Snowmaggedon Is Upon Us. Again.

We had snow on Christmas Day here in the mountains, the first time in 139 years.

Here's a picture (taken Christmas Day afternoon) of the Price Building (the former US Mint) on the campus of North Georgia College and State University, THE Military College of Georgia:

I point out the sparse amount of snow on the ground at NGC only because the forecast over the next couple of days calls for between five and seven inches of snow in Dahlonega.

Panic has already set in.  Milk and bread are selling like the Tribulation has begun, but so are beer and wine.

People are hunkering down for the Great Winter Storm of 2011.  Only time will tell how many countless lives will be lost due to a lack of milk and bread.  Or beer and wine.

At our house, we're bringing wood in because there's sure to be a power outage due to lines freezing, then snapping, and pulling down utility poles on the top of bread and milk trucks.

Tragedy upon tragedy.  All because of some snow.

How do I know this is serious?  Because at noon today, Ken Cook of Channel 5 had his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, holding a half-empty glass of milk and a crusty slice of white bread.

I'll report in after the storm subsides.  Or when the supplies run out.

A Christmas Lesson

From Neal Boortz:

Several men are in the locker room of a golf club.  A mobile phone on a bench rings and a man engages the hands-free speaker function and begins to talk.  Everyone else in the room stops to listen.

MAN:  'Hello'?

WOMAN:  'Honey, it's me...are you at the club?'

MAN:  'Yes'

WOMAN:  'I'm at the mall now and found this beautiful leather coat.  It's only $1,000.  Is it OK if I buy it?'

MAN:  'Sure, go ahead if you like it that much.'

WOMAN:  'I also stopped by the Mercedes dealership and saw the new 2011 models.  I saw one I really liked.'

MAN:  'How much?'

WOMAN:  '$98,000'.

MAN:  'OK, but for that price I want it with all the options.'

WOMAN:  'Great!  Oh, and one more thing...the house I wanted last year is back on the market.  They're asking $950,000'.

MAN:  'Well, then go ahead and give them an offer of $900,000.  They'll probably take it.  If not, we can go the extra fifty thousand if it's really a pretty good price.'

WOMAN:  'OK. I'll see you later!  I love you so much!'

MAN:  'Bye! I love you, too.'

The man hangs up.  The other men in the locker room are staring at him in astonishment, mouths agape..

The wonderful husband turns and asks:

"Anybody know whose phone this is?"

I Am A Rambling Man

Just some random musings on a cold, rainy Saturday:

In Henry County, Georgia, this week, the home of local rappah Waka Flocka Flame was raided by authorities.  Flame was not home at the time, but anothah brothah rappah, Gucci Mane (pronounced Goochie Main) was home.  Flame tweeted "the folks just kick my door in good thing I left for court LOL".  No word on the eventual outcome of eithah rappah.  Or whether Daffy Duck will be suing for sound effects infringement.

WXIA, Channel 11 in Atlanta, has successfully launched the latest in weather forecasting, calling it the Wizometer (pronounced wiz-om-e-ter).  I choose to pronounce it WIZ-O-ME-TER.  So much more entertaining, and raises many more questions.  How much did "11 Alive" pay for the WIZ-O-ME-TER?  I'da come up with something just as entertaining for a lot less, I'm sure.  Come to think of it, I really do miss Guy Sharpe.

John Pruitt, over at WSB-TV, did his last newscast last night during the six o'clock hour.  The station had a tribute video for him which began at 6:48pm.  It was cut short at 6:55pm so the station could have five minutes of advertising.  Forty-six years in the business and shut out by a Viagra commercial.  That must have been hard to take. 

Just so you don't think I'm now the local arbiter of television taste, let's talk about Christmas.  The perfect storm occurred this week in North Georgia--rain/sleet/snow + idiot drivers + a full moon.  All that adds up to around 1,000 automobile accidents north of Atlanta in a matter of a few hours.  No word on whether Waka Locka Flame or Goochie Main were involved in any of these wrecks.  I just had to find a way to mention their names again.

What do car wrecks have to do with Christmas?

--A lot of those drivers totaled their vehicles. 

--They now need another car or truck. 

--I sell cars and trucks. 

--They need to buy from me. 

If they do, I'll have a Merry Christmas.

Retroactive Birth Control...A Thanksgiving Wish

The car business can be ridiculous at times.  And entertaining.

Especially when small children are involved.

Just now, a family (husband, wife, four small children) stormed out of our dealership, angry at us.

Now, for the record, I have no problem with people being angry at me.  I've had a lifetime of it, and most of the time I brought it upon myself.  But not this time.

These folks weren't mad because of a vehicle, or deal, or payment, or anything remotely having to do with buying a car.

They were mad at us because THEIR STUPID CHILDREN WOULDN'T BEHAVE.

Like Daddy used to say, "I think those parents need a whippin'."

Take a girl, about five years old, add two brothers--let's say eight and ten, throw in some complimentary balloons, and prepare for the apocalypse.

"YOU CAN'T BLOW IT UP AS BIG AS JOHNNY CAN, DAD!  NO YOU CAN'T!  NO YOU CAN'T!  DAAAAAADDDDDDD!"

Hey, kid, your Daaaaaddddd may not be able to blow it up as big as Johnny can, but guess what?  I can light your ass up like a bottle-rocket on the Fourth of July.  In a split-second.  And your entire family to boot.

Now, after this child verbally pukes on his dad, with Mom standing close by, he proceeds to lie down on the floor of the showroom, kicking and screaming.  (Insert visual of Sales Consultant walking by, silently shaking his head).  At which point Mom, drawing on her vast wealth of Mother-Wisdom, loudly proclaims, "Come on, let's go.  These people are all smartasses.  We're never buying a car here."

Lady, you got that right.

And let me get this straight.  You can't control your children, and it's somebody else's fault.

A little perspective:  I don't really have a problem with children who sometimes misbehave.  I have a problem with parents who allow said behavior to go unchecked and uncorrected.


A little more perspective:  in a few years, these same children will be driving on the same roads I use.  And I'll know who they are.

I'll be able to tell by the giant Johnny-Blown balloons filling up the minivan.

An Invasion of Privacy--At A Reunion

So...my sweetheart and I attended the First Annual Baptist Student Union Re-Union at Mercer University in Macon this last weekend, where she was both the youngest- and best-looking alumnus on campus.

We gathered at a restaurant the night before (which shall go unnamed, but the initials are Cheddar's), where my love squealed with delight at seeing friends we hadn't seen in over thirty years (except for our respective roommates, who married each other, and with whom we had kept up over the years).

She breezed into Mercer's Newton Hall, site of the infamous Berry-Coppage nuptials thirty-two years ago, without a hitch the next day.  She squealed with delight as she saw friends she hadn't seen in over twelve hours.  It was last night all over again.

As I strolled in behind her, a burly woman (I found out later her name was Butch) looked me over and said, "Not so fast, bud.  Please walk through the body-scanner before entering."

Now, I realize I may be a little rough around the edges, but a FULL BODY SCAN at a REUNION?  Please.  No, really, please.

As I passed through the body scanner, and Butch perused all my most private, prized possessions, I wondered silently, What the...?

"Please, sir, no profanity.  This is a former Baptist Institution of Higher Learning."

Butch could read my mind?  This would not end well.

"Sir, please exit the scanner and step to the side."  As countless other former BSUers waltzed right on in (well, not exactly, since we all know God didn't put no praying knee and dancing foot on the same leg), I was being pushed around by a woman on a college campus.  Deja vu.  All over again.

"Sir, I'll have to do a pat-down to make sure you're not carrying any concealed weapons or the King James Version of the Bible."

No.  And again I say, No.  No pat-down, no strip-search, no body-scans, no nothing.  In the words of that great theologian Oz:  "Not no way, not no-how."

I ran--RAN--toward the barbecue sandwiches and tater chips, daring anyone to stop me.


My future daughter-in-law will be flying in to Atlanta tomorrow from Orlando for Thanksgiving, "National Opt-Out Day" at airports nationwide.  I'm sure the TSA will demand to scan/search her since she is so obviously a threat to national security, being a hairdresser cosmetologist and all.

The philosophy behind all this nonsense reminds me of what a preacher once said about the beer commercials which showed a guy screaming down a snow-packed mountain on skis, sliding to a perfect halt just outside the lodge, where a beautiful woman waited for him with a cold six-pack.  The preacher said he'd like to see that guy drink that six-pack at the top of the mountain, then see if he could slalom down that slope.

I think I'd like to see the TSA personnel spend some time in full body-scan/search mode before they're allowed to inflict the same on babies, grannies, and my son's sweetheart.

Especially Butch.

I Had A Colonoscopy and Went To Heaven

As that great theologian, Elvis Presley, once said, "It's been a long time, baby."

While you've been away, I've had a couple of things happen.

A couple of Fridays ago, I had a colonoscopy.  Let me explain.

Thursday afternoon, before the procedure ( a term loosely defined as a gross invasion of privacy on one of my most private parts) on Friday morning, I was instructed to use the product "Evac-U-Crap" to "cleanse" my intestinal tract.  At 4:00pm, I began.

First, I mixed 32 ounces of a semi-clear, fizzing concoction in a container provided by the manufacturer (all for the low, low price of $64.00, handling included).  Then, every fifteen minutes, I drank eight ounces of the stuff.  A play-by-play:

4:15pm--nothing.

4:30pm--nothing.

4:45pm--still nothing, although by this point I've decided I hate warm Gatorade.

5:00pm--a slight rumbling in the nether regions.  A preview of things to come.

So...about 5:18pm, more or less, I exploded in the first of several eruptions, the details of which are better left unstated.  The good news was that the whole process would begin again at 7:00pm that same day, when I would consume another 32 ounces of Evac-U-Crap, after which it would consume me.  Again.

7:15pm--pure fire turning me inside out.

7:30pm--I decide to have "Exit Only" tattooed on my lower back in hopes that will prevent the doctor from performing the procedure.

7:45pm--"Exit Only" doesn't even begin to describe it.

8:00pm--I want to die.  Or at least get a padded toilet seat.

The instructions clearly stated that I was to have a "clear liquid" diet the night before my colonoscopy.  No problem, that's what it looked like I'd been having for the past month.

Friday morning I went to the hospital, accompanied by my sweetheart, for the "procedure".  The doctor had told me that I'd be drowsy during the colonoscopy.  I demanded to be put to sleep.  Not under anesthetic--put me down, like a dying dog.  Please.

He did.  I slept through the entire twelve minutes it took him to figure out that my colon was, and is now, fine.

While I was "under", I saw Daddy and Uncle Johnny.  They were standing in front of me, somewhere which looked like the mountains where I live.  Daddy said, "We've been waiting for you", then turned and said something to Uncle Johnny, and they both laughed.

Then I woke up.

My wife said as I was coming out of the anesthesia, I asked her where Daddy was.  When she told me he wasn't there, she said I started crying.  I'm sure I did.

Not from the procedure.  From that little glimpse of heaven.

As If I Didn't Have Enough To Contend With...

...my sweetheart and I spent last Friday evening in the romantic confines of our local hospital, where I was sent after a week's worth of, well, intestinal issues.

My doctor sent me there--to a place where he doesn't have "privileges", even though he could throw a rock and hit the building. 

I wish he'da thrown the rock.

After describing my situation to the desk jockey Emergency Room Intake Specialist ($), I sat in the waiting area for (and this is no lie) one hour and twenty-two minutes. 

Good thing it wasn't serious.

Once my name was called by Nurse Ratchett the Triage Nurse ($$), my entry into the bowels of the ER ($$$) truly began.

She had me rehearse my symptoms, which I had previously told the nurse at my doctor's office, my doctor, and the Intake Specialist at the hospital.  I assume this was to ensure my story stayed consistent.  After this interview, I was informed that there were no ER rooms available and that I'd have to lie in the hallway.  If that was okay with me.

At that point I really didn't care.  Either give me a shot or shoot me.  As that great theologian Jerry Clower once said, "Shoot up in here amongst us;  one of us has got to have some relief."

I donated a blood sample, a urine sample, and drank some type of radioactive Gatorade so the radiologist ($$$$) could do a CT scan.  In two hours.

It occurred to me that, while you're lying in plain sight of God and everyone strolling about the ER, no one will look at you, much less look you in the eye.  I guess they're afraid you'll ask them for something.  Like some help.

At the 2:18 mark (post-nuclear syrup time), I walked to Radiology ($$$$) for the CT scan.  I was given some type of other dye (I'm out of dollar signs) which the Radiologist informed me could possibly (A)  Make me feel like I was tasting blood in the back of my throat, (2) feel like I was peeing on myself, and (D) cause me to throw up.

I chose all three.

After the CT scan I spent another hour lying in the ER hallway, awaiting the results.

The ER doc told me I had gastroenteritis, which is a long, expensive word which means "we don't know what's wrong with you, but this sounds severe enough to placate you for spending half a day with us".

Oh, and I have an abdominal hernia.  The doc said it was probably a side-effect of my cancer surgery.  A year and a half ago.

So now I have an appointment with a General Surgeon next Friday for the hernia, the Urologist in Alabama the following Thursday for the cancer test, a rotten stomach, and part of my intestine trying to break free of my midsection.

After which, in the words of that great philosopher Travis Tritt,  they'll be "billing me for killing me".

Lord have mercy on the working man.