All My Bags Are Packed, I'm Ready To Go

We're heading off to the beach today, and being the classy couple that we are, our beach of choice is Myrtle. But there's a good reason for that. We're cheap bastards. Or at least I am. Ron always starts out pushing for Sandestin or Wild Dunes. At first, I'm all, oooh that sounds nice, but after a while, I start to balk. Because when it gets right down to it, I can't stand the thoughts of paying well over a hundred dollars apiece for every round of golf. I just can't do it. My golf game is more like a thirty dollar round, but, okay, I know those probably don't exist. So, I'd like to at least keep it reasonable. And the courses at Myrtle are, for the most part, very nice and very reasonable. So I start out pretending to go along with the idea of other places, but then I s-l-o-w-l-y wear him down. Finally, he just wants to book something, so he gives up. Once we have a condo squared away, then he starts picking out the golf courses he wants to play, and he's fine, because there are some great courses there, like Possum Trot and Pine Lakes and Man-O-War. And we'll eat buckets of shrimp and oysters at Dirty Don's, work our way through great big nasty chili-cheeseburgers at Duck's, and we'll drink cold beer, shoot pool and listen to old beach music at Fat Harold's. 'Cause that's how we roll.
And I'll see ya back here next week.

Ten Random Things That Are Within Reach As I Sit Here At My Computer

1. A bag of wasabi peas (my favorite crunchy snack food ever).
2. A bag of Dove dark chocolate almond "Promises" (I cannot be truly happy without chocolate close by).
3. Two books about gambling: "The Only Poker Book You'll Ever Need" (a matter of opinion) and "Casino Confidential, A Pit Boss's Guide To Beating The House" (definitely not fail-safe).
4. A deck of cards (of course).
5. A miniature Las Vegas sign (are you feeling a theme here).
6. A half-full ('cause I don't want to be a pessimist) bottle of water.
7. A mirror (in case I need to pluck or primp).
8. An invitation to "Join Our All-Star Team" from the Waffle House. (PhillyTwo's idea of funny)
9. Trivial Pursuit - Genus Edition (not sure why).
10. A G.I. Joe in full combat gear (which gives me a false, but somehow magical sense of security).

The Jury Decided

Latalvis Cobbins didn't get the death penalty. Instead, he'll spend the rest of his life behind bars, without the chance for parole. He's only 23, so that may end up being a very long time. The victims' parents weren't pleased. One father said that jail would be like Disneyland to Cobbins. I really don't think so. I don't care what there is to do in prison, it's still prison. He will never be free again. There is some justice in that, just not enough to satisfy the parents. I can understand. They're hurting. They're hearts have been soooooo heavy for soooooo long. They're just looking for a little relief and they didn't find it in court today. We may not agree with how the parents of the victims handle themselves or what they say. We might see ourselves doing it differently. But what we need to remember is that they were handed their life sentences by Latalvis Cobbins and his buddies, who tortured and murdered their son and daughter. 'Nuf said.

No Big Surprise

The defense team screamed: "We didn't want to defend this piece of shit in the first place and now, he's given us just the ticket we need. Your honor, this man is getting ready to lie, lie, lie. Please send us on our merry way."
The judge growled: "Nah. Let's get this over with. Come on up here, Latalvis. Tell us your story. We can't wait to hear it."
The defendant spoke: "I din't do nuthin. I was just along for the ride."
The prosecution cried: "That makes version number eight!"
The jury yelled: "Guilty, guilty and more guilty."

The victims, holding hands and looking down from above cheered: "We knew they'd get it right!"

Rome Is In The House?

WTF? That's seriously how Jamie Satterfield, Knoxville News Sentinel reporter who is covering the Cobbins trial, referred to scum-of-the-earth Latalvis Cobbins in her twitter coverage.
"Rome is in the house!", she said. Exclamation point and all. Like he's some kinda fucking celebrity. Maybe in her world. Not in mine.
Can we be a little more professional and a little less I'd-go-out-with-him-if-he-asked-me, there, Jamie? 'Cause you just made me throw up in my mouth.

I'll Be Glad When It's Over...

and I can get back to whatever it is that I do. In the meantime...
The trial of Latalvis Cobbins has taken over this household like the swarm of red ants that has taken over the south...slowly, at first, until finally we're so immersed in it that we can't pee without worrying that we'll miss something. We were there for the opening statements...Ron, in person, covering it for us, I mean, for the news, and PhillyTwo and I at the computer, watching it on streaming video and reading Ron's Tweets. Then, when it's over for the day, we sit down to dinner, and in between bites of food and heavy alcohol consumption, we dissect the day's proceedings. I might add that the amount of drinking is in direct correlation to the amount of gut-wrenching testimony, and in Ron's case, the number of gruesome pictures he has been exposed to. We are all sickened by the whole thing.
So why watch, you might ask? Well, Ron has to. It's his job. But why should anyone else? Why make that choice to bring that into your home, into your life, if you don't have to? Because the horror that happened to those two young people right here in Knoxville could have happened to anybody. Those two kids were the victims of a gang of criminals who were high on PCP and were just out looking to do something evil. And because those monstors had no souls, they chose to do unconscionable things to two human beings who were just trying to live their lives, and to brutally dispose of them like they were yesterday's garbage? They need to absolutely roast for that. So it's the only thing I can do, the only thing I want to do. To see that justice is done to those savages. To watch the process. To, hopefully, see the correct result that the process brings, so that the parents of those victims can feel a smidgen of justice. It won't help a whole helluva lot, I know that, but if it gives them even the slightest bit of satisfaction, then I will feel better.

Channon Christian's father (referring to Latalvis Cobbins): "When he goes to hell, he can take his apology with him."

Critical Information

I was watching GMA this morning and there was a story about 38-year-old former probation officer, Kristi Cornwell, being abducted while walking down a street in Blairsville, Georgia, while she was talking to her boyfriend on her cellphone. She had already alerted him to the possibility that she was being followed. The police and GBI are investigating, but so far, they've found nothing. When I watched this story, I have to admit that I was somewhat baffled. She worked in law enforcement, for God sakes. I would think that her first inclination, if she thought she was in any kind of danger, would have been to describe the car and its occupants to the person on the other end of the phone, and to make it obvious that she was doing so. Maybe it wouldn't have changed their minds, but it's worth a try. And it's the one tool you have in that crucial moment. Just a couple of facts would surely help.
"Listen, there's an old beat up black Dodge caravan following me with two, no three ugly white men..."

Cyber Romance

The moment I clicked on that infectious link, my life as I knew it was forever over. No more counting on Google to give me a clearer understanding of the world. No more knowledge at my fingertips. Oh, I could get to Google. I could see the results, lined up in the usual neat and orderly fashion. I could even click on the site of my choice. But then, there I was, locked out. Locked out of the one and only place where I truly wanted to be. Whatever malicious disease had infected my computer, it wasn't going to let me open a page. No matter how much I wanted it or how hard I tried, it was redirecting me to some obscure, hideous advertisement in the self-serving, imposing way of an evil, corrupt virus. But I didn't give up. I didn't let it break me. I fought back with every ounce of courage left in me. I renewed my relationship with Norton and he removed the threats and restored order to my universe. I pledge my undying love and devotion to Norton and I promise never to leave him again.

They Don't Serve Whisky At Rehab

Well, readers, I've had to do what I didn't ever want to do...I've had to make it inconvenient for people to comment on my blog. Not impossible, mind you. Just inconvenient. From now on when you comment, you'll have to give up your rights as a United States citizen (whatever they may be), and agree to DNA testing and an extensive background check on every member of your family. Or maybe you'll just be faced with one of those stupid "copy the letters in the box" thingies and the sorry truth that the owner of this blog (yours truly) will have to approve the comment before it appears. Hopefully, it's a temporary situation. I had to resort to this action because some FREAK named Jessica is now using my blog to promote her worthless Internet marketing site. It could be harmless, but I'm not having any part of FREAKY Jessica and her FREAKIN' comments. Frankly, I'm a little FREAKED about it. Hopefully, this one road block will deter her. If not, I can get a whole lot uglier. Not sure how, but like Gust Avrakotos says in Charlie Wilson's War, "We're working on it."






Charlie Wilson: "Do you drink, Mr. Avrakotos?"
Gust Avrakotos: "Oh God yes."

Best Billboard Ever

Two Inches That Mattered

Two inches. That's how far I moved the ottoman Friday night to get it closer to the couch so I could reach PhillyTwo's head. I was pulling hair through the tiny holes in the frosting cap she was wearing, and I needed to sit down for the bottom holes. 'Cause sometimes it's a bonus room, and sometimes it's a beauty parlor. (Right about now my sisters are thinking, Viola Casteel, but I digress.) Once the deed was accomplished, PhillyTwo planted herself on the other couch to return some phone calls, letting the goop atop her head work its magic, and after discarding the remains of the solution, I merely walked back over to sit down and watch t.v. Apparently, I assumed the ottoman had eased its way back into its usual position, because right about then, I rammed the little toe of my right foot into that sucker so hard that I nearly passed out. God it hurt! It was close to eleven o'clock by then, which actually was relevant because I knew my toe was going to swell and I knew that I had to play tennis on Saturday morning. It was definitely too late to call anybody to cancel. So at eight o'clock Saturday morning, I was giving my tennis shoes a try, but I could hear my toe yelling, "Haven't I been through enough, bitch?"
So I opted to wear these sandals
because I figured they were good for walking, so maybe they'd be okay for tennis, and I would rather look like an idiot than not show up. Actually they were fine. My toe wasn't at all squished and I never once fell and busted my ass. My toe continued to change colors throughout the morning until it was a lovely, deep shade of purple, but the ladies at tennis seemed more fascinated by the lime green polish on my toenails than the color of my swollen toe. And when I got home from tennis, I trimmed PhillyTwo's new blond locks...by about two inches.

Back To Normal...Whatever That Is

Okay, okay, due to the high volume of requests (3) I need to bring my readers up to date on the family's recent activity, namely the garage sale (me and Nancy) and the Vegas trip (PhillyTwo).

As luck would have it, our one and only garage sale coincided with Dandridge's one and only dog parade and on Saturday morning every living soul in Jefferson County was marching his pooch up and down Main Street rather than putting him to better use - sniffing out the one-of-a-kind treasures we had waiting on the carport, which begs the question, why call it a garage sale, when clearly there is no garage? Nevertheless, Nancy managed to unload all of her "big-ticket" items, so I'd have to say it was a successful day. As for me, I could fill my car up with gas and then go to the movie, but I'd have to choose between popcorn and a coke. My "rake" wouldn't cover both.

Now for PhillyTwo. Where to begin. She decided not to catch her flight back on Thursday, and I can't really say for sure if she truly regrets that decision, but certainly, it's been interesting. First, one day last week her friend, Bud, came to the sudden realization that he didn't want to live in Vegas any longer, so he was going to pack his worldly possessions into the piece-of-shit cop car that he had bought at auction before he left Knoxville back in May, and he was going to drive back across the country. Pronto. Trouble was, PhillyTwo wanted to stay in Vegas at least until Sunday, to play in the tournament at Binion's. Bud, on the other hand, was hell-bent on leaving immediately. She had to talk him down, which took some doing. Timing was everything. The last day of the month happened to be on Friday, which meant he had to be out of his house by then. PhillyTwo scored a room at the Fremont Hotel on (oddly enough) Fremont Street, using her player's points, so they were squared away until Monday. He reluctantly agreed to it. Now, the Fremont is no Caesar's Palace, but according to PhillyTwo, it wasn't horrible. And it was cheap. $50 for the first night and the next two nights were free. Plus, dining on Fremont Street is nothing like dining on the Strip. The food is dirt cheap. All-you-can-eat prime rib and lobster dinners for under $10. Shrimp cocktails for $4.99. What more could you want? Hopefully, not a pool, 'cause there wasn't one at the Fremont. But other than that...

Well, she didn't win the big tournament at Binion's on Sunday, but they apparently had a pretty good time, eating, drinking and gambling on the cheap ($3 blackjack) while they were there. And the trip home? That was another story. Besides the spare tire, Bud kept a shitload of coolant and oil in the trunk of that old police cruiser, if that tells you anything. And they still had to stop at a Walmart in Oklahoma to restock the coolant because Car 54 Where Are You? was drinking it faster than he could pour it. But that wasn't the half of it. Some over-zealous state trooper in New Mexico pulled them over for allegedly changing lanes without signalling. He made Bud get out of the car and sit in the state trooper car, where he proceeded to grill him about everything. That was when I got the first dreaded phone call from PhillyTwo, which was interrupted when the trooper came up to her window and ask her a bunch of questions, probably trying to see if her answers matched up with his. Most of them did. Then he told her that her friend Bud was acting very nervous, so he was going to search their car. He said she could sit in his car while he made the search. How nice. That was when I got the second, even more dreaded, phone call. "I'm in the back of a police car, inches from a very large drug dog, while two state troopers are looking through my luggage." Just what a mother wants to hear. Of course, they were clean. And Bud didn't even get a ticket, which tells me that the troopers were on a witch hunt. After that, the over-heating car seemed like no big deal. The wayward travelers, or as I like to call them, Gunther Tootie and Francis Muldoon, pulled in at around eleven o'clock yesterday morning. And all's well that ends well.