Estrogen & Too Much Information

I have a question. I think it's a pretty good one, at that. What is it that makes woman, once they get past the age of 30, suddenly feel the need to share stories about every unbelievable body function in public? Or any, for that matter?

I was at a small dinner party this weekend, and some of the things being discussed would make Andrew Dice Clay blush. One lady was explaining in great detail her gastrointestinal difficulties and how she discovered an hour after eating once that her body did not digest corn...at all. Nice. She also suffers from fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, dropsy, rabies, scabies, emphysema - also known as hypochondria. At one point, someone had to point out to her that it was not possible for her to have prostate cancer. I now know what an aneurysm feels like.

But it didn't just stop with her. Once you get five middle-aged women in one house, it's like sitting in a medical room of horrors. At one point, I actually heard the phrase, "After my first hysterectomy..." Uhh, how many are you planning on having??? If you're able to have more than one, you'd better be calling 60 Minutes, cuz dang!! Somethin' ain't right! And I found out that one woman had discovered she had a tapeworm over 3 feet long. She had the doctor put it in a jar and preserve it for her. Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure if I had a parasite pulled out my... well, I wouldn't put it on my mantel. Plus, it's like they all have to outdo one another. I kept waiting for one of them to say, "Yeah, well, Doc found an anaconda in my intestine and boy, was it hungry!" Who knew that the world of medical deformities and communicable diseases was so competitive? Maybe it's just me, but I don't think it's necessary to discuss lanced boils, anal seepage, mucus drainage, and open sores at the dinner table. Or anywhere, for that matter.

Then we're in the car and one of the ladies (we'll call her Mabel) is talking about how women continue lactating even after they are no longer nursing and they don't need it. She starts talking about when she & her husband (we'll call him Herbert) had their last child and that happened. Then she proceeds to say, "But, of course, Herbert didn't mind at all!" I nearly drove into a tree...intentionally. The last thing I need in my head is an image of a middle-aged man in a diaper being "fed" by his wife. My sister was laughing so hard, she spewed pop all over the windshield. She didn't think it was so funny after I shared my mental movie with her. I'll never be able to look at those two the same again.

The worst part about it was, my sister is usually my ally in these matters. But we stopped at the gas station, and only I got out of the truck. As I got back in, I hear her say, "If it's used all day, it squirts right back out." Thinking it was one of those Lewis Black type comments that would leave me dead in the shower if I didn't get more explanation, I made the mistake of asking what she was talking about. Danger, Will Robinson, danger! "Oh, just my colon cleansing." Sweet Mother Teresa! That was so not what I wanted to hear. She then continues to tell me (over the sound of my "La la la! I can't hear you! I can't hear you!") that if she drinks the unfiltered apple juice all day as she's supposed to, it'll give her the backdoor trots. I guess that answers my question. And now I'll never drink apple juice again.

Bottom line, I'm not in the medical profession and I'm not writing your biography. I don't want to know about your black stools, halitosis, the scaly skin spot under your left breast, or the cellulite dimples in your thighs. And no, I don't want to see them. And if you mention stirrups around me, you better be talking about riding a horse.

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This is why you should never do drugs...or eat spiders.

I think our office needs one of these.

This moron makes me laugh, and I don't feel one bit guilty.

Is That Allowed on Atkins?

As I sit here at my desk, wondering if glue sticks are edible, I'm also pondering the meaning of life. Ok, not so much the meaning as the stupidity and uselessness of life. Alright, maybe not so much life as people. Not all people, just some people. Mainly scrawny, anorexic, bimbo people. Wow, that doesn't narrow it down much anymore, does it?

The reason for my irritation is a combination of events, actually. First of all, I am 5'4" and about 117 lbs. I'm not fat, but I am vertically challenged. I don't eat to live, I live to eat, as was probably obvious judging by some of my posts. My grandmother taught me well, and I hope to follow in her footsteps. Mainly, because she was short too, and her stride matches mine. The problem is that most of my friends are these waiflike Kate Moss wannabes who barely have enough flesh to keep their clothes hanging on their bodies. The other night, we went out to an awesome all-you-can-eat buffet called The Captain's Table. Practically everything you can imagine to eat. They even made omelettes in front of us as we chose our own ingredients! Needless to say, I was in heaven.

Then we sit down at the table. I have a heaping plate of food and a big smile. Just as I'm about to dig in, one of the girls across the table from me leans over to her sister and says, "How many calories do you think are in this?" Come again?! She's holding a piece of lettuce on her fork! Not a entire head, one piece. Those two had each gotten a tiny salad, with nothing decent on them to hide the fact that they're eating vegetables. And they're worried about calories? Holy Moses on a moped! First of all, they are both about 3 or 4 inches taller than I am and about 20 lbs. lighter. There is nothing to them! They look like Mischa Barton if she had liposuction. Then, they look over at my plate and ask if I'm going to eat ALL of that. I nearly exploded internally while refraining from saying, "Well, I took it, didn't I?" Instead, I smiled sweetly and replied, "I'm gonna try." The other girls with us had actually taken more food than the Olsen twins, but were suddenly not so eager to eat in front of them.

As I kept eating, I notice that the two of them keep staring at me in awe or disgust, I wasn't sure which. I ignored them, though I did contemplate dropping my fork and shoveling it in with my hands to really freak them out. The funny thing was, there were several other people at our table eating real food, but they preferred to watch me. Finally, I was down to a small plate of fried shrimp. I was plenty full, but I refused to admit to those wisps of nothing that I couldn't finish it. Just then, one of them said, "Are the fried shrimp good?", to which I replied, "They're awesome!" They weren't really that great, but what frame of reference would she have? She clearly hadn't eaten since 1984. She didn't say anything for a little bit, and then she asked, "Could I try one?" Her sister gasped, horrified at her weakness. I didn't say anything, just pushed the plate over to her. The entire plate of shrimp was gone in about a minute. My sister's dog doesn't even act that desperate, and he licks himself. She almost whimpered when she got to the last one. She probably won't be able to eat for the rest of the week. Welcome to the dark side, my friend, welcome to the dark side.

American Idol Screams of Pain

AIIIAAYAIAAIAYAAIA AIAYAAYAEEYEEYEAIAIAYA!

That's pretty much what I've been hearing for the last three minutes on MSN Radio. It was some lame-o song by Future Leaders of America, or some such crap. I realize that there were supposedly some words in there, but to me it just sounded like, in the words of Jeff Kay, a retard having a root canal. Painful stuff, that. That's probably the same sound that guy made whose girlfriend bit off his...yeah. Anyhoo, I left my CD case at home accidentally, so now I am forced to surf internet radio. I don't even have a board. Right now, I'm tuned in to Alternative Rock. It's alternating between Jack Johnson and Metallica. Last time I checked, Metallica was not alternative. Nor was Nirvana. Apparently, any song that doesn't make their list of Top 40 lowrider hits gets dumped here. It's so aggravating. Lonestar is not rock or pop. Not one person loses their dog, trailer, or wife in their songs, so they're not even very good country. I do listen to country, but I don't want to hear it on my rock stations. The only place there should be that kind of collaboration is on Crossroads, and even then some groups should not sing together. If I want heavy metal, I listen to a metal station. And Petey Pablo and his "feet crammed" doesn't belong on a pop station. Or any station when my mother is in my car. I don't want to have her ask the meaning of missionary ever again. Good lord.

It's pretty sad that I'm only 24, and I hardly recognize any of the groups anymore. Wheatus? Are they a new age hippie band? Muse? All I'm seeing in my head is Albert Brooks. Kasabian? Sounds like a communicable disease. I've always considered myself fairly knowledgeable about music. My stereo is on 24/7, and I occasionally watch VH-1, CMT, MTV, GAC, you name it. (Of course, none of those channels even play music anymore. Apparently, everyone but me prefers to watch Amazon Woman Brigitte Nielsen play tonsil hockey with Flava Flava in a viking helmet.) I blew out my eardrums at a Nickelback concert. Smashmouth threw water on me in the front row. I have an up-close pic of Firehouse's lead singer waving to me...or maybe to the girl getting beads behind me. When did I fall out of the loop? When a song comes on that I recognize and I start singing along, all the high school kids give me a look like I've been eating paste again. Maybe that's just because of my tone deafness...or the fact I knew all the words to Insane in the Brain. When they are all excited about this new band coming out "called Mottelee Crew or something", I want to weep for humanity. I just don't want to turn into my mother. "That's so loud. And it doesn't have any words. It makes my ears hurt." I think I know what damaged me. My mother tricked me into watching Kenny Rogers in concert by promising me Trick Pony after him. I haven't been the same since.

You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em... AAAAAUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!!

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On a completely different note, here's a cool quote I saw today:

"God gives every bird its food, but He does not throw it into its nest." J. G. Holland

In other words, get off your dead arse and work, and you won't need welfare! (not meant for people who actually deserve it).

A Sign of the Apocalypse

I woke up this morning (thankfully not to Celine Dion, or I'd have had to hang myself) and yawned. What do ya know? I could see my breath. I figured that might be a sign that either I had become Iceman, or the temperature in my bedroom had dropped drastically. I climbed out of bed, and it was colder than a witch's...well, it was cold. I looked out the window, and there was frelling snow everywhere! It was in the high 40's when I went to bed last night. So, I drug out my ugly black snowboots, not bothering to take off my toe rings, since I would be changing shoes once I got to work. I hate wearing boots, but I knew that if I didn't take them, there would be 8 ft of snow by noon and I would have to trudge through it in heels. But when I got to work, I realized I had forgotten to bring extra shoes with me. So all morning, I hate to wear hot, ugly, too small snowboots. They're a little tight without toe rings, but with them on, I've got both feet in a vice. I looked like a cripple, hobbling around like Quasimodo. By the time I took them off at lunch, I had charley horses and Hobbit feet. The worst part about it? About 10:30, it quit snowing. By noon, the snow had melted away. So the pain I suffered was for naught. Kinda like when someone endures 9 months of pregnancy and 36 hours of labor to end up with a kid that smokes pot, hates their parents, and gets fired from McDonald's. What was the point?

So, I'm back in normal shoes, kicking back with a Mt. Dew and Hershey's Caramel Kisses. My work is done for the day, I cleaned up two of our offices, my feet are regaining feeling, the birds are singing, and it's 56 degrees. In February. In Nebraska. How can it be? I'm pretty sure this is listed as one of the signs of the Apocalypse. The calme before the storm. Oh, and I sold more of my eBay stuff, and Firefly & The Village came today from Netflix. Could things get any better?

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My uncle threatened the existence of the reject I posted about yesterday, stating that if he "catches the SOB who egged her car, they'll be eating the eggshells and getting an a$$-whuppin' to boot!" Apparently, Loser Boy got the hint, cuz he ran after my uncle, pleading innocence. Heh heh. I didn't even tell my uncle about it, but he heard it from another source and was all sorts of pissed off. Normally, I prefer to fight my own battles, but this one I'd sell tickets to. My uncle is pretty well-known for being someone it's best not to tick off, as are my cousins. Threatening my life falls into the category of "Things That Tick Him Off." This kid was probably soaking his pants during that little "Come to Jesus" session. I've laughed about it every time I've thought about it all day. This kid is about 6', 250 lbs, with C-cup man boobs, and a scraggly goatee. Watching him grovel would have been the only thing better.

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And here is one more reason to eat at home.

My favorite quote: "...organizers specified no hot soup on the menu..." Ya think?

Let's Start This Day Over

I wake up this morning to the bleating of Celine Dion coming from my stereo at much louder decibels than anyone should ever have to endure. It's not a good sign when your first thought of the day is "Someone put a hot poker in my ears!" I actually scrambled out of bed to shut it off, moving faster than I ever do at 8:00 in the a.m. At that point, the cat jumped off the bed, apparently for the sole purpose of impeding my progress. I stepped on his tail, and he did this kind of jump-twist-yowl-scratch-backflip thing in the air, clawing my leg and knocking my jewelry box off the dresser. Earrings went flying, as did the cat when my foot finally connected, and pieces of the jewelry box were everywhere. All this time Celine is still shrieking about her heart going on and on, kinda like that Energizer voice of hers. Now this jewelry box was one that my grandfather brought back from Japan after WWII, so I was less than thrilled at its present state. I stepped over the mess, and the cat headed upstairs. It's a good thing too, or we might have been having kitty cabobs for dinner. I got the wailing shut off, and went back to clean up the mess. I managed to find all of the earrings (I think), and all but one of the nails holding the lids on the jewelry box. I have a feeling my foot will locate it in the middle of the night sometime.

I headed into the bathroom. Apparently, my fingers were drunk and I dropped my pill bottle, scattering meds all over the floor. Now, it's just allergy medicine, so going without one wouldn't be like missing anti-psychotics. But it could kill my cat if he ate one. I thought about leaving a few more lying around to really teach him a lesson, but I started to feel guilty, so I searched until they were all found. Of course, I also discovered that my floor wasn't as clean as I had hoped. The prospect of using these pills is a lot less desirable now. Sure, I'd be safe from allergies, but what about bug guts and cat dander? Not a pleasant thought.

Seeing how everything had gone swimmingly thus far, I was a tad bit behind schedule. Ok, that might have had more to do with getting up late than anything else, but I'm going to blame it on Celine. As I struggled with my nylons, my foot decided it needed more room and had a bit of a blowout. I might live in a hick state, but even Nebraskans don't usually go to work like that. I redressed and headed in to put my eyes in. They felt kinda funny, but I figured my eyes were just dry. As I went out the door, I must have blinked funny or something and not one, but both fell out. I didn't have time to search for them on the shag carpet that torments my living room, so I ran back and grabbed a new pair and headed out. (Update: Needless to say, when I got home at lunch, I found two Shrinky-Dinks on the floor. I'd guess they're beyond repair.) So I drove to the office with no eyes in, which is surprisingly more like acid hallucinations than I would have thought. Pretty, blurry things in the distance, which turned out to be signs. Large, hazy, colorful objects coming toward me - yeah, those were cars. Somehow, I made it there alive, much to my passenger's delight. I think she'll walk to work tomorrow. At this point, I'm pretty sure the only direction my day can go is up. Otherwise, I'm going to be losing a kidney or something by 2:00.

On another note, a perverted sicko I can't stand told a friend of mine that if he could get away with it, he'd put a bullet in my head. It seems he objected to my setting the record straight when I found out he was telling people we were dating. I'd sterilize myself before that ever happened. This is the same schmuck who had to get his buddies to egg my car, so I doubt he's man enough to do anything himself. Anyhoo, if i end up gunned down like Tupac, call CSI. But don't let David Caruso come anywhere near me. He looks like a pedophile. And here is what kind of tombstone I want, only specified to where I've been. Don't let me down, folks.

Hicks is Better Spellerz

I went to watch the county spelling contest today. Now, to most people, this would be about as fun as watching Richard Simmons do jumping jacks in short shorts. However, I was the County Spelling Bee Champion my eighth grade year, so it's of interest to me. Yes, I was a geek. Let's move on. Anyhow, they have 18 kids from 3rd grade to 8th grade participate, the top three out of each class. I was there rooting for a 4th grader, who had asked me to come watch. Last year, he was the first kid down, so if he did better than that this time around, he would be stoked. He ended up making it into the final four. He and a 7th grader went out that round, and the next round determined the first and second place. He was thrilled he made it that far. And come on, how many 4th graders would know how to spell aborigine? For that matter, how many adults could spell that? The funny thing to me this year was that all three 8th graders went down before the 3rd graders. The 3rd graders were from country schools, so apparently that's the telling sign. I knew I should have gone to country school. Maybe it was the fact that the 8th graders couldn't see past the long hair hanging in their eyes, or perhaps they were too focused on keeping their baggy pants from dropping around their ankles. In the end, a 6th grade girl won, getting a trophy and a $100 savings bond. Things have improved since I won. I got a measly plaque and a $75 savings bond. I was robbed.
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This has to be the lamest way ever to get Girls Gone Wild footage.

My Ever-Expanding Gut

Last night, I stopped by my sister's to return her digital camera. I had spent the entire day at work listing items on eBay. (Nothing special, but if you're interested, look up seller kats_meow19 - have I got a deal for you!) When I came in, she was watching a movie, which was a little odd, because it was early and normally she's frantically trying to get things cleaned up after her husband & son mess them up. It turned out they had left town for the night, and she had the house to herself. "Why don't you stay and watch movies and we'll order takeout?" she asked. Even though I had already seen Stepford Wives and The Forgotten, there was food involved. I was all in. The only problem? I had agreed to eat supper at my mom's. But that was ok. I had already told my mom I had a lot of stuff I needed to get done, so she knew I was busy. However, her feelings would be hurt if I bailed out on her. But my sister and I rarely have time together anymore. The only solution? I would be eating two meals. I went to get food halfway through the movie, ordering it on my cell phone while driving to my mom's. "Busy night?" she said. "Yeah, sorry about having to eat and run." I downed about a pound of fried venison steak, a massive helping of Stove Top, way more cheesed broccoli than I ever needed, and nearly a carton of cottage cheese in about 6 minutes. Yep, it was about time to pick up the Chinese food I had called in. I thanked my mom and headed to Yum Yum's. Racing in, I quickly paid for my next course, and headed back to my sister's. She started eyeing me suspiciously when I seemed to be slowing down, so I crammed in another crab rangoon and prayed that the button on my jeans wouldn't come flying off and put out someone's eye. Just when I thought I was in the clear, she brought out a huge, I mean HUGE, bowl of homemade Chex Mix. Now she knows I love the stuff, so it would be a little odd if I passed on my favorite snack. I took a deep breath and started in. By this time, she was pretty well engrossed in The Forgotten, so I could "fake eat" and hope digestion kicked in soon. I was starting to look like Lara Flynn Boyle in the beginning of MIB II. Except, of course, for the lingerie and the bony facial structure. It's been about 14 hrs now and I still feel full. I'm pretty sure I won't have to eat until about Sunday. I now know how that guy in Seven felt getting force fed linoleum. I think there might have been some in my Chinese.

In completely unrelated news, I wonder if this plays "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" afterwards?

There's a Dead Mouse in the Toilet

I walked into the office this morning and a wretched stench was on me like ugly on Clint Howard. The reek of rotting, decaying mouse flesh permeated the air, clogging my nostrils and seeping into my clothes. Even the old lady I work with could smell it, which was surprising since she can't smell the cigarette smoke that wafts from her coat every morning when she gets in my car. (She thinks no one knows she smokes). As I surveyed my office, frantically searching for the source, I realized that the smell was coming from the basement. I reluctantly headed down the stairs, envisioning a scene from Indiana Jones: dead rats, live rats, live rats eating dead rats... To my surprise, there was no mouse to be found. Turns out that the odor was coming from a rickety old toilet that hadn't been flushed since circa 1912, and the sewer gases were coming up through the vent. Now explain to me first of all, why there is a toilet sitting in the middle of an open basement, with no walls around it? Who knew lawyers were such exhibitionists? And why do sewer gases smell like dead mice? Is it from tiny corpses below the streets, floating in the wastewaters? Or did someone actually dump a load that gave off that odor? I guess none of that matters now, because I flushed the toilet and dumped Spring Fresh Clorox down it. Now at least we'll smell like nice bouquets placed at the feet of the decomposing creatures. And if that's not enough to encourage you to come to work, nothing will get you there.

Messing With My Beauty Sleep? Not a Pretty Sight

I took the day off from the blog world yesterday, and I kinda liked it. Ok, so I actually pretty much checked out of reality all together, so that may have had something to do with it. But it was just that it was hectic at work and I had a lot of other responsibilities outside of work. Naturally, I said screw it and played on the internet most of the day. Then I went home and watched the first Keen Eddie DVD (which was great - go rent it!), Gilmore Girls, NCIS, and Law & Order:SVU. I even cooked a little, which is pretty much unheard of most of the time. I can't say I accomplished much, but an enjoyable time was had by all. Namely, me and the cat.

However, today started off on the wrong foot. As a matter of fact, I don't think it even had a foot. As days go, this one's definitely parking in the handicapped zone. My cousin called me at 7:00. Yeah, there's one of those in the morning too! Who'da thunk it? The worst part about it is that he knows full well that I don't go to work until 8:30, hence I don't get up until at least 8:10. He did it ON PURPOSE. Just because he's all Suzy Sunshine at the crack of dawn, he thinks everyone should experience it. The foolish man then dared to ask me for a favor. Uhh, guess what Beavis? Waking me long before I need to be up? Yeah, not gonna get you what you want. I thought about calling him late at night and waking him up, but it wouldn't work. He's a night owl too! Plus, even when you wake him up, he's all peppy and cheerful. Frankly, it's nauseating. No one should be that happy to be brought to consciousness. I'l probably go ahead and fix his computer, but I think I'll add a little porn in his Favorites. I bet his wife will think that's real funny. I don't get even, I get ahead.

I think waitresses should get discounts on these.

Death to Hotmail

Why do I hate Hotmail? Let me count the reasons.

1. It sucks.

2. They sell black tar heroin to schoolchildren.

3. I can't attach pictures to messages without it crashing.

4. Messages don't arrive in my inbox for days after they should be there.

5. They eat babies.

6. When I forward messages, all formatting changes and images disappear.

7. Hotmail sells kidneys on the black market.

8. My inbox was completely erased in one of their "technical glitches."

9. They send me emails telling me of their great service seconds after I have problems with it.

10. They don't spay and neuter their pets.

Ok, so I might not have direct proof of some of those, but the rest are right on. It has been screwed up for the last month or so, causing me great inconvenience, for which they offer very insincere apologies. I'm the most insincere person I know, so I recognize it when I see it. They can't manage to get my personal emails to my inbox, but you can bet every piece of promotional crap they send out gets there right on time! I'm pretty sure they're terrorists. At the very least, they own boxcutters. There should be a special place reserved for the tech support at Hotmail. I don't have all the details ironed out yet, but it will involve non-stop Ashlee Simpson & Barry Manilow music and 24/7 Richard Simmons videos.

Take a Look at This Cancer-Eyed Cow

Being the well-rounded individual that I am, I try to make my life one big educational experience. Yeah, that's me, all about learning. So when I go home at noon to eat lunch, I don't stop my quest for knowledge. I watch television. But I'm curious about one thing. How is it that every time I sit down to eat in front of the boob tube the same thing happens? I turn on Channel 38. I take my first bite of food, and there it is. Fear Factor. And they're eating horse rectum. Now I own two horses, and I shovel what comes out of there. It's not chocolates, trust me. Gagging, I scramble for the remote. Channel 54. A man is having his vasectomy filmed. While wildly entertaining if a guy is in the room, cringing and sucking his thumb, not exactly mealtime viewing. Switching again, we're at Channel 46. A vet is surgically removing a choker collar from the neck of an abused dog. Nice. And it looks strangely similar to what I'm eating. Next on the list is Channel 24. How lovely. A horribly disfigured woman with scaly skin is having her nose bone chipped away with a chisel to improve her self-image. Clicking once more while averting my eyes, we come to commercials. Finally, something not disgusting. Oops, spoke too soon! Let's tell the viewers about genital herpes, erectile dysfunction, irritable bowel syndrome, nail fungus, rabies, scabies, emphysema, oh my! What is wrong with this world? Must we be subjected to nauseating images and horrific thoughts while eating? Is this America's subtle way of getting all the fatties of the world to stop shovin' it down 24/7? I don't know anyone who can sit through a C-section on an abcessed sow and still think, Mmm, sure love this BLT. It's just sick and wrong and I'm not going to take it anymore. From now on, it's only Cartoon Network or Mr. Ed for me while I'm eating. I'm not letting anyone or anything come between me and my processed food products. Knowledge is highly overrated.

And here's another reason why happy hour should be made longer...

Stupid Human Tricks & Rattlesnake Anatomy

I put my frelling jaw out again. It won't close completely on the left side. I'm pretty sure I look like Cartman's Special Olympic impression, and believe me, nobody needs to see that. I tried the home remedy suggestions the chiropractor gave me, but to no avail. And after the pain she put me through putting it back in place last time, I'd rather have my lips tied to a car exhaust and be drug naked over broken glass before going back to her. I'm not sure what I did to put it out the first time. I speculated that it may have been when I was winning a bet with my nephew, who claimed I couldn't put a full-size Dorito vertically in my mouth. Amateur. Clearly, he did not know of my jaw-unhinging powers. But then I learned that I don't have the mandible anatomy of a rattlesnake. It's been quite a crushing blow.

But how did it go out again? I was just sitting at home watching Alias, and it started to hurt again. And there was no torture occurring on the small screen, so it couldn't have been sympathy pains. I had eaten, but nothing that should have taxed this alligator mouth o' mine. I learned I can fit an entire 3 Musketeers bar in my mouth and close it, so a little rice really shouldn't have been a problem. (Oh, and let me interject that I lived in a small town with a bored older brother & sister, and nobody backs out on a dare. These things happen.) But either way, it just kepting hurt worse and worse. And now I once again can't chew on that side, which is good news my left cheek, I guess. If it were anyone but me, I would suggest a light tap with a Louisville to "pop" it back into place. I've got a sawed-off number that would do the trick perfectly. But considering that it's my jaw and I've grown accustomed to having teeth, perhaps an alternative would be best. Maybe a Jedi Mind Trick. You don't need to be out of place. You want to be aligned with the top teeth. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Unless it involves a file or a grinding wheel or bailing wire. Then I'm not interested.

I thought this might be the latest thing to catch on in NE. I know some people who could make a fortune.

Rock Candy and Stool Pigeons

I think I've written before about my favorite duck-eating drug addict client. Today, I'm going to offer a little more insight. I can do that, since I'm not telling you who he is or where he's from. I will be purposely vague, so none of you can track him down and ask for his autograph or anything. Why would I ever do that?, you ask. Well, there are throngs of supporters getting into fights with protesters at Michael Jackson's trial. No accountin' for taste.

Anyhoo, this bloke got pulled over in my town by the local LEOs (Law Enforcement Officers for you civilians), who in turn called the big, bad State P's. Except they're not big...or bad, really. And they're habitual speeders, but I digress. They ask to search his rig, which being the MENSA student that he is, he agrees. Surely, the cops won't find his stash or anything, since he's hidden it so well and all. It takes them about, oh, 30 seconds to find the first cache and things just go downhill for him from there. Now, the funniest part to me is that he tried to convince them that it was rock candy. Uhh...no! How many people use a pipe to smoke rock candy? I mean, it's just too much sugar for you. Obviously, the cops were curious as to why he might hide rock candy in the false bottom of a shaving can. So he finally admits that it's drugs and they're his, which is a good thing cuz otherwise they'd never have figured it out.

While he's waiting to go to trial, he gets nabbed again for drugs. It's a good thing we have homeschoolers in the world, or I'd be out of a job (Calm down, my nephew homeschools - I make fun of him too). He agrees to set up a drug bust for the Fibbies on the two guys who sold to him in exchange for leniency. Everything goes as planned, and the two guys go to jail. Fast forward to last week. His sentencing for our case comes up, and since my boss is a butt-kicking lawyer (or maybe is just friends with the prosecutor), the dude gets probation. Before you start to hyperventilate from righteous indignation, relax your butt cheeks and read on. Terms of his probation included drug rehab, which he successfully completed and he has been clean for about 4 months. But yesterday was his sentencing for the second case. He got 30 months in the state pen...the same place where the two guys he ratted out are. How's that for karma? I pointed out to my boss that even if he ends up someone's wife, at least he'll have the last laugh. He has Hepatitis C. Judging by my boss's blushing, apparently I didn't say that as discreetly as I thought. Or maybe he had this image in his head:

new job

And that's enough mental crudeness for me for one day.

Here's your chance to do something really important with your money.

Please Mark The Gender Box

For those of you who actually take a gander at this occasionally, you might have noticed there was no post yesterday. If you didn't, well, you were probably drunk. I was out of the office yesterday, so I had no internet access. The beatniks in my skull were at it again, playing When The Migraine Comes Pounding In. It wasn't pretty. I won't give too many details, but let's just mention projectile vomiting and a very disgusted cat and leave it at that.

Today you will get my thoughts planned for yesterday. From now on, I'll just be a thought behind. Or, since I'm still recovering, we'll just assume I have no thoughts at all today. Tuesday is clinically brain dead.

Ok, back on topic. I judged another speech meet on Saturday. One kid comes into the room and starts setting up his visual aids. He is nicely dressed in tan slacks, a blue striped dress shirt, and a white seashell necklace. He has short dark hair and a pleasant demeanor. As he is speaking about the dangers of port-a-potties (it was an entertainment speech), I'm writing down my critiques. Then I hear him say, "Then my mother showed up and said, 'Don't worry, Michelle, we'll get you out of there." I thought that's odd, who in America names their son Michelle? As he continued reading from his notecard, I thought, he doesn't know his speech very well. Maybe someone else wrote it for him. I was starting to write on his ballot that I didn't think it was his own speech, since he has used another feminine pronoun. Then it hit me. Maybe this was not a boy after all. Perhaps it was another Pat. I frantically looked for signs of particular gender, but there were none to be found. The mannerisms were male, and the voice was low. Now I realize that I have the figure of a 12 year old boy Oompa Loompa, but this kid was like a 2x4. Well, ok, maybe a 4x4. There was some thickness going on, but no distinguishing factors to help me out. But clever like a fox I am, so I waited until he had left the room and I listened to the family talk. And then the mother slipped up - "I'm so proud of her. She's done really well today." AHA! So she was a girl! I was so glad I had not written anything about her gender abiguousness, since that might have been a blow to the old self-esteem. But in this case, I have to blame the parents. Could they not make sure that their child had some sort of identifying mark? I don't mean a bright pink shirt saying I'M A GIRL...well...no, that wouldn't do at all. But c'mon, she was even wearing a boy's watch, for pete's sake! Throw us a bone here! And these are the type of parents who dress their boy in pink, let him wear his hair long, and then get pissed when someone comments on their adorable girl. Morons. Granted, I'm not one to talk, because my mother still nags at me about always wearing a baseball cap or bandana and how she was certain her child was a girl when I was born, blah, blah, blah. But at least I wear jewelry or makeup or something. No one has ever said, "Excuse me, sir" to me...well, except my mother, but I think she was trying to make a point.

And here's a little invention to make everyone's day: Can You Hear Me Now?

Scrambled Brains & Frozen Necks

Don't expect much out of me today. It's the end of the week, and my brain is mush. My uncle is building a log cabin, so I've been helping with it. Ok, well, I've been cleaning up after everyone else does the real work, but early on, I really did help. I have the lumps on my head to prove it.

I'm actually a little surprised that my head is even attached to my body still, considering the abuse it takes. I told you awhile back of its unfortunate encounter with the slanted ceiling. That was the least of it. It has since come in contact with scaffolding, not once, but twice. In ten minutes. The second time can be excused, I think, because I was still dazed from bashing it the first time. Once brain matter starts seeping out my ears, I don't think I should be held accountable for subsequent actions. Before long, I'm going to start looking like that chick on Death Becomes Her. My head will just swivel at inopportune times. Somehow, I don't think that will be a good career move, unless I want the front desk position in Beetlejuice's office.

My plight could be worse. One of our high school lunch ladies was in a car accident years ago. For some reason, she had jarred her neck so bad that her head was turned completely to one side and stuck. The bones weren't broken, but the muscles froze that way. When she talked to you, she would have to turn her body to the side to look at you. She was very nice, but it was a little unnerving. The only thing worse was seeing her driving a car. She's never had an accident, but I'm pretty sure everyone around her has. She would have to kinda sit sideways, so she could see out the windshield. Not sure how she managed to turn corners. I always stayed a block behind her.

Oh, The Drinks You Can Drink

What is it about a beautiful sunny afternoon, with the birds singing and the wind rustling through the leaves, that makes you want to get drunk?

Ok, so maybe that's actually Jack Handy's quote and not mine, but I really think it nicely sums up my day. The birds are singing outside, there's a light breeze, the sun is shining...and I really could use a beer. I'm not sure what brought this on at 10:30 in the morning. Maybe it's the fact that it's been a stressful morning and I can't balance our office bank statements and I'm sure I'm going to go to jail. Perhaps it's because I have some deep-seated issues that I haven't dealt with, involving repressed psychological trauma from years past. Or it could just be that every client that's walked through the door this morning has smelled like booze, and I'm thirsty. I'm going with the latter.

Actually, I'm not a boozer. I drink once in awhile, on the rare occasion I'm not too lazy to walk across the living room to the kitchen and get myself a beer. But I have never seen the appeal of getting completely hammered, losing control, embarrassing yourself, and eventually passing out in your vomit/urine/feces. Call me a square, but I can think of better ways to spend an evening. I get migraines, I don't need to induce those symptoms. Plus, my dad's an alcoholic, so I was likely born with more alcohol in my bloodstream than most people can handle. I'm pretty sure even his swimmers were drunk. I've never had it tested, but I have a theory that if I were given a chemical test on any given day, I would probably be over the legal limit without ever touching a drink. No point in adding to that.

That brings me to the real point of this post. I heard on the radio today that a guy in my town was just sentenced to 5 years in jail for having 14 DUIs. 14!!!!! The judge said he had never seen anyone in his courtroom with that many before. This guy already spent 18 months in jail a couple of years ago for having 12 DUIs. The day he got out of jail, he came back to town so smashed he couldn't hardly walk. He staggered into the steakhouse where I was waitressing, fell up the stairs (there are only 2), and asked for a beer. It's the only time I ever saw my boss refuse someone a drink. The sad thing is, the man doesn't even own a car. Exactly who loans their car to someone with 14 DUIs? Or 4 DUIs, for that matter? My sister is sad that he's going to jail. He lives down the street from her, and at least once a week they get to watch a fight out in the street between him and his brother. Few punches ever connect, because they're usually so drunk they think they're fighting four of each other. It goes on for a 1/2 hr or so before the cops finally show up and break up the fun. Once, he dropped a case of beer in the street and they rolled everywhere. It was like moths to a flame. Every drunk for streets around was trying to get their hands on one. He was crawling around, trying to gather them up, and yelling at anyone who came close - "Keep yer filthy paws off muh beer!" I don't know what will we'll watch for the next 5 years. Reality TV has nothing on him. Maybe his two kids will follow in his footsteps. Their daddy'll be so proud.

ETA: Just on the news: In a nearby town, there was a shooting incident. At the Remington Arms Apartments. Coincidence? I think not.

The Death of Punxatawney Phil

That's right, he's going down. I've have just about enough of ole Phil and Bill Murray screwing up my spring. We don't need any more winter, thank you very much. A week of -500 degree weather was quite enough. Around here, it was slicker than snot on a brass doorknob and the wind was about 100 mi/hr. Every time I stepped outside, I felt like I had gotten my own private sandblasting. So I think it's about time that me and that rat had a little Come-to-Jesus session. From here on out, he doesn't have a shadow. Either that, or Phil finds out what a little buckshot can do to a fur coat.

I read in our local newspaper this morning that 300 people turned out last weekend for the annual Polar Bear Dip in Meadville, a town not too far from where I live. Now what this entails is a bunch of sandbillies and their idiotic friends stripping down to their skivvies in below freezing temps and jumping into the Niobrara River, which was flowing at a balmy 29 degrees. People come from hours away, just to be part of this redneck ritual. I am sad to admit that I even have friends and acquaintances who count down the days until they can dive into icy water in next to nothing, in front of an audience, no less. I have even been invited to engage in this "sport." Let's just be clear on this: you have to be a special kind of stupid to willing partake in activity that has the potential of frostbite to 95% of your body. That stupid reaches an all-time high when you allow someone to take a picture of you being a scantily clad moron and then publish it in the paper. Nebraska: The Good Life, my butt.

In other news, I am so glad I have a job and I don't live here.

Monday All Over Again

Today should prove to be interesting. We have corporation meetings scheduled in our office, and one in particular might get a little randy. It's owned entirely by family members, most of whom hate each other. Maybe it's because the brother running the ranch was writing checks for "cattle feed" that were getting cashed at the casino. Now, if he'd have written "dog food" on the checks, I'm sure that would have fooled everyone. Let's just hope he doesn't start writing "sexual favors" on the checks written to the feed store. That's an image I don't think I have enough Mental Clorox for. I could be wrong about today - maybe things will go swimmingly. All I know is that the last time they were in here there was screaming, shouting, crying, comparisons of certain family members to animal genitalia, and the quote "I should have cut your f*%#ing head off years ago!" I can't wait. Would anyone think it odd if the receptionist wore a bulletproof vest?

Here's an interesting tidbit I ran across today. It's from not too far away from my home. What's next - horses in the grocery stores?