Bound to Happen...

As Mike so accurately stated, yes, two roughnecks fought, but only one was left standing, giving light to the creed "Two roughnecks enter, one roughneck leave." This contest featured two of our previous friends: Dave, who is on the outs and lost his wife and kids to one of Wyoming's doughnut chompin' finest, and Marcus, the Sam Elliot dude who is cool as fuck, and yet looks like he could punch through you, thus being able to wave to the pretty girl you were making time with a few seconds previous to your demise. Ever since Dave lost a whole lot of shit, things have been missing around the rig grounds. Marcus lost a few of his tools, and decided to engage in a heated debate about the recent whereabouts of his personal effects. Dave tells him, basically, to go fuck himself, following up with a line he will not soon forget: "Bring it Old Man!"

Now, I know a few things in life, how a clock works, what licorice is the best brand (red vines, ho), when to walk from a blackjack table, and so forth. BUT, what I know for certain is that you don't talk shit to a man from Louisiana, who looks like Sam Elliot, who spent time in prison, who has worked with his hands his whole life, and who outweighs you by about 40 lbs, and whose forearms look like they were carved out of stone. Dave, too, now knows this very difficult lesson, after losing a chunk of his ear and probably about half a million neurons.

Dave was not smart to begin with.

Apparently, he is probably going to run his mouth off to the head office, even though it happened off site, technically, and he should fucking know better than to steal Marcus's stuff.

But, then again, Dave is not smart.

we are about 5600 ft from being back in the hole, and my ass is about to go office space on this piece of shit printer Tim still has not replaced. Or the fucking Air conditioner that sucks balls. I take that back, if it sucked balls, it would have a purpose, instead of being a worthless lump of shit that blows air the equivalent of those stupid battery-powered hand fans. WHEEEEEE!

Yesterday, Mike, Todd and I cruised up to the waterfall by the reservoir that the locals had no idea existed. Quick nerd calculations figured that about 250-300 gal/sec poured over just a fantastic view of the basin below. Then Todd regaled us with the many fantastically tragic stories visited upon him.

I don't feel sorry for him since he found a woman to be the receptacle of his ejaculate just the other day. Her man was in jail, and, well, drink 'em if you got 'em.

Other than that, I finally opened up a Wells Fargo Account that I cannot access until I bring the detective's name (Detective Greer 512-974-4402) and case number (5015067) of my fraudulently used but closed checking account. BTW, Fuck University Federal Credit Union. If you see a heavy set black man, age 25-35, 5'8"-6' tall, saying his name is Reed Marshal Becker, please call me and the police. That fucker needs a block dropped on his head, in a very equal opportunity way. Maybe by a Semite even, I dunno, maybe....

I Love you all, and would take my time makin' love to each and every one of you very special people.

rockreeder