Gus Grimstone

Dieting Advice For the Friggin' Holidays

2006-12-20T23:04:00.000-06:00

I'm on what they call ... The Coil Spring Diet ... that means I can eat any food I want that is dispensed by a horizontal coil in a plexiglass-windowed vending machine. I took the family out for dinner in the waiting room at the friggin' Schmitt Music Warehouse in Brooklyin Friggin' Park and when we got there, I seen that the friggin' machine was half-empty.

What with the Godamn Holidays comin' up and shit, the friggin' vending elves are probably busy gettin' laid and hittin' the Holiday sauce ... no matter ... I wuz able to scrounge up a fairly good and healthy dinner:

ENTREE:
Three Musketeers Bar:
Calories: 416
Total Fat 13g (19% of daily requirefrigginments)
Total Carboydrates 77g (25%)
Dietary Fiber 2g
Protein 3g (6%)

SALAD
Fritos Chili Cheese Flavored Corn Chips:
Calories 160
Total Fat 10.0g (15%)
Total Carbohydrates 15.0g (5%)
Dietary Fiber 1.0g (4%)
Protein 2.0g

BEVERAGE
Coca-Cola (80-oz Big Gulp size):
Calories 970 Calories from Fat 0
Total Fat 0.0g (0%)
Total Carbohydrates 270.0g (90%)
Protein 0.0g

DESSERT
Cheeseburger from the McDonalds drive-through
on the way home:
Calories 310 Calories from Fat 110
Total Fat 12.0g (19%)
Total Carbohydrates 35.0g (12%)
Protein 15.0g

Another Game of Roulette on the Friggin' Wheel of Death

2006-12-05T23:01:00.000-06:00

Jeez ...
did I have
a friggin'
close call
today on
the wheel ...

It wuz one a them days where I was rushin' out the door so quick cuz I knew the kid who delivers our daily copy of "Grit" was comin' by to collect, that I forgot my friggin' lunch pail.

I'm kind'a pissed at the punk anyway cuz that friggin' Grit didn't turn out to be ... you know ... as gritty as I was expectin' if yuh catch my friggn' drift.

So, there I am ... smokin' the tires all the way to work and I realize I forgot my friggin' lunch box!!! And my iPod a course. It ain't one uh those candy-ass iPods you see the kids flauntin' these days. It's a Russian-made baby, I found it when I was checkin' the Russian Bride web site (not that I'm lookin' around, I just like their husky builds). It was only a few rubles, it's about the size of a shoe box and it's got a hard drive big enough to hold all of Eddie Rabbit's hit songs.

So I get to work and my stomach's already rumblin'. First day on the new job and people think I'm some kind'a slob or sump'm. So I go up to the break room to scope out the selection. It's usually the first thing I do anyhoo when I start a new job.

I like to see what kind'a quizeen my new call-leagues are into and while I'm at it, I usually have some kind'a primal territorial showdown with whoever's been runnin' the roost till I show up. The break room's a good place to pull that one cos you need a good audience to get the word out to the troops not to mess with this new Gus guy.

Plus, there's usually a sink and paper towels in there and that comes in handy when it's time to mop up the blood.

So, first, I hit the coffee machine, it's pretty hard to sit on your ass chain smoking a pack of Winchesters without some friggin' mud to wash 'em down with.

I'm pretty picky about coffee, I know that might surprise you but I do have some class when it comes to my java.

I ain't satisfied unless the coffee has that ever so slight aluminum aftertaste and an overall general bouquet of wet coffee grounds and cabbage. That's the good stuff.

So, to go with my mud and ciggies, I check the the snack vending machine first, the kind with the coils so you can get real pissed and start shakin' the shit outta the machine like a friggin' gorilla on crack. If the earlier ass kickin' didn't do the trick, wait'll you see ol' Gus give the ol' "You talkin' to me" speech to the machine before you start punchin' the fuck out of the plexi-glass and rockin' the son-of-a-bitch till you start bustin' through the sheet rock on the back side.

There was a friggn' cinnamon Bear Claw danglin' from A-9 and judging by the position of the next claw behind it, it looked like I had a 63% chance a gettin' both uh the bastards.

But, somedays you're hot and somedays yer not. That's why they always keep a fire extinguisher handy in the break room. Nothin' breaks through plexi better that one a them babies.

So, after I finished my Claws (they were both a couple weeks past the freshness dates but it's amazing what a big hit of nicotine will do to help chase down a dry pastry.

Since it was still early in the morning, I thought I'd try my favorite morning entree ... the "Good Morning Chuckwagon", a fine breakfast product distributed by the Soprano Vending Company of Jersey.

So I get up to the friggin' Wheel of Death and ... holy shit!!! It's Mayo Monday!!!!

You know what Mayo Monday is don't cha?

That's when the vending guy ain't been in yet and the poor saps workin' over the weekend have milked the wheel dry of ... what I'll call ... the dry necessities.

Them are the classic sammiches of The Wheel. Yer dry sammiches, all the members of the Chuckwagon family, the turkey & swiss, the bologna, the summer sausage, all the good stuff ... gone!!!

Nuthin' left but the wet selection ... sloppy with Mayo the color ranging from light beige-ish green, to Bondo blue. Yer tuna salads, yer chicken salads, yer ham salads, yer straight Miracle Whip on Wonder Breads.

I shudder as feed my rumpled dollar bill into the slot. Through the healing power of mustard, I can usually ward off any of the quick-acting bacteria but this selection looks beyond this. I can tell I'm going to become very familiar with "The Stalls of Montezuma" today ... hope they have a good magazine selection.

I pick out a nice chicken salad that looks about 40% non-green, not bad I think. The machine starts buzzin' and tells me to plunk in another 50 cents, I start banging it with my fist screamin' "You son-of-bitch I'm gonnna kill yuh!" until I draw blood and then turn to them goldbrickin' warehouse ladies and say "Just messin' with yuh" and drop my 4 bits intuh the slot. I'm not sure why I do that, some of my own actions leave me a bit bewildered at times.

So I reach in and grab the soggy bastard and I can just feel it squishing in my mitt. This is one sloppy sammich but this morning I'm one hungry hippo and I shove the son-of-a-bitch into my pie hole without even unwrapping it.

Seriously, your digestive system stands a much better chance if you leave the wrapper on the bastard. It's kinda like safe sex where yer supposed to put a rubber on your dork and go to town. Yeah, like that's gonna happen, they may be ribbed for her pleasure but I feel like I'm humpin' a raincoat. I usually play along for a few pumps then rip the sucker off and ditch it under the bed. I don't think I've caught any diseases yet, I feel pretty good with the exception of that burning sensation when I even think about taking a whizz and once in a while I get those wierd lookin' warts, they're pretty hard to pop.

(Editor's note: please delete the paragraph above before sunrise, CST).

So, where was I???? This rude Editor came in with is attorney and typed sump'm in.

Oh, yeah, so I gulp that mess down and wash it down with a warm can of Jolt that I found in the back of a cabinet behind some Wham CDs.

For the first couple minutes I feel okay but then I get the heat rush. My face feels flush and I can feel my overall body temperature rise like when yer standin' too close to the guitar amplifiers at a KISS concert when they start shooting flames.

Okay, it's 12:30, I'm hittin' it for the night.

What Time Do the Friggin' Polls Open?

2006-11-08T01:19:00.000-06:00

Yeah, I'm stickin' with my friggin' oath to vote for the first time. Not that the Replicants ... Repubic--enz ... hmmm ... Reepublikans need my friggin' support. I mean, look at that friggin' Mark Kennedy and tell me he wouldn't be a ball buster out in DC or wherever the frickin' Hell that wuss is gonna set his lunch box for the next 3 years or however long they do this shit for.

Yeah ... I been drinkin' ... why? You wanna take me on or something Bitch?

So, yeah, I better hit the ol' gunny sack and get some shut eye so I can get up and vote.

I know the day is right ... it's always the first Humpday in November, right?

This Friggin' Nuke Situation Has Me Thinkin' uh Votin' Republafriggincan

2006-10-09T20:22:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm gettin' them brown trousers feelins' again that I usually get before a friggin' Republican controlled election. Just by friggin' coincefriggindence, we got a big election comin' up and them friggin' Evil Doers start stirrin' up shit again.

I'd have to say the timing is usually pretty friggin' good though ... usually them bastards from the Axis of Evil start threatening our friggin' national friggin' security and BOOM! ... we elect some friggin' Republicans and they TCB on their first friggin' day in office.

So, this Foley thing kind'a creeps me out but I guess there is a friggin' chance that maybe one Republican could turn out to be a bad seed. I know they been keepin up a pretty good track record of morals, honesty and friggin' ethics over the years. Besides, this bastard was on the sauce and I always like to cut a guy a break if he can blame it on booze.

Hope you can sleep tight, I'll be watchin' FOX News all night with my friggin' shotgun and an English-to-Korean dictionary.

Gus

Friggin' Big Trouble in Pyon-friggin-yang

2006-10-09T18:53:00.000-05:00

One thing that friggin' pisses me off is when other countries that ain't as responsible as the good ol' US of A start dinkin; around with nuclear friggin' weapons.

I mean, shit, you wouldn't let yer kids play with yer firearms unless they had a good reason to use 'em would yuh?

That's all I got for now.

Later,

Gus

Why the Chuckwagon is My Favorite Frick'n Sandwich

2006-10-04T23:57:00.000-05:00

I think it's the friggin' name that conjures up some friggin' imagery of the days of the Old West when it was pretty much legal to kill some son-of-a-bitch if he pissed yuh off.

As far as the frickin' sammich goes, I don't even know what the fuck's in it ... I just like the frickin' name. If you had me up against a wall with a broken bottle of Meister Brau tickling my friggin' Adam's Apple I'd venture a friggin' guess.

I'd say it has 2 pieces of bread for sure ... usually by the time lunch rolls around I'm so frickin' hungry I just eat my grub without looking at it, comes from my early, timid days as a human garbage disposal when I used to get a little friggin' queasy at the sight of green bread or meat by-products.

Kinda makes me laugh when I think about what a friggin' pussy I was when I first hit the workforce at the ripe old age of 4.

No ... I'm friggin' serious, Grimstone men don't usually lead long lives (my grandfather sired his last pup at the age of 7, then keeled over from complications due to hardening of the arteries). So, we gotta get out into the workforce as fast as we can, then bone a few chicks and start a family. By starting a family I'm talkin' about a full-fledged Grimstone breeding program. Can't imagine a future world without a few Grimstones runnin' around settin' the friggin' world straight.

But, as far as friggin' gene pools go, my forefathers must'a peed in theirs too much or sump'm because I hit them double-digits and then there was no stoppin' me.

The doctors a-friggin-tribute my long and healthy life to them friggin' Chuckwagons I been eatin' out of The Friggin' Wheel of Death in the company lunchroom.

Speakin' uh the word lunchroom ... some candy-ass exec suggested we call it "The Cafeteria" from now on. I feel really bad about how they found that poor son-of-a-bitch in the weeds near my abandoned Gremlin. Poor sap's last words were "... it was that guy in the hard hat."

The cops never did figure out who the fuck did it ... said they didn't have any leads.

Anyway, I killed enough time to go cash in my Blog for a 6-pack.

Later.

I Feel Like a Friggin' Pimp!

2006-09-11T23:30:00.000-05:00

Friggin' Labor Day

2006-09-06T00:19:00.000-05:00

So I get to friggin' work Monday and nobody else shows up. The security guard tells me it's friggin' Labor Day as if I don't know. Of course I know! I been celebrating Labor Day ever since I was issued my first friggin' Social Security number in '74. Then I always come into work and I'm always the only one there.

We celebrate it every year, the frickin' kids love it. On Labor Day Eve we huddle around a Sterno stove I swiped when I wuz working at Coast to Coast back in the 70s. We roast a few Chuckwagons over the fire (good thing the friggin' Wheel of Death is so easy to jimmie) and sing Tom Waits songs while we hit the sauce (Ragu).

Then I klck the kids asses up to bed where visions of Chef Boyardee Microwave Cups dance through their heads. I head off to the break room (my wife calls it the friggin' kitchen) and read Crankshaft and play a couple rounds of Jumble. I try to read the Dave Barry column but it's usually too blurry, my paper (The Echoland Shopper) is so friggin' cheap they just Xerox it out of other low-rent newspapers that Xerox their columns out of other newspapers that actually pay for the friggin' thing.

After the little pumpkins have drifted off into a sweet slumber I go fill up the steel-toed boots that hang over the Sterno can with sweet morsels that I scored out of the candy machine at work (you know, where you see a dangling item left by some poor sap who got screwed and ain't got the class to get that machine rocking to and fro till that son-of-a-bitch drops into what Gus calls the bonus bin).

That day I'd scored a Three Musketeers bar that was hardly even melted and I cut that sucker up into 12 pieces ... one for each pair a kids to fight over.

I had a pretty good year so I sprung for some new used hard hats that I found at the Ax Man. 3 of the frickin' kids are turning 7 this year so I fgure it shouldn't be long before I have them working the coal mines. Somebody's gotta pay for the new Cinemax package I just added to the cable bill.

When the tykes awake the next morn, there are squeals of delight as they dig up their presents that St. Workingstiffa Claus has buried our back yard. Kind'a funny, last year, adorafrigginable little Mabel (who turns 3 this year) dug up the remains of a drifter that had probably been down there cookin' since the 30s.

Yeah, I hate to friggin carry in too much further because this story's getting hard to follow ... even for me.

Happy Belated Labor Day yuh friggin' Goldbrickers!

Friggin' Carp Eight-friggin-teen at the Four-friggin-hundred

2006-08-07T12:36:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I been a little busy since I found out that Carp 18 is finally releasing their friggin' second album. It's about time yuh friggin' goldbrickers!

It ain't like I'm a big fan, I just like to see people finish shit that they start. Plus, I usually roadie for the bastards which gives me access to drink tickets and hot chicks.

So ... I been a little too busy to blog. I been doin' friggin' sit-ups and runnin' like a frickin' hamster on the treadmill tryin' to fit into my XXXL Carp 18 t-shirt. Everytime I try puttin' it on I hear a few seams poppin' but I'm pretty sure it's from all the muscle I've built up over the last year lifting them Meister Brau weights.

Friday, October 27th (2006)
400 Bar
Cedar & Riverside, West Bank (Hippieville) Minneapolis

Honeysuckle Rose
The Sycamores (CD Release)
Carp 18 (2 CD Release, Carp 18 & Joe Fahey)
30 lbs. of Blue Jeans

Doors open at 8:00, music starts at 9:00
$5 Cover

Friggin' Birthdays

2006-06-06T08:24:00.000-05:00

Ain't yuh gonna wish me a friggin' Happy Birthday?

The Case of the Friggin' Jimmied Wheel of Death

2006-05-24T01:05:00.000-05:00

It ain't often that I get called in to investigate a crime but when the frantic caller was talkin' to Dispatch they mentioned that the scene of the crime was a friggin' Wheel of Death. Marge knew she had to call Gus.

I worked with Marge's old man Kenny over at the Super Valu shipping & receiving facility in Slopkins for almost a whole day so we had become pretty good friends. Kenny and me was like brothers, you know how it is with coworkers, in the 7 long hours I worked with that man, I felt like we'd been soul mates since the first Neanderthal punched his first Wooly Mammoth in the breadbasket so he and all his primitive goombah's could chow down.

I'd first spotted Kenny in the lunchroom, where we both spent about 5 1/2 hours smoking cigarettes and nuking people's leftover coffee. I knew we were kindred spirits when I'd seen him yank an ancient Summer Sausage and Cheese sammich outta the frickin' Wheel of Death. I was about to warn him that it might not be safe but it ain't every day you get to see a grown man quivering on the floor like that perch you caught on Mille Lacs.

But, I was feeling pretty friggin' generous with my love that day so I step forward to tell him the #1 Rule of FWD survival tactics but he beat me to it.

Clipped to his utlility belt and that harness that some warehouse workers wear (what the fuck is that about?) was a friggin' plastic bottle of French's mustard.

So if that ain't a friggin' icebreaker, I don't know what is.

I step up and extend my hand and say "Gus Grimstone, first and last day on the job, how the fuck are yuh?"

He says "Pleasure to meet you, Kenny Brinestone is my name and don't friggin'' wear it out or I'll punch in the friggin' breadbasket."

I sez, Brinestone? Don't tell me ... is yer clan from Lower Brinestonia, cuz if so, so, we may be related. The borders changed a lot due to some shit my Uncles were up to and for a brief period of time, Lower Brinestonia was actually part of Upper Grimstonia. We might be frickin' cousins!!!

Awwww, you don't wanna hear some sentimental horseshit, let's get onto the crime at friggin' hand.

Unfortunafuckingly, Kenny died with his hard hat on one day while eating a 3 year old Chuckwagon. He'd taken a healthy bite and was going to chase it with a squirt out of his French's bottle but the friggin' cupboard was bare. Without the anti-toxin the poor son-of-a-bitch didn't stand a chance against a vintage CW (Chuckwagon for those of you who are not into them cute little fuckin' abbreviations for everything).

So the Black & White picks me up (it was my first time in the front seat, it was kinda cool) and hauls me over to some engineering firm in Downtown Slopkins. I walk around and check the joint out for fingerprints but mostly I'm tryin' to find that one friendly office lady who always brings in candy and doughnuts and never gets pissed off that nobody else ever does.

I find her within a minute I would say, her name is Joyce and she ain't immune to the ol' infamous Grimstone charm because she told me I could use her office while she runs over to Knollwood Mall for the rest of the day. She quick shows me how to do some shit in Microsoft Excel and takes off like a bat out of Hell.

After I finish the last Jelly-filled Bismarck, I decide to smash her computer for no particular reason other than the fact that she was trying to trick me into doing her work.

Some employee, maybe he was the owner, takes me to the lunch room and shows me the jimmied machine.

I sez, "How many sammiches did this Bastard get away with?"

He sez, "Oh, they didn't take any of the food, these guys weren't stupid, they were here strictly for the cash."

"How much cash was in there?"

"I don't know, I tried to do the math but none of my employees will admit that they've ever eaten out of this machine."

I sez,

"Tell yuh what Bub, let me take the rest of the food out of the machine, I'll take it home study it, and bring it back the next time I'm in the vicinity."

He sez,

"What could you possibly learn from taking the food home?"

I sez,

"Trust me."

Next thing you know, I got a cardboard box from one of the engineers (he didn't know I did, it was filled with those friggin' Mini Discs, I nuked 'em all in the microwave so there'd be no evidence) and started stocking up the ol' pantry.

Oh they had it all in this baby. Green Reubens, orange Tuna Salad, grey Salisbury Steak, a friggin' Chuckwagon to die for.

I about had my ass out the door when I saw a glowing image of Kenny next to where they keep the Sporks & shit.

"Forgetting something soul mate?"

Then he threw me a handful of little mustard packs which really freaked me out because I didn't think ghosts could scoop up shit with their hands.

I tip my hardhat and sez ...

"Later KB."

"He sez, back at yuh GG."

I hop in the squad car and sez,

"Take me to the spot where the Fuzz likes to party."

"He popped the Crown Vickie's tranny into D and we headed downtown to the Skyway Lounge.

Cooper Anderson

2006-05-18T22:21:00.000-05:00

What the fuck's goin' on here?

Since You Friggin' Asked ...

2006-05-17T17:55:00.000-05:00

So a lotta you'se been askin' ... how do you make one? Well here yuh friggin' go ...

The Meister Brau Martini
by Gustavus Leonardo Grimstone

Nuthin' is friggin' classier then walking into a casino in a freshly rumpled undershirt and ordering a Meister Brau Martini. Last time I was up at the Hole in the Wall Casino in Danbury, Wisconsin I was feelin', not only lucky, but pretty friggin' thirsty.

I bellied up to bar and sez to the chap in the tuxedo t-shirt:

"One Meister Brau Martini and make sure it's ice cold, I'm sweatn' my ass off after pushing my Pacer for the last 6 miles."

He sez ...

"I'm sorry Sir, we do not serve alcohol at this location."

After his friends were able to unhook his scrotum from the top of his skull he sez ...

"Would you like that in a clean glass?"

I sez ...

"Naw, I'll take it in a dirty Welch's grape jelly jar please."

The kid needed some direction, plus I had to get my own ingredients out of my little travel kit I keep in the trunk of the Pacer.

I sez ...

"OK, now take 5 ice cubes, including 1 novelty one with a fly in it, or the real thing if yuh got one; 3 measures of Meister Brau, 1 measure of Cold Spring and half a measure of Boone's Farm Country Kwencher. Now I want that shaken, not stirred ... yuh don't wanna bruise the Brau, pour it into the jelly jar and garnish with a pig's knuckle."

And that's pretty much friggin' it ... thanks for askin'.

Friggin' May

2006-05-01T22:53:00.000-05:00

I hopped in the ol' friggin' Plum Crazy Purple Gremlin this fine friggin' May Day morning and revved the shit out of the engine. Leave it to friggin' AMC to introduce the first subcompact with a friggin' six-banger engine. One hundred and friggin' twenty-eight American made horsefriggginpower under that Plum Crazy Purple hood.

Kind'a reminds me of why AMC deserved to stick the "A" in their name. The American Friggin' Motors Corporation. When the butterfly-powered Rice Rockets were flyin' in like shrapnel from overseas, tough-ass American men (and some' 'uh the more butch looking women) was crankin' out some of America's finest OTTO-friggin-MO-beels to ever hit American asphalt.

Who can forget the AMC Ambassador, the Nash Metropolitan, the friggin' AMX, the Javelin; the Rebel, the Rambler, the Friggin' Hornet ... (yeah, no shit, they had 2 Hornet models, the standard HORNET with the 360 V8, and the FRIGGIN' HORNET which featured the same 360 V8 but with the word "HEMI" spray painted on the block ... oh, and it also came equipped with the Nitrous package ... not for the engine ... it was for the driver and crew, remember, this was the friggin' 1970s.) ...

... the Eagle, the Jeep, the Matador (What's a friggin' Matador?) and who can forget "Lah-Kremm-duh-lah-friggin-Kremm" the fuckin' Pacer (I save the Atomic F-Bomb for important shit).

A moment of silence, please ...

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

... thank you, I wuz gettin' a little misty.

The Pacer ... everytime I think 'uh the Pacer the Pacer I think about my Old Man and his '73 Prototype Pacer. It was a Tickled Pink 2-door (all the AMC shit was named after Boones Farm wines, remember, this was the friggin' 70s) and it also came equipped with the Nitrous package.

How'd he get his mitts on a Pacer prototype you may ask? He found it buried in a cave up in the UP (that's the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for all you non-snowmobilers). Once in a while, when I was growing up, Pops would take off to the UP for a few weeks, or months sometimes, to get away from, what he called "Friggin' business complications."

Ma would peek out the front curtains while he was gone and keep tabs on the dark sedans that would be parked in front of the house from time to time. When she didn't see 'em around anymore she'd let the carrier pigeons loose. 3 days later, Pops would be back at the breakfast table woofin' down bacon & eggs like he ain't seen food for a while.

One, time he showed up a day after we'd released the pigeons.

He pulled up in this wide, bright pink car that looked like a friggin' bubblegum dispenser. He sat in the car for a few minutes fiddling with some type of oxygen mask. Then Pops pops outta this car and we run toward each other and bang our hardhats together.

I sez "Jeepers Pops, what the heck is this blasted thing?"

He looked down at me real stern and said "Gus, your LANGUAGE???????"

I look down at the ground, kick a pebble, then look him in the eye and say "For Chrissakes you old fart, what the fuck is this shit?"

He tousles my hair (which is tricky when you wear a hard hat) and sez "Now thats the kinda crap I wanna hear coming out of your pie-hole yuh little bastard." He was real concerned about me makin' it in this mean old world and said there ain't nuthin' that forges the way better than a mouthful of obscenities.

Mom looked real proud from the front stoop as she was stirring a Meister Brau Martini for the Old Man.

The Old Man and I sat down on the porch swing (which was just the front seat from our old Ambassador Station Wagon tied to a couple screw-eyes) and proceeded to tell me the story. He'd been up in the UP for a few weeks waiting for a business deal to "cool down" a little and came across this cave while he was out lookin' for motel rooms or whatever.

The entrance to the cave was filled with boulders that looked like they were stacked from the inside; the top boulder had words carved into it.

"Ye who enter this cave will be cursed for eternity."

He figured if someone had sealed themselves in this cave, at least there'd be some meat in there and he started removing the boulders. As he removed the last boulder, a shaft of light shone onto the most beautiful car he had ever laid eyes on. A chorus of angels sang a verse and a chorus of Charlie Rich's "Behind Closed Doors."

Actually it turned out the car radio was on; the car was still running and the cave was filled with dangerous carbon dioxide fumes. Pops said it was no worse than walking into the Moose Lodge the day after "Brats, Beans & Meister Brau Night." He went in to investigate.

As he approached the car, he heard additional voices singing along with Charlie on Behind Closed Doors. The he saw 4 figures in the car through the smoggy haze. He stopped quickly in his tracks, slowly bent over, carefully reaching into his left sock and pulled out a Zagnut Bar. Jeezh, did you think he was going to pull out a weapon? I don't know when the last time you saw a set of Grimstone knuckles but let me tell yuh ... we don't need no stinkin' weapons.

He figured he'd be kickin' some ass in a minute and he needed to energize himself with the unique combination of crunchy peanut butter covered in rich toasted coconut. Plus, once the Zagnut Bar was out of the picture, it would give these cave dwellers one less reason to kill him. The doors of the Pacer flew open and the four Phantoms quickly rolled out in formation, executing perfect backwards somersaults dispersing to separate corners of the cave protected by handy rock formations.

Suddenly, he was attacked with missles from each of the 4 defense locations. He dodged them the best he could, there were a few loud clangs against his hardhat and he was grazed by a few projectiles in the upper arm and shoulder area. "Ouch, that friggin' smarts." He looked down and saw that he was bleeding. Now that really pissed him off. He felt a sharp stinging sensation in his upper thigh.

He looked down, and sticking deep into his leg was a Kohinoor triple-ought tech pen. "What the hell???" There was a loud clang against his hard hat and with his quick reflexes, he grabbed the missle with his bare hands, an Alvin 18-inch acrylic drafting triangle. Then another, this one was a Sun Hemmi Post Versalog 1460 slide rule, the kind used by industrial design engineers.

He looks up and sees one of the Phantoms stand up, he was a wearing a white lab coat; his pocket-protector holster was empty now.

"You don't know what you're doing, this monstrosity cannot show itself to mankind. DON'T LOOK AT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

My Old Man was standing face to face with the heroic design crew of the AMC Pacer. They were all weeping. "Don't you understand?" the one in the back said "This was not what we intended. It was Monday, we were all hung over. Jimmy here tried to get a laugh out of us and drafted the prototype. It was at that unfortunate moment that CEO of AMC, Roy D. Chapin Sr. bust into our office and said ...

"So whut ch'yuh guys working on?"

"And after that, this design became his obsession. We all had reputations to uphold and after 6 months of intensive development, we all decided to make a suicide pact. Drive up here to the UP with all evidence of this creation and bury it for eternity."

Pops said, "Well yuh really shouldn't 'uh put that sign out there about cursing. If I get an inkling of salty language being used, I'm on it like a fly on shit."

The next sounds were 3 gunshots, a voice saying "I give up.", the sound of keys hitting the cave floor ... then one final gunshot.

Pops drove that baby down to our place in Nordeast, called Motor Trend, and rest is friggin' history.

Happy friggin' May Day.

OK, How's This ..... ? The Prez is Really Frick'n Good at Clearin' Brush

2006-04-10T00:37:00.000-05:00

All right you frick'n bastards .. I'm finally ready to earn my frick'n wages around this frick'n Blog Factory.

You assholes out there (and I mean the frigg'n Liberal Jack Johnson Barefoot in the Frick'n Park Types) gotta agree with me when I remind you fucks that our godddamn President, can really clear some friggin' brush once he sets his mind to it.

Yeah ... I hear you friggin' LL Bean types snicker whenever the media mentions the Prez is out whacking away at all that brush down in the Bush's Private Area in Texas. Well, that's cos none a yuh, I doubt, has put in a full day clearin' brush like me & the Prez have. Sure, some of you guys have run an electric chainsaw a few seconds a year when there's brush clearin' to do in your perfectly manicured, back yard in the wilderness of Maple Friggin' Grove. Maybe you've come to your wife's rescue by pulling a couple weeds in her petunia patch.

But when me & the Prez get down to whacking away at our brush, you might say we are the Masters.

Okay, don't get carried away thinkin' that I've actually whacked brush WITH the Prez ... I'm just sayin' that it's something we both do a lot ... an awful lot ... I don't know why exactly ... it just feels good. And like it used to say on the friggin' poster you seen in the back of National Lampoon or on a T-Shirt down at the old Shirt Shack on Hennepin "If it Feels Good ,,, Do It."

It pretty much sums up the greatness of this President when you see him clearing some fick'n brush. KInd'a "symbolic" ... —

— I know how to find fancy words too now that I got Google, sure glad I never wasted money on a frick'n dictionary. Shit, now that we got the internet just about everything's free ... words, porn, pictures, porn, fonts. porn, music, porn, movies, porn ... all kinds uh shit ... like porn. I never thought I'd say this but "Thanks Al, thanks Mr. Gore; for inventing the frickin' internet ... and also for beating Bush but letting him take the throne anyway cos you didn't wanna excert too much energy... that was real fuckin' swell —

... symbolic because he approaches a big pile a brush the same way he approaches his challenges. He just tears the shit out everything then burns the remains ... just like he did in Iraq. He went in to Iraq and cleared out all the brush (symbolic for humans who don't look like us and believe in different shit .... I'm talkin' real frickin' different if you catch my drift ... like not really being into Jesus and shit?) and he keeps clearing and clearing brush till there ain't nuthin' left for him to tangle his feet in.

That's when you call Kinkos and check into pricing on large format print options for big banners to drape across aircraft carriers.

But everytime you think you've cleared all the frick'n brush ... a new crop springs up and you gotta go to Congress and ask for about 80 Billion to buy a bunch of Round-up. It's a pretty complicated job being President ... there was a time when I checked into working a couple 4-year shifts as President of The United States. There was a link to an application on monster.com so I thought I'd give it a shot.

I sent it in and had a couple informational interviews and after I passed the IQ test (they told me it was like a golf score, the lower the bettter) they arranged a meeting with Dick Cheney who said I just might be the candidate they've been scouring roller rinks across the nation for. They gave me a quick tour of the White House and it seemed up to my liking .... I told them the first thing I'd do is fire the cooking staff and turn the Lincoln Bedroom into a White Castle.

Eventually it came down to 2 candidates for the job. Me and W.

I was about ready to sign on the dotted line when I found out that they didn't pay time-and-a-half for any hours that went past 8 hours a day. And no double-time on Sundays or triple-time on Holidays!!!! Shit, I had a better offer than that from Cheapo Records.

And on top a that shit, you didn't get paid at all if you worked past 40 hours a week. It was some bullshit salary job. Fuck that shit man ... I told 'em to give the gig to the dumb Texan.

Speakin' uh not gettin' paid overtime, I don't get any extra dough for writin' more than a few sentences a day on this friggin' Blog. It don't even matter if I write an ending or not, same wage and same amount of coffee breaks so I better wrap this sucker up like right now.

So next time you find yourself sweating away, clearing brush on a hot, humid day with a gas chainsaw and gunny sack full'a Napalm ... think about the me and the Prez whacking away at our brush.

Gettin' Warm

2006-04-04T01:20:00.000-05:00

I been frick'n identified as one of the last Bush supporters on the planet and I been frickin' chosen by the Republican Party to write a few words in de-friggin-fence of the Prez. So keep it down!!!! I'm tryin' tuh friggin' think here!!!!

2006-03-21T00:33:00.000-06:00

Still thinkin'

2006-03-10T07:34:00.000-06:00

I keep bangin' my friggin' head against the wall tryin' to lodge some ideas loose but I just keep hearing a rattling sound, like rocks or somethin'.

2006-03-09T09:38:00.000-06:00

Nope ... still thinkin' uh shit to say.

2006-03-06T02:06:00.000-06:00

I got nuthin'

Frick'n Undies in a Bunch

2006-02-13T08:23:00.000-06:00

Just for legal frick'n reasons, frick'n management is making me publish my spell check and story truth stats (as if there's any frick'n question!) so you'll have to put up with this shit for a while. You know how management is, they get their undies in a bunch when it looks like they ain't in control anymore and then start makin' you jump through hoops and shit till they get paid ... then they sit in their gold coin room showering themselves with frick'n Dubloons and laughing maniacally.

I guess my last Blog looked to them like it might be a bunch'a bull corn so they told me to post my "Spell Check and Bullshit Count Report" (it's a new Quark XTension) and they'd stay off my frick'n back so I buckled. Then they gave me some bullshit speech about how you can't sell yesterday's Blog and all that shit and then they brought in some circus clowns who lit some hoops on fire and I had to frick'n leap through them for about 10 minutes (I wasn't friggin' kidding about jumpin through hoops). It was no big deal, my undershirt caught on fire a couple times and I fell flat on on my belly on top of a Welsh Corgi (really flattened that son-of-a-bitch but he survived).

Then they wanted to know what the frick'n moral, or point, of my Blog was and I just said that if you kick somebody's ass (anywhere, a bar room brawl or on the battlefield) it proves that you're right ... about everything! That you are the frick'n keeper of the Truth and all that shit.

They seemed to think it made sense and said if there was anymore trouble they'd send me out Quail hunting with Dick Cheney.

A-Frick'n-O-K

2006-02-07T20:27:00.001-06:00

Jeeezh, all my writings checked out okay, no frick'n lies, no goddamn embellishments, no frigg'n exaggerations, just 100% Grade-A Gus Gospel ... surprised the shit outta me too.

I ain't sayin' I was in doubt, but I'm the type of guy who gets conked on the head once in a while and my reco' friggin' llection of what went down in a situation can get kind'a fuzzy. Plus I ain't some candy ass who takes notes, it's all stored in my gray matter and protected by a U.S. Steel hard hat.

So how's that for an intro? Should I keep beating this into the ground or get on with the fuckin' story here?

Okay, so here's how it went down ...

You ever hear of this frick'n trust fund douche bag named James Frey? Well I have, this son-of-bitch made the last frick'n couple weeks of my life complicated ... reeeeeeeeeeeeal complicated ........ oh jeeez, I'm sorry Ladies and frick'n members of The Promise Keepers (jeez, grow a hard hat!) ... did I offend you by saying "douche bag"? What was I think'n? You know I run a family-friendly Blog here so let me take another run at it for you sensitive wimps ...

You ever hear of this frick'n trust fund deuce-another-runner-in-the-night named James Frey? Well I have, this son-of-bitch made the last frick'n couple weeks of my life complicated ... reeeeeeeeeeeeal complicated.

Here I was, minding my own business trying to write about the tender side of life when all of the sudden, the shit hits the fan. This yo-yo who likes to get stoned decided to frick'n write about it to the world. What's the point? Like the world is gonna flock to his feet and say "Oh Honey, I'm so sorry that you caught a bunch'a great buzzes ... here ... let me wipe the sweat from your brow, can I massage your feet? do you need a pillow? Do you need a million little bucks? Do you wanna meet Oprah?"

Shit ... I guess it's obvious the ol' Gusmeister is a little bit jealous. Half a what I do in life is designed around meetin' Oprah. I can't count the times I've fantasized about sitting on the same couch that Tom Cruise jumped up and down on where all them countless authors of weepy fluff novels have her undivided attention. And as far as Dr. Phil ... wait a minute ... why am I talking like this??? What the hell was in those cigarettes I found in that empty Dan Fogelberg box set over at Swanson's place?

Dr. Phil? I'd like to make that guy wear his own ass for a hat. What the fuck is the point with that guy? If I hear my wife say one more time "Well Dr. Phil sez ..." Who cares what that son-of-a-bitch thinks? When Ted Nugent told us he's doin' "just what the Doctor ordered" I seriously doubt if he was talking about that quack son-of-bitch Dr. Phil.

Holy shit, I've really gotten off track here ... where was I?

So this bullshit artist Frey goes on Oprah and becomes her new sensation; then it turns out the son-of-a-bitch was full'a shit and next thing you know, she's pissed as hell at him. Let me give you a word of advice ... you don't fuck with Oprah ... it's real simple ... ask Letterman ... it's just something you don't do.

So when that poop hits the fan, it becomes the hottest issue in the land. Every poor son-of-a-bitch ... oh I'm sorry ... and every bitch too, that makes their livin' writing shit, has to defend what they write as being true. How's my sentence structure going? Am I using proper grammar and shit? ....... yeah ..... I thought so .... I do feel in the zone tonight, I love these filterless Fogelbergs.

Look people, I keep a busy schedule, I get hired and fired from a new job every day and it takes up a lot of my time. I get home for my 5 minutes of family time, that includes touslin' up the kids hair and askin' 'em how the big game went, bouncing the baby up in the air and usually catchin' the son-of-a-bitch, boinkin' the wife and whatever other plumbing projects to complete, plus catching up with American Idol (I just put the VCR on fast forward and watch it without the sound, trust me, it's a lot better that way). On top of all that ... I gotta write my goddamn column and now I got people on my ass making me to prove it's all true!!!!!

In other words Frey, yer ass'll be in a million pieces if I ever catch up with you.

So Oprah's Goons showed up at my place the next morning at sunrise. I knew it was coming so I'd called all my Goombahs and they came prepared ... 24 cases of Meister Brau and 42 pounds of Chuckwagons from the Friggin' Wheel of Death ... plus mustard. We guzzled, bulked up and high-fived for an hour before her army arrived so we were pumped and ready to kick ass.

We stood gallantly in formation in front of my 3 bedroom rambler as the line approached us and an order was given from a black limousine to hold their position. The sun was coming up and my Goombahs looked very regal with their guts hanging over their tool belts and the pinkish and orangerific rays reflecting off their hard hats. I couldn't frick'n help but think of Sylvia Plath's kick-ass poem "Southern Sunrise" ...

Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies
Fine as hand-made lace,
or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.

Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.

A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.

------

I come to out of my poetic moment with a jolt to my noggin and a loud, clanging sound ... my best bud Knizzle-Nuts McGee had conked me on the head with a full can of Meister Brau.

"Hey Gus ..." he hollers, "... put that stupid ceramic cigarette away and let's go kick some ass!!!!"

Out of the limo steps friggin' Dr. Phil dressed like some friggin' dandy in a brass helmet with a frick'n ostrich plume stickin' out the top screamin "Anger is nothing more than an outward expression of hurt, fear and frustration ... CHARGE!!!!!!!!!"

Oprah's goons charge toward us as Tom Cruise jumps up and down on the roof of the limo like some freakin' maniacal chimpanzee screaming "YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!! YEAH!!!!!!!!"

I strike the first blow, a swift undercut to some frickin' goon's breadbasket. He hits back but it ain't no match for a gut that been toughened up with hundreds, if not thousands, of late night craving runs to White Castle. And speaking of runs ... aww, nevermind, I got a story to finish. A true story.

You see, I forgot to mention something about the way Goons and Goombahs do battle. We just punch each other in the breadbasket, nothing more, nothing less. That's all there is to it, we call it Ooomph Warfare. Nobody gets seriously injured, sure, yer belly and pride might hurt for a few days but usually there's no internal bleeding or anything. We just punch each other till the loser gets winded and his arms get tired. Whoever dukes it out the longest wins and they get their way, no matter what the dispute. It's real simple.

This is the way battles have been fought for thousands of years. All that bullshit about swords and stuff is a load of crap. Even back in the Peloponnesian War it was all about breadbasket punching. Speaking of bullshit authors, that frickin' Herodotus was just a walking pile of goat manure. That guy was so full'a shit, his eyes were brown.

See, people didn't have TV back in those days so they hadda frick'n read! Readin' was something new and it's pretty hard to sell people on something new so Herodotus and all those other ancient assholes had to jazz things up quite a bit to get people interested. They had a lot of competition cos most people spent their time drinking wine out of goatskins and participating in these big all-out orgies. It's pretty hard to approach a drunk guy doin' 2 hot chicks and hand him a book, it just doesn't frick'n work that way.

So as the centuries went on, historians kept adding more bullshit to these war tales, catapults, cannons, spears, all that shit. Pretty soon you got guys like Donald Rumsfeld thinking yer supposed to bomb people and shit. I had a meeting with him one day and tried to persuade him to bring back breadbasket punching but he said it was uncivilized.

He said thanks for my interest but he'd stick with the humanitarian approach to war using shit like TOWs, Bunker Busters, BGM-109 Tomahawks, Daisy-Cutters (gotta admit, that one sounds cute!), Conventional Air Launched Cruise Missiles, Israeli-built Popeye missiles with infra-red homing, BLU-118 500 lb. napalm canisters, BLU-118/B penetrating warheads filled with an advanced thermobaric explosive that, when detonated, generates higher sustained blast pressures in confined spaces such as tunnels and underground facilities; the CBU-87/B Combined Effects Munitions (CEM) an all-purpose, air-delivered cluster weapons system effective against armor, personnel and material; the Wind Compensated Munitions Dispenser [WCMD "Wick-Mid"]; The Paveway Guided Bomb Unit-10 (GBU-10) utilizing the 2,000-pound general purpose or penetrating warhead; the Javelinmanportable, fire-and-forget, antitank missile; the Global Hawk (Tier II+) High-Altitude, Long-Endurance Unmanned Aerial Vehicle; and he said when all else fails ... a wrist rocket will take somebody's eye out. Also, if you can trick an Iraqi soldier into running with a pair of scissors there's a good chance you got yourself another kill.

So back to the battle ... so the Goombahs have outpunched the Goons in a big way. I still had 18 men standing while Oprah and Dr. Phil were down to 3. Say, I forgot to mention, the Goons were very smartly dressed. They were all wearing black Levis with matching belts, Gold Toe Cotton Metropolitan Dress Socks, Tommy Hilfiger boots (Chelsea boot style), Black Hanes Beefy-T's with a smart, clean white font that read "Goon" (at first I thought it was Helvetica but I overheard one of the Goons telling one of my Goombah's that is an Arial font, I always took Oprah for a Mac-based Goddess but I guess Dr. Phil talked her into sticking with the PC platform), and top it off (literally) with a Kango® Anglo-Basque 100%-wool Beret ... that damn Oprah runs a class act!

Of course, later some of my Goombahs were bitching about the shit they have to wear. I sez if you wanna jump ship go ahead, we don't need your kind around anyhow.

So, there it ended on my front lawn in Coon Rapids ... the Great Breadbasket Battle of 2006. Cruise drew out the surrender papers which he had expected us to be signing at the end of this victorious battle. One'a my guys pretended to be reporter and pulled the ol' squirting microphone trick on him. As the Doc and I walked over to the limo to sign the papers on the hood, I could hear Crusie squawking "Why'd you do that ???? Why'd you do that????" I have to admit, his tone had me intimidated for a split second, sort of like if you was chasing a hamster and it turned around and hissed at you.

Dr. Phil presented me with his plumed brass helmet and I said "Thanks, this might come in handy someday if I'm standing outside of a pay toilet a nickel short." I told him his troops fought valiantly and he said "Awareness without action is worthless."

Then he said "Gus, you fought bravely and through your victory I hearby declare all that you've written to be the truth and I will relay that information to Oprah and get her off your ass."

I thanked him and slugged him in the breadbasket one last time as tradition dictates.

He said "Ooooomph ... Gus, my advice to you is to get up each morning, look at yourself in the mirror, and see yourself not as someone who is overweight or out of shape, but as the someone you will become."

I slugged him in the breadbasket again, this time it had nothing to do with tradition.

He said "Ooooomph ... Gus, If you want more, you have to require more from yourself."

I slugged him in the breadbasket again, this guy was really starting to piss me off.

Then he said "Ooooomph ... Gus, sometimes you just got to give yourself what you wish someone else would give you." Then he covered his bread basket, I didn't hit him this time, I knew he was trying to trick me with some kind of reverse psychology.

He said "Gus, sometimes you make the right decision, sometimes you make the decision right."

This time I hit 'em twice.

Finally, he said "Ooooomph ... Gus, life is a marathon, it's not a sprint."

It was the first thing he said that I understood. I said Thanks Dr. Phil, that one made some frick'n sense."

As he walked away I said "So, what are you a Doctor of?"

He turned and said "Oh, I'm not a Doctor, I just play one on TV."

I sez "Good enough DP, good enough."

So Let Me Get This Frickin' Straight ...

2006-01-29T23:37:00.000-06:00

All this shit is supposed to be true? Holy fucking shit.

I Read It in the Friggin' Paper

2006-01-23T08:56:00.000-06:00

I read this friggin' article about blogging in the paper the other day and it was suggested that you update your friggin' blog frequently to keep your friggin' readers interested.

Friggin' Reruns

2006-01-09T23:32:00.000-06:00

What'id yuh think uh that shit last week when they stuck a frick'n rerun on your's truly's blog? What a bunch a shit ...that was a piece from what I like to call "my poetic years" (1991-1999). Back in them days I never used the fuckin' effenheimer or said monkey tits or all them other great words that make American the best friggin' language on Earth.

In the old days, nobody took breaks, railroad guys worked every day till they croaked on the job. Sure, it was dangerous if they wuz the engineer but where the fuck is a train gonna go? It follows a frick'n track.

Them writers and actors from Gilligan's Island didn't stop workin' during the friggin' World Series, the Olympics, frigg'n Christmas and all that shit. They just kept writing and acting out some'uh the most classic cultural moments to ever come out of America.

I think they produced new shows for 9 months out of the year and if they wanted to take a break, friggin' Sherwood Schwartz would sic his goons on 'em and they'd get the message. I heard some'uh them goons found plenty of work later on with the current Bush Administration. Interrogator positions and shit. Yeah, that's what I love about America. The friggin' curdled stuff rises to the top a fuck of a lot faster than the cream.

These days, these friggin' lightweights makin' shows like Earl & the Office are so insecure that they'll stick a rerun in if they're threatened by a final episode of some shit like Dancin' with the Stars. Sure, it takes more time to write clever stories about Karma bitin' yuh in the frick'n ass but you think it was any easier to think up some frickin' Japanese sub commander with buck teeth and big thick glasses landing on Gilligan's Island?

Naw, this is a new age of wussdom. Shit, I ain't missed a day of work ever. I even work on Christmas ... sure ... the family don't like it but I get to see them 5 minutes a day for the whole friggin' year, that ain't bad. My OId Man only had time for 4 minutes a day and his Old Man (Grampa Knuckles) only had time for 3. And his old man, my Great Grampa Ballskneer, had time for 2 and his old man, my Great-Great Grampa Tracheotomy with a Bic, only had time for 1.

So before I have to talk about my Great-Great-Great Grampa Whack-em-and-Stack'em (we don't like to talk about him, he was a stay-at-home Dad) I gotta think yer beginning to see my point.

We've become too soft. Even me, gruff old Gus, I been even buying real soft toilet paper recently. You've seen the ads where them cartoon bears are out takin' a shit in the woods and smilin' cos they been using some delicate ass-wipe. Well, I went to Target and asked the punk in the red vest, "Hey, where's do you keep that ass-wipe that them bears have been pushing on TV?" He shows me and they want like 10 frick'n bucks for a pack. I sez "How much for just the wrapper?" So, I been using that and its way more delicate than the wrappers from that cheap shit I used to buy.

So, this is where I gotta decide where i'm going with this article ... aww, fuck it.

Why Christmas is My Favorite Time of Year

2005-12-24T12:24:00.000-06:00

Reprinted from the Catch O' the Day/December 1996

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas...” Oh boy, everytime I hear that one it brings me back to the days sitting in that big front seat of my old man’s Catalina. I’d look at him and he’d be grinning from ear to ear smoking a big Dutch Masters cigar. He’d blow a couple smoke rings and I’d watch as they turned green from the dashboard lights glowing at that magical time of day when the winter sun began dipping down early, as if weary, finally letting the dark solstice night take the lion’s share of guarding the cold, winter sky.

You can take your trunk mounted CD changers and your subwoofer boxes and toss’em out on highway 61 as far as I’m concerned, there ain’t nothin’ like a GM stock radio playin’ those sweet Christmas tunes from Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Nat King Cole and Doris Day.

The old man would look over at me and say “Little Gus, there ain’t nothin’ like a big ass frickin’ Detroit Pontiac in my book, if there’s a goddamn god in heaven, he’s drivin’ a frickin’ Catalina, sure as shit!” Then he’d let out one of his hearty, rumbling laughs that turned into a deep rolling cough that sounded like when you shake a bag full of ballbearings and cat shit.

I remembered the way his head bobbed from side to side as he raised that brown paper bag to his lips taking a little taste of of his homemade cough medicine: 3 parts Cutty Sark, 2 parts prescription codeine and 1 part bactine. One bump of that and he was a new man, he’d let out a high pitched scream and tromp down on the gas pedal.

“There’s one right there little Gus!” he yelled with great excitement as he beared down toward a guy in a Santa suit, ringing a bell next to that hanging kettle. His style was always the same, slam down on the brakes and go into a powerslide toward the mark at a diagonal angle with as much metal-on-metal screeching as you could muster. That always seemed to unnerve the guy which just made our work easier. I’d jump out first and get behind the guy to disorient him, he wouldn’t really notice when the old man came flying out of the driver’s side with a gunny sack full of oranges and start wailing on the bastard, that’s when I’d pull out the Grimstone Christmas Fund sack and empty the contents of the kettle into it.

Then while Santa was receiving his dose of Vitamin C, I’d slip back into the car with the loot and get behind the wheel and throw’er into gear, shit I could barely reach the pedals and see over that big dashboard but every year it was getting easier. Just as the car would get moving, the old man would dive in on the passenger’s side coughing and laughing like a frickin’ banshee. Then he’d give me a wink, all stretched out on that big front seat, panting hard, all covered with fresh orange juice, pulp and rind; he’d raise his bottle and tap the glove compartment for a toast. “Frickin’ Catalina,” he’d say as he’d down the rest of his medicine, curl up against the door and fall asleep.

As we high-tailed it home down side streets and alleys I’d picture Ma and Sis at home, trimming the tree with human skulls (heh, just kidding!) the tree that we’d usually cut down right out the neighbor’s yard.

Memories like that make Christmas my favorite time of year.

DeaR Prez, Hang in There Baby!

2005-12-18T21:08:00.000-06:00

Jeezus Frickin' Christ! I'm sure glad I decided not to be the fuckin' President, jeez, every whinin' son-of-a-bitch around is on that poor son-of-a-bitch's back right now. First of all, the dude sticks his neck out for us Americans ... they pull that frickin' 9/11 shit, we attack Iraq ... shit ... you got a better plan? Some asshole was trying to convince me that most of the hijackers were from Saudi Arabia ... BULLSHIT YOU DUM FUCKKKERS!!! If they wuz a bunch'a Saudis, how do explain the good relationship we've had with them all these years? We buy all their fuckin' oil, they buy all our piece a shit DeLoreans and Trans Ams. Secondly, we know it was the fuckin' Iraqi's because their asswipe leader, Saddam Hussein tried to off Bush the 1st way back when. If that ain't proof, I don't know what is.

And shit, I ain't even got into the alunimum rods bullshit! They was plannin' on fillin' them rods with friggin' plutonium and shootin' em over with their frickin' bows from Cuba or the friggin' Bahamas or somewhere. And what about the goddamn weapons of mass destruction???? Everybody's bitchin' cos they ain't found any there yet. Big deal, you know they're there. One of these days, somebody'll move a big friggin' sand dune and there they'll all be. I ain't got no proof but I do believe in God and God told me all about it one night after I drank a case of Meister Brau. By the way, God looks a lot like a cheap hooker.

I got this poster I'm gonna mail out to the White House as soon as the Feds give me my mail privileges back (nobody ever told me yuh ain't supposed to mail gunpowder novelties), it's this frickin' orange cat hangin' from a frickin' branch, sweat shootin' off him and all, lookin' all confused and stressed-out. Then, (hee-hee) underneath the son-of-a-bitch it sez "Hang in there Baby!). Jeez, that goddamn thing gets me everytime, if I'm havin' a down day I just look at that thing and start laughin' my ass off.

So sure, I was kind'a pissed at the Prez myself. I mean, you don't just cut into the Family Guy time slot and start yackin' about Iraq and shit without a few people getting' P.O.'d. I mean, shit, if all you babies would just go along with the game plan in Iraq the Dude wouldn't even have to interrupt any more TV shows ever!

I figure, we elected him, he can do whatever the fuck he wants. That's the way it was when George Washington was in charge ... he wanted a couple ice cream freezers installed at his joint in Mount Vernon and some frickin' candy ass senator from Massachewshits told him it would be a waste of taxpayers' money to buy that shit. Ol' George told this frickin' bastard that this was America and we don't have to pay no frickin' taxes cos we're frickin' Republicans. The money to run the government don't have to come from the people. So he started the Mint and began to crank out coins left and right, plus dollar bills with a pic of his bad ass self on the front just to show that liberal tax and spend Democrap from Boston that we don't need no frickin' taxes to buy cool shit.

Then if my info is correct he grabbed the son-of-a-bitch by the ball sack and hurled him into the Potamic River. Yeah, I wished I could'a lived back then, back when you took the situation into yer own hands and beat the crap outa somebody till you got your way.

So I'm gettin' a little carried away, you can probably tell I'm a little bit of a History buff and once I get going, it's hard to stop. I never received a formal education in American History but I've hung out at a lot of bars in my day and some of those old-timers got some first-hand accounts of history. It seems like the drunker they are, the more they know too.

Frick'n Cold Enough For Yuh?

2005-12-05T23:15:00.000-06:00

Any uh you bastards venture outside today? Holy shit ... it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a frickin' brass monkey. I was supposed to head out to the "New Zoo" to spray paint the baboons' asses with Bondo primer. Some frick'n environmentalist was concerned that it might be bad for their self-esteem to have these bright pink asses on display fer all the frick'n Zoo patrons to point and laugh at.

I guess their kiesters get even more pink when the frickin' mercury drops into the single digits and some rain forest activist had to stick their big nose into it and hire some schlub to put a fresh coat of earthtone on the bastards and that poor schlub turned out to be me ... good ol' Gus.

I ain't exactly sympathetic to the simian population but a guy's gotta work. It sez so somewhere in goddamn Bible, I ain't sure where, I think it's in between the Flood and some sob story about a buncha frickin' lepers whinin' about something. If I had a nickel for everytime some frickin' monkey has beat me out of a gig I'd probably have enough to buy me that Dodge Hemi I been dreaming about.

The first time was back in my early days when I still had a nice figure and I was trying to make a go of it in Burbank as a TV star. Frickin' surprised? Yeah, I didn't always have this big gut, back in my youth I had a 32-inch waist. But then, they switched me from frickin' breast milk to formula and my gut dropped over the front of my diaper like George Bush's frick'n approval ratings after that Katrina bitch stabbed him the the frick'n back.

Anyfrigginway, my agent told me they wuz interested in me after seein' some uh my head shots for a new series they had in development. It was called Lance Link, Secret Chimp or something. They wuz trying to decide between using a human being to play the part of some frick'n monkey or usin' a real monkey. When I showed up some smart-ass PA wanted to know if I was the guy or the friggin' ape.

When my agent gave 'em my rate they decided it would be cheaper to hire me and they sent me out for an audition. I don't wanna get into all the Hollywood nepotism bullshit but the bastard chimp that beat me for the part turned out to be Cheetah's nephew. You remember Cheetah, he was that annoying bastard chimp from all them frickin' Tarzan movies, what an asshole .... always makin' a bunch'a racket jumpin' up and down wavin' them long arms makin' those frick'n screechin' sounds and flashin' that big gummy smile. Turned out the son-of-bitch was all wired on coke and after he got out of treatment he couldn't do his scenes without some animal tech zappin' his frickin' nads with a friggin' electric cattle prod.

So I frick'n damn near had the part but I couldn't chew gum and point a frick'n prop pistol at the same time. I guess they didn't like the sound of my voice so they wanted me to chew gum so my mouth would move; then some 2-bit Humphrey Bogart impersonator would overdub the dialogue later.

Yeah, I was pretty pissed off, I thought that actress that played Mata Hairi was pretty hot at the time. She ended up doing pretty good later ending up in the lead role in the TV series "Maude." Then the show went to #1 in Zaire in syndication during the late 80s.

The whole frick'n debacle soured me on show biz. I was startin' to lose my good looks by that point and when my agent sent me to a modeling job I was perfect for but didn't get ... I knew it was all over and soon it would be time to do regular work ... like spray painting baboons' asses at the zoo.

Some famous painter called my agent and was looking for my type for some masterpiece he was working on. He asked if I played poker and if I could pose with a bunch of dogs for a day or so. I damn near had the gig but some son-of-bitchin' bull dog got it instead.

I finally got the best of the monkeys that made a frickin' monkey outta me though. A few months ago, some researchers over at the U had me come down for an experiment. They stick me in this frick'n room full'a frickin' monkeys sittin' at typewriters. Then they tell us that the first fucker who comes up with Shakespeare gets a banana.

Well, we all typed away for a solid month and the closest anyone got to Shakespeare was this one goofy old chimp with sunglasses who had typed up a pretty high pile of stuff. These frickin' scientists take a look at what he's written and say "Oh God, he just wrote a new Tom Clancy novel!" They whisk the bastard away to go meet with Harrison Ford or one 'uh the Baldwin Brothers, can't remember. Anyhoo, the bastard ends up blowing the whole deal when he announces that he'd like to buy the Minnesota Vikings. They threw his ass out right away, although they are considering him for a position as head coach.

Anyway, none of us ever came up with what they were looking for but they did say the shit I came up with would make a pretty good Blog ... and here I am.

The Friggin' Wheel of Death

2005-11-29T23:48:00.000-06:00

Jeezus H Chriminy, you sick a this frick'n snow yet? Today was the first day on my goddamn new job and my frickin' doors were frozen shut on my Camaro. I spent so much goddamn time holding a bic lighter under the handle that I forgot to pack a friggin' lunch ... and you know what that means ... "Friggin' Wheel of Death."

Now don't say you ain't never hear of the FWDs. Every joint I've ever (supposed to have) worked at's got one'a the goddamn things in the friggin' lunch room. It's one'a them big carousal thingamajigs with sammiches and assorted lard treats in it. Oh yeah, and milk too and some other shit.

I hate walkin' up to the friggin' thing cos it grabs everybody's attention like my Doc and my balls during the hernia test; buncha rubberneckin' sons of bitches that knew you fucked up and forgot to make a lunch. They all make them comments, "Hey Gus, takin' yer chances on the Wheel of death huh?" "The Old Lady cut you off from making lunches and making whoppee?" (I ain't never heard that one but I been watchin' Newlywed reruns back to back with Match Game '74 all week).

So I belly up to the FWD and start hitting the button of fate with my big fat thumb, the one with the yellow nail that's trimmed so low I can't use that one for scratch-offs or plaque removal (not mine asshole! my dog's! jeez).

Jeezus frickin' Christ, what mutant asswipe came up with the idea for these frickin' sammiches??? Who the fuck's gonna actually have the balls to eat an egg salad sandwich out of the FWD? Shit, those friggin' things are half rotten by the time you finish making one at home. Plus I ain't allowed to eat egg salad sammiches anymore. The last time I did, it was right after 9/11 when everybody was so friggin' jumpy about terrorists and shit. I wasn't too uptight about the threat since I knew Bushie was in the driver's seat and there was no way he'd lose any more American lives to terrorists. I mean friggin' civilians of course.

Anyway, I was working at the FBI building downtown sandblasting "Female Body Inspectors" graffiti of all their plaques (little did they know) and I was letting a few egg salad "fluffs" rip here and there. Some lightweight ninny caught a whiff and thought the terrorists had gassed the joint with a little bit a Saddam's Secret Nerve Gas. I suppose I could see why they were a little paranoid, some a the office drones were actually passing out and some were going into seizures.

Yeah, the SWAT team showed up and them dogs were sniffin' my ass and my lunch box and the jest put 2 & 2 together. Anyway I gotta wear a little wristband; for the most part it just prevents me from buying eggs and Miracle Whip on the same day. I found ways to beat the system.

So, the best thing I see in the Friggin' Wheel of Death" is the Summer Sausage sammich. I pop in my buck-twenty-five and slide the plexi door open and I can friggin' smell it already. Jeezus! I unwrap the sucker and some'a the warehouse ladies get up and leave. One of 'em was running, I heard her say some shit like "Isn't that the slob who farts all the time." I take a quick scan a the room and I don't see the guy they're talkin' about, Must'a missed him.

As soon as I start peeling the cellophane back, a few more people dash off. Jeez, this looks like a bad one. The bread is flatter than a Catholic communion wafer and the meat itself is about the same brown tone as the Bondo on my Camaro (after 3 winters). Jeez, I start gettin' the feeling I got screwed, I look at the goddamn date and it says for maximum freshness don't eat after 11/07. Crap! Then I really freak when I see the name on the label. It ain't just Summer Sausage ... It's frickin' Summer of 2004 Sausage!!! Godammit.

Well, a buck-twenty-five is a buck-twenty-five and here's a little known tip from Uncle Gus ... there's an active ingredient in most non-fancy mustard called "gustavus mustradamus" that not only fights bacteria and is an antitoxin, but serves as an aphrodisiac for overweight men.

So, what ... I'm supposed to write an ending? Fuck it, go to sleep.

Friggin' Space Tractors

2005-11-13T22:44:00.000-06:00

So I'm down at frick'n job services office the other day. Yeah, I had a little disagreement with management at my old job. They said I was doing a crappy job and I said I was kicking ass. So they go interview some of my frick'n "customers" and they tell 'em I been kickin' 'em in the ass when I get pissed off, which is, pretty much all the time.

So, I guess they frown on that at KinderCare and they gave me my walkin' papers, Frick'n franchises, little chance for advancement and no appreciation of creativity.

So this desk dork is lookin' at my skills assessment results and he has the stones to say "Mr. Grimstone, according to our test results you have absolutely no skills at all. Nothing, not a damn thing. What on earth have you been doing for work all your life?"

Jeez that pissed me off, I sez 'Listen up Chucklehead, I been in the workforce for over 30 years and I've had a job everyday during that time."

He looked kinda confused and looked at my job history a little closer this time. My resume is something to be frick'n proud of. It's about as thick as the Greater New York City phone book, I have a contract with a printer in Singapore who sends me an updated perfect-bound publication after every quarterly update.

The desk jockey was flipping through page after page and looking pretty impressed.

He says, "Mr. Grimstone, it appears that that you haven't missed a day of work since June 6th, 1977 and that includes weekends."

I crack my frick'n knuckles and pass enough comfort gas so it ain't too noticeable but relieves a little stress for me.

I sez, "Yeah, Impressive ain't it?"

He sniffs the air a little then cleans his glasses with his tie and puts 'em back on. "Yes, it is, in a way. But what seems unusual to me about your employment history is that you have never been gainfully employed by anyone for longer than 1 day. In fact, your records show that you have held 13,685 jobs all with separate employers."

I relieve a little more pressure, hoist my frick'n boots covered with cowshit onto his desk and kick back. "Like I frick'n said, impressive, ain't it?"

He sez "Yes, impressive is sort of the word I had in mind, impressive in a Guinness Book of World records kind of a way ... by the way ... have you ever been contacted by the Guinness people?"

I sez, "Naw, I don't drink that shit anyway, Meister Brau is my elixir of choice."

He says he's a little concerned about placing me in any positions considering the fact that I was fired (yeah, right, I was out the door on everyone before I got the boot) from every employer.

I was quick to remind him that the 13,685 figure was a little deceiving since I'd held many part-time positions prior to my state-forced graduation from high school and that I'd been "fired" (I was playin' along) from many other positions before then going back to '65 when I was running a bookie operation out of the block room at my kindergarten class. Jeez, I'll never forget when poor Mrs. Axelrod lost her ass on that Jets game and I ended up with her antique rocking horse imported from Bavaria. You know, she never could draw smiley faces that good again after her thumbs healed.

I was just about at full comfort level when I noticed this twit was sweating profusely and shaking like a frick'n leaf.

He says, "Mr. Grimstone, on closer examination I do believe I can set you up with a 1 day position and after I get your paperwork put together and a brief set of questions I have to dash off to an emergency appointment."

He was taking pictures of his family off his desk and putting them in his briefcase, his wife looked real familiar I think I'd followed her a couple times from where she usually does her grocery shopping. He took his nameplate off his desk and tucked it away too. He asked if I'd had a chance to read it and after said no he said thank God or something like that. I hadn't read it but when I stuck my foot on it getting comfortable it made a perfect imprint in the fresh cowshit on the bottom of my boot. So I guess if I need to get ahold of him I can always check my sole and Google him later.

So he shot a few questions at me.

"Can you drive a tractor?"

"Sober?"

"In any capacity."

"I guess that would be a yes"

"Have you ever heard of an asteroid named '99942 Apophis'?"

"Fuck yeah" (one thing I learned after about 3,000 job interviews is that it never hurts to lie your ass off, they never check).

"Are you available to work on August 7th, 2036?"

I whip out my Special Edition Day Runner© (The Century Pack) and thumb through to August, 2036.

"What time?"

"Can you be there by 7:30?"

"How about 8:15?"

"Fine."

I jot it down in pencil, anything more than 2 weeks out I use pencil just in case.

"Oh, yes, do you own your own hard hat?"

I point toward my noggin and say "MSA Standard V-Gard Slotted with Ratchet Suspension. This baby's saved me from serious brain injury on more than one occasion as you can probably tell."

He does that funny voice from Austin Powers that the dude in the gray suit always says "Righhhhhhht."

So at this point I'm a little frickin' intrigued I sez "What's the gig?"

He sez "Can you sign this here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here ... and here?"

Shit, I ain't written that many X's since Jeb Bush hired me to play tic-tac-toe on all these paper ballots down in Florida back in November, 2000.

He sez, "Okay, it looks like we're all clear, legally at least, tell me what you know about 99942 Apophis."

I sez 'What the fuck is that?"

"It's the question I asked you about earlier, i asked if you'd ever heard of 99942 Apophis and you said ..." he looks down at his paperwork "... fudge yeah!"

"No I didn't"

"Yes you did"

"No I didn't"

"Yes you did"

"No I didn't"

"Yes you did"

At some frickin' point this shit had to stop, "Okay I did, but I didn't say 'fudge'"

"Well, this is a government document and I prefer not to litter it with vulgarities so I cleaned it up a little."

I sez "Fer Chrissakes, FUDGE???????? Now that's just embarrassing. I think when someone says fudge we all know it means fuck and that's just plain candy ass, come on."

"Well, can we compromise? Is there an alternate word you would find acceptable that help you hold your head up high in whatever Cro-Magnon crowd you run with?"

"Watch it buddy, we're at least Neanderthal, we've all adapted to cold climates and stand pretty straight. I have an extensive collection of Craftsman stone tools and I know how to use them."

"How's 'Frick' work for you"

"Instead of Fudge? Frick'n-A, let's run with it, it's a fuckin' classic."

By this time it was about 7:30 PM and the cleaning lady was asking if we wanted to shut out the lights when we were done.

"Okay, so here's the deal ... 99942 Apophis is an asteroid that Astronomers have determined will hit its 'sweet spot' during a close approach to Earth in 2029. It's quite certain it will hit and destroy Earth on its return estimated to be on August 7th, 2036. We need you to drive the NASA/John Deere-designed 'Space Tractor' which will be launched on top of a booster rocket from Cape Canaveral. It's a pendulum-like spacecraft with most of its mass at one end and thrusters at the other. The craft would hover above the asteroid's surface with the heavy end closest to the space rock. Mutual gravitational attraction between the tractor and the asteroid connects the two objects. Using nozzles carefully aimed to avoid the exhaust hitting the asteroid, and relatively gentle "puffs" of thrust, the tug could haul an asteroid into a new orbit in a predictable way. If the asteroid has its own tiny moons - as an increasing number of asteroids appear to have - they get pulled along as well. There's a high chance, about 6%, that you will survive this mission and about a 2.6% chance that you will be able to safely return to Earth. You did say you own a hard hat right? Any questions?"

"Shit, did you say August 7th?"

"Yes."

"Son of a Bitch, I got a Dentist appointment that day."

"Hmmmm, are you open on the 8th?"

"Yes."

"Okay, cool, these guys are usually a day off anyway. Any other questions?"

"Yeah, why do these ass doctors know so much about this?"

"Ass Doctors?"

"Yeah, these Astronomers."

I never seen a guy scream like this one.

Oh well, see you in space!

Doin' My Quota

2005-11-02T03:45:00.000-06:00

Shit, we all missed our quota and the goody-two-shoes duo is catchin' up so I guess I gotta write some shit. 1 Blog minimum a month and I already friggin' screwed up.

OK, lemme cover all the bases quick ...

Sports:
Friggin' Daunte screwed me up big time. He was my my best player on my Fantasy Football Lake Minnetonka Sex Cruise Team. Friggin' Hockey's on, you know me, I love seein' people gettin' the shit knocked out of 'em but I can't figger out why it's so boring watchin' this shit.

Politics:
OK, so Bushie screwed up a couple times, we all frick'n do it, even me. I think it was a pretty good idea pickin' his Mistress to be on the Supreme Court. I ain't sure why but I gotta go with his instincts, he must'a know what he was doin'.

So he didn't make it down to the hurricane vicitims fast enough for all you whiners out there. Hey dipshits!!! The Dude was on vacation!!! How many of you'se ever came back from your vacation early to take care of shit at work??? Besides, when he's gone he's got all his buddies coverin' for him. Get off his back OKAY????

Art:
I don't know much about this fruity shit but this is one hell'uva statue in my opinion. First off, anyone that ain't ashamed a showin' a little butt crack is okay in my friggin' book. Hey! We're all human, we can't help it if the human kiester don't fit properly in a pair a pants. I've even been told mine shows once in a while, it's usually confirmed when they're cuffin' me behind my back.

Secondly, the chick's tits are out on display and that shows a real dedication to keepin' America beautiful. I mean this Venus chick must'a been one a the first statues to go out to Lake Havasu for Spring Break. Thirdly, and most importantly, she don't have no arms so she can't take a swing at you if you reach out and touch someone!

Music:
One thing that pisses me off is that Garth Brooks ain't put out any music for a long time. All you have is this rap shit 24 hours a day. If I wanna listen to some asshole swearin' and bitchin', I'll yell into a canyon.

Well, I had some more ideas poppin' into my skull but that's my quota so I'm done.

What's So Funny About Peace. Love & Understanding ... Frickin' Everything!!!

2005-09-26T00:30:00.000-05:00

When I heard that people were actually getting together in St. Paul for a Peace Rally & March I couldn't frickin' believe it!!!! It boggled my mind, these frickin' people are AGAINST the war???? Well, I ain't no expert on war or nuthin' but since we been in Iraq, I ain't seen one commercial airliner fly into a frickin' skyscraper so I know Bushie & the Boys are doing what they do best ... fightin' frickin' terrorism.

Shit, since the election, there ain't even been a mention of Terror Alerts, you know, that frickin' colored chart that they liked to show us during dinner? It started to piss me off after a while, naw, I don't mean the crackerjack Homeland Security crew, shit, it ain't their fault that the world's full'a nut jobs jealous about all the cool shit we have like E-Bay, Chia Pets and decals of Calvin pissin' on Ford logos. I mean the frickin' Terrorists, ruinin' my frickin' dinner and my frickin' news. I don't wanna hear about some yo-yo with Anthrax or a frickin' bomb in his Hush Puppies. I wanna see some interesting news like when they find some crazy old lady with 600 frickin' cats in her house and a bath tub fulla doo-doo, Now that's the kinda news we, as Americans, deserve to see during the dinner hour.

I bust my balls all week puttin' in my 40 coffee & smoke breaks and when I get home I don't wanna see some shit about some foreigner all pissed off at the good ol' USA. We don't have time for that shit. Shit, in the good ol' days I never heard of the Taliban, at first I thought it was one of the new Dodges so I did give a shit for a minute. I mean, Dodges are what made America strong, did you know those frickin' things actually have a Hemi in 'em???? A frickin' Hemi, now that's class.

The boys at work get sick a hearin' about me talkin' up Hemis; they actually think I don't even know what a frickin' Hemi is. Yeah, right!!! Everybody knows what a frickin' Hemi is right??? Am I right??? Like I don't know know what a frickin' Hemi is. I mean ... a Hemi ... everybody knows that a Hemi kicks ass, right? That's what a Hemi does right? I mean, you drop a Hemi under yer hood and you'll smoke every sucker out there, race 'em for pink slips. Yeah, that's what a Hemi's about.

Lot's a times I'll be soakin' up suds at my local, sweet talkin' some honey. As soon as I start talkin about my Hemi, she's just about mine for the takin'. Sure, I ain't actually got a Hemi yet but if I can keep a job someday I think I'll get me one. By the time I get her out to the parking lot, the Mickey's just about knocked her out anyway.

I got a Blueberry Gremlin just a waitin' for the trade, those things are hard to find nowadays so I'm sure they'll give me a sweet trade. Maybe even even up, you never know. I got a Chevy Vega in my garage too, it's been my dream to put a 454 in it but I been busy. I got the engine lined up, just ain't got around to dropping it in. I just need to find a bolt cutter to get into the garage where I keep it. Son-uva-bitch says I ain't paid the rent since '75. Bastard.

Anyway, I borrowed a buddy's pickup and headed over to the protest just to make waves. Once you hand the keys of the country over to the hippies you might as well say good night America. I decorated the truck with American flags and Bush stickers. Man it looked sweet. I cranked up my Twisted Sister tape full blast and harrassed the liberals all afternoon. Man, Rush would'a been proud of me.

Well that was my political statment. It was kind confusing to some people, they thought I was actually against the War 'cuz uh that song. Like we're not gonna take the war or the Bushie's Brigade. Naw, they totally missed the point. I mean, I think it was a good song to pick right? it was between that and 'Today's Tom Sawyer" by Rush but I don't think that would have been so clear. It might'a confused people a little. You know, another good one would be "Comfortably Numb" by Floyd.

That kind'a expresses how I feel about Bush and the boys, you know, like they're doin' such a good job that I don't have to worry about shit. I can be, you know, numb to stuff going on in the world. they'll take care of us. Give us cheap suds and those frickin' great reality TV shows, now that's a combo that makes me comfortably numb. I don't have to worry about a damn thing. I trust Bushie, Rummy, Dickie and the gang, those frickin' guys know what they're doin; right? They're lookin' out for lugs like you and me everyday. Keepin' El Kyda off the soil and shit, yeah.

And as far as domestically, they been doin' some good things too. Logging and strip mining in the National Parks. Sure I hear the panty-waists bitchin' about that, but shit, you ever been to one of those parks? I drove through one by accident once, I took a wrong turn when I was headin' to Reno once. Shit, there's trees everywhere. In fact, too many I think.

Yeah, once again Commander Bush, I'm standin' right behind yuh. And when I say right behind yuh, I mean to the point where you can feel my hot breath on yer neck. What's that scent you wearin', Old Spice?

Hasta Lombego!!!

Gus's Complaint Department, Dial 1-800-EAT-SHIT

2005-09-26T00:17:00.000-05:00

I'm kinda new to this frickin' Blog thing so get off my back. Sure, maybe my first entry didn't make that much sense, yer sittin' there in yer fancy Eddie Bauer duds scratchin' yer frickin' head wonderin' ... what's this guy talkin' about? Where does he stand politically? Yuh wanna write me off as some Archie Bunker character or something, tryin' to simplify yer frickin' life by summin me up as some simple-minded ying-yang. Well, I got news for yuh college boys and soccer moms, bein' a redneck is hard work these days. I don't frickin' know how I'm supposed to feel about shit anymore so get off my frickin' back!

All right, with that off my hairy chest let's get back to work ... or as you liberals say "lets go back to our desks and do some frickin' gold brickin'." Jeeeesh!!!

Bush Ain't So Bad

2005-09-18T15:52:00.000-05:00

You know, I been listening to these frick'n Democrats and other commies bitchin' about our Chief for so long it's time I put my 2 cents in. Sure, as a hardhat I know I aint' supposed to back a rich bastard like Bush but shit, I'm so confused!

It used to be so simple for me, I was was born with a brain big enough to deal with most daily activities and primal urges like takin' a shit and winding my watch. All I needed was some cheap beer, a TV and a halfway decent-looking woman who couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a frying pan. Any frickin' politician who came between me and my dreams was dead meat and fortunately, none did. Otherwise, I'd be decomposing with Lee Harvey or sudsing up with soap-on-a-rope with Sirhan Sirhan.

So, what's my frickin' point? Goddamned if I know. I think I was a frickin' Democrat but I ain't sure. Then Reagan came in and messed with my mind. He promised the government off my back and outta my ass where they were starting to sniff like drug sniffin' dogs trained to find crack. Sure, him and his mummified muffin momma symbolized everything I wasn't but the frickin' rosy-cheeked bastard had me convinced that the shit going on in Grenada needed to be blowed up real good.

After that, some other guy named Bush came in and screwed things up for a while and I kinda liked that but I wasn't sure why. He was kind of a dink and that made him okay in my book, puked on that Japanese son-of-a-bitch which I thought was a class act since they bombed Hawaii which was one of our frickin' states which I'm sure we offed a bunch of bastards to get in the first place.

Then comes that Clinton son-of-a-bitch. Now, that frickin' hillbilly had some great taste in big-haired mommas and I liked him for that reason. But, the bastard played a frickin' saxophone. Ain't that a frickin' jazz thing? What a stupid son-of-a-bitch. Who in the hell wants some frickin' jazz cat all hopped up on weed runnin' this frickin' country? The guy was around for 8 years and hardly blew anything up, what a frickin' pussy.

Now, this new Bush, he seems pretty frickin' ok. A lot a people say he's just some rich bastard but he ain't. Have you heard the guy talk? He's some kinda cowboy and from what I've seen from watching old John Wayne movies, there ain't a cowboy out there that ever had a few extra bucks in his pocket. This guy has his shit together, when those reporters ask him those stupid frickin' questions about shit, he looks all confused. Well now wonder, those candy-ass reporters don't know shit from Shine-o-La and you can quote me on that.

Mr. President I know the bastards of the good ol' US of A are bailin' on yuh but I want you to know, as long as there's dipshits like me out there voting, you can count on another few terms.

Have a good one.