That is all.

Via C&S

This knocks me out.

Suppose, theoretically, you could dig a tunnel from one point on the earth all the way through the center of the earth and out the opposite side. Suppose further that you jumped into said tunnel. Gravity would pull you at high speed (very high speed) to the center, but then the same gravity would cause you to decelerate until you coasted comfortably to the surface of the other side of the earth.

The whole trip would last exactly 42 minutes!

In addition, it doesn’t matter which two cities on earth you connected with this tunnel, the trip would still take 42 minutes!

It’s all in the physics.

Ties my cruller in knots, that does.

Damn, check out those BEADS. I think I shall promote myself to Sergeant Wood Sealer.

I rule.

Yeah, I’m talking to you jackasses who think you can safely “text” while driving a car. It’s goddamned bad enough that you swerve all over the farookin’ highway at 75 miles per hour while blabbing on your cell phone, but now I see that you are “texting” while driving.

I had no idea that this was an issue until this morning when I heard that the New York State Senate approved a bill that would prohibit “texting” while driving. My initial thought was, “Do they really need a law? Who in their right mind would try to read and send text messages while driving?”

Silly me.

It turns out that sponsors of the legislation relied on a “…a recent survey conducted by Nationwide Mutual Insurance Co. showing that one in five drivers text behind the wheel; most are between the ages of 18 and 34.”

Three in five? Holy crap!

Are you people out of your minds?

Consider someone who actually is paying complete attention to driving and who is driving at 70 mph. From the moment that person spots an emergency, the car will travel 77 feet before his foot will reach the brake pedal. The car will travel an additional 269 feet before stopping, for a total of 346 feet (more than the length of a football field) between seeing an emergency and actually stopping. (link).

Now, imagine how that works out if the car travels three hundred feet before you even see an emergency because you were busy “texting.” BLAMMO!

To borrow a phrase from the Late Great Acidman, anyone who texts while driving ought to be dragged off and shot.

Damned fools.

Sunset Over the Gulf
My sorry ass may be back home in Jersey, but my mind is still here.

My mind is still on vacation, as it were, even though today I returned to truckloads of work to do.

With that in mind, I thought I would share something, which, for me, is quite a rarity – namely a celebrity sighting.

As I was walking toward the gate at Fort Myers – Sanibel Airport, I noticed a tall man walking in my direction. He was wearing a blue blazer, tan pants and dress shoes, which is no big deal. But, he was also wearing a close-fitting baseball cap. As we passed each other, it still hadn’t registered. Once he was a dozen paces past me, it came together. It was James Patterson, the gazillion selling author of the “Alex Cross” series and several other page turners.

I said to The Original Bill who was already seated at the gate, “Yo, I think I just walked past James Patterson.”

Bill looked at the people walking away from the direction of the gate and said, “I know who you mean. The blue blazer guy. James Patterson does live in Florida, you know.” (I didn’t know that, or, at least, I didn’t recall that.)

He looked, to me, like his photos on the back of each of his books (with the baseball cap), except he was a big guy. Yeah, I know. Stoopid, to gauge someone’s height and mass based upon a head shot on the back cover of a book.

That’s where this exciting story ends. I am not a person who would chase the guy down and say stuff like, “Yo! You’re James Patterson, right? I’m a big fan. blah, blah, blah, so I never got around until a couple days later even mentioning to Mrs. Parkway (also a Patterson fan) that I believed that I had seen the guy.

The only other airport celebrity sighting I can claim was the time I saw Al *spit* Sharpton at the San Francisco Airport waiting to board the flight to Newark. Unlike, James Patterson (at least, I think it was James Patterson), Sharpton was prancing around the gate area, obviously hoping to be noticed. I noticed him all right, but I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire.

Did I mention that the “Reverend” Al was flying first-class? I was flying coach, so I had to wait while the “Reverend” lumbered his fat ass on the plane. I couldn’t help but wonder who paid for his ticket.

That’s about it, except to note that I was a bit disappointed that James Patterson (at least, I think it was him) didn’t stop dead in his tracks and say, “Yo, are you Jimbo from Parkway Rest Stop? I’m a big fan blah, blah blah …”

Maybe next year.

Update: I just remembered that I was on a flight to Jacksonville with this guy and blogged about it here. He didn’t recognize me either, but I have better hair.

This year was quite special. The Grand Marshall of our parade was a member of our Post, Sol Lipkin, who is a WWII Navy Vet and who is 102 years old. I have written about Sol before. He is slowing down a bit, but he still manages to walk away a winner in our regular penny ante poker game.

After the parade, members of our Post fire the ceremonial volleys while taps is being played, and, I must say, we looked pretty farookin’ good out there firing our 1903 Springfields (unplugged). One of the shooters will be deploying to Iraq next month.

Once the ceremonies were done, we returned to the Post for a veritable feast, which is open to the public. We were joined by the Junior ROTC, a couple Girl Scout and Brownie Troops and Revolutionary War Re-enactors. (They say those clothes are not hot, but I’m not buying it.)

When we were left pretty much with Post members and spouses, I dragged out the guitar and played with “Chuck,” who is Captain Arthur’s seriously tattooed son-in-law. Turns out that he plays very much like I do, and I have a blast playing with him. (Sol loved it, and managed to do a bit of dancing – at 102).

I had been looking forward to playing with Chuck again. In fact, while in Florida, I idly suggested, “Yo, Chuck and I could probably go out on the weekends and turn a few bucks.”

Mrs. Parkway remarked, “Oh yeah, you could call the act, ‘Chuck and the Old F**k.’” After laughing my ass off, I decided I kinda like the idea. I could wear a tee shirt that says “Chuck.”

It was a good day, particularly since, despite the party atmosphers, we all know what Memorial Day is all about.

I am still afflicted with vacation lag and have yet to regain my blogging groove. Maybe it’s because I have managed to avoid listening to, watching or reading much of any news. While in Florida, I did hear a news blurb about Ted Kennedy’s illness. I’m feeling compassionate today (probably the lingering effects copious amounts of chocolate vodka over the previous week), so since I have nothing nice to say about Senator Kennedy, I shall say nothing.

I also heard that Hillary gorilla stomped Barack _______ Obama’s ass in Kentucky but that Barack _______ Obama won rather handily in Oregon. No surprises in either case. Hillary is staying in. Sweet. I’d love to hear what each has to say about the other in private.

Oh, and lest you think I worry needlessly about alligators, during the week I was in Florida, some sorry ass damned near lost his arm to one of those pre-historic monsters. I believe that people who live near fresh water in Florida are a bit nutso. Case in point. A perfectly normal looking and sounding woman bartender told me, “Oh yeah, we have one [a farookin’ gator] that lives in the lagoon behind my house. We just crack open the door to check the yard before we go outside. It’s not a problem.” Nutso.

The same bartender told me that, in her neighborhood, wild boars (those ugly bastards with the tusks) are a problem. Wild boars? Nutso.

Oh, and there was a headline in the local paper (I read it in one of those news boxes while doing a ground pound) that said that coyotes are gobbling up people’s dogs (presumably small dogs) in Southwest Florida. Nutso.

So, in Florida the peeps deal with alligators, wild boars and dog-eating coyotes. Nutso, nutso, nutso, I tell ya.

Yo, Jimbo. The title of this post is “Corporal Wood Sealer,” and you’ve written about goofy shit that has nothing to do with corporals or wood sealer. WTF?”

OK, here’s what I intended to say about three-hundred and twenty five words ago.

I had no idea that the joy and Macht I experienced as Captain Power Wash would be followed by the frankly pedestrian task of smearing wood sealer on the deck. No one can ever be “Captain Wood Sealer.” It’s just not possible, given the nature of the task. Hell, it’s not even like painting, because with painting, when you are all done, the thing you painted looks different than it did before you painted it. With wood sealer, you can’t appreciate the fruits of your labor until the next rain, and only then can you marvel at the beads of water on the wood. “Look Myrtle! Check out them beads! Get the camera!”

I have nothing else to say at the moment.

The Usual Suspects arrived back in Jersey after a week sunshine, power drinking, power eating, and power pool bobbing. Far from being rested, I’m farookin’ exhausted.

I began the process of reading a gazillion and deleting about three gazillion e-mails. I also read through the Wiseass Jooette’s posts (and all you finks who thought they were da bomb), about which I will surely have something to say once I can properly focus my eyes for more than ten minutes.***

I must admit that after leaving the beautiful, clean Fort Myers–Sanibel Airport, returning to Newark Airport is a bit like being hit in the moosh with a bag of shit.

I’m too tired to make much sense at the moment, or to do much of anything other than scratch my “peel” somewhere under which is something resembling a tan.

Later, Peeps.

*** I would like to thank the Wiseass Jooette for keeping the place popping while I was gone, even though most of the content was pure baloney, particularly the shit about Jackie Robinson being safe and the alleged bald spot.

Sadly, yet mercifully, my time here guarding the House by the Parkway from stealth toilet-papering attacks at the hands of malevolent Brooklynites must draw to a close. Yes, I know…pass the snotrags.

Our pal Hairboy, who we all miss very very much (no disclaimer), shall return to the GAHden State, Vulgarian Capital of the Universe, in just a few hours and Parkway Rest Stop shall resume regularly scheduled blogposts of PRS Operatives transcripts of bugged conversations between Nancy Pelosi and Sven the Swedish Masseuse as they drink lotsa Cristal, smoke doobies, and he walks her around the house on all fours wearing nothing but a Gucci leash and diamond-encrusted dog collar.

But before that time comes, seeing as my email has served as a receptacle of sorts for Hairboy while he’s sipping umbrella-garnished adult beverages on the beach and wowing all Da Goils in his Speedos, I thought I’d share a few of the goodies that some fans of Mr. Parkway have sent my way.

First off, we have this cute little feller, sent to me a whiles back from El Capitan,who I give credit for even finding a baby photo of Hairboy, when Wiseass Jooette Operatives was unable to:

Completely perplexified since, in spite of having fabulous hair (and trust me, boys and girls…never, EVER mention Da Bald Spot to him, as he’s a bit sensitive about it), the little guy doesn’t appear to actually possess the fair Irish / Polish complexion our man on the Parkway has, so I asked El Cap how to explain to readers the obvious lack of resemblance. Without missing a beat, he replied: “Hell, it’s Jersey! Blame it on toxic waste or something!” Ding, ding, ding — we have a winner!!

Second up, knowing the special place in his heart Hairboy reserves for Killa Klowns, fellow Blown-Eye Zonker passed along this link, because nothing screams “FUN!” quite like a clown with an AK47 and blossom of hand grenades.

Also from Zonker and Randy, The Bandit Monco, I mean…you just cannot make this shit up:

Perhaps West Point cadets will also go digging for explosives in Belmar and Wildwood, where I hear one takes their life in their own hands while building a sand castle. I’ll take my chances with the Coney Island Whitefish, thankyouverymuch.

This one comes from Montana Dave, who I guess thought Hairboy’s PRS banner needed a little springtime sprucing:

Cute, right? I think this new banner would aptly showcase Hairboy’s sensitive side, but I have to say Dave, between you and me, the pink and gray might clash with his already eye-pleasing peach, brick red, sherbet, and Kelly green décor.

Oh, and I don’t know WTF is up with Hairboy and chainsaws, but Florida Blown-Eye Guyk was kind enough to build this fool-proof, Hairboy-friendly “chainsaw,” which only a dooshbag would hurt themselves using:

You can’t buy this specially-built hardware in any old Wally World, so I thought it was particularly thoughtful of Guy, who always looks out for his friends, even if they are a Yankee.

This one wasn’t actually sent to me, but I figure since Suzette’s a Jersey Girl and we’ve been Alligator-Lite all week, who could resist posting “butter molded into the shape of twin alligators.”

Truly unique.

A whiles back, Leslie the Omnibabe sent me a Chicago Sun Times link, which I just checked and is now borked, but no worries since I found that the New York Times, socialist birdcage liner that it is, also had the same story (which originally ran in 1997). Are you ready for this? Howsabout we all celebrate national Be Nice To New Jersey Week:

This year, among the “suggested activities” Ms. Barnett proposes for the celebration, is a national apology to New Jersey. “If you have friends or relatives in New Jersey, call or write them to tell them how sorry you are for picking on their state,” she suggests. Those who don’t know anyone in New Jersey, she adds, can still atone by addressing their apologies to the Governor’s office at the State House in Trenton.

Bwahahahahahahahaha!!! Be nice to Jersey?? Good grief, and then where would that leave me? Out of blog fodder, that’s where! I’d lose my freakin’ street creds, ferchrissakes.

Well sweet kadiddles, I’ve milked this long enough. Time to say ‘Buh-Bye,’ — hopefully we could do this again real soon, but in your spare time, do find time to drop by this website…it’s one of my favorites and really brings the muse to life. And this website, too, since a year and many FAILs later, I am reminded once again why Craig is “The Nicest Guy in the Blogosphere.”

Later, peeps…it’s been real.