Monday, August 29, 2005

I have a neighbor who is the unfortunate victim of circumstance and has chosen to float through her troubles on a sea of prescription drugs. Every time I see her, her eyes are glazed and distant and she starts talking about God. I try to avoid her, but sometimes it can't be helped. On one of these occasions, she offered me the unsolicited information that her younger son's penis is humongous while her elder son's penis is relatively small.

The younger son (with the large penis) is around Gwennie's age. He is aggressive and obnoxious and an all around little shit. The older one is kind of shy. He has a crush on Gwennie and is sweet and kind to both her and Emma.

I'm just wondering if the old penis size has anything to do with anything. No one has to answer that.


One of jp's last posts got me thinking about music. I hardly ever write about it. I listen to everything. Country, folk, rock, metal, jazz, celtic, zydeco, bluegrass, you name it. Which brings me to my gripe: Today's version of country. It isn't country. It's pop with a southern accent. It's stupid, trite, talentless and the sewage is churned out at the rate of well...sewage. If I hear one more pseudo-cowboy - no matter how hot he is or how big his penis is speculated to be - sing about bein' a big ol' cryin' teddy bear who weeps big ol' tears when his little girl trips and falls on his dawg, I will scream my bloody head off.

Where is the next Frank Sinatra or Elvis or Johnny Cash? You wouldn't dare speculate on their penis sizes for fear they'd punch you in the face.

Who is popular now? Tim McGraw? Please. He doesn't even chew. Justin Timberlake? I can barely make my fingers type that name. He'd look much better with a few teeth missing preferably from the shovel I smack him with.

But since my rant is mostly about country music, I will continue in that vein. I like old country or folk country, but expecially bluegrass. If you're going to sing country, get out your fiddle and your banjo. Oh, you think it sounds too hick? I got news for you. Your fan base likes hick. And playing the banjo takes talent - real talent. Playing the fiddle takes even more. I know. I play the violin. It's fucking hard. Someone who can't appreciate a good fiddle because they think it makes them one step away from the trailer park is just as ignorant as someone who can't enjoy a good violin because they think it will make their penis small.

Have I been talking a lot about penises? Am I suddenly obsessed? Did I get some on the way up to Crawford in the back of my husband's Honda Accord?

It is FREAKIN HOT!!!!!!

We had a great weekend. Jethro and I went to Crawford, TX home of George W. Bush for a Support the Troops rally. It was cool and I'll post some pics on Payasita as soon as I can find my camera.

I realize how many people didn't get to to read the post I took down, so if you are interested, send me an email and I will send you the post.


I am in such limbo. Jethro is nearly done with school and then we have nothing but opportunity. Perhaps it is a good thing he is graduating in December. The weather will be cooler and I won't be as tempted to move to Alaska. Because the weather is HOT. I've never seen it this relentless. It has been in the hundreds for days now and it's too hot to swim. I swear when I get my pool, I'm going to put in a cooling pump instead of a heating pump. Either that or I'm going to dump blocks of ice in it.

This is the pool I want. Perhaps a little less Tiki, but this more or less has the features I'm looking for. Notice the slide over the waterfall. I want that. The only other thing I could want would be a diving board, but I would forego it for the pool bar, because what would I rather do, dive or drink? I think we all know the answer to that.


Jethro called me into the room the other day to look at his laptop. No that isn't sexual innuendo.

A billing page was up and filled out. Gwennie had been trying to purchase something. She had filled out the billing information almost perfectly. If she'd had our credit card numbers, the stuff might have actually gotten here. We went back to see what she was trying to buy. The little stinker had purchased over $250 worth of Dora toys and bedding and accessories. And even worse than that, the child actually discriminated. She had looked at many more items, but only added certain things to her shopping cart. Jethro and I had a belly laugh over it and then decided to have a talk with our little shopaholic.

Jethro: "You know these things cost money, don't you?"

Gwendolyn: "Yes, but..."

Jethro: "How did you think you were going to pay for all that stuff?"

Gwendolyn: "Well..."

Jethro: "Do you have a job?"

Gwendolyn: "No, but..."

Jethro: "Do you have any money at all?"

Gwendolyn: "No, but you do."

I think birthdays spoil her.


Emma pretends to be a little dog named Ruffie. She'll pant and bark and if you ask her her name, she'll say "Ruffie" in a puppy voice.

The cutest is when you tell her to wag her tail. Her little tushy starts wiggling really fast. But you have to look out because if she gets too close, she'll lick your face.

Sometimes I just love my kids.

Friday, August 26, 2005


Thanks for the comments. I had to take the post down. It was getting a little too dangerous to leave up, and I ended up accidentally insulting someone I think of rather highly.

The older I get, the more I realize how much of a compromise life is. There is no perfect. If there were, we'd live in a communist utopia. There is no perfect. But there is good. I guess understanding that and making things better little by little, despite the imperfections is better than whipping yourself into a frenzy and dragging everyone down until they are as miserable as you are.

I am stuck with what I know. There is no changing that and there is no right or wrong thing for me to do because I'm not the one who did the wrong thing. Maybe I should take stock of the situation and become a better daughter, mother, wife, sister, friend. Maybe instead of ranting and getting upset I should look around and see if there is a way to relieve someone else's burden and find little ways to prevent them from making these collossal life-shattering mistakes. I try to be an example. I honestly want everyone to be as happy as I am, but I end up looking smug. And I hate that.

There really isn't a point to this, I'm pretty much just taking inventory. Maybe something funny will happen later.

The World Tilted

I can only leave this post up for a few hours. I'm afraid my sister reads this blog and I don't want my family to know what I'm about to say. I may repost this over at Brighton's later, if she still says it's ok.

Where to start. I check my stepdad's email for work. We get a lot of leads off the internet, so I have to moniter it closely. Yesterday I came across a strange email that I very nearly deleted as a porn-site solicitation. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was actually addressed to my stepdad and was from a woman with whom he'd quite recently had close physical contact. The world tilted sideways. I called Jethro in to read it, just in case I was totally missing something that made it innocent. Of course I wasn't. I looked at my stepdad's schedule and saw he had blocked out half the day with a client who didn't speak English and was trying to buy a cheap foreclosure in which to live. I know he would never spend that much time with a client such as that, but if I hadn't read the email, I doubt I would have given it much thought.

I called my step-dad and told him we needed to talk and that it was urgent. He said he would call me after his meeting. I said okay. I called him back and said, "Before you do anything you may regret, please talk to me first."

His appointment, which was supposed to take the rest of the day, only took an hour. He came to get me. I brought a copy of the email.

I didn't beat around the bush. He asked me if I wanted an explanation. I said that would be a start.

Without going into too much family history, my stepdad knew her and her husband a long time ago. They also have eight children. They are about to leave for a mission in Honduras (they're "missionaries" if you can believe it). The woman's husband is already down there. Stepdad had been trying to help them find a place to rent while they were here. He said he had a "moment of weakness" the day before, but he realized that it was stupid and foolish and it could not continue. He also insisted he had never had sex with her.

I believe he didn't have sex with her because her email intimated they had not. Yet. I told him that I loved him like a father, but my loyalty was to my mother. If I thought there was a chance he could give her an STD, I would have to tell her immediately, but as it stood, I couldn't bear to bring her world crashing down.

So that is where it stands. I told him that I would be keeping a close eye out. Other than that, I caved like the complete chicken-shit I am. I can't tell my mom. It would devastate her and the thought makes me physically ill. My poor mom has had so much to deal with in her life that to add this is the most nightmarish scenario. But I know she would want to know - or at least I know she'd think she would want to know.

I was awake most of the night debating with myself as to what would be the most honorable thing to do. I still don't know, but I contented myself with sending this email:

(names have been changed to protect the mother-fucking guilty)

Dear Vile Whore,

I am writing you to tell you that I know what went on between you and step-dad the other day. I have no wish to cause anyone pain, particularly step-dad's wife who has had quite enough for one person to deal with in a lifetime. But I don't hesitate to say that should you ever even attempt to communicate with step-dad again, I will take great personal satisfaction in exposing you to her, your husband, your family, your church, and your mission as the foul, unchristian, beastly slut that you are. I have a copy of your emails as well as all of your contact information. DO NOT TEST ME.

I don't usually use unchristian as an insult. It just doesn't seem insulting enough. But in this case it's warranted. Those morons actually had the nerve to talk about "the Lord" and "praying" in their adulterous emails to each other. They make me sick. Wasn't there a little commandment somewhere about not committing adultery? I seem to recall something Jesus said "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart." I know this because I spent a lot of time squirming in discomfort while priests used it to discuss the evils of masturbation.

And yet stepdad and this whore have the nerve to prance around Jesus' name as if that will justify what they do.

I am a Christian. A Catholic. I believe in Jesus. I believe we will be held accountable for our sins and/or crimes against others. I believe we have His forgiveness if we are truly sorry. But this Cult of Presumption to which my stepdad and this bitch seem to belong just blows my mind.

Perhaps I'm just naive. Perhaps I truly see humanity as being capable of loyalty and fidelity and honor. And maybe that is too high a standard. I admit to being a carnal animal but within a certain set of rules and promises. This is for the protection of our hearts as well as our health. But perhaps this is not enough for some people. Perhaps they will always put hearts at risk for that one blissful, forbidden moment. But is tonguing some whore while her husband is away really worth tearing an innocent person's life to pieces over? Is it?

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Vive Le Voyeur

I am seriously considering getting breast reduction surgery. They are driving me crazy. I was a very active person until they reached DDs when I was about 15. Then some idiotic male on my church softball team made a lewd comment and I quit all sports right then and there. But I have a competetive nature and would love to play sports again even if it's just frisbee in the park.

And bras are almost impossible to find. I have to go to UK web stores to find any lingerie that isn't the battle-ready-Grandma-Beulah type. For all the business savvy that U.S. companies supposedly posess, it's the Brits who have realized that breast sizes can be larger than a D cup. What really blows my mind is that in U.S. bra sizes, you can find A, B, C, and D cups with bands sizes of 60, 70, 80 inches around.

If this is really indicative of the population at large, and you have to assume that U.S manufacturers know where the money is, we are a country populated by humongous women with small breasts. And that's just disgusting.

If your stomach extends past your bosoms, you have to lose weight. Immediately. Fortunately for me, my boobs are so big that I will be 400lbs before my stomach extends past them, but that's just pure luck.

Back to the reduction. If I get it done, I will post nekkid before and after pics. Angi just has to promise to lock up TJ.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005


I was reading this post and it got me thinking about my true and honest opinions of law enforcement. I won't lie when I say that I went through a phase of being very critical of cops. I thought they were smug, hypocritical, and had way too much confidence in their own authority.

These impressions were never dispelled, at least by any particular incident. Jethro ran into some really nasty, racist constables who made our lives a nightmare for quite a while before they were proven to be liars.

Another time, some loser, flying on what I imagine was PCP or some other drug that would allow you to kick your leg through leaded glass and run away unscathed, smashed in my parents door when Jeth and I were babysitting my sisters while my parents were in Hawaii. I was eight months pregnant with Gwennie at the time. The cops actually pulled over the friends who had picked the guy up. My sister said she saw him get into the car. The cops let them go and the guy was never caught.

I've gotten two tickets that they seemed to be only too proficient at writing.

They haven't gotten the two cocksuckers who robbed Carrie and me.

So I would think that I have reason to not think highly of cops, at least in our area. But I do. They unequivocally have my support.

One of the reasons is that they really had our backs at the Protest Warrior events. We were outnumbered by some very riled up pacifists who were not happy to know that there were people out there whose opinions diverged from theirs'. The cops took great care to make sure we weren't injured and to inform the "pacifists" that they did not hold the patent on free speech. And even though they disagreed strongly with the "pacifists" politically, the cops took every effort and precaution to keep them safe as well - rerouting traffic so the little bicycling anarchists and the arthritic hippies didn't get hit by those big, bad environment killers known as SUVs.

Even at the time when I held my worst opinions of cops, I've always been willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. I've always been willing to say that their job is more difficult than most and certainly not one that I would want to do. I've cut them slack in that regard. I've even been willing to say that you can't judge a whole profession based on the actions of a few.

But what sealed the deal for me - when I knew where the chips fell (when they were down) - was when I called my stolen cell phone and the gutter-sludge, who had robbed a pregnant woman to get it, answered and asked, "You callin' the PO-leese?"

And I thought, "Yes, you cocksucking swine, I am."

Monday, August 22, 2005

The Asian Market

It is hotter than fuck outside. Yesterday was as bad as I've ever seen it. It had to have been 105 and it was humid and there was no breeze at all.

Our friends asked us if we wanted to go eat dim sum with them and I can't ever turn it down, so we did. We went to Ocean Palace which is a huge restaurant at one end of an Asian mall. It used to be great, but I don't think I'll ever go back there again. The service was terrible - even for an Asian restaurant. It was overpriced and the dim sum was mediocre. I'll stick to Kim Son (where we took Inanna) from now on. It's a little pricier, but it's closer to home and their dim sum is way better.

The up side was that we got to wander around the mall. Jethro is completely unimpressed with it because he has been there since he was a kid. I, on the other hand, am always fascinated because there are things there for which I have absolutely no explanation. Each shop is packed to overflow with almost nothing but crap. There is no order to it. They get their shipments in from Asia and just dump them directly onto the floor. This is pure heaven for kids who glory in the digging and scraping, and the unorganized mind which is grateful for the liberation. I admit to taking a certain relish in it, myself. Jethro, being a meticulous sort, prefers to wait patiently while the girls and I start digging.

I said the girls could buy one Hello Kitty item each. After much destruction that was unnoticeable when we left, Gwennie had picked out Hello Kitty gardening tools, and Emma had a Hello Kitty night light that lit up when it was turned on, and glowed in the dark when it was turned off.

I wasn't going to get them anything else, but I saw these three good little girls walk past us with the most adorable parasols. One was blue, the other pink and the other purple. They looked so sweet and dainty that I had instant images of Gwennie and Emma looking similarly picturesque. We found the shop where they sold the parasols. They were pretty cheap - $4 each. Gwennie demanded the pink one, and told Emma she was going to take the purple one. Emma tried to take the pink one and Gwennie stabbed her a little. So much for the chrubs with parasols.

Then we meandered around the grocery store. It smells like ass. They were playing Country Roads over the intercom. I couldn't tell at first if was the regular old-school version or if the Asians had adapted it to their own particular audial frequency. I asked Jethro who said they hadn't and if they had, he wouldn't be the one to admit it.

We didn't do much else. Any major effort on our parts would have resulted in massive ammounts of sweat oozing from our pores, soaking us from hair to soles of feet. Then we would have slipped in the sweat puddles and broken our skulls. But I did get my balls. And they were good.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Funny Client

We have a client who sounds exactly like Milton Waddams from Office Space. He is a meek little white man and he is married to screaming shrew of a Saudi-bitch-princess-wife. She is such an imperious cunt that I find myself grasping the whole burqa concept. This couple is in financial trouble and must downsize immediately. Although the MeekMan will never say it, his wife spent him into the poorhouse.

He's been calling me 2-3 times a day with increasing desperation to ask about various homes they might want to buy.

His criteria is less than 200K.

Her criteria is a brand-new, 3000 square foot home as close to Bellaire (a very high priced neighborhood) as possible, with a deck, pool, open floor plan, designated rooms, and with as few neighbors as possible.

Guess who isn't going to get his way?

He called this afternoon. His bitch-wife was screaming in the background. The poor man was so flustered he couldn't even tell me who it was (although I already knew)>

Zelda: "Dearest step-father's office, may I help you?"


MeekMan: "Oh dear...ahem...why won't she stop...oh dear...I can't need some information on...oh dear..ahem...why won't she just be...ahem...quiet..."

(At this point, I'm just trying not to let him hear me laugh. But my jocularity must not be confused with insensitivity. It's just that I was waiting for him to say..."and there were these squirrels...and they were married...and I said I would burn down the bulding...)

Meekman (FINALLY): "This is...ahem...Meekman...I was...ahem...looking for some...information...on this home...and she just won't let me be..."

It takes the man longer and longer each time he calls to ask for the information he needs. I'm actually afraid that he is going to off himself. The bitch has totally sapped his will to live. The sad thing is that he used to be quite successful. He was a corporate attorney for an oil company. His wife was the daughter of one of his company's clients. They met at a company party. It was the beginning of his demise.

Marry carefully, Friends.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

A Fast Ride

I had been feeling antsy all morning. Nervous, wired, and nauseous. I told Jethro that afternoon that he was going to take me to the mall to buy a toe ring. I told him if I was going to be spending hours in a bed staring at nothing but my toes, I needed a toe ring. Jethro, having pretty much lost the will to live by that point, meekly agreed.

I was tired of being pregnant. Even though I was 5 days from my due date, I was sick of it already. I had thrown up to the point where I had gone from a healthy 160 lbs down to 130 when I was 9 mos pregnant. I thought a trip to the mall was in order, if for no other reason than to get things moving.

I bought my toe ring and some stuff from Bath and Body Works, leaving Jethro wondering where on earth his tomboy of a wife had gone and what fiendish girly-demon had replaced her. I then proceeded to march around the mall twice. I say march, but it was more like sway from side to side. I was carrying too high to waddle, so my walk looked more like that of someone who was trying to balance a stack of cups on their forehead.

Nothing happened at the mall. Disappointed, we drove home. Jethro said, "Let's get the hospital bag ready just in case."

"Why?" I asked. "It's not like anything is going to happen. I'm going to be the first pregnant woman to remain so indefinitely." I wasn't exactly at my most rational.

"Even so," said Jethro, who was an expert at humoring me after 9 months of making his life a living hell. "I'm going to leave my keys right here on the TV just in case."

We laid down in bed and got busy. We were still newlyweds, but it was more for business than pleasure at that point.

I passed out around 11:00pm. Exactly two hours later, I was awakend from a restless sleep by a pop and a swish. A rush of adrenaline propelled my elbow deep into Jethro's back.

"Jethro! My water broke!"

I do not exaggerate when I tell you this. Jethro sat straight up on his hands and thrust himself off the foot of the bed, landing with his feet on the floor with the car keys in his hand. It was as if he had planned it. He was waiting by the door while I got dressed as quickly as I could. I had one big contraction just after my water broke, but the next few weren't too bad.

We got in the car. I told Jethro to hurry. Jethro turned on his hazard lights and started speeding. For the first and only time in my life, I didn't tell him to slow down. The highway was deserted, but the hospital was about 40 minutes away. We made it in closer to 15.

We pulled up to the hospital doors, and the security guard held the door for us. "Good luck, folks," he called after us.

The ladies in the admitting room gave me lots of paperwork to fill out. This was the third time I had had to do this, and I was about to cry in frustration. The last time I filled it out, I made them promise me that I would't have to do it when I came in to have the baby. They lied.

I told them my water had broken and this probably wasn't the best time to fill out paperwork as their chair was now all soggy. They told me not to worry about it and I immediately began to worry about it.

I was lying on a bed when a nurse came in and began asking me questions. The cheapo maternity plan I was on allowed me to have an epidural if I wanted one. I wanted one. The nurse said, "Yeah, you definitely want one. It really really hurts if you don't." I was doubly sold.

After a bit, the doctor came in. He was a nice man. He asked the standard questions, then snapped on his rubber glove and said he's see how far I was dialated. In went a speculum, fingers and a flashlight. Then, SWEET MOTHER OF FUCKING PAIN!!!

I yelled, the doctor yelled, and then everything went crazy. I heard the doctor shouting for the nurses, "SHE'S COMPLETE! ALL I CAN SEE IS THE BABY'S HAIR! GET HER TO THE OR NOW!"

"Oh sweet Jesus," I thought. "I'm so so fucked. I'm not ready. I thought I'd have a few hours to get psyched. This is like a dry-fuck only way fucking worse." Then a worse thought struck.

"Ma'am?" I said to one of the nurses wheeling me into the OR. "I'm not gonna get my epidural, am I?"

She didn't break it to me gently either.

They were wheeling me at a breakneck pace down the hall. "I need my husband! Jeth! Jeth!"

We paused by the waiting room to collect a clueless Jethro. "What's going on?"

"She's complete."

"How many centimeters is she?"

"10. It's time to go."

I began to panic at that point. I told them I wasn't ready and that I didn't want to do it. They told me I really didn't have a say in the matter.

They handed one of my legs to Jethro and someone else had another. I heard my voice reach higher and higher decibals. I think it eroded my tonsils. I was pretty sure this was the end. No one else seemed to think so, and I cursed them unintelligably, but thoroughly. I think I got my point across. I'll spare the goriest details, but in exchange for cheapo maternity care, 25 medical students ended up witnessing them. I'm still irritated by that.

After 17 minutes, each one distinct in its own exquisite agony, Gwennie was born. I will never forget the second I saw her. It's one of those moments made perfect by the absense of fire. Her eyes were opened wide. Her arms were flailing wildly. She was more real than anything I had ever seen. I never counted her fingers or her toes. I knew they were all there.

"Oh my God!!! She's so cute!!! Is she OK? What's her Apgar score? Are you sure she's ok? She's blue!!! She's so cute!!! What's her Apgar score?" I was babbling like a crazy woman. They said her Apgar score was 7, then 9, which was just fine.

The baby nurses wrapped her up and handed her to Jethro since I was being sewn back to virginity by a retarded intern.

Jethro brought her over to me. I held her and looked at her. Her ears were huge and they stuck straight out and she was fussing. She looked like a pissed off elf and I loved her so much.

I didn't cry that night. Too much had happened and my brain kind of shut down for awhile. That could also have been due to the Vicodin, which I demanded with regularity since I hadn't gotten my precious epidural.

By the following day, I was ready to leave. I had just been visited by the lactation consultant, who was one crazy voodoo mama. All she was missing was the bone through her nose. After watching Gwennie make a little piggy out of herself, she declared me ready to proceed in her Jamaican accent.

I dressed Gwennie in her little nightgown and suddenly I was crying. I hugged her, pressing my cheek on her tiny hands and kissing her dear little face.

I sat with her the whole ride home. Jethro drove us back to the apartment as if the car were brand new, and so began our life together.


To Gwennie: I don't know whether you will ever read this blog. Maybe you will when I am dead (if the internet is still around then). But I want you to know that I love you so much. I don't think you will ever know how much. I love your stubborness, your ingenuity, your short-temper, your sweet nature, and your sense of humor. I won't let you get away with all of it, but I love it all. I want to keep your sweet little face pressed to mine forever, but I know you won't allow that.

I will always love you, little girl. Remember that when our opinions diverge. Two people as stubborn as we will butt heads pretty regularly. Just remember how much I love you when they're crashing together.

Happy Birthday, Kid.


Your Mom

Monday, August 15, 2005

She Tied Him Up

Gwendolyn ties things up. That kid is better at knots than a boy scout troop leader. I find her toys tied to everything - the towel rack, my lamps, her bed, you name it. And she ties them with the strangest things, Jethro's tie being the least of them. I innocently walked into her bedroom to be confronted by Teddy Bear death row. Her bunk bed is a gallows with the corpses of her toys dangling over the side. And then to make it even stranger, she tied the American flag to the bedpost.

Here's the thing. I don't think she is killing them. I think she is saving them for later. I know that doesn't make sense, but I understand what she's doing because I used to do similar things. I just don't know how to translate the bootstrap logic of a 6 year old brain into adult language. It would sound dull and incoherent instead of vibrant and precise.

But she did the funniest thing. She made her own homeade talking teddy bear. I will try to describe it and you'll probably have to read the description a couple of times, but it will be worth it because at the end, someone ends up with a great big black hose up their ass.

She took her brown teddy bear, who for some reason wears underpants, and stuck a rubber hose belonging to an air pump up the back of the teddy bear's britches. She lashed the end that poked out to the teddy bear's neck with a piece of yellow string. She took hold of the other end of the hose, and thrust the teddy bear part into my hands.

"Squeeze it's tummy," she commanded.

She put her mouth to the free end, I squeezed the teddy bear's stomach, and an echoey sounding "Mama!" came out of the teddy bear's ass.

You do think she's smart, right? Borderline evil genius, maybe?

Friday, August 12, 2005

Hi and Stuff.

Payasita Updatate


So I'm feeling better. Whatever is itching in my face hasn't gone completely, but I think I've finished feeling like I want to tear it off, scratch the inside, then put it back on.

Perversely, the second I decide to take an official break from blogging, is when my fingers are somehow magnetically drawn to the keyboard and I just can't stay away. Simply pathetic.


I had to spank Gwennie today. Actually, I didn't spank her. I kicked her. She started it.

For justifications that only make sense in the head of Gwendolyn, she kicked her sister in the leg. So I kicked her in the leg. I felt badly, but she deserved it. I told her that whatever she did to Emma to make her cry, I was going to do to her. I told her to keep that thought in her head from now on. I even told her the ball was in her court and that "sorry," in this case, wasn't good enough. I sounded exactly like my dad which didn't send me into spasms of self-loathing. I was actually kind of proud. My dad had a way of getting results.

That's all I have. Everyone have a great weekend.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Funny Blog

I haven't read a new blog in awhile, but I clicked on this guy last night and I'm still snickering in a very immature way. What? Do-do is funny. Masturbation is funny.

Not For the Faint of Heart or Prude of Mind.

*Update - He just got a Dear John email from a cheating fiancee. I can't be positive, but he may enjoy some internet pity-fucking if you're a single female and can convince him you're hot or at least willing.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005


Jethro (to himself): God, my penis is so huge. It's so huge it woke me up. How did it get so big? I can't keep this phenomenon to myself. It wouldn't be moral. But who is going to bear witness? I should probably awake my sick wife who so desperately needs sleep. She'd never forgive me if I were to deprive her of the massiveness. But how best to wake her? It's big enough to slap her around with it a little, but I don't want her to freak out and bite it. Also, getting some could be an option if this is done correctly. Getting some would not be an option if there is a chunk missing. I have an idea! What does she like? This may take a minute......Oh yeah, NIPPLES. Let's just get this t-shirt up here. Ahhhh - there we are."

*Suck, suck* *pinch, pinch*


sexy interlude - insert porno music

"We are the champions, my frie..............*Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*"

Yes, my friends. I knocked him out without ever really waking up. I'm that fucking good.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Blog Break

I'm have some sort of weird allergy/ear infection - the docs can't figure out which. It feels like an earache that has travelled into my jaw and up into my scalp, but it's only on one side of my face. I've broken out in hives or some other kind of rash on that side of my face as well, and I'm taking antihistimines and antibiotics, neither of which seem to be doing anything. I'm in quite a bit of pain and 7 Motrin didn't make a dent in it. The only thing that seemed to give me any relief was acupuncture, but that only lasted for a few hours.

Since I can't seem to concentrate on anything but pain, I'm going to take a break until I feel better. I'll be visiting everyone 10 times a day simply to distract myself, so write about something cool. Tinyhands this means you.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Brain Drippings

Jethro has a good post up about the Confederate flag which might make for an interesting discussion.

Absolutely nothing interesting is going on. I haven't even had sex. I keep trying to come up with something funny or fascinating, but I'm stuck. And speaking of feces, I was taking a dump the moment the Michael Jackson verdict was read. I realize it's old news now, but I had wanted to mention it and I forgot.

I took Gwennie and Emma to the store today and they were bad. Emma cried over everything and forgot her underwear. I'm still not sure how I missed that one. Gwennie was just plain bad, asking for every little thing and dragging her feet and her arms, knocking things off the shelves, hanging off the cart and slowing it down, and whining constantly. I wish we didn't live in a world where it is so wrong to swat your kid HARD across the bare tush in public. She knows I won't do it when there are people around, and she takes full advantage - even though she knows she's going to get it at home.

What else. My diet is not going well. Carmen Electra is still a stupid cunt. I think I may go back to school when Jethro is done. I know I swore to almighty Whatever that I wouldn't, but I can't resist the urge to get an expensive useless degree and talk down to the people I think need a talking down to.

I think if I'm actually going to get a useless degree, I should probably go whole hog and get the most pretentious, uppity, snot-filled degree there is. I've narrowed it down to some type of Literature or Art History, with the scales tipping to the latter. It's a subject I find fascinating ever since Rome, but it is an undeniable fact that if you speak about art, you are going to sound like a pseudo-intellectual who parade their snobbish, homosexual art friends as an apology for being white and straight.

Like wine drinkers. And it isn't fair. I like wine, but I deliberately remain ignorant of its intricacies because once you start becoming familiar with it, you end up sounding like a jerkoff whose only pleasure in life is telling people how smart he is, instead of someone who just wants to get laid, which is stupid too, but honest, at least, because it's pretty much the whole point of alcohol on all intellectual levels.

Like poets (and my apologies in advance to the poets among us - this is just personal bitching and if poetry gives you pleasure, I am truly happy for you). I find poetry to be the most useless genre to vent one's feelings. So much of the poetry I read is about feelings, or *shudder* one-dimensional social commentary. This isn't good poetry. Read Yates, or Auden, or Dylan Thomas, or even Robert Frost. I don't care for poetry, but they were good poets.


I just conducted a little experiment with Gwennie. When we were at the store yesterday, a young black man sold us some ice cream that he promised was really good. I was giving some to Gwennie just a few minutes ago and she said, "This is great. I guess that guy was right."

For no important reason, I wondered if his race would figure into her memory of him, so I said, "What guy?"

She said, "You know, the guy at the store!"

"What did he look like?"

She said, "Remember? He had a red hat and he had black curly hair, and brown skin, and he was wearing a red shirt with a white tie."

Somehow, I feel satisfied with Gwennie's answer.