Done With The Holidays

Ah, the day after Thanksgiving. I have discovered a couple of truths ("truths" being utterly subjective based on my world view--your mileage or "truths" may vary).

1. You find, at least here in the Plains of Kansas, that, on Thanksgiving Day, there are a LOT of Hispanic families toodling about. Now, before you point your uber liberal fingers at me and cry "Hatemonger!", let me just say this is an observation and not an attempt to insult any ethnic group. I just noticed, while at the local SuperCenter, a large number of Hispanic families in the store. During regular days, you might see one or two, but I honestly thought there was some sort of Hispanic festival or something I wasn't aware of.

Then it hit me. Thanksgiving has to be one of the few days the mostly Anglo population is at home (the other would be Super Bowl Sunday). No one to intimidate, glare or insult these families. So they came out, most in what had to be their Sunday best. They don't have the same Thanksgiving Day concepts, so, to them, it was the perfect day to take the family out for shopping and fun.

2. People, on the day after Thanksgiving, are the biggest bunch of low-life, shit-sucking weasels to walk the planet. It tends to affirm my view that the nukes should be used post-haste and let's leave the planet to the cockroaches. Pushing, shoving, elbowing, cutting in line, spewing the most valueless filth from their mouths in a public setting where they are assured the biggest audience. Drivers aim for you, can't wait for pedestrians (WHO HAVE THE FUCKING RIGHT-OF-WAY!!!) because they just might miss out on more meaningless crap at some store down the street, and seem blind to the fact that every other moron with a driver's license is acting the same way.

This is all nothing new. We've all seen it. But it is sad to have it re-affirmed every damn year I venture out just to see the crowds and attempt to stretch my tolerance for interaction with my fellow humans. The saddest thing I saw today was the woman at a store who stood paralyzed with a look of distress. I was practically shoved into her, and, seeing that look on her face, asked, "Hey, can I do something to help you?" This brought the response "Don't fucking touch me." Yup, that's my thought. That thought goes out to the older guy who groped my breast while squeezing past through the checkout line I was standing in. You're lucky I didn't kill you, but I had been in that line for nearly thirty minutes, PLUS, you aren't worth going to jail over.

Next year, I'm just going to volunteer for an extra-long shift at work.

All The News That's Fit To Be Tied

While this is not a political blog, a person as far out of the political loop as myself still tends to be hit between the eyes with some of the most ridiculous crap that passes as normal behavior for the asses who hold office in this country. And I'm not just shaking a finger at the federal folks. We are talking about twits at almost every level.

I find it frightening that we tend to turn a blind eye to this kind of behavior. Since this nonsense happens every time, it is to be expected that we would see it as a pattern, shrug our collective shoulders and look for something new on the Britney Spears horizon. But here is one pattern that I've noticed that really cooks my ass.

First, there is something amiss with a person in office. When confronted with vague (or even not so vague) evidence of something wrong, the official tends to say something like, "My staff haven't made this available to me," or "I can't honestly respond until I research this a bit more." Obvious stall tactics.

Then the situation has blossomed and can't really be ignored. The official denies the whole thing, even going so far as to point fingers at the opposing political party or more directly at a public enemy of their office.

This is followed by a partial admission. "Well, I did spend three nights with the young man, but nothing happened." This opens the gates a bit wider and even more evidence tumbles in. "I did sleep with him, but the young man instigated everything, even though I protested."

By this time, there are porn videos of the official bitch-slapping the teen around and shouting, "Who's your momma?!?" The next statement follows one of two directions. Usually, there is the offer of "I have a drinking/drug problem. As if they had no control over themselves. Yeah. But, if the whole thing is sexual by nature, the drinking is usually followed with, "I was molested as a child by (Fill In The Blank)." Yeah, that'll shut them up.

Here's just a suggestion: Why can't we just dump these bastards into a pit the minute they offer up the "My staff hasn't made me aware of this" comment? A blind, tone-deaf, lobotomized hermit with crippling Downs Syndrome can see where such a situation is heading, so why should we have to listen to this shit, not to mention finance it as well.

Calling Out To The Falling Tree With No One To Hear It

I've lately been thinking about the nature of interaction on the Internet. As I've stated in a previous posting, the Internet is what you make of it. Some people make it a business venture. Others make it their way to torture all of those they can't hurt in the "real" world. Even more make it a portal to reach out in a bid to connect with someone of like mind.

I stop myself once in a great while and ask, "Why am I out here?" I don't care to make money at this, though that would be fine. And I've been on the receiving end of the jackasses who like to punish people online, and I just can't do that. To be honest, I've yet to find anyone of a like mind out here.

But I continue to put in an appearance. I keep posting even though it seems only one person has deigned to read this sad little blog. I find myself thinking about what to write as I peel off another day of my life at my job. And every time I get on here, no matter what I had in mind to write, I find myself choking on the desire to express something I have no words for. As if, once articulated, reality could shift to what it should be. For me at least.

The only thing I can possibly imagine this feeling to be is hope. The constant hope of finding that one person, that one site, that one bulletin board posting that will let me breathe deep again and feel things, at least somewhere, are right, and that I'm not flailing with no purpose.

A Couple Of Flashes Of Weirdness

Hi. Just here to drop a couple more touches of oddness from the wonderful world at our fingertips. Hope you enjoy.


This is what a bite from a brown recluse spider will do for you. Need I tell you to avoid this nasty little spider?


This speaks for itself.

A Friend In Need

I had a friend who threw me for a loop a couple of years back, when I was in college. He was a good friend. I'll call him Adam, because, well, that was his name. If he should read this, don't think you're gonna get off easy, and it's not like you're going to run for office.

We hung out together quite a bit. We both liked weird movies, and he introduced me to the wonderful world of Richard Laymon, who writes the most sick and vile bloodporn in the world (and I love it.). Two geeks with similar passions. I mean, we could go into a used bookstore and literally stay until I got woozy from screwed up blood sugar. That was when I started packing Powerbars and the like, just so I could go all day. There were times I would get all excited about spending a whole Saturday with him because I knew that the whole day would be an adventure of treasure-hunting, yard sales and pounds of junk food.

So, as would sometimes happen, I'd let him stay in my dorm room because he hated his roommate. I did, too. Total beer-swilling turd who took as many opportunities to flash his dick at me as he could. (It was pretty, but attached to a worthless person.) Anyway, one Sunday morning, I wanted to take a shower, so I left Adam in the room and went down to clean up. (No, we didn't have sex. Thought about it, but never did.) I got halfway through and realized I needed my pumice file (Okay, so I get dead skin built up on my heels. Bite me.), so I dried off a bit, threw on my jammies and headed back to my room.

I opened the door and called out, "Ah-ha!! Caught you!!" I was joking around. But I had caught him. He had a pair of my undies up to his nose and one of my sleepshirts draped over his dick. All he did was flinch. No words. I think he started to cry, to be honest. I was confused. I mean, I knew what he was doing, but this was my buddy, my friend, the guy I dumped on and who dumped on me. The guy I smoked incredible dope with and then freaked out with when we played Grand Theft Auto while stoned. The guy whose arms I'd fallen asleep in when I need to be held or was just cold. And here he was, sniffing my dirty clothes and whacking off into my best slinky sleepshirt.

The only thing I could think to say was, "Please put that stuff down." He did, and pulled up his pants. He wouldn't even look at me, which I can understand. Not sure I wanted him to look at me.

"Have you done this with my stuff before?" He moved his head, but I couldn't tell what he was doing. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but said nothing. And then this whole sense of betrayal just vomited out of my mouth, and I practically screamed at him, "Don't lie to me, god damn it." I wanted to hit him, just kick and punch and claw him.

And it wasn't my stuff or so much that he dug through my dirty clothes that made me so mad. We told each other everything. Icky shit about each other. Stuff that I won't even think about putting in here, despite the blog's title. I thought I knew him. And this was, while not troublesome in and of itself, something alien. I mean, if he'd told me, I would have bought stuff for him, kept it for him, washed it for him. I would have loaned him my stuff (well, he could have kept it after he...well, you know) if it meant something to him. But he hid this from me. That pissed me off. It hurt.

He started crying then. Crying is never pretty. You cry because of pain most often, and pain isn't meant to be pleasant. And I think he knew he'd broken us. It wasn't just getting caught. He knew from the sound of my voice that everything was different. He just nodded.

I grabbed my pumice file and walked out. I scrubbed one heel to the point that it hurt to walk for a day or two. When I came back, Adam was gone.

We didn't talk to each other for nearly a month. There was no avoidance, just no communication. I saw him. He saw me. I actually wanted him to talk to me after a couple of weeks, just to explain himself, but he must have mistaken my stares for dislike or anger, and he would leave wherever I might be if I hung out for a while. At the end of a month, I took all the stuff he'd loaned me back to his dorm room. All he could say was "I'm sorry, Row. I'm so sorry."

It was my turn to cry. I just said, "I know. And it's okay. It's just never going to happen again." And I kissed him. It surprised him so much that he didn't even kiss back. I just wanted to take one last thing to make sure I was making the right choice. I figured I was. So I handed him the box, and said, "Bye."

I had a dream about him the other night. All I remember was him looking happy and telling me he had to go. I have no idea where.

I just had to get this out of my system.