This Spam Comment made my day.

     Coming straight out of a Russia from a spambot identified only as “paris:”

Outsoles are made of enduring compounds and are in a Queer Street needle of left over shoe existence….

     It’s brilliant.  It’s actually a sentence!

     According to the rules of “Pirate Chicks” (I don’t date and/or do Pirate Chicks) I stay in line.  Mind you, those were my own rules, if for nothing else than to cut down on drama.  I love those girls, and I’ll stand up for any one of them at any time for almost any reason.
     Some conditions do apply — they make their own rules, and can make their own mistakes, and take their own consequences.  But I’d like to think we all know each other well enough that no lines will ever be crossed.  We do what we need to do, and we respect each other enough to step on one anothers’ toes.
     I like that.  It’s friendship.  It’s what we do.
     My Pirate Chicks.
     Cuz I’m possesive like that, and hey, like the Pirate Princess said, I was Pirate enough to Hijack the booty …

We are Mark’s Pirates because he said we are.  He sought out the treasure in true Pirate form and laid claim to the booty.  (In a manner of speaking, of course.  LOL  We all know you don’t date Pirate Chicks, Mark.)   All treasure is not silver & gold, mate.  Some things are better and worth a whole lot more.

     But, there’s this guy, Marty Ray.  He’s the one who brought the whole “Pirate” thing together with an annual Pub Crawl, complete with a designated driver (on a bus, with lots of Jell-O Shooters).
     Thanks, Marty Ray.
     He’s real Karaoke Afficianado.
     It’s not your plain-jane, “Hey, we gonna sang some sheeyit!” Karaoke.  Instead, he plays “popular” music in between, and pretty much keeps the crowd entertained.
     Tonight, I went to one of his shows, propagated by the ass, errrrrrrr, girl, in my Flirting 101 blog… (Ed – Sam: Yeah, that deserves a slap.  Oh, Baby!)

      I had a good time, actually.  I didn’t expect that.

      When I got there tonight at 10PM, the place was a little empty.  A few college kids, not much going on in general.
     But by 11:30PM, there was a line out the door.
     You sit around, being “old,” and just kinda watch for a while.  You have a laugh at the guys “trying” to hit on girls and getting slapped in the face.  You have a laugh at the girls swaggering out the door (even though they’ve been drinking Coca Cola all night) with the object of their affection.
     You have a laugh, basically, at the whole, “Been there, done that, and you are certainly a dumbass!” of it all.
     But I found that every ten minutes or so, some hot young thing would come up and ask me, “What am I drinking?” and I’d tell her how, regardless of that fact that she hates gin, she’d enjoy a Gin & Tonic the way I make them.  I’d instruct the bartender, and she’d love it, and pretty much offer me anything I desired.
     Else, one of them would come up and rub my closely shaven head, and tell me how sexy I am.
     Or, one of them would come up and just ask me, straight out, “Are you going home alone tonight?”

      When you’re old enough to be their father, that kinda crap just seems … weird.  And that’s a good thing.
     Then again … It’s a serious ego-boost to know that I’m still sexy at my age.
       But all in all, it certainly feels good to hear all these young kids singing along to the songs you know.   It also feels good to know that they’re making some of the same dumbass mistakes you made when you were their age.

     For all the stupidity of the night, I had a damn good time.

     I even gained a little faith in the future.
     I mean, at least they’re not fighting each other like we did…
     Maybe they will be a better generation…

     Certainly, they know how to make an “old man” feel pretty damn good by asking him to take them home.

     Especially after they’ve been drinking Coca Cola all night.

     A few months ago, I went out with a couple of friends (Gina and Joe) and had a fun time.  In trying to make sure Joe was okay to drive (he ran from the car) I inadvertently dropped my phone in her backseat.
     Long story short, one of her workmates, Paula, volunteered to bring me the phone, and I agreed.  She didn’t bring it to me, however.  Instead, she threw it out her window in Halls, TN (where I definitely do not live) and ignored all attempts at contact.
     Fortunately, an older gentleman named Wade ended up with the phone (picked up from a ditch and put it in his mailbox by his postwoman, he said).  He called me, from my phone, and arranged to get the phone back to me.  Thank God for honest people in the world.
     Last night, a friend of mine called Paula and let her have it.  In turn, Gina calls me to scream at me so much I have to walk outside from where I was to hear her.  She calls me a liar, tells me that I had fabricated the entire story and that she’s told my friends, they believe her, and blah blah blah blah whiney, idiotic garbage.

     This is overly dramatic for me, and whole lot of them can screw off.

     Another asshat has been hanging around telling people he’s a race car driver, with millions of dollars, million dollar contracts, and he’s gonna start paying three of us at the first of January.
     He told me that he lived in a 4000 sq ft house and wanted me to secure it and run Ethernet around it.  Told me had a four bay garage where he keeps his race cars, and one of the bay doors is torn off because he and a friend came home drunk and couldn’t get it open to park the truck — so they rammed it. 
     He told me that he has a private jet, and has invited us all out on several occasions, but never follows through.
     He’s told us all that he owns Tennessee Racing, Inc.
     He’s an IMCA driver and points leader.
     He’s on Team ARCA.
     He’s a NASCAR driver.
     He was in Daytona this weekend with Teresa and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

     Needless to say, he hasn’t paid any of us a cent.  “My racing license was revoked, and I’m trying to get it back.”  Of course, he’s already told me that one, and that he did get it back.  “Yeah, but I went this weekend and got it back.”  Of course, he’d already told me that they’d reinstated him the week before.  But that’s also been mixed with, “I might be going to jail,” “All my assetts are frozen by the court,” and “I have to go to Europe to hide from some very bad people.”  Of course, those things have changed, too.  “The judge let me off even though she hates me,”  “I have more money than the courts know about,” and “I said I was gonna to Europe to hide after I hurt the guy who was molesting my daughter.”  But no, he didn’t.  He’s talked himself into both a corner and poverty.
     About the house:  “Oh, well, I haven’t bought it yet.  I was looking at four, but they were out of my price range.  I only have $750K and need $1.2M.”  I can’t help but wonder why he’d crash the garage doors on a house he doesn’t own, then?  He lives in a crappy apartment in South Knoxville.
     Why doesn’t his pilot file flight plans?  “I didn’t know they were supposed to.”  Yeah, that pilot stuff might elude him, especially since he claims to have had a pilot’s license.
     Tennessee Racing, Inc. doesn’t exist?  “Yeah, I registered that in Iowa.”  No, not there either..
     He’s not on the IMCA list.
     Team ARCA’s never heard of him.
     NASCAR certainly hasn’t ever heard of him.
     Teresa and Dale Jr. have had a parting of ways and certainly haven’t sat down to dinner together, much less together with anyone else.  And since Dale Jr. has been busy with the Nextel Cup and giving press releases about the future of DEI & his younger brother, Kerry, it’s pretty much an impossibility that our dear-old-bullshitter had dinner with just him, even.

     “Well, maybe I should just not come around if it’s gonna be like that!”
     “Good idea.  BYE!”

     Besides, I doubt Dale Jr. would take time out of his busy schedule to have dinner with a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman.

     I declare this a Drama Free Zone.

     Take it outside — we don’t need that crap in here.

     You’re in a bar, let’s say.  The guy next to you says, “Oh, man, check out that ass!”
     “Go talk to her!”
     “Nah, I’m shy and quiet.”

     You pull out your trusty digital camera, and start snapping pics of different stuff going on, and offer to take a few of the girl.  When she turns around to walk away, you snap a picture of her butt.  
     When you come back and sit at the table, you show him the pictures you took of her.
     As she walks by, you show her.  Women love to look at their own photos.  She says, “Oh, nice pic, bad pic, oooooh, I hate that one…”
     Then you get to the butt pic.  “Ooooh, that’s nice…”
     She says, “Yeah, it is!  Whose butt is that?”
     “Yours,” you grin.  “But I’ll bet we can do a better one than that.”

     And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you get a hot young thing to climb up and lean over the bar and stare back at you seductively as you snap off a few more shots.

     Any questions?

     New Zealand was the first place I ever heard, “Hey, Mark, you know why we fornicate with sheep at the edge of a cliff?  They back up!”  MP Grant Gillon got into a mess on July 4th, 2000 after making a similar joke during a conversation about the medical implications of cloning:

I’d ask the Minister whether … it’s appropriate in this case for a woman’s body parts to be inserted into a sheep when that’s normally been the domain of Tory males…

     It might have come off more funny if he hadn’t done it in the middle of Parliament, but hey. Some people never learn.

     Of course, those sorts of comments are easily made there. There are roughly forty million sheep in New Zealand, and only three and a half million inhabitants. Tall women, short men, a female Prime Minister, so well, you do the math… 😉

     Weta, famed for it special effects in Peter Jacksons’ “Lord of the Rings” trilogy and “King Kong,” has finished a new project called “Black Sheep.”

     Everyone needs a good tongue-in-cheek horror flick now and again.; Personally, I would’ve called it “Violence of the Lambs,” but I’m a bastard like that. 😉