Meanwhile, Back On Sutters Mill Lane…

Faithful Readers,
As today is a celebration of sorts, we look back – as is done at most celebratory times. One year ago today, our intrepid verbalist arrived in Ellensburg to make his home. He left behind Pennsylvania after fifty (‘fifty stinking years’ as he puts it) annums. He enjoys Ellensburg immensely but shudders in disgust when thinking back on his old neighborhood. Shown in the photo above, he had a nice little house there, all hidden in the shrubbery.

The odd thing is, it remained the only house with shrubbery in the neighborhood. When he arrived, no shrubs existed. He planted all of them with the exception of the two unimaginative forsythias on each corner…which did make nice homes for the robins. Now the shrubs have probably all been cut down, thanks to the PA Dutch/nazi german control-issues most inhabitants possess…think Stepford Wives only fat and stupid with poor taste in food.
They hate things that grow. They threw weed killer on his sunflowers. No beauty allowed.

When he built a porch to improve the property, Shiela Septic commented. Shiela and her two Septic parents always had a comment. One reason she could not keep a man for more than two months was largely due to suitors (haha) having to listen to parental wis-dumb through a cloud of smoke. White trash smoke. See, Shiela’s parents visited every day, an odd thing for a woman in her early fifties(they helped her with the down-payment and it thus became their vacation home) and they smoked a lot.
Maybe they are dead now! One can only hope!

Oh! The comment…in her typical daily rage, Shiela went red in the face (she was always red in the face, really) and let forth a pithy insult…”Why don’t you go sit on your porch?” The emphasis placed on the word ‘porch’ spat out in a tone usually reserved for crack houses. The sheer lameness of the insult disappointed him.
Sometimes she would find a man and the parents’ cars would not be seen for a week. Then they would show up and the new boyfriend’s car would disappear, along with the schmuck who saw something in her.

For those unfamiliar with white trash smoke – it is not ommitted solely by caucasians, it is called that because it comes from the cheapo brand of cigarettes that are displayed alongside the lottery machine. White trash love lottery tickets. Mostly anybody with no money loves a lottery ticket. Since we are all caucasians here, white trash is fair game, we reckon!

In his Ellensburg motel room, Hendrick found twenty lottery tickets under the cushion of the kitchenette table, coincidentally.
This sure sign that rooms at the Motel 6 in Ellensburg are never really clean unless guests clean up (yeah, right) after themselves following a stay is an open warning to all. Five months is a long time. The tickets were dated September 1, 2013. Some loser paid $20 to play Room Number 223 twenty times, as if ending up in that room was a good omen. No one lifted the cushion to clean there for five full months before Hendrick entered the room. Remember that, Motel 6-ers!

Yet, somehow, even the Motel 6 was an improvement from the cute little house on Sutters Mill Lane. People were friendly and accepting. The immediate acceptance Hendrick found in the burg amazed him. He likened it to the friendly little towns in upstate New York from whence he came. He loved his property, he just hated the narrow-minded fucks surrounding it. Here we see our hero in Room 223, framed by an example of how he made it a home for seven months. And here is a shot of the wonderful Washington sky from the motel balcony. The sky could not even be seen in Temple, but for the wires, lights and pollution. Let it suffice to say he carries no regrets in leaving…all regret stayed in Temple with the Septics and all the other local dutch folk. Dutch people look friendly on the label of a can of corn but they are mean bastards in real life and if Michael Hendrick could pass on one life lesson, that might be it…

Of course no place is perfect and Ellensburg is not without it’s own supply of dumb assholes. Most of them move here from places like Seattle or other urban centers. They bring their ways…the leased cars, the lack of real property of their own, the tribal sports rituals. They don’t get it. Some of them are ex-police who have PTSD and sleep with all the lights on each night spying on neighbors who’s lives they intend to micro-manage once they get settled. The usual white trash stuff…

In Temple, Hendrick sold his home for $20,000 below the market value and made up the difference on Wall Street by trading in chinese stocks. The rest of the houses took a plunge in value and any money the Septics’ put into the little nightmare they call home is lost. By the time the mortgage is paid off, the house will be worth about forty thousand dollars less than it was when purchased.
Tough, huh? That’s one thing that can happen when you piss off the neighbors…they take your money in ways you cannot control…if you have neighbors like Michael Hendrick, that is…

We do not condone his actions but they do amuse us!

This is a free blog…if you find typos, please live with them.

Bullies and Insults and Bears, Oh My!

     Interested Entities,

     It seems like the national anti-bullying campaign is still gaining steam.  It has nothing to do with Beatdom, the cool literary journal pictured.  I couldn’t find a good bully photo fast enough so it seemed to make sense to remind you all to get your copy of the Beatdom Sex Issue, which features some fine writing, including a few pieces by Your Narrator.

     However, with all the anti-bully rhetoric floating around, we cannot ignore that a large number of readers are brought here by searching on ‘insult,’ due to a recent post.  As an insult maven who sharpened his teeth on gritty replies as early as the second grade, this is found to be an encouraging sign…people are interested in insulting each other again.

     First, let it be known that, as an adult, Your Beloved Scribe, myself that is, only insults people I like.  An insult can be used a little term of endearment…a psychic poke in the ribs.  As far as people who are not liked, they are better off ignored and the insults saved for better subjects.

     One recent blog here noted how ‘insult cards’ were once available at magic and novelty shops.  These were meant to get laughs on stage when your magic trick went wrong, we reckon, but personal use of them was limited to siblings and schoolmates.  One great moment, never to be forgotten, was finding a copy of 1001 Insults For All Occasions in the adult section of the Whitehall Library, in Whitehall, PA.  As a bad kid, reading and writing were the only redeemable values going for me.  By fifth grade, the children’s section was exhausted.  All the Henry Huggins,  Beezus and Ramonas and other serials had been exhausted.  My perception level was not subtle enough to appreciate adult novels but the non-fiction section was a big draw for me.  At that time, in the mid-60s, the library had maybe a half dozen books of insults.

     Needless to say, they were all devoured voraciously.

     There are many resources available to us today, for insulting people all around the world.  My close friend and publisher, who spent a lot of time dealing with Korean insults, may appreciate the following.  I think it is nice to have a site that allows you to annoy foreigners, for a change.  www.insults.net will help you swear in dozens of languages.

     This is what they give you to go up against the Koreans in a battle of words:

How do I swear in Korean ?

Ssibal-seki /
Samanes-seki            - Son of shit
eemee sheemee pek 
     poejee dah         - your mother has a bald pussy
Geseki                  - Son of a bitch

Yumago                  - fuck you

shibseki                - bitch, whore etc.

Ko-chu-pado             - suck my dick

Kochu                   - dick
Dong-mogo               - eat shit

K-sa-key                - bitch

She-pa-nom              - No exact translation but bad
Ja - shick              - You are a bastard.

     This is how they do it in Korea.  As you can see, they are not exactly a well-thought-out style of insult.  These are more like the type of insult you holler out of a car window.  You do not see much of that, anymore, either.  In younger years, one could not be seen in public, walking hand-in-hand with a girl, without some moron driving by and yelling out the car window, “Fuck her! I did!!!”

     You just don’t see this much anymore.

    

Obama’s Xmas Gift To Us All. I’m Dreaming of a Blighted Xmas – K2

     Kind Readers, a thousand pardons for my disappearance over the past few days. Reports of my suicide are slightly exaggerated but if you peer to the left, you see the rocks of Doolin, where I would presumably wash ashore. It is a pleasant place, as I noted, but I plan to stick around. I was overcome by either food poisoning or a stomach flu, but in either case, the need for descriptive words at this time would do no more than unsettle your lunch, so I shall simply ask you to excuse my absence.

     Oddly, I started feeling ill while I was in the town of Jim Thorpe, PA, a place that throws a black shadow over Irish-American history – as I was reminded as I passed the ‘Molly McGuires’ Bar’ and the courthouse where the coal miners were prosecuted and sentenced to death. As I clutched my stomach while holding the steering wheel with the other hand, I passed the historic Packer Mansion.

     Some Packers had been along on the infamous Donner Party, which lost itself in the Rockies en route to the West Coast one 1880s winter and some members of the group stayed alive by cannabalism, consuming the flesh of their fellow travelers. I had not thought of these facts for some time and when I saw the Packer Mansion, I was reminded of the Donner Party and how I always give my name as ‘Donner’ when making dinner reservations, so that, at some point, my dinner companion and I will be sitting at the bar and hear the Donner Party being summoned. As I lay on the sofa, trying my best not to vomit or lose all control of my stomach, I flipped on the tv for amusement and, Voila!, Christian Slater starring in The Donner Party! What a coincidence!

     But that was the other day and this is now. My abdominals are sore from the constant wretching but I feel well enough to blog, so here goes:

The Week Before Xmas

‘Twas the week before Xmas and in the White House 

Obama and Gil K were torturing a mouse.

Their consciences hung near the mantel with care

in hopes the pharma-lobby soon would be there

to give them the cash that they love way too much

to spend on the drug war, since ‘enough is enough’.

While they concurred on many mean ways to humble ya’

They smoked phat joints (legal in District of Columbia)

‘We’ll fix those bastards who elected me now.

I am not some servant, not one to be cowed.

Those liberals stink ‘cuz they think they still own me.

I am way above all of that ‘honest’ baloney.

So, if my office has not found enough morons to screw,

we’ll add to the insult and take their K2.”

Gil liked this idea and smiled from within.

He had a game that would make sensible heads spin.

Wait until Xmas Eve and take the Spice from the shelf

and keep it for a year, ruining next Xmas, as well.

The drug war has already cost over a trillion

so who’s going to mind just another hundred million

dollars it takes to waste on a dream

that noone believed, anyway, it seemed.

There are kids without presents and kids without food,

kids with no warm clothes and sick little ones, too!

Why spend the money helping kids like we should?

A new prison in your neighborhood would look mighty good.

The people who smoke pot (known as drug abuse victims)

make us wonder why we take those with problems and kick them?

If these are the victims, then there must be a crime

since victims are prey of the criminal minds

who run this old country which once was a leader

of the whole darned free world but now has seceeded

from logic or forethought or the least care for others

and much prefers prisons where minds rot and thoughts smother.

So off in the sleigh go Ol’ Gil and Obammy

with not even so much as one Xmas salami

instead they took empty bags to be filled

with substances unknown, yet certain to kill.

They laughed at the people, all sleeping below –

– too bad they elected this pathetic freakshow -　

“On DEA! On FBI! On Homeland Security!

On ATF Agents,” Gil sneered and drooled luridly.

They flew through the night in taxpayer-owned sleigh,

“We must collect all of the K2 by day, yeah!

Take it from gas station, boutique and bodega.

Take from people who smoke for relief from the cancer

To steady their stomachs, one of life’s second chances.

Take it from kids ‘fore they find it themselves

Take all that we can because we need it ourselves.

It is nice to have medical marijuana in Washington

So we can smoke freely. The lower class – we caution them

About all the evils and deleterious effects

Which makes it legal for Senators but not for rednecks

Who have no address like us Pols in DC,

Which allows us to smoke all we want and stay free

And pass all the laws that take care of ourselves

While the commoners have nothing to smoke with the elves.”

Oh, this was a great plan, well thought out and selfish.

It came from our Gil, who has a brain like a shellfish.

He has admitted the war is a failure,

Yet still signs the papers so the feds can come nail you.

The whole world was watching as the sleigh rode the black,

Wishing it would crash, fingers crossed behind backs.

The president spotted a small store below,

Which gave off an aura, aromatic, that glowed.

“Here’s where we’ll start,” as he pulled on the reigns,

“At this little place,” said our Gil with no brains.

So slowly descending, they lit on the place

Where their heads were blown off – shotgun blasts to the face.

So, now it is snowing, the world looks so fresh.

A soft wind is blowing, two more morons dead.

Had they stayed at home and just minded their business

And let people live and quit making them victims

They would still be alive but the trouble, it seems,

Is that some people don’t view our Bill Of Rights as a dream.　

Article VI

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

How Not To Disguise Your Handwriting, Good One Slik Dick!

     Rummys and Readers, this is a special blog since yesterday I noted that the next blog would look at the wondrous Lord Buckley, possibly the spiritual father of all things Beat.

     Today we present an example of how the obese brain can cause people to do things that are not logical. Many recent studies have likened the affects of obesity to brain tissue to those of crack addiction on the same cranial areas. Sometimes it takes the actions of a dimwit to bear out the theory.

     First, we need to look at why abused people have the tendency to make assholes of themselves. It is not their fault. They are told from an early age that they are worthless, or made to feel that way, and so it dogs them through life. I share this problem with a friend of mine who is also plagued by an abuserino. He was nice to some idiot and helped the guy with his writing, often re-writing whole stories so the bumbling fool looked good. The numb-nut in question, in this case, reacted wrongly instead of being grateful for the help he was given. He carries on like a child (since the abused brain gets stuck at the age of abuse) and rants and stamps his feet and is still heard to be making a fuss to those who have not deleted him from their web accounts). He insults, chides, even created a website on which to do it, but the most stupid thing is that he does it all in a failed attempt to garnish the attention of my friend, Patrick, who he has turned into a perverse form of father-figure.

     Patrick and I have a lot in common. I am a father figure, too.

     When a teen, I fell in with a crowd of kids who were not too smart but had all the right materials to make things fun. We knew each other for about a year and a half until things started to wear thin. Punk rock had a lot to do with it. When I was 17, it was the cutting edge of rock and roll and I welcomed it. Disco had been a dominant force and my plan was to try to subvert the disco machine with country-swing music when Punk stuck it’s ugly head out of a manhole cover and let it rip! I still like both of these musical forms.

     This occurred in Pennsylvania which, with the exceptions of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, is about as far away from being a hotbed of intellectual activity as you can get. By the times these guys liked Punk, it was almost over but there were a number of poseurs who claimed to be hip to it all along. Dumb people are not so bad, in fact they make nice housepets. The annoying bit about this State is the number of psuedo-intellectuals. They are a little smarter than the rest but they are still incapable of original thought. Still, they see themselves as superior but it is all psuedo.

     A good example is a guy named Slik Dick. Dick is, by the way, just that. Dick is one of those people you know for a year and a half and lose track of. Then he finds you on Facebook and it is all ‘buddy-buddy’ but in a matter of weeks, the reason why you have not chatted for some 38 odd years is quite apparent. Slik Dick, like a lot of crackheads and fatheads, has a big mouth and is always right. We were very good friends until my opinions on world trade upset his sexually-ambiguous sister and she insulted me, which opened the door to an onslaught of low insults.

     Hey, we should all get along but if you are going to insult me, expect a little something in return.

     So, because of a verbal dispute about a subject he has no working knowledge of, Dick got mad at me. When I become angry with somebody, I do not even want to look at them but since he became riled, the Big Dick has tried to annoy me via various means. He wants my attention. I am a father figure to the obstreperous obeser. He just cannot allow things to pass and spends time and money thinking of ways to ‘get to me’, all of which are laughable and childish but are the hallmarks of the classic victim of abuse. Still, I do not feel sorry for him.

     The latest example of the ‘little kid crying daddy at the top of his lungs in the empty market’ came yesterday, when Dick sent me an anonymous letter. It was so anonymous that I knew it was from him before I opened it, even though he went through the trouble of sending it from St Louis to Pennsylvania, where one of his intellectual equals put it in a local mailbox so I would think it came from nearby. At least the post office sold some stamps.

     What the fool did not realise is that I had handwriting samples. Another sign of the failing brain is inattention to details. While Big Dick barely changed the basic form of his printing by making it big and squared when he wrote my address (this is done by grasping the pen in closed fist and writing like a caveman, as opposed to holding the pen in the usual way), he was so damned stupid that he forgot to change his writing on the return address.

     Details, details…

     When examining handwriting, there are certain things that are dead give-aways so let us review a few of them now, Gentle Readers. First, the way a person crosses the ‘t’ and dots the ‘i’ can be telling. Look how the ‘t’ is always crossed down near the center. See how the dot on the ‘i’ drifts to the right every time. The ‘r’ is much more significant, since it not only is always made with a straight line to the right at the top, but that top line most often drops at the end. Or how about those ‘m’s? They always look like a ‘v’ on stilts. This is the most pathetic coverup job since the Florida elections that Gore won but Bush was credited with winning. Even moreso, look at the address and how the ‘s’ on sutters always begins just below the cross on the ‘4’ in ‘904’…what a cowfaced maroon he is!!! And look how the word always goes downhill after the numbers…elementary, Dear Watson.

dick.jpg

     Ah, Slik Dick, does a secret love for me burn in your hungry heart of flabby flesh? Is it really so hard to get on without me, now that you have found me after 38 years?

      See, Dick is one of the few people I considered a friend who ended up stealing from me because I allowed him in my home. I may have stolen from schools, employers and done my childhood shoplifting but never once did I pinch anything from someone who trusted me. That is low. Stupid people do not know low from normal, so it is best to avoid them. I would not even be mentioning him now, if not for his silly attempts and the cash he wastes on stamps to get my attention. If you know him, count the silverware and snack cakes next time he is in town.

     On the back of the envelope is the ominous date of 11.12.10. This may be ominous because anyplace I go that day, I will carry a few rolls of quarters in my fist and if anything weird happens, somebody will be wearing his nose on his ear. OOOhhhh, sppoky 11.12.10…shall I sit inside and peer out the window in fear? Why bother? I have a security system and haven’t had to break a nose for a good many years. It may be fun to have a tape of it to post. I really am non-violent but provocation always leads to a bad end.

     Slik Dick, with your filthy, unflushed home and your alwats right fat brain…when will you ever learn?