Fat Sparrow: Fire in the hole: A true story
Go read this now. This cracked me up so bad it was PITIFUL!
Kind of ties in nicely, what with my recent tales of oven- toasted horror, and the immanent arrival of the latest boyfriend for dinner. We are serving roast beef, dinner rolls, sauce, mashed, and salad. The guy hasn't seen a piece of beef since he met my daughter so I figured I'd do it up 'flyover state' stylee.
This (poor bastard) young man comes from a family of judges and attorneys, heavily Democrat by the sound of it. While I applaud the Stainless Steel Amazons' choice, I cannot help but wonder what kind of bizarre political notions she's going to whip up for herself, just to be difficult. This is why I worry for the future of this relationship because she does this, oh my God, she does it and nobody knows why, least of all her.
Eighty times out of a hundred she is the soul of reason. Then there's that last twenty percent when she's just batshit off her rocker. And I don't mean anything as simple as 'I say black, she says white, 'contrariness either, no no no. It's a case of 'I say black, she accuses me of being racist. Or argues that there is no such thing as black because black is the absence of light and nobody can see without light so black doesn't exist and even to say the word black means you are hatefully ignorant and not worthy of breathing the same air.' Or she'll go completely off the deep end, give you the stinkeye and snarl 'what's wrong with my shoes?' So in a couple of weeks I expect to hear she's become a Workers' Party revised orthodox whig or something; a position she will argue to the death until the hormones wear off.
Poor fucker has his work cut out for him.
Anyway, here I sit, braless and blogging instead of rushing around like Mary Tyler Moore on amphetamines like I usually do the day we officially 'meet the boyfriend'. There's a bag of boughten (it is too a word) rolls on the counter. I might skin the potatoes before I mash them. I am a rebel, dammit!
I've reached the point that I just don't give a rusty rats' ass whether the guys she drags in think we're weird or not. What good has it done me in the past? None whatsoever. I've fed these dinks, I've been June Cleaver nice, I haven't worn the 'fuck off and die' t-shirt, I've boiled the entire house and so far it's turned out to be wasted sweat. So fine. He comes over, the titty mags are staying in the bathroom and devil take the fuckin hindmost if he can't hang with it. Judges son? Meet the hippie-ass biker mofos who raised your girlfriend. We listen to Vivaldi and we say FUCK* whenever we want because that's just how we roll.
And that smell is EXACTLY what you think it is.
*Actually the Yummy Biker was roaming around the house yesterday chirping 'Nipples!' randomly because it was cracking me up. I dared him to go out on the back porch and do it and he did, and there were kids riding bikes past on the sidewalk, and it was ugly. Behold the dire badness of our ruthless G !
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
it's 9:p.m...do you know where your deceased are?
You want Halloween? I gotcher Hallowfreakinween right here. Is this something out of Robert Bloch or what?
http://www.livescience.com/othernews/061018_ap_body_parts.html
No, you have to read it. You're human; you will die. Go read the damn article.
This is not only callous, it's not merely fraud, it's just not clean. These are people who know better than most why it is not a good idea to carve up the deceased like deli salami and pass them around. But they did! To anyone! They didn't care! They even went ahead and parted out Aleister Cooke!!! For the love of God, people, Aleister Cooke! You don't part out Aleister Cooke! No no no!
Furthermore, poor Aleister died raddled with cancer, so someone with a compatible blood type got an unexpected bonus gift along with their cadaver meniscus or skin graft.
This was just waiting to happen. In fact I'm not at all surprised to see it.
Leslie P**** ran the funeral parlour in the town I grew up in and he had an established reputation for stealing things off the dead. To this day, I think of that pallid, hand-wringing waste of skin eyeing my grandmothers' ring and wondering whether it was worth the trouble of taking and my blood just boils.
He hired one of my cousins as a mortuary beautician and fired her when she walked in on the night janitor enjoying the charms of a female drowning victim. ( Your 'moistened bint' joke here.)
My high school asked him to donate the use of a coffin to our high school haunted house.
We got a cardboard box. A goddamn cardboard box with a cardboard lid; an actual, brown, unadorned cardboard box like appliances come in. (And I know all about this particular one because I spent Halloween night in it dressed as Dracula, which was most excellently cool, especially as I was stoned off my tits and my eyes glowed green under the black lights hanging overhead and my face and shirt were smeared with fake blood as though I'd hit an artery the last time I had lunch.)
When the haunted house was over the cheap, cheap, cheap prick asked for it back.
Someone went to their reward in a USED CARDBOARD COFFIN.
A girl I was friends with was engaged to a mortician in California. Guess what he did as a sideline? For a certain consideration, he would 'lose' those pesky dead drug dealers you had stacking up around the place. Permanently. Right up the flue.
My daughters' first grade teacher was married to a mortican with one of the only crematoria in the county. It was in a residential neiborhood, on a busy intersection. We used to drive past it every morning. Some mornings, thick, black, greasy smoke was oozing out of the stacks and across the road and lawn, raining ash onto the cars passing by.
I started taking a different route.
A retort operating at legal temperature emits nothing but superheated air. Only one in which the temperature is illegally low will put out smoke....and only one operating at household oven temperatures will put out BLACK smoke. Black smoke is cold smoke. And cold smoke contains PATHOGENS.
The only thing that will act to lower the preset temperature and hold it there in a crematory retort is cold mass in excess of manufacture standards.
The disgusting bastard was doing multiple body burns. Utterly in defiance of the health code, not to mention decency. And doing them in a residential neiborhood, two blocks down from an elementary school. I called the health department. Mr. Le V*** was 'retired' from the operation shortly thereafter.
A mortuary retort fires at kiln temperatures. To comply with public health standards, Mr. Cadaver's water and fat-based elements must completely volatilize and the mineral content reduced to clinker; a shrunken heap of black-grey crud similar in appearance to what you find on the bottom of your oven at home after you run the 'self-clean' operation. (The morbidly obese cadaver has been taken into consideration here when they design the things. The chamber is pretty big.) Consequently, an optimum crematory burn consumes an enormous amount of energy. And that's the problem.
If they still perform them, most cremations undertaken by a small, family type operation are probably in violation of the public health code. Unless the funeral parlor is charging rates even more obscene that the norm, the place couldn't break even otherwise. That's one reason why the funeral industry in America is moving from privately run operations into one made up of corporate franchises.
If the place has no viewing chamber, if you do not see dear departed Aunt Gazania actually enter the oven alone, you can begin placing odds that Gazania may have had some very diverse companions on her last trip. She may have gone in with a load of amputated parts from the local hospital. The teeth the dentist pulls. Bales of marijuana. Heroin seized by the cops. Even animals from the local veterinary. That old 'urban legend' about the guy finding a six inch fang in the cremains of his uncle has a basis in truth.
The old switcheroonie is another time-honored method of making sure the morticians kids go to college. Family A buys Grandpa a top of the line funeral...viewing coffin, sealed enrobement, and concrete vault. While you're all piling in to the limo to ride to the boneyard they dump grandpa out of the nice coffin, stuff him into a cheap one, seal him up and ship him out. All you see going into the hole is the concrete vault.
"But I stood there and watch the guy seal the enrobement! He used a morticians key and everything! We heard the vaccuum! "
The sealing mechanism is REVERSABLE. It's the law. It has to be. It's a simple screw-driven latch. A morticians' key is not magic. It's a socket driver.
There is no such thing as a Funeral Home Enforcement Squad. Most municipalities would prefer to spend their resources on the living, which is perfectly understandable. But it leads to an enforcement gap wherein a complaint must be pursued before any action takes place. People who are grieving a personal loss are not likely to be in that kind of a headspace, and people who are struggling to pay bills already are not going to have the kind of money it takes to prove a case of fraud against a crooked funeral home. Furthermore, most people are willfully ignorant about mortuary practices in general, fraudulent practices in particular, and utterly in denial that anything of the sort occurs anyway.
Given this state of affairs only the most egregious offenses are the ones that tend to come to light.
Like Ray March, a funeral director in Kentucky who inherited the business from his father and carried on the fine tradition of dumping bodies in the woods behind his house. 322 have been found so far.
Or the funeral director in California who operated an urban crematory in such vile, blatant disregard of public health that his night attendants used to bet on how many bodies they could cram into a single oven...and burnt the place down when the rendered fat pouring out of the retort chamber caught fire. They were using broomhandles...salmon gaffs...rakes...yeah. The same man, David Sconce, openly referred to intake procedure as " harvesting AU" (that's the periodic table of elements sign for 'gold', y'all) . Never without his pliers, he had an amusing habit of playfully snapping them like castenets at employees. Sconce was keeping a fence in business almost singlehandedly by sending him 'harvested' gold bridgework and teeth and letting him keep a portion of the smelting.
The moral of this story is: Unless your faith prohibits it, get an organ donor card. If you don't have one, become an organ donor. At LEAST do some good.
Another option is to be an observant Jew and be buried in accordance with halacha. It's clean, reverent and very sane.
OR GO ALL THE WAY. State explicitly in your will that your body is to be donated for research and donorship. Specify an institute. Inform your family.
This is what I have done. I will end up in a nice clean medical facility somewhere and be portioned up, shipped off, used for practical jokes and finally reduced to hamburger by enthusiastic medical students under the auspices of a single, well-regulated agency. There is no way in hell that I'm letting the funeral trade get ahold of me.
News story about David Sconce, California:
http://www.pasadenastarnews.com/news/ci_4242337
Books: 'Chop Shop' also 'Family Business' (out of print)
News story about Ray March, Noble, Georgia funeral home scandal Feb. 2002:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/1825248.stm
http://crime.about.com/od/news/a/marsh041116.htm
By the way, the Crime.about.com site above there is an excellent place to gorge on tales of violence and depravity. Visit today!
http://www.livescience.com/othernews/061018_ap_body_parts.html
No, you have to read it. You're human; you will die. Go read the damn article.
This is not only callous, it's not merely fraud, it's just not clean. These are people who know better than most why it is not a good idea to carve up the deceased like deli salami and pass them around. But they did! To anyone! They didn't care! They even went ahead and parted out Aleister Cooke!!! For the love of God, people, Aleister Cooke! You don't part out Aleister Cooke! No no no!
Furthermore, poor Aleister died raddled with cancer, so someone with a compatible blood type got an unexpected bonus gift along with their cadaver meniscus or skin graft.
This was just waiting to happen. In fact I'm not at all surprised to see it.
Leslie P**** ran the funeral parlour in the town I grew up in and he had an established reputation for stealing things off the dead. To this day, I think of that pallid, hand-wringing waste of skin eyeing my grandmothers' ring and wondering whether it was worth the trouble of taking and my blood just boils.
He hired one of my cousins as a mortuary beautician and fired her when she walked in on the night janitor enjoying the charms of a female drowning victim. ( Your 'moistened bint' joke here.)
My high school asked him to donate the use of a coffin to our high school haunted house.
We got a cardboard box. A goddamn cardboard box with a cardboard lid; an actual, brown, unadorned cardboard box like appliances come in. (And I know all about this particular one because I spent Halloween night in it dressed as Dracula, which was most excellently cool, especially as I was stoned off my tits and my eyes glowed green under the black lights hanging overhead and my face and shirt were smeared with fake blood as though I'd hit an artery the last time I had lunch.)
When the haunted house was over the cheap, cheap, cheap prick asked for it back.
Someone went to their reward in a USED CARDBOARD COFFIN.
A girl I was friends with was engaged to a mortician in California. Guess what he did as a sideline? For a certain consideration, he would 'lose' those pesky dead drug dealers you had stacking up around the place. Permanently. Right up the flue.
My daughters' first grade teacher was married to a mortican with one of the only crematoria in the county. It was in a residential neiborhood, on a busy intersection. We used to drive past it every morning. Some mornings, thick, black, greasy smoke was oozing out of the stacks and across the road and lawn, raining ash onto the cars passing by.
I started taking a different route.
A retort operating at legal temperature emits nothing but superheated air. Only one in which the temperature is illegally low will put out smoke....and only one operating at household oven temperatures will put out BLACK smoke. Black smoke is cold smoke. And cold smoke contains PATHOGENS.
The only thing that will act to lower the preset temperature and hold it there in a crematory retort is cold mass in excess of manufacture standards.
The disgusting bastard was doing multiple body burns. Utterly in defiance of the health code, not to mention decency. And doing them in a residential neiborhood, two blocks down from an elementary school. I called the health department. Mr. Le V*** was 'retired' from the operation shortly thereafter.
A mortuary retort fires at kiln temperatures. To comply with public health standards, Mr. Cadaver's water and fat-based elements must completely volatilize and the mineral content reduced to clinker; a shrunken heap of black-grey crud similar in appearance to what you find on the bottom of your oven at home after you run the 'self-clean' operation. (The morbidly obese cadaver has been taken into consideration here when they design the things. The chamber is pretty big.) Consequently, an optimum crematory burn consumes an enormous amount of energy. And that's the problem.
If they still perform them, most cremations undertaken by a small, family type operation are probably in violation of the public health code. Unless the funeral parlor is charging rates even more obscene that the norm, the place couldn't break even otherwise. That's one reason why the funeral industry in America is moving from privately run operations into one made up of corporate franchises.
If the place has no viewing chamber, if you do not see dear departed Aunt Gazania actually enter the oven alone, you can begin placing odds that Gazania may have had some very diverse companions on her last trip. She may have gone in with a load of amputated parts from the local hospital. The teeth the dentist pulls. Bales of marijuana. Heroin seized by the cops. Even animals from the local veterinary. That old 'urban legend' about the guy finding a six inch fang in the cremains of his uncle has a basis in truth.
The old switcheroonie is another time-honored method of making sure the morticians kids go to college. Family A buys Grandpa a top of the line funeral...viewing coffin, sealed enrobement, and concrete vault. While you're all piling in to the limo to ride to the boneyard they dump grandpa out of the nice coffin, stuff him into a cheap one, seal him up and ship him out. All you see going into the hole is the concrete vault.
"But I stood there and watch the guy seal the enrobement! He used a morticians key and everything! We heard the vaccuum! "
The sealing mechanism is REVERSABLE. It's the law. It has to be. It's a simple screw-driven latch. A morticians' key is not magic. It's a socket driver.
There is no such thing as a Funeral Home Enforcement Squad. Most municipalities would prefer to spend their resources on the living, which is perfectly understandable. But it leads to an enforcement gap wherein a complaint must be pursued before any action takes place. People who are grieving a personal loss are not likely to be in that kind of a headspace, and people who are struggling to pay bills already are not going to have the kind of money it takes to prove a case of fraud against a crooked funeral home. Furthermore, most people are willfully ignorant about mortuary practices in general, fraudulent practices in particular, and utterly in denial that anything of the sort occurs anyway.
Given this state of affairs only the most egregious offenses are the ones that tend to come to light.
Like Ray March, a funeral director in Kentucky who inherited the business from his father and carried on the fine tradition of dumping bodies in the woods behind his house. 322 have been found so far.
Or the funeral director in California who operated an urban crematory in such vile, blatant disregard of public health that his night attendants used to bet on how many bodies they could cram into a single oven...and burnt the place down when the rendered fat pouring out of the retort chamber caught fire. They were using broomhandles...salmon gaffs...rakes...yeah. The same man, David Sconce, openly referred to intake procedure as " harvesting AU" (that's the periodic table of elements sign for 'gold', y'all) . Never without his pliers, he had an amusing habit of playfully snapping them like castenets at employees. Sconce was keeping a fence in business almost singlehandedly by sending him 'harvested' gold bridgework and teeth and letting him keep a portion of the smelting.
The moral of this story is: Unless your faith prohibits it, get an organ donor card. If you don't have one, become an organ donor. At LEAST do some good.
Another option is to be an observant Jew and be buried in accordance with halacha. It's clean, reverent and very sane.
OR GO ALL THE WAY. State explicitly in your will that your body is to be donated for research and donorship. Specify an institute. Inform your family.
This is what I have done. I will end up in a nice clean medical facility somewhere and be portioned up, shipped off, used for practical jokes and finally reduced to hamburger by enthusiastic medical students under the auspices of a single, well-regulated agency. There is no way in hell that I'm letting the funeral trade get ahold of me.
News story about David Sconce, California:
http://www.pasadenastarnews.com/news/ci_4242337
Books: 'Chop Shop' also 'Family Business' (out of print)
News story about Ray March, Noble, Georgia funeral home scandal Feb. 2002:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/1825248.stm
http://crime.about.com/od/news/a/marsh041116.htm
By the way, the Crime.about.com site above there is an excellent place to gorge on tales of violence and depravity. Visit today!
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
i seen 'em
It's been a week full of semisignificant synchronous signs and symbolic postrational parallels here at Rancho FirstNations. Inevitably we find Billy woven throughout the cosmic mesh of it all.
Here's how it all lays out: (I swear to you I did not do that intentionally)
1a. Billy is hitting that stuff like the fist of an angry god. Yay!
1. Larvae come from eggs.
2. Larvae are freaky.
3. Cute little baby chickens come from eggs.
4. So do baby GEESE.
5. Some people like geese A LOT.
6. If you make a burrito with scrambled eggs it is still called a burrito
7. The face of Jesus has appeared on both EGGS and BURRITOS.
Chickens (like ducks* and other birds and some reptiles and one mammal, unless I am wrong about the platypus and she just poots her eggs out all over the woods without regard for their aesthetic appeal) shape the egg in their cloaca, an oval sort of waiting room that exits under their tail. The finished egg bloops down into the cloaca while the chicken is going about it's daily chicken business, and
when the shell hardens a bit, the mommy chicken runs back to her nest and squits it out.
Not all cloacas are created equal, and thus, not all eggs are created egg shaped*. We raised chickens when I was very small, and we saw all kinds of bizarre eggs... round, empty, solid, teardrop, dumbbell, conjoined, peanut, and oddly textured. Any particularly unusual example would get put aside and hauled out of the 'fridge to show company. Then consumed. No big deal.
I remember hearing older people talking about having seen chicken eggs with the face
of Jesus on them*...Apparently these showed up mainly in the South, during the Depression Era. Nobody made too big a deal out of it because everyone knew chickens had artistic butts. I wonder where all those Southern Miracle eggs are now? Hopefully 
emptied and preserved. You never see oddball eggs any more. Nowadays the bumpy eggs are the ones that get put aside for dehydration or preshelling. They aren't pretty enough to make it into a store dozen.
Aha; see, but Jesus was prepared for this; and apparently He had a backup plan already in place . One that involved the humble tortilla.
(Digression follows: skepticism raises it's ugly head)
The questions that always burned in my mind were
1. How did chickens know what Jesus looked like?
2. How did the person who discovered the egg know what Jesus looked like? Did they throw the ones that looked like Sandy Duncan in the trash? What about Andy Griffith?
Well here's how. How the farmer, I mean, knew what Jesus looked like. (The rest is a mystery, like the Antikothera device and how to make the alarm on my new wristwatch shut up.)
Here's how it all lays out: (I swear to you I did not do that intentionally)
1a. Billy is hitting that stuff like the fist of an angry god. Yay!1. Larvae come from eggs.
2. Larvae are freaky.
3. Cute little baby chickens come from eggs.
4. So do baby GEESE.
5. Some people like geese A LOT.
6. If you make a burrito with scrambled eggs it is still called a burrito
7. The face of Jesus has appeared on both EGGS and BURRITOS.
Chickens (like ducks* and other birds and some reptiles and one mammal, unless I am wrong about the platypus and she just poots her eggs out all over the woods without regard for their aesthetic appeal) shape the egg in their cloaca, an oval sort of waiting room that exits under their tail. The finished egg bloops down into the cloaca while the chicken is going about it's daily chicken business, and
when the shell hardens a bit, the mommy chicken runs back to her nest and squits it out.Not all cloacas are created equal, and thus, not all eggs are created egg shaped*. We raised chickens when I was very small, and we saw all kinds of bizarre eggs... round, empty, solid, teardrop, dumbbell, conjoined, peanut, and oddly textured. Any particularly unusual example would get put aside and hauled out of the 'fridge to show company. Then consumed. No big deal.
I remember hearing older people talking about having seen chicken eggs with the face
of Jesus on them*...Apparently these showed up mainly in the South, during the Depression Era. Nobody made too big a deal out of it because everyone knew chickens had artistic butts. I wonder where all those Southern Miracle eggs are now? Hopefully 
emptied and preserved. You never see oddball eggs any more. Nowadays the bumpy eggs are the ones that get put aside for dehydration or preshelling. They aren't pretty enough to make it into a store dozen.Aha; see, but Jesus was prepared for this; and apparently He had a backup plan already in place . One that involved the humble tortilla.
(Digression follows: skepticism raises it's ugly head)
The questions that always burned in my mind were
1. How did chickens know what Jesus looked like?
2. How did the person who discovered the egg know what Jesus looked like? Did they throw the ones that looked like Sandy Duncan in the trash? What about Andy Griffith?
Well here's how. How the farmer, I mean, knew what Jesus looked like. (The rest is a mystery, like the Antikothera device and how to make the alarm on my new wristwatch shut up.)
Everyone in America owns a copy of this picture. Everyone in America has seen this picture except Stevie Wonder. My parents had a huge copy of it hanging in their bedroom, in fact. Which is teh sexy.
(Digression: I was too young to hallucinate something this tacky)
Now I remember a picture of Jesus from my youth which showed him with long blonde hair. The damn thing was everywhere; and the lower down the redneck religion scale you visited, the more likely it was to be sitting on top of the T.V. It was a really creepy version of this one...
but full face, with large, almost Carolyn Keene-style eyeballs 
that regarded you with an altogether-too-knowing expression.
For Catholics in our class, 'Blonde Jesus' was considered far too tasteless to display in the home.
Remember, these were people who thought nothing of putting this
up all over the house. Catholics in my youth were big into bleeding, flaming internal organs and thought nothing of using them as decorating accents. But a blonde Jesus? Come on.
So anyway, you have nothing to worry about because I cannot find the Blonde Jesus image anywhere on the net. It's nowhere. This really really bugs me. I cry 'revisionism!'
I remember it played a significant role in the set decor of 'Raisin in the Sun'.
I remember my best friends' grandmother had a huge one on her wall that lit up.
Steven King mentions one in the book 'Tommyknockers'. As would not surprise anyone who had to grow up with one of the things in the house, it talks this lady into shooting her husband.
( LENGTHY 'I AM NOT NUTS' DIGRESSION) Years ago this section of the Tommyknockers was published as a separate short story in Cavalier magazine...a publication known for 
its unique layout i.e. picture of a broad on a couch with her innards on display, story, picture of Seka, story, picture of a naked chick with one knee behind her head, story'. It got passed around a motel I worked at in Portland, back when Steven King was barely a blip on the screen. Damn good story, too, I must say. Pictures not so much. And years later King admitted to it. I felt vindicated for all the times I'd told people about seeing Kings' writing published in a porn magazine and everyone told me I was dreaming. HA!.)
Now the image above is only one of a number of popular depictions of Christ wallpapering the Americas. For example, here's what people are seeing on tortillas and burritos:
Kind of a combination of
and
isn't it? Variations on a theme.
Here's Jesus the way the early Christians saw him
Here's a Mediterranean person of the day
Here's a Semitic man from modern times
Here's Eleanor Roosevelt and a hot dog
There's Catholics and quasi-Catholics all over the world and whatever else they may or may not hold in common, they all believe in miracles and apparitions. Yet you see no Jesus faces appearing on the hum bao of the devout.
Nestorians do not see Him on their toaster pastries or Fig Newtons or whatever Nestorians eat. The Orthodox aren't running through the streets brandishing Jesus on rye.
In other words, nobody else in the world is seeing Jesoids on their ethnic bread products. Just the Catholic indigenous people of the Americas.
To me, it all points to one inescapable fact.
Jesus wants me to eat more burritos.
*Hey, nerds? Remember this one?
**Drop a hit of acid and visit here to view the ROTATING DUGONG RESEMBLING EGG OF DIRE PORTENT.
*** Go here
Now don't take this explanation at face value,comrades. Ask yourself these questions:
A. Might the discussion of sex with geese at Billy's place the other day have had other, more sinister layers (not intentional I swear) beneath what at first glance seemed a mere exercise in speculative sexuality? One involving ALIENS?
b. Goose down is known for it's warmth. Might primitive man, shuddering in the chill of the last Ice Age, stuffed a live goose onto the head of his infant and forgot and left it there long enough to make the baby's head egg shaped? Because I could never keep a hat on my kid. What is it with kids and hats? Should I have tried a goose instead?
c. Is this what happens when you don't cut the head off Billy's goose, and it escapes and limps away and blends in with all the other geese, and then nine months later you're out in the goose house and you findOH DEAR GOD NO!!! RUN!!!RUN AWAY!!
For those of you who think I need to increase my medication:http://skepdic.com/pareidol.html
signs and omens part 1
The first news story that popped on to the screen when I turned on the television this morning was about a young mother in Sacramento CA who found the holy visage of Jesus staring back at her from the surface of the burrito she'd just cooked.*
I maintain that it is no mere coincidence that Jesus would choose Mexican food as his Sacred Venue. So far this makes two Holy Burritoes found this year, and if we count the wrapping separately, five Sacred Tortillas. That I know of. Who knows how many others have gone unheralded, eaten in the hunger of the moment, blessing the intestines of the faithful and the apostate alike????
In humble acknowledgement of this miraculous event I am going to grab my nickles and my Metformin and head down to El Nopal for lunch. This is clearly the Chosen Food. And who knows, perhaps even my Lourdes. I will leave my lancet and test strips outside the door of the lounge and go forth rejoicing.
Other than missing my favorite resteraunt (where I was putting their kids through college), I'm finding diabetes more a minor irritation than anything else, and that's only when it happens to cross my mind. I've lost weight, changed my eating habits and made better food choices, and it's been no great strain. I think having been a vegetarian hippie child helped because I already know how to 'do' healthy. Now it's just a question of finding a happy medium between 'reasonably tasty and low in dietary sugars' and healthy.
So what am I reading for nonfiction lately? A book on how to recreate the great mother sauces of French haute cuisine in the home kitchen. Yes, I saw the title ('The Sauciers' Apprentice'...oh, ha! so laugh the face of me!) on a shelf at a garage sale and dove on that action like a fullback. Outta my way bitches.
The first thing the author wants you to do is order 30 gallon stockpot with a tap from Williams Sonoma.
The next, cultivate a smoochy relationship with your local butcher. Now sadly enough, or fortuituously enough; however you want to view it, I already am on amiable terms with the man. Hint**: most men, you tell them they have beautiful meat? They'll view you in all future dealings with a friendlier eye. Yes I honestly said that to the guy. In the spirit of the moment, now, come on. I realized how it sounded about halfway home.
So. Anyway. Next? Invest in ungodly amounts of animal flesh. Beefy Deathberg? Check.
Finally, devote an entire weekend to simmering and skimming. Not a problem. Thats already part of my routine. Seriously, I take a weekend out every month or so and put up all my stocks, my salsas, etc soups and what have you to freeze.
I have most of the requirements already in place; but I must tell you that I will be rat fucked before I play around around with no huge ass stockpot. Never mind the expense; I'd have to stand on a stepstool to stir the thing. There's just no way I want something like that in my kitchen full of hot liquid, too heavy to lift.
You can tell I'm thinking about this, though, can't you. Yeah. 'Well, I could do it in the summer, outside, on a gas ring. Oo, better yet, I could pick up one of those big gas-fired beach boilers at a yard sale! I'm always running into those! And set up on the deck! And run a stock line from the kitchen out through the utility room...yeah...the washer and dryer are work height....I have good knives...'
Making a brown stock is only part un. Part deux involves all the extra flapulation of reducing it down to a demiglace, which is what I'd be doing ideally.
But hey! We'll be bathing in Bourguignonne for the rest of the year! And that doesn't sound like such a bad thing at all.
Update:
OH MY GOD ITS LIKE AN OMEN.
Just as I was getting up to go down to El Nopal? At that very instant? My Yummy Biker came home. Do you know what he had?
Never mind what he had.
Fine, he had a burrito por moi.
An UNSOLICITED BURRITO.
I must meditate, and pray.
*Q13 Fox News Seattle, Bill Wixie reporting, Tuesday October 17.
** I'm assuming the butcher is male here. It seems to be a standard. Proceed with caution. Straight ladies and men with fully functioning gaydar only. Otherwise, guys, I hope I don't have to tell you that if you go up to an American straight man who can bust down a hanging beef in under three minutes? Using only a knife and a steel? And drop the 'beautiful meat' line on him? Probably no.
I maintain that it is no mere coincidence that Jesus would choose Mexican food as his Sacred Venue. So far this makes two Holy Burritoes found this year, and if we count the wrapping separately, five Sacred Tortillas. That I know of. Who knows how many others have gone unheralded, eaten in the hunger of the moment, blessing the intestines of the faithful and the apostate alike????
In humble acknowledgement of this miraculous event I am going to grab my nickles and my Metformin and head down to El Nopal for lunch. This is clearly the Chosen Food. And who knows, perhaps even my Lourdes. I will leave my lancet and test strips outside the door of the lounge and go forth rejoicing.
Other than missing my favorite resteraunt (where I was putting their kids through college), I'm finding diabetes more a minor irritation than anything else, and that's only when it happens to cross my mind. I've lost weight, changed my eating habits and made better food choices, and it's been no great strain. I think having been a vegetarian hippie child helped because I already know how to 'do' healthy. Now it's just a question of finding a happy medium between 'reasonably tasty and low in dietary sugars' and healthy.
So what am I reading for nonfiction lately? A book on how to recreate the great mother sauces of French haute cuisine in the home kitchen. Yes, I saw the title ('The Sauciers' Apprentice'...oh, ha! so laugh the face of me!) on a shelf at a garage sale and dove on that action like a fullback. Outta my way bitches.
The first thing the author wants you to do is order 30 gallon stockpot with a tap from Williams Sonoma.
The next, cultivate a smoochy relationship with your local butcher. Now sadly enough, or fortuituously enough; however you want to view it, I already am on amiable terms with the man. Hint**: most men, you tell them they have beautiful meat? They'll view you in all future dealings with a friendlier eye. Yes I honestly said that to the guy. In the spirit of the moment, now, come on. I realized how it sounded about halfway home.
So. Anyway. Next? Invest in ungodly amounts of animal flesh. Beefy Deathberg? Check.
Finally, devote an entire weekend to simmering and skimming. Not a problem. Thats already part of my routine. Seriously, I take a weekend out every month or so and put up all my stocks, my salsas, etc soups and what have you to freeze.
I have most of the requirements already in place; but I must tell you that I will be rat fucked before I play around around with no huge ass stockpot. Never mind the expense; I'd have to stand on a stepstool to stir the thing. There's just no way I want something like that in my kitchen full of hot liquid, too heavy to lift.
You can tell I'm thinking about this, though, can't you. Yeah. 'Well, I could do it in the summer, outside, on a gas ring. Oo, better yet, I could pick up one of those big gas-fired beach boilers at a yard sale! I'm always running into those! And set up on the deck! And run a stock line from the kitchen out through the utility room...yeah...the washer and dryer are work height....I have good knives...'
Making a brown stock is only part un. Part deux involves all the extra flapulation of reducing it down to a demiglace, which is what I'd be doing ideally.
But hey! We'll be bathing in Bourguignonne for the rest of the year! And that doesn't sound like such a bad thing at all.
Update:
OH MY GOD ITS LIKE AN OMEN.
Just as I was getting up to go down to El Nopal? At that very instant? My Yummy Biker came home. Do you know what he had?
Never mind what he had.
Fine, he had a burrito por moi.
An UNSOLICITED BURRITO.
I must meditate, and pray.
*Q13 Fox News Seattle, Bill Wixie reporting, Tuesday October 17.
** I'm assuming the butcher is male here. It seems to be a standard. Proceed with caution. Straight ladies and men with fully functioning gaydar only. Otherwise, guys, I hope I don't have to tell you that if you go up to an American straight man who can bust down a hanging beef in under three minutes? Using only a knife and a steel? And drop the 'beautiful meat' line on him? Probably no.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
second cousin leota
You have BEAST to thank for this one. Go bitch at him.
________________
I have no idea if Bill T was really related to us. What I remember is that he was supposed to have been my grandmothers' second cousin, so that's how we referred to him and his wife.
He was a nice old guy. He used to come over to our house quite a bit, his wife in tow, and play cribbage with my mom and her friends until the wee hours. Every hour or so he'd slip off outside to the trunk of his car where he had a bottle of Canadian Mist stashed and sip on that while he stood in the driveway and admired the stars.
His wife's name was Leota.
She was 5000 years old, had eight hairs left, weighed maybe 80 pounds and stood four feet tall.
Smoked constantly. Sometimes she'd have a cigarette going in each hand and one in the ashtray. We would find more of them smoldering away all over the house, long black foul things melting a line in the countertop or the arm of a chair, lying on the wool carpet in the middle of a glowing patch of nap.
Little Leota wasn't much for conversation. The complete lack of teeth was a barrier, as was the advanced senile dementia. Being perpetually pickled in vodka didn't help.
You have to stop and consider that for a moment. I can guarantee you she wasn't driving down to the liquor store even before the Altzheimers' set in because she couldn't drive and wouldn't have been able to see through the windsheild anyway. Where was she getting the stuff?
Every morning, Bill would get her up, run her through the tub, get her dressed,
shovel some Malt-O-Meal down her (very occasionally Maypo...she refused to eat anything else) and then set her in a chair out on the porch with her fifth of vodka and let her wave at the cars going by.
Yes I know that lacks class. But I was 13 years old. I had no class.
Not like I do now.
________________
I have no idea if Bill T was really related to us. What I remember is that he was supposed to have been my grandmothers' second cousin, so that's how we referred to him and his wife.
He was a nice old guy. He used to come over to our house quite a bit, his wife in tow, and play cribbage with my mom and her friends until the wee hours. Every hour or so he'd slip off outside to the trunk of his car where he had a bottle of Canadian Mist stashed and sip on that while he stood in the driveway and admired the stars.
His wife's name was Leota.
She was 5000 years old, had eight hairs left, weighed maybe 80 pounds and stood four feet tall.
Smoked constantly. Sometimes she'd have a cigarette going in each hand and one in the ashtray. We would find more of them smoldering away all over the house, long black foul things melting a line in the countertop or the arm of a chair, lying on the wool carpet in the middle of a glowing patch of nap.
Little Leota wasn't much for conversation. The complete lack of teeth was a barrier, as was the advanced senile dementia. Being perpetually pickled in vodka didn't help.
You have to stop and consider that for a moment. I can guarantee you she wasn't driving down to the liquor store even before the Altzheimers' set in because she couldn't drive and wouldn't have been able to see through the windsheild anyway. Where was she getting the stuff?
Every morning, Bill would get her up, run her through the tub, get her dressed,
shovel some Malt-O-Meal down her (very occasionally Maypo...she refused to eat anything else) and then set her in a chair out on the porch with her fifth of vodka and let her wave at the cars going by.
This was how a lot of poor, older people coped with a loved one's dementia, and still do.
She was loved. She was cared for. And as far as I could see she didn't have a bad life at all. What the fuck, you know?
__________________________
Now Bill and my mom would get playing Crib and nothing could stop them. They played like demons. My dad and I weren't big card players, and we would have had to have been real hot shots to keep up with them anyway, so dad napped on the couch and I hung out in my room listening to records.
Dad could fall asleep anywhere, anytime. And when he did, more often than than not he would have really interesting dreams. I grew up with it so I didn't notice so much but it could really freak a visitor out. "Gahno farah muld gahyub! Call Jim!" he'd shout, with his arms waving around randomly. If it was coming from the couch, you ignored it.
Leota would watch the card playing and smoke. Occasionally she'd giggle. No reason, just joie d' vivre. Other times she'd come out with a brief statement and end it by saying Ha!
"You horse you, get that ol' cat! Fan room the store. Ha!"
Evenings at my house could be interesting.
The only thing she ever contributed regularly to the conversation was this kind of a verbal tic. She'd WUP.
Just out of the blue. No reason. She'd just be sitting there smoking quietly and suddenly out would pop 'WUP!'
Some days, you'd only hear one every two or three minutes. Other days she'd be wuppin' all over the place.
Sometimes she'd come up missing during the summer, when we kept the doors open. But all you had to do was be very quiet for a few minutes, and then off in the distance you'd hear 'Wup!' and you'd follow that. My parents were rather impressed when I showed them this discovery. You'd find her over in my Grandma's yard, looking over the fence at the neibors having a barbecue, take her by the hand, everyone would wave 'bye', and home you went, wuppin' all the way.
One night I was lying on my bed reading and listening to the intermittent 'Wups' coming from the kitchen when I was struck by a bolt of inspiration so hard it hurt my brain. Inspirations like these came frequently the year I was thirteen.
I crept down the hall into the entryway, where I was hidden from the view of anyone in the kitchen, except Leota.
Leota went 'Wup!'
I went 'Wup!"
Then she said 'Wup!"
I answered 'Wup!"
And she replied 'Wup!"
Everyone playing cards at the kitchen table was totally oblivious. Leota was having fun. I was having fun too when dad caught me.
He thought it was hysterical. I mean, yeah, he sent me to my room, but he was laughing.
An hour later I happen to glance up towards the living room and there's dad on the couch, peeking over the easy chair towards the kitchen.
'Wup!" said my dad.
The ensuing silence was so thick you could cut it!
"Wup!" came from the kitchen.
"Niilo! Now stop that! That's not funny!" yelled my mom.
Man, I fell OFF THE BED. I laughed so hard I think it stunted my growth.
________________________________________________________
You couldn't help but like Leota. She was in a happy, simple place, like a (really really wrinkly) baby (who smoked) enjoying a sunbeam.
Now, ninety-nine times out of a hundred Leota was happy to watch the card players; but sometimes she wanted a change of scene. However, because she had a form of Tourettes' that caused her to chirp "WUP!' at regular intervals like a smoke alarm with a failing battery, she was fairly easy to ride herd on.
The thing was, you had to be paying attention. She would go into closed rooms and stand quietly in the dark, nothing evident but the ember on her smoke and you'd never know she was there until you happened to hear 'wup!' float out from behind the door.
Once in the bathroom I heard a cheery 'wup!' coming from the cabinet right next to where I was sitting and about died of a heart attack. We found her in the basement standing under the metal laundry chute, wupping away, entertained by the echo.
This is what happened the very last time she visited:
One November afternoon, everyone was sitting around the kitchen table, my mom and all the other card sharks, partying it up loud and happy, knocking back the 7 and 7's. As usual I was avoiding all this by hiding in my room.
My mom came knocking on my door. "Leota's gone. Is she in here?"
Nope.
Since it was cold, and I was the kid, I got sent outside to look for her while everyone else staggered around the house hooting 'LeOOOOTaaaa....'
Me, I glanced around close by, listened for her, didn't hear her, and promptly put all thought of her completely out of my mind. Evidently everyone else did too, because when I returned they were all pretty surprised to see me. "Where'd you go?" asked Mom.
I needed to hit the Ritz. The half bath was for the card players, so I went down the hall to the master bathroom.
Knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I opened the door.
I found Leota.
My moms beautiful pink bathroom with the pink fixtures and the pink towels and pink curtains, yeah. Not any more.
Leota had been fingerpainting.
She had decorated the entire wall, from the floor up as high as she could reach, with shit.
She had painted the entire side of the bathtub with shit.
She had painted the entire inside of the bathtub with shit.
And the faces of all the cabinets.
And the mirror, the counter, the sink, and the floor.
Everything except the toilet, oddly enough.
The entire bathroom was covered in shit. And so was she.
She had a smoke going. She smiled at me toothlessly from where she sat on the bathmat. 'Wup!' she said.
Complete disaster. Yelling, buckets, throwing things out the bathroom window onto the lawn, people running in and out of the house brandishing Pine-Sol, playing cards on the floor, forget it. Total chaos.
I was gone when it happened, but I understand Leota got her very first shower that day at our house and didn't care for it much. She went home in a bathrobe. She got to keep it.
I was outside at the time. My parents put me outside. They were pissed off because I wasn't helping. I wasn't helping because I could not stop laughing and I couldn't walk. I laid on the back stoop with the tears streaming back into my ears and lost my mind, man; I howled. It was not my finest moment.
She was loved. She was cared for. And as far as I could see she didn't have a bad life at all. What the fuck, you know?
__________________________
Now Bill and my mom would get playing Crib and nothing could stop them. They played like demons. My dad and I weren't big card players, and we would have had to have been real hot shots to keep up with them anyway, so dad napped on the couch and I hung out in my room listening to records.
Dad could fall asleep anywhere, anytime. And when he did, more often than than not he would have really interesting dreams. I grew up with it so I didn't notice so much but it could really freak a visitor out. "Gahno farah muld gahyub! Call Jim!" he'd shout, with his arms waving around randomly. If it was coming from the couch, you ignored it.
Leota would watch the card playing and smoke. Occasionally she'd giggle. No reason, just joie d' vivre. Other times she'd come out with a brief statement and end it by saying Ha!
"You horse you, get that ol' cat! Fan room the store. Ha!"
Evenings at my house could be interesting.
The only thing she ever contributed regularly to the conversation was this kind of a verbal tic. She'd WUP.
Just out of the blue. No reason. She'd just be sitting there smoking quietly and suddenly out would pop 'WUP!'
Some days, you'd only hear one every two or three minutes. Other days she'd be wuppin' all over the place.
Sometimes she'd come up missing during the summer, when we kept the doors open. But all you had to do was be very quiet for a few minutes, and then off in the distance you'd hear 'Wup!' and you'd follow that. My parents were rather impressed when I showed them this discovery. You'd find her over in my Grandma's yard, looking over the fence at the neibors having a barbecue, take her by the hand, everyone would wave 'bye', and home you went, wuppin' all the way.
One night I was lying on my bed reading and listening to the intermittent 'Wups' coming from the kitchen when I was struck by a bolt of inspiration so hard it hurt my brain. Inspirations like these came frequently the year I was thirteen.
I crept down the hall into the entryway, where I was hidden from the view of anyone in the kitchen, except Leota.
Leota went 'Wup!'
I went 'Wup!"
Then she said 'Wup!"
I answered 'Wup!"
And she replied 'Wup!"
Everyone playing cards at the kitchen table was totally oblivious. Leota was having fun. I was having fun too when dad caught me.
He thought it was hysterical. I mean, yeah, he sent me to my room, but he was laughing.
An hour later I happen to glance up towards the living room and there's dad on the couch, peeking over the easy chair towards the kitchen.
'Wup!" said my dad.
The ensuing silence was so thick you could cut it!
"Wup!" came from the kitchen.
"Niilo! Now stop that! That's not funny!" yelled my mom.
Man, I fell OFF THE BED. I laughed so hard I think it stunted my growth.
________________________________________________________
You couldn't help but like Leota. She was in a happy, simple place, like a (really really wrinkly) baby (who smoked) enjoying a sunbeam.
Now, ninety-nine times out of a hundred Leota was happy to watch the card players; but sometimes she wanted a change of scene. However, because she had a form of Tourettes' that caused her to chirp "WUP!' at regular intervals like a smoke alarm with a failing battery, she was fairly easy to ride herd on.
The thing was, you had to be paying attention. She would go into closed rooms and stand quietly in the dark, nothing evident but the ember on her smoke and you'd never know she was there until you happened to hear 'wup!' float out from behind the door.
Once in the bathroom I heard a cheery 'wup!' coming from the cabinet right next to where I was sitting and about died of a heart attack. We found her in the basement standing under the metal laundry chute, wupping away, entertained by the echo.
This is what happened the very last time she visited:
One November afternoon, everyone was sitting around the kitchen table, my mom and all the other card sharks, partying it up loud and happy, knocking back the 7 and 7's. As usual I was avoiding all this by hiding in my room.
My mom came knocking on my door. "Leota's gone. Is she in here?"
Nope.
Since it was cold, and I was the kid, I got sent outside to look for her while everyone else staggered around the house hooting 'LeOOOOTaaaa....'
Me, I glanced around close by, listened for her, didn't hear her, and promptly put all thought of her completely out of my mind. Evidently everyone else did too, because when I returned they were all pretty surprised to see me. "Where'd you go?" asked Mom.
I needed to hit the Ritz. The half bath was for the card players, so I went down the hall to the master bathroom.
Knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I opened the door.
I found Leota.
My moms beautiful pink bathroom with the pink fixtures and the pink towels and pink curtains, yeah. Not any more.
Leota had been fingerpainting.
She had decorated the entire wall, from the floor up as high as she could reach, with shit.
She had painted the entire side of the bathtub with shit.
She had painted the entire inside of the bathtub with shit.
And the faces of all the cabinets.
And the mirror, the counter, the sink, and the floor.
Everything except the toilet, oddly enough.
The entire bathroom was covered in shit. And so was she.
She had a smoke going. She smiled at me toothlessly from where she sat on the bathmat. 'Wup!' she said.
Complete disaster. Yelling, buckets, throwing things out the bathroom window onto the lawn, people running in and out of the house brandishing Pine-Sol, playing cards on the floor, forget it. Total chaos.
I was gone when it happened, but I understand Leota got her very first shower that day at our house and didn't care for it much. She went home in a bathrobe. She got to keep it.
I was outside at the time. My parents put me outside. They were pissed off because I wasn't helping. I wasn't helping because I could not stop laughing and I couldn't walk. I laid on the back stoop with the tears streaming back into my ears and lost my mind, man; I howled. It was not my finest moment.
Yes I know that lacks class. But I was 13 years old. I had no class.
Not like I do now.
Friday, October 13, 2006
thirteen boogitywoogities
A halloweeny memey via DaNator!
do go visit, my darlings. you will be very glad you did.
1. whats the scariest movie you've ever seen?
Well, theres four of them actually, and they're all #1 for a different reason.
Alien 1: Relentless horror, extra horrible horror, with alien slime, and teeth, with big looooooooooong ew dripping, and jaws with teeth, and slime, horror, screaming, trapped, with all horrible Giger nightmarish evil, of the eggs, vagina, death, pulsating DON'T STICK YOUR WHOLE FACE INTO, hatching! don't, it, he, augh GLITCHWHOOSHGASCHLUURP with grabbing! melted! right onto his horrible, aw shit no, no no no no.
P.S. No don't let him have LUNCH AT THE TABLE YOU STUPID STUPID, NO, AW FUCK, SCREAMING, etc.
Hellraiser 2: Four words....Dr. Chenard's Brain Bamix.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre 1: Vile batshit crazy insanity that is so batbastard fuckdastardly, over the top depraved that I can't even think of a way to finish this sentance. With a chainsaw.
and of course, That Which May Not Be Named i.e. 'Conflagration in the Lower Atmosphere'. the message here is simple: if you are in the woods at night and you see something unusual, resist the urge to go back by yourself and investigate because ALIENS WILL DUMP MAPLE SYRUP ON YOU AND STICK NEEDLES IN YOUR EYES.
2. what was your favorite halloween costume as a child?
When I was eight I was a gypsy princess and I had a colorful scarf and a long midnight blue dress with rhinestones on it, and high heels, and real makeup, real dangly circle earrings and real boobs! Fine; sock-stuffies, but you know what I mean. I was ravishing!
3. if you had an unlimited budget, what would your Fantasy Costume be for this halloween?
Morticia Addams. Or Frobisher.
4. when was the last time you went trick or treating?
At Bellisfair Mall with my daughter in about1993. She was a beautiful princess (and still is!) and I was Dr. Hook (the singer. Only in a dress. It's complicated.)
5. whats your favorite halloween candy?
Mounds Bars special dark, Reeses cups, Peanut M&M's!!!! Zits here I come!
6. recount a scary nightmare you had
I was sleeping on the couch when a barefoot, blonde little boy, about eight years old, dressed in a white nightshirt walked into the yard. He walked straight up to the house and started knocking loudly on the wall right beneath the picture window I was sleeping next to. Then the knocking started travelling all around the outside of the house. True; the content isn't terribly scary, but it came in the form of a night terror, the only one I've ever had, and I can honestly say that I have never felt as overwhelming and pure a terror as I did waking up from that experience. I understand how people can die of fear now because If I'd had a heart condition of any kind I would have dropped dead. My hands and feet were tingling, my chest hurt, there were sparks in front of my eyes, I never want to go through that again.
7. what is your supernatural fear?
Noncorporeal entities of any kind. That includes 'good' ones. I do not want invisible things watching me! If you want to visit me, be a. alive, and b. visible, ok?
8. what is your creepy crawlie fear?
Anything maggotty entering and living in my body. Like maggots. Or botfly grubs (I saw them extract one from a womans' scalp on tv one time? NO.) Or magotty grubs, or any grubs, or alien larvae that infest your brain. No larvae; no maggots. No grubs. Bleah.
9. tell us about a time you saw a ghost, or heard something go bump in the night.
Nope. ok, I'll do bump in the night.
When you raise a daughter, and she is a teenager, you hear lots of things go bump in the night, like her ass bumping the side of the house as she goes out the bedroom window at 2am, or boys knocking on her window as they stand in your calendulas and smash them flat.
10. would you ever stay in a real haunted house overnight?
FUCK no.
11. are you a traditionalist (just a face) or do you get really creative with your pumpkins?
When I was doing pumpkins, I got pretty creative...I liked to make pierced lanterns with moons and stars rather than faces.
12. how much do you decorate your home for halloween?
Just a pumpkin on the porch steps nowadays. Back when, I painted the windows and wore a costume to hand out candy...one year I did a satanic altar with animal skulls and black candles and a 'grimoire' that you confronted when the door creaked open. This was not a big hit with the mommies in the area. Ever since that year we hardly get any trick or treaters!
13. what do you want on your tombstone?
"Do not use if allergic to peanuts."
Heeeeere, duckies...........heeeeere, duckies......
(tag, you're it! noshit, tamburlaine, carmentza, awaiting, neva)
do go visit, my darlings. you will be very glad you did.
1. whats the scariest movie you've ever seen?
Well, theres four of them actually, and they're all #1 for a different reason.
Alien 1: Relentless horror, extra horrible horror, with alien slime, and teeth, with big looooooooooong ew dripping, and jaws with teeth, and slime, horror, screaming, trapped, with all horrible Giger nightmarish evil, of the eggs, vagina, death, pulsating DON'T STICK YOUR WHOLE FACE INTO, hatching! don't, it, he, augh GLITCHWHOOSHGASCHLUURP with grabbing! melted! right onto his horrible, aw shit no, no no no no.
P.S. No don't let him have LUNCH AT THE TABLE YOU STUPID STUPID, NO, AW FUCK, SCREAMING, etc.
Hellraiser 2: Four words....Dr. Chenard's Brain Bamix.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre 1: Vile batshit crazy insanity that is so batbastard fuckdastardly, over the top depraved that I can't even think of a way to finish this sentance. With a chainsaw.
and of course, That Which May Not Be Named i.e. 'Conflagration in the Lower Atmosphere'. the message here is simple: if you are in the woods at night and you see something unusual, resist the urge to go back by yourself and investigate because ALIENS WILL DUMP MAPLE SYRUP ON YOU AND STICK NEEDLES IN YOUR EYES.
2. what was your favorite halloween costume as a child?
When I was eight I was a gypsy princess and I had a colorful scarf and a long midnight blue dress with rhinestones on it, and high heels, and real makeup, real dangly circle earrings and real boobs! Fine; sock-stuffies, but you know what I mean. I was ravishing!
3. if you had an unlimited budget, what would your Fantasy Costume be for this halloween?
Morticia Addams. Or Frobisher.
4. when was the last time you went trick or treating?
At Bellisfair Mall with my daughter in about1993. She was a beautiful princess (and still is!) and I was Dr. Hook (the singer. Only in a dress. It's complicated.)
5. whats your favorite halloween candy?
Mounds Bars special dark, Reeses cups, Peanut M&M's!!!! Zits here I come!
6. recount a scary nightmare you had
I was sleeping on the couch when a barefoot, blonde little boy, about eight years old, dressed in a white nightshirt walked into the yard. He walked straight up to the house and started knocking loudly on the wall right beneath the picture window I was sleeping next to. Then the knocking started travelling all around the outside of the house. True; the content isn't terribly scary, but it came in the form of a night terror, the only one I've ever had, and I can honestly say that I have never felt as overwhelming and pure a terror as I did waking up from that experience. I understand how people can die of fear now because If I'd had a heart condition of any kind I would have dropped dead. My hands and feet were tingling, my chest hurt, there were sparks in front of my eyes, I never want to go through that again.
7. what is your supernatural fear?
Noncorporeal entities of any kind. That includes 'good' ones. I do not want invisible things watching me! If you want to visit me, be a. alive, and b. visible, ok?
8. what is your creepy crawlie fear?
Anything maggotty entering and living in my body. Like maggots. Or botfly grubs (I saw them extract one from a womans' scalp on tv one time? NO.) Or magotty grubs, or any grubs, or alien larvae that infest your brain. No larvae; no maggots. No grubs. Bleah.
9. tell us about a time you saw a ghost, or heard something go bump in the night.
Nope. ok, I'll do bump in the night.
When you raise a daughter, and she is a teenager, you hear lots of things go bump in the night, like her ass bumping the side of the house as she goes out the bedroom window at 2am, or boys knocking on her window as they stand in your calendulas and smash them flat.
10. would you ever stay in a real haunted house overnight?
FUCK no.
11. are you a traditionalist (just a face) or do you get really creative with your pumpkins?
When I was doing pumpkins, I got pretty creative...I liked to make pierced lanterns with moons and stars rather than faces.
12. how much do you decorate your home for halloween?
Just a pumpkin on the porch steps nowadays. Back when, I painted the windows and wore a costume to hand out candy...one year I did a satanic altar with animal skulls and black candles and a 'grimoire' that you confronted when the door creaked open. This was not a big hit with the mommies in the area. Ever since that year we hardly get any trick or treaters!
13. what do you want on your tombstone?
"Do not use if allergic to peanuts."
Heeeeere, duckies...........heeeeere, duckies......
(tag, you're it! noshit, tamburlaine, carmentza, awaiting, neva)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Filet Of Doom 2: Yellowfin Tuna Attack Scedule!
MORE true tales from the Ladies' Side:
The Sins Of The Young.
Yes, it's poo overkill here at rancho FirstNations!!
(What? I've been bronchial whoopin dog sick for a solid week. Why should your life be any better?)
____________________________________
I attended college with a tiny little woman who had a bladder that defied natural law. It was like the Tardis. For some strange reason our whiz scedules were coordinated, and the urge would hit us during the middle of typing class. I'd get settled in to the stall and be happily mid-performance when she'd come in, say 'Hi!" sit down and cut loose like a cow pissing on a flat rock for about FIVE MINUTES.
This lady was about half the size of me! I'd be done, washing my hands and she'd STILL be peeing! Like a garden hose!!
And she wanted to CHAT!
Now, I can be sociable, right; but I just, no. I'd head back into class. I couldn't keep track of the conversation with all those gallons of water going over the falls, and going, and going, and going.
See, and knowing me as I do I always figured I'd eventually bust out with something like " Holy FUCK, Elise, do you need an operation?"
One of my cousins had the misfortune to be found in bed with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the man his father worked for. Three years and two kids later she still had no goddamn class.
So here I am at a family gathering, in the bathroom, door closed, water on, toilet flushing, snorting coke off the countertop. I've just stood up and I'm tapping the last few crystals back into my sinuses when in busts Kathy!
"Oh my God! Hey you! What if I'd still been busy?" I say, you know, trying to be all cool. Snorting coke? Me? No, heavens no.
Now, with a snootfull of coke I'm inclined to be cheerful anyway; and I'm trying to maintain a jocular tone because hell, she's my cousins' wife and everyone makes mistakes, right?
See, here, I'm assuming SHE might have been embarrassed. You know, because she just barged right in on me without even knocking? Keep up.
While I'm busy being worried about her sense of modesty she drops her pants and plops her big old bare ass on the throne.
"Oh, I listened! You was done!" she replied, and cuts a big old blatty fart. FRAPPBapBLABAAAAAAAAAAP.
Now for half a beat I just stood there frozen.
She listened at the door?
She listened at the door.
Oh my god I can't breathe.
Then I remembered my manners and turned away.
Oh no! Huge wall to wall mirror! HUGE! No escape! Danger Will Robinson! There she is again! Straining! Smiling! Well lit!
"Good Lord, Kathy!" I exclaim.
"Oh, I don't mind!" she replies. GASPLOOOSH. PLOP. BLOPBLOP. plish.
Well. Obviously not.
"I do!" I said, and left.
"Hey!" she called after me, "Try an' shut the damn door all the way!"
************************
Think of this next part as a manifesto.
Based on my experience as a maid, I finally came to accept that men sometimes have trouble hitting what they aim at. I pursued this career for ten years in every kind of establishment you can imagine, and rich or poor, it's just a fact.
When women have that same trouble, thats just wrong.
Particularly when it's not whiz.
I was a maid. I know these things.
As you should already have learned, ladies, in Western society, we sit to go. And after the age of two you should have learned to STAY SEATED UNTIL YOU ARE DONE BEFORE YOU GO.
You do not walk halfway across the room, leaving little mountain ranges and footprints and places where you slipped.
Do not attempt to hover when you are drunk. It will not work. No really. You thought it worked all these years, yes, well, it didn't. Really.
Hovering should also be avoided if what you have come to accomplish is going to be 1. a semisolid, 2. liable to be more semi than solid, and 3. accompanied by lots of gas. The effect it creates is similar to what would happen if someone got really pissed off and blew a hole through the Potty Monster with a sawed off shotgun.
And do not think you are hiding anything by separating the toilet paper into dainty squares and dabbing them onto each splat so they stick there. This fools no one.
You should know better than to stand facing the bowl anyway. When you have diarrhea, this bit of common sense should be at the very forefront of your mind. No, no, no. Nobody appreciates the Jackson Pollock you created on the inside of the stall door. Not even the loopy parts where you were obviously trying for effect. No.
And as long as I'm on the subject of art, I notice you obviously spent a lot of money on those sculpted nails. Even though the squared ends resemble caligraphy points? Yeah. No. Even though the six bags of Oreos you ate earlier have returned to challenge your imagination. The ladies' room is no place for imagination.
Do you have a new lipstick? Is it shiny and pink? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on the walls of the cubicle wearing this shiny pink lipstick? Yay!
Do you still have lipstick left? Is the counter long and clean? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on it wearing your pink shiny lipstick? On your twat?
Please go die.
The big white porcelain thing on the floor there with the seat and the flushy handle is the toilet. The little metal box hanging on the wall next to the toilet? That was not put there to provide you with a choice of venue.
Yes, the sink is porcelain many times but the lack of a seat should be a big clue. So please do not leave the sink full of thick orange piss, shit on the floor next to the toilet and leave a wad of paper on the rim. Never, never do this. It's just perplexing.
Once you have used it, the toilet paper goes in the water. In the toilet. Use it on your ass and then get rid of it. In the toilet.
It is not a toy.
Do not sculpt the used paper into whimsical shapes and perch them on the plumbing.
Do not use it on your hine and then stick it to the wall.
Or the ceiling.
Or the hot light fixture.
Do not use it as a medium applicator. Resist that urge to create. No. No hearts. Not even a happyface. It is not a happy face. There is nothing happy about it.
So yeah. Guys? No. Sorry. Comparatively speaking, you have very little to complain about. And I haven't even covered menstruation. Did you notice that? How I completely avoided the entire subject of menstruation?
Yeah.
Thank me.
The Sins Of The Young.
Yes, it's poo overkill here at rancho FirstNations!!
(What? I've been bronchial whoopin dog sick for a solid week. Why should your life be any better?)
____________________________________
I attended college with a tiny little woman who had a bladder that defied natural law. It was like the Tardis. For some strange reason our whiz scedules were coordinated, and the urge would hit us during the middle of typing class. I'd get settled in to the stall and be happily mid-performance when she'd come in, say 'Hi!" sit down and cut loose like a cow pissing on a flat rock for about FIVE MINUTES.
This lady was about half the size of me! I'd be done, washing my hands and she'd STILL be peeing! Like a garden hose!!
And she wanted to CHAT!
Now, I can be sociable, right; but I just, no. I'd head back into class. I couldn't keep track of the conversation with all those gallons of water going over the falls, and going, and going, and going.
See, and knowing me as I do I always figured I'd eventually bust out with something like " Holy FUCK, Elise, do you need an operation?"
One of my cousins had the misfortune to be found in bed with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the man his father worked for. Three years and two kids later she still had no goddamn class.
So here I am at a family gathering, in the bathroom, door closed, water on, toilet flushing, snorting coke off the countertop. I've just stood up and I'm tapping the last few crystals back into my sinuses when in busts Kathy!
"Oh my God! Hey you! What if I'd still been busy?" I say, you know, trying to be all cool. Snorting coke? Me? No, heavens no.
Now, with a snootfull of coke I'm inclined to be cheerful anyway; and I'm trying to maintain a jocular tone because hell, she's my cousins' wife and everyone makes mistakes, right?
See, here, I'm assuming SHE might have been embarrassed. You know, because she just barged right in on me without even knocking? Keep up.
While I'm busy being worried about her sense of modesty she drops her pants and plops her big old bare ass on the throne.
"Oh, I listened! You was done!" she replied, and cuts a big old blatty fart. FRAPPBapBLABAAAAAAAAAAP.
Now for half a beat I just stood there frozen.
She listened at the door?
She listened at the door.
Oh my god I can't breathe.
Then I remembered my manners and turned away.
Oh no! Huge wall to wall mirror! HUGE! No escape! Danger Will Robinson! There she is again! Straining! Smiling! Well lit!
"Good Lord, Kathy!" I exclaim.
"Oh, I don't mind!" she replies. GASPLOOOSH. PLOP. BLOPBLOP. plish.
Well. Obviously not.
"I do!" I said, and left.
"Hey!" she called after me, "Try an' shut the damn door all the way!"
************************
Think of this next part as a manifesto.
Based on my experience as a maid, I finally came to accept that men sometimes have trouble hitting what they aim at. I pursued this career for ten years in every kind of establishment you can imagine, and rich or poor, it's just a fact.
When women have that same trouble, thats just wrong.
Particularly when it's not whiz.
I was a maid. I know these things.
As you should already have learned, ladies, in Western society, we sit to go. And after the age of two you should have learned to STAY SEATED UNTIL YOU ARE DONE BEFORE YOU GO.
You do not walk halfway across the room, leaving little mountain ranges and footprints and places where you slipped.
Do not attempt to hover when you are drunk. It will not work. No really. You thought it worked all these years, yes, well, it didn't. Really.
Hovering should also be avoided if what you have come to accomplish is going to be 1. a semisolid, 2. liable to be more semi than solid, and 3. accompanied by lots of gas. The effect it creates is similar to what would happen if someone got really pissed off and blew a hole through the Potty Monster with a sawed off shotgun.
And do not think you are hiding anything by separating the toilet paper into dainty squares and dabbing them onto each splat so they stick there. This fools no one.
You should know better than to stand facing the bowl anyway. When you have diarrhea, this bit of common sense should be at the very forefront of your mind. No, no, no. Nobody appreciates the Jackson Pollock you created on the inside of the stall door. Not even the loopy parts where you were obviously trying for effect. No.
And as long as I'm on the subject of art, I notice you obviously spent a lot of money on those sculpted nails. Even though the squared ends resemble caligraphy points? Yeah. No. Even though the six bags of Oreos you ate earlier have returned to challenge your imagination. The ladies' room is no place for imagination.
Do you have a new lipstick? Is it shiny and pink? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on the walls of the cubicle wearing this shiny pink lipstick? Yay!
Do you still have lipstick left? Is the counter long and clean? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on it wearing your pink shiny lipstick? On your twat?
Please go die.
The big white porcelain thing on the floor there with the seat and the flushy handle is the toilet. The little metal box hanging on the wall next to the toilet? That was not put there to provide you with a choice of venue.
Yes, the sink is porcelain many times but the lack of a seat should be a big clue. So please do not leave the sink full of thick orange piss, shit on the floor next to the toilet and leave a wad of paper on the rim. Never, never do this. It's just perplexing.
Once you have used it, the toilet paper goes in the water. In the toilet. Use it on your ass and then get rid of it. In the toilet.
It is not a toy.
Do not sculpt the used paper into whimsical shapes and perch them on the plumbing.
Do not use it on your hine and then stick it to the wall.
Or the ceiling.
Or the hot light fixture.
Do not use it as a medium applicator. Resist that urge to create. No. No hearts. Not even a happyface. It is not a happy face. There is nothing happy about it.
So yeah. Guys? No. Sorry. Comparatively speaking, you have very little to complain about. And I haven't even covered menstruation. Did you notice that? How I completely avoided the entire subject of menstruation?
Yeah.
Thank me.
NSFW. trust me on this.
You can go to numerous places...say, any tavern, for example- and hear terrifying accounts from men forced to take a dump outside their castle walls. Once I stop laughing I can commiserate, because after all, everyone has to vote for Nixon, right? And eventually you have to do so in a public restroom where you run the chance of having an audience of people who are not close family. Depending on which part of the South you live in.
But see, guys know nothing about this, not really. Oh, they whine and bitch about being seranaded whether they want to be or not, but has anyone really addressed the horror that is THE WOMENS' SIDE OF A PUBLIC RESTROOM? No.
Because it's too horrible.
Of course, that is why I am here.
This, then, is what WE have to contend with.
Nice enough looking woman, right?
No.
You see, from the navel down she's nothing but holding tank. I can say that with complete confidence because a number of years ago it was standard operating procedure for women to have all their lower organs removed once they'd hit menopause. They'd just pack whatever was left into a plastic bag and tie it to a rib. Meanwhile Zelda is still putting away the sauerkraut and cabbage rolls, only now it has all this ROOM in which to accumulate...and compost...and it's all expected to exit out one hole...a hole upon which gravity, not enough dietary bulk and childbirth have taken a certain toll.
So lets say you're an average female-type gal sitting in a stall taking a leak, maybe humming a little tune, when the swollen ankles and black K-Mart tennies of this woman appear beneath the wall next to you.
They always sigh.
Then there's a Rgnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Which is more of a concentrated lack of breathing than it is an actual sound, although sadly this is not always the case.
Then they bear down and WALOOPAGAZOWPAKASPLOOSHKADOOSH WABOBP FRAPPO KADOOSH out gallops every meal they've eaten for the past week.
Then the pyroclastic wave hits. Your shoelaces start crying and crawl away and hide.
The hair on your ankles begins to singe.
Now some women are content to simply expel this burden in one long, LOUD, chunky rush, kind of like when the city flushes the hydrants in the summer.
Other women, midway through this process, become so intent that they evidently lose all sense of their surroundings and begin to emit long, sustained birthing groans.
UUUUUUUUUUUhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooh.
~SplooshFlabbabbabbablatchow~
HNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnn
~Gaslooshasooshagadonk,foosh gadooshgoooooooooosh~
Little ladies can suprise you with their capacity. And they're yippers rather than groaners. But it's the bigs ones who perform the awe inspiring crimes against nature.
They are also the ones most frequently guilty of firehosing the entire back wall of the cubicle.
Let's revisit that concept for emphasis, shall we? FIREHOSING.
Over the years they've lost track of where exactly their rear exit is anymore so they just work their pants down over the rolls, bend over and hope some hits the water.
Ever gone into the ladies room in a club and heard the drunk woman in the next cube crying and farting at the same time?
'BwaAAAAA,uh waugh,uh hwaugh, uh hwauuuuuuuuugh!" ~fuurrrAAAAAAAAAAP! pt pt'
'Hic, Uwuaaaaa,huh hwaaaa,WwAAAA haaaaaaa!"
~FFFFFFFFFFFfft pt pt pt`
It's tragic.
That only hits me later, because at the time I'm leaning against my side of the divider with tears running down my face, cracking up so hard I can't catch my breath.
At Charlies' on Capitol Hill all this was playing out one drunken evening when my glasses fell off and clattered under into the adjoining stall. She handed them back to me.
"H H H Here, are thehehese yours?"
I thanked her. "Listen, are you ok?"
"Y Yeah, I'm fiiiiii huhiiiiii hi hi hine" ~FFRAP! pt pt pt~
Ok then.
Many older women have a deep aversion to placing their bottoms onto a seat which has recently supported the bare buns of a stranger. And that's understandable. Use one of those hippie t-shirt things in the wall dispenser. Or craft your own ass gasket out of toilet paper, Martha Stewart style.
But no. That will not do.
No, these women would rather STAND UP AND PISS ALL OVER THEIR OWN FEET.
And their pantslegs. And their shoes.
Because peeing all over yourself is ALWAYS WAY BETTER than sitting on a bare toilet seat. EW GROSS A BARE TOILET SEAT EWWWWW.
You glance over and see a pair of trembly blue veined old ankles with some big old underpants streeeeeetching out between them as Mrs. Galumpke tries to straddle the bowl and you know it's gonna rain. And it does. All you can do is hope the floor slopes away from your position. You think I am exagerrating. HA.
The rest stop on I-5 at Smokey Point seems to be where all their potty alarms start ringing at the same time. I've been sitting in there when an entire flock of old ladies has gathered to stage a group performance of ELDERLY SYNCHRONIZED HOVER PEEING.
Invariably, these are the woman who pee in splurts.
Or who make motorboat noises.
Imagine Angelina Jolie with a mouthfull of Mountain Dew making motorboat noises.
That's what I mean.
And then you hear them flush and come out of the stalls, chattering away, and off they go, feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes of having successfully avoided sitting on a DISGUSTING BARE TOILET SEAT EW, soaked with piss from the knees down.
Some of you may be too young to remember these.
No. Not butts; girdles.
Now, in the '60's, back when coelecanths ruled the earth and I was a kid, all the older ladies wore them. You were supposed to wear them over your big old underpants but nobody did because with nothing to grip they'd slip and shift suddenly and flub would come shooting out in odd places. And back then girdles were still made with rubber...either rubberized sateen, or just...plain rubber.
This is a recipe for evil.
1. Rubber girdles......had an......aroma. Already. Right out of the box. A very rubbery aroma.
2. Rubber girdles were not machine washable.
Hand wash only. In the bathroom sink. Strange. Tan. Floaty. Ew.
3. Rubber girdles DID NOT BREATHE LIKE EGYPTIAN COTTON. (Except for this one, which looks it could have been played like an ocarina.)
No, very little air passed in and out of a rubber girdle.
....Except when it did so under pressure, in a series of sharp little reports, out the waistband or the legholes. SNAP! SNABABABAP!
And remember - this air had exited first through an aperature better left unimagined and then spent an unknown amount of time racing desparately around and around the hot, sweaty, compressed flub of a fat womans' ass like a hamster in a habitrail.
As Redd Foxx points out, this woman may have been riding in a taxi cab. This woman may have run to catch a bus. She may have had liver and onions for lunch.
Usually she was standing next to me on the elevator in Meyer and Franks. Giving ME dirty looks.
But see, guys know nothing about this, not really. Oh, they whine and bitch about being seranaded whether they want to be or not, but has anyone really addressed the horror that is THE WOMENS' SIDE OF A PUBLIC RESTROOM? No.
Because it's too horrible.
Of course, that is why I am here.
This, then, is what WE have to contend with.
Nice enough looking woman, right?
No.You see, from the navel down she's nothing but holding tank. I can say that with complete confidence because a number of years ago it was standard operating procedure for women to have all their lower organs removed once they'd hit menopause. They'd just pack whatever was left into a plastic bag and tie it to a rib. Meanwhile Zelda is still putting away the sauerkraut and cabbage rolls, only now it has all this ROOM in which to accumulate...and compost...and it's all expected to exit out one hole...a hole upon which gravity, not enough dietary bulk and childbirth have taken a certain toll.
So lets say you're an average female-type gal sitting in a stall taking a leak, maybe humming a little tune, when the swollen ankles and black K-Mart tennies of this woman appear beneath the wall next to you.
They always sigh.
Then there's a Rgnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Which is more of a concentrated lack of breathing than it is an actual sound, although sadly this is not always the case.
Then they bear down and WALOOPAGAZOWPAKASPLOOSHKADOOSH WABOBP FRAPPO KADOOSH out gallops every meal they've eaten for the past week.
Then the pyroclastic wave hits. Your shoelaces start crying and crawl away and hide.
The hair on your ankles begins to singe.
Now some women are content to simply expel this burden in one long, LOUD, chunky rush, kind of like when the city flushes the hydrants in the summer.
Other women, midway through this process, become so intent that they evidently lose all sense of their surroundings and begin to emit long, sustained birthing groans.
UUUUUUUUUUUhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooh.
~SplooshFlabbabbabbablatchow~
HNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnn
~Gaslooshasooshagadonk,foosh gadooshgoooooooooosh~
Little ladies can suprise you with their capacity. And they're yippers rather than groaners. But it's the bigs ones who perform the awe inspiring crimes against nature.
They are also the ones most frequently guilty of firehosing the entire back wall of the cubicle.
Let's revisit that concept for emphasis, shall we? FIREHOSING.
Over the years they've lost track of where exactly their rear exit is anymore so they just work their pants down over the rolls, bend over and hope some hits the water.
Ever gone into the ladies room in a club and heard the drunk woman in the next cube crying and farting at the same time?
'BwaAAAAA,uh waugh,uh hwaugh, uh hwauuuuuuuuugh!" ~fuurrrAAAAAAAAAAP! pt pt'
'Hic, Uwuaaaaa,huh hwaaaa,WwAAAA haaaaaaa!"
~FFFFFFFFFFFfft pt pt pt`
It's tragic.
That only hits me later, because at the time I'm leaning against my side of the divider with tears running down my face, cracking up so hard I can't catch my breath.
At Charlies' on Capitol Hill all this was playing out one drunken evening when my glasses fell off and clattered under into the adjoining stall. She handed them back to me.
"H H H Here, are thehehese yours?"
I thanked her. "Listen, are you ok?"
"Y Yeah, I'm fiiiiii huhiiiiii hi hi hine" ~FFRAP! pt pt pt~
Ok then.
Many older women have a deep aversion to placing their bottoms onto a seat which has recently supported the bare buns of a stranger. And that's understandable. Use one of those hippie t-shirt things in the wall dispenser. Or craft your own ass gasket out of toilet paper, Martha Stewart style.
But no. That will not do.
No, these women would rather STAND UP AND PISS ALL OVER THEIR OWN FEET.
And their pantslegs. And their shoes.
Because peeing all over yourself is ALWAYS WAY BETTER than sitting on a bare toilet seat. EW GROSS A BARE TOILET SEAT EWWWWW.
You glance over and see a pair of trembly blue veined old ankles with some big old underpants streeeeeetching out between them as Mrs. Galumpke tries to straddle the bowl and you know it's gonna rain. And it does. All you can do is hope the floor slopes away from your position. You think I am exagerrating. HA.
The rest stop on I-5 at Smokey Point seems to be where all their potty alarms start ringing at the same time. I've been sitting in there when an entire flock of old ladies has gathered to stage a group performance of ELDERLY SYNCHRONIZED HOVER PEEING.
Invariably, these are the woman who pee in splurts.
Or who make motorboat noises.
Imagine Angelina Jolie with a mouthfull of Mountain Dew making motorboat noises.
That's what I mean.
And then you hear them flush and come out of the stalls, chattering away, and off they go, feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes of having successfully avoided sitting on a DISGUSTING BARE TOILET SEAT EW, soaked with piss from the knees down.
Some of you may be too young to remember these.
No. Not butts; girdles.
Now, in the '60's, back when coelecanths ruled the earth and I was a kid, all the older ladies wore them. You were supposed to wear them over your big old underpants but nobody did because with nothing to grip they'd slip and shift suddenly and flub would come shooting out in odd places. And back then girdles were still made with rubber...either rubberized sateen, or just...plain rubber.
This is a recipe for evil.
1. Rubber girdles......had an......aroma. Already. Right out of the box. A very rubbery aroma.
2. Rubber girdles were not machine washable.
Hand wash only. In the bathroom sink. Strange. Tan. Floaty. Ew.
3. Rubber girdles DID NOT BREATHE LIKE EGYPTIAN COTTON. (Except for this one, which looks it could have been played like an ocarina.)
No, very little air passed in and out of a rubber girdle.
....Except when it did so under pressure, in a series of sharp little reports, out the waistband or the legholes. SNAP! SNABABABAP!
And remember - this air had exited first through an aperature better left unimagined and then spent an unknown amount of time racing desparately around and around the hot, sweaty, compressed flub of a fat womans' ass like a hamster in a habitrail.
As Redd Foxx points out, this woman may have been riding in a taxi cab. This woman may have run to catch a bus. She may have had liver and onions for lunch.
Usually she was standing next to me on the elevator in Meyer and Franks. Giving ME dirty looks.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll
Looking ESE, we see a typical fall morning here at rancho FirstNations. The sky is a perfect, rainwashed blue and the leaves are just beginning to change from green to gold and red, to bronze and flame yellow.
Yes, there's something in the air...something unmistakeable that says 'autumn'...something which enhances the morning haze and tints the dew sparkling on the grass...
Lo! In the distance! Sprayed at sandblasting velocity by hydraulic cannons, a green geyser of liquid faeces! And bourne northward upon the dawn winds the parmesan-pig-assfinger stench of same!
______________________
Below: This is my favorite rosebush. All that remains in bloom are the wands which have crept in through the lattice to shelter under our front porch roof. But these bloom like mad things! And they'll stay in bloom until after Christmas, too, if the past is anything to go by.
I'm given to understand that this is a native chinese multiflora, one commonly used for rootstock on the floribunda roses from the 'Sixties. There must have been a huge fad for floribundas at one time, judging from the number of these chinensis I see around older homes in the area. The top stock have long since died off, between the damp and the native mildews, but the hardy crowns survived to push up canes.
I started this one from cuttings about seven years ago, when it was a twig with four leaves. WORSHIP MY ROSE BUSH! WORSHIP MY MIND BOGGLING ABILITY TO MAKE PLANTS GROW! MUAHAHAHAHA!
__________________________
First frost this morning. You can look out onto my back yard and see it glistening on the playing field. Lets see if I can get an evocative shot here...
Note that the frost abruptly stops five feet from my property line? This is
1. Because of the powerful Protect -O - Rays which shoot out of my eyes.
2. Actually it's because the drain field ends right about there.
3. No, ha ha! It's because the city mowed that strip a few days ago and the cuttings are still giving off just enough heat to foil the formation of frost. Unless I am lying.
No, I'm not. If it was because of the drain field you'd see wisps of delicately scented fog rising.
______________________________________
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Gosh, ain't it the truth.
I am sick again. The Playboy of the Western World is in the hospital again. The Yummy Biker is convinced we are street begging, rat eating, 'Please kind sir I beg you do not turn my tiny ones out into the snow' poor again. This latter is caused merely by the beginning of September* and NOTHING AT ALL which resides in the realm of fact. The other two? I have no fucking idea. Regular as fricken clockwork, though, all three of them.
As far as my present overactive boogery state goes, I think what happens is all the kids go back to school and all the new germs they've accumulated over the summer get together and party and mutate into some kind of plague that is ready to infest my respiratory system right about October. And it has. *Snoooork*
The Playboy of the Western World crashed and burned in the lobby of the Leopold a couple days ago while he was bending over to get a newspaper. He missed, kept going, shot through the frame of his walker, hit the wall at 135mph and continued on into the crowd, killing 10 and injuring countless others.
I am getting tired of this. Not as tired as he is, I imagine.
Anyway he'll be fine; he's just bruised. The staff at St. Josephs ADORE him. The fan club is already sneaking in young guys, chocolate and dirty get well cards.
Ha' yew?
*Thats all it takes. Boom. Check the watch? five...four...three...tho...aaaaand we're poor. Every single goddamn year for the past 20.
Yes, there's something in the air...something unmistakeable that says 'autumn'...something which enhances the morning haze and tints the dew sparkling on the grass...
Lo! In the distance! Sprayed at sandblasting velocity by hydraulic cannons, a green geyser of liquid faeces! And bourne northward upon the dawn winds the parmesan-pig-assfinger stench of same!
______________________
Below: This is my favorite rosebush. All that remains in bloom are the wands which have crept in through the lattice to shelter under our front porch roof. But these bloom like mad things! And they'll stay in bloom until after Christmas, too, if the past is anything to go by.
I'm given to understand that this is a native chinese multiflora, one commonly used for rootstock on the floribunda roses from the 'Sixties. There must have been a huge fad for floribundas at one time, judging from the number of these chinensis I see around older homes in the area. The top stock have long since died off, between the damp and the native mildews, but the hardy crowns survived to push up canes.
I started this one from cuttings about seven years ago, when it was a twig with four leaves. WORSHIP MY ROSE BUSH! WORSHIP MY MIND BOGGLING ABILITY TO MAKE PLANTS GROW! MUAHAHAHAHA!
__________________________
First frost this morning. You can look out onto my back yard and see it glistening on the playing field. Lets see if I can get an evocative shot here...
Note that the frost abruptly stops five feet from my property line? This is
1. Because of the powerful Protect -O - Rays which shoot out of my eyes.
2. Actually it's because the drain field ends right about there.
3. No, ha ha! It's because the city mowed that strip a few days ago and the cuttings are still giving off just enough heat to foil the formation of frost. Unless I am lying.
No, I'm not. If it was because of the drain field you'd see wisps of delicately scented fog rising.
______________________________________
The more things change, the more they stay the same. Gosh, ain't it the truth.
I am sick again. The Playboy of the Western World is in the hospital again. The Yummy Biker is convinced we are street begging, rat eating, 'Please kind sir I beg you do not turn my tiny ones out into the snow' poor again. This latter is caused merely by the beginning of September* and NOTHING AT ALL which resides in the realm of fact. The other two? I have no fucking idea. Regular as fricken clockwork, though, all three of them.
As far as my present overactive boogery state goes, I think what happens is all the kids go back to school and all the new germs they've accumulated over the summer get together and party and mutate into some kind of plague that is ready to infest my respiratory system right about October. And it has. *Snoooork*
The Playboy of the Western World crashed and burned in the lobby of the Leopold a couple days ago while he was bending over to get a newspaper. He missed, kept going, shot through the frame of his walker, hit the wall at 135mph and continued on into the crowd, killing 10 and injuring countless others.
I am getting tired of this. Not as tired as he is, I imagine.
Anyway he'll be fine; he's just bruised. The staff at St. Josephs ADORE him. The fan club is already sneaking in young guys, chocolate and dirty get well cards.
Ha' yew?
*Thats all it takes. Boom. Check the watch? five...four...three...tho...aaaaand we're poor. Every single goddamn year for the past 20.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
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#2234Have 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!!!!
#8965You'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)
#112Her 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
#666Too 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
#0095The 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
#117Whatever 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
#2250oH 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
#786SPECIAL 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!
#786 FOR Rockmother (8 track tape )
#1110The allure of the tempting tropics lures you in to the sample delights of this daughter of natural! let her love you on the sand under the heat of the island moon and singyour heart a song of passion noW!!!
#1110 for Claire
#4442Become 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!
#4442 for NOSHIT SHERLOCK (OR DIAL 666. 54. 77. 8966 FOR free phone line NOW!)
#3004
wILD AND UNTAMED she roams the deser4t looking for a STAlliOn! could that horse be you? You;'ll nevber know until you try and run withthis frisky desert mare! Tame her if you dare!
#3004 for G
#0080She's wet shes wiled! She'll make a splash ! with her mermaids way she'll swim upstream into the heart of your chest and love will flowing now SEXXY! Hve seeing to believe this swan dive of elevator, into the waters go! WaVE!!!!
#0080 for MUtha!
#641Please put your TRAY into the upright and lock position for THIS dangerous curves ahead! If glancing away she will capture you in her barrier and make hot wild love all week all night for tiime with you!
#641 for SpinsterellA
#006Sweet 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!]
#006 for Tamburlaine
#216Peek a nboo, I see you! I'ts not just a hairry dog story, this hoy mamma will never say no! pearls and lace,d jewels and gold, she'll robk your until you're old age...and make you BEG FOR MOR4E!
#216 for Neva
#327So ultra modern, so extra special! This siren of the satrsw will sing you a sweet song of love while the mook rides over head. Her martian ways of strange SeXXXy have you holding y9our head and say A!
#327 for Patroclus
#1088All we can say is EXXXotic!
This limber lovely has all the engredients of the percect COCKtail! have breatstf, and cocoanut, with spicy spicy heat! on fire for you! She dancing with banada, maybe can be yours tODAY!
#1088 for MIxx boheMIA!
#227MK-uLTRA SEXXXY! this swindging london lassie doesn't make time for play she earns it! with her hips on beat rocking to that london sound! And quiet time ahead of desk for romp aafter take a llettar HOT HOT HOT!
#224 for Great She Elephant
#00081Sooooo sophisticated, soo smooth, so super freaky! she often has wetness for her day in car, in taxicab, in limousine for prim and porper mother onthe go or wild temptress in the fast lane!!! go slow! your hand, the stivckchift myst fully gear ahead!
#00081 for Dflatchimebar
#340Oh where are my glasses, the pretty girl, when I have miss you? Mindful of softly being, taste with tong she looksfor searching, suck with lips? Oh, can uguide me to you srpirng of love? If i say please???
#340 for Chaucers Bitch!
#444Eye eye senor! Hot tomale looks with sauce mustard, buns bottom gun in hand boom! If wtih having the loose tongey in mouth why not try a riba? She socks a mean wallop with her two bottoms of love! all bare for senior man jto tickle moustache!
#444 for ARABELLA//1
#0568oH OH OH SHE SAYWHEE! round and raound like afn for round and round of boob! and go! she wind up the p0ulls and go around of key like fan, for wind to cool you off on hot nights and WHEEE!1 she waves! Waved! whoo! whooo! into your eye! humping! take off! helli vcopter!
#0568 for bETTY!!!!!!!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
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!"
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!"
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