May 18
RAARR! Don't be scared, this isn't a real bull. Maybe it was at one point, right before we got there, but I guess he saw me and said, well, you know what he said "Wow, that's a scary monster, he's going to eat me. I'd better petrify!" So he did. Now he's metal. Raaarrr!!
By The By:
My contest has been extended just because I'm not going to be here on the 23rd. Now some advice: if you are the kind of person who decided before you went on vacation that you were going to go to try and get yourself a "base tan" and then come back from vacation only to find that you still have some sessions left at the tanning place and not being the kind of person who throws money away, because that's what not going would be, right, throwing money away, you choose to continue going, and yet, you continually neglect the simple act of tossing the old stretched out, boob bearing swimsuit into the car so you'll have it there, instead choosing to wear whatever unmentionables you happen to have on that day, please pay special attention to whether or not the unmentionables covering your nether regions are solid. By this, I mean, are they of one, unbroken piece of fabric? Do they cover your bits in a way that, later that night, when you notice a slight burny feeling on your lower back, and decide to take a look at what's going on, and in doing so, pulling down your extremely comfortable and light as newly spun cotton candy because they're woven in a loose, loose knit, (if you'd consider underwear KNIT, which I am now, for the sake of this conversation) leaving as much butt flesh covered as uncovered underwear, notice, in the mirror a pattern, running up and down your ass, a complicated hub of burns closely resembling stretch marks. All over your ass. Your ass. Yours. Not that your ass gets a lot of play or sees the light of day too often, but now, it's patterned. My advice to you should be obvious: either plain underpants, or bare ass it. A bright red butt like a monkey has got to be better than a speckled one. So, the other thing is, I have to try and describe BS's outfit. She walked in and I stopped what I was doing to stare at her. Dig it: denim blouse, top section festooned with flowery appliqués, obviously hand sewn. The bottom puffy and what's it called? shirred? Big puffy denim sleeves, unbuttoned to the breastbone. Pink shirt underneath. Tucked into a pair of acid washed blue jeans, with, and this is important: the same flowery bullshit on THE PANTS! Breaking it up, a silver, metal belt. And Keds. Her theme today is, obviously, "Rejected Dolly Pardon backup singers". Yep. Speaking of clothes, how many of you are lazy about wearing dirty clothes? I am not this way about shirts, but about jeans, I'm awful. I'll wear a pair and wear them and wear them and wear them. This week, I hit a new low. At lunch one day, I'd managed to slop something onto one of my legs. I didn't notice until it was long, long since dry. I came back to the office and pulled out a handy Shout Wipe. About an hour later, I look down and see a huge circle of Shout-induced clean spreading it's magic around the stain it's done practically nothing to take care of. It is an oasis of clean, surrounded by the larger picture of week old worn dirty jeans, with a chinese food center. At the end of the work day, I slip into the bathroom and change into my gym clothes. I fold up (read: cram into ball) the jeans of sorrow, stuff them into a bag, go my merry way. When I get home, I dump the bag of dirty clothes into the laundry basket, where everything sits and festers and grows and gets buried under damp towels and hairy socks and clothes smelly from casino smoke. Then, it happens. Sisters out there, share my pain. I get my period. Yep. So, I wake up and put on a different, CLEAN, pair of jeans. They are horrible all day. Too tight. Ow, fuckers. I go through the day in these tight pants and then yesterday morning, unable to cope with the idea of another day in pants that don't fit for another week, I do the unthinkable. I grab the dirty (damp) pants out of the laundry basket, and I put them on. The smell doesn't become apparent until I get a little warm. I'd forgotten about Shout Island. Man. I am nasty. I obsess over the smelly, stained pants all day, all day, until I am able to run home (this is, for your info, AFTER I have burned the imprint of my underwear onto my butt) rip them off, hit them with a stick to make them submit, throw them BACK into the laundry basket (check my stinging back, notice fucked up rear), grab it, and the jeans again, as they try and slither away from me, and run the whole shit and shebang down into the basement. I throw them in FIRST. They fight. They bully the other clothes out of the way. They try and escape. I add the soap, the fabric softener ball, and slam the lid shut just as a leg reaches up and wraps itself around my neck. I wait and listen for the next 20 minutes or so. I hear them fight. I hear it. They curse and shriek and complain, but finally, at the end, I have clean jeans. Also, in my oft-bitched about parking lot, there's a little booth where the money taking guy sits. In the morning, previously, the guy would sit there and let people who pay for their parking by the month in. He raises the gate. That is his function. Raise the gate for those entering who require no ticket. Take money from people who've gotten a ticket. There is a new Boothman in town in the mornings. THIS man sits with his back to the traffic coming into the lot. THIS man wouldn't turn around if I sat there honking my horn and flipping my brights on and off (yes, I've tried). So, every morning I see him all hunched over in there like a little anchovy, and ever morning I slam the button on the machine and it spits the ticket out at me, the gate raises, and I floor it, screeching past him. Yes, I DO have a card to let me into the lot. Yes, I do. But, that's not the point here, is it? this is a matter of doing one of the two functions your job requests. 1.) Open gate. 2.) Take money. Sure, I've got a fucking card, but do your job, man! Open the gate! This is how it's been every day for the past month or so. I take a card, toss it OUT THE WINDOW (I'm littering for a cause, here...) and floor it. Every day. Same thing. Until the other day. Booth. No guy. Hit the button, take the card, drive in, and see the guy HIDING IN FRONT OF THE BOOTH. I shit you not, he is sitting on the floor of the parking lot, with his head and knees all scrunched together. He is HIDING from the cars. Hiding. What did I do? What would you have done? You're me. You're pissed. You pay a bitchload of money a month to park in a lot covered in medical waste and toilet paper and exploded garbage bags. What do YOU do? Well, you're not me, so you use your passcard, you pussy. I stop and THROW the ticket at the guy, and say "I pay to have you OPEN that gate for me." And every day since then, he's been in there, hitting the button like a motherfucker and letting people in.
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I bet a thousand dollars
I have a French companion
I tie myself below the deck
I pull the rope around my neck
And in the morning Iíll be goneIt takes a life to win her
There is a drum of bourbon
Eight hundred pounds of nitro
His boots are thunder as he plays