Dangerous addictions come in many forms. The lucky ones are addicted to mainstream products like crack, nicotine, gambling, etc. These addictions are easy to spot and people love to point them out and feel very high and mighty because although they might gamble on occasion, sneak the rare cigarette, or once in a blue moon, give a blow job for crack, they are not an addict like you.
There are new forms of addiction that are socially acceptable right now. I say right now because often the change from acceptable to non-acceptable can happen suddenly and without warning. For example, baseball players used to enjoy a syringe of steroids to boost performance, but then one day it is bad and everyone is acting like they never did it, while pointing their suspiciously large and muscular fingers at each other. Another example would be if someone were to enjoy wearing assless chaps to work at the hospital and it was not considered unusual in a progressive city like San Francisco, but then moves to a more conservative community like Memphis and that kind of thing is frowned upon. Like I can afford to go out and buy all new scrubs without holes in the ass. Stupid, close-minded, hillbillies... I apologize for getting off subject.
A new and fast growing addiction has emerged involving the internet, I don't mean porn, so feel free to keep visiting www.farm-animal-lovin.com, I am speaking about www.myspace.com. I first became aware of this site at work when many of my coworkers would spend hours each night scouring myspace for old acquaintances, leaving cute messages, and looking at pictures. I was even coerced into setting up my own myspace account. It appears the goal of myspace is to acquire as many "friends" as possible. I think the person with the most gets a prize or something. I quickly found that I was only encouraged to join in order to bolster someone else's friend count. What first started out as feeling wanted and part of group quickly left me feeling empty and used, just like other addictions. I was eventually drawn into the frightening world of myspace and spent a few hours loading pictures and writing a clever bio for myself, never realizing the ugly truth. What starts out as an innocent hobby can rapidly become a terrifying and out of control addiction. Soon I was staying up for days at a time searching for people I might possibly know. I searched highschool alumni listings, college listings, jobs, bands, interests anything that might add to my friend list. I even checked everyone in my email address book. After all this searching I managed to cobble together twelve people, pathetic. Other people have hundreds, a few thousand, and all I can muster is twelve. I began contemplating robbing and stealing as a way to get sent to jail to make more friends. Friends that have a lot of free time to set up myspace accounts. That is when I realized I had a problem. I am now seeking out a treatment program, but it is surprisingly hard to come by. Apparently the rest of the world has not realized the dangers involved with myspace. I am avoiding any "twelve step" programs. Twelve is just too painful a number for me right now. I am forced to fight this terrible addiction head-on and alone. I am confident I can beat it. In the mean time I am setting out to educate others about the dangers involved with myspace usage. I personally have been myspace free for three days and counting. To learn more about it please check out my site at www.myspace.com/killerific. Oh, and while you are at it, feel free to set up your own myspace account (it's free) and add me to your friends list, twelve is such a lonely number. Crap, I am now myspace free for five minutes and counting.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Graceland Critiqued
Brought to you by Killer!
As it is known, I live in Memphis, Tn., at the moment. It is better known as the home of Graceland, Elvis' abode. These are some pictures I shot while touring Graceland with a friend from out of town. Possibly the biggest risk to living in Memphis is that every person that comes to visit wants to go to Graceland. I have been four times now. One time is enough to make me realize, I don't like Elvis. Like him or not, I do feel sorry for him. The seventies were an awful time to die and have your life frozen for the world to see. Everyone will forever come to Graceland and think Elvis was a Bipolar nut job for his decorating tastes. He is a living testament to the obvious fact, "You can take the boy out of the trailer park, but you can not take the trailer park out of the boy." Britney Spears is another example, but she has not had the courtesy to kick off and let us tour her house.
The top picture is of the "jungle room". It has fur covered furniture with hand carved wooden dragons on the arms, it looks like Wookie fur, but I am not certain. There are several animal carvings and figurines, including several demented looking "monkeys" like the one in the bottom picture. This photo does not do justice to the green shag carpet, especially since it is on the floor and on the ceiling. The second photo is of the game room. It has a very strange tapestry that is tightly folded and covers the entire wall and ceiling. Like all the other rooms it is a testament to over doing it. My head almost exploded trying to take it all in. The bottom photo is the T.V. room. You will notice the three televisions as well as radios and such. This room was a lovely bright yellow and black, except for the same awful green shag carpet used in the jungle room. I am not sure if it was left over or maybe there was a sale on ugly green shag carpet, but it is everywhere, like mold. I will once again point out the strange looking monkey in the bottom right. Elvis loved monkeys, but apparently had never actually seen one in real life, otherwise I don't see how he could have thought these looked like monkeys. All the figurines of monkeys looked just like this one.
This tour of Graceland made me take stock of my own decorating style. If I died today am I ready to have my life immortalized forever? I don't think so. I really need to step it up a notch. I would really put an inconvenient burden on my neighbors if my apartment was turned into a tourist attraction. The noise and foot traffic alone would be horrendous. Parking around my building is already bad, I can only imagine how much worse it would be if my millions of adoring fans were flocking here on my birthday and anniversary of my death to hold candle light vigils. If they froze my apartment right now it would not be good. Several empty beer bottles, a lot of take out containers, and dirty clothes everywhere. I don't have bad green shag carpet, but in twenty years who is to say that light beige carpet will not be repulsive and mocked.
I am going to have call my friends right now and make them promise that, if I die, they will immediately rush over to my apartment and clean up. At least hide the three foot stack of nudie magazines in the bedroom. Also put down the toilet seat. I don't want to look uncivilized.
And when all of you begin the biannual pilgrimage to hold candle light vigils and sing beautiful spirituals outside of my apartment please hold it down, my neighbors are assholes.
As it is known, I live in Memphis, Tn., at the moment. It is better known as the home of Graceland, Elvis' abode. These are some pictures I shot while touring Graceland with a friend from out of town. Possibly the biggest risk to living in Memphis is that every person that comes to visit wants to go to Graceland. I have been four times now. One time is enough to make me realize, I don't like Elvis. Like him or not, I do feel sorry for him. The seventies were an awful time to die and have your life frozen for the world to see. Everyone will forever come to Graceland and think Elvis was a Bipolar nut job for his decorating tastes. He is a living testament to the obvious fact, "You can take the boy out of the trailer park, but you can not take the trailer park out of the boy." Britney Spears is another example, but she has not had the courtesy to kick off and let us tour her house.
The top picture is of the "jungle room". It has fur covered furniture with hand carved wooden dragons on the arms, it looks like Wookie fur, but I am not certain. There are several animal carvings and figurines, including several demented looking "monkeys" like the one in the bottom picture. This photo does not do justice to the green shag carpet, especially since it is on the floor and on the ceiling. The second photo is of the game room. It has a very strange tapestry that is tightly folded and covers the entire wall and ceiling. Like all the other rooms it is a testament to over doing it. My head almost exploded trying to take it all in. The bottom photo is the T.V. room. You will notice the three televisions as well as radios and such. This room was a lovely bright yellow and black, except for the same awful green shag carpet used in the jungle room. I am not sure if it was left over or maybe there was a sale on ugly green shag carpet, but it is everywhere, like mold. I will once again point out the strange looking monkey in the bottom right. Elvis loved monkeys, but apparently had never actually seen one in real life, otherwise I don't see how he could have thought these looked like monkeys. All the figurines of monkeys looked just like this one.
This tour of Graceland made me take stock of my own decorating style. If I died today am I ready to have my life immortalized forever? I don't think so. I really need to step it up a notch. I would really put an inconvenient burden on my neighbors if my apartment was turned into a tourist attraction. The noise and foot traffic alone would be horrendous. Parking around my building is already bad, I can only imagine how much worse it would be if my millions of adoring fans were flocking here on my birthday and anniversary of my death to hold candle light vigils. If they froze my apartment right now it would not be good. Several empty beer bottles, a lot of take out containers, and dirty clothes everywhere. I don't have bad green shag carpet, but in twenty years who is to say that light beige carpet will not be repulsive and mocked.
I am going to have call my friends right now and make them promise that, if I die, they will immediately rush over to my apartment and clean up. At least hide the three foot stack of nudie magazines in the bedroom. Also put down the toilet seat. I don't want to look uncivilized.
And when all of you begin the biannual pilgrimage to hold candle light vigils and sing beautiful spirituals outside of my apartment please hold it down, my neighbors are assholes.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Getting the Fish Eye
This little guy kept giving me the evil eye so I was about to throw down on his little fish ass, but then his posse showed up so I had to step back. Who knew fish could be such punks?
Bam looks fishy
I have decided to post a shot of our SCUBA diving efforts in the Bahamas. This is not the best shot, but since we were forced to use some cheap crappy cameras, I am having to use my Photoshop to retouch the photos. It is a long and grueling process. The bald guy behind the fish is Bam. We were with a Snorkeling group that was above us feeding the fish dog food. The fish now think every human they see will give them treats, so they swarm you until they are satisfied you are a jerk and not going to feed them. Once I get all the photos sorted out I will post a site.
Monday, March 20, 2006
$8.00 for crappy beer! I've killed for less.
This report is brought to you by
His Majesty Killer of the Royal Common Wealth of Floyd
Holy Crap! I made it back from the Bahamas! I have a few things to say about the Bahama islands. First, and most important, don't go there. It was a fun trip, but I could have fun with Bam and his family if we sat in a basement somewhere in the Midwest, so the locale did not really effect that. The only thing really impacted by the location was my wallet. Apparently the Bahamas are made up of over 700 islands, anything at least one mile long is an island. 700 islands that do not produce shit. Everything you get in the Bahamas has to be imported, so they charge an outrageous amount of money for it. Plus, it is full of tourists, so they add a little, "screw you Yankee capitalist" tax onto everything. Save your money and go to Florida, or San Diego.
We met a few locals and Bahamians are pretty cool. One that we talked to a lot said she was planning to quit her job and join the Bahamian military. I was dumbfounded by this statement. What the hell does The Bahamas need a military for. Who would want to conquer 700 islands with no natural resources and who's number one industry is tourism. I imagine you could probably take control of about 685 of them before anyone notices, and squeak out at least 10 more before anyone cares. We actually took a day trip out to one small island, I think it met the bare minimum for island status. I was the biggest person around and managed to find a big stick, so I officially took control of the island. I named my island Floyd and immediately tried to have Bam deported, but he fell asleep in a hammock and would not leave. He does not know it yet, but I informed my immigration department not to let him back into Floyd, if he tries to come back. No one actually lives on Floyd so there is no one to pay taxes. According to my estimates it could be years before anyone realizes I control Floyd, but I know, and that is good enough for me.
On my return journey from the Bahamas my flight was delayed on the tarmac for over two hours. This resulted in me missing the connecting flight in Cincinnati. I learned some interesting facts during this time. One, the Cincinnati airport is not even in Cincinnati, it is in Erlanger, Kentucky. Two, you can be bumped out of your seat if someone else claims they have a "medical reason" to have it. I always book early to get a aisle seat. I am just too damn big to squeeze against the window on small planes. BUT, this old guy with a prosthetic leg claimed he had to have an aisle seat. SO, I got changed to the window and was not informed until I was on the plane. Plus, the guy was a total dick. I asked the stewardess if there was any other aisle seat I would appreciate moving. The one legged asshole started ranting about having a prosthesis and having to sit there, I never even said anything to him about his leg. I do believe he could have just pulled it off and stuck it in the over head compartment, then he could have sat anywhere. He did not look like any war veteran, so I am guessing he probably lost his leg due to uncontrolled diabetes or something along those lines, so it is his own fault. It was only an hour long flight, but I despised him for the whole hour. I know in a previous blog I mentioned my willingness to lose a leg, maybe this is karma showing me that to lose a leg makes you a jackass, but I think I could pull it off with a minimum of prickedness.
If you do decide to go against my recommendations and take a trip to the Bahamas feel free to swing by Floyd and stay awhile. Bring a tent, there are no hotels, and you might want to bring some food, water and electricity because Floyd is lacking in those as well. If you don't like it go get your own island, there are only 699 more to choose from.
His Majesty Killer of the Royal Common Wealth of Floyd
Holy Crap! I made it back from the Bahamas! I have a few things to say about the Bahama islands. First, and most important, don't go there. It was a fun trip, but I could have fun with Bam and his family if we sat in a basement somewhere in the Midwest, so the locale did not really effect that. The only thing really impacted by the location was my wallet. Apparently the Bahamas are made up of over 700 islands, anything at least one mile long is an island. 700 islands that do not produce shit. Everything you get in the Bahamas has to be imported, so they charge an outrageous amount of money for it. Plus, it is full of tourists, so they add a little, "screw you Yankee capitalist" tax onto everything. Save your money and go to Florida, or San Diego.
We met a few locals and Bahamians are pretty cool. One that we talked to a lot said she was planning to quit her job and join the Bahamian military. I was dumbfounded by this statement. What the hell does The Bahamas need a military for. Who would want to conquer 700 islands with no natural resources and who's number one industry is tourism. I imagine you could probably take control of about 685 of them before anyone notices, and squeak out at least 10 more before anyone cares. We actually took a day trip out to one small island, I think it met the bare minimum for island status. I was the biggest person around and managed to find a big stick, so I officially took control of the island. I named my island Floyd and immediately tried to have Bam deported, but he fell asleep in a hammock and would not leave. He does not know it yet, but I informed my immigration department not to let him back into Floyd, if he tries to come back. No one actually lives on Floyd so there is no one to pay taxes. According to my estimates it could be years before anyone realizes I control Floyd, but I know, and that is good enough for me.
On my return journey from the Bahamas my flight was delayed on the tarmac for over two hours. This resulted in me missing the connecting flight in Cincinnati. I learned some interesting facts during this time. One, the Cincinnati airport is not even in Cincinnati, it is in Erlanger, Kentucky. Two, you can be bumped out of your seat if someone else claims they have a "medical reason" to have it. I always book early to get a aisle seat. I am just too damn big to squeeze against the window on small planes. BUT, this old guy with a prosthetic leg claimed he had to have an aisle seat. SO, I got changed to the window and was not informed until I was on the plane. Plus, the guy was a total dick. I asked the stewardess if there was any other aisle seat I would appreciate moving. The one legged asshole started ranting about having a prosthesis and having to sit there, I never even said anything to him about his leg. I do believe he could have just pulled it off and stuck it in the over head compartment, then he could have sat anywhere. He did not look like any war veteran, so I am guessing he probably lost his leg due to uncontrolled diabetes or something along those lines, so it is his own fault. It was only an hour long flight, but I despised him for the whole hour. I know in a previous blog I mentioned my willingness to lose a leg, maybe this is karma showing me that to lose a leg makes you a jackass, but I think I could pull it off with a minimum of prickedness.
If you do decide to go against my recommendations and take a trip to the Bahamas feel free to swing by Floyd and stay awhile. Bring a tent, there are no hotels, and you might want to bring some food, water and electricity because Floyd is lacking in those as well. If you don't like it go get your own island, there are only 699 more to choose from.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Who the Hell is Saint Patrick, Anyway?
Liz reports:
I went to the annual St. Paddy's Day Parade in lovely downtown Jackson, Mississippi this weekend. It's a BIG deal and one of the few times being around cops doesn't make me nervous. The whole event had a very New Orleans vibe- which is something I haven't experienced in a long time. I think it was the crowds packed onto the sidewalk and the smell of a septic leak lingering in the air, mingled with beer and pheremones that reminded me so much of the good ole days.
Aside from women taking this opportunity to dress like total hookers and the fact that one of my brother's friends cracked his skull wide open when he fell off their float, there wasn't anything truly unruly that occurred. It's nice when people know how to get drunk and still behave. I did witness a guy around 20 fall in front of Martin's Bar on the main street. He was whacked-out hammered and it was an "I've fallen and I can't get up" situation but everytime one of his buddies would try to touch him he would say, "Fu you. I ca nn git uuu on my oh" The whole time his Shiner Bock beer was flowing onto the ground in these enthusiastic spurts. I'm glad I wasn't that drunk. I had said at the parade that my goal was to be the 8th drunkest person there- I think I missed it by a long shot, thank god. We did have a really good time though, which included me leaving with a pair of green thong underwear (hilarious) and a gigantic pirate flag (the jolly Roger). I also have multiple bruises, a skinned knee, and a severely twisted ankle. My ankle was already a little twisted prior to Saturday so I hobbled to the parade- after and hour, I felt NO pain and think that I over exerted it by climbing up and down on a couple of floats, doing some Elaine-like dancing, jumping for beads, and just plain walking. I have no idea where the skinned knee, bruises on my shin, and sore bicep came from, but I know nothing violent happened to me so I am relatively sure that they are only party casualties.
I also learned at the parade that when you mix peach vodka, champagne, and orange juice, you can get closer to Heaven than you might imagine. It's a mimoso meets a screw driver and I need a name for the drink. One guy said that it's already got a name when it's made with plain vodka- he called it a dirty naval. I'm not going to allow that to be the name of my drink. I'm hoping you can offer a suggestion or two. I thought about " So Screw Mi" because that takes parts of each drink name and combines them- but that's more raunchy than what I'm looking for. It's a delightful drink, I want it to have a delightful name.
Although I have absolutely no idea who St. Patrick is, I really enjoyed toasting his ability to drive snakes out of Ireland. I know that has to be a myth, but he's still a Saint, so I wonder what he did. I just wish he could heal twisted ankles and hangovers.
Killer, I can't wait to hear about your trip! I'll be checking the BLOG for the update!
Much love- Liz
I went to the annual St. Paddy's Day Parade in lovely downtown Jackson, Mississippi this weekend. It's a BIG deal and one of the few times being around cops doesn't make me nervous. The whole event had a very New Orleans vibe- which is something I haven't experienced in a long time. I think it was the crowds packed onto the sidewalk and the smell of a septic leak lingering in the air, mingled with beer and pheremones that reminded me so much of the good ole days.
Aside from women taking this opportunity to dress like total hookers and the fact that one of my brother's friends cracked his skull wide open when he fell off their float, there wasn't anything truly unruly that occurred. It's nice when people know how to get drunk and still behave. I did witness a guy around 20 fall in front of Martin's Bar on the main street. He was whacked-out hammered and it was an "I've fallen and I can't get up" situation but everytime one of his buddies would try to touch him he would say, "Fu you. I ca nn git uuu on my oh" The whole time his Shiner Bock beer was flowing onto the ground in these enthusiastic spurts. I'm glad I wasn't that drunk. I had said at the parade that my goal was to be the 8th drunkest person there- I think I missed it by a long shot, thank god. We did have a really good time though, which included me leaving with a pair of green thong underwear (hilarious) and a gigantic pirate flag (the jolly Roger). I also have multiple bruises, a skinned knee, and a severely twisted ankle. My ankle was already a little twisted prior to Saturday so I hobbled to the parade- after and hour, I felt NO pain and think that I over exerted it by climbing up and down on a couple of floats, doing some Elaine-like dancing, jumping for beads, and just plain walking. I have no idea where the skinned knee, bruises on my shin, and sore bicep came from, but I know nothing violent happened to me so I am relatively sure that they are only party casualties.
I also learned at the parade that when you mix peach vodka, champagne, and orange juice, you can get closer to Heaven than you might imagine. It's a mimoso meets a screw driver and I need a name for the drink. One guy said that it's already got a name when it's made with plain vodka- he called it a dirty naval. I'm not going to allow that to be the name of my drink. I'm hoping you can offer a suggestion or two. I thought about " So Screw Mi" because that takes parts of each drink name and combines them- but that's more raunchy than what I'm looking for. It's a delightful drink, I want it to have a delightful name.
Although I have absolutely no idea who St. Patrick is, I really enjoyed toasting his ability to drive snakes out of Ireland. I know that has to be a myth, but he's still a Saint, so I wonder what he did. I just wish he could heal twisted ankles and hangovers.
Killer, I can't wait to hear about your trip! I'll be checking the BLOG for the update!
Much love- Liz
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
You're Better Off Not Reading This
Promulgation by Killer:
My back hurts. I don't really think anyone should be concerned by this statement, nor do I expect anyone to send me hallmark cards of condolences, but this is my blog and I have the ability to tell you anything. For example, I hate tomatoes, but I love ketchup. This is a totally inane fact, but I can tell you are captivated. I might say something important or funny, probably not, but you don't want to miss it.
I sunburn easily, I have eight hours worth of tattoos in various locations on my person, and I have so much body hair when I take off my shirt it looks like I am wearing a light brown sweater vest. You did not seek out this information, you would probably never think of asking any questions that would illicit these answers, but I am forcing it upon you. Consider me as a flasher, but of information instead of genitalia.
My feet stink so bad sometimes that it once caused my best friends to nick name my hiking boots, "The Beasts", and enact a rule banning them from ever being within twenty feet of where we were sleeping. San Francisco is my favorite city in the world and Corbin, Kentucky is the worst. I have on numerous occasions expelled flatus in an unconscious patients room, and when a fellow staff person comes in, I blamed it on the patient. I am not a perfect person, but I have known worse.
I hope you don't feel violated. I understand why you would not want to know this stuff, but I enjoy being able to dictate how well people know me. Even though you don't want to, I know you are still unable to get the image of me in a hairy sweater vest out of your mind.
All Apologies
Killer
My back hurts. I don't really think anyone should be concerned by this statement, nor do I expect anyone to send me hallmark cards of condolences, but this is my blog and I have the ability to tell you anything. For example, I hate tomatoes, but I love ketchup. This is a totally inane fact, but I can tell you are captivated. I might say something important or funny, probably not, but you don't want to miss it.
I sunburn easily, I have eight hours worth of tattoos in various locations on my person, and I have so much body hair when I take off my shirt it looks like I am wearing a light brown sweater vest. You did not seek out this information, you would probably never think of asking any questions that would illicit these answers, but I am forcing it upon you. Consider me as a flasher, but of information instead of genitalia.
My feet stink so bad sometimes that it once caused my best friends to nick name my hiking boots, "The Beasts", and enact a rule banning them from ever being within twenty feet of where we were sleeping. San Francisco is my favorite city in the world and Corbin, Kentucky is the worst. I have on numerous occasions expelled flatus in an unconscious patients room, and when a fellow staff person comes in, I blamed it on the patient. I am not a perfect person, but I have known worse.
I hope you don't feel violated. I understand why you would not want to know this stuff, but I enjoy being able to dictate how well people know me. Even though you don't want to, I know you are still unable to get the image of me in a hairy sweater vest out of your mind.
All Apologies
Killer
A Rough Week
Liz bemoans:
I met a cowboy in a Boss-Hog white hat on Saturday. He has called every day this week and, although we have yet to go out on a date, I'm ready to break it off. He's spent a lot of time talking about how much money he has and how big is truck is. His business card has red bull horns on it. He told me that he's had two people approach him and try to get him to go to Nashville and cut a CD. He sings karaoke every Tuesday. He also said he was in the rodeo for several years. OH! And my favorite- he goes by his initials... and his initials don't go together. He's not a JB or CJ or a DC. It's two weird initials that shouldn't stand next to each other like a GH or a TW or something screwed up like that.
See? SEE what I attract?
I am an environmentally conciencience animal rights lover that enjoys strolls on the beach and mountain sunsets. OK- that's not totally accurate, but it's close to all being true. What I am NOT is Tammy Wynett. I'm not a woman who will believe you when you tell her that you make $400k a year- 10 minutes into the first conversation. I've never been married. He's had two wives. The people at work are encouraging me to go out with him. I figure for one of two reasons. Either: 1. They want the story that will spring from a night of Liz out with QE or 2. They hate me. I think that I'm too pure and untainted for this wicked game. Plus, isn't it just stupid to get on ship that you know will sink?
It's been a very long week. I came in tonight and left the back door open so that the breeze could dance through the house and I could catch a few afterwork zzzz's. I was almost asleep when I was jolted into sobriety by a tongue in my mouth. The TONGUE of a STRANGE DOG that had wandered off the street and into my den. I got French kissed by a stray.
Killer, I wish as much for you on your vacation.
I met a cowboy in a Boss-Hog white hat on Saturday. He has called every day this week and, although we have yet to go out on a date, I'm ready to break it off. He's spent a lot of time talking about how much money he has and how big is truck is. His business card has red bull horns on it. He told me that he's had two people approach him and try to get him to go to Nashville and cut a CD. He sings karaoke every Tuesday. He also said he was in the rodeo for several years. OH! And my favorite- he goes by his initials... and his initials don't go together. He's not a JB or CJ or a DC. It's two weird initials that shouldn't stand next to each other like a GH or a TW or something screwed up like that.
See? SEE what I attract?
I am an environmentally conciencience animal rights lover that enjoys strolls on the beach and mountain sunsets. OK- that's not totally accurate, but it's close to all being true. What I am NOT is Tammy Wynett. I'm not a woman who will believe you when you tell her that you make $400k a year- 10 minutes into the first conversation. I've never been married. He's had two wives. The people at work are encouraging me to go out with him. I figure for one of two reasons. Either: 1. They want the story that will spring from a night of Liz out with QE or 2. They hate me. I think that I'm too pure and untainted for this wicked game. Plus, isn't it just stupid to get on ship that you know will sink?
It's been a very long week. I came in tonight and left the back door open so that the breeze could dance through the house and I could catch a few afterwork zzzz's. I was almost asleep when I was jolted into sobriety by a tongue in my mouth. The TONGUE of a STRANGE DOG that had wandered off the street and into my den. I got French kissed by a stray.
Killer, I wish as much for you on your vacation.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Profanity, Profanity, Big Hairy Ass, etc.
Proclaimed by Killer:
I am gearing up for a trip to the Bahamas. I know many of you might be thinking to yourselves, "Wait a gosh darn minute Killer, didn't you just return from a nine week vacation less than five months ago?" Yes, I did indeed just return from an extended vacation traversing the South East Asian country side, but I have a little known ailment that requires me to vacate more than the average person. Working causes my tourette's syndrome to flair up and I have unseemly bouts of profanity mixed with an overwhelming urge to show my buttocks to those around me. I am forced to use valuable time and financial resources in order to treat this horrific infliction. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to get my insurance company to reimburse me for the expenditures of these "treatments", but they have declined, and rather curtly I must add. I fear that if I allow this chronic ailment to fester and go untreated than I will create an uncomfortable environment for my co-workers, with an exception of a few that would probably enjoy looking at my butt. I feel naming names would be inappropriate.
I have digressed from my intended topic. I am going to the Bahamas with my pal, Bam, and his wife and daughter. They offered a free place to stay, so I pounced like a hungry beaver on fresh poop. (clever reference to a previous posting) I leave on Friday and return the following Saturday. While in the Bahamas I intend to SCUBA dive and drink beer, but not at the same time. If I could think of a way I could drink beer underwater I would be the happiest man alive. I will try and write a few blogs while there, and keep you informed of any misadventures.
I am now accepting any requests for trinkets and nick nacks from the Bahamas. I will not purchase any of them, but it would humor me to see what you think I might be willing to bring back for you.
If I had a webcam you would be able to see I was mooning the computer right now.
Killer
I am gearing up for a trip to the Bahamas. I know many of you might be thinking to yourselves, "Wait a gosh darn minute Killer, didn't you just return from a nine week vacation less than five months ago?" Yes, I did indeed just return from an extended vacation traversing the South East Asian country side, but I have a little known ailment that requires me to vacate more than the average person. Working causes my tourette's syndrome to flair up and I have unseemly bouts of profanity mixed with an overwhelming urge to show my buttocks to those around me. I am forced to use valuable time and financial resources in order to treat this horrific infliction. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to get my insurance company to reimburse me for the expenditures of these "treatments", but they have declined, and rather curtly I must add. I fear that if I allow this chronic ailment to fester and go untreated than I will create an uncomfortable environment for my co-workers, with an exception of a few that would probably enjoy looking at my butt. I feel naming names would be inappropriate.
I have digressed from my intended topic. I am going to the Bahamas with my pal, Bam, and his wife and daughter. They offered a free place to stay, so I pounced like a hungry beaver on fresh poop. (clever reference to a previous posting) I leave on Friday and return the following Saturday. While in the Bahamas I intend to SCUBA dive and drink beer, but not at the same time. If I could think of a way I could drink beer underwater I would be the happiest man alive. I will try and write a few blogs while there, and keep you informed of any misadventures.
I am now accepting any requests for trinkets and nick nacks from the Bahamas. I will not purchase any of them, but it would humor me to see what you think I might be willing to bring back for you.
If I had a webcam you would be able to see I was mooning the computer right now.
Killer
A Picture is Worth the Heartache
Liz rambles:
I have no purpose with this post but to make two announcements:
1. I'm a little hammered. I had a few beverages at the local watering hole and played 18 holes of video golf- ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. The "news" is that I have been given honorary memebership in the Stone Pony VIP club- which is, honest to God- a $100 value. Although pleased to be considered such a regular that the bar is willing to wave my joining fee, this honor is a lot like winning a free 6-pack of Great Value Cola. Who gives a shit? I wouldn't pay over $20 a year for this VIP treatment because as far as I can tell, all you get is $1 bottles on Monday nights.
2. My second reason for posting is much more serious. Check out this Eddie Van Halen picture. This is killing me. I can no longer make sense of my world. He'll be shitting his own pants before the end of the week.
I have no purpose with this post but to make two announcements:
1. I'm a little hammered. I had a few beverages at the local watering hole and played 18 holes of video golf- ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. The "news" is that I have been given honorary memebership in the Stone Pony VIP club- which is, honest to God- a $100 value. Although pleased to be considered such a regular that the bar is willing to wave my joining fee, this honor is a lot like winning a free 6-pack of Great Value Cola. Who gives a shit? I wouldn't pay over $20 a year for this VIP treatment because as far as I can tell, all you get is $1 bottles on Monday nights.
2. My second reason for posting is much more serious. Check out this Eddie Van Halen picture. This is killing me. I can no longer make sense of my world. He'll be shitting his own pants before the end of the week.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thongs Are Not For The Faint of Heart
Liz writes:
I suffer from Romantic Delay. I don't think this is a medical condition, for it's not the female equivilent of the oft advertised erectile disfunction- it's more a total immaturity for the need for a companion of the opposite sex. Had I lived 100 years ago, I would be long washed up and hopeless. My father would be in a constant state of depression knowing his daughter's only hope for a better life was a 62 year old widower with cows that need milking. I'd be stuck teaching school in a one room school house and not showing my knees in public. And if I were the same spirit then that I am now, I would be ok with this.
What's wrong with me? What about that internal drive to couple? The Discovery Channel is always saying that this is why we exist- to procreate. The desire to find a mate overrides everything else. Where's my share of that? I've never gone out on a date with someone I wasn't interested in. Ok, except in 6th grade when I "went with" a guy named Terrel for one day. I hated it. I figured then that if you don't get the right vibe, you shouldn't waste anybody's time. Screw a free dinner. I want to play fair.
Needless to say, I don't get out much.
But I'm getting there. I'm reaching the point where I think it would be NICE to have a man in my life. Hell, I'm middle aged. It's about time I felt some internal pressure to have a reliable booty call in my life. The urge to use terms like, "my boyfriend" is beginning to surface. I've even bought pretty bras- just in case they get to peek out one night. But I lack the experience of playing the game. I don't know HOW to be coy or seductive with the intent of luring. I don't understand the rules of a relationship. I ask too many questions and have expectations that don't match the game that's in play. It is what it is... I missed the practices and now I'm coming up with my own rules. "FOUL!" "Interferrence!" "False Start!" It's hard to START playing at 34.
Last night I was susposed to go out for drinks with a work guy. He's single and I've been after him for MONTHS to go out for cocktails. I don't consider this a romantic match, but I figure he's single, I'm single- we might as well be drinking buddies. Everyone that works for him likes me and his boss loves me. This guy, however, has seemed immune to my charms. That bastard.
Because my ass continues to get wider with each passing second, my jeans were SKIN tight last night- so I put on a thong. I don't even know how I ended up with a thong because some things don't go together: Peanut butter and white fish, beer and birthday cake, Liz and a thong. But I had one on. He never called... I'm not used to this rudeness, so I went up to Chilli's and got a couple of two-for-ones and then rented Crash and went home. I was feeling a little befuddled. WHY didn't he let me know something? Is he trying to say without saying that he doesn't want to spend time with me? I will admit, I've basically demanded that he commit to a couple of cold ones with me. Has my forcefullness scared him into thinking I'm after his sausage? I know he's not romantically interested- I'm rather neutral about him- which means, in essence, that I feel the same way. But to not get back with me- to not call and say that he wouldn't make it- to simply stand me up when he knows that I had a plan C to go out with some other folks- that's just ugly. And it's an unpleasant feeling to be unwanted.
So I've got 4 two-for-ones in me and I go into the bathroom at home for a pee before starting Crash and one of my cats comes into the bathroom. You know how cats love string! Sneaker went CRAZY over this thong. He was totally enthralled- pulling at it, rolling around on the rug trying to stretch it out, pawing at it and trying to get entangled in the tiny red thread... it was funny. And depressing. I feel like an idoit when I have on a thong and I look like a tube of cinnamon rolls that has just exploded. And there I was, good makeup and hair, sitting on the toliet with my cat trying his damnedst to get that thong off of me.
Yep. I think I DO need a man.
I suffer from Romantic Delay. I don't think this is a medical condition, for it's not the female equivilent of the oft advertised erectile disfunction- it's more a total immaturity for the need for a companion of the opposite sex. Had I lived 100 years ago, I would be long washed up and hopeless. My father would be in a constant state of depression knowing his daughter's only hope for a better life was a 62 year old widower with cows that need milking. I'd be stuck teaching school in a one room school house and not showing my knees in public. And if I were the same spirit then that I am now, I would be ok with this.
What's wrong with me? What about that internal drive to couple? The Discovery Channel is always saying that this is why we exist- to procreate. The desire to find a mate overrides everything else. Where's my share of that? I've never gone out on a date with someone I wasn't interested in. Ok, except in 6th grade when I "went with" a guy named Terrel for one day. I hated it. I figured then that if you don't get the right vibe, you shouldn't waste anybody's time. Screw a free dinner. I want to play fair.
Needless to say, I don't get out much.
But I'm getting there. I'm reaching the point where I think it would be NICE to have a man in my life. Hell, I'm middle aged. It's about time I felt some internal pressure to have a reliable booty call in my life. The urge to use terms like, "my boyfriend" is beginning to surface. I've even bought pretty bras- just in case they get to peek out one night. But I lack the experience of playing the game. I don't know HOW to be coy or seductive with the intent of luring. I don't understand the rules of a relationship. I ask too many questions and have expectations that don't match the game that's in play. It is what it is... I missed the practices and now I'm coming up with my own rules. "FOUL!" "Interferrence!" "False Start!" It's hard to START playing at 34.
Last night I was susposed to go out for drinks with a work guy. He's single and I've been after him for MONTHS to go out for cocktails. I don't consider this a romantic match, but I figure he's single, I'm single- we might as well be drinking buddies. Everyone that works for him likes me and his boss loves me. This guy, however, has seemed immune to my charms. That bastard.
Because my ass continues to get wider with each passing second, my jeans were SKIN tight last night- so I put on a thong. I don't even know how I ended up with a thong because some things don't go together: Peanut butter and white fish, beer and birthday cake, Liz and a thong. But I had one on. He never called... I'm not used to this rudeness, so I went up to Chilli's and got a couple of two-for-ones and then rented Crash and went home. I was feeling a little befuddled. WHY didn't he let me know something? Is he trying to say without saying that he doesn't want to spend time with me? I will admit, I've basically demanded that he commit to a couple of cold ones with me. Has my forcefullness scared him into thinking I'm after his sausage? I know he's not romantically interested- I'm rather neutral about him- which means, in essence, that I feel the same way. But to not get back with me- to not call and say that he wouldn't make it- to simply stand me up when he knows that I had a plan C to go out with some other folks- that's just ugly. And it's an unpleasant feeling to be unwanted.
So I've got 4 two-for-ones in me and I go into the bathroom at home for a pee before starting Crash and one of my cats comes into the bathroom. You know how cats love string! Sneaker went CRAZY over this thong. He was totally enthralled- pulling at it, rolling around on the rug trying to stretch it out, pawing at it and trying to get entangled in the tiny red thread... it was funny. And depressing. I feel like an idoit when I have on a thong and I look like a tube of cinnamon rolls that has just exploded. And there I was, good makeup and hair, sitting on the toliet with my cat trying his damnedst to get that thong off of me.
Yep. I think I DO need a man.
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