E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
Fastest $570,000 Ever Spent
Do you feel that a Ferrari is too soft, too civilized for you? Then go for a Lamborghini Diablo. The historic Italian marque keeps producing a car as cars were meant to be until some years ago. The Diablo is an object of desire, a car that speaks to its owner's heart more than any other car on production today (remember that Ferrari F50 and McLaren F1 are not produced anymore, and all the Ferrari Enzo's are already bought). Yes the Diablo is poetry in motion.
You can't really understand the size of a Diablo until you actually see one on the road and you surely can't understand the feel of a Lamborghini Diablo until you actually drive it. It makes more noise than you can imagine, yet, the sound of its V12 can instantly stir you up, it is more impractical than anything else you have seen in your life, yet still it is irresistible.
Many versions have been spawn off the original Diablo with the latest '99 SV getting a 530bhp rear mounted engine.
Too bad the driver is dumber than a bag of hammers and confused the brake with the clutch...
Clearly I Can See Your Nuts
Of all the feedback I've received regarding the Harley raffle, I've only received emails from two people who are really bent out of shape about it and somehow feel they were jipped. One of which was too fucking stupid to have even bought a ticket in the first place, so you can see the Rhodes Scholars I'm forced to work with sometimes...
Now given that it happened to be that it was my brother who won the Harley in the raffle I was drumming up publicity for, I can understand there may be a few raised eyebrows. Hell, I'd even expect it given I practically raised you people to be cynical bastards. But I'll tell you the same thing I tell people when it comes to criticism... there's a right way and a wrong way to present your case.
Right way: "Wow, pretty lucky someone you know won! I'll be looking forward to when you post the video of the raffle for everyone see!"
Wrong way: Well, I'm not going to copy and paste your entire answers, but let's just say that (a) accusing the family of defrauding everyone (b) telling me my brother isn't a stand up guy and (c) calling me a rat aren't exactly the ways to spread the proverbial virgin's legs.
Jon, you're glad you didn't waste your money? You know what, I am too because I don't think they'd want it you worthless piece of garbage. Because you know, the whole purpose of this raffle wasn't to raise money, it was to give you something for free. You sir, are a crap juggler.
Mike? You've been on my mailing list since December 2001 and ironically enough I don't see any support from you through LBEH 1 or 2, Daisy, or even a Happy Fucking Birthday email. You're a blood sucking freeloader, and it'll be my pleasure to kick you off my list, you should-have-been abortion.
Sure you would have a legit gripes if it were MY raffle, but Ah-ha! It wasn't. It was something out of my control, something I was drumming up much deserved publicity for. I had the same shot of winning -- or losing -- per ticket as you did. But let me ask you this. If we worked together and the Powerball lottery was at say... $100 million, and I went around the office saying "Hey I'm going to the store, do you want to come with me and get some tickets?" Should I exclude myself from buying a lottery ticket merely because I told you about it? And if I had won, would you accuse the lottery of being fixed or me of being in cahoots with the lottery comission and the store owner? It's the same thing.
But forgetful as I am becoming in my advancing age, I find I have to write myself notes on occasion to remind me to do things. So I've written something to remind me to post the video to ease everyone's minds...http://www.ehowa.com/mikeandjon.
Ode To Jim Koch
Well it's that time again folks. No, not time to pay your water bill, but time for me to reflect on just how much Nectar of the Gods I've consumed in my budding and distinguished drinking career. Time to think back and try to wrap my arms around all of the frosty, yeasty goodness that has danced its way down my gullet like a world class ballerina.
My last such report was done on November 5th, 2001, so we'll be incorporating about a year and a half's word of suds into our new numbers.
And I'd also like to go on record as saying that the best Sam Adams I've ever had is *still* the one after drinking fistfuls of Coors Extra Gold at a party.
Again, my usual disclaimers before such a post. All calculations have been done on an Excel spreadsheet (which I am going to make available and where you can plug in your own numbers and compare your drinking career against mine), and for the sake of measuring convience in regards to height, I'll be using the dimensions of a 12oz can of beer (4 3/4" tall and 2 5/8" in diameter), instead of a 12oz bottle which presents us with a nonuniform shape.
Now, all hail King Sam.
Today is July 24th, 2003, which means that given my 21st birthday was May 2nd, 1993, I've been drinking legally for 3,725 days, or 10.2 years.
Ahh, the memories. Although really, not so much.
Again, you can see the peak of my alcohol intake during my stint in the Air Force, followed by a quick lull of heartache, followed again by in surge of complacency.
To date, I have consumed 5,716 bottles of frosty amber Sam Adams Boston Lager. Over 238 cases of chilled brown bottles, each glistening with tiny beads of condensation gathered in the warm summer sun, all waiting to cool and revitalize me with the lash of their delicious tongues.
Inflation. Clearly you can see the reason why the federal government gives cost-of-living increases to soldiers and the elderly on social security -- the cost of a six-pack of Sam Adams has increased on the average of $0.26 per year, or almost four and a half cents per bottle per year. Greedy bastards.
Investments. My total financial expenditure for all these beers is $5,383.14 to date, averaging $0.94 per beer. Assuming an average 15% return per year via some half assed mutual fund, had I chose to invest this money rather than drink it, I would have a balance of $11,901.82 in my checking account.
The starting price of a 2003 Kia Spectra? $11,695.00
But would you trade all your precious drinking memories for a piece of shit foreign car? I sure as hell wouldn't.
Let's say however, that I has chose to invest this money in the stock market -- given that I've been in the computer/communications field for the duration of my drinking career -- Microsoft seems like a worthwhile investment, don't you think? Microsoft stock (MSFT) has undergone five 2:1 stock splits from 1994 to 2003. The adjusted stock price on May 3, 1993 taking into account all these splits would be $2.691 per share, thus my $5,383.14 beer fund would have purchased me exactly 2,000 shares of common stock of Mr. Bill Gates' pet project. The current value of MSFT (11:12am on 7/24/03) is $26.79, thus had I chosen the career path of an stock broker instead of a drinker, pledging my full support to the future monopolist instead of the brewer and patriot, I'd have a bank account of $53,591.38.
The starting price of a shiny new 2003 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 with 405 horsepower and goes from 0-60 in 3.9 seconds? $52,235.00
But would you trade all your precious drinking memories for a bad ass American monster? Well, tempting as it is, I can't say that I would.
But while we're on the top of cars, let's talk about something else. Some religions tell us that Jesus turned water into wine, and while I admire his drinking spirit, find wine a little too fruity for my tastes. I'd have probably turned water into Sam, but alas, for the sake of argument, let us instead say I say to hell with all the hippies and their vegetable oil powered cars and instead transform my vehicles into beer powered fun machines.
We already know that I've consumed 5,716 twelve ounce bottles of beer, yielding me 68,592 fluid ounces of delicious problem solving beer. That equates to a 535.9 gallon gas can filled to the brim.
My Dodge Ram with a 5.9 liter V-8 yields me a paltry 16 miles per gallon on the highway, assuming a cruising speed of 70mph. Go even faster than that and not even Gates himself could keep up with my gas bills. So after I walk on water, say "Hallelujah", wave my magic wand and dump my precious beer my truck, I could travel a respectable 8,574 miles before sputtering on empty.
Distance from New York City to Manila? 8,490 miles.
For those of you environmentally conscious, my Audi TT is a gas sipper and yields a respectable 31 miles per gallon from it's 1.8 liter 4 banger. Again, more hocus-pocus from me and before your very eyes, I will climb in my beer powered car and drive 16,612 miles on my consumed beer.
The circumference of the Earth at the equator? 24,901 miles.
Dammit. This means I've got two choices if I want to drive around the earth in a beer-powered frenzy. Either (a) buy a Honda Civic with a standard transmission, which gets 46 mpg, or (b) drink 267 gallons (2,852 bottles) of more beer. Personally, I'll choose the latter. Look for my "Round The World Tour " sometime in January 2011 assuming I keep drinking at my current pace.
But wait, there's more.
Those of you who looked at my recent ATV crash photos knows that well, as embarrassing as it is, I've got some love handles that I need to get rid of. But first, let us look at where they came from, shall we?
A 12 oz bottle of frosty delicious Sam Adams Boston Lager contains 160 calories, thus over the course of my drinking experience of 5,716 bottles, I have consumed a belt busting 914,560 calories from beer.
Calories in McDonaldís Big Mac? 580. Thus I would have to consume 1,577 Big Macs to equal my beer intake -- about one every other day. Which is nothing compared to the calories in a Burger King Whopper with cheese (no tomato!) which yields 855 calories. I'd have to eat 1,070 of them, about one every three days. Those of you who like breakfast are in luck though, as a Dunkin Donut's Boston Creme donut only has 240 calories, so you'd have to eat 3,811 of those to catch my beer belly, roughly one per day.
But I'm a man and I don't count calories, at least not for the sake of vanity. But let us think in terms of how beer enriched and empowers us to be productive in our lives, shall we?
We know that I have extracted 914,560 calories of rip-roaring energy from my precious beer.
Typing at a computer burns only 114 calories per hour, which means I'd have to type continually for 8,022.5 hours to burn all these beer calories, or just over 334 days straight without taking so much as a potty break. That means if I had my supply of beer all in one shot, I could answer 1,444,042 emails during this almost year long drunken daze, assuming a rate of three emails per minute. That's right, I could write mocking letters to virtually every black male in the United States who cannot vote because of a felony conviction, and not need a morsel of sustenance for energy other than me beloved Sam Adams.
But let's exert ourselves a little bit; after all I've got love handles to lose, right? Running at a pace of 12 miles per hour, burns 984 calories per hour, or 82 calories per mile. That means I could enthusiastically run 11,153 miles with nothing more than a magical bottle of beer in my backpack. I could leave Boston, run 5,510 miles down to Buenos Aires, Argentina, bang some cheap hooker for 17 minutes (300 calories), and still have enough energy to get up and leave as soon as I'm done and run the 5,510 miles back home before she even knows I'm gone.
I achieve an environmentally friendly 20.8 miles per gallon of beer, about that of your average V-6 sedan.
We know that in order to lose one pound of fat, we must burn 3,500 calories, thus my beer drinking escapades have produced 261 extra pounds of Ernie. Given that I tip the scales at 171 lbs right now, we can conclude that if it were not for my partiality towards yummy Sam Adams beer, I'd have completely imploded and ceases to exist six years and nine months ago, in November 1996. Thank you for saving me Jim Koch, brewer of the best beer in America, Sam Adams.
The eleven pounds I've put on in the year and a half since my last beer stats? I've paid $226.61 for the privilege.... just over 240 bottles of beer, or ten cases worth.
Now I know many of you enjoy the height comparisons that can be drawn using the beer can dimensions I've previously stated. If you were to take all 5,716 four and three quarter inch tall cans of beer (work with me here) and stack them atop each other, just how tall would my drink be?
I'll tell you -- 2,263 feet tall. A little perspective, maestro...
The average American male is 5'8 with a vertical reach of 6'11. The average French soldier is 5'7 tall so I will assume their vertical reach to be an inch shorter as well at 6'10, or 82 inches. Thus you would need to stack 331 surrendering French soldiers atop each other -- two full infantry companies -- to equal the height and power of my drinking binges.
That means those pussy French can take TWO of their pussy Eiffel Towers and stack them atop each other, toss on the their pride and joy Airbus A-380, and they're still my little French whores by 34 feet. It'd take five of their soldiers surrendering to finally equal my tower. Bitches.
There are 1,728 cubic inches in a cubic foot, yielding 957.3 fluid ounces in a cubic foot, yielding 7.47 gallons per cubic foot. Thus my 535.9 gallons of been would fill 71.7 cubic feet of cargo space. Imagine taking your Ford Taurus station wagon I referenced last year, with it's 38.0 feet of cargo space, and filling it almost two times with beer. I drank it. I'd even overflow the 70 cubic feet of cargo space in the future 2004 Cadillac SRX sport utility vehicle.
At a weight of 8.4 pounds per gallon, I have consumed 4,501 pounds of beer, or a little over two and a quarter tons. I have drank my own body weight, in beer, 26.3 times.
Boobies. A girl I know just had breast augmentation done, and she went from a B-cup to a D-cup thanks to 475cc implants in each breast. Now, there are 2.5 centimeters in an inch, so she received (475/(2.5^3)) about 30.4 cubic inches of saline to give herself one marvelous pair of fun bags. Now, given there are 0.554 fluid ounces in a cubic inch, we can calculate each of her boobs yields 16.8 fluid ounces... 33.7 ounces total or 1.4 beers apiece. So she's got just shy of three beers tucked neatly within her new bras, I suppose I can pour out the remaining 2.3 ounces for all my dead homies, eh?. I could fill her new pair of bouncy D-cup breasts with Sam Adams a bra straining 2,036 times.
Going up two cup sizes from a B-cup to a D-cup required 475cc's -- or 237.5 ccís per boob per cup size. This equals out to 8.6 fluid ounces per boob per cup. Thus if we were to put all of my beer into one enormous pair of breast implants, she would leap forward on the evolutionary scale a monstrous 4,073 cup sizes, and her bra size would be have 156 Z's for the cup size. But trust me, you wouldn't be sleeping.
In closing, the part I know you all await with reckless abandon, the vomit analysis.
I have vomited 59 times so far from drinking too much Sam Adams. From last year's research, we know the human stomach holds between 1.5 and 4 liters of substance, for small to large persons respectively. Let us assume that I am middle of the road thus giving me a 2-liter stomach, and to error on the side of caution, that every time I drank myself sick, my stomach was only half full with stuff -- an even 1 liter. There are 34 fluid ounces in a liter. Let us further assume that when I did vomit, I didn't empty the entire contents of my stomach since most people don't, and that I only harf 2/3 of what's in it, thus yielding an average 22.4 fluid ounces per vomity goodness per session.
Total amount puked so far for those of you keeping score? 1,324 fluid ounces, or 10.3 gallons -- enough to fill a common aquarium. I'm averaging about a gallon of puke per year.
Given it's cost me $5,383 to buy the beer that induced said vomiting, we know I'm paying $4.07 to produce one fluid once of vomit. But as previously stated, I don't puke an ounce at a time, I puke in 22.4 fluid ounce value packs, depositing my stomach contents onto anyone or anything lucky enough to be standing nearby. But don't cringe; think about the gift I've given you! Surely you could put on ebay and fetch the fair market value $91.24!
A 34.0 ounce bottle of Dom Periogn sells for $109.99, or $414.08 per gallon. My puke is worth $520.44 per gallon. So please, think of me the next time you toast your good fortune, because I'll be having a Sammy for you.
Until next time, Cheers!
(Both of...) You Got Knocked The Fuck Out!
An Iraqi general rushes into Saddam's underground bunker with a very nervous look on his face. He spots Saddam talking with some other generals and sees the Iraqi Information Minister smoking a cigar in the corner. The general rushes over and leans close, "Muhammed," he stammers out, "I've just received word that Uday and Qusay, Saddam's sons, were killed in an ambush by the imperialist American dogs! Whatever shall we do? Surely we must break this news to Saddam himself, but who will be the bearer of bad news which will surely send Saddam into a tirade?"
"It's not a problem," assures the Iraqi Information Minister, "I have a special talent for gently breaking news at difficult times."
The general is unconvinced that Saddam can take this news easily, but is pushed aside by the Information Minister who confidently walks up to a nearby podium and taps the microphone, "Excuse me, King Saddam, brave generals of the Iraqi Army, may I have your attention please?"
Saddam and the generals stop their discussion and with a puzzled looks on their faces turn their attention to Muhammed.
"Thank you," he begind, "Could I just beg any of you with two sons that haven't been killed by American forces to please raise your hand? ...NOT SO FAST SADDAM!" he screams!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! That's a pair of aces for us, beyotch!
Hold Onto Your Socks Atlanta
Well folks, they say no good deed goes unpunished, and as much as I hate to validate a cliche, I guess there's some truth in that overused jumble of words.
When I first found out about Paul, Paul's family, and the ensuing raffle, I immediately sent in $250 via paypal, and told them it was a donation, I didn't want any tickets. Primarily because I didn't want anyone to think the raffle was anything less than genuine in the unlikely even that I actually won, and secondly because hey, what the hell am I going to do with a Harley. Up here in Boston traffic, I'd be a dead man rolling before I got out of third gear.
But I got to thinking and remembered my brother used to have a Harley, and had to sell it six years ago with the birth of he and his wife's second child, doing the responsible thing when they needed money to buy a more family-friendly vehicle. To add insult to injury... that vehicle ended up being a minivan. Ouch. Well anyway, he's been lusting after a Harley ever since, most of us dismissed his desires as the ramblings of a man entering middle age. Heh.
So I emailed Lisa, Paul's sister, and asked her if it would be okay if she put my brother's name on the ten tickets I had sent in the money for. She thought that was a great idea, and presto whiz bang, Brian received the tickets in the mail a few days later.
The raffle for SFC Paul Smith's Harley Davidson was this past weekend, and a winner has been drawn. I was ATV'ing on Saturday (same place that nearly killed me last weekend), and stopped to call a riding busy on my cell phone. The voicemail icon was blinking. I figured it was tyhe guy I was trying to call, telling me he was/was not going to make it up to join us for the latter part of the day.
Instead, it was my brother Brian. He won the Harley.
I thought he was busting my balls, and ironically, he thought the very same thing of me when the guys from the dealership in Atlanta called him up to tell him he'd won. It actually took them starting the bike so he could hear it before he finally believed it was real and not a cruel joke by yours truly. (kind of a warped relationship we Stewarts have, eh?)
So anyway, long story short, Sergeant First Class Paul Smith's Harley Davidson won't go to someone who's going to beat on it, or sell it on ebay for money to buy a rice rocket or a jet ski... but to someone who genuinely wants and appreciates a classic Harley Davidson.
And what else does this mean? Two words -- EHOWA Roadtrip. Watch out Georgia.
Stay tuned, and may I add my thanks along to the Smith/DeVane family's, to everyone who supported the raffle. They're making arrangements to get some video of the raffle to me, and I'll post it and make it available to everyone as soon as I can, so everyone can see it was on the up-and-up.
And thanks to Paul Smith for laying the fucking smack down on the bad guys, sacrificing himself so many of his fellow soldiers could make it home to their families and we the average Joe American can walk outside on a sunny day and bask in the warmth of sunshine and freedom.
Today Is The Last Day
Remember! Today is the LAST DAY to buy a raffle ticket for SFC Paul Smith's Harley Davidson! Tickets are $25 each and the money goes directly to Paul's family.
This late in the game, tickets can only be bought either in person at the Harley dealership or by paypal...
Visit the official site dedicated to Sergeant First Class Paul Smith's memory and the raffle of his Harley Davidson motorcycle... www.sfcpaulsmith.com. I'll post the results tomorrow, and I've also asked Paul's family to send me video of the drawing itself, which will be conducted by Paul's daughter. I'll post the video when I have it.
And what happens this coming week you might ask? Why the BEST TITS ON THE LIST 2004 CONTEST, that's what!
Sympathy? Not so much.
So the below post brought some interesting feedback from you people. Apparently there are some of you thought my injuries were more superficial given there were no casts or skin grafts involved.
Some of said feedback is just too good to keep to myself and I'm gonna share, because that's the kind of guy I am.
Which sure, would have been a whole lot funnier had it actually come from Iran and not the south side of Atlanta, but hey it's still pretty funny none the less. Good to see people using their imaginations, eh?
Yeah I'll bet those horrible landings in cushy soft drifts of sand are just murder, Dave. Better be careful you don't chip a nail, eh?
So there you have it. While Dave is spanking his "cactus" and his friends are weaving his asshair, I'll be...well, you know, spankin something else. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.
Hail to the King, baby.
Oh My Aching Bones, Part Deux
Alright, here's the details of the misunderstanding that occured this past Thursday between my ATV and me.
Remember that Simpsons episode where for a few minutes you get Homer's perception...you're seeing first person what he sees. The eyelids close and open and Bart is across the room. The eyelide close and open and Bart is a little closer. Again they close and open and Bart is even closer only you can tell he's got a squirtgun in his hand. That sort of thing.
So I'm hauling ass down this trail...more of a fire road truth be told because it's pretty wide, packed down and relatively flat. By relatively, I mean aside from four large "whoops" where if you're moving along enough, you can catch some pretty good air. I remind you that I was hauling ass. Now, the first two of these whoops I can always nail without a problem, soaring like the proverbial eagle. The third of which is a little tricky because you land on a sideways slope, but I'm getting a little experienced so I do alright there. The final of which has always given me problems because for some unexplained reason the ATV always wants to land nose first when I jump this one. No matter how far back I lean, it always wants to nose down. I'm like, "what the fuck?".
Anyway, we're coming back from the last trail run of the day and I've been riding pretty damned good all afternoon, so I say, "fuck it, I'm gonna hit all four this time, I'm going to jump good, land steady and not lose a lick of speed." Well, I'm batting 50-50 because I hit all four and I didn't lose a lick of speed.
You see while in midair launching over the "problematic" whoop, in fourth gear doing eh, about forty miles per hour and with the ATV beginning its nose-down journey, I had an epiphany. There's a small and difficult to see swell leading into the final whoop, thus instead of the ATV coming in flat and allowing your suspension to ride up the incline, you catch a little "mini-jump" just beforehand and then nose into the final whoop. This causes the front of the quad to bounce up and over the final whoop, followed shortly thereafter by the rear end, and is what leads to an inevitable nose-down landing. I realized this was not going to be good.
Now back to the Simpsons. Or rather, Homer. Or rather, to me.ATV lands left front tire first. Blink.
ATV is riding on right two wheels. Blink.
ATV is riding on left two wheels. Blink.
I put my arms out to break my fall. Blink.
I remember distinctly thinking, "Wow I'm about to break bones."
My right leg gets hung up on the ATV for just a second. Blink.
I begin to barrel roll to my left. Blink.
I break out of the roll and slide on my right side. For a long time. Blink.
I remember thinking, "Oh shit, please just don't let me slide into a tree..."
I mercilessly come to a stop.
I got up as soon as I came to a stop, if out of nothing else just out of morbid curiosity to see what worked and what didn't. I fully expected to feel shooting pains in some of my extremeties which would indicate I broke something, but suprisingly, the pain never came. Don't get me wrong, everything ached and throbbed, but that was to be expected given the telegram-for-mongo sized crash I just had. I squatted and stood, flexed my arms, twisted at the waist...everything appeared to be clean, dry and serviceable!
Then I turned my attention on my $7,000 ATV, which last I knew was heading down the trail, riderless and on two wheels. I didn't have to look far, it was a scant ten feet away. Stopped. On four wheels. Sitting there just as pretty as you please. Ain't that but a bitch? The friend I was riding with -- who got a great view of the whole thing but no helmetcam, sorry -- rides up and is slack jawed, "How the hell are you up and walking around?" he asks. He tells me that apparently I fishtailed left and right three or four times before finally going down, and when I did just got tossed around like a rag doll; literally cornholed by the forces of friction, momentum, and of course everyone's pal gravity.
Further inspection of my quad would reveal it ran almost dead straight into a tree full force, but again the fates smiled upon me, as the only damage was to the front bumper which had been completely crushed right back to the frame. Ironically enough, I had already bought a replacement bumper -- a nice shiny chrome one -- and was going to install it that morning but didn't because I simply couldn't find a wrench. Good thing, otherwise it'd be smooshed instead of the stock one. So long story short... no harm, no foul.
And aside from being banged up and scraped, I too escaped without serious injury. I credit being incredibly lucky (to counteract being incredibly stupid for riding too fast in a dangerous area), and the various articles of my riding gear to saving my precious bacon. I should also note that I didn't have elbow pads, but have since remedied that situation. So to all you fucking idiots who don't ride with any safety gear except for the cheapest helmet you could find, hey, you'll get what's coming to you soon enough, I'm sure.
I tip my hat to what saved my ass...
As for me? Well, I spent a few days on the couch nursing myself back to health with beer and painkillers. And here's a funny thing. I crapped four times the next day, so I guess you could say that I knocked the shit out of myself, eh?
I'll see you on the trails this weekend baby! Go Yamaha!
Some Instructions Extraordinaire
A little something from the Washington Post Style Invitational contest that asks readers to submit "instructions" for something (anything), written in the style of a famous person . . the winning entry was:...
The Hokey Pokey, as written by W. Shakespeare...
O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Now that's just good clean humor. And speaking of good clean humor, I called in sick to work yesterday. To go trail riding on my ATV in the state park in Dunbarton, New Hampshire. Got a flat tire on a really sharp fucking rock. Let me tell you, being a mile and a half into the woods with flat rubber sucks, but after a short detour Randy from Concord Tire was able to patch it, thus snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Thus enabling me to continue riding, where upon I took the liberty of crashing -- and I mean fucking hard -- on the final run of the day. Yes folks, aside from many other places, I've got roadrash on my ass. But I escaped serious injury thanks to all my riding gear. That's right, my Blue Power Ranger suit saved me. Cool pics to follow!
Excellent, Smithers. Doug from thoseshirts.com stepped up and offered 25% off their stuff for any member of EHOWA who buys a raffle ticket for SFC Paul Smith's Harley Davidson. This offer is valid until the raffle ends, on July 19th. Good luck! Way to step up guys, thanks!
So if you've bought a raffle ticket to help Paul's family and would like to get 25% off your entire order at thoseshirts.com let me know and I'll 'splain how.
A Letter and Some Images From The Front
Well here are a couple of photos of a defense site bunker complex where we are at. The majority of the soldiers that were killed were from those things called RPG's (rocket propelled grenades), they are like the old school bazooka style shoulder fired weapons from when we were all kids. Anyway some of the other pictures are where some of the ammo and the charges are hand assembled. Notice the Russian writing on some of the crates. It is sort of funny when you see the country that posed such a threat is getting all their weapons and things from our old enemies. There is so much crap here from Europe and the Russians, well the French can really really kiss off. It is such a joke when I looked around and saw the wires that are used to connect the charges have French and Russian writings on them, some Asian writings, like Chinese, and then good old from the USA stuff. I have no fears that there is not one single country that could even possibly kick our butts. We have the best of the best. The only thing that could make our military better is PAY and not being gone for so long. The British soldiers are very kind and have the same stand-offish behaviors that make Americans so kewl to be hated. They do not like most of the fancy pants things that go on in the world, and believe in what the coalition force is doing and the goals of the UN. The French just need to keep making bad wine, sucky fry's and those lame ass beret's.
I will try to send out a couple of more photo's soon. I hade to send my camera back because it broke, and that sucks. 400 dollar piece of digital shit. Well always remember that we all rather be home, but there is a good thing when you see the people that have been liberated and they are soo happy to see us, while there are others who hate us. There are more that like us then hate us. Since we put the military out of commission, the soldiers are out of jobs and now they cant support their families. That is a bad thing, and we are still trying to restore power and water to the cities. It is a hard job, and heard that on the news that the government is committed to a 3-5 year military presence till the government is fully running and go through a second election process. It is like Kosovo all over again. We are still there and will be for some time. The USA is doing the right thing. Some of you older folks who have been around for a while, would understand that we cant sit idle and let tens of thousands of people die every year with out getting involved. We tried it after Vietnam and we got all sucked in by others and never been able to be like the French and sit this one out. The US has found and proved the "smoking gun" theory with weapons and chemicals. The news would like to inform the world or other things but I think that is was the right call for the world, not just us or the oppressed Iraqi's. Well anyway, what the heck do I know.
Well take care and we all will do our best to look out for each other and be safe in everything that we do. Too many soldiers have died serving their country, and only those who have served will remember their names, and faces. All soldiers have done so well and being true warriors that they are, we all have practiced and trained to do the right thing. Well I hope to see you all soon, take care and God Bless. Please send cheese-it's, SALTED peanuts, newspapers, M&M's, plastic spoons and forks, saltine crackers, regular lay's potato chips, jif peanut butter, laundry powder (tide, gain, fab) and of course reading material. What ever is sent I and all the rest of us are greatly appreciative.
SSG S. R. Bielecki
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Happy Independence Day
The 4th of July is upon us this year, and unlike this year we don't have any public warnings about possible terrorist attacks. That's not to say there aren't bad guys out there who would like to get a shot in if they could; they just can't. Because we have oodles of men and women out there keeping us safe so we can sit our fat asses in a lawnchair and watch a parade today. So don't take them or their sacrifices for granted.
So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.
And if you happen to break up a terrorist attack today -- remember 'two in the turban' -- and you happen to shoot a frew French too, I wouldn't be upset with you.
Visit the official site dedicated to Sergeant First Class Paul Smith's memory
Your Fifteen Minutes Start Now
Can't talk long, me and a couple of friends are going to see strippers tonight. It won't be as much fun as Philly, but close.
Did get this in my email though...
Your chance of making the top referrers list? Nada. But hey, the holiday is almost here.
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