When Rocks Were Soft ...

Way, way, way majorly-long time ago, in a galaxy thingie on the 3rd rock from the sun or something like that ... dinosaurs ruled the world, and ate anybody who disagreed with them or looked like food.

Unfortunately for the majority of the planet, everything looked like Pringles to the dinosaurs, including other dinosaurs, and they couldn't stop eating once they started which is why there are no dinosaurs living today (or extant - which shows that I am very brainy and read a lot).

Well, actually, in the end there was ONE very fat dino left alive, but eventually he died from a heart attack while watching an especially vigorous rerun of Dancing With The Stars.

A whole slew of years would go by, until one day a bored group of alien masons landed on Earth and went around building pyramids all over hell and back. Egyptians, in Latin, means bored-alien-masons.

Eventually the soaring cost of property tax caused the aliens to stop building stuff, real estate being what it was way back yonder - especially the *pricey* neighborhood down around the Nile river valley.

Once the aliens left, the humans ventured out of the trees, grew an opposable thumb and started wrapping everything they could get their fool hands on all up in bandages, and left them stacked inside the pyramids like mummified dominoes.

Then humans discovered sex and decided they liked that a whole lot better than making mummies. They also discovered fire shortly after the sex thing, and several people accidentally got burnt in all kinds of tender areas until lawyers were invented so everyone could sue everyone else.

Pretty soon nobody could afford to have either sex or hot food, except the lawyers.

Luckily, around 1973 a huge really big asteroid struck earth and killed off most of the lawyers, saving the rest of the human race from extinction. Everybody was happy to be able to have sex and hot food again, especially microwave popcorn which turned out to be really popular and nearly got Orville Redenbacher elected as president in 1980.

Somewhere around the turn of the millennium, Christopher Columbus discovered the Americas, the Moon, Mars, Venus, the Sun, etc - mainly because he was the only guy in the entire world who owned a telescope. Charges of voyeurism were brought against Chris, but luckily (?) the aforementioned asteroid had missed a couple of sharp lawyers who'd spent the last few thousand years hiding behind an especially dense shrubbery on the coast of Great Britain - and they were able to get him off with the promise of extended community service.

Which brings us to today and ends our history lesson.

The reason I am able to bring you such a super secret valuable history lesson

is because I was born about a trillion-zillion years ago, or at least that's what it feels like somedays. Bleh.

My birthday is fast approaching, and this Thursday I'll be turning .... omg ...

seriously OMG ... no freaking way ... 55!!!!!!

How is this even possible when I have the maturity level of a fourteen year old?

Obviously, this is all a horrible dream and I'll wake up Thursday in my *real* 17 year old body smelling like Clearasil and with both my ovaries still working.

Dreams are free.

Have You Ever Been Tempted to ...

... walk up to a complete stranger, like in the middle of Wal-Mart, point a finger half a centimeter from his nose and repeat saying "Not touching, not touching, not touching"???

Me, neither. [heh heh heh]

True story: Once I made the mistake of going shopping with my adult son and one of his evil friends. And the mall was like seriously packed wall to wall with shoppers. All of whom were strangers to me [thank GOD]. Because as soon as we were all standing in this hugely long line to pay for our crap [important purchases no one could live without], my son's evil friend begins tugging on my shirt sleeve WHILE LOOKING AT THE STRANGE MAN STANDING NEXT TO US IN LINE AND LOUDLY ASKING, "Mom, MOM!! Is that my DAD? Huh, is it?? Is that my DAD???!!"

... ^%$#@

Everybody else [except the strange man, of course] began laughing hard enough to wet themselves. I don't know what I did, because my mind is really awesome about erasing things too awful to remember.

Hey. I just thought of something I've been meaning to share, real quick here. Okay. You know how you're usually stressed and in a hurry while holiday shopping? I mean, we all are, right? And you know how crappy the weather gets like the two days before Christmas? Wind, snow, sleet, monsoon, hurricane, fog, frost, freezing rain, etc? And how all that crappy weather makes us even MORE in a hurry, careless, cold, wet, scurrying around in dark, gloomy, slick, congested parking lots so we can get inside the stupid store and get the entire stupid shopping the hell over with??

Yeah, me, too. So here's the dealio. Instead of hurrying to get INSIDE the store where it's all warm and brightly lit and festive and the scent of eggnog & cinnamon is enough to make your eyes start watering, etc blah blah blah ... what you want to do INSTEAD is casually stroll around OUTSIDE, in the creepy parking lot, and keep your eyes peeled on the ground for all the money that everyone ELSE is dropping in their hurry to get the hell inside and get the whole shopping thing over with.

Granted. You could get mugged and/or arrested for skulking around the parking lot like some creepy nutjob, but just THINK of all the $$$ you might find laying on the ground, or where the wind had blown it up against the fence/side of building!!!

If anybody has the nerve to do this let me know how things work out.
Ps. If anything I've mentioned is illegal then I was just kidding.
The End.

Friday Crap

Sooooo. Happy Friday follow free hop tour TGIF or whatever the hell meme today is supposed to be called. Like I'd know [or care].

I've got half a dozen books I must get read & reviewed, and because they're each so yummy, I've read a little here, a little there, of all six books - so of course they've all run together and now I really should start over. Yup. Start. Over. Do any of the rest of you guys do this? Do you get so curious you've just GOT to check out that new book soon as you get it, even if you have other book[s] in process? And then you forget who's doing what with whom and where they did it at???

[silence. insert sound of crickets.]

Truth, I have been trimming out & painting window sills all week long. If anybody else thinks they need to do this, hurry and stick your head in a pail of ice water until the urge passes. Because next to at-home appendectomies, this is about the suckiest chore in the entire solar system.

I dunno why, but my windows have about a zillion parts - there's the outer, then the middle, then the stupid inner frame thingy. And as you've got to clean all these grooves out, I use hot hot water & PineSol so now the skin on my hands has all the youthful appearance of a sand-blasted soup cracker.

We're doing 7 windows, by the damn way, so this is no cutesy project. Then, after scrubbing everything to the point you've nearly asphyxiated yourself on cleaning fumes, we've had to measure & saw the composite board to frame these bastards in with. And no two windows have the *exact* same stupid measurements.

It's like being in the 7th circle of hell if the 7th circle of hell had windows. Which it probably does and if I don't quit being a little stinker all the time there's a good chance of me finding out. :P

Anyfreakingway. [Are we fascinated with my window rant yet?]
So THEN I've got to caulk all the seams, edges, grooves, etc because we live in the Midwest where the weather changes every three seconds so you've got lots of moisture & high humidity blah blah blah and if you DON'T caulk your damn windows you'll get mold on the sills like you read about.

After going thru nearly eight tubes of caulk this week, I can safely say that I've become quite proficient at handling *caulk* [heh heh heh] Except, if you're not careful, you'll get that white crap all over your hands [we are still talking about *caulk* here no matter what your pervy little mind says. CAULK.

Okay. Next step, after the white stuff dries, is to paint the whole stupid thing with lots & lots of white enamel paint - which looks brilliantly beautiful and fresh, except where the cat hair has drifted into the paint. We have two [2] cats, one gray and the other heathen is black. We do not have any white cats, which is a darn shame as then the stray floating cat hairs would blend in and add a tiny bit of texture to the freshly painted window sills.

Instead I've got to stop what I'm doing, carefully pick any loose hairs back out of the paint, which leaves gouges along the sills so that you have to go back and RE-paint, which is hard to do as enamel paint is thick, sticky, viscous & other annoying stuff that makes it almost impossible to re-smooth.

I forgot to mention that at some point in the festivities I've had to remove the screens and open the windows all the way and let the paint air dry, so of course the cats see an open window and are busily trying to launch themselves out the windows when they think nobody's looking or I've left the room for five minutes to go pee or to find a rope to hang myself with.

I've tried distracting the furballs with treats & catnip, but they act like they're so mistreated and are probably putting Peta on speed-dial as we speak [type].

So that's the dealio. If you came here in the vain and misguided notion that there'd be something interesting about books, you are totally SOL.
1) Books are good
2) Read them
3) Sometimes there are pictures

There. Happy now?

Sunday Sloth and Mailbox Stuff

Whatever.

So, like there's all these epic Halloween, October, Spooky, Creepy and so forth hops & giveaways going on all over the entire freaking internet. *Suh-WEET*

The downside is I've barely moved my butt out of this lumpy computer chair in - what feels like - days. I've lost feeling from the knees down. And I don't recall the last time I blinked. Is this bad?

Screw health. Gotta get me some book *love* going on :D

At this point in the game, as long as my hands can grasp the mouse and I can see to type, we're all good. I can clean & eat & bathe later [November looks promising].

Anybody else get like this?

AND ... as tomorrow is Monday, all the productive members of the blogging community are busily posting their mailbox memes like the internet's going out of style. Actually, I should do that as well because I got some real treasures in the ol' mailbox last week.

I should take pictures of all the yummy books & ARCs, then write a nice long post to go with. Yes, indeed. I should do that...

... as soon as Hell freezes over I'll get right on it. Seriously, there's so many groovy giveaways going on right now that, to be honest, my own greed and book pleasure has to come first. Just kidding, kinda sorta.

Good thing all my kids are grown and can fend for themselves - unlike my beloved whiny cats that stand stock-still in front of the refrigerator like they're expecting the Lion King to pop out for a personal appearance.

That would be so kewl.

Anyhoo, so like Happy Sunday/Monday and all that. Hope your weekend was great and your week will prove even better.

Now, forget supper and get busy entering all these contests in the blogosphere. Your family can suck on ice-cubes while they wait, tell them it's the latest diet fad from Hollywood and guaranteed to turn excess body fat into genuine gold nuggets. If they're smarter than they look, turn on the oven and throw in an onion - it'll trick them into thinking you've made a meatloaf or something.

This is Commander Slug signing off.

I love YA books BUT ...

(a mini-rant)
I recently counted 5 instances of eye-rolling in less than 3 pages of an otherwise terrific YA novel.

Unless we are to believe that all females under the age of 18 suffer from a type of involuntary vision problem such as transient motor eye tic,
can the authors of YA novels please tone down with the eye rolling thing.
Seriously.

We get that young teenagers have a pronounced tendency to express disdain, disbelief and disenchantment on a minute by minute basis, but c'mon ...

We further 'get' that young females are not always the most verbose and/or articulate creatures on the planet.

But still. Quit having the characters shrug so often they're mistaken for epileptics. Sometimes teens actually respond with words instead of physical jerks and grimaces. They're not marionettes.

I would like to point out that many of the mid-teens of my acquaintence are both vision healthy and have the ability to combine words of more than two syllables into complete and coherent sentences with
a minimum of shrugging and/or rolling of the eyes.

And, as crazy as this sounds, sometimes teens have *gasp* depth. So go easy with the *dumbing down*. While there's such a thing as writing for an intended market, there's also such a thing as stereotyping.

Please avoid, pretty please and thank you [Mary Ann shrugs shoulders, rolls eyes and picks an invisible piece of lint off her Juicy couture skinny jeans][not].

Potato Chips and Poltergeists

and Other Things I Worry About:

Giant Rats: I swear to God in Heaven, if werewolves were real I would rather be locked in a room with a whole pack of them and basted with A1 Sauce during a triple full moon than be within a galactic light year of a Giant *shudder* rat. Have you seen these babies? The size of small dogs (with four foot tails as thick as your thumb!).

Eating a spider in my sleep: Not that there's any particularly good time to eat a spider, but just the idea of waking up one morning and while brushing/flossing my teeth I discover a long, skinny leg wedged between my molars is enough to make a body want to sleep with their mouth duct-taped shut for all eternity and then some.

Tornadoes: Since I live in both the Midwest AND a mobile home (an inexpensive domicile not exactly known for it's wind resistance), I think my concern is fully justified. Besides, try coaxing your cat into the bathtub while the sirens are going off. Not gonna happen.

Jurassic Park Wannabees: Laugh all you want, because right now - at this very second - some scientist somewhere is splicing T-Rex's bone marrow with frog DNA just because he can. This is the very same scientist who had his lunch money stolen every day in Jr. high, so he's out for revenge. We're all gonna end up as McPeoples, you just know it.

Dentists: I have a friend who literally falls asleep in the dentist's chair (not to be confused with an electric chair - but close enough). And I hate her because if there is one thing I hate worse than crippling tooth pain it is the uber crippling tooth pain experienced when the dental drill (supposedly on *accident*) hits a nerve. That is the kind of pain that makes child birth seem like a mild case of indigestion by comparison. Honestly, it is not unusual for me to *tough out* a bad tooth situation until just the sight of someone chewing gum sends me into cold sweats. Then I'll make an appointment, but not one second sooner.

Looking in the mirror after watching something really scary like The Ring or The Grudge, etc: Sure, it was just a movie, but if you're honest about it, it's hard not to be skeeved out for the first few hours after a good horror movie marathon. I think I slept with the light on for almost a week after watching Paranormal Activity. Anyway, about the mirror thing - that FIRST time you go pee after watching a truly scary movie and wash your hands in the sink basin TRYING to work up the nerve to look yourself in the mirror? It takes buckets of courage to do ... and the whole entire time your mind is telling you what a complete dweeb you are, while it's also telling you there's gonna be a hideous face looking back at you! AAAAAAAAH!


I know there's more to my list, but that's all I can think of for now. Plus I've drank tons of caffeine so now I've gotta go use the bathroom. Oh no.

So what kind of goofy things bother YOU?

PS. Someday I'll tell my potato chip horror story but not today~

Death by Sequins

Okay. So for the last two weeks I've been on a *crafting* marathon. I don't know why because:
A) I hate crafts
B) Crafts hate me

Furthermore, I am dexterously challenged. No, really. Earlier this year I snapped a tendon in my left ring finger, which seemed to confuse the rest of the hand as now the other fingers try really hard to pick up the slack but nobody knows what they're supposed to be doing - it's like watching an inebriated octo-palegic arachnid trying to roller skate on ice. Sometimes I feel so embarrassed for my left hand that I'll look the other way to pretend I don't see its pathetic struggles.

Anyway.

And maybe a year before that fiasco, - my entire right arm just up and decided to not work. Yeah. Every part of my body woke up one morning, all except the right arm, which had apparently decided to go on strike or something. I guess it just got tired of life, or developed a bad attitude, or couldn't stomach one more fun-filled-fiesta of scrubbing, lifting, writing, typing, reaching, sweeping, hauling, scratching, dusting, washing, folding, etc that was its daily dose of hell.

So for several weeks it just kinda flopped around like one of those pale, freckled flounders you see dangling at the fish market. So I had to do everything with my left arm, which means that I didn't do very much, very often or very well.

I've noticed whenever any of my body parts get uppity and decides to *rebel*, I'm the one who has to suffer for it. I hate this physical crap (I am more the lofty, cerebral type - in case you couldn't tell), and if reincarnation is real I am never, EVER in a gazillionjillion years coming back to this ape infested mosh pit of a planet. :O

Okay, so whatever. My whole point - if I had one - is that I lack the necessary *delicacy/coordination/dexterity* so vital in the wildly exciting field of home-craft-projects.

And per the sarcasm above, I obviously lack the *temperament* of a home artisan craft-type person. Little, itty bitty doodads and strings, yarn, threads, needles, pins, glue, HOT glue, scissors, are all annoying, irritating instruments of torture when your body parts don't want to play along. Plus I have to wear cheaters (reading glasses) to see anything smaller than a Volvo.

However.

I do seem to suffer from a surfeit of estrogen, which means that my brain will instantly SPOT anything cute, glittery, adorable, colorful, shiny (like a Magpie) - and con me into believing that I could make that!

Stupid brain. [To all the women reading this: it is NOT your fault when you eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's while staring into the freezer wondering what to thaw out to feed your ungrateful family. Nor is it your fault when you can smell the latest limited edition Yankee Candle clear across the mall. It is ALSO not your fault if you actually CARED whether Bella chose Edward over Jacob, because they both had unique *howt* points that your husband/boyfriend/UPS Guy would never grasp nor care to *explore* with you no matter how hard you tried to get your *interest* across. And lastly, it is most CERTAINLY not your fault if you experience the sudden, urgent/immediate desire to analyze down to the last minutia where your love relationship is heading, even if you and He are in the middle of rush hour traffic on the N.J. turnpike. It is your BRAIN responsible for the above. You are just an innocent victim of it all.]

So my brain made me think I ought to make some pretty yarn wreaths, like the kind you see on Etsy, for the holidays.

Being easily fooled - nay, gullible - I rolled with the stupid idea. For two weeks I've holed up in my large, walk-in closet which actually serves as a dandy place to do stupid projects that I'm too fastidious/humiliated to have scattered all over the house. I swear to God, by the end of last night, when all 15 wreaths had been completed and packaged up for a vendor's show, my humble closet looked like Hobby Lobby had barfed.

No lie. Seriously. This would probably be funny if I were on stronger meds, but I'd picked up, at a rummage sale for a quarter, a large container of thousands of microscopic beads and sequins - in about a thousand different shades/colors/hues. And here's the important thing: none of them were separated, it was just one big bowl of craft soup. And that is when I discovered that the great deal I got was going to cost me dozens of man-hours sorting all that crap. So naturally I didn't separate a darn thing, instead I just picked out what I needed as I needed it - thereby creating a process SO slow and ungainly that it made evolution look like an impromptu date.

And not to be a whiner, but my GAWD when they say *HOT* glue gun what they really mean is "hot enough to melt small rocks or ignite distant suns*. Oh. And bare in mind you are supposed to keep the glue gun, when in operation (fancy talk for 'plugged in'), in the upright position and not to let it rest on its side. So right there not only did I need 7 or 8 pairs of hands to hold the wreath, position the yarn, place the sequin AND make sure the damn glue gun didn't tip over because the stupid stand they give you to rest it on has all the tensile strength of a snowflake in hell.

Stupid gun.

Did I mention I'm still sick? Well, if not, let me impart a pearl of wisdom here. Don't try to blow your nose while using a glue gun. I don't care HOW much you're sniffling. Just swallow the sinus and try not to reflect on what a disgusting, oozing blob of carbon you really are. Trust me on this one and just go with it.

Also. If you are sick while crafting: Don't sneeze within a five mile radius of all those sequins/beads. You'll send those babies flying so far you'll be picking them out of the carpeting come Easter. IF the cat/dog/kid doesn't find them and eat them first. Unless they need more *fiber* in their diet, that is.

But do make sure you KEEP TRACK of each and every single straight pin. Even if it means renting one of those super-duper microscopes like the kind they use at NASA, or swathing your entire body with scotch tape and rolling around on the floor like a goober. Do whatever it takes to insure you have left no straight pin unturned. Unless you happen to enjoy midnight runs to the emergency room because you stepped on one of the tiny bastards, got it embedded into the flesh of your foot, where it immediately went septic, and is threatening to turn your entire foot, calf, thigh, trunk, etc into a hideous puddle of gangrene so awful that doctors are going to want to amputate everything south of your eyeballs.

Speaking of eyeballs.

That's another thing. If you are slothful, like me, and don't see the point in getting all dressed up just to sit around in your closet crafting for hours on end, so you get all comfy in your jammies instead, because it's not like company's gonna drop by and sip Earl Grey with you anyway. So if you do this kind of craft crapping in your PJ's, you especially want to make sure not to accidentally *carry* any straight pins with you when you finally decide to call it quits and go to bed.

Because, and maybe I'm just a pessimist here, but next to a spinal tap, the last thing you want is to wake up with one eyeball pierced to the pillow because by some nefarious machinations known only to Murphy's Law, the stupid pin worked its way out of your jammies and made its slow, stealthy path to your pillow where it became stuck in the drool and waited there - biding its time - until your one good eye came in contact with the pin whereby it suddenly sprang to life and launched itself straight into the retina and is making a beeline for your brain, even as we speak.

But your brain deserves it. Because IT is what gave you/me/us the stupid idea in the first place.

Remember, we're all just innocent victims of whatever neural synapses happen to (mis)fire at any given moment.

And I really think Bella should've picked Jacob.

101 Ways to Blow Your Nose

Not to be an alarmist, but I am almost positive I've been struck down with some kind of rare, ultra-secret black plague-styled pathogen that turns ordinary bodily functions - such as breathing and blinking - into an Olympian exercise in feverish futility.

Did any of that make sense? Not that I care. I really don't.

I'm too miserable to care. (If this seems like some weak, pathetic attempt to garner lots of sympathy and maybe some of that fancy hot chocolate that comes in those little packages with pictures of Sweden/Denmark/Netherlands, you are absolutely correct. Normally my attempts are more forcefully energetic. But I'm feeling puny and this is the best I can do.)

I even made this post BOLD/LARGE so I can easily read the monitor, which is hard to do because I think my dead relatives are beckoning me to come into the Light and I can't pay attention writing/beckoning at the same time.

I'm not sure if I'm also being sucked into the "Tunnel" or if it's just the head full of mucus/snot/gross crap that's making me dizzy.

Either way.

Head cold, my ass. There are razor blades of blinding light searing the delicate tissue of my retinas. Also I am fairly convinced the Demon (well, lesser minion anyways) of Underwater Hearing and Sound Sensitivity has taken possession of my ear canals. I think I can literally hear the cat shedding.

And instead of my typical breakfast of delicious, delightful Diet Mtn. Dew merrily coursing its caffienated way through my eagerly receptive neurons, it has instead decided to curl up into a slothful ball of queasy/heavy/future-barf smack dab in the center of my tender tummy. Kinda like the feeling of standing on a ship's deck. The rolling, nauseous caution that makes you want to lay down. Quick.

I don't even know if I'm being funny here. Can anybody tell? I can't. Plus the keyboard feels like it's miles and miles away instead of passively resting under my fingertips - which, btw, seem to be operating independently of my brain.

Well, of course they are. The fingertips are all happy and perky because THEY don't have sinus cavities. Screw them. See if THEY get a manicure anytime soon. (This is a big fat lie. Even if I were the poster child for perfect health, I'm not up for a manicure today. Or tomorrow. I'm still struggling to get 10 zillion wreaths made up by Friday night and, between straight pins and the HOT glue gun, my fingertips look like they've contracted a rather hideous form of leprosy. My bad.)

Maybe it's just the fever talking. Not that I can prove I have a fever. The only thermometer we have on hand is one of those old glass, rectal things. And there's no way that thing's going in my mouth. It's probably still crawling with baby-butt germs from decades ago. Probably, it should go in the trash but since it's a mercury filled one and you can't legally just THROW the things away and since it's easier to keep it in the back of the medicine chest to give the dust bunnies something to play with I still have it. Call me an animal lover.

Whatever. I'm done here.

BTW. As a sort of post-Halloween horrorfest, I watched the first two movies in the Wrong Turn trilogy last night. Great. Just great. Now I'm scared to death to ever go camping/hiking/walking/driving within a billion miles any wooded foresty-type area.

Anybody watched those movies? If so, exactly how far into the movie were you before you wanted to slap a big roll of duct tape over that guy's mouth who kept yelling (for all the inbred crazies to hear) "HELLLLLOOOOO ... ANYBODY HERE?"

If there's anything we've all learned from our love of scary movies and books, is this ... keep your stupid mouth shut.

So we're watching part 3 tonight. While I wrap wreaths. And blow my nose while using a hot glue gun. There's so many ways this could go wrong ...

PS. I'm too apathetic to use spellcheck today. :P

Obit: Zombies Done Et Earline

PITFALLS PRESS

Pitfalls, IL

Vol. 17 Issue. 23

Date: 09/10/10

Closed-casket visitation will be held Monday, Sept. 13, 5:00 p.m. at Frank's Funeral Home & Bait Shop, south of the county sewer plant on C.R. 1251 for

EARLINE MAY ALLEN

Who reluctantly passed into The Lord's Fine Keeping

Friday morning in the back alley behind Piggly Mart

From severe bodily-type injuries against

her person by party or parties unknown.

Miss Earline were born into this here world on the 14th day of April, 1926. She were delivered by Blacksmith Cox and joined 8 brothers and 9 sisters. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lonnie Edwardine Allen

preceeded her in being dead, as have the rest of siblings

exceptin Lonnie Allen, Jr. who is a resident at

Rusty's Retirement Center for Old Folks. She be also preceeded

in death

by most of her 217 nieces and nephews, at last count.

Miss Earline were never married and spent her spinster years

as Secretary/Treasurer to the Pitfalls Geriatric Garden Club

who hopes to recover the $1,000 Club Fund

which Miss Earline kept hidden in her home

and forgot where she done hid it, sometime last summer.

Miss Earline were also busy in her later years

tending to The Lord's Gentle Creatures,

mostly all them cats she kept locked up in her basement, garage

and some under the porch. If anyone knows where the key

to Earline's house is, please immediately contact the Pitfalls Press and/or Animal Control.

Interment/burial services will be held Tuesday, Sept. 14, 9:00 a.m.

at The Tiny Town Cemetarry

adjoining

The Tiny Town Trailer Park

Even though it grieves us poorly that they be only enough

of The Beloved Miss Earline

to fit into a Men's Medium Shoebox

We are thankful to announce

that the Good Reverund Wayne

will be presiding over services.

And we would also like to Thank the kind folks at

Sally's Shoe Barn & Grill

for providing the shoebox free of charge.

Family & Kin suggest

donations

may be made

to the Bowling Barn so they

can get the lanes buffed proper.

Donations will also be Gratefully Accepted

to the newly formed

Z-Team: Bubba L. Spanks, Srgt. at Arms

Zombies Overrun Trailer Park

BREAKING NEWS ... REPORTING LIVE FROM WI8U ... PITFALLS, ILLINOIS

ZOMBIES OVERRUN LOCAL TRAILER PARK

[As reported by area resident, Waylan Jesse, live at the scene]:

Waylan: "I do tell you I ain't never seen nuthin' like what I done seen tonite, and I hoped to gawd I ain't never to agin.

"It were bad, m'aam. Real bad.

"Sorry, I be trying to get this straight for yor news n' such. Here, hold up. I gotta steady my nerves o' bit. (Bubba! HEY YOU OLD FAT FART BUBBA I BE CALLING TO YOU! Bring me over some of that shine. Not in a cup, bring the whole dang jug YOU CHEAP TIRE-THIEVIN' NO GOOD SON OF A) ...oh, sorry, m'aam. We still on the air?

[sound of gulping] "Anyway, as I were getting to the point like, it were awful. See, me and some of the boys - Buck, Donnie, Six-Toes Ted, and Bubba - we wuz ('Scuse me, m'aam? Yeah, he do. Six of 'em. Both Feet) havin' a game o' lawn darts right fer the sun set down. The girls was setting up supper on the sheet metal behind the shed, and Bubba had spam grilling. You don't know what kinda good eats we put on when me and the gang goes all out, m'aam. Marybelle and cousin June both brought tater salad an' I thought they was gonna come to blows 'cos that's how women folk get when two of 'em be bringing the same thing 'cept June had pickles and Mary Lou pimento (looked like a pile of red slugs had got in the taters if you asks me) so it all turned out okay except for the part where June got pulled under the deck an' ate all to tiny pieces by a zombie but that were to come later.

"Well, sure, m'aam, we uns did try to save poor June. Right after we got the huntin' dogs tied up safe in the back o' Buck's pickup we surely did try to run that zombie-fella clean outta there but he had his mangy arms wrapped so tight around cousin June's head, jes' a tuggin' an' a moanin' all pitiful like, an' we could see right quick that he weren't givin' up his prize without a fight, an' by then poor June didn't look so good no how ...

"No, m'aam. One o' the dogs got loose later and run off with the head but we be thinkin' it'll show up e-ven-chu-olly 'cos them dogs is always buryin' stuff in the field back yonder of the trailer park and then they digs it up an' then they burys it agin an' ... what?

"Oh. Well, bout that time more zombies started comin' and people started screamin' and grabbin' their kids in offa the lots, an' Six-Toes took off a runnin' like he did that time he almost got caught shop-lifting pork rinds at the Dollar Barn an' that young stuck up gal who's daddy owns the car wash out on route 32 called the Sheriff an' we all knows she ain't as high n' mighty as her daddy thinks she is 'cos ever body knows she been dating BOTH the Mueller boys an' one o' these days they's gonna be a shotgun weddin' if'n she ain't careful you know what I mean.

"(Hey Bubba, how's bout sharin' a cut o' yor plug?! What the HELL you mean they's ain't no more I done seen you stick that there pouch under yor shirt an ... YES I KNOWS YOU'S ONE FAT SOB BUT THAT AIN'T ALL BELLY UNDER THERE I SWEAR YOU IS THE CHEAPEST NO GOOD I EVER LAID TWO EYES ON AN' THEY AIN'T BETTER BE NONE OF YOR STINKIN' BELLY SWEAT IN THAT POUCH OR I SWEAR ON MY SAINTED MOTHER'S GRAVE I WILL...)

"Oh no, m'aam. We's been the best o' friends since grade school. Fact is, Bubba's aunt Mercy is my stepmomma by marriage and our grandfolk was first cousins. Hard to believe it, but we is all related round these parts.

"I don't see nothin' funny 'bout my relations.

"All right, then. Now wheres were we? Oh. Yeah. People were a screamin' and hollerin' an' carrying on like the end of the world had arrived and I guess some who hadn't seen the zombies or gotten ate up yet prolly thought it were the end o' the world cos dogs were barking like everwhere like crazy an' them undead was crawlin' all over the trailer park, jumpin' up and down on the roofs like a pack o' hyenas like they show on that nature channel 'cept it weren't in Africa I wonder do they be havin' zombies in Africa? And anyhow old Widder Brown came runnin' out o' her trailer it be the little one on the corner with all them purty yard gnomes ... well ... I know it be dark NOW an' hard to make out the yard gnomes from them chickens which did get loose an' funny thing zombies don't like chicken I guess but they shore did like the Widder Brown an' almost caught her by grabbin' a hold o' that flowered bathrobe she's always draggin' around in, unless it's Sunday an' she's all fancied-up like for Church which don't fool me none cos I knowed she only goes to make googley eyes at the pastor an' it be a cryin' shame cos she ain't been a widder even one year an' she's already looking for a new mister to pay for her bingo habit which some churches frown on and some ain't.

"No. Like I jes' explained clear like, them dead-uns did NOT eat the widder Brown, cos she grabbed hold of a shotgun with one hand an' her bible in the other an' give them maggoty cusses both barrels she did, singing 'Amazin' Grace' at the top of her lungs which jes so happens the widder can sing like a canary an' they begs her at church to join the Pitfalls choir but she won't do it 'cos they practice on Wednesday night and that be the same night as bingo oh well.

"Yes, m'aam. I would surely be pleased for you to go to a station break now 'cos I been holding my shine for an hour like an' I mightily need to go relieve my present ur-in-airy condition behind that there Ford which ain't nothing more than rust holdin' hands an' why Bubba insists on keepin' that sorry excuse (YES YOU DONE HEARD ME RIGHT! I TOLD YOU AN' I TOLD YOU BUBBA LEROY TO GIT YOU A CHEVY BUT YOU DON'T LISTEN TO NO ONE 'CEPT YOR MOMMA AN' SHE AIN'T BEEN RIGHT IN THE HEAD SINCE LIGHTIN' STRUCK HER HOVER-ROUND LAST YEAR AN' SHE THINKS NIXON IS STILL PRES-O-DENT BUT YOU DO EVER LITTLE THING YOR MOMMA SAYS AN' NOW YOU AIN'T GOT NO DECENT TRUCK BUT WHAT YOU DO GOT IS A RUST BUCKET SETTIN' ON BLOCKS THAT IS SO SORRY EVEN THE CATS WON'T PEE ON IT YEAH WELL I'D LIKE TO SEE YOU COME OVER HERE AN' SAY THAT NO I AIN'T AFRAID OF NO ZOMBIES AN' I AIN'T AFRAID O' YOU NEITHER COME ON OVER HERE YOU CHEAP WORTHLESS S ...)

Zombie Attack at Trailer Park PART II

So's to continue with the events o' that turrible nite when haf the trailer park done got ate up by evil gizzard gobbling zombies ...

First strange thing I knowed wuz I heard moaning all soft and low comin' from the row of trailers nearest to the cemeterie, but I didn't pay it no mind at first cos I wuz thinkin' it might be coming from Miz Candi Bandy's trailer and since she's a single gal it weren't none o' my business cos I say live n' let live even tho haf the other gals in the park can't stand Miz Candi and spread awful mean rumors 'bout her reputation, but most o' them rumors ain't true especially the one about Miz Candi and that midget from the carnival who gave her all them free rides on the Tilt O' Whirl.

That wuz the summer Fat Freddie got stuck on the Ferris Wheel for four hours an' they had to call the amblance for the jaws o' life to cut him outta that seat like a 8oz. sardine wedged in a 6oz. can an' Fats threatened to sue haf the dang city.

Sorry if I digress much ... so's while Fats is in the trailer hiding the empty beer cans under his bed where his momma cain't reach to hoover up, I hears this moaning and they gets to be more of it, lots more, like Candi and the whole dang circus or carnival or such, an' I sez Ted do you hear that what I be hearing? An' I could hear t'other noises too it sounded like a bunch of drunks sounds when they come stumbling out of a bar at closing time. Shuffle shuffle lurch, it were. And I swear on my genuine Jeff Gordon autographed photo-graph that the very hair on my neck, shoulders and back stood up like Fats' momma at a prayer meetin'.

Ted don't say nuthing as he is passed out under Fats' Ford with his skinny trousers stickin' out - that is how he got ate up, them zombies seen his legs sticking out like drumsticks on a yard bird, but I don't like to recall him thatta way, I jes picture Ted all peaceful n' smiling n' dead-drunk instead o' dead-dead with his knees gnawed clean off and that one boot with the hole in it where he liked to air out his bad toe where foot fungus had gotten hold, an' them crazy zombies jes tossed that one boot with poor Ted's yellow toe still inside over onto the big cordaroy recliner that Fats' momma set out a month ago by the gravel curb an' the trashman keeps ignoring like he cain't see a big ol' rain soaked recliner sitting there plain as the nose on my face.

Zombie Attack at Trailer Park

Nobody outside Pitfalls, Illinois, gonna believe this but it be true. Ted, Fat Freddie and me seen it happen.

'Course, Ted's dead.

But me and Fats survived and we think everybody gotta know 'cos it could happen again. Folks gotta be warned n' such, somehow, even if them uppity newspeople won't talk to us. I think they's trying to keep it hushed like.

Sees, I gotta theory 'bout the whole bizness. I think somebody is building these here trailer parks smack dab next door to cemeterys for a reason, and it ain't a purty one. I think certain folks know they's gonna come a real honest-to-goodness zombie apopcalypse and they figure what's a few trailer parks, more or less. We're like the front line boys ... expendable like, if you get my drift. Like the canary in a coal mine.

But about that whole ugly bizness 'bout what happened t'other nite. It were awful I tell you but here it be:

Me and Ted had spent all afternoon working on Fat's truck, the big old red Ford he keeps parked behind the Dairy Queen when he's up there messin' around with Miz Candi Bandy and trying to sweet talk her out of an extra dilly bar or two. Well, that old Ford (I'm a Chevy man myself and plan to stay thatta way) had done thrown a rod and Fats was fit to be tied as how was he gonna get no ice cream with his truck all buggered up and no govermint check comin' till the first o' next month?

They don't call Freddie 'Fats' for nuthin.

But me and Ted sed we'd pitch in, take that old red bugger apart and switch out engines, if'n Fats would supply the beer, knowing full well he always has a couple o' cases coolin' out in the shed where his momma cant' find it 'cos she believes mighty strong in meetin' up with Jesus one day and she aims for her boy to do the same. (Fats feels reel bad that the zombies ate his momma but he's glad she's with Jesus now, or at least the parts of her they couldn't digest. Praise the Lord them zombies left his pet iguana alone. That would'uv broke Fat's faith in the Almighty, he told me later.)

So where wuz I? Oh, yeah. We boys been working on that fool truck all day, till bout sundown come and there weren't no more light left to see by, and anyways half the street lights are busted in the park so no help there. Call it a day, boys, Fats sed. And right smart thinkin' too, as we'd had enough beer that Ted couldn't tell a Phillips from a flathead, not that it matterd after all 'cos betwixt you n' me that truck had seen the last of it's glory days and one more rod thru the engine was jes another nail in the coffin, so's to speak.

Anyway, it were just another early evening with the sunset gleaming all purty off the sheet metal and the cats comin' out of hiding. Jes like always and nobody suspected that in another hour they was gonna be dead people stumblin' around gobbling up brains like bratwurst.

I BROKE MY STUPID FINGER!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS!

You know, when they say that most accidents happen in the home, especially in the bathroom, somehow I always envisioned the whole slipping in the bathtub and breaking a hip kinda thing.
Monday I snapped the extensor tendon in my left ring finger while drying off after my bath. YES. You heard right. I was gently toweling my freshly bathed bod when there arose a nefarious *POP*! Words cannot express my amazement when I discovered my finger hanging there limp and useless. It reminded me of a contrary dog who refuses to fetch the paper.
Either my finger had suddenly decided to 'play dead' or I had just royally screwed up any plans regarding Christmas baking, cleaning, cooking, wrapping, typing (this will be a short post, folks. keyboarding with this ortho splint is ungodly tedious, awkward and semi-painful) ... you get the idea.
Anyway, call me naive but I had no idea towels were rife with danger. Now I have to depend on the help of my loved ones for all those chores associated with the holidays, even maybe unto Easter.
See, I may have to wear this splint for possibly as long as 22 weeks.
TWENTY TWO WEEKS!!!!!!!!!!!!
Or face surgery (I am such a coward. I hate surgery!)
Or live with a limp finger.

I really outta pump this for all it is worth :D :D :D
Mwha ha ha ha
With any luck, should I play my cards right - like emit the occasional sigh of pain, keep a gentle yet woeful countenance on my face at all times, and start flipping through photo albums way back from the good ol' days whilst rambling on about all my friends who have 'passed away' (although not from finger injuries as far as I know) - I could hopefully avoid unpleasant household chores till spring! 22 WEEKS!!!

To imagine no one expecting me to do anything more strenuous than reading a book & ingesting Dove chocolates would be a dream come true.
:D :D :D

Right. The above is so not going to happen. If I tried to pull something like that, my family would be more likely to stick me out on an ice floe like the Eskimos used to do to their aged, infirm relatives. So long, GammaNoTeeth!!! Farewell, Uncle Flatulence!!!

And there I would drift. Cold, alone, and covered in Bob's steak sauce which is preferred by Polar bears the world over.

Trust me, I won't dare try to pump anything with these guys. I'll be content if the cats' litter box gets cleaned often enough that it doesn't take on the proportions of Mt. Rushmore. Those poor little kitties will be frantically scratching thru the litter like they are panning for gold in the Yukon.

Sigh.

~MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL~

Unibrows and Age Spots - Why I think God Hates Me

Laugh all you want, but I've just gotten up and this is NOT the face I went to bed with.

The face I went to bed with was ... not bad, really ... blond, blue eyed, lightly freckled fair skin, a few fine lines around the eyes, showing my age (just this side of death) a wee bit but not anything too hideous. Semi-pretty if you're drunk/and or blind.

THIS MORNING, however... my God. I look like Bela Lugosi post-mortem.

Seriously.
(note to self: apply moisturizer with a putty nice. paint all mirrors black. wear hoodies backward) (tell people I've just gotten out of surgery)

And, you gals know what I mean here. You spend about seventeen hours tweezing your eyebrows, chin, nose, forehead, throat, ear lobes, etc ... only to wake up the next day, all innocent and hopeful. ONLY to discover you have some weird, wiry industrial-strength 3-inch long hair sprouting from your eyebrow like a bungee cord for the forehead! WTH?!

It's bad enough you have to shave BOTH legs, pits, God knows what else, exfoliate, pumice, pluck, and so forth so you don't look like the freaking ape you really are.

Bad enough when you get older (insert doom-like background music OR Barry Manilow - whichever) and discover that the Fairies of Youth & Beauty have stolen your face overnight and crapped all over your pillow instead.

This is why many women find the idea of vampires so romantically fascinating. Immortality is our only hope to remain 'youthful' (can we say TWILIGHT, anyone?). When is the last time you've seen a female vampire looking like menopause just ran her over like estrogen roadkill?

P.S. if anyone under 45 is reading this, I hate you.
Just kidding. Maybe. mwha ha ha ha

Sigh.

Thank God I have freckles. For real. I figure if age spots consume my flesh like Kudzu on an Atlanta highway, I can always always just point to a spot and claim 'freckles'. I'm Irish. It might work.

Remember when you were all young and 'perky' and could just roll out of bed (your boobs rolled with you instead of dropping to the floor like a couple of dead cats), splash cold water in your face to give your skin that 'dewy' look, dash on a fingertip of lip gloss, shake your glossy thick head of hair once or twice, then bounce out the door like you had springs in your bikini briefs???? Me, neither.

God, I hate 'perky'.

Now that I am old and crabby, I've learned to be happy if I can actually PHYSICALLY get UP outta bed without the help of serious anti-inflammatories and a winch. I also learned that drooling while you sleep can be considered a natural moisturizer. And if I can find my bosom with the aid of a magnifying glass or divining rod, I am happy.

I don't much care if the stupid things bounce with me, I'm simply grateful one of them hasn't gravitated down to my knees and/or is sagging in the same direction as the other one. Hopefully, they will continue to hang there like two whipped puppies until the day I die.

Which brings us to death.
I really hope God loves me.
Or likes me some, maybe more than a garden slug.
I hope someday God will sit down and talk with me, and answer all the big questions dancing through my mind.
I have a lot of questions for Him/Her/It.
I want to know why I got hemorrhoids like cantaloupes when I gave birth ...
I want to know why He doesn't tell me the lottery numbers like I keep asking...
I want to know why He made me look more like Doris Day than Angelina Jolie ...
And I want to know WHY I am stuck here on this monkey planet with all these perky youngsters whose blatant goal in life is to cut me off in heavy traffic?

Now I gotta go DO something with this face. Like I've got time for that ;)

Confessions of a Nefarious Chin Hair

Not really, I just wanted to use the word nefarious. NEFARIOUS - okay, now I feel better.

Today's post is actually a prequel written in anticipation of the upcoming holiday season (which retail merchants sprung upon us about 5 minutes after we got the kids back in school the end of August). So ...

For the soon-to-be-upon-us Christmas frenzy (I mean season), I'd like to present a post chock full of inspirational warmth. A few modest lines to light the candle of love in every human heart. To lift the spirit with joy, and lastly -but never least - to impart the true meaning of the holidays in each and every mind I may so humbly touch.

But that sounds like a whole lotta work...

Instead and quite frankly, since none of you cheapskates out there have showered me with presents and pumpkin pie and popcorn balls and fudge, and maybe a Plasma TV or two, you're lucky to get this much out of me.

'Cos God knows, here it is, not even daylight yet, and I'm already hard at work. Weird. All I ever do is work, work, work and write. And feed cats. I mean, it's not like I ask for much, just a pretty mum or something. Cookies would be nice (those peanut butter ones with the deformed chocolate thingy in the middle).

Bitterness aside, I've been thinking to myself, "Self, how about we offer up readers some thrifty tips for the holidays?" Like ... giving homemade coupons promising the recipient services you'll do for them at some future date, say - a back rub, free babysitting, car wash or anything else you can think they'd enjoy. People really like that kind of thing. Then MOVE out of town before you actually have to do any of that stuff.

And who wouldn't be thrilled to receive a real sack of shiny gold nuggets under the Christmas tree? Yep. For the modest cost of a can of gold spray paint and a few shovels of gravel *borrowed* from you neighbor's drive, you can save a bundle on Christmas gifts. Don't forget the real sacks, though. *[caution: there's a fine line between outright felony and free enterprise these days].

It's ideas such as these that guarantee a holiday season no one will ever forget, barring serious pharmaceuticals.

Speaking of fruitcake (whatever). Did you know that fruitcake originated in Egypt***? Yes, indeed. During a brief and somewhat embarrassing period of history when their surplus of stray crocodiles and dead people were at an all-time low, the Egyptians were forced to secretly resort to mummifying foodstuffs in order to keep up the appearance of productivity and thus avoid having to erect another fool pyramid. Because, as every Egyptian worth his camel knew, just about anything beat lugging those heavy blocks all over heck and back under the blistering sun [RayBan would've made a killing in those days!].

So, centuries later, when looters broke into the tombs of Amen-Ramen, Tsk-Tsk-Tut, and the like, the mummified cakes were discovered and naively assumed to be worth something on the antiquities market. Those same cakes, now aged to the flavor and consistency of spoiled cement, are still out there making the rounds to this very DAY!

See, what appears to be chunks of red and green fruit are really bits of crocodile, which is why 'fruitcake' in Latin means "Repulsive Reptile Cake".

*** According to those merry misfits at The International House of Pyramids, Papyrus & Pancakes, whenever Pharaoh Amen-Ramen Noodle III began to sulk and whine about how all the other pharaohs had a newer, nicer pyramid than he did, his priests would gather round and reassure him what a pretty Pharaoh he was, and how YES, he did deserve a nice, shiny new pyramid, and as soon as all the slaves finished up with all that embalming stuff, they would jump right on the new pyramid thing. While in reality, the priests weren't any keener than the slaves to run around in the hot sun and sand all day long getting heat boils. And having to bless each stupid block before it was set in place was just about the most mind-numbing job yet invented. [Everybody was a lot happier a few years later when a huge oasis full of plastic was discovered, and the pyramids could then be quickly fashioned out of colorful lightweight interlocking blocks, which - as every school child knows - is where LotsaLegos come from]

@I don't know why my mind works like this ...

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry 3 INSANITY QUIZ

In moments of quiet reflection, have you ever asked yourself what is the meaning of life? Have you ever pondered the mystery of the little light in your refrigerator, wondered if flies pass gas, and continue to insert cotton swabs into your ear canal even though package instructions explicitly state not to?

If so, you are obviously not right in the head, are probably suffering from an enormous brain tumor the size of a cantaloupe, and should not be left alone with anything more dangerous than a can opener (manual - not electric).

But that's okay, because most of us aren't right in the head either. We just pretend to be. Life is making all of us crazy.

See, the human brain contains a whole bunch of important cells - let's say 10 zillion - and due to stress, these cells are dying by the bucket each day until eventually most of us will be left to function with a brain the size of a Tic Tac.

According to secret information recently declassified under the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA), the only known safe cure in the war against stress is laughter. Which is why humor will be outlawed any day now.

So laugh while you can. Before the Feds show up to confiscate your old issues of MAD magazine and Monty Python tapes ... for your OWN good, you goober.

No, I'm only kidding about the Feds (not really) (please don't hurt me). But, the fact of the matter is that if life hasn't made you nuts yet, it's only a matter of time. THEREFORE, out of the goodness of my heart, I have taken valuable time out of my horrendously busy schedule in order to devise a simple quiz to measure how far along the insanity curve you are:

Q. You finally have an hour to yourself and are curled up with a new bestseller you've been dying to read for ages, when a neighbor pops by to present you with a dewy zucchini picked fresh from their garden. You ...

A) Discreetly put away your book, thank them for their thoughtfulness, and enjoy an hour of neighborly companionship over a freshly brewed pot of coffee. All your cups and saucers match.

B) Grunt something unintelligible, shove the zucchini between the pages to use as a biodegradable book mark, and try to act interested in their stupid garden for the next hour while you seriously consider faking a heart attack.

Q. It's 6 p.m., supper time. You are in the process of removing from the oven a pan a mouthwatering lasagna and hot, crisp garlic bread when the doorbell chimes - heralding the arrival of unexpected company. You ...

A) Smile and express your unbounded delight over this wonderful opportunity to share a home cooked meal with good friends such as these. You usher the unexpected guests into a dining room straight out of Country Living for People Who Don't Live In The Country, where candles burn discreetly, the table linens are hand crotched Irish Linens, and an organic centerpiece fashioned from natural fruits and berries grace the center of a 200-year old Amish great table. Broadway show tunes softly play in the background.

B) Grimace, grab up a spatula and then use it to vigorously scratch your back, thus making certain that NOBODY but you is going to want any of that lasagna. As added insurance, you casually - albeit in a loud voice - whine about how the recent hot weather has played havoc, absolute havoc with your recurring boils. You act surprised when, in the middle of fetching the crumby card table stuffed behind the hot water heater, the one you use to groom the dog on, your guests quickly announce they cannot stay. You scream at junior to turn down Mortal Kombat.

Q. Imagine yourself as a respected head-of-state in a closed door summit with a foreign dignitary whose country is on the verge of nuclear armament.

Tensions are high. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance. Face to face, eyeball to eyeball, you prepare to broach the subject of nuclear weaponry with every shred of tact and diplomacy millions of people pray you possess, when SUDDENLY you happen to notice that your potential adversary has so much hair sprouting from his ears it looks like he has a live weasel glued to each side of his head. You ...

A) Are a mature individual who sees nothing funny in hairy ears or weasels, AND - without batting an eye or missing a beat - you go on to give the best impromptu speech of your life, thereby averting disaster and saving the lives of millions in the process. Your mother is proud.

B) Are morbidly fascinated by this guy's ears. It looks like ZZTop is jamming in there. It's like a forest of hair. Bambi's mother could still be alive in this guy's ears!

And though you bite the inside of your lip to keep from laughing, though you give a discreet cough to cover up the chuckles threatening to erupt, your brain hates you and won't let up for a second, until you are helplessly convulsing so hard that tears are streaming from you eyes, you are snorting up small paperweights off the desk, and all you can manage to do is point, howl and try not to soil yourself.

The summit is a disaster. Millions of people die. Your mother included. And her little dog, too.

Now then. For each "A" answer award yourself 1 point. For each "B" answer, give yourself a a trillion points. Next, RUN to the nearest Electronics-Are-Extremely-Expensive-Store and buy one of those calculators like they use at NASA. When the purchase is denied by your Discovering Debt Card, write a check and leave your youngest child at the counter as collateral.

When (if) you get home, punch in your quiz score and then multiply by Pi (3.14), multiply by the square root of infinity, then calculate the cosine while figuring X as a negative integer of Y.

Avoid drooling on the keys while you ignore all the incoming messages from DCFS and the bank, piling up on your voice mail like lights on a Christmas tree.

If the end result of your calculations looks something like the Mandlebrot*** set, you are hopelessly insane but may still be able to secure a job in Congress.

Otherwise, stay on the line until an operator can assist you. Because your call is important to us.

*** Mandlebrot set: a simple fractal algorithm (also see Juliet sets). Colorized images of these fractals are incredibly beautiful.

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry 2

Not to be melodramatic, folks - but I think I am dying. Everyone says it's seasonal allergies, but I think they are lying. Based on personal experience, I'd have to guess it's some kind of medieval plague, like the Black Death, or even possibly an ancient Mayan curse unleashed by careless archaeologists on the heads of all mankind. I bet some twit built another shopping mall on top of one of those Indian burial grounds we're always tripping over in Illinois. They really should mark those things.

It hurts to breathe. It also hurts to stand, lay, sit, swallow and blink. My ears are full of some disgusting mucus-type substance that makes me dizzy, hard of hearing, and if it doesn't stop I am going to go smack dab nuts and do a Van Gogh on myself (although I'm not sure it's legal these days to mail ears to unrequited lovers. I could prop it up on the mantelpiece, but the last thing I need is one more stupid knick-knack cluttering up this stupid house).

Sigh. Even my hair hurts. It feels like I am combing razor blades across my scalp.

I want my mommy.

But I'm not the only one. A bunch of us at work are sick this week. You don't know ugly until you're stuck working around a slew of sinus-infested zombies who cough so hard they clog up the Xerox machine with bits of lung tissue. One feverish co-worker is especially talented at projectile sneezing - (which is a lot like paintball but messier, and you need a strong stomach to participate). Anyway, I do some of my best work hiding under the computer desk in the store room.

Sadly, the cure is worse than being sick. Don't you love how pharmaceuticals give nasty medicine those cutesy flavors that are supposed to render the drug more palatable, but instead make you want to hurl? This morning I took a slug of a viscous, purple cough syrup that claimed to be grape flavored, but in bitter actuality tasted more like some sicko ran Barney through the blender a few times too many.

As gross as that sounds, it was way better than another cold medicine I tried, the one that's a tablet you drop into a glass of water where it fizzes like Chernobyl going down, and leaves this minty-death-camp after taste in the mouth. My cat yaks up nicer stuff.

Sorry. It's hard to be witty when you're being sucked down a tunnel and beckoned towards the light. I can't tell if that's my grandpa waving at me from the Beyond, or just some hairy kid on his bike outside the living room window because I'm too weak to put on my glasses. I'm scared if I am really, truly dying, they'll just hand me a time card when I stumble into the Great Hereafter, cos God knows all I ever do is work, work, work anyway.

But... TAH DAH ... according to those marvelous medics at (you guessed it!) The International House of Disease Control & Pancakes, the only known cure for the Black Death and similar plagues is to listen to the same 70's Disco hit for about 8,000 times, thereby encouraging the cold germ to flee its surroundings and, out of sheer desperation, attaching itself to another host body, preferably one with better taste in music.

Are you tired of work? For the modest sum of only $99.99, I can show you how to retire by getting lots of innocent strangers to mail you checks for $99.99, barring legal complications, of course. This offer is good until the Aliens land on the White House lawn bearing gifts of advanced technology and wondrous cures for heinous diseases such as cancer, heart disease and polyester. (just kidding)(God. I've still gotta get that stupid laundry done...)

Mary Ann DeBorde - I WON AN AWARD

OH MY GOD...

I GOT AN AWARD!!!!!!!!!

Just minutes ago (I am still quivering with excitement) I received notice from myself that I have just awarded me the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD for consuming the most caffeine within a 30 minute period while typing a new post! Can you believe it? (this could explain the quivering)

I never ever in a million zillion kabillion years would have thought myself a potential candidate for the uber prestigious albeit little known MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD. Oh Em Gee. This award, or so I've informed myself, is a pinnacle of artificial achievement in the field of amateur bloggers everywhere (or at least within my living room).

Furthermore, I'd like to thank all the little people who have made this possible, namely my two cats and the stupid fruit fly that's been bugging me all day. Also, I want to assure my readers that I will continue to uphold the stupendous standards I have set for me, which mostly consists of writing whatever the heck I feel like, when I feel like, and trying to remember to use Spell Check occasionally.

Still furthermore, as an honorable recipient of the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD, comes the additional responsibility of someday getting around to actually drawing and uploading a bunch of goofy graphics, mainly because people like pictures (often of cute animals, or animals being cute, or cute beings dressed up like animals).

SOME day I promise, by all that is HOLEY, to learn to use Photo Shop, Adobe, Acrobat, Dingbat, Deadbeat, etc etc ... unless there is a new episode of The Office on T.V.

So in conclusion, thank you self, for blah blah blah, I am touched, humbled blah blah blah and now I need to get off this stupid computer and do some real work for a change, like the laundry. God, I hate laundry. There's a load of whites in the washer (no lie) that's been in there four days now. So of course I've gotta wash it all over again (there goes my Green award. Sigh.). Now I'll have to chip the clothes out of the laundry tub with an ice pick. I just hate laundry that much. I mean, the washing part isn't so bad, it's the stupid drying and folding and sorting and hanging and all that crapola. But since I'm the one with the uterus, it's my job to have to do. Right. Like the other morons in this family can't spin the dial and pour in a cupful of soap. They hate the drying part as much as I do. That's why we have lint the size of small wildlife dangling out the dryer vent. I suppose I get to vacuum that up, as well. No one around here ever vacuums, except maybe during a total solar eclipse. Then, when I do cave in and drag out the ol' Hoover, the family gripes about the noise. They can't hear the T.V. (insert sound of major, life transporting artery bursting in brain). Well gosh. I'd hate to drown out the sound of the latest Burger Barn commercial. I KNOW! Next time I vacuum, I'll rev that baby up like a '65 Harley and see what happens. Don't mess with the menopausal, is my motive here, folks.

Seriously, I've got so much I need to do today, and here I sit, amusing myself on the pc. I (YAY!) uncovered last night a stash of funny stuff I wrote a few years back, and I'm trying to get some of it posted. Why, I don't know. Is anyone reading this? It looks like it, but I don't get much feedback. I feel unloved, unwanted, dejected and alone. Wait. Maybe that's just gas from the vats of caffeine I've drank all morning long. Hard to tell.

Major sigh ;)

Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry

I love fall? Don't you love fall? I know it's already here because I just saw my first woolly worm of the season. It was jet black with an eerie glow and sported a tattoo on its back that read 'DOOM'. Chee. I didn't know they made tattoo needles that small.

So now we've got the cooler temps and great sleeping weather. My feet got cold this week and I had to put on my fuzzy socks with the pink pompoms. Cats (we have two) love pompoms. I didn't have those socks on five minutes before Polly turned into some kind of Naruto-crazed Ninja and began attacking my feet like they were mice dipped in catnip. By the way, nothing ... and I mean nothing, cleans up bloodstains off the linoleum like good ol' Pine-Sol.

Yup. Autumn is just around the corner and by golly, we females love this time of year. Spring may be the time of year when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, but fall is when a woman's estrogen levels reach heights exceeded only, perhaps, by the national debt.

Fall is when we women start nesting and cleaning like we are expecting the Queen Mother to drop in for a spot of tea and fat-free crumpets. After I'd scrubbed the house this weekend to the point you could've hosted an in-home heart transplant, I set out pumpkin candles and one of those cinnamon broom thingies to make things all cozy and autumn-ish. Now my house smells like the Mrs. Smith's pie factory exploded in my living room, which is fine unless the Queen Mother is a diabetic with allergies.

Anyway, this is such a terrific time of year. Fall. Before too long the leaves will kaleidoscope into brilliant shades of scarlet, maize and orange to turn our lawns into a patchwork quilt of autumn beauty. I feel like baking, too, so I tore out a couple of recipes from the October issue of Martha-Can-Afford-To-Live-In-Her-Own-Vineyard magazine, that I 'borrowed' from the library.

Speaking of magazine, did you happen to see in this month's Popular-Science-And-Pocket-Protectors the amazing article on how to turn kitty litter clumps into valuable mammoth diamonds using ordinary household ingredients such as vinegar and ... !!! WE ARE INTERRUPTING THIS POST TO BRING YOU A LATE BREAKING NEWS FLASH !!! Entomologists** report the discovery of unusually large yellow jacket nests uncovered in southern Alabama and parts of Georgia. While large wasp nests are common to fall, those nests being found are of such a size and magnitude as to puzzle experts. These 'supernests', are being found in undisturbed, remote locations locations including abandoned barns and cars. One such 'supernest' was verified to have filled the entire interior of a 1955 Chevrolet. Another supernest, found in a barn, was so large it had to be removed in sections. The cause of these supernests has not been determined. Speculations range from drought to global warming to harem battles between multiple insect queens! ... vinegar and ... and ... omg. What is this? Some kind of real life Fear Factor? First it was giant rats invading southern Florida, then intelligent mice in the labs, then the bedbug Olympics where the little stinkers are impervious to everything but flamethrowers, now I've got to worry about wasp nests the size of small planets turning up in the my garage or something. Where's that Hazmat suit when you need one?

Researchers are puzzled, my Aunt Fanny. I'll tell you why the yellow jackets are building huge nests and super duper colonies. Because they CAN, that's why. I may be wrong, but for some reason I don't think wasps feel the need to justify their actions, is why. Criminy.

Okay, so what we need here, and quickly, before it's too late, what we need here is some kind of protective, full body cover to protect us primates from the sick, twisted depravity of a Mother Nature who is also warped enough to create hissing, flying cockroaches and maggots (Joke: what is the difference between dead maggots and the cheap rice in your pantry? Answer: you only think there's a difference. Both swell when wet) along with gargantuan rats and bedbugs spelunking around at night inside your ear canal - probably with tiny flashlights equipped with batteries that keep going and going and going.

No. Seriously. I'm gonna barf. If I ever open my car door to find the inside of the entire vehicle engulfed in a wasp nest, I am going to softly shut the door, pretend I didn't see a thing, and keep walking in the opposite direction in a straight line until either a) I hopefully fall off the edge of this fubar planet or b) the sun explodes. Whichever.

So like I was saying. What we need here is some kind of nature-proof covering, like the kind recommended by the friendly folk at the International House of Stinging Pests and Pancakes. They suggest some kind of adhesive, waterproof substance, ideally cut into strips, with which to fully encase the human body until Mother Nature is done getting her jollies. Gosh, if only we had something like that available ...

INTRODUCING the adhesive, waterproof substance that you can cut into strips with which to fully encase the human body!!! For only 4-easy cheesy payments of $29.99, I will personally send you a roll of what looks suspiciously like duct-tape, but probably isn't.

Cheaper than a Hazmat, and a lot more flexible than a Plexiglas bubble, this anti-nature tape is just the thing you need to keep the primate in and the lower forms of disgusting life the heck away from your flesh. Yes. All you need is a roll of our no-money-back-guaranteed-anti-nature tape, an Exacto knife, and a very, very, very close friend who, after painstakingly binding your body like a big gray mummy with our miracle anti-nature tape, will carefully (make sure this is a TRUE friend instead of the sleeze bags you typically hang out with) use the Exacto knife to cut precise, crucial openings for you to see and breathe and all other necessary bodily functions that we are too mature to mention (right) here.

OR, if you are too cowardly and cheap to take advantage of this special offer, then YOU can spend the rest of your life curled up in a fetal position within the safety of your home, which is a lousy way to enjoy Fall, if you ask me.

Frankly, you get what you pay for.

To order the new, miracle Anti-Nature tape, please send $29.99 X4 to M.A.D.s Gullibility Research Project, c/0 M.A.D.s Super Secret Swiss Bank account. Please allow all of eternity for checks to clear. Thank you.

** Entomologists: people who don't scream like a big baby when a bug lands in their hair.