This report is brought to you by
His Majesty Killer of the Royal Common Wealth of Floyd
Holy Crap! I made it back from the Bahamas! I have a few things to say about the Bahama islands. First, and most important, don't go there. It was a fun trip, but I could have fun with Bam and his family if we sat in a basement somewhere in the Midwest, so the locale did not really effect that. The only thing really impacted by the location was my wallet. Apparently the Bahamas are made up of over 700 islands, anything at least one mile long is an island. 700 islands that do not produce shit. Everything you get in the Bahamas has to be imported, so they charge an outrageous amount of money for it. Plus, it is full of tourists, so they add a little, "screw you Yankee capitalist" tax onto everything. Save your money and go to Florida, or San Diego.
We met a few locals and Bahamians are pretty cool. One that we talked to a lot said she was planning to quit her job and join the Bahamian military. I was dumbfounded by this statement. What the hell does The Bahamas need a military for. Who would want to conquer 700 islands with no natural resources and who's number one industry is tourism. I imagine you could probably take control of about 685 of them before anyone notices, and squeak out at least 10 more before anyone cares. We actually took a day trip out to one small island, I think it met the bare minimum for island status. I was the biggest person around and managed to find a big stick, so I officially took control of the island. I named my island Floyd and immediately tried to have Bam deported, but he fell asleep in a hammock and would not leave. He does not know it yet, but I informed my immigration department not to let him back into Floyd, if he tries to come back. No one actually lives on Floyd so there is no one to pay taxes. According to my estimates it could be years before anyone realizes I control Floyd, but I know, and that is good enough for me.
On my return journey from the Bahamas my flight was delayed on the tarmac for over two hours. This resulted in me missing the connecting flight in Cincinnati. I learned some interesting facts during this time. One, the Cincinnati airport is not even in Cincinnati, it is in Erlanger, Kentucky. Two, you can be bumped out of your seat if someone else claims they have a "medical reason" to have it. I always book early to get a aisle seat. I am just too damn big to squeeze against the window on small planes. BUT, this old guy with a prosthetic leg claimed he had to have an aisle seat. SO, I got changed to the window and was not informed until I was on the plane. Plus, the guy was a total dick. I asked the stewardess if there was any other aisle seat I would appreciate moving. The one legged asshole started ranting about having a prosthesis and having to sit there, I never even said anything to him about his leg. I do believe he could have just pulled it off and stuck it in the over head compartment, then he could have sat anywhere. He did not look like any war veteran, so I am guessing he probably lost his leg due to uncontrolled diabetes or something along those lines, so it is his own fault. It was only an hour long flight, but I despised him for the whole hour. I know in a previous blog I mentioned my willingness to lose a leg, maybe this is karma showing me that to lose a leg makes you a jackass, but I think I could pull it off with a minimum of prickedness.
If you do decide to go against my recommendations and take a trip to the Bahamas feel free to swing by Floyd and stay awhile. Bring a tent, there are no hotels, and you might want to bring some food, water and electricity because Floyd is lacking in those as well. If you don't like it go get your own island, there are only 699 more to choose from.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Who the Hell is Saint Patrick, Anyway?
Liz reports:
I went to the annual St. Paddy's Day Parade in lovely downtown Jackson, Mississippi this weekend. It's a BIG deal and one of the few times being around cops doesn't make me nervous. The whole event had a very New Orleans vibe- which is something I haven't experienced in a long time. I think it was the crowds packed onto the sidewalk and the smell of a septic leak lingering in the air, mingled with beer and pheremones that reminded me so much of the good ole days.
Aside from women taking this opportunity to dress like total hookers and the fact that one of my brother's friends cracked his skull wide open when he fell off their float, there wasn't anything truly unruly that occurred. It's nice when people know how to get drunk and still behave. I did witness a guy around 20 fall in front of Martin's Bar on the main street. He was whacked-out hammered and it was an "I've fallen and I can't get up" situation but everytime one of his buddies would try to touch him he would say, "Fu you. I ca nn git uuu on my oh" The whole time his Shiner Bock beer was flowing onto the ground in these enthusiastic spurts. I'm glad I wasn't that drunk. I had said at the parade that my goal was to be the 8th drunkest person there- I think I missed it by a long shot, thank god. We did have a really good time though, which included me leaving with a pair of green thong underwear (hilarious) and a gigantic pirate flag (the jolly Roger). I also have multiple bruises, a skinned knee, and a severely twisted ankle. My ankle was already a little twisted prior to Saturday so I hobbled to the parade- after and hour, I felt NO pain and think that I over exerted it by climbing up and down on a couple of floats, doing some Elaine-like dancing, jumping for beads, and just plain walking. I have no idea where the skinned knee, bruises on my shin, and sore bicep came from, but I know nothing violent happened to me so I am relatively sure that they are only party casualties.
I also learned at the parade that when you mix peach vodka, champagne, and orange juice, you can get closer to Heaven than you might imagine. It's a mimoso meets a screw driver and I need a name for the drink. One guy said that it's already got a name when it's made with plain vodka- he called it a dirty naval. I'm not going to allow that to be the name of my drink. I'm hoping you can offer a suggestion or two. I thought about " So Screw Mi" because that takes parts of each drink name and combines them- but that's more raunchy than what I'm looking for. It's a delightful drink, I want it to have a delightful name.
Although I have absolutely no idea who St. Patrick is, I really enjoyed toasting his ability to drive snakes out of Ireland. I know that has to be a myth, but he's still a Saint, so I wonder what he did. I just wish he could heal twisted ankles and hangovers.
Killer, I can't wait to hear about your trip! I'll be checking the BLOG for the update!
Much love- Liz
I went to the annual St. Paddy's Day Parade in lovely downtown Jackson, Mississippi this weekend. It's a BIG deal and one of the few times being around cops doesn't make me nervous. The whole event had a very New Orleans vibe- which is something I haven't experienced in a long time. I think it was the crowds packed onto the sidewalk and the smell of a septic leak lingering in the air, mingled with beer and pheremones that reminded me so much of the good ole days.
Aside from women taking this opportunity to dress like total hookers and the fact that one of my brother's friends cracked his skull wide open when he fell off their float, there wasn't anything truly unruly that occurred. It's nice when people know how to get drunk and still behave. I did witness a guy around 20 fall in front of Martin's Bar on the main street. He was whacked-out hammered and it was an "I've fallen and I can't get up" situation but everytime one of his buddies would try to touch him he would say, "Fu you. I ca nn git uuu on my oh" The whole time his Shiner Bock beer was flowing onto the ground in these enthusiastic spurts. I'm glad I wasn't that drunk. I had said at the parade that my goal was to be the 8th drunkest person there- I think I missed it by a long shot, thank god. We did have a really good time though, which included me leaving with a pair of green thong underwear (hilarious) and a gigantic pirate flag (the jolly Roger). I also have multiple bruises, a skinned knee, and a severely twisted ankle. My ankle was already a little twisted prior to Saturday so I hobbled to the parade- after and hour, I felt NO pain and think that I over exerted it by climbing up and down on a couple of floats, doing some Elaine-like dancing, jumping for beads, and just plain walking. I have no idea where the skinned knee, bruises on my shin, and sore bicep came from, but I know nothing violent happened to me so I am relatively sure that they are only party casualties.
I also learned at the parade that when you mix peach vodka, champagne, and orange juice, you can get closer to Heaven than you might imagine. It's a mimoso meets a screw driver and I need a name for the drink. One guy said that it's already got a name when it's made with plain vodka- he called it a dirty naval. I'm not going to allow that to be the name of my drink. I'm hoping you can offer a suggestion or two. I thought about " So Screw Mi" because that takes parts of each drink name and combines them- but that's more raunchy than what I'm looking for. It's a delightful drink, I want it to have a delightful name.
Although I have absolutely no idea who St. Patrick is, I really enjoyed toasting his ability to drive snakes out of Ireland. I know that has to be a myth, but he's still a Saint, so I wonder what he did. I just wish he could heal twisted ankles and hangovers.
Killer, I can't wait to hear about your trip! I'll be checking the BLOG for the update!
Much love- Liz
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
You're Better Off Not Reading This
Promulgation by Killer:
My back hurts. I don't really think anyone should be concerned by this statement, nor do I expect anyone to send me hallmark cards of condolences, but this is my blog and I have the ability to tell you anything. For example, I hate tomatoes, but I love ketchup. This is a totally inane fact, but I can tell you are captivated. I might say something important or funny, probably not, but you don't want to miss it.
I sunburn easily, I have eight hours worth of tattoos in various locations on my person, and I have so much body hair when I take off my shirt it looks like I am wearing a light brown sweater vest. You did not seek out this information, you would probably never think of asking any questions that would illicit these answers, but I am forcing it upon you. Consider me as a flasher, but of information instead of genitalia.
My feet stink so bad sometimes that it once caused my best friends to nick name my hiking boots, "The Beasts", and enact a rule banning them from ever being within twenty feet of where we were sleeping. San Francisco is my favorite city in the world and Corbin, Kentucky is the worst. I have on numerous occasions expelled flatus in an unconscious patients room, and when a fellow staff person comes in, I blamed it on the patient. I am not a perfect person, but I have known worse.
I hope you don't feel violated. I understand why you would not want to know this stuff, but I enjoy being able to dictate how well people know me. Even though you don't want to, I know you are still unable to get the image of me in a hairy sweater vest out of your mind.
All Apologies
Killer
My back hurts. I don't really think anyone should be concerned by this statement, nor do I expect anyone to send me hallmark cards of condolences, but this is my blog and I have the ability to tell you anything. For example, I hate tomatoes, but I love ketchup. This is a totally inane fact, but I can tell you are captivated. I might say something important or funny, probably not, but you don't want to miss it.
I sunburn easily, I have eight hours worth of tattoos in various locations on my person, and I have so much body hair when I take off my shirt it looks like I am wearing a light brown sweater vest. You did not seek out this information, you would probably never think of asking any questions that would illicit these answers, but I am forcing it upon you. Consider me as a flasher, but of information instead of genitalia.
My feet stink so bad sometimes that it once caused my best friends to nick name my hiking boots, "The Beasts", and enact a rule banning them from ever being within twenty feet of where we were sleeping. San Francisco is my favorite city in the world and Corbin, Kentucky is the worst. I have on numerous occasions expelled flatus in an unconscious patients room, and when a fellow staff person comes in, I blamed it on the patient. I am not a perfect person, but I have known worse.
I hope you don't feel violated. I understand why you would not want to know this stuff, but I enjoy being able to dictate how well people know me. Even though you don't want to, I know you are still unable to get the image of me in a hairy sweater vest out of your mind.
All Apologies
Killer
A Rough Week
Liz bemoans:
I met a cowboy in a Boss-Hog white hat on Saturday. He has called every day this week and, although we have yet to go out on a date, I'm ready to break it off. He's spent a lot of time talking about how much money he has and how big is truck is. His business card has red bull horns on it. He told me that he's had two people approach him and try to get him to go to Nashville and cut a CD. He sings karaoke every Tuesday. He also said he was in the rodeo for several years. OH! And my favorite- he goes by his initials... and his initials don't go together. He's not a JB or CJ or a DC. It's two weird initials that shouldn't stand next to each other like a GH or a TW or something screwed up like that.
See? SEE what I attract?
I am an environmentally conciencience animal rights lover that enjoys strolls on the beach and mountain sunsets. OK- that's not totally accurate, but it's close to all being true. What I am NOT is Tammy Wynett. I'm not a woman who will believe you when you tell her that you make $400k a year- 10 minutes into the first conversation. I've never been married. He's had two wives. The people at work are encouraging me to go out with him. I figure for one of two reasons. Either: 1. They want the story that will spring from a night of Liz out with QE or 2. They hate me. I think that I'm too pure and untainted for this wicked game. Plus, isn't it just stupid to get on ship that you know will sink?
It's been a very long week. I came in tonight and left the back door open so that the breeze could dance through the house and I could catch a few afterwork zzzz's. I was almost asleep when I was jolted into sobriety by a tongue in my mouth. The TONGUE of a STRANGE DOG that had wandered off the street and into my den. I got French kissed by a stray.
Killer, I wish as much for you on your vacation.
I met a cowboy in a Boss-Hog white hat on Saturday. He has called every day this week and, although we have yet to go out on a date, I'm ready to break it off. He's spent a lot of time talking about how much money he has and how big is truck is. His business card has red bull horns on it. He told me that he's had two people approach him and try to get him to go to Nashville and cut a CD. He sings karaoke every Tuesday. He also said he was in the rodeo for several years. OH! And my favorite- he goes by his initials... and his initials don't go together. He's not a JB or CJ or a DC. It's two weird initials that shouldn't stand next to each other like a GH or a TW or something screwed up like that.
See? SEE what I attract?
I am an environmentally conciencience animal rights lover that enjoys strolls on the beach and mountain sunsets. OK- that's not totally accurate, but it's close to all being true. What I am NOT is Tammy Wynett. I'm not a woman who will believe you when you tell her that you make $400k a year- 10 minutes into the first conversation. I've never been married. He's had two wives. The people at work are encouraging me to go out with him. I figure for one of two reasons. Either: 1. They want the story that will spring from a night of Liz out with QE or 2. They hate me. I think that I'm too pure and untainted for this wicked game. Plus, isn't it just stupid to get on ship that you know will sink?
It's been a very long week. I came in tonight and left the back door open so that the breeze could dance through the house and I could catch a few afterwork zzzz's. I was almost asleep when I was jolted into sobriety by a tongue in my mouth. The TONGUE of a STRANGE DOG that had wandered off the street and into my den. I got French kissed by a stray.
Killer, I wish as much for you on your vacation.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Profanity, Profanity, Big Hairy Ass, etc.
Proclaimed by Killer:
I am gearing up for a trip to the Bahamas. I know many of you might be thinking to yourselves, "Wait a gosh darn minute Killer, didn't you just return from a nine week vacation less than five months ago?" Yes, I did indeed just return from an extended vacation traversing the South East Asian country side, but I have a little known ailment that requires me to vacate more than the average person. Working causes my tourette's syndrome to flair up and I have unseemly bouts of profanity mixed with an overwhelming urge to show my buttocks to those around me. I am forced to use valuable time and financial resources in order to treat this horrific infliction. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to get my insurance company to reimburse me for the expenditures of these "treatments", but they have declined, and rather curtly I must add. I fear that if I allow this chronic ailment to fester and go untreated than I will create an uncomfortable environment for my co-workers, with an exception of a few that would probably enjoy looking at my butt. I feel naming names would be inappropriate.
I have digressed from my intended topic. I am going to the Bahamas with my pal, Bam, and his wife and daughter. They offered a free place to stay, so I pounced like a hungry beaver on fresh poop. (clever reference to a previous posting) I leave on Friday and return the following Saturday. While in the Bahamas I intend to SCUBA dive and drink beer, but not at the same time. If I could think of a way I could drink beer underwater I would be the happiest man alive. I will try and write a few blogs while there, and keep you informed of any misadventures.
I am now accepting any requests for trinkets and nick nacks from the Bahamas. I will not purchase any of them, but it would humor me to see what you think I might be willing to bring back for you.
If I had a webcam you would be able to see I was mooning the computer right now.
Killer
I am gearing up for a trip to the Bahamas. I know many of you might be thinking to yourselves, "Wait a gosh darn minute Killer, didn't you just return from a nine week vacation less than five months ago?" Yes, I did indeed just return from an extended vacation traversing the South East Asian country side, but I have a little known ailment that requires me to vacate more than the average person. Working causes my tourette's syndrome to flair up and I have unseemly bouts of profanity mixed with an overwhelming urge to show my buttocks to those around me. I am forced to use valuable time and financial resources in order to treat this horrific infliction. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to get my insurance company to reimburse me for the expenditures of these "treatments", but they have declined, and rather curtly I must add. I fear that if I allow this chronic ailment to fester and go untreated than I will create an uncomfortable environment for my co-workers, with an exception of a few that would probably enjoy looking at my butt. I feel naming names would be inappropriate.
I have digressed from my intended topic. I am going to the Bahamas with my pal, Bam, and his wife and daughter. They offered a free place to stay, so I pounced like a hungry beaver on fresh poop. (clever reference to a previous posting) I leave on Friday and return the following Saturday. While in the Bahamas I intend to SCUBA dive and drink beer, but not at the same time. If I could think of a way I could drink beer underwater I would be the happiest man alive. I will try and write a few blogs while there, and keep you informed of any misadventures.
I am now accepting any requests for trinkets and nick nacks from the Bahamas. I will not purchase any of them, but it would humor me to see what you think I might be willing to bring back for you.
If I had a webcam you would be able to see I was mooning the computer right now.
Killer
A Picture is Worth the Heartache
Liz rambles:
I have no purpose with this post but to make two announcements:
1. I'm a little hammered. I had a few beverages at the local watering hole and played 18 holes of video golf- ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. The "news" is that I have been given honorary memebership in the Stone Pony VIP club- which is, honest to God- a $100 value. Although pleased to be considered such a regular that the bar is willing to wave my joining fee, this honor is a lot like winning a free 6-pack of Great Value Cola. Who gives a shit? I wouldn't pay over $20 a year for this VIP treatment because as far as I can tell, all you get is $1 bottles on Monday nights.
2. My second reason for posting is much more serious. Check out this Eddie Van Halen picture. This is killing me. I can no longer make sense of my world. He'll be shitting his own pants before the end of the week.
I have no purpose with this post but to make two announcements:
1. I'm a little hammered. I had a few beverages at the local watering hole and played 18 holes of video golf- ON A SCHOOL NIGHT. The "news" is that I have been given honorary memebership in the Stone Pony VIP club- which is, honest to God- a $100 value. Although pleased to be considered such a regular that the bar is willing to wave my joining fee, this honor is a lot like winning a free 6-pack of Great Value Cola. Who gives a shit? I wouldn't pay over $20 a year for this VIP treatment because as far as I can tell, all you get is $1 bottles on Monday nights.
2. My second reason for posting is much more serious. Check out this Eddie Van Halen picture. This is killing me. I can no longer make sense of my world. He'll be shitting his own pants before the end of the week.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thongs Are Not For The Faint of Heart
Liz writes:
I suffer from Romantic Delay. I don't think this is a medical condition, for it's not the female equivilent of the oft advertised erectile disfunction- it's more a total immaturity for the need for a companion of the opposite sex. Had I lived 100 years ago, I would be long washed up and hopeless. My father would be in a constant state of depression knowing his daughter's only hope for a better life was a 62 year old widower with cows that need milking. I'd be stuck teaching school in a one room school house and not showing my knees in public. And if I were the same spirit then that I am now, I would be ok with this.
What's wrong with me? What about that internal drive to couple? The Discovery Channel is always saying that this is why we exist- to procreate. The desire to find a mate overrides everything else. Where's my share of that? I've never gone out on a date with someone I wasn't interested in. Ok, except in 6th grade when I "went with" a guy named Terrel for one day. I hated it. I figured then that if you don't get the right vibe, you shouldn't waste anybody's time. Screw a free dinner. I want to play fair.
Needless to say, I don't get out much.
But I'm getting there. I'm reaching the point where I think it would be NICE to have a man in my life. Hell, I'm middle aged. It's about time I felt some internal pressure to have a reliable booty call in my life. The urge to use terms like, "my boyfriend" is beginning to surface. I've even bought pretty bras- just in case they get to peek out one night. But I lack the experience of playing the game. I don't know HOW to be coy or seductive with the intent of luring. I don't understand the rules of a relationship. I ask too many questions and have expectations that don't match the game that's in play. It is what it is... I missed the practices and now I'm coming up with my own rules. "FOUL!" "Interferrence!" "False Start!" It's hard to START playing at 34.
Last night I was susposed to go out for drinks with a work guy. He's single and I've been after him for MONTHS to go out for cocktails. I don't consider this a romantic match, but I figure he's single, I'm single- we might as well be drinking buddies. Everyone that works for him likes me and his boss loves me. This guy, however, has seemed immune to my charms. That bastard.
Because my ass continues to get wider with each passing second, my jeans were SKIN tight last night- so I put on a thong. I don't even know how I ended up with a thong because some things don't go together: Peanut butter and white fish, beer and birthday cake, Liz and a thong. But I had one on. He never called... I'm not used to this rudeness, so I went up to Chilli's and got a couple of two-for-ones and then rented Crash and went home. I was feeling a little befuddled. WHY didn't he let me know something? Is he trying to say without saying that he doesn't want to spend time with me? I will admit, I've basically demanded that he commit to a couple of cold ones with me. Has my forcefullness scared him into thinking I'm after his sausage? I know he's not romantically interested- I'm rather neutral about him- which means, in essence, that I feel the same way. But to not get back with me- to not call and say that he wouldn't make it- to simply stand me up when he knows that I had a plan C to go out with some other folks- that's just ugly. And it's an unpleasant feeling to be unwanted.
So I've got 4 two-for-ones in me and I go into the bathroom at home for a pee before starting Crash and one of my cats comes into the bathroom. You know how cats love string! Sneaker went CRAZY over this thong. He was totally enthralled- pulling at it, rolling around on the rug trying to stretch it out, pawing at it and trying to get entangled in the tiny red thread... it was funny. And depressing. I feel like an idoit when I have on a thong and I look like a tube of cinnamon rolls that has just exploded. And there I was, good makeup and hair, sitting on the toliet with my cat trying his damnedst to get that thong off of me.
Yep. I think I DO need a man.
I suffer from Romantic Delay. I don't think this is a medical condition, for it's not the female equivilent of the oft advertised erectile disfunction- it's more a total immaturity for the need for a companion of the opposite sex. Had I lived 100 years ago, I would be long washed up and hopeless. My father would be in a constant state of depression knowing his daughter's only hope for a better life was a 62 year old widower with cows that need milking. I'd be stuck teaching school in a one room school house and not showing my knees in public. And if I were the same spirit then that I am now, I would be ok with this.
What's wrong with me? What about that internal drive to couple? The Discovery Channel is always saying that this is why we exist- to procreate. The desire to find a mate overrides everything else. Where's my share of that? I've never gone out on a date with someone I wasn't interested in. Ok, except in 6th grade when I "went with" a guy named Terrel for one day. I hated it. I figured then that if you don't get the right vibe, you shouldn't waste anybody's time. Screw a free dinner. I want to play fair.
Needless to say, I don't get out much.
But I'm getting there. I'm reaching the point where I think it would be NICE to have a man in my life. Hell, I'm middle aged. It's about time I felt some internal pressure to have a reliable booty call in my life. The urge to use terms like, "my boyfriend" is beginning to surface. I've even bought pretty bras- just in case they get to peek out one night. But I lack the experience of playing the game. I don't know HOW to be coy or seductive with the intent of luring. I don't understand the rules of a relationship. I ask too many questions and have expectations that don't match the game that's in play. It is what it is... I missed the practices and now I'm coming up with my own rules. "FOUL!" "Interferrence!" "False Start!" It's hard to START playing at 34.
Last night I was susposed to go out for drinks with a work guy. He's single and I've been after him for MONTHS to go out for cocktails. I don't consider this a romantic match, but I figure he's single, I'm single- we might as well be drinking buddies. Everyone that works for him likes me and his boss loves me. This guy, however, has seemed immune to my charms. That bastard.
Because my ass continues to get wider with each passing second, my jeans were SKIN tight last night- so I put on a thong. I don't even know how I ended up with a thong because some things don't go together: Peanut butter and white fish, beer and birthday cake, Liz and a thong. But I had one on. He never called... I'm not used to this rudeness, so I went up to Chilli's and got a couple of two-for-ones and then rented Crash and went home. I was feeling a little befuddled. WHY didn't he let me know something? Is he trying to say without saying that he doesn't want to spend time with me? I will admit, I've basically demanded that he commit to a couple of cold ones with me. Has my forcefullness scared him into thinking I'm after his sausage? I know he's not romantically interested- I'm rather neutral about him- which means, in essence, that I feel the same way. But to not get back with me- to not call and say that he wouldn't make it- to simply stand me up when he knows that I had a plan C to go out with some other folks- that's just ugly. And it's an unpleasant feeling to be unwanted.
So I've got 4 two-for-ones in me and I go into the bathroom at home for a pee before starting Crash and one of my cats comes into the bathroom. You know how cats love string! Sneaker went CRAZY over this thong. He was totally enthralled- pulling at it, rolling around on the rug trying to stretch it out, pawing at it and trying to get entangled in the tiny red thread... it was funny. And depressing. I feel like an idoit when I have on a thong and I look like a tube of cinnamon rolls that has just exploded. And there I was, good makeup and hair, sitting on the toliet with my cat trying his damnedst to get that thong off of me.
Yep. I think I DO need a man.
Monday, February 27, 2006
That Beaver's Breath Smells Like Shit
Posted by Killer
My single most favorite fact obtained from The Discovery Channel is that beavers eat their own shit. They eat it only once, and they know the difference. A beaver's diet of wood can be broken down into a nutrient only after passing the section of bowel that is needed to digest said nutrient. So, when a beaver squeezes out a fresh lumber filled poop, he (or apparently a faster, sneakier beaver) will eat the newly made log. The excrement created by eating this is not edible. I imagine this has led to some pretty embarrassing moments for less intelligent beavers, "Oh my God, Jimmy just ate some second shit!" I was enthralling some coworkers this evening with my knowledge of fecal eating beavers when a doctor told me that some Native Americans would have what they referred to as "the second harvest". This involved picking the corn out of their stool to enjoy it a second time. I personally can not verify this from first hand basis (nor from a televised documentary), but I feel this doctor is pretty reliable. When elderly people sit around trying to impress each other with how much harder it used to be in the old days, I bet, "I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow", can not hold a candle to, "I had to pick the corn out of my shit for dinner."
The discussion quickly spiraled down to the fact that some people feel that drinking your own urine has medicinal, as well as, spiritual value. I have actually had a patient, while working in Baltimore, who practiced this belief. She said that many valuable electrolytes are lost in urine. After years of working in the health profession I can safely say that drinking Gatorade also will replace vital electrolytes. NASA has a plan to send a manned mission to Mars within twenty years. It will cost a few hundred billion dollars and the best idea so far for the water supply is to have them drink urine. It will be boiled, then the condensation will be collected, filtered and returned for consumption. I am secretly hoping that they need someone to just go along in order to provide extra urine for the trip. I feel that is the only way I can ever offer anything of value to the space program. Plus, with a captive audience in space for 18 months I will have plenty of time to regale upon them all my knowledge of shit eating beavers.
My single most favorite fact obtained from The Discovery Channel is that beavers eat their own shit. They eat it only once, and they know the difference. A beaver's diet of wood can be broken down into a nutrient only after passing the section of bowel that is needed to digest said nutrient. So, when a beaver squeezes out a fresh lumber filled poop, he (or apparently a faster, sneakier beaver) will eat the newly made log. The excrement created by eating this is not edible. I imagine this has led to some pretty embarrassing moments for less intelligent beavers, "Oh my God, Jimmy just ate some second shit!" I was enthralling some coworkers this evening with my knowledge of fecal eating beavers when a doctor told me that some Native Americans would have what they referred to as "the second harvest". This involved picking the corn out of their stool to enjoy it a second time. I personally can not verify this from first hand basis (nor from a televised documentary), but I feel this doctor is pretty reliable. When elderly people sit around trying to impress each other with how much harder it used to be in the old days, I bet, "I had to walk ten miles to school in the snow", can not hold a candle to, "I had to pick the corn out of my shit for dinner."
The discussion quickly spiraled down to the fact that some people feel that drinking your own urine has medicinal, as well as, spiritual value. I have actually had a patient, while working in Baltimore, who practiced this belief. She said that many valuable electrolytes are lost in urine. After years of working in the health profession I can safely say that drinking Gatorade also will replace vital electrolytes. NASA has a plan to send a manned mission to Mars within twenty years. It will cost a few hundred billion dollars and the best idea so far for the water supply is to have them drink urine. It will be boiled, then the condensation will be collected, filtered and returned for consumption. I am secretly hoping that they need someone to just go along in order to provide extra urine for the trip. I feel that is the only way I can ever offer anything of value to the space program. Plus, with a captive audience in space for 18 months I will have plenty of time to regale upon them all my knowledge of shit eating beavers.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Pass the Tic Tacs
Posted by Liz
I wonder if the obsession with bodies is unique to the human race. Do male cougars have penis envy? Does a Doberman see another bitch that has just given birth and think, "I hope my titties are one day that big!" Does a pig ever think, "Whore," because the sow he is courting has a large (and always exposed) vagina?
Particular body parts seem to get the majority of the attention. You don't hear much talk about elbows. And although sometimes brought up in cases of deformities few people mention ears, backs, thighs, eyebrows, or skin. I thought this fascination might slack off some once I entered my 30's and my generation began to spread, sag and winkle. We're just not as cute as we used to be, but at least we're all in it together. I guess I expected the focus to shift to intellect and humor or kindness and generosity as the beacons of beauty. Instead I think that the fixation on breasts, butts, and penises may be even more pronounced than what I was aware of in my teens.
Maybe it's the mood of the country. I thought the Republicans were suspposed to fix that.
I bring this up because a co-worker of mine told me Friday night that he was hung like a Tic Tac but that he was as big around as a Foster's beer can. That's nasty sounding to me. I can't get this image out of my head. DO YOU KNOW how big around a Foster's can is? They're like little kegs. Do you know how small a Tic Tac is? Itty bitty! I know he was exaggerating, but he said, "I just believe in being honest. You can call my wife and ask her if you don't believe me." I declined.
It's something I didn't want to know about him. It's also an image that when I hear his name 15 years from now will leap into my head and make me throw up a little in my mouth. And if I do throw up a little in my mouth, ironically, I might have to ask someone for a Tic Tac.
I wonder if the obsession with bodies is unique to the human race. Do male cougars have penis envy? Does a Doberman see another bitch that has just given birth and think, "I hope my titties are one day that big!" Does a pig ever think, "Whore," because the sow he is courting has a large (and always exposed) vagina?
Particular body parts seem to get the majority of the attention. You don't hear much talk about elbows. And although sometimes brought up in cases of deformities few people mention ears, backs, thighs, eyebrows, or skin. I thought this fascination might slack off some once I entered my 30's and my generation began to spread, sag and winkle. We're just not as cute as we used to be, but at least we're all in it together. I guess I expected the focus to shift to intellect and humor or kindness and generosity as the beacons of beauty. Instead I think that the fixation on breasts, butts, and penises may be even more pronounced than what I was aware of in my teens.
Maybe it's the mood of the country. I thought the Republicans were suspposed to fix that.
I bring this up because a co-worker of mine told me Friday night that he was hung like a Tic Tac but that he was as big around as a Foster's beer can. That's nasty sounding to me. I can't get this image out of my head. DO YOU KNOW how big around a Foster's can is? They're like little kegs. Do you know how small a Tic Tac is? Itty bitty! I know he was exaggerating, but he said, "I just believe in being honest. You can call my wife and ask her if you don't believe me." I declined.
It's something I didn't want to know about him. It's also an image that when I hear his name 15 years from now will leap into my head and make me throw up a little in my mouth. And if I do throw up a little in my mouth, ironically, I might have to ask someone for a Tic Tac.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Jolly, One-Legged Fat Guy
Posted by Killer
Laziness has become my favorite hobby. I joined a gym, but can not get motivated to actually make the treacherous journey five blocks to work out. I guess it was a good effort just to go the first time and sign up. It is not a total loss, I did go a few days that first week. I am in need of a good catalyst to increase my work out potential. Getting increasingly obese does not seem to do the trick. Maybe a minor illness that would require a drastic change in lifestyle. I don't want anything serious. I know that AIDS and Cancer can really bring some major weight loss, but I am not that serious about physical fitness. Maybe if a doctor told me, "if you don't lose 80 pounds we will have to amputate your left leg." That would be pretty motivating, but not quite life threatening. Deep down however, I think I could even sleep through that. I could rationalize to myself that with only one leg I could get one of those Hover Round electronic wheelchairs and be even lazier. Also, if I did lose my left leg, it alone probably weighs about 50 pounds, at least. So, I would have lost fifty pounds without having to do anything. Hell, take both of them I would be at my 100 pound weight loss goal. I am going to pull it together and show a little more gumption for going to the gym. I have grown attached to my legs no matter how heavy they are.
Laziness has become my favorite hobby. I joined a gym, but can not get motivated to actually make the treacherous journey five blocks to work out. I guess it was a good effort just to go the first time and sign up. It is not a total loss, I did go a few days that first week. I am in need of a good catalyst to increase my work out potential. Getting increasingly obese does not seem to do the trick. Maybe a minor illness that would require a drastic change in lifestyle. I don't want anything serious. I know that AIDS and Cancer can really bring some major weight loss, but I am not that serious about physical fitness. Maybe if a doctor told me, "if you don't lose 80 pounds we will have to amputate your left leg." That would be pretty motivating, but not quite life threatening. Deep down however, I think I could even sleep through that. I could rationalize to myself that with only one leg I could get one of those Hover Round electronic wheelchairs and be even lazier. Also, if I did lose my left leg, it alone probably weighs about 50 pounds, at least. So, I would have lost fifty pounds without having to do anything. Hell, take both of them I would be at my 100 pound weight loss goal. I am going to pull it together and show a little more gumption for going to the gym. I have grown attached to my legs no matter how heavy they are.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
There is no I in Team, but there is an M and an E.
Posted by Killer:
It is a grand day for the Killer Rants establishment. Soon we will be able to go head to head with such great periodicals like, Ladies Home Journal and Cat Weekly. Liz, who surrendered her own blog faster than the French army, has agreed to continue her irreverent observations here. I would like to think she will be Watson to my Sherlock, but it is more likely she will be Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote.
In another note, I am supposed to give a "shout out" to all my homeys at the hospital who have begun reading this blog. This is a pretty low tech web page so if you do not leave a comment, then I don't know you were here. Please feel free to leave any suggestions, comments or criticisms. Just go easy on the criticisms, I am very sensitive.
Your humble blogger
Killer
It is a grand day for the Killer Rants establishment. Soon we will be able to go head to head with such great periodicals like, Ladies Home Journal and Cat Weekly. Liz, who surrendered her own blog faster than the French army, has agreed to continue her irreverent observations here. I would like to think she will be Watson to my Sherlock, but it is more likely she will be Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote.
In another note, I am supposed to give a "shout out" to all my homeys at the hospital who have begun reading this blog. This is a pretty low tech web page so if you do not leave a comment, then I don't know you were here. Please feel free to leave any suggestions, comments or criticisms. Just go easy on the criticisms, I am very sensitive.
Your humble blogger
Killer
He Said, She Said
This is the biggest commitment I've ever made to a man.
I have agreed to join my blogging with the blog of another. This union, this merger is epic. No more are we like Martha and the Donald- competing in similar format. We are the hip version of Mary Matlin and James Carville. We are now one.
Killer, I think a tear just fell from my frigid-bitch face.
I would use this introductory post to to tell your family, I mean readers, sorid stories about you from your college and post-college years, but I think they know everything, so that would just be taking up valuable space on your blog. Instead, let's read about ME!
I would like to formally thank you, Killer, for allowing me to be the Garfunkel to your Simon. I look forward to being part of this piece of your world. I think we'll make a wonderful team.
By the way, I always post in Verdana font- small. I also use spell check, but if I've misspelled a word so badly it doesn't show as a replacement option, I leave it in.
If you don't like it, I suggest that you get your own damn blog.
XOXOX,
Liz
I have agreed to join my blogging with the blog of another. This union, this merger is epic. No more are we like Martha and the Donald- competing in similar format. We are the hip version of Mary Matlin and James Carville. We are now one.
Killer, I think a tear just fell from my frigid-bitch face.
I would use this introductory post to to tell your family, I mean readers, sorid stories about you from your college and post-college years, but I think they know everything, so that would just be taking up valuable space on your blog. Instead, let's read about ME!
Let me first show your family a picture, since they all have met me and all find me extremely forgettable. 
Now- for the story of how I got here.
I had, what some considered, my own entertaining venture- spawned and inspired by the very blog I post to tonight- Killer Rants. I was rather candid on my blog and told stories that involved a deck of nude men playing cards, a hairdresser that offered up her man for my pleasure, and a list of things that I think make you an asshole. Unfortunately, news of my blog spread about my work like wildfire and soon HR was reading. Not that I'm a pussy, but I do have aspirations of one day moving up in the company. Once I heard that HR was taking guesses at which co-workers I was referring to in my own rants, I felt it prudent to bail.I would like to formally thank you, Killer, for allowing me to be the Garfunkel to your Simon. I look forward to being part of this piece of your world. I think we'll make a wonderful team.
By the way, I always post in Verdana font- small. I also use spell check, but if I've misspelled a word so badly it doesn't show as a replacement option, I leave it in.
If you don't like it, I suggest that you get your own damn blog.
XOXOX,
Liz
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Unwavering Sexual Confidence
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head? It is very annoying, especially if it is a song that you would not listen to, on purpose, in a million years. I currently am alternating between two songs that will not leave me alone. One is "Where have all the cowboys gone" by Paula Cole, and the other is "I could have danced all night" from the musical, My Fair Lady. I am not sure if there is an underlying psychological dilemma hiding behind these songs, but frankly, it concerns me. I don't really consider myself an overtly manly kind of guy. I don't fear going to see Brokeback Mountain, I don't think gay marriage will end America, and I even lived in the gayest section of San Francisco (the Castro). But the combination of these two songs haunting me is troubling to say the least. If you listen to the words of "Where have all the cowboys gone" (if you google the song title you can find the song lyrics) It is not something a heterosexual male should be singing, "Where is my Marlboro man, where is his shiny gun, where is my lonely ranger..." If you are in an elevator and a 6'1", 360 pound man started singing these words it should invoke fear. If you yourself are a smaller man it could actually cause you to start whimpering and wondering to yourself if this is what happens right before a prison rape. As for "I could have danced all night", there is absolutely no song from a musical that should be whistled, hummed, or even sung softly under your breath, if you have testicles. What is more troubling about finding myself unconsciously singing this song is that it is often accompanied by an elaborate dance routine, and I must point out that I pull it off very gracefully. I have only seen one musical, in it's entirety, and that just happens to be My Fair Lady. This seems to be pretty conclusive evidence that going to see musicals really can cause permanent damage. I saw My Fair Lady over 12 years ago. I believe the only option I have is to take a few days and be as manly as possible to reset my masculinity. It will no doubt include putting on a wife beater t-shirt, watching all the Die Hard movies, and not touching any other dude's balls. Considering my present profession the last part could be hard to accomplish. I am going to get right on this project, right after my pedicure in the morning.
Something stinks...That's a big hammer.
I need to open this blog by mentioning that I am not "boycotting" Liz as my mother has alluded to in her comment to the last blog. It is comforting to know that she did not even bother to comment about my blog, but to ask why she could not immediately leave my blog and go read Liz's. Liz has decided on her own, for personal reasons, to shut her blog down. I, in turn, deleted the link from my blog. Sorry, I tried to talk her out of it, but it was with no avail. So, as to not be the only blogger I know I have asked Liz to join Team Killer Rants. If Liz decides to join she will be able to post here when she wants. That way everyone can continue to watch my mother try and fix her up with my little brother.
Recently on Yahoo news there was a story about a man who was killed by his roommate for using the last of the toilet paper. Most of you might think this sounds rash, but I can feel where he is coming from. I seriously doubt this was the only thing that precipitated the killing. The room mate probably had been drinking his milk and even erasing the messages on the answering machine without telling him who called. I say there had to be more to it because he not only killed him, but he killed him with a combination of a sledgehammer and a claw hammer. You might think that a sledgehammer would be enough, but you have apparently not ever done much work with a sledgehammer. It is strictly a heavy duty tool. It really lacks the knack of getting into hard to reach areas and doing the finer work. If you don't really understand, I recommend you try hammering a small nail into your wall with a sledgehammer. In turn, try smashing someone's head open with a claw hammer sometime. You will be there all day. I think this choice of weapons shows a guy with good problem solving skills. His defense was that they had been arguing about the toilet paper all weekend, and then the guy pulled a rifle on him, so he beat him to death with a pair of hammers. At first glance it would seem rifle beats hammer, but not all weapons follow the simplicity of rock, scissors, paper. There are actually multiple lessons to be learned from this story. 1.) Always keep a secret roll of toilet paper hidden from your roommate. It might someday save your life. 2.) If you do use the last of the toilet paper, run a water hose into the bathroom and tell your roommate you are trying to be more sophisticated and this is a bidet. 3.) If your roommate keeps a sledgehammer and a claw hammer lying around the house avoid any arguments.
I just hope the police allowed this guy to clean his ass before taking him to jail.
Recently on Yahoo news there was a story about a man who was killed by his roommate for using the last of the toilet paper. Most of you might think this sounds rash, but I can feel where he is coming from. I seriously doubt this was the only thing that precipitated the killing. The room mate probably had been drinking his milk and even erasing the messages on the answering machine without telling him who called. I say there had to be more to it because he not only killed him, but he killed him with a combination of a sledgehammer and a claw hammer. You might think that a sledgehammer would be enough, but you have apparently not ever done much work with a sledgehammer. It is strictly a heavy duty tool. It really lacks the knack of getting into hard to reach areas and doing the finer work. If you don't really understand, I recommend you try hammering a small nail into your wall with a sledgehammer. In turn, try smashing someone's head open with a claw hammer sometime. You will be there all day. I think this choice of weapons shows a guy with good problem solving skills. His defense was that they had been arguing about the toilet paper all weekend, and then the guy pulled a rifle on him, so he beat him to death with a pair of hammers. At first glance it would seem rifle beats hammer, but not all weapons follow the simplicity of rock, scissors, paper. There are actually multiple lessons to be learned from this story. 1.) Always keep a secret roll of toilet paper hidden from your roommate. It might someday save your life. 2.) If you do use the last of the toilet paper, run a water hose into the bathroom and tell your roommate you are trying to be more sophisticated and this is a bidet. 3.) If your roommate keeps a sledgehammer and a claw hammer lying around the house avoid any arguments.
I just hope the police allowed this guy to clean his ass before taking him to jail.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
My Ass Vs. Cigarette Smoke (A lose/lose situation)
It is a popular belief in my family that I don't bathe as often as most people in our country. I don't mind this label since it is probably true. I don't share the compulsive urge to take a bath or shower everyday. Hell, if I am off work I can go several days without even thinking about washing off. I don't feel this makes me unclean or nasty, but if I tell other people about this they act like I just shit in my pants. When I lived in Montana with Chad, my frequent travel partner, we would have competitions to see who could go the longest without taking a shower. Chad often won these bouts since I would eventually have to clean up to go to the hospital. Chad worked as a bartender and there are no expectations of cleanliness in Montana bars. I am not sure where Americans developed their infatuation with being clean. Many European cultures see our bathing daily as obsessive, however they do tend to stink, hence mine and Chad's popular phrase, "dude, you are smelling pretty European right now." I keep close check of my personal body odors and will make adjustments as needed in the case of possible offensive smells.
My entire system is thrown out of sorts now that I am living in the South again. I have spent several years living throughout California, which has a progressive stance against second hand smoke. This includes, to my delight, the illegality of smoking inside public buildings. So, smoking in bars and restaurants is not allowed. I have a hearty appetite and an even larger desire to get my drink on, so I frequent many local drinking and eating establishments. Although many states have passed laws outlawing smoking in bars and restaurants, Tennessee is not one of them. That means when I come home from enjoying a few drinks in a bar I smell like an ashtray. I have a few friends who smoke and I have even fewer friends who actually read this blog, so I stand to offend about a fourth of my readership, but damn cigarette smoke stinks, and I am tired of my clothes and abundant body hair soaking up the offensive odor of other peoples bad habits. I have a bad habit of flatulence. I am sure that it would be widely viewed as impolite of me to expel so much flatulence in a closed space as to make everyone in that space smell like my ass.
Now due to this smoke-tastic smell I have obtained, through no fault of my own. I have to take a shower. This might not sound so terrible to many of you, but I took a shower a couple of days ago and I was hoping to hold off until I had to go back to work. It is the small pleasures in life that really matter, and mine just happen to include the freedom of not having to wash myself very often.
I am not actually expecting any empathy from many of you, but a little sympathy might help. It helps that the shower masks my tears caused by having to bathe on a non work day.
My entire system is thrown out of sorts now that I am living in the South again. I have spent several years living throughout California, which has a progressive stance against second hand smoke. This includes, to my delight, the illegality of smoking inside public buildings. So, smoking in bars and restaurants is not allowed. I have a hearty appetite and an even larger desire to get my drink on, so I frequent many local drinking and eating establishments. Although many states have passed laws outlawing smoking in bars and restaurants, Tennessee is not one of them. That means when I come home from enjoying a few drinks in a bar I smell like an ashtray. I have a few friends who smoke and I have even fewer friends who actually read this blog, so I stand to offend about a fourth of my readership, but damn cigarette smoke stinks, and I am tired of my clothes and abundant body hair soaking up the offensive odor of other peoples bad habits. I have a bad habit of flatulence. I am sure that it would be widely viewed as impolite of me to expel so much flatulence in a closed space as to make everyone in that space smell like my ass.
Now due to this smoke-tastic smell I have obtained, through no fault of my own. I have to take a shower. This might not sound so terrible to many of you, but I took a shower a couple of days ago and I was hoping to hold off until I had to go back to work. It is the small pleasures in life that really matter, and mine just happen to include the freedom of not having to wash myself very often.
I am not actually expecting any empathy from many of you, but a little sympathy might help. It helps that the shower masks my tears caused by having to bathe on a non work day.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Welcome Random Blog Reader
If you glance up to the right hand corner of the page here you will see a button that says, "next blog." I really recommend you hit it sometime. It takes you, completely at random, to a strange new blog. It is quite an experience. Many are in foreign languages that I can not read, so I assume they are writing long elaborate blogs about me. This helps me feel more important and paranoid at the same time. A few are pretty cool and appear to be written by people who are living in strange and exotic locales. Some, however are very bizarre and troubling, in my own humble opinion. So, I have begun to wonder what would a person think if they clicked next blog and ended up on this site. Would they find me entertaining? Could they see me as narcissistic and shallow? Or maybe they would not be able to read English and just assume that I am writing about them.
I tend to write this blog in such a way that the three people who read it will find it funny. If you don't know me than I can understand how it would often make me appear psychotic. I assure you, several years of therapy and a daily cocktail of highly powerful pharmaceutical agents can allow me to legally say, "I am not psychotic." I am going to take this moment to welcome any "next blog" button pushers and give them a chance to get to know me a little better.
Killer is not my real name. It is a nickname I acquired when I was very young. I have never actually killed anything. It is only a play on my middle name, Kelly. I am not really sure why my parents decided to name me Kelly, but they did, and I can not change it now. The vast majority of my friends still refer to me by the name Killer, but not at work. It could be disconcerting to a hospital patient if they knew their nurse was going by the moniker, Killer.
I am a smart ass by nature and often can not control it. It is like tourette's syndrome. I frequently will say things that I find funny even when other people feel it is inappropriate. Like wondering aloud, while watching the plane crash coverage for JFK Jr., if he was listening to John Denver when the plane went down.
If you do happen to stumble upon my blog I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a comment, whether good or bad. Also feel free to leave a plug for your own blog. I would love to check it out. It takes a really long time to find good blogs just pushing the next blog button. But I really have nothing better to do.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Ray Hates Trees, but loves Bushes?
My brother (in law, but I will claim him as the real deal), Ray, has left an angry and besmirching comment to my previous blog. He calls me a tree hugger (actually he called me a tree "huger") for making light of our current Vice President's proclivity for shooting old people in the face. I am hurt by this label. I don't think it makes me a tree hugger because I don't like Dick Cheney shooting old people. It makes me an old people hugger, but I don't really endorse that notion either. Old people tend to be squishy and brittle. They are also short. I don't know if old people just shrink with age or maybe people are just getting taller each generation, or maybe there is a correlation with height and the ability to reach the later years, but I usually have to bend over in order to hug them. They also tend to smell like moth balls or bengay. Everyone always talks about the way babies smell, but not the way old people smell. Suprisingly enough, they both frequently smell like poop. The biggest problem with the elderly is their apparent inability to not stand between Dick Cheney's shotgun and quail. But I have digressed from the original topic of this blog, Ray.
Ray implied that I don't enjoy living in a free country. I do, as a matter of fact, enjoy it very much. I especially enjoy how it allows me to mock it, criticize it and even dream of improving it. ( I think that last sentence would be dramatically improved if you read it again, but this time hum the national anthem softly to yourself.) This great and free country even allows for me to go out and hug trees, or old people. I am going to leave work and do both.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Duck, here comes Dick!
Dick Cheney shot a 78 year old man in the face. Suprisingly at the same time ex-FEMA boss, Mike Brown, is saying he had warned the White House about risks with hurricanes and New Orleans. Could this all be a plot to take the attention away from a potentially explosive issue? It used to only take a sudden change in our Homeland Security alert level (From Yellow to Orange, etc.), but Americans are not so easily distracted now. I am sure that other measures were discussed first to cause a diversion. Maybe a Condaleeza Rice sex tape to be stolen and then posted on the internet. The possibility of invading a random country probably was brought up, but then they remembered we are still working on the last invasion. I wonder how long it took Cheney and his secret service men to decide to take the old guy to the hospital. I am certain that a debate was at least internally held by Cheney. I mean, the guy is 78, they could just have the NSA dispose of the body and then make up some scenario to cover the whole thing up. "I don't know, he mumbled something about going to feed the cat and then wandered off into the woods, we never saw him again." To bad Scooter Libby was not with the group, they would have made him take the fall for the entire thing.
Friday, February 10, 2006
SUPER VALENTINES DAY SALE-O-RAMA
I am excited to announce my special pre-spring sale special. All Blog entries are 50% off! Hurry on down and check out the great selection. We have an excellent variety of products. We have blogs about masturbation. We have blogs about informercials. I believe we even have a few blogs remaining from last summer on our clearance racks. Take an additional 50% off any blogs that mention my mother as either old or senile. Everything Must Go!! We are slashing prices to make way for the fresh inventory of newly designed blogs that will be rolling onto the showroom floor this spring. I will not be undersold. Other bloggers may tell you they can give you better prices, but don't believe Liz. I will beat any offer, in fact for a limited time, I will not only match any advertised price, but I will give an additional 83% off that price. If you say you heard it here I will give you an Additional 20% off. That is 103% off the sticker price. That means you will actually make money by getting your blogs from me. Don't wait another minute. We have a limited amount of blogs available and they will be going fast. Hurry on down, the first 200 readers will get a free "Killer Rants" Tshirt.
All Sales are final. Blogger reserves the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. In recent clinical studies it has been shown that reading blogs can cause the following side effects: Heartburn, Indegestion, Abdominal Cramping, Nausea, Diarhea, Constipation, Blurry vision, Rectal itching and in some rare cases Death. Consult a physician before reading this or any other blog. All offers made in this advertisement are of limited value. Blogger reserves right to replace all items with items of equal or lesser value. Tshirt offer is entirely false and the first 200 readers will actually receive nothing except shame and ridicule. Ray Smells Like Feet!
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Why Everyone Except Me Sucks
I have just spent the last four days entertaining my four closest friends. That means almost 96 hours of round the clock fun. The last 12 hours were quite miserable. I just wanted everyone to leave, give me some peace, give me some quiet. If I can't handle four days with the four people who are the most like me, who can I deal with? It should be painfully obvious to most readers that I am single. I don't know how you married people manage to spend everyday with the same person around all the time. Most the time I just want to watch TV by myself with out having anyone else's input on what to watch. I don't want to hear anyone else's movie choices, restaurant choices, or complaints about work. I don't want to know when you want to exercise and I especially don't want anyone telling me when to clean up. This is why I am single. This is also why those of you who are not wish you were me. Please don't misunderstand. I really love these guys, I just don't want to live in a one bedroom apartment with all of them. I can say this with out risk of hurting any of their feelings because none of them read my blog. You got to love friends like these.
The older I get the harder it is to put these needs aside. I have less tolerance for outside views and more bad habits I don't want to change. I just need to find the perfect woman for me. One that likes to sit in the corner quietly while I lounge around the living room in my underwear and watch modern marvels on the history channel. I guess she would not have to sit in the corner, she could stay in the bedroom, or the kitchen. Just as long as she was out of sight and not making any opinions known to me. I don't see how this is too much to ask. I don't have to be alone all the time, just about 50% of the day. Not including sleeping and bathroom time. I guess I could tolerate having a wife around about 2 hours out of the day, but not everyday. Maybe I can start a program where you can do time shares on spouses. I would not be sexist. I would include husbands in this program. There are many female friends of mine who only want a man when there are chores around the house that need tending to, or maybe just somebody to yell at. Maybe they could even show up with a couple of kids for a few hours and then take them away as well. I would enjoy having a wife and kids every once in a while. I could use them to take photos for my mom to hang around the house. It would also give her some grandkids to spoil. A lot of the time this seems to be my only motivation to ever want to have kids. Plus once she gets old and senile I could have my time share family watch her. I could say, "hey, rental (this is what I would call my time share kid) go catch your Grandma, she is out in traffic again." He would probably cry about my lack of desire to learn his real name, but he is just a time share kid and I won't have any real attachment to him. Unless I start the time share family service I don't see any way to remedy my unique family needs. I would just order a bride from Russia or S.E. Asia, but then they would not know anyone here in the State so they would NEVER leave me alone. I could probably make them sit in the corner or the back room a lot easier, but subconsciously I would keep wondering what they were up to and not be able to really enjoy watching modern marvels on the history channel, and deep down that is all I really want.
The older I get the harder it is to put these needs aside. I have less tolerance for outside views and more bad habits I don't want to change. I just need to find the perfect woman for me. One that likes to sit in the corner quietly while I lounge around the living room in my underwear and watch modern marvels on the history channel. I guess she would not have to sit in the corner, she could stay in the bedroom, or the kitchen. Just as long as she was out of sight and not making any opinions known to me. I don't see how this is too much to ask. I don't have to be alone all the time, just about 50% of the day. Not including sleeping and bathroom time. I guess I could tolerate having a wife around about 2 hours out of the day, but not everyday. Maybe I can start a program where you can do time shares on spouses. I would not be sexist. I would include husbands in this program. There are many female friends of mine who only want a man when there are chores around the house that need tending to, or maybe just somebody to yell at. Maybe they could even show up with a couple of kids for a few hours and then take them away as well. I would enjoy having a wife and kids every once in a while. I could use them to take photos for my mom to hang around the house. It would also give her some grandkids to spoil. A lot of the time this seems to be my only motivation to ever want to have kids. Plus once she gets old and senile I could have my time share family watch her. I could say, "hey, rental (this is what I would call my time share kid) go catch your Grandma, she is out in traffic again." He would probably cry about my lack of desire to learn his real name, but he is just a time share kid and I won't have any real attachment to him. Unless I start the time share family service I don't see any way to remedy my unique family needs. I would just order a bride from Russia or S.E. Asia, but then they would not know anyone here in the State so they would NEVER leave me alone. I could probably make them sit in the corner or the back room a lot easier, but subconsciously I would keep wondering what they were up to and not be able to really enjoy watching modern marvels on the history channel, and deep down that is all I really want.
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