the denabauchery

two months out of my life

2005-10-03T14:08:00.000-05:00

two months. that's what it took. two unbelievable, hard, strange months to get a grip on myself and come back to being who it is i've always wanted to be. two months to stop trying to find my validation in everyone who surrounded me. two months to drink myself out of my mind and what i was facing. two months to realize that what i was doing was only hurting me and that i wasn't getting anywhere the way i was going. two months to find ambition that had lain dormant for far too long. two months to stare blankly at a wall, my mind roaming fifteen hundred miles into the distance. two months to smile. two months to laugh uncontrollably in the presence of close friends. two months to cry when none of them were there. two months to say 'i'm sorry'. two months to make them proud again. two months to sleep easy. two months to quit struggling and just let the chips fall where they may. two months to give it my all. just two months.. that's all.

and this is for her..

on the other side of midnight
won't be long until the dawn
-mike mcclure

darlin', i promise.. it won't be long. you believed in me and made me better. i believe in you, too.

there's a mystery to it

2005-09-29T17:39:00.000-05:00

"have you seen God, have you ever seen God? i've never seen the wind. i've seen the effects of the wind, but i've never seen the wind.. there's a mystery to it." -billy graham

the day is new.. an adventure awaits.. and hope abounds

-dusty

ps - i'm back baby!

you ask'd for it

2005-04-28T16:14:00.000-05:00

well.. sara and amy have requested that i "update this bitch"
like mancy says, "let it roll"

i'm not a fan of oprah.. but i do enjoy ellen. the discovery channel is cool.. and the learning channel needs to get over itself. mac and cheese should be the national food of every nation.. except france. they get liver and onions. fuckin' surrender monkeys. yeah, france, don't worry about it. we'll bail you out of two world wars.. thanks for the statue, jackasses. i'd like to give a big thank you to gen. cornwallis for throwing the game in the 1770's.. we appreciate the country - especially the mexicans. fuck santa ana. i love chinese food, but i don't particularly appreciate the way those little slants drive. i've no idea how any of them ever passed driving schoor. black people are cool, though. seriously.. how many black people do you know who can't dance? besides carlton? exactly.

what else? ahh.. dizz is about to move to phukett, thailand. i like to tell people where he's going just because it's the phonetic equivalent of 'fuck it' [dizz has just informed me that it is pronounced 'book-it'. whatever, bro.. it looks like 'fuck it' and i'm gonna call it fuck it. also, i'm an uncultured bastard.. per dizz]. i want to move to fuck it. hell.. i'll incorporate the place if i can just get a few investors. remember hondo? and luckenbach? yeah.. it'll be like luckenbach. only.. it'll be fuckit, texas. yeah! fuckit, texas! where you're not allowed to waste good whiskey by serving it to girls.. that's what bacardi and diet coke are for. also.. we'll have horses tied up to posts out front, just like in the old west, and if you're too drunk to drive, we'll just give you a horse and wish you the best of luck. all of the water fountains will give forth lonestar light and budweiser. we'll serve ribs, chicken fried steak and crawfish.. everything will come with a side of corn, fried okra, mash'd potatoes and gravy. lots of gravy. the only music in the jukebox will be texas country.. the real shit. no kevin fowler. and waylon.. lots of waylon. jennings.. not payne. pat green will only be allowed to play there if he introduces himself as pat 'fucking' green.. before every song. dancing girls! we have got to have some hot ass dancing girls.. matt powell can be in charge of that. jason boland will be the sheriff. randy and brady will play nightly songswaps with wade bowen and brandon rhyder. stoney will sit in with 'em.. when he's not 'otherwise indisposed' somewhere in northern oklahoma. and every weekend.. shooter jennings - with special guests: the eli young band. i'm really starting to like this idea.. a lot.

send your check or money order to
dusty schluterman
7724 tennessee sucks ass drive
fuckit, texas

we're too damn cool for zip codes

twenty-three [four] and so tired of life

2005-04-18T09:33:00.000-05:00

ok.. i'm not tired of life, not at all, but it's the only way i could work that dmb lyric into this post. that's right.. i'm twenty-four years of age today. leave your well wishes in the box and send your money to tom delay.. we've got an arrangement

and if nothing can be done
we'll make the best of what's around -djm

it's five past.. oh shit!

2005-04-13T03:33:00.000-05:00

ever done that to yourself?

i was at the bar this evening, enjoying a few rounds in honor of our fallen pope/soldiers/dead presidents/your excuse here and i was thinking that it was closing on the appropriated time for me to be heading home to lie down and attempt to sleep while pondering whether or not cows really sleep standing up or if they're actually planning a revolution before our very eyelids. mr. burger king and old man mc donald, be afraid.. be very afraid. anyway.. as it happen'd, i looked down at my watch to see just what time it was and.. lo and behold! it was five past nothing. time had eaten itself. it had finally had enough springing forward and falling backward that it just gave the hell up. and then i realized that the little hand was only hiding behind the big hand. oh.. where did those preschool lessons ever go? thankfully, i realized what was going on just before i notified the entire bar of a rip in the space/time continuum. but just barely.

eat your heart out, hawking

i have a dream

2005-04-08T08:00:00.000-05:00

yes.. i. have. a. dream.
those words must have been uttered so many times before, but never with such great results as when spoken by the people who design simple, everyday hygiene products. without such motivation, surely we would still live in a world with square-headed toothbrushes and one-ply toilet paper. fear not, gentle toothbrushers and ass wipers of the world.. fear not. the good folks at charmin and oral-b are on the case. someone once ask'd me, "dusty, why didn't God give us humans flip-top heads?" and i said to them, "because He wanted to give the people at oral-b a fighting chance, you villainous bastard. He wanted to give them a chance." where would we be without the angle-necked, mulit-level bristled, color-coordinated no-slip grip toothbrushes of today? i put it to you.. we would be living under the rule of a fascist regime. a communist/fascist state of unrest where the back teeth never get quite as clean as the fronts.. and all because we had to go spending our money on missles and guns instead of proper hygiene. where would we be without the genius engineers at charmin? the ones who invented the four-in-one mega roll.. where would we be without them? i'll tell you where. that's right.. fascism. thanks to the freedom fighters at charmin, i now have the option, nay, the right to buy a roll of toilet paper that is so friggin' huge, i may or may not need an extender just to hang it from my wall. oh, and i would hang it proudly for all to see. i would display my choice with the dignity and pride that can only be known by a man with a contented and clean bottom. yes, friends, i choose hygiene and i choose it well. for too long we have been oppressed and i say.. 'no longer'. rise up, patriots.. rise up and make your stand. be counted among those who have said 'no' to fascism and 'yes' to hygiene.

thank you, mr. george whipple.. thank you

pornografía

2005-04-05T19:50:00.000-05:00

holy hispanic beefwhistle, batman.. it's rené!

tonight at dick's was rather unbusy and un-well.. busy. un-eventful.. there we go. fucking un-eventful, save for one shining moment. tonight was a stormy one, literally and not figuratively, at the last resort of richard. i say golf ball and sara says peanut m&m sized drops of rain were falling in the west end. either way you slice it, they were big ol' bastards. of course this led to no customers sitting outside and drinking mav's home game special twenty three ounce drafts for five and a quarter (keep the glass) and three fifty refills. this, in turn, led to dusty being bored like a motherfucker. a motherfucker with a dead mother.. hence, nothing to do. the stage is full, the scene is set.. here's the way it went down. three of us, myself-krispy-kurt, were standing towards the front of the building. kurt was behind the bar.. he's the bartender and it makes sense. kurt decided to flip through the channels on one of the televisions and see if there was anything worth watching.. and oh hell was there ever?! all of a sudden, the screen was filled with olive colored flesh and more of it becoming visible by the second. kurt exclaimed, "what the hell is this?" krispy ask'd, "what sort of shenanigans are those?" i unzipped my pants and duck'd into a corner. ok.. so i didn't. anyway.. kurt replied to krispy, "i don't know, but they're on tv." the three of us crowded around the television, transfixed by the rapidly elevating, fajita-fueled hotness on the screen as we wondered aloud if the management had gone ahead and purchased the spice package. then it hit us.. telemundo! yes, telemundo.. or univision. those damn spaniards and more prevalently, messicans, get away with near murder and in this case, sexual intercourse-o, on basic cable than the white man does. in my opinion, spanish television is the way to go. tits and ass know no language barrier. anyway.. back to the focus. as we watched, we all seperately became aware that no faces were visable but that more and more clothes were disappearing by the minute.. and then it happened. the camera panned out and showed the dude's face and i would nearly be willing to swear under drunken oath that it was one of the kitchen guys. if i am not mistaken, there was one of our pantry chefs, rené, on top of a girl with blurry nipples and the kind of curves that only a diet of burritos and fried rice can produce. then came the caption.. "el gaucho diablo". that's right.. he was about to give her the devil cowboy dick. him and his capped teeth. i was fucking jealous and i'm pretty sure that it was wrong, but damnit, after tonight, i don't even know if i want to be right. after that.. we wrote the whole thing off as an episode of spanish elimidate. then we watched footage of the pope.. on espn. tonight was a little strange to say the least.

in nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti

kenny.. are you stoned?

2005-04-04T17:36:00.000-05:00

as many of you know and some of you may care, i work at dick's last resort. in dallas. in the west end. i love it.. really. and, as most of my ex-girlfriends will tell you, i don't love very many things. i like most and love few. don't get upset, ho, that's just how it goes. anyway.. the place is a completely different mix of most all walks of life. we've got pimps and we've got divas. we've got working stiffs and we've got party animals. we've got straight laced and we've got way out theres. we've got clean cut and we've got stoners.. and stoners. which, of course, leads to this conversation between myself and a co-worker..

-dude, are you stoned?
let me tell you something about me. i'm rarely not stoned. so, the question shouldn't even be 'are you stoned?', it should be..
-'how stoned are you?' ?
the question should be.. you know, i don't know what the question should be. it should be something else though.
-i see.
see what?

yeah.. it's kinda like that. a guy can see and hear pretty much everything there.. and that's on a slow day. for instance, a few of us were sitting on the back dock last night after work, having some beers, when the server who was still on the clock came out and ask'd us if we wanted another drink. without hesitation, one of my esteemed colleagues replied, "is the pope.. dead?" not catholic. dead. ask a rhetorical question and get one in reply around that place. of course, not too many other rhetoricals so swiftly threaten damnation. after that, we walk'd [stagger'd] down to the west end pub where the budweiser worked me like a sunday boner. in short.. i'm having a great time and getting paid for it. well. who else but hookers and porn stars, right?

it's all good.. from diego to the bay

confession time

2005-04-01T07:49:00.000-06:00

Alright.. i admit it. i actually do like Pat green. i'm Really sorry for all of the bad thIngs i've ever said about him. i admire pat a lot and, furthermore, i do not think it's fair to call him a 'selL out'. please.. Forget that i ever called him One. i owe all of you, from his staff to his fans a huge apOlogy. his music is insightful, his tactics are admirable and his hair Looks great. i wish i had more time to pour out my heart to you guys.. but i've got to go listen to 'lucky oneS'.

disclaimer

2005-03-31T15:15:00.000-06:00

i had no idea that people actually read this thing.. save for a few of you. the last entry was posted with humorous, not malicious intent. i honestly don't dislike june, quite the opposite, in fact. we may not see eye to eye and our methods may be wildly different, but i have a lot of respect for her in regards to where she is now and what she had to go through to get there. don't get too bent out of shape over this one, folks.. especially if your name's not 'june'.

buuuuuuut.. i did, however, mean what i said about ingram, green, fowler and creagar. and norm.

now.. have a coke and a smile. and get out of my blog.

home drunk.. again

2005-03-31T02:49:00.000-06:00

well.. it's kinda like this, i'm home from the bar and i'm just sauced enough to tell you exactly what i think. this could get a little rough. if you just read that and thought, "oh well.. that's just dusty.", then don't bother reading forward. you won't be surprised. if you just read that and thought, "oh no! what does that jackass have to say and is it about me?!", then keep reading because chances are, june, that it's going to be about you and i'm going to piss you off.

third off.. napoleon dynamite is one of the best movies. ever. however, most of you who like it have no idea why you like it. you're just sure that because your friends said it was 'the shit' that it is fucking hilarious. you're also the kind of people that think jay leno is funny. you have no idea what good writing is.. this is why you still listen to the likes of kevin fowler and pat green. kiss my ass, christy and june. people like you (not necessarily you , c&j, but not excluding you) should be sterilized so that you may not ever be allowed to spread your inferior seed or bear inferior offspring. such as kevin fowler. or pat green.

also.. a certain person (june) who lacks the [ovaries] to ever name names, but loves to talk mad shit about people under a flimsy guise of indifference and ambiguity (june) has just started a blog and given the address to one other person (june). this is a blog that, by her own admission (june) will be un-rated and will be cause for using such phrases as 'katie bar the door'. yeah.. that's great in theory, except you forgot one thing, wrongway. you gave the address of your (june) new 'no holds barred' rant blog to only one person. one person who is most likely to hear this shit from you on a daily basis when you call them and bitch about how you're in your forties (june) and act like a teenager.. a shallow, high school girl teenager.. and still cannot fathom why people don't 'get' [like] you. why not just email that person and save us [yourself] the suspense?! it's not like anyone other than you and maybe, maybe your relection in the mirror actually give a damn about what malformed thought process is finding its way from between your ears on any given thursday.

gage.. same thing, brah. just post that shit or put it on your own blog and link us to it. time to stop sparing the innocent. none of us are anymore.

norm.. you sorry little bitch. ups delivered your balls in a tiny parcel this afternoon. they said that you haven't used them in weeks. by the way, they look great hanging from my rearview.

jack ingram is a pansy. pat green is a sellout/damn liar. kevin fowler just plain sucks. roger creagar, we're playing frisbee golf tomorrow at the park.. be sure to bring your hat.

if you didn't like this post.. tough. if you did.. the check's in the mail.
if your waist is the same diameter as your chest, please cover them both when you are in public.

and that, kids, was your schluterman minute

i don't stroke egos.. i wreck whores

2005-03-24T11:16:00.000-06:00

so there i was, in steamboat, colorado,
fuck.. that was a lot of commas

anyway.. steamboat.
using my 'gift' for bullshitting, i had gotten myself and the tanker into the soundcheck for an acoustic show at the grand. an artists only soundcheck. it's not that i'm anyone special or have any connections.. i'm just good at acting like i know what i'm doing. in this case, acting like i belonged wherever i was going and damn anyone who tried to tell me otherwise. as it were, tank is also just as skilled at keeping his head down and walking directly past the guys at the door like he's late for his own funeral. after we gained entrance, we pick'd out some really nice spots up front and reveled in our luck. we talk'd to a few of the different artists (no, i'm not going to tell you who because that would make me a namedropper and i don't care what you think about me based on who i know or who i've talk'd to. hell.. i don't care what you think about me if you're reading this. how's that?) and settled back into our spots, double fisting beers that we had sneaked in on our own because really, who the hell wants to pay five dollars for a small solo cup full of room temperature miller lite? "not i", said the schlute. shortly thereafter, the room began to fill up with the typical early crowd - a few drunks, a few decent folks and a whole lot of backstage bettys.. more commonly known as 'band whores'. you know the type.. the ones whose fathers had no idea that the tits they bought for their daughters seventeenth birthdays would serve only as punching bags for nearly every guy in texas who can play guitar and sing. yeah.. you know the type. anyway.. after we had finished all of our contraband beers, i told tank that i was making a beer run and headed for the exit. it's at this point that a particularly dumb and outstandingly unsuspecting band whore made the mistake of the night. as i walk'd past bw#1, she stopped me and smiled at her friend, then look'd deeply into my eyes and said, "what's your name?" my response? "why?" she explained that she thought i was cute.. and that i should buy her a beer. i pointed out that she had done nothing for me lately and that i most certainly would not be buying her a beer. i wouldn't have even gotten a mouthful of h2o from the h2o fountain and deposited it into her mouth, momma bird style.. that's how little i cared. she didn't seem to get the hint, so she reached out for my arm and said, "but we're thirsty. why don't you buy us a beer.. please?" as she batted her color contact glazed eyes at me. i told her "no" again and turn'd to walk away. it's at this point that her friend, bw#2, display'd all the social grace she could muster and spouted, "hey, asshole! she said 'buy us a beer'!" i was shock'd.. not at what she had said, but at the fact that she thought a line such as that would work with a face and beer gut like hers. i smiled, got down on one knee and motioned for them to draw closer as i placed a hand upon each of their thighs. when they leaned in, i look'd them squarely in the eyes and said, "ladies.. i've stepped over better girls than you two just looking for a place to jack off." and i said it with the sweetest smile/evil grin. their jaws dropped so far, they could have accomodated every man in the room with ease and i made my way to the bar, a little prouder, a little taller.. and a whole lot more 'schluterman'.