assorted rants, creative writing, historical interest, misanthropy

Collecting More Eclectic Ephemera, and Someone Lost a Shoe on the Interstate

shoesonpowerlines

 

I don’t understand how shoes end up on the Interstate.  I have heard the urban legend that states that tying a pair of shoes together and tossing them over a power line indicates that someone nearby is selling the reefer, but I don’t think that the median of I-71 would be a good place to score some chronic.

Another theory I have is that the nimrods one sees on the freeway (usually teenage kids) who like to put their feet on the dashes and out car windows occasionally have a shoe blown off, which would constitute one of those “actions lead to consequences” sort of lessons.   As in, your mother is going to kick your butt sideways when she realizes you just lost one of a pair of $100 Reeboks.

Then there is always the prankster possibility- Jimmy’s sleeping like death in the back seat, so now’s the time to chuck his DCs out the moon roof.  Fun and laffs-laffs-laffs for everyone, except Jimmy, who will now have to wear his little sister’s Hello Kitty pink flip flops for the duration of the vacation.

hk sandalsOh so manly.  Not. But, not being a man, I wish they made these in adult women’s sizes.

 

I can also understand tossing footwear out the window when and if it smells like six week old rancid pork chops that have been marinating in horse piss and used cat litter. This actually happened on a road trip to North Carolina with my parents and my then teenaged son.  The POMC wears a bizarre size- 13 AA- so when he finally finds a pair of comfy shoes, they cost out the wazoo (and he is even more cheap than I am- except with his motor sport needs) and he wears them until they literally fall apart.   I remember these shoes all too well- a pair of highly distressed and duct-taped Etnies that I had once had to special order and paid $100 + for, but by that time they had been worn, used and abused until the very thinnest pieces of soles remained.

Etnies-Kingpin-Black-Lamy2

The Etnies were nice shoes when they were new- but not after 2 years of Steve-o abuse.

And they smelled.  Horrible.  I came much too close to paying a brief and intense visit with Cousin Ralph getting a whiff of that, and I have almost no sense of smell.  It had to be deadly for anyone with a normal sense of smell to be anywhere near that funk.

So when Steve-o decided, somewhere on I-71 in rural Kentucky, that it would be a good idea to remove the shoes, peel off the socks, and let his bird claws air out, a green and thick stench wafted through the Venture van like a malevolent, pasty sewage-y fog.

footsmell

 

I thought Mom was going to hurl right out the passenger side window.   It is only by a Miracle of God that she didn’t spew the Burrito Supreme and Taco Salad she’d just scarfed about an hour earlier at Taco Bell all down the side of the van.  The sight of used Taco Bell splattering down the side of the van and onto the freeway coupled with that evil green miasma that was permeating the interior of the van would have guaranteed a mass uprising of various stomach contents.

 

burrito supreme

I’m sure it doesn’t taste as good on the way back up.

Traveling alone does help one to avoid the hazards of traveling with others- noxious smells, dangerous driving, and the unappetizing visuals of  blood relatives who are dead to the world, open-mouthed and snoring like freight trains.

I rather enjoyed my solo road trip to NC last week.  The only thing I really didn’t like was all the rudeness and bad driving I encountered on the way home.  Apparently assholes are universal, or they were having a convention on I-75 northbound all through Kentucky.  I don’t know why everyone in the south seems to think they are NASCAR drivers or some crap.

I was also able to avoid tourist traps and kitschy restaurants by bringing my own chow and only stopping for gasoline and to get coffee and pee.  I didn’t encounter any worthy souvenirs this way, but then again I didn’t end up getting taken for various overpriced hillbilly swag.

fish finder

That was almost a sad thing, failing to bring back some sort of memento.  Next time I take a trip like that I should make it a point to stop off at some of those shops along the Interstate just to see if there is anything worth having other than homemade fudge, moonshine (now legal in Tennessee!) or shot glasses.

hillbilly moonshine

 

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Artificial Intelligence, Planning a Solitary Get-Away, and Cat Logic

blue hair

Let’s face it.  Most American women over the age of 35 use some form of hair color.  I started going grey in my mid-20s, so I’ve been using hair dye for a very long time.  I like the concept of gainful employment, otherwise I would try a variety of hair colors- electric blue, hot pink, deep purple, etc., but that sort of body décor is frowned upon in the very conservative automotive community.  Tats (which I don’t have) are OK as long as they aren’t on your face or hands, and piercings are generally only for women’s earlobes, (I do have pierced ears) but hair color is something that should at least remotely look natural.

Most of my contemporaries go the blonde or blonde highlights route to disguise their grey, but for me there’s a problem with that.  Since my skin tone could best be described as a half shade darker than albino, (tanning is out of the question) and I have a very round, moony looking face to begin with, blonde hair does not become me.  The platinum blonde that my sister, and many of my contemporaries prefer, would make me look like a giant moon-faced, troll-proportioned mutant.  I still have the troll-like mostly torso type body (short arms and legs, etc) but at least I look sort of normal- from the neck up.

For awhile I tried to match my hair’s original mousy brown, but I never really liked mousy brown much either, and the problem with attempting to match mousy brown is you end up with funky looking dark ends.  So I took the advice of a hairdresser from a trendy (read: expensive) hair salon: cut it short, and dye it black.  It seems to be the least offensive color/style, and dark ends aren’t an issue when they’re already black.

collegeidavataravatar_elysian

1987 vs. 2007- at least I didn’t do the California raisin thing…like my sister…

The illustrious Steve-o says every time I dye my hair I am “putting on artificial intelligence.”  Whatever, dude.

Here you can simply enjoy the nature and your life

Someplace like this- accessible only by boat would be nice- would be ideal!

Last year I tried to schedule three entire days for myself, in the camper we already have down in Lancaster.  That worked for about three hours- until Jerry showed up with his loud, whiny self- and the other two dogs.  What was supposed to be three whole days of quiet, reading and rest, with just Clara, became two and a half days of dog-herding, Jerry-whining, NO quiet, and a wicked sinus infection from hell.  I ended up leaving early, after I’d begged and pleaded with the Dr’s office to call me in a script in an attempt to assuage the overthrow of my entire upper respiratory tract by the Endless Green Snots.  Of course, Jerry wasn’t to blame for the sinus infection, but he did his best to make it even more intolerable.  Some “vacation.”  I’d been better off, as far as stress, if I’d just stayed at work.

This year I am going to have to employ a different strategy, should I want a real vacation, and find a remote place to stay (but that has electricity, running water and flush toilets) that Jerry can’t find.  I’m thinking a little different area in the Hocking Hills, or a bit further south.  Maybe my sister will have her summer house in Kentucky habitable this year and I can beg a few days alone down there.  The only problem with my sister’s place is that the drive down there is rather lengthy and can be harrowing.  There is no Sprint access within at least 15 miles, either, so I’d have no e-mail, internet or even people pestering me on the phone.  Then again, those things aren’t technically “problems”- it just means that Jerry would be less motivated to try to find it and follow me, and it would be a forced hiatus from technology and pretty much everything else, which might be exactly what I need.

fanny2

Fanny is a BIG cat.

???????????????????????????????

Jezebel doesn’t care.

It’s actually funny to see them banter about.  How Jezebel rolls Fanny over and smacks her in the chops, I’ll never know, as Fanny is about five of Jezebel, but I’m glad that when all is said and done they eat out of the same food bowl and they have no problem with crashing together on my bed.  All four of our cats get along relatively well.

There’s a show on Animal Planet called “My Cat from Hell.” It’s interesting to see some of the solutions Jackson Galaxy offers, but what he suggests usually works.  That’s impressive in and of itself.  I’ve seen some weird stuff on that show, but I’d chalk most of it up to neurotic/weird/paranoid owners.  If you’re deranged, your cat probably will be too.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

The Art of the Epic Fail, Double Entendre, and Sophomoric Humor That Makes Me Laugh

glory hole

I would like to see this church’s theological statement.  Just wondering.  But it is in the UK.

I’ve gone through a bit of a humor drought as of late and it shows.  It’s always better when I can laugh at things I see.

Over the weekend Steve-o and I, and Mom, and Sophie went to the zoo.  The weather was unusually nice for Ohio in Monsoon season- as in it wasn’t pouring down torrential rain.  The thing about public places, and even attractions like the zoo where the admission price should serve to keep some of the riff-raff out, is that it’s a human freak show out there.  I thought Kroger’s on the first of the month was bad.  The only places I’ve seen worse tats and even worse clothing choices are the Marion Popcorn Festival and/or the Ohio State Fair.  I will be taking pics at both of those events this year.  It’s almost as fun as taking pics of tacky Christmas decorations.

dude-714101

Is there a reason why you want to verify your gender to others via a forehead tattoo?

I had a camera on me, but didn’t really feel cool snapping off pics of the Behemoth Butches with Extra Long Leg Hair while Mom was pointing and wondering out loud, “Which one’s the guy?,” and Steve-o snorts out even louder, “They’re bull-dykes!”  Mom, of course, replies by exclaiming, “That’s disgusting!”  Mom and Steve-o’s conversation back and forth on the human freak show they were observing all around them was funny, if not predictable.

One has to remember that Mom is 1. very Catholic, 2. very conservative, and 3. from a very rural locale.  She has lived a sheltered life. At least when she was growing up, the nuns wore full-body garb that would have covered up their buzz cuts, hairy legs, trucker’s wallets and such.

nuns 1

Even I remember Sister Mary Refrigerator Perry from CCD- she was about 6’5″ and a good 320# at least.

I didn’t take any pics of strange people at the zoo, (should have, because they would have been good) because I prefer taking pictures in stealth, without other people’s (loud and frequent) commentary to draw attention to what I’m doing.  So I have no gratuitous pics of these “girls” with their lovely buzz cuts and their fetching ensembles of XXXL t-shirts, cargo shorts, trucker’s wallets, white socks and Chucks.  Trust me-the world is better off.

Bull-dykes or not, I figure, live and let live.  Their lifestyle choices- including their rights not to shave their legs, and to consume more slop on a daily basis than a pen full of feeder hogs- are none of my business.  But the one chick did have more hair on her legs than Steve-o does on his head, which was a tad bit alarming.  She also outweighed him by about 100#, too, so I’m glad she didn’t hear him.

My granddaughter did enjoy the aquatic life in the aquarium though.

???????????????????????????????

It’s almost disturbing when Steve-o and Mom and Sophie are the only normal people I observed the entire afternoon.  They were so normal that they were abnormal- no tats, no multicolor hair-dos, no mouth piercings, and a child who was dressed appropriately and actually behaved herself most of the time, which is hard to do when you’re 14 months old.

It’s getting really weird to watch people in public places these days.  It’s as if the world has become WalMart, and that couldn’t be a good thing.

walmartbingo

This is so sad, but it’s true!!!

epic-fail-mega-wedgie

Makes me wonder if he was climbing the fence, or if he just had a sadistic older sibling?

When I look at this pic, I thank God I was not born male with the two older sisters I had.  I’d probably been nutted so many times by the age of three that I’d been made a castrato, had I been male and left to the mercy of my sisters’ evil meathooks.

I still got the living hell beat out of me, but at least, being a biological female, I come upon a high soprano vocal range honestly.

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Selected Splenetic Ravings, The Man-Speedo Paradox, and Anger Management

tantrum

splenetic: adj. irritable; peevish; spiteful

I’m not always a quiet, mellow, little ray of sunshine.  Sometimes, in spite of myself, I get pissed.  The bad thing about me being pissed off is, being wired the way I am, I typically ignore a lot of things that would send other people (especially women) over the edge.  I try to live with a bit of an intentionally narrow focus, otherwise the sensory overload would drive me apeshit.  So over time I have developed the self preservatory art of selective attention, and I’m good at it.  I can sort out and discard a lot of bullshit that way.  Usually I’m pretty good at keeping from majoring in the minors, but not here lately.

It seems like the slightest things are really getting on my nerves, and my sensitivity level is almost discernible.  I don’t like that.  Not at all.

Fingernails-scratching-a--007

The bad thing is, that when something does manage to get stuck in my craw, and I’m really cheesed, it usually takes a good while for the anger to brew, and even longer for it to dissipate.  I’m the queen of the delayed reaction, which I know is unhealthy, and quite illogical to the (largely) innocent recipients of my wrath.

I checked most of the logical reasons for being so peevish and easily annoyed-

1. Aunt Flo- but I’ve not seen her since the hysterectomy, which was in 2009.  Can’t say I miss that noise.

2. Yes, I did remember to put the Prozacs in the pill box, and I’ve not missed any pills this week.

3. The weather does suck, but it’s Ohio and that’s normal.

4. Long ago, I got rid of any itchy or binding clothing I had.

5. Jerry, but he’s always a pain in the ass.

6. Sinus mess and its attendant sleep deprivation.  Now I might be getting somewhere.

7. People being dumbasses and just plain jerks because they get some kind of power trip from taking out their frustration on low-level pissants like me who generally don’t deserve it, but can’t do anything about it.

Sounds like a combination of #6 and #7, with an extra heavy dose of #5, just to make it even more shitty.

Jerk-Zone1

Maybe I should bring my thoughts around to summer, and dudes in swim attire.  That might keep me from wanting to throttle the next asshole who tries to unload on me.

I’ve observed something I call the Man-Speedo Paradox.  Buff young dudes who would be positive eye candy in a tight little banana hammock/ thong style bathing suit or the briefest of Speedos, end up in swim garb like this:

skinny dude bermuda trunks

C’mon, sugar, be brave, you know you’d look hot in a banana hammock!

Unfortunately I don’t get to see too many hot, buff young pups, Bermuda shorts or not.  Here’s the visual I usually get treated to at the pool:

fat man in speedo

Not sexy.  Not on any level. At any time. Ever.

I guess that the Man-Speedo Paradox can be summed up as: the surface area of the dude is directly inversely proportional to the surface area of the swim attire.  To make it simple: The hot young skinny dude is going to wear Bermuda short type swim trunks that took yards of boxer-short material to manufacture.  If the wind blows just right, skinny dude could be flown like a kite.

In contrast, the big, fat whale dude is going to be wearing a banana hammock that contains about a postage stamp size square of Spandex.  I’m going to get to see much that should remain unseen forever.

When Steve-o was about 7 or 8 I took him to a public pool.  I spotted a very large dude who appeared to be naked, and I was afraid Steve-o would make a scene about it should he catch the visual, (and he would) so I tried to tiptoe away quietly to report Big Bare Bubba to the manager.  Just as I turned around to tip-toe to the manager’s office, BBB bent over, and when he was bent over, I could see a very thin strained strip of bright red Spandex.  Steve-o apparently saw it too, because at that very moment he exclaimed,”Hey, Mom, why is that fat guy flossing his ass?”  My son does not know the gentle charm of subtlety.  Ever.

It’s not a crime to be large, but dress accordingly.  Nobody wants to see a 300# she-behemoth in a thong either.  Steve-o has a rule about women which sort of makes sense.  “If your pants are bigger than mine, I’m not getting in them.”  He’s not limiting himself to wraith-thin little flowers, either.  He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 190 and 200#.  Steve-o also wouldn’t be caught dead in a banana hammock or a Speedo.  He is clearly a Bermuda short trunk dude, when one can get him in the pool, which means convincing him that nobody can really see his back hair, and he doesn’t have moobs.

back hair

Now this calls for the RAZORBA!

I’m not a big fan of hairy anything, except dogs.  Dudes should not have back fur any more than women should have moustaches and sideburns.  But I can see why Mr. Gorilla-Back would want to stay out of the pool.  That’s just nasty.  But there is a solution:

razorba

Or you could get that spray-on NAIR:

spray on nair

Steve-o, your birthday is coming up.

I see a gift idea right here!

I don’t see how anyone could shave his own back.  And if you tried, you might end up getting nicks and cuts in places where it’s pretty inconvenient to bleed.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

At Least It Wasn’t Detroit, and the Art of the Impromptu Road Trip

big-john-steak-onion

I enjoy the rare and tasty privilege of an impromptu road trip, but I’ve not gotten to take one on my own terms for a long time.  This was not a trip I took on my own terms.  I can’t think of anyone who says to him or herself, “Gee, I’d like to go up to Lansing, MI for shits and grins.”  It’s not abysmal as Detroit or Cleveland, but it’s not what I would call a tourist destination either.  There’s enough ghettos in Columbus without having to drive 270 miles one way to visit another one.  Even so, I can look a little bit on the bright side. There is one memorable thing about the mid-Michigan area I like well enough that I’d love to see it come to central Ohio.

Normally I enjoy trying mom & pop local places when I travel, as I’m pretty open minded about food, but Steve-o can be very hard to please and quite difficult about food. Even so, he grew a pair on the way back and took my suggestion to try a local sub chain called Big John’s. The steak, cheese and mushroom (#4) sub is to die for.  If you go, be sure to try the red sauce.  Even Steve-o enjoyed his sandwich- and it’s rare to get a good food review from a guy who is very fussy about food and will seldom eat at any restaurant other than Taco Bell.

mmm steakNow THIS is a sandwich!

As I said earlier, awesome steak subs aside, I would still have to have a compelling reason to go anywhere in Michigan.  Michigan is NOT a vacation destination, IMO, except for the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, and even then one should remember you have to go through Detroit to get to Dearborn, and you should also remember that anywhere in that area apart from being directly on the museum grounds is highly, highly unsafe.   You couldn’t pay me enough money to be anywhere near Detroit at night, even though an Ohio CCW is also valid in Michigan.  I only have five rounds.

I don’t see it happening anytime soon, but should I ever have to end up in Lansing again for any reason, I will be sure to remember Big John’s.  I will try to forget that Dad and Steve-o and Spencer ended up staying in yet another roach motel, and that half of the city looks like a war zone.  Perhaps I didn’t see the right part of the city.  I know there are neighborhoods right here in Columbus that look almost as bad.  If all I saw in Columbus was the near east side I’d think it was a hole too.

shooting capital of central ohioPlenty of law enforcement are always down in this hizzy!

Saturday night I get a very late call (10:30 PM, and yes, that’s late for me to be getting phone calls) and wouldn’t  have bothered to answer it except for it was Steve-o and he knows better than to wake me up at night unless either a.) someone’s on the way to the ER, b.) someone’s dead, or c.) he has a catastrophic need that if unaddressed will lead to a. or b.

Now I know why I was so wigged out about Dad taking either one of their aged and increasingly unreliable vans to NC last summer, and I’d managed to talk him into letting me drive them down there.

The oil pressure sending unit failed on the van.  GM vehicles are rather notorious for this- especially the 3.4 V6, and any vehicle with 200K (especially an aging GM van) on it is pretty much on borrowed time to begin with.  That van is at the point where I would be surprised if it didn’t have a catastrophic failure on any road trip of more than 20 miles or so.

When an OPS fails, it’s almost always the high pressure unit, which on a 3.4 is only accessible with the vehicle on a rack, and then only after the starter’s been removed.  Pretty.  The sensor itself comes apart, and then suddenly the vehicle’s spewing oil all over the engine compartment- at 60 PSI.  Worse yet, there’s no way to know when one of these is going to fail.  Age can be a factor, but even so, I’ve seen these rude dudes fail on vehicles with less than 100 miles on them.

sensor

Two very bad things can happen if one continues to drive a vehicle with a failed OPS.  One of course, is that Al Gore and the greenies aren’t going to be happy with you, because you’re blowing motor oil all over God’s creation, including your engine compartment, windshield, mirrors, back glass  and all over the ten cars behind you.  The other is that if the oil pressure drops too low (and it inevitably will, since you’re blowing oil out the side of the engine) the lifters will fail to be lubricated and the valves will start seizing up which can lead to the cylinder head warping and/or head gasket failure.  That’s bad, but if the oil completely runs out, the crankshaft will no longer be lubricated, which will cause the crank to overheat and seize, potentially blowing a connecting rod through the engine block, which means there is no fixing that- save for replacing the entire engine assembly.

Cliff’s notes version for the non-motorhead:  If you smell oil or see it spattering on your windshield, shut it off. NOW.  Call AAA.  You are very likely screwed.  Especially if you didn’t shut it off right away.

Fortunately the boys knew exactly what was happening.  They knew that if they ran it out of oil they were done.  Even more fortunately, it happened about a mile from the hotel where they were staying.

The only thing about the hotel was it wasn’t terribly sanitary.  Poor Spencer had brought his swim trunks, but the pool wasn’t clean enough for him.  Spencer is not prissy, so I am assuming this pool was pretty gross.

dirty-pool-where-i-foundAn indoor pool is a beautiful thing- if it’s clean.

They had a place to stay the night, but the shower was filthy, the bed sheets looked as if they might have been changed sometime when Jimmy Carter was president, and someone had used the roof outside the window as a party patio.  The window screen was broken and there were several empty liquor bottles standing on the roof when they got there.

Even better, for Dad, they found a Firestone across from the hotel who managed to work them in to get the sensor changed out so he could get to the swap meet they were going to, and so they could get back home.  I took Steve-o back home early so I would be sure he would be back in time to go to work.  The van managed to make it back with Dad and Spencer, although they’ve got some serious powerwashing to do.

Maybe the next time I go on a road trip I’ll get to go somewhere fun, but for going somewhere not particularly fun, it wasn’t a bad trip.  It got me out of the house and to somewhere different, and that’s saying something.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary

Better Living Through Technology and Chemistry, and Disturbing Thoughts

marlboromancomparisonNo one is more anti-smoking than an ex-smoker.

Even though back in the day I smoked the cowboy killers, (yes, I chain smoked the cowboy killers) today I find few of other people’s habits more annoying.  The exception to that would be Jerry’s uncanny ability to spot either puke or shit combined with his complete unwillingness to actually clean up said puke, shit or other noxious mess.

On one hand, since cigarettes are legal and the government makes money on them, people should be allowed to smoke up- anywhere and everywhere- should they so desire.  On the other, I am not a fan of having my airspace polluted by some jackwagon’s cig smoke.

electronic-cigarette_vs_regular-cigaretteI know it’s too complicated for Jerry.  But there may be hope for others.

The above illustration doesn’t mention the damned cellophanes, but then again most smokers don’t just toss the foil and cellophane on the floor to clog up the vacuum cleaner, either.  No matter how you scour the floor for cellophanes, there’s at least one that avoids detection and ends up clogging the vacuum cleaner, which begs one question and one statement.

1.  What’s the bloody point of having a vacuum cleaner if you have to pick up half the shit on the floor before you vacuum so it doesn’t clog the machine?

2. Jerry was raised by wolves, which is why there is unauthorized detritus on the floor that shouldn’t be there to begin with.  I should be grateful he knows how to wipe his ass.

hizzy

I think some of the really weird Victorian artwork actually is drug-inspired. I mean, this dude was even impaired in his fashion choices.  Elton John wouldn’t even wear this ensemble.  When alcohol, opium and God only knows what else were readily available in just about every patent medicine in existence, I’m sure there were plenty of guys who wore bad clothes and thought they were riding around on (stoned) giant white pigeons.

postmortem guess whos deadI’m thinking duct tape would have kept this poor dead kid’s head up for the pic.

I’m assuming the little girl in the very front of this pic is dead by the vacuous stare and the way her head is flopped over.  However, her mother is hanging on to her hair in a manner that would make an old-time Catholic mother proud.  The expression on the mother’s face seems to be one of those “You will sit still dammit,” expressions rather than a mournful pose.  Perhaps the two boys in the background were getting on her nerves, or maybe she was peeved because the dead one kept on flopping over.  Maybe she grabbed the dead kid by the hair just to keep her steady in one place.

I have to wonder how many child deaths buried in the overwhelmingly high infant mortality rate of the Victorian era were actually inflicted by the mothers?

It would be easy enough to cover up one’s crime.  Lots of kids died, and died suddenly from everything from typhoid to a good old fashioned case of the runs.  An autopsy of that time – should anyone insist one be conducted- probably wouldn’t reveal poisoning or suffocation.

arsenicJust put it in their drink.

emetic:

adjective

1.causing vomiting, as a medicinal substance.

noun
2.an emetic medicine or agent.

I can think of a lot of things that have emetic qualities:
OBAMA EGYPTObama.  Just thinking about him and his illegal squatting in the White House makes me want to puke.
plumber buttExposed hairy butt cracks.  Wrong on many levels, and tacky on either male or female.
throw_upI don’t throw up easily, which in this world is probably a good thing.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Party Like It’s 1895, Late Winter Apathy, and More Victorian Death

post mortem creepy chickDead?  Nah, it’s just early March in Central Ohio.

Early March in Ohio is about the same as late February.  It’s cold.  It’s windy.  There is at least one form of precipitation happening at any given time.  The season of Snowbooger Grey lingers on.  Sometimes it lingers on until May.

So I figure I’ll go back to some of my favorite art (yes, photography is an art) and dig into some postmortem scans.  I don’t know why I find 100 + year old pictures of dead people fascinating, except maybe to underscore that death is a constant and to remember that one’s time above ground is short, unless of course, you’re at the BMV.

embalming_fluid“Lifetone” Embalming Fluid- for keeping stiffs fresher longer!

Someday, if I am ever free to determine my own décor, without having to worry about things getting ruined, broken or permeated with cigarette stink and dust, I would furnish my entire house in bizarre ephemera and trinkets that have a macabre twist- like the kinds of stuff featured on the show Oddities.  The only problem with that (other than Jerry is as messy and destructive as a horde of hogs, so valuables have to be kept out of his reach) is that stuff is generally expensive if you don’t procure it in strange places like yard sales and flea markets and such.

I probably should go with Jerry more often when he goes to estate sales and yard sales and auctions but I really don’t have the attention span.  I’m looking for completely different stuff than he is.  He generally looks for redneck crap (lawn mowers, tools, beer-related ephemera, camping and fishing stuff, and occasionally firearms) to resell, while I look for the cool antique conversational items that are a bit harder to find.

For a generation of people who were prone to maudlin sentiment, I find it interesting that some Victorian era greeting cards were just plain emotionless.  Maybe it’s like today, where you save the formal cards for obscure relatives and business connections with whom you wish to remain cordial, but not necessarily friendly.

esteemTranslation: I like you less than Neal Schon, but more than the Quaker Oat Box Guy.

The nice thing about this card is that I could pretty much say that about anyone who hasn’t gone out of his or her way to piss me off.  I could design my own Victorian cards.

memory noteThis is nice and neutral, but it begs the question:

memory note pissed offUpon which list do you appear?

I’ve never really been the greeting card type.  I like cards if they’re funny, and if they are relevant to the one getting the card.   I don’t do maudlin sentiment well though, and I tend to be a bit of a wise ass if given the opportunity.

cat commandosIf they can walk on two legs, then they can carry AR15s.  Just sayin’.

It’s bad that I’m this bored.  However, it’s good that I am entertaining myself in a quasi-constructive way.  The guys I work with really don’t like it when I put their faces on fat bikers, hippos, or even bimbos with really big boobs in bikinis.  The bad thing is with the rise of both the easily concealed digital camera and WalMart, there is no end to just plain awful pics.

dude in a dressSome fashion statements are better left unsaid.

Tonight I have to drop Jezebel off to be spayed and declawed.  I am always somewhat ambivalent about declawing cats, but Jezebel has a rather destructive habit of scratching on the door frames instead of the scratching post (F.B. also has claws, but she’s older, very sedate, lets me clip her claws, and actually uses the post.) Jezebel also gets caught in the curtains and on the furniture, and even though she will take medication without going spaz, she will not allow me to clip her claws.  Isabel was a curtain climber when she was little as well as she had a rather disturbing habit of climbing people so she could ride around on your shoulder.  Fanny almost destroyed one end of a chair arm, and almost gave me a really nasty cat bite when I tried to trim her claws, before she was old enough to be declawed.  Cat bites are serious business.  The only thing worse than being bitten by a house cat is being bitten by an AIDS or hepatitis infected human.  Cats have bacteria in their saliva that can literally infect your blood and eat your flesh.

jezebel 5 monthsJezebel won’t be contributing to the feral cat overpopulation issue.

Some cats can learn to use the post and/or deal with having their claws clipped.  I have had a few cats who I didn’t need to declaw, and I don’t do it capriciously, because I know it’s not a fun surgery.  But if a cat is strictly indoors, and it’s an issue of declawing vs. the cat being homeless, I’ll go with declawing.  I know.  Mean cat mom, I know, but it would be more cruel for Jerry to catch her going to town on a door frame and drop kick her across the house.  When he’s five sheets to the wind I wouldn’t put anything past his drunk ass.   The plus side to declawing, if there is one, is that our vet is a very good surgeon and she has always done a fantastic job on declaws.  I still hate doing it.

postmortem-false-eyesCreepy.  Not a good retouch job on the eyes at all.

Of course, I don’t even care for open casket funerals.  The idea of old-hen relatives of the deceased filing by the coffin and making commentary is rather distasteful to me.  I still remember my relatives’ commentary when Aunt Ellen died.  “Doesn’t Ellen look lovely?”

Ellen did NOT look lovely.  She looked pretty damned dead.  She was so orange she looked like she passed out at the Oompa Loompa Prom.  And she had to be dead to be wearing all that day-glo orange lipstick.  She was a Pentecostal, which means she wasn’t allowed to wear makeup, but she did have to wear dresses when in public.

When I die, I hope Steve-o honors my wishes and has me cremated, but he has the same sick sense of humor I do.  He will probably have me taxidermied and use me for a coffee table.

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