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
Tuesday
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
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
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