A Good Work Spoiled

  

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.

MOTHERFUCK!

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?

Truck drivers.

That's who.

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.

Fuck it.

Who gives a shit?

Nasty, beast-like truck drivers.

That's who.

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'...

More Jury Duty Tomfoolery

...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..."

Ordered?

There was a time when Americans didn't take too kindly to being ordered to do much of anything, especially by government shit-heads.

Ordered?

Are we all fucking slaves now?

Ordered?

...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.

Yes.  

An honor...

...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.

Who knows?

She's a lot nicer than I am.

Them's the ones you gotta watch.

Radio Daze

1992.

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.

Usually.

 

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.

Up Yours Part II: I Tell The State Exactly What I Think Of Them

Fuck.

Wouldn't you know it?

They called my number for jury duty, so after working a 13-hour shift and four hours of sleep, I get to go downtown and go through all the bullshit.

I am tired, cranky, and in a fouler-than-usual mood.

I have no interest in taking part in these state-sponsored shenanigans.

I fill out the juror questionnaire thinking, "This should get their attention!"

I get shuffled off to a court room and seated in a jury box.

Opening statements and instructions are made.

The judge asks if there are veterans in the group, and we get TYFYS'd. (Thank you for your service.)

Eye-roll...

It is a rape case.  The accused is a Hispanic gentleman who looks like a drug cartel hit-man.

The jury pool is an interesting cross section of people.

-Clueless young fucks who are half asleep or medicated outta their damned minds.

-Over-exuberant fans of the State who can't wait to take part in this shit and show how smart they are and tell their entire life story at the drop of a hat.

-Openly racist motherfuckers who hate all taco-benders and won't be able to be impartial.

-Few, if any, assholes like me.

It is time for voir dire, which is where the judge and attorneys look at the questionnaires and figure out which jurors they want for the trial.

They come to me...

The prosecuting attorney:  "Mr. Zoomie..."

Me:  "I bet you didn't like my comments much..."

Attorney:  "So...we're all corrupt?  Me...the judge...everybody?"

Me:  "Yes ma'am.  Pretty much..."

Attorney:  "Why is that?"

Me:  "Well...I hope both parties in this case get justice.  I really do.  But the fact is that win, lose, or draw, you all (lawyers, judges, the State) still get paid."

Judge:  "I hope to always get paid."

Attorney:  "Do you think you can be an impartial juror?" 

Me:  "Yes ma'am.  I can do this if I have to."

Attorney:  "Then why are you here?  You stated on the questionnaire that you could be an impartial juror, and then stated that you believe the system is corrupt."

Me:  "Do I really have a choice?  I don't want to catch a case."

Attorney:  "What do you mean by 'catch a case?'"

Me:  "Contempt.  I know what a summons is."

Judge:  "So, Mr. Zoomie...you are making a political statement?"

Me:  "Yes ma'am, I am."

Ended up they threw my ass out.

I was excused.

I didn't exactly go all Nathan Hale on them.

I was polite, I think I made my point, but I wasn't gonna die on that hill...

I bet I'm on their drone hit-list for sure now.

Fuck it.

I win anyway.

Maybe.

Up Yours!

Received this in the mail yesterday.

Fuck!  This is twice in less than two years.  Can you say "jury nullification?"  Of course you can.

Sent this e-mail, most of which I stole from another source, to the Indiana GOP today.


To whom it may concern:

I no longer wish to be registered as GOP to vote in political elections.

I wouldn't use such a system to determine anything as trivial as who should be dog catcher, and I morally have no business using it to legitimize people's commanding of governmental authority over me or anyone else.

It isn't enough for me to simply not vote GOP anymore.

I believe my GOP voter registration implies my consent to a process by which other people fraudulently claim to represent my interests by their actions which I deem criminal.

My belief in the fraudulence of the political system makes me unrepresentable by either major party as there is no real discernible difference between the two.

As it stands, voter registration is nothing more than a convenient list of persons the state can use as a pool for jury selection.  I have no interest in jury duty, as I believe the "justice" system is corrupt, criminal, and fraudulent itself.

So, please assist me in un-registering as GOP to vote.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this simple matter.

Sincerely,

Zoomie

I await my drone strike. 

The King Will Allow Us To Take His Fishes Without Paying His Tax This Weekend

Fuck you.


INDIANAPOLIS (AP) — Indiana residents can fish without a license throughout the state this coming weekend.

The Indiana Department of Natural Resources says all other Indiana fishing rules and regulations apply during the promotion Saturday, June 7 and Sunday, June 8. Normally, anyone 18 years old and older needs a license to fish.

The agency says many of its state parks and reservoirs are hosting special events for Free Fishing Weekend. So far they include Chain O’Lakes State Park, Hardy Lake, Summit Lake State Park, Monroe Lake’s Paynetown State Recreation Area and Patoka Lake’s Newton Stewart State Recreation Area. The events include children’s fishing derbies.


My goodness. The king is so kind and benevolent.

I wonder if it's OK to fish with flash-bangs?

 

Somebody Should Burn In Hell For This

In more ways than one...

Video... 

Funnee funnee.  We're havin' sum fun now, ain't we, Cletus?

For Your Consideration...

Something I threw together for my pal Sammy...

Full disclosure seeing as I know some of you get your under-thingies uncomfortably repositioned:

Yesterday I was ripping some cuts from a couple of mid-1980's R.E.M. CDs (I know...I suck), and noticed this little spy looking cat on the CD label.

I thought, "That's kinda cool.  I should be able to do something nefarious with that."

So...I plopped the CD down on my scanner and stole the spy dude and manipulated him for my own use.

Now you know my methods and can do it yourself.

Maybe.

I'm sure Michael Stipe and IRS Records won't mind... 

I'm Odd, But You Knew That Already

I am sorry.

Shirt.

Bumper sticker.

For The Unemployed, Underemployed, Psychotic, Or Just Plain Stupid...

Recently Received Snail Mail: Not Domestic Terrorism Related

Hell yes.

From 2007... 

Lynn St. James offered many motivating words of encouragement to today's youth and girls about racing and life in general.

She talked about how cool it was to drive racers because nobody judges you on your looks since nobody can see your appearance when you are all suited up in safety gear.

Then, things took an ugly turn when Lynn St. James talked about noted NASCAR driver Kurt Busch and how he "got his ears pinned back" by having some plastic surgery to improve his appearance.

I don't think that kind of comment is really necessary, Lynn.

It was mean.

Don't hate.

The Difference

For That Asshole Harry Reid: Pan Fried Rebellion

Feel free to offer up some other text suggestions in the comments.

I'll see what I can whip together.

LOL! WTF? I Am Sorry...

If one tries really hard, one can almost hear the clip being ejected.

Maybe.

More For The Patriots In Nevada...

Inspired by and with apologies to the late great Chris LeDoux...

Somehow, I don't think he'd mind, and would be pleased...

For My Pals In Nevada...

Now...I freely admit I stole a buncha these graphic elements from various places on the innerwebs and enhanced them and glued them together and added some text, so I don't need any of you cunty sonsa-bitches telling me I didn't get permission from Marlboro or from some other far-flung unknown asshole.

Fuck them, and fuck you, and fuck the federal scumbags in Nevada.

To everyone else...how is your day going?

Exhausting Intardnets Meme

This is one of the intardnets memes floating around that looks cool and professional.  The "cool and professional" part is your clue to know that I had nothing to do with it.

Check it out.  It is chock full of useful and probably mostly accurate information.

Yes.  It's cute and all, but, personally speaking, I'm sick and fucking tired of the bullshit legalese mumbo jumbo.

It is exhausting.

It's like the constantly changing rules and regulations I must deal with in order to drive a commercial vehicle and make a living.

One (of the many) rule books is the size of the New York City phone directory.

Who the fuck is gonna read all that?
Who the fuck is gonna remember all that?
Who the fuck is gonna understand all that?

Most importantly....who the fuck cares?

Ain't nobody got time for dat.

I'm a big boy.  I am responsible.  I know what I need to do.  I know when I'm sleepy.  I know if my equipment needs repair.

I don't need a government stooge to insert himself into my day to instruct me how to live my life or do my job or to tell me where I'm fucking up. 

This party needs to get started.

I'm getting grouchy.

The only meme you'll ever need...

LOL! WTF? Then, It's Gonzo!

So I'm bumping around the intardnets this morning, checking out my favorite domesticated terrorist blog-sites as I do every morning over coffee, and this catches my eye.

I think to myself, "Damn!  That looks familiar, but something's different."

I examine it a little closer, and there, amongst the dithering and horrifying pixelation, I see a bastardization of one of my sophomoric and cartoonish graphics.

Holy fuck!  Did this unidentified ass-clown use a crayon to "create" this abomination?

Here is the original, produced by yours truly, two years ago.

Ain't it purty-full?

I'm flattered, a little angry, and amused all at the same time.

I am a riddle wrapped in bacon.

Or something...

Anyhoo...I type up a quick, witty retort and am amazed an hour or so later when it is published.

Now, some of you might be saying, "Zoomie!  Who gives a fuck, and anyway...how the hell do we know that the image YOU say is yours is really YOUR original intellectual property?  You steal other people's shit all the time and claim it to be cool because it's satire or protected free political speech.  Fuck you, hypocrite!  Hurry up and die already!"

I suppose there is some truth to that.  I will sometimes take elements of pictures or art and use them for my own nefarious purposes.  But, if the shit is in the public domain, or I get permission, it's all good and I try to give credit where and when it is due.

Yes. I am lawyer-like and amazing!

It is also true that I have given blanket approval for patriots across the innerwebs to use my shit for free whenever they want and maybe give me a little credit.  Thing is, it ain't kosher to alter my crap and then make it look even shittier than I made it look originally.

I admit my stuff sometimes contains content and messages of dubious value, but I take pride in producing something that, if nothing else, looks good and is technically pleasing to see on a computer monitor.  No pixelated bullshit if I can avoid it...

I try to not put out stuff that looks like a bag of smashed assholes.

I gots standards.

Your mileage may vary.

Here is some more evidence that what I say is mine really IS mine.

This is the Bowie knife.  There are many like it, but this one is mine.  This stock image I created by putting the knife on my scanner and scanning it at alarmingly high resolution.
(This image was the foundation for one of the apps in the "There's an app for that" post). 
 

The knife was probably made in some Chinese or Pakistani shit-hole, but it is mine and I keep it in my secret arms bunker with all my other stabby and shooty things.

This next image is a picture I took with MY own camera in MY own back yard using MY telephone pole with MY own Bowie knife stabbed into MY copy of the Declaration of Independence.

See the resemblance?

It is the foundation I used for the creation of some of my agitation propaganda pieces. 

Do you people also see that I had to create the concept?  I had to use my intellectual abilities...slight as they may be...to take that concept I created in my head, and actually do something to build it and make it happen.

Gather up and create the props used in the photo...wait for good afternoon lighting and shadows...compose the picture.  Crop.  Edit.  Enhance.

I know.  Big fucking deal.

Well...several hours later, the offending post with the fucked up version of my intellectual property was deleted with no explanations or excuses or apologies given.  

Don't be a man and fess up to it.  Sweep it under the rug and pretend it didn't happen.

That's OK too.

It's not like I was gonna threaten to sue anybody if the picture wasn't taken down.

I'm not that guy.

But I will be a wise-ass and talk tuff on the intardnets about it, though.

I am definitely THAT guy.

__________ 

So there!

Suck it, bitches!