They steal your roadkill in St. Elmo

Another oldie but goodie from me...hope your holidays were a delight.





-Spragoo



They steal your roadkill in St. Elmo (May 28, 2009)

Blink and you'll pass it.

The only thing you see is the road sign stamped with the same name as a "Brat Pack" flick from the '80's...

It's St. Elmo, Illinois. Lying in evil wait just off of Interstate 70 past the graffiti capital of the Midwest, Effingham, Illinois.

Don't let the simple sign nor the idyllic surroundings fool you...they steal your roadkill in St. Elmo.

Just ask my friend Luke. Ole' Luke was birthed in St. Elmo and is quite the country man. He has a truck that is lifted high enough with large enough wheels that he has contemplated running over my house a few times during fits of anger.

Luke smokes AND dips and the same time, swallows his tobacco juice instead of spitting it out - "Makes yer stomach cast-iron!" - and has a velvet painting of Waylon Jennings spotlighted on his living room wall.

He also enjoys the fine country delicacy of roadkill...

I can't really blame Luke for this...times are tough and the economy is shit nowadays. I have contemplated a continuous diet of SPAM and boxed wine myself. So I don't criticize him for living off the road instead of off the land.

I figure if dumb, beastly critters want to get in the way of his truck from the film "Maximum Overdrive" and want to play chicken, them fuck 'em. They received their just desserts.

Luke told me this ghastly tale the other night, over some jungle juice at a friend's house. Set against the backdrop of St. Elmo's dirt roads and the wafting scent of cow manure, Luke told me how he mowed down an opossum in the roadway. "Thumped it one good," he exclaimed.

In fact after running over it forward, he proceeded to back up over it in the American spirit of double-tapping your enemies.

At this point, what is a country boy to do? They are brought up by half-Cherokee and Choctaw - sometimes Chippewa - folk that teach them not to waste anything.

So Luke tossed the carcass into the bed of his truck and went home with drunken visions of opossum, eggs and grits for breakfast dancing in his head.

"It's a fine hangover food," Luke said.

Forward to the next morning...Luke stumbles outside to his beloved Dodge Ram 560000000 Cummins Turbo Diesel Rocket Fueled Double-Extended Cab truck, looking to retrieve the prize from the night before.

And it's fucking gone...

I asked Luke if it was possible that he ran over Super Opossum...one that could haul its broken body out of the bed of the truck and stumble away to have Lois Opossum mend its wounds.

Luke reassured me it was impossible.

"Man, I creamed that sumbitch," he drawled. "Its fuckin' head was popped like a balloon and it had intestines hangin' out its ass. The fucker was D-E-A-D!"

That left only one option...some scoundrel poachers had stolen Luke's breakfast.

I called the Effingham County Sheriff's department the other night. A department of three sturdy men often tasked with putting out meth lab fires, breaking up bar fights and tracking down and executing bastards that steal roadkill.

I spoke to a Deputy Sowenhoffer and asked him if the thievery of roadkill in St. Elmo was prevalent.

"You got roadkill, you better lock it in your car or throw it in your freezer overnight," Sowenhoffer huffed. He sounded fat. "We gotta cult out here dressed in pink robes, scraping the shit off da road, taking it from your truck, whatever."

He didn't stop there. I almost wish he had.

"These hoods have no regard for good, honest, clean country folk trying to eat. Hell, they even broke into old man Beener's house and stole the stuffed badger off the back of his shitter."

"Could it be those pinko liberals from PETA?" I asked.

"What the Sam Hill is PETA?"

"Never mind, sir. I hope you catch the varmints stealing the varmints."

"Who you with, son?" Sowenhoffer growled. "Why you wanna know about this?"

Shit. What do I say, I'm writing a fuckin' retarded blog about your retarded town?

"Ah, I'm with Field and Stream, deputy. I'm doing an article. I'll send a free years subscription for your cooperation."

That changed the tune. "HOT DAMN! You're a good man, son. Anything you need, just call."

That was a dead end, fo' sho'. I'm no farther along in helping Luke reclaim his beloved opossum or finding the fuckin' degenerates taking the roadkill out of babies mouths in St. Elmo.

One thing is for certain, however. I'm never stopping for gas in St. Elmo. Any town where people are stealing rotten, decomposing rodents is not somewhere I want to become acquainted with. I like to leave my kids in the car while filling up the gas tank.

The last thing I want to see is a gaggle of pink-robed Nazi's storming out of the woodline, stealing the fruits of my loins and screaming "We dun't like yer kind 'round heer!"

Some peoples children, I'll tell ya.

-Spragoo

I'm in the wrong damn business....

Holiday greetings to the stalwarts of my blog...that's Dionne Warwick to the left of us. She was a horrible musical artist before she decided to be an even worse psychic. You'll see why I included her later on down the page.

I'm in a writing slump. Ok, I won't lie; I just don't fucking feel like writing over my holiday break from the renowned University of Cincinnati.

So, I have a treat for you all. We're going back in time...to the earlier works of a burgeoning writer before he learned how to write ledes for stories, be counter-intuitive on purpose and structure a nicely written piece.

You are going to read the pre-pubescent shit I've written before becoming a man. (dipped in sarcasm)

I've cleaned up a lot of the blogs I plan on posting over the next week or so. I reminisced over them last night on Myspace, then decided to do what any artist worth their weight does when they don't feel like creating anything new...

Repackage old shit.

Hope you enjoy them. This is my gift to you during this season of giving.

That and I'm too damn lazy and poor right now to give you anything else.

-Spragoo

I'm in the wrong damn business... (July 13, 2009)

Turn on cable TV some night.

In-between watching Kendra and old World Series of Poker reruns, you'll be bombarded with a multitude of "text your name and your girlfriends' name to see if you're compatible" commercials.

Now, truly, do we think this works? A phone or computer is going to tell me whether Bertha is the right one for me?

Seriously?

Well, you know me. I had to put this shit to the test.

So, I text some names one night to one of the numbers burned into my retinas by these commercials of ill-repute.

I text my name along with the name Melba. What did I find out?

That Melba, due to her weight issues and full-faced beard was not a compatible option for me...not to mention her zealous affinity for toast.

I found this hilarious, because I don't even know a Melba.

After a couple of more beers, my "what the hell" mechanism kicked in and I decided to text a few more ridiculous names to the number, just to see the inane results.

I continued with Bocephus and discovered his fond affection for farm animals, aunts and sisters would keep us from forming an intimate bond...

Mandigo - I could not handle his physical attributes, such as an elephant trunk dangling between his legs.

Bunny - she would give me a venereal disease.

Jesse's Girl - she would cheat on me then write a one-hit wonder about it.

In other words, it was all complete horseshit.

I received the phone bill two weeks ago...for those five names alone I text, my bill totaled $534.98.

Thank (insert name of favorite deity here) I'm not promiscuous and have 20 names to text.

Thankfully I'm not a retarded, lovestruck, Spam-eating neanderthal relying on a phone to tell me what my own two eyes and skeptical brain should.

Maybe this gig is a way for the Bilderberg Group to eliminate the dumb people mating...just charge them ungodly amounts of money for them to learn that someone named Chevy or International Harvester isn't meant for them.

Yes, I speak to you, redneck trash of the world who use burlap sacks as condoms...

"Shee-at! I dun fot ole' Massey wuz da un fer mah. Nah I gotta go out ta pasture fer mah luvin'."

Why the hell have I been slaving in the United States Army for 10 years, when all I needed was a phone number, a sense of humor and advertisements on Country Music Television and We - Television for Women?

Give me a fucking commercial. I'll tell everyone they're going to die, pay taxes, meet someone, drive a car and quit a job. I'll even toss in some lucky numbers like 678, 214 and 3.

Play those on your Pick Three, dumbass. You're sure to win.

Do you want your weight too? Ok, we are all fat because we are all Americans. That is your weight. Just eat prunes and Vienna sausages for the next 10 months and shed that weight...

Hey, I've now got a new diet to sell! Will you sheep buy that too?

Pick up the phone and text me now. Your future hangs in the balance. Screw making your own future, just let some half-wit text it to you....continue the rapid decline of Western Civilization.

It seems as if I've been in the wrong damn business...I might as well cash in on the insanity that now passes for normalcy.

We can believe TV, right?

-Spragoo

Banning books in Missouri....what utter bullshit

Prepare for a tirade.

This photo is by Nathan Papes, of the Springfield (Mo.) News-Leader. It shows a crowd of parents and other community-minded citizens applauding.

Applauding the banishment of the book "The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian." in the Stockton, Mo., high school.

You can read about the book more here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Absolutely_True_Diary_of_a_Part-Time_Indian

And the efforts to ban it, which unfortunately were successful.
http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2010-12-01-bookbans01_ST_N.htm

I read about it...and the idea of banning it from a high school — such as what was done in Missouri — is complete, utter bullshit.

The teen birth rate for females between the ages of 15 and 19 is 45.7 out of 1,000 females in the state of Missouri...higher than the average of 42.5 in the United States.

http://www.statehealthfacts.org/profileind.jsp?ind=37&cat=2&rgn=27

Missouri led the nation in meth lab incidents through August 2010...

http://www.mshp.dps.mo.gov/MSHPWeb/DevelopersPages/DDCC/methLabDisclaimer.html

According to the State of Missouri's Center for Family Policy and Research, as of 2007 approximately 51,000 children used illicit drugs, an increase of almost 9,000 from the previous year.

Given these stats, it looks like folks in the Show-Me state have more important things to concern themselves with, instead of a book that deals with racism and poverty.

Oh, maybe they got in an uproar because the book had the word "gay" in it...

What I see in this photo is nothing but a gaggle of — my opinion, mind you — conservative, "Christian" do-gooders that want to shield their children from reality.

The reality of just how fucked-up our world has become.

They'll ban a book, but what are they doing to prevent teen births? Or teen drug use?

I'd bet money that the parents of children at Stockton High School don't mind if the kiddos turn the boob tube to "16 and Pregnant" or "Jersey Shore," while Pops is beating off to Oriental women in "Hustler" and Momma is using the big green machine on herself...

I'd bet money quite a many high-school football star's alcohol use is swept under the rug for the sake of victories in Stockton...

In other words, they are hypocrites. We all are, without doubt. I won't dispute that even I am...

Yet it sickens me to thing that this rabble in the audience — whom I'd also bet money have never read so much as Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath" — have the nerve to question a book that has won multiple awards as such...


2009 Peter Pan Award, Sweden
2009 Odyssey Award for audio version, produced by Recorded Books, LLC
2008 Washington Book Award - the Scandiuzzi Children's Book Award for middle grades and young adults
2008 Boston Globe–Horn Book Awards for Excellence in Children’s Literature in Fiction
2008 Capitol Choices Noteworthy Books for Children
2008 Book Sense Book of the Year Children's Literature Honor Book
2008 Pacific Northwest Book Award
2008 American Indian Library Association American Indian Youth Literature Award
2007 National Book Award for Young People's Literature
2007 Los Angles Times Book Prize Finalist
Publishers Weekly 2007 Best Books of the Year - Children's Fiction
The New York Times Notable Children's Books of 2007
Los Angeles Times Favorite Children's Books of 2007
National Parenting Publication Gold Winner 2007
Barnes & Noble 2007 Best for Teens
School Library Journal Best Books of 2007
Kirkus Reviews Best Young Adult Books of 2007 (pdf file)
Horn Book Fanfare Best Books of 2007
The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books Blue Ribbon Winner
Kansas City Star's Top 100 Books of the Year

Need I say more?

I will. It's backwards-thinking shitheaps like these that will end up voting Sarah Palin — that of "Obviously we gotta stand with our North Korean allies" fame — into the presidency and will turn our country into a "Christian" replica of Afghanistan and Iran...banning "dirty" books, cramming Hey-sus down our throats and turning us into something we all should dread.

A theocracy.

Say goodbye to democracy if we stand by and let this continue. Say hello to the good ol' down-home traditions of hiding reality, fucking your cousin and waging war against anyone who isn't a WASP.

Wait a second.

We already do that here in America, don't we?

-Spragoo

Mr. Self-Destruct.....Turkey Lurkey......nice comeback, Hudy

Ah, it's been an interesting few weeks since I last regaled you with my prose....

I quit my job as a 911 dispatcher. I gave absolutely no notice, no hints of warning, nothing.

Just gave 'em the word an hour before my shift was slated to start, then proceeded to stuff my fuckin' face at Golden Corral with the free veteran's meal.

Now I only have a part-time job and added about a pound of cholesterol to my bloodstream. Just call me Mr. Self-Destruct.

Guess I should begin taste testing different brands of Alpo.....figure out which one suits my palette the best. It may very well be all I can afford here soon.

Not to justify my insanity at quitting a government job, but I really couldn't pull it off anymore. Going stretches of 48 hours without sleep, watching my grades suffer and my writing decline, was just not my idea of good times.

I'm not proud enough to raise the white flag when it needs to go up....my body was the Alamo and it was being overrun, without a doubt.

So the fat is in the fire, as HST used to say. My career is my writing. Whether I'll be damned for it is yet to be seen.

Thanksgiving, or what passes for a family holiday, was Thursday. Just a few observations from the day that signals the retail world's apocalypse...

-There is always family drama. Either too many liquid spirits flow or someone is still jilted due to a perceived slight from the year prior.

-Every family has an uncle (or someone who might as well be an uncle) who still insists on wearing sweatpants and sporting a perm/mullet to dinner. Odds are they also listen to Scorpions and Accept on a MP3 player, not an IPod.

-All sorts of monstrosities are planned for the leftover turkey, from turkey a la king to turkey lurkey (fuck if I know what that is), turkey casserole, turkey mush, etc. This makes me feel so sorry for turkeys....they are the most mutated, bludgeoned poultry dish in the history of mankind.

-Everyone watches shitty football games.

-Some unbutton their pants when they shouldn't.

-You don't eat turkey again for a damnable year, once you have fought your way through eating the mutated turkey recipes.

I have to commend the Hudepohl Brewing Company outta Cincy. Purveyors of such fine bottled piss as Hudy Delight and Hudy 14-K, they have ventured from the 50's to the present with a new brew - Hudepohl Amber Lager.

I made it through a six-pack without choking my vomit back down. My tongue didn't shrivel and fall off, either.

And, truly, it was better than Killian's Irish Red.

Anyone who has an inkling of knowledge of Cincinnati beers, besides the heavenly Christian Moerlein, knows that the rest - Hudepohl, Burger, Little Kings, Schoenling - were nothing but the city's version of Steel Reserve.

Kerosene, arsenic and elephant piss.

So, it's nice to see Hudepohl steal a page from Dominoes and upgrade a little. In a town with a 2-9 football juggernaut, impending cop and firemen layoffs, a Jesus-savior streetcar and multi-million dollar stadium deficits, it's pleasing to see that something can be done fucking right.

Selah,
Spragoo

Seriously? What the fuck, Amish?

Heat surge heaters....fireless flame technology.....Amish built.

This is in a commercial at 4:51 a.m. The Amish are now peddling themselves out for the almighty dollar. This fecal pile of infomercial has people hanging stockings and making out in front of these abominations.

Seriously? A man and woman on the floor in front of a 3 ft tall box of heat for a romantic evening?

The commercial portrayed that insanity.

Maybe in a fucking trailer park that would happen.....a sweaty, dirty coupling of meth heads swigging Boone's farm and mating without protection.

Protection that should be mandatory for wear before any trailer park sex.

Anyway, I digress. First off, if I'm stooping to having my girl lay in front of the 2010 equivalent of a space heater, expect her to get turned on then wrestle with my engorged phallus, well, not only am I cheap and disgusting but deserve to be jailed for such.

It is kinda cool to see the beards sign off with their approval on the act of fornication, though. Prudish bastards have yet to give the thumbs up to brutal war, but at least they're down to fuck now.

The main point of my rant? When the Amish start selling their souls, how long until the sky falls, the earth opens and Pope Benedict XVI has Slayer played as hymnal music at the Easter Mass in Vatican City?

I'm all for progressive, industrial evolution. Making things better, improving, sculpting.

I also know that capitalism is a hungry beast that will be fed long after I'm ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

But when institutions begin selling out, institutions that have been forever unchanged against the erosion of decency, then that is disturbing.

And it makes me wonder....

Would big George W. have signed off on his face to be used on the dollar bill, had he known the of the murder, pillaging, rape and other soulless acts committed to gain that bill?

I'd like to think not. But when the Amish are standing at the corner, trolling for johns to buy their heaters, well....

We really don't know shit anymore.

Spragoo

Instrumental.....hear dem Bengals choking, meek and crappily.....heartbreaking pawn man

I'm in a musical mood, so we're kicking out the jams today by talking a little aural shop...

I've been listening to the soundtrack from the film "The Road" recently, a haunting compilation courtesy of one of music's greatest Australian troubadours, Nick Cave.

Actually, probably music's only Australian troubadour.

If you get the opportunity to, check it out. Even if you haven't seen the film (I haven't), the music portrays the desperation, glimmers of hope and ultimate agony of the story (I have read the book.)

Of course, such a disc got me thinking, as most music does, about how unappreciated and unnoticed instrumental compositions seem to be these days.

If it doesn't have fuck, pussy, ho, or bling in the song, or even words at all for that matter, than it simply doesn't exist to the carnivorous listeners of today.

They want their music like McDonald's — great tasting, quick and easy to consume.

Have you ever really researched what McDonald's makes their food with, though?

Yeah, you guessed it. Shit. Much like what's on the Billboard Top 40 today.

We resemble, philosophically, the alien race from "Independence Day."

Instead of devouring planets, we devour pop culture and its 29 different flavors, then excrete it in an unintelligible mess.

That aside, I decided to compose a "Top Five Best Instrumentals" list that I've been struck dumb by, time and time again. Compare it against yours, just for the hell of it.

I included no jazz, simply because jazz is a glorious realm unto its own.

Da top five....

1. "Orion" — Metallica
2. "God moving over the face of the waters" — Moby
3. "A Warm Place" — NIN
4. "Layla (Piano Exit)" — Derek and the Dominoes
5. "Green Onion" — Booker T and the MG's

Honorable Mentions: "Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth)" — Metallica, "Eruption", "1984" — Van Halen, "Ghosts I-IV" —the entire album by NIN, "Ride of the Valkyries" — Wagner

Alright, enough of me aping John Cusack.

Does anyone know how I can overdub the Bengal's fight song?

Last night's performance against the Steeler's ranked right up there with, well, the entire 43 year history of Bengals football in Cincy.

Only in this town would we have a dark horse Super Bowl contender — I'm wondering if those "experts" were on angel dust at the time they decided that — trip over their own dicks like this team has.

Pundits far better than I have already pummelled the Bengals ineptitude dead, folded the flag on the season and presented it graveside to Bengals fans.

"On behalf of the President of the Cincinnati Bengals and the players of a grateful team, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful patronage you fans have rendered this organization."

"Taps" moans in the distance....and now I'm left to masturbation to fill my Sunday afternoons.

Speaking of broken hearts, the faux-reality/anthropological study TV show "Pawn Stars" is a parade of human disappointment.

And I laugh. Because I've been there and financial misery with its delusions of grand quick-fixes deserves the company of other begging, destitute paupers.

Just this morning, I watched a lunatic expect 25 grand for an 1860 Lincoln presidential campaign ribbon. And I thought this.

"Hey jackass, this isn't the baseball card of Honus Wagner."

It's only Abe Lincoln. Let's get realistic.

Much less to say, he limped home with said ribbon between his emasculated legs, having refused an offer of three thousand dollars.

After it was appraised, by an independent expert, for that very amount.

This twit has been added as another photo for the definition in Webster's of the word "dumbfuck."

What do people truly expect when dealing with the lecherous plankton of the business world known as pawn brokers?

I once was lost in a pawn shop, trying to rid myself of a nice Washburn acoustic guitar that I had dropped $500 on.

I was quickly found in that pawn shop when the greasy fuck offered me $30 for my $500 guitar.

I walked out of that shop smarter and with a gee-tar I'm still fiddling with to this day.

Hopefully these 5150's get straight and figure out another way to score quick green — no, not slinging dope — instead of whoring the detritus of their lives to heartbreaking pawn thugs...

Donate some plasma instead. $30 a pop, two times a week and track marks on your arms that give you instant street cred.

It can't be beat.

Better than trying to hawk that porcelain bedpan, decorated with the Courier and Ives pattern, that your gran-pappy shat it 70 years ago.

Too-da-loo,
Spragoo

Tribute

George "Sparky" Anderson died Thursday. If you have even a lay person's knowledge of baseball — or live in Cincinnati — you know the man.

Three overall World Series titles; a baseball hall of famer.

Yeah, you get the drift.

He died from complications due to dementia. A horrible malady that strikes the mind, rendering you unable to remember how to chew, swallow, move...

This tribute is not to George Anderson.

It is to a woman many of you do not know. A woman who is facing the very same situation as Anderson, in fact, was lying in her deathbed in a Columbus, Ohio hospital just last week.

Her esophagus punctured from swallowing a chicken bone she had forgotten about.

No IV or feeding tube was inserted for her. She was moved to the hospice unit of the hospital in order to be "made comfortable."

Doctors gave her no more than two weeks to live. Doctors, like weather forecasters, are right a vast majority of the time.

As of this writing, 79-year-old Mary Jane Teague (nee Johnson) sits in a Columbus nursing home. She has a soft food diet in order to prevent damaging her freshly healed esophagus.

Mary Jane has around the clock care now, something her family had been discussing for a while, yet now has been forced to provide.

She's in good spirits, given her travails of the previous weeks. She is maintaining her sense of humor and stubbornness, refusing to wave a white flag.

In fact, she had enough piss and vinegar left in her veins to tell a nurse she "doesn't have any vitals" when the nurse entered the room to check them.

Mary Jane can be one tough old bird.

I love her with every ounce of my soul.

My grandmother was a mysterious sort to me as a child. She was not overly friendly to my siblings and I.

She seemed more focused on the adults when we would visit, chatting with them while admonishing us for interrupting conversation or making noise.

In addition, she had absolutely no toys or items of intrigue in her home for children. The place was a museum — shelves of books on religion and war, collectible owls and WWII miniatures of my grandfather.

Instead of driving us away with her aloofness — making us distant and cold towards her — it gave us a drive to achieve adulthood.

To finally chat with Grandma and to be taken seriously.

We all longed to reach our 21st birthday, not to be able to legally drink in a bar but to finally toss back a Busch Light with Mary Jane.

Once you earned that mantle of adulthood, Mary Jane rewarded you with her unwavering support.

At times when my choice of joining the military was quite unpopular with family, she was in my corner.

When my choice of becoming a writer was questioned, she was in my corner.

And upon visiting, I'd be greeted with the biggest smile, a warm embrace and enough flattery to make me feel like the best thing since, well, the last time she had seen me.

Handwritten letters while I was in basic training.

The Ohio State Marching Band concerts the Sunday's before meeting Michigan in "The Game."

A Columbus Clipper minor league baseball game, made memorable by my intoxicated aunt actually getting into a shouting match with the first base umpire.

Teague family reunions in Toledo.

All memories that I wouldn't have had, if not for Mary Jane.

I stood at her side two Monday's ago, blubbering uncontrollably. Telling her she was the matriarch of our family; that she was the greatest grandmother a boy could have.

Tears moistened my shirt.

I told her that we all loved her and that she had done enough for us — it was now time to relax.

Reassured her that she had earned heaven through her faith and acts.

Without a doubt, I was saying my last goodbyes to her.

And she asked me, in a quiet rasp, what she had done to deserve this love.

I explained that it was from her just being herself.

Had I heeded my words, I would have known that she was going to pull herself up on the ring ropes and only be counted to eight.

She's still standing and still fighting, not ready to relinquish the title of Columbus's most fervent supporter of owls.

I felt like a heel for putting her in the grave early.

Yet I feel more blessed that I can stand in her corner, one time, for her.

Much like she did for me.

This is a tribute to Mary Jane Teague (nee Johnson).

Wife, sister, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.

And one damned tough old bird.

We love you, Grandma.

Your beloved grandson,
Jim

Voter-5 is alive...the more things change, the more of the same lecherous bullshit....George Hamilton, new speaker of the house

Ah, no more fucking campaign commercials to worry about.

You know you are all thankful for that. It tires the human eyes when we are barraged with a torrent of politicians flagellating each other for two months straight on television.

Now we can peacefully go back to our "Dancing With The Stars." No more visions of Strickland dancing through our heads, eating babies, stealing jobs and having raunchy intercourse with illegals.

That's all Democrats do, right? Or so media leads us to believe.

Much like the old robot Johnny-5 from the film "Short Circuit", Voter-5 was alive last night in the case of Ohio Rep. Connie Pillich and Cincy Tea Party founder and porn aficionado Mike Wilson.

The street fight over the 28th District seat in Ohio's House of Representatives came down to a five vote difference. Five voters that felt Connie Pillich's proclivity for child labor was a lesser evil than Wilson's grand plan to change the state song to "I'm a Little Teapot."

Five votes. The size of a basketball team. And, surely, a result that neither candidate wanted to deal with.

Automatic recount, anyone?

Victory can't be celebrated, nor can defeat be mourned.

There will be absentee ballots still coming in, provisional ballots, messages in bottles, telegraphs, etc., etc., etc.

All needing to be counted.

Nothing will be decided for at least a week.

And the voters of Ohio's 28th district will have the political equivalent of blue balls.

For Pillich, her tenuous grip on what power a state rep has rides on this. Wilson, meanwhile, is looking at the incineration of his short political career if he loses.

He is a flavor of the month, and the Repub's probably consoled him, pumped him up with the fallback of the recount and surely questioned the integrity of the vote count.

Should he lose, however, his usefulness will be done and he will be tossed to the curb like a rotten bag of trash.

Thanks for the mid-term excitement, Mikey boy. Now step back and let us professional thieves get back to work, after we hijacked your grassroots uprising.

Well, the Repub's dominated the election. Doesn't really make a fucking bit of difference, does it?

Instead of cat burglars, we now have armed robbers in office.

But hey wasn't that a cool sticker we got for voting?

Looks like George Hamilton, er, ahem, I mean John (Boner) Boehner will be the next speaker of the house.

Perfect choice, actually. He is the epitome of Americana....

Blow-dried, fake-baked and cutthroat.

God shed His grace on thee.

Spragoo

Merci, beaucoup.....Buck McNeely....to fake or not to fake, that is the question

We're going with minty refreshment as the vibe of the piece today.

A huge hug and exultant "Merci beau coup" to those that picked up my dried-up carcass outta the gutter last week after my post of self-loathing....

I didn't ask, but yet I truly received.

The real measures of friendship. Extra credit points to the staff at The News Record.

All of you. Hooked me up with a righteous shot of esteem.

Now, with formalities aside, let's get it on....

How cliche is it to have the name of Buck McNeely while you host a show titled "The Outdoorsman"?

Christ, really?

I spotted this show on the boob tube about 2 a.m. one morning last week and immediately fired off a check as a charitable donation to an organization bent on assisting insomniacs.

Those poor souls don't need Buck McNeely in the wee hours regaling them with tales of the leopard-spotted, white-haired 7-toed sloth.

We want them to sleep, not toss themselves in front of cars.

No, I didn't watch it either. I exercised my freedom of a mandible thumb and navigated to "World of Jenks" on MTV.

Not much better.

Mr. Jenks, you tread no new ground, sir. Following around a rapper, a mixed-martial arts fighter and a professional poker player with a video camera is nothing that a slew of groupies has not already beaten dead and cold.

Credit goes to you, however, for having some mush-brained exec at MTV buy off on your formulaic, dusty idea. I eagerly await your bastardized, inbred show covering the Fantasy Factory.

MTV shit out its originality much like a bad night of Mexican food years ago.

Now they just fuck themselves in order to conceive new ideas.

"Real World" killed the video star.

Now on to sports....

My Bengals bring only one question to mind....

Are you ready for Cincinnati Cyclones hockey?

To fake or not to fake, that is what runs through my mind as we close our chat today.

An old high-school acquaintance recently added me as a Facebook friend. I did an Irish jig afterwords, for I had now added a new friend to my harem of 200-plus and counting.

Popularity can be such a heavy cross. (dripping severely here if you can't tell)

This aside, I noticed that said acquaintance had slimmed down quite significantly from our high-school days. Not that she was unattractive then, but she has only improved herself like a fine wine since.

I noticed a plethora of "Wow, you're so beautiful" or "Absolutely gorgeous" comments to her photos.....and it made me think.

Did we compliment her and adorn her in high school as we have now?

Did her spunky, effervescent personality earn her as much praise then as her looks do now?

Or are we, the peanut gallery of commentators, just plain fucking fake?

Did it take weight loss for us to notice a bright, shining human being?

I can only wonder if she had similar thoughts as she responded back to the comments with an air of humility and class; or did she ask the question of "Where were you 15 years ago with your flattery?"

I commented that she had aged well, much better than I had. I lobbed her a softball that complimented her and lessened my filthy lacquer of hypocrisy.

The acidic taste of that hypocrisy coats my tongue, for I never complimented her years before either.

Well, I received my just desserts.....karma can be a bitch.

She truly did age better than I have.

Spragoo

Where am I at?

If you've read my previous posts, I normally try to be biting, witty and humorous...

Not today. Today I'm melancholy personified. Where am I at in life?

I spent last night alone. Not a new concept for me, but for some reason it just got in the bones more that it normally does.

I'm 33 years old and alone. Without a clue of where I'm headed.

Shouldn't I have crossed this bridge 10 years ago? Shouldn't my life be set at this age, with a home, children, marriage and sterling career?

Instead I sat in my fortress of emotional solitude last night, wondering why I was spending a Thursday night solo and had nary a soul to call up.

Being a college student at 33 is a bitch. My colleagues at the paper have different lives, lives that still bubble with the anticipation of the future. Me? I've waved at the future as it passed me by about 15 years ago.

The cavernous divide between us is noticeable, if only in the responsibilities.

I long to be one of them, to be a part of them. Yet I'm not. I'm a grizzled veteran of life that has seen too much and experienced too much to be one with them.

My life would rain on their parade of anticipation.

The children portion of the American dream I've accomplished, though. Three wonderful, sparkling children (all from the same mother too!) that give me some drive to get through days.

Other than that, it's blah. I strive to attain degrees in journalism and communication, knowing damn well that I probably will not make shit with either one. Writing is a passion, but how long can writing sustain me and be my only partner in life's journey?

I work a job as a 911 dispatcher. Boy, that just makes people trip over their feet running to talk to me about my "cool as shit" career.

I won't even discuss my current living arrangements, with exception to say that I'm not homeless nor living in my car.

I was married at one time. In fact, would have been celebrating an anniversary the first week of November. Somewhere along the way that marriage bust through the guardrail, fell off the bridge and hit the river.

I'm still trying to get to the surface on that one. Every time my head pops above the water, the fucking current of regret, depression and sorrow drag me right back down.

Halfway to retirement in the US Army, I threw it into the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. Ground that fucker up. Nuked it. For some goddamn reason I wanted to start anew, figuring it would benefit my family and my relationship by lessening my stress.

Instead, about six months after the move, I'm whacked with a two-by-four and told "I don't love you anymore."

Now I twist in the wind. Oftentimes I go 48 hours without sleep, only so I can busy myself with two jobs, class and my kids to distract my mind from the burning heap my life has become.

I really don't know why in God's name I am writing this. To ruin your day? No. To seek your sympathy? No.

Maybe to just get some of this tapeworm of bitterness out of my body.

Even as I do this, though, I still hide even more hideous details as I transcribe this. Treacherous "friends", indiscretions, you fucking name it.

It's hard for me to grasp how ignorant and blind I was for so many years to problems, how gullible I was in believing, or why I thought I had the plan.

Even more foolish was the thought that love would sustain through everything. I have a journal given to me that has "love eternally" inscribed to me on the inside. From either the driver or passenger in the car wreck of my marriage; Her nor I have figured out our respective positions in the car yet.

When I read it now, I fucking laugh. Love and eternity are just words. Funny words.

Words that seem to mean nothing, other than affirming my stupidity in believing them.

Don't worry, friends. Sarcastic and jolly Me will be back on the blog soon enough. I've made it quite the habit of being able to easily toss on a skin of funny guy, entertain long enough to satisfy, then slink back to my hole.

A hole that never looks like it will be filled.

Salutations,
Jim

Home never leaves the bones.....I kinda wanna be anarchy.....R.I.P. Redleggers

For 33 years of my life, I have attempted to escape home.

Home, for those of your not familiar with me, is a boondocks aptly named Okeana. My mother fed me some bullshit growing up that it was the name of some Indian priestess. My mother, a woman from Columbus who hadn't heard of the fuckin' place until Pops built a house there....

My theory? Some farmer in the late 1800's had a tad bit too much white lightning and muttered some mish-mash that coined a town.

The point is, it is a backwoods. People still have rusted hulks of metal in the frontyard, tires as planters and a double-wide with a basement is viewed with envy. This is viewed as high-end decor.

I loathed the place. Subconsiously I think I joined the Army partly to high-tail it out of Ohio....and because I was a slacker college dropout.

Now I'm back. And for some damnable reason, I am reminiscent.

The country air, especially fall, feels cool against my neck. The wafting odor of Jethro burning leaves and tires actually invigorates my nostrils.

Speeding down Cincinnati-Brookville Road at 75 in a 55 zone is freeing....until I crack my radiator on the 12 point buck in the fucking road.

I've come to realize that home never left me. It seems a tad cliche, given all the odes to home that have been written by better hacks than myself throughout the years.

But it looms true.

Podunk bars in the middle of nowhere that actually have David Allen Coe's underground shit (you know what I'm talking about) on the jukebox.

It's laughable how ignorant that twit is, but it's just the vibe given by having it in the jukebox...the vibe of "This here's the country. If you don't like it, kiss our ass and leave."

A small-town diner that is only open till 2 pm, serving chili that is nothing but ground beef chunks in tomato paste.

An abundance of cows and the memory of "We're from Ross, couldn't be prouder! We have pigs and nuclear power!", referring to our former cash crop Fernald.

Okeana and Ross...built on uranium.

I attended a timid bonfire in a field the other night.....brisk evening, cold beer from the tailgate of a pickup.....some lush with a guitar who strummed nothing but drinking country and "ran over the hound while drunk on the tractor" country.

The bastard threw in a few heartbreak songs too, apropos of my situation with the former Mrs. Sprague.

It felt like home. Jarring, surprising, yet not.

Home never left me. For good or ill.

I kinda wanna be anarchy. Government and da man got me down. Campaign commercials are inundating the TV nowadays, and it is simply the same fucking shit....

"(Insert name here) lost Ohio 1 billion jobs."

"(Insert name here) hates veterans."

"(Insert name here) flogged Nancy Pelosi with a studded whip during an S&M party at Steve Driehaus's house. Driehaus's children were dressed like Ooompa-Loompas serving condoms and K-Y on trays to the degenerates."

You get the drift. It's tired and hackneyed.

We have shown as a people that, for the most part, we can take care of fucking shit up for ourselves. We don't need government to pave the road to hell for us.

Humans are quite capable alone.

Thing is, I would immediately become a hypocritical anarchist because, ironically, I collect a paycheck every two weeks from Warren County for being a 911 dispatcher.

Choice to be made....quite the job and become an advocate? Or talk out both sides of my mouth?

Or, just become numb to it like every other American?

Door #3, Monte? I need money, sadly.....can't feed my kids dog food when the dough runs out.

I chuckle, though, everytime I see Mike Wilson, Cincy Tea Party founder, on TV. It's weird seeing a guy that was your manager at Burger King and had quite the fondness for porn 17 years ago talk about Ohio deserving more.

It's surreal.

R.I.P. my dearest Redleggers. I truly didn't expect you to win the division, let alone Houdini in the NLDS. You gave me a reason to hold to my beloved sport of baseball until October and to buy four differing Reds hats this year.

And you gave me hope. Thanks for the memories and looking forward to next season.

Now, just make Jonny Gomes bat with a fucking boat paddle next year and he may damn well hit something. Bastard pulled on his helmet more times than he laid wood on the ball.

Or, just motivate him by threatening a career change to politics. That'd make me hit.

Spragoo

Happy 11th Birthday, Fight Club. Keep up the good work.

No more Hail Marys....on the end of a bender....why not prostate cancer?

No more Hail Mary's for me.

Didn't realize this until my mother pointed it out to me yesterday that I'm no longer Catholic....

See, I became a member of a Methodist Church, which in turn made me a Methodist, I guess.

Hmmm....can you say that I really didn't think all that hard about it?

Anyway, I no longer have to deal with ups, downs and all-arounds at Mass....no more telling pedophiles my sins and unfortunately no more wine at communion.

Methodists serve grape juice.

Shee-it.

I'm perfectly dysfunctional. Mocking one sect of Christianity while joining another. I fling stones faster than the Cuban Missile Aroldis Chapman hurls fastballs.

For those not in the know, he is a baseball pitcher from Cuba that wings death encased in rawhide.

While I may throw those stones at others, however, I do toss just as many right back at myself. I'm pockmarked with bruises because of it.

I'm a sinner, not a winner....

Ok. Enough about religion. I gotta fix myself and get right before I even start to analyze Hey-sus and his posse. Gotta give one last tip o' the cap to the Catholic Church, though.

Your summer festivals are kick-ass.

"En nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

It can be a funny yet dicey proposition when you stop to examine yourself. I stopped and did so this morning while driving to school today. How much of an asshole I am for calling a woman a tramp....how self-absorbed I must be to think my view of the world is better than some tree-hugger on campus.

I thought how if my car could talk, it probably would have committed me to an institution a long, long time ago for half the shit I've said.

My Toyota Camry is a rolling rubber room and punching bag, all wrapped up into one rusty ass package.

So, I ended up chalking up today's earlier regrets to lunacy and proceeded to right the ship and call the driver in front of me a syphilitic bastard.

All is right with my world.

I caught portions of Monday Night Football earlier in the week, particularly the halftime show extolling the strength of breast cancer survivors.

Don't worry now, I'm not that tactless to mock breast cancer survivors.

But it made me stop and wonder....why does the NFL not celebrate survivors of prostate cancer? Football is a sport played predominantly by men, predominantly followed by men and was created by men.

Why are they overlooking a male cancer? Just never thought of it?

Or is it because its tasteless to ponder asshole cancer?

Just curious, is all. Anyone of my 6 fans have any ideas?

I'm just finishing up about a 72 hour no-sleep bender. I awakened Monday morning at 7 am and finally saw the darkness of slumber at about 3 am this morning. In between it was school, work, kids, rinse and repeat.

Had breakfast with my father yesterday morning, who was critical of my current habits. Said I don't sleep enough or eat well enough. Add in a pack a day of Camel's and Dad said I'm a heart attack waiting to happen.

Then he proceeded to cook up breakfast for us, consisting of eggs and country ham, in skillets with a half-stick of butter in each.

Thanks, Papa, for the good healthy eating. I appreciate your love and concern.

The hallucinations from the sleep deprivation were intriguing. Really didn't understand how both a wolf and a snapping turtle ended up at the front of the classroom with the professor in my feature writing class.

That's one of those questions you don't ask out loud, though. That's real rubber room shit to some folks.

I'm really surprised I didn't receive the gift of a telephone pole in my engine block for all my hard work over the past few days. I was able to drive pretty damn good, given the circumstances.

But, if that had happened I'd just have to buy a new rolling rubber room....

Chevette, anyone?

Rising above....glad they were only $4.99 flowers, tramp....hitting the bricks

Yo-Yo ma....

It's been a busy week. School started up at UC again, meaning classes, professors cussing in class to appear cool to students, and hitting the bricks writing stories for the paper again.

Add to this wading through a plethora of activist-minded students who think they'll change the world and save aardvarks at the same time.

Take it from me, kiddos....your campus anti-war network isn't going to change shit. You're a gnat on the ass of the jolly green military-industrial giant.

Afghanistan will continue, as will war in general, all the while you shout it out loud and play hacky-sack on the commons and puff blunts....

You see reality real quick once you leave the insular world of college. It may be portrayed as a young adults first real-world experience, but its as real world as the MTV show. Students rail against the man in every way, then turn around and drink Coke and eat cheeseburgers in the student dining hall.

Segue to another set of scenes....homeless digging in a dumpster for scraps....soldiers getting shot at daily in a foreign land....some mama-san shitting in the very rice paddy she'll eat out of later that day because she has no running water or plumbing.

Trust me, no one fucking cares about your mid-term on Socrates, the next kegstand party or LBGQT meetings.

No one in the real world, anyway. Prepare to be eaten with a smile, as David Lee Roth would suggest.

Whew. Rant over.

Met someone from an online dating site for a coffee the other day. Not an official date or anything. More a meet and greet, like strange dogs sniffing each others asses....

Talked for about an hour. Common chit-chat, giving backgrounds, pedigrees, etc. Seemed to be going decently. At least, in the idea that my broken "they think you're a dumbfuck" radar didn't go off.

So, I ask aforementioned woman if she would like to meet again, to which I am told "Well, I don't really think so."

Hrmph...

Glad the oriental lilies from Biggs were only $4.99, tramp.

Online dating sites crack me up. Everyone, from men to women, say the same shit...

"I am very open-minded."

"I am willing to try anything once."

"I am humorous."

"I am loyal."

"I am driven."

"Love to get dressed up and go on the town, or cuddle on my bedbug-infested couch with a movie."

Ok, I exaggerated the last one, but you get the drift.

FUCKING LIES.

I had to admire one woman, though. She actually said she wanted a man with a job that wouldn't hit her, and would let her have friends......all misspelled, I might add.

Good luck with that one, chica.

Have had some crap in my life recently. Deaths both physically and emotionally. Friends having hard times, the Bengals passing game, etc., etc.

Only one thing I can offer during times of turmoil, from one of the least likeliest of sources....

Keep the chin up, kids, and "Rise Above", as the hardcore punk band Black Flag preaches to us.

Best advice I've ever heard. Disturbed tells us how to become "Indestructible" too.

Not bad ideas.

In fact, the next tattoos I'll be getting.

Spragoo

Quote of the Day - "Insipid people try to carve out pieces of your heart everyday.....you really piss them off when you let those pieces grow back." - James Sprague

Crop-dusting the guv.....how long till they blame Two-Face?......the return of the bearkittens

Here we are again.

I'm reading the paper this morning and come to find that the acid attack in Washington State was a hoax. That some scary black woman truly didn't throw acid in that woman's face.

I always find it amusing that the perpetrator is of a black description. Why do they have to be black, hmm? Oh, I forgot....our deeply ingrained prejudice hasn't disappeared in America. People just hide it better now. Plus, all blacks look alike, right? Easier to blame that some white trash you may have to actually describe.

ABOVE: Ohio Gov. Ted Strickland tells Hispanic youth that he won't arrest Dora should she show up in Ohio.

If I need to explain the sarcasm to you, get the hell off my blog.

Anyways, it got me to thinking. Friends and family of this dumb bitch said they are worried about her "mental state". How long till they decide that really wasn't her fault that she disfigured herself with acid, but that it was actually the villain from Batman named Two-Face?

We have a wonderful tendency in our country to blame everyone but ourselves. It was McDonald's fault that I didn't know coffee was hot and I spilled it on my vagina. It was Doom's fault that I shot up a school full of kids.

How about, hey, I'm fucked up! It's my fault I'm fucked up!

Nah, makes too much sense.

Instead, it will be easier for some crazy woman to claim that because Two-Face had acid thrown in his face, and was such a mysterious, cool, complex character, that it is his fault, and the Batman comic books in general, that she wanted to be so much like him.

Fucking bullshit. Accountability has become a dirtier word than pussy in our current culture.....

I covered the appearance of Ohio Gov. Ted Strickland at Cincinnati's Hispanic Fest last weekend. Actually got to interview the man for a couple of minutes. Loved his ridiculous answers to shit.

Me- "How has your afternoon been here at the Hispanic Fest?"

Strickland - "It's been good. Diversity is one of Ohio's strengths. I've always said that if you shrunk down the country, you would have Ohio. We are a melting pot."

Hmm....no shit, Sherlock. Every state is a melting pot, with maybe the exception of North Dakota. Please tell me something new, douche.

Best part, however, was me letting rip of a silent but deadly as I walked away from him. This is known is some circles as "crop-dusting". I failed to reveal this to my editor-in-chief, for I may never get assigned another story due to such antics.

It did feel good to make my stand against the man with some flatulence, though.

Maybe Strickland thought the smell was the sampling of refried beans he was eating. Which brings me to another point - why do politicians never eat an entire fucking meal? They go somewhere, a festival for instance, and sample shit. "Oh, I'll have one BBQ rib." or "Hey, a spoon of that coleslaw looks mighty good."

They never eat a full meal. They humor the vendor, act like their food is good, then proceed to spit it into a napkin later because it really tastes like shit. For once, I'd love to see a politician act like a real human and eat a fucking funnel cake with a turkey leg and a draft beer.

You say you're of the people? Fucking act like one.

I had contemplated not too long ago about running for sheriff of Hamilton County when I got back to the area. Felt that someone needed to give the porn Nazi Simon Leis a run for his money. What other county in this country has a 73 year-old sheriff? Any wonder shit is fucked up with the Sheriff's Office?

Has the thought of dementia crossed anyones mind?

Anyway, I decided not to. I have some law enforcement background, but not really enough to know what I would be doing if elected Sheriff. Sadly, if I ran I'd have a good chance to win, because folks are tired of the porn Nazi.

Guess even if I didn't know how to run the Sheriff's Office, it wouldn't be any different than it is now, I suppose. Give me your thoughts.

Well, I watched the destruction of my UC Bearcats the other night at the hands of NC State. The Bearkittens have returned. We had a good run, didn't we? Actually, the last 3 years felt more like a cock tease from that Judas Brian Kelly. He helped get us to the brink, then we unceremoniously lost two bowl games then the coach. Got UC fans all hyped up, then left us with the football equivalent of blue balls.

Thanks, Judas. Use your Notre Dame gold to buy a new conscience, asshole.

Butch Jones is tryin' his ass off, bless him. You are kinda screwed though when you are given an empty cupboard defensively and an Oompa-Loompa quarterback named Collaros. The Little Engine that Could only can in books, Butch.

And they have Oklahoma next? I thought of attending the game with my free student ticket. Instead, I figure my time will be better served by washing my car. I'm not about to buy $10 beers just to watch a 44-10 raping of UC. I'd rather dry off my car with a Sham-Wow....

Welcome back to irrelevancy, UC football. Thanks for stopping by and saying Hi.

-Spragoo

Quote of the Day: "I don't worry about terrorism. I was married for two years." - late comedian Sam Kinison.

Shitty Twister....the Reds are falling apart.....where is my gun, "Jersey Shore" is on

Here is the eagerly-awaited debut of my blog (or so I have deluded myself into thinking).

Somehow found myself watching "Twister" on TBS at 4 this morning. I was brain-washed into previously thinking, like many others, that "Battlefield Earth" was the worst movie of all-time (edging "Waterworld" and leaving an indelible shit stain on Travolta forever).

After watching the newly-christened "Shitty Twister", however, my mind has changed.

I found myself glued like a fuckin' rubbernecker at a 3-car pileup to this damn movie. 2 hours of hopping in a truck, chasing tornadoes, tornadoes becoming pissed and chasing people, truck gets destroyed, people find new truck, sequence begins again.

How the fuck was this movie popular? Better yet, what did the state of Oklahoma do to Hollywood to have it decimated by an endless barrage of circling death on screen?

It was two hours, that while I was not doing anything better at the time besides scratching my ass, I still won't get back. Two hours I could have had later in life to shit myself in the hospital bed and laugh while the nurses sponge me down.

And to use Helen Hunt as the female heroine? What a twisted (no pun intended) character to have....."My papa died in a 'nado! Now I want to get these balls to fly around in one! It'll make me feel better!"

I've met slobbering hobos that could have written a better script that this shit heap.

Ok, enough on "Twister", which I also believe led to the slide into oblivion of Van Halen with their shitty song "Humans Being". Lord have mercy.

Now my rant on sports. I don't get a chance to write sports at the paper, and even if I did I would be low man on the totem pole and relegated to writing about tennis. Sorry, "40-love" is not in my vocabulary. It is the furthest thing from a sporting term. It describes more aptly Billy Dee Williams pouring some Colt .45 over a black booty in the club while he humps it.

Anyways, my Reds are looking like shit. I attended the game on Tuesday night, with the promotion being "Bark at the Park". You could bring your dog to the game, parade it on the field beforehand and let your mutt shit all over the emerald green grass of Great American Ballpark.

Might have looked better than my Reds did that night, possibly.

They are outta gas. Anyone with a set of pupils can see that. Rolen is hitting like shit, Phillips is hitting like shit, Gomes does nothing but tug at his fucking helmet 7 times between whiffing at 3 pitches, Cordero couldn't hack it in the Queen City softball league right now, etc., etc., etc.

They'll win the division, simply because the Cardinals suck more. Then, it will be 3 and out in the NLDS against whomever we play. Mark my words. Trust me, as a fan I do hope I eat those words and they win the whole thing.

I've got better chances, though, of bedding Jenna Jameson. And that's even with her being a whore.

Among some of the other senseless TV I gawked at in the early morning hours was "Jersey Shore". If I had a gun, I seriously think I would have shot the television. Fight, fuck and dance is all that show is. I guess its the most distilled form of human instinct on television, but seriously what do these people have to offer us? It's not like their lives are train wrecks that we can use to make ourselves feel better (shit, they are living high off the MTV hog), nor are they ugly (except for Ronnie who resembles a neanderthal).

So what is the appeal? Help me out. Reasons will be accepted.

Interestingly, the most irritating portion of the show are the personal interviews and how each person is always labeled at the bottom. Ok, I think I gathered after the first time Sammi "Sweetheart" was interviewed that it was her name. You don't have to show me every single fucking time.

Unless MTV is subtly hinting that their audience are as dumb as a box of rocks.

Which makes me a rock, at least this morning.

I'm going to finish up with my quote of the day. Can't guarantee they will be politically correct, but they will be inspirational....at least in making you feel better about the shit-heap someone dropped on your life's doorstep.

"Recycling and speed limits are bullshit. They're like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed." - from the film "Fight Club"

Keep your powder dry, folks.

Spragoo