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Posts Tagged ‘I know exactly what I’m doing here bucko’

|| November 8, 2000 || 1:26 am || Comments (0) ||

I’m gonna send a postcard to Sam Rockwell in care of his agency and the only thing I’m gonna write on it is the addy to this blog and the date 9/22/00 on it. I’m gonna DO IT. Think he’ll pop in??

Think if he did that he would e-mail me? Think that if I responded to his e-mail with an invitation to be a guest blogger on here that he’d take me up on it? He could be totally anonymous to the world, blogging away under a nick like ‘Brewster Chisholm” or “Phil Holloway” or “Grady Lord”.

It’d be our secret.

It’d be such a turn-ON. Makes my nether-regions simply glow with the thought of it.

|| November 7, 2000 || 9:13 am || Comments (0) ||

Why, why, oh why do I feel so preternaturally guilty when I have not written anything of substance and perceived value for some time?
Sometimes I am SO vexed by lack of content. And, geez Louise, let’s not talk about WORTHY content….

I started this place for me. Hell, it still IS for me. So, the primary reason I feel guilty is still for me. Now that I know I have a small readership, though, the pressure is tenfold.

BUT as always, I will carry on with/for myself and shake off the fact that I know a couple of someones are peeking. That is, after all, what they started peeking at in the first place. And why they remain. So I will stay lame and eclectic, practical and profane and profound.

Welcome to me…I love you all, but I love myself best.

|| November 6, 2000 || 10:54 pm || Comments (0) ||

Last Friday night, about 11:45 p.m.:

Him: THAT was embarrassing.
Me: What was?
Him: I just floored it and nothing really happened.
Me: Oh, you’re just not romping on it right. I can get up on it every time…
Him: That was a test and you just failed it miserably, you dirty bitch.”

Fade to sounds of braying laughter….

|| October 14, 2000 || 2:39 pm || Comments (0) ||

I just don’t understand those moms that go to the ballfield looking like they’re ready to take afternoon tea. I am an exuberant mom, so I dress the part. You simply can’t jump and cheer properly in 3-inch heels (we are excluding bedroom sports here, y’all…).

I don’t just cheer for my kid. I learn the names and numbers of all of ‘em. I think that’s my role as a football mom…some of those little people have no encouragement whatsoever. Others have rampant negativity. They are 8 years old, for Christ’s sake…cut some slack there, you overbearing, fat-assed, I-missed-my-chance-so-I-must-live-vicariously-through-my-offspring-and-intimidate-them-into-success parents. SHEESH.

The latter annoys me, but the former does even moreso. Who cares if your slacks get wrinkled or your nails get chipped or your hair gets mussed? Drop that jaw and pull some good old-fashioned enthusiasm from the gut! You can re-apply your lipstick.

Here again, I state the obvious: You can’t re-apply their childhoods.

And, oh yeah,


|| September 17, 2000 || 12:51 am || Comments (0) ||

Welcome to my latest adventure. I just so happen to be fresh off of it; it is ripe to the touch and ready for the telling.

I went out for a pack of smokes. It was late for around here, 12:30 a.m., so I had to  make a 7-mile trip, passing several darkened stores along the way. I pulled into the parking lot of my destination, a Shell station with a Sneaky Pete’s attached. Just so happens that I was the only patron in attendance at that particular time…. I saw through the plate glass that the guy on duty was working a mop with a great deal of fervor.

I happen to take note of these things, who KNOWS why.

I strolled in, leaving the car running because I really liked the song that was on the radio at the time (“Shout” ~you remember, the Tears for Fears jinga-linga-ling~ as rendered by Disturbed). I had a twenty dollar bill clamped in my hand; the minute my hand hit the doorpull the guy stowed the mop and bucket and he was behind the counter before my clad-in-heavy-boot foot even hit the first tile. He didn’t acknowledge me, and I returned the favor.

I prowled up and down the the aisles created in miniature for the rat race shopper (coincidence that these stores are mindful of mouse mazes when you really think about it? I think not, kind reader…). I really only set out for cigarettes, but my brain saw fit to alert me to the fact that I’d not eaten anything since 10 a.m. on day previous, so I searched for the suitable snack in
Carbohydrate Land. I finally settled on a Hershey’s with almonds and headed for the formica.

I placed the hunka nutty chocolate on the countertop along with my slightly-crumpled bill and said in my mostest politest tone,

“Packa Marbro Lights in a box, please.”
Dude looked me in the face and replied, “I need to see your I.D.”

I muttered, “Just a sec, I gotta go to the car.” and I walked out to find just where the hell it is that I may have stashed my heavily-abused plastic ticket to legal drinking and driving (but not both at the same time, Heavens NO). I placed it on the counter as he was ringing my purchases and said “I KNOW that I look older than 19.” I know he knew so; his eyes had slid all over me the entire time
that I was in the store.

“Yes you DO” was his simpily-delivered reply,”I’m just doing my job.”  Now, normally I would not DREAM of giving someone shit for just trying to do their job, but this was different. He was being a prick. He was doing it just for the sake of doing it, not for
the purpose that it was created. I know this because I have been in this same store any number of times, at any given time of the day. Not ONCE have I ever been carded there. NOT ONCE. Not even the time that 2 cops were standing within 3 feet of me waiting to pay for cappuccino and struedel (DON’T ASK. That’s a whole other rant waiting to boil over).

This guy was a disgruntled peon worker bee and it was my turn to profit from his angst. FUCK a DUCK. I love being in close proximity to the sheep that has just figured out that its collar is way toofucking tight. The word ‘tight’ triggers in him/her/it a physical reaction that prompts his/her/its lips and asshole to illustrate said word.

I stood there and took my change. I unwrapped half the candy bar, broke it off, laid the half down on the counter.

“Here. Sounds like you need a little boost in the serotonin levels.”

I turned to walk out and he called after me,”I have to ask if you are under thirty.”

My reply? “Well, my I.Q. is well above that, so now you know!” He began saying something else, but  I turned to face the slowly-closing door and placed my palm on it. I closed it purposefully. It angers me that someone is so pissy about their job, but they make no effort to change it. Some people willingly stand there while their brains and egos and bodies and attitudes rot. They make no effort to better their position (prone is only suitable for martyrs and sleep, boys and girls…REMEMBER that). Sessile is so convenient, so fucking easy. If you are unhappy, slap it into B for Boogie and get the hell outta there. Can I get an “AMEN”?

I happened to catch sight of his vehicle, a beat-up minivan that spoke of its owner’s lack of a merciful fate/existence and my acidic thoughts in reference to him sort of drained away. My measured clunking across the parking lot softened into steps and I think I thought, “So THAT’s it.”

I turned onto the highway to head home and pulled a final glance in. It was amazing. He picked up the chocolate bar and began to eat it. *boggle*

|| September 16, 2000 || 3:50 pm || Comments (0) ||

All day today there have been people running around in the woods surrounding my humble abode shooting off what sounds like some large weaponry. Please consider the following:

  • I have no problem with people running around in the woods.
  • I have no problem with people popping off rounds from weaponry of any sort, large OR small.
  • The problem comes in when they do either (most especially BOTH) in close proximity to my home. ESPECIALLY when it is done all fucking day.

    Surely they don’t want me to pull out my large weaponry and come looking for them. Surely. They. Don’t. ///MORE LATER…///

    || September 11, 2000 || 9:25 am || Comments (0) ||

    Blah, blah, blog.
    (a tiny little ditty inspired by blogger)

    Blah, blah Blogger,
    A wonderful publishing tool…
    I can be prosaic
    Even though I have no clue.
    You help me get it done faster,
    I praise your good name;
    One of my most valued cyber-toys
    ‘Cause my ‘puter skillz are lame.

    All mad props to the inimitable Mutha Goose.