From the Cranberry Hollow, right off the Punkin Knob—
We have seen some rough fighting this past few run of days. Stovetop stuffing versus homemade, it got uglier and uglier, the survivors dazed and in need of cheer. We spent the night concocting pumpkin pie bombs, laced with cream cheese and whipped cream. But our hopes all rest with the forty pound turkey brother dragged to our fortress of buttered crescent rolls. May it sustain us through these hard hard times. #WarOnThanksgiving
Just off the coast of Gravy Boat Bay—
it’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. We suspect they are sneaking up to offer us deviled eggs and black olives skewered with tooth picks. To refuse might mean we give away our positions, but to choke down those deviled eggs means a total betrayal of all we believe in and hold dear. The struggle is real. The struggle is real. Do we hold true to who we are? It all seems so much dark meat tonight. Footsteps. I hear the rustle of holiday clothes and the clink of holiday dishes. Send me strength to see this through. #WarOnThansgiving
Somewhere near the Marshmallow Yam Dish battlefield—
We approached the mound cautiously. It quivered. No one would go near it. It looks like something is suspended in the cloudy green interior. The horror we felt did not dissipate for several days. Our commander told us to buck up, it was only a damn Jell-O mold but we noticed our commander did not go near it, nor slice into it. We left it alone. It might be the biggest mistake we’ve made yet, but no one wishes contact with that quivery green horror filled with bits and pieces of God knows what. Someone whispered it was banana and peaches chopped up but surely not. A sinister pall falls over all of us these days. #WarOnThanksgiving
Interior of Turkey Bone Fortress, off Drumstick Circle—
Today we lifted forks. It happened. Small talk nonexistent as we dug in with serious will. Many fell to the wayside after, curiously immobile and moaning while rubbing at bellies. Too much, too much, seemed the weary battle cry this day. #WarOnThanksgiving
No, this isn’t about my delusions about my garden statuary. Just a cutesy title. Click-bait-ish, even.
That’s what counts these days, clicks. Right? Not content or accuracy or sense or anything remotely with any merit. Quantity of clicks! A bit cynical? No!
The bugs slowly eat my poor pumpkin alive. They’ve killed one plant, are working on the other one which persists in sending out a long arm with blossoms on it. No round small greenish balls forming…not one. Just leaves, blossoms and bugs.
Is there anything better than watching a pumpkin grow, mature, turn orange? No! There isn’t. My pumpkins rather mirror my life at present. All efforts consumed slowly by bugs that don’t seem to notice whatever is thrown at them. Or even care when you flick them off or smush them. There’s more bugs alive than bugs smushed. I can do some sort of math. Is it entirely sad I am comparing my life to how my pumpkins are doing? Probably.
But, bright spot. The herbs thrive. Sage, thyme, dill, lemon balm, oregano. Rosemary! I mean doing well and having a ball. A bumblebee even visited my lemon balm. I remember my mother petting one, how she told me you can pet them, they get so mad! But they don’t turn and sting you. You just stroke their furry, fuzzy backs, they grumble and lumber to the next bloom. There used to be more of them. And not one hummingbird. They used to show up, even though I don’t have that feeder out so many have out to tempt the teensy birds. It seems the winged wonders had become legends and myths in my yard.
Another bright spot. A dear friend of mine from way back when has a wedding to attend in Beaverton. Ah, she can spare an hour or two for lunch as she buzzes through. She’s got kids, a tiny dog, a husband with her and it’s good. It’s so good to see her again. We talk as if we lived next door to each other, not several states apart. The wedding is for her son, a son I used to babysit when he was very very small. Yeah. I’m an elderly dog lady, it’s official. Maybe an elderly garden lady? An elderly pumpkin sadsack?
I also combined my watching of Bohemian Rhapsody and not even getting an interview for an on-call job. Freddy Mercury’s Sister. It blurted out of me, I tidied it up and have sent it off to…well, see what happens.
Because gardening and writing are pretty much the same thing.
It’s a lot of waiting and bugs eating your work. Sometimes there’s a grand harvest of two zukes! Sometimes the stuff you ignored and didn’t think was that good just thrives away among the weeds and rocks. [I’m looking at you directly, thyme patch.]
Sometimes the yard bunnies munch your veggies to nubs–That’s when submissions get lost or you didn’t read the rules which stated, in six point font, that your story has to be 800 words on dino-human love triangles and you sent them a four thousand word opus on rodeos in space.
I tried to keep to one subject or at least link a bunch of ramblings to a single image/thing. Plus plug my writing.
I plan to spend September plugging my writing. As considering the garbage-y cowering state of my country right now fills me with actual road rage. If that makes sense.
That surge of DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE to the granny who wobbles into the road ahead of you, then drives twenty miles below the speed limit. As you test to see if your brakes actually work or not. Good thing you weren’t bopping away to throbbing bubble gum music or distracted because you just spilled your pumpkin spice latte all over your dog. Yeah, that kinda WTF R U STOOOPID insta-rage.
Oh don’t worry. Political rants will explode here like the whitebro outrage over some MeToo thread. Don’t even worry about that, dearies.
There’s this feud happening over on YouTube. Now it’s everywhere on the internet and real world-wise, between this fucktoad Liberty Baptist pastor and Mr. Atheist AKA Mr. Pumpkin. Actual name? Jimmy Snow.
Tommy McMurtry wants to have a MASA event around the anniversary of the Pulse Nightclub shooting, where he celebrates the deaths. In Orlando, Florida. He and others want this event to take place in ORLANDO FUCKING FLORIDA BECAUSE HEY LET’S RUB IT IN EXTRA HARD HOW MUCH WE HATE THE GAYS.
You just shrivel up and die a bit over such a thing so gleefully planned.
So. To keep this blessedly brief: Mr. Atheist finds out about this MASA event. He does a rebuttal video, and then works to get McMurtry, who’s buds with Steven Anderson, deplatformed. Due to McMurtry agitating for actual violence against the LGTBQ community. As in the Bible demands such people die, at the hands of government executioners because then it’s not murder. Or something like that. Anderson also preaches along these lines.
If you’re thinking Westboro Baptists, give yourself a gold star! Yep, roughly the same vein of batshit Baptist fundamentalists.
McMurtry strikes back! He goes on record, in public, calling Mr. Atheist the biggest fruit on the planet. Which McMurtry seems to think is a pumpkin. Mr. Atheist, by the way, identifies as pansexual.
Mr. Atheist instead of running away crying like a snowflake, as this moonbat crazy Jesus shouter expected…embraced the pumpkin.
Not only embraced the pumpkin but called upon his followers to do so, too. The biggest fruit, by the way, is the jackfruit. Not the pumpkin.
He also busied his followers to optimize a Google search for McMurtry. As McMurtry pretty much said– that fruit can’t do nothin’…
and Mr. Atheist went, um, yeah, I actually can.
Mr. Atheist also got a collection of other youtube sorts to make a short video blurb.
Basically, it was: I’m not saying Tommy McMurtry is sexually attracted to pumpkins, I’m just saying there’s no way to know.
This also went into the Urban Dictionary, all over Google and to other social media sites, such as Twitter. Also, the Tommy McMurtry domain name was purchased, which now features sexy pumpkin drawings. Not even kidding. It is in no way associated with McMurtry, of course…that’s in case I could get sued.
McMurtry is doggedly going forward but it’s clear he did not expect Mr. Atheist to be so creatively ready to take him on. This bully did not expect a pumpkin to fight back at all. Instead of trying to reach out, be an actual Christian leader or something, McMurtry doubles and triples down on what a…pumpkin-hating pricklefuck he is. Homophobic is too mild a word for what he and Anderson and their little band of hatey men actually are.
Why am I bringing any of this up at all? Ah.
I admire Mr. Atheist for taking on this man and his MASA movement like this. He took his rage over all this and turned it into actual action. Merry happy action, at that. He rallied. Anger gets shit done, as Mr. Nancy says over on American Gods. Mr. Atheist was not a door mat here and didn’t ‘let it go’, hoping some fabled future event would solve everything.
Ahem, 2020 elections, ahem. Cough cough.
That’s all. It’s ongoing as of this writing. I know that yesterday there was a shooting scare at the DC Pride parade. I know that hate seems to be winning handily here in Amerikkka.
Pumpkins seem an odd way to find actual hope and light and relief from the constant inertia that seems to be the left anything right now. But there are people finding merry ways to meet hate and crush it beneath rotund squash that get used for Satan’s Day. That’s Halloween, for everyone else.
As I microwave my ancient morning coffee, which is ice cold, I ponder. I wonder. I’m also ovaries deep back in a Wonderfalls revisit. Talking souvenirs and kitsch objects giving cryptic instructions to a slacker chick. Because reality right now is just…um.
I wonder what it will take the crack the sneering veneer of Trumpikans. An actual murder? I wonder why the Democrats still have their velvet, be nice, gloves on.
Take em off, you squirrels. Take em off.
Stop playing nine-dimensional chess with assclowns swinging battle axes at everything in sight they find scary, threatening or scary. You two groups are not playing the same game. For thirty some years now, dears. Yeah.
I put half a candy cane in my microwaved coffee, by the way. Just for full disclosure. Yes, I still have candy canes left over from Christmas. Shoo fly, that might have been the last remaining bit of one. Can you buy candy canes for Easter? Honest question. I like mint, peppermint, the general mint family. Snapple with mint is still right up there as one of my favorite drinks of all time. Do they still make that? Honest question.
I don’t believe Snapple makes this anymore. My hasty, barely glanced at google search seemed to find no evidence that Mint Snapple is available in March of 2019. Sad. Sad!
Spring has sprung. The spring bulbs planted eons ago yet again shove up their spiky green leaves, with hints that tulips and daffodils will soon follow. Bloom for about three days, then go back to sleep until next year.
The bees, all two of them, buzz about, inspecting me for pollen. Still don’t have any, bees. You’re making me nervous, bees.
Oh look, we still have bees. Global warming must be a hoax if I still see bees…
Seriously, Demo-door-mats, take them gloves off. Why do you think people are so freaked out by AOC??
IS SHE PLACATING THE VERY ONES PUNCHING HER IN THE FACE?
No, squirrels, she’s not.
I should run political campaigns, huh?
I’m trying to be super-cheerful. I don’t think I’m pulling that off. At all.
I’m readying my tiny bit of ground for a tiny garden attempt. My zukes were wildly abundant last year, yet my pumpkins, after a late belated start, were so so.
My eggplant…the less said the better but it was a weird ornamental variety. It tried. It grew tiny little eggplants!
Something kept eating or destroying my cukes and the summer squash never really got its engines running, if you catch my meaning.
The oregano went to town! My dill plant delighted me! The lavender, oh my! Lemon balm, never again. I don’t know what to do with it. I think I’ll try rosemary this year as I love rosemary in pretty much anything. Dill, yes! Sage and thyme! I might just go for spices and zukes and pumpkins.
I actually did manage to make pies from pumpkins I’d grown, after all. At least three!
I just need to work on my pie crust skills. Ouch. Ugly pies but they taste okay. I’m ashamed! I watch all those baking competition shows! My pies look like something that fell on the floor, then got stomped on by buffalo. I can and will do better!
I also need to dust off a novel that needs working on or finishing or…I’ll put a note up, stare at it a lot.
Work on novel.
Work on play.
Work on screenplay, you ditsy scatterbrained hagfish!
When the real world produces much scarier, crazier asshattery than any combo of words I or others can devise…you tend to wander off to youtube to watch puppy rescues and those top ten lists as to why Jupiter Ascending is the worst movie ever penned. Or the best.
Depends on which top ten listings of attributes and qualities you dig up, accidentally, while searching for Benedict Cumberbatch porn. Not that I do that. Or know anyone who does that. I just heard other people do that.
That wild baby bunny has died.
It was more than likely my mucking something up or it nibbled something bad for it when I put it in the outside cage as it was almost ready to be released…I managed to bring it back once but could not repeat that success.
It was laid out on its side, cold and not moving, having spasms now and then. I warmed it up, I got some milk down it, it actually sat up, had its head up, seemed to be recovering from whatever had plagued it…and then it died. Just turned its head a bit, spasmed, and then died. I watched the last little breath. The sides went in and did not come back up.
I buried it. I feel a real loss that something in my clumsy care passed onward into whatever awaits or does not await. It had a personality, a feistiness. It explored the little box I had it in. It froze just like the adult rabbits do, hoping I could not see it. It responded to noises and huddled in its collection of pulled apart cotton balls, that tiny tail the only thing visible at times.
It remained wild, except when sick. Then it didn’t care if I handled it. I knew it was better when it didn’t want me near it. I felt a success that this wild creature wanted no part of me, that it would survive and go have a short life out in the fields.
As I know the fate of rabbits, yes, I do, in a world full of hawks, coyotes, dogs, cats and badgers. And humans.
I’ve gone through this with baby birds. They seem to be doing well and then the next morning, they’re stiff and cold, beaks open. And I still check for life, I make sure. Sometimes young animals get chilled, sometimes just getting them warmed back up…Thank heavens for heating pads and hot water bottles.
Why do I try when…Because you have to. That’s all I know.
I have to at least try.
I have succeeded in keeping baby birds alive and then releasing them. I’ve helped with too-young kittens, feeding them and caring for them as they needed. My mother taught me how. And sometimes they live. And sometimes they die. So sayeth life and death.
In a Thai cave, boys await to be rescued. That has been dominating the news. Because it focuses on things we can understand.
Children trapped. Cave filling with water. Brave people planning a rescue. Boys need to be taught to swim. A rescuer dies trying to help. Cave divers, from Scotland no less, who are the best in the world go to help. Boys start getting rescued…
We watch and sigh and cheer and cry, this is something we UNDERSTAND. This is something that makes sense.
When children get trapped, you go help them. When men get trapped down a mine, you go help them. Dramatic rescues remind us we’re all alike and yet all different and yet…that compassion magically goes away when applied to others who need help that don’t meet some public understanding of who deserves to be rescued and helped and who does not.
I am glad those boys are getting out of that cave.
But I keep getting drawn back to ‘murica and now, the UK and Brexit and the shenanigans world-wide. As the very modern far right seems hellishly determined to repeat the fascists regimes of the 1930’s that led up to…an actual world war. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Franco!
I’ve left names out, I just know it. And everyone seems to have a nuclear warhead tucked away these crazy ass days.
It’s interesting times indeed.
I can’t compete with that in a literary fashion.
I see people getting more upset over being impolite to fascist wannabes than the actual fascism attempting to rear its very ugly head in the heart of the land of the brave and the free. [No, not Canada.]
I blathered on about that in other posts, I won’t here because if I do, someone might complain I’m being mean to the skin-heads and assclown Jesus shouters or something. God forbid they feel a moment of discomfort or actual shame. God fucking forbid.
Oh and someone or something crushed my tiny growing pumpkin.
I took a picture of it, imagining it grown into a lopsided ball of orangeness and bland pulp. A future jack-o-lantern. A future possible actual pie!
And then noticed it had been crushed.
Ants trundled all over the little insides. Ants.
It felt like someone hit me in the solar plexus. That unable to breathe for a bit sensation.
Oh great, the crazy liberal barely read writer lady is lamenting a destroyed squash. Liberals, lol. Need a safe space, snowflake??
I always add very sarcastic comments in my head now to all my reactions, feelings, sensations and thoughts. It’s just how I roll these days. Or always. I have a chorus of Fuck Your Feelings sorts catcalling me from inside my head…should I admit that or pretend otherwise?
So, I did finish a draft for Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus.
I rather like it. I need to go over and over it, get it a bit sleeker. Get its engine running smoothly and not at a choppy, too loud decibel that will have cops pulling me over and giving me literary tickets.
Sorry, ma’am, this novel is cobbled together with nonsense and duct tape.
This is not a safe novel to have on the literary highway. This is an accident that already happened.
Yes, that is the amount of the fine and not the national debt rounded up into a tidy amount number!
Well then, you should have rewritten it and turned it into the next Harry Potter series.
Why don’t you give up writing and become a two-dollar a blow job whore in your home town’s park? Like everyone thinks you are already?
It’s not like your writing ‘career’ is all that and a bag of chips, snap!
Or hey, just write something good. Then we don’t have to pull you over like this! Have a good day!
I should probably get rid of some of those voices in my head before the shitshow clown act that’s so far playing to the gullible and grungy alike, takes center stage in full costume under dazzling lights in full surround sound.
So the entire planet can relive in collective wonderment and Lock Her Up fashion and Hold My Beer super-patriotism– the 1930’s and 40’s in vivid, re-enactment detail, with updated clothes, New Age slang and fabulous city-destroying weapons one can send off with a push of a button!