Sinkhole de Mayo

Jacksonville's three Mexican joints are sure to be packed for tomorrow's Cinco de Mayo festivities tomorrow night. Insipid all-Americana joints like Applebee's and Texas Roadhouse will try to fill the void by hawking their fajita platters and exotic Margarita-esque concoctions (Strawberry-Jalapeno Margarita!! Prickly Pear-Pomegranate Margarita Jello shots!!!!)

But there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon from Jacksonville's unofficial (yet much more proactive and creative) Chamber of Commerce...




You just know that legions of young men will come armed with bags of tortilla chips, preparing to scoop guac out of a stripper's ass crack.


Oh, Driftwood... you never cease to amaze me. You always take it to the lowest common demoninator but at least you always manage to give it the old college try.

How To Speak J-Vegan

One of the most painful exchanges I ever witnessed was a Jacksonville local offering a Californian a nice helping of local cuisine known as Boiled Peanuts.
Local: Hey boy, you want some bawl'd peanuts? Got im at the gas station this murning.
Californian: Uh ok... but what makes a peanut bald?
Local: Cuz you bawl 'em!
Californian (confused): Ummm... but how does a peanut end up bald?
Local: Well they'ums bawl'd peanuts.
Californian (spitting out a mouthful): Those taste like wallpaper paste. What the hell did you do to them?
Local: Bawl 'em. What else would you do to bawl'd peanuts?

In Onslow County, bawl'd equals boiled. You bawl peanuts and, when in season, you bawl a sweet little crustacean known as shrump. Shrump can also be served over a bowl of greetz and slathered in gruvvy, and may be served with a side of soggy cooked greens swimming in ham hock grease known as cawluds.

The lexicon of the greater Jacksonville area consists of words purposely mispronounced simply to separate the locals from those invading swarms of High & Stupids and their Depend-o-potamuses. J-ville locals can smugly point out that you obviously ain't from around here when you mistakenly pronounce winders as windows.

This becomes especially apparent with J-Vegans' pronunciations of neighboring towns. Round here, Topsail is pronounced Top-suhl. Wilmington is mushed together to sound something like Wulmungtun. New Bern is N'Bun. There are the Vuhls: Fayette-Vuhl, Green-Vuhl and our own Jackson-Vuhl. Then there is the one that makes really makes my skin crawl: Rich Lands. Not Richlands... fucking Rich.Lands!!!! Really? If it is supposed to be pronounced that way, the town's founder would have put a damn space between the H and the L. If you spell it Richlands, it will be pronounced as one freaking word. I am not pronouncing it incorrectly; I just know how to read.

Wanting to throw their own dog in the fight, the military has been launching a crusade to change the pronunciation of Camp Lejeune. They lament about ol' John Lejeune hailed from a Cajun family in Louisiana and was subjected to people bastardizing his poor name while serving in the Marine Corps. Uh... wasn't this dude the commandant of the Marine Corps? I think he would have set people straight if they said his name the wrong way. For years it has been pronounced Luh-June. But you are a bag of shit if you say it that way now. Oh no... Camp F'in Luh-Jern! Only a commie bastard infidel would say otherwise.

Dry Humpin' In The Dark

The truest expression of a people is in its dance and in its music ~Agnes de Mille

Wonder how ol’ Agnes, an esteemed American ballerina and choreographer, would view Jacksonville’s indigenous dance, a down and dirty dry hump performed on a filthy dance floor? What the Polka is to the Poles, what the Lambada is to the Brazilians, the Fishin’ In The Dark is to the residents of Jacksonville.

The Fishin’ In The Dark caught me by surprise. I was ready to blow off some steam on a Friday night and agreed to join my friends at the Tarheel Opry House. Tucked around the corner from La Mirage titty bar on a deserted back road, the Tarheel shares a parking lot with Alexander’s, Jacksonville’s self-proclaimed “premiere” nightclub. In Jacksonville-ese, labeling a place premiere simply justifies a 20 buck entry fee and bisecting the club with a velvet rope as a meager attempt to create a VIP lounge. But I digress; that is for another blog post. I pulled my vehicle to the east end of the parking lot, amid the mud-splattered American model trucks and Jeeps adorned with cute little bumper stickers of Browning deer heads forming hearts.

After handing over my cover charge, I noticed an index card taped to the front desk proclaiming “Please leave your knives in your vehicle.” Charming. I half expected Patrick Swayze to be standing at the bar, arms crossed but ready to rip my throat out Roadhouse style if I stepped out of line. Instead, I spied several geriatric rent-a-cops ambling through the crowd, pausing to chat with pregnant women sucking down longnecks and smoking cigarettes (pre-smoking ban days here, obviously). Bellying up to the bar, my friends and I ordered a round of shots that was quickly vetoed by the steely blond iron maiden bartender. She didn’t have the ingredients required to make our sissy ass shots but promised whip up something good to get the night started.

Around midnight, they unfurled an American flag up on the stage and a fiddle player began his rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner”. Look, I am as much of a red-blooded, all-American patriot as the next guy, but I find it hard not to laugh at a bunch of drunk boots attempting to stand at the position of attention, thumbs aligning with pant seams, eyes straight ahead, after shooting Jager all night long. Especially when they start cheering “America! Fuck yeah!” in a seemingly un-ironic manner upon the close of the national anthem.

It was then that I heard the first chords of one of my favorite songs. “Fishin’ In The Dark” by the Nitty Gritty Dirty Band has always held a special place in my heart. It is a cheeky little ditty about a guy taking his girl fishing… except it isn’t really fishing that he is concerned with… at least in the traditional sense. I always appreciated the sly yet innocent double entendre of the lyrics. And it so happened that I had found a repeat dance partner that night who happened to be standing right by my side at the song’s start. A mutual nod confirmed that indeed we would be taking a turn on the dance floor to this song. We sauntered hand-in-hand to the dance floor, me preparing to do the traditional two-step this song demanded when…



HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!? I had been momentarily distracted by my dance partner’s blue-grey eyes that I hadn’t noticed a fucking orgy had broken out on the dance floor.

The two-step is just way too classy for Jacksonville. Men were sprawled out on the dance floor with women gyrating above them. Men were dry humping women. Sisters were doing in for themselves by gathering their friends and squatting in pairs four or five deep over one another. People were sixty-nining, throwing legs over shoulders and going to town. I fear that some would have a souvenir of that night nine months later. Seriously… there was straight up baby-making going on that dance floor that night. Those not participating in the debauchery were arming their cell phone cameras and whooping to their friends about how they couldn’t wait to upload the footage to Youtube when they got home. It looked like we had walked on to the set of Caligula. My dance partner and I nervously eyed each other, wondering if we should really go to third base within a mere twenty minutes of meeting each other. My friends, being no help at all, egged me on and flat out dared me.

When in J-Vegas, do as the J-Vegans do. Don’t judge. I still blame the Iron Maiden bartender and those non-sissy shots.

I'm back, bitches!

How time flies! My last post was over a year ago and concentrated on a conversation at the Easter dinner table. This last weekend after unbuttoning my pants to make room for another round of ham, booze and.. well.. even more booze, a random thought popped in to my head. "Hey... didn't I used to write a blog about this shithole town that I reside in?"

Truth be told, I thought nobody was reading it. I sent it out to a small group of friends and regularly begged them to read it. They rolled their eyes and pretended to humor me. Months passed by, nobody left any comments and I crawled in to the fetal position and nursed my wounded self esteem with Vicodin and Jack Daniels. Sunday I stumbled to the computer post-Easter dinner, logged in to the email linked to this account for the first time in over 6 months and HOLY SHIT people were actually responding.



Forgive me. My blogging skills are rusty so I am resorting to this tired ass Sally "You like me!" Fields reference.

Game on, J-Vegans! I am sharpening my tongue once again and not leaving the house without my camera. We are back in business.

Special thanks to the Afghan Lemmings, especially SD who took time out of his busy day of handing terrorists their asses to let me know that the blog was being circulated around his battalion. My ego is now so swollen I may have to celebrate by slamming Jager and slapping a stripper's ass in his honor. Safe return home, gents.