THE SILVER STATE

 

the plate shack
from the Plate Shack

Hi again! I am ovaries-deep in Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane, my aggressively feminist scream against the patriarchy. Come back here! I am, wait for it, just kidding a wee.

I JUST NOW noticed that if you put ‘conservative’ and ‘Christian’ in front of your name, you can get away with anything you want. Like, oh, treason, chasing porn stars around with a Forbes magazine that features your own daughter on the cover, refusing to treat gay folks medically, deporting brown people mostly because they’re brown people, making it hard or impossible for swathes of people to vote in elections, blah blah blah dee blah dee blah.

I’m gonna switch to that magical and all-erasing R and then go on a murder spree. Where I murder, in the name of Jesus, everyone I find objectionable, morally repugnant, disposable and a drain on our resources, which should only go to oil companies and bald eagles.

I want that statement of ‘very fine people on both sides’ to apply to my side, a’course, only.

Oh. Shithole countries. Lest we ever forget. Shithole countries is how 45 referred to Haiti, all of Africa, El Salvador…and probably a host of other places. Why can’t we have more people from Norway come here…was, I believe, 45’s lament.

And most of actual Norway started puking or laughing right after that. Or so the liberal media claims! Don’t check with CNN, they’re in Killary’s pocket! NBC works directly for Soros! ABC, might as well be We Hate Trump Wah network!

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from History.com and the History Channel’s Vikings. Lagertha–Katheryn Winnick– leading her troops into battle. 

You know, “Vikings”. I guess they can leave their socialist shithole of a country on their longboats and invade us and take our gold, our women and our land. Like oh, they used to, way back when. i viking is, I believe, the term used, to describe those raids, where, I assume, the term ‘viking’ originates from. Maybe we should ask Europeans about that, since they still seem to have history classes at their socialist hellhole places of indoctrination…

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from Vice

Oh! Our gubbermint is shut down. [America, in case you thought I was Canadian.] Which is, somehow and laughably, passed off as the fault of the two or three Democrats still holding office right now in DC. Ummm???

 

 

We also, yes, had Fake News Awards, compiled by Pumpkincunt AKA Stormy’s Spankmonkey.

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Yep, everything’s a go if you put an R behind your name. Good to know.

This has now become normalized. It’s normal for the American king wannabe to publicly go after news organizations…as it garners them ratings and cash when the White House does so. I noticed that. It’s a national version of Yahoo Answers right now. Fuck you, lol versus no, fuck you, lol.

Which draws in viewers on both sides in record numbers! It sells papers, it brings hits on websites, it creates smokescreens when actual shittery is brought forth or some piece of truly heinous, unAmerican legislation gets rushed through.

But.

I digress. I meant to post a small update on my rewrite of a gritty novel into a more commercial-friendly, happy, funny, light-hearted sweet-esque dark fairy tale romp.

Novel! Must focus.

The ideas churn through my brain meat, oh yes. I am tying up this, that, the other, so it all makes a sort of sense that Western lit readers really seem to prefer in their Western literature.

Unlike real life, where things just happen and entire threads go nowhere and people do things without a tragic backstory to explain their every last little action in the present…my novel happily chugs along picking up easy-peasy happy little this and that to explain why X is X.

As my novel is art and not a ‘real life, let them see the long hairs on the beauty’s chin, sort of effort’, I think it best I strive toward a coherent three-fourths sort of project. As it will never be whole or perfect and is that not the entire beauty of novels, writing, art itself?? That the artist never declares, weeee, that’s perfect, never gonna obsesses about that one sentence in that one paragraph ever ever ever again!

Of course, that’s how we got those three weird and awful Star Wars prequels…so. Grain of sand, babies. Grain of sand.

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from Nevada Design. 

Oh. So. I got a flash about the Snitty Ratballs and the Glitterbugs of Boise, Idaho. What if the Ratballs are…oooh. You’re gonna have to wait! But it was HUGE. It was BIGLY. I had to go back, to nearly the beginning, and INSERT tidbits to support the story that reveals itself in tidbits to me throughout the day. What if Amy Octopus and Vance Romance came to Winnemucca because Boise had been…ooooh. Oh yes, I have actual thoughts where ‘Glitterbugs’ and ‘Amy Octopus’ march through alongside ‘should I microwave a burrito for lunch or make a sammich’.

I did get a bit political this time around but I also managed to swing it back around to my desperate bid to fill my silly time on this earth with writings about cannibal bikers and the Silver State. Surely, that’s worth a bowl of oatmeal? As ever, thanks for reading and BUY MY BOOKS. They’re awesome. Awesome!

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from Easy Rider. The Telegraph. 

 

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LOOK AT ME, I’M BLOGGING!

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from Flickr

Let’s get some bidnez out of the way first, m’kay?

BUY MY BOOKS. There. We all feel better now? I do!

House on Clark Boulevard, in case you didn’t see that title SPLASHED ALL OVER THIS SITE and of course, the lovely and talented OREGON GOTHIC featuring short stories no self-respecting cat hoarder would ever be without.

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Surely, some of you housebound hoarders out there need some new stuff to hoard? 

I do actually have a topic. Patience, grasshoppers. Patience.

Me, myself and I have restarted, from scratch, my novel about old ladies V. cannibal bikers in the small town of Fallon, Nevada. Oh my, I can hear the intake of shocked breaths from HERE.

The Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane.

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from 2 Chronicles. 

Now, the previous and finished product held elements of gut-wrenching horror and gut-churning forays into the heart of darkness. And my publisher dude just went…fuck this, what the hell is wrong with you. No doubt in a veddy posh British accent.

Posh Spice snorting about bloody Americans as they sip their tenth cup of Earl Gray for the day. Yep!

I was understandably X. [I can’t write, wah!] I went extreme! I let people see how extreme I went! [Believe me, kiddos, there’s a whole flipping ocean beneath my extreme, don’t even worry.]

“Never go full extreme!” seemed to be the lesson here…or at least, shop your extreme stuff to those in the extreme bidnez. Don’t be an Albert Fish in a world of Dr. Seussian polite murder mysteries and sweet little ghost tales. Lesson learned! 

The street in that title, THE REMARKABLE WOMEN OF BROKENHEART LANE, by the way, is an actual street name I saw in Nevada. There’s also a Chicken Dinner Lane [it might even be road] in Caldwell, Idaho. I love those wacky street names. They ‘inspire’ me.

A year or more goes by.

Imagine that flippy calendar visual. Got it? Okay! We’re hopping from a June of perhaps over a year ago to–

It’s December of 2017.

I think, ah, I need a new project. Candy Crush cannot become my new project, even though HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET PAST LEVEL &&$. Yes, I am a bit hooked on a damn game, and it’s sad and silly. It’s sild. Slad? I’ll work on combining those two words into one awesome one. New goal for today! Where was I?

Oh. New project. Christmas time.

Lurking in my muzzy, wuzzy head is the idea that Remarkable Women needs a REWRITE. Because, allegedly, that’s what writers do. Take out something laid aside and torture it into new, probably sleazy, crackwhore-ish shapes. All to make a buck eventually somewhere in the land of the not really free and the home of the sneeringly can’t be bothered. Most of whom don’t even know the words to their own National Anthem yet have strokes over how patriotic they are. Amen, Baby Jesus. And the socket’s red blare, the fights bursting in fair! Gave proof to the lie that our frogs were still hair!

What’s YOUR NOVEL about, you ask. Thank you for asking!

Oh these three elderly sisters have survived some sort of world-ending event. They live in a falling down house and try to avoid starving to death, when they’re not trying to avoid the gangs of human monsters roaming about through the Nevada wastelands.

See why I went all dark and Cormac MacCarthy? Yeah, me either. Because that premise just screams for a lighthearted romp with zingers, witty observations about modern manners and a sneer sent toward Millenials, because…that’s what everyone else is doing.

The seed of Remarkable Women was actually three sisters going to visit their childhood home to visit the grave of their childhood dog. Which I did actually write and send off somewhere to get SOUNDLY REJECTED.

But then another moldy seed split from my original kitchen sink reality seed…cannibals, bikers, Mad Max-like scenarios, old ladies.

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from Moviefone. The Road Warrior, anyone? 

I mixed Doomsday, the Road Warrior and those movies featuring women far past their prime [ anything over fifteen years old, amirite, gentlemen??]. Those movies usually starring Judi Dench, Helen Miren and Maggie Smith. Actual Dames! Kind of like those movies starring a raft of ancient creaky actors still creaking around, usually studded with Morgan Freeman or Michael Caine.

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from Rotten Tomatoes.

Who doesn’t combine a bunch of rando thoughts into one big whirling shitball and then make ART from it? Everyone does it. Everyone.

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from Roger Ebert

Now!!

This outing, this new rising from the dead ashes of another book, [not dead, just resting. Just resting!]

–this time taking on that dusty world of death, destruction and impossibly narrow escapes…

I find the story wishes to float along in a truly breezy, just write the damn words sorta way. I also find the story wishes to be told from two POV’s– those of the sisters and those of the bikers. I’m giggling rather foully to myself as I write so that’s a good sign. For me, at least. I’m having fun! Writing is fun! Look at me! FUN FUN FUN.

It’s foggy here so I can’t go outside. It’s also non-snowy so my rage at the lack of snowiness rages.

Candy Crush and total ass out, balls to the wall rewrite in the works. I’m not consulting the finished draft I already wrote ages ago. I reason I can make up silly post-Apocalypse names without having to copy my own silly made up post-Apocalypse names, as that just seems like cheating.

Lily, Violet and Laura, hello again! It seems like we’re old friends and you all have a fresh tale to shout in my ear. A sort of dark-ish fairy tale about ogres and witches and my own version of a Valentine to Nevada, that Silver State that oftentimes leaves a bit of shiny fake gold in my noggin. Let’s raise our typing fingers to THE REMARKABLE WOMEN OF BROKENHEART LANE. Long may she languish in don’t wanna touch that publishing purgatory!*

*If I say something like that, the only place I have to go is up. I’ve read the inspirational quotes, for the love of fucks and money. Start low and go high! You can’t start on the high road without wading through the cow pond, my dears. A bit of homespun Oreeegun wizdum. Wheeee.

DRAGONS FOR HIRE

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I knew taking all this pics in Shenyang, China would eventually be useful for something! Dragon!

 

Now, I received a rejection for, gulp, five poems. From a place that claims it’s a feminist haven for all things feminist. That might just be me adding zest to a dry story. M’kay. Normally, I react to rejections with tears, sobbing, why me o God screamings and a cross-country search for that perfect goat to sacrifice to Satan so I can cross that little threshold from unknown, obscure, nobody reads her shit writer to WRITER WHO DOESN’T GET THE FORM REJECTION LETTERS GOD FUCKING DAMN IT ALL TO HELL AND BACK ###$$$$$%^%^^^^^77&&*^%$&.

And then. I calm down about five minutes after that, ‘get over it’ and then cross that submission off in my book o’submissions. I keep a log of what I sent where because…I can’t recall why at this point, other than it seemed important to see all the rejections gathered in one place with the one or two YES THEY PICKED ME YES entries. I’m not a bookkeeper of any kind. I can screw up filling out forms faster than a jack rabbit on a date. Ha ha, shout out to Christmas Story.

“They” are doing a LIVE VERSION of this…with brand new actors. I. Wah. Why?? WHY HAS GOD DESERTED THE ENTIRE PLANET? Why would anyone think this was a good idea?? Just make a new Christmas movie! Hallmark does. Sure, their movies all seem like the same movie, but Hallmark is too smart to take on actual Christmas icons that should never ever be tampered with. That goes for that Jim Carrey travesty of the Grinch, too. WTF?? My eyeballs have never recovered. Hallmark, now…I’ll give them props for not milking the Christmas Story goat. [That was for you, Satan]

Yes, I am watching the Hallmark sugar-heavy fare. Shut up. You are, too. It’s like downing those Peep things. It’s the same thing. I don’t have to explain that, do I? You don’t even have to chew. Hallmark Christmas movies are like Peeps– no chewing involved. I should work in advertising. Go me!

Also–that super-feminist site found my stuff not feminist enough? What the…? I’m going to start writing characters that are…well, some vague threat about labeling my characters in the newest fashions and then actually writing about nice virgingals getting with shiny werewolves. Who brood. With nice hair. They brood and have nice hair. The girl/s fall down a lot and don’t think they’re pretty until the shiny werewolf fella…

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Because that shit sells. Yeah. Because it’s a familiar tale and the reading public really seems to like familiar tales, no matter what bullshit they quiver out about wanting something ‘original’. Bwhaha ha ha!!! As if!!

Where was I before I jumped into a lake of utter self-loathing full of sarcastic catfish?

Novel. Ah. My novel is nearly finished for that November challenge thingie. I have about two more chapters, I reckon. I have NO IDEA WHAT THE ENDING IS and my inner lit professors tut at me and make those faces lit profs make. You know that face. That one.

It’s roughly forty thou words.

Which is good! I, of course, have let it ‘rest’ a couple days. I started a short story called the Antifa are Due on Maple Street, which is, yes, a shout sent toward the Twilight Zone zone. If you have no idea what I mean, then you probably need to stop being in a feminist mist all the time and watch a television show older than 2017. It’s a famous ep of a famous ole show– the Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It echoes very well the paranoia and fear of the ‘other’ that so infected American society so long ago. It’s just so quaint now!

Yes, I’m done being a sarcastic catfish. Now…catfish has some sort of meaning, too. I’m not that kind of catfish. I mean an actual catfish swimming around near the bottom of a murky river being snarky. Rather like Spongebob if written as a George Costanza or a Chandler Bing. [I’ll be there for yo–ooo—uuu….!]

I should delve into the political shitshow that has become ‘murica. I just start writing curse words. I see where people are ‘jokingly’ looking into building guillotines. You know, so the American peasants can chop off the aristocratic DC heads. We’re waiting for that whole checks and balances stuff to save us from Rapey McPussyhands and company. Yeah, except…those in power have to respect and actually follow those checks and balances for those to work effectively. So far, we’ve [also known as The Resistance] have a few marches and posted some memes. I think America, to get America back, is gonna have to take it to the next step.

Dragons.

We’re gonna have to get some dragons.

We’re also gonna have to overhaul poor ole Jesus. Maybe even invent a new, improved savior of America. Jesus is pretty malleable when it comes to makeovers, sure. But. I think we Americans can invent some sort of truly American Jesus that will unite us all when we have to band together to go after those dragons we foolishly brought in to rid us of some other stuff.

Jesus fighting dragons…that is so my next BIG WRITING PROJECT. Maybe in between the Hallmark fare and the hatewatching of the live Christmas Cash Cow AKA Christmas Story…I’ll begin an epic tale of Jesus versus dragons. Maybe a children’s story. A cute, non-threatening Jesus and cute, big-eyed, cuddly, non-threatening baby dragons that decide to not fight and have cookies instead in a show of fellowship, diversity, love and some other virtues that seem popular right now. Popular but not practiced.

 

 

 

Dreams and Dreamy Updates

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from World Maps. Note that Vale to Cottage Grove would…well. Mm.

Hey and hello. Rainy here. Rain rain rain. Rainy!

I am up around thirty thousand plus words. Whee and squee and so forth. I also managed to get some rather important and insanely detailed paperwork almost done. Almost. I just need to go back over it and write stuff in that needs to be written in. How’s that for vague?? Is it good for you, too?

All right. Here’s actually why I deigned to write a blog post today.

I had a dream.

A rather unsettling little dream of a dream.

Where I attended, with my family, including, yes, my mother, a showcase of works. The middle section featured, yes, a short play by me. Now, in my dream, I watched the rehearsal. It went smashingly! The song–I don’t write music but I am, ha ha, a poet. So my brain married song and poetry just for the purposes of that dream last night…okay, back to WHAT HAPPENED–

The song, in the rehearsal portion of said dream, went swimmingly. Gorgeous! With, as I remember it…an all-female chorus or perhaps mostly females singing it. Directed by a woman, as was my short play. It was well done and I liked the efforts. Okay! Switch to the showcase evening actual debut.

We all, me and the fam, sit through the first offering and it’s okay. It’s a very casual setting, in my dream. We’re all on folding chairs in a big lobby, watching amateurs take on this, that, the other. Okay! You’ve gone to those…right? Okay!

My mother gets up and is wandering back and forth because she needs the bathroom. I tell her, no, this is my stuff coming up and she sits down again.

Moms, amirite? They’d sit through a three-hour retelling of something from My Little Pony as told by a four-year old while experiencing the onset of explosive diarrhea without a change of pleasant expression and ‘listening face’. 

Oh dear. Because my dream…oh yes, still on the dream bit here…goes south in a hurry. I don’t know why going south would be considered, well, going south. Mm. Anyway!

Everything I saw in rehearsal has been changed. The song and short play are now being performed by high school boys who clearly have no wish to be performing. It’s painfully obvious they’d rather be elsewhere doing anything else. Also, the director of my song and play has changed. It’s now a very defensive man who keeps showing up to yell at all of us watching that we ‘don’t get it’ and then he stomped around, making the debacle we watched that much worse.

I tried to smile and pretend everything was fine, because actors and audience alike kept glancing at me for my reactions…

My family tried to say how much they liked it but the pity! Oh!

It was then I heard the tiny steady pitter of rain, and realized I was awake. And not stuck in some Eugene O’Neill-lite nightmare. 

Why am I burdening my two or so readers with tales from my truly naughty night brain’s shift on the job? Mostly because I can. And something about sharing. Mostly some stuff about sorting through the piffle to find pearls of wisdom that will guide me in the darkness of a world gone mad.

Okay!

As this is novel month and not OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA month…I’ll write a bit about the actual rough little novel that’s shaping itself as I type along.

I am now in the road trip portion of my story. In case you forgot the title: NAKED FARMERS OF THE APOCALYPSE

I might change this to Candelight’s Awakening. So that people think it’s a romance novel, buy it and then scream when they find out it’s just another tale of almost-teen adventures with…ummm. As long as they buy it and leave scathing reviews. You have to make lemonade out of the  buffalo shit or something.

Road trip portion now reached, must stop veering off!

If nothing else, my dream taught me to stay on track. Or not invite family to my stuff. Maybe both?

I am having a good time tracing a slight actual journey from Vale over to Cottage Grove [that would be Oregon, in case no one got I write, a lot, about my home state…] during a spring storm. To bring granny and the stray baby home. It’s Candle and her dad. There’s some uncomfortable real life schtuff they both don’t want to face and…uh huh.

I also found myself including current political schisms and thrusts, because it’s right there.

So.

To sum up– I had a somewhat unsettling little dream and I am chugging along in the write a novel November challenge.

Thank you, as always, for glancing at this and hey, buy some of my books. Give them away as [holiday here] presents! Use them to line bird cages. What do I care what you do with them after you buy them? On that note!

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An actual November storm pic, taken this past week. Oak tree and bare hills and dark sky. Someone should write a poem. Smiley face!

 

 

Public

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Hi, ya’ll!

I have a public reading tonight for HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. At the Ontario, Oregon lye-berry. Or ‘library’ for those that like ole-timey spelling. 

http://www.ontariocommunitylibrary.org/

Halloween Book Reading

So, this week’s episode of The Durrels of Corfu had the eldest son’s book being published. And his family didn’t give two shits in a barrel that he’d managed to both WRITE A BOOK AND GET IT PUBLISHED.

So, his mother, to make up for her own indifference and so forth, arranges a

PUBLIC READING

for this literary newbie. 

Larry and his family show up and one old man. And…no one else. The sister drags someone in off the streets but it’s no good. It’s a fiasco.

Oh Masterpiece Theatre, must ye show me the face of my worst fears? With British accents?! Come on!!

 

UPDATE. THE NEXT DAY. HI.

Well. I’m glad I did it. I feel, and I know ‘feel’ is a word right up there with the C word and the F word but…I feel truly rhino-skinned now and more than capable of facing an indifferent public who are indifferent to my efforts.

Rhino-skinned. That is my new pet name. Masterpiece Theatre, you fucking bastards. You couldn’t show that episode next week?? I take no responsibility whatsoever that I sat and watched it. None. I’m oddly very Republican right now. Bwha ha ha.

 

 

 

 

MY SPIDER TALE

 

I look up, movement catching my eyeballs. There. Scurrying across the wall. A gigantic nightmare of a spider. Big. Big spider! It’s minding its own bee’s wax. It’s just boppin’ along, doing spider shit, in other words. Not trying to scare the bejesus out of me. Not that I am all that scared of spiders but still. The spider I watch has the dimensions of a horror movie arachnid. That is, to use modern parlance, a big-ass bug. Yes, I know a spider isn’t a bug, thanks. But we’re stupid now in America and proud of it for some reason, so…ahem. Let’s return to the precious retelling of my Spider Tale, shall we?

 

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Spider was, yes, that big. 

It makes its way to the shelves. The colors of this beastie are brown and gray; I wonder if the name is Charlotte. If you don’t get that reference, just a big hearty gol DARN it.

I cannot bring myself to load the rifle and take that spider out. I cannot turn into a good gal with gun; Wyetta Earp sleeps yet far in the corners of my Wild Or-ee-gone soul, curled up and waitin’ for action, a’course. That spider freezes when it notices me noticing it. We contemplate each other. No, Sirius-ly! I stared, the spider stared, we both stared. I also talked to that arachnid that probably wished my actual death.

Read the following in the same voice you talk to your pets or stuffed animals or pet rocks when you think no one is around: Hey, look at you. What are you doing, spider? No, go back up toward the ceiling. There you are! How would you solve the Middle East thing? Who gets a worse rap, spiders or clowns? Would you get behind a gritty reboot of the Twilight movies? Do you hang out with a pig named Wilbur? [Gol-DARN-it if you don’t get that. I just can’t. Shut my head. LOL.]

Some sort of lesson happens. I learn something. The spider learns something. Nature versus inertia. I get my camera and try to get pictures. Because I’m batshit crazy at this point in my life. I find real delight in a spider that obviously bathed in some nuclear waste. I had happy moments watching this small life trying to get from whatever point A was to Point B. There’s a clear trajectory for that spider, an arc. There’s a story there, surely!

And here’s the kicker.

I did not see where that spider went.

That spider could be anywhere.

That spider could be watching me, right now.

Wondering why I bothered it and pointed a little square at it. Perhaps sharing tales of the weird human with the other giant house spiders. Or the outside spiders that live in the rocks and trees and discarded bits of machinery.

My brain tells me to stop. It’s just a fucking spider!!! Arrrr!!! Are you going to turn some stupid spider into a billion-selling YA novel centering around a typical male character saving the day except you named him Marsha because it’s fashionable right now to have a female ‘heroine’? It’s cute! Oh look, a ‘strong’ female! That’s like hot ice and wonder snow and– SPIDER!

[Random cursing, bitter diatribe, more cursing.]

My my. Must read some positive memes and just cure myself of any modern malaises. Whee. Wahoo. Whoop a do.

I had a week. It was. Um. That spider delighted me. I ‘worked’ on my ‘zombie’ novel, experienced nature without leaving my seat, much, and tried to ignore the outside world.

Oh, hey, my book/s are on sale RIGHT NOW. Buy one or several. Thanks. Look at me, being all  Willy Loman!

There’s also a new poetry challenge to tackle! I see the words ‘Jesus’ and ‘ass-licking war dogs’ in my future!

Spider!!

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CROW PIE

 

 

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by Jude Collins

 

Welp. Yours truly got picked for that monthly poetry contest…not days after writing a bad unicorn poem. No, seer-eeee-us-lee! [Say that with a Valley Girl accent, m’kay?] The universe, man, it never gets tired of being the universe. My Mint in Pots piece, written for the August rush, got tapped. That little poetic ass got tapped hard. That’s for the prurient-minded.

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I feel like September handed me some gifts and I is not properly grateful. Which affects my grammar and balance! So. THANKS SEPTEMBER. I will sing and dance and shake  my moneymaker for your enjoyment later today.  Slurpy kisses and too-long, slightly moist hugs sent your way, dear September. 

The crust, for my CROW PIE, will be flaky yet dense. The crow is yet complaining it’s stuffed in a pie and the oven is broken. But damn, that pie will be consumed, hallelujah. 

 

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——–> Oh!! GO GET MY BOOKS. I have books now, for sale.  THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. OREGON GOTHIC. <—————–

Go and mock me in a review, you know you want to. Or do an actual review.

Write– it’s got a nice beat and you can dance to it, four stars.

I dare someone to do that. If they do, I’ll…yeah, I’ll do something funky and mildly public.

Oh and some more crow pie to consume, while I’m being brutally honest…I fell and watched AHS last night. But!!! It was all the crazy Milo-wannabe [Koi Fish] slouching around like some third-rate Bond villain with bad hair and almost none of Sorethroaty! I really don’t think an American voter would cut their arm off to cast a vote for a president. We’d cut our arm off to vote for dancing or singing, sure! But a president or some other politician? It’s so cute when the writers on AHS get so idealistic! Cute, I tell ya. Cute!

Trigger Warning: Depictions of harmless pumpkins as country-destroying fuckballs of malice.

I also love, complete and total subject swing here, so hold on…how people are suddenly so PATRIOTIC. Especially when NFL players take a knee or link arms to protest police violence and racism and a host of other societal ills that are Making America Sick as Usual. MASU! And Pumpkincunt jumped into this fight with both feet in his dick-shaped mouth. If yer a red-blooded ‘murican, you’re ballz deep in this here fight already and knows allz abouts it. If you’re, say, Euro-other-country-not-Europe…well, you have your own worries with Sharia Law being enacted there and immigrants taking your good women and your bad jobs and making you all speak Spanish or something.

Oh and the latest attempts at making sure poor people just die as horribly as possible did not get a vote in the Senate or something. But like Freddy, Jason and those Alien critters, it will probably come back for many, many, many sequels…cause some rich people sure do hate poor people buying insulin and birth control or somethin’.

But did you see the Voice last night?? Jennifer Hudson is gonna be a HOOT. Adam and Blake are the cutest! Miley is a goddess! If you don’t vote, those singers might have to go back to waitressing and being poor and not having health insurance. God damn it!! Do you want that on your head???

Oh, also, Puerto Rico, pretty much destroyed by Hurricane Maria. Being ignored in favor of tweeting insults at…sigh. 

To sum up: right after I wrote a snarky poem, a somewhat okay poem of mine got selected. Crow pie for moi.

I fell and watched AHS, sigh!

I took two careless seconds to address both rampant racism and the truly ghastly health care system in my country.

I also included a PLUG FOR MY BOOKS, House on Clark Boulevard and Oregon Gothic. I begged, shamelessly so, for reviews and purchases of said books. I’ve tried cutesy, I’ve tried serious, so now I’m just tryin’.

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Oregon Gothic country. The Owyhees