The Holidays Are Over and The Joy of Putting Xmas Gifts Together

First of all, as if you can't tell by my latest posting, I survived Christmas Hell once again.  The one Christmas gathering my significant other and I hosted for her side of the family didn't cause me to flip out, fall down on my knees, sob openly and then get up, retrieve my flamethrower from under the bed, go back and set everyone on fire this time around.

I only had two instances where I had to leave a heavily populated room due to stress.  For me, a heavily populated room is anything over five or six people.  I feel like I'm trapped in a herd of insane, babbling bison in that situation.  I can't handle it.  One thing that sets me over the friggin' edge is when three people are talking to you at the same time about three extremely different topics.  My head is turning faster than a possessed girl in a 70's horror movie in order to focus and hear what each buffalo has to say.  For whatever reason, people have a tendency to pull this hilarious routine on me-  intentional or not.  Maybe they want me to pull out the flamethrower.  I must seem like someone who will calmly listen to the subject matter presented and, in turn, shoot wisdom out of every orifice for the talker's benefit or possibly cause the talker to laugh by spurting out an absurd or observational joke that may have something to do with what they're rambling about.

You say you made a macaroni and cheese dish with less flavor than Styrofoam cups covering a decrepit whore's wrinkly worn down nipples?

Well, I can't wait to try to digest that dish you made for our supposedly joyous Christmas meal without spitting it out and blinding your baby with unappetizing chunks of what you jokingly refer to as food.

It's all a pretty picture I paint, I know.

Then someone else may talk about trains and fishing lures.  I will attempt interest while also fantasize about fucking Mila Kunis deep in her tiny, puckered asshole.

Ta-dah!

Here's a joke I made up for ya that's both absurd and observational.  Best of all, it's an easy one to remember.

Question: What's the difference between a monetarily wealthy kid on Christmas morning and a poor kid, that same day, that lives in a run down apartment with a bunch of relatives that are also poor?

Answer: The wealthy kid will likely probably not give too much of a shit about what he gets when he opens his gifts because he already has everything without asking.  He might grow up, feeling entitled.  Maybe not.   Now the poor kid is likely just grateful that he has a big family that loves him.  He may envy the rich kid every so often but he ultimately knows what is important and what's not.  Does he feel entitled?  Hell, he's just trying to survive.  Living his life is all the gift he needs.

Spoiled girl secretly enters the room at night, then carefully binds mother and father's limbs while they slumber peacefully, dreaming of new things to acquire and gingerly scoops parent's eyes out with a spoon because she didn't get that latest technological piece of shit that will go out of style in a couple weeks and no longer make her friends green with envy.  Later, after the merry mayhem and profuse bloodshed and disemboweling of daddy, she'll get her own reality show, thanks to the hyperventilating, over publicized rabid press coverage.  A happy ending that will certainly appeal to today's wonderfully sane society.

It's not so much a joke but it's something I think people should think about.  I think the poverty stricken people around the world think the wealthy in America suck for a lot of reasons.  It's not completely envy.  Maybe not at all.  You tell me.  I wonder if they believe we're arrogant and entitled, too, to a greater degree.

The wife and I overdid the gift giving to each other this year.  Made all the Christmas gift givings in the past look a might tame.  TV.  Camera.  Exercise machine for me.  I put that together that today.  Jewelry.  A cool graphics tablet thingamajiggy that allows you to draw with a pen while your drawing shows up on the PC monitor.  I forget what else.  Too excessive.  In a way, it gave me a bad case of "the guilts."  Perhaps I shall shed these feelings of guilt, layer by layer, by distributing free bars of soap to the hobos under the bridge.  Sorry.  That isn't right.

I really wish the lady would have come, shipped in a special container with this item, when I ordered it.  She could have made me some delicious mac and cheese.  Darn it.

But, at the moment, I'm feeling kinda vulnerable and anxious now that I've said what we got this festive holiday season.  Don't rob me!  I'm nuts.  Who knows what type of funny rascally rabbit I'll pull out of my hat?  For real. Fair warning, my friends.  Group hug?  No?

I've figured out how this thing goes with that thing, for the most part.  I'm learning how to do new stuff that's normally a little above my intelligence capabilities.  But I'm still one hell of a guy, after all.  There are still hook ups and procedures I don't quite understand.  But I'm going to make a real attempt at being patient with understanding things and more patient with people- this year and beyond.  I'll try working on that.  No more Mr. Flamethrower Guy.  Unless I'm provoked.  :-D

Side Note: So far the comments I've been getting about the exercise machine suggest that I got it as a gift from a family member.  This is not the case.  My wife and I purchased it and had it delivered to myself to help lower my blood sugar and high blood pressure counts and more.  Thank you and have a rip-roaring day, damn it.  

Too Disgusting For Me

You know you've lived too long in this world when you've been around long enough to see a clothes company selling push up bras for little girls. That's right. In case you haven't heard, Abercrombie & Fitch are now selling push-up bikini bras for 7 to 14 year old little girls. The bra's padded cups and halter tops promise to lift and emphasize what little boobs the girls have before puberty.

Why in the fuck is this a reality?

I mean I don't get it. This goes way beyond sick to me. And I'm a pretty sick puppy.

The Abercrombie & Fitch company are the same stinking douchebags that sold (don't know if they're still selling them) a line of thongs for 7 year olds, in 2002, that were decorated with the words "Eye Candy" and "Wink Wink". These fuckers should absolutely be killed. Any parent buying any of this crap for their little daughters should be taken out to the woodshed and given forty whacks with a machete.

Push-up bras are sex tools. That's it. Ridiculously deceptive sex tools, at that. What kind of people would endorse this crap for kids? Bad enough that adults do this and the Botox injections and the other superficial bullshit that people do because they believe appearances to be so fucking important. Why would you push your kid into trying to be more adult-like? Do you want some pervert to rape them? If that isn't the parent who would buy something like this and Abercrombie & Fitch's goal, I don't know what it could be. After it's all said and done, that will be the likely result sooner or later. Who knows? It's probably already happened.

I feel the same way about these little girl beauty pageants you see on TV these days. The parents dress their little girls up, sometimes barely over the age of four, maybe not even that old, in tiny revealing dresses, tu-tu's, gaudy jewelry and so much make up that only a whore would wear. Then they have them compete with other little girls in revealing outfits and have them dance seductively and act like a slut on stage before a cheering audience. The parents that enter their little girls into these contests are more depraved than I could ever imagine. It boggles the fucking mind. I might write about some sick shit at times, but I would never involve children and I sure as hell wouldn't make up these pervert-watching TV shows for all the child molesters out there, drooling and ogling.

The kids are the real victims here. They don't know any better. They think they're just playing "dress up" but on a grander scale. But the parents and adults, in general, should know better. They must be doing it for profit or fame or to somehow live their warped dreams through their kids. Whatever the excuse, it's not good enough and completely wrong in so many ways.

Hey, if you wanna watch something that goes so far beyond good taste and good sense, watch Toddlers and Tiaras. It's one of those little girl beauty pageants shows and it's on a channel that I thought would have the decency enough NOT to have something like this on their schedule- The Learning Channel. This irresponsible show was so creepy and frightening to witness, I had to turn it off after just a few minutes. It made me sick. And it takes quite a bit to make me sick. On second thought, don't watch this shit! I wouldn't subject anybody to watching anything this distasteful. Go watch a porn, featuring a bunch of burnt out crack whores and sexually diseased freaks, instead. It would be a helluva lot more wholesome and less degrading, for sure.

Well, that's all I can say about this kind of thing. I think I'm going to go out for a walk pretty soon and try to clear my mind. Shit like this really agitates me.

Memories of Easter

I remember when my sister and I were kids and the family wasn't so fragmented, as it is now, and we would get baskets upon basket of Easter Candy. I recall cleaning up one Easter, getting about 12 baskets of nothin' but candy. This is when there were a lot more family members still alive to give us this much candy and everyone was still getting along with each other. Those memories of real family togetherness seem so distant now. It makes me sad.

After getting together at church, sitting together during mass in the pews, we would all go to grandma's house and eat a big Easter dinner and laugh and talk and share stories from the past. All of us would have so much fun, coloring the Easter eggs, too. Mom and the rest of us kids would have the greatest time, coming up with the cleverest designs.

What a joyful time it was.

But... getting back to the candy...

Any candy made of chocolate, white, milk or dark was yummy to me. Couldn't stand those friggin' marshmallow peeps, though. They were like biting into air. I preferred those little chocolate egg candies and bunny rabbits. Damn, I would go to town on those. Sometimes, I believe it's a real wonder that I didn't develop diabetes at an earlier age instead of my mid-thirties.

Now, the hollowed out chocolate rabbits were easy eatin'. But those big 2 or 3 pound solid chocolate bunnies might has well have been made out of granite. I would spend the next four or five days gnawing on all of them sonsofbitches. The ears, of course, are always easy, but the rest, not so much. I think I lost a fucking tooth one year, trying to consume one of these motherfuckers. By the time I was done using my teeth, scraping chocolate shavings off of those chocolate monstrosities, my gums would be bleeding and my face would look like I had dipped my head into a mountain of turds.

There would be times I would use a friggin hammer to bust the concrete-like bunnies apart into bite size chunks. Most of the time, though, my impatience to devour the chocolate would cause me to bust my thumbnails apart with the hammer while holding the bunny on the table. My insatiable appetite for chocolate was that severe.

While deep in my chocolate frenzied ecstasy, growling like a insane wildebeest, teeth gnashing on my chocolate, my younger sister would try to sneak a little of my candy away. Big mistake. I would snarl, malevolently and push little sis away from my big brown bounty as if the 12 baskets of candy were the last baskets of candy on Earth.

When I would say to her, "Eat your own candy," there would be huge globs and strands of chocolaty goo hanging from my upper lip and over my lower jaw and dripping down my chest. I likely appeared as some hideous little monster. But I didn't care. I was in the throes of utter chocolate delight. Day and night, I would gobble on the chocolate. I would be chowing on the chocolate either in bed or outside on the swing set or in the car or in our trees. Wherever- it didn't matter. Finally, after four or five days, I finished it all off.

Sure, I'd need some dental work done by the time I had completed the task, but at least I felt satisfied.

Nowadays, with mom gone from our lives and our family being as fragmented as it is, we (our little group of seven) are lucky to even celebrate Easter. Later today, sometime, we'll go to my sister's place and eat a meal, hide some Easter eggs for my little nieces to find and share stories of the good ol' days, hopefully- maybe even share some nice stories of the present. Even more hopefully, Dad won't be in one of his verbally abusive and extremely negative moods but you never know these days.

Really, the most enjoyment I get out of Easter, anymore, is watching and hearing the laughs and giggles from my nieces as they try to find the Easter eggs. It gives me some happiness to try to help hide the eggs in some tricky locations just to see if they'll be able to discover them before nightfall. Heh heh. And it's a big, fun competition between the two, usually and it's really quite humorous, observing them as they hunt in the bushes, behind the trees and other places. Everything else, at least to me, is just a sad reminder of how good things used to be.

Here's hoping everyone truly has a HAPPY EASTER today. Always remember the good times and always try to create or inspire the good times. You never know how long they're going to last. Take care!

Fool's Errand On April Fool's Day

Around a week ago, I thought of challenging myself to a task that I've never endeavored before. The challenge to myself may not seem like a big deal to you and in the grand scheme of life, it really means diddly-squat. I mean to take on this Fool's errand, starting today, All Fool's Day, that will have me creating and putting up a fresh new post, each and every day in the month of April.

"Wowee Gazowy!" you shout with as much exuberance as a kid who gets socks on Christmas Day. You're thinking, There's bloggers that do this every day. Who gives a shit? And you would be a correctly thinking cynical bastard for having this thought rattling in that big ol' noggin of yours. But, given the often arduous responsibilities I have had with certain family members and the time restraints involved, it is a challenge for yours truly. Only recently, have the burden of these responsibilities lessened with the help of several factors.

This challenge can be halted, unexpectedly, at any time due to what certain family members (and others involved) do or not do, of course. Anyway, I want to post something every day for a month just to see if I can do it.

This idea came to me during a weird day I was having, walking at the park. Just as it popped into my head, a huge motherfuckin' dog, that resembled a woolly mammoth without the tusks more than a loyal canine, struggled against the pull of a leash to eat me alive. The girl, no older than 16, was losing the battle of keeping this behemoth, this St. Bernard, from devouring my leg with this flimsy strap on a trail at the park I walk at every day. Several of her friends observed the shocked look on my face and laughed.

One of them said the usual thing that all pet owners say in these circumstances.

"Oh, don't worry. It won't bite."

Hey, that might be true most of the time, regarding your pet but that doesn't mean it won't happen at one point during their lives and it certainly doesn't give any comfort telling me or anyone that worthless shit. Hell, I've been bitten three times by dogs and each time I did absolutely nothing to cause them to take a fleshy hunk out of me. Two of those three times, I had been told earlier that their animals didn't bite people. So yes, I have a fear of dogs. For good reason.

Next time somebody tells me that their fuckin' animal doesn't bite gets to be whacked in the head with a baseball bat. The same goes for dumb fuckers who don't keep their dogs on a leash in public areas. Nobody knows for certain what their animal is going to do around anyone because animals, just like human beings, are unpredictable.

As I tried to quickly explain my past history with dogs to the teenagers while trying to walk around them, which was difficult because of the spot we had all converged, they blew off what I said like teenagers and some adults will do when you're attempting to give rational explanations to them.

The teenagers and the monster dog continued walking past me, ignoring what I was saying. Luckily, I escaped, with legs and arms still attached as we continued going in opposite directions.

Moving on, I later encountered a little boy, pretty far from where his parents were at, sitting and riding on a plastic tricycle. He said, "Hi. Who are you?"

Impressed with his willingness to be friendly to somebody he didn't know at his early age, I said, "Kelly. What's your name?"

He said his name was Tyler. At least I think he did. I really didn't want to stand there and talk to the kid for any length of time because I figured the parents would eventually look over, see that I was talking to their kid and think I was a guy with evil intentions or something. In this day and age, parents are leery of their kids talking to strangers (especially men), with good reason. I didn't want to be confronted with a potential weird situation. I just wanted to get through my day's walk without any more incidents.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on the way you perceive it, the kid followed beside me on his little plastic bike. He was determined to have a conversation with me. It was cute, you know, and I was very impressed with all of his questions and his details on what he had done so far that day and so on. Kids sometimes surprise me with their lack of self conscious behavior and fear that adults tend to have by the bucket loads.

So here I am, hobbling along, due to my feet problems, trying to be polite and at the same time, escape from this kid before the parents can come along and ask me why I'm talking to their kid. I'm doing my damnedest to avoid a potentially awkward situation and he pulls his bike directly in front of me and asks, "So where are you going?"

I felt like saying, but didn't say, "I'm trying to make it to my goddamn truck!" But, as evil as I pretend to be, I'm not going to do that. This was all kinda funny, in a way and I was beginning to feel a little sorry for the kid. I wasn't sure if he was just naturally this talkative all the time to complete strangers or if he was doing it out of loneliness or a little of both.

Exasperated, I took a deep breath and said, "I'm heading toward my truck. I have to get home. I'll talk to you later, sometime, okay?"

I wondered, after saying that, if the kid was going to ask me for my phone number so he could call me at home. Instead he asked, "Where's your truck?" I shook my head and laughed. I was afraid to tell him where my truck was at, figuring he would try riding over to it. About that time, one of his parents finally came over and began talking to him, saying it was time for him to go eat over at one of the picnic tables across the road. The parent didn't look at me once as he grabbed the boy with one hand and the bike with the other. And off they went.

Relief, at last, I thought. lol. But, I was happy to have the experience of such a courageous kid talking to me. I thought what a wonderful world it would be if everyone were as uninhibited as that. Ten minutes later, I was back in my truck, heading home and I wondered what the parents and kid talked about and did for the rest of the day.

Fun Houses

When I was a little kid, I'd go to the town fair and they would always have either a really crazy looking fun house or a terrifying one. The first time I entered inside a fun house, I got trapped in this tumbler kind of thing that spun you up and over, round and round (like a clothes dryer) until you received a concussion or fractured elbow. Loads of fun. This was back in the late 60's and early 70's where they didn't give much thought to safety issues. Then there would be the claustrophobic mirror rooms to contend with. I'd walk into mirrors, almost in tears, trying to get the fuck out. I almost had a seizure from the panic attacks endured, trapped in those rooms. Luckily, I wasn't scarred for life having been exposed to that shit. Just a few years.

On the subject of fun houses, this seems to be the kind of house that would be fun to live in.

What's that nursery rhyme about the old woman that lived in an over sized shoe, had so many children, she didn't know quite what to do-- so she let the government foot the bill, keeping the rugrats fed, schooled and clothed while her vagina steadily grew to the size of a fun house?

Yeah, you know the one. I think she lived here, in the fun house pictured below. After awhile, the woman, a human vending machine, didn't bother going through labor or pushing down hard to get the bloody little bundle of joy out of her ever-widening gaping clam. She needn't try. Often times, she'd bend over to pick up a lit cigarette that fell out of her blubbery mouth or a dropped, halfway drunken can of beer and the lil' cutie would just kind of plop out onto the roach-infested floor.

The old woman (who just looked old because she was a meth addict) wouldn't know she had given birth until she stumbled back and tripped over the infant, causing it to cry out, cursing it's very existence into this world and the fact that it's mother was a drug addled whore with festering sores covering 80% of her body. Luckily, the kid rolled out of the way, onto a bed of dead rats, before it could be crushed by the stinking behemoth.

Later, the darling little baby couldn't tell whether it was sucking on a nipple, during breast feeding or a pus-filled skin ulcer that reminded one of a strange, nightmarish teat.

Otherwise, it was a nice house. Friendly neighborhood, too.

The next pic isn't so much of a house as it is a photo of a building. But it would make a nice house. Sure, it's been through a couple earthquakes, but hey, no house is perfect.

This next one is a bounce house. They call these things fun houses, too. People buy and rent these "civil lawsuits in the making" for their kids' parties. It's supposed to keep the kids occupied. They jump all around in these big inflatable enclosed rooms, cracking their heads and bones together, causing each other to scream and cry and have all kinds of related fun.

All I see, when I look at one of these things, is the end result. Someone always manages to get hurt and bloodied. Yes, indeed, nothing says "party time", more adequately, than one of these plastic, injury-causing monstrosities. Good luck with one of these fuckers at your next kiddiefest!

At least this next "fun house" has a sense of humor. Sure, the neighborhood kids, your offspring and their rabble of pals will sustain multiple broken bones, chipped teeth and contusions, but at least they'll be able to come tumbling out of a rabbit's asshole, eventually. Gotta look on the bright side!

This next shot is for an establishment that is a kind of "fun house" for grown ups. This fun house is a bar and grill in my general area. I've wanted to take a picture of this sign forever, but didn't do it until a month ago. "Hummers" is a really nice name for a bar, isn't it? Big red lips, right there on the sign for the place. Great piece of advertising, that is. A place you can go, get sloshed and meet that special someone.

Someone that's just perfect for giving you a hummer, hence the name.

After getting your hummer for the night, why not make a stop at this next fun house. At this fun house, you can eat all the doughnuts you desire, while the doughnuts busily soak up all the alcohol in your belly. Afterwards, if you haven't thrown up all the doughnuts in the toilet bowl in the back room, you may decide to make a return visit to Hummers and do it all over again.

And wouldn't that be fun?

I Found A Pubic Hair In My Shrimp

A couple weeks ago, my wifey and I went to our favorite Chinese restaurant/buffet and pigged out. We love almost all the food on their big buffet and look forward to hitting it up every so often. The food there is very tasty and they have a wide variety of seafood on the bar- always a plus with me, since I can never get enough crab legs and shrimp.

But, as things always seem to go, when you like something for a long time, something will happen that will eventually put a damper on it. In the case of eating at one of your favorite restaurants, that something could be bad service, cold food or being placed next to a table full of screeching monkey children that won't stop screaming like banshees.

That last one I mentioned is practically a deal breaker for me since I have a very low threshold for loud, needless noise and suffer from anxiety. The parents who allow this type of unacceptable behavior to go on and on without taking Junior or Juniorette out of the place so the patrons can have a nice, quiet meal that they're paying for, are the ones who need to be taken out to the woodshed and given a couple good whacks with a sledgehammer and a poke with an electric cattle prod, for good measure. The parents could, at least, put a sound-proof muzzle on that adorable, shrieking child-thing of theirs. I won't call it child abuse or call the authorities on you if you do it. If fact, I'll slip you a few bucks to go to the nearest pet store so you can pick one up. Who says I'm not a giver?

Bad service, if it is kept to a minimum, is something I can handle if it only happened once or twice during the dozens of times I've gone to a certain eatery. Cold food- the same way.

But this time something different happened. This time, I went to the buffet bar and brought back a plate of breaded shrimp and boy, did they look good- until I happened to notice a long black pube sticking out of the tail end of one of the shrimp. The slightly kinked hair was about 2 or 3 inches in length and it was in there, stuck very securely. I tried pulling it out, using a napkin and the damn thing wouldn't come out. Now, I know it wasn't mine. I have brown hair. And I know it wasn't another customer's. Who would, after all, take the time and trouble of plucking a single hair off their head and pushing it deep in between the shell end of the shrimp and the meat of it and then putting back into the tray with the rest of the shrimp?

Especially, when they would be easily caught by every other patron, scrambling around, dishing up food on their plates?

No, that mission would be too tough to accomplish.

Look closely at the pictures of the shrimp and questionable hair, click to zoom in and speculate amongst yourselves. This is a real detective's case here, I tell you. One for the books. I ended up wrapping the shrimp up in a napkin, took it home with me and photographed the evidence. I had to throw it away, not long afterwards, because the cat was trying to get at it to eat it and I didn't want him to gag and choke to death on the pubic hair. How would I explain that to the vet?

After all, I didn't want the vet to think I was forcing my schlong down into my cat's mouth and a pube came off and somehow lodged itself in his throat. You have to worry about things like that, you know.

I say the hair/culprit came from the kitchen where the Chinese cooks were cooking the food. I don't know for sure it was stuck firmly in the shrimp, intentionally and I'm not sure if it was a pubic hair, either. When I showed it to my wife, she gasped and then asked, "What is that?"

I said, "I think it's a pubic hair."

She replied, "Well that's gross, no matter which part of someone's body it came from."

I agreed.

Then we both laughed. Wifey asked if I was going to show it to the manager and I replied that I thought it wasn't worth it. The manager would probably think I put it there and the whole thing was too embarrassing to bring up. I'm sure it was an accident. I wasn't looking for a free meal on behalf of the manager or any other compensation that the manager might have given us. Being that this was the first time something like this had ever happened there, I let the matter drop.

Besides, it's not like I actually put the shrimp in my mouth. If I had, and discovered it rubbing against my tongue, I would have been incredibly pissed and went on a mad killing spree back in the kitchen. I would have bounded through the kitchen doors, unannounced. Throats would have been slit with sharp, handy knives. Screams would be heard throughout the dining area. And everybody would be sad. Except me. I would likely just be exhausted from all that hard work and need to drink some of that delicious green tea they have there to quench my thirst.

Perhaps it was an accident. Or perhaps, in a stretch of the imagination, a cook was mad at all of us American heifers, waddling our fat asses in the place and scarfing down rice rolls, dumplings, crab legs, Orange chicken and pubic hair shrimp.

Who knows? It gave me a topic to post about, anyway. That's the important thing.

On The Road With Kelly

Twenty miles of road separated our place and our destination, today. Even though it wasn't that long of a drive we still managed to see several things that were odd or formidable throughout. The following events I describe really took place -as hard as it may be to believe.

The first sight/challenge we encountered on our journey was a long and twisted gauntlet of orange barrels and cones. Somehow we struggled our way through on a narrow, twisted, crumbling, one lane stretch of road. The road normally has two lanes but the other side going in the opposite direction was being blocked by the heavy machinery and the road crew.

The embankments on either side of this road leads to life threatening drop offs. Before you can kiss your ass goodbye, you're a fuckin' goner, man. The road crew would halt us at different parts of the road so the others in the opposite direction could come through on the same side of the shitty road. Not only did we have to dodge barrels, cones, people and potentially lethal drop offs, there was also the huge backhoe loader.

If you can't picture what I'm talking about, look at the picture of it in the upper left hand corner of this post. That's a backhoe loader. Do you see this fucking monstrosity? See the big elephantine claw-scoop thing in the back of this monster? What's this heavy metal monster doing on something that is, presently, little more than a sidewalk? That big claw-scoop thing was swinging towards us at one point and we thought simultaneously that (A) We have nowhere to go on this hellish road to avoid this gargantuan metal beast and (B) We're going to die before we can get to the shopping mall to spend way too money on stuff that we will likely put up on a yard sale next year.

After we struggle through that mess, we finally reach the interstate highway. Ah, a sigh of relief. Finally making headway. Progress, even. But lo and behold, what is this up ahead? Why it is an ambulance. Nearby the ambulance is a slew of cop cars, medical emergency personnel, mangled vehicles and people yelling at each other. This chaos was directly in between a fork in the highway. The closer we got to this accident, the more unsure we were that we were even going to make it to where we needed to turn off. Luckily, we are able make it around this annoying festival of disarray. I have no idea if anyone was killed or not. I was too busy jammin' and gyrating in my seat to my latest Rob Zombie CD to notice such trivialities. Bleed all you want, fuckers! I'm listening to my tunes!

Just as I'm finding relief from getting through that irritating bundle of wrecks and human misery, we travel another mile to see a flaming, smoking car sitting on the right side of a long metal bridge that sits over the river. And we have no choice but to go on this bridge to make it to the money pit known as the shopping mall. I say to my wife, "Gee, I hope that car doesn't explode just as we go past. That would suck mightily." She gives me that look that I take to mean that she is shitting herself (possibly literally) with anticipation.

Lucky again, we also get past the bomb on wheels -without being blown up. After we pass the fiery vehicle, my wife asks, "Hey, do you think we should call 911 for that car behind us?"

I reply, "No way. I'm busy reading the nasty little comic book that came with my new CD. Ha ha... Look at the cartoon werewolves fucking these virgins in the ass! What fun!"

She shakes her head and laughs. After 21 years, she gets me. Good thing, too.

Only a couple miles to our goal, we see a huge bloody pile of animal carcass on the side of the road, teaming with fresh maggots and busy buzzing flies. We ask each other what animal it could have been. Its so fucked up, discombobulated and mushy in some parts (it was headless, too) that we couldn't make out what the hell it was before it became a hairy, bloody, putrid mass of freakishness.

We both said, almost simultaneously, "I'm hungry."

After dropping money off at the travel agency for our upcoming cruise, we decide to throw a bunch of cash at a better-than-decent restaurant. Finally comfortable and salivating at the menu items, a family with a herd of children are soon seated right the fuck next to us. The whole place has maybe five customers in it (due to the odd time of day we came) and they seat two adults and a small army of kids next to good ol' quiet us. Why? I figure they do that in order to make it easier on the server. Put every asshole in a single row of tables. Fuck the customer if they want to eat in peace and not have a fucker on a cell phone yappity yapping away beside them. Hell, I don't know why they always do that. You tell me!

Of course, the children commence screeching, crying and poking each other's eyes out with forks. Normally, this would be funny -the ruptured eyeballs and all -but they were creating too much noise with their persistent wailing for me too handle. I get easily stressed out nowadays, with all the ugly shit that's happened in the past five years. It makes the diabetes worse, too. I start to shake and lose focus.

Rather than say something to the server like, "Could you move us away from the screeching monkeys beside us?", I ask my wife if she wanted to help me move our glasses and silverware, glasses and napkins to the empty table next to us before the waiter comes back and takes our order.

She does and we move our stuff to the next table.

In the past, I wouldn't have done something like that because I wouldn't want to seem rude to the family of screechers beside us -but now, thankfully, I plain just don't give a fuck anymore. Hell, after talking to two complete strangers (my therapist and psychiatrist) these last 2 years, crying and telling them absolutely everything I was feeling and some heavy secrets that even my wife doesn't know about, I can pretty much do or say anything without much guilt. Plus, this medication I'm on now causes me to be a bit on the aggressive side. Happy, aggressive, energetic and impulsive.

A beautiful combination for me. But not for others. Oh, well. Tee hee.

I cheated on my diet, today and had the full rack of hickory smoked ribs with garlic roasted mashed potatoes. Mmmm. It was yummy. It definitely didn't look like that dismembered caked-with-blood thing we saw on the side of the road, earlier. Speaking of things that are creamy, I also enjoyed a piece of white chocolate banana cream pie.

In the end, it turned out to be a better day than I expected given the way it began. I wonder if that car blew up? Ha ha.

Shock Has Stuck Around

From birth to present time, I've always been easily shocked by the actions or words of other people. Until I was in my teens, I didn't say much. Instead I chose to listen and observe people. The conclusion of 40 plus years of observation has led me to the simple fact that one thing unifies and defines everyone in this society. And that one thing is insanity.

Growing up in a small town, I originally, until the time I was ten, lived in a small four room house that had neither a bathtub, shower or toilet. We were poor but we made do. Our drinking water came from an old cistern. A kind of well. When it was later cleaned out, it had these little albino frogs jumping around down at the bottom of it. Yummo!

My only friends and neighbors for miles, until I was six, were a family called The Hogstons. Yeah, that was their actual last name. Their only kids were two young boys. They had a couple dogs as pets... and then some. For fun, the boys, David and Lowell (about my age at the time) would play "The Lemonade Game." If you're thinking that this game involved running around in circles, pissing into each other's mouths all the while, then you would be correct. sir. I even have memories of them humping a family wiener dog, but I didn't know back then what the hell they were doing because I WAS A GODDAMN KID.

Sure they would invite me to play their games. But usually, even while I would say "No thanks," unsteadily, I was in a state of shock. I would offer my own ideas like, "Let's go ride bikes." They would have none of those (normal) types of childhood hobbies.

The one thing they did that really scarred me for life was when they locked me in a cold, spider- infested, cobweb filled basement, with the lights out. I screamed for hours. When the door was finally opened, I was in shock and feared the dark from that day forward.

Eventually, I distanced myself altogether from them and collected shiny rocks off of the gravel road that led to our house and rode my bike for my main hobbies. I also collected matchbox cars and began making these little staple and paper books about the pets we had. I even included my own illustrations. Later on, I began writing short stories about anything. My imagination was great. When I wasn't doing that, mom and I would take walks down the road. I wish I had stronger memories of that than anything else. By the way, my new best friends, eventually, became an apple tree and a cat named Pepsi.

Anyway.... Back to the neighbor kids:

These boys could easily play that moronic cousin's family (Randy Quaid played the father) in the National Lampoon's "Vacation" movies. Inbred cousin-screwing morons are one thing, but it's quite another thing to drink your brother's pee and fuck the family dog. Even as a wee lad, I knew that was wrong.

My next big shock happened when I started going to parochial school. Catholic school. We had nuns for teachers. This was when nuns always had to wear the penguin outfits. (Watch "The Blues Brothers" movie) You know, black and white, curtain-cloth type garments that hung down to the ankles.

One sister was a principal. She might have claimed herself as a holy god servant but she was more like a husky quarterback-sized woman cursed with a bulldog face and heart of pitch black tar . She was also a cold hearted bitch... In case you didn't catch the implication before.

This sister -we'll call her Sister Harker, delighted in punishing whoever she thought was getting out of line. Sometimes, a ruler against the knuckles would be used. Other times, it would be a hard hand smacking you across the face with enough force to knock your teeth out. Ahh... precious memories.

My friend, Russell and I, quiet outcasts from the usual rabble of school kids, were walking to the daily morning mass before school one day. You would be forced to walk to church in two straight lines, never allowed to make a noise. It was almost like marching. Hell, it was more like they were the military.

At one point, during those 8 years of parochial school, Russell and I dared to whisper something to each other while walking down the hallway towards church. Remember: We were normally very quiet, even during recess, on the playground. This was a more rarer event than when Bush Jr. made a correct decision during eight years as president. Suddenly, as Russell and I whispered, our heads crashed together as if the gods themselves had struck us with lightening. Sister Harker screamed, "You are not allowed to talk!"

I was in so much shock, I didn't understand the words coming out of her mouth. My friend told me what she had said later on.

Harker grabbed my friend's arm and my own. What next? I wondered. Public execution? Instead she chose to present the both of us to the rest of the class and lecture everyone on not talking on the way to church. For the crime, the punishment, in comparison, was being made into a big Broadway play, of sorts. Luckily, or unluckily, I was watching the twittering little birds above my head. Tweet. Tweet.

I've never looked into the possibility of a concussion. Ha.

Sister Harker was as big and strong and mean as a rabid sumo wrestler. I found out she turned 95, just recently. More proof of that old saying "Only the good die young". Maybe living that long on this rock called Earth is her punishment.

Part Two of this post is coming up next.

Snow And The Fun Ahead

The snow keeps coming down here in Indiana. Off and on, it comes in big heavy spurts, then a light flurry. It started to fall during the morning work rush hours, of course. Snow never falls when it's supposed to fall. But really, is there ever a good time?

A little boy was shoveling snow in our apartment complex parking lot, despite the fact his uncovered paths were covered back up minutes afterwards. I admired his efforts. For over an hour, he was out there shoveling away, full of determination. He finally gave up and went back inside. Which is good. Otherwise, with the temperature being in the twenties, he would likely become a three foot, hooded Popsicle.

I watched the tv news earlier today and they were showing video clips, repeatedly, of accidents that have occurred on the interstates and highways. Each local news program have their own reporters going out on these interstates and highways, showing and telling the viewers how much snow is on the roads and the various people that they stop to ask how they're faring on the roads. You will never see them go on a back country road, where the huge amounts of unplowed (normally) snow is. Ha ha. That's where the real action is. And it's always the same questions and usually, the same answers given during those short, useless interviews, as well.

Now here's a question I would like to hear asked, but never is:

"Do you really need to be driving on the road during this time?"

Ah, the craziness of most folks. But then, I wouldn't have much a blog without them, would I?

Now, as I look out the window, a gang of screaming child beasts, are snowboarding and sledding down our sloping parking lot, falling down, sliding underneath or near parked cars- like mine. Of course, when they get hurt, the parents will try to sue the landlord or the owner of the vehicle they supposedly were injured by instead of doing the right thing: Discipline and watch their kids. You know, parenting.

Years from now, these little hairless monkeys with little or no common sense will go on to college, continue their brainwashing societal indoctrination and hold down overpaid jobs where their bad decision making will effect the public and individuals in numerous and heartbreaking ways. Though hopefully, by their ripe time of adulthood (if that's what you would like to call it), Earth will have completely shaken us off like the diseased ridden fleas that we are with floods, famine, earthquakes, massive hurricanes and so on. Anyone with common sense can see that process is already underway these days. And good golly, you can see that we are all so very concerned and the big industrial nations (the worst contributors of global warming) are certainly taking real action. Sure.

Then, after some time has passed and only traces of our existence is left, another civilization will arise to build, make war, pollute, worship power and currency, repeat our past mistakes and well .... repeat it all again. Just as before.

Keep your fingers crossed! Sarcasm intended. Also: In tribute to the human race, I just cut loose a small, yet delicate fart.

Anyhooo, I hope my wife gets home safe through all of this shit outside. Snow/ice is fucking dangerous and worthless. Only skiers, snowboarders, kids and the like enjoy this crap.

I hope anyone reading this remains safe and warm during this winter season. This time, no sarcasm.

14 Things That Never Fail To Annoy

1- People that drive too goddamn slow. Pull over if you see a goddamn train of cars behind your annoying ass, goddamn it! If possible, go ahead and drive over a steep drop off over the side of the road. Don't worry- I won't mind.

2- Authority figures that frequently abuse their "authority" such as government officials, cops, supervisors and wives. On second thought, I should probably delete that last example. My wife might see that and chop something off (that I may need in the future) in my sleep.

Then I would be sad.

3- Chairs that wobble.

4- Parents that refuse to take their crying babies out of the theater, restaurant, store or strip club.

5- Tomatoes. WTF is all that crap inside of them? Looks like part of a monkey colon.

6- Fast food drive thru(s). No matter how loudly or how many times I slowly tell the doofus my order, they still manage to screw it up.

7- Women who wear shoes that go clompity-clomp-clomp like a horse. Get the fuck away from me! And while you're at it, pull the top half of your expensive, name brand office suit up over your pasty-with-make up face so I can't see your glasses that have those oh-so-trendy little lenses that every office geek in the world seems to be wearing. And if you get too close behind me at the grocery store or wherever, I promise to bend over and let loose my "special cloud of goodness" directly toward your pompous facade.

And please-

Feel free to suck it in! No charge!

8- Computer errors or repeated crashes that take anywhere from a minute to infinity to figure out how to find and/or repair. How many times have I punched a hole in the wall instead of my monitor? Let's put it this way; a fairly decent outside breeze can topple my wobbly desk chair over in a New York second. That means.... it wouldn't take long, just in case you're retarded, my cross-eyed, befuddled friend.

9- Pajama-bottomed, stinking of excrement, redneck Wal-Mart shoppers. Let me please borrow the shotgun from your rusty pick up truck so that I may gleefully blast you in the face. As a bonus, I might even throw in a laugh or two whilst I dance merrily. Cross your fingers!

10- Those of you who place money, material crap and power above everything else in life. Because of these imbeciles who can't think or feel anything beyond their Almighty Dollar or Egos, the animals and the few good people inhabiting this world slowly die for their greed either by poverty, pollution and/or other means. If you fall into this group of wealthy assholes, don't forget to stop by my place for a complete and bloody beating.

11- Weak and/or decaffeinated coffee. Why don't you just piss in a cup?

12- Reality tv. There's not a bit of reality to be found in this cheaply produced sack of televised shitola. Just the inane mutterings and actions of dorks needing attention. Kill them all!

13- Vegans that lecture to carnivores like me. You are the first I'm going to eat when the food runs out.

14- Nosey people. A peek over my shoulder earns a fork stab in the eye.

Almost Human

This right-on-the-mark rant was offered up by sis, recently.

Have you heard about the woman in Connecticut that had her face ripped off by a 200 lbs chimpanzee named Travis? Ouch. The victim was not the owner, unfortunately. The owner, a rich clueless bitch, called a friend to help her get her pet monkey under control. The friend came into the house and was attacked. Her face is destroyed, eyes put out, fingers bitten off... I think he even hurt her feelings. Policemen were so horrified by the victim’s appearance that they couldn't understand if they were looking at a man or a woman, or even determine at first if she was alive.

The stupid owner did try hard to help her friend and even urged the policemen to shoot him, but when it was all said and done she still said that he was a great pet and there's nothing wrong w/ keeping monkeys in the house.

Travis, who she maintained was an angel, had in fact often stolen her car and the cars of various neighbors. Some neighbors thought he was an interesting novelty, but many (the ones who treasured their fingers and genitals) were afraid of him. Once he bit off most of a policeman's finger when he was trying to help her to get Travis under control, but she bought her way out of that trouble. She regularly gave Travis tea laced w/ Xanax in order to calm his ass down.

St. James and LaDonna Davis—owners of another rich, childless household—also raised a monkey as a human child. They came to Herold’s defense in an interview w/ the "Today Show". They lived in California w/ their pet chimp--dressing him in people clothes and feeding him surf & turf, but eventually placed him in a nearby chimp preserve where they continued to support him w/ the thousands of dollars charged to keep him there. They visited him often. One day in 2005 they took him a birthday cake and sat outside of the monkey cages singing "Happy Birthday" to him. Out of nowhere 2 other large chimps appeared outside of their cages and went nutso. They attacked LaDonna and managed to bite off one of her fingers before St. James sacrificed lots of his body parts trying to save her. He lost much of his face, including his nose; his genitals; all of his fingers; a foot; and, chunks of butt meat.


But this couple still say that chimps are great... "they are so intelligent, so much like people, all of them have different personalities and should be judged separately, like people", etc... When pressed with the question as to why they put their chimp in a preserve years ago rather than continue to raise him at home, they reluctantly admitted that he had bitten off the fingertip of a woman who had attempted to pet him on the head, and they were no longer allowed to keep him in their home. Unmentioned was the fact that he also injured a policeman and an animal control employee, and those are just the incidents that are on record. They appeared in this interview with their lawyer, who made certain that the direction of the "discussion" never ventured into dangerous territory for her rich clients or any Eccentric Childless Rich Fuck organizations.

Ha, Ha, freakin' Ha!!!

Reminds me of these dog owners who are in denial that their dogs are dangerous. Just admit it and then keep them away from everybody else!

The fact that chimps are so intelligent and so much like people is just exactly why they shouldn't be kept as pets!!! I expect that in the long run it's cheaper to simply have a child (naturally, by adoption, or foster care). The chimps are destructive and will have to wear diapers for their whole lives (20-40 years), as opposed to a child who will only need them for a few years. Why would you want a creature in your house that can masturbate and steal your car (not to mention kill you!)? Why not pick up the first homeless person that you see and dress him in people clothes? He would appreciate the surf & turf, the drugged tea, and waking up without frost-bite. He probably wouldn't even bite off your genitals.

I think that the "Octomom" should be implanted with dozens of chimp embryos and put on a deserted island with lots of cameras running to record the outcome. That would be sweet. Seven months later, the title of the Reality show could be "Hey Baby Factory, Pick Up Your Sagging Uterus and Run For Your Life!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2182ScwDrGI (911 call from Connecticut Chimp Owner Sandra Herold to save Friend/Victim Charla Nash. Note the initially smug attitude of the 911 dispatcher)
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/29256760#29256760 (Davis interview…lo-o-o-ve the attorney’s fuchsia power suit)


Submitted by Pussy Galore

Damn Kids Ruin Mom and Dad's Fun

That's one of the problems when you have kids. They're always popping their nosy lil' heads around the corner when ya least suspect. In this commercial, you see two lil' twits interfering with a mom and dad's innocent fun. It serves them right if they are scarred for life.

Halloween Memories--Come and Share The Love

I went up to my dad's house to help him pass out candy to all the lil' buggers during Halloween a few nights ago. My sister, hubby and kids joined us and participated. My niece pretty much took care of the candy bowl the whole night. At one point, the bowl of candy was empty. My niece became worried that we were out. I told her she should pick her nose and offer her boogers as delectable treats, instead. She frowned at that suggestion.

When I was a kid, I had, at different times of Halloween, dressed up as a robot, a ghost, Batman, a vampire and other things. During drunken Halloween parties, years later, I dressed up as a Jamaican man, a genie, a woman, a priest and I forget what else. I've been neglectful on the upkeep of my brain cells.

My first costume, a ghost, was a bad mistake.

It was my first trick-or-treating experience as a wee lad. I was nervous. I had never gone up to a total stranger's door and ask for candy. Nowadays, I would do it with a song in my heart and a lump in my pants. My sweet Auntie Kay, about four years older than I, grabbed my hand and took me on a walking tour of various neighborhoods. She was in a hurry, too. I could tell by the way she dragged me along the sidewalks at a speed that would make a cheetah envious. I don't think she liked the idea of being saddled down with a kid to look after the whole night. Heh heh. Oh well.

Anyhoo, the goddamn ghost bed sheet caused me to have all manner of fits. For one thing, I couldn't see out of it. The goddamn eye holes weren't big enough and were in the wrong place for me to see. Secondly, the sheet was too long. I must have stumbled, because of it, a gazillion times. And I don't know how many occurrences there were of me tripping and falling on some ass hole's overly steep concrete steps.

Damn those concrete steps! Damn them all!

One of the last times I dressed up for Halloween, I went as a priest to another drunken Halloween party. For added kicks, I had a dildo hanging out, over my nether regions, with my costume. Some were shocked. Others, appalled. It was apparent I made some folks uncomfortable. They would give me those "I'm disgusted" glares. Certain females laughed and pointed. I hid my shame by stroking my apparatus and making flirtatious remarks.

Was that okay?

My friend's overly goody-goody christian sisters were there, scowling at me. My shame caused me to take another swallow of beer and think of the different ways I would have enjoyed putting them over my lap and giving them a good once over.

Ah.... memories.

No Good Ball Playin', Bad Throwin' Youngsters

Edna Jester, an 89 year old woman, who needs her peace and quiet and no balls thrown in her yard was arrested at her home in Blue Ash, Ohio. She was charged with petty theft after one of the children's fathers complained that she took the kids' football and refused to give it back. Police Capt. James Schaffer says there has been an ongoing dispute in the neighborhood over kids' balls landing in the woman's yard.

The poor old woman is due in court next month. Read full story here about Jester. (Good name, considering her ball stealing prank) Heh heh. http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20081020/ap_on_re_us/odd_football_charge

I, for one, think it was okay for the elderly Jester to take their damn ball. I mean, sure, if it just happened that one time (or twice even) I would toss it back over. But not the third time. It's mine then. Kids should be more respectful. And if your dog comes over and takes a poop in my yard, I will shoot it in the ass with my pellet gun. Unfortunately, I don't have a pellet gun. Or a yard, as a matter of fact.

Damn it.