Killer Rants!

We Have Moved!!!

2007-07-26T19:09:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-22T19:37:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-18T15:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-17T18:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-16T15:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-13T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-12T07:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-11T00:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-10T00:18:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-09T00:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-06T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-05T01:29:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-04T06:28:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-01T13:20:00.000-07:00

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.}

Ciao!

2007-06-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-27T21:11:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-26T17:59:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-25T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-24T18:43:00.001-07:00

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

2007-06-23T00:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-06-20T05:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-19T08:11:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-06-16T08:26:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-13T16:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-13T02:44:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-12T02:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T02:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-10T09:12:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-08T19:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-06-08T00:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-06T05:19:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-05T01:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-04T03:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-01T18:17:00.000-07:00

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.)

2007-06-01T02:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Love Letter

2007-05-31T00:14:00.000-07:00

One of the motivators for me starting a blog was the feedback I would receive from Chad about the bizarre and random rants I often sent to him as emails. I don't know why I would send these emails to Chad, but I would do so every few months, and pretty much only to Chad. He even told me he would print them out occasionally and show them to friends. That made me realize, maybe other people would read random observations about my balls. I wish he had kept a few, because sometimes it is hard to think of new things to say.

I wrote Chad an email at work, sent it, and then began to put together a post for the night. I was perturbed that I used my only ideas on his email. As a lazy mastermind, I saw the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so I am posting Chad's email.

Yes, it is homo-erotic. I believe I have previously mentioned my strange group of friend's strange sense of humor. To us that is funny, and when it makes Clib's wife nervous, that is even funnier.

So, you never responded to my last email, but neither did Bamela, so I guess
that makes both of you suck my nuts equally.

No real point to this
email. I am just bored at work and decided to see how you are doing. I am STILL
working everyday, working out everyday, and nothing else. I have six weeks left
before utter freedom and sheer blissful nothingness.

I hope the
Taiwanese are treating you well. It is nice that you are taking such care to
educate them before the Chinese drop a nuke and drag their tiny island back into
the communist fold.

I am not sure when you arrive in the States, but
hopefully you get all that Brady family shit out of your system because once I
hit town, it is going to be 24/7 Killer loving for you. Disco and I are pumped
about the concert in Memphis. I am trying to pull off a couple of days there for
us (and since neither of us will be otherwise occupied, I don't see any reason
to not have such). One night will be spent watching the Simpsons Movie which
opens that weekend, and at least one night should be spent getting shitty
downtown with a group of hot honeys I used to work with at the hospital. Maybe
by some freak occurrence even Sherm will show up. You remember Sherm don't you? No, you
probably don't.

I can not wait to do nothing. I want to sit in small
village in a third world country, under the awning of a tiny bar, drinking San
Miguel, and watching the rain fall. Preferably this can be accomplished with you
there under the table licking my junk, but if not, at least you could be sitting
beside me, dreaming of licking my junk, but too shy to ask.

We will most
definitely have to plan several nights of drinking, card playing and farting at
Liz's. Clib will be in town by then, so it will be a madhouse. You can take
advantage of Liz, I can do one of her twenty cats, and Clib can draw pretty
pictures of the debauchery. I would suggest you get Liz really drunk to better
take advantage of her, but we both know nobody can out drink Liz.

Yours
in Heterosexual Man Love
Killer

blue balls

2007-05-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

Liz relays this, but with respect... and a need for verification.

I had a friend recently tell me that when he uses a toilet that has "blue" water in it, he has to hold his balls up or else they get wet and stain his underwear when he pulls it back on. Was he serious? He seemed serious. He said he wasn't proud. I believe his exact phrasing was, "Balls ain't shit." He referred to it as elephantitus of the nads- which I don't think is a medical term, more a method for explaining his condition. There was another guy present that verified his huge nuts. His wife has made reference to the size of his boys as well. But can they REALLY be that huge? To where they fall into the toilet water?

We had a good time talking about how his balls will only continue to droop over time. He may have to switch to briefs when he turns 40 to avoid being arrested, stared at, or called a pervert. But in the meantime, I think these nads are only a freakish inconvenience.

He's a nut anyway, but damn.

Can anyone verify that testicles can hang that low? I mean, it's like 8 inches from the seat of the toilet to the water. His balls have to be hanging at least 10 inches down to get a good soaking. I know they have to cause some sort of optical illusion when he's standing nude and his dangle, average, is hanging in the foreground of a set of Andre the Giant nads. That could, in certain circles, be a disadvantage. Is there any advantage to having enormous testes?

I checked out his crotch to see if there was a giant sack imprint, but he said he always wears baggy pants so you can't tell. His camouflage worked. Nothing appeared to me in 3-D. Not that I wish him any misfortune, but if he can donate those things to science should he pass from this World in an untimely way, I sure would like to know what the medical community has to say about his pair. And it would be extra sweet if they were that neon blue of toilet water when they pulled the sheet off of him.

I Like My Ladies Limber and Under 90

2007-05-28T23:09:00.000-07:00

Killer posts without restraint.

There comes a time in every nurse’s career when you are thankful for soft wrist restraints. They call them soft wrist restraints, because that makes it sound gentler when I tie up your Grandpa.

Doing this initiates a world of paperwork, so there needs to be a pretty good reason for strapping someone’s arms to the bed. Old people get confused at night when in a new environment; this can lead to pulling out IVs (bloody mess), pulling out breathing tubes (deadly mess), or yanking out a Foley catheter (OUCH! That guy just pulled a golf ball through his penis.)

Recently I had an adorable little old gal who was finally waking up enough to not be considered dead, but not awake enough to know that pulling out her feeding tube will only result in an uncomfortable cramming of a new tube up her nose. So to save her the agony of getting something crammed up her nose, again, I tied her hands down, but softly.

About an hour later, I looked in the room and she had pulled the tube out of her nose. I was flabbergasted. This lady is a little, gray haired Houdini, I thought to myself, as I tied her hands tighter. She yelled and cursed me as I shoved a stiff plastic tube up her nose.

Another hour passes and I peek into her room, she has pulled the tube out again. Flabbergasted is now an understatement. “How are you doing that?” I yell. She just looked at me and said, “Hooply dopple.” I can not really begin to understand what that means, but I hoped it meant, “I really don’t mind you shoving shit up my nose, so feel free to do it again.” Because, that is exactly what I did; after strapping her arms down like she was Hannibal Lector. She tried to bite me as the tube entered her nose.

I would like to say that solved the tube pulling epidemic, but thirty minutes later she was tube free and loving life. Her hands were still firmly strapped to her side, and the feeding tube was steadily leaking an unsavory tan liquid all over the floor. I wanted to duct tape her hands to the wall and staple the plastic tube to the inside of her left nostril. Instead I allowed my patience to shine through. I put special mittens on her hands, tied the mittens and her wrists to the bed, replaced the tube (to her dismay and loud protests), and taped the tube to her face with an entire roll of tape. I walked out of the room certain she would not get it again, but concerned the Board of Nursing would bust in any second and arrest me.

I also got all my paperwork, my charts, my book, a cup of coffee and decided I would not take my eyes off of this little, innocent, confused dame.

Fifteen minutes after I was settled in, I saw some strange movement out of the corner of my eye. The sheets were lifting up off the bed. Suddenly her feet appeared out of the top of her covers and she moved her wrinkly, spider veined legs up to her face and, using her toes like a damn monkey, she grabbed firmly onto the feeding tube.

I was frozen in amazement for a few seconds, but then I leapt up, spilled my coffee all over the floor as I raced into the room to stop her from pulling out the last of my feeding tubes. I stopped her and pushed her legs back down. I softly restrained her ankles to the bed then stood back and gazed upon this octogenarian who was so limber and sneaky. All I could think about was how much I wished I had known her back in the 1940’s. It is not often you can meet a woman who is double jointed, and okay with bondage.

After that she did not get the tube out again, but in a final screw-you from Karma, at 6am the next morning her doctor strolled by and wrote an order to pull the feeding tube and see if she can eat normally.

Sacramento Whale Solution

2007-05-27T20:46:00.001-07:00

Killer found the Sacramento Whale Solution.

Now, I consider myself pretty liberal, but the whole Save the Whales in the Sacramento River is getting out of control. How much money do we need to spend to push two stubborn whales back to the ocean. So far this whole ordeal has shown that all of the whale research and Marine Biology experts are wasting their time.

I found this video on youtube of how they would handle wayward whales back in the seventies. The idea of blowing up a dead whale sounds gruesome, and it is. But considering the entire town was riddled with whale chunks, it is just poetic justice that gives the whale the last laugh.

Embarrassing Moment

2007-05-26T18:04:00.000-07:00

Liz confesses:

I don't embarrass easily. That helps to explain why I can make a total ass out of myself and then expect you to still love me. "What? You mean it BOTHERED you when I stood up in the movie and told that guy to shut the Hell up before I crammed his boyfriend's balls down his throat? Well so what if he was with his wife and kids? He shouldn't have been talking so much!"

I've been doing really well the past few years in holding down my brash tendencies and have even become border-line mild. My clothing is evidence of this. I usually wear a tank top under anything that might be considered revealing, especially to work. It sounds like common sense, I know, but I go above and beyond common sense with my clothing choices. As as been discussed on this blog before, I have somewhere around 12 inches of cleavage to contend with. A blouse that is cute on one woman is obscene on me, so I try to dress appropriately.

Yesterday I had on a plunging neck line. In preparation for this outfit, I pulled a shiny tank top out of the back of the closet and threw it on. I noticed it was small and I noticed it was silky, so I wasn't surprised that it kept riding up underneath my other shirt.

Throughout the day, this tank top became a major annoyance. It was way small and all day I was fiddling with it, trying to yank it back down into place. It kept easing up, resting right under my titties. I thought, "When I get home, you're going in the garbage," but I apparently didn't make it home in time.

My friend C went with me to buy shoes. We're late night people, so we were hitting stores as they were closing. We had been to the mall with little luck and headed over to Shoe Carnival where the manager was eager to help. He wanted out of there as they closed in 10 minutes, so he kept bringing me shoes while C provided his opinion and ran the shoes back to their rightful spot. I was struggling with a pair of sandals, seated and bent over tugging on the back strap. I rose partially, still tilting forward, face up, talking to the manager about the merits of these shoes. He went to see if they came in another color. When he walked away, I straightened myself and discovered that my tank top had made it over my boobs and had formed a 2-inch band around my neck. Exposed between the bottom of the tank top and the beginning of the overshirt was enough breasts to get me $85 in tips.

There is no way the manager didn't notice this. It would be impossible. My bosoms were literally spilling out of my shirt for Christ's sake. And, of course, I had on a low-cut bra which only served to accentuate the exposed flesh. There was NO coverage.

When the manager came back, he only made eye contact with C. I'm glad. I was mortified.

Although this isn't me, this is ALMOST as revealing as my runaway tank top. God. I really could crawl under a rock. From this day forward, nothing but turtlenecks and t-shirts...

unless I need a quick $85.

It's Time For Androgyny

2007-05-25T00:08:00.000-07:00

Killer appreciates hermaphrodites

Androgynous vs. Erogenous

At work I was recently accosted by a fellow nurse. She is in her late fifties, recently divorced and now seeing a new beau. She is excited by the prospects of a new relationship, and all the “perks” that come with such. She had me cornered and decided I am open minded enough to hear about her and the new guy’s explorations in the bedroom. I was trying my best to seem as uninterested as possible and hoping she would stop filling my head with the image of middle aged sex romps when she said something that caught my attention. “…the Joy of Sex mentions the importance of your lover’s androgynous zones.” I immediately perked up, “What?” This caused her to mistakenly think I was interested in the conversation. “The androgynous zones are special sexually exciting spots on your body. Everyone has them; you just have to find them.” I paused, searched my built in dictionary to make sure I was not the one who was confused, “So, your new boyfriend has some androgynous regions?” She smiled coyly, “Oh yes, he is very androgynous.” As if that exchange wasn’t strange enough, “I can’t wait to meet this highly androgynous guy. What’s his name?” She looked me square in the eye and said, “His name is Pat.” At this point I just had to walk away. I could not decide if was just messing with me, or if this was some sort of twilight zone conversation.

Apparently my sudden departure gave her cause for concern. She would later come to me and earnestly request my forgiveness for making me uncomfortable with her talk of her sexual escapades. She then repeatedly apologized for telling me about Pat’s “highly androgynous body”, and that if he knew that anyone else knew, he would be very embarrassed. I told her not to worry, if he is that androgynous, everyone probably already noticed.

By the end of the shift I was feeling guilty; because it was obvious she was still worried about having offended my sensitive nature. I got online and printed up the definition of Androgynous and the definition for Erogenous. I put them on her desk when she wasn’t looking, as I headed out the door. I did not want to stick around to see her reaction. I have never met “Pat” so maybe she actually did mean androgynous.

Fellas, Our Days Are Numbered

2007-05-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

Killer fears the worst.

This story, Hammer Head Shark Gives Virgin Birth, could mean the downfall of men in our society. I believe women have been trying to get rid of us for thousands of years, and the only reason we got to stick around was our ability to make sperm, and our proficiency for spewing it everywhere in under 2.5 minutes.

Now, this damn shark provides proof that females can make babies without us there to sweat, grunt and fart around the house. If a shark can pull this off, how long do you think it will take a human female to figure it out?

Sure they might seem docile and weaker compared to men, but that is just a clever ruse on their part. They have been luring us into a heightened sense of security until they could think of a way around the whole propagating the species issue. That time has come, and brothers, I got to tell you, I feel nervous.

I usually fit the stereotypical male image. I give furtive glances at cleavage, I enjoy the image of cheerleaders, and if there is a "milkshake that can bring all the boys to the yard", I will be in that yard. So, I don't think there is any hope that, when the mass elimination of the male species is begun, I will be spared.

Wake up people. Why would the ladies want to keep us around if they can make babies without us? It can't be for the sparkling conversation. I'm sure they can figure out all the other manly skill sets; automotive repair, fire suppression, spider squishing, etc. After those are mastered, there doesn't seem to be any real purpose for us that can't be filled with a couple of D batteries or a shower head.

I'm really nervous. I want to think they would keep me around, maybe for scientific purposes, or in a natural history museum, but at first glance, I look like a really manly man, and I think that could be my downfall. When the great mobs of combat ready women take to the streets to wipe us out, they are not going to take the time to get to know me before they open fire.

I'm desperate for suggestions. I have a good bit of female readers, so if any of you can help, please tell me what to do to keep from getting snuffed out with the rest of the penis mongers. The next time you gals get together for a big female conference, put in a good word for me. I am willing to do whatever I have to in order to survive, and I promise not to make anymore snide remarks about PMS.

I can live in a zoo. I have often thought that would be a good life; sitting around all day, getting fed. I would even do a performance show like the seals. How about letting me stick around as a back up for the females that can't self-reproduce. Please! I am a really useful person.

I do actually have some devious motives as well. There have been several females in my life who said, "I would not have sex with you, even if you were the last guy on Earth. I would love to test that theory. It would probably be true, but I want to find out for sure.

Liz Faces Facts

2007-05-22T17:59:00.000-07:00

Lucky Liz.

Not only was I born with incredible good looks, but an above average IQ and the strength of 3 men.

Ok, none of that is totally accurate, but there are shades of truth in the statement. I have both looks and an IQ (we will not discuss if either of these are exceptionally good) and if we're talking about 3 90-year old men, I might be able to whip them. If they had first been beaten heartily by someone else.

I've been thinking lately about getting some plastic surgery done. Don't judge me. I'm not really going to do it, I've just been thinking about what having plastic surgery means. It would be incredibly weird to suddenly have a new face. Weird and cool. Cool in that witness-protection kind of way. Cool in that move-to-a-new-town-and-change-my-name kind of way. I think Liz fits me, but if I had a whole new face I might have to upgrade to something with more syllables.

I think I would miss my old face. I see some of my dad and some of my mom in my face. I look at a picture from when I was a kid and see how I morphed into what I look like now. I wonder if people who undergo radical face lifts and tucks and construction feel like they're now missing some of their history. I wonder how many people are average looking but go for surgery anyway, just to push them over the edge into stunning.

How important is a face?

The best thing about The Dating Game, and yes, I am referring to that old TV show, was that the bachelorette asked all of these questions to men without seeing them. She considered their answers and picked the man she would go out with based solely on his responses. The worst thing about The Dating Game was that they asked questions like, "Bachelor Number 2, if I were a musical instrument, what would I be?" and the poor saps had to come up with an answer on the spot.

Sometimes a face can work for you and sometimes against you, even when it's the same face. I have a face that people in check out lines tend to look at and think, "Awww.. she's so girl next door, let me tell her my life story." This same face looks contorted and disfigured when it's trying to do a math problem. This same face cannot hide a secret. This same face is uncomfortable with "sexy" looks. This same face can make you stop talking in mid sentence and apologize, even though you're not sure what you've done wrong. This is a face that frequently tilts back in laughter and reveal a wide smile and a committed laugh.

Sometimes polished, and sometimes rough. Sometimes expressive and sometimes empty. As kind as you can imagine and as bitter as the coldest wind.

In a lot of ways, this face is who I am.

Disgusting Poop Post

2007-05-22T05:18:00.000-07:00

Killer ruins the dreams of those around them: A post about flowers.

There are some really bad infections people can get. Some people get an infection and then wind up in the hospital, but most often people come into the hospital and wind up with an infection. Why does that happen? Well, because the people with infections are here, and that means their germs are here. One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, Grandma has the clap.

Okay, so Grandma can’t catch the clap just from failure to wash hands, her catching the clap would be a different post, and I am hesitant to go into that. Instead we will talk about a more unpleasant infection, one that resides in the bowels and results in the most heinous poop ever.

C-diff is a bowel infection that causes frequent liquid/mucous stool that is characterized by a “distinct barn-yard smell”. If you are in the nursing profession and are unfortunate enough to run across a patient with this affliction, you can pretty much guarantee you will hate the whole of your shift. Lots of horrific poop to clean and no one wants to help you do it. Often one has to burn every past favor and make future promises to get some assistance.

Recently I was the lucky winner in the C-diff patient lottery. My fella was a poop, poop, poopin’ machine. I managed to trick a couple of fellow nurses into coming into the room by telling them a re-run of American Idol was on the TV. Once inside, it is a common rule that you have to stay and help.

They were struggling to hold the rather large patient while I was cleaning the offensive area. I tried to convince them to clean while I held, but they were not willing to be team players. One of the girls made the comment, “I wish poop smelled like roses.” The other girl whole heartedly agreed, and added, “I bet more people would be nurses if poop smelled like roses.”

I disagreed with this assessment and felt it my duty to destroy their rose scented dream world. I informed them that if poop smelled like roses you would have one of two scenarios.

Scenario one: Everyone enjoys the smell of shit too much. Everyone will stop flushing their toilets at home. Why buy potpourri when all you have do is feed your husband chili and leave the bathroom door open. Visitors will come by the house and say things like, “Mmmmm that is a lovely scent in here. Can your husband come take a dump at my house? We are having a party tonight.”

Scenario two: Everyone is disgusted by the smell of roses. What kind of message would it send when, for Valentines Day, you send your special lady a dozen plants that smell like something that came out of a fat guy’s ass? Would you really plant a bush in your back yard that smells like shit?

They were not happy about my raining on their parade. The rest of the clean up was pretty much in silence. They were also awfully pissed about the American Idol ruse. I guess if I get that guy back tonight I will have to think of a new ploy. Maybe a trail of M&M’s leading into my disgustingly stinky room.

Moose Knuckle Express

2007-05-21T03:38:00.000-07:00

Moose Knuckle: The Appearance of male or female sex organs in tight clothing.

Okay, I am up for a challenge. Othurme has “how to eat coochie”, and I want to stand for something. If you google “how to eat coochie” immunopressed comes up first and second. I am impressed with that. I’m a little jealous even. I would try to steal the title, but Othurme is a friend, so I respect his success. Hate the player, not the game.

I want an even bigger challenge. People have managed to find us by typing moose knuckle into google, but I want to be number one. That is going to be difficult considering there is apparently a website called, “Mooseknuckle.net”. They have a head start, but I have tenacity.

Right now when you google moose knuckle it gives you an option to see Mathew McConaughey’s crotch, Tom Cruise’s crotch, and a random selection of other groins. You will see none of that here. If you chose this site to actually see some moose knuckle you chose unwisely.

If you actually typed the term moose knuckle into google, than either: A: You were accused of having a moose knuckle and want to see what it really is. B: Someone told you what a moose knuckle is and you want to see an example. Or C: You are a pervert and like looking at men’s bulging private parts. Don’t worry, we don’t judge here at Killer Rants. Okay, we judge a little, but the anonymity of the Internet should keep you safe.

If you did happen to stumble upon this post from a google search, please leave us a comment. You don’t have to use your real name. You don’t have to tell us where you live and/or work. Just let us know why you are googling moose knuckle, and if it angers you to be misdirected to this pointless non-moose knuckle related site.

For all you regular readers, sorry to make you read this drivel. It is a scientific experiment, and you support science don’t you? Even if it is about moose knuckle.

395 Posts and going strong

2007-05-20T09:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Killer,

Your goal of 400 posts this year is only 5 posts away from a reality. How shall we celebrate? Will I get a bonus for meeting your objective?

Liz says:

I am getting really lazy. Like really. Last night I had some friends over for dinner. I didn't even mop before they came over. I left the ironing board out. It's become an accessory in my home. I consider putting on pants exercise.

I am becoming a fat ball of ultra white skin, yet I have no desire to move. Am I depressed or just lazy?

It's a beautiful day and it's 11:30 in the morning. I'm not hung over and I have a very dirty car. There is opportunity here. The hedges out front really need a trim. Considering the fact that bushes seem to be monitored in my neighborhood, I should really get out there and do something about them. The inside of my house looks like a dirt ball exploded and left dust and stains all over my furniture and floor. This goes against my core being. I like things to be tidy, but I have gotten to the point where I'll let my kitchen floor get down right nasty before mopping. I kind of like to let it build up. The variety of stains and spills remind me of all the fun I've had that month in that kitchen. It looks like a Jackson Pollack painting and makes me think.

I am going to get off my ass, move into the kitchen, get one more cup of coffee, and then start my day. Probably with a nap.

Crushless

2007-05-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

Liz is surprised to reveal:

I am currently crush-free. This may be the first time since college I can remember not having some secret crush lurking out there. No one. Have my standards risen or have I simply given up?

When I was in college I had a night class. I've never been any good before 10 AM. The professor was quite the cutie. I would fix my hair before going to his classes. I would wear my best outfits. I would sit attentively and ask pertinent questions. I did everything shy of writing, "I Love You" on my eyelids to get him to glance at me one second too long.

I was doing some student work in his office building. I worked part-time in the Center of the Gifted. I was not gifted, I was one of the lackeys who supported the gifted. At the copier, I was daydreaming about his wife being killed by a herd of rabid goats. The copy machine was making that "swish, swish" hum and my thoughts were on him and me and how happily we could live together. I would be an excellent mother to his two young sons. I would be a stay at home mom and we would have 2 children of our own. At first his children would call me "Liz", but within a year they would have totally forgotten that they ever had a biological mother and I would take the name of "Mom". The 6 of us would be blissfully happy.

I heard a voice behind me. I was startled. My daydreams and the noise of the copier had me far away from campus. It was him. I whisked around and saw my crush before me with a handful of papers. My back was against the copier. It was vibrating slightly.

"Do you mind if I slide this in?" he asked, professionally. Without blinking, without thinking, I breathlessly answered, "God, I wish you would,"

Then I turned away, my mouth agape, my eyes rolling, my cheeks flushed, I removed my copies from the machine and allowed him to slide his stuff in.

I love moments like that. Moments where life catches you off guard. That's the fun of having a crush, especially when, unlike that example, the crush is open and reciprocated.

I have no crushes right now, hidden or open. There is no one at work, no one at the liquor store, no one working construction on the side of the road that I look forward to running into or almost running over and then saving with my CPR training. No celebrity yearnings where I dream of being whisked away to his villa in Italy and living off of his money and thriving on his incredible looks. Not even impure thoughts about Luke Wilson, who is totally crushable. I know it sounds very thirteen of me to complain about this, but so goes life.

Fellas, you'd better step it up. Get into my fantasies quick before I turn into a middle aged woman who only fantasizes about home improvement projects.

Screw The Whales!

2007-05-18T01:11:00.000-07:00

Killer says, “its okay to love God’s creatures, just don’t LOVE God’s creatures.”

Okay, I work a lot, so I don’t know if this is national news, or maybe just some local story. I only get to see the news when I am in a patient’s room, usually putting things up their ass, cleaning up their ass, or occasionally, blaming them for the smell coming from my ass. So you might have not heard about this, and if you have, you can’t imagine how much the local news is pushing this story.

Apparently a couple of stupid whales have managed to swim away from the comfort of the ocean, up many, many miles of rivers, and are currently being terrified by the media while enjoying a vacation in the Sacramento River.

If you take a quick glance at any U.S. map, you can see Sacramento is not near the ocean. It could be they started down the river for a quick peek, and the next thing they knew, they were lost. Fresh water fish are notorious for being dicks, and they probably would not tell the stupid whales which way to go. Now they are in Sacramento, hundreds of miles from the ocean, and the whole city of Sacramento is whale crazy.

It is not that I don’t like the whales. Hell, I rooted for Moby Dick to beat Ahab just like everyone else, but sometimes you got to let natural selection take it’s course. If a whale is too stupid to stay in the ocean, it should not be allowed to reproduce and create a super breed of really stupid giant creatures. In a few generations these whales could be clogging up every river and tributary throughout the country. Shoot, you might wake up sometime and find a big, stupid whale in your swimming pool. You don’t know how he got there and neither does he, but it really makes it hard to swim laps with a whale in there.

Ass loads of money are being spent by the government to try and “herd” these creatures back out to the ocean. Helicopters are constantly flying overhead to keep track of them, boats are surrounding them, and all these whales do are swim in confused circles, wondering why the water tastes funny.

Hundreds of locals crowd the shores watching the spectacle. So much people are around that the local police department is paying officers overtime to keep the gawkers contained, because there is fear that one or more might try to swim out to the whales. Again, natural selection needs to handle this. Stupid people should be killed by stupid whales. It’s poetic, and if Darwin hadn’t been a Godless pagan, he could look down on the whole thing and smile.

I am not a heartless bastard. I don’t want them to die. I just don’t want them to live much longer. Every time the news spends fifteen minutes on “Whale Watch 2007”, I just know there is a water skiing squirrel out there missing it’s fifteen minutes of fame.

Millinery

2007-05-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

Liz questions:

Could I pull off wearing a beret? Beret people include:

Certain branches of the military

Certain White House interns

Mimes

Gay French men

Since I have no affiliation with any of the above groups, I could start my own beret-wearing gang. Our chapeaus would distinguish us from the rest of society. We would "beret" people who chose not to adhere to our fashion sensibilities. If Prince came to town, we would be overly prepared for the concert. It could be quite fun to be the only person in 4 states who was wearing, nay, owned a beret. It might be like being that red-headed chick in high school who drove a hearse. You remember her. Her vehicular accessory made a statement. We also have a local real estate agent who wears a white cowboy hat and seems to always be photographed in an American Flag button down. You remember her too, even though you try to forget.

The only thing is that I hate those little points at the top of a beret. They are too out of control to satisfy the extreme need I have for order in my life. And berets look like they would be hot hats. It's about to hit 98+ degrees. Maybe summer isn't the season for adopting fashion trends involving wool. Maybe I could just invent my own style of hat. Someone had to come up with the bowler, fedora, bonnet, and dunce cap. Why can't I gather some coat hangers and scarves and whip something up? I have a hot glue gun.

I need a versatile hat that will work with bangs. I'm totally thinking "angled". And I want it to make noise when I walk. Does anyone know where I can buy fabric that makes noise? And, preferably, glows in the dark?

Sounds like I have a weekend project ahead of me.

Southern Style

2007-05-17T00:55:00.000-07:00

One of our longest supporters, Othurme, is contemplating an excursion away from the Left Coast and visiting the South. I am not sure if it is for research purposes or maybe he is just a thrill seeker, but either way, I support this journey.

Liz and I both were born and raised in the South, Mississippi to be exact. When people talk about the “Deep South” that is us. I don’t really fit the Southern mold, but I have caught catfish with a cane pole, I’ve been cow tipping, and I even had a crush on my cousin. So in the nature vs. nurture debate, I might be screwed.

Othurme is visiting Hilton Head, South Carolina. I’ve never been there, but I am sure it is nice. They are sure to have many stereotypical Southern activities for all the tourists to enjoy. I am going to give a list of all the things that are must do’s in the South. I will also include a list of what not to do as well. I’d hate for Othurme to go and get himself lynched while on vacation. Everyone is welcome to print this up, laminate it and put it in your car, just in case you ever take a wrong turn and cross the Mason Dixon line.

Things to DO in the South:

1. Go to a Waffle House.
Nobody cooks better artery clogging, fat inducing food like these guys. It’s a Southern institution that might very well have been a Yankee strategy to kill us off, similar to the CIA introducing crack in the inner cities.

2. Get you GED.
It doesn’t really matter if you already graduated from High School or actually have your PhD in Particle Physics; this is a Southern tradition that gives cause for many families to beam with pride when one of their own achieves this milestone. Go ahead, I bet you will feel some Southern pride when you open your mail box back home, two weeks later, and grab the document that allows Southerners to be eligible for Wal Mart employment.

3. Eat something pickled.
To really appreciate this you need to visit a small, “Mom and Pop” gas station in the back woods. It’s easy to spot what is pickled; there should be a collection of jars on a counter filled with a hazy pink fluid and some mysterious floating objects. It is one of those floating objects that you seek. Common objects pickled: (listed in order of popularity) Pickled Eggs, Pickled Sausage, Pickled Pigs Feet, Pickled Pork Rinds, and Pickled Pig Lips. I don’t know exactly what the pig did so long ago to deserve this pickling treatment, but I bet he regrets it.

4. Think you are better than someone else.
This is a true Southern past time. You can base this sense of superiority on race, sex, religion, money, NASCAR preferences, the list can go on forever. Just remember that since your laminated advice card was invented by me, I am better than you.

5. Kill a lower life form.
Other states may say they hunt, but not like the South. Men hunt, Women hunt, and little kids hunt. I had friends that would show up to school after having spent the previous four hours sitting in a cold, rainy field hoping to kill something. I went to nursing school with a female who, on the weekends, would go into the woods with her friends hunting rabbits, but with only a spot light and a golf club. That is a true Southern woman.

Things NOT to do in the South:

1. Bad Mouth George W. Bush.
I mentioned before, that I spent a short time working in Tupelo, MS. Nothing got me into more trouble than my dislike for Dubya. Sure the war may be going bad, the politicians are getting caught in scandals, and the First Amendment is being raped, but Dubya is a good Southern Christian, and that is all they need to know.

2. Laugh at a Mullet.
You thought the Mullet hair style died in the eighties? You believed only butch lesbians and Joe Dirt would wear their hair like that, well you were wrong. The lady ringing up your RC Cola and Moon Pie at the Piggly Wiggly will not know what you are laughing at, and if you call her a lesbian, she and her fifteen kids, that are probably loitering out front, will chase you down and give you a good Southern ass whoopin’.

3. Have sex with your cousin
Once you cross the Mason Dixon line and enter the South, one of the first things you will feel is a stirring in your loins when you think of an attractive relative. I don’t know why, but it’s true. It could be something in the air, the water, or maybe it is a strange gravitational anomaly that is attracting Southerners to their own relatives. No matter what the cause, fight this urge. When you get back home, it will be very awkward, especially, if said cousin later gives birth to a three eyed baby.

4. Exercise.
To a true Southerner this is such a rare occurrence it will make you stand out like a sore thumb. If you go jogging down the street, for example, you will most likely cause mass hysteria because everyone is going to assume something really bad is chasing you. Maybe you are being chased by a herd of stampeding cattle, or possibly a pack of crazed, homosexual liberals has migrated down from up North. They won’t know and are unwilling to stick around to find out.

As you can see there are many cultural differences between the Southern states and the rest of the country, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t visit. Just get all your immunizations, put on some overalls, and come on down. With this handy guide you should fit right in. I wouldn’t mention you are an outsider though. It is about to be tourist season, and in the South that means they can hunt tourists.

OCD is Not For Me

2007-05-16T00:31:00.000-07:00

Killer rants after first touching the light switch twelve times, and then shouting shit-balls.

I have known more than my fair share of people with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Maybe they are drawn to the health care professions. If you wash your hands here thirty times in twelve hours, you are the model employee, not just some nut job with really dry skin.

I was in school with a girl who would write down EVERYTHING the teacher said. Her notes were excellent, she had all the pertinent information, the semi pertinent information, and if the teacher made any jokes, or someone asked a question, that was included also. She would then come home and make lots of little note cards with that information. I never took notes in nursing school; I would always just go to her house the night before the test and read her note cards. If it were not for her super OCD powers, I would probably be a janitor in an elementary school somewhere.

She was certified OCD, she had medication that she often wouldn’t take, she made her husband vacuum their apartment in perfectly straight lines, and no one was allowed to enter her home with their shoes on. Whenever she balked on letting me use her note cards, I would drag my feet across her carpet and mess up the perfect vacuum lines. She would immediately have to re-vacuum the entire apartment. I would use that time to study.

This all came to mind recently when a co-worker went off the deep end one night and started cleaning everything mercilessly. She was located in one of the back corners. Often in the back corners they will store emergency equipment like carts filled with life-saving medicines, a defibrillator, EKG machines, etc. I looked down the hall and she had pushed all this equipment out the back door and onto the fire escape. She was wiping down the wall with bleach, as if she was about to perform surgery against that wall.

I eased down there and jokingly asked, “Did you forget to take your medicine this morning?” She froze and looked at me, “How did you know I didn’t take my medicine?” I really didn’t have a comeback. I specialize in funny comments, not truthful observations.

Later that night I found her in her patient’s room and she had scrubbed a layer of skin off, and was using a toothbrush to clean the toenails. I decided an intervention was in order. I entered the room, told her to quit trying to sterilize that little old lady.
She took a deep breath, put down the cleaning supplies and stepped outside to talk about it. She basically said she couldn’t seem to feel like anything was clean. As we were talking she actually rolled some tape around her hand and used it to clean the lint of my scrub top. I realized at that point she was hopeless, so I tried to think of way to get her to my place after work. It is a mess over there.

I don’t mind working around the OCD folk. I just wish I could run across a few more Tourettes syndrome people. Those are the ones that can’t control their urge to shout obscenities. That would be loads of fun. I actually have a hard time containing my own urge to fake Tourettes while in public places. I always have an intense desire, when in a packed elevator, to suddenly shout, “Shit, Assholes, Titty!” Everyone will move away from me, or at least as for as a packed elevator will allow. I will then calmly explain to everyone about Tourettes, they will feel sorry for me and then move back closer. When it gets nice and quiet, I will suddenly shout, “Scrotum, Damn, Elephant Vagina!” Everyone will probably get off on the next floor. Deep down they might want to be understanding, but that is a lot of bad words for a small location. Plus, I would probably have farted. That is another strong urge I fight in a crowded elevator.

Hate is Such a Strong Word

2007-05-15T03:04:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Killer and I hate you.

I have an irrational dislike for random people. I can meet someone and almost immediately, I dislike them. Not like an, “I don’t want to see you outside of the work setting”, but more of a, “when you speak to me I feel like someone is shitting into my ear.” I call it irrational because it is often based on bizarre and random reasoning. A strange laugh, a funny smell, and most often, if they are “too familiar” on the first meeting.

You know the people, they are too touchy or shorten your name from Michael to Mike, Mikey, or if you really want to piss me off: Big Mike. Yes, I am a large person, and my name is Michael, but is it really appropriate for a society to identify each other with aesthetic faults? “Hey, Wide Ass Sue.” Or “Yo, Hair Lip Ed.” The only time it would be acceptable to call me “Big Mike” is if there are at least two other Michaels within an arms length of me, and one better be a midget (Little Mike) and the other of average build (Medium Mike). ((Hey! A bonus rant within a rant.)

This irrational dislike can extend to people I have never met. I have loathed Rosie O’Donnell long before it was cool to loathe her. She made my skin crawl back when she was on VH1’s Stand Up Spotlight. I wanted to hit her with a baseball bat when she was in A League of Their Own. I came very close to cramming wooden sticks into my ears every time she laughed on The Flintstones. It’s not her, it’s me, and if she were to suddenly appear in front of me with a six pack of fine micro-brewed beer and offer to give me a foot rub while I drank it, I would still punch her in the tit out of some deep, uncontrollable reaction.

The celebrity dislike is not so bad. I will never meet Rosie, and if she found out I had such disdain for her, she would obviously either get over it, or train one of her twenty adopted kids to track me down and kill me. The dislikes that are more distressing are the people I see almost everyday. I currently work with a woman who is, by all traditional measures, a very nice person. She appears caring, helpful, and genuine. She also wears a LOT of eyeliner, it looks as if she is trying to paint her forehead, and it always matches her brightly colored outfits. Without a hint of exaggeration, she looks an awful lot like Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, but a skinnier version. I and a few other nurses actually refer to her as Mimi.

Mimi loves to dominate the conversation with clever stories of her past nursing experience, she often regales all around of the good things she has done for the average joe, and to make it worse she laughs at all her own anecdotes with a loud and boisterous laugh. The only thing I can compare the laugh to is: a donkey is having sex with a cat, and then they are both run over by an out of control truck carrying a delivery of chalk boards and nails. And, the cherry on top of this cupcake, she wears a wig. A blonde, bob cut wig.

I have great fear that I will lose it one day and pull the wig off and use it to wipe the paint off her face. I’m sure it will get me shunned from society. The news reports will be filled with all the people who can attest to her heart-of-gold and her impeccable reputation. I on the other hand will be portrayed as an angry, crazed lunatic who is jealous of her nursing skills and great fashion sense. Their case will only be made stronger when they search my house and find the dismembered homeless guys all dressed up to look like Rosie O Donnell.

Welcome Confused Gyno Patients

2007-05-14T01:28:00.000-07:00

Killer, taking advantage of young women’s fears.

Sitemeter is an amazing tool. Not only does it tell me how many people are coming by everyday, but it tells me how they got here. If you just type in killerific.blogspot.com, then it doesn’t tell me anything, but if you come from a link, or if you come from a google search, it will tell me what referred you to me. Google searches are my favorite.

It doesn’t just say, “Referred from Google.” It tells me exactly what words were put in to find Killer Rants. I can even see where we rank in that particular search, and what city/state/country they are searching from.. This is useful information because it shows what sort of people we are attracting and what kind of image we are portraying. Unfortunately, we seem to attract a bunch of weirdoes, and I think we appear to be a perverse forum, full of balls and gynecological information.

I would like to share with you, my favorite and most loyal group of weirdoes, the google searches that bring wackos and innocent, confused young girls here alike.

The following is a sampling of google hits from two days. We average about 30 google hits a day, and the hits are only the ones where we showed up in a search and then the searcher mistakenly clicked on our link, thinking it would offer some valuable insight.

We will begin with the bizarre:
-dilbert passionate guy curse fluorescent- someone in Plano, TX, was possibly looking for a fellow office light hating man. Oddly we were number two in the ranking, much higher than any of the actual Dilbert sites.

-comb over types don’t wear drawers- no location on this search, but I am worried about this person, because it seems like less of a search and more of an observation being offered to google.

-pantiehose with no toes for fatties- I don’t know what I hate more, discrimination against the obese, or poor spelling, but when I wear pantyhose the least of my concerns is the toe area. My main focus is the heat generated around my testicles.

-ralpf macchio- courtesy of a Karate Kid fan in Romania, I can honestly say I have no earthly clue how this lead to us, but I like to “wax on” AND “wax off” so I appreciate the connection.

-laid on her side enema- I don’t know what the hell is going on in Tacoma, WA, but is sounds like my kind of place.

We had a lot of repeat hits from two topics in particular, both courtesy of posts by Liz.

There were probably four hits each day containing the words, Pimp My Ride. I can not imagine the level of disappointment when they realized we have not one single picture of a car, pimped or not.

More impressively are the number of hits generated by one innocent post by Liz about her trepidation over a gynecologist visit.
-gyno exam shy girl shaved- from cape coral, Fl.
-real gyno med- from parts unknown. Goodness, are they using fake ones?
-teenager trip to gyno- a frightened and scared young girl (hopefully a girl and not some perv guy) from Elmhurst, NY. (we are ranked number one!)
-embarrassing gyno experiences- from Laredo, TX. I thought they were all embarrassing.
-gyno visit takes clothes off- more porn seeking, but this time in Bossier City, LA.
-shave on gyno table- unknown location, but we are not only the top ranked site, but we have the top TWO spots. WELCOME FUTURE DATELINE NBC ONLINE PREDATORS.

There was no shortage of the sexually oriented
-female moose knuckle- from a concerned citizen in Huntington Station, NY. We must thank Jester for giving us this nugget.
-hottie doctors in panty hose- somewhere, USA. Why is everyone suddenly into pantyhose?
-big lovin.com- all the way from Burdur, Turkey. I am probably to blame for this one.
-ass flowers- no location, but this one must have been particularly upsetting, since it links to a picture of my ass with crudely drawn flowers. Really, check the “best of” section.
-forced lesbianism- a female in Budd Lake, NJ., might be about to start a prison sentence.
-wonder jock- all the way from Singapore. Liz’s research into this item is a continued theme. We get a few hits a month for this topic. We should get some royalties.
-attractiveness of Filipinos- someone actually in the Philippines looked this up. You would think they could just walk outside and see the locals to answer this question.

I could obviously go on forever, but I don’t want to keep you guys from searching google with random words to see what pops up. As a matter of fact, I think I will work on that next. I am going to type in strange words and see what blogs come up. Maybe some of you guys are there. I know Othurme keeps bragging about being number one for “How to eat Coochie”.

The Buffet

2007-05-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

Liz's taste:

This local Japanese/Chinese restaurant has been getting great word of mouth so last night a friend and I went to check it out. I've heard that this place has great food and the word "cool" has been used by more than one to describe it. I was in a sparkly top with good hair. I looked at him disapprovingly when he showed up in khaki shorts.

I guess I was expecting P F Chang's. Instead I got the Chinese equivalent of Olive Garden.

There were families there with kids still in their baseball uniforms. There were more baseball caps on adult men and John Deer logos than I've seen since I went to the county fair in 1988. Khaki shorts were being "dressed up". To top everything, there was an obese clown wandering through the restaurant making the crappiest balloon animals I've ever seen. Her name was "Joyful the Clown". She couldn't stand for more than 3 minutes before she had to sit because of her enormous girth. All of her balloon animals looked like penises. My friend said he thought Joyful was a man. What kind of restaurant hires a hermaphrodite clown to block their isles and make pornographic balloon animals?

It was a buffet. OK. I have issues with buffets. I will go to a buffet and I'll even wear my buffet pants for these special events, but I want GOOD food- whether in large or small quantities it is the quality that matters. That's why I've never been to Ryan's or to Fire Mountain. They advertise the largest buffets in existence. That's not attractive to me.

There was sushi. I love sushi. I will give them props for having good sushi, as far a buffet sushi goes. Yet there is something disturbing to me about my tuna sashimi sitting on a buffet line. It's like Russian Roulette with food. Anytime I have to dip my soy sauce from a tub into a plastic cup, the restaurant loses some of it's elegance.

There were crab legs. I adore crab legs. This place put their crab legs in the smallest opening on the buffet. Therefore, whenever the crab legs would come out, it was as if they had thrown chum in the water and the sharks were gathering. I got elbowed by a 70 year old because she thought I had eased my way in line ahead of her. I had to dip my melted butter from a tub into a plastic cup. Maybe that's their gimmick.

It makes me wonder if I'm a snob. I don't think I'm a snob, I just think I chase my expectations. It's the same reason I've never been married. I don't want to be in a relationship that is anything less than better than being alone. Alone- it's not a dirty word to me. It is synonymous with happy, content and satisfied.

I ate too much. I drank too much sugary Coke. I had the kid behind kicking my chair through the entire meal.

All in all, it was a pretty typical Friday night for a native Mississippian.

No One Puts Killer in the Corner

2007-05-11T08:23:00.000-07:00

Killer lashes out at authority

My theme for this week seems to be everyone telling me what is wrong with me. It appreciate their concerns, but it's too late to fix me now. I'm definitely in a love me or leave state of mind.

Last night I had a deep discussion with a friend at work about the "inappropriateness" of some of my comments, especially around new people. I tried to tell her it is only for laughs, but she said if someone doesn't know me, they might think I am serious.

I'll let you decide.

We were admitting a new patient from the ER. The patient was a middle aged woman who was on a ventilator and heavily sedated. It was going to be the patient of my friend and her new graduate orientee. The new grad was nervous about working with a "comatose" patient. I told her comatose patients are the best because they always stay where you put them. I then added that I wish more people in my life could be comatose. The sentence that got me into trouble was this one, "I think a comatose patient makes the best girlfriend. She is always available for sex, and she will never ask me to take out the trash."

My friend sent the new grad out of the room on some pointless errand, so she could reprimand me. "You shouldn't say things like that around the new people." I replied, "Why not, she laughed." She looked at me sternly and retorted, "She laughed out of courtesy, she might think you are serious." "She's not retarded," said I, "She doesn't think I have a comatose girlfriend in my apartment that I am having crazy coma sex with." She continued the stern demeanor, "I just don't want her getting the wrong idea." I gave in, "Okay, I'll be 100% serious from now on." She appeared pleased with herself, and said, "Just around the new people. Once they get used to the sense of humor around here, then you can open back up."

The new grad returned. My friend asked her if she had inventoried the patient's belongings. The new grad said she didn't know how. She handed her a sheet of paper and said, "You take their belongings and write down every thing on here, if there are any valuables, either send them home with the family, or send them to security." In a serious tone, I added, "Unless there is any cash. We split the cash between the three of us." The new grad seemed stunned, "Really?" Seeing her gullibility, I continued, "Oh yeah, that is how I afford to keep my comatose girlfriend alive, and well lubricated."

My friend started saying something, but I was already walking out of the room. She ain't the boss of me.

Official Holiday Proclimation

2007-05-10T18:44:00.000-07:00

Liz celebrates:

I'm declaring it "It Sucks To Be You" week next week. I have decided that I have a really great life and that being happy is worth holding over other people's heads. In its origin, long before my time, the idea of out-joying others started out pure, but then it was stolen and distorted by the incredibly perky. They ruin everything.

My mind is racing, thinking of all the ways my joy can sap the life out of those around me. You'd be surprised at how difficult this planning is. I'm feeding on the principles of the dark side, but I have to make certain that I'm not doing anything evil. I'm trying to be both the Yen and the Yang simultaneously. A Yeng.

Thank God I'm up for the challenge.

I believe there are more creative ways for me to make you feel awful about your own life than to use phrases like, "Happy Monday!" and "I'm doing great, but it's getting better." Only people who aren't really happy use cliches like that. I haven't quite finalized my plan for making you feel worse about your life than you already do, but I can guarantee that I'm working on something and it's pretty damn clever.

This inspiration for being a happy vacuum came from a recent visit to the Chancery Clerk's Office. I'm trying to get a passport for a possible vacation to Italy this summer (you're already feeling your happiness level fade, aren't you?). Obtaining a passport is a major pain in the ass. But that's ok. If I'm going to Italy, I can do a little leg work pre-trip. But when I walked into the Chancery Clerk's Office, it was like an invisible force field of loathing enveloped the room. The people working there are bitter cunts. All the pleasure I felt about my ultimate purpose was sapped out of me the moment I pushed open the glass doors. The room is depressing and the people are lethargic. They all have the same wrinkle lines, too; those lines that come from years of scowling. I ascertained immediately that the gates to hell were behind the file cabinet, but the imposing "DO NOT ENTER- THIS MEANS YOU" sign prevented me from being able to verify my suspicions.

I figure if you can be such a despicable human being that you steal the joy of others for a living, I can shove in your face that it sucks to be you. I'm just doing you a favor. I want to take what happiness you have left in your crusty heart and take it. Your transition to a soulless asshole can finally be completed.

You're welcome.

You are all invited to celebrate "It Sucks To Be You" week in your own way. My way will involve smoking to the point where I'm convinced I've given myself cancer and inventing a new cocktail. This cocktail will reflect the personality of its creator. I want a concoction that glows like it's radioactive and combines both sweet and bitter. It should bubble and smoke like a witch's brew and be adored by some and despised by others. This drink is going to have its own opinion. Love me, drink me in and become intoxicated. Hate me and settle for your store-shelf mixer. You decide. No pressure.

Oh. And I'll be making county employees cry.

Throw Back To MEME Week

2007-05-10T00:12:00.000-07:00

Wreckless tagged me. I was seriously contemplating a response that just read, "Sorry, MEME week is over." But, Liz participated, and I can't let her out do me. Like her, however, I will leave off the tagging forward. I feel bad putting people on the spot.

Ten Years Ago...I was frantically trying to get accepted into a nursing school. I applied to maybe eight schools all over the country, including a community college in Queens, NY, and a small school in Oregon. I was just randomly picking them off the Internet. I figured if I applied to a lot of schools, one would probably take me and my mediocre GPA. All declined, except the uptight Southern Baptist College near my hometown. By bizarre coincidence, and sheer luck (that has always guided my life) a close friend of mine had a new room mate, and her mother was an advisor of the nursing school, and head of the admissions committee. I was accepted on academic probation. Everything works out for me.

One Year Ago...I was working at the Trauma center in Memphis, contemplating ditching my newly acquired grounded lifestyle and doing what I swore I would not do anymore, work as a travel nurse in California. It was not that I did not like Cali, but at some point you have to give up the money and start a life. Cali money is like Crack.

5 snacks I enjoy...This has recently changed. Four months ago I weighed a staggering 395 pounds. At that time my favorite snacks were: Beer, Nachos, Hot Wings, Snickers bars, and more Beer. Now my only snacks are: Apex Fit bars, Boneless Skinless Chicken, Brown Rice, Propel Fitness Water, and thinking about the beer I'm going to drink when I reach my goal.

5 songs I know all the lyrics to...
Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Alive by Pearl Jam,
One Week by The Barenaked Ladies (only because a good friend of mine, "E", used to perform an acoustic version at double speed),
Gin and Juice, originally by Snoop Dog, but I learned the words from the Blue Grass version by The Gourds,
and embarrassingly, Toxic, originally by Britney Spears, but I swear I learned the words listening to a cover by Nickel Creek.

5 things I would do if I was a millionaire...Grab my buddies and start a journey around the world. No plan, no tour group, just us, the money and a shared desire to see it all. We would spend years on an odyssey around the world, but when the money reached about 100,000, we would come back to America, buy a cheap RV, drive around the country until the last ounce of gas and money were gone. Then, we would abandon the RV where it stopped, hitchhike back home and start life again, but with one hell of a story. That is a good investment to me.

5 bad habits...
Impulse buyer: You think I'm kidding about my plan for a million bucks? We would be on our fifth month and somewhere in Bangladesh, before I took a moment to think, "Should I have invested this money?"
Making fun of the less fortunate: And in my mind, that is everyone besides me. I can't help it, I find EVERYTHING funny.
Overeating: I am working hard to correct this one.
Moving: In the last 7 years I have lived in 12 different cities, almost every time involved relocating over 2000 miles away. I always say I am going to stop, but it is like a disease.
Having sex with sheep: I always say, "This is the last one," but they always walk around looking so damn sexy. They are really asking for it.

5 favorite toys...
My Apple Computer
My Ipod
My Jeep
Actually that is pretty much all I own. I move around too much.

Feel free to steal this concept and post your own version. Post it on your blog though, not here. For the original MEME idea and for all the questions, click on Wreckless' link on top of the post.

Wreckless Responses

2007-05-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Liz gives her story, as requested (sort of):

10 years ago I was... relying on my virginity to get me into heaven.

1 year ago I was... blowing through my tax refund at a feverish pace.

5 snacks I enjoy... Is cake a snack? How about lasagna?

5 songs you know all the lyrics to...When Doves Cry, Imagine, Honky Tonk Women, Brown Eyed Girl, Pancho and Lefty

5 things I would do if I were a millionaire...a million isn't really that much, so I have to choose wisely. I'd take my friends on a blow out trip, give my folks some cash, give a meaningful donation to the animal rescue league and build a great house- complete with a couple of secret rooms and a roller coaster out back.

I think I've gone over a million. Coasters are expensive.

5 bad habits...Smoking. I do that about 25 times a day. That more than covers my 5. I will add my addiction to on-line games. This is sort of new, but wastes a lot of my time. Time I could be reading, cleaning, or smoking.

5 things I like doing... With cocktails: writing, listening, watching The Office, playing board games, guys named "Raul" and/or guys that will let me call them Raul.

*******************

I don't like pressuring people. This is why I'm not in sales. If you'd like to ponder the same questions, please do so and let me know that you've chimed in by leaving that info in the comments section.

Feel The Burn!!

2007-05-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Killer giving credit where credit is due.

I have shared several conversations involving RN1 from work. She is older, has lots of cats, and in my opinion, is a tad naive. I often tease her and make jokes at her expense. I and a few others take the effort to make her uncomfortable and expose her to new ideas.

Like a rat in a lab experiment, I feel she is learning and adapting to her environment.

Allow me to elaborate.

Rn1 and I are sitting in the break room relaxing.

Rn1: Oooo, you have to see the latest pictures of my cats.
Me: Unless you have pictures of one of you cats getting run over, I don't want to see them.
Rn1: Quit being mean, even you will love these.
Me: What's the last thing that goes through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Rn1: (digging through her purse) I'm ignoring you.
Me: What's the last thing that goes through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Rn1: (pulling out her pictures) I won't ask.
Me: (with my eyes closed tightly) I won't look at your pictures until you ask.
Rn1: Okay, what is the last thing to go through a cat's mind when he is hit by a car?
Me: My back left tire.
Rn1: I don't get it, and for once, I am glad about that. (she lays out about twenty photos of her cats. One cat is dressed like a groom and the other a bride. A cat wedding.)
Rn1: Isn't that the cutest thing you have ever seen?
Me: (jaw agape) Dear merciful God, what have you done?
Rn1: Don't act all macho, I know, deep down, you think it is adorable.
Me: Did these cats shit on your pillow? Is this some sort of severe cat punishment?
Rn1: They like it
Me: I can see, "please kill me" pouring out of their beady little eyes.
Rn1: My boys love playing dress up.
Me: Boys?!? Isn't that one in a dress a girl?
Rn1: No, I don't have any girl cats.
Me: So, you have decided to turn that fella into a trani?
Rn1: He is always the girl, because he is the prettiest.
Me: I think in a past life these cats were really evil and your house is like a feline hell.
Rn1: (scooping up her pictures) You always make fun of me. Can't you have fun without it being at my expense?
Me: Someone always has to pay for fun. It is a scientific fact that all fun costs at least four dollars.
Rn1: (placing the pictures back in her purse, she suddenly pulls out a five dollar bill) Here take this and go have fun in a corner by yourself.
Me: (stunned) OH-MY-GOD! You just burned me good. That was a pro-level burn."
Rn1: (smiling with a very proud look) I know, I saw the five dollars, and it just came to me. You're right, that was fun.
Rn1: Can I have my five dollars back?
Me: No way, someone has to pay for that fun, and it won't be me.
Rn1: It was totally worth it.

Everyone Knows Me Better Than Me

2007-05-07T07:35:00.000-07:00

Killer predictably posts

Everyone has moments when someone else offers a keen insight into your personality. Sometimes it might be a compliment about how nice you are, or a criticism about the way you laugh when old people fall down, and sometimes it can be a supposed compliment used to sneak in a criticism, such as, "You would be quite handsome, if you lost twenty pounds."

Occasionally complete strangers will offer suggestions. Those always seem more honest to me because they should have no reason to protect my feelings. Unless they are criticising me, then I just think the world is full of dicks.

A few days ago, I was apparently sending off a "suggestion box" vibe, because everyone was sharing their opinions of me, ALL DAY LONG.

A strange lady at the gym stopped me and said, "I've been watching you for the last few months, and you are doing great." I've never had a stalker, at least not one this badly obvious, so I did not know how to respond. So, I just said, "Thank you," and put my headphones back on.
- I felt happy she was supporting me, but scared that she was watching me. I always worry my ass crack is hanging out when I am lifting weights.

Driving from the gym to the hospital I was approaching a yellow light. I probably could have squeaked through, but I was thankful for the chance to stop so I could unwrap my power bar without having to steer with my knees. I had been doing leg exercises at the gym, and my thighs were really sore. The guy behind me raced past me in the turn lane and yelled, "Learn to drive, asshole!" He yelled this while pointing at me and running the red light. I made a conscious decision a few years back to not give into road rage anymore, so I just waved and yelled, "Okay, thanks."
- I would like to think he was trying to be supportive of my continuing education, but I think he should have said it a little nicer. He called me an asshole, but I feel sometimes I am, so maybe he knows me.

I arrived at work and there was a patient who was screaming obscenities and spitting on everyone. I was happy that I had been there the night before and worked in the back. Usually we get the same assignment back, and both mine were nice and comatose, just like I like 'em. The charge nurse came over and said, "I moved you up front so you could take this crazy guy. You are always so calm and easy going, I figured you wouldn't mind. Nobody else wants him." I just sighed and said, "From now on, if you are going to screw me, you gotta promise to give me a reach around." She looked confused, so I just walked away.
- A compliment that sugar coated a royal screwing is not really a compliment. So, being a nice guy has bitten me in the ass again. I need that asshole to come out that apparently makes me a bad driver.

As I was leaving the hospital in the morning there was a group of young Girl scouts out front with their troop leader. I was strolling by when the troop leader said, "You look like the kind of guy who could eat a bunch of Girl scout cookies." The group of girls all giggled with delight. My mind was instantly filled with some witty comebacks, mostly centered around pedophilia and cookies, but decided they would be inappropriate for the present audience. So, I just remained calm and responded, "No thanks, they would go straight to my hips," as I walked on to my Jeep.
- One of those "innocent" comments, by a Girl scout leader to boot. This one I found most offensive of them all. She might as well have yelled, "Hey fatty, you know you want these cookies."

I arrived home and locked myself in my room. I could not take anymore unsolicited insight into my fragile psyche.

By the way, the age-inappropriate comment I wanted to fire back at the Troop leader, "I don't really care for any Thin Mints, but I got my eye on that thin redhead to your left." I held back to not scar the kiddies, plus it would have only lead to even more assumptions about my character.

Secrets

2007-05-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

Liz has a secret.

I have a friend who hosts a competition yearly for the media event that best illustrates the decline of western civilization. Last year, he received nominations such as "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas, the OJ book, "How I Would Have Done It", and of course, Anna Nicole's baby-daddy drama. He has about 15 people who email him suggestions throughout the year.

I'm thinking about nominating Killer Rants and the No Jive Zone.

The problem is that I don't really want him to know about these blogs. He's not lame or anything, I just sort of like that he doesn't know this much about me. He knows that I'm sarcastic, he is fully aware of my biting retorts to stupidity, he knows that I have a crush on Jim, from The Office even though he relies to heavily on that stupid smirk-to-the-camera acting trick. He suspects that if left alone with Luke Wilson for an hour, I would do bad and dirty things. He knows that the ONLY reason I do yard work twice a year is because I reward myself with a 12 pack. So, why then am I hiding from him... and from others who know me?

I have decided that it must be because I conceal my blogs from two groups: co-workers and the extremely decent. This comment isn't meant to knock YOU, after all, I'm one of you. I too like to wallow in thoughts of testicles and binge drinking. But I don't think everyone can handle it.

Although it would seem obvious that to know me is to be on a first-named basis with profanity and dirty jokes, the lady that lives inside me, the one my grandmother spent hours trying to groom and pull to the surface, just won't allow me to be free range raunchy in front of people like Gary. I find this painfully confusing. He is funny and quick-witted, but when HE says something "PG-13", he says it in a soft voice and looks around to make sure no one else heard. I on, the other hand, tend to accidentally say rated R things quite loudly, then look around to see how many people have left the room.

Some people make others laugh, or feel good about themselves, or think. I make people blush. It's my "thing".

I was at an after-work going away party, drinking. Everyone has to comment on this- even if they are drinking too. Like the big boss. He is not a drinker and felt compelled to say, "This bar tab is going to be outrageous. Liz is here!" My response? "You bet your ass. You're buying!" He doesn't use profanity either, so double whammy on me. This single guy was there; I do not care for him too much. He is a wad. A real jerk. Somehow, he and I started talking about another single guy we both know. This guy, let's call him X, never really goes out or seems to date or even be interested in dating. Jerk said to me, "I asked X about you and about the possibility of you two going out." I was intrigued. "Yeah, he says you're cool and everything, but way too 'Reowww'," and he did the cat-scratch move.

What? Me? 'Reowwww'? I don't even know what that means, but I'm offended. Granted, I am offended that I just saw a 40-year-old man use the cat-scratch move in public more than I am offended at the intent directed at me, but still. Offended.

It irks me. I don't even try to hide that I find almost everything funny. I don't conceal that I can make anything dirty. I wouldn't dream of covering up my passion for a well used curse word. I guess what irks me is that I now have a new category of people I have to hide the blog from. Co-workers, the extremely decent, and men who use "Reowwww".

Camel Load

2007-05-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

Liz ask, "Are you wearing those for me?"

On Friday we can wear blue jeans. This is good. Today a former flirt was in my office. He is not usually around. I was hunched over some files when I spotted the boots, "Hummm, Liz has a cowboy waiting," I thought. Then my eyes went up to the calves, " Damn, that denim is stretched tight around those muscles, " I salivated. The journey continued to the thighs, "God, look how those legs are packed in so perfectly!" Then, to the wad.

OH MY GOD.

It wasn't anything like THIS except for the crotch. And since he had on blue jeans, the imprint wasn't quite as defined, but you get the idea. His was more of a ball splitter than a clearly defined penis.

I'm calling it Camel Load, because I don't know if there is already a term for it.

I had to leave work early.

Who Says Alzheimer's Isn't Funny?

2007-05-04T08:21:00.000-07:00

Killer, abusing the mental status of the elderly for personal enjoyment.

Last night I admitted an 84 year old man with Alzheimer's. He had the typical Alzheimer's reaction to a new environment, confusion and agitation. This is always an adventure, he would either be very difficult to contain, or a barrel of laughs. Luckily he had no legs, so at least he wasn't getting out of bed.

The conversation started on a violent tip.

Old Man: "I killed a lot of you Krauts in 'Dubya Dubya 2'."
Me: "I'm no Nazi, I am an American!"
Old Man: "Prove it."
Me: "How do I prove it?"
Old Man: "Who won the World Series?"
-oof, tough one. I hate baseball, so I had no idea who won, so I decided to hedge my bets.
Me: "The Yankees."
Old Man: With a Smile, "Good, you're a Joe. Help me get out of here."
Me: "You're in the hospital, I am here to help you get better, not escape."
Old Man: Smile Fading, "Look buddy, I got twenty bucks in my pants, and I'll give you half if you get me out of here."
Me: "Ten bucks is a lot of dough, but I want to make sure you would live long enough to spend your half."
Old Man: "Don't worry about me, I made it through 'Dubya Dubya 2' and Korea. Nothings going to stop me."
-now the phlebotomist walked to draw some labs, she was filipino.
Old Man: "Look there, a Korean."
Me: "No, she's Filipino, they were on our side in Dubya Dubya 2."
Old Man: "You sure she ain't Korean?"
Me: "I'm pretty sure, but you could test her."
Old Man: "Who won the World Series?"
Me: "She's not American, she's Filipino."
Old Man: "What is the largest city in the Philippines?"
Filipino Phlebotomist: "St. Louis won the World Series, and Manilla is the largest city in the Philippines."
Old Man: "Good job. If you was Korean, I could have killed you with a drinking straw."
-the filipino nurse took a step back.
Me: "Don't worry, he doesn't even have a drinking straw."

About an hour later he was still questioning everyone who came into the room. I don't think he ever got the same answer twice on who won the World Series, and he never killed anyone, but he was convinced that I was going to bust him out for ten bucks. I convinced him to go to sleep, by promising we would make a run for it in the morning.

As I was about to leave in the morning, he saw me and yelled, "Hey Joe, don't forget our deal."
I stuck my head in his room and said, "You sit tight, I'm gonna pull the car around. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, they caught me, and you better start making new plans."

I started to walk out he added in a loud whisper, "Joe, if you get caught don't you go ratting me out." I gave him a serious look, "Never man, Never. I'm like a steel trap."

I have to go back to work tonight and I bet he is going to be pissed. Either I ditched him, or I got caught and squealed. My only hope is that the Alzheimer's kicked in and he forgot the whole plot. If that is the case, I think tonight I will be a German. I would like to see how that scenario plays out.

If I Were A TapeWorm

2007-05-03T05:41:00.000-07:00

Killer, Not afraid to ask the tough questions.

jleonard is a fellow Nurse-with-a-Scrotum that I worked with in Memphis. Scrotum having is a trait only shared by 4% of all nurses, so you tend to stick together. (not literally by the scrotum, but figuratively) He was large to boot, so we had even more in common. (general size, not his scrotum, I never actually saw his scrotum, so keep you mind out of the gutter people.) jleonard jumped on the Five Question band wagon, so check out his answers to my questions by hitting the above link.

I was really proud of one of the questions, so I have decided to ask it of myself, and then get some feedback from you folks about your opinions.

If you could be a tapeworm in the intestine of a celebrity, which celebrity would you choose and why?

Well, brilliant question. Brilliant question indeed. This could be tricky to answer without the proper consideration. It is obvious you would want to avoid any of the pseudo celebrities of Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. I don't think they eat enough to support a young growing tape worm, and the high alcohol intake would wreak havoc on my tape worm liver.

Jleonard chose Rosie Odonnell for her obvious ability to supply a hearty food supply, but I would be concerned with her propensity for public controversy. She must have a high stress level. This could lead to an abundance of stomach acid, and that could be dangerous to myself and my millions of tiny eggs I have just laid near her gall bladder.

I am leaning more towards a laid back, sedentary celebrity like John Goodman. I could probably have a long and luxurious life not only for myself, but for all my potential offspring. It would probably be years before he noticed.

I am going to stick with John Goodman, but I could also accept Jessica Alba. She probably doesn't really eat enough for me and the kids, but she is so hot, I bet the inside of her large intestine is good looking.

Who would you like to spend your tape worm existence inside of?

The Sap Confession

2007-05-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

Liz shows her sensitive side.

I have no desire to have people suspect I am a dyke, a honky tonk whore, or a women's lib fanatic. Equally disturbing would be the perception of being a wide-eyed innocent who pouted if her parents didn't have a gift under the tree marked "from Santa" or a chick who freaked out if someone rearranged her doll collection. It's tough to be me.

If you're me, you have to balance the fact that you refuse to watch any movie that takes place in Victorian times with an awareness of what hairstyle looks best with what shirt. I know when I have found THE PERFECT earrings for an outfit, yet I am compelled to shrugg it off as totally coincidental if someone remarks on the beautiful pairing. I wouldn't want people to know that I sat around planning what earrings to wear. I would be disgraced.

That's why it's hit me pretty hard to realize that I do have a sappy bone somewhere in my body. I think it's located between my knee cap and third toe, but I can't be certain. It's been hurting all week. I think it's flared up because I have discovered The Wonder Years in reruns on Ion.

The Wonder Years was my favorite show when it came on Prime Time. I think I cried after every episode. But that was when I was a teenager and didn't have the firm grasp on my emotions that I have now. I find that I am with conflict with myself. I love the sarcasm of The Colbert Report, I prefer action movies or comedies to dramas, I'd take a beer over a glass of wine any day, and my dream date is going mud riding then heading to an outdoor AC/DC concert at an amusement park, followed by a poker game and a few keg stands. How can THIS woman be moved by the B+ sentimentality of The Wonder Years?

There is something about that voice over at the end of each episode that gets to me. Remember when Doogie Howser would type the closing of each episode on his computer? Same thing. I'd get all emotional.

Tonight's Wonder Years will be the one where Kevin and his math teacher have "a moment". Not a dirty, man-boy love moment, but a touching connection followed by loss. I remember this episode and it starts in 10 minutes. I used to be a teacher. I used to be a kid. I wonder if I'll make it though tonight without tearing up.

I doubt it. But if I do, I'll shrug it off as coincidental. The only thing worse than being a cold frigid bitch is being a person that cries over a 30 minute sit-com.

Meow Mix

2007-05-02T08:54:00.000-07:00

Liz puts a price on love:

Loyal readers know that I have two cats, and only two cats, even though Killer likes to exaggerate this fact and say that I have anywhere from 8 to 15 cats. I'm not a crazy cat lady but I do enjoy the attitude and companionship of cats- versus say, dogs or boyfriends. This is continued proof of my superior intelligence.

My cats, as most I would suspect, have unique personalities and quirks. Leon, the cat I love the most, meshes well with my style. He's independent, he likes to hang outside, and he never uses a litter box- it's always the neighbor's flowerbed. Strangely enough most of friends are the same way. I guess that's why I love him so.

Sneaker, on the other hand, was a cat I acquired by sheer force on his part. He showed up one day and the next thing you know he was living with me. He's a beautiful cat, but he's weird. He is quick to bite, he sheds a lot, he stays inside and even when I force him to stay out all day, the second he walks in the door he goes straight to the litter box and leaves a giant stinky shit. But I still like him, I just don't connect to him like I do to Leon.

Sneaker has developed an awful tic. He has started pulling all of his fur out. There are fur balls all over my house. My carpet is layered with cat hair and my Roomba is starting to revolt. It's gotten so bad that he's bald in places and has begun chewing down to his skin, where it will bleed and scab. I've taken him to the vet 3 times over this one issue. We are currently trying a liquid Prozac, which is costing me $55 a month. When I do the math, I realize that this skin condition has thus far cost me around $275. So, my delima becomes WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH?

Some work friends and I were discussing this very issue not long ago. We were debating at what price you put your pet down. D, who has Joe, a 10 year old mut, says $250. I could never go that low, but I understand D's delima. Joe is basically a junk yard dog that D throws food out the back door for. It wasn't until I convinced D that not having Joe fixed was going to ensure that he went to Hell that D even spent any real money on the dog. To let your animal roam around without being fixed is a sin. It says so in the Bible. It's next to the passage about boyfriends being obligated to give back rubs.

S, who has two dogs, Lily and Harry Jiggins, both under two years old, has set his price at $500. Since Harry Jiggins has "papers", S is willing to spend what he thinks the market value of the dog is. Lily just lucked out.

I said that for Leon, at 5 years old and being the light of my life, I would go as high as $1500. That sucks, too, because I sure could use $1500 for some other things in my world. But I love that damn cat. I love him so much that I LURVE him... it's a little crazy, but pet owners understand. Sneaker, on the other hand, I like more than "like" but there isn't really LURVE involved. And I adore kittens. I can't help but be tempted to think that if I could raise another kitten from 6 weeks, like I did Leon, he would be much cooler than Sneaker is. It's nurture, not nature.

I refuse to have more than 2 cats at a time. I refuse to pay for a well-bred cat. I like to think I can save the world one free kitten at a time. I'm a very responsible pet owner and if you ever have the chance to pick what to be reincarnated as, you'd be foolish not to select "One of Liz's Cats" as your top request. I let my cats live life on their terms.

But if you came back as Sneaker, you would be wise to note that I am considering snuffing you out. He's becoming a flabby bag of bones, balding and scabby. We don't know how old he is, but I'm guessing 8 or 9. I just don't know what to do.

Any ideas? Nothing cruel, remember, he's one of my babies. No suggestions of feeding him to the dogs or shaving him and getting it over with. What would YOU do if this were your problem?

Two Ply, Double Quilted, With Aloe!

2007-05-02T07:40:00.000-07:00

Killer ranting about what he loves.

An intense debate broke out at work last night. It began when one person said, "It's the greatest thing since sliced bread." I don't even know what the comment was made about, but that statement seems to sell short so many good discoveries. I encouraged my coworkers to share what they thought the greatest invention has been.

There were the typical, electricity, computers, the wonder bra, etc. One person even suggested American Idol. I had to be physically restrained and then sedated. When I finally came to I told that son of a bitch he should thank the heavens someone invented Haldol, because that drug just saved his life.

Once all the excitement died down, and I could stand up straight, I got on my soap box and informed the staff what I believe the greatest invention in human history was: Toilet Paper.

In cave man days they would have had to use sticks or rocks to wipe themselves. That is probably the origin of the phrase, "Pull that stick out of your ass." It must have been very frustrating to live in an age where the most advanced tool you could have was a rock, and it was increasingly difficult to find one not covered in poop.

Jump ahead a few million years and they had only advanced as far as using an old corn cob. Ouch! It would have been a thorough cleaning, but man, talk about murder on the hemorrhoids. I think I would prefer to walk around with a stinky ass.

In Asian countries the toilets have a spray hose attached at the side. That might seem luxurious, but to the uninitiated it can be a hazardous venture. I had several weeks of either shooting cold water up the back of my shirt, or giving myself a two gallon enema, and then you have to walk around with a cold, wet crotch. Actually it was so hot over there, that part was kind of nice.

It is my firm belief that toilet paper must have been a gift from heaven. I'm a simple man, all I want is cold beer and supple, delicate paper to clean my tuckus. For a product so simplistic and perfect it would seem impossible to improve upon it, but they have never ceased to make wiping one's ass a greater experience. Softer, two ply, quilted, a touch of aloe, it seems to know no bounds. I am dreaming of the day when a special robot comes with each roll to actually do the dirty work.

Penicillin was the greatest invention? Please! Try wiping your ass with Penicillin. Yeah, I thought so.

What do you think is man's greatest accomplishment?

Smack Me With a Riding Crop, I'm in Love

2007-05-01T08:09:00.000-07:00

Killer fighting off the ladies, just long enough to blog.

I am not a pretty man. If I say this in person, people usually say, "Oh no, you are quite handsome." These are the same people who say things like, "I don't really think of you as fat." Or the ever frustrating, "If I was single, I would want a guy just like you." I have always distrusted these people. They would probably say my assless chaps did not make my butt look big. I've had 34 years to come to terms with myself, and I'm quite comfortable with looking like an angry biker.

Don't cry for me Argentina. Like a blind man compensating for his shortcomings, I have overcome. It was obvious early on that I need to build up my personality to pick up the slack. An over abundance of jolly and a self deprecating sense of humor can take a less-than-handsome fellow and level the playing field. A few well placed roofies can even tip it in your favor.

The key is patience. You can't rely on love at first sight. You have to slip in behind the defensive perimeter and before she knows it, she is on a second date with an ugly guy, and when she tries to break it off, the ability to cry on demand will buy a few more dates to work your magic.

The big problem is that I become highly skeptical when a stranger hits on me out of the blue. It doesn't happen very often, and when it has, it was typically married women, gay men, or little old ladies with broken hips. I love all these groups equally for their efforts. After an encounter I will be riding high for weeks. I often yearn to go to gay bars or bingo parlors to replicate that high.

I would like to share with you a few of my favorite such encounters.

- When I was a brand new nurse I had an 89 year old lady, whom had fallen down and broken her hip, which they appear very prone to do. I was a new nurse, so I would often sit in her room for hours talking to her. She wrote me a long, steamy note one night that stated, "If I was fifty years younger, I would jump your bones." All I thought about was, if she was fifty years younger she would still be almost 15 years older than me.

- I was living in the Castro district of San Francisco, and I was walking home one night, when a small, pudgy man was suddenly standing next to me at a cross walk. The first thing that caught my attention was that he had a riding crop in his hands and he was staring intently at me. All of a sudden he said, "I just have to hug you." Before I could say anything, or make a run for it, he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. When he finally broke away he said, "You're just a big ol' bear. I want to take you home and whip you, bear." Then he started smacking me with the riding crop. The light changed so I started walking, for lack of a better reaction. I mean, you can't go to China and expect someone to stop being Chinese, and you can't go to the Castro district in San Francisco and expect someone to stop being gay. He walked right along with me, smacking me with the riding crop. Finally I turned down my street, and he kept going straight, but first paused to yell, "See ya later bear." I felt flattered, but dirty.

- I was in a bar in San Diego with some friends, when suddenly this girl walks up and puts her arms around me. She looks up at me and says, "I've been watching you all night, and I think I am in love." My buddies were behind her and giving me the thumbs up sign and high fiving each other. But, then she said, "If I wasn't married, I'd be all yours." At this statement there was a sudden divide in my group of friends behind her. The guys were still high fiving, but the gals were pissed. Especially one who kept giving me the stink eye and signalling for me to get rid of her, but the girl would not let go. I tried all the passive methods, I put my arms straight up so she would realize I was not involved, I twisted around trying to shake her tenacious grip, but finally I had to just physically unwrap her drunken arms and push her away. She just sort of looked dejected and wobbled away, probably to go hug the next burly guy she saw. I was thoroughly reprimanded for "leading on" a married woman, but I can't help it if she digs bears.

As you can see, it is tough being me. Maybe I should just roll with what is offered. Married ladies are probably a lot less work than the singles. All the benefits with none of the maintenance. Eventually I will be old enough to appreciate the old, broken hip ladies. Once they get those artificial hips they should be able to really get crazy in the sack. Maybe I could just switch teams and give in to the gay side. Whichever comes first.

Five MORE Questions

2007-04-29T18:03:00.000-07:00

Killer answering the tough questions

Fringes added a new twist to the rampant interview Meme infecting Blogistan, she paired up complete strangers that read her blog. The person chosen to interview me is Sebastien from Chronically Sick But Still Thinking.

1. As a nurse, do you ever feel weird when you introduce yourself to your patients and they find out your name is Killer?
Well, the one part of my life where Killer is not used, is the hospital. It would probably not go over very well if I walked in and said, "I'm your nurse, my name is Killer, I need to put this up your ass." Luckily, my patients tend to be comatose or heavily sedated, so I don't tell them my name at all. I just shove things up their ass with no foreplay, not even a reach around.

2. Paris Hilton. What does she mean to you? How does she effect your life? Do you love her?
Ms. Hilton disturbs me. She, and her ilk, are an unmentioned sign of the downfall of society. I do not find her attractive in any way. I am hoping she takes up flying, so she can have a proper celebrity ending.

3. What's a more terrible way to die, getting eaten by a shark, or getting eaten by a crocodile? Please explain your choice.
Death by shark would be much more majestic in my opinion. I SCUBA dive, so this is probably how I will go. Crocodiles seem clumsy and stupid to me, and it would be almost offensive to get taken by a Croc. Now that I have said that, I am going to get attacked by a Salt Water Croc while diving in the ocean.

4. You are in a car chase, the police are after you. Here are your questions: what kind of car would you be driving, what kind of weapons would you have in the backseat and trunk, and who would be your co-pilot (and partner in crime)? Oh, and as the chase is taking place, would you still be thoughtful enough to use your turn signals?
I see myself in a post drinking, illegal drive home when the police start their pursuit. My partner in crime would have to be Liz, so we would be in her tiny Toyota. Neither I nor Liz have any serious weapons, so the backseat will be filled with porn or more booze (maybe both). If I was driving, yes, I would be using turn signals, because I do it instinctively. If Liz is driving she would probably not, she is smarter, and hence a better criminal, than me.

5. In a previous blog post, I see that you wrote that you loved living in Missoula. If my memory proves correct, Isn't there a bear that greets visitors at the Missoula airport? Do you find the fact that a bear greets you at the Missoula airport amazingly awesome, or frighteningly dreadful?
Yes, there is a large bear that greets you at the Missoula "International" airport. It is poised in attack mode as well. There are also many, many other dead, taxidermied animals that fill the Missoula airport. I always refer to it as the "airport of death". I really think they should stuff and mount all deceased pilots there to keep with the theme.

Thanks to Sebastien for the questions. I recommend checking out his blog. There is lots of great art work and he was nice enough to ask me some questions.

Musical Mist

2007-04-28T07:08:00.000-07:00

Liz loves to dream.

Last night I had one of those great dreams: quirky and non-threatening, funny and slightly nonsensical. In this dream I had been made Ambassador of Culture for the United States. What a perfect job for me! Of course, I don't think this position actually exists, but when Jester, who is running in '08, or Killer, who has also considered throwing his balls into the ring, get elected, I'm sure this job will be created and I know I'm first choice- what with me inventing it and all.

As AoC, my job included such events as waving the flag at motorcycle races and creating a "Made in China" room for the White House. This was a very easy task, as under every piece of furniture in the room there was already a Made In China sticker. I also got to attend a lot of plays and theater shows. Imagine my surprise when I was at a huge production in New York and the closing musical number was a song by "Mist 1"- which is exactly how she was introduced. Mist began singing her own number as the background dancers gyrated excitedly. She wore dark sunglasses and, surprisingly, a drab gray sweater with black slacks. The number was GREAT! The lyrics were clever, the energy was high, and some of the men were wearing wings attached to their leotards. How can you go wrong with men in tights and wings?

I never knew Mist was a redhead.

I think this is the first dream I've had about a blogger. It's odd to start pulling strangers into your dreams. Maybe the Miller High Life has a wonderful side effect I was unaware of. Look out BD and Orthurme! Dmarks and Heather! Churlita and Mel! You guys are well on your way to being part of my next blogger dream- the one where Killer holds you all at gun point and forces you to write poetry about his balls.

Working For the Weekend

2007-04-27T17:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes having a reputation pays off.

Welcome to Liz's refrigerator. In Liz's refrigerator you will find many beers, both domestic and imported. The wine coolers are mine too, but I probably won't ever drink them. They're for girl guests.

I had the Red Stripe, the Coors, the Wexford and the Blue Moon. The rest were a gift. A nice surprise on a Friday afternoon.

Unfortunately, Miller High Life is not my beer of choice. I calculate this is over 2 cases of the stuff. I have a series of plans I am considering. Plan 1 is that I will drink the beers I like first and then, when my taste stops working, head for the High Life. Plan 2 involves recruiting some drinkers, but only allowing them to drink the Buds or the High Lifes. Related is Plan 3. This scheme is to have a blow out and rid the fridge of all offending items. Finally, and most likely, I could simply acquire a taste for High Life.

Jester asked how drunk I might be on a weekend night? I think a picture speaks louder than words.

Cheers to all!

Keeping the MEME Theme Alive

2007-04-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

Killer blogging the lazy way,

For those lurkers out there who aren't down with all the hip blog lingo, MEME is like a blogging chain letter. One person blogs about a subject and then asks others to do the same.

I don't normally like to participate in MEME's, but I have been exceptionally mentally constipated this week with my writing skills. So, when Wreckless talked about his favorite places to eat in Grand Rapids, and then openly invited others to do the same, I jumped on the availability of a blogging topic.

The trouble is, I move around the country a LOT. So my list of favorite restaurants is going to be very spread out. VERY spread out.

Mackenzie River Pizza, Missoula, MT.
Organic pizza joint with a gourmet menu, an awesome local beer selection, and the world's greatest Caribbean Jerk wings. After I travelled away from Missoula, every time I came back to visit Chad, he knew exactly where I wanted to eat first. I'm not gonna say I would kill for these wings, but I have punched Chad in his junk for trying to snatch the last one.

The Stinking Rose, San Francisco, CA
One word, Garlic. This homage to the magical taste sensation uses it in EVERYTHING. And they use it a lot. I never knew how much I loved garlic until stumbling upon this Little Italy staple in San Fran. They even have garlic ice cream for desert. When people tell me they are going to San Francisco, I tell them two things: Carry a jacket, even in the summer, and eat at the Stinking Rose. Plus, it is surrounded by all the infamous porn shops, and peep shows, and that is the real San Francisco treat.

The Red Piano, Siem Reap, Cambodia
I don't know if it was the low expectations for this tiny town in Northern Cambodia, or if we were just tired of eating rice and mystery meat, but the food here was amazing. It was a strange mixture of Italian, Chinese, and Cajun. I had black pepper shrimp with pasta that was as good as any I've had state side. It was a ritzy place, so that meant a staggering eight dollars for dinner. I love South East Asia.

Kiefers, Jackson, MS
I grew up in Jackson and Kiefers was the only Greek place in town, so I assumed all gyros were this good. Once I ventured out and had other Greek food, I learned that Jackson is blessed with the best damn gyro place in the country. Considering all the downsides to Jackson, Kiefers is a shining beacon of goodness that makes me think, "maybe it ain't so bad."

The Nodding Head Brewpub, Philadelphia, PA
This kick ass brewery is hard to find, unless you know exactly where to look, but once you find it, look out, it is addictive. Awesome hand crafted beers, and they should write a book on perfect pub grub. They have an impressive collection of bobble head dolls, hence the name, and the perfect dank atmosphere that every pub needs. Me and my roommate spent so much time here drinking beer and playing Golden Tee Golf, that they should have charged us rent.

Feel free to swipe this topic for your own lazy blogging glory.

The Newlywed Blogwed Game

2007-04-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

Jester has come up with a brilliant idea. He gave me and Liz the same questions to answer, without discussing with the other, and posted them. Liz and I have known each other for a long time, so it should have been pretty easy for us.

Check out the results at one of our favorite blogging buddy's place.

Jestertunes

The Reason for the Rant

2007-04-24T17:09:00.000-07:00

The first time Killer made a demand of me, I had to agree to drop off an unmarked suitcase filled with KY Jelly and Speedos at his door.

Another demand has been made.

Why I Rant
A Report By Liz

At first, I thought I was too old to blog. I thought it was only for college aged kids and junior high girls. We had slam books, they have blogs. The generation gap widens.

Killer had to tell me what a blog was. I immediately fell in love with the word. BLOG. I still like how thick it feels on my tongue. I visited Killer Rants (this is the original template, by the way) and loved Killer's writing and his mom's comments. Back then, it was pretty much just Killer's mom, his brother in law, and me leaving comments. Even when it was only being read by his family and one friend, Killer still talked about his balls in almost every post. Does anyone else find that strange?

After much encouragement from Killer, I started on my own blog but HR found out about it and began speculating who I was "ranting" about. They never said anything directly to me. I'm sure they save all that for the court proceedings. My toes curled, I puked a little in my mouth, and then I called it quits, much to my dismay. That ended my own venture.

By that time, I was enjoying the writing and reading that I found on "the Internets" and knew I was going to miss writing. So Killer concocted this idea that he and I merge our considerable "talents". An invitation was extended.

Killer is the Maverick to my Goose. And much like Goose must have yelled time and time again in the quiet of the barracks while "You've lost that lovin' feeling" played softly in the background, I screamed out, "I'm all in!"

Now, I read, and practically write, every day. I like the community that has formed here at Killer Rants and, even though the title of this blog suggests that Killer is in charge, I like imagining he is my personal blogging bitch. Only writing to entertain me. I like my own writing too. I'm not patting myself on the back here, I'm just saying that I really enjoy going back through the archives and finding things I've written. Things that otherwise would be lost.

But instead, stay here, just waiting for HR to stumble across them again.

Why Killer Rants.

2007-04-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

An old friend, Farley, who is my only old friend, besides Liz, to have a blog, MEME'd me. I don't normally cotton to MEMEs. They have always seemed forced and too much like a chain letter. Now, however, I have done two back to back.

Farley stumbled into her blog by answering an ad for free lance writers, it turns out the writing gig was a wine blog. She is perfect for this due to her passion for wine and her passion for writing.

I don't read Farley's blog as often as I should. I don't like wine. So, out of love for Farley, and in memory of the charred remains of the Iron Horse Grill, where we worked, lived and drank together, I am answering the MEME call.

Seeking to find out why people take the time, effort and agony to write a blog, Farley's question, "Why does Killer rant?"

I, Killer, rant to serve notice to all the world that monotony and serious thinking will not be tolerated. I rant so some poor schlep trapped in an office building, who spends all of his days staring at the same neutral gray cubicle walls, might chance upon my pointless ravings whilst aimlessly scrolling the Internet on the company's dime.

Killer rants so that worker bee's humorless day might be brightened. After the initial post is read, the worker might think to itself, "Why the hell am supposed to care about this guys balls?" But, after reading a few more entries, hopefully the frown turns into a smirk, which then develops into a slight guffaw, and before too long the worker will find itself saying aloud, "I do, I do care about that fat, hairy bastards balls."

Making a few dozen people laugh each day, combined with the personal satisfaction of knowing those few dozen people are also subconsciously picturing me naked, is why I, Killer, rant.

This is a completely open ended MEME. I would love to hear from each and every fellow blogger about why you blog. It is not however open ended to my BBB (best blogging buddy), Liz. She MUST answer.

Quiet, please

2007-04-22T16:08:00.000-07:00

Liz, brain dead and weary:

I am simultaneously relieved and hurt. This weekend I had to finish the final project for my Graduate class (only 2 more classes to go!). I told a couple of people that I was planning on putting around 18 hours of hard-core prep time into completing a notebook for class. A couple of people. How come then my phone didn't ring all weekend? I did not get a single phone call. From anybody. Granted, I couldn't have done anything and I likely wouldn't have even answered the phone, but still! It's the weekend! I feel so alone. So terribly, terribly alone.

Ok. Not reallly, but you get the point.

Friday night I did manage to find time to help coach my BFF's girl's softball team (I told you she'd be the man). It was a lot of fun. The girls are all 1st and 2nd graders. They are hilarious to watch but frustrating as Hell to try and coach. The parents are even worse. They'll interrupt practice to had off snack money. Come on, people! Snacks don't win games! Being in ready position wins games!

Speaking of ready position, I had to email Killer some pictures for our work-in-progress new blog, to be announced soon. He commented that I look like a blow up doll. I think I look like someone from PETA just threw red paint on my fur. What do you think?

Finally, after the practice, I went to a friend's and watched Borat. Oh my god. That is some funny shit. Nasty, nasty, nasty, but funny.

Five Questions (From Jester)

2007-04-22T02:47:00.000-07:00

Our good friend Jester was asked five questions, so he was kind enough to ask us five as well.

1. What is your favorite body part and why? Difficulty: Can NOT be a part normally covered by underwear.
This could have been such an easy and obvious answer, especially since I don't wear underwear. But, since I know where Jester was intending with that last part, I will honor the intent.
I am going to have say my "man-boobs". Most men would say this is a bad body part, but I enjoy their squishy, loving warmth. I like to imagine that one day, if I try really hard, they can be as big as Liz's woman-boobs.

2. Describe the circumstances surrounding your first sexual experience. Bonus points for a homosexual experience.
My first sexual experience was not homosexual, but in retrospect, I guess she did kind of look a bit mannish. My first experience was with a younger, but much more experienced lass. She made the first move, then the second and pretty much did all the work. For all the effort she put into it, the pay off must have been dismal. She was dating someone else at the time, and I was actually a friend of that guy. Many years later we would repeat our tryst, and ironically, after having spent several years apart from that original boyfriend, she was now engaged to him. I think karma would allow him a good swift kick to my nards.

3. If you could choose one living celebrity to become friends with, who would you choose and why?
Jack Black. I think he is really funny, and he is really into music. I bet he could get us backstage at all the best concerts. I think it is always a good idea to hang out with someone who is equal, or worse than, your own physical conditioning.

4. If you were told you could only listen to three albums on repeat from your collection for the next two years, what albums are less likely to drive you insane?
Tenacious D (tenacious d). The last question really put me into a Jack Black mood. This is a hilarious album, plus it rocks.
Weezer (the blue album). Rivers Cuomo was a close second to Jack Black. This is probably one of my favorite albums of all time.
Nirvana (nevermind). After being thoroughly disillusioned with Glam Rock. This album made me realize that music was more than just noise and hair spray.

5. You've lived many places.... Which city is your favorite? Which is your least favorite? Write a short paragraph (as if for a travel magazine) selling or dissuading others from moving there.
Missoula, Montana is ,by far, one of the greatest places to live in America, nay, the world. I moved there, for no real reason, after nursing school. It is a college town, an artsy town, and a party town. The University of Montana pumps out a large number of graduates who refuse to leave this small town, this creates a service industry that is second to none. Where else in the world can you walk into a convenience store at 3am and have 2 hour debate with the clerk about existentialism? A beautiful mountain range rings Missoula, offering it a much milder winter than the rest of Montana, as well as, offering a spectacular view.
Tupelo, Mississippi is, hands down, the worst place I have ever lived. "The birth place of Elvis" is their claim to fame, and since that one monumental event so long ago, nothing has ever happened in this town again. If the United States has a butt crack, Tupelo is the dingleberry clinging tenaciously to it's butt hair. I spent six slow, agonizing months working here, it seemed like six years. It is the town that keeps mullets thriving and George W. Bush in office. Yeah, Elvis was born there, but he got the hell out of town as soon as he could walk.

You too can get in on the fun of the FIVE QUESTIONS
Here are the Interview Meme rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

On a side note, I tried to track this meme back through all the links to so where it started. I managed to get back through TWELVE friggin other blogs, before I realized, I did not want to go any further. It took me longer to track back than it did to answer these questions. I was going to link back through them all, but I am too damn lazy.

Questions.... and answers

2007-04-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

Liz replies to Jester's Inquisition.

I like Jester. A lot. Just when I think he's all about social activism, he drops a tid bit where he tells us that he paid to see the movie Wild Hogs. Nice balance.

He recently sent the following questions for me to answer. I'm hoping Killer has received some questions too. If not, I'm going to ask him my own set of questions.

1. What makes a good boyfriend?

Respectful, employed, and with good manners, the ideal boyfriend has lived on his own. I can't stand men who don't know how to do anything for themselves. He is self-sufficient and trusting, with a good humor and an appreciation for a woman who has her own quirks and own flair for life. He travels quit a bit so he's not around me too much, but when he's on the road, even though he is one handsome devil, he keeps his dick under lock and key. No screwing around. No exceptions.

If he wants kids, he already has them. Don't look at me. I'm no breeder.

He likes animals and good music and is smart. I'm smart enough, and he would respect that in some areas, I've got him beat. But when it comes to things like financial planning or mapping out our trip to Ireland, he delights in taking care of the details.

I am affectionate and giving to those that I love. I can't imagine spending my time with someone who isn't the same. However, public displays of affection are not allowed. It creeps me out to see couples making out. Save it for the privacy of your own home or the backseat.

He knows that if he ever buys me a teddy bear, our relationship is over. I'm not 13.

2. You're throwing a party and want to invite the five funniest people you know plus ONE living celebrity. Who's on the invitation list?

VERY hard question. Most of my friends are funny. Very funny. My BFF is the funniest person I know, so she is a given. As far as celebrities, I struggle with this too. I think Will Ferrel is hilarious, but I hear that it's his skits and movies that are funny, his true persona is much more serious. I guess I've got to go with Steve Corell (misspelled), from The Office, Dave Chappel, or Ellen DeGeneres.

3. What is your number one beauty secret?

I have no secrets. Unfortunately.

4. Describe the circumstances of your most recent episode of phone sex.

I'm not really into this, but if phone flirting counts... well..... I'd rather not say. It's been a while, he's now married, and it makes me blush. Answering this question feels too much like a public display of horniness.

5. Your job is to pick three albums from your collection that will be played on a non-stop repeating loop for the next two years. What three albums do you pick that will drive you the most insane?

I like this question. It's not what I want to listen to, it's what would make me go crazy. Almost any 3 albums played repeatedly for two years would make me bonkers, but, from my actual collection, here is my honest reply:

Primus, Pork Soda

Blues Traveler, Save His Soul

The Brady Bunch Kids Sing!

If you'd like me to ask YOU five questions, here are the Interview Meme rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by putting five questions for you in the comments section. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

1st Round Pick in the Wife Draft

2007-04-19T07:58:00.000-07:00

Killer mulling his options.

I received an excellent offer tonight. My little old Filipina patient asked me if I was married. When I replied no, she immediately smiled and said, "You have to marry my Granddaughter." I hear this from Filipinos quite frequently so I kinda blew it off, but she persisted. "My Granddaughters live in the Philippines still, and I want them to come here, so if they marry an American citizen they can come here to live."

How Romantic! I have always suspected my best feature was my citizenship.

I laughed and said, "What does she do in the Philippines?"
"She is in nursing school."
This surprised me, "She doesn't need me, she can get a permanent work visa the day she graduates."
To which she quickly replied, with a stern look, "I have to find her a good American man, or she will marry a free loading Filipino and bring him here with her."

Self loathing racists always amuse me.

Still she persisted, "give me your name and address so I can contact you."
At this point I realized she was very serious, so like any American, I decided to keep leading her on. "What does you Granddaughter look like?"
"She is beautiful, of course."
I was intrigued, but wary of her objectivity. "Would you say I was beautiful?" I asked.
"Oh yes, very beautiful, and strong." She enthusiastically replied.
I gave her a stern look, "I don't trust you now, but flattery will get you everywhere."
"I am going to call my Daughter and she will bring photographs of all my Granddaughters, and you can pick whichever one you want."
I laughed, but she picked up the phone, so I left the room.

I made a straight line to my Filipino co-workers, who are always bunched together. I told them about the offer on the table, and they laughed, but all said I should do it. Then the one male Filipino co-worker said, "Pick the hottest one, but tell them you want first pick of all the Great Grand Children later."

Kind of like baseball, First Round Draft Pick, plus, a Minor League pick to be named at a later date.

I was starting to see why this lady does not like Filipino guys.

Forgasim

2007-04-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

Liz swoons:

Oh my god. Ben and Jerry are my heroes. I just had the most tantalizing taste explosion I think I've ever experienced. Creme Brulee ice cream. That's right- two of the most delicious things in the world have mated and their offspring is amazing. It's like if Brad Pitt and George Clooney had a son- tasty, beyond doubt.

I don't know if you like ice cream. And I'm not sure you enjoy the sugary crunch of creme brulee, but if you do, then I advise you get to the nearest supermarket within 24 hours and treat yourself to this most amazing treat. My favorite part is when the sugar nestles on your back teeth and CRUNCH.... ahhhhh.... tremble. That's a damn good ice cream.

I didn't think I liked reality shows that much, but Bravo! has me hooked. With Top Chef, Top Design, Project Runway and now Sheer Genius, I am at their mercy. Tonight I watched some of Top Chef finale while eating Creme Brulee ice cream. I think I had a forgasim. I'm still weak in the knees. And exceptionally satisfied.

Fringe Benefits to Being Mentally Challenged

2007-04-18T07:45:00.000-07:00

I think my gym has started offering a special discount for the mentally challenged. My suspicion in this matter is fueled by a recent increase of strange people. Not necessarily wear-a-special-helmet, drool-on-the-floor strange, but definitely off kilter.

The first example arrived a few weeks ago. He is a male, possibly in his fifties, possibly Asian, but definitely no more than five feet tall, and sporting the Three Stooges, Moe, hair cut. That alone would make me giggle, but it would not lead me to question his mental cognition. What raised my curiosity was the fact that he always pulls a dolly that carries five plastic containers, all about 4 feet by 2 feet and 1 foot deep. The whole get up is secured by an intricate arrangement of bungee cords.
I always see him maneuvering this wheeled tower, which is much bigger than he is, around the locker room. When I enter the locker room he is often naked and arranging his boxes. He will unstack them all carefully, open the bottom one, take out one washcloth, re-stack them, but then unstack them again to remove a comb from number two. He can repeat this process several times. I often catch myself watching him for a length of time that is totally inappropriate for a room full of naked guys. I often wish I had a camouflaged blind, like the wildlife experts, so I can hide and watch him more closely. Possibly the strangest observation is that, although he will be naked in the locker for hours, I have never seen him out on the gym floor.

The second example I wish to present is also male, possibly in his forties, and although he does not appear challenged, something is askew. This fella will work his way through every nautilus machine, in an exact order. He meticulously adjusts the seat level, consults a small notebook, adjusts the weights, and then will proceed to give it all he's got. Huffing, puffing, straining as if he has been constipated for a year. This will continue for approximately one minute, but the weights NEVER budge. After his one minute is up, he stands, stretches, makes a quick entry into his notebook and then moves to the next machine. Once he has finished the circuit, he will stand in front of the mirror for a spell and talk to himself, pick up his notebook and leave.
I asked one of the trainers about him and he said, "Oh that guy, he comes in four times a day, everyday, and does that exact same routine."

There are many more suspicious people, the lady who dresses like Olivia Newton John from the "Let's Get Physical" video, the obese lady who walks slowly on the treadmill while eating a 1 pound bag of M&Ms, and the dude who keeps trying to talk to me in the locker room naked. "No, I did not watch the O'Reilly factor today. And, I have a very strict policy of NO FOREIGN BALLS WITHING FIVE FEET OF ME, unless I am at work."

I don't know if maybe my gym is advertising at an assisted living facility, the short bus stops right out front, or maybe they are adjusting the membership fees by IQ score. I am concerned about the last one, because when I joined up they asked me some questions, told me I qualified for a discount, and then I had to sign my contract in crayon. Not a good sign.

I just know that it is increasingly difficult to work out properly when the guy on the machine next to me is straining so hard he is either going to shit himself, or his asshole will invert, creating the world's largest hemorrhoid. There is no way I am pushing it back in. I'm off duty.

First Class Blogging

2007-04-17T01:26:00.000-07:00

Killer offers greetings from the Upper crust of society

I was bumped from my original flight out of Atlanta along with many, many other people. Not surprisingly the powers that be recognized my regal inner beauty and re-booked me with First Class accommodations. There is an unspoken code that those of us lucky enough to experience the First Class lifestyle, do not let the secrets out to the proletariat wallowing away in coach. I, however, am a rebel, and am going to give you a peak. At the beginning of every flight they give a short instructional talk about what to do in case of an emergency, what do to if the oxygen comes down, and also what to do if you crash into the ocean. I never knew that the First class instructions were different. This is they.

Thank You for flying with us today. I would like everyone to take a moment and find the exit at the front of First Class. Do NOT go to the exit in coach. It will clogged with panicked cattle, those doors don’t really open very well anyhow. The exits will not be needed since if we should begin to crash, First Class will break away and a parachute will deploy, lowering you back to Earth in a slow and pleasing manner.

If we should lose cabin pressure, oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling. Please pull down on your mask, place over your face, and tighten the cords. You will notice a lovely aroma of fresh lilac, this is to make your leisurely float back to Earth more enjoyable. The bag WILL inflate, we just tell Coach passengers it may not, because they don’t actually receive any oxygen through their masks. We had to cut costs someplace, please enjoy another complimentary glass of champagne.

In the unlikely event of a water landing, Coach passengers have been given life vests. First Class passengers should swim to the nearest group of Coach passengers, alive or dead, and use the special cords on those life vests to attach them together to form a lifeboat. It is recommended that you choose the more obese Coach passengers, since they tend to float better and are much more comfortable to lounge upon while awaiting your rescue. Don’t worry your flight crew is specially trained to continue beverage service for the First Class passengers after a crash landing.

Thank You for flying First Class, and as an added bonus on tonight's flight, at your convenience, feel free to meander into Coach, pick any low class passenger, and shit upon them.

The Note

2007-04-16T18:31:00.000-07:00

Liz, back in business:

I hate when a co-worker leaves me a sticky note that has an air of snideness to it. I got one such note today and it ruined my whole morning.

I take exceptional care when crafting a Post-It note. I have a variety of colors and styles, including sticky notes with thought clouds and nature scenes. Some of my Post-Its are serious but most are either very colorful or funny.

I deliberately choose a sticky that I think the receiver will enjoy. Then, I like to complete the project by matching the theme with an appropriate color of ink. That is more than office etiquette. That is caring.

Not only was today's note written with sloppy penmanship in red ink (the color of scolding) but it was written on an awkwardly cut scrap of trash paper. I'm insulted. Really. The words were idiotic enough but to dis me by using your TRASH to leave me a message? Go to Hell.

I love office supplies and I love using them in creative ways. I found this picture on the web and decided to make it my "happy thought" of the day. I hope you can tell that written on the Post-It is the name "Jade". Hilarious.

What do co-workers do with office supplies that annoys you?

Trapped in Hotlanta

2007-04-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

Killer trapped in Atlanta, and wondering how to get hold of Mist1.

My flight out of Memphis was delayed. This travesty caused me to miss my connection in Atlanta. I was given the option of waiting 28 hours, getting a free 4 star hotel room and a first class ticket to Sacramento, OR I could sit in the airport for the next 24 hours and attempt to get a standby ticket on every flight that sails to Sac town.

I quickly called in sick for work, canceled my Monday appointment with my personal trainer, and headed to Ruby Tuesday before checking in at the Sheraton. After having my first three days off in a month, I figured one more would not kill me.

Apparently there is a "Nor'easter" storm hitting the East Coast, combine that with an apparent strike with European airlines, and there is an abundance of people stranded for several days. This has created some great stories for Killer Rants.

I was waiting in line to rebook my flight. It was a long and winding line, but luckily, I enjoy lines. I love watching people get upset and angered at the innocent ticket agent for events that are obviously out of their control. Everyone is irrational and think if they act upset enough they will get placed on the extra-secret flight that is leaving in ten minutes for their home town. I am a firm believer that Karma is watching and casting judgement for this as needed. Allow me to give you the greatest example EVER: There was a man three people ahead of me, in the monstrosity of a line, he was great to be around in line, he would monitor the line ahead, and behind, and whenever anyone was attempting to butt, he would call them out, loudly and proficiently. "Hey, Hey, Hey, You see all those people? They are not standing in such an orderly fashion for their health. You need to go the end." I was loving this guy, and loving the confrontations in which I was not involved, but secretly hoping for a violent escalation. Once he managed to get in front of the ticket agent it was on. He was shouting, waving his hands and quoting scripture as to why he HAD to be in Philly TONIGHT. After about fifteen minutes he finally realized that NO flight was getting to Philly tonight and he was outraged that he could not get his luggage. "I have very important pills in my luggage!" he shouted. The ticket agent said, "You should not check you medications." He flipped his shit. I was loving it, not just because of his reaction, but because me and Chad had heard this exact same exchange once in Detroit after being stranded there for a night. The best, most AWESOME thing about this whole exchange was mid-way through his tirade I realized that he had one of those paper toilet seat covers sticking out of the back of his pants. It was hanging down perfectly framing his ass. Once I realized this, I was frantic trying to find someone cool around me to point it out to. I was so spastically excited about it, I did not think of taking a picture with my phone until he was walking away. At that time, I whipped my phone out in such a hurry I flung it about five feet away and hit an Asian lady in the tit. Her face at this was so awesomely aghast, I did not apologize, but instead dove down for my phone to take a picture of her expression. I think the high level of excitement made me lose control of my dexterity because I could not pick the phone up and then the line moved along. I was stuck looking at everyone around me with a big stupid grin on my face and no one had seemed to notice any of this. I spent the next couple of hours laughing to myself about the whole ordeal.

The second event that made this night incredibly awesome was on the shuttle bus to the Sheraton. There were a couple of super country old men who were way over stimulated by the airport and the big city. One was 59. I know this because he proudly told everyone that he turns 60 on his next birthday in a couple of weeks, he said this with a proud grin on his face that highlighted both of his teeth. He informed everyone on the bus that he, and his travel companion, were supposed to be going to Ireland to take apart a "machine". The next contribution made to race relations was a question posted to an Asian man sitting across from him, "Are you Chinese or Japanese?" He asked without a hint of malice, it seemed he was genuinely curious. The Asian guy, who was on the phone on the time, speaking with a perfect, non-regional American dialect smiled and replied, "I don't know, what do you think?" The old country guy guffawed, "I don't know, my sister in law used to be Korear." (I don't know exactly what Korear is.) The Asian guy didn't miss a beat, "what is she now?" But, the old country guy had already turned his attention to a couple from London at the back of the bus. "Are ya'll from Ireland?" "No, we are from London." responded the English guy. "Hell, we're supposed to be in Ireland right now, taking apart a 'machine'." At this point I was getting over excited from this exchange. I could not believe me luck, two insane interactions in a one hour period. It was quiet for a second and then the old country guy suddenly asked, "Do you have computers in Ireland?" "We live in London." said the London girl. "Do you have computer's in London?" The London couple exchanged a exasperated glance, "Yes, we have a computer in London." Then the old country guy said, "Well, our church is on the computer every Sunday." He then reached in his pocket and pulled out stack of cards with his church name, email address and website. It listed the live web cast times, and he proceeded to give one to everyone on the bus. I LOVED this guy. I wanted to put him in a big mayonnaise jar, poke some air holes in the top, and take him home with me. There is nothing this couple has experienced in America that will top this exchange on the bus in Atlanta.

This has only affirmed my belief in never travelling alone. Everyone else around me was too wrapped up in their own little worlds to enjoy this stuff. If only I could keep it together long enough to get some pictures of these people. I also can't quit wondering if that Asian lady has a bruise on her tit.

Fun With Photo Booth

2007-04-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

Another reason to dump your PC in the garbage, Apple Computers have Photo Booth. It is a program that uses the built in web cam and modifies the picture. I have been slacking on the blogging for a few days, because I have been in Mississippi for Clib's art show. It was an awesome show, plus, I got to meet Mel from Mel O Drama.

Mel did an awesome job holding her own with my outspoken and loud group of family and friends. Her and FishDog did not disappoint. They have made me eager to meet other bloggers.

Nothing too exciting other than that really happened this trip. Disco and I ate a lot of cheese squares and decided to have a shit off. The idea was to eat as much cheese as possible and see who could shit soonest. Disco won with a Saturday shit at 10:30am. I did not get on the clock until Saturday night around 11:00pm. Disco beat me hands down, or I should say, "Disco beat me pants down."

This is me as a Klingon.

This is what Clib looks like without any modification to his pictures.

I have a lovely smile.

Mongoloid Clib.

This is my Pete Townshend Impersonation.

Clib looks extremely surprised to be this pretty.

Chipmunk Killer.

I just gave Clib the "cup of soup"

If there are any single ladies out there, this is what I look like pretty much all the time.

The No Jive Zone

2007-04-13T15:58:00.000-07:00

Liz experiments:

This, I promise, is my third and final post of the day.

Not long ago someone suggested that Killer begin an advice column. I'm so jealous. I'm the one who loves telling people what to do!

I am experimenting with the idea of having my own advice blog. I don't know how it will go or if I'll even enjoy it enough to keep it running, but you are invited to be part of the test.

Click this if you'd like to get some pearls of wisdom from Liz:

www.nojivezone.blogspot.com

Killer, for you I suggest Talcum Powder.

I Would Burn It, But It May Take The City With It

2007-04-13T15:43:00.000-07:00

Unlike our favorite Killer is apt to do, I'm not going to discuss my genitalia as even the WORD genitalia makes me blush and giggle. But I will discuss this contraption know as a BRA. Over the shoulder boulder holder. Flopper stopper. 18 hours of torture.

Here is my bra, unleashed on the city:

As you can see, my bra is the answer to the global warming issue. Who needs ozone when Liz has a Bali we can use for protection?

We at Killer Rants love boobs. Killer like boobs to look at and think about touching but I like boobs for better reasons. I can store all sorts of shit inside my bra. Back in my college days, boobs as a storage receptacle made me the hit of any concert. I could sneak anything past security by putting it in my brazier. Anything. I once smuggled a friend into the movie Batman by placing him inside my bra. Granted, he was short, but still.

I don't like carrying things around in my bra except in an emergency. It might amaze you to know how many emergencies there are that actually do require boob storage. I got a pint of Wild Turkey into a baseball game by positioning the bottle just right. Of course, I simply could have used my purse, but where is the challenge in that?

I would make a great terrorist as the amount of under wire used in my bra always sets off the metal detector at the airport. They don't hassle me too much. They see what I'm packing and know that it takes a great amount of raw materials to construct the contraption to hold these girls up. Not sure if I'm exaggerating? Ponder this: Without my bra I would eventually have to get knee surgery from all of the pounding.

Last year I decided I would start playing golf. I quickly learned I have a major handicap, as swinging a club to full extension is nearly impossible. As I was complaining about my titties getting in the way of my swing, the custodian at work offered to hold them for me. That's not the kind of support I'm looking for.

Before you start thinking that I'm happy or proud, consider the multiple downsides of enormity. There is no body part that it better huge. Wait. Let me rephrase that. Women with HUGE knockers, like speciality bra-wearing, back hurting knockers, usually end up working in the school lunch line or elementary library. There is something matronly, not sexy, about 18 pounds of breasts. In no time, you start to look more like a National Geographic picture than a Playboy Playmate. This is why I avoid large hoop earrings and sarongs. I don't want any misconceptions. Plus, I always look like I'm nursing a litter of children.

I sometimes encounter men who stare at my breasts. I would find this offensive, but I can't be offended because I understand. I don't think it's staring in a lustful way, I think it's like staring at a one-legged dog- you are mildly repulsed, yet fascinated. My 23 year old cousin walked into the house and saw my bra hanging on a door knob. He kept looking at it, like he was trying to figure out what it was. My brother was over and said, "You've never seen one like that have you?" and, with a look of terror and confusion, he simply shook his head "no", never blinking or taking his eyes off the brazier. Or, if he weren't my cousin I would say, "never taking his eyes off the prize."

I like to think of myself as a free spirit. But it's hard to be free when you have spandex and metal surrounding your chest. I would burn it, but it may take the city with it.