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Sunday, September 19, 2004
Lucky. VERY Lucky.

Hurricane Ivan hit about 80 miles east of here. We ended up evacuating to Baton Rouge and staying with friends. Five hours to drive 60 miles. Unbelievable.

It seems to me that the hurricane not hitting New Orleans only reinforces the stupidity of the people who stayed and convinces those who evacuated but continually bitched about the inconvenience of boarding up the house and sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic that it was not, in fact, worth the hassle. Next time they'll stay, too.

"See, nothing happened," these people are telling themselves and anyone who'll listen. "All you people spent hours in traffic and Ivan didn't even hit here."

Hmm, let me see if I follow your logic - you haven't been killed by a hurricane yet, ergo it is impossible for you to be killed by a hurricane now or in the future. Hell, at this rate, you may just live forever. Then they attempt to make you feel like you're stupid for leaving.

A lot of people from Gulf Shores (just an hour away) to Pensacola felt the same way. Search crews are still pulling their waterlogged corpses from the wreckage of what used to be their homes. If you live on the Gulf Coast and a hurricane is headed your way, or it looks like it might be headed your way, leave. Mother Nature is one powerful, unfeeling bitch and she will wipe your home off the face of the earth like it never existed. Like YOU never existed. Don't be cocky, she doesn't notice and you're only impressing the other idiots.

Like I told my wife - If I'm wrong, the worst thing that happens is we spent five hours in a truck and a couple of days with our friends. If they are wrong, the worst that happens is they most likely drown.

Easy choice.

Monday, September 13, 2004
This May Be It

Hurricane Ivan looks like it's going to hit New Orleans dead on. If so, my house is probably going to be a total loss. By total loss, I mean submerged under 25 feet of water. I live about 200 yards off the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain, which will be on top of my house as a direct hit on the mouth of the Mississippi will push the storm surge north towards me, and the counter-clockwise direction of the storm will push the lake over the levee and into my yard. There's a pumping station about half a mile away, but nowhere to pump water to.

I sure am glad I didn't let that asshole sell me a new roof a couple of months ago.

Right now I'm taking a breather before continuing to load our supplies in our Planet-Killer Edition Ford Expedition. And how many of your irreplaceable mementos can you fit in your hybrid clown-car? That's what I thought.

Hurricane preparedness plans for New Orleans come in two varieties:

1) Get the hell out, or

2) Stay here and die.

We're going with option 1. Don't know where yet, just anywhere the hurricane isn't. We're definitely heading north (duh!) and probably west some, maybe Texas. Every hotel room in Louisiana was booked as of early this afternoon, so I imagine it will be a long haul.

If I don't see you (or read you) for a while, my friends, God bless you and thanks for the laughs.

Talk to you later.

Update: Sep 14, 2004 5:45p.m.CST
Had to work half-day today. Shit is packed, just waiting and watching the local traffic cameras to see if the congestion eases in the next few hours. The problem with getting out of New Orleans is that you have swamp to the west, Lake Pontchartrain to the north, and the Gulf of Mexico to your east and south. And not a hell of a lot of choices for how you want to get out of town. They're supposed to be using both sides of I-10 for westbound travel, so I'm waiting to see if that relieves the congestion any. Wife and kid are ready to go, clothes are packed, and twelve gallons of water as well. I didn't pack a lot of food, but I do have my dog, my rifle, and my .45 Ruger P90. I figure he's a 65 lb. food supply, and we don't need to keep him refrigerated until we're ready to eat.

Friday, September 10, 2004
Diamond in the Rough

You may have noticed that Blogspot no longer has an annoying ad bar across the top of this page, but has installed a new navbar. I was playing with the "next blog" button and ran across this blog. Sarah's young, but she's already fairly cynical and bitter at a time when most kids her age are prancing around Manhattan carrying giant puppets and smelling like patchouli and ass-flavored bong water. Dig the sartorial observations:

I have recently stumbled upon a phenomenon. It’s not a new one, but I just happened to pin-point it a couple of days ago. I’ve dubbed it the Fat Girls Cleavage Phenomenon, and it has a male counter-part, titled Fat Guys Bicep Phenomenon.[...]

All of a sudden, the reason for the 10 pound sausages in the 5 pound casings hit me. These girls are convinced that if they show off their cleavage, it will cause guys to focus on the crease running from their shirts half-way up their neck, instead of everything else about their body. Their breasts are usually not even anything to be proud of, as they are generally too long or too wide or too saggy. But these girls are absolutely convinced that guys will notice their cleavage and nothing else. Sorry girls, that doesn’t happen.

Alternately, I’ve noticed that a lot of fat guys have a similar philosophy. However, they obviously don’t target their cleavage; they target their biceps. Why is it that guys who have little to no muscle mass and instead tip the scales because of their fat, wear sleeveless shirts? It’s because they think that they are allowed to show off their biceps simply because they are large. What they fail to realize is that their massive, flabby grandma arms that are always a strange shade of red accompanied by multiple small bumps along the back and underside are gross. Just because you have to buy a double XL t-shirt, it does not mean that you are buff.

And for the love of Christ, fat girls: Stop getting tattoos on your lower back and hips. Fat guys: Stop getting tattoos on your biceps. The fatter you get, the more distorted your tribal designs and daisies are.

Does it get any better than bashing fat people? Hell, yes. She also attacks one of my personal pet peeves: Hip-hop fashion.

There are two different types of sports stores. There are stores that cater mostly to true fans and sell your standard hats, t-shirts, jerseys and autographed memorabilia. Then there are the trendy sports stores who usually sell mostly shoes, but are also responsible for the obnoxious flat-brimmed baseball hats, the jeans with pieces of jerseys stitched on and doo rags with sports logos.

Thankfully, my store is the former. However, that makes for some interesting stories, since the black guy dressed from head to toe in baby pink can’t understand why we don’t carry the hat he saw last night on that new Nelly video while watching BET and eating fried chicken.

My absolute favorite kind of customer is the kind that don’t care what team they buy, as long as it matches the shoes they just bought. I can’t tell you how many times in a day I get a guy come strolling into the store with a pronounced gansta limp. He’s usually wearing a solid colored t-shirt so big it would fit Al Roker – pre-surgery. To off-set the plainness of his t-shirt, he will have a thick, 20” chain (either silver or gold) with a pendant the size of a silver dollar that shows his opinion of himself, a crown or a Superman “S” does just fine.

Next, he will glance around the store and decide on the employee most likely to be able to match colors. Avoiding my manager who looks like the stunt double for Harry Potter, he will “bounce” over to either myself or the ex-convict who has tattoos up and down his fore arms. Unfortunately, his fellow thug might be busy, so he’ll settle on the opinion of a girl, who he can also conveniently hit on while he makes his decision.

She also has some poignant slice-of-life stuff about her grandparents and the challenges of satisfying the demands of the elderly. She's just getting started, the title of the blog is too painfully silly and ignorant to bear reprinting here, but she writes with some real feeling. Hope she writes some more soon. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Friday, September 03, 2004
Whatever You Say, Lurch

Right now, that suckbag John Kerry is peevishly trying to blunt the asskicking he got from President Bush's speech tonight. Never seen anything like it. Wonder how it'll play in the morning, but the networks aren't carrying it. Seems like he's trying to lay out the agenda he forgot to clue the rest of us in on during the Dimocratic convention.

Maybe he needed to see an example of one first.

I'm not really paying much attention, though. Near the beginning he said,

"If you're better off now than you were four years ago, and you think America's headed in the right direction, then go ahead and vote for George Bush."

Hmm... let's see. In March of 1999, I had just left the Army, freshly divorced and without a pot to piss in, and having the time of my life parking cars for $4.50 per hour plus tips. You know, enjoying the fact that after being a grunt for six years, everything is just so damned easy.

It's now 2004 and I'm a homeowner for the first time in my life. So I think I will take that advice, Lurch. President Bush made noises about reforming and simplifying the tax code. I can only hope he was alluding to the Fair Tax Plan. Liked the talk about getting government out of our way, as well. Not Reagan, but who the hell is?

What's pissing me off mightily is snooty uberconservative bloggers who threaten to either stay home or vote for some fringe candidate, like whatever nutjob the Libertarians are putting up this year.

Here's a little political primer for all you dumbasses who love your guns and your low taxes but are PISSED that you can't smoke pot or kill your babies before they're born or look at titties on public library computers:


And don't ever sneer at these liberals for carrying around giant puppets and participating in Naked Street Theater. At least they're not outsmarting themselves.

All these Big L and little l libertarians remind me of Fonzie from Happy Days. Sure, Fonzie was cool, got laid a lot and you never needed change for the jukebox when The Fonz was around. Let me clue you in on a little secret:


He was in his thirties, living above a fucking garage and still bird-dogging high-school chicks. But he'd be damned if he'd budge an inch on his principles. The only candidate a libertarian would approve of 100% is his or her own self. Kerry squeaks by on this one and it's YOUR damn fault.

The car I want is not necessarily the car I can buy. But I know which car will get me where I need to go. And I know which car is a fucking lemon made in France. You want some good advice?

Buy American.