ACTUAL PHOTOS FROM RANCHO FIRSTNATIONS: BIKER (BEJEWELLED BEAST) EDITION!!!

 OMG I married the right man.  I totally did.  Male or female, it was a tossup - and the universe finally threw me a fuckin' bone (hur hur) and gave me The Bejewelled Beast!  Who is a biker.  My husband. With a dick. Keep up.

OK so this year out of nowhere he decided that he was Gonna. Do. Halloween. Bitch.

I stood back and let him work his fucked up imagination like a dastardly machine made to warp the minds of hapless youth and disgust their elders.  He thought this shit up and bought all the supplies, and I, the former Mrs. 'Do All The Holidays Or Not - Nah, Let's Not' just let him go where the Spirit (Mephisto Q. Kimchee) lead him.  And I am absolutely worshipping the layers of subtle and not so subtle fucked-up-ness he put into this.

First, he put together a costume for work.  They held a contest competition, and he won second place, because 1. He is awesome, and 2. He growled and drooled.  I present to you....DR. DEATH!

Why is he wearing Grandma Shanaynay's weave?  Because he STOLE IT OFF HER CORPSE.

There he is.  My Bejewelled Beast.  Labcoat spattered with the blood of surgery indifferently performed, in Grandma Shanaynay's weave.  

Now here we have his concept for our lil' Welcome Halloween Host:

Lil' Baby Gourdie died of an unfortunate fungal disease, which enlivined his lil' baby corpse and caused it to rise again to wear the onesie of the living!  The message on Zombaby's onesie?  As befits a baby hungry for brains - 'Gobble 'til You Wobble'. My husband is a GENIUS.

And here is our porch display.  As night falls, our porchlight gleams off this horrifying vignette - lil' baby Gourdie, his buddy Scully, and his best friend Up-Chuck:

Barfing pumpkin? CHECK.  Scully?  CHECK.  Lil' baby Gourdie, shedding fungal excrescences? CHECK. Don't lick the Halloween display, folks.

Stop on by!  Knock on the door!  We have Covid-friendly treats in plastic bags - and not bullshit like Smarties or Jolly Ranchers, either.  We have CHOCOLATE. Come on by!

...unless you're too scared.

HUZZAH!! The New Laptop, She Is Here! Ole'!!!!

 I am doing the boogie dance, that dance from France, that dance without your underpants!  

This very dance here!  Without underpants!           

My new laptop is here and it is a dream! It is sleek, it is understated, I could fling it like a Battle Frisbee of Death and decapitate my enemies because it is razor thin, and setting it up was a JOY.  

OK it was a joy in comparison with the hours I've spent having to dodge and undercut the crapware on the reconditioned laptops I've been wasting my $$ on for years.  I have nobody but myself to blame.  On the other hand, I am the Ninja Warrior of setting up computers and digging into their entrails to extract the hidden "whoopsie, gosh, did we put that in there?  well golly how the heck did that happen?  do you know how that happened? well I am stumped.  just stumped" bullshit they  hide way back in the registries.   See, to me, less is more.  I'll never use this thing for gaming or watching television or Skype or recording or any of that other shit.  Uninstalled! 

My favorite piece of crapware is:  The Calculator.  You can literally type any equation you can equate into the regular search bar and get an answer just by hitting 'Search'.  I mean Geeze Louise.

Of course the first thing I did was download a bunch of TOS pix.

Because I use the Cloud - and if you don't, you should be - all my stuff was safe and sound.  I am not worried about Big  Brother reading my shit, because he should.  It's good stuff.  Go ahead.  I live in a 'Constitution-Free' zone anyway, so it's not like I'm not used to it.  

Hi Homeland Security!  Hi Border Patrol!  Hi Sumas Police Department!  Hi County Sheriffs! Hi....The Navy!  Hi Sister Mary Petronella!  Hi Santa!   

Speaking of crapware, let's visit a crap site - or not.  PINTEREST.  Now, isn't this what they used to call....bookmarking?  Except, this makes all your shit public - IF YOU JOIN, of course.  Try and visit a Pinterest site that's been sealed with The Seven Seals of Gargob-Ra the Vile Selfish Fucker.  You cannot.  Nope.  If you like to search by image, all that Pinterest shit is 'Nyah nyah, Pinterest only, you suck, ha ha ha.'  

Y'know, fuck dat.  It means being creative, and it takes a little longer, but the internet is a bigass place and that idea you're chasing will come up, for free, no strings, if you're willing to think - and search - outside the box.  Meanwhile, I have Ye Olde Bookmarkes, and somehow, I just don't feel the blazing need to have complete strangers rifle through them and comment.  Weird, right? I'm such a rebel.

In a completely unrelated vein, in my travels on Google Maps: Street View, I found a very, very tall and formidable working girl dressed in a colorful lycra catsuit - and I mean this garment was subject to some astounding compound curvage -  soliciting trade  in Portland, Oregon, my hometown.  

On Google Street View.  

This freaked me out because those little Google cars usually go out on Sunday afternoons, and this Amazon Entrepreneur was Flagging. Down. Traffic. out there by the side of the road.  Huge wig.  Tall, tall, tall shoes. Glorious makeup.   Maybe she was out there on Sunday afternoon hoping that someone was ready to get sinning again.  Believe me, this would have been the woman to lead you down that path and make you grateful. 

Sadly, the picture has since been updated, and the multicolored, glorious Amazon Entrepreneur is no longer to be seen. But I remember her fondly.  That's my Portland. 

Youth Fades and the Truth is Elton John

 I found an obscure channel on our t.v.  I'll probably never find it again.  It's a music channel, but they play live performances instead of just the hits with an annoying background, or a montage of album covers.  I'd been watching it - moving wallpaper, really.  Then suddenly a few piano chords rang out.

And then a torrent of them.  Raging, dancing, showing off, Fred and Ginger dancing like it was nothing at all, using all the quarter notes and half notes and eighth notes and weaving in the syncopation,  dissonant, perfect leaps off the high dive straight into the water with barely a splash. This pianist was running those keys like he'd invented sound,  and I looked up from the book I was reading - 

-and there was Elton John.

In his prime.  Before the flamboyance got too flamboyant.  Playing solo to a live audience and turning it into something that went into amazing, obscure places and came out like a rack of fireworks being set off one after another.  I set down my book and just watched this performance, Elton making hard, funky love to a honky-tonk piano, lost in his sound, and I was just stunned, amazed, nearly in tears.

Back when I was a little Muk I was a rabid fan of Elton John.  Had every single one of his albums.  Even the ones that hadn't been released in the U. S. , I was that into him.  (Shit, I still know all the words to 'The Bitch Is Back', stone cold sober as a matter of fact.)

But I had not realized, from 1973 until just this evening, right here in the year of our Lord Covid 2020 that the man COULD PLAY LIKE A MAD BASTARD.

I fell into teenage love with the showman without even realizing that he was a prodigy.  All these years later, I watched that young man give 110 percent of himself to an audience that was largely fucked up on pot and there for the showmanship.  I remembered the poster I'd had of him in my room, all hairy chested with a feather...jacket....of some sort... barely covering his adorable pot belly, and I wish I could apologize to the dude. Of course I was a kid then, and I was attracted by his like-greets-like vibe as much as I was anything else, but it has to be admitted before the world. Now.

Elton John can tear the fuck out of a piano.

Amen.

Rainbows, Puppies, Shrimp, Kittens, Unicorns

"The better part of valor is discretion, in which the better part I have saved myself." 

 And so, lacking the computer security of my convictions, I have deleted the last post; sent it off to the great 011010111010 in the sky.  Now it's nano-dust on an unremarkable, anonymous asteroid, which is what I imagine Internet Deletion Limbo looks like.  Just a beat-up asteroid, all covered in the micro-schmutz of everything that's ever been deleted online. Every now and then, the ghost of John Glenn goes around with a leaf blower, and all our dusty old www.sins and mistakes go flying off into space.  When he's done he throws a stick for Laika the space dog, and they have a nice time.

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Having given the issue careful consideration, the conclusion is in:  Captain Johnathan Archer was a better captain than Captain James Tiberius Kirk.

There.  I said it.

Archer did his level best with way less than Kirk had to work with. His poor ship could only do warp factor 4!   And even though there wasn't a Prime directive in Archer's time, he always tried to act as though one was in place.  His crew was more disciplined and far less likely to get dead.  He had a special ops team, the MAKO's.  He was also burdened with something at the rear of the bridge that would blow up like the Fourth of July every time the ship bumped into a rock.  That had to be super distracting for everyone involved.  But he made it home, ended the Temporal Cold War, and participated in an apology ritual involving a chainsaw, which is badass.

Kirk was, God love him, basically a pirate.  Well, a privateer, lets give him that much.  And he knew it; his friends knew it, his superiors knew it.  Nobody had any illusions about Kirk.  What he had going for him was a natural ability to command.  He was a born explorer. He had charisma, sincerity....and he was one wily sonofabitch. Odysseus in space.  Never turn your back on Kirk.

Another thing I've noticed is that you get the feeling that yes, the NCC1701 crew has been together for a long time, they're all familiar with one another, they're kind of sick of each others' bullshit, and it's business as usual as they interact.  That has yet to be reproduced in any of the Trek series.  Oh, you get a standout character, or pair of characters (think Quark and The Constable) here and there, but in TOS all three of the primary players and their adjuncts are strong personalities, and I think that's why it still has the magic.

Captain Picard...was a CEO.  He was a negotiator.  A diplomat.  Kind of a cold fish, and kind of pissy, too.  Now I love me some Picard, do not get me wrong.  He would fuck you up.  But dear Lord the poor man was surrounded with floor sweepings, like a bunch of junior fankids got together and cobbled up characters, then the producers reached into a hat, picked one, and then told the writers 'bash to fit, fuckers.'  I kind of hate to credit Whoopie Goldberg with anything, but Guinan is the only other character on that ship worth a damn.  The rest are just walking loose ends with no feeling of real connection going on at all.   

Now, I love Brent Spiner, but he was just cringeworthy on TNG. Do not get me started on Wesley. No.  Or Deanna Troi, yech.  Or the Doctor, gaaah. WTF, woman, leave the kid at home. And what the fuck was Riker?  All he did was run around with a beard.  Mr. Worf had so much character potential! It wasn't for fault of trying on his part. The writers on that show just had their heads up their asses when it came to writing the crew of the Enterprise. But their worst sin?  When all else fails, why, fire up the holodeck! 

I'm glad that TNG was there to carry the flag.  The fact that the series even existed is the best thing about it.  

There you go.  Now that I've gotten all the important matters out of the way, the rest of you kids can discuss politics and covid and trivial junk like that.  You are welcome.

Quaint Vignettes From My Charming Rural Idyll

 OOOO children my Biker has himself a new 'Nom de Internet'!  He is now and henceforth to be known online as...

The Bejewelled Beast! 

That is supposed to be a badass warrior king all covered in jewels with a sword and shit but the internet is not complying with my wishes, so imagine this dipshit up above here, only more studly, like this dude down below here:

THIS DUDE, WITH A SWORD.

  The reason comes down to ornamental squash varieties.  I'll skip the extraneous explanations.  When a man brings you, unbidden, a bushel of exquisitely malformed squash, he becomes your 

                        Bejewelled Beast. 

We tried 'Precious Star of Aegypt Eld,' but he didn't get it, so I tried 'Priceless Jewel of Magnificence' but he thought I was saying "Jewel of monstrance' which is an entirely different and Catholic cup of tea, so I gave up.  And to think we owe it all to a bunch of lumpy-ass squash.  God is great.

___________________________

We have got some political kids in this neighborhood.  We are repping hard for Team Blue-State Dems, with yard signs, bumper stickers and even a rather large banner nailed up high on the actual house, so the rednecks in their jacked up 4x4's can see it. 

 All the new kids in the neighborhood love us (for some ungodbeknownst reason) and every single one of them rode or glided past and gave their views on the subject.  There are some Trumper kids out there, and there are some LibDem children fighting the good fight.  We had us a regular civil, mannerly child debate going out on the sidewalk out front for quite awhile yesterday, about seven kids out their with their bikes, scooters and skateboards, all discussing politics, and not one of them older than 12.  Kinda gives you hope for the future.

____________________________

I will not be getting a new computer any time soon because WhaalMorte (The mart that sells walls) borked my order TWICE.  

Now WhaleMark online wants you body, soul and dna.  You have to go through all kinds of horseshit and info and filling out of all your vital statistics just to order something.  You end up with an account whether you want one or not. (Unless you're willing to go through one hell of a lot of screens and info and links and FUCK IT.  I was not; ergo, unwanted account with WohlShart.)  After waiting patiently, I went back like a cringing dog and checked on my order, only to find it cancelled once again.  Really?  Too much for your sad ass to deal with? Funny; Crate and Barrel didn't have that issue.  How strange!

  I deleted that bitch. And I did it super undercover.  Now do I believe that WhoreFark actually deleted my account?  Yeah, the same way that FaseBukk deletes accounts; which is, NO, NEVER.  Neither does KuAHRHA. (sound it out.)  All you have to do is mention the name of that smartypants intellectual question-ass site online three months after 'deleting' it, and it reactivates.  

Do I sound old and paranoid?  Yes.  Yes, I do.  And yes, I am.  If I can keep them guessing, then I will.  I don't smoke dope anymore so I need something to keep me amused.

_________________________________

Pet Teenager actually made it all the way to Las Vegas and her future.  She is on her way.  We are still in laborious contact (kid insists on texting and my poor dumb phone does not make that an easy task) and she knows that if it all goes to hell, I will be there.  I am stoked, and I am scared at the same time.  But still... imagine getting your drivers license, and then making your first long trip three days later, over unknown roads, from essentially Northern Canada to Nev - fucking - ada!!!  She did that without a hitch!  This kid is going to own us all.  It WILL happen.  

A Fascinating Personal Quirk I Thought It Would Be Appropriate To Share With The WWW

 Hurrah! It finally started raining for real; and by this I mean actual raindrops, not the misty crap we've been getting.  The smoke has cleared and it no longer smells like barbecued Oregon!  No!  What it smells like is ONIONS.

I have a rather peculiar personal quirk.  After an hour of eating any given thing, even a slice of bread, I and everyone nearby will smell the evil ghost of that food emerging from my pores. Not even kidding. If I eat a single piece of plain white bread, one hour later I will smell like a Franz bakery, and other people will notice it.  Ew, right?  

I have always been like this. I don't know what causes it, but there ya go.  If I ever have to ditch and go on the run, they won' t even have to call in the bloodhounds.  Just call a sommelier and let him huff a sample of my last meal.  They'll go right to me.  This is probably why there isn't more crime in the world.  I'd like to be out committing crimes, knocking over banks and doing all kinds of crimes and vandalism and train tagging and so forth, but if I did the cops would be waiting for me at my front door going "Shoulda skipped the Reuben sandwich." And I would get tazed.

I go through so much deodorant it's ridiculous, and I use the industrial strength guy stuff, too. I use lots and lots of  air freshener, fabric freshener, incense and essential hippie oils all over the house. I shower a lot, and I clean the shower with bleach, too.  I drink 8+ glasses of plain water a day; I am the most well-hydrated person you know, trust me on this.  I change clothes three times a day. I keep my clean clothes in a separate room from my bedroom!  But  the farmer across the street can be having his field treated with liquid manure, literally, and all you'll smell if you're standing next to me is the ham sandwich I just ate. 

When this becomes personally disturbing is when I've eaten something really intensely perfumey.  Raspberries, for instance. Say I eat a single box of raspberries. The next time I pee?  The bathroom will fill with the strong aroma of raspberries and ONLY raspberries. No kidding.  

When you are sitting on the throne and your pee smells delicious, it will weird you out.

If  I've been eating my friend Balbir's curry, which smells like a whole garden of flowers and spices?  I've had a person actually ask me 'Man, what is that amazing air freshener in your bathroom?  It smells like a headshop in there!  I love it!' And this is after I flushed.  The door has been open.  Fan going.  I told them it was Glade 'Spice Islands' air freshener spray.  There is no such damn thing, of course, but I wasn't going to say 'I just took a rockin' piss.  Isn't it amazing?  Breathe that in! Yeah!'

Last night I ate some pulled pork barbecue, and the sauce was heavy on the carmelized onions.  This morning I woke up inside a giant pulled pork barbecue sandwich heavy on the carmelized onion sauce. So I did what I've been doing since I was a kid.

  The first thing I do every morning is open my bedroom window and turn on a fan and close the door.  Just leave it going all day.  If it's cold out, I stuff a towel under the door.  I learned real young that I don't want to sleep in a room saturated with the concentrated ghost of a weeks worth of everything I've eaten.  It smells like the dumpster behind McDonalds.

See, I would rather be able to wiggle my ears, or be able to crack my knuckles or touch the tip of my nose with my tongue or something charming like that, but no, I am not that person.  I am the "Do you smell kosher dill pickles?  Because I smell kosher dill pickles like crazy in here!" person.

Do you  have a personal quirk?  Can you stuff an orange up inside your foreskin?  Do rodents live in your weave?  When you walk into someones' house, do the walls start to bleed?  Do share in the comments below!

Another One Bites The Dust!

 

Freddy Mercury.  Legend.  Beloved.  Remembered.  -also the man who wrote the theme song for the history of my computer ownership experience.  Freddy KNEW.  

Lenovo, I hardly knew ye.  You were a good little laptop, after I got done getting you set up, and putting a piece of duct tape over the camera and speaker aperatures - and telling Whoretana to shut the fuck UP already bitch I do not need your help.  Quit whining!  Go away!

Several days ago I plugged in my poor little laptop and a HUGE blue spark shot out of the little plug-in port.  I screamed. There was a distinct burning smell.  Computer - borked.

What I'm doing right now is using the Bikers' computer.  I already bought another laptop.  I'll be here at some point in the future.  

I didn't even bother calling the repair place because they never fail to load up my hard drive with CRAPWARE in the name of 'cleaning up the CPU' or 're-loading Windows' or 'It's our repair software, we get it from corporate so suck on it' because they are Satanic, housewife - hating nerds.  I am done with that repair shit.  Fuck that repair shit.  I know when I'm being bent over a chair.

I have killed over eleven computers.  I have. Me. By myself.  How?  In the early days it was all about the bugs and viruses and so forth.  The last four, I just flat broke.  Dropped, spilled beer in, stepped on, opened too far.  Computers tremble at my approach, and well they should.

Honestly, I feel like such a doofus.  This is what happens when you cheap out.  And I bought a cheapo reconditioned laptop last time.  This time, I have cash - the sale of the Chevrolet "Bone Of Contention Mach 0" El Camino landed me a tidy sum. (And as surely as the night turns into day, my steam mop died, my spice grinder died, my kitchen fan died, my weed whacker borked, my hedge trimmer borked, the steering gear on my riding lawnmower broke, and now my laptop is deceased. Like rats from a sinking ship. She's got cash? Not for long, bitch!  Wahoo!  Suicide pact activate! )

 I have bought a brand new laptop.  No I will not tell you the brand because I don't want to jinx it.  It's a good brand.  I've only broken one of their computers.  

So far. 

Fingers crossed.