If you ain't Dutch....

Wow you guys! The votes were just OVERWHELMING! You could have asked to see lots of interesting places, say, strip clubs, breweries, libraries...but you wanted to see Lynden! You wacky wacky folks! Well OK then, lets go!!

Here we are just outside city limits. Those loops are dormant raspberry bushes caned over for their second year of production.

And here we are coming up Vinup road going through the 'Homestead' development. Seven years ago this was Hereford pasturage. No street, no pinoaks, no houses, nothing. Now it's clone housing. I know, I know, we're almost there! It's exciting, isn't it?

And here we are on Front Street!YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
Oh, I know what you're thinking..."Nations, I thought you lived in America! But this looks EXACTLY LIKE HOLLAND!"

No, really! It's not anywhere near Holland! I know...spooky, huh? It's DOWNTOWN LYNDEN!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, Lynden... final destination for hundreds of immigrant Dutch for some reason that's never been explained fully ('mass deportation' springs immediately to mind here) the early Nederlandische remade this peaceful little town on the Nooksack River in their own image. Which in this case seems to mean scattering lots of windmills around. Because everyone knows that windmills MEAN Holland!
And Greece. Holland and Greece.
And Brittany.
So, Greece, Brittany and Holland.
Windmills. Yeah.


You can stay overnight in this windmill. The propeller spins around, too. Inside the little shopping center it's attached to there's a huge 'canal' full of enormous koi fish that will put their heads out of the water and beg for food, which is cool. There is also a huge wooden shoe you can sit in. The last time I was there I got my butt stuck in it, which was both intelligent and stylish.

I think this windmill is just for decoration. Now truthfully there could be windmillish activities going on inside there but I've never been in it so I don't know. Another thing I don't know is why they need a windmill in a mini mall.

When the wind blows from the right direction the entire town lifts off the ground a couple of inches. No really.

and more.

This one used to light up like there were people living inside. Presumably tiny Dutch people. Living tiny Dutch lives.

And here's something else that Lynden is famous for:

Welcome to America!
Hey, why aren't you stopping? Hey! Hey stop! Spend some money!

Why aren't you stoppi-HEY! HEY STOP!

No really, we're really-WHY WON'T YOU STOP? IS THIS CREEPING YOU OUT OR SOMETHING? GOD SAID WE COULD DO THIS!!!! We have permission! Hey!


You see why I write all that stuff about womens rights, folks? Are you beginning to get the picture here? Good.

Now go wash up and then we'll all go skin pop some heroin, ok?
OK!

Lets Go Visit the Store! part 2

Garfy and Gale wanted to go visit Wally World! Luckily for them I had a birthday present to buy and a new digital camera! If everyone behaves we MIGHT get a snack! (Probably not though.)

It wasn't until I actually found a parking place that I realized that I might probably be about to commit a prosecutable offense. (I'm not real clear on the law here; it's private property but there's no expectation of privacy because it's a public facility.) ...clicky for biggie. bear in mind that every light pole has two cameras mounted on it too; and that the parking lot extends back behind me for nearly an acre.

At any rate, once I looked around with that in mind I noted for the first time that the amount of surveillance equipment was staggering. And this is just the parking lot!...satisfaction guraanteed, folks. for some reason this end of the store isn't as well-surveilled. it's a mystery.

Just inside the doors and to the immediate right is my first stop anywhere I go...the ladies room. Here's the washroom part:....they take nothing for granted here; everything has instructions (yes, even on the you-know-whats-) and the instructions are in three languages.


And here's the crippled poopin' stool. Now generally speaking Larry the Cable Guy is correct when he says 'The crippled poopin' stool is the Cadillac of the poopin' stools'. This one happens to be an exception at the moment. I have to hand it to them though; this is the worst I've ever seen a Wally's stall ever.

Ah, now here we are just inside the main entrance. ...count'em. and remember, this is just one shot standing right inside the entrance looking in one direction.

I wanted to get a shot of all the surveillance blisters visible on the ceiling, and the pinhole aperature in the 'e' on the store television. Every check stand and associates station has an overhead camera and a microphone as well. I was too chickenshit to get a shot of that. Of course if they don't have at least ten different images of me by now it's not for lack of trying.

Anyway, here's what you all came to see. Yes, you really can buy a gun at Wally's.

Here's a better shot. This is pretty much the entire gun department here; just this counter with the glass cases behind it. The rest of the section holds various other sporting goods. I was hoofing ass past here pretending that my camera was a cell phone.

Here we are on the way out, and here's some typical Wally shoppers on their way in. See how many surveillance cameras you can spot.
You're off by three.

Back to the safety of the Heefalump Dumpaloon Mach 6! I dodge a shopping cart rolling slowly across the lot...

Just a pleasant reminder. Exuent Nations tearassing out onto the main drag hoping that nobody comes after her.

I probably had nothing to worry about, but I didn't make a major production about taking pictures either....I just strolled along and snapped without setting up shots in any way.


So. Where would you like to go next?

Oh Caillou, We Hardly Knew Ye...CAN YOU SEE IT NOW???

The cattle were uneasy,
filled with strange foreboding....

Round the frog-haunted mere they gathered and chewed the cud of despair; scarcely daring to imagine a Gadarenian fate for their beloved porcine pal. Sus scrofula though he may be yet beloved by all; any skating fly or amphibial dawn-thigh'd nymph would scarcely blench to raise him on high ere the wavelets covered o'er his watery bier.




From high up on his throne atop Mt. Olympus, the Baby Jesus heard their piteous lamentations.Quick as a wink he changed into his secret aerodynamic identity The Holy Infant of Prague and whooshed down to lend his assistance!


The tale he heard was one of comrades torn asunder by Fates cruel Caprice.





The search was on!
The Holy Infant of Prague took to the skies!



He cast his keen-eyed infant gaze across the rural squalor below.


And, though he scarcely dared entertain the notion, a vague yet dark suspicion began to take shape unbidden...

PLEA TO THE MINIATURE FARMER

We have a truck for sale. My truck, to be precise.

This tiny little farmer about 4 feet tall keeps coming to the house and knocking on the damn door wanting to buy my truck. I'm like all 'dude, my husband's at work, all right? I don't even have the keys here.'
No you cannot drive the truck, miniature farmer; without the keys the truck won't go. Please quit bothering me, tiny farmer. Please go away.

But the miniature farmer will not go away.

I have seen his molars.

He is an easily amused minature farmer; he throws his head back in a big horselaugh at the slightest thing and you can see all the way down to his liver. He's had a lot of fillings. I can stand flat footed and look down this mans throat when he laughs his tiny miniature farm laugh. It is not pretty. The inside of a miniature farmer is a sight nobody should ever have to see.

I have seen it.

Please go back to your tiny farm and leave me alone.

What happens if someone comes along and buys my truck and it is NOT the minature farmer?
The miniature farmer REALLY WANTS my truck. Personally I don't care who I sell the damn thing to. I am not being coy here. I simply don't have the goddamn paperwork, miniature farmer, ok? Can't you understand?

Please understand. No, don't laugh again-aw shit.

I don't know why thats funny, little farmer man.

The miniature farmer is beginning to scare me.

I am scared of the miniature farmer.

Please go bother somebody else. I cannot be the only person with a truck for sale.

Yes I know it's an automatic.

Yes I know you're buying it for your son who is sixteen and you don't want him talking on the cell phone and driving at the same time, which he can do since this truck is an automatic. Will you be holding me accountable for his death? Miniature farmer, I did not kill your son.
You don't even own my truck yet.

Please give me back my immortal soul.


Please go away.

please.


Tiny Farmer (elton john)
"But oh how it feels so real
standing here,
and you are near,
only you...
and you are laughing
and I say softly
slowly....
"Buy my crew-cab, tiny faaaaaarmer...
Drive a stickshift on the highway....
do not give your son a cell phone
Get a life and go awaaaaaaaaaay......"
p.s. Noshit Sherlock IS BACK!!!!!!!!

Cockaigne

This one goes out to Beast on his bed of pain._______________

I'd like to invite you to an absolutely typical grocery store in one small corner of the United States. Lets go! I call shotgun!

Here we are approaching the produce department:

Oranges. Just oranges. Only oranges. One display of oranges nearly large enough to merit it's own representative in the State Legislature. While we contemplate the oranges we turn left and are greeted with the next image:


The juice aisle. Just juice. Only Juice. Apple, grape, orange, strawberry, agave, peach, pear...pretty much anything that can be squoze and won't fight back. A vast vista of juice stretching off to a tiny point in the distance.
Ignore the damn beans on the endcap. Lalalalalala wooooooooooOOOOoalalalala.

Turning once again toward the vegetable department we bid a fond farewell to the juice aisle and leave the oranges behind to ponder the finer points of the state budget.
Here we see the Mexican section! You will note the distinct absence of Mexicans. Instead we have agave leaves, nopalitos, tomatillos, jicama, papayas, green things and things in a white container, and and lots of other stuff that Mexicans presumably are fond of chewing on.


Here we see the rest of the produce department stretching out like a vast expanse of expansive vastness...row after row of slave-plucked radicchio redolent of Peruvian pesticide; Zom-beans sprung from gel-filled plastic troughs of petroleum-derived nutrient solution, taking shape beneath an ersatz sun.
At least, that describes the affordable stuff. The rest is organic.


They might not make a Crayola in your tint but they know 'you folks' like to eat too! The finest products of the Ethnian countryside have been selected for your easily-tanned delectation!
And because y'all insist on eating this weird shit we've jacked up the price all high in order to train you to eat like normal folks. Fricken' water chestnuts my aunt Mary; geeze. Eat people food.


Here's what we mean. This is what we're talkin about.
Nearly one quarter of the entire store is devoted to this department...we're talking MEAT.
M.E.A.T.
FUCK YEAH. THIS IS THE DEAD FRICKEN ANIMAL DEPARTMENT BABY! GO GET ANOTHER CART BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT YOU CAME TO BUY!


Here is the dead chicken department! As you can see you can even choose the region of the nation you want your dead chicken to be from. Southern chickens sell for 50 cents less a pound on the main. Why? It's a SECRET.
You can get any part of a chicken here that you want, too. I am not playing. There is a man back there behind the dead chicken counter and you can knock on the window and say 'Dude, I need seventeen pounds of them weirdass doodly thingies from a chicken head' and he will give you a bag of them. No lie. They come frozen in a bigass chunk and the guy chips you off a piece (I guess they call it an 'Ice-bird'! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)



This is the Pig Parts section. You can buy any part of a pig here that you want. Even dick. Of course they don't sell it under the name 'pig dick'; its all ground up in sausage. But really when you think about it, it's not like it would look particularly dickish lying there in the cooler anyway because pig dicks are all weird; they could name it something nice like 'natural sausage' and maybe they would sell a bunch.
Shit, they sell every other damn pig part and some of them are freakier than dick. Like ear. And Nose. Hell yeah. Gimme a fuckin pig nose right now; I'd like to stick that right in my mouth.



Then theres face. Yes, face.
'Yes, I'd like four pig faces; we're planning on a nice face dinner this evening my good man. Make sure they have a friendly expression.'
No. Just, no.
Who looked at this and thought 'Oh yeah; that'd be fucking tasty. "
It wouldn't have occurred to me. ( I'm waiting for them to go on sale; then I'll stock up.)


Here we have the tiny taco section of the Meat Department.

What? Your meat department does not have a tiny taco section? You mean to tell me that you cannot just whup on in to the local supermarket and buy yourself a scoop of frozen miniature tacos whenever the whim takes you? *sNERRRRRRRkkkk* Yeah, um, wow. That sucks pretty bad. *SNOOrrrkk*

Look what I found next to the tiny taco section!!

I love them REAL GOOD.

Here are the corndogs! It's nice to know that you no longer have to wait for a fair or a carnival in order to get this kind of fine cuisine. You can just heave a couple-three of these in the microwave and VOILA. ANY TIME YOU WANT. You don't have to beg and plead and whine anymore like when you were a kid at the fair and your parents were all 'no you can't have a dollar to buy one of those junky things it'll make you sick.' HA ON THEM.


Here we are looking down into HOTDOG PURGATORY. Not bad enough to be good, not good enough to be steak. You could even think of them as naked corndogs; they're long past caring. Buy some, won't you?



And here we are at our last stop on the way to the check-out stand; racks and racks and racks and racks of CANDY, all displayed in small transparent coffins; just like Lenin. Each according to their need.

The sweet thing with the shopping cart in the foreground is not a part of the display. I know! She should be, huh!


Well that was fun, wasn't it? I know I had fun. Maybe next time we'll go someplace else! Would you like that? Of course you would. Now go away.

Get forked

I've been pretty lucky when it comes to receiving gifts. I've received some dumb gifts, of course, and my share of useless and thoughtless ones, but nothing that ever tipped over into 'truly demented' territory.

Not until Party Girl came into my life.

She's the Yummy Bikers mom. Now, Party Girl is a nice woman. She also happens to be a lifelong, hardcore alcoholic. I have never seen a human being put away the vodka like this woman can, and I mean from the time she wakes up in the morning, brothers and sisters. That first cup of coffee in the morning is half Smirnoff. No fricken lie. If you happen to be up at the same hour she'll pour you one too; and then sit there and laugh at you while your eyebrows singe and your nipples shoot off the end of your tits. It WILL wake your ass up.

She isn't a horrible drunk. Sloppy, yes, but not evil. At her worst she likes to wander around in a flannel nightgown, overflowing with love for all mankind, and give big friendly hugs. Nothing wrong with that.

The wrong part is when her giant braless boobs come swinging down like two Smithfield hams and nail you right in the face.

You can't really put your hands up either. I mean....yeah. You get the picture.

And let's say you're sitting down low, like on the sofa or something? Come the actual hug you get an added bonus: 25 pounds of big old blubbery mother-in-law boobage laying right on your lap.

It's......warm.

What are you going to do? I mean, here's this sentimental woman who is still overjoyed after 22 years that her baby boy found someone without a prison record to marry; and she's just plowed enough to where she loves the whole world, so really, what CAN you do? Pretty much just sit there. "Ok....I love you too...Ok. Boy, those are really just, you know, sitting right on my lap there. Yes indeed" ...and sigh and pat her on the back while she sniffles and tells you how much she loves you.

Bear this in mind as well: The Yummy Biker got his physique from HER side of the family. This is a woman who tours on the amateur champion golf circuit, ok? She's 73 and she's got biceps like wrecking balls. The last thing I want is the possibility of her pissed off at me.

Come the official winter Holiday season she shops, wraps, cooks and writes Christmas cards to the tune of a 5th of vodka every other day. (And remember, that's just vodka. Their neighborhood becomes a 24-hour floating cocktail party during November and December.) In a good year the card will be legible and there'll be money or a check. On a bad year?

We got a giant box-a huge monster box just tore all to shit by the post office. Inside the box was probably a months' worth of Sunday newspapers all wadded up tight into little balls. Three small boxed presents floating around in the middle of all that.

By this point in the unpacking process there is literally newspaper filling my front room. As it accumulates, once freed of the compression, the level is rising too; we sat on the couch and watched it gradually unfold itself and swallow the television and roll out through the divider into the kitchen. Ever see The Blob? We were laughing so hard we had tears rolling down our faces.

The biker opens his present; fine. My daughter opens hers; fine.

I open mine.

First I unroll a tube of tissue paper.

What to my wondering eyes does appear?

Three picnic forks.

Three yellow picnic forks.

........Ok.

Well, forks. Ok. Forks are.....useful.

But wait! Theres another flat package jammed beneath the first! Whatever could it be?

It's soft; maybe it's a t-shirt! That'd be cool; I can always use a t-shirt.


It is not a t-shirt.

It is underwear.

Big underwear. Big, big underwear.


Briefies.


Laundered briefies.



Five pairs. Of briefies.


My mother-in laws old, used, wore-out briefies.





This is the same woman who will roll up in a car that cost more than my house and announce cheerfully 'I have presents for you!" and mean it sincerely; in a voice that means she's expecting you to jump up and down with anticipation.

It also means that the trunk of her Cadillac is loaded with boxes and bags filled with the partially used contents of her refrigerator. Half-heads of lettuce and limp cukes with creepy sunken-in places on them and packages with like 2 pieces of bologna left.

She and her husband go hunting up in Alaska every year. Everything they kill goes straight into the freezer where it sits until someone decides it's old enough to pass down to me. I get frequent bequests of 5 year old freezer-burnt moose and ancient halibut, all of it portioned up and wrapped by a woman who's spent the last 40 years of her life pickled. I've opened a package marked HULBOTT to find only the tail of the fish inside; admittedly a huge impressive finny tail the size of a newspaper, but still...just a tail. Not even with any butt attached to it. Now, yes, it's kind of cool to mess with for a couple of minutes. Chase the dog around maybe. But after the novelty value has worn off you still have this fish tail. And its all huge and everything. Just...kind of....there.
Yup. There it is. A tail.
Yup.

Her creative side comes to the fore after a few C&V's too. The labelling on anything frozen is always always highly suspect. Waiting for something to thaw is like that part in 'Jaws' where the music starts, and that naked broad goes running out in the water in the dark and meanwhile you're all going "JESUS YOU STUPID BITCH GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER THERES A SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND THEN SUDDENLY THE MUSIC STOPS AND

Have you ever seen a moose tongue?

It is very tonguelike.

And here's a little-known fact: Even without the rest of the moose attached the tongue of the moose continues to exude buckets and buckets of viscous freaky alien DROOL. You'd think absence of a moose hanging off the other end of the tongue would tend to put an end to the whole drool production thing but boy would you be wrong.

I make her son deal with that that shit now. I don't even look at it. If I hear the seagulls going nuts out in the field next door a few hours later I can pretty well resign myself to the fact that I've been living with an antique bag full of frozen moose foreskins or something.

Silver Vervet Hypnotic With A Thousand Army!

Ok now this crap has got to stop. Who stole my piggy pig?
Ok fine not really my piggy pig; Pinks' piggy pig.


Look at her. Look at what you've done.





Don't play stupid. You know damn well which pig.
Calliou.



No not the ball-headed little slappy freaky kid in the cartoon.

Tell you what, I'm waiting for the episode called "Ball-headed freaky little Caillou sitting in the bathtub playing with a plugged-in toaster" because DAMN that is one annoying child. Or maybe "Caillou vs Baby Elmo Cagematch' Or "Caillou taunts a premenstrual weasel with a stick'. And speaking of annoying childrens' show characters, I'd pay money to watch "Baby Elmo takes a trip through the chipper because Baby Elmo won't quit referring to himself in the third damn person." Any one of you out there with preschool age kids knows exactly what I mean, too.

...you see what happens? look at this. Elmo ate a kid. now come on.

But back to my missing piggy buddy.
I have suspects, of course.

MJ:

....so mean she argues with her own tits.

Based on general predilection and a recent possible sighting. You have to bear in mind though that blaming theft of a farm animal on MJ is like....well, its like blaming the theft of a farm animal on MJ. So, yeah. I guess analogy doesn't even need to come into play does it. Ok, onward then.


Awa:

...guilty as hell. looks hungry, too.

Keeps changing her name. Sure sign of a guilty conscience. Also has proximity and motive (sammiches)

CB:

...resistance is futile, PIG.

Recently 'lost' two pets due to 'illness'. Present pet suspiciously unaccounted for. Complaints to campus security of 'barnyard noises' emanating from her rooms. UPDATE: as of this posting her whereabouts are unknown; South Africa is a possible destination.

Steve Neal:

Hairy fucker turns up missing right around pigskin season every year. Coincidence?

Gale:

...5 foot 2 and sealed for your protection

God only knows what her twisted motivations might be.

InnerVoices:

...please don't hurt me mr. crazy man

Please. This is the kind of person who steals breadsticks from Italian restaurants. A whole pig to someone like him means he can cancel XTube for a month!



Now y'all just sit back and muse upon that for a couple of days. I'm hoping someone has the strength of character to simply come forward and say "I made a mistake. I took Caillou. It was wrong and I'm sorry."

Will I be holding my breath? Depends on who I'm blowi We'll see.

The Secret Policemans' Other Blog

...that was very nearly the name of my top secret super pervo porn site. As it is, I'm not entirely happy with the name it has now and I'm thinking of changing it to something bluesy, like 'Stavin Chain' (extra points if you can tell me what that means, bonus triple megamonster points if you can give me BOTH definitions off the top of your head. For obvious reasons MJ is automatically disqualified from this competition.)

One of the things that I did change was the 'statement of purpose' on the sidebar. I think part of it bears repeating here. Remember; I'm not talking about this blog. I've had worse things than a guy in a Gumby suit here.

"This is a vanilla site. You won't run into anyone dressed like Gumby with sturgeon gaffs through their nipples. Although at some point I might provide the link to the 'Mr. Hands vs. the Enumclaw Horse' video because I feel everyone owes it to themselves to watch a man get ridden by a horse, and see firsthand why that's not such a good idea. I mean you'd think by the year 2006 that whole issue would have been settled but apparently one man missed that day in health class. Never skip health class, folks. You could get assraped by a horse and die with your abdominal cavity full of Mr. Ed's love guck. Would your mom be proud? "My son died hemorrhaging on a gurney in the emergency ward when the quarterhorse he was dating ruptured his bowel with it's dick." All because because you were mokin da doink and missed the class where they told everyone that something the approximate length and width of a sculling oar doesn't belong up your butt, particularly when its being propelled into that position by an animal used to DRAG BEER WAGONS...No.
No, she would not.
So, yeah."