RRRRIIIINNNNNNG

Nancy: Uh ….. hello?

Hilly: Pearl, it’s me. Hilly.

Nancy: Oh, hi, Hilly ….

Hilly: Did I wake you up? Shit, Pearl. It’s damned near eleven o’clock.

Nancy: Well, I was sort of … sleeping.

Hilly: What the hell? Are you OK?

Nancy: Be right back, Hill. I gotta go puke.

Hilly:

Nancy: OK, I’m back.

Hilly: What’s up? You got flu, or some shit?

Nancy: No, but I feel like warmed over shit. Sven was over last night, and I got to sleep about two hours ago.

Hilly: Look, this is an emergency. I’m calling from Iowa. Caucus-Schmaukus! If I have to deal with one more dopey bastard who smells like pig shit, I’m gonna lose my mind. Whoa, did you say Sven was over last night? I want details, Sister. I’m dying here in the land of corn.

Nancy: Hilly, please. I gotta go puke again. Can we do this another time?

Hilly: Jesus, Pearl.

Nancy:

Hilly:

Nancy: OK. I’m back.

Hilly: So, how did it go with Sven?

Nancy: OK, but I may have to puke again.

Hilly: Dammit, Pearl. I’m about to become the Commander in Chief of the goddamned Armed Forces, and you’re telling me I have to wait while you puke?

Nancy: Sorry. I think I’ll be alright.

Hilly: So, what went down with Sven?

Nancy: I called him up and, as usual, we had to sort out the price. I told him that I wanted him to bring the Viking helmet with him. You know … the one with the horns.

Hilly: I freakin’ love that helmet.

Nancy: Brrrrrrrrp Well, we drank all the Cristal – must have been six bottles – then we smoked a couple handfuls of Panama Red.

Hilly: Sounds normal to me. That made you sick?

Nancy: No. After we finished all the Panama Red, he reached into his back pack and dragged out some Mead.

Hilly: Mead? What the hell is that?

Nancy: I’m not sure. He said it was a Viking drink, or some shit?

Hilly: Was it any good?

Nancy: Shit, Hilly. I don’t remember. I think we drank four bottles of the stuff. He kept saying “Weed and Mead … Perfect together!” I was all screwed up. Next thing I knew we were playing the “Ride ‘em Cowgirl” game.

Hilly: You’re killing me here. Did he leave the helmet on?

Nancy: Is there any other way? You know … with the horns and shit, it was like riding a bull.

Hilly: Oh … my … God… Did he leave his boots on too?

Nancy: Is the Pope Catholic? BRRRRRPPP. Sorry, Hilly. I really gotta puke again.

Hillary:

Nancy: OK. I’m back. So, how are you doing, Hilly? I see on TV that you’re knockin’ your ass out in Iowa. Must be a bitch.

Hilly: I’m dying here, Pearl. Every four years, we have to come out to this shithole and pretend that we give even a rat’s ass about the pig shit covered jerks in this state. Hell, every goddamned place you go, it’s either goddamned corn, or goddamned pig shit.

Nancy: Jeez, sorry to hear that, Hilly. I wish I could help.

Hilly: Actually, I called because I think you can help. Remember when you were in Iowa?

Nancy: Hell, I might have been in Iowa. Damned if I can remember.

Hilly: Yes you were! You told me about it. You said that a couple years ago your limo got a flat tire in Iowa, and some strapping farm boy named Luke fixed your tire. Remember?

Nancy: Really, Hilly, I don’t think I remember. BRRRRRPPP.

Hilly: Sure you do. You said that, after he fixed your flat, you went with him to his truck and drank a shitload of corn whiskey from a jar. Now do you remember?

Nancy: Oh yeah. Now, I remember. Definitely. When he dropped his pants, he showed me what he called his corn cob. He said that if it were covered with niblets, it would have won the blue ribbon at the County Corn Festival. He damned near impaled me on that thing. It was freakin’ awesome.

Hilly: Well, that’s really why I called. I was wondering if you might have gotten Luke’s phone number. I’m clawing the walls here.

Nancy: Jesus, Hilly. I don’t remember. I think I have it somewhere. Sorry. I’ll be right back.

Hilly: What? Another puke?

Nancy: I just shit myself.

Hilly: Jesus, Pearl. That’s freakin’ gross. Text me with Luke’s number, OK?

Nancy:

Hilly: Pearl? Are you there?

Hilly: Bitch!

click

Was damned near finished with a post when it vanished. Entirely my fault. I’m too tired to start all over.

See ya tomorrow.

In describing the October Blogmeet at Eric’s Place, I wrote the following about Jerry from Back Home Again:

Jerry arrived later, and on the following day slipped away just long enough to return dressed in overalls and a “Tractor Supply Company” ball cap. He was carrying a bale of hay in one hand and a bale of straw in the other, just so I could finally learn the difference. He also gifted me with a genuine home-grown ear of corn. It was funny as hell, but I did finally learn the hay-straw distinction. There is no substitute for visual aids, particularly for the farm-challenged. I promised that next year I would show up in overalls. I must have been drunk at the time.

Little did I know that, on that very day, Jerry had already hatched yet another plan.

I learned of his scheme a few days ago when a package, wrapped in plain, brown paper arrived at the House by the Parkway. I recognized the name on the return address and wondered why would Jerry be sending me a package.

I shoulda known.

Inside the box was a collection of things that were as foreign to a Northeast Jersey guy as cow shit, silos and combines.
The first thing that caught my eye was the license plate pictured above. Next, I saw a “Farm Boy” teen shirt, a pair of work gloves and an Indy Tractor Ball Cap. Then I found the clincher – my very own pair of Big Smith denim overalls. The real gottdamn deal.

Oh, and lest I forget, the package also contained a Big Smith bluegrass CD, which will set the mood when I don my new farmer duds.

I think I laughed for ten minutes.

Ol’ Jerry pulled this off with the help of a few co-conspirators in order to get my address and my sizes. They included the Wiseass Jooette, who contacted Ken, my friend and bodyguard, who in turn contacted Mrs. Parkway to find out just how large my waist is and how short my legs are.

Obviously, Jerry intends to hold me to my beer-fueled promise to show up next year in overalls, which I will do, and I will also be sporting my Farm Boy tee shirt, my work gloves and my Indy Tractor cap over my great farookin’ hair.

Maybe I should sell tickets.

A great big thanks to Jerry for his boundless sense of humor, his thoughtfulness and his generosity. I’d also like to thank his co-conspirators for their part in helping to pull it all off.

I sat down in front of the computer hoping that the mush inside my cruller would magically congeal into something writeworthy and, more importantly, something readworthy. Just as I was about to surrender to the unyielding brain goop and step away from the computer, I glanced at my watch and the little date thingy on its face.

Well, I’ll be damned. It seems that, as of today, I have been at this blogging thing for five farookin’ years. It all started with this post, and here I am more than 2,100 posts and almost 11,000 comments later. Who’d a thunk it?

This exercise has provided me with countless hours of excellent reading, more laughs than a person has a right to have and a chance to have some fun tossing my written turds into the collective punchbowl. Most importantly, blogging has introduced me to a collection of truly amazing, talented, funny and thoughtful people both in the real world and in the cyber world.

I offer my heartfelt thanks to everyone who has found this place to be worth a piece of their valuable time. I am genuinely grateful.

Ironic that it is today that I found myself wondering if the number of writeworthy things is finite and, if so, whether I have hit the proverbial wall. The good news is that being reminded of this hardly noteworthy occasion provided me with something to write about today.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Apparently, there is no end to the disgusting political rot that exists in this state. Here’s the latest bit of skullduggery, courtesy of our incumbent state lawmakers, as pointed out by Deborah Howlett of the Star Ledger.

These are some of the highlights. As they say, read it all for all the disgusting deets.

All Jersey’s lawmakers are given a budget of $110,000 for the purpose of hiring aides to perform various functions that come with holding public office. Some lawmakers use the budgeted funds to hire a few professionals, but others use some or all the funds to reward party hacks, and their family members, many of whom already hold a public office.

I know you’re thinking, Yo, Jimbo. Where’s the news there? All politicians reward their friends and loyal backers.

The kicker here is that the politicians hand out jobs with salaries just high enough to qualify the recipients for taxpayer-funded pensions and taxpayer funded benefits, which include medical, dental and prescription drug coverage.

Here are a couple of the more noteworthy gems cited by Ms. Howlett (paraphrased by Yours Truly):

One county administrator who earns $131,600 per year has a $4,000 gig (plus taxpayer-funded pension credits) as a part-time aid to a state senator. The purchasing director from the same county supplements his $104,880 county salary with a an additional $3,000 (plus taxpayer-funded pensions credits) to serve as an aide to the same state senator.

A Director of a County Improvement Authority (Whatever the hell that is) who earns $132,910 and who is also the chairperson of the County Democrat party socks away an additional $10,000 as an aide to a Democrat State Assemblyman. The $10K salary is high enough to qualify her for taxpayer-funded pension credits and taxpayer-funded medical and dental benefits.

The father of former governor Jim McGreevey has been an aide to a Democrat state senator since 1994 for $15,000 per year, entitling him to taxpayer-funded pension credits and taxpayer-funded medical and dental benefits. Who knew?

This one is downright comical. You might need to draw a diagram to follow the money: A county sheriff’s daughter served as an aide to a state assemblyman at the same time that the state assemblyman served as an “undersheriff” to her father, the county sheriff. This ended when the state assemblyman/“undersheriff” was arrested by federal agents this spring on corruption charges and resigned both offices.

You can’t make this shit up.

Here are the numbers, as reported by the Star Ledger:

Among the 705 people employed by the 120 members of the Senate and Assembly, more than a quarter are paid just enough to reach the threshold for pension credit or health benefits. Forty-four aides hold other government jobs, and 23 either hold elected or appointed office or are related to someone who does.

This crap crosses party lines, which is why the voters who returned all but one incumbent to the state legislature a few weeks ago deserve everything they get.

The problem is that the rest of us have to get it too.

A Scene from this Morning’s Walk.

As I was doing this morning’s ground pound, I was formulating a post in my cruller about politics and stuff, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I was becoming. It occurred to me that my anger was screwing up my walk on a beautiful, crisp autumn day.

I chose to let it go for today.

In fact, I think I just might try a blog-free weekend. I have a few chores to attend to and a book or two that needs reading.

We’ll see how it goes.

Rather than scouring the web for an appropriate Thanksgiving image, I thought that I would draw one myself.

The Joanster and John Cox ain’t got nuttin’ on me.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving to youse.

100%ALCOHOLIC

Jeez, I prefer to think of myself simply as one who enjoys an occasional libation.

Found it at Curmudgeonisms

You know who Suzanne Malveaux is, don’t you? Sure you do. She’s the CNN news person who introduced Wolf Blitzer to the “undecided” voters during the most recent democrat debate.

I have to admit that it grates on my nerves every time I hear her and others pronounce her first name as “Su-ZAHN.” DoucheBAHG thing, if you ask me.

Then again, I suppose anyone can pronounce his or her name any way he or she wants. I am reminded of this.

I know damned well that whenever youse peeps visit your local liquor emporium you stare at the ever increasing array of booze. You invariably focus on a particular bottle and think to yourself, “Damn, I’d sure like to try that, but I’m not too thrilled about forking over twenty bucks for something that might taste like shit.” You move on, picking up one of your tried and true favorites knowing … just KNOWING that “Ol’ Jimbo will get around to trying that stuff and letting us know whether it’s worth a double sawbuck.”

Well, if you recently found yourself staring at a bottle of Three Olives Pomegranate Vodka (presumably while you were there to pick up a bottle of Three Olives Chocolate Vodka, the magic elixir) and you wondered whether it is worth a shit, worry no more.

Yes, I picked up a bottle yesterday and placed in the freezer for today’s tasting. I poured myself a generous helping directly from the freezer. I gave it a whiff, then a generous “sip.” I liked it. The taste of the fruit is not overpowering, but rather it remains in the background just enough so that the vodka comes through sufficiently to serve as a pre-dinner belt. At the same time, there is enough fruit in the taste to enjoy it as an after dinner drink, if one wishes to avoid the often too syrupy after dinner cordials. It would also stand up well to ice (of course, only clear ice will do).

Then again, it would kick ass right out of the bottle. The brown paper bag is optional.

Note: I have no connection with any entity that makes, sells or promotes the stuff, nor has any entity paid me anything to write this (not that it’s worth a dime). In fact, it cost me twenty bucks to write this post. Just so’s ya know. The things I do for youse peeps.