Canned Holiday

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Gee, it’s time for yet another American holiday festival of festivus. 

Now I think that serving an entire ginormous dinner from a can would be…just fine. Sure, it would be hard to capture that home-made taste that some aunt or even grandma can imbue to rolls or stuffing or even that green bean casserole delight with the mushroom soup, the weird greenish beans and the crunchy onion thingies…but hey. Times change and sometimes holidays should be reduced to a simple empty a can into a bowl and call it good day. Clean up, a breeze. Taste? That’s what salt and ketchup is for. Family time? Kept to a brutal minimum. Getting to return home and pretend it all never happened? Priceless. 

The green layer up there is what actually intrigues me. What is it? Jello? Peas? Lime Jello with peas, salad, sprouts and green beans? Beneficial mold in case the other layers make you sick? An illusion created by Hilary Clinton’s crack team to lull me into…? A layer of mint frosting? 

I took a shower yesterday so I’m good that way, thanks for asking. 

The dogs are happy. It’s foggier than some old movie about Jack the Ripper out  there today. 

Happy day, however you celebrate or don’t.

You might not be American or Canadian. There are other countries and places out there!! It says so on Google. Or is Google just fake newsing me??? Oh pluck my cranberries and spank my polite scoop of that orange gunk smothered with burned marshmallows. 

I’ve heard outlandish tales that Canadians have some sort of purloined America-invented-Thanksgiving-Hello!! feast day. America also invented the cat, walls and sweaters for dogs. That was before the Illuminati stepped in, those damn globalist liberal social scumbuckets! I must prepare myself, now, for total family speaktalk. Make fun of them in my head or die a slow, awful death on a lonely liberal cross in Republicanland. Mmm….

OH!!! November novel update!!!! Almost done. Update over. 

The Day After:

I survived, I am still here and yet there’s Christmas to get through with two sets of…oh fuck me running. Anyone remember that phrase? Is it from the Eighties oeuvre of cuss words and cuss slang? Mostly the food was white. White turkey, white scalloped taters, white bread rolls, creamed corn, creamed cauliflower. All very good, by the way. The cabbage slaw had a nice green quality to it. The talk tended toward how everyone but the one holding forth was cataclysmically stupid. It never veered over into, ahem, but then again I zoned out and watched the squirrel dart back and forth on the backyard fence top. Go squirrel! 

Today I whipped up a turkey casserole, with noodles, turkey, celery and carrots, sauted onions and almonds, fake instant mashed taters and a sort of hybrid sauce/gravy. Oh and some leftover sharp cheddar already-grated cheese! And– I did a quickie pie. I feel a bit dirty. Quickie press in the pan crust and quickie butterscotch generic pudding with not-Cool-Whip dessert topping to finish that thing off in grand and goodly fashion. I put a dollop of honey in the crust I whipped up. As we have jars of honey and since it’s there, I fling honey into, well, whatever. I’m a very much whatever is in my surroundings goes into whatever I’m cooking. Tiny dab of Ranch dressing left in bottle, mystery seasoning from three years ago, is that a carrot? oooh I forgot I bought tarragon…etc and etc and etc. 

I’m also chest-deep in a Garrison Keillor book and snickering to myself at odd moments. Happy Lutherans! Dark Lutherans! Jokes about Ole and Lena! It’s all in there. I think it’s called Wobegon Boy. But don’t quote me on that. [Note: this was written before allegations of wrongdoing came out about Keillor. History, your turn.] 

Thou art now caught up and I should enjoy this oddly gorgeous day. We nearly hit seventy here in Eastern Oregon/Western Idaho yesterday! And yet fog and rain. Oh I’m visiting with myself now about the weather and some stupid ass casserole I threw together out of this, that, the other. Fudge bunnies, somebody tell me to take up the slack in my fingers!

Oh before I go and um, I dunno, stare at the wall, is anyone watching that travesty over on PBS that purports to be Anne of Green Gables?? It’s…oh. I. Oh. Why would someone deliberately write Montgomery’s characters so badly? And who did the casting??  Martin Sheen as Matthew?? NO NO NO NO!!! The girl playing Diana Barry…has golden-brown hair. Dye her fucking hair black, you nimrods. Miss Stacy?? What the hell was that?  Also…Gilbert? WTF is that about? That fight between him and Anne in the book/s…I just feel a need for massive amounts of vodka and access to that set of writers so I can both drunkenly sob that they’ve ruined Anne of Green Gables and slap the shit out of them for whatever agenda they felt they had to follow here. Was it, ahem, Satan? Did Satan personally show up and offer you happy virgins and a mountain of gold if you twisted Anne and Company into actual shreds of what they once were? Can you unsign whatever bargain here? Thanks. 

This was not the Kevin Sullivan version, which was fantastic. It’s not the one with Megan Follows. You know, the real Anne of Green Gables and the sequel, Anne of Avonlea. No no, this is some ‘new’ version! Why?? Stop mining ground that’s already been mined! There are so many stories out there! So many great books and tales that…ugh a bug a shug a rug. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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11,000 Plus Words

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Mr. July. From the Oxford Mail. It’s amazing what you can find when you type in ‘naked farmers’. Amazing.

I have somehow managed to actually compose eleven thousand plus words for the Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.

I am also channeling my inner Judy Blume apparently, which is fine. Sometimes one needs their inner Blume and she’s sold how many books so far? A LOT. You might have even read a few of them, dear darlings.

Before I step too far into pseudo-smarmy land, let me say it’s raining today and snow might be coming. Which makes me cheerful as a mouse in a wall. Perhaps as cheerful and industrious as the mouse in my wall this morning. I went from page fifteen or so to page twenty something. I’ll write more later today or not.

My tale is crafting itself.

I step out of its way and it kindly meanders as it wills for right now. I have no finale or overall theme planned at this time.

The rich rotting earth of American politics undermines my Judy Blume-ish wafflings. Hey, to ignore politics is to ignore the nose on your face, after all. No matter what ‘side’ you’re on.

FUCKING DEMOCRATS, PULL IT TOGETHER. Okay, done. Whee. Back now. If you’re not Americans, that means nothing to you or maybe it does. Maybe you’re breathlessly following America’s leap into the abyss. [Yeah, I said it. Someone had to.]

Back to Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.

I invented a pop band of that name that Our Heroine, Candle Santiago, adores. Bands do, on occasion, have silly names only the kiddies can love. Death Cab for Cutie. The Clits. The Butthole Surfers. Puddle of Mudd. Bumsnogger. Aborted Hitler Cock. [I did not make that up, sadly.] Evil Edna’s Horror Toilet.  The Child Molesters. [An actual band. I know. It’s okay. Go to your safe place. It’s okay.] 

Everyone back now? 

I bet you’re a fan of silly-named musicians either truly bubble gum lite or so serious they poop save the world slogans instead of actual poop. [Poop is natural, pooping out slogans is not…was my labored point here.]

Anyway, where was I…

Ah yes. So! I also invented an anime show, called Piko’s Planet, with a hot anime dude that the tweens go squee for…and will no doubt ‘disguise’ current political, entertainment and other wise famous or not figures for my own fun and hardly any profit. Because, let’s face the music and dance, it’s fun.

And isn’t writing, other than being about changing the very warp and weft of society itself, supposed to be fun? Yes. Yes, it is, in case you were not sure.

An excerpt?? Not yet. I’ll tease you all a bit and wait until the end of November. I’ll copy and paste something near the end of this jam-packed and turkey-flavored month, where I’ll, no doubt and is that not a silly name for a band, hello…where I’ll no doubt delve into the journey my heroine has had to take.

So, I’m not only tapping into my inner Blume, I’m scraping the hero’s journey barrel. I have many inner rooms, apparently. What a cheerful realization.

 

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from Pinterest

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everything old is new again

 

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The Owyhees. Eastern Oregon

I wrote something snarky about the events of last weekend. The murder of Heather Heyer, the POS POTUS who still has  a big grin and a hard-on for white supremacists and how this is America; we’ve just been hiding it better some years.

But honestly.

Instead…I’m tired. It’s August. The eclipse is nigh. It rained yesterday. It never rains here so that perked me up. Storms, weather, wind and rain and snow, yes, please. I don’t live in a place like Tornado Alley or Hurricane Way or Big Awful Storms Every Other Day place so rain in the high desert is welcomed. What happened in Charlottesville devastates me. We were supposed to be over this shit by now. We were supposed to be moving forward, not exploring what it felt like during actual race riots and World War II fistfights. Everything old is new again should not apply to…oh fuck.

I watched a Dodge plow into pedestrians. It got splashed all over social media. You saw the car reverse and a red tennis shoe fell away from the bumper. And people died, there were three deaths and numerous injuries from one guy driving a car into others. It’s a terrorist attack, it’s supposed to make us terrified to resist, to speak out, to do something or do anything against those in the KKK, involved in the Aryan Nations, involved in the Alt-Right circle-jerks, involved in anything that smacks of white power or white nationalism. And yet…a bit of light and hope because people are speaking out, doing something, denouncing this…45 was quicker to jump down Alec Baldwin’s throat than Richard Spencer’s or Jason Kessler’s. He has yet to denounce the white pride groups that adore him. That the White House had to keep ‘clarifying’ tells me this is another PR blunder for those in power, not an actual moment when they need to stop stumping for votes.

And I actually despair watching people wait for that actual ‘White Supremacists are bad hombres’  to happen. Haven’t you figured out who this fuckweed is by now, my dears? He’s not going to go after those who adore him and praise him and call him strong. Any more than he’d cut off his hands. I despair at people crying out for something to get done about all this.

Because sooner or later, we the people are going to have to ‘do something’ about all this. Beyond maybe voting in the next election, that is. And that’s where I see darkness and dragons. I want so badly to naively believe that ‘love will win in the end’. I don’t think it will, at this stage in my life. I, too, waited for the current president to denounce all this happening on American soil to fellow Americans. I waited like a dope.

I waited. I knew better.

And I waited.

I don’t know what’s going to happen now in my country. Or my life, for that matter. I am just trying to make it through each day, with some sanity intact. I try to write and not cut my wrists most days. That’s about all I can do. I can’t find clever words for all this vomit and shit and actual dried blood on metal at the moment. This vomit, this shit, this dried blood on metal that is America right now and…

It’s August and yesterday it rained.

I JUST. YEAH. UH.

 

 

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PART ONE:JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE USA, FOLKS

So, on the very date, back in 1948, Truman integrated US military forces…45 declares, via some fucking Tweets, that transgender folks can no longer serve in any capacity in the military.

Now, I just. Yeah. Uh.

Granted, there are some MAJOR SCANDALS AND TREASONOUS CRAP going on right now involving the Orange Clownstick of Fuckistan. Russia, for one, interfering in our election.

Allegedly, a’course. Pootie denies he allowed an army of trolls loose on our gullible ‘murikkans and Pootie never lies or kills journalists. Pootie also never headed the KGB. Nope! Pootie-Putin, sorry if I confused anyone.

Mueller and that onrushing crush of lawyers, testifying about who met with whom and if they spoke with a Russian accent, blah blah blah. Sessions now being told to stay put by the very people who told him to get his ass back to the antebellum South or wherever he actually slithered from. The Racist Elfboy is publicly ‘feudin’ with Clownstick, which is…probably another distraction. I’m losing track of which distraction I’m supposed to ignore and which distraction I need to like/hate on FB, or retweet/click that heart thing over on Twitter.

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PART TWO: FROM A DISTANCE

Jesus in a Toyota Corolla, this would be such an entertaining shitshow if viewed from the comfort/nice coffee house or friendly local bar/pub/place where they serve adult beverages… of a stable, modern country not trying to turn back time. Watching from a safe nice distance as some laughably now-awful country [USA! USA!] tries to hide emerging acts of treason beneath blatantly obvious LOOK OVER HERE FUCKERS tactics. An actual, in your face, public attempt at setting up a dictatorship. In the land of democracy, apple pie and some other ‘murican stuff. [USA! USA!]

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PART THREE: MEMES, MEMES EVERYWHERE

People have invoked the Handmaid’s Tale, Orwell’s 1984, uh…some other grim, humorless takes on what happens when it’s a very one-sided government. Just look at the memes, my dears! MEMES ARE EVERYWHERE.

With quotes on them! Dire, sour, clinical quotes lifted from dire, sour literature and reduced down for quick, indignant consumption. You can look them up yourself, of course. Listing them here will just bloat my already bloated ranty rant.

[Some are very accurate, so don’t get your long johns or pettipants in a roar, dears. See what I did there?] Oh– women, I read, in dealing with their Monthly Curse, way back when in olden times, the Victorian Age, for instance, might have just bled into their clothes. Yeah. We’ve come a long way, baby! Where was I?? Oh, memes and such and indignant quote mining.

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PART FOUR: HISTORY? TURN BACK TIME? 

As if…we’ve all failed history or never even heard of history. Gee, what happens when a single party rules an entire country, kids? What happens when that single party set of control freaks starts stripping rights from all others not in their special He-man Woman-Hater’s group? What happens when…??? Anyone? Anyone? Do I really have to write the names of those who took batcrap crazy to new and murder large swathes of people heights? Is your Google broken? Or your fucking brain?

Do I really have to write that shit gets bad, fast? Really?

Oh it can’t happen in America! We have checks and balances! Someone else, not me, will put a stop to that. I’m woke!

BWHAHA HA HA HA HA.

That’s my evil laughter, by the way. I produce it in my lower chest voice. Some people do that evil laughter with the M sound starting them off down the road of twirly mustache, maiden tied to train tracks evilness.

 

Nope. I’ll focus on Clownstick and the current GOP agenda to turn back time to some mystical man-only world where women existed to serve sammiches and make babies for wars.

Where there were no gay folks or transgender peeps or minorities OF ANY KIND trying to get all uppity. Where, yep, people knew their places. And they were happy in those places!

There were no single moms. Or women over thirty. No sluts or whores trying to get their lifestyle legitimized. Marches for rights were nice and sweet and that nice Dr. King never got in trouble. Schools didn’t teach that bad science stuff like evolution or that your gender is whatever you decide it is that day. People understood their place! Sob!! [Flag waves in the gentle breeze as Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA throbs from the speakers and orgasms in the ears of all red-blooded patriotic sorts before they settle in to watch an evening of bull riding, tractor pulling and Jeff Dunham’s puppets repeating easy to digest glurbs of comical gems.]

Hey, I’ve written something like the above before…that Glorious ‘murican Past where men ruled the roost and everyone else knew to suck it up and just let those manly men get on with it. Huh. Mm. My CD must b skipping today. My record has a scratch. Tee hee.

PART FIVE: POST-RACIST AMERICA ANY DAY NOW, DARLINGS AND DEARIES!

Yeah. I keep hearing this is the last gasp of that generation of overprivileged racist sexist knuckle-dragging sadsacks. Um. You sure about that, dears? Cause boy oh boy, is that same sentiment– whites only, shut up and go away the rest of you– quite strong in the younger set. That doesn’t dissipate.  It goes underground and hibernates and waits for White Spring. [I’m blurbing about America’s history of blatant racism and then the poorly not hidden really at all attempts to include those ‘others’ into the American fold.] That prejudice and hatred, it hangs on, like mold. Like ingrained, never gonna Lysol that crap away mold. That ‘nationalism’ goes into burrows and lairs,  then surges up when it gets the least itty bitty little chance, hello. History, anyone? Ugh. That’s right, history is a liberal plot to make us all turn into social justice wariors who hate Jesus and coal miners.

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PART SIX: CLOWNSTICK VON PUMPKINCUNT

I’m looking at the reason Clownstick Von Pumpkincunt gives for banning transgender folks from serving in the US military. Vague medical twistings about how you can’t be transitioning and fire weapons or something. That transgender folks cause morale problems and disciplinary risks. That people just join the armed forces to get the military to pay for ‘the operation’. Which, apparently, will and does cost the military BAZILLIONS OF BUCKS. Ugh? I think every vague prejudice against transgender anyone was trotted out in that series of tweets. And people are nodding along to it, going, yeah, we need to…ugh. If people can be kept out for a skin mole, then sure, yeah, we should totally, like, ban all those people from serving. Cause, MAGA. LOL.

 

There are already transgender folks serving, RIGHT NOW, in the military, in all capacities. So. That came up, too. What about those serving honorably and what will happen to them now? Do they lose all their benefits and rank and…? Will they be discharged and…? Does this blanket ban get a vote in Congress??

I get it, Pumpkincunt is super-jealous of Obama, who made it okay for transgender folks to serve openly in the military. So, Pumpkincunt and probably Pence the Secret Masturbating Wunderkind Who Gets Off to Tiny Animals Being Stomped to Death by Jesus, went after an actual step forward in declaring All Lives Matter. By stating, no, no, your life and your right to serve your country does not matter because I hate Obama who is more bigly popular than me and I should get all the love and my crowd size is super-huge and I grabbed pussy and she liked it! It’s just locker room talk, boy scouts. And did I tell ya about that orgy my friend had with young teenage girls that the animals we let in, disguised as humans, want to rip apart? Settle in, boy scouts! Settle in!

I feel like I need a shower today. I just had one, I feel the constant filthy tides in ‘murica right now lapping at my hairy calves and I just want to…scrape my fingernails across my skin until the dirt comes off. Even if I start bleeding. Which is gross, right, gentlemen? Girls, blood, eh, gross me out the door!

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PART SEVEN: NEARING THE END, MY FRIEND. 

So, to end this weird, wandering diatribe– what the actual fuck is happening to my country? I keep asking that. I was never afraid and angry all the time under the Bushes or even Reagan. That’s right, I remember Papa Raygunz and how scared we all were that batshit crazy grinner was gonna start a nuclear fuckwar with…yeah, the USSR. He’d fall asleep with a mouthful of jelly beans and push THE BUTTON. The Day After, anyone remember that TV movie? Red Dawn? I’m sure there were other macho Hollywood movies about what would happen if THEY invaded US and we HAD TO FIGHT BACK.

But I never actually believed ole Batshit Crazy Raygunz would, um, destroy us all and talk about his dick size while he did so. You know he was hung like an elephant. [Ha ha, feeble GOP shoutout. Ha ha…sigh.] Oh crap, now I have a mind movie playing Nancy-Just Say No-Reagan playing hide the sausage with Mr. Teflon. [He was called the Teflon President as nothing stuck to him. Everyone around him got charged, indicted, smeared in public, but he escaped, more or less, all that fun. Iran-Contra, etc. Yep.]

I never thought Bush Daddy or Bush Junior would actually destroy us while waving a flag and talking about their crowd sizes and why Hilary Clinton needs to be investigated for Pizzagate. [Before Pizzagate had been invented by Alex Jones, of course. I was trying to tie the Bushes to Pumpkincunt for a slight comedic hyperbole effect. Okay!] I thought, and still do, they were not the best presidents but that they actually did give a care, at times, for others not in their pockets. They had manners and a basic public dignity to them. [Am I putting on some rose-colored glasses here because the present fuckstick shitting itself in public in the White House is just such a clusterfuck? I’m going with yes.]

Stripping entire groups of this, that, the other…is not the way to govern. It’s never been the way to govern. Do I really have to write that down? Going after a tiny minority group– less than or about 1% of the population– and accusing that group of bloating the military costs…um. Yeah. I. Well. Um. Fuck. It’s rather like LBJ signing the Civil Rights Act and then Nixon coming along and un-signing it. Something like that. Yeah, makes me wish, all over again, that I could watch this from a foreign shore and laugh my ass off at those Krazy Amerikkkans ripping their country to shreds out of pettiness, jealousy, ignorance, masculine vapors and every day common ole spite. All righty, what next in the ‘Distract Those Motherfuckers So We Get Away With This’ collection of tweets? I know!! Women don’t need to vote. It also raises the costs in our military [according to Jesus-Stroking Pence and the ICR institute] and they should be home taking care of all the kids they’re not allowed to abort because of ‘safety’ concerns [TRAP laws, bwha ha ha ha].

Make America Manly Again. Woot Woot.

 

“Annual military spending on Viagra: $41.6 million Cialis: $22.8 million Trans medical care: $8.4 million… ”

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2017/07/26/the-military-spends-five-times-as-much-on-viagra-as-it-would-on-transgender-troops-medical-care/?utm_term=.8868d56525b5

 

 

 

 

 

Beckett, Feminism and Horses, Oh My

 

Let's go

Okay, before we get started, an update. The dandelion wine bubbles away yet. Saturday could possibly be the day I will drain the flotsam, strain it and then seal it away in some somewhat clean jars. I cleaned out the pickle jar– it’s gallon-sized– for my wine endeavors. Grandpa!! I made some wine! My first sip is for you.

I have almost sixty pages written on a NEW PLAY. Ugh a bug in a elitist rug! Whee and whoopee and yippee skippee. What’s worse is how much I’m enjoying writing it. I should be dredging the burned French fry remains of my toxic soul and instead I’m skimming the airs around me as lightly as some lead-footed butterfly, giggling to myself, giggling foully to myself. O woe is me, O Israel, I am giggling. I was working on the Tales of Beastface Bay and kinda smacked up against a rock wall with a Christmas-ish tale. I’d written enough about that imaginary coastal region for a bad novel, anyway, hello!

I don’t know what the Honest Women could be classified as. It took a decidedly weird turn at the end of Act One. I wrote a rather conventional and staid little Act One ending, with no idea where this play is ‘going’. It has no BIG TRAJECTORY that will WIN IT PRIZES. But then again, people argue that Waiting for Godot...and right there I start screaming and throwing things, like a monkey with a crack baby on its back. Am I comparing myself to Beckett?? Oh the horror!! Is my arrogance at composing conversation infecting me like a French pox?? [I hope not. Shudder. French pox.] What it does have is FEMALE CHARACTERS. Lots of em. Heaps o’gals. So many gals! It’s an all-gal salad with all-gal dressing. I feel you pulling away, gentle raindrops.

 

What that has to do with my whimpering that Beckett’s plays resemble still life escapes me at the moment. [I just felt a disturbance in the force as Beckett fans got a throbbing headache because someone somewhere DOESN’T LIKE BECKETT. Excuse me, I have to backtrack and assure them, yes, Beckett was a fine playwright, it’s okay now, shhh, relax. Shhh. It’s okay. Godot’s not coming today, yes, it’s brilliant. Let mama make you some lemonade.] Oh!! Yeah. Because my play just tap dances instead of drudges through Swan Lake like a good little trouper. Um. It’s one of those splatter paintings instead of a landscape with every leaf painted on the patient willow trees. Better?

 

Yeah, so it will never get produced, probably. I did keep the bad words to a sickening minimum and I make fun of feminism, hell, and liberals. Sometimes all in one sentence. I also make fun of anti-feminists, heaven and conservatives! No one is sacred, no one is safe. A woman makes out with a suitcase. That’s how Act Two starts. My brain is still waiting for me to thank it, probably with a gift card to Yankee Candle.

 

Because is there a better-smelling store?? If I get to go anywhere after death, I’m hoping whatever deity adopts me lets me sniff candles in the afterlife candle stores or whatever’s out there. Maybe fill my worship hut with Midsummer’s Night, my favorite. I’ll sing all the hymns, in tune, if my worship hut smells like dark summer skies. I’ll just put that out into the universe. I’ll let you know how it works out, of course.

Play! The play is the thing. I’ve been writing rather kitchen sink plays lately– you know, stark gritty reality, ABC linear blah blurgh blah. Now, granted, this play is a bit linear, but it does bulge alarmingly into other territories. I feel so arty! I feel artistic and special! I’m breaking barriers and exploring NEW FORMS and talking about THE ISSUES OF THE DAY AND THE TERRORS THAT INFUSE THE VERY PLANET. Wow, don’t you now want to sit through my play?? Who doesn’t want a bunch of gals screeching about rights for three hours while barely moving and wearing high heels to show they don’t hate men? [Just kidding!]

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I really am taking the toxic [everything seems toxic right now. The entire world seems sick from a case of Toxic Shock Syndrome because the collective tampon got left in a bit too long. Eeeh, gross, she said tampon. That’s right, rabbit, I sure did.] sludge of talk, slurs, slings and arrows and forcing them to trot across my pages like good little ponies. If ponies were made of words, of course. They’re not, I checked. Oooh…I saw this short video today [stop, it does not contain cats or a racist rant from some half-drunk Wal-Mart shopper] on horses. Apparently, they’re treated better than 98% of the humans on this planet. They have their own barn and live ‘free’. As they’re not racing over the high desert hard pan as skinny as rails, well, they’re pampered lap dogs in actuality. Anyhoo!!

The horses, shock o shock, were shown FARTING AND SNORING. I know!! Horses fart and snore?? Yeah, there really wasn’t a giant revelation here. It was just these incredibly spoiled and shiny horses snoozing and letting out long, gurgling anus belches. It was funny and soothing. After hearing all day that the Tangerine Vader thought he had invented the phrase ‘prime the pump’ and that it had fired Comey over how Clinton had been treated…I needed some horse anus belches.

Which is probably why this play seems eager to leap almost whole from my fevered writhing brain.

If you’re a writer [isn’t everyone a fucking writer these days?? Everyone on the entire planet has one of these blog thingies. Hashtag WeAreAllBloggers] then you know those times when the words just gush. Maybe you don’t.

Maybe you’re one of those writers that writes five pages every day, no more, no less, like a writing machine. Those sorts of writers fill me with a whiny sort of “Mmm, okay, whatever, dude. I just found an entire season of Wonderfalls on youtube. I’m watching that instead of working on my Victorian era time traveling steampunk YA dino-human romance flash fiction attempt for this contest I found over on Craigslist.”

My brain seems stuck on overdrive. Which is a bit scary. As a crash is coming and it seems harder and harder to recover from those crashes. Enough of those serious thoughts! I wrote a post-American Empire feminist scream against the dying of the light! Wheee. Well, it’s mostly written. I plan to celebrate the Fin [see Beckett, bwha ha ha] of the Honest Women with a giant tumbler of, hopefully, drinkable and won’t send me to the ER, homemade dandelion wine. Viva la playwright!

Oh…an excerpt? Should I? Dare I? I dare, I dare! From my latest writing project, the HONEST WOMEN. This is first draft fun, my gentle readers!! 

LAURA
That is great advice for followers and sheep. And merpers. Merp merp.

IMA
Merp merp?

LAURA
Merp!
IMA
Merp?

ULVA
Shut. UP.
[ Silence. She goes to the table, takes up a magazine.]
I think we should try being honest. Women are never honest. We can’t be. Not even when we’re alone. It’s not safe.

MANDA
Safe? You’re worried about safe? Now?? They did something to the virgin and they dragged off the rebel. Stop being precious and concentrate on the here and now. We’ve got problems to solve!

LAURA
I think you should play along, Ulva. Or the Garbage Hags can come get you, too. Doesn’t it seem nicer with that trash dragged out of here, Manda? Why don’t you go into a monologue about the virtues of taking the trash out. Boom! And talk about the good ole days where no one cussed and no one did drugs. Where everyone went to church and loved the flag and ate pie. Make it a good one. Make it a barn burner. Make people burst into tears and send checks to politicians to make America great again.

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from the Horse. 

 

 

THE UPDATE NOBODY WANTED

 

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The actual dandelion wine bubblin’ away!

Oh my, the dandelion wine bubbles away on the top shelf!

Whee!! Now that THAT is out of the way, I can progress to something else. Like farts and bacon. Or bacon farts. Or how to include smelly intestinal expulsions into heart-breaking free verse about the end of society as we know it. Making up silly, grotesque verses about bacon-infused farts distracts me from actual world events, of course. I don’t have to pay any sort of attention to trends and patterns developing or that have developed already, say, in France, Poland, ‘murikkka…That scary rise of the authoritarian regime blah blah blah! Blah. Fart! Farts are funny! Fart fart fart!

If I stay distracted and concentrate my scattershot mind more or less on something other than the apparent political meltdown of the entire freaking planet, then maybe things will be okey-dokey. Maybe we won’t head down that road of Repeating History, Derp! with nary a glance at a history paragraph that says hey, don’t do this again.

This is just like the Weimar Republic! Oh fuck off, you snowflake, lol. You’re the snowflake, you idiot’s idiot! Oooh look at you, taking the high road, huh? You’re triggered, lol, snowflake cuck! You’ll be sorry; you know this will effect you as well? Do you think they won’t come for you, too? Triggered snowflake, look at the triggered snowflake, lol! Go fuck yourself, you troll.

That above, in the dazzling green versus orange daringness, seems to be the intelligent exchange of ideas these days. It seems those on opposing sides never get past first base. The two sides never get to home base to enjoy that afterglow ciggie where ideas have been thrashed out and explored, some sort of intellectual climax happened and the afterglow of a foe well met gets cuddled by both. As arguing and debating with someone who’s different than you can be a stimulating experience. [So I’ve been told. I think that was FAKE NEWS WAH] If you’re going to just engage with those just like you, then you might as well watch cat videos and label yourself queen of the universe, that you’re the smartiest smarty pants since ever. I bet you thought I was going to riff on some masturbation theme. Expectations subverted. I’m such a writer gal. Ah! Smiley face for me! :}

Love doesn’t rule the world. Fear does. Fear fear fear. And the love of fart jokes, of course. You can preach love and niceness until the cows amble home from some pastoral pasture, somewhere where those cows are pets and not used for meat or bred repeatedly to make their milk flow. People will nod and smile and get vague noble intentions floating through their heads for a bit until they discover a treasure trove of guys getting hit in the testicles by toddlers with various objects over on TesticleHit!.com. [I made that up. I really do hope that’s not an actual website. Sadly, I think I’m wrong about that. Guys getting bonged in the testicles, right up there with fart jokes. Can I get a smelly amen?] They’ll [peasants, the working man, good moms, etc. ] share videos the rest of the day with buddies and strangers alike on socialist media. Whoops, social media, social. Trigger word!! Argh! [Buzz words. Oh the buzz words, can I get another smelly, stinky amen from the bacon-eating set?]

However, if you preach/speak loudly/spew/whisper FEAR and scream-rant-preachify about ‘they’re’ coming for your– insert things ‘they’ are coming to get or take– and whoopsie daisy, people mobilize. [Mexicans are taking our jobs. Immigrants commit all the crimes. Liberals want to control you. You’re tingling right now to add to this list, ain’t ya??] They, the public, the unwashed masses, the tired and confused and angry, the lost and the botched and bungled, get ‘concerned’. They turn on those they find ‘not like them’. Blah blah, you know this one, I know this one, it’s as old as the, what now, hills, the hills.

 

And yet…we never seem to figure out that fear whips people up a lot faster and into actual killing squads than blubbering on about ‘love’ or ‘tolerance’ or ‘maybe we should try being nice to each other and not get all stirred up and blame entire groups for society’s ills’. That shit only sells when the economy is booming, when people are relatively secure they’re not going to lose everything the next day because they can’t pay their mountain of bills and…yeah. When times are ‘good’. When times are ‘bad’, FEAR IS THE ONLY SAVIOR. [Jesus can’t hold a candle to Fearus. None of the gods can. Fearus, let us embrace thee and do thy bidding.] Those talks of ‘it used to be’. Those speeches about the ‘good ole days’. Oh you’ve heard them, you hearing them now.  Someone right now is whipping up a ‘good ole days’ speech for tomorrow! You can replay these speeches on history sites and hear them on history channels. You can read them in history books. We never seem to catch on that those fear-smeared speeches that galvanize populations into turning on some marginalized ‘other’ all have the same beat that people can dance to. Dance here euphemistically refers to atrocities and bad stuff we read about or watch about and go, gosh, how was that allowed to happen?? Gosh!! Fart are funny! Farts farts farts!

Ah yes, those ‘good ole days’ of halcyon ages past!

 

When God was in school. When children didn’t talk back. When girls were girls and boys were boys. When we could speak our minds without fear. When immigrants stayed in their own countries. When women were content to be ladies, not vulgar vulgarians in pink pussy hats. When hard work got rewarded and nobody got trophies for breathing and waking up that day. When no one did drugs. When we didn’t have to lock our doors and no one tried to take our guns away. When we had actual freedom. When. When. When.

Oh there’s a bullet-point list here that dick-tater wannabes recite with a numbing malice, oh yes. We know this, as humans. That ‘good ole days’ speechifying is as old as the, what now, hills. And yet. And yet! Fart jokes are so flipping funny. Fart noises rock!

It’s like we humans have to experience, first hand, how bad it can get. And then that clawing climb back to some sort of pretend order where mostly such and such have such and such and all is well-ish. Until the actual kings and king wannabes start thrusting that big fearpenis back into the public’s face and…yep.

And then the peasants invent revolutions and rebellions after those same once-cheering peasants who voted for or backed up said kings and king wannabes suddenly ‘discover’ how fooled they were. They then go after the king wannabes and actual kings when ‘things get too bad to take’. When those who were ‘fooled’ by the hate and fear muffin baskets handed out en masse start choking on those same hate-and-fear muffin baskets. Oh my gosh, this affects me?? I’m suffering!! This stuff affects me?? What??!!! It’s not just “they” who are paying?? What kinda bullshit is this!! Take that, you rich cats! Houston, we have a problem. [That’s a reference to astronaut stuff. Yay!]

Yes, I just reduced complex human interactions between those in power and those who are told they are powerless until they’re not and then told how powerless they are until they’re not blah blah rinse and repeat…into a rambling cutesy ramble. #SorryNotSorry. Tee hee!

–Note, update, breaking newz, stuff from the world: Macron will become France’s new President. Rejoice or mourn as you see fit. Done?? Okay!! Back to the throbbing conclusion of this post–

Oh, yeah, that dandelion wine mixture seems to be doing well. There. Full circle, fellow babies. Full circle.

THE FISHER KING REVIEW SIDETRACKED BY ACTUAL WORLD EVENTS

The_Fisher_King_Poster

“You ever read any Nietzsche? Nietzsche says there’s two kinds of people in the world: people who are destined for greatness like Walt Disney… and Hitler. Then there’s the rest of us, he called us “the bungled and the botched.” We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there. We’re the expendable masses. We get pushed in front of trains, take poison aspirin … get gunned down in Dairy Queens.” from the Fisher King, as spoken by Jeff Bridges as Jack Lucas.

I have written several drafts, by now, under the title of the Bungled and the Botched. I started off with a summary/review of one of my favorite films, the Fisher King. It was light and delightsome. And novel length. It was up there, patient darlings. Don’t worry!! The following is merely flash fiction length!

Oh, it’s not. It’s just short story length now. Fartknockers!

 

Then…Syria.

Chemical attack. Sarin or chlorine gas used. Savage raw footage of actual children and adults dying, struggling to breath, white foam around their noses and mouths. Yet, America has denied entry of Syrian refugees because they might be terrorists, even the children. “We can’t let them in, those kids get indoctrinated. They might be terrorists! Fuck Syria, LOL.” [I remember reading words all over to that effect.] Oh look, if you Google ‘refugee children as terrorists’ or some such amalgamation…fuck me running, I’m wigging out here, I’m buggin’. There’s many a tale of evil refugee children disguised as those fleeing from violence and the utter destruction of all they know to win our sympathy.  EVIL TERRORIST CHILDREN COMING TO AMERICA. Who will win our hearts and then blow us up.

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from CBS. 

http://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/38781496

https://www.cato.org/blog/terrorism-risk-asylum-seekers-refugees-minnesota-new-york-new-jersey-terrorist-attacks

I should get a job writing that sort of fiction for various sites. I have some training as a writer, of plays, fiction and poetry, and just general writing in general. If it pays enough, who cares who it hurts? Right? I feel so modern or ancient, as this seems a tactic of olden days, too. Mm…I could be totally sarcastic and caustically bitter and it would come off as ‘true’. God damn! New career path! And I can write a book about all that when I’m exposed as a charlatan or a fake. Go on talk shows and sob about Free Speech. Talk about how my freedom has been curtailed because I am no longer allowed to make up stories about refugee children. You have to play the cards you’re dealt, right? And since I’m a bitter, cynical little kitty most days, I really think I would be wonderful at the whole ‘fake news’ writing. All you have to do is try. And keep trying until the day you die. You’re only a failure when death gets you or something like that.

 

Holy shit, my inner voices. Evil bints!

Hey!! Get back to your diatribe, you silly daisy. Better?? And that was all you. We just sat back and rolled our eyeballs a lot.

You have eyeballs? Sorry!! You’re right. Back into the splooge of my diatribe indeed, inner voices.

Great! So splooge away. That’s a really gross word. Maybe strike that from your ten word vocab list? We’re ignoring the eyeballs snark. We’re imaginary, after all. We’re just voices. We’re just voices in the wilderness, ha ha. What’s for High Tea? I believe you were splooging

And then, on the one hundredth anniversary of WWI,

Tangerine Vader drops about a hundred million worth of Tomahawk missiles on a Syrian base. But first, he calls Russia to warn them of this. [Did he also warn Ass-Hat? Did they have a cozy three-way chat about this whole thing? Ugh a bug] And 45 doesn’t call or warn American citizens what’s about to go down or ask Congress to approve or not an actual act of war. Because the Constitution, fuck it! Suddenly…this uncaring asshole of the mating between a hair piece and a snake oil salesman cares about children dying in a war zone? Overnight, seemingly, it suddenly develops some empathy for others?

 

I just see a huge theatrical gesture here. I see someone trying to get his ratings up. I see someone looking for a ratings boost. I see someone who only cares that his approval ratings go up. That he comes off as tough and manly. That he come off as not a big ole pussy. After all, Obama was ‘weak’ on Syria. Obama was the ‘pussy’ about Syria. That it’s a distraction from domestic troubles. That it deflects attention away from domestic woes. Ooooh, baby.[I’m also starting to have real sympathy for those with Conspiracy Theory Derangement Syndrome, those who splutter about the real 9/11, that we never landed on the moon and that dinosaurs live in the center of our flat earth. Ahem, Russia, ahem.]

 

And it’s not just me, I checked. I looked around. I read stuff. And not just on one side. I briefly glance at the ‘other side’ and then retreat to the dry slopes of an all-organic oat bran muffin mountain washed down in an artesian water binge while listening to NPR’s three hour tribute to the music of tree frogs as performed on kazoos by slightly gifted students. It’s about balance, man. Balance.

I see a lot of sound and fury, signifying a PR ploy. And done with real goddamn missiles and with a cynical disregard of the situation there in Syria and those living with this war for close to seven years now. And…ugh.

Suddenly, my truly sadheap of a life lately doesn’t seem so…botched and truly bungled.

Self-realization, ah, how smug and shallow I can be, oh yes! I tied it also back to the Fisher King!! And Nietzsche!! Elitist and snowflake-lite am I! Ah, the world’s about to get a taste of WWIII, as played now with nuclear weapons for all, so my stuff doesn’t seem so awful. Ah!! SILVER FUCKING LINING. Diplomacy is for pussies, WWIII for those manly men whose dicks are FULLY ERECT AND READY TO SHOW THE WORLD JUST HOW ERECT THEY ACTUALLY ARE. Let the manly seed flow like water! Like water!! RAWRRRRRR.

That is seriously my take of all this three-way posturing among Tangerine Vader, Putie and Ass-Hat AKA Assad. It’s just a global My Dick Is Yuge, No, My Dick Is Huger contest. Sort of like the war right now between Christianity and Islam– it’s a Dick-Off. The Super-Colossal  World  Death Match on Whose God Has the Biggest Set of Male Funsies Contest. The losers get to die, a lot. In bigly ways. In horrible ghastly thoroughly televised ways! You can also throw in other major or minor religions that sport Super-Alpha male deities. Go ahead, it’s okay with me.

Can’t we hire three people to walk around with these three world ‘leaders’ and tell them, constantly, how manly they are? [Possibly do with this with all insecure dictator wannabes and actual dictators? What about a GofundMe campaign to help defray costs?] Can we get that into some UN meeting or into Congress or…? It’s job creation, look at it that way.  It’s capitalism. It’s a blow to socialism! It’s people pulling their own weight at last! You’d have to hire, actually, about fifteen to twenty people per dictator wannabe or actual dictator. Nine to cover all the shifts– seven to three, three to eleven, eleven to seven. As even in sleep, manly leaders need to feel reassured. Even when asleep, the constant praise must not cease to be! And then hire some additional on-call folks when people get sick or need a mental health day. These Dick Whisperers can ring bells or make some sort of noise while their Fragile Boys are in public. “Your Penis is Magnificent! Your Penis Outshines the Sun! Women Find Your Penis Very Nice!”

For women dictators, we can hire guys and dress them in kilts. They can tell her she’s beautiful and smart and that of course dominating a country doesn’t make her less feminine. Her oatmeal cookies just hit the spot! Her math skills rival Einstein on his best day. Her excellent and keen fashion sense rivals her policy of brutally suppressing artists who paint her as the fat lady in a sideshow for being great. Then those guys in kilts can accidentally get caught in a high wind. She gets a glimpse of naughty bits, gets praised for her least little thing and they get paid a comfortable salary. Win-win, baby. Win-win.

[All of the above would also depend on the woman in question. She might not be able to make cookies, after all. Not all women can bake, sadly. #NotAllWomen]

Can we get someone ON THIS, PLEASE? Can we get someone to actually plan out and execute this Dick Whisperer campaign? Not me. Someone else who’s not me. I came up with the idea. Now the rest of you can pick up the damn slack. We’re all in this together.

Wow, that went to a weird, dark, penis-laced place, didn’t it?

Because…trying to make sense of the events this week has made me a cynical, numb just want to shoot some horse and float off to Narnia kinda burned out empty shell. Where’s Aslan to save the day and rip the face off the Orange Queen? [Yeah, I know it’s the White Queen. I know. Thanks.] It’s the absurdly awful use of an actual fucking tragedy, the cynical taking of a chemical attack and using it like toilet paper to wipe away shit from your own political asscrack and holding that toilet paper up with a shark’s empty grin that just made me grind to an actual halt.

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“See? I’s a caring big boy who carez. See?? I’s so manly! I’s a president! How are my numbers? Did my numbers go up?? Check my score!! I need to go golfing. This is hard! Why is Brian on Twitter so mean to me?? Can we nuke Des Moines? I’m nuking Des Moines. Take that, Brian! Yuse got sleepy eyes!”

Yes, time for some organic oat bran muffins and a dirty used syringe full of smack. Do the kiddies still call it smack? Must go look that up now on Urban Dictionary.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=heroin

PS or Afterword or Background Noise I really will come back to the Fisher King for a non-political hysterical penis-flavored rant on world events some day soon. Probably tomorrow or even later today.

I totally botched this interview this week; oh honey, did I come off as stupid, stupid and idiotically stupid, oh yes. I bungled and botched a grammar question. I about burst into tears I was so mortified. And then, because I’d driven a bit of ways to reveal what a true numbskull I am, the interviewer ‘nicely’ threw some questions at me. Guess who botched and bungled that as well?? ME!! Moi sucks at job interviews.

And yesterday I crowned myself as Queen of the Bad Interviewers. I might have to make myself a crown out of my joke of a resume, my hopes and dreams and some glitter. Yay!! I might even add some stuff I find in the bottom of the fridge, that grurdge that has dried to a permanent fixture on the very back. Grurdge, a mixture of syrup, ketchup, splattered leftover juices and assorted substances that surely came from other planets to come try life on the inner walls of the fridge. No amount of elbow grease will actually remove all traces of grurdge. I know, once a year or so, I do try to get the grurdge to migrate to another family for a home. It just grunts at me, tells me to think positive thoughts, that it’s up to me to make the day a good day or a bad day. I splash Dollar Store bleach on it and let it be. We call it a draw and declare we both have Yuge Genitals of War-Like Ferocity and both of us are happy. Amen.

PSS– this is a last shout out to me for predicting the universe would drop a hammer on my head. Interview. Hammer. [I take no responsibility that I turn into a deer in headlights, that I’m maxed out on the stress meter, that my reaction to interviewing is on par with getting root canal surgery without the nice numbing agents, that…yep.]

And yet another Post Script thingie– the GOP used the nuclear option to push through Neil Sucks Whores, or whatever his name is. [Gorsuch. Confirmed as Supreme Court Justice April 7, 2017. Leadership means fuck the rules and Constitution and everything else and just do what you want. Got it. Heroin and Positive Life Slogan Exchange later, everyone? I’ll text the details whenever I get around to putting minutes on my Trac phone. Later, gators!]