A Random Image

Archive for November, 2002

 
|| November 14, 2002 || 1:16 pm || Comments (1) ||

Thanks to the quite-a-bit nefarious batgrl, I found myself over at randomwebsite, a niftaaaay concept, indeedy. My first three randomwebsite clicks turned up these sites:
Poetry Daily, which features new poems every damn day
Add It Up, a (ofcoursewhereyoubeen) Violent Femmes fan site
City Morgue Gift Shop, bringer of death-related products, education and fun!

This is all very spooky; it’s like randomwebsite somehow meta’d my brain and brought forth related content from the web.

It took four tries before I got a blog site, cheesdipdotcom. The proprietress and I share three links: whygodwhy, oblivio and ftrain. We also both have exceptionally-named dogs (she, Jarvis…me, Baxter). Here’s how to not get us mixed up: I’m not from Manila. No, really! I’m not!

 
|| November 14, 2002 || 10:37 am || Comments (0) ||

Mathias and I are playing hookey today, filling our time with drinking hot cocoa (chocolate mint….mmmmm….) and playing ‘Connect Four‘. Only, with Mathias it’s more like ‘Connect Seven’ rather than ‘Connect Four’. It’s not ‘Connect Seven’ because he has no concept of the fundamentals of the game, but because he prefers to make up games within the game. He prefers blocks of pattern and geometric design over the prescribed rules. I like his game, because it can last two minutes or two hours, depending upon the motivation of the players.

He is an awesome playmate because he is ever so patient with me when I do stupid things like bumping the little slidey-lever at the bottom of the gameboard, dumping our checkers all over the carpet. Also, he has few rules, but these are firm:

“Nooooo, Mommy: Dese is wed and wed is mine. Dese is bwack and bwack is for you.”

If only all of life were so simple as playing ‘Connect Howevermany’ with a three-year old: Play with the pieces you are given, have patience with the other players, and make up the best game(s) possible with said pieces and players.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

At least once in your life you should allow a three-year-old to:

~Show you the mechanics of a spinning top.

~Pronounce his name to you phonetically while pointing out the letters with a stubby little finger.

~Put your lipstick on for you.

~Scare the pants off of you with a dinosaur cup (fake it up real good, now.).

~Discuss the wondrous appeal of outer space (which he tells you daily that he would like to visit; “I MUST go dere, MOMMY.”) and robots (which he tells you will accompany him into outer space to cook him french fries).

 
|| November 14, 2002 || 8:42 am || Comments (5) ||

I want a tarantula!

I need a tarantula!

Why won’t somebody buy me an efffing tarantula?

 
|| November 13, 2002 || 5:37 pm || Comments (10) ||

Here’s my take on the matter:

Every last one of you should just shut the motherfuck up and stop poking one another with your ‘I’m Such A Big Scary Weblogger’ sticks. Quit proclaiming, “THAT IS IT! THIS IS OFFICIALLY THE END OF THIS! THIS POST/COMMENT RIGHT HERE! I’M OUT ON THIS!” and then coming back to spew more pointless vitriol. ENOUGH, already! Efuckingnough.

You’re such an embarrassment to yourselves that you embarrass the rest of us. It’s SO PATHETIC that you don’t realize this.

It’s also ridiculous that you sit and call your readers stupid, mindless drones that can’t think for themselves and you expect to keep them as readers.

My suggestion would be to put you all in a room with spiked baseball bats so that you can beat each other bloody and (more) senseless, save for the fact that it would mean that I and a couple dozen other ‘mindless, believe-anything’ readers would be deprived of the privilege. Old and tired and you mock noone but yourselves, you dim-witted plebians.

I feel like I can safely say that I speak for a majority of the sick-of-all-the-bullshit blogging masses. The ones that have politely kept tongues in cheek all this time, not out of fear (woooo….invoking the WRATH of the Mighty BlogWarlords), but out of a sense of patience that maybe someday you’d all stop acting like petulant fucking babies. The ones that view all this idiocy as vile and without class. Do us all a favor and stop opening your ridiculous, ignorant mouths just to hear yourselves drone onnnnnn and onnnnnnnnn with the same singly-focused fervor of a rabid pit bull. You know the one. It’s eventually put to sleep for the public’s safety and well-being.

 
|| November 13, 2002 || 12:18 pm || Comments (3) ||

IF YOU ARE NOT ONE WHO SUPPORTS (OR CAN EVEN ABIDE) CORPORAL PUNISHMENT, THEN THIS LITTLE TALE IS NOT FOR YOU. I SUGGEST YOU MOVE ON. ~J.S.

Many Southern children of my generation were raised in homes where spankings were meted out as discipline and correction. Most of these children –forlornly referred to as ‘Generation X’– have no problem that they were subjected to the old “…rod…child…” idiom. Hell, most of us wear it like a badge of honor; everybody who was spanked has at least two really-really-really good “beatin’” stories polished up and on reserve to whip out at parties and family potlucks and such.

My father swears to this very day that he didn’t spank us girls. He did, actually, but he may not recall it because it was honestly infrequent.

You know those, “JUST WAIT’LL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!!” mothers? Well, my momma wasn’t one of those mothers. She was quite the opposite. She believed in getting to the heart (and/or hiney) of the matter rightfuckingthen. Thusly, Henry hardly ever had to put his arm to work.

Sometimes we wished he got a little more swingtime. With him, it was clip-clip-clip, “three licks and yer OUT”. Dad was the power hitter who went in for speed. Mom went in for distance; she knew she couldn’t spank as hard, so she spanked longer. You were, like, checking your watch and shit: “Mother, we’ve been here fifteen minutes now….it’s time for me to watch the Wonder Twins….can we wrap this up?” You wondered why her long, thin arm didn’t simply snap the fuck off.

By the time I was six, my folks had stopped spanking me (Biff, my ex-husband, fervently believes that’s what’s wrong with me to this very day). This was due to the fact that I had a high pain threshold and a short memory (or plain old disregard) for the boundaries of trouble (partly because of that high threshold?). The demise of rabblerousing-sans-encumbered-conscience came with the advent of the personal, Beth-directed lecture on Parental Disapproval And Disappointment. That stayed with me far longer than did any spanking. I was an intellectual child, and I was sunk with the ‘talkin’-to’.

Before such a time arrived, however, there were those moments that hang around in my memory, definitive times my mind has captured. Two of them happened at the bottom of the fifth (year, that is).

In fine Southern fashion, one day I was ordered to go pick a switch so that my mother could ‘tear my fanny UP’. She and my memaw and aunts were all busy in memaw’s tiny kitchen, canning up bushels and bushels of peaches: pickling, jamming, jellying and preserving. It was haahhhhht (my grandfolks deemed air conditioning unnecessary and expensive) and crowded; any disruption set the neat little process off-kilter, pushed the quiet female machine out of whack.

I knew this, but I didn’t care, because I was an impatient, impudent little child. I kept hovering around the edges, bugging my mother for what I wanted (don’t even remember WHAT now…that’s how insignificant it was) until she made THE Announcement:

Jacqueline Elizabeth!! I….have had….ENOUGH.”

….and then it’s on. It was as if the Almighty himself had rent the heavens and was about to rain it all down, baby. Even if her tone of voice didn’t convince you, the use of The Full Christian Name most certainly did. It said, “This is a proclamation of the highest order! It must be heeded, ir terrible, awful, simply tumultous things will happen!” She had rage-induced lockjaw, after all.

She levelled her gaze at me. “Miss Priss (a name I was called often in my errant youth), as much as I would like to bust you in your smart mouth, I will not.” Whew. Maybe I’ll survive the outer limits of wrath, after all.

Here she bent at the waist and put her face mere inches from mine. Oh God! She’s trying to hide what she’s saying from all witnesses present! I’m fucked! “What I will do is tell you to go out there in the yard and pick a switch off of a tree or bush and bring it back to me so that I may give you the spanking that you have earned.” Sheeyut. Tooooo easy, speasy!

She put her hands out, palms facing one another, firmly holding three feet of air, “This long. Understand?” I did. I nodded, almost giddily. I get a project. Maaaaan, alive!

“Make it quick, girl.” I would, as it is bad to let any Southern Momma stew in her own wrath, much less a German-Italian-Irish one.

My cousins –who doubled as playmates and persecutors– had been standing below the kitchen windows and had heard every word. Of course they mocked and jeered, it was prerequisite. At any time it could be them, so when it wasn’t, the relief was orgasmic.

I trudged resolutely into the foliage of the side yard, heart to the task, before brilliance struck. While I was looking about, five-year-old logic had crept into the equation.

“Hmmmmmm,” I thought, “Big switch, BIG hurt. Little switch…little hurt.” Delighted with my own cleverness, I chose the greeenest, whippiest thing I could ferret out and broke it off gleefully. When I reached the back corner of the house I was careful to put on my somber, penitent face. Touch of fear. You know.

The roomful of women looked up, sixteen eyes observing me in swing top and bloomers and askance hairbow nestled in stubbornly thick blonde tresses. Taking note of the switch was paramount in this rite of passage; it was elemental to the story that would be passed on, both later that day and to future generations. My Aunt Shirley started when she saw the whiplike thing clutched in my hand and she opened her mouth to speak, but my Aunt Trish silenced her with a hand on her arm.

“HA!” I mused, “Aunt Trisha is on my side.” I make the trip to see my aginig Aunt Shirley frequently these days. I send Trish a Christmas card WHEN I hazard to remember….the Dirty Bitchtm.

From then on I selected the biggest, deadest thing I could find that would even remotely pass for a switch. Things that were very nearly logs. Things that crumpled and shattered upon touching my behind. I was precipitous, but I was no dummy.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Another time found me and my mother in Woolworth’s. I was acting like a little saddle-shoed, pigtailed asshole and after a couple Attempts At Correction, my mother made THE ANNOUNCEMENT. Christian name and all. She drag-walked me to the checkout stand, stopping en route to select a thick black leather belt –no buckle, just the strap– off a round display rack that we passed.

When we arrived at the checkout, momma thrust the belt at the cashier: “Here. Ring this first, please.” Forever well-mannered, she. One’s comportment is paramount.

She kept my hand firmly in hers the whole time. The cashier rang the belt and placed it back into my mother’s waiting palm. As she punched the keys on the manual register, tallying everything else, my mother tore the tags off the belt and led me to the end of the checkout stand, where she proceeded to light my ass up.

Hey, sometimes the only vein of logic a kid comprehends is housed in the nerve that runs from the ass to the brain.

My only regrets about the incident?

1) That she was so matter-of-fact and resolute. She should have prefaced that particular spanking with the declaration, “He who hesitates is LOST!!” and

2)”Ride Of The Valkyries” was not playing in the background.

Aw, hell….I may just start incorporating these elements into the story. My mother is the stuff of legend, anyway.

 
|| November 10, 2002 || 7:59 pm || Comments (0) ||

Dearest Readery-type People,

The Damnwells.

You’re so fucking welcome. SO. WELCOME.

 
|| November 10, 2002 || 7:45 pm || Comments (9) ||

Cannot find where on earth I’ve stashed the fancy, I-shelled-out-far-too-much-dough-for-these margarita glasses. Ah, well. I am using one of the frosty beer mugs from the freezer. The kind that is so heavy, you could brain a turtle with it.

I guess you could say I’m drinking ‘mugaritas’ tonight.

There’s an orange crazy straw and plain table salt (weren’t too well-prepared to be an alky bum tonight, now were I?) involved.

Look out!

UPDATE, 8:17 pee emm: Completely out of inhibitions tequila. Substituting vodka. Really cheeeeap, icky vodka. Will let you know how it turns out.

UPDATE, 8:19 pee emm: The tornado sirens are going apeshit. This could be problematic, as there is no plug-in for the blender in the ’safe’ part of the house.

UPDATE, 8:23 pee emm: All this fucking InterWeb at my fucking fingertips! You babies are so fucking sexy, I shit you not. A plethora of unknown-yet-stupendous writers within the reach of my monitor every single day. All my pocket people. Such a lucky, lucky girl am I!.

UPDATE, 8:35 pee emm: Have abandoned straw. Drinking in big, throaty sips now. I suspect that slobbering gulps will be upon me soon. *off to find Drunkard’s Bib* !.

UPDATE, 8:49 pee emm: Tornado sirens, apeshit again. I have abandoned pants (fucking pants! why do we have to wear those motherfuckers, anyway??) and am flailing about to vintage Nirvana. With my boots on. And my favorite Henry Rollins t-shirt (“Silence sucks”, beeyotch. And nature is a whore). The bra is coming off soon, dammit. Fucking bras, man. Come as you are, my indelible shmoopies.!.

UPDATE, nine pee emm: logged on to AIM. after three tries. shit. must be addled from the dancing. too much bouncing causes brain injury, didjoo know?!.

UPDATE, nine-oh-one pee emm: wnat to stafe GUCK! stage drinkig contest with self, but this is tres difficile w/out spectators encircling me groping shouting, “CHUGBITCHCHUG! CHUGBITCHCHUG!” you know how it is. maybve.

UPDATE, ninefourteen pee emm: Discussing dastardly plans with nerdboymikey. cheap vodka notwithstanding, am doing well. and shit.

UPDATE, ninetwenty-nine pee emm:

JettSuperior: HEY!

mikeynerd: hey jett!

mikeynerd: what’s up?

JettSuperior: O AM DRIPML/

JettSuperior: uhk, I AM DRUNK!

mikeynerd: no way!

mikeynerd: that’s weird

JettSuperior: sure way!

JettSuperior: and I just burnded m/self on
the candle.

JettSuperior: MOTHERBITCH!

JettSuperior: or, motherBITCHER!

JettSuperior: 0000000000000000000000000000

JettSuperior: my boobs just typed all htem
oooooos.

mikeynerd: hahahahahah you’re too funny

JettSuperior: I bent over to rembdy the
candle sitchooayshee.

JettSuperior: and the tits. they go crazy,
mikey.

JettSuperior: no shit.

mikeynerd: well, they’re big

mikeynerd: i’m sure they get in the way
alla time

JettSuperior: you always seem to get back to
that notion.

JettSuperior: you’re such the cahrmer>!

JettSuperior: charmer. feh.

JettSuperior: wooooooo.

mikeynerd: you’re the one who brought ‘em
up!

JettSuperior: OF COURSE ID ID.

JettSuperior: id id? thats very freudian.

JettSuperior: No?

mikeynerd: yes, it is

mikeynerd: a freudian notion in a freudian
slip

JettSuperior: I’m pseudo-intellectual when
inebritoxicated.

JettSuperior: tonight feels like a fresh
tattoo.

JettSuperior: how are you, sir?

mikeynerd: i’m good

mikeynerd: lookin at boobies

JettSuperior: of course yhou sare !

JettSuperior: what did i say?

JettSuperior: SHT??

JettSuperior: WHAT>>>???

mikeynerd: hahahahahah

JettSuperior: I have this idea.

mikeynerd: i wonder what it’d be like to
talk to you when you’re sober…

JettSuperior: tell me if its shit.

mikeynerd: what’s your idear?

JettSuperior: THE Great BLGO DRUNK-OUT.

JettSuperior: we stage a nite for everyone
to drink past normal limts.

JettSuperior: and then post copiously.

mikeynerd: hahahahahah

mikeynerd: i don’t think that’d work out
too weel

mikeynerd: well, even

UPDATE, ninethirty pee emm: Urinations break. peebreak to all you laypersons.

UPDATE, ninethirty-one pee emm: getlaidpersons. heh.

UPDATE, nineforty pee emm: Thisghtwell, fuuuuck. do-over.

UPDATE, nine fortyy pee emm: Thighs are tingling. Weeeeeelllllll, THIS is certainly a pleasant by[product of my inebriation!

UPDATE, nine thirty five pee emm: have made conscious decisaion to embrace typoes as my freind. <-- SEE??

UPDATE, nine forty nine pee emm:

JettSuperior: I must warn you,

JettSuperior: I do’tkn0w hw far this converattion will go.

JettSuperior: and all./

DelmerSkeetsMcGee: yea, i pretty much expect you to pass out at any second….but before you do take your vit c and asprin.

JettSuperior: NOT A PASSEEWERE OURRWETWER~!

JettSuperior: passer outter or something.
FUcking TONRADO HORNS! Leave it to me to expetc an idyllic drunk on such an evyening as this.

UPDATE, nine 52 pee emm: WHAT?? more peeing already? girl bladder. pffft.

UPDATE, 2201 hours (military time easier when drunk): I forgot what I was going to type here. sorry for wasting your time. fuck.

UPDATE, 2220 hours: Thunder is a fucking AAAPHRODISIAC. Sex for the first person that wanders up in the rain.

UPDATE, 2231 hours : The rain is threatening and beautiful and satisfying. I will go dance my hands in it, then I will go to bed. Because the InterWeb has become boring. Because there is no Pocket Lesbian or Pocket Social Project to share myself with right at this moment. G’nit.e.