THEY CALL ME SAUSAGE FINGERS

Today the fish of Scotland are smiling

2013-03-01T15:18:00.000-05:00

There is no "I" in team and there is no "E" in Whisky!

Get ready to pay more for the glorious liquid of life or as my American friends call it - Scotch. I found this story on the BBC Scotland site and I know two things.
1. Tonight after a hard week of work I will drink a sizeable amount of Whisky.
2. There are a couple of punters in Dumbarton looking for a job.
Enjoy your weekend...

Thousands of litres of whisky flushed down drain in Dumbarton

The mistake happened at a Chivas Brothers bottling plant

It is understood the mix-up happened at Chivas Brothers during the night shift on Tuesday while equipment was being cleaned.

Instead of draining away waste water, the workers on duty somehow flushed out thousands of litres of bulk whisky.

The smell was so strong that sewage workers reported it.

Chivas Brothers - which employs 600 workers at the plant and produces the world's second biggest-selling brand, Ballantine's - said it was investigating an accidental release of spirit.

A statement said: "We are currently investigating an accidental loss on the 26th of February at our Dumbarton site, where some spirit was released to the local water treatment plant.

"There has been no release of spirit to the River Leven or any other local water course. We have informed Scottish Water and all other relevant authorities."
'Adverse impact'
A Scottish Water spokesman said: "Staff at our waste water treatment works were already aware of a problem and were working to identify the source when contacted by Chivas Brothers.

"Our trade effluent team have now visited the company to get an oversight into its failure investigation so that we can ensure all possible precautions are being taken to prevent a repeat.

"Discharging large volumes of alcohol into the sewer network can have an adverse impact on waste water treatment processes, particularly during dry, cold weather.

"We are continuing to closely monitor our Dumbarton waste water treatment works to ensure treatment has not been compromised."

The Humidor or Ramon Carbajal

2013-02-28T08:36:00.000-05:00

A repost from 2012 While I nurse a hangover

Enter the premises and the immediate waft of Cuba wraps a warm blanket around your cold stiff shoulders, the Cuba of another generation when the taste of sweet spiced rum dripped from your lips and the uplifting sounds of merengue music slithered around colorful casas directly into your soul.

The scent of aged cedar ramparting through the nostrils sends signals to the brain to slow down and relax, as my rigid body softens and becomes one with the third generation leather sofa I forget about the outside world and its constant electronic demands, I can no longer hear the parade of vehicles or the drumbeat of stamping feet. I have peace with a side of quiet.

Ramon Carbajal has survived 2 wars and has the scars to prove it, his features are as aged as the leather in his cigar store, his visage is at the same time both cold and warm, it is this humidor that keeps him breathing, this humidor is his heart and his soul. No words were spoken or even necessary when I entered the humidor, Ramon lifted his head from behind the counter and nodded.

I am presented with a ceramic serving tray adorned with the flags of America and Cuba, on the ceramic tray is an velvet lined cigar box with a selection of cigars that would make the most cold hearted dictator smile from ear to ear like a boy on his birthday. Still no words have been uttered between Ramon and myself, just an automatic obligatory head nod and the wheels of communication between two men of different cultures are linked.

Ramon's humidor is a time portal back to yesteryear when men made decisions on politics and war and women brought trays sticky with clear glasses of golden liquid merrily to their aid. Children dodged large metal cars on cobbled steamy streets with open air markets and rich tourists wasted their money on straw hats and cheap jewelry. The aroma of Ropa Vieja cooking on an open grill surrounded by lush gardens and the merengue music constantly in the background to remind even the most downtrodden that music and dance were still free and belonged to the masses. I wish I knew Ramon back then.

My cigar is finished and my time on the leather has come to an end. I peel myself from the sofa like a patient from a therapists office and make my way to the door, I try to absorb every emotion as I open the door to the outside world - the cedar and the leather, the music and Ramon at his counter. I nod, he nods.

Sunlight, noise, voices, vehicles.....fuck. I contemplate going back inside for more therapy but decide that would dilute the grandeur of the next experience.
I walk away.

Ramon Carbajal 1930 - 2012

Rest In Peace Mi Amigo...

My fingers get stuck in the scissors

2013-02-07T08:33:00.000-05:00

Blogger, Twitter, Facebook, standing in line at ABC Fine Liquors while juggling a multitude of colorful bottles because once again I angrily smirked at the baskets at the door. The almost daily question is now becoming as mundane as hanging out with Anthony Bourdain...wait a minute that wouldn't suck.
Why do they call you Sausage Fingers?

There it is the question of questions that haunts me back to the birth of this little project, which at the time was to quiet the voices in the noggin and to somehow get them on paper just in case the men with the straight jacket came to take me away or the Greeks finally realised that my last delivery way back then was a wee bit short and I was driving a new mustang! Do Greek gangsters offer statutes of limitations? I do hope so.

Anyway back to the point - Why do I call myself Sausage Fingers?

Am I a chef specializing in the artistry of the porcine?
Was I injured in some type of radioactive experiment and now have Sausage Fingers with the ability to shoot links at masked robbers running down the street with an old lady's handbag?
Maybe once as a bet I cut holes into the ends of large sausages and placed them on my fingers then paraded around the house before grilling them? (maybe)
NO.

I am just a big lad with big hands. In fact my hands are so big that the knife that cut me last week apologized in fear of retribution and violent retaliation.

It was my father that gave me the name while at the butchers and looking upon some rather plumpy links "Look ma these sausages look like our wee lad from Dundee."

There it is they call me Sausage Fingers because my fingers look like sausages. Big meaty appendages.

You know what the ladies say about men with large hands right?

Well nowadays it's "Can you please open this jar of pickles, crack these pecans then take out the trash." But there was a time when I could have been a hand replacement for a Mr. Ron Jeremy if such a replacement was needed.

There are many downsides to the whole big hands thing, typing is one. Try to picture me texting, it isn't easy and often I am accused of sending rude and disgusting messages like - "I'll pee on you by hate." which in my fingery world means that I will be home by eight. I also break a lot of stuff, I tried taking up the hobby of building model airplanes but ended up smashing most of the pieces because piece B3 was so small that the meaty appendages king konged them into the next room.

I once met the great blues performer known as the Sauce Boss aka Bill Wharton. While backstage at a benefit I was able to have a picture taken with him. Boss stands about 6' and has what would be called normal functional size hands, he is an incredible musician and a tireless advocate for feeding the needy, it was an honor to meet him. I did not look at the photo until the next day but looking at his wee(Normal size) hands compared to my large(Freakish) hands should finally answer the question. "Why do they call you Sausage Fingers"
You decide.
Cheers...

Guess which one I am

There will be blood...usually mine

2013-02-01T07:57:00.003-05:00

Hello again.
I have and addiction to knives.
It seems as if I also have an addiction to letting these knives tear my flesh.

It all started back in the 70's when I first saw that glorious and shiny object sitting pretty in the window of the paper shop in Lochee. Even at a the tender age of seven I knew I had to have it - my first knife, a double blade folder with a cream colored handle and a bit of jigged bone for grip. All that sexy metal for a mere 50 pence.

As the blood streamed down my face and my mother tended to the gaping hole in my forehead I wondered if I would ever see that little beauty again, sadly I did not.

Running at full speed at an imaginary enemy with both blades open, heart and soul determined to defend the homeland from such a treacherous invader....I tripped over a rock and planted the brand new blade into the noggin right between the eyes!
My first knife and my first scar.

The list of injuries from beloved blades could take up an entire page so I will offer up a few of the more memorable.

I have a nasty V shaped scar on my left thumb from trying to cut a pipe while said thumb was still present.
I have a scar on my chin from a evil box cutter which housed a dirty razor blade...can you say tetanus!
I also have a reminder on my forearm of the time I was camping and decided to chop firewood with a very nice hatchet which had a beautiful cherry wood handle with ivory inlay and of course a bit of my blood.

One warm summer evening back in the 80's I was part of a convoy on its way to a gang brawl in the beach town of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. If any of you out there read Smugglers Blues part 1 you will remember the somewhat illegal ongoings of young Sausage and his best pal Ecky Z aka the Greek assassin.
On this particular warm summers eve the young Sausage and his trusty pal were out cruising for the gang known as "The Jacks."

You see Ecky Z was currently giving Greek biology lessons to the ex-girlfriend of the leader of the Jacks and the leader of the Jacks did not like his ex-girlfriend receiving biology lessons from anyone other than himself. The unfortunate gang leader had his associates jump my friend as he left work, leaving Ecky Z with less blood and four flat tires.

Later that evening as I sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle my hands shook and my belly emptied itself several times. As I looked down at my weapons of choice for the pending scrap I had in my lap the following:
1. A pair of brass knuckles with a hollow front that embedded a five inch folded blade.
2. A Rambo type survival knife that had a fixed seven inch blade in black titanium.
3. An Italian para military knife that was a single cut piece of steel with a leather handle

At the end of that warm summers evening the blades were not dampened with enemy blood as I wisely left them in the car but another scar was added to the list, it's the one where the club landed above my left eyebrow and reminded me just how warm and sticky the fluid of life was and made me think what would have happened If I brought the blades to the fight. I shudder to think of me bleeding coupled with my Scottish temper while chasing a bunch of punks down beachfront avenue at 1:15 in the a.m.

Luckily I survived the rambunctiousness and stupidity of youth and can tell the stories of my scars
(I have a post half written on them....coming soon.)

I have over the years added a few more scars not because of gang related violence but because of clumsiness which leads me to the point of this entire post.
While cutting open the plastic sheathing on a new mattress I sliced my finger and undoubtedly added to my collection of stories.

I still have over 100 knives, you see I have collected, bought and sold them over the decades, always looking for that one piece to finish the collection. That being said the knife I used to slice the finger was broken!
It was a carbon blade folder with a broken lock back but it was the first one I grabbed to do the job.

If you are squeamish leave now because the photos of the cut and the sutures are below. I don't know why I took the photos of the blood soaked rags and then decided to paint with it, if you are a shrink please advise.
Those of you out there that love the blades as much as I do...well you know the story.

They almost called me 9.75 sausage fingers

Not great for nose picking!

The cluprit and the evidenvce of my failed field dressing

My attempt at Pollock - a Sausage original

Thank You

2012-11-12T08:36:00.000-05:00

February 1987.
There I was, cold with a freshly shaved noggin ready to be broken down and rebuilt into a soldier. A red headed Scot in the service of Uncle Sam. What was I thinking?

Back in that day our biggest problem was the fear of the hammer and sickle and the bearded one down south, today the men and women of the armed forces face a more sinister enemy and sometimes ones that have been trained by themselves.

A moment of silence at a football match is the least we can offer for your service, as we play you fight. You fight in our name away from the ones you should be defending and you fight without being asked to do so.

We all owe every one of you a debt of gratitude no matter what our beliefs or political leanings it is comforting knowing that tonight I will lay my head on my pillow while you are in my defense.

All I can do is say "Thank you."

Drinking with an Irishman

2012-11-09T08:05:00.000-05:00

A Scotsman and an Irishman walk into a bar..stop me if you've heard this one

The White Lion, a dark shit hole replica of a British pub here in the sunshine state. A place where London expats sit and sip and talk shite of glory days and all things about their beloved Chelsea. I do not like Chelsea nor does my drinking partner Mr. McCourt, who like me was born on the other side of the pond as the yanks like to remind us. Mr. McCourt born in Ireland moved to New York then back to Ireland then finally settled in Florida, again like me a full blooded Celtic man now living under the warm tender bosom of lady liberty and enjoying all of her frivolous benefits. Over the years our accents and our tempers have watered down a bit just like the drinks they serve in suburban theme restaurants with deer heads and other stupid shite blatantly staring at you while you polish off your watery bud. Now back to the pub.

McCourt likes a pint, he also likes a dram, a shot, a nip, a chaser...whatever you call it Mr. McCourt will ram it down his gaping hole with fervor and joy. Yours truly is the same, my Dundonian family all liked a bevy and my father had a fully stocked working pub down in the basement where by the tender age of 11 I was lowering his inventory of Kestrel lager and Tennents heavy, and let's not forget the youthful joy of Merrydown cider.

Mr. McCourt and I talk openly and loudly sans care about how shite Chelsea are (even though they are not) we are trying to provoke the batch of third generation three lions that are sitting about us. They do not bite.

We are now on our third round, McCourt and his Guinness
and me and my Belhaven Wee Heavy
Round 4 - Same
Round 5 - Same
Round 6 - Same with a Jameson and a Glenlivet

We repeated this three more times, each time we ordered "Same again" The Englishman behind the bar smiled, knowing his take for the evening was growing while our wallets were shrinking. I wonder how many times throughout history this scene has taken place?

If anything originality is not one of our strongest assets based on the above choice of drink, Belhaven was all they had for Scottish beer which McCourt remarked "Because Scotland can't make Guinness!" To which I rebut "We don't waste our Highland water on beer, we need it to offer the world the glorious golden liquid of life." McCourt burps out "Jameson?" My only response available is "I could murder a curry!"

McCourt can obviously handle his liquid and this could have gone on all night, since neither of us has the benefit of lottery winnings and we both have to work for a living we decided to call it a night. We both pulled out cell phones and made the call, me struggling as usual with the little keys being molested by the hands of an ape. We paid the smiling Englishman and stumbled to the door. McCourt says something in gibberish, I am still thinking about where to get that curry.

A drunk Scotsman and a drunk Irishman walking the street singing songs and national anthems, happy and glorious, impervious to race, politics or bigotry. Just two happy drunk men waiting for their American wives to pick them up and drive them back to their wee houses in the middle of Florida. PEACE...

McCourt can handle his liquid and so can I.

McCourt and I talked about opening our own wee pub, something like this.

For my wife of 18 years...

2012-10-29T09:28:00.000-04:00

Our wee chapel in the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee

The anniversary of our union is here and the picturesque theme of that day remains a common denominator of which my love for you grows. We have grown from two lost souls searching for identity to a loving family with a bright future.
Our business has strengthened our marriage like steel. The day we bought it the previous owner asked me "How will you be able to work with your wife everyday?" My answer to him now would be different that the one I gave back then.
Bright eyed and nervous I said "I don't know."
Fast forward thirteen years
That's 13 years of working together
685 weeks
115,200 hours
6,912,000 minutes
And every second we have worked together side by side in our wee shop you in the front and me in the back, just the two of us. Our lives have changed over the past 18 years, we have ridden the financial roller coaster of small business and survived in spite of it all. The joy we both receive from watching the weans perform is pure loving fuel and only fortifies our matrimonial heaven.

The day we married, October 29, 1994 is forged into my core. As a man of certain heritage I thought that tears are for the weak. When the doors of our wee chapel opened and in came an angel, the sun draped behind you and you glowed like nothing man could make. That is when I knew that tears are not for the weak, my tears were of joy at the vision of true beauty before me.
18 years later
That's 18 years
939 weeks
157,824 hours
9,469,440 minutes
And every second feels like the doors of our wee chapel just opened an in walked an angel.

Happy anniversary to Kimberly, my true love.
May we continue to grow and be happy...
Love, Baj aka Sausage.

Smokey Mountains, Tennessee, 1994

Fallen Hero

2012-10-17T08:58:00.001-04:00

Shame it is when the untalented and the inglorious walk the earth with such insipidness and indignance and men of honor are taken from us. Men of honor with such verve and talents that can help shape our future and keep us safe.

Men of honor with honest bravado and steely demeanour who sans question lay their lives on the line for the safety of the society who often applaud the merits of the untalented and the inglorious.

My friend Kevin Horkheimer aka Hork was that man, a man of steel with a malleable heart. The kind of man would gladly take the proverbial shirt from his back to wrap around one more needy. The type of man who would run like an olympian into a burning building or pull a lifeless body from a mangled pile of steel, all this while a family awaits his safe return.

The summers we spent in pursuit of the American dream while shedding blood and sweat are sublimated into my core, those summers were my introduction to manhood and you were the guide with your direction and iron will that allowed me to get there.

A man should be judged by not what he takes but by what he gives and my friend Hork has given more than most.

Those summers spent in pursuit of the American dream were filled with blood and sweat and now that you are gone I will shed a tear.

R.I.P Hork...

Ass Cheeks Firmly Clenched

2012-10-09T10:36:00.000-04:00

For my friend Mapstew and his pending exercise dilema

The gym I belong to is not cool, it is definately not hip and it is far from awesome. It is a swim and racquet club usually inhabited with crusty old curmudgeons and the last time I saw a pair of tits that did not hang low was the day the guest swim instructor came to visit. That being said it is very affordable, in fact it is down right cheap. I have spent many years and dollars in the awesome nightclubish gyms with the ultra tanned Adonis dudes and the almost zero body fat thong up the ass spinning class chicas. The atmosphere in these gyms is tense like being at a bar where everyone else better looking, more fit and wealthier. Thankfully I no longer have the need or desire to appear "Cool" and my current gym albeit god's waiting room will suffice.

Last night I strolled in about 6:30 and noticed that all of the elliptical machines were occupied so I jumped on the treadmill and ploughed on. On my left was a young, fit, attractive lady about my age, strange I thought, who is this youngling in the midst of such aged wisdom? anyway I said hello and kept on. Five minutes into the workout here comes another young lady, very attractive about 38ish, brunette, non-saggies and everything else in the right place in the right proportions if you know what I mean. So there I was in the middle of two attractive ladies about my age enjoying a nice run on the treadmill. Being a happily married man and not following the Tiger Woods doctrine I had no intentions with these two ladies, it was just nice to be in the company of people my same age at the god's waiting room gym. The problem I had with this situation was that 15 minutes into the workout with blondie on my left and the brunette on my right - I HAD TO FART...........

Usually in the god's waiting room gym farting is no problem, old men and women fart at ease and out in the open. An old man lifting a dumbbell and blasting away is just another night at the god's waiting room gym, but why of all nights did I have to try to sneak a wee blaster out while sandwiched between a hot blond and a sexy brunette of my generation?

Have you ever tried to run on a treadmill while keeping you ass cheeks firmly clenched?

Have you ever wished that two young attractive women next to you were old and hard of hearing?

 Have you ever wished that the god's waiting room gym offered free I-pods with the world's biggest headphones?

Nothing worked not the twisting from side to side, not the hopping on one foot routine, nothing.

Out it came in all its glory FAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTT.

I can only hope that tonight when I walk into the god's waiting room gym that the usual cast of characters is there, please no hot blondes or sexy brunettes of my generation, please........

Wasting away again in Margaritaville...

2012-09-27T12:55:00.000-04:00

I know it's been a while folks but I have that urge to start writing things down again, must be that seasonal weather change we get down here in the sunshine state when the daily temperature changes from 91 degrees to 84 degrees or what I like to call: WINTER.

I can't explain why I stop blogging and writing but during times of excessive creativity I tend to shut down in the middle of it and have a strong desire to go away and hide. During my seclusion I put away pen and paper and try to clear the noggin of any type of word worthy material that could be used for a laugh or two on this here blog. Why? No bloody idea but the thought of writing something funny every day makes my head hurt and I am talking about the big head which at my age is now the important one.

I found an old journal that had some of my thoughts from 2008 and came across the following piece, I have mellowed since then and much of my anger has dissipated with age but back in 2008 I might have left this person legless. So here goes...an old journal entry from April 2008 to get me back in the swing of writing.

Many thanks to my blogging friend The Unbearable Banishment for his e-mail as to my current whereabouts and state of mind, thank you again for the swift kick in the arse and for pulling me out if my margarita haze.
Cheers, Sausage...

THOUGHTS OF VIOLENCE
April 2008

Son of a bitch....was what I usually muttered under faded breath when in sight of the bastard.

Daring and noble he is to annoy such a beast, I wonder if his courage is fueled by a similar disgust as is mine.
Smugness and arrogance blended to perfection then worn as a rancid perfume to tug at the patience of myself.
If alive in other times it would be him and me face to face, pistols at dawn or joust to joust. Two gladiators 1 death.

I hate this person, no wait I loath him. This man has been a thorn in my side for many years and has tested my patience on more than one occasion. I have never laid hands on him but every day is one day closer to my giant hands wringing his neck until he begs for mercy while his life drains from him.

I am not a violent man and I would never lay hands on another again unless of course it was in defense of offspring or betrothed but the mere sight of this person brings out an evil in me that is best suited for mask wearing machete wielding monsters. Why? I have no idea.

A pint with my father

2012-07-19T08:16:00.000-04:00

The smoked meat strung up and hanging above the bar, I wonder if it is real or just a modern day pub prop?

Dad orders another round casually nodding to the bar man, a subtle move learned on the other continent. I gladly accept whatever beer he orders just to be propped up on this wicker stool in his company with a pint is nirvana.

We speak of life and football and children and football, Dad complains that nobody dribbles anymore and regales me of tales of the one they called "Jinky" and how he was able to dance among the tall pines of blue with ease.

I sit and sip with my mind clear and fresh, the fog of business, mortgage, economy and all other obstacles has been washed away by the blanket like sounds of my father's voice coupled with the fermentation of liquid joy.

Even a grown man needs the strong arm and the slap on the back from the one he calls Father.
Cheers...

Smuggler's Blues part 2

2012-06-22T11:12:00.000-04:00

So I really fucked up. Apologies for the banal tone but what landed me inside was really daft and caused me to miss precious time with my beloved wife and bairns and witnessing how fast life goes by is criminal on my part.

I assaulted a police officer and I am damn lucky that his taser was we the only foreign object to penetrate my body because if that electric man dropper had been a .40 caliber bullet from his fully automatic pistol then this post might have been from the afterlife.
Lucky.

Smuggler's Blues part 1 described the situation next door with the world's dumbest drug dealers and their open air policy of business. Also as previously mentioned the FDLE website was awash with pictures and descriptions of their past discretions and this is what had me worried. The simple fact that they were convicted drug dealers and still dealing in public made for many a sleepless night especially when nocturnal thoughts drifted to how close this business was being ventured so close to my children.

Along with the entire neighborhood I planned and held covert meetings to alert the good citizens about the situation next door. The HOA held separate private meetings with officers from the local police department and patrols were stepped up then tripled once the names of the convicted were leaked to the office of the sheriff.
(It was me that leaked the names, shhhh...)
Game on.

Sunday morning, April 29th 7:11 A.M. I walked to the driveway to grab the Sunday paper, my eyes still heavy from the early rise and the clink of glass from the night prior. Not sure if still in dream I lift the noggin to witness a barrage of blue and red lights not a mere 40 yards away, sirens were off. This blueberry cobbler wake up is further advanced by the made for TV sight of eight (8) fully armed members of the local sheriff's office making their way to my neighbor's step. I pick up the paper and step quietly back in the garage.

I am awake, I am more awake that I have ever been.

How many times have any of you witnessed this type of standoff on television? 50? 100?
Let me tell you something no matter how many times you have watched it whether is was Starsky and Hutch or CSI Miami, when you see it live and that close your realize two things.
I. Glad I did not choose law enforcement as a career.
2. Glad I did not choose drug dealing as a career.

Problem.
My oldest son (14) was coming home from a sleepover from a friends house down the street, as usual he cuts through the back yards of the neighbors. His friend lives only four houses down and the locals are fine with him cutting through, I have told him time and time again not to cut through the drug house but he was supposed to be home by 7 and decided to take the dangerous shortcut.
Unbeknownst to the lad the raid was green lighted just as he was in the center of the drug house back yard when an unsuspecting officer saw a male running away from the scene. My child was tackled and with the officer's knee driven in my son's back he was cuffed ready to be taken to the van along with the scum that sold drugs in front of children.
Now I am awake, I am more awake than I have ever been. I react.

I plead, no beg that the cops have an innocent bystander but my front driveway courtroom pleas are falling on deaf ears as the protectors of the Innocent are hauling away my son, they will not stop just to listen to me they are assuming he is one of them and was trying to flee. My wife is inconsolable.

Big Problem.
I grabbed the arm of the arresting officer to argue my case and he and turns his attention to me, a shit storm of obvious and tired adjectives is hurled upon me as I offer my wrist in place of my child. My cries for help are completely ignored and I make my final case for the innocence of my 14 year old son.

Once again I am ignored and once again I place my hands on an officer of the law.
Bad idea but what is a father to do?

I don't remember the taser being fired but I do remember the strong overwhelming taste of metal in my mouth.
I am not a slight man and I have never taken a backwards step from a question but from what I have been told I went down like a torpedoed brick wall when I was tasered for laying hands on an officer of the law in the defense of the innocence of my son.
Innocent until proven guilty - not that day.

I did my time as quietly as possible, lucky to be in a county not a state facility. Once the realisation of the situation had clarified the charges were still not dropped, for the laying of hands on an officer of the law is a no-no even if that officer has ones innocent child cuffed and wrongly arrested. Apparently I swore death or justice, I can't remember saying that but the situation played out so quickly so who knows.

So here I am with two new holes in me, I got my left ear pierced in Broughty Ferry, Dundee in 1978 and I swore that would be the last time I would be pierced. Fast forward thirty four years and the latter two piercings are and always will be considered defensive parenting scars.

The world's dumbest drug dealers are gone and I found out later that one of them was released before me!

Sometimes karma kicks hard.

PS. Be nice to American cops.

What's this? we lost 5-1. Lock the bleedin' door.

Smuggler's Blues - Part 1

2012-06-12T12:00:00.001-04:00

Back on the streets again...

The first time I saw illegal drugs was 1984.
I was at a party and a man wearing
a silk suit entered holding a briefcase.
The contents of the briefcase were:
2 bags of cocaine and twenty thousand cash money
It was in Lighthouse Point, Florida.
I was 16.

Needless to say I grew up around Miami in the 1980's where cocaine fell from the sky and square grouper (Marijuana bales) floated in with the tide and every joker with a mullet and a mustang was a drug dealer.
Like the songs says "It's the lure of easy money it's got a very strong appeal."

Many moons ago my old college roommate and I shifted a few packages here and there, perhaps we watched "Scarface" too many times and harbored youthful dreams of cruising down South Beach in a Ferrari, stick thin model to our right checking her hair in the side mirror as the warm sticky Miami breeze offered no quarter. Luckily for the both of us we were smart enough to realize that the allure of cash heavy pockets and automotive fantasies did not mask the horrors of what happens in prison. Back to class it was for us because what happens in prison is no picnic unless you consider being raped in the shower a picnic...I do not and I left that business behind while Reagan was still in office.

As and adult I am a liberal sort of man and your business is your business as far as I am concerned what you are doing in the privacy of your own home is not my concern, unless you are a pedo or a drug dealer, then I become as conservative as a Texas sheriff married to the leader of a church choir in a border town during an election. Hypocritical? possibly but as a father my thought process is to protect and who out there has the same mindset they did as a kid?

Here lies the situation that landed me on the inside.
New neighbors arrived and they have brought with them a drive up can I take your order type of drug business. Vehicles arriving at all hours, runners coursing the neighborhood on cell phones arranging deals, cash handovers in plain sight. All of this right in front of my face, in my opinion they are the dumbest drug dealers in history, no care or concern as to who is watching or reporting. They are brazen.
A quick search on a local law enforcement site tells me that 3 of the new neighbors have priors for possession and intent to distribute and now they are standing in my yard just feet from my family.

Problem! My kids as well as the other neighborhood kids are front and center and the scum don't care. I have watched the dealings in person and have witnessed the complete and utter disregard for families and children, the safety of my own family is what fuels my disgust of this practice and my past reminds me of the danger and the dark side of the business.

I am thankful for the second amendment to the constitution which gives me the right to not wear sleeves and protect my family at the same time, I like being comfortable it's hot down here.
Part two of this post will tell of how I landed in the big house. Now it's time for a pint or four.
It's good to be home.
Sausage...

I never dropped the soap

2012-05-18T15:15:00.000-04:00

The food here is really terrible.
I will be out in June.
They let me write this because I behaved
That is all I can say...for now.

PS. Be nice to American cops.

Not exactly a cure for world hunger

2012-03-07T13:19:00.000-05:00

World hunger is an issue that should be on the mind of everyone able to sit down at a table and share a meal with family or friend. Food wasting is something that bothers the life out of me and I do my best to teach my boys about chucking out good grub after their wee bellies are full, because we all remember our grannies barking about "Your eyes are bigger than your belly."

That being said I am ashamed to say that yesterday I wasted food, I turfed away something that could have fed someone with a less formidable palate. As my defense will be presented, you the reader will observe an American gourmet tradition that confuses even the most steel gutted Scotsman and would probably turn the stomach of a Dundee dock worker or maybe it's just me.

While visiting the In-Laws at their condo the wife aka Mrs. Sausage took her parents to the store for a few groceries and the lads and I decided to stay behind and head for the pool. After our aqua activities were over we decided to raid the fridge and to our shock and dismay we found this culinary bastard staring back at us...be afraid...be very afraid. Or maybe it's just me.

Scroll on down if you dare...

Halved pears with mayonnaise and cheddar cheese!!!

Is there a McDonald's near here?

The aforementioned delicacy is a so called southern tradition but one that this Scot just can't wrap his mind around. Being Scottish I have happily embraced some of the planet's most intriguing belly busters such as: Haggis, black pudding, tripe, whelks, Scotch eggs, Tannadice pies and other non traditional staples that have kept many a Scot satisfied over the centuries.
Once while in North Carolina I even ate something for breakfast called "Liver mush" and as a rule I don't turn my nose up at any food, I believe in trying it once then deciding if I will eat it again once it has hit the belly and hopefully stayed in place. This is the exception.

As some of you know from earlier blogs I have a brand new teenager in the house and I bet him $5 if he could eat just one of the cheesy-mayo-pear thingies. Being a wee bit strapped for cash, the wean took the bet and proceeded to go all out on said delicacy......

So after we cleaned up his vomit and the $5 was safe in my pocket I decided to look up this epicurean phenomenon on the web and to my surprise and utter shock there it was -
1,050,000 results for PEAR WITH MAYONNAISE AND CHEDDAR CHEESE.
Just goes to show what the hell I know!
As far as the feeding the starving children of the world goes, my guess is that they would rather eat dirt or maybe it's my unsophisticated Dundee palate
who knows......

Now here is what every good Scottish lad needs to grow up strong and healthy

Pie and beans...can't be beat

Scotch Egg because what does mother nature know anyway

This is not a burnt burger folks.... it's black pudding and it rocks.

I made the wife taste it before I told her what was in it. My black eye hurt for days

The best reason to visit Forfar

Plate? no thanks.. salt and vinegar? yes please.

In the Jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight

2012-02-28T13:39:00.001-05:00

The challenge was offered over eggs as the two lions shared stories of past victories and accomplishments, the young lion spun tales of victories from the previous week and the old lion wove a tale or two of mountains conquered from decades past.

The challenge: 14 year old son versus 43 year old dad at one on one, first to 21.

The battle was set - the young lion in his Nike aerodynamic apparel and $95 basketball shoes fresh with memory of watching Michael Jordan videos on YouTube...

The old lion with his sensible khaki cargo shorts and t-shirt from Target with faded memory of watching Michael Jordan live in Miami Beach back in the day when America had outdoor toilets for drunks aka phone booths...

The two lions faced off ready for battle the young lion nostrils flaring, athletic body coursing with testosterone, ready for war stared down the old lion without care. The old lion careful and reserved kept the use of his testosterone on hold for the knowledge and history of battles won and lost was on his side (and also not knowing how much testosterone he had left.) Game on.

Within a matter of minutes the young lion was ahead, quickly passing the old lion with ease as he smirked and beamed of confidence at his pending victory. The old lion shook off the early attack and evened the score now it was 8-8 and the young lion quickly realized that the old lion still had some fight, time to up the game.

With a flash of khaki and cargo the young lion witnessed the strength and the guile of the old lion as he grabbed the lead 16-14. The young lion ripped off his shirt in a display of petulance and flung it to the ground, the old lion continued to wear his sensible pocket t-shirt from Target but chastised the young lion.

"Hey knucklehead that shirt was $40, pick it up and fold it and put it in the truck."

The score was now 20-20 as the old lions pace had withered the young lion easily caught up. The old lion felt the pain in every step as past wounds flared and knowledge of tomorrow's aches flooded his mind he glanced at the you lion who had yet to break a sweat. The overwhelming desire for a cold beer left the old lion in need of a quick ending, the old lion had the ball and called the young lion to face him. "I have one last move to use on you, are you ready?" The young lion answers sans care "Bring it." The old lion dribbled the ball towards the young offender knowing he would charge full force, as predicted he did and as he closed in on the old lion he simply bounced the ball between the legs of the charging youngling. As the young lion is dismayed and temporarily frozen with shock the old lion takes the rock to the house and ends the battle. 21-20.

Game over.

The old lion had learned that trick many moons ago in a place far far away....

As the old lion consoles the young lion he offers him

the tale that on old friend told him many years ago...

Two lions stood on the hill and overlooked a valley of zebras, the young lion said "Let's run down there fast and eat one of them." The old lion smiled and turned to the young lion and said, "No, let's walk down there and eat them all."

In the jungle, the mighty jungle the old and broken lion sleeps well tonight

with a belly full of wine and a few painkillers...

Son, help me to the truck.

The Humidor of Ramon Carbajal

2012-02-21T10:52:00.000-05:00

Sunlight, noise, voices, vehicles.....fuck. I contemplate going back inside for more therapy but decide that would dilute the grandeur of the next experience.
I walk away.

Ramon Carbajal 1930 - 2012

Rest In Peace Mi Amigo...

Next In Line Please...

2012-02-14T16:24:00.000-05:00

To answer the question of where I have been and why I have not been blogging lately,
please read the following post. This is real.
Cheers, Sausage...

Another day with Polyendocrine deficiency type 2 aka Schmidt's Syndrome also known as a lovely combination of hypothyroidism and adrenal insufficiency. Another day of ups and downs, highs and lows and the recurring roller coaster of emotions that accompany me through my diseased journey. It is hard to believe that 20 years have passed since I was diagnosed with this bullshit, 20 years since Uncle Sam told me to get off his battleship and don't come back, 20 long years of pills and pharmacy lines behind old people, sick people and me telling myself I am not like them. I am not diseased just misdiagnosed by under qualified lab coat wearing clowns pimping for the pharmaceutical whores who line their lab coats with lies and dollars.

The last five years have been the most difficult with altered dosages and mood swings, the type of mood swings that can take a man from the pinnacle of happiness to the wearing of a hockey mask along with the desire to machete the limbs off of complete strangers. Now when I think of Jason Vorhees or Michael Meyers touting their talents on the good people of the world I stop and ask myself...I wonder what dosage they take...

The wary quest continues to find a cure but none will ever be found, the closest we came was when Oprah Winfrey was diagnosed with a thyroid disease and the national media groveled at her feet weeping over her symptoms and we were spotlighted for about a month. Soon after that the lights flickered and went out and moved on to some freak who's uterus fast tracked 8 babies and now has a reality show.

It could always be worse, my disease is not life threatening not even a disease just a lowly syndrome but one that pushes and bullies the emotions mafia style - take the pills and shut up....Next in line please.....

Gentlemen, no need to fight I have plenty of refills

I just flew in from Key West and boy are my arms tired

2012-01-18T13:52:00.000-05:00

The sign at the airport read - Buy 1 hat get 1 free. Who could pass on such a deal?

Ever needed a break so badly that once on that break you
considered going native and falling off the grid?
Well I did but decided to come back and join the matrix again
mainly because the "Voices" in the noggin told me to, so after
a few bloggless months the sabbatical is over.
More to follow...
Cheers, Sausage.

Swimming in their kitchen

2011-11-08T08:22:00.000-05:00

The saying my life flashed before my eyes is one that you don't expect to experience but when it does you get the sense that the person that coined it nailed it.

Marineland, Florida, 2011

Marineland back in 1963

Just south of St. Augustine Florida is Marineland, built in 1938 it was Florida's first marine park and boasts the worlds first oceanarium.
The family and I took a day trip to Marineland beach, a spectacular and surprisingly secluded spot on Florida's crowded east coast, the following event caused the me to change my ocean going habits...

12:25 Saturday.
The four of us are playing in the shallow surf about knee deep, the water is very clear almost crystal and my oldest son wants to swim out to the sandbar.
The sandbar is roughly 125 yards from shore and is visible from the beach, many people swim out there and relax for a while before the tide changes. This is something we have done many many times in the past without hesitation, we are all strong swimmers and both my children have grown up in the water and will probably grow gills someday but after this experience we will never do it again. We all made the swim and are now standing on the sandbar, it is quite unique and ethereal to be that far out and standing ankle deep in the ocean, after 10 minutes we decided to head back.

We start swimming in a line with my wife and I on the outside and the boys in the middle, about 30 seconds after we departed the sandbar my life flashed before my eyes.
I looked behind me and saw a shark!!!!
How big you ask? well lets just say if sharky wanted to lie down on your sofa he would not fit, that according to the flash measurement I guessed at while trying to beat the best time of Michael Phelps with a child under one arm. I grabbed one son and my wife grabbed the other, without trying to alarm them I screamed for everyone to move and move fast, swimming with a child in one arm while a shark is behind you is akin to walking on quicksand the more I vehemently paddled the more I seemed to be stationary. My wife not doing any better I waited for contact with the shark feeling at any moment that one of us would be the next statistic on the shark attack file for the year.

We finally made it back to the welcoming shore, the panic still fresh it infused me to the core and I could have stopped breathing right there and then. I felt sadness that I put my family in such jeopardy, swimming out to the sandbar is a right of passage down here and we were one of a dozen or more people out there the shark just happened to tail us and not the others.

That evening after a few glasses of calm down juice aka Bunnahabhain I researched the habits of Florida sharks and found that some sharks patrol the areas between the sandbar and the shore for bait fish. One of the suspects was the Sand bar shark, how apropos. Other suspects were the hammerhead, the blacktip, and most frighteningly the bull shark an ultra aggressive killer type shark up there in status with the great white.

So I put that on the list of things not to do again, especially with children. Even yesterday I saw families camped out on the sandbar about the same distance that we had the encounter. I did mention the experience to some of them and they waived me off as some kook. Good luck.

My whole life did not flash in front of my eyes but I did see things that have happened in the past, that phenomenon surely is a strange one.

Somewhere out in the deep blue sea a shark is telling a tale of the day he almost caught a Sausage in his kitchen, not today sharky....not today.

A killer among us...the bull shark.

Christmas Card Time

2011-11-03T08:43:00.000-04:00

Florida Snowman

Ready for the holiday season? well according to the ads on the television the big day is right around the corner. I just paid off last years bills and here we bloody go again, anyway I wanted to do a christmas card list this year any takers?
E-mail me your address and I will return mine, no worries I won't sell you out to a telemarketing company or show up at your door when the wifey chucks me out..or will I?
Cheers, Sausage...

In advance I offer a merry or happy __________________ whatever you celebrate.

Camera Card Clean Off

2011-10-18T08:17:00.000-04:00

Time to clean off the cards....

Why you don't swim in Florida's lakes

Another reason!

Flagler College, St. Augustine

Sausage Orgy

B B B Bird Bird Bird, Bird Is The Word.

Have a drink on me

Mirror Image or Refer To the First Picture

Foot Wash!

Shake It Big Willie

Even Torres......

My beard is called Joe Steel

2011-09-14T13:02:00.000-04:00

At some point in a man's life he is destined to grow a beard, that is to say that a man will at least try to let his face grow long without the silent jeers and sideways looks of those among his inner circle. Today is my day and my beard is ready for the world.

My beard is strong and wise and would be given two thumbs up by Dusty Hill and Billy Gibbons although not quite as long and creepy as the aforementioned Texans, I am proud of my chin whiskers but feel that my crumb catchers days are numbered.

Ladies - want to keep your bum warm in winter?

The Wife: I always assumed that a little chin tickle would aid the little man in the boat and his perpetual journey for stimulation, but the wife hates facial hair more that two days old, claims that even a wee kiss is like making out with sandpaper attached to a chainsaw held by Michael J. Fox. To soon?
My apologies to Mr. Fox, I was a big fan of "The secret of my success"
and even looked into becoming a limo driver.

The Family: Although both parents were raised among the flower people of the 60's and looking back at their choice of wardrobe in the 70's I thought that my father walking about the town in clogs and my mother wearing a beehive on her head would afford them the luxury of free spirit as it pertains to their offspring. I was wrong, like the wife they despise Joe Steel and together they plot his demise.

The Children: My two boys love Joe Steel, they like to scratch him and pretend daddy is a lumberjack or one of those ice road truckers or even a young Chuck Norris sans the conservative viewpoints.

Sadly for Joe Steel his life must come to an end, his struggle with universal acceptance was lost, Joe Steel offered the world his middle finger as to their dislike of his presence but that was not enough. At the end of the day the face that Joe rested on missed the ever so delicate touch of the wife and grew tired of the isolation that Joe caused him. Don't worry about Joe he is alive and well and living in seclusion underground, waiting patiently for the wife to go out of town so he can rise again. R.I.P. amigo....

Friends of Joe...


Ass Kicking Beard

Beard, James Beard

Metro Sexual Beard

Curvy Beard

Beard with built in water dispenser

Stay Hairy My Friends

Teasing little men in boats all over the globe

Indie Ink: Dream Weaver

2011-09-07T07:57:00.002-04:00

This is a response to the Indie Ink Challenge for this week, the prompt from bewilderedbug caused me a few sleepless nights and forced me to start my love affair with single malt highland whisky - again.
The following is a result of my whisky coma and bewildered bugs interesting mind.
Cheers, Sausage...

I was asked to write a dialogue between

Obama, Gandhi, Hitler, Blaze Star and Dita Von Teese

President Obama is standing at the press podium and in front of him are:
Hitler, Gandhi, Blaze Star and Dita Von Teese.

Obama - Welcome ladies and gentlemen I will now take questions from the audience.

Gandhi - Mr President, can you tell me this: does your toilet paper load from the back or the front? this is a question the world needs to know.

Obama - Well ahem, actually the staff loads the toilet paper so whatever they do is fine.

Gandhi - Mr. President you are dodging my question, please give me an answer.

Hitler - Well if four eyes is finished I have a question. Mr. President, you have been in the oval office now for three years, can you tell me this: What is it like? is it awesome? can I shadow you for a day? pleeeeaseee. Hell is so boring and the devil keeps asking for my advice, I will bring snacks.

Obama - Devils food cake?

Hitler - No, deviled eggs.

Blaze - Me next darling, is it hot in here or is it just you, (Starts stripping) Happy Birthday Mr. President...happy birthday to you.

Gandhi - My glasses are fogging up.

Blaze - Mr. President, who do you believe is the better burlesque dancer me or the skank over there?

Dita - Who you callin' skank, I am a performance artist not a stripper.

Hitler - Ladies, ladies, do not fight come back with me to my secret bunker and we can discuss this and have some cyanide err I mean wine, yes lovely wine.

Gandhi - Can I come along?

Hitler - No way buzzkill you could suck the fun out of Christmas.

Obama - Look, I think the both of you ladies are very charming but as a married man I will not comment on which one like better. (Mutters under breath) The red head.

Obama - Ms. Von Teese did you have a question?

Von Teese - 34C-23-33.

Obama - Sorry I don't understand the question?

Von Teese - Starts stripping - you see these are my pole numbers 34C-23-33

Obama - Did you poll well in Iowa?

Von Teese - No silly my stripper pole numbers, I never work in Iowa it's a hard nipple state.

Gandhi - Oh dear my pole is growing in numbers as we speak.

Blaze - Holy pepperoni stick look at the tent that Gandhi is pitching.

Hitler - Now I know why he wears the robe.

Gandhi - Small things come in big packages....no wait it is big things come in small packages.

Obama - Speaking of small packages, Hitler when are you due back in hell?

Hitler - I have a luncheon with Bernie Madoff, Ken Lay from Enron and Kim Kardashian.

Obama - But Kim Kardashian is not dead.

Hitler - Oh I know but after she sold her soul to the devil she has to check in once a month plus I think Bernie has a little crush on her. We are having soup.

Dita - Kim Kardashian, that no talent hack.

Blaze - Reminds me of you.

Obama - Alright everyone time for one last question. Hitler you have your hand up go ahead.

Hitler - Sorry I was practicing my "Hails" for the annual hell day parade but I have one more question. Have you seen the one they call "Hillary" naked?

President Obama wakes up and realizes that this was all a bad dream, he ponders his day ahead. Fight with republicans, battle media pressure, work on re-election......decides to stay in bed.

I don't want to say I told you so - but I told you so

2011-08-31T12:14:00.001-04:00

JUSTIN BIEBER IN A CAR ACCIDENT

I called this last year when the tot sensation received a flash car for his birthday.

Luckily for the female tweeners of the world the accident was minor and the heartthrob will still be able to supply them with his magic brand of awesomeness. Somewhere in the dark bowels of hell Bon Scott raises and angry fist to Mr. Bieber...

The original post was from 2010, check it out below.

A Lamborghini is like a beautiful woman
you don't just get in her and go,
you have to know how to work the gears!

Wee Justin Bieber was spotted behind the wheel of a $200,000 Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder, a gift from P Diddy. Apparently P.Diddy promised the pop phenom a car when he turned 16, but why hand a 16 year old the keys to a car that costs that much?

Why not hand the tyke the keys to a 1986 Buick with a Detroit steel reinforced frame? you know when he crashes it, and he will crash it, that the Buick will break the tree, the same can't be said for the lambo.

To me it's similar to when you loose your virginity, you want a girl who will work with you, you want someone who is comfortable with your fumbling around and searching for the right gear.
You want the Buick!

Bieber driving around in the lambo is like loosing your virginity to a porn star, you just can't get behind the wheel or behind the porn star and take them for a ride, the lamborghini and the porn star are made up of highly advanced machinery, not to be played with by 16 year olds.

Buckle up Bieber, she looks like a wild ride.

THEY CALL ME SAUSAGE FINGERS

Today the fish of Scotland are smiling

More…

Glasgow & West Scotland

Thousands of litres of whisky flushed down drain in Dumbarton

The Humidor or Ramon Carbajal

My fingers get stuck in the scissors

There will be blood...usually mine

Thank You

Drinking with an Irishman

For my wife of 18 years...

Fallen Hero

Ass Cheeks Firmly Clenched

Wasting away again in Margaritaville...

A pint with my father

Smuggler's Blues part 2

Smuggler's Blues - Part 1

I never dropped the soap

Not exactly a cure for world hunger

In the Jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight

The Humidor of Ramon Carbajal

Next In Line Please...

I just flew in from Key West and boy are my arms tired

Swimming in their kitchen

Christmas Card Time

Camera Card Clean Off

My beard is called Joe Steel

Indie Ink: Dream Weaver

I don't want to say I told you so - but I told you so

THEY CALL ME SAUSAGE FINGERS

Today the fish of Scotland are smiling

More…

Glasgow & West Scotland

Thousands of litres of whisky flushed down drain in Dumbarton

Thousands of litres of whisky have been flushed down the drain by accident at a bottling plant in Dumbarton.

The Humidor or Ramon Carbajal

My fingers get stuck in the scissors

There will be blood...usually mine

Thank You

Drinking with an Irishman

For my wife of 18 years...

Fallen Hero

Ass Cheeks Firmly Clenched

Wasting away again in Margaritaville...

A pint with my father

Smuggler's Blues part 2

Smuggler's Blues - Part 1

I never dropped the soap

Not exactly a cure for world hunger

In the Jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps tonight

The Humidor of Ramon Carbajal

Next In Line Please...

I just flew in from Key West and boy are my arms tired

Swimming in their kitchen

Christmas Card Time

Camera Card Clean Off

My beard is called Joe Steel

Indie Ink: Dream Weaver

I don't want to say I told you so - but I told you so