Love Letter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours
in Heterosexual Man Love
Killer

blue balls

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

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

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

He's a nut anyway, but damn.

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

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

I Like My Ladies Limber and Under 90

Killer posts without restraint.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sacramento Whale Solution

Killer found the Sacramento Whale Solution.

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

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

Embarrassing Moment

Liz confesses:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

unless I need a quick $85.

It's Time For Androgyny

Killer appreciates hermaphrodites

Androgynous vs. Erogenous

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

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

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

Fellas, Our Days Are Numbered

Killer fears the worst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liz Faces Facts

Lucky Liz.

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

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

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

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

How important is a face?

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

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

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

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

Disgusting Poop Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moose Knuckle Express

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

395 Posts and going strong

Dear Killer,

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

Liz says:

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

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

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

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

Crushless

Liz is surprised to reveal:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Screw The Whales!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Millinery

Liz questions:

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

• Certain branches of the military


• Certain White House interns


• Mimes


• Gay French men

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

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

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

Sounds like I have a weekend project ahead of me.

Southern Style

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

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

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

Things to DO in the South:

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

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

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

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

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

Things NOT to do in the South:

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

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

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

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

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

OCD is Not For Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hate is Such a Strong Word

Hello, my name is Killer and I hate you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome Confused Gyno Patients

Killer, taking advantage of young women’s fears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Buffet

Liz's taste:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No One Puts Killer in the Corner

Killer lashes out at authority

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

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

I'll let you decide.

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

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

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

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