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My third kid, The Beast, turned thirteen years old yesterday. He's thirteen, I'm forty-three. We are at exactly the same age difference as my father and I. Today, at forty-three years of age; I got a huge, massive, enormous, giant, zit on my nose. HYAOOOOOOOOOOOOGE ASS PIMPLE. Did I mention that I'm not the thirteen-year old? I never remember my father having pimples when I was thirteen. Hell, I didn't have pimples when I was thirteen. goddam.
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I spent the last couple of weeks of free time cleaning and rebuilding a set of weber carburetors for my TR6. I finally get the damn things synced up and just about dialed in, and the temperature drops down to mid-freaking cold. 

And rainy. 

This is the reason I don't golf. I mean, I'd love to learn how to golf, especially since I can fit clubs in the trunk of my car (and a cooler behind the seats), but the rain gods hate me.  Golf is expensive and I don't like to waste money.  Unless it's on a 45 year old British car. 

Hup hup


I'm in Columbia, SC. Where I'd move if I didn't have maddmom or kids to worry about,  and the airport here is wonderful. I suppose I'm one of a very few people who travel through this airport who like it, because this is the Ft Jackson airport, so it's full of kids on their way to Basic or AIT.   Last night, my plane was delayed, by about one and a half hours. There were two squads of bucks on my plane and almost all of them had been, well, over served in ATL. 

I had to pee by the time I disembarked and since I was in the last seat, last row on my flight, I was the last asshole off the plane. 

The first asshole off the plane was a drunk-ass grunt with severely low tolerance who was puking all over the bathroom in the terminal. He was apologizing for it, but man, I was pissed off.    "Blarrrrtgh," he said, "oh I am sorry, I don't know how this happened, blearrrrght "

Long story short , I had to wade through a creek of used margaritas to get to my urinal and I was angry. Until I zipped up and made my way to the end of the terminal and saw the boss at the end. Mr sarge was waiting, with five braced boys, miserable as shit at midnight, buzz destroyed and getting kicked in the ass by reality and the U S Army. 

That's when I stoped being angry about my shoes.