Today I looked out the window to find a little boy chasing around his chow dog with a baseball bat. Not that I was looking to find that. I don't know what kind of person hopes to see a dog being humiliated by a seven year old neighbor who probably still wets his pants. But I found it nonetheless.
The dog was tied to a rope and couldn't get away as the boy swatted and swayed clumsily with the bat. Maybe he was drunk too? Those suburban kids start early with the booze.
And I thought to myself, "Maybe this is what seven year olds do when they have no supervision."
But no. I look out my window a little farther to see that his mother is just standing there watching. Probably drunk, too.
The whole drunk suburban family (because families these days only consist of divorced mothers and their fatherless sons), enjoying their hatred of animals. That's what I call bonding, friends.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
How to Deal with Endings
Typically, things end with a period (.) Grammar is so easy to construct an ending, a goodbye. All you need is a simple (.) or (!) and you're golden.
Ending a conversation is slightly more difficult. In American culture, you greet a person by saying, "Hey, how are you?" and then walk off without a response, because we have an unspoken agreement with people that our 'hellos' are also our 'goodbyes.' Similar to the Hawaiian 'aloha'.
But leaving a place, knowing you will most likely never see some faces again, what do you do?
My plan: Shout "period!" and "exclamation mark!" whenever you leave someone you will probably never see again. Even though they may have no clue why you suddenly got grammatical terrets, they will always remember you as the person who shouted nonsense right before leaving. And maybe they'll smile. And wonder who the hell was that kid?!
Ending a conversation is slightly more difficult. In American culture, you greet a person by saying, "Hey, how are you?" and then walk off without a response, because we have an unspoken agreement with people that our 'hellos' are also our 'goodbyes.' Similar to the Hawaiian 'aloha'.
But leaving a place, knowing you will most likely never see some faces again, what do you do?
My plan: Shout "period!" and "exclamation mark!" whenever you leave someone you will probably never see again. Even though they may have no clue why you suddenly got grammatical terrets, they will always remember you as the person who shouted nonsense right before leaving. And maybe they'll smile. And wonder who the hell was that kid?!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Nick Lancaster and 10 things about Facebook
Someone by this name keeps trying to add me as their Facebook friend, but I keep rejecting him because I am a cold, heartless bitch. But the thing is, I don't know you, Nick Lancaster. And if you want to be my friend, I need to know who you are in real life. I don't care if you've gotten dozens of other people to be your Facebook friend without knowing them. Those people are Facebook whores.
I am a genteel Facebook lady. I need to be loosened up by a few of those fake alcoholic Facebook application drinks.
And you would think that you would learn, Mr. Lancaster, by your 5th Facebook friend rejection that I do not want to be your friend. And this brings us to Facebook etiquette.
It seems that many Facebook and internet users, alike, do not have proper internet etiquette, so here are a few helpful tips:
1. If you are a teenage girl with emotional insecurity problems who turns to chat rooms for male affection, "sk8erdude181" is always a 50 year old man who lives with his mother. And your story will most likely be made into a Lifetime movie played by Melissa Joan Hart.
2. Wait an hour before replying to someone's Facebook message or you might cramp up and drown. Not an old wives' tale.
3. The Facebook "poke" is not for poking people you like. No one is sure what it is for. And like any proper poking safety, don't use it unless you know what it's for...
4. The Facebook "notes" application is not for your overly emotional therapy sessions. People only care if you write about them and their overly emotional therapy sessions.
5. No one likes PDAs in person. No one likes them on Facebook either. But we do find it amusing when you change your relationship status.
6. If you write something stupid on Facebook, everyone will judge you and/or copy and paste your words everywhere. Two seconds before you even wrote it.
7. If you have more than 18 different applications on your Facebook page, you should probably go on a diet. Or get a cooler hobby.
8. As a general rule, don't invite your friends to join lame Facebook applications. Unless you secretly hate them and this is your passive aggressive revenge.
9. If you are desperately lonely and needing attention, don't solicit yourself on a Network wall. Work the streets like any decent person.
10. Don't be like Nick Lancaster with his fake friend collection. Say "hi" to someone on the street, get their name, and then run home and add them as your Facebook friend.
...This has been a Public Service Announcement Sponsored by the Town Gossip, your anti-drug.
I am a genteel Facebook lady. I need to be loosened up by a few of those fake alcoholic Facebook application drinks.
And you would think that you would learn, Mr. Lancaster, by your 5th Facebook friend rejection that I do not want to be your friend. And this brings us to Facebook etiquette.
It seems that many Facebook and internet users, alike, do not have proper internet etiquette, so here are a few helpful tips:
1. If you are a teenage girl with emotional insecurity problems who turns to chat rooms for male affection, "sk8erdude181" is always a 50 year old man who lives with his mother. And your story will most likely be made into a Lifetime movie played by Melissa Joan Hart.
2. Wait an hour before replying to someone's Facebook message or you might cramp up and drown. Not an old wives' tale.
3. The Facebook "poke" is not for poking people you like. No one is sure what it is for. And like any proper poking safety, don't use it unless you know what it's for...
4. The Facebook "notes" application is not for your overly emotional therapy sessions. People only care if you write about them and their overly emotional therapy sessions.
5. No one likes PDAs in person. No one likes them on Facebook either. But we do find it amusing when you change your relationship status.
6. If you write something stupid on Facebook, everyone will judge you and/or copy and paste your words everywhere. Two seconds before you even wrote it.
7. If you have more than 18 different applications on your Facebook page, you should probably go on a diet. Or get a cooler hobby.
8. As a general rule, don't invite your friends to join lame Facebook applications. Unless you secretly hate them and this is your passive aggressive revenge.
9. If you are desperately lonely and needing attention, don't solicit yourself on a Network wall. Work the streets like any decent person.
10. Don't be like Nick Lancaster with his fake friend collection. Say "hi" to someone on the street, get their name, and then run home and add them as your Facebook friend.
...This has been a Public Service Announcement Sponsored by the Town Gossip, your anti-drug.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Happenings
I think someone was getting arrested in front of the courthouse yesterday night. How convenient!
In other news, the shoes that have been tied over a telephone wire on Main Street have recently been taken down. Does that mean the drug dealer has left? Oh, Kirksville!
In other news, the shoes that have been tied over a telephone wire on Main Street have recently been taken down. Does that mean the drug dealer has left? Oh, Kirksville!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Easter Bunny
Russell Stover rabbit with peanut butter filling
aches from the ear and stomach
in silent suffering.
Whole spring bunnies from the cover mock
the victim's partial existence
as I look away, impartial to pain.
Tiny, singing fingers snatch,
from my averted eyes, another
mortal wound.
Little sisters can be so cruel to animals.
aches from the ear and stomach
in silent suffering.
Whole spring bunnies from the cover mock
the victim's partial existence
as I look away, impartial to pain.
Tiny, singing fingers snatch,
from my averted eyes, another
mortal wound.
Little sisters can be so cruel to animals.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The cigar man
Cigar men are the greatest of sorts, in my opinion. Not that I like smokers. Or cigars. But the sight of a man in a pot-bellied apron with a big, fat cigar drooping from his mouth saying, "See here, folks!"...fantastic!
Where might you see such a man? Does such a man even exist? He exists and he cooks like a god at the Santa Fe restaurant in Ethel, Missouri. The Santa Fe is only open two days a week, Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons, but it's worth every gas mile to eat the cigar man's delectable home-cooked meals.
"Hey, there folks," the cigar man says with a jolly laugh as my family comes in to the small, brick room with picnic-style seating. "I made some noodles today so the fried chicken wouldn't fall off the plate!" None of us know what he's talking about, but we each bask in the presence of his unlit, wet cigar perched on that lovely little old man mouth of his. The antique train memorabilia on the walls behind him makes him another small town treasure in our eyes.
And does it ever really matter what that man is actually saying? He could be telling us, "I cut up some dead bodies and put them in the barbequed ribs we're serving tonight" and my family would just smile and eat every single bite we possibly could in order to keep the essence of every superb, possibly cannibalistic, taste.
If you also like food, and like eating food on Saturday evenings in small town locations, give the Santa Fe a call: 660.486.3334
Where might you see such a man? Does such a man even exist? He exists and he cooks like a god at the Santa Fe restaurant in Ethel, Missouri. The Santa Fe is only open two days a week, Saturday evenings and Sunday afternoons, but it's worth every gas mile to eat the cigar man's delectable home-cooked meals.
"Hey, there folks," the cigar man says with a jolly laugh as my family comes in to the small, brick room with picnic-style seating. "I made some noodles today so the fried chicken wouldn't fall off the plate!" None of us know what he's talking about, but we each bask in the presence of his unlit, wet cigar perched on that lovely little old man mouth of his. The antique train memorabilia on the walls behind him makes him another small town treasure in our eyes.
And does it ever really matter what that man is actually saying? He could be telling us, "I cut up some dead bodies and put them in the barbequed ribs we're serving tonight" and my family would just smile and eat every single bite we possibly could in order to keep the essence of every superb, possibly cannibalistic, taste.
If you also like food, and like eating food on Saturday evenings in small town locations, give the Santa Fe a call: 660.486.3334
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Sitting in a Hamburger
Downtown Kansas City: A woman with unruly black hair sits in a store that looks like a hamburger. She sits behind the fry counter, the fry counter without fries in a store that's painted like a hamburger, yet doesn't sell hamburgers. She sells clothes. Bold clothes. Clothes that make statements and start conversations. Clothes that blind its customers with colorful happiness. Clothes sold in a store the color of sheer delight.
She smiles as her piled-curls nod on her head, matching her hamburger painted surroundings. Black and white striped spandex and crazy parachuting top that labels her as nothing less than a character. The stuff songs are made of. She is the muse of her own hamburger castle. Her little store with its yarn clothing racks and brilliant yellows, greens, and oranges.
The store is shaped less than a square, unsettlingly small, yet its brilliance cannot be contained.
The sun shines brightly on hamburger styled clothing stores.
She smiles as her piled-curls nod on her head, matching her hamburger painted surroundings. Black and white striped spandex and crazy parachuting top that labels her as nothing less than a character. The stuff songs are made of. She is the muse of her own hamburger castle. Her little store with its yarn clothing racks and brilliant yellows, greens, and oranges.
The store is shaped less than a square, unsettlingly small, yet its brilliance cannot be contained.
The sun shines brightly on hamburger styled clothing stores.
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