Archive for March, 2013

Lewis Grizzard Wednesday

Lewis wrote this one coming out of the 1991 season looking towards 1992. Oddly enough, he shared some of the same uneasiness about the upcoming season as many of us do now.


The Boys Of Summer Go Under The Dome 
Baseball season came to a rather rotten end for me in 1991. There I was in Minneapolis’s house of horrors, the Metrodome, covering the seventh game of the World Series between Atlanta’s Braves (with apologies to the Portland Oregonian) and the Minnesota Twins, a nickname a clever person said was insensitive to couples who couldn’t have children. 

Around the fifth inning, with no score in the game, the ribbon on my typewriter, which was manufactured sometime around the turn of the century, suddenly wouldn’t advance. I couldn’t make letters and words appear on the white paper in front of me. 

I fiddled with the problem for six more outs and was nearing a panic stage. What if I couldn’t figure out a way to free the ribbon? 

The game would end and I would have to write my column longhand and I hadn’t written anything in longhand since my last essay-type test in college. 

And who could I get to help me with the ribbon? Everybody else in the press box was writing on a Star Wars computer. Who would remember about typewriter ribbons? 

By the grace of God, I finally hit the right lever inside my typewriter and the ribbon started moving again. 

Then the Braves lost 1-0 because Lonnie Smith went brain dead on the base path. 

I finished my column and left the Metrodome. Outside, Twins fans were celebrating by doing such things as climbing onto the tops of buses. 

I had hired a car and driver to take me back to my hotel. 

Some kids had asked my driver for whom he was waiting. 

“Some guy from Atlanta,” he told them. 

When I arrived at the car the kids began heckling me. 

“We beat your [bad word]!” one screamed. 

“Go home, you redneck!” screamed another. 

Once I was inside the car and had locked my doors, they banged on the windows and roof and one of the Norse waifs pressed his nose and mouth on one of the windows. 

As I recall the incident now, I think he looked a little like Paul Tsongas. 

When I finally reached my hotel, shaken but unscathed, the bar was closed. 

I made a mental note that Minnesota calling itself the gopher state was an insult to gophers, and went to sleep. 

It is difficult for me to believe the 1992 baseball season is upon us so quickly. 

Wasn’t the nightmare in Minneapolis just yesterday? 

Indeed not. The 1992 Atlanta Braves, defending National League champions, are about to open their season, and many questions arise. 

I will attempt to answer some of them: 

Can the Braves repeat as National League champions? 


You really think so? 

If you really must know, I’m extremely concerned about Cincinnati. 

What can we expect of David Justice this season? 

A lot of pouting when things don’t go his way. 

Does the team have a drug problem? 

Well, they were drug all over the field during spring training but you can’t really go by that. 

Will the chop come back? 

Was Custer surprised at little Big Horn? 

Will Jane and Ted have a successful marriage? 

Who do I look like, Dear Abby? Let’s stick to baseball. 

What part of the Braves do you think will be the most improved? 

Their bank accounts. 

What would you like to see out of Lonnie Smith this season? 

An apology. 

If the Braves get to the World Series and have to play the Twins again, would you go back to Minneapolis? 

If I can take along a typewriter technician, and my own bat.

Does this mean Tech will man up and play Southern?

Enjoy viewing Georgia Southern as ‘that little school with minor league championships’ while you can, they’re moving to the Sunbelt. 

In all honesty, I’m not sure how much of a step up this is with all the Sunbelt-level teams moving up the conferences like Conference USA. But hey, at least the gang in Statesboro can shoot for the St. Petersburg Bowl or the New Orleans Bowl.

All of that said, having more schools in the state on the same playing level of division is a good thing. 

Now if only Valdosta State would move up…


Lugnut Dawg

“What are you saying, some of these guys are furniture movers?”

Major League is one of my favorite sports movies of all-time. Not the best, but it’s up there pretty high. Part of that is that movie greatly reminds you of the Atlanta Braves 1991 season.

Unfortunately, it also reminds of another baseball fortune within the peach state, the state of the Georgia baseball program.

This program isn’t just having a bad spell. It’s one that it has fallen into and not gotten back up from, and that falls completely on David Perno.

Look, I know David Perno is well-liked, especially in Athens. But keeping someone on because they are well-liked works fine on some lower levels, but not in the top conference in college baseball.

The funny thing is, things were set up for the opposite. Remember 2008, when one of the greatest flukes of all-time, Fresno State kept Georgia from a national title? One would a think a national runner-up finish would catapult the program. Instead it has done the opposite. In the four seasons since, Georgia has failed to advance to the regionals and in its two regional appearances has failed to advance. 

Look, I know there has been adversity within the roster. Injuries happen. But when you have a recruiting base that Georgia has, there’s no reason not to have depth built up. 

Perno’s apologists will be quick to point to the fact that Georgia is playing in the toughest division within the a major baseball conference. I won’t dispute that, but there was a time when Georgia was one of those teams that teams tried to beat.

Think about it. Kentucky is now a top-five caliber baseball program. Yep, Kentucky, a program that was a laughingstock like most other sports at UK except for basketball.

If you can recruit players at a place like Kentucky, why in the world can’t you recruit at the flagship school that’s a gold mine for baseball prospects?

The fact is, pretty much the rest of the SEC has moved past of further ahead of Georgia. If it wants to catch up, it’ll have to be with someone besides David Perno leading the way.

Lugnut Dawg



Lewis Grizzard Thursday: Obituary

Lewis Grizzard passed away 19 years ago yesterday.  On March 21, 1994 this obituary ran in the AJC.   The AJC reprinted it on the 10th anniversary of his death, along with the obituary for his beloved Catfish.

A son of the South

Famed columnist dies at 47 following fourth heart surgery

By Charles Seabrook,Tom Bennett

Toward the end, Lewis Grizzard, knowing his chances of seeing another springtime in his beloved Georgia were slim, still made people laugh.

Even his doctors.

They recounted Sunday that in a tense moment last week, after they had explained to Grizzard that he had less than a 50-50 chance of surviving his fourth open-heart surgery, he responded:

“When’s the next bus to Albuquerque?”

Grizzard, whose thrice-weekly syndicated humor column made hundreds of thousands of readers laugh, died Sunday morning at Emory University Hospital in an intensive care unit after a life-support system was removed. He was 47.

Death came from massive brain damage, apparently caused by an obstruction that broke off from his aorta before or during surgery and lodged in an artery that fed oxygenated blood to his brain.

His body will be on public view at the McKoon Funeral Home in Newnan from 3-9 p.m. today. A memorial service will be held at 2 p.m. Tuesday at the Moreland Methodist Church, the church he called “so dear to my childhood.”

He married there for the first time (at age 19) in 1966 to Nancy Jones. He married for the fourth time four days ago (to Dedra Kyle) in the hospital where he died.

He once said he wanted “somebody, preferably Willie Nelson,” to sing his favorite hymn, “Precious Memories,” at his funeral. His body, however, will be cremated, and the ashes buried next to his mother’s grave in Moreland.

His mother, Christine Word Atkinson, died in 1989 after a long illness. In many poignant columns and books, Grizzard wrote with near reverence of the former first-grade schoolteacher.

“Mama taught me that an education was necessary for a fuller life,” he wrote. “She taught me an appreciation of the language. She taught a love of words, of how they should be used and how they can fill a creative soul with a passion and lead it to a life’s work.”

The Washington Post wrote: “He compares every woman to his mother, who spoiled him rotten.”

But he reserved some of his most moving columns for his father, Lewis Grizzard Sr., a highly decorated veteran of World War II and the Korean War who died in 1970 of a stroke.

Grizzard said that after his father returned from the Korean War, he was a changed man. “He began to bender-drink heavily. He couldn’t handle the family finances and borrowed large sums of money. He eventually left the army, or the army left him.

“My mother could no longer cope with my father’s problems and had a 6-year-old on her hands. She moved us to her parents’ home and eventually divorced my father.”

Jim Minter, a former Atlanta Journal-Constitution editor and one of Grizzard’s closest friends, said “one of Lewis’s worries . . . was that he didn’t measure up to his dad.”

Grizzard said his book about his father, “Daddy Was a Pistol and I’m a Son of a Gun,” was his favorite.

Humor to the hilt

In large part, his family roots were responsible for making Grizzard a fiercely proud Southerner. His 20 books and syndicated columns in the Journal-Constitution and 450 other newspapers played redneck humor to the hilt. He took special delight in attacking Yankees, liberal politicians, draft evaders and feminists.

Many readers, instead of laughing at his wit, became enraged. Some called him a racist, a label Grizzard vehemently denied.

Divorced three times, Grizzard wrote that women’s activities should be limited to rubbing his back, hugging his neck, baking pies, frying chicken and washing his clothes.

“He’s pricked some people once considered off-limits to pricking,” Minter said. “He [was] absolutely the best of anyone I know at walking up to the edge of bad taste without being in bad taste.”

Pat Conroy, another best-selling Southern author whose novels often decried racism and other problems of the South, once suggested that Grizzard represented mostly what was wrong with the South.

Conroy wrote that he “loathed” the South that Grizzard revered.

Grizzard, who loathed neckties, once acknowledged in a television interview that “I’m not a modern man.” Many of his friends said he was born two centuries too late.

Grizzard poked fun at his record of marital problems and his greatest phobia – flying in airplanes. Whenever possible, he preferred to travel by car or bus.

A favorite target was Georgia Tech, the football rival of his alma mater, the University of Georgia. Grizzard was a fixture at Sanford Stadium on the Georgia campus on Saturday afternoons when his beloved football Dawgs played at home.

Former Georgia head football coach Vince Dooley, whose team won the national championship in 1980 with running great Herschel Walker, was one of Grizzard’s closest friends. Dooley’s successor, Ray Goff, was at the hospital Sunday when Grizzard died.

Grizzard left the university needing one course to graduate. Years later, UGA gave it to him and awarded him a journalism degree.

Popular on lecture circuit

Grizzard was a popular figure on the lecture circuit, commanding up to $20,000 a speech. He occasionally appeared on television, including guest spots on “The Tonight Show,” “Designing Women” and “Larry King Live.”

The columns, books and personal appearances made him wealthy, but Grizzard yearned to be taken seriously as a writer.

“I wish one time in my life I could do what other writers do . . . get me a villa in Spain and go there to write a book,” he said in a 1992 magazine interview. “I’d like to know what I could do if I really had the time to spend on writing a book, with no columns or shows to do at the same time.”

Lewis McDonald Grizzard Jr. was born Oct. 20, 1946, at Fort Benning, Ga.

After his mother divorced his father, she returned to Moreland and remarried. The young Grizzard grew up there and went to Moreland Elementary. He graduated from high school in nearby Newnan in 1964.

As a UGA freshman, he was a summertime feature writer for the Newnan Times-Herald. That September, he joined the 2-month-old Athens Daily News.

Newspaper ‘boy wonder’

He became a “boy wonder” of the newspaper business. He was named sports editor of the Athens newspaper at 19, and, at 21, became sports editor of The Atlanta Journal. He became an assistant city editor of The Journal in 1975, but left after a short stint to free-lance for Sports Illustrated and other publications.

Later that year, however, he joined the sports department of the Chicago Sun-Times, and that October was named executive sports editor.

But Grizzard disliked Chicago intensely, especially its bitter winters. Last year, when he was facing his third open-heart operation, which almost killed him, he said the surgery would be about as pleasant as “having to move back to Chicago.”

In April 1977, pining for Georgia, Grizzard phoned his old friend and mentor, Minter, then The Constitution’s managing editor. Minter said he was thinking of hiring a sports columnist.

“Hire me!” Grizzard said, and Minter did. The column began in The Constitution’s sports section.

In February 1978, the newspaper announced that Grizzard’s column would move over to the news section. Veteran reporters at the newspaper speculated that Grizzard might fall flat on his face because he lacked experience in news.

Column caught on

But his columns caught on like wildfire. They became the talk of Atlanta, and then the South. He was syndicated to other papers by King Features.

Decrying computers, he pounded out his columns on a vintage Royal manual typewriter, and phoned them in to his assistant, Gerrie Ferris – “Wanda Fribish” in his columns.

The fictional characters from his childhood, so familiar to his readers, began to emerge: Weyman C. Wannamaker Jr., Kathy Sue Loudermilk and Cordie Mae Poovey.

His move into book-writing became a Southern publishing event. Peachtree Publishers of Atlanta distributed his first book, the 1979 collection of his columns titled “Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You,” and it sold 75,000 copies the first week.

His second book, “Elvis Is Dead And I Don’t Feel So Good Myself,” made The New York Times best-seller list. He was annually the region’s best-selling author.

He chronicled his newspaper career in a book that also summed up his feelings about the South: “If I Ever Get Back to Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet to the Ground.”

At the time of his death, he was planning his 21st book – about dogs, especially his Labrador retriever, Catfish, who died five months ago.

Stage and album

Grizzard added concert stage appearances in 1985. A favorite closing line: “Life is like a dog-sled team; if you ain’t the lead dog, the scenery never changes.”

That same year he released a comedy album, “On the Road With Lewis Grizzard – I’ve Seen England, I’ve Seen France, I’ve Seen Miss America Without Her Underpants.”

Most readers, however, knew him through his newspaper columns.

As his fame spread, he let readers and audiences in on the details of a playboy lifestyle he had adopted. In one column, the onetime country boy from Moreland described how he had shot the rapids on a river in Idaho; in another, how he had spent the day sunning himself on the Cote d’Azur in the south of France – and taking note of the topless swimsuit attire.

Some of his newspaper colleagues were models for some of the characters. Journal-Constitution reporter Bill Robinson, his longtime friend, became Billy Bob Bailey, the world’s most obnoxious Alabama fan.

He wrote about things he liked – home-grown tomatoes, Moon Pies, doughnuts and especially barbecue – and things he disliked: buttermilk, fishing, computers, electric typewriters, Dom DeLuise and TV evangelists.

Columnists are fair game for every cause and complaint, and Grizzard frequently gave the space to them – a hit-and-run victim, a couple whose home had been burglarized.

But more commonly he wrote about his passions: trains, patriotism, pickup trucks, cowboys, his dog Catfish and country music.

The trivialities of his life filled the column: He couldn’t build or repair anything. At age 7 he wanted to be Roy Rogers. His mother made him bathe. No one could cook eggs over medium-well the way his mother could.

Commentary and criticism

But he also ventured into social commentary, sometimes drawing sharp criticism.

When some friends who had been rafting on the Chattahoochee River found themselves in the midst of a gay raft race, Grizzard wrote that people “have a right to float down the river without having to see a sex show, gay or otherwise. If sex had been meant to be an outdoor activity, we would never have been given motel rooms.” Gays blasted the column as unfair.

But he frustrated his conservative readers, too, when he supported abortion and gun control. Of the latter, he wrote: “The National Rifle Association [members] are bullet brains. I’d like to see the animals armed.”

After his 1993 heart surgery, Grizzard took a softer tone in his columns, writing appreciatively of his recovery and his relationship with Dedra.

Mainly, he loved life, and it showed, said his friends. Grizzard said one of his big worries was that “somewhere there is a great party going on, and I’m missing it.”


The Encyclopedia of Southern Culture called Lewis Grizzard “the Faulkner of the common man.” Here’s a list of his books:

“Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You,” 1979.

“Elvis Is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself” and “Won’t You Come Home, Billy Bob Bailey?,” 1980.

`Don’t Sit Under the Grits Tree With Anyone Else But Me,” 1981.

“They Tore Out My Heart and Stomped That Sucker Flat,” about his first open-heart surgery, 1982.

“If Love Were Oil, I’d Be About a Quart Low,” 1983.

“Shoot Low Boys, They’re Ridin’ Shetland Ponies,” 1985.

“My Daddy Was a Pistol and I’m a Son of a Gun” and “When My Love Returns From the Ladies Room, Will I Be Too Old to Care?,” 1987.

“Don’t Bend Over in the Garden, Granny, You Know Them ‘Taters Got Eyes,” 1988.

“Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night” and “Lewis Grizzard on Fear of Flying,” 1989.

“If I Ever Get Back to Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet to the Ground,” “Advice to Newly Wed . . . & the Newly Divorced” and “Does a Wild Bear Chip in the Woods?,” about golf, 1990.

“You Can’t Put No Boogie-Woogie on the King of Rock and Roll,” “Don’t Forget to Call Your Mama, I Wish I Could Call Mine,” and “Heapin’ Helping of True Grizzard: Down Home Again With Lewis Grizzard,” 1991.
“I Haven’t Understood Anything Since 1962: And Other Nekkid Truths,” 1992.

“I Took a Lickin’ and Kept on Tickin’ and Now I Believe in Miracles,” 1993.

Source: Books on File, 1992-93
© The Atlanta Journal – Consitution

Originally published November 28, 1993 in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Reprinted Monday, March 21, 1994:

Catfish, the black Lab, has up and died

By Lewis Grizzard

My dog Catfish, the black Lab, died Thanksgiving night.

The vet said his heart gave out.

Down in the country, they would have said, “Lewis’s dog up and died.” He would have been 12 had he lived until January.

Catfish had a good life. He slept indoors. Mostly he ate what I ate. We shared our last meal Tuesday evening in our living room in front of the television.

We had a Wendy’s double cheeseburger and some chili.

Catfish was a gift from my friends Barbara and Vince Dooley. Vince, of course, is the athletic director at the University of Georgia. Barbara is a noted speaker and author.

I named him driving back to Atlanta from Athens where I had picked him up at the Dooleys’ home. I don’t know why I named him what I named him. He was all curled up in a blanket on my back seat. And I looked at him and it just came out. I called him: “Catfish.”

I swear he raised up from the blanket and acknowledged. Then he severely fouled the blanket and my back seat.

A powerful set of jaws

He was a most destructive animal the first three years of his life.

He chewed things. He chewed books. He chewed shoes.

“I said to Catfish, ‘Heel,’ ” I used to offer from behind the dais, “and he went to my closet and chewed up my best pair of Guccis.”

Catfish chewed television remote control devices. Batteries and all.

He chewed my glasses. Five pairs of them.

One day, when he was still a puppy, he got out of the house without my knowledge. The doorbell rang. It was a young man who said, “I hit your dog with my car, but I think he’s OK.”

He was. He had a small cut on his head and he was frightened, but he was otherwise unhurt.

“I came around the corner,” the young man explained, “and he was in the road chewing on something. I hit my brakes the second I saw him.”

“Could you tell what he was chewing on?” I asked.

“I know this sounds crazy,” the young man answered, “but I think it was a beer bottle.”

Catfish stopped chewing while I still had a house. Barely.

Known far and wide

He was a celebrity, Catfish. I spoke recently in Michigan.

Afterwards a lady came up to me and said, “I was real disappointed with your speech. You didn’t mention Catfish.”

Catfish used to get his own mail. Just the other day the manufacturer of a new brand of dog food called “Country Gold,” with none other than George Jones’s picture on the package, sent Catfish a sample of its new product. For the record, he stil preferred cheeseburgers and chili.

Catfish was once grand marshal of the Scottsboro, Ala., annual Catfish Festival. He was on television and got to ride in the front seat of a police car with its siren on.

He was a patient, good-natured dog, too. Jordan, who is 5, has been pulling his ears since she was 2. She even tried to ride him at times. He abided with nary a growl.

Oh, that face and those eyes. What he could do to me with that face and those eyes. He would perch himself next to me on the sofa in the living room and look at me.

And love and loyalty would pour out with that look, and as long as I had that, there was very little the human race could do to harm my self- esteem.

Good dogs don’t love bad people.

He was smart. He was fun. And he loved to ride in cars. There were times he was all that I had.

And now he has up and died. My own heart, or what is left of it, is breaking.

© The Atlanta Journal – Constitution

Published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution on March 19, 2004


Lewis Grizzard Wednesday

Today, 19 years ago, the world lost a DGD in every sense of the word when Lewis passed away. 

We can thank of nothing more appropriate than this photo. 



Waiting For The Smoke to Clear

This post’s title has a lot of pun intended. 

Classes resume  today in Athens.  We haven’t heard any reports from credible news outlets about any hotboxing in LA on the way to PCB or any drunken escapades in Remerton on the way to Daytona. 

That is just winning a battle of the offseason’s annual war against Mark Richt.  The next major battle is when the drug test results come back from this week. 

I really hope the Athletic Association Board in their most recent meeting went into a closed door exec session and said that there would be no drug tests administered for 6-8 weeks after Spring Break.  Now, that truly would be random. 


Spring Is In The Air-Baseball Season In Full Bloom

Look outside your office window.  What do you see?  Well, I see a parking lot,  I-75, and a lot of fat old ladies walking around the parking lot on their lunch break trying to feel good about exercising for 5 minutes a day.  

But bear with me here.  Use your imagination.  I see warmer weather, plants blooming, and birds and bees courting.  Yes, I see springtime. 

As spring approaches it means that another baseball season is about to be underway.    We all love the Braves around here; like many other folks my age, our formative childhood years were in the early 1990s, when the Braves were on top and the Bulldogs were “goffing” off (I wonder if I am the first person in the last 20 years to make that pun…doubt it).  You could say the Braves were my first true sports love.

But with great love comes great anger.  I get so aggrevated with the Braves.  We even went through a nasty seperation and damn near divorce during the 2008 season. 

I have been as hard on Frank Wren as anyone.  But he has made some moves this offseason that are truly amazing that he was able to pull off.  The problems that the Braves have had with personnel aren’t poor front office decisions, but rather ownership ones. 

Dealing Tommy Hanson for Jordan Walden was brilliant.  Walden was a former closer for the Angels and has good stuff.  Tommy Hanson, the once future ace of the rotation, is broken down and is a liability.  Shipping Hanson off opens the door for Julio Teheran.  Now the Braves have without question the best and deepest bullpen in all of baseball.   

But somehow, Frank Wren pulled off a major coup with the signing of B.J. Upton and the trade for his brother, Justin.  I know it hurts losing Martin Prado, but look at what I said early last year:

A guy at work made a great point-Prado is one of the key pieces to the Braves offense.  Prado is a great player and seemingly an equally great person.  But if the Braves want to compete for a Championship, to be at the level with the Rangers, Tigers, Phillies and Yankees, then having Martin Prado being your best offensive player won’t cut it.  If Prado was with any of the aforementioned teams, do you think he would be the key part in the lineup?

Getting both Upton brothers gives two guys that combined will give you close to 60 HR and 50 SB.  Throw in Heyward, and the Braves now have the best outfields in the National League and one of these in all of baseball (the Angles have a pretty good one with Trout and Hamilton). 

Will be the first season in almost 20 years that #10 isn’t batting 3rd and playing 3rd.  A lot of fans were letting their hearts control their emotions about Chipper; he was way past his prime and it was time for him to move on.  He will be missed, but not as much as you might think. 

One of the underrated additions of the J. Upton deal was the acquisition of Chris Johnson.  Johnson is a third basemen that will solve the question at thrid base. 

Last year, Chipper played 112 games, 387 AB, scored 58 runs, 14 HR, 62 RBI and hit .287.   Chris Johnson played in 136 games, 528 AB, 48 runs, 15 HR, 76 RBI and hit .281.  Very comparable numbers to Chipper, so if Johnson can win the job from Juan Francisco, then there won’t be a drop off in production.  He won’t win us any games, but his production won’t cost us anything either.  It is not like there is a huge drop there.

Look at what Prado did in 2012.  156 games, 617 AB, 81 runs, 10 HR, 70 RBI and hit .301.  So from the original 2013 projected thrid basemen to the current 2013 projected third basemen, there will be  a drop, but no a killer one.

The Braves have upgraded across the board, and lineup will be much improved. 

If the starting rotation can hold serve until Beachy comes back from his Tommy John surgery, then the Braves will be the team to beat again in the NL.  It will be a fun season, and April 1 at 7:10 pm to get here fast enough.


Lewis Grizzard Wednesday: Non-working vending machines

Vending Machines That Won’t Work

I’ve been considering measures to take against vending machines that refuse to work.
I haven’t any concrete numbers, but I would guess that in the 30 or so years I’ve been feeding money into these callous contraptions, they actually have worked only about 50 percent of the time.

A few times when they don’t work, the machine doesn’t deliver the object I have selected, but it does return my money. I can deal with this.

What happens mostly, however, is the machine not only doesn’t give me my soft drink or candy or bag of peanuts, it also refuses to return my money.

I cannot deal with this. My eyes bulge out, my hands begin to shake, and I want to kill the machine.

To this point, I never have taken any drastic measures, however, because of my fear of the men in the white coats with their butterfly nets.

Another source of my frustration when it comes to vending machines is this: There never seems to be anybody around to scream at when a stupid machine has just ripped you off.

You would think, since the machine is in a hotel or a restaurant, you could go to some sort of assistant manager and say, in a loud voice so others could hear you, “Your blankety-blank machine has robbed me of my money!”

The problem is that when a vending machine refuses to work, it is impossible to find anybody who will take responsibility for it.

“We just lease the space to the vending company,” I have been told.

“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Wallakowski about that and he’s on vacation in Wyoming and will not be back until 1988,” is another cop-out.

It would be easier getting your money back from a television evangelist.

I decided, however, it is possible to get something back that is better than your money – revenge. Here is how I have planned to get back at the next vendin g machine that robs me:

1. I am going to kick the machine. I don’t mean a gentle kick. I mean, I’m going to rear back and kick the machine until there are large dents in it. I am going to kick it until it is in a terrible state of disrepair and then I am going to spit on it and call it ugly names.

2. After that, I am going to get violent. I am going to my car and get my lug wrench, and I am going to beat the machine some more. I want glass to fly. I want things inside the machine to make awful crunching sounds. I want nuts and bolts and screws to roll around on the floor. I want nearby dogs to whimper and small children to cry.

3. Then, I’m going to get really mad. I’m going to set the thing on fire. I am going to take off my clothes and dance naked around the smoldering machine, throwing my hands wildly into the air while giving out primal screams.

And after a few days of quiet rest in my padded cell, I will emerge a new man.

Jim Ross Calling Of Clowney’s Hit

You’re welcome….

Eating crow with the Hoop Dawgs

I’ll admit. I, along with many others didn’t feel too good about the state of this Georgia basketball team about two months ago.

At that time, this team was downright bad, losing to bad teams out of conference. Its managing to win one of its first five SEC games seemed to be, at the time, a minor miracle.

I’ll admit – I had reservations about Coach Mark Fox. Not about his coaching abilities, but the direction that the program was headed. There was a building case for a hard look at if the burner underneath his proverbial hot seat needing to be lit.

But I’ll proudly say that I’ll eat some crow on that one, preferably served with a side of Mrs. Griffin’s BBQ sauce.

Sure, this team got going thanks to a less than stellar schedule, but it won those games it is supposed to win. Now, its playing its best basketball, and that is a definite credit of Fox being able to squeeze all that he can out of the cards he has in his deck.

Look, I know Kentucky fans, who like one of their players think that they should ‘never to lose Georgia,’ will claim last night’s win was no big deal.

Stop right there, though. I don’t care what the circumstances are – Kentucky is still Kentucky – a team that won a national title last year.

Who knows, maybe the Hoop Dawgs can make another run through the SEC tournament.

Someone has to do it. Why not Georgia?

Go Dawgs!

Lugnut Dawg