Friday, June 30, 2006
Well, Meg’s off to the tournament in Vegas, and here I sit, organising the closets of the world.
I did get into a fight on Tuesday, but that’s all water under the bridge now; I’ve become bored with the whole thing.
I have about five new assignments (yay.), and they’re actually not that difficult. Or they wouldn’t be, rather, if I had ever bothered to get a decent printer. Oh, this is a long story. Let it suffice to say that my printer bit the dust a few months ago (it prints, but it looks like shit), and it almost makes more sense to buy a whole new computer outfit, since there are things on my old system that I need to upgrade or fix anyway. Pfft. I don’t want to spend more money right now, but it looks like I may not be able to get out of it. :-\ Grumble.
Which isn’t going to help anything, ‘cos I need to print now, but…whatever.
And wow, do I really want cashew shrimp right now.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Sunday was a bust as far as cat-catching goes. Thankfully, because it was so overcast, it worked out such that I hadn’t drugged her when it started raining like a bitch, and we gave up for the day. Damn it. So, for about an hour, it went like this:
I said, ‘Mehitabel’; she said ‘Wot?’ I said, ‘Mehitabel’; she said ‘Wot?’
I said, ‘Mehitabel’; she said ‘Wot?’ I said, ‘Mehitabel’; she said ‘Now wot you want?’
So I came home and was pretending to work for a little bit (I just love doing that; I am *so* easy to fool!), and then this person asked me if I wanted to do the dinner-and-movie thing, and we negotiated it down to dinner at this tiny place around the corner because I became annoyed that all my suggestions were being overlooked. I should have been hospitable and offered to make dinner, but I just didn’t feel like it, especially after all my suggestions were being ignored. Which is more my fault than anything else, because I was not, in fairness, communicating well, in that I wasn’t offering specific suggestions. I do that sometimes. But it was annoying. But I am letting it go.
On Friday, I had to write one of the nastiest emails I have ever written (and hit ‘reply all’, so that everyone received it) to a work-friend after they sent a link (as a blind-link forwarded email entitled only, ‘CHECK THIS OUT!’ which I was retarded enough to click) to some of the vilest crap I have ever read, and I consider myself to be a pretty liberal audience. This person hasn’t replied yet (though I have gotten other replies, all in agreement, including one person who thanked me for warning them not to read it, except for one person who made a really—in my opinion—misguided attempt to tell me to not censor other people…humph), and I had today off from Job II, so I guess I will hear about my email tomorrow. I’m not as revolted today as I was on Friday (and Saturday, but they were off Saturday), but I still think that I have every right to be offended; I really, honestly deeply resent this person inflicting this on me (and the other people to whom it was also forwarded), and I am still going to tell them this in person. I want it out of my head, and those ten minutes of my life back. Asshole. See? Now I am getting all fired-up again, but honest to fig newtons, after reading that shit I feel like I could drink a gallon of Listerine then jump into a pool of bleach and scrub myself with steel wool and Ajax for a week and still feel disgustingly dirty. Ugh. The moral of this is to be responsible in what you inflict on others; that’s why I would not link to it here. I mean, I am sure that I have gone overboard at times, and I probably will again, and again after that…but if it is ever something that bad, well…it was unintentional. I don’t think I have ever mentally assaulted someone like that. Grr.
I am actually going to get to sleep early tonight and try to forget about this shit. Again.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
I am (again) swamped. Yay. I have both jobs coming at me from different directions wanting something. Fortunately (or not, I guess) it’s all written stuff. Bleah. I am not getting enough sleep, and when I *do* sleep, the dreams (that I remember) are all weird.
Meg came over last night (she left again today) to make me watch the WPT game at the Reno Hilton from when we were there in March; I shouldn’t have taken a break, but I did. So shoot me.
The game was cool enough, but the most awesome part was getting to see one of my favourite dealers, Josh. Josh got to deal the first part and the last part of the final table! Josh was a total trip—funny as hell—most days there he was in rotation behind Larry (who is a major sweetie, also), and he would tap Larry out in the funniest way!
I guess, actually, he would zap Larry out! :-)
The Hilton—because of the weather—was a breeding ground for static electricity. I already wrote about how freaking dry I was throughout my stay, but I may have forgotten to mention my many brushes with electrocution. :-) Well, the first time I met Josh, Larry was dealing to us and Josh walked up behind Larry (where we all could see) and did this exaggerated moonwalking kind of shuffle for a second, and then touched Larry with his index finger to the back of Larry’s neck and made a ‘pop!’ noise.
Larry rolled his eyes and continued with the hand we were in, not even glancing at Josh.
Josh did it again.
We—those of us at the table with a sense of humour—were in hysterics. ‘Don’t encourage him,’ Larry said.
Josh did it again. And again. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle…pop!
‘Man, would you quit?!?’ Larry said.
Josh smiled at us. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’m here!’
‘I know you’re here; I saw you walk up!’
‘Well… I just wanted to make sure that you knew.’
Too funny! And this went on all week, to the point where Larry probably lost the will to live. :-) I hope Josh (as well as the rest of the dealers) took a huge tip—he deserves it for being so entertaining. And he’s a good player, too. :-) I played at a table with him once, and watched him as I waited for a table a bunch of other times—he really is pretty good, way-better than the one dealer who did make the final table, Mr I’m Going To Go All In On Ace-Five Unsuited Cos I’m Steaming (wasn’t it As 5c?) And Whine When I Lose. Don’t you give my Josh any shit, boy; he didn’t make you play that way, he just handed you the cards.
And with that in mind, let’s revisit the Fundamental Theorem of Poker. No, not Sklansky’s, *mine*:
Let f be a continuous real-valued skilled poker player defined on a full poker table [chips, chair]. Let F be the function defined for x in [chips, chair] by
where x = Travel Channel Player Interference of Game
for every x in [chips, chair].
Let f be a continuous real-valued skilled poker player defined on a full poker table [chips, chair]. Let F be a function such that
for all x in [chips, chair]
Which clearly demonstrates that the imbecile will suck out his flush on the river. QED.
Glad to have helped.
For my next feat, I will make use of the Riemann Integral to demonstrate that for every straight one makes on the flop, a Travel Channel Player will suck out quads. Oh, yes. They will.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Father’s Day went just fine; I didn’t sleep much the night before, and had loads of time to myself on the drive over, the visit (again) didn’t suck, and I even got a little bit done for a meeting I was supposed to have today when I came home. It ended up being unnecessary; I got a call just after I had finished getting dressed (in fairness, I was starting way-early to have enough time to grab coffee and be leisurely about it) to tell me that They had decided to just go with me as a team member based on something I did last quarter, so that was cool. So I am on the team of a large-ish project and have job security for another few months. Well, isn’t that special?
But seriously, that’s kind-of cool; I was happy.
Right now, I am updating my JavaStuffs, which are set to automatically update, but haven’t for some reason. Stupid computers; I wish hitting them had some result. Aside from satisfaction, I mean.
Romeo seems to be doing fine on the Theo-Dur, and I have discovered Pill Pockets, which means that I don’t have to get his meds compounded at the human pharmacy that does that anymore (at fifteen dollars for compounding—on top of the price of the medication itself—plus the time to drive over to the pharmacy and advance planning and so on, this is a *very* welcome discovery); Rome really likes the salmon flavour, and I really love the fact that dosing him is no longer a MAJOR fight. Even after compounding, I still had a capsule to get down his throat every night, and that was so difficult that I dreaded it, as I am certain he did. :-) Our relationship is now significantly better.
Squooshable, a/k/a Tippy-Toe Dancer (when I feed him, he purrs, arches his back, and dances around in circles, and it looks like he’s doing it on his tippy-toes), my personal Nibblonian, has been really subdued yesterday and today; I don’t think anything is wrong with him—he’s still drinking, eating, pooping, and purring—but he hasn’t been feeling very playful. I haven’t been ARGHed on once. Maybe he’s growing up? :-\ I did give him some tuna-flavoured Laxastat after he got into a drawer (he is *so* smart! He can open drawers!), just in case he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have (in that drawer, paper mainly), but that was on (I think) Saturday, so I don’t think it’s that. I guess we’ll see. Because I am paranoid, I will ask Meg (she’s back, and leaving again on Thursday) to check in on him tomorrow, ‘cos I have to be gone all fricking day on Tuesdays for this new project. Augh.
On Sunday I left early, and put food out for Mehitabel on my way out of town; about halfway through visiting my father, I received a phone call about Mehitabel’s appointment on Monday for a spay. I told the lady that I’d not been able to catch her yet, and really couldn’t talk right now, so just please to cancel the appointment. I’ve heard nothing from this newsletter blurb this group said they’d do, and I already have a tentative meeting this Sunday with Chrissy and her SO to try to get Mehitabel with drugs (her SO fishes all the time, and can throw a casting net like a champ, Chrissy said; I bought a casting net just for this purpose, and told Chrissy that I’d give it to him if he can land Mehitabel), not that I explained any of this to the lady who phoned on Sunday. I didn’t explain it because (1) I don’t feel that I am obligated to—they were the ones who insisted that to get ANY help from them, I had to be ‘in the program’, and I told them when I set the appointment that, without help, I did not expect that I could keep it, and (2) Since I was at my father’s, I didn’t want to get into the whole discussion with him, so she should have anticipated that, it being a Sunday as well as Father’s Day. And I know that I sound bitchy, but…whatever. Her response to my telling her that I hadn’t caught Mehitabel and to cancel the appointment was to ask if I had ‘just given up, or something’, so I had to step outside to clarify that no, I hadn’t given up, and explain (again—this was also discussed our first two conversations) that Mehitabel will no longer come near me, won’t even walk over to the food I put down if she sees me, and refuses to walk into a trap. And so forth. We ended up in this huge twenty-minute conversation where she kept trying to explain things like how the cat won’t just ‘walk into’ a trap, that I have to put food in there (really?), that if I am still putting food out and putting traps out that the cat won’t go in (really?), and that trying to catch the cat by hand is not likely to work (yeah, I have noticed that), and that she doesn’t like the idea of my drugging the cat (then *you* come out and catch her; *I* have run out of ideas). I had to make the conversation short, so I just left the appointment cancelled and pretended like I was taking notes on the finer points of cat-catching (e.g., don’t keep feeding them if you are putting traps out). I think that probably this group provides a great service for people who have already caught the cats, and if I had talked to her a year ago, some of this might have been helpful. Just not now.
And by being ‘in the program’, I am only getting a free spay—but only on a certain day, and I may have to wait for up to a month for another opening. I can pay for the spay myself; Dr Superhero will only charge me $50 or $60, and by taking a free space, I am taking away a space from someone who might need it. Plus, what am I supposed to do—stash Mehitabel in a cage in my garage for a month? Dr Superhero is open twenty-four hours a day; I can take her over the moment I catch her like I have with all the other cats. Plus with Dr Superhero I can add on a rabies shot, antibiotic shot, and other vaccines (like for distemper and stuff), which I will do for Mehitabel. Through this group, I cannot add on shots—I would have to take her to Dr Superhero for that anyway. Plus, if Dr Superhero has few boarders, he will keep Mehitabel for a week to let her recuperate, and I would get the same rate as Chrissy (the ‘rescue rate’, and for Nice Cat they didn’t even charge me any boarding back at Christmas) that I think is $5 or $10 a day; if she’s wild (as in vicious), they’ll feed and water her at least once a day which I know is not ideal, but it’s better than being out-of-doors, and it’s probably about as good as I could personally manage (though I don’t know where I would house her; it would have to be somewhere away from my cats, which pretty much leaves the garage—and that would just be mean).
I guess maybe she was bored or something, and that’s why we had such a long conversation, but it was still kind of annoying. I know to not feed them if a trap is out, and I know the cat won’t ‘just walk in’, and I know to put stinky tuna and halibut and stuff in the trap, not just dry cat food; I know all these things. But I am descended from a grandmother who as a teenager chased a priest out of her kitchen with a knife and quit the church because after her mother died, the priest came over almost every day and would sit and drink cup after cup of tea (that she made) and correct everything she did for her father and siblings—cooking, cleaning, and so forth. As the story goes, my grandmother was one day cutting a chicken, he started correcting her again, and at that point she had just taken all that she was going to take. :-) I am really familiar with that feeling; Grandmother and I share a dislike for senseless criticism and Monday Morning Quarterbacking.
Well, we would share it if she were still alive.
I am getting to sleep early(-ish) so that I can go do productive things tomorrow. Yeah, right.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Ok, so I spent the whole day feeling guilty over all the bad things I thought about my mother on Friday. :-\ Such is my life—but she *really* did try to be her worst. Really. I phoned her today and apologised, and she insisted that I admit that I misremember things. Fine. So I did. I don’t even care anymore. Whatever. And I have to drive out to see my father again tomorrow, ‘cos Meg asked me to. I don’t really mind; it will give me the chance to drop off some books to him. Meg asked me to solely as a distraction—she is going to phone him to wish him a happy Father’s Day, but she doesn’t want him to know where she is, so she’s going to lie and tell him she has things to do, or doesn’t feel well, or something, and I am supposed to back her up on this, because he would *really* disapprove of what Meg is doing, and don’t you just know that, out of all of us, she’s the Golden Girl, and so she can’t tarnish the ol’ image there.
So then now *here’s* the deal: Now I feel badly about going out to see my father—last weekend and tomorrow—because it will upset my mother further, and because I potentially have to lie for Meg, and I also feel badly because I also know that of all his children, he probably wants me out there the least. So yay. And don’t get the wrong idea—Father’s Day means little to him; he didn’t even want to *be* a father. At least that’s the read I get—about the not caring, I mean; I know for a fact that he didn’t want to be a father. And I always get stuck in the middle of everything; I haven’t done anything for him for Father’s Day since I was a child, and there’s a reason for that. I don’t know; maybe he does care now that he’s older. Who in the hell knows with him?
It seems that everything I do anymore just becomes *so* freaking involved anymore. I guess that I should just shut up and be grateful that they are still around to pester me. :-\ It’s only natural that my father is impossible to know or please, and my mother lives to hate him. And so it goes.
I’m becoming grumpy and bitter again. Somebody kick me.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
…to never go out to lunch again with my mother. What a disaster. She got bored today and phoned me to meet her for lunch; as we were talking, it came up that I had gone on Sunday to visit my father, at which point she decided she would make me regret having done so by dredging up all kinds of things that I do my best every day to just forget about, and to make things worse, she misremembers an *amazing* amount so that it favours her. And I tried to correct her, and I asked her to drop it, and I even tried just ignoring her, but she JUST WOULD NOT QUIT, to the point where I was getting a migraine, becoming pathologically depressed, and was about to cry. Finally, when she was in the middle of completely misrepresenting her role in a particular Really Unpleasant Event (that I don’t even want to discuss in the first place!!), I had all that I could take and said, ‘Fine. FINE! You’re my motherfucking HERO, ok? Might we drop it now?’
Then she became angry because I was in public with her and wasn’t speaking like a lady.
Whatever, Bitch; last I checked, ladies *also* didn’t go out of their way to make others feel sad and uncomfortable, even more than they refrained from talking like a sailor, particularly at a meal; as a matter of fact, I believe I’ve learnt—from you!—that ladies are supposed to do everything within their power to make others feel all welcome and everything. So fuck you.
Needless to say, I was really upset by the time I left, so I went shopping.
Well, we were near our city’s largest mall; what am I supposed to do? It helps me feel less miserable. I bought something for myself that I shouldn’t have as an ‘I’m sorry your life sucks so fucking bad’ present. But I did get a good deal on it. :-)
Then I came home and got at least some work done despite having a raging headache and wound up in an IM conversation with Nurse Betty after reading a really cute ‘I love you, you’re my best friend’ email she’d sent (she always sends forwards like that to me), and so by then I was just completely *sobbing*. Someone (family exempted) might be able to push me to cry by being mean to me, but probably not. You can hit me, kick me, name-call me, and if I don’t do something back, I will just take it; but if you want to make me cry, be nice to me. I hate that; I hate it when people are nice to me like that and make me start crying. I even asked Betty to please pick a fight with me, or something, ‘cos all this crying was making my headache worse.
Nurse Betty works with people who die all the time, every day. In fact, if you have Betty as your nurse, odds are you’re going to kick it soon. For this reason, she’s not going to ever pick a fight with a living human being she loves; she’s just not that type of person. Betty doesn’t even fight with her husband; to her, it’s not worth it.
On the other hand, her husband is an unbelievably awesome man; there’s no need to yell at him. Well, except when he leaves the toilet seat up and she gets her butt wet in the middle of the night. :-)
But my point is that Betty—unlike some mothers I could mention—understands that not everyone who is here today is guaranteed to be here tomorrow, and so verbally abusing them for the sake of making yourself feel better (or whatever) is out of the question. So much for that request.
But at least I am not *completely* unlovable. As some would have me think.
So nyaah, Psychobitch.
Friday, June 16, 2006
I have just one word: Ebolamonkeyman. But it’s too funny….
Barrister williams whiteOkoye & Okoye Chambers23 kofo Abayomi AvenueApapa, Lagos - Nigeria.
Dear Ancodia,I hope this e-mail wouldn't come to you as a surprise. Having gone through your profile, I am convinced and pleased to solicit your sincere and urgent assistance over this matter. I am Barrister Williams White, an Attorney to one late Mr. Smith J. Ancodia a local contractor with the Lagos State Government of Nigeria.
My client Late was awarded a contract worth of Twenty-Five Million United States Dollars (25,000,000:00USD) by the Lagos state Government of Nigeria for the maintenance and construction of roads in the states in 1999 and the contract was fully executed by my late client. My client has been paid Fifteen Million United States Dollars from the contract and he was to receive the balance payment of the contract, but unfortunately he died with his entire family in the plane crash of Union Transport Africaines Flight Boeing 727 in Cotonou, Benin Republic on the December 26,2003. You will read more stories about the crash on visiting this website:
as he told me before he departed to Cotonou that he is going to spend the Christmas holiday with one of his closet Lebanese with his entire family and from there he will proceed home.
Sequel to the death of late client, there is every need to present a next of kin to Lagos State Government so that they can release the balance of his contract money. Already the CONTRACT PAYMENT OFFICE under the Lagos State Government has contacted me that the balance payment for the executed contract, which has been approved for payment, is ready for collection. I am therefore asked to present the beneficiary/next of kin for the claim of the money (draft) from their office.
At this juncture, I have decided to divert this Ten Million United States Dollars to a foreigner who will be presented to LSG, by soliciting the assistance of a reliable individual (A Foreigner) that will be presented as the beneficiary/next of kin of the fund. I will prepare all legal documents in your name as the successor /next of kin from our Federal High Court to back up the claim on your behalf which will enable Lagos State Government to release the money to me on your behalf as the known next of kin to my late client.
As soon as I hear your positive response; action will commence. Please bear in mind that there is no risk involved in this transaction, but it requires absolute sincerity and confidentiality due to the nature of the transaction.
I am willing to give you 40% of the fund as a reward for your assistance in this transaction and I have set aside 5% of the money to take care of any expenses that will be involved locally or internationally during the process of executing the business. I will want you to respond to my email via below email address if you find it difficult geting this one,with your private phone numbers, fax number cell phone #, your home/Company'sAddress I look forward to your swift response.Regards,Barrister Williams White.
Alternative E-mail ID: email@example.com OR firstname.lastname@example.org
Note: Having or bearing the same name with my client make no difference but for someone to come from his country that answer same name either first or surname matters not. Howevedr, it will make this claim very easy as I am going to present and submit your name as the next of kin and with me the Attorney to the late man you have nothing to fear as I will be contacted by the Contract Payment Committee for confirmation which I will confirm you as the next of kin and the money will be paid to you. Mind you, I work at Okoye & Okoye Chambers.
My Dearest Darling Snookums DJ Dub-Dub,
How nice it has been to hear from you again! My goodness—I seem to have quite a few relatives that die over there, don’t I? One might begin to wonder if I could possibly be knocking them all off with a profit motive, no?
With that in mind, I would like to state unequivocally that I had no direct hand in the Benin crash, nor did I employ any agent to hasten the...shall we say premature landing of that 727, and I resent the implication that such might be the case. Repeating rumours of that nature has proven to be a mis-step on the part of many a well-meaning barrister. And forty percent? Sir, I am offended; that is a purchase of silence which borders on usury—yet another mis-play on your part.
That having been said, as Mr Ancodia was such a close friend of yours and you have knowledge of the events leading up to his demise, I regret to inform you that, clearly, you are now in a unique, untenable, and unenviable position. Essentially, fear not; my people shall contact your people. Physically.
To make my job at this point easier, please respond to my enquiry with your home address and the name(s) and location(s) of all relatives who may also have knowledge of this situation, including children under the age of eighteen; they, after all, are the worst talkers.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Okay, I look at it this way; I can either sit around and mope about not being picked to be Batwoman, or I can just go ahead and be Batwoman. So I am going to go ahead and be Batwoman. And Sporkgirl, if I want.
I can so too have three identities.
Meg took off for the weekend (again) today; this time she has gone to Tunica. I like Tunica; I’m jealous. I phoned in sick to Eviljob to take her to the airport and kick around and do some things for myself. Well, I haven’t played sick in months, plus I had nothing to do there today, anyway. I did go feed Mehitabel, but I made sure to look all sickly and stuff, in case anyone was looking. :-)
I stuck below something that *really* made me laugh; it’s probably old, but…it’s *funny*!
Time to think about sleep. Maybe. I’ll get around to that other post eventually. Later. But I did go to see my father. See how neurotic I am? See?
CITY OF NEW YORK - REVISED HIGH SCHOOL MATH PROFICIENCY EXAM
1. Jose has 2 ounces of cocaine. If he sells an 8 ball to Antonio for $320 and 2 grams to Juan for $85 per gram, what is the street value of the rest of his hold?
2. Rufus pimps 3 hos. If the price is $85 per trick, how many tricks per day must each ho turn to support Rufus' $800 per day crack habit?
3. Jerome wants to cut the pound of cocaine he bought for $40,000 to make 20% profit. How many ounces will he need?
4. Willie gets $200 for a stolen BMW, $150 for stealing a Corvette, and $100 for a 4x4. If he steals 1 BMW, 2 Corvettes, and 3 4x4's, how many more Corvettes must he steal to have $900?
5. Raoul got 6 years for murder, He also got $10,000 for the hit. If his common-law wife spends $100 per month, how much money will be left when he gets out?
**Extra credit question: How much more time will he get for killing the ho that spent his money?
6. If an average can of spray paint covers 22 square feet and the average letter is 3 square feet, how many letters can be sprayed with 3 eight ounce cans of spray paint?
7. Hector knocked up 3 girls in the gang. There are 27 girls in his gang. What is the exact percentage of girls Hector knocked up?
8. Dwayne is a lookout for the gang. Dwayne has a boa constrictor that eats 3 small rats per week at a cost of $5 per rat. If Dwayne makes $700 a week as a lookout, how many weeks can he feed the boa with one week’s salary?
9. Billy steals Joe's skateboard. As Billy skates away at 35mph, Joe loads his 357 Magnum. If it takes Joe 20 seconds to load his Magnum, how far away will Billy be when he gets whacked?
REMEMBER: SAY NO TO DRUGS, GOOD LUCK, AND NO TALKING
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Okay, so I have been edumacated. I didn’t, until today, know that Batgirl and Batwoman were two different people. I dinna know all dis, but I work with someone who do, so now I-a know all dis. :-D
I didn’t mean to link to something anti-gay before, or at least conservative (most conservatives are anti-gay, I have found), but I am not big on censoring or re-writing things, so I’ll leave it. One of the posts at the bottom I wanted to reply to, though, not that I know how to properly quote here:
“This depiction of Batwoman actually looks like a fantasized version of a young, muscular male wearing lipstick and big hair. It's truly a polymorphous transgender creature.”
…you say that as if muscular males wearing lipstick and big hair were a bad thing!
Ok, so I won’t pick fights with the conservatives; I would *much* rather battle Evildoers! Hmmm…wait…there’s some irony afoot here…
What was I saying? Oh—yeah!
But I would like to point out TWO MORE reasons why *I* would have made a better Batwoman: (1) I am exactly the right height (see pic on conservative website); (2) I could so totally have that hair with very little effort. Well, provided I had a Bat-Assistant to help with the grooming—but my *point* is that I could get that hair with very little effort on the Bat-Assistant’s part, and that’s a good thing. Oh—and—I am all about footwear that offers traction whilst battling Evildoers! That’s THREE things! Oh! And I can *totally* do that look with lipstick and lip liner! That’s FOUR things!!
Clearly, I have been snubbed. Clearly. You comic book people are bastards. I’m about to go all Sean Young on your asses.
I found a *much* more friendly and acceptable site detailing the whole Batwoman thing here. Except for the comments, that is. Most of the comments are good, but there are some that are just showcasing the ignorance of the writer. Not all lesbians have short hair and drive Mack trucks! Geez; it’s a mode of self-expression, not an organised club with a uniform! Dingbat. What do you think they do—check with each other to see what the other is wearing? “Gladys, I’m going with the t-shirt, khaki shorts, and bum bag today; how about you?” Don’t make me kick your ass with my traction heels!
Yeah, I’m asking for an extension. :-D
In Superhero news, this is pretty cool: The New Batgirl
I completely could have done the 'buxom lipstick lesbian' thing; that is *so* me. Well, lookit: I am somewhat buxom, I like makeup, I want to fight crime, and I am willing to do girls. There. See?
Now, I would like it noted that no one offered me the position. Hmmm.
Conspiracy? I think so.
So on Sunday I showed up mega-early at Eviljob to see if I could spot Mehitabel (she has a schedule, and it’s largely an early-morning one) and maybe drug her and catch her myself before they started up with all the activity over there, and I could see the little cat nowhere. I set out food and called and waited…and then waited some more…and then waited some more. After about forty-five minutes of listening to Public Radio, I still had no sign of Mehitabel and the first few people were starting to show up, so I decided to give it up for the day. Then I sat there for another twenty minutes trying to decide what to do now.
I needed to go back home and get to work; I have crap to be typing. But I just really didn’t feel like it. I hadn’t slept really Saturday night, and I was feeling out-of-sorts still, just…sad. Or something. So I went back home, made sure everyone had food, water, and Theo-Dur, and left. There’s something completely de-stressing about getting on the highway in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee and no real idea where you are going. I used to do wonderful spontaneous things like that all the time, before…well, before reality set in and I started being all responsible and stuff.
Back then was way more fun, in case there were ever to be a quiz on this stuff.
Then I decided to go visit my father; I was driving that way, anyway. Who knows; maybe I decided that way before, and was just now catching up. :-) Only, my father likes to schedule appointments for visiting—he hates surprises.
I was a surprise birth, also. How…ironical-like. :-)
He’s a bit away from me so I had a little time to think something up, but I hadn’t managed to come up with anything really brilliant by the time I got to his house, so I phoned from the street and went with my best Mr Shean (“Oh, Mister Gallagher!”), hoping he was in the mood for a joke, which it turned out he was. I was over-tired and don’t remember what my patter was, but it was damned cute. :-) Or at least I thought so. He must have thought it had some merit also, ‘cos he let me in. :-)
Well, he wouldn’t have left me out there, but he might have been grumbly. –er.
We visited for a few hours, and he was his same old self. I let him pick what he wanted to talk about (I had a choice?), so we talked (or, rather, I listened) about Gallagher and Shean, how my grandmother adored them and could dance the Charleston and the Black Bottom like nobody else, old comedy in general, World War II, the oil fields in Romania, the prowess of the Russian military, the Battle of Stalingrad, people who cannot understand time zones (specifically, one schmuck several years ago who told my father he had an incorrect memory for Pearl Harbour because my father related that he was sitting down to lunch when it was announced on the radio, while—as my father’s critic pointed out—the bombing actually occurred at seven (I think?) a.m. Yes, my father replied, however it was a peculiar custom at his school in New York City to take lunch at seven a.m. HST), Roosevelt, how America began to go downhill in the ‘50s (precisely how he would know that, seeing as how he didn’t live in America during the 1950’s is beyond me; he was in London, and he almost didn’t move back. I think that he came back and was more surprised than he would have been if he’d stayed because it differed from his idealised expectations—I mean, *everywhere* changes over time, and I think he thought it would be exactly the same—and I have also always thought that his holding of an opinion on it is like my worrying after the moral decrepitude in Mumbai. Is it obvious that this is one of his favourite kvetches?), and how now we might as well just give up because the decay in morality, language, education, and thought is unrecoverable. And the comedy is horrible; it’s not even funny. Except for Little Shop of Horrors; that was an extremely funny movie.
Yes, the one with Rick Moranis. My father is a strange guy. :-)
Sigh. And I drove all this way for this cheer.
So then we started talking about religion (he has settled down and become an Omarian, a religion he invented himself, and one which has only one member: Him. Don’t think that he’s lonely; he isn’t. He likes it that way. He has, in fact, refused to admit my step-mother), and how coffee doesn’t taste good anymore, and the people who call in to Georgeanory…errr…George Noory are psychotic crackpots (yes, both my father and I listen to George for comic relief; my mother listens because she believes…well, somewhat). And after my mentioning it, he wants me to lend him my copy of Holy Blood, Holy Grail, only I read it over ten years ago, and have no damn idea what I did with it. So I said sure, and will go buy one from a used book store for him (I would purchase a new copy for him, but he wouldn’t accept it if I did, because they charge too damned much for books these days, and the libraries are under-used. Per him.
And yes, the Georgeanory joke is mine own.
So I had fun. Sort-of. And it is amazing how similar he and my mother really were, I guess. Well, they had some thoughts and traits in common. If it were to occur to her to do so, my mother would invent a religion and not allow anyone else to join. :-) But that’s ‘cos she’s insane; my father does it ‘cos he’s funny. Sometimes. In a very weird and acquired-taste sort of way, my father is a very funny guy.
So I was going to post this before, but then I got really tired and decided to post it today. Since then, I talked to scads of idiots at work, and then decided to take Romeo to get a cortisone shot because he was hacking a lot the past three days, and Dr Vet said that with his kidney function at around 2.6 – 2.8, it is more important that Romeo be comfortable (e.g., being able to breathe), and so I got him all doped-up (which seems to last almost two months for him right now), and then finished working and went to trivia.
Oh—and tried to help get another homeless dog placed somewhere (but failed because he is not cat-friendly), and was invited to a meeting of local animal rescue people by Chrissy. I feel so…appreciated, involved, and included and stuff! :-) The one tonight was, well, tonight, so I couldn’t. But I will make the next one, I think. I need to phone for clear directions to the place, though. But Chrissy did also offer up her Significant Other ‘cos he knows how to throw a casting net. Yay.
And at trivia tonight, one of our trivia people asked me (when I took a call about another cat that is a long-ish story) how the hunt for the Momcat was going (Mehitabel), and I told him that it was going like shit, and he said—with a really odd (I thought) look on his face—and said that it was a shame that I wasn’t Spiderman because if I were, I could shoot a net over the Momcat.
Well, don’t you know that I just shit?
Since I sometimes lack subtlety, I asked him where in the hell that had come from, and after he avoided my question twice, he finally ‘fessed that he’d watched Sky High (is that the name of it?) with his kids, and one of the girls threw a net like Spiderman over her gym teacher.
Ummm…ok; I’ll buy that.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Well, aren’t I all hormonally whacked-out?
Argh. And crampy; I was PMS-ing all Friday—that’s what my problem was.
Cue the pretty music for problem-ridden Ancodias …
Today was just average. I was going to try in the morning to catch Mehitabel by myself with drugs, but I may not be able to if there’s more crap in back. At least I was able to feed her tonight; a lot of times I have to put food out where she usually goes and just hope. :-\
I am going to go play trivia now.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Friday, June 09, 2006
Well, I had a Damn, I Am *Such* A Little Whore day—how about you? :-D
The dashing young man below would be Thor, one of the resident felines at a book store I frequent. Thor is quite an attentive salesperson, following you throughout the store as you shop, making recommendations throughout your visit. :-) As can be seen, Thor will even help bag your books for you. Thor reminds me of Squooshable! Though, as Meg pointed out, Thor is considerably less thick, has a completely different face, different fur and eye colour, totally different personality, and a tail.
To which I replied, ‘shut up.’
I took today off. From everything. I was awakened unpleasantly; in my dream I had received a phone call from a hospital in my old home town, and they put my father on the line; he told me that he loved me and he was dead, and I woke up just as I was trying to tell him to wait, wait and not die just yet, to talk to me some more (so that I could maybe convince him to change his mind). This is of course completely logical, because my father has total control over Life and Death—his own as well as everyone else’s.
Well, if you grew up in my household, you’d understand; encouraging that kind of idolatry is a forte of his line. Our family coat of arms depicts minions prostrate before a cardboard box, upon which stands a man with a *really* big head; behind him, out of sight of the minions, a woman on a step stool holds a candle with tinfoil backing to create a halo, and she looks vaguely bored with it all. Beneath this reads: Ignarus Velum Quod Vir Secundum (ignore the man behind the curtain).
No, *really*. :-) And don’t pick on my Latin; I didn’t get sent off to study it for six years like the more important children in my family who shall remain nameless. I’m unimportant like that and therefore have to wing it as best I can manage. …and translate what I *meant*. :-) I probably just ordered three Egg McMuffins up there.
But seriously—I have dreams like that sometimes, where my father has died or is dying, and I’m glad that I don’t believe that dreams have any meaning. In the one I had before this one, we were all at some hotel somewhere, like at a conference, and he came down with his second wife and announced in a really offhand way that he had coded twice overnight and would probably not last through the day, so therefore he wanted to get some business out of the way—such as dividing up the estate and giving us his last pearls of wisdom (which would probably involve a REALLY long reading from The Rubaiyat), and so on. And I was again trying to find a way to break in and talk him into changing his mind (one has to really plot with him; just interrupting or approaching him incorrectly on a topic would at the very least result in him doing what you didn’t want done just to spite you), and all the while my Stepmonster was just calmly accepting everything and supporting him by being all quiet and serene, and handing out papers as he asked, and she was really pissing me the fuck off. I wanted to scream at her and hit her, but that would have ruined my trying to find the foothold of a tiny moment with him (in the guise of asking a relevant question, and to be relevant I had to hang on his every word) to try to change his mind about all this.
See? *This* is why I am happy to not remember my dreams much of the time.
So I got up and went to the dentist and that was *really* fun (no, I am not kidding), ‘cos the new partner in my dental group is one truly fucking HOT son-of-a-bitch. I’m not big on physicalities generally, but if I *do* have a ‘type’, well…I spent twenty or so minutes with that type’s fingers in my mouth. Not my personal first pick of appendages, but I’m clearly desperate, so… Oh, joy. Well, fingers and Latex. Woo-fricking-hoo. Next time I’ll bring test results and ask him to skip the Latex. ;-)
Next up on The Ancodia Show: Viewer poll—Ancodia needs to start dating seriously again, doesn’t she? Yes, or Yes?
So then I raced back home to feed the horde and then meet Meg for lunch; we yakked all the way through lunch, and then I went with Meg to her hair appointment, trying to sneak in a trim with The Goddess all stealth-like and then be self-indulgent and get a pedicure and a facial, but The Goddess is about to go into the hospital and couldn’t sneak me in ‘cos she was double-booked, but at least I did get to find out that TG was going into the hospital in the first place and give her a good luck hug and all. She’s going in for an ovarian cyst, and those hurt; I know the pain from mine had me literally in tears some times; mine was almost the size of a fist and about to twist my ovary around (which I am told will drop you to your knees in milliseconds), and TG’s is pretty big, too. So this is a good surgery. And none of the other normal people were there, so I decided to save myself some money and get my facial and feet at the nearby tiny quickee nailee place; I’d not ever tried their facials, but they are less than half the price of TG’s salon (as are the pedicures), and I’m trying to not do any psycho splurging. So I made superty-secret silent sister signals to Meg (so as not to offend anyone at the salon) and we left after she was done.
We had a little time, so we went over to this cool bookstore; I used to LOVE to just hide away from the world in there, but that was a few years ago. They have cats in there (all black and *so* friendly, or at least stoically accepting of the inevitable—that patrons are going to want to pick them up and carry them around). I picked up a few new mysteries, and Meg goes and tries to make me feel all low-brow by picking up some classics to read whilst playing poker. Pfft. My mind works all the time, and I am well-read enough for several lifetimes; I need to carry pabulum in my purse to stay sane, Miss High-and-Mighty.
So I took some pictures of Thor, my especially helpful sales clerk and all-around Quite Handsome Gentleman, and we hit the tiny quickee nailee place. Pedicure: same as ever. Facial: Oh…My…God—Best Facial EVER in its class; it was a relaxing facial, heavy on the massage, and she even did a hair/scalp massage. Damn.
I have always had long hair, sometimes longer than others, and when the trend went around in school to play with each other’s hair, I was a snob (allegedly) because I wouldn’t participate. Well, let me let you in on a secret: play with, pull, or brush my hair, and/or massage my scalp, and I am your bitch. No, rilly; I’ll follow you around for days, finger-in-the-belt-loop. I pretend to dislike it, but I am LYING, which I sometimes do as a pathetic defence mechanism out of a sense of self-preservation, because I am, well…pathetic. :-) Well, at least I am honest here—that should count for something. So this was *awesomeness*, though if I had known in advance, I would have avoided it because stuff like that makes me extremely uncomfortable. It wasn’t a great exfoliation facial, but it was definitely the best relaxation facial I have ever had. I can always exfoliate my damn self; the Exfoliation Gnomes dumped off half Origins’ stock in my bathroom about a year ago, and I still have tons left.
No, really—they did just drop it all off one night as I was sleeping. I don’t know why; I just woke up and it was all there.
Well, that’s what I told Meg. I think she believed me.
Unfortunately, the facial gave me enough time to think (well, I had to think about something so that I didn’t propose marriage to my facial lady), and so I figured out the mystery novel I am reading. See? I am thinking about quasi-productive things. Well, ok, maybe not tonight, but sometimes I do. I’ve never gotten around to seeing Strangers on a Train (on my To Do List), but I *have* seen Throw Momma from the Train. See? I’m all-the-way low-brow. :-D But it works out all the same. But I am going to read through the rest of it anyway, even though I would bet my new favourite facial girl on how right I am. Yo—crisscross! :-)
And then I’m here, ‘cos I was too relaxed-out to forage for nuts and berries. I’m just going to sit here, play online poker, and starve until someone brings something good.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
And they cut back (a lot!) a tree in back that I had been afraid to cut back, but it looks great, and I think now that everyone’s right; it’s too close to the cement, and I would be better off getting rid of it. They’re going to hate me next week (‘cos I already told them no), but I think it’s a goner tree; I am thinking of new and creative things that I could be doing with that whole area. It was depressing to have to bid good-bye to Marshall, Will, and Holly, as well as Van Pelt, Cap’n Halfnut, the ROUSs, Father Excess, and the billions of bugs, spiders, tse tse flies, and whatnot. It was terribly simple to say good-bye to the god damned dinosaurs; they were noisy as hell.
I have my summer project all set up, and thank god it’s not much. For once. I can spend some time focussing on *other* things I have to accomplish, like my career. Oh, yay. In reality, I am dreading this; getting Mehitabel will be easier. It’s not that I am at this huge handicap—it’s all the fucking paperwork. I hate paperwork. Well, pointless paperwork. Plus I’m scared. :-) Well, at least I’m honest; I should get points for honesty. And, in my mind, in-between the paperwork, the personal spiffing-up, and the mental spiffing-up, there is an awful lot of work ahead. Sigh.
And I'm bidding on something that I simply HAVE to win. HAVE to. So I have my fingers crossed. If I win it, I will use it for Good, not Evil. I promise, Mr Auction God. :-)
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
There are benefits to being an atheist. Or an agnostic, whatever.
One of the *really* big benefits is that I don’t have to stand around in the break room and pretend that I think it to be the LEAST bit normal that a woman would postpone her labour so that her child wasn’t born on 6/6/06.
That ranks in the Top Ten Stupidest Things I Have Ever Heard. What feeble-minded imbecile would do that? It makes me wonder if they look under bridges for gnomes, and chase rainbows for pots of gold as well.
Did I misunderstand, or wasn’t Natural Selection supposed to weed these people out? Ummm…I’m *waiting*. Tick-tock…
Speaking of Evil, I have added a picture of Damien Thorne below in the photo montage thingy. He’s a cute little guy, and he cannot help it that his mother’s a twit and his father’s scum. He’s cute. :-) I may un-name him Damien Thorne.
If I get moody tonight, the song is Klaus Nomi’s The Cold Song. :-D I’ve got a bad Klaus impression, and I’m not afraid to use it—stand the fuck back.
…remember the movie Jumanji?
I’m gonna have to duck out tonight and hope Van Pelt isn’t around.
Oh—and buy more Raid Monkey Hotels on the way home.
Well, I did have a not-too-bad weekend. On Saturday I left Eviljob early, and I saw Mehitabel sunning herself in the grass, so I fed her where she was and I also put down a HUGE pile at the feeding station since I was not going to be able to make it out there on Sunday. Mehitabel almost sort-of let me come close to her (about three feet, though of course I didn’t have my net in hand), so I am hoping that maybe with a few weeks off from feeling as if she’s being pursued, she’ll maybe change her mind back about me. I guess we’ll see. It has been raining here pretty continuously and I have crap to get completed this week, but weather permitting on Sunday, I will try (again) to grab her if I can get help. Grr.
Yesterday I went with Meg to a quasi-local casino and we played there until late. It took a while for me to get in The Zone, as it were, so I went way down and managed to end up just slightly ahead before it was time to leave. Oh, well. Meg asked me to come to lunch with her and her friend (and ex-roommate) who is an attorney today which was nice and cool and everything; the only drawback is her friend has the weirdest stare ever. Or I shouldn’t say stare when I really mean gaze, but whatever—it’s unnerving, in a creepy little ‘I am analysing EVERYTHING you say’ kind of way. I’ll be in the middle of trying to relate a story and forget what my point was, so just to piss him off, I’ll start talking about something else with no segue whatsoever.
Well, it’s funny to me.
On Thursday, Meg is going to go get a massage at this place she goes to; I am not sure if the place exactly counts as a day spa or not since they do mostly massage stuff there, but she gave me a gift certificate to the place for Christmas, and I have been begging off on using it for, at this point, six months. Augh. I am going to have to start coming up with better excuses; this time I claimed that I have to work, which is true, but…it’s getting boring. Next time I think that I will claim to have jungle rot. But I did say that I would go with her when she gets her highlights done on Friday for a pedicure and facial. Woo-hoo.
Kal-El, despite his promises, did completely and resoundingly fail to show up over the weekend; this does not bode well for his ass, despite how well he is doing on my neighbours’ place. And no, I didn’t bother to phone him to find out why. His ‘regular’ day (in quotes, ‘cos it actually hasn’t happened yet) is Wednesday, so I’ll pester him then if nothing has happened; I know he is still catching up from Memorial Day – or at least he was last Friday. Who knows. Or cares. Definitely not me at this point. One might get a rise out of fricking Marshall, Will, and Holly, who have set up base camp in my front little courtyard area, but other than that I don’t believe anyone cares any more.
Other than Babsnextdoorontheotherside. Babsnextdoorontheotherside offered me her mower (but not her husband, note!), if it could get running, but I declined; her mower’s a push-y type, it’s 63,000 years old (they have a lawn service as well; her husband has heart problems and used to like to do the yard, but was told by his physician not to over SIX YEARS AGO, which is when the mower was last started. But he *refuses* to let Babsnextdoorontheotherside throw it away, or donate it, or anything; same with all his tools, she complained. And I’m being completely facetious about borrowing her husband, by the way). I declined; sweet of her, but no. First off, the thing probably wouldn’t even start, and if it did, what then? It would probably blow up, or I would get my heels stuck in the lawn and they’d have to hear my screams over the mower and call 911. And if they didn’t hear, I might sit back there for days, stuck in my back yard, until I was eaten by a T-Rex, or something; I’d be trapped for weeks back there with only a push-y type lawn mower to defend myself against giant ants, tarantulas, and the like, ‘cos I sure as hell wouldn’t take my shoes off—I might get jungle rot. Plus, it’s rainy. Plus I don’t fricking want to. Babs suggested I could wear sneakers, but I just gestured that I could not hear her over the pterodactyl screeches and Sleestak growls coming from my yard, pointed at my watch, and went back home. Whatever.
I didn’t mention the not wanting to part. I know I should want to. I should, if I were any decent sort of human being, want to go out there and mow, garden, and commune with nature. But I just don’t. Particularly not the icky kind of nature. You know—the kind that is crawly, slimy, or multi-legged and furry? Bleah.
I mean, take butterflies for example; they’re really pretty in an abstract sense. One sees a butterfly and thinks, ‘Oooh! A BUTTERFLY!’ Then it goes and lands on you and it’s suddenly apparent that they are crawly, insect-looking things that crawl with legs, have segmented bodies, antennae and stuff, and you’re all of a sudden doing the GetoffmeGetoffmeGetoffme! Dance, and running to find a baseball bat to kill it with. I love Nature. From a distance. And when it is *controlled*--like being mown and free of bugs, and ideally air-conditioned. I am a Controlled Nature Lover.
And this is why I would make a bad serial killer.
No, really—I would. And it’s not as it might seem; if I can take a baseball bat and pound dents into my home or car trying to kill an icky-up-close butterfly, wasp, roach, or whatever (I know; I have to work on my aim, and I intend to. Someday.), the actual taking of life isn’t that big a deal. I’m all about the relative mores and so on. Mostly. What I haven’t the stomach for is dump sites. Oh, god, how gross, and I’m not talking about the bodies—that just makes them all the worse; they were gross before anyone ever got there, though. They’re always in the woods, and there are fricking bugs there, and bugs, and more bugs, and did I mention BUGS, and things that are too gross to detail, the *least* of which would be that bludgeoned body that you’re dropping off. With my luck, I’d find some place, get my grave all arranged and dug out (yet another drawback; one has to dig it oneself), drop the body in, cover, cover, cover and done, turn around to leave, and WHAP! Right into a giant spider web. One with a giant spider in it—you know, those BIG spiders in the forest? Yeah; one of them.
They’d find me bruised and lacerated from head to toe, having beaten myself to death with the shovel I was carrying, trying to get the spider off. I kid you not. Blecch.
And this is why people who are serial killers, as well as people who camp, are just damned weird. Who in their right mind wants to go out and have bugs crawl all over them? No one normal, that’s for sure.
The group that is really to blame for all of this is the Boy Scouts, though.
No, really. Much of what is wrong in the world in this respect is due to the Boy Scouts. I mean, look: First off, a lot of serial killers have been Boy Scouts. Secondly, they encourage camping, thus desensitising America’s youth to bugs, and encouraging them to develop skills that behove a serial killer. There may even be a secret Dump Site-Finding badge that we don’t know about. They’re weird, and tight as Freemasons, I tell you. Plus, some of the very most freakiest people I have known were Eagle Scouts. Not that freaky people are serial killers by default; I mean I am freaky and I just covered why I wouldn’t make a good serial killer, but regardless—there’s a BSA tie-in there. Like literally. Maybe it has to do with all the rope-tying stuff they do. Who knows.
On the other hand, probably there isn’t really a secret Dump Site-Finding merit badge. If there were, I am sure that I would have seen someone wearing it by now on a gothemopunk jacket, or bag, or something, thinking that it’s cool—kind of like one still sees some shit heads wearing Nazi swastikas and such.
Hmmm…see? This is what analysis is all about; I’ve just QED’d nixing a whole conspiracy. I feel much better. Kinda.
Though I still think that most Boy Scouts are probably freaky on a completely unfounded, speculative basis. I’m hard to dissuade like that.
…what was I talking about?
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Hey, this is radio station K-O-D-I-A
We're takin' calls on the wish line
Making your wacky wishes come true
I wish my grass was little bit shorter,
I wish I had a daughter,
I wish she was a dyke with a mower,
I would call her
I wish I had a blower and an edger and a ‘chete
and a big weed whacker…
My grass is up to like, six-foot-nine
And the only thing I seen today is Marshall, Will, and Holly
but yo, they seem kinda nice,
And now I see them all the time
In my front yard, with Dopey and that tribesmen
I like to kick that Cha-Ka as I go out to my car
Cause I know he won’t kick back
He’s not that tall and he can’t play ball
‘Cos you can’t see the driveway anymore, much less the hoop
'Cause when it comes to getting my lawn done
I'm always last to be mowed
And in the past few days never mowed at all
So I just figure what the hell
The place looks like Isla Nublar already
So maybe InGen’s gonna buy me out
Dag y'all! I never understood, Mister Sleestak,
Why the old peeps get the lawn guys
And me I get the unusual-sized rats
I tell 'em scat, skittle, scabobble
Try to hit ‘em with a bottle
And I need a safari jacket
I confess it's a shame when you got people livin’ in your lawn
And you don’t even know their name
Glad I got
a new lawn guy
Like quick-quick got sick-sick to my stomach
Overcommeth by the thoughts of necrotising fasciitis
But when I asked him over, he said he was booked all week
I wish my grass was little bit shorter,
I wish I had a daughter,
I wish she was a dyke with a mower,
I would call her
I wish I had a blower and an edger and a ‘chete
and a big weed whacker…
I wish I had a brand-new yard
So far, I got this ten-foot tall grass
And everywhere I go, yo I gets laughed at
And when I'm in my house I'm laid back
I got a black cat who thinks he can take out the T-Rex in the backyard
But that's whacked
And do you really wanna know what's *really* whack?
See I can't even get a cut
So, what do you think of that?
I heard that at night it’s a big fight
When the large rats meet the Sleestaks
But really tho' I'm El Reject-o
When I'm in my yard I can't even get a hello
When so many people cruise by my home on Sunday
Well then I'ma have to get a mower of my own
Find the radio, figure out how to crank up KODIA 105.5
Also get a bazooka, ‘case I see something that looks alive
Cause it's hard to survive when your livin'
In a despairing jungle and
These landscapers just keep passin' me by
Fine! Don’t say hi, don’t say hi…
Makes me say my, my, my
I wish my grass was little bit shorter,
I wish I had a daughter,
I wish she was a dyke with a mower,
I would call her
I wish I had a blower and an edger and a ‘chete
and a big weed whacker…
I wish my grass was a little bit shorter...
I wish I had a daughter...
I wish my grass was a little bit shorter, y'all
I wish I had a daughter…
Hey, I wish I had my way
'Cause maybe all these giant ants would move away
You could even walk on my walkway
I would play ghetto games
Name the tarantulas ghetto names
Little Mookie, big Al, Lorraine
Yo you know that's on the real
So if you’ve got an over-grown yard,
Then you should know just how I feel
Cause I don’t want Father Excess around
Wish he’d go simple, he’d go easy, he’d go greyhound
Hey, you, what's that sound?
I think the damn Sleestaks’re comin’ ‘round
Ahhhh, yes, ain't that whack?
Everybody wants to get mown like dat
I wish my grass was little bit shorter,
I wish I had a daughter,
I wish she was a dyke with a mower,
I would call her
I wish I had a blower and an edger and a ‘chete
and a big weed whacker…
I wish, I wish, I wish...
Next on KODIA, J-comecutmyfugginglawn-Z…
If you’re having yard problems, I feel bad for you, son
I got 99 problems, and my lawn is one…
*No, I am not using ‘dyke’ in a mean way; I have friends who are dykes (though out-of-state), and when I worked in the theatre, the dykes and I would sing funny songs all god damned day as we put sets up—many of which were about dykes--plus it keeps metre, ‘cos ‘daughter’ has to rhyme with ‘shorter’, and why else would I make my daughter do it, unless she liked it for some peculiar reason? There. So I have a daughter who is a dyke, and she’s come to rescue me. That’s some equality. Work with me here…
Friday, June 02, 2006
Fix your dumb broken blog questionnaire thingy, fer chrissake.
You are Spider-Man
|You are intelligent, witty,|
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz
Originally uploaded by Ancodia.
Is it just me? Am I pervy? I rounded the corner in the cats & dogs aisle, saw this, and immediately thought...well, *guess*. Don't put your dogs in this--*they* aren't pervy; *you* are.
It's just me, isn't it?