I need ice.

I'm getting old.

My muscles don't heal as fast as they used to when I was younger.

Whatever happened to running around all day, then bouncing around more at night?

Now, I gotta ice the spasms, the groaning, the creaking, the screaming bits and pieces of me that just don't want to work as fast or as stronge as they once did.

Ugh. Yeck. Blech. Ick.

Ralph. Hmph. Moan. Curse.

Goin off the grid, ala John Connor

So the cute, adorable phone of my childhood has turned into the second cousin of the Terminator - the big bad one sent back to kill Sarah Conner before John was even born. (Yes, I am a raging geek).

My phone line isn't working. So, being the smart resilient person that I am, I called the phone company (irony alert: have you tried to find the phone company's number in the phone book?) to find out what was happening.

I was welcomed by the automated responsed service (thanks tech support types); which is actually a nice pleasant female voice without a thinking mentality or a soul, by the way.

Following is my completely illogical conversation with one of the machines that will likely be taking over the world any day now.

Disembodied voice: "What type of service do you need. Please say telephone service or DSL. Or for further service say agent for a technician."

Me: "Human."

Disembodied Voice: "Okay, fios."

Me: "No, human, please."

Disembodied Voice: "Type of fios."

Me: "Telephone service."

Disembodied Voice: "I did not understand that request."

Me: "Of course you didn't you stupid machine."

Disembodied Voice: "Okay, DSL."

Me: "Oh my gosh. Agent, give me a human."

Disembodied Voice: "Please state your phone number, with area code first."

Me: "Im not talking with a machine. AGENT!"

Disembodied Voice: "I'm having trouble with your request. Please hold while I connect you with our technical support department."

Me: "Thank you. Woohoo a human!"

New Disembodied Voice: "Hello welcome to (phone company's name) technical service department. You have entered the automated tech service help line. Please state the type of service you would like. Telephone service or DSL."

Me: "ARRGGHH"

This blog brought to you by . . . the number 100

I SO hate the number 100 right now. It's dreaded hatefulness can just plainout bite me.

Granted, I despise numbers as it is - the world is a great number conspiracy, if you wondered. For example, computers, they RUN on numbers. No wonder the machines will take over the earth one day.

I digress.

I've spent the last four weeks chasing 100, I got it once and crushed it to shreds. But, now, it is back and will not leave me in peace. All I want is a teeny, sweet 99. I'm willing to barter, beg, connive, steal, threaten, and throw stuff to get my 99. Or even better a 98.

I'm right there with ya' Phil. Hang in there buddy, just watch out for malicious hospitality tents.

Got the time?

The arms swirl faster and faster, blistering speed

counting off the moments of life

wasted sitting on this stupid blog.

Or watching vids that take longer to buffer

than to actually watch.

The internet superhighway has become logjammed in

it's own brilliance, jackknifed Websites, t-boned online movies, crunched and compacted computer drives, and five mile byte backups.

Loading, loading, loading . . .

I wanna hire this guy . . .

So I've decided that I want a man-eating crocodile on my payroll (which currently includes two vicious mercenary tabbies who collect payment in kittie chow).

This fella would be a bonus to have when walking in my local Wal-Mart parking lot after dark (about a mugging a week, average); or when I'm waiting in line at the post office and the person holding up the line wants a detailed accounting of just how much insurance he should put on a letter that weights less than an ounce.

Also, I'd post my new ally at the gateway to my house (otherwise known as the front door) to ward off all those annoying door-to-door frozen meat salesmen. Where do these guys come from anyway? And, besides, who would be stupid enough to buy meat from the back of a guy's dented, rusted up 1992 Ford F150, with a basement freezer attached to the bed with bungee cords.

But the best benefit to having a man-eater hanging out in the house - I'd be the only one on the block with one. Take that Mr. and Mrs. Establishment Jones.

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/news/gustave-primeval/article.html

So, the South really did lose . . .

The 145th reenactment of the battle of Gettysburg was well worth (barely, the dude got lucky it was too hot to push his car over the hill) sitting in the stupid parking lot (a big ol' grass field) for 90 minutes trying to get out.

For some reason, I only took pictures of Union soldiers, hmmm.

Bloody Hungry

Bloody hungry, am I.

Hmm, who's bare flesh is that I see?

Two, long, gorgeous legs, ripe with sangria.

Darting toward the tan exposed skin

drunk on eatn' ya.

Diving daringly downward, in for a sip;

blazing balefully backward, out before the fatal finger whipp.

Gorged on rich blood, I sit on a nearby branch to digest.

While watching hundreds of my brethern be the next guest.

Driving Blind

I stop looking. I found it.

Strapping on the blindfold, behind the wheel, shut the door, roaring the engine to life.

Stomp it.

Feeling life springing under my fingertips.

Lit on power.

Red fire singing under my eyelids.

Red fire surging in my chest.

Intricate dance moves with kiss-my-ass curves.

Sashaying to a new beat, one long forgotten.

Alive, again.

Sweaty Balls

They fly, float, whirl, hurl, stumble, and slam through the air.

More coveted than gold, silver, or coin of the realm for their short time in play.

The desire of many of a focused, eye, heart, and soul.

Hearts beat, pound, and thunder at the thought of touching, of controling these implements.

Body fluids course, stream, and drip onto the objects of desire, onto the playing fields, and onto the players themselves.

No one noticing, no one caring - it's all for one thing.

Unless you're the poor schumk who's been asked "Hey, man, you mind?" before touching the slimy, shining wet ball and tossing it back over the fence or onto the court.

Waist O' Time

There is nothing more divine

than spending precious time online.

No more losing myself in a life-altering

book visiting worlds, full of adventure.

Spending time with gorgeous flowers is

not counted among my hours.

Instead, more than hours six spent

definintely amped up and hell bent

on a photo, so crappy, it's trash.

(not this one)