People piss me off.
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If I hide in a box in the attic, will people think I fell out of a helium balloon and leave me alone?
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The new white Miss Hampton University is in some hot water for writing a letter to the President asking him to visit her college and talk about diversity. How dare she! The President is a busy man! He doesn't have time to travel about the country willy-nilly, speaking about diversity. What was she thinking?
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The Obamas went to church!!! It's true! They went to church on October 10. And guess where they finally found a church, after looking for a whole 11 months for a church that would fit their needs? Right across from the White House! Who knew? I'm sure that took a lot of careful consideration, what with two young children to bring up. You can't have them going to just any church, now can you? Wouldn't want them exposed to anything controversial.
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Did you hear about the mom who was afraid her 400-pound teenage son would be taken away from her because...well...he weighs 400 pounds? Plus he has diabetes and high blood pressure, and just maybe he wasn't taking his medicine and going to the doctor regularly. That poor woman. She has four kids and no job and she admits that she just "...wasn't there for him." Where the f*** WAS she? No job and four kids, and not there for him, and just what puts that truckload of food he eats every day on the table? Oh, but the mom wants to know, "When am I gonna get a break?" I'd say she's had one all these years, not working and having four kids that apparently are not going hungry. And I wonder how she pays for living quarters with no job. Don't you?
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People piss me off.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Two All-Beef Patties
Hey! Larry King wants to take away your hamburger! He had people on his show bemoaning how hamburger can paralyze and kill people with E. coli. Give me a break! And a big juicy hamburger.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Peanuts kill people all the time. Let's outlaw peanuts, those murdering, munchable legumes! I'm not feeling the fact-check vibe tonight, but I'll wager my lottery ticket money that more people are severely allergic to peanuts than die from E. coli in hamburger. There's no NO HAMBURGER table in my son's school cafeteria.
What are we supposed to do, ban anything that might make a person sick? No wonder half of all babies born today are expected to reach the age of 100. The other half will be killed by people who are mad at them for trying to over-legislate the few remaining guilty pleasures. Should we all just give up and live in plastic bubbles, the greatest fear in our lives being a visit from George Costanza and a heated game Trivial Pursuit? Oh, noooo, I'm so sorry. It's the MOOPS. The correct answer is, The MOOPS.
Why are we such a bloodless, limp-wristed, dabbing at our brow with a scented handkerchief, fainting-goat type of society? Quick, get the smelling salts! I feel one of my spells coming on. Are we not made of hardier stock? Can we not eat ground meat without kicking the bucket? Have you ever watched The Amazing Race? Anthony Bourdain? Bizarre Foods With Andrew Zimmern? In India, people drink milk right out of the cow. OK, not right out of the teat, at least not on TV. But a dude milked the cow, toted that warm milk in a metal container on a motorbike all over town, selling dippers full of milk to his regular customers. No pasteurization, no disinfecting the teats, nada. Oh, and they have markets there where food sits outside in the sun with flies crawling all over it until somebody buys it and eats it and DOESN'T FREAKING DIE! Last time I checked, there were still plenty of Indians (dot not feather) keepin' on truckin'. There's no population decline in India.
Toughen up, Buttercup. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. At least that's what I heard that one of Angelina Jolie's tattoos says.
Here's more.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Peanuts kill people all the time. Let's outlaw peanuts, those murdering, munchable legumes! I'm not feeling the fact-check vibe tonight, but I'll wager my lottery ticket money that more people are severely allergic to peanuts than die from E. coli in hamburger. There's no NO HAMBURGER table in my son's school cafeteria.
What are we supposed to do, ban anything that might make a person sick? No wonder half of all babies born today are expected to reach the age of 100. The other half will be killed by people who are mad at them for trying to over-legislate the few remaining guilty pleasures. Should we all just give up and live in plastic bubbles, the greatest fear in our lives being a visit from George Costanza and a heated game Trivial Pursuit? Oh, noooo, I'm so sorry. It's the MOOPS. The correct answer is, The MOOPS.
Why are we such a bloodless, limp-wristed, dabbing at our brow with a scented handkerchief, fainting-goat type of society? Quick, get the smelling salts! I feel one of my spells coming on. Are we not made of hardier stock? Can we not eat ground meat without kicking the bucket? Have you ever watched The Amazing Race? Anthony Bourdain? Bizarre Foods With Andrew Zimmern? In India, people drink milk right out of the cow. OK, not right out of the teat, at least not on TV. But a dude milked the cow, toted that warm milk in a metal container on a motorbike all over town, selling dippers full of milk to his regular customers. No pasteurization, no disinfecting the teats, nada. Oh, and they have markets there where food sits outside in the sun with flies crawling all over it until somebody buys it and eats it and DOESN'T FREAKING DIE! Last time I checked, there were still plenty of Indians (dot not feather) keepin' on truckin'. There's no population decline in India.
Toughen up, Buttercup. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. At least that's what I heard that one of Angelina Jolie's tattoos says.
Here's more.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
This Porch Is Made For Walkin'
Let me take you on a tour. Don't cost nothin'. You don't even have to buy a map of the movie stars' homes. I'll escort you myself, on a walking tour of where Mrs. Hillbilly Mom walks every day. Well, not every day, because some days she walks at school in the hall, where it is climate-controlled, and where she is truly a celebrity. This she knows because so many people stop her to chat, even though she is on a mission to walk at least 30 minutes every day.
Mrs. HM's home away from school is the wrap-around porch of her Mansion. It is cushier to the feet than the tile school hallway, although the back section by the kitchen is a bit too cushy at times, what with needing some boards replaced because they are not under the overhang of the roof, and Missouri weather wreaks havoc with untreated lumber. Come on. You didn't think Private Contractor H actually kept up the Mansion like those Thompson WaterSeal people recommend, did you?
We'll begin at the front door, stepping out the threshold onto the five-foot span, taking care not to bump the decorative black metal mail box full of wasp nests, and ignoring the nonworking doorbell. A quick left turn sets us in motion for a counterclockwise romp around the walking track that is Mrs. HM's porch. Careful, now. The entire front of the house has no porch rail.
Stride past the picture window to the living room on your left, and glance at the plastic spinny thingies my grandma made for me out of 2-liter soda bottles on the right, dangling just below the dark brown metal guttering with last year's Christmas lights still attached. Make that five years ago's Christmas lights. No need to take them down for 11 months of the year. This is the country, by cracky!
Just past the rosebush on the ground to your right, make a 90-degree left turn. Silly. If you kept walking straight, you would have toppled over the rail of the side porch, and tumbled toward the Hillmomba Zoo. It only has chickens and goats and rabbits right now, but I am expecting an elephant any day.
The side porch showcases the DISH Network dish. It gives good transponder here. The path narrows a bit due to two large plastic doghouses with cedar shavings spilling out. Such a soothing sound from within the master bedroom, those doggies scratching and growling as they settle in for a long winter's night.
Club Momba is now in sight. Careful, or you'll topple over the back porch rail and fall nine feet to the Poolio Deck. A sharp left turn takes you into the back porch proper, with french doors to the master bedroom on your left, and Club Momba's regulars pussyfooting along Poolio's edge in the abyss to your right. The Regulars love to push the envelope. The envelope being Poolio's silvery plastic winter cover, weighted down with rain water that is a delicacy for The Regulars. They walk on ice to sip a single slurp.
Against the wall to the left are three silver serving dishes, because dogs don't share, and an old school desk with a lidded wastebasket full of dogfood on top. Also occupying the desktop is a big round fish bowl that once housed The Goldfish Who Wouldn't Die, received by the #1 son as a parting gift from preschool. He was briefly mourned at the end of 1st Grade. Just past the desk, donated by my mom, most likely from an expired school, we find the laundry room door.
If you keep walking straight, you will step your left foot into an electric doggie water bowl, and ram your face into the first of three kitchen windows that jut out from the back of the house like half a hexagon. Wooooo! Raise your arms over your head for this sideways roller coaster leg of the tour. Don't panic. There's still a rail to protect you from the 12-foot drop on the right.
Quick now, jaunt left a bit so as to miss the two Weber grills in your path as you disembark from the coaster ride. The kitchen door is on your left, if you care to grab a beverage. Don't smack your head on that metal bell mounted beside the door frame. Collector H wanted it for some reason. Along the wall is a welcome mat that the dogs have commandeered for sleeping, and The Pony's bedroom window. This area is the widest part of the porch trail, big enough for a small dance floor. Over the rail past the Webers is the brackish green Hillbilly Fish Pond. Don't knock it. There are goldfish in there about a foot long. Not that you can see them unless they come up out of the murk for food.
Another 90-degree left turn takes you along the side porch by the garage. No more rail, but four steps down will get you to the concrete sidewalk. Branching left off of that is the brick sidewalk that goes around front of the Mansion, made by Bricklayer H out of bricks that used to be an alley behind my house in town. The $17,000 house.
But let's stay on the porch, and continue past the cedar support pole that is a home for wood bees. Every summer, Entomologist H seals up their hole with putty, and every summer they tunnel out again. That pole must look like Swiss cheese on the inside. Tread lightly here. A hop, skip, and a jump puts you at the front corner of the porch, overlooking the five-acre front yard. Shame on you. I told you to tread lightly. Enough with the hopping and skipping and jumping!
A sharp left brings us to the front of the Mansion again, with #1's bedroom window on the left, and three metal chairs and two stools used as tables that Home Decor Expert H put there. Watch your step, because we are still without a rail, though the drop here is only three feet into the lava rock that is the base for Mineralogist H's rock garden.
That concludes our tour. Hope you had a good workout. Exit down the front porch steps to your right.
Mrs. HM's home away from school is the wrap-around porch of her Mansion. It is cushier to the feet than the tile school hallway, although the back section by the kitchen is a bit too cushy at times, what with needing some boards replaced because they are not under the overhang of the roof, and Missouri weather wreaks havoc with untreated lumber. Come on. You didn't think Private Contractor H actually kept up the Mansion like those Thompson WaterSeal people recommend, did you?
We'll begin at the front door, stepping out the threshold onto the five-foot span, taking care not to bump the decorative black metal mail box full of wasp nests, and ignoring the nonworking doorbell. A quick left turn sets us in motion for a counterclockwise romp around the walking track that is Mrs. HM's porch. Careful, now. The entire front of the house has no porch rail.
Stride past the picture window to the living room on your left, and glance at the plastic spinny thingies my grandma made for me out of 2-liter soda bottles on the right, dangling just below the dark brown metal guttering with last year's Christmas lights still attached. Make that five years ago's Christmas lights. No need to take them down for 11 months of the year. This is the country, by cracky!
Just past the rosebush on the ground to your right, make a 90-degree left turn. Silly. If you kept walking straight, you would have toppled over the rail of the side porch, and tumbled toward the Hillmomba Zoo. It only has chickens and goats and rabbits right now, but I am expecting an elephant any day.
The side porch showcases the DISH Network dish. It gives good transponder here. The path narrows a bit due to two large plastic doghouses with cedar shavings spilling out. Such a soothing sound from within the master bedroom, those doggies scratching and growling as they settle in for a long winter's night.
Club Momba is now in sight. Careful, or you'll topple over the back porch rail and fall nine feet to the Poolio Deck. A sharp left turn takes you into the back porch proper, with french doors to the master bedroom on your left, and Club Momba's regulars pussyfooting along Poolio's edge in the abyss to your right. The Regulars love to push the envelope. The envelope being Poolio's silvery plastic winter cover, weighted down with rain water that is a delicacy for The Regulars. They walk on ice to sip a single slurp.
Against the wall to the left are three silver serving dishes, because dogs don't share, and an old school desk with a lidded wastebasket full of dogfood on top. Also occupying the desktop is a big round fish bowl that once housed The Goldfish Who Wouldn't Die, received by the #1 son as a parting gift from preschool. He was briefly mourned at the end of 1st Grade. Just past the desk, donated by my mom, most likely from an expired school, we find the laundry room door.
If you keep walking straight, you will step your left foot into an electric doggie water bowl, and ram your face into the first of three kitchen windows that jut out from the back of the house like half a hexagon. Wooooo! Raise your arms over your head for this sideways roller coaster leg of the tour. Don't panic. There's still a rail to protect you from the 12-foot drop on the right.
Quick now, jaunt left a bit so as to miss the two Weber grills in your path as you disembark from the coaster ride. The kitchen door is on your left, if you care to grab a beverage. Don't smack your head on that metal bell mounted beside the door frame. Collector H wanted it for some reason. Along the wall is a welcome mat that the dogs have commandeered for sleeping, and The Pony's bedroom window. This area is the widest part of the porch trail, big enough for a small dance floor. Over the rail past the Webers is the brackish green Hillbilly Fish Pond. Don't knock it. There are goldfish in there about a foot long. Not that you can see them unless they come up out of the murk for food.
Another 90-degree left turn takes you along the side porch by the garage. No more rail, but four steps down will get you to the concrete sidewalk. Branching left off of that is the brick sidewalk that goes around front of the Mansion, made by Bricklayer H out of bricks that used to be an alley behind my house in town. The $17,000 house.
But let's stay on the porch, and continue past the cedar support pole that is a home for wood bees. Every summer, Entomologist H seals up their hole with putty, and every summer they tunnel out again. That pole must look like Swiss cheese on the inside. Tread lightly here. A hop, skip, and a jump puts you at the front corner of the porch, overlooking the five-acre front yard. Shame on you. I told you to tread lightly. Enough with the hopping and skipping and jumping!
A sharp left brings us to the front of the Mansion again, with #1's bedroom window on the left, and three metal chairs and two stools used as tables that Home Decor Expert H put there. Watch your step, because we are still without a rail, though the drop here is only three feet into the lava rock that is the base for Mineralogist H's rock garden.
That concludes our tour. Hope you had a good workout. Exit down the front porch steps to your right.
Monday, October 12, 2009
One Man's Pie Is Another Woman's Cabbage
Once upon a time, my teaching buddy, Kellie, told me a secret. Oh, it wasn't the key to reaching the students, and turning them into superduper learners, little Einsteins. No. It wasn't how to win friends and influence people. It wasn't even how to stop a psycho neighbor from stealing your morning paper, reading it, and returning it propped up on the breast of a dead sparrow.
Kellie told me how she kept her husband from eating her special delicacies that she stored in the refrigerator. This may not seem earth-shattering to you, but nothing sucks more than having stashed your leftover treats for later, and then finding them gone. Gone, baby, gone. Gone into your husband's stomach, because he thought it was for anyone, because even though he ate HIS portion already, he didn't see why you would want to save yours until later. No matter whether it be leftover Chinese food, a piece of your very own birthday cake, or, in Kellie's case, a chocolate Easter bunny.
The secret was handed down to Kellie by her mother. The mother who exacted revenge on Kellie's buttmunch landlord one time because he kept her security deposit, after she and Kellie spent an entire day cleaning the carpets with a steam-cleaner, and Easy-Offing the oven, and the whole nine yards. That revenge came in the form of Momma visiting the real estate office of the landlord, and upon receiving no satisfaction, asking to use the bathroom, whereupon she spied a tiny tear in the wallpaper, so she pulled it just a little bit, and accidentally ripped a whole sheet of wallpaper off that bathroom wall.
The secret is to wrap whatever you want to save in aluminum foil, and shove it in the back of the fridge. Kellie kept her chocolate Easter bunny until September, munching furtively whenever the mood struck her.
But I'm not here to discuss Kellie's chocolate Easter bunny.
We had a bit of a kerfluffle in The Mansion last night. I was minding my own business, checking football scores on the computer, when Food Critic H sent The Pony to my office. "Dad wants to know if you got the apple pie from Grandma." First of all, I didn't know if 'Grandma' referred to my mom, who is The Pony's grandma, or my own grandma, who Food Critic H had just returned from visiting. If it was MY grandma, how would I have gotten apple pie? I didn't go visit her. She didn't come to The Mansion. So I ruled that one out.
My mom, however, had delivered the #1 son after church. She had cooked a pork loin for us, and gave me a pack of little boxed raisins, but certainly no apple pie. She used to bring us treats from one of her Old Expired Food Shoppe haunts, the one that we call The Day Old Bread Store. In fact, she has brought Hostess apple or cherry pies from there. But nothing today. So my reply to The Pony to relay upstairs to Food Critic H was, "Apple pie? What apple pie?" I know. That sounds guilty as heck. Like something Snack Swiper H would say while stalling for time to get his alibi together.
Food Critic H hollered down, "The apple pie in the soup container in the bottom of the refrigerator." Oh. THAT apple pie. You see, we had a problem. I had sent my grandma some vegetable beef soup via Courier H. It was sealed in the bottom of the refrigerator, in a quart plastic container that I save when I get Hot & Sour soup. They seal up real good. Then I had put the pork loin in the bottom of Frig, my shiny Frigidaire friend, wrapped in foil. Not so much to hide it, but because it arrived wrapped in foil, and that was the only open spot left. While cooking supper, I took out that pork loin and sliced off five pieces. I have lunch duty this week, and no time to warm up my lunch, so I will be taking sandwiches all week. Unbeknownst to Food Critic H, he will be having pork loin for at least two meals this week.
Now between the time I started supper and removed the foiled pork loin, Food Critic H had arrived home from Grandma's house, made a little small talk, and headed out to admire his new goats. Yeah. We have six goats now. Anyhoo, during part of this conversation, I was in the laundry room with my head in the washer. When I came out, GoatHerder H was gone. So I sliced my loins and put the foiled loin and my Saran-wrapped loins back in the bottom of Frig. They toppled off the Velveeta cheese box, and there I saw a soup container of what I assumed was a delicious concoction of cabbage, potatoes, and smoked sausage that we had last week. Only it didn't look so delicious now. It looked kind of lumpy and discolored. So I did what any normal hillbilly would do upon finding spoiled cabbage in the bottom of Frig. I tossed it in the trash can, plastic container and all. It's not a good idea to open a container of spoiled cabbage, by cracky!
When supper was ready, I called The Pony and #1 upstairs from the basement Wii. The trash was full, so I commanded #1 to empty it. The Pony's job is to put in a new bag. #1 tossed the trash bag by the kitchen door, as he is wont to do, to take out at his convenience.
All this pie questioning finally tipped me off that what I had thrown out was not rotten Cabbage Surprise, but special apple pie with artificial sweetener that my grandma had made for Newly Diabetic H. When I told him I threw it out, he ran to the trash bag. I didn't see it, being downstairs, but I sure heard the pitter patter of big work boots chugging through the kitchen. He dug out that hermetically-sealed pie and didn't look back.
Those are really remarkable containers that my Chinese people use for packaging that Hot & Sour Soup.
Kellie told me how she kept her husband from eating her special delicacies that she stored in the refrigerator. This may not seem earth-shattering to you, but nothing sucks more than having stashed your leftover treats for later, and then finding them gone. Gone, baby, gone. Gone into your husband's stomach, because he thought it was for anyone, because even though he ate HIS portion already, he didn't see why you would want to save yours until later. No matter whether it be leftover Chinese food, a piece of your very own birthday cake, or, in Kellie's case, a chocolate Easter bunny.
The secret was handed down to Kellie by her mother. The mother who exacted revenge on Kellie's buttmunch landlord one time because he kept her security deposit, after she and Kellie spent an entire day cleaning the carpets with a steam-cleaner, and Easy-Offing the oven, and the whole nine yards. That revenge came in the form of Momma visiting the real estate office of the landlord, and upon receiving no satisfaction, asking to use the bathroom, whereupon she spied a tiny tear in the wallpaper, so she pulled it just a little bit, and accidentally ripped a whole sheet of wallpaper off that bathroom wall.
The secret is to wrap whatever you want to save in aluminum foil, and shove it in the back of the fridge. Kellie kept her chocolate Easter bunny until September, munching furtively whenever the mood struck her.
But I'm not here to discuss Kellie's chocolate Easter bunny.
We had a bit of a kerfluffle in The Mansion last night. I was minding my own business, checking football scores on the computer, when Food Critic H sent The Pony to my office. "Dad wants to know if you got the apple pie from Grandma." First of all, I didn't know if 'Grandma' referred to my mom, who is The Pony's grandma, or my own grandma, who Food Critic H had just returned from visiting. If it was MY grandma, how would I have gotten apple pie? I didn't go visit her. She didn't come to The Mansion. So I ruled that one out.
My mom, however, had delivered the #1 son after church. She had cooked a pork loin for us, and gave me a pack of little boxed raisins, but certainly no apple pie. She used to bring us treats from one of her Old Expired Food Shoppe haunts, the one that we call The Day Old Bread Store. In fact, she has brought Hostess apple or cherry pies from there. But nothing today. So my reply to The Pony to relay upstairs to Food Critic H was, "Apple pie? What apple pie?" I know. That sounds guilty as heck. Like something Snack Swiper H would say while stalling for time to get his alibi together.
Food Critic H hollered down, "The apple pie in the soup container in the bottom of the refrigerator." Oh. THAT apple pie. You see, we had a problem. I had sent my grandma some vegetable beef soup via Courier H. It was sealed in the bottom of the refrigerator, in a quart plastic container that I save when I get Hot & Sour soup. They seal up real good. Then I had put the pork loin in the bottom of Frig, my shiny Frigidaire friend, wrapped in foil. Not so much to hide it, but because it arrived wrapped in foil, and that was the only open spot left. While cooking supper, I took out that pork loin and sliced off five pieces. I have lunch duty this week, and no time to warm up my lunch, so I will be taking sandwiches all week. Unbeknownst to Food Critic H, he will be having pork loin for at least two meals this week.
Now between the time I started supper and removed the foiled pork loin, Food Critic H had arrived home from Grandma's house, made a little small talk, and headed out to admire his new goats. Yeah. We have six goats now. Anyhoo, during part of this conversation, I was in the laundry room with my head in the washer. When I came out, GoatHerder H was gone. So I sliced my loins and put the foiled loin and my Saran-wrapped loins back in the bottom of Frig. They toppled off the Velveeta cheese box, and there I saw a soup container of what I assumed was a delicious concoction of cabbage, potatoes, and smoked sausage that we had last week. Only it didn't look so delicious now. It looked kind of lumpy and discolored. So I did what any normal hillbilly would do upon finding spoiled cabbage in the bottom of Frig. I tossed it in the trash can, plastic container and all. It's not a good idea to open a container of spoiled cabbage, by cracky!
When supper was ready, I called The Pony and #1 upstairs from the basement Wii. The trash was full, so I commanded #1 to empty it. The Pony's job is to put in a new bag. #1 tossed the trash bag by the kitchen door, as he is wont to do, to take out at his convenience.
All this pie questioning finally tipped me off that what I had thrown out was not rotten Cabbage Surprise, but special apple pie with artificial sweetener that my grandma had made for Newly Diabetic H. When I told him I threw it out, he ran to the trash bag. I didn't see it, being downstairs, but I sure heard the pitter patter of big work boots chugging through the kitchen. He dug out that hermetically-sealed pie and didn't look back.
Those are really remarkable containers that my Chinese people use for packaging that Hot & Sour Soup.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Ted Williams's Head
In my continuing series on death, today we visit Ted Williams. Not the living and breathing Ted Williams, the baseball player, because that would have nothing to do with my death theme. But lucky for us, Ted died in 2002. We are going to visit Ted Williams's head. Ted has something in common with Walt Disney, you see. And that something is cryogenics.
I'm no expert on cryogenics or Ted Williams. I don't know if Ted wanted to be frozen, or if his son came up with the idea. But the facts are that Ted Williams's head is a popsicle, and The Globe had a story on it that caught my attention. That's where I get a lot of information, The Globe. Maybe that explains why I'm like this.
Don't think I believe everything I read in The Globe. It's not The National Enquirer, you know. The Enquirer broke the John Edwards love child story. Then again, The Globe is not The Weekly World News, either. The WWN has stories like the woman who didn't eat for 50 years. It's not even in color! Back in my earlier days, when I lived elsewhere and had not yet met HH, my teacher buddies, Karen and Jim, and I would drive to Sullivan, MO, every payday to do our shopping at Walmart and Shop N Save. We took turns buying the WWN, and read it aloud on the way home, after a hearty meal at Golden Corral. Our favorite story of all time was Top Model Eats Herself To Death. Tell me you don't find that funny. We hooted over that one for years. A distant second was the story of the old man who somehow drove his car onto an airport runway, and drove himself and his wife off the end of it, into the ocean.
Anyhoo, I only bought The Globe this week because the lead story was the feud between Michelle Obama and The Oprah over Chicago's loss of the Olympics. But near the back cover was the Ted Williams head story. Some dude has written a book about it. I think his name is Larry Johnson, but the title of the book escapes me. He claims that workers at the cryo lab severed Ted's head, and set it on a Bumblebee Tuna can to take a picture of it. Then they drilled holes in Ted's head for microphones to pick up the cracking of Ted's brain as it froze. But that's not all! Since Ted stuck to the Bumblebee Tuna can, one of the workers whacked Ted's head repeatedly with a giant monkey wrench to knock it loose. Well, don't we all know that THAT didn't end well. Pieces of Ted's head sprayed around as his noggin was knocked with the monkey wrench.
But what really gets my goat is the title of that article. Ted's Frozen Head Hit Like A Baseball. I was expecting a rousing game of monkey-wrench headball, not just a couple of whacks to dislodge a Bumblebee Tuna can. If The Globe insists on misleading me, I will refuse to buy the magazine, and only read it in line at The Devil's Playground. Sweet Gummi Mary! If you can't trust The Globe, who can you trust?
No word from the Bumblebee Tuna people on whether they appreciate the free publicity.
I'm no expert on cryogenics or Ted Williams. I don't know if Ted wanted to be frozen, or if his son came up with the idea. But the facts are that Ted Williams's head is a popsicle, and The Globe had a story on it that caught my attention. That's where I get a lot of information, The Globe. Maybe that explains why I'm like this.
Don't think I believe everything I read in The Globe. It's not The National Enquirer, you know. The Enquirer broke the John Edwards love child story. Then again, The Globe is not The Weekly World News, either. The WWN has stories like the woman who didn't eat for 50 years. It's not even in color! Back in my earlier days, when I lived elsewhere and had not yet met HH, my teacher buddies, Karen and Jim, and I would drive to Sullivan, MO, every payday to do our shopping at Walmart and Shop N Save. We took turns buying the WWN, and read it aloud on the way home, after a hearty meal at Golden Corral. Our favorite story of all time was Top Model Eats Herself To Death. Tell me you don't find that funny. We hooted over that one for years. A distant second was the story of the old man who somehow drove his car onto an airport runway, and drove himself and his wife off the end of it, into the ocean.
Anyhoo, I only bought The Globe this week because the lead story was the feud between Michelle Obama and The Oprah over Chicago's loss of the Olympics. But near the back cover was the Ted Williams head story. Some dude has written a book about it. I think his name is Larry Johnson, but the title of the book escapes me. He claims that workers at the cryo lab severed Ted's head, and set it on a Bumblebee Tuna can to take a picture of it. Then they drilled holes in Ted's head for microphones to pick up the cracking of Ted's brain as it froze. But that's not all! Since Ted stuck to the Bumblebee Tuna can, one of the workers whacked Ted's head repeatedly with a giant monkey wrench to knock it loose. Well, don't we all know that THAT didn't end well. Pieces of Ted's head sprayed around as his noggin was knocked with the monkey wrench.
But what really gets my goat is the title of that article. Ted's Frozen Head Hit Like A Baseball. I was expecting a rousing game of monkey-wrench headball, not just a couple of whacks to dislodge a Bumblebee Tuna can. If The Globe insists on misleading me, I will refuse to buy the magazine, and only read it in line at The Devil's Playground. Sweet Gummi Mary! If you can't trust The Globe, who can you trust?
No word from the Bumblebee Tuna people on whether they appreciate the free publicity.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
On Death And Driving
Let's talk about death. You know, because I've used up all the other topics over the last five years, and I don't think I have fully covered this one. And I'm in one of those moods to piss people off. The death I'm going to dwell on today is furry death. Animals no longer breathing. Four-legged victims of man's need for speed.
The #1 son told me of a student at school who ran over a squirrel. She called her mom, in tears, so upset was she after flattening a forest rodent. I don't remember the exact consoling quote from her mother, but I want to think it went a little something like, "Don't worry. There are a thousand more waiting beside the road to take his place." See, nature expects animal casualties. That's why animals have litters several times a year, instead of one baby after 9 months. They're animals. They die. The world doesn't end.
On the way to The Devil's Playground this morning, I heard on the radio that some famous singer had crashed his car due to a deer in the road. I don't remember who it was, or when, because I was only half listening to XM '70s music, and switching stations willy-nilly. But the gist of it was that the dude was driving home at 3:00 a.m. (sober as a church mouse, I'm sure), and a deer stepped into the road and was mesmerized by the car lights. The singer dude hit the brakes and steered to the right, and went up an embankment and hit a tree. He wasn't hurt badly, but the car was totaled. Oh, and the focus of the story was that, "...and the deer's life was saved." People. It's a deer. If some of them are not killed by drivers or hunters, they will become overpopulated and starve to death. I doubt the singer dude thought, "I must steer away to save this deer's life!" No, more than likely, he thought, "Oh, sh*t! There's a m*****f***ing deer in the road! I'm going to die when it crashes through my windshield!" Then he yanked the wheel.
One of my dormies in college was on a run for the border, taking several buds to Taco Bell for a late-night snack. She ran over a cat that darted out in front of her old station wagon. As if it wasn't bad enough to be driving a station wagon. She was so discombobulated that she drove back to the dorm, having lost her appetite for beany goodness. All because of a cat. Yes, it was probably somebody's pet. But if that somebody really loved his pet, he would have kept his pet in the house or on a leash. Because that's what you do in the city.
Here's the thing. Fluffy is not a child. Some people get attached to their pets, but Fluffy is still just an animal. Folks make a big deal about wanting revenge on a person who ran over their pet, or think that the killer should stop and knock on doors until they find the pet owner and break the news that Fluffy is now deceased. No. Keep Fluffy safe. Don't point fingers. Fluffy bit it because Fluffy tried to occupy the same space at the same time as a metal deathmobile. The driver can't swerve into oncoming traffic, or drive off the road just because Fluffy is running from her shadow. PEOPLE'S lives could be at stake. Fluffy should be fenced or leashed. Fluffy's owner murdered Fluffy, not the driver.
I live in the country. My dogs run loose. We are a mile from a paved road. If somebody ran over my dog, I would not be happy. But I would not blame the driver. It's my fault. I let the dog run free. The driver is on the road where cars belong. Not dogs. My mom ran over one of my childhood dogs. Too bad, so sad. A car-chasing dog will come to a bad end. HH ran over Cubby in our driveway, because Cubby did not get out from under the truck when HH started it up. Cubby was too dumb to live. That's not to say we didn't mourn for Cubby. But Cubby was just an animal. He could have lived his life for 10 or 12 years at the end of a chain, neurotic, barking, straining to get free. Or he could roam the countryside. It's a gamble. You have to weigh the options.
There are hundreds of Cubbies cooling their heels in dog pounds, waiting to be adopted. But while they're in those dog pounds, they're not running free. In fact, they probably ended up in the dog pound because they WERE running free. And the penalty for running free is death. Because if they don't get adopted, they die.
Life's a b*tch, huh? And so am I. A heartless, cold, anti-pet b*tch, so ugly even the dogs won't play with me. OK, that last part was courtesy of a student from my first year of teaching. But that's my opinion, and I'm stickin' to it, unpopular though it may be.
Now I must go ruminate on new ways to bring you down each evening.
The #1 son told me of a student at school who ran over a squirrel. She called her mom, in tears, so upset was she after flattening a forest rodent. I don't remember the exact consoling quote from her mother, but I want to think it went a little something like, "Don't worry. There are a thousand more waiting beside the road to take his place." See, nature expects animal casualties. That's why animals have litters several times a year, instead of one baby after 9 months. They're animals. They die. The world doesn't end.
On the way to The Devil's Playground this morning, I heard on the radio that some famous singer had crashed his car due to a deer in the road. I don't remember who it was, or when, because I was only half listening to XM '70s music, and switching stations willy-nilly. But the gist of it was that the dude was driving home at 3:00 a.m. (sober as a church mouse, I'm sure), and a deer stepped into the road and was mesmerized by the car lights. The singer dude hit the brakes and steered to the right, and went up an embankment and hit a tree. He wasn't hurt badly, but the car was totaled. Oh, and the focus of the story was that, "...and the deer's life was saved." People. It's a deer. If some of them are not killed by drivers or hunters, they will become overpopulated and starve to death. I doubt the singer dude thought, "I must steer away to save this deer's life!" No, more than likely, he thought, "Oh, sh*t! There's a m*****f***ing deer in the road! I'm going to die when it crashes through my windshield!" Then he yanked the wheel.
One of my dormies in college was on a run for the border, taking several buds to Taco Bell for a late-night snack. She ran over a cat that darted out in front of her old station wagon. As if it wasn't bad enough to be driving a station wagon. She was so discombobulated that she drove back to the dorm, having lost her appetite for beany goodness. All because of a cat. Yes, it was probably somebody's pet. But if that somebody really loved his pet, he would have kept his pet in the house or on a leash. Because that's what you do in the city.
Here's the thing. Fluffy is not a child. Some people get attached to their pets, but Fluffy is still just an animal. Folks make a big deal about wanting revenge on a person who ran over their pet, or think that the killer should stop and knock on doors until they find the pet owner and break the news that Fluffy is now deceased. No. Keep Fluffy safe. Don't point fingers. Fluffy bit it because Fluffy tried to occupy the same space at the same time as a metal deathmobile. The driver can't swerve into oncoming traffic, or drive off the road just because Fluffy is running from her shadow. PEOPLE'S lives could be at stake. Fluffy should be fenced or leashed. Fluffy's owner murdered Fluffy, not the driver.
I live in the country. My dogs run loose. We are a mile from a paved road. If somebody ran over my dog, I would not be happy. But I would not blame the driver. It's my fault. I let the dog run free. The driver is on the road where cars belong. Not dogs. My mom ran over one of my childhood dogs. Too bad, so sad. A car-chasing dog will come to a bad end. HH ran over Cubby in our driveway, because Cubby did not get out from under the truck when HH started it up. Cubby was too dumb to live. That's not to say we didn't mourn for Cubby. But Cubby was just an animal. He could have lived his life for 10 or 12 years at the end of a chain, neurotic, barking, straining to get free. Or he could roam the countryside. It's a gamble. You have to weigh the options.
There are hundreds of Cubbies cooling their heels in dog pounds, waiting to be adopted. But while they're in those dog pounds, they're not running free. In fact, they probably ended up in the dog pound because they WERE running free. And the penalty for running free is death. Because if they don't get adopted, they die.
Life's a b*tch, huh? And so am I. A heartless, cold, anti-pet b*tch, so ugly even the dogs won't play with me. OK, that last part was courtesy of a student from my first year of teaching. But that's my opinion, and I'm stickin' to it, unpopular though it may be.
Now I must go ruminate on new ways to bring you down each evening.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Shiver Me Members
Hey, where did that ol' global warming go? It was 48 degrees here in Hillmomba this afternoon. Our little billy goats were shivering, the dogs were shivering, and Chicky was sitting up on a bar Farmer H stuck through the chicken pen, clucking his fool head off. I took my evening walk around the Mansion porch while wearing a jacket and gloves. Thank the Gummi Mary, we made Farmer H turn on the heat two days ago, when we arrived home to a 68-degree Mansion. That's just too cold for HM.
My mom says she hasn't turned on her heat yet. That she kind of enjoys a cool house. Uh huh. That's not what she said in the summer when her thermostat was set on 89, and she said she was quite comfortable, as she dabbed at her face with a crumpled paper towel. I'm onto her tricks. That pantry full of expired food must wreak havoc with her temperature-regulating mechanism.
The Pony is on the living room couch, wrapped up in a blanket and a beach towel. He feels the cold like a thin man...like Pangle in Cold Mountain. Oh. The Pony IS a thin man. A thin 11-year-old man. But I refuse to make him a coat that is half for a man and half for a horse.
I think it might get down into the 30s tonight. This week, we had a couple of mornings in the 30s, and T-Hoe told me ICE ICE ICE when I looked at the mirror. But I didn't see any ice. T-Hoe is fast becoming The Car Who Cried Ice. And when I stop believing him, I am sure to slide off the road into a ditch.
I've never really been fond of T-Hoe.
My mom says she hasn't turned on her heat yet. That she kind of enjoys a cool house. Uh huh. That's not what she said in the summer when her thermostat was set on 89, and she said she was quite comfortable, as she dabbed at her face with a crumpled paper towel. I'm onto her tricks. That pantry full of expired food must wreak havoc with her temperature-regulating mechanism.
The Pony is on the living room couch, wrapped up in a blanket and a beach towel. He feels the cold like a thin man...like Pangle in Cold Mountain. Oh. The Pony IS a thin man. A thin 11-year-old man. But I refuse to make him a coat that is half for a man and half for a horse.
I think it might get down into the 30s tonight. This week, we had a couple of mornings in the 30s, and T-Hoe told me ICE ICE ICE when I looked at the mirror. But I didn't see any ice. T-Hoe is fast becoming The Car Who Cried Ice. And when I stop believing him, I am sure to slide off the road into a ditch.
I've never really been fond of T-Hoe.
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