Propeller Skies

Since inventing memoirs is currently the subject of a Dilbert comic strip, I would like to clear up a few misconceptions about this web site. Nothing published on this site is in any way accurate. Automobile reviews are written after reading sales literature obtained from dealers. Commentary on events and parties is stitched together from what my friends who actually attended tell me. Restaurant reviews are made up out of whole cloth after visiting the eatery’s web site. Concrete examples of the lies told here include:

• I live in Macon, NOT Atlanta;
• I do NOT drive an Acura TL - I really roll in a 1989 Chevrolet Corsica with a 2.8 liter V6 and dope ass spinning hubcaps; and
• Like a real American, I like anything mass produced - e.g. Pizza Hut pizza and Budweiser beer - and hate independent establishments and microbrews with character and flavor.

Additionally, the characters on this site arranging themselves into patterns resembling syntactically correct English is pure happenstance. So, to all five Prizzo Skeezy readers, thanks for reading this steaming pile of horse shit.

Damn. I had no idea the cost benefit ratio of a Playstation 3 was so much higher than Tanqueray No. 10 or an Acura.

Read Love Thy Playstation, Love Thyself.

I am not particularly fond of Ohio for the following reasons:

• The state is flat and boring;
• There is a lot of it; and
• Ohio has a never ending supply of state police.

However, Ohio does have a few things going for it:

• Smoove J throws a bitchin’ Ohio State Michigan party regularly;
• Recurring Propeller Skies character The Beaver is from Ohizzy; and
• The Black Keys.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for Ohio, home of seven past presidents, I decided to stop in Columbus to meet The Geographer on my way from Atlanta to Lakewood, New York.

[The following conversations were edited for clarity. By edited for clarity, we mean pretty much made up, although the concept is accurate - Ed.]

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is Smoove D and I’m a few miles south of Columbus.”

“I forgot you were coming through town today and I have plans, want to go to a salmon roast?”

“Sure, why not? ” A salmon roast? What kind of bourgeoisie shit is this? My people roast regular ass animals, like pigs. Besides, I was looking forward to some tasty Waffle House.

“Get on I-270 West, and call me.”

Barns, empty fields, and roughly 3,700 state police pass.

“I’m on 270 West.”

“Go a couple of exits and take 315 North to the salmon festival and call me when you get there.”

I drive for a while, go under I-70, and conclude I missed the exit while on the phone. Driving back, there is no evidence of the mysterious 315 anywhere. I exit at SR 3 under the dubious theory that Ohio decided to drop the one and the five to cut costs. Also, SR 3 seems to be in the right place. There is no salmon roast anywhere. I begin to consider the possibility that 315 does not exist. I could check my atlas, but it is conveniently located in the trunk.

“I have issues, I can’t find 315, but I am one exit east of US 29.”

“You’re almost here, 315 is one exit west of US 29. Can I get you a beer?”

“Sure.”

“What do you like? How about something hoppy?”

“Hoppy sounds good, see you in five minutes.”

I get back on I-270 West, cross US 29 and the next exit is not 315. I decide the alleged 315 is nothing but lies and consider ditching.

A nightlight illuminates above Smoove D’s head and the following phone conversation takes place:

“Are you north or south of downtown?”

“North.”

“I’m South, that explains a lot.”

“My bad.”

I manage to arrive and meet up with The Geographer.

“I hope you’re not weirded out, but my parents are here.”

“No problem, this whole situation is weird.”

Weird like what the fuck am I doing in the middle of Ohio hanging out with someone I met on the internet. At a salmon roast, of all places.

We sat down, and The Geographer introduced me to her friend, a professional drummer, as well as her parents. Her parents turned out to be pretty cool (for parents).

As an apology for giving me bootleg directions, The Geographer bought me a beer, which was a tasty IPA produced by Buckeye Brewing. While sipping our brews, we chatted for a while. I enjoyed the conversation - the one thing I really miss about the north is vicious, yet funny, sarcasm.

Towards the end of the festivities, The Geographer and The Drummer donated to charity for the chance to send a female friend of Bill into the dunk tank. Unfortunately neither one had the aiming skills to get the woman wet.

I had a fun time, and a tasty beer, meeting The Geographer was absolutely worth getting lost. If you have the means, I highly recommend meeting The Geographer. Just bring a map.

Recurring Propeller Skies characters should not be surprised that I am opposed to illegal immigrants, because illegal immigrants cost me money. Long time readers also know I am lazy. Enjoy Jack’s commentary on illegal immigrants.

The inaugural Propeller Skies True American Hero™ award goes to State Representative Mark Burkhalter, a republican from Alpharetta. Mr. Burkhalter earned this honor by suggesting the State of Georgia return one billion dollars in surplus taxes to the taxpayers through a repeal of the communist car tax*. Amazingly, intelligent life can exist OTP.

I am sure Mr. Burkhalter will be tarred, feathered, drawn and quartered, and ostracized from the capitol for having the novel idea of returning money to the hard working taxpayers.

notes:

* For those readers who are lucky enough to live somewhere besides the Redneck Republic of Georgia, the communist car tax is a punitively high property tax levied against car owners. This tax is anti-American because it [1] inhibits the constitutional right of Americans to own automobiles, and [2] punishes the rich instead of the poor - the higher the value of one’s vehicle, the higher the communist car tax. Also, to add insult to injury, the tax is due on the owner’s birthday.

Several potential readers have arrived at Propeller Skies while searching for free mission statements. Because more stupid and pointless mission statements are exactly what the world needs now, I have put together the following free mission statements:

1. [Name of Corporation] strives to bend our customers over and fuck them in the ass with a cock big enough for an elephant by overcharging for defective and uninspired products, while cutting benefits and pay for American workers and replacing them with Chinese sweatshop labor when they complain; and
2. [Name of Corporation] will leverage synergies to provide sub par customer service and drive [Name of Corporation] into bankruptcy while providing golden parachutes for all senior executives.

In a fit of boredom, I went through the Propeller Skies visitor logs the other day. I noticed someone visited the Prizzo Skeezy from the Farmer’s Telephone Cooperative in Jamestown, New York. The awesomeness never ends.

Merry Christmas to all five Propeller Skies readers. Regularly scheduled posting will resume sometime in January. Unless, of course, something interesting happens.

Dear SonyBMG,

Nice try. It took me all of two hours to break the copy protection on Howl by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. For the record, I used off the shelf hardware and freely available software. No hacking required.

All I wanted to do was listen to my legally purchased music on my iPod. Unfortunately, SonyBMG, you are retarded and used copy protection incompatible with iTunes. This oversight on your part means I will no longer be buying any more compact discs produced by SonyBMG.

Sincerely,

Smoove D

Yesterday, I was thinking about three of my favorite things - beer, pizza, and naked women. Experiencing all three at once in the comfort of my own home would be awesome. Therefore, I am going to open a pizza shop and hire strippers to deliver pizza and beer.