A lot of people have their attention on the skies above, afraid of unmanned government predator drones, unpredictable weather, or even alien invasions. But it’s not the sky you have to worry about it’s the ground beneath your feet. No, I’m not talking about mole people. I’m talking about my greatest fear…sinkholes.
You might be thinking, “Mike, what’s so scary about sinkholes?”. I dunno reader, what’s so scary about a portal to HELL opening up in the middle of your city?!?
According to a report from The Commercial Appeal, a recent storm left at least one Elm down in a private driveway near Forest Hill-Irene Road in Germantown. The situation was so dire Howard Klink, a 48-year-old “landscapist” with Woodland Tree Service was called in to clear the debris.
“I’ve worked outside all my life, so it’s just second nature,” Klink was quoted as saying.
“Tree service responds to fallen elm,” by an uncredited reporter, is tree service reporting at its finest, you’ll want to read every word. And there aren’t that many, really.
Jed Blisterwig hates bike lanes.
“These are modern times,” He says. “And I’m a modern person. I didn’t hit my wife in the head with a club and drag her back to my cave, did I? No. I asked her to marry me. And just like other modern people, who don’t go around hitting women with clubs, I drive in a car with air conditioning and cup holders.”
Blisterwig, who owns and operates Jed’s Clamp-It, a Madison Ave shop specializing in clamps of all shapes and sizes, has vocally opposed bike lanes since the controversy over shared roadways began, regularly describing the dedicated strips as, “drug dealer lanes,” “and, “a clear gateway to Collectivism.”
“And I’m still against them,” Blisterwig says, although he admits his business hasn’t suffered as much as he predicted since the lanes were installed in 2011.
“I had a real good month last month,” Blisterwig says, allowing that many of the clamps he sold were, in fact, purchased by cyclists.
“It’s true,” he says. “Those people, they do use a mess of clamps. They know how important it is to have the right clamp for the right job too, and, given a choice, they will pick quality over value almost every time.
“But that don’t mean nothing,” Blisterwig continues, insisting that the end, while not imminent, is still near. “They’re always zipping up and down the street in front of my business in those tight lycra suits, all yellow, and baby blue, and fuchsia, and wearing those hard helmets. And, I really don’t think I need to spell the rest of this out, do I?
“Look,” Blisterwig says, explaining his position. “That billboard preacher has been wrong about the end of the world three times now. But you and I both know this world is going to end, right? And if there was ever a clearer sign than these two-wheeled terrorists tearing around like they own the the damn place, I don’t know it.”
Tennessee’s “Guns In Trunks” law takes effect today. State and city leaders are still not in agreement as to how this impacts employers’ rights to establish rules prohibiting guns on their property.
It is also unclear whether this law will impact the 1995 “Junk In The Trunk” law enacted after state legislators watched an episode of The Jerry Springer Show and ate some ham.
In light of news that the new owners of the Nineteenth Century Club” on Union Avenue will demolish the historic building, many Memphians, particularly Midtowners, are furious.
Perhaps the City Council can propose a bill aimed at mollifying the notoriously vocal Midtown crowd? The SUMO (Shut Up Midtowners Ordinance) would require that any Midtown building that is more than 50 years old can not be demolished unless it is replaced by a Trader Joe’s.
Such an ordinance should have the effect of short circuiting Midtowners brains to the point where they are utterly unable to respond to any proposed demolition.
It’s not an especially well kept secret that Lucifer, the bright, shining angel of the pit, is responsible for rigging gas prices. This Madison Ave. sign pretty much comes out and says so.
Fourteen Memphis smoke shops were recently declared a public nuisance and shut down. Now this, from the future…
Day 53: I have survived another day. Madison doesn’t look the way it used to. There’s fewer of us left. I had to eat McDonald’s to get my fix. A Happy Meal doesn’t cut it. I got my other needs at a different place, but I need these.
Day 62: I found what I was looking for but I can’t get in! It’s boarded up with yellow tape and SIGNS. SIGNS FROM WHERE?!?!?? WHAT THE HELL??? I NEEEEEEEEEEEEED IT
Day 63: It is still there, still boarded up. I know they are in there. I know. I can smell them. Through the “potpourri” through the “spice” I can smell them. I found something like them, but not THEM.
Day 67: I got lost.
Day 72: I found it again. I clawed the boards until my fingers bled. I NEED THEM. THEY ARE CALLING ME. COME TO ME
DAY 96: IM TIRED OF WRITING THIS JOURNAL DAMMIT. I JUST NEED MY FIX. I JUST WANT TO HOLD THEM FOR A FEW MINUTES. I JUST WANT ONE TO TAKE. OPEN THE DAMN DOORS!!! WHY ME??????????
Day 102: Much calmer now. I got in. I found it. I found the one. I can’t leave. I can’t sleep. They will take it away again. I don’t care about the plastic baggies or the “vitamins” here, I just wanted this one little guy…
I just read an article about a female two-headed turtle that was born in the San Antonio Zoo. They’ve decide to name them Thelma and Louise.
Years from now I hope to read an update about them breaking out and robbing gas stations. Then instead of surrendering to zoo authorities, they decided to slowly crawl off a cliff into a the Grand Canyon.
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Gentle reader,
Over the course of human evolution scientists have observed one consistent difference between good people and fuckwits. Good people— perhaps even more notably good musicians— don’t naturally assume that every instrumentalist playing in a bar somewhere in the vast expanse between Disneyland and Yankee Stadium, has been sitting up nights, stroking an unrequited boner, just waiting for the special moment when yet another drunk they don’t know walks up and says those seven magic words: “Hey… Lemme play harmonica with you guys!”
Friends, I don’t want to be a buzzkill. I have no desire to crush anybody’s dreams of stardom, or at least getting to second base with a stranger who smells faintly of urine. But unless your name is Little Walter, and you’ve come back from the grave to rock, I can almost guarantee that the band, and the fans who’ve come to see that band, really wish you just fucking wouldn’t.
It has come to my attention that Memphis is in the throes of a Jambush epidemic. Fully grown adults who are old enough to vote and buy liquor are bringing their own musical instruments to concerts like they were going to some kind of open mic night. Simply put, this shit needs to stop. I mean, you don’t go to fucking Rigoletto and beatbox all the way through “La Donne e Mobile,” do you? Well?
Just the other night, at a popular Cooper-Young drinking establishment, some guy was so hellbent on playing with the band he literally put his balls on the line.
I kid you not.
“If I suck you can all punch me in the nuts,” he said, indicating with his delicate harmonica-player’s hands, the exact location of the alleged target. This ploy, while inventive, was unsuccessful due, primarily, to a lack of collateral. It’s more effective to propose that any nut- punching happens in advance of the joint performance, as a kind of insurance policy covering time that can’t be regained, and any harm that might befall an individual song or music’s historical reputation for taming our savage instinct.
If you still want to blow that thing after 5-good sack-shots, buddy come on.
Look, we all have our fantasies. We’ve all been to a bar where a band is playing, and we’re having a good time, and dropping some Jagerbombs, and maybe smelling a little toilet seat cocaine, and, naturally, we start to fantasize a little about what it might be like to be awesome. We think, “damn, those band guys sure look cool.” And, “Hey, I know how to band! I mean, I’ve never been in a band, but it just so happens I’m wearing my John Popper-autographed harmonica vest, and it’s totally loaded. And anyway, I’d probably be doing these jerks a favor if I sat in. We could maybe play something with a funky groove. Like “Brown Eyed Girl.”
If that’s you…
Well, what can I say? You’re probably still a dipshit, but at least you’re a perfectly normal dipshit. When you act on this douchebag fantasy, that’s when you become everybody’s problem.
So listen. If you want to act like your mama raised you right and you’ve got some fucking manners, here’s how to let a band know you’re interested in playing with them.
1. Wait until after the show is over.
2. Go tell the musicians how much you enjoyed the performance.
3. You might even throw down a nice tip.
4. In fact, do that last thing I mentioned. Yeah.
and lastly…
5. If everybody’s getting on well enough, you might mention that you play a little harp and would love to get together and maybe jam sometime.
If you follow these five polite steps chances are someone in the band will say, “Sure thing, cool dude! And if you’ve got an accordion, bring that with you too!”
This guy is fucking with you. And you still totally deserve it.
