POOTIE SAYS, PART I

 Ok, so I'm just a tad biased that I believe the "Pottamus B. Rex" is a rascally rascal.....thanks to the text message and his Mommas keeping me situationally aware, I am able to capture the true essence of my Grandson, whose real name escapes me---we all know and love him as our Pottamus...he and I have a window into each others soul, despite what Mom and Grandma think--they just don't understand. So here is an offering of the Pottamus and some of the things he says...(as long as there is Chocolate milk he will be ok..)


"Mama my blue heart is gonna break if you don't get me some chocolate milk!


Pottamus asked for his chocolate milk after lunch...I had to inform him that

the beloved Ovaltine supply had diminished.....he told me "Well that's just

great mom!"....he wont drink white milk anymore. It's time for a detox....



... last night I tried to get him to eat squash and he held the fork to his

mouth and looked at me & said "are you sure about this?"



Pootie says: "Mommy I don't feel good, I think I'm sick"... so I asked him what was

wrong & he said "my tummy is hurting, i think it needs chocolate milk".



Pootie to Tah on the phone:

"I wanna come home"

Tah: "Where are you now?"

Pootie: "I'm Home but I wanna come home"..(Home in S.C. But meaning

Macon)....sigh...



Pootie said "Mama I got the gouch". I asked him what the gouch was and he

said "yeah you know like George has the gouch."



Pootie is trying to use a toilet paper roll as a brace because "his knee is

jacked up".....



Pootie said "my tummy likes to drink because I have biceps."



Pootie said he got his pants from Charlotte Ruses (ladies apparel).....(note to self: Spend more time with Daniel and Tah)



Pootie just said this to Daniel: "Daddy when you get up in the morning, you

better watch out for the Grinch. He will hit you in the face...."

YUENGLING!!

The first time I tried Yuengling Lager was in 2004. I was on a business trip (I am in the Military) to Virginia and at the hotel bar happy hour they had Yuengling on draft. I had been a Michelob Light drinker for my previous twenty some odd years.


Pulling up a stool and looking behind the bar I noticed the tap handle and read the words “Americas Oldest Brewery”--who knew? The name certainly wasn’t familiar at all. Call me a late bloomer I guess but Yuengling may just as well have been from China...the name certainly sounded like it did.

It was Happy Hour and two for one so I ordered one and got two. Yay me! After a sip or two, I looked at my glass, the tap handle, again at the glass, again at the tap handle, and said "hmmmmmmm"--I took another sip. Man, this is good, I say to myself. “Man, this is good”, I say to my boss, who had ordered the same. He concurred. A couple more sips and I knew by all that was holy and righteous that I had a new beer. Happy hour had been true to its word. And now a toast to my new found traditional lager. A classic, and America's oldest, which suited my red white and blue patriotic self to a "T".

I got back to Georgia---true to what I had suspected it was not to be found (The distinctive Yuengling Label I would have remembered).

I went online and researched. I found out all I ever wanted to know about Yuengling and then some. What an awesome story! But NOT a happy ending for there was NO Yuengling in Georgia. I sent an email to the Yuengling folks to inquire as to why--had Georgia offended them in some way? I was prepared to apologize on behalf of the entire state if necessary. What I found out was there were distributorship "issues".

Issue, schmissue, I wanted my Yuengling Lager.

I wanted to find out who exactly was the root cause for there not being any Yuengling in Georgia and punch them square in the nose.

Lamenting to friends and co-workers I quickly discovered THEY too thought Yuengling was awesome and they wanted it here in Georgia as well--evidently a lot of folks did, and about the same time as the fires were lit for an uprising of biblical proportions I found a website dedicated solely to getting Yuengling Lager in our home state. This website confirmed that I wasn’t crazy, that I had good taste, and Yuengling was the "deal". The Yuengling Revolution was underway in Georgia and I surely supported the cause!

In the meantime, I had to resort to shady and perhaps unethical methods in order to acquire my newfound love. On vacation to Florida we found Yuengling in abundance so naturally I filled up the back of the Yukon with a couple of cases to bring back over the line when I came home--reassigning the luggage to the rack on the roof of the vehicle. My brother in law (and beer connoisseur) made weekly treks to South Carolina in his job so we began "smuggling" Yuengling Lager into Georgia as if it were illegal narcotics. We smuggled for our friends, co workers, and spread the Yuengling Love to all who simply wanted to taste the best.

We converted, baptized, and shown the light to dozens of folks. A Baptism of sorts. We were merely disciples spreading the good word. Normally it only took one sip. We told ‘em the first one was free.

Fast Forward to the present day. Yuengling is served in most of the stores and restaurants in my hometown. The neon signs and displays always bring comfort and a sense of contentment. The Revolution worked. The people have spoken. America, and Americas oldest. All is right with the world!

No other beer goes so good with buffalo wings, good friends and good times. Whether it's ball games and tailgating, listening to the band, chilling in the Man cave, or just plain relaxing on the back porch….. Yuengling goes with everything!

None other has the classic design of its bottle and label. It was served at my Daughter’s wedding. It is now and will forever be my beer of choice.

Yuengling then. Yuengling now. Yuengling FOREVER!

Ode to Cereal

Cereal is a wonderful thing. I love cereal. Made from Corn, Oats, Rice, Wheat, and usually fortified with essential vitamins and minerals, how can it NOT be good for you? Alas, it is one of nature's wonders-- and can come Frosted or not. Cereal is comfort; Cereal is contentment; Cereal is love.

Cereal-- the tie that binds--unless, of course, there's some Bran involved, which tends to "unbind"...

Those two Kellogg fellows really had a good thing going, and each time I break out one of their brands, I tip my cereal bowl in the direction of Battle Creek, Michigan, the Mecca of Cereal.

That is the only strength I will give to the North, however. That and the invention of winter.

I can say that if it weren't for Cereal, I wouldn’t have made it this far in life. As a wormy kid it was all I would eat, even though my folks opted to get the more "healthier" (no sugar) choices on most occasions. My Grandmother, on the other hand, always had the special box of Cereal in her cabinet. And always with the cool prize.

I swore to all that was holy and powerful that when I grew up and made my own way in life that nobody and I damn well meant nobody but myself would dictate to me the cereal I would buy. It is a promise that remains unbroken. Even at the tender age of seven I knew then what I know now-that life is too short to eat healthy Cereal.

Don't get me wrong. I have no issue with any of the "healthy" Cereals out there--some of them are actually very tasty. But until they come up with one that tastes like Cap'n Crunch, Apple Jacks, or Cocoa Pebbles, then they will remain on the top shelf on aisle two at Kroger. Each to his or her own, I say. A lot of folks have died in order that we get our freedoms-Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, Freedom from Want, Freedom from Fear, and Freedom on aisle two at Kroger.

I have spent up to thirty minutes on the cereal aisle, picking from the many different brands. It remains the only distinct advantage I have found in being a grown adult. A lesser distinct advantage is the ability to buy your own beer.

Admittedly, the prizes have taken a downward spiral. Those Little race cars, 3-D baseball cards with the likes of Phil Niekro, and other cool items of instant gratification have gone the way of the dinosaur, replaced with web site links and online registrations for a bazillion in one chance to win a super duper video X-tendo whammy box, complete with quadraphonic earphones. "Sorry, this box not a winner please play again" is found stamped on the inside of the Cereal box nowadays.

Barbarians.

Deliver me.

Regardless, Cereal is awesome. It reminds me of all things good and pleasant in this world. My love affair with it continues.

I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me Froot Loops, or give me death.

Kitchen Pass Chronicles--"Even the Losers" edition

Before we count down the top ten items that I (we) learned this past weekend,

it is important that I set the stage first by introducing the cast….

Clint Grant- He and I played little league together and we shared the same

love of airplanes- Proclaimed out loud one night while we listened to Lynyrd

Skynyrd on the Stereo "WHY'D they have to die??" Clint is a pilot, College

teacher, and now has spent more time in Texas than Georgia-no matter, he is

still ours and he knows it. Clint is our "A" player and leads discussions in

the ongoing conquest for golf greatness. He is the kind of guy who laughs at

you after you just wrecked your car. He finds the humor in everything,

especially my inability to swing a club. It was his idea to have this reunion

and make it an annual requirement.

Steve Sides- The epitome of cool-total athlete and still performs as same.

Was our star High School Baseball pitcher-bring the heat...he also brought

the heat at Godfathers Pizza back in the day working the stove and

administering to the "pies"--he still has the burn scars to prove it-- Had

beer caps on his stereo where the volume and station adjustment knobs were—a

visionary--and was instrumental in our first ever case of longneck Budweisers

when longnecks were the “deal”. Man knows his rock and roll like none other.

Grew up down the street from the BIG HOUSE, where the Allman Brothers lived

in Macon. He gave our fearless foursome the moniker of “THE CORE”. Looks like

Harrison Ford.

James Randy Hatcher- the 220 pound Swiss army knife-he is all of Popeils

inventions in one complete package-mechanical and culinary engineer that can

fix, rig, field dress, or cook anything. Only caveat is it takes a big pickup

truck for Randall and his basic load of survival gear. That MacGyver dude?

Don't even. If I'm shipwrecked on a desert island and want to get home I'm

taking Randy--(of course if I'm on a desert island and I don't want to leave,

well….. that's another story for another day) begins most sentences with

“Soooonnnnnn” and calls everyone “Hoss”, unless it’s a female, which usually

gets “Darlin” and a “I’m going to be in town a couple of days and……” (Well,

that part isn’t true, I just threw that in because….) Clint says Randy would

make the perfect wife if sex weren’t a consideration.

George Fisher-Inherently born smart ass. The little dog that starts the

fight. All mouth and “noassatall”-makes constant references to John Wayne.

Limps, takes meds, and the first one to call it a night. Destin was his pick,

though, so the others keep him around for laughs.

The Setting: Destin, Florida. It’s 30 years since our “Glory Days” and we

embark on a weekend to show ‘em all we still got it. Lodging and tee times

pre-arranged, and we all fall in by the close of business Thursday evening.

It is our charter to cram as much of the old days into the next 36 hours as

possible, as long as we get three square meals, maintain our regularity, and

get 8 hours uninterrupted sleep.

One thing that is sure to happen when we get together is a fun time-we laugh

until our sides ache busting on each other with the "stuff" we used to do—

SO, as we took inventory of our weekend, these are the things we learned….

10) Never ask a teenager where to get a good steak--(TGI Fridays ain’t the

answer)

9) Lubricate your joints with a Bloody Mary after breakfast. Take with 2

Aleve.

8) Always be on time and maintain the appropriate rate of play lest you get

placed on double secret probation by the marshal/time keeper.

Clint, Steve, Randy, George, (in unison): “ARE WE RUNNING BEHIND?”

Time Marshall: "VERY..."

7) If you groan in agony at the same time your clubface strikes the ball it

won't do any good-your ball is still bound for the twilight zone. All 4 of us

concur to this axiom. It is, therefore--a fact. (Core concurrence by a

majority vote automatically becomes fact—you can look it up in the Core

charter.)

6) Using “Body English” to get your putt in the hole will hurt you---it isn't

covered by most health providers, so buyer beware. For what it’s worth,

Profanity doesn’t help much, either.

5) When at McGuire’s Irish Pub in Destin don't engage in too much

conversation with the singer lest you end up "kissing the moose"- (A huge

taxidermed moose head that serves in lieu of a Blarney stone)-several others

did it because they were singled out for their birthdays-I was singled out

because of my big mouth (and perhaps because of my three pals)…

4) I never actually pulled any "G"s in a golf cart until Randy was at the

wheel-what surprises me is that that surprised me. Check with your flight

surgeon ahead of time. Driving with Hatch should come with the same standards

as if flying for the Thunderbirds.

3) Air guitar like no ones watching--We still got it--Friday night Steve

cranked his stereo and we ran the gamut of all the classics-singing along and

air guitaring all the while—it is of particular note that we all excelled

when Tom Petty’s Even the Losers and Here Comes my girl were played---the

biggest difference from this time and 30 years ago is we didn't jump around

(Someone could have gotten hurt) , and no one threw up.

.

2) When enjoying a post golf break at Fisherman’s Wharf, enjoy the boats-our

middle age kicked in as we all started saying what we would do if we won the

lottery and the boats we would have with said winnings. A Blood oath was

administered on site and it is now “binding”.

1) and the number one thing…….We learned that while each subtle degree of

variance in regards to the clubface and the strike of the ball will affect

your golf game ---a weekend getaway with your high school buddies will

reaffirm your beliefs in what is really important and unimportant on this

planet--family, friends, good times and making memories is what will keep our

batteries charged for years to come...or until we meet again.

EPILOGUE: We remain steadfast and ubiquitous (I just looked that up in the

Thesaurus, replacing “omnipresent”---ain’t that cool?) as we approach the

half century mark—we are comfortably and confidently nestled somewhere

between ‘hugging the porcelain queen” and the “Flomax” commercial- we are no

longer juveniles and not quite geriatric –alas, we are still rockin’.

That's how we roll. We are Confident. We are Content. We are Comfortable.

We are THE CORE.

Well Seated

I love Baseball. I love it more when my son , Joe Fisher, AKA Mans best friend, goes to games with me. He is my favorite ball player and the one person I am most likely to ask to pick out my nursing home when the time comes.

 At the Braves post season game, yes, the one that the Braves lost and what resulted in Manager Bobby Coxs LAST GAME, we found quite an entertaining aside from the intense baseball contest that netted the San Francisco Giants an opportunity to go kick some Philly Phillie buttocks.

if anyone has ever been to a sporting event this has HAD to happen to you....


I get to my seat at a Ball game and ALWAYS....ALWAYS...find my assigned seat and sit down. Then the latecomers show up, and their seat assignment tucked away in the deep recesses of their memory....they plop their butts down in any open seats and all is well...I know, the usher knows, and the Lord knows-- that they are eventually going to have to get up and move.

An inning or so later, these folks embark on a food run and return armed with

a cardboard tray full of nachos, foot longs, a beer in a souvenir cup.....only thing is while they were gone the rightful heirs to the seats have shown up and placed their behinds in same.

The debate ensues.


"Are these your seats?", the food and beverage laden ones ask.

"Yes", replies the paid for in full and we had a hard time parking occupants.

"OH", says the Souvenir cup holders, as they pass the trays of hot dogs to

the smallest of the group while they begin to dig into their pants pickets

for their ticket stubs.


Joe Fisher, AKA, Mans best friend, and I, sit one row removed and observe

nonchalantly. I know what seat to which my narrow rear end belongs. I got

here when I was supposed to and made sure I had the correct seat. I am 48

years old, and no novice to sporting events, the least of which is Baseball,and If i have never done anything else in my life the right way I have damn sure found the right seat at a ball game.

But I know what's coming.

I can see it. Ray Charles can see it. If the Jumbo tron were on us the entire nation would see it.

Souvenir cup, or "SC", as I call him, looks to me and the conversation that I knew was coming I am now thrust into....

SC: "I believe you're in my seat"

ME: "Fraid not, hoss" ( I already have my hand on my ticket stub and pulling


it from my pocket)

SC: "You sure?"

ME: (showing my ticket stub and pointing with my left index finger when I


really wanting to be using my middle finger to show him what I think of his


failure to execute the right seating arrangement)

"Section 136, Row 25,seat 106 and 107....."

SC: (long pause as he looks left, right, skyward, and then back to me)

SC: "You're in section 138...."

ME: "No I ain't..."

SC: "Isn’t this section 138?!?"

ME: (and entire row behind me who have joined my crusade in unison)

"SECTION 136!!!!!"



Joe Fisher, AKA mans best Friend: "I BELIEEVVEEE there's a sign back there

that tells you the section....." (Kudos to my buddy for the 18 year old


sarcasm.....it was the twist of the knife--)



SC: "Oops...my Bad...Sorry"



And with that, he and his other three buddies leave to the throngs of those

in section 138...maybe they could get him where he needed to be. Maybe all

who wander are not lost, but this fellow was. And it’s a good thing, because he had sat directly in front of me, his bald head reflecting all 331,000 lights of Turner Fields scoreboard. Had he stayed I would have been forced to get a black magic marker and color underneath my eyes like the players do to cut out the glare.....

Baseball. Fathers and sons. and those that cannot find their seat. At the end of one, its no runs, no hits, on one error.

This is AMERICAs Pastime.... Amen. (Dad and Joe shown above in their CORRECT seats)

BYE, Booger

Dear Boogs--

Sorry I got something caught in my throat when I was talking to you on the phone...it must have been the chicken biscuit....


I will call you later because I know you are busy on MOVING DAY......

When you were born they threw your goo-covered butt in the warmer thing at the hospital--you were squawling to beat all getout. I went over to where you were and held your tiny little hand--you latched onto my pinky finger and held on--in just a few seconds you stopped crying and the new parents had a daughter....

I was hooked from that moment on---proud as I have ever been---as was your Mom---and as a result you "might" have been a little bit spoiled...

So for the last 20 years or so you have been right there with us, thru thick and thin..good times, bad times, and lots of just regular times.

The Boogs was there.

Along came Joe, then Winnie..... The tank of tropical fish, the cats, and everything else---and the Boogs was still there...

Then there was the Pottamus--not exactly the best timing in the world, but inasmuch you do things your own way, it all worked out--Mom and God both knew this and as usual I was the last one to figure it out-- but I did. (I'm not as big a heathen as folks think, Boograh...)


And Boogs, like the Flag, like the mortgage, and like the everlasting pile of laundry--- was still there.

And you were there with our Pottamus, who is just as much ours as any of you kids, even if he is a GRAND.... And there's a reason they are called a Grandchild I guess because he has been just that...he has a window into my soul and I'm powerless in his clutch.


Your Mom loves her babies---all of them--unconditionally. That means no matter what. (I do too, but you kids aren't supposed to know it)...


AND That means---while no matter that her babies are 20 years old and has babies of her own, and moving away, and regardless that there are still two other kids , three dogs, and yet another round of trips to the orthodontist and teenaged drivers pending to break our butts and our bank account---but that is our Boogs and our Pottamus won't be there.....and that, Dear Boogs, is what makes things get caught in ones throat.


And that's why Mom and I wish we had a pinky finger to latch on to right now.


Love,
Daddy

The Greatest Monument I know of...Almost...

It had to be done.
Its been a long week, and my energy was diminishing rapidly. And it's been a long time coming...

Frederic Bartholdi can keep his Statue of Liberty--Imhotep can keep his Pyramids--and Henry Bacon can keep the Lincoln Monument. How about Gustav and his Eiffel tower? Nah, don't even go there with me.

BEHOLD........the Banana Sandwich!

It is my everlasting monument to Me. To my childhood. To my Grandma, who made them with her secret ingredient of love. To my Dad, who knew just like the Lord does, that no sandwich worth its salt shall be cut  any other way but diagonally. To Colonial Bread, now on the endangered species list. To Miracle Whip-and Hellman's, Blue Plate--insert your favorite here, I'm not going to debate it)--

It is the ultimate comfort food. You can eat this when your happy, sad, healthy, or sick in bed. It is universally delicious. One day when I'm long gone my tombstone will surely read:

                                            Here Lies George Fisher-
                                                       1962- 20--
                                         Rapscallion, Scoundrel, Soldier,
                                       master of the Four letter word, and
                                      connoisseur of the Banana Sandwich.

"FREE"-Pottamus Birthday letter

Dear POTTAMUS--


Well, can you believe it? You are THREE years old!! Or as you say, "I'm

Free"....


You have really grown up this last year, finishing strong with a check in the box for POTTY Training—hooray!! No more diapers!

(Your Mom and Grandma were ALL worried you wouldn't

catch on, but they don't know what you and I know....that the secret is going

outside in the bushes and "letting er rip!" as you and I like to say...)



You have called me "TAH" most all year long, so now my friends are calling me

"TAH" as well...more recently you have called me "George", and that's ok too.

You can call me anything you want--my hearing isn't very good but I always

try harder when you’re talking.



You are also eating a lot better---and even drinking from a cup--you like Mac

and Cheese, ravioli, and the PBJ-this proves that you and I are related.



You have really outgrown all your old clothes from last year---and have

become quite "Fly" this past year---You look great in a baseball cap, your

"Chucks" and even in your new cowboy boots Grandma got you...you are, at

Three years old, a statement of fashion. However, this is entirely your Mommas fault.



You never miss an opportunity to step in the puddles after a rain. Don't ever

stop that, even if you are 48.



You have ridden on the lawnmower with me every time I cut the yard, and we

share the IPOD headphones...one in your ear, the other in mine. Then you fall

asleep and I carry you back inside. The thought of riding the lawnmower by

myself makes me incredibly sad. When you and I are on the lawnmower, we are Batman and Robin, The Lone Ranger and Tonto—I don’t know how to ride it solo.



As you know, Pootie, Mom and Daniel are having their Wedding in just a few days-in case you were wondering why it is that all the girls in our house have been insane the last

few weeks. I have ignored all of them because I am more concerned with you getting ready to move away.



I know you will be excited and have a really goodtime once you get over there, and I know we will see each other a lot. But the fact of the matter is, my little buddy, is that I am going to miss you like nothing I can explain.



No one will come running to the door to see me when I come home from work, and I won’t have anyone that I can willfully share my ice cream with.



It isn’t going to be nearly as much fun “watering” the bushes by myself, or not having Pottamus to lie in bed with me at the end of the day while you have your chocolate milk and fill the bed with toys...



.and it’s really going to be difficult when I’m down in the man cave by

myself watching John Wayne movies-- Who else will appreciate it when The Duke

calls Bruce Dern the "no good lying vermin ridden son of a @#$%! (you know what)

you are!”?



..And what about all my "Scotty" pictures, baseball stuff, and airplanes? I can’t expect Joe to do it---he’s too busy being 18---or Lyndsay and Grandma—there both girls and no girls allowed, as you know.



No sir, the man cave was built for me and you, pal.



Some other things just so you know:



-I will keep the little refrigerator down there stocked with my Yuengling Lagers on one side, and your YOO-HOOs on the other. They will be ice cold and awaiting your return visits.



-I will make sure to tell Daniel how the "hide under the covers here comes

Momma" game works....



-I will also let him know that whatever he eats or drinks, be prepared to

share---I think he knows this already and you two will have it figured out

real soon.



-Iron Man, Spiderman, Batman and Pottamus man---Heroes all. And yes your cape

and cowl will be stored in a safe place here at home and I will make sure

Momma knows how to get you fixed for the new house-



-Your room is still here. It will ALWAYS be here for whenever you want it.

(Momma may have to make a reservation-ha ha)



-In regards to the upcoming Wedding, and your new TUX—my best advice is to

keep a low profile because your momma thinks its all about her and she will get

jealous because everyone will want their picture taken with the Pottamus...You are absolutely cursed with good looks---all I can say is-- it ain’t easy being us…



Soon after the Wedding, you guys are going to move into the new house near Daniels work. Its going to be a lot of fun and adventure for you, and you will only be a few hours away from Grandma and me, but let me tell you something---



I am going to miss not having you in my house every day like I have been fortunate enough to have had the last three years---I’m going to miss it like you wouldn't believe---



I'm talking about missing you "like I can’t type because I'm crying while I type right now" miss you---



You see, Momma thinks your hers, and she’s right(technically)---but I'm your “TAH” and you’re my POTTAMUS....and I don't think the rest of ‘em understand it like you and I do...because you and me IS and they AIN’T.



One day I hope you have a Pottamus of your own...when you do you will

understand how crazy I am about you.



I love you little man.



Happy Birthday.



Love,

TAH





P.S. Pottamus--when you get in the new backyard will you do me one favor?

Please “let ‘er rip” just one time for Tah.

REPLY FROM THE ENERGIZER BATTERY FOLKS--"AIR ACTIVATE"

Dear George,

Thank you for visiting Energizer's Web site and also for your inquiry. I am sorry to learn that our batteries did not meet your expectations.

To compensate you for your time and inconvenience, I would like to send you a coupon towards a new package of batteries.

To help your hearing aid batteries last longer, please keep them stored at room temperature. Heat can shorten their life and a damp location like the refrigerator is not recommended. Also, never carry loose batteries in your pocket or purse, contact with metal objects like keys or coins can short circuit the battery.

We also recommend opening the door on your hearing aid when not in use to lengthen the life. This will stop battery drain and allow air to remove any moisture build up.

Please note, our Energizer Hearing Aid batteries must be "air activated" for one full minute before being placed into the hearing aid.

Thank you for contacting Energizer. If you need further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact us.

GLF NOTE: (almost 48 years old, I think i know how to use batteries---"air activated"---Deliver me, Lord.) I think i will go redeem the coupon they send me for batteries, then return them and get cash back, and go get 5 packs of CVS store brand. Its "Rabbit Season" at the Fisher house.

ENERGIZER BUNNY HOSENPFEFFER

Dear Energizer Battery Makers:

I have purchased in the last couple months two packs of Energizer EZ Change #10 batteries for my hearing aids---one pack was purchased in my Hometown at a CVS, and the other just this week at a pharmacy out of town--

in both cases the batteries are lasting as little as a few minutes or a couple of hours and then having to replace--maybe 2 of the 8 batteries last the 4 days or so as when I buy other (even store brand) batteries....

This is unacceptable and I have spent 20 bucks and only had maybe 4 batteries that lasted...I will go without my hearing aids if I have only these batteries to buy---and no I don't have the package, nor the receipt, nor the lot number---why in Gods name would I keep that, when as a normal consumer it is a reasonable expectation to buy batteries and they work....deliver me. I feel like taking your pink energizer bunny that supposedly keeps going and boiling his furry little pink rear end...and it wouldn't bother me because I couldn't HEAR him screaming....vent complete..I'm out an Andrew Jackson, people...work with me here.

 What? Excuse me? sorry, but I cant hear you....

POTTAMUS CHRONICLE--"BALL"

When Joe Fisher, aka "mans best friend", was a little Fisher in training,


everything that was remotely round was a "ball"-- somewhere along the line it

took because he is still the baseball player I had envisioned....


The "Pottamus Rex", who resides not only at my house but also ranks in the

top 10 list of my favorite family members (number 5 in the charts but number 1 in my heart), has got the same thing going on--- everything remotely round is a ball and could or should be thrown, hurled, or otherwise moved thru the air--

The most recent evidence of this is not last night while we were throwing the little rubber bouncy ball while I watched John Wayne's' "Mclintock" on TV, but today right after grocery shopping.

While Grandma, Mom and myself were putting up groceries--"Himself" decided to warm up in his own bullpen, taking every single cherry and better boy tomato from their moorings and hurling them from the confines of the back deck into the backyard and lower driveway below...

Every tomato.

All of them.


I arranged the carnage (think My Lai massacre) on the driveway in hopes that maybe the birds,
raccoons, or other wildlife may end up with the tomato sandwich that was destined for us......I thought maybe facing them east and blowing "Taps" may be appropriate.


Grandma, still in shock at this very moment, said "I can't believe he threw out all my tomatoes..."


Believe it, G ma.

If not now, then you will certainly realize it when you bite into your white bread and mayonnaise sandwich--

Most certainly what makes America special is her diverse culture of people, her landmarks, and her "mountains majesty".


To be sure, her history couldn't be any more sacred had Moses written it on tablets.


For me it’s the sights, sounds, and smells, but It's also everything I don't see.

I know not where my patriotism flows over into my religious beliefs and vice versa-God and Country--hand in glove.

It is the antithesis and cure to Homesickness. It is baseball, blue jeans, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the 1970 fastback Mustang. It is barbecue grills, fresh cut grass, and every family gathered to enjoy a home cooked meal. It's a crying little baby on Santa's' lap, a stadium full of football fans in Athens in October, a wild Saturday night with friends and Church on Sunday. It is a grandfather and grandson watching an F16 scream overhead in full afterburner.

It is all those who serve our community and our Nation--the Scouts, the Legionnaires, the VFW, the Vietnam Vets- It’s the Navy's "Aye Aye", The Army's "Hooah", the Marines " Semper Fi" and the Air Forces "Wild Blue Yonder".

It is every John Wayne movie ever made, its Red Skelton reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, and is life as illustrated by Norman Rockwell and sung by Ray Charles.

It is... our nations Flag draped over a casket.


It is the greatest place on this Earth, Disney world notwithstanding.

I hold these truths to be self evident, manifested in my bone marrow and in my American hometown, Macon.

Daily Commute and Road Rage Haiku..

(Done while texting and driving)




Skate goes speed limit

Barely.

Big rig fills mirrors

Foot off peddle

Middle finger.



Compact commute

Others Drive too fast

Sleepytime swerve

Need new underpants.



Adjust radio

Scratch itch

Did not see

Call tow truck.



Late work

Home soon

Drive fast

Gotta pee.

Seatcover wedgie.



Got an F

Exit 215

212

200

186

Got an E

No money.



AM,FM

Mp3

Bumper sticker

Keep the change

Distant storm.



Almost home

Riding fumes

Grocery store

Maxi super absorb

Coupons.



Half way there

Unseen cold air

Frrrrrrrrrrrppppp

Tremendous gas

Hilarity.

Jimmy Hoffa Found….

I am day 3 into my Mr. Mom routine--I am washing clothes, picking up the youngest from school, having serious "Tah time" with the Pottamus, and working my natural born ass off in the house I can still ill afford...my wife wants for nothing. If i keep it up shes going to be a widow woman soon. I feel like John Henry when he was racing the machinery.

It had been put off for quite some time, but it had come to this---me or it. It was time. no guts, no glory.

The Refrigerator—the one bought by wifey when I was in Iraq, the one whose picture I posted up on the wall when everyone else put up pictures of the new Harley-Davidson motorcycles—(I had a photo of the fridge and the one of the washer and dryer. I still catch hell from my buddies about it).

The Fridge needed cleaning. It had no less than the following items in it (I highlight the major finds only)

1) three half eaten jars of hamburger dill chips

2) 1/3 bottle of greek olives (used sometime in 2007 for one of Wifeys new recipes)

3) Sun dried tomatoes (3 jars—one jar legitimate, the other two lost months ago)

4) More pickles-little gherkins—moderately consumed-

5) Bottle white vinegar (why I needed vinegar with all those jars of pickles is beyond me)

6) 5 containers of Parmesan, Parmesan and Romano, cheese. All were combined into one container (hint from George-one container was a “brand” name so I poured it all in there so I can impress my guests)

7) How much yellow mustard does one need? (three containers-combined value 75 cents- deliver me)—still have one huge one left

8) The decadent  Chocolate dessert from Valentines day-still in the serving glass-guess it was too decadent to eat—it got pushed back behind the mustard—who knew?

9) Marischino cherries—think maybe we used only a couple—return to duty.

10) 3 containers of crème cheese for the bagels-combined you couldn’t smear one half a bagle—it happens, people, especially with kids in the house.

11) BOOZE!! Woo-hoo!!! Extra points!!! An Anheuser Busch American Ale from last summer, a Negro Modelo, 2 Michelob Ultras, a Yuengling Lager (this was placed in their last week and this is the beer God drinks) and a bottle of wine with a screw on top. (think sister in law brought it over)

12) Miracle Whip- 2 containers, consolidated.

13) 5 of those canned bread sticks—still within the expiration date, BONUS!

14) 2 cans of biscuits, starting to swell---discarded.

15) the TV remote and car keys to my 95 Oldsmobile.

I emptied the contents, I scrubbed, soaked, sprayed, bleached, lathered rinsed and repeated. Then I re-assembled and put back in the stuff that was good. The other two bags I lugged to the dumpster, and just in time, because the trash men were coming up the street.

Victory is mine.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must get supper started. Chicken coated with mustard and parmesan cheese and maraschino cherries on top. Side items will be gherkin pickles and breadsticks.

The old battle axe,er uh, I mean, Wifey-- had better dang well appreciate it.

Shes a lucky girl, I tell you.

"Herself" is 20......

Yeah, I know. Joes birthday two days ago, and now the firstborn. Herself. Her Royal Highness, the Booger of Nottingham. We started calling her "Punkin", then "Punkinhead", then "Booger" (because shes so much fun to pick at), then "Booger Loves", then more recently "Boograh" because she loves that Marine husband of hers and says OORAH! all the time, a dig at my Army soul.

Amanda Rose Fisher. She is twenty years old. She has been twenty years old since she was ten. She gets that, and her good looks, thank God, from her Momma. Make no mistake about it when she looks at you with those dark eyes it is all Fisher. I gave her a bath once when she was a baby and she looked at me and i jumped back, thinking that it was my Father looking at me---scary, and it will make a Christian out of you in a hurry.

Amanda. She got that name from my Grandmother. I worshiped my Grandmother. I am sure my Grandmother would have worshipped Amanda, and my Dad would have met his match, which never happened in the 54 years he was around. Amanda would have conquered him in seconds. She certainly took over from the minute she arrived, wrapping her little hand around my pinkie finger when they were wiping the baby stuff off her, squawling to beat all hell. that was it for me. I never had a chance.

I should have known there was going to be trouble when she was painting her own nails at 2 years old (I have the picture to prove it)--Vanity, thy name is  Booger.

Independent, Hardheaded, Intelligent ,and Beautiful.

And a Momma herself--to the Pottamus B. Rex, almost three. She loves that boy and he loves her. What a pair they make, and are joined at the heart and hip on most days. Unless I can bribe him with ice cream. One day soon shes gonna move away and take the Pottamus with her, and I will be placed on suicide watch. My relatives and friends are already starting to talk about it.

But for now, Happy 20th Birthday Amanda Rose Punkinhead Booger Loves....

Love,

Daddy

Mans Best Friend-A Dad looks at 18

Last time I lamented about Joe Fisher I was feeling sorry for myself because I found myself with a little less time on my hands with him in my world or me in his--this has been cleverly compensated of course with the ongoing adventures of Pootapottamus Bunkus Rex, my wascally wascal of a grandson, even though I am much too young to be a Grandfather. Alas, I am much too young to have an 18 year old son, for that matter--at least in my minds eye I am.

Lest anyone forget I drive too fast, listen to rock music too loud, and suck the life out of each day--as long as I take my meds and am in bed by 9 pm. Ahem.

Regardless, tomorrow, my son Joe turns 18. Manhood. In reality, young manhood, but manhood none the less.

Good grief--18 years ago. The night prior to Joe showing up we had went to dinner with my boss. Sue was absolutely miserable and was ready to take the steak knife and deliver the baby herself. My Boss and I were oblivious to her plight at the time, and as he continued buying me Jack and Cokes while the night progressed into nearly midnight. Only a couple of hours later Sue told me "its time" and away we went. Joe showed up about lunchtime that day, and we added a son and brother for Amanda. In the delivery room My glasses fogged from the tears in my eyes as I could hear my late Father, H. Ray Fisher, congratulate me on his new grandson.

Joseph Ray Fisher had arrived.

The Daddy in me still sees Joe as the little bitty fellow who sat in the barber chair before he was 2 and got a haircut like his dads and never squirmed once, just like the old men. In fact, Joe has the soul of an old man. I see him when he told me "Dad, we are brothers in Gods eyes", when he was about 4, coming home from day care. The same little boy, when asked at the same day care thanksgiving program what he was thankful for, replied "My Dad"...and I still get misty eyed at that--and I see him playing his first game of baseball on his 5th birthday, and I see those blue eyes turning into crescent moons when he laughs---which his Momma thinks is the absolute greatest thing.

The first day of school, the last day of school, Uncle Bubba (his real name Ray, after my Dad) showing him the joy of fishing and peeing outside, and on and on until I see him coming down the elevator at the airport to tell me goodbye that one last time, both of us crying so hard we could only hold each other. And I see him break all the rules a year later when he nearly knocked me down on the parade field as I came home.

More fishing, more baseball, lots of really good friends (they are all a great group of young people) and throw in the guitar and the girls and here I sit, about to watch my son turn the corner into "young manhood". He is having a great time and I am glad he is. Glory days, indeed.

He is a good boy, I don't care who his Daddy is. All his good traits come from his Momma. Thank you, Lord.

Happy Birthday, Joe Joe. I love you.

Now, If someone will go bring the Pottamus to me, I believe he and I need to have some ice cream.

I regret it, it was wrong, I apologize, BUT.........

This will be filed under the "Not the best business practice" or "Don't do like I do do like I say" ; However, it happened and while it is regrettable it is a good story, and certainly falls within the realm of GEORGE.....


I had a recent experience while working the Welcome Home Ceremonies for the 48th Brigade. While I have resolved this issue with the person in question (I sent him an email apologizing for my unprofessional behavior), and "learned my lesson", I am not sure I would have changed my actions in as much as perhaps my language, but I had been provoked to the point of profanity.

As most of you know I tend to use too much punctuation from time to time.


And as folks are likely to learn, messing with my Family, Friends, or anyone I happen to like and I tend to take it personal and go from zero to Redneck in a hurry. And the grabbing of my sleeve when I was walking away...well, that will get your butt kicked from here to Sunday in most places....my neck is red but its not that Red. Again, I say, bever get into a braying contest with a jackass...

The take away here is that in my dealings with the local media the past year, I have established what I felt like were pretty good relations, these hard working folks telling the 48th's story---and doing an excellent job of it mind you. So, while I felt somewhat responsible for my "media peeps" coming down to ft. Stewart to cover the event, I went on the offensive when I discovered one of them had been "dissed".....after all, they had covered several of these events already, and had driven 3 hours to be here for this most recent one. The fact that my reporter friend had already contacted the Public Affiars guy and had left a voicemail wasnt good enough, and the "offended one" told our local reporter that he "should have used more fortitude to contact him"....Thats when my blood pressure went sky high and I went off....

below is the "offended Public affair guys" version of the story--which is quite accurate.


"I observed the reporter approach personnel from the Georgia National Guard to tell them about my confronting him about violating the installation news media escort SOP (an SOP that was shared with all interested media by (name witheld), who also provided my phone numbers to the media for access). Moments before the Soldiers marched onto the field, a LTC Fischer from Macon and part of the Georgia National Guard approached me and asked who I was.

I replied I am Public Affairs for the installation.

At that point, LTC Fischer said words to the effect of "I don't care who the f--- you are, but if you have f---ing problems with people from Macon you f---ing take it up with me because you don't f---ing know how to treat people" in a hostile tone.

He then turned away to walk away angrily.

I followed him and sought to calmly explain the news media escort SOP to him. He reacted by saying, "don't f---ing follow me." I did reach out and grab the sleeve of his ACU when he
continued to walk away.
When I grab the sleeve, the LTC threatened
me, saying "don't f---ing touch me."

I had already let go, but I continued to follow LTC Fischer in vain, attempting to reason with him.
I did give up after following him from in front of the one of the covered reviewing stand to the rear of the central reviewing stand. At that point, I called Mr. (name witheld) to advise him of my actions, the reporter's actions, and LTC Fisher's actions.

One of my friends who is also on staff up at our Headquarters expected no less from me, and told me "I bet they don'e ever f--- with anybody from Macon ever again".

'nuff said. Lesson learned. Even if he did spell my name wrong.

EWEWANHAPPACHABE?!?

I was of town so didn’t get to my regular Barber.

No sweat, Military town, barber shops all over the place.

Go into a place, 6 chairs, no waiting.

Fall in on a chair, older oriental lady standing by.

I sit down, get the sheet wrapped around me And said "howyoulike?"

"Skin on the sides, por favor", I reply.

"EWE WANH HIGHFAY,MEDIAFAY,LOWFAY?" (translation: you want a High Fade, Medium Fade, or Low Fade?)

I point halfway up the side of my head, an inch above my ear- "Here Fay", I say.

"And my barber at home normally shaves the sides", I fay-- I mean, say.

With clippers abuzz, she descends upon my occipital like a swarm of locusts.

In another thirty seconds, she has lathered the sides of my freshly shorn scalp and shaving it smooth as my grandsons bottom. I'm seriously feeling like Elmer Fudd in the Bugs Bunny version of Barber of Seville.

She works at lightning speed and I am fearful that I will be bleeding soon---my head isn’t exactly the shape of an egg and has several areas where you have to run the speed limit.

This lady works faster than the guy on tv selling the Ginsu knives--schwing, schwing, schwing.. I make it thru no problem--my fear transforms to amazement.

What normally takes 30 minutes in the barber shop at home has taken all of 5 minutes here.

This place is a tonsorial production line.

"EWE WANH APPA-CHABE??" she asks?

"Maam?" says I.

"APPA-CHABE, EWE WANH APPA-CHABE?"

Er, uh, umm, what I really like is for you to speak Engrish, I mean English, I think to myself.

After two attempts when I don’t understand what someone is saying I default to the smile and nod--I am deaf but this is more about enunciation than my eardrums--

It’s a cultural thing and that’s ok. But I can hear better when its English.

What on earth could Appa-Chabe be? A rock band? A breakfast cereal? A U.S. run military prison in war torn Afghanistan?

Or perhaps was it an old classic movie once, "The Road to Appa Chabe", starring Peter O'Toole and David Niven?

I took the bait. "Sure", I reply.

It was... After shave. {The math :[ EWE WANH APPA-CHABE = Do you want After Shave?] }

She splashes some AFTER SHAVE on a napkin and rubs it around my head.

I am spring fresh.

I am coiffed.

I am anew.

And I learned some new Phrases if I ever go to Korea. "APPA CHABE". It's my new scent--and It's not just for breakfast anymore.

I recently made comments as to the merits of Liver and Onions, of which there are none.

It is a bad marriage in my humble opinion. Onions deserve better.

Let me explain.

Liver is an organ meat. I don’t eat organ meats. I don’t eat organ meats because they are organs.
The only organs that are allowed are those that are played musically. Lest I digress, let us stick to the liver for a few moments, shall we? I know there are Humans out there among us who think Liver and Onions are quite the meal.
Like one of my friends said, “Why mess up good onions?” to which I heartily concur.

I have no issue with anyone who likes to eat liver and onions, or just liver by itself. But hear me clearly, I do not like it. I do not like it a lot. Detest may be a better word for it but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings who enjoys eating the organ that is the filter for whatever animal to whoms entrails it belongs.

Childhood Trauma to Blame?
*****************************


My Dad was one of the most intelligent human beings I ever knew. One of his favorite things was to cook. He made excellent Lasagna and Pizza, among other things.

Much to my Moms chagrin, in the process of his preparing meals he would totally destroy the kitchen. Every cabinet door would be open, every knife, fork, spoon, bowl, dish, and cooking instrument used and spread out in a holocaustic array that one could not adequately describe, but whose carnage one had to experience.

Dad also loved liver and onions. Loved it, I tell you.

And quite naturally when you love something you want everyone near and dear to you to love it too. So on occasions----(actually I know of about three times this happened in my young life) the Old Man would get a craving for Liver and Onions.

I remember the first time.

I was making my way home in time for supper (back then the rule was “have your narrow ass in this house by dark or else”) and about half a block away I smelled something. At first snort, it didn’t seem an offensive smell at all. I then discovered the smell coming from my house so I proceeded to make my way inside and when opened the front door and made my way into the kitchen, still delving into the unknown, I inquired:

“Hey Dad, whatcha making?”

“Liver and Onions.”

“OH N---!” But before I could form the word “NO” I was cut off. “You don’t have to clean your plate but you do have to TRY IT!”

When the Old Man said that, it was over. No discussion, no debate, no reprieve, no last minute call with a pardon from the Governor. There would be none of that “I ate a late lunch” or “I’m trying to lose weight for Baseball season so I can run fast around the bases” pleas for exclusion. I was the size of a broomstick, anyway.

Any other meal that I would have stared at when I was a kid (I was quite a wormy little guy) would have gotten me a lecture about “all those starving little children in Africa” or wherever. Why, oh why, could all the starving little children not have my liver? I would have been glad to donate it to them. “Try it, you’ll like it”, as the Alka-Seltzer commercial slogan went. I had a bad feeling that Alka-Seltzer wouldn’t come close to fixing the pending issue I had as the dinner hour quickly approached.

The proverbial dinner bell rung. Rang. Ringed. Er, uh, we were summoned to dinner.

With the speed of a sloth I found my barstool at the counter in our little kitchen and my supper. Liver and onions, rice, and tea to drink. I had many a meal out of rice and or white bread and tea in the past; surely I could negotiate my way around this manhole cover sized piece of liver sitting on my plate.

My siblings were in the same boat as I, and we looked at each other and then the plates. Then each other. Then the plates. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The Old Man set his eyes upon us.

That only meant one thing, and that was to cut into the organ meat and taste it. I cut a piece as small as I could that would be big enough that the Old Man wouldn’t say anything and small enough that perhaps I could swallow it whole like a pill. Saying a prayer I popped it in my mouth and began to chew. I would show Dad I was man enough to eat his silly old liver and onions. I chewed some more. Nothing. The taste wasn’t good at all. It tasted like…well, like Liver.

I took a swallow of tea and continued to chew.

The Liver was being chewed but it was ten times bigger now than the piece I had originally had on my fork. I chewed faster, thinking that the mechanical action of my jaws would naturally take over and send the liver on its way. It was not to be. The liver was in the roof of my mouth, the sides, the corner, and in the front. In short, it was everywhere that I had taste buds and had begun to homestead right there in my mouth with no plan of going anywhere ever. More tea. By God I would drowned it all. I would wash it away if I had to drink a gallon of tea to do it.

Somehow, we all survived the supper.

I know that Dad was only trying to show us the way and expand our horizons. Quite frankly my horizons expanded a lot better with Peanut butter and Jelly or some Cap’n Crunch. Moms spaghetti, Fried Chicken or roast beef would have been heaven sent in a situation like this, but like I said it wasn’t necessarily a democracy at the Fisher house back then, so you just had to take the good with the bad-- or liver, in this case.

I vowed by all that was holy that If I ever smelled that smell while coming home for supper I would ditch my school books in the bushes and hide out until past dark, reckoning that even getting in trouble for being late and the butt-whipping that would ensue would be childs play compared to eating liver.

But like I said, I harbor no ill will for Liver lovers. To each their own. I do know of one purpose for liver when it’s not filtering the toxins of its owner, and that’s to use as bait for fishing.

I have to stop writing about this now. I have begun to sweat profusely and I am cold and clammy. I also have the sudden urge to floss.

Liver is the work of the devil. You can quote me on that.

"YOU MUST BE FROM UP NORTH"

I am fuming right now.

It’s not because it’s Monday, and it’s not because I had to get the tire on my car patched, nor is it the fact that I’m still recovering from my last little episode of Gout.

The incident happened on the way home. It just so happens that my main man, Pootipottamus B. Rex, and his Mother, the Boogs, are a tad under the weather. Nothing major, just a lower gastrointestinal bug or thingy, One of those things that kind of require you to be “nearer my heart to thee” to the facilities, as it were..Ahem. Oh yeah and the Pottamus has a snotty nose, cough, watery eyes, etc.

Being the loyal “Tah” and Dad that I am, I stopped off at the CVS drugstore to get a few things: Some pink stuff, cough drops, and a couple packs of gum (Himself likes gum) and a couple of Ginger Ales for the Boogs.

That’s when it happened.

Another customer in the place, a woman, and obviously ignorant beyond description, comes up to me and says (allow me a moment here to take a cleansing breath):

“You must be from the North, buying Ginger ale.”
(Long pregnant pause to allow the words to sink in..)

“EX-CUUUUUSSSE ME?!?” I replied.

“You must be from the North- Nobody buys Ginger Ale here” or something to that effect. By this time my blood pressure was rising and my head spinning and ears are ringing. No way in hell she just said that to me---and not just once but said it twice.

As the young girls say while doing the chicken head, “OH-NO-YOU-JUS-DID-ENT!!

“Madame”, I replied, raising my voice to the right amount of decibels so not only could the checkout girls hear it but also the ladies back in aisle 11 (Incontinence, laxative, and antacid) could hear it as well---“I have NEVER EVER been accused of anything so DASTARDLY in my entire life--!! I was still in shock, and my face turning red. She looked at me and tried to justify her mis-aligned perception, and she may have mentioned something about what folks in Michigan drink. Quite frankly it’s all a blur and I responded once more:

“Maam, I drink CO-COLAS. I am from the South, I am a Macon boy and we drink Co-Colas down here, even if they have “DR. Pepper” or “Orange Crush” labels on the bottle, and furthermore, I have been accused of a lot of things, some of them unmentionable, but I have NEVER, EVER been accused of being a Northerner.”

Who in the H-E-double- hockey-sticks did this woman (who was nattily dressed by the way and It just so happens there was another lady in the store who saw the way she was dressed and gave her a good going over with her eyeballs when she came traipsing her big ol’ butt in the place like gangbusters and very unladylike I might add) think she was to number one, start up a conversation with me, and secondly, accuse me of being a foreigner? I wasn’t raised thinking that it’s ok to beat on women, but I’m telling you people, this woman could be a testament to wife beating.

Clearing my throat, and becoming still louder, I continued.

“As an addendum, Madame, I will have you know that Ginger Ale is a staple of the Southern medicine cabinet. To three parts ginger ale one normally adds one part black and white movie and one part Grandmas couch and within a 12-24 hour period one is as good as new.”

I was seething. I was at a crossroads. I could continue to have “conversation” with this heathen, or I could grab my stuff and take the high road and exit the premises. I must be getting old, because I chose the latter.

It is times like this that I would love to have a tattoo on my person someplace (in this case my buttocks) that proclaims “Forget, Hell”, or “American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God” that I could “whip out” and show her that would have made her swallow her snuff or perhaps soil herself. She deserved to do both.



I am back home now, my blood pressure almost back to normal and my two sick ones are getting better by the minute. The Pottamus will be as wide open as a peanut hull before bed and the Booger has casually sipped on her Ginger ale. My wife, god love her, has soothed my savage Southern Beast and told me it would be ok, that some folks are alive only because it’s against the law to kill em. She said to forget about it.

Forget, Hell.