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Archive for October, 2003

|| October 7, 2003 || 10:34 pm || Comments (5) ||

A ridiculously long, but slightly informative and sometimes funny AIM conversation with the Fancy (fuckin’!) Llama:

(…and, for the record, I’ve no idea why the fonts keep changing around, so don’t ask. I was too lazy to go in line-by-line and change them, so there.)

FancyLlama: hey hey, it’s the Narcy Narc Police

JettSuperior: what?

JettSuperior: whaaa?

FancyLlama: we’re on to you bein sweet to that DP

JettSuperior: yeah, whatever

FancyLlama: :-)

FancyLlama: I imagine him with a handle bar

JettSuperior: HA! I’m SO gonna tell him you
said that!!

FancyLlama: go for it

JettSuperior: he sounds big.

JettSuperior: and maybe mean

JettSuperior: and I"M SO GONNA TELLLLL!

FancyLlama: have you seen super troopers?

JettSuperior: "we’ve already pulled over!"

FancyLlama: enough to know the names of the local

JettSuperior: wha?

FancyLlama: well, one of the local cops in the movies
(Officer Rando) is who I imagined him to be like

FancyLlama: only a little older

JettSuperior: oh.

FancyLlama: get with the times punk

JettSuperior: shaddap!

JettSuperior: maaaan, I need to go to bed.

JettSuperior: bed.

JettSuperior: bed.

JettSuperior: bed.

FancyLlama:should I really let you get to bed?

FancyLlama: you know who I think Gary is now??

JettSuperior: who, doll?

FancyLlama: Super Troopers again… but Ferva

FancyLlama: Radio guy

JettSuperior: I don’t know theses peoples!

FancyLlama wants to directly connect.

FancyLlama is now directly connected.

FancyLlama: and it’s actually Farva, not Ferva


JettSuperior: I am SO telling NOW!

FancyLlama: that’s not the one I orginally thought, but
I’ve changed my mind because he’ll be funnier now

JettSuperior: Gary is going to come shoot you in
the face, Llama.

JettSuperior: Because lawboys from Tennessee
do that sort of thing, you know.

FancyLlama: Don’t tell him where I am, I’ll be

JettSuperior: It’s not like I have your home
address, foo.

JettSuperior: But IF I DID!….

FancyLlama: I’ll wet my panties if Gary is going to
come after me though

FancyLlama: and then the whole blogging community
will be like "WE’RE WITH GARY!!"

JettSuperior: THAT I’d like to see.

FancyLlama: and hack into my page and destroy it

FancyLlama: and I’d never be able to blog again

JettSuperior: You sealed it. I AM telling him.

JettSuperior: Because I owe my readership
good, solid laughs.

FancyLlama: and they would disenvow knowledge of
my blog ever even existing

JettSuperior: And what could be solider to laugh
at than an askeert Llama?

FancyLlama: You’re just concerned with the business
end of this deal

FancyLlama: Seeing my suffering means NOTHING

JettSuperior: well, he DID mention belly chains.

FancyLlama: You just want mooooore readers…

JettSuperior: aw, quitcher cryin’. you can allus
change your name to ’shaky llama’.

JettSuperior: you characterize me afoul, sir.

JettSuperior: I am grievously injured. Gary
won’t take kindly to that.

FancyLlama: If after this went down you I tried to get
back online, I ouldn’t use the Llama name again

FancyLlama: I would go for something more…

JettSuperior: (what do you mean?)

JettSuperior: WHAT?:

JettSuperior: you spooge.

FancyLlama: seeing as how you just destroyed my
hypothetical life

FancyLlama: It’s only fair.

FancyLlama: Come on, you have to admit.

JettSuperior: ah, the heady rush that comes
with power.

JettSuperior: And to have detractors is to be
truly popular.

FancyLlama: You’ll never get away with this, the
rebellion will stop you.

JettSuperior: I AM the rebellion, bitch.

FancyLlama: Well that makes the the rebellion of the

JettSuperior: (I need a shirt that says that)

FancyLlama: lol

FancyLlama: that would be classic

FancyLlama: I want one.

JettSuperior: you’re supposed to immortalize
my words by carving them into your chest

FancyLlama: THAT’S what I need.

FancyLlama: A girl that can make me laugh.

JettSuperior: But,

JettSuperior: I was being serious.

FancyLlama: What happened to your fabeled

JettSuperior: the ONE night I get to sleep.

FancyLlama: sorry!

JettSuperior: I’m waiting on my drug dealer,
that’s what.

JettSuperior: Don’t tell Gary, though. He frowns
on medicinal drug use.

JettSuperior: Authorizes it for recreational
purposes only.

JettSuperior: He’s a hardass like that, my Gary.

JettSuperior: But he loves his JettGrrrl. Offered
to get me the supersized billy club in any color
I wanted.

FancyLlama: hey, how long have you been blogging?

FancyLlama: By the way!!! You have a reader ship
anniversary this week!

JettSuperior: the fourteenth of July was three

JettSuperior: ??

FancyLlama: readership, not a reader ship

FancyLlama: you haven’t yet purcahsed a reader ship,
have you?

FancyLlama: I’m a dork.

JettSuperior: so am i.

FancyLlama: anyway, I’ve been reading you for one
year this week


JettSuperior: YAY ME!

FancyLlama: yup =)

JettSuperior: you really put out some good stuff,

FancyLlama: thanks

JettSuperior: my head itches. i must have the
fabled cooties

JettSuperior: or be stressed.

JettSuperior: when I stress, my head itches.

JettSuperior: I scratch and my hair starts
coming out.

JettSuperior: silly, really.

JettSuperior: but it’s that or kill people.

JettSuperior: and I been to jail.

JettSuperior: Gary notwithstanding, I don’t
want to go back.

FancyLlama: take your index and middle finger and
press in at your nose right between your eyes, and
massage around
right under the edge of the cheek

FancyLlama: under your eyes

JettSuperior: that runs off the cooties?

JettSuperior: heyyyyy, I just did it and the itch

JettSuperior: yep, cooties.

JettSuperior: is that the cootie catapult?

FancyLlama: extend that to your jaw rught under your

FancyLlama: and forward along your jaw bone

JettSuperior: now you’re just confusing me.

JettSuperior: all these directions!

FancyLlama: then you were going to go back

FancyLlama: it’s self shiatsu

FancyLlama: it works to the max

FancyLlama: I used to study shiatsu for a bit

JettSuperior: sounds like you’re coaching me in
masturbatory practices, dear.

JettSuperior: Now, if you have any of THOSE….

FancyLlama: I wish I did, I’d have 17 girlfriends right

FancyLlama: *wink*

JettSuperior: those girls are stupid.

JettSuperior: STUPID, I TELL YOU!

FancyLlama: what are you suggesting, I find other

FancyLlama: what’s wrong with my 17 hypothetical
girlfriends I have now?

JettSuperior: women. you need a WOMAN.

FancyLlama: Yeah, I do.

JettSuperior: one that is corporeal.

JettSuperior: lol

JettSuperior: and you don’t NEED one, you
should have one.

FancyLlama: I found a girl that’s 24 as of last week

FancyLlama: but we just… I wouldn’t be able to have
enough conversations with her

JettSuperior: what, her age shifts week to

FancyLlama: her birthday, smart ass

FancyLlama: "go ahead, be a smart ass, see where
that gets you"

JettSuperior: her birthday shifts week to week?

JettSuperior: there’s some crazy folk out there.

JettSuperior: and you people say southeriners
are weird.

FancyLlama: you think I should have me a woman
though eh?

FancyLlama: join the motherfuckin club

JettSuperior: no, I think you should not sweat it.

JettSuperior: and it’ll happen.

JettSuperior: poof. just like that.

JettSuperior: in the meantime, there’s allus

FancyLlama: I’ve been giving up looking for her

FancyLlama: but I still wanna get laid, man

JettSuperior: there again, shiatsu.

JettSuperior: parlay that shit into

FancyLlama: "My love life was getting so bland/there are
only so many ways I can make love with my hand"

JettSuperior: see? everything goes back to

FancyLlama: =)

JettSuperior: have you tried dressing it up?

FancyLlama: LOL

JettSuperior: your hand, I mean?

FancyLlama: no I got it

JettSuperior: you could pretend it’s a different
hand every time.

JettSuperior: make it little disguises

JettSuperior: fool your weenis

JettSuperior: you people are so strange.

JettSuperior: why do you make me talk about
these things?

FancyLlama: I just laughed

FancyLlama: as the tape will reveal

JettSuperior: NOW YOU’RE TAPING ME??


FancyLlama: No.

FancyLlama: ?

FancyLlama: .


FancyLlama: It was his idea, beyotch.

JettSuperior: (maaaan, I’m gonna get so much
mileage outta this Gary bit)

JettSuperior: (I’m so glad he e-mailed me)

FancyLlama: Yeah, we’ll see how many miles.

JettSuperior: wouldn’t it be funny if, ultimately,
he turned out to be a flaming KOOK?

FancyLlama: =)

JettSuperior: There’s lots of mileage in stalker
material, as well.

JettSuperior: you know?

FancyLlama: yeah……….

FancyLlama: I know.

FancyLlama: Twice I know.

JettSuperior: you’ve BEEN a stalker, or you’ve
HAD a stalker?

FancyLlama: had two

JettSuperior: you are the coolest motherfucker I

JettSuperior: right here, right now.

FancyLlama: =)

JettSuperior: I myself have only merited one
real good one.

FancyLlama: My two exes. Grand stories.

JettSuperior: the rest were kinda jokey and

FancyLlama: You’ll notice they are NOT on the

FancyLlama: mine were hardcore

JettSuperior: jeebus.

JettSuperior: (again with the ‘coolest
motherfucker’ statement)

FancyLlama: hey hey hey

JettSuperior: you should do a write-up on your

JettSuperior: it would be interesting.

FancyLlama: yeah, again, you noticed that they aren’t

FancyLlama: that’s because I don’t want them to find

FancyLlama: itwould be bad news

JettSuperior: ah.

JettSuperior: are these interweb people?

JettSuperior: or irl people?

FancyLlama: irl

JettSuperior: okay, I really have to go now,

JettSuperior: my dad

JettSuperior: s gonna be mad at you.


JettSuperior: and gary, too.

JettSuperior: gary mostly

FancyLlama: Will he spank you and handcuff you?

JettSuperior: if i’m LUCKY!

FancyLlama: and take you to Dunkin’ Donuts every
thursday for Don’s Donuts Deals?

JettSuperior: how do you know that, if you don’t
go there?

JettSuperior: (is there a thursday dunkin donut

JettSuperior: and I HAVE to GO.

JettSuperior: stop talkingtalkingtalking!

FancyLlama: I’m not!

FancyLlama: you are1

JettSuperior: see there? my head itches again.

FancyLlama: GO

FancyLlama: TO BED

FancyLlama: sleeeeep

JettSuperior: there goes three more pieces of

JettSuperior: fuck.

JettSuperior: g’nite!

|| October 6, 2003 || 11:31 pm || Comments (3) ||

Tonight I tucked a very stressed-out young lad into bed with the words, “God’s got you in his hand, fella, and he’s not gonna let you fall, okay?” It seems that the cares of his new junior-high world are bearing down on him mightily, and that his classwork (math in particular…wonder where he came by THAT?) has got him beyond stress. This period in his life is hard for any child, and I hardly have to reach back beyond the years to recall what being a pre-teen did to me, so I get where the kid is coming from. Angst, the years eleven through twenty art thy name.

Being a Touretter, he takes change harder than most, as well. People with Tourette like predictability, and while they may be up for an adventure, change really fucks with them in a mighty, mighty way. Sixth grade has literally been a shock to the system.

Then, of course, there is the customary feeling of being a freak and/or alienated. You can pay lip service to a kid all day long about everybody feels displaced, it is a necessary part of the becoming, but it’s like anything else: Yeah, yeah, there’s a light on the other side, show it to me already. And I’m impotent in the face of it; it is a necessary part of parenting, but one made no easier by that knowledge. This part of his growth, oddly enough, is part of mine, as well….only I cannot communicate these things to him. Hell, a big hunk of the job description of we parent-type folk is not to.

NOT to say, “Hey, hi, here I am learning new things from the things I already learned because of the simple fact that you are learning them for the first time.” He’s already confused enough, and my job is to have all the answers, or at least enough of them to plug in so that there is more than an ex and a why and a zero in the equation, rendering it useless for practical things like building a life. Solid information to give so that ex is two or seventy-two and he can come up with an answer, some sort of answer, despite all the whys in the world. Even though it’s not ‘meant to be’ in the big scheme of things, I wish there was an effective (and safe) way to communicate to your offspring that you are still growing, still are a person with dreams and wants and longings and fears and hurts and wishes and promises to self; that you are not, in fact, complete and just may never be.

|| October 6, 2003 || 11:29 am || Comments (3) ||

Best quote of the week belongs to Tina:

So I woke up this morning NAKED, with my head at the foot of the bed and an Audrey Hepburn stamp stuck to my face… wtf?!

I’ve followed Tina since her days back at G.I. Party, and she’s really coming into her own as a scribbler. And oh yeah, that hot chick in her layout? All her, baby. And DO NOT call her ‘hon’ or ‘darlin’ or anything similar. She will eat your eyeballs for lunch.

General information traitorously given to females by way of the very cool Ryan:

We’re not afraid of commitment, we’re afraid of hurting you. When we were little, you were like us. We rode bikes together, we played in the mud together, so on. Then…

Puberty. Like a bolt out of the sky, you seemed to become these delicate flowers, all innocent and sweet and fragile. And we’re scared shitless of that. We’re afraid of breaking you, and when we think we’re hurting you, we get really. Fucking. Scared. We don’t know how to deal with it, so we get distant.

That’s not and indictment of innocence, sweetness, and fragility. We find those attractive, to an extent. But take it from me, there’s gotta be a core of strength there, or we freak.

I LOVED –hear me? LOVED– Ryan’s writing over at the ‘Party. That boy can put it to you. I’m hoping he turns back to his prolific ways; read that to say, ‘Arkansan-wordy’. Just like somebody else you know.

|| October 5, 2003 || 12:06 pm || Comments (6) ||

We sold all that crrrrrap and now my parents have the kids at SUPer Wal-Mart to spend their profits. Great, replace the old crap with new crap; good call. Grandparents are great at mowing right the fuck over the innate wishes of their grandchildren’s parents. My kids don’t need to go to college, anyway. They really, really need one more game for the Gameboy Advance.

Games, yes. There is this little game that Maxim and I play sometimes.

No, stupids, not the naked one. That one isn’t r-r-really any of your nosy little business.

Anyway, it’s called “MacGyver It” and the premise is simple: You select three or four items, somewhat randomly, and fire them off to your partner, after which you say, “MacGuyver it.” Then they come up with a somewhat plausible, preferably cool-as-fuck invention out of those ‘ingredients’.

So okay, a little game for you, dear Muffinasses: A q-tip, a cigarette butt, six inches of dental floss (the unwaxed variety) and a half-stale crouton. The crouton is a wild card and doesn’t necessarily have to be used.

MacGyver it.

And oh yeah, J2 over at All Out Of Angst did a nifty little time-slaughtering project called “1 Day, 100 Blogs, 100 Comments” a little over a week ago and graced me with inclusion (see? I’m number fifty-one). Now this bold soul is embarking upon a broader, tougher mission: “1 Day, 1000 Blogs, 1000 Comments“. Rawk. Bonus that I like his site words. Check him out.

|| October 3, 2003 || 4:54 pm || Comments (3) ||

Speaking of referrers, I just got the best one I’ve ever gotten (I know I’ve said this before, but this time I really, really mean it. I’m going ‘grrrr-rrrr’ and making my serious-face just to prove it to you people).

her smart mouth earned her a terrible spanking

I hold spot two for that little gem. Hello, Olyphant, Pee-AY! Welcome!

Posting has been and will be light because the source of my smart-mouthedness is here, right here in your very own Hellabama!

My Momma and Daddy got here midafternoon yesterday, bringing with them all manner of antique-y, heirloomy goodness for yours truly and a pickup load of crap from their latest move….this means YARD SALE, YAY!

For this go-round of yard sale-ish madness, the Superior children are responsible for moving my mother’s wide and varied (and sometimes –even though it paineth me yea verily to say it– quite hideous) owl collection, a suitcase-full of vintage patterns, odd and sundry knicknacks, about a million dollars’ (give or take fifty bucks) worth of art supplies my sister left behind when she joined the military, some chic-and-oh-so-capriciously ugly vintage hats, Godonlyknows how many candle holders of questionable shapes and varying sizes, sheet sets that sport yucky bold stripes and colors a la seventies, roller skates, tennis rackets, wingtip shoes, blazers, and on and on andon andonandonnnnnnn.

Their payment is that they get to learn the ways of the yard sale gurus (my mother and myveryownself) and they get to split the profits. They made about forty dollars apiece today, woo!, and everybody who knows anything knows that Friday is the slow yard saling day. All the hardcores come out tomorrow, and we will pry their money from them unmercifully, MWA-HA-HA-HAAAAAA.

Most people either don’t get on well with their parents or are extremely annoyed by them. Not me, man; my folks are awesome and an absolute hoot to spend time with. If you could have only seen my dad hanging of the curb and exclaiming loudly, “SHOP PAPAW’S! BARGAINS GALORE!” today, you would completely understand. When he got bored some two hours later –and very much to the delight of me and my children– he began to do a ‘profit’ chant (there’s a lot of Cherokee stuffed into that tall, lean body): “Hey-ah-yah-yah, Hay-Ull YEAH!” Mom kept having to remind him that we were in a church parking lot.

You could say that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, but since he didn’t germinate the seed, it’s more like somebody picked me up and chucked me, efficiently landing me at his trunk. You know, where I actually belong.

Tonight I confessed to him that I was maybe planning on signing him up for six months of Netflix as his birthday/Christmas present. I recently did the trial offer-thing in order to semi-evaluate the service. Dad hemmed and hawed and occaisionally zinged a question or two about it; he needs to appear to ponder all angles of this with some prudence, but he asked at least a dozen questions (with significant, seemingly disinterested pauses peppered throughout) and eventually had me show him the website. I’m in like Flynn, hey-hey.

So yeah, my parents are the bee’s knees and I’ma be busy for a few. You people take care. Me? I’ll be laughing so hard that my cheeks will go numb. All in good fun, aaaaall in good fun.

|| October 1, 2003 || 11:04 am || Comments (8) ||

People search for some strange crap; I mean, come onnnnn, Easter bunny for Jim Morrison? What gives?

I am a little taken aback at the fact that I’m only number sixty-five, though. Also, I’m trying to picture the sadsack that follows those results all the way through to number sixty-five. Do they not have anything to do? Do they not realize that if the first couple pages of results didn’t proffer up satisfactory linkage, then they are –for the most part– privy to a condition known as ‘Shit Out Of Luck’?

|| October 1, 2003 || 9:32 am || Comments (4) ||

I spent much of today’s lab holding Chauncey’s hand, delicately dancing the tips of my own fingers across his metacarpals. That is, until he made me angry by putting a run in my stockings with his knobby femur (disarticulated men are so reckless).

I am bad to sit with a finger or two resting on my lower lip or between my teeth. I was doing this with my left hand, holding Chauncey’s femur, staff-like, in my right when the girl to my right expressed her grossed-outedness:

“Ew, you’ve been touching that and you don’t know where it’s beee-eeen!” She was, of course, referring to the finger that had snuggled its way up in between my teeth and sat contented and warm there after recently handling various bits of my sweet prince Chauncey (bad teeth notwithstanding); ‘that’ and ‘it’ being terms for Chauncey’s aforementioned various bits. I quickly rallied to rescue my poor Chauncey’s ego.

“I most certainly DO,” I replied brightly, “It’s been nestled amongst layers of tissue, like a present!”

“Still….” she said incredulously, condemning me for my lack of hygenic caution.

Whereupon I stuck my tongue waaaay out, flattening it and running it down the length of Chauncey’s bumpy left Linea aspera. After which I (of course) threw the obvious punchline out there,

“Eh, tastes like chicken.”

The cute boy with the green eyes (Aaron? Adam? I’ll make an attempt to get to know him now) near-bout fell out of his seat, so doubled over with laughter was he. I made that boy squeeze tears and go a shade of purply-red, and lemme tell you, that just made my day in about ten ways.

I looked, wide-eyed and blinking, dumbly at Neighbor Seat Girl. I’m betting I don’t have any problems with being left alone henceforward.