(this is) Sour Bob

Got back Tuesday and we're safe and sound.

Romania was beautiful, Tata is doing somewhat better (he's even out of the hospital, actually), and we're already back at work.

Oh yeah: and we're getting married next Sunday.

More on that later.

This is me. Stop by and have a look. I'm in Romania for the time being. It's mostly all about that.

My name is Jeff, incidentally.

Stanley Sams was my college roommate freshman year at the University of Memphis, and one of my best friends for a coupla years there. New Year's and Auld Lang Syne and all of that mess got me thinking that Stan Sams is an acquaintance that should not be forgot. And so what I'm going to do is say Stanley Sams' name a couple more times and maybe Stan Sams will spot this on Google and give me a shout. Stanley Sams, Stanley Sams, Stanley Sams.

Email me, sucka.

On the unlikely chance that you read me way back when, you may notice that some of the stuff was never on Sour Bob. That's because it was on Dirty Old Town, the other blog I ran for a few years. Upon further reflection, the stuff was mostly of one cloth, so I combined the two here.

Nopthing new yet, really. But I've got a ton of free time these days, so maybe I will get around to posting something new sooner or later. I haven't written much in ages, so those gears feel a little rusty.

Are there really people who blog three or four times a day without fail? Cripes almighty.

When she gets into arguments with her father, no matter what she says about him and no matter how serious she sounds, keep your cool.

A girl will always forgive her father, but she won't always forgive a guy who talked shit about her daddy. Even if it was just you parroting back what she'd said in an attempt to be supportive. That distinction will get lost and so will you.

It looks like a bruised peach, honey.

You took something that was already inherently perfect--the female breast--and just thought... Thought you'd improve on it? Can't be done. They were perfect to being with. Well, maybe not yours, but plenty of 'em are. Although, actually, yeah, yours are pretty outstanding.

And now the little voice that lives in my head and tells me to stare down all boobs he's up next to the voice that says "Hey, let's see what that tattoo is all about" and they're in this hellish shouting match with the little voice that says "don't stare at women's breasts, it makes them uncomfortable!" And let me tell you, the don't stare guy is gonna lose.

How could he not? You have a tattoo on your titty.

Why yes, she is quietly judging you.

Why the hell do hospitals advertise their emergency rooms? More and more, I see these ads in print and on television, promising me that the care in this ER or that one is tops in the region, technologically advanced, and blah blah blah.

But you know, man, if I was, say, shot in the head, I don’t think I’d really comparison shop when it came to emergency rooms. No sir, if I was shot in the fucking head, I can say with total confidence that the one and only selling point that would matter when it came time for me to choose a hospital would be proximity to my gaping fucking head wound.

And furthermore, let me just say right now if I am ever loaded into an ambulance, only to have the EMT look back at me and say, “So where’ll it be, buddy?” like I’m hopping into a goddamned Yellow cab, you bet your ass before long, I’m not going to be the only one in the car who needs some frigging medical attention.

Although, I do hear Northwestern Medical is the best in the state at foot/ass extraction.