Friday Conundrums

AKA Shit I'd Rather Not Ruminate About Over The Weekend...

Item #1 - The Power of The Name

Fetish or Fixation?  OK, those of you with sisters and/or daughters might have an answer.  Remember when your female sibling had a crush on that guy in grade school, and she ended up defacing hundreds of pages of notebook paper scribbling "Mrs. Dreamy Dooshbag" over & over?  What was the end result supposed to be?

I have a similar occurrence happening over on Facebook.  The younger sister of an old friend "friended" me on FB, so now I see post after post of her professing her undying love to her current paramour.  The thing is, she *ALWAYS* uses the same version of the dude's name. In all caps, and the entire name.   F'rinstance - "I wuv you 4-3vr, LESTER WAYNE HAYSEED JR."  & "You are the tornado beneath my trailerpark, LESTER WAYNE HAYSEED JR"

This goes on for post after post.  I'd just delete her feed and be done with it, but every week or so he fucks up and she tears him a new one, which is always fun to watch.

Anyway, I was wondering about the significance of using the full name.  Just seemed odd, is all...


Item #2 - 24 Carrot Cake

I dearly love some carrot cake with sour cream icing, but I'm looking for an alternate recipe.  One that does *NOT* use shredded or grated carrot.  I don't care for the texture of carrot slivers in the cake.

What I'd prefer is a version closer to a pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie, where the carrots are cooked & pureed, but still have that sweet carrot flavor.

The richer & moister, the better.  No raisins, and all nuts also need to be relegated to the crust, preferably crushed.  Can anyone help??


Item #3 - Thinking about selling the .32 ACP Walther PPK. Stainless S&W model.   I'm not 100% decided, but if you've got a burning urge to get your Bond on, let me know what you'd offer.  I've got three mags, a Fobus kydex holster and about 1000 empty cases & a set of Lee factory loading dies.

The Beatings Will Continue, No Matter The Morale Level!

Some Days I Hate My Job

"Well, it's a great day!  To whoop somebody's ass!!"

Or so the song goes...

Part of the problem is that there is no ass-whoopin' here, no matter how badly some is deserved.

See, there's good employees that work for The Man, and then there's the pissheads.  The douchebags.  The jobsworths, the time servers, the featherbedders, the toadys, lickspittles and the poor souls that can't pour piss out of a boot with the directions embedded on the sole.

Today, I am dealing with some of these people.

Needless to say, I am frustrated.

See, if I could just go down to their department, grab the chief slug by the meaty part of his ear and twist until I got his undivided attention, I could be reassured that at least part of the communication cycle had made it through his bony cranium unscathed by gatekeeping underlings.

Then, for good measure, I'd introduce a few of the Perpetually Incompetent to the wonder of motivational tools, the Hot Shot cattle prod.

Sigh.  I have purchased a pair of jumbo knuckledusters.  I have not decided to bring them to the office just yet...

Ribs? No. Those Were Pork-flavored Ass Bones...

Stick To Beans & Chowdah, You Pissahs!

Making good ribs is not a hard thing to do.  It does take time and attention, but nothing along the lines of calculating your taxes, or even building a birdhouse.

You can do it with a beer in your hand.  You can do it half in the bag from bourbon.  You just gotta remember...  Keep the smoke flowing, keep the heat low, and for pete's sake, don't poke fork holes in the slab.

Boston Market apparently cannot make ribs.  They do a pretty respectable job with a rotisserie chicken, which is why I gave 'em a try Friday night.

To the best of my understanding based on the end product, here's how they made their ribs:

Step One - Slice into half racks.

Step Two - Pile half racks into a stock pot.

Step Three - Boil for several hours until chewy.

Step Four - Douse in BBQ sauce, put in oven pan, slide under warmer.  Leave there all day. Sell to unsuspecting people and hope they don't get PO'ed enough to drive back and fling bad ribs over the counter.

While the end product did fall off the bone, it was more of the "stewed into decomposition" tender, not the end result of 12 hours of wood smoke.

Adding insult to injury, they shorted me a side of creamed spinach...  Boston Bastards...

Possums, Poker & Poptarts

Alliterative Fun In Swamp City

There's at least 5 dogs and upwards of a dozen cats that freely roam the cul de sac most evenings.  Since none of the neighbors seem to have heard of leash laws, you can count on at least half the 4-legged residents to come say hello while you're out with a book & a cigar on the front porch.

This isn't a bad thing, necessarily.  I like most of the critters, and two of the dogs and three of the cats are downright friendly and will hang out while I pet them.  The problem comes when you start assuming that it's a dog or cat coming to visit.

Take last Wednesday, when I reached out my left hand while reading to pet the approaching white furry critter.   Imagine our joint surprise when I glanced over and noticed I was about 3 feet away from fondling a wandering possum...     The A/C condensation drain pipe dumps out onto the front porch, and I imagine Mr. Possum was looking for a drink.

He brought a friend last night.  I was deep into a Lee Child novel and a San Lotano cigar when I heard a snapping sound off to the left.  I looked over to see a pair of possums clicking their jaws at me, perhaps hoping I'd run off.  No dice, stupid stupid rat creatures!!

They're gonna need to find a new watering hole.  That drain's getting re-routed into a rain catchbarrel, anyway...


I've avoided Pop-Tarts for quite some time.  They're mostly empty calories, but got-damn those are some tasty empty calories...  I succumbed to temptation and had a pack of the strawberry and (my favorite!!!) the brown sugar/cinnamon.   I'd eat those things by the bushel basket if I could...


Poker night last Friday evening, one of the last ones up in the Cypresswood locale of the Cisco Kid.  He & his blushing bride of 5 months are moving down closer to downtown, and our fireworks-friendly locale for July 4th and New years will soon be on the market or rented out.

Not a bad night as far as poker nights go.  I barely made 75 cents in profit over the course of the evening, but there was this one hand...

Pretty straightforward game of Spit In The Ocean.  It's a draw game with one community wild card.   Wild card is a 3, and I'm dealt a pair of 6s and a trey.  So, at least trip 6s.  The draw comes around, and I dump a king and a 5 for... another 6 and another 3.  Score!!  Now to keep that poker face on...

Got into a betting war with the Cisco Kid.  Each of us was telling the other one "You don't want to do this! Back off!!" while pitching quarters into the pot as fast as we could.

Eventually the call came around, and Cisco Kid's royal flush (courtesy of the other two treys) was just edged out by my 5 of a kind.  Sweet...

I love winning a good hand, but I'd prefer not to hand a bad beat down to a friend to do it!!

Friday Odds & Ends

Drink, Drank, Drunk.  It's Not Conjugation, It's A Schedule!

Gadzooks, what a week...

Between the NRA at one end of downtown and the peacenik protestors at the other, it's been a fun time.

Got a parking ticket from The Man's roving foot patrol.  I had parked by a meter, then spent 10 minutes trying to get the damned thing to take my credit card.  It kept declining my card, and of course I was without a thin dime in actual currency.   A note left on the windshield to that effect was no help.  A $30 ticket along with a note that says the meter was in working order.    Of course it was...


I've been plowing my way through all the Lee Child "Jack Reacher" novels.  Never read 'em before, and they're not too bad.   I picked up #1-11 at Half Price Books, and the rest through eBay.  I'm on 11 now, and they go pretty quickly.   The protagonist is an ex-Army MP making like Caine in Kung Fu, just walking the earth and helping the poor & downtrodden.

My main beef is that the author is a Brit, and occasionally flubs the idiom.  Also, he knows just enough guns to be dangerous.  There's some odd choices in hardware used by the characters.  (A Steyr GB as a favored weapon?  Really??)


Ladies, I am quite pleased to see the reappearance of short summery skirts.  Long legs and those gusty downtown breezes make my day much more bearable.

A word of warning, though.  Consult a full-length mirror in reverse before heading out.  Twice now I've seen women sporting large purple bruises about the size of a thumbprint dead center in the middle of the rear thigh.   Having applied a few of those myself assisting the placement of ankles behind ears, I applaud your flexibility and commitment.  However, you might consider a longer skirt or some coverup makeup while they fade...


Ever wonder what becomes of those annoying-as-fuck kids from school that used to remind the teacher at 5 minutes to the bell to assign homework, and took great glee in ratting out other kids to the principal?
Well, after they retire, they spend all day churning out emails and phone calls to anyone working for The Man.

Pity we can't drag 'em out behind the gym for an ass-whoopin' anymore.

A Week Full Of Mondays

The Man Moves In Mysterious Ways

I've been asked by a couple of people if I'm going to the NRA shindig this week.  Their annual convention is in Houston this year, and they've got the entire George R. Brown Convention Center booked solid.

The answer is...  yes, I'll be there, and no, I won't be there.

Physically, I'll be on site.  I'll be behind the scenes with the GRBCC staff, though, casting some pearls of wisdom among them.

As such, I'll be busy most of the week. Due to the fact that I've got to dodge the NRA traffic and try to do my job amidst the chaos, by the time the weekend rolls around I'm not going to be in the mood for any sightseeing or being within 20 miles of the GRBCC.  Sorry 'bout that.

Now, if there's a meetup at a local watering hole, I could be persuaded to make like Mr. Groundhog and come out of my hole.

Otherwise, forget it...

Note To Self: Don't Skip The Cigar!

More Fun & Games From The Subconcious Mind

I was absolutely exhausted last night.  I didn't get a whole lot of sleep Wed. night, and Thursday began with a pre-dawn wakeup and a drive across town to make an early-morning appearance at one of The Man's functions.

Any hopes of leaving early were dashed upon the arrival at the office, where a stack of phone calls and emails awaited, each one from some surly plaintiff looking for their piece of the pie.  And add some ice cream & sprinkles, you do-nothing civil servant!!

My usual post-prandial cigar on the front porch was skipped in favor of an early mattress-collapse.  Have you ever sunk into the bed, wrapped up in your Woobie, and almost cried tears of joy because you could finally get some sleep?  Well, me either, but it was a near thing...

I'm not supposed to take either NSAIDS, Aspirin or Acetaminophen due to some drug interaction issues.  This leaves opiates and alcohol as pain-relievers, and I can't do the liquor 'cause it fucks with my blood sugar, and opiates are out just on general principles.   Still, there are some nights when the various aches & pains get to be too much, and I'll power down a double-dose of naproxen and hope I don't wake up having grown a flipper or two.

So, dosed with painkillers, we enter dreamland.  And boy, was it a doozy...

First was a newscast-type dream where the Norks had flooded over the 38th Parallel en masse, their tanks driving deep into South Korea.  It was eerily realistic, so much so that when I was jolted awake, I grabbed for my cell phone to bring up a news feed and make sure it wasn't really happening.

Next was a long drawn-out adventure starring my much-missed VW GTI.  It had developed a spacious TARDIS-like interior, and also the ease of repair of a VW air-cooled Beetle. the dream involved traveling through west Texas and numerous small towns, for no apparent purpose.

It was fun working that stickshift again, even if it was just a dream...

Next up was a large pickup terrorizing the neighborhood street. One of those jacked-up mudding trucks was circling the cul de sac raising havoc, and I finally had enough and started loading up a pump shotgun.

Alas, someone had replaced my shotgun hulls with CVS Pharmacy pill bottles.  All the powder, wadding and buckshot were in there, but the child-proof safety lids wouldn't cycle through the pump shotgun's action, and the harder I slammed the action shut, the worse they got jammed in there.

I dunno whether that was my subconcious commenting on the futility of war, or the inevitable collapse of government-run healthcare.  Either way, it wasn't much fun...

So, a cigar for certain tonight.  A high enough level of nicotine keeps the dreams from getting too weird!