This message brought to you by the U.S. Department of Justice
and Taser International
Taser International has killed more men over the weekend. They are throwing a big old party to celebrate their status as the only company in America more deadly than either Smith & Wesson or Mattel, and yet less accountable than Hillary Clinton. Thanks to Taser International, cops are being instructed to torture American males in ways that guards from Abu Ghraib aren't even allowed to do, and we're all getting to watch it on YouTube before 'someone' quickly yanks it down, only to have a new one pop up by the next day.
Meanwhile, Taser International's lawyers maintain the official position that their high voltage sexual torture device is nothing more than a big electric fluffy pillow, safe for sorority girls to use while wearing lingerie and making porn videos.
So anyway, same ole same ole. Nothing will be done about any of this, except when Taser's engineers can come up with yet another way to package it and increase it's deadliness, at which point a new marketing campaign will commence, almost certainly to be colored pink and aimed exclusively at women.
"Not happy with your boyfriend's Christmas present to you? You can fry his genitals from 100 feet away and videotape it at the same time with the new Pink GrrlPower Electric Rifle from Taser International! Small enough to fit in your purse, yet big enough to torture a full grown man's genitals for a whopping 30 seconds - long enough to stop his heart and drown him in his own vomit for YOUR ENTERTAINMENT!"
So enough about that. Men are dying. Same as every other day. The difference with Taser is simply that the men are dying screaming while people stand around videoing the whole thing. It's sort of like the Roman arenas, only we're all watching it from our homes instead of gathered together in large crowds where other people can see us and possibly make us feel bad.
The damned weather has blown half the roof off of my workshop at my brand new house. And by brand new, I mean brand new to me. The damned shop is 2 stories tall and I only have a 6 foot step ladder. This means borrowing a coworker's 32 foot ladder, which I have done, and then using it to climb up and see how many of the shingles are still up there, but not nailed down anymore.
I found all but one of the errant shingles, and mostly nailed them back down. Some nails were missing, you see, and there is NO HARDWARE STORE OF ANY KIND in The Boondocks. Yes, I discovered this when I needed roofing nails and a shingle to finish the job. The nearest Home Depot or Lowes is about 30 miles away.
So, while I was in Lowes, I decided to price this ladder I've borrowed so that I can buy one of my very own for the next time this happens.
It's $300 - DAY-UM!
By the time I got home, it was dark outside. So, I have the supplies, but the job isn't finished.
New Memphismobile
On Sunday, I had to drive all the way to Middle Tennessee to see My Middle Sister. I bought her big-assed truck and drove it back to my home in The Boondocks, just outside of Memphrica. Now I have a new Memphismobile, complete with big shiny brush guard, fog lights, four-wheel-drive, and the distinct odor of dog inside.
My Wife's reaction? "How soon are you getting rid of the Bananawagon?"
As if to answer her question, I hit 'PLAY' on the answering machine and found a message from a guy who wants to buy the Bananawagon. The timing was amazing.
New Zealand is the Place You Oughta Be
While I was visiting my Middle Sister, I casually mentioned something to her husband about my desire to move to Australia. Interestingly, he responded that he had been contemplating the same thing, and had on occasion discussed it with other men at work. One of his former coworkers had done extensive research on the subject, and concluded that New Zealand was perhaps an even better destination than Australia. And so, he sold everything he had, packed up, and moved there.
So there you have it - members of my own family are telling me to move to New Zealand and become a big old All Blacks fan. I used to know a beautiful Australian girl who lived in Kansas City, worked for the Kansas City Chiefs, and quit her job there to move to New Zealand and work for the All Blacks. I wonder if she likes it there? I've completely lost touch with her (she's dumped me like a bad habit).
Kentucky Fried Sicken
On the trip out to see My Sister, we stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken, somewhere just past Kingdom Come. It was an interesting place, to say the least. First, when I went into the men's bathroom to pee, I practically skated in on their slick floor. It was so slick, while I was standing in front of the toilet peeing, I slid from the toilet over towards the sink. This happened several times, as I stoped mid-stream and shuffled myself back to the toilet. I finally decided that if the workers at KFC didn't care about their health rating enough to even clean their floors, then I didn't care either. The next time I skated, I'm ashamed to say, I didn't stop peeing. So, I strung a stream of piss from the toilet to the sink, as I had grown tired of the interruption. The floor was so nasty that you couldn't even tell my pee was there. Seriously.
And yet, we ordered food and ate there anyway.
And I got sick.
Who didn't see this coming? I mean, besides me, obviously.
So, by the time we arrived at My Sister's place (50 acres of horses, and some cows for tax purposes), I had an immediate need to use her toilet. And this time I needed to sit down, which I did, before filling that place with a stink that could peel the paint off a John Deere tractor and melt the tires, too. I think I was in that bathroom releasing Kentucky Fried Toxins for a solid 30 minutes. I shit you not.
While I was at My Sister's house, My Mom called me on my cell phone.
Mom: Steven? (Mom always calls me by my fictitious blogger name)
Me: Yeah, hi Mom. Wuzzup? (I like to talk ghetto to her. She always wanted me to be a rapper.)
Mom: Is there something wrong with your phone? I called your home number and nothing happened. Is this your cell phone or was that the other number? Do I not dial a '1' before dialing your cell phone? I tried it without the '1', but I got a recording telling me to please dial a '1'.
Me: This is my cell phone. I don't know what's wrong that you didn't reach my answering machine at home. You have to dial a '1' if you want to call me unless you plan to move to Memphis (and I hope to God not!)
Mom: Oh OK. (long pause) Steven ...
Me: Um, yeah, it's still me.
Mom: Are you coming for Thanksgiving, because I don't know.
Me: Yes, I was planning on it. Is that OK or is Evil Sister demanding that no one be allowed to see you for yet another holiday like she did last Christmas (I believe this is a long post I left in draft and never let anyone read, but I'm not sure)?
Mom: No, she's going to North Carolina to see her in-laws for Thanksgiving. She won't be here, so it's all clear. Everyone is coming over. Are you coming?
Me: Yes, but My Wife isn't coming with me. It'll just be me.
Mom: Oh, well how are you going to buy Middle Sister's truck and get it home then? Are you leaving the Bananawagon with them?
At this point I was in trouble. I was actually at Middle Sister's house, about an hour north of Mom's house, but she wasn't supposed to know I was in town because I didn't have time to stop in and see anyone. For her to mention it meant that she knew I was there somehow.
Me: Um ... I'm taking care of that now (no point lying if she already knew where I am.)
Mom: Oh. So you'll be here on Wednesday night or Thursday morning?
Me: I don't actually know yet. Everything is kinda chaotic right now. I'll try to let you know. And you said Evil Sister has fled the house? She's not going to be around when I arrive?
Mom: No, she's already gone. She won't be back until Friday night. She wanted to know if you were going to be here.
Me: Oh, I'll just bet she did. Well, in that case, I think I will. (insert evil laughter here.)
Mom: Oh good.
With that, we said 'goodbye' and the world's very first conversation involving both My Mom and a cell phone was over.
Getting back to Middle Sister and her Husband, they had a cat that was mighty happy to see us, especially the lap part of us. He was part Main Coone, like my cat who died earlier this year. And just like my cat used to do before I 'cured him', this cat would dig his claws into my blue jeans and tug. Since he wasn't my cat, I decided not to whack his ass for doing that, but I did toss him into the floor. Unphased, he walked over to My Wife and jumped on her lap. I later saw her toss him into the floor after a similar pant-raking. Apparently she didn't appreciate it either.
I'd love to be able to tell you about my wild weekend partying with hot chicks on a boat, or farting in the gym while squatting next to some female bodybuilder, or going to Hooters with my hot, blonde best friend, or really just anything involving hotness, but unfortunately this was pretty much the extent of my weekend. And this is about as exciting as it gets most weeks.
Later this week is Thanksgiving for those of us here in the United States of Taserica, so I will be gone, only to return later and talk shit about my family. No, I probably won't talk shit about my family. But maybe. Who knows? We'll see.
What did you do this past weekend? Something more exciting than this, I hope.
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