Sunday, November 13, 2011

Number Nine....Number Nine....Number Nine....

Nine years ago, on a post dated incorrectly 2001, I started this blogamathing with a brag about fixing the toilet.  I dated it incorrectly because I was just testing out Blogger and wasn't expecting anybody to read it.  I was new to blogging, which my friend Bill had explained to me was a way of sending blatherings out onto the World Wide Web using a series of 1's and 0's arranged in a particular pattern.  I was intrigued, since I had previously only thought those 1's and 0's were designed  to convey nude pictures from one set of nerds to another set of nerds.

And in this post (coincidentally, post Number 3500), I would like to say:

Nine years later, I think I need to cut to the chase.:  My toilet fixing skills are the highest they can be without my being a paid professional.  Honestly.  You need your shitter fixed, and you ain't got the cash?  Call me. My amateur plumbing skills are matched in this world only by Vladimir Putin and Liza Minelli.  And good luck getting either to come to your house for promise of little more than that weakass chili you always serve.

Seriously.  Just because you put mushrooms in your chili doesn't mean it's good.

Mushrooms do not necessarily equal good food.

I know that I just blew your mind.  Rocked your world, with your preconceptions regarding the goodness of food when you include mushrooms in it.  

And while I'm on the subject.  I respect my vegetarian friends.  But hot dogs made out of mushrooms?  Stop.  Just eat a real hot dog.  There's not much real meat in there.  It's mostly hooves.

Hooves are like fingernails.

When you're eating a hot dog, it's like eating fingernails.

Delicious fingernails wrapped in sausage casing.  Which, at one time, was animal intestine.

Also, there are lips, ears and buttholes in your hot dogs.

The ratio of those things are what makes each hot dog unique.  No two hot dogs are alike.  They're like snowflakes, fingerprints and Cubs Third Basemen.


I dunno.

I fix you shitter.

I'm gonna put that on a business card.

Tommy Acuff
I fix you shitter.

And I'm gonna put a phone number.  But not mine.  I'm gonna put this phone number:

(423) 745-1121

Call it.  It's the local time and temperature for my home town.  Whenever you're wondering if my ass is hot (it is not) or cold (it also is not), you can call that number.

Any time I need to fill out one of those surveys to get a free water bottle or car flag, that's the number I put down.  If I get to write my own name?  I write:  Manuel Dingdong.

Because I'm NINE.



Anyway. If you've been reading this shit for nine really need to get a teacher or somebody to help you.  I mean, how long is this post?  16 short paragraphs?  You need a tutor, you remedial sumbitch.  Are you from Meigs County?  And if it did take you nine years to read this, what's life looking like in 2020?  Have they cured the Heartbreak of Psoriasis yet?

Well.  This is the most I've posted in 2 weeks.

If there is one theme to this blog, lo after these NINE years, it is that I work too much.

That last line wasn't meant necessarily to be funny.  Because it's not.  It is the Abe Vigoda Face of Mortality staring back at me, wondering what kind of music I'm listening to on my MP3 player.  (Hint:  The Monkees).

Seriously, though.  Thanks for reading.  I've met a tremendously good bunch of folks via this blogamathing, and I hope to meet more, one day or another.

Have a good day, and remember:  

I fix you shitter.