Them shits is CRAZY, baby

Couple of notes on summer in the Dirty Girl.

First off, the wimmin is just plain near butt fuckin naked, period.
I got a scoop for you, honey, them ain't shorts.
Them is underwear with pockets.

I was coming back over the bridge tonight. Oh, yeah

since you asked. And yes, I was banging it pretty much the whole way (Bobcat, I still say you find a nice Northern boy like young Brian there, all your dreams will come true. Just saying is all.).

Anyways, when I got to this side and was driving over the big strip of park there, they'd cut the "grass" today, and you could really smell it. OK, it's not grass as we know it, more like free-range quack grass, but still.
Granted, it don't smell exactly like summer at home, but it sure smells a lot better than it usually does around here.

Hey, listen, your Rajah says, I know we fuck around and shit, but seriously, really, come on, there's just never a reason for bad manners.
I know we get tired and frustrated and shit, but really, babies, if you can't be civil, why, it's all fucking over and you might as well just surrender your humanity and become a fuckin New Yorker or Belgian or someone from China or some shit...

Here, try this.
Go out this weekend and buy a completely meaningless present for someone you love (preferably NOT a romantic-type relationship). Something you know they'd really dig.
Not to score points, but just because it's fun.

Looks like we're going to be doing a vehicle handover next week, I'll be surrendering The Batmobile

To the Mrs, and I'll be driving the Tumbler

Every day.
Not bad, just different.

Fuck, the Drunken Fuckers got this...person sitting with them at their table, and I swear to fuck, if you put a fuckin gun to my head I wouldn't be able to guess if it's a guy or a girl.
Or, more specifically, I guess, a grizzled bloated snaggletoothed drunkass old woman or a grizzled bloated snaggletoothed drunkass old dude.
And no, I ain't snaggletoothed.

Right, Friday.
Check this badass shit out, man.

If this don't get you taking off your shirt and climbing up on the table, why, it's about time to fill out that Organ Donor card.

Rajah loves you, babies, have a good weekend and be sweet to each other.

Yeah, I got your cowboy boots right here...

For jumping out loud, I thought this whole cowboy boot issue was settled months ago.

You got cowboy boots.
Big fuckin deal, man, I'm wearing a fucking T shirt.

That don't make me Mr. T.

Enough of your jibba jabba.


Fool.

Tavern Tales

Man, for a while, way back, I used to be the Head Bartender at this big fuckin huge cowboy bar back home.
This place was so massive, there were like 4 bartenders, plus one for the Dining Room, and a Bar Porter, all working the night shift.
Made fucking crazy money there.
Anyways, we used to make up all this wacky-assed shit to amuse ourselves.
This joint had, like MAD regulars, probably 45-60% of the trade on any night was in there 4 or more nights a week, it was kind of an over-35 meat market kind of deal.
So we would have all these deals that we would tell the cutomers.
There was this young fella, started out as Porter (Bar Pig) and worked his way up to Junior Bartender.
He had the same name as me, so we called him Hawk.
I don't know where it started, but somehow we decided to tell all the customers that Hawk had a glass fucking eye.
And they really went for it, man.
Sometimes Hawk would open up the glass washer to take out a clean trayful, and you know, that huge cloud of steam would billow out, sometimes when that happened, Hawk would yell out really loud.
And I'd go, like "Hawk!! What is it man??"
And he'd yell "My glass eye!! It's all fogged up!! I can't see anything!!"
And I'd go "Don't move, man! We're coming to help you!" and a couple of the waitresses would run around behind the bar and take his arms and shit.
Fucking customers ate it up like Coco Pebbles.

Sometimes he'd pretend it fell out and we'd started yelling for everyone to check their drinks.

Fucking drunks will believe anything.


Oh yeah, anyone with a (real) glass eye is welcome in The Tribe.

Plus ça change et fuckin cetera

So, remember I was telling about that table load of drunk-assed locals?
Well, after a bit this bigassed Mercedes pulls up, and it's one of their wives, come to collect her old man.
And, in the car, there's this kid, maybe 8 or so.
And the kid sits in the car for the 20 or 30 minutes it takes for the old lady to prise the alterkokker away from his drinking buddies.

Kind of disheartening to see that, 40-odd years on, little kids are STILL having to sit in cars waiting for a drunken guardian.
See, the thing is, when you're little like that, you don't really have any big perspective that tells you the Grandpa (in this case) or Dad that you're waiting for is just WRONG, but you DO have this kind of nagging, unsettling feeling that  the whole deal just ain't right.
Happy to say, this kid was able to just sit in the nice car with the AC on, and it was only a half hour or less, and the old broad finally got her husband piled into the back seat.
Fortunately for him, he wasn't sitting in a shitty old Volkswagen with the motor running because it was the middle of winter, for an hour and a half or more, with his dog, waiting and waiting.
And he could see his Grandpa, instead of being in the middle of a big snowy parking lot.
And he din't have to, finally, get out and stand by the door and ask some guy going in to find his Dad and tell him he wanted to go home.

Sorry, sometimes stuff just comes back.

Oh yeah, Rule #1, if you've EVER left a little kid alone in a car while you went drinking, you don't get to be in The Tribe.

Raj

Leadership you can get behind

Listen up!


It's dang wiggly out there, and only getting moreso, and you, my babies, wake up every day staring down the teeth of an ugly, predatory world that couldn't give a monkey's whether you live, die, or fry.
Good news is, there's one place you can count on where they got their priorities straight.

For a couple of years now, I've been kind of messing with the idea of starting my own tribe.

I think the time has come, so let's get on it.
Naturally, if you're reading this, I, your benevolent Raj, consider you an able candidate for membership.

I was talking to The Professor about this, I'm still tweaking the Rules.

So, you know, welcome to the tribe

As your Rajah, I pledge fairness, equanimity, and love for all.

And NO FUCKING IPADS.

Oh, and curries for everyone.

Life, babies!

Oh yeah, there's a table full of the local irregulars next to me here, and they are fuckin DRUNK!
Like they fucking WRITE about.

Yeah, I don't THINK so...

So apparently, Bob Ford wants to be my friend on Shitfacebook.

Bob Ford.
Pretty fucking presumptive, if you ask me.
Sonofabitch shoots Jesse fucking James in the back

And now he wants to be my friend, I don't fuckin think so.
Cheech don't give a fucking monkey's if buddy was played in movies by John Carradine

Robert Vaughn

Christopher Guest's little brother

(you know, the 6th Baron Haden-Guest, the interfering dad in the Janie's Got A Gun video

You know, the rookie crew member in TWOK, the voice of JT in SOA),

AND fuckin Affleck's little brother

to boot.

You can't just go around shooting Jesse James in the motherfucking back and expect a fella to-
Oh wait.

Oh, this is Hockey Bob, Paco's buddy.


OK, never mind.

Free at Last, Free at Last

OK, so, for reasons I ain't going to get into, I'm on the 15 -day DL, and this is the first time I've been outside since last Friday.
Wicked, man.
Obviously, the women got better looking in my absence.
Thanks to everyone for not beaking off about the paucity of posts.
Thereby, you know, saving me the trouble of kicking your fucking ass.

Needless to say, I watched a buttload of movies.
I was (re) watching JOHN RAMBO (or whatever it's called where you are, you know, the last one.)

I've probably watched this one about 10 times. It's almost as good as #1, and that's saying something (did I mention that the first one was shot in Golden BC, a spot I've stopped in many times for sunrise breakfast when we used to roadtrip to Vancouver, we'd always take off about 6 or 7 pm and cross the Rockies in the night, and then just hit Golden as the sun was coming up...also that I know a bunch of guys who worked on that first one, blablabla)
Anyways, aside from Rambo (or, as we call him around my house, JAHNNY, you got to say it all chokey and breathless like Trautman would)

Driving that badass longtail riverboat

(and yes, that's my personal retirement plan), it's just a big fat awesome movie.

BUT, I wanted to say something about the phenomenon of One-Shot Movie Dealbreakers.
I think my old pal Disco invented this, the deal is, in an otherwise enjoyable movie experience, there's one single shot or moment that totally takes you out of the movie.
It doesn't necessarily  ruin the experience, it just sort of reminds you of how fucking bullshit Hollywood is.
One shining example, for me, is in The Bourne Supremacy. I just fuckin love them Jason Bourne movies, and this didn't totally fuck the movie for me, but it was a bit annoying.
The deal is, Jason and Frankie Pootenta are living in Goa and all, and it's all beachy and trippy and all, yeah? And Jason has like these fucking nightmares and headaches and shit about killing folks and all, and he gets up, and Frankie is all fuckin asking him if he's OK and shit, and he palms a couple Advils or whatever, and then
He
Washes them down with tap water.
In Goa.
Probably not, dude.
Anyways, despite how much I love JOHN RAMBO, there's one of these moments.
And yeah, it's considerably ameliorated by moments like when the Snake Farm boss is haranguing JAHNNY in that unbelievably annoying Thai pidgin, and he says:
"We need another python. See what you can do. We have enough cobras, okay? "
And Johnny walks away, saying
"Fuck off. Okay?"
BUT.
Johnny is sleeping in his weird little boat dock/blacksmith shop and Ken "The White Shadow" Howard comes to axe him to rescue Angel's girlfriend and creepy crosseyed Father Phil.
Thing is, Johnny's sleeping in this net hammock.
In the middle of the night.
Beside a river.
In Thailand.
In the middle of a monsoon rain.

With no mosquito net.

Sorry, Johnny, I know you're tough, but that fucking soap don't wash.
Still, pulling the bad dude's trachea out with his hand, well, that covers a multitude of sins.

Hey, among numerous new friends, we'd like to offer a hearty dobrodošao to HRH The Crown Princess of Croatia, good to have you joining us in this meaningless pursuit of critical horseshit.

Oh yeah, it's Friday.Hey, I'm not just listening to this right now, it's also pretty fucking awesome shit.

Ryan fuckin Hedgecock notwithstanding.


Have a good weekend, babies.