G+, Kiss My Sass, And Day_lee Adventures
Happy Armed Forces day!
I have written the following article which sums up my feelings for a very sick and twisted individual, who runs a very stupid web site, called Forsake the Troops. The article can be found here.
Other posts on this day:
Get Well, Mr. Al-Zarqawi!
New Precision Guided Humor Assignment: A Card for Zarqawi
Other posts on this day:
This entry was posted on Monday, May 30th, 2005 at 4:15 pm and is filed under xX-Everything Else-Xx. You can follow responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your site.
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Mark your calendars folks. Rather than the usual ‘indeed’ or ‘hmmm.’ That Mr. Reynolds of Instapundit normally uses as his commentary on a news story or post, today he has chosen to use ’sigh’.
It must be a holiday! The proof is in the pudding… er pie!
Glenn digs into a celebratory slice of *sigh* pie
Picture Time – Reader’s Choice
Other posts on this day:
Napolean Dynamite reminds me of The Dickweed that chased me through middle school and gradeschool.
Only this Dickweed’s name was Corey Pesik. The Dickweed decided he was going to try and woo me to the tenth degree. It seemed to thrill him to the very core that I was repulsed by him, which only made him woo me harder, if there ever was such a thing.
To The Dickweed, the thrill of the chase must have been the greatest thrill of all.
For he chased me until I could stand no more of his shit.
Until I pleaded for mercy with white-knuckled angst.
Until my body convulsed with dry heaves from the sight and sound of him, constantly chasing close behind me.
I knew he always like-liked me (dork) since the sixth grade. I know this because he would hang around my locker and pounce me. One day, when all the kids got ready to go home we’d all flooded the hall, and as I approached my locker he’d hung back as if he were talking to someone (most likely Bob, one of his Dickweed Deciples). Then practically from out of the blue he’s behind me, pouncing all over me like Tolkien’s Gollum with his spitty, lispy whisper into my ear. The nastiest things came out of his mouth (at least they were nasty to my sixth-grade virginal ears). The worst one ever? “I want to JUUUUUUUUUMP your BO-OH-OH-NES!”
The second embarassing moment came in seventh grade art class.
The art teacher for seventh and eighth grade was a tall, gangly mess of Tispy & Waddle if there ever was one. She stood at least 6′3″, thanks in large part due to calf-high whore-style boots, whose 4 inch heel was as narrow as a pencil lead. Tucked into the boots, was a pair of JC Penney’s most bellowy wide-leg rayon pants available (always flower print) which she paired with long ugly sweaters, sleeves pushed up past her chicken neck elbows and gangly, freckled arms, her flippy wrists at the end, which jingle-jangled due to the cheap tinny bangle bracelets she must have also picked up at Penney’s. Her caved-in chest was adorned with whatever chunky clay-bead necklace was ‘in’ at the time. Bet you two bucks she still wears those ugly ass necklaces to this day.
Top that off with a great, horned shock of Annie Lennox-red hair, spikey as a fir tree, and you’ve got the Tipsy Waddler, who, I swear was a drunk, and I can prove it.
On her paper-strewn desk, stood a can of Diet Coke that was full of some sort of liquid, which, if you stood 2 feet from her desk, you could play the “What foul stench is that?” game, breathing in its solvent stink. So what was it? Gin? Vodka? Nail Polish Remover? Who knows what foul thing. The Tipsy Waddler was very fond of lipstick, the more gaudy and bright, all the better. She wore a different color lipstick on Wednesdays, usually a hot pink, so that the can’s rim would have her hot pink lippy-prints all over it, on top of the orangey color from Tuesdays and the fire engine red color from Mondays.
Anyhoo.
That day in class, we were reviewing art slides. Nothing new about that, of course, she was always showing fucking slides because that way it could be dark and she could get her slosh on. You knew this because you could hear her slurping away at her can in the back of the room, as she was perched momentarily on a stool near the slide projector. At some point, Tipsy Waddler got up and walked toward the the screen and addressed the class, barely able to maneuver her pointing stick, which was waving in the general direction of a slide. “Whoerrwhat, mosss like, lee insssssspired this stahl of painting during thissssspurrid?”, she slurred, pointing her stick to a Botticelli, its round, naked womanly subject causing a gasp and a couple giggles from the class.
The Dickweed raised his hand and declared, in his most awful falsetto Gollum voice–full of bravodo and lust–that I was the answer to her question. Naturally he said my name. Immediately the roomful of pre-teens started snorting and stifling giggles, all of them looking in my general direction.
I was a bit a of a chubber at that time, and I was sporting a red sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, my hair up in a banana clip (plastique tres chic!) and a pair of white Vans sneakers (less tres chic, more tomboy). He pressed on, saying “…’cause she’s so rrrrrrruuuuubinesque!” and with a snap of his neck, swiveling his face to meet mine, he did something with his mouth, not unlike Hannibal Lechter’s “thss-thss-thss” in Silence Of The Lambs. My face fell to the floor. That day, the coolest clothing and chic-est hair do could not have kept my face from turning as red as my outfit. Which it did.
I can’t remember what happened next. I do remmeber that I ran. I ran until I couldn’t run any longer. Either that or I wound up in the girl’s bathroom, sweat flinging off of me like Jennifer Beals’ Flashdance character.
The next month, I wound up getting kicked off the school bus for 2 weeks because I yelled at the driver to “Let me off this FUCKING BUS RIGHT NOW, GODDAMMIT!” How did that happen you ask? Well, the Dickweed was chasing me up and down the bus aisle and jumping after me pouncing and gasping, spit flying out from his nasty train-tracked teeth. I think he thought he was being cool, because the jumping he was doing appeared to be a half-assed attempt at the crane position from The Karate Kid. I wasn’t havin’ it. Next thing you know I had to ride to school with Melissa Miller and her mom in their station wagon. Melissa’s stupid little brother was the icing on the cake, who had to ride with every time. He was so annoying because he couldn’t say his ‘r’s right, replacing them all with ‘w’s and his mom thought it was cute. Ugh! His most charming contribution to society up to that point was throwing naked Barbie Dolls at the traffic that passed on the busy street in front of the Miller’s house.
By the time the summer after seventh grade was over and eighth grade was starting, I had me a Parade of Dickweeds, chasing me hither and yon. We’ll call them the Geek Swarm, okay? The Geek Swarm was a band of loyal idiots who thought The Dickweed was King Shit, just like Farmer Ted and his Dweebdom of Deciples on Sixteen Candles. Could you just imagine the Dickweed Drool, Times Ten?! I shudder to recant. I honestly think I repressed most of the beginning of the eighth grade. I cannot recall now, how the hell I’d endured it. Probably that was when the new Debbie Gibson LP came out. Debbie helped alot. So did Dino!
Anyway, I guess I’d have to say that the worst memory of the Dickweed came around the same time as the last day of school before New Year’s break.
Eighth grade semester finals.
The finals were 2 days where your elective classes would be skipped and your majors classes would be expanded, to provide 2 hours each (enough time to take your final for that class). The teachers were a bit lax during those 2 days, because since kids got testing for some classes done early, they could wear headphones during their classes so long as they were done testing, there was also lots of milling around in halls due to most kids being done with certain classes and waiting for the next final exam class to start.
So whaddya know. Guess who’s hovering around my locker waiting for an appearance from me? The Dickweed. Like I needed to answer that! The Dickweed naturally sees me coming from the gym hall on the north end, so he casually struts away, moving into his natural habitat, the Geek Swarm. Lucky for me, the Geek Swarm just so happens to take up residency across the hall from my locker (as if I don’t see him coming anyway, what a faker).
I get to my locker and what do I see? “Hey BJ, I want To Jump Your Bones” all over my locker, in Black Sharpie. The words are huge, and I’m sure could’ve certainly been seen from several feet away, and it takes me all of a half-second to realize their full meaning. I’m instantly sorry I read them, and I feel the strong urge to turn into some kind of liquid and slip through the holes in the wall vents below the row of lockers. The bell rings and I am saved because once the shrill sound fills the halls, The Dickweed is off like a shot, to whatever creepy, queer, dorky class is next on his schedule.
Although I’ve no idea how long the nasty words were on my locker seeing as the Dickweed was smart and probably finished his exam early, I managed to get it fixed shortly after the bell rang. I walked up to the first janitor I saw and tugged on on the sleeve of his uniform. I told him someone vandalized my sister’s locker and I need him to see if he can fix it. He sighed and said, “Your sister, huh?, OK then Missy, I’ll take care of it.” When we got over to the lockers he sighed again, and I’m not sure if the sigh meant he was relieved it wasn’t another pile of puke he had to throw sawdust on, another huge coffee can full of cigarette butts that he had to clean out with his hands (there was one outside the boy’s gym), or if he was just plain tired of us kids.
The next class was Choir. Easy-cheesy on finals day. I always got an A+. Singing was my thing in school and I was destined to be the next Madonna. Then Mariah Carey went and ruined my chances, with her high whistle register. The skank.
So anyway, we’re all sitting around after the choir finals and the next thing I know Caroline is tapping my shoulder and pointing to the chalkboard, which I should tell you, was the hugest chalkboard in the whole school. On it, glaring across the whole seven foot width of it, and letters four feet tall, was my home phone number and my name. Dancing and jumping frantically next to the chalkboard and pointing like a maniac, is The Dickweed, who’s smiling like a fucking freak, nodding his head toward me, all the while, grabbing his crotch every now and then, a la 80’s Michael Jackson style.
Thank Holy Heaven that I got a month-long reprieve of the Dickweed. I got a job babysitting out of town that summer! Dirty Dancing and Beaches came out on VHS right around that time, and then shortly afterward Ann of Avonlea debuted on the Disney Channel. Patrick Swayze made me lust and want to learn the Mambo, Bette Midler made me bawl while singing Wind Beneath My Wings, and Ann Shirley & Diana Barry’s kindred spirits entertained and delighted me, Ann’s version of the dead damsel in the lake having been my first lesson in goth (and last, thank GOD).
And so it goes, I forgot all about The Dickweed.
Until that bastard Napolean Dynamite got onto the fucking movie screen.
Dang!
Other posts on this day:
I have been on a much-deserved hiatus for the last year or so, as far as blogging at day lee goes. Of course I did a few posts here and there but I took the blog roll down for the main reason that I decided if I’m not posting regularly there will be no need for too much recips/outbound links if I’m not around much. I hate when people leave town or leave their blog alone for a few weeks and everyone else is hovering aroung wondering where you are.
OK Well, it’s not like anyone reads this damn thing anyway!
Anyhoo…If you have a blogroll and want to be added, feel free to do so (see bottom of ‘links’).
All other folks who’d like to be added, please just let me know by emailing me at bbojojo99ATyahoo.com and I will add you if you link back to me.
Other posts on this day:
While I was surfing the ‘net yesterday I ran into this site, Stuck in The 70’s and I was really enjoying it. Then I found out the author had actually had imported all the entries from her real life diary that she had kept from 1973-1979. Pretty cool of her. It is from when she was 10 until she was a junior in high school. Made me think back to the ol’ days. Enjoy…
Other posts on this day:
…adding 2+2 = 8.
It just doesn’t make sense.
Someone at livejournal thinks I promote myself as a left winger!
Isnt’ that a frickin’ riot?
Where?…where–show me. Show me where this web site says anything that would indicate any remote chance of me being left wing!
OH, WAIT.
My archives. They go back to 1999. I was only 25! Still just a babe! What did I know? I hadn’t even finished finding myself yet. I hadn’t even found my first love and been engaged. Hell I still had yet to find my perfect job and my perfect living space!
So what? So I grew up in a very DFL household. So what? But now I’m a grown woman and I done grown up and seen the light. It’s only been 6 years, but I’ve lived some crazy times! I have worked umpteem jobs, dated umpteen men. Lost my father to dementia, gaining a new one, one who wasn’t my ‘daddy’ anymore, was different. Moved twice. Helped move the house I grew up in to my mom’s new house. Fell in love with the man I was going to marry. Lost my father again, only this time was forever. Many many more things took place, making the last 6 years seem like it’s been 20.
Sure, I’ve gone over to the right side of the road…at least a little. I wouldn’t say all the WAY over, just a lot more over to the right, than I was before.
Which brings me to this…
How is it that the commonality of people converting from being more liberal, to being more conservative, occurs more frequently than the other way around? Hmm.
Some food for thought, hey.
Other posts on this day:
As of last Thursday me & my honey have been together for two months.
I was so busy I didn’t have time to post this, then.
You’re sleeping on my couch and it’s raining outside, as I sit this morning and write this to you.
I don’t really write a lot of letters, so this is kind of awkward. I really love you and it makes my whole self so happy I almost want to cry. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. It’s something so great and so profound that I can’t help but think of you all day, every day.
Every time I make a mental note of something, there’s always you there, in the back of my mind. Just like whenever I’m making plans…you’re always in them with me. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t.
If there ever came a day that you would be gone, I don’t know what I’d do. I would be very sad.
I don’t want to spend a minute away from you. I know that sounds very selfish but I’ve finally realized how very special you are to me and for that I’m grateful to you. I can’t imagine finding someone who loves me the way that you do.
So very sweet, caring, thoughtful, unselfish and patient. So tender and giving, so selfless.
I don’t know how else to say this, and now my writing is sloppy because I can’t see since my eyes are watery…
…but I Love You.
I do.
Whenever I thought of the future, I’ve always imagined myself doing great things, but I never imagined that loving you and you loving me would be perhaps my Greatest Thing.
I Love You,
If I could reach up and hold a star for every time you’ve made me smile,
the entire evening sky would be in the palm of my hand.
If I could paint a picture of how I want my life to be, I would paint my most wonderful dreams,
with you standing there right next to me.
I don’t think I can. It used to be that a weblog as defined by Blogger: “A web page made up of usually short, frequently updated posts that are arranged chronologically — like a what’s new page or a journal. The content and purposes of blogs varies greatly — from links and commentary about other web sites, to news about a company/person/idea, to diaries, photos, poetry, mini-essays, project updates, even fiction.”
“Blogs posts are like instant messages to the web. Many blogs are personal, ‘what’s on my mind’ type musings. Others are collaborative efforts based on a specific topic or area of mutual interest. Some blogs are for play. Some are for work. Some are both.”
Derek Powecek and others attempted to explain a a weblog, back in 2000, when the craze was at it’s peak, and it was the thing to do. Now it seems blogs are all over. If you are ten and have a crush on NSYNC and can type, you can have a weblog.
Adam Mathes defines the properties of a weblog…in his own special way, of course…
Then there are the blogs which only feature group blogs. Go figure.
Other posts on this day:
11:06pm CST
F.Y.I.
They’re telling people who are in NY to check in here to be added to the list of people who are o.k., so that their friends and relatives are aware.
10:39pm CST
My local news station just received word that calls are being made from cell phones to 911, from supposed survivors buried among what remains of New York’s World Trade Center. That is all I know.
9:52pm CST
The latest number of casualties is in, as was just provided from a reporter coming live from Washington D.C. They figure about 850 people from inside the Pentagon headquarters have been killed or injured. The numbers from New York are yet to be determined, although there are those . Read more for the latest.
6:55pm CST
Tonight I’m thinking of 3 people, all of whom are somewhere in New York City, NY. My girl friend Cheir, who lives in Brooklyn, and I hope to God was nowhere near Manhattan today, my friend Krystyn, whom I did get in touch with, and I’m glad is okay 
and is very homesick right now (her family is in Sacramento, CA), and a couple others, John and Phyl, I’m thinking of you guys…hope you are o.k.
3:33pm CST
Today as I’m pouring my 2nd cup of coffee, I notice a large wasp outside my open window screen, flitting about.
I curse under my breath, because I can’t close the storm window, and I know that if I don’t, it will surely get through and into my apartment. So I just close the inside window and figure if it does get in between the screen and the glass, it will just be trapped there, and die.
I’m terrified of getting stung. These wasps, otherwise known as yellowjackets, can not only sting but do it a few times if aggrivated. I finish stirring creamer into my coffee and turn to leave the kitchen. As an afterthought, I draw the blinds down so as to confuse the damned wasp into thinking there’s nothing there, beyond the window. I go back to my computer and continue my online job search for a couple of hours.
Awhile later, I get up to bring my cup to the kitchen sink. I enter the kitchen and right away I can hear the faint buzzing. As I’m nearing the counter under the window, I can see its shadow on one of the blinds and I’m thinking it’s on the glass, outside.
Nope. It got in! How the hell…? I don’t know and I don’t care.
I leave the kitchen to go to the bedroom and grab a shoe. I go back to the kitchen and it’s crawling on my wall, above the window and crawling downward, closer to where I’m standing.
I grip the shoe tighter in my hand, readying myself to aim and swat it, and I can’t do it. I just can’t. I don’t have the guts. I don’t have what it takes. Obviously the people who hijacked and then crashed two American Airlines jets into the World Trade Center this morning, have what it takes. And then some. Ten times more, even. I’m sorry, but I just don’t.