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I promised to take the Secrets fishing on Saturday, way back when Saturday was still a long way off.  And when it actually arrived, I wished I’d kept my forkin’ mouth shut.

We dragged all the poles and equipment out of the garage, and got everything organized.  I made sure there were hooks on every line, and nothing was tangled in a big spaghetti mess.

I got rid of a bunch of stupidity from the bottom of the tackle box, and kept only the stuff we’d really use.  I have no idea why there was a rusted spoon in there.  And as far as I know, there is never a need for a lure that looks like Phyllis Diller.

Then I had to go somewhere and buy a fishing license…

Years ago I pushed my luck, and banked on the laziness of park rangers for a while.  I’d noticed that most people pinned their licenses to their filthy baseball caps, and the rangers just drove past in SUVs, checking things out from the comfort of elevated, air conditioned chairs.

So, for half a summer I took my sons fishing with a Dairy Queen napkin pinned to my hat.  And not once was there even a close-call.

But I didn’t fully trust the other fishermen…  They seemed to be under the influence of some sort of high-horse outdoorsman code, and eyed my napkin with disdain.  I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them turned me in (the pricks), so I ended up going legit.

I thought about trying Dick’s Sporting Goods on Saturday, but the lines are always long and slow-moving in that place.  Plus, the parking lot is a multi-pronged clusterfuck.  So, as much as it pained me, I decided to just bite the bullet and go to Wal-Mart.  It might not be completely horrible, I lied to myself, since I’d be conducting all my business in the sporting goods department.

But the place was absolute pandemonium, a white trash jamboree.  Little buzzcut hicklets were wandering the aisles with yesterday’s fudgesicle smeared four inches in every direction around their mouths, their big halter-top mamas screaming at them from great distances, and their grandmothers shuffling around in a stained housecoat, leaning on a four-legged cane, and clutching a pack of Kents inside a leather carrying case, with built-in lighter pocket.

I told the boys to pick out some grubworms, or whatever, so we could lure some unsuspecting fishes to their death.  And they disappeared behind a rack of nets and reels.

The guy at the counter asked if he could help me, and I told him I needed a license.  “The line starts over there,” he said, and pointed at three or four bored-looking people standing single-file, and occasionally glancing at their watches.

When it was almost my turn, a man walked by cradling a large lizard in the crook of his right arm.  The thing was more than a foot and a half long, and was wearing a red dog collar.  You think I’m joking?  Well, on that count you would be mistaken.

“Can I help you?” the cashier asked.

“Did you see that guy carrying a big lizard?”

“Where?”

“Over there,” I said, and pointed.

“Holy crap, I think it’s an alligator!” he shouted.

I looked a little closer, and he was right.  The dude was walking around Wal-Mart with a baby alligator in his arms.  I about shit the bicycle helmets.

“You see…” the cashier started, with a twinkle in his eye, “people believe this is an easy place to work.  They think it’s all glamour and big bucks.  But every night when I go home, I think:  what am I gonna drink first?!”

He was a funny guy, who recognized and appreciated the ridiculousness of the situation.  I wondered if he might be available for guest columns at the Surf Report.

Then alligator boy walked right up to us.  “You got any airsoft guns?” he asked.

“Is that an alligator?” both of us said, ignoring his question.

“Yeah, it is,” he answered, offering no further explanation.

“Well, we don’t sell airsoft guns,” the clerk said, and the man walked away.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before…” I muttered.

“The thing was wearing a goddamn dog collar,” the cashier said.

By the time we got to the lake, one of the fishing poles had gone full spaghetti mess on us.  It was the oldest Secret’s, and he wasn’t happy.  Somehow five miles of line had come loose, and it was not pretty.

I told him to just use mine, and I’d supervise.  He objected for a few minutes, but finally agreed.

It was a perfect day: sunny, not too hot, not too cool, and completely bugless.  I sat on a bench and offered “advice,” exchanged text messages with Metten, and performed a little of my amateur “comedy.” Within five minutes both Secrets had left the pier, and taken up residence fifty yards away.  Everyone’s a critic…

We stayed there for roughly two hours, and it was nice.  And when I say nice, I mean nobody caught anything.  Just the way I like it.

As we were packing-up, I mentioned that I was hungry, and both boys agreed with my assessment of the situation.  I asked what they wanted, and the younger Secret said, “Donuts!”  Oh yeah, I’d willed him to say that.

And this is approximately the conversation I had with the order-board at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru.

Board:  Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, may I take your order?
Me:  Yeah, I’ll have a dozen glazed donuts.
Board:  Go ahead when you’re ready.
Me:  I want a dozen glazed donuts!
Board:  I’m sorry?
Me:  A dozen glazed donuts!
Board:  I’m sorry sir, we’re all out of iced rings.
Me:  (WTF?)  No, GLAZED!  One dozen GLAZED!!
Board:  Oh, I apologize, sir.  That’ll be 85 cents.
Me:  For a dozen??
Board:  Oh, you want a dozen?
Me:  A DOZEN GLAZED DONUTS!
Board:  Pull forward, I’m having trouble hearing you.

Yeah, no shit?  What the crap’s an iced ring?

Then I went to a nearby grocery store, bought a 4-pack of Boddingtons, went home, and commenced to taking on massive calories.

It was a good day.  What did you do on Saturday?  Tell us about it in the comments, won’t you?

And I’ll see ya next time.

Now playing in the bunker.

Have you seen ads for this clip-on bug repellent?  The thing is huge and blue, you’re supposed to hang it off your belt, and I believe there’s a fan inside.  It makes me laugh, but I’m intrigued.

For whatever reason I’m one gnat-attractin’ sumbitch.  There can be five people sitting on our deck, and the gnats will use me (and me alone) as their personal amusement park.  And I’m sorry, but my neck fat is not the Scrambler.

So, if that repellent really creates a dome of protection, like the TV ads say, sign me up.  I’d be willing to forfeit what little sense of dignity I have left, for a bugless life.  I really would.

Heck, I might even be able to dress it up, and make it a little less stupid-looking.  Maybe I could wear it around my neck on a chain?  Or have it gold-plated, or something?  Any ideas?

And I know this is a long-shot, but have any of you actually tested that hilarious item?  Does it really work?  Does it build a dome?  How loud is the fan?  Do people ask about the grinding noise coming off your midsection?  Help me out, if you can.

We were in a Chinese restaurant recently, and my dessert informed me that I’ll someday (there was no specific timeframe) own new clothing.

Doesn’t that seem like sort of a cop-out?  I mean, they’re not exactly going out on a limb with that one, are they?  Wotta rip-off.  They served me a disappointment cookie.

But, at least it wasn’t the one I always fear:  You will be dead by sundown.  I’m convinced I’ll get that one someday, and there’s always a mild sense of anxiety whenever I crack-open one of those paranormal treats.

Pass the beer nuts.

I just met Toney for breakfast at Waffle House, and we had to sit in the skinny booth.

For whatever reason, one of the boofs in that place is a lot narrower than the others.  And I try to avoid it, for obvious reasons.  But the joint was slammed today, and I had to wedge my heft in there, then eat an entire meal with a table-edge creasing my gut.

Also, our waitress had droopy Billy Joel eyes, and looked to be on the verge of tears at all times.  Her head was in front of her shoulders, instead of above them, and she moved her entire body when she needed to look to the side.

The food was good, though.

Yesterday I logged into Facebook for the first time since I signed up, and approved about forty friend requests.  Then I spent an hour or so monkeying around with it, and checking out the pages of my friends.

It seems a lot less chaotic than MySpace.  I didn’t see any rotating pot leaves, or retina-searing strobe lights, or “How about a nice cup of shut the fuck up?”  And no horrible music started playing, which is always a plus.

But I’m probably setting myself up for a fall.  I have a feeling I’ll devote a little time to it at first, then completely abandon the whole thing.  And that will lead to more regret and self-loathing…

Facebook:  One more thing to feel guilty about.(tm)

Two things I assume about people, until proven otherwise:  they’re not bed-shitting drunk, and their pits have been washed within the past 72 hours.  Well, a guy in line with me at Sheetz yesterday… proved otherwise.

Just thought you should know.

I’m waiting on several semi-important emails from people, and it’s making me crazy.  Yet I’m roughly two months behind with email myself…  Hypocrisy is fun!

Have you ever been inside a store called Harbor Freight Tools?  I felt a little overdressed, because I didn’t have any partially-healed stab wounds, a horribly-stained wife-beater, or one four-inch tall tooth on the bottom.

Holy shit!  And I make fun of Wal-Mart?  Man, that place is like Sak’s Fifth Avenue in comparison…

Question:  Have you ever had any experience with hypnosis?  If so, we need to hear about it.  I don’t believe I could ever truly be hypnotized, I’m a full-on skeptic.  What do you know about it, from real life?  Anything?

And from the Stealing Clive Bull‘s Topics desk:  what foods do you still eat from a can?  I don’t think we have many vegetables from a can anymore (that’s kinda WWII, isn’t it?), but I do have soup every once in a while, and think Toney uses canned tomatoes in recipes.

What about you?  Is there anything that’s actually better in a can?  I’m drawing a blank on that one…  But canned peas are NASTY, even though I like peas in general.  Of that, I’m certain.

Do you have anything on this questionable Question?  Use the comments link below.

And what do you think of the idea of starting a Surf Report forum?  Is there a need for such a thing?  It would be a place for discussion, but wouldn’t be tied to a single day’s update.  Let me know your thoughts.  It’s not going to happen right away, or maybe at all.  But I’d like to get your opinions on it.

And that pretty much zeroes out the notebook.  Not completely, but close.

You guys have yourselves a great weekend!

I’ll see you on Monday.

Now playing in the bunker.

Our upstairs toilet needs to be lifted high above someone’s head (not mine), and hurled into a landfill somewhere.  It’s no longer a reliable agent; you never know what you’re going to get with the thing.  It’s like a Hitchcock movie, every time.

In fact, it’s strictly a pee-only zone at this point, because nobody wants to risk it.  “Turds in the hall” are four words none of us ever want to string together.

I’m sure it’s the original crap-catcher, from when this house was built in 1966.  And I shudder at the number of asses that have likely been vacuum-sealed to it since the Johnson Administration.  The number of asses… and whatnot.

Plus, the opening in the seat is kinda square, if you know what I mean.  Not completely square, but squareish.  I’d never seen such a thing…  It’s supposed to be a poop-hoop, not like shitting through a window.  Ya know?

Toney talked to a plumber we’ve used over the years, and he agreed it’s time for a change.  That toilet has nickel and dimed us for years, it’s just one thing after another with it.  But the dude has strong opinions…

“Don’t buy any of the garbage they sell at Lowe’s or Home Depot,” he hollered.  “You need to go to a real plumbing supply house!”

What the hell?  Is he implying that we require an industrial shitter, that a normal-people model won’t work in our case?  No, I don’t think so.  I think he’s just a plumber with a lot of experience, and knows things.

He told us the model to buy, and it’s made by Kohler.  I can’t remember the exact name of it.  Maybe the Ticonderoga?  Or was it the Enola Gay?  I forget, but Toney has it written down somewhere.

We checked it out online, and the thing costs almost $500!  It certainly reads like a quality product (bulk flushing!), but it oughta be.  Five hundred?!  Sweet sainted mother of the red spot on Jupiter!!

But I guess we’d never again have to worry about teenage “Hi-C cans,” huh?  That would be a thing of the past, right?   I have a feeling the Ticonderoga could handle anything you throw at it.  Wow!

I’ll keep you updated on this most important of issues.

While I was driving to work yesterday, I started thinking about those ridiculous folding screens people used to prop against the inside of their windshields, to help keep their cars cool while parked.  Remember those things?  About five years ago they were incredibly important, and everybody had one.  Now I rarely see them.

What happened?  Why were they so essential in 2002, but not now?  Why did everybody need one, all at the same time, then seemingly gave them up en masse?  Well, I’ll tell you why…  Click here for the answer.

I went to Hags ‘n’ Fags a few days ago for an “adult cut,” and the woman asked if I wanted my eyebrows trimmed.  That’s a straight-up old man procedure, isn’t it?  I can’t remember anyone asking that question, until recently.

What’s next?  Would you like for me to grease your wattle?  I don’t care for any of it…

Speaking of really old, at what age do people start drinking coffee with every meal?  I think my parents recently crossed-over, and they’re, like, 67.  Is that the correct time period?

I can’t imagine.  “Yes, I’ll have a Burrito Supreme, two crunchy tacos, and… a large coffee.”  Blecch.  You certainly wouldn’t need the Ticonderoga in that situation, because it would be fully liquid.

And since we’re on this pleasant subject… I took a huge risk at work a few nights ago, and drank an Orange Crush.

Back when I had a paper route I learned that any kind of orange-flavored soda caused an instant disturbance in the lower quadrant, and I’d end up doing the knees-together brisk-walk to the bathroom.  So, I risked a more than 25-year streak of never crapping at work, by guzzling that thing.

And I’m happy to report that I made it through…  I experienced some light gurgling, but was able to tap into an inner strength, and ride-out the storm.  Heck, I didn’t even break a sweat.

At this point I’m a seasoned professional, and it’s going to take a whole lot more than just an Orange Crush to break my spirit.  I laugh in the face of Orange Crush!  Ha!

What food or drink never fails to make you do the brisk-walk?  Use the comments link, to bring us up to date on it.  Starbucks is very, very dangerous to me.  It’s something I avoid, in fact, because of that very reason.  It almost always leads to noises like a nearly-empty squeeze bottle.  And there’s a time and place for everything…

Heh, Priceline approved me as an advertiser yesterday.  After this update, I have a feeling they’ll rescind their offer.

I’m going to stop right here, boys and girls.  Tomorrow I’ll zero out the ol’ notebook, so be prepared for another disjointed mess!

See ya then.

Now playing in the bunker.

The Half-Shirts had their annual Memorial Day blowout yesterday, and it sounded like a drunken, cackling good-time.  In fact, Toney and I were still awake at 1 AM, staring at the ceiling fan above our bed, and bitching about the noise.

“I’m going to call the police,” a frustrated Toney said at one point.

“Are you kidding?  They’ll know who it was,” I warned.

“They can kiss my ass,” she answered.

But, of course, she was only blowing off steam.  I think we repeat the same conversation every year — the Half-Shirts have their holiday traditions, and we have ours.

We also wonder why they throw their big shindig on Monday night, instead of Sunday.  “Don’t they have to work tomorrow?” is usually muttered five or six times, and this year was no different.

Earlier in the evening there’d been a large group over there, including what sounded like menagerie of old ladies.  Drunk old ladies.  And every few minutes one of them would let loose a piercing cackle that threatened to shut-down my central nervous system.  Fully excruciating.

We also heard a lot of over-modulated Scranton accents, and the taking of the Lord’s name in vain:  “Chriiiiiist!” and that sort of thing.  Heh.  But at least we didn’t have to listen to booze-fueled political “analysis,” like last year.  At least there was that.

Whatever.  It’s only one night per year.  Let ’em have their fun, I say.  Toney, on the other hand… not quite so understanding.  Screw with her sleep and she’s ready to start ripping out throats: all tolerance for shenanigans is suspended between the hours of 11 PM and 5 AM.

And so it goes.

Here’s a run-down of the beers I sampled for the first time this weekend, and my quickie review of each:

Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55:  yes
Hook and Ladder Golden Ale:  unremarkable
Blue Moon Honey Moon:  no
Sierra Nevada Summerfest:  not quite great, but close

Toney and I also had two pints each of Victory Hop Devil at the local yuppie bar.  That one wasn’t new to us, though.  I like the stuff, but it’s a little over the top.  It’s loaded with both hops and alcohol, which sounds good on paper…  But I always get a second one, and wish I’d switched over to something a little less insane.  Know what I mean?

At the yuppie bar we also enjoyed some perogies, seated inside a tent-type deal on their lawn.  Weird, huh?  I’d never really had perogies before (I think I might’ve tasted one at Knoebels), I’d only made fun of them.  But I’m tellin’ ya…  the shit was excellent.  They smell like feet, but taste like heaven.

Here’s a pic I snapped with my cell phone.  We got six of them, for something like eight bucks.  Incredibly over-priced, but delicious.

Mmmm… perogies.

The rolling box o’ beds is no more.  A woman came and looked at it twice, and the second time gave us a hundred dollar bill as a deposit.

And on Thursday she returned with a tow-vehicle, her teenage daughter, and more hundreds.

We transferred the title, and all that crapola, and I was praying there wouldn’t be a problem hitching the thing up.  I was never an expert at any of it, and had visions of all sorts of embarrassing hitching-up issues.

But I had it ready to go within thirty seconds; I was creating the illusion of being a professional.  I’d always dreamed of pretending to be a professional!  Now I’d just have to hook-up the lights, and the deal would be done.

Yeah, and that’s where it all came crashing down.  That camper hadn’t been used in two years, and the lights wouldn’t work properly.  In fact, they wouldn’t work at all.  Grrr…

Figuring there was just a build-up of corrosion, or whatever, on the plug itself, I started cleaning it with steel wool.  I got it all polished and nice-looking, and tried it again.  This time the brake lights wouldn’t work, but the blinkers would.  WTS?

We monkeyed around with the thing for two hours, making phone calls and trying everything we knew to try.  The woman had less than ten miles to drive, and her boyfriend told her repeatedly to just get it home.  But she wouldn’t do it.

Eventually we ran out of options, and the girl was rolling her eyes and making expressions of disgust that only a 14 year old girl can make.  I offered to buy a new plug, and the woman took me up on it.  Advance Auto Parts actually had one in stock.  No way in hell I’m trying to install it, though.  I made that clear, up-front.

Finally she sighed, and said she’d chance it.  And they took off with their “new” camper, a tad unhappy.  “Better hang on to that money,” I told Toney.  “I have a feeling we haven’t heard the last of those two.”

But that was five days ago, and so far nothing…  I’m thinking the chapter is closed at this point.  The camper is theirs now, not ours.  I believe the gray area only lasts for a couple of days, right?  And we’re well beyond it.

I wish we had a few more boxes o’ beds to sell, though.  We’re still receiving calls on it.  Twenty-five people must’ve asked us about it already.  In fact, somebody called while I typed the previous paragraph.  The whole world wants a rolling box o’ beds!

I’m watching King of the Hill, through Netflix, and was telling Toney about the episode where Hank is constipated, and hasn’t crapped in days.  I’d seen it before, but laughed just as hard the second time.

But she doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the show.  In fact, she’s fairly hostile toward it.  I don’t really understand it…

“It’s one of the best shows in TV history,” I insist.

“Ha!” she answers.

And that leads to the Question of the Day…  If you were limited to just one, what would you say is THE best TV show ever?  ONE of the best is too ambiguous, it has to be THE best.

There are plenty of contenders, I believe:  The Sopranos, Homicide, The Wire, LOST, etc.  But when it gets right down to it, there are only two that I can consider THE best, fully capitalized.

For most of my life I’ve said The Andy Griffith Show is the greatest of them all, and nothing will ever come along to challenge it.  Then Seinfeld came along and challenged it…

But I’m still going with Andy.  I’ve been watching that show for forty years, and laugh every time.  It’s completely timeless, and brilliant.  The writing is amazing, and so is the acting.  Almost all of the black & white episodes are classics, and a few should be shown in an endless loop at the Smithsonian.

What do you think?  What’s THE best TV show of all time?  Use the comments link to set me straight.

And I’ll be back tomorrow, with more of this stuff.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.

While I was enjoying a Triple Lindy burrito with sour cream and cilantro for lunch yesterday, I started thinking about all the fun we had with signs during high school.  Well, to be more precise… signs and cheap beer in unreasonable amounts.

Sounds kinda weird, huh?  Well, allow me to explain.

Bill from WV and I went through a period in our drinking career, you see, when we drove around the Kanawha Valley looking for interesting street signs to pilfer.  Most of the ones we snagged had some connection to music:  Hendrix Avenue, 52nd Street, E Street, Costello Street, etc.

We had it down to a science.  Once we identified our target the driver would pull alongside the pole, and the person in the passenger seat would jump out, climb up on the bumper, and rock the entire housing back and forth until it said fukkit.  Usually we’d end up with two signs, going in opposite directions, and we’d have to dismantle the thing with a screwdriver.

During my entire stay in Greensboro I had a green Dunbar Avenue sign, obtained in this manner, hanging in my bedroom.  Wonder what happened to that thing….?

After a while, though, the tiny signage didn’t do it for us anymore.  It was just a gateway drug, and led to the theft of yield signs, speed limit signs, etc.

I remember one time we took an entire pole(!), with the signs still attached.  After we stripped-off everything we wanted, Bill javelined the pole through the dining room window of an empty house in the neighborhood.

A year or so later, when the place was being renovated, we saw a worker carrying that thing out the front door, shaking his head in confusion.  And we buckled-over in laughter.

One night we were out drinkin’ beer and stealin’ signage, and forgot one in the trunk of Bill’s parents’ car.  His mother told his dad she was hearing a banging noise in the rear of the vehicle, and when he checked it out he found a Men At Work sign (or somesuch), in the trunk.  The thing was massive, and Bill’s dad was not amused.

If we hadn’t committed that unfortunate tactical error, I have no doubt we would’ve soon graduated to interstate exit signs, and the like.  Sure, we would’ve had to rent a flatbed truck, but that would’ve only been a minor hurdle.

We also had a brief flirtation with the moving around of election signs.  We’d take Bill’s pickup around town, throw random campaign signs into the back, and set them up in the yards of our friends.  Oh, we thought this was high comedy…

We heard, through my Dad, that the candidates were extremely upset, and blaming each other.  We were causing a political incident!  But did we stop?  No, we did not.  And we were eventually caught by the police.

There used to be a large vacant lot in the center of town (where Shoney’s now hosts their all-you-can-eat Gristle Bar), which was prime real estate for politicking.  So one night, all cranked up on Miller High Life or whatever, we went there and started loading the bed of the truck again.

And the next thing we know… cops are all over us.  Apparently they’d been watching from afar, and swooped in the moment they saw someone monkeying with the campaign materials.  Bill, I remember, was running across the lot with a huge wooden sign hoisted above his head, like a hang glider.

The cops told us to sit on the curb, and shut our goddamn mouths.  We’d polished off our share of beers during the evening, and started worrying we might be arrested for public drunkenness, or DUI, or something.  So, to mask the smell of Miller, we each ate a handful of grass.  Heh.

But they only asked a few questions, and let us go.  They wanted to know if we were a couple of standard-issue dumbasses, or dumbasses-for-hire.  “Are you doing this for someone else?” they demanded.  And our confused expressions told them all they needed to know.

I remember they were going through the signs in Bill’s truck, and making a comment about each candidate.  “Oh God, put that one back, she’ll raise nine kinds of hell…” and “Yeah, that’s just Ratman, lean it against that dumpster over there…”

Ratman?

We also went around town one evening, and collected a metric shitload of realtor signs — and put every one of them in Rocky‘s front yard.  There were dozens of the things, from many different companies.  I don’t know why that’s so funny, but it is.  I’m laughing right now.  I wish I had a picture of it.

During one of our sign-procurement expeditions, our friend Mike grabbed a flashing yellow light.  It had been attached to a metal sawhorse, in front of some recent roadwork, and was larger than you might think.

Somehow we smuggled it into his bedroom; I think I passed it to him through a window.  And that’s when things got really interesting…

His parents were in the living room watching TV, and we couldn’t get the flashing to stop.  And that shit was bright!  The bedroom door was closed, but there was an intermittent blast of yellow coming from underneath it.  If his mom or dad went to the bathroom, it would be Game Over.

Mike put the ridiculous thing under the covers of his bed, but it didn’t help much.  Every few seconds the whole platform would light-up.  It was like some kind of weird art exhibit.

We couldn’t stop laughing: nervous laughter.

He hid it in a closet, way in the back behind the game of Life and Mousetrap, and that seemed to work best.  But it still wasn’t ideal.  When I walked home, a little later, the entire rear of their house was flashing yellow through the windows.

An old man was standing in his backyard, with a bag of trash in his hand, and said, “What’s going on over there?”  And I just shrugged my shoulders and kept walking.

The whole thing was quite hilarious, and Mike’s parents weren’t overly pissed when he was busted minutes after my departure.  I mean, it was inevitable.  It’s very difficult, we learned, to conceal a freakin’ lighthouse beacon inside a suburban bedroom.  It really is.

And sorry about yesterday…  We sold the rolling box o’ beds, and it ended up dominating the day.  We had to transfer the title, and all that crapola.  Then the lights wouldn’t work when they were ready to leave.  So, what should’ve required an hour, dragged out for most of the afternoon.

But hopefully this rare Friday update will make up for yesterday’s radio silence.

I probably won’t update again until Tuesday.  I hope everybody has a great holiday.  The weather here is perfect (perfect!), and I can foresee some meat being cooked out of doors, as well as a substantial number of beers disappearing.  Yes, I can.

As for a Question… Did you ever get into the moving around of signs, or anything of the sort?  Please tell me it wasn’t just us.  Also, any plans for the big swollen holiday weekend?  What kind of beer will you be enjoying?

See you guys next time!

Oh, and yes, you read that correctly:  we ate grass.

Now playing in the bunker.