She'll Be Coming Down The Mountain When She Falls

Right now, somewhere out there, there is a fetishist that wants to strip naked and be beaten with a comically oversized meat mallet. I know how they feel. Wait, that's not what I mean. I know how they would feel afterwards. Well, not turned on or anything, just in pain. No, not in a good way!

Crap.

As you have guessed, we hit the road Friday night to escape the wrath of the impending storm. We made it to Rapid City about 11:00 our time, which meant that we actually showed up an hour later than I had told our hostess, Fragile Ditz, we would be there. Somehow, I got the switch to Mountain time screwed up in my head, so she was about to call out the National Guard. Oops.

We got on the road for Deer Mountain fairly early, in hopes that we would be there by the time they opened. Fragile Ditz couldn't go with us, but she would meet up with us later in the morning. She gave us directions, but as it turned out, forgot to tell us to take the SECOND Lead exit. So we ended up on a winding, dizzifying (it's a word) road where we could only drive about 35 and ended up at DM about an hour later than planned.

By the time we got there, we missed the first round of lessons, so we signed up for a semi-private lesson, in hopes of getting out sooner. But they ran out of instructors, so we were thrown in with another last minute group. The instructor was pissed, and swore it was her last lesson of the day, as her boss yelled after her that it most certainly wasn't. She was impatient through most of the lesson, even telling this cute little girl that she would have to learn how to put her own snowboard on, since the instructor "couldn't just hold her hand all day". When the parents looked horrified, she tacked on "even if you are as cute as a button." Nice try, lady.

As my luck usually runs, the odds seem to be against things ever being simple. So, the lady brings out my boots, and they seem a little big, but she insists they are the right size. Then the man with the numerous tattoos and no hair brings out the snowboard. The top is peeling off of it, and it looks like it may have been used to bludgeon someone to death. When I got out to my lesson, the grips wouldn't come undone on my board. My feet were really slipping in the boots, so when the lesson was over, I went in to switch. Turns out they had given me a size 9 boot - I wear a 7 1/2. Then the next pair they gave me had the top loops for the laces busted. When I tried to return them, the woman gave me that "don't screw with me" look and said flatly, "Well, it's between those and a pair held together with duct tape." I took the busted laces. Leave it to me to end up with ghetto gear when it's the difference between life and having my body removed from a tree with the Jaws of Life.

But we made it through and actually had learned quite a bit from the ice instructor, especially falling down to keep from going over a dropoff. That's kind of important. Fragile Ditz was waiting for us for a long time, and we searched for her everywhere. Finally, this blimp turns around and I realized it was her. She was decked out in butt pads, knee pads, wrist guards, and an enormous helmet, making her appear about 40 lbs. heavier. She looked like the Michelin man. Since she tends to get hurt easily (a story for another day), she was determined to err on the side of caution.

It wasn't long before I was seeing the wisdom of her getup. After about the 75th time I landed on my butt or my knees, that padding was looking mighty attractive. I only took one hard fall and landed directly on my tailbone. I laid there for awhile, praying for death or numbness, but neither came. I had no desire to get hauled anywhere by the snowmobile EMTs, so I made myself get back up. I headed down the hill, only to get a terrible cramp in my leg, like a charley horse that went from my knee to my hip. If I kept going the way I was, I wasn't going to have the strength to turn my board and I would shoot directly into the black diamond area. Not wanting this to end up like a John Candy movie, I made myself fall. And then I laid there for awhile, until the others yelled to make sure I was still breathing. It was at that point I decided it was time for a little breakipoo in the warm lodge.

And that's all the time we have for today, folks. Come back tomorrow for the rest of this story...

Ow. Ow. Ow.


That is all.

Snowy Peaks or Bust

The time has finally arrived. Speech is over, as far as I'm concerned, and I am taking a weekend off from life. No, I'm not going into a medically-induced coma, although one wonders what that might be like. Maybe I'd finally get caught up on sleep. However, my family would likely use it as the perfect time to pull the plug, so that ain't happenin'. Instead, I am grabbing some friends (in a purely hetero way) and going skiing.

Now this is probably the time when I should confess that it's been awhile since I've been on the slopes. Ok, fine, it's been seven years. I've only been skiing a few times, and the first time my mom wrecked majorly bad, screwed up her knee, and hasn't gone since. Not exactly confidence-inspiring. But I have to say that I'm not a completely sucky skier. I mean, I'm better than Sonny Bono. That's gotta count for something.

However, this year I'm abandoning the skis for a snowboard. I've been boarding a couple time before, and I even took lessons. Even still, I spent most of the time on my butt or my face. I came home with bruises in places I didn't know I had. That's not exactly the prescription for fun. I think I may have to take lessons again this time if I don't want to spend the rest of the month in a body cast. The only problem is that I always end up in a class with a bunch of six year olds, and that's not great for the ole self-esteem. They always end up zipping past me, and I get that overwhelming urge to throw a rock in their path.

But as usual, someone is determined to throw a monkey wrench in my plans. (Incidentally, what's the difference between a monkey wrench and a regular wrench? Can a monkey really use a wrench?)The dastardly LL has decided to be generous with his disgusting weather again. Word has it we're about to get slammed with freezing rain turning to snow turning to blizzard conditions turning to the imprisonment of a very unhappy trinamick by tonight. They're talking up to a foot of snow and zero visibility by tomorrow night. We were supposed to head out tomorrow morning, but I may just round up the posse this evening and hit the road early. Being snowed in is preferable when you're anywhere but here...as long as it's not on the Rosebud reservation. Just get me to the interstate, God, and I'll take it from there!

In the meantime, y'all have a great weekend wherever you are. If I'm not here on Monday, I may be in the middle of a snowbank in Wall: The Frickin' Window to Nowhere. If I'm not back by Tuesday, call the president.

The Links Have It

After reading Friday's recipe, the delightful NYPinTA suggests that perhaps I am the way I am due to certain family influences. I'd love to innocently say "What do you mean the way I am?!", but who am I kidding? In this day and age of blaming others for all our problems, I think it's high time to stand up and say: If it weren't for my family, I would be normal.

Recently, I have been trying to compile stories, events, songs, games, etc. from my childhood, in an effort to preserve history before those who can remember it are gone. I've been typing up my grandpa's memoirs, quizzing relatives, and arguing over the fine points of familial lore. I've since learned that nostalgia is a funny thing. Some people remember something as hilarious that just wasn't that funny. Others recall an incident a different way so they can use it as ammunition in therapy or AA. And then there's me. I remember it only one way: what really happened.

When we were little, we would climb up in my grandpa's lap and he would sing lullabies, tapping out the rhythm on our shoulders. However, in our family we use the term "lullabies" loosely. There was no "Mary Had a Little Lamb" or "Rockabye Baby". From Grandma, we heard "Rock of Ages" (not the Def Leppard version) and Amazing Grace. But from Grandpa, we heard it all, mainly the songs that mothers don't want their children hearing. Of course, that just makes a child yearn for them all the more. Blasphemy, violence, rhyming, gore, sad songs, death - isn't that the stuff childhood is made of?

Grandpa now claims he doesn't remember the songs he used to sing. Bull butter! He just doesn't want to own up to being the one who taught them to us. I can only remember snippets of some, but I'm determined to find them all and collect them in a book or something and give them to him. And, naturally, I intend to teach them to the next generation to keep the corruption and night terrors going strong.

One in particular has stuck in my brain. I know for a fact that some of the lyrics said "And I watched her head go floating by..." Isn't that cheery? But when I searched for the lyrics online, no glory. However, I remembered one other line: "Willie, don't murder me, for I am not prepared to die" and there it was: The Banks of the Ohio. There are apparently many variations of the song, each with a little different wording. And as expected, Grandfather Time took a little creative license, as well. The second or third version is as close to his as I can find. But as far as I can tell, no heads float by anywhere.

His favorite songs to sing to us were always the cowboy songs, since he was a cowboy himself and he had learned them as a young boy working on ranches. Some of them I'm having a hard time finding, since the words have changed as they've been passed down. But there are newer ones as well. There was the Marty Robbins standby, El Paso, and the equally sad When The Work's All Done This Fall. But surely he couldn't leave out those who died terrible deaths in other professions. So we also were sung Big Bad John and the true story of The Wreck of Old 97. After all, what is more soothing to a child than someone being scalded to death by steam?

Not all of his songs were depressing. Some were catchy tunes for a little kid, like May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose, sung by the sequined midget of country, Little Jimmy Dickens. And then there is the blasphemous song that my mother forbade us to sing outside of my grandparent's house, It's a Lie. Funny thing is, I didn't remember any of the verses that weren't Biblical. Maybe if she hadn't protested so much, we wouldn't have sung it every chance we got.

But as much as my mother likes to blame all our shortcomings on him, she is not entirely off the hook. Since my parents split up when I was three, my earliest musical influences came from a depressed, man-hating, woman scorned. The first songs I knew all the words to were D.I.V.O.R.C.E. and Love Isn't Free. She still tells the story of when I was about 3 years old, and she had a bunch of company over. I came in singing There's a Stranger In My House, and everyone in the room went silent. I guess adultery isn't usually the subject of most children's songs.

So there you have it. If it weren't for the evils of music, I'd be the next Pollyanna. I think I'll go see if I can find that delightful song about the girl strung up with wire through her eyesockets. That one always put me right to sleep.

Music to My Ears

Due to all my irritation with Blogger and my lack of time of late, I just haven't had the strength for posting. I have a post started, but there's no time to give it my all today. So instead, I'm leaving you with a joke and a question. The question is this: I received a $10 iTunes gift card in the mail today. What are 10 songs that my iPod CANNOT be without, and why? Please do not include any Beatles songs, as they don't offer any of their music digitally yet, and it would only frustrate me.

And here's the joke:

A fire fighter is working on the engine outside the station when he notices a little girl next door in a little red wagon with little ladders hung off the sides and a garden hose tightly coiled in the middle. The girl is wearing a fire fighter's helmet. The wagon is being pulled by her dog and her cat. The fire fighter walked over to take a closer look. "That sure is a nice fire truck," the fire fighter says with admiration. "Thanks," the girl says. The firefighter looks a little closer and notices the girl has tied the wagon to her dog's collar and to the cat's testicles.

"Little Partner", the fire fighter says, "I don't want to tell you how to run your rig, but if you were to tie that rope around the cat's collar too, I think you could go faster." The little girl replies thoughtfully, "You're probably right, but then I wouldn't have a siren."

Old Home Cookin'

Since everyone around these parts has been giving out recipes for special dishes lately, I feel like I need to jump on the bandwagon. This is a very special recipe handed down by my grandfather. For years, he would tell me about a delightful dish called slumgullion, and he would then ask if I have ever eaten it. I had not, of course, and I would always ask what it was. For years, he told me I was too young to know, but he promised that one day, I would know just how to make it.

Well, it took quite a few years, but he finally kept his promise. And now I pass it on to you.

Slumgullion

One pregnant dog, ready to give birth
One cork
One rope
One bowl

First, you strangle the pregnant dog. Then you place the cork in her butt. Next, you tie the rope around her neck and hang her in the tree. Leave the dog in the tree for approximately two weeks in direct sunlight. When the two weeks are up, remove the cork and catch whatever comes out in the bowl. Serve immediately. Enjoy.

So, who wants to come for dinner?
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I'm on the road for my last meet of the season this weekend. We face off with the team of Drunken Hookers R Us, so it should be interesting. I'm ready to be done with the whole rat race, so I can finally have my weekends back. Sleeping in on a Saturday - is that allowed?

High School Hibbedy-Dibbedy

Just so you know, it's -26 degrees here today, with a windchill of -44. My garage door wouldn't even go up, so I had to call my mom to get me & Grandma Moses. My boss's car wouldn't start, so he walked (!) to work. He lives about 6 blocks from me, and by the time he got to my house, he realized it wasn't a smart idea. But instead of stopping in and warming up or getting a ride, he kept on walking. He's 76 years old - you'd think he'd be smarter than that. It's a good thing he didn't have a heart attack on the way here. It's payday.

When I finally got here, my granola bar was so cold that a chunk snapped off and cut my thumb. Who knew a health food could be so dangerous?
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I know I never ended up telling you about our last speech meet. That's because there just wasn't much to tell. I mocked a few people, took a few pictures with the Blur Cam, and we ate Chinese food at a restaurant where half the fish in the aquarium are fake. It was pretty boring. I did get a pic of the coach who has a dastardly villain moustache, but it's not very clear. He even hunches over like a bad guy, and the moustache curls on the end. Ten bucks says he uses his ear wax to keep it in place.

Oh, and then there's the girl who is a serious sci-fi nut. A couple of years ago, she switched to the Sinead O'Connor look. Something about "perfecting her craft"? Whatever.

But the noteworthy tale from that trip was that one of our rival teams only had about 10 team members there. Why, you ask (or at least you should)? Because on their last trip to Kearney, more than a few of the Bulldogs were chasing more than their own tails in the back of the bus. Being the entreprenuerial group that they are, it even turned into a money-making enterprise, with various acts priced differently. In fact, one girl (who just so happens to be the daughter of a school board member) made $60. (Looks - $5.00; Gropes - $10.00; Getting caught with their hands in someone else's cookie jar - Priceless.)

Several kids also got caught with alcohol as well. I guess they got busted while still on the bus, and it looks like they're getting kicked off the team and suspended as well. And whaddya know? The meet in their town, that they ALWAYS manage to win, is this weekend. Hmm, perhaps there will be a new victor this year?

Oh, and I got bored between rounds, so I took a pic of my frigid surroundings.

UPDATE: The kids did get suspended. However, their coach decided to let the team decide whether they should get kicked off or not. I have a feeling that whole "zero tolerance" bit only applies when you're not in trouble right before your own tournament.

Blame the Furry-Tailed Rats

Yesterday afternoon, I got one of those dreaded phone calls. My adopted grandma (we'll call her Merble) and her husband (Yank) got carbon monoxide poisoning and had been taken to the hospital that morning. They nearly died, and we didn't find out until 8 hours later.

Apparently, the squirrels have done damage to the cap on their chimney, which caused a downdraft. At least, that's the only explanation the firemen could give. Either way, the entire house was filled with carbon monoxide. It was hours before it had completely dissipated.

The only thing that saved them was that Yank went out early to shovel the walks. He woke Merble up with all the noise, and she was not happy about it. But she went downstairs to get dressed, so she could tell him off. Normally, the cat hides under the bed and reaches out to grab her feet. But that morning, he just laid there and would barely move. When Merble checked on him, he had thrown up everywhere and wouldn't even lift his head. She thought he was dying, and she was really upset.

Merble walked out into the living room to call the vet, and suddenly got really lightheaded. She said the feeling was unexplainable, but it was like her entire body felt sick at once. She was afraid she wouldn't make it to the phone, and she might fall before she got to the door, so she sat down in the nearest chair. Then she couldn't get up.

Her husband came in the house to find her sitting in the chair unresponsive. He called her sister, and she & her husband rushed over. When they got there, she was sitting in the chair with her eyes open and wasn't responding. They called 911, but before they got there, her husband starting having seizures. The sister called for another ambulance for him. I'm surprised a town as small as theirs even has two ambulances.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Merble wasn't breathing and her heart had stopped. They had to use the defibrillator on her, and she just about didn't come back. They managed to get Yank's seizures stopped, but he was in bad shape too. Once they got them to the hospital, they responded well to the oxygen. Both are really weak, but they are supposed to get out today.

The doctor said if it had been only a few minutes more, Merble would have been dead. She just turned 77, and this is more stress than her body needs. Yank already has serious health problems, so I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did. The only thing that helped him was the time he was out of the house shoveling. If he hadn't gotten up early, they likely would have both died in their beds. The cat is okay now too, but he was almost a goner as well.

The moral of this story? If you use anything but electric heat, get a carbon monoxide detector. Mine went off in the middle of the night once, and it turned out I had a crack in the furnace. Sure, I just opened a window next to my bed and went back to sleep, but now I know that wasn't the wisest move. Or better yet, get electric heat.

All I know is it is time to take action against those dirty squirrels.

Your Sympathy Is Overwhelming

I received a card in the mail from my grandfather today. There was no salutation or signature. Just this:

She walked out in the yard
The ground was very hard
The snow melt had turned into ice.

She fell on her rear
and shed a large tear.
The feeling was not very nice.

After she fell with a thud,
She wished it had been mud
that comes with a hard fast rain.

As she started to rise
She looked up to the skies
and asked, "Why, why, did you misplace my brain?"

Somewhere out there, I have a loving, sympathetic family desperately trying to find me.

First, it snowed. Then it started to thaw. Yesterday, it began to rain. Overnight, it froze. This morning, the rain began and quickly turned to sleet. Now it's snowing.

I hate Nebraska. It's making it very difficult for me to wear open-toed shoes.

Never Read a Crappy Book

My finger looks better today. It's got a wicked bruise along the top and under the fingernail, but at least it no longer looks like it's taking Viagra. I have to go to North Platte tomorrow for the speech meet, so I think I'll be ditching this splint after today. No point in showing weakness near the kiddies. Otherwise, next thing you know, they'll be stealing your kidneys.

I have my work cut out for me this evening. My uncle, for whom I occasionally put in a little slave labor, asked me to come clean his basement last night. It's kind of his man room, filled with guns, reloading equipment, bows & arrows, and all sorts of useless guy paraphernalia. Some time earlier this week, the sucker overflowed with all sorts of disgustingness from their sewer line. Instead of cleaning the dried toilet paper off himself, he calls me. Yummy.

His wife blames tree roots in the line. God forbid that someone fess up to dropping a load the size of Kentucky and clogging up the works. And since when do I look like a plumber? Wouldn't it make more sense to fix the problem BEFORE cleaning it up?

Anyway, there was a whole bunch of books that got soaked. My uncle asked if he should donate them to the library. Yes, I'm sure the library would be delighted to receive books that smell faintly of feces. Great googly moogly.

Have a good weekend. And if you live in Nebraska, don't check out any book that looks like it has water damage.

Learning the ABCs

A man just walked into our office and told me he needed to see my boss immediately. Sloop-shouldered, with long hair and scraggly goatee, pop bottle glasses, baseball cap missing the bill, and loose-fitting dentures, I was guessing he wasn't an IRS auditor. The fact that his car backfired so loud, it nearly brought the cops, was kind of a clue as well.

The man is not really our client. But apparently, he has an affinity for my boss, as most crazies do. He draws them like hogs to a feeding trough. This guy was slurring his words and was completely wild-eyed, though he didn't seem to be drunk or high. Since the boss wasn't there, he started handing me papers and rattling on a hundred miles an hour about the urgency of his situation. Spit hit the papers as he spoke, and I envisioned him making out with Rosie to keep myself from gagging. Wrong scenario for that, BTW.

But suddenly something he said caught my attention.

"Yeah, my doc says once they know I have Hepatitis C, I should be all set."

"Come again?"

"Hepatitis C. That's what they say I got. They think it's from that surgery I had a couple of years ago."

"You got it from a surgery?"

"Yep. Well, I mean, maybe. You know, I've had Hepatitis A & B since I was a young one. I guess you could say I've got the whole Hep alphabet, heh heh. But I might have gotten the C one when I got bit by a rabid dog years ago. But it could have been from riding horses."

"A horse gave you Hepatitis C?" (Why wasn't Mr. Ed wearing protection?)

"Yeah, the old girl had saddle sores, and it might have rubbed off on me."

"So you didn't get it from a surgery?"

"Oh, that's probably the best bet. Not that it matters much, since my liver is shot either way. I drank and did a lot of drugs until about 1984, give or take a few years."

"But that didn't have anything to do with the Hep C?"

"No. Why would it? But anyway, I'm only 54, and that's too young to die. This is pretty dangerous stuff, you know, and you don't want to get it. You'd best take care of you and yours."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Sure 'nuff. I give it away for free. Kind of a public service, since this is catching and all. I hear a bunch of teachers across the country are dying from it. Have a good day!"

So, I'm a little confused right now. I guess this is my only question: why are so many teachers having sex with horses?

I'm gonna go boil my body now.
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And finally, after all these years, mankind has an answer to that age old, but vital question.
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Oh, and I thought my finger was looking a little funky last night, what with the freaky lump out to the side of the knuckle. That can't be good, right? So while I was watching Bones, I figured out what my finger should look like, looked away at the TV, and gave 'er a good yank. Stung like the devil, but I think it looks better today. I think I'll only wear this stupid splint thru tomorrow, and then it's coming off. I mean, a kid in my building construction class cut off his own cast with a Skil saw, and he can still use his arm, so what can go wrong, right?

I Get To Choose When to Pull The Plug

So here's my stupid story of the demise of my finger. My middle finger. No, I did not flip someone the bird and get it snapped off. However, I am now flipping everyone the bird now and it's quite satisfying.

I was over at my mom's Monday night, taking a break from homework and grabbing some food. I was, and still am, feeling like crap, so I laid down on her bed. It's just easier to deal with her blathering when I'm not on my feet. She was going on and on about how I'm always sick, I don't eat right, I need more exercise, yada, yada, yada. Of course, this is said with the underlying point that she is a regular She-Ra, ignoring the fact that she is skin and bones, due to her strict adherence to cholesterol and hypoglycemia diets.

She started yammering about her daily exercise routine, as though her stupid barbells have the healing powers of Jesus. Then she says, "Just try them. I bet you can't do them. They're really hard, but I do them EVERY day." I muttered something under my breath that may have sounded something like "Screw you and the horse you rode in on," and tried to ignore her. But she kept nagging. It was like that Seinfeld ep: "Look at the bay-bee! Did you see the bay-bee?" She finally wore me down, killed my spirit, and I begrudgingly took the friggin' barbell.

I quite aptly showed her that I was perfectly capable of doing her ridiculous exercises. Athleticism is not my Waterloo - laziness is, thankyouverymuch. But I swung my arm down and happened to come into contact with her metal bedframe. Combine the weight of the barbell, the momentum, and non-forgiving surface, and you get a broken finger. And what did my mother do? Laughed until she cried. Very hurtful.

Yes, I'm an idiot. Moving on.

And to top off the week, I was running on the knife edge of late this morning. I scurried out the door, only to discover it was snowing. My shoes were slick, so I ran back in the house to get boots on. My hands were full, but the walk was covered, so I started pushing the snow shovel in front of me. What did I forget about? Oh yeah, the ice underneath the snow. I slipped, lost my balance, and landed right on my keister. It made a huge dent in the snow, which didn't exactly enhance the ole self-esteem. And what did my mother do when I told her? Laughed until she cried.

There went her chances for a good nursing home.

Making a List, Checking It Twice

As I sat around waiting for rounds to start, one of the students and I began to make a list of speech meet rules. Of course, we have no authority to enforce them, but it made us feel better just recording the offenders.

1. You are not allowed to wear a shirt bearing the words "Caution: Extremely Hot" unless you actually are.2. If you show up wearing a black trenchcoat, a buttugly skull cap, a diamond earring, and carrying a boombox from 1985, not only will you escorted out the door, but at some point you should be kicked in the head. (Later, we were informed that he was actually a judge. I say the rule still applies, only more so.)

3. If you are unable to play more than one chord on your guitar, leave it at home. If you ignore this rule, your guitar will be confiscated and replaced with a ukelele.

4. If you are 16, sporting a she-mullet and a belt buckle that could bring in DirectTV, don't do your speech on redneck rigs. You're a sandbilly. We get it. Just don't flaunt it.

As the season continues, we will add to the list.

The coaches' lounge had an excellent lunch of soups, meat & cheese trays, and tons of goodies. There was a plate of spoons in front of the soup, next to the bowls. There was also another container of spoons. After I sat down to eat, I heard some coaches asking about it. One of the organizers explained that the plate was for dirty spoons. One of the coaches got a sick look on her face, dropped her spoon, and said disgustedly, "Well, I guess the soup was good anyway." That pretty well grossed me out, but not as much as the fact that I couldn't remember where I got my spoon from. Our assistant coach grabbed my pencil and made a huge sign labeling the spoons. But that doesn't help with my gag reflex.

I'd tell you more about the day, but I'm bored with it all now. We got 3rd place overall, and the rest doesn't matter. I broke my finger last night, and this typing has taken all morning. I promise to move on to a new topic tomorrow.

Ganja, Hippies, and Sickies

Our Saturday morning began at the delightful hour of 5:45, with -12 degree temps and a biting wind. I drug myself out of the car, luring myself out with thoughts of curling up on the nice warm bus with my pillow and blanket. But there was no bus. It seemed the boys had taken it to Gothenburg Friday night, and it started having problems on the way home. We had to take the vans, the head coach was furious, and I got assigned to her van. Fabulous.

I hunkered down under my blanket anyway, and tried to tune out the girlie yammering from the back seat. I had just started to doze off when the van whipped to the side of the road. What in the wide, wide world of sports was agoin' on?! I sat up just in time to see a girl in the van in front of us jump out and hurl about 20 feet. That immediately brought on the rumblings in my gut, and the fact that our van was about 100 degrees wasn't helping. I cranked my eyes shut and pretended to be sleeping, praying that I wouldn't be called out to assist.

We got back on the road, went about 20 miles, and the whole scene replayed itself. Projectile vomiting isn't on my top ten list of Things To Watch When I'm Already Carsick, so I was about to my limit. The girls in the back seat were gagging, and I was starting to do that mouth breathing thing in an effort to will myself not to upchuck. After that episode, I just kept my eyes closed every time I felt the van lurch to the shoulder. That was the longest hour and a half drive ever.

My first round should have been a sign of how the entire day was going to go. When I strolled in to the 5th grade room, there was only one desk for the judge. In it sat some college kid, back with his girlfriend to watch her little sister perform. He was all decked out in Jamaican garb, trying so hard to be rasta cool. The funky hat, the shell necklace, the baggy pants, the trendy shoulder backpack, the fuzzy goatee - he hadn't forgotten a thing, except the fact that he was still a white boy, of course.

I gave him my impatient, don't-piss-with-me stare, and he got up and moved to another seat. It wasn't until I had already sat down that I realized my grievous error. He had left his funk behind, and I don't mean his groove. The reekage of stale pot and body odor enveloped me, and I nearly passed out. I couldn't understand how nobody else was falling out of their chairs. But just then, his girlfriend turned to him and said, "Dude, you seriously need to shower and shave. You majorly reek!" He just laughed, as though he was proud of the mold that was likely growing in his pits. Everting' not gwan be irie 'til you use de soap & water, jackass.




"Honey, you smell like the south end of a boar traveling north. Let's go find a storage closet and get it on."

A little later, I was sitting in the coaches' lounge when in walked Punky Brewster - or what Punky Brewster would have looked like if she were in her 40's and became a hippy. She was sporting long, dangly, pink earrings in the shape of some kind of torture device, cutoff denim skirt, black leotards, rainbow print off-the-shoulder blouse, and red, fuzzy hair teased within an inch of Sebastian Bach's life and held back with a wide blue headband. I took one look at our assistant coach and we nearly choked to death trying to restrain our laughter. We later found out that she was keeping time in her rounds on her watch and "estimating", and then proceeded to verbally critique each student after they spoke. I don't think they'll be using that sweetheart again.

There's more to tell, but that's all I can muster for today. I'm still sick with this cold/flu crap, and the sinus medicine is killing my will to live.
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Normally, I leave my computer on at work overnight. I have always thought it kept it from being as glitchy in the mornings. But then, the other night, I came in late to pick up a CD and this is what I found. That's not good.

My Train of Thought Is Still Boarding At the Station

Remember this post of Renn's? Well, she got me thinking. It had been awhile since I'd bought anything for myself (this was before the iPod, so shut up). So I bought me a shirt like that. And then I starting rooting around in the Mental Floss site and found this. It went in my basket as well. They came today. They are very cool. Sure, I don't look good in orange or yellow, but I'll just have to suffer for my art.

Since I know you guys have been sorely missing the updates on the life & times of the Wonky Eyed Beast, here's a new one. When my mom went into the dollar store where she works, the Bug-Eyed Harlot proceeded to casually tell her that she has cervical cancer. Even though it was one of those conversations an ordinary human would run from screaming, my mother started to ask her questions. That woman would walk into a crap factory wearing a dress made of toilet paper.

As the story continued, the WEB mentioned getting it burned off. Uhh, last time I checked, treatment for cervical cancer isn't exactly like mole removal. Mom was confused, so she asked her if she had polyps removed. "Oh, yeah, that too," was the answer. But the more she pressed her for details, the more garbled the story got. First, there were tests done. Then, it was they thought they'd do tests. Also, they might do a procedure. But there wasn't a plan yet. Diagnosis was dalsfjoiajfe;awjkf;wa...Final answer? She's completely full of crap, Regis.

Every time a new illness came out, WEB had it. Remember the keratitis? Reporters start talking about bird flu, and she starts growing feathers. But who in their right mind pretends to have cancer? That's not some minor thing to fake. And it's such an obvious lie. Not that it would surprise me if she has it. Being a walking sperm bank tends to increase the ole risk factors. But it's such a slap in the face to those who really are suffering from cancer. If ever there were a deserving subject...

And to add insult to injury, my aunt just found out she has breast cancer. She had it before many years ago, and the doctor did a masectomy. In fact, every one of my grandfather's sisters has at least had one lopped off. But it was painful and horrible for her, and she refuses to go through that again. She is supposed to find out this week what kind of treatment they will recommend, considering that she is 86 years old. They said it's the slowest-moving kind, so that's promising.

In other news, Sister Cripple and the clan showed up last night, bearing a new stove and fridge for the KatCave. Finally, I can make Chex Mix that won't burn! No more apartment-size fridge jammed to the gills either. They are installing it all while I'm at work today, and my mother is cooking lunch and supper, so I can just kick back and watch everyone else work. They'd better not track mud on my carpet.

And tomorrow, I am on the road at 5:45 to yet another meeting of the talkative. Our weather is expected to be crap, but we have the bus, so I can take along my blankie and drop the moment I hit the seats. And why do we have the bus, you ask? Because one of our wrestlers got herpes and passed it at the Minnesota meet. Minnesota has shut down their meets for 8 days, and our wrestlers are benched (matted?) here in NE until everyone has passed their physicals. Heh heh. Cool.

I'd Give My Right Eye For That

First of all, go check out random squeegee's post. I was going to rant about it today, but he took care of it much better than I could have. People are idiots.

Do you remember this story of Sister Cripple's tale of woe? Well, the hits just keep on coming...literally. It seems that she is no longer satisfied with injuring herself. She has now moved on to inflicting pain upon others.

SC wears arm braces to bed at night to help with her carpal tunnel (as do I - it really does help). Hers are pretty stiff, so her fingers practically stick straight out. Somehow, in the middle of the night, she turned over in bed and poked Jack-Of-All-Trades in the eye.

She laughingly apologized, which pretty much kills the sincerity. He refused to let her look at it, saying she had "done quite enough, thank you". But by the morning, it was hurting so much that he couldn't even open his eye. So once again, they had to make the dreaded trek. JOAT was not one bit happy having to explain to the eye doc that they were in bed at the time of the debacle. And of course, she laughed when he said it, and asked if maybe he would like to rephrase it. Heh. Anyhoo, he had to have ointment put in his eye, and you guessed it - an eye patch.

Since I couldn't be there to mock, SC offered to draw an eye on his pirate patch. JOAT said no thanks. As he put it, knowing his luck and her idiocy, she'd put the pen through the patch and blind him for life. I don't think insurance covers that.