Feltham Rambles

Hello, my name is Lewis and I suffer from the guilt of not forwarding 50 billion fucking chain letters sent to me by people who actually believe that if you send them on, a poor 6-year-old girl in Arkansas with a breast on her forehead will be able to raise enough money to have it removed before her redneck parents sell her to a traveling freak show.

Do you honestly believe that Bill Gates is going to give you, and everyone to whom you send "his" email, $1000?

How stupid are we?

"Ooooh, looky here! If I scroll down this page and make a wish, I'll get laid by a model I just happen to run into the next day!"

What a bunch of bullshit.

Maybe the evil chain letter leprechauns will come into my house and sodomize me in my sleep for not continuing a chain letter that was started by Peter in 5 AD and brought to this country by midget pilgrims on the Mayflower.

Fuck 'em.

If you're going to forward something, at least send me something mildly amusing. I've seen all the "send this to 10 of your closest friends, and this poor, wretched excuse for a human being will somehow receive a nickel from some omniscient being" forwards about 90 times.

I don't fucking care.

Show a little intelligence and think about what you're actually contributing to by sending out these forwards. Chances are, it's our own unpopularity.

The point being? If you get some chain letter that's threatening to leave you shagless or luckless for the rest of your life, delete it. If it's funny, send it on.

Don't piss people off by making them feel guilty about a leper in Botswana with no teeth who has been tied to the ass of a dead elephant for 27 years and whose only salvation is the 5 cents per letter he'll receive if you forward this email.

Now forward this to everyone you know.

Otherwise, tomorrow morning your underwear will turn carnivorous and will consume your genitals.

Have a nice day.

P.S. Send me 15 bucks

I am a little late here on the photo evidence, but, as I stated in an earlier post a group of us had a two week moustache growing competition. The prize? Pride.

So, after looking like child molesters for a couple of weeks, we went to a 70’s theme bar in Detroit, got smashed and had a too many laughs. And, in case you are wondering, yes, the bulge is authentic.

Note to self, don’t wake up overly enthusiastic about your day. I started today with a smile, yesterday was a wash, due to my weekend in Toronto (more to come on that debacle). So, I got a little extra rest last night and started the day with an additional jump in my step. Your hero was determined to knock away a lot of things at work. Boy was he ever wrong.

I walk down to the car and stare at the parking stale; my un-caffeinated brain took a moment to realize something was not quite right. Oh yeah, that’s it, my bike is not there (not my bicycle, some degenerate stole that last year), but, rather my motorcycle.

An hour later Windsor’s finest arrive at the door. They sniff around the place as they enter and take a statement from me. The cop asked me what the first thing I did when I noticed the bike was gone, I reply, is that before or after I screamed, “Fuck?!?” The only copy of license, registration and insurance was in the bike, so they couldn’t complete the report. I visit my insurance, but, they have no copy of my license number either, but put in a claim for the stolen bike. I would have to visit the Ministry of Transport to track down the license plate number.

Before cutting across town to the ministry, I crossed into Detroit to drop off my taxes – on deadline day of course. While there, my cursed radiator overheated and when pumping gas I was solicited for a quarter by a crack head if he could finish pumping my gas. Not today Leroy, not today.

I cross back into Windsor and out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar sight. I come to a screeching halt, hazard light the car and run to the curb, son of a bitch it’s my bike! I must have stared at it for 5 minutes before I actually processed the information. Here was my motorcycle, no more than one city block from where it was stolen, with a parking ticket sticking out of the seat.

Long story short, I have to call the police back to make another statement, call the city services (with help from the cops) to retract my parking ticket, and then call the insurance to cancel the claim.

This has to be a first. Who has a vehicle stolen in the morning only to recover it hours later next to where it was taken. My life is a movie and lately and don’t care for the plot. I love the fact that the boys in blue, probably drove past my bike to take my statement. And, more than likely passed it several more times that day while it sat in the sun with a parking ticket blowing in the wind. It’s good to know that my tax dollars are going to a good cause…

"Mr. President, this job can't be fun for you any more. There's no more money to spend you used up all of that. You can't start another war because you used up the army. And now, darn the luck, the rest of your term has become the Bush family nightmare: helping poor people. Listen to your Mom. The cupboard's bare, the credit cards maxed out. No one's speaking to you. Mission accomplished.

"Now it's time to do what you've always done best: lose interest and walk away. Like you did with your military service and the oil company and the baseball team. It's time. Time to move on and try the next fantasy job. How about cowboy or space man? Now I know what you're saying: there are so many other things that you as President could involve yourself in. Please don't.

"I know, I know. There's a lot left to do. There's a war with Venezuela. Eliminating the sales tax on yachts. Turning the space program over to the church. And Social Security to Fannie Mae. Giving embryos the vote.

"But, sir, none of that is going to happen now. Why? Because you govern like Billy Joel drives. You've performed so poorly I'm surprised that you haven't given yourself a medal. You're a catastrophe that walks like a man. Herbert Hoover was a bad president, but even he never conceded an entire city to rising water and snakes.

"On your watch, we've lost almost all of our allies, the surplus, four airliners, two trade centers, a piece of the Pentagon and the City of New Orleans. Maybe you're just not lucky. I'm not saying you don't love this country. I'm just wondering how much worse it could be if you were on the other side.

"So, yes, God does speak to you.

"What he is saying is: 'Take a hint.'"

I once heard that there is no greater pain in life than that experienced by someone who misses home. This is a constant turmoil in my life; some days are good, while others are horrible. The majority of people that I have met never understand this dilemma, but, then again few people come from a place where people preach country stronger than religion.

I’ll get to visit home in about three months, but, it will be a year since I was back. That is sad. But, this has been a way of life for a majority of Newfoundlanders for centuries now. My unrest reminds me of an old traditional song (which was recently popularized by Great Big Sea).

I was just the age of sixteen when I first went on the drive,
After six months hard labor, at home I did arrive.
I courted with a pretty girl, t'was her caused me to roam,
Now I'm just a river driver and I'm far away from home.

I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry,
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by,
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

I'll build a lonesome castle upon some mountain high,
Where she can sit and view me as I go passing by
Where she can sit and view me as I go marching on,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry,
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by,
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

When I am old and feeble and in my sickness lie,
Just wrap me up in a blanket and lay me down to die
Just get a little bluebird to sing for me alone,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry,
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by,
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry,
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by,
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

A guy sitting at an airport bar in Atlanta noticed a beautiful woman sitting next to him. He thought to himself, "Wow, she's so gorgeous she must be a flight attendant. But which airline does she work for?"

Hoping to gain her attention, he leaned towards her and uttered the Delta Slogan, "Love to fly and it shows?"

She gave him a blank, confused stare and he immediately thought to himself, "Nope, not Delta."

A moment later, another slogan popped into his head. He leaned towards her again, "Something special in the air?"

She gave him the same confused look. He mentally kicked himself, and scratched American Airlines off the list.

Next he tried the United slogan, "I would really love to fly your friendly skies?"

This time the woman savagely turned on him, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!?!"

The man smiled, then slumped back in his chair, and said, "Ahhh, Air Canada!"

http://www.ctv.ca/

Keith Richards: I snorted my father's ashes
Updated Tue. Apr. 3 2007 3:29 PM ET

Associated Press

LONDON -- Keith Richards has acknowledged consuming a raft of illegal substances in his time, but this may top them all.

In comments published Tuesday, the 63-year-old Rolling Stones guitarist said he had snorted his father's ashes mixed with cocaine.

"The strangest thing I've tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father," Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.

"He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared," he said. "... It went down pretty well, and I'm still alive."

Richards' father, Bert, died in 2002, at 84.

Richards, one of rock's legendary wild men, told the magazine that his survival was the result of luck, and advised young musicians against trying to emulate him.

"I did it because that was the way I did it. Now people think it's a way of life," he was quoted as saying.

"I've no pretensions about immortality," he added. "I'm the same as everyone ... just kind of lucky.

"I was No. 1 on the `who's likely to die' list for 10 years. I mean, I was really disappointed when I fell off the list," Richards said.

A single guy lived in this townhouse for 8 years in Odgen, Utah. The landlord thought he was the best renter, because he never called or complained and was never late on a payment.

These pictures don't even come close to what it really looked like.

Century 21 had already moved some of the cans out, and they had caved in the tunnels that the renter had made to get to the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen.

All this, yet you still do not see any dust, scattered clothing, or dirty dishes anywhere.

Other than having a minor drinking problem, he was basically a very clean, organized person. Add to this, the fact that he was concerned about his health, proven by the fact that he drank "Light" beer.

Beer cans by the tens of thousands. Mountains of cans burying the furniture. The water and heat were shut off, apparently on purpose by the tenant, who evidently drank Coors Light beer exclusively for the eight years he lived there.

There was an estimated 70,000 beer cans in the townhouse. To accumulate that amount of cans, the resident must have consumed an average of 24 beers a day for the 8 years of his tenancy!!

Someone sent this to me today, I think it may be from a George Carlin routine, anycase, funny stuff, and very true!

THE MOST FUNCTIONAL ENGLISH WORD
Well, it's shit ... that's right, shit!

Consider:
You can get shit-faced, Be shit-out-of-luck, Or have shit for brains.

With a little effort, you can get your shit together, find a place for your shit, or be asked to shit or get off the pot.

You can smoke shit, buy shit, sell shit, lose shit, find shit, forget shit, and tell others to eat shit.

Some people know their shit, while others can't tell the difference between shit and shineola.

There are lucky shits, dumb shits, and crazy shits. There is bull shit, horse shit, and chicken shit.

You can throw shit, sling shit, catch shit, shoot the shit, or duck when the shit hits the fan.

You can give a shit or serve shit on a shingle.

You can find yourself in deep shit or be happier than a pig in shit.

Some days are colder than shit, some days are hotter than shit, and some days are just plain shitty.

Some music sounds like shit, things can look like shit, and there are times when you feel like shit.

You can have too much shit, not enough shit, the right shit, the wrong shit or a lot of weird shit.

You can carry shit, have a mountain of shit, or find yourself up shit creek without a paddle.

Sometimes everything you touch turns to shit and other times you fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

When you stop to consider all the facts, it's the basic building block of the English language.

And remember, once you know your shit, you don't need to know anything else!!

Well, Shit, it's time for me to go. Just wanted you to know that I do give a shit and hope you had a nice day, without a bunch of shit. But, if you happened to catch a load of shit from some shit-head... Well, Shit Happens!!!