Saturday, September 30, 2006

Doesn't it make you hungry?

Inspired by the ending of the post over at Monstee's, I thought I'd share with you lot this little cartoon that the Spouse Sparrow just happened to come across (don't worry, he wiped it off) and shared with me a while back.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, September 29, 2006

Word Verification can sniff my petunia

Right. I am taking off Word Verification, because the last one I got, for my own damn comments was "vflfijcwuql," which is really taking the piss. It took me 4 tries to get it through. They started out as just 3 or 4 letters, and it seems every week they add more and more. If this is some kind of secret IQ Test to keep me from blogging, they can fuck off.

Besides, Old Knudsen did it, and we all know what a trend setter he is.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Reality shows can go suck on a diseased knob

Once upon a time, there was crap TV. The kind of TV we Americans grew up with in the 70's; the kind of TV the UK still has, apparently. There were only a few channels, and if you wanted to watch anything that was not a cop show, a detective show, a sitcom, or some guy that was supposedly a peaceful Chinese monk kicking in the shit of anyone he met, you watched PBS on UHF. That was where your artsy shit was, and your preschool shows, like "Sesame Street." Other than "Wild Kingdom," you were not likely to find anything remotely educational on your regular channels on VHF.

It was a simpler time; a time when TVs had antennas, a time when most TVs had no remote controls. That's why parents had children, back in the day. It was so the kids could be the remote control. My dad never changed a channel or raised the volume on a TV, once he had me and my brother. He told us straight out, that that's what we were there for. Children knew their place back then, and there was none of that touchy-feely spoiled kid shite that goes on today.

Then came cable. Cable changed everything. Now, there was a lot of crap on TV, but a bit more educational stuff. There were cable channels that were simply devoted to certain things. There was A & E, which had arts and entertainment, and TLC, which was the learning channel, and the History channel. You could learn things, and get cultured and shit, just by watching TV. It was brilliant. Also, it was usually a safe bet to let the kiddies watch it. Nothing too graphic, you know.

So, when, as a parent, you got tired of your child's brain turning to mush from watching crappy kid's cartoon shows, and you didn't want to argue with them over how much TV they were allowed to watch, you simply reprogrammed (with that marvelous remote control) the kid's TV to only have educational channels. Then you took the remote away, ha. The kid can't complain, because they're still watching TV. If they did complain, you simply told them that their other choice was (horror of horrors) to turn the TV off. This always got them to shut the fuck up, right quick.

This was an excellent parenting plan, and worked very well for us for quite a few years. We had peace and quiet, and were able to watch our TV shows on our TV, with interruptions from the kid few and far between. Screw that "family time" shit; "Buffy" was on. Then, one day (dum dum DUM!) we noticed a change. The Fledgling Sparrow quit complaining about the educational TV channels that were programmed on her TV. I suppose we should have noticed it faster than we did, but "Firefly" was on. Instead of coming out to bug us, she was quiet in her room. The kind of quiet that she used to be, back when she watched Disney and Nickelodeon. Obviously something very sinister was afoot.

It was far worse than we could ever have imagined. Reality shows had infiltrated all of those educational channels. When we thought the sprog was learning about math, she was actually watching room makeovers. When we thought she was watching ballet performances, she was actually watching wedding planners. When we thought she was learning history, she was actually watching "The Boys From Brazil." Every educational channel had been completely taken over by reality shows and popular hype. It was un-fucking-believable.

Now, you may wonder why we, as parents, were not watching these channels ourselves, and had not noticed this change. First, we are cultured as fuck; second, we are fully educated to boot; third, "Angel" was on; and fourth, fuck off until you have raised kids.

The channel that most disappoints me with their defection is the History channel. "The Boys From Brazil" is no way to learn about boys, or Brazil. Showing Clint Eastwood movies is no way to learn about cowboys or the West. And, the worst fucking thing of all, the History channel now puts on religious crap. Christian religious crap, to be exact.

Now, if Jesus Christ, Noah, or Moses were actual historical figures, you can fuck me up the ass and call me "Spanky." There is absolutely no incontrovertible evidence, by unbiased parties, that anything those fuckers did in the Bible ever actually happened. I don't want to hear of bunch of crap about how the cities in the Bible were actual, historical cities, or anything else along the lines of yada yada yada. The people that use that line of reasoning are so full of shit that their eyes are brown. There are pumpkins mentioned in "Cinderella," and apples mentioned in "Snow White," and pumpkins and apples really exist. Guess what, that doesn't make them any more true than the stuff in the Bible.

I had to completely disabuse my kid on this wacky notion that she had developed; namely, that the Bible was fact, because they showed it on the History channel. If I ever run into those History channel fuckers on the street, I will kick their shite in, especially if my kid grows up to join some kind of Fundamentalist church. Those Fundies really put the "mental" into "fundamental."

It's one thing to have a religion made up from fairy tales. It's entirely another to try to influence people and pass it off as fact. I myself enjoy the benefits (while conveniently ignoring anything I don't like) of two different, conflicting religions, but I wouldn't try to convince anyone else that they both weren't just totally made up, no matter how long ago. I'd just as soon try to convince someone to drill holes in their head, or drop acid in the hopes of permanently fucking up their brain. Actually, I'd probably try to convince people of those last two. It would be a lot more fun than trying to convert them to a religion.

And that brings us to our "Semi-Erect Quote/Thought Of The Day" (trademark coming soon):

"History does not record anywhere at anytime a religion that has any rational basis. Religion is a crutch for people not strong enough to stand up to the unknown without help. But, like dandruff, most people do have a religion and spend time and money on it and seem to derive considerable pleasure from fiddling with it." -- Robert A. Heinlein

If you want a quote having to do with reality shows, tough shit. I can't be arsed. Just go re-read "Fahrenheit 451," and marvel at the fact that it was written in the 1950's, considering that all that technology took over, and is used today. Ray Bradbury is a god.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

I am cursed! Cursed, I tell you!


My stupid VCR fucked up, and I did not get to see "House" again! Damn Fox to hell for putting it on before the kids are in bed!

I am now convinced that there must be a Judeo-Christian God, because who else would want to fuck me over this badly, besides my ex-husband? I mean, I don't mind getting fucked in the ass repeatedly (as I like anal sex, dammit), but for fuck's sake, God, use some fucking lube next time!

I suppose I will now have to start budgeting for a new VCR, because if you think I get upset over missing TV shows, you should see what will happen if the Nestling Sparrow does not get his Nick Jr. fix, or, God forbid, is not able to watch "Bambi."

On a side note, we got a new (expensive, but it works) weed whacker, and went to the Fledgling Sparrow's "Back To School Night" at her high school. It's nice to have teachers tell you how wonderful and intelligent and polite and professional your kid is, even if you never see it at home. Plus, my dad bought us dinner from the fund-raiser booths there at the school. Hamburgers and nachos and root beer floats and churros and cheesecake and..... This is beginning to sound like Footie's breakfast list. Anyway, free food is good.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Blog readers are like hummingbirds

I have a hummingbird feeder up in my backyard, as I just love those crazed, cheeky fuckers. We get them year-round, here in So Cal.

Usually I keep it filled up, but our local Wal-Fuck is remodeling, and they do not have any hummingbird food mix out on the shelves. It is useless to ask a Wal-Fuck employee if they have any in the back, as Wal-Fuck employees never know anything. After years of shopping at Wal-Fuck, I am fairly sure that their employees are only paid for attendance, as I have never seen them working, and they certainly don't know jack shit about the place in which they work. This would probably be a brilliant job to have, if it didn't pay minimum wage, and you didn't have to put up with Wal-Fuck customers and your fellow employees. I suppose if you wanted a higher paying job where you don't have to know anything, and are useless to your customers, and wanted to work for a company that will soon own half the world, you could apply at Microsoft.

I know that you don't have to buy hummingbird food, you can make it yourself, but that involves work. You have to get distilled water, and boil it with the sugar, and so on. I don't take that much trouble to make dinner for my own family, and I'm certainly not doing it for the hummingbirds. I looked at my local grocery store for hummingbird food mix, and found some, and paid the outrageous price they were asking. Once you start feeding hummingbirds, you have to keep feeding them. If you don't, they will turn on you, with a vengeance.

When the hummingbird feeder first becomes empty, they will go to the window and politely let you know that their feeder is empty. They will make little chirping hummingbird noises, and then they will zoom off. The next day, if the feeder is still empty, they will hover at the window longer, and slag you off with indignant chirps. The third day, if the feeder is still empty, they will start hovering around you when you go outside, and carry on like a small, pissed-off bird version of R2-D2. The fourth day, if the feeder is still empty, they will dive bomb you, in a very serious fashion. They have sharp, needle-like beaks, and they will call their friends over, and they will all aim for your head, in an organized fashion that the Air Force would do well to use as a teaching tool for their fighter pilots. The fifth day, if you have not refilled that fucking feeder yet for those vicious, unappreciative shites, you do not go outside at all. You stay in, and let the wash pile up, and the grass die off, and hide your children, because it is not safe to go out.

The hummingbirds do not care if you have been feeding them for years, on a fairly regular basis. They do not care that, by the laws of nature, they are supposed to be tonguing flowers. They do not care that there are other feeders in the neighborhood, that they can visit while yours is empty. They want theirs, NOW. The minute you let them go a day without food, it all goes to shit. Their memory is wiped clean, and the years of work you have put in are worth nothing. You are shite. You are lower than shite; you are the slimy fungus that grows under a pile of shite.

But blessedly, as soon as you have refilled the feeder, all is forgiven. Even better is if you can refill the feeder with a stronger mix than you were using before. You will be a queen; the hummingbirds will chirp appreciatively at you, and bring their friends around, and they will make kind, chirpy remarks about your offspring, when you take your sprog outside to play.

All is good, at least until the next time your feeder runs dry.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming

Right, I'll just start off by apologizing to everyone for my drunken posting, comments, etc., especially those of you that I e-mailed pictures of my butt-plug collection to. Er, unless you liked it, and then, well.... "Enjoy!" I guess.

The Spouse Sparrow has reminded me that friends do not let friends post drunk, so I am required to wake him to join in the drunken festivities, next time. The moment I woke up this afternoon, the smug bastard was already shaking his head, sucking his teeth at me, and generally making fun of me. My face has been beet-red pretty much all day long.

I have been informed that, as an American, I should not attempt to get pissed. I should leave the drinking to the professionals, which, apparently, is you Brits. I am properly chastised. Of course, that has not stopped me from having a hair of the dog that bit me this evening. Just the thing I needed for my headache. The Spouse Sparrow has also said that I am not supposed to say that I have been drinking, that way people will just think I'm nuts. I'm not sure how that's preferable, but there you have it, advice from the master.

I will, in the future, attempt to refrain from posting a bunch of weepy shite that makes all you men out there go "Jesus, her Aunt Flo's visiting," and the women say "Fuck me, is there no chocolate in her house? My mother-in-law is not that whiny!" As a side note, the painters were not in, but that's beside the point.

Thank you all for the tea and sympathy.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart

Tuesday fucking well sucked, and if there was any justice in the universe, I would be able to call a do-over.

The weed whacker ("strimmer," to you Brit-type people), which the Spouse Sparrow needs for the landscaping business, decided to quit running, the fucking Craftsman piece of shit. Oh, I remember back in the day, when Sears used to make a good tool. Fucking cunts, fucking Craftsman, and I do not say that lightly. We will have to buy a new one, for $250+, and there goes all the money I had managed to save up to hold us over through the winter when no one wants their lawn done.

Then, the Fledgling Sparrow comes home from school and informs me that she needs $30, on top of the $60 we've already spent, to complete her dance uniform for her dance class at school. What the fuck is the school thinking? 70% of the kids at her high school qualify for free lunch, my kid included. Her school, and this whole neighborhood, is fucking well poor, dirt poor. How on earth do they expect parents to come up with this kind of money? I mean, this is for a PE class. It's not even for dance competition, it's just for twirling around in the gym, for Christ's sake! Why can they not just wear their PE uniform from last year? What is wrong with sweats and shorts? $90 is three months worth of bus passes for her! Jesus fuck, school districts annoy me.

The only bright spot was that "House" was on. But then, then they had to go and play Mazzy Star (who I love), which, in my already depressed state, made me think about my totally lost, wasted youth, and I so next thing you know, I was blubbering all over the sink and dripping snot while I was washing the dishes. Yes, thank God I have a dishwasher to sterilize them, and quit getting grossed out; it's not like any of you lot are coming over to eat.

And tonight, when I would like to listen to Mazzy Star, everyone is in bed in our extremely small house, so I have to be quiet. So I am sitting here drinking, in silence.

Now, if that story didn't cheer you up, I don't know what will.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Spouse Sparrow says: Bugs go crunch

My wife has a bug phobia. "How does she smell?" "Terrible!" ha ha ha!

Hold on, no really, about the phobia.... I have learned what certain yelps from another room mean. A short one followed by silence is just an accident like dropping something, a highly excited one is a bug but I'm safe, any more than one of those yelps is my 911 from her, I must bravely go and kill some bug with extreme prejudice.

I never know what it will be until I get there. Here in So Cal there are so many bugs, and a lot of them want to eat you. Wolf spiders will chase you given the chance, and they can get quite big. If it's in my house it's fair game to kill; they don't mind biting me when I'm sleeping.

There are several bugs that she doesn't mind. I believe this is because of the cute names and Disney making them cute. In Britain they are called "ladybirds," here in America, it's "ladybugs." Sure they have cute spots, and there are endless children's books on them, but these little f**kers are cannibals. My wife chooses to over look that, oh and the fact they are beetles. She likes butterflies (I mean who doesn't?), but moths can all die. I tried calling them "nocturnal butterflies," but who will buy that?

In Britain we call them "woodlice." Nothing with the name lice can be good, unless you give them an image makeover in America and call them "rolie-polies," then they are just huggable.

I don't like bugs much myself, but lifting things and killing bugs, that's why man was created.

Spouse Sparrow

Sunday, September 17, 2006

The female of the species is more deadly than the male

Me! has requested a post on females in the animal kingdom who kill their mates after sex (or, as entomologists like to call it, "dinner and a date"), and as I am an obliging person, I have obliged.

Yes, I am worried for her husband. She seems to have a strange preoccupation here. Maybe she is just mining me for tips on how to do him in. Whatever you heard about my ex-husband's disappearance, I had nothing to do with it. Really. I strongly suggest that you discontinue that line of questioning.

I can understand killing your sex partner after the mating is finished (God knows I've thought of it often enough, when they're begging me for my phone number), but bugs eat their deceased mate. I do not see the point of eating your mate after sex, whether you are animal, vegetable, or Paris Hilton. I believe that most of it happens in the insect or arachnid "kingdoms" (we will be bombing them soon, to bring democracy to those recalcitrant, unappreciative twats), which I mainly try to avoid, due to my bug phobia. Bugs are useless, nasty, multi-legged creatures whose sole purpose in life is to make me scream like a young soprano altar boy getting buggered by the priest for the first time. Bugs spend all their time eating other bugs, so we can eliminate the lot of them, and no one will miss them.

Also, bug sex is disturbing. Their eyes bug (I am so punny!) out even more than usual, and their dirty proboscises dart in and out, along with whatever appendages they use for mating. I have never seen any science fiction rendition of an alien that is even half as disturbing as any of your garden-variety bugs.

Insects are sick fuckers, undoubtedly. If I had wanted to eat my sex partner, I would have done it before I killed him, not after, not that I would be doing it then, either. There is no reason to top off a perfectly good date and dinner with oral sex. Nothing ruins the lovely after-taste of a steak dinner like a shot of warm jizz pumped into the back of your throat. If he had wanted a blow-job, he should have asked for it before dinner, but after the aperitif, and I would have said "no" then. No reason to fill up too much before the main course, unless it's with nice appetizers. A cum-wad does not qualify as a nice appetizer.

Perhaps bugs have the right idea, after all, with the dinner after sex. I know that I get queasy if I have a big meal and then try to have sex. All that bouncing and rocking; you don't want to do that after you've had a large dinner. Maybe it does make more sense to eat after the sex.

Where was I? Oh yes, fellatio. If you want some oral sex from me, go kill some bugs, and don't wait 'til after dinner.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Robinson Crusoe can fuck off

I have just found out how I will be spending my money when I win the Lottery. Never mind that it is my husband that buys the Lottery ticket; I know where he sleeps.

I'm leaning toward the island off Cork. No hurricanes to worry about, no touristy-type men in Speedos, and I think the local yokels may even speak English. You fuckers better get permission before you come and visit me, though. I'll have sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads patrolling the waters.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, September 15, 2006

Conversations with the Spouse Sparrow

Some of the many reasons why I love the Spouse Sparrow.....

We are sitting on the couch, the Spouse Sparrow at his end, me at mine, and he is flipping channels while I sort through the crapalanche of bills to be paid. He settles at something on PBS, about baseball, for a moment. I, paying no attention, am searching through the pile of papers, envelopes, crushed spiders, etc.

He is quiet for a moment, and then says, "Bit of bad luck, that. But weren't they asking for it?"

"What's that?" I mutter.

"Naming your baby 'Lou Gehrig.' Bound to get that disease, don't you think?"

I turn away, so that he cannot see the grin on my face. I will not give that cheeky bastard the satisfaction of seeing me laugh.


I am at the computer one night, trying to think and type at the same time, which is normally not difficult for me, and the Spouse Sparrow is watching TV. He has chanced upon some music video while channel-surfing, and left it there. The music is extremely annoying, with a lot of repetitive, high-pitched yapping, and it is seriously getting on my nerves.

Without turning in my chair, I snap, "That crap is really shite, and irritating besides!"

The Spouse Sparrow replies, "No doubt."

I turn around to glare at him, to find Gwen Stefani filling the TV screen.


"So. Have your legs and foot recovered from the cramps from last night?" the husband says, referring to him getting his hole off of me the previous night.

"Yes. Although I've been thinking about going to the doctor's. I've been getting really queasy after we have sex," I reply.

"I'm not surprised. I've had that effect upon many a woman in my time. You're not about to turn lezzy, are you?" asks the Spouse Sparrow.

"Why? Did Gillian Anderson call for me? No? Well, you're safe, then. And no, it's not you. I think I'm getting motion sickness from the sex, actually," I respond.

"Well, go see the doctor, then. But I'm not going to be in the room with you when you're talking about us having sex," says the husband. "It's no good; the doctor will just want to ride me, too, then. You won't like sharing."

"You'd ride my doctor?" I ask, in amazement.

"Sure, why not? I've never had a Chink before. Of course, she's a wee little Chinese thing, so I'd probably have to have another one right after."

He managed to say that with a straight face, the bastard. I cannot believe he sets me up for these.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Spouse Sparrow observes America, Part I

When I came to America from Northern Ireland, I found that White Americans love everything Irish, and claim to be descended from anything Irish, Scottish, or Welsh (in that order). They won't boast about being English, which is understandable; I try not to tell people my father is from the south of England, I prefer to say he's in prison for rape and murder, it sounds a lot better.

My accent is a good mix of Scottish and Irish and has been described as "lilting," and as soon as anyone here hears it they tell me of their Irish connection. I love family history, so I ask "Where abouts in Ireland are they from?" They never know, they just have some vague memory of being told such. Their lack of knowledge of where they came from and of their immigrant ancestors explains why they treat the current immigrants with such disdain; they have theirs so f**k everyone else.

The old stereotypes of quaint pubs, politeness, umbrellas and "Top o' the mornin'!" is usually all they know about the U.K. and Ireland. Every year around St. Patrick's Day I get the dumb questions, "Can you get me some leprechaun statues from Ireland?" or "What's the best way to cook corned beef?" I have long since stopped trying to explain the politics and that I'm British, not Irish, because all I get is blank stares. I had a guy tell me his father was a "full-blooded" Scot from Glasgow, he even had his own bagpipes, as if this was the proof I needed to believe he was a real one. If I tell people "I'm not Irish, I'm British," they look at me as if I just shot their dog. I go by Scots-Irish now, it's less traumatic for them.

I have never seen so many coloured people in my life. I have nothing against them, it's just a culture shock. It's like London, only here the white people have trouble understanding my accent. I would have thought it would be the other way round, but no, it's like flies on a pane of glass; they just don't get it. I speak slowly and loudly as you do for foreigners, when you hear that everyone speaks English where ever you go, it's all lies, even, it seems in English speaking countries. I do split second translations: "pants" not "trousers," "chips" not "crisps," I'm "pissed" because I drank 10 beers, I'm not "pissed" as in being angry, but you're my best f**king mate.

I just let Mrs. Sparrow do the talking, which really throws them as people direct their questions to me, being the man and all. To add to the confusion, I also look after our almost-3-year-old Nestling Sparrow, I just know they are thinking, "That's so gay." Once in Wal-F**k (as my wife calls it), I couldn't change the baby in the bathrooms because as usual they were stinking so instead I chose a quiet corner of the crafts section and used my changing pad on the floor, and within minutes I noticed staff hanging around (Wal-F**k is famous for its lack of helpful employees that can melt into the floor so you can never find them). The staff were pretending not to watch me and trying to point me out to the security at the same time. It was hilarious. When I was done changing the baby, I had a tail following me which I took at speed around a few aisles, then I walked up to the group of people that thought they could take me down and said in a clear, loud, Scottish type accent (it slips out), "I was changing the baby, not stealing stuff!" They looked sheepish as if, "Oh crap, how did he know we were watching him?" I left that section with one of the women still following me.

America is very big and packed with people. It has mega crime, disasters, crashes, prejudices and stupidity. The people see things as black or white, with no room for compromise. It's like Paisley and the DUP back home performed mass brain washing, but these folks are too fat and lazy to riot.

Spouse Sparrow

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Spouse Sparrow, and all that implies

We will be having a new contributor here at "Fat Sparrow" -- my husband, Spouse Sparrow.

So, you can all quit complaining how I bore you senseless, and you can pressure him to post something funny, dammit.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

My in-laws are fucking brilliant

I love the Spouse Sparrow's family, with the kind of true, pure love that can only come from having awful experiences with my own family, and my ex-husband's family. My ex-mother-in-law was a nosy, interfering bitch that I had to deal with on an almost-daily basis, as they lived near-by, and she made my life a living hell.

I have never met my current in-laws; they live half-way around the world, in Northern Ireland. I doubt I will ever meet them, as they are elderly, and will not go 20 miles from their home, let alone fly, and the only way we could afford to visit them is if we won the lottery. I suppose that is one reason they are so wonderful; they can never become the kind of horrible in-laws that insist that you take their advice on child-rearing, sex, life, religion, etc., and slag you off if you do not.

Even if they were here, though, I cannot imagine that they would be that type, anyway. For one thing, they are in their late 70's, and they've mellowed a lot, according to my husband's older sister. My husband, Spouse Sparrow, was the youngest in the family, so he had it easy. Plus, my mother-in-law is dead funny. My husband's ex-wife and her mother are Pentecostals, and the very first time my husband's mom met his ex-wife's mom, she asked her, "So, you're in a cult, then?" That is my kind of lady.

My in-laws could have been really nasty to me, what with Spouse Sparrow divorcing his wife and leaving her for me, and him moving half-way around the world to live in Butt Fuck, America, but they were most understanding about it all. They even, get this, send me money on my birthday. They also do the same for my daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow (their step-granddaughter), and our son, the Nestling Sparrow, their grandson. They also send all of us money at Christmas. This is the kind of thing that will definitely get you in to heaven, in my book.

And, to top all of this off, my husband's older sister just sent us $300 so that we could buy a hedge trimmer for my husband's landscaping business. It would have taken us years, literally, to save up that kind of money. I would name our next child after her, if she did not have the female version of my ex-husband's name.

And, with all this largesse from my husband's family, there is no guilt attached. None of that "Why haven't you called me/wrote me/visited me/performed oral sex on me" that I used to get from my ex-husband's family.

My in-laws are fucking brilliant.

Fat Sparrow

Monday, September 11, 2006

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's definitely not that cunt Superman, oops, must be terrorists

Jesus Christ on a piece of toast. 9-fucking-11 again. Already. Let the boo-hooing begin.

If my neighbors come around this year, wanting to sing patriotic and/or Protestant songs, in some kind of misguided ghetto togetherness thing, I will turn the fucking hose on them. I cannot believe I got rooked and guilted into that before. In front of my own house, no less. A bunch of my fat-ass, lower-class, ignorant American, tweaker neighbors, dripping candle wax all over my driveway, while singing "Amazing Grace."

And do you think I can get them to come around when I need to do one of those, um, "special" spells, the kind with the live sacrifices, requiring a certain number of people, especially to hold down the virgin? No, of course not. Where's their sense of togetherness then, hmmm? Where's the community-mindedness, where's the love, dammit? Am I not an American? A member of their community? So what if I happen to be slightly "different," let's say. If I want to commemorate 9/11 with a proper Pagan ritual, does that make me any less American? I think not.

It's intolerant bastards like you that are letting the terrorists win, damn you! I demand that you come to my house for the chicken slaughter and proper cleansing rituals and the moment of yelling! If you do not, you are not a real American! You have no patriotism, no sense of honor, no sense of duty, no sense of feeling, no viable sperm! You will be damned in the afterlife, and your children will spit after they say your name and unclean, incontinent dogs will shit on your grave, all because you did not join me in the tuneful gargling to the great Lord Zingbah in praise of our glorious fatherland! And, what is worse, you will probably vote Democrat!

Fuck me, did I mention that it's 9-fucking-11 again? Let the strident rhetoric begin. Oh, wait, that's right; it never stopped.

Fat Sparrow

Update! -- My 14-year-old daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, just came through the living room on her way to leave for school, and proceeds to tell me about how she got all teary-eyed listening to some country music station play some sappy song about 9/11. She then proceeds to tell me that I would have gotten all teary-eyed, too, if I had heard it.

I tell her "Not bloody likely. I just got done posting on my blog, slagging off all you 9/11 boo-hooers."

She then goes on to tell me what a jerk I am, how unfeeling I am, etc. Yada yada yada, heard it before. I remind her that many more people are killed by drunk drivers every year than were ever killed by terrorists, but the politicos don't go declaring a war on drunk driving, because there's no money to be made in it.

I tell her she's a puppet; The Man pulls her strings, and she responds.

She thinks about this for a moment, and then says, "Are you not wearing any underwear? You're sitting at the computer, and you have no underwear on."

Fuck me, I swear to God, she's going to grow up and vote Republican.

Fat Sparrow

My pussy is useless

My cat is a worthless shite. Actually, we have several cats, and they have merged, in my mind, into one giant hairball of uselessness. I hope they all run away, as they are costing me money, and I resent them sorely.

My soft-as-shite husband took them in, when they were small, and he has resisted every concerted effort of mine to get rid of them. I felt bad for them at first, as their mother was a whore, and deposited them willy-nilly in the bushes in our front yard. She didn't like the little monsters next door (children of 2 generations worth of tweakers) coming over, dragging them out of the shrubs, and swinging them around, so she wisely decided that our dog was less of a threat, and moved them to our backyard. She then immediately went out and got herself hit by a car. We were left with kittens that were not exactly weaned, and definitely had issues. Plus, they're incredibly inbred, as they couple indiscriminately with the limited gene pool in the neighborhood. Hmmm, that sounds like the blogs I read, too.

The cats never really became tamed, and never really learned not to piss indoors, so now when they come in through the pet door I chase them back out. Plus, they're crawling with fleas, and I am not spending $10 per cat, every month, to buy flea stuff for them. I might spend that much to have them put down, as I am a heartless bastard.

Once upon a time, one of the stupid cats managed to get his leg seriously injured and infected, and I took him to the vet's, and he cost me $175, which the vet kindly let me pay in installments. The cat, who the Spouse Sparrow calls "Sleekit," then went and adopted himself out to one of our neighbors. If I had known he was going to do that, I would have sent her the vet bill.

I thought we were right on track to get rid of one of the other cats, as he was ingratiating himself with my brother's in-laws, who live next door, but then he had to go and claw my niece, who was visiting them next door. Every time I see him now, I kick him, just because of that little episode. If it wasn't for that, they would have taken him home by now, and I'd be rid of him.

The other cat, my husband's favorite, catches and eats the lovely mockingbirds that live on the side of our house. He was the one that came in to the house one time with a virtual coat of ticks covering him. I was the one that got to pick them off, of course. I had to get the tweezers, as they would not drop off after I doused him with tick-kill-um. I lost count after the 200th tick. I have never seen anything like that, nor do I ever want to again. I have no idea how he even managed to find one tick, as none of our other animals have ever had any. They were in a ring, all around his neck, and they were all the same size. I have a serious bug phobia, and I still have nightmares about that.

The Flegling Sparrow's favorite cat likes to come in and piss on our bedrooms doors. I like to put my foot up her ass (the cat's, not the Fledgling Sparrow's).

None, not one of these useless fuckers will eat any of the scores of mice that live in our garage, and cost me extra money by eating up the cat food.

I cannot see why the Spouse Sparrow is attached to them, other than to irritate me.

If you are interested in adopting any of these cats, or using them for animal testing and research, please e-mail me. You can have them for free.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, September 09, 2006

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out....

We have bugs, and I am very happy about it. The mealworms that I ordered for the baby mockingbird have finally arrived!

Spouse Sparrow (brave, heroic soul that he is, all praise be upon him), wrangled the mealworms into a container. They arrived in a roll of newspaper, wrapped in a cotton bag, in a cardboard box with screens in the side. A good many of them had chewed their way through the cotton bag, and they were loose inside the box. 1,000 loose mealworms is no picnic, especially since they were all alive-o and wriggly. The Spouse Sparrow picked them all out, one by one, while wearing his panic face. You may recognize his panic face; it's that stern, British, stiff-upper-lip face. You can just picture him listening to Winston Churchill, and determining that the job must be done, no matter what the sacrifices.

The mealworms are safely entrenched, with some fortified oat mix, in a ventilated plastic container now. They're eating up, to be nice and healthy and fat before the baby mockingbird gobbles them. I'll put them in the refrigerator tomorrow. It's a lot better when they're cold, as they're not as wriggly, and don't protest as much when you cut off their heads.

Spouse Sparrow also caught another cricket today, one that was stupid enough to come inside the house. The cricket is in the fridge now, cooling its heels. It's one big, juicy cricket. Spouse Sparrow, chest puffed out with pride, then proceeded to ask the baby mockingbird if he was a breast or a leg man. I do believe the cricket drumsticks will be a meal in themselves.

Now that they have finally sent me my bugs, if will get their act together and send me the right mealworm bowl, I will refrain from slagging them off in my blog.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, September 08, 2006

Sleep, that knits up the.... Oh, fuck it

It is a beautiful night tonight. The weather has finally cooled down, the moon is full, the breeze is mild, the crickets are singing softly out in the field. It is the kind of night that makes you think of poetry, and lover's rendezvous. The kind of night where I should be sleeping peacefully.

Instead, I am being kept awake by the smell of cat piss coming in through the windows, and the snoring of the two males in my bedroom. The Spouse Sparrow is doing the actual, serious snoring, and our 2-year-old, the Nestling Sparrow, is performing the imitation, "comedy," snoring. I can tell the Nestling Sparrow thinks that his dad snoring is a real laugh riot, what with the giggles in between his fake snores. I lay there in bed for a while, thinking that one or the other of them is bound to give up, sooner or later, what with my repeated exhortations of "Shhhh!" to the Nestling Sparrow, and the shoving of the Spouse Sparrow. I am in luck; they both finally do stop their snoring, and both go back to sleep. The moon is starting to set, and all is quiet.

I am starting to drift off again, into a world of blissful peace, towards the sleep that I so desperately need. I slip back toward the realm of dreams and poetry.... "Come into the garden, Maud...."

But there is no Maud in our garden. The only female in our garden is our large dog, Grace, and that is exactly the moment that she decides to take a huge, massive crap right underneath our bedroom window. The stench of this cannot be over-exaggerated, or escaped, and the warm, fuggy smell of dog dung wafts in through the open bedroom windows. There is no hope for me. If I get up and close the windows, that will wake up the entire household; if I continue laying there, I will seriously hork all over the bed. I get up, and make my way to the cold comfort of the computer.

And people wonder why I am up at all hours of the night.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Great White Hunter

The Spouse Sparrow has been living up to expectations, as far as catching bugs for the baby mockingbird to eat. Today he wrestled with a grasshopper of monstrous proportions, and caught it.

I am in the kitchen, and hear a noise out in the backyard. I rush to the kitchen door, to see the Spouse Sparrow thrashing around, and yipping "Fuck! Fuck!"

I was thinking that something was attacking him, maybe a local crackhead that had scaled our backyard wall, but no, he was twatting a grasshopper out of the air, and then flushing it out of its hiding spot.

It was most impressive. The grasshopper was rather large, and had to be cut up and fed to the baby bird over several feedings.

When the world ends, you lot may well be fucked, but my children will eat well.

Fat Sparrow

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

My life is over

I missed the season opener of "House."

I was all ready for it. The sprogs were in bed, and I was all prepared, with a tuna salad sandwich, a drink, and an eager expression upon my face. I had warned everyone: "Do not call me, do not expect me to be on the computer, do not dare to cark it, for I will not care -- "House" will be on."

The Spouse Sparrow turned on the TV, and it was not on. They had switched the times. There, on the screen, instead of my beloved, was some wanker. That wanker from "Office Space," to be precise, the one that looks like the fiance that I dumped. Apparently he has a new show.

If I see Ron Livingston in the street, I will seriously kick his shite in.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

God has cursed South Dakota

South Dakota is suffering the effects of a rather bad drought right now, the worst they have seen since the 1930's Dust Bowl era (which caused my Okie Grandma to pack up her tent and move to California to pick fruit).

I have to wonder why Pat Robertson has not commented on this disaster afflicting South Dakota, as it is obviously the cause of God, who is very angry with the South Dakotans, what with them banning abortion and all, not excepting cases of rape or incest, even.

Pat Robertson (whose real first name is "Marion," by the way) has been very quick to slag off people in other areas of the world whom he is sure that God has cursed, such as the School Board in Pennsylvania that voted to get rid of Intelligent Design, the people in any of the countries that were hit by the tsunami, the earthquake in Pakistan, the earthquake in Indonesia, and the people affected by Hurricane Katrina, etc. He has stated, unequivocally, that these disasters were the definite result of God cursing these people, and if anyone would know about being cursed by God, it would be a man named "Marion."

As far as I know, South Dakotans have been a fairly innocuous people, other than their slaughtering Native Americans 100+ years ago, so it must be their ban on abortion that was brought the wrath of God (not to be confused with the "Wrath of Khan", which I believe causes worms to crawl in your ears) down upon them.

I am fully confident that once Pat Robertson realizes why God is angry with South Dakota, he will call for the ban on abortion to be overturned. I have written to him, via his website (he was asking for it; it's called the "Your Bring It On Question Center"), and I encourage you to do the same. Here is my letter:

"Dear Mr. Robertson --
You have stated that God has cursed the areas that were hit by various natural disasters over the past few years. Can you not see that He has done the same thing to South Dakota, causing a drought to afflict the same people that have voted to ban abortion? I am surprised you have not denounced South Dakota, as God obviously has.

Thank you,

Fat Sparrow

We'll have to wait and see if he responds; I even gave him my e-mail addy.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Proper marketing solves the world's problems

Poor Iran. They seem to have a bit of an image problem right now. They want to have their uranium cakes, and eat them too. Slagging off Israel, an ugly president, the threat of U.N. sanctions, that pesky "democracy" problem.... What's a country to do?

The answer, of course, is proper marketing and advertising. Now, I know what you're thinking, and yes, it's going to take quite a lot of work. I remember that nasty hostage crisis, and how on earth can they recover from that whole Ayatollah Khomeini funeral procession thing? When the people of your country pull apart your deceased former leader like a bunch of chavs going after a bucket of chicken from KFC, and the video is seen 'round the world; well, let's just say that people are going to remember that.

Proper marketing is really going to cost you, but luckily I work for cheap. So, Iran, take my advice, and you'll be a world leader in no time.

First, you need to change the name of your country. Well, not really change, so much as alter. I mean, you don't want to lose brand identification, but these are much hipper times than when you were first founded. I was thinking of something catchy, like "iRan." You want to jump in and corner the market on this right away, before Iraq scoops you on this one. Strike while the reactor's hot, and all that.

"iRan" is bound to appeal to the youngsters of today, with their music and their jiggy dancing and their burkas-gone-wild. It will especially appeal to the youngsters in iRan, of which you have rather a lot, as they will think it's progressive. This will definitely get their votes. Whatever political party is using this, for whatever purpose, will have the kids behind them. Make it a point to ridicule them if they don't support it, and get it out on T-shirts, quickly. Tell them "It's not your parent's iRan." They'll get the message.

Now, for the outside world. Those pesky infidels. You love them, you hate them, you need to sell them your oil. "iRan" works great for them, too. Fortunately this is a marketing technique known worldwide. Also, you really need to play up the fact that Persian chicks are hot. I know, I know, this may go against the grain, what with that budding Islamofascism and all, but believe me, it will work. You will instantly enjoy a name-brand association that sets you apart in the Muslim world, as a good majority of the Islamic women we infidels see are in veils and burkas.

You don't have to worry about beating Iraq to the punch on this one, as we have all seen Iraqi women on the news and they are fucking ugly. The only thing I can think of to explain the ugliness of Iraqi women is that the Iraqi men got "haram" and "harem" confused. Oh, you like that one, do you, iRan? Dumb fuckers, the Iraqis, but that's how Saddam bred them, so what can you do? You know what I mean, don't you, iRan? Another pint, iRan? No, no, I've got it.

It was great meeting with you, iRan, and I have a lot more tips for you. These are just the teasers, to let you know what I can do for you. Here's my card, iRan. E-mail me when you're ready. I take Pay Pal.

Fat Sparrow

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Lock your doors; I have become a hardened criminal

Two weeks ago, the Spouse Sparrow found a baby mockingbird that had fallen from its nest. Knowing that I am soft as shite when it comes to baby birds, he brought it in for me to take care of. It had just reached the stage where its eyes were open, but the feathers hadn't lost their quill sheaths yet. It was about 7 days old then.

Now, all this is well and good; I have raised many baby birds before, so feeding it was not a problem. I have nothing but time on my hands, other than flogging my blog, torturing my children, and various household chores. The problem is that it is an illegal bird (to handle or keep, that is), as per the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. It's a Northern Mockingbird, and they are common as muck here, so I cannot see why they need to be protected. There's about a billion of them in our trees right now. Plus, and this is the part that really gets me -- they do not fucking migrate! Why on earth are they protected by an act for migratory birds?! They live here year-round! This is the kind of thing that leads me to take Prozac in massive doses, not that it helps.

If I just let the bird die, that's all well and good, but if I handle it, or cause it to die, I will be seriously prosecuted under Federal law, and not in a pleasant, Martha Stewart "Club Fed" type prison, either. I really have a hard time supporting my government (not that I do, anyway) when they come up with arse-backwards laws like these. Raising a baby bird is not exactly brain surgery, but according to the Federal government, it is more serious than brain surgery. If I attempt to perform neurosurgery on some unsuspecting person (I have a little list....) I will only be prosecuted in a state court, for something along the lines of "Grievous bodily harm," "Practicing medicine without a license," etc. You know, your standard run-of-the-mill types of crimes. Nothing Federal, for Christ's sake.

I have been feeding it your standard baby bird formula, augmented with bits of mushy dog food and mealworms, but I cannot find out what type of seeds I should be weaning it to. I sent off e-mails to various companies that produce wild-bird seed mixes requesting information on this, but they will not give me an answer, for fear of being in violation of the Federal MBTA law. No wildlife rehabber can be arsed coming to get a species as common as a Northern Mockingbird, as I do not have a car, and cannot drive it 30 miles to them, so I am stuck with it.

I just know the little bugger is going to cost me a fortune in mealworms, and my local Wal-Fuck just stopped carrying them, to top it all off. I sent the Fledgling Sparrow out today to Wal-Fuck to get some more, and they told her to go to another Wal-Fuck to get them, as they do not carry them anymore. Thank fuck you can order mealworms on the Internet, or I would seriously be screwed.

The Spouse Sparrow has been chasing down crickets, grubs, and various other critters for the little birdie, as he is a saint (the Spouse Sparrow, that is; the bird is a yappy wee shite). It took me days to work up the courage to even open the tub of mealworms, as I have a serious bug phobia. Then I had to hold them down with plastic tweezers, and cut their heads off. Did you know that they will still keep moving, until they dry out, even with their heads cut off? Neither did I, until now. And I have to keep them in my fridge! The crickets and the grubs, too. This is seriously doing my head in. I thought I was going to be okay with this, but I have nightmares, every night, about mealworms, and the mealworms are the least gruesome of the lot! The Spouse Sparrow cuts off the heads of the big grubs and the crickets, bless him, and feeds them to Baby Bird.

At least the mealworms and other critters tide the wee bugger over for a bit; the baby bird mush you feed him with a dropper only lasts him about 10 minutes, and then he needs fed again. He really seems to need that extra bit of protein; even with the Puppy Chow mixed in, he is still hungry. I couldn't afford express shipping for the mealworms, and they still haven't arrived yet, so I'm counting on the Spouse Sparrow's hunting-and-gathering skills for bugs.

I'm sure the Spouse Sparrow will do all right, as he would definitely be one of the survivors when the world ends. Me, I'd rather cark it than eat a bug, but he'd pull out a bottle of HP Sauce and never be able to tell that the cricket he was munching on wasn't tinned meat (which says a lot about the state of British food, doesn't it?). He eats something called "Branston Pickle," and I'm not sure that it doesn't have bugs in it. It smells god-awful, and I can't see any pickles, so why do they call it Branston Pickle? There's another thing he eats, called "Chow Chow," and it smells as if it was made from actual dead, decayed Chow Chow dogs. It also looks like baby diarrhea. Then he has the balls to complain about American food.

Of course I have to agree with him right now that American food is shite, otherwise I will not have any bugs, let alone get my hole. It's kind of like that statement those captured newsguys were forced to make, saying that they had converted to Islam. I'm sure you were all happy to see them released -- that was due to me and my blogging, of course. Those fuckers at Fox News didn't give me any credit, the arseholes, even though the Holy Jihad Brigade has taken up tap-dancing.

Fat Sparrow