Food Fornication

Sometimes I get a great flash for a title, and then have to dream up a bunch of filler for subject matter. Well, Food Fornication was as good as it got one night while listening to the Doors.  Grossly inappropriate?  I prefer to think I have a rich imagination: food with a sex-life.  First thing I thought about was serving meals in provocative poses: German sausage smothering in sauerkraut served on a sliced bun.  But in a moment of clarity, I got to thinkin’.  Hell yes food has a sex-life  When we eat it, most of our food is dead, but before we killed it, food was screwing its brains out.

My garden is full of plants pollinating and being pollinated.  Even bees join in for a three-some of fun.  And meat.  You better believe meat was sexually active.  If it wasn’t, we would’ve run out of animals to consume a long time ago.

I’m a liberal kinda guy, and really don’t mind if my food had sex or not.  I just don’t want my food fucking me.  Food is supposed to make you healthy, nourish your body, and not make ya sick.   But there is a major American agricultural giant, we”ll call it Monsanto, that is involved in some major food fornication, creating genetically modified organisms (GMO’s), that like Doctor Frankenstein’s monster are creating all sorts of problems.  This isn’t like breeding plants and creating hybrids.  It’s screwing with a plant’s DNA, splicing certain genetic characteristics into most of the corn, soybeans and sugar beats grown in the USA.

Here’s where it gets a little crazy and starts to make me paranoid.  These plants are genetically modified to be resistant to herbicides, while containing a protein of Basilius Thuringiensis (a naturally occurring bacteria which causes paralysis to the digestive tract of certain caterpillar/worm-like insects).  Sounds good for the farmer.  He can spray his crops with Round-Up herbicide (made by Monsanto), grow plants (seeds courtesy of Monsanto) that will kill pests upon eating, but not save seeds for next years crop because Monsanto owns the intellectual property rights to those seeds and will sue your ass for doing so.  [I thought God owned all the intellectual property rights to His creation, but I guess Monsanto bought Him out.]

Some would say, and the “experts” assure us, that there is no harm in eating GMO foods.  Maybe so, but I’d encourage you to checkout the Non GMO Project and decide for yourself.  But any plant that can withstand one of the most powerful herbicides around, and be poisonous to bugs is not something I wanna put in my body.  Monsanto can go screw itself, not me!

He’s Back

Sometimes a man feels like actin’ like a dog.  I do.  But The Wife doesn’t let me very much.  She keeps me on a short leash.  And rightly so, who knows what would happen without my every action being evaluated, criticized and commented on?  It’s one thing acting like a dog, and another thing altogether ending up in the dog house.  No way I wanna put up with that shit, so I keep my canine instincts in check.

But Hot Dog Man sure as hell doesn’t.  Ol’ H D sorta went under cover (but not under the covers) for a while.  But he’s back howlin’ and doin’ all the things ol’ Hansi would never do.  Like leave the toilet seat up.

I don’t know why it’s such a big deal with the females of my species.  Hey, I gotta lift it up.  You can lift it down when nature calls.  All I can figure is it must be some sorta old wives tale (the only tail I’m getting) that you never look before ya leak, and take it on faith that seat is gonna be down so ya won’t dip you fanny in a cold bowl of toilet water; yellow for those of us suffering through a drought in California and tryin’ to conserve water with fewer flushes. [That could be nasty].

Unlike Hansi, Hot Dog Man doesn’t have to watch his diet, and can pig-out on whatever he wants.  He also doesn’t have to watch his mouth, and can say any goddamned thing he fucking wants.  That’s why I’m glad he’s back.  I need him.  It’s not me doin’ all this shit. It’s all Hot Dog Man’s fault.

Branden

Hey.  My eleven year old grandson drew the picture above.  The fruit sure don’t fall far from the tree.  The boy’s got talent (thank you superior genetics), but not only that, he’s already developed an interest in trashy lookin’ women.  A chip off the old block.

And while we’re on the subject of trashy lookin’ women, that old country song that said “I like my women a little on the trashy side,” was spot on. [I hate that term.  Sounds like someone lame, tryin’ to sound hip.  “Right on” had more soul]  Anyway, I’m so a-twitter with all things trash, that I thought I’d regurgitate one from the Archives.

This begs the question, and gives me the opportunity to be equally offensive to one and all, if a woman can be trashy, what can a man be.  I know we are pigs, and when not that, just plane swine.  So what do ya call a trashy lookin’ man?

Loser comes to my mind  What thinkest thou?

Pain In The Ass

Don’t cha just love that term?  So descriptive.  A  great euphemism (having nothing to do with euphoria) for an irritant, or something you’d rather not do.  I rarely suffer from pains in my ancient ass; generally, all my aches and pains are from the knees down.  But sometimes, things cause my buttocks to boil.  Having to go to work everyday was a major pain in the ass.  Now it’s having to do a bunch of chores around the house before The Wife jumps in my shit, that’s a pain.

It’s funny how ass pains, although located in the same area, can take on a variety of forms, from a variety of causes.  About a year and a half ago, The Wife and I decided to remodel our fifty year old kitchen.  So we went through the whole number.  From floor to ceiling, everything new.  Even added a dishwasher, a great machine for relieving ass pains.  Thank god that’s over and done with.

But the problem is:  Home remodeling is like a highly contagious disease (Herpes and Gonorrhea come to mind), which spreads like wildfire.  That doorway from the dining room we had widened, well, that left a big space of newly plastered wall exposed, which in-turn made the 30 year old wallpaper that was separating at the seams look like hell.  So, while staying in the general vicinity, my ass-pains migrated from the kitchen (right cheek) to the dining room (left cheek).

Well, like deja-vu again, once more our house was sectioned off with plastic sheeting and drop-cloths, with construction guys who liked Mexican music, moving walls around.  Nothing like trying to watch your favorite day-time shows with power tools blasting away.  But thankfully, it’s done, and lookin’ good.  And the good part about ass pains is, they’re transitory in nature and don’t last very long.   Unless you’re still working full-time.

Post Script:  Actually, the dining room job turned out well, and has inspired me to move on into the living room (another chanker sore flaring up), which needs a paint-job desperately. I found that by breaking the dining room job in to small tasks, and taking my time with, that it was totally doable.  Gone, are the days of trying to do a major job like that on a weekend because ya gotta go to work on Monday.

Waiting For Jesus To Return.

Well, it’s quite obvious that the world is about to end, which signals the ever eminent return of Jesus.  ObamaCare is up and running.  Marijuana use and sales are now legal in Colorado. And people are marrying whoever they choose.  One thing is sure…You can bet your sweet ass that everyone is watching Colorado waiting to see how well legal weed is going.  Cause if it goes well, there’s a shit-load of money to be made by taxing and regulating the hell outta it.  No more Mexican cartels.  The only criminal element involved will be your local Legislators.

I couldn’t believe the pictures of people lining up around corners waiting to get into a newly opened marijuana store.  All because it’s now legal, so if ya wanna buy a joint and smoke it, that’s your business, and you can do so without the fear of arrest.

A lot of folks are getting high these days.  Maybe there’s too much suffering going on around them, and they just need a little relief.  There won’t be any suffering after Jesus returns.  Just good vibrations, no more war, and people treating their neighbor as they would themselves.  [If there’s not gonna be anymore suffering, and therefore no further need for relief from suffering, I wonder if He’ll re-criminalize Pot?  I’d sure hate to serve time in The Lake of Fire for taking a bong hit].

Maybe Colorado will give us a taste of what it will be like when Jesus returns.  We’ll see.

Contentment

I like the feeling of contentment.  When I enter it, there’s a sense of well-being, joy, and a happiness with things just the way they are.  Getting there is the hard part.  Excessive effort won’t get ya there.  Nor will lethargy.  I guess it’s something you just arrive at.

Try this:  Sit down.  Relax.  Let all the tension in your body flow outwards, through your limbs, down to your fingers and toes, and let them shoot out from there like lightning bolts raining down on evil-doers and non-believers.  Well, maybe you could leave out the last part.

When fully relaxed, reflect on all the good things in your life and how wonderful they all are.  Everything is perfect.  Not to worry.  You’re there.  Hope you are content with the content of my contentment.

Scribbling

I follow this British Blogger who calls herself a scribbler.  Actually it’s “Scribblah”.  I guess English English is different from American English.  But I know what she means.  That’s because I watch Doc Martin every week and now understand half of what they’re saying.  And, I don’t have to have the sound turned up as far as it will go.  That hurts the ears.  But then again listening to vinyl records from the sixties full-blast ain’t exactly an exercise in stillness.  What is a trip sometimes is watching Doc Martin with the sound off, and instead, listening to old records.  “Sitting On The Dock Of A Bay” strangely works in Port Wenn.  Although Louise-er in no way could ever come off sounding like Aretha Franklin demanding a little R E S P E C T from grumpy ol’ Martin. [When will he ever get his shit together?]

Anyway, setting short-term memory loss and an inability to focus aside, I started scribbling just like Rosie (who is quite an accomplished artist), and here’s a few of my efforts.  Actually, very little effort went into them, because by nature, scribbling is fast, free and expressive.  Just like when my five year old grandson was three.  He’d “draw” up a storm.  Mostly up and down movements cause he had no fine motor skills.  We’d praise him  for his ‘art-work’, even though it sometimes looked like crap.  Hey, you can’t be negative with young malleable minds.  They could grab all the guns ya got laying around the house and go shoot-up the local school.  Don’t want that!  But then again, one wants to be as heavily armed as the law allows.  You never an tell when you gotta “stand your ground*” because some ass-hole is pissin’ ya off and playing his goddamned rap music too loud.  At times like that you need as much fire-power as you can get, especially if he’s unarmed.

The government really doesn’t care about how many guns ya have.  The more the better.  It’s kinda like smoking.  Everybody knows that tobacco kills thousands of folks annually.  But there’s money to be made by taxing it to death.

All they drawings posted were done with a pen I stole from work, on scrap paper scrounged from an art store dumpster.

* For those of you who don’t live in the good old U S of A, “Stand Your Ground” is a Florida self defense law that gives individuals the right to use deadly force (shoot someone) to defend themselves without any requirement to evade or retreat from a dangerous situation.  Like most American laws, they work well for some (heavily armed red-necks), and not so well for others ( African-American youth).

I’m freaking out at work

The Golden Egg I’m enjoying working at The House of Pain for my former employer in Probationland is swiftly turning from gold to bronze, with the real possibility it could turn to shit sometime soon. I’ve been ‘re-assigned’ from a first-time drunk driving caseload to help on a mixed caseload of felons, substance abusers and domestic violence offenders.  Thankfully I don’t have to see them.  They all go to a ‘Kiosk’ (an ATM in reverse), where they report monthly by paying five bucks and pushing a bunch of buttons, instead of seeing an asshole like myself who’s only going to tell them what a bunch of fuck-ups they are, and how they’re likely to go back to jail if they don’t get their shit together.  I’d sure pay five dollars to avoid that.

What this change basically means is, I’m gonna have to go from cranking out one form of mindless bullshit to another form of mindless bullshit.  You would think that all mindless bullshit is the same. But it isn’t.  Dealing with drunk drivers is not like dealing with crooks.   They’re just normal folks who got wasted on alcohol, and while totally shit-faced, decided it would be a good idea to get in a car and drive.  We all do it…They just got caught.

With this Kiosk crowd, I’m dealing with wife beaters, drug addicts, thieves, and the like.  That’s gonna be a whole new learning curve for me.  Or rather, re-learning all the crap I swore I’d never do again in my life when I retired ten years ago.  Funny how my words often come around and bite me in the ass.  We’ll see how it goes.  I might be closer to complete retirement than I think.

Waiting For The TV To Come On.

Here’s a little secret:  Every-night I checkout for a few hours and travel the galaxy.  Most of the time I don’t get much further than the couch, except when I get up and change CD’s or put on a record, or take a leak.  That’s why I’m into vinyl these days.  Not only does it sound good, but a record has two short sides, which means I can get up and go wee wee more frequently. [I wonder if drinking a gallon of water during my travels because I got chronic cotton-mouth has anything to do with all the off-pissing* I’m doing?

I’m also keeping a strand of Christmas tree lights up for a while longer, maybe indefinitely.  Looks co0L when the lights are out,  listening to Led Zeppelin or The Stones, and maybe a candle’s lit.  Makes it easy to crank your mind up into third gear, pick up some speed and blow the stink off. [A nice lava lamp would sure go nicely]. It’s amazing all the bullshit that accumulates in one’s mind.  When you’re not re-living the past (my favorite past-time), you’re dreading the future.  Trippy.

Anyway, it’s almost 8:00 pm, and that’s when The Wife comes out of the computer-room, and we start watching TV.  Usually it’s crime dramas, but Doc Martin has become a favorite now a days.  It’s also just about the time I’m done with my travels, and time to get horizontal and hope that there’s a good TV show on to put me to sleep.

*  Like the term “off-loading”, I think ‘off pissing’ is a suitable term for urination, and doesn’t imply getting angry or mad (as does pissing off), but has connotations of relief and an end to suffering.

The Book Of Hansi

Wouldn’t it be a trip to have a book of the Bible named after you?  All you Matthew, Mark, Luke and Johns know how cool it is, as do some of you Ruth, Esther and Nehemiahs.  There ain’t no Book of Hansi, or gospel according to Saint Hansi.  Maybe if my parents would have named me Deuteronomy, I wouldn’t be in such a quandary.

What if our whole world went up in smoke?  The ‘unthinkable’ happened, and all that survived of that holocaust was my (or maybe your ) blog. And, having lost all knowledge of the past regarding the arts and sciences, your blog (or better yet, my blog) became revered as the definitive source of all knowledge and wisdom.  To be studied, and copied in monasteries by following generations.  If your blog survived (which is unlikely), there could be rival factions, each claiming to hold the truth according to their blogger.

As societies started to rebuild, and reclaim lost knowledge, they could marginalize ‘the other’, leading to divisions and eventually wars over which Blog contained the truth.  Quite a novel idea.  The novel I stole it from was “A Canticle For Leibowitz” by Walter Miller Jr.  I don’t think there’s a Book of Leibowitz in the Bible.

Little Hansi Happy Faces

When I was a kid, I could never figure out some of the trickier parts of the English language.  And when it came to grammar, I hated it!  Not only did we have to learn how to spell everything correctly (and a lot of other words too), we got tested on them weekly.  The hardest part was when ya had to diagram a sentence, and specify which were the nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs (sounded close, but were totally different), prepositional phrases and a lot of other bullshit I swore I’d never use.  Thankfully I was proven right when the computer and Spell-check came along. Now I don’t knead to no how to spell, I got a machine to due it four me.

Anyway, I drew these small drawings of happy faces so I could use them instead of the common colon right parenthesis   : ) that everyone else uses when they want people to know they’re only joking .  Hey…this is still an art blog in some still distant ways!  I’ll let you figure out if these are little – Hansi happy faces, or Little Hansi – happy faces.

 

Correction

Doing all this blogging stuff sometimes starts to feel a little bit too much like work for me.  Typing is a big-time left brain activity, that forces me to focus.  Ouch! And that’s what I gotta do when I go to work eight to twelve hours a week [don’t wanna overdo it].  I gotta think and focus so I can be accurate.  Can’t space-out on whatever I want.  Hell no!  I gotta do what they pay me for, and do it correctly.  It is Corrections (probation) that I’m workin’ in.  So correcting people is a big part of we do.  And although there’s a lot of lying hypocrites out there saying whatever they want and claiming it’s the gospel truth, this boy’s got to tell the truth.  Because I’m preparing legal documents, dragging peoples’ asses back to Court if they ain’t complying with their probation terms: go to alcohol school and stop drinking.

As wonderful as always being correct (and correcting people even more) is, sometimes it gets tiring, and leads to bouts of no longer giving a shit.  When you no longer give a shit, you no longer have strong preferences, so it no longer maters if you’re correct or incorrect.  Either way is fine. It doesn’t mater.  Correct me if I’m wrong.

Stressed Out

At my age, I no longer want to deal with stress again.  No bullshit at work, no sick relationships, no financial worries.  I want some heavy-duty psychic shock absorbers smoothing out all the bumps in the road ahead.  No drama, just a nice constant flat line without emotional spikes.  Hmm…That sounds like being dead.  I wonder if dead people know they’re dead, or are they so dead they don’t know?

Interesting stuff to ponder.  The Bible says there’s gonna be a resurrection of the dead.  My sister, who grew up a Southern California girl, has been living in Germany for the past 35 years.  Sometimes she gets some of her English words mixed up.  On time, when she was referring to Easter, she said it was the time of the “re-erection”.  I knew what she meant resurrection, but hey re-erection/resurrection they’re both the same: bringing something that was dead back to life.

So, adding a little Viagra to blasphemy, something doesn’t make sense to me.  If you accept Jesus before you die (versus Visa or MasterCard), you go right to Heaven.  Ya leave your body behind.  That sounds good to me.  I wouldn’t want to be put back into my body after I die.  Well maybe with a couple of knee replacements, a new hip and shoulders that rotate.  And after those up-grades, I’d like to stay medicated as much as I could. [Wonder if there’s medical marijuana in Heaven?  There’s gotta be!]  Still, I’m not so sure I wanna be put back in my old body, especially after enjoying all that heavenly bliss.  I drove that sucker into the ground.  I think I’d like a newer model.  One with cruise control and heated adjustable seats.