Archive for May, 2014

Love Italian Style- Is That The Jet Stream, Or Are You Just Glad To Se Me?

Friday, May 30th, 2014

So.  Here we all are sitting in the darkened rooms of our domiciles with no light, save, and except, the glow from our computer screens.  I read where some 50 million-plus Americans sit at their computer screens late at night either reading news from blogs and Facebook, or watching porn.

 

If you’re reading the shit I write here to Loonyville, you’re managing the deft act of doing both—that is to be a reader of pornographic news.  Take another sip of your evening cocktail in salutation to you, your veryownself, as you, dear reader, are special.

 

Me, I’m sitting in my darkened office because the Squirt feels ill, having consumed one too many cat turds from the sand pile out back, and consequently having puked a trail of cat turd bile from the top of my right slipper not quite tucked under the chair upon which I place my next-day’s clothes, across three rugs from bedroom-to-kitchen, and culminating in a waffle-sized pile on the kitchen floor where I stand at the sink.  I discovered this trail of tears and smears upon my late arrival back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe earlier tonight.  I was quite tired and not in the least interested in cleaning eight piles of cat turd puke from floors and rugs.

 

Ever smelled dog-emitted cat turd puke?

 

Squirt asked me to sit quietly in the den and not bother her with any threats, as the tiny brown puppy so carefully explained to me, she said, “My stomach is still uneasy, shithead.  Let me rest quietly or I drop a deposit on your pillow.”

 

Since I’m still up at 2 am, fearful of disturbing cat puke girl, I figured I’d write to you about something that has been on my mind.  Maybe I should say, “Something that has been swirling in the toxic swill that is my rat-infested and ADHD-addled grey matter.”  This thought has been pestering me for several months, ever since the jet streams caught my attentions.  Then, again, many things catch my attentions and swirl around like a frog in a blender inside the cauldron I call my skull.  However, this thought has managed to survive processing with little damage other than tattered sails.

 

As we all might know, the jet streams are the ribbons of super-charged wind travelling up to 250 mph at 6-7 miles above Earth’s crust.   It is these waggling wind ribbons that make, and change, our weather patterns.  In my simple mind, I see our planet’s rotation inside its atmosphere as the initial causal effect of the jet stream.  And I see the variations of land and water temperatures—many of which are caused to change by these self-same jet streams—as causal forces in controlling the directional adjustments in the jet streams.

[Editor’s note:  Yes, science assholes, we do know that the Sun’s activities can also effect jet stream movements.  Howsoever, as this is a rant on global warming, and we earthlings have yet figured a way to ruin the sun, we’ve restrained ourselves in limit and causal scopes for the pages herein.]

The jet streams’ activities caught my varied attentions a few months back as I spent a drug-fueled evening gazing at the Weather Channel, and I’ve carefully studied them since.  As I’m not a scientist and likewise lack the common sense to exhibit sound judgment, you might sense the temptation to ignore everything written past this point.  Howsoever, and once more at that, please do so at your own risk.

 

I waited months before making the first jet streams-related prediction, and said first prediction was spot-on accurate.  The evidence of this prediction’s efficacy is currently visible through the window from which I now view the outside world, as a massive thunderstorm currently rages-off its energy at the beautiful landscape of northern New Mexico, a storm I predicted three days ago when I likewise predicted yesterday’s storm, said prediction being part-and-parcel to a larger set over overall predictions made by me as the resulting recalibrations and adjustments to my senses of the Earth as it relates to future climactic conditions.

 

As is my method when encountering strange run-on sentences, I have carefully studied that last paragraph and found it to be more than an accurate depiction of my true thoughts, reason enough for you to tune me out without consideration to the simple fact that I have absolutely no credentials.

 

But having said all of that, I’m one-for-one in climate change predictions, and this first one was a dramatic win.  The weather prognosticators had predicted Santa Fe would have a few thunderstorms and maybe a half-inch of rainfall this holiday weekend.  As of my return to find cat puke plastered across the house earlier, we had gotten more than 2-inches here to La Casa.  My guess is that this current storm has added a third-to-a-half-inch more, and it’s due to rain on manana.

 

Which reminds me.  You’ve gotta love the Italians.  My kind of problem solvers, the Italians.

“Hey, Luigi, listen up.  I been thinking on this whole national debt dealie and I got us a solution.  What they’re saying is our Gross National Product is a slipping so’os we got too much debt to pay based on the national income.  Asshole fucking bankers are hitting us with higher interest rates, right?  Fucking economy isn’t hitting on all cylinders yet because those same fucking bankers wrecked the entire fucking world back to the two-thousand-and-oughts.  Fucking bankers.

 

“So, me and Carmine—you know Carmine, right, fat fuck runs the pasta joint over to the Coliseum there on Pope Johnny the First Boulevard—we was out for a good time the other night—Tuesday I’m thinking—an we ran into Roldolpho, bought purse and a bag of coke.  Ever since he lost his leather goods store to the fucking bank, he’s been dealing coke and shit.  Still selling them Gucci purses he gets from Lithuania or whereverthefuck it is, but now you buy a knockoff handbag for a hundred bucks, you get a change purse full a coke.”

 

“What you boys doing after this?” Rodolpho asks us.  “My cousin, Michaelangelo, he lost the concession stand over to the Vatican to the fucking bankers and he’s renting-out his wife and her sister by the hour, poor sonofabitch.”

 

“So, Sophia—that’s Mikey’s sister-in-law, you know, skinny broad with bad teeth—she’s blowing me and I’m watching Carmine trying to get it up to bang Mikey’s wife—Carmine’s wife, Maria, she’s friends with Mikey’s wife, an he’s taking a couple minutes to digest things—and I get to thinking about the fucking bankers, an’ boom!  I got this whole GNP problem all figured out.”

 

Gotta love those Italians.  And fuck Walmart!

 

Garlic Farts And Bigots; What A Choice

Thursday, May 1st, 2014

So.  How many ADHD brain-addled fuckballs does it take to poster a story to a bloggie?  From the evidence herein contained, the clear answer is, “At least one more than you, shithead.”

Not a complaint, mind you, but I’m way busy with my work and trying to keep far too many balls in the air, and doing so in the face of strong oppositions.  I guess some folks don’t like you messing with their balls, an actual life situation that would be a welcome respite for truly yours.

And don’t even start on me with your silly “it’s ‘Yours truly’ dumbass” bullshit.  You, dear reader, spend the same 45-minutes in careful thoughts as I did pondering as to whether “yours truly” or “truly yours” is more accurate when making the express statement previously made, herein, above, in the specific contexts as those thoughts weighed by me when I was in said quandary in real time, and then tell me I’m wrong.

And whyinthefuck isn’t it “truely”, with the “e” left inside?

Which reminds me that I’ve been having these really interesting dreams lately.  In one recent dream I decided to adopt this busload of school children I found abandoned on the side of the road that runs from Cimarron, NM, through the back mountains to Eagle Nest.  I have traveled that road recently for work and saw a bus load of kids parked on the side of the road near a spot where you can get to the river and trout fish.  I dream wondered what they were doing stopped, where they were fishing or taking a pee break, or whatever, and now I have another question.

Why is it “traveled” and not “travelled”?  This shit is pissing me off.  Evil goat fucking grammar shitwads.

The kids were a rainbow of colors and spoke as many languages as they bore hues.  In the dream, the kids debated having me as their father and decided that they’d rather stay orphaned and wandering endlessly through the mountains looking for places to make pee stops.

“You look deranged, Mister.  We’ll keep on trucking.”

I also had a dream—the one that has stimulated me to get up at 3 am on a work day to write to you—about which I’m finding myself inarticulate.  I can’t seem to find enough of the right words to use to express my sentiments with any adequacy.  Let me lay it out for you by telling you the basics of the dream.

So, I’m sleeping with me spooning the Squirt as she lay with her back against my chest and her adorable head under my chin, and Yoda was spooning me with his one leg draped over my neck and his snout draped over that paw.  We’d had a take-out salad from Joe’s Diner—this with-chicken affair garnished with six pounds of fried garlic on top.  The garlic had made its way through our systems and into our skin and breath before bedtime, and in sleep our combined odoriferous emissions were peeling lacquer from the viga-beamed ceiling, one of several architectural features of the master bedroom that are New Mexico trademarks.

Having said that, I find myself required to address viga beams.  A viga is a natural log beam used as ceiling and roof framing here to New Mexico.  The exposed beams are usually covered with a tongue-and-groove planking that serves as ceiling on the inside, and roof decking on the topside.  The resultant wooden features are considered to be one of Santa Fe’s charms.

Sleeping soundly with draped-dog warmth, I felt the subtle movements of the mattress made when a person, or a fucking dog, attempts to mount the bed and slither under the covers.  The presence moved carefully from the bed’s foot to a position behind me where a second person would sleep on my king size mattress.  The newbie settled, fussed with the covers—an action that normally pisses me off—sighed deeply, and started snoring.

It was, at first, a light snore.  It was the sweet sound of a new lover after a sweat-drenched hour of first-time sex.  “Been awhile since I heard that sound,” I said, dream aloud, to myself and whomever it was lying next to me.

“It will be quite a while longer, Sonny Boy, if you don’t find some time for yourself.”

The throaty sound of Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct voice added, “You need a vacation, asshole.”

Dream-realizing it was my God who had slipped in beside me for another late-night counselling session, I whipped over and sat up to face Her.  Said actions caused both dogs to jump-start, and begin barking at God.

“It’s OK, kiddies, it’s only God come to fuck with me some more.”

This visit, God looked like Raquel Welch in Myra Breckinridge, and she was dressed in the nurse’s outfit from the movie.

“Uh, hi, God,” I dream stammered, “please don’t tell me you’re here to peg me, ma’am.  I’m not that young anymore, and I’m unsure my heart could handle the stress.  Uh,” and here I stuttered some more, “uh, uh, ah. Um…  OK, you sound just like a sassy Sharon Stone but look like RW when she played that man eater in Myra Breckinridge.  What’s up, Ma’am?”

God kissed my open mouth with Raquel Welch’s lush lips.  As a young man, I had often wondered what it would feel like to kiss those lips.  I’d fanaticized the soft, sweet taste in my youth.  As a dreaming old man, this not so chaste kiss did not disappoint.

“You’ve been working quite a lot and I thought I’d pay a visit to remind you to have a little fun.  You need to have a little fun, Mooner.”

I dream thought a minute.  “OK, Ma’am, how about you pull those covers down and show me your breasts.  The most fun I can think to have right this instant would start with my head nestled between Raquel Welch’s breasts.”

I awoke suckling the rubber nose of Yoda’s stuffed bunny rabbit.  Sad to say that my garlic mouth tasted worse than a month-old dog toy, but “Truth and the American Way” is my middle name, and foolish behavior my modus operandi.

“Fuck it, kids, I’m getting up.  You two might as well stay in bed because I’m not feeding you at three in the morning.”

I unsettled and sat on the edge of the mattress dressing to a growl from the goat dog and Squirt’s, “Eat shit and die.”  I paddled in here and started writing and now find that I will be late for my 6:30 am work start.

But before I go, I want to say one thing.  I want to say that racism is alive and well in America.  I want to say that somehow, some way, we have allowed bigotry to re-infest and re-infect our civilization to the same epidemic levels experienced in the 1950’s.  We need to stop this near-pandemic disease before it ruins us.  Big Money is fueling divisiveness and using it to pit common men against common men, women against women.

Take a stand against prejudice before it’s too late, and:

Fuck Walmart!!!