Ska Pastora

LYNEL: If you’re interested, we’re tripping balls on saliva tonight.
DENIM: I dunno…
LYNEL: Dude. Dude.
DENIM: What’s it like?
LYNEL: It’s like being in the seventh level of hell tortured by demons.
DENIM: Shit.
LYNEL: You gotta try it.

Orange spice tea

A girl with thick black hair burnt the top of her hand pouring hot water for orange spice tea in the cafeteria. I didn’t say anything and was waiting my turn for economy coffee. I could’ve offered ooooo, eeeee, or gotta hurt but decided that’d probably embarrass her. No I didn’t. I hesitated towards a mug and felt relieved she didn’t make eye contact.

instant messenger, modern man

screenname1: i’m just saying, you’re going to have to chose
screenname2: yeah
screenname2: fuck
screenname2: oh well, you warned me
screenname1: you don’t want to be with her when she’s starring in that gangbang video
screenname2: what?
screenname1: no no…i mean, that’s something she would do
screenname2: yeah
screenname2: fuck
screenname2: that’s gross [...]
screenname2: she’s a slut in the making
screenname1: she’s a slut in the now
screenname2: yeah
screenname2: dude
screenname2: fuck sluts
screenname1: you love sluts
screenname2: I know

squid…Squid!

Giant fucking squid! Not a beached tentacle or a predictable made-for-TV movie. Oh, the scientists thought Darren would be all chill like a manta ray…not so. Ha-ha! He’s a giant fucking squid, what do you think he’s going to do? Get pissed, of course, and attack your shit.
“Yeah, so I lost a tentacle attacking this hook that I thought was a maybe a sea giraffe,” Darren told reporters. “At least I still have a dick three-quarters the length of my body.”

Stephen Dedalus

Selected quotes from a column by a Hillsdale College Christian Studies major:

1.) The Greek system as a whole puts a capital “p” in the word “philanthropy”.
What? I think even assistant principals, sales supervisors, and pee-wee football coaches feel like dickcheeses when they used that idiom.

2.) Our school is the academic home to some of the brightest and most intelligent minds in the Midwest, and yet we use so little brain power when it comes to the words we use to describe our peers.
Huh, too true, too true.
Where’s the love, y’all?…people killin’, people dyin’…

3.) We all sat in the front lawn on the first day of our freshman year and wondered how our lives would unfold in Hillsdale.
…with unicorn stickers on our Trapper-Keepers.

4.) It’s good to have variation.
I’d also like to offer that it’s good to do good stuff sometimes, and, like, we gotta start helping each other more.

Screwdriver

Would you slit your Achilles Tendon with a screwdriver for a new pair of shoes (of your choosing)? A new pair of shoes, that is, every week for the rest of your life. How’s that for raising the stakes?
Rules:
1.) No anesthesia or medical attention for twelve hours.
2.) I pick the screwdriver.
3.) The shoes cannot be filled or plated with valuables.
4.) You will be compensated for the medical attention, but wave the right to legal action in cases of gangrene, etc.
5.) One (1) British manservant will be provided for shopping assistance.

Team Frank!

As printed earlier this month in the Fort Wayne News-Sentinel, my mother’s (see: Dianne Elizabeth Blomquist Frank) commentary on a most humdrum Hoosier fiasco:

OK, let’s get it right. All this hubbub about daylight-saving time and zones; all those cloaked late-night sessions debating the merits of saved energy and safety issues for little Joey waiting at the bus stop, etc., etc, etc., have made their points. There have been special assemblies and voting sessions where serious-looking and -sounding politicians spoke with impassioned pleas for Indiana to get with the program and “spring forward/fall back” like the majority of the more forward-thinking conscientious states.

I’ve listened and learned and listened, but still feel the same basic thought coming into my mind. The central issue to my way of thinking; the issue that keeps me on the fence in this impassioned debate is (drum roll please) – why do I want to add another technological challenge to my life?

I only have to look around to see the many challenges staring at me with their counter-clockwise-cracking faces or their digital disdain. Yes, there are people looking not at the energy saved but the energy required to personally adapt to the cursed “spring forward/fall back” regardless of whether they are in the Eastern or Central time zone.

We are not wooed by that glib phrase because we know the meaning behind those innocuous words. Now, I do have to admit, I have help readily available in my husband and sons who will have pity on their technologically challenged mom and come to her rescue with their nerdy skills, but what about those individuals that have no one handy to change the appliances, VCR, DVD player, etc.? Must they live with 12:00 flashing for the rest of their mortal lives?

As my second son and I were discussing, Indiana politicians could have taken this issue and, instead of spending serious moments of debate in the capital, they could have drawn from their right brain (or talked to their wives) and taken Indiana to a new level in the tourism department. New slogans citing Indiana as the state where time remains constant could have been marketed. I see it all now. A happy family is tuned into its family viewing hour and the station break occurs. There stands Ward Cleaver looking at his watch. He turns to June and says “Indiana! Indiana the state that doesn’t get caught up in those gimmicky schemes of change. Indiana the state that never changes. Sounds like the place for me. Call Wally and the Beav and let’s go now!”

Why join the crowd? Let’s stay different, distinct and clock solid. Oops, I guess that battle has been lost. Trust me; we could have had a great state promotional campaign. Now we’re just part of all those people asking their grandkids to set the right time.

Sh-shake it off

Ryan Leng (nom de amour: Bootpie Honeybear) is starting a new band that will reputedly rattle your ovaries, so, for over an hour and despite his disinterest, I suggested a string of band names which included: Gordon Bombay, Helen Keller Reads…Poorly, and Shrapnel Enema & The Bleeders. Still, I think the majesty of “Fart Shake” struck a chord with all. Or just me. Nevertheless, Ryan, it’s public domain now, so don’t blame me when fifteen topless Fartfaces are coked-out in the arena dressing room of some chump with a Squire guitar and ear for gold.
Side note: I was relieved to find no Google Image results for “fart shake”.
Christ, I don’t even want to think about the levels of latency in this post.

J

House-pal Jon Gibbons (J. Arthur, as I prefer) tripped out on pesticides and rolled balls of his own shit in an Marriott elevator to pelt me with. I growled at him in a demonic voice hoping to turn his ride sour, but he bounded around the woods and shot up passerbys Happiness-style. I told him about it this morning, but he seemed to have no recollection. Pppfff. Asstrick.

I’ll go with any single-letter praenomen besides “J”. The hang loose sign is sooo male blond streaks.

I’m not a secular apologist, but it’s not my fault God doesn’t exist.

All sticks and nothing lasts.

Lest we forget

Iraqi civilian body count
Photo by Carolyn Cole, Los Angeles Times