Not one Christmas season passes by without a "World Peace" card in the mail. It's bullshit, I tell ya. There's no way I'm wasting my one wish on world peace. No, while in the third grade I figured out my one granted wish from a genie would be a magic purse with never ending cash. But world peace is not attainable. It can't be. All nations at peace means no war, no fighting and also no change. No change can mean an oppressed people. I mean, show me a couple married for 50 years and I'll bet one of them ate shit at some point or the other cannot live alone.
Just a muffled sound was a clue that a mystery package had arrived at my front door. By the time I could put down the laptop, the UPS guy had scrammed.
Every time I read the word "biopic", I have to remind myself it means bio pic, as in biographical pic(ture). Shouldn't it be "bio-pic"? It's not even a real word, dammit to hell!
Christmas has snuck up on me and I still have no sense of urgency to finish my shopping. The last minute rush apparently is my habit.
Cell phones cannot withstand wash and rinse cycles in the washer. Trust me on this.
Unless you grew up in the left hand bottom corner of the boot-shaped Great State that is Louisiana. To be honest, the film "All Over but to Cry" is the most I've ever heard about Hurricane Audrey. Folks don't like to talk about it.
A church member told me her ladies group gathered clothing and shoes for the victims and a little boy selected shoes when he really wanted the brand new red cowboy boots. When asked why he passed on the boots, he said he needed shoes to go to church. Another old timer told me he never fished again after pulling dead bodies from the water.
Yeah, yeah, I know you've read hurricane stories here before but this is the harrowing tale of loss and survival during the 1957 Hurricane Audrey and you will cry your eyes out. Watch it to develop an attitude of gratitude and count your many blessings.
One by one.
It aired on Louisiana Public Television and I hope you'll get a chance to see it.
from a dude whooping and hollering as he exploded out of the second floor court room. He picked up the desk phone, dialed and loudly held a conversation the next day's jury pool could hear. "Hey girl! Guess what? I'm not going to prison! Yeah, I got three years probation. What? YEAH, that's good! Probation is nuthin'. You would think it was good if you knew what I really did. You got any food at your house? No, huh, well, I'll call ya later." Dials another number. "Yeah, I called her and told her I got probation and did she have any food and she gave me a no but what she doesn't know is I really want to get with her sister. I bet her sister has some groceries. I'm calling her next."
Unfathomable to believe an old celibate man Joey Ratz living in Italy has any bearing on one's birth control or safe sex choices. How many bastard factories and illegitimate children before abortion becomes fashionable again?
Just in time for swimsuit season. It's the new black.
"DAMMIT, I WANT THAT RUG! I tell ya what, next time, I marry a rich guy. If he's rich, I don't care if he's ugly. If he's super ugly, I'll just bark at him."
It's not that I've taken a vow a chastity but more like chastity has taken a vow of me. And chastity's ugly sister, Abstinence, keeps wanting to be my friend.
So, last week I was answering the phones while the receptionist was at lunch and and I was gazing at the other employees through the two glass windows. The quiet guy walked in and to engage him, I asked "Hey Quiet Guy, if this were a zoo, would I be the animal or would it be the folks on the other side of the glass?" Quiet Guy lived up to his name with his silence but finally said, "Guess it depends on who's picking up the shit."
Every damn party and some idiot makes the comment that no matter how much room there is, everyone ends up in the kitchen.
And there I was Wednesday night, doing party assistance as a volunteer helper, wondering which old crone was gonna receive my kick to her hip to propel her out of my damn way so I could replenish the party tray.
"Oh hello dear, I seem to be in your way, don't I? You know, folks always seem to congregate in the kitchen. Hi there Samantha, how are you? How's your mother? I saw her last week . . . "
Yep, the old bitch didn't move. Just kept on blathering. I was so tempted to jam the party tray in her rapidly deteriorating osteoporosis ridden bones but instead I bit the inside of my mouth and counted to way the fuck over 10. Another withering ancient further blocked me, AFTER glancing at my party tray.
FINALLY, I said "Ladies, I need to get by you to refill the platter." Did they move? Baaaaaarely. I was halfway hoping my high heel might have nicked one of them while I silently rehearsed my best Gordon Ramsay* impression.
On the way back, the hired help was attempting to open the freezer door while 3 ladies refused to cede her the swing space.
"What are you looking for, Miss Help?" the most pleasant Wheel of Fortune fan asked.
"Ice," said the barely terse hired.
"Oh, look in the freezer."
That's when my now unhinged smart mouth reached its self editing limit and blurted "Oh, is that where it should be? Miss Help, do you see ice IN THE FREEZER? How wonderful! Yes, you can hand it to me since you don't have enough room to turn around."
WHAT THE HELL?!
Those of you who find yourselves in the kitchen at the next party, take a look and have some self awareness. Did anyone need to open a drawer you are leaning against? Did the party host decorate and clean her whole MonkeyFighting house for your inspection and enjoyment? Are you blocking the refrigerator?
Strike all that, I don't give a damn about the answers. Get the fuck out of the kitchen. You are in the way. I don't care if you are more comfortable in the kitchen. You are being rude. And I dislike you immensely.
Enough of the John Lennon death anniversary angst already. He was insecure heroin snorter and marital cheater who enabled the awfulness that is Yoko's "career". I heard a recording of her once and it sounded like an orgy of violent feline fornication. Sometimes the most merciful thing to happen to a celebrity is an early death. Marilyn, Elvis, James Dean, Cobain, Heath. I mean, c'mon, had they not passed, imagine their star fading with each sad and pathetic appearance on Hollywood Squares and American Idol. Elizabeth Taylor is a perfect example of hanging around too long. We can barely remember her as young and beautiful when we witness her putrefaction with our very own eyes. Live fast.
My cousin Ann told the story of seeing the night time cleaning guy in the company break room. He was muttering about "the filthy 'son a bitches' leaving their crap all over the place" and "mother fucker" this and "asshole" that. Cuz was amused at the short uniformed man's rantings and luckily her turn at the vending machine allowed her to see his next action.
He opened the microwave oven door to see the interior splattered with what looked like the exploded contents of a can of ravioli. A fresh string of expletives spewed from his mouth as he grabbed the mop from his rolling mop bucket. Microwave oven still ajar, he jammed the wet and dripping mop head into the microwave and repeatedly slammed it around. Gray murky water splashed, puddled on the counter and ran down the cabinet.
The violent metallic echoes brought a co-worker from his cubicle. He and Ann stood in the doorway with mouths agape while cleaning dude continued his mop rape of the microwave.
(Ann and her office mate made a pact to only tell their bestest office buddies.)
Think about that while you heat your Hot Pocket in the company break room, you "son a bitch".
One cannot proclaim themselves to be good in bed. It's the partner's opinion but not their own that is valid. My sister's friend is an event organizer for a casino (or "casina" if you are Edwin Edwards) and says the instant a promoter utters the word "classy", it is both a cue and guarantee the event will be anything but. So when I read this sentence on "Stuff Christian Culture Likes" blog, I had to steal it for your reading rumination.
"Unfortunately, if you need to announce that you're cool then you cease being cool. Like being classy or humble, proclaiming yourself as such means automatic disqualification."
Please to enjoy, an opening segment from fx's "Louie". Louis CK's comedian buddies are breaking balls around the poker table. It's "male" humor with a tiny touch of insight.
During my usual 3 minute commute home, I heard a NPR segment of a career adviser suggesting recently laid off folks NOT pursue a job in their same field but, instead, ask themselves what they would do if they had to work for free? If you absolutely had to work for no pay, what would you choose to do? The adviser explained creative thinking might inspire a new career path. In a second, I completed the exercise and had my answer. Sales in the decorative plumbing industry, with a fabulous employee discount while working 2-3 hours a day*. My last 11 working years have been somewhat easy but boring to the point of draining. Maybe I was due for a change. With no plan or goal, the "what would you do for free" question stuck in my head. Not even a month later, I was picking up a repair part at a local business and offered a job on the spot: doing the very thing I did in the past, which was, selling pretty shiny plumbing stuff! Much angst, many sleepless nights with the oh-shit-did-I-really-quit-my-job panic attacks have occurred. The last 5 weeks have been muy stressful. NOT knowing how the hell to access the hopelessly idiotic DOS quotation and inventory computer system, I told my new boss I wish I could spend 5 minutes with the guy that designed it. "Do you really think you could learn it from him in only 5 minutes?" "Fuck no!" I say, "I just want 5 minutes with the asshole because the guy who wrote this cumbersome and retarded piece of shit system is someone I KNOW I can take. I am confident I could beat the shit outta him." The boss thinks I am funny. I'm glad he does but I wasn't joking. Please, mother fucker that is making my life miserable, please visit our location soon. I'll smile and be professional and when heads are turned, I'll do a 4" thick product catalog karate chop right into his pencil neck and then I'll perform a #6 on him, that's where I go a-ridin' into town, a whompin' and stompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. But I digress. New job stress level is sometimes likened to a move or divorce and although I knew the transition would be tough, my time is not my own and I am still struggling to find my rhythm and mojo. The once welcome outlet of volunteer work is weighing heavily upon me and I am eager to be rid of some tasks. Earlier mornings and longer commutes are encroaching on my craft room time and ME time. It has taken 5 weeks to feel a degree of contribution but fulfillment? Got plenty of that. Helping folks select shiny stuff for their new house or remodel? That's like getting paid to spend other people's money. Which is what I would do for free. *2 out 3 ain't bad.
Chrysanthemum and I were chatting last night and still marveling over the fact men don't seem to understand how much action they could rake in by VOLUNTARILY doing the dishes, vacuuming or fixing shit. I've been on my own for so long, if a dude changed a lightbulb for me, I'd probably pleasure him while he were still on the ladder. Then she and I went down the grass-always-greener route when Chrysanthemum declared if a man afforded her the lifestyle of staying home all day, she would gladly bestow him with a blow job every single day upon his arrival home. I snorted and supposed aloud she would kick in her time management skills to cap fellatio time to less than 4 minutes to completion. "Heck yeah! I would record a porno mix tape for him to listen to on the ride home so when he walked in the door, we would already have wood," she proudly exclaimed.
Dawn's man Sam was all hepped up to see the Mother Truckers at Tip's the night before Mardi Gras (Lundi Gras). The band was good but the music was much too loud and the room entirely too smoky so Dawn and I left Sam inside and tripped outdoors to hang out on the picnic tables to talk and catch up.
An inebriated frat boy type stumbled onto our area and drunkenly slurred a question. I could tell it was a question by the way his voice went up at the end but in no way could I translate his garbled request. Drunk boy repeated himself.
Oooohhh, you want tickets to the show? Yes. The show has already begun so you can get in free now. Just go to that door and walk in, I say. He is so excited. Free? Yep. Which door? That one. He walks off in that drunk spaghetti leg fashion that we've all done at some point of our drunken careers. "You know that's the backstage door, right?" Dawn asked. "Shit yeah, I know. I just wanted to see if he'd do it", I answer.
Dawn smokes her cigarette and I drink my beer as we watch Drunk Boy open the backstage door only to get pushed back and yelled at by the bouncer. The bouncer points toward the ticket window and entry door and shuts the door.
Drunk Boy apparently doesn't have enough energy to walk toward the ticket window and returns to us.
"They wouldn't let me in. I think I had the wrong door," he slurs. "Hell no, son! They don't know who you are. Go to that door. Act like you own the joint and walk in. If you act as if you know where you're going, they'll let you through," I instruct him. "Sssssshure, I can't wait to sssshhhee THE MOTHER TRUCKERS!!! I LOVE THEM, MAN!" "I don't know . . . ." heard from Dawn. He's off.
This time, he rips the door open so hard, it bounces off the outside wall, hits him in the back and sends him flying smack dab into the already aggravated bouncer. Dawn and I are laughing so hard we're crying but we feel the need to muffle ourselves so we're not thought to be in cohoots with the rabblerouser. The bouncer is pissed. The door opens and a blast of sound comes with it. We can't hear the bouncer's words but we see his index finger hitting Drunk Boy's chest many times as instructions are repeated to go to the ticket window. Drunk Boy actually gets to the ticket window and pulls out his pockets to find not enough funds. He is dejected and of course, comes back to our picnic table. "I lost some money. I had lots of cash earlier but I don't have it now. Damn! I really want to see the show."
In a moment of tenderness, Dawn asks where he is from. Ohio/Iowa/Utah. (I forget, one of those four letter states beginning with a vowel.) Where are your friends? I don't know. Where are you staying? At some guy's house. Do you know where? No. You don't know the address? No. How will you get back there tonight? I'll find it. I was real messed up last night and found it so tonight's no problem.
He walks off toward the entry door and is gone awhile. They must have let him in, how about that, I think only to see him coming back with a beer in his hand.
Drunk Boy tells us he ordered a beer at the bar but when they noticed his lack of a wristband, he's thrown out.
"I'm gonna go see that band", he avows as he stands up and looks toward the backstage door. "I wouldn't . . ." Dawn attempts to warn. He gives her the shut-up-arm wave and ambles toward the door and opens it. The light and sound streaks out on the sidewalk and the bouncer is on him. The bouncer grips Drunk Boy's shirt but Drunk Boy is headed inside like a cow returning to the barn. With a couple heaves, the bouncer gets Drunk Boy outside and shouts toward the entry door for assistance. No one hears him over the din of the Mother Trucker's 18 minute guitar ride and Drunk Boy detaches himself from the bouncer hug. I'm laughing so hard, beer comes out my nose.
Guess where he heads? You got it. Towards us. The bouncer now has the attention of the uniformed but off-patrol NOPD officer sitting at the front door. "Get the hell out of here NOW!" we both tell Drunk Boy, "They're gonna take you in." "They can't arressss' me. I didn't get to see the Mother Truckerssssss!" The bouncer sees Drunk Boy and points the cop toward us. Here comes the fuzz. "Go!" we hiss with clenched teeth. All the sudden, Drunk Boy catches a snap and bolts down Napoleon Avenue like a sprint runner. A cab passes him, brakes and we hear a car door open and slam. Drunk Boy escaped! New Orleans Finest approaches and asks, "He's gone?" We shrug. Seems so.
Drunk Boy, wherever you are, we hope you made it back to whatever vowel letter state you're from. We hope you had a good time in New Orleans and a fun Mardi Gras. We wondered if you were the tourist that woke up in an ice-filled bathtub, without a kidney. We want you to know your antics still make us laugh when Dawn and I get together. That was some Funny Ass Shit.
Just watched Fats Domino: Walkin' Back to New Orleans documentary (2007) on PBS and loved seeing his history and post-Katrina performance at Tipitina's. Guess who was in the documentary? My buddy Allen Toussaint! The documentary induced a few New Orleans memories. Back when I was working in chilly Gentilly, in the early 1990's, a co-worker mentioned passing by Fats Domino's neighborhood at lunchtime. He told me where to find it and I planned to surprise my mom and aunt with a scenic tour during their upcoming weekend visit.
We left for the day's activities and I drove Mom's car. Getting deeper and deeper in the Ninth Ward, I finally had to reveal where we were headed. Aunt Jan was excited and pulled out her brand new fancy schmancy camera. --photo, post-Katrina
Of course, three white ladies in a shiny brand new Lexus attracted a bit of attention in the 'hood so when Aunt Jan requested another drive down the street for a better photo, I was a bit nervous. When I turned the car around, the milling characters in the street took notice. Aunt Jan rolled down her window and pointed the camera towards Fats Domino's childhood home when a voice asked, "You ladies need some help with that camera?" Yikes! Fats Domino's music is in the soundtrack of my childhood but photo or not, we scrammed.
-check back tomorrow for page 2 of music and NOLA-
Have you seen the new Allstate "Mayhem" commercials?
Dark and sarcastic, me likey! And I knew I recognized the Mayhem actor as Tommy Gaven's (dead cop) brother from Rescue Me (Dean Winters)! Here's another for your viewing pleasure.
My mom says men with thin lips are cruel. "He's got wife beating lips," she'll opine. Mind you, my dad doesn't have thin lips but I admit Mom's words have biased my thinking. I kinda believe it. Physiognomy (nature + interpretation) is the ancient science of face reading still practiced by the Chinese and phrenology (mind + knowledge) was a hot trend in the early 1900's and thought to determine personality based on skull shape. A current decor trend is use of antique phrenology busts or their less expensive reproductions.
Amazon $ 32
On "America's Most Wanted" television show or local news broadcasts, a mug shot would flash across the screen. "He did it," my mom would say. "How do you know for sure?" I once asked. "Look at that face. If he didn't commit the particular crime they're reporting, he definitely did something wrong in his lifetime. You can tell by looking at him that he's guilty of something." All the above information stored in my somewhat lumpy and bumpy noggin came to me today when I spied this news article.
PAYSON, Ariz. -- A 94-year-old Payson man was arrested last Thursday after being charged with public sexual indecency, aggravated assault and the molestation of several children.The investigation began three weeks ago after a public indecency report was filed. Police said Dale Warren Graham was found in someone else’s garage with a running vacuum cleaner attached to the front of his pants.
Now look at his photograph.
Based on the mug shot alone, he may not be guilty of cranking himself with vacuum cleaner but I'll bet my now hardening ovaries he's guilty of something. The thin lips alone indicate the suffering of Hoovers and perhaps a Kirby or two.
So I'm walking out of the library at the same time as another card carrying citizen. He says hi. I say hi. And he says, and I shit you not, "Well, things aren't too good. They better get it together up there in New York, y'know. If they let those people build a mosque at Ground Zero. Well, that's not right. It's not right. They do it all the time. No, it's happened before. When Spain won a war, they built a mosque there too. And other places. But if they let it happen, well, it's just gonna go down real quick in this country . . . ." On and on. I nod but don't acknowledge his apparent craziness. Unlock the door, start the ignition and when he finally took a breath, I let out an "Uh huh" and throw it in reverse. Then I was mad at myself for playing the "nice girl" and tolerating his bullshit by showing him more consideration than he was showing me. What I wanted to say was, "Really, dude? I've never met you before and the very second I say hi, you go off on a political tangent that I may or may not care about? How's about shut the fuck up? How about that, dude?"
While living in Mid City area, my place to gas up was the filling station on Esplanade Avenue, right on Bayou St. John. One day, a brown Rolls Royce pulled to the opposite pump. A dapper man got out and proceeded to fill his tank. And of course, my big mouth had to say something. "That's a good way to stay humble . . . pump your own gas." The matching brown colored man smiled and laughed. "That's about right," he said. As I drove away, I read his vanity license plate. PIANO
Holy crap, I just smart-assed Allen Toussaint, famed musician, songwriter and a favorite New Orleans son!
In the months and years ahead, we often found ourselves at the same gas pumps and trading hellos. He'd ask if I lived in the neighborhood and I would point across the bayou to Moss Street. I would ask if he enjoyed the recent Jazz Fest. After I moved from New Orleans to live in Houston for a year and a half, I returned to my favorite Mid City neighborhood and found myself at the Esplanade Shell once again. And who pulls up to the pump but Mr. Toussaint! I was happy to see my famous gas station acquaintance. "Haven't seen you in awhile. Where've you been?" he asked.
Gotta love that.
Be sure to catch Austin City Limits featuring Allen Toussaint, full episode HERE. Watch his post-Rita thoughts at the end of the show.
Before the even more retarded dog moved in next door, the other neighbor's little yappy dog irritated me with his incessant barking. After a few weeks of the new puppy's unnecessary noise, I told the neighbor dude, "Y'know, I grew up with dogs and adore them but for the first time in my life, I finally understand those stories about an unhappy neighbor poisoning the barking dog." He stood there for a minute, trying to figure out if I was pulling his leg, bent over to pick up his incredibly stoopid Dachsund and said, "Wow, that's cold, Leezra." "I didn't say I would poison a dog, Tommy, I'm just saying I understand it. And besides, poisoning would be more efficient than locating and cutting out a dog's voice box. I have a weak stomach, y'know." His dog hasn't been in my yard for weeks now.
from Business Week , No. 1 Laziest State: Louisiana Time sleeping: 8 hours, 44 minutes Time watching TV: 3 hours, 5 minutes Time relaxing and thinking: 29 minutes Time socializing: 54 minutes Time working (ages 15 and older): 2 hours, 41 minutes Median age: 35.1 Obesity ranking: No. 5 (31.2 percent) We aren't trying to beat up on Louisiana. Goodness knows, between Hurricane Katrina and the Gulf Oil Spill, the state has been through some tough times in recent years. But the statistics speak for themselves: Residents of the state (which happens to be the country's third-poorest) watch more television per day than any other Americans except South Carolinians. They also rank third for being the most social, which includes entertaining and talking with friends, family, and other acquaintances. The average time spent working among all Louisianans is shorter than all other states, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. (Data compiled before the Gulf Oil Spill so does not reflect recent spill-related layoffs.)
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Hells yeah, we're lazy! First, it's hot as a crotch in July and twice as muggy. For dudes, that means bat wings. For chicks, it's crotch pot cookin'. Plus, we're tired. Tired from picking up roof shingles from the damned hurricanes. Tired of waiting for the insurance adjuster. Entitlement-sapped from picking up our FEMA checks. Spent from picking up our BP checks. Achy from picking up sacks of crawfish. Bloated from eating MREs. Pooped out from evacuating from storms and such. Done from collecting ice from the nice military boys. Fatigued from unloading and reloading the refrigerator. Sweaty from digging our meat holes. Bored over hating on dolls. Exhausted from partying. Dog ass weary from parading. It takes a lot of energy to rant, bitch, hate and judge. Think your day is long? Try living with multiple personalities in your head and all of them pushing their own agenda. But hey, we're also thinking and socializing and planning the next crawfish boil and parade so give us credit for pacing ourselves. Business Weekly should give Louisiana a major fucking break. I'd kick their ass but that would mean getting off the sofa . . . and the ice in my adult beverage is melting . . . so I'll catch ya on the flipside, Biz Weak.
Y'know, every once in a while, my smart mouth serves me well, like the time an unidentified male caller asked for "Laqueesha" to which I informed "there is no one here by that name". He then asked my name and said I "sounded cute".
"You want to know my name?"
Yes.
So, I said, in a low tone at a volume just above a whisper, "I'm your worst nightmare."
A long pause followed by a "sorry, wrong number" was the response, along with a dial tone.
Freakin' out the phone perv? One of my proudest moments.
My friend Elizabeth asked the timeless question today: The troll that is known as Rachel Zoe is on QVC hawking her wares. I would love to know why they are called caftans when you are skinny and muumuus when you are fat?
I shouldn't have been surprised to see a local merchant proudly display the above product. It's called a "Game Processor" or a portable butchering kit.
All I could say was, "Dude."
The counter guy noticed and said, "Yeah, it's even got a rib spreader."
"I'm sure it's very handy to have but it's kinda, um, well, gory", I reply.
He shakes his head in assent, "Oh yeah, definitely. It's basically a serial killer trunk set."
While listening to the Mel Gibson rant filled recordings, I wondered if any of my words would haunt me . . . Thinking the worst thing I ever said was to the alcoholic ass boyfriend. During a particularly frustrating weekend of arguments, I told him I didn't understand how he could sleep with both eyes shut.
"What does that mean?" he slurred.
"I just don't understand how you shut both your eyes and sleep, knowing how much I hate you right now. And knowing there's an loaded gun in the house. Knowing those two things proves you're not as smart as you think you are."
I should probably feel ashamed but I don't. Besides, he probably didn't remember hearing it.
As my pastor once asked, what good is suffering? What can come from it? For me, it is empathy. I understand why folks can scream hateful words or fantasize about shooting their spouse in the face.
No shit, that crazy ass octomom hyena laugher Nadya Suleman willingly posed with PETA's new campaign ad
Don't let your dog or cat become an "octomom
in exchange for $5000 and a month's supply of veggie hotdogs.
Suleman, 34, acknowledged she put the sign on her door partly for the money but added her support of PETA is sincere.
"I love animals and I do believe they should be spayed or neutered," she said. "Humans of course are much different."
Duh, wacked out breeder! Humans are much different. Trust me on this, it's so much more difficult to jam humans into my a back seat and force them into sterilization but just like a cute but stupid dog or cat, some two-leggeds shouldn't make their own breeding decisions. Talk to any reputable dog breeder and they'll liken Nadya to a puppy mill. I'm just sayin', if my neighbor allowed their hormonally deranged mama dog sporting pavement dragging teats to produce 14 litters of puppies within 8 years, they should probably expect a visit from the parish* animal shelter or zoning commission.
Should you describe the size of a tumor or any other gross medical mass, PLEASE, for the love of ME, would you NOT compare it to a fruit but instead use sports balls?
The conjured visual of tumors and food is unsettling.
And while we're at it, can we NOT say someone was "fingered for the crime"? It seems to provoke a clenching sensation.
My birthday gift arrived right on time with news of Al Gore's unwanted sexual advances upon a hired masseuse.
I want to believe it. I hope her saved pants from their encounter really do have traces of his "DNA". I'd like to start a new catch phrase ~~ "I got your global warming right here!" (Must be paired with the requisite crotch grab.)
Please do your part by performing this phrase (with the grab) at least 3 times a day for the next week and let's see if it catches on.
Yes, I know BP is responsible for the damage but many volunteer groups are participating and you can help. Craft Hope is distributing cloths to several institutions, including the Institute for Marine Mammal Studies in Gulfport, Mississippi but now need financial help to store, distribute and ship the cloths. ~~OR~~ send directly to the IMMS at 10801 Dolphin Lane, Gulfport, MS 39503. Package up your cloths and label package with cloth specifications and quantity to aid quick dispersal. Want to do more? Throw in a bottle of Dawn dishwashing liquid. (Why Dawn?) The IMMS website wish list indicates towels (any size) but Craft Hope specifications indicated wash cloth and hand towel size to be helpful. Larger towels are unwieldy for cleaning and handling animals. Get out your scissors and cut 10" X 10" squares or 14" X 27" rectangles. Think absorbent and think throwaway. If it is soft enough to wipe your skin, it's good. Cut up your towels, sheets, wash cloths, whatever. Loose threads could snag on animals so if you can sew, zigzag or serge those raw edges. T-shirts are perfect because they don't fray nor require edge finishing. Don't include the printed portions of the T-shirts as they aren't absorbent. Cut off the short sleeves and leave as is; a gloved hand fits perfectly into it. Here is link to more details about cloth specifications. Get your friends and family involved, combine your contributions, send a big box of cloths and know that you are part of the solution. Plus, you probably de-cluttered your t-shirt stash and linen closet! Many thanks!!!
By now, you've heard Mel Gibson's racist rant toward his whore/baby mama:"You look like a fucking pig in heat, and if you get raped by a pack of n***ers, it will be your fault."
But what you don't know is the numerous reports of police officers stopping and questioning roving groups of suspicious dudes and the alarming trend the law enforcement now know. The cops asked where the group members were going and where they've been. More often than not, the dudes would say they've been seeking pigs in heat.
Only in the past few years did I learn that anger comes from hurt and for someone with lots of untapped anger, I realize that I rarely acknowledge hurt feelings before it travels at warp speed to anger. These days , I try to slow down the process to better learn which buttons are pushed and how to resolve my feelings.
Someone once explained that the Cancer horoscope sign is a crab because we are easily hurt, thus, we form a tough shell to protect ourselves. Duh. That is so me.
But I gotta tell ya, anger feels better than hurt.
To me, hurt is like a helpless victim where anger is a kick-ass bitch.
It sucks to feel powerless while in the path of hurricane but preparation, packing and worry act as distractions. The BP oil spill is a new combination of worry and lack of control. Vacations along the Gulf coast are canceled, seafood is becoming scarce and no one really knows what the economic fallout will be. What would the BP oil spill do to your neck of the woods? Click on THIS LINK to see the impact to your neighborhood, county and state.
Yesterday, my radio boyfriend Jay Thomas described the current events about the British Petroleum oil leak, the multitudes of lawyers soliciting along the Gulf Coast and payout deals being made here in Louisiana to fishermen and other related tradespeople by BP for lost but anticipated income. The problem is, more than a few of those folks were under reporting their income to IRS but over-estimating missed income to BP and will now be hit with higher income taxes on the compensation and perhaps an unwelcome audit. To sum it up, Jay said, "Louisiana, it's just like Appalachia . . . but with crawfish."
Yesterday, I was talking to my 6 year old nephew Gregory as he began to walk away. "Hey, I'm still talking to you." "I'm just walking, Leezra, I can hear you. I still have my ears on," he replied.
My life partner TiVo found a PBS documentary about the New Orleans Vietnamese community and their struggle before, during and after hurricane Katrina called "Independent Lens:A Village Called Versailles". Culturally, their work ethic and self-sufficiency served them well in rebuilding after the hurricane but their quiet flying-beneath-the-radar way of life made them targets of a proposed land grab and an "emergency" landfill. Watch the documentary to see the best and worst of what America has to offer and a unique perspective of immigrant culture. Here's a short youtube clip.
My mom, dad and brother attended my nephew's junior high band's spring performance last night. As we made our way to the exit, I saw my mom taking in the crowd. She turned to me and uttered an absolute gem, "These people people need to take vitamins."
For a split second, I was confused but an instant later, I got it.
"They look like they all have rickets, right?" I asked.
Kittie Howard, over at The Block, awarded a few blog awards last March and offered an opportunity to vie for a gift card. It was the same week I learned of many local struggling non-profits in my area so instead of competing to win an unexpected gift for reading her great blog which is a gift in itself, I dropped out of the game by suggesting a contribution to a non-profit. Before you think me to be completely selfless and wonderful, you should know that Kittie gave a Salvation Army donation last December; $1 for each of her followers so it just natural that I would think of a gift to serve many instead of one. And wouldn't you know it, the idea caught on. Kittie opened the forum to voting and her readers went for it. Not one reader whined for a gift card for themselves. Fast forward to last week when Kittie's blog reached 100 followers which became a perfect time to announce her contribution to a Louisiana animal shelter and she included me in the explanation. What a nice example Kittie is! The word my mom would use is "a jewel". It fits Kittie. So, here's my challenge to you. While you might not have $106 to spare, non-profits of every ilk are suffering in our new economy and even the smallest contribution can help. My local food bank or homeless shelter can always use jars of peanut butter, cans of tuna and even tubes of toothpaste. Throw an extra item in your grocery cart when you can and drop it by your local mission or food bank. Here is a list of items that any animal shelter would gladly accept: Clorox Bleach Fabric Softener Rubbing Alcohol Distilled Water Kitchen Garbage Bags 55 Gallon Garbage Bags 33 Gallon Garbage Bags Cat Litter Purina Cat Chow Purina Puppy Chow PineSol Lysol Spray Toilet Bowl Cleaner Bathroom Cleaner Paper Towels Toilet Paper Windex Glass Cleaner Dishwashing Liquid Hand Sanitizer Rice Crew Socks Kitchen Sponges Scrub Brushes Plastic Spray Bottles SoftSoap Mop Heads Brooms Light Bulbs
I provide the list to illustrate that every little bit helps. Some folks volunteer. Some folks write big checks. Some folks share their blessings. All can make a difference.
Just a little but somewhat sporadic ricocheted sunbeam for God, I am, Skitzo Leezra
Here's a word that I hear mispronounced so often I looked it up to make sure I wasn't the dumb ass. How do you say "realtor"?
Does it sound like reel-ugh-ter?
Or real-ter?
Or re-uhl-ter?
None of the above
The correct answer is "3" but mostly I hear "1".
When I first moved to Houston, I gave my boss an address on Bissonnet Avenue but being from Louisiana, I articulated it with a French pronunciation: Bis-so-nay. She corrected me and imperiously stated "here in Texas, we pronounce all the letters in words". Huh, how about that? She was taking me task for sounding like a rube while she and the rest of Houston mangled FRENCH with their "Bis-son-net"(yep, with a "t" at the end). Thanks for correcting me, putain.
So, just for kicks, I just Googled "commonly mispronounced words" for you good people and found a list of 100 at pbs.com Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, I've been saying "Bacchus" incorrectly all this time plus "pathos". Feeling superior to me yet? Check out the list and I'll bet you'll be surprised at a few. Having a hard time saying "Bak-us" instead of "Bahk-us", which incidentally, is the name of huge New Orleans Carnival krewe and their parade. New Orleans folks saying it wrong all these years? For true?
(Click on the links for an audible pronunciations. Look for the speaker icon.)~~You're welcome~~
