Good-Bye Mr. Chops-World’s Oldest Pot-Bellied Pig Dies.


Mr. Chops loved to be hugged. He was a real ladies’ man.

PB Pig 2

Mr. Chops indulging in his two favorite pastime activities.

PB Pig

Nothing like a pot-bellied pig with his own kitchen but he had to have maids because he couldn’t reach the sink.






Mr. Chops has left us. He died June 1st which was a time that befit him because it was a Sunday and he usually consumed many thousands of calories each Sunday. His favorite day to eat from sunup to sundown was always Sunday.

He was even learning to eat in his sleep when he choked to death on a forty pound pig pretzel. He ran out of cold beer at the most inopportune of moments right when the pretzel kind of backed up on him. It is said he was the oldest pig to ever live but, as we all know, few pigs get a chance to live past the distinction of being a number one porker. Americans are especially fond of barbecued ribs and pork chops.

And by the way, how would you learn the age of a pig? Mr. Chops was intelligent but he could not talk. If you run up on a boar hog in a South Georgia swamp and you ask him his age he might say, “Who gives a rip?” Then he’ll illustrate a good rip to sensitive parts of your body with razor sharp tusks (this right before he laughs you under a cypress knee for trying to talk to a pig).

But Mr. Chops had witnesses to his age. He was just 17 days shy of being 22 years old and ever since he was ten years old, hundreds of people from miles around would gather for the “Annual Mr. Chops Birthday Bash.” The crowds would joyfully sing, “Happy Birthday” to Mr. Chops. Mr. Chops would oink back in sincere porker appreciation.

He had many talents. He could run figure eights around his owner’s legs on command. He loved watching TV. His favorite game was “Hide and Seek.” His owner would scatter Cheerios over the kitchen floor as a treat for him. He could find a treat in a towel and roll out a rug. He could dance left and then dance right. He could heel, sit, stay and count by nodding his head. He loved to sit in his owner’s lap for a hug. I think that’s a picture of her in the red tee-shirt holding him and I’m not really sure she has a lap ample enough to hold Mr. Chops but then somehow she seemed to manage.

He wore a red turtleneck sweater when he took walks in the winter. During his last year the owner’s hubby Mr. Wally prepared and fed Mr. Chops warm dinners.

I have been practicing to take Mr. Chops place there at the Critter Barn. I think I will be perfect to take his place. I’m trying to get Katie Mae to help me train.

Katie Mae is having a bit of a struggle while I’m training to take Mr. Chops’ place.

I have pretty much mastered all his tricks. She even prepares me warm evening meals and wearing a red turtleneck sweater on walks this coming winter will be a snap.

I sensed reluctance on her part when she said, “I am not letting a damned pig sit in my lap while I hug on him.” I’m pretty sure she means me and this morning when I scattered Cheerios all over her kitchen floor, she beat the hell out of me with a broom handle. You should see my right ankle.


Mr. Chops in happier days – Waiting on a cab for a dinner trip into the city.

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I’m not sure if there are any stories in this book about pot-bellied pigs but you can easily find out by ordering the book or the Kindle version by clicking on the lady’s blue shawl. It will take you right to where you can find this precious book.






If You Are Afraid Of the Moon – Tonight is Not Your Night.

Blood_Moon moon 3





When the moon is as red as the eye of a dog gone mad……..

and the top of your head wants to leave a body gone bad.

Know you’re selenophobic, you’re afraid of the moon old man………

and go bury your head deep, as deep as you can, in the sand.

If you are a selenophobic and you are also afraid of Friday the 13th (a friggatriskaidekaphobic) I guess that makes you a friggatriskaidekaselenophobic.

Midnight tonight winds down that horrible day so frightfully remembered as Friday the Thirteenth and Mother Nature, the oldest prankersterist in the universe has added a full moon to keep you on your toes looking out for werewolves and vampires.

You probably have had trouble breathing all day and you thought your heart was skipping out of tune or your asthma was acting up. Nope, that’s not it. Your panties have been in a wad because deep within your head, (that’s where your feeble mind is located) your subconscious voice has been saying, “Oh, Lord it’s Friday the Thirteenth and there’s a full moon tonight.”

It’s been almost a hundred years since it happened before and it won’t happen again for 35 more years so if people in my age group can fearlessly stomp their way through the rest of the day, we’ll be home safe. Keep your fanny-stomping bad-kicking boots on until at least past midnight. If you are one who goes to sleep early just sleep in your boots. Nobody will mind because millions and millions of people are afraid of the 13th when it falls on a Friday. Let’s stomp and kick our way through it. The odds are pretty darned good we won’t see this problem crop up again.

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Most people know that the words “lunacy” and “lunatic” are derived from the word, “lunar.” which is the Latin word for the moon. Some people even believe a full moon’s gravitational pull may influence a person’s behavior. Multitudes of policemen, EMT’s and firemen will attest to the truth in all this.

Many people think the moon pulls water in the body like it does when it creates tides in the oceans and seas. All that water shifting around in your body supposedly makes you act strangely and stagger and it will make you more likely to have accidents. Drinking too many adult beverages does not seem to factor into explanations of this bizarre behavior.

I know from personal experience that the part about gravitational pull is all baloney. I used to believe it until one night after a few beers I walked out into the bright light of a full moon and I felt myself being lifted toward the moon in a fantastically strong pull. I rose so fast I struck the top of my head on a limb.

When I came to the next morning, still under that tree, I saw my arm had become entangled in an old bicycle inner tube nailed to the limb. Now man if you want to talk about a strong gravitational-like pull, just get hung up in an old inner tube from a bike and let it whisk you off your feet head first into a large live oak limb.

Since then I have never worried about lunar phases, high tide, low tide or gravitational pull.

I know what made me loony……..It was that live oak limb.

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Ben Swilley’s weird book can be ordered by clicking this cover and going directly to It’s cheap.

moon 4






The strange oriental stick letters spell out the words, ” Beware. Tonight’s full moon on Friday the 13th will see werewolves and vampires in action. Stay home tonight.”


Rose Hancock Kemp’s Ghost Story – Chills at Pryor Station Farm.

Spirit 2spirit on stairway cemetery




This is a true story. It is Rose Hancock Kemp’s story and I am only retelling it here. The words below are hers and any first person references in the story refer to Rose as the story teller.


Rose’s Story:

My sister Joyce and her husband Bill bought a dairy farm in Cedartown, Georgia in the late sixties. It was a beautiful place and my sister loved entertaining me and my girls whenever we visited.

She had a dancing goose named Heathcliff that would dance atop a stone wall as the girls clapped their hands and there were no “bahs” from Ophelia the lamb when Joyce went out to see her. Ophelia would greet her with “Joooyyyice.” Joyce could even drive the girls from Georgia to Alabama in less than two minutes by taking them straight across a big pasture in her little open topped sports car.

The farmhouse was once a train depot during the civil war with one area serving as sleeping quarters for overnight passengers. There was a dark, damp cellar and there was also a second floor that consisted of two unfurnished bedrooms.

Strange happenings occurred in the house from time to time. Joyce was frightened by the slamming of one of the heavy wooden doors once when she was vacuuming upstairs. Bill convinced her that drafts in older buildings can sometimes cause heavy doors to slam.

One thing Bill could not explain away was Joyce’s ashtray sliding across a coffee table of its own volition. Bill asked her if she saw the ashtray moving across the table. She replied, ‘Yes I did,’ then she returned the ashtray to its original place whereupon it again slid back across the table by itself. He wanted her to try it again but Joyce was totally spooked and refused to touch the ashtray again.

Even more bizarre was a wooden statue of a warrior holding a long spear on the living room mantle. The spear was firmly attached to the statue but one day while Joyce was vacuuming the living room, the spear dislodged itself and flew across the room. She replaced the spear and began dusting when the spear once again flew across the room. On telling the story later to her sister-in-law while sitting in the same room, the spear repeated the performance once more. Apparently the telling of the story or the sound of the vacuum cleaner were not occurrences the ghost welcomed.

Once while visiting Joyce and Bill, I personally felt the presence of somebody or something in my bedroom.Whatever it was woke me and as I eventually drifted back to sleep I was awakened again by the crash of balls downstairs on the pool table. On investigating the sound of the balls striking together we found they were still moving back and forth across the table with no visible signs of how they had been set into motion. Joyce shared with me that she had experienced the same weird phenomena several times.

Once when we were visiting, the children played with empty storage boxes in the two unfurnished upstairs rooms. They had built their own little town with the empty boxes and upon being told it was time for bed, they asked if they could leave the boxes untouched so they could resume their play the next day. The next morning they returned from upstairs very agitated and upset because the boxes were no longer in the bedrooms but neatly stacked in the upstairs hallway.

One evening Joyce and Bill retired early. Joyce awoke to see the figure of a woman from the waist up. She was wearing a dark veil and motioning for Joyce to follow her. Joyce woke Bill but he convinced her she was having a bad dream. Later she woke again to the sound of music playing, people talking, dancing, laughing and the unmistakable clinking of glasses. She woke Bill again but he told her she probably was hearing squirrels in the attic. She reminded Bill there was no attic over that part of the house.

Joyce left Bill alone when she visited Albany. Being alone made a true believer of him. Bill was by himself in bed one night when he had the frightening experience of seeing the bed sheet over his legs begin to swirl violently as if a tiny tornado were circling him under the sheet. Bill’s feelings about the house being haunted changed drastically after this whirlwind experience occurred.

I asked a friend if she would help me pose questions to a Oujia board about the frantic goings on around Pryor Station Farm. My friend reluctantly agreed to help me and although we were kind of shaky when we began, we did manage to learn from the board that the ghost was a woman who was killed during a forcible rape in the cellar of the old farmhouse. When we asked for the woman’s name, the answer came back, “Dora.”

There was an old family cemetery on the property with an iron fence around it. One of the tombstones was missing. Bill was cleaning an outbuilding on the property one day when Joyce decided to visit him. As she stepped up into the outbuilding she realized she was standing on the missing tombstone ans using it as a stepping stone. She asked Bill to return the tombstone to its rightful place in the cemetery. When Bill took the stone and cleaned it up to return it to the grave site in the cemetery he saw, for the first time, that the name on the stone was, “Dora.”

Returning the tombstone back to its rightful place did not bring the strange happenings to a halt as you might think. Different odd events continued to happen until one day when Joyce had firmly decided she could take no more ghostly interference in her life she screamed out, “Go, get out of here and leave me the hell alone.”

That’s when it all stopped. We never could decide if we liked it more with the ghosts or without them. To tell the truth, it was never quite as exciting at Pryor Station Farm after that.

Please direct comments to Rose Hancock Kemp on Facebook or on the FaceBook Group, “Vintage Albany.”

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Don’t Let Your Dogs See You Naked.

dog on motorcycle

This is animal abuse of the worst kind. You wait until I tell the SPCA what you’ve done to me. All my friends ride in big pickup trucks, SUV’s and at least compact cars .Look what you’ve got me in. You could kill me like this!

dog at computer

I’ve even got all their passwords. They keep muttering them over and over between curses. You should see what he’s been watching on YouTube and you won’t believe who she’s been private messaging.


Are you a dog lover? Do you have a dog or two around the house? This should be happy news for you if you love your dog.

Many of you chat with your sweet puppy everyday but are you sure you know what the dog is saying to you in return?

You’ll soon know what Rover thinks about what you’re saying and you very possibly may have the great opportunity of having him tell you himself.

Scandinavian scientists are working on a design of special earphones that can be snapped to your dog’s head. Snapped is just a figure of speech. I don’t think they actually implant snaps in a dog’s head but you get the picture.

They are analyzing waves, patterns and electronic signals emitted by the dog’s brain and supposedly they can determine if the dog is slightly melancholy, deeply sad, grieving uncontrollably or uproariously happy.

Soon dogs will be transmitting their brain waves into computers that can transform the electronic signals into real words. You will be able to understand your pet’s needs immediately. This is wonderful. Could life with old Spot and Fido be more perfect? Won’t it be wonderful that we will know exactly what dogs are thinking and their thoughts can be interpreted by computers and the animals will be able to voice their concerns and converse with us? Won’t this make it a more wonderful world for all of us?

dressed up dog

I guess you think this is pretty funny. Just remember who’s eating snacks under the table when you have your poker buddies over. I might have to drop a line about how I catch you cross-dressing every night.

Oh, but wait. Let’s back up and give this whole idea a little more thought. Do you really want to know what your poodle is thinking? What if you have the girls over to play bridge and your poodle innocently says to you, ‘You know Mildred, you have the worst breath?’ The dog doesn’t know any better. Who ever taught manners to a dog? And to think you get this horrific insult from an animal who delights in licking her own fanny. I wouldn’t be surprised if the poodle has worse breath than you do.

imagine having a cocktail party and you find one of your guests sitting on the floor in a back bedroom talking to your two schnauzers and the dogs are telling her how bad you look without any clothes. Can’t you just hear the dogs snickering and giggling over your jiggling rolls of fat and that big wart on your left fanny cheek that’s shaped like the state of Rhode Island.

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I know it’s probably hard to believe because you are old and you hate computers but this really works. Move the little arrow over the old gal in the blue shawl with your mouse and left click. You will go straight to and they will show you how to buy this book in the most effortless, seamless method you have ever enjoyed.

Just give it serious thought. Don’t ever let your dog see you naked and forget about ever, ever talking to your pooch. Your talking dog could define the most embarrassing moment in your life. Don’t do it.



Johann Bleicher’s Great Boar Hog Killing Adventure

Funny Pigs_3

This is usually the kind of hog I kill. Hogs with class. If they are really classy I let them live. Mildred here was spared because of the shoes. This is a pluperfect pig with Holstein Moo-Cow booties.

Sow 1Several months ago our old friend Johann Bleicher came to see us. He brought his son Jarrett along with him and Jarrett was a great delight to us being as he was undoubtedly raised perfectly and mannerly by his lovely mother Faye.

I contend Jarrett’s upbringing had nothing to do with any input from Johann because Johann was raised under much the same crazy conditions as Vic Miller and my own humble self. Johann has been in a confrused state of mind ever since he was born. Confrused means the same thing as confused only that is the way truck drivers say confused and I have spent the last thirty years working around truck drivers and as a result I often mispronounce words and use malapropisms to get me through my normal day.

Johann and Jarrett spent two or three days around here in Athens and we checked out the UGA campus and bookstore and some of the weird shops downtown. We had to make a stop by “the Junkman’s Daughter’s Brother’s Sister’s Husband” or whatever the hell they call it. Go see it in Athens when you come this way. Call me. I’ll take you down there. Not only is it a strange curio shop but watching the patrons can be a great pastime for an old redneck like me. It’s different.

We told more than our share of lies and overly embellished tales and I could tell Jarrett was buying none of our BS stories but he had a pretty good time (I hope) and Katie Mae, Paul and I certainly enjoyed having them here.

Too soon they were on their way to visit our old nemesis, O.Victor Miller. I don’t think we have ever really done anything bad to Miller to make him lash out in relentless retribution all these years later but it just seems that way.

He can get you involved in a seriously life threatening situation inside of a minute and a half that will have you spending weeks to clear up without loss of life, limb or most of your already dark and jaded reputation.

The plan is for Johann and Jarrett to join up in our old home town of Albany, Georgia so Miller can take them down the river to hunt for boar hogs. In fact we have taken to calling Vic, Old Boar Hog Miller. Miller believes that local American Indians have inspired him to be able to speak to the spirit of the hog. In speaking to the spirit of the hog, he is asking forgiveness from the Great Hog Spirit in the sky for killing the poor pig. After all it was done for food and we only kill what we can eat.

Recently I had a dream and I’m pretty sure the Great Hog Spirit spoke to me as I slept and as he was speaking I had a vision of a smaller hog that I had previously seen in a picture Miller had put on the internet. The smaller hog was hanging by his rear feet from the branch of a scrub oak tree in the woods near the banks of the Flint River.

Vic had the pig by the front foot and he was deep in prayer with the pig. I’m sure he was telling the pig that same story about needing his sad carcass just for food. In my dream I heard the pig say, “Oink.” Which in pig English means BS, BS, BS. That’s BS times three. In better English I heard the pig tell the Great Hog Spirit, “Hell man, I was just standing there grubbing up a sassafras root and the SOB shot me.”

Anyhow to get back to my story, I had not heard from Johann or his wife Faye for several weeks. I figured if Johann was lost in a South Georgia swamp Faye might have missed him by now. I e-mailed Johann a note about not seeing hide nor hair off a boar hog from his great hunting trip and I felt sure he would come back through Athens with at least a half-a-hog for old Ben whose freezer had great yawning gaps and ravines in its innards.

Along about Christmas time I get the UPS knock at the front door. Those are the same guys who are being trained to use door bells next Christmas. There is a box at the door and I retrieve it and take it in to Katy Mae. We open it up and there is the nicest piece of ham you have ever seen.

There is one small problem. I don’t know who sent the ham. The label on the box says, “It took me awhile (sic) to get that sow we killed all dressed out.” (See the picture) I haven’t talked to anybody but Johann about pig meat but I can’t be sure who sent the ham. I’m a little afraid to eat it because I’m sure some of my old enemies are still alive and South Georgia personal vendettas have long memories and lives of their own.

I call the company that shipped the ham and I’ll bet you know what I asked the young woman who answered the phone? You got it. “Who sent me this ham?” She said, “JoAnne Beecher.” I said “Who in the hell is JoAnne Beecher?”

Katie Mae walked over to where I sat with the phone in my hand, took the phone away from me and whacked me in the head with it. She than patted me gently on the shoulder, leaned over and whispered, “Johann Bleicher, you nutcase.”

So that’s how I got my Christmas ham. It was delicious and Katie Mae and I really appreciate it. Thank you Johann and Faye.

But Faye, I know you to be a truthful person so could you help me out by telling me why Johann and Vic sent a boar hog carcass from somewhere along the Flint River near Albany, Georgia to The HoneyBaked Ham Company in Carrollton, Georgia to be processed?

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Of Passions Past







It’s freezing outside on the beach and being trapped inside we have little to do but turn our thoughts to stories of past youthful peccadilloes. We would be stupid to tell these stories on each other so we have to tell them about old friends and acquaintances who are no longer here to defend themselves but, by the same token, neither can they be embarrassed by these stories.

So, sans names and for better or for worse, here they are:

Blessed be the ties that bind – Many years ago our young couple was still madly in love  just as they had been the first time they met but he was beginning to fear that after ten years of wedded bliss things were growing amorously stale in their relationship so he decided to inject some really new-fashioned romance into their marriage.

This was during those famous haymaking years when no (sexual) bars were on hold and our boy was embarking on a fantastic trip of adventurous love making for the two of them.

He had been reading the Penthouse Magazine letters to the editor section. The letters to the editor were all wildly exaggerated stories of sexual exploits in which the letter writer had supposedly indulged. Our hero had no idea the letters were most likely written by Penthouse staff writers.

Anyhow he tees up his bride for the real passion play of the year by promising her, come Friday evening, he is going to take her out for the dining and dancing and loving experience of her life. Sure enough, Friday came and the young man left work early so he could meet her at the house and they both could get squeaky clean in anticipation of the big event(s) to come.

True to his word, he took her to the nicest restaurant in town and after a wonderful dinner they left for the night club with the brightest lights, the biggest, wildest dance floor and the city’s most famous band in residence.

After all that fine food and after drinking and dancing until they were about to drop it was time for action. Our boy takes her home to their castle of delightful pleasures.

He’s got his game plan in motion. Soon they are both as bare as the day they were born and he has her spreadeagled on the big king sized bed. He takes four of his finest silk neckties and ties each of her arms and legs to a separate bed post.

He kneels over her lovingly and just as he gets closer to whisper a loving message in her tender ear he grabs his stomach and wails, “Ohhhh, I don’t feel so good..,” and he promptly passes out.

It took her three hours to get loose from the ties and to get him rolled off her and onto the floor.

It took him six months to get back into her good graces. That was about the same time she told him he didn’t have to sleep on the sofa any longer.

Winter love at the beach – An old friend told this one on himself. He’s no longer here to defend himself so you’ll have to take my word for whatever claim to stupidity I make on his behalf.

It’s winter at the beach but it is a mild winter and the beach is beautiful. The moonlight is beautiful and the banana sized doobie my friend has rolled for himself and his wonderful wife is beautiful. I know we used to call them doobies. I don’t know what the kids call a jumbo sized marijuana cigarette these days, other than a doobie or a joint.

My buddy was normally not a marijuana smoker but it was a short vacation time at the beach in the winter so he got some weed and made plans to smoke it with his wife. He had heard great stories about the increased pleasure producing results of making mad passionate love while under the influence of marijuana.

He got her out of the cabin full of friends they were visiting by saying they wanted to take a romantic little moonlight stroll down the beach all by themselves. They each mixed a big drink-for-the-walk cup of their favorite beverage and they headed outside.

As soon as they were outside, he realized he was too stoned to be walking down the beach but an alternative plan quickly sprung to mind when he saw none of the nearby beach houses were occupied. In fact the one right next door was not only empty but it had a great upper deck about three floors up which they could use to their heart’s delight.

About twelve or fifteen feet up to the second floor he realized he probably should not attempt to get any higher so he rested on the benches built into the deck railings. He began to think this would be an ideal place to attempt serious circus sex so he convinced her to sit beside him and snuggle up close. Remember she was stoned to the gills too.

It was then he noticed the door bell had a light. Marijuana has a great reputation for turning the smoker into a quivering mass of paranoia and it was only a minute or two before he began to believe the light was blinking and winking at him. He felt sure there was somebody at home and they could see he and his wife sitting on their deck.

He took her hand, they picked up their drinks and headed for the stairway down to the beach.

He never made it past the first step. He fell headfirst down the stairway and when I say he fell I mean the boy went all the way in a series of moves that would leave an Olympic gymnastics star green with envy. He shot down and over each and every step and, in the process, he slid over two short landings between the steps on his back before resuming the somersaulting downward spiral that finally ended at the last step on the bottom.

He told me the only beauty to the entire escapade was his ability to make all those twists, turns, bumps, grinds and slides without spilling one drop of his drink. I remember he said, “You know, I always favored strong drink and I think it would have killed me to spill that liquor.”

The downside to the story is he just about ruined his back with that fall and it took him six months to recuperate. During that time, he had to sleep on the sofa. She said she was afraid he might hurt his back if he slept in the bed.

Summer love on the beach – My favorite story was short and sweet and it probably occurs all the time. Think about this story each time the mood hits you to engage in primeval frolicking on the beach in the dark and don’t you dare think about doing it during the daylight hours. You will get put in jail.

This particular time the amorous and adventurous couple rush straight down the beach on a warm summer night. There are enough dark scudding clouds to keep the bright moon at bay. The world is their oyster. They are having the fun to end all fun.

She is, if I can try to put this as delicately as possible, in the woman superior (aren’t they always?) position. It goes without saying, he is pinned to the sand on his back.

It takes only a split second to turn sheer delight into unmitigated fear and horror to find their little oyster shell lit up like the fairway at the carnival when they turn on one of those million candlepower lights.

Only this search beam is coming from out on the water. Horny old shrimp boaters have spotted them from the water and they have allowed their boat to silently drift so close to the couple the boat has almost grounded near the beach. I suspect shrimpers indulge in this unsportsmanlike behavior frequently.

As the story goes, the young man begins to yell, “Get up, get up, get up, get off me, get off me, get off me, run, run, run.” This is exactly what he begins to do as soon as he can gain his footing. He leaves her in the spotlight, so to speak. It takes him two hours to get back to the beach house. It takes him six months to wheedle his way back into her good graces. They had been back home about six months before she told him he didn’t have to sleep on the couch any more.

So remember all you young and handsome Lotharios, it only takes a few quick minutes of fun to put you in the doghouse for half a year. It’s probably best to let “the best laid plans of mice and men” go unfulfilled and just go ahead and “Do what comes naturally,” back there in the bedroom where you are supposed to naturally do those things.SGI KSGI 3

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Another – “Better Class of Criminals” – Moment.


This is just a reminder to older people out there. If you wander out, especially at night, be aware of your surroundings. It’s so much easier for muggers to rob us because we are unsteady to begin with and we tend to fall over before someone even hits us.

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When I read the crime reports and the police blotter in the Athens Banner-Herald each morning I am almost always drawn back to our past when I recall a comment that Lester Maddox made when he was Georgia’s governor. When asked what we could do to improve the abysmal living conditions in Georgia’s state prison system, Maddox was quoted as saying, “What we need is a better class of prisoner.”

I have paraphrased his remark here to read “A better class of criminal” and I could not agree with him more when I read the sheer stupidity of the criminal acts people indulge in right here in Clarke County, Georgia.

This is right out of the newspapers. I did not make this up.

A crook goes to buy some dope with a fist full of counterfeit bills. The two men who are supposed to supply the drugs rob this idiot of his bogus bills. Now this Einstein of a dope head calls the law to report the theft of his bad money and he also tells them he was trying to buy drugs with the money. His IQ and my belt size are about the same size. I’m pretty fat but that still puts him at the mental level of a moron.

The police are still looking for one of the robbers but if the combined intelligence quotient of the “so-called” victim and the crook that got caught is any kind of clue then I’m guessing they caught him right after they caught the first one.

It gets better. The first guy goes to a convenience store and buys a snack. He pays for the snack with a hundred dollar counterfeit bill. He leaves but upon checking the bill the store clerk finds it is not real. Guess what? The clerk calls the cops and tells them what happened. The same cops investigating the armed robbery of the dumb doper ride down to the store and “Lo and Behold!”

Guess what again? The police spot mister master-mind armed-robber chomping on his just-purchased-with-a-counterfeit-bill snacks while sitting on a bench.

I’ll bet you have guessed where this guy was having a snack. You’ve got it. He was sitting on a bench right in front of the Athens-Clarke County Court House.

When they shook him down and the funny-money hit the ground he immediately told the cops he found the money but then his last brain cell turned to jello and he also told them he knew the money was counterfeit. Why would he tell them that!!!! Because, we do not have a “Better class of criminal.”

Governor Deal is going to have to give the educational system in the state of Georgia a swift kick in the pants. We have absolutely got to have crooks smarter than this.

I can’t tell you what happens to a dummy who is going to buy dope with counterfeit money and then reports he was robbed of it to the police and he also tells them what he was going to do with the bad paper.

Joe Johnson who is an excellent police and crime reporter did not share the dope head’s fate with me. I thought that both acts on the part of the drug addict were illegal. I’m giving him some credit for his ignorant actions here by calling him a poor addict instead of saying he is extremely dim-witted.

Maybe you lose the stigma of being the person who started the whole debacle to begin with if the other guys become the perpetrators. At that point you are no longer culpable under the law because you have been rendered culpable as a mentally incompetent person.

The name of the convenience store is “The Lay-Z-Shopper.”

Happy Thanksgiving! The Amazing Butterball Caper.

The finger turkey maybe using the wrong finger whether hitch hiking away from here are telling us how much he appreciates us as being #1 in his heart.

The finger turkey maybe using the wrong finger whether hitch hiking away from here are telling us how much he appreciates us as being #1 in his heart.

I’m sure most of you know by now that Butterball has a big skinny turkey problem on its hands. Their turkeys refused to get fat for Thanksgiving. In a unique ploy in all of turkey history since the Pilgrims feasted on the big birds the turkeys have protested en masse.

The Butterball folks say you have got to have a 16 pound (or heavier) bird to satisfy the turkey hungry multitudes and Butterball’s supply of large fresh turkeys failed to meet the national criteria of a fat, suitable for stuffing, table ready, Thanksgiving fowl. I don’t mean to imply the turkeys give thanks. That’s undoubtedly the reason they did not choose to “Pork Up” this year. They are not thankful.

This is totally serious for Butterball. For every four 12 pound turkeys produced by Butterball, a big 16 pounder has gone missing. What in the world is going on here?

Butterball CEO Rod Brenneman thinks he has a big mystery on his hands but I think the answer is in a statement he made to the press. He said turkeys are, “biological creatures,” subject to a variety of factors.

He obviously does not understand the impact of his own words. Turkeys are “biological creatures” and, as such, are subject to a variety of factors. I think the seriousness of this statement warrants my repeating it. It might be of some interest to Mr Brenneman that perhaps the birds have been off their feed for a number of reasons just as he intimated in his statement.

First of all did you try some stupid magic elixir that cost less and you mistakenly believed the turkeys were going to make more meat out of less feed? Was this a problem of a self-inflicted diet by Butterball?

Second – Did you try to cut corners by feeding them moldy feed you bought from the Chinese? You know the Chinese mix their turkey feed with old powdered wall board left over from construction projects gone bad. The wall board is salvaged from collapsed apartment building sites.

The third possibility is Butterball has been infiltrated by PITA. The PITA people working uncover in the Butterball facilities have been cutting back on the feed and they have also introduced a dietary supplement in the turkey feed that keeps the birds at a maintainable low weight. PITA is on the prowl in your plants, Mr. Brenneman. Ferret out the wrongdoers and force feed them large turkey cahones fried to the consistency of powdered wallboard from China.

Fourth and last of all and maybe of more importance than other guesses is the possibility someone has been using voodoo on the Butterball turkeys. Once again, this could be the work of the PITA people. I would be willing to bet PITA has gone out and found a Turkey Priest who has been using mental telepathy to urge your young turkeys to eat less and to go on strict diets. They were also told to do more dancing like the old fashioned, “Turkey Trot.” I know its a bird-brained idea but we all know PITA people are strange birds.

I see in the news that Whole Foods and Cargill have not had any problems with the “Slim Bird Syndrome.”

I hope I have given Butterball some good leads on how to pursue the answer to the problem. At any rate, Mr. Brenneman it’s all food for thought and we are talking real turkey here.

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Beware of Deadly Diets – Feasting Season Is Upon Us

Funny-Pig on treadmillPumpkin PatchYou’re religiously examining your present diet closely. You are fasting because you know all bets are off starting soon. The odor of food as yet uncooked is already wafting through the cool, thin fall air because your powerless mind has willed it to be so. You are hungry now, Now, NOW! You are in basic training just so you can body slam any weight-watching do-gooder who attempts to save you by getting between you and the holiday feast and the next feast and the next feast.

You know you are unlimited. There are no controls on you once it begins. You can put large fat-laden sows to shame when the doors to the dining room are swung open to let your big fanny roll on in.  You’ll eat like a pig from the last week in November through the first week in the new year.

And it’s coming soon. There will be a month of unbridled mad-masticating beginning at the end of November and rushing unchecked through Christmas until the first of January. I’ll bet January is the best month of the year for dentists everywhere.

Now that we have all agreed on how we are going to run full-tilt to the dinner tables for days on end let me be the first to warn you:


Don’t be so reckless as to attempt to eat anything you can wrap your greasy fist around. Be aware of your food sources. Some of this might not apply to you but it never hurts to be on the alert for sour grits.

Back in July the Chinese Police raided a food storage site that had over 20 tons of rotten chicken feet smuggled in from Viet Nam. Some of this meat was 46 years old. It had been treated with bleach and chemicals to give it color and to mask the odor. Give up your intense craving for chicken feet. They are not good for you.

Also you should not live with your chickens in the same house as the Chinese do. There are more and more strains of deadly chicken flu propagating and floating around, especially in Egypt and China so stay out of those places and eat your chickens, don’t sleep with them.

Illegal imports of bear paws are booming. These too are rotten and cooking them covers up the odor. Give up your intense desire to devour bear paws. They are not good for you.

Another big health problem is MERS-CoV (Middle East Respiratory Syndrome Coronavirus). It can kill you and they are not sure how it is transmitted but in the past other coronaviruses were found to be transmitted by bats. Right now it is centered near Saudi Arabia and the Arabian Peninsula. There is also a new flu virus found in Peruvian bats. Bat meat for the holidays is out of the question. Quell your yearning for bat meat. It is not good for you.

This MERS-CoV might also be contracted by eating spoiled dromedary camel meat. Spoiled camel meat has also been found to contain the Bubonic Plague disease. Ride your camels. Do not eat them. Subdue your longing for camel meat. It is not good for you.

Closer to home, be aware that the Bubonic plague is alive and well in the good old US of A. Do not eat any of the following meats. They may contain the Bubonic Plague: Mice, ground squirrels, Mexican Wood Rats, prairie dogs and Black-Footed Ferrets.

If you were keeping any of the above named varmints in fattening pens awaiting the big day when you can add them to your tasty holiday treats….forgeddaboutit!!

Now that you have been warned I can tell you Southerners it is safe to eat deer, gator, and frog legs. If you are a more traditional eater like the old fat boy here, eat your fill of turkey, ham and beef and have no regrets that we never even started a 2013 diet. We only promised we would begin dieting sometime in January of 2014.

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The Halloween Race Riot I Almost Started.

witch 2We were living in Statesboro, Georgia which is a great college town with a near perfect race relations record that I almost totally destroyed in a feverish rash of trick or treat craziness one Halloween evening.

On Halloween I am unrelenting in my desire to scare the pure hell out of all children and grown ups alike. I do have one rule. I try not to frighten very small children. My age limit would have to include the under six crowd. Anybody under six gets a free pass and a few treats but I wish I could go ahead and warn them their day is coming and it won’t be long. I refuse to go after the six and under crowd because I never wanted to create an incredibly traumatic event like a large, horrible witch causing them to soil their garments in public thereby making them want to kill me years later.  I don’t want them to grow up as long suffering revenge seekers and come track me down and beat me like the old bad dog that I am. More accurately, I can’t stand to see little people cry

I have the perfect witch’s outfit. I’ve had it for years. The head is a full mask and it is truly terrifying. It is fourteen shades of blue and gray with burnt orange tinges to it. There’s fresh bright red blood around the mouth, eyes, ears and nostrils. It has a matted clump of jet black hair and a pointed chin with teeth spaced here and there like tombstones in a graveyard. Warts adorn the face in mad profusion and the pointed witch’s hat perfectly fits my pumpkin head.

It’s hard to believe how many grown men remember the horrors of a visit from my witch. Most of them still choose to stay away from my house on All Hallows Eve. I feel sure they are no longer fearful of the old gal. I think they just happen to be more comfortable someplace else.

The house in Statesboro had a six foot section of brick wall to the right of the front door as you faced the door (no escape route). To your left there was the rest of the front porch you were standing on. It was covered in plants and that end was blocked with more brick wall (no escape route). To run you had to do a complete 180 degree turn and fly down the three or four steps you had just come up to reach the porch.

When the great night arrived, I put on my witch’s costume and went out the front door. I was covered by a black cloth as I sat hidden in a rocking chair near the end of the porch. When the trick or treaters appeared, I would leap from the chair and cackle and scream and they would scream and cackle…..and run. The big ones would try to run through the brick wall on their right and, failing that, they would leap from the porch and raise dust clouds of relief as they ran. Safety and salvation was to be as far away from my front porch as possible.

This particular Halloween night business was slow and during a lull in the barely moving traffic, I fell asleep. The next group that made it to our front porch woke me. I was pretty groggy and I did not properly evaluate the size and the ages of those in the group.

I do know that there were several different nationalities of folks on my front porch. There were so many nationalities I thought I was being tricked or treated by a UN delegation. Two or three of the women were quite large but it was too late for me to put on the brakes.

I leaped out of the chair and screamed like a banshee from an old folk tale and I waved my arms danced up and down like I had been popped in the fanny by an electric cattle prod.

Unfortunately I had failed to notice two tiny girls right in front of the crowd. The little girls screamed right back at me and almost set me off in the great rush for safety. One little girl ran for cover with her mother chasing off after her in wild alarm screaming something in Spanish. I think she was alluding to the legality of my Christian birth.

The other little girl had jumped backward and had knocked her mama off into the shrubbery. Her mother was a large lady of color and when I got my first good look at her I realized she must have been over six feet tall and weighed a good 400 pounds.

As luck would have it big mama went right smack in the middle of one of those holly bushes that have all the sharp points along the edge of each leaf. She was making more noise than the two little girls and a whole party of drunk college boys combined.

Being the quick and alert guy that I am I decided my presence was really not needed at the moment. As I hurried past Katie Mae on my way around the corner of the house I said, “Tell her you don’t know me. Tell her you have never seen me before.”

I could still hear the woman hollering out front as I swept through my back door and ripped off that stupid witch’s outfit. I rushed out the front door and started yelling, “What’s going on out here? What’s happened to these lovely chillren?”

I don’t think my act fooled the little girl’s mama for a minute. After me and six of my neighbors got the big woman out of the holly bush I began to commiserate with her and I voiced my sympathy for the sad shape she was in and I assured her I was outraged at the hooligan who had caused this mess.

I got her calmed down but I could tell she was still irritable (more like really, really pissed off). I’ve never seen somebody poke out their lips that far and using that as a gauge, I commenced to pour more and more treats into her bucket. Yeah, she had a bucket for candy too and hers looked more like a five gallon paint bucket.

Finally I got her satisfied to the point she went back to her car. We had to loan her a wheelbarrow to carry all that candy. That’s the story of how I averted a huge race riot in Statesboro, Georgia. I give all the credit to me and my silver tongue and mostly to the 80 pounds of candy my neighbors chipped in to give to the woman so she wouldn’t kill me.

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