Saturday, February 2, 2019

Really, Really Bad Valentine's Day Gifts for 2019

First of all, I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day. It's a Hallmark holiday designed to psychically wound the single, the lovelorn, the dumped, and all the depressed losers who are clearly unworthy of love.

But it's really much more dreadful if you are actually in a relationship, and your dumbass sweetie decides to purchase a last-minute Valentine's Day gift for you at the local drugstore. Because then you know your significant other is a psychopathic asshole.

An amputated Valentine sloth in a cup. His expression pretty much affirms that your loved one is a cheating bag o' dicks.
Here is this year's crop of creepy, unromantic, and soul-crushing gifts that will make you question JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING about that cheap-ass bum who used his CVS "ExtraCare" bucks to buy you a deflated, phallic stuffie that was made in a factory by weeping orphans.

I think this thing is intended to be a sex toy of some kind, with nubby stubs for "her pleasure." Honestly, you should not want to feel it even touching your neck, let alone your vulva. Plus, it has been manhandled by every germy-handed kid that came into the store, and probably gnawed on by a teething baby. 
This puppy's heartbreaking sadness speaks volumes about the person who gave this gift to you.  The flowery quote on the back reads: "Not even the noblest of poets has measured what the human heart can bear. I, too, have sought in vain for my soulmate, my love, my other self, only to end weeping on the shores of life's bitter mysteries. I have felt pain. I have felt sorrow. I have loved more magnificently than one will ever fathom. By the way, this huge box of chocolates will make your ass even fatter than it currently is. Which is a difficult thought to endure."
Nuff said.
Let me say this once, and once only. THERE IS NOTHING SEXY ABOUT THIS. Nor does the giraffe look "wild." He looks like he needs to redirect the Viagra from the neck to the nethers. And that bow-tie? Break up with whomever gave this to you ASAP. You do not want to grow old with that motherfucker. 
There something vaguely penile about this. Maybe it's just me. 
Seriously, this is even better than Mr. Romance of a few years past, because this dildo is EDIBLE. Did I say that out loud? No, I typed it! However, one has to wonder who gives this gift. If it's a decrepit old auntie, you might forgive her. But if your lover gives you this gift, he has an offshore bank account and is likely screwing the neighbor's cockapoodle.
Yes, if "love" means sitting on the toilet for a few hours after the 'Love Bandit" has made its way through your colon.

Seriously, WHY would you ever think this is a good idea? What he really means is "If you try to leave me I will KILL YOU and feed you to my pet hogs." The man who gives you this is secretly into German Scheisse Videos. 
Speaking of Scheisse. Maybe this is supposed to be a Hershey's Kiss, but it looks an awful lot like a shiny, space-age turd. Like that emoji turd, maybe, but with a twist and a dollop of extra turd on the top? But it LUVS you.
Woodstock, drunk in the gutter and consumed with existential angst. If I got this I would cry for about 5 days over the cruel, cruel nature of this terrible world. Then I would call my attorney.
When I visited Walgreen's, I noticed a store employee arranging the terrible panoply of stuffed horrors on the shelves. He did not seem to notice the casual way in which he flung this spank-ass Mickey Mouse into the shelf, but I did. Titillating! Inviting, even!

For more Valentine's Day fun on this blog, you might like:

22 Awesomely Terrible Valentine's Day Gifts
Terrifying and Dismal Valentine's Day Gifts

Subliminal Messages Behind Common Valentine's Day Gifts

All the Beautiful Ways to Say I Love You

Thursday, January 31, 2019

I Made a Pet Out of My House Mouse

I now have a pet mouse. In the absence of any other pets, I have decided to adopt the only other female in the household, who happens to be vermin. In fact, I am not sure "she" is even a female. It has been suggested that "she" is a male who has a wife and litter behind the stove, and is thieving crumbs and goodies to fatten his family.

I resent these accusations, for I have a spiritual bond with "Avomato," whom I have named due to her obvious loves of avocados and tomatoes. She has destroyed many such items.

Avomato requires a balanced diet. Including CHEE-TOS!

Bloodthirsty members of my household have many things to say:

"Mom, are you really putting a plate out with snack for a MOUSE?"

"What is WRONG with you?"

"This mouse must die."

Why do I have such a soft spot for wee Avomato? Is it because when I am typing away, lonely as a monk, I hear her stirrings in the kitchen as she drags away a glorious orange Chee-to that I have left for her?

Others have suggested that Avomato will leave "poo." All I have to say is that she is very cleanly thus far, and has left only 1-2 small turds. Or maybe 3-7. Or 8-15. I vacuum them up with the Dustbuster and all is good.

Who can say this for their cats? Cats leave large and horrible turds in litter boxes, which must be pulled out daily, lest the cats get snarky. Dogs are worse. Who hasn't seen a happy dog walker, swinging a hot bag o' turd as they stroll along, having wrenched that very turd from its clutches in some neighbor's grassy sod? I have had the pleasure to walk a dog, and the experience of tearing the turd from the grass blades nearly made me wretch.

Avomato's wee turds are tiny. And there is no scent. The fact that they are on MY KITCHEN COUNTER is troubling, but as long as they don't mingle with anything similar (e.g. chia seeds) and I disinfect the counter regularly, what's the trouble?

I have stepped into dog turds in neighbor's lawns, unawares, in sandals. Just saying. This was disturbing.

The only problem with Avomato is her lack of true love. I give, and she receives. She never cuddles with me. She is rather heartless, after all. She hides whenever I come to greet her with a hearty "Avomato, my love!" Just earlier, I spied her from the outside window, head into a bowl of gnocchi. I rushed inside to have a heart-to-heart, but she had vanished behind the stove. It is a one-sided relationship, but I don't mind.

She is perhaps faithless, and cruel. She is perhaps a male mouse. She is nothing I imagined, but I feed her all the same. I leave small things out for her, because it is brutally cold outside. Where would she go now? What would she find to eat? What if a plethora of Avomatos invade my kitchen, come the spring?

She found me. She found my warm kitchen. She found my expectant heart, open to a creature we normally would rather extinguish from our lives. Many would have purchased a trap. Please, for goodness sake, don't ever use one of these sticky traps. They couldn't be crueler. In college, my friend and I found a passel of tiny, stuck mice on a "Mr. Sticky" mousetrap. The custodial staff had put them down, unbeknownst to us. Heartbroken, we thought about peeling the mice off, before we realized that to do so we would have to tear their limbs off. The glue was that strong. I don't want to tell the end to that story; it has haunted me to this day.

If you must use a trap, use a humane one: See Me and the Mouse in the Night.

Who is to say who should be lucky, and who unlucky? What differentiates you from the mother mouse who climbs frantically from the broom which has dislodged her from her nest in the garage? What makes you better? Do you care for your children more? Would you climb down walls with your children clinging to your back, knowing that there is no savior waiting for you? I've seen a frantic mother mouse doing just that. A group of mice is called a "mischief." A mouse can squeeze through a hole the size of half a dime.

Are you that amazing? I think not.

I will choose to be kind—senselessly, stupidly—even for the smallest and meanest among us. I would rather make the mouse a heroine in a children's bedtime story. May there still be little boys listening to that story. Boys who would make a mouse sentient, and allow her a name. She will have a story to tell. This heroine mouse might become a memory when you are old and jaded, and will awaken a small spark of empathy.

But if cockroaches ever rear their heads, they ain't welcome. Kindness has its limits.

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

The Same 10 Questions I Always Ask Myself, November 2018

It's been a dreadful long time since I posted on this blog, so I decided to resurrect this recurring feature from the distant past.

1. What are you wearing?
A "schwag" fleece given to me by a former employer, which is too embarrassing to wear because of the logo, but is awful warm. It makes me feel like a "Best Buy" employee who is forced to wear the company uniform. So I will wear it around the house in a lurking fashion.  I think I may have to sew a patch over the company logo. Then it will be acceptable.

2. What's the nature of today's hypochondria?
The theme of 2018 is definitely mental illness. My WebMD searches reveal such terms as "How do you know you're going crazy?" and "Signs you have Schizophrenia." I even took a quiz that asked me  if I heard voices and saw things that "obviously aren't there." Obviously? How do I know that they are "obviously" not there? I see nothing and hear nothing, obviously. Unfortunately, this means I am mentally well. Is there a pill for this condition?

3. What was today's workout?
I sat my ass in a chair and typed. I'm angry about it. Note to the wise: Work out in the morning, lest the day escape you.

4. How do you do what you do and stay so sweet?
I use the phrase "bless his/her heart" whenever appropriate.  I learned this from my Texas friends. It's a phrase that really means "Fuck this asshole," but it sounds so much nicer.

5. What's that burning smell?
The house mouse ran into the fireplace and extinguished itself.

6. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
Today I should be a turkey vulture, and settle upon a still-warm carcass. I actually enacted this role last summer, with some campers. Digging out their entrails was good fun.

7. What are you drinking, and why?
I am drinking down the angst of too many days wasted and ignored. Nights there are when I sip a sullen hunger.

8. In what ways hast thou offended?
I failed to plan for dinner tonight and thus hast ordered many pizzas, which feed my hungry sons but provide no real pleasure in the cooking arena. I opted for Blue Apron as a test. It will be delivered this Saturday. Bring it on.

9. What's the next big thing?
Summer camps for adults. S'Mores and cocktails. Slip 'n' Slides followed by rabid dance parties. Arts & Crafts with body painting. That sort of thing.

10. Music selection?
Camera Obscura: My Maudlin Career. 

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Netflix Presents: The Caged Orangutan

I've been watching The Crown on Netflix. Although the Queen is rather priggish and tweedy, the series has many merits. Among them are the chance to practice one's parade wave (it's really quite dismissive, without any sort of real effort—it's just a wiggle, without any jazz sauce thrown in) and one's accent ("Why, thenk ewe—best delivered after the children have inadvertently put the dishes in the actual dishwasher just because it was open and blocked their path to the sink.)

It has given me cause to think about what Netflix might produce next, and I do believe I have the answer, thenk eww. My series shall be entitled: The Caged Orangutan. It will cover the all-too-brief presidential reign of Donald J. Trump, and ooh, it'll be a goody.

Focusing on the truth rather than the facts, The Caged Orangutan will present a sympathetic story of a beast too noble for the chains and limitations of public office. The series will offer viewers a rare glimpse of behind-the-scenes triumph as the titular Orangutan handily escapes a fetid, burbling swamp of his enemies' making and, instead, rises to glory.

Herewith, I present Season One's list of episodes. All shall be directed with the utmost attention to historical and period detail, but may be altered as regards the facts, for facts are alternative. I await the day when we can hearken back to this timeless era! Oh, do I.

Episode One: "A Thrice-Married, Incoherent Fool, Say You?"
The Donald unites the nation with a soaring, eloquent inaugural address, which draws crowds larger than ever imagined by man or beast. The mall, fouled with many human footprints and empty fast-food wrappers, becomes a symbol of a nation soiled by too many liberal Democrats. Chuck and Nancy engage in a plot to kidnap orphans and sell their spleens to pay for Medicare.

Episode Two: "Alternative Facts"
Presidential advisor Kellyanne Conway stuns and awes the populace with a newly-coined phrase. The Donald chastises Spicey over his poor wardrobe choices. Eric shoots a magnificent lion. Melania engages in fisticuffs with a rogue WH staff member, and upsets the tea service. Barron retires unto a closet where he still awaits for someone to come get him out.

Episode Three: "Rise, Frederick, Rise!"
The Donald invokes the spirit of long-dead Frederick Douglass, inspiring a nation of young African-American men and women to don MAGA hats and follow his Twitter feed with acclaim. Jared makes progress with the Kremlin, and Mitch McConnell's face grows 73% droopier. Paul Ryan gets an unexpected handjob.

Episode Four: "Your Ratings Are Rather Poor"
During a prayer breakfast, the Donald demonstrates his Christian values while he simultaneously savages the career of Arnold Schwarzenegger. Nordstrom drops Ivanka's clothing line, leading to a massive boycott and an almost-complete shutdown of the economy and the train lines. Conway saves the day with a selfless ethics violation. Spicey renews investors' faith in Wrigley's gum products by gnawing 56 sticks in as many minutes.

Episode Five: "Tapp This!"
Notorious foreign-born black dude, Obama, is caught red-handed tapping Trump's phone lines, and is excluplutated to Mexico, homes of rapists and a few good folk. Donald Jr. wrassles a snake. Hillary is caught mangling multiple email accounts. Eric shoots a giraffe. Tiffany makes a surprise appearance. The economy comes to a halt due to Obama's prior machinations. As a result, we are now 1.4 trillion dollars more in debt! "Thank eww, Democrats, for doing nothink but badnesses in the name of poor and sadly uninformed and ill-dressed poeples," says Ivanka. "Thenks to the dreary democrats."

Episode Six: "The Mooch"
The Donald obstructs justice, but with jazz hands. James Comey perfects his ice-skating routine. Anthony Scaramucci delivers a searing and uplifting speech, and is subsequently fired for poor footwear. Ivanka tries on new shoes. Melania is fitted for a new outfit. Don Jr. and Eric work on their collusion strategy, and attempt a high-five, with poor results. Several national monuments become limited, due to their unfortunate life choices.

Episode Seven: "It's Mueller Time!"
The Donald visits storm-battered Puerto Rico, where he tosses cans of tuna, cartons of eggs, and rolls of napkins at the poor, to much acclaim and some head injuries. Mueller closes in and indicts Flynn, Manafort, and Papadopoulus. The latter is recognized as a "very brief little wee piddling underling and perhaps coffee boy in his Majesty's court." "He perhaps once brought us an herring," says Ivanka. "'Twas a very small herring."

Episode Eight:"Rocket Boy"
Regretting his early  months as being "soft," the Donald engages in a war of words with North Korea. "Little Rocket Man" responds by firing a payload of nuclear weapons at an unnamed place in the ocean. Eric bets on a horse. Don Jr. retains new attorneys. Melania purchases new real estate, banking on the planned tax bill to come. Obama windsurfs and sports new board shorts.

Episode Nine: "God Bless the United Schstateshsh"
After the Donald's dentures come unhinged during a speech, his dentist is brought in for a routine waterboarding. Melania researches vacation spots. The IRS continues their unjust audit of Trump's taxes. but promise to keep the audit going "as long as you are King, mine seigneur." Don Jr. and Eric shoot an infirm water buffalo. Melania adjusts Barron's bowtie. Kellyanne retains a new math tutor for brothers Eric and Don Jr.

So much is to come in Season Two, so stay tuned!

The all-star cast of The Caged Orangutan:
Douche-Schwister McFister as "Steve Bannon"
Gloriana "Jennie" Boobaster as "Kellyanne Conway'

Jonny Dirtdover as "The man with the face of the turtle"
Gen'l Dirk Fistfihéter as "Mike Flynn"

Wendy Smith as "the Swamp Rat"
Homer Gorphins as "Paul Ryan"

Judy Lovephin as the voice of "Jared Kushner"

Lyle and Erik Menendez as Eric and Don Jr.

(c) Bricklayers Union of America. 

Whoever she is. Dude, I would date her if she were not my daughter.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Dear President Trump, I Demand My Pony

Dear President Trump,

You may not remember me, but we met at one of your rallies. I approached you and expressed my need for a pony. I said: "I am one of your sorrowful and fragrant forgotten people, and you need to do me a SOLID. I am a 'Party Pony,' yet I possess no pony. Sad!"

I got your signature on my #MAGA hat but you didn't notice the fine print stitched inside the hat, which reads: "You will be getting a pony from me, Donald J. Trump." Because you don't like to read I did not bother you with it.

Without a pony, I am like Obamacare in its "death spiral." Without my promised pony, I can no more hold my head up proudly than you can count on KellyAnne not to rattle her chains in the "Black Hole of Calcutta" which is another term for the SUB SUB BASEMENT of the White House.

Is my pony down there, Mister President? Because I would very much like to claim him!

Does KellyAnne have my pony??!!

My pony will need a wall. A large wall. This wall will protect him from DRUGS and PONY TRAFFICKING.

I would like my wall to be 85 feet in circumference plus 8 feet in height to protect from marauding deer and pony rapists and peddlers of biblical literature. I would also like the wall to have the name TRUMP in giant gilt lettering so the animals know to be scared. I would like a separate bathroom for each type of animal, excepting the queer ones. They can piddle in the woods.

Can I get the name "Trump" tattooed onto my actual pony, Mister President? I would like the tattoo to be in gold. Can you please make the tail end of the "p" in "Trump" look like a flowing mane and the top part of the "p" look like a pony's face? Here is a sketch so that you get it perfect:

If I don't get my pony, which I will, then more DRUGS and bad hombres will liberally drown my pony in offal. This is what my pony would look like on drugs and do I need to tell you that this is bad?!! No, I do not. I drew this picture of my pony while on so many drugs it's ridiculous! Unbelievable!

I want my pony to be a handsome animal, President Trump. He should be bedecked and beblazoned with COAL DUST and other detritus of planet-destroying badness. He should wear a collar of plastic bags from the Great Plastic Garbage Patch! Which is a hoax! I shall call him: TRUMPLETTE, and he will be mighty among very small horses.

My pony will shit into the beautiful streams of our great country! Its farts will cause the ozone layer to COMPLETELY DECAY! Ha, ha—that's fake news because THERE IS NO OZONE LAYER. My pony will belch forth great witticisms and strategies and (unintelligible)!

I would like my pony to be delivered by military aircraft. And I get to keep the aircraft. No, wait. I would actually like my pony delivered by ARMADA. Use MapQuest, please. I will also be keeping the armada. Send the aircraft too, at a discreet distance so my neighbors don't get alarmed.

My pony needs to be super-duper, higher, better, better. In fact, this will be its middle name! Actually, find me a pony whose middle name is ALREADY "Super-Duper, Higher, Better, Better." I want this documented and I want to see its birth certificate. Make sure the "higher" part is figurative because I don't want any stoned-ass, pot-smoking pony.

The pony's last name should be "Unintelligible" because I see that you used this word maybe EIGHTY-FIVE TIMES in your latest interview so it must be a word that you love very much! I will also love my pony very much!!!

Make sure that you find me a pony whose last name is ALREADY "Unintelligible." I do not want to have a pony who has changed his surname, because that pony might be Mexican, which means the pony is a gang member. Gang members are impalatable to me and to many others, including youth.

My pony will be the greatest pony in the history of, but you know what, I'll take that also, but that you could be. He will be the greatest pony but I will also accept the other. You know what I mean. Just get me my pony.

You promised me a PONY. I am not yet weary of winning. I have much energy!

Eagerly awaiting delivery of my pony, "Trumplette Super-Duper, Higher, Better, Better Unintelligible,"
The Party Pony

Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Things We Remember, for Tamar Kitzmiller (1954-2017)

Do you remember the time, Tamar, that we hiked that wild mountain in Vermont, so intent on our gossiping that we missed the trail junction and continued for a full mile down the wrong trail? We recognized our mistake far too late into the game, and quickly became panicked at the realization that we had to pick up your tween daughter at a local ice-skating rink. She would be disappointed and annoyed. Rather than fess up to our own idiocy, we concocted a fake story about encountering a mother bear and her cubs on the trail. They had menaced and delayed us! And the cubs were dreadfully cute. There were three of them. One had a stubby tail. One had a lisp, etc.

Your daughter ate up that story, She quizzed us about the adorable cubs. We lied like bandits to her, and to the kindly dad who had given her a ride home from the rink. The truth came out quickly, of course. Do you remember how I snortled, "We sure fooled that old Griff fellow!" without realizing that we had failed to properly hang up the phone and he could still hear us? (His name was something like Mr. Griffin.) Did we ever get the business from J and H, who were both disgusted and amused! ("You rotten, rotten liars.")

I could be altering some details of the story because memory doesn't always serve, but I suppose it doesn't matter. You're not here to correct me anymore, Tamar, so it's my story now. But it's still ours. It was a long time ago. Forgive me.

You surely remember our trip to the "Bloody Brook," in dead of night. It was in your hometown of Norwich, VT. We thought it would be a grand old idea to venture out en masse and skinny dip, drinks in hand. When we arrived at the Blood Brook, we found that the relative lack of rain had limited the brook to a shallow trickle. We went in anyway, dipping our nethers in a few sad inches of water. We laughed and laughed, and we scrabbled over the wet stones to find our shoes. We looked up to the full moon. We padded home in the dark, shoes in hand, drunk with love of our lives.

On another occasion, J and S polyglued eggs to an old railroad tie and we shot them clean away with BB guns. And we lit a bonfire by soaking a roll of TP in fluid and firing it down a zipline from an upstairs bathroom into a big garbage can of combustible materials. Does this sound impossibly dangerous? Oh, yes. But you have to understand: We were all guaranteed to live forever.

On so many Halloweens before I had children of my own, we painted our faces and carved pumpkins and roasted the seeds in olive oil and salt and ate them until our stomachs were sick. I spilled a mason jar of seeds into your front lawn and picked them out of the grass blades and ate them anyway. I was dressed as Ballet Pumpkin, or the Octo-Moose, or a Flying Purple People Eater—my costumes have always been a bit unique, and you lent your support with your clever sewing and additions. You always styled yourself as a one-of-a-kind witch—with such enormous creativity! I recall the Halloween when you had a smoking urn of dry ice on the lawn, and you sat in grand splendor with makeup so thick and green that no one could recognize you.

(Years earlier, I also recall arriving at your home for a visit and going to use the toilet, after a very long drive. I opened the lid to a smoking cauldron of doom. I thought the toilet was about to explode! Dry ice. Thanks for the panic attack, guys.)

You had a red door on that house, and a yellow lantern. You had cross-country skis on the wall of your garage. I once dug a flowerbed for new tulips in your backyard. When we had boys (all three of them), we sat in your backyard and made "Pine Noodle Soup" and played catch with a rubber chicken. I always felt at home there. We sat under a tree that oozed with sap and looked out on the half-pipe that J built for your son W and we talked until the sky grew light. We never ran out of things to talk about. Nor would we now, if I had the chance.

Just give me one clear night. One afternoon, in hazy sunshine. Give me your cats Blossom and Addie, who once crawled into my guest room and kneaded my chest for comfort in the night, or your small black cat, Misty, who darted in terror from our amateur movie-making, in which we made her an unwitting victim of a fiend that rose from the leach field. But most of all, give me you, Tammy. I miss your sweet, chuckling, authentic laugh. I wish everyone reading this who didn't know Tammy could hear  your  laughter. It was the best laugh ever possible. Real as anything you can touch with your hands. Yours was a laugh that suggested there was a deep river of goodwill flowing beneath us all, and you were privy to the source. You loved your life.

My god, but every moment matters. Because you're gone now, Tamar, and you were my sister in heart, and I never ever thought you would be gone. I sort of thought we would have another moment, another time, to recollect each and every one of these stories. I know you were a bit older than me, and all, but I never thought of you as such. You were young in every way. I could come to you and say: "Let's make fancy hats and costumes and parade down the road and toss water balloons at everyone just to delight their souls and knock them off their rockers," and you would never ask "Why?" You would only ask, "When? And do you have the water balloons handy?" Or better yet, "Let me fill them! Where's the nearest water tap?"

I remember my very first trip to Norwich, VT. Our dear friend S introduced us. I met you and J, and we sat by the fire, and he tossed popcorn at your knees, for no reason I could discern. There was a bright painting of hummingbirds above the mantel. The next day I slept in, and you all teased me relentlessly, saying I was "due the sleep to which I was accustomed and would sleep until the time to which I was accustomed." We went to a local apple festival and bought and ate crisp apples, and you gave me a lunchbag stuffed with goodies and trail mix that I took home and ate, bit by bit, until it was depleted. You called me "Princess Pomme" and later "Princess Pumpkin." I took your teasing for love. I pretty much knew that I loved your family then and there. I loved you. I love you. You one day said I was the little sister you never had. I couldn't be more grateful for that role.

Over time, over years, as your children grew, their artwork came to fill the walls of your home. The green-snouted thing with the purple eyes. A massive sunflower. Lopsided little clay cups on the windowsill. And as your children grew further, we played games. Your daughter drew a rabid raccoon during a game of Pictionary, and it stayed magnetized to the refrigerator for years, its eyes two magnificent little spirals. A quote appeared one year, attached to a cartoon, perhaps: "God does not play dice with the universe." J put that there. He's wonderfully clever, often challenging us to logic puzzles and math games. He loved you for more than 40 years. And we love him. He is as much a part of us as you are. And so are your children. We aren't related by blood, but we are all family, forever.

Do you remember, Tamar? I know you do. Every story, every inside joke, every prank, every night by the fireside singing our hearts out with the boys strumming the guitars, every conversation, every walk in the woods. We lost you sometimes in the "Triangle" and then we found you, and then we lost you again. You and I roamed about at night in our pajamas, and we lay down on the clean earth to look up at the stars. Who will remember your laughter? Who is going to remember "Mahlon Bither" and "Team Goat" and "Braised child under 10" and all of it, all of it, except you and those of us who remain?

Tamar, everything you ever did and said is part of that deep river flowing fast toward we know not where, and we're all standing in it together, and we are stronger and better and braver for having known you. We will all work hard to make this place better than we found it, for certain.

I love you, Tamar.

For Tamar Kitzmiller, 1954-2017.  

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

6 Horrifying Attacks on America! Unreported by Dishonest Fake News Mainstream Media!

Now revealed! Horrifying attacks on U.S. soil, unreported and disregarded by the dishonest and failing fake news mainstream media! We now honor these terrible tragedies and mourn the victims. May they remain forever in our hearts and minds.

Grizzly Vengeance (Every Classroom in America, 2003)

After their last remaining habitat was completely destroyed due to the construction of Trump Glacier National Park Casino and Trump Continental Divide Plaza, undocumented Grizzly bears poured into classrooms everywhere and snacked on lots of little children. Sad! #wearegrizzlyvengeance

If only the little mites had been armed, this senseless slaughter could have been averted.

Vulv-A-Lago (Palm Beach, Florida, 1980-2017)

Many innocent vaginas were indecently grabbed during this ongoing series of heinous attacks, conducted anywhere from airplanes to furniture stores. The perpetrator is still at large. Sales of skirts have fallen sharply since the attacks began. The ominous rattle of Tic-Tacs is usually the only sign that the attacker is approaching. #bevulvalagovigilant

Victims of the Vulv-A-Lago Attacks describe "stubby" and "grabby" hands that were nevertheless "surprisingly quick," "octopus-like," and "seemed to be coated in Cheeto dust."

The Haunting of the National Mall (January 20, 2017)

Hundreds of thousands of dead people, most of whom voted illegally, descended on the National Mall for the Inauguration of the 45th President. The spectres made many spooky noises such as "boo!" and "woooo!" in an attempt to scare the living daylights out of the sparse crowd of flesh-and-blood humans. The living, however, took little notice of them, given that they were fixated on the completely insane scary-ass bat-ass crazy carnage spewing from the new President's mouth. The massive crowd of dead folks—which amounted to the biggest audience to ever witness an inauguration in all of human history, period, end of story, shut your pie hole—went completely unreported by the dishonest and failing news media, who claimed they "couldn't see them."

I see dead people. SO MANY dead people. More dead people than YOU will ever summon, loser.

The "Holla 'Bout the Cost" (Walmart Store, Birmingham, AL, July 7, 2010)

Walmart shopper Wanda Chunks severely annoyed other patrons of the store when she decided to make a big ruckus over the price of an irreverent T-shirt, saying, "I'm not gonna pay eight dollars and fifty-eight cents for this piece of China-made crap!" Ms. Chunks continued to rant and holler about the cost of the T-shirt throughout the transaction, until she grumpily exited the store. Scarred patrons had to be consoled for hours. Despite the fact that the failing and dishonest media omitted the traumatic incident from their news coverage, an official Holla 'Bout the Cost Remembrance Day is now in the works. In a spirit of inclusiveness, Holla 'Bout the Cost Remembrance Day will honor basically anyone who has ever been annoyed while shopping, or irritated by anything at all.

Thanks to new trade tariffs, the price of this T-shirt is now $43.99.

The Fact-Butcher (Multiple Locations, 2016 and ongoing)

This bloodthirsty villain strikes quickly and decisively, mangling and butchering facts with a savagery only equalled by a too-hot flatiron and a dearth of hair conditioner. Distracting its victims with a plea to "look into its heart," the Fact-Butcher then dispatches them with a patently ridiculous statement. Do not engage with the Fact-Butcher. Do not look into its eyes. It will tear your entrails out and feed them to its army of wild pigs. You have been warned. 

I have the appearance of being sorta dead, at least on the inside, and I voted. So, you see, millions of other creepy half-dead and actually dead people must have voted as well. That's why we need an immediate investigation into massive voter fraud. Which must have taken place because my Dear Leader told me so. What do you mean there's "no evidence"? What about the evidence that's in my heart? 

The Man-Turtle Terror (Washington, D.C., February 7, 2017)

A terrifying half-man, half-turtle hybrid ponderously crawled from the sludge at the basin of Washington's newly-drained swamp and, without provocation, attacked a women who was trying to do her job. The creature then fled into the sewers. Any sightings should be reported to the Department of Homeland Security and the Environmental Protection Agency. The dishonest so-called "media" continues to claim that the Man-Turtle Terror is merely a Senator from Kentucky who happens to look remarkably like a turtle. So nasty! Terrible! #StopTheManTurtleTerror