by "Buck"

February 11, 2005

I must apologize for my absence last week. My nuts are being crushed in a vice here at work and I just couldn't find the time to hammer out anything that would be remotely entertaining or amusing. On second thought, that pretty much describes most of the updates I bring to you on this blog. I know the boss Jeff Kay hates that term-but truly where did that originate? Is that an acronym for something? Bitch Looking On Google maybe? Who knows?

Speaking of phrases that piss me off, how about this one. "Taking it to the next level." I'm perfectly content with the level I'm on. What level are you talking about? Maybe getting to the Challenging Stage on Galaga? Maybe going from kissing to rubbing a bare nipple in the back seat? Where is this mythical next level and for what reason should I be trying to attain it? Sometimes my head hurts.

Well, the cops were back in the neighborhood again. The dude living across the street and one door up apparently got liquored up and beat the shit out of his wife again. Nice. Sometimes I think I'm living in the hood-but it's actually a middle income housing development. Since I've lived here, there have been five cops called instances and I've seen drugs being dealt here twice-that ended when a trooper bought the house up the street and parks the cruiser there at night. What the fuck, am I living in South Central?

A woman I work with told me she was sore after going to a "spinning" class. It took me about a half hour to figure out what the fuck she was talking about. I thought she was in one of these very typical West Virginia arts and crafts deals and was making wool into thread. She finally explained it's exercise. No wonder I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. I've never liked the idea of working out for no reason. When I was in high school I played football. I worked out like a beast then, but there seemed to be a reason for it. I was pumping iron five days a week in preparation to dislocate somebody's jaw the following season. That all made sense to me (at least at the time). However, I've tried on a number of occasions to pick up that high school attitude in the gym and I just can't do it. I can't connect with the mindset of some people who actually ENJOY running or working out. Sure, I'd love to have rock hard abs and well defined biceps-but that doesn't seem to be enough motivation. Exercise that I engage in has to have some point to it. I like playing basketball, or perhaps manual labor like digging a ditch, cutting and splitting wood, or hoeing in the garden. Mowing the yard is another task that helps me get the minimal physical exertion needed to continue life support. However all of those have a point-there's something to show for your efforts. I'm not knocking those who do it-but it seems we spend a hell of a lot of money and effort on things that produce very little for the common good.

If you read my column here on the WVSR on a regular basis, there's a large body of evidence that I'm not mainstream by any stretch of the imagination. Some would even say I was born a generation too late. I probably should have been killed on the beach at Normandy. I cannot identify with the pop culture of the day. I think Brittany Spears is a spoiled little bitch who needs to be ordered to perform chores-same goes for Paris Hilton. Maybe she should clean up one of those hotel rooms. I think Michael Jackson is a freak and never liked his music. I don't understand "Spinning" "Tie-Bo" or get into the Adkins Diet. I detest reality shows like Survivor and so on---plus I can't stand makeover shows. There's something inherently wrong with five queers telling me how to decorate my den. I'm always pissed when the man of the house is made to look like a babbling fool in sit-coms. Perhaps I shouldn't be here?

On an up note, it's been so nice around here with the weather I actually washed my truck and the Trailblazer last weekend. Man-was that long overdue. I'm pretty sure there's mud from the 2001 flood caked in there. We're due some snow this weekend.

Valentines Day is coming up. I hate this holiday, no matter which way I go-I screw it up. If I do something extravagant, I'm punished for going overboard. If I ignore it---I'm doomed. I'm a traditionalist with candy and the flowers. This is a chick holiday-nothing more, nothing less.

Could we possibly have those nasty little hearts made out of chalk declared some kind of an EPA banned substance? Those are without question, the worst fucking candy ever devised. I give them to the neighborhood kids in JULY to draw hop-scotch boards on our street. I'll bet the trooper up the street keeps them in the cruiser to draw outlines of dead bodies. They're like chalk-in feel and taste. They also have those idiotic statements printed on them, like "Be Mine" or "Hi Cutie" or "You're Hot". Wouldn't you love to have a disgruntled employee at the plant where those phrases are printed? How priceless would it be to open a box and pull out a heart that says "Fuck Off" or "Eat Me". Some others that are just coming off the top of my head... "Bite Me", "You're Dickless" "Hey Fatty" "You Suck" "Shit For Brains" ..I could go one forever, maybe they have an opening?

There are certain sports I like to watch. Football is my favorite, but I enjoy baseball too. I don't give a flying fuck about the NBA, but I can enjoy a good college basketball game. Hockey is a sport I like to watch-but have no clue about what's going on. When you're born in the south, hockey and soccer are foreign sports. I never saw an ice rink until I was in high school. They tell me the NHL is on strike. Shows how into it I am-I didn't even know that until yesterday. When you grow up in the south sports involve football, baseball, and NASCAR. If you don't like those you can get the fuck out. That's just how it was growing up. Lines are blurred now as NASCAR has gone all pussified and I've lost interest. It used to be when a driver finished a 500 mile race he grabbed a wrench, climbed under the hood, and started helping the crew take off the headers. Today, the driver gets out of the car, does a paid television interview then jumps on a private jet with his publicist, agent, and personal stylist to head to another promotional appearance. Give me a fucking break. I'll bet half the drivers on the Winston Cup Circuit (fuck your cell phone sponsorship) can't even tell a box end wrench from a pair of pump pliers. Speaking of that, what's up with calling it NEXTEL? This sport has thrived on cigarettes and chewing tobacco-just another indication of the pussification of all things pure by politically correct ne'er-do-wells.

I'm emotionally wrought today-perhaps I should have rendered this piece on a different day. I almost feel like I'm Chris the Angry White Guy. He and I don't see eye to eye on everything, but damn, I can certainly identify with his frustration.

Buck Out

                              <<previous next>>

                                    
                 The West Virginia Surf Report!