Ain't Nothing But a Ghost Full'a Mistakes

Nothing Good will ever come out of this, and that is Truth.

Something I heard in a Restaraunt

"You don't take checks!? What the hell is this, a cock fight?"

Dirty Hand

Some guys, when they're in love, they know it. They know it hard enough to get their chick's name tattooed on their flesh. Then you'll always have a record of good old Diane.

I have never loved a woman like that. Nothing ever felt that permanent. I once leta girl write her name on my hand, in junior high. She was okay. I didn't feel like my hand was a sign of love. My hand was dirty.

I didn't want to rub spit on it in front of her, but as soon as I got home, I scrubbed like Lady Macbeth.

Dusties

There were two kids named Dusty in Ms. Wallace's class. To avoid confusion, they called them "Cool Dusty" and "Stupid Dusty."

We're concerned with Stupid Dusty for now.

Stupid Dusty took his geography test into the intervention classroom for remedial students. The test had several countries labeled with numbers instead of names. It was the job of the students to label the countries.

The remedial teacher made the choice multiple choice. Every number had two choices: the actual name of the country, and "China." For instance, Stupid Dusty would see a picture of France, and woudl label it either "France" or "China." Out of 32 questions, he answered "China" on 31 of them. The correct answer for number 32 was actually "China," but he left it blank.

Given the information, do you think Stupid Dusty was so stupid after all?

First Three Paragraphs of My Second Novel

Pete Miller was dying, and it was wonderful. He’d heard that dying was an awful thing. Maybe it would have been a dreadful thing: if he had to stay in this hospital bed, listening to that machine chime away his existence one beep at a time. Instead, he found, dying was much more like dreaming. Beep. One moment he was passing sewing pins into his lungs, the next he was running across a field, wind burning back his hair. He was a fast runner. Beep. The stalks of wheat tickled his thighs. They’d itch later, but not now. Many things would happen later. He’d hurt later. He’d be old later. He’d die later.

Now he was a boy, running with rock and roll in his bones.

Beep.

Lawbreaker

I got a speeding ticket the other day. When I tell people that, they react with sympathy, like I got a bitter deal. I was relieved. It could have been a lot worse.

When you've got a doped up black market rotweiller in the trunk and the cops don't search you, no ticket is too large.

Also, the back seat of a cop car is surprisingly nice. Cushioned leather seats, like a Lincoln town car. There wasn't much leg room, though. I asked the deputy if he could scoot up a tad. He didn't.

Like I said, the ticket could have been a lot higher.

New Friends!

I am a lucky man, because I've made new blog friends this week. This blog is different, I know. I don't write about myself, I don't encourage friends to visit it, and as a consequence I don't have many posts.

But now my new friends in female fitness and penis enlargement have visitied me repeatedly, and now I know that there is someone out there who cares about me. Finally, I can take the gun out of my mouth and celebrate life among friends.

Enemies of the State

Driving on a four lane highway today, and there's a state parked in the U-Turn spot that only THEY are allowed to use. Traffic is thick, and it slows when it approaches the patrol, then speeds up when we drive past him. The patrol car was encouraging gridlock and had no chance of catching a speeder in his ridiculous net.

Yet he was out there because they have a certain quota of tickets to meet, because they don't receive adequate funding from the state. Is any one else terrified that law enforcement can have a quota? Salesman have a quota, factory workers have a quota, police officers catch criminals.

What if they applied the quota system to crimes other than speeding? What if, every day, a cop had to catch a minimum number of rapes and burglars and wife hitting bastards? Well, that's impossible, so they'd have to invent the crimes and frame people.

Speeding tickets, on the other hand, do not require framing. Everyone speeds. Everyone. The speed limit is a law that, in theory, reduces our energy consumption nd makes the highways safer. Instead it breeds more distrust of law enforcement (at least among whites) than any other law.

In our eyes, state patrolmen aren't regular guys doing jobs; they're a breed of mutant assholes that complicate our days and levy unfair fines on us. When every citizen is a criminal watching over their shoulder, you live under tyranny.