SNAGLEY snagley SNAGLEY or (TRI SNAG)

I got nothing today so i thought i would post a picture of me installing my hide-a-key magnetic key hider.
I wanted to put it somewhere so it would be hard to find for any would be thieves.
Snagley out.

One year anniversary

Why I started blogging.

Well it was designed to be a wonderful practical joke. As you all know Chuck is a old college roommate of mine. He is a man of enthusiasms. He had told me he had a blog and that he was enjoying it, and that he was using it to vent his spleen. He wanted to give me the blog address but was afraid I would be offended at the sexual content. “I am a boy scout ya know.”

I got on the net and with a few simple searches found his blog. I hatched a plan to mess with him. I started posting oddball comments about his floor being dirty and questioning his housekeeping skills. I could tell that I was getting under his skin by his responses to my comments. He started asking why I did not have a blog. So I created one all for the purpose of messing with his mind.

My plan was to continue to comment on him and get more and more personal as time went on. I was having a lot of fun with this and had the next 6 months posts planned out in advance. Then one day I was talking to Chuck on the phone and he asked me if the name Bo Snagley meant anything to me. Being the consummate practical joker, I said no and asked him to elaborate. He said he was having some trouble on the web from a jerk named Bo Snagley and he was getting concerned about the guy. He seemed to know quite a lot about him and was getting annoyed by his off the wall comments about his housekeeping. I slipped up and laughed. I said “Oh yeah Chuck that’s me”. He did not believe me and asked me the name of my blog. I responded Snagley Snagley Snagley, or Tri Snag. We had a good laugh about it and I decided to keep the blog.

From there, the blog evolved to sort of a daily way for me to tell jokes and stories of my childhood. Most of them are true.

I had been considering a children’s book, and this lets me test material as well as rant about things that tick me off. I have met some interesting folks, I have a few favorites blogs.

It has been a year. I get about 80 to 100 unique visitors a day. About 8 to 9 people comment consistently. I have had a little over 28000 hits in this first year since I started tracking it. I wish more people commented. But in all fairness I don’t have as much time to visit other blogs and comment on theirs, so I cant complain. I don’t have a home computer so I have to do this before and after work.

I sometimes hit a creative wall and resort to stupid posts involving among other things pictures of cats. I also realize that most of what I post is prattle and should not be taken too seriously. Thanks for not being too offended at my simple outlook on life.
Snagley out.

Thrill Seekers.
I passed the kidney stone. It reminded me of trying to pee out a sweet gum ball.
For those gentle readers among us lets suffice it to say it was not a pretty sight.
Chuck our UT "Urine Tech" was a real trooper. he held the bucket low enough to allow ease of passage. He quickly found the offending stone and retreived it for research and posterity
the below picture is Chuck sitting beside the stone.
A normal man would not have been able to pass such a stone, but as you know i am not a normal man.

In other news:
It has been raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock. My entire yard is mud and standing water. It is profoundly frustrating. I know that it will not get any better until late spring which is even more disturbing.

In yet other news:
My chickens are doing well we have been getting a dozen a day for the past few days. they were up to their ankles in mud so i filled part of the coop in with pine straw. they seem to like this.

And Lastly:
bidding to start today on my kidney stone. I will have the Snagley family crest chisseled on the face of the stone. I will also include Chuck "my personal UT" and his bucket.

Snagley out.

American Idol.

Ok only one word for those of you who watched the show. Zachary (what the hell)

It was another good night for idiots. What cracked me up about old Zack is he sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking rocks. He sang a Whitney Houston song like a vacuum cleaner then said the judges were predigest because he sucked. He got his clothes from Jr miss and a local thrift store. Zack if you want to dress like a nut go ahead.
Its just like I say. I would fight a war to protect Zachary and his rights to dress like a preteen girl. But I would not buy a pop album of him sounding like a vacuum cleaner sucking rocks while dressing like a preteen girl.
Us Snagleys are old fashioned like that.

In other news Piss Boy has chosen another moniker, he wishes to be called Urine Technician. So in my normal mode of politically correctness I shall henceforth refer to Chuck as Urine Tech. I am abbreviating Technician because all the typing gives me carpel tunnel syndrome.

I have not passed the stone yet. I have drunk enough water to float a beer looter. With any luck Chuck will find that thing soon and I will be able to put this behind me.

Oh by the way Thrill Seekers the chickens are laying 10 to 11 eggs per day. Snagley Out.

American idol.
Man that show cracks me up. My favorite part of the entire show is what is going on now.
You got all these dufases up there that think they can sing. They get up there and sound like Lucy Ricardo on the Lucy show trying to get to perform at the Tropicana with Ricky. Then Simon tells them the truth that they sound like an ostrich with larengitis. Last night he told some girl that she sounded like a sack full of cats being beaten with a stick. good stuff

For some reason their Mommas don’t pull them aside and say. “Baby please don’t go on that show. You sound like someone beating a sack of cats with a stick, and baby if you insist on going on that show despite your sainted mothers warning, don’t wear those clothes, you will look like a crack whore”.

I am also in the midst of a kidney stone attack. Chuck offered to come to the hospital and hold my hand should the need arise. Instead I shall have him follow me around with a bucket and strain my urine in search of the stone in case I pass it. I shall refer to him as “Piss Boy”

Snagley out.

Other than my religious convictions

Please excuse the lack of proper syntax,

I believe in fishing with kids, I believe in manual labor, I believe that people who drive slow in the fast lane should be fed a strong laxative and put in the slow lane 100 miles from home, I believe in blackberry cobbler, I believe that the berries should be picked by hand, I believe that there should be a amendment outlawing oversized pants that let people see your underwear, I believe in monogamous love, I believe that partisan politicks and the deadlock that comes from it is the only thing saving this country from incompetent politicians, I believe that 99.9275% of politicians are corrupt in some form worldwide, I believe in warm socks, I believe in waterproof leather boots, I believe in T-bone steaks grilled over a hickory fire, I believe in children playing, I believe in a home full of laughter, I believe that Woody Allen movies are prattle, I believe that the greatest contribution that western civilization has made to the world is pecan pie, I believe in slow cooked pot roast on Sunday afternoon, I believe in sharp pocket knives and whittling sticks, I believe in swimming in creeks, I believe in old dogs and puppies, I believe that cow manure makes the best rose fertilizer, I believe that minor league baseball is the real deal, I believe in archery with children, I believe in alternative fuels for automobiles, I believe that professional athletes are overpaid, spoiled and have no grip on reality, I believe that everyone ought to jump down turn around and pick a bale of cotton, I believe in two ply quilted toilet paper, I believe in short stories, I believe in large fish, I believe that any religious figure that does not fish should be regarded with suspicion, I believe that emaciated women are butt ugly, I believe that is enough is enough,.

How did I get poison Oak during January.
Kelwhy and Chuck asked this question. I got it doing work. Something Chuck would not be able to understand. I was clearing off some brush with an axe. But it made me think of another poison ivy story. My brothers worst case of poison ivy.

He was 14 and quite the idiot. It was summer 1962. It was hot. He and his friends did their annual ritual of damming up Sven’s Creek. It is a local waterway that has since turned into a crick. A creek is a pristine waterway; a crick is a cow infested, poop swamp.
They would dam the creek up and swim in it. They dammed up the creek with logs and rock and mud, so that it would fill up a bend in the creek, known as the swimming hole. The dam made the water about 15 feet deep and was a great place to cool off in the summer. People all up and down the creek would use the swimming hole. In the fall strong rains would wash the dam away and clean out the swimming hole of all drown people, and we would start over in the late spring.

This day they had just finished damming up the creek. He and his two buddies were lazing around waiting for the water to rise significantly enough so that they could jump and dive off of a large, mossy oak tree. They, of course, wore no clothes.

One of his friends, Joel I think his name was, noticed a large vine hanging off of the mossy oak tree. Being idiots they started running and swinging off of the vine over the water and dropping into the water naked. Little did they know that the vine was a poison oak vine? After they spent several hours pulling down the poison oak vine they began walking home wearing only their shoes, so as not to get their clothes wet, and they would dress before getting home. They walked down the train track to the pasture that would lead them home.

As was their custom they would stand and wave naked at any train that would pass. This one just happened to contain my great aunt Winnie who did not recognize them but did notice them. It made for interesting dinner conversation that evening.
But I digress…

The rash that developed from the naked vine swinging was particularly heinous. I remember the stories even today of him painting calamine lotion on with a paintbrush.

I guess my case is not as bad as I thought.

I have a case of freaking poison ivy in the middle of January
Only I could get poison ivy in the middle of winter.
Hydrocortisone hydrosmortasone none of it works
I am itching like a bear on a fuzzy tree.
Don’t mess with an itchy Snagley
Gold bond spray aint cutting it
Calamine aint working

Why don’t we pack all this poison ivy up and send it to Iraq and tell the insurgents that it is natural toilet paper?

I did find a sure fire cure a few years ago Hydraulic cement. It dries in less than 5 minutes and will pull all of the moisture out of your skin.
The negative is that it cost about $25.00 for 2 pounds.

Little Jimmy, tired of being beat up by bullies, experiments in different forms of body armor

My first haircut was in a feed store. Well let me take that back my first paid haircut. Part of my fathers duties in the army during WWII was to cut the hair for his company of men. He father had done the same thing back in WWI so he figured it was a good fit when they asked for volunteers. He still had the kit when I was a kid. Hand powered clippers a couple of nice scissors a comb and a brush. He gave pretty good crew cuts and fair flat top haircuts.

For some reason when I was about 7 he took me to the feed store and let Mr. Foley have a go at my head. He cut hair as long as the hair lasted. He was not one of those barbers who knew two styles short and shorter, he only knew shorter.
I sat on a bar stool with a white cloth around my neck. I was sitting close enough to the pot bellied coal stove that I could feel the heat on my face. The floor was covered with straw from the hay bales and hair from the other haircuts. I remember the old men talking about how Foley knows how to give a good haircut, “You get your moneys worth from old Foley” they said. He pretty much shaved my head. Which was fine with me I wore a hat anyway, and at 7 I did not care if my head looked good or not. He then slapped some witch hazel on my neck saying I needed some of that old hoss smell. He then told me to go get a grape soda. I did, and then we left.

Now days I don’t have all that much hair to cut. Foley has been dead for 25 years and someone turned his feed store into a plant nursery. The last haircut I got I got at sport cuts, it is a place where they take a women’s hair place and dress it up with some pictures of football players and cut men’s hair at an inflated price. I read a post by Dick I think I will find an old time barbershop. I need me some of that old hoss smell.

I should go in with Chuck and split the price of a haircut between the two of us combined we only have one head of hair.

I bought a new pocketknife the other day; it is a Swiss army knife. Cool not too big but functional. It made me think of my first knife. It was a Barlow. The two resemble each other only in that they both have mass and take up space.

The Barlow is the first knife of most kids; it has two blades that are almost impossible to open and is made of regular steel the kind that rusts. The handle is made out of brown plastic, and hit has a handy metal loop on it that you could tie a string to or clip to your scout belt.

The day I got the knife was Christmas day 1977. I had been eyeing this large box under the tree for weeks. It was as tall as I was and 3 feet wide. I wondered what could possibly be in it. Christmas day I found out. Inside it were 17 other boxes descending in size down to one that my Barlow knife barely fit inside.

When a kid gets a knife he does 4 things with it. He whittles a stick, he cuts himself, he sharpens the knife, and then he promptly looses it. I was no different.

I opened the knife and admired it. The blade was almost as sharp as a stick of liquorice. I showed it to my dad who said “ great son, don’t cut yourself’. I then went outside and found an appropriate stick about the size of a hot dog wiener. I first thought of carving one of those need wooden chains that the old men at the feed store are known for. I made one notch and realized I did not know how to do that. So I made a sharpened stick. It took me about two hours, remember the knife was dull.

As I was putting the finishing touches on my sharp stick I cut my thumb. I still have the crescent shaped scar on the knuckle on my left thumb. I started to bleed. I bled all over my pants, I bled all over the porch, I went inside and started slinging my hand to stop the pain and slung the blood all over the wall, curtains, carpet, the cat and my mother. She calms me down and bandages me up. I tell dad he says uh huh.

I then take the old time wisdom that only a dull knife cuts fingers and sharpen the knife into half of its former dimensions, it will now shave the hair off of my arm. I know have what is known as a sharp knife. I show my dad he says “uh huh”. I show my mom and she turns white. The next day the knife is missing. I notice no correlation between showing my mom a razor sharp knife and the knife missing. I tell my mom she says “uh huh. I tell my dad and he rails about how the knife cost him a whole dollar and how money don’t grow on trees and smack like that.

Years latter while searching for a pencil in my mom’s room in a shoe box under her bed and find the knife inside one of her shoes in a box marked Arbor Day decorations. I tell mom she hides her surprise under a veil of disinterest. I put it in my pocket and wander out to the barn. My Uncle Fred is in there feeding some cows he looks at me and says Got yer knife on ya. With pride that only a 12 year old can have at being asked for a knife by an adult. (He asked me because he knows I am the sort of responsible and resourceful person who, if is wearing pants, would have a knife in his pocket), I pull out the knife and say. Yup but be careful the blade is razor sharp.