In which your humble narrator corresponds with entities unlike to respond or sue him.
Dear Youth of America,
Put some damn clothes on, and seriously, you're going to live to regret that tattoo one day.
Dear State of New York,
Congratulations on letting the gays get hitched. And extra special congratulations for doing it legislatively. Just don't go buck wild and let corporations get married even if Antonin Scalia thinks they're people too.
Dear People who "Make Their Voices Heard!",
Isn't sort of an exercise in futility to "make your voice heard" every damn day in a culture where exactly no one listens? I suppose it sounds better than "I like to shout my opinions all the damn time!"
Dear Peter Falk,
Rest in peace. Goodbye, Columbo.
Dear Rest of the United States of America,
I am in no way responsible for Michele Bachmann. Just because she lives 20 miles from me doesn't mean I have any insight into that big bag of crazy.
Showing posts with label crazy people I have known. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy people I have known. Show all posts
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
How Dolly Parton Saved my Cousin's Life
In which your humble narrator explains, on the occasion of her 65th birthday, why Dolly is revered in his household.
My mother and her sister (my eldest aunt) are less than a year apart in age and have traditionally done lots of major life steps nearly synchronously. They married near the same time, had children at the same time and divorced at the same time. As such, sister-of-me and I spent lots of time with our similarly-aged cousins during the tandem dissolution of our respective parents' marriages.
This time together includes one particularly interesting vacation; two Moms, four kids go on the road for good times and adventure. Predictably the squabbling began almost as soon as we crossed the border from Ohio into Kentucky (about 20 minutes into the trip). Six people. One crew-cab pick-up truck. 3,675 lbs. of luggage (Mom and Auntie are not adherents of the "packing light" philosophy). We drove down. We stayed in a beach house for a week sniping at each other. At the end of the week we packed up and left for home.
By the end of the week, each of us was harboring murderous impulses toward my cousin (lets's call him Fusspot). Fusspot had spent the week complaining. About everything. All the time. He picked fights with his Mom, with his sister, with seagulls, with inanimate objects. In all fairness, it wasn't really his fault. There is a long standing rule in my family of origin that someone must ruin vacation. If the usual vacation ruiner cannot perform his or her duties, a replacement will be appointed and proceed to do everything in his or her power to provide an unpleasant experience. It has been this way since time immemorial, and so it shall be done until the end of vacations/time.
As we meandered northerly toward home, the air seethed with murderous intent. Fusspot continued to loudly air every grievance that entered his adolescent brain. At rest stops my sister and I debated whether it would be better to throw Fusspot off of a mountain top in rural North Carolina, or if we should simply make a break for it and start new lives as country western singers in Tennessee. The long knives were unsheathed.
And at about this time my aunt remembered that she had brought a book on tape. Perhaps that would help pass the time through the surprisingly heavy traffic. It was Dolly Parton's recently published audio autobiography, "Dolly: My Life and other Unfinished Business."
Her dulcet-toned delivery of the story of her hardscrabble* upbringing in Sevierville, Tennessee, her marriage to a recluse, her entertainment career, and her many reflections on her hairdos were the music that soothed the savage beast. Every single one of us was mesmerized by Dolly's harrowing tale of poverty and triumph. We were transfixed by her tendency to break into song while she told the story of her childhood. It was weird. Dolly is weird. Dolly's take on her experiences is blithely optimistic to the point of delusion, but sort of awesome? But most importantly, Dolly did the talking. For a blessed four hours everyone shut the hell up, and we didn't commit murder. And that's how Dolly Parton saved my cousin's life.
*The use of the word "hardscrabble" is mandatory in any piece of writing concerning Ms. Parton.
My mother and her sister (my eldest aunt) are less than a year apart in age and have traditionally done lots of major life steps nearly synchronously. They married near the same time, had children at the same time and divorced at the same time. As such, sister-of-me and I spent lots of time with our similarly-aged cousins during the tandem dissolution of our respective parents' marriages.
This time together includes one particularly interesting vacation; two Moms, four kids go on the road for good times and adventure. Predictably the squabbling began almost as soon as we crossed the border from Ohio into Kentucky (about 20 minutes into the trip). Six people. One crew-cab pick-up truck. 3,675 lbs. of luggage (Mom and Auntie are not adherents of the "packing light" philosophy). We drove down. We stayed in a beach house for a week sniping at each other. At the end of the week we packed up and left for home.
By the end of the week, each of us was harboring murderous impulses toward my cousin (lets's call him Fusspot). Fusspot had spent the week complaining. About everything. All the time. He picked fights with his Mom, with his sister, with seagulls, with inanimate objects. In all fairness, it wasn't really his fault. There is a long standing rule in my family of origin that someone must ruin vacation. If the usual vacation ruiner cannot perform his or her duties, a replacement will be appointed and proceed to do everything in his or her power to provide an unpleasant experience. It has been this way since time immemorial, and so it shall be done until the end of vacations/time.
As we meandered northerly toward home, the air seethed with murderous intent. Fusspot continued to loudly air every grievance that entered his adolescent brain. At rest stops my sister and I debated whether it would be better to throw Fusspot off of a mountain top in rural North Carolina, or if we should simply make a break for it and start new lives as country western singers in Tennessee. The long knives were unsheathed.
And at about this time my aunt remembered that she had brought a book on tape. Perhaps that would help pass the time through the surprisingly heavy traffic. It was Dolly Parton's recently published audio autobiography, "Dolly: My Life and other Unfinished Business."
*The use of the word "hardscrabble" is mandatory in any piece of writing concerning Ms. Parton.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Heat Melts Brains
In which your humble narrator shares some weird.
Last Thursday I left my modest but well-appointed home at seven o'clock in the morning to make my way to the University to enlighten the minds our our nation's youth while simultaneously crushing their young spirits. I took the bus to the train and stood waiting at the station as the various over-perfumed junior account executives milled about fidgeting with their phones, when a large middle-aged woman wearing cargo pants walked onto the platform.
She proceeded to reach into the mid-thigh, velcro-secured cargo pocket and withdrew a piece of buttered toast. No wrapper, container nor napkin was evident. She took one bite, placed the toast back in the cargo pocket, chewed thoughtfully and stared out into space for about a minute until she repeated the procedure to procure another delicious morsel of toast.
Last Thursday I left my modest but well-appointed home at seven o'clock in the morning to make my way to the University to enlighten the minds our our nation's youth while simultaneously crushing their young spirits. I took the bus to the train and stood waiting at the station as the various over-perfumed junior account executives milled about fidgeting with their phones, when a large middle-aged woman wearing cargo pants walked onto the platform.
She proceeded to reach into the mid-thigh, velcro-secured cargo pocket and withdrew a piece of buttered toast. No wrapper, container nor napkin was evident. She took one bite, placed the toast back in the cargo pocket, chewed thoughtfully and stared out into space for about a minute until she repeated the procedure to procure another delicious morsel of toast.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Best Veep Ever
In which your humble narrator jests about our beloved vice president.
Hey, it's so hot and windy today that I feel like I'm standing near Joe Biden's mouth!
Just kidding, Joe. You know I loves me some Biden. From that one time I met you on the Amtrak between Wilmington and D.C. to last week when you told some pissant in an ice cream store to maybe not be such a bilious tax-obsessed wingnut jerk. You are the best vice-president ever, and that includes such memorable heavy-weights as Garret Hobart and John Nance Garner.
Hey, it's so hot and windy today that I feel like I'm standing near Joe Biden's mouth!
Just kidding, Joe. You know I loves me some Biden. From that one time I met you on the Amtrak between Wilmington and D.C. to last week when you told some pissant in an ice cream store to maybe not be such a bilious tax-obsessed wingnut jerk. You are the best vice-president ever, and that includes such memorable heavy-weights as Garret Hobart and John Nance Garner.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Insufficiently Absorbent
In which your humble narrator recounts some lunacy from his childhood.
So my parents, being good hippies harbored an illegal alien when I was a kid. Maria was a Salvadoran migrant worker. We lived in northern Indiana at the time and she had come up with a crew to pick produce. But she was pregnant and they wouldn't take her back to the winter camp in Florida. So Maria and her two-year-old son Jose moved in with us. Soon there after she had another little boy, Victor (pronounced Beek-tor).
One time we ran out of Pampers and she diapered the baby with a tortilla. True story.
So my parents, being good hippies harbored an illegal alien when I was a kid. Maria was a Salvadoran migrant worker. We lived in northern Indiana at the time and she had come up with a crew to pick produce. But she was pregnant and they wouldn't take her back to the winter camp in Florida. So Maria and her two-year-old son Jose moved in with us. Soon there after she had another little boy, Victor (pronounced Beek-tor).
One time we ran out of Pampers and she diapered the baby with a tortilla. True story.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Faith-based Refrigeration
In which a dark shade from your humble narrator's past emerges on Facebook and causes reflection.
When I was a callow and sallow youth I attended a preparatory high school in southwest Ohio run by the Jesuits. Like about a quarter of my fellow students, I was not a Catholic. There were a fair number of Protestants, and a goodly smattering of Jews, Buddhists and Hindus at this school. We still had to attend the long, lugubrious all-school Masses, but there wasn't any formal Inquisition-like establishment aimed at converting us. Did I mention that this was a boys' school yet? It was. I received a decent education and despite having no nostalgia for my alma mater whatsoever, I don't harbor any particular hard feelings... well, except for the broken nose thing, and the two concussions.
We only had one nun at this school. She was a native Kentuckian of thick, German stock, a member of an order I have never heard of aside from her membership, and a habitual teller of tall tales. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the current students of my high school have a Facebook page devoted to quotations from my former history teacher, the most erratic, Germanic instructor I have ever had, bar-nun.* Let's call Her "Sister Helga." While I was in school we often referred to her as "Attila."
What was surprising to me was the consistency of her craziness, even after 14 years. One of the quotes was, "Indians have to pay $7 a gallon for gas, just because they're Indians." This teacher was way into the Indians. We spent the first quarter of junior year American History talking about the Indians, wherein we learned that the "Iroquois" were composed of five tribes, hence the name, since "quois" means "five" in French.** When we were in school she used the same line, but she's obviously been adjusting for inflationary injustice since it was only $3 per gallon back then.
Sister Helga told us she was 80 years old.*** She told us that she was one of fourteen children.**** She told us that she went to Pine Ridge in South Dakota every summer to visit her sister (also a nun) and minister to the Indians.*****
There was one particularly memorable story about a time when she was teaching Bible School to the little Indian children on the Pine Ridge reservation. According to Sister Helga, one day, while telling the children about Jesus, a Schwan's Freezer truck pulled up outside the church. The Schwan's man told her that his refrigerator unit had broken down and could the children please eat some ice cream before it melted? According to the story it was 130 degrees in the shade that day, and there was only one air conditioner in the entire state of South Dakota and that was at the Governor's mansion and they never let the Indians near it. So Sister Helga and the children gorged themselves on ice cream. One little girl asked Sister Helga to drive her home after Bible School so that she could take an ice cream bar to her aged grandmother. "But little Indian girl," said Sister Helga, "you live 2 hours away and it's 130 degrees and I don't have air conditioning in my pickup truck."
"Please, Sister Helga! I know it will be fine!" said the little girl, and Sister's heart melted and she and the little girl got in the truck and drove for two hours on a dirt road in the 130 degree heat with the ice cream bar sitting on the dashboard of the truck. When they reached Granny's house the little girl kissed Sister Helga on the cheek, grabbed the ice cream bar and ran into the house.
The next day, Sister Helga asked the little girl about her Grandmother and the (presumptively) melted ice cream. The little girl told Sister Helga that her Grandmother (who hadn't had any ice cream since 1931) loved it. "But wasn't it melted?" asked Sister Helga. "No it was still frozen," replied the little girl.
Sister Helga realized that the little girl's faith had kept it cold.
And that's how refrigerators work, boys and girls.
*Oooh! A delicious pun!
**No it doesn't.
***Nope.
****Who knows? Who cares?
*****Hadn't they suffered enough?
When I was a callow and sallow youth I attended a preparatory high school in southwest Ohio run by the Jesuits. Like about a quarter of my fellow students, I was not a Catholic. There were a fair number of Protestants, and a goodly smattering of Jews, Buddhists and Hindus at this school. We still had to attend the long, lugubrious all-school Masses, but there wasn't any formal Inquisition-like establishment aimed at converting us. Did I mention that this was a boys' school yet? It was. I received a decent education and despite having no nostalgia for my alma mater whatsoever, I don't harbor any particular hard feelings... well, except for the broken nose thing, and the two concussions.
We only had one nun at this school. She was a native Kentuckian of thick, German stock, a member of an order I have never heard of aside from her membership, and a habitual teller of tall tales. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the current students of my high school have a Facebook page devoted to quotations from my former history teacher, the most erratic, Germanic instructor I have ever had, bar-nun.* Let's call Her "Sister Helga." While I was in school we often referred to her as "Attila."
What was surprising to me was the consistency of her craziness, even after 14 years. One of the quotes was, "Indians have to pay $7 a gallon for gas, just because they're Indians." This teacher was way into the Indians. We spent the first quarter of junior year American History talking about the Indians, wherein we learned that the "Iroquois" were composed of five tribes, hence the name, since "quois" means "five" in French.** When we were in school she used the same line, but she's obviously been adjusting for inflationary injustice since it was only $3 per gallon back then.
Sister Helga told us she was 80 years old.*** She told us that she was one of fourteen children.**** She told us that she went to Pine Ridge in South Dakota every summer to visit her sister (also a nun) and minister to the Indians.*****
There was one particularly memorable story about a time when she was teaching Bible School to the little Indian children on the Pine Ridge reservation. According to Sister Helga, one day, while telling the children about Jesus, a Schwan's Freezer truck pulled up outside the church. The Schwan's man told her that his refrigerator unit had broken down and could the children please eat some ice cream before it melted? According to the story it was 130 degrees in the shade that day, and there was only one air conditioner in the entire state of South Dakota and that was at the Governor's mansion and they never let the Indians near it. So Sister Helga and the children gorged themselves on ice cream. One little girl asked Sister Helga to drive her home after Bible School so that she could take an ice cream bar to her aged grandmother. "But little Indian girl," said Sister Helga, "you live 2 hours away and it's 130 degrees and I don't have air conditioning in my pickup truck."
"Please, Sister Helga! I know it will be fine!" said the little girl, and Sister's heart melted and she and the little girl got in the truck and drove for two hours on a dirt road in the 130 degree heat with the ice cream bar sitting on the dashboard of the truck. When they reached Granny's house the little girl kissed Sister Helga on the cheek, grabbed the ice cream bar and ran into the house.
The next day, Sister Helga asked the little girl about her Grandmother and the (presumptively) melted ice cream. The little girl told Sister Helga that her Grandmother (who hadn't had any ice cream since 1931) loved it. "But wasn't it melted?" asked Sister Helga. "No it was still frozen," replied the little girl.
Sister Helga realized that the little girl's faith had kept it cold.
And that's how refrigerators work, boys and girls.
*Oooh! A delicious pun!
**No it doesn't.
***Nope.
****Who knows? Who cares?
*****Hadn't they suffered enough?
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