The Dress Code

When I arrived there was but one space available at the far side of the parking lot, a convenient slot next to a dumpster. I stepped from my truck into the hundred degree furnace. The odors from the restaurant waste slapped me square in the face. Awful stuff.

My mission was to have a blood test, a doctor ordered waste of my time. I began the long walk to the far side of the tarmac. Halfway across the parking lot I stopped and composed myself, muttered, "Don't limp," and opened the door to the building. The waiting room was packed, stuffed full of democritters; the elderly, children, illegal immigrants, seniors in wheelchairs...all of 'em with a cell phone chattering ninety miles a minute.

I hate crowds.

I felt like a marshmallow in a chocolate factory.

All the seats had been taken. It was either stand or I could sit on the little magazine table. I chose the table. Screw 'em. It was a tight fit. A lady and her girl child held the place directly to my right. I removed my hat and placed it on my knee and began to read.

The room was hot and loud and a woman of twenty or so was deep into a loud conversation in Spanish and an older gentleman tapped a steady rhythm with his cane and my neighbor and her child spread out their snacks and began to shoulder the space between us which forced me shift close to the wall, and I was within seconds of walking the hell out. Yet, I held.

The little girl asked, "What kind of boots are 'dem? They sure are shiny."

Me, "They are called engineers boots."

"What?"

"They're just old boots."

"Why they so shiny?"

"Because I shine them."

Her mother glanced over and told the child to not bother the man, gave me a 'look.' I scooted, some more.

I went back to my book - Private Battles, if you want to know. The child returned, stood and moved in front of me and touched the toe of my boots. "How you say you gots 'dem so shiny?" I closed the book and said, "Hard work." The mother reached and jerked the little girl back to her bag of potato chips.

My name was yelled. I stood and walked back and the woman took my information and agreed I was worthy of their time and soon I was seated on a stool. I read. Thirty minutes later a very large woman entered the room.

I'd removed my hat and placed it on my knee, as is my habit. The woman gave me papers to sign, placed a blue rubber band around my arm. Uncomfortable, to say the least. All the while she kept her eye on the hat. I could tell it bugged her. I liked that it bugged her. Made me smile, it did.

"Something wrong?"

"Huh?"

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"Well, now that you mention it, why the hat?"

Me, big grin.

She readied the horse needle. "Make a fist."  I made a fist.

Me, "This hat bothers you, doesn't it."

"Yes, its awful. Its hate. It tells people you like to shoot people and that you own guns."

Oh, this was good. "Really. This hat sends a message does it."

"Yes."

She slapped the needle deep into my arm...missed. Tried a second time. Missed again. It hurt like hell.

Me, "Are you new to the art of phlebotomy?"

"Huh?" My arm didn't feel good, at all. She reversed course and slipped  the projectile in again...and again. I was ready to punch her.

"Hey, Mister Gunman, did you drink water before coming in here?"

"Yes. Want to try the other arm...this one is about fried."

She was a big woman. She'd voted for Obama, and I'm sure had been tenth in a class of ten. Her, "You shouldn't wear that hat in public. There is a dress code, you know."

The words kiss my ass almost slipped from my lips, and would have, but she still held that needle and the job wasn't completed.

What I did say was, "Lady, what I wear and where I wear it is none of your business. Furthermore you are as safe now as you've been all day."

No response

She finally hit a stream of blood. She finger thumped the first tube and reached for the second. I drew in a deep breath and waited as she slipped the next vile in place. "I take it you don't like firearms."

"No. They kill people."

"How?"

If looks could kill.

Silence. I asked a second time, "How?"

"They just do."  I heard a child scream. We're down to the third sample of blood. My arm feels like its on fire. Me, "So, my handgun jumps from its holster and kills people, all on its own, does it."

"I don't want to talk about it. But don't you wear that hat in here again. You hear me, mister."

I couldn't help myself. I'd had enough...

I stood and walked to the door, turned and told her as nicely as possible...

"Kiss my ass."

Two weeks later my arm is still black and blue. 

Stephen 


  

Bits & Pieces

I recently mentioned to Sweet Wife I needed a haircut. It was either slice it off or find a ponytail holder. I checked and my last cut was just prior to Independence Day. She agreed.

Today it took place.

After the hair trim we drove over to a new place, Freshfield Farms. They trade in fresh locally grown  produce and meats. Most organic, or so they claim. The place was cold, meat locker cold. We'd barely stepped inside the store when Sweet Wife said, "Let's go."

I quickly grabbed a nice slab of pork short ribs, a few bell peppers, and a bunch of tiny sweet bananas before she ran for the parking lot. The girl hates cold.

Back at the house, after we stepped inside, she snapped the above picture of my new hairline. She's proud of the fact my neck is again visible. She cut my hair. The lady has talent.

*****

The gumbo simmers. Took me an hour to build the sucker. Butchered the squirrels and browned 'em in bacon drippings. She slipped alongside as I stirred the rue and said she was pretty sure she'd found a piece of squirrel hair on one of the finished pieces. Told her not to worry, squirrel hair tasted fine fried. Gives flavor to the finished product.

Prior to our marriage the poor girl had never eaten wild game. Her family hunts at Publix and Winn-Dixie.

*****

Early tomorrow morning I need to climb on the roof and give it a good cleaning. The winds have made a mess of the house and yard. Then I'll give the yard a quick cut, blow clean the walkway and drive ....should only take most of the morning if I get started prior to sunrise. If the day leaves me free a few hours I'll drive to work and open the shop. After all, I've democrats to support through my continued payments into the friggin tax system. Six day work weeks are the norm around here.

If you believe this governments line of bullcrap about an improvement in the economy you've got your head stuck in a ditch. Sure, maybe in scattered patches of New England or Bumtussel, Alabama - but not here. On my five mile drive to work I'm able to count several hundred closed businesses, more 'for rent' or 'for sale' or 'lease to own' signs than angels in Heaven.

Here in my neighborhood there is a house but one from mine. Its on a nice piece of riverfront with a boat dock and small guest house. Its been on the market for three years. The price for this nice home has dropped from one point two million to a take it away price of (if my memory serves) four hundred thousand. God bless America.

Strange, but I've yet to meet anyone willing to admit they voted for Obama. Or, at least now....

Stephen

Proof Positive

Of a liberal's lack of intelligence.

H/T, Joe

Stephen

A Must Read

From my friend and yours, Pissed.

Trust me, read it. Then pass it along.

This critter should have been thrown out of office years ago.

Stephen

The Truth

I normally don't post news but I want to make this as easy as possible for many to read this fine article. It'll only take a minute or so of your time. Then, call and/or write your congresscritter. I know, it's a waste of time but at least you will be able to let the suckers know, we know. Get it.

So please sally forth and read the truth about Obama's new executive order.

Thank you.

Stephen

Confessional

I walk into the confessional. The priest slides the shutter aside, then, "Please, Father, hear my confession."

"Yes, my child, pray continue."

"I must confess Father, I have sinned."

"What are your sins, my child?"

"I'm so sorry, Father, but during a weak moment this morning,  I watched the Presidential Inauguration of  President Obama."

Silence.

I broke into a hard sweat.

Then, "I'm so sorry child but I cannot help you."

"What will happen to me Father?"

"Like the rest of the poor sinners of the world, you shall burn in hell. Please, leave now."


Stephen

A Shield of Children

Do these pictures remind you of anyone...

Yep, thought so.



Stephen

Lord, Help Us

Really? This is Obama's pick?

Story here.

Biden doesn't know the difference between a pile of dog poop and apple butter, much less firearms. Like I said, Lord help us.

Stephen

Bits and Pieces

It is extremely hot and humid here this morning. These hot and damp days are perfect for breeding blood suckers. When either of us return home and hit the garage door the mosquitoes fill the area before its shut.

Last night I went out to my reloading bench, which is located in the garage, to change the rusty rounds I had in my brass polisher. I was covered in mosquitoes within seconds. Mosquitoes remind me very much of democrats. Both are blood sucking parasites.

*****

I shall play bachelor this weekend. Sweet Wife leaves tomorrow evening for a very long weekend in South Carolina. We have a niece determined to ruin her life. She plans to wed a fairly nice young man, a missionary of the Baptist faith. My niece just recently returned from a life in France. I'm sure it softened her brain, hence the wedding. 

Oh well. I hope their lives together are filled with happiness and wealth.

I will miss Sweet Wife. The next few nights will be very quiet in my home. It's a good thing I just received  a three DVD boxed set of the movie, John Adams. I wanted to watch the movie over Independence Day weekend but my order didn't arrive in time.

So this weekend, in the quiet of the night, I shall set my books aside and be entertained with the richness of our countries forefathers and their fight for our independence.

*****

The old timer came in and with a heavy sigh and took a seat. He squirmed around a bit, shifted this way and that, adjusted his trouser legs, retied his boots.

I waited.

"You know, Stephen, this damn country has gone to pot."

Me, "Sure has."

"Are you aware these damn kids," his waves his arms as if to encompass the whole of them, "can't even read and write?"

"I know." I'm brief like that while engaged in conversation.

He continues, "And, it's that damn Obama's fault."

"Yes Sir."

"You don't talk much do you."

I chuckled, said, "Not when I'm listening."

"Good. Can't abide a smart ass or a man that just runs his mouth all damn day."

He's seventy-six, give or take a year.

I nod, said, "Neither can I."

Then, "Okay, now here's the big one. What do you think about that Yankee, Romney?"

"Not much to tell you the truth."

The old man rubs his belly, checks his fingernails and then gives me a very stern look - you know, like an old man about to lecture your butt. "You're a dumb-ass, you know it."  Like that....

I only allow old men and women to speak to me in this manner. So, I said, "Yes Sir, I am."

He smiled. "Stephen, you are aware he's the only man we have to replace that Arab in the White House."

The old man had to raise his voice as I'd moved back into my office to pour my tenth cup of coffee. I yelled back, "I am aware of that fact. What's your point?"

Out of left field, "You have any new used guns for sale?"

"No, not today." He mumbled. Then, "What the hell is wrong with you. You're acting awful strange."

"Nothing, just a lot on my mind." I'm still in the back where I stand at my office window and watch a squirrel  as it climbs a tree.

I hate politics.

The old man stands and walks inside the office. I offer him a cup of coffee and he takes one of my spare cups into the restroom and gives it a good wash, returns and pours.

Then, "Well, answer my question. Do you not believe he's better than Obama?"

I turn to the old fella and place a hand on his shoulder - Its bony, his skin loose under his shirt. I like him, but not today.

"Bubba," I say, "At this point in time I'd be willing to vote for a yellow dog over our current president."

The old man slams down his cup, walks back through the shop and out the door. Didn't even say good-bye.

Some days are like that around here.

*****

Think I'll change the channel on the shop's television and catch a few minutes of the Tour de France. Its the only sporting event I like and watch. You can keep your football, compared to the bike riders in this event football players are a bunch of wussies. Baseball, boring. Basketball players, give me a break. Put them all on a bike and tell them to ride flat out for a hundred and twenty miles, much of it uphill, and see how long they last.

Besides, I like the shots of the French countryside. Its a beautiful place, even if its people are a bunch of Socialist.

Later.

Stephen

Oops

How True

An artist depiction of His Highness tramping our Constitution.

H/T to the Drudge Report.

Stephen

Amen

Hat tip to: PawPaw at http://pawpawshouse.blogspot.com/

All I can add is, amen, Amilya, amen.

A Tidbit Of Politics

As you have by now noticed I try and avoid political scribbling. But in my humble opinion,

Mitt Romney is nothing more than a paler shade of Barack Obama.

 He is hereby awarded the second 'bucket of sash weights award.'

That is all.

Stephen