Life 101 has been merciless since my return from the weeklong drinkfest spiritual retreat with the Usuals in Florida. Still, I figure that, lest this place die on the vine, I should take a few moments to share some very important observations about the Alligator Sunshine State and my time there this year with the Usuals and the Regulars from Non-Jersey places such as Fort Wayne, Indiana, Shelbyville, Illinois, Longview, Washington, Kansas City, Missouri, Ashtabula, Ohio and Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Of course, there was the ever-present Angst over the possibility of confronting one of those man-eating, woman-eating, pet-eating, semi-underwater prowling, bacteria-ridden, loathsome creatures commonly referred to as alligators. Spending just about all our time poolside drinking like sailors on liberty discussing trends in modern literature does wonders to take one’s mind off alligators, but who knew that there would be a species of wildlife that could invade the sanctity of “poolside” quaffing inner reflection – and invade it in spades.

You might ask, what species, other than the prehistoric, people-eating variety, could disrupt the Usuals’ vodka swilling moments of serious introspection? Would such animals be larger and more ferocious than an alligator, a lizard, or a monster snake?

No!

Would they be heavily dentitioned, rabies infected mammals?

No!

Would they be avian beasts that swooped down upon us, much as they did Tippi Hedren in the famous movie by Alfred Hitchcock?

No!

”Yo, so Jimbo, what could possibly interfere with the Usual Suspects’ long tradition of pool-sitting, pool bobbing and shit shooting?”

Farookin’ LOVE BUGS, that’s what!

I know that those of you who live in Florida (particularly on the Gulf Coast) know about these hateful, six-legged shits, but for youse guys who don’t know what they look like, take a gander here. You can also see a close up shot here.

Notice how the two insectoturds are conjoined at what for us civilized folks would be called “the ass”. It is the aforesaid heiney to heiney ass-f**king that gets them the name “Love Bugs.” Yes, they fly about in this kinky coital state until the female (the larger of the pair) decides she has had enough of the male (the small sorry ass who gets dragged about much like a farookin’ “Coppertone” sign behind one of those planes that flies up and down the beach at the seashore) at which time she dumps his ass so she can go lay her eggs, which will eventually result in a shitload more bugs.

There were ZILLIONS of them! No, make that GAZILLION BILLIONS of them. They blackened the exterior walls of the place, they covered the walkways, and they blackened the pool’s surface until their dead asses sank and had to be vacuumed from the bottom of the pool.

The good news for us (and for mankind in general) is that these disgusting creatures do not sting. The bad news is that nothing – abso-farookin’-lutely NOTHING keeps them away. We tried everything from citronella candles (they seemed to like the smell) to those Pic coiled insect repellent things, which I have not seen since I was a kid and which smell like what we used to call “punks”. The little bastards flew around in the smoke as if they were sniffing perfume!

Out of desperation, we even tried blasting our immediate area with deadly insect killing spray hoping to create a zone of death into which the little flying fornicating winged shits would not enter. Wrong. They flew into the kill zone and died what I can only presume to be a happy death.

Finally, after a day or so of bug battle, we realized that we had been beaten by their superior numbers and their seeming willingness to die an ecstatic death (terrorist bugs!). While this cursed infestation put a damper on some outside activities, we simply moved our binge drinking spiritual symposia to one of our screened in lanais. After a couple three chocolate vodkas, the little f**king (literally) beasts looked rather comical flitting about outside the screens.

This is the first time in seven or so years that we have had this problem at this time of the year. Some of the locals speculated that it had something to do with the dry spell that Florida has been having. I just hope we remain Love Bug free for at least another seven years.

Still, this proved that it will take more than GAZILLION BILLIONS of farookin’ bugs to keep the Usual Suspects from power drinking exchanging valuable, deep thoughts about important philosophical concepts.

Still running around here. In about sixty seconds, I have to head off to march in the Memorial Day Parade. I recall that when I began marching in the Memorial Day Parade, the crowds watching the Parade were sometimes three deep. Over the years the number has dwindled, and I fear the trend will continue. Pretty sad, that.

Please take a moment today to give a thought to the American service men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom.

Later.

UPDATE: As I had expected, the parade route was again sparsely populated, although there were considerably more spectators that lined the curbs of the two blocks that comprise the actual center of town. Still, the crowds were nothing compared to what they used to be.

The good news is that those who did turn out for the parade were wonderful. As we marched down the street (I was a rifle toter in the color guard), the onlookers applauded for each of the Veterans Organizations, and over and over again, we heard “Thank you!” coming from the spectators. It was quite moving, to say the least.

The clincher came after the parade at the town’s Memorial Park, where the post-parade ceremonies are held. The ceremonies include five members of our Post providing a rifle salute (three volleys) before “Taps” is played and the flag is raised from its half-staff position.

As the five of us were were standing around with our rifles waiting for the ceremonies to begin, a man who appeared to be in his late twenties came up to each of us, shook our hands and said “Thank you.” With him were his two young sons in Cub Scout uniforms. He said to the boys, “Shake these men’s hands and tell them thank you,” which they did.

At that moment, I can tell you there were five lumps in five grown men’s throats.

It was a good day, after all.

Yep. Still playing Catch Up, so no time to blog. I have to go to the Post to see what last minute stuff has to be done for Memorial Day. Busy time.

Maybe later.

We finally arrived back in town yesterday, late in the afternoon after spending a truly fun-filled hour in the Newark Airport baggage area waiting for the Jet Blue peeps to unclog the luggage carousel to spit out the cloggage that naturally included our baggage.

We then sweated away another twenty minutes in the back of a minibus with an air conditioner that didn’t work and windows that would not open (the Original Bill, a genuine claustrophobic, was one teeny neuron away from going berserko). Of course, it was ninety degrees (hotter than it was in Florida), and it was a NEWARK ninety-degrees, which is hotter than ninety degrees anywhere, with possible exception of Washington D.C. This drama was all unfolding at a time when everyone’s livers and digestive systems were working overtime trying to deal with the repeated ethanol assaults of the previous seven days.

Not surprisingly, when I finally got back to the House by the Parkway, I was schwitzed, hung over, Jet Blue pissed and downright exhausted. I didn’t even turn on Mr. Computer. Instead, I fired up the air conditioner, settled my dragging ass into Mr. Recliner (it missed me) to watch the episode of the Sopranos I’d missed.

After watching Phil Leotardo tell Tony to piss off and seeing Tony go to the Laughing Academy to visit A.J., I promptly fell asleep, like a dead person, until the wee hours of the morning. Now I have been known to stop off at the computer between leaving Mr. Recliner and actually going to bed, but seeing as how the computer was off, I didn’t want to wait for its steam-driven startup routine. (Did I mention that I will soon be buying new shit? No shit. Honest Injun.)

Today, I had lots of things to do, including helping my friend and bodyguard Ken, get the Usual Suspects’ Summer Playground his back yard and pool set up for our summer drinkfests meditation and reflection retreats. As such, I still had not fired up the blog. I thought I would use the downtime to formulate a few “What I did on my vacation” thoughts for use in a post to be written later. I actually was looking forward to writing later in the day.

Sooooooo, after a bunch of sweaty type work and a nice shower, I finally get around to turning on Mr. Computer ………………….

WTF???

WTF???

W T F???

I was treated to pictures of gators munching on gnus, a gator sporting hair that looks strangely like mine, a video of Barbra *spit* Streisand singing bullshit emoting a song about farookin’ CLOWNS. This was only one click away from a freakazoid clown with gumball machine tits and a codpiece sporting a little trap door hiding the magic surprise. Good God!

I was then, in an act of disgraceful calumny, chided and berated about my lack of techno-skills and my steam-driven computer. This, just when I am ready to buy new shit. No shit. I really am. Honest Injun.

Oh, and then there was that picture of Rosie O’Donnell taken before she had her morning shit, shower and shave. My farookin’ eyes bled. They freakin’ BLED, I tell ya. Eeeeeek!

The most recent turd that was tossed into the House by the Parkway consisted of a series of pictures of alligators dressed up as CLOWNS, and, for good measure, there is a picture of a huge alligator magically strutting its ugly pre-historic ass down the center lane of the New Jersey Turnpike (near Exit 11, where it meets the Parkway, as every Jersey Road Devil knows). Way over the top, that.

Who is to blame for these repeated assaults on my mental well-being and the fouling of my little cybernest?

It turns out that most of the vile material was posted by none other than this Brooklyn Smartass. But wait! I know she doesn’t have keys to the joint (Hell, we have a bigass river between us and New York City (of which Brooklyn is only one of five boroughs), and we like it that way, so how did she manage to gain across-the-Hudson access to what heretofore had been a very civilized site?

It pains me to say it, but in an act of infamy rivaled only by the Attack on Pearl Harbor, my “buddy” Craig, gave Missy Wiseass a set of keys. And, to think that I once referred to this Benedict Arnold as the Nicest Guy in the Blogosphere! Feh! Double Feh!

The aforementioned RATS did not work alone. Oh, no. They were aided and abetted by Dave and Randy, two evil-doers from Montana, a woman who poses as a very proper Lately-of-New England Lady (Don’t be fooled by the sweet “invisilines” smile) and Bill from Tampa, a reader and who is someone I never thought would delight in loosening my bowels. Et tu, Bill?

Yo! Pay attention, Shithooks! I know a couple a guys with names like Vito and Vinnie who just might have to pay youse guys a visit. Speaking of phobias, if youse guys never had BADDA-BINGaphobia, you might consider working on a serious case of it. I’m just sayin’.

I asked myself, ”Yo, Jimbo, why would these people stoop so low as to make you shit yourself after having had just one lousy week away from the ‘sphere?”

I figure that in the case of the Montana Cabal, those knuckleheads must have gotten bored sitting around the general store, pickin’ their toes and saying shit like, “How’s she goin’?”.

As for the Brooklyn Joooette Fink, I figure it’s a serious case of Jersey Envy. When Brooklyn knuckleheads move to Jersey (thankfully, very few) they buy a house on a 25’ by 50’ lot, and they think they’re in farookin’ farm country – Nebraska, or some shit. Next thing ya know they are putting bars on the windows and planting a shitload of tomatoes. Stronzi!!

With respect to Teresa and Bill, they may have just fallen into bad company. Still, I cannot help but think that they each have a sadistic streak, which, until now, had been hidden from public view – sort of Jeffrey Dahmeresque — scary shit.

This entire episode, I must say, has been a major hepatic setback for me, as I have had to seek the succor of the emergency vodka supply in the freezer just to deal with the Angst this has caused. Bastards!

Once my still-jet lagged, tired, cranky bastard ass is again perpendicular to the center of the earth, all you shithooks will pay! In spades! You can take that shit to the bank!

On a serious note, I thank all those who had a hand in keeping this place alive and funnier than I ever could have and for handing me lots of laughs. One of these days, I’ll eventually get around to telling you about what I did on my vacation.

These are all for you, gifts of anonymous contributors. I’m just the bag-man, so to speak.

But wait! There’s more!
(more…)

Well peeps…looks like this’ll be my last post here. Our pal Jimbo (well, your pal, my soon to be worst nightmare) should be getting back from beautiful, sunny Florida in the next few days. I’ll, naturally, have to go into hiding…I’m thinking he’ll never find me if I disappear into the bowels of the New York City subway system, incognito as a homeless person.

The Parkway Rest Stop thing is some bigass crazy shoes to fill and, I’ll be honest, I’m worn the hell out. I’ll be going back to my own 65-70 boooshit hits-per-day blog, but listen…I feel like I’ve developed a kinship with all of you, so do try and keep me in your prayers, as I’m convinced that I will most definitely need them.

If I ever find my way to the State of Montana, I am definitely going to have to raise a couple of pints with the Chief Mischief Makers and Hellions-in-Crime Holy Trinity of the Montana Blogosphere Craig, Dave and Randy (The latter being the absolute most devilish of them all! Don’t let the piety fool you), and non-Montanans Teresa and PRS reader Bill, all of whom have provided me with lots of laughs and support, despite my popping major ’roidage over what unknown Sopranos-style massacre awaits me. After all, I didn’t exactly ask Jimbo’s permission for this lofty gig, so he will be in for quite a Great Farookin’ Hair©-raising shock when he gets back.

From what I understand, Craig has a monster of a grand finale in store for Jimbo, too, so do stick around for that. Some of Dave’s troooooly bizarre artwork will be showcased, and so that will be a special treat.

Aight…I’m outta here. Just remember, put in the good word for me, mmmm-kay? It’s been real, peeps.

Parkway Rest Stop reader “Bill” was kind enough to email me the fancy shmancy, multi-syllabic, scientific names of our pal Jimbo’s most notorious phobias, so I thought I’d share them with all of you. Because PRS should be, if anything, a learning experience.

There’s “Batrachophobia,” the fear of crabs, which Jimbo wrote about here. Of course there’s the “Herpetophobia,” a paralyzing fear of alligators, and reptiles in general, which many of you love terrorizing Jimbo with (here’s the “Confession” that started it all). And then there is “Coulrophobia,” an innate fear of clowns, although, he has made it abundantly clear that he does not fear clowns…he just hates them.

Bill also mentioned “Chaetophobia,” a fear of hair, which, we all know, Hairboy does not have. However, I got to thinking, after I saw this Photoshopped pièce de résistance…

…Jimbo may, actually, develop a serious case of the “Chaetophobia”…not to mention, a serious case of the Irreparably Shriveled Stindeens…when he sees this.

h/t to both Denny and V-Man for posting the revolting beast.

Update! To satisfy my own curiosity, I went and had a look-see at a website called The Phobia List and found another bizarre neurosis, worth mentioning, which our pal Jimbo definitely doesn’t have: “Arachibutyrophobia,” the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of ones mouth.

Wow, another exciting example of how posts can sometimes just write themselves.

I think we are all very much aware by now of our pal Jimbo’s proclivity to nearly pop a ’roid (or get the—oy!—“hot squirts”) at the mere suggjoostion of “getting new shit,” and by that I, of course, mean procuring a brand new computer, to replace the “steam-driven” one he currently kvetches to no end about.

How many times have us SiteMeter Sherlocks seen in our referral logs, amidst everybody’s up-to-date Windows XP Operating Systems and Mozilla, Safari and Internet Explorer 7.0 web browsers, some poor nebech zhlub from New Jersey, ambling along to keep up with the rest of us, with his Internet Explorer 6.0 supported by a Windows 98 Operating System?

The running joke lately is ‘Honest Injun, I’m getting new shit’ after this, and after that, and when I get back from here, when I get back from there, when I get back from the Post, when I get back from the Thee-Ah-Tah, when I get back from bobbing in my Bodyguard, the Anal Cruise Director, Ken’s pool with the rest of the Usuals, when I get back from Texas, when I get back from Florida…Oy! It’s so silly already that one might almost expect to hear “I’ll get new shit…when I get back from playing footsies with Hillary in Nancy Pelosi’s hot tub in San Franfarookincisco!”

You may say to yourselves, though, “Yo, what’s it to ya?!” Well, lemme ask you this: Have you ever gone onto Parkway Rest Stop, tried to leave a witty comment, and it takes more than five minutes for the damn thing to digest? I’d fire off an email: “Yo, Jimbo…I been stuck on your blog for almost ten minutes!” to which he’d respond [paraphrasing], ‘Buying new stuff as soon as I get back from Florida. Honest.’ Maybe it’s related. Maybe not. Likely not.

The thing is, Jimbo claims he’s a technotard, and I used to call complete and utter booshit because the guy’s a frickin’ lawyer and so he’s gotta have some kind of a techno-cloo, especially if he’s got any comprehensive grasp of what judicial dissolution, dividend property or comparative negligence is. Nevertheless, we get this: “While some people change computers with the ease of changing socks, I am not one of those people. Still, it’s time.”

Anybody wanna take a guess when those words were written? Not last week, or last month, or even eight or nine, or ten months ago. Nah, not our Jimbo. A cursory search through the PRS archives yielded that that post was penned July 14, 2006. Yeah, it’s time. Ha. When alligators fly.

Remember this gem, post-Blogtoberfest, 2004: “…my finger found its way to the front of the farookin’ lens of the [shitty disposable] camera, leaving me with pictures of the center of Helen, Georgia along with my middle finger.” I remember. And so, when Hairboy, three years later, got himself another shitty disposable camera for the Blodger de Mayo in Kerrville, Texas a few weeks ago, I told him, out of the genuine goodness of my heart, “Yo, Jimbo…make sure your finger ain’t in front of the little glass lens thingy,” to which he snapped back, “Ay—don’t start with me!” Da noive-a dat guy.

Out of curiosity, when I asked him last week, “Yo, Jimbo…how’d your blogmeet pictures come out,” and he replied, “Shitty,” well…hell, Hairboy, don’t say I didn’t warn ya. But the funny thing is, in the same vein, he made sure to also mention [again, paraphrasing], ‘I’m definitely getting a digital camera…as soon as I get the new computer.’

[Yabu]
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
[/Yabu]

Boys and girls, I am not much of a betting woman, but I’d almost be willing to wager a paycheck that dodo birds will proliferate all over the State of New Jersey (a joke in there somewhere), and that California will, one day, become a Red State, when our lovable technodoofus finally does get himself this long-awaited computer and digital camera we’ve all been hearing so much about.

Ya know what, Jimbo…when you get your brand spanking new computer, which will surely put all of our computers to shame (“a big, badass, super-fast computer that will not become obsolete two minutes after I open the box”), why dontcha take a photo of it with your new digital camera, so we could all ogle it, drool, and bang our heads against the wall in Gott-damned farookin’ envy.

Speaking of sending in the clowns…

Don’t bother, they’re here.

Until the real rabble rousers from Montana break out the big guns, which I have personally been privy to (what the heck are they waiting for? Let’s go fellas!), I thought I’d share South Orange native Zack Braff’s Saturday Night Live monologue for all you New Jerseyans/New Jerseyites (whatever the frack youse call yourselves) out there.

Funny, though…that song sounds awfully familiar.

h/t to The Jersey Side’s John Shabe.