A Riot is an Ugly Thing

The scariest costume I've ever seen

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Halloween musings

I suppose since I have pissed off the gypsies, I need to get another group of magic-wielding women on my side.  I'm picking witches...well, hot sexy witches. I'm afraid of the scary, ugly, living in the gingerbread house witches.  Are witches more powerful than gypsies?  I'm not sure. Are mean, ugly witches more powerful than the hot, sexy, barely dressed witches?  I hope not.

 
 

Wild Kingdom

Today, a mosquito and a spider fought to the death trapped between the outdoor screen and my office window. How do I know they had a fight to the death? Well, both of them are now dead.  They are clasped together in an eternal embrace of death...and by eternal I mean about 8 weeks when both carcasses become desiccated and disintegrate.  They would have done well to note the Klingon Proverb, "Only a fool fights in a burning house", and thus focused on getting out of the space between the screen and window.

Mother Nature is a cunt.  Even though it isn't pleasant, I'm thinking of having that printed on shirts and bumper stickers.  As a younger man, I loved nature programs, and the more raw the better, as far as I was concerned. I even fancied myself a radical Darwinist.  At one time, I would have agreed with the British Wildlife Expert, Chris Packham, who argued that Giant Pandas should be allowed to become extinct, as they have reached an evolutionary dead end. I didn't believe in saving tadpoles dying in a puddle that was drying up, because their parents' genes shouldn't be rewarded for laying eggs in such a temporary water source. 

Now, I have become, as the French say, "a complete and total pussy."  I still like nature programs, but I hate to see animals kill each other.  I hearken back to the old Disney nature programs, where the predators always failed to catch any prey, but still managed to survive. All they had to do was break into the lumberjack's cabin and eat all his food, and, of course, dump flower all over themselves and the cabin.

 I know that's not the way it is, but I don't want reality, anymore.  Every nature program about lions has to do the obligatory section about the old male lion being pushed aside by the younger male lions, and then the younger male lions have to kill all the baby lions, so the mother lions will go into heat and they can mate with them.  All Chimpanzee shows must document the chimps hunting Red Colobus Monkeys and tearing the hapless victims to pieces then fighting over the scraps.  Penguins get caught and tortured by seals, and the seals get caught and tortured by Killer Whales...It is nothing new...seen it!

I don't want to see baby lions getting killed!  I don't want to see monkeys getting slaughtered by chimps. I don't want to see seals being slapped 30 feet into the air by Killer Whale tails for sport.  The animals all live in peace and harmony. Whenever a predator gets out of line, a wise-cracking rabbit pops up and kicks some ass.

Here's something else I don't want to see, the baby-killer lions fucking these lioness whores, who just had their baby's killed by the male lions they are fucking!!!!!!!  Really, I have no interest in actually watching animals have sex, at all! Yes, we know they do it, but we don't have to see it!  When did animal porn become legitimate entertainment?  If I don't want to see human balls, why would I want to see le voyage of Babar's auxiliary trunk into Celeste's elephant realm*?  Wait, that might actually be funny, but only the cartoon version not with real elephants.

More importantly, at what point did I become soft?  I can't watch violent nature programs.  I can't watch Discovery Health, because I can't stand to see the shows about sick little kids.  I don't have kids, except for that bastard Remo. Kids are really kind of transparent and annoying. Why has this become so upsetting?

All I can watch are cartoons and Ghost Hunters.  How long, now, till my balls drop off completely, and I start voting Democratic???

*I'm not going to explain Barbar. Look it up for yourself, if you don't know. Celeste is his cousin, and he married her.  That story is French, and has nothing to do with West Virginia...so, Fuck all of ya! 

What else can possibly go wrong?

In another sign of the pending apocalypse, Garth Brooks is coming out of retirement.  This will certainly be good news for all the fake-ass cowboys* in the DC area.  If there is one thing I can't stand, besides clowns, zombies, mice feet, mimes, Tom Cruise, Christmas lights in April, work, taxes, yellow jackets, management, not using turn signals, balls in porn, mosquitoes, the NBA, and Barry Manilow, it is fake-ass cowboys!!! 

You know what I admire?  Rodeo Bulls. Because their two main purposes are to kill cowboys and clowns. Talk about messengers from God. I'm now declaring rodeo bulls as sacred animals in Keitholicism.

Rodeo bulls are sacred...so let it be written...so let it be done.

* Fake-ass Cowboys pretend to be real cowboys, but they aren't. They hang out and western bars and try to impress women with stupid hats and a phony cowboy act. They pretend to be simple folk, and say "mam" and "that's the way my Momma raised me". Boy, I hate their bull shit!  You just know they can't wait to get these women home, so they can get drunk and punch 'em in the face!  If you aren't from Texas or you don't ride a horse at work and punch cattle, TAKE THE FUCKIN' HAT OFF ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A rental car, Mississippi, and the Gypsy

In the mid-80s, when I first started working for the Navy, I used to travel a bit to the ship building and repair facilities around the country.  One Summer, we went to Charleston, South Carolina. The first night, a huge group of us went through the Historic District of Charleston. After sight-seeing, we went to an interesting restaurant. I don't remember the name, but it was very antebellum, and came recommended by one of the local workers. 

The area around the restaurant probably wouldn't have made the town's tourism brochure, but it didn't look too dangerous.  One of the people with us had been to a gypsy fortune teller nearby, years earlier, and was interested in going back.  She couldn't remember exactly where it was, and it didn't have the customary fortune teller eyeball sign or anything like that.  She used a pay phone (remember them) to call a friend to get directions.  It turns out the place was almost directly across the road from the restaurant. It had a wooden sign with painted red flowers, the name Lady Mirela, and absolutely no lighting.

The seven of us, five dudes and three chicks, hoofed it across the street to the Gypsy lady.  At 25, I was the youngest. I was, at least, eight years younger than any other dude, and three years younger than the youngest lady.  I believe I've made it clear that in my younger days I was amazingly obnoxious, and the witty remarks that now endear me to the world tended to irritate the general population back then.  I can't swear to it, but I believe my lack of impulse control when it came to winging one-liners at the palm reading and tarot card thing might have pissed off Lady Mirela. When it came my turn, she made some mundane prognostications about my monetary and romantic futures, and then dropped a bomb on me. 

She had, of course, refused to be very specific with the others; I assume because they were more respectful than I. However, she made a sad and startled production of  informing me how I would meet my eventual end. I would be killed by my bastard son, Remo, while playing cards.   She didn't tell me when, just how.  As of today, I can account for all my partners and their progeny, save one.

A year before the trip to South Carolina, we went to the commercial shipyard in Pascagoula, Mississippi. The team I went with that time consisted of older people with no taste for the night life. About the third evening we were in Mississippi, we made a trek over to Slidell, Louisiana, to a well-recommended steak restaurant named Young's.  At that time, I was too young to rent a car, but I could drive it...I don't remember why, or even if you can still do this.  I drove to and from Young's, and dropped my stodgy co-workers off at the hotel front desk, as it was 9:15 and they were turning into pumpkins.  I told them I was going to park the car and go back to my room.  After the door closed behind them, I hit the nearest evening hot spot, Thunder's Tavern.

I made the acquaintance of a young lady named Lisa.  She, of course, had an excellent ass, a curvy body, and a butter face.  That's not exactly fair; she wasn't ugly; she just wasn't pretty.  She made the point of telling me she was an octoroon within the first five minutes of our conversation.  I was familiar with the term, but I had no idea that even as far back as the 80s people still used terms like that.  She drank more than I did, which could hint at who among the two of us might actually have possessed the butter face. 

About 1:00, I took her home. She lived in a trailer, spitting distance from the road, and twenty minutes from the hotel.  We wasted little time with any pleasantries, and opted for the sex.  I had no condoms, and neither did she. I was young and drunk, and so was she. So, we both figured it would be a great idea to have unprotected sex with a person we just met three hours ago.

At 6:00, my digital watch alarm played Stars and Stripes Forever. It usually played Dixie, but I changed it before I fell sleep because I wasn't sure if it would offend someone who was one-eighth black. I rolled out of bed, and quickly got dressed. I had the impression that Lisa knew I was awake, but wanted to avoid awkwardness and pretended to still be asleep. For some unknown reason, I decided since I was NEVER going to see her again, I should kiss her good-bye on the cheek. Thankfully, she never moved. 

As I left her bedroom, I was terrified to see a large woman sitting in a wheel chair at the kitchen table. She was smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee.  Through the pain in my head, I recalled the night before Lisa had mentioned to me that she lived with her mother, who was disabled.  I began a very short walk of shame from the bedroom to the front door. Mrs. Lisa's-Momma said, "Hello." Trying to convey, I'm really not the asshole I seem to be, I replied "Morning."  It was n't convincing, and I very nearly threw up on my way out the door.  Due to my inebriation, I really didn't think I was porn-level, but Lisa was really appreciative of the effort in the form of being very loud.  Mrs. Lisa's-Momma had to have heard the game in progress.  It all seemed a bit weird. As I went out the door, sure enough, steps to the right, and wooden wheel chair ramp to the left.  In the dark, drunk and horny, I missed it.

I managed to get back to the hotel in time to shower, and meet my co-workers at 7:30 for a breakfast I eventually couldn't keep down.

To make a long story short, I never tried to find Lisa again before I flew back to Maryland, and have never been back to Mississippi since.  I sweated out the fear of a social disease thing for a few months and nothing ever happened.  I was able to maintain a sense of denial that children could result from this ill-conceived coupling, poor choice of words right?  I didn't tell Lisa my last name, or even my first name. Keith is my middle name, and that's always what everybody has called me.  I was doing great till stupid Lady Mirela pointed out the Sword of Damocles over my head.  I guess, right about now, if he exists, Remo would be 24-years old. The same age I was when I visited his mother and I discharged him "like a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford."  I made stupid decisions at 24, which is why I avoid playing cards, today.