Fat Sparrow

I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again

2010-08-16T04:32:00.000-07:00

As some of you may already know, we are moving to Northern Ireland.

We fly out of LAX on September 21. That's one of the reasons I haven't been around the blogosphere much. Immigration details, passports, plane tickets, customs forms... and a lot of dicking around on Facebook to kill the pain.

It's been a rough year. Hell, it's been a rough few years. And probably a few more ahead. My possessions, my daughter, my pets, my parents... all these will get left behind. You know things are bad when you have to go back to the Old Country for a new start.

The Fledgling's been in Uni now; she'll be starting her Sophomore year in just a few weeks. So she'll be staying here in the States while I, the Spouse Sparrow, and the Nestling go off to live in Norn Iron.

To say that I'm stressed out about it would be an understatement. It's like jumping out of a plane, and hoping someone catches up to you and gets a parachute on you before you hit the ground.

I know I should be thinking about all the things I have to look forward to, but all I can think about is the things I have lost, and am losing. We're not in a situation where I'll be flying back over to visit, or can afford to ship my things. Once we're there, that's it. I'll just have to hope that it all works out.

Some of you have been listening to my whingeing for a good long while now, sorry. And thank you. You've been my support system, my connection, a hand reaching out in the dark of night when I wake up in panic. Thank you.

I don't know how long it will be before we have an Internet connection over in Northern Ireland. We have to find jobs and things like that, so it may be awhile.

September 21, 2010.

35 days left. Fuck.

Fat Sparrow

Pneumonia is pnot pnice

2010-04-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update, which some of you already know from Facebook...

I may not be making the rounds quite as much, as the Nestling Sparrow has a fairly gnarly case of pneumonia, and we'll be going back in to the doctor's in the morning, as it's not clearing up. My nerves are shot. They did an IV drip on the Nestling right in the doctor's office this last Friday. It took seven tries before the doctor got a vein, and then an antibiotic injection on top of that, along with some anti-nausea/anti-vomiting medication. He's having a hard time keeping down food, and with that, his oral antibiotics.

I was really expecting the Nestling to be doing a lot better by now. Damn.

Sparrow

Conversations With The Spouse Sparrow, Part 2

2010-03-31T23:30:00.001-07:00

Go here for "Conversations With the Spouse Sparrow, Part 1"

Me: (apropos of nothing) "Did you know that Peter Murphy became a Muslim?"

Spouse Sparrow: "Peter who?"

Me: "Peter Murphy."

Spouse Sparrow: "Not ringing a bell."

Me: "You know, Peter Murphy: Bauhaus, 'Bela Lugosi's Dead', 'She's In Parties'? That Peter Murphy.

Spouse Sparrow: "Never heard of him."

Me: (slightly irritated now) "Peter fucking Murphy, for fuck's sake, the Godfather of Goth! That Peter Murphy, you know?!"

Spouse Sparrow: (blank look on face)

Me: "Jesus, he even went on to a solo career, you know, 'Cuts You Up', 'A Strange Kind of Love'?"

Spouse Sparrow: (blank look on face gets blanker)

Me: "Are you taking the piss? PETER MURPHY. P-E-T-E-R M-U-R-P-H-Y. Christ!"

Spouse Sparrow: (blank look on face has now turned to belligerent look)

Me: "Look, have you seen 'The Hunger'?"

Spouse Sparrow: (brightens up) "That's the one with werewolves, right?"

Me: "No, doof, it's the one about vampires, with David Bowie and Catherine Deneuve."

Spouse Sparrow: "No. David Bowie movies are shite."

Me: "Awwww, I liked 'Labyrinth'. And while 'SpongeBob: Atlantis Squarepantis' was not his finest hour, 'Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence' didn't suck. I liked the music."

Spouse Sparrow: "No, you have to say it 'Mewwy Cwisamas, Missah Lawance!"

Me: (shakes head in disbelief) "So, anyway, Bauhaus, of which Peter Murphy was the lead singer, was in a scene of 'The Hunger'. You really haven't seen it?"

Spouse Sparrow: "No, guess not. What does he look like?"

Me: "He was in the original ad for the Maxell tapes. Not the ones here in America, but the British ones. People paid good money to import them, here, because it was... well, an import. All the cool kids had them as posters."

Spouse Sparrow: "Don't know it."

Me: "Yes, you do. It's the guy sitting in an armchair, in profile, in front of a speaker, getting blown back by the music that supposedly coming out of it."

Spouse Sparrow: "No, haven't seen it. So, what does this Peter git look like, anyway?"

Me: "You know, spiky short blond hair, kind of like Budgie from Siouxsie."

Spouse Sparrow: "Like I know what Budgie looks like? I don't listen to pop music."

Me: (thoroughly irritated by this point) "IT'S NOT FUCKING POP MUSIC, YOU STUPID CUNT! Besides, you do listen to pop music, you know you do."

Spouse Sparrow: (smugly) "Oh, really? Well, Siouxsie was on 'Top of the Pops', and if it's not pop music, why would they have it on there?"

Me: "It's alternative, you ignorant fuckwit! I don't care what they call it over there, it's NOT pop music! Besides, if you don't listen to pop music, what the fuck are you doing watching a show called 'Top of the Pops'?!"

Spouse Sparrow: "Watching 'alternative music', according to you. It's probably one of those cuntybaw things that John Peel droned on about, wasn't it?"

Me: (completely exasperated) "For fuck's sake, how is it that you can know all the lyrics to every single Spice Girls song there is, and you've never even heard of Peter fucking Murphy, or Bauhaus?"

Spouse Sparrow: (immediately starts singing and dancing) "If you wanna be my lover, gotta get with my friends...."

Me: "I have no idea how we ended up married. How the fuck are we married?"

Spouse Sparrow: "I ask myself that all the time. It seems you couldn't resist my huge cock."

Me: "Aaaarrgghhh, you always bring that up!"

Spouse Sparrow: "That's what yer ma said."

--------------------------------------------------------

Spouse Sparrow: (eating some kind of nasty, dehydrated banana chips) "These banana chips are really good, but I worry about where it says 'Oh My God' on the back of the package."

Me: "What? Where does it say that?"

Spouse Sparrow: (pointing to back of bag) "Right here.... Cholesterol: Oh My God, Sodium: Oh My God."

Me: (grabbing bag) "That's 0 MG: Zero Milli Grams, you twat."

Spouse Sparrow: "Well, I guess that would make more sense then, wouldn't it?"

--------------------------------------------------------

Me: "You know, Squidward on 'SpongeBob SquarePants' is supposed to be a squid or an octopus or something, but he only has six tentacles. Where are his other tentacles?"

Spouse Sparrow: "Maybe he has undescended tentacles."

Me: (rolls eyes)

Did someone say they had VD?

2010-02-13T10:27:00.000-08:00

A bit of advice: If you are a 40-year-old woman going through early menopause and also ovulating, it is not a good idea to try and sort through your children's old baby clothes. It is an even worse idea to do so in preparation to sell said baby clothes, thus permanently parting from these precious, treasured memories of your child's babyhood. Mind you, they were hidden away in the garage and then in the storage unit, but they were there, they were MINE!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go berate my children, fight with my husband, find, slaughter, and eat some red meat, gorge on chocolate, and waste time on Facebook.

Oh, and list those baby clothes for sale.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Chirps,

Fat Sparrow

The one with the armadillo picture

2009-11-02T01:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have finally responded to your incessant* demands to "Post something, you cunt!"

So, here is "something."

Now that we are at the folks' Nest, our temporary home 'til we go on to Northern Ireland, I have access to a whole treasure trove of family photos. While most of them are pictures of someone's thumb (it's how people on my mom's side of the family took pictures; most families know who's taking the pic by who's not in the shot, we know by whose thumb it is), there are a few that did turn out all right.

So, as ~~threatened~~ promised, here is the infamous Armadillo Picture:

That would be me, age 5 (or 6; I can't remember and my mom's asleep right now; that would also make it the summer of either 1975 or 1976), on a trip back to Eastern Oklahoma to visit my mom's Okie relatives. I'm in what was my favorite nightgown (you can't see it, but it had little pictures of angels all over it) in the back of my uncle's pick-up truck after having been out with them the previous night to go shooting armadillos. My mother didn't approve, which is why I'm in my nightgown; Dad snuck me out after Mom had put me to bed 'cause I had begged him. Sometimes it pays off being Daddy's Little Girl.

My mom was born in California in 1948, her parents were part of the great Okie migration in the 1930's, following the Dust Bowl, but they still had relatives that stayed in Oklahoma and stuck it out.

Yes, those are dead armadillos. If you're not familiar with armadillos (proper Spanish pronunciation: Ar-ma-DEE-yohs, local yokel pronunciation: Armuh-DILL-ers) , they are primarily known in Oklahoma and Texas as a crop pest and road kill. They breed like crazy, have no natural predators any longer, and so if you have a farm/ranch (as my relatives do) you have to eradicate them on a semi-weekly basis. This mainly involves a gun, as it's useless to put out traps for them, and even if they would take poisoned bait, my uncle wouldn't have put it out, as the local birds of prey will eat freshly dead things, and then there'd be less hawks to catch mice in the fields. Armadillos mainly like to root around under the fields, looking for grubs and such, and in the meantime destroying the root system of whatever's planted. They are mainly nocturnal, so about every other week my uncle and cousins would spend the night out shootin' armuhdillers.

The Wikipedia article does mention that they jump when startled (which makes for interesting shooting, or so I've been told), but the article fails to mention that they also will do a back flip when shot. Good times. They also roll up into a ball when threatened, so as to protect themselves.

Here you can see some pictures of what it looks like when an armadillo rolls up into a ball. The text states "Once the animal is rolled up, there's no flesh left for predators to bite!" Notice that the text does not mention anything about shotguns. If you're wondering what happens to them after they've shot them, they pick out the shot, put them on a spit and roast them and then the pigs get them. Oh yeah, crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside. The pigs eat everything but the shell.

While in Oklahoma, I was also served rattlesnake for lunch (tastes like chicken, but textured like swordfish or shark), and given the snake's rattle as a toy to play with, after they had dried it for a couple of days. We kids were told to only use the stairs to go up and down the farmhouse porch, not to just jump off, because the rattlesnakes that lived under the porch were used to people using the steps, but "get ornery" if you jump off the porch. And the last thing anyone wants, I am sure, is ornery rattlesnakes. When I asked my Aint (that's Oklahoman for "aunt") why they didn't shoot the rattlesnakes under the porch, she replied "Oh honey, they ain't hurtin' nuthin', and they keep the mice from comin' in the house." Rattlesnakes in the outhouse were fair game for target practice, however, as no one enjoys a snake up the backside in Oklahoma, apparently.

While already an accomplished horseback rider at age 6, that trip back to Oklahoma also learned me how to round up cows, milk them, learn how to use an outhouse (with Sears Roebuck catalog pages as toilet paper, no less!), get used to bath water from a pond and drinking water from a well, and find out that everything east of the Rockies is a lot buggier than Southern California.

More pics to follow over time, as the Spouse Sparrow digs through the boxes and scans them, assuming our scanner co-operates.

Sparrow

* I lied; people have actually been pleading with me for years to stop posting.

Got to move on some time

2009-08-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

As I'm moving (no, not to Norn Iron just yet, still gotta save up money) on the 31st, I'll be Internet-less from then until I get it hooked up at the new Sparrow's Nest. I don't know how long that'll be, so I'll see you when I see you. Hopefully it won't take AT&T more than a month, ha.

Fat Sparrow

Who knew?

2009-08-24T04:33:00.000-07:00

Shit, am I dumb. I totally missed my own blog-a-versary. I've been not really posting for over 3 years now, woohoo!

Fat Sparrow

At least I was already awake for this one

2009-08-07T02:11:00.000-07:00

Fuck I hate earthquakes. My house is already complete chaos, since we're getting ready to move, but my nerves have been shot and since I was up with a migraine I did not need an earthquake on top of it. Funny, now that the earthquake's over, my migraine has improved slightly...

Of course, it is brilliant to be able to go here the second after I climb out of the doorway to be able to find where it was. Gotta love teh interwebs.

Fat Sparrow

Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated

2009-06-16T08:21:00.000-07:00

...but not by much.

Yeah, I'm here. Kicking, screaming, bitching and moaning, but here. Not much new there.

I'm trying to make the rounds to those of you that are still left.

I'm starting out slow. Like zimmer-frame slow, so bear with me. Sheesh, I don't even know how Blogger works anymore.

Further updates as events warrant.

Fat Sparrow

Slack bastard, with excuses and apologies

2007-08-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have fucked off once again. I had planned on taking some time off, if you remember, before the Broccoli Incident, but I never got around to it. It's kind of been forced on me now.

As some of you may have guessed, my health has been crap, and I've had a lot of doctor's appointments lately. Plus, both the kids have health problems, so they've been at the doctor's, too. I also have a lot of other stuff that has to get taken care of around here, that I'm on deadlines for. I'm sorry to leave you all hanging, but I've been too tired and worn down to even visit 'round the blogs, let alone post. Okay, check.... check.... check.... check.... I believe that's all my excuses.

I'll try to visit, and post, when I'm feeling better and have some spare time again. It may not be for a couple of weeks more, however. My apologies, also, for not replying to everyone's comments wishing me a Happy Blog Day/telling me to fuck off and die/telling me to "Post something you cunt" from my last post.

Sorry,

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- If anyone needs to reach me, you can still e-mail me. The Spouse Sparrow will check my mail for me, and let me know if I have any.

It seems like so much longer

2007-08-07T17:47:00.000-07:00

Today is my blog day. I've been posting this dreck for a year now. I still can't believe I have readers. Thank you all.

Fat Sparrow

109 things you never wanted to know about me

2007-08-02T09:40:00.000-07:00

Having been tagged by NiolK, and dared by Old Knudsen to take the Knudsen Challenge, I decided to combine them, and now you get....

109 things you never wanted to know about me!

1) I went partially blind for about a month when I was 11. The doctors never found out what caused it.

2) I really, really, really hate drug addicts. This may have something to do with me being married to one for 10 years.

3) I was always the shortest kid in my class, and I was also the youngest.

4) I started kindergarten when I was 4, and got kicked out within 12 weeks. I thought they had made a mistake and put me in the Special Ed class, so to be helpful, I went around doing all the other kids' classwork for them. The school board recommended to my parents that I be promoted to 3rd grade, and go to a special school for gifted kids at a local university. Instead, my parents put me in to a private religious school. Not that I am bitter.

5) My ex-husband used to tell me I had Flintstones feet. I prefer "Picasso feet," myself.

6) I had a nose ring back in 1988. It was a small gold hoop. No one else had nose rings back then. I took it out when everyone and their grandmother started getting them.

7) I met the Spouse Sparrow on an Internet discussion group, and immediately chatted him up and asked him to marry me. We were both married to other people at the time, and lived a half a world apart from each other. These turned out to be minor complications.

8) I love to sing, but usually I totally suck at it. When I win the Lottery, I am going to take voice lessons.

9) I once got thrown out of a nightclub at Disneyland for dancing "far too sexually" (their words, not mine) to "Blue Monday." I was dancing with my brother. We were trying to show a friend of mine just how it should be done. Definitely not the most embarrassing moment of my life, but certainly one of the more bizarre. And no, it was not "that kind of family."

10) I am a Sagittarius with Taurus rising.

11) My hair is about 40% white. No, not grey, white. I dye it red. Getting white hair early runs in the family; my mom and grandma both had completely white hair before they were out of high school. Mine didn't start 'til I married the Ex.

12) I don't like muscle-y men. I prefer the slack fucker body type. Think Simon Pegg in "Shaun of the Dead." I also like what the Spouse Sparrow calls "skinny dying fuckers," but they had better have enough of a belly for me to use as a pillow.

13) I like dark-haired, dark-eyed men. Think Dave Navarro from early Jane's Addiction. Yet I have managed to end up married to blondish/gingerish men, twice. Go figure.

14) The only reason I vote is so that I get complaining rights. I dislike and distrust all politicians, as they are professional dissemblers, and if there was a NOTA (None Of The Above) option on our ballots I would regularly use it.

15) That being said, I campaigned and voted for Ross Perot, because he is a crazy little fucker, and I respect that.

16) I would love to meet Ursula K. Le Guin before she carks it, although I have no idea what I would say to her.

17) I named my daughter (well, her middle name) after one of Ursula K. Le Guin's characters.

18) I met Ray Bradbury when I was 17. It was rather surreal. I was small and young and hot, and everyone else there was geeky and male, or older women schoolteachers. He was large and old and drunk. He autographed several books for me.

19) I know quite a lot about most of the world's religions, even the obscure ones.

20) I was an Anthro major/Psych minor.

21) I have known 3 people who had their doctorate in Poli Sci, and they all delivered pizza. That was after they had their doctorates, mind you.

22) I tend to be either incredibly cautious or stupidly rash. If it's something physical, I'm always incredibly cautious. Erm, unless it's sex.

23) I do not take physical pain very well. If I am in pain, everyone within hearing distance will know all about it.

24) I tend to be very loyal, but if you have fucked me over, all bets are off.

25) When I was 11, I only weighed 55 lbs.

26) By the time I was 12, I weighed 90 lbs. The difference was all tits and ass.

27) I have been married twice, and engaged three times. I broke off the engagement with that one I didn't marry, and I hope he never tracks me down. He was a cunt.

28) I am a hopeless romantic and an awful cynic.

29) Everyone in my high school used me as their agony aunt. I cannot believe how many girls thought that douching with Coke is an effective form of birth control.

30) Speaking of birth control, I am allergic to latex if it comes in contact with my mucous membranes, and I am allergic to spermicide, and the Sponge.

31) The Ex and I split up more times than I can remember before we finally got divorced. I haven't spoken to him in about 2 or 3 years now. I am so glad to be out of the constant drama and psych ward that is his life.

32) I have one tattoo. It is on my left butt-cheek. It is a blue rose and a red rose, with leaves, and a scroll with the Spouse Sparrow's name. Getting a tattoo was nowhere near as painful as I had thought it was going to be. Compared to giving birth, it was a piece of piss.

33) I have done many different kinds of drugs, and I can take them or leave them. I have a hard time understanding how people get addicted.

34) Ditto with cigarettes. I quit cold turkey when the Spouse Sparrow asked me too, and have never had a problem.

35) That being said, if someone offers me free food I will jump at the chance. Even if it's crap food.

36) I was date raped when I was 13, and that's how I lost my virginity. I don't recommend it, even as a conversation piece.

37) Yes, I have issues. Many, many issues.

38) I carry an umbrella with me when I'm out, because I am pale and can get a very bad sunburn in less than 10 minutes.

39) My grandmother was Cherokee, and my grandad was a mix of a couple of different tribes. Not that you could tell by looking at me. White bread all around; I take after my dad's side, mainly. The Native American's on my mom's side.

40) I always laugh when I hear Prince Charles or the Queen speaking on television, because they look like my Okie relatives, and so I expect them to sound like my Okie relatives.

41) Black people with British accents also make me laugh. No matter how many times I hear it, it's still unexpected.

42) I have a love/hate relationship with Disney movies.

43) I fucking well love all the "Harry Potter" books, and would happily go off to live in that 'verse. I don't want to hear any of you Muggle cunts giving out about it either, or I will kick your shit in.

44) I'm a lot like Hermione, but fucked in the head.

45) I was really into Hinduism for a while (see #6), and I love saris and bangles and Indian music and all of that.

46) Unfortunately it dawned on me that I would never fit in, a) because I was white, and b) because while I was able to abstain from eating meat during the summertime, once Thanksgiving came around I became a ravenous carnivore. Plus I have no compunctions about squashing bugs mercilessly. Fuck, if I was a cockroach, I'd want someone to put me out of my misery.

47) I don't watch much TV, never have. I was in to "Twin Peaks," "X-Files," "Buffy," "Angel," "Futurama," "Firefly," and now "House," "Battlestar Galactica," and "Dr. Who." We don't get BBC America, though, so no "Torchwood" for me.

48) I thought Christopher Eccleston was pretty good as the Doctor. I don't much care for David Tennant as the Doctor. The Spouse Sparrow says I'm not allowed an opinion, as I'm a bloody Yank.

49) I love Jane Austen. I saw "Pride and Prejudice" recently, and it really chapped my thighs. Stick to the fucking book, you twats. There's a reason it's a classic.

50) I saw "The Virgin Queen" on Masterpiece Theater, and got the hots for Tom Hardy. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. He was in some awful movie on the Sci Fi channel that the Spouse Sparrow was watching, called "Minotaur." That really helped put me off him.

51) I used to have the hots for Ben Stein and Dave Navarro. I know, there's no accounting for taste. The Spouse Sparrow bugged me so much about Ben Stein that I went off him. I went off Dave Navarro when he hooked up with Carmen Electra.

52) The Spouse Sparrow is very jealous, and gets a perverse pleasure in making me go off my Honeys. He has been trying to convince me for years now that Hugh Laurie is gay. He doesn't seem to get it; I don't care if Hugh Laurie is gay, I have the hots for House, not Hugh Laurie. The Spouse Sparrow doesn't give me shit about liking Jason Bourne or Spike from Buffy, as I secretly suspect that he would do them, too.

53) I am a flirter. I don't even realize I'm doing it. I've tried to rein it in, as men seem to think that it means that they're getting somewhere. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. If you think I'm chatting you up, I am so not hot for you. If I was hot for you, I would be all tongue-tied and shy and doofus-y. If you're getting my full-wattage charm, you don't stand a chance of getting the ride. Er, Spouse Sparrow excepted. He was the only one.

54) I never pick up on it when men are hitting on me. They have to be really blunt about it and tell me "I like you and I want to fuck you." So shy, subtle men need not apply. Not that I am taking applications.

55) I am attracted to brainy men but I have found that they cannot fuck. The Spouse Sparrow is my perfect combination of brains and rough trade, my bad boy with a heart of gold.

56) The Spouse Sparrow had a dog that had my mom's name, and I had a dog with his mom's name.

57) I have this need, deep down, to fit in with some kind of group, but I have never been able to find them. Then again, I hate fucking groups and I hate people.

58) I am built for gymnastics and not ballet. I wish I was built for ballet. I can do ballet, but not gymnastics. I am not limber.

59) I am a klutz, and have been one all my life. There's a reason my parents didn't name me "Grace." I trip over invisible objects. I do much better if I walk barefoot. I used to go barefoot all the time when I was a teenager, and the soles of my feet got to be about a half-inch thick. I could walk over a long, long stretch of asphalt when it was well over 100 degrees out, and not feel the heat through my feet. I used to get detention every day in 10th grade for going to school barefoot.

60) One time when I was in high school I walked out of the locker room after P.E. class with my dress tucked in to my nylons and my knickers showing. No one told me and I didn't realize until I went to my next class and sat down on a cold seat. Nobody bothered to make fun of me, because they knew I wouldn't care, anyway. They still should have told me, the cunts.

61) I wear bi-focals. I've worn bi-focals since 9th grade. Some people take them as a sign of getting old and won't wear them, but that's just stupid, as they're damn handy. It was really inconvenient having to take off my reading glasses to look at the board, and then put them back on to copy the notes from the board, and then take them off, and them put them on, ad infinitum, so I told my eye doctor I wanted bi-focals.

62) I thought I would deal with aging really well, but now that it's creeping up on me I find that I am not. Still, no one in our family looks their age, and people who meet me in real life don't think I'm as old as I am.

63) I love Volvos. I miss my Volvo.

64) I love RVs. I am fanatical about RVs. I favor Class C motorhomes, but I am well versed in the ins-and-outs of Class A's, Class B's, Fifth Wheels, Toy Haulers, Vacation Trailers, Travel Trailers, Tent Trailers, Vintage Trailers, Pop-Up Trailers.... You get the idea.

65) I am a flake and a procrastinator. I mean well, and I get fits of energy and start a million projects, and there they sit, years later.

66) I have a very small birthmark on my right cheek. It's a reddish-pinkish dot. My mom has it and my grandma had it, too. It pissed me off because in some school photos, they airbrushed it out, thinking it was a zit, and I am strangely proud of my birthmark.

67) My parents both worked full time, and mom had to return to work 6 weeks after I was born, so my Great-Aunt took care of me. I was with her for about twelve hours a day, and she was wonderful. I used to feel guilty because I loved her more than my mom, and when I was a kid, I thought I might go to Hell because I loved her more than my mom. Auntie died a few years ago, and I still miss her terribly.

68) I miss my Grandma, too. She died 11 years ago, and I still haven't gotten over it. I was there with her when she died. I still get teary-eyed when I think about her.

69) I don't see much point in 69. Neither party can concentrate properly.

70) I had my first orgasm when I was ten years old. I multiple orgasm very easily. My record's 37, but that was on my own.

71) I would like to go on a cruise, just for the all-you-can-eat lobster and buffet.

72) I'm not a big drinker. I do not like to get drunk, and will stop drinking long before that point. I like wine, especially mead, and Midori Sours, 7 and 7's, and that's about it. I like having Bloody Marys at home, but I don't order them when we go out, as very few places have good Bloody Marys. The Spouse Sparrow and I went all through Vegas without finding one single place that had a decent Bloody Mary. Caesar's Palace came the closest, but was still piss poor, and Excalibur was the absolute worst. I can't drink tequila at all. It comes back up as soon as it goes in.

73) I used to be very in to Ren Faire. That's the Renaissance Faire, for you tourists. I dressed as a respectable peasant-type. Peasants have more fun, as we can sit on the grass and show more cleavage than the middle- and upper-classes. Cleavage is something I have a lot of, and I would put it to good use at Faire. I can just set my plate on top of it when I'm eating, and it's useful for me to take a nap on, too. Huzzah!

74) Some of my favorite movies are "Shaun of the Dead," "The Mosquito Coast," "The Year of Living Dangerously," "Lost in Translation," and "Until the End of the World."

75) I just saw "Marie Antoinette," and I am now convinced that Sofia Coppola could shoot film of someone having a shite, add a soundtrack, and I would fucking well love it. It does crack me up to hear her give direction or interviews, though, as she is so, like, um, non-communicative in a Valley Girl kind of way. How on earth does she get the actors to do what she says? How the fuck can they tell what she wants? It's all very strange.

76) I laugh at fart jokes, and am impressed by comic timing. The other night, we were putting the Nestling Sparrow to bed in his crib, and I kissed him and asked him if he needed anything else, and then turned to go. He said "Wait, I forgot something!" and then ripped off a really long fart. I laughed so hard I cried. I have high hopes for him.

77) I myself do not fart. Okay, it's kind of like that "If a tree falls in the forest, and no one's around, does it make a sound" kind of thing. But still, I fart very rarely. I read that the average person farts about 15 times a day, and I can go days without farting.

78) People always describe me as "cute." Not pretty, not beautiful, not striking, not stunning, but "cute." God must have a sense of humour, giving me a cunning and twisted interior, and a "cute" exterior, the fucker.

79) My high school yearbook is filled with "You're so sweet, don't ever change!" No, they didn't know me very well.

80) I bitch and moan about being called "cute" and "sweet," but let me tell you, you can get away with a lot if you look innocent and no one thinks to suspect you. Oh yeah.

81) I have naturally curly hair. If I get out of the shower, and scrunch it slightly, it will go in to perfect corkscrew curls.

82) It really pissed me off when "The Breakfast Club" came out, because I had red, curly hair, in a semi-bob just like Molly Ringwald did, and I DID NOT COPY HER, SHE COPIED ME, dammit. Fuck that pissed me off to have people thinking I copied her. That was probably why I started having it straightened and went blonde.

83) I dislike most types of music. That being said, there could be all kinds of new stuff out there that I like, and I'd never know, because I can't afford CD's and I can't stand listening to the radio or watching videos. I just don't have the patience.

84) The phrase that comes to my mind a lot lately is Danny Glover's, from "Lethal Weapon": "I'm too old for this shit."

85) My whole life, everyone keeps telling me to write and get published, but I know my own limitations and I really have nothing to say. I think I would enjoy being a ghost writer.

86) I admire Rose Wilder Lane, who ghost wrote the "Little House" books for her mother, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Rose led a very interesting life, and she's an excellent writer. I identify with her a lot.

87) Speaking of roses, if I'm not wearing Paloma Picasso perfume, I'm wearing rose oil as a perfume. I love roses.

88) I'm not too sure about men giving me flowers. I like the idea, and it's very romantic, but my ex-fiance used to give me flowers. I thought it was just because he loved me. I finally sussed out that he gave me flowers every time he cheated on me. He gave me a lot of flowers.

89) I am the type of woman that would appreciate home appliances or power tools for her birthday, anniversary, etc.

90) My dad was an engineer, mechanic, and all-around handyman type, and I always wanted to learn. Whenever I tried to get him to teach me things, he would tell me to go help my mother, and then he would make my brother come out to help. I finally learned to just not talk, stay on the sidelines, and learn by observing. I don't know why my dad was like that with me, as I was his favorite kid, and he definitely didn't think that chores or tasks fell along male/female lines. Years later, I'm still puzzling over that one.

91) I really miss being able to afford sushi and sashimi. I love Japanese food.

92) I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I'm not doing anything with it now.

93) I like to play Pente. I've been playing it since 1984. It's kind of like Go. I'm pretty good at it.

94) I hate all sports, and know absolutely nothing about them. Thank God, the Spouse Sparrow is the same. I couldn't stand being married to someone who's in to sports.

95) I like archery, and I used to be really good at it. No, that doesn't count as a sport.

96) I love horses, and used to go over to my friend's grandparents' house every day to take care of their ponies, cows, chickens, and goats. I used to try to convince my parents to turn the garage into a stable so I could have a horse. I can milk cows and goats, candle eggs, trim hoofs, and do all that farm-type stuff. All of this in spite of being allergic to hay, and breaking out in large welty hives every time I touched it.

97) I am a keyboard pounder. I took typing for two years in 7th and 8th grade, and we learned on old manual typewriters. According to the Spouse Sparrow, I still sound like I'm on a manual typewriter.

98) My taste in decorating is fairly eclectic. It's like if a Cost Plus World Market truck and an Ikea truck collided and then crashed in to a Victorian library that someone was holding a rummage sale in. Most of my living room is bookcases, which are crammed to the gills. I need more bookcases, but there's no room. I don't like having my neighbors over because they ask dumb questions like "Have you read all of those?" Of course, these are people who don't own any books, or if they do own a book, it's the Bible.

99) I love "The Twilight Zone," and my favorite episode is "Little Girl Lost," that one where the girl falls out of bed and in to another dimension and the parents barely find her in time. I still get chills when I watch it. And I still cringe over that one where Burgess Meredith's glasses break, poor git.

100) I like shiny glass things. When I was 1, my mother tells me I bit into a glass ball ornament for our Christmas tree, even though I knew better. They rushed me to the hospital and I was just fine.

101) I hate to cook. Love to eat, hate to cook. I mean, I can do it and all, and fancy stuff, too, it's just that I consider it a pain in the arse. I'd much rather go out to a restaurant.

102) I hate doing dishes, too, but I'm always the one that does them, because I'm really, really anal about the dishes getting clean. I wash the dishes before they are put in the dishwasher, and I consider the dishwasher to be an autoclave. My ex-in-laws used to not even rinse the dishes before they put them in the dishwasher, and they used cold water for the dishwasher, and barely any soap, and then they let them air dry. When they took the dishes out of the dishwasher, they would just flick off the bits of dried food that were left on, and then put the dishes away. And they wondered why I didn't want to eat there.

103) I am a wanna-be artist, and used to dabble with charcoals and also with pen and ink over watercolors.

104) I suck at math. I used to ditch my math class in 9th grade to go and sit in on my friend's physics class, and then I would discuss theoretical quantum physics with the teacher. He thought I was brilliant until he realized that I wasn't on his roll list and that I had flunked Algebra I. Oh well. I ditched Algebra because my teacher was an asshole who liked to brush up against my tits while he was "helping" me, and he called his T.A.'s "Bimbo 1" and "Bimbo 2." He was also the football coach. I tried reporting him, but sexual harrassment was not a concept back then, and my counselor told me I was imagining things.

105) The only bone I have ever broken is one of my ribs. I originally broke it during a coughing fit one of the many times I had pneumonia and bronchitis, and then I broke it again during sex with the ex-fiance.

106) I started out left-handed, and was trained to write with my right hand. I still get my left and my right mixed up. Up until the time I was an adult, I could write with either hand, as long as it was print and not cursive.

107) I have no sense of direction. Wait, I do have a sense of direction, but it's the wrong one. Whenever I'm really, really sure that something is this way, it is sure to be the opposite way. I have often wondered if that has to do with that right/left mixup thing I have.

108) I am a very fast reader. And I can read upside down or backwards writing faster than most people can read regular writing. I also invented my own phonetic alphabet, that was based on the English language, when I was about 12, so that I could write in code. I had a nosey brother.

109) I have not forgotten about your tag, Devin, this one was just easier and is buying me some time, as I am a slack fucker.

Fat Sparrow

Marriage: Probably not worth it

2007-07-22T03:39:00.000-07:00

So, there I was, on my so-called summer blog vacation, supposed to be getting shit done, but I wasn't. I did manage to go to doctor's appointments and what-not, but stupid me, I forgot it was Migraine Week, and I picked up some kind of a bug that made the lymph nodes in my neck all puffy and made me all tired, so I was just sleeping a lot.

I did manage to do one thing, though; I made broccoli salad. I had been meaning to make some broccoli salad for a while, as I had tried it at the deli in Stater Bros., and I was pretty sure I could make it for far less than the $5.99 per lb. they were charging for it. So, I got all the ingredients, about $10 worth (which may not seem much, but we are on a budget) and made a huge batch. So that was what I had done tonight.

But now, sadly, I will never be able to eat my broccoli salad. I have gone off it.

"Why?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you why. The Spouse Sparrow, who had been slagging off my broccoli salad all night, telling me how minging it was, decided to have some.

Of course, I didn't find this part out until he boked it all up over my side of the bed, my pillows, and my side of the bedroom, floor and walls and baby crib included. Oh no, I never would have known he had eaten any broccoli salad if the entire bedroom, including exercise bike, shoes, dressers, and spare blanket were not covered in little broccoli florets. The carpet is drenched, as before he ate the broccoli salad, he drank an assload of vodka, followed by a lot of water, apparently.

He then went on to liberally coat the hallway and the bathroom in tiny chunks of greenery. Yes, there was also carrots, as the broccoli salad had carrots in it. My only saving grace is that I was at the computer, and not in the bed when he horked. The baby, asleep in his crib, missed getting puked on by about 6 inches. Nice.

I could kill the Spouse Sparrow, I really could. It's left to me, the one with the horrible headache, to mop up the mattress, bedroom, bathroom, etc., while he is passed out on the couch. I'm the one that will be up all night washing pillows, sheets, and trying to pick chunks out of the carpet. I'm the one who'll spend the next 3 days shampooing the carpet in the bedroom and the hallway. I'm the one that is scared of bugs, and now I have to go back and forth to wash all the stuff, out in the garage with all the flying, crawling, and hopping things.

And it really, really chaps my thighs because he fucking well knows that I have a serious phobia, an actual phobia, about people barfing, and he really, really knows I don't like him to drink that much. I don't care if it's part of the British/Irish culture, he's fucking well in America now and he should adjust.

He is passed out on the couch at the minute, as the mattress will have to dry out for a day or so (and will still smell like shite when it does, and let's not forget that smell will be on my side), and I am tempted to smother him with my puked-on pillow. And do you know what's stopping me? The thought of him shitting and pissing on the couch when he carks it from me smothering him. I would kill him, but I'd just have another mess to clean up.

And he actually had the audacity to give me a dirty look when I ordered him out of the bedroom and on to the couch, and provided him with the barf bucket.

Truly, the thrill is gone.

Fat Sparrow

Like summer vacation, but without the vacation part

2007-07-17T20:15:00.000-07:00

I'll be taking some time off from the blog circuit for the next week or two, as I have doctor's appointments and tests for me and the sprogs, and I need to get the kids' room sorted out so that we can finally start to get the Nestling Sparrow out of our room and into the other room with the Fledgling Sparrow. That will involve stripping and repainting a bed, cleaning the carpet, painting, renovating, and boxing up two tons of crap, not to mention the wailing and gnashing of teeth on my part.

I also need to sort out all the crap my parents dumped on me when they downsized, sort stuff for a yard sale, patch and paint our bedroom, clean the upholstery in the living room, and.... Well, you get the idea. I've been feeling a tad better lately, so I figure I should get stuck in before the weather gets too hot to be able to do anything (we only have a swamp cooler for the house), or my healthy spell wears off.

So, posting will be sporadic to non-existent, along with me making the blog rounds to all of yours. I'll try to sneak in to visit you lot whenever I have some spare time.

If you simply cannot bear not knowing when my next post will come out, you can scroll down in my side bar to sign up for Feedburner e-mail notification when a new post is up. And I can still be reached by e-mail, of course, if anyone needs to get a hold of me.

Fat Sparrow

An open letter to the dirty minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros.

2007-07-12T17:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Dirty Minger that used the toilet at Stater Bros. --

Thank you so much for leaving the bathroom in Stater Bros. in such a state, as there is nothing I like more than to use a bathroom where someone has left a snail trail all over the toilet seat.

Even better is when it is a bloody snail trail, like the one you left when removing your tampon.

Even better than that is seeing where you have flung your used, bloody tampon, as you tried to get it in to the bin. Rest assured that when it comes to wall art, Jackson Pollock has nothing on you.

Looking at that wall, I could truly feel your state of mind when you tried to chuck that unwrapped, used snatch plug into the trash can. To you, that state of mind says "I too can be empowered just like Sheryl Crow, and not use unnecessary toilet paper." To me, that state of mind says "I am a precious fuckwit, and I think I am too good to touch anything that comes out of my body, as it is icky."

Grow up. If you don't know by now that you need to wrap up your vampire's teabag after you have rooted it out of your stench trench, you are not mature enough to be using one anyway. You weren't beyond touching yourself when you shoved that cotton version of the Hoover Dam up there, so you certainly aren't too good to wrap it up in bog roll when it comes out.

If I see you in the street, I will drop trou right then and there, squirt out my Tampax Slender Regular, and bitch slap you with it.

And for fuck's sake, wipe your fucking piss flaps already, and use more than one square of toilet paper while you're doing it, you dirty, dirty minger.

Sincerely,

Fat Sparrow

Really? You don't say

2007-07-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Your Anti Climactic Fortune

In the future, I foresee.... Continued human stupidity, in the form of bloggers who like to hide behind various personalities, and have nothing better to do with their time. I also predict that these same bloggers will be exposed for what they are, i.e., a pack of lying and denying cunts.

The Anti Climactic Fortune Teller

Live Earth? Not for long

2007-07-09T01:17:00.000-07:00

Boy, nothing says "I want to stop global warming" like setting up concerts all over the world and encouraging millions of people to drive or fly to them, not to mention the gazillions of kilowatts of electricity being used to light up and power the concerts. And let's not forget the gas that's being used to truck in the beer that is being sold for $7 a cup and truck out the boke, piss, and shit.

I suppose "Live Earth: Let's Stay Home And Listen To Music" just doesn't have the same kind of ring to it.

Al Gore is really, really on my list, the cunt.

Fat Sparrow

I knew he wanted me

2007-07-07T17:44:00.000-07:00

I have been trying for ages to get the ride off Philip, and finally, he has at least fingered me. I am encouraged at this sign of foreplay, but also disturbed, as it seems he is in to the really perverted stuff: Memes.

Now, quit gasping in horror. Some people just consider them "kinky."

Either way, I get to do it 8 times, and here it goes....

1) I never heard the word "fuck" until I was 12 years old, and I had no idea what it meant. I dare say I've made up for that. And to think, people say that kids don't learn anything in public schools.

2) I was a child prodigy, and I learned to read at 9 months, and could read a newspaper by the time I was 18 months old. I have done fuck all since then.

3) My pinkie fingers on my hands are abnormally short. When I was a child, my mother had to sew up the pinkie fingers in all my gloves because of this. You would think that this would have clued her in to the fact that piano lessons were not for me, but oh no, it did not.

4) I have nipples like JCB starter buttons, and I like anal sex. Those two things may be completely unrelated.

5) In my youth, I memorized the New Testament, which was a complete waste of time. I did win a prize, although I can't remember what it was. Anyway, the important thing was: I won!

6) When I first started driving, I came upon the scene of an accident on the freeway. Traffic had slowed to a stop. For 5 minutes, I looked out my car window at a severed head. I couldn't have gotten out of my car without kicking the head out of the way. I can still see that head, in my memory. It had a rather shocked expression on its face.

7) When I was a child, I read unabridged dictionaries and encyclopedias for fun.

8) My dentist tells me that my mouth is too small and my tongue is too big. I'm beginning to wonder what he has in mind by telling me all this.

Fat Sparrow

People I am fingering: First Nations, Fumie, Devin, Annie, Sassy, Gimme A Minute, and Old Knudsen. I know Old Knudsen won't do it, but I just like to finger him. Oh, and let's toss Eddie in too, as I suspect he secretly wants a three-way with me and Footie, who has also tagged him.

An inconvenient truth: You're a fuckwit

2007-07-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

Al Gore's son was arrested, as I'm sure you've heard.

Personally, I am shocked.

I had no idea that a Toyota Prius could do 100 MPH.

Fat Sparrow

Happy Fourth of July!

2007-07-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

I've had a valium, and am feeling a tad mellower.

I ran across a quote that I liked, from Erma Bombeck:

"You have to love a nation that celecbrates its independence every July 4, not with a parade of guns, tanks and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism."

I'm off to be patriotic fat fucker. If I don't eat, the terrorists have won.

Fat Sparrow

Forced patriotism and family gatherings

2007-07-03T03:37:00.000-07:00

Neither one is valid.

I found out yesterday that all of our little happy family plans for the 4th have been shattered. Why? Because my brother's a cunt. In fairness, it's not completely his fault, but he's still a cunt.

Some background:

I made a really dumb mistake years back, and hooked up my brother with my daughter's babysitter. My daughter's babysitter used to live next door to us, and her mom still does, although her dad died recently. My brother married her, and so now what was previously just my next-door neighbors turned in to my brother's in-laws.

Spouse Sparrow and I had planned a nice little Fourth of July celebration, just us and the kids, as this is the last year that fireworks will be legal in our city thanks to the city council, the unbearable witless mongs. I can't believe I voted for them. I saved my receipt from voting, and I am going to demand my money back, the fuckers.

This being the last year that fireworks are legal here is kind of a big deal to me, because we have the sprogs, but no car, so it's not like we can go and see the public fireworks displays. Spouse Sparrow even humoured me and splurged and bought a nice little assortment of fireworks with the last of his birthday money that his family had sent him. He set some money aside for some beer, and we were going to barbecue, veg out, and set some explosives on fire. Nothing fancy, nothing involving any cleaning of the house, or dressing up, or even wearing a bra.

Then my next-door neighbor came to the door to invite us to a party and barbecue she's having. My parents (thanks a lot for the heads up, Mom!), my brother and his wife and their three girls, the Hell Kittens, will all be there. It's right fucking next door, with all my family, and so there's no way I can get out of it. I'll have to spend all day listening to my idiot brother (we'll call him "Shane"; if you're a fan of "The Shield," this should give you some clue as to his personality, bearing in mind that Shane on "The Shield" looks like a fucking genius and a liberal compared to my brother) mouth off about absolutely everything, including all his little racist tirades and xenophobic crap, not to mention his foul fucking language (I'm a perfect fucking laydee except on this blog, I'll have you know) and I'll have to put up with all of it in the name of family harmony. I'll also have to put up with a whole bunch of stupid, forced patriotism and probably some religious crap, too, thrown in for good measure.

Now, don't get me wrong; I'm fond of my country. No matter how much I slag it off, I still think that at least we're trying, and no one's perfect, and furthermore, there's lots worse countries out there. I just don't like to be forced to be patriotic, or risk looking bad. It's like Mother's Day and Father's Day; you're over a barrel and have to pay 6 fucking dollars for a card or you look like a right cunt. It's not fair. What's also not fair is that all of my white trash neighbors look well patriotic, with their stupid huge flags and their strutting and their yellow ribbons, but none of the stupid twats vote, while I do, so who's more patriotic? I do believe that would be me, even though you won't see a flag in sight and even though I am constantly taking the piss out of America.

I have to clean my house, because the nosy bitch that is my sister-in-law will come up with some excuse for wanting to come in and poke around. I have to turn on the oven and bake a cake, even though it's going to be 90 degrees in the house before I even fire up the oven, and that's with the swamp cooler on. I'll have to smile and act cheerful and not slap the Hell Kittens when they push and shove the Nestling Sparrow, and I'll have to wear a fucking bra. And to top it all off, it's supposed to be 109 degrees on the Fourth.

The Spouse Sparrow has informed me that he is boycotting this family gathering, and I would too, if I could get away with it. Instead, I'll have to be out there, exposing my kids to a bunch of crap I'd rather they not hear, with the Nestling Sparrow picking up all kinds of bad manners and habits from the Hell Kittens, and my digestion being totally ruined from having to be around my brother.

The next-door neighbor told me that my parents are bringing fireworks, so I suppose we'll just save ours for next year and risk getting a ticket. It's not like you can see our house from the street, anyway, and ours are just little quiet fireworks, as the big noisy whistling ones scare the Nestling Sparrow. I'm sure my parents will have sprung for the really big expensive collection of fireworks, with all the noisemakers, so I'll probably have to bring the Nestling Sparrow back in the house beforehand, so I don't have to listen to my dad and my brother rag on him for not being tough enough to take the fireworks.

So much for our lovely holiday.

Fat Sparrow

Dr. Love, baby

2007-06-29T15:58:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember my doctor from previous posts. For those of you who are hot for her (you know who you are, Fumie), you can see her picture here again, just in case it is not stored in your wank bank. I fondly refer to her as Dr. DeVil. She is an evil sadist, an Asian with a Valley Girl accent, a clueless college post-graduate with the attention span of Dori from "Finding Nemo," and continually overbooked.

She also has a crush on the Spouse Sparrow.

She's not my Primary Care Physician anymore, but since I go to a group practice I do occasionally get her as my doctor if one of the others is not available.

The last three times I have seen her, she has asked about the Spouse Sparrow. By name. And then she blushed.

Oh, she also asks about the Nestling Sparrow and the Fledgling Sparrow, but she can't seem to remember their names, even though they are also patients of hers and she has seen them for years now. The Spouse Sparrow isn't even a patient of hers, but she manages to remember his name. I'm pretty sure the only reason she remembers my name is because I have an unusual name.

I'm wondering if this crush of hers might have anything to do with her not caring if I cark it, quite frankly. The first time she specifically asked about him, she was quite surprised to hear that he was my second husband, and that the Nestling Sparrow was a planned baby. The expression on her face said "How did someone like you manage to catch someone like him?!" Really, it was most unflattering to yours truly.

I have told the Spouse Sparrow all about it, of course. He's getting fairly used to the attention from womenfolk here in the States now, as they throw themselves at him, even with me standing right there. I mean, I am obviously his wife, we obviously have a kid together, as he is right fucking there in the stroller, and the Spouse Sparrow will still get women hitting on him in the shops. Right in front of me. Did I mention the "right in front of me" bit? Because the hotties are doing it right in front of me. I mean, I understand the attraction, really. He's cute, witty, has a really good accent, and they can see that he is great with kids and is a hands-on dad. Still, if the stupid bints could just manage to restrain themselves until I walked over to the next fucking aisle I wouldn't be slagging them off half so much, the stupid whoring twats. It's a good thing I'm not the jealous type.

(waits for laughter to die down)

Now, the Spouse Sparrow is quite shy and modest, and blushes easily. It's taken quite a lot of totty being thrown at him, and me harping on about it, before he even realized what was up. And now this, with Dr. DeVil, on top of it all.

I think that next time I have an appointment with Dr. DeVil, I will bring along the Spouse Sparrow, and then she can see him turn bright purple and stutter in embarrassment and maybe then she will go off him.

No, dammit, she will probably just think that is "cute." Fuck, she may even think he likes her.

Maybe I will just start smearing him with shite before he leaves the house.

Not that I am bitter.

Fat Sparrow

The drugs don't work, they just make things worse

2007-06-27T06:58:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Long and boring post ahead. Money will not be refunded.

Thank you,

The Mgmt.

~~~~~~~~

A few people have e-mailed me to ask me about the state of my health/test results/promised nude photos,* and I figured I had better get off my ass and post about it before I got any more e-mails. For those of you who have already received e-mails about this, you're in luck; you get to read my brilliant writing once again.

Re: Lupus.... So far, the doctors have not definitively ruled out Lupus, buuuuuuutttt.... It looks like the majority of the Lupus symptoms I was having were due to side effects from an allergy/asthma drug I was taking called Singulair.

Mind you, I saw several doctors and none of them were able to figure this out. Oh no, it was me that figured it out. Do I get paid $175,000 a year for it? Like fuck I do.

I had a few really bad days a while back, days where my stomach was so bad that I couldn't eat. And because I couldn't eat, I couldn't take my pills, either. After a few days, it dawned on me that I felt much, much better. I had a sneaking suspicion right then and there, but being a fan of the scientific method I started taking the pills again. Lo and behold, I felt like shit.

I went on the Internet and pulled up the list of side effects for Singulair, and there they all were -- fever, nausea, joint aches, kidney pain, unusual weakness, vomiting, dizziness, headache, hallucinations, muscle aches, irregular heartbeat, numbness/tingling of the hands and feet, general swelling, excessive thirst, and extreme fatigue, just to name of few of the really fun ones. Fucking hell. Months of torture, and it's due to a prescription medication.

I started on Singulair last August, and I suppose the first symptom I developed was fever. Unfortunately, I didn't notice it at the time because I already had a fever. When I went to the doctor in August, it was for a sinus infection and fever, and that's when she put me on the Singulair. The other side effects came along a bit later.

Still, the doctors won't rule out Lupus, because Drug-Induced Lupus does not cause the facial rash like regular Lupus, and I have the facial rash and the photosensitivity. I did read on the Internet forums that some people have developed other auto-immune diseases while taking Singulair, and other people who already had Lupus and other auto-immune diseases had to stop taking Singulair, because Singulair caused flare-ups and made them worse. So it is possible that I am susceptible to Lupus, as I had been tested before when I was 10 or 11, and the Singulair may have triggered it or at least triggered an episode. Come to think of it, when I had problems and they tested me for Lupus before, they were also guinea-pigging me on new asthma/allergy meds. The problem is, Singulair works wonders for my allergies, and when I'm off it, all the other problems go away, but I'm incapacitated by constant sneezing, wheezing, runny nose, runny eyes, and all that shite.

My new doctor and I are filing an official report (MedWatch) to the FDA (Food and Drug Administration, for you Brit-type people), and it would not surprise me in the least to hear, some 10 years from now, that there is firm scientific evidence that Singulair can trigger Lupus in susceptible patients, as Singulair works on the immune system.

So, that took care of most of the symptoms, but then I was still was getting kidney/bladder infections even after going off the Singulair. Guess what, turns out that another of my fucking prescription meds has been messing with my pancreas, kicking out sugar into my urine and causing those kidney/bladder infections. Again, it was me that figured that one out, without help from the doctors.

I started doing research on the Net about the other prescription drugs I was on, and found a new study done by the NHS there in Britain which shows that Inderal (a common beta-blocker, which I was on for prevention of severe migraines and it did away with my anxiety attacks too, dammit) can trigger Type 2 Diabetes in susceptible patients. Jesus wept. Of course, my doctors hadn't seen this study, because it hasn't been published over here.

Lovely. Just what I need, Type 2 diabetes.

My new doctor tested me, and yep, I'm pre-diabetic with a super-sensitivity to carbs. Off the Inderal I went.

I'd already been on a self-imposed diabetic-type diet since last November, due to all the kidney/bladder problems I had been having, and there's been no temptation to break it as if I eat something with sugar in it or what-not I become violently ill.

I'll have to do another fasting, 3-hour Glucose-Tolerance Test in 2 months, and we'll see how I'm doing then. In the meantime, my allergies and asthma are back full-force, as the Singulair and worked really well to control those. I am not taking another pill. I'll just put up with it.

I will have to do something about my migraines, though, as they are completely out of hand. God only knows what, as the doctors have put me on pill after pill that didn't work, already. $342 for 10 fucking pills, if you can believe that. Thank God it's not me paying for it.

It positively amazes me that I have been seen by scores of doctors, who all knew exactly what meds I was on, and yet not one brought up the possibility of side effects. And it's not just that; not only did the doctors not pick up on it, their response was to put me on more fucking pills, to control what was actually side effects from the pills I was on.

Oh, and while I was researching all those other side effects, I found out that it could be that the Aciphex, which I take for my ulcers, could be eroding my hip joints, causing my hip pain. Nice.

Basically what I am hoping for is for me to get back to the same level of illness I was at before they started prescribing all those helpful medications, and then I will bang my head on a wall, repeatedly.

So much for modern medicine. And the doctors wonder why I question them all the time. Jeez.

I will leave you all with this little gem.

Fat Sparrow

* Yeah, right. Where's my money, bitches?

My new Internet campaign: Free NiolK's balls!

2007-06-24T18:14:00.000-07:00

After a lot of harassment,* NiolK recently posted a picture of his balls, and I have seen hostages in the Middle East that have looked happier than his balls do. The way he has kept them trapped and caged is simply appalling. Just think how his poor testicles must feel, never being able to run free and let their true beauty shine out to the world. Old Knudsen has speculated that NiolK has even been keeping his balls trapped in cycle shorts!

As you can see, he has not even fully freed them to take this picture. God only knows where his poor willy has gone to....

Please join with me in my new Internet e-mail campaign, Free NiolK's Balls! Here at Campaign Headquarters for Free NiolK's Balls!, we are demanding that NiolK free his balls, and to prove that he has freed them we are also demanding that he post a full-frontal nude picture (face included) so that we can be sure that NiolK's balls have been freed. At this point in the campaign, it may be too much to hope for that one day we might see NiolK's balls freed at parks, shopping malls, and even workplaces, but we can have hope for the future when NiolK's balls will be free everywhere, all the time. Please go to visit NiolK right now, and let him know that we will not give up until our demands have been met.

Additionally, Free NiolK's Balls! is demanding that NiolK come up with some badges** for Free NiolK's Balls!, as we here at Campaign Headquarters do not have PhotoShop or any type of graphics programs. Thank you.

Fat Sparrow

* Not really. It only took two comments on one of his posts.
** He came up with a badge for those of us who are Banned by NiolK!, so we know he can do it. You can see the "Banned" badge in my sidebar, just keep scrolling down.

Like Tony Blair, I am converting

2007-06-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

....my blog over to the new widget-type thingie version on Blogger. Up 'til now I've done everything in my sidebar and what-not in HTML, and the Spouse Sparrow has been telling me how much easier it is to do all sorts of things on the blog once it is changed over, so.... I'm sucking up my courage and I'm gonna have a go.

I've been dealing with massive computer cuntery this week already, what with the computer crashing and losing everything. It seems to be going around lately; I know a few other people have posted about it, too. We had to do a lot of incantations involving anal sex, the blood of a black cock, and the horrible ancient deity Factory Settings. I happen to like bum sex, and the black cock thing was easy, as we live in the 'hood, but having to invoke Factory Settings was simply awful.

Hopefully everything will work out all right, and I will not lose my Site Meter count, and it will not take me too many weeks to add back in all my links and badges and tags and and and. This may be a work in progress for a while, so please bear with me.

Fat Sparrow

UPDATE: Success, M'lud! Fuck, that was traumatic. I still have some kinks I'm working out, but everything seems to have gone okay, for the most part. I'm still trying to get my links to open in a separate page, like they used to, instead of having to right-click on them, like I have to do now. If anyone notices any other problems, please let me know, either by comment or e-mail (TheFatSparrow@aol.com). Thanks!

FS

Chingate, you crazed Castilian cunt

2007-06-20T00:10:00.000-07:00

I took Spanish for 4 years in school. Back in the day we learned proper Spanish, which means we learned Castilian. It also meant that by the time I left school no one else who spoke Spanish in Southern California could understand what the fuck I was saying.

My teacher for most of those years was a short, tiny woman from Spain, who had married the German teacher at our school. Her name was.... Well, never mind what her last name was. It rhymed with "psycho," so we called her "Mrs. Psycho." As a bonus, if you were a student sitting in the back of the class room, Mrs. Psycho could not tell whether or not if you were calling her by her real name or her nickname.

She was psycho, which was how she got the nickname. She cared far, far too much about how we pronounced our Spanish words, and would make us repeat them endlessly until we got the pronunciation and accent correct. We were required to speak grammatically, and with proper inflection. I, with my Valley Girl accent, was a hopeless case. Much like singing class, I could understand what the teacher wanted me to do, and I could understand the way it was supposed to sound, but I could not make those sounds come out of my mouth. I can still hear Mrs. Psycho's voice, in my head, shouting "¡No, no, y no! ¡Es incorrecto!" every time I go to say something in Spanish.

She also liked to whack students' desks, aiming as close to our hands as possible. I believe she must have been educated in a Catholic school, as you could tell she was just itching to be able to whack us directly, and she frequently invoked the help of the Virgin so that she could have patience with us gringos estúpidos. She took Spanish very seriously, as only a native Castilian, descended from the proud hidalgos, can. Here in Southern California, we just wanted to be able to order a beer, find the bathrooms, and possibly ask where the donkey show was ("¿Dónde está la demostración del sexo del burro lo que esta con el burro con el pene gigantesco y la puta rancia?"), once we grew up and visited Tijuana.

We were taught the correct Castilian pronunciation of words, which involved a purposeful lisp (theta). A "z" or "c" in Castilian is pronounced as "th." In Castilian, of course, you say "platha" for "plaza," and "thero" for "zero." If you speak this way in a country where the majority of Spanish speakers are from Mexico, and do not use the theta, you end up sounding like Thorro the Gay Blade, if you know what I mean.

It's like if you're an American visiting England, and you go up to your average English tosser-on-the-street, and ask him in your best posh accent, "I say, old chap, could you possibly tell me where I might find a jolly good cup of tea whilst I am visiting your fine country?" If you try this you will get twatted upside the head, and rightly so.

If you speak Castilian Spanish to a Mexican, they will not twat you upside the head, as Mexicans are a polite people (which is surprising considering how they stand so close to you and breathe all over you and thing), but it will be hard for them to control their laughter. It is best to know the Spanish vernacular of Mexico while having important conversations with a Mexican, like buying a taco, asking the price of his daughter, or purchasing marijuana. If you do not know the vernacular, they will think you are an idiot, or a narc, and neither of those is a good thing, as the Federales will happily butt-fuck either.

My daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, is taking Spanish in school, and she is not learning a damn thing, as they teach something called "Conversational Spanish" nowadays, which means that the lazy teachers don't have to teach the students Spanish spelling, or grammar, so I have to do it at home. She has the best accent in the class, better than the barrio kids even, as I hound her about it often. The muchachos pendejos del barrio resent being taught Spanish, as they think they already know it. I resent the fact that the school even has the cojones to call the class "Spanish," when in fact they are teaching Spanglish.

The school is misinforming the students, by letting them think that they are learning proper Spanish, and they are not even teaching them truly practical Spanish, like cursing. That is a shame, because Spanish is a beautiful and expressive language to curse in, far more imaginative and effective than cursing in English. Also, it is good to know when people are talking shit about you, especially in foreign languages, and it helps to know exactly what people are yelling at you as they cut you off and give you the international sign of goodwill while you are driving. That way, when the Highway Patrol ask, you can inform them in detail exactly what was said before that stupid fucking Mexican shot at you on the freeway. It has been a long time since I have had a car, but I still remember the rules of the road, you know.

Because of this, I have tried to keep my Spanish cursing up to par, and I am teaching it to my daughter at home, since the fucking fregado profesores cricas won't teach it to her. Don't worry, her accent will be perfect.

Fat Sparrow

America, fuck yeah!

2007-06-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Obviously Al Gore's little movie made a big impression on your average American, because large SUV sales are up 25% over the same time last year.

When I win the Lottery I will be buying one myself, along with a 40-foot motorhome, and the license plate frames will read "Fuck you, Al Gore." Maybe Al Gore will feel so guilty that he'll quit jetting all over the world and showing up at his appearances in limos and SUVs, and maybe even downsize his house.

What? It could happen.

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- Sorry to have fucked off yet again for so long (due to health problems). I'll be around to everyone's place as soon as possible to catch up.

Spouse Sparrow talks about: How a McDonald's legend is born

2007-06-04T22:02:00.000-07:00

Spouse Sparrow says:

During my time as a manager at a McDonald's in Belfast, the head restaurant manager was an English girl called Jill. Her style of management was bossy, she was always there to catch you doing wrong and never saying a good word about you. She was a Psychology major, as you would say here in America, and thought she knew how people's minds work. If it was some young person's first job or someone had worked there for numerous years she thought she could treat them like shit, as they wouldn't leave. One time she did say "This is all they know." I felt insulted that she had summed someone up like that, and it occurred to me that she was just a dickhead without a clue. When I get pushed I suddenly feel the urge to go slower and not really give a crap, which is why the Army didn't suit me well, and Jill pushed me.

Jill would do the 6 month Progress Reports (or P.R.s as these dreaded things were called) on her managers. If you did well you got a raise, not much but it added up with the hours you do. I used to get these from school and they usually said "quiet in class" and "must try harder." I would be doing my job, happy and content that I was doing a good job. I could motivate crewmembers, I was liked and I sold burgers. Well okay, I did get 2 complaint letters, one from a customer that was drunk and an asshole, and another from the owner's friend who said he saw a blue-shirted blond manager eating fries on front counter. I knew I would never do that, the fries stink and besides I lead by example; also it sounded like the other blond manager that worked there but it got pinned on me.

When it came time for my P.R., I felt confident. Then I had an hour of Jill telling me how crap I was. This became the routine at every P.R., and I expected it; those that didn't lick up to her got the shit end of the stick. I am glad to say I never kissed anyone's ass which is why I didn't do as well as I should have. I grew to hate Jill, and I did my job, no more no less. I sold burgers, kept the place clean and protected my staff and customers, and I only did favours for other managers I liked.

Then it happened; Jill got moved to our other store in DunDonald. I had worked there for a while, it was a drive-thru unlike the Belfast one and definitely not as violent as the Belfast one.

We got a manager called Michael but then the franchise owner, Ian, screwed him over and demoted him forcing him to leave. Then we got a manager called Johnny. I loved that man; funny and easy going and quick to compliment you. I knew him from when I was a crewmember and he was a trainee manager, he spoke up for me to get my (manager's) shirt.

One shift, Johnny told me I was going on my BOC at the end of the year which is a promotion and meant I'd be salaried with a white shirt. Sure I was happy, I'd be about 4th in charge. Well, the end of the year came and went and no one told me a thing. Johnny said Ian had changed his mind. That's when Ian made his big mistake. He was a good businessman, but always f**ked you over for a profit. A McDonald's slogan was "People are our most important ingredient," I guess they meant in the Mac sauce as they f**ked you over in the work place.

I got the newspaper "The Belfast Telegraph" every Friday for 3 years as that's the day the job finder was out. A fellow manager, Sharon, used to joke that I would never leave, and how long have you been looking for a job? I even applied for a funeral home as dead people usually don't try to punch you over burgers. I creeped Sharon out by saying that if she died I might be the last person to see her naked. I'm sure she imagined something else happening, as I didn't have to say a word, the look on her face was priceless. To see a millie lost for words and disgusted at the same time is a wonder.

For 3 years I searched for a job. We were always short-staffed at McDonald's as Ian loved the low labour figure (who cares what corners were cut), then Johnny announced he had given in his 2 weeks notice, then a Dunkin' Donuts opened (first ever in Belfast) and 2 other managers gave their notice. One of them was called Eileen, a tall girl with a kind soul, she called me "Sparrow Boy full of the horn" whatever that meant; it was a term of endearment. Things really went downhill fast. No adverts were placed in the paper for new workers, it was very unreal, and Ian worked shifts doing everyone's head in with busy work.

I had a really bad morning shift one time, as the night manager Mark was really slack. I had called him on it before. This time he left a really shit clean up, also my front counter staffer sent a night staff person home without me knowing, saying that she would finish their job of removing Ajax from stainless steel. My 10 am person didn't come in, and we were packed to the doors. Tracy on till and me in the kitchen, that was it. Lobby full of people, trays all over the place because fast food customers can't manage to put their rubbish in a trash bin. Nevermind it's not your job, you're just a lazy f**ker, otherwise you'd be cooking at home, ha!

That was the day that 2 regional supervisors walked through the door. I am not making this up. They asked "Where is all the staff? Have you phoned anyone in?" all the questions you don't really need when you are trying to feed the 5,000, then they worked in lobby for me.

When it all had settled down and some staff came in one of the regional supervisors sat me down and told me of his worse shift, he was trying to make me feel better. I was shaking due to adrenaline and not having eaten anything all day. They went and threw some sauces that were a few days out of date, possibly due to bad rotation and when everything was fine they left.

Ian, the owner, came in. He wasn't angry, he was like "Oh shit, what do they know? What did you tell them?" He took me and Tracy to Laveries (the pub next door) and got us a couple of drinks and pried some info from us.

I was still in shock at having the worse shift I've ever had, and now I was a little beer buzzed, although I only had 2. Ian got me to go through the trash area and bring in the sauces that were thrown out, as they were only out there for 2 hours and in black plastic bags so to him they were all right. I didn't give a shit, I just wanted the nightmare to end.

Then the impossible happened; one of the many jobs I applied for came through. It was working days instead of nights for the same money, and it wasn't McDonald's, so I gave 2 weeks notice.

I was working a graveyard shift at McDonald's, as we were open 24 hours. And at the end of that shift Ian called me to his office. He showed me printouts of low profits (so he said) and how he couldn't have promoted me back then. I recalled how him and his secretary (that he was banging in the top office) both got new cars then. He asked me what I thought of getting my white shirt and now going on my BOC. Well, 3 managers leaving, which leaves 3 not so good managers and one good one (Sharon) and she was going to be the restaurant manager. I said to Ian that I was pissed off that no one had told me I wasn't getting my shirt, he blamed Johnny of course. Ian told me I'd only do day shifts, and he even offered me to work just Saturdays, cash in hand, and then I said my movie line "The only move I want to make in McDonald's is out."

On my way down the stairs, I saw Eileen who had waited to hear about it, I told her he had offered me my shirt and I told him to stuff it. She was so excited and couldn't wait to tell her mum who for some reason really disliked Ian. I was now a hero.

Johnny agreed to stay on an extra week before he realized I was leaving too, then he kicked himself for being dumb. On my last shift, a morning, I came in with a sweater on, and in slow motion with trumpets sounding (well in my head that was happening) I took it off. I was wearing a white manager's shirt underneath the sweater. I had been issued one when I first started, until I got my blue one. This was a statement completing my legend. Ian came in and said that it looked good on me.

I didn't want to leave that last shift but my time had come. When you wish for something to keep you at work it never does.

Weeks later, one of the inexperienced managers called my home so I could talk him through the safe's combination. I was happy to be the on-call assistance. Later a customer, a bright female student, was using the hand dryer in the disabled toilets and it electrocuted her dead, it was on his shift. Unlucky for both of them. Drunk customers punch and break anything in McDonald's, including hand dryers; I cringe every time I use one now.

They made a manager of a moron that Ian swore once would never be a manager and he poached staff from a Burger King. I may have been burnt out at the end, in need of time off but I do miss working there sometimes. Jill had a baby and mellowed out though I still really disliked her and would avoid her in the street.

Now I am in America, and I still have Mac sauce in my veins. Every time I eat at a McDonald's, I have to open up my burger before I eat it to check and make sure the dressings are centered, and that the pickles are side-by-side, and not touching. They never are, as Yanks are slack f**kers who just can't be arsed. They are all soft as shite over here, the McDonald's in Belfast that I worked at was like that movie "Roadhouse" but with burgers.

Spouse Sparrow

Now that is funny

2007-05-31T01:17:00.000-07:00

And you thought you had a bad day....

"Figgis Detained After 'Shoot a Pilot' Comment

From AOL News

(May 29) -- There are certain things one should probably refrain from saying at an airport, and director Mike Figgis unfortunately learned the hard way.

Figgis, who directed "Leaving Las Vegas," was reportedly held for over five hours at Los Angeles International airport after he told immigration officers "I'm here to shoot a pilot," according to The Guardian. In television, the first episode of a potential television show is called a pilot. However, the agents, apparently not in-the-know with industry terms, took it to mean Figgis had plans to gun down an airline pilot.

Figgis was then held in an interrogation cell for five hours, and was released after officers figured out he had no assassination plans. "

I have a mind like a steel trap

2007-05-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

...that has been left out in the elements and has warped.

I've been depressed lately. You can often tell what mood I'm in by what I'm reading, and when I'm depressed, it's Anne Rice. Yes, I love to wallow. Bring it on.

So, I was re-reading Anne Rice and thinking about how it would be really cool to have those sorts of powers the vampires in the Rice-verse have, like killing people with the power of their mind and flying. Now I have tried, repeatedly and how, to make people cark it just by thinking about it but I have yet to have any success. If practice really made perfect my brother would have dropped dead in childhood. Still, if Bill O'Reilly suddenly and mysteriously drops dead, I'm claiming credit for it.

Where was I? Oh yes, depressed and reading Anne Rice. Suffering from insomnia, and lying in bed. Or laying in bed. Fuck, I can never remember that one. Anyway, I was thinking about how the vampires in her books never go underwater. Because if I was a vampire, I'd be going underwater. But not in pools, because I have an irrational fear of pool drains, and I have a bad reaction to chlorine. It would have to be the ocean. I like the ocean; it's very peaceful. Not when it's coming up with giant waves to kill people, but when you're swimming through the water a mile or so out from shore it is very calming. Until you start thinking about sharks, at least.

And then I wondered: If I were a vampire, and I was swimming in the ocean, would I be immune from sharks? Theoretically, no, as vampires are cold (temperature-wise) creatures, but if I had just snacked on a human I'd be warm and then maybe a shark would go for me. Then again, the shark might anyway, as sharks are rather indiscriminate eaters who will munch on things like tires and license plates and Haitian immigrants, yuck. So, if the shark does munch on me, the vampire me, that is, would I survive? Bearing in mind that the vampires in the Anne Rice universe can re-attach their limbs, if the limbs are severed, and after a period of healing everything will be hunky-dory. But, if the head is severed for any length of time the vampire is well fucked. So if it's just an arm or a leg I should be all right, as long as I can wrestle it back from the shark. That could be kinda dangerous. I don't want to be some kind of vampire Captain Ahab/Steve Zissou, disastrously in search of my missing libido and taking it out on the wrong creature. That would be bad. Also it would be bad if the shark ate my head. But even worse than that would be if the shark ate all of the vampire me. Really really a lot worse than that would be if the shark became a vampire because of eating me. Sharks are bad enough on their own, without having any vampire attributes, I think. And no one would go in the water again, if there was a Vampire/Fat Sparrow/Shark on the loose in the sea.

I wonder why no one has written about vampire/shark hybrids. After having seen "Underworld" (completely not my fault; the Spouse Sparrow revels in watching shite) I am sure that it is only a matter of time before someone writes a screenplay, and it ends up on the Sci Fi Channel, so don't blame me when it happens.

Now you know the kinds of things that keep me awake at night, while the rest of you were worrying about the Irish elections, which, as you can see, I did not even bother with. I'm still getting my head around the fact that Bertie Ahern and Enda Kenny are guys, even though they have girl names.

Fat Sparrow

Why I am for the death penalty

2007-05-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

So, I was reading the newspaper (Yes, I know; how very 1950's. Deal with it. I still have dial-up, too.) and there was an interesting story in there that I thought I might share with you....

Killer who wouldn't appeal is executed

A condemned killer who fought for seven years to drop his appeals, saying he owed it to his victims, was executed Tuesday by injection in Florence, Arizona.

Robert Charles Comer, 50, had been convicted of a 1987 crime wave in which he killed a camper east of Phoenix and raped a woman in front of her boyfriend.

Comer was mostly quiet as he lay strapped to a gurney before his execution. When the warden asked whether he had any last words, the California native replied: "Yes, go Raiders."

I am so morally conflicted.... Here we have a criminal who seems to understand the concept of justice, who seems to feel remorse for his crimes, who may even have partially reformed himself in prison, yet he still supports the Raiders.

Fuck it. Juice him up, Warden.

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- Translation for all you Brit/Irish-type people out there who have no clue as to what is going on: The Raiders are a really lousy American football team, and their fans are chavs and hooligans.

Hey hey hey, it's Fat Albert!

2007-05-20T15:40:00.000-07:00

I am so sick of seeing that smug bastard, Al Gore, plastering his smarmy face all over the media. That man is such a gasbag and blows so much hot air that if he would just shut up the carbon emissions for the United States would be cut in half. Do we really need to hear every political commentator on the planet speculate on how he may pull a last-minute surprise and announce his candidacy for the presidency? Is there anyone out there who hasn't heard about his movie? Are his 15 minutes of fame not up yet?

It's all well and good for him to preach about the horrors of gas-guzzling cars, but not everyone can afford a hybrid. Sorry Al, some of us have to buy cars that are (gasp!) 10 years old or more. Some of us don't have the luxury to make choices about what kind of hybrid we want; it's more like what hooptie we can afford. Some of us can't afford cars at all. And you know, for someone who preaches about the wonders of public transportation, I don't see Al on the bus very often. Now, mind you, he might have been squeezed in between the guy that was drunk and crawling with lice and the little old lady with 37 shopping bags who insists on giving me child-rearing advice, but I didn't see him. Besides, he strikes me as more of the type that takes up two bus seats and worries about people stepping on his shoes.

So, I'm doubting he took the bus to his photo shoot with Richard Branson, in which they looked like what they are, a couple of aging smug bastard wanna-be hippies that are actually richer than fuck. They offered up $25 million in prize money to whoever can come up with a contraption that can reduce carbon emissions. Now, I'm no rocket scientist, but gee, don't most contraptions (or at least the manufacturing of them) use electricity? And isn't a lot of electricity generated by burning coal? So what we would have here, besides a failure to communicate, is something that would generate more carbon emissions while supposedly cleaning up carbon emissions. Hmmm, I wonder why no one's claimed the prize yet?

Well, into the void leaps little ol' me, as usual. I have come up with a machine that reduces carbon emissions. It is even solar-powered. What it does is this: When Al Gore and Richard Branson come up to inspect it, a sensor is triggered, and it kills them. No more of Richard Branson coming up with wacky ways to put people in space, while making loads of money off it and not worrying about the polluting effects of manufacturing something completely useless, like fuel for rockets. Who the fuck needs a rocket? If you're going to take a bunch of rich idiots into space, Mr. Branson, please leave them there. No more Al Gore, jetting away to speaking appearances all over the world, to harp on about global warming and lecturing at me, who doesn't even have a car.

Listen up, you hypocritical twats; what you're looking for doesn't exist. It will never exist. What you're looking for is for someone to clean up the mess that you've not only made, but will continue to make. What you're looking for is some small expiation of guilt, so you can continue business as usual. Here's a little tip: You guys are going to have to make the biggest sacrifices of all. You're going to have to practice what you preach. Buying "carbon offsets" isn't going to cut it. Eventually the little guys are going to figure out that the papal indulgences you're selling are bullshit. It's just not as simple as you're making it out to be. I know you've got a lot of celebrities all lined up to lick your hole, Al, but you know what? Celebrities are not that bright. A lot of them haven't even finished high school. So when you go around talking about chemistry and science and biology, they're nodding politely, but they're actually thinking about their spa appointment later that day. They don't know shit from shinola as it is, so they're eager to lap up whatever snake oil you're selling, even if you're just selling yourself.

When I hear about Al Gore selling off his McMansion to live in something small and environmentally friendly, and Richard Branson putting out commercials saying "Hey guys, you don't really need to fly anywhere; why not take a vacation closer to home next year?" then maybe I'll listen to something they have to say. In the meantime, they can kiss my petunia.

The earth may very well be heating up, but in the meantime half of my town's water wells have been poisoned by companies that manufactured jet and rocket fuel, and now it's undrinkable. I live less than 7 miles from an EPA Superfund Site. Everyday, my family's lungs are the worse for wear because we live in a part of America that has one of the highest rates of fine particle air pollution, and everyday, more and more semis and freight trains come through here. What difference does it make if it's 119 degrees here in my town in the summertime, or only 110, when we can't drink the water or breathe the air? Carbon doesn't cause birth defects. Our water now does. Our land now does. Our air now does. Where is your outrage, Mr. Airline Owner? Where is your outrage, Mr. Wannabe President?

Just something for Al Gore and Richard Branson to think about, while they're cutting me my check for $25 million.

Fat Sparrow

The Diamond Ring

2007-05-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a Man and a Woman.

The Man loved the Woman very much, and she loved him.

The Man and Woman planned a life together, and as they were both educated, well-off people, their families were very happy for them.

The Man and Woman got married.

Some time went by, and the Man, hoping to show the Woman just how much he loved her, gave her a beautiful diamond ring.

The Woman was overjoyed. She loved the diamond ring.

A couple of years went by, and the Man thought once again of how much he loved the Woman, and so he gave her a pair of beautiful diamond earrings to go with the diamond ring. The Woman loved these, too, and they went very well with the diamond ring.

The Woman wore the diamond ring and the earrings everywhere she could. She couldn't bear to be without them, and the Man indulged her in this. After all, everyone admired them when they were all together: The Woman, the Man, the diamond ring, and the diamond earrings.

The Woman and the Man decided to take a holiday, and they decided to bring the diamond ring and diamond earrings along with them. The place where they chose to vacation wasn't exactly the sort of place for wearing a diamond ring and diamond earrings, but once again, the Woman and Man couldn't bear to be parted from them. And after all, other people wore their jewelry there; why shouldn't they?

Once they got to their holiday destination, they found that there were some places they wanted to go in which it would be inconvenient to wear a diamond ring and diamond earrings.

They wondered what to do.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "I think we should leave the diamond ring and diamond earrings in the hotel safe. It's said to be very secure."

"I don't know; you never can tell just how secure those things are. What about that service the hotel offers, where someone would come here and guard the diamond ring and diamond earrings while we are out?" the Woman said to the Man, or maybe the Man said to the Woman.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "Oh no, I'm sure that would be worse; you never can tell about people these days, and how do I know what the guard would be doing while we aren't watching? You know I can't bear to let the diamond ring and diamond earrings out of my sight!"

"You may have a point there. You do hear all sorts of things nowadays. And those guards.... They're so expensive," the Woman said to the Man, or maybe the Man said to the Woman.

The Man said to the Woman, or perhaps the Woman said to the Man, "Oh dear me, yes. You know, I'm sure the diamond ring and earrings will be ever so safe here. It's really a lovely place, and I'll put them safely away in a drawer. We won't be that far away, and one of us can run back every few minutes to check on the diamond ring and the diamond earrings."

And so that is what they did. They put the diamond ring and diamond earrings in a drawer, forgetting that they had previously said they could not bear to have the diamond ring and diamond earrings out of their sight.

The Man and the Woman went out the door of their hotel room, which had a notice on it saying "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM."

One or the other of them came back to check on the diamond ring a diamond earrings a few times, and everything was fine. The diamond ring and diamond earrings were safe in their drawer.

Each time they went in or out of their hotel room, the Man and the Woman passed the sign that said "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM."

The Man and the Woman came back once again to check on the diamond ring and the diamond earrings, to make sure they were safe in their drawer.

The diamond ring was not there.

The Man and the Woman looked everywhere, but the diamond ring was well and truly gone.

The Man and the Woman notified the police.

Many people were sympathetic. They knew how they would feel if a diamond ring of theirs had gone missing.

Some other people were not so understanding.

These unsympathetic people could not believe that it had never occurred to the Man or the Woman that someone else may have wanted a diamond ring, and so took theirs, as it is generally agreed that diamond rings are a very valuable commodity, and not the sort of thing that one would leave in a hotel room.

These cynical people found it hard to believe that that the Woman and Man could act so irresponsibly if they had valued the diamond ring as much as they professed. Some even went so far as to put forth the opinion that maybe the Man and the Woman shouldn't have the diamond earrings, considering the care, or lack of, that they had shown with the diamond ring.

The Man and the Woman were shocked, and protested heartily, and most of their protestations began with "I didn't think...."

Truer words have never been spoken. "I didn't think __"

"I didn't think something like this could happen here. I didn't think that something like this could happen to us. I didn't think that notice on the door, the one that said "DO NOT LEAVE VALUABLES IN HOTEL ROOM" applied in our situation."

But the Man and the Woman have to do a lot of thinking, now.

Now the Man and Woman have to think about what someone has done to their beautiful diamond ring after it was stolen. They have to think about how gold can be melted down, and diamonds can be sold, and how they may one day get their diamond ring back in an unrecognizable shape or form, or only parts of it, and then the Man and Woman will have to take the word of the police that it actually is their diamond ring.

Years may go by, and the Woman may never know what has happened to her diamond ring, all because she and the Man didn't bother thinking things through.

And maybe the Man says to the Woman, "Don't worry. I can give you another diamond ring."

Fat Sparrow

Re-runs

2007-05-05T04:49:00.000-07:00

In a vague, hopeless attempt to keep you lot entertained while I am pissing (get it?) my life away, you can go and read one of my earlier posts. It's fucking brilliant, of course, but it was from back when I first started out, and was mainly blogging to myself, so you probably haven't read it.

Fat Sparrow

So, sucking on stem cells.... Does that really work?

2007-04-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry to have fucked off, but I have yet another bladder and kidney infection, so I feel like shit. I thought I had all this over and done with and my latest medical problems sussed out (a story which will make more sense when you read an upcoming post of mine), but apparently not. I'll be creeping around to doctor's, dentist's, and various other appointments this week, so I'll try to catch up with you lot and get you sorted later.

In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves, I'm all verklempt.

Fat Sparrow

Annoyyou.com

2007-04-19T16:24:00.000-07:00

The other day I received an e-mail from a start-up company. I thought I'd share it with you, along with my response. The name of the company has been changed, as I don't want to encourage them by giving them publicity. I have left their e-mail "as is," so don't even go there with "There are spelling/punctuation/grammatical errors!"....

In a message dated 4/4/2007 12:04:41 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time, peter@annoyyou.com writes:

Hi Fat Sparrow,

From what I read, your blog seems to cover a lot of interesting topics around your original and personal vision on everyday's life . Your blog is quite visible (I found you in the first results of Technorati), so I guess you must receive loads of messages.

We are just a small tech startup running a beta test for a new widget for blogs.
As the topic of your blog fits pretty well with the type of high end blog we are looking for, it would be very interesting if you could join our AnnoyYou Roll beta test.

What's all about? AnnoyYou is the blog roll of your readers. It’s a widget that displays links to blogs your readers are visiting the most often.

How does it work? We trace the number of visits of each unique reader on each blog that has installed AnnoyYou Roll. The more often a reader visits a specific blog, the greater his affinity is with this blog.

What are the benefits for you? First of all, you will provide your readers with a very entertaining blog roll, based on other readers with similar reading habits. Moreover, you will get highly qualified incoming traffic for your blog. Indeed, as other similar blogs display your blog on their AnnoyYou Roll, they will feed you with new readers with a strong affinity with your blog.

It takes 1 minute to install: http://widget.annoyyou.com/

I would be really interested in your personal feedback on this widget.
Thanks for your help.
Regards,

Peter
Project Manager AnnoyYou

http://www.annoyyou.com/

http://blog.annoyyou.com/

PS: I apologize in advance to be another guy sending you an email! I am NOT here to sell you anything whatsoever.By the way, I guess I hate those stupid spams as much as you.

My response....

Dear Peter --

Thank you for your kind and flattering remarks. It is a difficult business sending out e-mails to strangers, is it not? Therefore, let us pretend we are dogs; you have sniffed my backside, and now I will sniff yours.

I have been on your website, but short of installing your program, I cannot find any way to test it beforehand, to see what kind of sites would be linked to me. Perhaps you could let me know how your program differs, if any, from blog-coding programs such as BlogCode.com, or Blogroll.com, or WhoLinksToMe.com. If it does not differ, I fail to see how it would be useful to me, quite frankly. If, for instance, your program could generate new commenters to my site who are not assholes, this may be a plus. Or, on the other hand, if what I get is new assholes (and I cannot find that your implied promise of "highly qualified incoming traffic" precludes this) commenting, who have had their sense of humour surgically removed, and insist upon commenting on subjects of which they know nothing, that would be a minus. People often think that they are funny or intelligent when in fact they are neither. I can safely say this, as I am both funny and intelligent, and therefore am in a perfect position to criticize everyone else.

I also find that if people want to see whom I read, they can easily look at the blogs listed in my links. Unlike many blogs who will do automatic reciprocal links, I do not list people whom I do not read at least occasionally. Many other people link to me, yet I do not link to them. I would be uncomfortable with a program that would automatically link me with such people. It appears to me that your new program is this type of system. If I have misunderstood, please feel free to correct me.

Also, I notice that you mention that if I use your system, I would have "a very entertaining blog roll." Just how entertaining should my blog roll be? I would hate to have a blog roll that is more entertaining than my actual blog. It would rather defeat the purpose of my blog, would it not? I mean, upstaged by my own blog roll.... Just think of the pressure, and then of the sad and possibly untimely demise of my blog, all because I could not live up to the expectations of those who had looked at my very entertaining blog roll! And then there is the thought of more traffic on my blog. Do I need more traffic, or should I be more of a "planned growth" kind of blog? A virtual Master Planned Community, if you will. I wouldn't want to have so much traffic that I was accused of succumbing to that dreaded disease of planners everywhere -- sprawl.

I would suggest that maybe you could come up with a blog program that screens commenters. I know Blogspot (which I use) has "word verification," but I have found that even idiots, unfortunately, can type in a random string of letters and then attach their inane comments to my perfect post. I think that if you were to come up with some kind of IQ test, or some type of litmus test that would use some basic, predetermined requirements before a person would be allowed to post, you would be doing a great service for all of Bloggingkind. If and when you develop such a program, please feel free to contact me.

Thank you,

Fat Sparrow
http://fatsparrow.blogspot.com
TheFatSparrow@aol.com

It's just not cricket

2007-04-16T05:50:00.000-07:00

So there I was, sitting at the computer, happily perusing Manuel's blog in the wee hours of the morning, chuckling away. "Ha ha," I think, along with "Valid point!" and "Thank God I don't work in the restaurant industry anymore!" when the next thing I know, I feel a funny tickling in the arch of my right foot, which is ensconced in its slipper. "That's strange," I think to myself, "that almost feels like.... a bug!" Now some of you may remember that I have a serious bug phobia, the kind of phobia where, given a choice between touching a picture of a bug or cutting off my right hand, I will cut off my whole right arm.

Once it dawned on me that there quite possibly was a large bug in my slipper, actually touching my foot, my whole body was convulsed with a horrible sense of dread. I leapt up from the chair, shrieking "AAAIIIIEEEE!!! AAAIIIIEEEE!!! AAAIIIIEEEE!!!" followed quickly by "FUCK ME!" Strangely enough, this did not wake the sleeping household, which meant that nobody was coming to my defense. Shit.

Off to the kitchen I went, to fetch my large can of Raid-brand wasp spray. Raid-brand wasp spray is the shit, let me tell you. It will kill anything, and you can fire it up with accuracy from 20 feet away. It will keep mice, ants, and what-have-you out of your pantries, if you coat the cracks and corners with just a small amount, and it can take out, in mid-air, the mutant Japanese beetles (which I live in fear of) that fly through our back yard. Oh yeah, it kills wasps, too.

So, armed with my weapon of mass destruction, I warily go back into the living room, to hunt out whatever bug has infested my slipper. I tentatively reach under the desk, where my slipper is lying, and with shuddering hand give that fucker a good shake. Nothing. Crap. This means a further search will be required. I move back the chair, and there it is; a cricket of monstrous proportions. It is a giant, hairy black cricket, with drumsticks on it big enough to satiate a family of 5 in Darfur. It does not move; I assume that either it has been slightly crushed by me standing on it, or the smell of my foot has stunned it. Either way, I go in for the kill while it is quiet. I back away slowly, and say my prayers. SQUIRT! goes the wasp spray, all 7 gallons of it. SPROING! goes the cricket, followed by more truncated, high-pitched screaming by yours truly. I rapidly discharge another round from my weapon, easily hitting my target, as I am a practiced sharpshooter. The cricket scrabbles madly in the carpet, and works his way to some cardboard boxes that have been stuffed under the computer desk.

Fuck's sake, I'll never feel safe now, with the twitching body of a dying cricket under there. Wasp spray may be deadly, and it usually only takes one hit, but it can take a while to secure the demise of the larger insects. Muttering and still shaking, I go off to do the dishes. I return later with a fly swatter to scoop up the dead cricket. No way am I touching that fucker with anything held in my hands, such as a tissue. Yuck. I attempt to scoop up the dead cricket, only to have it break into a million pieces. Did I mention that wasp spray is kinda caustic? Oh well, I'll leave it for the Spouse Sparrow.

Later on that night, I had a spider crawl up my face.

Even later on, I had to give the wasp spray treatment to a large water bug that ran across the floor.

I think it is possible that the Apocalypse is coming. Or I may just need to clean the house. Then again, maybe I can just start drinking. Yeah, I think I'll just start drinking. Valium cocktails, anyone?

Fat Sparrow

Two for flinching

2007-04-12T17:12:00.000-07:00

So here I am, finally catching up on my newspaper reading, and I come across an article about the released British sailors. It seems that the official policy has been reversed, and the sailors have now been forbidden to sell their stories. Thank fuck, because if I have to hear any more sob stories about their ordeals, I will kick their asses myself.

The latest one I was reading about was from Arthur Batchelor, 20-year-old chav extraordinaire, who says he cried himself to sleep after one of the Iranian guards "kept flicking my neck with his index finger and thumb." What the fuck? What kind of big girl's blouse cries himself to sleep after getting flicked? What kind of unmanly twat actually admits it, in print and in interviews?

Let me tell you, if I had been taken captive, I may have been subjected to all sorts of horrible things, and sobbed about it until the snot ran down my nose and into my mouth, but there is no fucking way that you would get me to admit it in public after I was back home. If I were a guy, I would be talking about how the Iranians released me because they were afraid of my oversized schlong, and how all the Iranian women were hot for me after seeing me on TV, and how the Iranians thought it was a new reality show, "Iranian Idol," and how they all voted to elect me king, and said I was the best thing since the Prophet Muhammad, so that it behooved my captors to get me out of the country as soon as possible, with as many gifts as possible, so as to appease me.

The Iranians are denying any coercive techniques, so they can't naysay you without looking bad, and your fellow shipmates don't know jack, as you were all mainly kept in isolation, so why on earth would you admit to something as wimpish as crying yourself to sleep when no one knows any different without you telling them? Usually you can parlay a war story into getting your hole, but this load of shite will not even get your man a pity fuck.

Flicking. Yes, it's painful, but it's mainly irritating. It's certainly nothing to cry yourself to sleep over, even if it's Iranians doing the flicking. Anyone named "Arthur" should be well used to getting his shite kicked in, anyway. Where have the glorious traditions of English boarding schools gone to? The systematic torture and persecutions perpetrated by the bullying inmates of English boarding schools toward underclassmen were responsible for the toughening of the generations that won The Great War and defeated Hitler. Harassment and hazing put the "great" in Great Britain. Bring them back, I say, and let's have less of grown men snivelling.

Fat Sparrow

P.S. -- If Arthur Batchelor is unclear as to what psychological torment is, he should try writing a blog post with a 3-year-old screaming/singing "Ride, Sally, ride!" into a microphone, 2 feet away, while the Spouse Sparrow constantly increases the volume on the TV, which is blaring out the BBC News in a hopeless attempt to drown out the Nestling Sparrow. I work under these conditions every day. Take note, Arthur, you pussy.

Epiphany, or Transient Ischemic Attack? Sometimes it's hard to tell

2007-04-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

It dawned on me when I was watching the news footage coming out of Iran, during that latest hostage kerfluffle....

They had shown a group of Iranian college students outside the British Embassy in Tehran holding up signs that said "Execute the British," "Death to Britain," "John 3:16," etc., and it came to me that Iran must be a beautiful, lovely, civilized place, just like the Iranians keep telling people as they're kidnapping or killing them. "Why," you ask? Because their college students actually have time to protest, and are allowed to protest. "Wait," I hear you say, "Here in America, our college students can protest!" Well, yes, theoretically they can, but when was the last time you actually saw one doing it? The 70's, hmmm? Yeah, I thought so.

Today's American college student doesn't have time to protest. The costs of college are at an all-time high, so the students either get Mommy and Daddy to pay for it, or they take out loans, or they work, or all of the above. Government grants are at an all-time low, so hardly anyone goes to college for free anymore. I blame this on the Baby Boomers. See, my conspiracy theory is this: The American government, royally pissed off at college campus Vietnam-era protests and the bad press they got for Kent State, has been lowering the grant money every year since then, until it's practically nothing. The Man was pissed off that all these hippies went to school on the government's dime, and then bitched and moaned about about all the government's policies. Solution: Cut college grant funding, the students will have to work, and they will not have time to protest. In fact, even if Mommy and Daddy are paying for college, if they see their student protesting, they are likely to protest to the student, because the student probably has too much free time on their hands, and shouldn't they be studying?

So, Iran is where I will be sending the Fledgling Sparrow to college, as they obviously have excellent government educational grants, and are willing to use and appreciate their right to free speech, however un-PC it may be.

Fat Sparrow

Iran: Cunts, or just twats?

2007-04-06T02:51:00.000-07:00

What the fuck is up with those crazy Iranians?

"Hmmm, I think we'll kidnap some British military personnel, and then pretend like they're at the Oscars and give them gift bags."

You must have some serious shit in your hookah for that to sound like a good idea. Really, gift bags? They'll just have to declare them and pay taxes on them now, you know. Yet another example of Iran spreading its hairy, crusty buttocks and farting out "FUCK YOU" to Britain. And don't think I didn't get the innuendo behind those bags they gave them. "Carpetbaggers," indeed. I'd check those bags for bugs. No, I don't mean listening devices, I mean insects. You know what Third World countries are like.

I really liked how all the men got suits, but they dressed the woman up like a color-blind Russian sailor. What, no burqas in her size? She didn't look that big 'til I saw her in the video clip standing next to your man Mahmoud, and then I wondered, "Damn, why is she not just kicking his shit in? Sure, she'd get taken down by his bodyguards right away, but that would really make for great TV."

The newly released military personnel got back to Britain okay, and I'm eagerly awaiting the press conference in which one of them recants everything they said on Iranian TV, and says: "The Persians were a lot more valid when they were worshipping fire and chucking their dead to the vultures. Now that they're Muslim, they're a collection of cunts."

Fat Sparrow

I am (not) Spock

2007-03-26T03:21:00.000-07:00

My dad was a Trekkie, back in the day. He's seen every episode of the original Star Trek series at least 39 million times. What with us having only one TV in our house when I was growing up, that means I've seen them all too; far more than I ever wanted. I never really liked Star Trek, and I liked it far less when my dad took to calling me "Spock." I suppose it started out because I had a logical argument for every time I got into trouble, and then logically tried to talk my way out of it. Whichever; the nickname stuck.

Over the years I have wondered if I was called "Spock" because I was so logical, or if I became more logical because I was called "Spock." I don't think it was very logical to call me "Spock," because my brother was the one with the funky ears, but there you have it. I suppose it works out all right, as the Spouse Sparrow thinks of himself as Captain Kirk, and if Captain Kirk and Spock didn't have a go at some time or another then I'm an Andorrean.

In my own personal life, I have not been very logical; quite the opposite. Some of those who know me will know of my past escapades and wonder that anyone could have ever accused me of being logical or practical. But in planning out the lives of others, I find that I can be very logical and practical.

Here are some examples of how I would logically solve some of the world's thorniest problems....

Problem: Illegal immigration along the US/Mexican border.

Solution: Land mines. Buy up all the land within 2 miles of the US/Mexican border, and plant lots and lots of land mines. Land mines are cheap, and extremely effective (Just ask Princess Diana; that's what actually got her in that tunnel, you know. What, you thought the land mine companies were just going to take all her campaigning lying down?). Sell government bonds to purchase the land. Install land mines. Install cameras in the land-mined area. The cameras will be connected to a website that allows viewers to access it for an hourly fee. People will watch for hours in anticipation of seeing someone getting blown up. This will be bigger than "YouTube." Bonds will be paid off in under 5 years. Illegal immigration will slow to a trickle. Much more effective than changing the 14th amendment, which has been misinterpreted for years anyway.

Problem: Prison overcrowding in California, and too many people on Death Row.

Solution: Pay-Per-View executions. Violence always sells well here in America. If people are willing to shell out $100+ to have their friends come around and watch a boxing match, just think how much they'd be willing to pay to watch someone actually die. Mind you, we can't have any of this namby-pamby lethal injection crap. No, I'm talking hangings, at the very least, and with inexperienced executioners. When we go through all the convicts who are already on Death Row, we change the laws to make kiddie fiddlers and rapists eligible for the death penalty. As an added money maker, when the Pay-Per-View crowd gets tapped out, the government can put the show on regular TV (after accepting bids from all the major TV networks, with the show rights going to the highest bidder) and encourage people to vote (text-messaged at 99 cents a pop, a la "American Idol") on how the prisoners should be executed. Let's make Thursday night "Must See TV" once again. Death Row will be emptied, and our prisons will have excellent funding.

Problem: People complain that the criminals are better armed than the police are.

Solution: Arm everyone with fully-automatic weapons. Sure, it'll be really violent for awhile, but eventually things will sort themselves out, and teenagers will have much better manners when they know their elders are packing heat.

Problem: Ongoing genocide in Darfur.

Solution: Ignore it; the problem will go away.

Problem: Continuing Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

Solution: Have the US government secretly create a puppet terrorist organization that threatens to bomb all the holy sites in Israel and Palestine. Openly encourage as many Jewish/Christian/Muslim fanatics as possible to go and be "human shields." Once they are all there, bomb Israel/Palestine to smithereens. Kill off the puppet terrorist organization. Blame the bombing on rogue Saudis. They get away with all kinds of shit in the Islamic community, with no repercussions from fellow Muslims. Say they did it to get rid of the Jews. Meanwhile, strike a secret deal for cheap oil with the Saudis, or Mecca is next. Israel/Palestine will be under 200+ feet of Mediterranean water. No religious fanatics, no land left to rebuild holy sites on; problem solved. Invest in Jordan, as it is now peaceful beachfront property. Enterprising money makers will quickly offer tours to the area in glass-bottomed boats, so the remaining fanatics can view what used to be. Also, start up a cruise line for Evangelical Christians where loved ones cremains are chucked overboard into the former Holy Land. Bonus points for whoever in Florida recreates the Holy Land, with rides and concessions, as a money-making scheme. Florida's chock-a-block with retired Jews and young Evangelicals, so this one's sure to be a money maker.

Problem: American kids are getting dumber, and don't appreciate what they have.

Solution: Outsource them to India. The ones that survive will appreciate America a lot more, and they can apply to come back to America when they are properly subservient. In the event that none survive, insource Indian kids. They eat less, anyway, which is bound to be more cost-effective.

Problem: Starving, disease-ridden Africans.

Solution: This one's a no-brainer, people. Quit feeding the Africans! Trust me, just like Darfur, the problem will go away. You feed, they breed. C'mon, if Africa was a business, you would have sold your stocks years ago. We're pouring billions of dollars into that shithole, and getting no return for our investment. The least they could do is send over some little African kids to clean our houses and pick up the dog shit in the backyard. Jesus, the ungrateful fuckers.

Problem: North Korea.

Solution: Bomb it back to the Stone Age. Best case scenario: They never manage to get a missile off. Sure, they've got nukes, but they probably can't afford radar. Worst case scenario: North Korea manages to get one off, and they take out Japan. No biggie for us; all of our so-called Japanese "import" cars are made here in the US anyway.

Problem: Cocaine is funding Central American terrorist groups.

Solution: Legalize cocaine, grow it here in the US, and flood the market. The Central American terrorist organizations will have no funding. Yes, everyone in America will be on coke, but we're already hyper, violent, oversexed, and have voted Bush in. How much worse can it get, just by adding cocaine?

Problem: Celebrities in the news for adopting foreign babies.

Solution: Leave it alone. These people are dumber than fuck; you don't want them breeding on their own (Just look at Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. Are these two people who should have bred? I think not). It's not like they're raising the kids, anyway. They have nannies for that, who are probably better educated than the celebrities themselves. The kids will grow up, write best-seller books about wire hangers, and make lots of money.

Problem: Hopeful US presidential candidates are campaigning earlier and earlier each year, much to the irritation of the citizenry.

Solution: Quit holding elections. It's not like the current president was actually elected, the first time around, so I think we've proven what a farce the system is.

So, as you can see, I obviously have some brilliant ideas here, and I may post some others as they come to me. If you have any problems you'd like solved, please feel free to e-mail me. I'm thinking of setting up my own consulting business, so that I can work from home. Does anyone have Halliburton's new number in Dubai?

Fat Sparrow

Conversations with the Fledgling Sparrow

2007-03-20T06:32:00.001-07:00

The Fledgling Sparrow was working away at the computer the other day, slogging out a paper for her English class. I was sitting over on the couch, reading the newspaper. She looks across the room at me and says "Mom, are there still idealists in today's world?"

"Of course," I respond, somewhat surprised.

"Well," she asks, "can you give me a definition or example of one?"

"Easily," I say. "An idealist is a person who firmly believes that Bush stole the election, but still thinks that a woman or a black guy have a good shot at becoming president."

Fat Sparrow

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired

2007-02-23T04:43:00.000-08:00

My kidneys are fucking me over yet again. I'm off to the hospital in the morning, where I will have to be awake for hours, so of course I can't sleep right now. I can't think of anything intelligent to post, as my brain cloud (am I the only person that liked "Joe Versus The Volcano"?) is well in force. Exhibit # 1: $140 in bank fees because I forgot to log a $9 purchase in to my checkbook. One little mistake that spirals out of control. Normally I balance out our account on-line every other day, but the last few weeks I had let it go, as I have not been feeling well, and had hardly been on the computer at all. $140 fucking dollars. That's all the money we had for necessities and utilities for the next month, so either the baby's well fucked for diapers this month, and our electricity will be shut off as well, or I can suck up what is left of my pride and attempt to sponge something off my parents. I can only hope they have some spare money this month. I cannot believe I managed to make a stupid error like that. We are not rich, and I pinch pennies so hard that they scream. To have to give $140 to the bank gives me an actual, physical pain. I think we'll name this one the Bank of America ulcer.

Needless to say, I have not been feeling very comical, and I'm far too run down to work that hard at keeping up appearances. For whom? For what? I can't keep up doing the rounds of all the bloggers in my links, let alone update my links (Sorry to Kav, and the increasingly hilarious Eddie Waring, and further apologies as I somehow cannot even put a link in to HTML. It may be me and my brain cloud, but let's blame Blogger), and when I'll find time to add new people to my links, God only knows. I haven't even looked at the new Blogger format since the Spouse Sparrow switched me over, and that was months ago. To all the people that I used to comment on on a regular basis: I'm sorry. I'm not a flake, really, it's just that I feel really crappy most of the time. Basically, I'm feeling very sorry for myself, and am miserable company. I'm thinking of tossing in the towel on this whole blogging thing, and I haven't even been doing it that long. My life fucking sucks, and it had better improve soon. I want to beat on something with a hammer. I want to win the Lottery. I want to not be in pain all the time. I want to find out what is actually wrong with me, and get a proper diagnosis, and I want it to not be something horrible and possibly fatal. I want my doctor to not take the next six months dicking me around. I want to not whinge on and on about all these stupid things that bore the tits right off everyone. I want to be me again. I want my life back.

I believe I'll be taking a break for a while. I don't know.

Fat Sparrow

Sad emo fuckers (not to be confused with sad emu fuckers, which is probably different)

2007-02-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

I don't listen to music, and have actively tried to avoid it for a few years now, as most new music sounds like a cat being run over by a lawn mower, while some testosterone-laden, long-haired, idiot guy screams over the "music" as if he is in extreme pain due to hemorrhoids. It is irritating.

I like to have dead quiet in my house whenever possible, which is why I am up in the middle of the night, to play with my blog in secret, and curse others for having better, funnier blogs. I can mutter to myself in peace, with no one to interrupt me.

My very small house is incredibly noisy because of my 3-year-old son, the Nestling Sparrow. It is not only because of his constant jabbering, but also because of the background noise of the TV. He is addicted to watching "Dora the Explorer," and "Go, Diego, Go," the companion show to "Dora." He gets very, very involved; the kind of involvement that you usually only would see with stay-at-home housewives from the 1970's, and their soap operas. He can, and will, tell you in detail everything that has gone on in these shows, repeatedly.

So when I am by myself, I like to have no noise. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention, due to no fault of my own, and certainly not owing to me purposely listening to the radio, that there is a type of music out there called "emo." Now, from what I could gather, this is somewhat similar to a type of music that I listened to in the early '80's, and back then it was called "New Wave."

The major difference between New Wave and emo seems to be that New Wavers really didn't take themselves all that seriously. It was sort of tongue-in-cheek. Sure, they were guys that wore makeup and frilly white shirts, and went to art school in England, which is extremely gay, but you kinda got the feeling that when they were not on stage, they sat around in sweats, and forgot to shave, and scratched their balls. You know, guy stuff.

These sad emo fuckers, on the other hand, wear black clothes, and sometimes makeup, but they take themselves very, very seriously. Sometimes they even cry on stage. As any woman can tell you, this is not good for your makeup. I don't know what they are thinking. What on earth are they crying about? If you don't want to get your shit kicked in, stop trying to be such a pansy, and then you will have nothing to cry about. Fuck's sake, it's not like they even work; getting up onstage and singing about your sad life is not a real job, it's not real work.

I have a hard time believing that anybody would pay money to listen to this whinging, as it is not The Smiths, but apparently it is very popular amongst the teenagers. I do not encourage anything that will make teenagers more mopey, as they already walk around with sour faces, looking extremely miserable, and the girls especially are under the impression that this make them look hot, or like a super model.

Now, you would think that nothing could be any funnier than this, a bunch of fat American girls in black belly-tops and low-rider jeans, with their flabby stomachs hanging out, walking around with an expression on their face that looks like they were sucking lemons, thinking that they look really cool and skinny, like Kate Moss. This is dead funny, high comedy, all of it.

Even funnier is the part where they are totally Hispanic, very dark-skinned, and they put a ton of talcum powder on their face, to look all white and Goth-like. Even funnier, yes, even funnier than that, is when the girls spend all their time mooning over their male classmates, boys who are skinny dying fuckers (as the Spouse Sparrow is fond of calling them), with their hair dyed black, and their slip-on Vans, and the girls cannot tell that these boys are going to grow up to be flaming homos, homos so incredibly flaming that they make Liberace look tame by comparison.

Still more funny is the part where they go to the school counselors, and complain that they are being picked on. Either learn to stand up for yourself, or quit looking like a Tim Burton parody, is what I say. I went around, back when I was in high school in the '80's, looking like Dawn of the Dead meets The Addams Family, but I had quite a mouth on me, and no one picked on me more than once.

It is no use bringing guns to school, and shooting people that make fun of you, as no one will appreciate it, but if you can humiliate someone in front of a crowd of people, just by what is coming out of your sarky mouth, you will win friends and influence people, I am happy to tell you.

So, you sad emo fuckers, suck it up, and don't go in to therapy, you self-indulgent twats, as more talking about yourselves is the last thing you need. Go out and volunteer at an old people's home, so that you can get your mind off of your favorite subject, which is yourselves. Make fun of the geezers when they piss themselves, and that ought to cheer you up.

Fat Sparrow

And here you were hoping for a proper post

2007-01-18T03:22:00.000-08:00

My lazy ass totally stole this off Andraste.

You Were a Koala

You value living life at a slow, peaceful, meditative pace.
You give insightful advice, helping others to overcome obstacles.

What Animal Were You In a Past Life?

I fail to see what any of that has to do with a koala. Maybe it's some inscrutable, subtle, Australian thing. Anyhow, if you read it as "You are a slack bastard who never gets anything done. You tell other people how to live their lives, while doing nothing with your own," it pretty much sums me up, eerily enough.

Oh, and I pee on people when they pick me up.

Fat Sparrow

Fat Sparrow dramatically contemplates offing herself

2007-01-12T05:41:00.001-08:00

I feel sick, absolutely sick. I just spent an hour working on a post (which was the most brilliant thing I have ever written, mind you), and Blogger lost it. It's gone. I hit "Save As Draft," and it went to a blank screen. And stupid me, I didn't save it to an e-mail, like I usually would have done, as I am out of the habit of posting.

I am going to have a lie-down.

Fat Sparrow

This country is going to the dogs

2007-01-09T18:26:00.000-08:00

Once again, I am ashamed of being an American. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but no, each cringe-worthy incident hits me with Ben Stiller-like timing, and I blush anew all over again.

The latest news that makes me want to hide in a corner? An obesity drug for dogs. That's right, all those women who have been starving themselves to be rail thin while stuffing their little rat-size dogs with every tidbit they can, until the dogs are so round that they cannot walk (not that the dogs walked to begin with), now have a diet drug for their fucking canines. Maybe if they actually walked the dogs to begin with, the dogs wouldn't be such rotund fat fuckers. I do wonder what kind of bad karma a person must have had in their previous lives to come back as a Chihuahua that spends its life tucked under Paris Hilton's armpit. Yuck.

So, now it has come to this: drugs for fat dogs. Just say "No," America. Scientists being what they are, with their Rube Goldberg-type brains, they might not have noticed something very obvious, which I am ever so happy to point out to them: pet dogs don't feed themselves. That's right, someone with opposable thumbs, and supposedly a brain, has to feed the useless shites. I know this as a fact, as I have had many dogs, and they have all been completely useless at getting their own dinners. I did have one Lab that apparently had been genetically engineered to have the stomach of a goat, as he would eat aluminum cans, rosebushes, poisonous plants, and whatever else came along. I have heard about sharks that are caught and cut open, to have their stomach contents revealed to have items such as license plates, tires, and engine parts inside. Damn, now I'm hungry....

Where was I? Oh yes, here's my tip for all those idiots who are ready to rush out and spend perfectly good money on obesity drugs for your fat fucker dogs: stop feeding your dogs! I guarantee that they will lose weight, and if you only feed them intermittently they will really, really appreciate you when you start feeding them again. You can trust me on this one, as I have empirically tested it on my children for years. Now that I have published, my grant money should be coming through any time now.

Fat Sparrow

Fuck's sake, it's 2007

2007-01-06T19:50:00.000-08:00

I'm back. I think. At least until the Valium runs out, that is. It's going to take me ages to catch up on everyone's blogs, so let me apologize right now, up front, for being slow, as I still have a lot going on. I'm not even going to attempt to catch up on Old Knudsen. Is he getting paid per post, or what?

So, the update.... Never mind that; I have won a Major Award! Not bad for someone who has thrown herself dramatically upon death's door (or at least the floor mat in front of the automatic doors at the ER), not to mention that I have only been blogging for part of 2006.

All right, so really, the update. Doctors suck. Okay, maybe not your doctor, but my doctor. You may remember her cruel visage from a previous post. Dr. Cruella De Vil is now officially on my list. You know, "I have a little list, they never will be missed..." Don't pretend to be shocked; you know that you have a list, too. It's just that I will admit to it. I have been working on refining my amazing mental powers, and I am fairly sure that any day now, her head will explode in flames. In the meantime, I am contenting myself with looking at her picture in the Medical Group's website, while making crab-pincer-like movements with my fingers, and muttering "I'm pinching your head, I'm pinching your head!" Yes, "Kids in the Hall" was a bad influence on me. I have no idea how this woman got a medical degree, or why she bothers to pretend to be a doctor, since she refuses to see patients. Namely me. The rest of the patients can fuck off and die. Of course, if they are under Dr. De Vil's "care," they probably will, and soon.

I ended up, twice, in the ER at Loma Linda Hospital, which is a world-class (and mildly famous) Medical Center and University. I cannot possible praise them enough. They are wonderful, wonderful people, with cutting-edge technology, which is put to use on you immediately. This is truly an amazing thing, because as a societal parasite, I usually have to wait weeks and weeks to get tests of any kind ordered for me. I was seen by one of the top doctors there, who also teaches at the University, has a MS in Clinical Psychology on top of being an MD, and who is, in my humble opinion, a fucking genius. It was this doctor who suspected that I have lupus. He asked me a whole bunch of weird, seemingly unrelated questions, and told me to get thee to a rheumatologist.

Now, I have been tested for lupus before. I have always been sickly, and I was tested back in the day when I was 11 or 12. The results came back as "Borderline; Inconclusive." It was suggested that I have follow-ups twice a year. My parents, who had no health insurance at this time, and had gone in to debt to take me to a specialist, decided to pay the mortgage instead. Apparently in the intervening decades, the criteria for diagnosing lupus have changed. All these little weird symptoms that I had just put up with for years may actually be inter-related, and part of one illness. For my part, it would be a relief to get a definitive diagnosis at this point, even if it is of a major illness. I have had major illnesses all my life. Putting them all under one umbrella for possible treatment would not be a bad thing.

And so we came back to Dr. Cruella De Vil. After my ER visits, I was advised to follow up with my regular doctor. You know, the one that can't be arsed seeing me. So I did. I came in with my laundry list all ready. The ER doctor had put me on Valium (as a muscle relaxant and pain reliever) and Prednisone (to reduce muscle and joint inflammation). He recommended that I be continued on a maintenance dosage of each, and please tell my regular doctor. I did, and my doctor immediately told me to fuck off. Well, not in those exact words, but the general feeling was definitely there. "Valium" apparently sent up smoke signals in her puny, dinosaur-like brain, and so therefore I must be some kind of a drug addict.

As if. I can't even have any of the good stuff, as I am allergic to opiates and opiate derivatives. Dr. De Vil and I had a discussion about this. She then proceeded to dismiss any possibility of me having any type of pain ("Why haven't you come in to see me about it?" Um, gee, maybe because you won't see me?), and then gave me a prescription for some type of pain reliever that I had never heard of before. I had a hard time looking it up on the Internet when I got home from the appointment, as she had misspelled it on the prescription.

The drug was called "Ultram," (not "Ultran," which is what she had written) and I'm damn glad I was suspicious and looked it up, because IT'S A FUCKING OPIATE. That's right, I could easily have taken it and gone in to anaphylactic shock, and promptly carked it. Not only that, but it is contraindicated with 5 other medications that I'm on, all of which Dr. De Vil also knows about. It is also more addictive than Valium. What the fuck? If I can find out all this on the Internet in less than five minutes, why can't she?

She also refused to give me a referral to a rheumatologist, as she is not aware of any of the newer criteria for diagnosing lupus, and therefore thinks that there is no possibility that I have it. She then proceeded to slag off ER doctors as "knowing nothing" and "only there to patch people up, not diagnose." I said "That's funny, the very prestigious doctor I saw at the ER said most General Practitioners like yourself wouldn't recognize a non-classic case of lupus. How many lupus cases have you handled?" Dr. De Vil gave me A Look, and replied, "Three or four, thank you."

I give up. I am switching doctors, as this one is hazardous to my health.

I have soooooo much more to catch all of you up on, and so many blogs to look at, but it will have to wait until a bit later. The Nestling Sparrow is recovering from having a stomach bug, and I still have loads of barfed on sheets, clothing, and towels to wash.

Such is the life of glamour of a blogger who has won a Major Award. Try not to be too envious.

Fat Sparrow

You say it's your birthday? Well it's my birthday, too

2006-12-20T23:30:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday to me, yada yada yada and thing. I'm 37 now, but I'm still telling people that I'm 29 plus sales tax. Not that I'm getting any bidders.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Old Knudsen's Update

2006-12-05T00:15:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in me hoose minding me own business with a mug of Ox-tail soup and the broken doon R2 unit in the corner started beeping to life. Suddenly there was a light and shining from the crappy looking droid was the holographic image of Fat Sparrow. Thank fuck she couldn't see me as I was halfway through a dungy in my commode chair, some soup and a shite and all is right with the world.
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.

Old Knudsen

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

2006-11-27T17:16:00.000-08:00

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....

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.

Fat Sparrow

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-23T22:01:00.000-08:00

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

I knew it all along

2006-11-17T03:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Search me

2006-11-16T02:51:00.000-08:00

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

Random acts of stupidness

2006-11-14T02:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Spam spam spam spam!

2006-11-13T01:21:00.000-08:00

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

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Old homeless woman sex

2006-11-10T03:45:00.000-08:00

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

Red Rover, Red Rover, The Ex ran him over

2006-11-08T03:11:00.000-08:00

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

Days of whine and noses

2006-11-07T03:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

2006-11-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

2006-11-03T00:29:00.000-08:00

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

Quit bugging me

2006-10-31T23:09:00.000-08:00

God has decided to have a little joke today, for Hallowe'en, and turn my house into some buggy version of Amityville Horror. As you lot know, I have a Serious Bug Phobia. Yesterday, I was baking a cake and right after I had got done mixing the batter I put away the mixer. I turned back to the mixing bowl, full of cake batter, and there in the midst of it was a daddy long legs (Note to Brit-type people: that's a type of big, scrawny long-leggedy spider here in the US, not a flying bug) making its way across the batter, dead in the center of the bowl. I have no idea where it came from. I waited for it to get to the edge of the bowl, let it crawl up a napkin I conveniently held out for it, and then squashed it. Yuck.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Everyday is Hallowe'en

2006-10-31T01:21:00.000-08:00

As Johnnyboy reminded me, I have been a slack bastard and have not posted. I apologize. Between the cleaning, the Fledgling Sparrow's birthday, my sinus infection, and plotting certain people's deaths, I have been busy.

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!

Fat Sparrow

Panic on the streets of....

2006-10-28T11:52:00.000-07:00

I must, absolutely must clean my hovel. My parents are coming over, as it is the Fledgling Sparrow's birthday tomorrow (she will be 15), and my house looks like Miss Havisham's, but without the elegance. Very appropriate for Hallowe'en, if it wasn't for the carpet of dog hair.

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.

Fat Sparrow

My lump, my lump, my volar wrist ganglion cyst bump

2006-10-26T21:08:00.000-07:00

As promised, I finally went to the doctor, and guess what he told me, guess what he told me?

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
and suffering.

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.

Fat Sparrow

The Village Idiot

2006-10-25T06:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, you lot; I need some help.

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.

Thank you!

Fat Sparrow

Update -- I've received a couple of e-mails, but still no fixes! I still need help!

FS

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Being a moron magnet

2006-10-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

Today while working outside, I was accosted by one of my neighbours who decided they wanted to do some male bonding and small talk with me.

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.

Spouse Sparrow

So many gifts, and it's not even Christmas

2006-10-22T06:35:00.000-07:00

Apparently there are a whole lot of marks out there (Kav and Ill Man; oops, did I type that out loud?), and you all are just begging to be taken advantage of, much like women who wear mini-skirts and low-cut blouses.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Currying favor

2006-10-20T01:57:00.000-07:00

You fucking whore!

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.

Fat Sparrow

They're a bit fucking edgy since the Steve Irwin thing, aren't they?

2006-10-19T07:14:00.000-07:00

Everyone has got their panties in a bunch over the whole North Korea thing, but what are they doing about the sting rays? Nothing, I tell you, and it's a crying shame.

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.

Fat Sparrow

My daughter is a gift

2006-10-18T16:21:00.000-07:00

My 14-year-old daughter, the Fledgling Sparrow, or, as we affectionately call her, "Special Ed," is highly gullible. She has always been this way, and she is very susceptible to suggestion, besides.

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?

Fat Sparrow

"Fat Sparrow: The Movie" (yeah, I'd wait for it to come out on video, too)

2006-10-17T06:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, everybody slags off memes, but I fucking love them. #1, they give me insight into other people's psyches, and #2, they let me talk about my second favorite subject: Myself.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Open bar (sidebar, that is)

2006-10-16T05:13:00.000-07:00

I seem to be getting new people, so just to be friendly and all, I've categorized my posts by topic (sort of) in the lower part of my sidebar.

You lot can have a look-see around there, and see if anything interests you, if you hadn't already read it.

Fat Sparrow

Tossing the salad

2006-10-14T22:08:00.000-07:00

In case you Brit-type people have not heard, we have been having an E. coli scare here in the States, having to do with lettuce and spinach grown here in California.

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.

Fat Sparrow

I'm going to start telling people she's adopted

2006-10-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe the utter idiocy that comes out of my teenager's mouth.

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.

Fat Sparrow

The temperature has actually been below 80!

2006-10-12T03:04:00.000-07:00

It has finally cooled down here in So Cal. We've had 5 days in a row now where I did not have to turn on the swamp cooler (a type of really crap air conditioner). I don't want to jinx it, but I think that autumn may actually be here. I am even wearing a sweater right now.

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.

Fat Sparrow

Cheer up, you sick fucker

2006-10-10T03:23:00.000-07:00

The Ill Man is feeling a bit low (er, "While you're down there....") at the moment, so Clairwil suggested that we cheer him up. Credit to Spouse Sparrow for finding the link.

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.

Cybersex.

Now, I'll admit, cybersex is not very satisfying, but at least my sessions never went as bad as these.

Fat Sparrow

Old Knudsen talks about: The Talented Mr. Knudsen

2006-10-09T00:52:00.000-07:00

This is an actual e-mail I received:

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.

Any relation?

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.

Old Knudsen

Fire in the hole: A true story

2006-10-06T03:12:00.000-07:00

This started out in the comments over at Sam's, but it was obviously far too long. Here it is in full; just one of the many stories I have about my ex-father-in-law.

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.

Fat Sparrow

You paid how much for that weed? You're a fuckwit

2006-10-04T15:05:00.000-07:00

The Fledgling Sparrow's high school likes to mail out "informative" monthly newsletters to keep the parents apprised of what their kid's school is up to. This month is "Drug Awareness Month" or some such crap, and the newsletter asked us parents to talk to our kids about marijuana.

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.

"Yeaaaahhhh."

"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."

"Shake?"

"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."

"Buds?"

"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.

Fat Sparrow

They come for the beetle bum, but stay for the plump tits

2006-10-03T22:30:00.000-07:00

Footie, you sneaky wanker, I know that was you!

"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.

Fat Sparrow

Spouse Sparrow talks about: Benders like Beckham

2006-10-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

Football, Futbol or Soccer; no matter what you call it, it's 22 guys chasing each other in shorts, while kissing, hugging and patting each other's arses or pouting like a child if it doesn't go their way. What a load of wank.

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.

Spouse Sparrow

Teenagers are twats

2006-10-02T03:31:00.000-07:00

The other day one of the Fledgling Sparrow's friends offered to take her to the movies, and they went to see "World Trade Center." I considered this to be a complete waste of time, as we all already knew the beginning, middle, and ending. Why pay $9.00 to see Nicolas Cage looking uglier than usual?

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.

Fat Sparrow

What the fuck?

2006-10-01T04:23:00.000-07:00

Now, there has got to be something seriously wrong with the people in Saudi Arabia, as I keep getting people from there looking at my blog, after they Google things like "anal fuck" and "fuck." Do rich camel jockeys not have anything better to do?

God bless Site Meter, that lets little ol' nosy me analyze everything. I like to watch, heh heh heh.

I mean, what kind of idiot looks at my blog for things like these? I cannot even be arsed to put up real pictures! Furthermore, what kind of idiot looks at any blog for these things?! With all the websites with free porn, you're going to go searching blogs?

Why have we not bombed Saudi Arabia yet?

Fat Sparrow

Doesn't it make you hungry?

2006-09-30T06:06:00.000-07:00

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

Word Verification can sniff my petunia

2006-09-29T01:29:00.000-07:00

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

Reality shows can go suck on a diseased knob

2006-09-28T05:31:00.000-07:00

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

I am cursed! Cursed, I tell you!

2006-09-27T23:15:00.000-07:00

AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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

Blog readers are like hummingbirds

2006-09-24T00:19:00.000-07:00

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

Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming

2006-09-21T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-21T04:18:00.000-07:00

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

Spouse Sparrow says: Bugs go crunch

2006-09-19T01:55:00.000-07:00

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

The female of the species is more deadly than the male

2006-09-17T05:24:00.000-07:00

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

Robinson Crusoe can fuck off

2006-09-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

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

Conversations with the Spouse Sparrow

2006-09-15T00:52:00.000-07:00

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

Spouse Sparrow observes America, Part I

2006-09-14T00:08:00.000-07:00

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

Spouse Sparrow, and all that implies

2006-09-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

My in-laws are fucking brilliant

2006-09-12T21:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

2006-09-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-11T00:23:00.000-07:00

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