Boudreaux & Little Big Man's Descendant
My best bud, Boudreaux Barrineau called me last Saturday and left a message, “Rednak, you ain’t goin’ to believe what the next door neighbor has done now.” I knew which “next door neighbor” we were talkin’ about by the tone of voice and the elevating degree of excitement evident in Boudreaux’s announcement.
The neighbor in question is the complete package. He and his friends excel in matters of the category Dumb Ass. In the small town where he lives he is the originator of more emergency responses than all the rest for the community combined. He is the perfect nominee for Looney Toon of the year. . . Back to Boudreaux.
I called back, “Okay, Boo, what’s he done now?
“Look, don’t get cute. You’re the one who called me.” I wasn’t in the mood.
“You know that cobbled together barn-shop, thing he built last summer?”
I answered “Yes”. I’d seen it and thought, after approaching to within ten feet, A good strong wind would be a gift from above and probably save Dr. No’s life. It looked like bush people had thrown it together. And, also looked like a piece of modern kid’s sculpture that was destined to fall in on itself at any minute. I called him Dr. No, in conversation, because when you asked him if he wanted any advice, he always said “No” and it was evident by what he produced, he’d been saying “No” for one long ass time.
Boudreaux proceeded to describe to me the latest. It seems that Looney had been out in his shop ripping lumber with a chainsaw when he saw a couple of large spiders trying to procreate. Every spider he saw was a recluse. He obviously didn’t know why they were called recluse spiders. That would take a few moments of reflection. And, time was not wasted in this one’s life. He was the whirling dervish of cataclysmic events. He quit using the nice table saw because a mouse had distracted him one day and he cut the tip of his left thumb clean off. The next morning he came home from Walmart with two dozen mouse traps and a one pound block of Muenster cheese. “I’m gonna show them little bastards!” Waving a trap in the air, in the clutch of his “boxer” style wrapped hand, he hollered at Boo who was standing in the driveway.
He managed to catch the family cat, two squirrels, and the tail of a hapless mouse. Picking up one trap to move it he caught himself. To this day the traps are still lined along the wall of the shop and after six month’s or so, all the Muenster has disappeared.
Back to the recluse spiders. Boudreaux says that last week he was in his backyard and Mr. Toons was outside his metal workshop painting a piece of baseboard with a spray can of blue enamel. He was holding the baseboard in one hand and the spray can in the other—up in the air at eye level. He was facing into the breeze. He sprayed the narrow trim board with broad strokes and the paint spray was blowing in his face enough that he was blinking his eyes and spitting the paint that was covering his tongue. He’s a mouth breather. Now that’s concentration. If you’ve ever had a snoot full of spray paint you know the consequences. At any rate he waved Boudreaux over to the fence and shouted that he had the solution to the recluse spiders. He also said that he’d discovered in his research that the local recluse spiders didn’t have the deadly bite that their northern cousins had. The guy at the hardware store told him that, and sold him insect bombs to cure the infestation. His proof was the five hundred sand gnat bites on his lower legs that he swore were baby recluses.
Boudreaux would find out later that he set three bombs off in the twelve by twenty two foot shop that afternoon. The shop had garage doors. He did close them after activating the bombs. Boo became aware that something big was occurring next door when he let the dog out and was overcome by a chemical cloud of mist that took his breath away and made his eyes cross. Toons had set up an industrial fan in front of the garage doors and the fan was blowing the insecticide gas directly into Boudreaux’s back yard.
Boo said that the next day the stink was still overpowering. He got a towel to cover his face and went to the fence as Looney came stumbling out of the shop. “You need to turn that damn fan away from my yard!” Boo said he shook his fist too, but Dr. Strangelove appeared to be in a catatonic state.
The following day Boo went out with his painters mask on and surveyed the two yards. There were six blue jays and a mocking bird scattered on the ground under his magnolia. Two squirrels, an armadillo, a possum and fourteen of the smartest mice in the county lay dead in front of ground zero. Looney’s other neighbor found his six laying hens deader than dirt in their pen. He hadn’t gotten the downwind warning of the chemical assault until today. He was pissed and screaming. Looney stayed inside.
Boo said that yesterday the Fire Chief showed up and declared the barn-shop a biohazard. That evening the local TV station had their satellite truck in front of Mr. Toon’s house. After the six o’clock news traffic was steady as townspeople rode by and took pictures of the “Danger! Bio Hazardous Quarantine” sign with the skull and crossbones. Some got out of the car and had their pictures taken at the sign and some jumped from their cars and ran to the sign to take a selfie or two.
Today, the jasmine along the fence that separated Toon’s yard from Boo’s was dead and gone. No sweet smell left, only the acrid smell of local mustard gas. Boo’s headache was gone though. Looney Toon was nowhere to be found.
Boudreaux said he couldn’t imagine how the patented dumb bell would be able to top this week’s event. I figure it will be an excuse for a big party. So, there you have the makin’s for a great climatic happening. I told Boudreaux he should video this one.
Time for a musical interlude:
Earl Scruggs & Company
A message from Dr. Ben Carson
If you've been following the latest "controversy" over my comments about Islam, you know the arrows are out for me.
I will need your help to push back, but I want you to know exactly where I stand. These are my beliefs and I will not back down:
Many parts of Sharia Law are not compatible with the U.S. Constitution. Under Sharia, homosexuals -- men and women alike -- must be killed. Women must be subservient. And people following other religions must be killed as well.
There are many peaceful Muslims who do not adhere to these beliefs. But until these tenets are fully renounced I cannot advocate any Muslim candidate for President.
I also can't advocate supporting Hillary Clinton for President by the way.
Because I shared my honest opinion, I've come under intense fire from the media, nearly every leading Democrat, and even some of my Republican peers.
The Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) has called for me to drop out of the presidential race, saying I am "unfit to lead."
I will not back down -- but I need your help to push back right now.
# ## #
Right on the Money
Here's some smarts for you
Looney Toon's Asian Cousin
Muddy Waters and Company- Bye Bye Blues
Thanx for stoppin' By. Enuff Said - - Thanx
I recently gave up on the idea that my trusty Pulsar watch was going to pull through and continue on this symbiotic journey that we have shared for so long. It has been consuming batteries the last two years at a tiresome rate and a month ago it began to have fits of start, run, then stop--abruptly. Refusing to resuscitate—period. And then, the next day lying askew on the kitchen counter grinning obstinately with the second hand sweeping once again with Pulsar symmetry. Of course, I would put it on, glance a few times, and satisfied that it was “working” go about my day routine. . . Only to discover two hours later that it had stopped running again. One hour and fifty one minutes ago!
A timepiece is like your heart—essential to life’s activities. Taken for granted until it stops.
So. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. . .” The watch was given to me by my wife of Penny’s jewelry salesperson fame. No doubt like the other two pieces of decent, precious, metal gimcrack that were on sale and right for the employee discount on a “steal”. They had a small relative cost that made the labor of “giving”, instead of receiving, easier to endure. Lucky me.
Before we divorced we were on the record setting path of being married longer than the previous two marital mistakes of mine combined. The Pulsar with its incremental bezel and integrated stopwatch solved many a time and distance problem for me while traveling or, more important, while dead reckon-navigating from land ho to an offshore destination surmised the night before over several single malt shooters chased with St. Pauli Girl. The Pulsar had trolled from Oregon Inlet to Key West. It steadily ticked off the glorious days of tranquility that ended too soon on Green Turtle Cay yet it didn’t falter as the Billfisher jumped lustily onto plane when we cleared the channel for the last time.
Together we zip lined and climbed the mountainous heights to experience same in Costa Rica. At the time, I was unknowingly in the early stages of heart collapse. The Pulsar knew I was out of step but it did not speak. Every time I looked, it tried desperately to show me what my heart should have been doing. However, on the other hand, my heart beat the rhythm like a one armed bongo player. When I did my qualifying night cross- country flight it glowed assuredly in the darkened cabin and pointed out my progress with time tracking reliability. Together we have caught many fish and endured hours of trying to catch fish. The Pulsar just kept on ticking and I am eternally (I should hope) grateful.
Fortunately, I suppose, the watch outlasted the record setting marriage, and the addition of the final marital mistake, too. I think the watch is as proud of that milestone as I—twenty five years and more.
Having given some thought to the impending demise of my long serving, now suffering faithful timekeeper, I will place it on the top of my dresser. There it will have soft ambient daylight and a view of the comings and goings of the dog and I, plus it will have my somnambulant company which also includes the dog, some nights.
This Pulsar is a made in Germany timepiece. Its replacement is a knockoff from China. Even Seiko Corp of America, headquartered in New Jersey, is a traitor to free world commerce and quality. It may outlive me but it won’t be by much. I will give the original the respect in its demise it deserves. It will be left to its own devices until it voluntarily stops re-starting. Then I will put it in my old jewelry box and let some curious relative or nursing type throw it away. The Chinese version will probably recycle itself. Case closed. Thanx for the memories.
Time For Some Time With One of My All Time Favorites
Earl Scruggs & Company
Dr. Carson didn't get a drab of mention in the follow up press re: the GOP pissing contest jockeyed by the "mouth" and highlighted by only two with sensible and articulate things to say that out paced the Nah-Nan-Nah Nah for over three hours. Carson wisely stayed out of the kindergarten melee yet adeptly jumped in when necessary.
These pole results were out just before the debate. Regardless the numbers placed him within reach of Mouthy both statisticly and poll wise. Cooler heads and smarter thought processes will win out. God Bless America!
Carson closes on Trump 29 % to 23% Carson
It Was A Rough Divorce
Door to Door a Tangled Mess Anymore.
Click Here: Cue Music :
These are crazy times we live in. The twisted reasoning has changed dramatically from when I was wild/crazy. Talking about local crazy has gotten stale – predictably consistent but wacko never the same. Anyway, just so we don’t get accused of an unbalanced scale of tit-for-tat I am pleasured to bring you some personal episodes of the genre WTF? fifties style.
I couldn’t have been more than eight years old. I was a soldier in the Virginia Street Demons. The club consisted of the Pettigrew boys who lived across the street from my house. There was B.J. the grand poobah, Ricky the middle child dreamer, and Frimper the general in charge of combat in the ongoing war with the Quarrier Street Quacks.
Occasionally, Morris Feinstein joined us in our underground bunker where we conducted the latest war-room strategies for the upcoming battle scheduled for Saturday after the matinée at the Bijou theatre. Long live Hi- Yo- Silver, Sky King, and Bugs with his zany gang. Morris, if you couldn’t tell, was a jewish boy. His dad, a very successful dentist. They lived on the boulevard that followed the river, one street over from behind the Pettigrew compound. They were Hoity – Toiyty of the first order. Morris wore cute stuff like the lederhosen style (no leather) pants with shoulder straps the kids wore in Sound of Music. His shirts were pressed and starched. The lace-up shoes spit shined by the butler. He would come to the vacant lot battlefield all prim and proper and go home with the bunker’s red clay smudges from head to toe. His mother could be heard from the two blocks away where they lived, as she dealt with the apoplectic reality of fraternization with the neighborhood gentile ruffians.
After a particularly startling turn of events at the previous “war” engagement with the Quarrier Street Quacks, Frimper in his vengeful state of anger decided to square the transgression of war standards by the Quacks, with a malevolent creation of a secret weapon never imagined by the combatants thus far.
Battle engagements amounted to Demons throwing giant horse weed stalks with the root ball attached or launching water balloons with a bike tire sling shot. The horse weeds hurt and covered you with dirt from the roots. The water balloons just added insult to injury. The Quacks usually attacked with a barrage of hand-thrown water balloons and wet sand in old socks. If they made it to the brink of the Demon’s fox hole line both sides broke out the pea shooters and the outcome was decided by which side could outlast the other with a mouth full of dried beans to shoot.
So, what enlivened Frimper the warmonger, Pettigrew? The Quacks brought double paper bags weighted with small river rocks and charged with dog poop. They were throwing two at a time and even threw them with all their might. It hurt. It humiliated. Dog crap was everywhere at the Demon battle line, even inside the bunker. To end the one sided melee B.J., at eleven years old, grabbed Quack leader, Dicky Freeman, in a head lock and punched him in the face drawing blood from the villain’s nose. Battle over. But not the war.
Frimper, got some potent, diabolical ideas while recovering from the stench dressing of perpetrated dog squeeze. Frankly, I never got over it. Whenever I think back to that day I can literally smell the odiferous weaponry and feel the welts from the stones.
Frimper gathered two very small café style kitchen curtain rods from his dad’s workshop. The rods had flanges at the ends and were coincidentally the perfect diameter for a 22 short, rim fire cartridge. He ginned up a piece of scrap lumber into a pistol base. Then he used fence staples to attach the barrel to the base and a heavy rubber band to propel the hammer which had a 6 penny nail for a firing pin. We went out to the bunker for the test firing. Bang! It worked perfectly. The next thing I knew Frimper and B.J. were wrestling over the zip gun. Bang, again. And ouch. I looked down at my right wrist and a small trickle of blood was dripping off the top of my hand. I turned my palm up and there was the tiny slug just under my skin.
Needless to say, I went home with my gunshot wound and my mother choking in horror took me straight to the hospital. When we got home, I went across the street to show off my combat wound but the Pettigrew brothers were at the beginning of a one month detention after getting the belt treatment and a trip through the psychological wringer. I got my share of lecturing also, but I knew it wouldn’t begin to measure up to the Frimper’s sentence. Subsequently a permanent truce was declared by Mr.Pettigrew.
Tradition Trumps Common Sense
Seven years later I was part of a very fast crowd. In addition to motorcycles, rail cars, and hot rods, we decided that welding up a small steel frame and mounting 8 inch pneumatic tires with rope steering was going to be the acid test for our version of downhill speed insanity. On a gated hill course outside of Gainesville contestants brought their pseudo soapbox carts to be shot into the winding downhill course by a 1949 V-8 Ford pickup. The rules were: Let go of the pull rope before passing the painted red starter’s post and run the course on the pavement. The best time won.
There were no helmets, no belts, and about six inches of air between your ass and the asphalt. Country Club malt liquor (beer) was the supercharger and varsity cheerleaders were the encouragement. The first run, I beat the other four by four seconds. I was little and my cart was flimsy.
In the final elimination, half way down, I slid into the hardest curve and my niggardly engineered cart came apart. When loose pipe dug into the road the cart remains stopped and I became airborne briefly before skidding along the pavement at 45 mph for twenty yards. That night I had a strawberry from my left shoulder to my ankle and it did hurt like hell. I managed to hide that and the accompanying limp from my mom for a whole week. One evening as I got out of the shower and started to my room wrapped in a towel my mother saw the gruesome scabby, evidence of friction versus teenage body and went ballistic as I attempted to tell her what happened in this latest of competitive exercises. She passed on the good impressions and beat the crap out of me with an old belt as she chased me from room to room for ten minutes.
A few years later I was somewhat taken aback by the willingness of my mother to allow me to enlist in the Navy without the hint of resistance. By the time I got discharged it had dawned on me that this was her only escape at the time, and she took it without pause.
I went to the VA this week and had my face burnt to eliminate all the precancerous bug-a-boos. They gave me the foil lined hat, shown above, to ward off UV rays, and they fixed me up with Zinc based sunscreen. I quickly discovered when I hit the afternoon sunshine of the clinic parking lot that I could be on to something big. Notice the Navy blue color of the hat. The near perfect attractor/concentrator of sun rays. As I walked to the truck the hat heated to oven levels and I knew I was on my way to revolution. Thanks to government procurement standards the hat was probably designed like this to make you so uncomfortable you would flee to shaded protection. Well, never prone to pavlovian reactions I got the message immediately. The government probably paid $19.95 a piece for these 49 cent hats. So, I knew I was going to cash in with the new go anywhere oven hat.
For your next fishing trip simply take along a baggie and fill it with lunch. At the appropriate time put the baggie on top of your head, replace the oven/hat and step out from under the boat canopy. Bake your lunch in the hat for four minutes -- if you can stand it -- then chow down. No fuss, no muss. Order yours today and get another oven hat for your fishing partner, absolutely free.
Best two handed catch
Class Over Crass - Ben & Candy Carson
Who's That Thinkin'?
Dutch river crossing
Anabal Arias Classical guitar
Or . . . . . .
Fantastic Negrito- An honest man
That's Enuff Said.
From the current issue of Florida Trend magazine comes all kinds of exciting news about the Sunshine State’s future. Here are just a few of the snippets from the ten page article:
By the end of 2013, Florida had passed New York as the third most populous state. By the middle of 2014, according to the U.S. Census, Florida’s population reached 19.9 million. Florida is gaining about 781 people a day—the equivalent of adding a city bigger than Orlando every year.
Any given day, according to Visit Florida , the state is home-away-from-home for 1.8 million people – more than the population of 12 states. In 2014, the state hosted 98.9 million visitors. The Legislature’s Office of Economic and Demographic Research projects we’ll have 107.4 million visitors next year, rising to 157.8 million by 2025. That friends, is conservatively, 325 million flushes a day.
In another article concerning the state’s water supply it is stated that by 2030 Florida would need another 1.3 billion gallons of freshwater per day. “The state’s traditional water source – groundwater – won’t meet that demand.”
You know, obviously I’m no scientist. I would venture a guess, that it could rain like it has this summer for two years in a row and the Aquifer probably wouldn’t have a net rise of a quarter inch. Do you have any idea of the cost and decimation to natural resources, from reclaimed water, brackish water (available along our coasts as it displaces depleted fresh water wells), surface water (our lakes, rivers and swamps), and last, but certainly not least, desalinated sea water. You think electric bills are outrageous?
Very soon now, as carrying capacity reaches the tipping point, thousands of folks, many of them seniors in particular, will be displaced and run out of the Sunshine State by the shear magnitude of economic discrimination. With its myriad side effects the worst part of this scenario is that those who can afford to live here will totally overwhelm those who have lived here and have some perspective about the natural resources that we are flushing down the crapper today. There is no canary in this coal mine. The bell has already tolled and no one with the ability to stop the coming collapse (I’m talking lawmakers) can see the consequences of their greed, over that stack of development influence money.
Fruit Bats 1, Town of Inglis Zero
I am saddened to report that the fallacious claim that Inglis municipal water was to blame for rust stains in a citizen’s swimming pool was swallowed, hook, line and sinker by the town commission last Tuesday. The vote was 4 to 1 in favor of paying. With the help of Commissioner White the prospect of litigation was mentioned and elaborated on. The “claimant” produced a form with numbers on it that supposedly represented iron elements in his pool. The water was tested at the meter by the town’s water supervisor, and the amount of iron present was considerably less than the amount of iron present in the pool water. None of the several companies that supposedly tested the pool water said anything about the municipal water supply being the source of rust stains. In fact they said nothing -- Because the stains have to be originating within the pool structure? So far, no one but the owner has “certified” that the town’s water supply is staining this pool. From the claim presented several different companies were called out to test the pool and as is obvious none of them were willing to take a position in writing that the problem was the town’s responsibility. I would think that a certified pool contractor or even the several chemists could determine a simple matter like this based on the results. Wouldn’t you? The trouble is, the results don’t support the wished for conclusion. In effect, the town is paying for the tests that uphold the fact that it’s not our water causing the stains.
My position on this matter, as the Budget and Finance commissioner, is that I won’t sign a check for this claim of approximately $330 without a bona-fide certification from a professional contractor, or a water testing lab that states unequivocally that the municipal water supply is the source of stains in this worn out pool. Period.
Finally, It was also stated by the claimant that he was defamed by my blog when this matter became public two weeks ago. In fact the pool owner was not named in that satirical description of Fruit Bats doing what Fruit Bats do. However during the first twenty four hours after the blog was published this person showed up in his own email at the end of that blog. Thus, he outed himself as the Fruit Bat in question. It looks like he defamed himself . . . and did a damn good job of it. This is a regular occurrence where good judgment and often the inability to mind one’s own business is lost in the consumption of too much alcohol. Most of the time these e:mail observations are just a ramble of vulgar gibberish. Consequently, I have a “nice” collection of brain farts.
Is this Trump addressing the United Nations? Or was it the 5th grade at Kirby Smith Elementary? No, it was the dedication of the Gloria Steinem Memorial.
Go Swiftly and Softly to the Front
Been watching Dr. Ben Carson lately. Cooler heads and smarter attitudes will choose this smart, educated, and objective candidate for the presidency over knee jerk, scurrilous, insults to the world at large. We should all hope. After all is said and done, the Great Republic is not going to settle for a fringe looney tune at this point in history. We should all hope.
Ben Carson's campaign continues to rise.
The latest sign came Thursday when a national Monmouth University poll showing the retired neurosurgeon and tea party darling in second place nationally with 18 percent support, behind only Donald Trump, who won 30 percent among Republican primary voters. While both candidates got a bump in the findings, Carson is the one whose standing spiked: his numbers jumped 13 percentage points, compared to Trump who gained 4 points.
Read more: http://www.politico.com/story/2015/09/poll-ben-carson-surge-2016-213306#ixzz3krOEIcov
Caution Re: Non Ethanol Fuel
Two readers have asked me to re-run this YouTube link for the Non-ethanol fuel test. One has found ethanol fuel twice at two different stations in the Keys and the other has found ethanol in a marina and at two stations in the Charleston area. This is so simple it doesn’t make sense not to check what you are paying a premium for. Plus, ethanol fuel is a magnet for water. I had that problem continuously here in Florida before non-ethanol became easier to get.
Ethanol fuel burns hotter but produces less energy than non-ethanol (REC90) so it is not good for any two-cycle engine. And it sucks moisture out of the air in a vented fuel system like your boat. YouTube has a good demonstration of that with two jars of gas and a fan blowing across them. The jar with ethanol absorbed water from the air.
This is a fuel test for ethanol on Rec90 gasoline. As the food color remains together it suggests that there is no ethanol in the fuel. Follow the link.
Testing fuel for ethanol
Thanx for visiting. Rednak Luvs Ya! Enuff said.