Search Words of the Week

Seriously Google?  Who the hell searches for "seeking Viking male?"  I mean, I know I wrote those words in a post several months back, but really?

I'm off to grind my ax.  And while I wish I could say it was a metaphor for something dirty, it's not.  I get totally squigged out about the idea a self ax grinding.

Flamingos. I haz them

I've got several articles to write today, so what better way than to tackle the work by avoiding them and writing a silly blog post.  Yea, me!  The way I see it, if I can get my creative juices flowing and actually chase away the daily doubts I can tackle the job that might actually bring in some income. 

Seriously? Why?

This morning I was re-watching a video of The Bloggess which was a reminder of how I need to do the things that make me 'furiously happy,' and that pursuing my dream of writing as a full-time career is what I truly believe that I am called to do.  And even though I have no stable source of income, what with picking up small jobs as I attempt to pursue bigger clients, I am determined not to give up so easily.  So I stare at the pink flamingo that sits at my desk and ponder, what the hell should I write about this morning and it hits me.  Why the hell do I like flamingos so much?

It certainly can't be because I want to own one.  Frankly, I think birds are disgusting creatures that should be kept outside.  God gave 'em wing, why the hell do they need to be kept in a cage with those things clipped?  Birds with clipped wings seems like the Venus de Milo, pretty to look at but reminds me of a victim of a serial killer who took the arms as a trophy.  Okay, maybe that's just me, and I have a really sick, strange associative mind.  But whatever, I don't care.  After all, I am the serial_writer.

Plus, birds shit all over the place.  I already have to wipe my kid's butt, so no thank you I do not want to clean a birdcage. This is why I prefer cats over dogs, just for the sheer fact that they have the decency to cover their own shit-shame.

So really I don't like the actual bird, I like the pink plastic representation.  I think growing up in Florida, you are accustomed to all things 'tropical' themed.  Never mind the face that the flamingo is not native to Florida, much less the US.  But they just seem to fit.  The greatest use of pink flamingos, IMHO, was the time someone flamingo'd their friends front yard to celebrate her birthday.  40 flamingos for 40 years.  Very cool.

Come Christmas time, these babies are gonna be pulling Santa's sleigh.

Rockwell: The Soundtrack to My Childhood Nightmares

As a kid, we're all taught not to take candy from strangers.  Although statistically we are bound to be kidnapped by family members or already known acquaintances, our parents instill the fear of God into us in this area.  Candy from strangers will kill you.

And while I laugh at the picture because of it's obvious mock on our childhood lessons, there is a car that cruises my tiny town that I absolutely, without a doubt, would never go near. 


Readers, may I please introduce you to my neighborhood Rasta Rape-Mobile:

Note that I'm not the only one shooting pics of this monstrosity.

I have spotted this mobile cannabis/Bob Marley limo/destroyer of childhood dreams all over town.  Bubba's BBQ?  Yep.  Wal-Mart parking lot?  Ditto.  Ballet studio?  Sweet Jesus, yes, and save the children in there.

 

Kiddo: Mom what's he breathing into?  Me: He's playing a musical instrument.

Ironic bumper sticker "Look twice, save a (motorcyclists) life."

But as for your kids, I'll sell them weed and give them candy.

Pay attention: this is a union truck! 

Consider yourself warned: Hire a license contractor or else. . .


I'm thinking the trail of bloody hand prints will lower the trucks resale value.  Honestly, this car looks like Wild Bill drove this around before rounding up his Silence of the Lamb victims. 

The trail of bloody hand prints 

I'm betting the owner never looses the car at the mall, yet I still hear Ashton Kutcher's voice, "Dude, where's my car?"

"I always feel like somebody's watching me..."

And just like my parents, I will scare the crap out of the Kiddo and warn him never take candy from strangers or go near cars that were driven straight out of a B-horror movie.

A Day In the Life of this Writer

Each morning I wake up bright eyed, excited to grab the reigns of a new day, another chance to make my mark on the world around me.  Refreshed and relaxed I jump out of bed, whereupon I throw open my heat-reflecting curtains and smile benevolently at my fellow apartment dwellers as they make their way to a more traditional job working for the man every night and day.  With a content sigh, I dress in my stylish clothes, scrunch my hair into a darling, touchable mess of curls eschewing any makeup as it would detract from my natural dewy countenance.

Mornings are the best time of day.

For the birds.

And over-Botoxed anchorwomen

But never for me.

Nada.

Instead, what usually transpires is the Kiddo jumps on me long before I've gotten the bare minimum 6 hours of recommended sleep because I'll have been up until 2AM writing or reading.  (Although some evenings I get a crack-like addiction for Scrubs, Bones, Arrested Development, or The Closer).

Kiddo commences with the morning wiggle/snuggle/kick routine punctuated by commands of "Get me a little breakfast, but not too much, and a fiber gummy.  Fiber gummies help me poop!"  Sufficiently annoyed,  I stumble on osteoarthritic knees to the kitchen where upon I dispense the cereal o' the day and fiber gummies to the overstimulated Kiddo while I await the almighty coffee maker to brew my drug of choice, usually Brother's Havanna blend which reminds me of Ybor cigar shops. (Never Folgers or Maxwell House).
 
This morning somewhere between cup number 1 and 2 I thought that a change of scenery for the day would be a good thing for me and the Kiddo.  He could run around at my parent's house and I could concentrate at the library down the road.  As I imagined myself pounding out inspired works, I tossed on my far-from- glamorous-but-totally-comfy gray yoga pants and a holey t-shirt.  Easter-egg-hued plaid socks and beat-up sneakers complimented the half-assed pigtails and Nike cap jammed on my head. 

Fashion nightmare, why yes I am? 

The way I see it, if the rich and famous movie stars can dress like a thrift-store-scavenger/nuclear-war survivor while they are trying to hide away from the press, why can't I do the same? 

I could totally rock those outfits.

I'd like to pretend that people will think I'm famous when I'm dressed like a color blind bum but I'm not that delusional, nor do I take myself that seriously.  Honestly, you can't really pull of being famous and mysterious when you are writing in a library that reeks of despair and stale farts. 

 

Would You Like a Side of Crack with Your Crack?

For the record, I've never done drugs, others than those prescribed for me. 

Though many question the truth of that statement.

As a child, I was sick far too often and was usually on some type of drug that made me a trippy, high-strung motor-mouth or a depressed, weapy insomniac.  So the idea of partaking in 'recreational' drugs has never appealed to me.  Why get trippy or stoned when I had spent a good portion of my childhood in that crappy state?  Plus I had the absolute fear of my father to dissuade me from getting high. 

For example, when I did the typical 'rebellious' act of piercing my navel, after getting into an argument over how I contracted mono (my roommate had it, and NO, we did not have THAT type of college experience), I was so scared my father would come after me with a pair of pliers if he found out.  (Note: I was 21, not living at home, paying my way through college).  So much for me being a bad-ass rebel.

On top of the illness and sheer terror of my father, I know a lot about the ingredients that goes into drugs.  Somehow the idea of paying good money to purchase a cocktail of battery acid, drain cleaner, and Epsom salt (meth) or baking soda/baby powder, water, and ground coca (crack) doesn't appeal to me.  Really, if I wanted to play Russian roulette with my body, I could go down to the dollar store and huff some White-out  or I could 'chase the dragon' and mix up a cocktail of bleach and ammonia to see how long I can inhale the fumes before I pass out.  

And no, I don't want to hear about how weed is a perfectly natural substance and doesn't hurt anybody.  I find that statement to be complete and utter bullshit.  I had two friends from childhood who started with pot and moved onto heavier things.  One did a combo of speed and an 8ball, broke into a house, and beat up 2 cops who showed up to arrest him (several years in jail) and another did a B&E on a pizza joint, shot and killed a few people, and is in jail for the rest of his life.  (He taught me how to shoot a layup when I was 6th grade).  So much for a harmless drug.

But when the Kiddo goes to school in August, I have the perfect deterrence to keep him from EVER wanting to get involved in drugs.  The simple argument is that when you purchase your drugs, there is a good chance it was already in your dealer's butt.  Don't believe me, check out The Smoking Gun and keyword search "butt" and "drugs." As of today's search I found six articles on this site alone, three of which involved idiots from Florida.

And it's not just the male dealers who utilize this hiding places.  Ladies have their own special spots.  I even found a website with helpful hints.  I can save you the trouble and curiosity, there weren't any pictures (thank you!) but the descriptions were far too um, explicit.  

So my idea for the war on drugs isn't to pump millions of dollars into anti-drug campaigning.  It should be a sign that is hung on hallways of every school:  "Want to experiment with drugs?  Stick your finger in your poo-hole and sniff.  If you don't gag and vomit, there is something completely wrong with you.  Go to the nearest hospital have have your olfactory senses tested." 

I think that would convince a few hundred million children to avoid drugs.  Now I just need to get a really popular actor/actress to address Congress and run this campaign by them.    Angie, Brad, Ashton?  Any of you up for a trip to DC?

It's Like Walking the Wire Without a Net

That's what I'm feeling right now.  Not exactly scared of falling because I am concentrating on walking.  But I know that if I look down, I will fall to my death.

I really want to make this work.  I know I can do it.  I realize that I don't have much too say tonight, as I've been up until 2AM the past few days talking to a friend who is going through a very difficult time.   There's this really funny post that I have all done in my head, and 1/4 done on 'paper,' but I keep losing my train of thought.

I walked around in the sun for 2 hrs today chasing after an injured Congo gray parrot.  One of the neighbors called out to me, as I traipsed through yards suggested that I should keep the bird and resell it.  Making $500 on a bird whose medical bill are sure to be at least $400 doesn't make a great profit.  Beside, the Kiddo is already afraid of butterflies, do I really need him to be frightened of birds that look like the have survived a garroting?

And now my computer won't comply with me.  I wanted to upload a picture of the stupid bird, but it's not working.  This is one for the crappy record books. 

SWF Seeking Viking Male to Raid Villages, Pillage and Plunder

Roaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.  I can't make any sense to night; my eyes keep crossing.  My magnum opus will be delayed another day.

#WINNING--Because Money Talks

Dear Mr. Sheen,

There is a point in every person's life when they look back and mentally grimace over their past transgressions, be it a girl riddled with low self-esteem seeking affirmation by flashing her girly parts for the camera, a flamboyant fashion designer spouting anti-Semitic views, or Bill Clinton trying to convince us that 'he did not have sexual relations with that woman.'  I hope you can get to that point before your family has to put you six feet under.

Do us all a huge favor and give Robert Downey Jr. a call.  There's a person who did a fair amount of stupid-ass shit, but he seems to have pulled himself together quite well these past few years.  I bet the man has a lot of good advice, like "you need to cut back on the piles of blow if you don't want to lose your nose" and "Hookers, hot they may be, are not totally trustworthy people.  You are paying them to have sex with you, so the moment the money is gone they're not gonna hang around for your rapidly diminishing good looks."

I'd like to apologize on behalf of all the jackasses (me included) that are laughing AT you.  (But seriously, you are saying some damn funny stuff).  It is a shame to see a talented person spiral out of control and the fact that we are enjoyed your demise is a testament to the fact that you must not have anyone that really cares about you. 

If we were to take money out of the option, say put me in place or the local homeless man on the street corner, this situation would be neutralized by day 2.  Why does money give you a carte blanche on reckless, borish, whorish behavior?  If I were to spout things like "I'm sorry my life is so much more bitchin than yours.  I planned it that way," I'd get bitch slapped by my mother and promptly deleted from the telephone directory of several dozen people. 

Where will you be when the money is gone and your world collapses in like a black star?

What will your children have to deal with as they get older?  A psychotically deranged father cared for by round-the-clock nurses?  What sort of personal demons are you setting them up for?

Take my advice and get your head out of the blow, step away from "smooooking hotties," and get yourself to a doctor.  FAST. 

Sincerely,
The Diatribest

This Is How We Met

I believe that we all have an interesting story to tell but many don't know how to tell it.  So when I come across a good storyteller, I try to absorb all the minute details.  The story I heard tonight is too good not to share.

I've been working the Kumqaut booth at the county fair since Monday, situated alongside a seller of a novelty toy.  It's equally annoying and endearing to hear the owner's mother-in-law shout out in fractured English, "Splat toys!  Check it out!"

During a lull in the crowds, I asked the owner how he (a tall, solid, white boy from the South) met up with his wife (a tiny, darling, Dominican American from New Jersey).  "It was one of those mail order bride type things.  She found me on HotHillbillies.com."

After I died laughing, he went on.  "Actually, we met at Wal-Mart."  I knew this had to be good.

"See I was out visiting my sister and she sent me to Wal-Mart to pick up some feminine supplies.  I was really confused about all the different options like wings, overnights, swimming, long and scented.  All I know is that my sister is a big 'ole gal and I wasn't sure what to get.  So at this point Judy (his wife) walks by and I ask her if she can help me out choosing tampons."

More loud laughter ensued on my part.  Several surrounding vendors stared at me while I struggled to regain my composure.  The owner excused himself and walked down to his other booth on the opposite side of the hall as his wife arrived laden with fried goodies from the midway.

She shared some of her delicious strawberry pizza with me (major YUM!  Have to get some tomorrow!) and we chatted a bit.  When I told her that she and her husband had the best how-we-met story I'd ever heard.

"It's really awesome that you met over tampons!  That's such a hilarious story.  I love it!" I told her.

Judy rolled her eyes, "I swear I'm gonna kill him one of these days.  He loves to tell people that story.  Truth is, we met at a trade show when he bought me a lemonade.  My husband loves to tell stories."

I fell for that well told story hook, line, and sinker because I live in a world where the unreal is quite possibly going to happen.  Seeing that I burned down a brand-new dorm room with a leaky cigarette lighter, broke the tiniest bone in my ankle while jumping INTO a window while trying to assist three car accident victims, and went on a midnight donut run with 18 people jammed in the back of a retired ambulance, incidents that may sound out of the ordinary to the average person are commonplace to me.

If something weird or unusual is going to take place, then I'll probably be involved.

I just hope my 'this-is-how-we-met story' is just as colorful. 

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Tonight's post is a photo essay because I don't think my words would do justice to the beauty of this day.

Indian Rocks Beach

Favorite Uncle digging a trench

Notice that the sand around the Kiddo is barely touched. 

I saw a picture of desert sands like this once.

My sole contribution: a pretty shell

I took a nap on the sand while listening to the crash of the waves

You can't see that I desperately need to paint my toenails. Yes the water was cold, but frozen fingers be damned!  The boys had a blast. . .and purple lips.

Things You Don't Say To Me

Fact: I am single.

Fact: Some days I will have more stress in my life.  I may be cranky at moments, but I will be able to function just fine. 

Fact: I will think you are a rude, insensitive, crude, and lowbrow troll if you dare to make nasty remarks about me needing a sex life.

Do not ask if I was up all night with B.O.B. when I yawn.  (I was so embarrassed when I realized it meant battery operated boyfriend.)

Do not tell the 19 y.o. who works in the afternoon that I will be a happier person if he "slings some my way."

My lack of marital/dating status does not give you a carte blanche to openly mock me.  I have standards, I have feelings, and I am more than a impulse driven being.  Impulse control separates man from the beasts.

I'm so pissed.   

(This is day 2 of 21, but I don't feel like this is a victory on my part.  I may have written for 30 mins but I don't have any real direction.  Tomorrow, I write when I am less cranky, more rested.)

WikiLinks--Part 2 What I Really Wanted to Say

I am a ginormous fan of Jen Lancaster and credit her to being a huge source of inspiration for my continued writing endeavors.  She recently wrote a (humor) piece which many in the real world didn't understand.  I LOVE IT and wish that I could have come up with something as WITTY as this.  I encourage you to take a look and (hopefully) laugh as much as I did.

 If you don't get the humor of it, you may not understand me too well.

Puddle of Mud

I am stuck right now in the doldrums.  Writer's block keeps pounding at my mental door and I am quite cranky about this.  I have several posts that are partially written, but yet I can't find the cohesive link I need to complete any of these trains of thoughts.  Instead of mind-blowing insights and fresh repartee, my brain is tossing about random musings on the most inane things.  For example, if you were to plum the depths of my cerebral cortex you would find these various trains of thought violently derailing themselves:
---If aliens are advanced creatures of higher intelligence why would they travel light years just to probe our buttocks?  Couldn't they stay on their planet and make a plastic model?
---If comedian Dane Cook were no longer allowed to make jokes about genitals, would he still be considered funny?
---Did the advertising executives who created the ad campaign for Head-On finish last in their class? 

Do they really think by shouting "HEAD-ON!  APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE FOREHEAD!" seven times in 20 seconds will encourage me to run to the nearest grocery store?
---How much wood could a woodchuck chuck?

See, not the ideas of a great Nobel thinker right now.  But tomorrow that may change for I will be at the Festival of Reading.  Maybe I'll get some new perspective on the things I have been trying to flesh out.  Or maybe I'll come up with a series of new things to ponder.  Either way, I need a nap.