The Bed Coats of Room Ticks

This really baffles me; in fact it just plumb drives me nutty because it doesn’t make any sense at all and when my mind dives headlong into creative indulgence, I am left with an explanation that involves Carpet Crawlers and a million tiny flea’s clinging to the outer edge of my comforter and even though one flea doesn’t weigh a whole heck of a lot, a million of them can really add up and because of that my fleece is continuously foo-kok-tud.

If you pull on the bed sheets while in bed; they come closer. This isn’t rocket science. When I make my bed, the whole ‘being anal’ part of me needs to have the sheets and the comforter and for that matter, the pillows, all tidy-like and symmetrical because Symmetry is the Way Things Need to Be!

Weather of a chilly nature implies the pulling of covers up to ones chin and getting snug in the oh-so-yum-yumies of bed, which intern makes you believe that at some point the covers would begin to creep away and get closer to the head of the bed leaving the little piggy’s exposed. But NO!

Every God-damn blessed day under those clouds of confusion my sheets are pulled in completely the opposite direction leaving me with some second hand version of comfy-ness and bellowing for the answer. Why, why, why I say. Why do they get stuffed down further into the foot of the bed and then hang over the edge on the other side, where sleep I do not?

If it’s not a million tiny fleas stammering to warm themselves by the fire of an envisioned mass of importance, then it has to be aliens who don’t really care about returning victims to their prior state and in a hurry to let the tests begin, toss the sheets aside, zap me with a ‘ain’t gonna’ remember this episode’ memory potion.

Then one of the bug-eyed, pencil-necked, no-clothes wearing pranksters adds the final touch of pushing the sheets down between the footboard thingy and he probably thinks to himself ‘Ha-Ha this is real funny’ and continues on his merry way.

Is it just me? Am I the only one whose bed does not adhere to the laws of physics and gives pondering to a situation that makes no sense? Good grief.

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Don’t Admit, Equals Doesn’t Happen

Don’t, don’t, don’t let’s start – I’ve got a weak part of constitutional make-up that allows me to don a rouge of tenderness while daydreaming the physical torture of those non-humans who prey on children. The disgusting part is that my rage would land happily upon priests.

I’m in need of a little out-gassing here. The likes of these Baker burritos are enough to give the most solid of tummies a real churn for the worse and I’m absolutely disgusted with the people that allow for this type of behavior to continue; and not just continue for a while, this line of torture has been happening for ever.

This Michael Stephen Baker tweak was arrested Thursday when he returned from Thailand; golly, what would he be doing in Thailand? And why in Christ’s sake is he even returning from anywhere? This guy should be tending to the loving, caring side of Bubba and the Big-Boys every night at 8 in the shadows of San Quentin while trying to whisper the answer; “you’re my daddy”.

Pedophile Priests have been in the headline for quite some time and it’s a real bare to refrain from firing the Tommy Gun of historical evidence to support my case. My guess is that Ratzinger will be about as pro-active as Wojtyła and these wastes of skin will continue being shuffled between parishes because hey, better pickings, right?

Let’s remove the father factor; any person that preys upon children should be taken out back and put to rest... this of course, would not take into consideration the rights of the offender, because they have feelings to. They feel that it’s right fine to boogie-down on the Toughskins of desire and have a little moment of tenderness.

Why don’t the miscreants at Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood quit wasting tax payer money on bitching about Frosted Flakes and Sponge Bob and spend valuable time on something that actually hurts our children?

I think we should start the Castration Campaign. We can even be all touchy-feely about it for those more concerned about the rights of the sub-human than the rights of the children before getting screwed.

Remove and cryogenically freeze the tater sack and yum-yums of the offender. This would be the first course of rehabilitation. Then if the numb-nuts decides he still needs a little pre-pubescent excitement and commits a second offense; he becomes a vital organ donor for all of those who can make a positive difference in our lives.

I’ll stop. I’m fed up with human rights when it compromises the rights of children.

New Sites!

Do you ever get angry while driving? Do you ever utter the phrase “Move! you #$%@ friggin’ mook!”; then realize you have no clue what mook means? How about when you say “What... are ya' smokin’ crack?” and you have no idea what the heck crack is.

Well go to the Urban Dictionary and look it up! This ways you gets the haps – fashizzle!

the music of the week....

The Balance

I’ve been under the assumption that balance exists between Good and Evil. After a discussion between myself, my folks and another couple, I am unable to sustain my belief.

The conversation melded spirituality, psychic phenomenon and the re-introduction of bloodletting as modern medical practice; I fib. As the conversation weaved about, I found myself a-linger on the outer fringe. I’ll admit that I was neatly into 750ml of red, but I was still well versed and non-slurry in the speech department.

Let us assume that Good balances Evil. For expressions ease, let us also assume that only two people exist on the planet. If each person performs definable acts that are considered Evil, sans any act of Good, then in turn, each should reap external acts of Good to balance the system. Translated; Jack & Jill spend a year stealing each others food and at the end of the year, each will get a pony for free.

On a larger scale; assume that the world suddenly became good; everyone a participant in the extreme acts of kindness plan with no murder, no MP3 thievery, just a whole lot of good behavior and a bunch of cookies. At some point the good is balanced by large amounts of evil, correct? Translated; both hemisphere adopt free religion, free speech, a nifty medical plan, free MP3’s but a year later, E.T. shows up and disintegrates half the world and puts the rest on the probe plan.

I’m all aboard with John and the Instant Karma stuff, and I truly believe that there’s a judging system to which we pay Union dues; but Unions do not necessarily speak on its member’s behalf and what if there is a lobbyist who just has it out for me? Does this mean that I need to hire a Karma attorney to fight my un-equal-rights case against the Karma Union to prove that the Karma Lobbyist was not Karma-Cool and now I need Karma credit?

Well, like the moon and the stars and the sun, we all shine on, and we all digress from time to time and this is a classic example. So see - there is no great balancing act. I’d go steal a Snickers right now but that’s not good Karma.

Picture Phrase

What do the pictures say?

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PostSecret

I find this site just about as interesting as Found, not Dirty Found though. When a little levity is needed, you won’t go wrong here. The site used to be filled with posts, so many in fact that they wound up here.

Curiouser and Curiouser!

Where shall I begin? I suppose I shall begin at the beginning and go on till I come to the end: then stop. So... I get home, I chat with my son for a while about his PS2 gaming adventures, his dog that recently died and the inquisitions of Samuel Alito. He didn’t have much to say about Alito.

I check my Inbox and see an e-mail from an anonymous sender via myTrashMail.com. I’m about to delete it, but two attachments contain names of close friends of mine. "Hmm" I hummed. It’s a good thing I’m not a kitty ‘cause I was awful curious. I opened the letter; "For your files" were the only words, and three pictures. They were from the wedding of my friends Doug and Juliet.

I call up Juliet and say "Was it you?"
"What?" she says.
"Was it you?" I ask.
"Was it me what?" she quips.


I foreword the pictures and we blah-blah-blah about who this anonymous delivery person could be. We narrowed it down to just a few people – but nothing definitive. I’m guessing that this person reads my Blog, and sent these to me because of a picture I posted yesterday.

Who is this sneaky person? I would love to chat with them...

Blair's Kitchen

One of my best friends Jan, just sent me a little reminder of what I once was... a tecno-geek in "Blair's Kitchen" at some entertainment company in Colorado. Jan and I spent a lot of therapy time together at many a watering hole and we’re still in regular contact, even though she thinks that I’m a jack-ass. Hugs and kisses to you Jan!

I really don't believe that this picture is of me...

the music of the week....

Butter Anyone?

I’d love to say that I wrote this following piece on an eight day speed binge with coco-puff backers and the magic charm of a few highly intellectual burlesque dancers; though it would only serve as another mendacious tale in the adventures of moi.

Anonymous replied to my request for ideas with the following;
Maybe you should write about "butter".

Alone, restless; breakfast table in an otherwise... sorry, got side tracked. So I’m maybe eight years younger, alone and watching the T.V. on an eve of un-event. The ADD, AD/HD; whatever portion of me strums away at the chords of disharmony while I scribble down a few words of no particular meaning and move on.

Months later, those words fell before me like a plea for limelight in the dims of despair. They wrestled in my pocket throughout a Friday’s work until a smoke break set them public (I no longer smoke). A co-worker laughed with me when my desires revealed a piece of performance art.

His visuals included scantly clad Land O’Lakes women chanting around churns of butter in extremely suggestive, gyrating movements. I threw in my 2 cents and before long, "Butter’s" simple goodness began and a premier performance was scheduled that night.

Happy Hour’s crew slithered into Jackson’s Hole, pitchers arrived, idle chat began and to everyone’s dismay, normality was soon to cease. I needed to start this whole bit of silliness whilst the bar was still devoid of crowd; so I stood, I announced, I began.

A stare fell upon me of confusion, disbelief and utter shock. People became uncomfortable, backed away and were concerned for their overall well being. I played to all with a Dale ‘n Chip-ish enthusiasm while slowly pouring out the following words;

take the butter... and dump the butter... and rub the butter... and dump
then... take the butter... and rub the butter... and rub the butter... and rub

it’s free - moving
with me - soothing
and I’m - grooving
in your - true thing

I asked for hand clapping; got it! Tempo increased, chanting began;

when I – take the butter and dump the butter and rub the butter and dump
then – take the butter and rub the butter and rub the butter and rub
take the butter and dump the butter and rub the butter and dump
and take the butter and rub the butter and rub the butter and rub

Things are a little warm, slow it down and grind some coffee.

it’s you - moving
with me - soothing
and you’re - choosing
for my - grooving

Hey, they’re digging it; they’re all clapping; let’s get it on...

when I – take the butter and dump the butter and rub the butter and dump
then – take the butter and rub the butter and rub the butter and rub
and take the butter and dump the butter and rub the butter and dump
and take the butter and rub the butter and rub the butter and rub
and take the butter and dump the butter and rub the butter and dump
and take the butter and rub the butter and rub the butter and... rub

Well... they just sat; not really knowing what the hell to say, or do. My dancing abilities are not that of a typical white man with an overbite, so I used them in a manner that was befitting of dollar bills and g-strings.

A lady came over and asked; "What was that?"
My friends said "... The Butter."
She replied "... Can you do that over there for our table?"

The "Butter" showed three times a night every Friday for quite some time. Every now and then someone would walk up to me and ask, "Hey – aren’t you that butter guy?"

Consti... Huh?

I’m in serious need of a laxative for the creatively constipated; maybe a line of Cascara Sagrada on the mind mirror of mental-enhancement, a stein of free-thinking Fybogel or even a mental-muffin with some fibery goodness. Any ideas?

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The Gizoogle Translator

a) Copy a URL into the entry field.
b) Gizoogle It.
c) Read the translation...
d) Get ready ta hit tha ground chillin' so i can get mah pimp on.

Arrival: Part V (06.11.87) Installment E

(noise, noise, noise) "Blah, blah..."
(knock, knock, knock) "Blah, blah..."
(knock, knock, knock) "Room Service."

Consciousness pried me away from another dream of being Augustus; female clowns are draped in Egyptian cotton, a million tiny fire-flies light the Basilica, we drown ourselves in the lusty decedent delights of Imperial Pompeii and make miniature Vesuvius’ out of vanilla ice cream with chocolate lava. I think that’s all you need to know about that for now.

I muttered “I’m asleep”, but the door shot open, stopped abruptly with that little latch dealy, then closed as the maid, made way to other rooms. The clock said eleven. I tried to fall back asleep to no avail. I showered, brushed away the need for Dentine and headed out for coffee.

The Beach Pancake and Dinner House allayed my morning cravings as I relaxed with regular refills and a local paper. An elderly gentleman, maybe 85, sat at a nearby table and kept looking over at me. Morning’s costal breeze and marine layer made for a slightly chilly day. I put on a cap that I keep in the trunk for such occasions to keep my head warm.

“Hello?” I questioned. He didn’t say anything, he just kept looking.
“What’s up?” I asked again. Still nothing. The whole staring thing just really gets to me and when you factor in a lack of sleep, not enough coffee and the fatigue of driving, I get a bit perturbed. “What the hell you lookin’ at?”

“Got real drunk - fair amount of years back.”
“O.K.?” I questioned.
“Had sex with a peacock.”
“Uh-huh...” I stuttered.
“Just wondered if you were my son.”

Friends had bought me a Technicolor ski cap as a joke; so I wore it. I’d worn it for so long that I never really thought much about it.

“Always wanted to say that to one of them punk kids with silly hair,” he said, “guess you’ll have to do.”

After my laughter subsided, we shared a table. He wanted to know “What the hell kind of name is Beagan, son?” It was the first of only two times he would actually use my name; other wise I was just, son. I asked for his name and he replied “Just call me ol’ John… that’ll do”.

So - ol’ John and I talked. We covered his life, my life, theories and facts. He had a rickety calm about him that rivaled the senses, yet you didn’t want the conversation to end. “I just come here to feel part of something” he said at one point when I asked him about being at the restaurant. I didn’t think much about his answer; we all need to be part of something to some extent.

The coffee finally worked its way through. “Need to talk to a man about a horse.” I said. “Dog” he said.
“Dog” I asked.
“Talk to a man about a dog” he replied, “the Flying Scud, that’s where it all started... careful now.”

When I came back, ol’ John wasn’t at the table. I asked the waitress if I could pick up his tab.
“Who’s tab?”
“The older gentleman that was sitting with me” I explained. She just looked at me with this quizzical suggestiveness alluding to issues of sanity. Apparently she was blind, or I was a little off my rocker. Here we go again I thought...

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