I Can't Get Wild Hairs Anymore

Today’s blog is about email. Email is everywhere. You can’t escape it. Some people even have these little hand thingies that they use so that they can get their email anytime, no matter where they are. We call these people “Get–a-life-you-moron”.

The problem I have is that someone out there is feeding my secrets to the email fairies. I get no less than 20 emails a day informing me that I can get Viagra, cialis, or some other wonderful drug that will cure my impotence for only 70 cents a pill. The strange thing is that I never noticed that I needed this stuff. Thanks heavens the email fairies are watching out for me.

In order to reduce the number of Viagra emails that find me, we have incorporated a SPAM filter. I am not exactly sure how it works, but I have notice that I get less and less emails everyday. Unfortunately, this thing also attacks my friends and colleagues, as no one can send me anything with certain words in it.

Case in point: My friend sent an email the other day that had the word “wild” in it. Now, we have all had “wild” times, have plants that grow “wild”, have had “wild” hair, and have been know to go out into the “wild” to forage for berries before the bears get them all. Unfortunately, our great SPAM filterer has now decided that “wild” can only mean one thing: porn.

Yes, friends, if you type me a letter about how you have tamed a wild animal, my company has decide that is pornographic. Now if the same letter was about how you had helped an impotent animal fro only 70 cents, that of course would go through with no problems.

This is the problem with filters; they have no idea whether the email is offensive or not. Therefore they can only pick out certain words, and then squash the email like a beer can. Unfortunately, this leads to problems in the real world, as people call me and complain that I never respond to their emails.

To that point, if you have ever sent me an email and I didn’t respond, then blame it on the SPAM filter. Even if you are a bill collector, I say it was the SPAM filter. The IRS? You got filtered. The FBI? Sorry guys, I never got it.

Now I can go about my life ignoring emails forever and blame it on our system. Fortunately, as the filter deletes these emails too, you can never prove that I got them either. Now I can spend my time trying to figure out where to come up with 70 cents, instead of reading.
Aw, come on. It’s for my child’s lunch money. Geez, get your mind out of the Cialis…

The Interview

Wow! It finally happened. I got interviewed by Barbara Walters! Well, maybe not in real life, but it happened in my dreams. I thought you folks might like to read about it before it comes out as a feature film at the box office, so I am giving you a snaek preview. Sorry, but I did not include popcorn.

Barbara: Rick, when did you know you were going to be a world famous writer?
Me: Well, Barb, it started in the 3rd grade. Me and Jeff went outside at recess on a red flag day, got all wet, came back in the classroom and made a puddle on the floor. We were made to write 1000 times “I will not go outside and get wet and make a puddle in the classroom when it is a red flag day”. I did it, and saw just how much fun writing can be.

Barbara: What is the greatest thing you have ever written?
Me: The speech I gave at Sonya’s funeral. It was inspired, and came totally from the heart.

Barbara: You write a lot about your kids. Why do you do that?
Me: Because once you have kids, you cease to exist. You become chief, cook, bottle washer, chauffeur, psychologist, and trauma nurse. Who has time to think about anything else?

Barbara: I know that you are a redneck. Does it bother you that people think bad things about rednecks?
Me: People think bad things about rednecks? Gee, I never realized that. I feel..so alone …please …just turn off the camera …I don’t want people to see my cry …

After a 20-minute break for commercials about some hair products that I have absolutely no use for (though they kindly gave me a check to endorse them) the interview resumed.

Barbara: Rick, we know this is an emotional time for you. Can you tell us what you are feeling?
Me: Well, Barb-baby, I am devastated. I am a redneck, and I can no more change that than a leopard can change his underwear. I was born one and will die one. Being a redneck may sound bad to some people, but there are so many advantages. If you talk slow, people think that you are dumb, and never realize that you are selling them parts off of your brother’s car. I can make a planter out of a used tire, and it fits my décor. I can wear camouflage to the town meeting, and everybody will think I am a snappy dresser. Heck, I can even open your beer bottle with my teeth.

Barb-baby: Wow! I am impressed. I never drank when I was young because those city boys could never get the bottles open. Do you suppose that you could teach me how to change the oil in my BMW too?
Me: Uh Barb-honey, the BMW has to go. You need a truck with lots of chrome. And with the left over cash you can buy a new tractor. And not one of them puny lawn mowers that people call a tractor either. Heck, there may still be enough to get a porch swing and build a lean-to off the house.

Barbie: OK, redneck-man. You have convinced me. Where do I get my overalls and hat, and where do I sleep?
Me: Uh Barbie, I am sorry but you just can’t move in. I wish you could honey, but those cameras and light will scare the cows. And heaven knows you just will not look good in wranglers. I am sorry, but you just can’t decide to be a redneck and become one the same day!

Barb: But I’ll change! I’ll give up the cameras! I’ll learn to slop the hogs! I’ll even plow and bush hog. Just don’t send me back to that Peter Jennings. Don’t make me do it!!

And that is how Barbara Walters came to be living in the loft of my barn. It’s not too bad, but I wish she’d quit interviewing the livestock. I mean, gee, isn’t that what Jerry Springer is for?

Gentlemen, Start Your Blogger

Well, today is the day that I am starting to write on more than a weekly basis. I will now be able to share my deep personal thoughts with you, the viewing public, on a more frequent time scale. I want to thank my fan base, and inform them that we will be over for dinner on Sunday, unless they are cooking collard greens again. Unfortunately, my stomach still isn't speaking to me.