But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Like a Roller Coaster

Dunno.  Maybe it’s hormones.  Maybe it’s just life.  But these past weeks I’ve been vacillating between giddy-happy and morose “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

“Boing, there she goes” triggers include everything from politics, New Zealand (poor Christchurch), Japan (sigh, poor Japan), to our lovely New Mexico spring.

Nothin’ makes my goonier than publishing.  Saw the release of my first book, The Music of Chaos.  Immediately wondered if I’d lost my mind by letting the world see what a dog-awful writer I am.  Got a couple of good reviews. Up. Then, back down the rabbit hole of gloom, when I realize that every other author out seems to know how to promote.  “Doomed, doomed, my book is doomed.” (Cue those really great ominous drums from the Mines of Moria in Fellowship of the Ring.)

Meanwhile, The Canvas Thief was (more…)

Taming of the Muse

INT. MY OFFICE-AFTERNOON

ME: (Speaking to my muse) Where the heck have you been?

MUSE: Around.

ME: Around?  Doing what?

MUSE: Stuff.

ME: What kind of stuff?

MUSE: Stuff.

ME: Like what? Searching the Internet for nekkid pictures of Hugh Jackman?

MUSE: (Indignant sniff.) That would be you.

ME: Right.  The point is, you’re (more…)

In Which I…Ooo! Something Shiny!

It’ll just take a minute.

Famous last words.  Uttered before I descend into a two-hour long journey into the darkest pits of time wasting.  A.K.A, the Internet.

The plan.  Hop online.  Update my blog. Get outta there. Get to work on W.I.P.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, it’s also littered with the sad detritus of best-laid plans.

I log onto my blog. (No small task because I have to dig through the mountain of paperwork on my desk to find the sticky note containing my password.) But I’m otherwise prepared, having already written the post. (At work.)

Copy-paste, and voila, I haz blog post. I scan it carefully for typos, find and correct several. Upload a cute pic to go with posting and hit “Publish.”

Re-read the post and find more typos. Correct and re-publish.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Several more times.

Scan rest of blog and notice typos–glaring, huge, blind man can see ’em from space, typos-on older posts.  Correct those typos.  In the process, note that new blog template has fucked up pics on an older post.  Fight with image settings for fifteen minutes.  Blister the air with curse words, delete and reload image.

All done.  Except, lookee! Another fucking typo on the latest post.  Correct.

Study the blog and wonder if I should add an easy link to Chapter One of The Music of Chaos. Wander off to find a java thingy to make a pop-up window.  Find a site with cute animal videos. Squee! Baby animals.

An hour later…it’s almost five o’clock. Husband will soon be home. Horse and hound are demanding dinner. I notice I’m still logged onto my blog and wonder why…java thingy, W.I.P. and The Great Plan now forgotten.

My mind needs a memory upgrade.

It Was Just Asking for It

My in-laws are the kind of people who always get the best gifts for X-Mas.  They even get stocking stuffers right. They make it look effortless, all while I’m stumbling around stores the week before Christmas, pulling random crap off the “As Seen On TV” shelf.

This year, along with smoked almonds, gummies bears,  and assorted yummies, they gave my husband and I each a box of refridgerator* magnets.  He got “A Little Box of Obscenities” and I got “A Little Box of Good Cheer.”

This led to some discussion as to whether there had been a mix-up.  I’m a notorious potty mouth.  I don’t even bother with the usual “mind your elders” bullshit. I drop the f-bomb around my mother and in-laws all the time.  (In my defense, my mother, who likes to act the part of “lady,” is a fan of “Well, fuck it.”)

I am, however, a pessimist.  The glass isn’t just half full.  It’s losing volume, evaporation happenin’ now. A little good cheer could do me some good.

Good cheer and obscenities go together like chocolate and vanilla, so husband and I combined our super-twin powers and made this.

*No matter how many times I write the word, I always misspell “refridgerator.” D’oh! Fuck!

Like the Hippos in Fantasia, Not

Seriously?  This is fat? I’m referring to the recent uproar over a NY Times critic who took issue with a ballerina who deviated oh-so-slightly from the standard prepubescent girl body type. From where I’m standing, the only way to find fat on this ballerina is with an electron microscope.

Granted, she isn’t the usual willowy, pelvic-bones-threatening-to-burst-through-thin-skin, body type.  But she’s hardly fat.

Of course, if she were the standard scrawny ballerina, some would accuse her of being too thin and projecting unrealistic body standards to young women.

Sheesh.  We women just can’t win, can we?

In unrelated news, I’m amused to note that spammers have so far scrupulously avoided my post about comment spam.  It seems they lack a sense of irony. Heh.

Like a Dinosaur, But Stupider

When I grow up, I want to be a paleoartist.  The “when” in that equation being rather nebulous.  My mom and my husband have both been waiting years for any hint of maturity. But, if I were a betting person, I’d won’t lay much money on “soon.”

In the meantime, I get to exercise my artistic talents on guinea hens.  Yeah.  Guinea hens.  During this weekend’s art show, I got a request for a guinea hen crossing sign.  The requester wants the sign as a gift for a friend.

Guinea hens are a small miracle.  As in, it’s a miracle they haven’t gone extinct.

My exposure to guineas has been limited mostly to road encounters.  It’s not unusual to round a corner on our little country road and find your car fender deep in a flock of guineas.

In our little slice of rural semi-suburbia, there’s usually some misguided soul who’s decided that having a flock of mentally retarded birds is just the ticket for dealing with insect pests.   A friend of mine acquire a flock hoping they’d eat all the insects plaguing her garden.

They did just that.  And then they ate her garden and promptly took to roaming around the neighborhood, annoying the neighbors, becoming coyote Happy Meals, and occasionally, road kill.

When I was a kid, we had horses.  Since we lived in the city, we boarded our horses in a pasture on the outskirts of town.  At some point, the owners of the land must have had the usual delusions of pest control and purchased a few guinea hens.  I don’t think the flock lasted more than a few months, quickly becoming the meat du jour for local predators.  But in the meantime, one particular hen loved to sit in the fence.

My horse loved to sneak up on this hen and, with a casual flip of his nose, send the stupid bird flying in the air.  Either this bird loved being turned into a projectile, or,  more likely, was dumber than a bag of hammers, but it returned for more abuse, day after day.

I wonder if guinea hens make good eatin’?

Nothing a Little Jack Daniels Won’t Cure

Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday and I’ve got nothin’.  So I figured I’d take a looksee at this blog’s accumulated comment spam.  Most spammers, of course, aren’t even trying.  In the comment approval window I find the usual suspects: links to naughty sites, cheap meds, knockoff Rolexes, etc.  The new trend in comment spam is complimentary gibberish, written apparently by people for whom English is a second language. Just barely.

For example, this bit of word salad, left on a posting about my greyhound.

With thanks for talk about really good informations. Your internet is amazing, (My internet?  I own the internet?  Who knew?) I am satisfied by the details that you simply have on this blog. (You’re satisfied?  Really?  Now I can die happy.) It shows how well you appreciate this subject. (Well, he is my dog.) Bookmarked this page, will appear again for much more. (Uh…Yippee.  I await, with bated breath.)

But the winner, thus far, for most creative is this one:

Hi, What can I take for this horrible heartburn I have? OH MY GOD… [replica watches/link redacted] It feels like the baby has lit my intestines on fire! It is horrible, even tea, water, like when I drink water and burp the water comes back up, it is horrible. The heartburn is the worst, it hurts so bad! What do you girls take for heartburn while pregnant that works for sure? help will be greatly appreciated!!!!

Booze, sweetie.  The really hard stuff.  Yeah.  That’ll do the trick.

(My comments are in moderation.  Anything with even the faintest taint of spam never sees the light of day.)

Imponderables

Why is it, when you’re in a huge hurry, every steenkin’ traffic light is red?

On the other hand, if you’ve just spilled something on the passenger seat, or worse yet, all over your lap, and you really need to stop and mop things up…every steenkin’ traffic light is green?

Fifi, Is That You?

This is clearly a case of what happens when you give a dog access to the Internet.

To ‘Your Retail Store’:

Today I went into your store, and I was appalled and disgusted that you blasphemed Almighty God Jesus Christ and His Most Holy Nativity Christmas by selling from your store shelves a filthy pornographic lamp that said “Christmas” Story on it. REMOVE THAT PIECE OF FILTHY, PORNOGRAPHIC BLASPHEMY FROM YOUR STORESHELVES AT ONCE!

The blasphemous object in question being a lamp shaped like a leg. Yep.  A lamp.

My mom once had a dog who like to hump the throw cushions on the couch.  That dog never developed a lust for legs, but if it had, I imagine this lamp would’ve been well loved.

Hot Tacos Sing Dick Cheney

Need proof of evolution?  Look no further than spam. (The virtual version, as the exact taxonomic classification for the edible kind remains a mystery to science.) For every innovation in spam filters, spammers evolve and adapt ways to get around said filters.  Since the majority of filters rely on subject lines, the result is a bizarre array of nonsensical verbiage in the subject line.

Without further ado, I bring you today’s subject lines from my spam box…

“my pic for you”

Neato. Now I have something to throw darts at.

“need to findout more about you”

I’m an evil genius with plans to take over the Universe. What else is there to know?

“The new resume is attached”

Ah, I see you are applying for the position of “minion.” I trust you do windows and vacuum?

“Speaker John Boehner?”

Oh, another advert for erectile dysfunction.

“get a hug when you give her a gift from Tiffany’s”

Just a hug? For some Tiffany’s swag, I expect to get laid.

“Bigger is definitely better.”

Not if we’re talking cockroaches or asses.

“I like you”

Really? You like me? You really like me? [Does best impression of Sally Field.]

“Man gets kicked in teeth by horse”

I.e., the state of dentistry in America.

“It makes gentlemen’s tool wooden”

Ouch! Splinters!

And finally, the old reliable…

“Hi.”

Oh, come on! You’re not even trying. Put some effort into it.