Quote of the Day

"The people of Puyallup should be proud. The photograph accompanying the text exemplifies all that Puyallup is famous for. You've got a redneck with a scraggly beard and a beer belly buying some fireworks, you've got a girl named Tiffany who is one Twinkie and frappucino away from a muffin top, you have a sign in the background confusing "they're" with "there." The photographer should get a Pulitzer for so artfully capturing the essence of Puyallup/South Hill, the soul of Pierce County."

"Tacomajoe" commenting on this photo:

Story:Neighbors complain about bikini fireworks stand, www.thenewstribune.com/topstory/story/797583.html

My neighbors from Tonga

I had some neighbors from Tonga and they were total cunts.

They were fat fucks to a man. The least of 'em was 300lbs. They couldn't hold their liquor, but they loved to drink. Almost every single weekend during the long, long Sacramento summer, a similar scene played out:

Scene 1, 3pm:
1) Happy loud drunk Tongans

Scene 2, 6pm:
2) UNhappy loud really drunk Tongans.

Scene 3, 9pm:
3) Maudlin and loud utterly wasted Tongans, screaming in Tagalog.

Scene 4, Midnight:

They'd spill out of their house, all 15 or so of 'em, into the street, and just start beating the living shit out of each other. According to the oldest son, the only one who spoke parsable English, the fighting was like some kind of bonding deal in the family. A lot of bonding went on in that family. You'd also think people who weighed in excess of 300 pounds would get tired fast, but with a belly full of booze, these skeezers would pound the crap out of each other until nearly sunrise, alternately laughing uproariously and screaming at each other like goddamn savages.

Every. Fucking. Weekend.

The cops showed up the first couple of times, but quickly learned there just wasn't enough backup in the world to deal with these people. I watched two cops get demolished by Papa San, then the Wrath of Tonga descended on the occupants of the second cruiser, then the third. They laughed at pepper spray and tasers. Nightsticks had no effect on them, at all. Getting just one into the back of a cop car was a 10-cop job, and once indignity took over, the rest of the family would surge like a human wave and cause even more cops to have to show up. After the fourth or fifth time dealing with the Pride of Polynesia, the cops just stopped coming, telling us that unless they were breaking other people's shit, or beating other people up, to just "keep them informed".

Come the dawn, their lawn would look like a scene from one of those mass whale strandings, since that's where they usually passed out. The "best" part was when the automatic sprinklers tripped on at 6:00am, awaking the herd from their slumber, and resulting in wails of the damned, and sometimes a spectacular bout of vomitting from one of the participants (which was always accompanied by a sound like a water buffalo experiencing a difficult birth). Then for the next couple of days, their place would be quiet as a crypt and no one would be seen coming or going. But no matter how unmercifully hung-over they were on Sunday, coming Saturday, it was time to repeat the whole process all over again.

Oddly enough, despite their weekend proclivities, they had the nicest house on the block and WOE be to anyone who dropped so much as a gum wrapped in front of it. My friend, a crazy Vietnamese named Steve, drew a quite good rendition of King Tut on their garage 'fridge. They chased him about three blocks before heat and fat took the piss out of them; looked like a spherical lynch mob chasing a stick figure.

I don't know if they're all that crazy, but the lot we were stuck with sure were.

Conclusion: TONGA Air? The name alone would keep me off the goddamn plane.

Quote of the Day

"This concern is not really about China itself. It could be any country. It could be Japan, or Germany. This generation of Americans is so used to your supremacy. Your being treated nicely by everyone. It hurts to think, Okay, now we have to be on equal footing to other people. “On equal footing” would necessarily mean that sometimes you have to stoop to appear to be humble to other people."

-- Gao Xiqing, overseer of $200 billion of China’s $2 trillion in dollar holdings

“Be Nice to the Countries That Lend You Money”

True Tales of Dodge Vans, Part 2: Cervine Volley

So every year -- for the last 20 -- my friends and I have held an annual camping trip way up in the Sierras. The route to our campsite takes us up beautiful Highway 89 North, which in daylight hours is a relaxing and scenic drive, but once the stars come out, turns into Damnation Alley. Deer and logging trucks both start their journeys onto the highway around sunset, and the later is gets, the more numerous they become. So the idea is that if you're going to come up camping, you try to hit this road during the day and avoid the late-night deer festivities.

Of course, not everyone's hip on the plan, man!

My best bud, a hangin' bro named Jason, never gets anywhere on time. "Late to bed, late to rise, smoke yourself red in the eyes!" is his motto. Jason doesn't even get packed until the sun and the horizon are hugging, and getting on the road during diurnal hours is out of the question as that would cut into pot smoking time. By the time he gets rolling and reaches Highway 89, it's well after 10pm and now the road is standing-room only with deer.

As Jay reaches the turn-off from the main highway onto Highway 89, the stars are bright and his eyes are red and the pedal on the right is kissing the floor and the miles, well, they're just rolling on by, lazily, like Old Man River. It's a beautiful night full of indicus smoke and Pink Floyd tuning happily on the Denon. On a night like that, all's right with the universe; all's peaceful in the dale; God is in his Heaven and --


Bambi springs out of the bushes and directly into the spot that will be occupied 1/1000'th of a second later by a 1978 Dodge Econoliner doing 110mph and being piloted by a complete stoner. And just about the time Jay got the "OH SH--" out, his van and that deer met, kissed, then parted company. The van went straight. And the deer . . . well, the deer . . .

Have you ever played tennis?

The deer left Jay's van just like a perfect smash serve from Anna Kornikova's racquet, flew across the centerline and was promptly volleyed back by the logging truck going the opposite direction. Or would have been volleyed back had it not exploded into a bazillion fist-sized gibs. The deer came apart almost at the cellular level.

The truck? It kept going? Jay's van? IT kept going, too -- about a quarter of a mile until the temp gauge hit max and steam started blasting out the front of the grill. The radiator had burst under the impact of hitting Venison-breath and Jay was now stranded on the side of an empty highway some 40 miles from the nearest town in the middle of the night and with no cell service. Most people start to pray under circumstances like this, but not Jay.

Jay's a man with a roll of emery cloth, isopropyl alcohol, high temp silicon sealant and a plan. It's best to stand back when these elements come together. Sitting on the side of the road with a beer in his hand, and with Mr.s David Gilmour and Roger Waters serenading his efforts, he constructs a patch for the radiator. He he takes a nap in the back of the van while the patch cures. Then he wakes up, has an oat soda for breakfast, and gets back on the road. And makes it in time for eggs and bac-ey at camp.

And the patch is STILL on the radiator to this day.

The deer remains tragically dead, 'tho.