Saturday, November 10, 2007


I found myself getting all worked up over the issue of ownership* the other day but for the life of me I can't remember what
-and she avoids the obvious pun and says instead

- naah...triggered it off.
Sorry; it's a sickness.
I just remembered what is was anyway. The stereotype that nice women do not like and are not interested in firearms; that they think they are scary and loud and shooty. Most of all, unnecessary.

While I can by no means be described as a nice woman I am a relatively average one. Like everyone I know, I grew up around guns. They're a part of my culture. Although I think it's creepy now, I had toy guns when I was a kid. (Remember, though; that was back in 1964-65. Kids could buy candy cigarettes and bubblegum cigars and ride around in the family car standing up on the front seat dancing like a go-go girl to 'She Loves Me had Yeah Yeah Yeah'. At least I did.)

I live in an average neighborhood in the Northwest and it's fairly common knowledge that we own guns. Everydamnone owns guns. It's no big fucking deal. Everyone owned guns when I was a kid, too. Again; no big deal. The ownership of guns does not automatically cause one to wake up one morning and walk down the street picking off schoolchildren. What it meant back then (and does now, in the Northwest at least) was that you could go out and shoot your own meat if you got laid off work or went on strike. A lot of people did. A a lot of people had to. That kept our shit going one winter in the early 70's.

It also meant, as it does now, that if some shitheel kicked in your door and you're at home you had a chance of defending your family and your property.

That aspect of gun ownership brings the anti- gun fice trotting out of their porti-sans. "Oh, but what if they take it away from you and use it on you?" To which I say "I've never, never once heard of that happening to someone I've known, lived near or done business with. What I have heard of is, someone ends up with a dead shitheel in the middle of their front room and has to replace the carpet."
And that is a fact. Over the course of my life I've known, and known of, a lot of average people who fired a gun in order to protect themselves on their own property. And it worked.

If it isn't on anyones' horizon of reality, the reason is that the police don't want to encourage that kind of thing. They're here to keep the peace, remember; not create vigilante heroes that would attract 'gunslingers'. They make no bones about it. Another reason is that an average, socially-adjusted sane person isn't going to go around bragging about how they killed someone; taking a life is horrifying and sickening, even if it is a 'them or me and mine' situation.

Another comment that arises is "Oh, like you'd really be able to kill someone if it came down to it. You'd choke and then you'd really be in trouble."

I'm a wife and a mother. Try and come at my family. Try and fuck with what my husband's worked for.
It's like that.

This is an issue that I've had to deal with in real life. One thing I KNOW about myself is that I not only could, I would. And that I would freak out and end up with bad PTSD. I mean, everyone started out as a little kid. It's fucked up world.

Back when it was just me and my baby daughter I had to look that issue in the face. The facts were these: I was a single woman with a baby, I was poor and I had no backup. None. Don't even say 'the police'. Just DON'T. That's another post.

I was not living in the land of the Care Bears. I lived in the middle of Seattle. People used to sell drugs out of the windows of my building. Whores tricked in the stairwells. Guys used to screw in the alley under my kitchen window. Here's how I lived then (and this is po' folks all the way, too.) I had a baseball bat next to the door and a hunting knife jammed into the frame up above the chain latch. Someone knocked. You picked up the baseball bat. Keeping your head away from the edge of the door, you stood sideways, opened the door with your hip braced against it and the side of your foot used as a stop. If they gave it a kick you could stop it with your weight and the help of the chain. If they made a grab, you slammed the door on their arm, broke it with the bat and then 'pinned' them there until the police came. The knife part was my idea. If someone fucked with me they were going to know they messed with a bitch.

As soon as I had the money I purchased a 45. Then I went to the sheriffs office, registered my weapon and got a carry permit. I qualified for concealed carry (which is good) and I took that right quick. I was packed 24/7. Every single time I left the house for three solid years, too.

I underwent a full background check which I consented to gladly. The outcome of that check, my fingerprints and my photograph are now on file at the FBI. And goddammit, I AM PROUD of this. It is verifiable proof that I own and intend to use IN A SOCIALLY RESPONSIBLE MANNER. I have nothing to hide. (Interestingly enough it makes you just that much more employable, too. )

The world is full of people who don't play nice...predators, the criminally insane, the sociopathic, the dangerously schizophrenic. Whether or not people want to believe it or know it, these folks live all around us, they're related to us, we work with's a simple fact of life. Just because you think ahead to rational outcomes doesn't mean anyone around you does the same.

The fact that you have a vagina does not change this. Neither does it serve as a magical 'danger and not-niceness-averting' talisman of some sort.
Quite the opposite.
Still, if you're single and have no dependents, go ahead and be a pacifist.
But if you have children, shame on you. Fucking shame on you.

* I put this out with the phrase 'gun control' here and that's a completely different kettle of fish. Whoops. I mean private ownership of guns, 'K?

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Yellow Bandicoot Revenge!

I wish there were such a thing as a handbook of do's and don'ts that they'd hand out to teenage boys in health class. It would make life so much simpler for everyone involved. Boys wouldn't have to 'learn' their moves from music videos and girls would never, never again have to hear the words "Is this it? is this it?"

In fact, lets tackle that one first.
But I don't wanna look at it; it's weird.
You have to look at it. It's not bad. It's like, a, one of those funny-shaped things.
What funny shaped things?
One of those vagina things. Now get down there and look. See? Nothings waving. You're going to be sticking you dick in there but you're afraid to look; geeze, what a pup. Are you sure you're old enough to be doing thisAHARAGHRAGH!
...No, no no, I'm sorry, I apologize, that was me. It's a hand puppet, see? The teeth are made of felt. Look. See?

OK. I'll draw a picture:

0-x (note: blogger will not print 'greater' and 'lesser' carats. you see what you can learn here?)

Aim for the dash.

Chapter One: Take the mirror test!

No, put your clothes back on, son. Nobody wants to see that until there's hair on it.

Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see?
If you see a white boy, take a permanent marker and write this down on the back of your favorite hand right now:

You are not nor will you ever, ever be Barry White. *
Never, never attempt to imitate Barry White while you are having sex. Not his voice, not his intonation, not his signature lines. Never never never. Even if you grew up in the middle of Compton. Even if you have an unusually melodious voice. In fact avoid Barry White impersonations for two days prior to and during sexual activity (with another person.)

A grown man doing Barry White impersonations with his mouth full of pubic hair is sad.

A 15 year old boy with three cat hairs on his upper lip doing Barry White impersonations while frantically dabbing his dick all over Hells' half acre wondering where the goddamn hole is, is sad AND hysterically funny.
Laughter isn't the kind of response you're going for here.

Yes, it's will remain that pinky-beige color for the rest of your life. Make friends with this fact. Own it. There are probably lots of women out there who'll find nothing whatsoever off-putting about it.

Mirror test 2: Who Am I?
Come on asshole; you don't know this?

See, now, that testiness; that's hormones.

When you see yourself in the mirror, you see an average young person with a more or less normal life. Now of course not everyone has a normal life. Movie stars, for example, don't have normal lives by any stretch of the imagination. Now ask yourself: Are you a movie star?

Yes, it's a silly question and you might laugh. And you should because you don't have a ghost of a chance of becoming one either.
As we all should know by now, life isn't very fair. You have to make up every single thing you say on the spur of the moment; movie stars have people who do that for them...and that means that you're at a distinct disadvantage when you're confronted with something that leaves you completely at a loss for words. Like boobies.

Let's say that you and a group of male buddies are sitting together when the freshman girls' gym class run past.
Any phrase that springs to your mind at this moment IS EXACTLY THE PHRASE YOU SHOULD NEVER USE DURING AN INTIMATE MOMENT. "Time for a milkin', baby, What's up with your nipples, Shake them fuckin' jugs, Don't give yourself a black eye, Looks like a couple of cub scouts wrestling in a pup tent, Oh my God that's the funniest thing I've ever seen I think I'm gonna die, Jesus look at them jiggle, Put on a bra, Wowzer whadda pack a' boobs", and other such phrases ARE NOT THE KIND OF THING ONE SAYS IN AN INTIMATE MOMENT. Not even to that blow up doll you think nobody saw you take out of the New Years Eve party box in the closet.

3. There's no such thing as truth in advertising in the wacky game of romance!

When it all comes down to brass tacks, neither of you rate first prize at this stage in your young lives. Yes, I mean you with the huge zits all over your back, bucko.
Be kind. Tell a white lie. Make a good memory if you can't make a great one. Remember: you have those giant seeping zits all over your back. If she's less than what you'd been lead to believe, don't mention it. IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE YOUNG MAN DON'T MENTION IT.

In fact, you may be surprised to find that the very same rule applies for everything about a young womans' body. There's only one simple rule to remember: If you find yourself less than overwhelmed by the quality on view, NEVER NEVER MENTION IT UNLESS YOU WANT TO DIE REAL BAD.

Do you know why? Take this multiple choice quiz:
1. Women are nuts
2. It's not polite to criticize
3. I'm too young to know what the fuck I'm talking about anyway
4. The only naked ladies I've ever seen were represented in two dimensions
5. I'm lucky she got naked at all; I should get down, kiss her feet and thank GOD instead of going waa waa waa like a fuckin' little punkass puke.


3. Take the Sniff test!
Everyone perspires-it's a fact! During this special time in a young mans life you might find that the amount and odor of your perspiration has increased. Many young people find this embarrassing, but relax; a normal part of growing is smelling like the jock strap stuck to the floor in a hard fungus-coated clump that Frankenstein took off and threw behind the laundry hamper.
Vigorous activity produces sweat, and your newly-active apocrine glands provide the odor, something which bacteria and other factors, like being addicted to beef jerky, can add to.
Many young people make the mistake of thinking they can hide these problems with various deodorant and anti-perspirant preparations on the market today. Mot of these young people have to wear helmets and cannot be trusted around pets or swimming pools.

Yes indeed...riding a bike, sports, helping your dad mow the lawn can cause sweat and odor.
It's not exempt. Magical cupids do not sprinkle rose petals down softly upon you and your darling as you tenderly encounter one another amid the fragrant pink clouds and baby bunnies. You will sweat. Like a hog. A big hog.
After everything is said and done, though, just get the fuck over yourself; you're a teenage boy. You usually smell like the ass of a bear.

4. Take the Giggle Test!
Sounds like fun, doesn't it? But this might very well be the most important test of all!
When your favorite music video comes on, romantic lighting, clever makeup techniques and vats filled with silicone make up a large part of the magic you're seeing. True, everything looks dreamy when Ussher throws a liplock on the ho in the back seat of his limo, but what's missing from that moment is the long whistling fart that ho just cut against the vinyl seat.

Remember our old friend sweat from #3? Don't play stupid you little gink I know you do. Sweat has a funny way of making even the most romantic moment into something as hilarious and heartbreaking as George Bush attempting to explain....well, just about anything, pretty much.

Lost in the throes of boyhood passion, slapping away desperately at the ass of your beloved like one of those birds that drink out of a water glass that you win at the fair except imagine the bird is real and the glass is full of crack, the rivers of sweat you produce can make you slip and miss your mark. This might be a level of intimate contact that you and your young partner are not ready to experience yet. Of course it might be, and in that case it's called 'Greeking'.
Still, it's best if you do NOT guffaw "Wow, I betcha THAT wuz a surprise, huh!"

As you lie atop your sweetheart thrusting your turgid manhood into what pretty much feels like the right place, flumping and wallowing like an elephant seal battling a life raft and not supporting any of your own weight whatsoever, the excessive sweat you're producing is puddling in her belly button. This can actually cause the two of you to stick together...and come apart suddenly with a romantic blubberous farting sound.
-Don't crack up laughing and fall off the bed.
-DO NOT look down at her and say "Jesus; excuse yourself!" and crack up laughing and fall off the bed.
-And most certainly NEVER, NEVER say "Huh! I don't remember eating that!" and crack up laughing and fall off the bed. Because the floor is where you'll be likely to remain.

*Insert the name of any well-known black gentleman with a distinctive voice here. I use Barry because Barry and I have a history. Is this an Oregon thing? Is there a universe in which it is anything other than sad and lame for a white guy to suddenly go all Galveston and start moaning"uuuuOOOOAAAAAAOOOOYEAH, BAAAAAAAAYBY....AAAAAAAH FEEL THE POWER when he's all whappity-slappin away down yonder?

** Oh please don't tell me you actually had to look here for the answer. Jesus; shoot yourself NOW.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Quaint vignette from my charming rural idyll

We got the Playboy of the Western World moved back in. He hit the street running, which he can't do but does anyway, and immediately overdid it, roaming all over hells' half acre schmoozing it up until he couldn't walk and needed oxygen.

We had 'Lifeline' installed for him. I'm pretty impressed with the system, actually. It costs 35.00 a month, which is pretty damn reasonable, and 50.00 to install. This highly technical process involves plugging an extremely sensitive conference node into the wall, and plugging the phone into that.
The rest of the 'installation' is spent in orientation and practice with the system. I was there for this. They were really patient and it was really very simple. He wears a call button, about the size of your average groovy peace medallion, around his neck on a lanyard 24/7. When he presses that he can speak and be heard from any room of his apartment. And that's it.
Fuck, I want one now. This relieved a huge burden of worry from all of us and I wish we'd gotten it sooner.
Now I have to go and do some shopping for him because all the stuff in his refrigerator is stanky.