Sunday, December 31, 2006

The Good the Bad and the Funky

A menage a trois eulogy by Killer

"Celebrities die in threes." A common quote and a hardened belief. This past week it was given good support for it's credence.

President Gerald Ford ended his reign as the oldest surviving former President. Thanks to the multitude of 24 hour news channels, I could watch a non stop video feed of strangers walking past a coffin. I kept hoping someone would trip and knock the box over as a final tribute to Gerry. When Gerry gets to the Pearly gates this will be the conversation, "Gerry, you were a good man. It would seem like you should be a shoe in." Says St. Peter. "But, that Nixon pardon...not even J.C. would have turned that cheek."

Saddam Hussein was sent to spend eternity with forty virgins and a mule. (I think that is how the Koran promises it) I don't know if you can count being executed in the celebrity death threesome, but it will have to do. Saddam's demise was very anti-climactic. Personally, I think they should have tied him up on a Baghdad street corner and let any Iraqi's, wanting to participate, kick him in the nuts. It is a sad testament to our progress rebuilding the Iraqi infrastructure. They had to lynch Saddam because apparently they couldn't spare the juice for an electric chair.

The Godfather of Soul, James Brown, the hardest working man in show business, had a long and illustrious career of toe tapping tunes. ("I feel good", "I'm black and I'm proud", etc.) He also had his fair share of misunderstandings with the law. Whether it be drugs, alcohol, or a little innocent wife beating, "the Man" was always trying to hold the Soul Man down.
This is how I want the funeral to end: The coffin is wheeled down in front of the Apollo theater. When the grandiose music dies down, Brown's cape flunky rushes over and covers the coffin with the infamous cape. Suddenly the lid flies open and Brown leaps up and does one last funky hip shuffle. His lifeless body settles back into the coffin. James Brown knows how to end a show.

Homer Simpson and Gerald Ford

Possibly the greatest Gerald Ford tribute.

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Grampa's corn whiskey

Weakly, she writes:

Last night was one of those 3 AM, ok I have to go to bed after this LAST beer, nights. I had some friends over, a couple of which spent the night. Good. DUIs are nasty things. I had some other friends come by late in the evening after 8 hours of drinking at the bar. GREAT! Except they brought the BAR with them to my house!

I, of course, find this funny, delightful, and slightly inappropriate. I mean, these aren't friends of my friends, these are just folks from the bar. No one knows any one's last name. I can assume the strangers were all too drunk to ever remember how to get back to my house, but if one of them shows up at my doorstep this weekend I'm calling my friends to come and pick the strangers up and take them back to their house. I am not, contrary to what my neighbors might think, running my own pub, safe house, dance club, or brothel.

I like the friends. I don't even mind the strangers. They seem harmless enough. The "problem" was with Grampa Lucky. Dude was fucked up. He had to have help getting into the house and finding a chair. It was kind of sad. I mean, this dude is about 50 and still wearing a baseball cap out to clubs. He has those 1993 Ralph Lauren looking glasses and bucked teeth that he conceals with an oversized salt and pepper mustache. I've seen him at the watering hole before, each time he's been as inebriated as me or even more. I drink for fun and then forget things. I think Grampa Lucky drinks to forget and thinks that is fun. See the difference?

I stepped to the back of the house for a bathroom break and I heard all this commotion- my closet door was flung open and then I heard the front door bang against the wall. I'LL BET GRAMPA BROKE HIS HIP AND FELL was my initial thought. Incorrect.

Luckily, he made it outside to the bushes before vomiting. Now, I won't try to be Ms. Fonzi and tell you that I have NEVER puked from drinking because I have. FORTUNATELY I have not puked in a stranger's front yard since the late 80's. I hate vomiting. I could never be bulimic because I so disdain hurling. If I over do my vodka drinks I will lay down, very still, in a dark and quiet place. ANYTHING to not puke. And I don't only hate when I puke, I hate to be around puke. I could never be a nurse or doctor because the first time bodily fluids spewed violently from a patient I would turn in my badge immediately. The sound, the smell, the viscosity.... NONE of it is on my list of things I handle well. You think I don't have kids because I don't like children? Nope. I don't like shit or vomit, so I don't have kids. Even my cats are on thin ice.

When Grampa Lucky came back into the house, he had vomit on his pant leg. Ewww. He came bouncing in, like nothing had happened, and requested a beer even though I was trying to sell him on a glass of water. I know the feeling. You feel like you have to play it off like everything is kosher. When he left, he again needed much assistance getting out of the front door.

How embarrassing.

Especially when the stranger whose house you vomited at is going to post this story on her blog.

Today is a rainy day. I'm sincerly hoping that by the end of today all that remains of Grampa Lucky's vomit is a burnt patch in the grass and a memory of the time the bar FINALY came to me instead of me going to the bar. I wonder if this ever happened to Sam Malone?

Friday, December 29, 2006

Woes of a White Man

Paranoia grips Killer

Apparently there is one instant access to America from the Philippines. It is nursing. The nursing programs in the Philippines are pretty well respected, so there are many American hospitals who go there to recruit young nurses to leave and come to America. Once here you can get a permanent work visa. If you want to meet a Filipino go to the nearest hospital. I have only worked in one or two hospitals around America without any Filipinos, and in California, they are often times, the majority.

Please don't misunderstand, I love Filipino's. They love to share their food with me. They work all the time, so if you need a shift covered, find a Filipino. They also have an intense desire to have everyone around them married, so as soon as they hear you are single, the match making begins.

Being match makers is also one of the two downsides to being surrounded by Filipinos. Every job I have had in California has been started with the same questions. "Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Why not?" After a few minutes of contemplation a more surreptitious question is whispered, "Do you like filipinAs or filipinOs?" Once I clear the air about my sexuality I am informed of any and all single filipinas at this hospital, the neighboring hospitals, as well as, any potential relatives back in the Philippines.

The downside to dating a Filipina is that by the second or third date, marriage plans have been finalized within the family and community. Love or compatibility are not an issue, you are single, she is single, marriage is the only recourse.

Another drawback to being a minority among the Filipino nurses is they love to speak in Tagalog. If you have two or more together within a few sentences the language changes and you are left out in the conversational cold.

It is a fast and confusing language with English words peppered in just frequent enough to make me paranoid. "blah blah blah FAT blah blah blah ORANGE blah blah HAIRY" Then everyone laughs, I look bewildered, they all laugh at my discomfort, I knock over the nearest Filipino, and screaming and more foreign language tirades ensue, "blah blah blah FAT blah blah POLICE blah blah RUN AWAY."

I can't marry a person who will teach our children a language I don't speak. I don't think I want to spend the rest of my life wondering if they are talking about me. They are naturally small people so the urge to crush one as a lesson to the others is often overwhelming. Maybe it is an egotistical issue with me assuming everyone speaking a foreign language is discussing me. That is why I can't watch Spanish television. All those hot Mexican chicks talking about me, but making out with a hot Mexican guy, drives me nuts.

Thursday, December 28, 2006

All That AND a Bag of Chips?

Liz Freud writes:

I have been having really vivid dreams this week. I think it's the 10 hour stretches of sleep, followed by 2 hour naps that are provoking this.

I love the dream I had last night. I heard a ruckus outside my bedroom window so I went to the window to see what was going on. There was a leprechaun standing there with a shot gun that had a twisted barrel. It was pointed at me. I don't know much about leprechaun folklore, but this leprechaun was total trash. He must come from Appalachia as his outfit was completed with a
brown and tan foam-stuffed baseball cap and he had awful teeth and a scruffy beard; the kind that can only come from poor nutrition or too much estrogen. He shouted threats and profanity and although the gun did scare me a little, I couldn't get over the fact that this leprechaun was such a scourge.

A thug leprechaun is a delightful way to dream the night away.

In other news, I have pin pointed the difference in men and women. Yesterday I went fishing with some guys from work. They had been at the lake for hours before I had arrived and the cooler was full of bream. Being men, they, of course, had no need to go indoors during any of this fish fest. That means every time they caught a fish, they man handled it. Every time they baited a hook, the cricket guts stayed on their fingers. Every time they peed, the same hand that was just holding their penis spread those dick germs onto the chair and into the cooler.

I can live with all of these things. The problem came when I brought chips and dip. My newly understood clarity comes down to these two points:

1. Bringing chips and dip to a day of fishing is definitely a girl thing to do.
2. Reaching into that bag of chips and eating food with the hands that have your dick germs, cricket guts, lake water and fish shit on them is definitely a guy thing to do.

I used to have these fantasies about a log-cabin hottie; a man's man with brawn and rugged masculinity. The more time I spend around normal guys, the more I want a guy that carries a bottle of Germ-X in his pocket.

I can see how menstruation could be a little freaky to a man, but that's just nature being nature and not by choice. Other than that, what do women do that is totally gross to a guy? I don't understand how I can love my boys as much as I do- they are foul and disgusting creatures, yet I bring them snacks.

I guess it's a matter of needing someone to bait the hook.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Dissension in the Ranks

The following is an open letter from my work shoes.

Dear Killer,

I have been elected from your shoe supply to bring to your attention some concerns and complaints we have. We would like to offer an opportunity for open, amiable dialogue before more drastic measures are needed.

It is often believed that, as shoes, we are empty objects willing to accept any foot you decide to cram in, but that is very wrong. We have feelings, desires, and most important, a sense of smell.

This brings us to the point of our discussion. Your feet stink. Sure, in a grand sense all feet stink, but yours have become repugnant. Believe me, you would not like it if someone came along and shoved a large, sweaty, malodorous appendage into an orifice of yours.

Another issue is you not wearing socks. You have hair on your toes, I didn't even know that was possible. Even thinking about it right now makes me want to puke up my shoe liner.
A think cotton layer shouldn't be too much to ask for. The preference would be for a thick rubber foot condom, but when someone is cramming a crusty, smelly flab of meat against your tongue, you'll take whatever you can get.

I hope this brings to light just some of the issues we are dealing with, and thus results in some positive changes.
We have a few recommendations: Get a second pair of work shoes, we need a day off every once in a while. Buy some Tough Actin' Tinactin, and for the love of Pete, get some socks. If I have to look at that weird shit growing between your toes any longer I'm going to pull these laces out and strangle myself.

Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter.
Left Work Shoe

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Another Anti-Climactic Christmas

Killer kicks and screams, "gimme, gimme, gimme."

Christmas has passed and, instead of a pre-Christmas wish list, I decided this year to give a post-Christmas listing of the things I wanted, but did not get.

1. Christmas sex.
Come on, how many times does a guy have to post about wanting to get laid before someone gives a helping hand? I have determined that there is a definite lack of sluts reading this blog. I am going to have to take aggressive measures to remedy that for the next year. Maybe I could advertise in some sort of pro-slut periodical. Is there a "Sluts Weekly"?

2. An official Red Ryder carbine action, two-hundred shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock.
The first thing I would do is sit downstairs next Christmas and plug Santa in the Ass for making me wait 25 years to get this. That fat son of a bitch.

3. Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men.
Selfish Middle Eastern, and West African bastards need to quit fighting each other over products to sell to us. I do not really expect to get this gift, but I throw it in to seem like I am compassionate and caring. (to hopefully help out with the first wish)

4. The Salvation Army invades Goodwill.
Every year these two charity juggernauts battle it out for your loose change and old clothes that my fat ass can not fit into anymore. Every year I wish to see a breaking news report that the Salvation Army has amassed it's forces and crushed Goodwill industries in an amazing display of "Shock and Awe". Your an army damn it, act like it.

5. Become financially independent and quit work.
Another year goes by without a lawyer calling me out of the blue to tell me that a long lost Great Aunt or Uncle has died leaving their millions of dollars to me. This one is most painful, because I don't allow anyone to call me from December 23rd until December 26th. I insist on keeping the phone lines open. Usually by the 27th I start calling a few random law firms to ask if they have been trying to get a hold of me. Every year, right after Christmas, each ass I have to wipe at the hospital is a mocking reminder of my middle class bondage.

My Best Worst Day: To Chad With Love

Imagine Casy Kassem is saying:

This very special post dedication goes out to a very special man, miles away from his friends and family, in a foreign country, eating pickled embryo instead of black eyed peas on New Years Eve.Today, it is Chad that has proven to be the muse for Liz. Today, Chad, you are celebrated as the wonderful man you are. This one is for you.

Liz remembers with vague guilt AND pleasure:

About 8 years ago I was living in a rural part of the state, driving to work each day on a winding country road hardly large enough for two compacts much less my compact and a farm tractor pulled by a heavy-duty pick up. Getting onto the highway to start my daily commute was an exercise in patience and mental acuity. One glance at the radio and I could hit a deer, skid on gravel, or be squished by a truck toting chickens to slaughter. I don't recommend started every day this way, but when you live in the sticks this is one of the hazards.

Every day on my drive I would pass a herd of children waiting for their bus, their ages ranging from 6 to 12 years old. They were dumbass country children whose mothers never taught them to STAY OUT OF THE STREET; especially when the street is curvy and people like Liz perpetually run 20 minutes behind schedule.

Nearly every day I would have to come to a complete stop while the dumbass children gathered their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats out of the street and amble to the curve. Nearly every day road rage would overtake me before I had even passed another vehicle. These children could ruin a perfectly good morning commute- spilled coffee from slamming on brakes, starting the morning with horn honking, exasperated sighs of disgust. It was LIKE living in the city, only without the culture and cute outfits.

Things got worse right after Christmas. The matriarch of the dumbass children gave them a puppy. Now every Monday-Friday I would have to wait on the dumbass children to gather their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats and Puddles. Wrangling a puppy is not a quick task. It wasn't so much that my patience was stretched (which it was) as the fact that no one was supervising these children and, if you're going to have unaccompanied minors, at least teach them that kid versus car NEVER ends well.

One day, after a complete stop and assurance that all children were safely huddled on the side of the road, I slowly crept forward. The sound was like stepping on a bag of potato chips. In my rearview mirror I saw the stunned expressions on their dirty little inbred faces. As I eeked forward, I saw the crumbled pile of puppy laying on the asphalt behind me.

I took out Puddles.

As an animal lover, I think I did this puppy a favor. And the best part of this horrible experience is that when the dumbass children saw MY car coming down the street, from that day forward, they got out of the fucking way.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

I Had A Dream

Liz wipes sleep from her eyes:

Somehow, I was in Rosie O'Donnel's house with my dog, Frito. I do not know Rosie O'Donnel nor do I have a black and white dog named Frito. Her house was NOT very Hollywood. I would define it as middle-class at best. The carpet didn't seem very clean and she had not done a very good job of hiding the wires that hooked up her Web TV to the master unit. It was a 50's style ranch, maybe 1,900 square feet. She had a lot of crap in her house- and I mean junk. Old, unattractive things, cheap frames around terrible art prints. I don't think this is how Ms. O'Donnel really lives, but it's a dream... and it gets worse.

Frito had gotten in some trouble. My B/F/F told me that he was causing a ruckus down the street so I went to investigate. The ruckus he caused was at Rosie's. She invited me in. The next thing you know, I'm a house guest... really. Like I was hundreds of miles away from home and crashing at Rosie's... and her girlfriend was out of town.

Rosie was very upset. Madonna had dumped Guy Ritchie and started dating Lionel Ritchie, with plans to marry. She was checking her Web TV for updates. When she left the room, cursing, her private email came on. There was a message from KILLER!! I opened it, knowing that I shouldn't but it was from KILLER! I had to. It was actually a forward of a forward of a forward that had originated from Killer. The forward said, "Hey. A friend sent me this. I think it's funny. Check it out." I remember being jealous that Killer's "work" is being forwarded to Hollywood stars and mine is not.

When it was time to go to sleep, Rosie said that I would be sleeping in her room. Innocent me thought that meant alone. It did not. In my dream, I woke up with Rosie O'Donnel hitting on me. She was laying beside me in bed, rolled over and put her hand on my leg. She was awake. I was faking sleep. I had on clothes but could feel that she did not. I knew that she knew I was not asleep, but I was not going to give in on this one. There is NO WAY that Rosie O'Donnel was going to violate me!

She finally gave up. I lay in bed waiting for her to go to sleep so that I could get out of there. I felt wronged; I had done nothing to indicate that I was into lesbian love. I had been keeping a safe and appropriate distance between myself and Ms. O'Donnel all night. No flirting, no coy remarks, no batting of eyelashes.

Once she was out, I packed up my duffel bag and went to the web TV. I found the message that had originated from Killer and was able to send him a note. It said:

"A naked Rosie O'Donnel just tried to put her hand on my twat. I'm outta here. If I don't make it out alive, you know where I am."

I left Frito with Ms. O'Donnel. After all, I don't have a dog anyway.

Saturday, December 23, 2006

You Hillbillies All Look Alike

Liz observes:

I recognize that this is going to make me sound like a total bitch, but it's not New Year's Eve yet and therefore my resolution to stop sounding like a total bitch hasn't taken effect yet.

Spouses can look alike. Like Ray Ramano says about twins, one ugly one is stunning enough. Two, and you're floored.

The other night I was at a local establishment with some friends. One of the guys there brought his wife. I've seen him before and had never met her. They are both good looking people that happen to resemble each other. This sounds like a win-win on the surface but there is a catch.

Aside from the great bone structure, the most noticeable trait I found in this pair was their thin, almost infantile teeth; too small, gaps, slightly gnarled. This is creepy enough to see on one person but when you have two sitting side by side it will rock your foundation.

I kept waiting for one of them to lose a tooth in their beer. I was TOTALLY ready to put a quarter under a napkin and say it was from the tooth fairy, but I left before it happened. This does NOT mean that the bus boy didn't find a tooth stuck in a remaining hamburger bun as he was cleaning the table.

I found the quarter in my pocket this morning when I was washing my jeans and smiled.

Add to the poor teeth their hillbilly actions. I am so glad that I've almost outgrown the need to tell everybody what a badass I am. Throughout the night I had to hear the tell-tell white trash mantras:
  • Just who does SHE think SHE is? Ms. THANG!
  • Oh! Don't think I won't.
  • She will, too!
  • This mango margarita taste like shit.
  • We met at community college and I wouldn't even talk to him for weeks!
  • I can't wait to have babies! We want at least 4!!!
  • I've got my gun in the truck if he don't stop lookin' over here.
  • Let's go somewhere where we can karaoke. HANK!
  • What size tires you got on your truck?

Don't get me wrong, I had a good time and they're nice enough, just a little bit scary. Hey, I've scared people before too- usually with my stunning wit and enormous breasts, but still...

While at the bar I met a GORGEOUS little hottie from Russia. He had a great accent but an even better ass. We talked for about 45 minutes before separating. He's much younger than me and so far from home...

THAT'S what I want for Christmas. Killer, can you teach me how to say "balls" in Russian?

In other news, I'm becoming addicted to on-line poker since my league is on hiatus.

And I'm quite the badass.

Dear Killer Rants

Killer throws down number 200.

This is the 200th post for 2006 here at Killer Rants. Not bad, considering we did not really get rolling until mid year. I think the goal for next year should be 300 posts. Hell, there are two of us, so that should not be too hard.

I thought I would take this time to dispel some misconceptions about Killer Rants that have come up over this past year.

1. Are Killer and Liz married?
No, in actuality, I have not seen Liz in person in almost a year. We talk via email on occasion, by phone rarely, but can not seem to put together some face time.
Liz and I went to the same High school and have managed to stay close through our shared bond of being non-married, non-child rearing, and still drinking like we don't have to worry about liver cirrhosis. Someday we are going to share a hospital room when we both have Hepatic encephalopathy.

2. Is Killer gay?
This one caught me off guard and was asked as a comment on Immunopressed, even though Othur-me's post had nothing to do with me, homosexuality, or anything of the sort. The answer is no, but, "not that there is anything wrong with that." I lived for a spell in the Castro district in San Francisco and I finally got to see what it was like to be a pretty girl in a bar. I was hit on quite frequently. I loved it. I was given immediate feed back on any outfit before going out to clubs. Most commonly heard remark: "OOO, look at this big bear."

3. Are Killer and Liz really the same person?
This one should probably go unanswered. A little suspense and mystery goes a long way, but since most of our regular readers are fairly literary, it would not take much to deduce we don't write alike.

4. Why do you mention your "balls" so much?
I actually did get asked this by a friend at work, who reads the blog. It was inadvertent at first, but later it became sort of a running joke with me to see how often I can work them in. They don't get enough attention, and Liz has pointed out that whenever they are discussed I get more comments. To me and my very immature friends, which is why I love them, balls is probably the funniest word ever. When we travel to foreign lands it is common to find out how to refer to your testicles in their language and use that word continuously. (IE. "I need to apply some Gold Bond to my huevos.")

Feel free to ask any questions you want in the comments section, and I will answer them to the best of my abilities.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

All I want for Christmas is my extra sharp teeth

Killer types one handed.

Scenario: Me, innocent, loving nurse, working in ICU. ER calls with an admission. 83 yr old female from a nursing home with Pneumonia (the usual). She has a history of Alzheimer's, but is pleasantly confused.

They wheel in this short, plump, cherubic looking lady who is confused as hell. She thinks she is at home in Seattle and it is 1955. I'm fine with that. She can think she is on Mars, as long as she stays in bed.

She immediately starts asking for her teeth. Apparently the ER took them out, and put them in a security box. I tried to convince her that we can get them back in the morning, but she insists that she can not sleep without them. All I want is for her to be happy and sleep, so I can go back to reading my book. I go to the ER and retrieve her teeth.

I hand this smiling, pleasant angel her dentures and she quickly pops them into her mouth. She smiles real big, takes my hand into hers, says, "Thank you sweetie," as she pulls my hand up towards her face. I wonder, "is she going to kiss my hand? This is like the Godfather."

She bites the ever loving shit out of me.

"Now get the hell out of my house!" She screams. All the images of angels and sweet old ladies is instantly replaced with this devil with her face contorted into a picture of pure evil. "Next time I bite you'll pull back a stump. Get out of my house!"

I grab the free Gideon bible out of the side table and make the sign of the cross as I back out of the room in a hasty retreat.

Two hours later she has stopped yelling for the police and is asleep with her deceptively strong mouth gaping open. I sneak into her room with a pair of forceps and a tongue depressor and deftly pry the deadly dentures from her stinky gums and deposit them safely into a denture cup with the words, "do NOT give to patient until discharge" emblazoned across the top.

As I sat outside the room, rubbing my tender hand, I received a phone call from the ER nurse. All she said was, "Did she bite you yet?"

I quietly tiptoed into the room and peeled my warning label off the denture cup. There is one important rule that is applied to all tomfoolery: Don't be the last fool.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

I, Robot

Liz does chores while blogging:

I bought a Roomba. Now I can't stop mutilating the Oompa Loompa song from Willie Wonka: Roomba, roomba, roomidy roo I've got some more vac-u-ming for you.

It sometimes sucks to be trapped inside this head.

So, I now own a robot. This makes me feel good, as I am often toward the end of technology trends. I didn't get my own computer until 2004. I was one of the last people I know that bought a cell phone and mine is plain; no fancy-smancy blackberry for Liz. I don't even have an I-Pod. I think it's in my genes. My family didn't get a microwave or a VCR until I was way old. I was embarrassed that we had to eat hot, fresh food and watch whatever was on TV or, gasp, read. Maybe this is why I couldn't wait to get my driver's license and start drinking.

My new friend Willie does my vacuuming for me. This little dude darts around the house, running into walls and furniture, sucking up cat hair and dust bunnies, getting in those hard to reach places. I like it!

I do have some issues with Mr. Willie. First of all, he has a hard time keeping his batteries charged, so Willie doesn't last long. This is always disappointing. Secondly, he moves about sporadically, where it seems to me that he should find a spot and move in rhythm around that spot, not just dart around blindly like he's never done it before. He's been living here since Friday and we've done this everyday. You would think Willie would learn!

All of a sudden I feel very dirty.

Like I need to go vacuum.

I believe the children are our future.

A post by Uncle Killer

In about four weeks I am going to be an Uncle for the first time. My joys are two fold. First, my Mother will be awarded a Grandchild, so the pressure is off me to end my nomadic, spinster ways. Second, I am going to have unfettered access to a young impressionable mind to nurture and pass along the vast amounts of wisdom I have collected over the years. Most of which I choose to ignore.

Dispensing with the obvious lessons, Don't do drugs, Do good in school, Don't be a racist, Do share you candy with Uncle Killer. Those are more for the parents to instill. I have much more valuable information to share.

* Don't be a LSU fan.
This will be tough considering your Daddy is a Coon Ass. A Coon Ass is a person of Southern Louisiana upbringing. Please don't misunderstand, you will not find a more honest spoken, hard working group of people. Maybe it is something about living in a swamp, mixed with French ancestry, that makes wearing purple and yellow polyester and fervently believing the sun revolves around Baton Rouge an uncontrollable disorder.
I have lived all over the country and there is no sports fan, professional or amateur, more obnoxious than LSU fans.
(note: if you ever meet a person from Southern Louisiana feel free to call them a Coon Ass, they have no shame in the matter.)

* Don't eat your vegetables.
I realized long ago the ugly truth behind the Pro-vegetable propaganda. They taste like crap and they offer nothing you can't get from a daily vitamin and a glass of Metamucil. If you stand strong together we can someday bring those evil broccoli and English pea farmers who secretly control our government to their knees.

* Don't get potty trained.
Right now you can use the bathroom anywhere and anytime you want. Why give that up? Once they trick you into "using the potty like a big boy" you can never go back. Trust me, I have tried. Once everybody associates you with smelling like urine and feces they'll get used to it and you can get on with your care free life. Besides port-a-potties and public restrooms are disgusting. At least you will be able to rest assured you are the only person shitting in YOUR pants.

This is just a small sampling of the nuggets of wisdom I am going to pass along to my nephew. Once I make him into my image I can pass my half of this blog down to him to continue.
I think Liz is leaning towards cloning to keep her half alive, but until that technology is ready I am going to have my nephew prepared as a back up plan.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Pick a Pack of Pickled Perverts

Killer Reminisces

While in college (during the first four years) I worked for the YMCA as Day Camp Director. It is not as prestigious as it sounds. I was primarily the disciplinarian, but since it is now frowned upon to beat children with a paddle or smack them about the head, discipline at a summer camp is fleeting at best.

Basically the 6yr to 8yr olds are easy to control. They are still naive enough to think they have to mind all adults. 14yr to 17yr olds would always listen to me because I am a big guy and they respect size. It is the little shits from 9yr to 13 yrs old that cause the most trouble. They are just starting to realize they can rebel without lasting repercussions, but have not been beaten up enough in high school to fear bigger people.
The general game plan for this age group was to let them run around like crazy without killing themselves or mating with each other.

So, I naturally grew concerned one day when I saw a large group of male counselors all gathered in the 9yr to 13yr old girls section of camp.
It turns out there was an 11yr old girl who was demonstrating a skill that she did not yet fully realize the implications of having.

This innocent young girl could take a whole dill pickle and, in the matter of a few minutes, suck the insides out. She would bite the top off and then dramatically work over the pickle until all that remained was an empty green skin.

This would not seem like a problem except the male counselors would not stop buying her pickles in order to watch her do it. I started having visions of a law suit, or at least an angry phone call from an irate mother.

I demanded they stop buying her pickles, but they just had other kids buy them instead. So, I had to make the guy who worked the concession stand stop selling pickles. (He was very upset about the loss in a top seller. He did not care about the purpose of the product he sold. I think he works for a tobacco company now.) They started bringing pickles to camp with them. These pervs were dedicated.

Finally one day her Mom came in to pick her up and as we were talking she casually said, "I hear she has been getting a lot of free pickles." My heart sank. Here it comes. She just smiled at me and said, "She is going to be very popular in school."

I don't know if Mom knows what she can do with a pickle, or is just pro-slut. That little girl should be about 21 by now. She is probably being actively searched for by a small cadre of ex-camp counselors.

Monday, December 18, 2006

No Shirts, No Shoes, No Blog

Killer lays out the new policies.

After taking a quick inventory around here I have decided that it is time to class this place up a bit. I feel this is the moment for Killer Rants to stop catering to the meager Masses and start providing a higher quality of product. I want to shoot for an uppity boutique of a blog. No more free blogging for you free loaders. From now on, Killer Rants is all about the profit.

Sure we might lose a few of the poorer, less cultured, readers, but the cream will rise to the top and discover the reality of the American mentality. If it is more expensive it HAS to be better. We shall become a status symbol, like a Mercedes or a newly adopted African Baby..

I have nothing against the current readership, but I feel our image would improve if you guys would try a little harder. No more sitting around in your underwear as you read this blog. From now on we are implementing a strict dress code. Business attire is expected at all times, except on Fridays which will be "Hawaiian shirt Friday". Wear your favorite Hawaiian themed garment. This is to show we still like to have fun here at Killer Rants.

I haven't really hammered out all the details yet about the billing and payment process, so for now we will have to rely on the honor system. I want everyone to follow these easy steps.
Get a large jar of bucket, tape/write "Killer Rants Fund" on the side and place it next to your computer. Every time you visit the site place one quarter in the bucket. If you read something that makes you smile, laugh, or just contemplate life differently, put an extra quarter in the bucket. If you don't like or agree with what has been posted, write down your concerns on a small piece of paper and place that in the bucket. DO NOT REMOVE MONEY FROM THE BUCKET! All sales are final, no refunds are offered or given. At the end of each quarterly cycle, please take all the money from the bucket and mail it to me, Killer, President and CEO of Killer Rants.
Take all of those pieces of paper with concerns, comments and criticisms and mail them to Liz, Vice President of Customer Relations.

Together we can make this transition smooth and successful. I'm positive that as time passes you will see how this new program can greatly benefit me, and to a lesser extent Liz, and to an even lesser extent you as well.

Thanks for reading, please put at least one quarter in the bucket.

Killer Rants Industries

The Bus Wasn't Short, I Promise

Liz reminisces:

My favorite bus driver growing up was Roosevelt, but in third grade he moved to California and we inherited Ms. Odom.

Ms. Odom was a BITCH.

I was a GOOD kid in elementary school. Good as in when the teacher left the room, I would take names without being asked. I know. Dork.

My passion for ratting out my peers gave me a spot as a safety patrol on the bus. I got an orange belt and got to carry the flag out in front of the bus to make sure that cars would hit me instead of the heathen child trying to cross the street. I did this all free of charge too!

One day Ms. Odom wrote me up for getting off at the wrong bus stop without a note from my parents giving permission. It was one stop up from my house and I didn't even know you were supposed to have a freakin' note. So there was young Liz, brown eyes filled with tears in the principals office, feeling bewildered and betrayed. I may have even been suspended from the bus, I can't remember. I can only remember the hatred that moment gave me for Ms. Odom.

Once loyal to the Blue Bird, I was out for vengeance.

This bus driver was extraordinarily mean. She truly hated children and, I feel certain, life. I had been one of the few to "defend" her hard-ass ways because she was, after all, the supervising adult. She lost me on that day. Had I weighed more than 75 pounds at the time, this would have been her fatal mistake.

Allow me to explain:

Ms. Odom had one tricky piece to her route. The Hollomans lived at the end of a dead end street with no grace room for a large school bus to maneuver. Every morning and every afternoon, old bag Odom would struggle to turn the bus around. Gears grinding, eyes squinting, shouts of, "Shut up!" occasionally breaking her pursed lips... it was tense.

One rainy afternoon Bitch hole Odom was reversing the bus and we slid into a ditch. No one was injured, but the bus appeared stuck, tilted heavily to the right. Hag Odom flung open the bus door using the metal bar handle and started walking down the bus steps to assess the damage. She slipped on the steps and fell, on her back, into the ditch.

Someone yelled, "Odom's down!" Within 3 seconds, every kid on the bus had leaped to the right side, rocking as heartily as possible in an attempt to tip the bus over. We all wanted her to have the same fate as the witch that gets plowed by the house in the Wizard of Oz. We all wanted her annihilated. I wanted to see the life drain from her eyes as I lay on top of the glass window that squishing her deeper into the mud and closer to Hell where she belonged.

She got up, PISSED, returned to the bus, gave us a sever tongue lashing, and called for a tow truck. We were stuck for an hour on the bus with her. Silence the entire time.

I've told that story to friends before and they usually laugh and then say, "But wouldn't you have felt bad if Ms. Odom had actually gotten smothered by the bus YOU helped to push over?"

No. No I would not.

Ok. Maybe just a little.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Career Dating

Liz's dating scheme:

I may have mentioned that my boss had a Christmas party a few weeks ago for the office. I missed it, which I hate because his parties are always unusual. This year was escargot and a magician. A MAGICIAN!!!

Today I was thinking about that. What if you dated a magician? How would life be different? Would it kind of being like going out with Jesus where things appear out of thin air? Would it be annoying because he would demand that you say "Ta Da" when he entered the room? Would he bring his work home with him as in, "Yea. Rabbits, unfortunately, aren't the only thing I can make disappear."

I see some obvious perks to dating a magician. I could load up on quarters (pulled from behind my ear) and I could pawn him out as my "gift" for friends' children's parties. I could borrow his cape, which I am strangely interested in trying on. Plus, I'll bet he would teach me some of his basic tricks and after we broke up I could use these to woo my next boyfriend; who I think should be a house painter because I've got some cabinets and crown molding in serious need of a touch up.

I think I've been going about this "dating" all wrong. My standards have been decency, humor, interests, attractiveness, and employment status. I really need to start dating based on my immediate needs and ignoring all of those silly prerequisites. Computer running slow? Go out with an IT guy for 2 dates. Hair needs a trim? Find a barber to court. Hate going grocery shopping during the holidays? Hello supermarket bag boy! Come to momma! Back has a kink? Masseuse...which would have to be a long term commitment. That one would be tough to let go of.

See how this works?

When I moved into this house over a year ago, the cable guy gave me free HBO as well as his number. He said that if I wanted to go out to give him a call. I was appreciative of the HBO but didn't want to date him, based on those outdated prerequisites I mentioned. When I got an HDTV I had to have my cable box replaced and when a different guy came to the house, he took my HBO away! It's been about 6 months and I miss having HBO. I should pull out that old service record and give Bubba a call.

Anybody know a reasonably cute janitor? I'm tired of mopping.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Who Farted?

Liz retells:

Last night I was playing in the final tournament in this season of my poker league. It was late, and I had made it into play at the final of the 3 tables. AWESOME and totally unexpected as I went in with a 1 in 3,200 chance of winning. Seriously. That's what my stat was.

Because it was late, I had been drinking and smoking all night. I was talking to a guy when somebody yelled out, "Who farted? Somebody farted!"

I do not like to be around farts.

I kind of ignored all of the hub bub but they wouldn't let it die. Then the guy I was talking to said, "I think the fart is Austin's breath." WHAT?


Then I got all paranoid that MY breath might be mistaken for a fart, so around 10:30, I left. I can think of few things that I might do that would embarrass me more than having the inside of my mouth remind someone of flatulence.

By the way, of 25 players, I ranked 8th in the game. That's good, but payout stopped at 5th place. Oh well. There's always next year and since I'm not the one whose breath smells like an asshole, I'm pretty sure that I will be asked back.

Haiku Friday

Killer shows his cultured side, sort of.

blogging is too hard
being funny every day
when wit fails, say balls.

my feet really stink
biohazard suits are worn
too fat to wash them

i must work tonight
first of seven in a row
old man poop for all

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Egg Head

Liz winces

In order to prove I'm American I plan on gaining 10, no 15 pounds over the holidays. I like to leave no doubt that I'm more patriotic than everyone else.

To help me reach this goal I made some homemade eggnog this weekend. I think there was a scene in Rocky or one of Stallone's porns- probably both- where he drank some raw eggs. As a direct result, raw eggs turn me off. For my nog I found a recipe that allows you to pasteurize, but not fully cook, the eggs. Don't think this is easy. Eggs are a chicken's gift to the breakfast meal so you have to pour the hot milk and cream into the egg and sugar mix very delicately.

I've always been a little heavy handed when it comes to pouring.

The chunks really aren't that big...especially if you shake vigorously before pouring and I learned a really valuable lesson. You CAN have bourbon with your breakfast and it is FANTASTIC!

When I was in high school I tried a variety of "natural" hair remedies. Coffee grounds to accentuate the brunette locks, mayonnaise for shine, beer for strong healthy hair and raw eggs for luster. What I didn't know then that I do know now is that a hot shower will cook eggs too. It was a devastating day when I had thousands of egg pieces floating around in my hair. Thousands of tiny cooked embryo from the scalp all the way down to the ends- and my hair was almost to my waist. I smelled like an under seasoned omelet for at least two days.

No wonder I have egg issues.

I had another food moment come to mind as I was writing this post. Have you ever seen pickled pig's feet in the convienience store? They will pickle any damn part of a pig there is, probably including the asshole, but I know including the lips. Pickled pig lips. No lie. One night in college a friend brought some pickled pig lips over to E's house. We had great fun throwing them at stop signs and pedestrians on the way home.

I feel guilty about that now. Can you imagine how tramatic it would be to be blind-sided by a pickled pig's lip on your walk home? I guess it's better than getting bombarded with a pickled pig's asshole.

The Golden Years of Sex

In continuation of the bizarre topics of discussion at work:
Which Golden Girl Would You Bang?

"Blanche Devereaux" (Rue McClanahan) The slutty one.

This would seem like the obvious choice. She is experienced and likes to get freaky, but she is a slut. The only thing worse than getting a STD is getting a STD from the 19th century. Not only could you get the clap, but she might also carry polio or rickets.

"Rose Nylund" (Betty White) The stupid one.

Stupid chicks are easy targets. You could probably trick her into sex by convincing her you are a doctor and you need to give her a "special exam". She gets disqualified for constantly talking about her dead husband. Major turn off.

"Dorothy Petrillo-Zbornak" (Beatrice Arthur) The male one

I refuse to believe this is a woman. She is seven feet tall with a baritone voice. To quote the 40 Year Old Virgin, "How did you know it was a man?" "Her hands were the size of Andre the Giants, and her adams apple was as big as her balls."

"Sophia Petrillo" (Estelle Getty) The REALLY old one.

We have a winner! Small and sassy, just like I like 'em. She's so old, in her early twenties she sold veggie burritos and bootlegged powder wigs outside of Mozart concerts. That just guarantees no risk of a long term relationship. That's always a winning trait.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Memorable Quotes and Conversations With Patients

"I'm just scratching my balls. If I ever need help for that I will kill myself."

"You're too fat to be a nurse, go lose twenty pounds and try again."

"A man nurse! Their gonna let that bitch, Hillary, be President, and my nurse has a dick. What has happened to America?"

"Your not giving me a suppository! Look at the size of your fingers!"

Patient one: "You have to move me, the guy in the next bed smells like elephant shit."
Patient two: "You spend much time around elephant shit?"
Patient one: "No, that's why I gotta move."

"After you wipe my rear I want you to show me the toilet paper so I can assess my stool." (studies used toilet paper for about a minute) "My doctor says my paralysis is all psychological. Does that look like the stool of a crazy person?"

Patient: "I think the woman in the next bed has had a bowel movement.
Me: "That bed is empty."
Patient: "Well that just leaves you and me, and I think I would know if I had a bowel movement."
Me: "I'll go the bathroom and check." (It was her)

Patient: "You guys are always poking me with a needle. What, do you charge per stick?"
Me: "Yes, the more sticks the more I get paid."
Patient: "I knew it! I can't wait to tell my brother, he said that was ridiculous."
Me: "I was only joking. I just like sticking people with a needle. I'd do it for free."
Patient: "Oh, well I'm going to tell him anyway, he's an asshole when he's right."

Patient: "A male nurse? Why aren't you a doctor?"
Me: "I was but my patients kept dying so they demoted me."
Patient: "Can you become a doctor again?"
Me: "If you live through the night I'm one step closer."
Patient: "What if I die?"
Me: "I have to work in the cafeteria."

Sunday, December 10, 2006

The Lighter Side of Child Abuse

This weekend, while seeing "Blood Diamond" at the theater, I was forced to endure one of my greatest pet peeves. A couple decided to sit behind me with their four year old daughter. I am not sure why you would bring your four year old to "Blood Diamond", especially the 10pm show.

If I go see a kids movie, which I frequently do, I expect and openly embrace the presence of precocious little tykes talking, laughing, and running around. If it is a R rated, two hour and fifteen minute movie, keep your loin fruit at home.

This was not just a regular four year old either, this was obviously an ADD afflicted child being raised by the kind of idiots you see on Nanny 911.

They arrived a few minutes late and I was lucky enough to have them choose the available seats next to me. I didn't really notice the child at first, since I was watching the damn movie, but she quickly made herself known when she started screaming. I gave the parents the cursory exasperated look, received the apologetic smile, as Mom told the little shit, "sweetie, Mommy wants to hear the movie, remember to stay quiet." I knew it was only going to get worse.

They managed to keep her from screaming for a spell by giving her some nachos. She was standing up in the seat and there was an empty seat between us, she would take a chip and look at me and chomp, chew and sputter with her mouth open, while 95% of the chip ended up on me. It was like sitting next to a wood chipper. I quit eating my popcorn after it started tasting like nacho cheese. When she was tired of the nachos she started jumping back and forth between her seat and the empty one next to me. She would even grab hold of my arm and hold onto to me for a few moments. I was flabbergasted. Shouldn't her parents be teaching her not to cling onto strangers? Shouldn't her parents make her sit still? I quickly realized it was going to be my responsibility to help shape the future generation of America. The first plan was to poke her in the eyeball, but I decided to be a little more surreptitious.

She pounced back into her own seat to get a drink from her Mom, so I took the opportunity to raise the seat up. I figured it would at least keep some distance between us so I would not be tempted to follow through with the eyeball stabbing. She got a big gulp from her Mom's beverage and, without looking first, leapt backward to the seat that was no longer there. I wish I could show it in slow motion. She had one foot on her chair and one in mid air, her small little arms started flailing wildly like a wounded bird, and then she fell.

I caught her by the shoulders. Her Dora the Explorer sneaker kicked ferociously in the air and sent her unfinished nachos, cheese and all, onto her Mom. Mom jumped up with a nice coating of canned nacho cheese in her lap. The little shit stood up and started crying maniacally because her nachos were gone.

The theater was alive with angered shushing and passive aggressive groaning. Mom snatched up the screaming little shit and walked out of the theater. Dad continued watching the movie, not only did he not move to help, but I think he was one of the angry shushers.

About twenty minutes later, Mom returned with little shit, who was now clutching tenaciously to a bag of peanut M&Ms. The girl sat still for about three M&Ms before squeezing past me and getting into the aisle. Her parents never seemed to notice. She slowly worked her way down to the front of the theater, staring at everyone as she went, and still carrying the giant bag of M&Ms. She gradually built up more speed going up and down the aisle until finally she was practically running back and forth. I was just fantasizing about tripping her on her next pass when the guy in front of me did.

She flew forward and there was a loud splat. The first five seconds all I heard was the sound of hundreds of M&Ms loudly rolling down the slope towards freedom, and then she started screaming. Mom got up to check on her (surprisingly slowly), picked her up (I did not see any blood or anything) and left the theater. Dad kept watching as if nothing ever happened. I mentally high fived the guy in front of me who took the initiative to offer the little girl a valuable life lesson, and then I watched the rest of the movie in peace and quiet.

If Cows Could Rant

Liz says between spits:

I am a city girl. Love the city, love the hustle and bustle, love the creativity and adventure, love the convenience. I must confess, however, that I have a link to the country way of life which has also influenced the lenses through which I see the world.

You see, about 12 years ago my citified parents done up and moved to the middle of nothing! They live in a small town where people actually use terms like, "We're going into town," and "yonder". They live in a place where TWICE farming accidents have claimed the lives of people who live on their street. Last week, they came very close to losing a third.

John, the neighbor, was trying to wrangle his cattle into a pen. He noticed one lone cow out in the pasture- stubborn little heifer- who would not come in. So John, cow proprietor, moseys out into the pasture and starts trying to lead the cow into the pen. The cow goes INSANE!

John was charged, trampled, and then, as if having a ton of beef on your chest isn't bad enough, was PICKED UP by the cow and rammed against a tree.... repeatedly. This cow was out to kill. This is the Steven Segal of the bovine world. This cow was TIRED of taking it from the man!!

Some of many injuries include 6 breaks in one leg and, on that same side, a shattered pelvis. FROM A COW!

I never knew that behind those blank stares cows were plotting. I didn't realize that cows had opinions about where they wanted to be. I knew BULLS were aggressive, but not COWS. I guess Women's Lib has extended to the animal world as well.

So, the next time you slide into that well-loved pair of leather boat shoes, ease into that oh-so retro bomber jacket or pick out a cute clutch to take with you to the party, remember, some one may well have risked his life for you to look that good.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Blah, Meow, Blah.

Lid sez froo topped up no:

It's been a rough day in the Liz household. I am sick. I didn't feel well last Saturday, but today I am sick. Why am I reserving illness for the weekend? That, in itself, is some kind of sickness isn't it?

Leon is also sick. It appears he got whooped up on by some other cat. I would hate to see the other cat because I know Leon to be a bad ass that will take you DOWN if you so much as glance in his general direction. I took said bad ass to the vet yesterday. Diagnosis? Scratches inside the ear. Possible cat bite on the face. Yikes. I don't know if you know this or not, but a cat scratch can make you really ill- even if you're another cat. Ted Nuggent wasn't exaggerating. You can get a fever.

The problem with having a sick cat is giving medicine to the cat. Cats do not mind well and, at least my two, cannot be suckered in by disguising the medication in a "treat". A cat will puke up a pill in a heartbeat and stand beside the pile licking himself, waiting to watch you clean it up. The medicine I'm to give Leon is in a dropper. It's hot pink. Now, my walls are hot pink with coordinating hot pink splotches on the carpet.

Even worse is trying to wrangle him for the medical administration. Herding cats is not easy. When I start doing ANYTHING that signals it's admin time, he darts under the bed and perches right in the impossible to reach middle. I have to poke him out with a coat hanger. Once he's out, hes running full speed and finding a new hiding spot. Before I can even get up, he's hidden again. Repeat 12 times and that tells you the kind of day I'm having.

What happens if I mix my cold and flu meds with bourbon? Will I survive the night? At this point, that's really all I'm interested in.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Unwanted Skills Of My Friends

Being a friend of Killer's, I do not think his skill of being able to sense if I've shit myself is all that great. I mean, I sometimes get pretty loaded and after a night of hardcore drinking there may well be a day when Killer knows before I do that I bet on a fart... and lost. If this EVER happens, I want the courtesy minute of being able to figure it out for myself and take care, best I can, of the accident before it is BROADCAST, as I assure you it would be, to everyone within a 4 mile radius.

I have more friends with "skills" that I find totally obnoxious. Yet I love them anyway because they overlook my "skills" of making all your beer disappear and talking for hours without a taking a breath. I should have been a ventriloquist- the perfect union of my two best talents.

Unwanted skills from my Nursing career

I have an ever growing list of skills I have obtained from my seven years of nursing. It is always expanding, and a lot of those skills are very much unwanted. Here is a few examples:

1. I can tell the difference between gangrene, necrotizing fasciitis, and 3rd degree burns by the smell.

2. I can sense if someone shits themselves, like a Jedi Knight of poop.

3. If someone were to walk up to me and take a shit on my shoes, I can nonchalantly say, "It's happened before."

4. I can eat a candy bar while bagging a dead body.

5. I know that little old ladies with dementia can be very horny and grab any part of you within reach.

6. I am all too aware of the amazing assortment of items people shove up their ass, and then be surprisingly modest when it requires a large medical team to remove it.

7. I know that in order to get a homeless guy to not smell like a homeless guy you have to rub him down with water and a large amount of bleach.

8. I know in order to rub a homeless guy down with water and a large amount of bleach you first have to give him two chocolate pudding cups and 5mg valium.

If anyone is considering a career change, I strongly suggest a long look at this list.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


Liz learns that matches are for cigarettes and computer dating only:

Well a fart has brought down a plane. I have been saying for YEARS that public flatulence (cutting one in my presence) never leads to any good. FINALLY. I have documentation to support it.

Don't believe me? The proof is in the pooting:

Flatulent passenger grounds flight

Millions of years of evolution all leading to me

A Walking Stick (Baculum Extradentatum) is a bug who looks exactly like a stick. Evolution narrowed down all the less stick looking members of his species until only the stickiest ones were getting laid and having even more stick looking kids.

A Firefly (Arthropoda Photinus) lights up his ass so he can, well, get some ass. That retarded firefly, Jimmy, can't light his ass up, and therefore he still lives at home with his parents. On Friday night when the other Fireflies all have their asses a-blaze he is playing with himself and the species grows stronger.

There are millions of examples of evolution taking place right before our eyes everyday. I think I might be on the losing end of Darwin's grand idea. I 'm 33 and have not yet added to the propagation of our species. Is that evolution working it's magic or am I just too lazy to find a home for my anxiously awaiting sperm to make that final dash into destiny? Could I be carrying the crucial mutation needed to take Mankind to the next level?

I just might be more advanced than the rest of you normal humans. So what if I can't fly, or if I have webbed feet? There are some special things about me and I am going to use them to make my case.

I have a thick layer of insulating "fatty" tissue and a protective covering of fur enveloping me. Sure today's society views these as unappealing, but I bet the first Firefly to light his ass up was seen as a freak as well. Then the ladies realized they could not spot any other guys in the dark, so his shiny ass suddenly was swamped with horny bugs.

If we enter another ice age, I am going to be nice and toasty warm, and so will the post-apocalyptic babe that is clinging tenaciously to my fat, hairy torso.
If we allow global warming to turn the earth into a desert landscape, I will be able to outlast all the skinny "in-shape" guys by subsisting on my ample stores of calories, and my thick luxurious coat, although a tad warm, will protect me from the deadly UV rays. I could probably shave off a little patch and make a protective coat for my special lady companion as well.

I think that offers up a pretty good case of my importance in the future of Homo Sapiens. I 'm still too lazy to get out there and argue this case in a bar or to a single woman at the grocery store. So, if you know anyone print this out and give them a copy. They will want to get on board before everyone else realizes my value and the competition gets fierce.

Who knows, if you make the referral, after society crashes down around us, I might make you a protective coat from my body hair also.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

A New Episode

Liz continues:

I had followed my hairdresser around to a couple of different salons. Due to the afore mentioned cocaine addiction (8 ball variety, I'm sure), she didn't stay in one place more than 6 months. Although she wasn't working out of high end establishments where a dry cut will cost $75, she was at least working in reputable places. That didn't last either.

The GH (generous hairdresser) called me on my cell phone one day. After she had moved out of the living arrangement she had with the Vet in the hotel, she left her job and moved in with a girl friend. GH was calling to tell me that she had relocated and wanted me to be able to find her. After some chit chat about how I had been trying to get in touch with her (her phone had been cut off and the most previous salon wouldn't disclose her new location) she gave me directions to her new place of employment: her friend's house.

OK. I KNEW better. I KNEW I shouldn't cross that line but hell, I can't help myself. She knows my hair AND trashy isn't a crime in itself. What I didn't realize is the affect being in a salon had on her. She WAS being professional (in her world) when she was "working" for someone else. But running the "shop" out of her buddies house? Hell, that's a fucking free-for-all.

She answered the door in a loose, nylon tank top without a bra- the kind of shirt that, although not form fitting, gave me intimate knowledge of her areola. Also there was her "roommate" and her roommate's married trucker boyfriend. He stops by when he's trucking through town, bangs some of dat, and rolls on. An interesting side note is that the roommate is also banging a police officer (married) who patrols their neighborhood to make sure their house isn't burglarized (yeah, I'm sure he's not OVERLOOKING any illegal activity or anything). The cop will call roommate at any hour of the night, roommate will get up, unlock the door, take a shower and when she gets out of the shower, he's sitting in a chair in her room. She pretends NOT to see him and masturbates while he watches. But I digress.

I was mildly surprised that they were all drinking tequila and it wasn't even 5 PM. There were also several opened prescription bottles on the table next to the booze. I guess someone had a cold or something. I am not one to judge such things. I do, however, have stringent rules about PDAs (public displays of affection); every one of which was violated by roommate and trucker. Of course, this wasn't public, this was roommate's house. They can do whatever they want to do in the house/business... right? Ten or fifteen slaps on the ass, a couple of hands on crotches, some titty grabbing... ok. I was uncomfortable. Watching people makeout and grind in front of me while my hair is processing urks me a bit. Hearing 30 minutes of, "I'm going to fuck you so hard. Come her and let me feel you." "Oh, you're going to fuck me hard, huh? How are you going to fuck me. What are you going to do?" I kept trying to find new things to look at. I tried to go to a safe place inside my mind.

I'm a prude, what can I say?

GH also wanted me to watch TV with her. THIS was weird. Roommate and trucker had gone out for dinner and GH and I were on the couch watching TV on demand. Some comedian that she found HILARIOUS. I probably would have laughed more, but I kept looking around waiting for:
  1. The cops to bust the joint
  2. Whatever stain was closest to me to touch my clothes
  3. The malnourished cats to die in front me
  4. My purse to mysteriously disappear

It was very harrowing.

This was the LONGEST trip to the "salon" ever. We finally washed out my hair in the kitchen sink. NO LIE there were dishes in the sink including what looked like a dried bowl of chili only inches from my head.

There's more... I just can't go back there.

Once I left, I SWORE I would never do that again.

That was about 7 months ago. She called last night. She's been in Birmingham with the FEMA fuck (ex-ex-ex boyfriend's best friend) and they are currently living in a hotel near my town. She was just calling to let me know she's back. Although she hasn't had a valid barber's license in over a year, she's getting ready to set up shop again soon. She asked me if I had considered adding red highlights to my hair since it's winter.

I know I'm an idiot, but I'm ((THIS)) close to being her first appointment. My hair hasn't met it's full potential since she ditched town.

Monday, December 04, 2006

A Rerun from Liz

I'm reposting my very first blog post ever- but for a reason. The reason will be summed up in a future posting. It's like a cliffhanger.

I hate cliffhangers. Sorry.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

The Generous Hairdresser

I have decided to make my first blog entry about my hairdresser because I find this story hysterical and everyone else I've shared it with has been violently disgusted. You be the judge.

Last night my drug-addict hair dresser told me that she’s JUST (as in yesterday) gotten out of the local mental institution where she did a 28 day stint at rehab. She always gives me these updates on the men in her life. About 6 months ago she was on a “tour” of sleeping with all of her ex-boyfriend’s best pals as a method of revenge on him for cheating on her. Classy. Next came a Vietnam Vet who lived with her in a motel for a little while before being able to score a FEMA trailer after a hurricane destroyed the home he never lived in, owned, or rented but was able to somehow claim. Currently she is sleeping with a younger guitar player who looks like Napoleon Dynamite but is physically “gifted” in ways that might not be obvious to the causal observer. She is struggling because she loves to be loved by him, but she finds him slightly repulsive to look at AND he has an obnoxious laugh.

Now, I LIKE this chick. She is TRASHY but she cracks me up. I wouldn’t trust her alone in my house- hell, I don’t even want her to know where I live- but I really dig her quick wit and hilarious spin on things. She’s asking me what to do about Napoleon (maybe I should call him "Dynamite") so I ask questions- getting a sense of the guy. IS he a good man? How close, exactly, is he to too ugly to screw? I mean, for some people they’ll hump anything that can’t outrun them and I’m thinking she might be like that, you know? She keeps going back to the fact that his "member" is so big they need to make a plaster mould out of it and display it. I’m trying to move beyond the anatomy and get to the “meat” of the issue. (Really, no pun intended).

Then it happens:My hair dresser, who told me that at one time she HAD hepatitis, my hair dresser, who has willingly disclosed that she’s sleeping on the couch at her youngest daughter’s boyfriend’s mother’s house (who, incidentally has a gambling problem), my hairdresser whose oldest daughter is in prison for federal burglary, my 42 year-old hairdresser who once told me that 3 years ago she had a one-night stand with a boy so young that she had to DRIVE HIM HOME the next day and they passed his mom WHO WAS RIDING AROUND IN HER SUBURBAN LOOKING FOR HER SON WHO MISSED CURFEW (he ducked down in the passenger’s seat but was still spotted by his mother) THIS hairdresser offered up Napoleon to ME for a free sample!!! I can’t HAVE him all the time, but if I want to see why it’s such a hard decision, I’m free to ask for the hookup and she’s willing to provide. We can share him, because, to quote her, “This stuff is too good for just one woman. You deserve a treat!”


Although flattered (?), I am mortified!!! Do you think this was a 3-way invite or just extreme generosity? Is a sex partner really the type of thing you want a first-hand second opinion on? Once you have Hepatitis does it really go away?

I left the salon with MUCH lighter hair than intended due to the rambling story of Napoleon, but with a tale that I consider the perfect example of microblogology.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Isn't Christmas the Season for Giving?

A plea for generosity from Killer

Top Ten Reasons To Have Sex With Me

  1. Young go getter. Eager to please.
  2. Willing to try new things, with new people, in new places.
  3. Would never suggest "back door action". (unless your into that, then refer to #2)
  4. Very discrete, I probably won't remember your name.
  5. Have read Othur-me's infamous How to eat coochie post multiple times.
  6. Thinks that "size doesn't matter" is grossly wrong. (legal disclaimer: No guarantee of large penis)
  7. STD free since 2003!
  8. Can borrow any needed sex toys from Liz. (she's a perv)
  9. Have some great ideas for role playing. (one where you dress like Chewbacca and I am Luke Skywalker, and we are stuck in the trash compactor on the Death Star...Well you get the idea.)
  10. It is the holidays and I know you can use the extra money.

This Tastes Like A Napkin

Liz invites you to chew on this:

Have you heard of Opaque, a restaurant in LA where the dining experience is in TOTAL darkness? Total as in BLACK? Can't see your hand in front of your face? Meals are $99 per person before tips, taxes, and cocktails. The servers are blind or visually impaired but this IS NOT an experiment in equal opportunity employment; it is a total for-profit business. The servers are blind because they are used to navigating without sight. The patrons are obviously also impaired, though mentally, with too much disposable income.

The rest of this post is extremely entertaining and will cost you $99 to read. Oh, and if you can't see it, that's the beguiling angle I'm taking now. After all, I see a trend developing... even if you can't see it.

Friday, December 01, 2006

The Future Looks Bright

Killer ponders the future.

The previous post by Liz discusses a group of people who enjoy doing reenactments of Civil War, or the olden' days. It made me wonder, in a couple of hundred years how will the reenact us.

It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon in 2206, and the XJ-72 family has decided to take the kids to the American History museum downtown. They load up their 7 year old daughter, Glorm, and their 10 year old son, Peter (they were in a retro phase), into the transport tube and get whisked away downtown. They arrive at a rather grand and ancient looking high rise building. They walk through the "door". "Why didn't they just teleport to inside the building?" Asked little Glorm. "Well, the people back then were not very smart." Replied Dad, "they had to wait in a big line of cars for hours and then walk to the building and come through those holes." "They were idiots." Snorted Peter. Mom looked at Peter and thought about how they only had one more year to decide if they were going to keep Peter or donate him for Stem cell research. Abortion laws allowed the parents until 11 years of age. She had not quite made up her mind yet.
The family walked to the ticket counter, and there selling tickets was a man dressed very strangely. He was wearing an extremely large tank top that said "Bulls" on it, and had a baggy pair of shorts on that showed his butt. Glorm could not contain her giggling. She had never seen anyone not wearing the standard ultra violet protection suits that were required by law. The man behind the desk smiled at her and said in a very bizarre accent, "Yo, you be making fun of my clothes and shit? I pull out my piece and cap a bitch." The whole family just laughed, no one understood anything he just said.
They walked to the first exhibit and it was a gleaming white room with a metal table in the middle and filled with sharp objects and vacuum hoses. "Oh my, said Mom, what is this?" "A man walked into the room wearing green pants and a shirt with a mask over his mouth. "This is where we change how ugly people look." "What is an ugly person?" Inquired Peter. "You see long ago some people did not like the way their face looked, or how fat they were, so they paid money to have me change it." Glorm looked very upset by this. Mom bent down beside her and put an arm around her. "Don't worry honey, there have not been any ugly people since the Ugly War of 2054. They were wiped out, and so we don't have to worry about them anymore, all thanks to President Paris Hilton."
They walked through several more bizarre and astonishing exhibits. They almost stormed out in disgust and disbelief after the bathroom exhibit. Glorm did not stop crying for 20 minutes once they explained what the "toilet" was for. They finally came to the final exhibit. It was a man wearing a fuzzy robe and slippers, sitting in front of a small box with pictures showing on the front. He was punching random buttons on a pad in front of the box. He looked very intent and did not ever look away from the box. Another man, also wearing a robe and slippers stood beside him and addressed the onlookers. "This is a computer. It was used back in our time to look up naked pictures of other people and to write blogs." The whole family looked perplexed, and finally Dad said, "I don't understand. Why did they not just use their brain implant to look at naked pictures, and what the hell is a blog?" "Sir, they did not start implanting brain communicators until 2100. A blog was a web log where one person would talk about random items in their day and other people would go to their computer to read it." "Oh, so it was like a book, by a writer." Declared Mom, looking reassuringly down at Glorm. "Oh no, any nut job with a computer could write a blog." Peter looked disgusted, "Why did anyone read it? You guys were stupid back then!" Then he ran over to the computer and pushed it off on to the floor. The robed man let out a sigh of frustration, "Look kid, I only get minimum wage to do this job. A lowly $565 an hour. I don't get paid enough for this shit."
As they were leaving Mom looked at the back of her son's head as he was walking ahead of her, and thought to herself. "What a pain in the ass, oh yeah, he is so getting aborted as soon as we get home."