Genius or Retentive????

These aren't real indicators, but it's something for the grey matter to masticate:

You paid attention during 100% of high school!

85-100% You must be an autodidact, because American high schools don't get scores that high! Good show, old chap!

Do you deserve your high school diploma?
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@ the Cock Shack

Why did the Chicken Cross the Road?????

to kick this little kid's ass..................



And after much laughter, the minstrels were eaten and my sick, talented, bloggy friend Brad wrote this little ditty:

Genius, Briliant!!!!!!

If you see a faded sign by the side of the road that says
15 miles to the... Cock Shack! Cock Shack yeah
I'm headin' down the Des Moines highway,
lookin' for the cock getaway
Heading for the cock getaway, love getaway,
I got me a farm truck it's as big as a whale
and we're headin' on down
To the Cock Shack
I got me a transport, it seats about 20
So hurry up and bring your moonshine money

The Cock Shack is a little old place
where poulty fornicate
Cock Shack baby, Cock Shack bay-bee.
Peck me baby, that's where it's at,
Ooo peck me baby, that's where it's at

Sign says.. Woo... stay away ducks,
'cause cocks rule at the Co-o-ock Shack!
Well it's set way back in the middle of a field,
Just a funky old 'bago and I gotta get back

Corn feed on the mattress
Corn feed on the highway
Corn feed on the front porch
Corn feed on the hallway

The Cock Shack is a little old place
where poultry fornicate
Cock Shack bay-bee! Cock Shack baby!
Cock Shack, that's where it's at!
Peckin' and a scratchin', cluckin' and a layin',
wearin' next to nothing
Cause it's hot as an oven
The whole shack shimmies!
The whole shack shimmies when everybody's
Movin' around and around and around and around!
Everybody's cluckin', everybody's fuckin' baby!
Hens linin' up outside just to get down
Everybody's cluckin', everybody's fuckin' baby
Funky little shack! Funk-y little shack!

Hop in my farm truck,
it's as big as a whale
and it's about to set sail!
I got me a transport, it seats about twenty
So c'mon and bring your moonshine money.

The Cock Shack is a little old place
where we can get together
Cock Shack baby! Cock Shack bay-bee!
(Cock Shack...Cock Shack...)
Cock Shack, that's where it's at!

Peck peck peck on the door baby!
Peck a little louder baby!
Peck peck peck on the door baby!
I can't hear you
Peck peck on the door baby
Peck peck on the door
Peck peck on the door baby
Peck peck
You're what?... Big cock, busted!

Cock Shack, baby Cock Shack!
Cock Shack, baby Cock Shack!
Cock baby, that's where it's at
Cock Shack, baby Cock Shack!
Cock baby, that's where it's at
Cluckin' and a scratchin',
Peckin' and a layin' at the cock shack

Meme, Schmeme...

Not normally, but when uninspired...

1. WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR KITCHEN PLATES? White, but I DO have garden plates with parrots on them, so there!!

2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? "The Heretic" & International Finance

3. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? mouse

4. FAVORITE BOARD GAME? Trivial Pursuit, Pictionary (the best game for spasmodics like myself)

5. LEAST FAVORITE SMELLS? Can't say I ever met a smell I couldn't tolerate. But what about those people who haven't taken a shower for a while, been drinking non-stop, and peed a bit in their pants... yea, no so much on that smell.

6. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF IN THE MORNING? "How much longer can I stay here??""

7. FAVORITE COLOR: purple or pistachio

8. LEAST FAVORITE COLOR: black - not really a color unto itself but a lack thereof

9. HOW MANY RINGS UNTIL YOU ANSWER THE PHONE? whatever, I screen

10. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME? Fetus Maximus

11. CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA? Ack - raspberry or pomegranate

12. DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST? Just how fast are we talkin' about here??

13. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? real only, please

14. DO YOU LIKE THUNDERSTORMS? immensely

15. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? '64 VW bug, red with white vinyl interior, no A/C (in Texas)... Hot, Baby, Hot!!!

16. FAVORITE SONG TO SING OUT LOUD? Hall & Oates - "You Make My Dreams Come True" or that song from the circus tha tthey play on the calliope

17. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? for the birds

18. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB WHAT WOULD IT BE? cetacean researcher/trainer

19. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY COLOR HAIR WHAT WOULD IT BE? red, red, red

20. IS THE GLASS HALF FULL OR HALF EMPTY?stupid optimist questions...

21. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE? tie - "Dangerous Liaisons" or "Dances with Wolves"

22. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR HANDS ON THE RIGHT KEYS? hardly

23. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? ghost turds; supports for the waterbed; and a pathetic, beaten down bogey-man or two

24. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 68 - no comment

25. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH? TV - American football, live - rugby, ice hockey

26. BIGGEST INTENSE PAIN? this f*****ing Master's degree

27. (deleted due to irrelevance)

28. (ibid)
- evil #29 has been stricken from the record
30. HAMBURGER OR HOT DOG? die meat-etaers!!!! die, die, die

31. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON? Birthday season

32. THE BEST PLACE YOU HAVE EVER BEEN? Taiwan was pretty cool, but I was to young to appreciate it

33. BEST FEATURE ON YOU? some say eyes, I like my big ol' brain, but boobs are definitely right up there

34. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FAST FOOD? Whataburger (I know...hypocrite)

35. YOUR BIRTH NAME? if I tell you I have to kill you

Significance of Death, Part Deux

Dry, dry, dry... dry, dry, dry, dry, dry, dry... dry, dry, That's what this whole death scenario has done to me. Made me dry. Dry. Dry as your late, dead great-grandmother Georgina's dusty, web-bedecked vagina cuddled six foot under the spongy loam of her last resting place in the crumbling confines of a conspicuously extravagant coffin once lavishly quilted with the finest of silks and velveteens to comfort poor grandmama's little birdie head as she twisted off into the netherworld to become ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust. Yes, quite dry, not a drip, drab, dram, not a jot nor tittle, not a bead nor nuance of wet to be found in my vicinty. Just dry.

Dry like that heat you've heard them mention. And no doubt this is a southern/western thing. As only when the mercury soars, nay skyrockets, into the upper regions of the meter, blazing a trail for days on end into the the 100+ degrados, do we begin to qualify the heat. Maybe to distract ourselves from the mere fact that heat, at anything above 100 (really above about 104. That seems to be the magic cut-in temperature for misery) is simply hot, hot and scorching and DRY, because no self-respecting molecule of moisture would be caught dead in that kind of heat. It's not only unfashionable, but it's just not DONE, cavorting about in that kind of heat.

"Ooooo, dear, but did you hear it was 112deg today???"
"Yes, Minnie, but was it a dry heat?"
"Indeed - nicely dry; flirty on the palate; hint of leather, pomegranate & mesquite; burnt finish - alltogether a delight at 112deg. Get a case, let it age and then sprinkle the dust for a lovely, gritty addition to any course."

As if somehow dry heat makes the 16 layers of derm you have just left on your leather car seat so much more pleasurable, even preferrable. Skin-crackling, pore-enlarging, sweat-tap-opening, I-will-drink-my-own-urine-if-I-have-to, cactus-wilting, dirt-boiling hot. Yes, it was a dry heat, like the heat they have in Arizona. In fact, let's all move to Arizona, where all the old, really dry people are, in order to experience with some frequency, regularity and longevity that place where dry heat resides. Seek it out and embrace it warmly. Eschew the tenderness of moisture and simply flake off. Nope, at 100+, I don't care if its dry, tepid, humid, moistened, binty, dirty with extra olives, insouciant, or Copernicus, its f**ing hot AND dry.

And that's how the death has left me feeling. DRY. All dried up. Except for the mucus, of course.

The Significance of Death, Part I

I've tried changing my route. Going "to" seems to be worse than "from" which is at the end of the day when you might conjecture it would be worse. Changing the route seems to be the poultry way out in some sick way of thinking (often a way that I think). I chide myself that I should force myself to absorb the nastiness of the "caninus inocentus" incident in all its gory splendor. To rub each and every ounce of its disgust into my pores and let it percolate through so I can blend all of the implications into my world vision. Translate that unhappy moment into some sort of activism and action and development into a "better" person.

Conversely, it is just perverse that I strangle myself on the grotesquerie of it instead accepting my role as comforter, allowing the progrees of nature to be my solace and to know that I was instrumental in the gentle passing of a life. My focus and image should be of the transcendant light of transit and the transformation of being, the devastating gift of nature that runs both hot and cold. My place in the universe, and the universal flow. My place just there and then.

This is a struggle not just about the death of a small creature, but a physical representation of the signs of our times and of the forecasts of our futures. A time to sit on the haunches and think and chew the cud and smoke the pipe and maybe even trip the hallucinogen just to get a glimpse of the other inner side.

Helpless...

Horrible and revealing this morning on my way to work. Helpless, as that small puppy gaily flounced out into the road under that woman's tires. She heedlessly carried on - no brake light, no slowing, no acknowledgement at all. He wasn't mangled, but he wasn't unhurt. Grabbing the indian blanket that I keep in Colonel Plum for just such emergencies, I rushed to his side there in the street. He was very stunned, but I could see by the whiteness of his gums that he was already in shock. No outward signs of injury, but my fears ran deep that he would not be with me long.

Luckily a police officer happened by and waved off traffic as I tried to comfort the little pup. He sported a nice leather collar but no tags. His confusion subsided and I could tell that he was slipping away as his breathing shallowed. I cried there in the street in the humid morning, talking him through his last moments. The girl who hit him came back to justify her own indecency, and assuage her own ignorance. I waved her off. My little stranger began to gulp for air and I stroked him gently - it wouldn't be long now.

His blood was brilliant red, arterial and sparkling on the pavement - a testament to his short life. He took his last breaths and I gently lifted him to the curb. I asked the officer if he would look for the owners. They must live nearby. He seemed disaffected and distant, not wanting to even participate or offer the slightest consolation.

The welter of emotions will wait for another post, but I suffice it to comment that death is not nearly so dismal as indifference.

Contactus Orbitus

They say that making good eye contact is, well,... good, indicates healthy self-esteem and respect for others. I've been told I make good eye contact, however now I'm beginning to question the logic in that. I don't think people REALLY want good eye contact. It may be a generally espoused concept in the "This is how to get a good job" or "This is how to win friends and impress squirrels" handbooks, but the slovenly, heathen, heaving public in their deepest of deep places doesn't really want to make or have made at/with them good eye contact. Those that don't make eye contact, good or otherwise, are appellated "shifty-eyed" which connotes a world of meanings. Not only the obvious, eyes maniacally struggling to escape their sockets to avoid intercourse, but the implication of dishonesty, not "meeting the eye". It is said that rapid blinking is fair indication of fibbers, or maybe the speaker is merely trying to dislodge the great whelping calumny that is desperately clinging to his sclera. To disrupt the painful construct poinking desperately into the gelatinous, moist sphere through which here peers into this dis-reality ripe for his manipulations.


So, what is too much, too little, too extended, too penetrating, too contact-y good eye contact?? When I am playfully yet oh-so-tenderly situating my orb 'gainst yours.... Oh, you mean I don't actually touch my ball to yours??!! Well, hell... no wonder folks having been giving me the evil eye. Maybe my good eye contact has been a tad too painful, rather like the little man that comes to poke you in the eye. You know him. The dapper one that shows up at your door the morning after you have snorted just a bit too much coke, and you wake to the light like a thousand tiny needles trying to edge themselves 'neath the delicate margins of your thin eyelids. As you stumble about for water, the little man knocks lightly and you answer knowing he will be there with his wee pointy finger or jabby small stick. A quick poo-hoo to the eye and he smartly turns and retreats leaving you to gasp painfully, slapping palm over socket, in full knowledge that you have deserved every prickly nanosecond of that poking. But now you can relish the rest of the day, saunter lazily to Mi Michoacan, order up three tasty 30peso taquitos of your favorite carne - be it barbacoa, carnitas, o bistec - a dollop of runny refrieds to adorn along with some finely chopped cilantro, a dash of real red picante and a few slices of pickled jalapeño (o habañero as is your wont to abuse yon colon). A steady trickle of baby beers should round off the meal while I sit on the sidewalk and gaze at the passers by waiting for the sun to zenith and sink to the horizon signalling another day past and another night of frolicking. Hmmmm.... I digress, but so pleasantly indeed.

As for eye contact...overrated in so many ways. In much the same way that the gurus of polite and gentile society demand that we make our eyes contact pleasantly and our hands shake ever so simply and our Thank You's quite so sincerely, yes, all good in theory but the practice makes the normal folk so very, very nervous as do most of the things I propose and pursue. The conundrum of the not normal.

Oh Allright Then

I'm as much a fan of the mythical as anyone - look at my delusional and hypothetical life! But there is a line to be drawn, not in the sand, but a firm line in the scientific mortar twixt evolution, the realms of "Middle Earth", and the creative minds of Creationism. Hence, the application of "hobbit" to earthly hominid remains (oh sorry... singular... remain) is completely, utterly, and solely a condescension to and a diminution of not only the language that we vulgarly call "English" but of the discipline we arrogantly claim as science. Nevertheless to use the idiomatic creations of Tolkien (regardless of his literate brilliance) as descriptors of proposed hominid species, sub or otherwise, is evidence of the lunacy and inability of current "learn-ed" society to separate real from unreal.

Hobbit, my ass. It's ONE for Chet's sake and can we leave the politics and Peter Pan egos at the airlock?????

Dervishing Whirls

tarantism (TAR-uhn-tiz-uhm) noun

An uncontrollable urge to dance.

[After Taranto, a town in southern Italy where this phenomenon was experienced during the 15-17th centuries. It's not clear whether tarantism was the symptom of a spider's bite or its cure, or it may have been just a pretext to dodge a prohibition against dancing. The names of the dance tarantella and the spider tarantula are both derived from the same place.]

Is it wrong that this happens to me in the produce section of my local organic grocery store? Just the other day I found myself jiving to Sting whilst sifting through the haricot vert, and shuffling to some reggae while sampling the last of the pixie tangerines. Given the crunchy-granola-earthy types that hang out there, punctuated with the occasional yuppie-upper crusty-starchy types slinking about guiltily with clueless expressions , I don't think anyone either cared or noticed that I gayly torque and twist my way through the tortuous paths. Somehow I am joyful when I go to my grocery. The mere act of procuring organics for myself and the animules is one of my small pleasures, my small modicums of control in a world of terrorism, injustice, ignorance and just plain ol' mean spiritedness.

Extend that to my little dream, eventually one might find me hustling through a small garden all natural and wiggly; weeding, picking, gazing lovingly at 'maters on the vine, my own haricot vert on the string, and perhaps some squush reposing about waiting for a lovely braise with some butter. Envision livestock and poultry fat and happy living off my little parcel of land and a chipper house in harmony with its environs. Idyllic, no? To me, yes. Not to all. Maybe I kid myself with the simplicity, as it is complexity that can really turn me on and stoke my internal furnace. However at the end of the day, it is Clyde's warm feathers against my hand, Chauncey's little furry body pressed into my armpit, the sweet smell of aired sheets, a quiet evening on the patio, a well-made meal, and conversation with loved ones that keep the flames burning.

Am I Hallucinating???

Came across this picture and wondered if it looks like me. I wish it did, but how can one be objective about one's own visage that one gawps at each day? Maybe you guys can... all two of you who stop by.

Helpful links in the Gallery to the left under "The Royal We"

If this Don't Make Ya Drool...

Look at your tongue closely. Get right up close to the mirror, in fact, get one of those stick-on magnifying mirrors so you can really see in there. Stick out your wiggly mouth muscle** and take a long gander at the little bumps thereon. If you are vigilant and have darn good eyesight you will observe the little papillae (taste buds/bumps), and you will also observe that they vary in shape and size depending on where they are located on your tongue. You'll have to stick your tongue way, way out - Gene Simmons style - to see the ones way back there. These are the little guys that let us taste our food and they are arranged in specific zones for tasting specific tastes. But funnily enough they only come in five categories (when I was in school it was only four) all combining to produce the myriad of flavors that we relish when we stuff our gobs with the yummies in which we delight.

Silly me was laboring under the falsehood that sour was already a given, perhaps because we tasted it we just assumed, however now we know the exact receptor. Nevertheless, sour is one of my favorites, if not my very FAVORITE, and as I read the above cited article my little mouth juicers (read that salivary glands) were really working it. My mouth filled right up with spit as if I had just eaten a slice of lime, sipped a tangy margarita, or crunched a lively salt-n-vinegar potatoe chip. The only confounding aspect, and little mentioned I might add, of that report was the confusion as to why a sour receptor/taster might have had any evolutionary validity or why the need.

Well don't you need to be able to tell acid from base when the enemies are trying to get you, when you are mixing one with t'other, when deciding red or white?? Sheesh, these scientists... a little sophistication please!!!

**which, did you know, is the strongest muscle in the human body [or alien body for that matter (I happen to know. They told me after the probing)]

Real Relevance

“There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.” -Hermann Hesse

This Will get Ugly

As part of my new leaf, here's a little opinion that I have about a fairly hot topic. Maybe not so hot now as it was in the 90's but still can rankle a nerve or two. But take a gander at this article. Short and to the point but brings up some lovely points of contention.

HIV... AIDS... Voluntary drug use/abuse... Afghanistan... Why do I give a flying rat's reticulated rosey ass through a rolling multi-colored, sprinkle-covered, chocolate glazed, raspberry filled, fried donut??!!!!!!!!! About people who come to MY country, refuse to speak MY language, lap up MY benefits, kill MY neighbors and friends and compadres, use up MY natural resources, stink up MY breathing space, and just generally ick me the eff out??? Well, I don't. And they can all just sit over there and shoot up with blood-encrusted, camel poop- encrusted needles, filled with inferior brown Mexican heroin mixed with cockroach powder until the goats come home and I will be glad to buy it for them. In fact, I will fly my tasty, white, AMERICAN, red-white-n-blue, yuppie hiney over there in business class to pound their little emaciated forearms or necks or groins to raise up a scrawny vein in which to inject a large bolus of mind-numbing, toxic narcotic to which they can mumble their last salaam or salaat facing towards Mecca. I'll even be so kind as to whip out a nice rug and bend 'em over it.

Yep, no need for clinics, or free clean needles. No need to warn anyone of the dangers of contracting potentially fatal diseases via sexual congress. Feel free... go on... boink in the streets. Mohammed would. He's a lascivious bastard. In fact, get all your treats in a one-stop-shopping spree. Boink and shoot-up all at the same time. Maybe even practice a little sodomy while you're at it just to make sure it takes.

Have I been perfectly clear on this one?

Love's Liabilities

You WILL end up here... sooner or later. It is the uneasy truth. I have wrestled with this from the beginning of the blog-era and the recent "doocing" of MrFab has pinned the tail on my donkey of indecision, and I have decided that my days of self-censorship have come to a screeching, yowling, nails-on-the-blackboard, forehead-into-the-dashboard halt y alto!!!! Despite my squirmy, colonic reticence at being dissected for the honest and brutal thoughts I am definitely going to write from now on, my overwhelming need to be heard is driving me more insanely batty with each passing f-bomb I drop inside my wee, little, scrawny, child-sized pate. (Just now I can hear "Texas Tom's" rather prodigious jaw hitting the floor as he wonders just what parts I have been censoring o'er the last decade.... things that make you go "Hmmmmmm????")

However, as thinly veiled as they may be, all will be monikered as I see fit. Not necessarily to protect the innocent, but to prevent the massacre of the stupid, insipid and deserving. Also be aware that much of what appears here may one day make it into some local venue as material in an act, fodder for the local riff-raff. Exposed wounds in which to jab digits, to rub minerals, and with which to silently commiserate.

Make no mistake, in the paragraphs and prose to follow, blood will be let. Oh yes, you will suffer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




(I am such a weinie)