Friday friend dinner: two friends plus the new guy… Pretty awesome. Everyone else is lame for bailing. And the food is fuckin amazing. Yeah, thanks encyclopedia: happy day. Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
It seems lately I’m having a bout of writers block, well, sort of. I have ideas in my head and think of so many things that I want to expound upon (you like when I use big words) but when I get to the keyboard or notebook… nothing. I can’t remember who I last spoke to, let alone the brilliant thoughts I had while driving down the road checking out the madness that is the world around me. I think there is an underlying theme to those thoughts keeping me from processing them completely. It’s a bit like being on a river running just quick enough that the beginner can’t be on it without a guide. Where is my guide? I need my power animal… And Marla is not invited. Sometimes it’s just like that… So instead of writing I start scrolling and continue feeding the river. In the vain that I don’t have to have a completely cohesive thought to write… some choice nuggets.
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It’s not so much that he can’t spell eucalyptus (I have a hard time with that too) it’s the “attacked by a warthog” that has me thinking…. Hhhmmm why is there a warthog and what did you do to provoke it’s attacking you??
fail blog in general is fantastic. Human beings proving that you can’t buy common sense. ***
the chemistry list cd’s grapes matches soap hot peppers dry sponges and light bulbs
really??? Are we certain I shouldn’t put cd’s or light bulbs in the microwave?? I was thinking a cd sando sounded fantastic with melted cheese… And while I’m at it I’ll throw in some matches, maybe they’ll be good with ketchup.
homosexual necrophilia in a mallard??? I’m sorry, maybe it’s me but wha? huh? Do I care if mallards are homosexual necrophelliacs? What if he (she/it) just wanted to be loved and all the other ducks kicked it out? Why is someone paying this guy to pay enough attention to these ducks that not he can only write not one, but two books about them, but also figure out that one of these guys is gay and diddleing the dead. Whatever. I guess the Dutch haven’t hit quite the recession the rest of the world has.
Then there is my current favorite pastime… Whoever thought up this section of the Boston Globe should be awarded (if they haven’t already). The Big Picture is something I look forward to seeing when it comes up on my reader. A collection of photos that cause a host of emotions every time I see them. It’s a nice reminder that there is beauty, tragedy, hope, helplessness, love, hate and people struggling the same way we are all over the world. I can get lost in the images of someone else and realize my world isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s beautiful…
Remember back to third or fourth grade and the teacher handing out recorders? They did at my school anyway, and one of the first things I learned was three blind mice. I couldn’t play it today, but it was fun then. Playing the recorder that is. I believe I’ve mentioned this before, but mice… not fun. Finding them in the boxes, as I finally got to take things from the garage at my folks… not the best way to start my moving experience. They were not blind and there were waaay more than three. I had no nursery rhyme in my moving experience. Whoever wrote that had something wrong. I’m super thankful the bfff was holding the box that live ones went scurrying from or I think I may have passed out. Just thinking about it is gross. Then unpacking and finding their little poops everywhere and things chewed on, still not havin fun. Who knew they would take stuff from one box and put it in another??/ I did not. That is until I found about 3 pounds of lentils (wha?? huh??) in a box of my books and writing supplies. I guess my mom had a box of lentils by the fridge (as I had no need to store vast quantities of dried foodstuffs in her garage for several months.. the apocalypse isn’t going to hit me at her place). Whatever, that was rather interesting. I found smaller quantities here and there, but three pounds. One box. Oh and then there was the nest. Apparently my box full of pots and pans that were all individually wrapped was exactly what misses meeces wanted to birth her thousands of babies. Can we say throwing things away?? How about sterilization? Still, all things considered, I’m only grossed out, not complaining. (that will come later with two words- yellow paint). However, as I have no psycho landlady to fung up my shue… maybe the little meeces aren’t so bad. They weren’t in the house, they were just in my stuff before it got to the house. That’s not as bad… right? We moved the boxes several times before actually bringing them in so I’m callin it good. Whatever, I’m gonna stop thinking about it now, before I get the willies.
BAG BAG GGGG AAAA BAG (damn song stuck in my head now!!!)
Instead I am thinking about the coziness that is my little place. It is tucked into some trees, heated by wood burning stove, has an amazing view of one of the peaks that defines the landscape of my county, lets me listen to the sport bikes wizzing by at a distance, is completely out of compliance with any building code in existence and its right next to a family cemetery that is several hundred years old. As an aside…I’ve come to find out that at some point in time so person at the Big Uni decided it should be on the list of things to see when you’re a freshmen and groups show up out there. It’s been scavenged and messed with quite a few times. Okay… (yes, here it comes, ranting, ranting) This is someone’s final resting place. The place where their bod returns to the earth and whatever you think happens next… well yeah, that. Regardless of your religion… you just don’t go fuckin with people’s graves. That’s like asking for bad karma to come smack you in the face with a cast iron frying pan. Seriously?!? I think checking out old cemeteries is cool, rubbings and photos (if there is good energy, which there is here) and I am good with the cemetery being right there. I’m not afraid of ghosts (well these at least – I know the family that owns the cemetary and like them very much, plus feel protective of their family’s burial grounds… I think I’m good) but I don’t want any bad energy hangin around my otherwise peaceful happy place. So if I see it… smack down in a big frickin way. I have a big stick or something and I will use it. Anyhow… that being said, there is tons of potential to make it a really cool spot to hang out. Plus all the clover (think lush carpet o’…) makes it the official St Patty’s kick off place. (I’ll be taking that day off… and the next. Yeah.) In the mean time I need to work on organizing stuff and finish unpacking. I also need to clean up the vomit from the closet that threw up all over the place. I don’t know if it had a bad night out or what, but it could have tried to confine the cloths to one area… but no such luck. Who knew there would be a moment where I would not be happy to see my collection of shoes? Right now I’d love them to walk themselves up the ladder and into the closet. Maybe happy ghosts can arrange something for me.
What does $7 get you on a Saturday night in the small town outside of small town USA? Raped, ass raped to be more specific. $6 for a tourist shot of anything, no matter how good it may be, is refuckincoculous. For a mini bucket… Sure. Oh wait, this is on top of the $7 cover to get in to hear the shittiest wanna-be funk band ever. And did I mention that I'm the designated driver? Oh yeah. The shots are not mine. The only redeeming thing this night holds is the fantastic people watching.
In this corner we have the pole dancing pool wench. It's not exactly a spare tire, it's a spare tractor tire. The jiggle is makin the floor move and it isn't to the beat. And in the hick corner is big bubba in his bibbies of doom. Old school train conductor pin stripes no less, only one side done over the shoulder. We're talkin hat, pants into the boots, bud light, George straight straw hat and a beer gut that's about 8 months along (wait the pole girl is at it again, her humper sticker is frightening.!!). And my absolute favorite! The couple in the leisure suit pants and giant silver belts, coordinating their efforts to get their clothing at tight as possible. It's kinds like watching Chester the molester with his mate (the molestress) out on the town. The PDA's flying between these two is just wrong.
And all over the place are the coke whores, nasty wanna be gangsters hitting on the little hootchie girls being eye balled by Chester the Molester. It's just too much.
