I started this blog two years ago today.
Nothing's really changed around here since I started. I changed the teplate twice, added my brother to the contributors, got rid of my blogroll and added a bunch of crap to the sidebar. Other than that, nothing.
Wait, I changed some of the font colors and added a link to brew-masters.
Since I started this blog, I've had another kid, moved to a new house and changed jobs. I've toned down my language thanks to my wife and re-gained about 10 pounds thanks to Breyers ice cream.
I'm about fed up with both of my cars.
I turned 35 years old last Friday. I remember when my oldest son was born and I thought, "wow, when this kid is ten years old I'll be 34." and I thought that was a long way off. Now I think," Oh my God, this kid'll be in college in eight years, I don't have enought time to get ready!"
My "new computer" is two years old. I made sure that it was spec'ed out to be able to run Doom3 when I bought it. I still haven't bought Doom3.
The youngest is now almost two years old. That means I have about one more year of cleaning up shitty diapers before he's potty trained. As soon as that kid is crapping on the toilet, I'm shooting the cat. I will never clean up someone else's shit again. Unless I have another kid. Or something else horrible happens to my wife. But in that case, I'll hire a nurse. A hot young nurse in a short skirt and a little nurse hat. I'll pinch her ass when she walks by and she'll say something cute in Swedish and slap my hand. At least I'll think its cute, but she'll really be saying something like, "Touch my ass again you wrinkly old bastard and I'll double the rat poison I put in your Metamucil." Then she'll marry one of my sons without a pre-nup and spend her first four years of alimony on tatoos and the next five supporting her pimp, "Cholly O"'s, meth habit. I'll have to spend the money I had put away from the fourth-place finish in the Sunset Arms' bocce tournament to have them both killed outside of a Circle K in Elk City, Oklahoma. I'll end up paying so much blackmail to "Cholly's ex-wife and her boyfreind who did the hit, that the Sunset Arms will kick me out for non-payment. I'll end up luring those two bastards out to the trailer I'm renting off of 356 in Scott county and killing them both, one with a shovel to the head and one with a rigged Bic lighter. Of course I'll end up breaking my hip during the struggle over the shovel. I'll manage to crawl to the carport, and try to climb up the stairs to the house, but I'll end up falling among the overfilled and very smelly trashcans, where I will succumb to hypothermia and dehydration. Then the raccoons will come, attracted by the smell of the garbage and rotting me, and they'll spread my bones around the yard. The landlord will show up when the rent is three weeks late with his bottle of pepper spray and blackjack ready in case I'd been drinking. He'll call the cops who'll initially write it off as a Coyote attack, but one enterprising young officer will find a fragment of the boyfriend's skull in the ash heap. The ex-wife's body will never be found. The sheriff, who by that time is my third son, will quash the investigation by starting a brush fire that effectively destroys any evidence. All will be well until the Oklahoma State Patrol pulls over my second son in the pimp's '92 Cutlass Ciera for open container and no registration while storm chasing. Seems, he never really gave up on his Swedish sweetie and has been driving around in what he thought was her car from cheap motel to cheap motel, drinking peach schnappd and desperatley looking for her. He's been making a living selling tornado videos to local TV news, but in all this time, he never noticed the strands of hair in the trunk.
He'll call my oldest from the county lock-up. My oldest, who by now is a very successful lawyer and campaign manager for my youngest son who is just out of the service and running for mayor of an unnamed north-eastern metropolis on his war record. A record, which is of course, not really his, but was lifted from the posthumous medal citation of a young man in his unit. A young man, who saved the life of his beloved "Louie". My oldest realizes that his youngest brother will never get elected if another scandal hits the papers. There is already a scandal brewing since my youngest has been killing his guilt with outrageous drunken stag parties held in a suite of hotel rooms paid for by the outgoing mayor's political slush fund and a local car dealer\baseball club owner who's playing political fixer to get a new ballpark. A ballpark that not so coincedentally happens to be my youngest son's big campaign issue. My oldest has managed to head off any real notice of this scandal by bedding the dogged and veteran political reporter who's been digging into this issue. She's a tough but extremely attractive, with a lot to prove because she'a a woman. Oh, she knows he's married, she didn't get to where she is by having any allusions, but there's something about him, besides the good looks and power. . . something else...
Then one early morning she wakes up in a motel room after my oldest has left in a panic in the middle of the night. She heard him say, "yes he is my brother" and "don't do a thing until I get there.", then he kissed her on the cheek, said, "I gotta take a plane ride...for a client" before he bailed out. He had been scribbling on the end page of the Gideon bible, but he tore out the page and all she could make out from the impression on the cover was "Scott County Sheriff - 812-2". She immediately called her boss,"Tony, where's the 812 area code?"
"Indiana," he said, "Where are you Cookie?" Cookie, her nickname, they called her that because she was one, a tough cookie who never took any crap, but she let them use the nickname to show she could take the ribbing, just like the guys in the newsroom.
"Look, I gotta go somewhere.", she was deliberately trying to be vaugue.
"Where Cook? You've got a deadline in less than three weeks you've got to make, you've spent too much time on this as it is, maybe you're in too deep. Maybe there's nothing there."
"Oh there's something there Tony, I'm sure of it. But I think there's something bigger than we originally thought. I need to go to Indiana, make some excuses. I'll..I'll be back in a week."
"Cook, you can't expense. . . ."click, she hung up.
Thirteen hours later she was packed, planed and landed and pulling up to the front of the Sheriff's office in Scott county Indiana where she found a tall, blond man in a uniform sitting on a folding chair playing a Gameboy while trying to eat Wendy's Chili. She asked for the Sheriff, not too politely, these hicks need to know who'se boss, she thought.
"Well," says Gomer, "Sheriff's at lunch, if you want to come back in an hour, you can make your complaint."
"I wasn't going to make a complaint"
"Well," he said, still playing the Gameboy, "you sound kind of mad."
"I'm not mad, I'm from a big unnamed Northeastern City, and we all talk like that"
"Maybe that's why you're all stressed out."
"I'm not stressed out, I was on a plane, I just flew in. I'm looking for someone the Sheriff might know."
"Don't know many reporters. Know lots of lawyers. You'd have a better chance asking for a lawyer."
"I'm asking for the Sheriff."
"I know him pretty well and he doesn't know many reporters either, when did he get here?"
"SHE just got here and I am SHE and I'm not looking for a reporter I am looking for a man!"
"Really?" he grinned. I can help with that. I'm the Sheriff.
And he stood up, six feet two, one ninety, blond hair and blue eyes. Tanned face and good teeth. Exactly what my oldest would have looked like six years and two wives ago.
Cookie took it all in...