mind expanding nonsense

Archive for July, 2013

Poop Bags

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I was sitting on my front porch one Sunday afternoon, watching a family ride by on bicycles, followed by a 50ish couple on mountain bikes, and started thinking: “I live in a very pleasant neighborhood.”  There was a garage sale four doors down, and a lady walking her very small dog across the street.  Well, the bicycles went by pretty fast, reminding me that all things are transient in nature; always in a state of change.  So…I started tripping-out on the lady and her tiny dog, watching her stop under a neighbors tree, and just seem to be take in the present moment.  How joyous!

The problem is, when one starts to interpret events, in stead of just seeing them as they are: woman stopped walking, one is not fully present observing all things in harmony.  Well, why woman stopped walking, was because her little pooch was Taking A Dump!  Shitting on my neighbors lawn.  Boy was I glad she choose to walk on the other side of the street.  I don’t want no dog shit on my lawn. Cause you could step in it, and drag it into the house, only for everyone (The Wife) to wonder how long it’s been since I last bathed.   And me getting pissed, because, not only did I get it on my shoes (everybody knows hard it is to clean that off dog -do), but streaked it across the carpet I just steam cleaned the day before.

Bad case of love 002It’s amazing how fast emotions can change from joyful bliss, to anger and rage, and then to an attitude of thankfulness.  Which brings us to the title of this post.  After the dog pooped, the woman took out a green plastic bag, placed her hand in it, and after wiping the dog’s bum (much less crass than saying ass), picked everything up, (wipe included) and removed her hand: poop contained.  Lucky her, I thought, she gets to walk home with a hot sack of shit.  The evil side of me wished she’d had a Saint Bernard.

Boy am I ever glad they invented poop bags.  Wonder if there’s a market for doggie toilet paper?  When I was working out at our local Juvenile Hall, I had to use ‘poop bags’.  Actually, latex gloves, for when I had to “pat-down” minors, or conduct room searches.  You didn’t anything they had, on you, and were always careful to remove the gloves from the back forward.  Didn’t want to be taking a hot urine sample form a hepatitis C laden drug addict bare handed.

So I’m a big fan of doggie poop bags.  Only downside I can see is if ya stick it in your purse and forget about it for a couple days, or stop by a neighbors for coffee (like Ethyl and Lucie), and accidentally leave it in their front  closet where you put down your things.

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A Bad Case Of Love

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“Got a bad case of love, and my heart is filled with misery.  My wind is short, my pulse is weak.  It won’t be long before I’m six foot deep.”   A great rockabilly song by the Paladins.

Nothing better than a bad case of love.  Nothing worse either.  When ya got it bad, you can’t sleep, can’t eat, and start to feel weak in the knees (and I’m not talking about arthritis).  Not that I have one.  At my age, I’m not ready for anything bad, especially a case of love, although a six-pack might be nice.  I don’t want to start feeling stupid or act like a dumb shit, making all major decisions with the smaller of my two brains.  What a relief to same some clarity in my life!

Bad case of love 003Not that I’m enlightened or anything.  But I’m feelin’ pretty good for a guy my age [“Well Hansi, how old are you?  Let me just say old enough to have a very low tolerance of bullshit.]   God knows there’s plenty of suffering going on.  Sure wish He’d do something about it.  His representatives are seemingly only making things worse.

Not a whole lot going on at the drawing front.  Just a few scribbles here and there while I re-group my resources, many of which have gone A.W.O.L.

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When Is It My Turn To Be Famous?

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Andy Warhol said, “Everybody should be famous for fifteen minutes.”  Well, I’ve been doing this blogging thing for two and a half years now, and I still ain’t famous.  It’s not because of lack of effort.  God knows I’ve been putting my all into blogging, but I guess that’s not enough.  Or, the competition is just too stiff, with millions of others putting their all into blogging also.

So far, nothing I’ve published as gone “viral” to become the latest (and briefest) Internet rage.  There’s plenty of stupid animal videos out there, but I don’t have any pets, let alone a telephone that will take pictures.  [Wouldn’t it be a trip if you could only see things with your telephone, and had to use a camera to talk with people?   Hey it’s already here.]  The only thing I had go “viral’ was a Tea Party Nutcase, when I suggested that God was a woman, and said She didn’t think homosexuality was such a bad thing.

Oh yeah…I’m not making any money off of blogging either.  Some people do, but they’re trying to sell stuff.  I suppose I could try and sell my drawings, but anybody who knows how to use a computer can easily cut and paste what I post, and either use it as their screen-saver and print it out as a wallpaper and hang it in their bathrooms, so why pay for it?

Maybe, my audience is too small.  Most of the folks who read this stuff are retired ‘baby-boomers’, who are laying around all day blogging, or cranking out their own art-work.  I should shoot for a larger demographic; be more like Yahoo with all the interesting filler they put up, but most of it is total bullshit.  But then again, most of what I put out there is total bullshit too.   Hmmmm.

I think I’m just gonna stick with having fun, enjoy the many blogs I follow, and that will be that.

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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 the other had no response (‘what no come-back, it’s all  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 however, 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 persuasion you preferred to be, 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; She so ugly, she looks like she’s been whooped with an Ugly stick.) It usually ended with both fools wishin’ they was orphans or cutting each other 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; where their ultimate put-down is “Your Son”. So, instead of always yelling ‘bullshit’ or the ‘F’ word when watching something especially tweek-some on TV; 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 hand 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.

You think not……. Your Mama!


Giving It A Rest

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Sometimes when one is on a creative streak, or prolonged period of creative output, things dry up a bit, and you find yourself not wanting to force it. Ya don’t feel like pushing yourself or being goal oriented.  So you just accept it, and let itself play out.

The luxury of no longer being in the workforce is: If you don’t want to do certain thing, you don’t have to!  One can just say, “Fuck it!  I ain’t doin’ it.”  Pretty cool, cause that means if you’re gonna do something, it’s because you want to, and not Have to.

As groovy as all that is, there’s still an old Bug-a-boo about being lazy and being a productive member of society.  As if our society is all that productive and fulfilling to the individual.  I mean like, most peoples’ jobs are shear drudgery, with half of all the crap produced being utter  bullshit, and something that one can easily live without.

So, there’s two voices subtly yelling at me.  “Be productive and get off your ass and do something.”  And the other which replies, “Fuck you.”  The second voice isn’t very highly regarded (except by those who are high), maybe because of all the “F-Bombs” it drops.  But it’s the voice I’m responding to more and more.  Frankly, the message of the first voice wasn’t that damn fulfilling anyway.

“So Hansi, what’s that got to do with the drawings you’ve posted, this is an art blog ain’t it?”  Well I don’t know.  Cause drawing is drawing and writing is writing.  But if ya had to put a label on it, I guess you’d call it a bit of burn-out, as I’m not highly motivated to force drawings out of me that aren’t there.  So I’m not doing my usual high quality, finely illustrated, sexually suggestive, innuendo laden, bathroom humor type raunchy stuff.  And am content to ramble on with a stream of nonsense, which most folks don’t read anyway, because they are busily looking through the pictures for hidden images of boobs.

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The Struwwel Peter Principal

You’ve all no doubt heard of the Peter Principle; which states that “In a company hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence“. Well, being of good German descent, I figure there’s got to be a Struwwel-Peter Principal : If anything can go wrong because of one’s actions, it will end up disastrously for them, biting them in the ass with a big chunk removed in the process. [If you haven’t read the previous post on Struwwelpeter, go back and read it; this stuff’ll make much more sense].

And just as rising to one’s level of incompetence; likewise the more stupid and idiotic your behavior, the more hazardous the consequences.  Take my word for it, Germans know just how disastrous stupid behavior can be.  Just like in “Die Geschichte vom Suppen-Kaspar” (The Story of Soup-Kaspar) where young Kaspar, a healthy, strong boy, proclaims that he will no longer eat his soup; and over the next five days, wastes away and dies. So much for 19 th century German hunger strikes. Bottom line: refusing to eat can kill ya so don’t be picky about your food, cause nobody gives a shit and you’ll starve to death.  That’s how I learned to eat vegetables.

Another one, and it’s my favorite is:”Die Geschichte von Hans Guck-in-die-Luft” (The Story of Hansi Head-in-Air, and NOT a story about me taking a dump in someones upstairs loft). It’s about a boy who habitually fails to watch where he’s walking. One day he walks into a river; he is soon rescued, but his backpack full of belongings drifts away. Today we’d call it something like Hansi Head Up His Ass , and it’d be about a guy who lost his shirt in a stock market crash because he took up blogging instead of watching the Market.

See, if you’re not paying attention, and letting your mind drift, or worse yet, doing something risky or anti-social, well you can get wiped out. Take Phillip In “Die Geschichte vom Zappel-Philipp” (The Story of Fidgety Philip), a boy who won’t sit still at dinner and accidentally knocks all of the food onto the floor to his parents’ great displeasure. What is not mentioned is that the family was taking care of Bad Fredricks dog [a violent boy terrorizes animals and people. Eventually he is bitten by a dog, who goes on to eat the boy’s sausages while he is bedridden]. So the evil dog not only eats up all the families food and they starve to death, but goes on to bite little Phil’s wiener off.

Now my former probation clients could have certainly benefited from the Struwwel-Peter Principle and avoided a whole lot of suffering. Take the story of Larry mit der cocaine ger-using addiction. Larry got so blasted on crack one night that he got a little paranoid and thought he heard burglars in his attic. He called 911, and the police responded. They didn’t find any burglars (the attic being little more than a crawl space), but the cops did find Lorenzo under the influence, and in possession of drugs, and hauled his ass off to jail. There’s even danger in getting high. Go figure.

The moral: If you do dumb shit, and act like a fool, it could be disastrous.  And although God may forgive you, nature won’t, so wake up and don’t step in any cosmic dog doo.


Struwwelpeter

Well, you can take Hansi out of Deutschland, but you can’t take the Deutschland and out of Hansi. My Mother immigrated from Germany to America in 1929; a good year to leave Germany, a bad year to land in the States. She didn’t bring much with her, but she did bring Struwwelpeter.

I heard all about him as a kid growing up in Los Angeles in the 50’s. Whenever I didn’t comb my hair, or let down in other grooming and personal hygiene areas, I was accused of being a “Struwwelpeter”. I had no clue about this Struwwell-guy. And because Mom had a pretty thick accent (despite having lived in California for 20 years prior to my landing in the States), I thought she was saying Strudel-Peter, and I sure wanted some of that for desert. Needless to say, my grooming went down the tubes as a youth, while my waist-line expanded.

So, Der Struwwelpeter was a popular children’s book in the 1850’s, written by Heinrick Hoffmann (can’t get more German than that), which consisted of rhymed, illustrated stories; each with a clear moral which demonstrated the consequences for misbehavior in an exaggerated way. Struwwelpeter literally meant Shaggy Peter, and appears above. Mark Twain even ripped-off Struwwelpeter, calling him Slovenly Peter. Doesn’t have the same kick, so no wonder he didn’t catch on in the States.

In “Die Geschichte vom bösen Friederich” (The Story of Bad Frederick), a violent boy terrorizes animals and people. Eventually he is bitten by a dog, who goes on to eat the boy’s sausages while the youth is bedridden. As much fun as torturing small animals is, who would continue to do so if you knew that their pet would turn around and bite one’s Weiner off? I always kept my dog at a distance after hearing that one.

In “Die Geschichte vom Daumenlutscher” (The Story of Thumb-Sucker), a mother warns her son not to suck his thumb. However, when she goes out of the house he resumes his thumb sucking, until a roving tailor appears and cuts off his thumbs with giant scissors. Let’s see; thumb sucking or thumb amputation? I went for No Thumb sucking, and fulfilled all my sucking needs with Popsicles.

In “Die Geschichte von den schwarzen Buben” (The Story of the Black Boys), Saint Nicholas catches three boys teasing a dark-skinned boy (that would never happen in America). To teach them a lesson, he dips the three boys in black ink, to make them even darker-skinned than the boy they’d teased. Well, old Hansi can be dipped in black ink too, if that didn’t happen in the United States. Old Saint Nick (Santa Claus?) sure taught us a lesson about teasing and not being nice to certain folks, when he dipped our President in black ink.

Last one: In “Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feuerzeug” (The Very Sad Story of the Matches ,and a two bratwurst mouthful of German), a girl plays with matches and burns to death. Don’t get more moral laden or terrifying than that one; and how uber-German. Message: there’s inherent danger in everything, even playing with matches. As a kid I heard such admonitions as, “Don’t lick that dinner knife, You could cut your tongue off” or this classic, “Never run while holding that screw driver, you could fall down and poke your eye out”.

With DNA like this, is it any wonder I ended up in Corrections. With hidden danger lurking everywhere, I had to choose a career as a Probation Officer, wherein I could advise people of the consequences of misbehavior, some of which could have disastrous results on ones freedom.

There’s even more of this good stuff out their, but I gotta go. Struwwel-Hansi, over and out.  But look for The Struwwel Peter Principal coming soon.

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