Labels: Jonny Dave Floyd
Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Spring has sprang and y’all know what that means: the birds are singin’, NASCAR’s in full swing, and baseball’s back.
It also means the weather’s gettin’ warmer and the air’ more humid-er and you know what that means: the sweating of my crotchal and buttal regions significantly increases which leads to uncomfortable chafing and exponentially more butt pimpling.
But that’s besides my point, really. What I’m gettin’ at is that I’m particularly excited this spring and it’s mostly because of how pumped up I am about baseball.
Ya mighta thought that I didn’t like anything but NASCAR and football, as far as sports go. You’d be wrong as gun control. Baseball’s one o’ my most favorite sports. You already know what my most favorite one is, and baseball’s third -- sandwiched between college football and the World’s Strongest Man contests. Fishin’s fifth if you’re wonderin’ how my top 5 rounds out.
But I kinda got away from baseball maybe just a little bit until this year. But somethin’ got my dander up this year. It was this little baseball documentary that I watched right before openin’ day.
It’s this little story about some little summer league in the north (I know, but it was still all right) and it followed this left-handed pitcher from the wrong side of the tracks with a great fastball, no control, some strange European accent, and, judgin’ by his facial expressions, some sort of digestion problem. Seriously, the kid was making constipated faces all through the thing. I can only presume on the ferocity of his farts, but I’m presumin’, by the looks on people’s faces while they were talkin’ with him, that he was cuttin’ some pretty righteous cheese.
If he wants to be accepted in dugouts, then he’s gonna have to stifle that funk a tad. Fartin’s funny, but it’d get old after a while.
Anyway, the movie follows the kid around as he stinks up the summer (on the field and in a 7-foot bubble around hisself) and it was awesome. It hardly feels like a documentary at all, which is good because those usually suck.
There were a lot of subplots, too. One of the more interesting ones was about a guy that likes fat girls. I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with that. I spent my formative years chasin’ fat girls. I didn’t have a choice. Every single girl at my school was pretty fat. At least the ones that would talk to me were. The dude in the documentary woulda been in heaven here because those were some champion eaters. Some of ‘em did with only half their teeth, too. That’s dedication, y’all.
Another interestin’ subplot was about a little Mexican kid that did it with an old lady. I didn’t see the big deal or think anything was wrong with it because you know how them Mexicans fudge their birth certificates. The guy was probably pushin’ 40, which kinda made it a pretty little love story, I think.
Now, I don’t wanna be one of those guys that gives away the end, so I won’t be. I’ll just say that if you wanna get your baseball love-fire re-kindled, then go watch this documentary. I never did catch the name, but I’m sure my description will suffice for any respected video store chain worker person. It had to’ve made a ton of money.
One more thing, if you still ain’t convinced you wanna see it and you’re kinda a pervert, then there was a pretty hot little number in it that chased the pitcher around and, apparently, had no sense of smell. She gets in a bikini at one point and it was danged sexy. And she looks a lot like Momma. Which adds a sense of comfortableness to the sexiness.
Anyway, that’s all I got. Don’t worry about Junior in NASCAR. His win’s comin’ any week now.
Y’all be good.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Momma was the one who told me. I was in the kitchen when she hollarred for me. I still remember the conversation like it was yesterday. When Jonny Dave changed and won’t never be the same.
Momma: Jonny Dave! Come ‘ere!
Me: Why, Momma? I’m busy.
Momma: Busy? What’re you so busy with?
Me: I was outside playin’ and I got dirt all down my pants. No I’m tryin’ to get it out.
Momma: You got what where? And you’re in the kitchen? Jonny Dave!
Me: Momma, how else am I gonna get the dirt out unless I pull my pants down. Just quit talkin’ to me right now and let me finish. I’m almost done.
Momma: Jonny Dave, you hitch up those britches right this minute and get in here. You know good and well that you’re not allowed to take your pants down in the kitchen. Now come ON. I got somethin’ to tell ya.
( I hitched up those britches and went in the livin’ room)
Me: What do ya want Momma? The dirt’s makin’ me real uncomfortable.
Momma: Well just quit pickin’ at yourself for one minute please and listen. STOP! Ok…I just saw Brett Favre on TV…that’s your favorite foot ball player, right?
Me: Yeah, Momma. He’s my favorite. But only because he’s awesome and smart and super hand-
Momma (interruptin’): Ok, ok. I get it. (sigh) Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I saw Brett Favre on TV sayin’ that he’s retired. There, I told you. And he was cryin’ like a baby, too. Now you can go back to pickin’ dirt outta yer crack or whatever it was. Just please do it outside or in your room.
Me: Wait, what? Momma what are talking about.
Momma: Jonny Dave, I don’t wanna see your pimpled butt in the kitchen or anywhere near me or worry about you backin’ up against our food with that nasty thing. Please. Just take it up to your room or outside or somethin’.
Me: No, Momma. I don’t understand about Brett. He’s tired? Of course he is. They had a long season. Anybody’d be tired. He’ll be alright, though.
Momma (with her head in her hands): Jonny Dave, why ya gotta make stuff so hard? You know what I mean. Brett Favre ain’t playin’ football anymore. He’s gone! He’s retired! And he’s a crybaby, apparently. Deal with it.
Me: Momma, you better shut yer face right now. First of all, Brett Favre ain’t NEVER gonna quit playin’ football. He loves the game. He’s like a kid out there on the field. Or ain’t you heard? Second of all, there ain’t NOTHIN’ wrong with a man sheddin’ some tears. Brett’s a REAL man. Like ME. And the only retirement today is gonna be me retirin’ as your son and the ceremony’s gonna be takin’ place up in my tree in about 2 minutes! I HATE YOU!
(I stormed out, slammin’ the door behind me.)
Momma: I love that boy so much and I’m so proud of him. I wish I could be the momma he deserves. I’m gonna sit her and cry and think about how I can be a better momma.
Actually, I can‘t be for sure, that’s what Momma said when I ran out of the house because I was already halfway up my tree by that point. I like to think that’s what she said though.
I spent the rest of the day and the better part of the night up in my tree. I didn’t wanna believe it but, deep down, I knew it was true. I just kept thinkin’ about all the good times I had with Brett. Him playin’ football games. Him throwin’ footballs. Me cheerin’ him. Him runnin’ around like a kid out there. The stadium’s like a church or somthin’ to him, ya know? All the nights I stayed up late in my bed just thinkin’ about Brett. Those were beautiful times.
While I sat in my tree recollettin’, a little baby bird flew down and got caught in my mullet. He sure was wild and unable to be tamed. I untangled the lil’ fella and took a good look at him. He sure looked like a gunslinger bird to me. Right then, I took it as an omen and named the birdie "Brett." Brett had come back to me. I planned on raising that bird as my own kin. I would call Brett the bird “son” and he would call me “father.”
As I sat in my tree and pondered all the things I would teach Brett, things my daddy wasn’t around to teach me, I felt something slimy and warm in my palm. Oh no. This wasn’t good. I guess I was holdin’ Brett too hard and he, well, it was pretty nasty. He pooped in my hand. Daggum, there was a lot of it, too. I was so grossed out that I let go of Brett. He flew right at my face like a kid or somethin’ and pecked me in the cheek, almost takin’ out my left eye. I slapped at the wound with the poop-covered hand and smeared that stuff all over my face and in the peck-wound. There musta been some pee in the poop because it immediately started stingin, from the ammonia, I suspect.
Between the pain and Brett flyin’ aound my head like a little kid up there just havin’ all kinds of fun, I started to lose my balance. I swatted at him to he wouldn’t peck my eyes out in love. He was havin’ too much fun to worry about consequences, I guess. I yelled out, Son, leave your daddy be! But it was too late. My butt slipped off the branch and I fell outta my tree and landed right on my back.
As I lay there, I thought about what it all meant. I felt so alone. My heart hurt. I was pretty sure that I might never walk again. Then I saw Brett up there flyin’. He looked like he was havin’ so much fun. He was like a kid up there. Flyin’ around. Havin’ fun. It was beautiful. I was so proud of him. That’s when it hit me. I knew what it all meant. That bird. That bird that got caught up in my mullet. That bird was Brett. Or Brett’s spirit, rather. And poopin’ in my hand. And tryin’ to peck out my eye. And chasin’ me outta my tree. Well, that was just Brett’s way of tellin’ me that it was time to let him go.
So, I gotta let him go be Brett off somewhere else. And that’s alright. Because it’s time. And because I couldn’t catch him anyway even if it wasn’t time. And realizin’ that. That took me to tears even when I thought I was all cried out. Only these were tears of understandin’. Go your own way, Brett. We’ll always have football. We’ll always have Thansgivin’. We’ll always have poop. But I can’t never all the way let you go, Brett. THAT just ain’t in me.
I’m almost all cried out now. Y’all be good.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR expert for Flotsam Media. Jonny Dave is unable to fulfill his dream of becoming a “fightin’ man” in the armed forces because of various hair-length restrictions for males. However, he currently shows his support for the U.S. military by refraining from French kissing and wearing a set of dog tags that he had made up at Petco.
These past two NASCAR races have made me just sick. Sick of seein’ what’s become of the sport I love. Two weeks in a row of seein’ a daggum backflip at the end of the race? A backflip! The only time I wann see a daggum backflip is if I’m watchin’ daggum cheerleadin’ practice and the backflipper’s wearin’ some kinda daggum lil skirt thing. Now I gotta see them things at the end of a RACE? By a DUDE? That ain’t how I wanna end a perfect day of sittin’ on the couch, eatin’ corndogs, and watchin’ fast cars go in circles. That ain’t no happy ending in Jonny Dave’s fairytale.
You know what it’s like? It’s like you meet this nice lil chick-a-dee that really blows your hair back. You go to courtin’ her and it all goes real good. Finally, ya pop the question and she accepts. Then ya get married. The weddin’s just like you always dreamed it would be with all your friends and family there to celebrate the beginnin’ of the holiest of matrimonies.
The reception is dang near perfect with plenty of corn dogs, grape soda, and line dancin’. Your best man catches the garter and the maid of honor catches the bouquet and then they hook up in the men’s room later. Couple dates are gonna be awesome from now on. When you leave, you take your new bride to the good Best Western down the interstate. You know which one I mean. The one with the indoor pool and hot tub and free cotton-ental breakfast.
When ya get to the room, ya find it’s got two queen beds so y’all get to do it twice before ya need to call for new sheets. Ya sweep her up and get her on the bed and it’s time for all that courtin’ and Freedom kissin’ to finally pay off. You’re thinkin’ that it’s the perfect end to the perfect day as ya tear off that weddin’ skirt. Oh man, there’s about to be some righteous lovemakin’ goin’ on. But, tender and sensitive, too, ya know? Anyway, ya get that weddin’ skirt off the bride, look down, and ... huh? There’s a daggum trouser snake winkin’ up at ya. SHE’S GOT A PECKER! A big one, too. Bigger’n yours, anyway. You married a DUDE! He probly does backflips, too. QUEER!
What I’m gettin’ at is that second pecker moment just taints everything leadin’ up to it. It’s cancelled out all those good feelings and it leaves ya with a sour taste in your mouth. There just ain’t nothin’ right about it. Just like there ain’t nothin’ right about seein’ some fruity backflip after a race. They’s both tragedies that end the same way -- with an angry Jonny Dave.
And that’s why Carl Edwards doin’ backflips is just like accidentally marryin’ a dude.
Uh, except I’ve actually seen Carl Edwards doin’ backflips and the other stuff was strictly a hypothetical situation. It never happened. Ya hear me? It was all made up.
Other’n that, though ...
it’s exactly the same.
That’s all I got. Y’all be good.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR expert for Flotsam Media. He doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t dance. He hopes to stalk Dale Earnhardt, Jr. someday, but Jonny Dave just "can’t find the time" right now.
Well, y’all, the butt pimples did not lie. Daytona happened just as they predicted. I’m gonna start callin’ ‘em…who’s that old guy that made all those predictions? Nostradamus? Yeah. I’m gonna start callin’ them butt pimples the “Nostradamus of my lower half.” Eh…well, that actually seems like a long and laborin’ name so maybe I’ll just call ‘em my “very special” butt pimples or somethin’.
With all of them superpowers and what not, you might get the bright idea that I’m really pretty fond of havin’ ‘em all over my backside. You’d be wrong. They’re kinda embarassin’ and inconvenient, to tell the truth. I’ve tried gettin’ rid of the danged things, but nothin’ seems to work. I wanted to order that stuff that made Tony Romo’s new girlfriend less weird-lookin’ in the face, but Momma said that was a waste of money. She said I could get the same thing from a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol. So, I gave it a shot. Folks, not only did it NOT work, but I couldn’t do a number 2 for three days because of the pain my butthole was in. It was almost indescribable, but, since I’m a professional writer, I’ll clue y’all in.
Have you ever had a really bad sunburn on your arms or back or somethin’? Like maybe you went tubin’ down at the river or fell asleep outside while washin’ your momma’s truck? Has any jokester ever seen that bad sunburn, walked up to ya, and open-hand slapped that sunburn REALLY hard? It hurts, don’t it. A lot. Okay, just imagine that feeling inside of your butt. But worse. And goin’ on for, like, a buncha hours straight. It was bad. Real bad. Of course, Momma always says ya gotta be careful when you’re pourin’ rubbin’ alcohol on your backside because you don’t wanna get any of it up your butt. Now I know why she says that, I suppose.
Since I told ya exactly what would happen before it happened, I guess there’s no need for a Daytona recap, really. I will share a couple thoughts on the race with y’all, though.
1. I figure that Kurt Busch was probly flippin’ Tony Stewart the bird when Busch pushed Newman past Smoke on that last lap. Probly he was flippin’ him off figuratively instead of literally because those guys really should try to be at 10 and 2 at all times.
2. I mighta been wrong about them foreigners. Well, I mighta been wrong about Juan Pablo Montoya, anyways. That lil dude drives like they did in the old days. No mercy. He’s like a tanned Cale Yarborough. A little dude with moxie. Jonny Dave likes seein’ aggressive drivers that always go for the wins instead of bein’ the nice guy. There definitely ain’t no olé stuff for that Mexican.
As for the Auto Club 500, it looks like I’m on my own. The butt pimples are leavin’ me all by my lonesome for this preview. I thought they might on account of them bein’ perturbed about an incident of a couple days ago where I knocked my legs out from under me, fell on my rear, and popped a couple of the bigger zits. It was a mess back there, but well worth it. I kicked that broom farther than anybody else. I never lose at "Kick the Broom."
ANYWAYS, if I’m on my lonesome, then y’all know I’m pickin’ Little E for the win. It’s only the second race of the season, but he’s big-time due for a win. BUT, if I had to pick a backup (you know, in case Junior’s crew chief makes another stupid decision), then I’d probably go with Kyle Busch. Sure, Kyle Busch looks like that little inbred kid from down the road that’s always tryin’ to peek in Momma’s bathroom window when she’s takin’ a shower and then he almost hit me in the head with a rock when I chased him off the last time. But, he’s always got a real good car, it seems. Kyle Busch, I’m talkin’ about. Plus, he drives like he’s on the interstate and just came down with the runs. Again, that’s Busch. I don’t even think the little inbred kid down the road even has a car or knows how to drive. His family’s awful poor.
Alright, that’s all for now. Y’all be good.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is the NASCAR writer for Flotsam Media. He is currently working on a script for the sequel to Days of Thunder entitled Days of Thunder 2. It’s the story of a young up-and-coming NASCAR driver from the wrong side of the trailer park that just might be the fruit of Cole Trickle’s loins. Even though the script isn’t finished, his momma says it “gave her goosebumples” all over her body.
Gobba geeba DAW, y’all! NASCAR’s back and so am I. I didn’t write as much as I hoped to this offseason, but the information dirt roads can be bumpy and full of holes. I’m here now and just in time for the beginning of the season.
What’s that you’re sayin’? Daytona’s already over and I missed the start of the season and the most exciting and important race of the year? Well, that’s quite the sentence, my friend, but Jonny Dave don’t see it that way.
I don’t even know what happened at the race, folks. Ya see, Jonny Dave went on a little adventure startin’ last Friday and just got back. What was my adventure? Flotsam don’t give me enough space to go into it at right now, but I promise to share it with y’all sometime if ya want me to. It was all in the name of love, by the way. Love of NASCAR, that is. Anyway, just trust me when I say that I don’t know how Daytona turned out.
I thought about watchin’ it and then just givin’ a write-up with no previews or nothin’. But I know how much people love them previews. I’ll probably still give a little report about the finish. Maybe. Chances are, though, ol’ Jonny Dave’s race prediction’s gonna be right on point. Anyway, let’s get to what’s gonna be important in the comin’ season.
First, and the most important thing, is that Little E doubled his driver number -- 88 instead of 8 -- and he’ll be wearin’ green from now on. And he looks danged good in it, too. On the track and off. There’s just somethin’ about that color that makes his manly whiskers just POP out at ya as if to say, “Come on over here and see if I feel as good as I look.”
Well, Junior’s whiskers, I can’t find out for myself because the court-mandated personal space I am required to afford Little E unfortunately exceeds my reach by a pretty significant distance. It’s all a misunderstandin’, though and the lawyer down at the bowlin’ alley says we should get all that overturned on my appeal. Who knows, folks? I could be usin’ that scruff to get at a variety of itches by the end of the month. Not this month, probably, but maybe the next one.
The second most important thing is that the Car of Tomorrow is now the Car of Today. This ain’t really a big thing to me because I wasn’t all that impressed with the Car of Today last year when it was still called the Car of Tomorrow. Now, today, the former Car of Tomorrow now called the Car of Today or just “the new car” still don’t seem all that special. Why? Because it don’t seem all that futuristic to me, y’all. They’s still on the ground, ain’t they? What’s so special about that? I been seein’ that stuff for years. Tell ya what, I’ll start humpin’ legs when them things start flyin’. ‘Till then, it’s just more of the same, as far as Jonny Dave’s concerned.
Now to the race preview. Daytona’s all I been thinkin’ about since Brett Favre got cheated outta the playoffs. I guess it all boils down to goin’ with my heart or with my head. My heart’s screamin’ JUNIOR BY A WHOLE LAP. My head, on the other hand, is sayin’ Junior by 3 car-lengths. I tell ya, folks, I just don’t know which one to go with. This is Jonny Dave bein’ torn, here.
I guess I’ll go with ... wait, what? My butt pimples are tellin’ me somethin’. Hold on. They’re sayin’ Tony Stewart will be leading going into the last lap only to be passed by RYAN NEWMAN who is gets pushed by Kurt Busch in pretty exciting finish. What the heck? No Little E? Say it ain’t true. Well, folks, the butt pimples are never wrong so that’s my prediction. Ryan Newman’s gonna win in an apparently exciting and history-makin’ Daytona 500.
That just seems crazy to me and I hope I’m right by goin’ out on a limb like that. But I also hope I’m wrong because I love Junior so danged much and I know he really wants the victory. I guess I’ll just hafta wait to find out. I’m not even sure when I’ll get to watch it. Momma had the TV on RAW all last night (she loves her wrasslin’), so I guess I”ll have to watch it before she gets back from her Hooters shift this afternoon.
So, whether my butt pimples are right or my heart or my head, I don’t know. It’s all up in the air, really. Anything can happen at Daytona, y’all. The only certainty in this race is that I’m gonna be so excited by the time it’s over that Momma’s gonna have to get the hose after me when she gets home.
Y’all be good. I’ll see ya around.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave is a writer-slash-contributor for Flotsam Media. He’s white. He’s poor. He’s Southern. What else do you need to know?
I don’t know how many of y’all heard about that lady on the Golf Channel that tried to incite a buncha golfer boys to go out and lynch Tiger Woods. I’m guessin’ not too many of you, because dog fights still got more people watchin’ ‘em than the Golf Channel does.* Anyway, she apologized and everything’s supposed to be smoothed over, but Jonny Dave just can’t let it go, y’all. I gotta have my say.
Now, why can’t I let it go? Well, I’m a Southern white male from the lower class and you may be aware about the reputation of people like me. Apparently, we hate black people and strive to keep ‘em down.
I know that not everyone thinks that way. It’s mainly ignorant upper-class white people from the north that are afraid to leave the comfort of the city even though I guarantee they live in more segregated places than me that continue to perpetuate that stereotype. There ain’t no color barriers in lower-income housing or trailer parks, y’all.
Anyway, Jonny Dave is here to go on record as sayin’ that neither I, nor any of my family or friends, support the lynchin’ of Tiger Woods. Or anyone else for that matter. We’re all about love, y’all.
About this rich, white woman, though, I’d guess that she’s probably got some issues with people of color. This woman obviously doesn’t go on air without writin’ somethin’ or havin’ somebody write somethin’ for her, so she knew what she was sayin’.
That’s what’s so ridiculous about it all. I don’t know if this some sort of plan between her and her agent or producer or somethin’ to get her exposure and ratings or what. If it was, then they all need to fired and she needs a spankin’ from her momma. Besides, who in their right mind would wanna be known as the Golf Channel’s “Lynchin’ Lady”? That’s not the kind of exposure that’s good exposure.
She should try to be known as the Golf Channel’s “Black Man Lovin’ Lady”. She could have all kinds of videos showin’ herself just lovin’ on black dudes. All kinds of different black dudes. Shoot, there could be dudes of all different colors, for all I care. That there’s the good kind of exposure. It’d be better than her “lynch Tiger” video on YouTube. That’s for danged sure.
So, from now on, when y’all picture a racist in your head, don’t think of poor white dudes like me that talk with a drawl and drive pick-up trucks. Think about rich little white girls that probably say “like” every third word and were in a sorority at a really good college where they drank a lotta wine coolers, dated a lot of frat boys, and they only talked to black guys if they were on the basketball team and it was only to scare “Daddy” into noticin’ them.
Whoa, that got kinda mean in a hurry. Sorry, folks. You get my point, though. Rich people are the very worst people in the world. Never forget that. Wait, I don’t think that was my point, but it don’t even matter anymore. I’m done with my rantin’ and ravin’.
Y’all be good.
*Jonny Dave supports neither the watching of dog fights, nor the watching of the Golf Channel.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR/sports columnist for Flotsam Media. He is currently single, but not desperate. He likes girls with moisturized skin, big teeth, and a little bit of a mustache.
Hey, y’all. I’m back. I haven’t written in a while because Momma took my computer away as punishment for trackin’ peanut butter all through the house, like it’s my fault that her precious little dog didn’t lick it all off. How am I ‘sposed to see the bottom of my feet? Anyway, I thought that I’d just get some things off my chest about the happenin’s in the sports world.
Bobby Petrino: I truly do feel real bad for all them millionaires who lost a coach better suited to the college game and who they didn’t like anyways.
Momma says they were all just upset and hurt because Petrino leavin’ further perpetuated the cycle of them bein’ left by male authority figures when the goin’ got tough. Since a lot of those fellas are black, I’m a little scared that might be a racist way of lookin’ at it. I’m not even sure anymore, but, if you’re white, poor, and from the South, it’s always better to assume what you’re sayin’ is racist.
I warned Momma about her racism and she said she was basin’ her assessment on the fact that I, myself, was left by my daddy and my reaction when my night manager at Wendy’s quit to further pursue his associate’s degree in hotel management at the local community college. I don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. I think that cryin’ for three days straight and campin’ outside his house until his dad calls the cops on ya is a perfectly reasonable reaction to being abandoned by the guy that was supposed to teach how to be a MAN workin’ in Wendy’s. I HATE YOU, CRAIG!
Mitchell Report: So, why am I supposed to care if some of those players took steroids? I like seein’ homers. They’re excitin’. I don’t wanna see no pitcher’s duel; I wanna see some scorin’. And I don’t care about the health risks, either. Their shrinkin’ nutsacks ain’t no worry of mine, y’all. They all made plenty of money. They can pay somebody to get hard-ons. I say put ‘em all on the juice -- hitters, pitchers, umpires. Max out those performances. Give the people what they wanna see. I’d rather see a bunch of players with small balls hittin’ the long ball than players with big balls playin’ small ball. Maybe it’d cut down on all the crotch-grabbin’, too. It’s gotten so bad that I’m scared to let Momma watch games anymore because she gets all weird when it’s over.
16-0: As far as I’m concerned, there ain’t nothing more that needs to be said about this story. I don’t like or trust the “Patriots” anyway. As ironic as it may be, they seem a little un-American, as far as I’m concerned. With all their talk of teamwork and sharin’ the responsibility, they sound like a buncha commies.
Instead, I think I’ll take this time to share with y’all a cautionary tale of overindulgence. It starts at the Georgia State Fair (’94, if I recall correctly). My love all things pertainin’ to state fairs and corn dogs is well-documented and I proceeded to polish off 19 corn dogs with ketchup and cheese, thereby establishin’ a new (and still standin’) Floyd family, state fair, corn dog-eatin’ record.
Momma was actually proud of me that day and I was happier than a guy that just got out of prison and doesn’t have to shower with dudes anymore or do any of that “other stuff” that my uncle won’t talk about that happened to him while he was incarcerated for writin’ too many bad checks. What I did not count on was the amount of impurities that had collected on those 19 corn dogs from the suspect cleanliness of the carnies, whether through their dirty carnie hands, cookin’ devices, or corn dog storage bins. Well, to make a long story a less long one, the task of breakin’ down those impurity-infected corn dogs was, apparently, too much for ol’ Jonny Dave’s bowels and, therefore, rendered me unable to produce a dry fart for the better part of a month. To this day, all of my underwear has skid marks, people call me “Mud Butt”, and I still check my pants after a fart (it’s a 'lil embarrassin’ bein’ seen in public with your hand down the back of your pants).
So, let that be a lesson, y’all. You ain’t gotta avoid all food at the state fair; ya just gotta avoid the cross-eyed carnie that you just saw leavin’ the port-a-john. There ain’t no faucet in that corn dog trailer!
Well, that’s all from me for now. Happy New Year, y’all! NASCAR season’s just around the corner.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR writer for Flotsam Media, but he also likes to watch football. He wanted to play in high school, but his Momma was afraid the other boys would laugh at him in the showers. Jonny Dave had a whole lot of butt pimples in high school.
I got in from the deer woods on Turkey Day mornin’ to settle my butt down for a long day of dark meat, cranberry sauce, and football. I turned on Channel 13 to see some pregame and check myself for ticks.
Momma said she hates it when I check myself for ticks in front of the TV. She says there’s no way I can possibly check myself good while the TV's on. I tell her that I can. She says I can’t. We go back and forth until I finally just strip down to my skivvies and let her check me while I get worked up over "Married with Children" re-runs (Peg’s almost TOO hot with them tig ol’ bitties!).
Well, on Turkey Day, since Momma's busy fryin’ the turkey, I got to check my own self while I watched good ol’ boy Terry Bradshaw gimme the lowdown on all I need to know about football and life in general. [Side note: I’m sure glad they brought that black fella back. Things are back to runnin’ good again on Channel 13’s pregame show. Joe Buck’s pretty too look at and all, but he can’t handle Terry, Jimmy, and Howie. The black fella looks like he lost some weight or somethin’, though.]
OK, back on track. So, I turn it on Channel 13 and what do I see? I see the single most beautiful and touching and goosebump-givin’ tribute to a DIFFERENT good ol’ country boy. I’m talkin’ ‘bout Brett Farve. They had all these old guys talkin’ about how great he is and how they’re glad he joined their club. There was game film and music and I was just in awe at the greatness on my TV.
I couldn’t figure out why they were showin’ it and got scared that maybe Brett had died or somethin’. I hollered at Momma to turn on the radio to see, but she said the radio was in her car ‘cause her car radio wasn’t workin’. What was I gonna do, y’all? I had to know. I felt a lump in my throat makin’ it hard for me to swallow. I told myself, "Jonny Dave, don’t you say your goodbyes yet."
But I couldn’t help it. There I was on the floor with a tick between the fingernails of one hand, the other hand keepin’ my dog away from my genitals, and tears streamin’ down my face for a man I never even met. Momma walked in and said it was the most beautiful thing she ever saw on the floor of her livin’ room. She likes Turkey Day and ain’t hardly ever mean on that day.
Anyways, the tribute was over and Terry Bradshaw -- I knew it’d be you, Terry -- lets me know that Brett’d be playin’ that day. He was ALIVE! Well, you’d think I’d’ve quit cryin’ right then, but you’d be wrong. I just cried harder. I cried because I knew how close we were to losin’ what may be the single greatest American ever. And I had a new appreciation for my life, too. That’s what Brett can do for ya. Brett almost died that day, y’all. But I got to see him play football anyway.
I cried all through that game and most of the night. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. Momma says a man can cry if he gets rid of that tick between his fingernails, lets the dog get a sniff ‘cause that’s all she wants, and goes into the bathroom so no one’s watchin’. Well, I did that, Momma. I popped that tick, put my underwear back on, and went to the bathroom where I just stared at myself in the mirror. And guess what, Momma. Somebody was watchin’ me cry, Momma. I was watchin’, Momma. I was watchin’. And that don’t make me less of a man. And Brett will always be worth cryin’ over.
Hope y’all’s Turkey Day was good. Mine was the best ever.
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is a currently self-unemployed freelance photographer living at home with his mother. He refuses to disclose his exact whereabouts for fear of “goverment” agents monitoring the Internet through Google searches.
Hey, y’all. NASCAR expertise man Jonny Dave here again with another report from the bowels of professional racing. Well, it’s the last race of the year and, barrin’ some crazy turn of events, it looks like the evil Jimmie Johnson is gonna be the champion. Personally, I can’t stand the guy, but it’d be better’n the alternative -- the Rainbow Wuss.
Momma’s happy, though. Jimmie Johnson’s her favorite driver. She thinks he’s the sexiest man since Billy Ray Cyrus. I tell Momma that she don’t know a thing about what makes a sexy man. I tell Momma that Jimmie Johnson is about as sexy as a vagina fart and that everyone knows that Junior is, hands down, the sexiest man in NASCAR and pretty much the world. He’s got better hair than Jimmie Johnson. He’s got better hands than Jimmie Johnson. And he’s got a better butt than Jimmie Johnson. Momma says that any man that feels that way about any other man probably wants to smoke more than cigarettes. I say that Little E’s piercing gaze and photogenic smile can make even the most hetero of sexual men address unspoken wants and needs permeating in the nethermost recesses of his jorts. Me and Momma are both speakin’ in strictly generality terms, of course.
My pick to win this weekend is none other than THE Ryan Newman. Why not Little E? Because Little E is gonna do the world a favor and take out Gordon and Johnson early in the race so we ain’t gotta watch those two flirt around the racetrack. Then we can all sit back and enjoy the race. I like to watch the race with a big ol’ mess o’ corn dogs in front of me. Momma knows just how I like ‘em, too -- deep fried and on a stick with a weenie in the middle. Put ‘em in your mouth and enjoy, y’all!
I’ll be back some other time with more NASCAR stuff. Y’all ain’t gettin’ rid of me just because the season’s over. Gobba geeba DOOO!
Labels: Jonny Dave FloydJonny Dave Floyd
Southerner
Jonny Dave Floyd is a NASCAR fan from way back in the day. He enjoys a good corn dog, Little E, and a mostly clean pair of jorts. He’ll provide updates when his Internet works.
Hey, y’all. Jonny Dave here. I’ll be lettin’ ya know about all things ya need to know about NASCAR.
What’s my credentials, ya might be be askin’ yourself. Well, Momma always told me that if I’m sittin’ there askin’ myself somethin’, then I’m askin’ an idiot somethin’ and I should ask someone smart. I think she was speakin’ in strictly generality terms, I suppose. Time will tell. You can ask me about me, though. Actually, you don’t even have to ask. I’ll just tell ya.
I’ll have ya know that I been to upwards of 16 NASCAR races, most recently sufferin’ in person the unfortunate indignity of witnessin’ Jeff Gordon, the Rainbow WUSS, be victorious at the Bank of American 500, which ruined an otherwise glorious day. Momma always said that a day at a NASCAR race is better’n a day bein’ a danged fool somewhere else, ‘specially somewhere close to her. Agin, I think she was speakin’ in strictly generality terms there. Anyhoo, this bein’ the first piece and all, I thought I’d just give ya a few basics on what the deal is with NASCAR.
1. It’s gonna be a bunch of left turns. There’re some tracks with right turns, but they’s mainly in there to placate the foreigners. I don’t agree with that because the sport was predicated on the sweat of good, honest men runnin’ moonshine durin’ the Prohibition years. Look it up. I’m right. Most of ‘em don’t even pronounce their names the USA way. Its gotta be foreign-speak and that really chaps my behind.
2. The best car don’t always win. It’s all about luck, areo-dynamics, and clean air. I’m not really familiar with any of those things, ‘specially the clean air, what with my love of corn dogs and all. Momma said that if ya go around eatin’ corn dogs all the live-long day, then you’ll never get married and move out and your undies will always be stained. Agin, I’m pretty sure she’s speakin’ in generalities, but that one feels kinda pointed. Momma’s mean sometimes.
3. Pick a driver and support him for all your worth, even your worth ain’t much to speak of. Ya gotta git hats, shirts, shorts, windpants, socks, shoes, and sunglasses. All’a that. Ya GOTS to! It’s your duty as a fan. Them boys are bustin’ there butts and riskin’ there lives so you can spend a relaxin’ day at the racetrack losin’ your hearing and standin’ up and holdin’ up your hat with your driver’s number on it every single time they pass you by and pointin’ to it so everyone around ya knows who yer pullin’ for. The least ya can do is show ‘em how much ya care, even if you’re sittin’ at home and watchin’ it.
Anyway, that’s all for now until next time. If you can’t get to the track, then plop your happy tail there on your couch in front of the TV and enjoy the show. Before I go, here’s my pick to win this weekend.
JUNIOR! Junior…Junior…JUNIOR! WHOOOOOOO! Gobba geeba DOOO!
‘Til next time, y’all. Send questions or comments my way if ya got ‘em.
Jonny Dave
