Pigskin Prognostication

It’s the time of year for Wheel Gun Bob’s always insightful, wacky, freewheeling, informative and productive Super Bowl blog! It makes me almost want to partake in some homoerotic towel snapping and grab-assing. And now please, a moment of silence for the pre-blog team prayer… Amen. Good, now here it is:

We have the New Orleans Saints featuring Drew “Shallow” Brees vs. the Indianapolis Colts featuring Payton “Tea Bag” Manning. I hope the Saints win because I dislike Tea Bag Manning. He doesn’t like me either from what I hear. Now this is where I would normally launch into a long but brilliant and well thought out analysis, full of arcane football minutia only the diehard gridiron fan could understand. This scientific analysis would compare the relative strengths and weaknesses of the two teams and would provide a probable outcome so likely that some would consider me a prophet. Well not this time.

This time you will have to pay for my football betting advice. Send me $20 and I will send you an encrypted email that will self destruct after reading. It will give you the final Super Bowl score guaranteed to be 99.9999% probable. Make checks payable to “Wheelgun Nostradamus The Greek”.

Mitchy The Monster Cat

Mitchy The Cat was 16 pounds of regal, muscular feline; a huge and handsome fur person, mostly black with a white belly. He was very affectionate but had a nasty temper. And every now and then he would just get into a mood. I would be innocently walking by and Mitchy would just leap out and clamp himself around my ankle and sink his teeth and claws into me. These attacks were rare but painful and came without warning.

For some weird reason, Mitchy took a serious disliking to our drummer Wiz. Now you must realize that Wiz was, and is, a gentle soul who would never hurt anything except maybe drumsticks. And he loves cats! Who knows, maybe Mitchy didn't like the way Wiz played drums or it was the smell of tequila that set him off. But whatever the reason, blood would be drawn whenever Wiz was around.

One night our band was scheduled to play a gig up in Portland, Maine. We took two vans, one mine loaded with band mates, the other Wiz's which was full of drum shit and equipment. I was driving behind Wiz when bass player Scott and I noticed, with sheer horror, the hulking and obviously pissed off Mitchy pacing back and forth in the back window of Wiz's van. His tail was up and twitching in that "I'm about to rip somebody's fucking head off" way. Seems the little panther stole aboard as we were loading equipment. Wiz was going down hard unless we intervened right away!

Wiz would always enjoy hair metal at ear splitting levels in his van. As I recall, he had a jury-rigged stereo that featured a little 4" speaker from Radio Shack. It was truly painful to listen too. Consequently, Wiz didn't notice us beeping and flashing our lights because he was too absorbed in whatever AC/DC or Motley Crue song was blistering the paint on the inside of his van at the time.

I think what may have saved Wiz's life that night was the fact that Scott and I acted quickly and that Wiz needed to get gas before we left town. Once at the Mobile station, I was able to extract the offending feline before any harm befell Wiz.

Mitchy was with me for a good many years. This was just one of many stories I could tell you about him. He eventually ended up in the woods in Vermont with my friends Paul and Mary when I took off cross country looking for fame and fortune (I found neither, just a miserable girlfriend). He made fast friends with Paul and Mary's cat and we believe Mitchy met his end defending his little pal against a wolf or black bear. Actually more likely a large black bear since Mitchy would've killed a wolf.

Stay tuned, part 3 will be about my lovely little calico cat Gloria.

Assachusetts

The right-wing is partying it up today, I tell you. Their boy won the special election in Massachusetts to fill Teddy Kennedy’s old, gin soaked senate seat. They are almost as happy as the day John McAnus announced Sarah Palin as his running mate (the resultant collective blob of Republican jiz is still in high earth orbit).

Normally I don’t give a rat’s rectum about Massachusetts politics but this could obviously effect things on the national level. This new jerk-ass Republican could stall or prevent healthcare reform. Apparently big pharma and the healthcare insurance industry are partying their little balls off as well, the fuckers.

All I can say is if I get laid off (always a possibility) and lose my insurance and then another insurance company won’t cover me due to pre-existing conditions (I have a few of those, believe me) I will take my medical bills and ram them up Scott Brown’s flaccid ass. Here's hoping he has pre-existing bloody hemorrhoids.

No Shit

Two giant “No shits!” this week. One is titted Republican talking point dispenser Sarah Palin joining Fox “News” as a commentator and the other is that, apparently, muscle bound ballplayer Mark McGwire took steroids! Yes, ole Sarah joins the other right wing shit-bags at Fox spreading lies and misinformation to the gullible masses. A perfect place for her aside from being on her knees in front of me. As for McGwire, the moron claims that the juice didn’t help him hit home runs. So how come he apologized to the Maris family? Just listening to idiots like McGwire and Rodger Clemens leads me to believe that steroids cause serious brain atrophy. Jesus, in that case, Sarah Palin must be pounding the roids as well.

Ballad Of Rodney the Cat

I was having tea with my felatrix Heather and my dominatricies Bambi and D’Amanda the other day. In between sips of chamomile tea and bites of biscotti, the conversation meandered lazily and comfortably from clown porn to auto repair, through politics and onto the subject of cats. Cats! I love the little furry fuckers.

I once had these three cats, Rodney, Mitchy and Gloria. I will now tell you a bit about them.

Rodney was a stout little fellow with markings that made him resemble a miniature cow. My band at the time did a song called “Cat on a Red Hot Hibachi” and had just recorded an EP of the same name. We needed a name and logo for our record label since real labels such as RCA or MCA decided, shockingly, to pass on pressing our masterpiece.

Bass player Scotty and I thought that the logo should have a picture of a cat on a Hibachi (not really hot, mind you). Enter Rodney. The little dude just would not cooperate until I had the brilliant idea to put a little tuna fish on the Hibachi. Thus was born our logo and the name of our record label – Rodney the Cat Records.

Rodney had the nickname “Sub Hunter” due to his propensity to steal half eaten subs out of the dumpster next to the store across the street. He would drag them over and chow down on them on our front porch. More than once I was tempted to join him in the feast.

One day Rodney didn’t return. Days then weeks went by and despite postering the whole neighborhood, Rodney was gone. One night I went downtown to a restaurant that served French cuisine. I happened to mention to the owner how distraught I was over my missing cat. When I described Rodney to her she mentioned that a stray cat of similar appearance had shown up to her restaurant about six weeks earlier. She took me to the cat and it was Rodney. He was happily munching scraps of food tossed to him by the head chef. He looked as if he had gained a pound or two.

I took Rodney home and he fell right back into his routine of dragging half eaten subs across the street before eviscerating them. A month or so later, he was gone again. I was convinced that this time he had been squashed by a car or ended up as General Tsao’s chicken at the local Chinese restaurant or both.

Turns out the little bastard was back at the French restaurant downtown. Mind you, it was about a mile from my home to this restaurant. And not a straight shot either. I went and got him and took him home. A week later he was gone once more. This time I went straight to the restaurant to retrieve the fur bearing traitor. When the owner asked me if I beat him or otherwise miss treated him thinking that might be the reason he kept leaving, I asked her what the head chef fed him. “Oh just scraps of steak, chicken or whatever we have on the menu.” Somewhat better that a meatball sub out of a dumpster!

At that point, I told the head chef he could keep Rodney since I couldn’t compete with calamari or escargot. The restaurant went out of business sometime afterwards and I heard a few years later that ole Rodney was living on an island off of the Maine coast. I am sure he has passed on now since he would be about 30 if still alive. But the little shit had a good life.

Next blog I will tell you about Mitchy the monster cat.

Slappy Nude Rear!

I know all of you guys have been breathless in anticipation of my new year’s blog. You can all breath now since, without further ado, here it is!

Should I give you my usual wacky list of new year’s resolutions? Why the fuck not? I’ve done it for the last 6 goddamned years so why change now? Isn’t it amazing how I can keep things so fresh and interesting after all this time? In reality my blog, much like the TV show The Simpsons, is well past its prime. And my readership, which peaked at about 750,000 hits per day, is now down to a paltry 675,000 hits per day. I am endeavoring to come up with some new shtick/gimmick that will make a whole new generation of blogophiles worship at my digital alter. Keep an eye out – I might need your input. Anyway, my new year’s resolutions:

Lose weight. Not a lot. A couple hundred pounds should due. Hit the gym hard. New name: Wheel Gun Atlas.

Learn a new skill. I don’t know, fencing, scuba diving, horseback riding (fuck that – no brakes!) or saxophone, anything to keep my evil mind occupied. Suggestions?

Get the band going again. The Deuce will be back with a vengeance! New songs, new ‘tude. Play a double bill with the Tunnel Rats sometime perhaps?

Go on a trip. Like to Montreal. I used to go there all the time when I had a cool girlfriend. Haven’t been anywhere in years (haven’t had a cool girlfriend in years either). Maybe I can get a gig for Jupiter 2 and the Tunnel Rats in Montreal.

Not get kicked around anymore. I know you think of me as a tough, manly kind of lead slingin’ guy but I have been kicked around by a certain person for almost 20 years and IT WILL STOP. The tide will turn. New name: Wheel Gun Phoenix.