Friday, March 30, 2007

Weeding out the sensitive readers

Work was a bitch last night and I did not get to write anything. I was driving home and I really did feel bad for not writing anything. I thought to myself. I usually manage to think of SOMETHING that is at least remotely inappropriate for public domain. So in order to rest easier and better stick to my goal of posting everyday (except Saturday and Sunday, in case I become an Orthodox Jew, A Seventh Day Adventist, a Catholic or possibly a league bowler, I want to have my options open), I would post a collection of offensive and totally inappropriate jokes.

What is better than having sex with a seven year old boy?
NOTHING!!!

What is red, bubbly and scratches at your window?
A baby in a microwave.

Why do rednecks never marry virgins?
If she ain't good enough for her own family, she ain't good enough for ours.

How is riding a moped similar to having sex with a fat chick?
They are both fun to ride until a friend sees you.

What has a million legs but still can't walk?
Jerry's Kids.

What goes hoppity clank, hoppity clank, hoppity clank?
The Easter Bunny with polio.

What do you call the Easter Bunny with herpes?
Peter Rotten Tail.

There is enough diversity here to offend almost everyone.
Enjoy, and thanks for reading Killer Rants.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Fear the Wrath of My Balls!


There has been much talk here and on other blogs about desired Super Powers. A lot of ideas tossed around for what good could be accomplished and wrongs could be righted. This continued practice is one sided and unfair to the other side of that equation. I want to tell you about my desire to be an Evil Villain.

Evil Villainy seems a lot easier, and has less downsides. No constantly worrying about your loved ones. No fearing people will know your secret identity. No concern for the lives of the innocent bystander. Just simple, unadulterated evil. Just like Grandma used to make.

I don't want any traumatic experience like being scarred by acid or having my family killed by kittens to turn me into an evil, mad genius. I would prefer just to invent an evil contraption and let my internal evil that is bubbling under the surface rise up and take control of my law abiding self.

The device in question is a small cylindrical object which, when thrown against a person's head, will attach itself and allow me to control their thoughts, desires and actions. Maybe it will look like a funny hat, or a toupee, I haven't worked out all the fine details yet.

Now that the source of my evil power is out of the way, I can begin to focus on a much more important issue. My Evil Villain costume. The costume is extremely important, because my identity will be wrapped up in it, and my ability to inspire fear at my mere presence is needed. Take the Riddler from the old campy Batman TV show, he wore a skin tight spandex outfit covered in question marks. Is that frightening? It seemed more like he was portraying sexual ambiguity more than a love of baffling his foes. I don't wish to have similar problems so I have spent a great deal of time on this matter.

I want to start with some simple, black, stain resistant slacks, with double pleats. (the double pleat makes them evil) Add a stylish black V-neck sweater, with my evil chest hair protruding from the top. Toss in a pair of mid-calf leather boots and an athletic cut leather jacket, voila', instant evil genius. It is like the world's most evil Gap Ad. The piece de resistance will be the large soft leather pack that will be suspended from my waist in the front, which will contain my mind control units.

I will be able to easily reach into my sack and rapidly toss my balls at people's heads. They will be mesmerized by my quick speed and ability to fling my balls, with amazing precision, from the sack at my groin level.

Soon, thanks to my magnificent balls, the world will be mine, and everyone who comments on this post will be given a section of the world, of your choosing, in which to rule over with an iron fist. You will just be required to pledge allegiance to me and my balls, but that is a small price to pay for the love, adoration and fear of your royal subjects.

Act fast, you will either honor my balls, or wear them, the choice is yours.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Tubby's Fitness Center and Country Style Buffet

Tonight at the gym I was floored with a comment from a 115 pound female. She looked right at me and with a straight face said, "Don't you hate when you wake up feeling extra fat? Skinny people have no idea what that is like."

This girl is skinny, in my Southern Male mentality, much too skinny. I don't even really know this girl, so I was not sure if she was serious or if she was being a smart ass. So, I gave her a neutral response, "I don't know what you are talking about. I feel this fat all the time." To which she responded, "That's sad." At this point I was really confused. Is she likening her lanky stick-like frame to my robust, Rubenesque body, or is she trying to reach out in an empathetic manner to the fatties of the world? My cynical side kicked into defensive mode, "Yes, it is sad. I would be crying constantly but my high calorie diet has caused my tear ducts to clog with bacon grease." She smiled, I smiled, she walked away. I climbed onto the elliptical machine thinking to myself, "I'm single because I'm an asshole."

I noticed early on the infestation of healthy people at my gym. Why are they here? What are they trying to prove? Does the gym pay all those hot girls to walk around in tight spandex shorts?

There are special gyms for only females, and there are private gyms for just old people. I want to start a gym for nothing but fat people. A gym without protein shakes and water vending machines. No more power bars and tight spandex work out suits on display. My gym is going to sell full calorie Coke, Root Beer and have a full bar. The only clothes we will sell are baggy sweats and Muumuus.

We will all commiserate our failures and celebrate our success together. "Jimbo lost five pounds this week. That deserves some fried chicken!" It's not that I want my members to stay fat, but like pharmaceutical companies, the money is in the treatment, not the cure.

We will still rejoice when someone manages to fall through the cracks and reaches their goal weight. When Jimbo finally loses his goal of 100 pounds, we shall hoist him up on to our shoulders, march him triumphantly through the gym for all the fat people to behold. We will carry Jimbo past the recliners, through the all-you-can-eat buffet, around the chocolate milk fountain and right out the front door. We will toss Jimbo onto the pavement, tear up his membership card and tell his skinny ass to hit the road.

Once back inside as we are faced with all the depressed and jealous faces, I will raise my arms to the sky and cry out, "Free Ice Cream Sundaes For Everyone!" As everyone drowns their sorrows in some comforting ice cream I will let them in on the secret success of Tubby's Fitness Center and Country Style Buffet, Jimbo will be back, they always come back. We'll hold his Muumuu for him.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

My Trip to the Gyno

Liz spreads more than just the word:


I know that this is too much information, but it's what's on my mind today. Don't think less of me in the morning, ok?


The only good thing about going to the Gynecologist is that you get to miss work to do it. I don't know if I can accurately relate the abject humiliation that is a yearly physical. It's totally embarrassing yet women pay big bucks to have cold metal prodded inside of them of their own free will. My reason for continuing to go annually is that it's the only way to have my prescriptions, cleverly written for 11 months of refills, renewed. Those bastards. They have it all figured out.


I start worrying about 3 days before the visit. I have to make sure that everything is trim and tidy down there, least I leave the office with a reputation as a bushman. I also avoid foods high in cholesterol, since they test for that too, but that isn't nearly as important as making sure I'm shaved from toe to twat and that I'm pedicured. My yearly trip to the Gyno also means my yearly trip to the feminine hygiene aisle where I stock up on anything that may make the doctor's time down there more pleasant. I really shouldn't do this. Hell, they are getting paid a SHIT LOAD to spend 2 minutes prying me open and swabbing. If I were less courteous, I would totally not even change underwear or wipe my ass for 3 days. Make 'em earn it, ya know?


I am also very thoughtful in how I schedule my appointment. I like to go very early so that I'm fresh out of the shower. I will forever be like this. I once worked with a woman who wore those real thick and shiny pantyhose. We worked in a building that wasn't air conditioned and it was summer. She was melted and sweaty, standing at the bus line (we were teachers) and she said, "I've got to cut out of here. I have a OB/GYN appointment in 15 minutes." Holy fuck. That's just RUDE. Maybe those doctors do earn their money after all. I don't ever want to be that woman. Ever.


While watching The History of Sex, I learned that the vibrator was invented to cure women of hysteria and that women would go to the doctor (in droves) to have the hysteria procedure done. It used to be done by the doctor manually, but one guy became so tired that his hands were cramping so he invented a vibrating device to help him. Now THAT is good bedside manners. I might not hate going to the gyno so much if all the visits had happy endings.


I have had both male and female doctors. I prefer the females because, for some reason, it seems like they're in it because they like babies and not because they like pussy. This also causes me some guilt for choosing a female doctor. Every year I feel I disappoint her because I'm not pregnant. I like to think that she thinks, "Great. Just another vagina. No opportunities to be part of bringing life into the world. Ho Hum." Instead of what I imagine a male doctor thinking, which is, "Great! Another vagina! I see more muff than Brad Pitt ever will! Let me see how far I stick my fingers in THIS!" See? That's nasty, but it's what I'm thinking every time a male doctor says, "Spread a little more... a little more... tell me if this hurts." I always feel like I just gave it up to the dorkiest guy in college. It makes me feel so unclean.


The very worst part, aside from the nudity and body cavity invasion, is the breast exam. Oh my God. Take it easy on the girls! Do you really have to try to touch my spine while your feeling me up? Breast exams HURT. And this will only get worse the closer I get to 40- when mammograms become a must.


So anyway, I went to the gynecologist, got blood taken, my titties kneaded, and an extra long Q-Tip crammed from my oblong diamond to my lungs. How was your day?

An Artistic Masterpiece, From the Beginning

Behold! Behold the glory of my glowing beauty. A beauty that shall surely crumble empires and set sail a thousand ships.



For those of you following my exploits diligently, will surely remember a previous post touting my rise to fame on the cover of the Oxford Town, only the largest, independent entertainment magazine available, for free, on every street corner and hazy coffee shop in Oxford, MS.

The above artistic rendering (a silver etching on paper) has won multiple awards and accolades around the highly regarded Mississippi art circuit. Most recently it was the recipient of a purchase award. Apparently individuals or corporations will donate a chunk of cash to an art show, so that the more qualified judges can pick the best pieces, buy them and present them to the donater to hang in his/her corporate headquarters.

This means that somewhere in the bowels of some soulless, faceless corporation a depressed, pale, low level employee will stumble down the drab gray hallway and his eyes will fall upon a glorious work of art, which may inspire him to throw of the shackles of corporate oppression and return to his childhood dreams of being an artist. Or, more likely, pimply teenage lads will be throwing pickle slices at it as it hangs in the break room of the Burger Hut in Itawamba, Mississippi. Either way, I am inspiring others.

A few centuries from now future generations will study it in great detail, write long winded thesis about it and finally, after saving for years, will make their way to Paris, wait in line outside the Louvre, only to shuffle past while thinking, "Hmm, I thought it would be bigger."

I suppose credit should be given to the artist, my best friend, Christopher Brady (AKA Clib). However, one could argue that he has churned out literally hundreds of masterful works of art, none as well received as the one of me. Could it be the subject of the work is more important than the artist? It appears so.

This testament to my beauty can only lead me to one unfailing conclusion: If it were not for my ego, I would be perfect.

Monday, March 26, 2007

My Condolences to Ray Ray's Reproductive Capabilities

Killer typing with one hand, while protecting the boys with the other

My favorite sister in the entire world, as I have been repeatedly informed of since birth, recently shared with me a very delicate piece of information. It is an undertaking her husband, my brother-in-law, and every one's favorite Cajun, Ray Ray, has allowed.

It would be unbecoming of me, not to mention an affront to my vast medical training, to discuss, in a public forum, someone else's medical maladies. However, considering the particular body parts in question, I am certain it will become clear why I, of all people, could not resist the airing of grievances.

Ray Ray had a vasectomy. He has Sacrificed his Sack, Hacked his Huevos, Allowed his Junk out of Juxtaposition, and my favorite, Made a Vast Difference Within his Vas Deferens.




That is love, baby. I personally won't even carry a pocket knife out of an irrational fear of sharp objects within a close proximity to my beloved balls. To pay someone to slice and dice the one area of my body which is the last thing I tuck in at night and the first thing I scratch in the morning, is an alien concept to me. If I were to awaken in the hospital, after a prolonged coma, with the doctor looking at me to grimly say, "Killer, after the freak accident we had to amputate both your legs and both your hands," I would reach down with both nubs, rub my nuts for good luck and say, "That's okay, we'll get by."

I only wish I could be there in person to see Ray Ray reclined gingerly in his favorite chair, in his underwear as usual, but with a giant bag of frozen peas placed, ever so gently, upon his groin.

Ray Ray, I wish you a speedy and steadfast recovery. It is going to be mighty uncomfortable atop that riding lawn mower for a spell. Maybe you can convince your wife to get out there in your place. You should probably avoid scratching the effected area for a few weeks, you would not want to damage those really small sutures. That would be the hardest part for myself. It is like asking the sun not to shine, or the wind not to blow.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

The Accidental Tourist

Liz throws down her bag to blog:

It has been one Hell of a whirlwind weekend and it's only the wee hours of Sunday morning. I just had the best kind of vacation- a totally unplanned and very LONG 24 hours.

I have slept 1 hour in the past 38. It is amazing what you can do when sleep does not interfere with your consumption of alcohol. The fun started Friday night when friends gathered at a local pub to enjoy the smooth hippiness of Todd Snider. He is a folk musician who can make you want to slit your wrist then laugh about it. The best part of the night was that Shanna, a big fan, got to meet Mr. Snider and we all had pictures made and the like. He is all of the girls' hippie crush, so my picture is definitely going on the fridge. There were two almost-incidences of fights involving the people in my group, which is hilarious because we are all lovers, not fighters. I got to see my friends break bad on some assholes who were in front of us. I so delight in this. My friends are peaceful kind people but were trying to make shanks out of their beer cans. Funny- and all in good fun.

A very late bedtime provided one hour of sleep. At 5:30am I was up again, showering and getting ready to go on a 3-hour treck to watch Watda'ya Know?, an NPR game show. Our tickets were on the fourth row, which was awesome. My BFF and I had great fun, then decided to go get pedicures. Then shoe shopping, where I scored some unbelievable rain boots. And Outlet malls. Including two great meals along the way.

The sleep deprivation led to delirium, which means that my BFF and I got extremely silly. She probably doesn't want me to tell you this but it's so funny I have to. You know that obscene gesture straight men make where they touch their index fingers and thumbs to make... um.... an oblong diamond? Then, men being men, will sometimes bring this oblong diamond to their faces and lick around it as if to replicate... um... well, you know. My BFF FORGETS that this is an obscene gesture that only men or women in flannel with mullet hair cuts should make. She has somehow grown up thinking that this gesture is the symbol for "rock and roll", much like the often seen devil horns made by extending the index finger and pinkie up, while folding other fingers under. It is NOT the symbol for rock and roll, it is the symbol for...um...well, you know. So here we are, in a "sit down" steak house, greasy from a day of traveling, gassy from a night filled with cold beer, looking like skanks straight out of the converted school bus we live in when some comment is made about music and WHAM! Her fingers meet, the oblong diamond is made, and she's licking around it profusely. We, of course, are in a restaurant on a Saturday night at 7:00. There are other people around. A matter of fact, I saw the table of men behind her pray before they ate their meal. And then there is us... table discussions about our guess for how much the world's biggest dump weighed, uncouth comments about the pros and cons of being a groupie, and then a visual demonstration (unintentional) of how to eat coochie.

I am mortified. But damn, that's the funniest thing I've seen all year. I have no intention of EVER letting her live this down. I'm so lucky to have a BFF that does things like this. My plan is to teach her the finger symbol for "The Shocker" and tell her that's how they say "Hello" in Canada. I just hope I'm there when she uses it.

Friday, March 23, 2007

I can feel your heart beat

Liz opens up and says AHHHHHHH:

I love that preview. It can mean so many things. Today I am referencing this week's trip to the doctor (remember the sinus and ear infections?)

Recently, I have started trying to use ONE general practice doctor instead of the strip mall medical clinics we have around town. I would like to build a relationship where I can simply call the doctor and have him call in a script for me when I'm sick. I realize this type of relationship takes years to establish, but I can be a patient patient.

My concern is that I have not picked a very good doctor on which to place all of my bets.This guy is extremely frazzled, sort of like a mad scientist, and I don't think all the questions he asks me are related to my health. I theorize that he likes knowing intimate details about people and uses his lab coat as a gateway to get information. For example, how does the question, "Are you sexually active?" help him realize that I have a sinus infection?

During one visit he was going to take my blood pressure. He said, "Please remove your shirt," in reference to the over shirt I had on. So I did. He then said, "That's the best part about being a doctor. I tell people to take their clothes off and they do." Ok. That's sort of funny, but that humor is best reserved for two people who know each other, not so appropriate for a new patient/doctor icebreaker.

He was writing a prescription for an antibiotic and asked, "Is there a chance you are pregnant?" I said, "No. No chance." Then he took his stethoscope and put it on my stomach and said, "I hear a heart beat." I said, "I thought that steak was a little undercooked," and he laughed. He hadn't heard anything, of course, but still made that comment.

When he wrote the prescription he added a couple of things to it that have nothing to do with the reason I was there. I didn't ask for these medications, he just gave them to me. He gave me a prescription of a gout medicine that I already have a prescription for and he gave me a 1-month, no refill script for another medicine that I already have a prescription for. No good prescriptions, like pain pills, just useless prescriptions. I already have them on file and he was NOT the doctor that wrote them the first go around. He didn't even ask if I wanted or needed them refilled. He just wrote them. Weird.

My plan is to either find a new doctor or to milk this one for what it's worth. I think he is a very caring doctor, I just think that he is socially awkward. VERY socially awkward. He told me that he was a bit of a nerd. Really? I would have never guessed! He is eccentric. He gets focused on one thing (like your face) and doesn't break concentration. He is very bright, but he doesn't always know where the line of social acceptance is. He sort of reminds me of what Clib would have turned out like if he hadn't had cool friends like me and Killer when he was growing up. :) (Actually, I say that more because he looks like Clib than because he acts like Clib... Although....)

I would like to keep going to him (sort of) but I would like for his odd line of questioning to stop. I think I'm going to ask for an HIV, Gonorrhea, and Crabs test. Maybe then he'll keep a safe distance and think twice before asking me to take my clothes off.

Hang in there, Dannielynn. Daddy's a-comin'.

Killer proudly touting his sperm count

I'm Dannielynn's daddy. That's right, I have kept my peace for as long as I could, but now I feel, for the child's sake, I need to speak up. How can they possibly expect a three month old to spend fifty million dollars?

At first glance it might not seem obvious, but believe me, I am a sex machine. I am having crazy sex with celebrities all the time. I wasn't planning on getting Anna Nicole pregnant, but my seed is mighty, and now I am ready to Cowboy up and do the responsible thing. I am going to take care of my baby and her money .

Hey, if Zsa Zsa's wrinkly husband can be viewed as a viable suspect, why can't any of us?

I'm a busy fella. I can't recall exactly what I was doing one year ago. So, it might just be possible that I was knocking boots with Anna Nicole. I can't be expected to keep a log book or a sign in sheet for every single person that gets to ride on Killer's Wet and Wild Jungle Ride, but I do validate parking. I like to give back to the ladies.

If they insist, I'm willing to give a DNA sample. As a matter of fact, I keep a couple of random sperm samples in my freezer, so they could just have one of those. (On a side note: Liz, sorry about the mix up. I now label more clearly. Mayonnaise, Man Glaze, I can see the similarity.)

I could really be a good father, and if not, with fifty million dollars at my disposal, I could just hire a better father to pick up the slack. You always hear about celebrities going to third world countries and adopting babies, why not try the reverse? I can go to a third world country and adopt a parent to come help raise Dannielynn. I may not be able to guarantee a level of fame her mother has amassed, but if I raise her in Mississippi, she will have a more than fair chance of being on Jerry Springer or Cops.

While we are at it, I think I will also toss my hat into the James Brown melee as well. I'm the mother of James Brown's illegitimate child. This one could be a tad bit trickier to convince to a jury of my peers. I'm willing to try however, because I have a really low opinion of the mental acuity of my peers.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

The Unthinkable

Liz whispers:

Friends, the unthinkable has happened. I have lost my voice. I know that somewhere there are celebrations in the street, as surely prayers have been answered. But for me and my golden fog voice, this is tragic. Tragic in that Carol-Brady-Christmas-solo kind of way.

I think my voice departure has everything to do with the fact that I've got two ear infections and a sinus infection. Being the trooper that I am, I went on to work tonight where I spoke for hours. Now, I fall silent before you with a mini chalk board tied around my neck and a stick of chalk in my hand. I cry out to be heard, but only a faint eek comes from my throat. And my freshly manicured nails keep brushing against this damn chalkboard. Again, tragic. Tragic in that Fonzi's-trademark-bump-didn't-start-the-jukebox kind of way. Oh the humanity!

To add to my agony, I have the world's largest zit right between my eyes. Not only is it huge, but because it's been with me for several days, it has been touched with malicious intent. This means I have successfully made it much worse. To the point where even makeup does nothing but enhance my Hindu appeal. Things just aren't going my way.

But there is some good news.

The other night at Chick-Fil-A I was in the drive thru line. A man two cars up ordered $94 worth of fast food. I wanted to murder him with my bare hands. Instead, I gave a sharp look of displeasure to the 16 year old working the window. I sternly said, "Ya'll really should force people with orders over $25 to come into the restaurant instead of using the drive thru." "Totally!" she said, and I felt better about her generation. They may not be THE GREATEST generation, but when they say "totally", they mean it.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

No Post For You!

I think I have officially broken my brain. I have been working non-stop since returning from Vegas and I can't remember who I am.

I was driving home this morning and could not remember what day of the week it was. I thought it was Tuesday, but my watch said Wednesday. Then I started to freak out because I thought I had only posted one post since the weekend. It was not that I was upset about not posting, but I was concerned that I did not remember where the day went.
I guess when you spend every night taking care of the same vegetative patients, every fecal covered ass starts to look alike. I used to be able to see the beauty in each and every poopy ass, but now the magic is gone.

In my Birthday post I mentioned having fun with our Schizophrenic patient. Well, we do actually have one, and it turns out her Birthday is the same as mine. Her nurse wanted to give her a piece of my Birthday cake (a beautiful Barbie cake, I got to lick the icing off the nipples.), but her husband said, rather vehemently, "She can NOT have a piece of cake. That will make her placenta fall out." When I heard that I was afraid to eat my piece. After the husband left the nurse gave her a piece anyway. I don't know about her, but my placenta never fell out, so I think that husband is full of shit.

There is no love like crazy love.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Your History Lesson for the Week

Inquisitive Liz:

If I could pay for only the cable I use, I could save hundreds of dollars a year. I love the History Channel. I think my favorite fad in History television is the reenactment pieces that accompany almost every show. Some of these segments are so well produced it's like watching a movie instead of a history lesson. They do this to make people like me feel better about being a dork.

Through my avid television watching, I have learned things they don't teach you in elementary school. For example, ancient Greek men had young boy lovers (knew that) that were mentored and groomed by the older man; it was more complicated than "sex", it was an established societal norm- kind of like an apprenticeship . Women had homosexual relationships too. And everyone was OK with that.

3,000 years later, we are debating if people have the right to choose their own sex partners and arguments are made about how "unnatural" or "sinful" homosexual relationships are. What happened? Where was the switch that made being gay taboo? The one thing that stands out to me is that homosexuality has existed for a very long time. If it has existed since, basically, the dawn of man and since gay people don't get to choose any more than any one else who they are attracted to, I don't understand how this issue is controversial, a question of ethics, or a sign of the sinful ways of mankind.

Cannabis used to be grown in this country and used for all sorts of things, including smoking, until (recently) in the twenties or thirties when some huge newspaper baron decided to publish reports about the "harmful, crazy affects" of marijuana. It appears that he had invested in some pharmaceuticals and that marijuana, the natural alternative, was in direct competition to his product.

Last week a woman in California sued the government to allow her to use marijuana to help ease the pain she suffers due to a brain tumor and stimulate her appetite. She lost. The courts said that although she can use pot because of California state law, if she is prosecuted federally, she may do jail time. WTF? She is a 41 year old mother with kids who will soon die because of this tumor. She can get marijuana at a low cost and it's the best and most natural thing she's found to help her. The influence of these newspaper articles and the power of money has changed the course of our country and, in cases like this, we are doing things that just don't make sense. Let the woman roll a fattie!

I think we believe that we are much more advanced than we really are. My BFF told me that she recently learned that plants communicate to each other. If a dangerous bug attacks one plant, it emits signals to the plants around it that a predator is in the hiz-ouse and the neighboring plants begin prepping for their own chemical assault against the harmful intruder. That will make you think twice before eating a salad.

My point is that there are a lot of lessons out there that we haven't learned. Sometimes the truth is right before us, yet we refuse to see it. We lay down and take a lot of things that we shouldn't. We accept things that simply do not make sense. I'd love to know what they'll say about us in the year 2500. Will they think of us as ignorant barbarians (like we mistakenly do with anyone not born after 1940)? What do we believe today that will be laughable to them? Is there any chance that I'll see a gay, pot smoking president in my lifetime?

What do we believe today that doesn't make sense to you? Rant on...

Nicknames Empower Me, Like GW

In a comment to my Idiot Vernacular post "anonymous" said, "I've have found your best friend. He has the same gay ass "crocks" as you. Explain the nick names for your friends...." Only two people refer to my crocs (rubber clogs) as "gay ass", Bam and Ray Ray. Bam would have used his real name, since he would be proud to say hurtful things to me. So, for Ray Ray:

The Nicknames for my close friends, and what they mean (when able to explain)
*in order of common usage

Michael (me)
Killer - explained, rather eloquently in Finally Some Answers.
K Man - rather obvious
Clob - Clib got his name from his Dad when he was little, and soon Chad was called Clab, so I was given an honorific version.
Guano - on a few of our trips we made up new names to honor the new location. This was my Mexican name.
Chief Eating Beans - another trip name, the Native American version.
Chunky - I farted once and Clib said, "chunky". I thought he was calling me fat, so I yelled back, "bean pole!" He was referring to the fart.




Chris
Clib - From his Dad, because Chris had trouble saying Chris.
Clibby - The full version.
Clib-dib-da-fer - The full full version
Pacahontas - Clib's Native American name, because he would not eat his water logged, grey processed meat patty. Me and Chad made fun of him ruthlessly for his culinary ethics, and then ate his share to prove a point. My stomach hurt for a few days, but it was the principle.
Bean Pole - See Chunky above.










Chad

Clab - I already explained this! God, are you not paying attention?
Clabby - The full version
Sascrotch - Chad's Native American name. I am not allowed to tell you why.
Fat Back - Chad has by no means ever really been overweight, but he was thicker than Clib or Bam, so Bam always calls Chad fat names. Ironically, now Bam and Clib are plumper than Chad.
Fatty Fatty Fat Fat - Same as above, but I really love saying this one.
Frijole - Chad's Mexican name.






Joey

Yo Sef - A colorful way to say Joseph
Stu - From Joey's last name, Stewart.
Disco - From the Simpsons, immediately jumped on the second the introduced the character "Disco Stu", with the infamous line, "Disco Stu doesn't advertise."
Don Stewart - Disco reads all things mafia, and we refer to his Dad as King Richard, for ruling the family with an iron fist. We always said, "Someday, Joey will run the family."
Stew like the food - What Disco tells people when they ask which way he spells his last name.
Cleb - You should be able to figure this one out by now.
Whitey - If you ever see Disco in shorts, you will know why.


Brandon
Bam - Given by his parents, There are people back in school, who probably did not know it was a nick name.
Bamela - Because Bam is my bitch.
Frankentooth - Bam had a chipped incisor for a few years and Clib always made fun of it.
Mister Fister - Can not explain without offending a lot of readers.




Liz
Busty Larue - For obvious reasons
Booby La Boobula - see above
Lizbian - I just made this one up, I think it is going to stick.












I love giving people nicknames. If you know me for a while I don't start calling you by a nickname, it usually means I am using a derogatory one to refer to you with other people. I am an ass like that.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Happy Birthday, Now wipe my ass!

I have to work tonight. It was inevitable that I would be working on my birthday, since I am working everyday.

Here are the ways I plan on celebrating my birthday at work tonight.

1. Smear icing all over the chest of my comatose patient, stick candles on his nipples and then blow them out. Clean him up before the family comes in and presses charges.

2. Treat every gross liquidy poop like it is a fabulous gift. "Mrs. Johnson, you shouldn't have. Look! It's my favorite color. How did you know?"

3. Unwrap wound dressings like birthday presents. "Oooo, the wrapping is exquisite. I'm going to keep the wrapping and use it again. I can't wait to see what it is. (GASP) A bloody stump...with gangrene! This AND the poop, you have done too much."

4. Eat cake and ice cream in front of my diabetic patients. "Mmmmm, this is deliciously sweet."

5. Tell the schizophrenic patient that I am her Son, and it is my birthday. She will cry, hug me and after she sings Happy Birthday, I'll say, "There were a couple of guys in dark suits out front, in a big white van, asking questions about you." When she starts to freak out the rest of the staff will come in and knock her out with Haldol. In a couple of hours, when she wakes back up, I can do it again.

6. Show up for work in my "Birthday Suit".

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Green With Envy

The Parade Perspective From Liz:

You might not know that Jackson, Mississippi has one of the largest St. Patrick's Day parades in the nation. I think that officially we're said to have the fourth largest. This year we may have broken that record because I'm pretty sure that every white person in the state was in attendance and a couple of African American families too. 68 degrees under sunny skies. Take that, Savannah, Georgia!

When you have thousands of people pressed against each other on the sidewalk, pushing and bumping is expected. I tried to start charging people who I felt were molesting me, but it didn't really work out. When I told one guy, "That will be $5, please," he said, "For $5 I'm getting more than a quick brush against!" and I thought, "You know, standing on the street trying to charge people for groping me might be considered prostitution." Although the story would be hilarious I don't know if I want that on my record, so I stopped. I probably haven't told you this but avoiding jail time is one of primary goals for 2007. To get busted for hooking is counterproductive goal maintenance.

When you bring a stroller and your dog to a tightly-packed event, you should be fined. Your child's Cadillac stroller is taking up prime real estate and you don't know where your dog is going to decide to take a dump. My cooler needs a spot on the ground but NOOOOOO- instead your yellow lab is pissing on the fence in the place where my cooler would fit perfectly. Plus, and this is the more serious side of this issue, I would be afraid to bring my dog. There are too many people and your dog is short. Folks are packed tightly together and there is much drinking going on. There are hundreds of floats driving by and every year some person ends up getting run over. In other words, the potential for chaos is great. If your dog could talk, he would cuss you for being such a selfish bastard. He would double cuss you if you dressed him up then drug him out to the parade.

Jackson's sky rocketing ascension to fourth place in St. Patrick's Day festivities is largely due to something called The Sweet Potato Queens. This group of women and one gay man started meeting at a local bar almost 20 years ago and formed a sort of club based in humor and catty comments about people who are not Sweet Potato Queens or of like mind. One of the women wrote a book and BAM! The bar owner started a parade, the Queens marched and Wanna Be's started flocking in from everywhere. These Wanna Be groups from all over the country march in the parade also. Their costumes are great and it's fun to watch people volunteer to exercise in heels. This year I couldn't see anything except for the really big floats but on the trek in we had a great view of all of the marchers and their outlandish get ups. Think of it as the Rocky Horror Picture Show for middle aged white women. Costumes, booze, and throwing shit.

The only problem with this year's outstanding parade was the pee situation. There are not a lot of options for public restrooms. Therefore, two of our more industrious bar owners, who share a parking lot with each other, set up port-a-johns in the lot. Brilliant! They charge $6 per person to get into the lot under the guise of this being where the "after party" takes place. Of course at noon the after party is several hours away, so in essence you're paying $6 to pee. Luckily, the ink they use to stamp your hand as "paid" is easily transferred with a little spit. I peed for free and felt like I had beat the system.

St. Patrick's Day in Jackson is the perfect place to be if you're not Irish but like to drink like you are. So next year, if you're down this way, try to make it to the parade. Come early, stay late, but know that you're not going to be able to get a hotel room anywhere in the city.

But don't let that stop you from coming. You can stay with Killer.

Friday, March 16, 2007

The Tormenting of Mrs. Clib

The summer before my Senior year in High School I became really good friends with a odd group of people. At it's core was Clib. Clib and I would quickly become best buds, mostly related to our mutual ability to find ANYTHING and EVERYTHING funny.

It was because of Clib I would meet Chad (his brother) and Disco (who grew up across the street from Clib and Chad). It was also Clib's idea to take the first camping trip to the Smokey Mountains that would incite a lifetime of wanderlust.

It is safe to assume my life would be totally different if I had not befriended one guy named Clib.

Considering how important he is in my life, an understandably huge impact was made upon my delicate balance when he announced he was getting married. I had always enjoyed the soon-to-be Mrs. Clib. She never got angry when we farted around her (unlike Liz). She didn't seem to mind much when we laugh manically for long stretches about different ways to have sex with a goat (or similar topics). She even seems to enjoy, and get involved, in our all night religious/political discussions, and NO one else is willing to do that.

All these great things but I still could not help having reservations about my best friend tying the knot. Would he give her access to his vault, with all my dirty secrets and peccadilloes? (Not yet.) Would she put the kibosh on our travelling ways. (Sort of, but understandably so. Would you support an artist and then fund his gallivanting around the world without you?) Would she make him dress better, therefore leaving ME as the worst dressed person we know. (Yes, she did.)

I spent all my time worrying about these issues and did not realize what we were gaining by having her around. Since they got married several years ago, we have had a enthusiastic and innocent person to torment.

A few examples of things we have done to irritate Mrs. Clib:

One time Me and Clib had made a quick beer run and on the way home decided to use frequent finger quotes (use both hands to make quotation marks) while talking to Mrs. Clib. For example:
ME: We just ran to the "store" and got a few "beers".
CLIB: Yeah, "beer". I love "beer".
ME: Let's have some "beer" and watch the "football game".
CLIB: First I want to "eat" a "hotdog".
Mrs. Clib realized something was amiss, but tried to ignore it (often the best plan with us). After about an hour or so of this (we are very dedicated to a joke), she finally responded.
Mrs. Clib: What are you guys doing?
We just laughed and laughed. She looked at us with annoyance while sighing.
Mrs. Clib: You guys are "stupid".

We also frequently tell her we are actually gay lovers and she is just around for a front. Clib does not want to tarnish his reputation in the conservative world of fine art by coming out. She REALLY hates this, especially when she is going to bed early and Clib says something like, "I hope our loud, animalistic, man-on-man lovin' doesn't keep you awake." I will also occasionally call their house, and when she answers say, "Oh God, I am soooo horny. I need you bad." Her response, "What!" Then I say, "Oh, sorry. Can I talk to Clib."

On Mrs. Clib's first, and for some reason only, attempt to go camping with Me, Chad, Disco and Clib, we were enjoying a few alcoholic beverages around the camp fire in Yellowstone, when Clib decided to turn in early. He had wrapped a long day of us giving him shit for having to take her into town for a shower, and stand in line for Diet Coke, etc.
Mrs. Clib, wanting to hang with the big dogs, decided to stay up and toss back a few more libations. Once she did decide to turn in however, we warned her that as an initiation we would have to give her the Brown Eye once she fell asleep. For a lawyer, Mrs. Clib can be pretty gullible, especially after several alcoholic beverages, so she was afraid to go to sleep. Instead, she would stay up for another hour pleading to not get the Brown Eye. Finally she gave in, demanded to be left alone, and crawled into her and Clib's tent. We would soon begin a loud and lively debate over who would get to deliver the Brown Eye, this would later digress to suspicious silence and rummaging outside her tent. When she had taken enough, she woke up Clib to complain, who got mad at her for waking him, and then yelled at us to leave her alone.

Luckily Mrs. Clib has an incredible sense of humor and a LOT of patience. It was probably bad enough that she was about to marry a starving, brilliant artist, she was also marrying a bunch of immature morons to boot.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Idiot Vernacular

Our spending so much time together travelling around, combined with our immaturity, brought about the frequent formation of new words to describe our actions and/or derogatory remarks of one another. It has been said that when myself, Chad, Clib and Disco get together it can be very difficult for an outside person to understand what we are talking, and subsequently, giggling about. Most often this is said by Clib's wife, Mrs. Clib.

Here is a list of some of the words/phrases we use in regular conversation with each other.

Anius: Combo of anus and genius. Refers to a person who has done something stupid, but thinks it was something great.

Cup of Soup: When you fart into your hand, or a hat, and throw it into someone else's face.

Grump: Poop (as in, "I have to grump" or "I'm feeling a bit grumpy")

HUD house: Outhouse/Porta potty/Pit Toilet (as in, "This campground better have a HUD house, I gotta grump."

Couch Monkey: A person who is living on your couch, usually over staying their welcome.

50% of Dick is Dick: When someone offers you a deal, but it is not very good.

Onion: A nice Ass. (as in, "Check that onion.") often said in an exaggerated Coon Ass drawl, Un-Yawn.

Turd Cutter: Also a nice Ass.

Fuck Me in The Goat Ass: A response to something unbelievable.

Crop Dusting: Walking in front of someone and farting.

Disrespecting an Area: A warning to others you just farted. (as in, "I just totally disrespected this 7-eleven.")

Nerts/Juevos/Cajones/Junk/Kibbles n Bits/My Boys/Das Nuts: Testicles

Go Balls Out: Give it all you got.

Sherm: Sex. (as in, "Did you see Sherm?" "Man, it's been so long since I've seen Sherm, I don't even remember what he looks like.")

Craptastic: When something is bad.

2 Cd's for Free: Asking someone if they want to look at your testicles. (as in, "Would you like 2 CD's for Free?...See Deeze Nuts!" at this point you must point to your crotch with both hands)

Brown Eye: Squatting over a sleeping person with your naked ass. (as in, "If you fall asleep, I am going to give you the Brown Eye.")

Zap: Gay. (as in, One time Clib came out wearing cover-alls with no shirt, we thought he looked like a gay, male stripper. Instead of saying that, we all kept saying "zap" to him all day." This is stolen from The Simpsons season 8, when Homer thought Bart was gay, because Bart was walking around with a laser gun saying, "zap".

zero + zero = gay: A way to tell someone they are not dating enough. (as in, "How many girls did you go out with last month?" reply, "none." "How many girls have you gone out with this month?" reply, "none." "Hmmm, zero + zero = gay.") To be fair, gay people could say, "zero+zero= straight"

Corky: Mentally or physically challenged.

Smelling European: Bad body odor. (as in, "Dude, you are smelling mighty European.")

Rick: When you are inconsiderate of your fellow travellers, or become increasingly annoying. (as in, "Quit being a Rick, and let's get out of here.")

2000 Baht: A reference to a hot chick, or a reference to a prostitute. (as in, "I'd give that chick 2000 Baht." or "I bet she charges 2000 Baht.") This is derived from the frequent price given (unsolicited) from Thai whores, while walking down Bangkok streets.

Corbin: A derogatory comment about a city or town. (as in, "This place is almost as bad as Corbin.") On one of our very first trips, we got lost and then the bike rack mysteriously snapped off the back of the van in Corbin, Kentucky, forever making it the worst town in the world. On a side note: Corbin is the birth place of KFC.

I am going to pound your prostate: A term of endearment, sort of like, I love you.

Do you and your friends have any special words or phrases?

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

How Inappropriate!

Liz (again):

Please don't miss Killer's post below. I'm feeling rather ambitious tonight, so I'm writing another post. Yes. It's 2 fer Wednesday! Don't forget to tip your waiters and bartender.

Just a quick thought:

I KNOW some inappropriate people. I worked with a woman who once discussed her teenage son's masturbation habits when our entire office went out to lunch. When I say discussed, I mean disgust. THAT is inappropriate office lunch conversation!

I, although I can be inappropriate, am usually just honest or providing a punch line. Because of this, sometimes people infer things that aren't correct about me. They sometimes take opportunities to say things to me that they would never say to others, even if they know them better than they know me.

In front of others conversations flow like:

ME: Hey, Jason, do you think if I brought my lap top to work you could see why it's running so slowly?

JASON: Sure. What kind of porn have you downloaded because I KNOW there's a ton of it on YOUR computer! (just shy of a high five, he looks at the other guy, who is giving me a "coooool" head nod and half smile).

This, of course, prompts me to say something like:

No, I quit watching porn once I saw that video your mom was in.

And we all laugh. Sort of.

Other examples:

ME: Hey boss, I'm not feeling very well and I'm thinking about going home.

BOSS: Ok. So was it last night's party that you're recovering from or do you have a party planned for tonight?

ME: No, I really don't feel well.

BOSS: Hangovers are a bitch.

Which, of course, prompts me to say something like:

Not as much of a bitch as I am when I have cramps. I'm going home.

And we both laugh. Sort of.

All of this is somewhat bewildering to me. I'm not outside of the normal range of "wild". Granted, I'm not at the buttoned-up, observing the speed limit end of "safe", but I'm also not standing on the street corner hooking, either. I do have MOMENTS of wildness, but they are usually alcohol-induced and therefore should be categorized as MOMENTS, not core behavior. Especially since I'm not at a bar or drunk when these comments are made and often the people making the comments have not frequently seen me in my wild moments, if seen those at all.

Comments like, "You're going out with Paul? I'll bet you're tearing his ass up!"

ME: Well, we've had A date, I wouldn't call that going out.

HIM: Yeah, but I'll bet you're still tearing his ass up!

Which prompts me to say something like:

I might tear his ass up if he shows up late again!

And he looks disappointed and says something like, "Damn it girl! You're a mess!"

Really? I'm a mess because of that?

A few days ago I was at a work going away party, on site, munching on cookies waiting for the goodbye video to start so that I could go home. There were about 200 people in the room. A woman, who I know but have never really socialized with, said, "I'll bet this is what your house looks like on the weekends."

ME: What? Like a giant conference room?

HER: NO! All these people, Party Girl!

Which, of course, prompts me to say something like:

Yeah. There are a lot of men coming and going.

And we both laugh. Sort of. And she mutters something (whore, I'm pretty sure) under her breath.

When people ask me about my weekend, they sometimes preface the question with something like

If you can talk about it, tell me how your weekend was.

I hate to disappoint them, but it's likely that I went over to my BFF's house Friday and played with her kids, maybe met some friends for cocktails Saturday, did a little school work and took care of laundry. When I tell them that, they likely respond with,

Yeah. You're giving me the G version. I know you had something goin' on. You're just protecting the innocent.

Which prompts me to respond

Yeah. You get the G version. I keep the G spot versions to myself.


I don't mean to sound like I'm complaining. I know that it's endearment, usually, that allows people to feel safe saying things that place me in the "dirty" light. And I, of course, can't help but play along. It's like I feel obligated to make sure they succeed with their "zing!". I sometimes feel like I'm a sitcom character. But I'm never faking, I'm just playing along.

It's interesting to me how you can somehow get a reputation as a party girl when you really don't do a lot of partying. There are people who aren't close friends but who do know me pretty well that think they can't keep up with me and will say such. This is funny. They think I'm out until 4 am every weekend, boozing it up and herding men in and out of my life. In reality, I'm at home with the cats watching a Monk marathon on USA.

And operating an at-home phone sex line for minors.

Is that inappropriate?

What Daylight Savings Time Means To Me

Liz springs forward:

You, dear reader, may be witness to the birth of a new pet peeve.

If I get another pet, I am totally naming it Peeve. That just occurred to me.

I have been accosted by an overwhelming number (4) of people trying to blame stupid things they have said or done on the shift to daylight savings. This sounds like something Druids would do, not semi-intelligent modern people with jobs.

I have decided to create my own list of lame excuses to cover my pettiness and ineptness in certain areas:

"Extra pounds"- Unfortunately, this is due to fluctuating temperatures. That drives my sugar addiction to new heights. I'm very sensitive to temperature. If it goes from 78 to 80 in one day, I have to have doughnuts or I might die. Seriously! (I'm not serious).

"Sleeping A LOT"- Contrary to the popular myth that I stay up late playing cards, drinking, computer gaming or watching TV, my need to sleep so much is, in reality, caused by an unusual balance of hormones produced as my fingernails grow. I know! This is totally weird, but my body expends extra effort when producing keratin. I can get a doctor's excuse if you need it. (I don't even know if keratin is what fingernails are made of. But if you don't either, would you challenge me?).

"Having the most unkempt yard on the block"- I was sent to a juvenile detention center when I was 15 for trying to run over the neighbor's annoying dog with a lawn mower. I also tried to take out the neighbor with a weed eater. Part of my rehabilitation included hypnotherapy. I guess it really worked! But, dear neighbor, if you have an issue with how I keep my yard, I will gladly work on it. May I borrow your weed eater?

"Total fear of commitment"- I don't believe in making promises I won't keep, so I simply try to avoid making any promises. In third grade my friend and I both said, "Told ya!" at the same time and she jinxed me. I didn't speak until the second time I went through 4th grade. "The Jinx" cannot be violated.

"Mooching back rubs"- I am allergic to those microscopic bed bugs that live by the hundreds in all of our homes. It's really tragic. They bite me (impossible) and start turning my muscles into stone. If I don't get regular back rubs, I will become immobile. I've already got a Rascal Scooter on lay-away. I know that day is coming.

"Possible Superiority Complex"- God told me I was better than you.

These "excuses" might not work on you, with your giant brain and ability to call bullshit, but I think that if used on the general populace the believability rate would average 60%. These are the same people who say, " I KNEW you were going to say that!" on a daily basis, even though they don't even know their home address. This group is the same group that forwards emails claiming that if you send this to 10 people within 5 minutes, Bill Gates will send you a new laptop. My target population is the people who really do wonder, or better yet KNOW, that Harry Potter books are teaching young people magic spells. You know who they are. They are the same people who claim that their car wouldn't start because of "something to do with daylight savings time, I'm certain!"

Idiots. If not for them, what would be my primary source of entertainment?

Arkansas Coon Peggin'

About 1998 or so, we decided to take a short weekend camping trip to the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. It was mostly a chance for Chad to include his youngest brother, Matt. Matt was probably 15 at the time, so an opportunity to go camping with his big brother, and his incredibly awesome pals, must have seemed like the chance of a lifetime. This trip included myself, Chad, Disco, and Matt.

We set up camp in a fairly empty campground. I guess it was still a little cool for the average outdoorsman. After cooking a gourmet camp meal we started hearing something rustling in the bushes right next to the camp. We were concerned about bears so it was a bit tense. Then we heard more rustling on the other side. We were surrounded by what could be large, ravenous carnivores. In order to secure our campsite and the booze, we sent Matt into the bushes with a flashlight and a stick.

Matt retreated quickly, but not from a bear. We were infested with raccoons. The raccoons were soon venturing closer and closer to our campsite looking for food. We shooed them away, picked up our trash, and sent Matt off to clean the dirty pots and pans.

Once we felt positive our gear was raccoon proof we broke out the cards and got serious about the drinking. Not Matt, however, he was not really interested in drinking at that time, and Chad had promised his Mom we would not morally corrupt him. (And she reads this blog)

Once the booze started flowing we realized Matt needed a nickname, all cool people have nicknames. After a brief discussion we decided on "Manius". A combination of Matt and Anius (Anius is a term our group had coined several years earlier. It is a combo of Anus and Genius, and it refers to someone who has done something stupid, but think they did something great.) To be fair, we gave him the option of Manius or Fucknut. He chose Manius with great enthusiasm.

Manius did much more than wash pots and check for bears, he was also an excellent bartender. he would retrieve beer from the cooler and mix drinks for Chad and Disco

Soon we realized the raccoons were still milling about in great numbers on a quest for loose food. Manius grabbed a rock and hurled it into the bushes. He was rewarded with a very satisfying thump, followed by an angry squeal. This was found to be very entertaining, so after sending Manius on a mission to collect more rocks, we all began to take aim at the local fauna.

Quickly it was realized that they would come closer if we turned off the lantern and sat in the dark. We would go pitch black and completely silent, until we could hear them in the campsite. Then, armed with a handful rocks, we would flip on the light and start coon peggin'.

It got hard to guess where they were going to be when the light came on so we opened a can of beans and dumped them at the edge of the campsite. Now, when we turned the lantern on, there was a large congregated swarm at the bean pile, thus making peggin' much easier.

Eventually I would get tired of of rock throwing, so I had found a eight foot stick and was holding it perfectly still next to the bean pile, and when the light came on, I would attempt to poke one before the all ran away. After about an hour, I had managed to poke one. He felt really soft.

I learned a lot about raccoons that night. For starters, when they become over populated, they are very daring in their pursuit of grub. Second, raccoons love beans. Third, getting hit with a rock is not much of a deterrent for hungry raccoons. Finally, if you hit a raccoon just right he will do a flip, but he won't spit out his mouthful of beans.

Later that night, when we were all snuggled inside our sleeping bags, I had a vivid dream we were attacked by an angry mob of rabid raccoons, but it was justified by karma, so I accepted my fate.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

There is a reason I sleep alone

I have a sleeping problem. Not so much a problem for me, but a dangerous problem for people sleeping in close proximity of me. Not flatulence, that is unpleasant, but not really a dangerous problem.

I will be having a dream and sort of jump up and act on that dream in a half awake/half asleep state. When I was young it would not be uncommon for me to wake up in my room, but my blanket and/or pillow would be in the dining room.

I frequently will have a dream someone is attacking me, so I will leap up in bed, punch my pillow several times and then fling it across the room. I'll usually wake up at that point and take several moments to convince myself it is only a dream. These events go innocently unnoticed, except to my pillow, because there are no witnesses, but when I started travelling with my friends, there were others to see my nocturnal fits of rage.

On our very first trip we went to the Smokey Mountain National Park in Tennessee. We spent the inaugural day hiking and exploring the region, returning to camp thoroughly exhausted. My night frights are more frequent when I am really tired.

We cooked up a hearty meal and tucked ourselves in our sleeping bags with plans of an early start in the morning. At some point, in the middle of the night, I was having a dream that someone was outside the tent shaking it, or trying to push it over. Apparently I had started muttering in my sleep, because Chad and Clib were both awake in time to see me leap from my sleeping bag in one smooth motion, unzip the tent in lightning speed, and charge out into the cool mountain air yelling, "FUCKERS!" They were quite aghast since this was really the first time we had slept around each other. I slowly realized that no one was outside, so I tucked my tail between my legs and reentered the tent. I didn't say anything and just crawled back in my bag. I think they were too startled to laugh, but they have more than made up for that by laughing about it constantly since.

In 1999 we took the Grand Daddy of all cross country journeys. 5 weeks to drive from Mississippi over to California, up the coast to Seattle and the through Canada to Alaska. We added two more guys, so the trip consisted of myself, Chad, Clib, Disco, and Biggie. More people to behold my problem.

We were camping out in Northern California, at Redwood National Park, and our campsite was a giant sink hole. It was about twenty feet deep and about forty feet in diameter. It was quite cool actually. We had spent the day hiking and trying to smuggle mutant pine cones out, and when it got dark we all piled into the tent. I fell asleep right away, and started dreaming someone was about to push a giant boulder into the hole on top of our tent. I jumped out of my sleeping bag and started yelling, "Get out! Everybody get out!" Clib and Biggie awoke with a start and looked around, frightened but confused. Chad, however, shot out of his sleeping bag, fumbled with the zipper, and was half way out before Disco, who had been awake the entire time reading, casually told everyone to relax, nothing was going on. Once again, I didn't say a word, but just slunk back into my bag, secretly wishing a boulder would fall on the tent to vindicate me. Maybe a small one.

And My Favorite

This one took place in High School, before my travelling days, but it is still pretty funny. One night I was sleeping in my bed, alone since I was not very suave, even in High School. I was having a bizarre dream that a giant Amoeba had enveloped a close friend. I was fighting ferociously with the Amoeba trying to rip it open so my friend could breath. I could see his face inside as he was suffocating. Finally I managed to tear it open and save the day. I woke up the next morning and my entire room was coated in small, dirty grey feathers. I had ripped my pillow open and beat it to death. It took me days to clean up all those damn feathers. That was my favorite pillow to boot.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Carlsbad Caverns, New Mexico

My first four years of college were mostly an excuse to keep travelling around the U.S. with two of my best friends, Chad and Clib. At least 3-4 times a year we would hop in my parents VW van and head to a different national park or monument. With these two guys by my side, I would eventually hit all fifty states, Canada, and Mexico.

I am going to dedicate a few posts to some of my favorite travel adventures.

I believe the year was 1995 and we were making a return trip to Big Bend National Park in Southern Texas. We had decided to expand this trip to include Carlsbad Caverns in White City, New Mexico.

White City is a very small town that is basically owned and operated by the White family, who's patriarch had discovered Carlsbad Caverns many years ago. White City consisted of a gas station, a gift shop, a campground, a motel, and a small restaurant with a really small attached bar.

On our day of arrival we headed straight to the caves, and after a long day of cave exploring we drove to the campground, set up our tent, and decided to splurge by going to the bar/restaurant in order to enjoy some local libations.

The first thing we noticed upon arrival to the bar is that no one else was there, and it was already 6pm. Then we were informed that the bar had a strict 3 drink MAXIMUM. It seemed the Whites did not want a bunch of drunks in their quiet town. The bartender told us the way to cheat the system was to have three, go eat in the restaurant and return for three more. We did just that.

After our 2nd three drink maximum we did not want to leave, but rules are rules. The bar had finally started to get a crowd of two other guys. As we were leaving I noticed one of the guys was wearing a "Louisville Rugby" jacket. I, having played a little rugby, struck up a conversation. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and they offered to buy us a round, but the bartender informed them that we had already exceeded our maximum allotted beverages. They both pulled out a wad of bills and started tossing them onto the bar saying, "come on, one more." Finally the bartender relented. It is safe to say this is where she lost control of the situation.

The five of us started cheering as she gave us five new beers. The rugby guys convinced her a round of shots was required to celebrate this occasion. Twenty minutes later we were singing rugby songs and toasting our bartenders lenient attitude.

After about another hour, and several more beers, a group of four arrived, two guys and two girls. It was shared that one of the guys had won an all expense paid trip to Carlsbad Caverns from a L.A. radio station. Enjoying our ribaldry behavior, he offered to buy us a round. The bartender informed him that we were all well over our three drink maximum limit. The Rugby guys and the L.A. guy now pulled out more money and began to bribe the bartender, who could not really start enforcing the rules properly at this point. More beers were passed around to raucous jubilation, quickly followed by more shots of tequila.

I believe it was around this time I noticed Clib drinking a mixture of beer and tequila out of a rugby guy's shoe. (a hallowed rugby tradition, called "shoot the boot") He would soon follow that up with stripping to his underwear and sprawling across the bar in an attempt to imitate the burlesque painting that was hanging behind the bar.

This scene, combined with the loud singing, motivated the restaurant manager to walk in, give the bartender an evil glare and close the doors which connected the bar and restaurant. It suddenly got eerily quiet, and everyone felt like we were all underage drinkers who had just got busted by a parent. After a few moments the bartender told us the manager was her roommate, so it would be okay. Everyone cheered and more drinks were ordered.

Clib vomited on the floor, either from athletes foot or alcohol poisoning, regardless we moved our table to cover it. One of the L.A. guys was walking around with a tray full of tequila shots, which me and Chad would take back to the bartender and trade for beer, she then would turn around and sell the shot back to L.A. guy.

By now the restaurant was empty and the manager and entire wait staff were watching the action through the door. One of the rugby guys stripped and ran through the bar naked, which is a universal sign for, "time to wrap it up."

I walked around with a glass carafe and got everyone to give as much money as they had to the bartender, by the end it was so much I was packing it in with a steak knife. We presented it to our new best friend, wished her luck on the new job search, and left the other guys to sort out the bill.

Luckily our campground was right across the street from the restaurant/bar. We stumbled to our tent and passed out almost immediately.

We woke up at sunrise to begin our long, quiet, and painful drive back to Mississippi.

Saturday, March 10, 2007

Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Liz moves north of Killer's ball talk:


I mean, really... is there any need for me to have a conversation with you about this photo? But I will.


A few years ago, my BFF's husband was "getting back into tennis". This, in it's self, is funny as it had likely been 15 to 20 years and 50 pounds ago since he was "into" tennis. Being old school, he went to Ebay looking for some classic tennis shorts. You know what I'm talking about. The white shorty shorts with a thick polyester blue and red stripe down the side? Here's one of the photos that came along with some tennis shorts for sale.


I almost consider this pornography.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Britney Spears appears to have an unfair advantage with the media

Killer ranting about inequality

Life is unfair, I realize and accept this, but I still don't like it. Every time Britney does something it is photographed and sold to the tabloids for millions, but if I do the exact same thing everyone ignores it. What's wrong with me? Don't I deserve a little paparazzi harassment?

Indulge me as I paint a picture of inequity.

Britney Spears walks bare foot, with a bulging belly, into a nasty truck stop bathroom. The press has a field day and plasters the picture all over the celeb magazines. I walk barefoot, with my ample gut hanging out of a half shirt, into a nasty truck stop bathroom, and all I get is a bad fungal infection, and not just on my foot.

Britney hops behind the wheel of her car with her infant in her lap, or as I like to call it, "The Redneck Airbag." She is the matter of much discussion on a variety of TV shows and advice columns. I try driving around with an infant in my lap and all I get is a bunch of questions from the police like, "Who's baby is that?" Like I know who the parents are of every damn baby sitting around in a stroller at the mall.

Mrs. Spears went out on the town one night in a short skirt and flashed her naughty bits for all the world to see. It was one of the most viewed pics on the internet, and every late night talk show went ape shit. I recently wore a Scottish kilt out to a Vegas nightclub, sans underwear. I made a conscious effort to sit around with my legs spread. A couple of girls screamed and some dude threw up. Not one camera flash in the whole place.

Most recently Brit shaved her head and then attacked a SUV with an umbrella. It was on every channel and I think Oprah is trying to set up an interview/intervention. I shaved my head and went on a rampage, crushing several Miatas with my bare hands. No respectable press coverage. Just a small part on Cops. Who doesn't have a fleeting moment on Cops? Oprah's people never called for an interview. Not even Geraldo called.

I don't know what else to do. Justin Timberlake won't return my calls and I'm not quite desperate enough to marry a shitty back up dancer. I'm getting pretty close to losing faith in our media driven society, and no red blooded American should ever do that.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

International Women's Day

Liz makes a suggestion:

My BFF informed me that on her calendar today is marked as "international women's day." Although we could take this to mean they're having a two-for-one special on women of international origin at your local Sam's Club, I'm sure the true spirit of the holiday is more meaningful. The question I pose to you is how do you properly celebrate this hallowed event (and why the Hell didn't I get the day off?).

I have a few celebratory suggestions, but I'm looking for you to supply your ideas as well. I'll be spending MY IWD doing the following:
  • Enjoying my vagina. Take that to mean what you will.
  • Water-based paint nipple art (great for making perfect replicas of olives for a drawn martini)
  • Practicing my Kegul exercises
  • Trying to master queefing
  • Using tampons throughout the day to mop up unfortunate spills
  • Enjoying brunch and hot tea with the bitches

So? How are you spending this day or how do you propose that we celebrate next year?

Mark your calendars and I'll meet you back here next year on IWD eve with the guide to proper celebrations.

Random Ranting

Killer tossing out two totally unrelated stories

At the airport recently, I overheard a conversation mid-flow that finished with a statement which had me confused. "...that's exactly what I was trying to tell my grand babies' mommas the other day." I wanted to follow them to find out if she had one grand baby with two mothers or multiple grand babies from different mothers. I've always been fascinated with the hip vernacular used for illegitimate children. "He my baby daddy", "my baby's momma crazy", "and "I'm having baby momma drama" are some of my favorites. I would love to someday use these, but I'm not getting laid enough to expect a positive outcome.

Last week I admitted an eighty year old guy for "Altered Mental Status" into the ICU with a temperature of 102. The standard treatment for an elevated temp is Tylenol. There are only two ways to take Tylenol. One is the trusted oral route, the second is via the poop shoot. Since a confused eighty year old might be having a stroke, which would effect the swallowing abilities, the latter route was utilized. I gloved, lubed and, removed the suppository from the foil wrapper (an intricate part of suppository application). With a male, lying flat in bed, you can actually use a sly, frontal approach by lifting the balls and sliding the object into the anal cavity (in case you ever need to know). I looked up and said, "all done." He looked at me aghast and replied, "I don't know how you Navy boys do things around here, but in the Army, we don't go around touching each other like that." I really felt guilty. Even if he was confused, I don't want that poor guy thinking I was taking advantage of him. Maybe I should have bought him a drink first.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

If You're Stupid, Why Haven't You Called Me?

Liz, proud of her triple-digit I.Q., observes:

I often related work stories to my personal friends, but I shy away from revealing too much about my co-workers on the blog. As much as I am dying to tell you some of those stories, most of which are hilarious, I just don't think it's wise. I'm too lazy to research if I have a legal right to do this, and as tempting as it is, I don't want to cross a line on this one. I like to think that I choose my rebellions wisely.

A few nights ago a friend and I were talking about some of my most recent work observations. This spawned the idea for a website: What's My IQ? On the website you have a person's photo and profile, complete with general background information and quotes FROM as well as ABOUT that person. I imagine a database of around 50 people that you can view.

Players entering What's My IQ are free to peruse all of the profiles then, upon sufficient viewing, are able to wager "IQ Points". You enter your guess as to the person's IQ. If you're a point above or below, you don't lose points. If you hit it dead on, you earn 10 IQ points. Once you earn 100 points, you get to move to the next levels. The next levels are:
  • What's my mental disorder?
  • What's my STD?
  • How many people have I slept with?
  • What's my darkest secret?

I don't know why I think this would be fun.

Unrelated events:

I was hugged 3 times today. I don't know if I've shared with you that I have a slight aversion to hugging. It's sort of OK if there's been a death or if you're under 10, but other than that, I'd just assume keep it at a hand shake, a pat on the shoulder, or heavy petting.

After years of being shy and driving home, I've finally come into my own and can take a crap at work. I love it. I think that would belong under the "What's My Mental Disorder" category. I'm always very considerate and go far out of my way to use a seldom used restroom. Today, I was out of my usual work element and just had to go where ever I could. Luckily, this was also out of the way. BUT as I was entering the restroom, so was the custodian with her mop bucket and cleaning supplies. What would you do? Drop the kids off at the pool, search out another bathroom (even though you had very limited time) or hold it... hold it... hold it... shit on yourself?