Hallo, Hans

I vanted to assk you vhy ze american und british tourists, ze are alvays giggling vhen zey come here for skiing.

Danke,

Fritz Weber
Wank-Lifte Ski Lift

Jottings from yesterday's bar napkin, from the daily evening meeting-of-one:

I'm the chair of your misfortune, 4 legs of strength compared to your two. I loathe your cushions.
There are 3 people you should never lie to: Your lawyer, your doctor, and your accountant.
Your bits of SuSE architecture, you will not get in there. You will stare in amazement, at the amount of trust there.

Unvollständig.
Speth was eyeing my unit.
With Windows,you've got a whole other set of problems. I am the leader of the technik. Keep your fucking hands off of them. Dicknose.
There's no denying it: Things have been better.
Rsync software: No network access. How many revolutions? (backup rev's)(under normal usage)?
Why do I busy myself with such nonsense?
I'm surrounded by freaks and losers, traitors, liars, bitchy little people I'm supposed to give a fuck about.
Perfect coif, unimpeachable ascot. Saaaaah-weeeeet.
Wearing a green ascot on St. Patrick's day is probably not the best way to keep from getting pinched, I fear.
In a few years, I'll look back on these days and think, "What the fuck was that all about?"
Jeepers, I'm tired.
I'm tired of being tired. But I'm more tired of being broke.
Man, I guess TCP/IP, in retrospect, scales pretty well.
I can't believe I actually used to be an IPX bigot.
I also can't believe I used to own a class C subnet, namely 38.221.9.0/24. Merc, Fred, Medusa, Thor, Zeus, NS, man oh man, those were some days!
Here's some helpful advice for the ladies out there: If you're ugly, show some tit! C'mon, it's a date!
People sit around and compare their tools...
Tomorrow, I'm going to have a blister under my fingernail. Damn.

Well, I guess it's about time to stop smoking. I found a brown spot under my tongue today. I've probably got jaw cancer. Which probably means they'll need to cut off the lower half of my face, and reduce me to a freak whose tongue just hangs out of a jagged hole under his nose, wagging impotently with every attempt to speak, unable to articulate a sound, just emmitting some sort of excited whistle of gratitude when it's time for my mush.

Fuck, how did it come to this? I'm only thirty-five. My grandfather smoked for 60 years and only quit because he died. Otherwise, he'd be right here next to me, hooting appreciatively through a tube sticking out of his chest, then we'd go outside and pick up some hookers. Sleep well, Grandpa Arry, you deserved everything you got.

You know, that moment when you start typing, when you start groooooovin', not working at it, let the blog do the work for a change. This thing's been buggin' me, beggin' me, asking me please feed the hole, your publikum is waiting on you, Rube. But you know what, Blog? I'm fucking busy, whiny ass. I've got things to do, people to meet, bills to pay and letters to send. T'aint room here for two jefes, so one of us needs to get a-buggin, and I do believe that would be me. So, now, as long as I'm the one doing the buggin', you be the one doing the list'nin'. Now you listen to me, Blog, and you listen good. Velociman has a boil on his choad, Acidman's got a bug up his ass, and Lousiana ain't feeling so good his damn self. But me? I'm doing jes fine. Rube done took his blood pressure yesterday, after speed-snorting a liter of coffee, and it was 106 over fucking 60. I was on my way to work on a fuckin' Sunday, hands shaking like Katherine Hepburn's favorite vibrator, and you just sat here like a bump on a log waiting for it to find you.

Write yourself, you ungrateful little fuck. What's that? Oh, yeah, anytime, pussy, anytime.

Since I'm too busy at the moment to keep this rickety jalopy running, I've decided to post anything which the dregs of society decide to throw my inbox's way. I need a spam filter...

Case in point:

Chapter 1: A Viking Funeral
Author Unknown

He's gone, I heard the good doctor tell my wife and sister who apparently were somewhere in the near vicinity. No I wanted to scream out but couldn't. What the hell is going on? My eyes were shut tight and try as I might they would not open or even flutter. My entire body was frozen and refused to respond to any mental commands that I issued. Darkness held me captive.

"He wished to be cremated and have his ashes strewn over the homes of all his exes and meaningful lovers etc., the meaningless to receive condolences thru the mail or whatever", my beloved wife Andy relayed the info to the Doc or someone.

Then my beloved, somewhat frugal Sister, chimed in "My God stamps alone will cost a small fortune". "Just put a notice in a few fish-wrappers". As for scattering ashes, forget the former wives as they would make every attempt to bring the aircraft down before the payload could be delivered. The meaningfuls would be more receptive but squirm with discomfort while trying to explain the gesture to their current meaningfuls. We were only friends won't wash".

"Well, his 2nd wish was for a "Viking funeral", Andy offered. Maybe we could get some of his old drinking buddies to heave "Molotov" cocktails at a small vessel as it floats near the "Lil' " River Bridge that spans the infamous Alatoona Lake. Henry Bryan and Jackie Dempsey will gladly secure an old fishing boat I'm sure".

The 2nd wish prevailed. Somehow my wife and sister pulled it off. It was near dusk on a late August day when the much publicized event began. Bells Ferry road was closed to traffic in both directions, so the bridge would be open to the throngs of expected onlookers. Twenty cocktail hurlers waited in formation for the funeral barge to pass beneath, carrying yours truly to Valhalla. All at once the small boat came into view in tow behind a larger ski boat. When it neared the bridge, someone severed the tow line. Now the vessel was drifting under the L.R.B. Finally it emerged on the other side as the cocktails were lit, awaiting the Hurl command. Then it came, Ready! Hurl! All at once 20 arms obeyed the order! A few struck the small craft, causing it to ignite. The burlap wrapped corpse was now slowly engulfed in smoke and flame.

"My God it moved" a horrified deputy sheriff screamed!"Saw it thru my field glasses". Henry Bryan snatched the glasses from the grasp of the now hysterical lawman. "Let me have a look see"! Naw, must've been your eyes doin' tricks, what with it being nearly dark and all.

Only small remnants of the remained by now, floating on the surface near a large patch of ashes, surrounded by a mysterious ring of grease, all floating away toward a distant beach. Show was over and the crowd began to thin out. Some were puzzled by the behavior of Henry B. and Jackie D. however. Both were giggling and high-fiving anyone nearby. Eventually they were joined by the widow and sister of the deceased. Both ladies suppressed their own laughter all were aboard the Merc convertible belonging to J.D.. Now as the white Mercedes sped south on Bells Ferry Road, Henry B. broke the silence! There must be a God, what an unexpected bonus!He was refering to the fact that one of the hurlers was none other than George Tweedy.

It seemed that "Old Pruneface" (George) inadvertantly dropped his flaming cocktail all over himself! J.D. quickly pushed the "Human Torch" over the bridge railing and downward toward the murky water some 50 feet below. As luck would have it, George missed the water and upon the rocky shore. "Close but no cigar" would be this poor old wretches final epitath.

All 4 occupants wiped tears caused by derisive laughter from their eyes as the speeding vehichle reached it's destination. Now all entered the Villas of Kennesaw clubhouse bar, which had been previously reserved for the evening. "Did he suffer"? I asked. "Which one?", my wife asked. "Huh"!

Finally H.B. was able to speak and relay the tale of "Old Lonesome George's demise". Loud guffaws filled the room, it was gonna be a great night!!!

Stay tuned for Chapter Two:
Where in the world Is Gary ASSitelli?