Friday, October 13, 2006

thirteen boogitywoogities

A halloweeny memey via DaNator!
do go visit, my darlings. you will be very glad you did.

1. whats the scariest movie you've ever seen?
Well, theres four of them actually, and they're all #1 for a different reason.

Alien 1: Relentless horror, extra horrible horror, with alien slime, and teeth, with big looooooooooong ew dripping, and jaws with teeth, and slime, horror, screaming, trapped, with all horrible Giger nightmarish evil, of the eggs, vagina, death, pulsating DON'T STICK YOUR WHOLE FACE INTO, hatching! don't, it, he, augh GLITCHWHOOSHGASCHLUURP with grabbing! melted! right onto his horrible, aw shit no, no no no no.

Hellraiser 2: Four words....Dr. Chenard's Brain Bamix.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre 1: Vile batshit crazy insanity that is so batbastard fuckdastardly, over the top depraved that I can't even think of a way to finish this sentance. With a chainsaw.

and of course, That Which May Not Be Named i.e. 'Conflagration in the Lower Atmosphere'. the message here is simple: if you are in the woods at night and you see something unusual, resist the urge to go back by yourself and investigate because ALIENS WILL DUMP MAPLE SYRUP ON YOU AND STICK NEEDLES IN YOUR EYES.

2. what was your favorite halloween costume as a child?
When I was eight I was a gypsy princess and I had a colorful scarf and a long midnight blue dress with rhinestones on it, and high heels, and real makeup, real dangly circle earrings and real boobs! Fine; sock-stuffies, but you know what I mean. I was ravishing!

3. if you had an unlimited budget, what would your Fantasy Costume be for this halloween?
Morticia Addams. Or Frobisher.

4. when was the last time you went trick or treating?
At Bellisfair Mall with my daughter in about1993. She was a beautiful princess (and still is!) and I was Dr. Hook (the singer. Only in a dress. It's complicated.)

5. whats your favorite halloween candy?
Mounds Bars special dark, Reeses cups, Peanut M&M's!!!! Zits here I come!

6. recount a scary nightmare you had
I was sleeping on the couch when a barefoot, blonde little boy, about eight years old, dressed in a white nightshirt walked into the yard. He walked straight up to the house and started knocking loudly on the wall right beneath the picture window I was sleeping next to. Then the knocking started travelling all around the outside of the house. True; the content isn't terribly scary, but it came in the form of a night terror, the only one I've ever had, and I can honestly say that I have never felt as overwhelming and pure a terror as I did waking up from that experience. I understand how people can die of fear now because If I'd had a heart condition of any kind I would have dropped dead. My hands and feet were tingling, my chest hurt, there were sparks in front of my eyes, I never want to go through that again.

7. what is your supernatural fear?
Noncorporeal entities of any kind. That includes 'good' ones. I do not want invisible things watching me! If you want to visit me, be a. alive, and b. visible, ok?

8. what is your creepy crawlie fear?
Anything maggotty entering and living in my body. Like maggots. Or botfly grubs (I saw them extract one from a womans' scalp on tv one time? NO.) Or magotty grubs, or any grubs, or alien larvae that infest your brain. No larvae; no maggots. No grubs. Bleah.

9. tell us about a time you saw a ghost, or heard something go bump in the night.
Nope. ok, I'll do bump in the night.
When you raise a daughter, and she is a teenager, you hear lots of things go bump in the night, like her ass bumping the side of the house as she goes out the bedroom window at 2am, or boys knocking on her window as they stand in your calendulas and smash them flat.

10. would you ever stay in a real haunted house overnight?
FUCK no.

11. are you a traditionalist (just a face) or do you get really creative with your pumpkins?
When I was doing pumpkins, I got pretty creative...I liked to make pierced lanterns with moons and stars rather than faces.

12. how much do you decorate your home for halloween?
Just a pumpkin on the porch steps nowadays. Back when, I painted the windows and wore a costume to hand out year I did a satanic altar with animal skulls and black candles and a 'grimoire' that you confronted when the door creaked open. This was not a big hit with the mommies in the area. Ever since that year we hardly get any trick or treaters!

13. what do you want on your tombstone?
"Do not use if allergic to peanuts."

Heeeeere, duckies...........heeeeere, duckies......

(tag, you're it! noshit, tamburlaine, carmentza, awaiting, neva)

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Filet Of Doom 2: Yellowfin Tuna Attack Scedule!

MORE true tales from the Ladies' Side:
The Sins Of The Young.
Yes, it's poo overkill here at rancho FirstNations!!

(What? I've been bronchial whoopin dog sick for a solid week. Why should your life be any better?)

I attended college with a tiny little woman who had a bladder that defied natural law. It was like the Tardis. For some strange reason our whiz scedules were coordinated, and the urge would hit us during the middle of typing class. I'd get settled in to the stall and be happily mid-performance when she'd come in, say 'Hi!" sit down and cut loose like a cow pissing on a flat rock for about FIVE MINUTES.
This lady was about half the size of me! I'd be done, washing my hands and she'd STILL be peeing! Like a garden hose!!
And she wanted to CHAT!
Now, I can be sociable, right; but I just, no. I'd head back into class. I couldn't keep track of the conversation with all those gallons of water going over the falls, and going, and going, and going.
See, and knowing me as I do I always figured I'd eventually bust out with something like " Holy FUCK, Elise, do you need an operation?"

One of my cousins had the misfortune to be found in bed with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the man his father worked for. Three years and two kids later she still had no goddamn class.
So here I am at a family gathering, in the bathroom, door closed, water on, toilet flushing, snorting coke off the countertop. I've just stood up and I'm tapping the last few crystals back into my sinuses when in busts Kathy!
"Oh my God! Hey you! What if I'd still been busy?" I say, you know, trying to be all cool. Snorting coke? Me? No, heavens no.
Now, with a snootfull of coke I'm inclined to be cheerful anyway; and I'm trying to maintain a jocular tone because hell, she's my cousins' wife and everyone makes mistakes, right?

See, here, I'm assuming SHE might have been embarrassed. You know, because she just barged right in on me without even knocking? Keep up.

While I'm busy being worried about her sense of modesty she drops her pants and plops her big old bare ass on the throne.
"Oh, I listened! You was done!" she replied, and cuts a big old blatty fart. FRAPPBapBLABAAAAAAAAAAP.
Now for half a beat I just stood there frozen.
She listened at the door?
She listened at the door.
Oh my god I can't breathe.
Then I remembered my manners and turned away.
Oh no! Huge wall to wall mirror! HUGE! No escape! Danger Will Robinson! There she is again! Straining! Smiling! Well lit!
"Good Lord, Kathy!" I exclaim.
"Oh, I don't mind!" she replies. GASPLOOOSH. PLOP. BLOPBLOP. plish.
Well. Obviously not.
"I do!" I said, and left.
"Hey!" she called after me, "Try an' shut the damn door all the way!"

Think of this next part as a manifesto.

Based on my experience as a maid, I finally came to accept that men sometimes have trouble hitting what they aim at. I pursued this career for ten years in every kind of establishment you can imagine, and rich or poor, it's just a fact.
When women have that same trouble, thats just wrong.
Particularly when it's not whiz.
I was a maid. I know these things.

As you should already have learned, ladies, in Western society, we sit to go. And after the age of two you should have learned to STAY SEATED UNTIL YOU ARE DONE BEFORE YOU GO.
You do not walk halfway across the room, leaving little mountain ranges and footprints and places where you slipped.

Do not attempt to hover when you are drunk. It will not work. No really. You thought it worked all these years, yes, well, it didn't. Really.

Hovering should also be avoided if what you have come to accomplish is going to be 1. a semisolid, 2. liable to be more semi than solid, and 3. accompanied by lots of gas. The effect it creates is similar to what would happen if someone got really pissed off and blew a hole through the Potty Monster with a sawed off shotgun.
And do not think you are hiding anything by separating the toilet paper into dainty squares and dabbing them onto each splat so they stick there. This fools no one.

You should know better than to stand facing the bowl anyway. When you have diarrhea, this bit of common sense should be at the very forefront of your mind. No, no, no. Nobody appreciates the Jackson Pollock you created on the inside of the stall door. Not even the loopy parts where you were obviously trying for effect. No.
And as long as I'm on the subject of art, I notice you obviously spent a lot of money on those sculpted nails. Even though the squared ends resemble caligraphy points? Yeah. No. Even though the six bags of Oreos you ate earlier have returned to challenge your imagination. The ladies' room is no place for imagination.

Do you have a new lipstick? Is it shiny and pink? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on the walls of the cubicle wearing this shiny pink lipstick? Yay!
Do you still have lipstick left? Is the counter long and clean? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on it wearing your pink shiny lipstick? On your twat?
Please go die.

The big white porcelain thing on the floor there with the seat and the flushy handle is the toilet. The little metal box hanging on the wall next to the toilet? That was not put there to provide you with a choice of venue.
Yes, the sink is porcelain many times but the lack of a seat should be a big clue. So please do not leave the sink full of thick orange piss, shit on the floor next to the toilet and leave a wad of paper on the rim. Never, never do this. It's just perplexing.

Once you have used it, the toilet paper goes in the water. In the toilet. Use it on your ass and then get rid of it. In the toilet.
It is not a toy.
Do not sculpt the used paper into whimsical shapes and perch them on the plumbing.
Do not use it on your hine and then stick it to the wall.
Or the ceiling.
Or the hot light fixture.
Do not use it as a medium applicator. Resist that urge to create. No. No hearts. Not even a happyface. It is not a happy face. There is nothing happy about it.

So yeah. Guys? No. Sorry. Comparatively speaking, you have very little to complain about. And I haven't even covered menstruation. Did you notice that? How I completely avoided the entire subject of menstruation?
Thank me.

NSFW. trust me on this.

You can go to numerous places...say, any tavern, for example- and hear terrifying accounts from men forced to take a dump outside their castle walls. Once I stop laughing I can commiserate, because after all, everyone has to vote for Nixon, right? And eventually you have to do so in a public restroom where you run the chance of having an audience of people who are not close family. Depending on which part of the South you live in.
But see, guys know nothing about this, not really. Oh, they whine and bitch about being seranaded whether they want to be or not, but has anyone really addressed the horror that is THE WOMENS' SIDE OF A PUBLIC RESTROOM? No.
Because it's too horrible.

Of course, that is why I am here.

This, then, is what WE have to contend with.

Nice enough looking woman, right?
You see, from the navel down she's nothing but holding tank. I can say that with complete confidence because a number of years ago it was standard operating procedure for women to have all their lower organs removed once they'd hit menopause. They'd just pack whatever was left into a plastic bag and tie it to a rib. Meanwhile Zelda is still putting away the sauerkraut and cabbage rolls, only now it has all this ROOM in which to accumulate...and compost...and it's all expected to exit out one hole...a hole upon which gravity, not enough dietary bulk and childbirth have taken a certain toll.

So lets say you're an average female-type gal sitting in a stall taking a leak, maybe humming a little tune, when the swollen ankles and black K-Mart tennies of this woman appear beneath the wall next to you.
They always sigh.
Then there's a Rgnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Which is more of a concentrated lack of breathing than it is an actual sound, although sadly this is not always the case.
Then they bear down and WALOOPAGAZOWPAKASPLOOSHKADOOSH WABOBP FRAPPO KADOOSH out gallops every meal they've eaten for the past week.
Then the pyroclastic wave hits. Your shoelaces start crying and crawl away and hide.
The hair on your ankles begins to singe.
Now some women are content to simply expel this burden in one long, LOUD, chunky rush, kind of like when the city flushes the hydrants in the summer.
Other women, midway through this process, become so intent that they evidently lose all sense of their surroundings and begin to emit long, sustained birthing groans.




~Gaslooshasooshagadonk,foosh gadooshgoooooooooosh~

Little ladies can suprise you with their capacity. And they're yippers rather than groaners. But it's the bigs ones who perform the awe inspiring crimes against nature.
They are also the ones most frequently guilty of firehosing the entire back wall of the cubicle.
Let's revisit that concept for emphasis, shall we? FIREHOSING.
Over the years they've lost track of where exactly their rear exit is anymore so they just work their pants down over the rolls, bend over and hope some hits the water.

Ever gone into the ladies room in a club and heard the drunk woman in the next cube crying and farting at the same time?
'BwaAAAAA,uh waugh,uh hwaugh, uh hwauuuuuuuuugh!" ~fuurrrAAAAAAAAAAP! pt pt'
'Hic, Uwuaaaaa,huh hwaaaa,WwAAAA haaaaaaa!"
~FFFFFFFFFFFfft pt pt pt`

It's tragic.

That only hits me later, because at the time I'm leaning against my side of the divider with tears running down my face, cracking up so hard I can't catch my breath.

At Charlies' on Capitol Hill all this was playing out one drunken evening when my glasses fell off and clattered under into the adjoining stall. She handed them back to me.
"H H H Here, are thehehese yours?"
I thanked her. "Listen, are you ok?"
"Y Yeah, I'm fiiiiii huhiiiiii hi hi hine" ~FFRAP! pt pt pt~

Ok then.

Many older women have a deep aversion to placing their bottoms onto a seat which has recently supported the bare buns of a stranger. And that's understandable. Use one of those hippie t-shirt things in the wall dispenser. Or craft your own ass gasket out of toilet paper, Martha Stewart style.
But no. That will not do.
No, these women would rather STAND UP AND PISS ALL OVER THEIR OWN FEET.
And their pantslegs. And their shoes.
Because peeing all over yourself is ALWAYS WAY BETTER than sitting on a bare toilet seat. EW GROSS A BARE TOILET SEAT EWWWWW.
You glance over and see a pair of trembly blue veined old ankles with some big old underpants streeeeeetching out between them as Mrs. Galumpke tries to straddle the bowl and you know it's gonna rain. And it does. All you can do is hope the floor slopes away from your position. You think I am exagerrating. HA.
The rest stop on I-5 at Smokey Point seems to be where all their potty alarms start ringing at the same time. I've been sitting in there when an entire flock of old ladies has gathered to stage a group performance of ELDERLY SYNCHRONIZED HOVER PEEING.
Invariably, these are the woman who pee in splurts.
Or who make motorboat noises.
Imagine Angelina Jolie with a mouthfull of Mountain Dew making motorboat noises.
That's what I mean.
And then you hear them flush and come out of the stalls, chattering away, and off they go, feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes of having successfully avoided sitting on a DISGUSTING BARE TOILET SEAT EW, soaked with piss from the knees down.

Some of you may be too young to remember these.

No. Not butts; girdles.
Now, in the '60's, back when coelecanths ruled the earth and I was a kid, all the older ladies wore them. You were supposed to wear them over your big old underpants but nobody did because with nothing to grip they'd slip and shift suddenly and flub would come shooting out in odd places. And back then girdles were still made with rubber...either rubberized sateen, or just...plain rubber.
This is a recipe for evil.
1. Rubber girdles......had an......aroma. Already. Right out of the box. A very rubbery aroma.
2. Rubber girdles were not machine washable.
Hand wash only. In the bathroom sink. Strange. Tan. Floaty. Ew.
3. Rubber girdles DID NOT BREATHE LIKE EGYPTIAN COTTON. (Except for this one, which looks it could have been played like an ocarina.)
No, very little air passed in and out of a rubber girdle.
....Except when it did so under pressure, in a series of sharp little reports, out the waistband or the legholes. SNAP! SNABABABAP!
And remember - this air had exited first through an aperature better left unimagined and then spent an unknown amount of time racing desparately around and around the hot, sweaty, compressed flub of a fat womans' ass like a hamster in a habitrail.
As Redd Foxx points out, this woman may have been riding in a taxi cab. This woman may have run to catch a bus. She may have had liver and onions for lunch.
Usually she was standing next to me on the elevator in Meyer and Franks. Giving ME dirty looks.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

Looking ESE, we see a typical fall morning here at rancho FirstNations. The sky is a perfect, rainwashed blue and the leaves are just beginning to change from green to gold and red, to bronze and flame yellow.
Yes, there's something in the air...something unmistakeable that says 'autumn'...something which enhances the morning haze and tints the dew sparkling on the grass...

Lo! In the distance! Sprayed at sandblasting velocity by hydraulic cannons, a green geyser of liquid faeces! And bourne northward upon the dawn winds the parmesan-pig-assfinger stench of same!


Below: This is my favorite rosebush. All that remains in bloom are the wands which have crept in through the lattice to shelter under our front porch roof. But these bloom like mad things! And they'll stay in bloom until after Christmas, too, if the past is anything to go by.

I'm given to understand that this is a native chinese multiflora, one commonly used for rootstock on the floribunda roses from the 'Sixties. There must have been a huge fad for floribundas at one time, judging from the number of these chinensis I see around older homes in the area. The top stock have long since died off, between the damp and the native mildews, but the hardy crowns survived to push up canes.
I started this one from cuttings about seven years ago, when it was a twig with four leaves. WORSHIP MY ROSE BUSH! WORSHIP MY MIND BOGGLING ABILITY TO MAKE PLANTS GROW! MUAHAHAHAHA!


First frost this morning. You can look out onto my back yard and see it glistening on the playing field. Lets see if I can get an evocative shot here...

Note that the frost abruptly stops five feet from my property line? This is
1. Because of the powerful Protect -O - Rays which shoot out of my eyes.
2. Actually it's because the drain field ends right about there.
3. No, ha ha! It's because the city mowed that strip a few days ago and the cuttings are still giving off just enough heat to foil the formation of frost. Unless I am lying.
No, I'm not. If it was because of the drain field you'd see wisps of delicately scented fog rising.


The more things change, the more they stay the same. Gosh, ain't it the truth.
I am sick again. The Playboy of the Western World is in the hospital again. The Yummy Biker is convinced we are street begging, rat eating, 'Please kind sir I beg you do not turn my tiny ones out into the snow' poor again. This latter is caused merely by the beginning of September* and NOTHING AT ALL which resides in the realm of fact. The other two? I have no fucking idea. Regular as fricken clockwork, though, all three of them.

As far as my present overactive boogery state goes, I think what happens is all the kids go back to school and all the new germs they've accumulated over the summer get together and party and mutate into some kind of plague that is ready to infest my respiratory system right about October. And it has. *Snoooork*

The Playboy of the Western World crashed and burned in the lobby of the Leopold a couple days ago while he was bending over to get a newspaper. He missed, kept going, shot through the frame of his walker, hit the wall at 135mph and continued on into the crowd, killing 10 and injuring countless others.
I am getting tired of this. Not as tired as he is, I imagine.
Anyway he'll be fine; he's just bruised. The staff at St. Josephs ADORE him. The fan club is already sneaking in young guys, chocolate and dirty get well cards.

Ha' yew?

*Thats all it takes. Boom. Check the watch? five...four...three...tho...aaaaand we're poor. Every single goddamn year for the past 20.

Sunday, October 08, 2006


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