More Proud Uncle Posting

Killer rebelling against his parents well into his thirties.

Great, I'm grounded. Usually it would not be a big deal, but the old parental adage, "If you live under my roof, you follow my rules," is hard to deny when you are too cheap to get a hotel. I got in trouble for the last post. Not the comments about my parental home being a cosmic oddity of weight gain, but because I brazenly committed a cardinal sin. I made fun of my Mother's dog.

We will discuss that topic more later, but first some pictures of my nephew. This is Kade. You can see the close resemblance we share. He is even cutting his hair to look like mine. He obviously worships his Uncle Killer.


This is him made up for night on the town, which apparently babies are quarantined for the first month , so he gets all dressed up to hang out in the living room. Check out those sharp corduroy pants, that is my kind of classy.


This is Kade after drinking too much. Sprawled out in a puddle of his own vomit, with a distant look in his eyes, wondering, "Was that really a girl?" He's a rock star just like me.


Enough about the baby...let's get back to the subject that has me on time out.

This is a picture of a proper Miniature Pinscher. Notice the svelt body, the alert ears. This guy means business. The average weight for a Min-Pin is 8 to 10 pounds.



Meet Snuffy, my Mother's pride and joy (before the recent arrival of Grandchild #1). He weighs in at an obviously conservative estimate of 22 pounds. Being an optimist I must add that is like getting two Min-Pins for the price of one. One of Snuffy's biggest problems is he never gave up his "lap dog" status. I can be innocently napping on the couch when he comes tear assing through the house and leaps onto my lap. Nothing says good afternoon like 22 pounds of meat pouncing on your nut sack.


This next one is a solo shot of Snuffy doing what he loves to do, search the house for dropped food. I would have gotten a shot of him begging at the dinner table, but begging would imply that he thought there was a snow ball's chance in hell that he would not be given scraps. He has learned that he is going to get all the leftovers, so begging is beneath him.


Well, this post is not going to go over very well. I might lose my computer privileges, so if I don't post for a few days you will know why.

Killer Rants Million Dollar Challenge

Killer sharing the wealth by borrowing from Burg.

I have just been sent an amazing opportunity from a close friend of my Cousin's Brother-in-law. It seems that Bill Gates and Warren Buffett have decided to give away a few billion dollars each, since they can obviously spare some change.

Instead of dumping it off on a bunch of "starving" African kids they decided to give it to honest working folks like you and me. Why keep shipping food, water, and medicine to people who live in a desert. If they need it so bad, make them come to us, we have plenty.

Since both Bill and Warren read this blog on a regular basis, they have chosen Killer Rants to be a testing board for their new money disbursement program. All you have to do is go to the comment section, select a number between 1 and 10,000, and leave it along with your comment. Everyone that comes within 500 of the actual number, chosen at random by Bill Gates' smartest computer geeks, will receive one million dollars, tax free.

To make it even more appealing, if you get someone else to come here and guess a number and they win, you will get one million dollars as well. Don't worry, Bill Gates and Warren Buffett know who you send, they are rich and can afford to keep track of those kinds of things.

Don't miss out on this once in a lifetime opportunity. I have seen very realistic internal memos on paper that says, "From the desk of Billy Gates", so I am convinced this is on the up and up. If you miss your chance, don't come crying to me when I am wiping my ass with hundred dollar bills.

Kade, welcome home. Here's a cheesburger.

Killer, proud Uncle, but wants more.

I have made back to Mississippi and have managed to spend a few days with my new nephew. He drools, makes funny noises, and his head just flops around. He is kind of like a stroke victim, but in a small, convenient travel size.

His name is Kade. At first this bothered me since it seemed a little strange, and I am never going to be able to find fake license plates or key chains with his name on them. Now, I have grown to like it. I am going to save a ton of money on crappy tourist gifts.

My sister is doing great as a first time mom, she is a Neonatal Intensive Care nurse, so she knows what to do in an emergency. But, it frightens me when she is breast feeding and talks about how easy it would be to put an IV in Kade's head, as she lovingly traces the veins along his scalp. (For those who don't know, that is where they put them in babies.) It is hard to turn off certain skills.

He eats A LOT, and in my family that is pretty much normal. The first thing I told him he was thrust into my arms was, "I'm sorry, but you are going to be fat. You have no choice."
My family home is in some sort of cosmic worm hole that prohibits weight loss and acts as an appetite stimulator. Even the dogs are fat. My Mother has a miniature pincher that looks like a black watermelon with four toothpicks holding it up. Every time I come home he gets really excited and runs maniacally around the room. I can't help but plan out how to do CPR on a small dog, for when he invariable has a small doggy coronary.

I am going to enjoy this little kid. I hope he can fight off the family curse obesity but keep the family gift of smart assedness.

Things of Little Use

Liz reflects on her experiences:

I get the whole "different strokes for different folks" thing. As a matter of fact, I really enjoyed Different Strokes back in the '80's. Here, however, are some things that I personally find of little use:

• Larry the Cable Guy. Last night I went over to a friend's house and we watched Larry The Health Inspector. I wasn't expecting much, but the Blue Collar Comedy Tour is funny enough and, being one open to new things, I thought I'd give this movie a shot. Aside from the line, "Have you ever farted so hard it made your back crack?" the movie was .25 stars. Ok, that's not fair. It was probably .5 stars. That's easier to color in. But the real star is Larry the Cable guy... who should be fixing my car instead of being famous. He's just not funny to me. There. I said it. Revoke my southernness.
• My massage chair. It's not one of those real massage chairs, it's a vibrating massage chair. What a waste. All it does is make my back itch and give me a headache. For sale. Price? Whatever a real massage chair costs.
• John Mayer. I keep wanting to like this guy. I try really hard to enjoy him, but it just doesn't click for me. He was on television, I think Austin City Limits, and I tried watching some of it. I knew if I stuck with him, I'd be a fan. Instead, it's the only time I ever recall wishing that PBS had commercials.
• $4 coffees. I like coffee. It didn't start until 30 years old, but now I'm passionate about a steaming cup of joe. Although I like Starbucks and Seattle Drip, there ain't nothing wrong with Folgers from the red can. Coffee snobs who will not drink anything other than Starbucks really are idiots. It's ok to judge their entire contribution to humanity based on this one factor.
• CSI: 5 spin offs. Let me qualify this by saying that I have never seen a single episode of any CSI. However, there can't be a valid need for one crime drama to have so many spin offs. As useless as the Flavor Flav spin off, I Love New York.
• Paula Abdoul. I like her, but she's useless.
• Blogs about what you are eating every day. These food diaries may help people lose weight, which is great, but electing to publish them on the Internet seems a little psychotic to me. When I stumble across some one's food diary, I have to ask, "Why the fuck?"
• Anything with "Boob Inspector" written on it is useless. Most men are boob inspectors. We know this. Stating the obvious on a baseball cap seems a little useless to me.
• Morning breath. Why? Is there any biological reason this is a necessity? Is God against morning intercourse or something?
• Fashion trends. When you stop and think about it, tribal groups have been wearing pretty much the same thing since the loom was invented. Why are industrialized countries so obsessed with fashion trends? Really, clothes are for warmth and modesty, right? Why did I JUST pay $85 for a pair of blue jeans? Stupid. That's why.
• Puppy mills. Oh. I can't even go here. Let me just say that unless you're planning on entering your dog in a beauty contest, please consider the pound before you shell out $500 or more on a dog. There are a lot of people out there who think of your puppy as nothing more than money, so the treatment they provide for Mr. Rocky is less than humane. Meanwhile, there are great pets sitting in cold cages waiting for a good home. Please? It gives you brownie points with God to rescue abandoned animals.
• Men married more than 4 times. Hey, I know several. If they've gone through 4 marriages, it's not them, it's him. A man willing to commit at that level is of little use to me.
• A new Rocky movie. I'm even worried about the upcoming Indiana Jones movie. I LOVE Indiana Jones. LOVE IT.... but I'm really nervous about this decision. I'm keeping my fingers crossed- which is totally useless because it's either going to suck or not suck.
• Hate crimes. Damn it, people, why are there still hate crimes in the United States? You don't like gay people, ok, whatever, but why hate to the point of violence? A Muslim lives in the apartment over you? So? Unless he's plotting his own hate crime, which he very likely is NOT, what's the problem? Illegal aliens? I resent them because of economic reasons, but I can't hate them. Especially to the point of chasing after them with heavy sticks. Hate crimes only show us how uncivilized we really are. Want to truly find out who the idiots in this world are? Ask them about some race issue. If they generalize ad nausea, they are idiots- black, white, or other. Useless idiots.
• World's Best Boss coffee cups. I want one, but useless.

Leave me a lone, or face the wrath

Travel can be Killer

I am waiting to board a plane to Phoenix, then on to Mississippi. Several times flying to Mississippi, from around the world I have seen people I know while in connecting airports. It is not that the world is such a small place, as much that, Mississippi does not have many people venturing from within it's borders. When you find a gathering of people heading BACK to Mississippi, chances are you might now one of them.

This run in ruins my travel routine. I don't want to talk to anyone on the plane. I don't want to rekindle old friendships or reminisce about old times. I just want to sit and play a computer game, read a book, or just veg out with some music. I have limited time. I don't need any new friends.

The only thing worse is the stranger that wants to discuss things with me on the plane. I reiterate my preference for no new friends. Would it be rude to wear a tshirt that says, "No Friend Vacancies?" I don't want to hear about your kids, your vacation, or what you think about my book. I just want to sit here and stew in my flying funk.

Yes, there is an overly friendly person next to me right now, and I am typing this up hoping she is reading over my shoulder. I will cut and paste this to a post at the wait over in Phoenix. If she doesn't get the point, I am going give her the brown eye as soon as she falls asleep.

The Truth is Boring

Killer is a filthy liar

When on the road by myself, I often lie to bartenders about my job. I don't know why, but saying travel nurse gets boring and always illicits the same questions. "What's that? Where are you from?" When I answer Mississippi, I get a look that implies the following thought process, "is he in the KKK? Can he read? Does he live in a trailer? Does he sleep with his own kin?"
The answers are always, No, Yes, No, Sometimes.

It's a challenge to invent a career instantly and believably. The secret lies in choosing a field that is both confusing and so ridiculous no one can verify it's truth. It also helps to be able to judge other's gullibility. The following are a few of my favorite pseudo careers and snippets from the conversations that they created.

I'm a Free Lance Astronaut
BT: "What's that?"
ME: "I got tired of the government and all their archaic "weight" requirement bullshit at NASA, so I now am a free agent, and work for any yahoo with a rocket ship."
BT: "Who else has rocket ships?"
ME: "Other countries, but the language barrier is trouble, so I mostly work for private American companies. You know, deliveries for the space station and satellite repair jobs."
BT: "What made you decide to be an astronaut?"
ME: "When I was little I really loved Tang."
Did she believe me? Not sure, I got a free beer, but she was young, and I believe she thought "Tang" was a code word for Vagina.

I do Voice Overs for Commercials
BT: "Do you do any big commercials?"
ME: "Right now I am involved in a national campaign for Valtrex."
BT: "The herpes medicine?"
ME: "Yes, (in deep announcer voice) 'Do you suffer from genital herpes?'"
BT: "Eww, those commercials kind of creep me out. Do they pay much?"
ME: "Yeah, and Valtrex is great, because I get a free life time supply of Valtrex. So, that saves me a lot of money."
Did she believe me? Apparently, she did not talk to me again.

I'm a Professional Wrestler
BT: "Really!? What's your name?"
ME: "We wrestlers don't use our real names. My wrestling name is 'Killer Kadoogan', but sometimes I have to wear a mask and then my name changes often."
BT: "Are you on TV?"
ME: "I'm pretty new, so I usually have to wrestle before the cameras are turned on, but I have been on a few times to lose to some old wrestler. I'm due to make the big event soon though."
BT: "Is wrestling real?"
ME: "I took an oath to never answer that question."
Did they believe me? I was hammered and told this story to everyone in the bar, during Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I got a lot of free beads and even more free drinks. There were a few nay sayers, but they eventually took their picture with me like everyone else, just in case.

Free at last, Free at last, Thank God Almighty, I'm Free at last.

Killer, giddy from lack of sleep.

I have finished my self inflicted work schedule and now can recuperate with three weeks off work. Why do I have three weeks off? I am going to Mississippi to see my new nephew. Soon I will be influencing the life of a small child, and since he is related, I don't have to first tell my parole officer.

I have been seriously lacking in the posting department, and as promised, I will start off my return to blogging glory by finally answering EEK's tag from over a week ago.

Five Things You Really Don't Want to Know About Me
(but won't have the common sense to stop now, even after being warned)

1. I'm a polyorchid. That means I have more than one testicle. I have three to be exact. If you wondered why I talk about balls so much, that is it. Usually the doctors would remove the extra one shortly after puberty, but my parents could not get the day off work, so I kept it. I don't mind really because, if I get testicular cancer, I have one to spare, and that is important because my risk is increased by one third.

2. I never go on blind dates because everyone wants to fix me up with their overweight friend. It doesn't matter if we have nothing in common. It's just natural that we would both be so desperate we should cling together for our one shot at marriage. Fat people in love is so cute. I hate you skinny bastards.

3. I still can not eat the last pickle in the jar. It is a mental block, an irrational fear. That pickle was rejected on every other occasion. Hence it is my conclusion that this lone gherkin is gorged with bad karma. I don't need to ingest any extra bad karma.

4. I don't really take anything serious. If you tell me something, or if I see something on the news, I will subconsciously start making fun of it. Celebrity deaths, handicapped people, no subject is taboo. It really is an uncontrollable trait. The Anesthesiologist who did my surgery told me that when I was still partially sedated, and they removed my breathing tube, he told me to say something. I don't remember saying it but according to him my first words were, "Did you see that cat?" Him and the other staff looked concerned and he replied, "What cat?" "That cat who snuck in here and took a shit in my mouth."

5. Roughly 25% of everything I say is grossly exaggerated. For example, if I say I have three testicles I really only have one. One great big one, that I part down the middle to look like two.

Lessons Learned

Liz first defends the rib bone wind chimes:

I never thought the rib bone wind chimes could cause such controversy. In blog world, they have met with scorn and fright. In the real world... well, pretty much scorn and fright as well. No. Not really. I would say we have 40% of the population that is rabid about how cool the RBWCs are, 40% of the population that finds them disgusting/confusing/disturbing/creepy and the remainder of the population that stares straight ahead and says, "I don't get it. Are those real bones? Why? When was your last drug test?"

In homage to my Native American heritage (I'm 1/16 Indian, I think) and out of my passion for recycling, I used organic materials to create a think of beauty. I thought the environmentalists would hail this as a major accomplishment! Reuse! Recycle! I just knew that my Indian kin would embrace me and possibly try to give me a percentage of their casino royalties just to claim me as their own. Instead, I suspect I've been placed on some government watch list. Ok. Lesson learned. My arts and crafts stay private.

In other news I had a friend come over this weekend and attempt to do a "rather simple" bathtub maintenance job. This was changing the fixtures in my shower- the nozzle, the shower head, the faucet. I now have to call and pay for the following services:

• Purchase of a new shower fixture set
• Plumber
• Sheet rock putter-upper
• Painter

I'm looking at a bill that will be somewhere in the neighborhood of $1200 total.

Ok. Lesson learned. All invitations to my shower have been revoked.

And finally, I am not getting enough sleep. I think I've developed a video game addiction. I'll get on Real Arcade and play for HOURS. Next thing you know, it's 11:00. 5:15 AM comes awful early after 6 hours sleep. If I could only use my "free time" to do responsible things, this would be a better world. Like a world filled with rib bone wind chimes.

Images You Need

Here is almost exactly what I see when I think about my crushes:

And here, for your viewing pleasure, are the very classy rib bone wind chimes:

I just found out the the TV show Criminal Intent did a show on a serial killer who used the rib bones of his victims to make WIND CHIMES! Now I feel all icky, but I'm telling you it is a great idea! You sell them to hunter by painting them with camo colors, you sell them to devout Christians by calling it the "Adam and Eve Chimes" and you sell them to serial killers by calling it the starter kit. Whatever the angle, RBWCs are the answer!

How many orders should I put you down for?

Slacker Post

EEK tagged me a week ago. I just now noticed because Liz mentioned it in the last post. I have been working 12 hours a night for the last 10 nights, and have 3 more nights to go. My life has consisted of: Wake up go to gym, go to work, go to sleep, repeat. I have not been able to check my blog roll for almost the entire time. The hospital I am at does not allow us to get online, so I am falling way behind. The only reason I know about Liz's posts is because the comments get emailed to me.
I was going to write a blog last night at work (I write them in a small notebook and type them when I get home) but I spent the entire night trying to keep one 85 year old lady alive, and in the end failed.
I am going to answer EEK's request, but it will probably be Wednesday. My funny bone is temporarily broken, and I still have a lot of ass to wipe. (and a lot at work as well.)

Stay tuned, because in a few days I will fulfill EEK's request to List 5 things about me, and there is probably a 95% chance one will involve my balls. (all three of them)

5 Things You Don't Know About Me

To Eek from Liz:

All are welcomed and encouraged to comment, but this post originated from Eek's post on what you don't know about her. It's funny, and if I knew how to create a link to it, I would.

It's pretty difficult to list 5 things you don't know about me. There are some things I want to keep secret, such as where I work and, ummmm, Killer, where I live, but over time these things occasionally leak out too. I think, though, I'll be able to pull 5 things out if you promise not to hold them against me.

1. Until I was probably 30 years old, I thought Gout was a sexually transmitted disease. My former boss kept talking about his Gout and how much it hurt. He was so free with his comments. One day I finally said, "Dude. You need to cut the Gout talk. That's just nasty." After about 10 minutes we realized how off base I actually was and had a good laugh. Now that I've been enlightened, my association with Gout and STDs has not changed. It's one of those situations where you KNEW something was true and even after finding out that you were wrong, you still can't shake that core belief. My Gout beliefs are firmly solidified and every time I hear the term "Gout" I wonder "Who did you screw to get that? You must be a nasty whore."
2. I have Gout.
3. I am 35 years old and still get these very childish crushes on men. I have "work crushes", "bar crushes", and "blog crushes". Just to lay it on thick and give myself a good laugh, I will imagine my crushes inside a cartoon heart.
4. My goal is to drive the car I'm driving now for at least 2 more years. That will make it 7 years old. It's not like it's a nice car, either. I bought a new Corolla in 2002. It has several dents and dings, a severely cracked windshield, stains all over the place, and smells like an ashtray. I love the freedom of driving a hoopty. I spill something, no biggie. I burn it with a cigarette, so what. Just another scar. I know people at work judge that my car isn't a fine, new ride. That puts pressure on me that I don't like and only adds to my resolve to junk Deigo up even more. I never bathe him and I always park in lots as close to the shopping carts as I can get. I don't care if he gets bruised. My next car, at 37 years old, will likely be my grown up car. I'm not yet ready to make the leap.
5. When people say that they don't like animals or don't like music, it takes a lot for me to forgive them. I am more apt to understand that you don't like your parents or even your child than I am to understand how you can't love an animal or appreciate The Rolling Stones, Todd Snyder, Waylon, or AC/DC. I'm also pretty harsh on people who don't think Seinfeld or The Office is funny. And people that don't see benefit to traveling should be shot. I guess you already knew I was opinionated, so #5 may not count.
6. I made rib bone wind chimes a few weeks ago with my friend Shanna and they are awesome. Blogger is not allowing me to upload any photos, but I'll try again on another post. I'm always thinking about how I could supplement my income, but I never do anything about it. I think rib bone wind chimes would sell. Seriously. I know that sounds gross, but they really are cool. Damn. I wish I could show you.

Killer, Eek wants your thoughts too. I'm afraid to know what I don't already know about you. But your public is waiting...

Grooming Habits and Other Such Things

Befuddled, Liz Asks:

Is grooming yourself in public unacceptable?

I'm often found brushing my hair at my cubical but that's almost out of a medical need. If I don't keep it brushed it mats up and then no one is happy. You may also catch me applying powder or lipstick. Guilty. But what about these two incidents:

• Black male: clipping his fingernails, all 10, in the middle of a meeting and letting the clippings fall on the floor
• Black female: pulling her chin whiskers out, in the middle of a meeting, while carrying on a conversation with me

I mention the race of the "offenders" because I don't know if it's a cultural thing. Both of the people are educated, intelligent, and good natured. Both are over 40 and certainly not new to the work environment. I could be a "Mrs. Manners" prude here, but I find both of these personal grooming habits disgusting. I don't want to see these intimate acts performed in my presence. What's next? Norelcoing your balls during break? Waxing your bikini area in the office supply closet? Popping your zits at the lunch table? Digging your bellybutton lint out during Sunday Service?

I have also noticed that women's facial hair appears to be on the rise. I cannot look away when I see a woman with a goatee. And there is a lot that going around these days. Sometimes the hair is light in color, but thick in girth. Other times the mustache is so prominent I have to look for boobs to have a clue as to the gender. Then there is that whole curly but splotchy beard that some women have. My god! I'm always on the verge of saying something, but what do you say? "Wax that mustache."? "It's called Nair, bitch."? "Something about you reminds me of my dad."?

I will admit that I may be a little overzealous when it comes to grooming. This is the primary reason my purse weighs around 15 pounds and why airline stewards ask if I'd like to check my bag when I approach the counter. But I don't clip and pluck and trim in front of others. I don't WANT people knowing where my stray hairs lurk. I freak out just thinking about my fingernails laying around the conference room. What if somebody is murdered in there? 10 pieces of DNA scattered under one chair. Too risky.

I was once at a Widespread Panic concert and the concession woman had a mustache, beard, and a very hairy chest. All of this was in direct contrast to her size DDD chest, which was crammed into a frilly and low cut shirt. She wore a gold necklace with a medallion which I stared at when ordering my beers. Each time I would go back to the concession area I would get in her line. I wanted to see if the medallion was twisted in her chest hair before the end of the night.

It was mesmerising.

The woman was actually sort of a pretty lady, I mean under all the hair. I just wonder if she had problems getting dates. If I were a guy and my girl had a 5 o'clock shadow each day before I did, it would be a deal breaker. But as I said, maybe I'm just a prude.

But It's Good for You

Liz is no doctor, obviously:

I'm always willing to give medical advice to people I don't know that well. I like to begin with "I had a friend with that..." and then I choose from these multiple choices:

• and he had to have a nurse swab inside his penis with one of those long Q-Tips
• but I'm sure you'll be fine
• who also thought that wasn't a big deal... until it was too late
• and he ended up having to get a fake nad installed
• and she just slammed a book on it real hard
• but after it wouldn't go away, we quit being friends
• and you can diagnose and treat it yourself with information you find on the Internet
• and her doctor told her to quit talking about it because if she didn't it would get worse
• and she drank a gallon of cranberry juice a day and took a spoonful of olive oil every morning until it cleared up
• and if you don't treat it in the first 48 hours, it starts to stink and the stink is permanent

For some reason, people believe me. But then I start laughing. Even after I laugh, which is the cue that you should not take my medical advice, people will still ask, "Are you serious?" Then I say, "Sure I am!" and laugh again and walk away. 3 out of 5 times people will come back to me and ask again. "Do you think that would work?"

My new plan is to construct a contract that looks very official that relieves me of any liability and have them sign it. I think that would be hilarious. "But Doc, this woman in my office told me it would work." To which the doctor replies, "Son, inserting a mechanical pencil into your anus just doesn't make sense." "But she had a waiver!"

On a similar note, I read today that a 28-year old woman in California died from drinking too much water in a radio station contest to win a Wii. She drank something like 2 gallons of H2O in a very short amount of time. That is sad, but that's also very "Darwin Award". I saw the article on the Internet. There was a poll attached to the article that asked "Whose fault is it?" Ummmm.... every one's and no one's? The cascading stupidity absolves all parties, I say.

Somewhere W. C. Fields is getting a chuckle from this very sad demise. It was he that so famously said, "I don't drink water. Fish fuck in it." I guess I'll have to take

• and he drank two gallons of water, chased it with 6 packs of straight cherry Kool-Aid and it went away

off my list.

Boys and Their Wars

Killer is entrenched in this "blog battle", which can only end badly. Without any provocation, any just purpose, he has assaulted me. ME... an innocent!

What's the difference between Killer and President George Bush?

At least Bush got out of college with a "C" average.

Please, dear reader, look away as I directly address the C.E.O. of this blog. I'm doing it out of a sincere concern for Killer and his unexplainable drive to throw Killer Rants at me. Feel free to offer your support. Your letters in this time of crisis are what sustain him.



Dear Killer,

I have read your post below and noted the picture, including the smell waves and the accusation that I reek of bologna.

First of all, thank you for making me so pretty and skinny in the picture!

Secondly, what a strange fantasy; that I would smell like bologna. Your association with yet another meat product is disturbing. I recommend you talk to a professional about your meat issues, especially your commitment to "sausage"... and you know what I'm talking about. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

I've posted a picture below (from your most recent road trip) to remind you how out of control and how obvious your problem has become. If Freud were alive today...

MMMM...The Smell of a Southern Woman

Don't Call it a Comeback!

Liz smells like fried bologna. I don't know why or if she even notices. People often can't smell their own unique aroma, so she'll probably deny it.

Since none of you know Liz, and since there is absolutely no reason for any sane person to travel to Mississippi, you will have to take my word for it.

I wish computers had smell compatibility, because I would upload a fried bologna smell to blast out at you. Instead I am forced to settle for the following diagram:


If you notice, I was kind enough to put the smell lines coming from Liz's head, but I really don't think that is the source. I am unsure as to the ages of our readers, so I did not want to get too graphic.

Let the Gay Man Speak

Oh stop it:

So, Killer wants to bust chops by telling you all that I am a flamboyant gay man? I did this search on Ask.com: Am I a gay man?

I'd love to argue with Killer, but I think he's right. At least Ask.com says so.

I have lots in common with gay men. I love a power drill. I'm very fond of a two-day beard rubbed across my back. My old boyfriend was the office slut too.

If it weren't for this damn vagina, the transition would be complete.

It's the comb over comment that I don't approve of. Wait. Let me rephrase:

Killer, if you talk about my hair again I will make you my bitch so fast those waxed balls you keep talkin' about will be gagging your sorry ass. You'll be choking on the stubble before you even know they've been cut. Now, fix me some iced tea. WITH LEMON.

There. That's my threatening rebuttal.

When I agree that I'm a gay man, I do want you to keep something important in mind. When you're talking about me and Killer, there is only one of us who is willing to experiment with anal penetration.

Hint: It's not me.

Liz Has a Comb Over

Killer dissin' Liz (for the publicity)

Leno vs. Letterman, 50 cent vs. Ja Rule, Biggie vs. Tupac, and the Donald vs. Rosie. Until recently I thought these were all silly, meaningless squabbles. It was all evidence of immature adults, acting like children.

But recently, I have found reason to see the light. I wrote a seemingly innocent post about some imaginary Olympic sports, that I thought I could win. Instead of training myself to fit in the already formulated sports, I decided it would be easier to start a new sport that fit me. In an attempt at a weak segue I mentioned an Olympic sport that I did not really know much about, and assumed none of you did either. I apparently brought offense to a die hard Trampoline fan. Normally I would give a mild rebuttal and move on, but the rebuttal was met with more friction. I was flabbergasted at the unkind words and apparent anger that maligned trampoliners can muster. I debated, "Should Killer Rants close shop? What would Liz do when she was drunk, if not blog?" Liz and I nurtured this blog from our bosoms. (true Liz's are slightly bigger than my own) If our beloved creation should now be used in such a manner to cause heartache and woe for others, should it not be put down?

Then I saw the numbers rolling in. It received the most comments for a post, not discussing my balls, ever. That is the feedback we strive for, we yearn for, we drink heavily for not receiving. Does a good controversial verbal rumble really draw in the crowds? Is the Donald calling Rosie "a fat pig" only to gain free publicity? Did Biggie and Tupac kill each other only to sell more albums, posthumously? Can I start a blogging battle with my good friend Liz, just to see if my site meter still works? Yes, yes I can.

Liz is a campy, flamboyant gay man in disguise. Every over the top stereo type of a gay man you see on television is Liz to a tee. A few years back Liz even showed up to our mutual hangout with a black and white cow fur- leather Harley hat. A hat straight out of "the Blue Oyster Bar" from the Police Academy movies.

There, I have fired the first volley. If I was more talented I would write a rap album, and pepper it with clever slurs against Liz, but this will have to do.

Overheard

Liz listens in:

I used to teach elementary school but have since moved into corporate America. It's been 7 years since I was in a classroom. I've morphed into a single business woman that sees little practical value in children. Oh, Killer tries to argue that they are our future but I know that they're just drains on the economy.

In this transition I've lost the few teacher qualities I had: I don't own any sweater vests or denim jumpers, I don't gossip near as much as I used to, my ability to average scores no longer exists and I hardly ever spank anybody. I am, however, still working on a Master's Degree in elementary education started long ago. I've been working on this degree for about 6 years.

<> Only 4 classes to go, I can't quit now.

I find that it is painful for me to be around teachers of young children. Especially when I am interacting with these "adults" at a private religious college. Excruciating, really.

These are things I've overheard in my Graduate classes:

• I'll be right back. I've got to go potty.
• Oh! Poo Doo La Rue! You're kidding?
• I totally didn't print out the module for this class until LAST WEEK! ((giggle)). I didn't do any of the prework! Well, except what was on pages 1 and 2.
• Freud seemed to like to talk about ummm... "privates", didn't he? That's just sad.
• Professor says: Let's do a 20 minute break. A student says: We usually get 15.

In every class I've taken at this school, there is at least one class where at least one woman starts to weep. The reasons are varied but it's a guarantee that before this semester is over I am going to see yet another grown woman sob. It could be because she made a "C" on a paper, or it could be because something sad happened at school, or it could be because she forgot her notebook or it could be because her neighbor's brother's roommate is getting sent to Iraq.

I try not to judge. Seriously. But I am totally bewildered and very out of place in this environment.

We take prayer requests before every class. While they're praying that Grammy's dog Muffin makes it through her leg surgery, I'm praying that an epidemic of lockjaw will overtake campus. Does that make me a bad person?

Only 4 classes to go...

Pray for me.

Looking Sexy on a Box of Wheaties

Killer, going for gold.

Every Olympics they throw in some crazy sport to be trialed. A few years back they had trampoline gymnastics. Can you believe it? When I was younger, I was the King of "Crack the Egg" on the trampoline. I could have gotten a Gold medal.

I've decided to make a list of other events I want added, at least for a trial basis, so I can win a Gold. I want that medal real bad, and the Special Olympics gives everyone a medal, so that just cheapens the experience.

Summer Olympics:

Spring Board Belly Flop
I can really commit to a good belly flop. Not just because I have an ample belly, but because I am willing to endure pain and agony to beat the damn Russians.

Inebriated Discus
Basically the same as traditional discus throw, but you have to drink, the alcoholic beverage of your choice, until your Blood Alcohol Level is 0.20. If you puke during the spin it is an automatic DQ.

500 Pound Patient Transfer
This would involve a combination of speed and style points. You have to move a 500 pound patient from an ER gurney to a special "Big Boy" bed. Extra style points if you can do it without snickering or trying to see how far your finger will go into his belly button.

Winter Olympics

Downhill Snow Plow
On top of a double diamond run, full of unsuspecting skiers, the competitor is shoved off on a snowboard blindfolded. The more people he plows over before reaching the bottom the higher the score. (on my first/only attempt at snowboarding, on the bunny slope, I ripped the ass out of my new snow pants and caused a massive body pile up of small children on the tow rope. I think this gives me an advantage.)

The Anti-Biathlon
For those of you who don't know, the biathlon combines cross country skiing and target shooting. The anti-biathlon would allow a competitor to position themselves along the biathlon course with a water gun filled with urine. They then pop up and shoot the unsuspecting biathlete until they start chasing them with their rifle. Whoever makes it back to the starting line, without getting shot, and with the best time, wins.

5K Naked Snow Race
The only thing you can wear is a pair of flip flops in a race through a five foot snow drift. I love the cold. I would only insist on a disclaimer for television explaining to the ladies about cold weather and shrinkage.

I really think that if the Olympic committee would choose at least one of these options for a exhibition sport in the next Olympics, I could honestly have a shot at getting on the winner's podium. Maybe all the way to the top.

Found one for you, too!

Killer,

You may have noticed that I finally got rid of my hilarious, yet seasonally challenged, Avatar. I found one for you while I was on line searching. I posted it here so you could link right to it.

Please?

A True Rant On Passwords and Logins

Liz decodes:

A long time ago passwords were cool. Masons with their "Humbled at his feet, together we meet", safe houses with three knocks and a "I know Rufus", "open sesame" from Arabian Nights, even "JOSHUA" from 1983's War Games. Today, passwords are a mundane reality in all of our lives. You even have to type in a code before being able to post a comment on Blogger.

I for one, have had it.

I've tried having the same user ID and password for everything. That doesn't work. Some sites require numbers, some do not. On some web pages I don't want my name visible, on some my name won't show so I use that as my login. At Poker.com, I'm "Hold'emOrFold'em", for yahoo! I'm "cupofcoffee4248", for my bank I'm "1needscash". I have unique passwords for my work computer, my credit card website, a PIN for my debit card. It's getting to the point where I can't remember who I am anymore!

Recently I was entering my PIN number at a convenience store and got it wrong. The woman behind the counter stared suspiciously as I tried for a third time to enter the magic 4-digit combination. I didn't like her look of distrust, the impatience of the man behind me in line, the implication that I was using someone else's card. It was just a brain fart, nothing else. Enough already! I've had it with all the secrets. I want one code that is universal. One ID that will get me in everywhere I want to go. One password that is easy to remember and makes sense, unlike my "84roju99mgr" password given to my by an old credit union.

I don't really want "them" to know what I'm doing and when I am doing it, but when you think about it, "they" already do, so what's the difference? It's just one more piece of privacy we all give up because society demands it. Come on, your phone records? Not private. Badging into work? It's like having a GPS attached to your belt. Pay at the pump? Not if you called in sick that day! I remember during the Enron scandal (or one of the others) that personal diaries were subpoenaed for use in court. There is no privacy, so why make me remember so many codes and passwords?

The technology to use finger-print ID has to be ready, I guess the public just isn't willing yet. Would it freak you out to have a scanner on your home and work computers where your print was read as the means of accessing personal information? Is that too Big Brother or Communist China or Minority Report or Bush administration or something?

As someone who has not committed any major crimes but is always thinking about it, I have mixed feelings. The password for getting into my pants is "AnotherVodka". Isn't that really all one needs to know?

Single handedly destroying society

Killer failing miserably to clean things up around here

Man, I have been on a roll lately with my working conversations. The last hospital was too busy to talk, but here, there is little else to do.

Out of the blue, RN1 says, "You know, I am constantly disappointed with the increase of 'potty' humor that is being used."

I, feeling my ears turn red with guilt, replied, "What do you mean?"

RN1: "T.V. shows, comedians, and people in general only want to talk about sex, genitals, or disgusting bodily functions. I really believe that it is a sign of our culture collapsing around us when people find these things funny."

RN2: "I don't think it is any worse than the past."

RN1, flabbergasted: "What! Don't you watch T.V.? When I see this humor it makes me cry."

Me: "You actually weep if a T.V. show makes a joke about sex or diarrhea?"

RN1: "Don't you find it heartbreaking that our children are seeing this and are being taught it is acceptable and funny?"

RN2: "I think you are being a bit melodramatic."

RN1: "If you had kids you would understand."

RN2, to me: "I'm going tomorrow to get my pussy shaved."

RN1 puts her head in her hands.

Me: "I'm going to have my balls waxed next week."

RN2: "No really, I am taking my pet cat to get a haircut. He looks like a lion afterwards."

Me: "You shave your pussy to look like a lion?"

RN2: "Yes, if I don't shave him he gets very matted and poo sticks in his fur."

Me: "I wax my balls for the same reason. Afterwards they look like a turtle without it's shell."

RN1, lifts her head, stands up and as she storms away, "I don't know why I talk to you people."

Me: "She didn't cry."

RN2: "I don't know what a turtle looks like without his shell."

Me: "I'll show you later."

Anal Retentive About Anal Retention

Yesterday I was admitting a woman into the ICU. She was unconcious and two of her daughters were there to give me her history. Usually this involves asking some very basic questions that I have asked so many times I tend to just blaze through them.

After asking the standard, "Does she have any allergies? What medicines does she take at home? Etc." Then came one of the more bizarre questions, that if you are not in the medical field, you don't really understand the need. "Do you know when she had her last bowel movement?" The usual answer, unless you have to change her diaper, is "I don't know".

Daughter one said, "She goes atleast three times a day. She gets very stressed out about her bowel movements."

Daughter two added, "Oh yes, her bowel movements are extremely important. She is anal attentive about it."

Daughter one looked at two and said, "That doesn't sound right. anal attentive, is that the right word?"

Daughter two retorted, "I'm not an idiot. That is a legitimate thing to say." She then looks at me and asks, "There is nothing wrong with that statement is there?"

I, being eager to get back to my book and not understanding why I was suddenly the English language expert, said, "Well, considering she was obsessed with having three bowel movements a day, I would say anal attentive fits the bill."

Go Forth Young Man and Make Me Proud

Proud Uncle Killer

In honor of the birth of my first nephew. I would like to offer some sage advice that I would like to someday pass along to my own male offspring, or in failing that, to my nephew, who will have to do.

Rules and Words of Wisdom every father should pass to his son.

Enjoy shitting in your pants now. After 5 it doesn't become socially acceptable again until 75.

No matter how good a dog treat looks (snausages, beggin' strips, etc.) they don't taste so great, and they really bind you up.

It's okay to scratch your balls, but not in public. Girls are jealous of them and it is impolite to rub it in their faces. **Unless your in Thailand where rubbing it in their faces is only five dollars extra.

Treat Kindergarten like Prison. On the first day you either make someone your bitch or become someone's bitch.

You hate girls right now, but unfortunately it won't last. Enjoy it because this will be the most uncomplicated time of your life.

In the shower: Rub it once and you are washing it. Rub it twice and you are playing with it. Rub it three times and you are addicted for life.

Don't be a nurse. Having your hand in someone Else's ass is not as cool as it sounds.

It's Only Money

The shopping intervention:

Fiscal Liz:
I really didn't ask you to join me at lunch to talk to you about going to Europe this year. By the way, you should order something off the lunch menu.

Shopping Liz:
Really? Why are we having this lunch then?
**Eyes waiter**
"I'd like the pecan crusted salmon, creme brulee for desert, and let's get things started with the mushroom poppers."

Fiscal Liz:
It's you and this whole on-line shopping thing. Do you know how much you've spent at Overstock.com in the past year and 1/2?

Shopping Liz:
What? Maybe $900 over the past couple of years? Wait! I did buy a chair from there. Maybe $1500?

Fiscal Liz, cutting a steely glance:
Try $3550 and some change.

Shopping Liz:
WHAT? I could have bought a used car with that! I could have gotten a plasma TV with that! I could have my own Wii and I could have taken guitar lessons! I could have gone on a major spa retreat with that money! I could have my OWN massage chair at home!

**Sees fiscal Liz nodding in agreement. Tone changes**

That's a lot of money, I guess.

Fiscal Liz:
That IS a lot of money and that's just at Overstock.com. That's not even a place where you really shop! You know if you want clothes you go somewhere in town. Just like when you bought your HD TV last year, and the 6 pairs of unnecessary shoes, and the new outfits, and yet ANOTHER pair of silver hoop earrings.

Shopping Liz:
So... what are you saying? I don't have a right to buy what I want? I'm the one that works, you know.

Fiscal Liz:
I'm saying that you're sick! How many pairs of socks does one woman need? For Christ's sake! You have 9 coats. NINE! It's not even COLD around here but 2 months a year! Liz, you bought a rotating disco ball. A ROTATING DISCO BALL. Let's not even get into your obsession with perfumes. How many bottles do you have? 15? 20? 30? You're obsessed with having spares of things too. That's just weird. If Charmin ever goes out of business, you'll still be stocked with toilet paper well into your 50s. Honey, that's just not normal.

Shopping Liz:
Oh God... you're right! I live in 1500 square feet, alone, yet every closet, every drawer, every cabinet is full.

**tearing up**

It's those emails they send me! They all say "Deep Discounts". They taut "80% Off!". I just can't help myself sometimes! What am I going to do??

Fiscal Liz:
You're going to up your 401K contributions and you're going to put a lid on this needless spending. You don't NEED anything else. Just stop spending money!

Shopping Liz:
You are so right. I'll start TODAY.

Are you picking up the check?

Fiscal Liz:
Yes... but get water.

Shopping Liz:
I want a divorce.

Brains Over Easy

Liz observes over her smartly appointed monocle:

You've heard the stereotype before: beautiful women aren't intelligent. I'm living proof.

To the untrained eye, I'm not what one would call "drop dead gorgeous". The old adage implies that since I am not stunningly beautiful, nor blonde, I have the right to be compensated with brain power.

The wife’s tale is true. I feel certain that I am a genius. At the time of this post, no test has been developed that confirms my brilliance. This is their fault, not mine.

My unrecognized genius started in elementary school when I was in the blue bird group instead of the red bird group. They actually tested me for the gifted class when I was in first grade. Apparently, I failed. I remember only one question from the test. It was, "If there were a monkey in a tree and you wanted the monkey to come down, how would you get him down?"

"Who wants a monkey out of the tree?" I wondered. I was insightful enough at 6 to know that monkeys carry all sorts of communicable diseases. If they had left the monkey in the tree where he was happy, we might not have the AIDS epidemic. Stupid teachers. Trying to spread their diseases and all.

Being an unidentified genius has its problems. If I were a recognized genius, I would never have to argue again. So much of my day is spent trying to get people to quit having opinions and simply do exactly as I say. I'll bet Stephen Hawking NEVER has that problem. "Dude. You're arguing with STEPHEN HAWKING. Shut the fuck up before you make even more of an ass out of yourself."

I am certain that I am a new breed of intellectual. The kind who doesn't do math very well and is an atrocious speller. One with an ear fine-tuned to gossip and an eye for recognizing at a glance that those shoes don't got with that outfit. I am the prodigy that grew up to vote for presidential candidates based on their hotness factor. If Clooney runs, he has my vote. My thinking is that he's not going to doom us Hell in 4 years and if I'm going to see someone's face everyday, it might as well be the face of George Clooney. VP? Luke Wilson. HOT.

Seriously.

My BFF overheard her husband's friends arguing over pie. She wanted in on the conversation until she realized they were talking about Pi.

Who the fuck argues over Pi anymore? That's what the LAST generation of geniuses did. MY generation of geniuses argue over PIE, because face it, pie matters and Pi doesn't. We ponder things like "when is a mustache too small be called a mustache?" We do things like not walk on cracks because we don't want to break our mothers' backs. We know the chicken came first. We can open a beer bottle using at least 3 different methods. We place bets on whether or not a stranger will make a bet with a stranger. We like the Discovery Channel because of the cool graphics. We have ingenious ways to take a nap at work without being busted. We know we're smarter than they are.

And we blog about it.

Magnificent Lounge Pants

Lounging Liz Laments:

I am so behind the times. I am JUST discovering how satisfying it is to wear lounge pants. How do you people who have known about the beauty of lounge pants ever get anything done? Mine are red with Guns N' Roses printed all over them. That makes them doubly satisfying.

I need some help with lounge pant protocol. Can I wear these under a skirt and appear fashionable? Is it ok to wear them without underwear? Can I remove the tie-string that came with the lounge pants? I never use it. How often do I have to wash these? Is once every two or three weeks ok if I'm not wearing them to a wedding? If I sleep in the all-together, does that mean that the mustard spill on my right leg is A-Okay? It's not like I'm transferring germs as I sleep. Are lounge pants acceptable for "casual" day at work? Can I wear them on a Tuesday since they aren't jeans, as the dress code prohibits?

Who knew comfort could be so complicated?

I fear that my lounge pants may give the impression that I've given up on life. It seems like lounge pants would make the opposite statement. Instead of, "Hey, I'm comfortable, screw you," lounge pants could mean, "Hey, I'm comfortable screwing you." After all, they slide off easily and there's no unbuttoning or unzipping to complicate things.

But I'm probably not comfortable screwing you, so I guess I'll confine them to the house for now.

I was on a date with a fella once. I asked him if his pants had pockets and if he would mind holding my keys. This is a snippet from that conversation:

HIM: Of course my pants have pockets. Do they even make pants without pockets?

ME: My pants don't have pockets, that's why I'm asking you to hold my keys.

HIM: Weird. Pocketless pants.

ME: I know. I hate these pants. Every time I wear them, they piss me off.

HIM: I don't wear pants that piss me off.

NOW I understand.

Immigration control

Killer glances nervously about

There is definitely a conspiracy occurring within me. First George, my fatty tumor, set up camp on my jaw rather than keeping with his own kind in my stomach region. Now I am finding hair growing in places it should not. I guess it is partially my fault. The lax border control policies allowed waves of migrant hairs to colonize my back. I now have small settlements popping up from inside my ears.

Don't try to use the liberal excuse of over crowding from population growth. This aerial photo clearly shows mass regions of abandoned real estate.

So the grounds not as fertile as it used to be, adapt people, learn a new trade. Education is the key to success. Not packing up and heading for the vast untapped resources of my back. That's protected national reserves.

I don't want to risk a Middle East style conflict. I believe in a semi-autonomous group of regions all controlled by me, but with special consideration for their different needs. The fat that resides in the abdominal region has different needs and priorities than the hair that is now making a mass exodus from my head. It can quickly become very confusing and unsightly, unless everyone is kept properly separated.

Now with the ear hair, I don't understand what they find appealing about the area. It's a dark desolate region. Maybe it is a strange religious cult that is looking for seclusion.

I guess they could pick a worse location. The hair on my butt gains my deepest sympathy. Horrendous wind storms and torrential mud slides make for a less than ideal location. It reminds me of Native American reservations. Yeah, you were forced to live there a long time ago, but the land sucks and you should probably move. Basically, unless my butt hair has opened a really profitable Indian casino on my balls somewhere, I don't understand why they stay down there. (Sorry, no photo provided)

Where is my celebrity divorce?

A plan for Killer

I was watching the television, which is a great invention by the way, if you don't have one you should pick one up. I was watching the television (t.v. in today's hip street slang) and K-Fed, the most recent winner of the palimony lottery, is getting a lot of sympathy press and air play for his new CD, which I highly recommend you avoid like the plague. As a matter of fact, I want to start a new saying, "Avoid that like a K-Fed album". His only real talent appears to be dancing and knocking up stupid celebrities. I don't know if you have seen Jamie Kennedy in "Malibu's Most Wanted", but that is who I think of every time I see K-Fed.

He's going to be a millionaire, and all he had to do was walk around in a wife beater and a trucker hat. I could do that. I even have an authentic trucker hat I bought ten years ago at an actual truck stop. I don't have a wife beater t-shirt. I've always been afraid my man-boobs would hang out the sides. But, it would be an investment for my future.

I have even narrowed down the field of celebrities to marry. I think I will try the Olsen twins. Sure, I'll have to push them together to make one small size female, but I am willing to try.

My plan for this year is:

-Find Trucker hat in storage unit.
-Buy wife beater T-shirt.
-Go to gym so man-boobs don't hang out of wife beater.
-Hang out where the Olsen's twins hang out.

I can wing it from there. Once I get divorced, if you say you read this blog, I will buy you a new car.

Snooze Alert

Liz doesn't get it:

I slept almost 16 hours last night/today. It wasn't raining, I wasn't hung over, and I'm not sick.

I went to the Internet for answers. I had no idea I was a depressed teen, but that was the prognosis. This makes me very happy as I have started looking my age and don't really care to do that now that my age means gray hairs and crow's feet. I'm not going to argue with the Internet. Being a depressed teen explains my rebellious attitude and angst, my binges with alcohol, my fast driving, and my love of cheeseburgers.

I wonder if I can convince my supervisor to cut me slack since I'm only a teen. I've planned how I'll confront him. "Dude. I know I, like, totally dropped the ball on this one. But you know, whatever." Then I'll say something about child labor laws. My work believes in making people work overtime without compensation. That's got to be illegal if I'm 15. It SHOULD be illegal when you're 35.

I've heard people talk about sleeping too much. I thought it was a myth. However, once I finally got out of bed, around 6 this evening, I found that I didn't really want to do anything. No cleaning, no shower, no reading or creative projects. I just wanted to watch Kill Bill on TBS and keep my fingers crossed that I will fall asleep tonight before sunrise. Getting back on the Monday schedule is always tough.

God. I totally hope my parents don't find out how late I stayed up.

Gather the kids around the old computer

Killer exposes his early beginnings

I was asked a question recently, "What was your favorite joke as a child?" After a few moments of contemplation I remembered my absolute favorite joke to tell as a kid. I loved it because it involved art, and I loved art. It also was low brow, and I love low brow.

If you have heard it before, keep your mouth shut. I don't want you ruining it for everyone else by yelling out the punchline.

The teacher one day told the class she wanted them to participate in an art project. She said she was going to draw a simple object on the chalkboard and they would take turns coming up and adding one thing to make a picture.

The teacher drew a square on the board.



She then called on Sally to come up and start. Sally added a few lines.


Sally stepped back and admired her work. The teacher asked, "what did you make?" "I made a house." smiled Sally.

The teacher then called up John. He drew on the board and stepped back sheepishly.




"And what did you add, John?" asked the teacher. "I added a sun to keep the house warm." said John, as he shyly went back to his chair.

Now the teacher called on Billy. He ran up excitedly, added his part, and grinned happily at the teacher.


The teacher looked perplexed and then asked, "Billy, what is that?" Billy looked proudly around the room then anounced, "That is my dad bending over in the shower to pick up a bar of soap."

Hate Inspired Creativity

Liz joins the dark side:

Is it abnormal to plot how you would kill your nemesis? I'd never really go through with it for the obvious reasons: prison strips run horizontally, I don't know how to make a shank, blood stains are a bitch to get out of clothing.

I feel guilty about wishing doom on another living being but sometimes it's hard not to. Ever start laughing at a funeral? I have and I'd like to testify that the laughter is totally beyond all of your control. My plotting must be akin to all of those other involuntary reflexes. A plot to kill and a sneeze- there is really not that much difference.

I usually don't think about someone actually dying, I usually stick to things I wish would happen to him or her to cause great pain and/or embarrassment. I don't really do well with guilt so I'm hardly ever the person doing the awful thing to the perpetrator. Sometimes I make exceptions for especially nasty people.

Shall I share?

I am currently not hating any women so this list is for that very special man in my life; the one who makes my gag reflex start when he enters a room, the one I can't make eye contact with because it's like looking into the face of Medusa.

I would like to electrify the toilet he sits on. I envision his pale white ass sitting down with a magazine in hand and upon impact a strong bolt of the volt, enough for great agony as well as paralysis, followed by the fatal flush. I think it would be great for his last moment of life to be spent shitting on himself. How apropos.

I would like to watch him choke on a giant nacho chip. Those things can be sharp and painful. I'd have to look like I tried to save his life in case he survived, so I would pound him on the back. I hear this actually drives the lodged food deeper into the throat. Perfect.

I would like to be on a plane with him that he thought was going down but wasn't. I would like to be the one that handed him the parachute. The parachute that was mysteriously filled with Kleenex instead of a chute.

I would like for him to find himself trapped inside a hot metal box that is being cargo shipped to South Africa. No air holes, only a box of ants to keep him company.

You know that funnel that vets will put around a dog's neck to keep him from biting himself or scratching behind the ears? I want him to have to wear one. One that clamps on and will not come off. I then want him tied to a pole outside, face toward the heavens, during a torrential rainstorm.

I want his cell phone to leak acid into his ear and burn his brain.

I want to watch him be tickled to the point where he spasms and breaks his neck. Then the tickling stops, but my laughter rings on and on and on...

I'd like to tie him to a chair and force him to watch a "Deal or No Deal" marathon until he starves to death.

I would enjoy knowing that he had been force fed Viagra until there was no blood circulating anywhere in his body except to his painfully engorged member.

Death by catapult, shards of glass, bowling balls, pencils in the orifices, and leeches open up a lot of untapped possibilities.

I would like for him to be followed by a masked assassin. Someone who would slice off an appendage every time he said the words, "Well I think you should..." By the time he figured out what was going on, he'd be nothing but a bloody puddle.

This one may or may not take some time, but I can be patient. How about a teaspoon of feces, imported from a 3rd-world nation, in his coffee everyday until the intestinal worms finish him off?

This post may have taken me over an hour to write, but I feel so much better.

Don't worry. I am exceptionally nice to people I like... and strangers... and old people... and dedicated blog readers (who leave comments).

All others are invited to take their chances.

A Gem From the Gym

Killer gets pumped.

I joined a gym this week. Don't go gettin' all, "good for you!" just yet. I join gyms a lot, it's what I do.

The plan is always the same. Wake up one day all motivated and full of piss and vinegar, go to the nearest gymnasium and ask for the Grand tour. On the tour I look for all my usual signs of good gym/bad gym.

Good Sign: Is there a rowing machine?
I used a rowing machine ONCE at a previous gym about three years ago, and seem to recall enjoying it. I have never used one again, but I like to know it is available in case I decide to take up rowing professionally.

Bad Sign: Sexually confused weightlifters
Are there a lot of testosterone laden dudes "spotting" for each other on bench presses yelling things like, "Come on Dog! One more Dawg!" (this is often followed inexplicably by barking noises) This kind of behavior disturbs me. Pretending to be an Alpha Male does not hide the fact that you are precariously positioned so that your ball sweat is dripping onto another guy's face. Whenever I see this activity I start to laugh and, traditionally, those guys don't like to be laughed at.

Here is my first day gym routine, which has been followed to the letter in at least ten cities.
Arrive at gym, get the tour, spot the rowing machine, fight a snicker as a dude tries to bench press 200 pounds while not, obviously, looking up his buddies short shorts, and enter the paperwork arena.
"Three year contract?"
"Is there a "move away" clause if, for some distant reason, I should need to move. Say in three to six months?"
"Sign me up."
After doing all these daunting exercises in self control, they always ask the same question, "Are you going to work out today?"
"You bet I am."
Then I make the long tortuous journey to the locker room. Why did I sign that paper? I already want to leave. Oh well, I have thirty minutes to burn before Pizza Hut's buffet starts.
SO, once in the locker room, I change, strap on the ipod, and make my way to the elliptical machine. Preferably one not facing the confused weight lifters.

I will set the machine for thirty minutes, but after ten I am bored. I will have almost fallen off twice due to attempting to change the music on my ipod to something more inspiring. I will then justify my leaving with, "I should take it easy the first day. I don't want to pull a hammy." Once free from the gym I will sit in my car for fifteen minutes waiting for Pizza Hut's buffet to start. I'll ride that workout high for near two weeks before guilt railroads me back to the gym.

I don't move around the country every three to six months for my job. I am fleeing an obligation to have balls dangled in my face.