Wednesday, May 10, 2006


Giving this a rest a while. I am at e-mail if you need me, which I doubt.

Jn... I got the package. Thanks. It was a nice suprise.

Hai, Domo
Ramblin' Ed

Sunday, May 07, 2006

There she stood. Beautiful. At the pinochle of her womantude.

I miss Dave Thomas. He was taken from us far too soon. He was, perhaps, Marlo Thomas' father. You know, That Girl. Anyway, I think that's why he named the restaurants Wendy's.

A woman at the pinnacle of her womanhood. Now does that sound better than what I wrote up there? No, I think not.

I took Murf's quiz on Rebel or Yankee? My score was: 85% Dixie. Do you still use Confederate money? I wonder where the other 15% went? Must be all the traveling I've done . Or that Hillsborough County here is all New Yorkers and I am picking up the vibe. Or worse, but I shudder to think.

I saw a rebel flag halter top yesterday that I liked. At least I think it was a rebel flag. Or maybe it was blue. But it was a halter top. And I liked it.

We have one of those change gobbling machines at the bank I guard. You know, dump in a bucket of pocket change and it'll sort it, tally it, and give you a reciept to take to the cashier to get folding money. I think they're cool. I was suprised at the number of customers coming in on Friday night with buckets, bags, jars and socks full of coinage. I guess they were all getting their drinking money together. The 21st century is sure better than the 20th. Back in the 20th century I'd have had to count out 12 dimes and 6 nickles to pay for a beer with my change, with that "Yeah... I live in a trailer. Why ya asking?" look on my face.

I think my English Comp professor is reading my blog. Remember how I mentioned that I thought college would be harder than this. Well, she cleared up that for me real quick. I get these 19 part assignments, but they'll be like 9 parts and then a list of topics to choose from. So I'll carefully read the (9) instructions, read them again, and then pick the first topic. I always choose the first topic because I believe I can do anything. I don't look for what might be easiest. Anyway I'll knock out nine or eleven of the three pages required. I will spend a day and a half typing and researching, researching and typing. When I am sure it is "knock your socks off perfect", I'll post it. Then I'll get an e-mail like this (there were two, but I can only find one):

William -
Your DB is thoughtful and shows some excellent work, and I commend you for taking the lead in submitting a DB early in the week. I would like you to review the directions and resubmit a DB that fits all of the terms of the assignment. Also, be sure to save the Maher article as a Word file so that you can attach it to your DB. Please let me know if you'd like some assistance in this.

As I said last post, Yarg!! Or maybe it's D'oh!! I'll go look at the assignment again, read the 9 parts, look at my paper, wonder what the heck is she talking about, scroll down past the list of topics to choose from and find the 10 additional steps I did not see at first. And then I will see her point. Taken in it's entirety, the assignment is to help explain how fruit and it's cultivation has changed throughout history and I will have turned in a well researched and very passionate eleven page argument (in first person narration and APA format, of course) on why I would never try to peel a strawberry.

So tell me, grey seal, how does it feel?, out
Ramblin' Ed

Thursday, May 04, 2006

That's Yarrrg!, with a Y

Pros of being a Pirate:
1. Jimmy Buffet will look up to you
2. Pantaloons
3. Pillaging
4. Tropical locales mean tropical hours
5. You get to say Yarg!!
6. You deal in booty.
7. Pirates never pay late fees
8. "Reserved. Pirates only" parking
9. When you decide to take a girl on a date, you literally just take her.
10. Cool lingo: Crow's nest, peg leg, yard arm, Yarg!!, me matey.
10a. johnny Depp. (Sorry, but he's really cool.)
Cons of being a Pirate:
1. The whole hanging by the neck until dead thing.
2. People always saying you can't beat a ninja.
3. Crappy dental plan
4. Unkempt beards are so 19th century
5. Doubloons get heavy
6. Dealing with skeletons in dark caves
7. Never sure if Eroll Flynn is or is not gay.
8. Parrot poop
9. Getting cut in a sword fight and screaming Aaarrggh!! and your crew thinks you said Yarg!! and cheerfully agree with you.
10. Inexplicably, cheerleaders don't dig Pirates.
10b. Having to defend thinking Johnny Depp is the coolest.

BONUS STORY below. Just click to enlarge and guffaw to your heart's content.
Members Only, please.

Like a cookie slowly crumbles, out
Ramblin' Ed

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

All Hail the King

People have some irrational fears and I am their King. Although I can put up with such mindbenders as my peanut butter touching my jelly, or at least I could if I were't an even bigger fan of peanut butter and more peanut butter sandwiches, and I can also put up with knowing that the world will end, the globe will cool, my own mortality and that actors, as a rule, are munchkin like and chicks seem to dig 'em anyway, there are still things I fear.

I hate anything besides air or music in my ears. Things do not belong inside an ear. Period. Wanna hear me whimper? Try to clean my ears. But, I have posted on this before. And as I have said too many times to count, if there's one thing I'm not it's redundant. No really, I say it a lot.

Now yesterday I was hacking off tall weeds with a dull spinning blade and calling it mowing. Of course, I was calling the weeds "lawn", so, like boogers or blood, it all comes out in the wash. Anyway I have me one of them mulching mowers. It has a nice 6 HP Briggs & Stratton on it. But the wheel is plastic. I already had one just fall off after 3 uses so I know. Now when I mow I obsess on the wheel falling off and it takes a little of the joy out of mowing. No, again really, I do. Obsess.

But to obsess is not the same as to fear. Irrational or otherwise. A mulching mower has no chute. It shoots everything straight down and hits it again. it is called mulch, because "creamed grass" sounds more like a soup. A soup for stoners. Because it has no chute, a lot of little particles of crap and dust wafts up and if there is the slightest breeze dink dink dink they hit you in the face. Fear of particles? Not hardly. Why, they're only dusty mulch.

Red ants are small. At least the ones I have here are. Even in the ant family they are ant-like. Dimunitive, if you will. Bet they get a lot of ant chicks, though. Ant ass, Sid. Anyway, they're mean. (As the DBT so eloquently put it, "... hard like the folks from south Alabama and mean like the people from here. We ain't never gonna change.") They crawl onto your toes and take tours of your legs. They get on your hands and into your armpits. They really get around. And once they are all loaded up on ya, they bite. They bite like a girl in a knife fight. Hard and like their life depended on it. Little bastards. It hurts. It is a surprise attack and it hurts. But am I fearful of them? Nope. Respectful, yes. Fearful, no.

What I was fearful of, and I am going to finally share with you, was running over their numerous ant hills on this breezy day with my half plastic mulching mower. I was a'feared that some of the mean little suckers would get caught up in the escaping crap particulate/dust mixture and be wafted on the breeze up and onto my face where they would get into my eyes and bite me. Hard, like a girl in a bear hug. (Note: Girl in bear rug, good. Girl in bear hug, not so much.) And I would be blinded. And, as if that were not going to be embarrassing enough, I would be running around clutching my face and screaming which I am sure would make all the neighbors that see me immediately say, "Hmmmm. The boy just ain't right. I wonder if he's on the crack?"

Interestingly enough, in this whole power spraying of ants to the face scenario, I did not once think about the ants possibly getting into my ears. They do say that you will subconsciously block out things that are too horrible for your mind to accept. That's probably what happened.
Thank you for coming, please be seated, out
Ramblin' Ed