Well, what’s been going on? I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from folks axing me when I was going to write something. I’ve been axing myself that question as well, so here goes.

Basically my life is as follows (and after you read this, you’ll understand why the creative well has been a bit dry) – Wake up at 6 or 7 am, make breakfast. Eat breakfast. Work out for an hour or two. Study flying stuff. Take a nap (I’m not lazy, nor do I think I have earned said nap. What I do know is that there is not a human alive who can read anything written by the FAA and stay awake longer than 2 hours). Make lunch. Eat lunch. Study some more or borrow an airplane and practice flying around with one engine. Come home. Make dinner. Eat dinner. Go to sleep.

So if the flying thing doesn’t work out, I think I’d make a decent monk. The flying Monk - what with all of the exercise and studying, but with none of that pesky enlightenment. I’d have the robes with the rope around the waist, but I’d have a silk scarf tucked in and I’d constantly wear a pair of ridiculously large Ray Ban aviators; my eyes hidden behind their mirrored surface, scanning the horizon for signs of poppycock, shenanigans, monkeyshines and/or carrying-on. If trouble was a-brewing I’d hop in my De Havilland Chipmonk (if you’re an airplane freak, that was funny. If not, then maybe you should skip your next communist party meeting and start learning about airplanes) and blast off to save the day.

I’ve lost almost 20 pounds, which I think I have to do if I expect myself to continue making fun of fat people in good conscience, and if you have any questions about single or multi-engine piston aircraft, aviation regulations, or what endorsements you need in your logbook for any stage of flight training, I know a guy who can answer them. His name is me.

I’m also broke again for the first time in six or seven years. I’m adapting to it, but for the record it still sucks. The main difference between me and most broke folks – or maybe I should say the difference between being broke and being poor – is that my reaction to dwindling funds is not to shit in the dark, shower using only cold water and try to make my own toothpaste so I can save $7 a month, but to figure out how to make more money. That’s pretty much the delineating factor when it comes to the difference between losers and winners.

If anyone has any ideas as to how I can pull in an extra grand or so a month without doing any work, I’m all ears.

Although my day-to-day may seem like hell, I still have never once gotten up in the morning and said, “Jeez, I wish I could just go sit in a cube and take orders from a retarded manager to complete a project that should never have made it out of his ass.”

Someone sent me a very nice email last week telling me that they had been reading my site for a while and decided to grab life by the taint and own it for a while. I try almost daily not to sound like a cockgobbling homo, but it really did mean a lot to me to know that I had something to do with someone changing their life for the better. To the guy in Australia who is living his dream (and this time it’s not Judd, by the way), you have my respect and admiration for making shit happen instead of letting shit happen.

I’ve been watching the presidential race, too. I really don’t have much of an opinion on it. Most people become more passionate about this stuff as they get older, but I seem to care less and less. With every president I have seen since I was old enough to notice, I have heard the retarded warnings of imminent doom from the retarded worriers across the entire retarded political spectrum, and not once have I seen any of their retarded prophecies come true. I know that 99% of the people in this country have the brains and ability to do what they need to do to keep themselves and their families fed, medicated, and educated. I also know that about 40% choose not to do so and cost the rest of us money and time.

So until a politician runs on the “birth control for the non-motivated” platform and starts dropping chemical sterilization gas bombs into the homes of people who should not be parents, I don’t see myself getting too involved in the process.

Think really hard. Is there a single problem in this (or any) society that could not be solved if morons were prevented from bringing more morons into the world?

I hear the typical “Obama’s church has Muslim ties” and “McCain ate a live kitten on stage” and “Hillary has a vagina” stuff, and my only response is a feeling of apathy that is ironically intense.

I flew a guy up to Knoxville yesterday for a checkride and I was sitting in the little terminal idly commenting on the news with a couple of crusty old guys. Obama was blowing his “Hope prosperity change revolution freedom” number to a large audience, and one of the guys said “That guy…we elect him, and next thing you know the blacks are going to take over.”

Here’s what you do when stupid people say stupid things – ask them to explain it.

“Really?” I asked. “Blacks are going to take over? What do you think that will lead to?”

“It’s right there. All over the place. You just wait. You’ll see. This place is going to hell in a paper sack.”

So if I’m hearing all of this right, the blackening of America is a foregone conclusion that I’m too stupid to understand and soon we’ll all be getting Government issued rims for our cars and crack will become our currency.

Here’s a tip to use any time you form a hypothesis – ask yourself if it makes sense. The dignity you save may be your own.

I listened for a few more minutes and started to feel like I was going to forget how to read if I sat there much longer, so I went outside and watched airplanes land. I am really sort of glad that this guy’s cholesterol was eclipsed only by his blood pressure and he’d only be part of the voting population for a few more months. Not to say Obama is the best candidate, but if you think he is or isn’t, at least come up with a valid reason.

In feline news, I did not have the heart to have my cat put to sleep as punishment for not using the litter box. The Skirt disagrees with me on that one. At times I question it as well. I took her to the vet last week and they told me she had infections in every orifice and charged me $400. Ever since I bought into that $25 a month pet insurance scam, it seems that furry little whore needs something done every week.

“Yes, Mister Scott, your cat has a urinary tract infection and some kind of mung in her ears, and she’s constipated. We’re giving you some drops and some other drops and some oily stuff that you have to give her thrice daily. That’ll be a bazillion dollars.”

“Sweet. Glad I got insurance.”

“Well, the insurance did cover one of the vaccinations and the Swedish massage, but the rest is on you.”

“hmm. So I paid $25 a month for the past year…better known as $300, and it saved me…um…let’s see…carry the four…multiply by one…fifteen dollars?”

“Yes sir.”

“Awesome. How ‘bout you waive the fee and I give you a free cat for your trouble?”

“Haha. No, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Okay. Well, the way I see it, her being constipated just means fewer little piles of tootsie rolls next to the dryer for me to clean up, so keep the laxative and I’ll just buy the ear stuff.”

“Well, come on. If it was you, you’d want to move your bowels”

“Yes, that is true. In fact, I’d like to move them right here and now to express my displeasure. But the difference between my discomfort and hers is that I am human and I have worth.”

“Haha.” (I love how they think I am not serious)

“Whatever. So do I give her an injection or administer all of this stuff rectally?”

“Oh, no. It is all oral.”

“Do you have the other kind? I mean, I’m getting it in the ass, so it seems like…you know…circle of life and all of that.”

They sent me home with a veterinary pharmacy and later that night I gave her the first dose. She was snoring in the corner, so I loaded all of the droppers, pinned her empty head against the wall and gave her a gut full of antibiotics and whatever it is that makes cats shit. It was surprisingly easy.

What I didn’t count on was the cat’s ability to learn and avoid.

The next time I gave her the meds, she was much less cooperative. She gagged and spit and foamed and left 3 cc’s (or $40 worth) of medicine sprayed on the walls and ceiling of my closet. I need to decide if I really hate this cat more than I enjoy the challenge of overpowering her 7 pound frame.

Every time I do it I have to use a new plan, but it always turns out the same. I wrapped her in a towel and held her stupid nose, but she learned to push it out with her tongue. Now she has a yellow oily goatee. It has come to the point where The Skirt has to immobilize her while I shoot it down her esophagus with a super soaker and then hold her under water until she swallows. The only logical next step is to put her in the freezer for a few hours beforehand so she can’t move as fast.

We had a tornado come through town the other night. I know you were collectively fearing for my safety as evidenced by the single email I received from a guy I assume is your spokesperson after what I assume was a 36 hour candlelight vigil and prayer circle.

The Skirt and I were watching a movie and it suddenly went crazy. There were trees and pieces of metal and stuff flying all over the place, everyone was scared, and it was deafening. Then her phone rang and we put Twister on pause and someone told us that a tornado had broken a bunch of stuff about three blocks from our house. We had no idea anything was even going on. It was raining and there was a little hail, but it was far from the worst weather we had seen here. My dad called and I asked him if he knew how to get a stop sign out of my skull. He then told me to call my brother and tell him that I was okay, which I did not do because it was midnight and my brother was asleep. Further, I guessed if he saw the news the next morning he’d assume he would have heard something if I had been killed.

But I also thought it would be kind of funny if I had been killed and my brother didn’t find out for a couple of weeks.

“Sorry we missed you at the funeral.”

“Whazza? Funeral?”

“Yeah. Your brother’s funeral last week. Did you have to work or something?”