More Spoor (A Stalling Tactic)

I have been a bad bad girl and have been off on a "flit" spreading the porky viral load to South Florida and back.  Fresh stories are a brewin' but until I can spit them out, here're some of the scent markings comments I made on other people's blogs.  Hey! No frowns there! Just sit back and relax!  Enjoy the azure blue sky.

(Oh! And CAUTION if you don't like bad words and feel as though you must "correct" me, stop now!  I use them.  My friends use them.  And, incidentally, so do you!  Glass houses and pots calling kettles etc.  So bite me!) 

~  The principal could've amped his street cred exponentially if he had simply called the girl's phone to see from where the ringtone emerged. And, if she could've actually sent texts on her phone from the wedgie-place, THAT would've impressed me too. And finally, I will never borrow someone's cell phone again!

~  It's when the bag of cat shit ends up in the freezer and is mistaken at holiday time for Aunt Polly's pecan log cookies, THAT'S when the chickens come home to roost.

~  Process. I write to give voice to things I would've said to people had they been listening, or even acting like they were listening. That way, if they are interested, they can get back to what I was saying at their leisure. Of course I will have already moved on by then.

~  You got to tell that inner dialogue of yours to lighten up! When my mobius loop of self- loathing fires up, I wrestle it down into a full nelson headlock and kick its frickin' ass. If you get tired, I am sure Sweets will tag in and gladly dole out the harsh on your behalf as well. With every subsequent beat down, that little whispering hissing asshole negativity demon is learning that it is unpleasant getting jacked up by me and is limping off to do something related but less hazardous. Like sell used cars. Or politics. (Hope I made you laugh!)

~  (This one came back to me)  Linnnn: Christ on a biscuit, no wonder Willy Wonka left the Oompa-Loompa birthing room out of the tour. Can you imagine the fucking mayhem those little brats would have wreaked in there? That fat German kid probably would have eaten all that shit too, even though the taco meat probably smelled like rotting bird diarrhea, and then the Oompa-Loompas would have inflicted massive loompadeath on that obese fuck.

~  Oh did I tell you about the kid who barfed on his phone as he was walking right next to me? I screamed and ran.

~  ...the kindness of strangers. She probably was the Queen of the Underworld and with one simple hand gesture kept the goblins and gremlins and Tupperware Ladies from descending on your ass in the dark of the night. Must've been the pink dress. And she didn't make you guess her name in some fell game of cat and mouse. Damn, you were lucky!

~ Born in the wings of a theatre, (kinda, my Mom was an actor), I learned never to throw a hat on the bed, whistle backstage or utter the name of Shakespeare's "M" play before a performance of any kind. Those little nuggets of "magical thinking" (I like that description by the way, very fairies and unicorns) became my OCD touchstones even when not anywhere near the theatre.

~  The Boy Cousins wanted to marry me at first. I am told I was ok with that until after lunch they lured me out on a sandbar in the middle of a river in Missouri in my new red cowgirl boots. I sunk up to my waist in the sand/mud as the boy cousins ran gleefully away. At dusk my Uncle Bob found and liberated me, leaving my red boots behind in the vacuum grip of the mud. And I had peed my pants at least twice during the hours that went by. Life metaphors a'poppin'!

~  From my experience with Soccer Leagues, the BigWig tends to be a paralegal in real life!

~  Taking a wrecking ball to the hell-spawn igneous monolith of a 4 year long perniciously evil writer’s block was the first reason. And, attached like a sucking lamprey to that, the need to drive a stake through the heart of the parasitic oppression (read Douchebag) who once called my writing fluffy, frivolous and not significant. Second: To supplant the Dreaded Annual Holiday Letter which never manifested until Groundhog Day after several rounds of excruciating self-inflicted guilt. Well, the gaining of jiggling holiday poundage was in there too. “It” (my blog) is more than what I expected, however. It seems to be saving my heretofore sucker-punched, lost and wandering soul. And even though AdSense banned me for innocently checking out every one of the ads with which they initially festooned my blog like some vomitous pinata,(no clickeee no clickeee) I am not writing for money (yet), I am writing for love.

~  Flowers! Full tank! Cupcakes! All the while juggling his very own ass that was handed to him! Tim is strangely angelic. And nimble with that ass juggling.

~  I have seen the pig and he are us. Hi! High on Tamaflu I am making no sense but actually did, in fact, receive the Swine Flu diagnosis. And, yes, Jessica you will shit yourself if you have it…it’s part of the package. In fact, I was driving by Atlanta thinking “this is where Jessica lives” while puking in a McDonalds bag at 70 mph. Stay home. Assume horizontal.

~  (Sound FX: Tires screeching, the “crump” of metal on metal, horn stuck on beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.)

~  Your pups are the spittin' images of my first two dogs - Cody and Bill. They actively babysat my kids leading many to say that they were raised by wolves. So be it. I know of no better foster parents than those dogs. Kept the babies nice and clean and always afforded a soft landing when toddling. I am usually a tremendous smart ass when commenting, but I want to thank you for sharing your sweet buddies so I could properly remember my two devoted companions who lived to ripe old ages, passed on and come to me now in my dreams, smiling.

~  Since, in a diabolically patient post WWII revenge plot, my 12 yr old Japanese rice-burner tried to kill me by refusing to disengage cruise control at 70 miles an hour, and I had to stand on the brakes before it plowed into the front window of the Quickee Mart in Port Charlotte Florida potentially killing several stinking homeless men and a collection of Mexican migrant workers,I, like you, broke and desperate needed a new "reliable" non-homicidal vehicle. So Ursula, the PT Cruiser, came into my life - only 2000 miles on her and she was cheap. I could tell it was messing with her self-esteem when I first glimpsed her slumping like some emo teen in the lot. All because she hit a bear while being driven by the car dealer's buddy. Had to have that car. So I have a new-ish cheap car with something most people would find repulsive - bear fur permanently inbedded in secret places. I am so fucking weird I find that fascinating! In short, like I am capable of that: The dealers have secrets to ferret out, and one of those shady bear-killing bastards may have a new "reliable" vehicle for you with maybe just one small skeleton in its closet.


~  "Oh nowhere. Just out to get cereal and play darts." Cereal turns out to be the lure I will employ to coax my freakishly recalcitrant spawn into the local CVS to receive the shot(s). I have the shot-giver, an old gal who is slow and gives those place-the-tip-of-needle-on-epidermis-and-push-in-slowly shots, training to increase her speed so I have at least a chance of subduing the one while the other gets darted. Otherwise all bets are off.