Happy Satan Day, Heathens.

I dressed up as a tubby dude who was late for work.

Bold New Buckner of the South

Hello all...its been awhile since I enlightened all ten of the alleged readers of this blog. Not much has changed to tell you the truth, except for that somehow, someway, I ended up balls deep in Florida...Jacksonville, Florida to be exact, 20 miles from the beach and living the banks of a manatee-infested river.

I'll keep the descriptions of my latest home to myself for now, but the place can really be summed up by the fact that one of the local television personalities appallingly resembles Eddie Murphy's "Sherman Klump" character in those "The Nutty Professor" movies my nephews and stoners enjoy so much. Don't believe me?


No, I am not making that up either. Hercules! Hercules!

The worklife is a better paying, more miserable version of my former job, so in other words my job sucks too. Sorta like yours does. Add that job crap to a unhealthy infusion of ridiculously awful people into my life (including the worst person I have ever met), and I have a hankerin' for some bloggerin'. The blogs won't be consistent and I am sure the readership will never reach the 2005-2006 levels, but unfortunately I need some sort of outlet, and the internets are it.

Welcome back.

How could it not be alright?

Hi.

Sorry about the lack of holiday wishes. I'll be better this year, scouts honor.

The Bitter South

So what have you been doing with your summer?

I personally have been fucking around all over the world like Paris Hilton with a beer gut instead of that hairless dog and a shaved hoo-hah. By world, I just mean the selected states in the U.S., but that’s pretty much qualifies as the world for most of you planted go-nowhere heads. Texas, California, New York, Oregon, South Carolina, Michigan, Nevada, Georgia, Ohio (doesn’t count), Pennsylvania, and two 1,200 mile trips to Florida. Yesiree, I am a traveling’ man with a left-arm tan.

Oh yeah, I left Pittsburgh for a job in Florida, took the Florida Bar exam, lost my job, and found another one. Along the way, made zero friends and about 10 new enemies. When I mean enemies, I mean people that hate my guts. So the summer wasn’t all that bad.

You all would be feeling the same bitter way if you were stuck in Jacksonville, the alleged “city” that separates the true red-dirt-and-neck NASCAR south from the section occupied by unimaginative spring break slutfaces, the orange, leathery old farts, Cubans and Shaq. It smells of Maxwell House coffee, sour stagnant water and my sweat because its never fucking under 80 degrees here. However, of all the places I have been in this state, it easily is the best of the big cities, so I do temper my anger with a bit of acceptance.

So bear with me the next couple of weeks, as I have more than a few things to share.

Thirty two.

So, October 11th is the day...On October 11th 32 years ago, my dear mother pushed the greatness that is Wolfgang Buckner out of her womb and into the world. Where that leaves me now is anyone's guess, but I do have some updated information for yinz...I will be resuming the old blog next week, and just so you know, I have a lot of ire built up. So stay tuned and thank you all for being patient.

Fun with Mennonites.

I was going to write a heartfelt, tearjerker-type blog about some a woman I know this evening, but I got distracted by a lichen-eating Mennonite from Somerset County, Pennsylvania.

Below is a map of Somerset County. Pay close attention to its western neighbor, clearly marked on this map.


According to published reports, Daniel Myers hiked to the top of Laurel Mountain before dawn on Friday without telling anybody where he was going and toting along a bible as his only camping gear. The kid's father, Phillip Myers, thought his son was jogging(!) or turkey hunting (naturally) at first, but then got worried when he didn't return home.

Further complicating this story is the fact that Mr. Myers is a Mennonite. As many of you know, Mennonites are a step above Amish and a step below Polygamist Mormon in the wallflower division of Christian-sect spin-offs. For example, Mennonite women still have to wear those bonnets and ankle-length skirts a la the Amish, but they can use a car and don’t have to worry about their husband picking up a new wife on the way home from the barn raising.

Mr. Myers sustained himself for those two days in the wilderness by eating lichens that he scraped off of stones. For your information, lichen is a mixture of fungus and algae living in a happy symbiotic relationship while growing on rocks and stumps. Lichen comes in a number of colors, meaning lichen looks like plenty of other shit splattered on a rock along side the hiking trail. Tasty.

Myers also caught a sunfish or two with a MacGyver-esque pole fashioned from a stick, some string and a buckle from his suspenders. The fact that he ate rock scrapings and boney fish disproves my theory that Myers' bible was like the ones seen in prison escape movies, hollowed out and stuffed with bourbon, a pistol and some Snickers.

Myers also used leaves and moss to keep warm during his adventure. After reading nearly the entire Old Testament and eating his fill of algae and fungus scrapings, Myers rose from his mulch sleeping bag and hiked back down from the mountain into town. Little did he know that an old-fashioned search and rescue party of 75 Mennonites plus dozens of volunteer firefighters were scouring the wilderness for him.


This reporter was not there, but the sight of 75 Mennonites fanning out into the mountains must have been bone-chilling, especially with a bunch of mullet-wearing volunteer firefighters wearing "Bad Boy Club" t-shirts acting as backup. Imagine "Night of the Living Dead," except the zombies are pasty-white women wearing bonnets and high-waist polyester dresses and dingy men with long scraggly beards, pastel shirts and suspenders.

When he got back to his log cabin, Myers told reporters he snuck out without telling anybody because he feared his father would deny his request to leave because there was plenty of work to do at the family machine shop. "I figured people wouldn't worry about me," he said. Apparently young Myers is ignorant of the Mennonite way, which is to deploy an entire pack of Mennonites and volunteer firefighters to hunt down escapees before they experience indoor plumbing, Doritos and nudie bars.

While this story sounds heartwarming and makes for a great human interest story for the "700 Club," I have my own theory of what went down. I see a 19-year old kid that was pissed at his dad for not letting him go to the barn dance and who dreaded another weekend of hard labor in the family machine shop. So he grabs some home-grown Mennonite herb, rolling papers and a lighter and takes off into the woods to get stoned. He takes a pocket-sized bible with him as an alibi and has a relaxing weekend.

In my scenario, Myers gets the munchies and decides to make lichen and sunfish sushi after a few days of non-stop puffing. After eating his fill, he passes out in a pile of leaves, using the bible as a pillow. The next day he discovers he is out of papers and weed and is suffering stomach cramps from the fish parasites he ingested the day before. So he stumbles down the hill and crashes at his parent’s log cabin, but not before he concocts a story that would make Pat Robertson proud.

No matter what the explanation (and mine seems more plausible), Daniel's father Phillip summed up the entire situation thusly:

"I see the need for closer communication in our family."

Simplicity. It's the Mennonite way.

Spandex and my clutch

This photo begs a caption, but not before the sex of the human is determined. Grace Jones and Annie Lennox thinks this person is androgynous.

Because I am a lazy a-hole,I didn't prepare anything for today. Trust me, I have plenty of ire to spread, but give me a few hours.

Sus scrofa

I will fill in some more details next week, but my trip to Florida this week can be summed up thusly:

After drinking at an Applebee’s for 3 hours, my future co-workers decided that I needed to experience a true “South Florida Tiki Bar.” I was not opposed to this idea, considering I was drinking Miller Lite beer at an Applebee’s. As many of you know, beer isn't my thing. Whiskey,lots of it, is how I pickle my liver. You may be asking why I was drinking the Miller Lite in the first place. Well, for some fucking archaic southern reason, this Applebee’s DIDN’T have Jack Daniels because of a problem with a “liquor license.” Call me an ignorant yankee, but that's a bunch of crap.

According to the helpful bartender, Florida has a dual booze licensing system. A proprietor needs one license for beer and wine and another for the good stuff. Some bars don’t have both, so they just serve beer and wine. We have a word up here in Pennsylvania for that, and that word is BULLSHIT. These mother fuckers can buy a 30 pack at a BP station to shotgun on the drive home, but I can’t get a Jack Daniels because it requires a separate license.

I left the Applebee’s in total disgust and drove to the “tiki bar.” Turns out, the place was nice. It had sand, tiki torches and was located right on the water. As my hosts were extolling how historical and renowned the place was, I leaned over the bar and asked the bartender if she had a license to sell me some Jack Daniels. She responded in the affirmative, which made their story much more interesting.

After four sweet whiskey’s, I excused myself to the restroom. As soon as I stepped up to the urinal, two men engaged in a loud, drunken conversation walked in. One of the men stepped to the adjacent urinal while the other guy chose to piss in the sink behind me. Classy, but I was full of whiskey so I didn’t care.


The guy next to me was in the middle of a story about hunting "wild boar", and it apparently was entertaining enough to continue while urinating. His storytelling style was so demonstrative that it interfered with the task at hand, causing him to miss the urinal and piss on the wall behind it. His urine then splashed onto my leg.

You read that correctly: He pissed on my leg. WITHOUT permission.

I lunged back a bit and shouted "Dude!" Mr. BadShot looked down and in a thick New York accent slurred "Oh shit. Sorry big guy. You need some new socks." The guy pissing in the sink leaned back and said "What'd you do Anthony? Piss on his shoes? Sorry mister, I'll take him home." After a colorful exchange between myself and Anthony, they two diminutive drunk asses high-tailed it out of the restroom and into a late model Ford pickup truck in the parking lot.

I was left with a piss-soaked leg.

Fuck you Florida. It's on now.

Wang State.

Sorry for the lack of posting recently, but preparing to move to America's Wang is plenty of work. I am actually going to be there the next few days, so I am resorting to reposting the following. Sorry for the laziness.

******************************************************************
Pittsburgh (AP)

Allegheny County prosecutors have filed a charge of solicitation of prostitution, public lewdness, resisting arrest and possession of a controlled substance against a 34-year-old crime fighting mascot accused of giving the Easter Bunny a contract for sexual propositions in March.

The mascot, McGruff the Crime Dog, is accused of approaching the Ms. Bunny without his trademark overcoat on March 25, 2005 while Ms. Bunny was preparing for an Easter egg hunt later that day, according to the criminal complaint. The maximum penalty for the charge, a felony, is three years in prison and three years of extended supervision.


McGruff, right, seen here in a photo taken shortly before the alleged misconduct.

Shortly after the conclusion of the hunt, McGruff allegedly appeared from a wooded area, wearing only a collar, and then asked if Ms. Bunny if she would accept $500,000 and pulled a three-page handwritten contract written in red crayon from a manila folder. On the second page was an itemized list detailing sexual acts, the complaint says. The third page said the offer only was good if she did what was listed in the contract.

The bunny told the officer she began to fear for her safety at that point and worked her way towards the street. She told the McGruff the contract would not work because it was not the kind of thing that “good bunnies do” and also that her acceptance of the contract would violate the antitrust agreement she currently held with Jesus and Hershey Chocolates Inc. allowing her to control the Easter holiday without religous or candy competition until 2012. McGruff then reportedly fled the scene and drove away in a truck.

McGruff has been in the Allegheny County Jail on a probation hold. A date has not been set for him to appear in Allegheny County court.

The charges and subsequent arrest of McGruff are one of a slew of strange and criminal behavior by the mascot in the past year. Perhaps the most bizarre arrest involved the questionable relationship with Scruff, a minor Crime Puppy.



A police officer responding to a suspicious vehicle call discovered two large mascots lying down in the rear of McGruff’s 1998 white Chevrolet van in October 2004.

As the officer approached the vehicle on foot, he noticed both of the car’s occupants pulling oversized felt shorts up over their exposed genitals, police said. The suspects offered conflicting stories on how they met and the duration and frequency of their relationship, police said.

Initially, McGruff indicated that he knew the younger mascot’s first name was Scruff, but said Scruff was his nephew whom he had guardianship over, according to the police report

Scruff told police he met with McGruff “from time to time” and that the two had “hooked up” earlier that day on Butler Street, police said.

Both suspects later admitted they were just “fooling around,” the police report said. Police also found a dog bowl filled with wine and several copies "Scandinavian Poodle Magazine" and "Dog Fancy" scattered on the floor of the van.



McGruff later admitted to police Scruff was a juvenile prostitute from whom he has been soliciting sex for about a year. McGruff indicated to police that he plied Scruff with Snausages, worm medicine and porn in exchange for allowing McGruff to touch Scruff's "li'l pinkie," repeated consensual ass sniffings, mutual lickings, leg humping and other sexual favors, according to police reports.

McGruff also paid Scruff $14 to have sex with him and took him on several "long walks," police said.

Another strange incident was reported in 2004. In June, 2004, McGruff was questioned by Pittsburgh City Police after several reports of a dog mascot approaching children at local parks surfaced. In each instance, the mascot, who identified himself only as "Good Doggie", offered candy to children in exchange for allowing him to fondle and lick their toes. No charges were filed, but Chief Sergeant Maurita Bryant of the Pittsburgh Police has indicated that the investigation is ongoing.



In May 2005, McGruff was arrested for harassment after growling and chasing several participants in the 2005 Gay Pride parade on Penn Avenue downtown. "That bastard was such a fucking BITCH, I mean really" commented participant and event organizer, Eda Bagel of Morningside.



McGruff's recent run-ins and criminal behavior with the police began after the much publicized break-up of the Crime Mascot and the Former Ms. Florida, in 2001.



From staff and wire reports. Wolfgang Buckner contributed to this story.


***UPDATE*** Just so you all know, I have been working on this breaking news story for about 3 months. Beware of poor, poor substitutes that have been posted in other places recently. This one's all Buckner, no plagiarism here. This is the REAL McGruff story.***

The hits keep coming.

18-year-old charged in Fayette County rape

Monday, April 24, 2006
By Ryan Haggerty, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

State police have arrested a man accused of raping a 66-year-old woman with multiple sclerosis in her Saltlick, Fayette County, home early yesterday.

Raymond Lucas Prinkey, 18, of Normalville, Fayette County, was arraigned in district court on charges of burglary, rape, involuntary deviate sexual intercourse and theft. Bond was set at $25,000 straight cash, and a preliminary hearing was scheduled for May 2.

Police allege that Mr. Prinkey entered the woman's house using a found key, asked her for money and OxyContin, sexually assaulted her and then blindfolded her. He took an undetermined amount of cash and fled.

Add "raping geriatric multiple sclerosis victims after robbing them of hillbilly herion" to the list of bullshit that these people seem to find themselves getting into.

1st Annual Buckner Testicle Toast.

Today is April 20th.

The day I woke up in a hospital bed without my testicle.

This subject has been covered before, but its still an aniversary that I enjoy celebrating. Today, for your old pal Buckner, have a drink and make a toast to the sky for my cancerous testicle, wherever it may be. If your drink is a FOURTY OUNCE, spill a little bit on the curb for the one that's gone.

I encourage all of you to post a comment detailing the language of your toast.

Moving is difficult.

Because my move to F-L-A means the end of Buckner, I have decided to re-post some crap. I promise to provide some new writing very soon. Until then, enjoy this classic.


My neighborhood fears God in a big way. There are no less than 7 Synagogues, 3 Christian-sect Churches, a Mosque and assorted religion-themed schools, nursing homes and the like within about mile radius of my front porch. When I moved here a few years ago, I couldn't believe the religious diversity. My little bucolic wonder-bread-and-one-stoplight hometown featured a Catholic Church and white people. Oh, and a church that had a blinking neon "Jesus Saves" light in direct opposite-road competition with "Laura's Springboro Inn" and their neon sign promoting the spiritual contribution of "Busch Light and Bass Fishing."

Moving here was an epiphany in diversity, religious or otherwise, for me. So I became an atheist. As natural a progression as one can get.

However, I am a firm believer that no matter what religion you pick as an adult, if you were raised Catholic like I was you are infected with Catholicism for life. Catholicism is the herpes simplex of your conscience, always with you in some incurable way, waiting to erupt with festering guilt or unsightly Godfearance and the absolute worst time.

Internally fighting the programmed religious upbringing is hard. The influence of outside stimuli like Grandma, Christmas and Johnny Cash makes it even harder.

I persevered for quite a long time, stoking the fires of my own belief system, refining them, trying to act all unique or novel to my Christian friends and family. I endured questions from my nephews asking me if I was ok with burning in a lake of fire for eternity. I refused to memorize Samuel L. Jackson's "Ezekiel 25:13" lines in Pulp Fiction. I rolled my eyes and politely returned the Bible my churchy sister and brother-in-law gave me on my 30th birthday. Atheist Buckner, Hear me roar...

Then The Devil began showing up on the sidewalks around my neighborhood. The Devil Named Larry. Obviously here to disrupt the religous vibe of the neighborhood, The Devil Named Larry patrolled the streets terrifying all who passed. Including me. I am sure he sensed my fear as well.

I have wrote about this scoundrel several times on this blog, but I have thought about him a lot more. Ten years of religous de-conditioning down the drain...there had to be a God, because there sure is hell a Devil, A Devil Named Larry.

Wasted. All that heightened sense of spiritual superiority, all that Nietzsche, WASTED. Fucking "Geneaology of Morals" anyway.

I wanted to document his presence among us to the world, but I wasn't very successful. My previous photos of this urban Mephistopheles were blurry and low quality, like those taken of Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster, some other alleged unnatural beings in our eartly midst.

Until last week.

I set out last week to finally confront The Devil Named Larry, photograph him to show the world that he was a figment of reality, not my imagination. After a few days, I began to get discouraged, because he was nowhere to be found. On my way home from another unsuccessful attempt, I happened by a local tavern, and there, sitting at the corner of the bar, was....him.



Before I took this picture, I asked him, voice quivering, if he minded being included in a photo of the bar. ***As I sidenote, yes, I spoke to the Devil, and not only that, I lied to the Devil about my intentions. Know what that means? HEAVEN! By my calculations, a negative (the Devil) times a negative (a lie) equals a POSITIVE! HEAVEN HERE I COME!***

His response to my picture request?

"Just don't put the fucking thing on one of those posters on the wall of the fucking post office over there. Just don't do that! HAR HAR HAR!", motioning his hand toward me to proceed.

A nervous smile crept accross my face as I steadied my shot. Then I took another.



As you can see by this picture, The Devil Named Larry began to get searingly mad at the flashing lights. Sensing my soul in danger, I ducked out the side door and walked back to my house as fast as my piggy legs would carry me, looking over my shoulder just in case I was followed.

The Devil Wears Fila. The Devil drinks Bud Light bottles and pours it in a glass. The Devil truely is adorned with gold. Make sure you cross reference these pictures with my previous description, linked above.

Buckner doesn't exaggerate. He reports.

So if you excuse me, I am off to say a rosary and listen to some olde-timey soul saving music.

All work and no play...

Check back later today or tonight for some original material. Until then, read this article about a man that raped a goat in front of a stopped passenger train. Seems like Fayette Countians are everywhere.

Allow me to make this pledge to all of you:

I will NEVER, EVER do this.

Julie_Gong might, but not this guy.

I will make a more formal update later today or this evening.

Fayette County strikes again.

Sure, every county has its problems. Fayette County, Pennsylvania just has a lot more. I am not going to go over the list of despicable actions by its residents yet again (you can read it here if you have not already). However, I will add this one to the list. The headline says it all, actually:

MAN CHARGED IN MICROWAVE BEATING DEATH.

That's right, some rube from Fayette County killed his wife by beating her with a microwave because she didn't heat up his hoagie.

Oye.

I don't have to work today.

Back after Easter.

A Day Outside the Office, Part II

To summarize yesterday's post: I had a home visit at a woman's mobile home. When I arrived, she hurriedly came out of her trailer wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a cigarette. The story picks up as I am entering the trailer.

Directly in front of me was a goateed man with short brown hair holding the collar of a snarling rottweiler. Roxanne raised her hand at the dog and yelled “Martin, NO!” which completely changed the dog’s attitude for the better. Judging by the way the goateed man flinched, I could see that this method of discipline had likely been used on him as well.

“Oh Christ,” she muttered “He woke up the puppies. Coon-dog mix. You want one?” Roxanne pointed into a room to the right of the door where six tiny brown and grey puppies squealed and wriggled on a blanket around their mother, looking for a ripe teat.

“No thanks. How cute.” This was true. The puppies were cute.

Roxanne moved toward the goateed man and said "This is Brian. Brian is my neighbor.” Roxanne then excused herself to another room at the back of the home.

Brian the goateed man stood up which exposed a very peculiar stain on his navy t-shirt just below the collar. The stain was chalky white and relatively new. It was oblong, about two inches wide, 5 inches long and seemed to be a little wet. The stain was also more concentrated along a line in the center of the shape. Brian appeared to be a little flushed, and he wiped his mouth and goatee with his hand immediately before he extended it to shake mine.

I shook his hand just as the unmistakable funk-stench of sexual activity hit my nostrils. My eyes fixated on the splotch and a wave of realization swept over me: Either Brian was giving me an informal Rorschach inkblot test, or Roxanne had been comfortably seated on his face a few minutes earlier and my arrival caused her to change positions long enough to leave that splotch.

Below is an artist's rendering of the location and shape of the splotch.


Brian, noticing my look of fear and disgust at the drying vaginal fluid on his shirt, looked down for an instant at his collar area. As he looked back up, he had to notice me not-so-subtly wiping my hand on my pants. As I stepped past him, he grabbed his sweatshirt and muttered “Nice to meet you, sir. Roxy, I’m going home to feed the dogs. Call me.” A normal exit from the trailer would probably take 4 seconds, but Brian made it out in less than one.

Roxanne emerged from the room wearing a pair of khaki pants and t-shirt advertising a drive-through beer distributor in Daytona Beach. I sat down at the kitchen table, still reeling from that stain on Brian’s shirt and the likelihood that some of that funky material was now on my right hand. Five minutes into the consultation, I couldn’t take it any longer and asked to use the bathroom.

After cleaning and drying my hand, I returned to the kitchen table and noticed a little boy was sitting in my seat. When I said hello, he looked at me and smiled. Roxanne introduced her son Michael to me, then said the following:

“Booger, you go watch TV.”

I was on the last page of my interview questionnaire when “Booger” approached me holding a kitten. “Aww, she’s a cutie” I said as he set the cat directly on my legal pad. Booger then scurried off, and returned with another cat, which he proceeded to throw onto my lap.

I politely laughed and said "Hey, where do you keep getting these?" Roxanne then informed me that "We have a bunch of them too. You need a cat?" The lap-kitten began climbing up my necktie, but not before Booger slipped another kitten into the jacket pocket of my suit. There I sat, inundated with kittens and still stunned from Brian's splotchy shirt.

Roxanne, who seemed to fully support this kitten jihad at first, became infuriated and instructed Booger to get his “ass outside and ride your go-cart or something and leave Mr. Buckner alone.” Which he did.

I wrapped up the interview and walked back to my car with more questions than I did before I arrived. Booger buzzed around the yard on a rattletrap of a go-cart as I was backing out. He wore a large, adult-sized motorcycle helmet and elbow pads, but wasn't wearing a shirt. I double-checked my pockets for kittens and put my foot on the gas.

A Day Outside the Office, Part I

Roxanne Kline used to work as a personal care assistant for a company based out of Erie, Pennsylvania. Her job description included washing dishes, doing laundry and other household tasks for people that couldn’t do these things for themselves. Roxanne’s clients ranged from the elderly to the disabled to the mentally retarded.

One day, Roxanne got hurt at work. The details of her injury teeter on the line between pure hilarity (in retrospect) and sheer horror (at the time). I will not discuss those injuries or how Roxanne got hurt in this blog beyond these two words:

Dry humping.

The important fact to me was that Roxanne got hurt at work and needed to file a worker’s compensation claim. That’s where I come in. Roxanne informed me on the phone that “Edgar Snyder’s people were mean” and that she thought “he was a Jew anyway.” I took this to mean that she had been rejected by other attorneys and I was next on her list. I also felt this woman was a Nazi, but perhaps that was my imagination playing tricks on me.

Over the next 20 minutes, I listened to her story and the details of her injury and decided that we should meet for a consultation. She suggested we meet at her house and I agreed.

Note to all of you who live in mobile homes:

MOBILE HOMES ≠ HOUSE, even if the wheels are removed and you attach a porch or deck.

I have nothing against the mobile home scene, just as long as the trailer isn’t located in a “Park,” “Acres,” or other cluster of mobile housing solutions. Color me a cynic, but that whole “safety in numbers” thing doesn’t apply to groupings of mobile homes. Stand-alone trailers do not seem to attract the tornados, crystal meth and mullets (his and hers) like trailer parks do.

Fortunately, the trailer sat alone in the middle of a field and there was not a chemistry set, tornado or mullet in sight. I pulled off of the ruddy dirt road into Roxanne’s driveway and began collecting my things. As I shut my car door, a diminutive woman smoking a cigarette and wearing only a t-shirt bounded out of the door and shouted “Yer early! That’s ok though. Come on in.”

The trailer itself was an older model with yellow trim and paint peeling around the windows. A wooden deck was attached to the side by the door and was cluttered with flower pots, bicycle parts and children’s shoes. A coffee can filled with cigarette butts and rainwater sat to the left of the door, on top of a bag of potting mulch. “I’m going to plant tomatoes in a few weeks. We don’t always keep that up here.” Roxanne said as she pressed the button on the screen door and ushered me in.

To Be Continued Tomorrow. It's just too long for one day.

Great moments in Instant Messaging, Part ONE

The following was sent to me on Saturday night:

GlassyLassy: bam!

GlassyLassy: you can't handle it

GlassyLassy: hey look, some random drunk chick is IMing you!

GlassyLassy: the 21st century is all that we hoped it'd be!

GlassyLassy: wonders of technology

GlassyLassy: so you think my singins out of time

GlassyLassy: it makes me money

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: anymore

GlassyLassy: oh no

GlassyLassy: so come on feel the noise

GlassyLassy: girls rock your boys

GlassyLassy: we'll get wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: so you think I got a funny face

GlassyLassy: i got no worries

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: oh I gotta sing with some disgrace

GlassyLassy: i'm in no hrry

GlassyLassy: and I don't know why

GlassyLassy: i don't know why

GlassyLassy: anymore

GlassyLassy: no no no

GlassyLassy: so come on feel the noizw

GlassyLassy: girls ROCK your boys

GlassyLassy: we'll get wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: wild wild wild

GlassyLassy: lordEEE

GlassyLassy signed off at 2:24:50 AM.

Happy weekend and stuff.

Celebrate your weekend by learning more about potted meat and pickled pork rinds BY CLICKING HERE.