We Have Moved!!!

Well it was bound to happen. We are leaving blogspot. Oh sure, we could point fingers...Liz forgot to pay the mortgage, Liz pissed off the neighbors with her loud drinking and frequent passing out nude on the front lawn, but I don't want to make this all about her faults.

I offered to let her write the exit post and she declined, so now she has to be happy with whatever I say.

Regardless of who's fault it is, we have gone on to greener pastures. With the help of the amazing web designers, Jester and Dan, we now have an all new and improved Killer Rants.


www.killerrants.com

Now, Don't cry, if you follow the link above, it will take you to our new home. Please update any links accordingly and come on over. Free Booze!

I know why they spit wine out

Liz's wine lesson 101:

I like to think that I can discern a good beer. Killer would disagree with my assessment. He likes them hearty, strong and dark. Although I like my men that way, I prefer my beer light and only hinting of hops.

Lately I've not had any beer in the fridge. I KNOW. I keep forgetting to stop and get some and when I've gone to the grocery it's always been before they can sell beer (Sundays at noon they wave a green flag and aisle is a free for all). Since I don't have any limes or fruit juice, I'm stuck drinking wine.

I say that like it's a chore. It's not. But I've grown a little weary of wine this month. I've probably finished off a total of 9 bottles by myself since July 1. And I've gone through all the good white wines. All that's left are these red ones. I pee maroon. I'm tired of it.

Red wine is beginning to taste like I imagine dirty feet to taste. It's not helping that I'll take a gulp and let it sit in my mouth for several seconds before I can swallow it. It's like 1,000 shoeless first graders having a dance off inside my mouth. That's just icky.

I have come up with an idea, though.

I have some Lemoncello in the freezer. I find Lemoncello to be too strong and overpowering. What I thought I'd do is make some lemonade ice cubes, blend those with the Lemoncello, and add a splash of Bourbon. A lemon-Bourbon daiquiri, sort of. It might not be worth a damn, but it's got to taste better than feet.

I'm also tired of people telling me that the Rieslings I prefer have no medicinal value. They keep pressuring me into buying this red shit for my health. Have people not yet figured out that "health" falls WAY below "buzz" on my priority list? It's like when strangers tell me that smoking is bad for me. I GOT THE MEMO FROM THE SURGEON GENERAL- every time I buy a pack of cigarettes. Jeez. Don't you have a child somewhere you can go beat?

Step Off, Mutha

Liz and Killer set the ground rules.

As you might imagine, Killer loves me. That's why I like it when he approaches me about a "sensitive" topic. He's gentle. He starts with hints. He pretends like it's really my decision. It's sweet.

But Killer and I are mismatched cobloggers. You see, he cares. A lot. He is the perfect blog administrator. He watches the numbers. He goes out and tries to solicit new readers. He tries to force, I mean, mentor me to use hyperlinks so that "we" can connect to your posts. He tells me that it's courteous. He strives to make us number 1 on certain Goggle searches like "MooseKnuckle". He makes sure we have at least 6 fresh posts per week. He brings a lot of love to the show.

I, on the other hand, only write. I am the humble talent that depends on my manager to tell me when it's time for me to take the stage and when it's time for me to leave. I show up drunk half the time. I'm often late. I can't always remember my lines. Thank god for Killer.

We were together on Sunday. He told me that he felt bad about "stepping" on my Catfish Jones post. It is a pretty good story, and I had noticed the lack of comments. He takes the blame saying that had he not stepped on my story, I certainly would have gotten more and better feedback. He knew I was dangerously close to something fatal. Talent can be so emotional!

But really, I don't think about such. I might post 3 entries in a row. When the muse is hot, you gotta oblige. He says I should save them and post them later. Give our readers a chance to absorb the post, reflect on the post, comment on the post. Don't shoot the wad.... hold it, hold it...

That requires exercising writer's patience.... something I just don't have. Hyperlinking requires knowing a code... something I would rather not use a perfectly good brain cell for. Soliciting readers from new places takes lurking and whoring yourself out... something I save for weekends.

So what you end up with is Killer Rants! A combination of a man who loves the technique of blogging, the competition of increasing readership, the beauty of the technology- and then there's this chick who likes to tell stories.

Killer, you are the Yang. Thanks for being the "ROCK" here at Killer Rants! That being said, I have to advise: if you step on this post before 4:00 Wednesday evening, IT'S ON! And the talent can be pretty nasty when it's called for. Nobody puts Baby in a corner. NO BODY!

Living With The Bam Fam

Killer mooches like a pro

Being back in Mississippi has brought about some ugly truths. I am officially homeless. I have been a traveling nurse for so long, living in corporate, furnished apartments, I have had no need for furniture or a permanent home. I don't own a single object that will not fit inside my Jeep Wrangler; except my Jeep Wrangler, and attempting to place a Jeep Wrangler within itself creates all kinds of folds in the space-time continuum that I can not properly explain with my neanderthalic understanding of basic math.

I would normally sleep at my parent's house with my sister's house as a safety flop house, but my sister, brother-in-law, and their baby have temporarily sought refuge at my parent's house whilst they build a new, shiny, deluxe version of a house. Add my little brother, who is also residing in my parent's house, and I am suddenly, and unceremoniously without an abode.

Enter the Bam. I have mentioned Bam in the past. He is a frequent travel companion, and often I worm my way into his "family" vacations. Bam graciously offered up his spare bedroom, he actually offered up his half of his bed, but his lovely wife would notice if the lump sleeping next to her doubles in size, and body hair density.

I love the Bam family. They are quirky, funny and they never ask questions about all the strange animal noises that emit from my room during the night.

Upon entering the Bam Fam Pad I was quickly set upon by the Lady of the House. She wanted to make sure I knew the rules of my continued stay. I am given full run of the house with no limits or expectations, save two.

1. No blogging naked
2. No blogging about family secrets or idiosyncrasies.

The Bam Fam Matriarch apparently is a daily lurker here. She keeps close tabs on Killer Rants and does not wish to see the family wash portrayed for all the world to see. I assured her that I am a man of integrity and outstanding moral fiber.

As I sit here in the Bam Fam computer room, stunned by the frostiness of the shiny, pink plastic chair against my bare buttocks, I can not help but be tempted by the intense desire to retell the strange effects sleeping pills have on Mrs. Bam or the frequency of Bam getting his ass kicked by his 14 year old daughter; alas, I refrain.

The Mississippi nights can be temperamental and the roaming wild life is intimidating. Until I have another secure place to lay my weary head I will be forced to hold my tongue and keep the dirty little secrets to myself. Although, I must add...me NOT blog naked?!? NEVER!

Southern Glory

Killer is feeling good in the neighborhood

Well, I am back South again. The accents get oddly thicker as you drive across the country on I-20. It starts out as Latino tinged English to full blown Spanglish, back to Latino and then the Southern drawl makes a gradual appearance. Finally you will find yourself reaching over several half filled jars of pickled pigs feet, paying the toothless, mullet wearing woman behind the counter for your gas and RC Cola. "Ya'll gots Cal'forny license plates...is you in the movies? Is you a fruit?"

Welcome to Mississippi.

I have enjoyed my homecoming. I got to see my new born nephew, Kade. It is amazing how much a baby grows in six months. He is already drinking beer and shooting animals with a rifle. Go Southern Genetics! I also get to spend more time with my family, mostly watching Kade try and walk. He is six months old, so the beer makes it hard for him to keep his balance.

There has been a few moments spent with my friends. I love when you are away for a long spell and then can just plop back into a conversations with old friends, as if you never left. Life is good.

I have not even thought about work. I am going to be as lazy and as shiftless as possible for a few weeks leading up to my vacation. I find the best way to enjoy a vacation is to do nothing for a long time before hand. I don't want to waste any valuable time trying to unwind from a job. I try and maximize all my vacation time vacating. After four weeks of lounging about the beaches of the Philippines I will then take about a week or so to de-vacate before attempting to find a new job. I have seen many example of people pulling a muscle or having a nervous breakdown from trying to jump right back into working after an extended vacation. I am very much in support of preventative health care, so I will take it slow when it comes to getting back to work.

When, and If, I finally feel ready I will begin the process of finding a job. Luckily, in the nursing profession that means I walk into the first hospital I see, show my nursing license, they check for a pulse, and I am hired. No rush, no fuss, it doesn't take much fancy job interviewing to shove medicine up someone's ass.

I will keep you dutifully informed of any major changes or occurences. Or I might just get drunk and try to post in drag.

Mississippi-California Blogger Summit

Sorry it has taken so long to post my side of the story, but I have been enjoying the beach in San Diego and am now on the road towards Mississippi.

So, this past Friday I finally got to meet some more peeps off Ye Ole Blog Roll. I drove from Sacramento towards the Bay area to hang out with the following:
Jester
Othurme
UMB
I also got to meet Dan, the code-savant, and Celeste, who lives with Jester and UMB.
You can see pics of the first few moments of this adventure at here at Jester's site. I am not sure why I did not break out my camera, but Jester got plenty of pics, hopefully he will post more eventually.

It is always interesting meeting fellow bloggers. You are never really sure what to expect. Liz and I had discussed, in depth, what we thought Jester and Othurme would dress like. Liz had Jester nailed as a khaki pants and sandals kind of guy, but was way off on her belief that Othurme would be wearing at least one article of clothing that was stone washed. I will only admit to being mocked by Jester for thinking he would be more "metro-sexual". Apparently I just came across as stereotyping, and was informed that a homosexual can't really be called metro-sexual. I could only hope that they had secretly assumed I would arrive wearing over-alls with no shirt and driving the truck from the Beverly Hillbillies.

On top of meeting them for the first time, I was actually meeting them at Jester and UMB's house. There was going to be no hiding for these guys. I was going to see all their dirty secrets. I was immediately stunned by the amount of livestock that reside in that one house. There were several dogs, some birds, a couple of lizards, and maybe a cat (I can't remember). I kept waiting for an ostrich to go strutting by the back porch. Apparently they are animal lovers.

I arrived early to go over a web design project Jester and Dan are putting together for me. Hopefully it will be ready and operational by the end of the week, and the whole world will get to see the amazing work they can do. I'll keep everyone updated on that.

Shortly after the nerdy geek stuff was out of the way, Othurme showed up and the real party could begin.

We went to eat at a brewery, since it is known that I am a beer geek and they are good hosts.

Dinner was normal and fun. I could easily see myself hanging out with all these guys on a regular basis. Everyone was funny, but not overbearing. It felt very comfortable and no one was over the top or trying to dominate the evening.

The end of dinner discussion was, "what do we do now?" The options were to go back to Jester's animal kingdom and chill with a few more beers or go to a club that they usually frequent and do things up right.

Othurme quickly voted for the low key home plan and Jester was all about going out to the club. So, it fell to me, the "guest" to decide. Usually I am all about keeping it real at the house. I am not really a loud, dance club type person, but it is a special occasion and I was still on a night schedule. So, I opted for the club. You can acutually see Othurme's real time reaction here: at Jester's site.

The club turned out to be a gay club.

I have no problem with gay people or gay clubs. Hell some of my best friends are gay. By best friends, I mean I know a few. I don't mean "know" in the biblical sense. Seriously, I used to go to a few in Mississippi. It is a little known fact that a lot of hot straight chicks go to gay bars, and you can usually get a really good conversation going before they realize that you are not gay, and are trying to get into their pants.

The bar was about thirty minutes away from where Jester lived. I always thought that you could throw a rock any where in California and it would bounce off a dozen gay bars, but apparently, outside of San Francisco, you have to work for it.

After being at the bar for a few moments I was offended. Not by the abundance of gay people, but by the fact that no one seemed to be checking me out. I easily fall into the "bear" category and I have a self image of myself as irresistable to the gay community. Having lost a good bit of weight recently, I might have lost too much, but I think it was just really a straight bar and Jester was embarassed about hanging out with straight people, so he lied to us about it's gayness. I don't blame him. It must be embarassing to be seen out with a couple of straight guys.

Or atleast a couple of guys in total denial about their gayness.

Catfish Jones

Thinking about my dad's old pal, Catfish, got my mind rolling on some good Catfish stories. He was quite the character and, once his antics got totally out of control, was forbidden by my mother from coming over to our house. Luckily this didn't happen until I was in high school so I can still remember the mystic that is Catfish Jones.

First of all, I'm pretty sure his real name isn't Catfish but his brother's real name is Charlie Daniels. I also know they are from a small town in Mississippi and that if Bo and Luke Duke ever ran across themselves in Bizarro World, they would be staring straight into the eyes of Catfish and Charlie Daniels Jones. The Jones' are those kinds of boys that, had they not been friends of my father's, would have scared me as a kid. And rightfully so. They're the kind of guys that now, at 35, I would either LOVE to hang around with or I would loathe. Sometimes with this brand of good-ole-boy comedy comes stupidity and prejudice. But also, usually some pretty damn good stories.

For some reason, I feel like I may have written about this before. Oh well. If so, it's worth repeating.

One time Catfish and my dad had been out playing golf at some work/play day. They roll into the driveway and Catfish is HAMMERED. He called his girlfriend to come and pick him up. We lived on a fairly busy street, with plenty of houses on it. One of those long, straight streets, so there really weren't many landmarks before you got to our place. Catfish's woman was trying to get directions and his slurred speech in combination with his total lack of sense was making it difficult. He told her not to worry about it, just to get on Rainey and drive. She'd know it when she saw it. He then took his clubs out of his golf bag and made a giant arrow pointing to our house. It is some funny shit to watch your dad's friend running out into the street, stopping traffic, collecting his golf clubs, waving traffic by, carfully laying the clubs back on the asphalt and then repeating the process. Over and over and over again.

If I blog tomorrow, and if nothing else seems more pressing, I'll tell you about Catfish and his leg infection. It's my favorite of all the Catfish Jones stories.

Classmates.com

Liz breaks through:

Classmates.com advertises heavily on the sites that I most frequent. I don't know what classmates have to do with my searches for "strobe lights", "Focaccia bread", and "nude Bo Duke", but these ads are everywhere.

I'm so frozen in time that I frequently see a teenager and think I know him. This is because he LOOKS like someone I went to school with 20 years ago, and looks like the guy I went to school with looked 20 years ago. I'm doing this more and more often. I'll make eye contact and give that familiar, "Hey... don't I know you" sideways tilt and smile, and then the young man will freeze with terror and run away. I think kids around here think I'm a narc.

The opposite happens too. I'll see this old guy and think, "Hey... he kind of looks like my dad's friend, Catfish," so I'll smile and next thing you know, he's sitting beside me. He's sitting beside me and he's 2 years younger than I am.

What the fuck happened?

Everyone told me that once I hit 30 things would all start going downhill. Then, I made it past 30, to the surprise of some, and now I hear that 40 is rough and that I will forever be a "ma'am". But you know what? Some chick at the Shell station asked me if I was old enough to purchase the beer I sat on the counter just last week. Instead of being thrilled, I was sad. It's like I knew that was the last time I'll ever be asked that question. And someone should seriously do a drug test on that clerk. I'm 35.

And I will continue to be 35 for several more years.

I like to think of my wrinkles and gray hairs as my disguise. I can still drink with you until dawn, I still like to prowl occasionally, and I still listen to the best songs at full volume. I'm still considering getting my ears double-pierced; something I was forbidden to do as a teenager. Only now, I look like I'm a decent, upstanding, well organized early middle-aged woman who can be trusted. It helps when going through road blocks, trust me.

In a couple of years, we'll have our 20 year high school reunion. To make a long story short, I think I'm supposed to get the ball rolling on this. I have NO interest in organizing this thing this time. I was part of 10, but now I'm so over it. Besides, I see people I went to high school with all the time.

Only they're still 17 and I'm 36.

Another thing I've noticed: Yahoo! is my email service, so when I log on, the first thing that comes up is Yahoo! News. I've noticed that for the past week there is a headline story that Al-Quida is plotting attacks on U.S. soil. Ya think? I can't bring myself to click on that article to read more. I mean, I've just been assuming that they were plotting new attacks. Hasn't everyone? Haven't we known this was coming? How is this news? It's sort of like announcing that there is this thing called, "cellular phones".

I'm not being cynical and, of course, I'm scared over it all, but come on. Maybe it's just the way they worded the headline. Maybe "New Plots Discovered" wouldn't seem so... condescending.

So... should I read this article or is it simply more of what I already know?

Wine Glass Half Empty

Liz gets all negative and shit:

I've told you how wonderful Italy is. And it is. I've told you how great my trip was. And it was. But what I haven't told you is about one of my traveling companions. Her role in the adventure was to remind me that no matter how many miles you may travel, there is always going to be an asshole within 30 feet of you.

See. There I go judging and immediately trying to gain your support. That's so unfair. Let me just lay it out here and let you decide for yourself. Ass or not an ass? It's the blogshow everybody loves!

• When told we were going to the Coliseum, she crossed her arms and said, "I'm not going to look at another fucking pile of rocks!"
  
• Had her dad pay for a $350 haircut, countless souvenirs, a $375 Prada purse, and the entire trip, but moaned about toting SOME of her own luggage.


• Behaved like a boorish American jerk to the locals- and got chewed out by two of them.


• Sneered and asked a waiter, "Is this FRESH?"


• Made us very late for meeting someone at lunch after assuring us that she would be in a store for no more than 15 minutes. Was in the store 52 minutes and didn't come out until her dad went in after her.


• Ordered, but never asked, for most everything from all traveling with her.


• Stomped her foot twice, that I saw.


• Lagged behind always, even when asked to RUN so that we wouldn't miss things like trains and buses.


• Always got these convenient stomach aches whenever we were doing something she didn't want to do.


• Talked constantly about her daughter or husband.


• Wouldn't let us watch BBC CNN (the only English TV station) because her husband is in Iraq and they might mention it on the news.


• Talked about when her uterus was going to shrink back, even though I requested that she stop asking people about her uterus.


• Would SAY she'd split the cost (if her dad wasn't around), but would never offer to pay you back. I'd have to ask- even though her ENTIRE trip was FREE.


• Asked, more than once, what Pompeii was and why we had to go there.


• Tried to con others into carrying her luggage (Kim turned this one on her once and made HER carry ours!)


• Cried twice.


• Stayed on her cell phone 50% of her waking moments.


• Incorrectly identified all male statues as "Jesus".


• Made it clear, on multiple occasions, that she had come to Italy for one thing and one thing alone- Shopping.

I know. You're thinking that I'm talking about a 14 year old, aren't you? Nope. She's like 23 or 25 or something. So, am I wrong, or is she an asshole?

To balance out the bitching, here are some more pictures:

Posting Fool

Liz says:

Have you noticed I've posted a lot since getting back from vacation, as opposed to lounging around the house, watching my Wonder Woman DVD, and sleeping and/or drinking as much as humanly possible as I had planned? I've observed that I have spent much of my vacation time in the States in front of this computer, doing one of three things: playing video games, fooling with pictures from the trip, or blogging. Let's closely examine these three behaviors, shall we?

The pictures are a short-term activity; they will be out of my life soon enough. Because I am a bit of an organization freak, I will have them all printed, filed, placed in a scrapbook and notated before the end of the next week. To Luxor, Aloha Tri Peaks, and Zuma: It was recently declared, after serious study, that video gaming is NOT addictive. I have to question this. I'm either addicted to the games or I'm addicted to the quiet time, sipping a drink, smoking a pack of cigs that goes along with playing the games. But, regardless, I didn't think about video gaming one single time while in Italy, so I can rest categorizing my game planning as "optional", rather than "necessary". That leaves blogging- specifically writing posts, which I organize and think about throughout the day. Blogging- an activity for which I looked for computers while in another country so that I could write. I bought a notebook so that I could chronicle. I told Kim events that I was going to post about when I got home.

That forces me to ask the question: Can you have an addiction to story telling? In other words, "Hello. My name is Liz. I'm a talkaholic."

I'm not sure blogging is healthy for me. I almost obsess about it. I'll be lying in bed, remembering the day, and think, "Oh! I need to blog about that!" I don't do rough drafts or anything, I don't make written notes, I just relate my real world to an opportunity to share the story. It's weird how writing for a forum can be so motivating. And now, I am blogging about blogging. Isn't that one of the signs; a cry for help?

One of the things I thought I needed to share with you was my new found old-person habit of waking up early. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE, yet it has been happening all week to me. As soon as the sun is out, I wake up, regardless of my bed time. I love to watch the sun rise- ON MY WAY HOME- not from my front steps after a good 5 hours of sleep. I'm highly distressed. What if it doesn't go away?

In other news, make sure you visit JesterTunes (link on the right, over there) to see recent photos of the boys on their big night out. I'm looking forward to the play by play!

Italian Stallions

This one is for Churlita.

Italian Stallions

My well-traveled friend, Killer, had warned me before I left that I would be accosted by Italian men. I was excited about this and packed plenty of perfume and wet wipes in anticipation. (Okay- although those two items could relate, they are simply just things I packed). On the plane ride to Italy, I was seated next to Luca. I thought, "Ummm hum. THIS is where it all begins!" It was a long plane ride, Luca was a cutie and he was an insomniac. This meant we had lots of fun with his lap top and his English to Italian program translating dirty sentences to each other. I figured that 9 and 1/2 hours in the air with Luca was the equivalent to 2-3 dates, so I was ready for whatever might come. The mile high club? Breakfast when we land? Snuggling under the Delta blanket? What ever. I'm on vacation.

About 5 hours into the flight, most people were sleeping. Luca got up, wearing his blanket as a cape, and wandered around the plane. His sleep mask was firmly gripped to his forehead. His 5 o'clock shadow was spotty and his skin oily. He looked like the Bollywood Batman. He strolled aimlessly around for half an hour, got booted out of first class and came back to his seat. It was like he had transformed. Instead of being this cute Italian guy, he was some wayward homeless man with poor communication skills, clinging to the discarded items of first class patrons. I was disenchanted.

Kim's sister, who traveled with us, is very pretty. Note to self: Don't travel with very pretty women. Stick with women who are at your level or below. Name the group "The 5-6 Rangers", even if it's just the two of you. No 8's or 9's allowed! 7's welcomed if they don't wear makeup. Even she only got looks, no groping as promised.

I found that in Italy, your attractiveness depends on the situation. Usually, I was just another tourist in the crowd until I was shopping at the street markets. There, I was beautiful! "Oh! Bella! You are so lovely! This green leather handbag would accentuate the green sparkle in your eyes! Please, just try it on so I can watch you hold it. Please, pose like a statue. You look like a Goddess. You are Athena! You are so pretty, but with the handbag, you are unstoppable!" At first, it was fun, then it felt greasy and finally disgusting. "You like this statue of David, hee? He looka like your boyfriend back in America, doesn't he? No? Your boyfriend does not look like the David? But you are so beautiful! You should take the David home with you! It is what you deserve. I charge 12 Euros. For you, because you are so pretty, I give him to you for 10." The lesson form this? Euros are HOT.

Kim got felt up. We were on a train from Naples- which, from everything I read and heard, is a nasty, dirty, crime-ridden town. All I saw was the bus terminal. It was nasty, dirty, and crime-ridden. I saw the guys get on the train. I was watching the one in my car scan the passengers. He never made eye contact, he only looked at people's belongings. Kim was standing in the car ahead. The second pickpocket brushed his hand against her shorts front pocket 3 times before finally giving up. Before the train stopped, she had called me in there with her. She was guarding all of our luggage and felt like my back pack was in danger of being snatched. Hell, at that point, I would have gladly handed it over. My arms were shaky from carrying around a combined total of 95 pounds worth of crap! I knew why she was calling me in there and I was prepared to kick some nads if I had to. It's funny how I really honestly believe I could take on a professional criminal.

Other than staying in the hostile, which I am misspelling, by the way, the only other time I felt like I was being targeted.... let me rephrase.... that I was AWARE of being targeted, was also on a train. Kim and I had separated from her dad and sister. I've told you before that Kim is kind and thoughtful. Being kind and thoughtful, she was helping an older Indian woman load her extremely heavy and overstuffed luggage onto the train. That's stressful, trust me. In doing so, the wheel of the luggage got caught on the bottom of the train and damn it, the wheel came off of the bag! It would be impossible to carry this duffel around. It was the size, weight and shape of Danny Devito.

We did a lot of riding in the "taint" of the rail cars. I'm referring to that area where passengers load and unload on and off of the train. Usually, this was because of my enormous luggage, combined with sometimes overly full cars. So, here is Kim, trying to mail tape this lady's wheel back on her bag, it's 100 degrees in the taint, we have a long ride ahead of us, I'm not sure I had my Cappuccino that morning, and I'll be damned if 3 punks didn't get into the taint with us and start planning. Kim and I made eye contact. The two little ones wouldn't be a problem, but the big one, he was muscular and, you could tell, strong as an ox. They positioned themselves. So did we. Kim and I have instincts. I looked for alarms and started flexing my ankle for nad kicking. She mentally went over the karate moves she had learned from Ralph Machio. We weren't going down without a fight, and they weren't taking Granny down either.

Punks. One with a Mohawk mullet that looked permed in the back. He wore silver shoes and looked like he was born with water on the brain. Giant forehead, eyes wide apart. Fortunately, we intimidated them and they moved to another car at the next stop. They knew better.

So, in summary, I saw some very beautiful men over there, but none that made me look more than 3 times. I will say that most Italian men under 45 seem to be in very good physical condition. I think it's like New York, where you walk so much and there is so much fresh produce around, you exercise a lot and it's easy to choose to eat well. This is a concept I understand, but don't live by. I sometimes drive to get my mail on the way to Chick-Fil-a. Most people are very kind and very patient with Americans. I was impressed with the Italians and could certainly see myself going back for another extended vacation. Next time, maybe, with a group of hideously ugly women, so that I can bring back better stories.

You Should Wish You Were My Guest Room Mattress

Liz continues:

Killer has asked that I pick up blogging so that he can do nothing that uses his precious physical and mental energy while he is on vacation for the next 3 months. I reminded him that I am on vacation as well, and that I only get 2 weeks a year. He was not impressed.

I challenged him to a laze-off to see who can do the least this week. So far I've gone 3.5 days without showering and I haven't finished unpacking or doing laundry. I slept 15 hours on Wednesday. Yet I'm complying with his request to keep the blog fresh. I'm sure it's going to be the tie breaker in the laze off and he, yet again, will best me.

While I was in Italy I had a housesitter. Someone has to be here for the cats if I'm gone more than 2 days. I want to make sure they are mental stimulated between naps. Walking by them mentally stimulates, so that and throwing some food in a bowl is really all I ask of my housesitter. When I got home, I noticed a flat iron on my bathroom counter. Hummmm.... my housesitter was a domestic short-haired male, which can only mean one of two things: I either bought a flat iron while in a drunken stupor and don't remember it or he had a girl over.

I'm no prude. I understand that the human animal has a sex drive. But I'll be damned if my "guest" don't get more action than I do. So G and this unknown vamp had a sex romp in my guest room? No big deal, but I also know that that same mattress provided support for an unplanned pregnancy when another guest was banging on it. It saw a lot of action several years ago when it was being used by a girlfriend in college. I won't even get into the physics of the complaint I had from a couple that visited last summer. They said that the bed was too hard for sleeping, so they used it for other activities. I bought a feather bed and put it on the mattress that week. Now it's too inviting. I think it must be magic for all who lay upon it.

G's harlot has done me a favor. My suitcase had gotten up to around 75 pounds. That's A LOT, especially when you're rolling through terminals and getting on and off of trains. Several places we were didn't have elevators. That meant lugging that giant Samsonite and one backpack that weighed around 15 pounds everywhere I went. So I mailed some things home. I'm an idiot. I didn't even think, in my frantic obsessed unpacking haze, to ship carefully. Here's what I mailed home:

• One bathing suit
• A bottle of truffle oil
• Two leather purses
• One illegal, fake Prada purse
• Glass souvenirs
• Dirty clothes
• My favorite bra
• Chocolate
• Lemon candy
• A towel (from my house)
• A towel (from the hotel)
• Rocks
• A Chi flat iron

It's going to be A MONTH before the packages get here, if they even make it. I was told the Italian Post Office can be sketchy. What's even worse, maybe, is how poorly I planned the shipment. I know. I mailed ROCKS home. These free rocks costs me about $7 a pop. Idiot. But you have to understand my anguish. All I wanted to do was unload that fucking suitcase. I would have mailed home money or a baby if they were weighing me down.

The things I did bring home are great, but this cheap flat iron isn't doing the trick. I hope that shipment makes it. And I hope that lemon candy doesn't reek of the confined odors of sweaty clothes in a cardboard box. That was going to be my Christmas gift to Killer.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Liz is back, ready to update!

I had to pee on a plane. It wasn't that bad, compared to the bathroom in the hostile we stayed in on our last night before flying out of Italy. I'm too old, and admittedly, too prissy to stay in a hostile. However, after blowing through several thousand dollars taking tours, paying for nicer hotels, eating some of the best food I've ever had and gobbling up souvenirs, paying 25 Euros for a hostile didn't sound like a bad idea.

I think that Italy has the worst drivers in the world. There are lanes, just like in America, clearly marked and designated. They are ignored. To quote, "When driving in Italy, you must not only know the dimensions of your car, but the thickness of the paint as well." So true. Lanes made for 2 become funnels for 2 cars, a bus, and multiple scooters. I quickly learned to simply look out of the window and enjoy the sites.

We were able to do a lot in 10 days. My favorite excursion was a trip to Cinque Terra, the five villages, where Kim and I stayed in Monterossa. It was unbelievable. Here are a couple of pictures from that heavenly spot:

We were in Rome, Pompeii, Venice, Sorrento, and Florence. Ah.... so nice. I guess the thing that struck me most is that the ruins are just THERE- as in, you round a corner and bam! It's the steps where Cesar was killed. Or bang! Wow! That's, like, the Coliseum. There is no "reserved for old shit" section of town, as I had imagined. The city has grown up around the relics. It is an amazing mix of old and new.

Another thing I loved were Europeans and Asians in American T-Shirts. 1/4 of the time the shirts were way off base in their proclamations. For example, there was an adorable little pre-teen European girl sporting a shirt that read, in English, "Boys Liars Fat Big". I think it was supposed to say, "Boys Are Big Fat Liars". I got the point. I also saw, "Pinups I Love" on a metro sexual Roman. Cute. He loves pinups. That T had the mudflap girl in sparkly rhinestones. While I'm on fashion, I didn't see that many stiletto heels. Flat sandals are big. I must also state, however, that I saw nearly as many Americans and British as I did Italians. I guess everyone wants to go to Italy.

I'll write more, and upload some more photos, this weekend. In the meantime, I thought of you while I was gone and couldn't wait to get home to tell you that it's true- Europeans have BO. Considering that I haven't showered in 3 days, I'm not going to judge them.

This Post is About Nothing

I don't wish to rub any of you cubicle monkey's faces in this fact, but I am off work for at least the next two months.

What do I have planned for that time? A lot of nothing. Some of that nothing will take place in America, some will take place in the Philippines, but nothing still the same.

I love doing nothing. In high school when we had to do a video interview stating what we would be doing in ten years, mine really said, "nothing...I hope to be homeless and surviving by doing absolutely nothing at all."

I can now say that I manage to make that dream come true at least three months out of every year. Sure I might have to work really hard for a few months to achieve this, but nothing can match the sheer happiness I feel when I wake up that first day and think to myself, "What do I have to do today? Oh yeah, not a damn thing."

I will even set my alarm clock for the first few days, just so I can happily hit the snooze button a hundred times, or even slap it off the table and keep on sleepin' on.

Hell, I'm writing this post while still in bed. I think I am going to hire a private nurse to come in for a few days to give me bed baths and clean me up when I go to the bathroom in the bed. I really want to take my nothingness to a whole new level.

If someone happens to be in the area, could you stop by and bring my cell phone to me? I hear it ringing in the other room, but I'm not getting out of bed to retrieve it. I figure if it is really important they will drive over here and tell me.

I Forgot Who I Had Breakfast With This Morning

Killer has no idea what is going on

I have mentioned that my time is drawing to an end here in Sacramento. After leaving so many hospitals, I have become immune to the sadness of goodbye. Yes, I have worked closely with you for six months. Yes, I am an awesome guy. No, I don't need a tissue.

The people I work with are always saddened at my departure, but I, being an ass, am usually just wanting to get away clean, with little or no emotional attachment. They give me their phone numbers, tell me to call them, ask me to send them postcards, and inform me, "you'll be back. You'll miss us too much."

Little do they know, in a few hours, I will have forgotten the vast majority of their names.

I don't know if it is a deep emotional protective mechanism provided by my fragile psyche, or if maybe I am really just a complete asshole; regardless, I slip away into the night, unfazed and unaffected by the parting of ways.

Sorry, whatever your name was. Life is cruel sometimes.

I was taken to breakfast this morning by a group of coworkers. They wanted to spend one last moment together before I leave. I was touched. I rather would have gone to bed, but I felt it necessary to give them one last chance to soak in the Killer goodness.

Unfortunately I was the only one at breakfast who was not Filipino. I don't begrudge the ethnic diversity of California, but it is less than exciting to sit and listen to a hour long debate about the pros and cons of buying a Toyota mini-van, especially when the entire discussion is in a language I don't speak.

The only Tagalog I know is in reference to my testicles, and due to poor designs by Toyota, that doesn't relate well to their mini vans.

Soon I will be free.

The End Is Nigh

Killer heads for the door.


I have a serious case of short-timer syndrome. This is a critical condition that is common among people who only have a few days left at a job. It is characterised by a severe lackadaisical attitude and frequent mutterings of, "I'll quit this shit-hole right now!" or "I'll burn this place to the ground."


It is not an uncommon disease, but I, being a person who can change hospitals several times a year, have it more often than others. Since I am usually very upbeat and humor laden, it disturbs my soon-to-be-ex coworkers very much.


I already want to be gone so bad my mind starts to play tricks on me. Tonight a lovely Filipina nurse approached me and innocently asked, "Would like to try one of my Filipino crackers?" My brain heard, "Shove these up your ass, Cracker!"


I immediately became enraged and picked up the small lady and flung her across the room, knocking over a gaggle of Hmong people who were there to visit their Grandfather. I did not really do that, but man, I wanted to.


I realized a Filipina would not know that she could refer to me as "cracker" and calmed down. I calmly accepted the Filipino cracker; it was delicious.


This condition is usually worse in the first few hours of my shift. I am freshly removed from my comfortable chair at home, where I was enjoying the back log of "Dirty Jobs" on my Tivo, so I really did not want to come to work. The fact that I only have three shifts left heightens any feelings of unhappiness and despair.


I arrive at work and they immediately tell me that I am going to have to work on a Medical floor tonight. I am an ICU nurse. I prefer my patients comatose and near death. It makes for a pleasant work environment when I can put on the Cartoon Network as I scramble around to keep someone alive. On a Medical floor a lot of the patients should be at home, and they don't want to be there any more than I do. Both patient and nurse have a palpable level of animosity towards each other; both feel it is the other's fault they are still there.


I enter the room. The patient, a very healthy appearing 68 year old man, is laying in bed watching an infomercial for the Ionic Breeze. I look at him. He looks at me. We both quickly surmise that the other does not want to be here. I check his vitals as he quietly stares at the television. "You know there is a "Futurama" marathon on the Cartoon Network." I inform him; to which her blandly responds, "I hate cartoons. Can you get me some fresh water?" I pick up his jug and walk out of the room muttering to myself, "I should just quit this place right now." I am pretty sure I heard him mutter to himself, "I should just leave this place right now."


It is ironic that we should be enemies. We actually have a lot in common. Neither of us wants to be here, and could leave if we really wanted to. I should just go back in there and tell him, "Get dressed were blowing this joint." I could give him a ride home.


If someone does not let me watch the Cartoon Network soon, I am going to quit this shit-hole.

Sub Contracting

I am guest posting at Fringe's place today. She is on vacation from life and blogging. Come on over and check it out. Sarcastic Fringe

Don't worry, I'll be back here tomorrow.

Killer

It's Official, I'm Going to Hell

I noticed today that I had fifteen separate google hits with the search, "May the Lord Bless You and Keep You." I blame this on Liz. She wrote a post in June called May the Lord Bless You and Keep You as Long as You Forward This.

Every time a good upstanding believer clicks on this site expecting to receive religious affirmation, and instead sees all the posts about my balls, I just know I am being added to a Go-Straight-to-Hell prayer list. I have heard about prayer lists where whole groups of people will pray for the well being of fellow church members, so it only seems obvious to me that they would have a list for the opposite effect.

My plan has always been to pull off the old death bed forgiveness move and squeak into Heaven, but the more prayers sent up requesting a Hell bound outcome will make that more unlikely. I prefer to fly my soul under the radar. I don't need all this added attention.

Thanks Liz, you are off gallivanting around Italy, not even bothering to post, and I am inching my way to eternal damnation. You need to get back here and write a letter to everyone saying it was you. If I end up in Hell, I am so going to haunt you.

Proud To Be An American

Killer weeps red, white and blue tears of joy

I am usually not sentimental. I am usually not very nationalistic. Recently both were displayed as I was moved by a return to American dominance. Dominance in a field that seemed to be impossible to NOT be dominated by Americans. The field of competitive eating.

I mean we are the fattest nation; the most gluttonous nation. Shouldn't we also be the fastest to eat anything under the sun? Well, we have not been for six long disappointing years.

The pinnacle of the competitive eating circuit is the Annual Nathan's Hot Dog eating contest in New York. Every year the best of the best come from around the globe to stuff as many hot dogs and buns into their gullet as humanly possible, as fast as possible. The last six years have been won by the same man. A Japanese man named, Takeru Kobayashi. Not only is Kobayashi not American, he is not fat; not even a little chubby.

Here is the whole article: American Hot Dog Champion

The least a man can do if he wants to be a great competitive eater is allow himself to get obese. Come on, who wants to celebrate a skinny guy eating a lot? I want to watch a fat guy get fatter. I want to cheer him on while secretly thinking, "What a fat ass, he is going to die any second." Nobody wants to see a skinny guy eat 65 hot dogs in record time then go jogging, unless he is going to get hit by a city bus and have his hot dog laden intestines splattered all over the pavement. Americans definitely want to see that.

Thank you Joey Chestnut for melting my cold, cynical heart on the Fourth of July and making me a proud American again. And thank you for having an extremely American name in the process.

Summer Itinerary

Well, I only have one week left here in Sacramento. I did not really take much time to enjoy Sac Town however, since I worked all the damn time. You know the old saying, "what doesn't kill you, makes you much richer."

I have big plans for my post Sacramento time. I am planning to hang up my Travel Nurse shoes, move back to Mississippi and be like the normal folk; stationary. Maybe buy a house, coach a soccer team, and stare longingly at the road, wondering, "Is there a better time to be had in Boise?"

First I have more immediate plans. I am rolling over to the Bay Area to spend an evening with some fellow bloggers, Jester and Othurme. I really enjoy reading their blogs, so I hope they can live up to the expectations.

Then I am going to rocket down to San Diego and hang out with my old Travel Nurse roommates Corey and Cathy. We will spend many hours arguing about who's turn it is to pick the place to eat and then go get drunk to forget why we were arguing. Life is grand.

Finally a mellow saunter across the Southwest to Mississippi, where I will get to spend some quality time with my family, including new nephew Kade. But in a month, I will join Chad in the Philippines for a four week "do nothing, while doing everything" extravaganza. I hope to drink lots of cheap San Miguel Beer, eat a lot of Chicken Adobe, and run through the streets yelling, "Masarap ang bayag ko!" Which is Tagalog for, "My balls are delicious!"

Hopefully I can start an international incident and make the news.

What are you plans for the summer?

The Truth Behind Killer's Balls

Liz is still gone, and I had several requests to really let me balls hang out.

You asked for it.

Killer's top ball facts:

I don't really know when my balls became my unofficial theme. I think I made a few off hand comments and someone commented, "You talk about your balls a lot." So then it became a challenge, and then it snowballed. I don't discuss them much in real life.

The Environmental Protection Agency has listed my balls as Protected Marshlands. Apparently there is a rare species of Albino Cave Crab that has made it's home down there.

I was going to wax them recently but some hippies chained themselves to my balls, in the back near my ass crack, to protect the Albino Cave Crab habitat. I had trouble sleeping, because they kept singing and beating bongos all night.

I rub expensive facial creams and sleep with a mud mask on my balls to prevent wrinkles.

I like to lay naked outside in the early morning, because when the sun rises over my balls the views are magnificent. The crabs enjoy it also.

My balls have contemplated moving several times because they hate their neighbors. One is a dick and the other is an asshole.

There are legends that in the deepest foliage on my balls a small flower grows that can cure cancer. A few years back a team of scientists went in to find it. Only one returned and he has never spoken since.

When Liz is Away Killer Will Play

Killer posts in the nude

By now Liz should have landed on foreign soil. She has probably inhaled a couple bottles of fine Italian wine and molested at least one Italian waiter. I have no doubts that the prior 6.5 years of damage to America’s popularity in Europe will be vastly improved with one week of Liz’s presence there. It is the kind of place that was made for her. Everyone drinks, smokes and is not afraid to show of a little Moose Knuckle.

As for the Liz-less Killer Rants, well, I am enjoying the privacy. I can finally stroll around in here with my pants off. Not that I wouldn’t do that with Liz around, but now there is no annoying giggling and pointing going on.

I have noticed that things don’t seem to smell as nice without all the fancy candles she keeps lit, not to mention the constant barrage of air freshener she sprays every time someone (IE. Me) expels a little flatus. I did not realize how unpleasant I can smell. Not so unpleasant as to stop, but enough that I might help her pay for the next batch of Yankee Candles.

The big question is, will Liz post from Italy? I hope she is so enthralled with the ancient runes and Italian beef cakes that she doesn’t even think about us, but there is always the possibility of her getting tired of being with her travel companions and seek solace in a quiet internet café. Even your BFF can become annoying after a few days of constant companionship.

I just hope she doesn’t catch sight of the Pope. She will probably get arrested for throwing things at him in an attempt to knock off his funny hat. She isn’t anti-Catholic, she’s just anti-funny hat.

Random Survey

49%

Mingle²

^{I could have sworn I would have done better. I think I get a poor rating from being a in a large city (more zombies) and not owning a gun. I do own Shaun of The Dead on DVD, so that should count for something.}