Friday, November 30, 2007

One more....

One More....

This one's a personal favorite. I was told it by a little one-armed man who drove a delivery truck.

A man buys a brand new motorcycle. Before he leaves the dealership, the dealer tells him to rub Vaseline on the bike, if it looks like rain. It'll keep the motorcycle looking like new.

That night, the man takes his girlfriend to her parents' house on the new bike. Before they go in the house, she says "There's one rule: Don't talk during dinner. The person who talks during dinner has to do the dishes!"

The man thinks it odd, but then he goes into the house, and sees dishes stacked to the ceiling, in every room of the house. He wisely decides that he's not going to speak a word during dinner.

The family sits to eat. The man has a couple too many drinks, and he starts getting a little touchy-feely with his girlfriend. When nobody says a word, he gets bolder, and starts making out with her. Again, nobody says a word. Emboldened, he throws her up on the table, and has his way with her right there.

Nobody says a word.

A little while later, he starts looking at the girlfriend's mom. He starts getting touchy-feely with her. Nobody says a word. He throws her up on the table and has his way with her. Nobody says a thing.

He gets a few more drinks in him. Turns to look out the window, and sees rain drops starting to fall.

Remembering the dealer's advice, he stands up, pulls a jar of vaseline out of his pants pocket.

And the girl's father stands up and screams "Alright! Alright! I'll do the fucking dishes!"

Another bad one....

Another bad one...

I heard this one from my high school English teacher, back in the day:

A man kills a deer and takes it home to cook for dinner. Both he and his wife decide that they won't tell the kids what kind of meat it is, but will give them a clue and let them guess.

The kids were eager to know what the meat was on their plates, so they begged their dad for the clue.

Well, he said, 'It's what mommy calls me sometimes'.

The little girl screams to her brother "Don't eat it, it's an asshole!

Another one....

Another one....

This one was from the e-mail last week.

A game warden was driving down the road when he came upon a young boy
carrying a wild turkey under his arm.

He stopped and asked the boy, "Where did you get that turkey?"

The boy replied, "What turkey?"

The looked at him and said, "That turkey you're carrying under your arm."

The boy looks down and said, "Well, lookee here, a turkey done roosted
under my arm!"

The game warden said, "Now look, you know turkey season is closed, so
whatever you do to that turkey, I'm going to do to you. If you break his leg, I'm gonna break your leg. If you break his wing, I'll break your arm. Whatever you do to him, I'll do to you. So, what are you gonna do with him?"

The looked at the turkey, and back at the game warden, and said, "I guess I'll just kiss his ass and let him go!"

Thanks. Here all week.

There's Nothing Like a Good Joke. And this is Nothing Like....

There's Nothing Like a Good Joke. And this is Nothing like...

I dunno. I like this one. Heard it before. Heck, probably posted it before. But, all the same, here goes:

It was near winter, and the Indians on a remote reservation asked their new Chief if the coming winter was going to be cold or mild.

Since he was a Chief in a modern society he had never learned any of the old ways. When he looked to the sky, he couldn’t tell what the winter was going to be like. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, he told his tribe that it was indeed going to be cold and that the members of the village should collect firewood to be prepared.

Being a practical leader, after several days he got an idea. He went to the phone booth and called the National Weather Service and asked “Is the coming winter going to be cold?” “It looks like this winter is going to be quite cold,” the meteorologist at the weather service said.

So the chief went back to his tribe and told them to collect even more firewood in order to be prepared. A week later, the chief called the National Weather Service again. “Does it still look like it’s going to be a very cold winter?” “Yes,” the man at the National Weather Service again replied “it’s going to be a very cold winter”.

The Chief again went back to his people and ordered them to collect every piece of firewood they could find.

Two weeks later, the Chief called the National Weather Service again and asked “Are you absolutely sure that this winter is going to be very cold?

“Absolutely,” replied the man, it’s looking more and more that this is going to be one of the coldest winters ever."

“How can you be so sure?” the Chief asked.

The weatherman replied, “The Indians are collecting firewood like crazy...”

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Third Person Thursday

Third Person Thursday

There are two things your old pal Tommy has been doing this week.

1.) Working like a botard. Again. He's been working at another store than his usual one this week. He's found that there's a big difference in waking up at 6:00 and 5:15 in the A.M. He hasn't done the math but his mental calculations figure that the 45 minute difference is worth the equivalent of 3.5 hours of sleep.

There is one immutable truth in this world, and it is that Tommy cannot afford to miss any beauty sleep at all.

Though, truth be told, Tommy could probably use a beauty coma. Perhaps brought on by a beauty-2 by 4 to the head.

Still, it's nice for Tommy working out of the usual environment, if only because in the new one, he is able to get stuff accomplished without interruption.

2.) Tommy's been watching The Sopranos.

Tommy got his Wellness Bonus from work last week. And wandered into the Wal-Mart, and found The Sopranos seasons on sale for the princely sum of 20 bucks (and a touch more for the later seasons).

Yeah, he's knee deep in the first season (which he watched recently on Netflix).


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Proof, this Christmas Season

Proof, this Christmas Season

I post this mostly to prove that I'm not making shit up.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Mist

The Mist

Thanksgiving Day, I went to see The Mist. It's Frank Darabont and company's take on what is my favorite Stephen King short story (which puts it pretty high up on my list of favorite short stories of all time).

I've been thinking about this movie for five days, now.

I want to see the movie again, which I'd have not believed, because my first visceral reaction was not terribly good.

I'm not sure what's bugging me about the movie. Except that when I say "bugging me," I don't mean that as a bad thing. Something keeps me thinking about it. I honestly couldn't tell you the last movie to keep me thinking this way.

And it's not a bad thing, because The Mist might be moving up onto my list of favorite horror movies of all time.

Monday, November 26, 2007

I drive you unsane with interweb

I drive you unsane with interweb

I apologize.



Dear reader:

On the newest Shooter Jennings release entitled "The Wolf," Shooter & Co. perform a cover of the Dire Straits classic "Walk of Life."

Well, it's a catchy tune, both the Dire Straits version and Shooter's cover. But this week, Shooter's cover has been particularly catchy.

Have you read The Stand? And you know how Captain Trips is like 99.4% communicable?

Shooter Jennings' cover of "Walk of Life" isn't quite that catchy.

But it's close.

It's been stuck up in my brain for three days now. Wedged somewhere between my memories of getting stung by a bee while playing in the pine forests behind Riceville Elementary School, and my knowledge of what butterscotch tastes like.

And it's squatted there for days. It's built a little hut, and cooked little cans of hobo beans around its little squatter's fire. I cannot get it to leave my head. It shouts things about "common law" and "usury," and I have to leave, because I'm not muchly sure what either of those two things are.

Tonight's attempt, which involved needle-nosed pliers, a coat hanger and a bottle of Drano was unsuccessful in removing said song from my brain. Sadly, I removed the frontal lobe of my brain. With it, most emotion and any vestige of psychic ability went flying down the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink. It's not a total loss however: my sinuses have never been more clear.

Anyway. I'm kinda tough, in a steaky sort of way. So, I'll just tough it out. It's not really a bad song, so I suppose it's all good.

I hope you folks keep on sailin'.

Yours in all that is holy,
George Washington Big Stupid Tommy

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Thoughts This Sunday

Thoughts This Sunday

Hello, and Good Afternoon.

I sit here this rainy afternoon, watching the Albert Haynesworth-less Titans let the Cincinnati Bengals run all over them, thinking about just dropping a few links on you wonderful people.


Tish had this link up, and I've jumped on board, looking to see how it works. allows writers to post something they've written, and have the content voted on by their peers. If you've gotten enough clout given the strength of your content, there's the possibility of a payday. Which is cool.

And ain't that the American Dream? To get paid for your drivel?

Go check it out. Tell them Big Stupid Tommy sent you. Then take a swing at them, you anti-social son of a buck.


I link to this story about Teller's (of Penn and Teller) house in Las Vegas not to worship celebrity so much as I do to talk about how jealous I am of a person that has a house filled with secret passages and doorways.

That card trick playing bear is pretty cool, too.

But mostly, I wants my own house filled with secret passages and secret doorways.


Once upon a time, working nights stocking at a grocery store, I found a broken bottle of Gorilla Glue. We'd gotten a special shipper. I was returning the bottle to be packaged for reclaim, when I saw a pallet that one co-worker was going to work when he returned from lunch. I took a few seconds run some glue between the cases. My hope was to have him try to pull one case off, and pull the whole thing over on himself.

It didn't work, though. The cases stuck together, but not completely. It ended up just ripping pieces off each case, and utlimately presented no hindrance to my co-worker's progress.

I do not think the plan itself faulty. Only the execution.

Anyway. Here's a story about a new adhesive developed from studying the adhesive tree frogs use to climb. It were interesting.


You ever feel kinda letdown when you find out something isn't the secret you thought it was?

Damn. I had no idea Mellow Mushroom was all over the friggin' country.

Ah well. Haven't hit one in a while. At least I know there are several dozen convenient locations. I might have to hit one this week, if I get time....

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Is there no hope for true love in the world?

Is there no hope for true love in the world?

Man, if Hulk Hogan's marriage can't make it, why even try?

It looks like Hulkster's gonna be getting a divorce.
Look forward to a couple more WWE appareances, depending on how much Linda gets in the divorce....

Thursday, November 22, 2007



Just a moment of repose, this rainy Thanksgiving morning.

I'm thankful for a lot in life. I've gotten to do a lot of cool things this year. Never thought I'd get to go to Wrestlemania. Took a road trip to see some baseball--something I've always wanted to do, and will do again.

I've got my family. They are funny, they are smart. They are supportive, and I could never do what I do without them.

I've got a job, and a roof over my head.

I live in what is still the greatest country on Earth, in what is my very favorite neck of the woods.

I've got a pretty cool hobby, that's allowed me to meet a mess of the coolest people from across this land.

I'm thankful. For all of it.

And though I'm not a religious guy, I do find time to say a prayer of thanks from time to time.

Today, I'm also thankful for my friends. I cannot name them all, mostly for fear of leaving somebody out. Rest assured, I think of you all, and I thank you.

Here's a taste of why: As thankful as I am for this past year, there have been some rough patches. Nothing bad. Nothing life threatening, or even terribly life-changing. Usually, it's stuff I get angry at myself for dwelling on, but it's stuff that gets into my head. I've worked WAY too much. I written as much as I should or I'd want. And this year, I told somebody I'd cared about for a while that I cared, and had her respond with silence. And then, I've had to deal with my own daunting inability to get past it.

All told, these things probably weighed on me more than they should. But, whenever I've needed a pick-me-up, Shyam's been there to do it. A few different times, she's managed to say just the right thing to get me into the right frame of mind. She makes me smile.

She did it again, recently. I missed it, owing to my working like a botard again. Stories are all true, though I'd forgotten about the elevator thing--that hotel didn't much like catering to a bunch of college age, drunken, comic book geeks, I guess.

I'm gonna have to think of some Shyam stories to share, now.....

In which I answer questions on Thanksgiving Morning...

In which I answer questions on Thanksgiving morning

Good morning, Happy Thanksgiving, all that jazz.

Your old pal Tommy ate his Thanksgiving dinner last night with the family. Today, he's gonna chill out, watch some football, maybe go take in a movie. But, while he drinks a cup of coffee, he's going to play with this thing that came in the e-mail a few days back.....

1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought?

Same thing I think every morning. "My! You are a handsome devil!"

2. How much cash do you have on you?

I'm wearing my scrub pants. I don't carry cash in my scrub pants, owing to that money is mostly unsanitary, and not good to have with me in case I have to go into surgery. I have no surgeries scheduled for this morning, but you never know what the future may hold.

Typically, I carry between 10 and 20 dollars.

3. What’s a word that rhymes with DOOR?


4. Favorite planet?

I'm kinda partial to this one, owing to its breathable atmosphere, relatively favorable gravitational pull, and it's where all my crap is.

5. Who is the 4th person on your missed call list on your cell phone?

Eric, of Straight White Guy. He called Sunday. Couldn't answer because I was cleaning up. Headed to his house for beer and Hell in the Pacific. Good beer, good flick.

6. What is your favorite ring tone on your phone?

I just have one of the generic ones that came with the phone. I like it because nobody else seems to use it, so when my phone rings, I know it's mine.

7. What shirt are you wearing?


Green Scrub pants and a black T-Shirt that says Mythbusters: I reject your reality and substitute my own....

8. Do you label yourself?

I realized the other day that I call myself "dork" a lot.

Mostly because I'm a dork. I mean, just re-read what I'm wearing.

9. Name the brand of the shoes you’re currently wearing?

I'm barefoot. They're one of a kind! Or two of a kind. Don't know how the typing of feet goes.

I'm partial to New Balance for my shoes, though. My Wolverine workboots are pretty comfy, too.

10. Bright or Dark Room?

Darker, though I likes my reading lamps really bright.

11. What do you think about the person who took this survey before you?

Diane is mean. Meaner than most of the other forest creatures. Smarter, and more wily, too. It is this meanness, smartness and wiliness that led her to the very top of the food chain. One day, they'll write stories about her, generally meant to frighten small children away from looking in on what Santa is doing the night before Christmas.

Also, one of these days, I am going to surprise her by hugging her. I tend to think that will really confuse her and screw up her day.

12. What does your watch look like?

I don't wear a watch.

Because I can't tell time.

13. What were you doing at midnight last night?

Insanely tired, I wandered off to Dreamland.

14. What did your last text message you received on your cell say?

"I know."

I'd told my friend Robbie that she was my hero for making a couple of Pumpkin Rolls for me to take to my family's Thanksgiving dinner. That was her reply.

15. Where is your nearest 7-11?

There aren't any actual 7-11's nearby. We're covered up in Jiffy's, which have 7-11 on their signs, but aren't related to the 7-11 company. I'm thinking you might have to go over toward the east side of North Carolina, or over into South Carolina to find the nearest 7-11...

For my particular coffee, coke or gasoline needs, there's a Valley Mart/BP nearby that does all I need it to.

16. What's a word that you say a lot?

I like to say the word "shit." A lot.

17. Who told you he/she loved you last?

Probably my folks, when I left their house last night.

18. Last furry thing you touched?

Either one of my folks' dogs. Sally is a black lab, and she's a pretty girl. Max is a pug, and he is the true ruler of the universe. It takes only you acknowledging that to make life easier.

19. How many drugs have you done in the last three days?

None. Fairly boring.

20. How many rolls of film do you need developed?

Probably a few to download from the camera.

21. Favorite age you have been so far?

I kinda dug 29.

22. Your worst enemy?

Probably myself.

Or Barry Bonds. I tend to think Barry Bonds is high up on the list. But he's got perjury charges to deal with. So he won't vex me for a while.

23. What is your current desktop picture?


Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

24. What was the last thing you said to someone?

"See you later."

25. If you had to choose between a million bucks or to be able to fly what would it be?

I think I'd take the money. And I hate making this about the money, but that's what it comes down to. I thought about the flying thing, and how one might be able to parlay that into more money than a million dollars. But, I'm thinking to do that, I'd probably have to be in the public eye. I'm not one for a lot of attention.

26. Do you like someone?

Sure. I like lots of people. Some more than others.

The trick, sometimes, is getting them to like you to.

27. The last song you listened to?

"The Rotten Cocksucker's Ball" by the Asylum Street Spankers.

28. What time of day were you born?

4:30 in the afternoon. It was a Sunday.

29. What’s your favorite number?

I like 12 and 23

30. Where did you live in 1987?

EcuadorIn a little brick ranch house in Riceville. With my folks. I was 10.

31. Are you jealous of anyone?

Not really. I get pangs, from time to time. Especially of that flying person with a million dollars.

32. Is anyone jealous of you?

Not unless it's of my ravishing good looks.

33. Where were you when 9/11 happened?

In my apartment, a little depressed at having to go back to work after a vacation. I changed the channel from SportCenter, which had started to cycle through its morning replay, to see the World Trade Center with a big gaping hole. I remember wondering what movie they were promoting.

34. What do you do when vending machines steal your money?

Cuss it, generally. Honestly, it hasn't happened in a while.

35. Do you consider yourself kind?

Yeah, I do. Don't see much other of a way to go through life.

36. If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be?

What do you mean if? I have a map to the Sword of Malachi on my back. One day, people will use it to lead the peoples of Sunder Earth free from their bondsmen. It's cool to have a purpose.

37. If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be?

Spanish, I think. Being pragmatic, I run into more Spanish speaking peoples than any other foreign language. By a ratio of more than a 100 to 1.

38. Would you move for the person you loved?

Yeah, maybe. Probably. Is there a baseball park nearby?

39. Are you touchy feely?

Not really.

40. What’s your life motto?

It's on the sidebar, there. "Those who shun the whimsy of things suffer rigor mortis before death." --Tom Robbins

41. Name three things that you have on you at all times?

Left Eye, Right Eye, Left Big Toe.

42. What’s your favorite town/city?

Chicago is neat. Also, Niota.

43. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?

I bought cranberry relish and a coke at work yesterday.

44. When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone on paper and mailed it?

I wrote a note on a get well card. Does that count? Failing that, I can't remember the last time I actually wrote a letter. C'mon now. Am I Amish? Do I live in the 19th century? We may be getting nigh on a decade now, in this digital age.

45. Can you change the oil on a car?

Yeah. Though it's such a time consuming thing that involves so many curse words, that it's usually easier just to go to Lube Dudes.

46. Your first love: what is the last thing you heard about him/her?

Eh, who knows.

47. How far back do you know about your ancestry?

I'm a direct descendant of an Ayscough who came to Martin's Hundred, in what is now Virginia, in 1630. He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great Grandfather. So, the Acuffs (spelling changed around the time of the Revolution) have been infesting the continent for nearly four centuries.

48. The last time you dressed fancy, what did you wear and why did you dress fancy?

For my friends Matt and Leann's wedding ceremony, last month.

49. Does anything hurt on your body right now?

My neck hurts, a little. I slept 10 hours, which seems to happen once a week here lately, after several nights in a row of 4 hours.

50. Have you been burned by love?

Yeah. The heart's pretty stupid, sometimes.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Yeah, well, I knew that....

Yeah, well, I knew that...

In my neverending quest to let the interweb define me....

Which 2008 candidate do you hate the most?

The candidate you like least is Republican Mitt Romney. He is pro-life, is in favor of No Child Left Behind, opposes embryonic stem cell research, is in favor of wiretapping -- this guy is your worst nightmare!

Take the quiz at

Though, in truth, my worst nightmare generally involves snakes, explosions and Al Roker wanting to rub on my booty.

That said, while I usually take these things with a grain a salt. Further, I usually take dirt on candidates with a similar grain of salt. But, that whole story about this guy strapping a dog carrier with the dog in it thing? I can't take that kind of thing. That mess will drive me crazy. Generally, I like dogs better than people.

I know I like them better than political candidates.

I don't care if this guy could end racism, poverty and put a Playstation 3 in every home in Americanopolis. That dog thing bothers me.

Anyway. Y'all have a good day.

Seen here, and here.



I once new a guy named Monty. I'd never have believed such a thing, except that he told me, point blank, "my name is Monty." He preferred Monty over LaMont, which was his given name. I never asked what his middle name was. I'd bet that it was something fairly atrocious, like Smegma, to opt for "Monty" in favor of it.

I'm a fan of a few older names, to be honest. Not Monty, so much. But many older names that you don't hear so much. There aren't enough George's, to my mind. I don't meet enough people named Frank, now that I think about it. Lou, either. I think Lou is a good name for a guy. I think I'll name my kid Lou.

Lou Batman Acuff.

Anyway, I know you guys were wondering amongst yourselves just what my favorite Monty Python sketch is. It's really a tough decision, but for my monty, you can't go wrong with The Cheese Shop

Diane sent me a link where this guy's linked up 150 Python sketches. Lots of good stuff there. You're just dicking around at work, most likely. So, don't think twice about watching Ministry of Silly Walks seventeen times today.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Discussion Topic

Discussion Topic

This came up in conversation the other day. It's a conversation we've all had, I think. I'm just curious about your answers.

The question: What is the worst movie you've paid to see in the theater, and sat through?

I'll preface this by saying that I have walked out of movies. But, given that I live a half-hour from a decent theater, it's usually an excursion to go see a flick. That doesn't mean I'll sit through it if it's a complete turd, but I'll give it more of a try. Still, the walkout that comes to mind most recently: My Super Ex-Girlfriend;

My answer for the worst movie I've paid to see in a theater and sat through? It's a tie.

The first is Blues Brothers 2000. I love the original. Took a date to see it, in what was easily the worst date of my life, probably hers; it may be in the running for worst date in human history that did not end in one or both parties dead. The movie? Takes every positive quality from the original flick, and disregards it completely. Dan Aykroyd has yet to redeem himself, in my eyes. My date did not enjoy it. Neither did eye, but each of us thought the other was loving it, so we didn't say anything.

The second? League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which I saw with the Evil Hippy.

What a horrible shit of a movie, even on its own merits. But when compared to the source material, which is easily one of my favorite comics, it's all the more disappointing.

Halfway in, I was ready to go back out into the lobby, to bide my time and play the Star Wars arcade game until the movie was over. I stayed, I think, because I hoped the movie might live up to something close to what the comic was.

Bill and I learned later that we were each feeling the same about the flick.

What a horrible movie.....

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Spreading the Ashes...

Spreading the Ashes...

Just wanted to link to this story, from BoingBoing. You might have to scroll down. The post talks about the issue of people scattering their loved ones' ashes at rides at Disney parks.
Sometimes however the cremated ashes aren't found until the end of the night when the Cast Members close down the rides and walk the tracks looking for lost and found. Just last month that situation occurred when a Cast Member at the Haunted Mansion found several piles and a trail of ashes alongside the ride track. The Anaheim Police and Disneyland Security were summoned, and judging by the large amount of ashes this deposit was likely a small group of deceased people, or perhaps a very large married couple. The police identified the substance as human remains, and the custodial crew came in for the clean up.

To respond to this growing problem, Disneyland's custodial department recently had to purchase special vacuums with very sophisticated HEPA filters that can capture the gritty ash of human remains while also capturing the small bone fragments that can also be present after cremation. The Cast Members who work in Attractions know the code words when calling the custodial hotline, and they tell the custodial dispatcher that they need a "HEPA Cleanup" as soon as possible.
Sometimes, there are logistical issues that my imagination would never have conjured in a million years. "We need special vacuums with the ability to pick up the fine ash from human cremation remains, as well as any bone fragments that might remain." All in the name of creating the Happiest Place on Earth.

What hit me as I was reading it though: These Disney Parks are Expensive!

I know Weird Cousin Ernie really, really dug Disneyland...but geez, couldn't have have also enjoyed someplace a little cheaper?

Besides...he's dead. Couldn't we just dump his ashes at Lake Winnepesaukah and just tell him we paid 78 bucks for one day admission to Disney?

You know, at some point, there's been some fully grown child of a Disney Freak, dumping ashes somewhere along the path of It's a Small World, really resenting the shit out of everything...parents, trip, cost of admission, annoying fucking song....

At the end of the day, I'm filing this one away for story material. I enjoy very much the idea of somebody sneaking into a major theme park just for the purposes of dumping ashes....

Bloodshot Eyes; Starless Night

Bloodshot Eyes; Starless Night

Alarm went off at work. Had to go meet Athens Po Po at the store, to check it out.

Good news? It was a False Alarm. It happens, from time to time. We've been decorating for Christmas, and it's possible that one of the decorations set off a motion detector.

Bad news? Couldn't find the offending decoration or whathaveyou. So there's a chance they'll be waking my big ass up again one night at 3:45 in the morning.


Just so you know, I tend to blame you, the reader of this blog.

There is no real reason, except that it just makes it easier for me to sleep at night, knowing that there truly are evil forces out there in the universe, plotting against me. It may not work for you, "the rational person." But it makes these random happenstance events a little easier for your pal Tommy to stomach, and at the end of the day, isn't that all that matters?

Alarm goes off at work? False Alarm? Dammit, Gunny Walker!

I'm not saying it's polite, or even rational.

Hell, it's 4:27, I've had 6 hours sleep over the past 48, and I've steamrolled way past the exit for narcissicm, and wandered three miles into the Land of Solipcism.

I don't think I should feel badly about blaming you folks, because y'all don't really exist, anyway.

So. How's that non-existance working out for you? Making it any easier to get service at that all-night sandwich deli down on the corner?

I thought so.

You know what I mean.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Today's Funny

Today's Funny.

One of the things I've learned in my five years doing this, is that there are only three things on this planet I love more than Fark. And for fear of not naming somebody who will find their omission offensive, I will tell you that only one of them is Peanut Butter Crunch Cereal.

Today, Fark amused me with this:

Stupidity. It vexes me. It amuses me.

This morning, it really, really amused me.

Y'all have a good day.



It being 12:27, we're now officially on the Fifth Anniversary of this little blogamathing I like to call a hobby.

Damn, dude. I've been doing this, like, a sixth of a my life.

Got to meet a goodly number of cool people. Got to learn and talk about a couple things I might not normally have been exposed to. I've managed to overcome my issues with the homophonic discord betwene the words right and write. And I once had a picture of Bubba Smith on my sidebar, which led more than one reader to think that I was a 6'7" black guy.

I am only 6'4."

Anyway. I was sitting here watching this past week's Family Guy on Tivo, and they just used the ending I was going to use for this post...I was going to announce that the entire past year has been a dream. But once again, Seth McFarland beat me to that particular schtick.

So, thanks for reading.

One administrative note: It's looking like NaNoWriMo isn't going to make it for November.

I'm going to re-start the novel process after Thanksgiving. I'm working pretty much all mornings up until the holiday, and that's when I do my writing. So, look at the end of the month for me to regroup and attack this booger once again.....

Sunday, November 11, 2007



Working in the business that I do, we've had a fun year with the recalls. Fun being a euphemism, mind you. I'm not quite sure what it's a euphemism for, but in this particular case, fun does most definitely not mean "fun."

Peanut Butter, dog food, more dog food, pot pies, pizzas, get the call, and the town goes apeshit.

It's not to sound like I'm insensitive. That dog food recall tore me up, to tell the truth--I tend to like dogs more than I like people.

And I don't want to get a case of bloody diarrhea from anything I eat, either. So, I sympathize.

I just don't feel that our food supply is more or less safe than it was five or ten or twenty years ago. I just feel like we've wandered a couple decades down the Path of Eternal Litigation. It's simply more cost effective nowadays for a company to put eight or nine digits worth of money down for recall, disposal and sanitation than it would be just to leave the product out there on the market.

Good thing/Bad Thing? Don't know. I don't want anybody contracting the Salmonella poisoning, and I definitely don't want peoples' pets dying because some polymer's made it into the food supply. And I definitely don't want to ingest metal shavings out of the very same cashews that I've been snacking on at work for the past week. Granted, those cashews are in Washington state. Who's to say that some nameless villain hasn't shipped a case to East Tennessee just to mess with your old pal Tommy?

And I suppose it's not a bad thing that we have guards in place, in the case some nutjob group with some vendetta against some nameless group, decides to put cyanide into the nation's supply of Raisin Bran Crunch.

But still. Makes you wonder how we've made it through the past several decades.

Of course, we did it the old fashioned way.

It is here and now that I announce my desire for a Food Taster.

It is not that I have much to fear from assassins. Much. It is a concern, though.

It is not that I am concerned so much with spoilage. The bulk of my food supply, here lately, consists of Peanut Butter Crackers, Cans of Cashews and boxes of Sunmaid Raisins, and Sam Adams Cherry Wheat so the bulk of what I eat has a pretty decent shelf life, or won't stick around nearly so long as to spoil.

I would like to warn that there are still flaws to the plans.

First, I think the job is better described as "Foot Tester" instead of "Food Taster." I'm not sure I'd much care to have my food chewed for me. I have nothing even partially funny to say about that. That just seems gross. I think you'd have to take a representative sample of my food, rather than testing each piece.

I would also have to re-train myself. That's another obstacle. I'm not entirely keen on the thought of sharing my food, so such a person taking this job would need to either devise a strategy of distraction, to keep me from noticing that you're eating my food, or you would have to be skilled enough to fend me off when I inevitably attack.

I should mention that though not entirely skilled in the mixed martial arts, I do employ an attack I like to call "Avalanche of Pain," most easily fended off with a Greco Roman Poke to the Eye.

I am also vulnerable at my outer occipital protuberance, perhaps with a hammer. Remember that.

Anyway. Need a Food Tester. Don't like metal shavings in my cashews.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Be the Blog

Be the Blog

Be The Blog award

Tish tagged me the other day with this badge, and it's gotten me to thinking.

First, I've been tagged a couple of times by a couple different people, and while I appreciated it, I didn't pay it forward like I should have. So, I'd like to make up on some account there.

Second, this one's right up my alley, as far as keeping a blog goes. The badge's creator says it's intended to signify that "a successful blogger is one who can “be the blog” - making it their own, staying with it, interacting with the readers, and just plain having fun."

Truth be told, that's a nice compliment, hearing that. What I like about the blog is that it's whatever I feel like it being. I don't come in with any particular agenda (unless it's the excess taxation of liquor). I just write whatever stupid shit's running through my head. The fact that I get sevens of readers a day shows that there are a couple of you who are likewise entertained by the dribble that pops out when I've eaten one too many bowls of Froot Loops.

And, at the end of the day, the blogs you see over on the left hand sidebar are a lot the same in that respect. To a person, nobody's bludgeoning you to death with a particular idea, viewpoint or political agenda. It's just a good group of folks who seem to write what they enjoy, or like me, what amuses them.

So, a couple blogs I'd like to tag:

Newscoma. Don't know just how long I've been reading her site now...maybe a year. There's always a lot of great stuff there. We try not to hold her St. Louis Cardinal fandom against her.

Danielle at Missives Anonymous. Danielle's blog was one of the first I linked to, when I started blogging. This was before a foray into the Rocky Top Brigade...I don't know when I realized that she was blogging from Middle Tennessee just like me (at the time). Since then, I'm wandered to the other end of the state, and she's gone to the other side of the planet....

Dave at Perfect Blue Buildings. Dave's blog if not completely in timbre, seems to match the intent of mine. He just writes about whatever's on his mind. I always enjoy that.

Erica, at her blog. I thought of her blog when I first saw Tish's post. I remember commenting, once upon a time, on Erica's blog, that one of the reasons I kept coming back day after day was her absence of agenda....

So, there. Four blogs. Not at all to say that no others are worthy. Just wanted to point those four out...

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Friday, November 09, 2007



Hey! I actually wrote for an hour straight this morning! You should congratulate me by buying me something exceptionally wonderful.

What American accent do you have? (Best version so far)


You're not Northern, Southern, or Western, you're just plain -American-. Your national identity is more important than your local identity, because you don't really have a local identity. You might be from the region in that map, which is defined by this kind of accent, but you could easily not be. Or maybe you just moved around a lot growing up.

Personality Test Results

Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by quizzes and personality tests.

Huh. My southern comes out actually if I'm overly tired or if I've had too much to drink.

I think I sound just like everybody else around these parts.

But I also had an extended argument with a co-worker, at one point, who just knew I was born someplace else, because I didn't "talk like a yokel."

Saw the post over at Jim's and Erica's sites, whilst perusing the interweb. Which is interesting, because I like their accents so much.

Well, let's go write some more.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Sad News

Sad News

My neighbor, whom I've dubbed Popcorn, was evicted this week. He was the subject of an earlier post, and I was hoping he would serve as further blog fodder. But, apparently his ignorance of social norms isn't limited to waking neighbors in the middle of the night to ask for Popcorn, it is extended to the inability to pay rent.

Normally, this sort of thing would leave me fairly happy, since I was born under the sign "Do Not Disturb." It is perhaps ironic that I call the site "Big Stupid Tommy," since it is the stupidity of my fellow man that tends to get my dander up more often than most things.

However, it saddens me somewhat to see Popcorn go.

If only so that I'd like to keep tabs on such an ignorant cuss.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Funny at 1:16



New trailer for The Mist, which opens in a couple weeks.

I'm cautiously optimistic.

The Mist is my favorite Stephen King short story. And, done right, focused on the people instead of the monsters outside, it could be really, really cool. (A statement true about just about any monster movie made in the past two or three decades...and even before that it was a rarer thing....).

Done wrong, it could be really cheesy.

I like cheesy, but The Mist is one of the few stories to actually give me a full blown case of the heebie jeebies. Of course, I read it all alone in the back of a grocery store in the middle of the night. But then, I was never one for making the really bright choices in life.

That said, I really want them to do this movie right.

I will say that Marcia Gay Harden seems like an inspired choice, at least as far as trailer materials go.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Same days, you get the bear....

Some days you get the bear....

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketEh.

Your old pal Tommy's working too much.

He's also frustrated because he set aside this morning to write, and he's not real proud of what got put out. So unproud that he decided not to post it. It's written, and if he feels better about it come tomorrow evening, he'll post the continuation.

He realizes that he has to, since the principal of NaNoWriMo is no editing. So, it'll be up tomorrow.

Anyway. Until that time. Gotta go work some.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Damn Those Banjos

Damn Those Banjos

Damn'em. Damn those Banjos.

You know why.

I know why.

If we agree, then why the hell are we arguing?

Y'all have a good night.

Friday, November 02, 2007

In which I need a New Bio

In which I need a New Bio

We're flying headlong toward my fifth anniversary of starting this blog. Don't know why, but it seems like I need a new bio.

As such, I'm going to take a page from Tish's book.

Calling those rare folks who've met me.

Help a brother out.

Where the heck is Gunny Walker when you need him?

Tell people about me, so I don't have to....

Nanowrimo, part II

Nanowrimo, part II

Written this morning. I'm gonna have to pick up the pace.

Here's Part I. This is a continuation of the "chapter."

Remember. First draft, and all that.

There were no naked pictures. Raymond Saffles considered himself a lot of things, but he didn't consider himself a fool. And that should be noted, because it was not that he didn't know that "Lacy Lee of Greensboro" had a site up intended to offer herself up for prostitution that kept Raymond on the site. Rather, it was his irritation at such racy material being at such easy access to children.

Naked pictures. That was the first thing he looked for. Not because he wanted to be titillated so much as he wanted to make a log of any material that might be at easy reach of any small child who should go looking for the statistics of a veteran baseball player whose career ended years before.

To something of his surprise that Thursday afternoon, he found none. In general, the photos online were tame. A pretty, if skinny, brunette wearing a sweater. Leaning on a tree. Sitting on a picnic table, laughing. There were eight pictures in all, and of them, the most suggestive was this girl with the brown eyes Raymond might fall in to, lying on her stomach on a park bench, the barest hint of cleavage showing, again, laughing joyously at the person taking the picture.

It was this last picture that held his attention.

Those eyes, he thought. Those eyes, and that smile. Simply the most disarming thing he'd ever seen. He stared into those eyes, which followed him around, no matter which way he moved, just like the Jesus statue up in Gatlinburg, he noted. He stared into those pools of green, entranced. And the Reverend Raymond Saffles, for possibly the first time in his 41 years, fell headlong into the throes of lust.


Raymond Saffles did not stray from his duties to his marriage. Not at first, and not for a long time. All that afternoon, he would attempt to begin some work--perhaps preparing the next week's sermon, possibly corresponding with a missionary from the church serving in far off Ouagadougou (at least, he thought it was Ouagadougou). But he kept returning to that one page, and would spend minutes at a time staring across the digital ether into the eyes of somebody calling themselves Lacy Lee of Greensboro. After one particular bout of falling into those green eyes, he heard a yell. And another. A yelp, almost.


He shrunk back into the faux leather of his office chair.

Apparently paralysis had done little to the wind capacity of his beloved wife. Raymond took one last look at the brunette on the screen, composed himself, and turned the computer monitor off. He called himself a foolish old man for taking so much time looking at this woman across the internet, and trudged up toward the trailer where his wife waited.


But eventually, Raymond Saffles did stray. It was not, though, at first, a prurient interest. It was want of conversation. After six months of changing the diapers of a 300 pound woman whose disposition had wandered the range from ornery all the way to petulant, self-righteous ass, who had little positive to say except complete and utter blame, Raymond went looking for friendship.

At first, he started coaching his church's slow-pitch softball team. He found little joy, though, in taking the church's young men (and Robert Dooley, who at 61 could still outrun 90 percent of those in the league) out to get squashed by the local dairy, or the local sparkplug plant's teams. And most of the team disbanded after Robert Dooley ran afoul of the 6'5," 260 lb. first baseman for Chilhowee Paper Mills, who Robert felt was blocking the basepath. And indeed, that first baseman may have been, though not for any intent of malice--a man that size simply was in the basepath by way of standing where he did to field of position. That game (Southern Home Reform Baptist's lone win of the season) came as the Chilhowee Paper Mill was made to forfeit. It was also Robert Dooley's retirement game. No charges were filed after Dooley unfolded himself from his pretzel shape. He did however never have to pay for paper the rest of hi slife.

He also attempted to find friends within the Lions and Elks clubs, but was not long after forced to bring Dorothea with him to these meetings, after Raymond's kind-hearted offer to let the Elks use the church grounds for their annual Car Wash to Benefit Downs Syndrome, unfortunately on the same day that the Reformed Baptists Lady's Auxiliary held their bake sale and Dog Show. Accounts differ, but all can agree that it began with confusion as to whether the bake sale goods were intended for the Downs' children in attendance, and the day ended with wet piles of what was once Millicent Daniels' Cranberry Banana Walnut Bread having to be scrubbed from every nook and cranny of the church, and the fire department on the premises to corral a dozen barking pomeranians and pugs, and pull an unsaid number of children in Pete Rose haircuts out of the trees.....

He even manned the town's suicide help line for a time, and thought he was doing relatively well at that vocation, confident that he'd saved one or two lives at the very least. He could not shake the feeling, though, that he was convincing people to stick with their lives, only because the man they were talking to was spending his days at the beckon call of his wheelchair bound bear of a wife, and he seemed to be making it fine....

Today's Funny

Today's Funny

Taking a quick break from writing. Got e-mailed this video. The same inmates did the "Thriller" dance a while back (don't know how long--I saw it back in the summer).

I like this one, for some reason.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

NaNoWriMo, Part I

NaNoWriMo, Part I

I have a tentative title for the piece. It's called When Jesus Came to Red Mule.

And this is the first little bit, written this morning.

Chapter 1 is called:

The Canning of Reverend Raymond Saffles

When the congregation of the Southern Home Reformed Baptist Church found out of the relationship between the Reverend Raymond Saffles and Lacey Duttweiler, it became more than apparent that the most dangerous place in the world to be was between a congregation and its righteous indignation.

Perhaps not since the early parts of the 20th century, when running a man out of town on a rail was the quickest and most convenient method of disposing of unwanted political machinery, had the separation of a man from his vocation, livelihood and home been so complete and cauterizing. And events that began to unfold on that Sunday in October had unfolded upon themselves to lay the roadmap out of town flat for Raymond Saffles by late Wednesday evening, just after the Wednesday night prayer service, but before the evening pot luck in the Fellowship Hall.

It's difficult to say exactly when the turn of events began.

It could have been early in their marriage, when Raymond's wife Dorothea decided it was unbecoming of a pastor's wife to be a smoker. As it turns out, Dorothea's admittedly voracious cigarette and occasional cigar habit was the only thing keeping her teeter-totter metabolism in line. Many women, they say, blossom with marriage. Dorothea exploded, and became nearly thrice the woman she'd been when Raymond met her during a prayer meeting and protest against the Jack Rabbit market on Route 419, which taken to selling the pornography. (Dorothea had come out of the store, cigarette in hand, not because she minded the protesters--it was making for her chance to watch Price is Right in peace, but because she took offense to Ophelia Snider's absent-minded tossing of used tissues onto the asphalt top. In the brief shoving match that followed, Raymond met Dorothea when he pulled the then slight woman off Ophelia Snider, taking special care to pick the rings up off the ground that had fallen off Dorothea's fingers, as she attempted to choke the life out of Ms. Snider.)

It might have been the pharmaceutical history of their daughter, Lorene, that spun the wheel in the direction that would ultimately send Raymond Saffles to the West. The Saffles' marriage begat one daughter, a small and seemingingly insignificant child who began a small love affair with permanent black magic markers one afternoon in junior high, just after Raymond was called away from helping her making posters for that year's Homecoming Parade to deal once again with the perpetually terminal Mitchell Jedson, who'd managed to come back from two bouts with cancer (skin and bowel), and was likely to succumb to the third (lung). "It's why you shouldn't smoke," Dorothea had warned Lorene, as she carried a plate of chess squares to her nest on the living room sofa. Lorene, who was secretly relieved she'd never have to hear Mitchell Jedson holler and mispronounce "Adeste Fidelis" this Christmas at the Cantata, nevertheless resented having her father leave her again for a man in bib overalls, lying on his death bed for the third time. The King Sized black magic marker, she found, didn't take the resentment away. It simply compartmentalized it in a way that allowed her to box it up and never have to deal with it.

From magic markers, Lorene graduated to paint, paint thinner, bathroom cleaner and gasoline. And it was showing up to that year's Christmas Cantata, during Mitchell Jedson's raspy, gaspy rendition of Adeste Fidelis, reeking of gasoline and brake fluid (nobody could ever quite figure that one out), that Raymond and Dorothea had decided to find Lorene help. Help came in the form of the Baptist Outreach 390 miles to the north, in Staples, Virginia. It was there that Lorene was cured of her chemical dependency, replaced with love for the headmaster of the program, who promptly married Lorene when she turned 16. The two, the last anybody had heard, were selling vacuum cleaners in Oklahoma, now.

The stress of sending a daughter away and having her marry at such a difficult age was not kind to Raymond, who had a lisp that became more pronounced under stress, and who added more than a few gray hairs during that tumultuous seven weeks. But while the stress was not kind to Raymond, it was downright cruel to Dorothea, whose psoriasis didn't flare so much as rage like a wild fire.

It was then that Raymond became unsure he loved his wife, not as she mowed her way through an Entenmenn's Raspberry Coffee Cake on the way home from the IGA, or as she picked at the flaking skin on her elbows and face, or even as the tuft of strawberry red hair came loose as she ran her fingers through it. It was her insistence that Raymond's absence had run her daughter to live with some "Injun feller" in Oklahoma, selling vacuum cleaners.

He parked the car in the driveway of the parsonage, a double-wide parked on the top of a small hill at the the back of the lot where the white clapboard church stood, on Route 9. Dorothea got out, and was about to tell Raymond to carry the groceries in. Ray had stepped out of the driver's seat, and saw his wife surveying the church. "Ray, how many souls do you think you've really saved? And was it really worth running out daughter out to Oklahoma to do it?"

Without realizing it, Dorothea had dragged the empty Entenmenn's Raspberry Coffee Cake container out of the car with her foot. She turned to head into the house, and slipped on the container, which was emptied except for just enough frosting to make it a slippery experience.

Yeah, when Raymond thought about it in later days, it might have been that moment: The moment when his wife, in one breath, had blamed his daughter's chemical dependency and disappearance, as well as questioned his motives and effectiveness as a shepherd of a flock. That might have been the turning point.

They say God works in mysterious ways. Raymond, about to say a curt word to his wife for the first time since he'd pulled much less of her off of Ophelia Snider some 17 years prior, watched as his wife went ass over elbows, and rolled, cursing, down the hill toward the church. Ray ran around the Chevy Corsica, just in time to see his wife make the final two revolutions of her journey, and come to rest at the tank that supplied Natural Gas to their home and the church. He figured if it weren't for that giant metal hot dog, she'd have rolled all the way to the back door the church. That sunny afternoon, he jogged down the hill to find Dorothea facing up the hill, and her toes pointed down.

"My back, Ray!" she said, almost conversationally. "I think it's broke."

Dorothea was paralyzed from the waist down. The parishioners had chipped in, and converted the parsonage so that it might be wheelchair accessible. There was a ceremony, perhaps the best attended church function since the congregation's inception, dedicating the ramp that made travelling to the door possible for Dorothea, who, if anything, seemed to be soaking in the adulation.

There was a second ceremony three days later, less well attended, after it was learned that a single sheet of plywood did not make a strong enough ramp for a woman of Dorothea's singular standing.

It was near this time that Raymond Saffles began spending more and more time in his office in the church. It was there that Raymond could work in quiet, and actually take a telephone call or two. Dorothea's confinement to her chair did little to impede her desire to communicate with the masses. Raymond had considered welding a holster for the cordless phone to the chair itself, until some find parishoner had been so kind as to bring his wife a Bluetooth. That was a fine afternoon, except for the point where Ray found his wife, sitting at the picture window, talking at length seemingly to the birds and the trees beyond, about where the daughter was, the difficulties of using the bathroom in her position, and how Ray actually seemed to resent the attention she was getting.

Ray was about to raise the roof over her discussing at loud, to herself these things, when she turned to face him. He saw the earbud, and was somewhat relieved, though he still wanted to correct the points that she had no problems going to the bathroom, as it was he who was changing her XXL Depends every three hours and he while he didn't know exactly what the opposite of "resentment" might be, he revelled in the fact that somebody had to talk to his wife, other than them.

It was at this time that Ray found the wonders of the Internet.

And through the internet, ultimately, he found the services of Lacey Duttweiler.

Ray spent most of his time on the World Wide Web doing one of two things: Working as a MOD on forum at, where he spent his time breaking flamewars between denominations up, reminding users about the 1 picture per 1 poster per 1 day rule, and taking down any posts that might be cribbed from another source (Thou Shalt Not Steal apparently not applying to ripping other people's materials off while trying to be top dog in the Religious Forum).

The other part of his time on the web was spent tracking down and charting baseball statistics, and comparing them against those listed on the back of a set of 1986 Topps baseball cards--a set he'd nearly completed when he was 16, a nearly complete set he'd saved from the trash during one of Dorothea's cleaning rampages.

Raymond could not say why he could take so much time pursuing such a trivial matter, but it seemed to center him. And in a world where so little centered him nowadays, he figured the Lord could forgive him for comparing Thad Bosley's statistics on his baseball card aginst those listed on the internet.

Very rarely was there a discrepency. Very. Rarely.

But when there was...oh my. It somehow made it worth all the while.

And it was during this venture, while searching for online statistics for Baltimore Orioles outfielder Lee Lacy (whose 1985 batting average was listed as .291 on his card, but .293 on the web--had he been credited with another hit since the card's printing?), that he happened across the website of miss Miss Lacey Lee Duttweiler.

National Novel Writing Month

National Novel Writing Month

Hey folks.

As we sit here on November the Oneth, I'm going to try the whole NaNoWriMo thing again. The goal is to write a 50,000 word piece in the space of 30 days. That, in and of itself, is not a problem, I don't think. Time permitting, and the creeks don't rise.

Actually, just Time Permitting.

Last year's effort got railroaded by work circustances beyond my control. In fact, much of the last year has been railroaded by work circumstances.

And you want to know the truth?

It sucks.

But that's neither here nor there.

Time to realize what's important.

Yeah, having a job's great. Roof over the head, food in the belly.

But there's a priority issue at hand.

Don't want to be there forever.

So, going to make the time. This is important.

We're going to write a novel this month.

And you're going to read it.

Why is every sentence in this post getting its own paragraph?

I don't know.


Starting with this next post, what I wrote today. It's slow going. But it's coming, which is something of a relief.

So, in what is the 61st month of this blog (the Fifth year anniversery is coming up in 12 days, yo), we're going to give this novel thing another crack....