November 30, 2005
He is a sick man
I always knew that this guy was bent in a strange direction. I must be, too, because I want a subscription.
quote of the day
"Life is rough. So wear a helmet."
I don't know who said that originally, but it's damn good advice.
A politician I like
Thanks to some really crappy redistricting (read: racially-motivated gerrymandering), this guy is no longer my Congressman. I may change my voting address to my Mama's house just so I can sneak into Chatham County and vote for him again.
He's one of the good guys.
I didn't post anything yesterday. I was too damned busy.
I went to visit my 94 year-old grandmother, who gave me two bottles of apple juice when I mentioned that I'm supposed to be eating lots of fruits and vegetables now. She ALWAYS wants to feed me or give me something to take home when I visit. I took the juice and made her very happy.
I went to an AA meeting.
Some friends came by while I was in the hospital and cleaned my house. Now I can't find a damn thing around here. They also threw away almost everything in my refrigerator because that stuff was growing evil-looking heads, insectile legs and clicking mandibles. I think an alien invasion was immenent. So, I had to go to the grocery store and lay in some fresh supplies.
By the time I finshed all that, the time was nigh for me to be back in Statesboro for my Outpatient Counceling, which I signed up for to help me stay steady for a while. That also will help me find a good sponsor to bog a foot in my Cracker ass when I need it. I didn't get home until almost 9:00 last night and I was flat worn out.
Besides, I'm having a bad case of Post Acute Withdrawal. I feel as if someone removed my brain, stuck it on a post, shot it full of holes and then placed it sideways back in my head. My short-term memory has gone to crap. I have difficulty focusing on ANYTHING for more than a few seconds. I just kinda zone out a lot.
My councelor told me that this goof-cloud I'm riding is perfectly normal. As he put it, I poured enough alcohol and dope into the back of my computer to short it out, and repairs sometimes take a while. He told me that I should carry a notebook in my pocket and write things down so I don't forget them.
I told him that I would lose the notebook in the shape I'm in right now. He said that this, too, will pass, if I don't backslide.
So, I didn't blog yesterday. I went to bed at 10:30 PM, still clean and sober.
One day at a time, folks. One day at a time.
November 28, 2005
I was released from Willingway today. I look and feel a lot better than I did when I checked in. I've gained some weight, and my hair is cut short again. I also am sober at 10:30 PM on my first night out.
Would you believe that I am drinking bottled water? Well, I am.
I am tired and suffering a case of re-adjustment blues. I am going to bed early. I want to thank my guest-bloggers for stirring the fire while I was gone. I appreciate it, ladies.
And I appreciate each and every reader who hung around during my hiatus. I'm back and ready to rumble again. I just hope I can do this shit sober.
I've never tried that before.
Early in my blogging career, I made friends with Mommabear. We swapped emails back and forth a lot and she even invited me to come stay at her house if I ever found myself in her neck of the woods. I never got the chance to do that.
I knew about the cancer...
I am glad that one of my guest bloggers wrote about her death. I'm going to miss her.
Opinions are like belly buttons-- everybody has one, but most people should keep theirs covered up, lest they display something ugly. That's my advice for this moron, who simply doesn't have a clue what he's talking about.
I know I'm going to piss off many of you, but I have never accepted the disease model of addiction, or addicition itself, which is less a medical than a stigmatizing term.
Brett, you are full of shit. You probably don't "accept" that idea, either, but you are really, really FULL of shit.
You may not be an alcoholic, but you are more fucked up than anybody I saw in rehab. At least we were TRYING to get well. You seem content to remain an ignorant asswipe. You might try to educate yourself, so you know what the hell you're bleating about, but I don't expect that sort of effort from the likes of you.
Drunks can quit drinking. Dumbasses stay that way all their lives.
November 27, 2005
Not Fooled Again
From the Washington Post:
Democrats fumed last week at Vice President Cheney's suggestion that criticism of the administration's war policies was itself becoming a hindrance to the war effort. But a new poll indicates most Americans are sympathetic to Cheney's point.
Any casual observer who knows anything about the military and who is honest could figure out that the congressional Democrats' recent push to 'get out of Iraq ASAP' is hurting troop morale. Even during peacetime, most American GIs want to feel as though they are making a difference and that the homefront is behind them. During wartime--when those same GIs are under more frequent threat of life and limb--that feeling is amplified a thousand times.
When you have seen some of your buddies have died around you and you're aware that you might be next, what must it feel like to read the Internet and paper publications and find out that the congressmen and women who sent you there are ready to bail out leaving all the good works you've done to be trashed by the likes of the terrorist Zarqawi and his spiritual daddy, bin Laden? What must it feel like to see your countrymen spread rumors that you have used illegal chemical weapons--rumors born of mind-boggling ignorance (of weapons, of intelligence, you name it) in order to dirty your good name?
What must it feel like to know that if you and your comrades aren't allowed to finish the task set before you that the type of men who would put hand grenades inside of toys would have free reign in Iraq?
What must it feel like to know that some of your countrymen want Iraq to be the next Vietnam, want you do become as demoralized as many of our honorable Vietnam veterans became and want peace-loving Iraqis to become the next people to die in droves while the living suffer under the next brutal dictatorship?
That there are people who care more about regaining political power than they care about America's honor, the honor of those who have died defending freedom, the honor of those who still live to defend it and the lives and liberty of a foreign people shouldn't be a surprise, but it is.
However, it's wonderful to know that a large portion of the American public see such people for what they are.
(Thanks to John Cole)
(Cross-posted at Baldilocks)
November 25, 2005
Something to Be Thankful For
Men, should one of you marry me, you never have to worry about being dragged by something sensitive to any mall and I might even hang out at Lowe's or Fry's with you. (That's not a blanket pitch however; I haven't listed the drawbacks to holy matrimony with the Bald One.)
Am I the only woman in the United States who hates shopping in traditionally female venues? There is nothing more mind-numbingly boring that perusing a clothing or toy store filled with other women. Ratchet the numbers up one hundred-fold, throw in a predatory gleam in each woman's eye as she is followed by the three to five offspring that she didn't have sense enough to leave at home and you have Black Friday--the day after Thanksgiving Day that leaves most retailers in the black.
No, I wasn't commandeered into shopping today, but the mere thought of being run down by a big, fat Kentucky Fried Chicken-eating harpy trying to get that marked-down Xbox for Junior (who's behind her whining that he's hungry) sends cold chills down my spine and visions of an afterlife spent in Hell.
Thank Al Gore for Internet shopping. However, before that, mail order was my friend. Both types of shopping are a bit more difficult to do now than I'm not so svelte myself, but I'd rather take my chances there than have to dodge raging female nutters playing NASCAR with full shopping carts.
UPDATE: Case in point.
The rush to get into a Michigan Wal-Mart store when the doors opened turned into a stampede. Shoppers fell and tripped over each other. A lady lost her wig and quickly put it back on as the melee continued.
:::sheesh::: Good thing her head was attached.
November 24, 2005
Stuffing and Stuff
Thanksgiving can be a grab bag of emotions, can't it? In the past, I've dreaded this day because I knew I'd be excluded from the big family gathering. Not this year.
The big thing - my mom and I made up. For those not in the know, I'd told her to fuck off (hey, I'm her daughter and did exactly what she would have done in the same situation) a couple years ago and no amount of apologizing could undo the damage. Sure, I had plenty of reason to burst forth with such profanity, but I shouldn't have. Anyhow, after two and a half years, we finally made up this summer. Even though none of us have spoken about Thanksgiving plans this year, I don't feel like an outsider anymore. Funny how that works, eh?
As well, I decided that Little Dude could spend Turkey day with his dad. Normally, I take my son and daughter out to Wild Animal Park and spend the day with them out in the fresh air, being thankful for the glory of nature and my children's company. So, LD will be with his dad and my daughter will be with my sister.
Me? As much as I'd like a big turkey dinner with that fabulous stuffing and those green beans, pumpkin pie and whipped cream, I've decided to finish up a little project here and then maybe head out to visit with friends after.
It may sound boring and it probably is. That's okay. I'm cool with it.
Ain't it funny how being at peace with yourself can make all the difference in the world. The really cool thing? Our buddy Rob has been hard at work discovering that it's possible for him. I have prayed a lot that he succeeds.
I hope that each of you find peace, too.
November 22, 2005
Remember, Rob gets out November 28, that's next Monday, so If you've been planning to mail him something, you better get it out SOON.
I want to personally thank all of you for the supportive comments, e-mails (which I've printed out and mailed to him) and all of the letters and goodies you have sent to him through the mail. I believe that the support from YOU has probably done more good than the actual rehabilitation.
~Posted By Sam
November 21, 2005
For The Blog: Cat Bombs
I've been hit by small-arms fire in the form of "cute" cat pictures. I've also been carpet-bombed by cat-cards from all over the country. Somebody even hit me with a tactical nuke in the form of a "Cat-O-Poly" board game. I thought I had seen it all. I was mistaken.
Toni Kilpatrick launched a full spread of photon torpedos and scored a crippling hit on the starship Acidman with a stuffed cat complete with battery-powered "meows". The nurses thought it was so adorable that they INSISTED that I keep the damn thing in my room.
There it sits as I write- staring at me from my bedside desk. It has blue eyes and it's nose lights up red when it meows. It radiates pure, unadultrated cat evil. It's just waiting for the right moment when I'm asleep at night to creep onto my chest and suck all the breath out of me. Adorable, my cracker ass.
Toni, thank you for the wonderful gift. One fine day, I will track you down and express my gratitude in person by choking you with my bare hands.
I hate goddamn cats!
(Posted by Acidman in letters from rehab)
Hi y'all, sorry I haven't been around in a while. Took a brief blogging break while my Dad had surgery last week. Looks like Rob has filled in the blanks, though.
Anyway, here's this week's dose of unconscious fun:
My answers in the extended, play along in the comments if you like!
ę hide more
November 20, 2005
For The Blog: Random Acts of Kindness
Thank you, my kind and generous readers.
MaryKate received 25 pieces of mail today from you folks and she is thrilled. That's more mail in one day than the total she's gotten in her previous 21 days here.
"Damn, Rob" she said. "You've got POWER!"
Nope, it ain't me. You folks did that.
And MaryKate sends her thanks.
(Posted by Acidman by letters from rehab)
For The Blog: Rec Therapy
One of the daily activities here that I truly hate is "Recreational Therapy" (or "Romper Room," as I call it.) Where my fellow inmates and I gather in the presence of a perky, young girl to play idiotic games. The games somehow are supposed to teach up lessons about how to stay clean and sober, but I am unable to see the connection between activities that would bore the shit out of a size year-old and my sobriety.
In fact, the very thought of going to Rec Therapy today makes me want to pitch a good, old-fashioned drunk. Besides - I don't trust ANYBODY as perky as our instructor.
The only times I've ever felt THAT perky in my life was when I was taking amphetamines.
On course, I learned early on never to ask "why?" when told to do something here that made no sense to me. I just shut up and do it. I'll shut up and do Rec Therapy again today.
But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
(Posted by Acidman though letters from rehab)
November 17, 2005
For The Blog: Prick Gnats
Every Sunday, we all pack into several mini-vans (called "druggie buggies" by the inmates" and go off somewhere on a field trip. Today, we went to the Mann Center, which is a Baptist church retreat. We ate hot dogs for lunch and played softball for a couple of hours.
Well, SOME people played softball. The physically disabled in the group, including me, sat under an oak tree and swated gnats for a couple of hours. I think I inhaled about a pound of those buzzing, biting bastards.
"DAMN! I didn't think sand gnats lived this far north", someone observed.
"Those aren't sand gnats," Someone else replied. I agreed. These gnats were just as pestiferous as a genuine no-see-'em, but they were bigger, with dark wings.
"Then what the hell are they?" The first person asked.
"Prick gnats," came the reply.
"Prick gnats? How did they get that name?"
"From where they like to land on dogs. They like rigid tools. That's why they're biting YOU. You remind them of a dog's dick."
Maybe you had to be there, but I thought that reply was hilarious. And it's TRUE about where those gnats land on a dog.
November 16, 2005
Internet Gets Eleventh-Hour "Call from the Governor..."
Recalcitrant blogger checking in with an exciting tidbit for internet denizens:
This is great news; a stay of execution, of sorts. While I am thrilled to hear that the United States will retain "control" over the internet's addressing system - for now - I blanch at the thought that an idea of giving the shit to the United Nations ever even made it on to the table in the first place. What the fuck? Somebody actually thought it might be a worthwhile avenue of exploration, leaving the ultimate control of the internet to nations like Cuba and North Korea and China and Iran, those fucking bastions of intellectual and political freedom? I mean, seriously. Hell, the fact that the United Nations is holding this "Internet Summit" in Tunisia is a statement in itself. Tunisia's, like, the second most internet-censored nation on earth, after China, or something. No, really. Look it up if you don't believe me. Google "tunisia internet". It's chilling.
So, no offense, but if you're reading this from Cuba or North Korea or China or Iran, I'd like you to know that your governments are fucked and I have no desire to have them at the reins of my World Wide Web. If you don't like it, build your own. Or man up and overthrow, my international governmentally and/or ecumenically oppressed-and-bethugged homiez. But...oh, wait. That's right...if you're there, in Cuba or North Korea or China or Iran or, well, Tunisia, then I'm pretty sure you're not up in here, either, thanks to your government's policies on information and the internet! Which leads me back to the original thank you, Jesus moment. It would be idiotic, potentially disastrous, and just downright fucking stupid to put the Internet's addressing system in the hands of the United Nations. Why we were even considering it simply dumbfounds me. Fidel, Jong-Il, telling you what you can and can't read? Wen Jiabao controlling what you buy and sell? Some fucking mullah on your mouse, fatwaing your sorry ass for surfing the nasty?
I get the shivers just thinking about it.
Young Girls: Don't Let this Happen to You
I can't wait to see the new and improved Rob, the one with some meat on his scrawny behind.
Now for the crazy stuff going on in the world. I'm sure that everyone has heard/read about the eighteen-year-old who murdered the parents of his fourteen-year-old girlfriend. If you haven't, here's the story.
It's yet another story that should strike fear in the parents of girls and in the girls themselves. Too often when I hear one of these stories about a child or a parent ending up murdered, it's because of someone that some member of the family allowed into their lives. In many cases, it's a shady boyfriend of a single mother; some ex-con, crack-/meth-head, etc. who molests and murders one of the young daughters. In this one, obviously, it was someone who the child herself--hormones raging--allowed in.
It would be easy to be judgmental about Kara Beth Borden, but I remember being fourteen. I was "falling in love" every week. In my case, however, it was usually futile; I was the ugly duckling--scrawny myself, and acne-prone--so most boys didn't take notice of me. (In hindsight, it seems like a blessing.) However, in later years--after I had filled out and figured out what to do with myself--I gave my parents the blues in this area, as did my sisters after me. By the grace of God or by dumb luck on our part (most likely the latter) none of our suitors tried to kill our parents.
Poor Miss Borden's saga should stand as a cautionary tale; not just for parents--it appears that the late Bordens were good parents and were trying to nip the relationship in the bud--but for all young girls themselves. I'm sure that it never occured to young Miss Borden that her "love" would turn into a monster. And, at fourteen, a girl's "a**hole-detecter" isn't even honed, anyway. (Mine needed calibration long after age fourteen.) That's why it was up to Borden's parents to keep guard on their children--the main parental task.
Well, the Bordens tried to live up to their responsibilities and they paid for it. Unfortunately for Kara Beth, she will have to live with her teenaged folly for the rest of her life, as will her four siblings.
It's times like these when I'm happy to be childless. But I have nieces (and nephews) for whom I pray everyday. However, I'm reminded that calamity falls on the just and the unjust alike.
Young girls: your parents know better than you (in most cases), especially when it comes to grown men--or even not-so-grown men. You don't want to end up like Kara Beth Borden, not to mention ending up a pregnant teenager.
I'll leave it to a man to preach to the potential David Ludwigs of the world.
November 15, 2005
For The Blog: FREEDOM!
I got my release date today. I exit the morning of November 28, five weeks and two days after I came reeling in here. I think I'm getting some time off for good behavior. They told me six weeks minimum when I checked in.
This is day 21, and I must admit - I do not look like the same person I was 21 days ago. That's an encouraging sign because I don't want to be that person ever again.
I've gained some weight (I still need to add another 30 pounds or so to fill out my frame decently), I have a good appitite and I'm sleeping well. In another 18 days, I may resemble my old self again.
Of course that's where the difficult part begins. It's easy to be clean and sober, in a rehab facility - I don't have any choice. But the outside world is full of temptation, and I am an alcoholic. Alcoholics don't think the way normal people do. If we ever take that first drink, we cannot stop. And if I ever start drinking again, I'll be dead very shortly.
You'd think that fact would be enough to convince me never to drink again. Hell, it would be for ANY sane, rational person.
But I'm not a sane, rational person. I am an alcoholic. I will be an alcoholic for the rest of my life. No cure exists for this cunning, baffling, powerful disease. The very best I can hope for if to keep the disease in remission by practicing complete abstinence. No drinking. None. Nada. Never.
That's all a tall order - A lot taller than what most "earth people" (non-alcoholics) can ever understand. It ain't like turning off a light switch. It ain't a question of self-disipline. It's a complete change in behavior and thinking.
I'm scared shitless. I don't know if I can do it.
For The Blog: Midnight Oil
I fucked up tonight. I went by the nurse's station at 8:00 this evening to get my nightly dose of meds - an antibiotic, a potassium pill and a folic acid pill. The nurse said that it would be better if I waited until later in the evening - I had taken an antibiotic with my 6:00 diuretics, so she suggested that I come back at 10:00 or later.
That's what I meant to do, but I fell asleep in my room. The nurse woke me at midnight.
Now it's 1:00 in the morning and I'm still wide awake. Damn!
(UPDATE: False alarm - I went back to bed at 1:30, fell promptly asleep and had to be awakened by a different burse at 7:30 this morning. I think I like my new room.)
For The Blog... FROM ACIDMAN
Note From The Underground-
* I got my own private room today, complete with my own bathroom. Life is good.
* Quinton sent me a letter. He got babtized in his church last Sunday and then broke his arm playing football later in the day. Explain to me again how God works in mysterious ways.
* The swelling in my feet and legs appears to be subsiding at last. I've got a way to go to get back to normal, but at least I'm seeing some progress now. It's about time, too. I've been in a lot of pain. I've also pissed enough to fill a swimming pool from all the diuretics.
* I received the Ultimate Cat Bomb from Vincent Perriello of Bowling Green, Kentycky. Thanks, Vince, you bastid! He sent a "Cat-O-Poly" Game. Hell, that's not a bomb, that's a fucking nuke.
* Debora Demora sent me two bars of home-made soap that smells wonderful. Unfortunately, the staff put the soap under lock and key. They are suspicious that the soap may contain some mind-altering ingredient, even though Debora included the recipe she used to make it. I'll get the soap back when I check out of here. I told the staff that I wasn't going to eat, smoke, snort or mainline the soap, but they don't take chances around here.
* Needless to say, DO NOT send me any food.
* This is day nineteen. Time sure does fly when you're having fun.
November 12, 2005
(Slightly edited from the original version)
If this is to be our end, then I would make such an end as to be worthy of song and story.
Yesterday, I hauled myself down to the beach--tough duty, that--to chronicle Code Pink's latest effort at highlighting their concern for the US military on that most martial of days, Veteran's Day.
When Charles Johnson gave his myriad readers a heads-up on Code Pink's latest effort toward "supporting the troops" here in Southern California, I was all set to run down to the site, camera and self-righteousness in hand. After all, some of Code Pink's efforts at troop support have been misguided at best and horribly insensitive at worst, to understate the matter.
But I could only feel one thing when walking among the many crosses that were meticulously planted in the sand on Venice Beach: not sadness per se, but a sense of awe and reverence.
As someone who believes in eternal life, I found myself wondering what all of the military men and women were thinking as they surveyed the same scene that was in front of me. If you ask me, a lot defeat and futility went into the presentation: those who put so much effort into planning such a well-organized display were saying to those departed "your penultimate life's work was a tragedy and will mean nothing in the grand scheme of how the world will turn out." If I were one of those looking down (or up), I'd be shaking my head. Or laughing. Or I'd be PO'd. After all, who are these people that they can say that the fallen have died for nothing? Or that any war dead are needlessly dead?
As is the norm at these displays which purport to support the troops--the same troops whose voluntary action they are designating as fruitless--there was a continual reading of the names of each man and woman, their age and their hometown. At one point, my ears perked up and I heard one of the readers mention a name, then stop. The reader then looked up and pointed to the bright blue sky complementing the type of beautiful autumn day for which Southern California is renowned, and said something like this:
"One thing is for sure; this young man will never experience another beautiful day like this one."When he said that, I was struck by the fact that behind him stood hundreds of crosses and at least one Star of David. If he really believed his own word, really believed that the young man mentioned was dead--non-existent--forever, then what was up with all those symbols of unending life that were the display's main theme? Could it be :::gasp::: that the symbols of Christianity and Judaism were mere props? Well, it's not like that hasn't happened before.
Then again, I could be asking for too much too expect concepts to be consistent during such an exhibit. After all it's the over-arching point that counts; counts even more than the God that a goodly portion of these fine people don't believe in: war is always bad and always wrong and those who die perpetrating warfare waste their lives. No exceptions.
It just seems to me that the people who make up Code Pink want to stand for something before they do what we all have to do: die. It's their choice to take the easy road to the end, rather than the difficult one. Too bad that they would denigrate a divergent choice that others would make.
Enough babbling; here are the photos.
Here's the scene with me standing on the Santa Monica Pier facing northeast; crosses/Stars of David and coffins, obviously.
Each cross/Star of David was blank initially and it was up to the visitor to pick out a name from the list printed out from the FoxNews site--ironically--take one of the cards provided and rubber bands provided, write a name on the card and hang it on one of the symbols.
Here's a close up of the coffins.
You are now entering Arlington West.
The first exhibit on the left when one walked into the make-shift enrance of the display were two charts, one with the first one thousand troops who died in Iraq, the other featuring the second thousand.
On the left was a rather perfunctory chart featuring the Afghanistan casualty list.
The above chart seemed like an after-thought. I guess that the Afghanistan casualities don't have the propaganda vaue that their Iraq War brethren do.
This charming sign was just to the right (facing) of the Iraq War casualty charts.
This next display did tick me off: photos of grievously wounded soldiers.
I wonder whether Code Pink and company have implemented anything like Project Valour IT for these guys and girls. It would be the least they could do after using photos of their stumps, etc. to make their point.
Here's another photo that gives you an idea of how many crosses there were--and this is just on one side.
Here's a conglomerate of symbols that I'd imagine would ignite "holy" wars in a whole lot of places in this world.
I wonder whether it ever occured to any of these people that the "needlessly" dead GIs which they claim to support had defended their right to show such things without molestation. I doubt it.
I don't think that this people are bad, however. I simply think that they don't understand the mindset of most military persons, especially those whose specific reason for being puts them in mortal danger--Marines, for instance. Such people believe that they are helping the next Marine; such people never consider that there are persons that go into the war business with their eyes wide open, knowing that they might die, but living for the chance that they might make a difference, small or large.
But because that anti-war types can't understand such a mindset, they believe that warriors are stupid and/or duped. Either way, it is an insult; either supposition is evidence of a large amount of arrogance on the part of the anti-warriors.
And that is why most real warriors hate this sort of "tribute."
(Cross-posted at baldilocks)
UPDATE: Additionally, I took a drive over to the Los Angeles Memorial Veteran's Cemetary to pay my respects.
God bless them.
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November 11, 2005
The Right to Flap Our Gums
I just want to say Happy Veteran's Day to my fellow veterans. I've been out all day taking pictures at the Southern California version of Code Pink's...um...salute the sacrifices of our boys and girls who have paid the ultimate price in Operation Iraqi Freedom.
For those of Rob's readers who don't know what Code Pink is, trust me; most of you will be in full rant mode when you find out who they are. Here's a clue to their agenda.
To be fair, Code Pink's display had an unexpected effect on me: I felt sorry for them and I don't feel the need to mock them.
Tomorrow I will post some of the photos I took of the display--both here and at my site--along with some commentary, of course.
In the meantime, pray for our troops, their families and for the success of their present mission.
November 10, 2005
In honor of my birthday...
...and the headache that just won't quit, What's the best/worst/funniest thing that ever happened to you on your birthday?
Drunk stories get bonus points. :)
I Have A Dream
Earlier today, President Bush presented the Presidential Medal of Freedom to an interesting and eclectic set of personalities including Alan Greenspan, Jack Nicklaus, Aretha Franklin, Carol Burnett and Muhammad Ali.
One wonders whether the Hero of New Orleans will be in the running for next year. Wouldn't that be nice change of pace? To see someone rewarded for capable action in the face of threat as opposed to inaction/ineptness?
November 08, 2005
These are not the captions you're looking for...
This kind of thing makes you wonder whether the translator's an idiot or the Chinese just think Americans are idiots.
h/t Mean Ol' Meany
Not quite what they had in mind.....
The Sun newpaper in the UK is having a contest to submit the wackiest web address....
Here are a few that seem to be attracting quite a different sort of business from that which was desired:
Who Represents?, a database for agencies to the rich and famous: www.whorepresents.com
Experts Exchange, a knowledge base where programmers can exchange advice and views: www.expertsexchange.com
Looking for a pen? Look no further than Pen Island: www.penisland.net
Need a therapist? www.therapistfinder.com
Mole Station Native Nursery, based in New South Wales: www.molestationnursery.com
New to Milan and you need electric light? Why not sign up on-line with Power-Gen? www.powergenitalia.com
Know any others? Submit them here with the subject "Wacky Website Names".
Arrgh this be pillaged from the Pirate.
November 07, 2005
For The Blog: Day 14 11/3/05
Today makes two weeks in rehab, and it's one of those days when my alcohol-soaked brain rebels against the pangs of sobriety. I believe that I now know what senility feels like. I open my mouth to say something profound and I never know what incoherent babble may come flying out of my neck. It's disconcerting.
I think I pissed away half my brain on these got-damn diuretic pills I'm taking.
I'm hoping to move into a private room next week. In my "transition room" I have a very large roommate who likes to keep the temperature set at Walk-In Freezer, The yankee bastard. I have two extra blankets for my bed and I'm still cold in there. The place is about the size of a decent closet with two beds crammed in there. My roomie can't sleep unless he forms frost on his breath. At least he doesn't snore.
On Tuesday, the day before I lost my brains, I won an engineering contest. The object was to take a raw egg, a handful of plastic coffee stirrers and 3 feet of 1" masking tape and build armor for the egg so that it wouldn't break when dropped on the ground.
Mine wasn't the prettiest egg (it resembled a sea urchin), but it was the only one in the contest to survive an eight foot fall intact. I was still smart that day.
Since then, I've gone completely to shit mentally. I believe that this is a normal part of the rehab process (My body is long accustomed to running on high-octane fuel - It's pinging and knocking on regular now.)
My spirit is high, even though I'm not. If the swelling in my feet and legs goes away, I might even feel pretty good. I've got a long way to go, but it will pass, one day at a time.
I miss the blog world, but it will still be there when I get out. See you soon.
~I have printed out the e-mail from last week and mailed them off today. I will have access to a printer again tomorrow, so keep the e-mails coming. I write dad everyday.
Another Letter From Dad
He got the address right on this one!
For The Blog: Recovery? 11/2/05
My feet and legs hurt like hell. They've got me up to 8 diuretic pills per day now and I'm pissing like a racehorse. But the swelling isn't going down. They ran a check on my liver and my enzymes are all fucked up, but I should return to normal function in a couple of weeks with no permanent damage - as long as I don't drink again.
The swollen feet and legs serve one useful purpose - they get me out of Group Recreation, so I can write instead of play volleyball or pitch horseshoes. Working in some free time around here isn't easy. I even have fucking homework at night.
What the hell. This place isn't supposed to be fun. It's supposed to save my life.
I hope it does.
Unconscious Mutterings III
Last week's were late, so here, on time for a change is this week's trip into the subconscious:
As always, my answers in the extended, and feel free to cut and paste and play along in the comments.....
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November 06, 2005
I have been terribly remiss in my duties as a guest-blogger for poor Uncle Robert. I do apologize; it seems that every time I try to reach out and do something good for someone else, Life just squats and places a massive dump right on my plate. Of course, the cleanup is dreadful, and it stinks for a while, but hey. It is what it is.
In order to provide the 3,500 of you who visit here on a daily basis with entertainment, and knowing that at least 3,465 of you don't peruse my site (and will not, therefore, be bored to tears by another rerun), I shall take the liberty of posting another of my foul old stories. I hope you enjoy it.
My husband and I were watching Ed Wood on HBO the other night. In case you haven't seen the film, it's the story of a spectacularly unsuccessful cross-dressing 50's B-movie director, and his touching relationship with the smack-addicted and washed up Bela Lugosi. It's an okay film - Tim Burton, you know - but really nothing to write home about. We'd seen it before, so I wasn't so much watching as using the background noise as a distraction from the mundane task of folding laundry.
"God, what a bitch," intoned my sensitive new-age spouse. We'd just hit the scene where Ed reveals his angora fetish to his long-time girlfriend and she rejects him. "You'd think if she loved him, she could put up with a little weirdness," he said.
I glanced at the TV - Sarah Jessica Parker having a horsefaced meltdown over her boyfriend's secret tranny leanings - then turned to face my husband. "Putting up with 'weirdness' is one thing," I said. "Expecting a lady to be able to work up a good wet for a hairy-chested bugger who's wearing her panties is another thing entirely."
My husband gave me that disapproving look, that "my, aren't we intolerant today," glare.
I take crap from his loving, giving, kum-ba-yah ass over shit like this all the time and I was having none of it at the moment. I replied, in a cutting tone, "Well, have you ever tried to bone a dude who was wearing your unmentionables? No - never mind, I don't want to know. It would be a total dealbreaker if you had, and I have no desire to be a single mother. Suffice it to say that I have tried it, and it ain't just a matter of acceptance. It's a visceral thing, man."
Of course, this led to the story, which my husband swore he'd never heard before. I know that I told him about this incident, during the sixteen-hour debriefing I insisted he attend prior to my becoming his wife. (I didn't want any messy comebacks on the merger, so he had a forced "full discovery" session before we even started planning the wedding. Hey, you've read my history - some of the milder events, anyway - can you blame me?)
See, back in the early nineties, your Queenie had a brief brush with this very issue. A bona-fide Rock Star and I ended up posing for a photo-shoot together, landing my "elegant" mug in a fanzine; surprisingly tasteful and non-pornographic black-and-white work. Quite nice, actually. The Rock Star was himself gay as Christmas, but the photographer - a big, strapping Irishman with a twinkle in his eye - caught my fancy, so I took him home with me after the shoot.
We had a lovely evening. Dinner, coffee, chocolate, wine, reefer, and the midnight hour found us locked in a sweaty clench on my down comforter, making out.
"Queenie," he said.
"Mmm," I replied.
"Queenie, I've...got a favor to ask." His tone was deadly serious.
I opened my eyes, I couldn't imagine what would break a man's concentration at a moment like this, so I sat up, brushing my hair out of my eyelashes and wiping my chin with the back of my hand. "This sounds like a big deal, sweetie...what's the matter?" I asked.
He took a deep gulp of air, and came out with it. "I...I like to wear women's underwear when I'm...with a girl. Could I...can I...wear something of yours?"
I must admit, this took me rather aback. Not something you hear every day, that - especially from a muscled-up man's man known to smoke cigars, drink Scotch, and get in fistfights. I just sat there for a minute, a little shocked. What was the etiquette for such a situation? Would a polite hostess offer him her bra, or was his request straining the bounds of traditional hospitality? I didn't know, and I didn't have time to consult Emily Post. But - what the hell. I'd never tried it before, it sounded kinky and so was I, so...what did I have to lose?
In a bound, I was out of bed and over at my chest of drawers. From its recesses I drew out Something Special, a hot pink longline bra that had been encrusted with rhinestones and decked out with a large, gold, faux-gemstone cross hung right between the knocker cups - part of an old Halloween costume. I tossed it at him, watching his eyes light up and his member strain at his boxers as he caught it. "Whoa!" he said. "This is a lot better than anything I expected!"
He took the lingerie to the bathroom, and I got under the covers to consider the situation. I came to no conclusions, and pretty soon, he re-emerged, wearing nothing but my longline bra. He grinned a devilish grin, and pounced me. "Naaa, lassie," he said. "Now you've made old Seamus a happy man."
He kissed me, a deep, lingering, virile kiss...and I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. The sight of his skinny, hairy chest with my 36DD's gaping open over it...what can I say? I am a cunt.
Seamus froze, and drew back. "What's the matter, love?" he asked.
"Nothing. Sorry." I said, stifling another chortle. He smiled, and leaned back in.
A few minutes later, and I had reached my limit. I just couldn't do it. Any vestige of arousal was gone, and I was forcing myself to continue. Not any fun at all. I pulled my mouth away from his, and sat up in bed again.
"Seamus, honey. I...can't get into this. I'm sorry. I really like you, and I think you're handsome and manly and a helluva guy (cough)...I just can't get past (giggle) the underwear thing. It's not that...I'm being judgemental (snicker) or anything...I think whatever, um, turns your crank for you is just fine. I just can't do it. I'm sorry. It's me...not, um...you."
After talking it out like gentlemen, Seamus and I parted on amicable terms - especially amicable since, instead of making the beast with two backs, we went through my closet together. I gave him piles of my old stuff - sweaters, skirts, panties, bras, garter belts, stockings. He left with two full garbage bags of "playclothes", Seamus did, and I gained valuable closet-space. We became good friends in the end, and he did more photographs of me over the years than Carter's has Pills.
I closed the door behind him as he left, and I felt melancholy, but wiser - I really had liked the guy, and it was a shame - but I understood more about myself, gained a deeper insight into my inner motivations. I'd come to an important realization that was to serve me well in later years - hairy Irishmen with boners in women's underwear are a turnoff for Queenie.
Hey, it's a personal tic. Is that so wrong?
For eleven days, unchecked rioting has been perpetrated in some of the suburbs surrounding Paris, France and, last night, the mayhem reached the city itself. The perpetrators are North African Muslim immigrants and children of those immigrants whose initial impetus for rioting was the accidental electrocution deaths of two men that had allegedly been fleeing from the police.
Could what's happening in France happen here? I say no.
Now before you protest, make sure you understand my question.
Obviously, riots occur here in the USA all the time--sometimes for just causes, in other instances, just 'cause. Still other occasions of "civil unrest" have spontaneously erupted due to 'mass happiness,' especially here in
The 'what' I'm referring to, however is the response of the government--or in France's case, the lack of response--for eleven days. Could you imagine the LAPD putting up with this nonsense for more than the few days it would take to coordinate its attack? Could you imagine a state governor--Democrat or Republican--dithering for a week before sending in the National Guard , Governor Kathleen Blanco's (D-LA) demonstrably poor decision-making capabilities notwithstanding? Most of all, could you foresee any given segment of American citizenry allowing the destruction of its hard-won property for more than the time took to form up in militias of their own? Or allowing roving bands of thugs to go from city to city?
Neither can I. (There are two reasons that riots only last a few days in the USA. The autonomy of local government is one; the other is called the Second Amendment.)
However, while the rioters in France are showing no sign of tiring, the French, government and citizenry alike, are showing no sign of saying 'Non!'
In Paris, while "youths" fired on the gendarmerie, burned down a gym and disrupted commuter trains, the French Cabinet split in two, as the "minister for social cohesion" (a Cabinet position I hope America never requires) and other colleagues distance themselves from the interior minister, the tough-talking Nicolas Sarkozy who dismissed the rioters as "scum." President Chirac seems to have come down on the side of those who feel the scum's grievances need to be addressed. He called for "a spirit of dialogue and respect." As is the way with the political class, they seem to see the riots as an excellent opportunity to scuttle Sarkozy's presidential ambitions rather than as a call to save the Republic.We Americans make fun of the France of sixty-five years ago for knuckling under to Hitler's Reichswehr and many have postulated that most of Vichy's children and grandchildren had learned nothing from that experience. But I think that most Americans would understand, even cheer were France to act forcefully and decisively to protect its peaceful citizens and to save itself.
How sad and frightening it is to find out that the original hypothesis was correct.
(Cross-posted at baldilocks)
November 04, 2005
I haven't received anything from dad in two days. The last letter I got had the wrong address on the envelope. He said he would write to the blog everyday so I HOPE that he's sending them to the RIGHT one. I will be printing out the e-mails and comments tomorrow and sending them to him Monday.
I can see myself doing this....
The ultimate revenge on those asshole snail-mail spammers who fill your mailbox, and therefore your garbage can, with paper. And it's completely legal!
Tired of receiving mounds of unsolicited letters and offers in the mail? Want to fight back? Want to get rid of that old tire in your garage that the garbage man won't take? Then read on......
Go here, and, as they say, read the whole thing. Let me know if you try it yourself.
Try this at home!
This will probably be my last post over here about Valour-IT. At least one other of my lovely co-guest-bloggers is also raising funds for this wonderful cause and I want to give her a chance to speak up, but I had to share this comic with y'all.
Here's Mike Wallster's (of Ipso Facto Comics) contribution to Valour-IT:
That's what it's like for our wounded troops without the use of their hands and arms.
Every little bit you can give to Valour-IT helps! Especially now that those Squiddies got two very large donations and have pulled ahead (but only by about $1000)!
Click here to donate to Our team, the First Team, Team Army!
(bonus points to anyone except my DH who gets where that phrase comes from)
In deference to those of you who might have other opinions on which group is best, try these links to donate:
Remember, no matter which team you support, all the $$ goes to the same place, and all soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines have equal access to the laptops. It's also tax-deductible and there are some nice incentives for donors....
November 03, 2005
Unconscious Mutterings II
Here's this week's (Halloween themed?) list of free associations.
ę hide more
November 02, 2005
Support our troops!
I'd like to direct your attention to a worthwhile project that Soldier's Angels is doing to help our wounded servicemen and women. It's called Project Valour-IT (Voice Activated Laptops for OUR Injured Troops), and it provides laptops with voice-activated software to soldiers in military hospitals who have lost the use of their hands and arms so that they can communicate with their friends and family via the internet. Each computer only costs $685 to set up, so even small donations help.
Soldier's Angels is having a big fundraising drive for Valour-IT between now and Veteran's Day, complete with incentives for donors and including a friendly competition between the branches. Click over to my blog for details and ways to donate. I'm representing Team Army, in honor of my husband and many other relatives and friends, but there are links to the other branches on my blog if you'd like to support those teams instead.
One Giant Step -From Acidman
One Giant Step
I finished with de-tox and moved from Unit I to Unit II today, at least on paper. They don't have an open bed for me there yet, but that's where I go for all the meetings. I'm still in my old room for now, but I get all the Unit II privileges. More freedom (along with more work) and buffet meals instead of just what somebody else throws on a plate for you.
The food is pretty good here.
I've pretty much recovered from the fall I took last Saturday, and my only problem now is that my feet, ankles and legs are below the knee are so swollen that I can barely wear shoes. I walk like a crab, but at least I'm walking.
Thanks again for all the cards and letters-even the cat-bombs, you assholes-
Here is the address again:
A Letter To Acidman
Dad received this letter and wanted me to post it.
"Here is a hilarious letter I received from a fellow Georgian"
Here's the late night piss-call story for your entertainment.
Many years ago, I was working A-line, (11PM to 7AM). Hours into the shift, the coffee I'd been swilling hit bottom. I drove out to a rural part of town, turned onto a little dirt lane, drove the full length to make sure there were no late-night lovers parked along it and pulled up to some brush preparatory to relieving myself.
At the time I was carrying in the left handed holster, an S&W Model 19 .357 Magnum. Large grip. Huge ass grip. Popped the seat belt and vaulted from the car. Seat belt wrapped itself around the huge asses grip and flung the revolver like a catapult into the deepest most impenetrable growth of brush outside of the equatorial Africa.
I'm hopping from foot to foot to keep from soiling dark blue wool trousers and cussing a mile a minute. Priorities rule so I drag out Mr. Johnson and proceed to empty my over full bladder.
As the first powerful stream begins, radio in patrol car starts squawking my car number. I don't know if you've ever tried to halt this kind of operation in mid stream, but it's a little like trying to slow down Niagara Falls with a three gallon bucket.
Now I'm bent in half, trying to aim away from myself with one hand and answer the dispatch with the other. Needless to say, said stream is now directed tight at bush where sidearm was last seen flying through the air. Dispatcher advises me that I have a burglar alarm going off at a business Route 9W north. I am on dirt lane off Route 17K west. Kinda like being on Tybee Island and getting sent to Southside Savannah.
You have to know that at this time I was in something of a quandary because the only other copper on duty was out of service for his meal break. We didn't have portable radios at this time so he was unreachable except by telephone and, as he was senior man, calling him out of his dining experience would put me in deep shit.
So, I explain to dispatch that I am all the way out on 17K and my response time would be a little long. Now I've finally emptied the bladder and was trying to decide how to tackle retrieving revolver without getting warm saline soltion all over me. Even though it was my own product, if I had to come in contact with the owner of the business or other civilians, I didn't want to smell like Trailways bus station.
I popped the trunk on my patrol car and rummaged around for something to use as a hook to snag and fetch with. We all carried an expandable haligin tool for at that time. The kind of hooked pry bar you used to see on a fire truck. I found it and extended it to it's full length, (about 5 feet) I found my revolver lying in a little hollow in the bush. Yup, a little hollow, just right for holding about a gallon of the aforementioned warm saline solution.
Now I return to the truck for rubber gloves. Found an empty box where rubber gloves used to be. Really turning into a wonderful evening, figured it was about time for a meteor to impact roof of patrol car. Sucked it up, reached into the bush and retrieved weapon with bare hand. Shook excess moisture off, dried as best I could with paper towels from truck, holstered and began long journey to sire of burglar alarm.
On the way, I opened all window and turned heater and fan to highest setting in hope of dispelling any ambient fumes and evaporating any leftover moisture. And of course, upon arrival it was a false alarm accidentally set off by the owner of the business.
-Name Withheld For Privacy
November 01, 2005
More Toe Porn
This is some sick shit, man...
And yes, the polish is RED, not pink. It may appear pink due to the overwhelming crappiness and advanced age of my webcam, but that ain't my fault. Besides, Uncle Rob trusts me to post no toenails of a wrongness on his blog...shouldn't you?
Letter #2 From Acidman -To The Blog
You people don't know how good you make me feel with the cards and letters you've sent me. I look forward to the mail call every day.
I've had a rough first week and I really haven't had time to send back replies to all you kind people. I'm dashing this off quickly between classes. By the time we're finished at night, I'm too exhausted to write and they give us HOMEWORK too!
I hope to get some time this weekend to write back a lot of you. In the meantime, just take this as a blanket "Thank You" to you all. I hope you enjoy the guest bloggers until I get back in December.
Don't forget about me - I shall return in a new and improved version.
BTW, this is his daughter.
Catblogging even Acidman would like
Hallowe'en Cat Bowling
(h/t Physics Geek)
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