Ciao!

Liz says her goodbyes:

I can't believe it's here. Sometime early Saturday morning I'll be boarding a plane, only to arrive at the Atlanta airport for a 7 hour layover. No worries. I have a friend picking my BFF and I up and we'll be escorted around town and taken somewhere for lunch and drinks. Then I'll start my regime of Tylenol PMs and Adavan- some sedative I BEGGED to get from the doc to help ease the travel discomfort. Doctors are so stingy with the good stuff.

Once we leave Atlanta, it's around 7 hours, maybe 8 or 9, in the air. I quit paying attention to details involving any plane ride over 4 hours long. I'm going to have to break my lifelong streak and use a plane restroom. I'm already feeling icky. We land in Rome at 8:30 am. The day begins.

Now that I think about it, I'm going to be going on something like 36 to 48 hours without a shower. Well, when in Rome...

While I'm away, Killer has total control of this blog. How long has it been since he's had to run the company solo? I know they're capable hands, but nonetheless, I feel I bit sad and nostalgic. Make me proud, Killer. I promise to bring back some great stories and will do my best to find an international example of mooseknuckle that will make my time away seem well spent.

Look for updates on July 11. If I can blog from Italy, I'll try to get at least one in. If not, I will toast one glass of vino to you, blog friends, in hope that you too one day have the experience of weaving with intoxication and vomitting on the Spanish Steps.

Japanese Game Shows Kick Ass

Liz sent me this. It is an awesome example of the strange and hilarious game shows on Japanese television. You don't even have to know what they are saying to find this funny. I now want to fly to Japan to be on this show. This one and MXC on Spike TV.

My BFF

I almost forget to mention that today my BFF is officially one year older than me. She will continue to be one year older than me for the next 3 months. Don't try to do the math. You'll hurt yourself.

Here she is:

Doesn't she just LOOK like she'd be nice? She is. She's the one who saved me from growing up to be a bitch-slapping thug and I saved her from being the "crazy" one in the straight-laced bow-head crowd.

I did her the bigger favor.

Don't tell my parents, but I love her more than anyone else on the planet. We've been best friends for over 20 years. Regardless of who we are around, we are the same Kim and Liz. For some reason, I like the vibe from the Kim part of that equation and she is quite fond of the Liz. It started pretty much the day we met. Sort of like we were destined to be a set.

Everyone who knows us sees it- it is friendship in it's purest form. It's a respect and a joy. It's something special. When we are together, there is a chemistry. Sometimes others are envious. I feel sorry for them. Not everyone has a true best friend. Most people like when we travel as a pair because it's a good show to watch. She's funny. I'm quick. She's loud and oblivious. I'm loud and bold. We're both likely to surprise, if for no other reason than to see the reaction from the other.

We know secrets and dirt on each other and we also know it's safe- forever- or until the 4th mixed drink.

We don't do a whole lot of BFF, girly things. We hang. We play cards, guzzle beer, take road trips, go to concerts. We delight in making the other one laugh. We seldom shop together, mostly because I can marathon shop and all she wants to do is see if the Birkenstocks are on clearance. We talk about the things that matter in life and have an oath that prevents either of us from speaking when The Office is on. I love her. And I hope that you, too, have someone in your life that you consider your best friend. It's a good gig. I highly recommend it.

We'll be leaving for Italy on Saturday. I'm packing flashy clothes and she's packing hand sanitizer.

Here's to the trip of a lifetime with my BFF.

Rubik's Cube

Rubik asks:

Do you remember how obsessed you used to be with me? Now I sit like a jilted lover, watching you delicately open your laptop and caress the keys with your fingertips. Those same fingers that once danced around my body now roll over a keyboard. You whore.

Liz treks back to 1983:

I remember telling a lie. My dad's friend, Clayton, had a rubik's cube that I peeled the stickers off of. I tried to reposition them carefully, but I was only 12 and did a sloppy job. My dad knew it was me, but he asked both me and my brother who had done it. I lied. I said I didn't know how the cube got desecrated. I stuck to the lie too. I was resolute. I could have gotten spanked, grounded, and denied water and I would have proclaimed my innocence. My dad said he simply wanted to know who had done it, no punishment would follow the confession. NOT ME! NO SIR! I stared him in the eyes and told a flat out lie.

I still feel bad about it.

I have my original rubik's cube. I came across it about a year ago and sat it out as a novelty. It's sitting right here looking at me now. I took it to a poker party and had one of the engineering savants fix it. Then a friend brought his son over and now it's all fucked up. I'll never be able to get it back to its perfect form. I know the kid had no idea how painful his game would be for me, and I guess I can always track down the savant and have it fixed again, but it's the destructive nature of humans that is the real issue. Why take a beautiful solved puzzle and ruin it?

Now, Rubik is unorganized. He looks tired and sad. Only one row, not even one side, is completed. And I haven't touched him in months. It's like I don't even love him anymore.

Gender Bending part 2: Electric Boogaloo

Killer puts words into Liz's mouth


I've been channeling the spirit of Liz. I would have written this post sooner, but I spent the first few days looking at me (Liz) in the mirror naked. Nice!



The Top Facts I, Liz, Don't Want You To Know



I used to work for the Mississippi Board of Education; I was in charge of Math. I am awful at math. Everytime CNN talks about the decline of our youth's education, yeah, that's my fault.



I killed a man in Reno, just to watch him die.



If I could buy the original Uncle Jessie's house from The Dukes of Hazzard, I would; just to sleep in Bo's bed.



I write about how I don't like to show off my ample breasts, but everytime a truck and tractor pull comes into town, I don my rebel flag tube top, rub ice on my nipples and hit the fair grounds. Redneck love is better than no love at all.



I love my cats more than anything, but a long time ago one of them jumped onto the end table and drank out of my martini glass. I killed him and put his little kitty head on a spike as a warning to my other twelve cats. Nobody touches Momma's hootch.



I think Killer is a hunk of sexy man meat. Everytime I see him in a sleaveless Tshirt it is as if I just received two free tickets to the Gun Show. I wish he was gravy, so I could sop him up with my biscuit.

May the Lord Bless You and Keep You- as long as you forward this

Liz types, one slow stroke at a time:

It's 8:45. I took a Tylenol PM an hour ago. I've had 2 glasses of wine. I'm sleepy.

I've got to hit the ground running tomorrow. I'm still like a kid on the eve of the first day of school when it comes to being on time for early Monday scheduled events. I've only overslept once since I've taken the job I have now. That's once in 4 years. I wasn't even that late getting there, but still that one time is enough to convince me that I'm prone to oversleeping. Can someone explain how sometimes the ice maker cutting on will wake me and other times Banana Rama blaring from my clock radio won't even cause me to stir?

I've noticed that I am compulsive about checking my work web mail. That doesn't make sense. Every now and then I'll need to visit the site for a legitimate purpose. Other times, I'm just checking it. I need a new Internet rotation. If I were an executive at the company or in a high stress, overloaded job, the need to hover over my work mail would be justified. I'm just a goober, I think. Usually when I check work mail after hours the only messages I have are from the IT department warning me that mail over 12 weeks old will be purged and an unopened email from me to me. Something I'm sending myself to forward to others the next day.

There is a guy at work who is constantly forwarding me religious emails. Thanks for caring, but I think these emails are usually pretty stupid. How come Christians can't seem to put together a PowerPoint slide show that's worth a damn? There are always really tacky things like graphics of roses opening up or text that changes into rainbow colors. 90% of them insist that you forward the email immediately and clearly explain that if you do not forward it immediately, God will not grant your wishes. Who is making that shit up? I want a profile that explains to me the type of person who makes those slide shows and I want to know the circumstances in which they work. I envision a sweat shop in the basement of Jerry Falwell's apartment where no less than 40 women and men in their late 60's are struggling to meet their quota. I see Jerry coming in daily and reviewing their work. "More rainbows. More fire coming from the cross. Alice, how many times do I have to tell you that 'God' is always in purple, Verdana font? Jesus!"

I would like to create my own forward. I want to title it, "Rules for Forwarding". I want it to be slightly clever and not mean, but it needs to make a point. I want it to be something you send out to people and they might think it's a joke, but they also get the hint that you don't particularly like their idiotic forwards. What rules would you add?

It's 9:30. I got up for a few minutes and poured another glass of wine and took another Tylenol. I've never taken 3 before. Now I'm nervous. But not too nervous to sleep! I'm typing out some rules and then I'm hitting the hay. If I've instigated an overdose, maybe this will be my legacy.

Rules for Forwarding:

• Emails often say that you should forward them out to everyone you care about, including the person who sent the email. If you don't get one back from me, take the hint. Our relationship is one sided.
• You're not going to get a free laptop, a gift certificate, or money for participating in an email forwarding project. However, if you'll quit forwarding me emails promising you'll get something in return, I will pay you $2.
• If we live in the same state and haven't spoken in over 6 months, take me off of your "friends" list and quit forwarding me emails. We're both not interested in keeping this thing going or we would have called by now. Let it die.
• I am not going to sign any petition that comes to me as a forward. Go ahead and add my name to the bottom of the list before you send it off to others. I hope I'll never find out about it.

Send your ideas for the rules. I hope to work on this when I get back from vacation so that it's up and running when I get back to the office. I'll be out of the country. There's no telling how many freakin' forwards will be in my In Box when I return.

Gender Bending Part 1

There's been a suspicious rumor lurking about that Killer and Liz may be the same person. I can tell you that this is speculation only. We are both very real. We both like travel and garlic. We both want to do more traveling and more beer drinking than we are currently doing. One of us is nice to old people and animals and is probably going to Heaven.


This theory has prompted me to think about what it would be like to chronicle a day in Killer's shoes; a day totally from his vantage point. I fully expect him to assume the role of Liz in an upcoming post. I'd love to know how he THINKS I spend my time and what he thinks are my priorities.


Doing this was harder than you think. I can assure you, this won't be pretty.


Liz writes, like she was Killer:



I'm writing from work, which finally got Internet access about 3 months ago. Unfortunately I have to blog from my laptop in patients' rooms. This proves to be difficult because most of the plugs are used for I.V.'s and life support equipment. Those machines have a 30-minute battery storage, so if I make this post quick, Mr. Garland should be OK. If not, he's been in a coma for over 8 months. Maybe it's time for a push from the nest.


Being a nurse on the floor where many non-responsive patients reside can get boring. I've already inserted a catheter just to see if it will make my life more convenient. So far, it hasn't. I think it will come in handy later tonight though when I ask Nurse Jill is she wants to touch "my sack" and then point to the bag. She has to do it. It's part of the nursing code of ethics.

My best friend, Clib, is an artist. I'm always around paint and brushes and sketch pads when I'm at his house. Since we're about to be in the same town again, Mrs. Clib is going to go crazy when I start using Clib's art supplies. I've already used my body as a canvas (see Ass Flowers in BEST OF). Now I'm planning to create a series of "Balls dipped in paint". I'm taking "Paint Ball" in a whole new direction. Those will be my handcrafted Christmas gifts this year. Since I have 3 testicles, I may turn all of the prints into smiley faces. Something with a button nose. After all, it's the holiday. I need to be thinking of the children.

Because of my new found dedication to fitness I have been avoiding fast food. Yesterday I broke down and went to Wendy's for dinner. I was walking in when I heard, "Would you like fries with that shake?" I turned around and saw a group of college girls approaching me. I knew I was looking good, but I didn't know I was looking that good. Immediately I hatched a plan. Since it involved a 5-way, I'll spare the details. Immediately my plan was foiled as I realized it was the drive-thru speaker. What are the chances that that would actually happen to someone?

My co-blogger Liz will be leaving next weekend for Italy. I know where she hides the spare key. I'm thinking about collecting all the stray cats I can round up and putting them in her house. At the rate that cats multiply, her home will be overrun by the time she gets back. I'll leave an anonymous tip with the freaks at PETA. This might make her angry, and I may have to pay with one of my nads, but I think it would be worth it.

I think my penis just farted. There is some sort of gas bubble sitting inside my catheter bag. Finally! My dream of finding new ways to expel gas is complete. My quest for world domination is only one task away. All I need is some Shea butter, a mechanical pencil, and Bob Barker.

It's been 46 minutes. I'd better plug the heart monitor back in before Nurse 2 figures out what's going on.

Oh! I almost forgot! Mooseknuckle!

Money MAY not buy happiness, but broke SURELY won't

Sweet, gullible Killer

Okay, I have been keeping this under wraps for the last few weeks, but I really feel close to you guys, and I have to tell someone. My life could be about to change forever! I have it from a very reliable source that I am probably going to be receiving a large amount of money.

Imagine, me, rich. Who would've thunk it. This small town boy from Mississippi might just hit the big time. We in the South grew up watching "the Beverly Hillbillies", thinking that it was a dream too grandiose to achieve, but I might get to actually have myself a concrete pond and eat my possum with only the finest Dijon mustards.

I don't want everyone to know about this because the last thing I need is all my kinfolk calling me up to try and get in on the sweet life. So, luckily most my kinfolk don't have computers; I can tell ya'll.

The source of all my hope and giddiness arrived in the mail a few weeks back. I really did not pay attention at first, but just tossed it aside with my Mini Trucker Magazine. Then, as I was cleaning yesterday, I stumbled upon it. I couldn't believe I could have missed the big, bold print emblazoned across the cover. The sweetest ten words I have ever bore witness to, "Mr. Killer, you might have already won TEN MILLION DOLLARS!" Right next to that fantastic exclamation was the glossy, color picture of one Ed McMahon; a man known throughout the world as an honorable and trustworthy individual. Thus, lending credence and validity to this claim.

I know that many of you naysayers out there might be clinging tenaciously to the one gallingly important word in that sentence, "might". Well, if I am nothing else, I am an optimist. The envelope could have said, "Mr. Killer, we regret to inform you that you have zero chance of winning TEN MILLION DOLLARS!" It might have read, "Mr. Killer, you might have won TEN MILLION DOLLARS, but probably not!" No, you negative bastards, it plainly states that I might have, very well, already won, and that is pretty damn good if you ask me.

I'm gonna be rich, damn it! Ed McMahon wouldn't lie to me.

Dear Beer

Liz and the bottle:

I wish that everyday I drank lots and lots. My lifestyle cannot support me being an alcoholic, so I use it sparingly. But I love it. Really. I think that if it weren't for the liver issues and premature aging, oh, and having to work, I would drink a frosty with meals and between meals.

I think I've passed the danger zone for being an alcoholic, so I feel I can now, finally and freely, express my love.

Dear beer,

I'm writing to express my gratitude for your services. You bring out the silly girl that lives in my soul and makes her dance and try to french inhale. You put seduction behind my eyes and lull me into the sweetest of slumbers. It is you who have provided me with the ability to give coy glances. You help me make selections when I'm doing online shopping. You have taught me that "too much of a good thing" isn't just a cliche. You foam up and express your joy at being selected to join me before dinner. How I adore our time together.

With you by my side, I have been in my only fist fight in a public facility, driven home naked at sunrise, and seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I made it to third base with you near me. I called friends I hadn't spoken to in years. Good times.

That's what makes telling you this so difficult. I am drinking a Riesling. It doesn't mean I'm not still fond of you, I've just discovered a different kind of buzz that wine can provide. I'm not saying it's better.... it's just different.

You and I have been together a long time. We'll always be there for each other, but I think the time has come that you see other people during the week. At least a couple of days a week. I'll still be around on weekends. You can depend on me to call on you. I swear to you, I WILL KEEP IN TOUCH.

Please, keep cool. I'll be looking for you soon!

All of love and admiration,
Liz

I just poured a Riesling that is so clear it sparkles. When I drink it, it dances on the back of my tongue and says, "I love you". I love you too, Riesling.

Do you have a better way to spend seventeen months?

One small step for Killer, One giant step back for Mankind

The EU is looking for six volunteers to lock in a small mock space ship for seventeen months. European Space Volunteers

I have no plans for the coming years, so I thought I would apply.

The purpose is to see how well humans would survive together in cramped, sparse surroundings with poor supplies. It sounds like my college apartment, and that wasn't too bad.

I have seen Bio-Dome, with Pauly Shore, several times and it seemed like they enjoyed themselves, so why not give this a shot. If it is one thing that movies have taught me over the span of my lifetime, it is that movies never exaggerate the truth.

If chosen, here is my top five agenda items for living in a small space with six other people for seventeen months.

1. As soon as they close and lock the door, fart really obnoxiously. If I am going to be stuck in a confined space for seventeen months, I want to set the precedent immediately. I am not getting up and going into the lavatory EVERY single time I have to expel gas.

2. Pick one person and always give them a portion of my food rations. When we run out of food, and it is inevitable with my sleep eating disorder, I need to have at least one person plumped up and ready for me to cannibalize.

3. Immediately run around and hump all the other participants. I am not sure why, but on the Animal Planet this always seems to show dominance, and I want to be the boss.

4. Begin my own experiment: How long before everyone else goes crazy if I continuously sing the theme song to "Three's Company".

5. As soon as the doors are locked, turn to the rest of the crew and in a sinister voice say, "Over the next seventeen months, whether you realize it or not, I will touch all of you with my balls." Then show them my balls.

Thou Shalt Not Use Air Freshners Shaped Like Trees

Killer sees his chance to impress the Lord

The Pope is at it again. The Catholic Church has released a list of 10 Commandments for Drivers. Vatican's 10 Commandments for Drivers This is the full article from Yahoo, but I shall summarize for those of you who are too good to follow links.

The Vatican's office for migrants and itinerant people has released a list of ten commandments for all drivers to obey. Driving is such a large part of Christian lives that it needs to be addressed how to better serve the church whilst doing so.

Here is the actual 10 Commandments for Drivers:

The "Drivers' Ten Commandments," as listed by the document, are:

1. You shall not kill.

2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.

3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.

4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents.

5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.

6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.

7. Support the families of accident victims.

8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.

9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.

10. Feel responsible toward others.

It all seems to be pretty straight forward except #5; Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin. What!?!? Why would I own my souped up Hummer H2 with the deluxe package, lift kit, and 2000 watt stereo, if not to show my power and domination? If I did not want to let the rest of you slackers know who was boss I'd be driving a Kia.

An occasion of sin? I was really confused by that line. But luckily, the responsible author of this article covers that as well, "An unusual document from the Vatican's office for migrants and itinerant people also warned that cars can be 'an occasion of sin' — particularly when they are used for dangerous passing or for prostitution." Oh, whores, now I get it. It's okay for me to have sex with underage cheerleaders in my car, just don't pay them. Easy enough. (Don't worry, no one is actually getting any in my car. Actually, that's not true. When I was living in San Francisco I caught a homeless couple asleep in my car. I guess they could have had sex in there, but I try to block that out.)

In case you were wondering about the Office for Migrants and Itinerant People, it is specifically tasked with dealing with all "itinerant" people — including refugees, prostitutes, truck drivers and the homeless. "Sorry Mbutu, I realize your family is being slaughtered and forced to run from Darfur, but today's meeting will be focusing on the issues brought forth by Brother G Love, and how he can better control his bitches. No, tomorrow we will be discussing the rising incidence of hemorrhoids among long-haul truck drivers. Maybe we can fit you in next week."

According to this list, I might already be going to hell. This pretty much assures I am not going to convert to Catholicism. I am now leaning towards Buddhism. Those guys don't care what, or how, I drive. And since those monks are so tiny, I can probably fit the whole temple into my Hummer. Nobody will give me a ticket with a truck load of monks.

Wait for it, WAIT.... wait... wait... NOW!

Liz



says



I've noticed that when I log in to Blogger, there is always a pause before I can access the compose page for Killer Rants. Killer Rants is the only page that pauses before loading. I believe it is God sending me a message. "Think, child, before you type." Thank you God. You're right.

Pauses are wonderful. Except pauses in your menstrual cycle. Pauses are the second best form of comedy around. Quick wit is the first. I am quick witted. I am not a good pauser. When I'm not sure what to say, instead of silence I usually blurt out something like, "Holy fuck!" See how a pause could come in handy? I'm always the first to say "Amen" after a silent prayer. I give it about 15 seconds. Then, if others still have their heads bowed, I end up saying, "Enough already! Let's eat!" You have all day to pray. Quit holding up progress.

I'm interesting to be around because I'm full of inappropriate and unexpected comments. My filter disintegrated a long time ago. You'd either find me very charming and hilarious or you would want me snuffed out. There is so little in-between. During the next marriage proposal I get, I'm going to have to work on this. I've been proposed to several times. I don't really think any of them were serious, as sometimes the proposals sound like, "If neither of us is married in 10 years..." or "Do you think that one day...." My inability to pause means that before the sentence comes completely out of his mouth, I've answered. "Fuck no!" or "Maybe after that bitch you call a mother dies." You can imagine my embarassment when he was asking me if I would teach him to make meatballs.

I wonder if animals pause. I sometimes see my cat, Sneaker, staring up at me inquisitively. I'll think, "Look at him admiring me. Damn right. I'm the breadwinner in this family." Then he'll jump on my stomach and turn his backside to within 2 inches of my face. Cat owners learn quickly how to hold their breath. Pause their breathing, so to speak.

I have thought about taking a vow of silence so that I could appreciate the power of the pause. My job won't stand for that, so I have to come up with something else. I took up napping as a way to pause from reality. Work also frowned upon that. Sometimes when I'm peeing I try to pause the flow and play Jingle Bells. That's only fun the first few times. This whole concept of pausing is just out of my reach. I'm much better at fast forward.

World Travel for All

Killer says, "Get off your ass and go see something."

I love to travel. It could also be said that I obsess about it. I am not happy unless the next trip is planned and locked in. I have been blessed with an equally obsessed travel companion, Chad. He is a professor of English and American Culture at a university in Taiwan. He has the summers off, and I can pretty much work when I want, so the stage is set for travel.

Chad, Me and Clib in Boquillas, Mexico, just across the border from Big Bend National Park, Texas

Me, Chad and my best friend Clib all started travelling in the early years of college. It started innocently enough with a four day trip to the Smokey Mountain National Park in Tennessee. It was so much fun, we immediately started taking camping trips to other National Parks around the country, every break from school. Each trip got longer and further until it culminated into a massive five week trip around the Western U.S., up through Canada and into Alaska. For that trip we also added two more travellers, Bigelow and the often mentioned, Disco.

Bigelow, Clib, Me, Disco and Chad at Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

Since then, Clib did the unthinkable; he grew up and got married. That left me and Chad to continue on the irresponsible lifestyle of endless travel and trying to drink beer on every continent. Although, even Clib's wedding was used as an excuse to travel.

Me, Mrs. Clib, Clib and Chad immediately after their wedding ceremony in Hawaii

People always seem amazed that we can afford to travel so much, but it doesn't really take as much as people think. I guess it depends on where your priorities are. Do you really need a large screen TV? Do you need a bigger house? Do you need two kidneys?

I began thinking about this because of an article I ran across on Yahoo. It is simply titled "Take a Year Off to Travel the World". It gives tips and pointers for anyone to stop their rat race and go see how the rest of the world does it. Trust me, the rat race is better from the spectator stand point.
Take a Year Off to Travel the World

I recommend you check out the article, then get out there. Maybe you can't take a year to sit on a beach in Thailand. A few months is awesome; I have done that. Maybe you can swing a few days to go check out Glacier National Park in Montana, Mt. Zion National Park in Utah, or Acadia National Park in Maine. I recommend all of those very much. There are many people who have lived their whole lives only a few hours from a National Park and never even visit.

I will warn you, it can become addictive.

On a side note:
My favorite national park is My Balls National Park. It is open year round and it is rarely crowded, unfortunately.
I'm sorry, the rest of the post was a little too serious.

Dingleberry, at your service

Great. Now Killer has me Googling all sorts of odd things to see if any of them link back to Killer Rants. I don't think the title of this post is going to help class-up our hits list, but it's what's on my mind nonetheless.

Television can dish out some major crap. It always frustrates me that somewhere, someone had a break-through with shows like Walker, Texas Ranger and So You Think You Can Dance. I shit better ideas than that. I believe that I could come up with excellent premises that are television worthy if I really put my mind to it.

I am sure you'll agree that this next idea is golden.

I'd like to write my own show, based on Killer's life. You can't trust him to tell the story correctly. There would still be a Chad in Taiwan and, of course, a Liz. She's played by Catherine Zeta-Jones. Killer still gets to travel to exotic places and have his back waxed in no less than 4 different counties, and to support this lifestyle he keeps his job as a travel nurse. The basis of the show is not only Killer's life, but this one crotchety old man who calls Killer "Dingleberry" and makes incredible demands. Each episode ends with Killer reflecting on the lesson Crotchety taught his that day. Balls are frequently mentioned.

By episode 4, Crotchety is getting out of the hospital and hires Killer to be his live-in nurse. Killer, not anxious to accept the job, is lured by the incredible salary, and thus the show "Dingleberry, At Your Service" is truly born.

I don't know exactly what will happen in EVERY episode, but here are some lines you might hear, all followed by a laugh track:

• That's not supposed to go in that way!


• Oh, Dingleberry!


• What smells like Feta cheese?


• No man should ever have to see what I just saw.


• You want me to do WHAT with your diaper?


• The cheapest hooker I could find said that a threesome was out of the question.


• It's not my fault you forgot to buy rubber gloves, Dingleberry.


• I'm not paying you to stare at it. It needs ointment pronto!


• Scratch it.... I SAID SCRATCH IT.


• Any idiot knows not to light a fart near an old man's oxygen tank!


• I can get on top of MaryBelle myself, but I need you to stand next to us and shake the bed.


• I'm not wearing a name tag that says, "Dingleberry." Ok. Give it here.


• I entered you in a hot dog eating contest, Dingleberry. If you don't win you have to blow me.

You get the idea.

So what do you think? It's at least as good as Three's Company, isn't it?

#2 Mooseknuckle site

A quick update: We are the number 2 spot on google for mooseknuckle. Apparently the trick is to not space the words. I am not sure why, but that makes all the difference. #1 is someone named Mr. Mooseknuckle. That is going to be a hard one to beat. That would be a awful name to grow up with. I know about the need for no spaces because sitemeter tells me what people google to find me, and apparently someone used us as a valuable moose knuckle reference. Sorry about that.

Once again for the last few weeks, Liz has managed to help attract the confused, young gyno patients. That is still the most common google search that is leading people to us. Apparently if you type in gyno on google, with almost any combination of other words, we will be on the list. I guess this is a good thing, at least for us, not for the frightened young lady about to get a pap smear.

My absolute favorite google search fact is now official. Apparently if you type in "Liz likes poop" we are not only the number one site, but number two as well. The number two spot is especially important on this one since Liz likes poop.
I don't know why someone would type in Liz likes poop into google, but I could not plan that if I tried, and if that person ever comes back, thank you. Thank you very much.
I now love sitemeter's google tracking ability even more.

Imagine This

Killer might have been abused by his imaginary Dad.

This blog is the only proof of life many of my family and friends have that I am not dead in a ditch somewhere. I apologize for painting such a morbid picture, but I have not really spoken to anyone in several weeks. I don’t want to give any crazy people any crazy ideas, but someone could totally bump me off, and as long as they kept posting pointless rants here, my family would not realize I was gone for a few months. It wouldn’t be too hard, just talk about poop and balls, make fun of Liz, and use some questionable punctuation (I recently discovered semi-colons; have you noticed?)

I have adopted people at work as a new surrogate family, all without their knowledge. The funny looking guy who takes the x-rays is secretly my new Dad. He probably thinks I am a bit odd since I keep asking him if he wants to go outside and play catch. I am constantly challenging his authority and one night even yelled, "I hate you." He has started to avoid me and not come around so much. I have given him an imaginary drinking problem. It’s how I cope with his absence.

The lady who works the graveyard shift in the cafeteria has been chosen as my new Mom. She just looks motherly and she cooks a lot. She gives me extra large servings of everything, laughs and says, "You so big, you need big food." I have no idea what country she is originally from, maybe some place in Southeast Asia; possibly some other island somewhere. I always feel like a dick asking people that. My white ancestors have oppressed so many cultures throughout history it is hard to keep track of who I am supposed to be indirectly keeping down. (It’s tough being The Man.) I have never seen my secret Dad talking to my secret Mom, but like I said, he’s an imaginary drunk, and that makes her an imaginary enabler. They are better off apart.

There is a really cute nurse who shows up on infrequent occasions to work. I had chosen her as my imaginary sister. I invented an entire elaborate life for her, which involved her attending a prestigious East Coast university. She would whisk in on occasion for visits, but then be off to her own life in the Ivy League. That whole scenario was ruined one night when she showed up wearing these really tight scrubs. I spent the entire night feeling extremely guilty about the incestuous feelings I was having. Finally I was forced to remove her from my imaginary family and place her in my imaginary harem. I still don’t feel right about that however.

I am still on the look out for new siblings. There is a definite lack of brother material, and I am still traumatized by my morally compromising thoughts, so I am avoiding any new sisters right now. Maybe I can pick up a crazy Aunt or Uncle. It is hard because I am leaving here in a few weeks and I don’t want to be too attached to this imaginary family. It is hard to leave such a volatile imaginary situation as my Mom turning a blind eye to Dad’s rampant drinking.

Once I get home it is back to my real family. After all the drama and chaos with my imaginary family, the real thing is going to seem so boring. Reality sucks.

Suicidal Ideations

Killer’s last thoughts (almost)

I might have mentioned an irrational dislike I have for a co-worker in the past. As a matter of fact, I might have written an entire post about it.

Tonight I was cornered by the above mentioned irrationally disliked coworker. It was obvious I was not busy, because I was sitting by myself, drinking some fresh brewed 100% Kona coffee (because that’s how I roll), with my feet propped up on the desk. I was contemplating the ease of my work night and enjoying the solitude when she suddenly appeared in front of me in her full manic glory.

Tonight she is wearing a disgustingly tight, sheer white t-shirt, lime green Capri pants, with a matching one inch stripe of lime green eyeliner above her eyes. She is very happy to see me and begins to tell me about how her and her husband just moved their travel trailer to a new mobile home park.

The following is my brain’s internal debate during what was very close to being the last five minutes of my life.

Oh shit! How did I not see her come in? I don’t think there is any way out of here. I could fake a seizure, but I might spill my coffee. This is 100% Kona damn it! I should just leap up and kill her right now. No, that would mean I would spend the rest of my life in prison and be stuck thinking about her forever.

What has she done with her makeup? It looks like the 80’s exploded in her face. This is too much. Screw me running; she is talking about her new trailer park. That makeup plus bragging about your luxurious new trailer park is stereotypical overload. I want to die.

Man, when she laughs it is like my ear drums are being gang raped by an angry group of bikers. I wonder if she would suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder if I pulled out a scalpel and sliced my wrists.

That t-shirt is so damn tight it’s as if she is wearing saran wrap. If I have to look at her boobs much longer I am going to swear off tits forever. There should be laws that if your nipples are lower than your belly button you should have to wear a sweater for the rest of your life. SHIT! I think she just caught me looking at her boobs, and she smiled. Now she is going to think I am ogling her cans. That does it, I have to die now. There is no other choice.

Okay, how can I do it? If I am going to take my own life, it had better be soon, she has not shut up about that damn trailer park. I was bluffing about cutting my wrists. I don’t have a scalpel on me. How about pulling the computer’s network cable up and wrapping it around my throat until I choke violently at her feet?

She’s a nurse damn it! She would probably drop down and revive me with CPR and mouth to mouth. THAT would be the perfect ironic twist to my suicide attempt. I kill myself to escape her, but am brought back to life only to find her lips locked with mine. I have to kill myself in a decisive, no retreat-no surrender type of way.

Okay, I lick my own hand, grab that spoon and cram it full force into the electrical outlet. Beautiful plan, if she tries to save me she will get fried as well. I just hope she doesn’t think I am licking my hand as sexual harassment. I wouldn’t want her suing my family posthumously.

Wait! Her phone is ringing. She has to go to the ER for an emergency. Relief! Reprieve! Rejoice! I am going to call my Mom immediately and tell her I love her. She almost lost a son tonight and she would never have known why. I want to run down the hall cheering like a mad man! Okay, Okay, you can stop licking your hand already; people are starting to stare.

Pac Man Fever

Liz misses the joystick

My younger brother really enjoyed Mario Brothers when he was around 7. I, being several years older, grew up with a propensity for Q-bert, Donkey Kong, Pole Position, Frogger, Space Invaders, and, of course, Pac Man. I spent much of this morning drinking coffee and playing Pac Man. I only made it off of level 1 once. Where have my mad Pac Man skills gone?

I blame it on my laptop. If I only had a joy stick, I could rule the Pac Man world. I love joysticks. I wish my car had one of those instead of a steering wheel. I transitioned from holding the joystick with my entire hand to simply letting it rest between my thumb and index finger, as evolution demands. Why else were we born with thumbs? You could hit the joystick "up" once and then relax. Pac Man took a hint. He would glide in the direction you suggested. The perfect man.

I went to the party last night. Only one other person from the office came and she came late. I'm glad I went. It was fun and, in a lot of ways, reminded me of a high school party. You had a clique of sort of snobbish chicks, but for the most part everyone was very nice and enjoyed shooting the shit. I was the only white person there. I didn't feel awkward, but I did stand out. Most of the other women were very dressed up. I had on denim Capri pants. They were in dresses. Faux Pas. The story of my life. I was also the only smoker. No surprise there. Why are you people clinging to life?

I really wish I didn't have to have a job. I would like to have the money to do nothing other than travel, shop, and get massages. I think I need to start looking for a man who wants a helpless woman. I'm not sure I can do it, but I think it's worth a shot. If I could just find that insanely rich guy who shows his affection through his wallet, my life could be dramatically different. I really don't even care if he sleeps around, as long as he buys my silence and doesn't bring home diseases. Lots of people are in meaningless relationships. I want one too! One that pays well.

I could never do that, really, but it's a good fantasy to have when I've got a week's worth of laundry to do and iron. Being middle class is a blessing but knowing how green the grass is on the other side can drive you crazy if you let it sink in. I blame HGTV. When they show those luxury houses full of their insane gadgets I get a bad case of "I Want That!". I saw something recently where a couple had a bathroom the size of my house. Sigh.... I want that.

I dread tomorrow. The weekend hasn't pulled me out of my I HATE PEOPLE funk that latched on last Friday. Maybe it's the weather. It is hot as hell. So hot the A/C never cuts off and the house still isn't cool enough. Maybe it's that I need a vacation. We all need breaks from the usual. Maybe it's that I constantly expect people to be good and do good and I'm constantly disappointed. Maybe it's that I can't win at Pac Man.

Thanks for the Concern

This is part of the email Killer sends Liz:

Okay, what the hell are you doing that is so important you have been ignoring Blogistan?

Did you see the news yesterday about the proposed changes to the passport requirements? Apparently people are getting pissed about all the trouble they are having to go to and all the DELAYS in receiving them, so Bush wants to lessen the laws. I hope you get yours in time. I just wanted to add some more stress to your wait.

Get your ass in gear and blog something, Beatch.

Killer

Now, I ask. Is that love or what?

I had one of those shitty days today. The kind that makes you wonder if you might need medication. I loathe everyone around me with such passion that I considered actually taking it too far. Knocking a few folks off. Having my own Louise moment where I drive the car off the cliff. I have to confess that I have a pretty low-stress job that pays fairly well. My job does not involve wiping asses or inserting tubes into people's most sticky orifices. I recognize that I have no right to have emotions outside of the "Happy" to "Blissful" range. Yet, I bitch on.

I have an unusually low tolerance for stupid. This doesn't always combine well with my willingness to pontificate. I try silence when I feel that push from deep within to lash out against the idiots. Then, I get flooded with, "What's wrong?" or "I'm worried about you," or... my very least favorite, "Do you want to talk?" When I'm in a mood like I'm in now, do not ask me if I want to talk. I am very capable of talking. I never feel like I need an invitation to do so. I also stare off into space. I try to disengage. This isn't a cry for help, this is me being kind to you. When I'm glancing off, staring out of the window, I am saving us both from a very ugly scene. Recognize that I hate you and move on.

I have learned that I am a helper and not a helpee. I never want you to counsel me or console me unless you are a very good friend. A friend, not a work associate, not a neighbor, not a boss, not a distant relative. I don't care what your advice is... really. I promise you, me asking, "Does that sound fine to you?" is not the same as me asking, "Please... I'm lost! I just can't form an opinion. Tell me how to proceed! And don't leave out a single step because I'm a total fucking idiot. Why doesn't toilet paper come with instructions? God help me!!! Will you please tell me exactly how to think?"

There are exceptions. I might ask about some money market account and if you'd do it. I may ask if a restaurant is any good. You know, those things that I haven't tried myself. It's unsolicited advice that drives me up the wall. My life has, so far, turned out extraordinarily well. I am very lucky and (related to luck) have pretty good instincts. I feel like I have credentials that make it ok for me to help others in need. Others in need are, well, needy. I don't mind helping them work through some thing. Usually, people are appreciative that someone has listened, spent time with them, shown an interest, asked questions, and cares about the outcome of their problem. Important point that some people still don't get? I am never an "other in need". Oh, I might occasionally ask a generic "What would you do?" question, but it's just because I'm nosy.

Here is a piece of this rant: My pointing out how much you suck is not the same as being negative. It is, to go back to the 90's, me "keeping it real". I suck at some things. Math, directions, tennis, spelling, lying. I could make a substantial list. When someone points this out to me, I don't accuse them of being negative. They're right. It's true! I'm not flawless. These biscuts I made DO suck. Let's go out for breakfast. Where is the confrontation potential in calling a spade a spade?

EVERYWHERE.

Tomorrow night a friend is having a party. I don't want to go anymore because people from work will be there. I've had enough of them this week. This friend is a good friend and my attendance at the party is expected and would be appreciated. My absence will definitely be noticed. But I have better options. I could stay home and watch TV, for instance. Clip my toenails. Try to give the cats a bath. I really, really don't want to have to socialize with any of them on my night off.

So... what would you do?

Now, for a real question, what is a legal way to numb yourself from the assholes in this world so that you can glide through, unaffected? I could do much less at my job and still succeed, but I can't miss a lot of work or take naps that last longer than 25 minutes at lunch. Strong medication that would knock me out won't work. Alcohol abuse on the job would get me fired. Any more therapeutic posts like this and Killer will block me from the blog.

I'm hoping a vacation to Italy will do the trick. All the cocaine and pot in the air can only help things. I'm just not sure I can hold out that long.

Help. I'm needy.

May The Force Be With Me.

Killer waves his hand and says, “You will enjoy this post.”

I want the Force. In Star Wars the Force is something mysterious and hard for Luke to control, but when the prequels came out, you really got to see what special things you could do once you mastered this gift.

I’m not saying I want to dedicate my life to helping the Universe, or traveling around in a tacky brown robe while mediating inter-planetary disputes, but it would kick ass if I could do all the flips and mind control shit.

It would probably start out innocent enough. Maybe I would be eating at Denny’s and the rude waitress would keep walking by ignoring my empty cola glass; I could wave my hand and say, “You want to fill my glass with cold refreshing cola.” She would reply in a monotone voice, “I want to fill your glass with cold refreshing cola.” It would naturally escalate as I got cockier. I’d be opening beer bottles with my light saber and making hot chick’s mini skirts blow up with my mind power. I’m pretty sure it would eventually corrupt me completely and I will find myself with Donald Trump in a mental choke hold screaming, “Give me a billion dollars!” Then I would give him a hair cut with my light saber.

I can’t deny that I would eventually be lured over to the Dark Side. I’m pretty selfish and impressionable. I don’t think I would go as far as destroying entire planets with a Death Star, but I would probably park it “accidentally” between a planet and it’s sun; causing a solar eclipse. People wouldn’t really fear me, but they would most likely think I was an asshole. “There goes that jerk, Lord Killer of the Sith. I cut him off in traffic the other day and he turned my car upside down and shoved a gerbil up my ass with his mind. I hate him.”

I’ve been trying really hard the last few hours to move something with my brain, but I can’t really figure out which muscle to use. I did discover which one makes my left testicle move, but nothing with telekinesis yet. I guess it’s a start.

What do you think? Would you be a good Jedi Knight or an evil Dark Lord?

Preparing For The Inevitable

Killer jests, but is serious.

When do you want to die?

That is a question that many people scoff at and think, “Never”, but it is inevitable. The question should really be, “Do you want to live?” The answer, for most people, is very much dependent on when you ask.

I hope those reading this would immediately answer, “Yes, very much so!” Or at least a diminutive, “I guess; there is an Everybody Loves Raymond marathon on tonight.” Occasionally, however, the question is asked when you are unable to respond.

Say you are jogging one day, you are the poster child for good health, a city bus driver is distracted by a tourist asking for directions, and you get flattened. Modern emergency medicine revives you on the scene, scoops up all your intestines and what might be your spleen, and rushes you to the nearest trauma center. Dozens of highly motivated people work around the clock to put you into workable order, but due to the traumatic crushing injury to your torso, the massive loss of blood, and the raging infection you picked up from what turned out to not be your spleen, but actually a squished turtle, you spend the next six months on life support. The prognosis is grim.

The doctors all inform your family that if by some miracle you do live the best possible scenario would have you spending the rest of your life as an unthinking, unfeeling vegetable; a giant summer squash, which will require around the clock care.

To some people it might seem obvious that you would not want to live like that, but to your family it might be a little more complicated. It is never easy to make the decision to pull the plug. Maybe they will develop a cure for what ails you in a few years. Maybe the doctors are a bunch of idiots, and you will wake up; perhaps as a super hero with the special powers of a turtle.

If you haven’t explicitly informed your family exactly what your wishes are, you are leaving yourself in their hands. This means your crazy brother Billy can decide to keep you alive and use your inanimate body in his car for using the carpool lane. The point is, you should never trust people to know what to do in a dire situation. Tell them now, let them know, or better yet, create an advanced directive. That will serve as the ultimate decider in case you are incapacitated; either by a rogue bus driver, or from the coronary you will have for sitting on your ass reading blogs all day.

Personally, I am in luck. My family is heavily stocked with people in the health care professions. These are people who have been properly jaded by years of seeing the worst case scenarios for every imaginable illness. Not only do they know when to pull the plug on me, but everyone is fully aware that death is a natural part of life, and letting someone suffer is not going to help the grieving process.

I had the flu a while back and stayed in bed for a few days to recuperate. When I finally did emerge my family had already written eulogies and ordered a head stone. I probably should not have told them about my life insurance policy.

Nobody wants to end up on their death bed, but if you do, be prepared.
Advanced Directives/Living Wills

Poop to Live, Live to Poop

Recently in the hospital:

An older lady is admitted into the ICU. She is very sick, and the prognosis is grim. She is on life support and clinging to life. The following is the conversation with her sixty-ish son. His Mother apparently had an obsession that has been passed along as a genetic trait.

Son: “What happens if my Mom has to…uh…you know…needs to… go to the bathroom?”

I knew what he was referring to, but there is no fun in a direct answer.

Me: “Oh, it won’t be a problem. She has a tube going into her bladder. All of her urine will drain out into this bag.”

Son: “That’s good, but I am more concerned about her…going…the other…way.”

Me: “Do you mean what if she has a bowel movement?”

Son: “Yes, she goes at least three times a day, and if she doesn’t she gets very, very anxious.”

Me: “A lot of older people have a preoccupation with staying regular. Does she take anything at home to help her go?”

Son: “Yes, she takes two stool softeners twice a day, a glass of Metamucil every morning, a couple of ex-lax around lunch, and if she doesn’t have a third by bed time, she will give herself an enema.”

Me: “Goodness, she is a busy lady. Does she have any other hobbies?”

Son: “She had an obstruction about ten years ago, and has been pretty strict on three times a day since.”

Me: “At the moment it is not going to be our focus, but I will keep an eye on it.”

Son: “She would want me to make sure she still went three times a day.”

Me: “She is not eating right now, so she might not have to go so often.”

Son: “She doesn’t eat much anyway, but she still goes three times a day.”

Me: “She MAKES herself go three times a day.”

Son: “Can you make her go three times a day?”

Me: “We could make her go non-stop, but it won’t be necessary.”

Son: “I would really appreciate it if she could go three times a day.”

Me: “I’ll see what I can do.”

Son: “When she goes, do you just pick her up and put her on the toilet?”

Me: “At the current time you Mother can not really tell me when she has to go. She will probably be incontinent and then we will clean her up.”

Son: “You mean she will just go in the bed?”

Me: “Probably.”

Son: “I don’t think she will want to do that.”

Me: “Unfortunately, you Mother is not in a condition to notice that right now. I am going to be focused on getting her better so she can get up to the toilet on her own again.”

Son: “She might seem like she is not really paying attention, but I bet she is still thinking about having her next bowel movement.”

Me: “We will keep her comfortable and do everything in our power to help her get better.”

Son: “If she has…uh…a bowel move…in the bed…who cleans it up?”

Me: “I do.”

Son: “Isn’t that disgusting?”

Me: “You get used to it.”

Son: “I can’t imagine.”

Me: “It’s a job.”

Son: “It seems like it would be cleaner just to pick her up and put her on the toilet.”

Me: “It seems that way, but it wouldn’t be.”

Son: “Okay, just think about it, and see what you can do to keep her going three times a day.”

Me: “I will do my best.”

He called me the next morning around four A.M., and the first thing he asked was not, “How is she doing?” Or “Is she awake yet?” But instead, “Did she have a…um…bowel movement?”

Great disappointment was noticed when I said no.

I could not stop wondering if the son was calling me from his own toilet. Like Mother like Son.

Every Monday is Like a Punch in the Nuts

What the Hell!?!?! It’s Monday again already? How the hell does this happen over and over again? Every time I start to enjoy a weekend, the next thing I know, it’s Monday. I am starting to see a trend here, and it is alarming.

Is there nothing we can do to stop this? Why must Monday keep popping up almost every single damn week? I want the scientists to stop worrying about Cancer and baldness and instead focus on something that effects every single American; Monday.

I might go my entire life without ever getting incurable genital herpes, but it seems like I have at least four Mondays every single month. One month I had Five! I promise you, that was a bad month. I was enjoying my Sunday, rejoicing that all my Mondays were out of the way for that month, when I look at my calendar and see that it doesn’t change months until Tuesday. Oh the Lord had forsaken me. I almost became an atheist that day.

I pay most of my taxes. I’ve never killed anyone of social significance. I deserve a reprieve from this relentless onslaught. If the government can neutralize a Monday on occasion, such as Memorial Day or President’s Day, why can’t they do it all the time? Our’s is the most powerful nation in the world, but we are supposed to believe that they can’t survive on a four day work week. Forget national health care. You want to know what would keep me healthy; 52 three-day weekends a year.

If we join together and begin a serious letter writing campaign to our respected congressional leaders we could end this dilemma once and for all. Complaining and protesting is the American way, and if that doesn’t work, then I am prepared to sue. I would like to see them accomplish this great feat in the Middle East, because if I have to wake up Monday and go to work, then the Terrorists have already won.

It might be an arduous battle, but I am in it for the long haul. Once Monday is wiped out my life is going to be perfect. At least until Wednesday, because that day is starting to piss me off as well.

Roman Holiday

Liz has booked the flight and will not get a new dishwasher until 2010.

I'm going to Italy for vacation this summer. In 29 days, 11 hours, and 42 minutes to be exact. I wasn't going to tell you, but then I read an article at Yahoo! News that said that Rome has unusually large quantities of cocaine and marijuana in the air. What kind of city has coke floating around as freely as oxygen? Pot smoke dancing with the exhaust fumes? What kind of city has a reputation for housing the most sexually aggressive men on the Planet?

The best damn city in the world, that's what city.

My passport is supposed to make it in less than a week before the trip. Cutting it close. Thank God we have such a reliable postal system.... sarcastic sigh...

There is a chance I might see the Pope, as we will be visiting the Vatican. When I was in high school and attended my first Catholic Mass, I stuck my finger in the holy water to see if it would burn. It did not. I hope I accidentally run into the Pope- like when he's coming out of the bathroom or something. And I mean literally run into him. If I see him, I am going to ask him if I can borrow his ring. I once literally ran into George Clooney and I once asked Kareem Abdul Jabar if I could make bunny rabbit ears behind his giant head while I had my picture taken with him. I once smoked a cigarette on a Hollywood sound stage made entirely of wood with NO SMOKING signs plastered everywhere. I had permission. I say it never hurts to make physical contact and to make absurd requests. It's that what married people do all the time?

I bought some new pants online for the trip. I have to lay down to button and zip them, so I'm trying to lose 7 pounds in 29 days. They can do that shit on Celebrity Fit Club in a week or two, so I'm not going to start worrying about it until I finish off this pint of Creme Brulee ice cream I have in the freezer. And I'm going to start practicing drinking wine. I've been practicing for years now, but I don't think I can over prepare.

I'll be writing more, pre and post adventure. I plan to try to keep some sort of journal so I don't leave out any interesting details. Especially ones that involve failing my drug test at work when I return to the States. "I swear, I ate a lot of poppy seeds and BREATHED. That's all, boss. That's all."

I apologize for this picture (and NO it is not me.)

In continuing with my quest to claim the number 1 search spot on google for Moose Knuckle I am posting this example of what could very well be the worst case of Moose Knuckle ever documented on film.

In continuing with the random and pointless theme of these post I have elected to participate in 20% of a Meme put up by Jester.

The Name Meme:
YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (your middle name + street you live on)
Kelly Spring Azure That is a pretty soap opera like name. A girl soap name, but still a legitimately soap opera like name. I would want to be an evil soap woman. The nice ones always end up in a coma.

YOUR PORN STAR NAME: (Your first pet's name + the street you grew up on)
Yoda Sandlewood The "wood" part gives it a touch of legitimacy in the porn industry, but "Yoda" just creates images of a shriveled, small green object. That is not something I want associated with my porn career. I have no doubt there would probably be some crazy Sci-Fi nerds who would love to catch some real Yoda porn.

That is all for today. Short, sweet and to the point. If you want to see the complete name meme, please go to Jester's place and check it out.