Symbols

I’m troubled by something. 2016 has been mighty troubling to a lot of people, to be sure, for a lot of different reasons. And yes,it’s easy to just slap the name “TRUMP” on a blog post or article and get the same standard outrage from the Left and hoots and cheers from the Right. Yeah, yeah, he won. Fair and square. And there have certainly been a number of well-publicized hate crimes and what seems to be an increase in racist and misogynistic rhetoric; however, it’s really hard to get a true, accurate read on those numbers because, as we learned all too well this election cycle, the internet is full of shit and people only hear what they want to hear.

No, it’s not really a Trump issue, not really, that has me feeling tight in the chest and anxious. I feel like he’s sort of the symptom rather than the cause, the bellwether of a growing problem, an infection of sorts. The infection of jingoism and Nationalism that seems to have taken root in our beloved United States.

“Wait, what’s wrong with being Nationalistic? Ain’t nothing wrong with being proud of your country!” I can hear it already. Okay, look. I’m one of those people who get labelled “smart-ass” and “elitist” because of this argument, and I’m fine with it, because look: I don’t think it’s correct for most of us to say that we are proud to be Americans. And it’s not for the reasons you may think. It’s just semantics. See, I feel that if you’re proud of something, then it should be something you had a hand in earning. Be proud of earning your Masters. Proud of the bookshelf you built with your bare hands and a miter box. Proud of the way your kids turned out. But here’s the thing: most of us in this country were born here. We didn’t earn that. We just got lucky.

Am I delighted to live here? Oh, you bet yer sweet ass I am. For the past 46 years of my life, I’ve been able to say what I want, eat what I want, work where I want, worship (or NOT worship) how I want. I’ve had a say in who runs my community, my state, my country, even which laws are to be enforced. There’s so much about this country to love, but I have to acknowledge that I could very easily have been born in Sri Lanka or Hungary or Lithuania, and while I’m sure those are all wonderful places, they just don’t have the quality television programming, fast food, and rock music that I’ve been spoiled with my entire life. Now, someone who emigrates from any foreign country to the U.S.? Who toils to earn the money for the trip here? Who brings his or her family and studies hard and gets a visa and takes the test and thus joins the great community of these United States of America? THAT person has every right to be “Proud to be an American.” Because they will have earned that shit.

I simply inherited it.

Anyway, with that perspective firmly in mind, I get a bit nervous when I hear and see things like the huge outpouring of support for our President-Elect when he says “Nobody should be allowed to burn the American flag – if they do, there must be consequences – perhaps loss of citizenship or year in jail!” (Twitter, November 29, 2016)

Okay that shit’s alarming to me. Not that Trump said it…he’s made so many insane declarations that it’s hard to keep track, and if I got stressed out every single time he opened his mouth or his Twitter, I’d never sleep. And hey, the 1st Amendment protects his right to say it, even if some of his statements are offensive to me. I don’t have to like what he says. But I have to let him say it. That’s free speech, baby.

What concerns me is the way my social media feeds have been filled with ignorant shouts of “HELL YEAH! THROW THEIR ASSES IN JAIL!” And even more alarming is the number of folks who have no idea that not only is burning the American Flag as a form of protest completely legal, but it’s been upheld twice by the Supreme Court of the United States of America. And for good reason.

Consider the order in which our Bill of Rights fall in our Constitution. I mean, there’s some good stuff in there, stuff we often take for granted. The right to a speedy trial by a jury of our peers. That is huge. (Ask anyone in Saudi Arabia who’s committed a petty theft.) How about being protected from unlawful search and seizure? Yeah. The cops can’t just barge into your house when you’re at work in an attempt to find something incriminating. Oh, and that big one, the right to keep and bear arms. So very important. And yet, in front of ALL of these is the right of the people (or the individual) to say what they want, worship how they want, assemble how and where they want, and to publish or otherwise disseminate their thoughts to whomever will listen, watch, or read them. These rights were so important that the framers of our governmental framework said “OH, SHIT, GUYS? KNOW WHAT WE FORGOT?! FREE FUCKIN’ SPEECH! FUCK! PUT THAT SHIT IN WRITING AND GET IT IN THE CONSTITUTION POST-HASTE!”

Now, I get it. I do. This country love us some symbols, don’t we? The Stars and Stripes. The Bald Eagle. George Washington, minutemen, the flag raising over Iwo Jima. Powerful symbols that carry a lot of weight. I believe that our national obsession over such icons is due to our very brief history (we’ve only been here for 240 years, compared to, you know…the thousands of years our European and Asian friends can claim) and our mixed-breed pedigree (British, Germans, French, Spanish, Dutch, Italians, followed eventually by all manner of Asians and blacks, which is a whole ‘nother discussion, but anyway). We didn’t have a history. We didn’t have a shared national identity. So we made one. We adopted certain symbols and sigils and combined them into our own iconography. And then, slowly, things started popping up on their own. The Liberty Bell. The blues and rock & roll. Cowboys. Hot rods. Hell, I’d argue that blue jeans are more of a holy symbol of America than the bald eagle. Because we made them. We invented something timeless and enduring. Bald eagles were simply here. And like the native human population, we pushed them to the brink of extinction before realizing “holy crap, we’d better slow down! Let’s hunt some buffalo and wolves instead!” But as bad-ass as the American Bald Eagle looks, and as wonderful a national bird as it is (WHY THE HELL DO WE EVEN NEED A NATIONAL BIRD?!) landing on the Moon is much more representative of the USA. And yet, there are complete idiots that would choose to believe that it never happened, because…reasons? I’ve never understood that particular conspiracy theory, by the way, and wish I could haul off and Buzz Aldrin some bitches when they propagate that sort of foolishness.

But hey, you know what? I don’t punch them. Because they have a right to say whatever pea-brained derptastic feces that falls from their tiny little cerebrums and out through their putrid mouth-holes. So I sigh and shake my head and leave them to it.

In closing, I suppose the person I’d really love to ask about all this is my late Grandfather Watson. He won two Bronze Stars in Europe fighting the Nazis, and I think he’d be alarmed that a lot of the same rhetoric that was being spouted as Hitler rose to power is echoing here in the U.S. “OUR COUNTRY FIRST! NO FOREIGNERS! TO DISRESPECT A NATIONAL SYMBOL IS TREASON!” On the subject of flag burning, I’d imagine he’d say something to the effect of “Well, that’s their God-given right…but I’d recommend they don’t pull a stunt like that in front of the VFW. Like to get their asses handed to them.”

Grandpas always have the best advice.

 

The Captain, the Rookie, and the Mystic

 

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The Three Musketeers. The Holy Trinity. Geddy, Neil, and Alex.

It’s been a wonderfully exciting week or so. A direct message from Dewar’s on Twitter. Strange clues and exotic tomes containing single-malt whiskies. And in the dizzying array of items and splendid, gorgeous packaging and presentation, I ALMOST FORGOT TO REVIEW THE DAMNED THINGS! I mean, I tasted them…but I kept putting off really publishing my findings. Today, I rectify that oversight.

But not before I show off some of the stuff that came along with the three single-malt offerings. If you read my initial Whisky Mystery blog, you learned about the entertaining riddles and such that accompanied The Aultmore. Well, not to be outdone, the Royal Brackla packaging featured an actual wooden box with hinged lid. Inside were two hefty, etched glasses, along with a little tin of honey, some raisins, almonds, and apricots. It was an alcoholic pick-a-nick basket, eh Boo-Boo?

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Everything a growing boy needs!

And the Deveron featured some great nautical design, and…oh yeah…a friggin WATCH! Plus, the bottle of scotch itself was magnificent.

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I totally wanted the “D” in this particular case.

More on that in the actual reviews, which start right now.

 

 

The Deveron (Mystic, Wise, Spiritual Advisor and Best Friend of the Captain)

The earthiest nose of the lot. Not overwhelmingly so, but it’s there. Like wet leaves. Faint spices. A hint of the seaside in there, too, although that could be my imagination, what with the overwhelming nautical theme of the gift box and the incredibly beautiful frosted sea-glass bottle. (Seriously, somewhere right now some rum distiller is kicking themselves for not stealing all of the Deveron’s look prior to the mass-release of this fine single-malt.)

 

Warm vanilla. A dark fruit, like plums or dates. Not a lot of peat, but it’s lurking in the background for an opportunity, hanging out with the yummy malts and tobacco bite, waiting to spring out at the finish. Delightful and mysterious, this dram. It feels a bit heavier on the tongue than the other two. Sweet, but not cloyingly so. Good stuff. A great alternative to the regular old bottles you have in the cabinet. Pour some for a friend and ask them to guess what it is.

4 stars

 

 

 

Aultmore (The Brash Young Ensign)

Looks light, and smells the same. DON’T BE FOOLED! The nose is almost totally unassuming. It almost didn’t seem like scotch, until I concentrated. There was alcohol here (oh, was there ever! More on that later) and a fruitiness, like maybe pears. If chardonnay were a whisky, it would smell like this.

 

I didn’t see the first punch coming until it was too late. Let this be a warning to you: there is a substantial alcohol bite to this little guy. And frankly, I found it a bit overwhelming at first. I checked the bottle and saw that I was sampling a nice 92 Proof beverage. Well, now. But the good news is that just like the very high-alcohol Sailor Jerry rum, there were flavors to be had. The Aultmore is just a little too eager, a headstrong rookie. Be patient with it and you’ll find the good. There’s a lovely apple/citrus sort of tang to it. A bit of sherry and a tiny little taste of oak. It also feels very light on the tongue. In other words, you would almost expect this whisky to be a lightweight “starter” whisky. It isn’t. And once I poured it over some ice, it settled down and was delightful. I tried the 12-year-old variety and thought it was okay. I think that a bit more aging would help tremendously, so I can’t wait to try the older varieties and see if I’m right. One final note: if you’re a fan of peat in your single-malt, look elsewhere. That’s not bad or good, as peat, like malts or spices, can be very divisive. (I once opened a bottle of Laphroaig in front of my wife and she turned her nose up immediately, saying that it “smelled like band-aids.”) The Aultmore, by contrast, is virtually smoke-and-peat free. So maybe it is a good starter whisky after all…

3 stars, although I’ll go up to 3.5 on the rocks

 

 

Royal Brackla (The Steady Captain With a Zeal For Adventure)

Okay, let’s get this juvenile bit out of the way. It’s hard for me not to make fun of things. The name of this bottle was no exception, with my mind racing between Blackula and Scott Bakula. No matter, as the drink was the best of the three which I had the pleasure to taste. We’ll start with the nose: It smelled of scotch. And I mean that in the very best way possible. It was fragrant and wonderful and familiar. Some apricots, some flowers from a meadow, and a dash of black pepper. Yes. This was the one.

 

Oh, so buttery on my tongue. There’s that pepper again. And something else, some dates or raisins. A bit “darker” taste than the Aultmore, and even though they were both 12-year-olds, the Brackla just tasted more finished. More mature. A man’s drink. A hint of pipe tobacco on the finish balanced by mellow honey. A steady hand on the tiller. Oak and rich leather. Yes. My go-to single-malt whisky has long been Glenlivet 12. This one may supplant that bottle, as it claims some of the things I love about Glenlivet, but with a bit more complexity. Looks like Royal Brackla might be a tiny bit more expensive, but with rumors of Glenlivet running out of the 12-year-old vintage, I wouldn’t be surprised to see them end up at about the same price before long. Either way, I won’t mind spending a few extra bucks for this bottle. It’s the goods.

4.5 stars

 

In conclusion, I’d say that it’s all great news for whisky fans. These three single-malts will seem oddly familiar to Dewar’s White Label drinkers, but much more complex and interesting. Three great single-malts that will serve as a wonderful opportunity to transition from blends, but strong enough to stand on their own amongst the established pantheon of great whiskies. Of the three, The Royal Brackla is the clear winner. It’s the James T. Kirk of this lot, with the Deveron as Mr. Spock (or Guinan, actually…or Troi) and The Aultmore a cheerful Ensign Chekov. I’ve had the pleasure of rotating the three bottles and it’s been a grand week to say the least. Seek ’em out. Enjoy them. Savor them.

Sláinte!

The Whisky Mystery

I arrived home on a snowy, blustery Northern Indiana evening to discover a parcel on my front porch. I love a mystery, and absolutely adore a puzzle. Knowing what was probably inside the large box, I whisked it inside, threw some crap off my dining room table, cut open the cardboard, and dug out what appeared to be a huge, fairly weighty tome. The thing was 14” by 14” and about 4.5” thick. Woof! And emblazoned upon the ‘cover’ was the seal of ‘The Aultmore Distilling Co.’ I took that to be a really good sign.

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Like a Guggenheim Bible…dedicated to BOOZE!

Upon closer inspection, of course, it was obvious that this object was not a real book. I opened the apparently magnetic flap on the cover and saw the mysterious (downright spooky) interior artwork and cover page. And behind that…the real good stuff.

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See, usually I prefer to pee myself AFTER I drink, thank you very much.

There was a neat little mini-book, really not much more than a pamphlet. The cover was sharp, and the paper thick, with that sort of rough, pulpy feel. Good stock. ‘The Mystery of the Buckie Road’ was the title, printed in gold leaf.

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That door either leads to whisky or grandpa’s old killin’ cellar.

Along with that was a fun-looking little cylinder with numbers etched into revolving tumblers. It was sturdy, made out of some sort of brass alloy. I’d read enough Dan Brown to recognize it as a cryptex.

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Or the oldest bike lock ever discovered.

I also found what at first glance seemed like a simple laser pointer. And it was, in part. There were two little buttons. The first activated a standard red laser. Okay. The second one…a single click produced a clear LED mini-flashlight beam. But when I pressed that one a second time, it switched to a dimmer blue glow. Curioser and curioser. I had a hunch why, but that would have to wait, because by now I figured I knew for sure what the real goodies were going to look like. And I wasn’t wrong.

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My cats were substantially less excited about the ghastly blue setting.

Behind the faux-wooden door flap, I discovered a bottle of 12-Year-Old single-malt scotch the color of honey and wheat: The Aultmore. NOW we were getting somewhere. And behind the booklet, a wee snifter-shaped glass (technically, a Glencairn Glass). How convenient!

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Hello, gorgeous…

Full disclosure time. Those that know me well enough are aware that I love a good Scotch Whisky. I get bottles of the stuff for Christmas, and it’s always fun to try a new label. Usually, I prefer the single-malts, but they can be a crapshoot, quite frankly. I know I’m pissing off some scotch purists, but there it is. With bottles as expensive as they tend to be, most folks don’t have the luxury of trying everything on the shelf. That being the case, we all have our favorites. And I have no problem admitting that I’ve always fancied a glass of Dewar’s White Label over some of the fancy, higher-end single-malts.

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Pictured: a ‘glass’ of Dewar’s.

“WAIT!” you cry. “DEWAR’S IS A BLEND!” It certainly is, and a wonderful one. There are other bottles in the same price range, and I’ve tried many…The Famous Grouse and Grant’s standing out alongside dark-horse favorites like Old Smuggler (seriously, not too shabby. You almost forget it can be had from a plastic bottle.) But Dewar’s is on my go-to list every time.

Sorry. Getting distracted thinking about all this booze. I’ll get back to that in the next blog entry. I’ll simply say that I was expecting a sample from the Dewar’s folks…but nothing quite as elaborate as this.

So, this mystery tome. It seemed obvious what my next steps were. The booklet held the key to the cryptex…and the cryptex itself held some additional mystery. It was really fairly exciting, a lot more adventurous than I’d anticipated for a simple whisky tasting.

I read the booklet in its entirety. Didn’t take long. It’s a tale about a mysterious old fisherman/smuggler/bootlegger leading the unnamed protagonist to discover the secrets of the distillery and whatnot. Nicely written, but not really groundbreaking.

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A story I’ll read to my grandchildren one day.

I returned to the front page, and shone my laser-pointer at the page, nearly tearing a hole in space-time. Crap. Forgot. Wrong button. Crimson light blazed through the dining room, boring cleanly through a cat (one down, one to go!) and nearly blinding me as it shone off the white paper. I clicked the other button until the faint blue light bled forth onto the page. And there I saw it.

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‘Saw what? Just looks like a regular ol’ page to me…’

Like some Scooby-Doo cartoon, or even better, some deleted scene from a Harry Potter film, faint, glowing numbers materialized. It was awesome. I figured I’d find something like that, but it was so cool to have my suspicions confirmed.

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‘So what am I looking for, some sort–OH! Oh, that’s pretty bad-ass!’

I swept carefully through the booklet, making sure not to miss any clues. I finished with the necessary digits (all numbers, no letters or symbols.) Nervously, I picked up the heavier-than-expected cryptex, spinning the tumblers into place until I felt (rather than heard) a ‘click’. Carefully I pulled the end cap, extracting a central cylinder which…was actually a USB stick!!

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Crap. Should’ve said ‘SPOILER ALERT!’

Haha! Of course! The whole thing was basically an electronic press kit. I found a video that ran a nice two-and-a-half minutes, descriptions of the varieties of whisky available, the different ages and such, and some information on the distillery and its history. It was all so wonderful.

So, quickly, I’ll tell you this. Dewar’s, knowing of my love for their blended scotch, reached out to me on Twitter. They informed me that they were about to launch a few varieties of single-malt scotch. The neat part? These featured single-malts are essentially the whiskies that get blended to make Dewar’s White Label. And now, for the first time, the greater public would be able to enjoy them one at a time. I was asked if I’d be interested in trying some. “Abso-freakin’-LUTELY” was my paraphrased response.

But the fun manner in which this was all presented, the mystery, the charm, the enigma…that’s good stuff. It’s great marketing, quite frankly, and excellent showmanship. Not sure who handles their promotions and advertising, but they’re a top-notch firm, make no mistake. And reaching out to select Twitter followers? Brilliant use of social media. Much more effective than some stupid YouTube video or “repost this for a chance to win” Facebook contest.

Ah, and as for the scotch itself?

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

So…that happened.

It’s Friday, November 9th.  Last night, apparently, I went on a bit of a Twitter binge.  This usually happens when I watch the NHL playoffs (which may or may not happen next spring.  Don’t get me started) or U.S. Presidential Election-related stuff like debates or election-night coverage (which is thankfully over for another four years) or the Walking Dead.  Another time this phenomenon occurs is when I partake of some manner of booze.  Usually, the booze is simply a catalyst, acting in conjunction with the other events I’ve mentioned.  Sometimes, however…well, the booze just unlocks the crazy, and I take to Twitter to try to infect everyone that follows me.  Here, then, are some highlights from last evening’s Twitsplosion…

Okay, see that Tweet at the bottom? The one about the mayonnaise? Yeah, that’s how it all started. Also, there is a reference in there to me changing my avatar.  The old one looked like the offspring of The Governor and Wil Wheaton.  I changed it to the one you see now.  It’s more…me. you’ll also note some response from @WoMarty. That guy is my boss, BTW.  Good chap.

Some more responses.  Hey, great!  People are paying attention!  TO ME!! I LOVE ATTENTION!!!

The pic that I failed to expand in this screenshot is of me drinking Scotch.  Okay, we get it.  Turner likes Scotch.  Also, this marks the second time in this blog entry I’ve mentioned Wil Wheaton.  I long ago unfollowed Wil because he went on and on about the Big Bang Theory, a show he makes frequent guest-appearances on.  You may recall that I am not what you’d call a “huge fan” of that show.  Since then I’ve begun following him again, in part because he is sometimes the polar opposite of Adam Baldwin.  Adam and I used to get into spirited political discussions.  One night I gave him a royal beating in a debate we were carrying on via Twitter and the sumbitch blocked me. That’s how you know you’ve won the argument.  The other person takes their ball and goes home.

Apparently, when I drunk Tweet two things happen:  I forget how to spell and I start obsessing about body parts.  Okay, good.  Also, @jan31875 followed me, and it made me happy (I don’t know who that is, BTW.)

More interaction: @ajmotia (a lovely young lady whose last name is pronounced “mo-TEE-ya”) makes a joke about my old avatar.  Ha.  Then @RMRacing19 chimes in with concerns for my wife’s safety.  Russ is a lcoal Komet hockey fixture, NASCAR fan, and race care driver.  I will fucking END HIM if he doesn’t watch it.

I have deliberately left the conversation between myself and my old friend @brettyrocks hidden from your sight.  See, Brett is a big ol’ dirty, stinky hippie.  He’s also gay as they get.  I love Brett because he once wore his “100% Negro” shirt to work when Reverend Al Sharpton came to visit when we both worked at the alternative station 99X in New Bern, NC.  Oh, by the way…Brett is also very white. True story.  The suits were nervous about the non-PC shirt and Sharpton’s reaction to it, but to everyone’s surprise the good reverend absolutely loved it and even posed with  Brett for a picture.  Last night, however, Brett was describing sexual acts with gentlemen, and while I am all for guy-on-guy or girl-on-girl (okay, mainly girl-on-girl) action, I’m treating his Tweets as the language of Mordor and will not utter them here.  One more to wrap it up…

The guy named Sneed was a consultant when I worked in NC.  He was the mentor of my sworn enemy, so, yeah.  And that’s my foot.  I think I blacked out after that one.  I Tweeted a few pics last night, and one of them was of me eating my kitty cat, Keyser.  My good friend (and sometime drummer for the rock band Rains) @TheJoeSchultz reminded me that he, in fact, had posted a similar pic long before I did.  Giving credit where credit is due:

And finally, my boy @TikiBoundRay tried to unravel the mystery of the strange Tweets coming from my account…

Quite a detective, that guy.

Just the Facts.

On the Twitter recently (@turnerwatson) I’ve seen a lot of so-called “facts”  Many of these Tweets are not, in fact, actually based in any sort of reality.  In response, I started Tweeting what I call “Turner Watson Facts, or #twfacts for short.  Yes, I know that it looks like either “Twitter Facts” or even worse “Twat Facts” but goddammit, that’s not the point.  Most of what I post under that hashtag is completely made up.  I’ve assembled some of them here, along with some ones from my little iPod notepad PLUS as an added bonus, there are some real honest-to-goodness facts sprinkled in to keep you guessing.  It’s like a big Easter Egg hunt, but without a crazy duck following you around trying to eat you. That’s an “Adventure” joke, by the way.  See?  An Easter Egg inside of an Easter Egg in a blog that casually mentions Easter Eggs!  It’s the INCEPTION BLOG!!!

FACTS:

White Midwestern kids love Bob Marley 73% more than actual Jamaicans.

The current railway gauge used in the US and Europe is actually based on the width of Roman chariots.  Roads, and eventually railways, were measured using the ruts made by chariots that spanned the Roman Empire.  In Asia, the railway gauge is different, so railway travelers entering parts of Russia from Europe must actually switch trains.

Scientists have proven that it is 82% more difficult to get out of bed on a Saturday morning when surrounded by purring housecats.  This rate doubles in Winter.

Ladies reading this post just fell in love.

Leonard Cohen wrote “The Safety Dance” and intended to record it himself, but thought that the tone was too somber.

Eating too much granola can give you a granuloma.

The original name of “Special K” cereal was “Bowl O’ Scabs” due to its high iron content.

Yep. Enjoy your breakfast!

In the 1800’s most swim caps were made of whale foreskin.

During the Great Depression, “Peanut Brittle” was temporarily replaced with “Flea-Nut Brittle” (Flea nuts were cheap and abundant.)

The multi-layer space suits worn by the astronauts to the moon weighed 180 pounds on earth, but thirty pounds on the moon due to the lower gravity.

A moon that is “growing full” is known as a “waxing moon.”  A moon transitioning to “new” is called a “waning moon.”  A moon shot over the shoulder in a bathroom mirror is called “Scarlett Johanssoning.”

You're welcome, ladies. And fellas. Enjoy your breakfast!

The sexual term “fisting” was coined by mistake.  “Penthouse Letters” simply misspelled “fishing.”

It was physically impossible for John Belushi to ice skate, so his part in “Slap Shot” was handed to Paul Newman.

In August of 1972, a girl totally said “Bloody Mary” into a darkened mirror, and was, like, totally never heard from again.

Tweetin’ Ain’t Cheatin’

Quick blog time…nothing major to report, other than some of the blogs I follow have been absolutley dynamite lately.  Damn, there are some good writers out there.  Check out a few on the “Blog Roll” to the right of this page. BTW, “Blog Roll” is not only my favorite sushi, it’s also a fancy new way to say “links section.”

Recently a couple of people nominated me for something called the “Shorty Awards.”  At first I was offended, but as I like entering (and winning!) short-penis contests, I looked it up and found out it’s actually something completely different!  It’s a Twitter contest (?) and apparently everybody in the gorram ‘verse gets nominated.  I honestly don’t usually care much for this type of contest, and since I’m in the radio category with people like friggin’ Seacrest I don’t stand a chance in hell anyway.  But I figured since someone might want to vote anyway to strike a blow for the common man (boy, that sounds dirty) then they should be well-informed.  So here are some of my Tweets from the last couple of weeks.  After reading them you may choose not to vote after all…


I’m a badass. I order my pork chops “rare.”. Mmmm! Bloody pork!

Ima go down on my FleshLight tonight. Because I’m a gentleman.  (Ed. note: it was somewhat awkward trying to explain a Fleshlight to our 98.9 the Bear Rock Girl.)

I’m starting a movement to call the “landing strip” on a lady a “pusstache.” You heard it here first.

It occurs to me that 2012 Me could knock 1996 Me out with one punch. Fffffuuuu…

I should aim for that freakishly giraffe-like neck...

Ahhhh…I can FINALLY take my pants off in peace!!

@Jerrdog989 will be glad to know that the company has replaced the 30-grit sandpaper TP in the restrooms with an old Be-Dazzled llama pelt. (Ed. note: seriously, the paper in the “pooping” bathroom was like a cheese grater on your anus/taint area)

C’MON, REF! CALL THAT! FACEMASK ON LSU!! (Sorry. I have no plans to watch the game. Just wanted to feel included.) #tollride

Just took a box of Enzyte and six Viagra. Any ladies wanna play flagpole sitta?

Don’t do it! Don’t put your dick in there! (sorry…meant to type “cock.” Stupid auto-correct!)

Here’s a tip from Uncle Turner: instead of getting a fake tan, just roll around in a pile of Cheetos! Feel good about yourself!

Duckface + fake tan = fail.

Can’t seem to wake up, which is bad, since i’m tweeting in my sleep and my house is on fire.

Oh, dear. It seems I have inadvertantly stepped in some dub. (Ed. note: it was somewhat awkward explaining “dubstep” to my wife)

Wow…I just realized that today was the first day in forever that I WASN’T shufflin’.

I just gave myself an award. Bet you’re jealous.

Back in '06 I used the FUCK out of the web!

IT’S CHILI TIME!!! (Ed. note: it WAS chili time, and I devoured two bowls of it.  It was good.  That’s all I wanted to say about that)

“fast” food. Oh, that’s funny.

I wonder if any parents will choose not to take their kids to Cedar Point this year because it’s in Sandusky, OH…

It has always bothered me, BTW, that the Banana Splits song totally ripped off the hook from “Buffalo Soldier.” Yes, I’m serious.

Poop isn’t supposed to scream, is it? I think something is horribly wrong…

Ha! I feel so stupid. I keep writing “aztec” on my checks. (Ed. note: Mayan calendar joke alert)

I really dig Sublime. Too bad most of their fans are fucking stupid.

I’LL KICK YOUR DICK OFF, MOTHERFUCKER!

Sorry, everyone. That last tweet was to my youth pastor buddy.

Another million-dollar idea: capitalizing on the “whitening” craze with these new products: super-whitening coffee and cigarettes. (menthol)


There you go.  A primer, if you will, for my Twitter experience.  Was this a crass attempt to win a stupid award?  No.  This was a crass attempt to gain more Twitter followers.  HA!!  Seeya next time, suckaz!