It’s after 6PM. I shouldn’t still be hungover. But I didn’t get out of bed until after 9:30 this morning and soon after that I found my way to the couch, didn’t get off the couch ’till just before 2PM.

Once I finally got out of the house I actually accomplished several tasks. How small is the town you grew up in? I’ll now attempt to give you an idea just how small my hometown is, was, and probably always will be.

On my way to the Auto Mechanic’s place where my dad has been getting his vehicles inspected for years, I drove past the little neighborhood wherein lies the house in which I spent the first 20 years of my life. Across the highway, I noticed a company truck that looked a lot like my Dad’s work van. I pulled off the road, parked, said to the gentleman by the passenger side of the truck that was not my Dad, but wears the same uniform, “Is Dave with you?”

Yerp. He pointed down the cellar door. My Dad looked at his wrist where his watch should be, but wasn’t, then made a wisecrack about how it was nice to see me get started on my day so early.

We made plans for grilling some steaks later in the evening, and I drove off to finally get my Jeep inspected. When I arrived at the mechanic’s shop he and a friend were sitting in the office, chillaxin. I’m guessing this is not a word he or his cohort would’ve used to describe the situation. He owns and operates the two-bay garage by himself. No employees, far as I can tell. No receptionist, not even sure if he’s got a cash register.

When I first walked into the established several weeks ago, I told him the story of how my Dad had been bringing his vehicles for years, and now that I bought one of them, I too would like to procure his services.

Not thirty seconds into said conversation, he asks, “Oh, you’re Dave’s son, aren’t you?”

Fast forward to today, I walk into the office, tell him I had the exhaust fixed on my Jeep, and asked if he had a little time to take a look at it and set me up with a passing grade (and sticker).

google_ad_client = “pub-7675507778237163”;
/* AtomFeedAds */
google_ad_slot = “7313753325”;
google_ad_width = 180;
google_ad_height = 150;

<script type="text/javascript"

Few clicks on his computer and I was on my merry way, with a legal vehicle. Driving in the direction of the local butcher shop, I passed the Tiki Bar and was gonna keep right on driving, but the owner just so happened to be in the parking lot. I stopped, we had a 45-second chit-chat, and I was on my way again.

I asked him if he received the book I sent to him, I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, by Tucker Max [W]. He said his wife got a good laugh at the address I gave to Amazon for shipping purposes.

Jim E Finegan, III
The Nicest House on Main St
Bally, PA 19503

I told him and I’ll tell all of you as well; Read the book. I’ve never laughed out loud while reading a book in public as hard as I did reading Tucker’s book. He went to Duke Law and decided he’d be happier as a writer than he would as a lawyer. He drinks as much as my friends and I gamble. Holy hilarious stories, Batman.


Few hours later in the evening, and the reason I actually started this post, I found an article from WCP in my reader that lead me to this story about the Wynn suing Sir Charles.

The story didn’t shake my shrubbery so much as the comments that followed. I was annoyed enough to tell everyone to shut the fuck up and let the man gamble however often he wants.

Comment originally posted at

Pick a profession, any profession. Not everyone is able to do every job. Some of us are too tall, too short, too fat, too skinny, not strong enough. Some of us are too damned stupid.

Then there are jobs like Pro Athlete where some of us just weren’t born with the talent to make it that far. Even with the talent, I can’t begin to imagine how much time they put into practices and workouts and whatnot.

Hate gifted/talented people all you want. It might make you feel better, but it won’t change the fact that just because they’re living what seems to be the big easy lifestyle doesn’t mean they didn’t go through a lot of blood, sweat, and tears on their way up to the top.


Once a person has worked their ass off and made tons of money, god bless america, they’re free to F&@% it off however they want.

Who knows, maybe I’ll score an extra blog reader out of the rant. Thank you all for reading, I’m happy to share that this blog is now read in fourteen countries across the world.

One last plug for Tucker‘s book: Debauchery That Leaps Right Off the Page, a review printed in the New York Times back when the book first came out in 2006.

Sun is going down, pretty soon I’ll get to eat that steak.