Negative seven the hard way in Normal entries

Fucking East Coast, they stole all my freezing my ass off thunder. Not one goddamn national news story about haredawgs ass. Fake news. It was negative thirteen below when I opened the door to the FedEx guy this morning.

This one gonna-make-it-big-on-the-spot CBS weather girl was in Maine and kept saying it was below freezing. Guess nobody thought to edit the seven times she said that. Fucking 31 degrees is below freezing, I’d be wearing a bob Marley t-shirt and Bermuda shorts at thirty-one. So far, here, in 2018, including Windchill, we’ve had maybe three hours above zero. I think that’s what she meant or, for some reason, she was talking about Celsius. They could have at least used the Haredawg ass scale in they were going off book.

It’s been too fucking cold to snow, though, packages the mailman dropped off sometime after 8PM (I checked at 745) were crystalized. In one of the packages were late Christmas gifts, including, but not limited to, a bottle of gentleman Jack. The ice-cold bottle made it very appealing, but, I’m not in the habit of drinking Tennessee whisky before sunrise. Knobs creek bourbon, maybe, or a nice single malt.

Oh, the sonsabitchs in the UK sent me a Christmas card and I ordered a shit-ton of scotch from them. It’s not like you can find Dalmore on the shelves around here, though there’s seven different types of cinnamon schnapps. How do these little fuckers ever live through their undergrad studies? Swear to sweet swaddlin’ baby Jesus (belated birthday shout out) they should have a mandatory freshman class on how to drink. I’d be really embarrassed to wind up in an ER with cinnamon schnapps and jaeger puke on my coat. I’d try to convince them my friends did it, I was just on coke and smack.

I’m typing to steel my nads for a trip out of doors. The sun is bright and the sky pale blue and if I found my sunglasses they’d freeze to the bridge of my nose. One thing about American cars; the heaters all work like a motherfucker. Um, that’s like a good motherfucker, the kind that sends mother day cards. But all the mechanical heat in the world doesn’t thaw out sunglasses or pipe lighters in under an hour. I suppose if you put them on the dash. I hate shit on the dash. Every time I take a corner my instinct is to grab shit on the dash as it flies by. Even things like a rubber stuck St. Christopher which won’t topple with a turn, bugs me. Um, any Saint with a suction cup under his skirt would bug me, but only Chris (who I think was stripped of his sainthood) makes any sense for a dashboard. You sure don’t want St. Dismiss for car jackers.

Why do my nads need to go out doors? They follow wherever the rest of me goes, and the rest of me is hankering for Popeyes ghost pepper chicken wings. I keep my hankerings within reason. It’s why I don’t hanker for fried catfish in January in the fucking frozen upper Midwest. Hmmm, there should be a fucking between mid and west but it doesn’t have the right number of syllables, mid-ass-fucking-west might, but that’s just silly. Maybe Upper-you-ass-mid-fucking-west.

Heh. In the bad old days of OD my location was listed as Upper US. About five years into it I got a note from someone saying they finally got it, had thought it redundant that
Ramblings From Oregon was also the Upper US. I said that saying with a fake Italian accent in the description would be too much like explaining a joke. There’s a special level of hell for Joke explainers right below those who always forget the middle of a joke and go straight to the punchline without the set up. I noticed when I was watching Pirates of the Caribbean Dead Men tell no tales, that the Johnny Depp character always sets up his own spontaneous punchlines. That’s not comedy, that’s joke telling. I was also wondering why Disney still thought that pirate tales were relevant to modern kids (for all the grossness, drinking and whoring, those movies are still for kids, as is the ride at Disneyland). Yes, of course I watched it all the way through more than once, but I’m not proud of it.

I think the character is modeled after the old Popeye, like in the forties, when Popeye was always muttering to himself and in a bad mood. Of course, even without a movie or cartoon code, Popeye was still supposed to be sober and he never fought the dead, and he spoke American in a heterosexual way, though, olive oyl was not overtly feminine. Oh, and he used to smoke a pipe. In fact, as a group, sailors used to be pipe smokers. For all the fake nostalgia modern pipe smokers occasionally want to dredge up, they seem to ignore the rich sailor lore and the pipe smoking tall tale telling at pubs after a rough day at sea. It’s a tradition that far pre-dates the whole sherlock Holmes alter at which those sonsabitchs worship at. They like to think of themselves as smart.

I was reading this pipe blog and the guy brags that he’s a millennial and his “tobacco cellar” doesn’t have anything aged for ten years. Pretentious asshole and I found myself mocking his reviews and what he chose to review. He writes pipe reviews like e-cig reviews crossbred with wine reviews and they were first cousins. Oh, and like the caveat of the wine reviews was – nothing over five ninety-nine at the 7-11. He even lists the pipe he smoked them in for the review. Not only underwhelming pipes, but pretentiously, expensive, underwhelming pipes. Like a waiter in LA saying the names of celebrities who stiffed him on a cheeseburger with reverence, like it were an honor.

Ok, nads steely and my underreported ass are on a quest for ghost pepper wings. And I’m spent.