die, two-wheeled SLIME : updated!

(..except for SOPWITH CAMEL. but the rest of you, yeah. OK fine and BEAST too. Jesus H. Christ already.)

Y'ALL PISS ME OFF.

A bicycle is not a car.

No, really, a bicycle is NOT a car. It isn't! Really it isn't! Honest to God.

That is why they have BICYCLE LANES. Perhaps you've noticed them. It's the lane over there to the right of the cars going by, and it has PICTURES OF BICYCLES painted on it, as well as the helpful phrase: 'BICYCLE LANE - BICYCLES ONLY'
You, on the bicycle, are supposed to ride in the BICYCLE LANE.
We, in the cars and trucks, drive in the TRAFFIC LANES.
If there is no bicycle lane, DON'T RIDE YOUR FUCKING BIKE THERE.
BICYCLISTS DO NOT BELONG IN AUTOMOBILE TRAFFIC.
NO.

Oh, see, now you're getting that smirky look on your face. YOU are a skilled and safe bicyclist.
Uh huh.
Thats why I've never seen one of you hesitate to run a light, or cop a glide off my truck by grabbing on to one of the stake pockets.

That must also be why you ride FOUR FUCKING ABREAST in the middle of the lane, chatting, passing your sports bottles, admiring each others heat rash ON CHUCKANUT DRIVE.

View Larger Map
...what they say it looks like

...what it ACTUALLY LOOKS LIKE. oh hell yes. click for big. you'll see.


Blind corners? Please! No shoulder? You laugh-HA HA! You are on a bicycle! There is a view! GOD HAS DECREED THAT IF YOU ARE ON A BICYCLE AND THERE IS A VIEW THAT YOU GET TO RIDE FOUR ABREAST ON THE MOST DANGEROUS STRETCH OF 2-LANE ROAD IN WHATCOM COUNTY!

Yes, go ahead and yell things after me for DARING TO DRIVE A CAR on your road! Aw, did I pass you too close? Perhaps that's because there are no shoulders on this stretch of road, just a sheer drop-off down to Puget Sound on one side and a SOLID FUCKING MOUNTAIN shooting straight up off the ONCOMING SIDE. And then there's that whole issue of you RIDING FOUR ABREAST IN MY LANE thing.

You're breaking the LAW, DIPSHITS.

But still you claim your right to join the flow of traffic! YOU can maintain posted speed limits due to your SUPERIOR HEALTH! BECAUSE YOU BICYCLE! ALL OVER THE PLACE! NO CARS! CARS ARE BAD! EVIL EVIL CARS! AND BECAUSE YOU BICYCLE YOU ARE A VIRTUAL GOD OF RADIANT SUPER HEALTHINESS!

No! No, You are SELF DELUDED, you fucking moron.

BICYCLISTS CAN NOT MAINTAIN MINIMAL TRAFFIC SPEEDS FOR A SAFE OR SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT OF TIME. Its simply a fact; you are human powered. Not even Lance 'No Spare' Armstrong can maintain a steady 35 mph....or even 20mph. Not even cheetahs can do that.
Maybe a Klingon could.* But you, my friend, are no Klingon.

For instance, it takes me, driving my Environmental Rapemaster 250, less that half a city block to get up to road speed from a standing stop. Can you say the same? You can not. Consequently you cause TRAFFIC PILEUP, which is a situation where lots of cars have to slow down to a dinosaur burning idle while your lycra clad ass is fiddlefarting along 'saving the planet'.

I may also blithely toodle along and ignore with impunity flying bits of gravel, large and small insects, wayward birds, smaller dogs, cats and possums... you see where I am going with this? You catch a piece of gravel and its another story ENTIRELY. There are enough hazards out on the road. I do not need you freaking out and crashing just because a fricken' BEE hit you. The frame of your bike is really hard on my tires and you make that dismaying 'whumpwhump' sound as your body passes beneath my car.

You simply DO NOT GET TO RIDE IN THE SAME LANE AS A CAR. You don't get to do it in town and you don't get to do it in the country, either.

Again: Let me direct your attention to the big ol' solid stripes painted along the margins of most country roads out here, and the simplistically rendered image of a BICYCLE every few feet....? THAT MARKS THE BICYCLE LANE. That is a special lane we as taxpayers have designated as a BICYCLES ONLY lane for special people like you who ride bicycles! THAT is the lane where your shiny spandex butt belongs!

From there you may mock me from the moral high ground of your Alsop Carbon Suspension! Jeer me as you pedal down lifes' highway with your unfortunately dark and prominent butthole perched right at eye level, a butthole which is clearly visible through the fabric of your shorts, a
butthole which is winking and gurning furiously at me like Satans Own Rear Indicator Light as
you pedal briskly along.

Oh, you didn't know that?

Yeah, weird thing about stretch fabrics; even if they're on the thick side, or a dark color? When the light hits them right they're transparent. Now sometimes that's not a bad thing, I'll admit...then again, Dark Poochy-Outie Butthole Man Peddling To Beat 60 In Low Gear, sometimes it IS.

Riding a bicycle does not automatically render you, Bicycle Rider, morally superior to me in my car IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER.

No, I realize that you think it does, and you'll pardon me while I go grab another pantyliner out of the stack because I'm really cracking up here. I am. Honestly, you are saving the earth, Mr. Bicycle Rider? Single handedly? You there rigged out in 1500.00 worth of shiny petrochemical riding gear? THANK YOU MR. BICYCLE MAN.

part dos: Y'ALL REALLY, REALLY PISS ME OFF.

Bicyclists of Whatcom, Skagit, and particularly Island Counties, I hate to break it to you, but you are in large part morons. You are.

First of all, you are easy targets. SUCH easy targets. I am driving an enclosed vehicle that can go fast, and I have a baseball bat on the seat next to me. You are perched atop 5$ worth of low-grade aluminum and you're sucking Vitamin Water out of a container with a nipple on it. Still, you did insist on whizzing up alongside me ON THE CENTER LINE and then getting pissed off because I didn't see you when I made that left turn I WAS SIGNALLING. Mr. Bicycle Man, it is probably best that you not ever kick my drivers' side door and call me a stupid bitch again, sweetheart. You remember what happened last time? We saw a lot of downtown Bellingham that day, didn't we? Amazing the places a truck can squeeze into, isn't it?

Secondly, you spend ENORMOUS dollar amounts on equipment and accessories that do nothing but provide a substandard means of elementary transportation at best. Now, bicycling as recreation; as a sport, even as a means of local neighborhood conveyance, all good and sane uses of the bicycle. As a primary means of daily transportation through midtown traffic? HAULING AN INFANT IN A TRAILER?? NO.

Thirdly, you dress like a bunch of gimps.

No really, did they see you coming or what? Do you really believe that wearing a helmet shaped like Aliens' head is really shearing seconds off your time? Lycra, bucko? SHINY LYCRA? And do you honestly spend so much time at speeds in excess of sanity that you need to wear those stupid shoes that look like decapitated flamingo heads? You REALLY NEED AERODYNAMIC FOOTWEAR?? OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT ME TOO!!!!!!!
Yeah, I love it when y'all try to walk in those things.

Wait; I need another pantiliner. Ok.

Fourth, that 'virtuous by merit of my extraordinary athleticism' act you all put on. Seriously.
You come whirring in to a wayside. You hoist ass off the seat, which is invariably slick with ass-sluiced perspiration. Groan dramatically. Heave your trembling leg over, and hunker off bent over like a 90 year old lady, staggering and clattering along on your ridiculous plastic shoes with your knees as far apart as they can go. If male, you then yank down the front of your shiny shorts and out flops the Little Bicyclist for a pee. You stand there panting, trembling and sweating, apparently too much the focused athlete to bother with petty things like, oh, facing away, or going the extra few steps to the restroom. Finally you collapse backward onto the grass in your Cirque Du Soleil outfit and make everyone step over you. Yes, hail the conquering hero, all conspicuously worn out from your self-inflicted, earth-saving recreational exertions.

Please fuck off.

Fifth, hubris means nothing when you weigh 98 lbs and you've just crossed the Pass. Yeah, thats right, you had to post 'Warning: such and such tavern UNFRIENDLY to bicyclists!' on the Best of Whatcom site because you rolled in smelling like a woolly mammoth and tried to run your 'make way' arrogant bullshit past people on MOTORCYCLES.

Wow, did you mis-read that cue, huh?

When the banner out front says 'Biker friendly' it means 'Motorcyclists', darling, not 'Naturopaths and Vegans in Spandex'. I can hardly imagine why y'all need to stop at a tavern in the first place; I've never seen one of you dipshits finish a beer, you just swill it around in your mouths and then spit it out like Mohammad Ali between rounds. I'm not real clear on what that's supposed to convey. Still. Wow. Spitting, huh?

Heres a clue: If you're going to patronize an establishment where a significant number of the clientele have assault charges pending and you swagger in dressed like an extra from Xanadu, or Rollerboogie, it's a safe bet you're going to get a certain amount of hassle. Yes, we all saw you summiting Stevens Pass a few miles back, crimson and puffing, sweating like an undercover terrorist confronting a pulled pork sandwich. Still, nobody here is impressed by that.

You know why? Because WE'RE NOT.









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* of course I admit that if I saw a Klingon in spandex riding a mountain bike in traffic I would allow the fucker all the searoom he wanted just on general principle. Ride Safe, K'rathNg.

....OK NOW THIS IS JUST DEMENTED.

http://klv.mrklingon.org/

THIS IS THE KING JAMES VERSION OF THE BIBLE TRANSLATED INTO FRICKEN' KLINGON, FOLKS.

I may cry.

RATMEME!

Nana nana nana nana
RAT MEME!
nana nana nana nana
RAT MEME!
nana nana nana nana
RAT MEME!
RAT MEME, RAT MEME, RAT MEME!
Nana nana nana nana nana nana nana NA!
RAT MEEEEEEEEEME!

theme song "Rat Meme" popular television series, 1966

Yes, todays' meme is brought to you by Frobishers' Fun Pages!! Stop on by and succumb to the high-wattage SEXAY, won't you?
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The sole directive of this meme is that I post up a picture of the view outside my kitchen window.

However, in a surprise move I have opted NOT to snap due north; no, we've all seen the ghettofabulous view of Abbotsford out that side of Rancho FirstNations.

Screw Canada. To hell with Canada. I'm sick and fricken tired of Canada always being there like some kind of a big elephant or something with pennies and dimes taped all over its forehead, complaining about the cyborgs, the sandworms and and the constant maddening monotonous whine of unseen military aircraft, devouring lint, acting like their money is all cool, 'oo, we have pretty COLORS! oo, we have a picture of the QUEEN!', filled with cheese and the eaters of cheese; the purveyors of cheese and the cheese oriented also dwelling therein.
Yeah, Canadians.
They live there.
With their cheese.


No, this time I'm going to aim the MiniMuk 3000 SpyCam out the kitchen window here on my port side and reveal:
A BIGASS ROCK WITH A TOY EXCAVATOR ON IT!

Yes, this bigass rock was here when we moved in. It has been placed conveniently so that those attempting to 'visit unexpectedly' might have a solid place to step on their way in or out the side window.

Aha, but I have outfoxed potential miscreants thusly:

Yes, crime-deterrent ROOFLEEKS have been cleverly planted in the bucket of the little excavator placed atop the bigass rock; a surefire way to repel all would-be breakers and enterers! Avast ye, buttheads! Foist the mains'ls! Jibber the midshipmen!

And to those skeptics out there I say to you HA UPON YOUR SO CALLED SKEPTICISM WHICH IS MAKE MY LAUGHING HAVE!

It's worked so far.

Slightly to the left of the bigass rock we have the site of the future bigass Hosta clump. This is where I need MJ to come and barf . Right here on this spot.

No the hosta is not up yet, just take my word for it; it's there. Right in the very exact middle of this picture right HERE. It is tired. It is SLEEPING.

The last time this hosta ever lived up to it's promise is when my Biker chucked his lunch out the window above here, seemingly unable to rise from his pew in the Church of the Holy CRT, so enslaved was he by the sirens' song of the innerknot. He is ambidextrose amberdexilous can multitask!

Here is some gratuitous Goonybird.

Yes, he seems merely to be sleeping the sleep of the young and goony, but young Alfred Jarry here is actually experiencing a hyperaware dormant state wherein he receives information from his home planet at a nearly astronomical rate of speed! Yes, his seemingly random bursts of expostulation are actually attempts to reveal this superconcentrated, vital knowledge to a bemused mankind!

Do you perchance have a digital camera thingie? Hell, do you have a rasty old edition of 'Paint'? Either get to clickin', or simply limber up that mouse and get depictin'! Post up the view outside YOUR kitchen window today! This means YOU, NOSHIT.

quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

I am battling-BATTLING I TELL YOU-allergies, and the allergies are winning. I am rendered comatose as inevitably as the conjunction of Condoleeza Rice and bad policy behind a mere 1 Benadryl antihistamine, and I'm spending up to 4 hours each day napping. In the brief reprieve between, I am trudging between the kitchen sink and the bathroom, drinking glass after glass of water to fight off the cottonmouth that decongestants bring on, getting rid of glass after glass of water a short time later, hoofing through the Charmin at an appalling rate and hoping that nothing makes me sneeze or crack up laughing suddenly all the while.

Too much information? Bite me.

This is all brought on by a combination of long-haired Girldog (who sheds fur in clots and drifts all year round) and what must be a virtual Apocalypse Of Tree Pollen going on outside here. Unlike the rest of the nation, we have been blessed with a mild and utterly unremarkable winter, and Spring has come early. This is pretty, but it is also far too early for any of the usual pollinators to be up and on the job, (although I've seen a couple of obese, confused bumbles staggering around,) so all this pollen is simply drifting in the wind. It collects and hardens into pale yellow ridges in the dew-marks on the windshield of my car. When you try to rinse it away it turns into pudding and leaves long greasy smears on the glass. You can only try not to imagine what it's doing inside your sinuses...a futile effort on my part since my sinuses seem intent on escaping the inward precincts of my head at velocity. And I'm not adverse at this stage of the game to letting them go, either. Give it a shot, you useless bastards. What have you ever done for me? Nothing, that's what.
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The root cause of all t his difficulty lies in the fact that I get something called 'polyps' which are essentially blocked pores, only in mucous tissue and on the inside. While this image pleases a certain Lovecraftian side of my personality, particularly after I looked the condition up on the Internet and found pictures- that is not nearly enough recompense for a condition which is never less that a huge nuisance. I've lost jobs because of this shit. I've spent a good portion of my life with a sinus infection, which means no sense of smell and very little sense of taste, an immune system which is constantly under stress and a general feeling of wanting to lie down and be no fun whatsoever for months at a time. Yay!

At this point I must say: restrain yourself, gentle reader, from offering your remedies. I apreciate the gesture, but I have tried them all. Repeatedly. From the ridulous to the sublime.
All it does is remind me that having chronic sinusitis really pisses me off. And nobody wants that. K? Good.

On the up side, I have mastered the ladylike art of high-velocity spit-hocking. Not a dribble returns to it's point of origin, and the payload exits at a rate of speed that many in professional baseball have come to envy. I find my target with an unerring accuracy which only the mountain-born and intensively inbred can match.

There is nothing quite like the flush of pride that fills one after successfully having heart-punched a metal sign from across a 2-lane street with a pint of home-made, semi-solid pestilence.

There is nothing like the embarrassment that follows when you realize that you have done this while wearing full makeup and power business attire, employed as a receptionist for a large purchasing conglomerate, standing in front of a group of people that you work with.
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The eagles are all in the middle of nesting now. This is one of the few times that find them actually hard at work, engaged in something other than standing around in large groups staring at nothing in particular.

Anyone who lives in the area will be glad to know that the farmer down on the corner of Garfield has set another dead calf out! This year it's back towards the trees on the south side of Badger before you get to the yellow loafing shed (instead of the north side next to the substation by the tracks.) You can easily pull over and take pictures without getting in the way of equipment.

This is what passes for an electrifying announcement in some circles, now, come on.

Yesterday I saw 12 eagles perched there in the alders watching while two more on the ground marched around and surveyed the whole 'dead calf' situation. We had a good rainstorm last night; once the sun comes out and tenderizes things the number of feathered spectators ought to increase.

I'm seeing a lot of shiny new adults this year, and lots of sow eagles too (yes I know they aren't referred to as sows; this is not venery, this is a localism so just put on your big kid underpants and deal with it.) They are obviously thriving and it does my heart good to see their numbers increasing every year.
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I should be seeing the first of the hummingbirds next week, right around the 17th. Like the swallows returning to Capistrano, the hummingbirds returning to the Northwest can be timed just that precisely. You have to wonder how they know. The first place they head to is anywhere that the salmonberries and currants are blossoming, and that means the foothills around here.

If someone wanted to experience something in real life that rivals anything ever dreamed up by Kenneth Grahame, go find a south-facing valley in the foothills where a lot of salmonberries are beginning to open. Choose a sunny day. Right around 10 am, nestle down in the middle of the salmonberry thicket and just sit quietly. In a few minutes you will be surrounded by the zing and trill of hundreds of hummingbirds, all busily feeding and arguing and just out enjoying the morning. They soak themselves with dew and then in flying fling it off themselves in loops and sparkles that make brief small rainbows. They will look you over with the complete indifference of their superior status, comment, and then move on when you prove not to be forthcoming on the nectar front. They will come to rest on your knee and kick themselves vigorously, yawn, stretch, fluff their feathers, gaze around calmly, no bigger than little feathered grapes. If you are very deliberate you can touch the tip of your finger to the soft feathers of their back or stomach. It is like touching a flower petal. Sometimes they will fly away, but sometimes they won't; they'll just look at you sideways.

See, this is why I have no respect whatsoever for fantasy/roleplay gamers. I'm not woodcraft trained at all. I'm just a housewife who likes to go hang out in the forest. Yet I've had hundreds of experiences like this, just because I was THERE, and because I happened to be moving quietly and mindfully. Why on earth would you stay at home smelling your own laundry in the dark playing some stupid bullshit when you could be outside and experience real things that are better? For free?

People have totally forgotten that there is still strangeness and beauty in the real world. Go outside and get some nature on you today.