Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Damn! I Missed A Major Holiday!
OK, enough slacking off. Time to get back on the ol' Blog. I still can't believe I missed blogging on "International Talk Like A Pirate Day" yesterday. Damn! Only 364 days to go.....aaaarrrrr! Oops, I meant to say aaaargh.....or was it yarrr?
Well, the "Crime Dog 50th Birthday Grandfather Clock Fund" has reached fruition. Man, you should see this clock! In fact, here's an open invitation: Everybody who came to my party is hereby cordially invited to come on by and see this beautiful thing. Forget that, even if you couldn't come, you should get your ass over here and see this timepiece. It's amazing! It's a Howard Miller "Clayton" Grandfather Clock, and I simply cannot walk through the living room without stopping to watch it for a minute.
It was a pain-in-the-ass day today, dealing with a luxury vehicle vandalism case. Did you know luxury vehicle owners can be the crookedest asswipes on the planet? You'd think that the dudes with the money to buy these damned things wouldn't try so hard to yank your chain over every little item, but just the opposite is true:
See that little bitty scratch right there on the bumper? You have to lay down on the ground, twist to your right, and use a mirror, but you can see it, and I swear it wasn't there before my car was stolen!
You know the difference between a Porsche owner and a porcupine? On a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.
In this case, the vehicle has a blown engine that the owner claims happened as a result of vandalism. Sounds unlikely, but stranger shit has happened, I suppose. I had to pull an engine oil sample, and elected to go the easy route: scramble underneath and loosen the drain plug. On a Hummer, that's a piece of cake. Plenty of ground clearance, you see? So I loosened the plug. Nothing. Loosened some more. Still nothing. A little more? Nope. Then the inevitable happened: one more quarter-turn of the plug and the sunuvabitch came off in my hand, sending a tsunami of motor oil cascading down my arm, soaking my shirt sleeve, and even nailing me right in the pit. It never fucking fails.
So, when I got home about 4:00, it was already beer-thirty. Two beers later, I was whipping up some dinner for The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog and myself. Wine sounded good, so I busted out a bottle of "Fat Bastard." You are what you drink, I suppose. Three glasses later, we had finished dinner and headed out to the cement pond to relax. All of a sudden, I couldn't live another minute without a Crown and Coke. Then another. Ain't it funny how this shit snowballs?
I turned on the TV, got the news. Turns out Key West is taking a glancing blow from Hurricane Rita. Katrina was three weeks ago, and we've already worked our way from "K" to "R"? Has there been six of these damn things since then? Damn! It might get skillet fucking hot here in the desert, but hurricanes and floods are not even on our radar screens.
Most of you know my Mom passed in July. We made plans shortly thereafter to give her the send-off she wanted: To spread her ashes in the Gulf of Mexico off the Texas coastal town of Rockport, her home town. So here we are, airline tickets bought and paid for, beach condo committed to, and this potential Category 4 bitch Rita is headed right at the ol' Grandma Crime Dog home town.
So I decided to kick back with Jimmy Buffett on pay-per-view on that hurricane relief thing. Couldn't remember my password. I tried all the usual suspects, but all were dismal failures. No Bubba for me tonight, and I'm still hurtin' over that upset by the Deadskins last night.
OK, so it wasn't the best day ever. But what the Hell? I have the jumbo economy-size Crown Royal, and I just discovered the funniest freakin' sitcom since Cheers: NBC's My Name Is Earl, with Jason Lee. It's about a guy with worse luck than mine today.
I got that goin' for me.
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Well, the "Crime Dog 50th Birthday Grandfather Clock Fund" has reached fruition. Man, you should see this clock! In fact, here's an open invitation: Everybody who came to my party is hereby cordially invited to come on by and see this beautiful thing. Forget that, even if you couldn't come, you should get your ass over here and see this timepiece. It's amazing! It's a Howard Miller "Clayton" Grandfather Clock, and I simply cannot walk through the living room without stopping to watch it for a minute.
It was a pain-in-the-ass day today, dealing with a luxury vehicle vandalism case. Did you know luxury vehicle owners can be the crookedest asswipes on the planet? You'd think that the dudes with the money to buy these damned things wouldn't try so hard to yank your chain over every little item, but just the opposite is true:
See that little bitty scratch right there on the bumper? You have to lay down on the ground, twist to your right, and use a mirror, but you can see it, and I swear it wasn't there before my car was stolen!
You know the difference between a Porsche owner and a porcupine? On a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.
In this case, the vehicle has a blown engine that the owner claims happened as a result of vandalism. Sounds unlikely, but stranger shit has happened, I suppose. I had to pull an engine oil sample, and elected to go the easy route: scramble underneath and loosen the drain plug. On a Hummer, that's a piece of cake. Plenty of ground clearance, you see? So I loosened the plug. Nothing. Loosened some more. Still nothing. A little more? Nope. Then the inevitable happened: one more quarter-turn of the plug and the sunuvabitch came off in my hand, sending a tsunami of motor oil cascading down my arm, soaking my shirt sleeve, and even nailing me right in the pit. It never fucking fails.
So, when I got home about 4:00, it was already beer-thirty. Two beers later, I was whipping up some dinner for The Fetching Mrs. Crime Dog and myself. Wine sounded good, so I busted out a bottle of "Fat Bastard." You are what you drink, I suppose. Three glasses later, we had finished dinner and headed out to the cement pond to relax. All of a sudden, I couldn't live another minute without a Crown and Coke. Then another. Ain't it funny how this shit snowballs?
I turned on the TV, got the news. Turns out Key West is taking a glancing blow from Hurricane Rita. Katrina was three weeks ago, and we've already worked our way from "K" to "R"? Has there been six of these damn things since then? Damn! It might get skillet fucking hot here in the desert, but hurricanes and floods are not even on our radar screens.
Most of you know my Mom passed in July. We made plans shortly thereafter to give her the send-off she wanted: To spread her ashes in the Gulf of Mexico off the Texas coastal town of Rockport, her home town. So here we are, airline tickets bought and paid for, beach condo committed to, and this potential Category 4 bitch Rita is headed right at the ol' Grandma Crime Dog home town.
So I decided to kick back with Jimmy Buffett on pay-per-view on that hurricane relief thing. Couldn't remember my password. I tried all the usual suspects, but all were dismal failures. No Bubba for me tonight, and I'm still hurtin' over that upset by the Deadskins last night.
OK, so it wasn't the best day ever. But what the Hell? I have the jumbo economy-size Crown Royal, and I just discovered the funniest freakin' sitcom since Cheers: NBC's My Name Is Earl, with Jason Lee. It's about a guy with worse luck than mine today.
I got that goin' for me.
