Friday, July 31, 2009
I am thinking of purchasing this kitty costume for the Disdainful One. She takes herself a little too seriously.
When SB was young, my ass was enrolled in ballet and acrobat classes [the Moms wouldn't let me do tap because it was too noisy and might scuff up her floors, so she basically stunted my personal growth in favor or her linoleum], and I did a TA-DA pose just like the geek above. I really only went to classes because I wanted to be in the dance recital at the end of the year. The year's hard work was worth it to get to wear the damn costume, people! And if you don't understand that, then I can't help your sorry asses. Clearly you were not named after Cher, like SB.
There is a picture on my refrigerator still of SB all decked out in said costume, doing the EXACT SAME POSE as the dork. So, I can sort of understand the glee. [The Dork's ass sort of reminds me of Olivia Newton-John getting physical, except that she'd need a good set of tits (or at least SOME tits) and an entire new face and blond hair. Nope, I guess it was just the headband that reminded me of Olivia.]
In SB's photo on the fridge, my face says a sort of grumpy TA-DA MOTHERFUCKERS! HERE I AM. WORSHIP ME. I felt like the sorry small town motherfuckers in the audience were DAMN LUCKY that I took the time out to entertain their sorry uncultured asses. They got to see SB's GREAT TALENT in its infancy.
In our small town, dance classes were taught by Ms. Margaret. She was a redhead, and her claim to fame was that she once danced in Hollywood (or fucked somebody in Hollywood--I can't remember--maybe both). Also, her niece dated Poncho from CHIPS for awhile, but they broke up. There were Erik Estrada sightings and much excitement in Brookville for one thrilling weekend, I can tell you. DID YOU SEE ERIK ESTRADA??? HE WAS AT THE CAR WASH! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? I GOT HIS AUTOGRAPH! HE WAS SO NICE! HIS TEETH ARE SO WHITE, THEY LIKED TO BLINDED ME! HE POSED FOR A PITURE WITH MY GRANDBABIES! WASN'T THAT SWEET? [Jesus fucking H.]
Anyhoo, Ms. Margaret (and don't call her ass Mrs. or Miss Margaret, because your ass would get your shit rebuked) was a little on the plump side and a tad long in the tooth when she taught SB's ass, but it was rumoured that she was a rounder in her day. Bitch had a love life.
She was overall a lovely woman, but you did NOT want to cross Ms. Margaret! She'd raised enough of her own brats that she was not TAKING ANY SHIT from a bunch of smart-assed midget dancers. She was even rumoured to spank occasionally. SB was a pussy and did not risk her wrath. I was not a DEFIANT MOTHERFUCKER like I am today. My societal rebellion came somewhat later in life.
I'm sorry to say that I believe Ms. Margaret is dead now, but her dance studio is still the only game in town. I don't know who the fuck runs that shit. They will never again see talent like SB's, though. That much I can tell you.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It Is Bring Bella to Work Day to Share Her Fucking Preciousness and Lighten the Darkened Lives of My Co-Workers
I thought about calling a few close friends here and inviting them to COME LOOK AT MY PUSSY, but if you can believe it, that shit is not considered business appropriate! You can't have any fun in a business office, motherfuckers.
One time, when I was a supervisor (I got layed off from that gig, if you can believe that shit!), I ordered a mini-trampoline and had it delivered to my office, which had a glass window out front. Of course I had to assemble that fucker and test it out. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the motherfuckers passing by the window! So actually you CAN have fun in a business office, but they may lay your ass off for it.
I was telling a male friend on break, when I was petting my pussy, that my pussy is really clean and smells good. Then he wanted to pet my pussy, too!
[The Moms is going to be REALLY MAD when she reads this post. She doesn't like me discussing my pussy in a public forum.]
I don't know about you all, but I'm thinking fitty cent (translation: 50 cents) was likely a bargain for this little vinyl gem. Something tells me Joyce probably sang love songs and shit because her ass was trying to look all romantic holding that rose.
Joyce probably creamed her panties over Julio Iglesias and Mack Davis and Charlie Rich. She probably had rescue fantasies involving Barry Manilow. She just looks prim and proper. Those are the WORST ones usually. If I teach you motherfuckers nothing else, let it be that: Watch out for the timid ones--there is a wildness lurking underneath.
Joyce probably had a few too many Kahlua and creams or white wine spritzers one night, and in a moment of CRAZY abandon, had the chorus to Mandy tattoeed on her right butt cheek. YOU JUST KNOW Joyce's dumb ass was humiliated whenever she had to go to the gynecologist after that.
My ass was tahred after working HARD all day, and I didn't feel like digging the damn frozen drink machine out and washing it up and assembling that shit, so SB had the INGENIOUS IDEA to make margaritas in the MAGIC FUCKING BULLET! Can you say EASY CLEAN-UP, people?
That fucker worked pretty good. I even made one for the neighbor kid (The kid is 25, so any pigs reading this shit, don't try and bust me for serving alcohol to minors--go fight crime, motherfucking pigs--DO YOUR DAMN JOBS AND STOP PICKING ON THE LITTLE GUY! SB is always fighting the man. I am a DEFIANT MOTHERFUCKER like my hero, Steve McQueen.).
The only drawback with the MAGIC FUCKING BULLET was a few sizeable chunks of ice that the midgety dicking device couldn't overcome. I just spooned those fuckers out and roughed it. I will sacrifice for alcohol, motherfuckers!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Now, don't you shiftless fuckers go and picture SB as a TOTAL FAT ASS. Just picture a SEMI-FAT ASS and that works fine.
I am heading for home to begin my feast. Y'all have good evenings.
When you are an ANGEL and a PURE SOUL, you shouldn't have to shake the hand of Joe Blow. It just ain't fittin.
Here are some of Dash's photos (he also did collages, which often contained his bodily fluids).
The most interesting thing to me about Dash is that he walked away from the de Menil family art fortune early in his life. The de Menils of the art collection. I can't say I'd have done that. SB would kiss grandma's ass to get all of her money, then my ass would rebel and become the family wastrel and piss it all away on parties, drinking, all shades of debauchery, and likely drugs. [I'd like to bring the words wastrel and debauchery back into the common language, too.]
Dash rebelled from his art-collecting family by becoming an artist.
If anybody is offended by the photos above (and I'm not talking about my regular blog family--because I know they aren't Puritan pinheads), then fuck you. I fucking hate Puritans.
Besides his art, this is what Dash leaves behind.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Here is SB's beloved idol and precious friend, Jan Crouch. Clearly, Jan had her joy back in this picture. Praise Jesus!
I don't know who the gentleman is, so don't ask me. Whoever he is, he is not worthy to be in such close proximity to Jan's glittery preciousness. His ass needs to back the fuck off.
Anyhoo, over the weekend SB rented the documentary, The Eyes of Tammy Faye. I highly recommend that shit. You know SB has a thing for overly-made up bewigged Christian women. One of my favorites in THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD is Jan Crouch. I especially dig the hot pink wig! Sometimes Jan and I get all worked up and cry together. (At one point, Jan lost her joy and couldn't find it.) That shit sort of bonds two people--depression and crying together. SB is Jan Crouch's #1 fan. I mean that shit, too, goddamnit.
Anyhoo--I digress--The Eyes of Tammy Faye illustrated what a PIG Jerry Falwell was. I already didn't like him for his views on gay people--evidently, AIDS was a plague from God because being gay is a sin--OOOOHHH THAT SHIT MAKES SB MAD!!!
The documentary explained that Mr. Falwell (the asshole in this scenario, if your ass is a little retarded and you hadn't guessed already) offered to help Jim and Tammy through Jim's little indiscretion with dumb ass Jessica Hahn and then took over and ruined their church all because his GREEDY FAT ASS wanted satellite broadcasting. He also called the Bakkers greedy on TV (the pot calling the kettle!) for listing on a sheet of stationary what the board had offered them to live on for a year when he took over. Falwell asked them to write it down and then called them greedy. He had earlier threatened to expose the affair with Jessica Hahn, before the media got wind of it, if they didn't go along with him. Nothing like a good Christian man, huh? FAT GREEDY FUCKING PIG. Did I mention Falwell was FAT? And GREEDY?
Tammy Faye (the sweet and the good of this post) was really misunderstood. I admit that even I made jokes about her and her makeup, and she was really a sweetheart. She embraced gay people and even said on her show that Christians need to be loving to people with AIDS and to show compassion. No shit, right? Well a lot of Christians weren't so loving (like that asshole Falwell). Tammy Faye even forgave that BIG DUMB FAT ASS Falwell, because like Jan Crouch, the memory of that FAT FUCK Falwell was stealing Tammy's joy.
Note: There sure is A LOT of joy stealing going on in Christianity.
Lesson(?): If you want to keep your joy, perhaps you should remain secular.
Tammy was also always appearing on TV with her puppies and kitties, and you know SB is a softy for that shit. You can tell a good person by how much they love animals. If I teach you nothing else, let it be that!
Note: The Moms has this lady in her trailer park in AZ named Mary Grace who doesn't like cats because she is afraid of them. Anyhoo, SB doesn't like Mary Grace. You can't trust a person who doesn't like felines! I have two feline children and that shit is insulting! Mary Grace has insulted my kin, and I do take umbrage.
See The Eyes of Tammy Faye, if you haven't already. It is highly recommended. Two schlongs up.
Monday, July 27, 2009
[Fuckery Warning Level: RED]
In SB's humble opinion, the worst part of this whole red-hot mess is the groom's hair. He looks like he ought to be named Tennille and be dueting with the fucking Captain (who had some freaky motherfucking eyes, by the way--evidence below).
Remember the Dorothy Hamill/Toni Tennille haircut? (Okay--my ass is OLD--we've established that already--so fuck you for thinking it.) SB had one. I thought that shit was stylin, but actually I looked like the little fucking Dutch boy.
SB had a nice weekend, but got awakened in the wee hours last night by the Clampetts, discoursing loudly RIGHT OUTSIDE the window where I sleep. I swear it was like 4:30 in the morning, and one of the kids who live behind me was headed for the airport, and whoever came by to watch her kids cackled like a drunk when she laughed and talked AT FULL FUCKING VOLUME. "GIRL, YOU LOOK SO GOOD! HAVE YOU LOST WEIGHT?"
Poor suffering SB is a damn zombie today. I had tried to go to bed by like 9:30 last night to catch some extra sleep, because I am still not 100% from my cold, and then THE KITTEN FROM HELL kept playing until I finally shut her in the goddamn bathroom upstairs and then THE BEVERLY DAMN HILLBILLYS had a damn conference outside the window and MOTHERFUCK IT--the best laid plans--and all that shit.
So, SB is a bit tired and down today, and I am missing my dear friend, Ms. Moon, who is enjoying a lovely Mexican vacation. So, when I swung by her blog today, where she has so kindly left us (her blog family) repeater posts to read in her absence (a sort of Best of Ms. Moon), I encountered the post linked below. It didn't help my mood much, but it made me feel even more humanly connected to my dear friend. It also made me ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that she has become one of my favorite writers and one of my favorite people.
I have recently had the pleasure of getting to know Ms. Moon's delightful offspring via the Internet, and I am so damn glad! I refer to the entire family as The Magnificent Moons, and they absolutely fucking are.
Here is a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Moon, which I copped (without her permission) from her site. I love this photo. Could there be a cuter damn couple? I think not.
Link to Ms. Moon's moving post at Bless Our Hearts: http://blessourhearts.blogspot.com/2009/07/when-there-are-no-words.html
SB loves you all. May the day send you unexpected blessings.
Friday, July 24, 2009
This photo really (confused me) touched my cold stone creamery heart. Two of my favorite guys--Mickey and the Jeez--hanging out together.
We haven't had any Mickey news for awhile, and I've missed him, so I just thought I'd share this (weird as fuck) endearing photo.
Yesterday, Mr. Obama was honest enough that he somehow got his decent self into trouble by making the following response about the idiotic arrest of African-American Harvard Professor Gates:
"I think it's fair to say, number one, any of us would be pretty angry; number two, that the Cambridge police acted stupidly in arresting somebody when there was already proof that they [Gates and his driver] were in their own home; and, number three, what I think we know separate and apart from this incident is that there's a long history in this country of African-Americans and Latinos being stopped by law enforcement disproportionately."
Now, because of this honest and direct response, newspapers like the NY Post are trying to stir up trouble by implying that the President's comment is proof of some sort of racial agenda.
I beg to differ. What the President said, I reiterate, was honest. I am a white American, and I, too, believe those officers responded to the Gates situation like a bunch of power-drunk babboons. This response was obviously motivated by Professor Gates's race. Shame on them and on all of us, as our police force is only as good as the citizens who fund it.
Bless President Obama for the honesty and straight-forwardness of his response. [I guess after the previous administration, we no longer expect that of our President.] Wrong is wrong. I guess because I'm white, I have the freedom to point that out, and he does not.
We may have elected our first black President in this country, but I'm not sure we've progressed much at all.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Angie is a golden angel of beauty and light. I'll bet her farts sound like an elegant symphony. What sort of delusion does this broke-ass ho Megan Fox live with, that she thinks she COULD EVER replace Saint Ang EVER?
NOTE TO ANGIE: SB is single now! I would go gay for you! Phone moi!!
I hate yogurt SO MUCH that a friend of mine used to make me take a bite of her yogurt just to watch the awful face I made.
Yogurt is some disgusting motherfucking shit. I am unanimous in that!
Also the bride is a chub. It's a good thing she's not really resting the brunt of her full weight on the groom's balding horny ass. I call it like I see it, motherfuckers. I just call that shit out.
NOTE: Bill O'Reilly can go get fucked.
Link to Sheria's excellent blog, The Examined Life: http://theexaminedlife-sheria.blogspot.com/2009/07/icons-race-and-listening.html
I do think the guy on the left in the photo is sort of sexy because the wool really accentuates his private region. Dude is packing. I'd still have to laugh though--if some guy walked into the bedroom wearing that shit. He sort of looks like the hooded hangmen of the days of yore, don't you think?
I find it mildly interesting that the ho in the middle closed her eyes in the photo. I guess when modeling for wool-fetishist publications, they are not that choosy about the damn photo quality. The focus is on the fucking WOOL, people! Nobody gives a shit whether the fetishist model's orbs are open are closed. Whatever.
Or maybe if that bitch kept her eyes open, she was worried she would crack up laughing. My ass sure would.
NOTE: No disrespect intended to all you lovely wool fetishists. To each his own, I say. We are not here to judge. Leave that shit to the damn church.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
NOTE: FFA stands for Future Farmers of America, but I used to call them Future Fuckers of America, because that shit is immature, and SB still thinks that shit is funny, because it is.
Anyhoo, people have been stopping by to inquire about the For Rent sign out front. Last night, a lady and a few straggly mangy-looking kids and her boyfriend, who I shit you not, picked his nose (but did not eat it, thank Christ), knocked on my door. The lady had sores on her face (methhead), and then I remembered seeing her and the nose-picking boyfriend coming out of a house close by, where I suspect drugs may be sold. Neato.
This lady asked whether my ass got booted for having the yard sale FROM HELL. [She thought it was my half of the house that was for rent!] The monstrosity, the SHEER PHYSICAL FUCKING SPECTACLE, of this fucking sale IS THAT BAD. If it was Christmas time, I'd just throw some X-mas lights up on that shit and it would look like some sort of LOOMING MODERN CHRISTMAS SCULPTURE, and my ass could sell bottled water and charge admission to look at that shit. Surely the local news would feature our house, and we'd win some sort of shitty Chinese-wang local prize.
If I had a damn cell phone, I'd take a damn photo and post that shit, and then all you motherfuckers could collectively gasp. You would gasp, too! Count on that shit. But SB is a good non-complaining neighbour and that shit just amuses the fuck out of me. The yard literally looks like LITTLE KENTUCKY. Ohioans always pick on Kentuckians. We have to be superior to somebody, motherfuckers.
Now, I have to worry about methheads moving in to the other half of the damn house and burning that shit down or poisoning the pets and my ass. CAN YOU SAY METH LAB EXPLOSION, MOTHERFUCKERS? It's a distinct damn possibility. I watch COPS. I know how that shit works. The po-pos have to wear masks when they go into the damn meth labs. And I have a kitten! I have a NEW and FRAGILE fucking life to worry about, people!
And, no, before you ask--this is a small rural Ohio town--it is not typically filled with druggies and low-life sorts--just my particular nitch in the town. Lucky me!
It is raining here today, and SB feels like shithell. Bella, the new kitten, makes more noise than the bloody fires of blooming hell because she is HIGHLY NOCTURNAL, and SB's dumb ass made the mistake of buying her a rhinestone-studded purple tinkle collar with a bell. Did I mention the new collar HAS A BELL and that it tinkles almost CONSTANTLY? Little sleep, peeps. Little sleep.
I finally got up and removed that shit (Bella hates the fucking tinkle collar anyway and kept trying to get it off her own neck frantically--it was quality entertainment), but by then it was 4:30 a.m. so a fucking LOT of good that shit did.
When I left for work this morning, both Mercer and Ginger were in their beds SLEEPING. Those young bitches will wear an old motherfucking ass out. If I teach you motherfuckers nothing else, let it be that shit right there--I repeat: Young bitches will wear your ass out! And well you know it.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
SB is back today, after missing work yesterday and half a damn day today. I sound like Froggy from the fucking Little Rascals, and I think I am running a damn temperature still, but I am here. Let no man (or broad) call SB a damn wimp.
My window at the house is still covered over by yard sale fucking items because the kids decided to extend the fucking sale through next weekend, too. Whatever. I'm easy going for a bastard. The kids and their three kids visit my doddering ass and that shit is like a hurricane descending and LEAVING GREAT AND VAST PEACE in its wake, but I sort of enjoy the temporary chaos MAYBE BECAUSE IT'S TEMPORARY.
Anyhoo, SB has also adopted the kitten the kids rescued from the highway. She is black and medium-haired and sweet and three months old. I've named her Bella. Mercer and Ginger (the Diarrhectic Wunderkind) are tolerating her nicely because they are cranky old farts like me, and change is not their bag. In fact, Bella got tired of Ginger smelling on her and took a whack at Ginger. She may wind up ruling the whole damn roost because Mercer could give a shit. She has the personality of Jerry Garcia. Her ass is LAID BACK, motherfuckers.
Well, there's your update. I'm still alive, just barely. I got in a fight over the campfire with my conservative cousin, Chris, over the weekend, but that shit is another story for another day. We weren't rolling around on the ground or anything. IT WAS A VERBAL CONFRONTATION. Just say Bush or Cheney around me and my ass goes BALLISTIC! It is also good not to ask SB, "What about all those lives Bush saved by going into Iraq?" Excuse fucking me. Say whaaaaaaa?
My love to all you motherfuckers. Hope all is swell.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The most funnest part of the trip was when I went to test my NEW pocket tape recorder and said, "Cunt, cunty, motherfucking cunt, cocksucker, sonofabitching whore" into it and then played it back for the Moms. I cracked her ass up, especially since my voice sounded like an 80 year old man with a bad case of phlegm. How to have fun on a business trip! We imagined my accidentally hitting play on the recorder at the client site. Sorry to disappoint--it didn't happen. I need my job, people!
I did see one interesting thing at the Holiday Inn Express. I saw some German motherfucker in some new and EVEN MORE UNFLATTERING form of Speedo. That motherfucker had his privates barely covered by some sort of thong-like triangular Speedo. That shit was not an attractive sight. For once, I wished I had a cell phone so I could take a damn picture and gross all of you motherfuckers out, too! It was so bad that my ass navigated way the hell way out of the way so I wouldn't have to see the front side of the damn suit. I had to be able to sleep at some point, people, and that shit would have been burned on my damn brain. Why do the Europeans insist on showing their damn junk off? I'm sorry, maybe my ass is a Puritan American, but I don't want to see your damn old sausage in a Speedo. It fucking grosses me out. So cut my ass a break.
Here's a treat of a description for all you motherfuckers who never had the good fortune to visit lovely Ohio. Close your eyes. No cheating. Now picture pale yellow dried wheat fields, bleached by the sun. Then picture a field of corn taller than the tallest person in your family. There you go. Your asses just visited Ohio! Also, you should picture lots of people in baggy shorts with out-of-date hairstyles (possibly even mullets). There's your damn virtual vacation, compliments of SB. You're welcome.
I came back from the trip to the entire yard of my house (& I do mean ENTIRE YARD), covered in tables with tarps on them. Even my damn front picture window is covered over by racks of tarped clothes.
The kids next door are having a damn yard sale, and those motherfuckers just took over in SB's absence! Last night, when I was trying to unload the damn car from my trip, carloads of assholes were pulling up to try and crane their damn necks to see what would be sold today (the opening day of the yard sale). Motherfuckers in Ohio go apeshit over a yard or garage sale. APE SHIT. I guess you can understand that tendency better now that you have virtually visited our fine state. When all you have to look at is corn and wheat fields, you'd go apeshit over a sale, too. And don't act all lofty and superior, because you would, trust me.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Man, SB HATES Janet Evanovich. A bunch of the ladies here at work really dig her, so I was subjected to one of her damn books on CD on the ride back from the company retreat last year. I wanted to KILL myself. Of course the other ladies just laughed and laughed and thought the book on CD was SO fucking funny. I was stone silent for the entire ride, but I did keep rolling my eyes while those broads were shreiking with laughter. Jesus. I just don't get it. That ho Evanovich is anything but literary or funny for that matter. Bitch is practically illiterate. The fact that her books sell like they do tells me a whole lot about the average American woman. A whole lot.
I am not opening this blog up to become a forum for irate Janet Evanobitch fans, so all you motherfucking brain-shy fans with bad literary taste can just piss off and start your own blog. I shudder to think that a shitload of them probably already exist. GAG.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Looks to me like the wooly on the left is packing a little extra poundage. Do you suppose that's why she prefers wearing the suit when doing it? That shit hides a multitude of sins!
And again, if you are a proper wool fetishist, we want to hear from you! We value your input and would like to knew if the suits make your privates itchy, or is that part of the draw? We are not here to scoff. We are here to embrace and appreciate all lifestyles*, unlike the damn Bush administration and the religious right, but don't get my ass started.
*Except for people who cut off limbs for a sexual thrill or pedophiles--you've got to draw the line somewhere. One has got to have standards, motherfuckers!
Link to Dlisted: http://dlisted.com/node/32898
p.s. This post will make the Moms very MAD. She doesn't like it when I talk about my pussy in a public forum.
Monday, July 13, 2009
I hope all of you have a really good week. I'll be back more intensively next week.
I love all you motherfuckers!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Bea was preceded in death by her husband who died Oct. 11, 2007, one son, Mark Adrian Elston, her parents, grandson, Jeremy, and brother, Dale. She is survived by four sons: Verl George Jr. (Kathleen), Corin Lynn (Nadine), Ralph Wilbur (Barbara), and James Alan (Gena), one bother, Al, 16 grandchildren, 45 great- grandchildren, and two great- great-grandchildren.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
If you happen to be a wool fetishist, we welcome you to Sarcastic Bastard and invite you to comment. We are open-minded people, and we would like to learn more about wool fetishstry. Bless your wooly little hearts.
And if I were this ho, I would have just given up on remembering these little fuckers' names. I'd probably resort to putting "Hello, my name is . . ." tags on all their precious asses. Do you suppose they had those name tags in the Victorian era (or whatever the fuck the era in the damn photograph is--my ass is just hazarding a guess here, people. SB is not an historian. I don't have time to research photos, goddammit. The people in the photo look repressed as fuck, so I assume it was the Victorian era. If your asses think I'm wrong, then please feel free to correct me. If you want to be a damn fact checker, go read somebody else's blog. SB doesn't give a midget's wang.).
The guy next to me has classical music as his ring tone. I'd still like to strangle his highbrow cultured ass.
I DO NOT WANT TO BE SUBJECTED TO YOUR DAMN MUSIC, MOTHERFUCKERS! I DON'T CARE HOW CLEVER A CHOICE YOU THINK YOU'VE MADE. I WOULD STILL LIKE TO STICK THAT PHONE ABOUT A MILE UP YOUR GODDAMN SPHINCTER!
I remember that great modern philosopher, Johnny Depp, saying he opened his infamous bar, The Viper Room, because he was tired of being subjected to other people's music when he was out drinking. Amen to that shit. Johnny is SB's soul brother. We both enjoy Miracle Whip and despise other people's shitty music. His ass should dump Vanessa and marry me.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I took yesterday off work and didn't take my damn laptop home all weekend. It was a refreshing change. Hence, the lack of posts. I know how disappointed all you motherfuckers were, but dammit, SB needed some downtime. It ain't easy being me. In fact, it's a full-time, very stressful job.
My dear friend's cat is visiting this week, while her ass is on vacay, so, since the goddamn moggy is nocturnal, the sleeping has been a challenge for SB (and also for Ginger, who barks everygoddamntime the cat's tinkle collar makes a sound).
Potato (the visiting feline), as I said, has a damn tinkle collar (basically a collar with a bell), and all night (off and on) SB's ass is awakened by the tinkle collar, jingling the fuck around. Now, I know what you're thinking--hey dumb ass, why don't you just take the damn collar off? This is understandable on your part, dear reader. Well, for some reason (it's a damn breakaway collar) that shit was a bit of a challenge. BUT I GOT VERY DESPERATE LAST NIGHT. So I found a way. There is always a way if you are desperate enough, motherfuckers! Never forget that.
Actually, I had visions of cutting the pink-fucking-collar up into littletinypieces and flattening the goddamn jingle bell with a hammer and returning all the various pieces to my friend in a baggy, but when deprived of sleep, my ass suddenly became VERY RESOURCEFUL, and I managed to get the motherfucker off. So there's that. SB is tarhed today. Veddy tarhed.
Yesterday, the Moms and I got a wild hair up our asses and went to Yellow Springs, Ohio, for the day. Yellow Springs is a friendly little artsy-fartsy crafty hippy town off the beaten trail that is most famous for Antioch College and for being the hometown (and current home) of the comedian Dave Chappelle. We love Dave around these parts, so don't be putting any snide or negative comments about him on this blog OR ELSE!
Anyhoo, the Moms and I went into the Olde Trail tavern to have an icy cold brew, and when I went to pay the VERY TALL bartender, the motherfucker slipped on something and went down like a log. I mean in a flash, the unfortunate motherfucker just disappeared on the floor behind the bar. You couldn't even see the top of his noggin. It was great! (Note: He was uninjured, but highly embarrassed.) You always have an interesting tale to tell when you visit Yellow Springs. It is an OFFICIAL Sarcastic Bastard recommended vacation destination.
[Note: Why is my first reaction to laugh when an unfortunate motherfucker falls? Maybe it's the patheticness of human frailty. Or maybe it's just the fact that Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin made it funny to fall. And it IS fucking funny. Never forget that.]
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Proust Questionnaire has its origins in a parlor game popularized (though not devised) by Marcel Proust, the French essayist and novelist, who believed that, in answering these questions, an individual reveals his or her true nature.
[Note: This is some SCARY shit to SB. I feel so damn naked!]
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Having a nice glass of cabernet at home in Savannah, Georgia, (in the fall) at the bar downstairs at the 17hundred90. How's that for specific?
2. What is your greatest fear? The death of my parents.
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Lack of self-discipline.
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? Conservative republicanism.
5. Which living person do you most admire? Wendell Berry.
6. What is your greatest extravagance? Wine and books.
7. What is your current state of mind? Peaceful.
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Cheerfulness.
9. On what occasion do you lie? Too many to count.
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? My girth.
11. Which living person do you most despise? Tie: Cheney and George W.
12. What is the quality you most like in a man? Sense of humor/wit.
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? Wisdom.
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Motherfucker(s).
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? Not a good idea to answer this. Someone is bound to be hurt.
16. When and where were you happiest? Savannah, Georgia (anytime, everytime).
17. Which talent would you most like to have? To sing well.
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I would have a lot more self-discipline.
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? My cat and dog.
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? I think I would be Kurt Vonnegut. I would say Mark Twain, but his life was far too tragic.
21. Where would you most like to live? Savannah, of course.
22. What is your most treasured possession? I don't have one. I only treasure people. The new high-def TV with DVR is nice though.
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? Losing a child.
24. What is your favorite occupation? Wine taster/bartender.
25. What is your most marked characteristic? Anger at injustice or stupidity.
26. What do you most value in your friends? Honesty/ability to hold their liquor.
27. Who are your favorite writers? Kurt Vonnegut, Samuel Clemens, Wendell Berry, Jane Fishman, David Foster Wallace, Ms. Moon, and Carson McCullers.
28. Who is your favorite hero of fiction? The grandmother in Owen Meany.
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Nathan Bedford Forrest because of his hot temper and ability to get right to the point and cut through the shit. He greatly amused me because he was a force of nature.
30. Who are your heroes in real life? Bill Clinton, Paul Newman, Kurt Vonnegut.
31. What are your favorite names? Hannah and Bella.
32. What is it that you most dislike? Conservative republicans.
33. What is your greatest regret? Bede and Blackie.
34. How would you like to die? Quickly and painlessly.
35. What is your motto? Ignore shit. It will go away eventually.
Jane is a touchstone for me. She is who I would like to be when I grow up (along with Ms. Moon, who I idol worship).
I posted the whole column, instead of the link, because I know some of you motherfuckers are too damn shiftless and lazy to click on the link. And you know who you are!
I hope you enjoy (even you shiftless motherfuckers).
Jane Fishman: Remembering what's important
Sunday, April 19, 2009 at 12:30 am
Ask anyone about memory lapses and expect a groan. Face it: We're all losing it. "It only gets worse," I delight in saying. Still, it's interesting.
The other night, flipping around TV, looking for something that might be worth the distraction, anything to justify the $9.95 a month I pay for cable, I landed on some stupid spy/comedy show and see a guy with a dimple in his chin, a goofy look in his eyes, an ironic twist to his lips and I think, "I know this man; who is he?"
It's killing me so I break down and Google the show, just like I did last week when I was trying to remember George McGovern's running mate in 1972. Last name starts with "E." (Answer: Thomas Eagleton).
For the record, the TV show is "Chuck." But a half-second before the actor's name pops up on the screen I remember, all by myself: Chevy Chase. Hardly anything I needed to beat myself up about remembering.
Mother still knows me
The whole memory thing takes a different twist when I visit my mother. She's 95 and lives in an assisted-living facility. She needs help getting in and out of bed and lately to eat. She's confined to a wheelchair. Her eyes are sharp, her mind is cloudy, her hearing shot. She pays no attention to the racket from the fly caught in the Venetian blinds in her apartment or the insistent squawk of the aide's walkie-talkie.
But when I visit, my mother still knows me. Her mouth drops open in surprise. She grins. She's happy. The next morning when she wakes up, she's surprised and happy all over again. At first I was embarrassed at her memory lapse. Now I'm happy we get to re-experience the greeting one more time.
While I might have once looked to her to fill in the gaps of my life and her past, now I see I'm too late. I've waited too long. She can no longer answer any of my questions. So in the last year I've lowered my expectations. Now when I visit, I no longer probe about the past. I've moved into the present. We sit and look at the sky, at the Canadian geese, at other people, at one another. I tickle her. She laughs. I make a face. She makes one back.
We sink into the pink sofa, where she spends most of her days. When I remember, I lift the cushions and fish out cookie crumbs, weekly menus and Valentine cards from two years ago. Like everything else in the room, the cushions carry a slightly acidic smell. We sit close. Our thighs touch. I find some body cream and work it into my mother's dry, thin arms, the backs of her hands, then into each of her fingers. The papery skin pulls away. I have to remember to work gently. She has so little muscle tone I could easily leave a bruise. After that I drop to the floor, peel off the socks that have left marks on her calves, roll up her pants and rub some cream into her scaly legs. Then she's reached her limit. "That's enough," she says, unaccustomed to the attention. "Stop." But I don't. I keep going.
"You're face looks nice," she reports, looking at me from 6 inches away. "I just love looking at you."
"Remember the time you told me my ears were my best quality?" I ask.
"No," she says. "Did I ever say that?"
"Yes, you did."
"They are small and nicely proportioned."
"That's exactly what you said then."
We sit some more. The sun floods in. She rubs my bare arm. Then Charlie, my dog, jumps between us and starts to lick the cream off her arms. "She likes me," my mother says, smiling. "She does," I agree.
"Do you write to your mother?" she asked once out of the blue.
"You're my mother," I said.
"Oh. Is my father living?"
"Was I a good mother?'"
"That's nice," she said.
A new phase
Just when I think she'll never be able to have another rational thought or even hear my question, she surprises me. Like the time I asked her what it was like to get old. "Not much fun," she answered without missing a beat. Or when I told her a certain relative she never got along with was moving into her same facility. Again, without stopping to think she said, "Then I'm going to have to move out."
Each time I visit she makes a point to introduce me to all the aides and the other residents I've met a hundred times before. "This is my daughter," she says. "I forget where she lives."
We have moved into a new phase, she and I. The filters are gone. The pretense is gone. There is no longer anyone or anything to impress. I realize this the night I was tucking her into bed, the way she used to tuck me in, and I was saying, "Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite," the way she would say to me.
Then, fully present, smiling, looking straight at me, my mother, once so critical, once so judgmental and disapproving, gave me the highest compliment of all when she said, "This is the best day of my life. If only Jane were here."
I didn't bother correcting her.