29, 2004

I've been in a really existential mood lately. I spent a lot of time in Costa Rica just examining my life, thinking about how I got where I am today and where I'll go from here. I didn't come up with a whole lot of answers, but I did come to realize one thing.

Most of my life, from the age of six, has been run by schedules, time-tables, deadlines, and the relentless ticking of a clock. I always had to be somewhere on time, do something on time or finish my work on time. I had assignments to complete, classes to attend, "deliverables" to deliver and places I had to be. Bejus! No wonder I have gray silver hair.

When Kerr-McGee fired me retired me, they gave me a nice watch as a going away present. Isn't that ironic? Why the hell would I want a fucking WATCH when I don't have to work anymore? I lived 24 years of my life on a Work Schedule, and I was on call for 24-7 most of that time. I looked at that watch and laughed out loud.

I've never taken it out of the box it came in and I doubt that I ever will.

I like being bored now. I'm not talking about sitting around a twiddling my thumbs. I mean the freedom a person feels when he or she doesn't HAVE to do much of anything. On my trip to Costa Rica, I really didn't plan a goddam thing. I bought my plane tickets, arranged for lodging and transportation, but other than that, I played everything on the first bounce.

If I felt like touring, I toured. If I felt like reading, I read. If I didn't feel like doing a damn thing, I didn't do anything. In Martin Antonio one morning, I was nodding in a lawn chair by the hotel swimming pool and I thought about getting up, walking about 50 feet to the bar and buying myself some fruity rum drink with an umbrella in it. But that seemed like too much work for such a beautiful day, so I just went to sleep in the chair.

I don't fear boredom. In fact, I wrap it around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket today, and I find it very comfortable. I like not needing a watch anymore. My body clock is all the time-keeper I require.

I met two retired school teachers from Colorado when I was in Arenal. ("Recovering educators," as they described themselves.) They were very friendly ladies and I had dinner with them a couple of evenings.

But they did one thing that drove me nuts. They had every waking moment of every day planned right down to the minute. They had a SCHEDULE to follow. That's not a vacation; that's just work by a different name. I got tired just watching them dash after tour buses and worry about where they were supposed to be next.

I'll never live like that again. Anybody want to buy a really nice watch? I have one that I'll sell cheap.

I don't need it anymore.

My boy

Originally published May 28, 2004

I talked to Quinton on the phone last night. He said that he hasn't received any of the letters that I sent him from Costa Rica. I don't know whether the mail is that slow or whether Jennifer got my letters and didn't let Quinton see them. Divorce sucks, and it keeps on sucking long after the initial ordeal is over when a child is involved.

Hell, I suspected my ex-wife of being behind the crash of my blog. It's the kind of thing she would do to me.

But... I digress. I wanted to brag like the proud father that I am. Quinton made the Effingham County All-Star team as a starting shortstop in his age group. I TOLD you people that he was good!

I want to see if I'm any good, too. My blog became quite popular for a while, then I let my posting slide and I took a long vacation, after which I had nothing but a blank page to display. My readership took a nose-dive, which I expected, and now my archives have vanished except for the posts I saved on disk. Can I lure readers back here with what I write when I start from scratch?

I don't know, but I still believe that if I build it, they will come. Long ago, I described this blog as an exercise where I stuffed notes in bottles and threw them into a vast ocean where I hoped someone would find the bottle and read the note. But that's not really what I was doing.

This blog was my lifeline that towed me to shore when I was totally shipwrecked. It kept me alive for more than two of the worst years I've lived in my life. I wasn't stuffing notes in bottles. I was standing on the shore and shouting frantically for rescue.

People came. I WAS rescued. And I will always appreciate that fact.

So... I'm starting over now. Can I do it again? I don't know. YOU tell ME.

Feeling depressed

Originally published May 30, 2004

I miss my son. I wanted to talk to him today, but every time I called I got nothing but the answering machine. I left a message for him to call me, but I haven't heard back from him yet.

I wonder where he is?

I have a bag full of goodies, gee-gaws and other things I bought for Quinton in Costa Rica. I want to give it to him, if I can ever track him down. I don't give a damn what the law says--- what Jennifer has done to drive a wedge between me and my son is worse than her slipping off in the dark (and later in broad daylight) to throw her pussy to the wind. I don't give a shit what she does with her pussy anymore.

But I still love my son.

My father made one hell of an impact on my life. We didn't agree on a lot of things, but he was one hell of a man and he helped me a lot through the years. He was my Yoda--- the wise one I consulted with when I wasn't certain what to do next. He drove me hard, and he often barked at me when he thought I needed it, but he never failed to give me good advice. I didn't always follow it, but I'll miss him until the day I die.

I want to have that kind of impact on Quinton's life. I may be a crazy old buzzard, but I've learned a lot through 52 years of fire and rain. A boy needs a father in his life and I still remember what it feels like to be a young boy. I could help him a lot with things NO WOMAN understands, even if she does believe that she's Supermom.

Yeah, I've fucked up. But I don't believe that I'm a bad man and I'll never believe that Quinton is better off without me. I am his father and I always will be. Nobody else can ever change that fact, no matter how many men Jennifer decides to sleep with.

I miss my boy.

July 02, 2007

My dad

Originally published July 17, 2004

I've always wanted to post something about my dad. Many people like to leave comments and bullshit about him when they know absolutely nothing. Here are some things about Acidman that I know some of you out there don't want to read.

I don't care what anyone thinks about my dad, he is an all around nice guy who would do anything for anybody anytime unless they've given him a reason not to.

He's really NOT a racist. Again, I don't give a flying fuck what any troll, or de-linker out there thinks. I know the guy and I've never in my life heard him call anyone the N-word. When he uses the word in a post, he's trying to make a point. If you go back and read a little bit, he never says that blacks are N**s. People seem to only read what they want to read and the one's who were offended, are the one's who have an issue with racism themselves.

Jennifer really is the bitch that he says she is. No over exaggeration there. I lived with the woman for a few years and I myself can say that she is everything that he says she is and more. Not only was she abusive, she was manipulative, a liar, and just plain cruel. At the time, my dad was so infatuated with her that he overlooked me, but I blame her for my so called "childhood trauma". My dad realizes all this now and we've talked. I don't blame him for the past.

I believe this blog has saved my his life. For him, blogging is medicine. It's his anti-depressant, his therapy.

I don't suggest anyone break into his home, assault his family, or threaten his life. He'll do what it takes to protect his family and property.

I only get to see him twice a year and we rarely speak on the phone, but I love him and am proud to be guest blogging on Gut Rumbles.

Posted by: Acidaughter

Three years--- tres anos

Originally published July 18, 2004

I did something last night that I haven't done in a long time--- three years, in fact. I slept like a rock for ten straight hours. I left the windows open on my bedroom and fell asleep to the sound of the surf rolling onto the beach. I believe that the sound rocked me like a baby in a cradle.

I awoke this morning to a beautiful sunlit day. I took a shower, walked down to the tiki restaurant at the hotel and had a fine breakfast of eggs, pancakes, rice and black beans and fresh fruit. I actually woke up HUNGRY for a change.

I went back to my room and watched the final round of the British Open, which was a thriller if you like golf the way I do. Watching that tournament made me remember something that I'll get to in a minute.

After Todd Harrison beat Ernie Els in a playoff, I switched off the television, donned a bathing suit and challenged the Pacific Ocean to a fight. I got my Cracker ass whipped. I thought the surf was something at Tamarindo, but it's pussy stuff compared to Jaco. I got a full body massage from waves that knocked me ass over teakettle more than once. It was fun, but about 30 minutes of that beating was all I could stand.

I went back to the beach, stretched out on a towel and read for a while, until the incoming tide threatened to wash me away. I packed up my stuff and went back to the tiki restaurant, where I had Chef Isadora cook me a hamburgosa grande, with papas fritas and a cold cervesa. Man, that was good.

After I ate, I went back to my room for a brief siesta on my luxurious, king-sized bed. I napped a while, took another shower and went to lounge around the pool, just to check the wimmen in bathing suits scenery. The scenery was very nice.

Three years ago, during the last round of the British Open, I was in a seedy motel room with $60 to my name. My wife, who I loved with all my heart, had just told me that she wanted a divorce and I truly believed that my life was shattered. I KNOW what heartbreak feels like. I had a wild animal caged in my chest that was trying to claw its way out. The pain was more than I thought I could stand. I wanted to die.

So, I tried to kill myself, and I did a pretty good job of it, except for one small detail: I didn't die.

After the British Open concluded this morning, I walked outside in my bathing suit, a towel draped over my shoulder and a book in my hand. I gazed at the Pacific Ocean. Bejus, but it was beautiful. I thought, "I'm glad that I didn't die when I wanted to. I would have missed this."

Three years--- tres anos--- a lot can change during that time. It hasn't been an easy road to travel and that bloodless cunt Jennifer keeps fucking with me every chance she gets, but the worst is over. I can handle whatever happens next. All she can do now is go after my money and deprive me of my son. That sucks, but it's not a wild animal in my chest trying to claw its way out. Life has been rough for the past three years, and it's not going to be a picnic for a while longer.

But for right now.... it sure is nice at Jaco Beach.

Strange dream

Originally published July 17, 2004

Last night I dreamed that my mama asked me to hold services at her church. She told me that the preacher was sick and they didn't have anybody to fill in for him. She had all her hair in my dream and she appeared to be ten years younger. "You're a good public speaker," she said. "Why don't you do it for me?"

I told her that I couldn't. I couldn't get up behind a pulpit and say things that I don't believe. I couldn't lie to those people. She started crying and I woke up. Mama worries that I'm going to hell for being an athiest.

I don't believe in God. I don't believe in life everlasting, nor do I believe that sinning unbelivers spend eternity burning in hell. I believe that when you die, that's it. It's just like being anesthesized for surgery except you never wake up. You don't dream and your "soul" goes nowhere.

I don't see The Hand Of God working in this world. I believe that life is chaos, then you die. You control a lot of your own destiny by the choices YOU make, but you don't control it all. Sometimes, Shit Just Happens through no fault of your own. That's the chaos part of life.

When a Shit Just Happens moment occurs in life, a lot of people try to explain it by saying, "It's God's will," or "God is testing you." I want to upchuck when I hear that shit. Why the hell would God "test" anybody? If he's omnipotent, he already knows how you'll do on the test. And why would it be "God's will" to give a 13 year-old boy a fatal case of cancer when he let Adolph Hitler live to do what Hitler did?

In MY humble opinion, all religions are the result of superstitious people trying desperaetly to explain the unexplainable in life. If religion makes you feel better, fine. I've got no problem with that. But I look at the sex scandals in the Catholic church and the mad mullahs of Islam, and I ain't real impressed.

There IS no God. Frightened people and people craving power INVENTED him.

July 01, 2007

Unheard of greatness

Originally published June 4, 2004

A lot of my readers become bored when I blog about music, but music is an important part of my life. Lately, I've been playing guitar a lot and I worry that I'm developing arthritis in my fingers, especially in my left hand. I am not as supple as I once was and my knuckles start to ache after about 30 minutes of playing.

The thought that I might reach the point where I can't play anymore scares the shit out of me. Sweet Bejus! You took my love, you took my son, you took my job, you took my dick, you're after my money and you left me where I'm liable to piss my bed on any given night. Isn't THAT enough of a price for one man to pay? You want MY FINGERS, too, you rotten bastard?

Excuse me. I'm getting off on a rant here.

I'm going to post a list of my TOP TEN seldom-heard songs, that didn't make gold records, didn't rocket anybody to stardom and lay now in the discount bins of many record stores. You can buy 'em cheap today, and I recommend that you do.

10) "Freaker's Ball" I'm not sure who wrote it, but I believe that it was Steve Goodman.

9) "Pancho and Lefty" as performed by Townes Van Zant before he killed himself.

8) "I'm Alive" by Mac MacAnally on his first album.

7) "The Dutchman" by Mike Smith (who I met and sang with once in my life)

6) "Free Man in Paris" by Joni Mitchell

5) "Hello in There" by John Prine

4) "I'm Alright" by Kim Ritchie

3) "That Bitch" by Fat Yankee Jack (you have to go to Key West to see him.)

2) "Pamela Brown" as performed by Leo Kottke on a 12-string guitar.

1) "Mother of a Miner's Child" by Gordon Lightfoot.

If you've never heard these songs, you need to make a special effort to do so.

Names

Originally published June 4, 2004

I don't know what kind of statement some parents try to make when they name their children after fruit. That question puzzles me.

I grew up with the name Robert Smith. I had two strikes against me right off the bat because I have the most common name in the USA. You can't shake a got-dam bush ANYWHERE in this country without a dozen or so Robert Smiths falling out of it. Try using that name if you want to perform music on stage or write for a living. You won't exactly stand out in a crowd.

When my daughter was born, I named her Samantha because I liked the alliteration in Samantha Smith. The first name was unusual without being ridiculous and I always had a secret lust for Darren's wife on "Bewitched." I remain proud of the name I chose for her today.

When my son was born, I named him Quinton Robert Smith. That way, he could share the Robert that my grandfather, my father and I bear, but he could have a unique identity of his own. Quinton also is a fine Southern name. I'm proud of that one, too.

But I don't believe that in my wildest, drunken, dope-fueled delusions I could EVER name a child "Apple." Or "Moon Unit." Or "De Wonton." What the hell are parents thinking when they curse their children with horrible names that they'll have to lug through life like a millstone around their necks? Names count for a lot, and what you think is "cute" now may backfire later.

Face it. If someone in a Human Resources Department is sifting through a stack of job applications and sees "Rainbow," "Dewberry," "Toyota La' Trelle" and "Gary" in the mix, who do you think gets first shot at the job? It'll be Gary every time. The other names just sound too flaky. Even a Robert Smith stands a good chance when faced with competition from "Placenta," "D'Andre Lawanna Shithead" and "Blossom."

Graham Nash said "Teach Your Children Well." I say name them well first.

Notes from the homefront

Originally published June 3, 2004

Katie, the Fertile Rottweiler, is down to two puppies now. Somebody took "Brownie," an alpha male, and the two leftovers are brown females. All the ones who looked like genuine Rotties went pretty quickly.

Henry got kicked out of his house by the darling wife, came over to the Crackerbox in search of beer, told me his sob story, but charmed his way back in one day later. That guy makes ME feel sane.

I haven't seen THE JOGGER for a while now. Maybe the running bastard dropped dead of a heart attack the way Jim Fixx did on his way to perfect health.

The FAT LADY might not be singing, but she's walking several times up and down the road every day. She does that ridiculous power-walking thing that makes me want to run over her with my truck. Maybe she ate THE JOGGER. (Side note: never trust a woman with a belly bigger than her tits.)

A grackle attacked me in my back yard today, then had the nerve to hang around and squawk at me. I shot his ass dead with my pellet rifle.

I don't trust one of my neighbors. He has three things going against him. His ass is wider than his shoulders, he smokes brown cigarettes and he has an electric lawn mower.

I have an Effingham County sheriff's deputy living on my street. He knows me by name. I'm not certain whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I ate lunch at Weisenbacker's Restaurant today after my visit to the dentist. I must be going there too often. As soon as I sat down, the waitress came to me and said "The Killian's Red is on tap again, Rob." That tap has been broken for a couple of weeks, and that's what I always ask for. I had a Killian's, with a meal of BBQ ribs, mashed potatoes, fried okra and corn and tomatoes. It was good and I tipped my waitress generously.

I cut my grass. And I didn't use an electric lawn mower.

As you can tell, it doesn't take much to excite me anymore. That's one of the reasons I love living in Effingham County, Georgia.

June 30, 2007

Sunday Stumpers a day early

Originally published June 30, 2002

1) Describe your ideal breakfast.
I like the Waffle House, but the best breakfast in the world is cooked by my mama. Eggs over easy, sausage AND bacon, grits, home-made biscuits and gravy. The biscuits and gravy are what makes it really special. I don't know if it's really that good or it's good to me because I grew up eating it. Naw... it's REALLY that good.

2) When was the last time you said "I love you" to a parent, sibling, child, best friend?
Every time I see my son or my mama.

3) If you were witness to a celebrity's bad behavior and had it on film, would you sell it to a tabloid for quick cash?
That would depend on the celebrity. If I had film of Hillary Clinton screwing a goat, I would GIVE it away to every media outlet I could find. If I had naked pictures of that sanctimonious gnome Joe Lieberman, I might try to sell those, although I don't know who would want to buy them. But if the celebrity was someone I liked, I wouldn't let anyone else know. I am loyal to my friends.

4) When confronted by total rudeness how do you respond?
Usually, I ignore it, but occasionally I will respond in kind when my cage is rattled hard enough. I believe good manners are the lubricant that eases the squeak and friction of society's machine. Well-raised Southerners usually have good manners. They were slapped into our behavior by well-raised mamas and daddys as we grew up. Too many people today missed those lessons.

5) Sugar daddies/mommas......acceptable or not?
HELL, YEAH! I either want to BE one, or I want to buy at least TWO for myself.

The 1500's

Originally published June 30, 2002

I don't know if this stuff is true, but it makes for interesting reading:

Here are some facts about the 1500s:

* Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May and still smelled pretty good by June. However, they were starting to smell, so brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor.

*Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children-last of all the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it-hence the saying, "Don't>throw the baby out with the bath water."

*Houses had thatched roofs - thick straw - piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the dogs, cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof-hence the saying "It's raining cats and dogs."

*There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings could really mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection. That's how canopy beds came into existence.

*The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt, hence the saying "dirt poor." The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on the floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they kept adding more thresh until when you opened the door it would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entranceway, hence, a "thresh hold."

*In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and>then start over the next day. Sometimes the stew had food in it that had been there for quite awhile - hence the rhyme, "peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old."

*Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off. It was a sign of wealth that a man "could bring home the bacon." They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and "chew the fat."

*Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with a high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning and death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous. (I know that people around that time believed that tomaotes were poisonous--ed)

*Most people did not have pewter plates, but had trenchers, a piece of wood with the middle scooped out like a bowl. Often trenchers were made from stale bread which was so old and hard that they could be used for quite some time. Trenchers were never washed and a lot of times worms and mold got into the wood and old bread. After eating off wormy, moldy trenchers, one would get "trench mouth."

*Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or "upper>crust."

*Lead cups were used to drink ale or whiskey. The combination would sometimes knock them out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a "wake."

*England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people. So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a "bone-house" and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside, and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they thought they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the "graveyard shift") to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be "saved by the bell" or was considered a "dead ringer."

There is just enough truth in this to make it believable, which convinces me the whole thing is bullshit. But I don't know. Anybody got a clue?

The Pony Express was cheaper, faster, and more reliable

Originally published July 1, 2002

Today was a hot, miserable one at work, with temperatures in the mid-90s, humidity about 199% and no breeze at all. I believe the heat index was somewhere around the surface temperature of the planet Mercury, and I'm NOT talking about the side that always faces away from the sun. It was farking HOT.

I left work and went to my mama's house to visit with her, my 91 year-old grandmother and my daughter, who came in from Texas yesterday with her roommate, Stacey. My 19 year-old daughter showed me her two tattoos, so I showed her the scar on my left bicep from my henna episode in Key West. Now I know where her cyber-name "Blue Dolphin" comes from. She and Stacey are going to North Carolina to visit Stacey's brother tomorrow, so I told them to be back by Friday night, because I'm picking them up at 6:15 Saturday morning for the deep-sea fishing trip. I hope we catch some nice ones.

I left Mom's and went to the Post Office to buy some 3-cent stamps. The place resembled a fire-ant hill with the top kicked off. I only thought I held the US Post Office in contempt until today. Now I feel absolute revulsion. Of course, I'm as stupid as everybody else in the place for waiting until today to deal with the rate increase, because I COULD have gone there yesterday and bought stamps from one of the vending machines when I had the whole place to myself. The WTOC mobile TV-van was there, with Channel 11 reporters interviewing people for the evening news standing in those Disney-World type lines at the main counter . I was hoping they would stick a microphone in my face, but they probably knew better.

"Sir, what do you think of the increase in postal rates?"

"$%#$@%&%$#@!!*&%$*#@!!" I never would see myself on the tube at 11:00 if I voiced an honest opinion.

So, I elbowed a sweet little blue-haired woman on a walker out of my way, stepped on her neck as she lay fumbling for her "I've fallen and I can't get up transmitter" and got my stamps from the farking machine. I'm pretty sure the sweet little blue-haired woman will be okay. I saw the EMS ambulance with lights and siren going full blast pulling into the parking lot as I was leaving, and running over that cute little dog and the homeless man.

Boy, was I ever glad to get out of there.