Saturday, January 28, 2006

You need a REAL WOMAN in your life?

Well then don't look here.
Look here:
This is my daughter, the Goonybirds mom; the Stainless Steel Amazon.
Yeah, she reads this, but after all, I had to put up with her butt while she went though the vilest puberty on record so I have a God-given RIGHT to embarrass her.
There are some things you just have to bite your lip and overlook when you are a parent. Teenagers in particular. They shoplift cigarettes. They sneak out the window at night. They bring a person home who is so wildly innapropriate that at first glance you know, know how ugly its going to turn out, and all you can do is try to be friendly and hope they don't steal anything.
Or they get a really really really bad tattoo.
I bought the kid a tattoo for her graduation present. And why not? Her father has two full sleeves and a quarter piece on his chest. I have two on my left arm. So fine. She swore she had found this guy who was really good and so off I went to meet her there and pay the bastard. I get there in mid-session, and there is my daughter, my beautiful daughter, sitting on a grubby, sticky old dentists chair with this mook drilling on her back and he was BAD.
BAD, BAD, BAD. Oh my God he was BAD. I have seen better tattoos done with a sewing needle and soot.
This dipweasel is putting this horrible thing on my daughter and all I can do is stand there and make pleasant conversation because she is watching me very closely indeed. I DARE ya to have a cow, mom. I DARE ya to.
And so standing there a horrible sinking feeling came over me. There simply comes a time when you realize your children are the product of the way you raised them. Like it or not, you have to take responsibility for the fact that you may have made some mistakes along the way. You have to shut up, suck it up and let your daughter walk around with a moonpizza on her back. A big moonpizza with an antler-fairy-boobygirl thing sitting in it.
Oh Jesus, the horror.
We now move foreward in time several years. She has secured a plum job right out of college with (big plane builder) as an engineer. Unfortunately she is still being followed everywhere she goes by this pizzaboob thing on her back, and as the years have gone by it has begun to blur badly. Now it not only looks crude, it looks sinister too. It is beginning to make long distance calls and charge them to her account. It forges her name on checks. Most importantly, it has long outlived its intended impact. She realized this. She was a bill paying, baby packing adult now, and a professional to boot. So what did my girl do?
Did she find a plastic surgeon and have it lasered?
Did she undergo surgical dermabrasion?
NO. my dearest daughter sucked it up, saved up her nickles, found another artist and had it completely obliterated with a larger piece.
And IT LOOKS GLORIOUS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*sniff* I'm so proud!

Friday, January 27, 2006

My stand on gun control, in rhyming couplets.

......Ha ha! No, Dear old First Nations would not do that to you. But I eventually do mention it, so there.

Everywhere I've ever lived I wind up next door to nutty people. Not loveable nuts or even wacky adorable nuts but pathological fucked up fucking nuts.

I got thinking about this when my dogs went out to bark at the neibors' cat this morning. The cat owners live across the lot from us in a big old house surrounded by overgrown garden. The whole fam damily is comprised of nutty people and so, in accord with the Nutty Peoples' Charter of 1756 they own an untold number of animals, mainly cats...much to the unending delight of my dogs, who enjoy the tasty snackfood they produce.

The daughter is a pallid, unwashed behemoth with tits like two mammoth unwashed behemoth conjoined twins dangling from her chest. She likes to stand on their back deck at 11:pm and shout gibberish at the top of her lungs (but only in good weather).
The mother is a tiny, tiny little wren of a woman who trembles like she's being electrocuted; the obvious source of her daughters' grooming tips. She seems to occupy the livingroom downstairs. I've peeked's a warren of paper boxes and newsprint and dog crap and a cobwebbed Christmas Tree with an aging labrador retriever sleeping under it.
There are two sons, both redheads, twins, in their late twenties or early thirties. One escaped and lives at the end of the block with an actual female type woman.
The other remains at home, getting fatter and paler, emerging only to mow the grass. If you wave at him, and happen to catch his eye, he might wave back. Unless he decides to pretend he didn't see you. And this is painful to watch; he doesn't realize it's obvious.

Nobody has seen the father for going on four years now. When we first moved here he would wander around in the yard occasionally in his pajamas, but then suddenly he was gone. I kind of suspect he's the source of all this. Theres a good deal of pain going on inside those walls.

The last place we lived bordered a wooded greenbelt. Directly across from there lived a tall, rather handsome man in his middle thirties who was a foaming schizophrenic. I would be out working in my yard and he would stand right next to the surveyors' flag at the ultimate edge of his property, facing me across the greenbelt, and scream. Not words, just...screaming. Until the veins bulged out on his neck. He'd clench his entire body and tremble with the effort. After awhile I figured, scream at the fat lady's ass all you want; I'm still going to pull weeds.

Place before that, it was the guy who worked for the business next door. He lived in the parking lot in a camper. Every weekend some big ol' girl would come rolling out of the back all blearyeyed and hungover and drive off, and he would come out and sit on the back bumper looking straight in through my glass patio door, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.
He opened the shop up in the mornings. As I was getting my daughter ready for gradeschool every morning you could hear him berating the help. "What're you doing, faggOT? You fucking FAG! Get the fucking RIGHT wrench and bring it here, faggOT! God! I oughta BEAT your ASS!" Oh yes... like the call of the lark at days first dawning.
One night he went through each of our cars, I know it. And sometimes at night he would walk around our house, around and around. I heard him out there a couple of times, and I found his fingermarks trailing along on the siding.

Back in Seattle, it was the upstairs neibors Melvin and Sheila. Melvin was a stewbum who always wore a white construction hard hat, and Sheila was his live in something or other. She was about fifty, weighed maybe 90 lbs - none of it where it was supposed to be - and she earned her living as a street prostitute.
This woman would go out in one of those 80's t-shirts that had been shredded into tassels and then beaded. Yes, sans brasseire. Yes, her long old tits hung out the bottom like a pair of athletic socks with a baseball in each toe. And she got play, kids. Kind of makes you lose faith in humanity doesn't it.
Once or twice a month old Melvin would get lucky and she'd break him off a chunk. What came next was a couple of hours of elderly 'OH, BABY, BABYBABYBABYBABYBABY, OH MAN BABY, OH YEAH BABYBABYBABY overhead, making the chickenwire securing my ceiling plaster flex, until she finally bucked him off. Seriously. I guess she'd get tired of it or it went on too long or something. You could hear him hit the floor like a sack full of antlers and then they'd get into a huge screaming more baby baby then; it was 'YOU DIRTY OLD FUCK! YOU GIT YO ASS OUT! THIS MY PLACE! I DON'T WANNA SEE YOU DIRTY OL ADD HERE AGIN!
She'd put him out of the room butt-ass naked. Except for the hardhat. You'd find him crawling along the hallways on all fours like that, or on the stairway, or the balcony...anyway, he'd wander around with his situation hanging out and his white hard hat until he passed out in one of the share baths in a puddle of piss.

Before that, it was a roomate. He was an official in the Church of Scientology. Chief of Public Relations. Oh yes. And an admitted child molester. No, I wasn't dating it. But I mean, we lived in the same house, and he admitted it to ME, folks. TO MY FACE. Like it was nothing. After all, he was a Scientologist and that was only some 'out 2D' shenanigans. But he was over it.
Meanwhile, here's me with a baby on the way? Yeah, I got the fuck out RIGHT QUICK.

Before that there was the 9th and Pine building, a virtual Roach Motel of weird. The freaky inbred landlord-family was right off the set of the origional Texas Chainsaw Massacre. All night long and all day long they spoke to each other very loudly and very toothlessly in stgrange, Kentucky-accented hooting sounds.
There were the Moron Lovers, two people of such identical filth, rotundity and feature that I still think they were brother and sister. They would sit out on their front stoop in the summer and neck for hours, until the spit ran down their shirts.
There was the car-dating Potato Prostitute who looked like just that; a Downs' Syndrome potato in white gogo boots. One day I witnessed the amazing power of heroin thanks to her...I was sitting out on my stoop one afternoon, and out of nowhere she plunked herself down next to me, pulled a spike out of her purse, nailed herself right in the foot, took a deep breath... and suddenly became a normal person. My God, I have never, ever seen anything like that in my life. It was like watching Lon Chaney in the werewolf movies, only she stayed pretty much as hairy as she'd started out.

But it turned out all right. Now the nutjobs are dead, or in another state, or at least live in another building entirely behind lots of foliage, where I don't have to hear them and don't have to deal with them.
But tell ya what, hippie or not, I own several guns.

God Bless the Second Amendment.
God Bless America.

Stop and get a grip

Worried about the state o' the nation?
Dear old First Nations will lay it all out for you.
No, you bad potty person, not that way. Dear old First Nations prefers to remain terra incognito.
American Politics explained.
1. Americans, almost to a person, proudly proclaim 'We are a democracy!' In private, in public, on NATIONAL TELEVISION.
America is not a democracy.
It is a republic.
You don't have to listen to anyones opinions about American politics after they have said 'We live in a Democracy.' Just walk on out; have a sandwich. No one who is that loud and that ignorant of the form of government they have deserves to have an opinion. For the love of Mike, they live here! But apparently it requires just too darned much grey matter to figure out that when you go and vote for a person to represent your interests in government, you are engaging in the process of republic, not democracy.
2. George Bush is not a very bright man. He is not an evil man or a man with bad intentions. He is just an instrument who was, in retrospect, quite poorly chosen for the task at hand.
By the people in #1.
3. Nobody in the Middle East likes us.
4. Follow the money. Forget political philophy; follow the money.
5. Apparently, British private schools (they call it 'public school'; those wacky British persons!) are no longer a sort of fast-foreward romp through the hallways with older, stronger boys buttraping younger weaker ones and everybody being whipped onwards by evil headmasters brandishing chalked canes. Well done, Britain! Good to know. Not germane to the above, but I thought I'd throw it in.

Field notes: Some observed behaviors of the juvenile Goonybird

The Goonybird is my grandson. This is a typical day in his life. I offer these observations in the humble hope it may add to the fund of knowlege regarding the mystery of our species.

Subject runs into the room and stops suddenly, listening....then raises both arms in celebration of the dawn. He stomps in a little circle repeating the phrase 'Oh, no!'fifty times. He then spins until he falls down, chanting 'woo, woo, woo'. Getting up, he pauses to strike a pose of sudden amazement-then runs to the wall and hesitates. Five sumo squats are performed. Then carefully, slowly, he backs out of the room.

Disappearing whole into the kitchen cupboard, the subject emerges with a potato. He then runs into the front room and puts it in front of the dog. This is repeated until all the potatoes have been distributed to family, guests, houseplants, large books and stuffed animals.

Dogs and child share the same bowl of food in a demonstration of interspecies cooperation. Or something.

The family toilet is manually explored and assessed for flavor. It is loaded with all the toys the child owns and then the whole lot is then mashed down the hole with the bathroom plunger. The bowl brush is then used in attempts at self-grooming.

The child becomes caught in the dog door by the waistband of his diapers. After exhausting the play possibilities for this pose (prone, sucking on the threshhold with dogs walking back and forth over him) he shimmies out of the diaper and runs onto the porch. Once there, he assists the dogs' efforts to defend their property by barking at people on the sidewalk.

The child explores the possibilites offered by a large picture window facing a main road. At first the moon is noted and attempts are made to blot it out with spit, this being applied labially in a back and forth motion which people passing by seem to find fascinating. The child, in its increasing sophistication, realizes that there is a barrier which exists between it and the outdoors, and settles upon simply standing in the window naked shouting at the moon to shut up.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

I know stuff. Would you like to know stuff too?

It just tickles me no end to find out secrets. Any secrets. Ya wanna know some?

Let's start with Scientology!

Now, I was a member of this sad association of the self-delusioned back in the days when L.Ron was dying. Everything was in commotion and lots of stuff slipped out through the security in place because the more intelligent higher-ups were realizing that they'd been taken. In fact, I was a staff member (which means the same thing as 'I was hall monitor in second grade' since anyone with a heartbeat and nothing better to do with their evenings could end up -believe it or not- RUNNING a Church if they worked the nightshift.) A lot of rather sensitive materials went though my hands. And a bitch read it all. (yes, former culties, and had it 'word cleared' too.)
Why was I involved with this sad crap? Because I wuz in luuuuuv. With a Scientologist. Which evolved being used to beat the shit out of me on a regular basis, and....
...but thats a post for another day. If ever.

You, little buddy, are a spirit that forgot to stop living in a body.

You have been around for gazillions of years, living on different planets and in different galaxies even, during which lots of stuff happened that suspiciously resembled a very bad science fiction story from the 'Fifties, and everything was apparently run by 'Fifties second-string Vegas 'cool cats' who used sad, doofussy, white-people slang terms for shit. It's really really interesting and we have gazillions of classes and stuff where you'll learn all about it.

But, HA HA!

None of it really matters in the long run even though we made you sit though endless hours of this marginally entertaining horseshit, because YOU MADE IT ALL UP ANYWAY.

Yeah, you.

All your problems, in fact, come from the fact that over all those gazillions of lifetimes during which you committed unspeakable crimes and were generally a total bastard, you really didnt because it was all made up. And even though that doesn't make a lick of sense, lets move on. You made it all up, and all of it was stupid, and then you FORGOT it was all made up, and then you forgot you even did that!

Feeling that dick in your brain yet? Lets wiggle it around a little bit more then.

...Furthermore, most of those lies aren't even yours!!!!! They're ideas that come from one metric gazillion other spirits that somehow got superglued to your spirit in an atomic volcano explosion in California.

Once thoroughly convinced of this (and if you ain't, you out...and who likes to be out? Particularly when you are banned by an honest-to-shit international edict from ever entering a Scientology church again FOR E FUCKING TERNITY so nanny nanny boo boo to you ) you are then ready to learn how to get rid of all that forgotten lying spirit gluedness of the made up California volcano type badness that is preventing you from being beautiful, healthy, happy and a millionaire and giving all your money to Scientology. You do this by...

1. Attending hours and hours and hours and hours and hours of expensive fucking classes. Occasionally someone will come by and bullyrag you for being inattentive.

2. Purchasing seven metric shit-tons of books and course materials, all of which will be recalled in a couple of months for being 'Out-Tech', whereupon you will have to go out all over again and purchase another seven metric shit-tons of books and course materials, and

3. Purchasing an e-meter...nothing more or less than those voltage resistance meters you used to mess around with in autoshop testing your dick. It will require frequent, expensive 're-certifying', despite which, and despite it being a pretty simple device, it will operate for jack shit.

The important thing to bear in mind is that nothing comes free in Scientology. Every single bit of it is so obscenely overpriced as to make all notions of overpricedness that have gone before seem like tender childhood fantasies of overpricedness.

Nobody masters this shit. You can spend decades taking classes and using the E-meter and never master it. Why? Because it's all fake. But some people are real good at convincing themselves that they have. Those people are invariably wealthy, oddly enough!

At this level of Scientology, you have to have been some kind of useless drone heir to a retardedly immense fortune. Years of classes and the associated bullshit that generally defines any group of Scientologists tends to winnow out everyone else; i.e those capable of logical thought, independant reasoning ability, and the need to pay bills and buy groceries. Those few left are encouraged to believe (in no small part by the amazing and outrageously manipulated context provided by living an entirely Scientological life) that they can now dematerialize at will, move, create and destroy things with the power of their will, and travel to distant planets on the aethric plane. Did you know, these godlike beings have even 'handled' the worlds' powers to prevent any future nuclear wars?
No seriously.

Yes, you are perfect now; perfectly healthy and free of any problems
...unless you enjoy them.

That's the catch. If things aren't working according to your 1000.00$ textbooks, why, then, it's YOUR FAULT BUCKO. Not theirs. SCIENTOLOGY IS THE ANSWER. Make it go right, loser!

Of course, you can go on numerous websites and find this crap out for free. All the levels, all the dogma, all the policies are there.
Ah, but see, if you hear it for free, it won't work. You gotta pay-or wait, I mean, provide material proof of your willingness to receive the truth. Besides, all those websites are full of lies. Spies from the US military establishment as well as overseas interests are constantly at work discrediting the teachings of Scientology in order to take it over and steal all their secrets...and in fact, not all of those agencies are FROM THIS PLANET. Alien civilizations are also at work against the TRUTH. Serious as a heart attack, kids. Hell, throw in the Illuminati, the Knights Templar, your mom, and the Ninja Turtles while you're at it.
Poor Scientology. Everyone's agin' it.


The Masonic Lodge.
You wanna know what their big secret is?
Gods' name is JHVH.

Kind of a buzzkill, huh.



Everything sucks, including the devil, who you worship, and Satanism, which
you believe in, and you. Your job on Earth, to be completed before you die and go to hell, where everything sucks, to make sure that everything sucks real bad here on Earth.

5. I once applied to be a nun, and they turned me down.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

the fool(s) on the hill.

You know where a lot of people go when they get released from prison? Here. The Great Northwest. The Fourth Corner region, to be specific...gateway to the Cascades - and a hugeass swatch of heavily wooded land running right along the Canadian border that doesn't even have logging roads going through it.

It makes sense when you think about it. If someone spends 20 years locked up in a cement box it only stands to reason that they're going to head for the biggest stretch of wide open they can find when they finally get out. The ones with enough chutzpah- or at least the ones with no federal offenses in their background, able to cross international borders, head for Alaska.
The losers stay here. Yay.
They pick up a camper (or a car, or a tent, or a couple of blue plastic tarps, or some garbage bags and cardboard boxes), find themselves a nice turnaround on a logging road waaaaaaay back in the brush, and settle in.

Guess who didnt know that?

Guess who found out? Wearing a nothing but a pair of shorts and a bra?

Backcountry motorcyclists may be annoying as hell, but they're dedicated to their sport. Sapsuckers cut a mean trail, too. You see signs of shovel and chainsaw activity, but for the larger part I think what these guys must do is rip throttle and randomly head in a direction, balls out - thorns, logs, creeks, come what may, the twistier and hillier the better, and just take shit out with their faces.

The foothills around here are full of these racecourses and they make a great hike in the spring. By summertime they're so overgrown that travelling them by foot is boring; just unending green three feet in front of your face (although imagine travelling that at 60 mph! Monstrous!) but in the springtime, it's a Chinese landscape of lacy bare branches, mossed over tree trunks and the occasional blossom.

Once you cross over onto the north side of a hillock, though, theres an immediate change. If the area is particularly protected from wind there will be an actual frost line in the dirt to mark that change. One side will be experiencing early Spring, the other side, separated by milimeters, will still be frozen in late winter. Softwood trees like poplar and cottonwood on the borders literally explode. In just the right areas, they receive a sudden early morning blast of hot sunshine just as full morning comes over the mountain shadow. Having been hard frozen full of water all winter long, weak cells rigid and split by crystal formation, the wood on the sunside begins to heat and steam, and suddenly the trunks will split as though lightening spiked them, top to bottom, with a report like a gunshot. It isn't a legend. I've seen it happen.

I was walking one of these trails one late spring day with the idiot dogs taking it all in, happy to be outdoors. We were playing 'rock'. Pay attention; the rules are complex. You throw a softball sized rock up a steep trail cut, the dogs run up after it and then follow it down and bark at it. If it happens to stop, they give it a bump and start it rolling again and bark some more. When the rock comes to a rest on level ground they will stop and bark some more.
Then i come huffing and puffing up and throw the rock up the hill and we all start over again.

So here comes the fat broad crashing through the underbrush. Opie the boy dog is joyfully romping after me headlong into trees on his stout little legs; 'Oh BOY! This is GREAT! I have NO IDEA whats going on!' and Jet, the mighty Yutz of the Woods, is climbing trees and eating dirt and barking at skunk cabbages...just a happy little group of morons out for a hike.
...when we all enter, quite suddenly, someones camp.

Now I had been shedding clothes for an hour. Sweatshirt, henley and finally t-shirt were bundled around my waist, and there I was with my awesome moontanned gut hanging out and my fetching black sports bra.

We had wandered into a sudden clearing about as round as the average front yard is wide. In the middle stood a filthy tent, a firepit and a clothesline strung from the trees. Had we not discovered it by chance we never would have discovered it by design. It was in a perfect little bowl in the land, sort of tented over by windfall and undergrowth. I swear to you, had I been three steps off the path I would have walked right by it.
'Dang,' I think.

The idiots are just excited as all hell, coursing the ground back and forth sniffing like two little steam engines.

Right when they go into the tent is when the tree I am standing next to moves.

It was not a tree. It was a guy.

He had been standing perfectly, perfectly still...and he was standing close enough to my side to bump me with his shoulder. He was about six foot, skinny as death, grey skin, long grey hair and long grey beard, all dressed in grey and black. Perfectly camoflaged, he blended right in with the mossy grey bark of the evergreens.

but this is the creepy part.

When I say he moved, what I mean is,
Oh gosh, Im so sorry, I didnt see you, here, Jett, here, Opie, I'm really sorry, man, I had no idea you were here, get out of the mans' tent guys, I'm so sorry, how rude, seriously, I'm sorry,' and I'm grabbing dogs by the collar and slinging them into the brush and HOLY SHITFIRE MOSES I just pick a direction and RUN.

I mean flat out RAN. I was MOVING. No Hayabusa on Earth could have beat me; me and my two hairy little retards. 'Wow! Check out mom! Cool! Right through the creek! Go, mom!' My shoes were full of icewater, I had pine needles and dirt in my bra from falling down a couple of times, I did NOT care.

I dove right into my car, hit the gas and blazed down that mountain, slinging gravel. All the way down I'm saying 'ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck' like a mantra. I drove until I hit Welcome and then I pulled off to the side of the road, ran into the quickiemart, still in my bra mind you, straight into the restroom, and pissed like a goddamn racehorse.

Then, and only then, sitting there on the throne in my bra, did I get scared.

Was it merely some harmless, nature loving nut up on that hill?
It could very well have been.
Was it some dude that had just served 20 years for raping infants and violating the deceased? Just as likely.

Am I going to ever go back? Oh HELL no.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

I explain agriculture and how to steal.

It's a good thing that gardening is something you can do virtually for free if you know how to propagate plants. Being real cheap (but not easy) I do. Any given weekend I'm off 'collecting' (in places better left unmentioned as this would constitute proof of trespass) with my thievery supplies.

....And now, you can too!!!!!


The following can be found around the house. feel free to improvise!
-Long plastic bags, like bread bags. Roll tightly and distribute in pockets, socks, bra, etc.
-Plain water in a container-a sports bottle looks innocent.
-A clipping (or slicing) instrument that can be hidden in a pocket; a large toenail cutter with a sharpened knife works good.
-An empty tin, like a candy tin. Or a keychain dry-match holder. This is for seedheads. (Forget pockets because, face it-you will. Seeds generally do NOT go through the wash well at all.)

-Check out the book 'Pirating Plants' from the library to find out what to do with this stuff. But trust dear old First Nations; its SO cinchy.
Now go forth and steal.

But don't steal from private nurseries. They deserve your business and support. WalMart, go right ahead.

Why is it, I wonder, that anthropologists have decided agriculture was invented by women? I've seen the reasons and they just don't wash. Women are supposed to be the gentle gatherer type, and because they didnt want to range too far afield they started transplanting things nearby; so they were apparently lazy too. Yeah. OK.

Men are the violent hunter type, and so they rambled miles and miles away up hill and down and killed shit with their teeth for the sheer savage joy of weiner havingness.
Uh huh.

Anyone who went to grade school knows that the nastiest, most violent thing on Gods' green earth is an eight year old girl. And hunt? Tell you what, if you had a pretty pencil or some candy stashed away those bitches would find it...then stab you with the pencil, stand on your chest and spit the candy in your face. (Jesus it creeps me out when I think how some of the girls I went to school with probably went on to become mommies.)

And let's all pause and consider the savage violence it takes to hunt, say, deer; shall we?

1. You get up early and hang out, remaining completely silent and motionless in one spot where deer are known to pass, and wait for a long, long time.
2. The deer passes; you shoot it. Or it doesnt, and you have salad.

Does that really sound particularly sex-specific? It aint. I have had numerous deer wander within petting range of me out in the woods. No shit. As for agriculture, nothing I've read in the instructions mentions genetalia coming into play at any point in the transplanting process. That is, pulling a plant out of the dirt in one place and then putting it into another hole in the dirt closer to where you live. But to each their own, I guess. You dig the hole, you get to use what you want.

Oh yeah, you say. I can just see you killing poor little Bambi. Girls think deer are cute! Oh yeah, deer are real cute. Yeah. Particularly when they eat my Goddamn garden. Cute as hell.

Not a problem. Not a problem at all. If I can slaughter a giant, ugly pig and peel it and bust it down and portion out it's guts (which I have), and if I can catch a sturgeon as long as I am tall, pull it into the boat and do the same(which I have), and butcher out salmon and chickens and rabbits (Oh yes, death stalks Americas' heartlands disguised as your grandma!) then I sure in the fuck am not going to have a problem with Bambi. Deer are just pretty cows for heavens' sake. Pigs? Those assholes fight back. Hard. You can shoot a pig at close range between the eyes with large calibre ammo and the thing will try and eat your heart right up until it bleeds out and dies, and then it will still twitch and leap for 45 minutes afterward. (It's kinda metal.) Bambi, at last report, is still more of the run-away type.

So Bambi me no Bambies, guys. We all invented agriculture and we all killed shit and ate it. Starvation sucks. You die. If it's a choice between eating a cute bunny and starving to death, Peter Rabbit is gonna die and having a vagina won't have jack shit to do with it.

So there.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Danger Muk bitches about white people and hikes with dogs

Tell you what; there is nothing I have come to enjoy more than listening to a roomful of Dutchmen and Germans complaining about how the Juggalos, Klingons, Caribs, Whigs and so forth have ruined America for REAL AMERICANS.
See, I'm usually the only person in the room with any claim to that title. I just sit there and smile.
Nah, I don't have that kind of class; I wait until everyone is in good and deep, then I break the news. And I hear:
A. ...Wow! You dont look native!
Yeah, sometimes I have to put down my bottle of Muscatel andtake off my tavern jacket. It won't happen again.
b. Yeah, well, you know what i mean.
Actually, yeah. I know EXACTLY what you mean. I'se passin'.
c. OO really? You are? What tribe?
The tribe that ate your grandmothers heart on Lookingglass Ridge and raped her dog, baby. What tribe are you? Visigoth? Gaul?
Thats me, kids, tirelessly fighting stereotypes one white guy at a time.

My wily native forbears would have been embarrassed to tears by some of the stupid shit that has happened to me out in the woods.

One time, I took the idiot dogs up to the community compost heap on the edge of town a couple of years ago to let them run. It's in a cleared anmong some trees which is literally on the border-the dogs regularly wandered in and out of Canada (I apologise, Canada) The only thing around is this stand of alder trees, a pile of compost that the city workers dump there, and a huge U.S. Border Patrol spy tower with a remote-pan camera.

It happened to be a warm week in February and we all had cabin fever real bad. We hit the clearing so that they can run off some excess energy (and so I can poke through the comppost heap because I am a scrounge.) The idiot dogs suddenly shot yapping off into the stand of alder after something and I think 'Aw hell, I hope theres nothing dead back there; I don't want to take them to the vets again.' (Someday I'll tell you about the time they discovered the garbage bag full of baby diapers. I dont know what those people had been feeding their kids but my dogs damn near died.) So I turn to follow them and am taken aback at this sight: 19 bald eagles silently watching us, perched in the alders.

A sow eagle, in case you have never been close to one, is a bird roughly the size of a two year old child. It has sharp stabby things on each end designed to prepare and serve raw meat meals of idiot dog-sized animals.

So yes, I cleverly set off down the trail right through the center of the flock. Because I am smart like that.

It truly was extraordinary, seeing all these giant birds peacefully perched in the bare branches. The roosting chatter of a bald eagle sounds exactly like what the inside of a chicken coop does on a warm afternoon. The eagles croon and cluck and rustle and gabble just like sitting hens. They pick feathers out and drop them, scrabble from branch to branch to visit each other, and shoot chunky liquid shit out their asses for a distance of about seven feet.

Meanwhile I'm just busy worrying about what the idiot dogs have found, and sure enough, at the end of the trail was a farmers dump, and lying on top of it was a dead calf.

I call them idiot dogs because after all is said and done they are simply not bright doggies. They have the instincts of a retriever and a scent hound respectively, but not the body mass or the training to do anything about it. From my observation what happens is they get carried away with all this primal type imput and have no clue what to do next, so they do what they know best: mill and bark and pant and grin and sniff each others butts.


All I had to do was throw them a stick back down the trail and off they went, all thought of the Amazing Dead Calf completely wiped clean.

So back we all go, strolling through the gauntlet surrounded by 25 huge, dangerous, carniverous birds. Downy underfeathers filled the brush and wafted down into the mud. The dogs emerged from the stand at the other end of the trail, and being good doggies, they take off into Canada and run up and down the street and bark at trucks.

I find myself alone.

I look up. All the eagles have gone silent, and every eye is turned towards me.
I make restrained haste down the path. Every single head turns to follow me.

All of a sudden I hear a sound behind me like a hundred umbrellas opening all at once. The eagles are taking flight. Some flap on branches and hiss at me, while others, one by one, rise into the air.

I make haste a little faster.

All the eagles have risen into the air and are circling around above the trees, over me, over my dogs, diving lower and lower with each turn. This is altogether too unsettlingly like the behavior of buzzards. I get in the car and call the dogs, who, being idiots, run back into America, towards my car, past my car, and into the trees.

Aw fuck.

In my minds eye I am seeing the flying monkey scene in the Wizard of Oz. I know these pterodactyls are going to swoop down and grab my poor moron dogs.

But instead the eagles just circle a couple more times and then drop down onto the dead calf. And begin AUDIBLY RIPPING IT TO PIECES.

We leave.

Somewhere in the film archives of the Border patrol there is a tape of all this happening, too, because all the while I could see the two beady binocular eyeballs of the security camera tracking our every move. I made my people proud that day.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Website Smackdown: Babyman vs. Tucker Max

Babyman looks like a middle aged guy in a baby girl costume.
Tucker Max looks like a middle aged guy in a yuppie fuck costume.

Babyman smells like baby powder
Tucker Max smells like stale bar, vomit and pussy.

Babyman only shits himself. Then he cleans it up.
Tucker Max shits on everyone.

Babyman has used his inherited wealth to live out a peculiar, yet harmless dream.
Tucker Max has used his dads' money to live out the motto 'I suck, you suck, everything sucks, suck suck suckity suck suck.'

Tucker Max adds 'Wah, I'm a rich asshole; I live at the bottom of a bottle.'
Babyman adds "Wah, I'm a baby, would some lady come give me a bottle?'

Barring natural disaster or accident, Babyman will live a long, healthy, weird life.
Barring natural disaster or accident, Tucker Max will die in five years when his liver leaps out of his abdomen and runs screaming into the night.

BABYMAN WINS: a lifetime supply of Similac, with iron.
TUCKER MAX WINS: a handful of Darvon, a glass of water and a plastic bag. So far you've just been dipshitting around. Get serious.

You awaken to find yourself seated in a dentists' chair...

A sound behind you resolves itself into the form of a small, tidy looking man wearing a khaki apron. More than this you cannot see; your head is tightly restrained. As are your limbs, you find to your growing horror. The man approaches you and seats himself at your side. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws an instrument which glints in the light. You can only look from side to side in desparation as he bends towards you and asks you to answer this question......
1. You are having sex with a person who is wearing a funny animal suit. Are you fantasizing that the person is really that animal-say, Tweetie Bird (30 pts.) or a real animal, like a big, strong fluffy horsie?(3 pts.)
2. List one good reason you should pay to enter a man-on-plush toy sex site when everything you wanted to know about these liasons has just been revealed to you in the opening banner (50 pts)
3. You find a no-fee site where you can watch a five minute video of a man being fucked to death by an American Quarterhorse. Is the horse being cheated out of royalties he rightfully earned?(60 pts.)
4. Naughty Barely Legal college girls douche that smelly pussy. Do you call PETA?(34 pts.)
5. I'd like to fart on your stomach. (22 pts)
Is it safe yet?

More backcountry adventures with M.A.H.

Middle Aged Housewife. Get it? Mah? Like 'Ma'?
Golly, I am a rambunctious retard.
My husband is the worlds best breakfast chef. This is a man who understands his complex carbohydrates. I just sat down to a plate of biscuits and gravy with eggs that you'd have been happy to pay 20.00 for. Jesus. I love this man. Then he does the dishes afterwards. I suppose I'll have to let him watch the Seahawks later and just keep my mouth shut.
Whenever we've taken camping vacations we made our breakfasts in camp. Usually Rq (husband person man, *fanfare*) makes the main part and I help with the auxilliary chopping and washing and stowing. We eat like royalty. Imagine two big grubby trolls cooking over a fire in a pavillion, rain just hammering down on all sides, making hollandaise sauce and chopping chives.
When I used to go rambling on my own I ate pretty well too. Here in the forest there are thousands of good things to eat, including a wild apple-maybe it's a domestic variety that went wild-that tastes like roses and honey. Blackberries everywhere. I taught the evil dogs to pick their own salmonberries and they became very adept at lipping them off the shrubs and stuffing themselves. Then they'd burp for the rest of the day and smell each others breath when it happened...(Oh dang, you made that noise again!' 'Yeah, now I taste berries.' 'Yup, smells like berries.' Oh wow, I did it again! And I taste berries again!' 'Yup, smells like berries too! Dang!') The apple trees, in fact, are where I got my first clue that perhaps I was not altogether alone in the woods. Usually one of these trees are surrounded by a circle of neat grass like a lawn, even though the tree itself might be canopied with blackberry vines and fallen fir branches. Deer love apples and they keep their secret apple garden well tended by nibbling. You can find tidy little pathways through the tangle leading to every tree if you have a quick eye. Then you can stand underneath and pick apples and be perfectly hidden and have a feast. I was doing this one day, happily munching hot apples I'd shaken from the top of the tree with juice running down my face and shirt and both arms, when I noticed the rankest stench. I had stepped in a giant pile, and I mean a GIANT pile of gleaming shit. If you've ever taken a crap in the woods you have the picture. I'm thinking 'Oh Jesus, how nasty; some fisherman just took a dump here like a big ol' dog and didn't even kick it out of the way. Thanks, shithook.' Scraping off my shoe in the grass I began to notice certain details that lead me away from my initial judgement, though. It was full of pin cherry pips. And apple seeds. And long, black, coarse hairs. And rabbit bones and hair and teeth. That brought me up short. I looked around at the well trampled grass, and the apple fragments scattered about, and the conspicuous lack of toilet paper or gas station wipes, and the light came on over my lil' head. Aha. bears.
Recent bears.
And so, being a safety conscious type of person I stopped to load up my shirt and my pockets and my jacket with apples, and then wandered back to my car with my dogs spazzing around me. 'Car! Oh boy, Car! I love Car! We're going somewhere!' I am so surprised that the fucking bear wasn't waiting for me with the engine running so he could take my wallet, looking back at this incident. Yoo hoo, beaaars, here comes the walking loin of housewife a la pommes frais!
Another time I was up above the snowline, walking through a clearcut throwing sticks for the evil dogs. They were way out ahead of me. Their version of stick is, I throw the stick, they compete with each other to find the stick, and the one who wins chews up the stick into splinters while the other one smells its ass. I ranged up around the far end of the cut and followed my tracks back down. My tracks were the only tracks crossing the field, until I found the other tracks braided around them. Facing the same direction. Crossing my tracks again and again. I don't know why, but that still gives me the willies...crossing my tracks.
Wolf tracks.
Not coyote tracks. Definitely canid. Dogs walk with their toenails always out, making a dot over each toe mark. heres the scale:
my dogs
normal dogs, coyotes, labs, goldies
I went and looked this up at the library. It was no joke. I never saw the bastard and I never heard it either.
One more wild animal story. Walking along a logging road on Mt. Baker, I pause by a broken off snag to see if there's any visible bird holes up in there...I'm sort of casually birdwatching, I have my binocs and my field guide, the evil dogs are with me, off barking at skunk cabbages and eating frogs. So I take a good look at this snag, I walk all around it making kissy noises, hoping I'll make a baby bird poke out its head. No go. I note a sudden, strong aroma of cow barn. I think 'Hm. cows.' And I wander away down the road.
Returning later, I note that all the bark is missing off the snag to a height of six feet. On closer inspection, I note four parallel rents cut deep into the wood running the length of the trunk, about 2 inches between each groove. And a steaming pile of(what I now know is) Bear Shit.
BIG bear shit.
Aggressive male bear shit marking his territory. This according to the books I lived to read. Interesting to note as well; bears smell a lot like cows. But they have to be quite close indeed for you to be able to smell them. Yay!
Once again, the idiot dogs were absolutely no help whatsoever. They would stand and bark at a skunk cabbage like posessed maniacs but when it came to dangerous forest carnivores, fucking forget it. "Oh hey, bear dude, no problem. Whatever you gotta do, man. Yeah...I guess she's single...why?"