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#2234
Have you ever seen a dream walking? WeLL we have! And here she is!
This playful cottontail will hop right into your heart! Equally at home in the office or on the town, call her now...quick as a BUNNY!
#2234 NOW for Pam Troepple










Come hITHER!
hER LIPS MAY SAY MAYBE, Her eyes say yess, oh yes! Let this charming chanteuse tickle your fancy and make your heart take FLIGHT!
#556 for KRISTY!!!!












#8965
You'll come in two under par on this flag!!! Grab your pitching wedge and leave all your cares bhind AT vclubhouse because SHE'LL sink your putt in style!
#8965 for WHINGER (outcall only)














#112
Her movie career lead her into the exciting world of jet setting lifestyle fashoin! Sun and srf, sea and ski, this cutie will never LET YOU DOWN! jUMBO MELONS exciting only the finest healthy lungs lover!
#112 for AWAITING








#666
Too hott to handle but oh so tempting! This ultra hot -n- nasty superfreak will make yoU GROW HORNS! Let her plant her pitchfork in your heart right now for super seXXXy fun!
#666 for MJ











#0095
The mysterious of the East are an open book to this sultry seexpot! Her hypnotixze of gaze will transport you to a wolrd of pleasure and the rext of her make you stay there soooo worthwhile! She put a speel on you now!
#0095 for DANATOR






#117
Whatever shall I wear? Why where anything al all when this sassy sweetie comes a calling? LIttle BO PEepe is all grown up and ready to find your three bags full! For rompings is so much fun today!
#117 for HENDRIX










#2250
oH MY, what have we got here! It looks like my boobies are fly away! so much having is a very suprise ME of get for Christm,as, Santa! cuM kiss me under the MISTLETOW NOW!
#2250 for FIRSTNATIONS









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SPECIAL OFFER COLLETORS EDITION hard-ti find eight-track tape fo Early hits! Sizzling sounds of love and passion will exvcite you as never before as you listen to the hot n heavy seduction of this innocent girls educating in bed! greatest hits of early recording by the one and only ROCKMOTHER!
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#1110
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#1110 for Claire





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Become raptured by the hyponotic swing of her grass skirt as this Hula Hula girls sways her way int o your heart! supple, sexy, and wild as the island palms, she'll put the umbrella in your pina colada and make all your tropical dreams come tru!
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Sweet wicked songstress can only be lured by siren of night, of moon, of bed. Copme seranade this beauty under the bvelvet skies and let her shick you away to a paradise of passion!]
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SON OF UPDATE!: free BlogHeat Action free click here NOW

There's a REASON I don't show you a picture of what I've got at home.

It's the same reason I sit on the front porch and shoot at passing cars. It's because when you have GOOD STUFF you don't advertise it around like a dipshit because then people will be all ''Oooo, lets break in and STEAL it!" And then those people would have to die and I don't need that all over my front lawn because it's already hard enough to mow as it is.

I know that this has been dissappointing for many people worldwide.
Here is something to take your mind off your petty meaningless whining. Think of it as a kind of Amazon Books 'Bestsellers' but with no books.
Supplies are limited.
Act now.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Hot Hot Men and one Woman of Blogworld!


James Bluecat....Taken postmodern urban techno heat. The definition of 'bisho boy' has his avatar next to it. Really. It's in Wikipedia.
.......well, it should be.

Frobisher...They call this lefty rebel 'Mt. Everest', and he's sure to infest the coal-blackened Victorian slum of your soul with the pasturella pestis of love. Long, lean and dangerous; bad, mad and dangerous to know. Somebody buy this man a Harley!

Beast...Something about his communications leads me to believe he has that irresistable British 'Borstal Graduate' sneering thing going on. And the words 'toy' and 'standard' tattooed on his knuckles. I don't know what I mean by that.

Hardhouse....We used to call boys like this 'fast.' By day a student, by night a Werewolf of London. Ask him where the best Chinese is because baby, HE KNOWS.

The Champ....He has the looks, he has the hair, he has the body mass, and all of it spells BEAR. A perfect toy for a frisky cougar!
You do know what that is, right? Ok.

Tom 909...Virtual reality rural counterculture heat. 100% pesticide free! Go ahead and have a glass. You'll be shaken AND stirred.

mrcunttours...He'll launch a Molotov cocktail onto the virtual porchstep of your heart. Rocking the Bad Boy heat, he's a hormone driven midnight marauder searching for a bitch to pack. (that probably sounds way dirtier than what it actually means, unless I'm lying.)

Piggy*... This member of the 'Suidae' family is the ultimate thrill ride. For a small extra consideration, he'll provide a video of your adventure too!
Tazzy*....Profusely illustrated Tazzy is the reason they invented 'Tribal' style. Tastes just like Piggy.
* only available as set

Fukkit....Gone but not forgotten, Fukkit is the very epitome of delicious dykiness and blends in well with nearly any decor! Recently shipped to Australia in chains for stealing a loaf of bread.

Wyndham.... He has that 'doomed British pilot from a WW2 movie, just-one-last-sweet-interlude-before-I- go- my-darling' thing all happening. I feel confident in describing his look as 'Wahoo Serious with better hair'.

Tim Footman....GOD, the children. See him there, sipping a glass of warm gin under an umbrella whilst observing the battle from the walls of the city...hint of a sardonic smile faintly playing across his features....ripped on opium....

Glitter.....A radio tower in his background, a whole lotta love in the foreground. Trust me when I tell you that you need to unfasten his stockings with your teeth RIGHT NOW. Rocky? Ugh!

SID...Bog hoppin' , shorts wearin' peat heat. You SO know he does that sexy Irish thing where he pronounces the word 'Fuck' as 'fook'.

DavetheF....Swings with the 'distracted intellectual in nothing but a poorly fastened bathrobe, drinking a cup of coffee and staring out the french doors into the morning fog' brand of allure. Kind of like a CK ad. Only you don't have to guess what it's about.

BobSwipe...Unattainable, world weary, Jack Keroac-in-a-thong sexy. Make sure you reserve a table for two in the very back room. A table with a loooooooong tablecloth.

Doug....The kind of charming intellectual guy you take home to momma, and she steals. And he lets her. And then he call you up and apologizes and asks you out again and you actually consider it.

UPDATE:
Tickersoid:
(cue C+C Music Factory )
/Martha Wash/ "EVRAH BUDDY DANCE NOW!" *bump! bump! bump-bummmpbump bump! bummmpbump bump*
/Martha Wash/ "EVRAH BUDDY DANCE NOW!"
(cue lasers and fog)
The man works in a steel mill. I don't think I need to draw you a picture.
(release soapsuds)

Billy: "Oh my, do you mean to tell me I've been running around like this all day? Well, would you come help me zip it up? Yes, the coatroom is probably best; we dont want the whole world seeing, do we? Oh! careful, that tickled. Goodness, I thinks it's good and stuck. Looks like I'll have to take them off. Will you help me? Oh! Did I hear the teacher come in? Sh! There, thats all right, I doon't mind if you hug me, I was startled too...mmmm....you hair smells nice...." aaaand he's taken.

Treespotter... That brown bowler shades a secret so hot that bottles of amyl nitrate spontaneously combust when he walks by. By day a mystery, by night a roving tomcat with sin on his breath and a pirates glint in his eye. He's the reason your topiary is dying. He's the reason you leave the window open just a bit at night.



Ok? Happy? You can stop it with the emails already guys, I did it. Leave me alone.

The Great Demon Silver Tortoise Summons Three Monsters

Welcome to October!
In keeping with the season, I will be writing a post about one of the two spooky encounters with the unknoooooooown that I have had in my life. But that will not happen until Halloween. Not like its worth waiting for with bated breath, because it's only about a 5 on the 1 - 10 scale of spooky bookiness, but it did happen to me, and you can't say I didn't warn you now.

The first of the spooky encounters I've encountered with the unknooooooown is posted up at The Shadowlands in their 'True by cracky stories of scary ghostly spooky shit pages'. Guilty admission: I love this site.

No I will not tell you which story.

About once every three months or so, if I'm feeling bummed out, I go to the Shadowlands site and do nothing but read these accounts obsessively for a couple of days. For some reason, and I have no idea what that reason is, it make me feel better. Not that we are besieged by the shades of the dead here at Rancho FirstNations; no, we are not. Anyway, that would not bum me out so much as I would just skip the running away part and go directly to the 'mindless terrified gibbering from which there is no return ever' part. For you see: I know ghosts are bullshit. Theres no such thing. And they scare the shit out of me.

After all - just because I don't believe in (fill in the blank) doesn't mean it isn't real. And of all the things I know aren't real, ghosts are the NUMBER ONE thing I know isn't real. Followed closely by aliens who want to peer up your butthole* and jam big old long fucking hypodermic needles into your eyeballs.**

I have a friend who is a believer. She just loves ghostly anything. She has gone on the Myrtles Plantation ghost tour, the New Orleans ghost tour, the Victoria BC ghost tour....and she claims she experienced paranormal things on each one. In other words she pays cash money hoping that some unnatural dead old deceased damn thing will leap out and make her pee herself. See, now, me...? This is not how I choose to spend my money.
Now, I have been to quite a few places that I've subsequently found to be registered on the 'haunted crap' sites (and didn't I feel all warm and fuzzy when I discovered that?)
Not a thing.
Not a tingle, not a chill, not a 'let me eeeeeat your souuuuuuul'whispered from a dark basement, nothing. And for this I am truly, truly, truly grateful. But if my friend were to go to any of these places she'd be palpitating and recieving mental images and I don't know what all. Anyway something would happen.

When we spent New Years with her she thought that it would be terribly humorous to make reservations for us all at a hotel in Vancouver BC which is supposed to be haunted, knowing how I feel about this stuff.
I caught on when I heard her and her partner murmuring about 'The murder suite' and 'the woman in the lobby' and fronted her up on it.
Yes, she admitted, the Coronation is listed on the 'Haunted Vancouver' site.

Oh ha!

So funny!

Here I'm stuck in a foreign damn country, profoundly and comprehensively fucked up, yea; stoned to the very roots of my hair, with no vehicle, in a haunted hotel, with dead shit floating around going 'wooooooooooo', and bleeding, headless, with death, and horror, scary, and death.
YAY!
I grabbed her by the hand and we took a little tour of the haunted hotel.
Haunted lobby? check.
Haunted ladies room? check.
Haunted auditorium? check.
Haunted staircase? check.
Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
HA! upon you, Ghost Hotel! I laugh in the face of your spooky hauntedness!
Go sit upon your mothers hat! I am spit upon your so called 'Lady in the Lobby' with her so-humorous not appearings to me!

Oh crap, was I relieved.



*Aliens are not interested in your ass. Not my ass, not your ass, not anyones' ass. Not even Frobishers ass. To abduct us; possibly to take us to their mysterious homeworld and drop us in the mucus-filled digestive pits of Arzal-Thror where we will scream in unimagineable agony for ten thousand years while they caper and laugh obscenely, possibly. But to think that they came zillions of parcecs just to peer up our colons?
Come on.
I claim no great state of advancement; yet if I found an alien lying around somewhere, would I take it home and poke stuff up it's butt? No I would not. In fact I can state conclusively that looking up it's hine is the very last thing I would be considering.
In conclusion: Do I give one well-lubricated hoot in hell about the entire issue of alien buttholes? I do not. Despite what Homo Escapeons might think.

**Guilty admission #2 - the movie 'Fire in the Sky' scared me so bad I had tears of pure terror running down my face, and I wasn't crying. I could NOT look out the windows. I went to bed with all the lights on.

stupid and immature things i have done recently

1. Throwing rocks at cats.


Not to hit them, but to make them freak out. The cat being targeted should ideally be fast asleep in the grass. Points given if the cat actually attackes the rock.
Bonus Gold Star points if the cat attacks itself.









2. Fooing air on the dog.




Why does this make dogs nuts? My tater will roll in somersaults, paddling his paws and making euurooop noises, burying his head and woofing. Then he gets pissed off if you stop!






3. Run the lid of the blender through the blades.

The results would have been more spectacular if it had been the Cuisinart, but I work with what I have. Besides, Cuisinart saw me coming and engineered that failsafe button. Crap.







4. Painted half of the bedroom schoolbus yellow.


I'd like to say that I'd thought it wouldn't turn out that color, but I knew it would. It's very cheerful. Kind of 'methamphetemines and espresso' cheerful.






5. Let my grandson drive.

6. That was a lie.

7. Took apart the vaccuum cleaner and used the air compressor to clean out the hose.


The hose does not exit where you might think the hose would exit. If you happen to be standing quite close to the actual exit, and in point of fact peering all up inside it like a proctologist with a brand new dialator, it can exit right into ones' trachea. At pressure.

This was not fun. Nor did it taste good.









8. Teasing hornets with the garden hose is a bad idea, but it is fun. We don't have Nintendo, ok?




Right up until you realize squirting water into their nest means that water is now also shooting out into your living room through the old cable outlet. Like a firehose. For about 45 minutes. This is why you should never mix beer and insects. Or something.








9. Sprayed the toilet bowl down with bleach and then took a whiz in it.

I'm lucky I have any hair left on my...yeah.



What makes this dumb AND sad is that there is an entry on the Darwin Awards website about a woman doing the exact same thing who almost died from the subsequent fumes. Evolution is desparately trying to tell me something.









10. Fed the dogs tomatoes.
I love my doggies and they beg for tomato pieces, and I've had a lot of tomatoes to process lately so I gave in. It makes them so happy!

Half an hour later the fusillade began. Dogs don't digest tomatoes real well.
Every time one of them kicked, or barked, or trotted across the room it sounded like a rubber submachine gun firing Vaseline bullets. And they zip around and look every time, too, like 'Dang! My ass did that thing again!' Man, I about died! I had tears rolling down my face. Yessir, that there is quality entertainment!





Martha Stewart hint of the day:
"By adding unpeeled tomatoes to your dogs diet, you can also add a dash of unexpected color to your landscaping!"

no nuts. make the nuts go away. bad nuts.

This morning I was brought straight up in bed by the sound of my next-door neibor, standing in her back yard, screaming in inarticulate rage.
Hark!
At first I thought it was kids out on the sidewalk. Or maybe something over at the construction site. Nope, there it was again. AAAAGGHRAGGHH! RRRRAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAGH!RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAGHRRR!

Daaaaang.

I peeked out my curtains just as she cut loose with another RRRRAAAGGH!
After a few more RRRRAAAAAGHS she began a screaming Jeremiad aimed at something or someone who had RUINED HER MORNING! And she hoped that THEY WERE HAPPY! WERE THEY? WERE THEY? RRRRRRRAAAAAGH!
Then there were a few more screams; just regular aaaaaa type ones.
"Good gravy marie; could she mean the Harley?" I wondered. The Yummy Biker had taken off for work shortly before this started.
ERRRRRRRRRAGH! I HATE YOUALL! COME ON! WAKE UP! YOU ALREADY WOKE ME UP! GET UP! WAKE UP!
"...the man doesn't rip throttle or sit there and gun it like a jackass anyway so I'd be surprised if just n" I HOPE YOU FRGN FMJRFY SYRFG NTLL! AAAAAAGH RAGH ECHVER FENCHIN GRRRRR!
Ok, then.
And so it continued, for about half an hour.
From the way it sounded you could tell she had started walking around the house, ranting at the top of her lungs. And you know, I felt good about that. Let the people in the apartments get a taste of what I go through for a change. Share the fuckin' love.
At 7:00 a.m.

Why is this difficult?
Take the screaming nut to the damn mental health clinic, please?
I mean, goddammit, people. Do something. You obviously have enough cash lying around to keep her packed up to the adenoids full of Oreos; at least go next door to those apartments and buy the poor thing some heroin. She seems upset.

Do you know how good a gated community looks right now?
The older I get the more I find myself fantasizing about living someplace where everybody has a nice yard and a nice house and there are NO ROAMING NUTS. 'Elitist' be damned. I am sick up to the tits with this. I really, really am.

So I went to the cop shop and spoke with the nice policeman. I did't make a complaint, I just asked him, as a person whose job it is to deal with extreme things, what I should do. Apparently there is nothing to do unless a move is made towards us or our property. I should probably not show up on their front step and ask them to ride herd on their nut.
Fine; fair enough. It's only noise. I want to get along here. One random screaming nut is better than three pissed-off, focused nuts, after all. I have to live next door to them.
But dammit, I am so beyond tired of this.
Please get the woman some goddamn help.
And a bra.

Release Badger: Escape! the Getaway Made is Secret

In the interests of dispelling ignorance I have prepared this modest offering. I hope you find it enlightening.

1. DOGS WERE DOMESTICATED, IN PART, BECAUSE THEY EAT SHIT.
You may not have wanted to know that. You do now. Ha!
Humans, in their earlier history, weren't real particular about how far from camp they threw their garbage, took a dump, or dragged their less-honored dead. They did not have to be, because a variety of scavengers (including themselves when times were thin) took care of the final disposal problem for them. Canids were among this crowd.
We don't digest all the protein we take in, and dogs (like most scavengers) aren't real picky about where they get theirs. Anyone who owns a dog and an indoor cat has noted- or should have by now, ew- the attraction Sparky has for the cat pan. Same reason-cats digest even less protein than humans. Do. Ahem.
Nature is beautiful.
Over time dogs became habituated to our presence. Being the largest scavenger they got the biggest portion, and because of their proximity and their human-rich diet choices, they began to take on our smell. Being pack animals, scavengers and omnivores like us, they were able to form partnerships with us because some of the behavioral psychology is so similar.
The clincher? Dog is tasty. Plus it doesnt give you kourou* the way chowing down on dear departed Aunt Patricia does. Even if the last thing doggy ate WAS dear departed Aunt Patricia.
Not that I would know personally, but Lewis and Clark speak highly of it. Dog, I mean.


2. Small passenger helicopters are deathtraps.
Years ago we lived near a business that used to scrap the wrecks of small passenger helicopters. Theres good money in that, apparently. Any of the components that remain unbroken can be resold (which in many instances is SO INCREDIBLY ILLEGAL), and the wrecked parts can be stripped and sold for BUX on the scrap market.
That is because the main body of some of those things is made of aluminium honeycomb.
Here is a crappy diagram:
IXI
IXI
IXI
'I' represents sheet aluminium. 'X' represents a honeycomb filling the space between, theoretically stiffening it while keeping the overall weight down, made of aluminum so lightweight it resembles foil tissue. You can press your finger into it like buttercream frosting and write 'This stuff is shit' in cursive letters about four inches high. Well you can.
The sheet used to form the inner and outer wall of this stuff is the same thickness as the aluminium used in making a popcan, if not slightly thinner. My gradeschool-aged daughter could tear it easily. It's like tearing light card stock.
This 'aluminium sandwich' is used to form all the outer walls of the helicopter's body.
Now, in it's final, intact shape the helicopter body is (again, in theory) pretty strong, owing to it's being all ovals in cross section. We all did the 'stacking bricks on top of eggs' experiment in school, right? It's a strong shape. And it's reinforced inside with drilled i-beam struts, too...also a strong shape, and lightweight.
Until you punch it.
Now, not a man punch. We're talking a lady punch with a t-shirt wrapped around the fist. And we aren't talking about a section thats already been wrecked, either....we're talking about a new section still on the flatbed where we really didn't have any business snooping around punching things.
Crumples like a styrofoam cup.
Let me hasten to add that nothing, no conveyance yet invented, mangles a human body quite as completely,

or as inextricably,

as a small passenger helicopter made of aluminium honeycomb.
Avoid small passenger helicopters.


3. The big secret of the Masonic Lodge is that God's name is Yahweh.
I suppose this could come in pretty handy if you wanted to send God a Christmas card; you wouldnt' have to write 'Hoping you have a Great Christmas and a very happy New Year, God dude' which could be construed as impertinent, depending on Gods mood at the moment. Although you got to figure, God's omniscient, right? So God would know already that it's not like you were trying to be a smartass. Although God is God so if God wanted to fry your ass with a lightning bolt for that God could, and what are you gonna do about it, you know? I mean, God could.
If he wanted to. Which he might not, but he could.
It's deep.





*the human version of Mad Cow Disease.

another rough one. skip it and have a nice week.

I used to be married to a person who is a staff member in a prominent nut cult. This person was responsible for putting me and my infant daughter into a series of battered women's shelters.

Pointing up his true nature, and existing in defiance of his complete denial, (which I expected) there are police reports to substantiate the events which lead to my leaving him. There are photographs of injuries, including a nice series of the FINGERPRINTS AROUND MY NECK. A set exists in the files of Harborview Medical Center and also at each one of the shelters I stayed at. (Not that I went back to his abusive shit after he tried to kill me, but because he stalked me to the first shelter, so they had to shuttle me around the city to keep me hidden. Yeah.) There are reports, photographs and signed affadavits on file with the police department, the Seattle Domestic Violence Project, and the state Welfare Department as well.

This guy is near to being an embodiment of the clinical standard for antisocial psychosis; one on the order of Ted Bundy, folks...handsome, well spoken, all the trappings, and absolutely without any sense of conscience or wrongdoing whatsoever. (And fortunately, not as bright or as brave as Ted Bundy, either, or I'd be in some big shit.)

Despite his assertions to the contrary, he is not only a staff member but an executive in this bullshit organization.
He shouldn't be. Their internal policy states that by all rights he should be barred from holding a staff position. But he does.
Know why?
Because he is an earner.

Never let anyone tell you any differently about S**********...it's all about the money with them. The set of standards they profess is infinitely elastic where the possibility of profit is concerned, and if there is one thing my ex is good at, it's raking in the dough. The fact that he is owned body and soul by them matters not one whit to him because he is psychologically unable to comprehend that anyway. Me, I get a great deal of satisfaction out of knowing damn well that he is merrily embezzling a cut of whatever $$ pass his way, because thats what he's done in every single job he's ever held. Considering the organization, I ain't saying a word. Rock on. My blessings. You all deserve one another. They were idiot enough to let him loose in their computer programs.
Karma's a bitch. So am I.

I was involved at one time too, yes. I won't detail that involvement closely, because a member searching deeply into this issue with a memory of me could easily put the facts together and figure out my identity and whereabouts, and then Church harrassment would begin again. I know for a fact that people who had contact with me back then are still being harrassed all these years later. (Not seriously, but any is too much.) The reason why? I not only left a staff member, I won a lawsuit against a staff member.

Now let me detail exactly what harrassment means. It means phonecalls at all hours of the day and night. Hangups. Breathers. Spurious phone sales and surveys.
It means a constant barrage of crap mailings that amount to, at times, GARBAGE SACKS FULL of promotional propoganda, letters, etc. every month. I know this because I saw it done when I was there. I did it. I had it happen to me. And that's the level some people are still experiencing because of me.

Now thank God, this isn't happening, but it also means following members suspected of anti-curch activities, getting jobs in their organizations, tapping their phones, ABDUCTING THEIR CHILDREN, surveilling their homes, opening their mail...and anything else you can imagine. Oh yes.
I know this because I saw it done when I was there. I did it. At least the undercover secret mole working thing.
Yup.
In my defense I did not know I was being used as a lil' spy at the time; I thought they had gotten me a nice outside job and only twigged when I was hauled into the E***** Office and asked to write a full report on the activities there. Which I did NOT, I might add.

This shit is their policy. It is their published and stated policy. I have read this policy. It amounts to, in the plainest of language, 'Open Season on our enemies'. As someone who has left the organization AND won a lawsuit against a staff member, I fit that definition. They do not care. They make the lower level flunkies do the dirty work, then sell them out to the law if they get busted and continue on their merry way. And guess who was one of their favorite flunkies? My ex.

Sound ridulous? It is. It is also true. Every damn word.

I have been to the anti-you-know-who sites. The one hosted by Finland (yay Finland!) is particularly good, and every damn word is accurate and true. The type of extreme measures they went to in order to recruit Cruise and others is detailed. They describe the types of bizzarre disciplinary practices which went on behind the scenes. Those accounts are true, and if you read nothing else, read them. I know they're true. I read reports issued when they occurred. I spoke with ( uniform-wearing members of the interior police force) who BRAGGED about having taken part.

Own nothing, you are nothing, to them. That's why I wasn't pursued with the same vigor that others have been. That, and I got the fuck out and left very few traces. I took precautions. I got legal help. For years I hid. I had my name on nothing. I had a fake address and identity. I bought a gun. I got a 'Permit to Carry Concealed' and I did, every time I stepped out of the house. For years. Would I have used it? WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT. If I know anything about myself, it's that I can and would kill other human being to protect my daughter, or any of my family. I did not particularly want to know that about myself, but there you have it.

Another reason I have left out a lot of details is because they are disgusting and because my daughter reads this sometime. There simply is shit I have decided will die with me. And after all, isn't this dramatic and retarded enough? Really? Pathetic, disgusting, evidence of poor judgement and even poorer self esteem on my part? Yes, it is.

I am writing about this because it still bothers me and I need to quantify it out of existance, to completely exterminate any power it still has to make me feel enslaved, ashamed and frightened. Too fucking bad if you don't like it, if it makes you cringe and think 'oh god, what a loser'. I am in complete agreement with you, as it so happens. I was a loser.
I am not anymore.
Nonetheless, these things occurred. They're part of the story of my life. So fuck you.
Not you, you. I mean the other yous.

And also because I refuse to be silenced, goddammit. I'm smart, and this shit still happened to me. Be ignorant, and it might happen to you too. You'd be surprised.
Anyway there it is.


with thanks to mj. i refuse to go through the rest of my life paranoid about meeting someone for lunch, goddammit!!!

steal this meme

Heres one from the lovely and talented Pam Troeppl!
In fact, I think the lovely and talented Homo Escapeons invented this one. Lets all give his irascable ass a big hand!

That came out wrong.

Here is how I see me:






















How a certain former boss saw me:


























...And here is how I saw him:



























How a stranger might see me:






























How my husband sees me:



























how my daughter sees me now:




























How my daughter saw me in her teens:


























how my former 'family' sees me (if they're smart):
























how my dogs see me:


























How my next door neibors see me:































how my grandson The Goonybird sees me:

UPDATE: just tab down to the last paragraph

During the summer I go through an average of five books a week, fiction. More accurately, I check out about five books at a time from the library, twice a week, and out of those five two might be readable. Not good, not acceptable, just readable.
So - ten actual physical books a week, perhaps five of which I read beginning to end, and unfortunately NONE of which may prove to be anything other than a way to kill some time.

This is what it's like to be me, as a reader: I can spot a flaw a mile away. The author runs out of interest in his own story, I know it before he does. If the writing gets threadbare and the mechanics show, I'll see them in luminescent colors. The psychology doesn't hold up under scrutiny, the facts are wrong, or any one of a hundred and fifty things concerning plot development, symbolism, you name it- it doesn't pass muster I close the covers and move on to the next book in the stack. And this is a fact: I pretend to no great skill myself, see, otherwise I'd be trying to make a go of this for money, but I can find my way around writing by sense of smell, just like the Pinball Wizard - if I do brag so myself. Do not play with me.


In other words, I know what the fuck I'm talking about. Now go read
"The Smallest People in the World" by Keith Banner
"The Book of Illusions" by Paul Auster
______________________________________________________________

And now, on a completely unrelated note...
Today we went in to the Playboy of the Western Worlds residence to run some errands. As it so happens the local Orthodox Synagogue had hired the Residence's gorgeous ballroom to hold Rosh Hashana services. Everyone was so beautifully turned out. You could hear the cantors tenor voice carry all the way out onto the sidewalk out front.
WHERE THE POLICE OFFICER WAS STANDING GUARD.
I am so ashamed I could cry.
This is not my America.
THIS IS NOT MY COUNTRY. THIS IS NOT MY AMERICA.

UPDATE: Steal Diamonds! Variegated Plumage Ovenbird Vile Revenge!

SEE BELOW.
for DANATOR. this is an overhead donut syringe. or whatever you call it.



Now. Onward through the fog.

I ran in to do some errands with the Playboy of the Western World the day before yesterday. He met me in the glittering lobby of his new residence, his jaunty little motoring cap worn to one side, walker deployed, carrying a purse.
This is new.
A maroon ladies leather clutch with a wrist strap.
It is a purse, it is clearly a purse, it is nothing other than what it is, which is a purse. He refers to it as his purse.
When we went in to the doctors office he asked me if I thought his purse would fit under the seat of the car. I said yes.
And off we went to see the optical surgeon.
Everyone in the surgeon's office was talking like a pirate.
If we had been pirates, it would have been a very professional atmosphere.
As it was, if I'd seen anyone with a hook hand I was going to grab the Playboy and run like hell.

Afterwards he announced that he was buying us lunch at The Village Inn.

The Village Inn had the reputation of attracting the kind of 'back to nature' clientele who think nothing of taking a big ol' chunky wino dump on the sidewalk out front. Waving as the cars go by.

Why, oh why do you want to go have lunch at this place, Playboy of the Western World?

Not to worry.
It is now an olde englishe halfe-timberede lesbian bar.*
No more pooping winos.

Now it's full of chunky ladies with facial piercings in kufi caps. The cars in the parking lot have pink triangle stickers. The carpet was brand-new. Our excellent waitress had brown teeth that looked as though she'd grown up drinking muriatic acid.
The food was good. I had a Reuben sandwich.
"Oh, before I forget", said the Playboy.
He handed me a 20$ bill and sent me across the street to buy him some Metamucil. "Get the biggest one they make" he instructed.
The biggest one they make is about the size of a howitzer shell.
It is bright orange.
As I was carrying it back across the street I could feel the waves of pity following me.

My life is a David Lynch movie.



*The Village Inn, across from Yeagers on Northwest Avenue, Bellingham, WA. If you're a gay woman in the Fourth Corner area who likes a good beer buzz early in the morning, this is the place to go.

rex wrecks reckless wrecker

The Yummy Biker started out customizing cars. The man is a wizard at anything automotive (and if it exists in three dimensional space he can paint it purdy colors, too). So it has come to pass that I have spent a lot of time in auto wrecking yards. And I'll tell you what; I'd just as soon wander around a wrecking yard as I would choose to do a lot of other things.
1. There's always something cool to see and find.
2. Sometimes there's dogs. Not crappy dogs but cool dogs named 'Satan' that play fetch with truck recaps.
3. If you're very, very lucky, the crusher will be running that day.

The A and H wrecking yard used to be in Ferndale, waaaaaaay off the beaten track out in the county. Country/Western ballads are written about places like A and H Wrecking.
The place sat at the end of a little country road, behind a feed store. There was a big maple tree out front, and a huge willow, and in between the picturesque barnlike main building with quaint old metal signs on the side.
The office furniture had seat belts. There was the obligatory coffee cans full of tobacco spit and floating cigarette butts next to the cash register. Pigeons kited in lazily like paper airplanes through the front door and roosted in the rafters. Out in front Buff Orp hens sat in the middle of the street, warming their bottoms on the sunny pavement while cars honked to make them scoot and the rooster watched from the top of the Sani-Kan.

A and H had the dirtiest dirt I have ever seen, right inside the main building. It was a true and utter black, and soft as flannel. Years of grease and oil and gasoline and paint had soaked into the dirt floor and dried and redistributed, rehydrated, been blown up, turned to mud, burnt, baked and been scuffed by shoes into an amazing sootlike substance. It floated and clung in fluffy clumps to every protrusion in the place in defiance of natural law. It drifted up and over stacks of drum brakes and hung down in ookey banners from lengths of conduit. It smelled warm and good, like your fathers work jacket or the trunk of a car on a hot day.

The owner was exactly what you'd expect of the type of woman who'd own a wrecking yard...big, blocky, loud, tough and rude. Her name was, and I shit thee not, Lurene. A great big ol' curly Swede permanently coated in grease. She was the nastiest, rastiest, out of her way RUDEST old cow. Oh my, did this old girl have a point to prove. And she succeeded, too; nobody argued with that; she'd smack you with a broke-off car antennae. She kept one next to the phone all wrapped in electrical tape for just that purpose. And when she just got irritated in general she'd fffffWWWHACK! it into the metal filing cabinet. It got your attention.

The office was filled with extra special car parts. At least that's what I'm assuming. Actually it was chrome fenders, axles, cracked engine blocks and power steering columns that looked pretty similar to everything else in the place. I could never see the logic in what was chosen to come off a car and in under cover but God help your sad ass if you ever wandered amongst it or heaven forfend moved any of it; Lurlene would have a goddamn cow. "That's there for a REASON" she'd shout from behind the counter, fixing you with a sneer. To be sure; whatever was there had probably been there since 1962; I never saw a goddamn thing move in the twelve years I visited. It must have been a really good reason.

Lurlene despised two things in this world; mexicans and women who visited wrecking yards. Me she wouldn't even speak to; she spoke to the Biker. Even if I was the one who'd asked the question. Anyone minus a dick got that treatment.
Mexican patrons she had in their hundreds because she was the only wrecking yard in the county open on Sunday. She always went out of her way to speak EXTRA SLOW AND LOUD so they could understand her when she was accusing them of theft. No adverbs or conjunctions either. You could hear her all the way out in the parking lot as you came in. "No no" she'd bellow at some poor little Jaliscan guy in a 'Cenex' cap blushing through his tan. "NO-NO STEALIE. NO TAKE. UNDERSTAND? NO STEALIE YOU."
Naturally, everyone went out of their way to steal something.

It was a trip, too. You'd walk out into the yard and guys would be packing their pockets with shit and grinning at each other. 'I usually don't do this, but after listening to that I feel obligated' I overheard one guy say as he stripped off a piece of trim and packed it into his tool box.

Lurleen kept geese out in the yard thinking this would discourage loitering and thus, theft. Evil geese. They would flatten their wrinkly old necks out along the ground like snakes and hiss as you walked by. Maybe they'd been mutated by being around all the petrochemicals or something; but for whatever reason, boy, they were big, huge bastards. And irritable. And the motherfuckers could run like goddamn horses. They would take off in a pack and chase someone all around the yard, head them off from escaping out the gate and trap them on top of a stack of Pontiacs, which was hysterically funny unless it was happening to you. Guys got to carrying popcorn around and throwing it out behind them so they could get a few moments peace. My Biker got bit hard, and I mean hard enough to raise a blood blister, right on the top of the thigh, dangerously close to the family jewels.
This is why geese guarded the gates of Rome, folks.

The yard was shaped like a donut. You walked a letter 'o' path surrounded by a ring of stacked cars, with a mountain of more in the middle. The yard rats drove forklifts around this oval at 30 miles per fuck you; they'd blast past with a big ol' van speared through the side panels and no forward visibility whatsoever and devil take the hindmost because they didn't care. You'd see folks diving through car windows and leaping into car trunks to get out of their way. Between that and the demon geese you really had to work hard to swipe something, but dammit, it had to be done.

They got mostly salvage and abandoned vehicles. It was organized so that you could go to a certain area and find all the Toyotas or Fords or what have you. Then it was up to you to remove whatever you needed. The cars were stacked four high with the occasional tire rim slung on to help level things up, and the car with the best roof on top. Not terribly stable. Or well-thought-out, either. It was common to see people merrily hanging on to either end of a stack and getting it rocking in order to topple it over and get at the car they wanted. You weren't supposed to, but everyone did.
Thick cables of well-armed blackberry grew rampant through the wrecks on the peremeter, and ringing the standing puddles that took the place of a road, nettles grew up tall and rank and full of red hot acid.
So... killer geese, vines full of knives, stinging weeds...Take that with the broken glass, unknown chemicals, rusty steel, teetering piles of jagged iron overhead and homicidal forklift drivers and you have-well, actually you have a really fun place.

Once you had found the part you were looking for and pocketed a few more you didn't know you needed until you saw them, another popular pastime was scavenging. Cars commonly came in crammed to the tits with junk. Kind of a 'kill two expensive birds with one county funded stone'...abandoning a junker car on the side of the road that was full of what you couldn't get rid of at your moving sale so the road department had to haul it off. There was usually a motherlode of change under the carpets and in the seats, too. I've had my pockets so jammed with pennies it made my pants creep down my ass so I was hitchin'. And one time, up in Canada, I found what I thought was a diamond down in the upholstery of a Chrysler Imperial and just about shit myself. Of course it came up a zirconia, but for a little while there I thought I had Christmas paid for.

It was interesting to me to see what could become of a thing like a car. A car seems so big, solid and permanent, like a little house...and yet I've seen them literally wrung in a spiral like a damp dishcloth. One time I glimpsed a steering wheel I liked. Since the car was bent up like a letter 'U' and the doors were jammed shut, the only way in was through the broken side window, so I just hopped up and dove through.
And came face to face with a SHREDDED HUMAN SCALP. Complete with curls. Just hanging there tangled in the little cubes of glass in the caved-in windsheild.

It's not something you see everyday.

It's interesting what happens to the human body at high speed, too. Kind of like what happens to an onion in a Cuisinart.


During the last five years of her life Lurleen started selling Princess Products. You would walk in to the office, and there, amid the filth, the Dodge truck front clips and the snow tires, you would see two sparkling racks of dainty, colorful glass tableware. Which you were not allowed to touch. Or get near. You had to stand in the aisle and lean over and point and describe what you thought you saw, while Lurlene rolled her eyes and puffed and blew and hove her bulk over the truck axles to scrabble around for the box and came up wrong and blamed you for not describing it very well.
Ove the next five years these pretty things got dustier and dirtier and more cobwebby, but despite that I understand she moved a lot of Princess stock. Guys would come in and see it and suddenly remember a birthday or an aniversary. I got a set of beer mugs that way.

Lurleen died a wealthy woman. She left the place to the two yard monkeys, and they retired a couple of years later and abandoned the property. As far as I know the place is still there under three feet of blackberry vines, full of eyeless carniverous geese roaming around the rusting hulks in the darkness and hissing at the mooooooon.

not a madelaine...although the possibility exists

One of the things that passed to me when the Playboy of the Western World went into assisted living was the small metal recipe box that belonged to his mother.






I set it aside to look through during a time when I was undistracted by other things, and today is that day. But when I went to open it I was just brought to a complete halt by all the possibilities and ideas that came bubbling up.


I am not a sentimental person but I am not immune to the feeling, either. I have nothing like this from my side of the family, nor am I ever likely to. What I mean is a personal thing. A womanly thing. A mother to daughter, women's culture type thing.

So now we come back to this small metal box full of recipes. It's come through a house fire. It's not real clean. It may contain horrors of german cookery that are better left uncooked, as I suspect it does. But it is also mine by marriage. I'm the latest Scrimsher housewife so it comes to me by right as well.
It's proof that I belong a family. That I have a place as a grown woman in it.

It just blows me away.









P.S.
Heres your tomato pickle recipe. You want it, you make it.
pps: go see this right now. just do it. remember... I don't have a soundcard so if this is saying fuck the pope or bomb the uk or something i didnt hear it; i just saw it. and it's so funny looking that i snorked hot coffee out my nose and on my dog.

Black Chameleon The Phantasmic Big Heist Maneuver

Lets take a peek at how things are going so far, shall we?






So. Just where do things stand here at Rancho FirstNations at the beginning of the Fall season, mouseketeers?







Right about here. Take a look at this shit. I have never in my life had tomato plants that produced like this. It's almost FRIGHTENING.
I went out to 'stop' the plants yesterday...clip all the leaves, sucker the vines off and basically put an end to the tomato tidal wave for the year. This is only a small part of what's left. This is about ten gallons of sauce, folks.
HO LEE CRAP.









...and this is a little LESS than the average size of what I've been harvesting. Beefsteak tomatoes BIGGER THAN (whatever that huge damn mountain in the background is called. The one you can't see. So much for that set-up.)



You know what? Nobody knows what that mountain's called. Nobody. I've asked. Blank stares.
Americans have no clue. Who cares? It's in Canada.
You can ask Canadians. I have. Standing right there in the parking lot of Revy with this huge glacier covered motherfucker looming in the background. And they say:
1. Oh. Is that in Canada?
2. Uhhh....Baker? (Bzz! Wrong. Baker's south, in the U.S.)
3. I dunno.
4. It's the Sawtooths. (Bzz! no, thats a RANGE.)
5. Isn't it the Cascades? (Bzz! Thats a range as well.)
6. Oh, thats the Olympics. (Bzz! Another range. To the west. In America.)
7. Vancouver Island. (Bzzbzzbzzbzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....oh, fuck it.)
8. Oh. Is that ours?
9. Mt. Canada.


Never mind.



My oregano did wonderfully this year. This is a 'border' variety, grown more for it's pretty purple flowers and buds than its culinary value; although it is culinarily valuable despite that. (Woo, that just about caused an aneurism; time for coffee.)









Asper Aggus! Grown from seed, baby. Thats right.
Next year is the big one! First harvest!
Once this frost kills I'm going to put some composted manure on it and let it rot down all winter long. Oh my yes.

Aren't the dandelions doing well?









My magnificent pear harvest. Always just one, always in the same location. This never bothers me since I bought the tree as an ornamental; it's not supposed to have fruit to begin with, but there you have it. Froot.
One lonely pear.
*snif*






One thing the recent rain did was to rehydrate all the dog crap in the yard. It's a fricken mine field out there now! How do two small dogs DO all this? It reminds me of like how a newborn baby barfs up three times as much as your pour into 'em.




I hate to tell you I burned through 53 images before I finally got this one.
This is the bee nest on my porch. It's hornets, and they're living in the wall. Their entrance is where the old cable service was let in. Right by my front door.

Imagine me hanging by one cheek out the dining room window with this camera, shaking like a leaf with a huge cloud of hornets buzzing around me. I was obviously never able to get a picture of the way this really looks due to the limitations of the technology-and my courage - but believe me when I tell you there was about thirty of them at any given moment and at times they were hanging down from the entrance in clusters. GAAAAAAAAAAH.

There have been no Jehovah's Witnesses thus far this year, though.

Ah, but for all I know there IS one. He's been killed, nipped apart into
tiny bits and stored in the wall.

You can't make it out, but the wall around the hole there is spotted with crud dabbed by the hornets, who leave empty but return carrying blobs - every single one of them.
What are the blobs? Glad you asked.
Hornets live on two things: dead animals, and shit.
True fact. Didn't you ever wonder why the woods are so tidy? Hornets.
They eat shit.
My wall is full of carrion and shit.
And hornets.
Tonight, hornets, you must DIE.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeme

Now here's a meme I stole via a long and twisted journey... kat thru goodgirl via brian after G!

THREE THINGS ABOOT YOU..... ( shit, i live so close to the canadian border...sorry, eh.)

Things that scare me.
1. fundamentalism
2. psychotic people
3. conservatives

People who make me laugh.
1. John Cleese
2. My husband
3. My Goonybird

Things I hate most.
1. theives
2. liars
3. criminals...who are thievish and lying, so there ya go.


Things I don't understand.
1. most foreign languages
2. Most people
3. How my daughter got to be a supergenius... She's one of those people who reads books about math for fun.


Things I'm doing right now.
1. cooking pasta
2. smelling dog ass...not voluntarily, btw. The tatopig is lying under the desk by my feet and kind of slowly deflating in his sleep. As Opie has advanced in age gas frapulence has become kind of a constant thing, which I suppose is the fate which awaits us all.
3. hoping for rain (update-boy, did I hope GOOD. Raining pitchforks and drag queens out there now.)


Things I want to do before I die.
1. have lots of fun
2. " "
3. own an important work of art


Things I can do.
1. tiny, complicated, dainty hand sewing and embroidery. Were this the 1800's I'd not only be employable, I'd be in high demand.
2. draw a fair likeness .
3. raise healthy plants


Ways to describe my personality.
1. warped
2. easily bored, too serious, not serious enough
3. motherly, if mother wore army boots and a gas mask (farting dogs)

Things I can't do.
1. ice skate
2. run
3. behave

Things I think you should listen to.
1. yourself.

Things you should never listen to.
1. the voice of the majority
2. the voice of reason
3. the 'Up With People' singers

Things I'd like to learn.
1. Italian
2. latin
3. how to generate cash out of thin air

Favorite foods.
1. burritos , burritoes, burritoooos, burrirrirritooos
2. Pasta
3. chocolate


Beverages I drink regularly.
1. coffee
2. water
3. ice tea


Shows I watched as a kid.
1. Batman
2. Bugs Bunny
3. Star Trek-the origional. I was a trekkie before there WAS such a thing and grew out of it before it became synonymous with 'unlikely to reproduce'

Once again, duckies, looky looky....look who's got nice breaaaaaaad...*gathering pinecones* thats riiiiiight....swim a little closer.....

Jiro's Younger Brother The Formidable Foe Hakaida!!

Some of you have been living the breezy alternative life on the coasts of Spain, partaking of exotic drugs and hairy heinie....

Some of you have been *ahem* wind surfing (is THAT what they're calling it now?) in
the Mediterranian...

I went here over the weekend:



...with the COOL people.
This is a partial view of the parking lot of the Fall Monroe ABATE swap meet. Most of what you see parked belongs to patch holders. ABATE swap is one of the big 1%'er events of the year in this neck of the woods.



Here's our hooch. The left side looks a little bare because our crap sold out pretty quick. Most of the rest was our buddy Albert's stuff, and a lot of it was not meant to be sold, just attract attention...like the 1919 engine and frame in the background.



The guy on the far left with the giant moon head is Albert, early a.m. looking pretty normal and subdued, for Albert. This guy is 62, looks 40, acts 20 and has never finished a sentence in his life. He's a lifelong biker and holds a Masters in engineering. About five years ago, everyone on the mountain with a scanner heard the aid call go out when he broke two fingers AND sent a woman to the emergency ward with a dislocated vertabrae when he fucked them both right off the bed.
Ooo - See that hot rockin' bear center stage? He hung around all day. That is Prime three-Legged North American Technicolor Griz. Fine? Cute? Butch? Oh my GOD. *fanning self briskly*


Here's our next-hooch neibors. Deal with the hair on the little fuck. That's a shaved mohawk with a rattail mullet. Last year it was down his back...he must have got it caught in something. Both these guys are officers in the Banditos we've been seeing around for years. They turned out to be pretty cool for patch holders.




Hardcore alternative. Until her husband died of cancer a couple of years back, they both lived totally outside the straight economy, on the road, travelling around to bike events, sewing patches and doing leather repairs.
Once the event opened they were completely surrounded three deep all day long. Thats been the norm during every event I've seen them at for 20 years now. They clear several THOUSAND a day. Not bad for no overhead and 10 hours of work a WEEK.


Here's the Red and White setting up just like regular ordinary mortals.
They sell stickers, t-shirts, halter tops and thongs with 'Support your local Angel' on them.
Right.
Like I am going to
1. pay MONEY to
2. wear Hell's Angel underpants.
Perhaps not.
Should I feel the need, perhaps I'll just get a Magic Marker and write 'Yes, I am a big ol' loser' across my forehead instead.



What you are seeing is real, and it was not the only one in evidence by a long shot. This is a woman in her forties, in the year 2006, wearing a 'Property Of' vest.
Thank you madam. You have just set the Women's Movement back 150 years.
Now to be completely fair, when her old man turned around, it could clearly be understood by anyone with normal eyesight WHY his roadname was 'Kickstand' so maybe she doesn't give a hoot in hell what I think about her wearing the 'Property of' vest either. Hmmm.




This year 'Resurrection' was representing pretty well. In years past maybe one or two guys would show up, but this year they were all over the place. If you can't make out the picture, it's a motorcycle bursting out of a fiery skull. Goofy, but a lot of these patches were designed by tattoo artists in the 50's so they have that retro thing happening. They seem like pretty good guys, and they don't wear Bandito affiliate patches, so they're two points ahead with me.





This mullet belongs to an 'outlaw' Christian m/c. These guys are just about the most scuzz-encrusted, greasy losers you'd ever want to avoid; and this in a subculture not known for it's personal daintiness. Most of them found religion in jail. Their prez was a huge, fat sonofabitch with long white hair and the delicate, lingering aroma of armpit ass-socks. His cut was literally stiff and shiny with filth. I had to nudge his flab out of my path one day to look at something and he gave me one of those 'you dare exist?' attitudes, which I ignored, coming as it did from his punk-raping jailbird ass. This year everyone is wearing 'R.I.P. Preacher' patches. One pities the mortuary technician on duty that day....eugh.




Just say NO.

NO.
NO.
NO.
NO.

Goddammit; where is Nancy Reagan when you need the bitch?





Remember these?
Sucker ran like a scalded cat, too. You take that much mass off a Volkswagen bug, though, and that's what will happen. His bars stretched back about 2 1/2 ft into the cab.




You know, despite my tone, I had an excellent time. This is my peer group, after all...black clad rowdy smartasses who like to go fast, travel light, set shit on fire and make loud frappy noises.
I can take or leave most of the women, but if I am predeceased by my present husband, I know exactly where to go for a replacement. No shit- I spend a day at this place huffing all this leather, motor oil and testosterone, and by the time we leave - ahem. Never mind. Sometimes my daughter reads this. But thats a fact.