Things You Should Invent...Please?

Liz is thinking but not doing:

There are several things I think could make life better if they only existed. I do not have the financial resources to build a laboratory to invent these things and I have the attention span of a 3 year old when it comes to manual labor. Therefore, I'll just share the concepts.

1. magnetic outdoor Christmas lights. Uses include on your car (Tack-Fabulous) and, if you'll put some magnetic strips under the eaves of your home ONE time, you can throw those lights up year after year with the greatest of ease. PERFECT for metal mobile homes!
2. design your own font. I think it would be cool if I could use my own handwriting on the computer. I have nice penmanship and, thanks to Verdana or Times New Roman, am not getting the recognition all those years in grammar school should be affording me.
3. the "nap sack". I don't know if everyone spends as much time sleeping in his car as I do, but I find the seat to be less comfortable that I would like. I think cars should have the option of an inflatable, pillowy soft cushion so that reclining for that quick power nap is actually a joy rather than a necessity.
4. An option to go with the nap sack is a hologram device that makes it look like no one is reclining in their car taking a nap. I sometimes find it awkward to sleep in my car at work. I get paranoid that someone is going to think I'm not "working" just because I'm in the parking lot taking a nap. People are always judging me. If there was a way to make the car APPEAR empty, it would help me relax and get to sleep faster. That would mean less time away from my desk.
5. the self lighting cigarette. I spend an ample amount of time in bars or around drunk people. Sometimes lighting a cigarette is a major ordeal. When you get it wrong, not only did you waste a good smoke, but the smell of a burning filter is horrific. I guess the cigarette would have to ignite when the mouth end came in contact with something wet. This means smoking on the beach could become a hazard; not to mention the ramifications of a Clinton-Lewinsky-cigar romp.
6. self-starting panties. We all know that men are easily aroused and some even have the audacity to complain that women take too long to "get there". Wouldn't it be nice to have a motorized pair of drawers that could start the action before hand? It's the gift that would keep on giving, but someone is going to have to figure out how to make this work without noise. I am afraid this invention has the potential to be abused. Can you imagine the Monday morning staff meetings? BZZZZZZZ HUUUMMMMM... it could become awkward.
7. the "no, I haven't been drinking" blood alcohol modulator. Since the penny under your tongue is a wives's tale, it's about time someone took the fear out of a night of good old fashioned binge drinking. The "that's not marijuana in my urine" kit sold separately.
8. a gaydar ring. Any gay man within a 6-foot radius will cause the ring to glow in rainbow colors. If I fall for one more gay man, I am going to become one myself.
9. the brush stroke. The hands-free device that perfectly fixes your hair while you're doing more important things such as napping in your car.
10. the pedicure midget. I'm not thinking this would be a real person or anything, just a tiny shoe that did pedicures for you.
11. the "every shot of me is a good one" camera. It would slim you up and airbrush your imperfections before ever revealing any image. It would only work for the owner of the camera, as you sometimes need those blackmail shots.
12. an "I'm not interested" LCD headband. Actually, you could have a headband that scrolled a lot of different messages across it. This too could become very dangerous after a few vodka tonics, but man wouldn't it be fun! Especially if you got a hold of your friend's headband without her knowing!

I Resolve To Resolute

A New Start For Killer

I don't want to say my New Years Resolution is to lose weight. It is more of a resolution to not die of a Myocardial Infarction or get Diabetes and have my toes fall off. I like my toes. They are hairy and I can pick things up off the floor with them, instead of bending over. That might be why I have a weight problem.
Resolution 1: Bend Over

I need to get out more, maybe quit working so much. When you work a lot that tends to be all you post about. It becomes an endless cycle: Work, Sleep, Write about work, Think about sleep. If I could expand my horizons I could spread my blog topics around. There by helping expand your lives as well.
Resolution 2: Spread 'em

I have to work so I can be off in the summers. The world won't come to me, so I have to go to it. In the mean time, I am going to have to squeeze as much excitement into the few hours I have off from work. I will have to literally fling myself out into the world and cram as much adventure in as I can tolerate.
Resolution 3: Cram It

So to recap here are my official resolutions for 2007:

1. Bend Over
2. Spread 'em
3. Cram It

Gosh, that sounds a little disturbing once it is all put together. Then again, considering how well my resolutions usually pan out, it might be the most accurate plan of action. However, this does lead me to a fourth resolution.

Resolution 4: Make Posts Less Sexually Deviant

What Would You Bring?

Killer, pissing off the natives.

Setting: Four nurses sitting around the nurses station eating cookies. Alarms are going off, people are calling for help, but that can wait. We have cookies.

RN1: If we are all stranded on a deserted island what is the one item you would want?

RN2: I would want a big box of matches so I can make fire and stay warm. I hate to be cold.

*nods of agreement with murmurs of approval.

RN3: I want fishing supplies so I can get some food.

*more enthusiastic agreement. RN2 now looks dejected that her match idea has been bested.

RN1: Well, I would want a Bible so I could pray to be rescued.

*sudden back pedaling by 2&3. The Bible was understood, they want a second chance.

Me: I would want a baseball bat so I could hit you guys and take away your items. I could fish, then start a fire to cook the fish.

*2&3 laugh and a discussion begins on the weapons/traps they could make out of fishing wire and matches to stop a bat wielding lunatic on a deserted island.

RN1: (looking aghast) That is really not fair. You would actually hit someone and take their Bible?

Me: No, I wouldn't want your Bible. On the deserted island, me and my bat would rule. I would start my own religion, quickly making your Bible obsolete.

RN1: I would use my Bible and start a church on the island.

Me: Well, my new religion would have church services that were centered around all you can eat fish fries.

*RN1 turns to 2&3 and very seriously asks:

RN1: Who's church are you going to join?

*2&3 are obviously enjoying tormenting RN1.

RN3: If he has all the fishing supplies and matches, we would have to go the fish fry church.

RN1: (standing in a huff) I'll pray for your souls.

Me: (as she storms away) I'll fry some fish for yours.

What a Way to Start the New Year

Liz lightly pecks away at the keyboard while her head pounds:

Vodka shots are BAD, evil things. I can still taste the last one I did lingering somewhere in the back of my throat, threatening to make a reappearance if I do so much as tilt my head in a funny direction.

I find similar characteristics between alcohol and men. Life is much better with it than without it, but too much time around it has painful repercussions. I am committed to not giving up alcohol or men, but I find that I get sick of both of those things pretty quickly. At what point am I going to simply give in and accept that I'm like an alcoholic Flo from Mel's diner? I want my shot after shift ends, I want to find the occasional cutie to have dinner with, and then I want to be left alone to sleep all afternoon and walk through my house without brushing my hair or teeth or showering, or even with pants on, sometimes for a couple of days.

I try avoiding new year's resolutions because they don't take. This year, however, I'm going to put not smoking back on my to do list. That gives me 12 months to make it happen before I can officially say that I, yet again, failed. That's the kind of pressure I can appreciate.

I'm thinking with this being 2007 I might try to adopt a more James Bond lifestyle. I have the vodka drinks down and as you know I'm a card player. It's the fast cars and intense knowledge of... uh... everything that I lack. I think it would be cool to find ONE characteristic or skill that James Bond has and make the mastery of that my goal for 2007. Maybe, inexplicably, I could start speaking with a British accent or maybe I could purchase a pen that will scald the skin off my coworkers with acid. The options are limitless! I really need to sit down and think about this. I have a tendency to get James Bond and the Pink Panther movies confused.

How about you? Have you resolved to do anything differently now that 007 is here?

The Good the Bad and the Funky

A menage a trois eulogy by Killer

"Celebrities die in threes." A common quote and a hardened belief. This past week it was given good support for it's credence.

President Gerald Ford ended his reign as the oldest surviving former President. Thanks to the multitude of 24 hour news channels, I could watch a non stop video feed of strangers walking past a coffin. I kept hoping someone would trip and knock the box over as a final tribute to Gerry. When Gerry gets to the Pearly gates this will be the conversation, "Gerry, you were a good man. It would seem like you should be a shoe in." Says St. Peter. "But, that Nixon pardon...not even J.C. would have turned that cheek."

Saddam Hussein was sent to spend eternity with forty virgins and a mule. (I think that is how the Koran promises it) I don't know if you can count being executed in the celebrity death threesome, but it will have to do. Saddam's demise was very anti-climactic. Personally, I think they should have tied him up on a Baghdad street corner and let any Iraqi's, wanting to participate, kick him in the nuts. It is a sad testament to our progress rebuilding the Iraqi infrastructure. They had to lynch Saddam because apparently they couldn't spare the juice for an electric chair.

The Godfather of Soul, James Brown, the hardest working man in show business, had a long and illustrious career of toe tapping tunes. ("I feel good", "I'm black and I'm proud", etc.) He also had his fair share of misunderstandings with the law. Whether it be drugs, alcohol, or a little innocent wife beating, "the Man" was always trying to hold the Soul Man down.
This is how I want the funeral to end: The coffin is wheeled down in front of the Apollo theater. When the grandiose music dies down, Brown's cape flunky rushes over and covers the coffin with the infamous cape. Suddenly the lid flies open and Brown leaps up and does one last funky hip shuffle. His lifeless body settles back into the coffin. James Brown knows how to end a show.

Homer Simpson and Gerald Ford

Possibly the greatest Gerald Ford tribute.

Grampa's corn whiskey

Weakly, she writes:

Last night was one of those 3 AM, ok I have to go to bed after this LAST beer, nights. I had some friends over, a couple of which spent the night. Good. DUIs are nasty things. I had some other friends come by late in the evening after 8 hours of drinking at the bar. GREAT! Except they brought the BAR with them to my house!

I, of course, find this funny, delightful, and slightly inappropriate. I mean, these aren't friends of my friends, these are just folks from the bar. No one knows any one's last name. I can assume the strangers were all too drunk to ever remember how to get back to my house, but if one of them shows up at my doorstep this weekend I'm calling my friends to come and pick the strangers up and take them back to their house. I am not, contrary to what my neighbors might think, running my own pub, safe house, dance club, or brothel.

I like the friends. I don't even mind the strangers. They seem harmless enough. The "problem" was with Grampa Lucky. Dude was fucked up. He had to have help getting into the house and finding a chair. It was kind of sad. I mean, this dude is about 50 and still wearing a baseball cap out to clubs. He has those 1993 Ralph Lauren looking glasses and bucked teeth that he conceals with an oversized salt and pepper mustache. I've seen him at the watering hole before, each time he's been as inebriated as me or even more. I drink for fun and then forget things. I think Grampa Lucky drinks to forget and thinks that is fun. See the difference?

I stepped to the back of the house for a bathroom break and I heard all this commotion- my closet door was flung open and then I heard the front door bang against the wall. I'LL BET GRAMPA BROKE HIS HIP AND FELL was my initial thought. Incorrect.

Luckily, he made it outside to the bushes before vomiting. Now, I won't try to be Ms. Fonzi and tell you that I have NEVER puked from drinking because I have. FORTUNATELY I have not puked in a stranger's front yard since the late 80's. I hate vomiting. I could never be bulimic because I so disdain hurling. If I over do my vodka drinks I will lay down, very still, in a dark and quiet place. ANYTHING to not puke. And I don't only hate when I puke, I hate to be around puke. I could never be a nurse or doctor because the first time bodily fluids spewed violently from a patient I would turn in my badge immediately. The sound, the smell, the viscosity.... NONE of it is on my list of things I handle well. You think I don't have kids because I don't like children? Nope. I don't like shit or vomit, so I don't have kids. Even my cats are on thin ice.

When Grampa Lucky came back into the house, he had vomit on his pant leg. Ewww. He came bouncing in, like nothing had happened, and requested a beer even though I was trying to sell him on a glass of water. I know the feeling. You feel like you have to play it off like everything is kosher. When he left, he again needed much assistance getting out of the front door.

How embarrassing.

Especially when the stranger whose house you vomited at is going to post this story on her blog.

Today is a rainy day. I'm sincerly hoping that by the end of today all that remains of Grampa Lucky's vomit is a burnt patch in the grass and a memory of the time the bar FINALY came to me instead of me going to the bar. I wonder if this ever happened to Sam Malone?

Woes of a White Man

Paranoia grips Killer

Apparently there is one instant access to America from the Philippines. It is nursing. The nursing programs in the Philippines are pretty well respected, so there are many American hospitals who go there to recruit young nurses to leave and come to America. Once here you can get a permanent work visa. If you want to meet a Filipino go to the nearest hospital. I have only worked in one or two hospitals around America without any Filipinos, and in California, they are often times, the majority.

Please don't misunderstand, I love Filipino's. They love to share their food with me. They work all the time, so if you need a shift covered, find a Filipino. They also have an intense desire to have everyone around them married, so as soon as they hear you are single, the match making begins.

Being match makers is also one of the two downsides to being surrounded by Filipinos. Every job I have had in California has been started with the same questions. "Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? Why not?" After a few minutes of contemplation a more surreptitious question is whispered, "Do you like filipinAs or filipinOs?" Once I clear the air about my sexuality I am informed of any and all single filipinas at this hospital, the neighboring hospitals, as well as, any potential relatives back in the Philippines.

The downside to dating a Filipina is that by the second or third date, marriage plans have been finalized within the family and community. Love or compatibility are not an issue, you are single, she is single, marriage is the only recourse.

Another drawback to being a minority among the Filipino nurses is they love to speak in Tagalog. If you have two or more together within a few sentences the language changes and you are left out in the conversational cold.

It is a fast and confusing language with English words peppered in just frequent enough to make me paranoid. "blah blah blah FAT blah blah blah ORANGE blah blah HAIRY" Then everyone laughs, I look bewildered, they all laugh at my discomfort, I knock over the nearest Filipino, and screaming and more foreign language tirades ensue, "blah blah blah FAT blah blah POLICE blah blah RUN AWAY."

I can't marry a person who will teach our children a language I don't speak. I don't think I want to spend the rest of my life wondering if they are talking about me. They are naturally small people so the urge to crush one as a lesson to the others is often overwhelming. Maybe it is an egotistical issue with me assuming everyone speaking a foreign language is discussing me. That is why I can't watch Spanish television. All those hot Mexican chicks talking about me, but making out with a hot Mexican guy, drives me nuts.

All That AND a Bag of Chips?

Liz Freud writes:

I have been having really vivid dreams this week. I think it's the 10 hour stretches of sleep, followed by 2 hour naps that are provoking this.

I love the dream I had last night. I heard a ruckus outside my bedroom window so I went to the window to see what was going on. There was a leprechaun standing there with a shot gun that had a twisted barrel. It was pointed at me. I don't know much about leprechaun folklore, but this leprechaun was total trash. He must come from Appalachia as his outfit was completed with a
brown and tan foam-stuffed baseball cap and he had awful teeth and a scruffy beard; the kind that can only come from poor nutrition or too much estrogen. He shouted threats and profanity and although the gun did scare me a little, I couldn't get over the fact that this leprechaun was such a scourge.

A thug leprechaun is a delightful way to dream the night away.

In other news, I have pin pointed the difference in men and women. Yesterday I went fishing with some guys from work. They had been at the lake for hours before I had arrived and the cooler was full of bream. Being men, they, of course, had no need to go indoors during any of this fish fest. That means every time they caught a fish, they man handled it. Every time they baited a hook, the cricket guts stayed on their fingers. Every time they peed, the same hand that was just holding their penis spread those dick germs onto the chair and into the cooler.

I can live with all of these things. The problem came when I brought chips and dip. My newly understood clarity comes down to these two points:

1. Bringing chips and dip to a day of fishing is definitely a girl thing to do.
2. Reaching into that bag of chips and eating food with the hands that have your dick germs, cricket guts, lake water and fish shit on them is definitely a guy thing to do.

I used to have these fantasies about a log-cabin hottie; a man's man with brawn and rugged masculinity. The more time I spend around normal guys, the more I want a guy that carries a bottle of Germ-X in his pocket.

I can see how menstruation could be a little freaky to a man, but that's just nature being nature and not by choice. Other than that, what do women do that is totally gross to a guy? I don't understand how I can love my boys as much as I do- they are foul and disgusting creatures, yet I bring them snacks.

I guess it's a matter of needing someone to bait the hook.

Dissension in the Ranks

The following is an open letter from my work shoes.

Dear Killer,

I have been elected from your shoe supply to bring to your attention some concerns and complaints we have. We would like to offer an opportunity for open, amiable dialogue before more drastic measures are needed.

It is often believed that, as shoes, we are empty objects willing to accept any foot you decide to cram in, but that is very wrong. We have feelings, desires, and most important, a sense of smell.

This brings us to the point of our discussion. Your feet stink. Sure, in a grand sense all feet stink, but yours have become repugnant. Believe me, you would not like it if someone came along and shoved a large, sweaty, malodorous appendage into an orifice of yours.

Another issue is you not wearing socks. You have hair on your toes, I didn't even know that was possible. Even thinking about it right now makes me want to puke up my shoe liner.
A think cotton layer shouldn't be too much to ask for. The preference would be for a thick rubber foot condom, but when someone is cramming a crusty, smelly flab of meat against your tongue, you'll take whatever you can get.

I hope this brings to light just some of the issues we are dealing with, and thus results in some positive changes.
We have a few recommendations: Get a second pair of work shoes, we need a day off every once in a while. Buy some Tough Actin' Tinactin, and for the love of Pete, get some socks. If I have to look at that weird shit growing between your toes any longer I'm going to pull these laces out and strangle myself.

Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter.
Left Work Shoe

Another Anti-Climactic Christmas

Killer kicks and screams, "gimme, gimme, gimme."

Christmas has passed and, instead of a pre-Christmas wish list, I decided this year to give a post-Christmas listing of the things I wanted, but did not get.

1. Christmas sex.
Come on, how many times does a guy have to post about wanting to get laid before someone gives a helping hand? I have determined that there is a definite lack of sluts reading this blog. I am going to have to take aggressive measures to remedy that for the next year. Maybe I could advertise in some sort of pro-slut periodical. Is there a "Sluts Weekly"?

2. An official Red Ryder carbine action, two-hundred shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock.
The first thing I would do is sit downstairs next Christmas and plug Santa in the Ass for making me wait 25 years to get this. That fat son of a bitch.

3. Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men.
Selfish Middle Eastern, and West African bastards need to quit fighting each other over products to sell to us. I do not really expect to get this gift, but I throw it in to seem like I am compassionate and caring. (to hopefully help out with the first wish)

4. The Salvation Army invades Goodwill.
Every year these two charity juggernauts battle it out for your loose change and old clothes that my fat ass can not fit into anymore. Every year I wish to see a breaking news report that the Salvation Army has amassed it's forces and crushed Goodwill industries in an amazing display of "Shock and Awe". Your an army damn it, act like it.

5. Become financially independent and quit work.
Another year goes by without a lawyer calling me out of the blue to tell me that a long lost Great Aunt or Uncle has died leaving their millions of dollars to me. This one is most painful, because I don't allow anyone to call me from December 23rd until December 26th. I insist on keeping the phone lines open. Usually by the 27th I start calling a few random law firms to ask if they have been trying to get a hold of me. Every year, right after Christmas, each ass I have to wipe at the hospital is a mocking reminder of my middle class bondage.

My Best Worst Day: To Chad With Love

Imagine Casy Kassem is saying:

This very special post dedication goes out to a very special man, miles away from his friends and family, in a foreign country, eating pickled embryo instead of black eyed peas on New Years Eve.Today, it is Chad that has proven to be the muse for Liz. Today, Chad, you are celebrated as the wonderful man you are. This one is for you.

Liz remembers with vague guilt AND pleasure:

About 8 years ago I was living in a rural part of the state, driving to work each day on a winding country road hardly large enough for two compacts much less my compact and a farm tractor pulled by a heavy-duty pick up. Getting onto the highway to start my daily commute was an exercise in patience and mental acuity. One glance at the radio and I could hit a deer, skid on gravel, or be squished by a truck toting chickens to slaughter. I don't recommend started every day this way, but when you live in the sticks this is one of the hazards.

Every day on my drive I would pass a herd of children waiting for their bus, their ages ranging from 6 to 12 years old. They were dumbass country children whose mothers never taught them to STAY OUT OF THE STREET; especially when the street is curvy and people like Liz perpetually run 20 minutes behind schedule.

Nearly every day I would have to come to a complete stop while the dumbass children gathered their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats out of the street and amble to the curve. Nearly every day road rage would overtake me before I had even passed another vehicle. These children could ruin a perfectly good morning commute- spilled coffee from slamming on brakes, starting the morning with horn honking, exasperated sighs of disgust. It was LIKE living in the city, only without the culture and cute outfits.

Things got worse right after Christmas. The matriarch of the dumbass children gave them a puppy. Now every Monday-Friday I would have to wait on the dumbass children to gather their backpacks and lunch boxes and shoes and coats and Puddles. Wrangling a puppy is not a quick task. It wasn't so much that my patience was stretched (which it was) as the fact that no one was supervising these children and, if you're going to have unaccompanied minors, at least teach them that kid versus car NEVER ends well.

One day, after a complete stop and assurance that all children were safely huddled on the side of the road, I slowly crept forward. The sound was like stepping on a bag of potato chips. In my rearview mirror I saw the stunned expressions on their dirty little inbred faces. As I eeked forward, I saw the crumbled pile of puppy laying on the asphalt behind me.

I took out Puddles.

As an animal lover, I think I did this puppy a favor. And the best part of this horrible experience is that when the dumbass children saw MY car coming down the street, from that day forward, they got out of the fucking way.

I Had A Dream

Liz wipes sleep from her eyes:

Somehow, I was in Rosie O'Donnel's house with my dog, Frito. I do not know Rosie O'Donnel nor do I have a black and white dog named Frito. Her house was NOT very Hollywood. I would define it as middle-class at best. The carpet didn't seem very clean and she had not done a very good job of hiding the wires that hooked up her Web TV to the master unit. It was a 50's style ranch, maybe 1,900 square feet. She had a lot of crap in her house- and I mean junk. Old, unattractive things, cheap frames around terrible art prints. I don't think this is how Ms. O'Donnel really lives, but it's a dream... and it gets worse.

Frito had gotten in some trouble. My B/F/F told me that he was causing a ruckus down the street so I went to investigate. The ruckus he caused was at Rosie's. She invited me in. The next thing you know, I'm a house guest... really. Like I was hundreds of miles away from home and crashing at Rosie's... and her girlfriend was out of town.

Rosie was very upset. Madonna had dumped Guy Ritchie and started dating Lionel Ritchie, with plans to marry. She was checking her Web TV for updates. When she left the room, cursing, her private email came on. There was a message from KILLER!! I opened it, knowing that I shouldn't but it was from KILLER! I had to. It was actually a forward of a forward of a forward that had originated from Killer. The forward said, "Hey. A friend sent me this. I think it's funny. Check it out." I remember being jealous that Killer's "work" is being forwarded to Hollywood stars and mine is not.

When it was time to go to sleep, Rosie said that I would be sleeping in her room. Innocent me thought that meant alone. It did not. In my dream, I woke up with Rosie O'Donnel hitting on me. She was laying beside me in bed, rolled over and put her hand on my leg. She was awake. I was faking sleep. I had on clothes but could feel that she did not. I knew that she knew I was not asleep, but I was not going to give in on this one. There is NO WAY that Rosie O'Donnel was going to violate me!

She finally gave up. I lay in bed waiting for her to go to sleep so that I could get out of there. I felt wronged; I had done nothing to indicate that I was into lesbian love. I had been keeping a safe and appropriate distance between myself and Ms. O'Donnel all night. No flirting, no coy remarks, no batting of eyelashes.

Once she was out, I packed up my duffel bag and went to the web TV. I found the message that had originated from Killer and was able to send him a note. It said:

"A naked Rosie O'Donnel just tried to put her hand on my twat. I'm outta here. If I don't make it out alive, you know where I am."

I left Frito with Ms. O'Donnel. After all, I don't have a dog anyway.

You Hillbillies All Look Alike

Liz observes:

I recognize that this is going to make me sound like a total bitch, but it's not New Year's Eve yet and therefore my resolution to stop sounding like a total bitch hasn't taken effect yet.

Spouses can look alike. Like Ray Ramano says about twins, one ugly one is stunning enough. Two, and you're floored.

The other night I was at a local establishment with some friends. One of the guys there brought his wife. I've seen him before and had never met her. They are both good looking people that happen to resemble each other. This sounds like a win-win on the surface but there is a catch.

Aside from the great bone structure, the most noticeable trait I found in this pair was their thin, almost infantile teeth; too small, gaps, slightly gnarled. This is creepy enough to see on one person but when you have two sitting side by side it will rock your foundation.

I kept waiting for one of them to lose a tooth in their beer. I was TOTALLY ready to put a quarter under a napkin and say it was from the tooth fairy, but I left before it happened. This does NOT mean that the bus boy didn't find a tooth stuck in a remaining hamburger bun as he was cleaning the table.

I found the quarter in my pocket this morning when I was washing my jeans and smiled.

Add to the poor teeth their hillbilly actions. I am so glad that I've almost outgrown the need to tell everybody what a badass I am. Throughout the night I had to hear the tell-tell white trash mantras:

• Just who does SHE think SHE is? Ms. THANG!
• Oh! Don't think I won't.
• She will, too!
• This mango margarita taste like shit.
• We met at community college and I wouldn't even talk to him for weeks!
• I can't wait to have babies! We want at least 4!!!
• I've got my gun in the truck if he don't stop lookin' over here.
• Let's go somewhere where we can karaoke. HANK!
• What size tires you got on your truck?

Don't get me wrong, I had a good time and they're nice enough, just a little bit scary. Hey, I've scared people before too- usually with my stunning wit and enormous breasts, but still...

While at the bar I met a GORGEOUS little hottie from Russia. He had a great accent but an even better ass. We talked for about 45 minutes before separating. He's much younger than me and so far from home...

THAT'S what I want for Christmas. Killer, can you teach me how to say "balls" in Russian?

In other news, I'm becoming addicted to on-line poker since my league is on hiatus.

And I'm quite the badass.

Dear Killer Rants

Killer throws down number 200.

This is the 200th post for 2006 here at Killer Rants. Not bad, considering we did not really get rolling until mid year. I think the goal for next year should be 300 posts. Hell, there are two of us, so that should not be too hard.

I thought I would take this time to dispel some misconceptions about Killer Rants that have come up over this past year.

1. Are Killer and Liz married?
No, in actuality, I have not seen Liz in person in almost a year. We talk via email on occasion, by phone rarely, but can not seem to put together some face time.
Liz and I went to the same High school and have managed to stay close through our shared bond of being non-married, non-child rearing, and still drinking like we don't have to worry about liver cirrhosis. Someday we are going to share a hospital room when we both have Hepatic encephalopathy.

2. Is Killer gay?
This one caught me off guard and was asked as a comment on Immunopressed, even though Othur-me's post had nothing to do with me, homosexuality, or anything of the sort. The answer is no, but, "not that there is anything wrong with that." I lived for a spell in the Castro district in San Francisco and I finally got to see what it was like to be a pretty girl in a bar. I was hit on quite frequently. I loved it. I was given immediate feed back on any outfit before going out to clubs. Most commonly heard remark: "OOO, look at this big bear."

3. Are Killer and Liz really the same person?
This one should probably go unanswered. A little suspense and mystery goes a long way, but since most of our regular readers are fairly literary, it would not take much to deduce we don't write alike.

4. Why do you mention your "balls" so much?
I actually did get asked this by a friend at work, who reads the blog. It was inadvertent at first, but later it became sort of a running joke with me to see how often I can work them in. They don't get enough attention, and Liz has pointed out that whenever they are discussed I get more comments. To me and my very immature friends, which is why I love them, balls is probably the funniest word ever. When we travel to foreign lands it is common to find out how to refer to your testicles in their language and use that word continuously. (IE. "I need to apply some Gold Bond to my huevos.")

Feel free to ask any questions you want in the comments section, and I will answer them to the best of my abilities.

All I want for Christmas is my extra sharp teeth

Killer types one handed.

Scenario: Me, innocent, loving nurse, working in ICU. ER calls with an admission. 83 yr old female from a nursing home with Pneumonia (the usual). She has a history of Alzheimer's, but is pleasantly confused.

They wheel in this short, plump, cherubic looking lady who is confused as hell. She thinks she is at home in Seattle and it is 1955. I'm fine with that. She can think she is on Mars, as long as she stays in bed.

She immediately starts asking for her teeth. Apparently the ER took them out, and put them in a security box. I tried to convince her that we can get them back in the morning, but she insists that she can not sleep without them. All I want is for her to be happy and sleep, so I can go back to reading my book. I go to the ER and retrieve her teeth.

I hand this smiling, pleasant angel her dentures and she quickly pops them into her mouth. She smiles real big, takes my hand into hers, says, "Thank you sweetie," as she pulls my hand up towards her face. I wonder, "is she going to kiss my hand? This is like the Godfather."

She bites the ever loving shit out of me.

"Now get the hell out of my house!" She screams. All the images of angels and sweet old ladies is instantly replaced with this devil with her face contorted into a picture of pure evil. "Next time I bite you'll pull back a stump. Get out of my house!"

I grab the free Gideon bible out of the side table and make the sign of the cross as I back out of the room in a hasty retreat.

Two hours later she has stopped yelling for the police and is asleep with her deceptively strong mouth gaping open. I sneak into her room with a pair of forceps and a tongue depressor and deftly pry the deadly dentures from her stinky gums and deposit them safely into a denture cup with the words, "do NOT give to patient until discharge" emblazoned across the top.

As I sat outside the room, rubbing my tender hand, I received a phone call from the ER nurse. All she said was, "Did she bite you yet?"

I quietly tiptoed into the room and peeled my warning label off the denture cup. There is one important rule that is applied to all tomfoolery: Don't be the last fool.

I, Robot

Liz does chores while blogging:

I bought a Roomba. Now I can't stop mutilating the Oompa Loompa song from Willie Wonka: Roomba, roomba, roomidy roo I've got some more vac-u-ming for you.

It sometimes sucks to be trapped inside this head.

So, I now own a robot. This makes me feel good, as I am often toward the end of technology trends. I didn't get my own computer until 2004. I was one of the last people I know that bought a cell phone and mine is plain; no fancy-smancy blackberry for Liz. I don't even have an I-Pod. I think it's in my genes. My family didn't get a microwave or a VCR until I was way old. I was embarrassed that we had to eat hot, fresh food and watch whatever was on TV or, gasp, read. Maybe this is why I couldn't wait to get my driver's license and start drinking.

My new friend Willie does my vacuuming for me. This little dude darts around the house, running into walls and furniture, sucking up cat hair and dust bunnies, getting in those hard to reach places. I like it!

I do have some issues with Mr. Willie. First of all, he has a hard time keeping his batteries charged, so Willie doesn't last long. This is always disappointing. Secondly, he moves about sporadically, where it seems to me that he should find a spot and move in rhythm around that spot, not just dart around blindly like he's never done it before. He's been living here since Friday and we've done this everyday. You would think Willie would learn!

All of a sudden I feel very dirty.

Like I need to go vacuum.

I believe the children are our future.

A post by Uncle Killer

In about four weeks I am going to be an Uncle for the first time. My joys are two fold. First, my Mother will be awarded a Grandchild, so the pressure is off me to end my nomadic, spinster ways. Second, I am going to have unfettered access to a young impressionable mind to nurture and pass along the vast amounts of wisdom I have collected over the years. Most of which I choose to ignore.

Dispensing with the obvious lessons, Don't do drugs, Do good in school, Don't be a racist, Do share you candy with Uncle Killer. Those are more for the parents to instill. I have much more valuable information to share.

* Don't be a LSU fan.
This will be tough considering your Daddy is a Coon Ass. A Coon Ass is a person of Southern Louisiana upbringing. Please don't misunderstand, you will not find a more honest spoken, hard working group of people. Maybe it is something about living in a swamp, mixed with French ancestry, that makes wearing purple and yellow polyester and fervently believing the sun revolves around Baton Rouge an uncontrollable disorder.
I have lived all over the country and there is no sports fan, professional or amateur, more obnoxious than LSU fans.
(note: if you ever meet a person from Southern Louisiana feel free to call them a Coon Ass, they have no shame in the matter.)

* Don't eat your vegetables.
I realized long ago the ugly truth behind the Pro-vegetable propaganda. They taste like crap and they offer nothing you can't get from a daily vitamin and a glass of Metamucil. If you stand strong together we can someday bring those evil broccoli and English pea farmers who secretly control our government to their knees.

* Don't get potty trained.
Right now you can use the bathroom anywhere and anytime you want. Why give that up? Once they trick you into "using the potty like a big boy" you can never go back. Trust me, I have tried. Once everybody associates you with smelling like urine and feces they'll get used to it and you can get on with your care free life. Besides port-a-potties and public restrooms are disgusting. At least you will be able to rest assured you are the only person shitting in YOUR pants.

This is just a small sampling of the nuggets of wisdom I am going to pass along to my nephew. Once I make him into my image I can pass my half of this blog down to him to continue.
I think Liz is leaning towards cloning to keep her half alive, but until that technology is ready I am going to have my nephew prepared as a back up plan.

Pick a Pack of Pickled Perverts

Killer Reminisces

While in college (during the first four years) I worked for the YMCA as Day Camp Director. It is not as prestigious as it sounds. I was primarily the disciplinarian, but since it is now frowned upon to beat children with a paddle or smack them about the head, discipline at a summer camp is fleeting at best.

Basically the 6yr to 8yr olds are easy to control. They are still naive enough to think they have to mind all adults. 14yr to 17yr olds would always listen to me because I am a big guy and they respect size. It is the little shits from 9yr to 13 yrs old that cause the most trouble. They are just starting to realize they can rebel without lasting repercussions, but have not been beaten up enough in high school to fear bigger people.
The general game plan for this age group was to let them run around like crazy without killing themselves or mating with each other.

So, I naturally grew concerned one day when I saw a large group of male counselors all gathered in the 9yr to 13yr old girls section of camp.
It turns out there was an 11yr old girl who was demonstrating a skill that she did not yet fully realize the implications of having.

This innocent young girl could take a whole dill pickle and, in the matter of a few minutes, suck the insides out. She would bite the top off and then dramatically work over the pickle until all that remained was an empty green skin.

This would not seem like a problem except the male counselors would not stop buying her pickles in order to watch her do it. I started having visions of a law suit, or at least an angry phone call from an irate mother.

I demanded they stop buying her pickles, but they just had other kids buy them instead. So, I had to make the guy who worked the concession stand stop selling pickles. (He was very upset about the loss in a top seller. He did not care about the purpose of the product he sold. I think he works for a tobacco company now.) They started bringing pickles to camp with them. These pervs were dedicated.

Finally one day her Mom came in to pick her up and as we were talking she casually said, "I hear she has been getting a lot of free pickles." My heart sank. Here it comes. She just smiled at me and said, "She is going to be very popular in school."

I don't know if Mom knows what she can do with a pickle, or is just pro-slut. That little girl should be about 21 by now. She is probably being actively searched for by a small cadre of ex-camp counselors.

No Shirts, No Shoes, No Blog

Killer lays out the new policies.

After taking a quick inventory around here I have decided that it is time to class this place up a bit. I feel this is the moment for Killer Rants to stop catering to the meager Masses and start providing a higher quality of product. I want to shoot for an uppity boutique of a blog. No more free blogging for you free loaders. From now on, Killer Rants is all about the profit.

Sure we might lose a few of the poorer, less cultured, readers, but the cream will rise to the top and discover the reality of the American mentality. If it is more expensive it HAS to be better. We shall become a status symbol, like a Mercedes or a newly adopted African Baby..

I have nothing against the current readership, but I feel our image would improve if you guys would try a little harder. No more sitting around in your underwear as you read this blog. From now on we are implementing a strict dress code. Business attire is expected at all times, except on Fridays which will be "Hawaiian shirt Friday". Wear your favorite Hawaiian themed garment. This is to show we still like to have fun here at Killer Rants.

I haven't really hammered out all the details yet about the billing and payment process, so for now we will have to rely on the honor system. I want everyone to follow these easy steps.
Get a large jar of bucket, tape/write "Killer Rants Fund" on the side and place it next to your computer. Every time you visit the site place one quarter in the bucket. If you read something that makes you smile, laugh, or just contemplate life differently, put an extra quarter in the bucket. If you don't like or agree with what has been posted, write down your concerns on a small piece of paper and place that in the bucket. DO NOT REMOVE MONEY FROM THE BUCKET! All sales are final, no refunds are offered or given. At the end of each quarterly cycle, please take all the money from the bucket and mail it to me, Killer, President and CEO of Killer Rants.
Take all of those pieces of paper with concerns, comments and criticisms and mail them to Liz, Vice President of Customer Relations.

Together we can make this transition smooth and successful. I'm positive that as time passes you will see how this new program can greatly benefit me, and to a lesser extent Liz, and to an even lesser extent you as well.

Thanks for reading, please put at least one quarter in the bucket.

Killer
President/CEO
Killer Rants Industries