When you got your first bike. You first car. Hell, pretty much whatever your first “I really wanted that for a long time” thing was? I lived it Friday night. I proceeded to fuck up the “firstness” of it by Saturday mornin’. There’s this little technicality called “Ze Papez”… see, the seller couldn’t sign ‘em until Friday evenin’ after anything wort a shit but bars, or Wal-Mart closed, so that meant, I had to carry the things around until the next A.M.

No problem, one would think. Went, had the notary notarize stuff that didn’t need to be notarized according to her, but ever wanting to be on the safe side, and not havin’ to “take a number and a seat” more than once per Saturday, she humored me and stamped and signed. Ze Papez made it back to the ‘Neckshack shortly thereafter.

However… The last known location of Ze Papez was the back passenger side of the bed of the truck, within arm’s reach of the tail gate. Which was taken to Wal-Mart, for a back up boat but plug. And a battery charger for the twin fiddles that come with it. All was fine and dandy. Charger chargin’, everything was peachy. Oh, after I had to have the boy tow it home, ’cause I couldn’t find my trailer hitch key, which I discovered the next day, was on my key ring… right where I’d put it.

Saturday mornin’, I awoke at about the right time to grab a cup of coffee, and get to the resgistrar place to get the trailer and boat tagged. ‘Cept, I couldn’t find Ze Papez. Looked high, and low, and everywhere in between. Retraced the paths of the truck the night before. No luck. No Papez. Called ‘em up. Because of the size, or lack thereof, of the particular rig, this may not be as bigga deal as I figured it would be. I’m going to try, tomorrow to go finalize the deal in the eyes of the state, and hope to holy hadeez that I’ve written down enough numbers off of the various things posted on the SS ‘Neck to satisfy them that I’m not a terrorist, just a ‘Neck with a new(to him) fishin’ boat that wants to use it.

Shoot, when I put it like that, I can see where you all might not be able to tell the difference between the last to kinds of folks I was talkin’ about. I just don’t need much more “stuff” from the folks that print Ze Papez. ‘Neckson’s registration for his truck last week ’bout did me in. I’ve had two other vehicles registered in this state, but since I couldn’t show them a document that met their standards with my SSN on it, I was turned away. I don’t like the Papez places. Once it’s done, they don’t give a rat’s hind parts about it. They’ll mail ‘em out to you on, or near your birthday so you know it’s extortion time again, and to “pay up sucker”. I’ve never had to send an SSN in on my 5$ US postage stamp.

They’re closin’ down the club for a couple weeks so they can have the company pic-a-nic there on 8/1. Bastards are changin’ the lock, so there will be no slippin’ in on a Saturday or Sunday… I got to get this thing street legal, considerin’ I’ll have to get one of two people that can’t back a trailer if they tried to get me “close” to the boat ramp. I’ve got it from there. Boat trailer, ‘bacca trailer, same deal. Do it once, or twice, it’s like bike ridin’.

Ahhhh… I’m an idiot sometimes. Pretty good natured one, but I do have the occasional brain fart.

Hell man, I’m feelin’ good. Gonna bond with the boat this weekend, I hope. I’m pullin’ strings and callin’ in favors to git-r-done. Which reminded me… Eric’s got it made. Well, short of bein’ red headed, with a green umbrella like Mary fuckin’ Poppin’s and sun sensitive skin, he’s got it made. Next thing you know, he’ll tell us he’s the flyin’ nun. He’s good now… So… he get’s a song. And a picture in the long part. Just look at that grin’ now. You couldn’t grow better wood if you tried. Don’t git pissy with me Vman, I luv u 2. Fucker.

HAPPY BOY- The Beat Farmers

C D
I was walkin’ down the street on a sunny day
G C
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
C D
A feeling in my bones that I’ll have my way
G C
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba

CHORUS:
F
Well I’m a happy boy (happy boy)
C
Well I’m a happy boy (happy boy)
D G G7
Oh ain’t it good when things are going your way, hey hey?

My little dog spot got hit by a car
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
Put his guts in a box and put him in a drawer
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
CHORUS

I forgot all about it for a month and a half
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
I looked in the drawer and started to laugh
Hubba hubba hubba hubba hubba
CHORUS

(don’t look/click …)
(more…)

I bought a little boat tonight. Got any tips for me Harvey? Other than the obvious, like, keep the water out of it? It ain’t much of nothin’, but it’ll keep me from bein’ a bank fishin bastard… I can hit the stumps now. I don’t think there was a paddle in it come to think of it. I guess I ought to get one of those. Two batteries, two tanks, trailer, two trollin’ motors, ’cause, I’m once, twice, … two times the troll. Damned sure ain’t three times a lady…. I’ll probably take possession of it on Monday.

That’s good in one way, and shitty in another. I’d very much like to fish from it this weekend, and gettin’ it on Monday is only goin’ to let me park it for five days, unless I get the itch, and can find a driver that can get me close. I’ll back the bastard in, no sweat…

Dig it… It’s camo painted… the fish will never see me comin’…

… I’m really trying to supress the nekkid thoughts on the lake deal… not me nekkid, her nekkid. Shit, why bother… get nekkid.

Bloodspite has a post up that tripped my trigger. I dig it now. There’s some vintage NASCAR in that badboy You-Tube show and tell… The thing that got me was, he said somethin’ about them not showin’ Ol’ King Richard rollin’ on down the line, and if I’m not mistaken, unless he’s talkin’ a different crash, they do show it there. One of those wrecks, hell, several of ‘em on the Super Speedways are the reason they have “roof flaps” now. NASCAR got pretty damned scared at the fact that one of those fuckers could come off the track and take out a hundred yards worth of people eight rows wide.

Jack Roush did a good thing there now. Roof flap’s keeps ‘em flat on the track or the infield.

I tried to comment over there, but didn’t have a key, so I asked for one, but never got it. Dawg…

Otay, butwheat… Here’s what I ‘member. I got off the plane, and two beauties were waitin’ for me holdin’ a customized ‘Neck sign. Yes, suck it yall, I got my own sign, and bitches lovely ladies holdin’ it for me at the airport escalstairs. I rate. Were you born a RedNeck? Gotta love the harmony on the “Born” part of that song near the end.

No, well, then, work for your sign. I did. I think I just laid there, or … walked down the steps. They took me somewhere to eat. Can’t remember quite where, or what, I think it was Italian, but either way, it didn’t disagree with my innards. Got to the hotel, checked in, and wandered on over to Tammi’s place. I think I got tore up, or broke down, … I wasn’t worth a shit when I left there, I know that… prbably not ‘fore I got there either. Just cuttin’ some of yall off at the pass with that last self jab. I woke up at about 1PM the next day, but I don’t think I went to bed ’til about 5AM same day. Trade off’s. I never get to sleep in here. Even if I stay up early. I missed the shoppin’/shootin’ spree. Leslie did get me a kick ass shirt though. Hell, it’s damned right on righteous. If it wasn’t copyrighted already… I’d let you buy your own here. But it is. Bein’ original, can be a bitch. Speakin’ of which, I need to touch base with Phin, and see if he can’t he’p me out on a design or two for CafePress. Hell, I figure since they keep spammin’ me, I might as well have a need to read it.

Bejus… Once I got cleaned up as best I could on Saturday, I hit the hotel bar, and had a big assed cheeseburger. That fucker was good now. Took three beers to wash it down. Then, I stood around waitin’ to wait in a … foyer? Lobby, Arboretum? Hell, I don’t know what the hell you call it but there was about 1/2 a dozen of us men fools standin’ there waitin’ on a woman. Now, one man waitin’ on a woman is one thing, but when you can get half a dozen waitin’ on you, you’re good. Leslie rocks. Flat out. I’m startin’ to reckon’ she’s momma north of here, and Zonker’s momma south of here. Makes sense don’t it? I always coveted a bearded Momma from Hotlantata. Shut up Velociman… Jealous bastard. You know you can’t wait to get momma in the hot-tub in Helen…

I think I got my ‘roll updated. I stole it from Leslie’s recap. If I missed anybody that stumbled across my ramblin’s, send me an email, or leave a shitty comment. Matter of fact, y’all leave a shitty comment. We’ll have a shittiest comment contest. I don’t know what you’ll win, if you win, other than braggin’ rights, but hey, its the dog days of summer and there ain’t nothin’ else to do except sweat. I’ll turn the “poll” on, on the left side after a few days, and I’ll put all the shitty comments up, and let you all decide who’s the shittiest of the shitty. I unfortunately, am forbidden from participating, because I could win the invisible prize. Even though I don’t need one, … got one already.

O’tay… take two. Went to the restaurant. Had the unfortunate experience of ridin’ in the back of Leslie’s rig with Harvey. The unfortunate part was “with Harvey”, not Leslie’s rig. It was fine. Harvey often need’s a ‘Neck translator. Somebody like say… Sam. He could do it. He acted as if he was deaf the whole damned way to the ‘raunt. I guess when you get that many blog chirren, another asshole talkin’ to you don’t draw your attention too much. PS: On the way home, Chou sat in the back, and I couldn’t hardly talk over the sumbitch… I love you too uncle Harv’. You need a push-up bra though. You’re saggin’ bro’.

Uh, right, back to the restaurant. You couldn’t smoke inside, so I went out back. Patio. Worked for me. Nice night, not rainin’. ‘Next thing I know, it’s like Red Dawn back there. Every damned Russian in the world is back there cussin’ me no doubt, drinkin’, smokin’, .. no fear in general. Hey it was alright with me, everything was cool but it’s a bit of a culture shock when you don’t have to try to understand either A)English, or B)Spanish… now, I’m supposed to have taken Chech classes in school? Right. Them good ol’ Chech’s were just havin’ a good ol’ time, that was obvious, and that was damned sure alright with me. Shit, they wouldn’t even look my way though. No, Vman, I didn’t think showin’ ‘em my titties would have he’ped. . They were into the beer and the weird speak though. No man boobs for them. Speakin’ of boobs, hell, you know I speak of ‘em. I notice ‘em. That li’l ol’ gal from crossed the pond at the bar. Now lemme tell you, she had a pair… I don’t know how there was anything built that kept those from hittin’ the ground. They had to be 50-50 tits. Never mind, just dropped half y’all with that last sentence., but damn, good lookin’ blondie, didn’t speak english, well did, but barely, which is kinda cool, with big boobs… Don’t forget, I am a ‘Neck now. That kinda stuff presents a bit of a challenge for me, but it’s one that I strive to acheive… I like boobies. They jiggle good. I wanna squeeze ‘em, but… I know I’m gonna get slapped or arrested. I’m just at that point where I ain’t quite sure if get busted for boob squeezin’ in Chicago is worth it… What y’all think? Si, or No?

This post still evolving… I let the cat out the bag early and got a link, so it ain’t done yet, but I’m workin’ it…

I kept hands off and dollars on the bar, went back and ate what Leslie ordered. I figured if it didn’t kill her, it wouldn’t kill me. I was right. I can’t cook pork that well without puttin’ a shitload of sauce on it. You can smell what I cook comin’ at ya. That’s not a criticism, it’s just a fact. IT was good, and I liked the gravy, but after wolfin’ down that Cheeseburger I was ’bout full ‘fore I got there. More beer please… I was of the waterheaded clan that did NOT get a P’tchr… Can’t believe I missed that photo op’. There were under drawers on the back of everybody’s chair. I thought maybe it was just a Chicago thing. You know, maybe somethin’ Ditka made Da’ Bears do. Hell, like I said, I’m a ‘Neck outta ‘Necksville. I didn’t know what the fuck. People talkin’ funny, under pants on the backs of chairs, people drinkin’ outta pitchers… Ok, last one was a stretch… But hell, when the announcement came to put ‘em on, I paused… I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to drop trou’, or what. Then, I saw e’rybody puttin’ on their heads and I’m like, WTF? I reckoned it was just the party hat’s Joe was used to. Somewhere along in throughout there, Zonker got separated from his camera… He was refusin’ to photograph the Uni-boob. Pussy. I just picked his camera up, pointed it, and shot it. I shot the Uni-boob. Og is funny as hell, reminds me of a radio talk show host. Got one of those boomin’ voices. Now, watch, somebody ‘ill tell me “He sounds like that ’cause he is one”, and I’ll be like… Ok, that splains it. If he ain’t one, he damned sure could be.

I’ve got to admit. I suck with names. I probably met more good folk there than I’m creditin’ anywhere, but dang, I had some fun now. Once you get past 40 somethin’ish, you need to come up with some new shit to have fun, and travelin’ to different places and meetin’ up with folks you feel like you know, IS FUN. I don’t care who you are. The difference comes in once you get back to the hotel on the last night there. I’m a shitty planner, and even if I have a good plan, I can fuck it up. I did it in Austin, and I damned near did it in Chicago. If it wasn’t for Achmed, or whatever his name was, who waited for me for 45 minutes, and drover 95 MPH from Naperville Holiday Inn “Select” to the airport so I could make my flight, I’d have screwed the pooch again. That dude rocked, and rolled. I swear to God I don’t know how he did it. I’m sure he went back to his boss and pulled a Sammy Sosa… No speak English. That boy needs a NASCAR ride now. He’s got it down. Didn’t scare me 1 bit. Fuck it, it was fun ridin’ the airport Sunday mornin’ late. We/He beat the hell out of the speed limit.

Speakin’ of NASCAR. I met a NASCAR driver Saturday night, just outside my room, while I was trying to secure a ride to the airport the next morning. All he wanted was a smoke, and, he wasn’t shy ’bout askin’ for it 1 bit. I’m tryin’ my ass off to hear what the person on the other end of the lines is sayin’ and NASCAR boy just walks the fuck up and asks me for a cigarette. I’s bout ready to tell him to fuck off, but I figured I’d give him one and he’d roll on.

Wrong.

That fucker wandered on into the room, which had an open door. Chatted up a few while I was finalizin’ the details of departure. I didn’t really give the fool much of a thought, but once I passed him on the way back to my beer and my chair, I was drawin’ some funny looks and questions like, “Who the fuck is that”… I told ‘em. Just some fool that asked me for a cigarette in the hallway… that’s a NASCAR driver. Don’t you recognize him? No? Me neither. He scrammed pretty quickly once I told him he needed to get the fuck outta there…. “Oh, I need to leave”… uh… yeah. He got gone. More fun and drink was had after that, and then, everybody started to leave like I was infected with the plague. Come to find out, they had some encouragement in doin’ so. No problem. I wasn’t finished yet, and just followed the bunch on down to Tammi’s room and stayed there until hella early Sunday morning… Hence the cab ride from a NASCAR driver… I had Austin flashback’s with of Dead Dog, and Zonker, when NASCAR boy was steppin’ in. I swear I did. He’d have lived from the second floor launch though, and I didn’t want to take the elevator down to “ol’ yeller” his ass.

Had I been in the ATL, or VA, I’d have just called Michael Vick, and let him electrocute/drown/hang/drop/shoot, his ass. It’s all about location.

I love football, and I love dogs, but if that fucker is wackin’ dogs like they say he and his buddies were… I hope he gets a new uniform for next year, and no, I’ve not gon PETA…. but that shit is wrong. I”ll point to the ceiling with my left hand and punch my dog in the head with the right when he looks, but shit man, that’s just fun. I actually think he likes it. Hell, I know he does. Gives him a chance to slice me open with them damned dew claws… bastard.

Oh, see, with all that stuff goin’ on, it’s hard to remember who you met that ain’t a NASCAR driver, or a RedNeck luvr… I hope I’ve lined yall in the ‘roll but if I didn’t, just keep on playin’ the first song in this post, and you’ll feel better… then inform me of that fact. That I missed you, or that I’m an asshole, whichever you prefer…