May everyone have a blessing-filled and sacred Christmas with laughter and love.
Merry Christmas, kittens!
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
A Christmas Rose
This is why I love where I live. We have had weeks of rain and storms, but then we always have a lovely respite and the sun comes out and the world is scented and clean and sparkling. Although it is still hard for me to pace myself for Christmas because it never seems right for it to be so mild and for everything to be green and lush for the holidays. So every year I am frantically playing catch up when I suddenly realize that, yes, Christmas is in TWO days! Oh well...we all know I am remarded.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
The UVA Rape Story. Where I Will Finally Agree That There Is Such A Thing As "Rape" Rape...And This Wasn't It.
I have been struggling to avoid this University of Virginia rape story, along with Lena's lovely tail tale...but the apparent CAMPUS RAPE EPIDEMIC penetrating deep into the hallowed halls of higher education across our nation now seems to be fully accredited or something, almost like it's part of the curriculum. I mean, it's everywhere. And everybody's doing it. And Jackie got an A+.
Oh good Lord.
When I first head (Okay...I wrote head there instead of heard. HAHAHAHAHA! LOL!! If there is a time and place for a typo, that's it!) of the story, my immediate reaction was, "The poor girl. Probably stupid, but still, no one deserves to be gang raped. No. One. Ever."
For the record, gang rape is "rape" rape, Whoopi.
But then, the details began to get complicated, confusing, conflicting, or flat out impossible to believe or prove. Hmmmmm.....so my spidey sense went off. Rape is a serious charge that always brings with it a sense of immediate moral outrage from the rest of us. No matter WHAT the woman was doing, rape is always wrong. We can all agree on that. Unless, of course, she was doing it with a famous Hollywood producer and there were drugs and Vaseline involved.
But once a woman screams "RAPE!", even decades later, she becomes the unquestioned victim, her own moral or sexual behavior is OFF LIMITS and what might have been a humiliating episode brought on by poor choices and unrealistic expectations is suddenly transformed into a ticket to fame and admiration and a Medal of Honor.
So when the whole bloody, battered part of the story fell apart, I started paying attention. How do you survive a gang rape without being bloody and battered? Well, kittens, certainly the repeated sexual acts had to have been significantly less harrowing than first related. But still, seven guys in one night, one right after another, puts even Sandra Fluke to shame.
Then -- and pardon me for calling bullshit at this point -- I learned that our lovely heroine had not in fact been physically "raped" but had instead been "forced" to perform oral sex on these young men.
And that she didn't want to report it. Could provide no details. Frankly made shit up.
Here's what happened, IMHO. I readily admit that my assessment will sound calloused and unkind to many, but if there is one time when we must all look our culture right in the face and ask it to wipe its chin, this is it.
Our children have grown up in a society where easy, cheap, recreational sex, especially oral sex, is just part of the fun. However, the ugly truth is that -- no matter how much these kids are brainwashed that sex is nothing but a party game -- sex will always be a deeply intimate experience. So when it is debased to the point of stark vulgarity, all the misguided expectations that a stupid and confused young girl brought to a party years ago can be devastating.
No one really wants to admit this, and probably few will want to agree with me, but I am convinced that Jackie was a young girl who went to a frat house and got involved in "doing" a bunch of guys, thinking she was going to be the darling of the night and everyone's new favorite date. It was all fun and games until she realized...apparently before she got to #7 patiently waiting his turn, that her rendition of Monica Lewinsky was earning her about as much respect from the frat boys as it had earned the real Monica from our charming president, Slick Willie.
And Jackie was humiliated. And angry. And frantic to change the story to hide her complicity. And so a seriously stupid episode turns into a rape charge against a group of young men, who, while obviously demeaning assholes much like our former president, did not believe that what they were doing was "rape" rape.
And they were right. It wasn't. It was the reasonable result of decades of culturally acceptable sexual behaviors that our children are acting out and being destroyed by. While I seriously doubt that what Jackie suffered was rape in any real sense of the word, it was certainly soul-destroying and I do feel for the poor girl.
That's just my gut-level read on this whole thing. I have no evidence. I am only going on my instincts. I have seen/known plenty of women who think sex is the way to a man's heart. It isn't. It is always a painful lesson to learn. Jackie learned it the hard way.
And now, I suspect, she's going to learn that lying isn't much fun either.
Oh good Lord.
When I first head (Okay...I wrote head there instead of heard. HAHAHAHAHA! LOL!! If there is a time and place for a typo, that's it!) of the story, my immediate reaction was, "The poor girl. Probably stupid, but still, no one deserves to be gang raped. No. One. Ever."
For the record, gang rape is "rape" rape, Whoopi.
But then, the details began to get complicated, confusing, conflicting, or flat out impossible to believe or prove. Hmmmmm.....so my spidey sense went off. Rape is a serious charge that always brings with it a sense of immediate moral outrage from the rest of us. No matter WHAT the woman was doing, rape is always wrong. We can all agree on that. Unless, of course, she was doing it with a famous Hollywood producer and there were drugs and Vaseline involved.
But once a woman screams "RAPE!", even decades later, she becomes the unquestioned victim, her own moral or sexual behavior is OFF LIMITS and what might have been a humiliating episode brought on by poor choices and unrealistic expectations is suddenly transformed into a ticket to fame and admiration and a Medal of Honor.
So when the whole bloody, battered part of the story fell apart, I started paying attention. How do you survive a gang rape without being bloody and battered? Well, kittens, certainly the repeated sexual acts had to have been significantly less harrowing than first related. But still, seven guys in one night, one right after another, puts even Sandra Fluke to shame.
Then -- and pardon me for calling bullshit at this point -- I learned that our lovely heroine had not in fact been physically "raped" but had instead been "forced" to perform oral sex on these young men.
And that she didn't want to report it. Could provide no details. Frankly made shit up.
Here's what happened, IMHO. I readily admit that my assessment will sound calloused and unkind to many, but if there is one time when we must all look our culture right in the face and ask it to wipe its chin, this is it.
Our children have grown up in a society where easy, cheap, recreational sex, especially oral sex, is just part of the fun. However, the ugly truth is that -- no matter how much these kids are brainwashed that sex is nothing but a party game -- sex will always be a deeply intimate experience. So when it is debased to the point of stark vulgarity, all the misguided expectations that a stupid and confused young girl brought to a party years ago can be devastating.
No one really wants to admit this, and probably few will want to agree with me, but I am convinced that Jackie was a young girl who went to a frat house and got involved in "doing" a bunch of guys, thinking she was going to be the darling of the night and everyone's new favorite date. It was all fun and games until she realized...apparently before she got to #7 patiently waiting his turn, that her rendition of Monica Lewinsky was earning her about as much respect from the frat boys as it had earned the real Monica from our charming president, Slick Willie.
And Jackie was humiliated. And angry. And frantic to change the story to hide her complicity. And so a seriously stupid episode turns into a rape charge against a group of young men, who, while obviously demeaning assholes much like our former president, did not believe that what they were doing was "rape" rape.
And they were right. It wasn't. It was the reasonable result of decades of culturally acceptable sexual behaviors that our children are acting out and being destroyed by. While I seriously doubt that what Jackie suffered was rape in any real sense of the word, it was certainly soul-destroying and I do feel for the poor girl.
That's just my gut-level read on this whole thing. I have no evidence. I am only going on my instincts. I have seen/known plenty of women who think sex is the way to a man's heart. It isn't. It is always a painful lesson to learn. Jackie learned it the hard way.
And now, I suspect, she's going to learn that lying isn't much fun either.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
The Difference Between Men and Women
Over at Ace of Spades Headquarters, Ace has posted about a study done on ideal body types, as they appeal to actual men and women...or to the men and women asked in the study, at least. What makes the findings interesting is that they asked both men and women to give their ideal types for each gender, so we get to wrassle around with what men think is attractive in other men and what women think is attractive in other women, as well as the obvious question of what men find attractive in women and women, men.
Here's the chart, for your edification.
For my money both the men and women got it right on the guy. If I'm choosing between Jackman or Gosling, the answer is, "Yes."
Even Ace understands that a hard body is attractive to women, if that's all we're judging. Pretty straightforward. Jackman might be a little beefier, but it's a tight race, so to speak. So yeah. Fit and muscled is a turn on. You can pick around the edges about body hair, color of eyes, smile, yadayadayada...but fit is going to win every time. Remember we are talking superficial, don't know a thing about them, just eye candy judging here. But my answer for either man is definitely a, "Yes, please."
The other half of the study is where things get interesting. Here they asked men and women what the ideal body type was for women, and there was a decided gap between what each gender appreciated in women. Much is being made of this difference over in the comments at AoSHQ.
Here is my insightful analysis. And you can take this to the bank.
Women look at Kate Upton and see a very young thing with what I call "significant fat potential". Okay, because she has a crazy amount of money, she might be able to win the battle against her own genes, but it will be a battle. For her entire life. There is no amount of money in the world that will change her tendency to develop the chubs. So any woman looking at that can see she's sexy as hell right now, but when we think of perfect body types, we want a body that looks like maintaining it -- in other words keeping the weight off -- is relatively easy due to genes, metabolism, etc. She's a doll now, all soft, curvy, bouncy excess....but in a few years, especially with a pregnancy or two, she'll be a size 16 with no waist and sagging tits. Mark my words.
THAT is not perfection for women.
Kate Upton is going to look like Rosemary Clooney by the time she's 50. That is the end game, fellas.
But I don't imagine this study asked men what would be their ideal FOREVER...even if it did, men have a charming way of thinking a sweet young thing will never change.
HAHAHAHAHA! Yeah...okay...
Women, on the other hand, look at body types and yearn for one that allows them to eat whatever they want, wear whatever they want, and look fabulous as they age...NO SAGGING. This is the dream.
So Cameron Diaz, even though I think she is an idiot twit with hair that has more life than her brain, would definitely be my pick over Kate Upton. Not even a close decision.
To prove my point, here is Cameron at 42.
THAT is why women think of someone like Cameron, naturally slim and athletic, as the ideal body type.
We aren't jealous of big tits, as many suggested over as AoSHQ. We just know what it takes to stay in some kind of decent shape as the years tug and pull...and it ain't pretty, easy, or fun.
The. End.
Here's the chart, for your edification.
Even Ace understands that a hard body is attractive to women, if that's all we're judging. Pretty straightforward. Jackman might be a little beefier, but it's a tight race, so to speak. So yeah. Fit and muscled is a turn on. You can pick around the edges about body hair, color of eyes, smile, yadayadayada...but fit is going to win every time. Remember we are talking superficial, don't know a thing about them, just eye candy judging here. But my answer for either man is definitely a, "Yes, please."
The other half of the study is where things get interesting. Here they asked men and women what the ideal body type was for women, and there was a decided gap between what each gender appreciated in women. Much is being made of this difference over in the comments at AoSHQ.
Here is my insightful analysis. And you can take this to the bank.
Women look at Kate Upton and see a very young thing with what I call "significant fat potential". Okay, because she has a crazy amount of money, she might be able to win the battle against her own genes, but it will be a battle. For her entire life. There is no amount of money in the world that will change her tendency to develop the chubs. So any woman looking at that can see she's sexy as hell right now, but when we think of perfect body types, we want a body that looks like maintaining it -- in other words keeping the weight off -- is relatively easy due to genes, metabolism, etc. She's a doll now, all soft, curvy, bouncy excess....but in a few years, especially with a pregnancy or two, she'll be a size 16 with no waist and sagging tits. Mark my words. THAT is not perfection for women.
Kate Upton is going to look like Rosemary Clooney by the time she's 50. That is the end game, fellas.
But I don't imagine this study asked men what would be their ideal FOREVER...even if it did, men have a charming way of thinking a sweet young thing will never change.
HAHAHAHAHA! Yeah...okay...
Women, on the other hand, look at body types and yearn for one that allows them to eat whatever they want, wear whatever they want, and look fabulous as they age...NO SAGGING. This is the dream.
So Cameron Diaz, even though I think she is an idiot twit with hair that has more life than her brain, would definitely be my pick over Kate Upton. Not even a close decision.
 |
| That's going to hold up, guys. Nicely. |
To prove my point, here is Cameron at 42.
THAT is why women think of someone like Cameron, naturally slim and athletic, as the ideal body type.
We aren't jealous of big tits, as many suggested over as AoSHQ. We just know what it takes to stay in some kind of decent shape as the years tug and pull...and it ain't pretty, easy, or fun.
The. End.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Saturday, December 6, 2014
More internet silliness...and more wine. LOTS more wine.
I love the blog, 27b/6, and have probably read every single essay by David Thorne, but still visit periodically to refresh the funny. My favorite of all time is:
JUSTIN'S FLOODLIGHT
I even love that the url for the blog post reads...http://www.27bslash6.com/halogen.html. HALOGEN! HAHAHAHA! Okay...I've had a few sips of wine and I'm starting to find lots of things funny.
Our story opens with David admitting that he basically never gets along with his neighbors...not in Australia and not in the United States. This is not an immediate indictment. I've only gotten along with one couple in my entire life, and they moved. Such is my luck. Currently we have neighbors bordering us on three sides and each one has an idiot dog (or dogs) that attack the fences, bark incessantly, and make me dream of baking cyanide bones. I love animals, but I can't stand animals who are allowed to be constant annoyances to everyone within a three mile distance. And since I can't even IMAGINE poisoning the stupid neighbors, who are the real culprits, I fantasize about offing the YAP! YAP! YAP! SNARL! GROWL! BARK! BARK! BARK! GRRRR! with a little treat.
Okay...not seriously. And not often. Certainly not more than once a day.
So anyhow, David admits neighbor-relations have been troublesome for him. From there it gets hilarious.
Really hilarious. I would laugh even WITHOUT the wine.
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| Not if he does it every fucking time. |
Bored and filled with ennui...I attempt to understand the meaning of life but fall pitifully short.
Every so often, from a combination of boredom, fatigue over the relentless disappointments in the world of politics filled with potentates (Obama), pussies (Boehner) and poseurs (Rand), and (more frankly) as an envious descent into territory of actually HUMOROUS writing, I pop over to Timothy McSweeney's Internet Dependency and get lost poking around. This article caught my attention because, as you have probably deduced after these few years, I have little to no regard for modern philosophy, feeling it is seldom nothing more than the confusing ramblings of an overly bright, overly educated, overly needy, overly melancholy, overly insulated, overly narcissistic boor.
So when I came across this essay:
This poor soul is exactly right. He was only living up to the high ideals of communism, and he needed her to do the same.
Selfish little 1%er.
So when I came across this essay:
Why You Should Not Have Broken Up With Me, According to Various Critical Theories.
BY TOMMY WALLACH
...I could not have been more delighted. Author Tommy Wallach covers a wide swath of philosophical territory, but the best was his assessment of the merits of Marxism and how it showed conclusively that his girlfriend, an Occupy activist, should not have dumped him. She obviously wasn't living up to her values. And leftists call conservatives hypocrites.
Marxism
Marx believed that the arc of history bends inevitably towards a more equitable distribution of the means of production, but that the battle for socialism would be a long one. I’m confident he would agree that my current financial straits are an inevitable result of the current socioeconomic moment, rather than “a permanent shitstorm born out of sheer laziness,” as you described it in your letter. In spite of your attending that Occupy rally last year, which I missed because I was hung over from drinking too much at your work party (you’re welcome for supporting you, BTW), you seem to have forgotten the socialist credo: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” If you were ever incapable of making rent on your own, I certainly would have been willing to get a job in order to help out. But you always insisted on focusing on the negative; you had no trouble criticizing me when I couldn’t pay for dinner, but you never thanked me for going to the trouble of ordering it in the first place.
This poor soul is exactly right. He was only living up to the high ideals of communism, and he needed her to do the same.
Selfish little 1%er.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Christmas Season is Here Again...and so is Santa and His Jolly Boots
Let others sing The Carol of the Bells or Silent Night or even Away in the Manger. For me, Christmas season starts with a viewing of Bill Murray's SCROOGED and continues for weeks with me belting out at the top of my lungs my favorite Christmas tune, Invader Zim's Santa's Jolly Boots...or whatever you call it.
HAHAHAHA!
Merry Christmas! Bow down! Don't make me kill you.
HAHAHAHA!
Merry Christmas! Bow down! Don't make me kill you.
Gift Wrapping 101
This is an introductory course for barn folk. For city folk there are SERIOUS prerequisites. In fact, you probably will have to be allowed in by the professor on a case by case basis.
BIG H/T to RG!!! Thanks, man.
BIG H/T to RG!!! Thanks, man.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Belated Happy Thanksgiving and Stupid Horse Stuff
Because stupid horse stuff is what I'm thankful for.
Shetland Pony races because...HELL! YEAH!
Are those kids and ponies the most adorable things on the planet? Nothing cuter. Not even puppies.
I sincerely hope everyone had a blessing-filled Thanksgiving STUFFED with turkey and football and cheerleaders and wine and far too much dessert. Oh, and family! Yeah! HAHA! Everyone needs family at Thanksgiving. Somebody's got to eat all those leftovers! And I do hope my tiny band of merry readers will forgive me yet again for my absence, though I fear my disappearances from Blogland are becoming frequent enough to be a pattern and not an oddity. The truth is, I'm just not that funny every day -- in other words, I've got nothing to say. Besides, lately most of my time is spent stomping around the house muttering insanely devious plots to Take Back Civilization From the Idiots and the Madmen And Live Happily Ever After...goddamn it! But I haven't come up with anything definite yet.
So...nothing new to write about.
Thanksgiving was wonderful here, with all the family home for the first time in years. We have been celebrating Thanksgiving in Las Vegas for some time now at the "Compound", which is my nickname for the brother-in-law's massive home behind the walls. While it is always lovely and the food is great, it isn't home and it isn't the "right" taste for Thanksgiving. So it was truly wonderful to have both kids and a dear family friend here at our home where I could cook all the "right" dishes. I'm sure everyone has their "must haves" on Thanksgiving. For us it is a meal that MUST NOT be tinkered with. Ever.
So Christmas is just around the corner and if the Islamists don't manage to pull off the plot to blow five commercial jetliners out of the sky during the Christmas season, I hope it proves a joyous time for all.
In the meantime, stupid horse stuff is in order.
I sincerely hope everyone had a blessing-filled Thanksgiving STUFFED with turkey and football and cheerleaders and wine and far too much dessert. Oh, and family! Yeah! HAHA! Everyone needs family at Thanksgiving. Somebody's got to eat all those leftovers! And I do hope my tiny band of merry readers will forgive me yet again for my absence, though I fear my disappearances from Blogland are becoming frequent enough to be a pattern and not an oddity. The truth is, I'm just not that funny every day -- in other words, I've got nothing to say. Besides, lately most of my time is spent stomping around the house muttering insanely devious plots to Take Back Civilization From the Idiots and the Madmen And Live Happily Ever After...goddamn it! But I haven't come up with anything definite yet.
So...nothing new to write about.
Thanksgiving was wonderful here, with all the family home for the first time in years. We have been celebrating Thanksgiving in Las Vegas for some time now at the "Compound", which is my nickname for the brother-in-law's massive home behind the walls. While it is always lovely and the food is great, it isn't home and it isn't the "right" taste for Thanksgiving. So it was truly wonderful to have both kids and a dear family friend here at our home where I could cook all the "right" dishes. I'm sure everyone has their "must haves" on Thanksgiving. For us it is a meal that MUST NOT be tinkered with. Ever.
Spiced Pumpkin Soup and Rosemary Cheese Straws
Arugula Salad with Persimmon and Pomegranate
Honey-Brined Turkey
Cream Giblet Gravy
Sausage Dressing
Sweet Potatoes and Apples with Maple Syrup
Green Beans
Cranberry Pear Conserve
Rolls
Maple Pecan Tart
YUMMMMMMMMMY!!!!!
Now I swear by all that is holy that you MUST try the Cranberry Pear Conserve next time you have turkey, ditching ENTIRELY the jellied shit you get in a can. HERESY!!! SINNER!!! To the stocks with you!
CRANBERRY PEAR CONSERVE
1 bag fresh cranberries, washed and picked over
1 large, ripe pear, unpeeled, cored and chopped
2 teaspoons grated orange peel
3/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup ruby Port
Finely chop the cranberries in food processor using the pulse button. Transfer to large bowl. Combine grated orange peel and sugar in food processor and blend well. Add to cranberries. Stir in chopped pears. (I chop the pears finely so that they are consistent in size with the pulsed cranberries.) Blend in Port. Cover and refrigerate for a minimum of four hours before serving. I always make this at least a day ahead. It improves dramatically with a day in the refrigerator.
Don't say I don't love you.
In the meantime, stupid horse stuff is in order.
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| I have a pic somewhere of two minis looking just like that! |
 |
| Proving nice guys finish last. |
 |
| The existential struggle. |
 |
| I get no rspect. |
Friday, November 14, 2014
Going Old Testament On Your Ass, Professor Gruber
With AAAAALLL the recent video clips surfacing showing Professor Gruber expressing his deep regard for the American voter and undying respect for their right to self-determination contempt for their stupidity, poor Alan Colmes had to fall on his theological sword in front of millions of viewers in a feeble attempt to deflect outrage. When Megyn Kelly pressed for an explanation of just how "sorry" the professor could credibly be for having characterized the American voting public as "stupid" no fewer than three times (and that's just what was captured on tape), Alan Colmes begged, "What happened to Christian forgiveness?"
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Christian forgiveness! The exquisite impossibility of even hearing a statement that stupid come out of Colmes' mouth made me LOL for about ten minutes. The proper response for what Professor Gruber did is not found under the category of Christian Forgiveness. It is found under the category of OLD TESTAMENT SMITING! Like what Moses did to Pharaoh.
But when the "liberal twit" Colmes (he said it, not me) realized his idiotic plea didn't immediately make Megyn Kelly sink into apologetic surrender, he shifted to a defense of Gruber's deceit and arrogance that was every bit as farfetched, "But Republicans do the same thing!"
So Mr. Colmes' response to Gruber's epic, Grade A, nuclear-level arrogance, deceit, and deception was to first beg for forgiveness and then to point the finger.
Well, here's the finger to you, Mr. Colmes. And it doesn't come with forgiveness.
Admittedly, lying for expediency and political gain is readily accepted as SOP in politics by both parties, but never before has the American public been defiantly railroaded by one political party with deceit and malicious intent and an utter disregard for the outcries from a majority of citizens against the passage of a law that will forever change the basic relationship between those citizens and the state. As I remember, Obamacare was NEVER popular, even with Professor Gruber'soh-so cleverly twisted and nuanced descriptions of mandates, taxes and such rot fucking lies. Never.
So perhaps the American public isn't quite as stupid as Professor Gruber would like to believe, which, I feel compelled to point out, sorta kinda proves just how not smart Professor Gruber must be. And now the only ones defending him are the stupid people who gobbled up his lies in the first place.
Oh, the irony! The rich, luscious, unctuous irony!
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Christian forgiveness! The exquisite impossibility of even hearing a statement that stupid come out of Colmes' mouth made me LOL for about ten minutes. The proper response for what Professor Gruber did is not found under the category of Christian Forgiveness. It is found under the category of OLD TESTAMENT SMITING! Like what Moses did to Pharaoh.
But when the "liberal twit" Colmes (he said it, not me) realized his idiotic plea didn't immediately make Megyn Kelly sink into apologetic surrender, he shifted to a defense of Gruber's deceit and arrogance that was every bit as farfetched, "But Republicans do the same thing!"
So Mr. Colmes' response to Gruber's epic, Grade A, nuclear-level arrogance, deceit, and deception was to first beg for forgiveness and then to point the finger.
 |
| I need a lightening bolt as well. |
Admittedly, lying for expediency and political gain is readily accepted as SOP in politics by both parties, but never before has the American public been defiantly railroaded by one political party with deceit and malicious intent and an utter disregard for the outcries from a majority of citizens against the passage of a law that will forever change the basic relationship between those citizens and the state. As I remember, Obamacare was NEVER popular, even with Professor Gruber's
So perhaps the American public isn't quite as stupid as Professor Gruber would like to believe, which, I feel compelled to point out, sorta kinda proves just how not smart Professor Gruber must be. And now the only ones defending him are the stupid people who gobbled up his lies in the first place.
Oh, the irony! The rich, luscious, unctuous irony!
What's most amusing about the Gruber debacle is that the people defending him are the ones he was talking about.
— Eric (@JustEric) November 13, 2014
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Chris Matthews' New Nickname
We all know that Mr. Matthews earned his nickname of "Tingles" for his ecstatic gushing over Obama's win. But after Tuesday's drubbing of our Boy-King's policies (The Big O told us his policies were for damn sure on the ballot), I'm betting the tingle up his leg has become a tinkle down it.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! .....gasp! .....HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
 | ||||||
| Chris "Tinkles" Matthews |
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! .....gasp! .....HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Friday, November 7, 2014
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Vrooom vrooooom, Maktoum.
Landed in Louisvillle and the sheik's 747 was at the airport. Farm Boy had to point it out because I get let out of my pumpkin so infrequently that I had no idea the big unmarked jet was owned by UAE royalty.
Besides, I would have thought that he would be out at the Breeders Cup. Maybe he has two planes.
What Is Wrong With You?
Just got my latte before boarding the plane and the woman in front of me ordered -- I kid you not -- a soy milk, mocha, half caf, with caramel, light whip.
What the hell is wrong with people?
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Tombstone
It's nearing Halloween and so tombstone topics seem particularly appropriate. Found this over at IMAO.US
I want mine to read:
I want my tombstone to be a mirror with the words "YOU'RE NEXT" scrawled across it
— Rich Lowtax Kyanka (@lowtax) October 23, 2014
I want mine to read:
Lord knows, I do.
Someday it's going to kill me. Mark my words.
Young Love
Some of you may have seen the video of "The Perfect Proposal." It was featured on Huffington Post after Ashton Kutcher picked it up and put it on his Facebook on October 23. I believe he tweeted it out as well, but I don't follow him, so can't say for certain. Then it hit the front page of Yahoo. Officially viral. There is discussion that they may appear on The Ellen DeGeneres Show. WOW!
Anyhow, it is pretty special. Made me cry...but then I cry at Christmas commercials for beer.
The part where I come in is that the Princess is very good friends with Levy, the young man, as well as knowing Tiffany, his new fiancee. So I'm kinda sorta famous if I stand close enough to my daughter. You know how it is...you can pretend the reflected light of fame glows on you if you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who is famous...it's like that.
Princess met Levy through FFA. He served as a California state officer when Ellen was a pipsqueak, and they became good friends, with Levy mentoring her in her own ambitions to become a state officer. He then went on to serve as a national officer. Tiffany is involved in FFA, too. That's how they met.
It's just so darned romantic! Somebody get me a tissue.
Anyhow, it is pretty special. Made me cry...but then I cry at Christmas commercials for beer.
The part where I come in is that the Princess is very good friends with Levy, the young man, as well as knowing Tiffany, his new fiancee. So I'm kinda sorta famous if I stand close enough to my daughter. You know how it is...you can pretend the reflected light of fame glows on you if you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who is famous...it's like that.
Princess met Levy through FFA. He served as a California state officer when Ellen was a pipsqueak, and they became good friends, with Levy mentoring her in her own ambitions to become a state officer. He then went on to serve as a national officer. Tiffany is involved in FFA, too. That's how they met.
It's just so darned romantic! Somebody get me a tissue.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Explaining the Second Amendment
The erudite way, from Bill Whittle.
And the pithy, and rather more acerbic way, from Penn and Teller. Well, mostly Penn...
And the pithy, and rather more acerbic way, from Penn and Teller. Well, mostly Penn...
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Your Halloween Tablescape.
Just call me Martha.
This year we won't be in Hawaii for Halloween, but we still won't be home to have a ghoulish celebration. Damn! I'm beginning to feel the need for a real SPOOKTACULAR Halloween party, but it will have to wait for next year. This year we will be in Louisville, KY at the national convention for the FFA to watch the princess compete for the national title in Parliamentary Procedure. California is always a powerhouse in Parli Pro and the princess's team won the state title pretty easily, having only one loss the entire year, and that by only a few points. At nationals, California is always a powerhouse, being one of the strongest FFA states in the country. Soooooo.....
This year we won't be in Hawaii for Halloween, but we still won't be home to have a ghoulish celebration. Damn! I'm beginning to feel the need for a real SPOOKTACULAR Halloween party, but it will have to wait for next year. This year we will be in Louisville, KY at the national convention for the FFA to watch the princess compete for the national title in Parliamentary Procedure. California is always a powerhouse in Parli Pro and the princess's team won the state title pretty easily, having only one loss the entire year, and that by only a few points. At nationals, California is always a powerhouse, being one of the strongest FFA states in the country. Soooooo.....
Keep your fingers crossed that they bring home the win!
 |
| Picking up the blue at State Finals. On to Nationals!! |
Monday, October 13, 2014
RIP, Cigar. You're over the rainbow bridge now.
I've been busy and haven't had time to note the passing of a Thoroughbred legend. Like Secretariat, Cigar was larger than life, breathtaking in his athletic perfection.
Cigar, a two-time Horse of the Year who won 16 races in a row in the mid 1990s, died Wednesday in Lexington, Ky., according to racing industry reports.
Cigar, 24, retired as the leading money-winner in thoroughbred history with just under $10 million in winnings and, in 1995 and 1996, he became the first horse since Citation (1948 and 195) to win 16 races in a row against top competition.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Weekend Entertainment
We went to a horse show over the weekend, and apparently, I am behind the trend yet again. It seems that a new level of competitive stick-to-it-tive-ness has sprung up among the event crowd, and it involved the rather novel idea of tacking up (or, more precisely, tacking up again) while riding.
At the recent American Eventing Championships in Texas, a rider had a wardrobe malfunction.
But eventers are "never say die" types, so she simply put the hackamore back on and continued with her course.
Now, it seems, what might have remained a singular oddity has become a trend. At the show this weekend we saw another rider accept the challenge of tacking up while riding. She managed to pull it off (so to speak) rather nicely.
At the recent American Eventing Championships in Texas, a rider had a wardrobe malfunction.
But eventers are "never say die" types, so she simply put the hackamore back on and continued with her course.
Now, it seems, what might have remained a singular oddity has become a trend. At the show this weekend we saw another rider accept the challenge of tacking up while riding. She managed to pull it off (so to speak) rather nicely.
Friday, October 3, 2014
The OOOOOOONNLY WAY TO FLY!
Life has a funny way of slapping me around. This has always been the case, so you would think by now I'd have learned something. But nooooooooo....!
Just a few days ago I let go with a rant about crappy airline service and the utter destruction of the idea that anyone in a major corporation could give a shit about service. But apparently, Singapore Airlines shows me to be completely ignorant of the trend in travel once again.
Behold! The SUITE way to travel. And I do mean sweet!
Leonardo diCaprio has enjoyed the suite life, in case you were wondering.
So there you are. I KNEW there was still an extraordinary level of service out there somewhere, I just suspected (rightly) that it had moved significantly beyond my income level. I'm always playing the wrong game at the wrong time...and for a lot less money.
Now it costs $23,000.00 to get a lovely meal and a quiet nap on a plane.
Okay...I'll just keep my mouth shut from now on. I'm going for a swim.
Just a few days ago I let go with a rant about crappy airline service and the utter destruction of the idea that anyone in a major corporation could give a shit about service. But apparently, Singapore Airlines shows me to be completely ignorant of the trend in travel once again.
Behold! The SUITE way to travel. And I do mean sweet!
WHAT IT'S LIKE TO FLY THE $23,000 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SUITES CLASS
The world's best airline experience from Singapore to New York.
Leonardo diCaprio has enjoyed the suite life, in case you were wondering.
So there you are. I KNEW there was still an extraordinary level of service out there somewhere, I just suspected (rightly) that it had moved significantly beyond my income level. I'm always playing the wrong game at the wrong time...and for a lot less money.
Now it costs $23,000.00 to get a lovely meal and a quiet nap on a plane.
Okay...I'll just keep my mouth shut from now on. I'm going for a swim.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Perspective
This is too good not to share.
"3 men, A Frenchmen, a Brit and a Russian are at a museum looking at a portrait of Adam and Eve. The Brit says, “Adam and Eve are British. They wear fig leaves and blush so they must be modest.” The Frenchman says, “no, they are French because they are naked and in love.” The Russian said, “You’re both wrong. They are obviously Russian. They are naked, have only an apple to eat and yet they are told they live in paradise."
From Creaky Pavillion - Life's Residue.
"3 men, A Frenchmen, a Brit and a Russian are at a museum looking at a portrait of Adam and Eve. The Brit says, “Adam and Eve are British. They wear fig leaves and blush so they must be modest.” The Frenchman says, “no, they are French because they are naked and in love.” The Russian said, “You’re both wrong. They are obviously Russian. They are naked, have only an apple to eat and yet they are told they live in paradise."
From Creaky Pavillion - Life's Residue.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Warm Nuts
A quick perusal of my recent posts shows an inordinate preoccupation with big bombs and apocalyptic Fun Times. So, in the interest of diversity, this morning's rant will be superficial, shallow, meaningless and without any redeeming cultural value.
That is simply the nicest thing I can say about United Airlines' first class service to Hawaii. They give you a cup of warm nuts. And to let you know that I don't just fly off the hook willy nilly, I felt the exact same way LAST YEAR when we flew to Kauai, and I exercised remarkable restraint in not blogging about the utter disappointment of the entire flight.
But I can not contain myself any longer.
I realize this is a definite First World Gripe, and therefore expect to receive absolutely no sympathy, but unlike most others who might complain simply because their every precious little need was not seen to IMMEDIATELY, I am complaining because of how horrifyingly depressing flying has become...start to finish. And because every precious little need was not seen to IMMEDIATELY!
Gone are the days when flying was FUN! When you could even dash through the airport like a pre-slashing, pro football player, gleefully jumping over luggage and gate seating as you raced for your flight. Now, it is slow, methodical, monotonous, and just deeply disappointing.
The computer kiosk greets you. Once upon a time, you checked in with a smiling agent. Now it's a computer kiosk. An agent won't even speak with you until you have dutifully punched the stupid screen with your confirmation number, bag totals, birth date of first born child, etc. Then the non-smiling, distracted agent weighs your luggage, checks your ID (that thing you don't need to participate in selecting the world's most powerful man), and waves past you to the next in line. Move on.
Of course, we all know by now that the next lovely experience in your flight will be the groping by the TSA agent. I refuse to go through their Radiation Ray Gun Machine, and besides, I find that there are entirely too many blue shirts just standing around doing nothing but wasting my tax dollars, so I always request that someone come over and do. their. damn. job. Which is to ensure that I am not carrying high powered explosives. Besides, it gives me the opportunity to have a discussion on the merits of Constitutional rights and the limits of federal power.
After that exciting interlude (if I shut my eyes and fantasize, it's almost worth the trip!) we are off to our gate to find our "lane" and line up under the correct sign, like the good little lemmings that we are. Once boarded, I plunge into my seat, hand outstretched for that lovely, lovely cocktail -- and it is not there.
WTF?
In MY day, first class was an "experience." It was intended to be luxurious, not utilitarian; you weren't merely being transported somewhere when traveling first class, you were flying. And when you flew to Hawaii...well...all bets were off. You were greeted with a fresh flower lei, there was cheesy Hawaiian music playing, and the flight attendant had a drink in your hand as soon as your coat was off. Which he or she helped with and hung up for you. Now? There wasn't even a flight attendant in the cabin as the passengers boarded. They were both up front in the galley, probably warming their nuts. After we all stowed our carryons, found closet space to hang jackets, got into our seats...and waited...and waited...and waited...a flight attendant finally appeared with a tray of -- GOOD GOD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? -- water. Fucking water to sip as we waited on the tarmac for the rest of the flight to board.
I was holding it together. Still smiling. Mostly because my husband had a somewhat meaningful grip on my arm. Okaaaaaay! I'll be good.
In My Day dinner was served on white linen with linen napkins and china, crystal and silverware. Your tray was set for you and a flower placed on each place setting. Then you received your menu, printed on quality stationery with your various choices for appetizers, salads, and a main course. There was always a selection of meat, fish, or chicken. Thankfully this was before the onslaught of the violent vegetarians. When your dinner was served, it was from a rolling cart, also draped in white linen. If you'd ordered chateaubriand, for example, it was carved for you at your seat. After dinner, the dessert menu was brought around, complete with a full selection of after dinner drinks. Lovely.
Shall I share with you what we were offered, kittens? Yes, of course I will.
Hoisin beef and vegetarian pasta. That's what they called the selections, anyway. In reality they were gelatinous mystery meat in brown sauce and Chef Boyardee. I ordered the pasta, because how can you screw up pasta? Well, there is one way, and they managed it. You don't cook it. Crunchy pasta with tasteless red sauce. I would have preferred ACTUAL Chef Boyardee. Then I could have stuck the soft, little round circles on my nose and had some fun.
There were chocolate chip cookies in paper baggies for dessert. Imagine my delight.
That was it. Other than the larger seats and the warm nuts we received in lieu of an appetizer, we arrived in Hawaii not one bit more indulged or spoiled than anyone else on the entire plane.
In My Day we were expected to meet your expectations...and we spent enormous money on raising them through advertising that promised a wonderful experience. You were treated as a special guest. Your comfort was a priority. Every possible detail was important to create an experience that left you feeling welcomed, refreshed, and even spoiled. Of course, I am perfectly aware of how seriously this idea has been degraded over the years, but I was holding out hope that on a vacation flight like San Francisco to Kauai, first class, there would still be a noticeable effort to offer something more than just a seat and a movie. Now, it seems, there is simply no amount of money that will get anyone to treat you as anything more than a warm body that is, frankly, cutting into their chat time in the galley. I don't suppose this is one of those rants that strikes a cord in anyone else, but having been a part of the industry when it was still vitally important that you made every flight a pleasant experience for everyone on board, and a LUXURIOUS experience for those few in first class, it just sucks that the loss of customer service as a true SERVICE has completely disappeared in flying.
I'm glad I worked for the airlines when I did. It was fun to treat people special. And people were sincerely appreciative of the effort. I don't imagine it would be much fun to hand out crappy beef in slimy sauce and cold, undercooked pasta and call it your best effort. I would be embarrassed.
Warm Nuts.
That is simply the nicest thing I can say about United Airlines' first class service to Hawaii. They give you a cup of warm nuts. And to let you know that I don't just fly off the hook willy nilly, I felt the exact same way LAST YEAR when we flew to Kauai, and I exercised remarkable restraint in not blogging about the utter disappointment of the entire flight.
I realize this is a definite First World Gripe, and therefore expect to receive absolutely no sympathy, but unlike most others who might complain simply because their every precious little need was not seen to IMMEDIATELY, I am complaining because of how horrifyingly depressing flying has become...start to finish. And because every precious little need was not seen to IMMEDIATELY!
Gone are the days when flying was FUN! When you could even dash through the airport like a pre-slashing, pro football player, gleefully jumping over luggage and gate seating as you raced for your flight. Now, it is slow, methodical, monotonous, and just deeply disappointing.
Rise of the Machines.
The computer kiosk greets you. Once upon a time, you checked in with a smiling agent. Now it's a computer kiosk. An agent won't even speak with you until you have dutifully punched the stupid screen with your confirmation number, bag totals, birth date of first born child, etc. Then the non-smiling, distracted agent weighs your luggage, checks your ID (that thing you don't need to participate in selecting the world's most powerful man), and waves past you to the next in line. Move on.
Of course, we all know by now that the next lovely experience in your flight will be the groping by the TSA agent. I refuse to go through their Radiation Ray Gun Machine, and besides, I find that there are entirely too many blue shirts just standing around doing nothing but wasting my tax dollars, so I always request that someone come over and do. their. damn. job. Which is to ensure that I am not carrying high powered explosives. Besides, it gives me the opportunity to have a discussion on the merits of Constitutional rights and the limits of federal power.
After that exciting interlude (if I shut my eyes and fantasize, it's almost worth the trip!) we are off to our gate to find our "lane" and line up under the correct sign, like the good little lemmings that we are. Once boarded, I plunge into my seat, hand outstretched for that lovely, lovely cocktail -- and it is not there.
WTF?
And here I break into my "In My Day" rant.
In MY day, first class was an "experience." It was intended to be luxurious, not utilitarian; you weren't merely being transported somewhere when traveling first class, you were flying. And when you flew to Hawaii...well...all bets were off. You were greeted with a fresh flower lei, there was cheesy Hawaiian music playing, and the flight attendant had a drink in your hand as soon as your coat was off. Which he or she helped with and hung up for you. Now? There wasn't even a flight attendant in the cabin as the passengers boarded. They were both up front in the galley, probably warming their nuts. After we all stowed our carryons, found closet space to hang jackets, got into our seats...and waited...and waited...and waited...a flight attendant finally appeared with a tray of -- GOOD GOD! ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? -- water. Fucking water to sip as we waited on the tarmac for the rest of the flight to board.
I was holding it together. Still smiling. Mostly because my husband had a somewhat meaningful grip on my arm. Okaaaaaay! I'll be good.
In My Day dinner was served on white linen with linen napkins and china, crystal and silverware. Your tray was set for you and a flower placed on each place setting. Then you received your menu, printed on quality stationery with your various choices for appetizers, salads, and a main course. There was always a selection of meat, fish, or chicken. Thankfully this was before the onslaught of the violent vegetarians. When your dinner was served, it was from a rolling cart, also draped in white linen. If you'd ordered chateaubriand, for example, it was carved for you at your seat. After dinner, the dessert menu was brought around, complete with a full selection of after dinner drinks. Lovely. Shall I share with you what we were offered, kittens? Yes, of course I will.
Hoisin beef and vegetarian pasta. That's what they called the selections, anyway. In reality they were gelatinous mystery meat in brown sauce and Chef Boyardee. I ordered the pasta, because how can you screw up pasta? Well, there is one way, and they managed it. You don't cook it. Crunchy pasta with tasteless red sauce. I would have preferred ACTUAL Chef Boyardee. Then I could have stuck the soft, little round circles on my nose and had some fun.
There were chocolate chip cookies in paper baggies for dessert. Imagine my delight.
That was it. Other than the larger seats and the warm nuts we received in lieu of an appetizer, we arrived in Hawaii not one bit more indulged or spoiled than anyone else on the entire plane.
In My Day we were expected to meet your expectations...and we spent enormous money on raising them through advertising that promised a wonderful experience. You were treated as a special guest. Your comfort was a priority. Every possible detail was important to create an experience that left you feeling welcomed, refreshed, and even spoiled. Of course, I am perfectly aware of how seriously this idea has been degraded over the years, but I was holding out hope that on a vacation flight like San Francisco to Kauai, first class, there would still be a noticeable effort to offer something more than just a seat and a movie. Now, it seems, there is simply no amount of money that will get anyone to treat you as anything more than a warm body that is, frankly, cutting into their chat time in the galley. I don't suppose this is one of those rants that strikes a cord in anyone else, but having been a part of the industry when it was still vitally important that you made every flight a pleasant experience for everyone on board, and a LUXURIOUS experience for those few in first class, it just sucks that the loss of customer service as a true SERVICE has completely disappeared in flying.
I'm glad I worked for the airlines when I did. It was fun to treat people special. And people were sincerely appreciative of the effort. I don't imagine it would be much fun to hand out crappy beef in slimy sauce and cold, undercooked pasta and call it your best effort. I would be embarrassed.
UPDATE! -- New Foreign Policy for ISIS
Send in the terrorists terriers.
Jacks. The original terrorists.
Jacks. The original terrorists.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Boots on the Ground
Airstrikes aren't doing jack shit over in Iraq, perhaps by design, and now many are insisting that the only way to push back ISIS is with "boots on the ground."
But I remember another militaristic, brutal regime that promised to fight to the last man...and then said, "Uncle."
So...I beg to differ.
But I remember another militaristic, brutal regime that promised to fight to the last man...and then said, "Uncle."
 |
| Hiroshima |
So...I beg to differ.
Zombie Apocalypse in 3...2...1
So I'm back from Kauai, suntanned and water-logged from too much surf and waaaaaaay too many Mai Tai's, and the zombie apocalypse has begun.
And here I was thinking the End Times would start without me.
Liberia: Dead Ebola Patients Resurrect?
Two Ebola patients, who died of the virus in separate communities in Nimba County have reportedly resurrected in the county. The victims, both females, believed to be in their 60s and 40s respectively, died of the Ebola virus recently in Hope Village Community and the Catholic Community in Ganta, Nimba.
And here I was thinking the End Times would start without me.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
"...not even a smidgen of corruption."
Because this isn't a "smidgen", this is just reasonable technical difficulties. And if you doubt us, you are a goddamn slack-jawed, pigeon-toed, banjo-strumming racist and you're not worth arguing with anyway.
From the Daily Caller:
From the Daily Caller:
IRS: Five More Employees Lost Emails In Computer Crashes
Democrats investigate Democrats. Find Democrats did nothing wrong.
The IRS's internal auditor distorted the facts surrounding the IRS tea party targeting scandal, leaving Americans with the impression that the tax agency went after conservative groups without also targeting liberal groups, the Senate's top investigative panel said Friday.
Investigators said the IRS did mishandle applications for tax exempt status, including subjecting groups to years-long delays and "poorly coordinated reviews." But the report, written by Democrats who control the chamber, concluded that the IRS's "mismanagement" affected both liberal and conservative groups, clearing the agency of accusations of politically motivated behavior.
"The subcommittee found no evidence that political bias influences the decisions made by IRS personnel," the report concluded. "A review of nearly 800,000 pages of documents and nearly two dozen interviews produced no evidence of political bias influencing IRS decisionmaking about how to process [nonprofit] applications filed by conservative organizations, and no evidence that the IRS singled out conservative groups for harsher treatment than other groups."
The investigators said part of the proof was that "key IRS personnel" were registered Republicans or viewed themselves ideologically as aligned with the tea party.
Investigators also said the IRS must write new rules to push nonprofit groups out of political activities.
Of course there is absolutely NO reason to believe that Democrats investigating such serious charges of misbehavior by other Democrats might be influenced by the Democrats' shared desire to obstruct Tea Party opposition to the Democrats' political aspirations.
This simply would never happen. We're talking Democrats,remember.
We know there is not a smidgen of corruption in the IRS. We've been reassured of this by our Democratic president. Now we know that there isn't a smidgen of corruption in the ENTIRE DEMOCRATIC PARTY. And we are being assured of this by Democrats. Nice and tidy.
All saints, these guys. Knights on white horses.
Okay...that last one was obviously racist.
But I'm a Tea Partier...so of course I'm racist.
And now, it seems, I'm paranoid, too. Because I still believe that the IRS was out to get us.
Why The Irish Drink
Actually, this is sort of a "chicken or egg" question. Which came first, the drinking? Or the NEED to drink from horses like this?
To my mind, BOTH these men need a stiff one after this.
If you want the full experience...here's the video of this acrobatic performance.
This happened at the Irish Derby and the horse and rider continued on and raced...you would have had to sedate me after that.
To my mind, BOTH these men need a stiff one after this.
If you want the full experience...here's the video of this acrobatic performance.
This happened at the Irish Derby and the horse and rider continued on and raced...you would have had to sedate me after that.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Funny Memories
We may only have a few days left and I want to offer my sincerest apologies to everyone because it is all my fault. You see, Farm Boy and I are scheduled to leave for Kauai on September 12th.
SEPTEMBER 12TH FOR GOD'S SAKE!
The day after September 11th, which is certainly going to be the day they will choose if they can for their HUGE terrorist attack on US soil. Of course I am perfectly aware if it DOES actually happen, we won't be going to Hawaii...but just the fact that we've scheduled the trip, and with the way my luck is, I will have personally caused an historic terrorist hit. I'll go to my grave knowing it was all my fault.
Shit.
But at least we will be here...on this side of the pond...where our kids and family are. Probably the ONLY reason I would NOT want to get stranded in Paradise would be under such circumstances. Think of the craptastic luck to be stranded in Hawaii and only want desperately to get home.
Of course, I'm assuming that I survive the attack. My luck, while crappy, isn't usually flat out shitty, so I'm counting on being around in the aftermath. Whatever that might mean.
But...on the outside chance that my crappy luck has actually run completely out and I'm a goner because of barbarians and madmen (including our president), I feel nostalgic.
So here's a story out of my memory banks.
Years ago, when I was working for Braniff and living in Boston, a girlfriend and I went out dancing and drinking. Michelle was a lot of fun -- a LOT of fun. WAAAAAAAY more fun than I ever was. So being around her was like being suddenly dragged onto a stage at a wild concert where you don't even know who is playing. Anyway, we shut down the place and were out in the parking lot in the wee hours...along with a bar full of others who had just been pitched out into the streets, and were stumbling drunk. So drunk, in fact, Michelle insisted that we stick around for the entertainment of watching drunks navigate their way to their cars. As the bar was especially popular and quite large, it had it's own parking lot, and it was packed full. Obviously some revelers had arrived late to the party that night and now needed to find their way through rows of cars to the very edge of the parking lot where it dead-ended into a frontage road that ran along the far side, rising above the lot by about 10 to 15 feet. It was a steep slope from the road down to the lot below and then the slope dipped below the level of the parking lot into a fairly deep ditch.
Oh...and don't mock the artwork. I can't draw any better than I can write...and you're here, aren't you? Standards, my dear. Standards.
One particularly loud group of stumbling drunks were headed for a car. Michelle had a knack for always picking out teh funny, and she quickly slapped me on the arm. "Look! Look! Look! This is going to be funny!"
Puzzled, I turned. "What?"
"Fuck, yes. These guys are waaaaay too drunk. This is going to be good."
"Dangerous, maybe. Good?"
She laughed. "Watch."
Within moments of her prediction the drunks were piling into a car. They quickly revved the engine and simply drove it -- right into the ditch. They just surged forward...right off the edge. We were hysterical, sitting on the hood of our car. They had dumped the car into the ditch so deeply that the rear tires were completely off the pavement and the front end was buried out of sight. The car burst open to spew forth all the drunks who were now staggering around with wild, loose, windmill arms, swearing and punching the car, which, in my opinion, was an innocent player in the whole mess.
The car was stuck. With its rear tires in the air, there was no way it was going anywhere. Period. They pounded on it for a little while, before deciding that they could figure this out. Okie. Dokie. Have at it, dudes.
Not surprisingly, their idea was worse than their driving. With a curious mixture of horror and side-splitting hilarity, we watched them get into a truck and drive it around to the frontage road, turning it to point down the hill right above the stuck car. We watched, but couldn't anticipate. We saw, but didn't believe.
They drove that truck, with all the conviction of drunken Pattons waging war, right down that slope and squarely on top of the stuck sedan. The force of the impact was so hard that it jack-knifed the hood, bending it into a "V" and driving the car even further into the soft dirt of the ditch. Its rear tires lifted ever so slightly higher in the air. I think Michelle and I were actually screaming at this point, we were laughing so hard.
Later, Michelle and I decided that they must have been trying to shove the car out of the ditch with the truck, but being drunk and stupid, had completely misjudged the speed, angle...well...frankly the whole damn thing.
I still laugh at the picture of that truck hurtling down on top of that poor, ditched car.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Okay...now I can die with a smile on my face.
SEPTEMBER 12TH FOR GOD'S SAKE!
The day after September 11th, which is certainly going to be the day they will choose if they can for their HUGE terrorist attack on US soil. Of course I am perfectly aware if it DOES actually happen, we won't be going to Hawaii...but just the fact that we've scheduled the trip, and with the way my luck is, I will have personally caused an historic terrorist hit. I'll go to my grave knowing it was all my fault.
Shit.
But at least we will be here...on this side of the pond...where our kids and family are. Probably the ONLY reason I would NOT want to get stranded in Paradise would be under such circumstances. Think of the craptastic luck to be stranded in Hawaii and only want desperately to get home.
Of course, I'm assuming that I survive the attack. My luck, while crappy, isn't usually flat out shitty, so I'm counting on being around in the aftermath. Whatever that might mean.
But...on the outside chance that my crappy luck has actually run completely out and I'm a goner because of barbarians and madmen (including our president), I feel nostalgic.
So here's a story out of my memory banks.
Years ago, when I was working for Braniff and living in Boston, a girlfriend and I went out dancing and drinking. Michelle was a lot of fun -- a LOT of fun. WAAAAAAAY more fun than I ever was. So being around her was like being suddenly dragged onto a stage at a wild concert where you don't even know who is playing. Anyway, we shut down the place and were out in the parking lot in the wee hours...along with a bar full of others who had just been pitched out into the streets, and were stumbling drunk. So drunk, in fact, Michelle insisted that we stick around for the entertainment of watching drunks navigate their way to their cars. As the bar was especially popular and quite large, it had it's own parking lot, and it was packed full. Obviously some revelers had arrived late to the party that night and now needed to find their way through rows of cars to the very edge of the parking lot where it dead-ended into a frontage road that ran along the far side, rising above the lot by about 10 to 15 feet. It was a steep slope from the road down to the lot below and then the slope dipped below the level of the parking lot into a fairly deep ditch.
Oh...and don't mock the artwork. I can't draw any better than I can write...and you're here, aren't you? Standards, my dear. Standards.
One particularly loud group of stumbling drunks were headed for a car. Michelle had a knack for always picking out teh funny, and she quickly slapped me on the arm. "Look! Look! Look! This is going to be funny!"
Puzzled, I turned. "What?"
"Fuck, yes. These guys are waaaaay too drunk. This is going to be good."
"Dangerous, maybe. Good?"
She laughed. "Watch."
Within moments of her prediction the drunks were piling into a car. They quickly revved the engine and simply drove it -- right into the ditch. They just surged forward...right off the edge. We were hysterical, sitting on the hood of our car. They had dumped the car into the ditch so deeply that the rear tires were completely off the pavement and the front end was buried out of sight. The car burst open to spew forth all the drunks who were now staggering around with wild, loose, windmill arms, swearing and punching the car, which, in my opinion, was an innocent player in the whole mess.
The car was stuck. With its rear tires in the air, there was no way it was going anywhere. Period. They pounded on it for a little while, before deciding that they could figure this out. Okie. Dokie. Have at it, dudes.
Not surprisingly, their idea was worse than their driving. With a curious mixture of horror and side-splitting hilarity, we watched them get into a truck and drive it around to the frontage road, turning it to point down the hill right above the stuck car. We watched, but couldn't anticipate. We saw, but didn't believe.
They drove that truck, with all the conviction of drunken Pattons waging war, right down that slope and squarely on top of the stuck sedan. The force of the impact was so hard that it jack-knifed the hood, bending it into a "V" and driving the car even further into the soft dirt of the ditch. Its rear tires lifted ever so slightly higher in the air. I think Michelle and I were actually screaming at this point, we were laughing so hard.
Later, Michelle and I decided that they must have been trying to shove the car out of the ditch with the truck, but being drunk and stupid, had completely misjudged the speed, angle...well...frankly the whole damn thing.
I still laugh at the picture of that truck hurtling down on top of that poor, ditched car.
HAHAHAHAHAHA!
Okay...now I can die with a smile on my face.
End of Days
With a massive terror attack possibly only days away, I've decided that the only reasonable thing to do is fill my last remaining hours with happy thoughts and silly stuff. What, me worry?
And, for me, happy thoughts and silly stuff almost always involves horses.
So, first up is the adorable Princess Barret and her Wonder Pony, Velvet.
We have a pony that lives next door to us who, at least as far as this video shows, is just as sweet and long-suffering. Any child could climb all over Pony Boy, crawl under his belly, tug at his mane or tail or forelock or, unfortunately, bridle, and he would. not. move. EVER.
But our delightful little neighbor is one of those ponies who has learned that children pose no threat whatsoever that he might actually have to DO anything, and so he will happily submit to the ministrations and equestrian dreams of wee tots. Have a kid on him that is old enough to think they can ask for so much as a trot, and Pony Boy brings out his full bag of tricks...and none of them are nice. You're going to get either a rank buck, a nasty swerve, or, if he is particularly annoyed, a wild gallop before ending with either a buck or a swerve...or, on the rare occasion...both. But you are not going to win. Or stay on.
Pony Boy is a nasty little shit.
But he is as good as gold for the little ones who aren't capable of more than smearing themselves around on his back. If he can get his head down for a bite of grass while they're doing it, then they are safe for hours. There's no better babysitter.
More horse stuff.
This says it all. Horses, like dogs, have strong social instincts. But, unlike dogs, they know they are prey and that they taste really good. This makes them skittish, to say the least, and desperately in need of a strong leader to feel safe. Proving your leadership, however, requires convincing the horse that you are better, stronger, faster, smarter than he is, otherwise why would he turn over his very survival to you? This isn't always straightforward, considering that most people are none of those things.
And most people show just how stupid they are when they try to treat horses like big pets. That's not what the horse is looking for and it isn't going to convince him you know shit about survival. A horse needs your leadership far more than he needs your affection. Period. This does not mean that you can't, eventually, have an amazingly strong relationship with a horse. You can - and should. But you must start with leadership. Once that is decisively settled, then you can safely treat your horse like a big dog and get away with it. Unfortunately, too many people in horses nowadays have come from a background completely devoid of farm life and have not one freaking clue about how dangerous horses really are. They skip right past the whole leadership issue and jump right to feeding carrots and kissing them on the nose. Not smart. In fact, often dangerous.
Some horses, without proper leadership, are mean. Many are scared shitless. All are dangerous. But a horse who understands you are his leader and trusts that you are in charge of his survival, will literally go into battle for you.
They are incredible creatures.
This is my baby. He has had the entire summer off due to an injury to his left front leg. And now the world is ending and I haven't ridden in months. Of course, we just put in a tremendous arena, and laid down serious bank to do it...so having the world go down the toilet now is just about standard for my luck.
And to finish off this equestrian-themed post is the official dressage test for horses unsuitable to become anything. Study it well. I expect good things.
When my daughter was quite little, probably three or so, we attended a horse show where a lovely large pony entered the dressage ring with a young girl. The pony was flashy, a black and white paint with incredible markings. Lovely. Well, Daughter fell in love. She immediately began squirming and climbing on the railing, too overcome by her emotion to stand still, begging me to buy her a pinto JUST. LIKE. THAT. ONE.
I could see trouble, though. The pony, while definitely fancy, was tense as a coiled spring, and almost immediately upon entering the ring at A, began to whinny. Well, whinny is an understatement. This pony was screaming. The visual was somewhat disconcerting, as the outline of the pony never changed. He LOOKED entirely correct, except for the obvious tension, but the SOUND was unnerving. It portended bad things.
The tension increased. The screaming increased. And, by the look of horror on the young rider's face, the firm conviction of impending disaster increased for her as well.
When she tentatively tried to pick up the canter, the pony accepted this timid request with all the explosive capacity of a Widow Maker. He SHOT across the ring, swerved to continue galloping in a large circle, picking up speed, until she was flung like a sling-shot from sheer centrifugal force and landed in a heap far outside the dressage court.
My daughter stilled, watching this. As the dust settled around the young competitor and the pony gleefully disappeared toward the barns, Daughter flatly said, "Don't buy me THAT pony."
All righty.
Anyway, let's all keep our heads about us in the coming days. Oh...and if you haven't done so already, stock up on toilet paper. You'll thank me for that suggestion. Guaranteed.
And, for me, happy thoughts and silly stuff almost always involves horses.
So, first up is the adorable Princess Barret and her Wonder Pony, Velvet.
We have a pony that lives next door to us who, at least as far as this video shows, is just as sweet and long-suffering. Any child could climb all over Pony Boy, crawl under his belly, tug at his mane or tail or forelock or, unfortunately, bridle, and he would. not. move. EVER.
But our delightful little neighbor is one of those ponies who has learned that children pose no threat whatsoever that he might actually have to DO anything, and so he will happily submit to the ministrations and equestrian dreams of wee tots. Have a kid on him that is old enough to think they can ask for so much as a trot, and Pony Boy brings out his full bag of tricks...and none of them are nice. You're going to get either a rank buck, a nasty swerve, or, if he is particularly annoyed, a wild gallop before ending with either a buck or a swerve...or, on the rare occasion...both. But you are not going to win. Or stay on.
Pony Boy is a nasty little shit.
But he is as good as gold for the little ones who aren't capable of more than smearing themselves around on his back. If he can get his head down for a bite of grass while they're doing it, then they are safe for hours. There's no better babysitter.
More horse stuff.
This says it all. Horses, like dogs, have strong social instincts. But, unlike dogs, they know they are prey and that they taste really good. This makes them skittish, to say the least, and desperately in need of a strong leader to feel safe. Proving your leadership, however, requires convincing the horse that you are better, stronger, faster, smarter than he is, otherwise why would he turn over his very survival to you? This isn't always straightforward, considering that most people are none of those things.
And most people show just how stupid they are when they try to treat horses like big pets. That's not what the horse is looking for and it isn't going to convince him you know shit about survival. A horse needs your leadership far more than he needs your affection. Period. This does not mean that you can't, eventually, have an amazingly strong relationship with a horse. You can - and should. But you must start with leadership. Once that is decisively settled, then you can safely treat your horse like a big dog and get away with it. Unfortunately, too many people in horses nowadays have come from a background completely devoid of farm life and have not one freaking clue about how dangerous horses really are. They skip right past the whole leadership issue and jump right to feeding carrots and kissing them on the nose. Not smart. In fact, often dangerous.
Some horses, without proper leadership, are mean. Many are scared shitless. All are dangerous. But a horse who understands you are his leader and trusts that you are in charge of his survival, will literally go into battle for you.
They are incredible creatures.
This is my baby. He has had the entire summer off due to an injury to his left front leg. And now the world is ending and I haven't ridden in months. Of course, we just put in a tremendous arena, and laid down serious bank to do it...so having the world go down the toilet now is just about standard for my luck.
And to finish off this equestrian-themed post is the official dressage test for horses unsuitable to become anything. Study it well. I expect good things.
When my daughter was quite little, probably three or so, we attended a horse show where a lovely large pony entered the dressage ring with a young girl. The pony was flashy, a black and white paint with incredible markings. Lovely. Well, Daughter fell in love. She immediately began squirming and climbing on the railing, too overcome by her emotion to stand still, begging me to buy her a pinto JUST. LIKE. THAT. ONE.
I could see trouble, though. The pony, while definitely fancy, was tense as a coiled spring, and almost immediately upon entering the ring at A, began to whinny. Well, whinny is an understatement. This pony was screaming. The visual was somewhat disconcerting, as the outline of the pony never changed. He LOOKED entirely correct, except for the obvious tension, but the SOUND was unnerving. It portended bad things.
The tension increased. The screaming increased. And, by the look of horror on the young rider's face, the firm conviction of impending disaster increased for her as well.
When she tentatively tried to pick up the canter, the pony accepted this timid request with all the explosive capacity of a Widow Maker. He SHOT across the ring, swerved to continue galloping in a large circle, picking up speed, until she was flung like a sling-shot from sheer centrifugal force and landed in a heap far outside the dressage court.
My daughter stilled, watching this. As the dust settled around the young competitor and the pony gleefully disappeared toward the barns, Daughter flatly said, "Don't buy me THAT pony."
All righty.
Anyway, let's all keep our heads about us in the coming days. Oh...and if you haven't done so already, stock up on toilet paper. You'll thank me for that suggestion. Guaranteed.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Only horse people will REALLY understand this.
I find this enormously funny because every single one of these "sayings" is absolutely spot. on. If you ride, you've either heard them or said them and no one blinked...or giggled...or even reacted, except to nod in agreement.
But from now on I will never be able to shout at a student, "Don't let him get his head up! Keep it right there and be soft with your hands so his mouth doesn't get hard."
Good Lord.
But from now on I will never be able to shout at a student, "Don't let him get his head up! Keep it right there and be soft with your hands so his mouth doesn't get hard."
Good Lord.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Apparently I am stark raving mad.
However, I'm incredibly lucky I wasn't born in the 1800's because I could have been committed under at least 30 of these categories...I know Bad Whiskey makes me NUTS!
I particularly like "Gathering in the Head".
WTH???
THIS is why we have mass shootings now and we didn't then. All these crazies were safely locked away.
I particularly like "Gathering in the Head".
WTH???
THIS is why we have mass shootings now and we didn't then. All these crazies were safely locked away.
Anyone Else?
Does anyone else think the word "kumquat" sounds positively nasty? Like what you might call Nicki Minaj?
Or is it just me?
Ride'em, cowboy!!
This is quite literally -- and I mean LITERALLY -- painful it is so precious. My heart hurts, watching it.
It's me again.
Again I have gone missing for far too long and am now depressed to discover that apparently the internet needs me like teats on a boar hog. So rather than take the obvious as some kind of legitimate feedback, I'm popping in for a moment to cause all of you to remember why you should be missing me more.
Farm Boy is traveling yet again and I have been working diligently on advertising and graphic design, watching the farm and taking care of All The Living Things. Luckily this harsh duty includes copious amounts of wine each afternoon on the porch and the snuggling attention of a little Cavalier. What is not necessarily a part of the job description is bathing. I am sitting here realizing as I write that Cyber the precious Cav has abandoned me and the sofa for the floor as I haven't showered since hubby left two days ago. Dear me. Perhaps it was the bales of hay I moved into the barn yesterday, or the field I cleaned of several days' manure, or the 25 minute High Intensity Interval Training video I skipped and jumped around to today...but I have the faint odor of an infantry man after a 10 mile hike during an Iraq summer.
Heh! I'm conserving a valuable resource! You're welcome.
Is it just me, or does it seem completely insane that ISIS is swashbuckling its way across the Middle East, dissecting people like they were all 10th grade science projects and gleefully posting the gruesome acts on YouTube with threats that it's a show coming our way soon...and our Beloved Boy-King has his scintillating brilliance trained like a marksman on the danger posed by domestic terrorists? Doesn't that seem...well...a little off the mark?
Of course, whatever he's truly concerned about, it never interferes with his golf game. This apparent lack of even a smidgen of concern for beheadings, dismemberments, genocide, and dangerous American citizens does not in any way point to a callousness and narcissistic superficiality---YOU RAAAAAAACIST!--but instead, clearly shows that ice runs in the man's veins. Lincoln-esque ice. Determined. Resolute. Focused. Unflappable. Indefatigable ICE. The man is downright spooky how coolly unemotional he is about the horrors being wrought on innocents in the "new Iraq." You know, the Iraq that he got us out of with his keen political maneuvering and seriously adept diplomatic skills.
Except -- SUDDENLY -- it seems...he didn't.
Farm Boy is traveling yet again and I have been working diligently on advertising and graphic design, watching the farm and taking care of All The Living Things. Luckily this harsh duty includes copious amounts of wine each afternoon on the porch and the snuggling attention of a little Cavalier. What is not necessarily a part of the job description is bathing. I am sitting here realizing as I write that Cyber the precious Cav has abandoned me and the sofa for the floor as I haven't showered since hubby left two days ago. Dear me. Perhaps it was the bales of hay I moved into the barn yesterday, or the field I cleaned of several days' manure, or the 25 minute High Intensity Interval Training video I skipped and jumped around to today...but I have the faint odor of an infantry man after a 10 mile hike during an Iraq summer.
Heh! I'm conserving a valuable resource! You're welcome.
***************************
 |
| "Never lose your cool. Or your head." "HAHAHA! Good one!" |
Of course, whatever he's truly concerned about, it never interferes with his golf game. This apparent lack of even a smidgen of concern for beheadings, dismemberments, genocide, and dangerous American citizens does not in any way point to a callousness and narcissistic superficiality---YOU RAAAAAAACIST!--but instead, clearly shows that ice runs in the man's veins. Lincoln-esque ice. Determined. Resolute. Focused. Unflappable. Indefatigable ICE. The man is downright spooky how coolly unemotional he is about the horrors being wrought on innocents in the "new Iraq." You know, the Iraq that he got us out of with his keen political maneuvering and seriously adept diplomatic skills.
Except -- SUDDENLY -- it seems...he didn't.
"Did I say I did that?"
Yes, Buckwheat, you did. Over and over and over and over.
So I stink, the president stinks, and the whole administration stinks to high heaven.
I, at least, only need a bath. These characters need orange suits and brand new itty bitty living spaces.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Hillary Clinton, our next Emperor.
Over at Weasel Zippers, they feature a story about how nasty and arrogant and vicious and demanding and just plain unlikeable our darling "Hard Choices" star, Hillary Clinton is to those who protect and serve her.
It's actually a punishment to have to work on her detail. As in, "Benner, you really fucked up this time getting caught watching porn all day. You've been assigned to Ms. Clinton."
And that, my friends, would convince any man that porn just isn't worth it.
‘Agents say being on Hillary Clinton’s detail is the worst duty assignment in the Secret Service. Being assigned to her detail is a form of punishment.’
And her nasty attitude goes all the way back to early days at the White House when Hillary and President Bill Clinton stepped out of Marine One helicopter and crossed the lawn holding hands.
But that was all for show. Once they were out of the public eye, it was a scream fest between the couple.
In response to a cheerful ‘Good morning, ma’am’, by a former uniformed officer, Hillary’s response to him was ‘Fuck off’.
Here's the ever charming Hillary greeting her Secret Service detail.
So now you know who Hillary REALLY is. No wonder there has been such a push to normalize transgenders. Our next president could be a tranny. And not a smokin' hot, sane one, either!
Who said women can't drive?
I can't decide whether this video proves that women are awesome stunt drivers and make punks out of cops...or if it just proves that most women are crazy insane.
Probably both.
So, the lesson here is do not try to stop a woman driver who is crazy insane. Let the police do it. It'll take six or seven of them, at least.
I was actually rooting for the Brave Little Toaster. Who knows? Maybe it was trying to find the master?
Probably both.
So, the lesson here is do not try to stop a woman driver who is crazy insane. Let the police do it. It'll take six or seven of them, at least.
I was actually rooting for the Brave Little Toaster. Who knows? Maybe it was trying to find the master?
I hate to sweat.
I really, really hate it.
Obviously, this revulsion can be a handicap in my desire to stay physically fit. So I ride horses.
I know...I know...many of you just nodded your head, believing that riding horses is a non-exercise, requiring no effort on the part of the rider. How COULD you sweat when the horse does it all...right? Wrong. Soooo wrong.
But what is fabulous about riding is that you do it outside, when it's lovely and cool, and you are moving -- often rapidly -- through air, so you don't sweat. Or your sweat is whisked away by the cool breeze before you even are aware of its discomfort.
Glorious.
So you can get quite incredibly fit without ever being reduced to an unattractive, panting blob of smelly, gelatinous goo.
So, knowing this about me, a dear friend (did I say DEAR?) asked me...no BEGGED me...to attend a Bikram Yoga class with her. Of course I said, "I'd love to" because I love yoga (being another activity that keeps you fit and doesn't make you sweat).
On the way to the class my "dear" friend had a sudden fit of honesty and admitted that this wasn't just a mere yoga class. "Oh really?" I replied. "I'm fairly limber. I'm sure I'll be fine. And I don't have to do ALL the movements. I'll just not do anything that's too hard."
"Oh...that's not it. I'm sure you can do the yoga part. It's the heat part."
"Heat? What...heat?"
"Bikram Yoga is done in really high temperatures."
I was losing my agreeable attitude. "How high?"
"Really high."
"Mojave desert high?"
"Yeaaahhh....more like Death Valley high."
"Are you shitting me? Yoga? In the heat? That completely ruins the whole point. And you know I hate to sweat."
"Oh, but it's really good for you."
I glared at her. "Don't be concerned about whether it's good for me. It could prove deadly for you. I've killed over less."
When we arrived, I politely inquired at the front desk about the whole heat and sweating and dying thing, and she gayly informed me that "Yes! And it's wonderful for you. Gets out all the toxins!"
"I don't want them out. I had too much fun getting them in. I like my toxins." I turned to my now suspect "friend". "If I make it through this, you're buying me lunch. And I intend to replace my fluid loss with a double Cadillac Margarita. Maybe two."
I made it through. I hated every. single. minute. I hated it with an oozing, slippery, dripping, faint-headed, almost-passing-out fury. But I survived.
At least I didn't lose my soulmate, twin flame and love of my life over it like this poor guy.
Yoga mat for sale. Used once at lunch hour class in December 2009. Usage timeline as follows:
11:45a
Register for hot yoga class. Infinite wisdom tells me to commit to 5 class package and purchase a yoga mat. I pay $89.74. Money well spent, I smugly confirm to myself.
11:55a
Open door to yoga room. A gush of hot dry air rushes through and past me. It smells of breath, sweat and hot. Take spot on floor in back of room next to cute blonde. We will date.
11:57a
I feel the need to be as near to naked as possible. This is a problem because of the hot blonde to my left and our pending courtship. She will not be pleased to learn that I need to lose 30 pounds before I propose to her.
11:58a
The shirt and sweats have to come off. I throw caution to the wind and decide to rely on my wit and conditioning to overcome any weight issues my fiance may take issue with. This will take a lot of wit and conditioning.
Obviously, this revulsion can be a handicap in my desire to stay physically fit. So I ride horses.
I know...I know...many of you just nodded your head, believing that riding horses is a non-exercise, requiring no effort on the part of the rider. How COULD you sweat when the horse does it all...right? Wrong. Soooo wrong.
But what is fabulous about riding is that you do it outside, when it's lovely and cool, and you are moving -- often rapidly -- through air, so you don't sweat. Or your sweat is whisked away by the cool breeze before you even are aware of its discomfort.
Glorious.
So you can get quite incredibly fit without ever being reduced to an unattractive, panting blob of smelly, gelatinous goo.
So, knowing this about me, a dear friend (did I say DEAR?) asked me...no BEGGED me...to attend a Bikram Yoga class with her. Of course I said, "I'd love to" because I love yoga (being another activity that keeps you fit and doesn't make you sweat).
On the way to the class my "dear" friend had a sudden fit of honesty and admitted that this wasn't just a mere yoga class. "Oh really?" I replied. "I'm fairly limber. I'm sure I'll be fine. And I don't have to do ALL the movements. I'll just not do anything that's too hard."
"Oh...that's not it. I'm sure you can do the yoga part. It's the heat part."
"Heat? What...heat?"
"Bikram Yoga is done in really high temperatures."
I was losing my agreeable attitude. "How high?"
"Really high."
"Mojave desert high?"
"Yeaaahhh....more like Death Valley high."
"Are you shitting me? Yoga? In the heat? That completely ruins the whole point. And you know I hate to sweat."
"Oh, but it's really good for you."
I glared at her. "Don't be concerned about whether it's good for me. It could prove deadly for you. I've killed over less."
When we arrived, I politely inquired at the front desk about the whole heat and sweating and dying thing, and she gayly informed me that "Yes! And it's wonderful for you. Gets out all the toxins!"
"I don't want them out. I had too much fun getting them in. I like my toxins." I turned to my now suspect "friend". "If I make it through this, you're buying me lunch. And I intend to replace my fluid loss with a double Cadillac Margarita. Maybe two."
I made it through. I hated every. single. minute. I hated it with an oozing, slippery, dripping, faint-headed, almost-passing-out fury. But I survived.
At least I didn't lose my soulmate, twin flame and love of my life over it like this poor guy.
***********************
Yoga mat for sale. Used once.
11:45a
Register for hot yoga class. Infinite wisdom tells me to commit to 5 class package and purchase a yoga mat. I pay $89.74. Money well spent, I smugly confirm to myself.
11:55a
Open door to yoga room. A gush of hot dry air rushes through and past me. It smells of breath, sweat and hot. Take spot on floor in back of room next to cute blonde. We will date.
11:57a
I feel the need to be as near to naked as possible. This is a problem because of the hot blonde to my left and our pending courtship. She will not be pleased to learn that I need to lose 30 pounds before I propose to her.
11:58a
The shirt and sweats have to come off. I throw caution to the wind and decide to rely on my wit and conditioning to overcome any weight issues my fiance may take issue with. This will take a lot of wit and conditioning.
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