The Pussification of Halloween


Back in the day, kids were in charge of Halloween. You started driving your parents crazy about your costume at beginning of October and if you were lucky, they might take you to buy a shitty plastic mask and a costume that would burst into flames if they happened to be smoking a cig while they were helping you into said costume. If that trip to the store never materialized, you were destined to dress up as a farmer, a hobo, or a ghost and you were going to fucking LIKE it. I happened to be a third sort of kid and always got busy with the Elmer’s glue, assorted boxes and any other shit I found in the garbage or attic. You also got to wear your costume to school if Halloween was on a school day and didn’t have to worry about “offending” anyone. That was the best part of Halloween; the school day parade of costumes. In 2013, you’d be hard pressed to find a school that lets kids parade around in costumes. If we didn’t have parents picking the stupid costumes out, there wouldn’t be a problem with costumes at school. How the hell could anyone be offended by tiny random princesses, hobos, ghosts or farmers?

Once you had your costume on Halloween night, you hit the mean streets of your town with your pint-sized gang of friends. I can’t ever remember my parents accompanying us once we could walk on our own. After snapping a few kodaks, the ‘rents stayed at home, boozing it up, and handing out their candy, and you went on your merry way getting your candy from your neighbors in your crappy plastic pumpkin.

These days Halloween chaps me off to NO END. Parents buy their kids overpriced Chinese made costumes and chaperone them around the neighborhood by CAR. Are you fucking kidding me?! If I see your douchebag self, driving around my neighborhood dropping off your kid at every house, I’m turning off my damn porch light and I’m gonna throw rocks at your pansy ass kids. No lie… I happened to be at an outdoor local mall a couple of days ago and apparently it was Mall and Treat day. Employees got dressed up like superheros and were handing out candy. It was a beautiful fall day. I counted three cars in my 10-minute excursion driving their kids from store to store. I wanted to slap the shit out of those parents. Wtf is WRONG with you?! Get your fat ass out of that car and walk with your kids if they need to be watched. Letting your three year old jump in and out of your car every twenty feet is so damn lame I just want to yank your reproductive parts off right there in the streets and burn them.

This year, Halloween is cancelled because of the weather. It’s supposed to be windy and stormy. To me that is PERFECT Halloween weather. Put your rain slicker on over your costume and brave the elements…. oh wait, I forgot… it would be dangerous for your parents to drive in this weather. Do we move Christmas or Easter or Yom Kippur if the weather is bad? Hell to the NO. Get out there and trick or treat your ass off. I’m waiting by the door tonight for kids whose parent’s had the good sense to leave them alone to be a kid.

 

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Ok, there is one in every bunch that might be an asshole. I can’t decide if the front
row second from the left kid is a coal miner or in black face.

Hey… Fuck you, Death!!


Dear Grim Reaper:

Over the last month you decided to visit my friend’s family TWICE. Don’t you think that’s a bit much? There are thousands of dirtbag killers in prison on death row and you passed all those murdering assholes up for a young man and his aunt on two separate occasions in one month? Well, FUCK YOU.

Here’s the deal, you heartless bag of bones… you didn’t win here even though you think you did. These lovely people are heartbroken of course, and that was definitely an accomplishment for you to put on your shitty resume. However, what you can’t take away is how amazing this family is and how they will continue to remain amazing no matter how much you try to steal their joy. As a matter of fact, you may have changed their lives so much that they have no choice but to become even MORE amazing.

I am the one hating on you right now, Grim, and guess what my friends are doing right now? They are crying and getting ready to bury their son. But even though they hurt with a pain so deep that I can’t fathom it, they are comforting others during this time. Did you hear that? Yeah, THEY are comforting OTHERS that are grieving with and for them. That’s the kind of people you decided to take a crap on this last month – they have more strength and dignity and graciousness than anybody I can think of. They are fucking saints, you dumb shit. Their son was handicapped from birth but never once did I ever hear them whine, or complain or be resentful of any challenge that came their way. They loved that kid without any reservation just as they do his awesome sister.

Here is something else that I’m certain of… that me, and countless others, are better for knowing this kid and this family. They make everyone around them better. As a matter of fact, they could probably go on death row and make even those sociopaths better people. Making popes into saints is easy, but they aren’t the real saints. The real honest-to-God everyday saints are people like my friends. They toil in the trenches daily, making sure that your work product is totally irrelevant in the long view.

So in closing, Grim, you didn’t win. You have no real power. The real power is in loving those around you and in making the world a better place. You do neither of those things. You take the flesh, but you can’t take the memories and all of the good that came of Zach being in this world. So take a hike, hit the road jack, be gone. My friends aren’t afraid of you. I’m not afraid of you either, Grim. As a matter of fact, you can kiss. my. ass.

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A Not At All Funny Post


Dear Readers:

I am taking today off to allow myself time and energy to send healing thoughts to an old friend who just lost her son. I can’t think of anything that could possibly be more painful then to lose your child. My heart is heavy and I can’t possibly think of one damn thing that is humorous today. Please feel free to go back and read some earlier posts if you need some chucks. Thank you for reading and I will be back on Monday.

Regards,

tkayw

Today’s Forecast is Troubled


What the hell is wrong with the Today show? Seriously, I think the producers are all doing drugs. I have watched the Today show for YEARS… it has never been what I would call a hard hitting news show but at least they made a damn EFFORT to do some actual reporting on real news in years past.

Here are some of the guests and news stories they had this week:

  • Christy Brinkley on turning 60. First of all, Christy looks FABULOUS. I’m sure she is genetically blessed but she also has a wicked good plastic surgeon. Anyway, she looks great, but she needs to keep her purty little mouth shut. That poor woman doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Matt was staring at her and had this look on his face that said, “hey lady, shut up and just show me your tits.”
  • The parade of dummies rolled on with some girl who was the only survivor of a plane crash. All I could think listening to her was it was a real shame that she survived.
  • Some kid named Cody something or other from Australia came on as a musical guest. They were talking about him like he was some sort of rock god. Never heard of him. I was hoping Matt would ask him to say “the dingo ate my baby!” over and over but he let me down in that interview. The kid also talked about his new autobiography that was coming out. What the hell does a 16 year old boy say in an autobiography? Does he tell us about pooping his pants as a baby and his recent onset of wet dreams? Shut up and get the fuck off my tv.
  • The scariest fucking thing I’ve ever scene on tv was up next. They showed a shot of Dick Cheney waiting to be interviewed and I fucking shit. my. pants. Satan’s boss was right there. He looks like he eats babies for breakfast and LIKES it. Ole Dickey was there to talk about his new work of fiction called Heart. Everybody knows he doesn’t have a heart but he was implanted with one at age 71. He’s a fucking Frankenstein. I had to turn the tv off after that before it burst into flames.
  • This morning I turned the show on while I was making coffee and there was Jenna Bush Hagel’s fucking ugly ass hairy FEET on my 55” high definition flat screen tv. Dear Today show producers, I most definitely DO NOT want to see ANYONE’S corns and bunions while I’m having breakfast. What the fuck is WRONG with you people?! Can’t you find more people that should have died in plane crashes to interview?!

In closing, I will say that I am no longer going to watch the MTV version of the Today show. If the sainted Jane Pauley were dead, she’d be rolling over in her grave. I would not be surprised to see a story about how she bought a gun at Walmart and headed over to Studio 3B in 30 Rock and shot all of those idiot producer types. Tom Brokaw would probably be down with that action too. I will be watching the BBC for this news in any case.

Pip pip and Toodles to you all on this brilliant Thursday!

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6th Annual Wayuu Taya Foundation Gala

See? Perfect… her mouth is shut and we can see her knockers.

Top Ten Things I Hate about Fall


10. October

9. Pumpkins, pumpkin lattes, pumpkin pie, any god damn thing that smells of or contains pumpkin

8. Little booger eaters banging on my door wanting candy. Get lost, these are my Snickers, punk. I don’t share.

7. Painted jack-o-lanterns. Don’t be such a pussy, and go ahead and carve that fucker UP.

6. Menacing drunk gangs of turkeys, ducks and chickens roaming the streets vowing to jam something really big up John Madden’s ass

5. Watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and wondering if Charlie Brown grew up, returned to town, and hacked all of those smartasses into tiny little pieces.

4. Extreme resentment towards my mother for the fact I have to cook and eat turkey every. damn. year. for my birthday.

3. Black Friday reminding me how America is so RACIST.

2. The Cornucopia of Death

1. Two words: Lumpy Gravy

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The Not So Big List of Do Not’s


  • If you are a woman, do not call your significant other Big Daddy. It’s weird. Furthermore, do not go to a concert with Big Daddy and talk during the entire. fucking. concert. in your giant nasal sounding annoying ass voice. Sit down and shut the fuck up, weirdo. Oh, and the Woodstock dancing in aisle complete with head grabbing and hair tossing? Ummm… NO.
  • Do not go to the bathroom at a concert to smoke weed. You just can’t get away with that shit anymore. I mean we should be smarter than toking up in public by now. Just bake that shit up into a brownie for god’s sake. And do not bogart in either case. For tis better to give than receive said some smart dead person.
  • Do not give an opinion other than “you look FABULOUS!” when your wife asks what you think of her attire/clothes/make up/footwear. Apparently, Kanye tells that idiot Kardashian that he made a baby with what to wear. You tell me what to wear and I’m gonna wear the OPPOSITE. Kanye: “honey bubbykins, wear that sparkly low cut evening grown.” Whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is: “Why sure Big Daddy! I’m wearing that cool pair of pajama bottoms and the t-shirt with the hole under the arm! I love your fashion sense, Big Daddy!” Fuck off, Kanye. I hope you lose your misogynistic voice.
  • Family feuds on facebook are so damn 10 years ago. PM it or text your nasty little notes to each other. Nobody gives a flying rat’s ass about your family drama. Unless it involves sex changes, elicit pregnancies, or somebody getting arrested, we. don’t. care. Everybody has dysfunction in their family. Keep it there. Thanks.
  • Do not get down on bended knee to your misbehaving little booger eater. Stand the fuck up. It’s pack order, baby. BE the alpha. Stand on a fucking chair if you have to reprimand that little shit. As a matter of fact, just swat his ass and save us from watching your shitty new age parenting crap. A crack on the ass never hurt anybody. As a matter of fact, I think if Big Daddy had someone pop his can when he was little, that Big Daddy nickname crap would have never stuck.

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Ummm…. NO.

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If this chair is in your house, burn it.

The Beast in my Walls


Whatever the hell is living in the walls of my house is back from vacation.

I’ve heard his long, sharp talons above my head the last two nights. It’s like Freddy Krueger because every time I start to fall asleep, he starts up with the racket. I know it’s not just me and that I’ve somehow developed some auditory hallucinations because I belted Hubs awake to hear it too.

People have told me it probably squirrels. That’s total bullshit unless it’s a really smart squirrel that has an army equipped with jackhammers. I’m telling you, friends and neighbors, it’s loud and it’s proud.

Last night that fucker started up his noise around 11:30. This time I was by god Boy Scout prepared. I jammed my slippers on my feet, grabbed the flashlight, and ran outside to see if I could catch the little beady-eyed fucker on my roof or something. All I got for my pre-midnight dash was wet slippers. No sign of him. By the noise he makes I’d think there was a 12 ft hole in my siding, but no… he’s like a ghost. He appears and disappears. He could at least man up and stay and fight.

So I went back inside and listened some more. It sounded like the fucking varmit Olympics up there. I went to get the sledgehammer to fix my little problem, but hubs objected. Leave it to him to be all rational and shit. I climbed back in the bed and listened to that varmint for a while more and decided that it couldn’t be a rodent, because it was too loud. I came up with a list of possible offenders:

  • Baby Sasquatch
  • Enormous Raccoon
  • Mutant Possum
  • Mountain Lion
  • Mike Tyson

I’m going with mountain lion because if I have to have an invader, I think a mountain lion would be a worthy opponent. The noises seem on target from my extensive two minute research on mountain lions. Besides, I think Mike Tyson is in prison somewhere and Sasquatch lives in the northwest, or they would be serious contenders.

I think I’d better figure out which beast it is up there before my ceiling caves in… is that covered by insurance? If it is, that bastard can chew away. I need new carpet.

 

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The Secret of the Flying Monkeys


I have a couple of groups of secret facebook friends. One group is moms that all have kids that graduated from high school in 2013. The other group is so secret I can’t even tell you what we have in common or what we discuss or I would have to kill you. Let’s call this second group The Flying Monkeys. Why? Because it’s my fucking blog and I happen to LIKE flying monkeys! My bucket list includes playing a flying monkey in a production of the Wizard of Oz. I’d be that fatass monkey that lumbers across the stage. The audience point and laugh at the waddling grounded monkey because they would know that I ate most of the munchkins and had some Winkies for dessert.

But I digress. Most of the time us Flying Monkey peeps sit around and discuss secret stuff. One of the biggest secrets that we discuss is a secret even to us.

Ya followin. Me? Good.

This secret is a person that has a blog and and posts stuff to another site that we all belong to. My fellow Flying Monkey’s think she knows volumes about the subject we all care about and try to research her and discover her real identity.

Being the slacker that I am, I follow these discussions with much amusement. They have an entire FILE on that facebook page with “sightings” from the internet and a profile with info including her approximate age based on an assumed high school and college graduation years, the state she may be from, and other info gleaned from various sources.  I, of course, came up with my own profile. I think he is a forty year old man who owns a lot of cats and blogs from his mom’s basement in his dirty underwear. In fact, he may be the real Buffalo Bill from the Silence of the Lambs movie. Except I see him as fatter and with a distinct absence of butterflies; maybe flies, but definitely not butterflies.

The whole point is who the hell KNOWS who is behind someone’s identity on the internet? All of my Flying Monkey friends may turn out to be just munchkins wearing costumes. Does it matter? Not really, not to me anyway. As long as there is a friend or just someone who is offering good advice no matter where they learned it under that grey matted fluff, I feel pretty good about them and I’m happy to “know” them. Sometimes believing is just as good as being.

Except if you are a murdering weirdo like Buffalo Bill. That’s just not cool at all.

 

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See? All of Dorothy’s friends wore costumes. They were her friends even though one
was really a dumbass, one was a big pussy and one was missing it’s fucking HEART.
They choose to be friends no matter what.

A Tim Gunn Moment


So yesterday I spent the entire day working in that damn yard, getting it ready for winter. Like I give two shits if everything green just up and died. For my efforts, I have shoulders that feel like I’ve been lifting fire trucks and humvees. The good news is that I didn’t seem to get into any poison ivy for once, so you don’t have to listen to me bitch about that for the next three weeks.

Hubs and I had a “project” to do this weekend. Our stupid garage door opener decided to die a swift and unpredicted death last week. I called around and most places wanted $100 to $150 in labor to put up a new one. I called hubs to ask his opinion because I usually don’t mess with anything electrical. If I wanted to get electrocuted I’d just murder someone and get the chair. There are a number of potential murder victims on my list, just in case you are wondering. Anyhow, hubs seemed to think that paying someone $100 or so just to put the damn thing up was too much money. Cheapskate.

We went to Home Depot to get the new opener. Let me tell you, that guy in the garage door opener aisle knew NOTHING about garage doors openers. Hubs would ask a question about the installation process and our particular set up and that guy kept unhelpfully reading the shit that was on the box to us. That asshole has no idea that he is now on my To Murder List for wasting my fucking time. My eyeballs also got really tired, not from reading the box, but from rolling them to the ceiling every time that guy opened his ignorant yap.

So on Saturday, hubs got up, and went where all manual laborers go to breakfast, Starbucks. After his intake of his embarrassingly metrosexual coffee, he came home to take off his dainty underthings and find his dusty Y chromosome to put to use. He even changed out of his Bolivian Sheep Herding shirt for this adventure into manhood. As he walked through the kitchen to the garage, I actually smelled a dude with purpose. He was out in the garage for about 20 seconds before he needed a band aid. After I kissed his boo boo he got back to work.

Fast forward about six god damn hours of sweat and muttering to himself, and to my surprise, the garage door opener was up! I congratulated him on this manly feat and for my minimal involvement. I asked if it worked and got a glare that set my hair on fire. Of course not, that part wasn’t done yet, so I skedaddled back into the house as fast as I could to sit on the couch, drink beer, fart, belch, and watch some more college football. About six more hours passed and by god, the garage door opener worked! I’m sure my neighbors are just as happy as I am because now they don’t have to look at that mess in my garage anymore.

I think I like role reversals most of the time. This was one of those times. Actually, I wonder if we are a gay couple and just don’t know it. I don’t know if I’m more manly or he is more girly, but in the words of Tim Gunn, we make it work.

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