Tongue In Check

I was standing outside this morning enjoying the warmth and thinking about how this time tomorrow I will be in the UK probably freezing my ass off. The high there the other day (in human numbers) was 66. I think it supposed to be 90 here in Texas today.

The  person that seems the most  unhappy about all of this is Carmen. She has been following me around ever since the suitcase came out of the closet Wednesday morning. I’m sure my wife’s not too happy about it either, she just shows it differently.

Anyway, the idea of sitting on an airplane for 10 hours is not as appealing to me as it used to be. Of course when crossing the Atlantic, sitting on an airplane is infinitely preferable to any of the alternatives.

Of course there’s always the hope for this:

Which almost always turns out to be this:

Just my luck.

Oh well, at my age neither option seems very likely.

There was a time when a 10 hour flight meant a 10 hour drunk, but those days are certainly over with.  Now I get to sit and stare at the TV for 10 hours while listening to the inevitable baby crying and the endless kicks to the back of my seat from the restless fat man sitting behind me.  Certain things about flying are inevitable for me:

• I will be singled out in security. It has been happening since the late 80’s. Apparently I fit a profile.
• There will be a screaming over-indulged child within 10 feet of me.
• There will be a fat man behind me.
• There will be an old(er) man somewhere near me who feels like he has to stand up for the entire flight.
• The stewardesses will get upset when they catch me trying to catch a glimpse of their panties while they sit in the “jump seat.”
• An old lady will sit next to me and have to get up exactly 156 time during the flight.
• I will land in England and the customs agent there will be an Indian who cannot speak a fucking word of English and then he/she will get mad at me because I can’t understand him/her.
• I will have a headache when I land and my throat will be sore.

Y’all play nice.

You simply can’t imagine the horror of it all.

I warn you now, this tale is not for the faint of heart. Men should especially turn away now. Go ahead and run back to your internet porn, you Fox News, your endless Glenn Beck fantasies now because this story is scary.

This past Saturday, I was sitting here minding my own business. I wasn’t bothering anyone. It was then that I heard the dreaded words coming from the other side of the apartment.

“Let’s go somewhere,” she bellowed said.

I pretended not to hear her hoping that she wouldn’t have the strength to say it again.  Naturally, my plan failed miserably because just a few seconds later she appeared in the kitchen saying again, “I think we should go somewhere.”

“Where would you like to go, ” I asked fearfully.

“Huntsville,” she said.

For those of  you who don’t know anything about Huntsville, Texas, let me explain. There’s a big prison in Huntsville, Texas, and generally, where there’s prisons, there’s convicts and convict’s families.  It just happens that way. Prison towns are generally not your picturesque showboat of a town.  Huntsville was no exception.

But, we went anyway.

Boy, it seems like just a few short years ago, I was getting drunk on Saturdays and chasing strippers with big tits. Or was that big girls with tits?

I don’t know, I was drunk.

Now,thanks to kidney cancer,  I am going “antiquing.”

Damn you to hell, cancer.

Anyway, we went to an antique store and I was at the very  least, a bit amused by it. There were all kinds of things that I found fascinating and intriguing…..

Oh hell, I am lying through my fucking teeth. It was a store full of old junk that nobody wants anymore. Mountains and mountains of old rusty tools, toys, busted up furniture, crappy dishes, ash trays (?) old scratched up records, and nick fucking nacks of every fucking kind. The whole place smelled like “old.”

The creepiest thing to me was all the old pictures of just ordinary people living their ordinary lives. Some were pictures of of folks getting married. Some were family portraits.  Others were just random shots of old couples.  Imagine that  you live your whole life not bothering anyone and minding your own business and somehow you die and pass on into obscurity and someday someone finds our pictures and says “who the fuck are these old codgers” and your picture winds up in an antique store in a prison town in Texas being looked at by families of ex-cons and former drunks with one kidney. Damn, that’s sad.  I hope when I die somebody burns all the pictures of me.

Especially this one.

And this one too:

Anyway, you get the point. There are things you leave behind in a very innocent fashion–maybe forgotten and left behind in a drawer somewhere and you never know where you might end up.

Now that’s a kind of antiquing I could get into!

Okay, I don’t want to turn this into a Glenn Beck Sucks Cocks blog because this blog is more about making fun of things than it is telling the truth about entertainers who work for Fox News, but I did want to ask you folks this:

Why isn’t Glenn Beck answering any questions about the woman he raped and murdered in 1990?

Tell me what  you think.

Oh, and for you foreigners who don’t know who Glenn Beck is, thank your lucky stars above.

I don’t really have much to add to that. I just wanted to see how many hits I get for that title.

For those of you who don’t know who Glenn Beck is, go here.

For those of you who do, perhaps this will help:

UPDATE: I just went to Google and typed in Glenn Beck Is A Cocksucker and I am number 1 with a bullet!

Pair of Dimes

 

Pair Of Dimes Shift