So yeah, we're moving. Claire and Paul are moving a few blocks away. Brian and I and the boys are moving from the penthouse to the ground floor. We're pretty happy about it for several reasons. Claire will be a few blocks away but if you've ever lived with Claire, you know that it will be a long awaited freedom from incessant nagging. Don't get me wrong, I love Claire, after all, she is my mom and has been a great one, but... she could drive a sane person to the top of a building's ledge in the blink of an eye.
So... Claire is moving to a block that already has a 'famous' nag. This nag has absolutely no idea what she's in for. Her tiara is about to be ripped from her bad hair and nailed to the skull of "Callous Claire the Parking Spot Nazi". This woman would be wise to surrender her tiara and any parking spaces that she may utilize on the block. Park in Whitestone, it's safer.
To be continued.
THREE BLIND MICE (The Political Plague) acrostic + bonus rant
The government would like us to believe that they seek a cure
However, they seek only to inflict such plague on the enemy
Raconteurs cradle fear while strapping on their fancy gas masks
Every minute lost, finds the possibility of disease and death
Even i wonder if they ran for their lives, their abbreviated lives
Blindsided, the needle sank into innocent skin, death within life
Languishing in cedar chips, the rodent radon faintly glowed
Injected by uncle sam and his biological soldiers, they slept
Naive to government plans, lab techs bathe in political piss
Decontamination frees them of molecular disease, and pride
Meow, roars the big man's cat, rat splat soils pestilent paw
In the next room, a small child dies, no funds to find a cure
Covered up at the bottom of the priority pile, his cancer grew
Expelled from life, while the usa spends crillions on research...
trying desperately to find out how they can inflict the bubonic
plague on the enemy should it become necessary..... forget about
curing the poor unfortunate souls inflicted with cancer, diabetes, multiple sclerosis, aids, etc., etc., etc.....
the government spends unimaginable sums of money researching ...
they lead us to believe that it is for cures, when in reality, it
is for the FORMULA for disease.... so that they can drop it on the countries that refuse to follow OUR rules... countries
that the
USA feels should kiss our asses because we donated a few bags of
fucking rice to keep their kids from starving to death.....
that's why they give rice, wheat, etc.... so that they can snag
the country and add it to their side of the chess board and move
their political leaders around like queens... while the pawns,
the poor citizens of these countries, are forced to live the american 'dream'... correct me if i'm wrong, but most illegal
citizens are not living a fucking dream over here... they're
practically starving and sucking down welfare checks while our
government moved into the same countries that they fled and set
up governments.... so why not send the refugees back if america
came in and "humanized" their country...
BECAUSE WE DIDN'T GOD DAMMIT... we are led to believe that we make
some supreme difference to these countries...
america is not more than a bunch of ruthless cowboys... riding in
on their white stallions and scalping women and children... raping
them in their own tepees while their fathers are stripped of honor
and arrows....
so... where are the mice... they didn't let three lousy mice loose
in some small town... it's not enough to satisfy their monstrous appetites for evil... so my theory is that they took the
mice back
to dexter's laboratory so that they can clone them and their bubonic plagues.... in no time at all they can have
thousands of mice... and
a year's worth of droppings that can be crushed into dust and easily
sent in letter bombs or planted in kindergarten classrooms....
they'll be able to duplicate the formula for the bubonic plague and
let it loose wherever they want.... washington, L.A., new york, oh,
and save enough for our allies so that our defense systems are down...
but they're SMARTER than us... they will make sure to also find
the recipe for the immunity to such a plague so that they will be immunized and safe from the deadly dust.... they'll
live... we'll
die... and all of their evil dreams will come true..... our gods
will fall at their feet and beg for an ark.... two of each animal...
two democrats, two republicans... that can start over.... and try AGAIN....
...to rule the world.... which is why we're under attack in the
first fucking place
eh... fuck this rant.... it was supposed to be an acrostic poem
about the 3 missing lab mice that are infected with the bubonic plague.... i've got mouse traps in every corner of my
fucking
house and if i catch one of those fuckers i'm gonna stick it in
george bush's ass
----------------------------------------
Nursery Rhyme & History
The origin of the 'tale' of Three blind mice!
The origin of the words to the Three blind mice rhyme are based in English history.
The 'farmer's wife' refers to the daughter of King Henry VIII, Queen Mary I.
Mary was a staunch Catholic and her violent persecution of Protestants led to the
nickname of 'Bloody Mary'.
The reference to 'farmer's wife' in Three blind mice refers to the massive estates which she, and her husband King Philip of Spain, possessed. The 'three blind mice' were three noblemen who adhered to the Protestant faith who were convicted of plotting against the Queen - she did not have them dismembered and blinded as inferred in Three blind mice - but she did have them burnt at the stake! Another Nursery Rhyme which features 'Bloody Mary' can be found as follows:
Mary Mary Quite Contrary Nursery Rhyme
Author notes
.. i wonder what happened to this story.... THE MICE HAVE NOT BEEN FOUND... ANSWERS HAVE NOT BEEN FOUND... BUT UNCLE SAM SQUASHED THE MEDIA ... AND THE SAME PEOPLE WHO DEFEND OUR FREEDOM OF SPEECH ARE TOO FUCKING AFRAID TO SING "see how they run... see how they run... they all ran after the farmer's wife... who ... eh, read the story here.... it is quite amazing... www.rhymes.org.uk/three_blind_mice.htm Written September 16th, 2005
The government would like us to believe that they seek a cure
However, they seek only to inflict such plague on the enemy
Raconteurs cradle fear while strapping on their fancy gas masks
Every minute lost, finds the possibility of disease and death
Even i wonder if they ran for their lives, their abbreviated lives
Blindsided, the needle sank into innocent skin, death within life
Languishing in cedar chips, the rodent radon faintly glowed
Injected by uncle sam and his biological soldiers, they slept
Naive to government plans, lab techs bathe in political piss
Decontamination frees them of molecular disease, and pride
Meow, roars the big man's cat, rat splat soils pestilent paw
In the next room, a small child dies, no funds to find a cure
Covered up at the bottom of the priority pile, his cancer grew
Expelled from life, while the usa spends crillions on research...
trying desperately to find out how they can inflict the bubonic
plague on the enemy should it become necessary..... forget about
curing the poor unfortunate souls inflicted with cancer, diabetes, multiple sclerosis, aids, etc., etc., etc.....
the government spends unimaginable sums of money researching ...
they lead us to believe that it is for cures, when in reality, it
is for the FORMULA for disease.... so that they can drop it on the countries that refuse to follow OUR rules... countries
that the
USA feels should kiss our asses because we donated a few bags of
fucking rice to keep their kids from starving to death.....
that's why they give rice, wheat, etc.... so that they can snag
the country and add it to their side of the chess board and move
their political leaders around like queens... while the pawns,
the poor citizens of these countries, are forced to live the american 'dream'... correct me if i'm wrong, but most illegal
citizens are not living a fucking dream over here... they're
practically starving and sucking down welfare checks while our
government moved into the same countries that they fled and set
up governments.... so why not send the refugees back if america
came in and "humanized" their country...
BECAUSE WE DIDN'T GOD DAMMIT... we are led to believe that we make
some supreme difference to these countries...
america is not more than a bunch of ruthless cowboys... riding in
on their white stallions and scalping women and children... raping
them in their own tepees while their fathers are stripped of honor
and arrows....
so... where are the mice... they didn't let three lousy mice loose
in some small town... it's not enough to satisfy their monstrous appetites for evil... so my theory is that they took the
mice back
to dexter's laboratory so that they can clone them and their bubonic plagues.... in no time at all they can have
thousands of mice... and
a year's worth of droppings that can be crushed into dust and easily
sent in letter bombs or planted in kindergarten classrooms....
they'll be able to duplicate the formula for the bubonic plague and
let it loose wherever they want.... washington, L.A., new york, oh,
and save enough for our allies so that our defense systems are down...
but they're SMARTER than us... they will make sure to also find
the recipe for the immunity to such a plague so that they will be immunized and safe from the deadly dust.... they'll
live... we'll
die... and all of their evil dreams will come true..... our gods
will fall at their feet and beg for an ark.... two of each animal...
two democrats, two republicans... that can start over.... and try AGAIN....
...to rule the world.... which is why we're under attack in the
first fucking place
eh... fuck this rant.... it was supposed to be an acrostic poem
about the 3 missing lab mice that are infected with the bubonic plague.... i've got mouse traps in every corner of my
fucking
house and if i catch one of those fuckers i'm gonna stick it in
george bush's ass
----------------------------------------
Nursery Rhyme & History
The origin of the 'tale' of Three blind mice!
The origin of the words to the Three blind mice rhyme are based in English history.
The 'farmer's wife' refers to the daughter of King Henry VIII, Queen Mary I.
Mary was a staunch Catholic and her violent persecution of Protestants led to the
nickname of 'Bloody Mary'.
The reference to 'farmer's wife' in Three blind mice refers to the massive estates which she, and her husband King Philip of Spain, possessed. The 'three blind mice' were three noblemen who adhered to the Protestant faith who were convicted of plotting against the Queen - she did not have them dismembered and blinded as inferred in Three blind mice - but she did have them burnt at the stake! Another Nursery Rhyme which features 'Bloody Mary' can be found as follows:
Mary Mary Quite Contrary Nursery Rhyme
Author notes
.. i wonder what happened to this story.... THE MICE HAVE NOT BEEN FOUND... ANSWERS HAVE NOT BEEN FOUND... BUT UNCLE SAM SQUASHED THE MEDIA ... AND THE SAME PEOPLE WHO DEFEND OUR FREEDOM OF SPEECH ARE TOO FUCKING AFRAID TO SING "see how they run... see how they run... they all ran after the farmer's wife... who ... eh, read the story here.... it is quite amazing... www.rhymes.org.uk/three_blind_mice.htm Written September 16th, 2005
- Mood:
pissed off
I was born and raised in a small town about ten miles outside of Manhattan. The street that I lived on was a short dead end that was once a BEACH. I could walk to the end of the block and play in sand and seashells. White sand, clean sand. I was one of five children. In the morning, we would go out to play, free to throw a ball around in the middle of our seldom-traveled street. Free to hop fences into the remnants of the 'beach', now a polluted wetland. Geese, turtles, tadpoles and other wildlife had taken refuge there until the pollution forced them to seek a healthier existence elsewhere. But we enjoyed it. We would hide in the tall husks of overgrown weeds, sometimes pulling them out and having make-believe sword fights, where I can remember winning as well as losing.
It was a good life. Dad worked all day and mom made home made stew. She did tons of laundry and kept a clean house. We had family dinners after washing our hands and faces, and no elbows on the table, ever. After dinner, Mom would check the "chore calendar" to see who had to clean dishes that night and we never complained. Dad would read the paper and keep us all informed on what was happening in the world. Dad was the smartest man alive yet held only manual labor jobs. He wasn't the executive type, but could run the world if he wanted to. He chose to break his back for forty years just to keep food on the table and pay for our Catholic school education.
As I grew older and started to form my own opinions, I strayed from the Catholic Church and it's ridiculous stories of virgins giving birth and dudes walking on water. I was never much into fairy tales and couldn't understand why Old Mother Hubbard would want to be locked up in that stinky shoe with all those dreaded kids. Initially, I was comfortable in my lack of faith, losing my fears of Hell and Satan. But every so often I remember the old block, that was Heaven. Heaven was youth and it's untouchable innocence, it's freedom, it's naivete. Today, the dead end street is built up with fancy townhouses. Just beyond that, the old swamp was dried up to build a mega mall, with such businesses as Target, B.J.'s Wholesale Club, Jetro, T.J.Maxx, Circuit City, Old Navy, Modell's, Babies R Us, McDonald's (The Meat Nazis) and Starbucks (The Coffee Nazis). The size of these establishments was so incredible to me at first, you could land a jet plane in many of those buildings.
Traffic is so horrendous that I cannot let my children out to play. Eighteen wheeled trucks speed up my block without so much as a glance for playing children, the safety of the community is not their concern. The birds found other places to nest for they could not hear the chirping of their young over the sounds of air brakes and truck horns. They couldn't thrive on air, saturated with carbon minoxide fumes. So on a rare quiet afternoon, the sounds of birds chirping, of life, are absent. Video games replaced bats, balls, books and dolls, so the children stayed inside, entranced by technology.
I seldom have the time to make home-made stew and often settle for a quick one pan meal. The kids, couped up in the house most of the time, bicker endlessly over which television show to watch, whose turn it is to play video games, who hit who first, it's enough to spin my head right off of my shoulders some days. I talk to them about current events, about society and how life has changed so much, but they're not very interested. Pacman is eager to eat more power pellets. The stress of 'real life' ended life as I knew it. Being a grown up is terrible in this big city.
There has to be a better way of life. But as I drive to the countryside to a secluded campground with my boys, I can see townhouses everywhere, the deer lying dead in the road because they ran from bulldozers and steam rollers. The campground echoes traffic just outside it's borders. Crickets chirping sounds are dulled by society's noise. A helicopter overhead is searching for a murder suspect, it's spotlight much brighter than our warm campfire.
Where is that house on the prairie with it's endless green fields? Where is the peace? Why has cancer run wild in our genes? Is it because our government was trying to create a disease that we could inflict on the enemy? Did America become so estranged from morals and values that we inadvertently killed our own people? Why do we spend so much time and money on trying to convince the rest of the world to live as we do, while children in our own country starve to death and die of disease? Diseases that could be cured if the government only set aside some funds for research. Funds that are better spent building nuclear bombs, spaceships and chemical weapons.
I'm angry. I've lost faith in everything. I've forgotten how it feels to be happy, genuinely happy. I've lost the recipe for warm biscuits, but it doesn't matter because my family hasn't had a meal together in years. When I get desperate enough for sanity, I let the kids out to play. Despite my plan for some peace and quiet, I stay inside and worry that they won't be abducted, beaten and raped by some guy who just got out of prison for the exact same crime. Prisons being overwhelmed by the number of inmates, let 'em loose on society to make room for the next pedophile, rapist, murderer, drug dealer, enron executive.
I'm unable to stop myself. I apologize if your ears bled, but if you made it to the end of this rant, I admire you. I admire you for hearing me out, for sticking around and soaking up the negativity that spilled from my lips like a mouthful of... um.... water, yeah, water. I've got nothing good to say.
Struggling to reclaim a morsel of faith, I'll end with, "God Bless You All", and if you find that he does, have him give me a call because instead of a blessing, I got screwed.
It was a good life. Dad worked all day and mom made home made stew. She did tons of laundry and kept a clean house. We had family dinners after washing our hands and faces, and no elbows on the table, ever. After dinner, Mom would check the "chore calendar" to see who had to clean dishes that night and we never complained. Dad would read the paper and keep us all informed on what was happening in the world. Dad was the smartest man alive yet held only manual labor jobs. He wasn't the executive type, but could run the world if he wanted to. He chose to break his back for forty years just to keep food on the table and pay for our Catholic school education.
As I grew older and started to form my own opinions, I strayed from the Catholic Church and it's ridiculous stories of virgins giving birth and dudes walking on water. I was never much into fairy tales and couldn't understand why Old Mother Hubbard would want to be locked up in that stinky shoe with all those dreaded kids. Initially, I was comfortable in my lack of faith, losing my fears of Hell and Satan. But every so often I remember the old block, that was Heaven. Heaven was youth and it's untouchable innocence, it's freedom, it's naivete. Today, the dead end street is built up with fancy townhouses. Just beyond that, the old swamp was dried up to build a mega mall, with such businesses as Target, B.J.'s Wholesale Club, Jetro, T.J.Maxx, Circuit City, Old Navy, Modell's, Babies R Us, McDonald's (The Meat Nazis) and Starbucks (The Coffee Nazis). The size of these establishments was so incredible to me at first, you could land a jet plane in many of those buildings.
Traffic is so horrendous that I cannot let my children out to play. Eighteen wheeled trucks speed up my block without so much as a glance for playing children, the safety of the community is not their concern. The birds found other places to nest for they could not hear the chirping of their young over the sounds of air brakes and truck horns. They couldn't thrive on air, saturated with carbon minoxide fumes. So on a rare quiet afternoon, the sounds of birds chirping, of life, are absent. Video games replaced bats, balls, books and dolls, so the children stayed inside, entranced by technology.
I seldom have the time to make home-made stew and often settle for a quick one pan meal. The kids, couped up in the house most of the time, bicker endlessly over which television show to watch, whose turn it is to play video games, who hit who first, it's enough to spin my head right off of my shoulders some days. I talk to them about current events, about society and how life has changed so much, but they're not very interested. Pacman is eager to eat more power pellets. The stress of 'real life' ended life as I knew it. Being a grown up is terrible in this big city.
There has to be a better way of life. But as I drive to the countryside to a secluded campground with my boys, I can see townhouses everywhere, the deer lying dead in the road because they ran from bulldozers and steam rollers. The campground echoes traffic just outside it's borders. Crickets chirping sounds are dulled by society's noise. A helicopter overhead is searching for a murder suspect, it's spotlight much brighter than our warm campfire.
Where is that house on the prairie with it's endless green fields? Where is the peace? Why has cancer run wild in our genes? Is it because our government was trying to create a disease that we could inflict on the enemy? Did America become so estranged from morals and values that we inadvertently killed our own people? Why do we spend so much time and money on trying to convince the rest of the world to live as we do, while children in our own country starve to death and die of disease? Diseases that could be cured if the government only set aside some funds for research. Funds that are better spent building nuclear bombs, spaceships and chemical weapons.
I'm angry. I've lost faith in everything. I've forgotten how it feels to be happy, genuinely happy. I've lost the recipe for warm biscuits, but it doesn't matter because my family hasn't had a meal together in years. When I get desperate enough for sanity, I let the kids out to play. Despite my plan for some peace and quiet, I stay inside and worry that they won't be abducted, beaten and raped by some guy who just got out of prison for the exact same crime. Prisons being overwhelmed by the number of inmates, let 'em loose on society to make room for the next pedophile, rapist, murderer, drug dealer, enron executive.
I'm unable to stop myself. I apologize if your ears bled, but if you made it to the end of this rant, I admire you. I admire you for hearing me out, for sticking around and soaking up the negativity that spilled from my lips like a mouthful of... um.... water, yeah, water. I've got nothing good to say.
Struggling to reclaim a morsel of faith, I'll end with, "God Bless You All", and if you find that he does, have him give me a call because instead of a blessing, I got screwed.
- Mood:
thoughtful
Yeah - Baby Chris's first birthday party was a great success. All the cousins were there - magic show was cute.
Food was great. The paparazzi was in full force.
"Baby Chris.... making cute babies look ugly since 2006."
Food was great. The paparazzi was in full force.
"Baby Chris.... making cute babies look ugly since 2006."
- Can't find me:work
- Mood:
working - Music:c'mas carols
Yeah, so I got this email with some of those dorky questions, like, "What 4 jobs have you had?" and "Where would you rather be right now?", etc. Which got me thinkin' (scary, I know).
As for the jobs, I answered as truthfully as possible, "Phone sex operator, Librarian, Hooker, Cub Scout Leader". I'm all about entertainment, so I may have stretched the truth to keep my readers interested.
But forget about the jobs. Let's focus on where I'd rather be right now. My first answer was "All Alone (except for cashiers) in Macy's during a super sale. Second choice was "Filming a hot tub scene with Paul Walker". There were a couple more clever ones but I'd blow off Macy's any day to film a hot tub scene with Paul Walker so scratch the rest.
Oh, things that bring me joy - Revenge, Practical jokes, Scaring children and my nephew, Baby Chris. (Who I'd blow off in a heartbeat to film a hot tub scene with Paul Walker.) Sorry kid - life sucks. T
As for the jobs, I answered as truthfully as possible, "Phone sex operator, Librarian, Hooker, Cub Scout Leader". I'm all about entertainment, so I may have stretched the truth to keep my readers interested.
But forget about the jobs. Let's focus on where I'd rather be right now. My first answer was "All Alone (except for cashiers) in Macy's during a super sale. Second choice was "Filming a hot tub scene with Paul Walker". There were a couple more clever ones but I'd blow off Macy's any day to film a hot tub scene with Paul Walker so scratch the rest.
Oh, things that bring me joy - Revenge, Practical jokes, Scaring children and my nephew, Baby Chris. (Who I'd blow off in a heartbeat to film a hot tub scene with Paul Walker.) Sorry kid - life sucks. T
- Can't find me:ha ha
- Mood:
amused - Music:1010 WINS
Bah. It's December 4 and I havn't been Christmas shopping yet. My mother is scouting out a Wii for me every day by checking at Best Buy, B.J.'s, Circuit City, etc. She actually called the corporate headquarters of B.J.'s to let them know that she is checking every single morning to see if they got a shipment - and that she'll know if they sell them to their employees before they sell them to the public.
So yeah, she's paranoid. She changed the name on her Waldbaum's reward card to Patsy Paranoia so that the Waldbaum's CIA wouldn't know what she's cooking for dinner. She's convinced that they are tracking what kinds of food she buys, thinking that her life insurance will be denied if she were to die of a Twinkie overdose.
She swears that helicopters hover over the house and watch her come and go. I'm like, "Ma, they are traffic copters looking at the Whitestone Bridge", and she's like, "that's what they want you to think". Good Grief.
I hope that when i'm older, I get stalked by someone more interesting than the Waldbaum's secret service.
So yeah, she's paranoid. She changed the name on her Waldbaum's reward card to Patsy Paranoia so that the Waldbaum's CIA wouldn't know what she's cooking for dinner. She's convinced that they are tracking what kinds of food she buys, thinking that her life insurance will be denied if she were to die of a Twinkie overdose.
She swears that helicopters hover over the house and watch her come and go. I'm like, "Ma, they are traffic copters looking at the Whitestone Bridge", and she's like, "that's what they want you to think". Good Grief.
I hope that when i'm older, I get stalked by someone more interesting than the Waldbaum's secret service.
- Mood:
crazy - Music:1010 WINS
Okay, so Brian was not shot in a hunting accident. He is alive and well and doing electrical work in the house.
His snoring was down right nasty last night. He had that added gurgling sound which is quite gross. I'm up to 2 1/2 ambien a night to sleep for at least 4 hours straight. When I wake up, I look like I was hit by the fucking D train.
Gotta run.... gobble gobble.
His snoring was down right nasty last night. He had that added gurgling sound which is quite gross. I'm up to 2 1/2 ambien a night to sleep for at least 4 hours straight. When I wake up, I look like I was hit by the fucking D train.
Gotta run.... gobble gobble.
- Mood:
awake
Yeah, so, my husband left for a hunting trip on Friday night and was supposed to return yesterday afternoon. No sign of him. Could he have fallen off of a bar stool and been trampled to death by other hunters at the strip club? Could he have been shot by his hunting partner because he looks so much like a deer despite the bright orange hat? Could he have ran away from home? Bummer.
I often wonder why hunters claim to be "Conservationists", claiming to be saving the deer from overpopulation by blowing their brains out. As if a bunch of blood-thirsty brawnballs could save a species that is plagued by Urban development. Let me tell you somthing, if someone came along and tore my house down, I would have to move on. I can guarantee you that I wouldn't sit there and wait for a County official to come along and shoot me to save me from being homeless.
If you build a bunch of condominiums where the deer live, they will move on. There are thousands of acres of undeveloped land in the world. If they can't find it, then tough, they either starve to death or get flattened by and eighteen wheeler like so many others. That's nature. We took land from the indians, they moved on. We build Home Depots and squeeze out the local hardware store owner. If over-population is going to be fixed by killing, then we had better start shooting people in our big cities. Hell, if a family has more than 3 kids, we should just shoot the extras. How dare they take up space in our world. How dare they breathe the air that is reserved for us.
Hey, I saw a stray dog the other day, had I been insightful enough to have a shotgun with me, I could have rescued it by blowing it's head off. Left to roam, he could either starve to death, get flattened in traffic or you never know, he might find his way home to that split level ranch where his owner lets him lie on the couch and watch animal planet.
So yeah, hunters are not conservationists. Hunters are blood-thirsty boys who just want to get away from their nagging wives by hiding in the woods [or the bar]. If they get the chance to kill something, it's an added bonus and they come home happier.
P.S. When you add the costs of licensure, special hunting clothes, special boots, weapons, gas, tolls, lodging, food and strip clubs, it amounts to far more than a day at the mall. So stop your bitching.
Enjoy "The Venison Poem" (For the Hunter with a Heart)
Hey there Bambi, please stand still
I'm locked and loaded, up the hill
The kids are hungry, the freezer's bare
The fry pan's warming, medium rare
Hey there Bambi, please stand still
The table's set, the wine is chilled
The bread is rising, the butter's churned
You turn and run, again, I'm spurned
(Or have I really tried?)
I often wonder why hunters claim to be "Conservationists", claiming to be saving the deer from overpopulation by blowing their brains out. As if a bunch of blood-thirsty brawnballs could save a species that is plagued by Urban development. Let me tell you somthing, if someone came along and tore my house down, I would have to move on. I can guarantee you that I wouldn't sit there and wait for a County official to come along and shoot me to save me from being homeless.
If you build a bunch of condominiums where the deer live, they will move on. There are thousands of acres of undeveloped land in the world. If they can't find it, then tough, they either starve to death or get flattened by and eighteen wheeler like so many others. That's nature. We took land from the indians, they moved on. We build Home Depots and squeeze out the local hardware store owner. If over-population is going to be fixed by killing, then we had better start shooting people in our big cities. Hell, if a family has more than 3 kids, we should just shoot the extras. How dare they take up space in our world. How dare they breathe the air that is reserved for us.
Hey, I saw a stray dog the other day, had I been insightful enough to have a shotgun with me, I could have rescued it by blowing it's head off. Left to roam, he could either starve to death, get flattened in traffic or you never know, he might find his way home to that split level ranch where his owner lets him lie on the couch and watch animal planet.
So yeah, hunters are not conservationists. Hunters are blood-thirsty boys who just want to get away from their nagging wives by hiding in the woods [or the bar]. If they get the chance to kill something, it's an added bonus and they come home happier.
P.S. When you add the costs of licensure, special hunting clothes, special boots, weapons, gas, tolls, lodging, food and strip clubs, it amounts to far more than a day at the mall. So stop your bitching.
Enjoy "The Venison Poem" (For the Hunter with a Heart)
Hey there Bambi, please stand still
I'm locked and loaded, up the hill
The kids are hungry, the freezer's bare
The fry pan's warming, medium rare
Hey there Bambi, please stand still
The table's set, the wine is chilled
The bread is rising, the butter's churned
You turn and run, again, I'm spurned
(Or have I really tried?)
YESTERDAY
Where did yesterday go? I have a pile of paperwork that I was supposed to sort through yesterday. It remains untouched. I had Baby Chris on Friday night - did an awful lot of playing, baby talk, etc. but he went home early Saturday. My recollection:
6:30 a.m. Elvis woke up Baby Chris and started off a chain of events
Dressed Baby Chris for Elvis' walk since I couldn't leave him alone.
Walked Elvis while carrying Baby Chris.
Fed Elvis
Fed Baby Chris
Played
Baby Chris naptime
Little Brian wakes up
Feed Little Brian
Phone call - Delilah wants her baby back
Take Baby Chris home
Phone call - Mrs. Burkart (Brian's teacher - ON A SATURDAY!! - so much for avoiding her huh)
Doorbell
Christopher Sr. escaped from Rehab
Cook for Christopher
Doorbell
Frankie has come over to play
Christopher makes a pilgrimage in search of a home
Clean house
Cook lunch for Brian & Frankie
Naptime for me
Frankie goes home
Doorbell
Dennis comes over to play
Pizza for Brian & Dennis
Look at pile of paperwork - vomit
Blogging
Walk Dennis home/Walk Elvis combo 10:15 p.m.
CNN trance
Blogging
Look at pile of paperwork and go to bed 1 a.m.
Where did the day go?
- Mood:
curious - Music:CNN
August 1969 ( Woodstock in the Womb)
It was four months prior to 1970. The grass had been nicely trimmed. Who could have known that it wouldn't matter. Who could have known that nothing would matter.
An era was delivered among the emerald blades, the seventies being prematurely born.
Tie dyed love stuffed itself within gates that had splintered beneath the Bethel sun. August's heat hadn't deterred young lovers from dancing, from swaying, from kissing. A welcome rain splashed mud into eyes, heavy with bloodshot bliss, soothing their chapped lips, their tired hips.
Friendships and flowers were born. Music rang muffled into ears veiled over with muddled tresses. Somewhere, a lava lamp brightened a room, just enough to see your lover's face, but not enough to kill 'the mood'.
Just West of White Lake, if you listened closely, you could hear a Volkswagen Van rocking and the sounds of free love emanating from within its curtained walls.
Bell bottoms fell onto porcelain ankles, revealing itty bitty string bikinis, and unshaven legs. Free. Free from society's idea of 'acceptable', Hippies celebrated life, love and peace.
Somehow, the weathered gates of Woodstock held memories and morals, in mud pies leftover from the feast. Levees, as solid as pain, refused to let go and share those precious three days with the bitter. The bitter rule-makers, spending their days trying to convince society that free love was wrong.
I was but three tender years old when this historical event took place, and at three, my child shoulders were bare. The weight of the world lie in wait for my tiny frame to rise. My immature years dawdled away, trapping me in the throes of adulthood and emotional devastation. At three, I was free. I was free from nights that would lack of slumber and dreams. I was free from labels and from the larceny of hope. I was free from religious doubt and matrimonial desertion. I was free from pharmaceutical sanity and self-destructive sanctification.
Hippies, to me, represented freedom. A state of mind that Freud himself would envy. And when my own mind began to break, and my heart emptied of love, I wished that I could shed the back-breaking weight of my shoulders. I wished that I was free.
So in August of 1989, I made the twenty year pilgrimage to Woodstock in hopes of smelling the rain. The rain that cleansed ejaculations from wanton thighs. The rain that bounced cooling mud into the tired eyes of a most welcomed insomnia. I could hear laughter and lark, and it stripped my young shoulders of baggage.
And if only for the day,
if only for the day,
if only for
the day,
I was free.
I was
free.
An era was delivered among the emerald blades, the seventies being prematurely born.
Tie dyed love stuffed itself within gates that had splintered beneath the Bethel sun. August's heat hadn't deterred young lovers from dancing, from swaying, from kissing. A welcome rain splashed mud into eyes, heavy with bloodshot bliss, soothing their chapped lips, their tired hips.
Friendships and flowers were born. Music rang muffled into ears veiled over with muddled tresses. Somewhere, a lava lamp brightened a room, just enough to see your lover's face, but not enough to kill 'the mood'.
Just West of White Lake, if you listened closely, you could hear a Volkswagen Van rocking and the sounds of free love emanating from within its curtained walls.
Bell bottoms fell onto porcelain ankles, revealing itty bitty string bikinis, and unshaven legs. Free. Free from society's idea of 'acceptable', Hippies celebrated life, love and peace.
Somehow, the weathered gates of Woodstock held memories and morals, in mud pies leftover from the feast. Levees, as solid as pain, refused to let go and share those precious three days with the bitter. The bitter rule-makers, spending their days trying to convince society that free love was wrong.
I was but three tender years old when this historical event took place, and at three, my child shoulders were bare. The weight of the world lie in wait for my tiny frame to rise. My immature years dawdled away, trapping me in the throes of adulthood and emotional devastation. At three, I was free. I was free from nights that would lack of slumber and dreams. I was free from labels and from the larceny of hope. I was free from religious doubt and matrimonial desertion. I was free from pharmaceutical sanity and self-destructive sanctification.
Hippies, to me, represented freedom. A state of mind that Freud himself would envy. And when my own mind began to break, and my heart emptied of love, I wished that I could shed the back-breaking weight of my shoulders. I wished that I was free.
So in August of 1989, I made the twenty year pilgrimage to Woodstock in hopes of smelling the rain. The rain that cleansed ejaculations from wanton thighs. The rain that bounced cooling mud into the tired eyes of a most welcomed insomnia. I could hear laughter and lark, and it stripped my young shoulders of baggage.
And if only for the day,
if only for the day,
if only for
the day,
I was free.
I was
free.
- Can't find me:College Point, NY
- Mood:
sleepy - Music:No music - CNN
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