Friday, June 09, 2006

susannah and the elders

Here is a story that draws out some of the best and worst in human nature Best, because it is a great story about honor, and worst because the story was used as just another excuse for rich men to hang pictures of lumpy naked woman all over the place.
Honestly, can you imagine having this staring you in the eye every morning while you ate your medieval cheerios? I mean different standards of beauty or not, that would get REALLY OLD REALLY FAST.

Anyway, here is poor Susannah. All she wanted to do was take a freaking bath, ok? She lived in the Middle East and it was HOT.
And here we have Rembrandt; master of the lumpy naked broad. Even though there is nothing prurient about his poor frightened Susannah I still wouldn't want this hanging in the breakfast nook.

Here's Tweedle old and Tweedle older. The Jews in exile appointed them to act as judges. So how do these assholes repay that trust? By hanging out in the underbrush whacking off while they watch their hosts' wife take a bath.
This is my favorite picture of the lot of them. Not only are the elders clearly up to no good, but the one is actively trying to suborn us by enlisting our help.
'Shhhh! We're gonna rape this broad! Don't let on we're here!"
That, and the relative modesty with which Susannah is portrayed, takes this out of the realm of bare ass and into the realm of what this moment in the story is about-betrayal and corruption. Well done.
Still wouldn't hang it in my house.

Here we have an *ahem* less that reluctant Susannah, her rather intrusively curious King Charles spaniel, a nice bowl of fruit and a few yards of brocade slung about.

The old guy in her armpit is just about ready to take a bite out of something. I won't say what, but he has a pretty good grip on her ankle there. I'm just saying. Good heavens, man, have some dignity.

Swear to God this is those same three nasty, out of shape ugly people who model bdsm suspension harnesses in the popups. That I've heard about. And not seen.


Now this? This is just wallpaper with tits.

Look like Susannah is knee deep in wet cement, doesn't it? Acually she is. First book of Quik-crete, 3:56:7 "..and Susannah was trapped like a trap in a trap, yea, she was as Jimmy Hoffa who was made a goalpost at the Meadowlands, with vile wrinklies to her right and her left who would grope her with a vile groping."

What the hell. This is just uncalled for; this nasty old fuck grabbing a hunk of boob here.

Tell you what, would you try this on someone built like Susannah? She has thighs like a fullback. She could kung fu the piss out of this old guy.

There should be more kung fu in the Bible.

A pitched towel battle ensues. They thwack away at each other for awhile to no avail. Suddenly a man appears. His fly is open. Nobody knows where to look.

Now you gotta admit that kung fu would work way better here. Susannah could whip up on their butts with her Big Jiggly fu.

Come to think of it, remember that giant motor-driven antitank gun in 'Predator'?
Oh, you betcha.
Dirty old fuck flavored confetti.

There should be more machine guns in the Bible, too.

Let a girl douche in peace, for heavens sake!
Here sits Susanna, in the wings of the Paris Opera house back by the scenery flats, spritzing her hoo-ha with some Perrier, just enjoying a private moment of personal hygiene after a hearty meal of lard out of the can...when all of a sudden who should come busting out of the orchestra pit but Shylock for the love of Mike. Buddy, you are SO lost.
Once again we see that Susannah is an afficianado of the toy breeds. Ill bet you next time she goes for an Alsatian.
'Wow! You guys got treats? Wanna play fetch? I can roll over! Come on! Fetch the Ball! I love Ball! Got a frisbee? I can play frisbee!'

'Excuse me, miss? Does the Ardenwald bus come by here?'
"Shhhhh! Wilsons Warbler! Three o'clock! Mating plumage!"
"No really, miss, we need to deliver this dolphin to the vet."
" Shh! Your aquatic dog is of no consequence to me. Only the warblers. And Scientology."

This is why I no longer ride public transportation.

"Pardon me, madame, but your head is inordinately small and I should like to collect it for my cabinet of curiosities. Quickly Jensen, administer the chloroform!"

"No! No! Get back! My head! Miiiiiiiiiiiine!"

" Hey, wait, are you naked under here? Damn! Come check this out, Jensen!""

'So listen honey, if-
wha...what the f-
oh man,did you just...?"
" No, dude... I thought thats bad."
" I didnt...phoo, geeze, what'd you have for lunch, dude?"
" I'm telling you I didnt do it. You'd have known it if I did it."
" Sure as fuck wasn't me."
" Well, It wasn't me either."
" Well I-damn."

Everyone misses the point. The point is, this poor womans goose was cooked.
These two men had literally all the power in the world over her. She was told to let them rape her without making an outcry; if she did not, they assured her, they would drag her reputation through the mud and have her executed.
And Susannah still said no.
She said no.
There is something very important being said here about power, and weakness, and honor.
With that one word the whole thing changes.
I think it's excellent.

test to destruction

Not a fun one. Might want to skip it.
My father in law is in the hospital again.
The god I was taught about in catholic school is exactly the type of hateful bastard who would torment a helpless old man like this. Therefore, in this instance, and in this context, I believe in that god. He's proven himself.

What point is there in this? My father in law never gets a fucking break. It's always something, and just as he's recovering from one blow he gets knocked back another couple of steps further. It's sadistic. He's dying by inches...only to be given a little glimmer of hope,only to have that dashed. Over and over again.
I wish he would die. I do not say that out of hate; I say that out of love.
The idiots, criminals and cowards who made up the bulk of the adults I was acquainted with as a child always used to say 'well, now, you know, god never gives us anything that we can't handle'.
I see. that explains it.
Yes, that god has certainly proven himself.

In the real world, there is nothing I can do.
Age does not scare me. Illness and helplessness do. The combination of the three is just about more than I can tolerate.

My grandmother suffered a great deal of abuse and neglect in her final years. She injured herself falling down a flight of stairs and was dumped into a rest home that made the front pages of the local newspaper as being one of the FIVE WORST FACILITIES IN THE STATE OF OREGON. It was not lack of money that kept her there; it was sons who could not be bothered to take care of someone who was female, old and sick. Oh, and not really their mother, just some gold digging woman my grandfather had married in his old age. So she didn't count, you see. And that was the excuse for letting her lay in filth, with dried food on her face, with bedsores so vile that there was exposed pelvic bone, racked up on tranquilizers to keep her from screaming and 'making a fuss.'

Negotiations were discussed with the staff...should they keep her going? Or should they 'let her go'?
Oh, heavens no...let her go? That would be WRONG.

They actually discussed this. My parents, my uncles and aunts, discussed this with the staff, every visit, in front of me, in front of my grandmother. I was ten.

She laid there with a broken hip that refused to mend. Steel pins were needed to hold it together, and the incisions made for their insertion never healed. She laid there for years, constantly running a fever from low-grade infection until it destroyed her mind, neglected, unwashed, untended.

There were three sons sharing the expense. Three prosperous sons. Nobody had the character to make a decision about her care. Nobody wanted to take any blame. That was obviously a far worse thing than letting an old woman die in pain.

If I came within arms reach of my grandmother she would latch on to my arm so tight she would leave bruises, and she would repeat 'I want to go home, take me home, let me go' over and over again. The staff and my family would have to remove her hands by force. Then I would get hustled out into the hallway and scolded for upsetting my grandmother. And screamed at all the way home.
Because this was more acceptable than admitting to themselves the relief they felt at having an excuse to leave, you see.

I showed the newspaper to my parents when the article about the Stanley Home came out. I was screamed at. There was a scene. Both my parents rapidly became incoherent with rage. ' You dont know nothin about it! Thats none of your business!' Two people in their early fifties with flecks of foam, literally, gathering at the corners of their mouths, spittle flying, purple faced with rage, screaming noises at a ten year old child.
I was ten. I was the only one who cared, and I was ten. And I was absolutely powerless. There was nothing I could do.

So which god is responsible for this?

Despite my anger at religion I really do try to do the right thing. I believe that stuff about 'love one another.' I agonised over the commandment 'honor thy parents'. In the case of my parents 'honoring' meant keeping my family safe from them and making sure they had an estate administrator before I bid them and their venom adieu. It meant not pressing charges. It meant letting the entire episode come to an end, refusing to feed it, and repairing the damage.

In the case of my husbands father it seems to consist of watching him die by slow degrees and buying him a load of groceries every now and then.
I really hate this.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

The Crazed Jiro Attacks Komyoji

Taking the easy way out today at rancho FirstNations with a meme I stole from...hell, I forget. But if you recognize your meme, I'll be glad to credit you; just leave a comment saying ' Hey, that's my meme, you dirty stealer woman!'
I gardened my heinie off yesterday -not just pretty words; my caboose is no longer the jiggly junk it was a while back!-anyway I am tired. Well, that and they hayed off the fields on either side of me while all that was going on and now I am producing snottal resources at a truly alarming rate. Fortunately it's going to rain again, so, yeah. Heres yer stinkin meme.

I am highly allergic to certain grass and tree pollens. Always a helpful trait for a gardener to posess.

I want a new nose.

I wish someone would give me a new nose. I am accepting nose donations at the address below. But it has to be a nice nose, not one of those big purple turd noses.

I hate my nose.

I love my yummy biker. He is allergic too and keeping me company in my misery.

I miss what I aim for a lot less frequently since I developed allergies because I get a lot of target practice hucking snotty tissues at the wastepaper basket. Score!

I fear , at least in my dreams, being stuck in a situation where I have to use an indescribably horrible public restroom. And given my imagination I have dreamed up some doozies.

I hear there are several 'stand up to pee' aids for women on the market. These have not made it into my dreams yet.

I wonder...drawing a blank on this one. Need coffee. Will return. Ok. Nope, still drawing a blank on this one.

I regret not having handled certain situations in my youth more aggressively. There are certain somebodies out there who really should have had their tires cut and their coffee dosed with nasal spray. And their heads set on fire and their fields sown with salt. Repeatedly.

I am not in bad shape for a woman my age. Not at all.

I dance a lot, mainly with my grandson, although sometimes for the amusement and edification of passing milk truck drivers. Usually I am wearing clothes. I love to dance! You get some good old Motown kicking and I MUST SHAKE MY ASS!!!!!!!

I sing nonsense songs to my dogs to the tune of old Don Ho hits. I am in the habit of making up spur of the moment nonsense songs about whatever...'Iron Man' by Black Sabbath and "Down in the Meadow in the Iddy Biddy Poo' are favorite melodies to desecrate.

I cry a lot less than I used to.

I am not .....drawing another blank. Ok. I am not as shy as I used to be. Now I just get bored easily. I'd rather fake interest than fake being comfortable anyway.

I make with my hands all kinds of things. I think most people do, unless they're like that one blonde lady in 'Freaks' who has no arms and drinks beer with her feet. That was a big honkin glass of beer, too. I was impressed.

I write a lot. Always have.

I confuse other people a lot. Always have.

I should grab myself some breakfast.

I start my lawnmower using starting fluid. Starting fluid is made of ether. The possibilities strive to make themselves realities, but I fight it. I fight it. Although I own a lighter. Yes, I do.

I finish my gardening work with a great feeling of personal satisfaction.
And apparently I am finished with this too. O tay!

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


For the past few days Blogger has been fucking with my head and trying my patience. I cannot post pictures without resorting to Byzantine methods. I cannot access some blogs. Half the time I cannot access my own. Others I may read but cannot comment upon. Others, comments show but verifications taunt me a second and even a third time before I am reduced to a gibbering, weeping heap randomly stabbing at the 'enter' button. God only knows how todays entry is going to look.
Todays entry is below this one. Scroll down to see it.
Send me an email and tell me how it looks. are you getting code? closed frames? do comments open? can you post? let me know. I intend to send Blogger admin a blistering missive detailing my woes!!!!

Now go!!!

Monday, June 05, 2006

what does the future hold in store for YOU?

My renowned powers of prognostication have proven themselves again! Ha!

Some months back I mused upon the theme of glow in the dark wrinkle dogs, and proposed the development of a glow in the dark cat
(with adhesive properties to make them more appealing to the multitasker). I also said that we were certain to see the luminous pet in our future,and that the Japanese would most likely be the first to develop it.

Yes, it is a strange but largely satisfying although somewhat itchy feeling to know that I alone out of millions have been gifted by the mysterious forces of nature with the ability to predict the pet trends of the future. And you, my darlings, shall benefit from this gift!
Behold! The veil ripped away from fickle Futures face!!!!!

The wily French beat the Japanese to the novelty pet market in the spring of 2009 with the 'Canard Montgolfier' hot air duck. Children worldwide require trauma intervention after witnessing their parents attempts to inflate it.

Also a marketing failure, only the very wealthy could afford Japans offering that year, the Helium Hippo Child Peaceful Flies. Many felt the problem lay with the the filling mechanism, which was difficult to maintain.

The Japanese regrouped and concentrated on developing alternatives. Market research focus groups reported that existing pets had serious issues that veterinary science had done little to alleviate beside suggesting the family refrain from letting Sparky eat cat crap. The Japanese spent millions of yen addressing this issue.

Their answer left much to be desired.

Many felt that a return to the origional research was in order. Once again the laboratory roof was laboriously cranked open. Once again the research tems waited, hoping, scarcely daring to breathe, for a passing thunderstorm to ignite the spark of life in the slumbering clay which lay upon the gurney suspended like an offering to some unknown god of frowning cloud and furious rain.
(You know, they're Japanese and it works. Are you going to argue with success?)

This time the form upon the altar of science was HUMAN.

Pictures stolen from the research files show that cells were harvested from Jay
Leno's body in a series of fiendish processes kind of resembling a foot Matrix had the Matrix been about feet*, that left poor Mr. Leno permanently lamed, although leaving his legendary ability to kiss celebrity ass intact.A grateful country thanks you, Japan. Not.

Other possible donors of genetic material can only be speculated upon, as the future

is not in the habit of telling me every damn thing, so quit bugging me.

Thus it was that an unsuspecting public opened their eyes one June morning to find the world a different place, and debatably a much better one, for the addition of
The Cute Cute Child Companion Changeable of Animal Pet!

Awww! Devloped to meet the emotional needs of its owners and demand litle in return save basic cleanliness and feeding, the CCCCCAP was biologically programmed to morph in response to its owner, sensing changes in pheremones and responding accordingly. See, some stuff the future is pretty specific about. So there.
Now, if they had just stuck with the good old Glow-in-the-dark Wrinkle Dog and the Adhesive Lumacat, things would have been a lot better. But noooooo. Some people just can't leave well enough alone. They have to go dipshitting around with the very foundations of life as we know it.
Just as in the indescribably foul case of the Canard Montgolfier**, unresolvable problems appeared in the design.

Although hell, I'd vote for it.
And maybe YOU SHOULD TOO (hint hint, future, wink wink, hint.)

* if the Matrix had been about feet, and had the Matrix starred a foot instead of Keanu Reeves, who while undoubtedly easier on the eyes than a foot nonetheless learned acting from a foot and has the emotional range of a foot.

**Oh! So is for laughing Ha my face! You see what I did there? Is humor laugh!

Sunday, June 04, 2006

it's raining and i can't garden! crap!

While we were coming back from Wenatchee we stopped in an antique store in a little town just to stretch our legs. It was a private home turned into commercial property, with all the fixtures left in place; kind of a charming way to display antiques, I thought. There was a screen door in place between the kitchen and the carport, and when that screen door clapped to behind me with that distinctive sound of zinging spring and creaking hinges, wood and wire mesh, I went back in time instantly to my grandmothers house. It made me take a breath and clasp my hands to my chest. That made the Yummy Biker rather exasperated, since we'd all rather I didn't have these sudden attacks of Victorian ladyhood, really.

It used to be that houses were built to the measure of the person building them, long before building codes and standardization of materials. Part of my present house was built like this; the original one room cabin was measured by notches on a story stick; and this story stick is still nailed to the south rafter up in the attic, over where the front door of the house used to be. That was the luck of the house, people believed. I was completely delighted to find it still there.

My grandmothers house was built the same way. My grandfather came from Finland and was a woodsman and carpenter. When he wasn't out cutting timber he did carpentry and general woodworking around town, and when he built his house he measured by the hand, finger and forearm, and also by knots on a string he kept looped in his pocket. The house he made fit him like a suit of clothes. There is not an inch of it that he did not touch. All his tools were hand tools and many of them were things he'd also made, whittled out of cherry or hammered out of iron on a small forge.

My grandmothers house was supposed to come to me, but my mother intervened, and my cousins sealed the deal, and now it belongs to the local parish instead.

It stood at the rear of a small orchard of Gravenstein apple trees which my grandmother had wound a flower garden around, with no particular logic. After my grandmother died I used to steal the key off the ring and go over to just sit on the rug or wander around from room to room. The smells were still the same, of cooking and my grandmothers perfume and old house wood. Every window had a fragrant flowering tree or shrub planted next to it, and by midsummer you were in dappled shade in every room of a house that smelled of roses and apples and grass.

It was not a large house by any means, and like my present home it had started life as a one room pioneer cabin, added onto as the family circumstances changed. The niche in the wall of the front room had once held a Murphy bed, and that was where my father was born. The kitchen had been converted to electricity only in 1965. The indoor 'facilities' had been tacked on in the 1940's while my father was overseas fighting the battle of Midway. The outdoor privy and summer kitchen still stood until the mid-1970's, when my dad tore them down to make a garden plot. Until then, you could look out our back door and see the little skinny shack with the crescent moon shape in the door, and sometimes kids who came over would beg to use it. It was full of bees and spiders and birds nests by then, but it was always something of a bragging point to say you used the old outhouse.

Unusual for the times, there was a full basement, with a section left in dirt so that mason jars of canned food could be bedded in the cool soil. The cement walls and stairs had been poured using scrap planking and a plumb bob, pail by pail.
Those were the stairs that my grandmother died on. She passed in a nursing home several years later.

All in all, it was a tight little set-up. My grandfathers craftsmanship was idiosyncratic,and downright goofy in places, but it held up beautifully well. Hell, the man planed his own window casements rather then buy them, and they are probably still keeping the wind out.

That was the highest price I ever paid for something in my life, was that house.