Hi, my name is Ken. Rube has foolishly given me permission, as well as a corresponding password, to contribute to this blog from the heart of old Europe. As I live in the U.S., it will make for some interesting perspective.

Me and the little woman just finished spending two wonderful days visiting Mr. Straight White Guy and his bonnie lass, Fiona. First of all, let me just tell you what a wonderful pair those two are. They really went out of their way to make us feel welcome at their beautiful compound, and showed us one hell of a time.

The first night, I met Eric's cousin, who shall remain nameless, namely because he was short-drinking us, remaining sober while the rest of us drunk ourselves into a good-natured stupor. The boys barbecued some good-looking ribs, and we spent about seven hours shooting pool in the garage, drinking beer, talking trash, and, for my team at least, beating Eric and Anna like rented mules.

(click on images to view full size)

This morning, Mr. Guy cooked us up a killer breakfast of biscuiits, bacon, and eggs, providing the groundwork for our foray into the world of newly-legal assault rifles. You'll notice in the first picture below, that Anna, who's never shot a weapon before in her life, just took out the three colored ballons that were attached to the post. In three shots, I might add. I needed about 15 rounds before bagging my third balloon, so, yes, I'm humiliated as both a man and an American, thank you.

Now, let's see some action! Here are some movies; just click to play, though you may need the free Quicktime software to view them.

Eric, running the table. Almost.

Brad with the manly, manly break.

Anna with the shot!

Rube talkin' trash

Three shots, three balloons. Nice shootin', Tex!

There's something about european girls with assault weapons that is just irresistible. Here's Fiona on the AR 15:

Of course, the shot-to-kill ratio would've suffered had it not been for Eric's coolness.

Remember kids, handle your firearms responsibly! Although guys, between you and me, there are few things on the planet that can make chicks pull mugs like these:

Those are gun-faces if I've ever seen one. All in all, we had ourselves a wonderful time. You can read Eric's version of it here.

We've invited Eric and Fiona over to visit us in Germany. Hopefully, they'll show up and we can take them snowboarding. Or just sit around and drink beers as big as tree trunks, either way, I'm easy.

Downright memed me, did he?

Courtesy of the Juju Man:

If I could be a scientist, I would start a vicious underground movement to stop research in the anti-aging field. Humans are not meant to live forever, and eternal life would mean the end of us as a species. We are not yet through evolving.

If I could be a farmer, I would build myself a veranda, with a porch swing, where I could listen to cicadas, watch my milk-cows fall asleep at sunset, and drink mint juleps. Naked.

If I could be a musician, I would never stop playing. I would be the hit of every campfire, the center of attention, just me and my bagpipes.

If I could be a doctor, I would see Catfish more often, I'll wager.

If I could be a painter, I would never contact the NEA for money. I would try to paint stuff people would enjoy, and put high value on, and keep the experimental stuff where it belongs, in the lab.

If I could be a gardener, I would plant azaleas.

If I could be a missionary, I would only do it doggie-style, and giggle at the irony.

If I could be a chef, I would spend all my energy elevating those two highest forms of cuisine, the hush puppy and the buttermilk biscuit, to the respected position in the culinary world that they so deserve.

If I could be an architect, I would try to bring gables back into fashion.

If I could be a linguist, I would translate this blog into latin, hebrew, and aramaic for posterity.

If I could be a psychologist, I would know why I can't get out of bed before noon.

If I could be a librarian, I would underline the dirty parts of every book in the building.

If I could be an athlete, I wouldn't take steroids, unless of course everyone else was doing it.

If I could be a lawyer, I would have the worst won-loss record since the '87 Braves.

If I could be an innkeeper, I wouldn't take yankees. They're rude, messy, and they don't tip.

If I could be a professor, I would be the most unpopular person in the faculty lounge, owing to my obsession with fart jokes.

If I could be a writer, I would probably get picked every now and then to write blog novella chapters, instead of the tight little clique of glory hogs and suck-ups that now dominate them.

If I could be a backup dancer, I would spend a lot of time explaining to people that no, I'm not gay.

If I could be a llama-rider, I would join the llama-riders' union and try to organize surreal steeple chases near Macchu Picchu.

If I could be a bonnie pirate, I would constantly be doing old Abbot and Costello routines with my trained parrot, Muffin. I would be the straight man.

If I could be a midget stripper, I would only strip midgets who had given me their permission beforehand, in writing.

If I could be a proctologist, I would come up with lots of jokes to take the edge off. "So," I would say, "You meet a lot of assholes in this job, too, you know." Stuff like that.

If I could be a TV-Chat Show host, I would blind-side child actors and fluff guests with loaded questions about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Now, I guess I have to pass it to 3 more people:

Sandy, of the Dirty Ashtray
Zonker, of the genetically engineered mutant turbo-liver
Mr. Dax Montana, overlord of the pimptastical bombastical red hat brigade

Not that they'll do it, lazy toids.

Since I met such a great new bunch of people at the Wreckyll, I figured it was time to update my musty ol' blogroll over there. Having met you all personally, I don't think y'all are the types that will get offended being linked by a site named You Bitch. As I said many, many times in Jeckyll: Nothing Personal.

Welcome to the fray:

Acidman
Catfish
The Dax Files
Divine InnerBitchin'
Fistful of Fortnights
Georgia
Grouchy Old Cripple
Key Issues
Meanderings
Moogies World
Parkway Rest Stop.
suburban blight

Feisty Repartee (of course!)

If you were at the Wreckyll, and I don't have you linked, just let me know. That brain cell might not have made it off the island in one piece.

I think South Carolina was one of the last states to rid themselves of the Confederate part of their state flag. After the Wreckyll, I took my baby up to Charleston. Driving through the back-roads of rural South Carolina, one sees that the race relations are still stuck somewhere between the Civil Rights Movement and Amistad. Stopping at a gas station near Columbia, I noticed that they actually had a light-brown colored iced coffee drink called the 'Moo Latte'. What the fuck? You crackers aren't even trying up there.