My name is Roger. My parents named me after the town where I was born and raised called Rogers, Arkansas. 

Mom and dad still live here – she slings coffee and dishes at the local waffle place.  Dad works at the local Wal-Mart.

While I blame my parents for just about everything gone wrong in my life, especially the indignity of naming me after a dinky town in Arkansas and leaving me too broke to get the @#$% out of here, I feel lucky I wasn’t named after Grandma’s favorite brand of toilet-bowl cleaner.

If you’re looking for candy-coated press releases from the Chamber of Commerce, forget it. We won’t publish self-indulging sweet press releases here.

You want nice news about the church picnic? Forget-about-it.

Are you hoping big bad, you-know-who will sue us for telling our mind? Stand-in-line, because no one can get blood from a rock.

Will my friends and I get elected homecoming queen? Been-there-done-that.

We really don’t care what “everyone else” thinks. We only care about what “you” think.

Got something to say?  Want to flip me off?  Sitting on a hot tip too steamy for local pay-per-view newspaper blogs?  Got an opinion?  Email Rog at rogersarkansas @ yahoo.com with something to say. 

Tell me what you hate-and love-about the towns of Northwest Arkansas made famous for pigs, chickens, trucks, but mostly for being the headquarters for the world’s largest Chinese flea market. 

Love and kisses always,

-Rog