Monday, November 27, 2006

Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?

Well, first for some good news.... The Nestling Sparrow turned 3 today. There was a while there when we didn't think he'd make it this far, but now he's a big old beastie and I'm sure that one day he'll be able to eat solid food, really. He'll have to, because I'm not going to college with him to feed him a bottle. He's been having a blast playing with his presents; Diego stuff, Star Wars stuff, "Cars" DVD.

And now for the bad news.... Sorry once again for the slack bastard posting, but on top of the sinus infection....


....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.

Fat Sparrow

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Turkey Day to all my fellow Americans, and Happy.... uh, Thursday to you Brit-type people.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, November 17, 2006

I knew it all along

Here it is, finally, stolen from Old Knudsen.

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

Search me

Some searches from the past few months that I have gotten as hits on my blog (thanks Site Meter!)

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.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Random acts of stupidness

I have one nerve left, and everything seems to be getting on it lately.

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.

Fat Sparrow

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

Spam spam spam spam!

The Swearing Lady commented on one of my posts, about fixing food: "I have never understood this fascination with "fixing food". Was the curry broken or something?"

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.

Fat Sparrow

Friday, November 10, 2006

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Old homeless woman sex

Years ago, when I was a manager in a McDonald's restaurant in Belfast city centre, I locked the place up at about 4 am and proceeded to walk the mile home. It's how I would unwind after a night of telling teenagers what to do and stopping drunk customers from fighting, and throwing the odd wino out.

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.

Spouse Sparrow

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Red Rover, Red Rover, The Ex ran him over

They're talking about dead things over at Kav's, and it reminded me of a story about The Ex. It was too long to put in Kav's comments, so here it is....

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.

Fat Sparrow

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Days of whine and noses

Next fucking Tuesday.

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."

Receptionist: "Oh."

(long pause)

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.

Fat Sparrow

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Did someone get the license number off the truck that hit me?

Sorry for the slack bastard postings (or lack of), but the antibiotics didn't work on my sinus infection, and my fever's back. I'm doing well to stumble around the house and not drool on myself. Hopefully the doctor can see me sometime this week, and I'll be back to my old snarky self. I'll try to put up something later on, and catch up with all you lot.

Love and snot,

Fat Sparrow

Friday, November 03, 2006

How to tell if the neighborhood you live in is not the best

The Swearing Lady has challenged my street cred (okay, it was a few posts back, and in the comments, but still). This is my response (what, you lot were expecting a rap song?) and proof that I do so live in the ghetto.

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.

Fat Sparrow