Tuesday, June 28, 2005

No, I'm not dead...

...I just look that way in the mirror every morning.

Finally cleaned out the storage unit, pulled the better part of 2/3rds of the CRAP down out of the attic, and am this much closer to sorting out the gi-normous pile o' defecate gear that has somehow accumulated in the northwest corner of my bedroom.

Two or three times a day I walk past the computer, pause to gaze at it with longing and angst filled, desperate wistfulness, then let a silent sigh pass 'tween my ever-parched lips, gird my loins with intestinal fortitude, and head back out into the garage with yet another rubbermaid tote filled with scrapbooking shrapnel and snowman collages.

LORD I hate moving.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

A Touch Of Perspective

Stolen from Memento Moron

I find it interesting that the techniques used to "torture" Gitmo internees would be considered a decent house party in most suburban neighborhoods.

And won't mom be PISSED about the beer stains on the carpet. Hey! Who peed on my dad's copy of the Koran? Ahh maaan, not in the POOL!! Hey! Put that down!! Dude, the cops are at the door. They say you got to knock off the loud music and tell the chicks to put their clothes back on. (please note in the aforementioned link, that the Red Cross most sternly suggests that "some interrogation tactics come close to torture". As in close to, but not quite. Moving on...)

Oh. The. Inhumanity.

Now whyizzit that Sheriff Joe Arpaio can treat OUR prisoners like THIS, and be lauded for finally taking a tough stand against crime, but we have to coddle murderous, sworn enemies of the Republic for fear of offending their cultural sensitivities? I'm for saying that we send old Joe down around Gitmo way to tighten things up a bit. I have to admit to a certain sadistic gleefulness at the thought of a bunch of muslim tough guys wearing pink underwear.


Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Random Cerebral Effluvium

LIFE sometimes comes up and takes a hold of you, shakes you like a pissed-off bull terrier suffering from anal cysts, and just generally wreaks a general sort of havoc with your daily routine.

Just when you think you've got everything ("life," that is) nicely sorted and arranged, the angry, spastic, developmentally disabled kid from the next playgroup over decides to have one of his "fits" right in the big, hairy middle of your nicely coiffured lego blocks and lincoln logs. His seemingly random and misdirected fit of metaphorical wailing, arm waving, and a frantic shuffling two-step send all the pieces flying to heaven knows where, only to have him stand there puffing heavily from his exertions, drooling slightly, and fixing you with a glare that demands to know why you made him do that?

The teacher will then likely bustle over all a-twitter and scold you soundly for being so mean to little Trencherd, and don't you reeeealizzzze that we have to be sensitive to his special needs?! And then she gives you detention for making such a mess of your toys and antagonizing the other children.

Yeah, it's been kinda like that lately.

You know, when you get home, after sneaking out early before the kids get up, and snag your favorite quad grande' vanilla mocha Sumatra whatever from the Starbucks drive-through, smuggle the still-steaming travel mug in through the garage, close the door to your study, prop yourself into the welf-worn lay-z-boy, and settle in for the only seven and a half minutes of peace and quiet you're likely to get that day, only to discover that the inbred high-school dance team airhead manning the pumps behind the counter inadvertently switched your drink with the granola-chewing tree-hugger driving the beat up Ford Fiesta who was behind you in line . You heave a sigh of bitter regret as your realize that the decaf soy-milk lemon herbal tea you DID get just ain't gonna fit the bill.

Yeah, it's been kinda like that, too.

There's an old saying that goes something like, "Boy, somebody pissed in HIS cheerios!" Well, there are times where it's more like you are the 98-pound weakling sitting in the junior high lunchroom, just trying to quietly enjoy the bounty that the your $1.75 netted you from the state-funded school lunch program, when some ass-wipe wannabe jock with the words "LIFE" emblazoned across his sleeveless t-shirt, climbs up on the table, stands in front of you, and in front of the entire 2nd Shift Lunch Crowd whips it out and pisses all over the big middle of your institutional blue fiberglass tray, soaking the green beens, grilled-cheese, and crumb cake. All to the background of hysterical laughter and finger-pointing.

Which is why I haven't been blogging lately.

However, what the little fucker didn't know what that I had a police baton and tazer gun squirreled away down my left pant leg because the school metal detectors were being repaired. So, I'm fixing to open up a can o' 98-lb wuppass and straighten a few things out. Watch for me on the 11 0'clock news.

Okay, maybe nothing quite so extreme, but things have finally quieted down enough that I may actually be able to start posting again. The spastic kid is back on his meds, and the jock got his arm broken by his abusive stepfather for getting piss stains on his new tennis shoes.

And I'm gonna try that new latte' stand in the ShopKo parking lot. Looks promising.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Where, oh where...

...have I gone?

Well, been working like a freakin' orange suiter on a chain gang getting my house ready to put on the market. The wife's been puttin' the lash to me purty good, and I ain't hardly had time to check ma email, much less blog on this here site.

Hope to have something to post cobbled together her right quick, so don't y'all go away now, ya hear?