Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Bon Pasku & Bon Nuevo Annos

What? It means Merry Christmas & Happy New Year in Pompementaeu. Which is what they speak on the island of Bonaire. It's a small island right above Venezuela and sort of in between Arruba and Curacao. And it's where my Mom lives. They moved there about three years ago and I get the added bonus of "having" to go visit my Mom in the Caribbean. Damn, life's not fair.

So, while I everyone is suffering the fall out from the nasty weather in the states, I am soaking up the sun and SCUBA diving in the most beautiful waters in the Caribbean. (Bonaire is the #1 voted Caribbean dive spot). Yeah, it sucks to be me, I know.

I will return with my new and improved blogging after the first week in January. Just wanted to wish everyone a safe & Happy New Year!

Monday, December 22, 2008

It Seemed Harmless in the Beginning

Holy Hot Rocks, Batman!  It was a little over a year ago that I started blogging.  Admittedly, I was much funnier in the beginning and my rants have gone down the tubes over the last few months, but I do intend to make a come back.  I will be funny again!  I will learn to over come Blogspot's crappy formatting.  I will figure out how to get The Internet Sensation that is Dr. Zibbs to read my blog.  I have survived my first semester of teaching, becoming more than poor, and a year so close to hell the only thing I can say is "Damn, I'm hot!" (Double meaning intended :-) 

Now I can focus my somewhat limited attention span on bigger and better blog offerings.  Hell, I might even learn to proof-read my writing more than once.  

In honor of (and seriously people, we should all be honoring moi) my first year of blogging, I return to where it all began: the first post.  Below is the karmic moment when wine, whining and writing all fell into place:  

Seriously people. Two Buck Chuck and the internet at 2 a.m. are never a good mix. Actually, most decisions made at 2 a.m. are never good ones. I mean who has ever stood in front of the ATM in the middle of the night, getting cash to support something they were not going to regret the next time they woke up?
2 a.m. + decisions = BAD MIX.
OK, so it was really around midnight, but whatever.... about a empty Chuck bottle latter, I thought e-mailing would be a great idea and wasn't NOW the appropriate time to catch up with all my chickas. After all, I had been out of the country and they had little-to-no contact with me. And weren't they just dying to know what was going on in MY little piece of the world.
Thus at midnight I am clicking away at my contact list and in my drunken haze clicked the e-mail of my recently Ex-dating "relationship".
Note to self: Once dumped remove e-mail, phone number, website and all other possible ways of contacting said "ex" from all things electronic/digital/technological.

After raging on them to get SCUBA certified so that we can commander the high seas as SCUBA Chicks next year, and updating them on my current work/lack of work situation, I move on to the big topic: my getting dumped 12 days before I turn a "certain" age. See Exert Below:

"Well, I have slowed down a bit on the break-up crying. I mean, he did have the worst timing...12 days before I turn ##. Thanks. Insult to injury. Positive side: I do think this qualifies me for an emergency botox. The bummer part is that I really must have liked this guy more than I thought (or I have the world's most RAGING case of PMS) because all I want to do it crawl under a rock and try to figure out what is so wrong with me that a really smart, nice, funny (and for me cute) 45-yr-old divorcee with grown kids and graying hair (that I found to be really sexy) would dump me...He gave me the same lines we all get. The "I can't give you what you want" - which I find interesting because he never asked me what I wanted. That was
followed by the "he doesn't deserve me" line.  Really, did he stomp on baby kittens in a past life and dating me was some sort of special hell reserved for Kitten stompers, Dante's political enemies and Caiaphas?? What did he "deserve"? Sharon Stone? But as difficult as it has been, I have been respectful of his decision. I have been good and not e-mailed, called or texted him...out of respect for his wants. Can't say it has been easy...especially since A---- and I have managed to inhale an entire bottle (or so) of wine between the two of us tonight as I was writing this up. It was so much easier when all we had to worry about was the drunk-dialing from the cordless phone at home. Or paging him 600-million times...remember when pagers where in? :-) Now you practically have to lock yourself in the loo in order to avoid any possibility that you could get some drunken message out."

Which is apparently what I needed to do...because he got the e-mail!! Spent the next day wording carefully phrased apologetic e-mail to said EX, then deleting name, number, e-mail, web-page and anything else that could possibly lead to accidental contact from all things electronic. And nursing headache, and bruised pride...again.

This people is the introduction to what I have labeled Lisa-tastrophies. Those lovely little life events that only seem to happen once in a person's life but for some reason appear almost daily in mine. I would love to say I wasn't bitter, but OH PLEASE!!! I went an entire year thinking that CNN was announcing daily that the world was indeed out to get me and that everyone was in on it but me. Since my friends tell me I need to write a book about these little Lisa-tastrophies, I thought I would try my hand at the blog. Maybe it will serve as a warning to the rest of the world that if you are a royal B*&% to the oh-so-badly-dressed lady at the Nordstrom's shoe rack and tell her that you are indeed SHOPPING there while she is WORKING there;* that life will come back and karma kick you in the @$$. So here's my chance to chronicle them all.

*more on that story latter...and yes, she did deserve it...and yes, she did get canned....and yes, I did get the best pair of perfect black pumps on sale for 40% off plus an extra 10% for my troubles.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Now Isn't That Special

Last week I went to church.  Yes, I went in the building and No, it did not catch on fire.  Lightening bolts did not hit the roof and the pits of Hell did not open to devour me.  Although I did manage to scare the crap out a little old man when I accidently walked in the men's room.  Since I think that was what he was there for in the first place, that doesn't count.

After the pre-ordained* hour of listening to our Pastor telling us about the meaning of having a giving heart, the Christmas season, and being charitable to others, it was time to go.  

I got into my car and proceeded to start backing out of my parking spot.  Now, before I started backing out, I did my safety checks.  I looked Left Behind** ~ check. I looked Right Behind ~ check.  And I looked straight behind ~ oohhh nice Aaasss..... Uh, Check.   I even fixed my lipstick in the rear view mirror before I completely committed to putting the gear in the reverse position.  

Now, I took driver's education about the time that law makers started requiring set belts to be worn all the time, so my knowledge on the legality of the speed limit in a church parking lot might be a little hazy.  However, I did take defensive driving a few months ago and now know the laws regarding the right of way.  (And yes, I know the legality of driving 10 miles over the posted speed limit on the interstate, thank you very much Mr. I-Would-Give-A-Ticket-To-My-Own-Mother-Police-Officer.)  

Anyway, I am about 2/3rds of the way out of my parking spot when this Soccer-Mom-Pimped-Out SUV comes hauling ass around the corner and slams on the brakes.  By this time I am fully committed to getting out of my parking spot and was not about to throw it into drive just to tuck my Toyota totin' butt out of her way.  Especially since I have THE LAW on my side.  Yep, thanks to my newly minted defensive driving knowledge, I know I have the right of way in this situation.  Check it people, once you are over half way out of the parking spot, Ms. Soccer-Mom-SVU has to wait on you!  So there!!!

When I continue with my reversing process, Ms. I-Go-To-Church-And-Am-Obviously-A-Much-Better-Christian-Than-You proceeds to lay on the horn and flip me the bird!!!!!  Wellllllll, isn't that sssspeciahhhhhhhl!!  Being the much better person (of course), I just smiled, waved and mouthed "Merry Christmas............
B*tch" as I finished pulling out and drove out of sight.*** 


* Oh here I go, getting funny... Get it? Pre ordained Pastor.  Somebody stop me.
**Get it???!!! Oh Christianity & Armageddon humor is too much
***Let's just say I am a work in progress on that whole being good to ALL God's creatures.

Friday, December 19, 2008

Houston, We have a Mouse

As Promised Several Blogs Ago......

When I was coming back from the second best holiday EVER...

~ The BEST holiday EVER was the year I spent Christmas with my less than favorite side of the family.  The night before, BFF & I had engaged in our now annual Christmas Eve Sushi Feast and I had gone to the liquor store in order to stock up on Santa's Little Helpers (Jim, Jack and Smirnoff).  I was three feet from the liquor store door when I slammed my hand in the car door.  (So close, yet so far away.  Story of my life!)  I got to spend the next four hours in the ER with a fat-assed nurse who could not be bothered to get me some ice and a man who wanted a tetanus shot for a cut he had received three days earlier.  The ER doctor was obviously less than please to be working the holidays and dosed me with enough pain killers to keep Rush Limbaugh happy for a few years.  What made this the BEST holiday EVER was that I got to spend the entire Christmas Day drooling on myself, demonstrating that hand-eye coordination is not key to demolishing freshly wrapped gifts, and generally getting away with telling the less-than-favorite-family-members what I REALLY thought about them; then getting to blame it all on the drug induced haze.  Loved it!!

Anyway, back to the Second Best Holiday Ever.  Which was brought about in part by my Dad's superior Apple Martini making skills.  After spending a few days with the family and my shaken-not-stirred new friend, I was headed home via the Houston Intercontinental Airport.  I had decided to sit apart from the crowd at the gate when I looked down and saw a pair of black eyes and whiskers poking out from under a newspaper.  WHAT THE??!?!?!?!!?

It was a little mouse. No shit!! A mouse.  In the middle of a major international airport. A small, grey colored, cute as a button, little field mouse.  Complete with whiskers and a little tail that were moving like he was in the great quake of 1906.  How in the world he got there, I have no idea, but he defiantly took a wrong turn somewhere in the maze.  And now this little guy was shaking for dear life under a chair in the Continental gate 23 lounge of Houston Bush International Airport.  About the same time that I noticed Mr. Jingles, Bubba the Redneck comes running up to him like he is going to stomp the living daylights out of the poor mouse.  I mean, this man was hell bent on doing something to this poor mouse.   

Now, anyone will tell you that Ms. Tastrophie is a softy for the furry.  Not so much for people. Especially not so much for people who don't have a soft for the furry.  And had Bubba gone through with his mouse stomping plans, Ms. Tastrophie would have been spending the end of her Thanksgiving break in a Houston jail cell.  (And I do NOT look good in orange!)  

Since Bubba was on a mission, I quickly got up and scooped up Mr. Jingles and whisked him over to my seat.  After a few minutes of soothing whispers and gentle stroking, I tried to figure out what to do with this newest edition to my travel plans.  I think there was a little divine intervention for Mr. Jingles, since I just happen to have a little plastic container to put him in.  (Gammie had packed me a lunch for my trip; thus the container.) Although I think the excitement might have been a bit much for the poor fellow.  He was scared stiff and looked like he was going to die from fear alone, not Bubba's size 22 boot.  

After a few minutes of pleading with the nice man from customer service, Mr. J was on his way to the field outside the airport.  At least that is what I made the man swear to me was going to happen.  I did not want ~ and do not want~ to know if Mr. J was going to meet any other fate.  (I would have brought him home, but Elsa would have made it a very short homecoming for Mr. Jingles and I think he preferred the fields anyway.)

I'd like to think that Mr. Jingles is now off somewhere in the green fields of Houston Intercontinental Airport.  Maybe with his own little Cirque du Souris.  And if Karma likes to give it out to others, like she has been givin' it to me lately, Bubba is experiencing a few little boot stompings himself.

P.s. for my germaphobic readers:  YES, I washed my hands. And used the Purell. 

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Life Changing Choices

As some of you know, my life has gone through some really big changes in the past year.  The biggest one comes from a change of careers and the income that comes with that change.  Basically I went from trying to keep up with the Joneses to trying to figure out how I am going to make $50 last three weeks when I still have bills to pay.  

Last week I had a nasty viral infection that spread across my face like wild-fire (from the left bottom corner of my mouth, across my lower lip to the right upper corner of my eye.)  It wasn't pretty and could have caused blindness if it had spread into my eye.  The doctor was nice enough to send mega drug prescriptions to the pharmacy for me.  Mega drug prescriptions that come with a mega drug price and no generic equivalent.  I get paid once a month.  I bring this up because once I have paid everything I can for the month, I am rarely left with more than $200 to pay for food, gas and anything else Murphy decides throws at me during the remaining 29-30 days of the month.  This month, I had about $100 left and Murphy is having a field day throwing curve balls at me.  This was only one of his pitches.  Got to love Murphy and his timing.

I go to pick up the Mega drugs along with some routine medication and the clerk tells me the price is $158!!  AND I HAVE INSURANCE!!  I don't even want to know what the price would have been had I not had insurance.  I had $30 in cash in my wallet and about $100 left in my checking.  Math skills check:  100+30 = 158??? Nope.  Not even close.

For the first time in my life I experienced what it felt like to have to choose between a true rock and a hard place.  Not a "oh, do I have McDonald's even though it's really not in my budget" choice, but a "will they cut off my electricity if I get choose to get medication that might save my life with this money instead of paying the electric bill?" choice.  I can honestly say that if you have never stood at the Walgreen's pharmacy counter with a line of people behind you that can hear every word spoken and ask the pharmacist which medication you can live without; you have no idea the humiliation and hurt that comes with this choice.  I stood there fighting with every ounce of courage I could muster, trying to retain what little shred of my dignity I still had as I paid for what I could afford.  It took the sheer strength of God to get my feet to carry me out of the store without collapsing, crying into a fetal position.  As I walked out, I put my last fifty cents into the Salvation Army kettle.  Somewhere, someone will need that 50 cents as much as I just had a few minutes earlier. 

I now know what it feels like to lose your self worth and try to retain some dignity; and it's not a warm fuzzy.  I have a feeling that until I can recover from the changes that have been occurring in my life, I will have a more than a few of these moments.  It sucks.  For lack of a more mature adult term, it really sucks.  It's like having the wind knocked out of you, and the person who delivered the punch is someone you know and love.  And it feels like the world is sitting in judgement of you and finding you guilty even though you know you are innocent.

So this Christmas season, when you go to buy another needless thing for that Great Aunt Sally you never really liked and don't talk to except once a year.  Take a moment to be grateful you have the ability to make that choice and aren't faced with the decision between a Maslow's need and a Macy's need.  That the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come will show you "God Bless Us Everyone" and not the feted face of Jacob Marley in your dreams.  I was not mindful of the spirit of my choice to keep up with the Jones.  I wasn't grateful that I had the ability to choose. I never was grateful and now I wish I had been.

So to all, I wish with a grateful heart a Merry Christmas.  
God Bless Us Everyone.

Monday, December 8, 2008

How Do You Like Me Now?

Last Sunday, I met a Blog-friend!! You guys, this was sooooo cool.  There is so much to tell you'all, so don't lose me here.

First, I met Caps through our blogs and Ravelry. Oh and she is a way better knitter than I am!  Not to mention the girl kicks Martha Stewart ass when it comes to getting the Christmas decorations done, cards mailed, presents knitted (yes, I said knitted), crafty decorations made and her own personal four disk set of rockin' Christmas carols.  Me? Yeah, not so much.  If you get your card before Valentine's Day, think of it as my way of extending the holidays just a little bit longer.  

Anyway, after many moons of blog-talking and my joyful winning of a personal copy of the said four disk Christmas set, Caps and I thought it would be great to meet IRL.  Being that we are both residing in the same town and all. 

First off, you all, it's kind of weird to meet some one you know, but don't know, but want to know, but are afraid they won't like you, but don't really know.  And what if you don't like them? And what if they are really just a front for some psycho-cyber-stalking ring that withholds Ho-ho's and xanax from unsuspecting first year teachers??  And did I mention, I was REALLY afraid she wouldn't like me?
I mean, it's kind of like a blind date that your mutual friend sets you up on.  And has told you all the details about the person, but forgets to mention the really important things...like the name.  True story, I didn't know Caps' name!!  I only knew her as Cappydoodles!!  (Which makes for an odd moment when you first meet.)

Well, it turns out that Caps is way too cute and cool.  (And I don't think she would ever withhold any Ho-ho's or Xans, thank GAWD!!)  We chatted, knitted, and ogled yarn.  She told me where she was from and I told her about my mouse adventures in Houston.  Turns out Caps has a handbag problem as well.  I KNEW I would like this girl!  Although we were good and didn't buy any new knitting bags, or yarn.  (Damn you, Budget!!)  She did try to convince me that knitting socks was easy, but I am not too sure...  

So, how did it go, you might ask?  Did she like me?  I think so and I made her blog for the day! That must be a good sign.  Ms. Tastrophie has to say that she has never been that confident when she meets people for the first time.  Honestly, I talk a blue streak out of nerves and people have been known to gnaw their own arms off in order to escape.  Me?  Did I like her?  Oh Hell Yeah!! She knits, she decorates, she makes jello-shots in actual syringes.  What could you not like?!?!  (Cappydoodles ~ can't wait for the next time! I have to try that jello-shot idea.)

Now, all I have to do is meet:
Reenie
... And many more (but it's late and I need to BS my way through another lesson plan.)



Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Two for Tuesday


Being a woman of few words, I thought I would share how my day went with you.  I hope you had a wonderful day :-)  Besides, the real post for today is below.

P.s. Not really THAT bad, but I giggled my rear off at this and wanted to share it

Fancy That

Dear Makers of Fancy Feast Wet Cat Food:

As my eldest cat ~ Toothless is, well, toothless (save for the four little things masquerading as teeth in the front of his mouth), I have given into the guilt and purchased your fine wet cat food for several years now.  (Truly, you should be thanking the Jewish relatives somewhere in my family tree, because this guilt thing is totally making you bank!)

Recently Toothless has upped the guilt ante and I have been purchasing your Fancy Feast Elegant Medleys. As I am fairly certain that neither of my fine feline friends can read, and since they also lick each other's ass (as well as their own), I am sure they don't care if it is the Tuscan Blend or Florentine Delight they are savoring as long as it is wet and in the cat bowl.  Which leads me to ask, "What the hell do you put in this shit"?  Because what goes in smells NOTHING like what comes out of my cats.  

OH MY GAWD PEOPLE CAN YOU SMELL THIS SHIT??? No really.  SMELL. THIS. SHIT!!!  I have no way of describing it.  I have been to third world countries that use a hole in the ground as a public toilet and that smelled better than what my cats mass produce after eating your product.  I have three year old paint peeling off the walls around the litter box from the fumes this shit emits.  The Special Forces are petitioning Congress to fund my kitten's shit as weapons of mass destruction or at the very least a form of Biological Warfare.  Ohhhhhh MMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYY GAAAAAAWWWWWWD!!! 

You would not believe the power of this shit.  I have been in a dead, xanax-and-hoho-overdose-coma type sleep and one little drop of this shit has been enough to wake me.  It brought tears to the UPS man's eyes the other day as he was delivering a package.  The litter box is two rooms away and has a cover on it!!  Not to mention, I had to "blame it on the cats" in front of a complete stranger, who by the way, would not take me up on my offer to come in and smell it for himself.  (Note: recently learned that the UPS man has requested another route ~ preferably one without crazy farting cat ladies.)

I only bring this up because, seriously, the odor is beginning to make me wonder if I should be whisking the kitties to the vet for some sort of emergency bowl surgery.  Really?  Did something die in there? Or is this what you intended when you did the R&D on culinary wet cat food?  Is this some sort of sick twisted lesson you are trying to teach us about spending more money on cat food than on human food? And since I have been such a loyal customer, would it be too much to ask if you put a little sprig of mint or something in there?  Maybe a touch of pine?  Hell, I would settle for Country Linen at this point.

Sincerely
Miss Tastrophie

P.s. The Shit count is this is high and if I offended your delicate sensibilities... I apologize.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Sunshine on my shoulders....

Thank you to everyone who made a comment on my post . You have given me a little hope in what has become an utterly hopeless never-ending chain of days. If I can come to my senses sometime before I come to the end of my rope :-) I will resuscitate Ms. Tastrophie.

Plus, I really do have some killer stories to about kids, Yosemite and some Karmic-bitch slapping I have been getting lately. 

Thank you to all
Ms. T

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

My Hero

It's Veteran's Day and it is oh-so sweet for me. My grandfather has dementia and while he has his good and bad days, I am saddened by the knowledge that all those great war stories he used to tell me are forever being locked away, one memory at a time.

When I was younger, I spent the weekends at the Lake of the Ozarks. Every weekend, he and I would take a ride to the "top of the hill" for something we inevitably forgot to bring. On these rides, he would tell me little "tales" of his life when he was a boy or stories about being in the Army during World War II. Nothing horrific, just the fun things you could tell a ten year old and still have them gaze at you in wide-eyed adoration.

My Grandfather met my Grandmother at a dance hall and just 10 days later, they were married. Papa says he was a lover and a fighter; he just couldn't be both at the same time. So he married my grandmother and then left for the war.

My grandfather was in the Cavalry. In fact, he first trained on horses at Ft Riley before the Army trusted him enough to let him ride the Harley-Davidson WLA motorcycle. (Guess they wanted to make sure he could stay in the seat.) The Army did finally get around to sending my grandfather to war; he landed at La Harve on D-Day +1. I don't know much about the fighting he saw; just that he saw it. When Saving Private Ryan came out I asked him to go see it with me. He shook his head and said "No, I think seeing it the first time was enough for me". Later he would tell me that bullets sound like bees when they pass by you and that your hearing tunes out the cries of people, but not the sound of bullets. From La Harve, he did a tour through Italy, Germany and France. By the time the war ended, his company was in Germany and living the high life in the Austrian Alps.

My Papa also holds the distinction of being promoted and demoted 13 times during the war. Seems Papa and trouble were quite the couple. And trouble followed Papa everywhere. Like the time he called the Lt.'s wife a whore and the Lt. was standing right behind him. That cost him his Sergeant's stripes. Or the time he and the company Sergeant went on the mail run and came back with a friendly pretty young Fraulein who was more than either of them could handle. (I was sworn to secrecy to keep that one from my Grandmother.) That cost him those newly re-issued stripes again. Papa went in the Army as a Private and got out of the Army as a Private; although according to Papa, the Army did its damnedest to keep promoting him but trouble wouldn't let them.

There are more stories he told me. Some as I got older, got more realistic. Like how the people in Europe were so starved that when a horse was shot, before they could go back to get it, the people had butchered it for food. Or what it was like to have a grenade explode in your face and spend months having your teeth, jaw and nose rebuilt. Of having your buddy next to you one minute and then gone the next and how it made making friends seem pointless in war. Mostly he told me the "good" things about the war. How the dance halls cost a dime, and that he and his best buddy "Peanut" could bring down the house doing the jitterbug.

Today he spends most of his time watching t.v. Although I don't know if he sees everything he is watching or if his thoughts are tuned to a different time and place. If the faces he sees are the ones of friends and family here today or the ones gone past; or if he will really remember me the next time I call. All I know is that my greatest hero sits so far away and I would give anything to go back to a summer day and take a ride up a hill for one more story...

Thursday, October 23, 2008

You Can't Agrue With Logic Like That

My students had a test a few days ago covering their comprehension of the story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. One of my all time favorite stories and a heck of a good cartoon, if I do say so myself. Since I also teach Language Arts as well as messing mathematicly with the minds of youngsters, we had read the story... and watched the cartoon. Because using the tv is still the best way to get some down time from dealing with a room full of over diagnosed and under medicated kids. (The kids laughed when I screamed from the back of the room "Don't go in the cobra hole, Rikki!!! Seriously, don't they know he might not come out?)


Anyway, after our week of study, the class got the test. I was good and used Bloom's Taxonomy of educational objectives. I covered all the key points and vocabulary for the first level of knowledge, then moved on to the deeper cognative understanding questions. The last question asked the students to pick the best of two answers, then explain why they DID NOT chose the other. It was ment to be a short answer response. This is what I got:

"Duh, that other one sucked"

Yeah, it's hard to argue with logic like that.  (Just like he is not going to be able to argue with the "F" he earned on the test.)



Monday, October 20, 2008

This is Some Scary Knit, People

The other night me and one of the best girlfriends (AW) got together for a night of movies and knitting. (Yes, Ms. Tastrophie knits and she has some mad cable knitting skills, thank you very much. http://www.ravelry.com/) Now, I love to knit. I am not a lover of all things scary movies. But this is the season and Best Girlfriend does love her some scary, so Ms. Tastrophie does what every good friend would do... watches and closes her eyes at the scary parts. (Which means I close my eyes pretty much from the minute the movie starts until the credits roll, because well...I'm a chicken sh*t.)

Now, I really can't yip too much on this because the movie and knitting was my idea. When I suggested the movie and knitting it was 9 a.m and I was thinking more about day-time movie viewing. For me, watching scary movies is done in the brightest part of the day with all the shades open and every light in the house on. The last time I did the scary with the shades closed and lights off was when my sister convinced me that it would be FUN to watch The Ring (http://www.ring-themovie.com/) with no lights on in the middle of the evening. Did I mention my sister is mean? Then she thought it would be funny to call me on her cell phone from the bathroom right after scary-wet-black-hair-creepy-girl comes climbing out of the well and through the TV set. Did I mention I am now an only child?
Yeah, I had a $200 electric bill that month after sleeping with my entire apartment looking like the Crank house at Christmas time. I also lost a month of TV viewing since my TV was unplugged and hidden in the back of the closet for three weeks before I could bring myself to take it out. (I also had the closet door wedged shut with a chair, 2 stacks of BIG @$$ books and a dresser... just in case.)
Back to the story. AW & I rent the typical suspense-horror movie. The one where the Japanese version was so good that Hollywood tried to capitalize and re-make it. Yeah, it fell flat and was pretty bad, but it had just enough scary to get me all weirded out. We watch. We knit. I hid my eyes. Apparently not enough though because after Best Girlfriend leaves to return to here abode, I am left alone in a semi-dark apartment with two of the worst guard cats. One day someone is going to break in and those two morons will fall over themselves trying to make it under the bed in time.
I go to bed. Thing 1 and Thing 2 park themselves on the end of the bed dutifully keeping one eye opened for anything that should go "bump" in the night. Did you know cats can sleep with one eye opened? Yeah, they do. So that they can look like this when the boogie man comes creeping down the hall:
BIG PUSSIES!!! About 3 a.m. one of my neighbors decides now is a good time to go slamming doors and making all sorts of go-bump-in-the-night noises. I sit straight up. Cats jump straight up. My heart races faster than the Indy 500 lead car. Cats race faster across the bed and under the covers. Fur and blood was everywhere. Little brats forgot to pull back the claws in their mad dash under the covers to protect my feet. I scream like a little b*tch. OK, it was more like a blood curdling, bone chilling, OH-MY-GAWD-HE-IS-GOING-TO-KILL-ME-SCREAM. I kept it up for about 5 minutes (it felt like five minute, come on, work with me here). And thanks to the lovely after-market set of lungs I am now packing, I scream VERY loudly. When I finally wake up from the hyperventilating pass out, I grab the closest thing to a weapon I could find: My copy of the latest Twilight Series Breaking Dawn. (I don't know what I was going to do with it: bore the intruder to death?) After a very careful search of my apartment, I kicked Useless and More Useless out of the bed and went back to sleep....
Until the cops banging on my door woke me up and I started screaming all over again. My neighbors heard me screaming, called 9-1-1 thinking I was getting the business end of an axe or something, and the town's finest took 30 minutes to come rescue me. Let's just say they were not too happy to hear my explanation for interrupting their late-night donut run. And I won't be watching any more scary movies in the dark.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The Palin Problem

I figured out what is wrong with Sarah Palin. Other than she is being totally set up for the fall guy when McCain gets tanked in the election. Note: I have not decided who I am voting for this year, I am still researching it. Paying teachers more money & health care will be my deciding factors. So this is not a political blog. Trust me, read on.

The problem with Sarah Palin is that she is pretty. Apparently you can't be pretty and have a brain. At least that is what Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, etc. keep telling me. Seriously, they have each spent at least one news show, if not more, talking about her clothes, eye wear, hair style, and physical appearance. Where were the shows on Obama's fashion choices or McCain's decision to go full on
grey instead of covering it up? Not once in this campaign have I heard two political analysts damn near wet themselves trying to discredit Obama or McCain because "he is too good looking" to be President. LAWD knows you can't be good-looking and want to change the country.

I guess it is a good thing Obama doesn't look like Tyson Beckford or Denzel Washington, cause good grief, how would we deal with that? Oh yeah, I forgot. It's OK if your a guy and good looking. You can still be taken seriously and thought to be intelligent even if you hit the gentic lottery. Forget about it if you are female. You KNOW those two things just can't mix in our gene pool and work out well. (I don't care how much they call it a scholarship pageant ~ no one is watching it for the heated political debates on World Peace!) Apparently before women are born, while we are developing, women get a choice of two lines: Beauty or Brains. You only get to go through one line and you're just plum-outta-luck if you wanted some of the other.

I found the biggest irony in all this to be when Palin met with the President of Pakistan and he almost drooled all over the carpet telling her how "beautiful" she was. At least she held her composure and didn't look act like Mr. President-fifteen-year-old-in-heat for a Major Nation. I guess the bigger problem is that men can't make rational decisions around pretty women and that is why Palin's looks are so damn important. LAWD, knows we have had more than one election outcome changed based on a man's inability to keep it together around good looking women. Gary Hart, anyone?

Seriously people, who cares what she looks like? I mean if we are going to base our choice for Vice-President based on looks alone, lets get Angelina Jolie in the White House. She's HOT. She's aware of global wide issues. She can intimidate the living sh*t out of pretty much anyone she meets and I've seen what she can do with a gun. Think about the foreign trade policies we can change with her in the negotiation chair. Plus I would KILL to see her wear leather to the Inaugural ball.
**And since I have spent the better part of the last two days in a NyQuil induced haze watching more political t.v. than I ever hope to see again, I just thought I should add my thoughts to the mix. Because, even drugged out of my gourd, I know stupid when I see stupid and George Stephanopoulos discussing fashion is just dumb....and wrong...but mostly dumb.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Hi-Jacked Blog

This is Bud E. Phat and Elsa Lioness.
Ms. Tastrophie is sh*t-faced flat down on the bed in a NyQuil induced coma trying to cure another nasty cold. Being the loving pets that we are, we decided that revenge is best served when one is passed out cold. So we have jacked the computer for some sweet payback.

After purchasing a lifetime subscription to Live Nude Cats (
http://www.livenudecats.com/ ) and finding a few new friends (http://www.catster.com/)who were willing to send us some premium grade kittty-nip, we have decided to spill the Whiskas on Ms. Tastrophie. Of course she probably will sell us down the river when that box from PlayPet arrives C.O.D. Who knew that a little feathers and fuzz could cost so much? Good thing this woman had a few coin hidden in the cabinet.

Now, here's where you come in. Send us your questions, inquiries and twisted photo requests and we will kitty up the goods. Trust us, that girl ain't getting out of that bed anytime soon. We mixed the xanax with the NyQuil and she hasn't seen the light for the past two days. We're thinking if we can work this right, we can spill the beans, and get the packages hidden before she realizes that we figured out human technology.*

So what do you want to know?

P.s. Wizard Cat ~ WE LUV U!!
P.s.s. Fernando ~ You had us at "Oink"

*Cause really people? What the hell do you think we do all day when you are away? Sleep? Chase mice? Yea, right. Check your cable bill. Those $3.99 movie rentals you been blaming on the kids? The "good" cheese that keeps disappearing from the fridge? Those internet sites you pretend you don't go to? We know.



Saturday, October 4, 2008

Redemption in The Eye of The Pit

I just finished watching one of the most gut wrenching programs I have ever seen (and I watch ALOT of TV).  It was about Michael Vick and his dog fighting ring.  (I know, this is old news, and yes, I followed it when it was happening, but this story was on the animals.)  I was so upset watching it, that I actually was sick to my stomach!!  I personally hope Michael Vick rots in hell and has become the little bitch for every Arian-Brotherhood-Loving prisoner on his cell block. 

I was horrified to watch as these dogs were forced to fight each other for the entertainment and profit of their owners!  And if the dog lost, it was killed.  Not humanly euthanized.  KILLED.  Some were hung from trees, others beaten to death, others left to die from the injuries they experienced in the fighting ring.  Hell, if a grown man want to put on gloves and get into the ring in order to beat the living shit out of another other so that they can be punch-drunk later in life: more power to him.  He knows what he is getting into and the risks involved.  These dogs fought - not because they are solely bred to be mean, but because they have an inherent need to PLEASE their owners!  You could actually hear the owners saying "Good Boy/Good Girl" to their dogs on the videos.  

Now, I know Pit Bulls* are scary looking dogs.  Often fighting dog owners crop the dog's ears and bulk up the dog in order to have a meaner looking animal.  Fighting dogs endure months, even years of abuse in the name of "training" in order to make them vicious.  At times, I did not know which was worse: the fighting videos or the videos of the training and captivity of the dogs.  The breeds of dogs used in these fights have been given (and some have earned) a reputation as being aggressive.  I know that people have died from attacks by pit bulls, rottweillers and wolf hybrid breeds.  I am not saying that doesn't happen. Personally, I blame careless breeders and owners who line-breed or trait-breed in order to create more aggressive fighting dogs.  What the hell are these people thinking?  I can't find a single reason WHY this sport made it out of the colosseum and into modern day culture.  

There are those who say the breeds should be banned.  That it is in their nature to be aggressive.  I don't believe that, especially after watching what happened to these dogs after they were confiscated.  I can't advocate the extermination of a species based on a few "bad apples".  That argument didn't work for the Eugenics movement or The Nazis and I don't think it holds water for taking out a dog breed.  But that is not the point of this blog.  

What amazed me about the dogs involved in the Michael (rot in hell you scum sucking pig) Vick case was that with the exception of two of the dogs, who had to be euthanized for health reasons, ALL of the dogs were rehabilitated and placed in homes or rescue agencies!!!  One even works as a therapy dog with the elderly!  I was moved to tears by the sight of dogs who were once trained to fight to the death, giving unconditional love to another human being. Puppies and adult dogs playing, fetching balls, running with their new owners, and giving kisses in return for good belly rubs like normal companion pets.  I found it interesting that a soul with every reason to HATE based on the inhumane treatment it had experienced until that time in its life, could learn to forgive and love those very creatures who had shown it no mercy.  

Ms. Tastrophie has to wonder about the world in which she lives.  Apparently we are not as evolved as we would like to think we are.  If we have learned to hate one another based on a skin color, job description, or religious affiliation, how can we claim to be above one who can't even hold a fork?  Yeah, I am being a hypocrite by saying I hope Michael Vick gets @$$-pounded in prison for his part in all this and I know that some will never think that the breed is redeemable, no matter what anyone says.   For me, watching those dogs find a new leash in life was enough to restore some of my faith in man-kind (even a very little for Michael Vick ~ who really does deserve to rot in some level of hell).  

So my thought is this:  Who knew that the key to man-kind's redemption could be found in the heart of a once trained killer?


*
The pit bull is a type of dog bred for fighting, not a specific breed. Responsibly bred and owned, the American Staffordshire Terrier and the Staffordshire Bull Terrier -- often referred to as pit bulls -- are not fighting dogs.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Where Are MY Students

And who are these well-behaved kids sitting in their desks???

...In case you think that all Ms. Lisa-tastrophie can do is b@tch about how awful things are and that her coworker is the non-cartoon version of Yosemite Sam.**  Let me share this shocker with you...

With the exception of an incident on Monday:  This week has been WONDERFUL!!!!!  The kids have behaved. No one has back-talked me (more than the required amount to save face in front of their peers). No one has peed on or in anything that wasn't the proper receptacle.  No one threw anything or tried to make a 3-point shot from half-class.  And only one student has been hauled off to jail this week (and he wasn't one of mine).  Oh Happy, Happy Day!

Of course, there might be some other reasons behind this perfect world.  Like, Yosemite Sam has been out all week and may not be back until next week (while I don't wish him any ill-will: dare to dream).  Or that the kids are exhausted from having to take the school district's equivalent of an LSAT exam...in EVERY subject, all day long, for three days in a row.  GAWD bless the inventor of the scan-tron form.  Cause, you know I would be a-b@tchin' about having to grade those things.

I however, prefer to indulge myself and believe that it is my superior classroom management and relationship building skills that have incited this pre-apocalyptic change in behavior.  Of course, we all know how delusional Ms. Tastrophie can be when she is hyped up on Ho-ho's and the thought of 20 NEW episodes of The Girl's Next Door.

I just thought I would share this positive teaching moment because, if the forecast from the other teachers is correct, there's a storm brewing and the four horsemen will be riding hard when it comes***....

**Don't worry.  More tales of him are coming.  He's just too much NOT to write about :-)
*** Hell, yes, I will post about that.  I would never leave my loyal readers (all four of you, bless you all) hanging in suspense.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Breakin' Da Law

OK, we have all worked with someone at least once in our lives that we felt was the world's biggest blow-hard... 

Or is it just me? Because I seem to attract this jerk~off at my jobs.  If there is some asshat who HAS to go by the red-letter law of every rule/policy/procedure of the company, my boss is going to team him/her with me.  It's this giant karmic employment ass-kicking that I keep getting.  I am beginning to think that in my past life I must have stomped baby chickens for a living because I KNOW I haven't done anything in this life to reap this little piece of joy.

My co-teacher, hereafter to be referred to as Rebel with No Clue (RNC), has this thing about following every rule to the 10th degree.  Unless that rule is deemed stupid and "unlawful" by RNC in all his infinite wisdom and then I get to listen to why it is wrong and how he is going to make "The Man" see the error of his ways.  I can't tell you how many times he has "informed" me that someone is wrong and the policy states blah, blah, blah...  Usually he is trying to tell me that I am wrong.  Which of course make me HATE him more than any of the other crap he pulls.  (But you can read about that fun when I finally retire and publish my memoirs of teaching kids suffering from "punkitis".  By then I will be able to afford to change my name and move to another state.) Back to RNC's latest By-The-Book adventure.

Last week my boss tells me that to do X, I can do steps A-B or C.  To which RNC goes ape-shit nuts and tells me he (Boss Man) can't do that.  I inform RNC that if Boss Man tells me to stand on my head and whistle zippity-doo-dah out my ass, I'm pretty much going to do it...because Boss Man is (DUH) my BOSS and HE signs my paycheck and until RNC ponies up the big bucks in my bank account RNC can shut the F* up.  Now I was using this as a generic example to make the point that I work for Boss Man, not Rebel with No Clue.  RNC however misses the point by a MILE!!!  He starts telling me that Boss Man can't tell me to stand on my head and whistle zippyity-do-dah out my ass because policy says that Boss Man can't make me do anything degrading, blah, blah, blah.  I walk away and go make copies of my class assignments because had I stayed the desire to put the smack down on Clueless would have won and I would be telling you about my new found unemployment status instead.

So, I am walking back to the class and RNC comes rapidly walking towards me with this look on his face like some one just pissed in his Wheaties.  
RNC:  "Can I ask you a serious question?" 
ME: "yeah, what is it"  Now I am thinking he is going to ask me if I like working with him (Hell No) or if his feet stink (don't ask) or something even worse like if I wanted to go out with him on Friday night.  But this is what he asks:
RNC:  "If you had been one of the guards at Abu Graib prison, would you have followed orders to torture those prisoners, even though you knew it was wrong?"

OMG!!!!  "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"* (Thank you MJenks)  THAT IS YOUR SERIOUS QUESTION!!!!  Seriously!!!!

After several deep breaths, in which I envision not having to work with this jerk next year, I answer him.  No dumb-ass.  I know the difference between being told to do something that is right and something that will endanger the lives of the children I am entrusted to teach.  Not to mention this that little argument of "just following orders" doesn't have the best track record - just ask the Nazi's at Nuremberg or the guards from Abu Graib.  Again, RNC completely misses the point and begins rambling on about "lawful orders"...

I walked back to my desk, pulled out my stash of Ho-ho's and started shoveling them into my mouth as fast as I could.  To which RNC begins to tell me the district policy on eating chocolate in front of or giving chocolate to students. (BTW the students were not in the classroom at the time.)  Lord, Help me Jesus cause I am going to have to kill this man if they take away my Ho-ho's or if he quotes one more chapter/verse of the policy/procedures manual.  

So, does anyone else have to work with asshats like Rebel with No Clue?  Or is it just a small hell saved only for me?  

Thursday, September 11, 2008

I Dreamed A Little Dream...

and today I watched it die.

I am a freshman teacher.  I started this job as a lowly substitute and worked my way up to a full-fledged, first year teacher complete with my semi-own classroom.  I say semi-owned because I co-teach with another person who ~trust me on this one~ will occupy SEVERAL chapters in the book I am going to write about this when I retire.  (I still have to see if they will publish a memoir with a chapter called "Why I almost lost my teaching certification by killing my co-teacher in the first six weeks".)  But I digress. 

I entered this field with a dream: The dream that I would change the life of every student I taught.  That I would inspire in him/her maybe not a desire to learn, but at least a desire to be more than they dared to dream for themselves.  I would make a difference.  I had dreams of seeing my students years after they would leave my middle school classroom and they would have become more than the "punk-kid" who got sent to an alternative school.  Doctors. Lawyers.  Architects.  Analysts.  Writers.  Whatever they could conceive (other than a baby at age 14); they could be.  

I talked about my dream to any teacher who would listen.  And I was warned.  Veteran teachers told me it could not be done.  That I would learn that there are some kids you just can not get through to or teach.  They said my heart would break if I got personally involved.  They would sigh and get a knowing, sad smile on their face as they suffered my foolish fantasies.  Like an old man who can still remember when he was young and thinks to himself of a youth so long ago.  Still I talked and dreamed...

Today I sat in the restroom and cried.  I realized my dream was dying right in front of my eyes... and death wears the face of my very first student.  The pupil who was to be my defining accomplishment.  My pride.  My proof to the pedagogical society that ALL students could be reached and taught.  He was to become more than the gang he so desperately wants to join.  Somewhere deep inside I knew I was going to have to learn this lesson, but I had hoped it would be later.  Not now.  Not with the first child to sit in my classroom.  Not with angelic face of a child who carries the emotional scars of an abused 50 year old.

But I will not give in.  I will not allow my dream to go quietly into this good night.  I will fight.  If not for him, for the ones that will come after him and the ones that will go on to win the good fight.  I will go on so that one day, if only for one student, I will have made a difference.


Friday, August 29, 2008

Get Your Drink On... While You Still Can

I was driving home when I got the panicked voice mail from my best diving buddy KK (who is also a fellow Margarita enthusiast).  She was gasping for air and I couldn't quite make out what she was saying.  It sounded a little like:  "AAAAAAAA ....shortage.... tequila.... must.... get.... more.... not... going... to.... make... it... send... reinforcements."  

Did you'all hear this?  Several news sources announced last week that because Mexican farmers have raced to plant more corn in response to the growing demands of ethanol makers, we may experience a Tequila shortage in the near future.  Holy Shit Drinkman!!! That announcement sent me on an all night tequila-fest bender which ended in my singing a slightly (ok, really off-key) off-key rendition of Shelly West's beloved ballad "Jose Cuervo You Are A Friend of Mine" and my cats pleading for sanctuary (or at least earplugs) on the steps of St. Sauza and the Sacred Shot Glass.  The next day armed with a killer hang-over, the feeling of a fuzzy sock in my mouth, dark sun glasses and a fist full of Benjamins, I cleaned out the local liquor store of every rot-gut-brand Tequila I could find (and one bottle of some really expensive shit I can't pronounce just cause the label was cute).  

Now I am all for alternative fuels and lowering our dependance on oil, but when you are standing between me and getting my drink on... Well, you have gone way to far.  I don't know who I am going to have to "have a little talkin' to" about this miss direction of our priorities, but you had better believe I am writing a strongly worded letter to the Mexican government asking them to intervene. 

As for the U.S.A., we got 10 states that produce corn.  That's 1/5th of the country.  Two of which I have personally lived in and can attest to the fact that there really isn't much there BUT corn. SOOOO its time to step up and boost that corn production.  I don't care if you have to spray on every pesticide, insecticide, herbicide within a tri-state area while planting every genetically altered strain of seed known to man in order to meet the demands.  Just get your plant on and let the country of Mexico get back to doing what they do best:  Creating a drink that makes me think that the guy with four missing teeth and a belly bigger than Buddha is cuter than a bucket of kittens at closin' time.  

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Kill Bill

Or To Mute Or Not To Mute

In my past life I was a "consultant".  Which translates into: If you aren't a part of the problem, you can make a shit load of money prolonging the problem with bullshit "solutions" that will cause even bigger, more complicated problems and make other people's lives a living hell.  
At some point in time I decided that being on the outer level of Dante's inferno wasn't as much fun as being IN Dante's most inner circle of Hell and made the leap to an in-house Analyst position.  Translation: I was now the poor SOB who's life was made a living hell by consultants.  Yeah, I never said I made smart career moves.

One of the things I learned about corporate America is "THE MEETING".  The Meeting is code for: we are going to either sit in a conference room or sit on the phone and listen while someone from management either:

a) Tries to get us to drink the Kool-aid and think that whatever Bull-shit idea he/she is presenting is going to be the orgasmic life changing event they say it will be.
Or
b) Shows us just how long a person can hold on to their will to live while being shown endless power points before jumping out of the 3rd floor window. (Which BTW is just high enough to cause some major damage, but not high enough to kill you.  And you had better believe that my Satan-run former employer would have brought me a laptop and asked me to work on shit while I was being wheeled into the ICU.)

Anyway, I had to attend a big meeting one day with the "vendor/consultant/pain in my ass".  This meeting included several members of my team and  since we were all feeling especially lazy that day everyone dialed in from their own desk.  (Instead of getting our fat-asses up and walking to the conference room to do the one speaker phone call.  Our little passive-aggressive way of sticking it to "The Man" and his pocketbook.)  Since I worked in cube-ville not only could everyone hear me on their phones, but the sound of my voice in real time as well.  

The best part of the meeting was that I was now the "Client" and not the vendor, which really saved my bacon.  During the call, Mr. Pain~in~My~Ass~Consultant (we'll call him Bill) was going on and on and on and on and on about something that was going to make my life seem like it was going to go on and on and on and on.  Not to mention that "Bill" had a way of being condescending to even a post-it note and talked to you as though you had never heard the word college, let alone graduated from one.  So, after about ten minutes of "Bill" talking and my nerves being shredded, I clicked what I thought was the code for muting the phone... and said "I AM GOING TO KILL HIM!!!!".

Only, muting the phone had about a ten second delay.  Just long enough for my homicidal feelings to cross the sound barrier and the inter-state phone lines.  Now, my boss couldn't hear me ask for a raise when I was standing two feet from her, but you can bet your sweet ass she heard THAT comment.  After some really quick back stepping and some incredible Bullshit that even I am amazed I pulled out of a hat, the meeting concluded.  I quickly checked my insurance policy to see if they covered "Foot-in-Mouth" disease and any injuries that I could incur while being  incarcerated. Later I got to have a nice little "chat" with my supervisor about "appropriate" talk which included something about playing nice with other kids and how I should monitor my "inner voice" a little better.  

But we all know how well that has worked in my life... :-)


Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Damn Good Thing They Are Cute

I love my cats dearly.  They are the cutest things I can cuddle with and have collectively cost me more than a brand new BMW.  But they are not the smartest kittens in the caboodle.  

Bud E Phat and Elsa, both love to lounge on the patio.  Which requires I leave the door open for them to enter and exit at will.  Along with a few of flying friends.  For those of you who do not know about my extreme issues with all things entomology please see http://www.lisatastrophies.com/2008/03/help-im-buggin-out.html 
So after purchasing what amounts to enough extermination chemicals to rid the entire state of anything even thinking about flying (including 747's, small birds and Green-skinned-ruby-slipper-stealing witches) I gave up and bought a screen door cover.  Only it's not a door.  I can't have a real screen door since I currently live in an apartment complex run by former Nazis and they frown on any form of home improvement.  So I got this cool screen that hangs from the top of the door frame and mimics a door.  Thank GAWD for velcro and spring loaded poles on this thing or it would have never made it out of the box.  Anyway, to get in and out, all the cats have to do is push their way through the hanging screen.  Simple enough, right. RRRIIIGGGHHHTTT...

Now I am not sure who is going to get the award for being higher on the evolutionary scale: the cats for sitting there staring at the screen for over an hour straight trying to figure out how to get inside. Or me for sitting there for an hour straight watching them watch the screen trying to figure out how to get inside.  At this point I leaning toward it being a tie.  

After three days of the Great Screen Door Stare Down and me repeatedly shoving their rotund bodies through a flimsy screen in a vain attempt to teach their cat-brains to comprehend the physics of cat-in-the-door : cat-out-the-door (I even made some rudimentary slides on the concept of inertia), I thought they were starting to get it.   

Until tonight and Elsa sitting outside the screen meowing like she was never again going to get Fancy Feast.  After about ten minutes of Meow-a-polousa I started to wonder if things were o.k.  Was she dying?  Had she gotten her tail caught on something?  Was the house on fire and she was trying to bravely save my life by alerting me to the coming danger? 

No, Miss I-hope-she-marries-well-cause-she's-dumber-than-a-box-of-rocks had forgotten how to push the screen aside so she could get back inside.  

So much for my brilliant teaching skills.


Monday, August 11, 2008

S & N

Has Nicholas been knockin' up the neighborhood?


Has Sassy been sashaying her was across the mean streets?



Heather been in heat longer than summer time in Texas?
Then it's time to step up and join the Spay & Neuter bandwagon. (I know what you all were thinking ~ and you should be ashamed :-)  That's right boys and girls; time to get those nuts knocked off and tie up some lose tube ends. Cause knowing that you can reproduce faster than Tribbles on the Starship Enterprise is not high on the Things To Be Proud Of List.  Now is the right time to stop your grinnin' and start your licking'   ~~where your balls used to be. 


It's not like Fido knows he's shootin' blanks.  And Miss Kitty is a bitch wether she is in heat or not.  Not to mention that the care and feeding of these oh~so~cute dependents will not get you a huge tax break at the end of the year.  Hell, that trip to the vet alone will cost you less than the puppy paternity suit when Boxer bones that cute poodle down the street.  Or the shame of having the most tail in the hood when Princess starts pushin' out those precious pretty kitties. So help do your part to reduce the number of feral, shelter and stray animals and try a walk on the S&N wild side...

Because if Hercules ain't hanging and banging blanks; he's just not bad to the bone.

Public Service Announcement brought to you by the good people at Bonerol.

 



Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Farts on a Plane!

Ok, people, I am on VAY-CAY-SIOOOOON.  Which means when I planed my vacation, I was not including in these plans to sit on a plane at 30,000 feet having my nasal cavity assaulted by an over-weight, middle-aged man's ass gas.  I was planning on drinking heavily, sitting on a beach taking my chances at skin cancer and scuba diving my butt into a border line narc'd status. I was not planning on attempting to breath through an airplane blanket for 3 hours while hoping the fumes from Fart-Man did not cause the plane to break apart.  First off there is no escape at 30,000 feet, second the oxygen masks will not deploy just because some inconsiderate jerk ate his body weight in sauerkraut the night before and has decided to gas every passenger on a 747. There is no escape.  However, there is a way to fight back.... And the best line of defense against this onslaught - believe it or not - comes dressed in Gap kids and looks suspiciously like two boys about 10 years of age (I think that is how old they were).   

Anyway, fart-ass in the third row has gas. Not just gas, but G-A-S and could probably take out a small nation with one ass-cheek tied behind his back.  It was silent kind (at first).  The kind where they let loose about five minutes before everyone's oral-factory senses could figure out what the hell just assaulted them.  These sneaky little bastards were flying around the plane for about 45 minutes. Roughly one every 5 minutes or so, before Fart-Man fell asleep.  Then the fun really began.  

Apparently, Fart-Man had been making some sort of attempt at hiding the sneaky little pops while he was awake, because once he was asleep....all bets were off.  So every so often you would hear this "pppttthhheww" in between his snoring.  This guy was a double barrel shot gun: snorts and snoring out one end ~ toots and shoots out the other.  I don't know which was worse.  

But let's face it: Farts are funny.  Even to "grown" ups farts are funny.  Oh sure, we try to do the adult thing by ignoring them.  We even pretend that our eyes are watering from some sort of allergy to dust mites or tearing up over the in-flight movie.  We delicately try to breath out of our mouths in hopes of not getting too much of the offending gas.  YEAH, that lasted 20 minutes before people started making eye contact with each other and making faces. The guy next to me was about to have an epileptic fit trying not to giggle at the insanity of the whole thing.  I mean these farts were deadly and what could we do?  It's not like we could ask the guy to go spend the rest of the flight in the john?  Although that was one idea that we tossed around after about 2 hours into the onslaught.  Hell, the captain even came out of the cockpit and asked the flight attendant what the hell died in First Class.  So grown adults spent the most part of a 4 1/2 hour flight giggling,devising ways to get Fart-Man to stop, and trying not to breath through their noses.  Someone even suggested we could get the Air Marshall to arrest Fart-Man as a terrorist since he was definitely harboring weapons of M-ASS Destruction. Comments were made as to how much was in his "ARSE-enal" and conversation pretty much went down hill from there.  Yeah, we were gas-happy at this point and all bets were off when it came to making fart jokes.  It was pretty funny (but you probably had to be there).

Now, I love it when kids say things that they really shouldn't.  And I love it even more when they say things that embarrass the living shit out of their parents.  So here we are basically being held captive by Fart-Man and his peel-the-paint-off-a-wall fart attack and there are two kids seated in the fourth row opposite Fart-Man.  At first they were all whispers and little comments to each other:

Kid1 : "EEEEEEWWWWW did you smell that?"
Kid2: "AAAWWWW That was gross!" (followed by faces of choking to death and gagging)
Kid1: "You smelt it - you dealt it!!"  (I giggled because that was a favorite from my days as a kid and it's good to see the good ones never die.) 

These and other comments were followed by ssshhhhes by Mom and Dad.  As the flight went on, the comment started to get louder and louder ~ as kids tend to do when shut in a plane for four hours without anything to occupy their time besides Fart-Man and his toot-a-thon.  Then when things really started to get bad:

Kid1: "DUDE!! (all kids speak Dude - apparently) That was gross"

Kid2: "Yeah, Dad's farts don't stink that bad and he really farts a lot"

Kid1: "OH Yeah! Remember that one time when we were in church and Dad farted really, really gross and it smelled so bad that Mom's eyes cried and Mom tried to pretend that it was the guy in front of us and Dad was all proud of his fart and Mom was really pissed and we got in trouble for making strangling noises cause Dad's farts smelled gross?"

At this point, the couple in front of Kid 1 and Kid 2 were trying to simultaneously shut their kids up and sink into the seat cushions to die of embarrassment. Althoug I think Dad was secretly proud of his de-facto win in the fart competition.  If Mom could have made a hole to disappear into by sheer will alone, she would have.  Everyone else was doing their best not to laugh but that only added to the insanity of the entire flight.  

Somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico at 30,000 feet, 24 adults lost the battle of wills against fart-man and began laughing so hard it woke up the tooting terminator.  And my vacation began with a Toot.