Can't Keep A Good Man Down, But....

The old saying is true. You can't keep a good man down. But you sure as hell can kick him while he is still there.

This whole blog-a-ma-jigger started because the economy ate my dream job. I was clicking like chicken and on my way to breaking one hundred grand a year for the first time in my life. Then all hell broke loose in the metals world, last September. It took only six weeks to fall from grace. Killer money was coming in every week. The owners would put a grand in my pocket on Friday; just to have a little "walking around money" for the weekend. Insurance, retirement and all manner of benefits were part of my pay. I was even issued a brand new Chevy 3/4 ton truck. The owners told me to put the fuel on the company card and just do whatever in the fuck I wanted to with the truck. By Christmas, I was unshaven, drunk and wearing sweat pants all day.

In the spring, an old friend talked me into starting this blog. He is a professional blogger and convinced me that I could break the doldrums by writing and make a little coin along the way. This has indeed broken the doldrums, but the coin is a different story.

It took, nearly, an act of congress to get a Google AdSense account opened. I made an entire $3.49 before Google jerked my ads. It seems they now have a policy against the word FUCK and its repeated use. I suppose it will take another act of congress to get my damn $3.49.

Trying to replace the bastards at AdSense has not gone any better. It seems old Dirty Ert uses FUCK too much, or talks about getting FUCKED or FUCKED UP too much. Or not enough eyeballs out in the nether space of the internet wander in here. Or some other kind of internet gibbereish speech that I do not understand comes into play.

So it seems that this blogging activity may not pay the mortgage or even the water bill. Well fuck it! I like doing this, I'll just pay the bills otherwise.

Just so y'all know. I went to at least 10 other sites with far more "mature" content than mine; plenty of Google ads.

In case anyone from Google reads this: Tell the rat bastards in Adsense I want my $3.49 or I am gonna whip somebody's ass. Oh yeah, FUCK YOU TOO.

Dirty Ert

Places not to fish

I was at a party for wealthy people. The kind of party where I am bound to get into trouble. Folks hemming it up this evening where doctors, lawyers, professors, etc. who were not from my beloved Tennessee hills. These professionals had not found a social scene to their liking in my motherland, so they took to running in their own circle. Somehow I got invited as the token local hillbilly. I felt like Ohura on the bridge of the Enterprise.

I stayed fairly quite for the first half an hour after arriving. There were several reasons for my silence. Most importantly, my buzz wasn't buzzing. Talking would only slow down my drinking. I was also scoping for possible women, of which there were none. Being a careful and cautious drinker; I was looking for quick vomit exits and a comfortable place to pass out. As well, the whole group was in a tizzy discussing Honda Gold Wing accessories and these new fangled cell phones everyone was getting. It was the nineties.

Some old hag was bitching about how few places she could actually use the phone. This led to the group discussing local geography. One member caught my attention when he said, "Well Dirty here is local. Dirty tell us something about Sullivan County that we do not know."

I cannot remember what it was that I was originally going to say. Before my mouth moved; I could almost hear it turn off. A sound like when a computer shuts down. My Super Ego unexpectedly went off line. I was there, in front of thirty yankees, a captive audience. With all my self monitoring gone; God help me, I can't control what happens.

"Well," I said. "Despite, two rivers, two TVA lakes, hundreds of streams and dozens of ponds; Sullivan County has a surprising number of places to not fish."

The party stopped dead in its tracks. A hush fell over the room. Only the sound of the fish tank bubbles could be heard.

"I am sorry," said the host timidly. "But did you say places NOT to fish?"

"Hell yeah!" I replied. "There is an ass load of places you can't fish." The party goers looked at each other nervously. "Let me tell you about old Branson's tree. Old man Branson lives up Arcadia way. He's got this old tree; an old chestnut. It stands 150 feet tall if it stands ten. The trunk on it is bigger round than a Volkswagen. The damn branches on it are bigger than a whale's pecker. But they ain't one place in 500 yards of that tree that you can catch a fish."

Two guys in the group and one drunk chick in the back started nodding, as if I were actually making any sense. The others shifted uneasily, but took this as a good time to kill their cocktails.

"Take old Emmit Jarnigan. He was desperate one night to do a little fishing. Emmit loves two things, fishing and smoking weed. Now on this particular night Emmit had rolled and then consumed what we locals like to call a "fatty." Son of a bitch was stoned. Some say he was too stoned to fish. But Emmit didn't see it that way. He was a Jarnigan, his daddy was a Jarnigan and his grand daddy was a Jarnigan. So by God, he was a gonna fish."

"At this point Emmit grabs his fishing gear and sets out to find hisself a fish. Well, we really weren't near anywhere that Emmit had ever fished. He just lit out the door; figuring if walked west long enough. He'd find a spot to fish. Emmit had got about 200 yards due west when a black man hit him upside the head with a mop. Hard, really hard."

"It was Mr. Nelson that hit him. Mr. Nelson was fine man and gym coach at school. Back in the day, he won a medal for bravery in the Corps. He had been a Marine Drill Sergeant. His fondest dream was turning gym class into a miniature version of Paris Island. But, you see, Mr. Nelson had a daughter, Sarah. She was our age and we followed her around like sad puppies. Beauty and brains, Sarah had them both."

"So when Mr. Nelson sees Emmit coming up the way, he figures hormones are flying. Not wanting anymore babies around the house, Mr. Nelson chose putting Emmit on his ass as his favorite form of birth control."

"As you can see, if Sullivan County had more places to fish; than Emmit Jarnigan wouldn't have had to dig mop hairs out of his asshole."

I was never invited back to another of their parties.

Dirty Ert

Games I like to Play

I have some nerd-ass friends. They seem to spend a lot of time discussing computer games. One day they asked me "What kind of games do you play Ert?"

• "Low Coolant"
• Tales of an automotive warning light that refuses to extinguish in the wife's car
• "Beaver Quest"
• Includes the short film, "Hot assed young bitches at the gym in tighter than hell work out pants." Yes this is a film for the married man, as the "interactive" segment of "Beaver Quest" is restricted - to the same beaver every time you play.
• "Hunt for the blue handled hacksaw"
• Lost in action, soothsayers unable to divine, can you find the hacksaw before the angry husband whips some ass?
• "God Damned neighbor's cats"
• Use your skills to stop a feline turd invasion on your personal property
• "The garbage only runs on Tuesday morning"
• A classic brain twister and game of memory
• "Burn permit, we don't need no stinking burn permit"
• Burn all the leaves and brambles before being caught by the fire chief
• "Supervise your children and their friends doing anything that remotely resembles outdoor work"
• A test of patience and possibly a complete waste of time
• "Alignment"
• Imagine you are a hillbilly redneck, you drive a truck with "THE LONG WHEELBASE" You muster your skills to find a repair shop with an alignment rack long enough for your truck. Unfortunately there are only 3 such shops in town. Two of which you "no longer trade with" due to "police instructions." No official restraining order has been issued, but the nice officer did not arrest you when you threatened to beat the service manager like "an angry monkey fucking his sister" The one shop in which "the law" has not gotten involved will only see you on Tuesdays between 10:00am and 10:30am. Hurry! Before the tires prematurely wear and you spend a week's paycheck on a new set of tires.

Outlaw Power Steering

One of my old buddies, Lyle came by my apartment some years ago. Lyle is an avid outdoorsman and was "Green" many years before it was hip.

"Hey Ert Man, I need your help putting together my new idea."

"Hell man, what's your new idea?"

"I know how to cut down on pollution. Big Time!"

"Cool dude! How's that?"

"We just need Congress to pass a simple law that outlaws power steering."

"I am sorry Lyle; did you say power steering or power queering?"

"Steering!"

"You think banning power steering will cut back on pollution?"

"Hell yeah it will! Don't you see it? It is so simple. Without power steering people will drive more slowly and more efficiently."

"Drive efficiently because it is more effort to dart in and out of traffic?"

"Yeah man, you get it! Now I AM willing to make concessions. I guess it is all right if grannies and cripples have power steering"

"Lyle, were you huffing gas when you hatched this one?"

I lost the next twenty minutes of my life to his god damned nonsense. Unable to convince me to schedule an appointment with our Congressmen, Lyle left in a huff. On his way out the door he called me a narrow minded fart bag. As he heavy handedly closed the door, "You ain't visionary enough for me to drink with."

He was back at my place an hour and a half later. Two ole girls we knew showed up at my door, with a bottle of Jack. One girl called him up and he appeared at my refrigerator door in ten minutes.

"Dirty Ert, your vision has definitely improved."

Fantasy Job #3: Tennessee River Boat Captain

Beset by unemployment and cursed with an over active imagination, I have started fantasizing about dream jobs.

Fantasy Job #3: Tennessee River Boat Captain

"My name is Dirty Ert, Captain of the Muddy Beaver. My first mate, Shaef here, tells me you are looking for passage to the Louisville system."

"Yes, if it is a fast ship."

"You've never heard of the Muddy Beaver? She's the ship that made the beer run in less than 3 cigarettes!"

How cool would that be? A Tennessee River boat captain, just hanging around the Applebee's in Knoxville. Waiting for someone who needs to book passage and freight 1,500 tons of gravel to the Louisville system. And they'll need to get to Louisville without any Department of Mines and Minerals imperial-interference.

I gonna have a cool ass sidekick too. Schaef, the Albino Aardvark. Sheaf will terrify Southerners who are unaccustomed to the sight of an aardvark. Hell my cousins from Carter County would probably think an aardvark was an earthly vestige of Satan. If one of them got loose from a petting zoo, all hell would break loose in these hills.

"Margret, get my shotgun! They is a damn Satan nosing around my lawn mower shed. Hurry damn it, the son of a bitch is a headin' fo my new weedeater. Bring some birdshot woman, hurry."

I foresee that my river boating will go so well, that I'll need to hire a crew for a fleet of ships. Just like BJ McKay. Do remember that fucker? He started off trucking with just hisself and that nasty monkey. In the beginning it was just him versus Sheriff Lobo; then BJ hit it big. He hired a passel of hot chicks to drive trucks for him. I'll do the same thing, except on the water, and the aardvark. Of course instead of Lobo, I have to face the Gay Pirates of Tellico Lake.

Let me tell you something people, them gay pirates are bitches. They run around the lake in a pontoon boat called The Snatch. Most of their victims tend to be the elderly and people in row boats. They pick off the slow ones first. Once the pirates have taken a prisoner, the torture begins. The bitches just tell it like it is. For fifteen minutes you have to listen to a grown man bitch about how bad Paula Abdul's pants looked on Entertainment Television. All the while, another queer pilfers your cooler.

That where me, The Muddy Beaver, Shaef, a crew of titty chicks and 1,500 tons of gravel come in. There are good queer-fearing rednecks who deserve to enjoy the lake, without the dread of a gay cooler pilfering. Captain Ert is here to save the day.

Dirty Ert

Them Shoes

"God knows you're looking good enough,
But you're so smooth and the world's so rough.
You might have something to loose.
Oh no, pretty momma
What you gonna do in those shoes?"

The Eagles "Those Shoes"


I happened through the living room when my family was watching an episode of "Dancing with the Stars." This is not the sort of television programming that is condoned by Dirty Ert. I did, however, watch one dance routine.

The female dancer caught my eye. She left me in awe. Yes, she was "easy on the eyes," but that is not what struck me. It was her shoes.

She was wearing a pair of three inch pumps. The common name for this footwear is FUCK ME PUMPS. These are the shoes that signal to men that there is a job vacancy and applicants are being interviewed, RIGHT NOW.

But this girl danced about, jumped, boogied and all manner of undulations; with the grace of a mountain goat. She put on a spectacle of dexterity, rarely seen in the Tennessee Hills.

This is what impressed me. While wearing fuck me pumps; I thought there were only two activities that females could safely perform: 1-walking forward in first gear, 2-fucking.

I have no idea of how she fucks, but the ole girl can do a shit load more than walking.

Dirty Ert

Son Of A Bitch Won't Let Me Smoke

I was the Manager of a scrap metal yard, back in the boom days of all things metal. The Chairman (thus my boss) was crazier than hell, let's call him Jim. Jim was a local boy "done good" and spoke with a heavy southern accent. Apart from no real sense of appropriate behavior, he was also a raging pot head.

I submitted a proposal to the board to open an additional location. They were favorable and gave me preliminary approval. The board asked me to take the chaiman to inspect the new facility.

Knowing Jim, I arrived at his house an hour before I was supposed to be there. I was welcome in his house at any time. So I made coffee and woke his ass up before he knew what hit him. As he sipped his first cup of coffee; "Ert, I am gonna to fire your ass some day; if you don't let me just smoke my weed. How can you ban me from smoking killer bud in your office? The gall! You got balls Ert, and you're a funny drunk. It's the only reason I keep you gainfully employed."

For the next hour I chased my boss around his own house like a herding dog and a flock of sheep. He kept trying to sneak a bong or joint into the company truck. I looked at him as he climbed into the truck. He had a printed shirt that came from a Jimmy Buffett concert. It said "Why don't we get drunk......." on a parrot's ass. There was the cut off jean shorts he had made himself. Flip flops were the only shoes I could get him to wear. Topping it all off was a camouflaged wide brimmed boonie hat and large horn rimmed sunglasses.

"Jim, you look like a dumb ass."

"I don't give a fuck. I got more damn money than these sons of bitches can shake a thorny stick at."

It was a two hour drive to our destination. The whole time, Jim went on with his one man conversation. Half the time he blasted me for banning him from smoking weed on company property. The rest of his thoughtlessness involved his new business plan that concerned making environmentally friendly fabrics from dog hair.

The real estate I had selected for our location was an old factory. It was one of those huge industrial properties built before world war two, a maze of brick buildings, pipes and smokestacks. As we pulled in, Jim points to a nook next to the garbage compactor. "Damn that might be a good place to burn one."

"Jim, please behave, as much as you possibly can."

We met up with the real estate agent (Ron) and the owner of the property (Jason.) They were both upstanding yet stereotypical business men, well educated and well healed. Ron was: a member of the chamber of commerce, director of the economic development commission, president of the lion's club, and chairman of the quarter back club. Ron was a pillar of the community, a real "square"; he also wore an expensive suit.

As pleasantries were exchanged, I saw the sideways glances between Ron and Jason. "Ron, Jason you'll have to forgive Jim's attire. He was on his way to an all day pool party when I nabbed him this morning. It was my mistake he did not get enough time to change." Neither gentlemen seemed satisfied with the explanation, but I started talking quickly to prevent them from thinking of it further.

To tour the property, we had to ride golf carts. I rode with Jason, who drove ours. Jim jumped into the driver's seat of the other. "I play a lot of golf and I love golf carts." I winced at the thought of Jim getting out of my grasp. As the golf carts took off, Jason and I were in the lead. I looked back at Jim; the look was in his eyes. Even behind his ridiculous glasses I could see it. He was about to do something he knew was wrong, but just couldn't help himself.

Jim turned to Ron "Hold on!" The cart came up on two wheels as Jim swerved off the road. Gravel flew into the air as Ron held on for dear life. The golf cart lurched and became airborne as Jim powered it over a ditch. Driving the damn thing like he stole it, he headed for the nook next to the garbage compactor. As the cart came to a screeching halt, Jim snatched a joint from his shirt pocket. Ron's head bobbed violently. Casually Jim lit the joint and took a deep hit. As he exhaled, "That short haired son of a bitch won't let me smoke my weed." Ron's jaw dropped, the look of total surprise filled his face. "Here Ron, go ahead at take the top of this 'un." Jim held the joint up for Ron to take.

"Uhhh, well, Jim I really don't do that."

"Ah hell, you a'int gotta be coy with me. I know'd you was cool the moment I saw you." Jim took another big hit.

"Really, No. I don't do drugs and this makes me very nervous. In fact could you please stop? I do not want to go to jail."

"Serve anytime Ron?"

"No!!"

"Shit, what the hell are ya so fucking worried about? You don't never know until ya try! I made some of my best weed connections when I was in jail."

Ron was now flabbergasted. He stammered and looked around nervously while Jim finished his joint. Jim started the cart and began driving slowly to find me. "Listen Ron, I need you to be cool about what just went down. Don't tell that short haired son of a bitch we just flamed one up."

"Jim there was no WE to it! You did it by yourself."

"Calm down and be cool. I won't tell, if you don't."

"What! What do you mean? I did nothing of the sort!"

"Shit they don't know that! Just be cool man."

Of course, Jim got lost. He meandered around the place for half an hour. The golf cart got stuck and poor Ron had to manually push it out.

I was discussing with Jason my plans to install a railroad connection. Just as I was telling Jason that Jim and the board had given me $600,000 for that project alone; I saw Jim's golf cart. There was a big black streak down the side of it. I knew that it wasn't there earlier. I saw poor Ron, with mud up to his knees on his tailored pant legs. Even from a hundred yards away, the look of panic and disbelief was all over Ron's face. Slowly Jim brought the golf cart up to my feet.

Ron jumped off and cleared the sweat from his brow. He looked me in the eye. "Well, that was illuminating!"

I turned and glared at Jim. "Ron would you and Jason excuse us for a moment." Sliding onto the golf cart with Jim, "I left something in the truck." Jim made a huge circle in the cart and turned back to the truck. I stared at him. As soon as we were out of earshot; "Jim, I am going to kill you."

There was a brief moment when I thought Jim and I were going to break into a fist fight. He glared at me and said. "Damn Son! Don't barbeque just sound like the shit right now?"

Jim and I left the industrial property without saying another word to the owner or poor Ron. It was clear to me. Jim had just fucked this up beyond all recognition. It took twenty minutes to find a good barbeque joint; the two of us had driven in silence. I was so mad I could have punched my boss.

Jim led the way to the bar at the restaurant. He ordered an insane amount of food and a round of Vodka shots. "Drink this ya son of bitch and lighten the fuck up."

"Jim, do you know how long I spent on this project?"

"No, and I really don't give a fuck." He nailed his first shot.

"But I'll tell you what. This seems to have really set you off. Drink four shots with me. If you are still mad at me after four, you can punch me in the face. If not, I'll send you and your wife on a three day vacation."

"You only offering three days because you don't want me away from the office for a week, aren't you?"

"You're a smart man Ert, that's why I keep you around. That, and the fact you are a funny drunk."

My wife and I had a lovely three day vacation.

Drivel, Chapter 2

Sometimes, I just find out the hard way.

For example, never hide your liquor in the cleaning supplies closet.

I have been hiding my booze in the janitorial closet from two groups. First is my wife, she will drink my shit every damn time. Second is my kids, I have two teenagers. I figure that I stole my old man's liquor, my kids will return the favor.

My plan worked well about a quarter of the way through a bottle of vodka. That is when I fucked the hell up.

People, Murphy's Oil Soap and Lemon Juice is just fucking nasty!

I threw up on the floor. Then I tried to clean my face off with a Wet Swiffer Pad. Damn it! I got some of the fluid off the wet swiffer in my god damned mouth. So, I threw up again.

Life is a real pain in the ass; if one must moonlight with liquor.

Dirty Ert

Locals are funny, Vol 3, I'll cut a fish

"Man charged in attack with scissors"

That's a headline that grabs my attention. The paper offered few details and no follow up story. The facts are: the aggressor breaks into another man's home and cuts the victim on the head and hands with scissors. Then the aggressor pushes over a fish tank.

Since the media failed horribly on this one, I'll dream up the rest of the story on my own.

The aggressor (let's call him Otis) is in the grips of withdrawal from meth. Otis is broke and upset over losing his girlfriend (Amy.) She is an upper class girl who fell for a bad boy. Bored with Otis, she dumps him for our victim (Gregory.) In desperation, Otis concocts a plan. He will break into Gregory's house, rob him and scare him away from Amy. Otis hopes to get money for drugs and woo back his girl, in one stroke.

Gregory is on his couch relaxing after work. There is a loud bang on his door. Startled Gregory jumps to his feet, as Otis kicks the door open.

"OK Mother Fucker! Let's have it!"
Gregory is stunned. "Have what?"
"Your money, give me all your god damn money. That's what you get!"
"Get for what?"
"Dating her!"
"Who"
"Amy, you bastard!"
"Who are you?"
"Otis!!"
"And you would be.....?"
"Amy's boyfriend"
"Ahhh! The drug addict."
"I am not an addict; I just like to get high."

Gregory evaluates the situation. Otis is pale, shaking and failed to bring a weapon. Gregory is confident that can destroy Otis in a fight. Gregory yells as he walks toward Otis. "Look man, you just need to get the hell out of here."

The tables are turned. Otis realizes he may not have thought this one through; he is about to get an ass whopping. On a table near the door, there is a pair of scissors. Otis snatches them, hoping to regain the upper hand. From the looks of Gregory walking toward him; the scissors did not help. There is a large and meticulously kept fish tank, three feet away. The fish are exotic and expensive. Otis rushes to the tank and opens the scissors above the water.

"Back off! Back off! Or I swear the fish gets it. Come any closer and I'll cut a fish. I swear to God I will."

Concerned for his prized fish, Gregory stops. His mind rolls the situation over a few times. Then he punches Otis in the mouth. Otis flails backward; the scissors slash Gregory's hands and head. The body of Otis slams against the fish tank. The water sloshes and it begins to tip. Gregory desperately tries to steady it, to no avail. The beautiful fish and colored pebbles pour out onto the floor.

Gregory kicks Otis in the balls so hard that he almost stops breathing. After calling 911, Gregory calls Amy.

"You owe me a fish tank, bitch."

Dirty Ert