mind expanding nonsense

Archive for May, 2011

Forceps Boy

Life is pretty good here at the Hallucinatorium. All is well and nothing is pissing me off. No, I didn’t find just the right amount of ‘medication’ to take daily. Although taking ones medication daily sure goes a long way in keeping a proper perspective on things. Everything is just OK. No problems. Stopped watching MSNBC and the news. More into gardening and an occasional fishing trip with my fellow retiree, (but still working part time in the Education House of Pain), Buddie Jock. Even the House of Pain as morphed into an Annex of Minor Annoyance.

But nobody wants to read about that. Folks want drama…rants…funnies and other generally weird shit. And speaking of weird shit, I came across the above drawing, probably done while over medicated, and figured, There’s a story in here somewhere. Hence, the Story Of Forceps Boy:

Like all potential super heroes, Forceps Boy came from a solid mid-western family, that was only mildly incestuous.  Mom’s ten month pregnancy put a strain on the family, not to mention all their cousins who wanted the child named after them. Boy’s arrival was not without incident, and proved to have been an omen of things to come. He didn’t want to leave that warm, hot-tub they called a womb, and despite numerous protestations, was pulled out with a pair of forceps which greatly disfigured his head.

Growing up was rough on F B, cause it was in the seventies when all the Cone-head skits were being done on Saturday Night Live. All the other kids teased him, and school became a living Hell. He couldn’t even go out for sports because his school had no helmets that would fit him. He became a recluse, and started to feed that over sized brain of his. He read voraciously, but only comic books, and came to the conclusion that he too was gifted.

Forceps Boy discovered that with his pointed head, he could slip into places others couldn’t. The Girls’ Locker-room was his first challenge. He heard about that place, and all the mysteries contained therein, and decided to first use his powers of penetration there. He slid through the air conditioning ducts, and was amazed a what he saw. “This is the place for Me” he thought.

INTERMISSION:  Well….this is where I came to a screeching halt.  This story could go either one of two ways.  My cynical, Corrections tainted world view, has Forceps Boy loitering  around public restrooms, reading dirty magazines and eventually ending up on a felony case load as Forceps Dirty Old Man.  OR…We could go the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer route, wherein F B saves the day with is unique powers and abilities and brings joy to little girls and boys.  But still ends up on felony probation after he changed his name to Chester the Molester.

So I’ll let you take it from here, if ya want.  I really only wanted to post this drawing.  So..what became of Forceps Boy after this locker room experience?   I’ll let you decide.  There’s more than just the two scenarios I’ve presented here.  Leave a comment; there’s no correct answer.

I Hate Work

It’s been a little over a month now. And I came to the conclusion that I Hate Work! This isn’t just one of them “I’m having a bad day” rants. But an real epiphany; an “AH Ha” moment; or more correctly [I am in Corrections you know], an “I can’t stand this crap” moment.

This morning I got up, published a blog post, made nice comments on everyones blog, took out the garbage, puttered in the garden, and at 7:00 am, before getting on my bike to go to work [Exxon can take their $4.00 a gallon gas and government subsidies and shove them up their corporate arses], Came to the realization that I basically hated every minute of my thirty year career as a Probation Officer. I didn’t want to be there, do that (bust people for drug use?), and at every opportunity, looked for ways to shave time off the beginning and endings of my days. Oh yeah, and while there, practice as much non-doing as possible. Hey I wasn’t a slouch, but really highly productive. I just viewed work as something undesirable and utterly distasteful that I wanted to get over with ASAP, so I had more time to Play.

What was cool when I was really fighting crime, and not this post retirement sit on your ass all day in front of a computer  gig (sounds like blogging), was when I got to go out into the “field”.  AKA make home-calls out in the community. Usually people on probation have to come into the office for their monthly “reporting”. That’s a ten minute charade wherein they lie their asses off, and I feign some real concern. Everyone is happy, especially the probationers if I don’t make them pee into a little jar to see if they be usin’ drugs. Hey those bloodshot, droopy eyes with constricted pupils, not to mention indifferent demeanor, are probably symptoms of the flu, Not drug use, and I don’t want to get sick.

Anyway, going out in the field is how we get to see our clients in their natural habitat. Kinda like a National Geographic Special, except without cameras, but with Kevlar vests, pepper spray and handcuffs. It was also a good way to waste away a day going to coffee, a few stores, or just park the County Car and take a nap. An actual home call was a quick in and out affair (not to be confused with office romance) and over with fast. I was never armed, so Officer Safety was a big priority. If a situation even looked bad, I was out of there and fast. Let the Cops deal with them.

Most of my clients were never home anyway. And those that were, especially juveniles, were often passed out on a couch, in a darkened room with I Love Lucy blasting on the TV. I even had a theory at the time that the “Lucy” theme (come on now, you know it by heart) subliminally caused sociopathic behavior in young adults. That’s all these ‘fools’ seemed to watch: I Love Lucy. Oh..Lucy. Ohhh Ricky. Barf!

So Hansi…Why are you now working again?” Greed, fear of the economy…a challenge? Going back to work was kinda like having sex again after a long dry spell. Although the sex in Probationland is usually anal in nature, it did feel good going back again. Still had my old chops. It was like the once ya learn to ride a bicycle analogy….ya never forget. But more like the date from hell, big mistake analogy when ya wake up in the morning, roll over in bed, look over at what’s snoring next to ya and say, “What The Hell Have I Done?”

Here’s the real irony. In this lousy economy where people are dyin’ to get good paying jobs. This one falls into my lap, and I hate it. Even more ironic. My daughter (who was once a crime fighter like her Daddy, but now is a Private Investigator working for defense attorneys) also teaches Criminal Justice classes at a Vocational College, where kids are paying big bucks to become probation officers and the like. Here I sit and gotta think: Be careful for what you ask for.

Hey…this didn’t turn out to be so bad after all. One more trip to the bathroom and I’m outta here for the day.  Life is all about balance.  And if ya work in a toxic environment, one must gain their balance before it takes it toll on you.

One Two Three Four

I’ve posted four drawings that I did in a series, wherein I had about ten pages left in a sketch pad that I was committed to filling.  So the series comprised a countdown to the last page; each featuring the page number somehow in the piece. Pretty trippy, I know.  But ya gotta motivate yourself somehow when you’re trying to be creative, be it in art, writing, blogging or whatever.

I’ve decided to share some of  these, not in the countdown order in which they were done, but in reverse order, with the last one starting first.  Hey, that sounds almost mystical, and possibly metaphysical. Didn’t even Jesus say, “The Last shall be first, and the First shall be last”?

Here are some of the thoughts I had while looking at them.  Maybe you’ll have different thoughts.  So let’s get to some serious hallucinations.

Wow…I’ve finally made it. At last. I’m done.

Now all I have to do is take care of this one last thing. Then I’m free.

Do I really want to let go of this?? Hey, I’ve grown attached to this One.

It’s hard to let go. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll hang around for a while.

Don’t want it to fall over.

Hope it fits


Three Dog Night had a song in the 60’s, “One Is The Loneliest Number”.

No comment on the sappiness of the tune.

But Two does have a certain appeal to it.

Feels good.. Maybe something you’d even like to embrace.

Could be a little overwhelming, down right scary, but something that can be bent into submission.

But submission may be a tad bit too harsh. Maybe Two just needs to be tamed.


OK.. I gotta think about this one

(not to be confused with the One one).

Leave me alone; I’ll get it.

My butt hurts!




This pose is killin’ me.

If that guy can’t put it on paper in an hour…well to hell with him.

I’m gassie, where’s the bathroom?

That guy is so self absorbed in his “artwork.” Wonder if he’d notice if I just let a silent one loose? Ahhh..that’s much better.

Sorry, just had to throw in a little juvenile farting humor in. Can’t take all this stuff too seriously.

Do any of these drawing speak to you? If they do, yet me know what you’re smokin’ 🙂   Oh yeah…if you “click” on one of em, it gets bigger…magic.

Hansi turns 100

Well it’s milestone madness. I’m not a hundred years old, but sometimes I feel like it. Nope, this is my one hundredth post. Big deal, I know, but it still blows my mind that since late last November, I’ve cranked out 100 posts of shear bullshit, with drawings to match. This might just be a case of blowing my own horn, but I want the world to know of my achievements, and assure everybody that Hansi is still full of shit, and there’s more to come.

A little background whilst we are in such a celebratory mood. My son, Bad Deacon, had a few websites that always intrigued me. The most influential being Bad Deacon Design, which was a chronicle of his print making, and not only featured the wood print process, but also displayed his finished works along with drawings and commentary.

Like Dear Old Dad, my son was an Art Major in college also, but instead of going on to fight crime, he went to UC Berkeley and got an engineering degree. Something useful. I was always impressed, not only with his art work (print making being his preferred medium) but with how he did it, and how this enabled him to display his work in what amounted to be his own personal gallery. And if ya do art, ya want to show it, but not necessarily via galleries or craft shows.

So, last Thanksgiving, while home for a visit, the Bad One set me up with a freebie Word Press site, and showed me how he got his work on-line by using a digital camera and how to crop and edit the photos in Photoshop. Magic…Sure beat scribbling crayons on my computer screen (the only way that came to my mind).

So I thought “Cool, I”m drawing daily; trying to regain some old skills that had sat dormant for far too long; let’s give this a go”.  I’m gonna follow in my Son’s footsteps (Hey, ain’t it supposed to be the other way around?)  The rest is history, or at least in the Archives.

Here are a few of my favorite drawings that resulted from some good strong hallucinations. Thank you for partaking in them too.

Nerf gun




Sarah.  What does ‘blood libel’ mean?

TriPhoria the pleasure rocket

Had to throw that one in.  And while we’re at it,  I’ll close with this:

Fun at Work

OK. I’m at work, the House of Pain, fighting crime. Really, I’m fighting boredom. Because I’m doing the same damn thing over and over and over again. As B B King said, “The thrill has gone.” I think it was day three of being back, when thirty years of doing this (same old) shit triggered Automatic Pilot to kick in.

My blogging has started to suffer – Work sucks the creative juices right out of ya. And, sitting in a cubical four hours a day, grinding out bullshit doesn’t really lend itself to red-hot war stories. But ol’ Hansi, with a feeble, yet devious mind, came up with this brilliant idea. How do I make Work Fun? Or better yet, how can I have fun while giving the illusion that I’m working??

I work in a bureaucracy wherein appearance takes precedence over substance. [that sounds pretty good, better write that one down]. So…how can I spend four hours having fun, basically doing nothing, while get paid for it? Hey Tea Party taxpayers, don’t get pissed, just think of this as one of them “reality shows” where people are being paid just to be their own stupid, asinine selves.

So how to start my day? Well spending 45 minutes dreaming up this bullshit and writing it down was a good start. “Hansi. How do you get away with that?” Well, like a good magician, work is all about slight of hand and mis-direction of peoples’ attention. I’ve got a pile of “rap sheets” laid out in front of me, filling my desk, with other “to do” piles nearby. It looks like I’m working at a feverish pace, but actually I’m cranking out the rough draft of this post. Ooops…My supervisor just walked by; better take a work break.

Five minutes later: Phew….glad that’s over. My desk is now fully camouflaged with papers and files all over the place. Total chaos, and in Probation-land chaos = really busy. Here a pile, there a pile, everywhere a pile pile. Old Hansi’s bent over [but not like in the bent over where ya gotta grab your ankles], and working his arthritic fingers to the bone. That reminds me. My fingers are getting a little stiff; better go to the bathroom and run some hot water over em. Especially my thumb, which has been up my kiester most of the morning.

Ah…that’s so much better. Time for some computer work. One of the perks at work is that I get to listen to my blues music on earphones and tune everything else out. Right now I’m listening to a tune called “Voodoo Love”. I know. Sounds luscious, and how appropriate. Cause it’s mug-shot fantasy time.

Everybody on probation has a seven digit “person number”; yes you are a number and not a name.  And in a person’s (sorry, a number’s) “Person Summary”, there are yet even more numbers: Sheriff’s booking #; rap sheet #; DMV # etc.  And… a Mug Shot, which is the picture they take of you, celebrating your entrance into jail. And since I’m sitting on a massive drunk driver caseload, I get to see folks at their absolutely shit-faced, inebriated best….cool

So what better way to waste time than to spend it fantasy-land, making up stories about the people (numbers) that just got busted.

Poor Sara B. Looks like a deer caught in the headlights. From closing down the bar to County Jail, something went wrong on her way home to the trailer-park. Wonder if running that red light, pulling up over the curb and barfing on the cop when he asked to see her drivers license had anything to do with her plight. She’s cute, but I’d hate to be inside her head the next morning.

Mr. Harrison. Mr. Harrison. 50 something, unshaven, hair a mess, wearing a stained t-shirt. Sure it’s OK to have a couple of beers after a day of yard work. But when ya hop on your deluxe mower and drive it to the Liquor store for another 12 pack,  leaving a path of destruction (and lawn clippings) in your wake, you’re gonna draw attention to yourself. And please….wipe that shit eating grin off your face.

Sometimes just sitting in front of the computer spaced out, having a 60’s flashback is fun too.  “Excuse me while I kiss the sky”

Well, today has been the best day of work I’ve had to date. I even managed to cut down my production by half.  Wonder if I can get it down to 30% work, 70% play? Something to shoot for… A goal…And, you know it’s good to have goals.

The American Dream (scream)

OK…We’re going back in the Hansi time machine and re-living some of the American Dream.  I’ve even gone into the vaults to dig out two drawings I did in college in 1969.  The late sixties were a hot bed of turmoil.  The Vietnam war was in full swing, feminism was on the rise, societal norms were being challenged, a new morality was taking shape, students were being shot on campus and old Hansi’s ass was about to graduate from school and get drafted.  

Well fuck that shit  Make Love, Not War.  I was sure questioning this whole American Dream business,  as were my peers.  It was an angry time.  FTA meant ‘fuck the army’;  later it meant ‘failure to appear’ when I took up fighting crime as a probation officer…Don’t even ask me about that metamorphosis.  And it was all being shown on TV.

Well, the 80’s rolled around, and guess what?  All us hippies totally sold-out and became yuppies.  The war was over (or more correctly we were in between wars) and the gettin’ was good.  Here’s a song I wrote in the 80’s when I took up playing in a garage band with a bunch of other 40 year old guys.  It’s called  “Living The American Dream”.  Up tempo, two chords.  If it sounds like anything else, the Talking heads “Life During Wartime” is close.

Another day, another dollar

Got to make as much money as I can

To buy a car, to buy a refrigerator

To buy a machine to open my cans.

Get up early, and work all night

Do it with all your might.

To please the Boss, to please my honey

Even so you can please my wife.

**Things are good, but they’re not what they seem,

**I’m tryin’ to be all that I can be.

**I got a great big house, a German car

**I’m living the American dream

I drive through traffic, and risk my life.

There goes another nut behind the wheel.

Get to the office, drink my coffee

Start to work on my next deal.

I rush through lunch, I’m not hungry.

Got to show the board my new plan.

I’m working hard, I’ll have plenty

I’m a 20th century man.


I play the market, I’m a shareholder

I got a five figure IRA plan

I’m buying a boat, take a trip to Europe

The kids will go to the best college they can.

I’m still a hippie, I’m still a liberal

But times call for a conservative stance.

I know there’s poor, I know there’s homeless

But all they need’s a second chance.


I got an STD

OK….I never thought it could happen to me…my gawd, an STD.   At my age.  I always tried to be careful, despite my still juvenile fascination with sex and all things anal.  Guess I wasn’t careful enough, or perhaps I was just careless.  An STD!  What am I gonna do now?  Tell the Wife???

I normally don’t share a lot of personal stuff here at Hallucinations.  But getting an STD as a result of my blogging, is truly Bizarre but true.   So here’s the scoop.  Jewel over at Really?! Wait! What?  Gave me this.  It’s an award, not a sexually transmitted disease, it’s the Sexy & Talented Diploma.

Did you really think Me, at my age, contracted VD or something.  No way, Too old; too wise.  What gave you that impression?  Do only naughty, dirty minded  people read my crap?

Anyway check it out on Jewels bog for the gorie details.  Look for her A Creepy Confession post.

Here’s a story about myself as portrayed in classic movie form; something you got to do if ya accept the award.

Hansi was King of the Jungle, and although walled off from it’s native inhabitants, had the whole island to himself.   Until….a film maker with a really hot-chick actress butted in.

Well old Hans, thinking with his schwance, couldn’t keep his hand off the actress, and ended up captured, taken to New York, and there being but upon display for the amusement of the rich.

Hansi burned out on that real fast, and once again letting his schwance be his guide, grabbed the chic (drama queen that she was), and high-tailed it over to the Empire State Building.  The rest of the story is not so sweet.  Needless to say King Hans landed on his schwance.  The rest is history.

Oh yea…I’m supposed to mention the person who came up with this big idea;  Adventures in Estrogen.  Been there, and I think ya might like it.  A little Estrogen always adds some excitement to your life.

While still in a festive, award winning mood.  And with all things  Hans and Schwance firmly ensconced.  Lets take a swan dive into the sewer with this little nursery crime rhyme:

Old king Hans

Had a very old schwance

A very old schwance had he.

It caused him such a fright

To get up three times a night

To just stand there, waiting to go pee.


OK…A little update regarding Hansi and Work. If you are not an avid reader of this Blog. Or, (being far superior, exceeding goals, and preforming at 110%) You are an avid reader that only sometimes actually remembers what they’ve read here, Let me refresh your memory. After a thirty year career in Corrections, I came out of retirement, yet again and went back to the House of Pain to fight crime.

So…”Where are all the cool “war stories” about how exciting it is being a crime fighter. “The ones were ya nail the Bad Guys; hold em accountable and hook em up?” “And all the ‘special’ effects you gonna provide?”

Well. The best I can do is tell ya that someone brought in donuts Wednesday!!

Work is drudgery. Maybe that’s why they call it Work and not Play. And after Working a grueling 16 hours this past week, (I know…I’m a whimp) I’m ready to Play. In fact, I’m Playing as we speak [ more correctly, I was playing while I wrote this piece, and may be at work now, and not playing, while you read this piece.  Once in Corrections, always in Corrections, that’s why I had to make that correction cause all I do all day is correct people, hence the name Corrections Officer, rather than Suggestions Officer….I’m only playing with ya.]

Work sucks the creative juices right out of you. And having to be at Work at 7:30 am.,  I don’t have time to suck any creative juices into me. That’s why I’ve been digging stuff out of the Archives and recycling it, in a thinly disguised veil, in order to have something to post.

War Story: At Work, here’s what I do all day (four hours). I close out old expired DUI probation cases. I just look up their fine balance; check the court docket to see if any subsequent probation violations were sustained, that would delay said expiration; and see if they’ve completed Alcohol School. Having”monitored” this person’s compliance, I write a chrono entry on the computer [no paper files here] stating such…And bang!  I do it again. [You can already tell the effect its having on me by all he “legalese” written herein]

This function repeated 30 to 40 times, looks something [confidentiality] like this:

CLOSING CHRONO: Case 2007915230: 36 months Formal Probation 3-17-08

Fine paid in full; Alcohol School completed; no VOPs; reported as directed.

Probation expired 3-16-11. Case closed

Yes… Big Brother is watching you! Or at least he is [and his name is Hansi], if you’re on a 3000 person Drunk Driving caseload . Pretty mind numbing…Yes? It requires no judgment whatsoever, just stating facts, preforming a computer function…and do it again. But here’s the even really even better part. Even though I’m at Work, I can also Play. This whoring myself to the Probation Department, allows me to listen to all the blues CD’s I’ve downloaded, while preforming mindless tasks, that require little emotional involvement on my part.  I don’t fuck with  see people.  I’m not really responsible for the entire caseload. And I’m being paid quite handsomely to do it…I’m not a Ho! I’m more of a moderately priced Call-girl 🙂

Well I’ve had some fun Playing today. And whats really a trip is that I’ve been able to switch roles, in an Orwellian way, so instead of me monitoring you, you get to monitor me. Frightful.  So….How am I doing?

Disclaimer: This Hansi guy is a fictional character, any resemblance to other persons employed as probation officers, both living and dead, is a sure coincidence.  A “real’ probation department would never employ a fool like Hansi…Would they??

More Fornicating With The Stars


Buried in my archives is a piece I did last year when that season of Dancing With The Stars was red hot with controversy. You had a no-talent Palin daughter making it to the finals, based not on ability, but on Mama Sarah’s Twitter appeal. Well this season is not so contentious, and is even a little lackluster, featuring football players, pro wrestlers, rappers,  Disney stars and The Karate Kid in the competition.

It got me to thinking, again, and focusing on what’s red hot, drew me back to my original thesis: This show would be soooo much more interesting, if, instead of featuring ballroom dancing it featured…you know…fornicating.  Hence, Fornicating With The Stars.   Come on now, you’ve probably had the same thought yourself….Pervert!

If ya watch the show, which is probably a BBC spin-off, you can’t help but notice how all these dance partners are hanging all over each other, and lavishing each other with affection, and even kisses.  And their dance numbers, they’re pretty suggestive as far as I can tell.

My favorite is sixty year old Kristi Alley. She used to be a real fox. Sadly, now she’s more of an Ox. But she has a lusty appeal, and even makes that Russian bear Maks Smirnoff blush at times. Maybe it’s just me, but my mind sometimes wanders during their performances.

So, in the spirit of letting ones imagination run wild, why not have a show that featured not ballroom dancing, but the big nasty.  The Stars could be paired with all the top porn stars, and judged based on such things as stamina, how well the scream, and the number of times they say, “I want it”; all while moving through the usual positions one might view in a porn movie. Could be interesting don’t ya think.  May have to be edited for T V.

So, in order that you too can participate in this rich fantasy, I’ve placed a chart below, which could illustrate some of the “footwork” involved… I’ll let you fill in the blanks.

Lastly, I’d like to conduct a little poll. Not as in pole dancing, which could be incorporated into some of the routines, but more of a questionnaire.   Sorry if my Word Press skills are lacking a bit, but you can always leave a comment.

Is my stuff too raunchy?

Just raunchy enough, don’t change a thing?

You’re a disgusting pig, but I just subscribed.

Or,  Not at all; why are you holding back?

Mothers Day

Well it’s Mothers Day, and you better not forget.  Even if it’s your wife, which technically doesn’t count cause your wife  is not your mother but but your wife.  Big difference!  But don’t tell you wife that or the other 364 days of the year will be Ass-hole Day, and you’ll be the recipient.  So suck it up and rush out and buy something.

In honor of Mothers Day, I thought I would dig something out of the archives that would be especially appropriate.  It really has nothing to do with Mothers Day, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.  It’s titled “Joe Mama”.

Back in the day when I was attending Dorsey High School in Los Angeles, one of our favorite activities was to participate in a “chop-fight”. A non violent affair which consisted of hurling insults at one another. Whoever bested his opponent by uttering a completely humiliating invective for which he had no response (‘what no come-back, it’s stuck in the back of your mouth?’) was the winner. These were serious matters, for ones reputation at school hung (and speaking of being well hung, I hear your sister has a pair bigger than yours) on how one fared in these duals.

These events usually ended in a draw, for known to everyone was the ultimate put-down for which there was no come-back. When one was going down for the count, and so low ya had to look up to see down, you had no choice but to hurl the ultimate weapon and respond with: “Your Mama”. That usually ended it. Everybody was wise enough, even at this young age, not to pursue the “mama” thing much further. But, “Your Mama”, or “Joe Mama” depending on which ethnic group involved, sometimes took on a life of its own. When both participants were really into trashing each other (“and speaking of Trash, How’s Joe Mama?”), things began to roll (“Your Mama; I hear your mama is so black she needs a license to buy white bread”) It usually ended with both fools wishin’ they was orphans or cutting themselves up with knives pretty badly.

Well I think it’s time for Your Mama to come back. Not literally, because most of us old guys’ Mamas are up in Heaven where they are enjoying their own chop-fights; there ultimate come-back is “Your Son”. Instead of always yelling ‘bullshit’ or the ‘F’ word when watching something especially tweeksome; just utter in a low voice “Your Mama”. When Bill O’Riley is going on about some uber right-wing nonsense, don’t get upset, just softly utter “your mama” and you’ve refuted his whole argument. What more can be said. Some politician trying to explain away how they got their had caught in the cookie jar. Don’t yell motherfucker. Nope, “Your Mama” says it all. You know, I think that I’m gonna stop using the word ‘bullshit’ altogether (might have to give up television to be successful), and instead just mumble “Joe Mama” when a witty repartee is needed.

Think not…. Your Mama!


I drew this picture without having anything in mind, except perhaps to base a post on the results. What I see may differ from what you see content-wise. And your interpretation can be totally different from mine. Hey….I only drew it, haven’t written about it yet.

But here are a few scenarios that came to my mind:

A Super being is standing next to a railing looking down upon the Earth. Is he contemplating an intervention? Have things gotten so out of control on planet Earth, that extra terrestrial help is our only hope? He contemplates his actions. “Should I, or shouldn’t I?”.  Each has it’s own risks. “If I intervene, I save them but they learn nothing. If I don’t. They’re doomed to extinction”. A chorus of heavenly hosts chimes in, making it even more difficult to decide. “What should I do?”

A Super being is overlooking the Earth. Seeing constant motion from her inhabitants, he becomes amused. “What strange creatures”, he thinks. “Wish I had a quarter for some food pellets to throw at then, but I left my wallet at home. He readily tires of this confusion, and moves on to the next exhibit.

A Super being beholding Earth, thinks: “Gawd, my feet hurt, and these boots are killin’ me”. To make matters worse, he’s a hundred yards from the nearest bathroom and really has to go. “Wonder if anyone is looking?” he muses. “It would sure be funny to pee on them and see what happens”. But being on probation for an indecent exposure conviction, he thinks the better of it and hikes to the nearest head.

A Super being takes a break form his tasks. “I did good!”, “All is well. Just as it should be. Wouldn’t change a thing”, he reflects. “What do you guys think?” Opinions erupt, each coming from a slightly different point of view, but in the end they all agree and start to sing (in four part harmony) “All is Well;  Wouldn’t change a thing.

Well… that’s four scenarios that came to my mind. What comes to yours?

Fun With Carrots

A few of the blogs I follow feature “A Friday Moment”.   A single photo, no words, capturing a moment from the week.  A moment  to pause, savor, and remember.

Well last Friday I was out in the garden harvesting some carrots, and you wouldn’t believe what I found.

A few photos, no words, capturing what goes on underground.

A moment I want to pause, savor, and share with you before I juice these guys.


Virtual Love Fest

There’s a virtual Love Fest going on in the Blog-o-sphere, and it consists of passing along awards to bloggers one feels are deserving of recognition. “The Versatile Blogger” is one I see on a regular basis; there’s others too but I can’t remember (and am too lazy to Google it).

Like so many Awards, not to mention endless Awards shows on TV, The more an award is given, the more meaningless it becomes. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for recognition of great blogs, and search for new ones all the time. Plus, this Awards thing, is a great way to increase traffic not only to your site, but to share the wealth. [ Don’t want to mention that phrase on ultra conservative blogs, they’ll throw a tea bag at ya].  Everyone benefits, and it creates a sense of community.

There’s even rules (in Blogostan??) that come with these awards: You gotta thank the person who gave it to you (called common courtesy); mention seven things about yourself; pass the award along to fifteen bloggers you’ve discovered; and notify them. Sounds like a pyramid scheme to me. Or one of those chain-letter e-mails which you’ve just got to send along or the magic won’t work. And if the magic fails to work, it’s all because of you for not sending this along (to piss off others), so there!

My little eight year old grandson gets awards weekly in second grade. Not because he’s so damn smart (which he is), but because everyone gets awards. Don’t want anybody left out, let alone hurt feelings, or worse yet, a shattered self-esteem. It’s when he brings home the “Most Improved Attitude” or “I Didn’t Call Teacher a Bitch Today” award that I start wondering.  But no, that would never do in this age of entitlement where everyone is special. Because everyone is special in their own way. [I’m warm with fuzzies, or is it,  warm and feeling fuzzy?]

So, in the spirit of “nothing is sacred”, I thought I’d start my own award.  And the best part is: 1) there are no rules, and 2) you don’t even have to be deserving of it.  In fact, you don’t even have do a damn thing, let alone pass it on to others.  Nope, it’s all yours. That’s because You Are Special. That’s right, I frankly can’t think of anyone more special than You…except for Me.

Here’s all ya have to do. Just print out any of the drawings of awards on this post. Cut them nicely (being sure not to sever your fingers; there’s no I’m The Best Amputee Award), and pin it to your chest with a safety pin (not included). You can even Photoshop em to make them bigger to suit your ego size. Then you can sit back and bask in the glory of your blogging success. I even made them in color, so they’re Extra Special.

You’re worthy. And no doubt a good blogger.. Go on… do it. I’m wearing mine, and I have so many on, that I look like a German Field Marshal; it’s the only ones I’ll ever get, especially after this post. BTW (not to be confused with BMW [bowel movement whooper (still sounds like a really fast German car)], the wife just gave me an award: the “Filthy Old Pervert Who’s Embarrassing Her In Front of The Whole World” award. It was a verbal award, hard to pass along, yet filled with passion. I’ll keep her FOPWEHIFTWW award in a place of honor.

Lastly, I’ve included a special Potty Mouth award, to be given to the blogger who drops the most F-bombs in a single F***ing post. Something to shoot for.

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