I recently got my grubby little paws on this vintage scorecard.
I thought it looked cool, and that I could do something nefarious with it.
Seeing as I drive through Cincinnati twice a day and am treated with the same old, "This year's team is going to the World Series!" bullshit, I came up with this treatment.
Every year it's the same shit.
The Reds...or the Bengals...are going to be national champions!
That's why I've quit being a sports fan.
It is pointless.
Silly stoopid buckeyes.
I am sorry.
Free Pete Rose!
Friday, March 6, 2015
With apologies to Lynyrd Skynyrd, but somehow I don't think they'd mind.
Had this idea yesterday as I was blasting down the interstate dodging buckeye morons and jammin' to old shit.
I told you people before that I listen to a lot of music while driving and sometimes I get zoned out and think of stuff like the talk of banning certain kinds of ammo by our federal overlords.
(I bet that makes you feel real safe as a member of the motoring public.)
Anyhoo...the image kinda sucks, and is typical of my shitty and cartoonish bullshit.
Another half-way decent concept...poorly executed.
I am sorry.
Life is so strange when its changin', yes indeedWell I've seen the hard times and the pressure's been on meBut I keep on workin' like the workin' man doAnd I've got my act together, gonna walk all over you
- [Chorus]Gimme back my bulletsPut 'em back where they belongAin't foolin' around 'cause I done had my funAin't gonna see no more damage doneGimme back my bullets
- Sweet talkin' people done ran me out of townAnd I drank enough whiskey to float a battleship aroundBut I'm leavin' this game one step ahead of youAnd you will not hear me cry 'cause I do not sing the blues
- Gimme back my bulletsPut 'em back where they belongAin't foolin' around 'cause I done had my funAin't gonna see no more damage doneGimme back, gimme back my bulletsI'll put 'em back where they belong
- Been up and down since I turned seventeenWell I've been on top, and then it seems I lost my dreamBut I got it back, I'm feelin' better everydayTell all those pencil pushers, better get out of my way
- Gimme back my bulletsPut 'em back where they belongAin't foolin' around 'cause I done had my funAin't gonna see no more damage doneGimme back, gimme back my bulletsOh put 'em back where they belongGive me back my bullets
Songwriters: VAN ZANT, RONNIE / ROSSINGTON, GARY ROBERT
at 10:24 AM
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Dreadfully boring experimental dash-cam video of me driving my semi-truck in snowy conditions on a lonesome interstate.
No crashes. Nothing exciting happens, which is just the way I like it. Just me chillin' and driving as if I had some sense.
Shot with Midland XTC280 HD camera using a RAM suction cup windshield mount.
Video haphazardly slapped together using Windoze Movie Maker.
I am sorry.
at 10:34 AM
Friday, December 5, 2014
It had all the makings of a good day.
If you know anything about truck driving, you know a good day is a rarity and is to be savored like a fine bourbon.
I got a decent night's sleep for a change.
Breakfast, a hot shower, a good close shave with a new razor.
Fresh clean work clothes, thanks to my wife.
My load was ready early.
Hells bells...the sun was even shining. Hadn't seen that in many days.
Phone, Blue Tooth headset, and iPod fully charged, I stopped on the way into work and fueled my personal vehicle with below $3 a gallon gasoline.
I had fueled my tractor the previous night, so all I had to do was kick the tires, check all the lights and vital fluids, and I'd be on my way.
I kinda smiled to myself and thought, "Gawd damn I'm good. I really got my shit together. I deserve a raise and a promotion."
I was in a good mood.
If you know anything about me you know me being in a good mood is a rarity and is something to be savored. My day was going well, but it didn't happen by accident. I am a firm believer in doing all I can to make a good day happen, which requires effort, planning, and forethought.
I find my already loaded trailer staged at a dock door, and back underneath it. I visually inspect that the kingpin jaw is locked.
The trailer is old, but it is serviceable...thanks in part to my constant bitching and inspections.
The reefer is doing its job. It's down to temperature and not throwing any error codes, and I know its small diesel engine is full of oil because I took the initiative several months prior to regularly check and record the engine oil levels on the entire fleet of 50+ reefer units because nobody else was.
The reefer fuel tank is full. Good deal. One less stop I have to make later...
All clearance lights and signals are functioning on the trailer, so now I'll kick the tires and make sure the air springs are inflating properly.
Tires and air springs are good to go, so now it's time to remove the large rubber wheel chock from under the trailer tire.
As I walk back to do so, I'm looking up at the side of the trailer for any signs of damage to its skin. No new moron marks. Cool.
I get back to the rear of the trailer, bend down to remove the chock, and I take one step backwards.
My right foot lands smack-dab center-mass into a big steaming pile of shit.
I know my shit.
This pile did not come from a loose dog or an overgrown rabid wolverine.
It is human shit.
My day has taken an ugly turn.
What kinda lazy low-life no good rotten cock sucking bastard takes a dump outside in a parking lot between two semi trailers when there is a perfectly good bathroom 50 yards away?
My embarrassment and disgust for other members of my profession has grown (and been confirmed) exponentially, and my day is ruined.
I am fuming now.
I walk back to my tractor and retrieve a roll of paper towels in order to clean up my boot.
Soon, I've got a pile of shit-covered paper towels on the ground and I'm thinking, "I should leave this mess of shitty paper on the ground, but I won't because I am not a sleazy dirt bag truck driver."
I get a little bit of shit residue on my bare hand during the cleaning process.
I am raging at this point.
It is cold outside, and my nose itches.
I scratch it.
I get shit on my nose.
I am about to kill a motherfucker.
Eventually, I get myself and everything else cleaned and sanitized the best I can, but I have no way of picking up the remnants of the original offending turd.
I report the mess to the proper company authorities so that they may get it cleaned up as it is not prudent to have fecal matter in the vicinity of a food storage warehouse.
The shit's been sitting just where I stepped in it for days.
Who gives a shit?
Nasty, beast-like truck drivers.
I'm ready for a desk job.
That's what I think.
Now...some of you might be saying, "Zoomie! You stepped in some shit. Big fucking deal! Brush it off and move on, asshole. It ain't the end of the world, and it ain't a very good blog topic either, dickhead. Post some threatening and insulting material about Obama or cops or something. We haven't seen hide nor hair from you in two fucking months, and when we do it's a rambling diatribe about dung? Gawd damn. Go back into hibernation, retard. You suck. Hurry up and die already."
...just not in my work space, please. Are we human beings, or are we uncivilized feral animals?
I like to think that having indoor plumbing and sanitation (and common sense and courtesy) are a few of the important things separating and differentiating us from the herd.
Reminds me of the time this last summer when I caught a Hispanic landscaper gentleman pissing on my trailer tire.
Figuring the urine-cat didn't speak English (because I am a racist hate-monger), I quickly tracked down his on-site boss.
Me: "Hey! Hey you! I don't piss where you work. I'd appreciate it if you didn't piss where I have to work!"
Landscaper boss: "What?"
Me: "I just caught one of your guys pissing on my trailer."
Landscaper boss: "Oh. I didn't know..."
Yes. I know you didn't know.
We are becoming a third-world shit hole...literally.
And nobody knows nuthin'...
at 12:06 PM
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
...but this time it's my lovely wife.
You'll notice the State has changed the format of the summons.
"You are ORDERED to call..."
There was a time when Americans didn't take too kindly to being ordered to do much of anything, especially by government shit-heads.
Are we all fucking slaves now?
...and if we refuse to comply with the State order, we are found in contempt and face fines and, ultimately, armed government goons?
But...it's an HONOR to serve as a juror. Says so right there on the summons.
...an honor to be ordered around and threatened by the almighty State.
Bend over and take it, knave.
...and be thankful.
Now...some of you might be saying, "Zoomie! You would be the first guy to whine and bitch for a jury trial when you finally get popped for spewing threatening anti-government filth on the intardnets. But here you are...crying again about getting called up for jury duty. You suck! Hurry up and eat a shotgun already!"
First of all, they'll never take me alive.
Second of all, I don't own a shotgun...or any firearm, for that matter. I got rid of my guns when I found out they were dangerous and scary. In return, the nice government man gave me a WalMart gift card which I redeemed for a red Snuggie and a bag of caramel apples.
When they come for me, I will bludgeon the jackboots with my teddy bear.
And besides, it's my old lady who got the summons this time.
I did my part. It's her turn.
No word yet whether or not she'll go all Nathan Hale on them downtown.
I kinda doubt she will...but then again, she's pretty pissed right now because the summons is gonna fuck up her Fall Break plans.
She's a lot nicer than I am.
Them's the ones you gotta watch.
at 1:00 AM
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Yours truly, the broadcast legend, on air at WIRE 100.9 FM mono 3000 watt blowtorch, Lebanon, Indiana.
During my shift anyway...the only country music station to broadcast The Who, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones.
Weekend nights, part-time gigs you can pretty much do what you want when nobody listens...
"WIRE Country 101" was old school radio.
Housed in an aging, one-story concrete block building near a Farm Bureau Co-Op, the carpeted 'sound-proofed' walls of the broadcast and production studios almost negated the roar of the Terra Gators and other heavy farming machinery that rumbled by every day.
The station had just one consumer grade CD player, 2 ancient turn-tables, 8-track "cart" machines, and a reel-to-reel. You can see the vintage analog board. It all worked perfectly.
The station signed off at midnight, and I had to turn off the transmitter!
I was board operator for Indianapolis Indians baseball. We were their "flagship" station, and we got the play-by-play over the phone! There was an incident once during a game when I missed a commercial break cue and ended doing make-ups while the play-by-play guy droned on. He got pissed when I told him what I did. That'll teach me to admit my mistakes. If I had kept my mouth shut, he'd had never known.
I was board operator for the 1992 Indy 500 and Colts NFL football games...which were satellite fed. Wow!
I can remember a time I was reading news copy on air about a local hog farm burning down and the loss of livestock. This is seriously big news in a farming community. Something about the story was worded in such a way that I found it highly amusing, and I started to giggle and laugh uncontrollably. I couldn't stop laughing, and I had to turn the mic off and go to commercial.
I was a bad DJ.
John Dotas was the owner/GM. He was REALLY old school. Former Korean War Marine, and a great set of pipes (radio voice). A cool guy, and I appreciated the opportunity he gave me, but he told me he didn't want another "Bob and Tom," and he ignored me when I told him I wanted to do more for the station.
So I quit. With no notice. On air. At the end of my last shift. Soon thereafter, the studio telephone was ringing off the hook.
I didn't answer it.
Thus endeth my short-lived radio career.
Radio people are very strange.
at 9:19 AM