Jibba Jabba

Blade Runner taught me that we are all just wet robots who will be gunned down by that great cop in the sky, or the Louisville Metro Police Dept, which ever comes first.

Karaoke taught me that my husband is a crooner, and that many of the songs I loved as an innocent child have lyrics which turn out to be quite filthy.

The Funny Papers taught me a new nickname for my cat. I often call her "Funky Stinkerbean."

Marriage has taught me that it is an absolutely shameful, embarrassing, and abominable injustice that not all loving couples are allowed the many legal and social benefits of a lawful marriage. Yet Cooter the wife beater and his crack baby makin' teen bride can hook up on a drunken whim as the good Lord sees fit. Whatever.

The Blues taught me that life involves a lot of walking, drinking, and ass whoopin'.

Mother Nature taught me that we are all red headed stepchildren.

Ultimate Safety Device

This little gem, swiped from VirtualPus, is for the man who has everything. Too bad I found this AFTER my buddy's 30th b-day. Damn. Now I have to wait till he's forty.

Move Over Darth Tater

It's time for a NEW LORD.

Hospice

My mom has finally agreed to contact Hospice. My grandmother should be going home this week, where Hospice will help my mom care for her during the time she has left.

Thanks for all the encouragement, guys.

Ha Bumhug

I have not been a very good blogger as of late. Actually, I haven’t been a good anything lately. At the most, I think I am depressed, and at the least, I’m in an adversity-powered rut. I don’t wanna work, I constantly crave comfort food, I don’t want to get out of bed, and I pretty much despise being in my skin. Watching my grandmother wither away, and the effect that it is having on my mom, has knocked me out of orbit. I think it started to really get to me a couple of weeks before my birthday. I crawled out the hole long enough to have a great time during my b-day weekend, but then I fell right back in. Trying to talk myself out of the rut only makes things worse because I start to feel like an asshole for not counting my blessings and keeping my chin up. So basically I float around, going through the motions, waiting for the rut, or my Mammaw’s life, to end.

Here’s an example of how numbing this rut is:

As some of you know, I have a new truck. She is a beauteous bitch and I am proud of her. Monday I backed her into a pole. I didn’t even flinch. I didn’t care. Before arriving at work, I finally pulled over to check it out, not to see if there was damage, but to make sure the taillight was still functional. Being that my fine bitch is made of actual metal, nothing was wrong. The pole gave up a layer of its paint, which I easily flicked off with my fingernail. Normally, hitting a pole would have sent me into a flying banshee tizzy, but I was cool as a cucumber.

This disturbs me. I want to be bothered by property damage. I want to be able to care enough about myself to go to the gym, or at least get out of bed. Being pissed is better than being nothing. I am obviously not coping properly, or perhaps I am wrapped in a cocoon waiting for the shit to hit the fan. I am leaning towards the latter. I feel that I am numbing up for the inevitable. If I’m good and numb, perhaps I will be able to pull my mom through the flames before I fall apart. How good I imagine that release must feel. To finally fall apart.

Till then, unless someone has some good advice, I think I’ll stay in my bunker. Mind you, I do intend to step up my attention to that hand/eye coordination jazz in the interim. There’s a pussy wagon at stake here!

Unce, Tice, Fee Times a Mady.

This is a quick note to thank all my wonderful friends, here and abroad, who helped me turn 31 with all the grace and dignity that a Fairdale refugee possibly can.

Thanks you guys!

Das Ego Stroke

I'm geeky, but not this geeky.

Note to Eve 6

"Perjury" is too easily poetic a word. And also, you suck.

You too, Arkansas.

Bloc Party kinda rocks though.

Carry on!

What in the Holy Fuck is this?

These fucking right-wing "christian" nuts are getting waaaaay out of hand.

Phelps' Group Protests At Soldier's Funeral

Members of the Rev. Fred Phelps' Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., are picketing military funerals, KMBC's Micheal Mahoney reported Friday.

The group has made national headlines for traveling throughout the country to picket gay churches, gay weddings, and the funeral of Matthew Shepard, a gay college student who was murdered in Wyoming in 1998.

Friday, about 15 members of the group -- some of them children -- picketed the funeral of a St. Joseph soldier who was killed in Iraq. Mahoney reported that the group stood across the road from the Grace Evangelical Church during the funeral of 21-year-old Spc. Edward Myers.

"The first sin was being a part of this military. If this young man had a clue and any fear of God, he would have run, and not walked, from this military," said protester Shirley Phelps-Roper. "Who would serve a nation that is godless and has flipped off, defiantly defied, defiantly flipped off, the Lord their God?"

One protester had an American flag tied to his belt that draped to the ground. He was holding a sign that read, "Thank God For IEDs," which are explosive devices used by insurgents to blow up military convoys.

Protesters said America has ignored the word of God, and those who defend the nation must pay a price.

"That's the first piece of solid evidence that you have that the young man is currently in hell," Phelps-Roper said.

"The soldier is in hell now, you believe?" Mahoney asked.

"Absolutely," Phelps-Roper said.

'Protesters Were Rude'

About a dozen veterans stood across the road from the protesters, and Mahoney reported that there were some harsh words and insults traded between the two groups. However, sheriff deputies were stationed about 100 yards away and there was no violence.

"The protesters were so rude -- were disrespectful," said veteran Jim Fields.

"Do I like it? No, I don't. But what can you say, it's a free country," said veteran Dave Campbell.

Veterans told KMBC that a member of the soldier's family shouted at the protesters to leave, and they left about 20 minutes after the funeral started. Mahoney reported that there was applause from veterans and other crowd members when the protesters left.

After the funeral was over, one of the mourners commented on the irony of the protesters showing up at a soldier's funeral.

"They shouldn't protest the funeral for a man who was out there dying to protect the rights that they're demanding they receive," said Marvin Russell.

Russell said he thinks the soldier's family saw the protesters.

"I think it saddened them. They didn't say anything outright, but you could tell by the way they looked down that this was a sad thing to do. They're already in mourning, they don't need people like this to make it worse," Russell said.

Myers was buried with full military honors in Leavenworth National Cemetery. He leaves behind a wife and two children.

One of the protesters said the group is planning to picket other military funerals.

Gentlemen!

Behold!

Qrazy

Apparently, the only thing the starving children in Niger need to be happy is a pony.

I got this bit of wisdom from a bumper sticker that reads, “Happiness is owning a quarterhorse.” Mind you, the person paid to pen this missive probably did not intend to imply that quarterhorse husbandry is exclusively the key to happiness, but being the bitch that I am, I went down the rant path anyway.

If you are a quarterhorse fancier, be ye not afraid. This rant path merely started at the sticker, and never involved horses a’tall. In fact, this rant was quite focused on one thing, or rather, one person – the dumb motherfucker in my Contemporary Philosophy class in college who tried to pity party an “A” out of the prof using his plight with Subway sandwich addiction.

Way, waaaay back, in the year of our Lord nineteen and ninety-four, lived a Contemporary Philosophy class in its first semester. I was one of the students trapped in its torrid intestines, just past the drop/add deadline, and praying to be shit out alive. This course was of such bad temperament due to its leader, a chronically drunk, aging hippy who was constantly pissed at us for “not really getting it.”

We meet our protagonist after a particularly tough test. I had the highest grade in the class with a whopping 32 out of 100. Pissed-off-drunk-hippy graded on a curve, so people did actually pass, but the grading scheme left everyone feeling like failures. He was so disappointed by how much we failed this test that he insisted on having a one on one with each student to see if we were really cut out for Philosophy. As I was waiting outside his lair for my interview, I got to hear one of the most pathetic spewings of horseshit I have ever witnessed.

I don’t remember the dumb motherfucker’s name, but I remember his schpiel almost word for word. This clean faced, preppy ass, upper class, over-privileged schlub tried to convince a hard-core alcoholic, perpetual bachelor, intellectual elitest, scruffy, raging hippy that they were “more alike than you think. I have an addiction, too. Subway.” Mr. Schlub said the previous with such gravity, I almost peed my pants. He went on to regail the prof with tales of his cravings and how he had to hide the receipts from his parents. He had even started bribing friends to buy the goods for him so he wouldn’t get caught. “It’s all I think about. It drives me mad!” This is why he felt he was meant for Philosophy. The rigors of Subway addiction had made him unafraid to contemplate the deeper aspects of humanity.

At this, I snorted. Loudly. The prof quickly ended the interview, and the addict slithered away into the hoary netherworld that I am sure Subway addiction must lead to. I don’t even remember how my interview went, nor do I care. I think he could have flunked me that day, and I would have deemed it worthy for a story like that. Someday, when the wars on DRUGS and TERROR are over, the nation will loose the dogs of vengeance upon Subway, and only then, will that dumb motherfucker, be truly free.