More Acronym Fun, a Farewell to Fred Phelps, and Spontaneous Combustion


Perhaps old Fred got the real point in the end.

In a twist of cosmic irony, Fred Phelps was actually excommunicated from the infamous Westboro Baptist Church that he founded, so maybe there is hope for him after all.

I don’t wish damnation on anyone- even Obama (although I hope that  in some way he pays for all the pain he’s inflicted on millions of Americans)- believe that or not.  But other people’s salvation or damnation is far beyond my judgment and well outside my sphere.  I think Clint Eastwood (in Heartbreak Ridge? – it’s been awhile since I’ve watched any Eastwood flicks)  put it as, “Kill ’em all and let God sort them out.”  God’s going to sort them out anyway, so I’m not making that my business.


I enjoy the creativity behind the use of acronyms and certain logistical metaphors used in certain industries.  Medicine is particularly macabre– even more so than automotive.   I can say I probably have :

APD – Acute Prozac Deficiency (depression) at times

HIVI – Husband Is Village Idiot

I freely admit to those.

However, there’s a lot more other goodies on this list:

FUBAR – Fucked up beyond all repair/recognition

FURB – Funny, Unusual, Rectal Blockage (people who use inappropriate objects as butt-plugs)

GOK – God Only Knows

PBOO – Pine Box On Order

SBLEO – (pronounced S-B-Leo) Suicide By Law Enforcement Officer

SBOD – Stupid bitch/bastard on drugs

SHA – Ship His Ass (when patients refuse to be discharged).

SHAD – Syphilitic, Hypochondriac, Alcoholic Degenerate

TTJ -Transfer to Jesus
TTOAST – Take Them Out and Shoot Them

TTR – (US) Tattoo-to-Tooth Ratio (Dirtbag Ratio)T Sign – Tattoo-to-Teeth Sign: survival indicator; those who are tattooed and toothless will survive major injuries

Automotive people are almost always vindictive and snarky by nature, but we usually don’t get into gross.   We don’t deal with death (usually, though I have seen some totaled cars in body shop lots that people have died in that had skin and hair and guts and blood everywhere) every day.  Another plus is we seldom have to deal with bodily effluvia or offensive odors.  I don’t think I could handle body odor and shit and puke on a daily basis.

The times when we do get to see gory, gross or just plain bizarre stuff, are quite memorable.  The (new off the showroom floor at the time) ’89 Caprice that flashpointed with only 125 miles on it was pretty cool.  This was what I got to see the second day I worked in a dealership.  It was a completely charbroiled wanna-be cop car.  The owner smelled something funky, got out, and as soon as he shut the driver’s side door, it went down in a blaze of glory.


For those who don’t know what flashpoint is, it’s sort of a combination of a fire and an explosion all at one time.  Usually there is an accelerant involved (i.e. gasoline) and the fire is hot and heavy, but it doesn’t last long.  Older, carbureted cars like that Caprice were more prone to it, but even then it was rare.  The dude obviously got a lucky break.  He had a second to get out of the car.  I don’t know why I think of flashpoint when I hear of (alleged?) spontaneous human combustion.  Cars have lots of places where sparks can occur, as well as plenty of accelerant in the fuel system.  Internal combustion itself is simply a series of contained, controlled explosions. (How do you think that crankshaft turns?)  I’m surprised that more cars don’t catch on fire and/or explode- but I’ve been trained and conditioned to look for what can go wrong with automotive systems.   I’ve witnessed many bizarre automotive failures over the years- but I’ve only personally seen one flashpoint, and then only after the fact.


Just a series of controlled explosions, folks!

I think it would be a lot harder for something that’s 70% water to catch fire, (i.e. a human body) especially without any overwhelming presence of accelerants.  Some people argue that the body does produce acetone- which is flammable- but I would argue, not in sufficient enough quantity to sustain any kind of burn.

This guy, though, seemed to have sizzled everything but the loafers.


You could almost still wear the loafers.

The only thing is, was there really a dude in the pile before it ignited (I’m assuming a dude, because no self respecting woman would wear brown dude’s loafers) or was it just a pile of newspapers, a broken wine bottle, and an old pair of loafers to begin with?

No, I Don’t Have Any Green Clothes



I don’t own any green clothes.  I don’t like the idea of weirdos trying to pinch me, either.

St. Patty’s Day isn’t really high on my radar of secular holidays.  I don’t drink beer, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be green.

It’s sort of depressing that someone took the guy who brought Christianity to the heathens in Ireland and turned his festival day into a drinking holiday.  I still think green beer and leprechauns would be more suitable if we were celebrating Benny Hill’s birthday, but maybe that’s just me.

I guess it’s a good thing leprechauns are white.  Otherwise we wouldn’t be able to make fun of them.  Or get creeped out by them.  I always looked at leprechauns as sort of creepy mini-trolls.


At least it’s not Hans Strudel.

hans strudel

When did German=Fruity?

The Irish have always been sort of “people who get picked on.”  Maybe it’s because a lot of them are Catholic.  Maybe it’s because they like to get drunk and fight.  But the same descriptives also apply to Italians, and nobody bothers them.

thrifty scotsman

Then there’s the Thrifty Scotsman, which is a stereotype I can understand.  My grandmother’s father immigrated (legally, may I add- Dad has his documentation) from Scotland.  My great grandfather died long before I was born, but my grandmother was one of the most thrifty people I ever knew- cutting coupons, hitting the sales, stocking up on dozens of three-pound cans of Folger’s when it was cheap,  and so forth.  That might have been because she was half Scots (her mother was German) but it might have been because she grew up in the Depression, too.


Grandma always had a few extra cans of Folger’s.

I don’t think I’ve had green clothes since I was old enough to buy my own clothes.  Almost everything I have is either pink, black or jeans.

Prayers for the Pragmatic, Endless Winter, and Axioms of the Streetwise


I have a few new words of wisdom for my adult son (the Precious Only Male Child.)  I thought they were so good, I just had to share.

The path to perdition is paved by the prick.  So stop thinking with yours and start using the big head up top.

Good places to meet intelligent women:  Church. The Library. The “Y.”

Bad places to meet women: Bars that play country music. Any establishment where the center of attraction is a vertical pole, and patrons are encouraged to deposit dollar bills in G-strings.  Any establishment that plays The Village People, the clientele is all male, and they’re all wearing leather.

Steve-o knows better than to join the sausage fest, and I don’t see him as the featured dance partner at the Blue Oyster, so he doesn’t really need a warning about the guys in the tight leather pants and stiletto heels.  He does need a warning regarding avoiding women of loose morals and open legs as it were.  It’s lovely that your girlfriend (or tonight’s bed partner) is willing to show you a good time.  It’s not so lovely that she’s probably been providing the same services for every other male under the age of 25- in a three county area.

Digital image

If this van’s a rockin’, someone’s sharing an STD or two…

I still remember the movie we got to see in health class back in 1982.  It was called “VD is Nothing to Clap About.” It was narrated by of all people- Dick Cavett.  It included some most unforgettable cartoons of cartoon hippies giving some cartoon VW Transporter suspensions a real workout.  It was the summer of love indeed- or at least the film offered the imagination some gratuitous behind-the-Transporter-door cartoon sex.  Even though this film was mandatory in health class, it was blow-snot-out-your  nose hilarious.  I still remember the cautions given about sleeping around and getting the clap, or syphilis, or crabs.  I’d really, really like to know if anyone has uploaded a copy of that film. I would love, love, love to have the link to it should anyone have thought to preserve such a meaningful piece of 1960’s ephemera.

Apparently the clap, syphilis and crabs were the only STDs that were known to science in 1968, which is when that most comprehensive educational film was produced.  Today’s STDs are a lot more deadly and usually a lot more permanent than just a case of the crabs or even a dose of the clap, but hey, it was 1968- when the air was dirty but sex was (relatively) clean.   Today’s dating scene provides a wide and varied STD smorgasbord.  Your stripper ho was great for a night, but herpes is forever.


Even Dad had to weigh in on Steve-o’s last skank du jour.  I was surprised to get such a pithy insight from Dad, as he is usually very conservative when discussing potentially off-color subject material, but he is becoming a bit more brash in his older age.  He speaks the truth though:

You know what a skank and a rooster have in common?

A rooster says “cock-a-doodle-doo.”  The common street skank says, “Any cock will do.”



I don’t think this winter will ever end.

I think we finally have started a path toward the Central Ohio season of Snowbooger Grey.  At least on my car.

I can’t recall a winter here that seems to linger on so long, or that has been quite as cold..  The snow started in November and hasn’t really gone away for more than a few days or so since.  That’s unusual for this area.  It’s usually just overcast, moderately cold (but not below freezing) and raining this time of year, until about the end of May.

Al Gore can bite me sideways with the man-made global warming tripe.  The weather cycle has turned back to “mostly cold.”  In 20 years it will turn back to “mostly hot.”  Whoop de doo.  We humans are pretty damned arrogant- and just plain silly- if we think a little bit of car exhaust and a few cow farts are going to turn the tundra into a tropical paradise.

Dear Lord, keep Your arm around my shoulder and Your hand over my mouth.

While You’re at it, take away Obama’s phone and pen and put him in a rubber room for the duration.


All joking aside- sometimes that’s all that keeps me from strangling the daylights out of those who richly deserve it.

I know I shouldn’t be such a wisenheimer on Ash Wednesday, when I’m supposed to be contemplating my own mortality.  I have thought of a few things that Steve-o might want to share after I commence to take the Dirt Nap at my funeral before he has me taxidermied and turned into a coffee table.

Don’t look at it as if I’m dead.  I’ve just been returned to the Master Craftsman for extensive cleaning and repair.

If you present my stiff carcass in an itchy pink nightie and bad makeup for viewing in an open casket so Mom’s friends can file by and exclaim, “She looks soooo gooood!”  I will haunt you forever.

Pop Tarts, Mountain Dew and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos do not comprise a balanced diet.

Techno music is appropriate for porn movie sound tracks.  If you want to listen to some good music, download the collection on my SD card in my phone to your computer.