“You know me and Norma broke up?” Jeff was tellin’ me while we were ridin’ in the back of his sister’s car. The reason we were ridin’ in the backseat was because Norma was ridin’ shotgun.

“Really?” I said as I looked towards Norma who was oblivious to our conversation.
“And does she know about this?” I asked.
“Of course she does silly. She’s cool with it… We decided to remain friends,” Jeff answered back confidently.

“Well, that’s good that ya’ll can be civil about it,” I said as I checked to make sure the door wasn’t locked just in case.
“So where are we goin’?” I asked.
“Where we always go… Party Zone.”

Party Zone was a bar in Chattanooga, Tennessee that had shitty music, shitty bartenders, and shitty clientele; but it did have one thing goin’ for it… “The Beer Bash”.

The Beer Bash was basically all the draft beer you can drink for five dollars; with our limited funds, and our unquenchable thirst it was quite a deal (back then our taste buds were still underdeveloped and we were basically power drinkers; goin’ for quantity instead of quality.)

As we entered the establishment the sounds of Enuff-Z-Nuff’s “High on a Real Thing” was blarin’ thru the speakers. “Oh… I love this song.” Jeff shrieked as he started singing along with the tune (As I’ve stated many times before Jeff ain’t the most manliest of men.) I went over to the bar and laid my Lincoln on the table. “Beer Bash,” I said to the bartender. “And hurry before he starts beltin’ out a George Michaels’ song.”

When the barkeep laid the mug down I started guzzling; you pretty much had to get the first one outta the way so you couldn’t taste the second one… or the third … or the …. Well you get the idea.

Jeff and I were sitting at one side of the bar while Norma and Jeff’s sister were setting on the other side. By the third beer Jeff was startin’ to get serious’ (Which for my stories, ain’t a good thing.)

“You know Scott?… I’m glad me and Norma ain’t together no more… All we did was fight and people don’t need to do that.” He said with a committed tone in his pansy voice.

Forth beer: “You know I don’t need her… I can get any woman I want… all I hafta do is this [attempts to snap his fingers]. (He honestly tried to snap his fingers but all he did was flip his cigarette across the bar.)
Fifth beer: “Awmagawd!! Well, I guess it could be nice, if I could touch you’re body. I know not everybody has got a body like you.” He was in his lil’ disco queen zone as I was bangin’ my head on the bartop wondering two things:

1. Is there such a thing as enough beer to block this shit out?
2. Can I use my belt as a hangman’s noose?

Sixth beer: (moment of clarity) “You know I’m glad me and her can still be friends… We where like buddies anyway and I can go on and do something more constructive with my life,” Jeff said. “Well, it sounds like you’re doin’ the right thing,” I said to my friend as I stopped hitting my head and thinking that this was the first time I can recall Jeff ever usein’ common sense.

Sixth and one half beer: Jeff was on the other side of the bar standin’ in front of Norma; unbuttonin’ his shirt as he did a Hootchie-Cootchie dance in front of her. I could tell by the way Norma’s jaw was clenched that she was about to rip his balls off (if he had any) and stuff them down his throat.

All of a sudden a devil was in my ear. “Don’t do anything… the rat bastard deserves to get his ass kicked… every time ya’ll go out and sumthin’ gets fucked up it’s Jeff fault.” And then an angel was in my other ear saying “Yeah fuck Jeff… all the cocksucker ever done was cause you grief.” So I decided not to listen to either one of them and I grabbed my friend by his arm and dragged him to the bathroom.

As I was about to read him the riot act, he goes berserk. He starts screamin’ and hittin’ the side of the bathroom stall; hittin’ the wall; hittin’ the soap dispenser; hittin’ the automatic hand dryer; and then he grabbed me by the arms and yelled “Scott…I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”

I’m not an angry person or quick tempered but there are a coupla things one could do that would get me fightin’ mad:

1. Say that Glenn Frey was more talented than Don Henley.
2. Grab me.

“Jeff,” I said slowly and as calm as I could but inside I was about to get evil, “Get your hands off of me.” With tears in his eyes he said, “Scott you’re my friend… I would never hurt you.” With a slight chuckle I told him. “Your damn right you ain’t gonna hurt me… you gonna remove your fuckin’ hand’s right now or I will.”

Realizing what was about to happen he let go and sat on the floor sobbing. “Listen to me Jeff… You and Norma are never gonna be able to get along. Not as friends, not as lovers. Cut your loses and get over it. We’ll go to the other side of the bar and we won’t see her for the rest of the night. We’ll drink some beers and talk about strip clubs.” “You right Scott… you’re a true friend… I’m sorry.” And the bitch hugs me… in the bathroom just as a patron was walkin’ in and done a perfect u-turn back out when he saw us.

Being totally mortified, I grabbed Jeff by his arm and led him back out to the bar. As soon as his foot left the linoleum of the bathroom floor and touched carpet-firma he wrestled his arm out of my grasp and made a b-line straight to Norma and preceded to do the hootchie-cootchie part 2 the electric boogaloo.

“Fuck it!” I said and I got another beer and sat by myself already loosin’ whatever buzz I had because I could taste the beer again.

Thirty minutes or so Jeff’s sister came up to me. “Scott, I need you to do me a favor.” “Whatcha need?” I answered. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend … this guy I’ve been dancing with is startin’ to get too grabby.” And so with a weariness in my voice that belies my twenty-two years of life I said, “Sure … why not?” So she introduces me to her dance partner and he was a lil’ suspicious of her story.
“Why hasn’t he been dancing with ya?” He asked.
“Can’t dance… had half my foot cut off in a freak Saw Blade Frisbee accident … Oh and thank you for bringin’ up that painful memory, asshole.”

As I went on that rant I was thinking, “There is no way in hell this guy is gonna believe this four course line of shit I just put in front of him.” Romeo looked like he accidentally punched one of Jerry’s kids in the face and said “Sorry man, no harm o.k.?”

“Shit.” I thought, “Now, I’m gonna have to fake a limp for the rest of the night.”
“Thanks Scott… I owe ya one.” She said with a gleam in her eye.
“Now what in the hell was that suppose to mean.” I thought as I was tryin’ to kill that question with more alcohol.

Closing time and I got up and started gatherin’ up the lost lil’ sheep and as we had a nice four person single file line goin’, thinking every thing was goin’ to be o.k. As soon as we got out side Jeff starts pushin’ Norma and Norma bein’ the type of person that don’t take kindly to being pushed, pushed him back. We were at the car when the boilin’ point occurred. As Norma reared back to clock Jeff upside the head I was in process of grabin’ her from behind and her elbow caught me right square in the mouth, bustin my lip.

“Fuck!” I said as my head jerked back from the recoil. Then I notice something that I should’ve spotted as we were leaving but I was too focused into fakin’ a limp on my way out. Cop car about thirty feet away with two silhouettes inside. Man… I could feel them starin’ a hole in us getting ready to take all of us to the “Lock-M-Up” Hotel. When I whispered in to Norma’s ear, “Enough… there’s a Cop car over there… you need to calm down and get into the car.”

Well, that seemed to work. Norma got into the backseat on her own and some how durin’ all this ruckus Jeff is sprawled out on the pavement passed out. “Well… this solves one problem at least,” I was thinking to myself. So, Jeff’s sister and I picked Jeff’s bony ass up and put him into the passenger’s seat and pretty much figured that the night was done. All we had to do was go to our respected homes. (Sheeya… right.)

I sat in the back with Norma who was going through a very quite moment and I thought this would be a good time to try and talk to her because despite her taste in men, Norma was a friend of mine and I wanted to make sure she was in the right frame of mind.

“You’re sure your o.k.?” I asked her.
“ I’m fine.” She replied nonchalantly as she bent down into the floorboard to pick up a cigarette she dropped (or so I thought).
“Well good because when we all sober up we’ll laugh our asses off.”

No sooner than I got that sentence out of my mouth before I realized what she did. As she was feelin’ around in the floorboard for her cigs; she was actually searchin’ for the seat release to the front passenger side seat. A click rang out in the car like a gun shot. Before I knew what was goin’ on Norma brings her knee to her chin and started kickin’ the shit out of the back of the seat that Jeff was in screaming, “Tell me mother fucker, tell me!” Bang, Bang, Plok went Jeff’s head (the bang bang was from the dashboard, the plok was from the windshield.). “Tell me you fuckin’ asshole!” she screamed again as Jeff’s head bounced different parts of the car.

“Norma… calm the fuck down!” I yelled tryin’ to wrap my legs and arms around her so she wouldn’t kick Jeff any more but it looked more like a Karma Sutra position. I looked to the front to see if Jeff was all right. He wasn’t bleedin’ but the moonlight was glistening off the drool that was dripping from his mouth oblivious to what was happening to his noggin. “Great,.” I thought “With that many blows to the head he’s gonna be brain damaged … er more so.

We get to Norma’s house first and Norma gets out and opens the front passenger side door and grabs Jeff like those cavemen did in those old cartoons just after they hit the pretty young cave woman up side the head with a club and throws him over one shoulder a starts carryin’ him into her house.

“Norma,” I said with a lil’ quiver in my voice. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” She paused and turned around and with a look that would scare the shit out of Satan himself, she said, “Don’t worry… he’ll be all right.”

To quote Pontius Pilate “Fuck it… I wash my hands of this shit.“ (Well maybe not a quote more like a paraphrase I suppose, but anyway…) I went back to the car and told Jeff’s sister that she might have to get use to the idea that her lil’ brother was no more. (She seemed pretty cool about it, come to think of it.)

All was quite as we headed down hiway 41 on our way to my house and Jeff’s sister said “You tried your best.” “Thanks… I appreciate that, no offense but I hope she ties his ass to the bed and tortures him for a couple of days at least.” I said as I could feel the horns poppin’ out of my head.

“You seem more mature than Jeff’s other friends; he’s lucky to have a friend like you,” She said with that same gleam in her eye that she had earlier. “Huh… thanks.” I answered back with my hand on the door knob just in case I had to jump and roll out if this got any deeper. But fortunately we made it back to my apartment and we said goodnight and I went up and crashed on the bed.

The next day:
(Telephone ring.)
Me: Hello.
Jeff: Hey man… what’s goin’ on?
Me: Jeff?… You’re alive?
Jeff: Yeah, I’m alive. I just wanted to call and see if you wanted to go back to the Party Zone tonight with us?
Me: Us?… Who’s us?
Jeff : Well, me, Norma, and my sister.

CLICK

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Curley from “City Slickers” talked about such a woman. I’m pretty sure that Helen of Troy was one also.

I’m not talking about a pretty girl… they’re a dime a dozen…. with most women there’s at least one flaw that is so glaring that it keeps them from ever even coming close to glancing at; not to mention ever achieving.

It may seem like a strange subject for a couple of North Georgia Crackers in a “not so Irish” Irish pub to be discussing, but Donnie and I are capable of such debates… especially after a couple of pints of Guinness.

“Have you ever seen such a woman?” My friend asked.
“Oh indeed I have,” already falling back into my past.

Summer of 1997… Kind of a numb year for me. I was trying to adjust to my new found life as a bachelor after 7 years of marriage in which the last 2 years was more of apathetic routine than undying love. I was ready to get on with my life (Well to be more correct… trying to bullshit everybody else that I was trying to get on with my life… More accurately trying to bullshit myself.)

While my son and I were eating at a restaurant on that one faithful afternoon I ran into my cousin Tracy who I haven’t seen since the last family reunion … err I mean funeral.

“Scottie!!!!!” I heard with such joy and exuberance that it was hard for me to believe it was coming from a females lips. Scottie was the label that only my family called me; my ex-wife or my closest and dearest friends always called me Scott or Asshole.
“Tray… How ya doin?” I said with confused enthusiasm, because she looks so different, not in a bad/good way mind you, just different.
“You just hafta go out with me and my new boyfriend tonight ….we’ll go bar-hoppin’.” she said.
“Who’s your new boyfriend?”
“Oh, his name is Chad…. you’ll like him”

The relationship I had with my cousins was more like brother and sisters. We grew up around each other and always lived in close proximity. So my chances of actually liking this guy were the same chance of me winning the Georgia Lottery. (Especially since I rather keep the dollar than to waste it on a 1 in 100 million chance that lighting will strike…)

I met up with Tracy at her motel room at 6:30 PM that night and met her new beau Chad (let’s just say I’m glad I kept the dollar). “So where are we going?” I wondered out loud. “We’re going to Jimmy’s” Tracy said. “That’s just fuckin’ great,” I thought to myself. Jimmy’s is a place where all the mid-twenties people went to so they can be seen and be shallow with others of the same ilk. I figured that probably 90% of the parking lot would have those FUCKED-UP Volkswagen bugs that are so popular with new generation of upwardly mo-bile pricks.

“Great… let’s go.”

Upon entering Jimmy’s I had this sudden sensation to put a razor to my wrist and save myself the indignation of the night’s festivities. Before I could find a plug-in… “Scottie …. I want you to meet a friend of mine… Brad…this is Scott.”

“Hey big guy … how’s it going? “He asked. “Goin’ o.k. I guess….. Shit … where did Tray go?” I said. “Oh, she’s probably making the rounds……saying hi to everybody…You may not know this but I’m the bouncer here.”

“Oh really,” I asked as I looked down at the top of his already balding scalp.
“Yeah, I might not look like much, but I can hold my on when I need to.”
“I bet you can,” I mused. “This is just sucky,” I thought. “I’m stuck here with an Oompa-Loompa in a golf shirt with a fuckin’ chip on his shoulder.”
“So, what’s your poison Big-Guy?” he asked.
“Well, what do they have?”
“Anything you want, Big-Guy.”
“O.k., I’ll have a Newcastle.” He had the same look in his eyes that my dog used to get when I tried explaining the difference between the living room floor and the newspaper in the bathroom.
“What…?”
“Newcastle? … Guinness?” I was met with the same sound that Tim Allen used to use on Home Improvement.
“I’ll just go up to the bar,” I said.
“O.k., will see you later, Big-guy.”

I started making my way to the bar and the place was so crowded that I was constantly bumping into other people. “Oh excuse me.” “I’m sorry.” And the ever useful “uh-oh” was my shield. And it was like everybody I bumped into was reading for the same part in a play. “No problem Big-Guy,” they would answer.

“What’s this shit?” I thought. I’m 5′10 and 200 lbs., not small by any means but, everybody was acting like I’m Andre the fuckin’ Giant. And so these ladder-climbers christened me Big-Guy. Anyway, I finally make it to the bar.

“What’ll it be Big-Guy?” the bar-maid smirked.
“What kind of beer ya’ll got?” I fumed.
“Oh, we got anything you want.”
“Great…I’ll have a Newcastle.”

Once again, I was looked at with the same look my friend, Lee, got when I tried to explain to him that playing “saw blade Frisbee” was not a good idea.

“Guinness?” still nothing.
“What do you have that’s not a Miller, Coors, Michelob, or Budweiser?”
“We have Killian’s.” she said.
“Super…Killian’s then…” less than enthusiastic I answered.

Then a fellow bumped into me at the bar. I noticed he looked more out of place than I did. He was wearing blue jeans, t-shirt, and a dirty red baseball cap.

“Hey man…how ya doing?” He said cheerfully.
“Doin’ alright… How about you?” I returned.
“O.k., I guess. There’s a lot of pretty women running around here ain’t they.”
“Yeah… I guess …” I said as I saw two ladies who would probably blow you if you owned one of those new V W bugs coming out of the ladies room rubbing their Rudolf like noses.

“I’ve asked a bunch of them to dance but nobody wants to,” my newfound brother in awkwardness quipped. “Well, good luck man… See ya later,” I told him feeling good that I met someone in this god-forsaken place that didn’t call me Big-Guy. Then I ran into this gentleman and accidentally made him spill his beer. “Sorry, man,” I said sincerely. “Let me get you another.” “That’s o.k… you’re bigger than me …no prob… Big-Guy” “FUCK!” I yelled leaving that guy a little’ more than just puzzled.

The night was a total wash out…. and I was trying to come up with a good lie that I could tell Tracy… ya’ know the kind… the kind that you tell someone you care for deeply so you won’t hurt their feelings. Like, “No. Really. Grandma, I would love to have some hogs head cheese but I just had these stomach staples put in and I don’t want them to bust open.” Or, “No. Honey, I don’t mind you tying me up and clamping a battery charger to my testicles, but I left my batteries at the office and I don’t have enough gas to go back and get them.”

As I finally came up with a good lie and as soon as the first syllable was escaping my lips…

In she walked.

“Oh, glorious muse, grant me the ability to wrap wisdom around my tongue and let forth the nectar of eloquence to…to… ahhh, fuck it.” Really what could be said…. the same tired old clichés that are passed around like a funnel at a frat party. No, I don’t want to do her that injustice.

She kind of looked like Penelope Anne Miller, blonde hair, straight not quite shoulder length. She was wearing a tight, black dress that came about two inches above the knee with a split up the side that in itself would have made her a very pretty woman, but it was the way she flowed across the room . Space liquefied and blurred around her and I saw her with a focus so keen that I doubted my senses.

“Scottie … Come dance with me.” Tracy pleaded. As she dragged me across the dance floor, I looked over at the bar and saw the red ball cap of my brother in awkwardness. He gave me the thumbs up. I wanted to tell him, “No….no… no… You got it all wrong this is family,” but I don’t think that would have made a difference. In North Georgia, there are three dances that are acceptable to people of my ilk: 1. air guitar to a song, 2. head banging and/or Foot Tapping, and 3. the lame ass Caucasian/Bruce Springsteen “Dancing in the Dark” routine.

Looking around at my so-called contemporaries, I knew 1 and 2 was out of the question. As I was shaking my groove thing, my dear sweet cousin, who I still pictured as an 11 year old brat was more up to date on the latest dance steps, started gyrating in front of me. I’m in over my head; I thought and was praying to God that this was one of those 30 second songs that are so popular with the youngins. Point: 4 minutes later I was able to leave the dance floor and go and hide in a dark corner somewhere. Then I noticed “The Woman” again. She was playing darts and I could never think of a time when that game was so alluring to me. As she went to retrieve her darts, I noticed that her left foot came up ever so slightly off the floor as she looked behind her over her shoulder and gave her partner a smile that would have made even the sternest and most jaded of men to turn into that buzzard off the Bugs Bunny cartoon.

I sat and witnessed the rest of the night, nursing my third Killian’s, listening to really bad karaoke…. and watching. Not stalking mind you, just admiring.

As the night came to a close and Tracy getting closer to knowing the vomit fairy I noticed that “The Woman” was getting ready to leave. “O.k… if you don’t do it now… you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,” I said to myself.

“Excuse me,” I said sheepishly.
“Yes,” she turned and answered.
Do or die, Scott.
“I just have to say you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” There I said it.
And with the same smile she gave her partner she said, “Thank you.”

And then I walked.

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Well… glad you ask. I’ve been traveling the world trying to grab a hold of the whole meaning of life thing. From Buddhist temples in Tibet to Stonehenge in England (and I’ll tell ya one thing… those monks get a lil’ testy when you pop one open during the meditation chants). Yes, my friends, I have drank from the goblet of life and it is good.

(BULLSHIT)

O.k. I’ll level with ya… for the past few months due to personal dilemmas and lack of inspiration I’ve had one bad ass case of writer’s block (Oh… when did you become a writer?… Smart ass…. Y’know I give and give and take and give and it’s not good enough… sorry.) But with the help of my trusty notebook I think I’m over it. I’ve got some stories in the can and have a lot more to write down. Also, I’ll be posting more often basically letting ya’ll know that I’m still drinking and if I feel like bitching about something.

And you might notice that we have had problems with the comment board. What I didn’t realize is that you mention Viagra one time on a blog you will get blitzkrieged by those mother fuckin’ spammers.

My triumphant return would not be complete without thanking a few people. So some thanks are in order:

To Cathy for being a friend and for that night out at The Hot Spot (That’.ll be a story soon enough).

To Jacob, Nathan, Sheena, Drew, and Fulfer for reading my rough drafts and saying, “yeah that’s kinda funny”.

And last but not least to the Donnie Lama himself for brainstormin, workin’ a lot of hours getting this thing working again, listening to my mad ravings, and for being a good friend. You don’t know how much

that means to me, and to keep this from getting’ to mushy I’ll type out Motherfucker seven times:   Motherfucker, Motherfucker, Motherfucker, Motherfucker, Motherfucker, Motherfucker, Motherfucker

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The intro music and the outtro music is provided by the Dagg Nabbit Stubbs. Read the review of the Dagg Nabbit Stubbs EP Hot Garbage written by the Drunken Bastard here. Visit the the D-Stubbs at their web site here.

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The principle is simple for the Plastered Cast Podcast: Drunken Bastard gets together with his friends, has a few beers and discusses his second favorite thing, rock n roll. What’s his favorite thing you ask…drinking, of course.

It this pilot episode, Drunken Bastard gets together with Blackdog, his co-editor for Rock n Roll View and discusses the career of evil of Blue Oyster Cult from the black and white period up to the last album, Curse of the Hidden Mirror.

Notice: There are references to beer and other alcoholic beverages and the mild use of vulgar language. Discretion is advised.

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Note: The Drunken Bastard himself doesn’t wake from his drunken stupor often for an album review, but after learning that his long-time friends and drinking buddies of the Dagg Nabbit Stubbs were releasing an EP from the belly of the Georgia swamps he couldn’t resist. With a fresh jug of corn whiskey, D.B. wrote this:

Some people sell their soul to the Devil and prosper from it (Robert Johnson, Jimmy Page, Marie Osmond), while others (Vanilla Ice, Oral Roberts, Donny Osmond) are less successful. My deal was for a twelve pack of New Coke and a sequel to the movie “Highlander” … maybe I need to renegotiate.

Hailing from Swampwater, Georgia (Like there’s such place called Georgia.) and with their debut E.P. “Hot Garbage,” The Dagg Nabbit Stubbs are able to not only make a rockin’ CD but also a fun one as well. The lead in song called “The Devil’s Work” tells of their own contract negotiations with “Old Scratch” and getting to ride in his invisible jet (jealous yet?). “Devlin’ Under the Influence” is a jammin’ road ditty that makes you want to get out your drinkin’ jar and pick up your special needs cousin Ronnie and go crusin’ down Satan’s highway.

“The Devil’s Dance Party” mixes square dancing with heavy rock and “Footloose” references (six degrees of Kevin B.) and if you ever wondered about the details of “carnie” love then take a gander at “You and me and the Devil makes Four” and you’ll wonder no longer.

“These Pancakes are Made with the Devil’s Bisquick” tells the tale of one man’s epic battle against a one hundred pound bass called “The General.” The final track on this heavy drop-d tuned redneck rock fest, “The Devil and Peter Graves“: If a song about everybody’s favorite A&E Biography host (Fuck You Jack Perkins! You know why.) doesn’t light your fire then your woods are wet.

So did The Dagg Nabbit Stubbs get a good deal from Beelzebubba? Really, only time will tell but with their blues/country/rock sound, and their harmonizing along with the occasional diva like outburst the Ouija Board is pointing to yes.

Sample a track from Dagg Nabbit Stubbs – Hot Garbage
Devilin’ Under The Influence
Download audio file (Dagg Nabbit Stubbs – Hot Garbage – Devilin’ Under The Influence.mp3)

Visit The Dagg Nabbit Stubbs at their Web site to learn more about swamp culture and the band:
The Dagg Nabbit Stubbs Web site
On Myspace Music

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(MOOSEKNUCKLE , KY) It’s been two days since the reported cave in that left fourteen miners trapped inside the pop icon, Madonna. Local rescue units say that their lives hang in the balance.

“We can’t get radio or cellphone signals because they’re in too deep; the only line of communication we have is one of the miners banging on the wall with a hammer or a pick in Morse Code,” reports Fire Chief Gio.

“What we’ve been able to ascertain is that five of the miners need immediate medical attention and three have minor injuries (no pun intented).
Also the canary died yesterday, so the oxygen supply is low and so is morale.”

When asked what could be done the chief said, “Well our options are limited, because of all the years of strip mining and there is a lot of stress fatigue on the support beams. In all honesty, those beams should have been replaced years ago. If we use explosives the whole thing could come down on top of their heads. We’ve already notified the families of the miners and really it’s only a matter of time.”

An all night vigil was held outside of Madonna with over 500 people attending showing there support.

This has been the biggest turnout since the Grace Slick Collapse of ‘73.

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