September 30, 2009

Congress, Turkey Death, and Other Disasters

So, apparently this is a blog that leans toward the political. WHO KNEW ? All that shit about my house and my dogs and my life in yokels-ville? Holy Tap Dancing Jeebus. My BAD dudes. OK, I'm game...let's give the politics thing a go.

First things first: "Politicians always disappoint." Looking at you, Max Baucus.

This is the thang, homeslice ... health insurance reform without a public option is a limp dick. It don't work. See, you got these turds in Congress (I'm giving Alan Grayson a pass today...he gets to be Rep. Not Turd, from the great state of Maybe Not So Retarded After All If They Elected Him But I'm Keeping My Eye On You And If You Don't Watch Your Ass Maybe Those Death Panels Were For Reals, Gramps) who want to keep their "jobs," keep getting blown by and/or blowing interns, and keep getting those invites to that big ol' white mansion on Pennsylvania. In order to keep aforementioned "jobs," they've occasionally gotta suck it up and actually do some work, maybe even pass a bill that does a little good for Wayne and Connie back in the district, ya feel me?

Only, the trump card holders here ain't no fucking Wayne and Connie--they're the pissant little insurance company lobbyists who got Congressman Turd and his homies those "jobs," with the fancy-pants office and the Colonial in the 'burbs and the driver and the car and the pages and the bowing and scraping sycophants and the press releases and the junkets and the meet n' greet with Brad Pitt and Bono and the ...

...Sigh. God damn, this is just depressing.

Fuck it.

Wanna hear what happened to my mail box?

See, I have this dog. Ha! "Those god damned dogs again!" is what you're thinking, am I right? Bing-the fuck-O! Yeah, OK, so dog #6...previously referred to as Wild Ass Barking Frenzy, also known as Bug-Eyed Barney. The little shit weighs all of 30 pounds and is a good 20 pounds lighter than the smallest of the other five little shits that run the joint. Also, the only penis in the whole bunch, and he swings that mofo with pride. "Yeah, bitches...GET out my way! I'll be having that chunk o' cheddar there on the floor...Why? WHY? Got a PENIS, man. Got a penis." Dude never cops to the fact that he's got no balls, but that's another story.

So, because he's such a tiny little fucker, you wouldn't think he'd be a badass. Especially without the balls and all. Only, here's the thing: he's a badass. True story: I'm sitting in the house one day, doing what I do, when I figured I'd better check on the Penis Swinger because he's being just a little bit too quiet, dig? I looked out the window, and there's Penis out in the yard with a white blob of some kind parked beside him. And the blob is twitching. Did you get that part, homies? Twitching. I'm not partial to investigating twitching white blobs, so I sent Krispy Dude out on a twitching-blob investigative mission.

And Krispy Dude reported back: "It's a turkey. And he's not dead. But he's almost dead. But he's not dead. But almost." A fucking WHAT? "A turkey." Holy Mother of We're Gonna Get Our Asses Sued God...our next door neighbor raises turkeys. Only now, he's raising one fewer turkey, because one of his turkeys is not dead, but is almost dead. Krispy Dude and I racked our brains and tried to wrap our heads around how this 30 pound cheddar-eating penis swinger managed to pull a 15-pound turkey through the bars of an iron fence and kill it. Sorry...ALMOST kill it. Our brains were racked and our heads were wrapped to no avail, and screw it anyway, because the issue now is "what are we gonna do with a fucking almost-dead turkey?"

And Krispy Dude..."What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding" Krispy Dude...finally accepted the inevitability of The Ax. The Penis Swinger was relieved of his booty, the Dude hauled the almost-dead twitching white blob to the back yard, and after a long pause, the whack echoed across the land, tears were shed, and Mother Nature shuddered in horror. Or maybe I just imagined that part. And then phone calls were placed, confessions were issued, apologies were made, monies were offered, monies were refused, chuckles and turkey memories were shared all around, and life goes on. (Except for the turkey. Who was now fully and completely dead.)

And you're thinking, "Wasn't this supposed to be about a mail box?" Yeah. See, months later, long after The Unfortunate Incident With the Large Fowl, some Opie in a Ford F-150 decided to practice his Indy skills and lost it on the outside curve, taking out our mail box. And fuckers, I DO NOT MEAN that he bumped it and it fell down. This ...this was a fucking Postal Explosion. After surveying the scattered bits left after the "Mailstrom" (ha ha...get it?), there were fleeting thoughts of Ted Kaczynski, worries about the Large Hadron Collider going rogue, and a brief flirtation with the certainty that the damage was caused by those shrimpy-looking fuckers with the DNA-activated guns in "District 9."

Because the dealio here is, I didn't actually hear or see Opie blast the Batmobile through my yard and reduce my mailbox to metal shavings and particulate--my mailbox is a god-damned day's hike from the house and can only be seen clearly with bi-nox from the upper story of the house. No, no. I didn't find out about the god damned postal massacre until I heard The Penis go into a patented and much admired Wild Ass Barking Frenzy and I looked out the window. And I saw something in the distance, near where the mailbox USED to be and where, at that point, I assumed it still WAS, and where The Penis was stationed, alerting the county and surrounding environs to the disaster that had occurred.

This "something" that I saw made my blood run cold and my buttocks clench like I was an Acorn employee about to interview a pimp and his ho. This "something" that I saw turned out later to be pieces of mail, fluttering and wafting around in the breeze--letters, bills, magazines, catalogs, and an offer to save my soul, courtesy The Lil' Church of Ain't No Socialists Here!...but Mo-ther Fuck! ...that first look out the window in the distance--that oh, so stomach lurching vision-- looking out, all I could see was the fence, The Penis, and five, six, ten, twelve...twitching white blobs.

Posted by Krispy_Kreme at 10:22 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

August 26, 2009

I've Got a Niiiiii-Kon Camera....

OK, OK!!! Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Key-RIST, Mickey B!! I do NOT handle guilt well. I feel that this is the direct result of a little incident that occurred when I was 12 and was captain of the Safety Patrol. As a joke, I told all the first graders that there was no talking allowed on the playground...and the little shits believed me. So some little tattle-taled fucker (who probably grew up to be a Fox News "analyst") ratted me out, my 6th grade ass got hauled to the principal's office, and I was "reprimanded." Holy was like going to school in fucking Pyongyang. Being, if you recall, a no-balls-having little coward, I was properly repentant and regained my exalted status as the only 6th grader allowed to wear the ORANGE safety patrol belt. In my head, though, I wanted to tell the motherfuckers to insert that shiny badge up their Kim Jong asses and find another dickless 12 year old to walk out in front of traffic holding nothing but a 6 x 6 piece of red poster board attached to a Popsicle stick with the inscription, "Slow, Children." Fuck yeah, we were slow. Some of us were too god-damned stupid to recognize what I admit was a pretty lame-assed joke and some of us were too busy jonesing to be important to notice that we were being used as fucking traffic cones.

I digress.

Since McB regaled you with the deets of his day, I've decided to make this "Itinerary Day" and save my good Hooterville stories for another time, another day.

So, my Friday night. Cowboy game, Arlington, Texas. Cowboys vs. Titans. First home game in the new It Cost A Gazillion Dollars Motherfuckers Stadium. Fucking awesome stadium, bitches. But before we got to the stadium, we had to park the Krispy ride. And do you know how much Jerry "The Toupee" Jones is charging to park a fucking vehicle at It Cost a Gazillion Dollars Motherfuckers Stadium? Holy Shit dollars, that's how much. And because Krispy dude is kind of a cheap bastard, we decided not to fork over Holy Shit dollars, but instead we drove pretty much all the way back home, parked there, and walked to the ICAGDM Stadium. And I, in all my Krispy wisdom and kick-assedness, was wearing some truly bitching high-heeled shoes. You never know who you're gonna see, fuckers. Dress for success.

So, a mile into the journey, after the last tradin' post had faded into the distance and we were keeping our eyes peeled for Apache, the shoes started to hurt. A little. But of course I could not get pissy about this because Krispy Dude would sigh and roll his eyes and claim that he TOLD ME NOT TO WEAR THE FUCKING CRUEL SHOES. Yes. Yes, he did. This is a man who buys shoes based on one criteria: Do they fit? Fuck that, motherfuckers. I will shove my size 7 into a fucking size 5 if the shoe is cute enough. And if it has a stiletto, ON, bitches.

OK, we were still at least several days away from ICAGDM Stadium and I was limping along, pretending that No, this is not a limp...this is a saunter, motherfucker. I am sauntering. Painfully, painfully sauntering. At some point, the stadium came into view and I was able to stop sauntering for precious seconds in order to capture the moment for posterity. And slide out of those motherfucking shoes for a teeny second of blessed, blessed relief. (Pretend that they make you too tall to get a good picture, you vain bitch.)

I whipped out my little dij camera and started snapping the giant-assed bitch on the horizon, when this dude with "I Just Got Kicked in the Balls" face and freaky mirrored sunglasses walked up and said, "You'd better take your camera back to the car. They won't let you in with it. I just had to walk all the way back to my car to leave mine."

Walk back to the fucking car? WALK BACK TO THE FUCKING CAR??? Are you SHITTING me? In these FUCKING JAPANESE FOOT BINDINGS? No. Fucking. Way. So I finished snapping my pix of the outside of the god damned behemoth and decided that the camera was indeed going inside with me, even if it meant shoving the fucker inside OF me. And so you get a clear picture of this, here's my get-up: skin tight jeans that are giving me massive camel toe and a form fitting tank top with jangly bead things all over it to disguise my lack of boobage. In other words, nowhere to hide, bitches.

Krispy Dude decided that he could stuff the camera down his pants ("Happy to see me?") only the dude wears boxers and the camera slid through like a bran-muffin doody. Nowhere to hide, bitches. I tried sticking it in my pocket, but my jeans were so damned tight that the fucker was pressing against a hip bone and turning the painful saunter into some kind of god damned Weeble-with-palsy-on-a-dinghy-during-a-hurricane pitch and roll. Not happening. I thought about stuffing it down the front of my jeans, but bitches, I am trying to look sexy here--Tony Romo in da house!--and blond hair, tight jeans, tank top, no tits and a bulge in the front of my pants might send a lot of messages, but "sexy" ain't one of 'em. So instead of the front, I stuffed the camera in the back of my jeans, right inside the waistband, and hoped like hell it wouldn't fall out in front of stadium security.

We FINALLY pulled up in front of ICAGDM Stadium, with me crying on the inside because my feet hurt like shit, and discovered that stadium security was not only checking bags--which we expected--but they were doing that Cheap Excuse for Feeling You Up pat down too. A pat down? For a fucking football game? I could not decide if this was truly for our safety in a search for the random Teabagger who decided to bring his weapon to the game to "Show some fuckers what health care reform REALLY means" or if Jerry Jones is such a money grubbing whore that he figures a bitch is gonna hide a camera down her pants and he won't make any dough off the Officially Sanctioned, Trademark Here, Copyright There, Every Square Inch of the Fucker is Mine Even the Images, Bitches photos that are for sale once you enter Valhalla.

So now, my feet are screaming loud enough to attract police attention, and my upper lip is starting to sweat as I remember that nasty little affair with the safety patrol and what getting caught with a camera up my ass might mean for my future in law enforcement. So I kind of scooched back against a barricade before it was my turn to be frisked and shoved that fucker all the way down my pants, from my waistband, all the way to my poop shoot. So at that point I had moved from being worried that I looked like a trannie to completely accepting--nay, embracing--the fact that I looked like I had a large turd in my pants. Because who's gonna frisk a turd?

I tried to look as nonchalant as possible as I made my way to the frisk station. And motherFUCK if I didn't get frisked by some 18-year old attention-deficit having, future cashier at the Mini-Mart with a reluctance to make human contact. Hoo Fucking Ray! Once "I Probably Won't Actually Make Physical Contact With Any Part of You During This Search for Weapons" girl finished up her thorough security procedure, I--with much mental relief--painfully sauntered my large-and-vaguely-square-looking-turd ass right on in to that bitchin' stadium. And as I looked around at the millions and billions of people mingling on the concourse and on the stairwells and the walkways and in the stands, I noticed that every motherfucking one of them had a camera. Out in the open. That they were holding up and taking photos with. Gleefully. And I, giant god damned Stranger With Mirrored Sunglasses-Believing retard , had to furtively stick my hand down my ass and pull out my camera, covered with sweat and panty lint so I could capture all those good times we were having.

But that stadium is awesome, bitches. And I took my shoes off and went barefoot when we walked back to the car.

Posted by Krispy_Kreme at 11:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

August 18, 2009

Suck It, Vick

No, I didn't pussy out on the blogging again...had a little trouble here in Hooterville that kept me occupado for a period of time.

So. It was a Wednesday, which means that I don't have anywhere in particular to be except hanging around this joint, doing what I do. The only must-do on my Wednesday agenda is a little yoga, which I mostly do to keep my ass from getting huge, only I pretend when I talk to someone about yoga that I "just love!" the mind-body connection and the meditative aspect and the communion with the cosmos and words, words, words to show that I am enlightened. Eh. That just be my bullshit. In my world, yoga does one thing and one thing only--saves me from Fat Ass. Commune with that, Gandhi.

Krispy Dude, on this particular Wednesday, decided to schedule a meeting in a burg about an hour from home base. So he gets up and heads off to meet with the grown ups and takes our SUV with him, which at that moment, also happens to contain my cell phone. This leaves me at the mercy of the land line and makes me want to go "grr," but I decide to roll with it. So K-Dude is gone, and I slip into my yoga duds, which consist of a teeny pair of shorts and and an even teenier tank top.

Before heading up to Spare Bedroom Yoga Studio, I think, "I'd better let the dogs out to pee. Nothing like easing into a good Warrior Pose and then having a dog need to commune with the God of Squat and Pee or worse, Krishna HunkerandPoop. So, I open the front door, and six dogs haul ass out to the front yard.

I see it an instant too late. A big, juicy, and MUCH coveted Denta-Bone, glistening in the drive-way like a god damned doggy grail. And the Bad Ass Doberman and the dog henceforth known as Hard Times (that story later, bitches) both have radar lock on the fucker. I swear to God, time really does slow down when disaster strikes. Or maybe it speeds up. Who the fuck knows, because I was waaayy too busy hauling my yoga-clad ass out to snatch up the object of desire. Not to be, bitches. Not. To. Be.

Bad Ass and Hard Times lunged for the bone simultaneously and when no one was able to come up with the winning lottery ticket, they decided to arm wrestle for it, doggy style, and were truly getting medieval on each other's asses. And the pit bull, for our purposes here called Nasty Bitch, decided to help out Hard Times. And at some point, the other 3 jumped in and took sides and I felt like I was in fucking West Side Story minus the operatic Puerto Ricans. And then I felt like I was in a Jackson Pollack painting with debris splattering everywhere--blood, pee, wet and smelly fear shit, and I swear to God, somebody's squirting out these little black demons that are fucking laughing and cavorting in mid-air and poking me in the eyes with two fingers like Moe did to Larry. Or better yet, I was in the middle of a Munch painting, only my hands were nowhere fucking near my hollowed out and horrified cheeks and big round "O" mouth, because they were too busy grabbing for collars and encountering teeth.

Bitches, it seemed like it lasted forever. Have you ever seen a pit bull fight? Worse, have you ever seen a pit bull fight a fucking doberman? There were teeth and claws and more teeth and bodies and hair and shit and piss and blood and teeth and little black demons--but enough about Michael Vick. Back to me. I was rolling around on the driveway screaming like an epileptic with Tourette's having a heart attack while clutching a lightning bolt. At some point, a neighbor across the street heard the commotion and probably wondered why someone was blasting the "Saw" soundtrack in his front yard. He came to the fence, saw what was going on, and started yelling something at me. By this time, I had Bad Ass by the collar in one hand, Nasty Bitch by the collar in the other hand, Hard Times is being fended off by a leg, and the other three have gotten bored and lost interest. So Neighbor Dude is yelling at me and I'm yelling back, "It's OK! I think it's over! Thank you! I'm fine!" What he sees from his nice safe little vantage point behind an iron fence is a skinny bleeding woman holding two fucking scary looking dogs while wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy shorts that have been jammed into her ass crack and a teeny tank top with at least one boob and probably both flopping around, each boob totally confused about being out in the open in the broad daylight without a beach anywhere near. I still have no idea whether Neighbor Dude was yelling "Are you OK? Do you need help?" or "Pipe down crazy train, what the fuck?! And put some god-damned clothes on!"

After Hard Times decided that the fun was elsewhere, she headed off and I was left panting and shaking and still holding Nasty and Bad Ass. Don't ask me how because I think I went a teeny bit crazy at that point...OK, crazi-ER...but I somehow managed to corral everyone except Bad Ass and get them in the house, in separate rooms, behind closed doors, with large chiffarobes pushed in front of the doors and a cross and string of garlic hanging on each door. I went looking for Bad Ass, only to discover that she had been dealt some serious shit in this little tete-a-tete. Her face was kinda hanging in Doberman tatters, she had deep puncture wounds to her neck, and an ear was sort of just hanging there by a loose tendon, making her look so much less like a Bad Ass and so much more like an old and dirty and torn My Pretty Pony on the dollar table at Goodwill.

Fuck. I can't let this one heal by itself...this is vet territory. Only the SUV is an hour away and all I have is a little BMW at my disposal. FUCK. Why the FUCK did Krispy Dude take the fucking truck???? Fuck. I got blankets and covered the seats of the Beemer to keep both Bad Ass blood and Krispy Kreme blood off the seats. Oh yeah, Krispy is bleeding, fuckers. The knees are torn to hell, the legs are covered in deep scratches, the elbow has a giant gash, and the bare feet are bereft of both toenail polish and skin. No time to clean myself up though, since Bad Ass has her face hanging off in bloody strings and all.

So, with Bad Ass in the back seat on some blankets and me in the front, shaking and crying like a god damned 16 year old girl who didn't get invited to the prom and sees years of Janis Ian songs in her future, we start hauling MAJOR ass up I-35 to the only vet I could find that was available...30 minutes away. I'm freaking out, I can't call Krispy Dude for a little moral support because MY CELL PHONE IS IN THE FUCKING SUV, my dog is in the back seat bleeding like a lawn sprinkler, and I'm speeding like a son of a bitch, in a foreign car, in south Dallas, wearing almost no clothes, crying, bleeding, and whipping my head around to the back seat every ten seconds like Linda Blair to make sure Bad Ass hasn't bled out and fucking croaked on me. We finally get to the vet, Bad Ass is hauled into the back for inspection, the vet gives me the estimate for surgery, I keel over and die, through the miracle of modern medicine I am revived, sign the necessary papers, spend enough money to buy a couple of fucking Iphones as spares, and leave Bad Ass in the very expensive hands of a vet that I hoped had done this before.

I made plans to pick up Bad Ass later that day after she had a face again, and with a huge fucking sigh of relief, I headed home driving a little less like a retarded and blind ferret this time. And here's the kicker bitches...when I got home, I noticed that Krispy Dude had left his god damned Sonicare toothbrush case in the front seat. Why is his Sonicare toothbrush case in the car? What, he's that concerned about his dental hygiene? I picked it up, planning to take it back in the house and it came open. And in it, bitches...oh, the Sonicare toothbrush case, which was in the front seat of my car as I sped at least 85 miles an hour up I-35 like fucking Jack Nicholson in The Shining, was Krispy Dude's stash of pot, roach clips, and rolling papers. And bitches, when Krispy Dude got home--with the SUV and my fucking cell phone--Bad Ass was not the only one who got shredded that day. And let me tell you...the next time a toothbrush case finds its way into a vehicle, it god damned well better contain a toothbrush.

Posted by Krispy_Kreme at 01:01 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack