"When I was young
I watched the cars
When I was older
I drank in bars"

- The Pogues

may have inadvertently become pescatarian yesterday afternoon.

 

Y’see, yesterday mornin’ I done rolled outter bed ‘bout 9am er so an’ done took care of some things ‘round the apartment heresabouts, ‘cludin’ drinkin’ a pot of coffee as seems ter have become my habit over the past week er so.

Well, ‘bout 11:15 er so it were off ter a faraway beach town down ter the south ter meet a very attractive young lady fer coffee… which actually turned out ter be ice tea, but who’s countin’ right?  But anyhow, I done didn’t eat nuthin’ all day an’ I didn’t leave our visitin’ ‘til nigh on 4pm er so.

So, as I’m headin’ back up that there 405 ter the greater Los Angeles area I done makes a detour up the 110 ter the 101 ‘cuz I gets a hankerin’ ter eat at the Palms Thai restaurant in Hollywood.  Fer some, this place is known as the Thai Elvis due ter the existence of Kevin, the Thai Elvis Impersonator that done performs there on a regular basis.  But anyhows, this place an’ I done goes back nigh on a decade ever since that there Elianna (sometimes in the past known as Dulcie Younger) introduced me ter it,

Well, I figgered I could just tofu it at the Palms.  I mean, all that stuff is is rice noodles an’ veggies, so’s I done did some panaeng with fried tofu an’ some kee mao noodle with fried tofu, an some steamed rice.  An’ it were good.

Then last night I done started thinkin’ ‘bout the fact that I bet there wuz fish sauce in them there culinary delights.  Fish sauce is perty omnipresent in Thai cookin’, it occurred ter me, an’ I don’t often think ‘bout it cuz that there Palms don’t have the overwhelmin’ taste of it that other places have.  It’s one of the reasons I like it there.

But it were prolly there.  Doggone it.  A snafu.

In other thoughts, ‘bout 4pm er so, comin’ up the 110 ter do my dirty deed at the Palms, I done called The Omen ter find out if’n he really wanted ter try ter see The Pogues that night at that there Nokia Theater.  We had been sittin’ on the fence ‘bout it fer nigh on a week, ever since we saw the ad when we wuz at the Motorhead show last Friday.  It seemed the right thing ter do, but the ticket price wuz a lil steep.

But it were The Pogues, right?  So yeah, we done bit the bullet on that one, ‘cludin’ the 25 dollar parkin’ structure price they done rape ya for ‘cuz them ‘tarded Lakers fans at the Staples Center’ll pay anythin’ fer their basketball experience.

Them Pogues done lived up ter the expectation.  They wuz tight an’ sharp an’ done carried on fer more’n 2 hours, ‘cludin’ two encores, playin’ a lotter old material that it wuz welcome ter hear.  But I gotta say that it were a bit disconcertin’ at the same time.  That there Shane MacGowan done collapsed in a drunken stupor on stage three times, once finishin’ a tune prostrate, the mic clutched in his hand.

Now, it ain’t that it ain’t expected that MacGowan’d be drunk off his rocker an’ such things were bound ter happen, but the reaction of the crowd were right unprecedented.  Ever time that feller done went down, they cheered an’ rallied in appreciation.  Bein’ an alcoholic myself, I kin unnerstand the nervous, protective amusement contained within such alcohol related catastrophies, but this crowd were yeehawwin’ the situation as if that were what they’d paid their 50 bucks ter come see, rather than see one of the most amazin’ bands in contemporary music history give it their all.

Anyhows, enuff prosthelitizin’ on my part.  I done spent a Pogues show stone cold sober.  Somehow it feels as if I have engaged in a greater crime than is imaginable.

An’ I ate fish sauce.

I’s a failure.

I’m gonner fall off the wagon on Day Seven.  I see it comin’.  You’s folks oughtter come out ter the Bigfoot Lodge show this afternoon an’ watch it happen.  Hell, come out an’ buy me a drink.  That way I’s kin avoid takin’ responsibility fer it.  Wouldn’t wanner offend ya, now, would I?

Haw haw.

-Squeezebox Sam

“Going with the flow, it's all the game to me…”  - Motorhead

oke up late yesterday.  6:30am ‘stead of  the usual 5:30.  Innerestingly enuff I done felt terrible.  It were that strange dried out, achy, headachy, scratchy throat feelin’ that eatin’ too much MSG’ll get ya.  Kinder like the day after eatin’ some serious Echo Park Chinese food er overdosin’ on Vallarta Carne Asada.  Wonderin’ if’n that Vegetarian Delite place I ate at the night before don’t have some dirty MSG sekrit in that there orange chicken batter of theirs.  Hmmm.

 

Had ter hit that ground runnin’, though, in order ter not get the highlighter slash of death on my timecard at work.  Had ter sacrifice my intentions of doin’ a bowl of grits at Denny’s.  Done run out the door with a Tofurky Keilbasa clenched ‘tween them teeth.  Haw haw.

Ate ‘nother one of them Tofurky things fer lunch ‘round ‘bout 10am er so.  Considerin’ that there calorie an’ fat content that prolly weren’t the most healthy idear, but it were quick, y’know?

Like I said before, them Tofurky Keilbasa things is alright tastin’, but in all honesty them things is sorter appearance an’ texturally-wise discomfiting.  I means, righteously, they done LOOK like somethin’ the chupadogra done leaves on the grass every mornin’ on his walk.  An’ on topper that, when ya take that there thing outter the microwave an’ it’s kinder warm an’ limp an’ soft an’ floppy, it uncomfortably reminds me of pickin’ up one of them dog logs with a plastic bag (I’s a responsible pet owner, by the way).

This non-deliberate comparison on my part is hard not ter think of, then, when you’s is chewin’ on that there culinary conjuration.  It’s a lil uncomfortable.  I dunno.  Hopefully I ain’t ruinin’ Tofurky Keilbasas fer no one else who might be readin’ this.  They’s taste real good, honest.  They just have the appearance an’ consistency of a fresh dog turd, that’s all.  But they’s good.  Honest.

Anyhows, like I said before, this here wuz prolly the wrong week to go an’ give up all my vices.  I wuz at the end of the rope with them adolescent monsters yesterday.  I even made one of my students cry, terrible feller that I am.  Needless ter say, I wuz right glad ter get outter there in the afternoon after my obligatory appearance at the home football game.  It’s kinder funny, actually.  I done am sorta warmin’ up ter high school football.  I dunno, I’s still think it prolly teaches them kids unnecessary violent tendencies an’ the warlike nature of the philosophy of that shit is sorter questionable, but it’s entertainin’ ter stand there an’ watch fer awhile every other week er so.  It also helps, I ‘spose, that my school’s team perty much done always wins… an’ I usually stay long enuff ter see some remarkable play on their part.

Well, dinner were spaghetti an’ textured vegetable protein with diced Italian tomaters sauce once again.  It were perty good… an’ innersetingly enuff, this concoction ain’t been buggin’ my celiac none.  Usually my digestin’ system’d be on fire with so much gluten based shit goin’ on in there, but lately it ain’t.  Notable, I guess.  But it still seems like a hollow victory without the cheese.

But then it were off ter the Tattle Tale in El Segundo fer a night of karaoking fer Tony James’ friend Phil’s birthday!  The Borg an’ The Omen done come along, too.  It were a lil challengin’ walkin’ inter an’ hangin’ out in a bar an’ stickin’ ter my proposed straightedge intentions.  But it helps that that there Tony James don’t imbibe none, neither, so’s we done put away soda waters all night while The Omen Guinnessed his way inter uncomfortability an’ The Borg Dewarsed hisself up fer a grand pukin’ escapade in the wee hours of the mornin’ outside Tony James’ apartment.  Haw haw.

But the Karaoke were fun.  Personally, I done always hated that there sorter thing, but in my old age I done sorter warmed up ter it thanks ter Misterm Tony James.  ‘Course, I owe it ter Sarah Lucy Grace fer makin’ me do it the first time, though.  Haw haw.  I remember that there Universal Bar an’ Grill crowd wonderin’ what the hell were goin’ on when I done got up there an’ karaoked “1952 Vincent Black Lightning”.  It weren’t a crowd pleaser!  Haw haw haw.

But in honor of my fifth day done gone vegan straightedge, I done killed Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” an’ George T’s “Bad to the Bone”.  Tony James done rallied with “Workin’ fer the Weekend” an’ “Surrender”.  They wuz A-pluses if’n I don’t say so my own damn self an’ I duz.  Haw haw haw!

On the way back ter the Valley we done stopped at some taco stand in Culver City.  It weren’t easy ter find somethin’ ter eat considerin’ all them crazy restrictions I done placed on myself, but the bean an’ avocado sauce an’ green chile burrito I done finally consumed were alright.  Thank God fer them pickled veggies those place is so fond of.  I sure done missed cheese, though.

Anyhows, it were odd ter be the sober one fer once.  It’s done been a long time since I had the opportunity ter watch some other poor feller projectile vomit inter the grass by the car at 3am an’ not be desensitized ter it through the alcohol goggles.

I ain’t sayin’ I don’t miss it, though.  Barfin’ is sometimes necessary ter remind ya that yer human an’ you’s ain’t invincible.  Keeps yer perspective on life.

Yup.

-Squeezebox Sam

esterday… up at 5:30am.  Gradin’ essays ‘til 7 er so.  Shower, dress, piss chupadogra, an’ conjure up some Soy Longaniza with black beans an’ a coupler corn tortillas.  I miss cheese.  Out the door ter work at 7:45.

Oh yeah, a whole pot er coffee, too.

A coupler apples fer ‘round lunchtime.  Been so long since I done bit inter an apple that my gums is bleedin’.  Them there apple cores is stained red when I toss ‘em inter the trash can.  Bet my dentist would like ter hear ‘bout that.

Last night, fer rehearsal, I done made some dry vegan spaghetti wit meatless meat sauce made outter brownin’ some textured vegetable protein in a skillet, then addin’ a can of Italian style diced tomaters an’ a can of no salt added Ralph’s tomater sauce.  It simmered up right nice.

Even Mister-Anti-Vegan-I-Love-Leather-The-Omen-O’Brien done had ter admit that it wuz right good.

I missed the cheese, though.

Then it were up ‘til 12:30am gradin’ more essays.  Didn’t drink no coffee, though.  Done had some brewed tea which I done poured over ice.  It sez it’s Peach tea, but in my delirious, essay-gradin’, semi-conscious state I done swear it tasted an’ smelled like bannaners.

Today… up at 5:30am.  Nailed the last of them essays.  I still feel cranky ‘bout the fact I done got a kid sittin’ in that room who may very well be the next Heinlein, but I is so jaded I done keep tryin’ ter google it ter catch him plagiarisin’.  Just gonner have ter let it go, though.

Another round of Soy Longaniza an’ black beans with a coupler corn tortillas.  Creature of habit, I guess, although I am thinkin’ ‘bout a bowl of grits tomorrow mornin’… maybe at Denny’s.  Yup.

Shower, dog, eat, whole pot of coffee, out the door.

Battlin’ teenagers all damn day over their grades.  Back ter School night ternight.  35 parents done show up.  That’s almost four times the turnout I used ter get at my last school site.  I ain’t complainin’.

A Tofurky Kielbasa an’ a slice of bread were lunch.

On the way home, thinkin’ ‘bout another ‘round of pasta, I done make a detour an’ make good on my promise ter take up Colinski on his suggestion of Vegetable Delite.

A decade er so ago, my mama an’ sister done brought some stuff home from that there restaurant, an’ as I remember it I weren’t too impressed.  But at this point I is willin’ ter try just ‘bout anythin’ ter ease the mental injuriousness of this here week, so’s I park on Chatsworth, ‘cross from the Blueridge Pickin’ Parlor, an’ go inter the venerated restaurant.

I ain’t never been in that there place, but I guess that nigh on two decades ago it took over the digs of some other Asian themed restaurant an’ has been turnin’ out it’s unique style of Buddhist vegetarian concoctions ever since.  It looks like the kinder cool little Chinese restaurant you’d expect ter get shot full of holes in a John Woo movie.

But, whatever my recollections of the past were, their food is damn good.  I tell that there waitress I want the Dinner B an’ she makes it happen.  Hot an Sour soup, slices of somethin’ ‘sposed ter be bbq pork, would-be chicken wantons, cold pickled cucumber, steamed rice, an’ orange chicken (that must be battered mushrooms, deep fried ter crunchy perfection), all made of nuthin’ but some scratched tergether veggie makin’s.  I gotter admit that it wuz damnable good.

At Colinski’s admonishment I didn’t have them bring out the ice cream an’ fortune cookie.  I just done paid an’ left.

Came home.  Walked chupadogra.  Ready ter go ter bed.

There’s light at the end of the tunnel.  Vegan straightedge day five will dawn soon.  At least things’ll return a lil bit ter normal termorrow.  Maybe karaoke with Tony James at the Tattle Tale.  He kin buy the first round of soda waters.  Haw haw!

Considerin’ the ripe shitstorm done been blowin’ all week, I figger I prolly picked the wrong time ter give up all my vices, but I guess it’s workin’ out alright.

Tonight I’m a dream about someone bringin’ me a shot of 110 Wild Turkey on Sunday afternoon when’s I sing:

“Now you knows all about my sad story, won’t you buy me a ‘nother shot of booze?”

In order ter not be insultin’ I’ll hafter shoot that down… never lettin’ up on the sustained D minor if’n I can pull it off.

I might consider movin’ forward with the vegan bit a lil longer, though.  It ain’t been too bad.  Thank the Good Lord in Heaven that alcohol is vegan.

Haw haw!

-Squeezebox Sam

ell, I’s guess the second day of this bizness done gone by alright.

I could do without them jitters, though.  Guess that bendin’ an elbow most every day an’ gettin’ right trashed three er four days outter seven is gonner have it’s lastin’ effects, eh?

 

Woke up at 5:30am an’ done some essay an’ journal gradin’.  I’ll be right damned if’n this ain’t turnin’ out ter be a shitty week organization wise where my school site is concerned.  I means, what wuz somebody thinkin’ when they planned fer a period by period staff meetin’, professional development, a mandatory after school new teachers meetin’, PSAT proctorin’, mid-mester grades due, back ter school night, AN’ a dadblamed firedrill, all in one doggone week?

Wuz they schedulin’ with a dart board er somethin’?  Hell.

So on top of all that I’s tryin’ ter pin down all these 100-some-odd essays I done gotter get grades fer in before report cards are due on Thursday.  Gotter admit it’s consumin’ a fair amount of time, yessirree.

But maybe it’s keepin’ my mind off the fact that I’s really want a cheeseburger.

Actually, that ain’t true.  What I done really been thinkin’ ‘bout all damn day fer some reason is doggone chicken!  Of all things ter be fantasizin’ ‘bout, I’s fantasizin’ ‘bout chicken!

Fried Chicken.  Barbeque Chicken.  Roasted Chicken.  Buffalo Wings.  Chicken Fingers.  Chicken an’ Biscuits.  Country Fried Chicken an’ Eggs.  Orange Chicken.

Oooohhhh.  Orange Chicken an’ Kung Pao Chicken with a giant steamin’ scoop of steamed rice from Wok Express.  Mmmmm.

What I done actually eaten today is some Soy Chorizo an’ a can of black beans with a coupler corn tortillas fer breakfast.  Then I done ate the leftovers of that fer lunch, long with a coupler hamburger buns I done scrounged up.  Then I ate a coupler tortilla chip scoopfuls of humus an’ a apple when I got home from work.  An’ fer dinner I done magicked up a giant bowl of steamed spinach an’ ate it with some salt an’ pepper.  I figger I can count on some atomic shitting escapade in the near future fer that last installment.

I ain’t even gonner talk ‘bout the gigantic quantities of coffee I done consumed in the past 48 hours, though.  It’s actually perty despicable.

What am I gonner do with them half dozen hefeweizens I got in that there refrigerator?

I hope I get these essays done soon an’ I can go ter bed ‘fore midnight.

-Squeezebox Sam

o’s the Friday night ‘fore last I done went ter Santa Monica with The Omen.  I drank a Bud tallboy outter a paper bag in one of them snootiest neighborhoods in the locale, then proceeded ter drink a 200 ml bottle of Kessler.  Then I’s right urinated off that there Palisades pedestrian bridge onter the unsuspectin’ automobiles roarin’ by below on Pacific Coast Highway.

Saturday an’ Sunday I didn’t imbibe none, but by Monday mornin’ I wuz right cranky an’ it done occurred ter me that it had been awhile since I had spent any sorter extended period of time without a regular intake of that there Devil’s likker.  I had attributed the crankiness an’ general downward behavior I wuz experiencin’ ter over doin’ it with the exercise over the weekend, cruisin’ six miles on the bicycle an’ a hefty hike in El Escorpion Park in West Hills.  But I started to figger it might well be some kinder withdrawal from the apparent frequentness with which I were gettin’ loaded.

Now ever’one knows I’s a right alcoholic.  I done been so since that there low down cheatin’ woman of a wife done disappeared inter the red dirt of Oklahoma.  I’s also eatin’ too fuckin’ much.  At the end of last year I done gained 60 pounds in just a coupler months.  None of my fancy western duds fit no more.  Agitatin’ ter say the least.

Anyhow’s, I figgered that I wuz definitely experiencin’ some sorter withdrawal symptoms an’ this worred me a bit an’ I figgered I oughtter find some inclination towards straightenin’ out my act a bit in the near future.  ‘Course, this would hafter wait until the weekend had passed.

Thursday night The Omen an’ I done went out ter the Cowboy Palace ter celebrate his 21^st birthday.  Finally we’s don’t hafter be all skiddish in bringin’ his underage ass inter a joint ter do a show!  Haw haw!  Nonetheless, several Newcastles unner done found us beyond the Cowboy Palace an’ in the Candy Cat next door.  Now, the Candy Cat ain’t much on a Thursday night, lemme tell you, but I wuz far gone enuff that I still parted with some President Washingtons in return for some shakin’ entertainment… but on a work night, mind you.

That there next day weren’t perty, startin’ up bright an’ early at 5:30am,  starin’ down them students by 8:30.  But somehows I done managed ter rally through the day, even stuffin’ in a coupler hours of home football game ter keep me in the good graces of the Powers That Be in that there Administration.  But it weren’t enuff that I done crawled through a long day of earnin’ my keep.  That night were a big show.  None other than The Rev an’ Motorhead doin’ a bill together at that there Nokia Theater downtown.

Needless ter say, there weren’t no rest fer the weary an’ gettin’ ter that there show with The Omen an’ his lovely gal pal Geraldine an’ her twin sister followed close on the heels of findin’ my way home from the workplace.  Y’know ya gotter be perty exhausted when you’s standin’ on the floor fer Motorhead an’ ya can’t keep yer eyes open an’ you is swayin’ in place, awaitin’ the potential of the floor risin’ up an’ smackin’ you one.  I figger my fillin’ the fuel tank with Newcastle and Bud Light didn’t help none, either.

In fact, after leavin’ the show an’ prancin’ across that there Nokia Plaza, I done attempted ter leap up on one of them stonework benches they got decoratin’ the place an’ full done miscalculated.  The result:  an’ embarrassin’, drunken face plant in ter one them planters.  Done yielded a coupler bruises as well.

A side note ‘bout that there Rev an’ Motorhead show, though.  I gotter admit that it wuz the WORST crowd I done ever had the displeasure of experiencin’ a Reverend Horton Heat show with.  What wuz them peoples’ problem?  Who can go ter a Rev show an’ just STAND STILL through their set?   Laaaaammme!!  An’ another thing I wanner gripe about is that when I went ter look fer a can before Motorhead went on, that there usher-type feller sent me up ter the fifth floor to the bathrooms up there, but then the usher up there wouldn’t let me back down!!  What the hell?  He done kept sayin’ how the downstairs wuz full an’ I had ter stay up there.  Then it weren’t just me, but four er five other folks in the same predicament!!  Who the hell done tells a show goer ter go upstairs ter a pisser knowin’ they ain’t gonner let ya back down?  Sonsabitches!  Well, we done pushed by that feller… I guess it were just the premise that he weren’t gonner be able ter stop all of us.  I told him, “What’re you gonner do?  Put me in jail fer wantin’ ter go back downstairs where I done just come from??”

Anyhows, back on target.  So, I done drowned Thursday night an’ Friday night in the proverbial bottle.  Then on Saturday I done rode my bicycle ter my ole work site cuz the student body there wuz puttin’ on a ska show an’ I wanted ter see some folks fer a bit.  I didn’t stay too long, though.  Just enuff time ter catch up with the ubiquitous Roderick Bradford, exchange hellos with the ever lovely Miss Rubio, an’ badmouth Marine recruiter Rusty Cruz.  Then it were off ter the Oktoberfest of a former coworker.

Mr. Tom, of My Half Ridden Dream fame, done picked me up at ‘bout 7, stuffin’ the bicycle in the back of his lil silver bullet, an’ we wuz off ter do some serious elbow bendin’, even stoppin’ ter pick up a bottle or fancy Scotch on the way so’s we wouldn’t look like total freeloaders.  It were Glenbrothes, er some name like that.  A lil winey fer my taste, but it down went down as well as anythin’ else were goin’ ter.

So, ter make a long story short, I do believe myself an’ a coupler other past coworkers polished off that bottle an’ chased it with numerous stein refillin’s from whatever the keg of German lager the host had set up wuz, laughin’ late an’ laughin’ loud as Tom done put it.  It were quite the party in my completely blitzed opinion, so much so that 3am found a small clique of us bein’ turned out ter our own devices!  Haw haw!  A stop at El Indio on the way back ter the apartment an’ then ter sleep,

The next mornin’ I done woke up an’ could barely see through the headache I had achieved.  The dog needed ter go out an’ I started lookin’ fer the keys, realizin’ perty quickly that they wuzn’t where all the other contents of my pockets wuz.  Some frantic searchin’ yielded nuthin’ an’ I do believe I wuz settlin’ down ter the sinkin’ feelin’ that I had left them keys in the door an’ some sumbitch had walked off with them.  I began ter contemplate all the locks I needed ter replace an’ how I wuz gonner have ter beg fer a new work key… try explainin’ that one, right?

Well, luckily them keys turned up in the hip pocket of my jeans crumpled on the bedroom floor.  How I managed ter empty everything else outter them pockets an’ leave them keys in is a mystery ter me, but I figger it’s perty evident ter anyone readin’ this that this finally wuz a damnably unacceptable consequence of my riotous an’ irresponsible behavior.  I couldn’t even remember half of what it wuz I had done the night before.

I’m sorter figgerin’ I is wildly outter control an’ I’s gotter get a hold on myself somehow here before somethin’ real outlandish happens.  So’s, as of midnight I done been vegan straightedge.  I’m just holdin’ at 7 days now, mind you, but we’ll see what happens, right?

I do believe that The Omen were ‘sposed ter take on this challenge with me, but I am figgerin’ at this point, particularly since he didn’t show up fer rehearsal tonight, that he’s prolly already done fallen by the wayside.  But that’s alright, I’ll just do this all by myself.

So at 5:30 this mornin’ I done brewed some coffee.  I know that this is supposedly some kinder minor threat ter my decision makin’ process, but I figger that caffeine is prolly the least of my worries in the big picture, so don’t try an’ lombast me on that there caffeine bit doggone it.

So’s I drank a coupler cups of coffee with some non-dairy creamer.  Then I ate a coupler slices of tomato with some seasoning salt on them.

Then fer lunch I done ate a tomato an’ mustard sandwich.  It were alright, I guess.

Then when I got home from work I done scooped some humus outter the bucket with a crust of bread.

Then fer dinner I ate a coupler Worthington Italian sausages an’ a coupler vegan Boca Burgers with mustard an’ ketchup.

I know I done ate too doggone much bread terday, but overall I don’t figger I did so bad.

I did drink three er four cups of coffee durin’ rehearsal.

Maybe in the mornin’ I will have some Soy Longaniza.

I feel like shit.

I wish I could have a beer.

At least I don’t gotter worry none ‘bout the sex part.  That’s perty much nailed up tight.

Heh.

-Squeezebox Sam

The Omen O'Brien:  I feel terrible

Squeezebox Sam:  Haha.  I know the feeling.  Ready to go vegan straightedge w me yet?

The Omen O'Brien:  Idk bout the vegan part!

Squeezebox Sam:  Haha.

The Omen O'Brien:  I wear leather too much

Squeezebox Sam:  U just can't buy anymore.  They will be reminders of what u used to be.

The Omen O'Brien:  I like leather tho!

Squeezebox Sam:  Me too.  But I like being skinny more.

The Omen O'Brien:  What does being skinny have to do w wearing leather?

Squeezebox Sam:  It has to do w being vegan, foo!  Have u ever seen a fat vegan?

The Omen O'Brien:  What about vegetarians?

Squeezebox Sam:  Naw, theres lotsa fat ass vegetarians cuz of the dairy.  They dont eat flesh but they eat butter and milk and chocolate and stuff.

The Omen O'Brien:  Ill never give up leather!

Squeezebox Sam:  But u must!  We cant be vegan straightedge otherwise!

The Omen O'Brien:  idk man!  I love my leather!

Squeezebox Sam:  Imagine how much better youd look in ur leather if u were vegan ass skinny!

The Omen O'Brien:  Idk man

Squeezebox Sam:  We should go vegan straightedge 4 a wk.

Squeezebox Sam:  Cmon, we can do it!

The Omen O'Brien:  Im still wearing leather tho

Squeezebox Sam:  That's fine, i cant afford a new belt or shoes anyways

Squeezebox Sam:  No booze, meat dairy drugs or sex 4 one wk

The Omen O'Brien:  Gota get my sex!

Squeezebox Sam:  Nope.  No sex.  Gotta stay mentally healthy and sex doesnt promote that.

Squeezebox Sam:  Hmmm.  So the two things u wont give up are sex and leather.  Thats kinda kinky, foo.

The Omen O'Brien:  I love my bondage!

Squeezebox Sam:  You are in bondage to fatness.  U are a slave to things that make u unhealthy.

The Omen O'Brien:  How does leather make u unhealthy?

Squeezebox Sam:  Its a reliance on animal product.  Its cruel and damages the circle of life.

The Omen O'Brien:  I LOVE LEATHER!

Squeezebox Sam:  Keep wearin yer leather, but were going vegan straightedge for 7 days starting monday, foo.

The Omen O'Brien:  Cool!  Sounds fun

Squeezebox Sam:  Glad u are seeing things my way

Y'know, I done resisted the Bernie Dexter bandwagon fer a long time.  I mean, it ain't that I don't like her none an' it ain't that I don't think she duz what she duz right well, but I just ain't been one of them fellers done ogglin' her an' pantin' like a werewolf all the time... but this here image done caused me ter wave the white flag of surrender.  I's givin' in.



I's'll be back ter bloggin' 'gain sometime when my pants fit right again.

-Squeezebox Sam

I'm feelin' a lil lazy this mornin', an' I kinder feel bad fer goin' off so much this past week, so's I'll just direct ya ter this here site an' let someone else do my critical dirty werk fer a lil while...

www.peopleofwalmart.com

Thank me later.  Yup.

By the way, my favorite is that there one from Oklahoma.  If'n you can't figger out why, you ain't been listenin' too carefully lately.

-Squeezebox Sam

Oh, an' thanks ter Miss Nikki Horror fer the link.  Yeehaww!

“… one of the 18 dogs was missing half of a jaw and another suffered from about 70 open wounds. Still another had scar tissue covering about 75% of its body. At least 13 of the 18 animals were injured.  I had been to a number of murder scenes, but I was appalled." 

- David Hoovler, Federal Prosecutor

"You've got to have a pretty violent streak in you to sit and watch man's best friend rip another one to shreds so someone can make money.”....

- Sandy Christiansen, President of the Spartanburg (S.C.) Humane Society

So’s the other night… last Wednesday, actually, ter be exact, the Stringmeister an’ Mike Dill an’ our pard Ed done met up ter aurally terrorize the denizens of the local Starbucks.  Gotter make yer decisive attacks where ya kin manage these days, eh?

Wells, Stringmeister Aaron an’ I been bringin’ the dogs out fer the occasion lately since they’s don’t get enuff outside time as it is.  Aaron’s new puppy, Goldie, an’ my ‘tarded terrier mix, Rebel, done spend the time rollickin’ an’ rollin’ at leash’s length under our feet whiles we make some music throughout the evenin’.  S’good fer them.

Anyhow, as this here evenin’ wound down ter an end (which included gettin’ egged by a passin’ car, which is another story altergether, but it duz figger rightly that outter four people sittin’ there it’d be the accordion player done gets egged) an’ ever’body ‘cept the Stringmeister an’ I had faded off inter the night, there were some bro-type folks done sat down at the table next ter us.  You know bros.  They’s the white folks who’d like ter partake of black culture as it has developed in these here Americas, but is just too redneck at heart ter truly go all the way.  So’s they have found a precarious middleground where they’s kin kinder ride the fence ‘tween dirt-bikin’ an’ hip-hoppin’.  Them folks who’s consumed with bein’ Famous “Family” an’ wearin’ low backwards baseball caps an’ are always talkin’ ‘bout hittin’ “the dunes, dude”.

So these fellers done sit down at the table ‘side us an’ one of them is immediately innerested in Aaron’s pooch.  Now, Goldie is an Alapaha American Bulldog, but this feller seems ter think it’s a bull terrier of some sort an’ he’s all scratchin’ her behind the ears proclaimin’ “What a beautiful dog you are.  Oh, what a cute dog you are!  What a good lookin’ dog you are!  Oh oh!”

He’s right surprised when he finds out it ain’t no bull terrier, but he finishes pattin’ her an’ then goes an’ sits back down with his pards.  ‘Bout that time, a local feller goes walkin’ by with his dog on a leash an’ Goldie starts ter get right uptight an’ is exhibitin’ some bad behavior by strainin’ on the leash an’ barkin’ an’ snarlin’ at the passin’ dog.

Well, as Aaron is strugglin’ ter get Goldie ter behave, I overhear these fellers next ter us laughin’ an’ jokin’ an’ the one who wuz scratchin’ her just a few moments earlier, he done makes some crack ‘bout the frustrating dog interaction: “Man, I’d pay good money fer this!”

Pay good money fer what?  Ter see two dogs rip each other ter shreds fer the fulfillment of some tweaked masculine-ish entertainment?  What the Hell?  Don’t people ever think ‘bout that kinder stuff?  Would Goldie be even more beautiful, an’ cute, an’ good lookin’ ter this feller once she wuz torn up, mutilated, an’ bleedin’ in some dog-fightin’ pit somewheres?  Or worse yet, were his fondness fer the dog not rooted in an appreciation fer her elegance as a dog itself, but rather fer the imagined violence it could endure an’ dole out in a confrontation with some other dog?

What kinder people even IMAGINE that such a thing could be entertainin’, much less tolerable.  Where’s the humanity?  Is a dog simply a feeling-less plaything fer us ter pawn off fer our own cruel an’ violent (not ter mention detestable) amusements?

Alright, so’s I hope you see my point ‘bout the dog bit.  Unfortunately, however, the past week ain’t been without more aggravated observations on my part. 

This mornin’ I were sittin’ in Denny’s before I headed off ter work, watchin’ that silly closed circuit Denny’s television that done seemed ter pop up in all their locations overnight.  And there’s this Cold Play video playin’.  Well, in this here video the band members is all represented by these performin’ marionette-type puppets that are puttin’ on an act at a pre-school er somethin’ of the like an’ there are all these lil kids watchin’ their show.  Well, it’s yer typical slow, lifeless, pathetic Cold Play song, but over the course of the video these puppets crowd surf, smash their instruments inter the PA, and blow up the drum kit a la Keith Moon.

What’s this foolishness ‘sposed ter mean?  Are these fools really tryin’ ter equate their drawl with the punk and rock energy of the likes of The Who an’ The Clash?  Give me a doggone break, an’ don’t you dare fer a moment try ter tell me that they are makin’ some sorta statement er some such balderdash.  At the end of the video them marionettes done jump inter a helicopter an’ make some sorter getaway.  Cold Play as Jimi Hendrix?  Good grief.

One of my friends who I done discussed this with suggested that maybe they thought they wuz somehow satirizin’ er mockin’ the punk scene, but in all honesty, who the Hell is Cold Play ter bein’ doin’ somethin’ like satirizin’ punk rock?  On what grounds do those ding dongs think they have the right ter mock punk?  Ter quote my pard Tom:  “They are disingenuous, inauthentic idiots who make innocuous music for the vapid box populi.”

Nonetheless, don’t mind me.  My ire is up.  I dislike them fellers.

On a lighter note, today while I wuz sittin’ in Del Taco eatin’ my Taco Tuesday acquisitions, the person servin’ the drive-thru window done had the box on speaker so’s ever’one in the restaurant could hear them folks orderin’ outside.  This one lady, she done sez inter the microphone:  “I want a chicken quesadilla… with chicken in it.”

-Squeezebox Sam

“Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.” – Hebrews 13:4

Selfish people.  Yup.  People that don’t worry ‘bout nuthin’ ‘cept gratifyin’ their own damn selfs, not carin’ who bears the brunt of their actions.

There’s all sortsa selfish type people.  In fact, I ‘spose the argument could be made that ever’body has been selfish at one time er another where other folks is concerned.  Human beings is perty selfish creatures.  They’s do tend ter spend a lotter time worryin’ bout themselfs.  But on the other hand, human beings is also perty moral creatures, typically wantin’ ter do the ethical bit, ter “do the right thing.”  I figger it’s just some duplicity rooted deep down inside of whatever it is that makes us human.  But we’s could argue ‘bout that all day if’n we wanted to.

I guess what I’s wanna really talk about is them “other” type folks.  You know.  The “other woman” an’ the “other man”.  Them kindsa folks who is willin’ ter provide an’ outlet fer the weaknesses of folks strugglin’ with their commitments.  Them types er folks who is ready an’ willin’ (an’ sometimes wantin’ ter coerce) ter provide a person who’s strugglin’ with their responsibilities an’ conscience an easy way out.

I’m talkin’ ‘bout folks who’s got no boundaries.  Men an’ wimmen (although I loathe to grace their type with such respectable terms) who don’t see a stop sign when they know that someone of the other sex is datin’ someone, is engaged, is married.  People who’ll push the issue of their innerest ter see if that other person has a weak spot er an uncertainty that they can toy with ter draw them over onter their side of the fence, so ter speak.  People like the would be male pin-up who had the testicular fortitude ter ask my (then) fiancé if’n she were faithful er not in the hopes that he might be able ter manifest a good time fer hisself at the expense of some other folks.

Now, I know it takes two ter tango, an’ I ain’t proclaimin’ no innocence on no one’s part.  But it’s a perty obvious damn fact that most folks who start questionin’ their own fidelity er livin’ situation might be willin’ ter stick it out fer the long haul if’n there weren’t so many sonsabitches out there full willin’ ter be their soundin’ board an’ tool of evasion.  In short, it wouldn’t be so easy ter walk away from a commitment if’n there weren’t folks tellin’ ya (fer their own benefit, mind you) that it were the right thing ter do.

 

I’s talkin’ ‘bout Okla-effin-homan pieces of trash like the one who done lent an innernet ear ter my wife fer a year, advisin’ her in times of need, all the while sowin’ the seeds of doubt in her mind that eventually grew inter his “willingness” ter come an’ rescue her an’ take her back ter his red dirt paradise.  Now, I know she didn’t need ter be talkin’ ter him, but he didn’t need ter be listenin’ none, either.  Better yet, he could’ve been an upright kinder human being an’ given her the advice she needed ter hear, which wuz ter stick with that shit.  An’ then, if it really did come down to her bein’ so miserable, what kinder person flies half-way across the continent ter help a woman abscond secretly from under her husband’s nose?  I mean, don’t the self-respectin’ type at least wait until she is fuckin’ divorced ‘fore he throws her over his horse an’ rides off inter the sunset?

An’ what ‘bout my sister?  She done were married with three kids an’ that there husband of hers drove off one night when the gettin’ got rough cuz there were some homewreckin’ slut done promisin’ him an easier time of things.  That ain’t even relegatin’ this situation ter just one person.  That’s three damn kids growin’ up in a broken home without a daddy cuz some scumbag “other” person figgered they needed a weak man more’n his children did.

What kinder person even thinks so little of their own damn self that they’d put themselves in that kinder situation?  Who the hell pursues a married person?  Who the hell pursues a married man who’s got three kids?  How low can ya sink?  Does that somehow make ya more powerful?  Duz it make ya feel better ‘bout yerself?  Is there some kinder sick sense of accomplishment that accompanies the destruction of another person’s commitments in favor of yer own personal satisfaction?

When it became obvious that the sumbitch my wife wuz talkin’ with on the innernet wuz amplifyin’ problems ‘tween me an’ her I done hunted down his email an’ rightly sent him a note tellin’ him ter leave my wife alone.  You know what the sad fuck done wrote back ter me?  He done sez: “Good luck.”  Who the hell duz that???

An’ as my sister’s kids done grow up an’ get older an’ they become more cognitive ‘bout what exactly it wuz that happened ter their family, the eldest one, she done recollects that that there homewreckin’ slut had been lurkin’ ‘round in my sister’s ex-husband’s life the whole time they wuz married.  Albeit she had been an old girlfriend, but y’know, when someone makes a choice to go one way an’ it don’t involve you, you gotter just leave that person alone.  You don’t hang ‘round tryin’ ter change their fuckin’ mind… ‘specially after they’s married an’ makin’ kids.

It’s late at night an’ I don’t know much what my point er writin’ this is, ‘cept that I hate you good for nothing, scum of the earth “other” people types.  There may be a special place in Hell reserved fer them that break their commitments an’ run away from their responsibilities an’ accountabilities, but there’s an even deeper, hotter, more tormentuous spot made special fer them enablin’ types who are willin’ ter snap up the sloppy seconds before there’s even a judgment drafted, much less signed.

Fuck you Jerry Wade an’ Jill Whateveryerfuckinlastnameis.  An’ a big fuck you to all you’s that think it’s alright ter follow in their footsteps.

-Squeezebox Sam