I just passed a big old Suburban painted in RealTree camoflague with a rebel flag sticker in the back window shaped like tge sillouhette of a reclining female form “What sort of a Bubba caveman is driving this rig?” I wondered as I drove past. She was a blonde wearing an Earnhardt tube top. Nice.
Two years ago today, New Orleans as we know it died. I’ve been back twice since then, and it still saddens me to think about what was and what will never be again.
But the city is rising from the soggy ashes. The spirit of the people was not completely crushed, but I do know that they keep one eye on the Weather Channel from July until October. The city is not ready for another hurricane yet; not even a glancing blow.
They try to keep a smile on their face as they dance in the streets, but fear is the ultimate buzz-kill. Those brave enough to move home are praying for the calendar pages to keep flipping and the storms to keep making a left at Jamaica.
That’s why stuff like this makes me smile. Bang a drum, shake a tambourine, dance with abandon and tip back an Abita Amber for the Big Easy tonight. I’ll be the guy with the JazzFest shirt on looking for a crawfish to suck.
If we were to get another dog, would we name it Brunello after our favorite Italian wine in the region we visited last month or Spider Pig, after, well…Spider Pig.
Well, actually, I’m the only one debating. RUABelle is reserving her power of veto. I imagine it would be exercised if I tried to choose either option.
Hell, we haven’t even really decided whether or not to get another dog yet, so the question is moot. Nellie still rules the roost.
Yeah, I’ll admit it. I watch the Real World. I haven’t missed a season since season 2. It’s on TiVo. RUABelle’s asleep. I keep the volume down. I’m not wasting anybody’s time but my own. (And apparently yours for reading this.)
But this season is confounding me. Not to get all BOM on you, but I’ll give you a quick rundown. They’re in Sydney, Australia. They’re all good looking, young and dumb. No surprises there.
But the dynamic between three of the cast members is just sick.
Dunbar (no shit, that’s his real name) is a abusive frat-hole who flirts mercilessly with two of the women in the house beneath the cover of having a girfriend at home back in the states.
KellyAnne is a brunette bimboid from Texas who spends half of every day draping some part of her nubile body across Dunbar. She likes to walk around in a t-shirt and panties all the time. I didn’t say I was complaining.
Parisa is an extremely earnest Irani/American who seems to have a level head on her shoulders, except for the fact that she has developed a serious crush on Dunbar and can’t understand why he prefers hanging out with the Texan who likes to get drunk with him and dry hump all day and night.
So, straight from the TiVo last night, rewound multiple times to assure verbatimness, here are the two quotes that make me realize I don’t understand today’s kids at all anymore.
KellyAnne-“I wanna cuddle with someone I feel safe with and knowing that Dunbar has a girlfriend makes me feel more safe.”
Parisa-“It hurts to think that because he respects me, he has to mistreat me.”
I don’t know where these sadly delusional women were when I was young and single, but it now looks like I wasted a lot of time trying to find intelligent, stable women when I could’ve just been looking for the low-hanging basketcases. It would’ve been like shooting fish in a barrel, I tell ya’.
Naah, in retrospect, I’m pretty pleased with how things turned out for me.
…as opposed to most weeks when I write about my doodie, I’m actually being a good citizen serving jury duty. I can’t really write about the trial while it’s going on, but expect a hard-hitting expose on Tennessee’s legal process when it’s over. Or at least a whiny post about how deathly boring it was.
I’m really worried that those Utah mine “rescuers” are gonna dig a tunnel through my bedroom wall.
Shit, they’ve dug one everywhere else…