Astrology watch: TAURUS

taurus dump

OK Taurus-the-Bull, cut the crap. I know that one of your sign’s “positive traits” is that Taureans have a “fixed” outlook on life and the world. Although Taurus would like the rest of us to believe this means they have a ”stick to it-ness”, as far as making and meeting successful goals are concerned, it usually means something else:

It’s more than likely that your “fixed outlook” means that you are the 4th generation backwoods, product of a trailer park family tree that does not BRANCH, and are stuck in the traditional family rut. This usually also means that just like your Daddy before you, you AIN’T climbing out of this rut, and going anywhere upward, anytime soon.

But cheer up! This doesn’t mean that living life in an incestuous, smelly ditch has to be TOTALLY depressing. It is true that most Taureans do not possess the “accessibility to change” gene that has made some of the smarter zodiac signs millionaires. However, there are scattered reports, here and there, of some of you that have actually climbed out of your rut high enough to become gainfully employed – making enough, at least, to be able to afford your Marlboros and Yoo Hoos. And have done so all by yourselves!

Good places to start a career and realize this dream would be one stop gas shops, Wal Marts, or recycling centers. Go for the Gold Taurus, and one day it might be yours!


Welcome to Menopause…

I am irritable, yet, I don’t feel like picking on others anymore.  What in the world could be wrong with me?  Usually, when I feel like this, I have lots of things to cheer me up.  People with herpes, Wal Mart fat asses, dorky B movie celebrities –  all of these pathetic people (who have more problems than I ever will) usually cheer me up in a New York Minute.

But, not anymore.  Now, when I see a giant woman in stretch pants, I want to cry.  Herpes no longer brings a chuckle, it makes me MAD!  Dorky B Movie celebrities make me want to wave a white flag and yell, “I surrender!” (OK, bad example, they have always elicited this response from me)…. But most of you will know what I mean.  Most of you women, anyway.

It’s simple…I am getting closer to entering the land of the female moustache, the universe of the stomach that is getting impossible to lose, the (EGADS!) city of surprise chin hairs!  Yes, I am speaking of menopause.

For those of you men, who will never know what it is like being female, will never have to go  through MENOPAUSE, and has yet to come up against a woman in the throes of it,  let me give you a visual example…

If one day, you come home from work, and your sweet little woman is standing at the door with shave nicks on her chin, a butcher knife in her hands, murder in her eyes, holding an “ABS of STEEL” DVD, and muttering “I don’t KNOW what’s wrong with me today”,  you’ve just met MENOPAUSE…

RUN as fast as you can….!

I’d rather pick YOUR nose than pick one more damn potato! (Memories of Shrivel)

Thanks to Face Book, I recently got back in touch with my childhood best friend from Maine, Melissa. (Hi Melissa!).  She and I were as thick as thieves when we lived on the now defunct Loring AFB – WAY back in 1970’s.

Maine was, as it is now, a beautiful place  – and is also home to some of the poorest people in the nation.  But,  since Maine has always been the largest producers of potatos, the poor had a yearly opportunity to make some extra cash by signing up at one of the many potato farms, and volunteering to do the back breaking work of picking those spuds.

Now, because this was a state-wide event, even the schools closed down for a month – this so the CHILDREN of the poor could also take to the dirt and pick potatos, and help their families make even MORE dough.  When Melissa and I were in school at Limestone High,  I remember us being thrilled at the upcoming month of November because we thought WE were going to be FREE to do whatever we wanted for a whole 30 days!  And of course, why wouldn’t we assume this? Both OUR dads were in the air force, and hell, our families weren’t struggling, so BRING ON THE PARTY, right?

WRONG.  I forgot which set of parents started the process in motion, but to make a long story short, Melissa and I were informed that our plans had been changed for us.  Yes, instead of goofing off for 30 days, we would be picking potatos from 5 a.m. to dusk, EVERY DAY for the month of November – just like the common folk!  After bitching about all those cool prank calls we WOULD’NT be making while our parents were conveniently out of the house, and out of our hair, all month,  we decided potato picking just might  be FUN – IF we did it with a bunch of our friends, of course.  At this point, I recall Melissa, myself, boys named Lance and Mark, and another girl named Jaime SOMEHOW getting lucky enough to all be hired on by Thompson Farm.

And, s0 the fun and games began.  (Back then, the experience might start out, and end up, like this):

4 a.m. – Get rudely awakened by Mom to “get ready” to meet the bus. Curse your little sister for being too young for the torture, as you searched around for a clean pair of thermal underwear. Then, half asleep, being zombie-walked to the car so you could be driven to the “bus station”.

5 a.m. – Get on a bus driven by a grumpy woman who must have been the original idea behind the “Sit Down, Shut Up” bird lady of South Park fame.  And, since finding an empty seat next to someone who DID’NT already  have B.O. that early in the morning was nearly an impossibility, you had to somehow hold your nose, and learn to breathe through your mouths during the drive.

5:30 a.m. – Arrive at the farm in time to be hauled like cattle to the frozen fields to collect the potatoes where they lay – which was wherever they landed after being “dug up” by the guy on the tractor.

5:31 a.m. – Already getting sick of the “fun” of potato picking, because the barrels you had to fill were HUGE, and throwing in rotten potatos – or those with “eyes” – didn’t count towards your barrel’s quota.

6  – 7 a.m. – Wondering if the barrels were actually hollow, or if it just seemed that way because it was so damn COLD!

8 a.m. – Listening to the french-canadian people, AKA those who were actually there to WORK so they could eat, bitch about  “spoiled, lazy asshole kids” in French.

9 a.m. – The dawning realization that you now WELCOMED trouble – screw the potato picking at 40 cents a barrel. And more importantly – Screw your parents!  What were they going to do, reward you by GROUNDING YOU?

9:30 a.m. – 5 p.m.  Beginning a group hunt for the nastiest, most rotten spuds you guys could find. Why? To build up an arsenal, of course. And what was that arsenal for, you ask? Why to throw at your target, of course. Your target being the sadass man driving the tractor.  A wrinkled-up,  toothless, glimpse into your doomed future as a decrepit, angry old person who only had sags, pains and the grave to look forward to.

OUR target in our situation was the poor pathetic tractor driver I thoughtlessly christianed “SHRIVEL”.

This halloween mask closely resembles SHRIVEL

Poor Shrivel – whose name was probably really Obama or something like that – he probably never stood a chance. Over the years, he must have gotten pelted by so many rotten potatoes that he eventually came to resemble a geriatric pez dispenser that had been dipped in putrid marshmallow cream.  In hindsight, it was an atrocious thing to do to an old man who was probably just praying for Jesus to take him. Imagine coming to work to a job you had had, and HATED, all your life.  There you are, all bent over with arthritis and bound up bowels, ill-fitting dentures half dangling from a mouth that hadn’t had a good thing to say about life since you were 9 or 10 years old.   Imagine, starting up that old, piece of shit tractor for yet ANOTHER thankless potato season in an endless sea of them, only to have GROUPS of spoiled brat teenagers pelt you with smelly, slimy GARBAGE – just because they were BORED!

Poor Shrivel.  It’s a wonder he never went postal.  And, I wonder how many times a day he thought about exacting revenge on us prepubescent assholes?  But now that I come to think of it, maybe he didn’t NEED to do this, simply for the fact that he already knew that one day, each and every one of us would come to know what it was like to be SHRIVEL, in some way.  For some of us, it may looking into our mirrors in our latter years, and gazing in disbelief at a mouth that’s now caved in from tooth loss.  Others may see SHRIVEL every time we look down at a saggy belly or baggy knees – body parts once firm, but not anymore.   Still more of us may think of him every time we go to take a crap – and can’t – because our bowels don’t work so well anymore.

And, Shrivel was probably also aware that at least a few of us would at one time in our lives, play the role of Shrivel in some capacity, to a future generation of bored, spoiled-brat teenagers.  Helpless elderly pawns in their games of “just because”.   So, in the end, maybe Shrivel did get his revenge without having to lift a single finger.  After all, there is nothing sweeter than the revenge of taking in the smug faces of the “know it all-ness” of youth, and laughing because you realize the spoiled brats have NO idea of  what is in store for them…

Don’t GO GET a donut, make the donuts come to YOU…

Are you basically lazy, but love your donuts? Does the thought of having to move your fat ass off of the couch one more time in order to trudge the fifty feet down your driveway to the mailbox just to  collect your welfare check, so you can go “pastry shoppin'” piss you off?  Does just the mere mental picture of wasting MORE time driving your unregistered car to the bank to CASH that welfare check so you can spend 10 minutes or more in line at Dunkin Donuts make you want to stuff Little Debbie’s into your mouth, a box at a time?

Well, your problem may have just been resolved!

From the makers of that groovy sleep attire/casual out-door wear -Pajama jeans – comes a NEW, convenient – and fashionable – way for the lazy asshole to once again, acquire what he or she wants without ever having to DO THE WORK to get it.  Introducing….


It’s a shirt AND it’s a MAGNET!  It’s a shirt that attracts DONUTS with a fat-target magnet!   That’s right!  Just put on this cheap-ass TShirt, with the handy built in (but hidden) magnet, and watch the donuts as they are DRAWN to you!

Imagine!  With the Magnetic Donut Shirt covering your blobs of fat, you will NEVER again have to:

Wait in line at the donut shop, hoping that there are still 2 dozen cruellers available for your mid-day snack, because they will be within your fat grubby hands five seconds after they are out of the oven!

Sneak into the the office breakroom – for the third time in fifteen minutes – just to grab the 3 remaining bear claws!  Nope, just sit in your cubicle as you normally do, reading online JUGS magazine and pretending to work – don’t worry, the donuts will soon be at your fingertips!

Trick little Suzie or Johnny into thinking Santa has made a surprise visit in their living room in the middle of July, and sending them out of the room to CHECK – just so you can grab their donut holes!  That’s right, for this manuever, all you need to do is fart, and play pull my finger, and those holes will be in your gaping maw before the kids have even realized their goodies have disappeared from their plates!

That’s right! You won’t have to move an inch you fat asshole! Because as long as you are wearing this shirt, all pastries within a 50 mile radius will be just as drawn to you, as you are to them!  So, order this shirt now – sit back on your couch, relax, snarf up them donuts – and continue to get fatter and fatter until you have a massive heart attack and die!

Weener Kleener Soap – Rub a dub dub, just stay in the tub….

RUB-dub-dub, think I'll stay in the tub!

















Weener Kleener Soap is a superlative gift for the tired spouse of that “still horney” middle-aged husband, a god send to the next door neighbors of the mid-40’s pervert who can’t keep his eyes off of their cat, and a blessed a relief to the adult children of those GrandDad’s who are  prone to showing ” just a little too much affection to the grand kids”.  How so?  Glad you asked.

Weener Kleener Soap ensures that the user will now have a nifty, unique way in which to “wash” his weener!  His lower gentalia will stay sweet and clean because he’ll be sure to wash down there EVERY day  – hell,  he might even attempt it three or four times a day!  Why?  Because of the numerous hours of  fun and entertainment he will have “cleaning his own house” –  so to speak.  How is this possible?

Well, with Weener Kleener Soap, the user not only has a safe cleansing agent with which to wash, but the cake of soap is also designed with it’s very own “donut” hole.   A hole in which it’s perfectly acceptable for anyone to  place, and get down to the business of “washing”, his own weener.   And, since the user will now actually  have access to a  HOLE all his own – and one that’s custom made for slipping the weener in and out of the  suds – this means that all YOUR holes – and those of your children and pets – will stay pristine, untouched, and in working condition – the way GOD intended! And, again – all thanks to the soap’s ability to provide a legal diversionary venue in which the user can act out his unwanted “hide the weener” games during bathtime!

So, order one now!   Or Hell, order two or three! (Don’t forget the mailman and Uncle Ned).  Then relax – knowing that you and your loved ones will be safe at home, out and about in the neighborhood and at various  family functions from now on.  And all  because someone’s weener is now being cleaned – and polished – by himself, the fun way!

Pajama Jeans – The ULTIMATE in apparel for the lazy asshole….

Ever wish you could just hop out of bed after sleeping in ALL day,  and hit the bar in time for the end of Happy Hour – and in high fashion to boot? Well, NOW you can!  Thanks to the debut of Pajama Jeans – the Ultimate in apparrel for those people who are too lazy to waste even 5 minutes changing for bed, and don’t ever want to think about what they want to wear for the day again!  Think about what YOU could do with that extra time you’ll save and the benefits it will bring you!  Here are just a few examples:

You will now have time to pick your nose thoroughly BEFORE you leave the house, therefore doing away with  the danger of being seen digging for gold while stuck in traffic on your way to Wal-Mart!

With an extra few minutes, you will be able to cram down TWO more Dunkin Donuts, instead of just the usual 850 calorie bear claw. Plus-thanks to the “unbeatable” fit of your combo night/day wear, it appears that your Pajama Jeans are EXPANDABLE too!  So it won’t matter if you gain a “few” pounds over time, as your new “attire” is able to grow right along with you!

And think of this – because these pants are made of “Dormisoft fabric that doesn’t tug or bind and is as soft as cotton”, those of you who are too lazy to even pull them down to take a shit or piss, can simply ADD a pair of Depends – and do away with those pesky bathroom trips that take up so much of your time. And, what this means is that if your Depends happen to SOAK through from overuse, the soft cotton of your Pajama jeans will act as an absorbant filler, preventing Adult Diaper Rash!   DAMN!

Move over SNUGGIE, you’ve been replaced!  The King is Dead! Long Live Pajama Jeans!



Never waste time changing your clothes EVER again!


Jesus, hellbound, bills, dementia and farts

You fucked up AGAIN!

Last night, I suddenly got teary over a memory of how my parents would take us kids to Baskin Robbins for ice cream every week on Sunday, after dinner.  Sweet yes, but they had an agenda.

They were trying to make up for forcing Cheryl and I to go to Sunday School – EVERY SUNDAY – without fail, where we had to sit out an hour dressed in scratchy clothes and too tight tights to learn about Jesus,  sing songs to praise him, and to hear the breaking news the day after we’d already comitted the latest childhood sin to be put on the list of  unforgivables that guaranteed the the perpetrators hellbound status when he died. 

And Sundays did go on forever.   After this torture was over, we were driven like devastated cattle to the slaughter and  forced to sit with the grown ups who didn’t seem all that concerned about hell, and in fact snored, farted, slept, and burped during the the pastor’s lecture – and then woke up long enough to sing out of tune to the endless songs of praise they tried to fool us into beliving they knew by heart.   And this  occurred in between the stern lecture of an angry pastor who tried to convince us that Yes, Jesus loves us – and no, he didn’t WANT to send any of us to hell – but how could he do anything BUT – when all of us continued to disappoint him every minute of every day?  

We kids would finally be put out of our misery when the collection plate got to us, and each of us put our whole weeks’s allowances in it –  hoping that our buck fifty’s would somehow cause Jesus to change his mind about sending us kids to hell – but we weren’t optimistic about the outcome.

And, of course after that weekly reminder of doom,  neither Cheryl nor I was in the mood to watch the Wonderful World of Disney hour  – the show that signaled the end of the weekend,  and the start of another week of school and eating paste with boogers in it.

So I guess I would have to say that taking  two future hell bound occupants to Baskin Robbins to get their minds off their fates, wasn’t too high a price to ask . But anyway, I digresss.

I called my Dad to tell him that I loved he and Mom, and to thank them for being the best parents in the world – I swear that was my only intention.  But as soon as my Dad answered the phone he started in on how the cable company had sent my bill to their house and I was being cut off on July 9th if I didn’t come up with $100. Next came my auto insurance cancellation notice, and did I know my tags were expired on my broken down Mustang in the driveway? How were Todd and I going to pay our rent? Also, there was a bill from the phone company, did I know that I had to pay 98 dollars by the 10th, or else…..dial tone?

Trying not to cry, I gave up playing dutiful daughter and told him the rest of it. The bank fees that kept accruing even after I dumped my last unemployment check for $76 to cover the SEVEN CENTS I was overdrawn on, and then finding out that they were charging me $35 because I didn’t put it in the day of the withdrawal, which then caused me to bounce a check. The fact that we didn’t have rent, and Todd was sick again from worrying over bills. I told him about how we each had at least 17 job applications a piece floating around online, that no one had responded to. Oh, and our electricity bill that doubled because they charged us a DEPOSIT for a mistake THEY MADE the month before by taking our payment out of the wrong debit card. I told him about how I found out unemployment was over the day I applied to go to school. How I was out of cigarettes and had drank my last sip of wine the night before. How everyone in the neighborhood who had been our best friends when we had money, were now no where around to pay us even a dollar back of what they owed us. Hell, I let it all out.

After sympathysing with me, he told me my mother wanted to say hello. I got all ready to tell her how wonderful I always thought she was and how much I loved her, and said Hello Mom. She says to me, Well, Lisa! How nice of you to call. It sounds like everything is going so much better for you!  I’m so glad!  

I wanted to laugh out loud and almost did – but then for the grand finale to a perfect day, I didn’t realize  I was laying with my face right next the Fluffy’s ass until the second after he farted in it.   So, I called it a night and went to sleep.

I KNEW it – my german nazi bungalow started out life as a trailer

Sometimes Google Earth is stunning! Some of the things you can find ZOOMED up close,  take your breath away – places you know you’ll never get to see in this lifetime, lost forever – if it weren’t  for the wonders of modern technology.  But sometimes, what Google Earth ends up bringing you just takes your lunch away.  Witness below…

This is my “house” or my bunker – to be more accurate. AND, only the part located near the street – SO convenient for those last-minute drive by participants who’d like a “sure hit” – is actually ours. Yes, it’s a small “duplex” – under 700 feet to be sure. And, the front porch is now covered by furniture that hasn’t had the title of second-hand for a couple of decades. Courtesy of Shoe Strings  – for a price – of course.  Not that we desired to have the furniture so much we paid her for it – we paid her because we just desired her to go away.  Anyway, it’s not much, but Fluffy the pit bull is welcomed here, and the rent includes water and garbage – and we LOVE our landlord.


And now, it has taken on another kind of beauty. And that is the beauty of “appreciation”. For as humble as our abode is today, Google Map showed me that it was once something else…

Behold! ALL that’s missing are the wheels…

Back in the day before You Tube there was Yoo Hoo

Note the suspicious glare that Bubba Darryl gives the City surveyors, as they record this picture for Google Earth history. Also notice that Bubba Darryl has something held tightly in his right hand – a can of  Budweiser, perhaps?

At any rate, once it’s empty he will have Ethel May (his sister-wife on the right, behind the trashed El Camino) throw it in his neighbors trashcan.  Then in a day or two – around 2 a.m. to be precise – Bubba Darryl will sneak out back and fish it out of the garbage – along with his neighbor’s cans – and give the whole lot to his new girlfriend (and  daughter) –  Tammy Lee, the other female – to take down to the  recycling center the next time she takes their son (and his grandson) little Bo Seafus , for a walk to the Free Clinic to him checked for body lice again.

Note the classy awning – used for the neighborhood drink a thons and bi-weekly wife beatings  – and that sleek AMC Gremlin sitting next to the roadster in MY driveway…

Like I said…..All  that’s missing are the wheels…

POINTS TO PONDER: Since politicians are so full of shit – why aren’t they made to wear diapers, like the rest of the babies?




OK.  I know I’ve bagged a LOT on Facebook in the past.     

I’ve called it WASTE book  and MACED book. I’ve picked on the little “fruit fairy” smilies that people obligate each other with – along with complaining about the constant requests from those on my list requesting my  “help” by  sending imaginary livestock to their make-believe farms – requests that still seem truly psychotic to me, but apparently hold perfect logic for those in the final stages of denial.      

And I committed all that sacrilige by adding unflattering photo choppery, to boot.      

I also snidely suggested that someone create a Face Book of the Dead friends list – filled with those who can no longer speak (or request return smilie ) – and, in fact,   can’t do anything BUT help you to look better by increasing the number of “friends” on your list. This, of course, brings a person that kind of popularity – cyberly speaking – that he or she may have never gotten to enjoy in back in highschool.         



And yet – because I’m a study in contradictions, I admit, I unabashedly flaunted that I have no problems whoring myself out for people to add on my friends list.   It’s just like that Jaynes Addiction song – Jayne Says…..”I want him, if he wants me”.   That was all it took – and I rolled around in it, like a pig in shit.      But alas, pride ALWAYS cometh before a fall – chickens  ALWAYS come back to roost,  and my fave – “What you put out in the universe ALWAYS comes back to you.”  And, you’ll know when it’s arrived by the stinging sensation in your anal area.         

 And, today – one hour after bragging to a pissed off gangsta with a flat 40 ouncer and a bad attitude, stalking past my house – that MY face book friends list was a mere THREE names away from reaching the 400 mark – I returned to the website and noticed with a sinking heart that I had been….gulp…deleted by three of them.         

 Yep, that’s right – I’d been REMOVED ON PURPOSE – just like in that South Park episode about Face book.  The one where Stan’s FB stock plummets when he adds Kip Drodry – a kid who didn’t have ONE FB friends on his list for some reason – and then has to drop him in order to gain back his FB street cred.          

 Today, for equally unknown reasons –  I am that person  – KIP DRORDY.  I am that  pathetic little munchkin whose “very existance” depleted the street cred of at last 3 people who once were kind enough to add me and aid me in my quest for Face Book Friends List QUEEN OF THE WORLD! And, I now feel Kip’s pain…      

And, to those 3 people who I thought about maybe NEVER, the ones who so rudely gave me the boot? I still don’t remember who the fuck you are, but I remember I never liked you anyway!  LOL

Thank you, YOU TUBE, for giving me a yet another laugh, at someone else’s expense


I was going to make my “sorry I haven’t been around, I have no excuses” post about Herpes and other cuddly STDS – since my Itchy following continues to POSITIVELY grow (like their sores) each day according to my blog stats – no thanks to any effort on my part. BUT I really needed a good laugh last night, and suddenly remembered the one that I found on You Tube about six months ago.  I have to say it didn’t disappoint this time – in fact, it only grows more effective in medicating me with hilarity the more I watch it. (Which at last count an hour ago, was viewing #45)


I won’t keep you from your enjoyment, by spewing a lot of useless observation drivel, except to say one thing:  The Gap Band has to be given a Nod for not breaking character during their live taping of this song.  This girl, lady, Chrissy-from-Three’s Company- wanna-be – WHOEVER she is/was -  makes Seinfeld’s Lorraine look like Arthur FUCKIN’ Murray on the dance floor.    Enjoy…

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