Shut Up

Shut up.  Just shut the fuck up.  I don’t want to hear you.  Leave me alone.  Be fucking quiet.  You’re invading my peace and it’s rude and I resent it.  Don’t cop an attitude, just shut the fuck up.  Be calm.  Learn the value of silence.

The dream was amazing, inspiring.  I was at the bottom of a two story causeway, like in a mall but more like a spaceport.  I was yelling and not being heard.  Something about passion, lust, and a fruit.  I was enticing someone, or trying to.

I was warm and comfortable, wrapped in that summer nap dreaming but still awake state.  White light was washing in over my dream, I was fighting to hang on to it, to remain still and at peace.  I wanted to remember it, write it.

Then I was imposed upon by that fucking cell phone and really bad pretend R&B crap blaring from the living room TV.  Look, real R&B doesn’t just string a bunch of “baby”s together with some “I wanna git wit choo”s together with a voice sliding all around a note and call it music.  That shit on the TV is just crap.  And R&B doesn’t get blared like annoyingly inane rap by second or third rate rap performers from Stepford pushing junk music like bad heroine to teenagers who don’t know what it means for music to have heart, to have soul.  I haven’t had the slightest tickle of inspiration in forever, and YOU ARE WRECKING IT!

Show some fucking empathy.  Shut the fuck up.  Listen.  Be still.  See that I am quiet, and stop babbling about stupid people on the cell to other stupid people.  You have more sense than that.  You are being rude.

Turn off the idiot box, close the cell phone, be still, be calm.  Shut up.  I don’t want your snotty apology, I want your silence.  Turn it all off, unplug, sit down, be still, just shut the fuck up.


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Liberty Likes Kayla

Kayla's acceptance letter*snicker*

So a few weeks ago, there were some college recruiters at the high school.  Kayla saw one that cracked her up, and she wanted the free t-shirt so she applied.

When she got back from her weekend trip back to Kentucky a few minutes ago, she came running into my room laughing hysterically after opening yesterday’s mail.  I had to share.

She’s been accepted to Liberty “University”, fundy brainwashing institute of late hate-mongering dirtbag Jerry Falwell.

That cracks me up.

If nothing else, she diverted a few bucks away from Liberty that they might have used to damage someone else.


The Coin FlipFirst let me just give some serious props to the Stallions. Our opposing team today sized up pretty well with us, but only dressed ten players.

Rather than force them to forfeit, our coach offered to play with only ten. When one of their players went down to injury, he offered to drop one more of ours but the refs wouldn’t let him. Fortunately, they only went two plays with one man short.

That’s some great sportsmanship by our coach, and I’m proud to be associated with such a man. Coach Chris, you rock.

Now, the formula at the top…

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Wednesday Night Lights

Wednesday Night LightsIt was every football dad’s dream last night. It was beautiful.

Less than a minute on the clock, time running, down by 6 and the ball’s on the other team’s 35. My son the halfback comes out of the huddle and lines up at tight end. The tight end lines up at halfback. I whisper excitedly to my wife, “James is lined up as a receiver!” I’ve seen it in practice, so I’m excited.

The ball is snapped to the quarterback, who’s filling in for our injured starter. The offensive line collapses almost immediately under the pressure of a defense that heavily outweighs it, and has had several more weeks of practice. (Our team only got started two weeks ago.)

The quarterback pitches to the stand-in halfback, who’s rolling right as hard as he can to get away from the sea of maroon that is the Redskins Defense.

My son has ditched his coverage with a fake that left the defender’s jock strap lying in the grass. The ball is launched high, to clear the wall of pain that is about to descend on the halfback. In my line of sight, the ball sails in front of the lights that illuminate the field. It comes down behind a sprinting James, who stretches a long arm and tips, corals, bobbles, and finally pulls in the ball at a dead run on a corner fly.

Hot pursuit to the goal line, James’ wheels turning like a bootlegger running from the smokies. Three defenders block our view as they head directly away from us to the far corner. His blue striped helmet pops into view once, as he jukes hard once and loses one.

He beats the other two in the footrace and scores.

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