Wednesday, December 20, 2006
I have been sick. Very sick. The kind of sick where you lay around (lie around? oh, fuck it) and hope to die. The kind of sick where I have been in and out of the hospital. The kidney infection is supposedly gone, yet some symptoms remain, and now they are suspecting an underlying auto-immune disease, like lupus or some such. Fun stuff.
I must apologize, as I have not been reading anyone's blogs. Thank you all for checking in on mine. Old Knudsen has been kind enough to switch me to Blogger Beta, so hopefully everything is going okay with that.
I will be recuperating for a few more weeks, and have more doctor's appointments. I will try to resume normal posting after the first of the year, or possibly sooner if I feel better.
Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, or Bah Humbug, depending on your religious persuasion or lack of same.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
She looked tired and wretched but I was able to totally see doon her top. In that whiney accent that those yanks have she said,"help me Old Knudsen you are my only hope" .
I listened as she explained how her system was compromised by the onslaught of syphilis and that, no hold on, to be honest I wasn't paying that much attention, she has a kidney infection and shes in a good bit of pain but her antibiotics seem to be slowly working.
If she lives I'm sure she'll tell it better than me, she just wanted me to post to let you all know what the score is and that she appreciates your kind thoughts.
Monday, November 27, 2006
And now for the bad news.... Sorry once again for the slack bastard posting, but on top of the sinus infection....
WARNING! MEN WILL CRINGE WHILE READING THIS!
....I now have a yeast infection from being on the antibiotics for so long, and on top of that, I had suspected I had a bladder infection, and now I know for sure because it's turned in to a fucking kidney infection. I have to call up my doctor tomorrow and beg and plead for them to fit me in first thing, if at all possible. That's assuming I survive the night without ending up in the emergency room from the pain. Oh, and then there's the chest pains, the tingling in my left arm, the heart palpitations and the feeling that I'm being strangled when I lay down to sleep. Nothing to worry about I'm sure.
The Spouse Sparrow is beginning to suspect that the only reason I have come down with all of this at the same time so I can get House assigned as my doctor. He may be right, but it's entirely subconscious on my part. Honest. I just worry that I'd get that poofter Chase assigned to me. Fuck that shit, bring House in. I'll demand that he looks at me while I'm naked.
I can just picture it now, me waiting patiently on the clinic exam table, playing with my nipples, as House comes in....
House: "So what seems to be the problem?"
Me: "Well, I started out with a recurring sinus infection, my regular doctor put me on antibiotics, I got a rash under my ginormous diddies, got a cream for that, got a yeast infection, got a bladder infection, and then got a kidney infection."
House: (raises eyebrow, looks bemused)
Me: "So which would you like to look at first; the diddies, the yeast in my beast, or a urine sample?
House: (turns pale) "I think we'll let Cameron consult on this one." (starts to walk out the door)
Me: "Come back here, you coward! What kind of man are you?! Is that cane just for looks, or are you using it to mask your penis issues? Hello? Hey, come back, I have insurance you know!"
Ah well, you get what you pay for.
I will really, really, really attempt to put up a decent post by sometime tomorrow night, assuming I am not hospitalized. Sorry.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Sorry to fuck off like that, but I was entertaining an ambassage from Migrainia, and am still on the antibiotics for the stupid sinuses, besides. I am doing slightly better now, and thanks for all your well-wishes. I'll have a lot to catch up on from everyone's blogs, I'm sure.
I have cooked a turkey, I have eaten part of said turkey, and now I am drinking a huge, quadruple-size Scotch and 7-Up, a veritable Big Gulp of booze. This is to avoid the stripping, cleaning, and packing away of the previously mentioned turkey. Fuck self-cleaning ovens; when someone genetically engineers a self-cleaning turkey, then I will be impressed.
I am rather tipsy, which is nice, and my arms have just started feeling rubbery, which means it must be time for a refill soon, to achieve the full desired effect of holiday drunkenness. The kids are in bed, I have commandeered the computer from the Spouse Sparrow, and semi-drunken posting will now commence. Wait, it already has commenced. Someone forgot to cue the music, dammit.
Ah, and there's the closing credits. I'm off to drink some more, trawl your blogs, and finally put away the leftovers before Kav starts worrying about food poisoning. Don't worry, Kav, we didn't have any rice.
Friday, November 17, 2006
You are The High Priestess
Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.
The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
17 separate searches for "big arses," all from the UK. I am sure that Footie will deny that any of them were him.
1 search for "big arse" from Australia. 1 for "minge." Also "fill my pussy" and "daughters pussy." Please tell me they're talking about a cat. And then there's "ice drug." Don't ask me, for once I have no idea.
3 searches from Texas for "farting gay." That's three searches.
A search for "masturbating with batteries and q tips" from Canada. This one is definitely the first prize winner of searches. You have my interest and my respect, sir or madam.
Also from Canada, "does watching pron break my fast during ramadan," and "wanking about pron during ramadan." I don't know which is more disturbing; the fact that they cannot spell a simple word like "porn," or that they might actually have meant "prawn." Either way, I would like to tell this to the people that did the searches, and I mean this most sincerely: Kill yourself now. Please.
More from Canada: "how to get rid of fat balls on a cats neck." Well, first you take your dick out of the cat's mouth....
5 searches, all from France, having to do with "fat americans on scooters."
From the UK: 4 searches for "fat minge." 1 for "fat poos." 1 for "nicely stoned." 1 for "why does my cum taste of garlic?" and 1 for "sam likes minge." 4 searches for "minge." 1 search for "sweaty farts." 3 searches for "dead pussy." 1 search for "mother in law lets daughter suck her tits." 1 for "rabbit minge" and 1 for "fat twats." 1 search for "ulster mad dog." Then there's "bud delivered pay weed." You really can get anything on the Internet these days, I guess. Also "fuck the minge," "fuck a fat bird," and "porn slang salad tossing." I do believe that porn is much like foreign films, in that there's no point watching if you don't know what's going on. Then there's "wanking my daughter." No, I don't want to know. Also "how to make fire come out of exhaust." I heard curry will do the trick on that one.
From a British person in America: "why can't you use water or any kind of extinguisher on a chip pan fire." They got my "Fire In The Hole" story, and hopefully they learned something from it.
1 search from Germany for "hate mother-in-law must kill." Also from Germany, "horse fuck." And "aribians gays." Then there was "business fuck porn" and "flashlight porn."
31 searches from the US having to do with "the worms crawl in the worms crawl out," in various forms. 1 from Texas for "morgellons cyst," 1 from Louisiana for "tard," and 1 from Maryland for "my life is over." 1 search from Arizona for "pineapple, cum." 1 search from Oklahoma for "mother mary butt plug." "Fat teenagers" from Wisconsin, "lump yeah baby" from North Carolina, and "how to piss off a republican" from New York. I wouldn't have thought Hillary would need tips, but there you have it. I am always happy to give advice.
From Alabama, "you know you are an old bat when." "Old people farting" from Connecticut.
From Virginia, "tossing the salad" and "fat white male kids." Yay, the Democrats have won!
"Where exactly is the pussy hole" from Washington. What has happened to parental Internet controls?
And for the 12 people in the various parts of the US who searched for anything having to do with "how to wear modern leg warmers," please don't.
33 searches, worldwide, for any combination of "wrist lump bump volar ganglion cyst bible thump."
From Canada: 1 search for "crunch fucker." 1 search for "homosexual fart." 1 search for "bananas bodily fluids taste." Also "eat my pussy you bastard." I had no idea that Canadians could be assertive.
1 search from Massachusetts for "i need an old priest." I suppose that better than old priests doing searches for young boys.
From France: 1 search for "fatty kiddie sex." 1 search for "hairy arses." I would have thought they could search locally for that. Also "horse fuck."
1 search from Columbia for "sleeping fuck." Talk to my husband.
From Lithuania: "fat wife." From The Netherlands, "tossing the salad."
1 search from Virginia for "semen eating ants." Um, how's that again?! "Stick it in my pussy" from Missouri, The "Show Me" state. "Kiddie porn videos," from Ohio, the "I Don't Want To Know" state. "Fifties fruit plate," from Chicago, Illinois. "Eat my pussy you whore" from Florida. Good to know who's working at DisneyWorld, isn't it?
From Romania: 1 search for "alien eel."
1 search from Indiana for "best sex." Yep, they've come to the right place.
1 search from North Carolina for "telling the difference of weed."
1 from Washington for "how much weed do you need in brownies." Wouldn't that depend on what you're using the brownies for?
From South Africa: "does weed make you hungry." Is the Pope a Nazi?
1 search from America for "am i cursed?" 1 search from Australia for "i am cursed."
Also from Australia: 1 search for "insertin eels in the arse." The spirit of Steve Irwin lives on.
From Italy we have "old age fuckers." "Minge" from Malta. "Fuck my neighbor wife" from Indonesia. From India, "injured pussy while fucking." Exactly which meaning of "pussy" are we going with here? The feline one, or the twat one? Never mind, I'm sorry I asked.
1 search for "worms in pussy" from Poland.
1 search for "worm in my urethra" from Las Vegas. Remind me not to use the hotel pool next time I'm in Vegas. I have a feeling that not everything that happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. I'm just guessing, but I think herpes and urethral worms might travel.
1 search from India for "you are a person of culture." Yes, you have also come to the right place.
And here I was hoping that my numbers were going up due to my excellent writing.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Tomorrow, my dad is coming out to take me to my doctor's appointment, run me around for my errands, and then we're off to go to the Fledgling Sparrow's school awards ceremony, as she is getting an academic award.
Hanging out with my dad for several hours is as much fun as chewing sand. My stomach is in knots and the butterflies in there are doing kamikaze dives. My dad is a terrible driver, and does not realize this, so I have to remind my dad to not shout at or flip off drivers that have cut him off after he has accidentally swerved at them, as in my neighborhood, he will get shot.
They will not be coming over for Thanksgiving this year, as they are in the process of getting their house ready to sell. This will be a relief to all concerned, as they will not have to sit at my house and pretend to be entertained, and I will not have to try to entertain them. Plus, my house can remain in its usual shit-pit state, as I don't have to worry about my parents coming over and finding a dog hair in their mashed potatoes. We are used to the dog hairs, and now consider them to be a fine source of fiber. Besides, it's not the dog hairs that will kill you, it's the dog farts. I had to lock the dogs in the backyard the other day, and air out the house for an hour before the smell dissipated. And that was with the 50 MPH Santa Ana winds blowing outside. I am beginning to suspect that the layer of sticky grime I find when I clean is the grease from dog farts.
I will try and be a good mom and keep a straight face when they hand the Fledgling Sparrow her academic award. I will not remark to all and sundry assembled how she pesters me with stupid questions night and day, and wonders why she has to take a history class when she can just watch the History Channel. I will try and remember to take loads of ibuprofen beforehand, to dampen my fever. I will try to remember that children are our future, without being suicidal.
Speaking of which, someone threw out a perfectly good newborn baby not more than two miles from our house, just a few days ago. The baby still had his umbilical cord, and he was wrapped in a blanket and put in a plastic container. He was still alive when whomever it was, presumably the mother, put him in the plastic container. Now, I am not the best of parents, but I do know that putting a baby in a Tupperware will not keep them fresh.
It is even stupider, because we are a "Safe Haven" law state, which means that you can turn a newborn baby in to any fire station (or which there are three within a three-mile radius of where the baby was found), emergency room, etc. and they will ask you no questions whatsoever. Also, in California, if you are in labor, you can go to any emergency room, refuse to give them your name or any information, deliver your baby, and leave. That is the law, and that is one of the many reasons why we have so many illegal immigrants here in California. Everyone knows this, so there is no reason to go having a baby at home, or tossing out a baby, just because you are poor, or undocumented, or are on drugs, or anything.
There is just no good excuse for suffocating a baby in a plastic container. If you didn't want to be pregnant, well, this is California. You can get a free abortion. If you didn't want to raise a kid, you can put them up for adoption, no questions asked. Nothing could be easier.
I know pregnancy and labor isn't a piece of piss, which is why after nine months, while in labor, I was shouting down the hospital, screaming "Get it out of me!" like I was infested with an alien parasite, while begging for an epidural. I know raising a kid can be burdensome, as I've been a single mom, who lived on ramen noodles, to make sure my kid had meat to eat. I have an almost three-year-old who still won't sleep through the night, and can't eat solid food. You don't have to tell me about the burdens of motherhood. And I should say "parenthood," because there's plenty of dads out there who go through the single parent thing, too.
The paper said that the baby was either Hispanic or black. Now, they may not fetch quite as much on eBay as a white baby, but they are becoming quite trendy, what with Madonna and all, so I really see no reason to chuck out a perfectly good baby.
Before you start thinking that I have turned in to a big old softy, I am here to tell you that I have not. Hanging is too good for the likes of that so-called mother.
I know what the statistics say, that it will be a young girl, age 16 to 21, who has hidden her pregnancy, who is in denial, yada yada yada. There will be some people who will think that I should feel sorry for her. I can't. I won't. She didn't have any sympathy for that baby, or she would not have put it in a plastic container, with a practically airtight lid, to struggle for its last breaths. She never gave that baby a chance. Why should I give her a chance? Have her euthanized, before she breeds again.
Two miles. From my house. And I couldn't do anything about it.
People are assholes, and the more I know about them, the more I want to kick my cats.
P.S. -- This is the website for the organization started by a local woman to raise money to bury these abandoned babies. I guess I must be getting to be a softy in my old age, because normally I'd say that spending charity money on dead people is a waste. Whatever, she's done a lot to raise awareness about this problem, and was instrumental in getting the laws passed here in California.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Which got me thinking about British-type food.
Yes, British food needs fixed. I am firmly convinced that the main reason that the British and Irish have managed to take over half of the world is due to their amazing ability to eat any old shite, and not notice how God-awful it is.
Old Knudsen did a post on how the SAS bag up their shit while on a mission, so that their enemies cannot track them. I do not believe this for one minute. I'm sure this is just something the SAS tell to outsiders. In reality, they eat their own shit, so that the enemy cannot track them. These trained killers can't tell the difference between their shit and whatever potted meat they've been given, anyway. They just don't want to tell that to foreigners, as they know that we will make fun of them, and rightly so.
Now some British food is valid. One time, at band camp, before we lived in desperate poverty, we actually had some spare money, and we went to the local British food import store. The Spouse Sparrow purchased several incredibly minging things, but one thing he got that I actually liked were prawn cocktail crisps. The truly amazing thing about these was that you could actually stop eating them. They were wonderful, but after a small bag, you were satiated, and you did not feel the need to continue grazing. This was an incredible revelation for me. I can sit down with a giant, horse-feed-sized bag of American chips, and mow right through those, even if they're not that good. I do believe it's a conspiracy.
The Brits and the Irish have this amazing ability to exist anywhere, in any climate, with any peoples, and eat anything. It doesn't matter if they're having to subsist on bat guano, duck droppings, or lizard feet; they will conquer that untamed fucking wilderness and whoever is in it will be their bitches.
Minging as British-type food is, Americans could learn a thing or two from this. We cannot go anywhere without bringing our own food with us. Why, even our government, while invading some unsuspecting oil-rich country full of brown people, will look at the advance reports, and what do they see? Is it the cautious urgings of careful generals, warning that things may not go as envisioned? Is it the meanderings of some foreign intelligence specialist, ruminating on how we do not speak the language, or understand the culture? No, it is not. It is the report from the Halliburton subsidiary that makes our fine President jump out of his recliner and shout "Fuck me, they're eating what?! Sheep's eyeballs! By Jeebus, when we invade, we must build Subways!" And we do. And then we start giving them McDonald's, and Taco Bell, and Pizza Hut, and KFC. And we cannot understand why, now that those bastards have all this wondrous food, they have not miraculously converted to a democracy. I'll tell you why. It is because the sedatives that turn you into a brainless, non-voting "democracy" are in the fucking bottled water, and we have not managed to brainwash the local camel jockeys to cough up $2 a bottle for the stuff, that's why.
It's only a matter of time, though, and then we will rule the world. Burgers and fries will be served.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I was passing by a phone box when I saw one of the local tramps that infest the city. She was lying in the bottom of the phone box with her arm outstretched like a wounded soldier cut down by machine gun fire, "Help me Sarge, don't leave me here to die!" No she didn't say that, you gift. She wasn't a young hot wino (strange you don't see any of them), she was anywhere from 50 to 70 and was minging. I didn't want to touch her but I'm a soft touch, I'm a first aider also, so I thought she might be injured.
She communicated in gruffs as if she had been raised by wolves, alcoholic wolves. She muttered something about a bad leg and I helped her up. There was nothing wrong with her grip, it held onto my arm like a vice, and I made a mental note to burn the clothes I was wearing.
I decided to walk my hygienically challenged friend to her home, hoping it wasn't far, as it was on my way. The only problem was we looked like a courting couple, and I was so glad no one was about. Well, until the milkman that delivers to McDonald's saw me while he was doing his rounds. I could just imagine the conversation he would have with the opening manager. I looked down in an attempt to be invisible and hoped to work more nightshifts for a while so I wouldn't have to see him in the mornings.
It took what seemed like an eternity to reach the row of houses Mrs Rif Raf claimed to live in, she pushed open a door of what looked like a vacant house. Total darkness inside, the smell of piss was in the air, and I suddenly felt like the fly in a spider's web. In a second, as she pulled me towards the dark, I remembered my army training and rolled my arm breaking her Vulcan grip. She looked at her hand dumbfounded as if she was thinking, "Hey, that never happened before." I quickly said, "Well, goodnight" and walked off at speed.
The moral of this story? Don't help anyone because they will just want to eat your brains (or worse) in an abandoned house. No, you'll not see this tale in Aesop's fables.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
It was a hot, hot summer day in Southern California, and the ex-husband and one of his friends (we'll call him "Len") were out driving in the middle of nowhere, stoned out of their minds, like you do. They had been out in the desert washes, 4-bying in The Ex's truck.
On the way back home, they had to go down a road that went under a overpass and had a dip in it. A huge dip, at a deep slant. Right under the overpass, unbeknownst to them, was a large, dead, rotting dog. The kind where the belly's all puffed up, just waiting to burst. The ex was going about 50 MPH, and realized that if he swerved, he would hit an embankment, and that there was nowhere to go. The Ex figured that the safest thing to do was to hit the dog. I mean, it was dead already, right? It's not like it was going to get any more deceased than it already was. So, he hit the dog.
What The Ex failed to take into account was the highly explosive, and very stinky, nature of large animals that have been bereft of life for a while. He also forgot that the windows in his truck were rolled down. It was very much like that scene in "Three Kings" where the cow explodes. Complete incomprehension on the part of all involved, then the raining down of huge masses of flesh. But, in "Three Kings," at least the cow was fresh. The dog was decidedly not.
Upon hitting the dog, gaseous matter, oozing ick, and globs o' decaying meat flew everywhere, not the least of which was through the windshield, which took a direct hit from the dog's maggoty head. Other parts flew in through the side windows. Once safely through, The Ex pulled over to the side of the road. It took him and Len a minute to regroup. They got out of the truck to assess the damage. It was bad. The windshield was completely gone, the entire front end of the truck was covered in deceased canine glop, the rotting head was in the front seat, and a good portion of the carcass was in the back of the bed of the truck. The Ex and Len were also covered in it. They proceeded to quietly freak out.
Here you have a horrible and morbid scene, the kind of thing that the police would definitely pull you over for, and rightly so. The kind of thing where if this was a Quentin Tarantino movie, you would be on the phone to Harvey Keitel to get help. And yet here they were, miles and miles from home, in the days before obligatory cell phones, completely fucking stoned, and afraid of getting pulled over by the cops due to all the blood and muck on the exterior and interior of the vehicle and themselves, and the missing windshield.
Obviously, someone needed to do some thinking and come up with a plan. Len had a brilliant idea. They were holding, which could be a problem if they were pulled over, so what they needed to do, Len figured, was to smoke all the pot they had with them. So they did. The Ex and Len loaded up their bong, sat down on the curb, and hit away. They felt much better afterward. But now The Ex and Len were hungry. You and I, in a similar, non-stoned situation, would not be able to eat while covered in decayed dog, but stoners are different. They had the munchies, and munched up everything they had brought with them in the ice chest.
Well now, what to do about cleaning up? The main thing seemed to be to clean up themselves first, but all they had handy was the bong water. Excellent plan, and the small bit of bong water was now used to wash their hands and face. Never mind that neither one of them had changed the bong water in months, and it was black and chunky and left them smelling worse than they had before. Those are minor details. They then needed to wash off part of the truck, or at least as much as they could. The only thing they had left was packets of Blue Ice, from the ice chest. They wouldn't be needing those for the ride home, so they tore those open, and began wiping down the front of the truck with it. The Blue Ice immediately crystallized on the hood of the truck in the 105 degree heat, leaving a very interesting pattern of blue gunk and bloody dog guts. The Ex and Len could not wipe it off. This time it was The Ex who came up with the brilliant plan; they would pee it off. The piss did not work. It mainly ran off the hood of the truck, while leaving all the large bits of matter still there.
By now, The Ex and Len were out of ideas. It was growing dark, and Len needed to get home, as he had his shift to do, delivering pizzas for Domino's Pizza. If he was late, he'd be fired. They didn't care if he was stoned. Considering the area that he delivered in, being stoned would have been a plus for that job. The Ex and Len considered, and assumed that their chances of getting home safely were better now that it would be dark.
They were right. They made it home safely. The Ex dropped Len off at his house, and staggered back home to his parent's house, where he lived.
The Ex's mother didn't enter the spare bathroom 'til the next day, but when she did, the screaming brought down the house. The Ex had decided, quite wisely, to take a shower when he got home. He had also decided, rather unwisely, to bring the dog's head in with him. He though it would be cool to have the dog skull attached to the front grill of his truck. He had started washing it in the shower, but gave it up as a bad job, and went to get something to eat, as he still had the munchies. His mother found it the next day, when a good many of the maggots had hatched. She was wondering where all the flies were coming from.
The Ex hosed out the truck and doused the interior with bleach, and even had the engine compartment steam cleaned, but he never did manage to get the smell out of it. I think dog parts were stuck in the ventilation system, and there was just no way they were ever going to stop stinking. We mainly used my car for transportation after that. Years later, when The Ex sold the truck, I made sure he did it in the winter, and to another stoner. It was just an old Toyota from the late 70's, and a beater anyway. It's probably still running though, and sometimes I wonder if whoever has it now notices that smell in the summer, and wonders what it is.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
That's when my doctor can manage to see me. Never mind that I have a fever that's been spiking to 103 degrees, or that the antibiotics didn't work. The bastards actually allowed three of the medical practice's five doctors to go on vacation at the same time.
This was how my phone conversation went....
Front desk: "Hello, Pain-in-the-arse Medical Group. How may I help you?"
Me: "Yes, could I have the appointment desk, please?"
Front desk: "One moment." (transfers me to hold for 10 minutes)
Receptionist: "Appointment desk. How may I help you?"
Me: "Hi, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Soandso at the local office."
Receptionist: (receptionist asks my name, date of birth, etc.) "And what will you need to be seen for?"
Me: "Well, I was in two weeks ago for a sinus infection, and Dr. Soandso put me on antibiotics for a sinus infection, and I finished the antibiotics, but my fever came back, and the sinus infection's still there."
Receptionist: "All right, we have an opening at the local office with Dr. Soandso on November 14, at 2:20 P.M."
Me: "Um, do you have anything at the local office with another doctor? My fever's been kinda bad."
Receptionist: "No, I'm afraid we don't. We have three doctors out on vacation right now."
Me: (muttering) "What kind of mong do you have running your scheduling office? You only have 5 doctors at the local office as it is."
Receptionist: "I'm sorry?"
Me: "Never mind. Look, is there anyway you can squeeze me in? It would be a ten minute appointment, max. I only need a prescription."
Receptionist: "No, but we do have two walk-in clinics."
Me: "Yeah, I know, but they're each 12 miles away from me, in opposite directions. Not exactly walking distance, as I don't have a car."
Receptionist: "Could you take the bus?"
Me: "No, I have a 103 fever and migraines and I have a constant stream of snot running from my nose. I would have to take 3 buses to get to either of the clinics, and that would take well over two hours."
Me: "So, November 14, you say?"
Receptionist: "Yes, that's right. Would you like that appointment date?"
Me: "I guess I would."
Let's hope I haven't carked it by then. I spent all day conked out on migraine medication, as it is migraine week. And did I mention the temperature's back up to 82? With the Santa Ana winds again? Fucking weather. At least the Spouse Sparrow hadn't sealed the swamp cooler up for the season yet, so we had air conditioning.
We're back down into single digit humidity levels. Do you know how dry 9% humidity is? I'll tell you. It's so dry that I can blow my nose on a tissue until that tissue is dripping wet, and then I can set that tissue aside, and 3 minutes later, that tissue is completely dry enough for me to use it to blow my nose again. That's how dry it is.
Quit cringing. It's recycling. Recycling is good.
Oh, and we had a fire up the road from us. A small one, but we're paranoid enough about fire here, especially during the windy season, that the smell of smoke was enough to wake me up at the ungodly hour of 7 A.M. I leapt up out of bed and rushed outside to see what direction the smoke was coming from. We almost lost the house a couple of years ago from a fire, so better safe than sorry. Did I mention that it was the Spouse Sparrow that saved the house that time, with a garden hose, before the fire truck arrived? Yes, the Spouse Sparrow is quite the multi-talented stud muffin. I shudder to think what would have happened if we hadn't been home.
And speaking of doctors, while we're at it.... Why the fuck does the doctor's office send out notices urgently urging us all to come in and get our flu shots in October, when they won't even have the vaccines yet? Why? Is it just to irritate me, so that I can call in every week, asking if they've got them in yet? I believe it is. Every week I call, and every week they tell me to call next week. I imagine that one week I'll call, and they'll tell me that they're all out, I should have gotten one the week before.
And people wonder why Americans are so violent.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Love and snot,
Friday, November 03, 2006
You know you live in the ghetto when:
The children in your 'hood collect shell casings that they have found, the way kids in the 'burbs collect old Indian arrowheads.
The main wildlife in your 'hood is the two-legged kind.
The first bird your kids learn to identify is the Ghetto Bird (i.e., the police helicopter).
You are reassured when you hear police sirens, because it means that the police are actually out and about.
When kids draw with chalk on the sidewalk, they draw body outlines.
You know better than to call "911." You know you will get a faster response by calling the police station directly.
You have the phone number for the police memorized because you use it so often.
When you call in to the police station, the dispatcher recognizes your voice, and asks you how the kids are.
You no longer have to give the police directions on how to get to your neighborhood; they already know it.
The police rely on you to give them new info about gang members and drug dealers in your 'hood, and you are neither.
All of the "Neighborhood Watch" signs in your neighborhood have been defaced.
People take shits in the bushes in your yard, and it's not Twenty Major.
The litter in your neighborhood consists of condoms, panties, syringes, and glass pipes.
You have had to warn your toddler to not pick up shiny things, as they are probably razor blades.
You have had to hide on the floor of your house, shielding your child with your body, while the SWAT team (with dogs and automatic weapons, no less) batters down your neighbor's door.
You are one of the last few white people in the area. Everyone else got out while they could.
When you call Pizza Hut and ask for delivery, they laugh.
The Women's Club is run by a guy in a large hat with a feather in it.
The kindergarteners ask the pervs what kind of candy they have. The pervs give it to them because they are afraid not to.
You think that all the local black kids have a speech impediment, but they're actually just speaking Ebonics. They can't seem to grasp the fact that they are not speaking English, and can't understand why you can't understand them. They start talking really loudly and slowly, as if you were a foreigner.
The "Ice Crack Man" cruises your 'hood. You can get your drugs and your ice cream from the same place.
You know all the winos, crazies, and homeless people by name. You can tell when they're out of their usual territory.
They also know you, and know better than to ask you for money.
You know not to stop walking when someone asks you what time it is. You know that this is a common set-up for a mugging.
Even the mailman packs a 9.
Your children come home from school with a whole new vocabulary, and it's not one you want them to have. They have learned how to curse in English, Spanish, and Ebonics.
The teachers at the local school all have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
The kids at the local school always gather around your kid at recess, because they have never seen a white person in person before.
People stare at you when you're out walking, and assume that you must be a narc, because you're white.
The Hindus that run the local corner store have seen more action than a Vietnam vet.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
After the cake was done baking, I put it out to cool, and when I returned to the kitchen later, fuck me if there wasn't a mosquito on it, having a go. Now, it was a white cake, and all warm, so the mosquito might have mistaken it for an arm or something, but that was still not valid. I got the heebie-jeebies, and it reminded me of a bug version of that scene in "American Pie." Yuck, again. I tried to pick it and smush it, but it was too fast for me.
Much later, I was back in the kitchen, doing the dishes. I found out the mosquito was still in there, and had been joined by a fly. I do not appreciate bugs landing on me, nor sucking at me, but I had to get the dishes done. You know that video clip of that commercial with Michael J. Fox in it? The one that Rush Limbaugh's slagging him off about? The one where he spazzes out like a itchy break dancer on speed? Well, that's what I looked like, trying to keep that fly and mosquito from landing on me.
Much, much later, I was sitting at the computer, typing away. I may have had a few drinks in between, and forgotten to put away the fixin's. The Fledgling Sparrow comes out of her room, goes into the kitchen for a drink of water, looks at the kitchen counter, looks at me, and says, "Someone's been visiting Margaritaville."
Fucking teenagers. I drink to forget, you fucking teenager, I drink to forget!
Damn. Next time I should remember to put away the drink stuff.
My house is still a shithole, but the chunks are up, at least. Luckily for me, my parents weren't in here long, as we all took the kid out to dinner (Mexican food, yum!). I will have to do a more intensive cleaning before Thanksgiving, so I'm not looking forward to that. You lot may think I'm joking about the dust and dirt here, but it's no exaggeration. We live in a semi-desert area, with constant high winds, in a house that doesn't seal up. As soon as we dust, it settles right back down. If you go a couple of weeks without dusting, the dust on the bookshelves starts to get dunes and drifts.
We're still fairly busy, as we have the whole getting ready for Hallowe'en thing going on, and we will be out at the Community Center for a free Hallowe'en party and haunted house. The Nestling Sparrow has been practicing being a ghost and scaring people. We got him a pirate outfit, but I think he has decided to be a ghost pirate ("Arrrrrr! Boooo! Did I scare you? Did I scare you?"). The Fledgling Sparrow is dressing up in my Ren Faire outfit. She doesn't have the norks to fill the bodice out, but what can you do?
The Fledgling Sparrow has a friend coming over, who is going with us to the party. The Spouse Sparrow and I are planning on knocking back a few before we all go, so we do not have to kill the teenagers. The Fledgling Sparrow must have had an extra helping of stupid lately, as she has asked me five times (at least) what I am going as for Hallowe'en. I have told her repeatedly that I am not dressing up. She asked again last night, and I finally snapped and said "Yer ma!"
I love Hallowe'en. It's my favorite holiday; a holiday with no pressure. Christmas you have to worry about giving gifts, Thanksgiving you have to worry about cooking food and having people over, New Year's sucks if you are single, or if you are married with kids and can't go out, ditto for St. Patrick's, triple for Valentine's, and Easter has Lent and church and all that crap. Hallowe'en is the best, it's all about the fun, and no pressure at all. Hallowe'en is all about whatever you want it to be.
Happy Hallowe'en to all!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
My parents will be positively appalled. I mean, not that they haven't seem it messy, but still. My mother will shake her head sadly, sure that my blogging is ruining my life. As if I had a life?
It's their fault, anyway. Why am I not a rich trust fund brat? Spoiled rich girls pay someone to clean for them.
We have had the Santa Ana winds here, and everything is covered in an inch of dust and dirt. I hate the winds; 50 mph, a constant breeze blowing through my house (even with it closed up), and yet still I have a cloud of dog farts hanging over everything. Not only that, we're at 9% humidity, and I feel like Cassandra in Dr. Who: "Moisturize me, I'm drying out!"
I had better get to the cleaning. See you lot later.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Nothing; my doctor's a girl, remember?
I have a sinus infection. I knew that one, as I get them all the time. Antibiotics for two weeks, yada yada, yada yada, thing. I still have my fever, but I am starting to feel better, and at least I can sleep now. So, you can all stop being afraid of whatever delirious comments you were a-feared of me putting on your blogs. I will be no worse than usual now. Sleep is good, as I was not getting much of it, due to feeling icky, and between that and the fever I was quite goofy.
The lump on my wrist is a ganglion cyst, but as it has gone down a lot, the doctor doesn't feel I need to do anything about it right now. She says they're quite common. I don't think that's very valid, as I am used to getting obscure diseases, but I suppose the common-ness of you lot has rubbed off on me. Maybe I should bathe more often. My arm stopped hurting a bit back, but started up again since the doctor felt the need to pulverize my wrist bones while feeling up my bump.
A picture of my actual doctor. Note the ruthless gaze, intent on causing pain
My doctor looked at me as if I were Queen of the Mongs when I told her about that motion-sickness I get during sex. She put me on an anti-nausea pill (one of the many uses Phenergan has), and explained the side effects. I told her I had been on it before, and she asked me what side effects I had experienced. I did my best impression of a sleepwalking, snoring zombie. "Ah, sedative effect," she noted in my chart. She said "Your husband may not like that one, you being sleepy during sex." I replied "No, it's probably not a problem. He likes it when they lie still." The Spouse Sparrow was not amused. It's true though, dammit. I wake up with my nether regions all sticky, and ask him "Did we have sex?" He says "Well, I did."
Kids are their own form of birth control, and especially when they're in a crib in the same room as you. We turned on the TV in the bedroom the other day for the Nestling Sparrow, so that we could have a bit of a lie-in. The Spouse Sparrow and I start spooning, and I then I hear Diego on the TV saying "Come on, let's ride the whale! Vamanos!" and the Spouse Sparrow says "Oh yeah, baby, ride the whale!" The Nestling Sparrow pipes up with "I want to ride the whale, too!" Bah, possible sex session over.
You know, between the Nestling Sparrows constant tantrums, nighttime wakings, refusal to eat solid food, potty train, or even let us have sex, I am suspecting that he may not want a sibling. He could have just said so.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Last night I let the Nestling Sparrow sit on my lap at the computer while I was surfing blogs. "What could it hurt?" I thought, in my innocence. I've let him sit with me at the computer before, as he likes to look at Monstee's site (when we can see it, still can't at the moment; we miss you, Monstee!), and he likes to press the key for the letter "J." Don't know why, but it's his favorite right now. Anyhow, he pressed something else on the keyboard (don't know what, but it had to be on the left hand side), and now almost everything we look at on the computer has microscopic font, and is wonky in other ways.
If anyone has a clue as to what the hell the Nestling Sparrow has done, and knows a possible remedy, can you e-mail me at TheFatSparrow@aol.com? I would really, really, appreciate it. I mean like blow-job appreciate it.
The our system is a PC, brand-spankin' new. We just got it in August. The last time I had a computer, it was mid-2001, and I don't remember jack squat about computers anymore. I used to... Well, I won't say I used to know what I was doing, but I didn't suck. I used to help other people with this kind of stuff. I remember computers as being a lot easier. You opened up the panels, gave the hamsters inside a good talking to, cleaned the shit off their wheel, and everything was okay. The computer we have now has this Cylon eye-thingie on it, I can't see where the hamsters live, and frankly, it scares me.
I also suspect that my brain has gone to mush since I have had the last kid. I am definitely getting dumber.
If I can't get this font thing fixed, I will go blind. That would be quite ironic, considering that years of masturbating didn't do it.
I'm going to the doctor's today, as my sinus infection has decided to give me 103 degree fevers (which may have something to do with my general level of stupidity and wackiness lately), but if you could e-mail me anyway, the Spouse Sparrow can check my e-mail and possibly have a go at the problem, if the Nestling Sparrow will give him any peace.
Update -- I've received a couple of e-mails, but still no fixes! I still need help!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
My neighbour "Dan" is a stout fellow with a beard. He's loud, shouts at his kids, sells pot to supplement his income, and his wife has herpes and drinks a lot. A typical all-American family. There, now you know him as well as I do.
He started the conversation with, "I was watching the History Channel (he must have changed to that channel by mistake, then he dropped the remote and was too fat to bend down and get it); are all the buildings in Ireland old?" Lucky I had sunglasses on or he would have seen the eye roll.
I could tell Ireland and Northern Ireland were the same in his mind, so I answered accordingly. I explained, as I would to a small child, "There are new buildings, and old buildings and some that are a bit of both." I hoped that was it and I really did try to edge away but being a polite Brit, I found it difficult.
The questions kept coming: "Aren't there any minorities over there?"
"Not really, no," I said, edging father away.
"Are the people in Ireland all racist then?" Dan comes from a long line of KKK members so he really wanted to know this one.
"No, they are religious bigots." I explained a little about Catholics and Protestants and how in N.I. mostly everyone is white. I've had a similar conversation with him before but stoners can't remember shit.
"How did the whole religion thing start?" was his next question. F**k, don't these people have a computer? Have they not heard of Google?
I answered simply and more or less correctly to a point, "Henry the 8th sent Scottish Protestants to N.I. to drive out the Irish Catholics."
"They must have killed a lot of them?" he questioned further. I told him it was less genocide and more treating them like shit. To top it off I compared it to the Americans taking the land from the Indians. He got that example, no doubt to forget it 10 minutes later.
He then went on to tell me (again, and probably quite often in the future as well) that his family can be traced back to the 14th century and that his ancestor was the Prime Minister of England. I don't know how I kept a straight face.
He also told me his ancestor had a town named after him, (we'll call it) "Biggefatretarde." Now this is a real town and I had heard of it, so I told him that his name "Bigfatretard" (Americans changed all the immigrant names) sounded Scandinavian and he probably was related to Viking invaders and that he might have had ancestors that were knighted.
He was quite happy to hear this as it was better than his current life; no wonder he likes talking to me. He then went on to tell me how he tries to instill values and morals into his kids. This is priceless, coming from a drug dealer that's always late on his rent and works as little as possible. You know, I would just be happy if he made his usually hungover big beast of a teenage daughter put some clothes on and quit whoring it at the construction workers across the street.
I had enough by that point and stated, "Well, I better get back to work," and walked off.
I know there are intelligent nice Americans over here, I just always meet the morons.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Now, when I was a kid, I was the one taking advantage of the other kids, because (let's face it) kids are fucking dumb. I started practicing on my brother, early on. There were the usual games, like "Two For Flinching," which for those of you who don't know, is a game where you punch someone and if they flinch you get to hit them again.
Then there was "Okay Look," a fun little game for car rides in which you had to trick your opponent into looking at your hand as you made the "OK" sign. When they did, you punched them.
Then there was "I Can't Tell You're There, As I Have Rendered You Invisible." This one involved ignoring some kid (usually my ADHD brother) until they absolutely snapped, lost all control, and hit you. Then you got to yell for your mom, and they got spanked.
Before you go all "Awwwwww!" for my brother, let me tell you right now that he was a right twat, and his favorite game was "Get As Close As Possible, And Breathe All Over You." This was followed up by "Standing Up And Farting In Your Face While You Are Sitting On The Floor."
Using chemical warfare is always cheating, dammit.
The kids at school were right gifts, too. When I was in elementary school, the girls liked to dare each other to play "Bloody Mary." Now, this was nothing more than going in to the girls' bathroom, turning off the lights, and facing the mirror while chanting "Bloody Mary" three times. Supposedly, Bloody Mary would then come and get you, and you would be well fucked.
I upped the dares to bets for lunch money, and cleaned up from that pack of twats. There was nothing in that bathroom that could possibly be scarier than the smell, and if you could survive the door closing, and the concomitant lack of ventilation, it didn't really matter if the lights were on or off. To this day, I still cannot believe that something that dumb earned not only their respect, but their lunch money.
The teachers finally found out about it, as the lead girl upped the ante by demanding that I go in the boys' bathroom (gasps of horror all around), and the boys tattled on me, damn their small egos.
Speaking of boy's bathrooms, here's a handy little tip for you if you're ever at a concert or some venue where there's a line for the girls' bathrooms: Use the guys' bathrooms. There's never a line, and they never use the stalls. Unlike in elementary school, I have never had a guy complain about me using the men's. Quick, easy, and Bob's your uncle. I learned this one after going to the first Lollapalooza when I was 7 months pregnant, and I came down with a bladder infection while I was there. No, don't laugh yet, that wasn't the funny part. The funny part was me at Lollapalooza in a maternity dress.
Now, ladies, if you really want to freak them out, learn how to piss standing up, into a urinal. Of course, please make sure you wash your hands afterwards.
Of course it can be done! Didn't you girls ever go to summer camp?! Honestly, what do they teach kids nowadays? You don't even know you're born.
Friday, October 20, 2006
No, not Belinda Cockbox, although she is undoubtedly one, too.
The Spouse Sparrow.
Me: (typing away at the computer) "Mmmm, that smells good! What is that you're cooking?
Spouse Sparrow: "Cauliflower."
Me: "You twat, cauliflower is not the nice smell that I smell. Cauliflower smells like aged dog farts."
Spouse Sparrow: "Must be the chicken, then."
Me: "Well, what are you doing to it? It smells really good."
Spouse Sparrow: (no answer)
An hour or so later....
Spouse Sparrow: (sits down in front of the TV with plate of food, quietly munches away)
Me: "Is that curry I smell?
Spouse Sparrow: (no answer)
Me: "You fucking whore! That is curry! Wanker!"
Spouse Sparrow: (shoveling curry into his gob as fast as possible) "No, it isn't. It's chicken and chips. You don't like chicken and chips, remember?"
Me: "Fuck you; that is curry."
Spouse Sparrow: (shovels food in faster)
Me: (gets up, goes in kitchen, looks in pots and pans on stove) "You bastard, you fixed curry, and you weren't even going to tell me!"
Fledgling Sparrow: (who is half-way through her dinner of left-over pot roast) "Mom! He fixed curry! That's not fair!"
Spouse Sparrow: (shovels in last of food, begins to lick curry sauce off plate)
Me: (plaintive and pathetic) "Can I have some? I take back all I said, really. I'm sure your parents were married, honest-like."
Spouse Sparrow: (evil grin)
I'm sure he'll make me pay for this later, but right now, I've got curry, hahahaha.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The U.N. really needs to get on this right away, as North Korea has yet to attack anyone, and sting rays are very obviously on the war path. I know I just don't feel safe in my own home now. Okay, that's because I live in the ghetto, but still.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Up 'til the age of about 9, it was incredibly easy to go Christmas shopping with her. You would take her to the toy department at the store, ask her opinion on which toy she liked best, and then say, "Look! Over there!" While her head was turned, you would put the toy in the shopping cart, cover it with a jacket, and she was none the wiser. You cannot do this with my toddler son, the Nestling Sparrow. Out of sight is not out of mind, for him. He will harangue you constantly until you have produced whatever it was that you had hidden or put away. I have high hopes for him.
A couple of years ago, my daughter's class planned on going to a local amusement park, Knott's Berry Farm, as their end-of-the-school-year trip. She was very excited, and came home talking all about how she was going to go on various rides, and roller coasters, and have a great time. Now, back in the day, when my mom was a kid, Knott's Berry Farm was actually a berry farm, and in fact they still have their own private-labeled jams and jellies, available at many grocery stores. The Knott family added various rides, etc., in the hope of attracting more people to their farm and restaurant. Soon, there was no more farm, and it was solely an amusement park.
Now my daughter had no idea of the history of the place, as when we try to tell her things, he eyes glaze over, and we get incredibly frustrated. So when she came home all giddy and babbling, with news of the school trip, we told her that the students were wrong, it was not an amusement park, it was an actual berry farm, and school children went there on educational field trips, so that they could pick berries, and see how it was done. I went on, in detail, about the many times that I had been there, on either school trips or with my parents, and of my berry picking experiences. I told her that her grandmother had grown up not far from Knott's, and had picked berries there (which was true). She was slightly skeptical, as the other kids in her class had done an excellent job of hyping her up. But, it was a Friday, and she could not go back to school and talk to any of them about it.
The next day, Saturday, we went grocery shopping, and I showed her the jams and jellies on the store's shelves, which were definitely labeled "Knott's Berry Farm." She was absolutely convinced then, and completely crushed. She sulked all through Sunday.
Of course, Monday afternoon, when she came home from school, she was completely livid, and told us that she hated us. She, with her supposed superior knowledge gained over the weekend, had attempted to convince the other students of the berry picking operation at Knott's. It was only when a teacher intervened, and showed her pictures of the rides at the amusement park, and the other kids made fun of her, that she knew she had been had.
When she told us all this, we laughed so hard that we cried. It took us 30 minutes to finally stop laughing, and even now, years later, I am giggling away as I write this.
Why bother having kids, if you can't fuck with their heads for entertainment?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
I got this one from Clairwil.
This would be the soundtrack for the film of my life......
Opening Credits: "All Her Favorite Fruit" by Camper Van Beethoven
Waking Up: "Gabriel's Oboe" by Ennio Morricone
First Day At School: "You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby" by The Smiths
Sex Song: "Helter Skelter" cover by U2 (For a quickie), "Three Days; Extended Version" by Jane's Addiction (For the all night drunken fuck-fest), "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star (For the romantic stuff)
Party Song: "Mr. Jones" by Counting Crows (I don't know; this category was a real head-scratcher for me. At a party, I've usually cornered someone and am talking their ears off. I have no idea what's playing)
Falling In Love: "Killing Moon" by Echo and the Bunnymen, "To Sheila" by Smashing Pumpkins
Fight Song: "Opening Theme" from "Buffy The Vampire Slayer" (the TV series)
Getting Stoned: "Fool's Gold" by Stone Roses
Breaking Up: "Landslide" cover by Smashing Pumpkins
Prom: "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds (Yeah, I know; cheesy. So is prom. Deal with it)
Life Is Okay: "How Soon Is Now" by The Smiths
Mental Breakdown: "Dancing Barefoot" by Patti Smith
Driving: "Hotel California" by The Eagles
Flashback: "Heart Of Gold" by Neil Young
Getting Back Together: "Sleeping In The Devil's Bed" by Daniel Lanois
Wedding: "Lucky Man" by The Verve (Yes, I know I'm not a guy. Again, deal with it)
Birth Of A Child: "Birth Ritual" by Soundgarden (No, it's not very melodic, but neither was my actual screaming)
Final Battle: "The Battle Of Evermore" cover by The Lovemongers
Death Scene: "Elegia" by New Order
Funeral: "More Than This" by Roxy Music
Closing Credits: "Nightswimming" by R.E.M.
Monday, October 16, 2006
You lot can have a look-see around there, and see if anything interests you, if you hadn't already read it.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Obviously, I am some sort of a mong, because upon hearing about the contaminated lettuce and spinach, I said "Mmmmmm, salad!" Then I promptly went out and bought a whole lot of lettuce and produce, and proceeded to chow down. Fucking power of suggestion.
You would think that the grocery stores would have lowered their prices, considering that people are dropping dead from eating veg, but no, they have not. A dollar fucking thirty-nine for iceberg lettuce, that's what they wanted per head in Stater Bros., if you can believe that. I went over to Superior (a Mexican/Hispanic grocery chain; slang for these types of stores would be "Mexi Mart") and they were only charging 79 cents. That's more like it. Also they are just a couple of blocks from us, which is always good when you're walking.
I am really starting to appreciate the Mexi Mart (which just opened last year), as you can get way cheaper meat and produce, plus all your Catholic/Botanica needs are covered, also. Anyplace where I can get cheap potatoes, a Virgin Mary candle, and a bottle of tequila is all right by me.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Today, the Fledgling Sparrow asked me "Mom, who was it in the Bible that said 'If you build it, they will come'?"
Honest to fuck, that's what she asked me.
Yes, this is the one that's an Honor Student.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
In "Other Important News," I have a large lump on my wrist. It is not from wanking. It is not from hitting it on anything. It is not discolored. It just mysteriously appeared the other day. I think I may contain some type of alien larvae. Thank God for the Internet, as I will now do a search on my strange symptoms.
It had better not be morgellons, I'll tell you that. There's far too much of that shit going around. Dirty bastards.
Update! -- Oh my God, it's worse than morgellons. I feel ill. That's what I get for looking at medical pictures on the Internet. It looks like I might have something called a "wrist ganglion." I have no idea how I got this, but when I find out which one of you dirty fuckers gave it to me, I am telling your mother/spouse/significant other/sex toy.
You can read a description here and here and see pictures here and here.
Some of the helpful descriptions in the above sites:
"One traditional method of treating a ganglion cyst was to whack the lump with a large, heavy book. And since even the poorest households usually possessed a Bible, that was what they used, which is how ganglion cysts came to be nicknamed 'Bible Bumps' or sometimes 'Gideon's Disease'."
Oh, excellent. Faith-based healing. I believe my HMO covers that.
"Another alternative, that some call traditional, others call a bit barbaric, is to smash the wrist ganglion cyst with a hard object such as a book. This pops the cyst, and ruptures the lining of the cyst. Because the lining is disrupted, the smashed ganglion cyst may not return quite as often as those drained by a needle. However, many patients are uncomfortable with their doctor 'whacking' a book against their wrist..."
No shit; you don't say! I am not letting my doctor do that, even if it is the recommended lower-cost option from my health plan.
My doctor is a young, sadistic little Asian-American chick with a Valley Girl accent, and I am pretty sure she went to a "party school." I'll just bet she knows this so-called treatment. She's not a big believer in anesthetics, either. If this was the Old West, she wouldn't even suggest that you drink whisky and bite the bullet before hand. You should have seen the butchery she did on my daughter's ingrown toenail. When the daughter finally went to a Podiatrist, he was appalled. Can't blame him. I watched the toe surgery, and I almost hurled and passed out.
Well, I've already got an appointment coming up on the 25th, for my sinus infection, and the queasiness I get during sex, so I suppose my doctor can have a look-see at my alien larvae then.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Okay, 'fess up. You know you've done it. We've all done it, it's just that some of us will actually admit it.
No, not wanking.
Now, I'll admit, cybersex is not very satisfying, but at least my sessions never went as bad as these.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I am a blogger here in the States.
Just getting started. name is Dave Knudsen from Seattle, Washington.
I guess my family is from Trondheim, Norway way back a piece.
Your posts are witty, If yah ever come over lets have a pint or two!
You see? as soon as I get famous all the distant relatives come out of the wood work, the thing I was wondering is, does Monstee get these people? does Dr Maroon get an e-mail from the Maroons of Greenwich ? Does Foot Eater get the Eaters of Kansas City wanting to know if they are related?
I e-mailed this fella back and got two pints raised to six and he's buying, this Interweb may come in handy after all.
Friday, October 06, 2006
My ex-father-in-law is an incredible specimen of a human being, by which I mean he should be put in a specimen jar, pickled, and stored in a museum somewhere, far, far away from me and mine.
Although retired now, he was a fireman for many years. Now, some of you may think that this would be a wondrous thing, having a fireman in the family, but this was a fireman who managed to set his own kitchen on fire.
My ex-father-in-law (let's call him "Dumbfuck") prided himself on being an excellent cook. He was not half bad, and did in fact do most of the cooking for the family, and a good portion of the cooking at the fire station, when he was on duty. I think he would have been a far better cook if he didn't pick his nose and wipe the boogers on his pants, or even washed his hands occasionally, but then again I'm somewhat of a particular person, as I was reminded by my ex-in-laws to no end.
One time, when Dumbfuck was cooking dinner at home, he started a grease fire in a frying pan on the stove (a gas range, not an electric cooker) in his kitchen. You would assume that Dumbfuck, as a fireman, would know how to handle this. You would be wrong.
When the smoke started pouring out of the frying pan, it occurred to him that maybe smoke was not a good thing, so he turned on the exhaust fan above the stove. Next, flames came shooting out of the pan, so he turned the exhaust fan on higher.
Surprisingly, at least to Dumbfuck, this did not put out the fire, so he then grabbed the pan's handle, without using a pot holder or oven mitt, thereby burning his hand in the process, and made his way with the flaming grease pan to the sink. Once there, he proceeded to run cold water at full blast on the flaming pan. The grease in the pan, not taking too kindly to this, and possibly remembering that maxim about "Out of the frying pan and into the fire," wisely decided to get the fuck out of there, and sloshed over to the kitchen window curtains, which immediately burst into flames.
Dumbfuck the Fireman was still holding the flaming pan, which the skin on his hand had burnt to, and he decided that blowing on the fire just might be a good idea. The fire did not like his plan, and promptly burnt off his eyebrows, which were most prodigiously bushy and long. Fire, as we all know, generally tends to travel up, and the front of his hair joined in the fray. Luckily for Dumbfuck, his eyebrows and hair were only melted and singed, as he was a real man, and not some metrosexual that uses hair products. If he was a metrosexual, he would have been well fucked.
Now, at this point in the story, Dumbfuck has had his facial hair melted, has set the kitchen curtains on fire, has turned the exhaust fan on "high," and is still holding the flaming pan.
While ignoring the fire quickly engulfing the kitchen curtains, he notices a small fire on the stove. What he does not realize is that this is not an accidental fire, but the gas burner he has failed to turn off. He sets the pan, still flaming, down on the counter, and proceeds to beat at the "fire" on the stove with several kitchen towels. Needless to say, the kitchen towels caught on fire. Realizing this, as soon as one catches on fire, he flings the burning towel behind him, and continues to beat at the "fire" on the stove with a fresh towel.
That last towel really ignites, and sends sparks up to the exhaust fan, which is still running on "high." The exhaust fan's motor and plastic fan blade melt, and proceed to make a whiny, high-pitched noise, adding to the general chaos in the kitchen. You may wonder why there was not another whiny, high-pitched noise in the kitchen; namely, the smoke alarm. Dumbfuck the Fireman had removed the batteries to the smoke alarms in the house, as they generally went off while he was cooking.
The burning towels which Dumbfuck had thrown behind him had fortuitously fallen on the tiled floor, and while burning themselves to a crisp, at least did not set anything else on fire. Likewise, the flaming curtains had melted to the plaster wall, and simply burnt themselves out. The flaming pan, which was set on the kitchen counter, was, however, still going at a good clip. The heat from the pan melted the Formica counter, and proceeded to burn a partial hole through the counter. This tilted the pan, so that the flaming grease fell out of the pan, through the hole in the Formica counter, and into the contents of the cabinet below the counter. What were those contents? Towels and cookbooks, which of course are flammable.
Dumbfuck the Fireman has finally realized that this fire may after all have gotten the best of him. But, with a sudden burst of inspiration, he has remembered that his wife keeps a fire extinguisher in the broom closet, which is in the kitchen. Sadly for Dumbfuck, he cannot remember how to use the fire extinguisher. Is he supposed to shake it before use? He knows there is a pin involved. Is he supposed to pull the pin and throw it? The flames from the cabinet will quickly be reaching the ceiling, so the matter has become urgent. His memory returns, and he pulls the pin, aims the fire extinguisher, and pulls the trigger. The fire extinguisher is old, and has lost its charge, but fortunately for Dumbfuck it still has enough ooomph to get the job done. The fire in the cabinet is out, and the flaming grease fire in the pan, along with it.
Now, after any type of fire, it is wise to call the fire department out, to make sure that the fire was actually contained, and will not re-spark later, and spread. Dumbfuck the Fireman remembers this much from his training, at least, so he promptly calls the fire station.
The fire station just happens to be the one he works at.
The Chief just happens to be on duty today.
The Chief and crew arrive to find that the yes, there still is a fire going. It's the "fire" on the stove burner, the one that Dumbfuck forgot to turn off. They kindly turn it off for him, and douse everything in sight with water. This is an esteemed colleague, after all. They wouldn't want his house to burn down. Better safe than sorry, you know. They go all through the kitchen, and are particularly concerned about the attic, as Dumbfuck had left the exhaust fan on while the fire was raging. The Chief sends a crew member up through the attic for inspection. Luckily, once again, for Dumbfuck, the attic had sustained no damage.
After the Chief had ascertained that everything was under control, he was required to take a report of how this all started, and the chain of events. Dumbfuck obligingly told him.
As the Chief and Dumbfuck are concluding, Mrs. Dumbfuck arrives home to find fire, flood, and famine (as the dinner was burnt). Mrs. Dumbfuck let Dumbfuck have it, with both barrels, in front of all his fire station associates. Mrs. Dumbfuck wears the pants in the family, so Dumbfuck takes it like the bitch he is. The brunt of the questioning from Mrs. Dumbfuck is along the lines of "Why in the fuck did you not just cover the pan with the lid?!"
Sure enough, upon closer inspection of the ruined stove, there was the lid to the pan. Dumbfuck had not needed it for his cooking, but he had got it out, just in case, because it's good to be prepared. As we all know (well, everyone except for Dumbfuck, apparently), the easiest way to put out a grease fire in a pan is to smother it, thereby depriving it of fuel.
One of the fireman, a kindly sort, reached in to his bag and came out with a fridge magnet, which he presented to Dumbfuck. The magnet was shaped like a pan, with flames coming out of it, and a hand was reaching over it, covering it with a lid. The caption read "Put the lid on grease fires!" The magnets were part of a new promotion that their fire department had been putting on. Dumbfuck had been handing out those self-same magnets for weeks now.
As far as I know, Dumbfuck still has that magnet on his fridge.
Mrs. Dumbfuck filed an insurance claim, and got a brand-new kitchen, a full remodel.
Dumbfuck the Fireman retired a few years back from the fire department. He still does the household cooking.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Fuck's sake, I've been talking to her about all sorts of things, for ages, and it just goes in one ear and out the other. It's practically impossible to talk to an Honor Student. But what the hell, I'll give it the ol' college try once again.
"Right," says I to the daughter. "The principal of your school, the nosy bastard, apparently can't be arsed teaching you kids about marijuana, so we're supposed to talk to you about it."
The Spouse Sparrow looks up from his writing at this statement from me. I get the message. "Okay," I tell him, "So you don't want to talk to her. Can't blame you one bit. But I suppose that just leaves me, then."
I direct my attention back toward the teenager, who already has that standard glazed look in her eye, and is fiddling with her earring and twirling her hair.
"So, you remember that marijuana is also called 'pot,' right? And it's the dried leaves of a plant?" I start in, hopefully.
"Before it's dried, it kind of looks like the leaf on the Canadian flag," the husband chimes in helpfully. The kid's face shows a spark of enlightenment. Spouse Sparrow is always good at finding something explanatory that's within the teenager's frame of reference.
Encouraged, I start in again. "Okay, well, here's the deal. Don't buy the loose stuff in the bag. That's called 'shake,' and unscrupulous salespeople cut that with oregano, to maximize their profits, because dumb kids like you can't tell the difference."
"Yes. Shake is the really dried leaves that have fallen off the 'buds.' They lack resin, and it's the resin that holds the active ingredient of marijuana, so to speak."
"Yes, the buds are the dried up leaf wads of the marijuana. It's the good stuff. Don't buy shake, it's the leaves that have fallen off the bud. And, even if the buds looks good in the bag, take it out and sort it, to be sure. Otherwise, you end up paying for seeds and stems, that the dealer included just to boost the weight."
"Seeds and stems are bad?"
"Yes, just like buying most produce, you don't want to pay for a bunch of seeds and stems. You want the actual product, not the leftovers."
The Fledgling Sparrow turns to the Spouse Sparrow and says, "Do I want to know how Mom knows all this?"
"Probably not," says the husband.
The Fledgling Sparrow returns her so-called "attention" to me. "Okaaaaayyyyy, anything else?"
"Yes. Don't buy pot, or I will personally kick your shit in. Especially, don't buy it from anyone at school. If they're selling at school, they're a narc. Surprisingly enough, real stoners don't spend a lot of time in school. Also, never smoke anything someone offers to you, just you alone, for free. There's sure to be something weird going on. They're trying to get in your pants, or it's laced, or something. If it was good shit, they'd be hoarding it."
"Yeah, okay. Is that all?"
"Yep, that should do it for now," I reply, feeling all kindly and motherly now.
It should be a fun time at the old homestead when they ask us parents to discuss IV drugs.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"Big arses," indeed.
Spouse Sparrow hasn't been sharing pics of me, has he?! Jesus, he could have sent you the ones showing my big tits, to balance out the arse, at least.
I'm not much of a team player. Sports have never interested me. I'm not competitive enough, I guess. At school I was always last picked for a team and I never saw the need to exert myself to put a ball into any kind of net. As for watching sports, now that's what I call boring.
Being working class in Northern Ireland meant that football was very important, almost sacred. Never say "It's only a game" to die-hard fans during a World Cup match; you may not survive.
When I worked in a warehouse, it was a mostly male environment, so this led to footie being the main topic of discussion. Well, that and booking holidays to Spain. One of my fellow storemen had a son that played for one of the local teams, so this made him a celebrity by proxy. I usually ended up being the only one working most of the time, as with each new customer would come an opinion about football, or the workers that see each other everyday would have to have a frequent, vital, and long conversation about a match or a player. The most useless thing there is, is a sports fan that smokes. They never get anything done; by the time they have had a talk, a smoke, and gone for a shit (with the newspaper) it's time for their tea break.
Is there anything more ironic than a big fat f**ker wearing a sports shirt and talking about how so & so are lazy on the pitch?
Go on, ask me about the Glens and the Blues and I'll stab you in the eye with a pen.
My two-year-old son knows what soccer is, thanks to "The Backyardigans." He plays at being a "Soccer Monster" and goes around shouting "SOCCER!" So now he knows the sport and even uses the silly American name for it, great, nice one. The thing is that he can actually kick a ball; straight, either foot, at a stand still or a run. This is more than I can do. I can see myself running about kicking a ball in my old age, a thing I have managed to avoid in my youth. Coming from Northern Ireland a heart attack may be my only escape. I'll think about it as I fry my eggs and bread for breakfast tomorrow.
Monday, October 02, 2006
In her defense, she did offer "The Covenant" as an alternate choice. I told her to wise up. If I thought it was okay for her to watch a bunch of oversexed boys who think they are witches plot to kill people, she'd be allowed to surf MySpace. I don't think so.
She has to clear movies, TV, etc. through us, because we are strict. We're not fucking well raising a chavette, you know. Nowadays, movies that would have been rated "R" back when I was a kid get a PG-13 rating. Plus, the teenagers have gotten stupider. I had proof of this many years back, before I even had a teenager.
Many years ago, I was on my lunch break at my regular hide-out, a sushi place by my office. It was always fairly busy, but I was a regular, and I could get a huge, really good lunch for just slightly more than the price of a Big Mac meal. I could hide in my little corner, read a book, eat, drink green tea, and de-stress for an hour. They always had my table ready for me, and I never had to wait. One day, these two sales guys were sitting in the booth behind me, having a loud (well, not exactly loud, but have you ever met a quiet salesman?) conversation while they had their lunch. The main of it between the two of them went like this:
"Yeah, my weekend was shot to hell, what with working on the stats for the new account, and the wife dragging me off to see 'Titanic'."
"Really? You actually went to see that?"
"Well, you know, the wife wanted to. Doesn't matter what I want, you know."
"Yeah, I know how that one goes."
"Yeah, and we're in the theater, talking, you know, before the lights go down, about the how the movie's gonna compare to the real sinking of the Titanic, and how far off Cameron's gonna stray, and these two 13-year-old girls that are sitting in front of us turn around, glare at us, and say 'Thanks for ruining the ending for us!' "
"No, you've got to be shitting me!"
"Nope, they were serious. Didn't have a clue that it was based on an actual story. What the hell is wrong with kids these days?!"
Now, at about this point, I snorted green tea and wasabi out my nose, and then had to turn around and apologize for listening in on their conversation.
So, as you can see, teenagers are clearly twats. But at least my sinuses were clear for the rest of that day.