chainsaw

So Easy to Play Up Your Breakdown, 80’s Wisdom, and Life on the Trains

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chain saw

Who needs those excess phalanges?

Sometimes it’s fun to play Captain Obvious, but sometimes it bothers me that society is so dumbed down that we need warning labels on hot coffee, and detailed instructions on how not to put our hands in, on or near sharp things.  If you are aware of what a chainsaw does to wood, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine what it might do to body parts, but if you need a visual, consider the following the instructional video for “chainsaws meet body parts:”

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Though it was originally released in 1974, this was the granddaddy of all the 80’s slasher films I enjoyed so much.

Then again, with the word “massacre” in the title, you know it’s going to be good- if you dig slasher flicks, that is.  I’m not as enamored of the horror genre as I used to be (though I admit I did enjoy the Saw movies) but I can still appreciate a slasher even though the plots are usually predictable and most of the special effects are computer generated.  I’m more into funny movies, though I especially like dark humor.  Shaun of the Dead and Weekend at Bernie’s- as well as Monty Python’s Meaning of Life and the Quest for the Holy Grail come to mind.

troop train

Two to a bed…I’d been the first to volunteer for the top bunk.

My grandfather served the last year of his service during WWII on the troop trains.  I find it hard to imagine the things he saw- although there are pictures to be found of flatbed cars loaded down with tanks and jeeps as well as pictures of young soldiers boarding trains.  I am sure that he realized that some of these guys would be coming back on the same trains- only they would be traveling in metal boxes in the freight cars instead of on the passenger seats and in the sleeping berths.

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Efficient, but how would they be off-loaded?

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scratch 10 months

Scratching for ten months?  That would really suck.

toilet capacity

If you weigh more than 500#, toileting would be an endeavor to begin with.

In fact, most land mammals that weigh 500# or more take care of their toileting either in the pasture, or in the barnyard.

Observations of a Cynical Old Bitty, Sports Commentary, and Keeping it Simple

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I don’t drink beer.  I don’t like beer.  But to Jerry, this swill is the elixir of the Gods.  Go figure.

Tomorrow I begin a brief vacation.   Not because I’m sick, a family member’s sick or I have some stupid errand(s,) which is usually the only reason I take time off.  Granted, I did tell Jerry I would list a bunch of his crap on E-Bay tonight (joy and rapture) and I did put the rack of ribs in the slow cooker.  But he’s on his own for a couple of days which means the drive-thru better have some cold Natty Packs, and I better make sure he has Katie’s (the local good pizza joint) on speed dial.  Tomorrow morning I head for the hills- literally- where Sprint access is a crap shoot (so no internet and probably no phone either) and things should be somewhat bull-shit free as long as Jerry doesn’t show up and ruin the quiet.

I’ll have Miss Clara with me, to screen any potential “visitors.”

Clara enjoys being at the campground.  I do have to make sure she’s on a leash any time she’s not in the cabin, but I give her a long lead and let her explore.  Clara is obedient and usually a good listener, but my only fear is that with the prey drive she has that she would lunge off after a critter and get lost.  Prey drive is an instinctual thing with dogs, and when she’s locked on to something she may or may not respond to verbal commands.  This is why a lot of people who work with protection breeds use shock collars (no I am not going there) so they can get a dog’s attention should they get locked on a prey item.  I don’t want to take that chance in an area where she can get lost and/or mistaken for a deer.  Admittedly, I’ve been paranoid with Clara ever since she was hit by a truck three years ago.  She has never attempted to get beyond the fence since then, even when Sheena has found – or fabricated for herself- ways out.   Sheena has about ten pounds on Clara, so any hole big enough for Sheena is more than big enough for Clara.  Before she got hit Clara thought it was a fun game to try to find holes in the fence and such, but she has not strayed even once since.  Still, I’m not taking any undue chances with her.

I’m not trying to get my hopes up about the upcoming election, though I was most encouraged by Romney’s debate performance last Wednesday.  I’d never really thought Romney was much of a public speaker but this debate was a most pleasant surprise.  The man knows what he’s talking about, and more importantly, he believes in what he says.   The absence of the teleprompter was rather telling for Obama.  Apparently Eastwood was right.  Now if only the rest of the world will get a clue and see what I’ve known all along.  The self-proclaimed “emperor” is naked as a jay bird.

Bluejays may not wear clothes, but at least they do have feathers.

Bluejays are interesting birds in that they eat almost anything, and they’re rather aggressive.  A few years ago there was a huge scare in Franklin County regarding West Nile virus and people were asked to report any dead crows or jays (crows and jays are actually related types of birds) so the health department could test them.  Of course I’m the lucky one to find a dead jay out in the front yard that wasn’t visibly mauled by cats or hit by anything, just stiff and dead as a post, so kept my distance and called the health department to come and get it for testing.  I’m not a big fan of communicable disease, so I figure better safe than sorry.  If there’s crap like that lurking about in my yard I want to know about it.

In response to my call, some guy from the health department showed up, with his hazmat garb and everything, to pick up the dead jay (with thickly gloved hands of course.)  The health department guy observed that the jay’s mouth was open and that it had another bird (likely a baby starling) jammed in its throat in such a manner that it likely choked to death.  He still took the dead jay for testing, but assured me that the cause of death was most likely asphxyiation rather than West Nile.  Apparently this is a somewhat common manner of death for jays.

Thankfully no one needs to tell me this twice.

Most sports are pretty stupid when you think about it.  Football for instance, involves chasing a funky shaped ball up and down a field.  It also involves having very big guys jump all over your sorry carcass.  I spent the first thirteen years of my life trying to avoid having my ass kicked.  Even if I were coordinated and could play a sport for money, I don’t think the scratch would be worth daily ass kickings all over again. NFL players are coming out and saying that they are getting brain damage from all the concussions they get playing football.  Granted most athletes aren’t rocket scientists to begin with (and I say this from deep within the highly uncoordinated geek camp) but shouldn’t brain damage be your sign that playing certain sports might not be worth it?

Today you’re throwing a football on national TV.  Tomorrow you’re sucking up pureed bananas in a straw whilst shitting your drawers.

Hockey is another sport I don’t get.  It’s only fun if they fight.

Which brings us to NASCAR fans and WalMart shoppers….

Perhaps that’s mean of me,  and a bit ironic, because occasionally I go to WalMart, if I have to get something I can’t find at Target, or I’m in Marion where there is no Target.  But NASCAR, I can’t bring myself to watch that shit.  Ever.

Must have taken this pic in Newark (OH)- the Lardy Lady Capitol of the Midwest!

Freddy Mercury would have loved Newark.  Big fat Fannys everywhere!

Speaking of big fat Fanny- but she’s a cat- and she’s cute.

Warm and Fuzzy as a Tire Iron, Stay Straight- It Might Come Back In Style, and Other Politically Incorrect Opinions

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Even though I am female (and a straight one at that) I am not a huggy-kissy overly sentimental type.  The public at large need not fear me randomly hugging, touching or groping anyone.  I generally avoid physical demonstrations of affection whenever possible.  I am one of those people who is very sensitive to touch even from people I do know, and I don’t want strange people touching me at all.  Maybe I’m just strange but it really creeps me out when people try to touch me in the course of conversation.  Please don’t come up behind me and put your hand on my shoulder or even worse, try to grab at my hands.  I worked with a guy who was really cool and very nice, but he was a toucher.  One day he came up behind me (but I didn’t realize who he was) and put his hand on my shoulder.  My instinctive reaction was to elbow the poor guy in the gut before I’d even realized it- a reflexive motion, but still rather mortifying.  He meant no malice and I felt really terrible about elbowing him, but I really am squeamish about unauthorized touching.   I had the hell beaten out of me way too many times as a child.

My parents weren’t into physical fighting (thankfully) but they are masters of verbal sparring and passive-aggressive revenge.  I think the older they get the more they enjoy finding creative ways to piss each other off.  Some people are into that.  I think it must be what keeps their relationship fresh after almost fifty years.  Dad knows he can get a rise out of Mom by failing to flush the downstairs toilet or by leaving his dirty socks on the floor.  Mom knows she can piss Dad off by leaving all of her various crap (and she’s virtually a hoarder so it’s everywhere) all over every flat surface in the house.  Ad nauseam.  Tit for tat, pick for pick.  Acck!

At least they aren’t into really odious pastimes, like swinging (that’s a really creepy thought considering their age) or square dancing, or having an ankle biter dog that wears clothes and perfume and goes to the groomer’s once a week, but even so their constant picking and petty fussing is unnerving.  I find it unnecessary and annoying.  As a child- since I tended to take everything literally- it took me awhile to realize that Mom, even in her manic rages, was not likely to literally rip Dad’s head off no matter how many times she threatened to.

For that she would have needed the chainsaw, and Dad’s the only one I know of who could start that damned thing.

That’s me- pragmatic and practical.  It’s what keeps me relatively sane.

Speaking of which, when I get the time I will share my latest and greatest concept in detail.  There are people out there like my parents who spend all kinds of time and money on home improvement.  I have absolutely no hardware expertise, money to burn, or knowledge of interior design or feng shui or any of that high faluting stuff.  But I  do know a thing or two about renovating This Old Cougar.

More to come, very soon!