A Good Son

Two days ago, Jake decided he simply must get rid of his uni-brow. Let me just say, it’s not a debilitating, socially unacceptable uni-brow. It’s the uni-brow of a half Puerto Rican, half pasty-white kid. Sure, he could use a tweeze—but he’s twelve. Must we begin those types of cosmetic rituals already? I just got the kid on deodorant, for Christ’s sake!

(see blog titled: Discussion Hygiene)

The un-brow discussion went on for over an hour. After outlining the two acceptable ways in which I could rid him of the pesky hairs between his eyebrows, he decided that waxing was out of the question, as well as tweezing. He even mentioned they both seemed like torture.

Yes, my sweet. Welcome to a woman’s world!

“I can shave it!” he exclaimed.

“Do NOT even think about shaving it, Jake.”

“Why?” he whined.

“Because, you could slip and look like your Nanna did for over a year. She accidentally shaved too much and then panicked and shave them both off. She had to draw her eyebrows on, and when they finally did grow back, they were never the same again.”

“Yeah, that’s funny.” He laughed.

“Not if they’re your brows, it’s not.” I sipped my mocha latte and decided I needed to put all of the Bic Shavers® in the house on permanent lock-down. It was going to be inconvenient when I needed to shave my legs, but probably better safe than sorry.

He sat quietly for a moment, pondering Mario from the (Mario Sunshine© craze) on the computer screen.

“I could be careful. I won’t slip, Mom.”

“DO NOT DARE SHAVE YOUR EYEBROWS!”

“But Mom, Mario doesn’t have a uni-brow.”

Ugh! Jake wants to be Mario. It’s bordering on pissing me off at this point.

“Of course he does. He's Italian. But he's a CARTOON so you can't see it. He's got a penis too, but you don't see that either, do you?"

“Mom, don’t say penis.”

“Fine, don’t shave your eyebrows, and we’ve got a deal.”

Another recent conversation involved a note I received from his teacher about him being insubordinate:

Jake wouldn’t pick up his hand sanitizer in class when directed to do so.

Mrs. D


“Jake, why wouldn’t you pick up the hand sanitizer if it fell on the floor?”

“It was all leaking and gooey. I didn’t want to touch it.”

“Um, yeah—it was leaking HAND SANITIZER, not raw sewage. Geeze.”

“I wanna’ be home-schooled.” Jake says this on a weekly basis.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna’ happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Jake. The one thing you really need as an autistic person is to learn to move around in the world with other kids and adults. That’s more important for you than the reading and math and stuff. If I home-schooled you, you’d never leave the house.”

“I like that idea.” Jake brightened only long enough to hear my retort.

“I don’t.”

He constantly tells me he just wants to be normal. Normal, normal, normal. If I could purchase some normal for the kid, I would have done it long ago. But normal can’t be bought, stolen, or cooked in the oven. If this normal business is going to be the death of me, Jake’s obsessions and compulsions are going to be the death of him.

“I had weird dreams last night, Mom.”

“What about?”

“Mrs. Faber was wearing pajamas at school.”

“Yeah? What did they look like?”

“I don’t remember. But I was doing the wiener-tickle thing…okay, okay, don’t say anything I don’t want to talk about it.”

His nightly questions about legendary creatures, whether or not the doors are all locked, and the validity of heaven’s existence have begun to take an alarming turn:

“Mom, would you or Dad ever push me off a cliff?”

“No, honey. Why would you ask that?”

“Mom, you were right. I think I need to get medication for these bad thoughts in my head. I just want to have a normal brain. I don’t want to ever hurt anyone, but I was in the shed playing with my sword and shield and suddenly I got the bad thought that I might throw it at my Dad or Bob. It devastates me, Mom. I have guilt in my heart. I’m sorry I didn’t turn out to be the kid you wanted.”

Oh God… My poor baby.

“Honey, you’re even better than what I imagined when I was pregnant. You’re sensitive and you talk about things that other kids would not say out loud.”

“I’m sorry I’m not the best kid I could be.” Jake wasn’t crying like I felt like doing. He was simply apologizing for what he presumed were his shortcomings.

“Jake, please understand you’re the best kid any mom could ask for.”

“Even with my autistic brain?”

“Yes, in fact I love your autistic brain the most. You’re the best kid, ever.”

“What about Jaxson?”

“Him too.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, buddy.”

“Are you sure I’m the kid you wanted me to be?”

“You’re much more than any kid I could have ever imagined. I love you just the way you are.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You never disappoint me, Jake. You try very hard, every day. Harder than any kid I know. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah, I do have to try pretty hard every day.”

God, but I love that boy…

Agent/Writer Snark Duel

Over the span of a year, in an effort to lure a literary agent into representing me, I have recieved my share of rejection letters. In fact, I don't have a computer chair. I am, at this very moment, sitting on a stack of rejection letters. I've also got a 'rejection ottoman' for my feet and my 'rejection desk' is almost complete.

Rejections aren't fun, but as writers we simply must not engage in bitter responses to rejections we feel are unfair. We must suck it up and stifle the urge to call the person on the other end of the e-mail an ass-hat.

Rather than tell them what an idiot they are for not liking your work, perhaps something like this might be in order: "Thank you for all of the 'tough love', which has now sent me forth into the querying world armed with a better knowledge of what a proposal is. I will now and forever be grateful that you pistol-whipped me into submission.'

Not everyone is going to like your work. No biggie. Take what you can learn from the situation and move on.

My partner in crime, soul-sister and person I plan on taking over the world with, Kat Nove, had an inspired idea after reading a particularly witty response I sent in response to a rejection letter.

So, without further ado, here is the High Priestess of Hilarity, Kat Nove—playing herself—while I have the distinct privilege of playing Hortensia P. Schlemecker, agent extraordinaire.
**************************************************************************

Subject:　 Query
Date: May 6, 2010
To: query@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com

Dear Agent,

I’ve read everything your client has written and I’m a huge fan, weighing in at approximately 465 pounds. It occurred to me that if you enjoy representing an author who writes in that particular genre, I’m your man, or I could be if you’ll float me a loan for a sex change operation.

Attached is a list of my published work in obscure zines, along with the first three chapters of a book of observational satire, which I promise to finish the moment I send this email to you.

Please, please, please, please consider representing me, because if you don’t, the next thing I write will be a thinly disguised personal ad in Chubby Chasers Magazine. SWFFBG (single white female fat butt guaranteed) Will Put Out for Thick-Sliced Bacon.

Thank you for your consideration.

Yours in desperation,
Kat Nove
katnovian.com
**********************************************************************
　
Subject:　 re: Query
Date: May 10, 2010
To: kfisher55@yahoo.com
From: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

Dear Ms. Nove,

First off, I have quite a few clients, so it would have behooved you to point out which one of them you were referring to. Second, it’s always best to at least make your query appear as if it’s not being sent to fifteen-hundred other ‘Dear Agents’. (Hint, hint—I have a name. Use it.)

Did you even check out the agency website? Oh, how I wish noob (agent-speak for newbie-slash-boob) writers would follow submission guidelines. It certainly would have made this self-flagellating bit of prose easier to wade through.　

What exactly is your book about? Your query gives absolutely no indication. You appear to have a fun sense of humor, but I have no clue as to the message you’re trying to impart. Is this merely a ‘look at me’ book? I can’t even tell whether it’s fiction or non-fiction. Perhaps this was your lame attempt at writing in the ‘voice’ of your protagonist. God, I can only hope that is not the case, (another noob mistake) but the query is just psychotic enough that it could very well have been your intent, however misguided.

If you’d like to try this again, I’m willing to play along, but please keep in mind that I’ll only humor you one last time. I recommend that you look at our blog and click on the link that discusses a real proposal/query (depending on whether your submission is non-fiction or fiction). And also peruse our submission guidelines.

Hortensia P. Schlemecker
Schlemecker Literary Agency
1-800-555-6969
www.Schlemeckerliterary.com
Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
　
**********************************************************************
　
Subject:　 re: Query
Date: May 10, 2010
To: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com

Dear Hortensia:

You don’t mind if I call you Tense, do you?

Thank you for pointing out the link to submission guidelines. My work station forces me to sit back in a comfortable chair with my feet on a stool and the keyboard and one of five cats in my lap. Therefore, my bifocals often prevent me from observing links, typos, misspelled words and other assorted details I always assumed fell under the job description of copy editor.

Now that I’ve leaned over with my nose to the monitor and read your submission guidelines, in the spirit of mutually beneficial camaraderie, let’s begin again, shall we?

My book of observational satire, If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess, I Must be a Loser,features essays which had your client, Cecily Riverdance calling me “the whole demented package.”

From the Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) work-related rant contest winner Crap World - to my contention that government-mandated vasectomies are necessary in For the Sake of Humanity, Step Away from That Sperm - each essay illustrates that nothing is immune from my sarcasm. Not world leaders - Ruling the World by Playing Drunken Volleyball; not Scripp’s National Spelling Bee winners lacking basic social skills – Switching Teams; and not even man’s best friend – The Difference Between Cats and Dogs.

Would you like to read a few sample essays? If so, Men You Better Pause should be a good starting point as it lists how 24 of the 27 symptoms of menopause have personally affected me. You might find they’ve affected you in other ways.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Kat Nove
katnovian.com

**********************************************************************

Subject:　 THE WORST PROPOSAL ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH
Date: May 28, 2010
To: kfisher55@yahoo.com
From: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

Ms. Nove,

*sigh*

I should have guessed it was Riverdance. She’s a half-bottle of Stoli away from a twelve-step program. But her books sell, so who am I to judge?

Let me explain something to you as if you were a fifth-grader. I don’t care how many obscure magazines, e-zines or blogs you’ve had the privilege of being published by/on (notice the italics— you’re playing fast and loose with what the word published really means). The same goes for contests.　From the ABNA's to Faulkner's, blah, blah, blah, it’s all white noise unless the award’s got Guggenheim in the title— or Oprah, herself, is thrusting it into your sweaty hands.　

There's a reason we agents are as irritable as Dick Cheney’s bowel after a bucket of greasy chicken. It is because we constantly see very talented writers passed over for those who have written the newest vampire tome about angst ridden teens, not to mention former Vice-Presidential candidates from Alaska who have little to say but a huge platform from which to spew it. When you’ve got Young Republicans and the entire NRA creaming in their skivvies for a signed copy of your latest book, then you can write what you want.

It’s truly a sad state of affairs, but it is what it is. And here’s what it is: Beelzebub is driving the gravy train we call big publishing at the moment. Rather than stoking the engine room with coal, he’s tossing in shelter puppies and the virginity of pre-pubescent girls, lighting a bonfire sans intégrité under all our asses. It’s just easier to give someone like Heidi Montag, or that disingenuous James Frey a publishing contract than take a risk on frou-frou literary ventures or works of actual merit.

Sure, writers are free to submit to teensy-weensy independent and university presses if they wish to have their three hundred page masterpiece bound and edited so they can pass it out at Christmas. Perhaps impressing Uncle Horace and cousin Jezebel is important to you, but nobody’s making any money on that deal. And I’m not in this ménage a mal for the giggles.　

So, tell me how your work is commercially viable. Do you know what a proposal is? It’s that little thing you should have sent to me in the first place, covering the information any agent needs to know when you are proposing a work of non-fiction. It’s the document that I would be required to pass around—no doubt with considerable re-structuring on my end—to publishers. I’m not sure why, but you writers can’t seem to put a proposal together to save your literary arses.

Have you ever seen Glengarry Glen Ross? Right now you’re Shelley Levene. I need you to be Ricky Roma, get it? Channel a bit of that used-car-salesman vibe and sell, sell, Sell! yourself to me.

My cat died yesterday, and because I’m feeling all mushy and charitable, here’s what I’m going to do—but, make no mistake, my patience is wearing thin—below, find the guidelines for a real proposal.　

　
COVER- Title and subtitle; genre, word count, author’s name, address, phone, fax, email

CONCEPT STATEMENT- Briefly state your target audience, why they need this book, why your book is unique or timely, and what it offers that other books don’t.

OVERVIEW- How you came to write the book. This is the ‘meat’. Work in your ‘voice’ because this is the most important part of your proposal.
PURPOSE OF THE BOOK - How will it benefit readers?

THE AUDIENCE- Here’s a biggie—who will buy your book? Why do they even want or need it? Providing statistics is usually a good idea.

COMPETITIVE BOOKS- Here are your title comps. What else exists out there? Where is it shelved? How is your book new, better and different?

MARKETING OF THE BOOK- How would you market your book? Bookstores, book clubs, Internet, clubs—anything outside a bookstore.

AUTHOR’S PROMOTIONAL CONTRIBUTION - Tell me everything you’re prepared to do to make your book a success. Here’s where you play my bitch.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR- Background, experience, and why you are the best person to write the book.

THREE SAMPLE CHAPTERS


Can you see how what you sent me might look like a big ole’ pile of arbitrary absurdity? Are you trying to say you’re the next Eggers or Sedaris? If you are, you better be able to tell me you’re better… and why.　 　

How hard is that, really? Jesus I feel like you writers need to be coddled these days, and while I’m not completely unwilling to stroke whatever it is you need stroked, you’re going to need to tell me why I should be jerking you off. What do you have to offer me in return?

Christ, I need a margarita. Your next e-mail better blow me away, otherwise you’ll be relegated to the hulking abyss that is my spam box. I’ve given you way more of my time than anyone deserves.

*RIP Kitty-Kins*

Hortensia P. Schlemecker
Schlemecker Literary Agency
1-800-555-6969
www.Schlemeckerliterary.com
Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

PS- The only positive thing I have to say about our communications back and forth, so far, is that you haven’t written another book about a single Mom surviving divorce against all odds, or an alcoholic/drug-addicted thirty-something that has ‘daddy issues’. If I have to wade through any more of these self-pity-fests, I might be forced to gouge out my eyes with a tuning fork.

PSS- Did you just accuse me of being menopausal?
　
**********************************************************************
Subject:　 re: THE WORST PROPOSAL ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH
Date: May 29, 2010
To: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com

Dear Tense Hor,

I’m sorry if you got the impression I accused you of being menopausal – that was not my intent. Though I will mention that if you chase a Midol with one of those many margaritas you seem so fond of, the effect is quite pleasing.

Your suggestions have been so helpful to me I feel the urge to return the favor. I’ve found that instead of using a tuning fork to gouge your eye out, you might consider placing canned tuna on your eyelids and lying still on the floor. Then your cat can do the job for you. Oops! I forgot your cat died. My condolences. Whatever method you use, I bet your eye patch will give you that certain sex appeal which attracts both ophthalmologists and pirates, but won’t exclude women in case you are a lesbian.

Below you will find my book proposal, which I completed weeks ago, I just delayed sending it in favor of playing video poker.

If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess I Must Be a Loser
Humor
60,000 words
Kat Nove
666 Underworld Drive
Blahburg, TX 78028
(210) 555-1974
kfisher55@yahoo.com

The target audience for my book includes two groups of diverse readers – those who are obsessed with popular culture and those who are not. This collection of satiric essays contains something for everyone with a sense of humor. From global events to my extremely weird live-in boyfriend, readers might recognize themselves on the pages. And who doesn’t like reading about themselves, other than indicted alleged pedophiles?

I decided to compile my essays into one book due to encouragement and constant nagging from members on the writers’ workshop I joined for the sole purpose of having my work edited for only $39.95 a year. “BLOG THIS!” they all screamed in unnecessary uppercase, so I did. Now my website http://katnovian.com/ is attracting over 2,000 hits a day, only 1,998 of them Russian porn bots.

There is a need for this book, in that the market is inundated with cookie-cutter books in every genre. Self-help books all point out that diet and exercise will help with weight loss/thinking positive causes good things to happen/and co-dependence is bad. Christian fiction demonstrates how Amish women can churn butter with a particular hand motion to attract their bearded suitors. Teen fiction demands high school girls turn their backs on man’s deep-seated moral imperative that necrophilia is to be avoided and therefore spend 250 pages lusting after cute and pasty vampires. Mysteries these days contain way too many crime solving cats, dogs, pastry chefs, and quilters.

The reading public needs a well-written book by an author who is not a drug addict, alcoholic, or slut—and whose self-deprecating humor and comic timing guarantees her likeability. If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess, I Must Be a Loser is that book.

Once I’m a guest on Oprah everyone will buy my book even though they won’t know why they want it or need it. A conservative estimate of sales is 23,000,000 – the number of viewers who watch Oprah each week.

This book will be compared favorably with Jane Connick Black’s Raw Potato Duchess series, Lottie Navarro’s Dorky Girl phenomenon, and Cecily Riverdance’s charming Southern essays, which almost make me want to visit the deep South. Almost. While these books are hilarious and have earned their well-deserved success, mine is edgier with not only more laugh-out-loud lines per page, but more curse words.

My marketing plan is in place. Not only will social networking be involved, but as a book manager in a nationwide chain, I can guarantee orders in quantity and product placement due to the fact I have documentation of hours worked off the clock to complete required assignments. In the store I manage, associates will be under strict orders to push my book or they’ll lose their jobs.

Oprah is a given, but I also have newspaper reporters and radio personalities angling for exclusive interviews once the book is published. I intend to promise all of them exclusivity.

My quick wit and superficial knowledge of nearly everything makes me the perfect candidate for a worldwide book tour starting in New York, then on to London, Paris, Rome and anywhere else airborne volcano ash isn’t involved. I love the ocean and am immune to seasickness so a book tour cruise might be in order. If I were one of the Seven Dwarfs, Bashful is the last one I’d be. I’d be Brassy, the one with balls larger than his diminutive head who can stand up before a crowd and make them roar with laughter and clamor for the chance to spend $25.99 plus tax.

I’m prepared to engage in speaking engagements, as well as get engaged to be married to anyone you choose as my lifelong mate. I’ll wear a blood diamond engagement ring on my finger or through my nose. I’ll file for a very public and nasty divorce as soon as book sales begin to slump. I’ll bring my own table, tablecloth, chairs, clever decorations, bottle of water and catheter to book signings.

Within six month’s of signing a contract I will deliver you a completed manuscript, hopefully by email as my printer is out of toner.

I have several books in the works which are part of the Loser series. If I Can’t Wave Like a Politician’s Wife I Must Not Be a Loser; If I Can’t Do the Wave at a Dallas Cowboys Game I Must Be a Football Loser and If I Can’t Wave Like a Trained Seal at Seaworld, Shamu Bit My Flipper Off Which Makes Me a Loser.

I have attached the first three chapters of my book. Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
Kat Nove
katnovian.com
**********************************************************************
Subject:　 Midol & Margaritas
Date: June 5, 2010
To: kfisher55@yahoo.com
From: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

Kat,

(May I call you Kat?)

Strummin’ my pain with your fingers…

You’re quite the wing-nut, aren’t you? How do I get myself into these things? If the first three chapters of your book are any indication, you’ve got yourself an agent. I like your spunk, your snark, your joie de vivre, your willingness to pimp yourself out en masse.

BUT—and there’s always a but—I’ll need to see the complete manuscript. Forward it immediately and you’ll have my final answer by next week, barring any unforeseen complications like more feline deaths or terrorist attacks.

Kat, I feel like I know you, already. And if I’m accurately reading between the lines, you and I might just make a great team.

(Hint, hint—Did you hear Melissa and Tammy broke up?)

Hortensia P. Schlemecker
Schlemecker Literary Agency
1-800-555-6969
www.Schlemeckerliterary.com
Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

**********************************************************************
Subject:　 re: Midol & Margaritas
Date: June 5, 2010
To: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com

Dear Hor,

Words can't express how grateful I am (but perhaps a singing telegram?) at the prospect of signing with your successful and reputable agency. I know you and I will accomplish great things together in the publishing world. In the real world, my boyfriend does cook every meal and clean the litter box, so for the time being he's a keeper. If you're fond of fatty meat-based meals, we'll have you over for dinner some night.

Attached is the completed manuscript.

Thanks again for your confidence that we'll be a good fit.

Sincerely,
Kat Nove
katnovian.com

**********************************************************************
Subject:　 Ridin’ the Oprah Train!!!!!!!!
Date: September 12, 2011
To: kfisher55@yahoo.com
From: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

Kat,

You are not going to believe the e-mail that just popped into my inbox!
　
~
　
Subject: The Oprah Winfrey Show
Date: 9-12-11
To:　 Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: producer@oprahwinfrey.com

Ms. Schlemecker,

Hello! My name is Lydia Martin and I am writing on behalf of Ms. Winfrey. We are putting together a line-up for sweeps week next month and Oprah would love to have your client, Kat Nove, on our program the second week in November. The theme of the show will be ‘Breakout Writers & Entertainers’.

Boy, 2011 was her year, huh? I bet it seems like only yesterday that you signed her as a client!

I hear congratulations are in order, by the way! A little birdie nesting on the industry grapevine tells us Imagine Entertainment is producing If I Can’t Wave Like a Princess I Must Be a Loser, and Sandra Bullock is attached to play Ms. Nove! But, what a boon to get Jeni Decker as the director! Her imdb.com Star Rating is up 247% this week and rottentomatos.com shows her at 98% on the Tomatometer!

Anyway, If you could get back with us as soon as possible, and Ms. Nove is amenable, we could begin the pre-publicity process.

We’ll look forward to your prompt reply,

Lydia Martin
Producer, The Oprah Winfrey Show
Harpo Productions
　~
　
Kat, I’m heading over to Travelocity to book a vacation for January! I bet Figi is nice this time of year…　

God do I love owning 15% of your snarky ass!

Hortensia P. Schlemecker
Schlemecker Literary Agency
1-800-555-6969
www.Schlemeckerliterary.com
Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
　
**********************************************************************
Subject:　 re: Ridin’ the Oprah Train!!!!!!!!
Date: September 12, 2011
To: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com

Hor,

Hey, that's pretty cool. Did I ever mention to you that I've never watched a single episode of Oprah? I bet when I tell her that, she'll think it's pretty funny, huh?

Do you think it's okay to wear my baggy faded jeans, the ones with those holes caused by my fat thighs rubbing together? Oh! And my plaid sneakers? I know they're kinda beat up, but they're so damn comfortable.
Can't wait to see you in Chicago!

Kat
katnovian.com
************************************************************************
Subject:　 re: re: Ridin’ the Oprah Train!!!!!!!!
Date: September 12, 2011
To: kfisher55@yahoo.com
From: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com

　
You're killing me, Nove.
　
************************************************************************
　
Subject:　 re: re: re:　 Ridin’ the Oprah Train!!!!!!!!
Date: September 12, 2011
To: Hortensia@schlemeckerliterary.com
From: kfisher55@yahoo.com


I know.
　
************************************************************************

NOTE: Both Kat Nove and Jeni Decker are currently seeking representation.

Lemons, Lemonade and Shit Pebbles

This morning, Jaxson did something that left me gobsmacked. If you read the previous posting, you know that the little autistic-ragamuffin recently went through a poop-tossing phase. (1)

I feel it important to illustrate another aspect of his recent ‘savant-ness’, so as to ensure my readers understand that there are brilliant spots of clarity and overall extraordinary bliss-ments (blissful moments) that also happen on a daily basis.

It’s Saturday, quite windy and nippy (nipply) outside, so we’re all hanging out in the living room doing our own things. I’m busy writing something with my brilliant soul-sister slash side-kick , Kat Nove, so my ass is planted in front of the computer. I assume her ass is similarly planted, as we speak. (I don't know for sure because she lives in Texas, poor thing, and I'm in Michagan. The Gods wisely decided to plop us millions of miles away from one another, lest we get up to general trouble-making and decide to take over the world.)

But, I digress...

Jaxson grabbed a black Sharpie® (2) and sat down next to me with a spiral notebook. I didn’t pay much attention to what he was writing, but when he trundled off to his room to play video games, I bent over to retrieve his scrawled pages.

…well, suffice it to say, I had a moment.

Below is EXACTLY what’s on the two pages he filled with cute second-grade boy penmanship:

Jaxson
Mom
The boy
kicks girl
wins
boy stands
Kicks

Obama
Biden
www.barackobama.com
A boy
Stands
Jaxson
Mom
Mo & the g

Okay, let’s stop for a minute and take a deep, cleansing breath before we continue. (3)

WTF?!?!?!?!?!

Is it just me or are there some actual phrases that make sense? And what is the kid trying to tell me with all of the Obama/Biden ACTUAL WEBSITE address information? (4)

It only takes about three seconds for me to start putting the pieces together. There’s no way he’s just free-associating thoughts and writing them down. He’s eight years old. He can’t even know who Barak Obama is!

I look around the room and it all starts to come together. His pages from school are neatly lined up on the table; activities where he’d been asked to fill in blanks and write phrases next to pictures. For instance:

The boy stands.
The girl kicks.

Okay, so mystery number one, solved. He’s copying things from the pages. Still, the handwriting looks good!

As I continue to scour the living room, my eyes light upon the Obama/Biden sign I’ve kept prominently displayed on my wall. (5)

So, like Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects, the kid has culled tidbits from his immediate vicinity to tell his story. And what is his story? I think it’s this:

“Look Ma, I can write!”

Well, good for him! So he’s not a savant and won’t be counting toothpicks at a glance like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. So what? Who needs a toothpick-counting kid? My kid is writing PHRASES! He’s looking at a picture and putting actual words together, correctly spelled, to form coherent thoughts! Hot damn, life is a mini-miracle!

The moral of today’s story is this: When life hands you lemons(or shit pebbles), you CAN make lemonade (???)! (6)

I’m going to color my hair now. It feels like a 'Hot-Tamale-Red' kinda’ month! Yes, people—I’m feelin’ myself today!

_________________________________

FOOTNOTES:

1- For my concerned readers, I will happily note the phase seems to have momentarily subsided—along with my suicidal thoughts!

2- It’s possible that later I might find the alphabet scrawled all over the bathroom walls in his handwriting and it will permanently and indelibly be part of the general ambiance in said bathroom. That, coupled with the 6 Renuzit Air Freshners®, and the regular stench of ca-ca ensures I will now and forever be considered a sad commentary in the manner of “You know you’re a white-trash hot mess when…”

3- By the way, his handwriting has dramatically improved. It’s legible, and even sits on the college ruled lines quite nicely, albeit his letters are two lines high. But it looks damned good!

4- He’s a frigging genius, that’s what he’s telling me!!

5- Yes, the website is, in fact, written on the bottom of the red-white-and-blue sign that once proudly sat outside my house in order to torment my redneck McCain/Palin loving neighbors. It was torn down three times, and every time I put it back up. Now, it will forever be part of my living room décor.

6- I don’t know where I’m going with this little analogy, but you get the general drift!

Son-Of-A...

We’re having more scatological issues in my house. Yes, dear readers, the shit hit the fan, yesterday. Not literally, but bad things are happening and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to ride out this excremental tsunami with my sanity intact.

For the past few weeks, Jaxson (8 year old, barely verbal autistic boy, for those of you NOT following my life like a rabid All My Children or American Idol fan) is having more toileting issues.

I thought all the feces drama was behind us when he took that first ca-ca on the toilet, and even recorded it on his digital camera for posterity! Yes, brotha’ I’ve got it on film! Filmmaking is his newest obsession and no less than fourteen digital video cameras have paid for it with their lives. One after the other have met their demise as Jaxson runs around the house capturing his tomfoolery digitally before he plays it back for his own amusement, eventually putting the camera in the toilet or under the running tap.

So here’s how it looks on film:

The long wait as his plaintive stare takes up the entire video screen, while the camera sits on the edge of the bathroom sink, facing him. The look of revelation in his widened eyes as he peeks from the camera to the contents of the bowl beneath him, then back to the camera with his brow furrowed, wondering if what he’s just done is something he might want to repeat. Him wiping himself with a look of disgust before tossing the soiled toilet paper and standing to pull up his undies before flushing.

“Gotcha!” he proudly exclaims as the turd disappears into oblivion with a loud flush.

Life was good! I finally had two autistic kids who were wearing real underwear! Poop has played such a large role in my life, I was glad to see it go; like killing off an unneeded member of a TV series once they’ve worn out their welcome, and then some.

Nicolette Sheridan on Desperate Housewives comes to mind. (I never watch the show, I’m just assuming.)

Anyway, things were going well… until smells started emanating from Jax’s bedroom. Smells that only belong in the restroom, and even then aren’t particularly welcome. But I’ve got strategically placed Renuzit Air Fresheners® in my bathrooms, six in each ( okay, that’s a wild exaggeration…but not by much) so at least there’s a faint aroma of powdery-fresh-scent hovering over the oppressive stench of shit.

But I panic when I begin to smell those ‘aromas’ in other rooms in the house. I start getting Vietnam-esque flashbacks of Jax tossing dirty Pull-Ups® over the fence as daily gifts to a former neighbor, or cleaning the ass of my twelve year old with Aloe-Scented Luvs Baby-Wipes®, or hours of sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing, trying to get either of them to evacuate.

So, here I am, smelling those smells, not only when Jax flies by me on the way to the refrigerator, but every time I pass his room in the hallway. A quick inspection of the room leaves me with no answers, so as he runs past me again, I grab Jaxson’s arm, tuck a finger behind the waistband of his Fruit of the Loom® undies and take a peek inside.

Yep. Houston we’ve got a problem, all right. He’s not wiping well. Or, should I say, not at all, based on the golf-ball sized chuck of excrement I notice flattened between his ass-cheeks.

The other egregious violation of my sanity that has been popping up is the fact that I’m finding dirty underwear all over the house. Under the sink, pushed into the back of closets, in his underwear drawer spending a little too much quality time with the CLEAN skivvies. Behind the TV in the living room, under my bathroom cabinet…I’m like a human bloodhound, sniffing my way to a trail of stinky underwear.

For two weeks this has been happening.

My assumption, up till now, was that Jax was having problems wiping, so he’d put on another pair, and then, when he realized there were skid marks, or skid pebbles on said undies, he’d remove them and fetch a clean pair. Whereby, the underwear itself is becoming sort of a faux toilet tissue; cleaning off a bit more of the ca-ca each time he changes them.

I am literally buried under a four foot mound of dirty underwear and have taken to washing a load of undies a day. Three boys live in my house. Three penises to trickle pee-pee on my toilet seat, three booty-holes to leave skid marks. That’s us: Three Men and a Lady. Well this lady had patience once upon a time, but that patience is worn threadbare-thin.

So, back to yesterday—yes I know I’m waxing and waning, but give a girl a break! Everywhere I go, it smells like SHIT!

So after I drop the kids off at school—while Jaxson complains the entire way that his tummy hurts and I ignore him, thinking he’s manipulating his way into staying home because it’s the first day back from their spring break—and as soon as I get home, I put on my latex gloves, grab some plastic bags and assume the position: Scat Detective.

As God is my witness, I will get to the bottom of the newest smells wafting from Jaxson’s room. I check the closet. Nope. Check his drawers, nope. I pull all the sheets and covers off his bed and wash them. Nope, still smells like shit.

God Help Me! I fall to my knees and sob for a little while, as Sugar, my Australian shepherd licks away my salty tears. “Where is it? Where is the smell coming from?”

The dog has no answers for me, so, I decide the room has just soaked up Jaxson’s daily funk. I will scrub the walls, clean the carpet, bleach the entire room down. I start to sing as I begin to move the furniture out of the room, “I’m gonna scrub, scrub, scrub that stench right outa’—”

Woah, Nellie!

At first I wasn’t sure what the clump of brown substance stuck to the ceiling was. As my eyes trailed downward, I saw numerous small, brown smudges at the seam where the walls meet in the corner of his room. This smudge-trail leads downward to where Jaxson’s TV sat atop a caddie-cornered dresser.

A tiny whiff of discernment blew across my subconscious, but as the human brain is wont to do when something so horrific, so painful, so unbelievably disconcerting is about to sink in, I turned a blind neuron and wouldn’t allow my sub-conscious to pass the information along to my conscious mind.

There is no way. There is no way what I think is happening, is actually happening. If it is, I am turning in my keys now. It’s over. Mom has officially left the building and I’m going on permanent sabbatical.

I held my breath as I leaned over to peek behind the television, not because it smelled, but because I had that feeling you get as you sit in a packed theater and the only African-American cast member in the horror movie is slowly making their way down the stairway to the darkened basement, alone.

“No!” the audience screams! “Don’t do it. Do not open that door!”

And then I saw it. Or, saw…them. A pile of brown nuggets in various sizes on the carpet behind the dresser. I looked up at the faint smudges on the wall, and back down to the carpet.

Flinging poo. He’d been flinging poo. Which meant the poo would have been in his hands first, a prospect I am still unable to process. From his hand, it would have to sail through the air, hit the wall, and then fall into the convenient space behind the TV/dresser in the corner of the room.

This newest series of unfortunate events will most likely cause me to go back on the Lexapro I was so fond of—until the co-pay went up to fifty bucks and I decided feeding the kids was more important than my mental health.

Obviously we’re not over the scatological hump in my house. It seems, either Jax is saving his excremental offerings for a later day, or he doesn’t like sitting on the toilet. I have no idea what’s going on in his mind, because verbally he can’t tell me.

So, he’s using his actions to show me he’s got an issue. Now, it’s up to me to figure out the ‘why’ of the ‘what’.

Why is he flinging poo? Why did he have a hysterical meltdown when I found him—later that day after I spent hours cleaning up the shit behind his TV—holding a handful of shit, just about to hide it under his Spider Man chair?

Why did he freak out when my husband held him down and I cleaned his ass with wipes, then forced him to wash his hands with anti-bacterial soap?

Why…why…why?

It’s always about the why, and I’m getting tired. I need a vacation. I need to have a hot, steamy affair with someone who will do exactly what I say at any given moment and not talk back, scream, or fling poo. (If I’m listing my wants, I feel I should be specific, here. God’s got a wicked sense of humor.)

I need control because my house is quickly spinning out of it.

I need a nap.

I need a pedicure.

I need a maid.

I need someone to deliver me a mocha latte every morning and say to me, “Have a good day” and mean it.

I need to take a bath without being interrupted.

I need a full day without worry, without anxiety, without the stench of poo.

I need a house that consistently smells fresh as a daisy. Apparently, I want to exist within the confines of a feminine hygiene commercial.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s asking too much.

Discussion: Hygiene

Jake is 50% tortured kid, 50% laugh out loud funny 'life commentator'. A little autism goes a long way and a lotta’ autism can either make you want to take a dull lady Bic to your carotid, or pee yourself a little because you can't stop laughing.

I’ve never taken a pink, disposable razor to the vein in my neck, but I have lost bladder control on more occasions than I’d like to admit.

A trickle, people. I’m not incontinent. Yet.

The other day I had to bring up the hygiene thing with Jake. See, while his brother Jaxson—the much-less-verbal-8-year-old-autistic-son—still has that sweet, new-kid smell, his older brother is starting to get…gamey.

Here’s how that all went down:


ME: You put deodorant on after your morning shower, right?

HIM: No, I don't like the way it feels when I put it under my arm.

ME: Well this is one of those times when you just have to do it, even if you don't like it.

HIM: Fine.

ME: And you use soap to wash your body, right?

HIM: I don't like the way it feels either. I just use water. I never use soap.

ME: (gasping!) Never?!?!?!

HIM: No, why? The water cleans me.

ME: Jake! That is unacceptable. You will wash with soap…(and I proceeded to be very specific as to which areas of his body must receive a full lather, because his autistic mind is very literal) You must wash your penis, you must wash your balls, you must wash your face— oh wait, not in that order. Start at the top—

HIM: Why the top?

ME: Go from cleanest to dirtiest. Wouldn’t you rather wash your face BEFORE your butt so that if there are any poo remnants you won’t get them on your face?

HIM: Ugh, okay, okay! Gross, Mom!

ME: So, start with your hair, then your face, then your armpits and stomach and arms and chest and THEN penis, balls, butt—

HIM: Mom, stop saying penis and balls and butt.

ME: I just want to make sure you get—

HIM: I get it!

ME: You better, or I will come in there and wash you myself, Jake! How horrible! Seriously, you’re twelve years old and you never use soap?

HIM: No. Well, I wash my hands with soap a lot.

ME: Jake, you know how you don't like seeing inside someone's mouth when they eat, or smelling someone's stinky breath?

HIM: Yeah...

ME: Well then I think you shouldn't expect people to stand next to your stinky body.

*Then he thought for a minute and sniffed.*

HIM: (finally) You mean those smells I've been smelling are ME?!

ME: Yeah, probably!

HIM: No wonder people ignore me.

I snorted, then started laughing, and then had to go take care of a hygiene issue of my own.

Back Off ! (A Tribute to Bad Poetry)

I am convinced something untoward happens to the brain somewhere around midnight when you've spent the entire day editing your current masterpiece and your eyes have gone all foggy. Your sanity starts to wane and before you get a chance to get your wits about you, bad things can happen.

Bad poetry, for one.

Now, I am decidedly not a poet, and I know it. But, as often happens, somewhere between that gloaming hour--between twilight and dawn the next day--literary hubris gets the better of you and bad choices can be made. Too much caffeine and too little protein is a recipe for disaster.

Or, in this case, bad poetry.


~~~

Back Off !
(A Tribute to Bad Poetry)



I understand the concept of spooning
in theory it’s heard to resist
but once it’s time to get down to real sleep
I’ll need you to cease and desist

I’d rather be the spooner
and roll off when I’m done
being stuck under a pile of appendages
isn’t even remotely fun

It’s not that I don’t like you
on a post-coital snuggle we can certainly agree
but once the snoring commences
consider the cuddling a fait accompli

Get your hand off my ass and your leg off my hip
slide your head from between my tits
I’m having trouble breathing, now--
this is as bad as it gets

I’m sweaty and stuck underneath you
feeling more than slightly homicidal
How many ways can I murder thee
and which mode of death rhymes with ‘idal?

Poison, hammer or garrote
What is your pleasure, my sweet?
Now you’ve got me pondering verse
and I punish you by kicking your feet

Back off! I scream and you jerk awake
wiping sleep from your startled eyes
When you get up to pee, I sigh with relief
something, something , something, something …guise

fries…
spies…
wise…
lies…
Shit! now I’ll never get to sleep!


~~~

I woke up the next morning with a slight headache and the knowledge that I’d actually posted this train wreck on my fantastic workshop site, The Next Big Writer.

What I didn’t expect was a guffaw-fest on reading the reviews that had crashed in; a tsunami-like deluge with unexpected delights contained therein. My fellow writers had, somehow, enjoyed my little exercise in pitiful poetry and many of their comments had me laughing out loud.

I suppose when you tackle a universal topic, even badly, it strikes a chord:

LOULOU: Your love life is a little scary. ...spoon-a-rific!

KAT NOVE: Screw good poetry! Screw it to the wall with a power drill and then hang a reproduction of dogs playing poker over it to make room for BAD POETRY! How am I to retain my title of World's Worst Poet with you around? The only advice I can offer pertains to spooning. You could do what I do - get yourself banished to a room behind the Berlin wall of boxes.

SUSAN ETHRIDGE: I've read some of your other work and writing comedy comes so easy for you, so why not stick to that and leave the poems to the poets?

FLOWING PENCIL: Picture couple million years from now as man evolves? Can you see it? They are watching scenes in their individual head as TV is no longer -- by then man simply watches the past in his mind. How confused will the poor suckers be when they see how man procreated! It will be to them as it was to us with imagining the cave man dragging woman by the hair. They had no Dr Ruth nor manual so I can only imagine what 'sex' was like. Probably she was hit over the head with club. One huge grunt and it was all over! Hmmm maybe it hasn't changed much!

JPB2NDCHANCE: Ogden Nash would be giving you some kind of medal while chiding you a bit for your rude language. LOL. Bad poetry? Maybe a little but not enough to be sent to poetry detention.

STHATCHER: I just hope you're bored again tonight…

DENNIS HART: Jeni! Jeni...Jeni...Jeni! You are dating yourself girl. …this is why woman have been awarded the wet spot in bed.

ODIN ROARK: Of course. This is Jeni… If only the subject in point were as easy to charm away. Took me many years to hook up with a mate that could tolerate your humorous roll call of night time imperatives. … you've allowed me to laugh about my nocturnal short comings…

SUSAN STEC: Show me a women that says she actually loooooves a dead to the world, sweaty, lump of weight across their body, cutting of circulation…and I'll show you a passive aggressive sadist into asphyxia.


~~~~

But, what does it all MEAN, dear blog-follower? I suppose it means even the bad poem can make people smile.

And, hell, in this day and age, if that’s all it takes, I say:

Write Away! Write with wild, unfocused, unabashed, unapologetic, unrelenting, uneasy, un-rhyming, uncontrollable, unnerving, unmuzzled, unfortunate, unencumbered, unexpected… ABANDON!

It’s better than watching CNN all day and hoping for government to provide the laughs.

Write-On!

Jeni

Outside Your Lines

Outside Your Lines


I am the sponge;
to absorb the frustration
imposing fists
needing, wanting, pleading
anguished cries
panic, misdirection

You, lost in plain sight
uncertainty becomes rage
verbal assault is child’s play
dodge ball of the tongue.

I am the switch;
a human redirection
a flick, a reminder
to turn on the light
and turn off the sound
change the channel

You, drowning in white noise
disorder hollows,
muddled gray matter
disintegrates the soul

I offer sinew;
marrow, and bone
unyielding essence
sense memory
when synapses misfire
ricochet past their target

You blame me
then change your mind
confusion, a dirty trickster
guilt, an invisible friend

I am the map;
to read between your lines
navigate fear, forgive trespasses
shimmy into your crevices
plant a seed of hope
expect a return on my investment

Precious tomorrows,
tomorrows, and tomorrows
an ache
a prayer
a whispered promise
to…

Meet
you
outside
your
lines
one day.

(for my boys)

Amazon, Macmillan, E-Books and Lube

You can’t possibly have missed it. It’s had twitters all a-twitter, readers and writers alike chiming in with their two cents. A regular literary Battle Royale.

Basically, Amazon won’t be asking Macmillan to prom this year. In fact, Macmillan will be lucky if Amazon wants to feel them up in the back seat.

Fifteen dollars for an e-book. Really? No…really?

I’m asking because surely I heard wrong. Surely a company like Macmillan wouldn’t ask me to pay fifteen bucks for a book that isn’t even mine after I buy it-- that I can’t transfer from one reader to another.

I’m not, generally speaking, interested in being screwed by the man. Or any man, but that’s another issue. The Man in question here is a sweaty-fisted, red-faced tyrant trying to push people around. Wait, let me bend over the coffee table for you and make your job easier, man.

Perhaps you'd be so kind to lube up before sticking it to me?

Whatever happened to not negotiating with terrorists? Amazon’s big American ‘A’ just went a bit flaccid.

Fifteen bucks for an e-book. Seriously?

Macmillan, here’s a Haiku for U:

mushroom cloud of threat
bully cartel on e-lit
surrender to greed

I’m a writer, so from that perspective, if I had e-books out there, you’d think I’d be all for the higher price. Not so, gentle reader, and that is because I know I wouldn’t buy an e-book for that price, so I’m guessing lots of other people will be turned off as well.

But, hey, if that’s the case, it might have a positive effect. The e-book fad will go the way of the pet rock and Rubix Cube and the publishing world can be taken off their collective Xanax suppositories.

One can dream…

Manifesto

Here's another one of our past filmmaking endeavors, this one a 'message movie'--basically a way for the writer in me to take a swipe at The Bush Administration at the time.

We had a boom mic malfunction on this one day shoot (it wasn't turned on!) so we had to cut way more than I'd have liked out of this piece.

The kids were all students at Ferris State University, and the best bunch of folks I could ask for to work with.

They've all moved on and are doing lots exciting things; one became a teacher, and another just recently got accepted into the acting program at Columbia. (the guy with me in the picture below, in fact--Keith 'Keebler' Horvath--we're discussing a scene)



Actor Jerry Morse with his GUNSHOT wound:



I compressed the HD footage and here's the final result. Not as clear as the original movie, but it was too many gigs to upload the whole thing in a less-compressed file.

Making Porn With Mom

My mother tells me when I was a shy little girl in kindergarten, I wrote a story about a gumball machine, apparently comparing the little round balls of varying colors to people in the world. I'd share the poem with you, but my mother wasn't exactly the type of parent who kept those kinds of things. No little shoebox of priceless memories or scrapbooks full of photos for her. I'm guessing she read it, smiled, then rolled something into the tiny piece of paper and smoked it.

I should note, my mother is the type of mother who would, years later, wake me with a three a.m. phone call, "I just had the best idea for a porn movie!!" What followed was a three hour trip to a local store the next day, where I was horrified to find the toy dolls made for young girls now look suspiciously like whores. Out of this shopping adventure came a three page script for a movie that could only be described as Barbie-Porn.

**WARNING: DANGER, DANGER WILL ROGERS! IF YOU'RE OFFENDED BY NAUGHTY SUBJECT MATTER, DOLLS HAVING SEX, OR PIMPS, YOU MIGHT CONSIDER CLICKING AWAY. IF NOT, BY ALL MEANS, PARTAKE!**

The Bait Pile

The Bait Pile was an official selection of The Chashama Film Festival, 2008. I play an agorophobic woman living with her mother and luring YouTuber’s to my house, killing them.

I eventually suffocate my mother in a bowl of green Jell-O. I’m not sure what Bill Cosby would have to say about that but it was certainly disconcerting to 8 year old autistic Jaxson--my little guy. As I edited the Jell-O scene, Jaxson sat behind me, watching. At one point, he came around to look at me, took my face in both hands and said, “Thas’ not nice.”




We promoted The Bait Pile on YouTube and had a few people thinking I was actually a psychopath. I had been managing about 6 or 7 different fake YouTube accounts for months prior to actually beginning my killing spree and then ‘tubers began dropping like flies.


Victim #1




Victim #2



Victim #3



Victim # 4



STUPID YOUTUBERS

The Nanna Chronicles

(EXCERPT from I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames…(my recently finished humor memoir dealing with my family and my autistic kids.)

Before Mom and I started getting professionals to bring our scripts to the screen, we played every role, including actors. Years before that, we tortured our family members by putting a camera in their faces every time one of them turned around. At some point they became used to it, and the whole family got involved. Freud would probably have something to say about the fact that in every story, one of us is either mentally or physically tormenting the other.

My filming obsession might require a twelve step program at some point. But for now, those in my sphere will just have to deal with it.

One year, we planned a birthday celebration for Nanna and decided to kill two birds with one stone; scripting an idea for a short film that ended up requiring a bit of improvising.

In case you haven’t figured it out by now, not much is sacred in my family.

Nothin’ says lovin’ like being made the butt of a deliciously inappropriate joke for their birthday, then having it posted to one of the most visited social-networking-slash-video-sharing sites on the internet.

Nanna was seventy-nine at the time, and in retrospect, we could have given her a heart attack. But that’s not what we were thinking about when we called the funeral home and inquired about purchasing a cremation urn identical to the one that housed my grandfather’s ashes.

After a nice birthday celebration and the distribution of presents, my mother, sister and I hid in the upstairs bathroom with the urn stand-in and hatched our plan. Aunt JoAnn wasn’t in on the scheme, and it might have been a good idea to clue her in.

Mom put the wooden box into a small duffel bag and set it at the end of her dock by the lake. We lured Nanna outside and Resi held her hand, just in case she got too close to the side. We didn’t want her going into the water since she can’t swim; killing Nanna on her seventy-ninth birthday wasn’t the plan.

Giving her ticker a little jolt was.

My step-father took me out on the water in a small, aluminum boat so I had a front row seat from which to film.

As Resi pretended to show Nanna a turtle in the water, Mom snuck around, removed the box from the duffel bag and prepared to toss it into the lake. Okay, so here’s where the ‘short film’ portion of our little escapade went south. Mom chucked the box; it landed a mere three feet away from the dock and bobbed in the water.

Nobody said anything for a long time, awaiting Nanna’s response.

“That’s not your father,” she said, rolling her eyes.

JoAnn, however, was a bit more gullible. There was a fair amount of yelling. This, set against the backdrop of me laughing from the boat as the camera jerked around, ensuring anyone viewing the video footage later would need a Dramamine or two.

Kind of like The Blair Witch Project.

Nanna yelled at Mom for making JoAnn upset, while Resi and I waited for the right time to spill the beans. Of course, we let the camera roll for a while first.

“Okay, now go get the God damned box!” Nanna yelled.
The script flopped, but we were bound and determined to get it right, so after fessing up, Nanna and JoAnn decided to play along. I came in off the boat, found another angle and we prepared for take two.

We’d use the footage from the beginning of the scene, up to the yelling, and then we’d improvise, adding more conflict.

All good stories need conflict.

Resi decided it would be funny if someone actually went into the water, and the rest of us decided she should be that person.

Take two.

JoAnn pushed past Resi and Nanna, tried to get the box away from Mom, and in the process my sister ended up in the water. It didn’t occur to me until after Resi had joined the box in the murky lake that it was full of snakes and alligators.






For those of you interested in the behind-the-scenes lead up to the previous video, here you go!


EPISODE 1





EPISODE 2



Nanna's YouTube Page:

youtube.com/80yearoldchick

Mine:

youtube.com/agorophobejeni

*SPAM*

Spam is ruining my life. Just last week two e-mails from friends ended up relegated to my ca-ca box, which gets hundreds of submissions daily. Apparently SPAM thinks I’m an agent and they’re querying the life right out of me.

I do not have the time to skim every spam email subject and I certainly won’t be opening anything in my SPAM box. I’ve had three computers crash because of viruses-- I refuse to, again, become some Trojan Horse’s bitch.

I find myself wondering if SPAM is privy to some personal information about me, because some of the topics bear a striking resemblance to my own ‘issues’:


--Sculpt your body with Liposuction!

--Loose twenty pounds in twenty days on the Cabbage Diet!

--Stop smoking without a pill, patch or any willpower whatsoever!


I don’t care to know how I can grow new hair in as little as six weeks or tighten my neck muscles. I have no extra money for term life insurance, have little desire to ‘reach my educational goals’ with a degree in finance online, nor do I need to ‘get my freedom back with a powered wheelchair’.

I’d rather shave off my eyebrows than ‘start my very own Disney music collection’. Learn my credit score? Yeah, that’s a morsel of knowledge I’m happy to remain blissfully unaware of, thanks. I have no desire to purchase a Hover-round or take a tiptoe around the topic of penile enhancement.

--Date real cheating wives!

Huh? I’m not even sure what that one means, but if it involves those ho’s from Jersey Shore, count me out.

And I’m not sure what’s going on with all of the money people regularly offer me to help them disburse their vast amounts of wealth, but there seems to be a glut of death-bed entreaties from Zimbabwean emissaries filtering in.

In conclusion, and with all due respect:

SPAM, I benevolently invite you to f*&k off.

Jeni ;)

Chick on Vibrators

This is my Nanna. She's 84 now and pretty much says anything she wants to. She's completely lost that edit function that keeps one from, let's say, announcing to the entire matinee crowd at the local moviehouse that she, "Never did like the sex, and then you had to douche...too messy. No thanks."

http://www.youtube.com/user/80yearoldChick

There's a link to her YouTube account.

Enjoy!

VD is for Everybody

State of the Union: If Given by a Certain Average Mom

State of the Union: If Given by a Certain Average Mom

WASHINGTON D.C.

Madam Speaker, Vice President Winfrey, Members of Congress, distinguished guests, family, friends, fellow citizens, and the cast of The Office--(thanks for coming, by the way, guys)--
One year has passed since I first stood before you at this podium, having given of myself in the best way I know how: maternally. In that time, my family has been tested in ways none of us could have imagined. We faced many tough decisions: to medicate or not medicate, rising lack of fluidity in our household budget, the health and welfare of our family--notwithstanding periods of less than stellar amounts of sanity.
These issues are still up for vigorous debate, though, it's fair to say we've answered the call. We, these Mothers of our Fair Country, have saddled up and taken the reins…
It took a good twelve months to get our heads wrapped around the cluster-fuck we’ve inherited from previous administrations, but we now believe we’re on the right track.
(APPLAUSE)
History will record that amid our differences we acted with purpose, and together we showed the world the power and resilience of familial self-government. All of us were sent to Washington to carry out the people's business. That is the purpose of this body. It is the meaning of our oath. It remains our charge to keep. In the coming years, let us show our fellow Americans that we recognize our responsibilities and are determined to meet them. Let us show them that Democrats and Republicans--er, typical and non-neurotypical brains alike, can compete for votes and cooperate for positive results at the same time.
(APPLAUSE)
We've made good progress. Yet we have unfinished business before us, and the American people expect us to get it done. Wages are down and so are prices for food and gas. At kitchen tables across our country, there is a concern about our economic future. In the long run, Americans can be confident about our economic growth, but in the short run, we can all see that we’re basically…screwed.
(GROANS)
But, wait! Last week, my administration reached agreement with Speaker Kathy Griffin and Republican Leader Kate Gosselin on a robust growth package that includes tax relief for individuals and families and incentives for business investment. The temptation will be to load up the bill like a grocery cart on payday. That would delay it or derail it, and neither option is acceptable.
(APPLAUSE)
We have work to do on taxes. Some in Washington argue for the need to raise taxes. Try explaining that to 116 million American taxpayers who will see their taxes rise by an average of $1,800--half of which are already unemployed. Others have said they would personally be happy to pay higher taxes. I welcome their enthusiasm. I am pleased to report that the IRS accepts both checks and money orders; just like the makers of the Snuggie, which keeps you warm from head to toe, while keeping your hands free. I highly recommend it, we’ve got two in our house.
(LAUGHTER)
Most Americans think their taxes are high enough. With all the other pressures on their finances, American families should not have to worry about the federal government taking a bigger bite out of their paychecks. They already feel like they’re bent over the living room table with someone standing behind them, lubed up and ready for penetration. Members of the Congress should know, if any bill raising taxes reaches my desk, I will veto it.
(APPLAUSE)
Next week, I'll send you a budget that terminates or substantially reduces 151 wasteful or bloated programs, and the complete obliteration of unnecessary things like golf courses, all military spending, anything involving Pokemon, and any funding for space exploration. Screw outer space, we’ve got enough to worry about right here on Earth. American families have to balance their budgets; so should their government. If it’s not a necessity, it’s outa’ there.
(APPLAUSE)
With the pull-out of all troops, and cease and desist of all monies previously tied up in vacuous wars and NASA research, our budget is doable. We’ve adopted the strategies of every budget-wise mother in America: We’ll shop on double coupon day and never resist a buy one, get one free offer.
(APPLAUSE)
As for the golf courses, that’s just common sense; too much land being wasted on a stupid sport. Surely we can use it for something else. And Pokemon? Well, I admit, it’s a personal issue. That’s one evil yellow critter, and our kids don’t need to be buying into that kind of propaganda. So, this time, if you send me an appropriations bill that contains anything more than five hundred words, I'll send it back to you with my veto. Choose your words and needs carefully, my friends in congress. Brevity is what we’re looking for.
(APPLAUSE)
Our shared responsibilities extend beyond matters of taxes and spending. It's been a difficult time for many American families and, by taking these steps, we can help more of them keep their homes. To build a future of quality health care, we must trust patients and doctors to make medical decisions and empower them with better information and better options. We share a common goal: making affordable health care available to all Americans, not just the ones without ethnic sounding surnames, or people who can afford to pay cash for their yearly mammograms and colonoscopies.
(APPLAUSE)
On education, we must trust students to learn, if given the chance, and empower parents to demand results from our schools. In neighborhoods across our country, there are boys and girls with dreams. And a decent education is their only hope of achieving them. This does not include, however the dream of a fourteen year old boy to stick it to his hot teacher. Tenure be gone--teachers will stay or go based on job performance. And, screw the athletic programs involving football, baseball and any other ball,--I think we’ve learned a bit or two from the Michael Vick’s and Tiger Wood’s in our midst. Let’s concentrate on the arts: music, literary and performing. In this day and age of the reality show, let us prepare our youngsters for a collective future involving more theater, impromptu musical numbers, and a world where art hangs in public toilets, not used jizz- receptacles.
(APPLAUSE)
In years previous, lawmakers came together to pass the No Child Left Behind Act, and today no one can deny its results: it blew the big one. Now we must work together to increase accountability, reduce the number of high school dropouts, provide extra help for struggling schools and provide students with disabilities the same opportunities their ‘normal’ fellow students already receive. We owe it to America's children: ALL OF THEM.
(APPLAUSE)
On trade, we must trust American workers to provide us with what we need, rather than get our goods and services all over the world. If it’s not labeled "Made in the USA", we don’t want it. Period. If we can’t make it ourselves, we don’t need it. Last week, I had to call tech support because my laptop was on the fritz, and I spent a good three hours on the phone with a call center representative, in a country I can’t even pronounce. Surely we’ve got some people closer to home that can deal with my need to order a new keypad…
(APPLAUSE)
To build a future of energy security, we must trust in the creative genius of American researchers and entrepreneurs and empower them to pioneer a new generation of clean energy technology. No more gobbling up oil from other countries, requiring such shady quid-pro-quo’s as to taint our moral and civil obligations. Our security, our prosperity and our environment all require reducing our dependence on oil consumption. If we have to go back to the days of carts and horses, so be it. We’ve squandered as much of the earth’s natural resources than reason will allow. Let’s bring it down to basics, people. The United States is committed to strengthening our energy security and confronting global climate change, and the best way to meet these goals is for America to continue leading the way toward the development of cleaner and more energy-efficient technology.
(APPLAUSE)
On matters of life and science, we must trust in the innovative spirit of medical researchers and empower them to discover new treatments without regard to moral boundaries. Cloning and stem cell research, let’s get ‘er done. All in, baby.
(APPLAUSE)
On matters of justice, we must stop relying so much in the wisdom of our founding fathers, and recognize that when the Constitution was written, it was written by a group that didn’t include women or minorities. How about adopting a smidgen of common sense with regard to judicial matters? --and get rid of judges who follow the letter of the law, and not the spirit of it.
(APPLAUSE)
Screw it, let’s toss out the Constitution altogether, and write ourselves up something new. Something fresh… something less antiquated, perhaps? As an example, if ‘the right to bear arms’ meant any idiot with a pulse could own a weapon, then it’s clear automatic assault rifles weren’t in existence when the founders jotted down their thoughts. So, in the spirit of common sense, how about we only allow officers of the law to own guns? Hunters, you ask? What about them? It’s called the compound bow, and it’s pretty effective. We got ourselves three doe and a buck in my household last season, so our freezers are pretty well-stocked. Let skill be the law of the land with regard to hunting; not a case of Bud Light, a rifle, and a bucketful of ammunition. As you can see, I’m probably no friend of PETA, but I have a rather sensible ideology with regard to the circle of life and food chain. The rule in my house is, you kill it, you eat it.
(APPLAUSE)
Now, let’s talk about the pursuit of happiness for a moment. America, being the ultimate melting pot, is rife with faith-based churches, organizations and operations. They will no longer, however, run roughshod over the law. Starting tomorrow, in every state in the union, every person, man or woman, will be able to marry who they wish, when they wish, however they wish. If you don’t like it, tough shit. I’m pretty sure you won’t be invited anyway.
And, while I’m sure the Pope is a nice guy, governmental investigation into priests with grabby hands will immediately commence. Since the Catholic church hasn’t even remotely addressed the taint of deviant church hierarchy, it’s an issue the now highly Maternal United States Government is happy to check into.
(APPLAUSE)
Tonight, the armies of compassion will begin the march we should have begun long ago. But, I suppose that is due to the fact that, up until recent years, Congress and the White House have been saturated with a little too much testosterone and not enough estrogen. That glaring error in accounting has recently been corrected, so I expect good things to follow. We certainly couldn’t do any worse than the Bush Administration did for eight years, could we, girls?
(APPLAUSE)
Another pressing challenge is immigration. So, here’s the deal on that. If you can make it here--whether by boat, plane, train or cheap Dollar-Store inner tube-- you’ll be welcomed in. That’s how it was in the day of the pilgrims, and that’s how it will be today. As long as you pay your taxes and abide by the laws, it’s all good. If, however, your intent is nefarious, expect to be sent back from whence you came. It’s pretty simple.
(APPLAUSE)
This will take pressure off the border and allow law enforcement to concentrate on those who mean us harm--like Hollywood producers, insurance companies, the KKK, and religious extremists.
(APPLAUSE)
It has long been held that the business of our nation here at home, and the building of a prosperous future for our citizens, depends on confronting enemies abroad and advancing liberty in troubled regions of the world. Bullshit. It is not the business of government, social or moral, to deal with other countries. That’s what charity organizations are for. We will no longer be the bully on the playground, nor the proverbial ATM for countries in need.
(APPLAUSE)
It is up to the people of our fine country to choose to help, if and when they can. So, if you’re overly interested in Afghanistan, China, or Iran, pack a bag and head over to do whatever you feel necessary, though the government will no longer fund such endeavors, militarily or otherwise. But, if your heart speaks to you in a way that urges you to make a difference in the lives of others in far away nations, hop on a plane and make yourself right with your God, Jehovah, Buddah, or Allah; whatever your personal higher power is called. You will have the full blessing of the United States of America behind you, though funding such moral undertakings is now on you. May the force be with you.
(APPLAUSE)
We’ve, collectively, got enough on our plate at the moment. Today, more than half the world's food aid comes from the United States. That would be fine and dandy if our own citizens didn’t need that food right now. Such is not the case, so we will now begin living in reality, rather than the magical thinking of previous administrations.
(APPLAUSE)
Former foreign policy was based on a clear premise: We trusted that people, when given the chance, would choose a future of freedom and peace. Well, we’ve since learned the error of our ways. Using force to make another country fit our ideal of what their country should be didn’t work, so let’s move on, shall we? The era of the politics of fear are over; the Axis of Evil--a term coined by a previous administration, to their own detriment-- has made its intentions clear. They want us to leave them the hell alone.
(APPLAUSE)
On the home-front, we will continue to take every lawful and effective measure to protect our country. This is our most solemn duty. It is not our duty, however, to monitor citizen phone calls, Facebook pages or Twitter feeds. It is not the business of government to poke our noses into private lives, monitor what library books we check out, how we use our Visa cards, or who we choose to genuflect to in the privacy of our homes and churches. So, unless you’re sauntering around Times Square with a bomb strapped to your back, and a sign on your chest reading, “I’m gonna’ kill some mother-fuckers now”, we’ll pretty much leave you alone.
(APPLAUSE)
And, let’s just get real about nuclear armament, people. Whoever hit’s the red button first, really doesn’t matter. Once that bullet is out of the gun, we’re all up shit’s creek without a paddle. At that point, the fat lady has sung, so whether we or China or Iran have the technology, it only takes one whack-job to blow the entire wad. In this regard, all we can realistically do is hope that whack-job doesn’t exist.
(APPLAUSE)
America needs to step up research regarding the fight against disease and healthcare issues. Autism research, cancer research, HIV/AIDS, these and many more affect our citizens, and this is where the monies saved in other arenas will be going. What are we dying from? What is affecting us, collectively? What can we do today to ensure the betterment of the lives of our children and grandchildren? These are the questions we will address, and more funding will be appropriated for such endeavors.
(APPLAUSE)
The secret of our strength, the miracle of America, is that our greatness lies not in our government, but in the spirit and determination of our people. "We the people." I think that’s something the founding fathers and I agree on. We are the people, and this great and noble nation was built on the liberty that resides in the hearts of all men and women. By trusting the people, succeeding generations transformed our fragile young democracy into the most powerful nation on earth and a beacon of hope for millions.
Then we fucked up, got greedy and started pushing people around. But no more.
(APPLAUSE)
So tonight, with confidence in freedom's power and trust in the people, let us set forth to do their business. God bless America… no wait. Let’s begin again, ripping the veil of religion and the morality of some from the faces of our citizens. No, tonight God Bless America will forever become---WE BLESS AMERICA.
Peace out.

Pain in my Ass

Three nights ago, I awakened at 3:38 a.m., feeling like something untoward had happened to my lower orifice while I slumbered; possibly a gang rape. Finger-like waves of nausea and sharp pains filtered from my poopie hatch, up through my innards.

Instantly, I knew what I was dealing with. I also knew I was screwed, because I did not have the one and only item that would take care of the situation.

Hemorrhoid cream.

I knew Mom would have some, but the idea of crawling the few hundred yards from my house, up the hill, past the barn, to her back porch, where surely I could scream loud enough to alert someone--let’s just say I knew I’d die of agony first.

I could barely breathe, never mind move.

During the delivery of my firstborn son, I’d acquired a souvenir that would hang about long after Jake was weaned from the bottle. In fact, my little friends--and notice that word is plural--continue to accompany me on my travels and travails in life; a tiny bunch of deflated mini-grapes just inside my anus, like a dormant volcano. Most of the time they rested, and I didn’t even know they were there.

Until they became angry.

I don’t think the human body is meant to withstand a three hour pushing session. I’m not talking about three hours of labor. I’m talking about the part of labor where your knees are up by your ears, and you’ve got a mother and a mother-in-law, each holding back a leg, screaming, “Push! Push! You’re almost there!”

Think of it as taking a three hour shit. You’re bound to come away from the bowl a bit drained, and your lower crevice won’t be feeling, generally speaking, all that delighted to be there.

As I laid on my bed in the wee hours, I wondered if there was anything I could do to take the pain away, because in two hours, I’d have to get up, get two children dressed, and drive twenty minutes to school. That, I thought, might be a tad difficult if I was just having trouble breathing.

I rolled out of the bed and walked, hunched over, to the bathroom, and immediately knew I was going to faint.

I’m a fainter. I guess it’s the body’s way of shutting off when something assaultive happens, but since I was a kid, I’ve been a fainter, so I’m quite familiar with the warning signs. Instant nausea, impaired vision and the feeling of impending death, all prior to lights out. I’ve woken up on the floor of the bathroom twice, one of those times managing to break my glasses in half.

What I did not want to do was faint, hit my head on something, and become unconscious while the rest of the members of my household gently slumbered.

I fell back on the bed, stretched my neck toward the fan, broke out in a flop sweat and thought I might vomit. Thinking positioning might help, I writhed around quietly, trying not to wake anyone, ending up in a position similar to the downward dog yoga position.

By the time the clock showed ten minutes had passed--though it felt like six weeks--the pain abated slightly and my mind cleared enough to embark on a plan of action.

Hemorrhoid cream supposedly shrinks painful swelling, so what did I have at my disposal that might produce a similar effect?

Ice, I thought. Ice, might help with swelling, and didn’t ice also numb things?

I briefly thought of shuffling out to the yard, where a snow storm was in full swing, and dropping my Tweety-Bird flannel pajama pants, spreading my butt cheeks and falling ass-first onto a pile of snow. It sounded like bliss, but I was certain I wouldn’t make it that far.

Getting to the refrigerator seemed like trekking through the Outback, and when I opened the freezer, I realized I had no ice. What I did have, were the freezer blocks, shaped like a soccer ball and a football, that I used for my children’s lunchboxes. For a brief moment, the idea of shoving a frozen soccer ball up my butt, then rinsing it and putting it in Jake’s lunchbox seemed slightly appealing in an ironically, sadistic way. And, believe you me, if it had been my only option, Jake would unknowingly be taking a frozen soccer ball formerly shoved into my ass to lunch that day.

After I’d washed it, of course. What he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.

My eyes passed over the vegetables, and I knew my next choice was a bag of frozen peas--but, what would I cook for dinner with the ham and potatoes? I didn’t think I could straddle my dinner, then rinse and eat it, as if nothing untoward had happened in the process.

Then I saw it. The long object seemed just right for the job--a lime green lid to a sports cup attached to a protruding six inch dowel-like rod extending from the screw-on lid, meant to keep the drink cup cool for hours.

It looked like a frozen phallus attached to a convenient handle.

Bingo! We have a winner!

As I shuffled back to the safety of my dark bedroom, I noticed it said Cool-Aids on the side.

Brilliant!

So, picture this. I’ve got one knee against my bed for support--oh yeah, my pants are down around my ankles--and the other knee bent and hiked up sideways. Kind of like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. I’m sort of leaning the frozen object into my rectum, but only slightly. There was no insertion.

I want that on record.

Then I pull my undies back up, to keep the frosty item in place, or at least as close to the target area as possible. Actually, I just ended up riding it like a horse, and my entire va-jay-jay and pucker took only a few seconds to become non-existent.

Blissfully numb.

I lowered my body to the bed and rolled on my side, the frozen thing jutting out behind me, straining my p.j. bottoms. I imagined I looked like someone with an erection protruding from their derrière.

The ice worked, and I feel asleep, waking only when the alarm rang. For a minute, I thought it had all been a bad dream, until I stood and the now lukewarm, formerly frozen lid-slash-frozen-phallus fell down my pant leg and ended up on the floor next to the bed.

I got through my morning ritual in only minimal pain, making it to the store after dropping the kids off, and purchased an armload of items that would take care of the situation. All generic, by the way. I don’t buy brand names if there are generics available.

That’s a fool’s game.

***

E-MAIL THE AUTHOR YOUR REMEDIES
jlcallmejeni@aol.com



Since writing this, I’ve received quite a few suggestions with regard to hemorrhoids. I’m happy to entertain any and all ideas, including homeopathic, drug-related, Grannie’s cure-all’s, and folk remedies.

You can also post a comment here on the blog.

*Recently, I was told a clove of garlic works; just insert it up the chute. Supposedly, it will keep the dog’s nose out of my backside, as well.

Good to know.

Where Everybody Knows You're Gay...

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating:

Kat Nove is a genius; also she's the funniest person alive, second only to David Sedaris. At some point, she and I plan to saddle up our gays and head out on a road trip. The fact that one of us needs to become rich and/or famous first figures into the equation, but as soon as that happens, we'll rent some sort of convertible car, and head out like Thelma and Louise. Only we'll have our favorite boys to accompany us; boys who won't come near us with their penises. My favorite kind of boys, on most days.

If you're not reading her blog, you're an idiot. Okay, so that's harsh. You're not getting the most out of the life you are living if you aren't reading her blog. I've put a link below; read the blog 'Where Everybody knows...'

Take a look at the fabulous song parody she's written. Sing along as you read, but be sure to sing to the tune of the song from CHEERS 'Where Everybody Knows Your Name'.





Where Everybody Knows You're Gay

Making your way past bigots today
Takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from homophobes
And remembering that you’re hot
Isn’t it great to be a gay?

All those nights when you get in fights
Because you sometimes swish
It’s the way of nature
But at times you have to wish
They’d get a life and leave you alone
Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows you’re gay
And they’re always up for play
You want to be where you can see
Leather chaps, penis straws and brie
You want to be where everybody knows you’re gay.

Roll out of bed, Mr. Cockster is dead
The morning’s looking bleak
Your shrink is running for Congress
To vote against you freaks
And your boyfriend wants to date a girl.

Be glad there’s one place in the world
Where everybody knows you’re gay
And they’re fans of Tina Fey
You want to go where hot guys know
Who gives the best bee jay
You want to go where everybody knows you’re gay.

Global Swarming TRAILER

Watch with shock and awe! I promise you won't be disappointed.

Oh, and if you wish to partake of the book and/or audio downloads:

http://bit.ly/13zKkP

http://www.veinarmor.com/

http://katnovian.com/

Macy's Wait

Well, we are almost finished with our newest short film project, Macy's Wait, about a young man waiting for that 'negative' call during the horror show we like to remember as the mid-1980's. You know, that time when a Mr. Reagan was in office and those in his administration referred to AIDS as the 'gay plague' when joking amongst themselves at press conferences, about three years BEFORE the big guy even said the word out loud.

Yeah, that shining beacon of a moment on a shit-storm of a hill.

Here's a picture of my lead, Eli Dukes.

got zombies?

My lovely writer friends Kat Nove and Greg Crites have written a delicious zombie tale called Global Swarming.

Ok, so the first treat you're privy to on listening to Global Swarming, other than that hot beat, are the vocal styling’s of Greg Crites, who frankly sounds like a cross between a pirate with a three pack a day habit, and the guy who services my A/C.

Very accessible, very sexy, very...'I want to hear more but am concerned about the fact that his gravelly voice is turning me on slightly and in general I'm not even partial to men.' But that mix of hot music and husky voice is apparently a recipe for something naughty, or so my girly parts seem to be whispering.

So I guess that's a bonus, except that for the duration of Chapter One, a hog's carcass is being dismembered and that frightening mix of naughty and nasty might be the reason I'll have double therapy sessions next week.

But, I let go and get into the moment, because this is a Zombie story so 'Something Inappropriately Wicked This Way Comes' is, after all, expected.

Thor and Lilly are getting a divorce. When Lilly's lawyer informs Thor that she wants half of the butcher shop, he's none too pleased about it, continuing to hack away at the animal carcass on the slab in front of him.

Lilly, herself, is what my Nanna used to call her sister--'real heavy furniture'. I know this because I was privileged enough to read subsequent chapters of this story. She's a cumulous cloud of sarcasm, and together she and Thor are the perfect storm.

Check it out. Global Swarming is one guilty pleasure that can be afforded in our ever-constricting economy.

katnovian.com

veinarmor.com

Spam and Junk/Joke E-mails

I don't normally open junk e-mails. You know the ones your grannie sends you-jokes only she thinks are funny, or letters from someone supposedly in Mumbai wanting you to help them with a money issue. Something like:

"Before I became Ill, I kept $46.5 million in a long-term deposit account in a security company. Presently, I am in hospital where I have been undergoing treatment for esophageal cancer. I have lost my ability to talk and my doctors have told me that I have only a few months to live. It is my last wish to see this money distributed to charity organizations"...

Or those chain mail things that you simply MUST respond to, and forward to fifty of your friends or you will die.

Anyway, yesterday I opened one, and enjoyed the hell out of it. I have no idea who the original author was, but I thought I'd share...


THE GAY FLIGHT ATTENDANT
*


My flight was being served by an obviously gay flight attendant, who seemed to put everyone in a good mood as he served us food and drinks.

As the plane prepared to descend, he came swishing down the aisle and told us that "Captain Marvey has asked me to announce that he'll be landing the big, scary plane shortly. So, lovely people, if you could just put your trays up, that would be super."

On his trip back up the aisle, he noticed this well-dressed and rather Arabic looking Woman hadn't moved a muscle.

"'Perhaps you didn't hear me over those big brute engines, but I asked you to raise your trazy-poo, so the main man can pitty-pat us on the ground.'

She calmly turned her head and said, "In my country, I am called a Princess. And I take orders from no one."

To which (I swear) the flight attendant replied, without missing a beat, "'Well, sweet-cheeks, in my country, I'm called a Queen, so I outrank you. So put your fucking tray up, bitch."