Saturday, September 15, 2007

Maizeine Chimp Monkey Caters Rigid Frame Buffet!

I'm in a hate-blog state of mind this morning. If I repress it, it'll only cause problems later. Lucky you!

The following groups of people arouse the same feelings in me as do cockroaches-

-Furverts, furry fandom, anyone who identifies as a furry.
You are a puke.
figure a: puke

You do not have an 'animal spirit' living inside you. You have a pukey spirit living inside you. And possibly roundworms. You are sad, you are lame, you will not change and you will not procreate.
..especially not at this rate, bucko.

Why put the inevitable off any longer? Swallow arsenic. (It'll leave you in a remarkable state of preservation. Hey! Then maybe an elk or a lion with a HUMAN spirit in it could use YOU as an outfit!)
...donate your used dermis to: The United Scrotecat Clothing Fund


-Nazi collectors/enthusiasts

...apparently he felt the swastika tattooed next to his eye wasn't getting the message across strongly enough

You only collect this shit 'for historical interest', huh? And you really think anyone buys that, huh? Please.
You buy it, you masturbate over it, and you dream of using it on unwilling victims, too. I've never met a one of you that didn't have a vicious, creepy side to them, and in my subculture I've met a lot of you things.
...oh yeah. and barbies, too. no shit.

Got a Luger? Sure you do. Now open wide and pull the trigger. There! Your first pro-social act!


-Hoarding disorder
This ones' an easy fix: gasoline and a match.

You accumulate more? More gasoline and another match.

Of course in a perfect world you'd be abandoned by one and all and left to rot away inside your disgusting shitheaps.

I was raised by one of you. Furthermore, I used to clean rental properties. I've picked up up after too many of you things to buy the 'it's purely a mental illness' excuse OR the 'I'm just a slob' excuse. Oh, it may look passive, but it's not. You've figured out how to turn inertia into motion and still look like the victim! An out-of-control obsession? No, a 'safe' way to express your seething hatred of everything around you.

(A note on the pictures used here: they came from the Squalor Survivors site, and were posted by a woman who actually dug herself out of the filth she had created. That's a good thing, right? Sure it is! Except for the part where they had to TEAR DOWN THE FUCKING HOUSE AFTER WHAT SHE'D DONE TO IT.)

Friday, September 14, 2007

UPDATED!! Red Whale Drink Energy Making!

Here's one for ya, sports fans...
The guy who's infant I just got done babysitting?
Wants to...


I need beer. Many beer#. A plethora; nay a millennial tide.
Of beer.


I am not the worlds' sexiest woman. I know that is a terrible shock but that's not my problem. I'm an average looking, chubby little housewife (with rockin' gazongas) who runs around wearing raggy jeans, stained slogan t's and sandals. I go shopping, I drive a geezermobile and I garden. I am a GRANDMOTHER for the love of Mike.

Probably because of the way I was raised, realizing that someone wants to do the horizontal bop with me makes never fails to me feel like I've done something wrong. This is how you tell you're Catholic, as a matter of fact...wait until some slavering random nut comes along with a perpetual hardon for anything breathing and if this makes you feel guilty, DINGDINGDINGDINGDING! You win the 'tiny little moustache' award!*

On an only marginally more rational level, it also creeps me out because I'm married to a man that has a well-known reputation for doing things like handcuffing people who irritate him to railings and pistolwhipping them (really happened) and chasing down careless drivers, pulling them out halfway through the drivers side window and cracking them off the rearview mirror a few times (really happened.**) He works in a smelter. He has tattoos. He has muscles. He has a moustache. He owns a Harley. This is a man by whose standard 'butch' is measured. Nothing subtle going on here. And I make no bones whatsoever about the fact that I am pathetically, hopelessly in love with this guy, either. I am SO married. Ask the Amazon; it can get downright embarrassing.

So when this redneck started coming on all fraught I though he was just stoned. You know, a little intense, a little too focused? I thought he was trying to maintain. Never occurred to me that he had anything barnyard on the brain.

That changed when I noticed what he was packing yesterday when he came to pick up the baby.

Now here is a banjo-pickin, white trash scenario for ya: While Daddy is standing there holding Baby, he's making heavy eye contact with babysitter (47, overweight, wearing 15 year old 'Cosmo Kramer' t-shirt stained with house paint that has corn fragments stuck all over it.)Daddy keeps casting longing looks towards babysitters bedroom. Daddy makes numerous "when's the Biker coming home?" statements. Meanwhile Daddy is trying to hide a raging redneck erection beneath the edge of the dining room table out of sight. The babysitter did not want to see this, but the Babysitter had to pick up the baby's blanket off the floor and OH MY GOD NOT, EW, DON'T, MY TABLE, NO, WE EAT FOOD THERE, AW GEEZE.
Daddy begins complaining about Mommy.
Babysitter cuts him off mid sentence because Babysitter does not want to hear that sad tired crap. Babysitter is bustling all over the house practically throwing things into the baby's bag in order to get Daddy out faster, meanwhile simultaneously doing laundry, hucking corn cobs into a bucket, wielding large knives and huge pots of boiling water and generally trying to maintain 'moving target' status.
Daddy hints that a ride home might be nice.
Babysitter looks at him incredulously.
Daddy wanders off down the sidewalk with baby, a six pack of beer and a teddy bear baby bag slung over his back, casting lingering looks back at Babysitter's house. Babysitter lurks behind curtains and trots from room to room making sure he's actually leaving the property.

Some girls have all the luck.

#'beer' is the collective noun one uses when referring to 'lots of beer all standing around in a group'.

* thanks due here to Frank Zappa

** now, the only reason he did this was because he got to the guy's car first. I was still getting the seat belt unfastened. he's actually a very nice man most of the time. just don't shoot him with a small callibre handgun or cut him off in traffic and then flip him off. ok?

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

Bees like hair.
I have come to this conclusion after many years of exhaustive research. Furthermore, bees like hair the later in the year it gets...right around late August-early September, to be precise.
Now by bees I mean these things:

Yes, I know, it's a paper wasp. Fine.
I have really crappy hair and I always have...shattery, thin and flyaway no matter what I do to it. Late in the year I will find that the bees have been hitching a ride in my flyaways, and it always comes as a surprise. An unpleasant one. As in, I scream and flap like a big dork.
Let's say I've been outside deedle-ing around. Whenever I pass through a doorway and the air pressure changes, invariably I will hear one of these things take off with a papery rattle of wings from someplace far too close to my ear, sounding like sheet cellophane. I always wonder if they've been munching on my split ends or just perching there. Either way it's never a fun thing when something that looks as evil and extraterrestrial as paper wasp goes lazing past your nose, long freaky legs hanging down, stinger visibly pulsing. GAAAAH.


I like beer A LOT. Fortunately for me (although not so fortunate for my expanding butt)I live in the middle of microbrew heaven. The local bounty of craft-brewed beer is mine for the asking, even in the smallest most out-of-the-way quickie mart.

See? I keep telling you people to move here, but do you listen? No.

We have a buddy who could be a very wealthy man if he would just get his ass in gear and market his holiday brew. He makes it specifically for giving as a gift around Christmastime. This stuff is something special. Something a cut above. It's as subtle as a fine wine, full and round but not cloying or aggressive in the least. It's absolutely perfect for pairing with roast meats and cold-weather meals. I have never tasted anything that came close to equalling this stuff. It's a miracle.

The man is a genius of flavor, I guess you'd have to say. He's brought around reds that taste like cedar and rain and crisp lagers that ring like crystal. His porters and ales are thick and full, carmel dark and as delicious as a fat man on a cold night. Take it from someone who knows...that's some hardcore delicious going on.


My garden came in thick with 'Love In A Mist' this year; thick like I've never seen before. My poor snapdragons and california poppies never stood a chance.

Nigella Damascena is an annual that flowers almost continuously from May until September, throwing a star-shaped blossom that comes a true 'hard blue'. The foliage is ferny and threadlike. The inflorescence is surrounded by further slender, branching threads, almost like an impossibly attenuate snowflake. It is the most ridiculously beautiful thing.

Beginning in June the Nigella begins to form oval seedheads that resemble balloons. Each balloon is striped longitudinally with dark brown, and this darkens as the seedhead dries to tan striped with black. A six-pointed star, open at the points, forms atop these pods once the sun has dried them, and the black seeds pepper out every times the wind blows. When I rive them out I have to stop periodically and empty my shoes; they're that generous.

This flower was introduced from a 'blue bedder mix' that I planted ten years ago. Of the selection, only 'Nigella Damascena' has come back to visit. I couldn't be happier. Blue is my addiction and my fascination, and you couldn't ask for a prettier pest.

Monday, September 10, 2007

passing in america: image and identity

...if only this were more than just pretty words on a sticker...

You may have noticed by now that I am American, which means I am cooler than you. Despite what Americas' less than savory reputation worldwide might lead you to believe, however, we live much the same as you, benighted heathen reader from foreign parts, truly we do.
Each morning, after I've had my coffee and checked to see that all my millions of dollars are safe aboard my yacht, I load my handgun with fresh ammunition and go dump a barrel of crude oil out into the nearest creek, and..

-No, ha ha, actually I wander around in my kitchen like a lost soul until the caffeine kicks in, and then I go beat my slaves and wipe out another hundred or so chinese railroad workers who...

-No, that's a JOKE. Ha!

Actually, like everyone else in America, I am from somewhere else, but unlike most, I walked here from Mongolia. Well, I didn't really do this personally, but way way back there in my distant genetic past you'll find a bunch of little stubby red people with some nasty looking feet. I'se an Indian, y'all!

So. Every morning after I've tied Narcissa Whitman to the hot wood stove and scalped her, I don my feathered headdress...

I'll stop.


I live in a town that has decided to enhance it's public image with the ambiance of the Old West. We have split rail fences along the main street, lots of wagon wheels scattered about, a large fiberglass 49'er panning for gallstones on the corner of Cherry and 3rd, and an abandoned Pakistani quick-mart.

The fact of the matter is, this area had a completely different look and feel back in those days, but it isn't one that the rest of the world (Canada, in this case) associates with 'The American Wild West' so we're stuck with a faux 'high desert' theme.

Perhaps this is better than the bleak, foggy 'Victorian era alcoholics and gutter French meet deeply resentful Pelagic-derived swamp-dwelling head-hunters' thing that was actually in place; I dunno. I think that could have been pretty cool if they'd done it right, myself.
...johnny depp is just out of frame here smoking opium. meanwhile bilbo baggins peels the living skin from chief lalooska inside that hut there upper right.

This was ostensibly a mining town, although the actual mining took place a few miles up the road. What they (the white folk) did here was drink to excess, scratch fleas, bang Nooksack 'tang, slog through the mud, and have huge garbage fires.

You dig down about a foot and a half anywhere inside the original city limits and you hit a layer of charred Victorian era garbage about 12 inches deep. This is how they raised the town above the flood plain back before the EPA...every year they'd burn the huge pile of accumulated trash at the edge of town, spread the ashes flat and plat another city block.

Anyway, we're stuck with the constipated 49'er and the false-fronted buildings. Could be worse, and by worse, I mean Leavenworth. At least I can go buy a short case of Miller without being having my earholes assaulted every noon by some fucking nut with an accordion who yodels....leavenworth...small town in the foothills of the cascades or strange time-space anomaly with yodelling?

A couple of miles down the road is Lynden. Lynden is under the mistaken impression that it is 1. Dutch, and that 2. People find this charming. Fifteen years ago the people who worked on the main street were required to wear comic opera Dutch attire, even the poor guy who worked in Schucks Auto Parts.
...everyone in Holland looks exactly like this. it's true. they do.

These days that shit is largely confined to a couple of restaurants, but the place is still heavy on the Flemish building details and the tulips. Although oddly enough, come spring you CANNOT BUY A FRICKEN' TULIP BULB IN LYNDEN. You might find a couple of wizened up old 'Darwin' bulbs in the grocery store and that's it. For tulips you have to drive 60 some-odd miles down to Mt. Vernon, which is Federal-era themed. You know, because of the whole 'Mt. Vernon' thing.

No, if you want to visit America you can either go to Glacier (Loggers, farmers, snow bunnies and 'boarders) or Everson (farmers, loggers, migrant workers.) Both of them are really nice little towns, and both of them are simply small rural communities with their own identity, content to let the inhabitants maintain some semblance of self-respect while they go about their business.

Between where I sit and Lynden there are approximately three NA reservations. As far as I know, they're all members of the Nooksack tribe, just different bands. I know next to nothing about them. At one point The Stainless Steel Amazon was going out with a kid from the Goshen Road res and he didn't even know anything about it. It strikes me as very odd.
Another thing that strikes me as odd, and also kind of funny, is that each year the Goshen Road band hold an open house, where they sell among other things, Indian dolls. These dolls are a huge hit with the local ladies of a certain age.

The crafter buys a 'Storybook' doll body, sometimes tinted, most times not. This body is then dressed in 'Indian' costume and sold for an outrageous sum, and sold by the metric boxcar load.
And all the dollies? Are wearing Cherokee costumes. Every one of them.
...woo woo indeed! interpreting the noble Cherokee warrior as only an Armenian girl from California can.

The Cherokee costume is the Native American garb popularized by the western movies of the past. Everyone associates Cherokee garb with Indians. Even other Indians. I mentioned this to one of the women one year. She was selling blonde dollies dressed in fringed hide and beads. She laughed. "I know, it's Midwest," she said

"...but when we dress 'em right nobody buys them."

In America, you pass on the left.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

oh for fucks sake enough of that already.

Instead, lets all take a trip...TO CANADA!

Canada is a lovely country filled to overflowing with scenic wonders and untapped natural resources that the rest of the world, particularly America, really need a lot more than the Canadians do. They're just wasting them. All they do is run around all over the place saying "Whoa, this is really scenic, eh? Gimme a Labatts, eh?" Which is really sucky beer, but not as bad as Buckhorn. Or Kootenai, which really blows goats. I mean, my God....take it from Opie; a dog who knew what good tasting ass was all about

But anyway, its really pretty there. They have elk, caribou and moose. This is why Canadians play hockey, or at least it's a good a reason as any. You can play hockey too! All it is, is whapping a puck with this big wood thing into a goal past a bunch of guys with no teeth. You need a puck, which is a fossilized little biscuitty thing, and a hockey stick, which is a big hitty wood thing.
...Eleanor Roosevelt, center, Toronto Maple Leafs. Eye of the tiger!

Many famous people come from Canada and go on to play a major role on the world stage. In order to reach America and eventual fame,though, they must first cross the fearsome LIONS GATE BRIDGE. Sadly, many hundreds of aspiring comedians, folk singers and comedians each year fail this all-important test.
Yes, you have to click on this. Do it.

...a gauntlet of pain must be run to reach the the shining land of opportunity and poor medical care that is AMERICA.

The Canadian Government is made up of a Parliamentary thing, because they couldn't come up with a better idea so they copied England. Aside from the part where they get to wear wigs, nobody understands Parliament or how it works, so they depend on their King and Queen to sort things out.
...Queen Marge, standing in front of Parliament. 'The first one who leaves gets 5667.89 liters of cold steel right through the brisket!' she proclaims during a recent session.

...George Washington, King of Canada, fights a lone war on crime in the vast wastelands of the Canadian veldt.

People in Canada speak two languages. American, and a made up one they stole from the old kids show 'Zoom'. They say it's French but they just do that to try and sound all cool. It's embarrassing.

"Yobbung bubblack mubbale
ubbI trubby tubboo ebbfect bubby kibbicking thbbuh fubbacts
abbnd stbbacking mubbuch mubbail
I'bbum pabbacking abbuh gabbat cubbuz gubbuys wabbanna jabback
abbnd fubbuck gobbibbin tubboo jabbail
Cubbuz ubbI aibbun't equbbippebbed tubboo stobbop hobbow ubbI lobbok..."
...former rap star Tupac Fitzpatrick Abulbul Emir, 'Yobboung Babblack Mabbale' from his Canadian release "2bbupobbacabbalybbps Nobbow"

Harrison Hot Springs is outrageously cool. There are no Scotsmen. Set ridiculously far from the main highway, Harrison Hot Springs is a small resort town in the middle of the most gorgeous mountain scenery you have ever sceneried. They have a head shop and a place where you can buy expensive chocolates!

White Rock: Another small resort town on the very tippy edge of Canada, White Rock exists for no good reason I can figure out.
...official seal of the city, 'White Rock Says Well Come!"

Basically it's a bunch of Canadians in a good mood all wandering around buying overpriced ice cream, watching hang gliders crash into the overhead powerlines. And you gotta admit it doesn't get much better than that.

Vancouver BC: the most beautiful and interesting city in North America. Period. Also home to the hardest working, most ambitious homeless people in North America. They will flat detail your entire car in the time it takes for the traffic light to change from red to green, give you change for a 50.00, run your credit card, contact your bank and give you a reciept.
Vancouver has the best food, the best entertainment, the best slums, the best business district, farmers market, haunted shit, views, ever'THANG. Plus, you can actually walk up to an actual store IN VANCOUVER IN BROAD DAYLIGHT IN FRONT OF COPS with a storefront that says 'Pot Store! Buy Pot Here! This is the Pot Store Where The Pot is!' and you can buy a big ol' shitload of ganja in that store from real store employees who sell pot. Canada is A CIVILIZED MO'FUKKIN NATION, FOLKS.
...drugs are readily available in Canada to anyone with enough green

Vancouver Art Museum located, sensibly enough,in Vancouver BC.
...note: image shown is much smaller than actual size.
This is a perfect example of everything that is cool and surreal about Canada. They had this lovely old territorial-era building in the middle of town that they wanted to turn into a museum. Problem was, it was too small, plus it was falling apart. So they cored out the interior, braced up the shell, and then hired, I dunno, Frank Gehry or someone, handed him a martini and told him to basically run nuts inside this hollowed-out building. Surprise us. Let's see what ya got, modern boy. What he came up with is an interior which is three times larger than the total exterior footprint of the building.
Plus there's art. You can't have any of it, but it's there.

Canadian Citizens are by and large a lovely group of folks.
...even musicians are welcome in Canada
This is the worst thing that ever happened to me in Canada:
One evening I was stopped at a light in a very, very bad part of Hastings Avenue. I swear to you this had nothing whatsoever to do with the dead prosti
Anyway, while I was stopped there a group of genuinely terrifying, evil looking punk goth meth zombies sauntered across the street just in front of my car. They all turned and looked at me with their freaky dialated eyeballs. And they catcalled me.
You know what they said?
"Yanks, eh? So. Come up to check out Canada, eh?"

This is a true story.