The infection is spreading. Send antibiotics.

No Raj, this is not my six word masterpiece. This is probably the most serious blog I have ever had to write. The incredibly infectious disease known simply as Missourri has finally taken over my poor father's brain. Today was my day off so my brother and I stopped by to see if my father wanted to play some ping-pong. Boy was I in for a surprise when he all to happily showed us the fruits of his mornings labor. A home-made bolo tie. It is literally physically painful for me to type this. My father made his own bolo tie...and was proud of it. If you don't know what a bolo tie is, imagine a piece of string held together at the throat with a broach. He claimed that it was solely for use in a comunity melo-drama (an entirely different issue altogether) but I am pretty sure its just denial. Soon he will start the bargaining stage. Please, just someone send help. I almost wore a neckerchief the other day. Its spreading...

About a week ago I was almost forced to commit murder. I know, shocking right? It really wasn't my fault. I guess the main culprit would have been alchohol. No, I wasn't drunk, Raj, but this incident almost drove me drinking. Alchohol was the catalyst that drove a scantily clad mid fifties hillbilly, sporting an incorrigable mullet and a handlebar mustache, to sing, nay scream Devo songs at the top of his lungs in the middle of a gas station. (apparently the No shirt No shoes policy is obsolete in Missourri)
Don't get me wrong, I like Devo as much as the next guy but not particularly slurred at 200 decibels. And as if this wasn't enough, the inebriated serenader decided to throw an original song into the mix. The following are the lyrics as best as I can remember.

My baby's got a front butt
Its better than her back butt
My friends say I'm crazy nuts...

at this point I can no longer continue. If you get the gist of the song with these three lines then you can grasp where it goes from there. If you don't get it then thank the good Lord tonight at bedtime tonight.

Moral of the story? Drunk people stay the Hell away from me, and from anyone else for that matter. No one likes you.

P.S. Short people. Stop asking me to get things down for you. It is incredibly annoying and not at all flattering. I don't ask you to pick things up off the ground do I?

P.S.S At church this week a man stood so close to me that I am almost certain his genitals were on my leg. Gross.

Fighting White Trash ONe Street Race at a Time

This morning on my way to work I had the oppurtunity to witness one of the premier displays of white-trash masculinity known to man. At a stop light on the Belt HIghway, two patchy bearded rednecks pulled up behind me side to side, sporting mid-90's just rusting Ford Mustangs. After a brief stare down, the revving of the engines began, enough to jumpstart each perspective libido. At this point the rage I try so hard to keep locked deep down in the pits of my body began to creep to the surface. I fought hard not to roll my window down and scream obscenities at them. I must say I was also horribly confused. Did they think they were going to be able to race with cars in front of each of them? I looked over into the pick-up truck next to me only to find a farmer grinning ear to ear like a racoon munching on his own fesces. He gave me a knowing nod and at the turn of the green light he proceeded to accelerate to a blistering 13 mph. Picking up the hint, we proceed to crawl our way through the next four stoplights, much to the chagrin of our white trash Mario Andretti's. After the fourth stoplight such a line had formed behind us we felt is prudent to speed along so with a synchronized head nod I sped along toward Burger King and he headed off to those things that farmers do. Phil and the Farmer 1 White Trash Machismo 0