elohssanatahw

I've been around

2011-10-24T14:08:00.001-05:00

I've started several entries, finished none, been busy reading blogs and posting comments. Mostly and crappin accidents and bad plane rides... had fun over there at The West Virginia Surf Report. I need to add that asshole to my side bar.

My comments wouldn't take a couple weeks ago and I couldn't figure out why... so I gave up and trolled facepage... it's sucking the life out of me.

Little Bit daughter tells me the wedding date is set for this summer ... after he gets full insurance.... a sign of the times. I'll miss her. I may have to move to Texas.

Since Blogger is working for me today, I'll have to spend the time commenting and working on this post where I'll be forced to finish it... much going on in the land of assholes....

Love to all and much love to some (cause I'm as asshole).

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

You have got to hear this! Best new music I've heard in ... forever.

2011-09-14T21:49:00.004-05:00

http://alabamashakes.bandcamp.com/

Brand new, released yesterday!

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Round Two, the bull begins

2011-09-13T23:38:00.000-05:00

What is this crap......... I am leaning towards some sort of passive / aggressive message to me.... this was posted on the 12th to the younger ones relatively inactive facepage... (both are in their 30's)

////////////

."The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life.

Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.

And so it is with you... we are in charge of our attitudes."

~Charles Swindoll~
.

////////////////////////////////

I have no idea who this Charlie is... but if this is indicative of his writing... he is full of shit....

still no direct answer.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

To tell or not to tell... that is the question.

2011-08-25T10:24:00.006-05:00

So... several years ago, as I was filling in some off shoots of my genealogy, I picked up a copy of a book written by a cousin a couple generations ago. I had a copy of the book written by his brother, but had not even known about this one..... the one I had was self published for the family, this one was a "real" published book. It was really good.

As in all family's, sometimes bad things happen. The time line for my dads family is very interesting. My Grandfather being one of the younger children in his family and living past 100. My Dad being the youngest of his family. It was sometimes hard to figure out what relationship people you knew growing up actually were until you saw it on paper. My Grandfather easily spoke of relatives who had not only been there while he was growing up, but had also fought in the Civil War. I have written about my "Poppy" before.... he was "VERY" spry, right up until the minute he passed. I was almost 30, before Poppy passed.

There was this web site called "Cousins Connect" or some such thing..... I had put my Grands information in there so I could direct anyone just starting out over to the places where the professionals had long since done the family name... and they could spend their time on the off shoots.. like me... and maybe help a bitch out.

One day I got a message from an elderly Methodist Minister. It was kind of a heart felt request about a family member. I KNEW it was a really sad story. Soooo, I wrote back and asked a couple questions, which he answered correctly. He added that as a child he saw people cry and no one would ever tell him about his Grandfather. When he asked questions he was told never to ask again. He asked me to please tell him about his Grandfather, if I could.

Soooooo, I thought about it.... but not for long. I scanned the story of his Grandfather (one of my Great Uncles) and sent it to him. Then I scanned the entire family book and mailed it to him.

When his Granddaddy (William) was in his 40's... he got kicked in the head by a mule and barely survived. He was never "right in the head" after the accident.
He dearly loved his wife (Jane), thought she had taken the accident hard herself, was missing most of her teeth and had aged beyond her years.

Two young men began making "sport" of William and his wife Jane. One Saturday they told William that they were having their way with Jane. The next day William sat on the Church steps and when the young men came out he shot them both dead.

William was confined to the "Nervous Hospital" for one year. While he was gone his beloved Jane died.

After telling the minister what happened... I never heard from him again.

I always wondered if I had done wrong in telling.
-----------
Now I wondering if I learned a lesson... or NOT!
----------
With this Facepage shit in my life.... my sisters two daughters have stuck their noses in on this old asshole.

Every other sentence of a lengthy "message" is soooo full of shit.....
They were like 11 and 13 when my sister died... and wholly shit have they been lied too.

The older girl seems miffed that her mom... my sister... is buried in Iowa (My Dad, Mom and sister are buried together).

This girl is miffed that her mom wasn't buried in Colorado so she could visit her grave.

THE FUCKING TRUTH..... my sisters husband (these girls father) had her body sent to a "state run" crematorium and had them informed that she had no relatives. MY folks went out there and "rescued" my sisters ashes. Which was fairly easy since her body had all but been abandoned.

SHOULD I TELL?

Look over to the right ------> and VOTE!---------->

I miss my Dad.

2011-08-25T06:21:00.001-05:00

POW/MIA 19 December, 1944

Happy Birthday Dad.

1925-1992

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A PUBLIC SERVICE FOR MY FRIENDS:

2011-08-22T09:35:00.009-05:00

This woman has crabs.

This man is catching crabs.

The man is giving his crabs to other people.

Both these people have crabs.

This is a happy festival, but before they go home... all the people at the festival will have crabs.

The best advice I can give you.... If you think you have crabs... buy butter... lots of it.

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A naughty tune... for you.....

2011-08-12T01:56:00.003-05:00

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Happy 21st Birthday to the Littlest Asshole

2011-07-25T19:44:00.010-05:00

On the day that you were born, I was up on our mountain. Your dad was on the west coast headed home, your sister and brothers were in school. Just me and the dogs.

Because of my (advanced) age, I had not invested in a bunch of maternity clothes. I had nothing clean to wear to the hospital....... so I did a load of laundry.

Up and down so many sets of stairs.... I needed a shower. I waited for water to pump back up the mountain and heat up.......

Naked.... waiting for the clothes to dry.....

Better go feed and water the dog pack... still naked.... I wouldn't say I frightened them, lets just say they were "on alert". How many did we have back then? Ten?

Now I'm hungry... I know they are not going to let me eat once I get there. I go fix myself some lunch.

Dressed, packed and ready to go..... how much time has passed? Three maybe four hours. I go out and throw my crap into the car..... and discover a very flat front tire.

I changed the tire.... I'm pissed.

I drive to the military hospital and check in. Here is where I explain to them that my doctor has ALL the hard core good DRUGS waiting on me.... they are mine and I want them now..... having given birth to three children, to include a ten pound'er, without so much as an aspirin. I have been PROMISED ALL THE DRUGS!

I'm old, tired, pissed off, and I have earned my "birth'n" drugs..... don't fuck with me!

I'm put in a small room with a huge machine.... some piece of shit that the Army in it's infinite wisdom has spent a bundle on. It's only purpose seems to be to take my blood pressure. My doctor comes in and tells me he has been there all night and half the day with a difficult birth. He is going to take a shower and a shave and will be back in an hour. A nurse wraps the cuff on me and leaves. The cuff puffs up... and up... and up... and WHAT THE FUCK! I turn my head to the wall away from the machine and start yelling for help.... no one comes... it's still pumping up and fixin' to explode at any minute or pop my arm off at the elbow like a ripe zit... I yell really loud..into the wall. Finally someone comes... but not because of my yelling, they get all excited about the machine trying to kill me.... maim me at the least. People come from all over to check out the "mangler" and discuss what should be done with it. I am still on the bed... obviously invisible......

WHY you say.... because I was desperately trying not to be an ASSHOLE. One should always strive not to be asinine while awaiting medical care...crazy and stupid are not synonymous.

I am finally "checked" (Did you just stick your fist up my ass?) and rushed into the delivery room.... they ask me why I haven't "complained" to let them know you were so close to being born.

I said...not much of anything.

What I wanted to say was another thing.... but I was still struggling to "BE NICE".

Someone told me to push.... I said WHERE ARE THE DRUGS I WAS PROMISED!!!!! They said I had waited to long and you were to close to being born.

I had heard THIS SHIT BEFORE!

NOT SO MUCH AS A FUCKING ASPIRIN.

NO DRUGS FOR ME... again.

I am now...my asshole self.

So, I pushed you out with some unknown doctor attending and (I hate to harp on it) no drugs.

You were a little cutie....

I told them to get the hell out of my way... I got down off the delivery table and because of the ensuing arguments, walked down a flight of stairs to sit out in the sun and smoke cigarettes.

When I went back up the stairs to the maternity ward I told them I was using the elevator next time despite their rules against it. (Intermingling with visitors and germing up the babies.)

They gave me my room number and I set off to go to bed.... there were other patients in the room. I went back to the nurses station and told them that despite being retired... my rank still held. Put me in a private room or I'll go home.... they said I couldn't take you with me... I said that would be fine... I would come back in a few days. (Their surprise made me think no one had ever offered this solution to them before.)

About this time I was called to the telephone for a call.... it was your dad...I just hung up. It happened a few times... it took him a while to get that it wasn't telephone trouble... I think I may have expressed at some point my displeasure with the tire he was supposed to have fixed, before hanging up.

Your brother Beau wanted to name you Tigger, but your sister and I had settled on Rachael.

You and I lounged in our private room for a couple days, then went home to our mountain.

And you pretty much know how it has been just downhill from there.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Where the hell have you been, ASSHOLE!

2. What a sweet story.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Do you smell that?

2011-02-20T05:55:00.003-06:00

Eloh's not dead yet, neither is anyone in her home; though it does smell of dead body for some reason. We lost internet on the 8th of December because CableOne are, for lack of a better word, assholes.

She has no idea I've posted this, and won't until I show her in a few days. (If you didn't figure it out already, Eloh's youngest daughter is the one writing this. Hi everyone!)

Just a heads up for those who were worried or figured she bit the dust.
We'll get back to your regularly scheduled programming... somewhat soon... maybe later...

Good health to you all!

- The Smallest Asshole

Giving Thanks at Rancho

2010-11-24T13:14:00.008-06:00

His name is Eugene and he is evil.

It's Thanksgiving.... and I'm thankful that I wasn't in my underwear when Eugene stole a pair, took them to his litter box, and buried the damn things!

I was going to take a picture... but do you really want that image flapping around in your head now that the feasting season is here?

FREE COMMENTS:

1. May I suggest a new (stronger) brand of laundry detergent.

2. The cat is sending you a very clear message, I don't "sprechenze" cat.. so I can't help ya out here.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

NO WORRIES

2010-11-07T06:16:00.006-06:00

About a year ago this time... I was damn near dead.

My daughter even came down from Chicago to see the body for herself.... corralled me into taking her to a doctors appointment so she could get the skinny from a specialist.... he told her something to the effect that I was about dead and there wasn't anything anyone could do..... I could slow the process if I quit smoking, but not by much... I was in a downhill slide... and the devil had me by the collar.

I kept trying to tell folks I had not only not slept for about two years... but I had had my ass kicked day and night, moved two households (three times)... virtually by myself... lost an entire family of several hundred soulless fucks.... and that still isn't the worst of it...

To keep this short... I kept trying to tell doctors that I was TIRED.... my ass was kicked.... but there isn't any money in that.

I would wake up and not think I was going to be able to fight to live for another 10 minutes....

So...... I just went to bed.... about a year ago..........

I CAN NOT BELIEVE HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE PISSED OFF TO SEE ME STILL ALIVE ( AND DOING SO WELL, I MIGHT ADD).

I can see it in their faces.... that look that says: "Aww shit... I thought you were dead"...

To that I say "Bite me you bastards".

Which brings me to my forced absence from my blog lovies.....

I'm an asshole.

My carrier... cable company... has a bundle deal... TV, phone, and internet, for $75.00 a month.

Fantastic... cause I had talked to them a couple months ago to see if there was anyway I could lower my $150.00 a month bill...for TV, phone, and internet.

I explained that the TV is all that my son has as he can only move his right hand... the rest is pretty negotiable.... nothing...

Now they are advertising this $75.00 deal... so I jumped on it.

Not so fast... this is only for people that do NOT already have all three services.
Since I already have all three services... I have to continue to pay double. WTF

So I talked nice to them... several of them for most of an afternoon. But they didn't budge......... and I'm an asshole with a little bit of fight coming back into my veins....

So what would YOU do? Take it up the ass from the cable company....

Unfortunately... in searching around for an alternative.... cable company is the only thing available here in the boondocks.

The dish folks were really expensive.

I told the cable folks to shut this shit down.

According to their rules... I will then be able to have my same services for half price... no time limit.

Yes, I understand that being an asshole causes me trouble.... I didn't even get into how long I'll go without running water just to prove a point...,

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Good lord, are you STILL fighting with the mayor?

2. "F" the cable company..., "F" 'em I say.

3. Aw shit, I thought you'd be dead by now.

4. How long is this shit going to take?

5. Hey, I don't have to comment...cause you ain't around to read it.. hahhaha

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

I needed a song today

2010-11-02T14:46:00.005-05:00

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

HAVE YOU GOT CANDY IN YOUR POCKET? OR DO YOU GOTS DA CRABS?

2010-10-30T06:23:00.012-05:00

Well hell, either I'm gonna write a damn blog or I'm not.

It's not for the lack of trying... Lord knows there are numerous bits and pieces of crap all over my desk top..... but I always have some excuse for not publishing.... or even finish writing the damn things.

By the way..... am I the inventor of the pregnant pause...... in blogging?

My youngest daughter told me I use the period too much. I said "No, dear...... it is a pregnant pause."

My latest foray was to tell you all about the time back in High School when I thought I might have the crabs. I was driving to the store when I remembered it..... not at the computer, and I started envisioning how I could tell you all the story and use some of my stick drawings to entertain and get the horror of it all across to you in optimum form. But, all these months and I still haven't stuck my arm out and plugged the scanner back in............

Then....... OMG...... and Oh my God (am I getting computer savvy or what!) All the fucking Facepage Drama.... and I mean Drama with a capitol "D".

I've been "unfriended" for the second time by the same person.... my money is riding on 48 hours before "he's back" this time. Boy, what a story.... however, it will take some editing to be told..... some of you will understand and some won't... either way... guess who the asshole of the story is. Need I say more. Wish I could use real pictures, but that can probably be goggled and I might get "found", and that would be bad.

Anyway...... driving to the store with my youngest and something about a commercial on TV..... where the mom puts a food bar in the brats pocket with his locker combination on it........ my daughter said the mom put "I Love You" and I said "No, it was the stupid little shits locker combination....... I forgot mine once.... to my gym locker..............

But the sexually "loose" sister of one of my friends
had a broken locker

so everyone just started throwing their gym clothes into her locker..........it was a real time saver.

After a while, I couldn't remember my locker combination anymore.........

More people started using the broken locker..........

Then one dark day......... my friend brought her loose sisters' crab medicine to school.......and made us all use it by telling us awful stories.

it burned.....oh it burned

We all threw away our gym clothes....

I told my mom someone stole my gym clothes and I started using my own locker again.

Years later, when I knew what crabs actually were.... I guess we were lucky that we hadn't really got "da crabs"..... but it was a good life lesson just the same. And it came in very handy living in Army barracks many years later.

Speaking of Life Lessons...... I came across this picture. I have been around people signing.... and even thought about learning it as a second language.

I did NOT realize that a safe distance should be observed. Maybe this was just an excited signer pointing at a fire or something.... anyway... watch your ass around the deaf folks. I'm sure this ends up equally embarrassing for them.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

UPDATE.... with Snakes...The people in my head had a party and didn't invite me

2010-10-11T02:53:00.003-05:00

Short and fleeting thoughts from the mind of an asshole...

when you get old... you have days when you just want to stick your head out the window and shout at the world... SUCK MY DICK...... only I haven't got a willy and the world may not realize that it was just a rhetorical 'what for'........ if I were married... I could yell SUCK MY DICK... then throw my husband out the window....

UPDATE is down in the comments.... work for it..

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Business letter from an @hole

2010-09-11T08:15:00.007-05:00

I'm composing a business letter.... but it has been just too many years... and I think I need a little help here...

Dear Wonderful Electric Smoking Friends:

I don't want to say Dear Sir here because there is a 50/50 chance or better that you are a woman tasked with weeding through bullshit correspondence. I never write "Dear Madam" because I can't even get those words to travel through my head and my brain starts spitting out a virtual card catalog of every whore house and street walker I've ever been in or seen.

That reminds me of the time I got thrown out of a whore house in Heidelberg..... it isn't much, just one of those "stopping by" visits that investigators used to do... just a looky loo... to see who's there.... an excuse to get an eye full. Every floor was the same 10 or 12 woman... it looked like a really bad porno rendition of Radio City dancers.... I started laughing ... and the madam got pissed... I was asked in no uncertain terms to vacate the cat haus...

Kind of a cross between Guy Fieri and Rumor Willis.... I think it was all the spiky blonde hair and black heavy eyebrows that set me off....It was very embarrassing, even though I wasn't the one bare assing. Have you ever had that happen... trying so hard to be solemn and professional... but the harder you try not to laugh the worst it gets until you are just reduced to breathless tears.....

I have included some visual images for you just in case you have trouble visualizing a love child of Guy and Rumor... no prostitute pictures... because this is a business letter and that just wouldn't be very professional of me and I'm all about being professional.

Anyway, I'm writing because I really like your product but I'm wondering if you are aware of certain difficulties associated with the daily use. Most notably, the seems to be a quality control issue with the atomizers and especially the cartridges.

I, for one, would very much like this problem remedied. Maybe a smack down at the factory would do the trick.

This brings me to the "other" problem that needs to come to your attention.

As a daily user, your product has, on occasion assaulted my olfactory senses ... with the distinct smell of dirty ass.

I admit that the first couple of times it happened I went running for the sink and rewashed my own hands. My memory has been faulty as of late, and while I could not recall any recent ass archeology.... I was not certain, not could I swear to the exact hour of my last bath.

However, I have recently eliminated myself as the cause. I think you may have a hygiene problem on the assembly line... as I have checked and rechecked the ingredients and dirty ass is not listed.

Sincerely:
Your smoky buddy and assholey friend

FREE COMMENTS:

1. I dare you to send it.

2. Hey, don't forget your address... I'll bet they will send you some neat coupons!!

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Facepage or whatever

2010-08-23T14:57:00.008-05:00

The definition of Insanity.... doing the same things over and over yet expecting different results....

...so why do I attempt to act normal.... do normal shit....why... oh why... do I listen when I'm told... "Go ahead... it'll be fun....."

Maris:... "Mother, oh dear mother... do join Facepage... it will be fun..."

Me:.... "No, no... I can't figure it out I tried.... remember a couple years back when Diddle Nuts told your sister I was stalking him on Facepage" Hahahah That was so funny."

Maris:..."It's called facebook Mother... and now we have a computer... it might be fun to snoop. Everybody does it. It's fun, you can find old friends."

Me:.... "Most of my old friends are dead.... I guess there might be one or two."

Maris:..."Oh, you always think something bad will happen..... nothing bad will happen... go ahead... just do it."

Me:..."It's a happy thing then?"

This is me doing Facepage:

This is me two hours later:

Maris:.... "OH MOTHER..... What has happened!!!????"

Me:...."I found an old "friend".... I guess I kinda forgot how bad of an asshole I used to be...."

What kind of guy remembers every little indignity.... 40 years after the fact....

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

If you're naked and you know it, clap your hands

2010-08-17T10:23:00.004-05:00

You know what this guy is thinking about..... where the hell are my clothes. That's right, today's word is NAKED.... cause I've been naked for hours AGAIN. I don't want to be naked.... it isn't a pleasant sight... for anyone. The trouble is... this has happened before... and gone on for days.....

Where are my clothes? I don't know..... Why can't I find anything? I don't know..... How pathetic do I feel? Beyond words.

Regulars here at Rancho will recall my moving out a couple years ago to go up north and help my mother and never getting moved back in... to this day. Oh, I can find the winter clothes... now that it is 99 in the shade.

I didn't always have a complete aversion to nudity.... like all things, it has it's place.... and time. My time is long since past.

I went on a ski trip with a couple friends once. It was an early start, much to early for bar closer's such as ourselves. If it hadn't been for Dan.... Mary and I would have slept through many an excursion.

Dawn found us huddled against the cold in a deserted parking lot, starving and waiting on the tour bus. Our only shelter Dan's old car aptly named "Fry" because there were several generations of old pom fritz rotted into the interior.

We opened a bottle of wine... and called it breakfast.... then we decided breakfast had not been duly distributed and had another bottle. A few minutes after the third bottle the tour bus arrived.... we boarded. Just as we settled into our seats a hand came over the back of Dan's seat and tapped him on the shoulder.... we both turned and were horrified to see our Company Commander and spouse.... he says "I didn't know you all were going on the Reims Cathedral trip".

The bus pulled away with us standing alone in the parking lot. The wind had picked up and we again sought refuge in old Fry.... bottle number four we named "Brunch". The bus arrived... we staggered on.

There isn't much I can say about the trip to wherever it was we went. The snow was so high they would have had to use a crane to clear the roads like they had. Somewhere on the way... Dan had thrown up on himself. Mary and I couldn't tell... but he was a persnickety sort and was beside himself with embarrassment. We went into the lodge and Dan (who spoke the language quite well) inquired where he might clean up. He was given a key and directions.

It was about this time he realized that he did not have a clean shirt to put on.... not a problem as I had one in my bag that I had used to keep wine bottles from clanging into each other..... I was to run back to the bus and get the clean shirt.

When I stepped to the side of the lodge I was met with a magnificent site. Snow piled as high as a three story building and a row of buses parked in a never ending line... they all looked alike. I began peeking into the windows of the buses..... soon the Polizei began peeking at me. I explained in my broken German what I was up to...... and yes... I had been drinking wine....

Time passed.....When Dan and Mary came looking for me... they didn't have a difficult time finding the right bus. It was the one with the police car parked in front of it. Inside... two polizei and me wearing a polizei hat while the three of us guzzled wine and sang German drinking songs.....

My new friends and I parted ways and Dan, Mary, and I headed back to the lodge.... clean shirt in tow.

The key Dan had been given unlocked a door at the back of the lodge... through a winding hallway. It opened up to a pool and a maze of small spas. At the front was a small changing room with a shower. Time had been lost and we figured that by the time Dan got cleaned up and we got our ski's rented and onto the slopes.... it would be time to go home..... let's just go swimming instead....

It made sense at the time.... it always makes sense.... at the time.

Dan said he could get away with wearing his boxers.... Mary and I went to the store in the lodge foyer to purchase swim suits..... they had none. I bought a pair of overpriced gloves and we went back to tell Dan the bad news.

The argument was.... we had the key. We could skinny dip.... who would ever know?

It made sense at the time.... it always makes sense.... at the time.

So there we three amigos.... skinny dipping in the ski lodges private pool.... quietly though....very quietly.

I guess that's why we all heard the door open at the same time.

A woman and her young son entered. She looked at us for a moment and said something to the boy.... they both took off their swim suits. The little boy got into the water and the woman lay down under a sun lamp....

We huddled clinging to the edge of the pool.... what should we do? The flood gates opened. We bobbed at the edge of the pool in deep water while one after another came into the pool ... looked around... and shed their bathing suits. Within minutes there were at least thirty naked people all over the place.

We left as quickly as possible.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Tea and crumpets at 4... vs... Milk and cookies at 3....

2010-07-06T11:40:00.004-05:00

I've been sittin' here thinkin' about you all, trying to think of something I could tell you all that would be not just unique to me but useful information for you.

I'm the only person I know, or have ever even heard of that has encountered a coral snake in the wild... I dropped the rock and ran screaming like a six year old little girl.... I highly recommend it. Leave big rocks alone. Not much more to say about that.

I've been contemplating my philosophy's of life..... not my usual " life is a shit sandwich..." philosophy..... but other, deeper stuff.... like....

How come England is so small but those limey's seem to be everywhere. And not just in the everywhere like.... "Sorry little girl, we're all out of salt water taffy... a bunch of limeys were here and bought it all." No, I'm saying that the whole planet is basically English..... myself included. And not just a tad.... everyone in my fathers bloodline was here before 1640.... later on there was a Scotsman.... but I might be splitting hairs here.

I think the story is pretty much the same... all over the planet.... Africa... India.... you name it.

So what does this mean?

Several of my English blog friends are currently in the USA... others have trips in the planning stages.....

My daughter asked how is it that the Brits seem to mobilize across the planet so easily and Americans really don't. This set me to contemplating this phenomena at it's core.

I'm pretty sure I have it figured out....

The Brits run a nation wide secret society..... "X" number of Brits are required to travel outside (off island) England. This is run by a roster controlled by the Queen... that is why they are all so keen not to piss the old girl off. Who wants to be required to travel to Bangladesh during the monsoon....

That way at any given time there are only "X" number of people in England..... everyone else is traveling.... then they rotate.

Through the ages ... various infractions will get their asses shipped off for good or just simply "left behind".... America... Australia....etc...

Then it hit me..... oh my GOD!!!!!

They are aliens.... like "Chariot of the Gods" aliens..... they have seeded the planet. Britain isn't an island... it's the mother ship.

Think about it...... they have their "special" teas.... and every day at 4........ telepathy with the Queen..... when they all jockey around for the Bahamas in lieu of Juarez...

FREE COMMENTS:

1. What kind of tea are you smoking?

2. This does explain "Camilla" and her "Vader" like resemblance and tendencies?

3. Here's a thought for you.... electric shock treatments....

4. Yes, yes, I get it.... the rest of the world eats milk and cookies at 3... thus lulling their minds... so they can't pick up on the telepathy at 4... yes, yes, oh my!

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

"And it's one, two, three, what are we fightin' for.... don't ask me...I don't give a damn... next stop is Vietnam"

2010-06-09T00:55:00.013-05:00

My dad used to say "It's better to be pissed off than pissed on".

Yeah, I know I have several "blog" lines just hanging in dead space... I keep promising to write or finish.... I can be such a bullshitter... I'm so full of it my eyes are brown.

So, after several heart wrenching days... I get back to blog world... and it takes me oh... about 15 minutes before I am royally pissed.

I can't (AGAIN) find a "political or watchdog" blog that is discussing a burning question... now I think I've gone insane and stupid... is it JUST ME? or doesn't an 89 year old woman have a right to answer a question posed to her with HER TRUTH.... no one says you have to agree... and I hope most people don't. But isn't that what we fight for... FREEDOM OF SPEECH?????????

Every now and then.... a listed blog will catch my eye and I go visiting.... like tonight.... and again.... no list of followers..... THIS IS A REAL PISSER.

Think of your blogs as a cocktail party. I want to walk in and see who is hanging around the punch bowl. I've been around blog world long enough to know there are some real idiots out there.... I'll just call them spitters and sneezers.... if they enjoy the punch... in the long run... I won't.

Don't write about some fucking trauma... then just leave us all hanging.... I'm probably guilty of this myself... but I'm an asshole.... don't horn in on my turf... don't be an asshole.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Please don't blog tired... it is painfully obvious.

2. Freedom of speech? Where the hell have you been for the past nine years or so?

3. Bitch, bitch, bitch...

4. How does it feel to realized Woodstock was OVER 40 years ago? Feeling a bit old?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

I'm just an "accidental @hole"

2010-05-30T09:41:00.007-05:00

Do you miss me? Do you say to yourself "Humm... I wonder what that old asshole is up to?"

I had an epiphany this week.... I am not your everyday kind of asshole.... I am an accidental asshole. I really don't mean to be one... it just happens.. like a karma car wreck... I am the everyday assholes worst nightmare.

This blog has morphed into less of a place to document my stories and memories and has become my contact with the outside world. I need to get back to business.

I had a pretty good week this week. I had communication from people, got out into the world a little, and even had a little de·tente with the local government.

So without further ado, I thought I would document a GOOD week in the life of a ACCIDENTAL ASSHOLE.

SUNDAY:
I've heard the words "holiday week-end" being thrown around... this must be a long one... nobody will be around to bother me...... I wonder what the holiday is... I'm pretty sure it's May....what day is this anyway?

This is the credo of a true asshole.... bother me I bitch... don't bother me I bitch.... it's a true win-win situation.

5:30 am.... if I'm going to sneak off to the store, I should get my ass in gear.... I'll just read one more blog... or two...

8:30 am... shit grab the keys and go... or you'll never make it past the Church with out getting spotted by the early service do-gooders...

Pull into the Gas and Grub... just as a couple cop cars to the same.... shit shit shit.... I start repeating to myself.... "just keep your damn mouth shut... keep your damn mouth shut... keep your damn mouth shut....."

So, I say to the fat one.... "Is that new doughnut shop still open?"

We spend five minutes discussing some sort of pig in blanket that is his favorite.... I try to stick to my amazement that they are selling meat products beside the glazed goodies and avoid the fact that it is being operated out of a ramshackle old taco stand by Vietnamese refugees.... I am unsuccessful and they hurry out as I am expounding on what a good meal dog is...

After they leave the day clerk nearly wets himself laughing.... I get me some smokey contraband and go home.... I still have to drive past the church.... no too late.... drive a mile instead of two blocks... and get home the back way. I re-enter the house undetected... the warden is still sleeping.

Later in the day, the warden tells me she has had another nightmare.... she dreamt I was beating her with a shoe and telling her to just let me die in peace.

The warden makes excellent coffee for me.... I spend the day feeling like a fucking asshole. But I'm curious if it was one of my shoes... or her shoes... what kind of shoe?..... when she calms down.... I'll ask.

The warden spends the day bitching about needing food and grocery shopping.... I take a nap. Oh damn, I hear a car.... it is a friend... she had alter flowers today, so after church she has brought one of the bouquets to my son. We talk of sewing and quilting and she brings me up to speed on church happenings. This is almost impossible to do without some measure of gossip... especially about our sewing guild. It makes me want to beat up old women... well one especially...

She asks if we need anything... if there is anything she can do to help... I say no and thank her for her concern. Like my father before me... I am unable to ask for or accept help.

She had asked me about a month ago if she could contact that "Extreme Home Makeover" show... I told her to "go for it".... we are not the kind of people they would ever put on a TV show... besides.... they would have to edit everything that would come outta my mouth.

MONDAY:
I am awakened by the warden shouting at me. She is angry. Our water has been shut off.... again.

She says for me to get my ass up and get dressed... she say "Damnit-mother... I told you we needed to go pay bills.... (the warden calls me Damnit-mother...a lot......)

I feign an apologetic attitude.... secretly I'm thinking... "I'll bet those damn shower faucets aren't leaking now, the bastards, that's one way to "fix" them."

I look outside... it is rainy and overcast. I might be able to go out. The pollen would be out of the air and the heat not so bad.

I had to use up both my small traveling bottles of oxygen on the 25th of January.... it made me very very sick... I was expected to speak in an audible volume for hours and hours about 10 to be exact... all with little to no water to drink. I have not completely recovered from the effects... by now, I don't guess I ever will. I have promised to write about it, and I will...
Anyway, the medical supply company took three months to get here and bring me a new emergency home supply and traveling supply... it was rough.... we had all time record high pollen counts during that time.... needless to say, I was trapped inside. This also brought about a new battle with Alabama Power..... yeah... I had my power shut off during that time also..... the medical supply folks said they had never heard of anyone on oxygen having trouble with them before.

That's me... always the first.

So, the warden and I gather up a traveling tank of O2 and off we go to City Hall.... the water company has a drive through.... they have been "in the news" lately for terrorizing the old and weak.... I thought about responding and telling them "my story"... but I just don't see what good it would do. Everybody has problems.

I write out two checks... one for the water bill that is several DAYS late.... and one marked "EXTORTION of the HANDICAP" for the fifty dollar fee for them being forced to turn my water off. This had happened around the time mother passed away... I had asked them at the time what was going on as paying a couple weeks late and paying about two bucks to do so has been my norm for over twenty years.... I think I had just marked that check "Illegal fees". The old raggedy shitbird told me that this is how it has always been... about 15 years ago this same ignorant ass was instrumental in shutting my water off on three different occasions in a span of about six months..... all three from HER paperwork errors... and, this is the best one, my fault because I only wrote one check to pay for both my water bills (house and outside system)......I should tell you about my "outdoor system" sometime. From that time on... I paid when I damn well felt like it..... cause I'm an asshole.

So that day, a few months back I simply said to the bitch.. "You're a liar", and left. On this day, I walked in... cause I'm an asshole and I dig the face to face stuff..... I pitched the two checks at her and said... here's your water bill and extortion money.....

Then I got back in the car with the warden... backed out of the parking space and re parked about four spaces down. The warden gives me a pensive look and says.... "Same plan as before if they arrest you?" I gave her a nod and set off to find the mayor.

------posting an unfinished week.... I'll get back to it soon.... I need to run up to the Gas and Grub..... aaaaaaaaaaa we need bread, yeah, that's the ticket.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Did you find what you were searching for?

2010-05-27T15:27:00.006-05:00

Several months back, I put one of those free trackers on this blog... only thing I can figure out is what people look at and where they are in the world... it has given me many mysteries. Not the least of which is one of my blog posts that has been visited every single day by multiple people since the day it was posted.

The title was "MONKEYS, NUNS, AND POPCORN".... who the hell are these people that google this crap?

Originally posted: October, 2009.

"MONKEYS, NUNS, AND POPCORN"....

So, someone wrote something a few days ago that made me remember the times in my life that monkeys have outsmarted me, or just plain touched my world, by touching themselves. I thought I might try to tell you about my monkey moments.Back in the fifties and sixties you could buy a monkey through the mail. The ad was always in the back of comic books along with the x-ray glasses and such. The REA (Railroad Express Agency) office was right next door to my dads office. One day they get a "dead" monkey in the express office. The guy in charge says he's going to throw it in the trash...so my dad asks if he can have it, he says he thinks he can save it...they laugh.
It took awhile but my dad healed the monkey and he was a blast. My sister made him a little shirt and pillow and he loved it. A few weeks later in conversation with the REA guy the subject of the monkey came up and dad told them how much fun the monkey was. The express guy came to our house wearing shoulder high leather gloves and took the monkey and shipped him out, probably to his death. My dad was pissed.
There are pictures of the monkey, but I don't have them so here is a picture of one just like him. He used to poop in his hand and give the little balls of poop to us, then check out his little nails to make sure he stayed fresh....
I just didn't get it. But the low lands gorilla at the Henry Doorly Zoo tried to give me a little insight into male boredom when I was about 14. My Aunt had me sit with her to watch the gorilla and told the others, mother, grandmother, and sisters to go on. Evidently she could tell there was a show about to start. After all these years, it still strikes me how he kept looking me in the eye. One hand behind his head and one hand working on his wanker. I still didn't get it.
I was never one to pass up a zoo or side show. While living in Minneapolis/St Paul, I went over to check out a zoo. There was a chimp house that consisted of a rotunda with rocks and such in the center and a catwalk circling around. It was very nice and only cost a dime to get in.
There was a new chimp in town, a female and the exhibit had been advertised. I found myself alone watching as the male chimp would chase down the female, grab her by the ankles, spread those legs wide, have a gander then throw her ankles to the side and run hooting and hollering...turn around and do it all over again.
I was wondering if there was going to be some sort of activity. The male chimp had started dropping one ankle to give her privates a little touch before seeming to run in fright. I had to wonder how long or if ever he had ever seen a female chimp.
About the time things started to really get interesting, the door opened. Shit...now I'd have to leave because I was not going to stand there and watch chimp sex and have someone see me watching.......about 20 or 30 five year olds come filing in....I stand on the far side of the catwalk in horror as the male chimp finally gets down to business....but the nuns are too busy counting children to notice. That was a field trip for the record books. I missed the chimp sex because watching the nuns was more fun.
How dumb do you feel when you think you have thought of some original idea to mess with an animal just to find out that you've been outsmarted.So, I have a few hours pass from the base to go to a big shopping mall in Alabama. There is an organ grinder and his monkey entertaining people. I find this very weird, it was about the last thing I expected to see. I'm standing in the crowd, when the man finishes his song the monkey runs around the crowd on two feet with his tin cup collecting money, mostly quarters.
I'm struck with a brilliant idea. After the next song I pinch my quarter really tight to see if I can get the monkey to do a tug of war....the monkey bit me so fast I didn't even see it coming. He'd had that shit pulled on him before. My quarter dropped right into his cup in one swift move. I was so embarrassed. I had a band aid on my thumb for about a week, and lied about it. No way was I going to admit to having a monkey bite from a shopping mall.
I used to go to a little zoo on Okinawa. There was a building that translated into the House Of 500 Snakes. They had a pair of king cobras in their one big exhibit, I liked bothering them, which under the circumstances wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done. We used to try to count how many snakes were actually still alive...it never took long. Their water Buffalo died, it was just tied under some bushes, it was still there for a couple visits. So one day they have a small cage in the court yard with a rather large old chimp inside. He looks at me looking at him...he sees my pop corn and sticks his hand out, I stepped toward the cage and gave him some popcorn. He smiled so sweet and looked so sad. I had started to walk away so he strained to stretch out his arm with his little face pressed into the bars....how could I resist. I walked to his hand to drop some more popcorn in..........his arm shot out like a rocket and grabbed me around the wrist and started pulling....with his other hand he pointed at the bag of popcorn.....I gave it to him......he let go of me and sat back and people watched munching my popcorn, one piece at a time.

FREE COMMENTS:
1. So, you're NOT smarter than a monkey.
2. Hey, everybody likes popcorn.
3. How did the nuns know what was happening?
4. People who touch monkeys get what they deserve.
5. I have a monkey in my van, get in I'll show you.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Where I admit to being a Trekkie

2010-05-24T13:28:00.009-05:00

Well, after all this time.... I've been double meme'd. Autumnforest, a young lady that totes a creepy doll around... and when I say creepy... oooo weee! Our common denominator is that we both grew up in "severely" haunted houses and have odd ability's associated therein. She writes fiction and one of these days she may publish some of her stories.

For the first one, I'm supposed to tell you seven things that no one knows about me... hell, I'm pretty much an open book on this blog with anything I can be. So there is probably the biggest one of all.....

1. I'm a Star Trek geek.

2. I still miss my mom and dad.

3. I'm a history fanatic.

4. Abe Lincoln is my second cousin, six times removed.

5. I'm still hoping that when the Surratt genealogy gets settled that Mary Jenkins Surratt is my GGreat Aunt.

6. I got the name for my oldest son from "Dark Shadows" . A 1960's horror soap opera.

7. Silence from me is never golden.

The second one involves answering eight questions:

1. Chocolate or beer?
I'd rather be beat. But years ago I was a big Becks beer drinker, I've already drank my share of the world's liquor... to include several other folks share.

2. Who would you like to see be president?
I think it is too late now to save us, but I wish McCain had been elected in 2000.

3. Fast car or motorcycle?
Defiantly fast car, I drove a small German sports car for many many years.

4. Do you talk baby talk to pets?
I love my pets, but it depends on the pet. My four pound dog...yes. The evil 16 pound cat... no. I might add that I always had big dogs and always spoke to them in a normal voice.

5. Country you most want to visit?
If you are reading this... then you have probably already read some of the "misadventures" of my extensive travels..... We (the usual suspects) were scheduled to leave for a vacation in Tunisia on a Friday... but on Thursday it broke out in civil war..... I've always been a bit pissed about this. We asked to go anyway... after all it was (us) the three assholes.... but no way.

6. If you had to live in a big city, which one?
How big is big? This is a hard one. I'm assuming I can't pick Machu Picchu. I think Paris. While other places come to mind... places I've wanted to live... I've never either been there (Sydney) or was only there briefly (Nome)... and there are certain characteristics about human beings that I can not abide.... for some reason the word Frenchman and asshole are viewed synonymously.... so I think I would have a chance of "blending in" with the French.... plus.... I could go to the Louve everyday. I have French roots.... part of the Norman invasion.... Battle of Hastings etc etc.

7. What would you want to raise or grow on a farm?
Chickens creep me out... chased as a kid and chasing the headless ones down during kills (most people killed their own chickens back in the fifty's? Right?). Nothing with big eyes that I would be expected to eat. ..........Bees, people would stay the hell away if I had me a big ole mess of bees.

8. Have you ever kept a diary?
I did, briefly, when I was about 15. I was cleaning out some stuff one day and my oldest son and third husband had come across it and were dying laughing... it was pretty funny. I threw it out.. at least I think I did. By the way, how does anyone survive those teen years? Everything is so SERIOUS!

FREE COMMENTS:

1. I always knew you were a Trekkie.... I can smell those freaks.

2. Dark Shadows... good lord, did you name your kid Barnabas?

3. I can not in good faith offer a comment to this post. I feel it would only encourage you to continue to post while sitting in front of a computer, uncombed and in shabby under garments.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Life was simple in 1965

2010-05-19T09:17:00.003-05:00

I was singing this this morning. I have some "bus" stories... but I don't share everything... I know it seems so sometimes. Suffice to say, that there was a standing ovation when my friends and I exited the tour bus. I have written of my traveling companions before... we found you could indeed get three drunks into the bussey toilet and serve drinks at the same time.

I still contend it was not our fault some little kids couldn't hold their water.

After all... it's called "Happy H-O-U-R"!

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Naughty Finger

2010-05-17T12:42:00.007-05:00

It's the little things in life. Those things we just take for granted will always be there, will always be the same.

Pause a moment here and do me the favor of rubbing your left eye, oh I know we aren't supposed to rub our eyes... but most of us do. Did you use your ring finger on your eye? I did, used too. I nearly blinded myself this morning... just reach up and poked my eye a good one... gave it a real "what for"... my left eye was startled as it had not looked upon any porn or gone blind of it's own free will and felt this attack by the finger was wholly unwarranted.

I have been losing the feeling in my left arm, slowly, over this past year. It's been a process of here today gone tomorrow... a little bit there today, not so much tomorrow.

Typing has been a treat... you may have noticed that my daughter was added to this blog some months back. Someone needs to take out all the extra "a's" and "e's" that a quick spell check doesn't pick up. Also, to give you all the heads up if I go up under the house and refuse to come out. Not to mention our cannibal neighbors... my tubby ass probably looks fairly tasty. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

Anyway, I think the worst has settled in and I can still flop my arm around and give the important finger with gusto... and that's really all that matters to one such as myself.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

A PUBLIC APOLOGY

2010-05-10T07:05:00.006-05:00

I'm gettin' a little out of control over here folks.

I made a comment on one of the "nice" blogs.... only I forgot to use my fake blog identity... so my nice comment was traced back here to, well, me... the asshole.

The bloggess did not publish my nice and decent comment.... I'm sorry, I would like to publicly apologize and send her a nice bunch of flowers... from ... well... me... the asshole.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Crap like this is exactly why you will burn in hell.

2. You still haven't figured out the canoe part of Shit Creek have you?

3. Is this how you always display you Mother's day flowers? Try a vase next time.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Drop kick me Jesus through the goalposts of life...

2010-05-06T13:49:00.003-05:00

I haven't been able to pray for myself in way over a year.

I am too beat down, tired, and most days, ready for my cabin in the sky.

I've never been the kind of person to even take an aspirin... Once, I had a doctor call me at home to make sure I wasn't busy amputating my own leg, because he had refused.

For the last year, my list of medications has exploded out of control. I can't keep up.

Lately, I've been making a real effort to thank God for my many blessings. I've had a wonderful revelation that I am truly blessed. The more I am thankful, the more I find to be thankful for.

I've decided to share:

1. I thank God for Mississippi, along with the rest of the great state of Alabama... cause if it weren't for Mississippi... we would rank 50th in every bad survey ever taken. Alabama is proud to be the 49th worst place to live. Yesterday it was revealed that the fattest people live in Mississippi and ranked it number 50. Yes, Alabama was again #49.

Thank God for Mississippi.

2. I thank God that I'm not a man. Late night television commercials and infomercials have informed me of the added horrors that men must face. Baldness, having to stand for hours in the night waiting for pee that can't get past an over grown prostrate and worst of all... small penis besieged by giant who-who's.

I don't have to spray paint my head, put a vacuum on my winkus, nor take a handful of pills that might kill me so my wife of thirty five years can "get some" without waiting.

I had way more than my share of husbands, but I was always easy to piss off and never kept one around for very long...so, I had no idea that being married and in your sixties... this subject of a sleepy winkus was so taboo. Unless of course, you are sixty and married to a thirty year old woman... then (let's be honest) you would deserve having your winkus slapped around and vacuumed.

I am thankful I have no winkus and therefore no winkus problems.

3. I am thankful for internet "Spades" by Microsoft. Just the click of the mouse and I am in a virtual cesspool of (what I believe) the biggest assholes on the net.

It makes me all giddy with delight.

I've always had trouble with games... people don't like to lose... so they don't play with me for long. I remember when Trivial Pursuit first came out. I was in hog heaven... but no one would play with me.... they shouted things like "No normal person would know something like that"...etc etc...

Am I the only person who knows Anne Boleyn had six fingers?

Thank you Lord for the anonymity of Microsoft "Spades". (That's right assholes... it's me again.)

4. I thank God for my children and all the happy memories of when they were little and had to do as they were told. In spite of having me as their mother, they are all good and beautiful people.

I want to thank the Lord for giving me the opportunity for this public forum to state unequivocally that I am not the mother of Blanket Jackson. Although, none of my children are all that thrilled with their names either.

5. With all the thankfulness... I was suddenly able to again pray for myself and for that I am truly thankful.

Please take a moment and pray with me and for me...

Dear Lord,
Please don't let me "pull an Elvis"
Amen

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY

2010-04-28T23:47:00.004-05:00

I have a cake and smokes. Hot damn, hot damn.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Are those scissors?

2. I see you are expecting flood waters.

3. What a striking outfit. I especially love those ear rings.

4. Wearing your hair down is very sexy.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

POETRY IN MOTION

2010-04-24T22:39:00.006-05:00

Oh the wind blew
And the shit flew

We couldn't see out
For a week or two

*** I can't take credit for this... my dad used to say it all the time.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Dogs have always been my special friends

2010-04-21T08:37:00.003-05:00

Once, when I was four, I got hungry. My sisters were in school and my mother told me to leave her alone. So I went out back to the old shed where our dog had some puppies. She wasn't there so I just crawled into the box with the puppies to wait. There in the dark I soon fell asleep. When my sisters got home from school, they told my mom I was nowhere around. After a frantic search, Mother found me in the dog box. She asked me what in the hell I was doing. I told her I was hungry and was waiting for Poochie to come back so I could get me some milk.

And then my mom said: "What in the hell is wrong with you?"

It is my first memory of being asked this question, sadly, it was not to be the last.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Hey, count me in. I'm always game for free food.

2. Not a bad idea, considering the price of cow's milk these days.

3. So, did you get any?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

MORE DEEP THOUGHTS

2010-04-18T11:55:00.007-05:00

As you all know, life has been pretty sucky here on the "Big Rock Candy Mountain"... the cigarette trees are still barren... and I have a bad case of the idle hands...

so.... the deep thoughts and ne'er-do-well-ery are without end.

On the high side, Jon and I have agreed to disagree, I love Jon... in the friendly way but then if I ever got right up on him, well hell, I'd probably try to slip him the tongue... never trust as asshole any farther than you can throw one. Then I'd sit on him and sing a round of Dixie until he hollered "uncle".

On the home front, things are the suckiest.

I had a long talk with Jesus about all these shitty neighbors on the east side of Rancho. He said His Dad had blindsided Him cause when He wrote that part of the Book, His Dad had not yet created such a bunch of assholes. He told me to just do the best I can and maybe think about selling the old homestead.

So that has me wondering.... if I take up cutting myself as a hobby... would it be okie dokie to share the love?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

DEEP THOUGHTS...from a nicotine starved brain.

2010-04-13T07:06:00.007-05:00

So, this nuclear arms crap.... it's my understanding that the hottest spot, nuke speaking, is the border between Pakistan and India.

I've been wondering what goes on over there around the dinner table and in the classrooms. Do you suppose they have a "Bert the Turtle" like we had when I was a kid? Do you suppose anyone would still fall for all the "Duck and Cover" films like we did back in the fifties and sixties?

When I was a little kid my dad told me that when I got under my desk to cram my head between my legs and kiss my ass good-bye.

I shared this information with my friends, but not my teachers... I didn't like them.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Stop typing blog crap and go answer your e-mails.

2. WHAT are you smoking? Banana peels?

3. Did you take your medicine today? Maybe you need to up the dose.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Save your Confederate money, the South shall rise again

2010-04-13T06:47:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I just want to bitch slap people and ask... "How in the name of all that is Holy can you believe such stupid shit?"

If you can read and write... shouldn't you know the truth? How can you be satisfied with what you were told by your third grade teacher?

Idiots blast away and rape our history with their sharp sticks if stupidity....

A couple days ago I even read a blog that ended in railing on the Republicans and holding up the Democrats as the savior or the black race and their beloved Abe Lincoln.

I just can't... I say CAN NOT understand how people can be so stupid...

It's all I can do to control myself and not leave some sort of scathing comment.... the way I look at it is when they have so many FACTS wrong... they are not going to hear the truth, so why bother.

So, here's my comment to the stupid post I read.... Lincoln was a Republican you fucking idiot. Maybe you should do some research before you rant on something you know nothing about.

The American Civil War was about states rights... yes, one of those rights was slavery.

Slavery was a litmus test on if a state was prone to favor "states rights" it was NOT the issue itself.

If you want to persist in gravitating on slavery... then there are a few questions you should seek out the answers. Such as: why didn't Lincoln "free the slaves" in 1861?
Why didn't Lincoln free ALL the slaves instead of ONLY those held in Confederate states.... hummm. Why did Lincoln wait until the Confederates were winning before he freed these people?

I admit I was taught the same lies in school that are taught to this day.... but there came a time when I noticed the date on the Emancipation Proclamation... and smelled a rat.

I was sent to the Deep South to live... and shocked to see... black people... I guess they just didn't know which way was north.

There is no such thing as a black conservative... and this guy... is an illusion.

The other side of this "slavery" issue.... and the lies that are still taught in schools to this day.... the truth will give you nightmares. I understand why children are not told the truth, but as adults the information should be put out where it is compiled for those that seek an education. It makes "Roots" look like a Disney movie.

The worst of the atrocity's... committed and sanctioned by law in the north.

If you really want to know what the Civil War was about, ask a Native American Indian.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. For God's sake go back to bed.

2. You need a cigarette and some sort of pill...

3. Have you been smoking something other than tobacco?

4. You are so full of shit your eyes are brown.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

The cat says this post stinks.

2010-04-05T05:49:00.009-05:00

Quarterly medical report on an asshole. Easter week better known around here as Holy Moley Week... finds me face down in the bed feeling sorry for myself... I want to make it for a couple more years or better. I promise I'll be around for a long time yet... I have a lot to write and a lot of crap to get done. I still have a child hanging around here that needs to be launched out into the world, make sure all my kids are happy and settled, and write my epitaph... buy a grave plot in the city cemetery and have my tombstone set.... I have no intention of ever being there... I just want to make sure I get the last word in this carpetbagging town. This, makes me wonder just how big an asshole I really am. I fear much larger than I even I give myself credit...

I'm open to suggestions with this epitaph writing... something to the effect of being buried face down so they can kiss my ass.... etc... poetic would also be nice.

As if I don't have enough problems with the oxygen consumption or lack there of with the lousy medical company, and since the equipment continues to malfunction with months waiting to be serviced... I have been forced to quit smoking... this pisses me off.

I have allowed myself one pack of coffin nails, per week, which I smoke at one sitting, then I sit around and bemoan my condition and counting the days until my next trip to Nirvana. I have now started adding a day each time... maybe by the time I hit two weeks, I won't be quite so bitchy.

I find I can't think without my smokes.... today is my smokes day.... so this post may be here for... awhile... until my next pack of lovies.

In the mean time... with my trips into the shit hole called Anniston around the end of the year... I stopped at the little hole in the wall market that sells things from the Orient.. I love those damn pears as big as a baby's head... anyway, I bought a couple really big bags of tapioca, cheap, really cheap. Yes, I knew better. I rediscovered this purchase a several days ago. I made some a couple times and immediately ate it all (no one else here eats it). I got strangely sick.... but on the second time around, I was pretty sure it was the tapioca... Just to make sure I made a double batch and ate every bite.... All doubt has been removed. I have no numbness in my toes, and it is my understanding this is the first effect of the arsenic poisoning.... but it is soooo good. I'll slow down my consumption and buy from a reputable dealer in the future. Waste not, want not.

Last night was a madhouse here, no more double batches....adult diapers chafe.

------------

The sandwich coupon scam.... the trouble with priests and cops.... Joy in the morning... and sadly, 6 foot women get no pity.

When we go out to do chores, pay bills and the like, we like to buy a sandwich. My daughter and I both prefer Hardees food and they are very good about sending buy one get one free coupons in the mail. Fridays mail was no different. Usually I don't really bend the rules... but I figured what the hell. Since it is one coupon per customer per visit.... and if we both got a buy one get one free it would take care of lunch AND dinner.... I dropped her off to go in and I went through the drive through. The little bastard inside had the nerve to ask if both sandwiches were for her. She said no (they were)... and wished she had the nerve to say something different.

I was reminded of my friend Joy and her stroke of genius many years ago while working at the Army Fort's Provost Marshal's Office.

When I had first arrived at this particular duty station (Deep South) the Provost Marshal's secretary was held by an old woman who had been there for 30 years,... well 28 years and had built up 2 years of sick leave that she could take before retirement. Which meant that the position could only be filled by a temporary worker until the two years expired... your government tax dollars at work.

My first order of business was being handed a fist full of cash and told to go buy a gold watch and some flowers for the "retirement dinner" for this woman I didn't know... or care to. Neither was I familiar with the territory. I drove to Shittown and looked around for a Flower shop and a jeweler. I got the watch for a couple hundred and finally found a flower shop.... It was on a corner with two sides of plate glass windows. When I walked into the deserted store, I sensed something wasn't "right". I could tell by the lighting and the air that there was a door open somewhere to the outside... as I walked to the rear counter I glimpsed a back door to the alley in the stock room was open. But before I could really get a handle on the whole no one's around but the back door is open a very very large obviously gay man came running in the back door screaming that Howard was being robbed.

My first dilemma on American soil.... who the hell is Howard and do I give a shit if he's being robbed. More to the point, is it any of my business. (Posse Comitatus Act and all that happy horse shit)... I could get the Army in a world of legal shit for "helping".

My right hand took a firm hold on my little friend hiding beside my left tit.... I told the guy to get down on the floor behind the counter and that I wouldn't let anyone hurt him..... actually it was more like.. Get down... where's Howard?... about that time I saw two Shittown police officers sliding along the plate glass window with revolvers drawn "sneaking up on the robber" who was next door, in the alley with a clear view through the flower shop... of their backs.

Why me Lord?

I took up a point where I could protect the flower man from the robber and the civilian police... no one ever knew what happened that day, except the flower man and he told his daddy the flower delivery man who was a retired Army Sergeant Major. The retirement bouquet was beyond beautiful and I got flowers from time to time with little thank you cards.

I never trusted the Shittown police to have my back... I was never so magic as to think bad guys can't see me through glass.

Anyway... the next day when I wandered out of my basement office and upstairs to chew the fat with the good ole boys... I expected the main office to be empty... having successfully retired the old secretary.... instead there was a very strange sight... a portly woman, as wide as she was tall which wasn't much at less than five foot, with huge bright blue eyes, bare foot, obviously no bra corralling her overly ample breasts and tousled hair that had not seen a comb that day and paint stained clothing..... Secretary's, as a general rule are of the highly coiffured and prim variety... this lady broke all the rules. She had a joyful face with big rosy cheeks and a huge sparkling smile... her name was Joy.

Seems in the civilian hiring scheme of things, first temp that took possession of the job got it.... she had just stopped by their office to check on job openings and had hurried over to take possession of the position... something akin to a dog pissing on a bush to mark it. I liked her from the start. She looked a lot better the next day.

The news lately has been about Priests here and abroad, mostly Ireland, and here it has included the Boy Scouts.... jobs that draw sick people so they can have access to children. There are jobs that just naturally draw certain kinds of folks.... police work is one of the worst.

Back in the "old days" bad cops were done in without the public ever knowing. All that political correctness put an end to getting rid of people quietly and police forces everywhere have to deal with their idiots best they can. When the idiot or corruption is at the top... things can get messy and stay that way.

The Provost was one such sick individual... very sick. His name was Needle Dick the Bug Fucker.... he spent his days in small silk shorts "running", then he would shower in his office suite and parade up and down the hall for 20 minutes in a towel.... once in the morning and once in the afternoon. He liked to talk to the ladies... which consisted of his secretary... and me... oh the novelty of being the only woman had no end.

A few weeks after I got there and Joy took up residence.... Needle Dick decided to "help" us end our filthy smoking habit. Everyday after his morning run Joy and I would have to go into his office and sit on a settee where he would put us under hypnosis and tell us how bad smoking was......... he was very proud of his hypnotism skills..... right.

On into the second week, I told Joy I didn't think I could keep up the straight face... I didn't know what evil would be unleashed short of a ruined military career... it was just sick and creepy.
She had to go it alone, which he had been careful NOT to do.... since he had to have the door closed and all... but I had been on drug bust that refused to end.... and I finally had a valid excuse for not making my appointment.... When I got back that day, Joy looked like the cat who ate the canary.... she was grinning from ear to ear.... but her desk was full of used tissues and her face was puffy like she had been crying.

Joy told me there would be no more hypnosis sessions. She had had a streak of genius.... After being "hypnotised" she had burst out crying and "squalling" as loud as she could. Then she rolled around on the floor and refused to "come out of hypnosis" or be comforted.... she told Needle Dick that all kinds of horrible memories had just come flooding back and she just couldn't stop crying.... every few minutes she would let out a big wail.... it really did cover up our laughter and strangely sounded a hell of a lot like crying.....

So, I told my daughter she could have burst into tears on the sandwich man.... but sadly, just like me, she is about six foot tall and six foot women get no pity.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

"With all the frills upon it"

2010-03-25T01:10:00.002-05:00

well, blue feathers.... I'll be the biggest asshole in the Easter Parade....

I was NOT going to "share" this picture.... until I saw a similar picture here; http://www.mykidsmightbemartians.com/2010/03/wordless-wednesday-im-dork-edition.html

very odd that two bloggers are both up to the same flavor of no good at the same time.....

FREE COMMENTS:

1. What are you doing? Put the thong down, and back away from the table.

2. Wow, pink and blue.... very springy.... will you be wearing any shoes with that?

3. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to put strange things on your head... I hope you get head lice.

4. Nice cheap glasses, they completely hide those bags under your eyes.

5. Tell me again how many years has it been since you were in a real store?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

AND ANOTHER REASON I'M SUCH AN A-HOLE.....

2010-03-12T15:15:00.005-06:00

I had "Great Expectations".

Back in High School everyone that was anyone was in several "clubs". This was usually during school time, but there was this one that got you out... at night. It was called the "Future Nurses". Now I didn't have the slightest interest in nursing.... but the out of the house and a couple road trips... count me in. Once, we went all the way to the Mayo Clinic... for me it was the ultimate in freak shows... I still remember some of the exhibits... like the farmer who fell (butt first) out of the hay mow onto the handle of his pitch fork.... high times and good stuff.

The best part of being a "Candystriper" was the little JUMPER... it was really easy to slut up. The sixties, a fine time, a fine time indeed.

Of course, there were those that seemed to be involved with this Candystripping business for some other reason than personal entertainment. But isn't that how it always goes? You just have to learn to incorporate those wet blanket people into your fun.

As Candysrtipers our duties were limited to: filling the water containers with fresh water and ice, delivering and picking up food trays, and feeding those patients who could not feed themselves. That was it, nothing more and nothing less. I think I'll pass on telling you all the story of feeding the "Helen Keller" lady that could swear like a sailor..... blind and deaf but boy could she swear. To communicate with her you had to write the words with your finger on the palm of her hand...... she knew how bad words were spelled too.

One evening I'm pushing the water and ice cart around.... popping in and out of rooms, sometimes a bit of pleasant conversation but mostly staying on the move as the wards had already been scoped out and there were no good looking dudes about..... I had once got flustered at seeing a male urinal for the first time and filled it with ice water and hung it back on the side of the bed...

That night, I popped into the last room at the end of the hall and came face to face with what would be known for the rest of my life as "Great Expectations".

It was a single room and sitting slumped in the chair beside the bed, the only occupant, an old man in his eighties. At first I thought he was dead. Then I saw that he was holding a male urinal in one hand and he had swept his gown up over his shoulder............ then it happened...... as I was innocently taking in this information to access the situation..... I saw it..... his schlong, his willy, his johnson, it was hanging over half way to the floor.

I had seen one like it before. On a horse out in a pasture... I nearly ran out of gas driving around to get a good look.... I couldn't park, someone might know what I was looking at.

Maybe I should point out that at this time in life I had no experience in what I was seeing. The best look I had ever had was a line drawing beside the word penis in an old dictionary at a friends house. Oh, and farm yard views.

Did I hurry off to get a nurse to see if he was dead? Do you really have to wonder? Of course I did the only thing I could do.... I hurried off to find my friend (owner of the above stated dictionary) so she could get a look too. We laughed our asses off.

Then it hit me.... the stuffy bitch with the weird voice who thought she knew everything. I hurried off despite my friends protests. I found the bitch torturing some poor bed bound person with that horrible grating voice of hers..... I told her the man in 406 had asked to see her, specifically by name. She grinned and excused herself... setting off down the hall in a self righteous strut.

My friend and I quietly jumped into a hall closet and peeked out through a crack. Snotty bitch came flying back out of the old mans room with her face so red blood was squirting out her ears. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA She never much spoke to me again. Excellent.

But, sadly, I was left with "Great Expectations" for mankind.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. What in the hell is the matter with you?

2. I have a feeling your Helen Keller story may go beyond being "just an asshole".

3. There used to be a floor show in Juarez you probably would have been interested in.

4. You sit around for weeks with no blog entry, and this, THIS, is the best you can do!

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

2010-02-24T05:37:00.006-06:00

Just like Joseph's coat of many colors... a post of many colors.

First, Eugene the giant cat is really twisting my panties in a wad. He has become possessed by the spirits of several nosey old women. Day and night he spends his time peeking out the curtains watching... everything and nothing... I am stuck closing the curtains behind him thirty times a day.

The fourth duplex was built this month. They rent out before they are finished. Headlights now come in my sitting room window as the new neighbors park. I'm sure they think the giant cat head is me needing a shave.

Instead of 20 feet from the lot line the last duplex is barely five foot if that, the iron property pin and my fence post has been flattened and my side yard is strewn with construction trash, bull dozier tracks and fill dirt. Oh well.

-------------------------------

The Internets blog world.... turns out the son of a bitch is about as real as it gets. I give February a rousing thumbs down as Renee is dying, her blog posted by her daughter... we knew it was coming... but hope springs eternal.

And a gigantic thumbs up with the birth of a new baby. A big healthy boy. Why was this doubted? I don't know, but I felt it too. I had her and her family put on our prayer list months ago when she first broke the news. I feel this birth as real as the only births my own family has been blessed with, my five great nieces and nephews... I have only been able to physically see and hold them three times in my life and theirs.... this long distance thing is not a problem for me... it's all I know.

-------------------------------

For some reason I want to tell you a story about my dad. I developed a relationship with one of his sisters, my aunt, child number nine as dad was number ten and the baby. Her name is Zella and I fear she is dead as she called me a couple times a year for about twenty years and though I have called her for a couple years, there have been no return calls..... there would be a large reason... monetary wise... for her death to be kept from Poppy's kin...nuff said.

1939-1940... Zella and Junior asked to go to the movies... their mommy said they could.... but their poppy said they couldn't go until the bean field was planted. Zella said if it hadn't been for their mommy they would not have gotten to do anything as poppy always had work for them to do.

They took sacks of bean seed and went to plant the field.... it was almost a ten mile walk to the movies.... as they came to the end of each row they took a handful of beans and pitched them into the West Virginia woods... the field was soon enough planted and the seed beans gone. While at the movies in Clay.... it struck them that they now had the added chore to check the woods and make sure that if any beans sprouted in the woods that poppy never see them or there would surly be hell to pay.

My aunt told me this story and others as she explained that the sweet fun loving boy that went to Germany in 1944 was not the man who returned.

-------------------------------

My father did not raise me to fold under pressure. I have the strange ability to stand and face you.... under any circumstance. I refuse to show emotion...of any kind.

And I will do so to my own demise.... even as I tell myself not to. I did this recently, I pushed myself way beyond my limits. I have tried to rest and regain what strength I had, it hasn't worked out for me. I'm tired, very tired.

Bad things have happened recently, but for the first time in my entire life... I was able to see the bigger picture... even as I spun out in flames. I had no animosity to those harming me and forgave even as it happened. I felt bad for them as from what I know of the Bible, God does not take lightly the screwing over of widows and orphans (and the like).

As soon as I can take a minute to clear out the identifying posts, I'll give you all the full skinny. We all have to watch out for the googly do...

-------------

The comments to the last post.... more than a couple really touched me... and then some. So, as I can, I want to answer each person personally... yes, I know that once you post it sort of gets lost in the mess... but I am going to keep adding to this post until each and everyone is answered.

--------------

-------------------------UPDATE------------------------

######### Sophie's Choice..... do I answer old stuff that no one gives a crap about anymore.....or do I catch up on my blog reading and write you all a story about how I had to bend over and grab the ankles....again. I'll take " Writings on the shit house walls for $800. Alex. #########

I may have to write a couple weird stories to pad the way for my brain.... I really hate reliving fresh horror stories.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Individualized Dumbassery

2010-02-02T01:16:00.006-06:00

I've been trying to do a little mental regrouping.

I need to get a feel for just how far off plumb my head may be.

I think my brain looks like a 5000 piece jig-saw puzzle... the box is smashed, and the lid, the directions to put it back together are lost. But if you could actually put the picture together, what would it be?

I want fluffy kittens gathered around a saucer of milk, the backdrop nothing but bland billowing satin.

There would be more than a few pieces missing... washed away around '79. My money is on a endless trash dump... miles and miles of garbled up crap. Tiny bits and pieces of colorful scraps, rotting away on a sunless day.
***

Also, a couple new followers in the buggy ride to hell and back, (was #102) is an insightful young Christian gentleman who has been with me for several months. I read a few of his posts and I see something that has been troubling me much clearer. In fact it was a problem causing me much distress, now it is solved. It is really odd how God gives you what you need when you really need it most. If you are looking, he is now number 101, folks continue to hop on and hop off every now and then. The last one to jump off.... lives up in Chicago....maybe she just needed to know I would notice. She even commented once about four or five months ago when I wrote about our football team.

So, I'm wondering, why do good people read my trash? If I keep writing about my past, it isn't pretty. I promise you, you don't want to hear the present... but I might... you all should know I can't be trusted....praying one minute and the "f" word the next.

I'm a rotten Christian, rotten to the core... but I keep trying and failing and trying again. I know, it is the classic example of insanity... doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. But I do, I always pray that people will do the right things in life, will chose the right path, that mankind is basically good. Yet over and over again I am forced to bend over and grab the ankles.
***

I need a new perspective, a new direction in handling the way I deal with all the scumbags (filthy rich and dirt poor) that cross my life's path. Something is horribly amiss in my life and I need to fix it. If it can be fixed.

There never seems to be an uneventful day. I thought I had one not too long ago. I thought I'd get a jump on it and go to bed early before anyone or anything could fuck it up..... but it was already too late. The cat had shit my bed. No reason, just dug down the bedding and crapped. Why? I pay for his comforts, his food and treats....and he crapped in my "space". My youngest daughter (cat's master ha ha) changed my bedding for me, while I just stood there... with a stupid look on my face. I could do nothing but stand there and mutter "why?". Later, I lay there in the dark...wondering what "wrong" the cat perceived I had done to him... I came up blank.

Before you ask, the answer is NO, I have never used his litter box. But it is now on my "Bucket List".
***

A special note to "grandmamargie"..... yes you made me look and re-count. Now I'm almost positive this is post 100.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

Here kitty kitty kitty....

2010-01-29T19:30:00.003-06:00

Again, Jon (Poetry is for Assholes) has stirred up a forgotten memory. One which grew into the unusual predicament of a kid of my parents relatively affluent means...living in a slum tenement house with the appearance of cat food for dinner.

I was a difficult child.

Oh where to begin, where to begin.

From the time I was very small, I was heavily involved in studying and rescuing wild animals. My father helped me and promised me medical school. When I was a senior in high school, I was accepted as was the way of things back then. Within days my mother informed me that the years of being promised veterinary school was not going to happen, as they couldn't afford it. No, I never said anything to my dad, it was just the way our family worked (or didn't).

Career day, and the Army showed up... I didn't qualify because I had had a major surgery. My parents must be punished... but how?

I had nothing else to do....nothing else in my mind... destiny had made me an asshole....and it was only going to get worse. It was the 60's....

So, a few months later, mother made me enroll in a nothing college only about 50 miles from home. I scheduled my classes from Monday morning to Thursday afternoon.... It was party time.

Unfortunately not, my mother informed me that I was to be home Thursday afternoon before dark and could not leave for school before Monday morning. Did I tell you I was a difficult child.

Mother found me where I was to live in the town that passed for a big city... forms had to be filled out and I had to be interviewed for acceptance...I behaved...I wanted out of my parents home.....

Welcome to the YWCA. (Young Women's Christian Association)

I would always get excited when my name would come over the speaker system......"" Miss Asshole, you have a gentleman caller.""

A quick look in the mirror, a lightening fast blouse change and I would fly down two flights of stairs so I could coolly saunter down the last stairs that could be seen from the sitting room..... it was most often my dad.

Somehow my dad always knew everything, even the unknown. His first visit he somehow knew that in such a place.... somehow...somewhere...I had a cold beer and enough to share.

So, dad visited often, we always sat in the alley on some old concrete stairs and drank beer. All the while the other occupants went on with their prim and proper day..... minus a few beers from my private cold storage located in the dozen or more cold water holding tanks of the third floor toilets.

The next few months were not pleasant. I partied Monday night through Thursday then went home until the next round. I had a law enforcement class on Mondays and met the only other girl in the program. She was used to the party life, I wasn't. I met people I wish I hadn't.

I also made friends with a girl that lived at the Y who was going to a trade school. Her room was next to mine and I coerced her into being my drinking buddy when no one else was around. She seemed like she had never had a friend before...I felt bad for her.

Life became nightmarish, fueled by the 60's lifestyle and all the trappings. It was bound to happen sooner rather than later...and my worlds collided.

Drunk sneaking past the cat napping chaperon, her pin-curled head leaning hard into the wing of a brocade wing-back chair....my friend stumbled...just as we had made it to the safety of the top first set of stairs... from there we could out run her and make it to our rooms without being identified.....

My friend was a big girl...rather roly poly... and that is just what she did... all the way to the center of the lobby, coming to a stop at the feet of our pin-curled nemesis.

Within the next couple days, my friend was asked to leave. Social injustice at it's finest. I was obviously the mastermind behind coming in drunk but I was also a college student majoring in law enforcement...I was given a warning. She was frequently late with rent, did not dress well and in trade school.....

Maybe, since I was able to help her stand and up the stairs I may not have appeared to be drunk....I was very used to alcohol and she wasn't. She also couldn't stop laughing. I don't know the whys, and yes, I did tell them it was my fault.

A room at the Y was small but very nice. Pleasant, airy with a large window. Everyone had a small private wash basin in their room. Each floor had a large restroom with a dozen or more toilets and a large shower room. Each floor had their own large sitting room and kitchen, everything was kept spotlessly clean. The cost was seven dollars a week.

I informed the Y that if my friend was leaving then I would leave also... it was okay with them (who knew?).

My mother washed her hands of me but informed me that she would give me no more than my standard 9 dollars a week living allowance.

I found a place for 35 dollars a month, for 5 dollars more they would put in another cot. So, my friend and I moved to a room in a boarding house slum.

There were two rooms downstairs and three rooms and the bathroom upstairs. We had the room at the top of the narrow stairs, next to the pay phone. There was an ancient old lady who hid in one and a decrepit old man in the other... who never shut his door. On both their doors was a sign that began "Should I be found dead, please notify Bruce's Funeral Home.." The bathroom was shown to us by the slumlord... it was the only time we ever stepped foot in it. The filth was beyond human comprehension. Luckily, the house sat behind a gas station that never locked their back entry restroom. Downstairs was a middle aged couple and the "Magic" guy. Magic guy used to get a lot of telephone calls and we became his unpaid switchboard just to shut the thing up from ringing outside the door. He offered to hypnotize us many times in gratitude for our fine secretarial work... we declined.

My friend and I continued our downward spiral in pretending to attend a class here and there and drinking. By this time my fiance had been forced into a state hospital by his millionaire mother and I used the excuse that my car was not acting right to stay the week-ends here and there.

We became very fashionable with my college friends. One girl who everyone called Digger liked to go with us to the slumland grocery store, there was always the off chance that we might see a black person. It was very exotic and exciting.

I ate a lot of hated tomato soup. It was nine cents a can and more than a meal. My friend and I shared and would always raid our parents food whenever we went home. Digger lived in the college dorm and had open access to the college dining facility. Digger never brought food with her when she visited, but would go straight to our refrigerator and eat whatever we had. It would have been much too impolite to say anything.

One week I had a can of tuna. It was wonderful and better than gold... the label fell off about the second or third time I took it out to get a little. Digger came over, as she made her way to the refrigerator I excused myself and said I was going to the restroom (gas station)... I went downstairs and went outside for a few minutes. I made as much noise as I could running back up the stairs... I burst into the room as excited as I could be and headed for the fridge. I told Digger an old cat I had been feeding was back and I needed to take the rest of the can of cat food from the fridge down to him.

She threw up my tuna.

Bitch.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

"Relative"-ly speaking...

2010-01-28T06:20:00.008-06:00

**I thought I'd crawl back on the net this morning, I'm still not 100% but then who is at my age. I need to go write something that makes me smile, and maybe just a tad assholey... I still can't wrap my head around the last couple weeks... just your typical poor folks taking it up the ass...same old same old.**

I left that as a comment to Jon over at Poetry is for Assholes, then my "drain bamaged" self said: "Self, why think so hard, just copy and paste it as your opening statement.

I want to thank you folks for the comments and the e-mails inquiring about my absentee shenanigans. I do indeed still number myself among the living however marginally it may be.

Now, lets have some fun.

My mothers family is big... too big. They take up the entire southeastern corner of a Midwestern state. Roughly from the state capitol to the Mississippi River towns.

I had an Aunt who did piss poor genealogy and my cousins would seek her advice in who they could or could not date and or breed with.... this information should have been given to the previous generation of 15 children as the inbreeding had already begun.

I escaped only because WWII made a more mobile generation and my father from West Virginia entered the picture and raised us in the farthest northwestern corner of that state, well away from this genetic cesspool.

Just hold on, I'll get to the legless guy in a minute.

When I was a kid, I dearly loved these people and thought everything was just hunky dory... when I ventured back some 40 years later... well, lets just say I no longer send Christmas cards... yes... they are that bad. Of the 300 to 400 immediate family members, I was aghast at those nearing 50 years old that did not have any knowledge of some family history. They were still babies when I left and went overseas... I just never made it back for more than a quick stop to see my grandmother. Then came the year of "my enlightenment" when I stayed up there for a year looking after my own mother. My mom, the oldest of the 15 children, batshit insane with Alzheimers, who her siblings had cleaned out house and bank account before calling me and telling me what my weekly telephone calls to mother had not clued me in to what was going on.

It was hard to come to grips that people you thought you knew, you didn't know at all. I'm still wondering if any of them care about the others or if it is all just a big screwed up family game. I chose not to play. I did however enjoy a story or two... even at "inappropriate" times (like funerals) as it was my opportunity to inform the uninformed... with those who lived it present... so I could watch them squirm... while the 50 year old and under crowd listened with awe and amazement... immediately jumping their parents with the question of why they weren't told..

Here is a relatively tame story about one of these relatives.

So, I had this Aunt, the one who did screwed up genealogy, who was born with cerebral palsy. She was a blast when we were kids. She took us for rides in her car and sometimes would poop her pants if the car would fly up over a big bump... which there was one down at the park. She would give us cigarettes and we would go down to that park and hide and smoke. As we got older she told us very interesting things, things she shouldn't have been telling us... but it was funny. She was a nice looking, well spoken woman, though it seems a bit over sexed.

She had many encounters, most notably, taking a pie to welcome a new teacher in town, then getting trapped nude in the closet with her car sitting out front while a group of my younger cousins and their friends also showed up to bring a pie... then stayed for about an hour waiting for my aunt to "return" from where ever she had "walked" to, knowing how difficult it was for her to go any distance being crippled.

On into my teenage years she picked up a "real" boyfriend. A man she had met and had dated along with others, during her stay at the state rehabilitation center just after she had graduated high school around 1946. We'll call him Stan. Stan had lost both his legs during a construction accident. He walked just slightly bent forward on two artificial legs. If you didn't know him, you would never guess he had no legs. He was a fantastic person. He lived with his mother a couple hours drive from my Aunt...who lived with her mother.

Every other week end, Stan would drive to my grandmothers house and pick up my Aunt for dinner and a movie. Of course being in the middle of a thousand tiny towns that meant driving another hour each way to get to a sit down restaurant and movie theater. After such a long day and night of driving, Stan would spend the night in my grandmothers guest room before making the long drive back to his own mother the next day. My Aunt not only shared a room but also the bed with my very elderly grandmother. Stan's mother would always call and check on him and on occasions would bring her along so the elderly mothers could visit while Stan and my Aunt were on a date.

My Aunt used to tell me they always had to find out what movie was playing and make up a story because their dates were really "dinner and dancing".

This went on for several years.... then one night, in a motel about ten miles from my grandmothers house... the police were called... one of my cousins, a deputy sheriff showed up. The coroner had to be called, another cousin.... and on and on it goes...Stan had expired during a round of oral sex.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. I think you should rest a little more, this post stinks.

2. You do ramble on...and on and on.

3. Is this deadly ability passed on genetically?

4. I noticed your numbers don't add up. I think you are a couple posts shy 100,...drafts don't count you idiot.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

KRISTMAS KILOWATTS

2009-12-25T17:10:00.004-06:00

Christmas night finds the humble occupants of Rancho sitting around the computer... having selected some tunes off "playlist"... such as "The police stop my car" by Bob Rivers and the like followed by some bagpipes.

Sadly, but as usual, we were not on Santa's route again this year. The sock called "Christmas" is barren.

Christmas day started off with a bang here... literally, a big bang when the transformer outside exploded about 7:30 this morning.... I tried to ignore the ensuing high pitched squeal from my oxygen machine but it seems putting a pillow over my head to block the sound, was ill advised.

The lack of oxygen to the brain was sorely felt in the ensuing search for the telephone book, because as of 9:30 none of my lazy ass neighbors appeared to have hauled their asses to the phone and called the power company..... I guess the big yellow sign on my house "OXYGEN IN USE NO SMOKING" made them all feel secure that help was on the way. Not so, as I never turned in any paperwork to the power company... what? me worry? As usual, everyone leaves it to me to be the Christmas asshole. So I lite a ciggie and contemplated my options, comforted with a half cup of yesterdays cold coffee.

After a half hour hunt, I found the phone book and called the emergency number, the bastards had the audacity to want my phone number to pin-point my location, or the number off the power bill? This isn't the month I bother to pay the power bill so there was no hope of finding it in the unopened mail heap. It goes without saying that I don't know my phone number... hell I've never been home once when I call... so why bother.

I stumbled all the way to the back of the house and get the daughters cell phone... cause I'm always home when she calls up here to the front of the house. It was while I was writing down my number off the cell phone onto the margin of the phone book that I remembered .... I'm in the book......shit. I may need to get some O2 to the brain.

An hour later they were here and an hour after that it was fixed... the man came up to the house and asked me if I was alright..... do I look ALRIGHT.... alright then. I told him how sorry I was to drag him out on Christmas morning... true Southern Gentleman, he was pleasant and gracious. Now hit the road jack... I need coffee.

I made coffee and hopped on the internet.

I hope you have something good come your way today. Do not shed a tear for me for I am blessed. On any given day at least one of my four children loves me, I have a roof over my head and food to eat. There's always room for one more, be it under this old roof or at the table. I've never taken a hand out or smelled welfare and neither has any of my children. All in all, it was as fine a holiday as could be prayed for.

Regards to all from Rancho Apocalypto. Drop by anytime, I'll make espresso.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

CHRISTMAS... RANCHO APOCALYPTO STYLE

2009-12-23T17:31:00.004-06:00

I nailed a dirty sock to the wall and named it Christmas.

Within seconds, there was a knock at the kitchen screen door, I was just saying a racy punchline to a rather naughty joke. I turned around and saw a man in uniform and considered meeting fire with fire... but in the nick of time, I noticed he was only armed with a red box. He did not speak and neither did I, he had heard my naughtiness... I pushed the screen open and he gave me the box and scurried away.

I did not have my glasses with me and had one of the children hurry and read the box to see if it was a likely explosive device... it was from Swiss Colony.... it was not large enough to house an entire man of Norwegian decent (a weakness of mine) but it could be important parts and pieces. T'was sent to me by my only surviving sister (NOT of ballerina fame).

We did not hesitate, nor move to a table, we four stood around the bar and sampled the sampler until there was but a couple orphaned tubes of strange cheese the size of a midgets digits.

Then we parted ways, until another holiday comes to Rancho.

Merry Christmas to all from the humblest abode in Bloggyville.

Oh, and sis, thanks for the nummies.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Dear God, this is true, isn't it.

2. Your doors are open at Christmastime? Where the hell do you live? Hell?

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10 PLUS IS NOT A MAGIC NUMBER

2009-12-21T15:58:00.005-06:00

So, there has been a discussion around here off and on in the past couple weeks.

What is the "MAGIC" number? Is there a magic number? If so, what is it?

There have been 10 or 11 women crawl out from under old Tiger's bed... poked up under there roughly at the same time. Elin didn't seem to have to give it much thought to beat his ass with a 9 iron and chase the asshole down while she was doing it. Then to go call her mom and say I'm coming home, with my children and without him. Good for her. Though it is a heartbreak to see such a beautiful family come to an end.

So, what is the "magic number"? If there had been one, some would have tried, others would not have. If there had been two, would anyone have tried to maintain the family? Three?

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Nine iron my ass, I'da used a .38 sideiron.

2. Is this a question from Schoolhouse Rock, cause I think that was nine.

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19 DECEMBER, 1944

2009-12-19T18:04:00.011-06:00

I know he couldn't help it. But all my Christmas memories start on the 16th of December, 1944 on the Belgium border, Battle of the Bulge, and came to a head on the 19th somewhere in the frozen mountains of the Ardennes......... I hated it.....now I miss it more than words can ever express.

I tried to let the day pass... but it became part of me. Maybe that is a good thing... lest we forget.

I wrote about it a few months back, http://elohssanatahw.blogspot.com/2009/09/slaughterhouse-five.html

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"A CHRISTMAS STORY" -or- The day the music died

2009-12-16T17:35:00.008-06:00

Now that I think back on my life, many people had a hand in making me the asshole I am today, and Santa was one of them. This one's for you "Santa".

My daughter asked me to write a "Christmas Story" kind of like my happiest or most memorable Christmas. I just so happen to have a most memorable...just up my sleeve.

Back in the late fifties, I only asked for one thing for Christmas, I started early so there would be no forgetting, it had always worked and Santa always brought me my hearts desire. That year it was a musical jewelry box with a ballerina dancing inside. Not that I needed a place to keep the Hope Diamond or anything else for that matter. I longed to hold the music in my hands and get lost in the beauty of the dancer. Maybe I saw it as an escape from the violence I knew as home.

My mom liked to hide that one most coveted gift..whichever of us girls had been most lost in desire for that one thing.

I was probably 7 or 8...and after all the gifts were opened, I was heartbroken... as mother pointed out that I did not seem to get the only thing I had asked for... but wait ..there seems to be one last gift in the back, under the skirt... I shot under the tree, my heart pounding and crawled out clutching the gift smiling from ear to ear..... then I saw my sisters name on the gift.

I remember mother making a strange sound and began professing that she believed Santa had made a mistake... my sister had already snatched the gift from my hands and was opening a beautiful little jewelry box with a twirling ballerina.

Mother tried to explain that sometimes Santa makes mistakes and that she was sure the gift was for me. My sister wouldn't let me hold it, never allowed to touch it.

As we grew up, she used to laugh about it, telling me she had known all along it had been meant for me. She seemed to revel in teasing me about it.

All these years gone, I've never owned one. The magic was gone.

Have you ever known anyone who when they died, you kind of KNEW they went straight to hell? It's a creepy feeling.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. WTF!! What kind of Christmas story is this... you are one sick individual.

2. Dear God in heaven, if you have any Easter stories, please keep them to yourself.

3. Was that the year you learned to make Secret Santa cookies with the main ingredient being Ex-Lax?

4. Gee, I was looking forward to the year you got the Chatty Baby that your dad had worn out making it talk. You remember, you could hear her from the stairwell, chatting away with your folks upstairs for a couple weeks before Christmas? And how you thought that maybe that growl she did on Christmas morning was maybe just ONE of the things she said. HA HA that was pretty funny too. Hey, wasn't that the year you stopped getting dolls because you'd take their heads off and snort the new plastic smell from the inside?

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My Life as a Fairy ... who put the fair in fairyUPDATE

2009-12-10T03:04:00.012-06:00

Isn't this a beautiful fairy, this is the kind of fairy I always tried to be...but I always failed.

This is the kind of fairy I can identify with, this is my kind of fairy.

I've never been "Mother of the Year". None of my sweet sweet children with their rosy cheeks and dewy eyes ever wrote that note to set me up on that all coveted pedestal. They never even tried.

Believe me, I "mentioned" it.

Oh, there is no question that in my day I supported the entire family, kept a spotless house, was chief cook, bottle washer, sports coach, chauffeur, dressmaker and on and on and on....and did it all fantastically. Perfection in motion.

I'll tell you what fucked me up.... all those Fairy Duties.

I never could cut it. I never got anything but a raw deal. I never got a "Fresh Start" to the New Year.

My brats were still sulking from the black disappointment that the "Jolly Old Christmas Elf" had heaped upon them. I'm here to tell you, all the good shit is long gone by the time I get there. I just never seemed to get to shopping before Christmas eve...

Before I could recover that Stupid Cupid would catch me with my pants down. My kids all sad faced dragging off to school with the last of the picked over Valentines that I found on the floor of the local drug store at midnight. Ashamed of my late night procurement. I took to buying those huge kisses to try to make amends...

...just in time to come up with some stupid Easter Basket. Since when do rabbits raid the chicken house. Again, store shelves picked over... the Bunny would not leave the beloved and longer for Cadbury eggs... but a sack of cheap jelly beans and some circus peanuts. I made Easter my own when I noticed that the local gas station sold weird candy "thingys", twirling lollipops and licky sucker rings. Easter became a pack of Luckies and some odds and ends in a wiped out cereal bowl stuck behind the couch. Easter grass in all it's colorful glory was banned. I told the kids I was allergic to it and the Easter Bunny knew. Truth being that crap is just to hard to clean up.

A half a deep breath and birthday month was raining down on my head. Oldest kid born just after Christmas.... easy just grab a Christmas gift and stash it away...a couple days later ...waa laa Happy Birthday. The other three all ganged up on me in July.

One year I had a brilliant idea.... Birthday "DAY"..... they all agreed... they've never forgiven me.

But all this pales in comparison to my Tooth Fairy duties. That damn Fairy lasts for years, times four, and there is no hope of marking an appearance on the calendar... she can be summoned at any time... absolutely no notice given.

My youngest got the shittiest end of the stick. I was old and tired and had already amassed enough small grubby little baby teeth to take up a necklace hobby. I asked her to write about it for me....here it is:

I was a very optimistic child. It wasn't that the Toothfairy wasn't coming to get my tooth. It was that she simply could not find it.

When a tooth fell out, I'd put it on the bedside dresser; God forbid I put it under my pillow and it fall behind the bed, where she surely would never find it. I'd wrap it in tissue, balls and wads of it, to make it very noticeable. If the Toothfairy didn't come that night, the next night I would make a small sign with notebook paper, with a small arrow on it pointing to the tooth.

If she didn't come that night, I'd put up another, larger sign the next night. "My tooth is RIGHT HERE -->"

If she didn't come THAT night, I'd make a little map, showing the entire room in childish scribbles, and great, big bold letters and arrows pointing to where the tooth was. There was also the addition of several pieces of notebook paper surrounding the area where the tooth was located, usually declaring "It's right here! <--!!" or "--> Tooth is HERE!"

The map always assured that she would indeed find my tooth. And she was always very, very generous with what she exchanged it with.

Sometimes when this poor child would finally get that visit, there would be more than one tooth there to collect up.

A part of me had a small hope that when I asked her to write a paragraph or two on the Tooth Fairy she might say she only had fond memories and nothing to "report".

In my defense: This is the kid who hid an ice cream sandwich under her pillow one time and forgot about it... it looked like poo. I was a little leery to just poke my hand under there in the dark.

--------------UPDATE------UPDATE------

Current photo of the now Toothless Fairy just posted over at http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

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GOT MAIL?

2009-12-08T06:03:00.010-06:00

Just to let you folks know.... I never comment anonymously and I NEVER send you mail that isn't from this address.... except for those who know who I am and I send mail from that address from time to time.

See what dressing down of piece of shit gets you! He's still begging for money over there... get a fucking job buddy... bloggin' ain't it. Fucking Troll.

Oh yeah, I really just can not be bothered with shopping this year so, MERRY CHRISTMAS """HICKEYS """"" Big red ones, for everybody! That's right, I'm giving hickeys for Christmas.

I'll need a few elves, cause I just don't travel like I once did.

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WHAT HAPPENED TO COMMON SENSE

2009-11-12T09:06:00.011-06:00

I heard on the news last night that 60% of the worlds population was not around for Vietnam.

Now that's a damn shame on so many levels.

I bought a quilting "rotary cutting blade" at wally world a few years back, it was made in Vietnam, I threw it in the trash.

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

ATTRIBUTION: George Santayana (1863?1952), U.S. philosopher, poet.
Life of Reason, 'Reason in Common Sense,' ch. 12 (1905-6).

William L. Shirer made these words the epigraph for his Rise and Fall
of the Third Reich (1959)."

Why do we refer to WWII as the "Great Generation"? Maybe because we were still a rather isolationist nation that didn't want anything to do with the wars raging in Europe and Japan.

Until it was brought to our door. Then it became "Our War". Every, EVERY, person in this country did for the war and did without for the war. From our oldest citizen to the babies born did their part to bring our soldiers home in victory.

Something else I saw on the news yesterday, a British mother whose son had bled to death for want of a helicopter. I know her nightmares, she will have them her whole life.

Our own troops continue to attempt to arm and protect themselves. Finding scrape metal to fashion armored vehicles, purchasing hand tools for survival in rugged terrain, and gun parts to cut down on the carbon buildup to keep their weapons from jamming.... it's Vietnam all over again.... the M16... made by "Mattel" (not really) but it was such a piece of crap (actually made by Colt) that it resulted in many stories of soldiers dying because of the poor equipment.

"And they died waiting for the old men, the politicians that hide under the beds, to send them the tools necessary to stay alive in a war zone." I'm not so good with making up my own quotes... but I could have said this in 1969 or 2009...works either way.

WHAT are we doing, really? Is the human race destined to destroy itself with wars that most people can't make heads or tails of using a little common sense. There just has to be a better way. There just HAS TO BE.

POLITICALLY CORRECT . . . I think this will be the epitaph for the ashes that was once a nation of great and wonderful people.

Our Fort Hood Soldiers: R.I.P. Victims of the Politically Correct.

Another Veterans Day bites the dust.

If any French folks stop by, would you mind terribly to tell me what YOUR Vietnam Vets thought about us (America) NOT heeding your warnings about going to Vietnam in the first damn place. Please and thank you.

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GOVERNMENT HEALTHCARE... QUALITY CONTROL AT ITS FINEST !

2009-11-10T05:48:00.009-06:00

Major Nidal Malik Hasan

Here you go soldier, meet your Doctor.

So, I know I must be missing some part of my brain. I'm still awaiting on the watchdogs. Do I HAVE to do everything? Or is it just me? Is my experience unique? Is my perception off? I guarantee I am not alone, of course most of the folks of which I personally speak are dead. Recipients of our current Government run Healthcare system... where the doctor is always right.

When time was short and one of the Big Boys needed to do a briefing, we (the worker bees) would crank out something called a "Fact Sheet". That's all it is, a sheet of paper listing the pertinent facts. Depending on the intelligence level of which Big Boy needed the fact sheet would depend on how far each fact was "fleshed out".

1. Let's all travel back to Camp Liberty and the soldier who went bat-shit and killed some folks to include some sort of psychiatrist along with some boys that were there either looking for some help or having been told to be there to get HELP.

They were there to receive Government run Healthcare.

2. Let's jump forward to Fort Hood ............no no Don't get distracted by the shiny object........stay with me.......who was this piece of shit? Yes, now you got it, he was a Government run Healthcare P-R-O-V-I-D-E-R!

GOVERNMENT HEALTHCARE... QUALITY CONTROL AT ITS FINEST !

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LET FREEDOM RING

2009-11-08T10:16:00.017-06:00

WHERE are the political blogs? WHERE are our watchdogs of FREEDOM?

I wrote something, and it stunk, really stunk. Probably would have had the Gestapo at my door with in minutes. (But it's okay, cause it's still on my hard drive and the government computer banks.) I'm going to give it another try.

I've been reading, listening and waiting. Or am I just waiting on the obvious. You all knew without being told. I knew too, but I just assumed it one one of those things that make me look a little crazy if I dared talk about it.

There are those "key words" that we must shy away from. We all know the government collects information on its' citizens. It always has.

Dealing with the shootings at Fort Hood... on every news program and every update it was ....... just mentioned in passing that the government had a "comment" from the internet that was being attributed to this murderer. Really, you say, how 1984 of them.

A comment? Our government collecting comments. And we thought it was just us bloggers who loved our comments.

AND SO MUCH MORE.... all the blogs that are so proud of being politically incorrect... why are they NOT asking the right questions, stating the obvious?

DOES ANYONE REMEMBER the shooting at Camp Liberty? Oh how our little hands were rubbed together and we fretted with the "why".

How about this.... Let us send our troops fighting these wars some REAL HELP... yes, let us send them a DOCTOR who fails his performance evaluations, yet is RETAINED IN THE MILITARY... let us even PROMOTE this worthless piece of shit PSYCHIATRIST.... because we certainly don't want to lose him... doctors being so hard to come by...let us not be bothered that he is also a muslin sympathizer.

We have much more important things to do... must go collect internet comments.

DO NOT COMMENT... LEAVE QUICKLY THROUGH THE KITCHEN... I'LL KEEP THEM OCCUPIED WHILE YOU ESCAPE.

LET FREEDOM RING

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POWERFUL ADVERTISING

2009-11-05T20:07:00.005-06:00

New commercial on our local television station for a bail bondsman.

"UH - OH...been arrested? What do you do now? Better call Mr. Bullcraps Bail Bond Service.......blah blah blah blah.......Let us get to you before your cellmate does!"

FREE COMMENTS:

1. I don't know Mr. Bullcrap, I've been eating a lot of processed food lately. Maybe a short stint in the slam is just what the doctor might order.

2. Up yours Mr. Bullcrap, they'll never get me! I'll take my chances with old needle dick the bug fugger.

3. Excuse me Mr. Bullcrap, I don't believe this is a promise you have any right to make. Your speedy service may not out run the speed of my cellmates loneliness.

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POLITICS FOR FAT KIDS

2009-10-28T23:20:00.009-05:00

I wanted to show you a picture of a sanitary napkin machine circa 1960. It doesn't seem to exist on the web. But there was a gentler time, not so very long ago that no one, not even me, would have mentioned the unmentionable.

Sometimes, well often, when I read the blogs I follow they bring a memory to mind. I like to leave a comment.... sometimes I shouldn't.

Sometimes I should leave those little brain dropping where they fell and avoid stepping in it.

Sometimes I think, Huh...maybe this was one of those little "blows" that lead me down the path in becoming the Asshole I am today.

Happy, posted about a pimple cream machine...

I remember that the machines in my life that shocked me had all been located in public toilets. The narcotics (Bennys and Yellow Jackets) of the 1960's and 70's and the prophylactic machines of the 1980's and 90's.

But the worst, the absolute worst of them all... was the very first dispenser I ever saw. I was on a field trip all the way to the state capitol building... and there it was...in all it's plain silver glory, hanging on the wall of the women's toilet. Nothing on it but a big "5cents" marking.

Then I got to thinking about my internal quest for an explanation to my assholiness... and I remembered that time... when that innocent little fat girl... unwrapped that..........candy bar.

My comment:

@eloh said...
When I was a little kid, I bought a kotex from a vending machine in the toilet at the State Capitol building cause it was a nickel and the only machines I had ever seen gave candy.

I thought it was like a big Zero (candy) bar....imagine my disappointment.

I kept that plain brown wrapper of cottony goodness for a long time. I have never told anyone before how I was made a fool by those lyin' bastards on capitol hill.

LINGERING QUESTION:

Is a sanitary napkin by any other maker still a kotex?

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GET OFF THE BED

2009-10-25T07:26:00.014-05:00

I grew up haunting this lake. It seemed to be everything I ever needed or wanted, inspite of the fact that in my near twenty years on this lake, I boarded three boats, all three promptly sank. I hope it is okay that I used a University photo of the lake. Since it is a "resort" town now all I could find was pretty picture of a calm and inviting water.

Believe me, glacier lakes can have a real mean streak, and they aren't afraid to show it.

But this story isn't about sinking boats, it's about those sinking feeling you get when you have to face the facts that the house you are living in is already otherwise "occupied". I've lived in two such places.

The first was very typical of the standard haunted house. An old Victorian just a short distance from this lake. It had been utilized as the first county hospital...and morgue, a fact we didn't know for several years. I was 12 when we moved in. The upstairs floor was rented out as an apartment to a young college couple and my parents had told them they could stay and finish out their last year at the University without worrying about moving.

Seems like a small fact that doesn't need to be in a haunting story..... Except that as a family we were living in a strange old huge house WITH strangers afoot. They had a staircase on the rear of the house and we rarely took notice of their comings and goings. There were sounds... and plenty of them. My parents used to comment that they had thought that this married couple would be quieter, especially at night. They also seemed to have a lot of guests, that we never saw come or go.

The year passed, the couple graduated and moved. My sisters and I got to see the upstairs of the house for the first time. I remember being so overwhelmed by the sheer size of one of the bedrooms that my sisters and I held foot races from end to end. My parents decided that since we really didn't need all that space they would close off the hallway and continue to rent out a portion of the upper floor. A short renovation later, one of my sisters and I moved to an upstairs bedroom. This time the "renters", a group of girls, didn't work out well at all and when the semester was up, my folks had them leave.

Yet, the noises continued. My mother had the locks changed on the rear entrance as she was sure she heard people upstairs walking around during the day. The apartment was empty, and the noises continued. The hallway had had a partition built, but there was still a door connecting the two sections. My folks had another lock put on the family side of the door. We finally had to admit there was "something" when the walking noises were acknowledged by everyone in the family, to include my father and his "just an old house settling" refused to fly anymore when he went up to chase away our intruder with gun in hand.

When we had visiting relatives... oh do people with big house get plenty of those... they were of course housed in the upstairs apartment, the door now being left unlocked and open as we had all realized our intruder was just a resident like the rest of us. It was so common, the "activity" so everyday, that as a family we didn't pay any attention to it anymore. Our worldly guests were not so open. I especially remember one of my mothers sisters asking her why she had come up to check on them in the night. The Aunt said she was going to turn over and talk to her (mother) when she sat on the bed, but she must have fallen back asleep because when she turned over mother was gone.

Oh, you could have heard a pin drop around the breakfast table that morning. Mother's family were constant moochers, but they cut the visit short and went home that day. Hence forth, all mothers family insisted on sleeping in the downstairs library bedroom.

During this time my oldest sister had gotten married. The guy was as worthless as they come and soon it was necessary to house them (and baby makes three). Now the ghost fun really took a step up.

From her time living in the apartment it became clear that the large bedroom was the most active. She moved the bed all over the room, it didn't matter where it was, the ghost would walk from the same doorway over to the bed and "check" on the occupants.

Over twenty years and a million miles later, I was looking to buy a house in the mountains of Alabama. Being of common folk stock, I was quite taken aback by a house owned by two doctors sitting on over twenty acres of hardwoods for a truly unbelievable price. Why I asked, like any good consumer. Because it has a few "problems" and is being sold "as is". Let me clue you all, this "as is" should be a giant ghost flag... might not be ghosts, but if it's too good to be true.....well you know how it goes.

I'm trying to confess to only limited stupidity here, you'll have to be the judge. In my defense, there were water problems, as in NO WATER. The house sat about three fourths the way up a mountain. A pumping system at the foot of the mountain pumped water to a small holding tank in the lower level of the house. Every now and then the county water tank would get low causing the pump to kick in and implode at a basic $366.00 a pop.

I'm getting a head of myself. We were told the water wasn't "turned on" during the house viewings because it involved a pump system and so the electricity was also needed... The house had three large full bathrooms, utility room, large workshop with sinks...etc etc......everything "spoke" plenty of water.... actually, it just never entered my mind. I had never heard of that kind of water problem. There was a seven stall horse barn. A small sink in the tack room and large faucet in the barn. We were told that there was no longer electricity to the barn due to a fire. I saw no evidence of a fire, anywhere.

The listing Real Estate agent always had an excuse at the last minute and would send us out to look at the property by ourselves. Finally, about our third trip to look at the property, another agent came with us, she told us poor Ruby was terrified of the place. She said that a year or so back there had been some evidence that a tramp had been living in the barn. The house was supposedly about seven years old and had been occupied by two different families for a total of three years. Other than that, it had sat empty and for sale.

We fell in love with the place. It was a stretch, but even with a half assed job when I finished the degree I was currently working on there would be no problems, ever. The whole family couldn't wait to move in.

Coming Soon to a Blog near you....Part Two....Oh shit, I think there might be a dead hobo in the attic!

FREE VISUAL HORROR LINK IN CELEBRATION OF HALLOWEEN:

http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

APB BLOGGER MIA

2009-10-22T09:27:00.011-05:00

"ALL POINTS BULLETIN" ...BLOGGER... MISSING IN ACTION!!! ALIEN ABDUCTION A POSSIBILITY, FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.

I want to send out good thoughts and energy to Dave and his Diary.

I jumped on the old computer this morning and the first thing I always do is check to see if anyone has left me a much loved comment....Yawl know what a whore I am over comments.

I read the comment from http://acorneroffrance.blogspot.com/Cogitator and think maybe I need to jump over there and give him a link to Dave.

I start my reading list and http://livesbythewoods.blogspot.com/Lives By The Woods is freshly published and on top the heap...I jump over there and lo and behold another mention to Dave's absence....

I hurry to the "Diary"...gone...missing in action.

For us avid readers this has a very ominous tone.

I just went looking and all the "follower" pics (his shadow man) are gone. It's as if all the bread crumbs that Dave was ever in bloggyville have been swept away.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

WARNING LABELS

2009-10-21T13:16:00.003-05:00

I had me a little heart scare a few months back. Just before I started blogging.

I had a rather invasive little procedure called a heart cauterization. The "stint" put in my leg still hurts. Turned out my problem wasn't my heart after all.

The doctor asked me genetic questions, marveling at my horrible habits and appearance, I'm sure. The doctors end results...I have an excellent heart, no sign of abuse...I HAVE MOST EXCELLENT GENETICS. I told him about my Poppy chasing a nurse down the hallway at 106...but it was lost in translation and he asked me why my grandfather was chasing a nurse....oh well.

One of my favorite things to eat is the Hardees Monster Burger...just beef, bacon and cheese, unencumbered by any healthy nonsense like veggys. I have affectionately called it the Heart Attack Burger. I stopped and got me one on the way home from the heart doctors that day and for the first time enjoyed it without thought of clogging my pristine arteries. Hallelujah

These few months later, I decided that I should go out of my way a little to take better care of my working parts and pieces.

I probably should, but I don't diet. I do go on healthy eating think fests at times....so I decided I wasn't eating enough ruffage....so, I bought some Fiber One Original with 51% daily fiber, and ate half a box.

Now, I actually have no idea what all that fiber talk means, but hell it sounded so very necessary for optimum health. I had so much loud gas I dared not go in public. Then, to my horror, I crapped out one of my own legs to include all the discomfort imagined. When I had sufficiently recovered....I read the box.

There is was in the fine print.....increase fiber slowly.

Who Knew??!!!

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC

2009-10-16T03:22:00.004-05:00

The elephant in the room has become a herd of charging bulls.

For as long as I can remember my father wore a heavy piece of old copper wire around his wrist. When ever someone asked him what it was he would launch into a very mysterious story about receiving the bracelet from an old black woman. She had promised him that as long as he kept that bracelet around his wrist he would never be run over by elephants. He would always end the story with the fact that to that very day no elephant had even come near him.

I wish I had my fathers old piece of wire. I don't have rheumatism, but I'd wear it anyway.

Dad had an exceptional sense of humor. He wasn't allowed to use it when it was just the family in the house. Mother hated laughter...for some reason and to her death, she thought all sounds of happiness and laughter were jokes made at her expense. Her bitterness and hatred still hangs heavy in my house. My little girl was right, I never should have brought her into our home.

I have a real knack for taking the old saying "No good deed goes unpunished" to the extreme.

There have been a few folks from an old web site I used to hang out at migrate over here, periodically. I think it's getting time I tell "my" story. To some extent, here. Not that I want to create a forum for dementia, but to shine a little light on what is going on in homes across America...that you just have no idea...none...and you want to be prepared with as much knowledge in case it ever heads your way.

Those elephants will stomp your ass flat into the ground.

We used code names over there also, mine is uglyasamudfence...which got shortened to Mud or Muddy....we also had a standard blip that would appear each time we posted.......

Here's mine.....

Caregiver for TBI (at age 20) son for 17 years, bedridden, tube fed, mute, caregiver for my mother with severe dementia/Alzheimer's for 20 months, until her death, Mar/2009. Not so quietly crazy.

FREE COMMENTS:

1. What the hell is going on here?

2. Can I pet your elephant?

3. I heard you have your mother in a box.

4. I was going to jump ship but my leg fell asleep in this cramped cart. Could you ask Miss Love to get off me.

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MONKEYS, NUNS AND POPCORN

2009-10-13T00:37:00.012-05:00

So, someone wrote something a few days ago that made me remember the times in my life that monkeys have outsmarted me, or just plain touched my world, by touching themselves. I thought I might try to tell you about my monkey moments.Back in the fifties and sixties you could buy a monkey through the mail. The ad was always in the back of comic books along with the x-ray glasses and such. The REA (Railroad Express Agency) office was right next door to my dads office. One day they get a "dead" monkey in the express office. The guy in charge says he's going to throw it in the trash...so my dad asks if he can have it, he says he thinks he can save it...they laugh.
It took awhile but my dad healed the monkey and he was a blast. My sister made him a little shirt and pillow and he loved it. A few weeks later in conversation with the REA guy the subject of the monkey came up and dad told them how much fun the monkey was. The express guy came to our house wearing shoulder high leather gloves and took the monkey and shipped him out, probably to his death. My dad was pissed.
There are pictures of the monkey, but I don't have them so here is a picture of one just like him. He used to poop in his hand and give the little balls of poop to us, then check out his little nails to make sure he stayed fresh....
I just didn't get it. But the low lands gorilla at the Henry Doorly Zoo tried to give me a little insight into male boredom when I was about 14. My Aunt had me sit with her to watch the gorilla and told the others, mother, grandmother, and sisters to go on. Evidently she could tell there was a show about to start. After all these years, it still strikes me how he kept looking me in the eye. One hand behind his head and one hand working on his wanker. I still didn't get it.
I was never one to pass up a zoo or side show. While living in Minneapolis/St Paul, I went over to check out a zoo. There was a chimp house that consisted of a rotunda with rocks and such in the center and a catwalk circling around. It was very nice and only cost a dime to get in.
There was a new chimp in town, a female and the exhibit had been advertised. I found myself alone watching as the male chimp would chase down the female, grab her by the ankles, spread those legs wide, have a gander then throw her ankles to the side and run hooting and hollering...turn around and do it all over again.
I was wondering if there was going to be some sort of activity. The male chimp had started dropping one ankle to give her privates a little touch before seeming to run in fright. I had to wonder how long or if ever he had ever seen a female chimp.
About the time things started to really get interesting, the door opened. Shit...now I'd have to leave because I was not going to stand there and watch chimp sex and have someone see me watching.......about 20 or 30 five year olds come filing in....I stand on the far side of the catwalk in horror as the male chimp finally gets down to business....but the nuns are too busy counting children to notice. That was a field trip for the record books. I missed the chimp sex because watching the nuns was more fun.
How dumb do you feel when you think you have thought of some original idea to mess with an animal just to find out that you've been outsmarted.So, I have a few hours pass from the base to go to a big shopping mall in Alabama. There is an organ grinder and his monkey entertaining people. I find this very weird, it was about the last thing I expected to see. I'm standing in the crowd, when the man finishes his song the monkey runs around the crowd on two feet with his tin cup collecting money, mostly quarters.
I'm struck with a brilliant idea. After the next song I pinch my quarter really tight to see if I can get the monkey to do a tug of war....the monkey bit me so fast I didn't even see it coming. He'd had that shit pulled on him before. My quarter dropped right into his cup in one swift move. I was so embarrassed. I had a band aid on my thumb for about a week, and lied about it. No way was I going to admit to having a monkey bite from a shopping mall.
I used to go to a little zoo on Okinawa. There was a building that translated into the House Of 500 Snakes. They had a pair of king cobras in their one big exhibit, I liked bothering them, which under the circumstances wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done. We used to try to count how many snakes were actually still alive...it never took long. Their water Buffalo died, it was just tied under some bushes, it was still there for a couple visits. So one day they have a small cage in the court yard with a rather large old chimp inside. He looks at me looking at him...he sees my pop corn and sticks his hand out, I stepped toward the cage and gave him some popcorn. He smiled so sweet and looked so sad. I had started to walk away so he strained to stretch out his arm with his little face pressed into the bars....how could I resist. I walked to his hand to drop some more popcorn in..........his arm shot out like a rocket and grabbed me around the wrist and started pulling....with his other hand he pointed at the bag of popcorn.....I gave it to him......he let go of me and sat back and people watched munching my popcorn, one piece at a time.

FREE COMMENTS:
1. So, you're NOT smarter than a monkey.
2. Hey, everybody likes popcorn.
3. How did the nuns know what was happening?
4. People who touch monkeys get what they deserve.
5. I have a monkey in my van, get in I'll show you.

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SHOOTIN' THE MOON

2009-10-08T20:25:00.004-05:00

Well, here we are in the 21st Century, shootin' the moon.

Recon' it'll shoot back?

FREE COMMENTS:

1. I'll shoot the moon for ya, and I won't charge 79 million to do it.

2. Is this our first strike in the inter galactic war?

3. Huh, I had no idea there was oil on the moon.

4. Those moon people never liked us anyway.

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JUST WONDERING ABOUT TRAINS

2009-10-03T14:27:00.008-05:00

Could be I'm just full of shit here, but I got to wondering about trains and how this country used to work. I've always been terrified of trains and tracks. Lori over at:{http://www.familytreesmaycontainnuts.com/2009/10/story-of-my-mom.html} posted a beautiful story about a train ride with her mother when she was a little girl. She describes so well how things used to be.

Here in the USA we don't have a real rail system left. Railroad tracks have been removed. In a few places you can still see the mile long freight trains that bring a few of the overseas dry boxes to waiting diesel burning semi trucks for distribution throughout the USA. Unless you live in a major city, you must travel a great distance to meet up with a depot for our small passenger line.

I was going to use it once, about a year ago, but I would have had to have gone 1500 miles north, then changed trains to go back 500 miles south, thus my 1000 mile northern journey would be 2000 miles and somewhat expensive. It seemed like a really stupid choice.

In the late 1950's, many of the small passenger trains stopped making stops in all the small towns as more and more people began owning their own cars. Instead of walking a few blocks to the train depot and riding in comfort for a few miles and getting off at grammas house five or 10 miles down the line and doing the reverse before dinner. But the freight still came, dropping and picking up dry box cars and refrigerator cars in all the little farm to market towns...then in the late 60's the decision was made to start closing down the lines.

I really didn't see what all the fuss was about...but my father was very upset. I remember him saying that without the railroads, we would never win another war. He was right.

I wonder what our country would be like, now, if we didn't have the need for so many cars commuting from city to city, no matter what the size. How many semi trailer trucks would we really need?

Would we be so interested in the gulf oil? How much would we need beyond our own production? Yes, I know we would still purchase reserves...but would we have the need to send our children to die for it?

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Don't be such a dumb ass, there is a lot more involved here than your Pollyanna take on war.

2. I prefer the nice bike path we have now to those nasty scary trains.

3. And your point is?

4. Hey, I think we won that one Gulf war...didn't we...oh that's right...never mind.

5. I've lived places where they still have local/long distance passenger trains, it ain't all peaches and cream either.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

HELLO NEIGHBOR...OH WON'T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR

2009-09-24T14:47:00.025-05:00

Gloom despair and agony on me
Deep dark depression excessive misery
If it weren't for bad luck
I'd have no luck at all
Gloom despair and agony on meeeeeee

After months of abstaining I drank my beloved "drive-in" sweet tea
It felt like Old Faithful a commin outta me
It must have been from a pot full o' muck
Cause for days my life sure did suck

Curled up in a ball, It took a week o' recovery
The sky's were dark and pourin rain a drudgery
Ranchos' trees and hedges crept to my door
And the grass was a foot tall or more

Gloom despair and agony on me
Deep dark depression excessive misery
If it weren't for bad luck
I'd have no luck at all
Gloom despair and agony on meeeeeee

Hello Neighbor.........I've been a bit under the weather.....for a while I couldn't even get to the computer chair. Then I could read but couldn't type and I fell behind on my usual computer antics.

I tried writing a couple things but they were way too depressing or just plain "odd". I forced myself to go out briefly this past Friday with a friend to a yearly quilt show hosted each year by another friend. The friend I went with had won not only a First Place ribbon but also Best in Show. I'm not very good at this surviving by mechanical means and once we got into her car and headed down the highway I hooked up my tank...my thought here was to snort the O2 on the car trip and then I could walk around the pavilion like a normal person sans tanks. But of course I had not thought to look at the levels and I had brought an empty tank. I made it just fine but I was really really tired when I got home {Oh yes dear neighbor this is part of my sad story}.

I had hoped to "avoid" the yard man by telling him when he telephoned that I would not be home. I left all his reasons for door knocking on the porch, in a bag on the porch, (ice water, money). The window of opportunity for yard work is very limited this time of year and by putting him off (stupidly) over a week ago, the driving turd floating rains had turned Rancho Apocalypto into a virtual demons garden of freeloading pests. Possums, deer, fox, and raccoons making bold daylight dining on my side porch.

Mid afternoon last week I had a long dinner discussion with a rather large coon, he just sat on his haunches keeping both hands full of cat chow.. the little bastard was quite ambidextrous, while one hand poked food in his mouth the other hand was in the cats pan filling up....I was too weak to holler at him...I did request that he bring his rabies vaccine certificate before his next daylight raid. I digress. I should say that later, on my way through the kitchen, I saw the little shit messing with my poinsettias...I did get out an abrupt "Hey" where in he ambled up into the fig tree causing the branch to hang down onto the porch and I swear...he shot me the bird.

I keep the front of the east side mowed but my "jungle acreage" is allowed to have it's way with the rest of Rancho, the over foot tall grasses making a virtual freeloaders highway of covered passage from my woods to the house. So, I was very glad that the yard man could come and cut the grass.

Like I said, when I got home I was exhausted. The grass was only half cut..I thought...well they will call and tell me what happened...maybe my mower needs something...whatever. As I start to the house, I hear the mower...huh...he must not have been able to make it when he said he was coming...oh well. I went in and took off my "in public" baubles and sat down to rest. Then a knock at the window (because of the house age and thick walls inside and out...I tell people to tap on the window on their way to the door...other wise, I'll never hear them).

He's finished, good I says, did you find the money? He says that he did find the money and could he please use my bathroom. But of course says I. Where in he promptly enters carrying a tied up Wally World bag, enters the bathroom and takes a shower.

And how was your week neighbor?

FREE COMMENTS:

1. Fine thank you, no nude men getting strange penis on my favorite shower scrubby.

2. Not worth a shit, but thanks for askin'.

AP Press photo of our little rain here this past week in the Southeast.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

MY FRIEND POOPIES

2009-09-17T12:31:00.006-05:00

I should write about my first cat...and my sons' pet mice....he doesn't read blogs...so I could confess the whole surly mess.

The stupid thing was injured...I couldn't just leave it. I didn't care for cats, but this one wormed his way into my heart...not in a heart worms and need medicine kind of way but in a "hey, cats are people too" kind of way.

Speaking of the "cat people"...when I started my blog and for quite some time...it seemed as every time I left a comment somewhere, there was someones pussy on my head. Where are all the "cat people". I just looked to make sure and I am indeed running a pussy free blog. The cat people do not hang out at Rancho Apocalypto. That's good cause I do not want to see someone else's pussy every time I log on.

So I had this frail cat, he seemed to get better and enjoyed life but later got sick and passed. During this time my son had a plastic terrarium with his prize little black and white mice. No matter what I did, Poopies would get into the mice. His name was Poopies because poop came out his butt all the time...I tried to remember his original name but I can't...he was just always and now forever Poopies.

My son was concerned over the death rate of his mice, always seemed to have a mysterious death at least once a week. He would confer for hours with his geek mouse buddy friends but ah to no avail. Poopies minded his manners when the boy was near the mouse snack factory. Once Poops rolled a couple in a rug before I made the rescue...they both passed and I kind of felt bad about putting two dead mice back in the terrarium. I wondered if it freaked the remaining mice out. I also wondered if they were trying to squeal on the "mystery virus" by pointing their tiny little mousey fingers at poor Poopies as he sat quietly and watched.

Poopies and I were always very solemn at the mouse funerals. We especially enjoyed the viking send off, the result of Poopies double homicide.

My son learned a lot during this time. He learned that sometimes there are no answers to life's dilemmas, but he never learned that one frail little orange tabby could knock a weighted terrarium over and help himself.

FREE COMMENTS SECTION:

1. Your illistration skills are abnormal, to say the least.

2. Are you trying to tell us your cat had above average hearing?

3. I think you should know, I can see you pussy all the way over here, and it appears angry. Have you had your yearly OB/GYN visit?
Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE

2009-09-09T08:50:00.008-05:00

A LION IN THE WAY

I have a couple family members who read my blog. Documenting family history is what my family wants me writing about...but this post will be like someone dropping raging monsters from hell into someones head........so I give them warning to look away....I don't want to be the one putting monsters into any ones inter sanctums. The more they loved my father, the more this will explain and the more it will hurt.

If only, if only we had known. Dad was from a generation that didn't talk much about their inner demons.

Belgium, December, 1944.

Schnee Eifel, Germany. The Snow Mountains. Very rugged mountainous area between Schonberg and Prum. Location of the 422d and 423d Infantry Regiments.

Schonberg, Belgium. About 6 miles east of St. Vith on the Our River and just west of the rugged mountain wilderness called Schnee Eifel.

11 Dec 1944
The Golden Lion arrived in Belgium and relieves the seasoned 2d Infantry Division located in the Schnee Eifel.

The 422d and 423d Regiments are sent about eighteen miles forward near Schonberg.

All is quiet on the Western Front, this is good, because these are mostly children, 17, 18, 19, 20, green troops with very little training, sent in to relieve the war weary.

Five days later, all hell breaks loose....Hitlers final push...The Battle of the Bulge.

Dec 16 1944, the 422d and 423d realize that the bombs are falling on their Division to their rear, they already know they have Germans on both sides. Stragglers from the 424th Regiment wander in from the rear with hollow eyes, offering all they have, even their clothing in the freezing temperates...for a rifle. The 422d and 423d regroup and fight forward...

Dec 18 1944, the Division to their rear, retreats to St. Vith, in the face of the advancing German Army...all hope is now lost for the 422d and 423d. They are classified as "lost to the Division".

Many who surrendered were mowed down with machine gun fire so as not to slow the German advance. There was a Lion in their way.

Dec 19, 1944.....the last of the 422d and 423d surrender, and my fathers' journey as a POW began.

December 19, was the biggest day in my fathers' life. I don't think any other holiday or family milestone ever crossed his radar. Hitlers' last stand the Battle of the Bulge, dad would start really heavy drinking around the 16th...not in celebration of the Bulge, but so he could be completely out of it by the morning of the 19th. Normally a man of few words, he was a running encyclopedia of Kraut hatred on that day. I grew up knowing every foul word known to mankind tacked on to some euphemism for a German. Mother especially enjoyed the day....being of good German immigrant stock. (How these two got together was a story for another day, deception on mothers part, I'm sure.)

All this we have known our whole lives. But there was something we didn't know, the real horrors that went beyond his survival on the battle field, the forced marches, the 40 or 8 cars and the prison camps.

**********

I was always a rather macabre child. Interested in the whys and where fores. Under the right circumstances I would ask my father a question and always received an answer or a thoughtful, I don't know. My father never once lied to me, ever.

Something he said once has haunted me my whole life. I have no memory of what I said or asked him. He looked at me sudden and quick with eyes I had never seen before, almost fearful like a frightened child, though knowing him I can never believe him to have had a fearful moment in his life.

He said "There isn't anything that smells like people burning, seeing them stacked up like cord wood and set on fire, even mothers still holding their babies......." he stopped abruptly, and I watched as he reach for his whiskey bottle and turned inside himself.

Seems like a hundred years later, when his name was in books, it was okay to speak of snippets. But nothing added up to what he had said, buddies shot in the head for lipping off to the guards in some forlorn Stalag....wishing he "they" had killed their officer and taken their chances instead of surrendering to the Nazi. Even in the history, written about them over and over, something in him failed to accept that there was only death or surrender and even in the surrender, there was death.

Something happened, but it was never spoken again. Late in years, I broke a family taboo and spoke to him of his "other family". He was so relieved, even joyful, to hear their names spoken and to hear what he could about them...but he was very stern in reminding me that the entire subject was forbidden in front of mother. She didn't allow anyone to even mention his life before her.

I really wish I would have physically slapped my mother in the face and made her explain her cruelty. Made her confess with her own mouth why she had added to my father's private hell. Hindsight is a real bitch, decked out in silver slippers, pillowy tits, and bright red lips, it burns your eyes and taunts your brain into a torn bag of shit.

But I never asked him about the stacked bodies or burning flesh....selfishly, I never wanted to be the cause of bringing that "look" into his eyes again.

A couple nights ago, looking on the web, I found my answer. I was only looking to replace the books stolen from my mothers house that had snippets written of my father by name.

Instead, I am drowned in horror, I am engulfed in the fires of 135,000 dead, stacked up like cord wood, even mothers still clutching their babies. More dead than from the atomic bombs.

As I read the POW roster of my fathers' units, a name popped out....why is that familiar.....Kurt Vonnegut (Karl). scout, the same job as my father, a scout. But why was it ringing some bell in my head.

{{From a talk presented by Ray Boomhower , Traces of Indiana and Midwestern History managing editor, at a series on Indianapolis authors sponsored by the Indianapolis-Marion County Public Library in 1994. A version of this talk appeared in the Spring 1999 issue of Traces.

On May 29, 1945, twenty-one days after the Germans had surrendered to the victorious Allied armies, a father in Indianapolis received a letter from his son who had been listed as "missing in action" following the Battle of the Bulge. The youngster, an advance scout with the 106th Infantry Division, had been captured by the Germans after wandering behind enemy lines for several days. "Bayonets," as he wrote his father, "aren't much good against tanks." Eventually, the Indianapolis native found himself shipped to a work camp in the open city of Dresden, where he helped produce vitamin supplements for pregnant women. Sheltered in an underground meat storage locker, the Hoosier soldier managed to survive a combined American/British firebombing raid that devastated the city and killed an estimated 135,000 people--more than the number of deaths in the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. After the bombing, the soldier wrote his father, "we were put to work carrying corpses from Air-Raid shelters; women, children, old men; dead from concussion, fire or suffocation. Civilians cursed us and threw rocks as we carried bodies to huge funeral pyres in the city."

Kurt Vonnegut}}

********************************************************

I remember reading Slaugterhouse Five, required reading in some schools and colleges, I wasn't particularly impressed, in fact I remember thinking it pretty much sucked, the movie was even worse. I wonder if I'm strong enough to read it now, again, knowing.

How was I supposed to know it was an account in part of my own fathers' hell. He was only a child, 19, when he endured and survived when so many perished.

I also noticed, with interest, that the "keepers" of the official documents relate that Mr. Vonnegut claimed to have been an "advance" scout...which they say did not exist in their unit, only just plain scouts like dad.

I found pictures on the web, bodies stacked like cord wood, and mothers clutching babies all with kindling ready for a match....I'm not posting them...they are easy enough to find. Dresden bombing, images...will drop them right into your lap...or laptop.

My epiphany as always, my fathers didn't hate Germans, he didn't hate any one "people", his heart had been broken by the death of so many German men, women, and children, he carried them to their funeral pryer's, burned into his brain, he carried them forever in his mind.....he spent his life trying to give it perspective....trying to tell himself it was war ...........

Slaughterhouse Five housed 150 American Privates and Private First-Class POW's.

Taken from Stalag IV-B (Muhlberg, Germany) on 12 Jan. 1945 to Dresden and housed in building #5 in the slaughter house area.

The fire bombing of Dresden took place February 13-14, 1945. The fire was so great that many people died from the lack of oxygen...Mothers still holding their babies.

Those POW's in Dresden survived the bombing because they were made to sleep three floors below the surface in a meat locker.

Was my father in that meat locker, I don't know yet. What I do know is he was in Dresden to help clean up the bodies and it haunted him his whole life.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

DIALOGUE ON DIARRHEA

2009-09-06T15:02:00.007-05:00

I feel the need to lighten my load today. Much like the time I came down with Cholera. Maybe that's what I need, a good dose of Cholera...that'll clean things out, real fast.

I remember a good bit about that time. But mostly how it made me feel, emotionally...embarrassed, totally embarrassed.

There are "things" that each of us knows, seemingly small things, that we have learned or had to deal with because of the paths in life we have chosen...and those we have been lead down. Sometimes they converge.

Maybe I know things, small things, that people who read this crap of mine don't know, or never really thought about. Maybe you know something that the rest of us may need to know. Maybe I'm the only one in our little corner of Bloggy Bog that can pass on first hand information on "living with Cholera".

Let's begin, shall we.

Just because water looks clean doesn't mean doodley poo and that's what will happen if you drink it. When in doubt, put a couple drops of good old household bleach in the glass and let it sit for a few minutes...then you can safely drink it.

If you live in a third world country, learn to live on alcoholic beverages...they too can be quite refreshing when it is 112 degrees in the shade.

If you should find yourself in the military during a war...becoming ill is a very tricky business. You must master the "art" of sustaining a fever of about 102 for a continuous 24 hour period of time. If your fever wants to jump around, a little higher, a little lower...it won't count...it's a simple rule, no deviation allowed, learn it.

The worst smelling, gag a maggot, "stuff" c-o-n-t-i-n-u-a-l-l-y running out your rectum is not the Army's problem...it's yours, deal with it. You will be allowed a few minutes off duty each day for a sampling of your "runoff" to be viewed under a microscope so that the progression of the disease can be documented. They'll let you know if you need to be informed of anything.

The plastic sleeping sheet and the rubber baby pants you were issued at the onset, are yours to keep. Now get back to work.

The rubber underpants made a funny crinkle sound when I walked, or moved. No body gave me a hard time...it was just embarrassing, but then I was carring a gun.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

TWO WRONGS TRYING TO MAKE IT RIGHT

2009-09-05T11:52:00.008-05:00

I've been brooding for days in some sort of shock riddled with more horror than even I can't stand. I accidentally came across a huge piece of "the puzzle" of my dad, while just looking to replace a couple books stolen from my mothers home.

Normally I'm pretty chatty out here in Bloggy Bog. I've been holding something pretty close to the vest here lately. Torn between just locking it away in my own brain and letting a generation pass without knowing or do I put it out there to deal with as they may. After all...that is the whole reason for this blog, documenting family history and making my brain stay with the here and now of a computer keyboard.

This will be my first post as a preamble of what is to come. I thought I'd put down what facts I know to be true and not the lies we were told by my mother.

********
MY DAD'S STORY

My father married Lou very young, there was a baby on the way, a beautiful little girl they named Patricia Ann. As World War II grew, the call for troops increased. With a wife and baby at home, my father left his small farm and the coal mines of West Virginia and joined the Army. Born of English Gentry blood and West(ern) Virginians for over 300 years, he had the stiff upper lip and hillbilly wiles to back it up. The youngest of 10 children, he was the sweetheart of his sisters and the apple of his mothers eye. He had just turned 19 years old and he was a Scout for an Infantry Division. It had become a Children's War, these green troops being 17, 18, 19, and 20 year old boys.

Short months after he left for Europe, my fathers sister told me of the telegram that my grandmother received. She said people could hear his mother screaming all the way to the end of the hollow. The Battle of the Bulge, my father was listed as MIA, Missing In Action presumed dead................Lou hurried down to the county seat to collect up on the death insurance policy. To Lou's disappointment things didn't work that way. Sometime later, dad was reclassified as POW, Prisoner Of War.

Many, many, long months later, as my fathers oldest sister and youngest sister sat in their second floor apartment in the city where they worked...there were foot steps on the stairs. She said they both looked up at each other and started crying, they knew it was their baby brother come home at last.

What exactly happened next, I don't know. The truth of it has gone to the grave, untold. The happy boy with a quick smile, a twinkle in his eyes and a joke up his sleeve, never came back. But I know he tried, he tried hard his whole life, to come home.

Another child was born, he never knew if she was his or not, but told me he thought she probably was. Lou was not the most welcome guest at the family compound, since news travels fast through the mountains, everyone knew that she had tried to cash in on his "death" while his mother was still screaming. Dad was with a traveling Army show for awhile, he got to drive Hermann Goering's' car, play his guitar and sing old mountain tunes. The Army used this propaganda tour to wait until the POW's able to travel had gained back to their entry body weight.

(From the Divorce document)Lou filed for divorce saying she didn't know where he was. She was granted their farm and custody of the children. (From younger daughters mouth to my ear) Lou told the younger daughter the divorce was her fault, that dad had taken one look at her the day she was born and hated her so bad he had to leave...(the girl firmly believed this.)

Dad took his exit from the Army in the Midwest and became a salesman for a large building supply company.

*********
MY MOM'S STORY

The oldest of 15 children, the second child less than a year behind her. She grew up having to to raise her brothers and sisters and being beaten with a leather strap if the dishes weren't finished on time. She was never "nurtured" and became incapable of putting anything or anyone before herself.

They all treated my grandmother like she was made of gold...but my mother once said of her..."she never did a damn thing, how could she, she was always pregnant". My mother was very bitter about her lack of a childhood.

Graduated High School at 16 and went to work to help support her parents, brothers and sisters...as each one did in turn as they got old enough.

She ran away from home with an older man when she was 18 and married him. World War II came with Pearl Harbor and her husband joined up and left her to live with his mother and two sisters....she was the first female in her "area" to join the Navy. She made it as far as New York before being stationed in Memphis for the duration...she did a couple "pin-ups"...fully clothed...she was tall, very slender, with gigantic boobs and a well placed beauty mark...Very much the 1940's girl.

The war ended, her husband came home and requested a divorce...through her parents...all was done quietly...she left home for the big city...90 miles away.

Being "divorced" back then was still a pretty big deal...scandalous even. Mom and dad were both considered damaged goods. There was only ONE stipulation to the marriage...mother had assured father that she could NOT have children...My father did NOT want children.........I long ago realized why. He knew he could never go through losing his children again. My sister was born eleven months after they married, mother never liked sharing and my sister always suffered the brunt of mothers anger. Mother quickly followed with two more..one more for good measure to out number the ones left behind....that he was not even allowed to speak of...lest she make him live it all again and lose three more.

*************
HOW THESE TWO BECOME MAN AND WIFE

They met on a blind date and married a few weeks later. Mother(5'8") said she told her friend that she would go out with the guy if he wasn't short. She dressed for the date, when the men showed up, she took one look at dad(5'7")and excused herself...changed her shoes to flats...and so it goes. (He was such a handsome guy.)

Mother, having been married, had an English last name...when my dad met and married her. Mother is from half (her dad) GERMAN stock, immigrated around 1850 to the Midwest. Her family name couldn't be more German if you tried.

A few days after they married, her dad and a friend (truck drivers) drive over to the big city to pick up a load of liquor bound for the tiny home town. They stop over at the boarding house to visit mother, find that she has remarried and her dad insists that they come back with them for the day to celebrate the holidays and so dad can meet the family. It is early January 1949.

One of mothers sisters told me that when my dad walked in all mothers sisters fell in love. He was the handsomest man they had ever seen.

**It was a fateful day, dad met his new German family, got drunk with his new German father in law...then he announced that he was their "gift" from Hitler...whereas he promptly curled up underneath the Christmas Tree and went to sleep.**

He was always their favorite and in turn used to always brag about what a wonderful mother in law he had. My father was more a father to several of mothers brothers and sisters than their own.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

BASTARD

2009-09-03T17:39:00.007-05:00

I get it...no poems...so here is my last offering, another by my favorite poet Robert William Service. I think he might have had a bit of an identity crisis, 'cause the dude could write some seriously good crap from a female point of view.

*********
Bastard

The very skies were black with shame,
As near my moment drew;
The very hour before you came
I felt I hated you.

But now I see how fair you are,
How divine your eyes,
It seems I stepped upon a star
And leapt to Paradise.

What care I who your father was:
('Twas better not to know);

You're mine and mine alone because
I love and love you so.

What though you only bear my name,
I hold my head on high;
For none shall have a right to claim
A right to you but I.

Because I've borne a human life,
I'm worthier, I know,
Than those who flaunt the name of wife,
And have no seed to show.

I have fulfilled, I think with joy,
My women's destiny;
And glad am I you are a boy,
For you will fight for me.

And maybe there will come a day
You'll bear a famous name,
And men will be ashamed to say:
"He was a child of shame."

A day will dawn, divinely free,
With love in every breast,
When every child will welcome be,
And every mother blest.

When every women, wed or no,
Will deem her highest good
On grateful mankind to bestowe
The Gift of Motherhood.

by Robert William Service
(1874-1958)

(by @eloh memory as I could only find one flawed version on the web)

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

PURE LOVE

2009-09-01T00:17:00.008-05:00

My Dog by Robert William Service

'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
And one was on me with a bound,
Seeking to lick my face,
And so I bought him for a pound
And took him to my place.

Three acres by the shore I own,
A hut, a pint wood;
And there for fifteen years alone
He shared my solitude.
It was his own, his only world,
And when with hunting spent,
Each night beside my bed he curled,
And slept in sheer content.

My dog is dead. Though lone I be
I'll never have another;
For with his master-worship he
Was closer than a brother.
My foot is frail and I am old,
Yet how my heart can pity
Pups straining on a short leash-hold
And pent up in the city.

From all thought of self above,
And purged of sex emotion,
I know no form of living love
So deep as dogs devotion.
I have no hope at all of heaven,
I've lived in sin and strife;
But thank God! I at least have given
One dog a happy life.

Robert William Service is the same dude that wrote the poem about dolls...he's my favorite poet and I'll lay money down that he was one strange and interesting drunk.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

FOR THE LADIES

2009-08-31T13:33:00.007-05:00

This ones for all the ladies.....it always makes me cry. My favorite dolls consisted of my GI Joe and a Teddy Bear. No big surprise, right. I remember feeling like my dolls were my "children" when I was little.

Dolls

She said: "I am too old to play
With dolls," and put them all away,
Into a box, one rainy day.

I think she must have felt some pain,
She looked so long into the rain,
Then sighed: "I'll bring you out again;

"For I'll have little children too,
With sunny hair and eyes of blue
And they will play and play with you.

"And now good-bye, my pretty dears;
There in the dark for years and years,
Dream of your little mother's tears."

Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Side by side in the coffer there.

Time went by; one day she kneeled
By a wooden Cross in Flanders Field,
And wept for the One the earth concealed;

And made a vow she would never wed,
But always be true to the deathless dead,
Until the span of her life be sped.

* *
* * *
* *

More years went on and they made her wise
By sickness and pain and sacrifice,
With greying tresses and tired eyes.

And then one evening of weary rain,
She opened the old oak box again,
And her heart was clutched with an ancient pain

For there in the quiet dark they lay,
Just as they were when she put them away...
O but it seemed like yesterday!

Topsy and Tiny and Teddy Bear,
Eglantine, Pierrot and Marie Claire,
Ever so hopefully waiting there.

But she looked at them through her blinding tears,
And she said: "You've been patient, my pretty dears;
You've waited and waited all these years.

"I've broken a promise I made so true;
But my heart, my darlings, is broken too:
No little Mothers have I for you.

"My hands are withered, my hair is grey;
Yet just for a moment I'll try to play
With you as I did that long dead day...

"Ah no, I cannot. I try in vain . . .
I stare and I stare into the rain . . .
I'll put you back in your box again.

"Bless you, darlings, perhaps one day,
Some little Mother will find you and play,
And once again you'll be glad and gay.

"But when in the friendly dark I lie,
No one will ever love you as I . . . .
My little children . . . good-bye . . . good-bye."

Robert William Service
(1874 - 1958)

FREE COMMENTS SECTION:

1. OMG, you play with dolls? What else you you play with?

2. Old dolls are creepy.

3. This made me cry and snot up. I will be plotting my revenge.

4. Please, for the love of all that is holy, Stop the Madness.

5. A container of Baby Wipes kept discreetly near the toilet makes a fine stand in for a bidet.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

2009-08-28T18:14:00.007-05:00

How long has it been since you read this poem?

The Walrus and the Carpenter
a poem by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright—
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done—
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead—
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said;
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low;
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
And cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said;
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

CASH FOR CLUNKERS AND OTHER REALLY STUPID SHINOLA

2009-08-25T17:56:00.011-05:00

My first car, a 1949 Fluid Drive De Soto. I swear I didn't know till today that it was a foreign job. It was a gift on my 16th birthday from my boyfriend. Mine wasn't red, it was black...I didn't know they made red ones. I think he paid fifty bucks for it.

There were five Cadillacs sitting in our drive back then. My daddy loved his 100% Detroit made rides. He never owned anything but and a few years later called my little German job a "death trap", until I totaled it and came out alive. He never said a word about the next one, another German made Opel. I was a handful. Dad once said I was more trouble than 10 kids.

CASH FOR CLUNKERS...another fine mess. The last I heard it was estimated that over 80% of the "CLUNKERS" turned in were American made. Oh yeah, and over 80% of the "CARS" subsidised by American taxpayers were foreign made...mostly Japanese. I'm having a real problem figuring how in the hell this is supposed to help our economy. I guess as more people lose their jobs to foreign competition = new car payments will go unpaid = bankruptcies will explode = we will welcome the coming "CHANGE" to Socialism (we're pretty much already there) = Communism.

The prophetic words of Nikita Khrushchev....they will never fire a shot.
""Whether you like it or not, history is on our side. We will bury you!
I once said, "We will bury you," and I got into trouble with it. Of course we will not bury you with a shovel. Your own working class will bury you.""
Nikita Khrushchev

I currently own two vehicles, both American made and they both use gas like a couple of crack whores. So, I don't make useless trips. I'm retired so my longest daily commute involves traveling at a high rate of speed from my sitting room to the little porcelain reading room. My LPC's are fairly new and make the trip just fine. *LPC=Leather Personnel Carriers

Many vehicles have cradled my ass through the years. Yes, I have owned foreign makes. Two German Opels and a British Peugeot, all three were amazing vehicles. Chevrolet trucks have been my mainstay and my "Short Bus" is a big, very big, Chevy.

But I'm a broken down old woman now. Gone are the glory days of riding around in a beat up old Dodge or a shiny Silverado with a cab full of 70 to 100 pound dogs and a pistol in my pocket. That's me, the old white haired woman in the big ass Lincoln with the itty bitty dog, all 4 pounds of him peeking out the drivers side window.......you see me all the time, don't you. Leave me alone, I'm blending.

One more thing today, Happy Birthday Dad. You'd be 84 today if all that wonderful heath care you got from the VA hadn't killed you, and thank you for fighting for our FREEDOM and surviving Hitlers death camps to make me...me.

Can you believe that brand new these were under $1,000.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST

2009-08-24T08:09:00.012-05:00

Have you ever found something on the internet that just won't leave you alone? Do any of you remember the beautiful little Afghani girl with the brilliant green eyes on the cover of a National Geographic a million years ago. I still remember bits and pieces of the story when they tried to find her again. I've tried very hard to forget all of it.

I found this web site (Blog) a few months ago.
I keep going back and every time it's the same.
It feels like I'm looking in an open grave.
Different war, another little girl, same shit.

Monday, October 22, 2007
Baghdad Burning
Girl Blog from Iraq... let's talk war, politics and occupation.

http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

BUGGY TRAIN TO NOWHERE

2009-08-21T17:48:00.013-05:00

Who knew that whining about a dropped follower and groveling for comments would actually work. I have wrung my hands on how to repay your kindness and decided on this picture of a (?) woman of questionable repute. I think if I called it "Cart Full O' Hoe" I would be overstepping my bounds as I have no actual personal knowledge of Miss Loves sexual prowess. If any of you readers have any "hands on" or other body parts experience, please feel free to clue us in on the subject.

I wonder which isle he found her in, was the ciggy free, and how much was he charged? Was she in the discount bin for missing a shoe?

Paper or plastic sir? May I suggest latex.

PS...Vista is crap.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

IT AIN'T EASY BEING ME

2009-08-10T02:56:00.012-05:00

I'm an asshole, I GIVE AMPLE WARNING, or so I thought. My mouth is stuck in smart ass mode and I can't just shut up. I've tried, really I have.

I'd like to apologize for being such an asshole, but I can't. Don't treat me like I have a choice, I don't, I was born this way. Do you people think I would be such an asshole if I actually had a CHOICE? Do you think I'm down here living the good life at 609 Asshole Avenue? I'm not. It ain't easy being me. All I want is a little PEACE and the shitheads with their happy little faces and rosy cheeks to stay off my lawn.

I have to wonder which of my more recent sins cost me a reader, because that is what I value. Those cyberspace dots that read my blog AND LEAVES AN OCCASIONAL COMMENT. Before you know it, at least for me, they become flesh and bone human beings with thoughts and emotions. Sometime in the night yesterday... I lost a Follower, it's okay, I've been through this before.

At first I thought it might have something to do with unicorns, don't get me wrong, I like unicorns as much if not more than the next person, but this little discussion went on over at the birth place of sharting, so I don't think anyone from there jumped ship.

Sometimes I comment on peoples blogs, sometimes I'm really tired and it is just a short line to let them know that someone out in cyberspace is "with them", someone read what they had to say.

Sometimes I'm like a fat little firecracker...I'm reasonably on line brain wise. I read news blips, but I get my "what the hell is going on" from having C-SPAN and C-SPAN2 thundering in my ear all day and night. America, we're fucked, in case you haven't been paying attention.

I crawled around in my followers list on my hands and knees with my ass in the air. I found a lady who has been a follower forever with an excellent blog...how did I miss this? So my lost follower has been a blessing, I found a great blog right under my nose. But who did I anger?

My little old lady heart just broke when I realized who was missing. No wait...no wait....I realized that several of my wonderful cyber buddies (my real people) have never been "Followers" but they are readers and commentators.

There is a reason some snot nose little web designer chose the word "follower". Yes, yes, come follow me, I haven't a clue or a GPS. I suspect that I'm headed for skid row and a wobbly shopping cart filled with tin cans and small worldly possessions. People can smell the stench of, shall we call it oddity. A God given talent to sense when someone is more than a few bricks shy a load. I admit I am that load of crap.

But what sins have I committed recently in Bloggy Bog. To be honest, plenty, I'm up to no good on a fairly regular basis.

1. I got behind in keeping my sidebar crap up to date. I have fixed this, well mostly, I'm sure by the time I finish I might piss someone else off.

2. I have played the Christian card by openly praying for people or leaving a comment asking that God keep them safe in their travels. {Don't even try pretending I'm the FIRST Christian church going asshole you have ever come across.}

3. My love of trivia and weird news happened to coincide with a post about a cute koala bear in someones backyard vacation tree. I left an informative, helpful comment warning the lady to keep her distance as it was estimated that over 50% of all koala bears have a Sexually Transmitted Disease (STD)....I didn't want anyone coming down with vagina warts on my watch. In retrospect, and considering the blog, maybe this wasn't the place to share my new found information. Hindsight is always 20/30 or better or so they say.

In summary, I still get a wild head rush when someone signs on to follow my buggy train to skid row or leaves a comment. I was getting a little OCD about my number of posts in correlation to my number of followers. This follower lose has bitch slapped me into behaving until tomorrow maybe on into next week.

SO PLEASE leave a comment, you can cut and paste one of my free ones or you can make one up on your own.

GET YOUR FREE COMMENTS AND HELPFUL HINTS HERE:

1. I'm so glad you told me it was you crawling around my follower thingy, I thought a skunk had gone up under the house and died.

2. You are full of shit and I don't like you one bit, no sir, not one bit.

3. You are a sweet old church lady and you smell an awful lot like flowers.

4. I have no opinion and I never vote.

5. For the love of God just stop the madness and close down this blog.

6. When operating a vehicle never look under the passengers seat in any gear other than P.

7. If unicorns goad you into a game of tag, do not stop suddenly to tie your shoes.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

MY LAST VACATION, I ENDED UP AT DACHAU.

2009-08-04T23:56:00.017-05:00

All the blogs are talking about their summer jaunts to here and there. Squeezing in a last little vacation before the end of summer.

It got me to thinking...when was my last "real vacation". When did I last hit the road in a worry free vehicle, with time on my hands, money in my pocket, a brand new camera, and destination unknown. I believe it was mid 1980. It was the winter of my discontent and my return to demon alcohol. I was headed toward Switzerland and the Alps for some skiing and sightseeing. I had been alcohol free for over a year. I had proven I wasn't an alcoholic, at least to myself.

I have said before that women were just non-existent in my field at that time, so I made friends where I could. There was a female traffic cop, herself a one and only. If we happened to be pulling duty at the same time she would often ask me to go with her to a fatality and I always did. She was young and not yet jaded to the horrors that came with the territory. But I liked her, I never saw her cry or puke. Her name was Karen. After an especially grisly night, I told her of my open travel plans and asked if she would like to go along.

Standing outside a gasthaus somewhere in Bavaria, on our first day out, we were fiddling with my brand new Cannon Super Eight with Sound. I was just filming the beautiful cobblestone intersection trying to figure out the camera. Just as I shut the camera off the little old lady I was filming was mowed into oblivion by a Mercedes. Just...what the fuck. Death had it's cold nose up our asses, and had come along for the ride.

We must have been near Munich, we saw a sign for Dachau and we went. How sad a human being am I? No, not sad, I am an asshole. I searched for a picture on the internet to show you what I saw. The camp was closed when we got there. The place was eerie, deserted, we wanted to take pictures of the sculpture, and we had come a long way. We didn't know what was in there but we were going in and seeing it for ourselves. We could see a couple buildings, the place was still fenced with a couple of concrete pylons to block vehicle entry....but I drove a small German sports car. We got out and assessed the situation. It was late afternoon, we looked at the pylons - we looked at the car...I said I think I can make it, cause I sure as hell am NOT going in there on foot. Karen agreed, and I eased the car through the pylons.

We toured Dachau concentration camp in a luxury motor car. We did get out and look at the gate with the railroad tracks to nowhere but death and the ovens. We decided to go have a look at the recreated barracks building when a short stubby house frau came flying out of the medical building with a broom. She chased us all over, swatting at us with the broom screaming bad Deutsch words, so I drove just fast enough to stay ahead of her. {I guess it really goes without saying here, maybe just silently "implied" . . . What an Asshole} We wondered how far she could run, and marveled at her stamina and lung capacity. For all you historians...I stayed on the gravel paths. I had to draw her far enough away from the medical building so I could ease the car back through the damn concrete pylons.

It was almost dark as we headed for the autobahn and the open road. Karen said she would never forget the horrible smell of the place. I said: "What smell, I didn't smell anything!" As we talked about our day I told her I thought it was odd that the Germans would put a school so close to the place. Karen said: "What school, I didn't see any school!" I told her I didn't see any school but the sound of that many children had to be a school. Karen said: What sound, I didn't hear anything. We pretty much creeped each other out. Sometime later we talked to other people who smelled the stench or heard children, but we were the only ones that could claim a vehicle tour with an angry house frau chasing us with a broom.

That night, at some nameless ski lodge, I started drinking again. We visited several castles, winery's, and anything that looked interesting as we weaved through Bavaria, Austria, and Switzerland. We drove around for a couple weeks, skied the Alps and went home to Heidelberg.

A couple weeks later I woke up on the tile floor of a public restroom, curled up under the sinks. I pulled myself up and washed my face. I looked out the window and saw the tarmac of an airport. A couple women came in and I asked what airport I was in, they told me I was in Dover. I wondered how in the hell I got across the water to England. I had never been to England before, it looked like I was probably going to be late for work.

When I went out into the main lobby, something didn't look quite right. I had always assumed I guess, that England wouldn't look like some shabby ass military arm pit. I got some coffee and looked around to get my bearings......my bearings, along with the rest of my ass was in Dover, Delaware. I called work and told them I was definitely going to be late for work. I jumped a plane and went to Tennessee and saw my children for a couple days....then jumped a plane back to Germany.

No, I didn't get in any trouble and No, no one ever confessed to putting me on a plane to the states. The best I could ever figure out was whoever I was drinking with got tired of me wishing I could hug my kids...and helped me out.

I'd like to go on a real vacation again....are there any takers? I don't have any film but I still have my Super Eight.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

DADDY AND THE NAUGHTY PRIEST

2009-07-31T20:45:00.006-05:00

My dad had a "thing" about Catholics. He really, really didn't like them. You could even go so far as to say he hated Catholics. But really, it was just our hometown Priest and the "hometown Catholics" that did nothing to defend a wronged man.

Dad loved good people, and everyone loved him. The kind of guy who would give you the shirt off his back. He was the most valiant, honorable, courageous man I have ever known. As long as he lived, I always knew there was someone on the face of this earth that would without hesitation lay down his life for me.

He was also a violent alcoholic...the untreated effects of surviving various German Prison Camps when he was only nineteen years old.

The first time I knew about the Catholic issue dad told my sisters and I that if we were to bring home certain ethnic individuals, he would kill us, but if we brought home a Catholic, he would kill us both. He was quite serious, the line was drawn. I was always sure to inform my Catholic friends to not mention being Catholic around my dad cause he hated 'em.

Somehow I finally heard the story that had brought on the active hatred. Dad had a Catholic friend, a good man, who spent his money for clothes on his wife and ten children. He only owned one sport coat and that is what he wore to mass. The Priest told the man that a sport coat was not proper attire and for him not to return to mass until he could wear a suit. The good man never returned to church, he continued to clothe his children and wife first. It enraged my father, and he bided his time.

My father was the Foreman for a company known as "The Gentlemen of the Moving Business". A few years had passed and the Priest was moving. Dad had of course told his workers what a dirty rotten piece of shit this Priest was. Side bets were made with a couple of workers who happened to be Catholic. Dad said he would prove to them the Priest was a piece of shit.

Dad went to the Priests house to estimating the weight and what material would be needed on the day of the move that would take place in about two weeks. He had one of his Catholic workers take a very worn skillet out of the kitchen and place it under the Priest's bed pillow.

Two weeks later they returned to "pack out" the residence. The skillet was still under the Priests bed pillow. When dad had the same Catholic worker take the worn skillet back into the kitchen, the Housekeeper was very happy to see her favorite skillet. She said she had been looking for it everywhere.

Dad collected all side bets.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

DIGGING UP JULES VERNE......PRONTO

2009-07-26T16:04:00.011-05:00

Old woman seeks Jules Verne / H. G. Wells type, not for cohabitation but for collaboration on the schematics and possible building of a small one time use time machine.

Can offer sporadic microwave meals and a nicely layered cat hair chair for periodic resting.

Device must be large enough to transport two grown children, back in time about 18 years, give or take.

Would love to see these sweet little girls one more time.........shhh.....I think they are coming.

Quick hide.

Added a picture of my boys and myself, all eighteen years ago. Isn't it sad that I didn't have a good enough friend, someone who should have told me I didn't need the shoulder "pads"....I take them out of my clothes now...

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

QUICK, PRAY FOR ME (UPDATED)

2009-07-24T10:37:00.014-05:00

Dear Lord, the bitches are in my bathroom throwing away my nine year old African American hair products. I might need them again, someday. Hear me Lord.

My oldest daughter flew in from Chicago yesterday, she spent the night in a motel after a rampage shopping trip at a building supply store. Help me Lord.

The water heater I paid an extra $70.00 for next day delivery, was delivered a day late and therefore is just sitting in the room that I was going to put the bed in. T.B. (The Bitch) refused to help. My older girl O.B. (Older Bitch) got a good craw full of T.B., though after all these years, T.B. is being good, she hasn't seen T.B. in full swing boogie yet. Show her Lord.

O.B. also drug home a new door from said supply house. It has windows, now I can never become a Jehovah's' Witness because the devil and his minion can peek in at me. Hear me Lord.

Now they have thrown me to the wolves and closed the door. (Shut me off in the living room). I hopped on the computer and I'm telling on them. Fire Ants ran them off from the main water shut off valve, the devils minion are against me. They have turned to mothers room and are packaging her things for donation. Everything was still as if she had passed away last night.

If mother gets angry, please don't let her haunt my broken down old house. For this I pray Lord.

I keep telling them "bad times are coming" stop throwing my shit away. OB told me to shut up, "bad times were already here". Have mercy Lord.

OB asked me if she could look at my "finances". I told her she can look at anything she wants to. I told her I knew why she was here, to put my "things" in line so I don't leave behind the sickening nightmare mother left my sister and I. OB said that I was right. I told OB I would never do that to my children. I actually love them and will never be able to understand my own mothers hatred for her own children. My sister has tried to explain this to me many times, though neither of us knows the why, but we suspect why. Guide me Lord.

OB is giving me many hugs, this is not normal for OB. OB thinks I will be dead before she ever lays eyes on me again. Show them Lord that two "B's" are no match for one old "A-hole".
For this I pray.

{As the torture continues, I may have to update every little bit.}

My Grand daughter Olive, she lives in Chicago with her brother Rocket, they were adopted from a remote village in Eastern Romania. Olive still likes to scrub floors and such. She and her brother stayed at home with their other mommy. They refused to come and take part in the terrorizing of their sweet old granny (me).

OB insisted on accompanying me to my Lung Doctor's appointment. I keep telling yawl that I am having a hard time rubbing two thoughts together. I straight out told the doctor OB was there for a death report. He told OB that he would call her when I got put on oxygen. OB asked me later if he was joking with her. I said, Hell if I know. So the decision is made to give me a shot of steroids to "pump me up". I have never had one before.

So the nurse comes in and I said (joking) great, now she gets to see me get a needle in the butt. Yep. So the nurse tells me to drop 'em and bend over the table. ALL that is in my head is my sharting accident yesterday and throwing away my underwear (that bad) please don't shart, please don't shart.

As I bend over the table with my pants at my ankles, I realize she just needed a high hip. I made the nurse's face turn red. OH WHAT am I doing.

OB made us canvas a furniture store on the way home. I was worn out. Then came the turn down for the Margaretta...it's in the comments.

I cut the pipes and run a hose, all with bitching help. I have been again exiled to the living room while awful things are going on in the kitchen.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

KOREAN BBQ AT RANCHO APOCALYPTO

2009-07-20T16:54:00.008-05:00

Here kitty kitty kitty, here kitty kitty kitty.

Going "OUT" is a major undertaking. I have certain places I purchase different items and Wally World must be avoided at all cost.

I can't go "OUT" in the heat of the day...medically speaking...unless I want to drag a potentially exploding cylinder with me. I'd rather not, thanks.

When I go "OUT" I have the inherent inability to keep my smart ass comments to myself. I usually only have any real disdain for government types so this works out in my favor when traveling after hours so to speak.

While I am "OUT" I try to make the most of it and get as much done as I can.
My youngest daughter "T.B." (you figure it out) seems to require the purchase of edible bric-a-brac on a continuing basis.

T.B. has this love need thing going with the giant cat who is schooled in evasive maneuvers when the door is left unlatched. He is an actual pussy and runs straight into the overgrown vineyard and hides...every damn time he actually escapes.

We have an elderly old fixed female cat who has lived on this property since her birth, 14 years ago. She lost half her tail to a Rottweiler, I'm pretty sure the rotty lost an eye or two, half his nose and most likely a chunk of lip. She's been Green Beret/Delta Force since the day she was born.

I think she might even be small for a cat or it may be that Mr. Pussy is just so huge. Being "OUT" is her domain. Mr. Pussy's domain is "IN", this is strictly non-negotiable as far as "OUT" cat is concerned.....she can not, will not, suffer his pussiness. She has never harmed him but she never shuts up when he makes it "OUT".

By the time I could make it "OUT" the only places left open was:

1. Post office lobby, where half my mail went spilling back through the hole and onto the floor of the deserted mail room.

2. The gas station, when I pulled up there were three police cars parked in various stupid locations. I hesitated, T.B. says "just try really hard mom." I look at her and she sighs and says "Well try not to get arrested at least."

I mash my lips together and try to hold them shut, I open the door and have a split second as a couple have to move out of the way so I can enter. When my foot moves to step in my mouth flies open and I loudly inquire if there are any donuts left as I see there must have been a big sale. They scattered like cockroaches, all except for a really tall excellent looking one who had to briefly explain to two short ones what it was I had meant. I stood and watched, shorty gave me the stink eye and left.

A policeman's badge and gun make little men's penis's grow very large...trust me on this, I've known a million of them.

I had a nice yet twisted conversation with the tall one. I told him I like seeing a bunch of young fresh faces on the force, and I'm glad that most of the scum has either retired or as in my next door neighbors case, been QUIETLY sent to the penitentiary. Then he mentioned the one old cop I thought was at least partially honest. Oh well, I was finally able to just shut up.

3. Wally World, where the procurement of just the necessary items of some nutritional value for T.B. nearly took me to the floor. Marketing strategy demands that the entire floor space of somewhere near four acres be covered in order to purchase the basic staples of life.

I make it to the car and can not even close the door for several minutes. T.B. loads her sacks into the trunk.

My key chains (my fault) are still all screwed up from moving away and looking after mother etc...all my fault. All my doubles lost or still in the possession of son #2 and not yet replaced.

I gather the mail and the ice and fish out the house key. T.B. is gathering sacks in the trunk, I hurry to the door and unlock it. Lil' Bob is still wolf howling and crying in the living room, Eugene is stalking around the kitchen door, I drop everything in my hands, holler at Lil' Bob that mommy is home, holler at Eugene to get away from the door. I try to hurry back out to help T.B. with at least one trip. I step out the door and Eugene pushes it open, I took my foot and pushed him back and grabbed the door and pulled it shut. As God is my witness I heard that damn cat start laughing. I am now "OUT" and the damn conniving cat is safely "IN".

T.B. does not want nor need my ragged assistance. As I am shuffling back to the door in the dark T.B. announces that we are locked "OUT". I said, no problem, I dropped the keys with my purse on the kitchen floor, she is not amused. An undeniable urge for Korean BBQ began to surge through my veins.

When I blame her damn cat, T.B. goes into overload on what a useless old woman I have become. I told her we are having Korean BBQ tomorrow, that damn cat has screwed me over for the last time.

T.B. has some stout legs, I'd put my money on her every time in an ass kicking contest. She says shes going to kick the door in, I said, "go for it". She gives it all she has eight or ten times. I stand back and smart off, told her I didn't know she could get her leg that high...The door never budges. When I figure she has worked her anger out on the door (and not me), I asked her if she really wants to kick that door in. So I told her how. She pops the door open with a half hearted kick, then stands and looks at me with open awe and amazement. I really get off on this kind of stuff from my kids. (Useless old woman my ass, I still know a thing or two.)

Later that evening she comes bouncing in the room all happy and smiley telling me all about how she told her friends on the web all about how her mom used to work narcotics and the secret to kicking a door in. I said no no no T.B., tell me you didn't. She gets all puzzled looking. I said now it will go global and before you know it our town cops will figure it out.

I told her to think about it, ever seen that "move" in any Hollywood movie....no...cause it's a trade secret. I'm getting old, I need to go get me some sheep cause I'm running out of wool.

Besides all my other circus duties, I hired an unemployed friend of my younger son's to fix a leaky faucet, something I used to be able to do with my eyes closed. It was a way to get some money in his pocket, though the whole business needs replacing.

That night the kitchen floor (wood of course) flooded from a dime size hole in the bottom of the 45 gallon low-boy hot water heater. 14 years ago when I put it in I sat it on a piece of three quarter inch plywood, a lucky break. I went to the drug store and bought some Mighty Putty. It is holding and the floor is finally dry.

Then I have to teach my child to Gestapo my own door. Luckily, I'm a paranoid freak baby and have an alternate locking system from the inside. But now there is just something else that needs to be fixed.

BBQ should be done any minute. BYOB (Bring your own buns).

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THE REQUEST LINE: GRANNY'S .44

2009-07-17T09:56:00.013-05:00

This is a Timber Rattlesnake, he is not your friend. He is not my friend, either.

Why did my Granny carry a .44 pistol in her apron pocket and slept with it under her pillow...

...there was always Aunt Bec. The second to the last child they raised was a couple years older than me. When he was born the doctor said he may live a day or two but that was it. It was my Aunt Bec's boy, she took the baby to my grandmother because she said she couldn't deal with the baby dieing. My Grandmother never turned an unwanted child or any child away. A few months later when the child was healthy and thriving, Aunt Bec asked for the baby back. She was already pregnant with a second child. My Grandparents did not give back children they took in. One of the reasons Aunt Bec was there so much was so the boys could spend time together growing up...but Aunt Bec was always falling down, peeing on tables drunk as was her husband, my dad's brother.

I was trying to remember how many different kinds of rattlesnakes they had, three at least, The Eastern diamondback which is very large, the black or timber rattlesnake, the pygmy rattlesnake and seems like there was another one. Copperheads were far more abundant and of course there was a creek that was crossed many times a day and there were water moccasins or cotton mouths, whatever you want to call them.

There was the Wildman who had crept into my dad's sisters house and murdered her husband, I think he got three years in the nervous hospital for that. They say he went nuts in WWII. He was living in a cave up in the mountains belonging to Poppy, just about a mile or so from the house.

I saw a (big to me) big black bear drinking from the creek early one morning and I saw a huge one on the back veranda one evening.

The woods were full of panthers and mountain lions and somewhere there was a stray baboon don't forget. Though I doubt if many are living there much these days.

Mostly, it was just her way of life. An 1880's mind set. The War of Northern Aggression was still a part of her world growing up. People who write history books call it the Civil War.

When we were in West Virginia or just out hunting, my dad would wear a pistol in a gun belt, tied to his leg for quick draw.

From the time I was little and started learning the woods and hunting with him I was taught to follow every hand signal and verbal order before I took my next breath.

We were in West Virginia and dad and one of his brothers wanted to go up into the mountains and located three family grave yards that dated back before the Revolutionary War. My Grandmother was very upset and told us not to go that we had to go into "bear pen" to get there.

I asked my dad what bear pen meant and he told me it was a superstition of places in the mountains where you get turned around and can't get out. I just didn't want it to involve bears.

Walking quietly through the woods, looking for and finding two of the three graveyards, my dad said freeze... everyone froze...I even stopped breathing.....then every body there unloaded every round in their guns right between my feet.
This is also a picture of Mr. Timber Rattlesnake, he is still not our friend.

I had carelessly stepped just missing the largest timber rattler any of them had ever see...he was my first...and I still didn't see him until dad picked his bullet riddled body up from between my feet. I've always been grateful that being a crack shot runs in the family.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THE LAST TIME I SAW POPPY

2009-07-06T10:14:00.011-05:00

The picture I asked for is hanging on the wall just over Poppy's right shoulder.

I was being shipped overseas and Poppy was almost 100 years old.

My father didn't like the idea of me going to the home place by myself, it could be a very dangerous place, especially after my granny and her .44 had past on.

The mountain road had been widened into a two lane to accommodate the oil and gas drilling equipment in the early 1970's. Poppy now had several oil and gas wells to his credit and family leaches by the scores. A relative showing up to see the old man was viewed with scorn and sometimes intense violence.

I drove a flashy little German sports car, no hope of sneaking into those hills unseen, especially since everything is "seen" in those backwoods hills.

I didn't care, I just wanted to see my Poppy before he died, and I did. I also kept a gun in my pocket, just like my granny before me.

When I arrived Poppy apologized that he had no food to offer me, but he sure would like a ride in that funny looking little car. So off we went on a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Poppy inspected every inch of it and noticing the speedometer went to 150, that is exactly what he expected me to do. The faster I was able to maneuver those twisting roads the wider he grinned.

We went to a small store in Gualey Bridge and he wanted hot dogs and Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies. So that's what I bought. When we got home Poppy took all the food I bought and hid everything except one can of beans and a pack of hot dogs. I just stood there dumbfounded. A few seconds later all was made clear as the last child they raised ( the same age as me) walked into the house and straight into the kitchen scanning every shelf, looked in the grocery bag and opened the cabinets and refrigerator. Poppy told her I had taken him to the store and just bought him some supper and pointed to the pack of hot dogs and can of beans. The only thing she said to me was to ask me how long I planned to stay. As snotty a voice I could muster up, I told her I hadn't quite decided yet.

She had married briefly and had talked Poppy into letting her move a trailer house in parked next to the big house where they could tie into the water and plumbing. Poppy told me she had a baby over there but it had a big ole glob of extra head on it's forehead so he doubted if she would bring it around for me to inspect. Poppy said he didn't think anyone had ever figured out who "that girls" daddy was but it must have come from there cause no one in our family ever had anything like that.

I cooked Poppy some supper on the new stove, long gone now was granny's beloved wood fired Home Comfort. Poppy ate like he hadn't had food in days, as he carefully "skinned" every skinless hot dog, he told me that every time anyone brought him any food Debra would come and take it. He told me she would be back in the night and probably find every bit of it. He had rented out the little house and told me that that lady up there brought him a plate of food every day and that she and her people had been very good to him. As he poised another hot dog for skinning, I said Poppy, those are skinless wieners. He looked at me with surprise and said " well how come I can skin 'em then". Well, I sure couldn't argue with that. He polished off the last hot dog and I threw the "skins" off the back veranda for the flock of chickens and guinea hens. I asked Poppy if he had any bantams left, remembering the year he had put a bounty on all bantam eggs in his attempt to create of flock of chickens where he would be allowed to eat the whole bird. No, he said, he reckoned that the snakes stole all his eggs.

There was one of he largest spice racks I had ever seen on the wall in the kitchen, it was stacked full of prescription drugs, pill bottles balanced on top of pill bottles, upside down and sideways, scores of them. Poppy told me theses were his medications, but he couldn't remember what they were for or when he was supposed to take them...so he just left them alone. He told me he remembered that he had a bad case of hardening of the arteries and his doctor had told him to take him a big old shot of 'shine before he went to bed. I was glad I was walking behind him so he couldn't see me crack up. He had quite the moonshine stash, this doctor's orders were being followed to the "T".

I had a little 'shine with Poppy that night and he told me about the family falling apart. He was sure that all the excitement of the oil people had been too much for Mommy. He said she got up one morning to stoke the fire in the stove for breakfast and died on the dining room floor when her heart gave out. He told me that she had the first real marker in the family graveyard up on top the mountain and there were stone doves. He thought maybe he would get him a real marker too. He told me how his mothers daddy lived to be 100 and died with every tooth in his head perfect. He told me his own daddy died a painful death at 50. He had finished a long day at the saw mill and was on his way home when a neighbor showed up at the mill and needed help, his daddy was helping when he slipped into the blade. He died three days later.

I searched out Poppy's big old buck knives and locked the doors that night just as I had seen him do when I was a child. Relatives made a steady stream in, eyeballing me. There was a large natural gas tank sitting smack dab in front of the house. Poppy was very proud that he could now live in the big house all year round and with free heating gas from the oil men. I didn't know what deals were made with the oil men and didn't view it as any of my business. Now days it is, Poppy was no fool, every dime goes to the preservation and upkeep of the family graveyard. Forever.

When I was needing to leave, it was very sad. I went and bought Poppy tons of food and helped him hide it. Poppy told me I was the only person who had come to see him and not asked him for something, he told me to name anything and it was mine. In retrospect, I wish I had been a gold digger and had given it some thought, but I truly had just wanted to see Poppy. I could make a list of the things I wished I had asked for. But at that moment with his insistence that he give me something...I was a blank. I just pointed to a picture on the wall of my daddy and his brother as they were leaving for Europe in WWII. Poppy said that oh God that would surly get me killed before I got out of the hollow with that. I told him it was okay, I hugged him a million times, we both cried, we both knew we would never see each other on this side of Jordon again. I can't remember when I quit crying, maybe when I crossed the Mississippi River, I'm always convinced I won't make it across alive.

Speaking of the picture I had asked for, there were two. One with my daddy and his brother, both in uniform, the innocence was still in my father's face that innocence the Nazi's killed forever. The "other" picture, was this same picture split in two, with a third brother, dressed like a thirties style gangster stuffed between them...something, many things I'm sure, did not allow him to go to war with his brothers. This was Aunt Bec's husband, and all my life I had heard her swear death to anyone who should dare touch that picture. As far as I knew no one wanted the damn thing but her.

A couple years later, my sister Bones and her icky husband stopped by (?) probably hunting money or treasure and most likely didn't stay long enough to sit down. My Grandfather insisted that she take a picture to me that he had given me years before. She said she told him she was sure it was the wrong picture, but he insisted. She made him write on a piece of old grocery bag that she was given the picture to take to me.... as she also knew the story.......guess what picture I ended up with.......That's right...the one Aunt Bec said she would kill over. So if you haven't read my archives, please go read I WAS ONLY 9 THE FIRST TIME SOME SON OF A BITCH TRIED TO KILL ME....That would be my Aunt Bec. Also in another post, a little less than a year after my visit was the gun fight across the kitchen table. This involved the other uncle in the picture with my dad who went to war and one of Bec's boys. Like I said, it could be a rough place, sad because it had been so filled with love for so many years.

I still have a few small bits and pieces about the home place, Mommy and Poppy just odds and ends really. Maybe I can squeeze one in here about my Uncle Jake, Bec's husband. There was some mild discussion of fear around blog world that brought to mind this story my Grandmother told me. Seems my Uncle Jake decided to get himself a baboon. Not a monkey, but a fair sized baboon. He took his baboon down to the home place to show it off. Grandmother always came out to greet her guests, and after all this was one of her son's. Jake and the baboon arrive, Jake shows off by taking the chain off the baboon, where by the baboon promptly turns around and bites his thumb off, then rushes at grandmother and stops short right in front of her showing her his huge fangs. Grandmother just stands there and stares back. The baboon screams and runs up into the hills never to be seen or heard from again. When the story was told of her bravery, grandmother waited until all the accolades were said then said quite frankly, "It was no such thing, I was too scared to move, plain and simple".

My Mommy and Poppy had ten children born girl boy girl boy on down line ending with my daddy as the baby. My Aunt just above him was a most beautiful woman, far prettier than any movie star, as a girl, Poppy had to walk her to school because the wild man had a crush on her and kept sending her letters, even after she married, and like I said he had snuck in and killed one of my other Aunts husband in the night one time. Anyway, this pretty Aunt lived in Florida and spent a good bit of time in West Virginia trying to keep various relatives from killing each other, she was not always successful thought I believe all I can say in blog world is Bec did have some success in her lifelong endeavors.

Poppy got sick and they took him to the hospital, he raised a little cane not having access to his moonshine. The doctors said he was fine and they would be releasing him in the morning, Poppy was around 106. He told a pretty black nurse that he was fixin' to die and that he had never been with a black lady before and he sure would like that before he died. She was a bit tickled and went on about her business, until she sees Poppy chasing her down the hallway. They take Poppy and put him back in the bed and put the sides up. Poppy comes out the end of the bed and chases the lady down the hall again. My Aunt is mortified, she said the nurse told her not to be so embarrassed but she couldn't help it. Poppy comes out the end of the bed again and proclaims that he is fixin' to die and would like to get this done before he goes. My Aunt leaves as she said she just couldn't handle the embarrassment anymore, she told the hospital that she would be back first thing in the morning to collect him up. They put Poppy back in the bed and tied him in, he promptly died.

As with all others before him, a mule drug his coffin up the mountain to the family graveyard, and Poppy got a store bought headstone, just like he had hoped for.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

MY DAILY ENTERTAINMENT

2009-07-04T22:11:00.012-05:00

In the right corner, wearing the blue trunks, and weighing in at a shy four pounds, put your hands together for ""Little Bob"", a very small Chihuahua. He is sweet, very very easy going and can be a bit "clingy". It's never to late for a nap nor too early for bed. Lil' Bob is always ready to cuddle. He never once has "yapped".

And this could possibly be the reason why. In the Left corner, wearing the red trunks, weighing in excess of sixteen pounds, a Maine Coon extraordinaire, put your hands together for the Big Mean Machine Eugene, he fancies himself a direct representative of the great hunters and stalkers of the Serengeti.

If I could video them playing the "Serengeti game" I would be a millionaire. Little Bob runs like the wind zig zaging like a zebra through the house, Eugene either crouching behind doors or loping along behind...then comes the "kill". Eugene grabs Little Bob by the rear haunches with his huge paws (no claws out) and lays him down then hops across him. Immediately Little Bob jumps up and gives chase in reverse through the house, Eugene loping along now playing the hunted. At the end of the house, Eugene turns at the far wall , Bob stops, turns, and again runs like a bat out of hell and is the zebra or gazelle running from the hungry African Lion.

After awhile they take turns at which ever water bowl they are nearest and a nice nap on the plains of the Serengeti is had by all.

I might add that both animals are "rescues", both under entirely different circumstances.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

GENEALOGY DISAPPOINTMENT

2009-07-03T00:58:00.014-05:00

I'm crushed, saddened. Sometimes the study of genealogy turns up exciting and wonderful things, sometimes the mundane.

For about four years now I have been very excited to hope that the "missing Surratt brother" was my great grandfather. This I had hoped may have garnered me at least ten bucks to tell some Abe Lincoln autobiographer that there was indeed a family with a close connection to both Abe and Mary Jenkins Surratt.

I must state here that I fancy myself quite the historian, and not the crap taught in most public schools. Therefore it is obvious that poor Mary, being the first woman ever executed by the Federal Government was indeed completely innocent of all charges.

The people who were doing the deep research on this project have passed away, back in the 1980's. I received an extensive e-mail yesterday from the man who pick up the gauntlet.

Good bye, my sweet sweet Mary, seems your husband and my grand daddy were not even in the same orchard as it was put to me.

We are instead direct descendants of the Duke Monte Sarret. I remember coming across this years ago, but I had so hoped for Mary instead.

Well, welcome to the family, officially, Duke Monte Sarret. Now I can go back and see if anyone knows why you brought your small son to America, at such a dangerous time. Maybe I'll find something interesting there...kinda like a grand daddy's head that went rolling off the chopping block at the Tower of London.

By the way, do 23rd cousins to the Queen ever get invited over for hot dogs and burgers on the 4th, or is it just me? Should I feel snubbed?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

CRIMES AGAINST FRAU CHICKENS

2009-07-02T12:09:00.010-05:00

My blog is getting to be just like a box of cheap chocolates, you never know what you're going to get.

Warning, don't read this post if you are easily haunted.

I've been wondering if I should tell you all some stories of crimes and criminals. It is, unfortunately, a major portion of my past life. How should I tell them, maybe the only way I know how, some with humor, some with vicious disregard to whomever may take offense.

I'll start off with a pleasant holiday story. Thanksgiving and the reason I gave thanks that a dear friend and I decided to go to Vicenza, Italy on Thanksgiving day and party instead of partaking in family festivities of which we neither possessed at the time. Besides, on holidays the big mess hall would put on the Ritz and that's where everyone ate, including the Generals.

I had been working a case that had been the butt of many jokes, I had lost my own sense of humor about it as many times a day I would be asked if I had caught the "chicken fucker" yet. You see, some crap just makes no sense, no sense at all. This damn case was HIGH PRIORITY! Yeah, cause the chickens getting buggered were krauts. They belonged to Krauts and the Krauts that owned the dead bugged to death kraut chickens were understandably a bit angry. I mean, what do you do with a buggered chicken? Fry him up for Sunday dinner? I think not.

So I kept my mouth shut and I worked this case day and night, keeping up about 30 to 40 other cases in the mean time. On the third stake out, that's right, the third stake out, like I was hunting an international jewel thief, I caught the guy in the act. Oh it was nasty. The farmer thought I was James Bond for God's sake. So, it's about 2 am on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. This guy had just gotten off work at the mess hall and gone out to his favorite farm for a little extra curricular activity.

Now things don't work quite like they do here in home town America. Mr. Chicken Man was on foreign soil committing his acts of buggery and there is a little thing called the SOFA (Status of Forces Agreement) which means we generally just toss a coin in the air and who ever wants to prosecute him the most gets him. We HAVE to ask the Germans if they want him or if they want us to charge him. Okay, hope you got that down so you don't go blaming me for any of the rest of this crap.

As soon as I finish with Chicken Mans paperwork and close my case file I am off to Italy. No one will be back to work to speak of till Monday, given the Thanksgiving holiday. I called Chicken Man's First Sergent to come collect him up, put my case folder in the stack on my bosses desk, okay okay, I stuck it under a couple files...and I left.

My friend I was traveling with had spent six tours in Vietnam as as assassin. Needless to say I felt quite safe in his presence. We departed Germany in the wee hours of the morning and somewhere in the Bologna mountains we stopped at a "truck stop" for a cup of coffee. It was the tiniest little cup, like a child's tea set, one swig, my eyes flew open and my butt slammed shut, I was wired.

I told my friend the story of the Chicken Man, we laughed till we were sick., he told me I had finally risen to his level of evil, I was very proud.

I had a friend stationed at Vicenza and he and his family had invited myself and a guest down to see his huge villa just a half a block away from Sophia Lorens Movie studios, that happened to be closed at the time, I believe this was during their tax troubles.

My dear friend was going to visit some Carbonari that he knew when he had been stationed there years before.

We had a great time in Italy, I have some interesting pictures that I will post here hopefully soon. Especially of the little man I found laying on an old dock at Port of Livorno.

Monday morning I showed up for work bright and early, then I heard my name and bad swearing, gaging and then a couple people started to vomit. I laughed and I laughed, oh I laughed, I laughed all the way out the door because I don't like the smell of vomit. I went to the canteen and had coffee and laughed some more.

You see, like I said, Chicken Man worked at the mess hall and he wasn't really Chicken Man, he was Poultry Man, he confessed that he had had his way with and left a deposit in every turkey caucus trussed up for Thanksgiving dinner before popping them into the oven. He also enjoyed stuffing and various puddings, all specially seasoned. He did swear that he had only seasoned the Officers mess pudding....but I don't know. So glad I was in Italy.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF AN EMPIRE

2009-07-02T04:44:00.010-05:00

Lord, it's me again:

My brain is not to be trusted, it forgets, then remembers in graphic detail things better left to rot in peace.

There are several "people" in my head. Some are stronger than others.

There's the little girl who sits in the corner, her scabby knees encircled with her arms, face buried crying. I've always had to remind her of the terrible consequences in showing weakness to the world.

She's trying to mend her broken jaw, alone, and the crying turns to quiet sobs. I'm going to have to kill her if she doesn't stop, they'll find us for sure, this time.

Miss Fuck 'em all and the horse they rode in on too. She is getting easier to control. I've gotten pretty savvy in sensing her rushing up to the Captains chair.

But she has Aces, Aces that are locked in steel cages, waiting, last employment offer wanted those aces, and then crying little bitch showed up, with God Himself in tow. I sell my soul to save my family, in the end it was me, my soul is blacken and no one is saved. What was this God. A trick? Hope? Did you just want to see how I had learned NOTHING and would do it all again. You win, I lose. I'll wear it, make it part of my life, but no one will ever believe me. When Job asked these same questions, was he screaming at You too? It's been so many years now and still I remember that I would have done it all again.

Mammy Touretts, she is an old black lady, in this form she has paid all dues to society and can do or say anything. There is no warning. She sits is an old rocking chair in the control room, pleasant, sweet, loving, and oh so apologetic and always promises never to do that again as she mutters to herself non-stop about "those some bitches".

I think that is the secret to her success, she maintains a running dialog, a constant stream of judgemental mind numbing language, the rest of us just tune her out, then BANG she grabs the microphone. The apologises begin anew and the rest of us are left scrambling over top one another trying to neutralize the damage to the outside world.

She somehow is able to run the mouth and body interchangeably in spite of the rest of us.
I vaguely remember the day Mammy Tourettes learned "sign language".

Lurps survivalist no more, what happened to me, do I just not care anymore?

Voice of reason and education are confused and muffled.

You can still save the world, if you just try harder.

Artist, historian, quilter, painter, writer, are trying to comfort the sobbing child to no avail.

This last most epic battle, with my own mother spewing violence and hatred for two long years. Trying to "do right" when there was no right. I'm drained and still those who would not ease the suffering pull at me.

I don't even know who I am anymore, or what there is left to salvage of who I once was.

Just wondering here, if other people have these same struggles of all these people in your heads. Believe me, I left out a few of them. One of those bitches up there keeps trying to talk me into stripping butt naked and walking up to the town square. She's convinced that it would put an end to all our troubles and we could lead a life of ice cream and crayons for the rest of our life. I'm worried she just might have a point.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

POPPY

2009-06-29T20:16:00.012-05:00

My Aunt sent me this picture years ago when I mentioned that I had never seen a picture of my grandparents in their youth. This is their wedding day, and for the first and only time in my life I think I see a glint of fear in Poppy's eyes.

I remember my grandfather as clearly, as if he were still an intricate part of my life.

For reasons known only to him, I was his favorite. He called me "The Big Indian", I doubt if he ever knew my name, he knew only that I was the youngest child of his youngest child. I never saw him give attention or even a sideways glance to any of the other children.

The first memory I have of him speaking directly to me I was down in the creek catching crawdads in a sort of competition with the other grandchildren on who could catch the most and the biggest. I was poised next to a large boulder waiting for the big one to come out when Poppy walked straight into the creek and asked me what I was doing. When I told him I saw a big one go under the boulder he bent down and picked the boulder up, I was so stunned I just stared, he said "you better hurry I ain't as young as I once was". I grabbed through the mud got the crawdad and Poppy put the boulder down.

No one was ever allowed to call him Grandpa, he said it made him feel old. You could call him Russell or Poppy, he didn't care which.

I remember the summer he taught me how to chew and spit tobacco. We had spitting contests daily and soon I could hold my own with the best of them.

One summer Poppy asked if I wanted to go check the corn fields with him, I tagged after him like a faithful dog. The fields were stripped bare and I steadied myself for outraged. But Poppy was pleased, as field after field checked was barren of it's crop the more pleased Poppy became.

A couple weeks later Poppy said it was time to sell the corn and I could help if I got up early. The next morning as the sun was coming up I found him sitting on the front porch. He told me that lazy people that lay around all morning miss out. I was crushed. He told me maybe I'd have better luck tomorrow. We sat on the old glider all day and watched the road, chewed some tobacco and when grandmother hollered I would run over to the little house and prime the pump instead of him then carry water to the big house for good measure. Poppy said he needed to stay on the porch and watch the road.

Cars were on the mountain road that day which in of itself was unusual, and folks seeing Grandfather out on the veranda would stop, get out of the car, do a hillbilly yodel and wave, then be on their way. Just before supper, Poppy and I walked up the mountain to the road. He started pointing to different rocks and told me to reach under and give him the money, it was a long walk. That was the day I learned how to properly sell a corn crop, mountain man style. The next morning, before daylight, I helped Poppy hide mason jars along the road. Near all new and different rocks, seems moonshine customers all have their own private check out register. That was the year I learned the moonshine business.

No one ever seemed to really be paying attention to what others were "up to". A hard and fast hill folk rule of minding your own business. But I was wrong, my grandmother was well aware of the additions to her cellar pantry and she was laying in wait like a spider. I didn't know about this until years later. Seems when the moonshine crop came in my grandmother was on the ready with a complete set of clean clothes for my grandaddy who thought bathing and clothes changing just lead to pneumonia and death.

Grandmother had to wait until at least three of her sons were there when Poppy finished the moonshine selling and commenced on his private stock for his yearly drunk. He would be taken to the little house by his sons and stripped butt naked and left to sleep it off next to a stack of clean clothes.

I remember being so worried that day and only being told that Poppy was sleeping up in the little house and no one was to go near nor fetch water until he came down. Poppy was sullen and angry when he showed up at the big house wearing clean clothes, itching and complaining.

Sitting on the veranda one day Poppy told me that once he had decided to leave the hills on account of his brother who had gone to Pittsburgh and become a policeman. He said his brother had wrote him a letter and told him to come. So he got on his mule and rode all the way to Pittsburgh but when he got there he took one look around and couldn't figure out where all those people found them a place to sleep at night, so he turned his mule around and came on back home. He said he wrote his brother a letter directly and told him he preferred the hills. His brother, Franklin, became the Chief of Police of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for many years before his retirement.

I was being shipped overseas, so I went to visit Poppy for the first time all by myself. I wasn't there long enough to sit down when he insisted I take him for a ride in my little sports car. He loved that the speedometer went to 150. I took him as fast as I could on those twisting roads and he wanted to go faster. He was grinning from ear to ear.

Poppy told me something during that visit that I find profound to this day. He told me to remember that a rich man never goes to heaven, and a man can be rich with nothing more than a nickel in his pocket.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THE HOME PLACE

2009-06-26T18:37:00.016-05:00

Deep in the Allegheny Mountains, so deep daddy used to say the sunshine had to be piped in.

Those five mountains and hollow had been in the family for generations, they had stood as witness to the bloodiest chapter of America as brother against brother and father against son had taken up arms in battle for states rights.

My grandparents were in their eighties before I have any memories of them.

My grandmothers mother had been avenged by her aunts and uncles who had all married into the Devil Anse Hatfield clan. My grandmother was a quiet hard working woman who carried a .44 in her apron pocket and slept with it under her pillow. We had tried once to take her to visit some relatives, but within a mile she was car sick. I remember my grandaddy telling how she once rode her mule over 50 miles through the mountains to doctor some sick folks. His exact words were, "all the way to Saint Marys". I looked on the map once, it looked a lot farther than 50 miles. She gave birth to ten healthy children before she was gored by a bull, she collected homeless children and ended up raising 26. She died in her late 90's of a heart attack on her way to stoke the fires in the cook stove and make breakfast.

I never saw her touch that gun nor make mention of it, but I knew it was there to protect me and everyone else in her family.

I remember her sitting in her porch swing and looking up the hollow, telling of the time she heard her two youngest sons screaming for her. She said she was out putting the wash up and saw the boys about 4 (my dad) and 6 years old running for their lives down the hollow, each of them carrying a baby bear with the momma bear in hot pursuit. She said she lost her voice hollering at them to let loose of the cubs.

The upstairs of the big house, built by my grandfather in 1929 when the original home place burned to the ground, had five bedrooms upstairs and one down. The two bedrooms on each side had doors, the small room at the end of the long hall had a curtain. This had been my fathers room as a boy.

My grandmother said "Junior" (my dad) was always gathering up animals. She said when he was little he had a collie dog that he would sneak into the house at night, then every morning the dog would run downstairs and open the door for his goat who would run upstairs and pee on his bed. She was there, I wasn't, but I find this explanation for a wet bed every morning suspicious. Dad did have a gift for animals. When he was little he had had a pet ground hog for years that would come when he whistled, and live at the house until hibernation time the following season. One spring, he went to get the days food. Dad said that just as he squeezed off the shot, he saw the collar. My grandmother told how he came home carrying his dead ground hog crying.

My grandmother stepped out of the house to sweep the veranda one afternoon just in time to see my dad take his foot and push one of her cats into the creek as they passed each other on the foot bridge. It was the only time I ever saw my grandmother angry, or my daddy run. Last I saw them dad was still in the lead but his mom was closing' the gap with her broom.

I remember watching my grandmother do laundry once. There was a huge black cauldron, the kind you would see in cartoons with explorers standing inside and cannibals dancing around or sprinkling salt on them. It sat on a gigantic flat rock that projected into the creek, it would be filled with creek water and a wood fire built around it. When the water became hot enough the fire would be pushed into the creek, then the clothes added, stirred and scrubbed.

A long slab rock staircase went up to the little house cut into the side of the mountain. At the end of a long wide porch that faced into the mountain was the well house. There were only four rooms. Under the little house was a large work shop where grandaddy kept his tools he used to keep the farm running.

My dad and a couple of his siblings tried to drag his parents into the twentieth century. First a telephone that was never used, only answered. Next came the television. My dad and one of his brothers ran hundreds of feet of wire to the top of one of the mountains. About a month later we appeared for our yearly stay to find my grandmother beside herself in tears. So many people in the hospital, not expected to live, and so many people messing with each others husbands and wives. Grandmother had discovered General Hospital and was taking it to heart. Dad ripped out the television wire and life returned to normal.

Most interesting was drilling a well next to the big house. This made it possible for running water and my grandmother was thrilled, though a bucket and dipper remained sitting on the dry sink for drinking water having been carried all the way from the pump house at the little house. After the new well was up and going we went home. My father and two of his sisters contracted for a bathroom to be put in each of the houses.

Hillbilly's see everything, they don't talk much. My grandfather had watched the addition of the restrooms to his houses with intense interest. Rolled it around for awhile and figured it all out, no questions asked.

They were very proud of the additions and granddaddy couldn't wait to show them to me. They were well into their nineties by then but more like people in their sixties. First the bathroom in the big house, a sink, a shower, and a toilet. I noticed a galvanized bucket sitting in a most honored position...and put it out of my head.

Then with great excitement we hurried to the little house. I had never seen my granddad so excited, but I really couldn't quite understand what it was he was referring to. One of the two bedrooms had been turned into a big bathroom. I was first struck with the spaciousness then I spied another galvanized bucket. Granddad was already at his prize possession, he was pulling a tarp covering from the top of the bath tub, it was filled with machine parts being cleaned. There was no drain piping, it was a clear view into granddads' dirt floor workshop just below. My grandfather was beyond enamored with his new chest and was hoping that they would come back and bring him a proper lid.

His excitement couldn't be contained as he explained how easy it was to clean the parts and everything just went into a tub in the shop.
I only told him I didn't think they made lids for them, but he assured me that a chest that fine would surly have a lid.

I don't remember if it was the same day or the next when one of "them" was near the restroom when one of us used it and "flushed". I remember my grandmother standing in the dining room looking like she had just seen a ghost. The "noise" had startled them. What had happened, had something broke?

The mystery of the galvanized bucket was solved. When the toilets were installed evidently a worker had used a bucket of water to flush and get them up and going. Henceforth, a bucket of water was used to flush the toilets.

After the toilet excitement, Grandmother went back to her wood fired cook stove to make dinner and granddaddy went to mow. I went to the veranda and watched as he led old Doc, a huge Belgium out of the barn and hitched him up to the "mowing machine" a piece of equipment nearly a hundred years old. The blades made a whirling sound like it was made out of the summer breeze and accompanied by the rhythm of Granddaddy's commands of ghee and haw to old Doc. It did a beautiful job.

I feel so lucky to have known them and to have had them in my life.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

THE WILDMAN

2009-06-24T18:30:00.005-05:00

My fathers family of West Virginia, in the middle of the Allegheny Mountains. "Hill folks"

See, that was the thing, the Wildman only ever wore a loin cloth and a buck knife...now what kid from the Midwest would believe such a fairy tale.

Elusive and unseen like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, The Wild Man was a figment made up to keep the children in line. Only in his case it was more a cross between the Easter Bunny and Pumpkinhead. It worked on everyone but me.

Word around was that my Aunt Dolly had moved to California after the Wildman had come in the night and killed her husband as he lay in the bed. Yeah right.

If you've never seen the original "Pumpkinhead" movie, then you have never seen a truly terrifying backwoods creature. I've only seen it once, tried to watch it again years later and couldn't. It still scares the bejesus out of me.

I grew up in the times when children were to be seen and not heard. Which meant we had to keep our ears open, mouths shut and sulk around to get in on any of the good conversations.

When we would arrive each year, for our month long stay in the eighteenth century, the children would be frantic with stories of Wild Man sighting and tales of evidence found in the light of day that the Wild Man had paid a visit.

My dad and grand dad standing on the back veranda and my granddad pointing and telling my dad that the Wild Man had been living up in the caves and in the fall of the year you could see his set up from there. He asked dad if he wanted to go up and see him, dad seemed a little disgusted and said no. It was the end of their conversation.

When I was about ten, I decided to call their bluff. I announced that I was going to stay up all night and wait on the Wild Man.

I laid down on the old iron glider sofa on the front veranda and enjoyed the night air. My grand dad stuck his head out the door and asked me if I was coming in, I said no. It was great and I promptly fell asleep. I woke up just as dawn broke with the sound of what I though was one of the dogs drinking from the creek below, I sat up and was greeted with the sight of a black bear.

I didn't know My grandfather locked his doors by sticking a huge butchers knife to the hilt between the door frame and the thick trim. He had built that house in 1929 and knew every board. I didn't see any reason why he locked the doors, my best guess was to keep Aunt Bec out should she show up in the night and try to pee on the table again.

When I turned the bear was gone. Years later I realized how lucky I was not to have a box of Little Debbie sweet snack cakes with me.

But the Wildman never came, and my sisters' didn't tell on me, after all, one less kid in the bed was great for everybody.

My dad said that back in the forty's the Wildman used to go down to the highway and charge people a quarter for taking his picture, usually with his buck knife in his teeth.

Then, in my late teens, I saw his family picture. A couple normal folks and a very wild looking man dressed only in a loin cloth and a buck knife.
I'll post that picture here as soon as I can.

The Wildman lived to be 97 and just passed a few years ago. He spent his last years in a seniors home, wearing nothing but swim trunks.

2005 O Elijah B, 97, died Sunday,2005, at a Retirement Home in WV. The County's Wild Man, grew up on Sycamore Creek, WV. He was a veteran of the US Army and a WWII veteran of the US Navy. He will be greatly missed. A Graveside service will be held at 11 am on Saturday, in the yard of Amma B's home. Burial will be in the B Cemetery.

He really did kill my Uncle. I give wild stories a careful ear.

Come to find out, he was shirt tail kin.

Got any weird ones in your family?

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

WTF

2009-06-21T11:42:00.040-05:00

I SHOULD DELETE THIS POST - BUT THAT WOULD ONLY

MAKE YOU THINK I HAD ACCIDENTALLY POSTED SOME NUDE

PHOTOS OF MY DOG - SORRY

This web site has two more pictures of it, with a full size buck deer in its' mouth taken from a helicopter.

http://naturalplane.blogspot.com/2009/06/another-huge-alligator-in-alabama.html

Length: 28 feet and one inch.

I checked the Alabama Fish and Game web site and the current state record is 12 feet ten inches.

EDITED AFTER POSTING:

I started checking on this because is said (another) gator . . . I wanted to know WHAT other gator and where. A check with http://snopes.com/ ... this is a real picture of a real gator found in Cross Lake, Shreveport, Louisiana, in 2004.

I have some very mixed feelings here. Very glad we don't have theses monsters in Alabama, but it was kinda exciting to think we did.

I here by promise to double check my facts before allowing my panties to get all up in a wad.

Here is the nude photo of my dog that was promised: He is barely larger than a 16oz coke.

Nothing is wrong with Lil' Bobs eyes, he just didn't like the flash.

Go ahead, tell me how disgusting this is and how I shouldn't be allowed to Bloggerfy anymore.

elohssanatahw

I've been around

You have got to hear this! Best new music I've heard in ... forever.

Round Two, the bull begins

To tell or not to tell... that is the question.

I miss my Dad.

A PUBLIC SERVICE FOR MY FRIENDS:

A naughty tune... for you.....

Happy 21st Birthday to the Littlest Asshole

Do you smell that?

Giving Thanks at Rancho

NO WORRIES

I needed a song today

HAVE YOU GOT CANDY IN YOUR POCKET? OR DO YOU GOTS DA CRABS?

UPDATE.... with Snakes...The people in my head had a party and didn't invite me

Business letter from an @hole

Facepage or whatever

If you're naked and you know it, clap your hands

Tea and crumpets at 4... vs... Milk and cookies at 3....

"And it's one, two, three, what are we fightin' for.... don't ask me...I don't give a damn... next stop is Vietnam"

I'm just an "accidental @hole"

Did you find what you were searching for?

Where I admit to being a Trekkie

Life was simple in 1965

Naughty Finger

A PUBLIC APOLOGY

Drop kick me Jesus through the goalposts of life...

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY

POETRY IN MOTION

Dogs have always been my special friends

MORE DEEP THOUGHTS

DEEP THOUGHTS...from a nicotine starved brain.

Save your Confederate money, the South shall rise again

The cat says this post stinks.

"With all the frills upon it"

AND ANOTHER REASON I'M SUCH AN A-HOLE.....

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

Individualized Dumbassery

Here kitty kitty kitty....

"Relative"-ly speaking...

KRISTMAS KILOWATTS

CHRISTMAS... RANCHO APOCALYPTO STYLE

10 PLUS IS NOT A MAGIC NUMBER

19 DECEMBER, 1944

"A CHRISTMAS STORY" -or- The day the music died

My Life as a Fairy ... who put the fair in fairy**UPDATE**

GOT MAIL?

WHAT HAPPENED TO COMMON SENSE

GOVERNMENT HEALTHCARE... QUALITY CONTROL AT ITS FINEST !

LET FREEDOM RING

POWERFUL ADVERTISING

POLITICS FOR FAT KIDS

GET OFF THE BED

APB BLOGGER MIA

WARNING LABELS

THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC

MONKEYS, NUNS AND POPCORN

SHOOTIN' THE MOON

JUST WONDERING ABOUT TRAINS

HELLO NEIGHBOR...OH WON'T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR

MY FRIEND POOPIES

SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE

DIALOGUE ON DIARRHEA

TWO WRONGS TRYING TO MAKE IT RIGHT

BASTARD

PURE LOVE

FOR THE LADIES

The Walrus and the Carpenter

CASH FOR CLUNKERS AND OTHER REALLY STUPID SHINOLA

ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST

BUGGY TRAIN TO NOWHERE

IT AIN'T EASY BEING ME

MY LAST VACATION, I ENDED UP AT DACHAU.

DADDY AND THE NAUGHTY PRIEST

DIGGING UP JULES VERNE......PRONTO

QUICK, PRAY FOR ME (UPDATED)

KOREAN BBQ AT RANCHO APOCALYPTO

THE REQUEST LINE: GRANNY'S .44

THE LAST TIME I SAW POPPY

MY DAILY ENTERTAINMENT

My Life as a Fairy ... who put the fair in fairyUPDATE