Fat Bastards' Moving Company

When I heard that Leroy was stopping in North Carolina to collect a few things on the way to his mother’s house, I was very excited. I immediately started taking mental notes on the location of nearby porta-jons, rows of unguarded traffic cones, big-hair heavy metal rock bands, local auto races, and other sources of amusement. I wanted Leroy to have a good time while he was in town.

But when we arrived at Leroy’s storage unit, it turned out that the task at hand amounted to more than “throwing a few things in the back of the rental truck.” Leroy is the proud owner of the 1934 Old Italian Car. Well, as I should say, the remains of a 1934 Old Italian Car. The kind of car that can only be moved by jacking its ass up in the air and sliding furniture dollies under the crumbling tires.

So how do you move a car like that onto the trailer? One inch at time. How do you secure it so it doesn’t fall off? With steel come-along cables. And ropes. And nylon straps. And chains. And duct tape. Why hoist it onto a trailer in the first place? Why doesn’t Leroy just charge up its battery and drive it back to Texas? Because he also had to get 2,389 of his heavy-duty, commercial-grade paving stones loaded into the truck. There aren’t any rocks in Texas, so Leroy imports his from North Carolina.

The biggest obstacle to getting all this done was that Leroy and I aren’t as young as we used to be… we’ve each gained over five pounds since high school. And it was 94 degrees… probably more than that on the blacktop… and very humid. It was a good thing that we had brought a cooler filled with refreshing beverages, and another good thing that Leroy can still open beer bottles with his teeth.

Turns out, the job took all day and we never made it to the Fiat car show in Winston-Salem like we had planned. But it was finally time to hoist the engine and transmission (sold separately) into the back of the truck with the paving stones. In this photo we are gathering up our tools. Like Jethro Clampett, Leroy travels with his clothes packed in cardboard boxes. Note the cardboard tubes to safely transport collectable beer cans.

The 1934 Old Italian Car finally arrived back at my double-wide in Clayton. After a day in the heat, it was time for a hard-earned BBQ dinner, cold beers, and some flesh-eating zombie movies. By the time you read this the Old Italian Car will be back in Texas, ready to become Leroy’s latest restoration project. While I am relieved that my job is done, I’m afraid that Leroy’s work is just beginning.

Does Size Really Matter?

I hate to think that this posting may join the legions of the “does size matter” opinion columns. But I’m afraid I cannot make my point without addressing this eternal issue.

Let me begin by saying that, under most circumstances, size does matter. But just because your motorcycle engine is smaller than your friends’ doesn’t mean that you can’t have any fun. My first motorcycle was a used 250cc Honda Rebel. I wanted to buy a motorcycle and join the two-wheeled community, and was able to do so for only $300 because I was willing to accept that fact that I was going to own something smaller than almost everyone else.

Sure, I could have deferred the purchase and saved up more money for a bigger motorcycle. But at the time my poverty status was so acute there was no telling how long that was going to take. Looking back, I see that I made the right decision. I bought the little Honda Rebel and began having fantastic two-wheeled adventures right away. I rode through the mountains. I rode to the beaches. I toured the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I commuted to work… at a maximum speed of about 60 MPH (going downhill).

Before I knew it, my friends were running out to buy motorcycles too. Even though they all started with budget-conscious, used bikes, it seemed like they always ended up with motors over 1000cc. I had a hard time keeping up with them, which began to frustrate me after a while. So I finally sold the little 250cc bike for $500 and bought a 650cc Honda Nighthawk for $1,000. Yes, what I had was still much smaller than my friends, but at least now I could keep up with them and participate in Ironbutt endurance riding events. I rode the 650cc Honda all over North America and had many more fantastic and unforgettable adventures.

With the Honda Nighthawk totally worn out, I sold it for $1,000 and bought a used BMW sport-touring bike with a whooping 750cc motor. It was bigger than anything I had ever had before. My amazing adventures continued but, embarrassed by my small motor, I was still shy about parking next to my friends. Finally I bit the bullet and bought the new bike of my dreams right off the showroom floor. The Honda Interceptor is a world championship-winning sportbike. While it’s wicked-fast, it only displaces 800cc… so to this day my motor is still smaller than my friends who, by this time, are all riding 1300cc to 1600cc touring bikes.

With no new, larger motorcycle in the foreseeable future I must now grapple with the fact that I’m always going to have a smaller motor than everyone else I ride with. If that’s the way it’s got to be, then why not go “all out”? For those of you who don’t know, the Ironbutt Rally is the country’s premiere endurance riding event. The few who finish the rally will have journeyed over 11,000 miles in eleven days… and the top finishers will have traveled much further.

I am a proud member of the Ironbutt long-distance riding community, and I happen to know that the smallest motorcycle to ever finish the rally was a 125cc German motorcycle called a Zundapp.

Since I’m going all-out, I think I can shatter that record with my new 50cc pocketbike. As you can see from the photos, I have already begun training for this grueling event. I’m going to prove to the world that size doesn’t matter, at least when it comes to having fun on a motorcycle. I encourage all wanna-be riders to buy whatever they can afford and start riding RIGHT NOW. Jump in the game. Join the fun. Life is short.

It must be noted that the Zundapp motor had to be rebuilt several times during its stint on the 11,000 mile Ironbutt circuit, so I’m going to need one hell of a mechanical support team to complete this challenge. Any volunteers? Leroy?

Why I Love Ronald Regan

I was nine years old when Jimmy Carter was elected president, but nobody in my family voted for him. I remember his election vividly because even at that young age I was fascinated with politics and world events. I watched the news every chance I got and, believe it or not, often read the newspaper.

My friends will readily affirm that I have always been overly-sensitive and prone to drama. Even today the issues clouding my mind quickly grow out of proportion, becoming larger and more important than they really are. Yet my lack of relativity was exponentially greater when I was a timid, insecure, fearful child trying to make sense of the world for the first time. I wanted more than anything to understand how everything fit together… I wanted reassurance that I was living in a logical, interconnected paradigm and that our American society was the safest possible place for me to learn and grow.

Unfortunately, nothing that happened during the Carter administration made me feel in any way secure. I remember that you couldn’t buy gas for your car no matter how much money you had. My stepfather once parked his car at a gas station and slept in it overnight because he heard that the station would get a tanker delivery the next morning. The speed limit was lowered to 55 to conserve precious energy, which we were told would soon be all gone. President Carter directed us to switch to the metric system. The Olympic Games didn’t happen. The Cold War was red-hot; the threat of a nuclear holocaust hung like a dark cloud over everything we did. I could go on and on about all the problems of the Carter-era that troubled me greatly in the 1970s. But even as a child I realized that we had lost our way.

Most of all, I remember the Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iranian hostage crisis. The Ayatollah had put a gun to our collective head, and we as a nation seemed paralyzed. I would watch Jimmy Carter on the news, with his gray hair and milky-white complexion… fish-belly white. Fear and anxiety were etched into his face. His carefully-chosen words were strained, weak, and comfortless. His botched hostage rescue fiasco confirmed my worst suspicions. America had become a eunuch.

In 1980, however, a Lone Ranger rode in from the Wild West. A rugged, real cowboy galloped into town -- and he promised to clean up Dodge City and set things right again. He spurred his strong white horse, twirled his six-guns, and waved his hat in the air. There was a new sheriff in town, and he was kicking ass and taking names. The hostages in Iran were released within minutes of his inauguration. The stupid metric system went out the window, right behind the ugly shag carpeting. Gasoline flowed freely again. Energy was plentiful. The economy thrived. Businesses boomed. Stocks soared. In time, even the mighty Soviet Union crumbled into oblivion, unable to keep pace with our massive military buildup.

Almost overnight, the natural order of things had been restored. At least that’s the way I’ve chosen to remember it. America quickly returned to being the biggest bully on the world stage, and we were all proud to be a part of it. We were the 10 percent of the world that consumed 90 percent of its resources, yet President Regan made no apologies. He stood tall. He refused to take shit from anyone. He spoke freely and cracked funny jokes, which made me believe that everything was going to be okay after all. I listened to his eloquent words with rapt attention, and everything he said tantalized my heart and soul. If you listen carefully to his speeches, you’ll notice that President Regan often spoke directly to the nation’s children. He instructed us and guided us. I felt valued and important and safe. President Regan became like a grandfather to me, the World’s Coolest Grandfather that I had always wanted to have.

For the first time in my life, I was fiercely proud to be an American. Through Ronald Regan’s confident rhetoric, I understood the “glue” that held America together. I understood that some things are worth fighting for, and that it’s okay to kick someone’s ass if they really have it coming to them. I understood the absurdity of an excessively large government, socialist giveaway programs, and obscene tax schedules. I understood the concept of peace through strength. I learned how to do things The Cowboy Way. Most of all, I understood that Ronald Regan had pulled us back from the brink of oblivion and restored us to our proper place in the world.

To this day I still can’t talk about President Regan’s decent into the madness of Alzheimer's disease, nor about his death, without crying profusely. The damage is irreparable. No other man will ever be able to fill those snakeskin boots, and consequently I remain inconsolable. Judging from the staggering turnout at his funeral, I’m not the only one who feels deeply indebted to Ronald Regan for what he did for our nation… and for what he did for many of us on the most personal level. Rest in Peace.

The Most Politically Correct Toy Ever

The Most Politically Correct Toy Ever!

If you’ve been following my blog, you already know that I almost purchased a Barack Obama chia pet. So I would like to redeem myself by featuring the most politically correct toy ever manufactured by Medline products. If these pictures look a little fuzzy to you, just click on them and you can check them out more clearly.

Forget G.I. Joe. Forget Nick Fury. Forget all those other macho, testosterone-riddled, violence-prone army sergeants we idolized as kids. Meet Scip – the “Combat Nurse.” According to the box, Scip is tough enough to endure the “chaotic offloading of wounded comrades and back-to-back lifesaving surgeries.” He is also rugged enough to have his “stamina challenged every day with long hours and tense shifts.”

If you’re confused, don’t worry. The back of the box explains how you’re supposed to fit Scip’s character into your pre-existing paradigm. Scip works in the center of the war zone, “prepping the patient and operating room for a diverse range of surgeries… he works seamlessly with his team of surgeons, anesthesiologists, and infection preventionists to keep the wounded alive and improve surgical care.”






The side of the box, not pictured, shows the other action figures within the Medline Collection. Of course the surgeon, anesthesiologist, and other prestigious medical professionals are all appropriately female, and some are even African-American as well. Please check your prejudices and gender stereotypes at the door…

Will this series of politically correct, non-violent action figures save the troubled Medline Corporation? The company executives are currently facing criminal charges for intentionally defrauding the government by falsifying Medicare claims. The most recent estimate is that the company has swindled taxpayers out of $140 million dollars… but if these toys are big sellers they may be able to reimburse the government, pay a massive fine, and keep out of jail.

So what’s the verdict? Is Scip powerful enough to knock down gender barriers before they have a chance to form within impressionable children? Is Scip heroic enough to save our children from society’s sustained attempts at socialization and inculcation? I don't know... but I could do without the "crocs" and the lipstick.

For me, the issue was settled definitively when a politically correct friend of mine bought her two boys a large play kitchen. It was really cool… it had a large stove, refrigerator, microwave, everything. Her daughter was given a mechanical robot. That too, was cool. You could take it apart with tools, change internal gear ratios, program it to perform tasks, everything. She was determined that her children, at least, would grow up free of gender stereotypes.

So what happened? By the time she got home from work, the boys had carried the play kitchen into the woods. They had thrown a camouflage blanket over the top, and were using it as an army fort to play “war.” The little girl promptly named the robot “Machine Baby.” She wrapped it in a blanket and was rocking it in a crib. Given our strong genetic proclivities, I have to wonder if Scip will succeed in making nursing a macho occupation. Hope springs eternal…

Jackhammer

The Obama Chia Pet

To Chia or Not to Chia... that is the question.

I have always been a big fan of Chia pets – the pottery that grows! This is a picture of my first Chia pet. I’ve had it for over ten years, and have planted and re-planted it many times. I think it’s supposed to be either a dog or a cow.














As you will readily notice, my Chia is bald. That is because I have an amazing talent for offending people. Let me tell what I did this time that was so horrible.

When I first started working as an administrative intern, I “seeded” my Chia pet and had it growing on the windowsill of my office. My supervising administrator promptly declared the Chia an aberration, and insisted that I get rid of it. When I refused, she went into my office when I wasn’t there and poured it full of bleach. The clay readily absorbed this toxic substance and it hasn’t been able to grow anything since (despite repeated soakings in clean water). To this day I have never understood why she couldn’t endure the sight of it.

So imagine my delight when I saw that a new, interesting kind of Chia was now available! You can purchase the Barack Obama Chia, and you even get to choose between the “Happy Obama” and the “Determined Obama.” I decided that it was time to upgrade to a brand-new Obama Chia and start growing herbs again.

But the plot thickens. I quickly learned that Walgreen’s had pulled this product from their shelves because the Obama Chia pets might be considered “racist” items. Later, one of my co-workers chastised me when she noticed me eyeballing the Obama Chia pets on amazon.com.

This got me thinking. I readily dismissed the “racist” aspect of the issue because trying to make a racist statement was the furthest thing from my mind. Obama has never attempted to exploit racial issues, and from what I’ve seen, Obama hasn’t let his minority status prevent him from doing anything he wanted to do. But there seemed to be an underlying issue here… the issue of respect for the office of the president.

Is it disrespectful to purchase and display a presidential Chia? I applied a litmus test to that question using my favorite president, Ronald Regan. How would I feel if I walked into a co-worker’s office and saw him growing herbs on top of Ronald Regan’s head? I realized that I would be very angry indeed. I concluded that presidential Chias must be inherently disrespectful, and that the Obama Chia was therefore in bad taste. No sale.

But in our complex society, there is never just one issue… satellite issues must also be examined and dealt with. In this case, what about the other products that were designed to ridicule and embarrass public figures? Sitting presidents? Ex-presidents? The Secretary of State? Take it a step further. Is it inappropriate to dress up like Obama for Halloween? Like Nixon? Like Clinton? Where do you draw the line?















Would you be willing to whip out the Bill Clinton Corkscrew or the Hillary Nutcracker at your next party? Would anyone be offended? Maybe… maybe not. I voted for Bill Clinton (twice), yet I wouldn’t be offended by the Bill Clinton Corkscrew because he was kinda asking for that one.

Lest we think that tasteless presidential items are a republican creation, check out the George W. Bush toilet brush. No? How about the matching George W. Bush toilet paper holder bearing the inscription “Use this to clean up the mess I made.”

As always, you’re free to draw your own conclusions on this issue. I also understand that, as a public figure, you have no protection from this sort of thing. Sure, someone might purchase an Obama Chia, or an Obama action figure, or an Obama thong (no kidding), or other item because they are big fans of the 44th president. No insult may be intended, but my experience has been that people try pretty darn hard to take things the wrong way. So let the buyer beware!

As for me and my house, we will not abide the Obama Chia, nor anything else that rudely and tastelessly disrespects the President of the United States. Any president. Regardless of whom you voted for in the past election, Obama won the election fair and square… and that fact is undisputed. So I feel it is our duty as Americans to get behind the dude and give his ideas a chance to work. Hopefully they will. Anything less is a slap in the face to the democratic principles we so vigorously advocate… principles good men have given their lives to defend.

As for the other items, I suggest the following test. Imagine that the item was manufactured using the likeness of your favorite president. Would you be offended if you saw someone displaying it? If so, you might want to re-think that purchase.

Jackhammer

There’s a New Babe in Town…

Britney Spears used to be so hot. Remember when she was first starting out? Her handlers would release pictures of young Britney dressed in short-skirted Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, sucking her fingers, posing provocatively in her bedroom with teddy bears… so innocent and yet so naughty. She was every pervert’s dream. Oh, yeah, she could sing too.

All of Britney’s handlers, managers, producers, songwriters, dance choreographers, publicists, etc., were the best in the business. She surrounded herself with people who knew what they were doing. She listened to them and took their advice. Britney just kept getting hotter and hotter. Eventually she publically admitted that she was no longer a virgin; Britney declared that she liked sex, and even added that she was “good at it.” Her overheated sexuality culminated in her Los Vegas performance, a concert I will never forget.

Then the bubble burst. Britney, like all girls, was programmed from birth to get married and make babies. To this end, Britney distanced herself from all of the professionals who had made her so successful. Almost immediately, she made a long series of disappointing choices. She chose Kevin Federline to sire her children, and even married the gold-digging fool. She got fat. She got hooked on drugs. She shaved her head. She stopped wearing panties. She slurped on Madonna. She broke up with Federline by sending him a text message. She crashed her Mercedes into other people’s cars. She started screwing her bodyguards and the paparazzi men who were following her around. She went in and out of rehab treatment centers. She first learned that her little sister was pregnant when the reporters asked her to comment on it. Britney did everything she could to prove that you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.





I could bear it no more. Disillusioned, I took down my Britney posters. I scraped the Britney stickers off my cars and boats. Years passed. Her alleged “comebacks” proved to the world that she would never again be our fantasy girl.  I became depressed.

Then, in the summer of 2008, everything changed. I was relaxing in my lawn chair at a Tim McGraw concert, minding my own business, waiting for the show to start. Suddenly this little blond sprite strutted onto the stage in white cowgirl boots, wearing the shortest green silk dress imaginable. Her name was Taylor Swift, and I was captivated. With my mouth open and my tongue hanging out I watched her prance around, dance, play her guitar, beat on drums… she was amazing.

Taylor is different than Britney. Her wholesome image isn’t a product as astute producers and skillful handlers. Taylor is grounded and special and real. She lives at home with both parents, whom she loves and respects. She isn’t interested in humping Jon Bon Jovi, Eddie Van Halen, or any of her bodyguards. Taylor isn’t into drinking, drugs, and head-shaving… she even wears underwear. No piercings, no tattoos, no self-destructive behavior. Taylor’s the kind of girlfriend you could bring home to hang out with your daughter… just make sure you get her back by midnight or you’ll have to deal with her dad.

At the age of 18, Taylor won her first Grammy. When was asked how it felt to have won such a high honor, Taylor replied that “it was the highlight of my senior year.” How cute is that? See what I mean? Taylor is everything that Britney used to be, and more. Watch her on stage singing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” with Def Leppard, just for fun:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSaAXDBvfho





See how she walks? See that unbelievably sexy short silk dress? That’s her trademark. So young, so beautiful, so innocent and yet so naughty. She’s every pervert’s dream. Oh, yeah, she can sing too…

Jackhammer