Venom, Secrets, & Lies

Be Scarred for Life, Like Me.

2012-01-30T07:59:00.000-06:00

Click away, dear reader, click away.

And by that, I mean 'away' from here, because IF you continue reading, you will be scarred for life.

So, obviously, those of you still reading are:
a) confident that you can handle whatever I'm about to dish out,
b) live in a world of rainbows and butterflies where Venom would never hurt you with her words, or
c) a masochist.
You. have been. warned.

When you "vacation" with family you see things you cannot unsee... usually early in the morning. I'm a morning person -- that may be over-stating it, let me try again -- I don't sleep well so, unless I've been fed a boatload of sleeping pills, I tend to be up early everyday.

My mother-in-law battled cancer 5 or 6 separate times, and each time she fought the good fight. She wore a fabric turban during the bald times, but once in a while she'd forget.
She scared the children, seriously.

My husband's brother's family lived next door to Nona & Pops; SIL running around out of doors in less than her Sunday best was not an uncommon sight.

Inexplicable, but not uncommon.

And then there was Pops... did I not warn you earlier?
Once, completely out of the blue, Pops casually slips into the conversation how he can still have sex, but he just. can't. CUM.
Colour me horrified.
Then, taking it to a whole 'nother level, Nona confided that she was actually okay with Pops 'difficulty' because she no longer had to douche.

Welcome to my nightmares. I swear to gawd, I only wish I made this shit up.

It's Okay With a Shot of Venom

2012-01-24T22:46:00.001-06:00

It's Okay!!...

*to wonder about that gal with the dual hoohahs that's been in the media recently.

Like, are they side by side? Or one under the other?
Are her menstrual cycles synced up? Or is she PMSing 2 weeks out of the month? Either way, that's gotta be a big tampax allowance right there, y'all.
If she slutted around with the one vajayjay but kept the other one for her wedding night, would she be a virgin bride?

*to share the benefit of my vast & insightful parental wisdom.

It's not being preachy when the gal at work actually approaches me to solicit my advice. Hey, she's not crazy, for all my venomous ways, one thing I AM is a good mom.
**brag time** FirstBorn is pursuing a career in law enforcement & GoldenChild is in her 2nd year of university. Neither one has ever been arrested, smashed up a car, had a pregnancy scare, or hurt a living thing on purpose.
Plus, they are extraordinarily good looking young adults. Of course, the only thing my 'wisdom' had to do with that was choosing to get jiggy with my best compatible genetic option.
See, I'm real smart too.
Yeah, a real smartASS.

*to barely manage to suppress a shudder each time that guy with the seriously whacked out, frighteningly over grown eyebrows waggles those fuckers at me while simultaneously licking his bottom lip.

It appears that this old fella pretty much worships the ground I walk on, because he will NOT go to another checkout line if I am in the gotdang store.

And yes, he smells like adult diapers.
Oh lucky me.

'It's Okay Tuesdays' is an ongoing thing over @ Airing My Dirty Laundry where Amber invites other bloggers to put their own spin on the theme she lifted from Glamour magazine.

Dear Shopping Troll...

2012-01-16T16:09:00.002-06:00

Please, for the love of all that is holy, can you not breathe through your nose just for the two minutes it takes me to ring up your groceries?

Because I am not Bruce Jenner over here. I cannot hold my breath while you leisurely fish through your pockets or your change purse to find those two fucking coppers that you are pretty sure makes you the savviest shopper on the face of the planet for finding.
Clue: I've got a drawer full of coins -- there will be no ribbon awarded you just for handing over those sticky pennies that it appears you pulled out of a puddle of honey and left to dry for a month in the sea of dust bunnies under your fridge.

As you lean most of your bulk across the conveyor belt puffing like you've just run a marathon from lifting your $52.87 worth of chips, Dr. Pepper, $1. frozen pasta meals, and sugar-free hard candies, I am over here with spots beginning to swim before my eyes, struggling not to pass out.

Your breath smells like you eat garbage on a regular basis; and not just any garbage, oh no, more like dirty diaper garbage.

Thank gawd most people master the art of brushing their teeth sometime before the first grade, because if I had to smell that kind of putrefaction on a regular basis I would have to start wearing a gas mask to work.

Resolutions: The More Things Change, the More they Stay the Same

2012-01-09T11:35:00.001-06:00

When it came time to think about making a resolution for 2012, sad to say, I had no shortage of options. Not wanting to bite off more than I can chew, so to speak, I thought I'd make a list and select from it a resolution I might reasonably expect myself to keep.

Stop counting pretzels as a major food group.
Eat breakfast within 1/2 hour of getting up for the day. Not pretzels.
Vacuum the house more often.
Take better advantage of good weather.
Answer the phone more promptly.

Within an hour of rising New Year's Day, I had already let the phone go to voice mail. Call me, I won't answer, but maybe you'll get a laugh out of the answering machine message.
Strike one.
I have eaten breakfast, but not every day by any stretch.
Strike two.
I vacuumed today, but that was the first time this year. In my defense, we are such a small household and we are quite tidy in our habits...
Strike three.
It's a lovely day outside today, and here I am sitting at the computer.
Strike four.

Okay then, we see that my logical resolution for 2012 is to stop regarding pretzels as a fall-back food. I haven't bought any pretzels at all since before Christmas.

So far, so good!

It's Not the Gift That Counts...

2012-01-03T11:41:00.000-06:00

...it's the thought behind it.
(Alternative title: What I Did Not Get for Christmas)

I did not get a visit from Mike Holmes, the "Make It Right' demi-god...
so a high-powered space heater still runs throughout the night, pointed directly at the john, to ensure my seating comfort in the dark.
Trust me when I tell you, this qualifies as bare survival rather than the merest indulgence.
Haha, 'bare' survival, Haha.

I did not get a house elf...
so the decorations are still up 3 days into the new year, the front window is covered with shepherd bitch nose prints (again), and that damned banana bread is not going to make itself.

I did not get the slimband...
which is a good thing, because I'm wasting away here people. Okay, so 'wasting away' might be a bit of a stretch - but even the mention of such a contraption in this neck of the woods could get me jumped in a back alley, so a gal has to be careful of wishing.
In fact, to avoid being 'blooded out' by the voluptuous gang, & to make all the other 35+ moms out there feel in good company, I put on another 7 pounds over the holidays.
My gift to you.
You are welcome.
Remember, it's the thought that counts.

A Very Venom Christmas

2011-12-25T12:13:00.004-06:00

...& to ALL a good night!
Okay okay, enough already with the Xmas cheer and Hail fellow, well met stuff; let's spew a little venom...

What am I thankful for this merry season?

I am thankful that I live near (and work in) a tiny little Canadian prairie town where "Merry Christmas!" is still an acceptable salutation. I have been enthusiastically good wishing all manner of people for the last three weeks, and all but a few have responded in kind.

Here's a shocker for you... the few that didn't respond did nothing to dampen my glee at using what is now an almost politically incorrect greeting in larger centers, but the one guy who tried to completely humbug me actually made my day!

Oh yes, in a country that has bent over backwards in such ways no contortionist has even imagined, I steadfastly maintain my right to wish a joyous holiday to my fellow man - whatever the hell ethnic background he may be.

Let's leave out the religious aspect of the season for now and just refer to the season of goodwill and family closeness; statistically, 80% of Canadians still celebrate Christmas (probably more if the statistics include those of other faiths who "cheat").

But, shhhh, so long as in public you loudly proclaim what 'racists' we ordinary Canadians are by committing such offensive acts against you as asking that you raise your veils during citizenship ceremonies, no one will ever guess that you are privately gifting each other on 'our infidel holiday' and, with straight faces, accepting the automatic vacation days still offered by some employers.

Sound all kind of intolerant - don't I?
And yet, the opposite is actually true.
I am a patriot. My country was built on the backs of immigrants, and to this day we welcome all manner of newcomers.
But please, have the decency and humanity to be just a little bit grateful to the country you freely sought to enter. After all, remember that here in Canada you are welcome to celebrate any & all of your customary holidays, free of persecution. In some cases, the same cannot be said for your homelands.

When I am wished a (for example) 'Happy Chanukah', I say "Thank You, & you as well!"

It's not about the name of the holiday... it's about the well meaning intent of the wisher. It's about the spirit of love towards our fellow man, the appreciation of family & friends, and that feeling of peace we can carry in our hearts should we choose to do so.

Wow, that went in a direction I wasn't really expecting....
hmmph.

Merry Christmas Readers, Merry Christmas to you all.

Plug This -- Peachy!!

2011-12-16T15:33:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time there was a southern belle named Peachy who actively posted on two blogs, representing her delicious dichotomy.
Actually she writes way more than just these two blogs, so she's more of a prism than a simple dichotomy, but I can only just cover so much ground and I find just sitting here in the shade of a peach tree quite enjoyable.

At blog #1 Miss Peachy purports to being nice. Sounds kind of wimpy when you're looking for a gal's inner bitch, but blog #1 is pretty well categorized and would probably get only a G rating* in a made for TV movie on the life & times of Being Peachy.

*I just checked it out, and I wasn't far off... The words death & hell get you a PG-13? Who knew?

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words: death (2x), hell (1x)

Excerpt from Turkeyfest '09, 22/11/10:

"So by 6pm I am home with a bird that there is no hopes of thawing and cooking for 1pm feast in just 17 hours. Panic + Vodka = Epiphany...
. ..I threw the bird in the hot tub and turned on the jets. I sat and watched him spin head over nubby little would be feet and figured I would drain then bleach and possibly burn the hot tub afterwards. See I have this aversion to poultry. Kind of like my aversion to bugs. If I see a bug I will go to any lengths to make sure it and anything it touched pays dearly. With poultry, I have to bleach repeatedly anything that could have touched it, or throw it away."

Like a lot of people though, I am just as often or more intrigued by the not so nice stuff, so I also appreciate Peachy's blog #2 where she turns loose her freak flag* and may actually cuss from time to time. I know, shocking, isn't it y'all?

*Checking rating for The Pits now...Yeah, now see, this is more in my neighbourhood!

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words: shit (8x), fucking (6x), suck (4x), sex (2x), & poop (1x)

Excerpt from Goats Who Stare at Women, 06/01/11:
"A month later you will figure out that your particular goat will eat NOTHING but table scraps and gourmet dog food. He will not eat grass, weeds, or anything and has in turn become yet another mouth to feed.

** BONUS FUN FACT***

A goats ass is like an auto pez dispenser, Every time they take a step poop pellets pour out."
_____________________________________________

*So just for shitz & giggles, let's get a rating on VSL, mmmkay? Anybody wanna lay money against me getting an R, or maybe even an X? Nobody? Oh, for fuck's sake... then let's get on with it.

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words: ass (9x), shit (4x), pussy (3x), bitch (2x), & sex (1x)

Well WTF now? So they based my rating on just the one paragraph then I suppose?
They didn't even list one single "fuck", and so I call bullshit because that kind of vulgarity appears here almost every 3rd written line, and any sane person would agree that VSL is definitely an R, and more probably an X.
But infinitely more offensive than NC fucking17.
Asshats.
They're probably just gathering info so they can inundate us all with their lame-ass dating service.

ps. *Just to be clear, you refused the bet when you were given the chance so it is not your day to cash in just yet, you greedy mofos.
Now go see Peachy, she probably wouldn't take the bet either so now maybe y'all can pool your pennies and go get a box of wine to suck back out of plastic cups while you gossip about how Venom rigged that gotdang rating system so VSL could slip by the censors.

pps. *OMG - I'm so glad to be back! Glad, and ASTOUNDED, actually.
It's probaly just a little Blogger loophole letting me in by accident, just this once in the last $%*^& SIX MONTHS! Well FU Blogger - Venom strikes again!
Mucho love to mah peeps out there in blogland.

Rapid Action Poison

2011-06-02T12:09:00.002-05:00

Just a quickie here as my 'blogger problems' are ongoing. Then again, in my experience, quickies are oftentimes exceeding satisfying...

Did you hear that there is a new treatment on the market for depressed lesbians?

It's called trycoxigin.**

p.s. My bestie and my also-bestie are both lebanese* and they both loved this joke. So please do not mistakenly surmise that I am gay bashing in any way, shape, or form.

*nod to Gleeks everywhere

**I will mail a $5 spot*** to anyone who will go & ask for this product at the local pharmacy.
Take a moment to consider actually doing this, not just for the $, but for posterity & the endless enjoyment of my 140 followers.
Just videotape yourself **** talking to the pharmacist, upload it from your cell phone, and then send it to me via the "Hate Mail" button located in the right hand sidebar.

***Absolutely guaranteed.

****Even better, have a collaborator to do the actual filming (to ensure the best recording).

There is No Cranberry Cheese for Dickheads!

2011-04-26T18:52:00.001-05:00

Not at my Groceryworld there is not. No sirreebob.

There is no cranberry cheese for a herpes-sore like you who, while I am still busy finishing up with the previous customer, drops his basket onto the conveyor belt and happily allows it to smash repeatedly into my computer.
I reach back and flip the belt switch to 'off' without even sparing you a glance - you are THAT important to me.

There is no cranberry cheese for knobgobblers who are too self-important to unload the items from their basket, despite no handicap that I could see.
I unceremoniously dump your basket contents onto the belt and slip the basket behind me, smiling serenely as your son chides you for your rudeness.

There is no cranberry cheese for dog-breathed mouth breathers who ignore the advice of your son, instead pasting your cellphone to your ear and going on loudly, indicating your great importance, as your embarrassed son apologizes for your behaviour.
I politely ask for your loyalty card, you ignore me, but somehow manage to operate the debit machine while simultaneously pretending that no one else in the world matters but you.

Off you go then.
Cheesedick.

Mentally Disturbed Cat

2011-04-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

No no, for realz, yo. Bad news; he's actually mental.

The vet has confirmed that Sampson (he who ripped a tendon out of his own tail, and don't think that I'm not still traumatized over that sight) is certifiably nuts.

Since his tail bobbing surgery a while back, Sampson has been kept quite blissful by virtue of drug therapy.
Translation: he's been stoned as fuck for months.
The feline train wreck has had no clue what a lucky bastard he is...

Quandry: Everytime they reduce his dosage, he 'auto-mutilates' again. I believe that is 'vetspeak' for the crazy little fucker tries to eat himself again.

The vet asked that we surrender him back to her as she does not believe he will make a successful recovery for a long, long time. If ever. We complied with the request.

One psycho freak is enough for any home to have to deal with, and that job is currently occupied by me.

Worse news: the Stubby Nutjob has sucked back more meds than a third world country gets their hands on in a year.
Translation: No painkillers leftover for Venom.

B & H are Probably Secret Terrorist Threats

2011-04-07T22:49:00.001-05:00

Ssshhhhhh!

Oh please, for pity's sake, please keep your voice down... if they hear us we're both goners.

What? No, I am not joking; there is no humour in being controlled and monitored by vicious hooligans.

How dare you say that? I am not either delusional.

I am being held a virtual prisoner by Hotmail & Blogger!

Why? How in the hell do I know why? If I knew why, maybe I could get free of these bastards and go back to life as I remember it.

It is next to impossible to get word out to people beyond the walls of this room. It's been nearly a month again since I have had any contact with the outside world; all my attempts to break free are met with error messages.

Hotmail is the geeky one with the gun stuck in his waistband... I keep hoping he'll fart and make the gun will go off, blowing his junk to smithereens.

Blogger is the one with the beard and the crazy eyes... Whatever you do, don't make him mad. *shudder*

Embarrassing but True

2011-03-11T05:05:00.000-06:00

So, Blogger has been messing with me again, not allowing me to post, or edit. Obviously.

In a childish and superstitious thumb to nose at the blogger machine, I will tell you that today I awoke at 3am, masturbated, and then could not go back to sleep.

Most of this is true.

I probably could have gotten back to sleep if I'd really tried.

If Blogger is the shredded cheesedick that I know it is, this post will appear magically, as though they have not been a giant pain in my ass for the last month or so.

Here goes nothing...

Hairy(?) Pussy in a Room Fulla Rocking Chairs

2011-02-23T07:19:00.002-06:00

It seems that fashion changes in relatively predictable patterns. If today's obsession with hair removal is any indication, perhaps we will see the resurgence of the Elizabethan period.

Get your powdered wigs ready people! Don't be caught bald without some way to conceal that fact should the occasion call for a hirsute & youthful appearance.

But what about your fair pussy - if you are victim to current fashion and have balded the poor thing, what are your options?

Magic marker? Pussy wigs? Hair plugs? *shudder*

I can see the whimsy in deliberately manicured landscapes, but I clearly don't understand women who mimic the compleimsy o IsEess pussies of 7 year old gIsEs.

And for the men who prefer that childlike bare look? Well, I can't help the brief flash of 'pedophile' that may spring to mind.

My own pussy has recentsy lost a little o Is. Obvioussy I've strayed now from the original topic tease...

Went into the barn a few days ago and, for a minute, I thought I saw the new cat attack his own tail. I mean, he went at it like he would nest of o IsEess, wriggsy baby mice - with malice & gusto.

I actualsy shook my head, knowing there was no way I saw what I thought I'd just seen, and because WTH??

Keeping my eye on him as I did the chores, I noticed the normally placid Puffball looking rather predatory towards the uncharacteristically defensive WeirdoCat.

This called for closer inspection.

Grabbing up the grouchy grey feline I plopped him down on the tack table and gave him the once over; nothing seemed amiss until I ran my hand down his tail and came away sticky....

"Uh oh", I thought, "this cannot be good."

Nearly 3 inches of the tip of ois tail had been degloved! I'm guessing a certain dumb puddytat was lounging around in a box stall while it's rightful owner was in house.

A quick call to the vet revealed (news to me) that a cat’s natural reaction to pain is aggression, and that it is also natural for another cat to go after one that is wounded.

I’ve heard that if you die alone, a housecat will feast on your dead body; turns out they will also chow down on a disadvantaged buddy and that self-mutilation is par for the course.

Those of you out there who harbour housecats in the misguided belief that they "love" you -- just pray to gawd that you never fall down after a couple days of binge drinking and whack your head on the edge of the coffee table, knocking yourself out cold. Because, if that should happen, you may just lose a couple of your favourite toes when those felines find out that the Fancy Feast cans don't just open themselves.

Back to WeirdoCat's tail tale:

Later, at the vet’s office, FelineFreak quietsy reposed on the metal table as I stroked his back; he was relaxed enough to purr. Dr. B entered the room and before the word ‘Hello’ had fully dropped from her lips, the cat turned psycho, grabbed his own tail, and ripped a tendon out of it.

Ripped a tendon right out of ois tail.
I'll wait while you just take a moment to absor3A &emir3B; fonthTrebr2feigir3ack-jawed.

The next day Dr. B amputated a third of ois tail, enough so that there would be plenty of skin to cover the stubby end. Psycho shall remain with Dr. B until he is compleimsy oealed. To keep him from doing himself any more damage they are keeping him totally blissed out on painkillers and tranquilizers 24/7.

After seeing the tendon thing, I felt that Ifeigipretty much entitled to IV drugs as well; y’know, for my PTSD.

Turns out that I’d have to figure a way to get one of the horses to step on another pussy altogether and, frankly, it’s been done.

Maybe Stubbs will have leftovers. *hopeful eyebrows*

A Snippet of Groceryworld

2011-02-06T12:19:00.000-06:00

Dear Fisherman,
I do understand how much you must love your sport, & how manly it must make you feel as you rip your blade through those soft white bellies, spraying your coat with blood and guts! No doubt you will feel great pride as you later bless your entire family with the bounty of your task.
In the meantime though, we here at Groceryworld would greatly appreciate it if you would change your coat before coming in to clear the shelves of potato chips and near-beer. You fucking reek to hell, man.
Just saying.

Dear Hoarder,
I really couldn't care less about the 5' high piles of newspaper in your yard that you describe alternately as 'an art installation' or 'a fence'. I have no problem with your house that has been declared a fire hazard countless times, or your garage which was actually condemned 3 years ago already and yet is still standing, spools of chain, assorted broken lawn implements, and (inexplicably) a round bale of straw spilling out from it's broken door.
But lady, can you not keep one single change of clothes in a ziplock bag to change into prior to boarding the shuttle to Groceryworld?
Why is it, do you think, that the driver refuses to close the door of the shuttle bus, even when it is -35 degrees?
It's because the other elderly & enfeebled who ride the shuttle cannot bear to be sealed inside with you and your smell of a thousand cats peeing. On you.
You can't even smell it, can you?
OMG, everyone else CAN.
Trust me.

Dear Basket Carrying Shopper,
The baskets are provided for your convenience while shopping. Proper etiquette dictates that you empty your items from the basket out onto the belt when you arrive at the check out.
It may amuse you to just plop the basket down on the moving belt and watch it slam into the edge of the computer screen as I am finishing up with the customer ahead of you in line, but then, you are a complete cheesefuck. You deserve it when other checkers squash your bread on purpose; luckily for you, I am above that petty shit.
I also believe it is likely that karma will shove it's fat dick down your throat sooner or later - I hope I get wind of it when it happens.
No one here likes you.

Dear Parent of screaming child,
There is no need to be embarrassed, many of us here at Groceryworld are also parents - we understand. Whenever you visit us, to appease your child as you shop, please stop by the bakery where our cheerful staff will provide a mittful of cookies for your little darling to stuff into his face.
He may end up a porker, but at least he'll be a quiet one.

Dear Insane Shopper,
No ma'am I don't need to know the reasoning behind your demand that each item be bagged separately; I am happy to bag your groceries how you prefer it done. Listening to your kind of crazy, however, is above my pay grade.
Have a nice afternoon.

Fucked up Posts - Now With MORE Cheesecake!!

2011-01-30T16:18:00.002-06:00

...foreword...

So, if you read my post on cheesecake the other day you probably noticed that it was unedited, incomplete, and prematurely published.

Experimenting today (on GoldenChild's laptop) I clearly see that the problem is as I suspected. It is not my phone line, it is not a blogger or a hotmail problem; it is my pc that is bending me over my desk and ramming... well, you know.

Sadly, posting may be a little sporadic until the 'puter can be fixed; IF it can be fixed.

I may need to invest in a Mac.

Or lube.

I'm going to take one last kick at that cheesecake cat and hope you get to see what I meant to have published the first time around.

Pray for me...

Cheesecake/Beefcake - What's The Difference?

Jebus Cripes, if you don't already know the difference then maybe I ought to start screening who is hanging out here better. Honestly, I don't think I have the time to revisit what should have been part of your adolescent education.

But anyways... so, it turns out that there is a lot more that can go wrong when making cheesecake than I ever dreamed; that is the gist of today's half-lucid ramblings.

If you choose to keep reading after me saying that straight out, then don't blame me for losing these few minutes of your life that may have been better spent tunneling for lint in the depths of your navel.

First lesson learned: boxed Oreo cookie crumbs can go rancid. Who knew? Just a tip - if it smells rancid, go with your gut. Whatever you do, do not taste a pinch just to make sure. Your gut may just stage a revolt and you could end up dry heaving violently over your kitchen sink until all the blood vessels in your eyeballs burst.

Attractive look... not on everyone.

Second lesson: just because your brother-in-law's girlfriend makes a cheesecake to die for, do not think you can 'out-do her any day'. Seriously, don't think you can top her shit the first time you try, even if you do want to smash her smug, red-headed face in with a mix master.

Lesson #3: crafting a tinfoil hammock into a cake pan is not the same exact thing as a proper springform pan. Oh sure, you can pull the half-assed excuse for cheesecake out of the pan, but you are almost certainly going to lose your shit attempting to peel the foil down the sides of the baked abomination when you only then realize that even tinfoil would benefit from a hint of no-stick spray.

And, p.s., how did I even make it to be 30+neveryoufuckingmindhowmany without buying a g.d. springfrom pan anyways? People probably think I was raised by wolves or something.

4th thing to know: although you take an (un)educated guess that cracks on the surface of this fucker signals the end of baking time, you might be wrong. This is a cheesecake, not an angelfood. Actually, I am beginning to think this confection should be more properly known as Devil's Candy. This new theory would also explain BIL's stuck-up girlfriend quite tidily.

Keep in mind #5: if you have made it this far into the baking process without resorting to alcohol or drugs to dull the pain, do not think you are home free. While you believe you have your confident face on as you smile & encourage GoldenChild to try the fruits of your labour, she is not likely to be fooled and will decline until such time as you eat some first.

She graduated with honours and is much smarter than you ever were on your best day; therefore, you will be forced to choke down a bite of this shit yourself.*

Lastly: cheesecake with the texture of curdled milk is not right. It is time to accept failure for the day, throw in the towel and just serve ice cream already.

Except, goddamit, I ate the ice cream for lunch the other day... but if I spin it hard enough, I'm pretty sure I can find a way to pin that on the red-headed trollop too.

*On the opposite end of the discriminating palate scale, He will later vacuum up this mess like a hungry warthog. An iron gut is one of his talents. Seriously, He could give a goat a run for the money.*
**Please, by all means, these 'super easy, idiot-proof' cheesecake recipes you all have? Send them to me by clicking the Hate Mail button in the sidebar. I will have a bake off and let you know who was lying their ass off to me. Then I'll tell you about the winning recipe, and whether or not I manage to graciously present said winner at the next family gathering, or I instead COMPLETELY SNAP and permanently wipe the smirk off of that Ginger-Cunt's face.
***You would not be wrong or a bad friend to bet on my 'snapping' -- Hell, I'd almost make book on it.

Beefcake, Cheescake - What's the Diff?

2011-01-26T16:17:00.001-06:00

But anyways.... so, it turns out that there is a lot more that can go wrong when making cheesecake than I ever dreamed; that is the gist of today's half-lucid ramblings.

If you choose to keep reading after me saying that straight out, then don't blame me for losing these few minutes of your life that may have been better spent tunnelling for lint in the depths of your navel.

First lesson learned: boxed Oreo cookie crumbs can go rancid. Who knew? Just a tip - if it smells rancid, go with your gut. Whatever you do, do not taste a pinch just to make sure. Or your gut may just stage a revolt and you could end up dry heaving into your kitchen sink.

Second lesson: just because your brother-in-law's girlfriend makes a cheesecake to die for, does not mean that you can "out-do her any day". Seriously, don't think you can top her shit the first time you try, even if you do want to smash her smug, red-headed face in with a mix master.

Words To Live By

2011-01-21T11:23:00.001-06:00

Diary of a Mad Woman had a moment of self doubt the other day. A totally unwarranted lack of confidence that spilled over, yet it was a completely understandable human moment, because who among us has not felt the same at one time or another?

I came across this exceedingly powerful excerpt (from his 1994 inaugural speech) at a time in my life when I was confused; it changed my internal dialogue & allowed me to accept & love myself more readily. I still turn to these words whenever I feel overcome and immediately I feel impacted & uplifted as if I were reading them for the first time.

I share my favourite quotation here with you all and hope that the power of his words will resonate positively in your life.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, "Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?" Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born instead to make manifest the Glory of God that is within us; it's in everyone! And, as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others!"

His Excellency Nelson Mandela

awarded the Nobel Peace Prize 1993

Nelson Mandela Foundation

Roddenberry Definitely Inspired by Real Life Chickens

2011-01-18T13:14:00.003-06:00

There is really no such thing as an idyllic childhood. In fact, I think even the very idea of an idyllic childhood is most probably the result of repressed memories and/or rampant drug & alcohol use as a teenager.

Growing up on a mixed farming operation has it's share of traumatizing moments, many of them related in some way to livestock. Raising animals can be a shortcut to a pretty explicit education, and a lot of farm kids have a broad fearless streak in them. I can remember one summer that my dad brought Big Benny onto the home place and stashed him in the log bullpen where my sister & I (8 & 10 years old) tag-team doctored the monster for close to 2 weeks. Our dad couldn't even get into the bullpen without his matador pants on, let alone cozy up to the bull with the aerosol can of pink-eye medication. Yet twice a day, as Dad & Grampa watched on from the safety of the far side of the fence, we two little blond girls would saunter right into the bullpen like we were in our right minds, hook a shank through the ring in Big Benny's nose, and doctor him up without a thought to danger.

Fearless being only one side of the coin and the other side being just a little kid - the 2 sides don't so much balance out as they tipple one way or the other, sometimes from moment to moment.

One of my daily farm chores was gathering up any eggs that the dog didn't get to first; we had the shiniest black dog ever when I was a kid. I hated chickens then & I still hate chickens to this day. As far as I'm concerned, the only good chicken is one that meets the Colonel before I have to deal with it. Chicken meat is fine & dandy, but chickens as living creatures - not so much.

Chickens are like The Borg of the farming world; the whole flock shares a collective consciousness. Their community brain will single out one bird amongst themselves to torment & together they'll pick at it and pluck it's feathers until the thing is so gotdam ugly that the only one who might even consider eating it is the dog. By the time it is bald, dazed, & half dead, the poor chicken is just praying for the dog to come and put it out of it's misery. Once that bird is dead, the flock chooses a new victim and the cycle just repeats itself endlessly. Charming, no?
Chickens are notoriously bad parents - hens will lay eggs and go about their business without ever looking back. Other hens will come and lay their eggs in that same nest and also abandon the lot. We had one old half blind hen who was one of the few birds who actually wanted to hatch out a brood. She would go peering with her single eye into each nesting box, looking for the one with the most eggs. When she'd found the biggest clutch of eggs, that is where she would settle.

Because she had only the one eye and just a tiny piece of the collective flock brain, the hen was easily startled and would furiously peck first and ask questions later; I was literally pee-my-pants terrified of that fucking bird. My mother had no sympathy for me and would hand me a big metal bowl every morning and coldly send me out for the eggs; that woman never really loved me.

Carrying the egg bowl, I would go out to my dad's workbench and borrow one of his big welding gloves (which came way up over my shoulder and bunched up uncomfortably in my armpit) and then trudge down to the barnyard with my stomach churning. Those daily high stress walks were the direct cause of my childhood ulcer, I remain convinced.

Keeping a close watch on the bitch-chicken, I would creep along the nesting boxes gathering all the other eggs first, thus ensuring the best chance of a quick & clean getaway upon completion of my mission. Finally, filled with dread but facing no other choice, it came time to empty BC's box.
Hidden behind the water jack was a mason jar I had sneaked from the canning supplies in the root-cellar of the house. Donning the heavy welding glove on my left hand & slipping my right hand into the glass jar, I would creep slowly towards the evil white hen's blind side.
There was a dried up little black slash in BC's head where her long gone eye once was and I knew for sure I was the closest thing to invisible to her. Yet, still my heart would about pound right out of my chest as I imagined her flying out of the nest and pecking out my eyes, leaving me blind in some righteous blast of poetic Borg-chicken outrage.

Leaning as far backwards as possible, I would scoot the egg bowl under the final nesting box with my foot. Straightening up and drawing what each time I imagined would surely be my last lung full of oxygen, I'd slit my eyes almost closed, turn my head to the side, and commence to threatening the hen's blind side with my glass enclosed fist while squinting sideways at the decrepit old bag of feathers.
Snatching the distracted hen by her scrawny neck, I would throw her to the ground in one angry, practised motion where her body would thump satisfyingly and then I would immediately kick her as hard and far away as my little leg could kick. Tucking the warm eggs into the bowl at roughly the speed of sound, I would then book it the hell out of the coop with the Borg chicken collective hot on my heels, loudly clucking their bloodlust.

My dad would catch me leaning up against the closed door, wild-eyed & panting, and never notice the fumes of panic rolling off me like breakers in a sea-side storm. Every day he'd say the same thing, "You put that glove back on my workbench now, you hear me Girlie?"; that man never really loved me.

Just imagine starting every day of your childhood fleeing for your life from an angry chicken mob and tell me you wouldn't have issues. This story, and other Tall Tails of Farm Life, are partially why I keep the medicine cabinet well stocked.
Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have some Lilydale breasts marinating in teriyake sauce...

You Are Not Qualified to Judge Me

2011-01-14T14:54:00.003-06:00

Have you ever gone outside to do your chores and then halfway through the job you realize your lady parts are staging a revolt and threaten to exsanguinate you if you do not return to the house immediately but you don't want to leave in the middle of the job because that means you will just have to get all dressed up a second time to go back out into the freezing cold and finish up because He is on a 16 hour shift so you're on your own and so you seriously consider that roll of paper towels that you keep in the tack room just in case you get something really grody on your bare hands and have to wipe them right away?

Have you ever eaten ice cream for lunch because He took all the leftovers to work and didn't even leave a single slice of beef for you to make a sandwich with or even a fucking cold potato when you know damned well that you had 3/4 of a roast in the fridge from supper the night before?

Have you ever opened the dishwasher in mid-cycle because you just ate a bowl of ice cream for lunch because there was nothing in the fridge but milk and sweet pickles and all your other dishes were clean and you couldn't bear to leave one dirty bowl and spoon in the sink but you also did not want to wash them and the machine was only on the rinse cycle and it was just a little cream anyways so the scalding hot water would probably make up for the lack of soap and it would be 'clean enough' and when you empty the dishwasher because who the hell else is going to do it then you could set that bowl to the side and make sure He is the one who uses it next just to punish him for eating all the meat and he'll never know the difference but you will and revenge is sweet?

Have you ever felt like you have already said too much and that 70 percent of readers are now going to get all judgey about the ice cream thing and wonder if you can afford to be eating it at all while another 28 percent will be stuck on the exsanguination thing and how gross that was and not even care if, right after you hit the publish key, you fall out of your chair and can't call for help because the internet connection is still on because He is too fucking cheap to pay for high speed and you're too weak from blood loss to disconnect the modem but it really doesn't matter much who all you have alienated because you don't even have the strength to drag yourself out to the front room & hit the 'find' button on the phone base so you could find the fucking handset to dial 911 and this feels like deja fucking vu from this past July and so you'd be dead pretty soon one way or the other anyways because He won't be home for another 8.5 hours and when he finds your body he will have only himself to blame but then you remember that it was Him who rescued you & your horse from certain death in July and He's like a knight in shining armour and you don't even appreciate him and you should be ashamed of yourself but then you remember about the meat and you're pissed off all over again?

Have you ever wanted to brag about how much work you did all week revamping your blog and updating your blogroll* but you know damned well that Marilyn is the genius behind VSL's sleek and gorgeous design and you don't want anyone to think that you're not giving credit where credit is due and so now you feel all scrappy & defensive and you decide to reclaim your will to live after all and that seems like a lot of effort to make on a Friday but you have been stuck at home for the last twenty seven weeks since your near death experience and you should have plenty of energy so you are happy you are going back to work part time starting next week but then when are you going to find the time to keep abreast of the 100+ blogs that you follow and still write all these scintillating blog posts?

Have you ever decided that you're probably blowing everything out of proportion because of the crippling cramps and then you realize that you've just reminded readers again about your lady parts, and not in a good way, and you're all like, good grief(!), but you decide not to hit delete because if they are so easily offended then wtf are they doing here anyways and wth do they want you to write about if it's not what's happening in your fucked up corner of the universe? Dead squirrels?

Have you ever realized you have a perfectly good dead squirrel story because TheBitch caught another one yesterday and carried it up onto the deck and scratched the window so that she would have your complete and undivided attention as she did the shake your dead squirrel dance which involves whipping said dead squirrel side to side so it's body alternately smacks her cheeks while she hops up and down on two stiff front legs with her tail straight up in the air like a ballast or something and then omg you realize this would not be the first dead squirrel story you have trotted out and who puts more effort into seeing the funny side of death than you and then you have to stifle a laugh at thinking how awful it would be for Him to find you dead of blood loss beside the desk still clutching the computer mouse because first the dead squirrels and then you dead with a mouse is just too funny not to laugh unless you're an android?

Have you ever been surprised but in an overjoyed way because your follower #s have jumped up by 27 more vip's since Christmas time and then you realize you're still nothing but small potatos compared to some of the more incredible people that you follow and then you remember that a few of those blogs had 70 or less followers until you discovered them and shamelessly pimped them out here on VSL and now those same blogs have follower #s in the quadruple digits and you're a little bit envious but you're also proud because they owe a lot of that to you and then you're a little sad because why don't they hook a sister up now that they're so popular they don't even notice when they lose a follower or two hundred followers because they have so many readers that they can't even follow the new ones back because their dashboards would explode and they'd never even have time for potty breaks because they have so much pressure to keep being awesome and then you feel ashamed for being such a jealous douchbag when the very best of those blogs actually DO have VSL on their blogrolls probably because they haven't had time to update in a while but the good book tells you to be thankful for what you do have?

Have you ever decided that maybe you need to just take a remedy, pour yourself a good slug of Carolann's & coffee minus the coffee because you don't want to have to make a pot, climb into His recliner with a fuzzy blanket, turn on the boobtube, and just let yourself drift away until it's time to go let the horses into the barn?

Yep, that is the kind of day it's been.

*Please note:

If I am following your blog then a link to you appears in the sidebar under the header 'All & Sundry Poisons'. If you are linking to VSL on your blogroll*, then you are also linked more prominently under the header 'My Kinda Poison'. It saddens me to note how much shorter one list is than the other... I'm just saying.

If you have a really cute button, and if I love you, you can probably see it scrolling under the header 'More Secrets & Lies'. If I have inadvertently missed adding your URL, or if you are now linking to VSL from your page and you do not appear on my rolls, please send me some Hate Mail so I can rectify that situation, because I get all tingly whenever I see VSL linked elsewhere - you know, down there. Tingly.

If you neither follow or link to VSL and a link to your shit is appearing anywhere on this page, then count yourself fucking lucky because it means that either I totally love you or pretty soon I'll be jettisoning your ass outta here, because I am not your free fucking press agent.

** And by blogroll I mean a featured list that is actually displayed ON your blog, not merely hidden away on your profile with all of the other blogs you follow.

That is all.

Tittie Bacon Anyone?

2011-01-11T09:49:00.008-06:00

Titties? Bacon? Seriously, what's not to love?

In this house, bacon is a hot commodity somewhere on par with precious metals & gemstones. Around here, a $6 pound of the crispy mouthgasm will disappear quicker than it took to fry it. Considering the risk of injury involved in cooking the holy grail, I am of the belief that more reverence should be paid.

JeezLouise - they are not starving in this house, but you'd never know it when you see one of my 'loved ones' throw me aside and inhale the Mapleleaf. Especially Him.

He sucks in air through his teeth while he's chewing because, in his unbridled enthusiasm, he literally scorches the inside of his mouth. You'd think that would be punishment enough, and yet I want to punch him right in the fucking head. There are days when I think I married stupid, and some days that I am convinced.

I thought I'd outsmarted him handily today though. Insomnia had me up and puttering way too early so before dawn broke in the East the pork was fired, drained, and packed away behind the 3lb tub of margarine in the fridge. But teeny, tiny little grease splatters on the stove raised his suspicions, and he sniffed at the air like he was on a truffle hunt.

I told him he was crazy. Funny how readily he accepted that explanation.

Oh, he'll have his bloody bacon alright - when I am damned good and ready to break it out & feed it to him.

Probably with a pitchfork.*

*Note to self: Rinse pitchfork before cleaning stalls.

Compliments Might Kill Me...

2011-01-07T11:14:00.003-06:00

...more on that later. First though, I'm about to flash you.

Wait, maybe that sounded a little inappropriate - you're really only gonna get a little window into what is an under occupied mind of late. Sorry about your luck.

So yesterday morning, thinking I was leaving in plenty of time, I headed to the city to have my hair cut. I cruised along the clear highway at about 10km over the limit, feeling a little like a bad girl, but I did notice that vehicles kept whipping past me going more like 30 over (that's about 18 miles/hr for you Americans).

I glanced at the clock and suddenly realized that I should've left 15 minutes sooner... I might not be on time for my appointment. Oh shit! Tardiness really burns me, so I am very rarely ever late for anything. Since I am more understanding of the thoughtlessness of others if they give me a satisfactory explanation, my mind started churning through lies I could tell to justify being late.

I saw a sign saying I was still 17km from the perimeter with only 23 minutes til my appointment time. Fretting that once I got to the perimeter highway I still had to go east on that another 3 exits before heading down the reduced speed city road that would take me through myriad of lights before I got to where I was going. I nudged my car up to 40km over the limit and started passing those cars who had gone by me earlier.

Simultaneously, I thought about the increased risk of being ticketed and how stodgy all those other vehicles seemed when stacked up against my sleek, black, import. Helga (german import, what would you call her?) has plenty under the hood, and she likes to flaunt it. I prefer to 'flaunt it' out on the deserted highway rather than so close to police presence, but this was a psuedo emergency. Sort of.

Scrambling for an excuse, the first thing I came up with to say was that I was delayed by some kind of car accident. It's very likley that being a few minutes late would be readily excused with a generous tip, but the scheming continued.

Knowing the best lies have some element of truth, my brain cued up a recent fender bender had by Crabby Steve & Dirty Wanda (my down the road a piece neighbours) when their truck was rear ended.

*Annndd scene...

Crabby Steve: "Er you fuckin kiddin me? Er you kiddin me, fer shit's sake?"

Dirty Wanda: "Oh gawd Steve, muh neck! Oh muh neck hurts!"

CS: "Jist what in hell does that asshole think he's doin? Hope I don't hurt muhself kickin his gawdam ass!"

DW: "Oh muh neck, Steve, muh neck!"

CS: "I'm gonna kick his gawdam ass is what I'm gonna do! He best git ready fer an asskickin, 'cuz I'm gonna kick his gawdam ass!"

DW: "Steve, oh Steve! Muh neck!"

CS: *getting out of the truck and bending to inspect his practically indestructible rear bumper. Turning back to the driver inspecting his own extensively damaged front end, CS says to him,* "Wellsir, you are one gawdam lucky SOB, yessir. You better buy a mess a lotto tickets today boy, 'cuz I was about fixin to kick yer gawdam ass, but I guess it's yer lucky gawdam day." *climbs back into truck without looking back again*

DW: "Oh gawed Steve, Steve... muh neck... oh gawd."

CS: "Yer neck an' muh gawdam ass Wanda, yer neck an muh ass."

DW: "But Steve, muh neck hurts so bad! I think maybe I gots the whiplash, er somesuch."

CS: "JezuzCrist Wanda - didn' that SOB cayuse a yers jist knock ya headfirst inta the water trough jist yesterday? An werencha bitchin' about yer gawdam neck last night?"

DW: *blink, blink*

CS: *pops the truck into gear and takes off leaving the other driver thinking twice bout calling in the accident.*"Yer neck an muh ass Wanda gawdamit, yer neck an muh ass."

*End scene*

By the time I had worked out in my mind how the story could well have included me being the driver behind the lucky SOB, I was turning into the parking lot right on time.

Guess I can save that story for another time then.

Getting back to compliments killing me...

You may or may not know that natural blondes who spend a good deal of time outdoors often tend to have a two-tone effect to their locks, especially so in the winter months when the long hair that can be sunbleached out to nearly platinum colour contrasts with new growth.

Shauna (the stylist) didn't pull any punches as she stood behind me, pulling my long hair down in front of my bust. She may have been trying to cop a feel, I think she might've tweaked my nipple, but I'm not sure. I may be making that part up... anyways, she pretty bluntly suggested 'we' do something about that. Maybe she had a mouse in her pocket, because I didn't get the impression that she was asking my opinion...

Two & a half hours later I had been manhandled over to the dark side, eyebrows and all. I'd never thought about tinting my eyebrows, but Shauna's mouse pointed out that they were just too blonde to compliment the transformation they were trying to affect. At last she rinsed my hair and led me to her chair where she sprayed and blowdried and spritzed and fiddled... then she spun the chair around with a flourish and TAH DAH!!

Venom as a sultry hawt auburn babe! Mmmrrroooowww!

DOH drawled out his singular, quiet evaluation, "Wallthere, that's quite a change."

Hope such sugary words don't go to muh head...

Michael VICK can SUCK MY DICK

2010-12-31T12:19:00.013-06:00

I mean, if I had a dick. Speaking of dicks...

So President Obama called up owner Lurie & congratulated him on signing Michael Vick to the Eagles football team; the potus actually praised Lurie for giving Vick a 'second chance'.

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?

WTF?!?

Vick is a convicted piece of shit animal abuser, straight up!

Philadelphia - are you cool with this? Does the strength of his throwing arm honestly mean more to you all than being a decent fucking human being? Is Vick really the kind of "man" that you want representing your city??

It's been proven beyond any shadow of doubt that Vick illegally fought dogs, and that he personally participated in their torture and killing. Vick was not just a money man - he had full knowledge of the barbaric animal abuse & he was absolutely hands on.

Can any of you possibly see hanging, drowning, shooting, or bludgeoning as humane euthanasia?

How about wetting a dog down and then electrocuting it? Am I crazy to see that as mindless brutality?

**The following list has been amended to name only those professional althletes who have actually been TRIED & CONVICTED. Because the list of pros who commit heinous crimes is so long, this list is limited only to pros in North America who have committed the most serious of crimes. Teams mentioned are those the offender played for at time of arrest.**

Do you give tacit approval to rapists?

*Mike Tyson* (boxer) rape + road rage, possession of narcotics & DUI. Sentenced to 7 years + a day, 360 community service, & 3 years probation

*Tom Payne* (Atlanta Hawks) multiple rape convictions. Sentenced to 15 years
*Ruben Patterson* (Seattle Sonics) 3rd degree rape. Sentenced to 1 year
*Tony Ayala, Jr* (boxer) rape + burglary. Sentenced to 35 years
*Travis Smith* (Saskatchewan Roughriders) aggravated sexual assault. Sentenced to 5 1/2 years

*Mark 'Gator' Rogowski* (skateboarder) rape + murder. Sentenced to 31 years

Where do you stand on robbery & kidnapping?
*OJ* (football, retired) Sentenced to 9-33 years
*Hank Johnson* (retired from New York Giants) armed robbery. Sentenced to 10 years
*Sylvester 'Sly' Williams* (basketball, retired) kidnapping. Sentenced to 5 years

Is drug trafficking okay by you? Not merely possession, but drug trafficking.
*Darryl Henley* (LA Rams) drug trafficking + attempted conspiracy to commit murder. Sentenced to 41 years
*Travis Henry* (released from Denver Broncos) Sentenced to 3 years
*Byron 'Bam' Morris* (Kansas City Chiefs) Sentenced to 30 months

*Nate Newton* (retired from Dallas Cowboys) Sentenced to 7 1/2 years

*Ricardo Jordan* (baseball, retired) Sentenced to 7 years
*Denny McLean* (Detroit Tigers) drug trafficking + embezzlement, racketeering, conspiracy, theft, money laundering & mail fraud. Sentenced to 20 years
*Greg 'Cadillac' Anderson* (basketball, retired) Sentenced to 5 months
*Floyd Mayweather, Sr* (boxer) Sentenced to 5 years

*Christian Hosoi* (skateboarder) Sentenced to 10 years

How about conspiracy to commit murder or attempted murder?
*Rae Carruth* (Atlanta Falcons) Sentenced to 24 years
*Ugueth Urbina* (Philladelphia Phillies) Sentenced to 14 years
*Mike Danton* (St Louis Blues) Sentenced to 7 1/2 years

Got any kind of stand against successful murderers?
*Robert Rozier, AKA Rameses* (retired from St Louis Cardinals) Sentenced to 25 year to Life for multiple murder
*Hiroshi Ogawa* (baseball, retired) murder + theft. Sentenced to Life in prison
*Esteban De Jesus* (boxer) Sentenced to Life in prison
*Terry Underwood* (released from Toronto Argonauts) Sentenced to 30-60 years

How do you feel about baby rapers?

*Mel Hall* (basebasll, retired) 3 counts aggravated sexual assault on a child, 2 counts indecency with a child. Sentenced to 45 years

*'Fast Eddie' Johnson* (basketball, retired) sexual assault on a minor, + burglary, robbery & drug possession. Sentenced to Life in prison

Would you also be cool with a pedophile who has a killer slapshot? How would you like them living next door to you and your family? Maybe even coaching your kid's sports team? Because you've certainly opened the door to all of that by continuing to tune in & watch these pieces of shit collect ridiculous amounts of $$ playing their chosen sport.

If someone were to propose that you rehire a convicted criminal to your local police force, would you? How many times have we seen a politician or a celebrity soundly & repeatedly trashed by the public for having an extra-marital affair, or for leaving rehab?

Yet it seems that professional athletes are excused all manner of depravity -- how fucking low would one of these cretins have to sink before society quite rightly rejects them?

By welcoming them back & cheering them on, these are the men you are allowing your children to idolize, to aspire to.

That is so totally fucked up, man.

So, for YOU personally, does being a 'football star' wipe Vick's slate clean?

If you say 'No', and then you turn around and support the Eagles team by buying tickets or by using your season tickets, then you are nothing but a fucking hypocrite.

Oh, and Congratulations Obama - you're leading the charge on hypocrisy by sanctioning this fucking insanity.

Tonight my resolution is to unconditionally reject men of such ill character, regardless of how my fantasy football team shapes up.

*Post Script: When Vick's despicable actions came to light, Falcons owner Arthur Blank didn't want that kind of garbage on his team & couldn't get rid of him fast enough. No other team would take Vick in trade, and Blank wisely released him.
Vick lost his product endorsement deals and, because of his fiscal mismanagement, declared bankruptcy in 2008. *Oh, poor baby* Michael Vick was convicted of felony conspiracy relating to dog fighting and was sentenced to 23 months in jail.
Idiot Lurie signed Vick to the Eagles and Vick was reinstated in the 3rd week of the 2009 season.

Fuck being NICE

2010-12-26T11:04:00.003-06:00

Santa himself is giving us all a free pass

til January 2nd. That's a pretty small window for unbridled debauchery, but I think I can fill the time...

Live it Up, my friends!!

My Pussy is Cumming

2010-12-21T16:40:00.001-06:00

Catchy title, huh? No doubt slight misinterpretation has drawn some new Venom fans already - 100 followers by December 31st would be a really lovely Christmas gift.

101 would be even better.

Given the time of year, I'd ask Santa for a few new Venomites to add to my valued collection, but I think the Jesus' Penis post has landed me at the top of his naughty list. The old bugger holds a wicked grudge - it's not emotionally healthy, but there it is.

I might be able to flirt my way into the hearts of his sex starved little elf slaves, but word on the street is Mrs. Claus has St. Nick covered, and then some. Actually, it's been rumoured that Mrs. Claus is a big slutty whore. That's what I heard anyways. I may have started that rumour - I really don't remember.

Unless something unfortunate were to happen to the jolly old soul...

What? It could happen - he drinks you know! Rum & eggnogs, hot rum toddies, advocat snowflakes... he sucks 'em all back with gusto. That nose isn't red from the cold my friend, Santa Claus is half in the bag from the first day of December clear until Rudolph & the rest of the team are bedded deep & fast asleep.

Oh yeah, almost forgot about my pussy... that is why some of you tuned in today, right? Aha!! Caught ya! I knew there was a slice of perv culture lurking here in the wings.

But back to my pussy - it's finally cumming, after all this time. The local vet has an enormous silver tabby that fits my stringent criteria - friendly, free, & fixed. Samson will be comfortably ensconced in the horse barn by Thursday.

How's that for an Oh! Ooohhh! OOOHHH!*

*Lame? You just try telling that to my happy pussy.

I Sucked on Jesus' Penis

2010-12-15T10:10:00.006-06:00

Anyone worried they will burn in Hell just for reading today's blasphemous blather, you are excused, 'cuz it's about to get all real up in here, man.

I will now allow some time for those of you who wish to maintain your place in the Heaven express line to click over to one of your favourite rainbows, puppies, & kisses blogs..............

Okay, the rest of you are obviously unconcerned about your mortal souls -- let's get on with the corruption.

Pictured @ right, thai stick. Looks a little cigar shaped, eh? I think that's what Clinton said to Monica, but let's try to stay on track.

So this one time? At band camp?* We hook up with The Riddler and he lays out his wares...

"I got the Maui Wowie, the Thai Stick, the Super Bee, the Outdoor Experience, and the Jesus' Penis. What'll it be Venom?"

"Wait. Wait. Wait. Waitwaitwaitwait, WAITaminute...... Riddler, man, you have WHAT?"

"Fuck Venom, I would just once like to have you shop without all your..."

"Riddler, man, did you say you have JESUS' PENIS? WHERE, man? 'Cuz I don't SEE it." Picture me & my crew disolving into laughter at this point. All except Riddler that is, picture Riddler looking pained.

His own fault really. I mean, seriously, that's a pretty big claim to make.

"Oh I totally want that last one, man. Gimme the Jesus' Penis, OH YEAH!" Said with conviction amidst much stoner giggling & obscene pelvic girations from my too easily influenced friends.

"The price just went up $5."

"That's just bad marketing, man. You gotta ask yourself Riddler, 'WWJD?' "

"Make it an extra $10. Any more lip & it goes up $15."

"Fine, you filthy profiteer."

On the way home we swung into the parking lot of the nearest Kingdom Hall and left a note written on a ZigZag that said simply, 'Sinner desparately in need', & Riddler's address. We were just like missionaries, man.

Probably some of us liked the oral just as much or more than the missionary thing, but hey, different strokes, right?

*Didn't really happen at band camp. Surprise, surprise, Venom was more of a 'groupie' than a 'musician'.

Go Ahead & Be Jealous Dahlinks...

2010-12-09T21:20:00.003-06:00

Once again, Venom is on vacation.

What? Is twice or more a year not the norm???

Seriously though, I think it is the norm by my age bracket. If it is not, then it should be.

I am currently where the weather is warm enough to keep me in reasonably good humour for the wintery season, and yet, nowhere near warm enough to warrant any real envy. I will be back to the Venom Palace Tuesday next.

Expect to hear about the time that I sucked Jesus' Penis.

True Story.

Details to follow.

WHY is it SO HARD to GET A LITTLE STRAY PUSSY?

2010-11-23T08:21:00.011-06:00

Wanted: One Sweet Piece of Pussy

This is no ploy to lure new readers via their distasteful google porn searches; I really am looking to get myself some pussy.

Considering the number of unwanted cats & kittens all over kijiji, & craigslist, & everywhere else, you'd think it'd be easy enough to get a little stray. But, it seems for me at least, not so much.

If I've enquired after 1 strange pussy, I must've tried no less than 6 potential matches, all of which fell through for one reason or another.

Missed out on a few kitties for bad timing, another one that never mentioned the puss had been declawed, and one lady who told me she'd never even consider giving me her cat because "a farm is no place to live"; she obviously never consulted a cat on that.

Then there was the nice enough lady looking for a home for a cat living in the neighbour's garage that strung me along for a few days just in case the other guy coming to look at her didn't fall in love with the cat. He did. No surprise there.

I maybe have an idea what a teenage boy on the hunt feels like, minus the blue balls, of course. I will even gladly take an old, ragged pussy that nobody else wants.

That's what HE said.

Pah dum pum!

An Eastern Star Shall Guide Them

2010-11-17T06:19:00.009-06:00

Who the hell says I'm anti-social? I mean, besides me; I gotta own it.

It's true, I live on a big piece of land that is, apparently, well disguised by a cloaking shield - ala Star Trek. It's very hard to find. Well, it is hard to find if you ask the Brick delivery driver. Or certain family members who could get lost on their way to the toilet. Or the RCMP. Or the ambulance driver.

Seriously? The COPS and the AMBULANCE DRIVER??? All true, on my word of honour. Trust me, when you are laying half-crippled & in agony on the edge of a stinking swamp, it does little to inspire confidence to hear the ambulance drive right past your lane. Twice.

Anyone confused should really just ask directions from the Jehovahs, who never seem to have a problem tracking me down. God probably shoots a holy beam of sunshine down to spotlight my house just so the uber-religious can find and super-vex me.

I mock the Witnesses by shredding & using The Watchtower as kindling starter in the woodstove. Before they've even left the porch. That's what they get for showing up uninvited.

I mean seriously now - I'm sure you're a lovely person, and assuming you're never in charge of my medical directive, there is a slim chance that we could be friends. But I have no desire to debate how many souls will be admitted to Heaven, nor just how the J-Dub have managed to corner the market on admittance. Talk about your segregated communities.

And by the way, where do you get off deciding that I need to be 'saved'?

You know what? I'm not really in the market for new friends right now, but I'm pretty sure God won't be burning me for the sentiment.

Shit Mist...

2010-11-15T09:57:00.005-06:00

...it's what happens when you flush the toilet.

An ultra-fine mist of toilet water, and contents, sprays as much as 20 feet into the air every time you flush. And what goes up, must come down.

Think about that the next time you are too damn lazy to close the lid.

Back in the Saddle Again

2010-11-10T10:01:00.009-06:00

It's been 4 long, impatient months since I've thrown a leg over. For an avid rider, this translates to roughly forever.

I can't count the times I've complained that I feel cheated out of this most spectacular Indian Summer, my absolute favourite season. It got up to 13 degrees yesterday(or 55 degrees for you farenheiters). Incredibly, in a province that is generally ankle deep in snow by this time of year, flowers are still blooming and the farm animals have barely started to grow winter coats. These days are numbered I know, and swiftly running out, yet I haven't saddled up or headed out.

The surgeon thinks it's still too soon, I disagree. I can walk again, albeit with no grace at all, therefore I reason that I can ride. But I haven't. I've planned to get my ass out to the barn and saddle up numerous times of late, yet I keep letting something or other get in the way of actually doing it.

I've slowly come to realize that I am afraid to try. I'm a big fucking chicken.

Fraidy cat, Fraidy cat, what makes you afraid?

I am afraid that it's too soon to try.

Afraid that I should've been up before now.

Afraid that the horses will be too fresh.

Afraid that, if I fall, I'll break all over again.

Most of all, afraid that if I don't get out and ride before the weather turns that I might be making excuses til next spring.

Well fuck that shit.

I'm getting off this damn computer, marching out to the barn, and calling in the nags. I'm gonna pull little Bella out of the herd, brush her up, pick her feet, and tack her up. Then I'm gonna get a stool and climb into my saddle. I'm gonna forget how fragile everyone keeps telling me I am, and I'm gonna just enjoy the ride.

Hi Ho Silver, awaaayy!

10 More Things You Could Go Without Knowing

2010-11-04T07:14:00.004-05:00

Because I am lazy, and because this worked out surprisingly well last week, here are another ten things about Venom which may or may not be true. You decide which is which.

I have a full set of teeth, including all 4 wisdom teeth. I sometimes feel a queer smugness about this, as if I am genetically superior to people whose teeth don't fit into their mouths.
In the early days of our friendship, my BFF (a lesbian) lusted after me so strongly that I was almost scared away.
My childhood blanket lay neatly folded across the foot of my bed until I was in my late twenties; at night I would hold one corner in my hand and rock my foot gently until I fell asleep.
I sometimes forget what I'm thinking about in the middle of my thought.
My favourite fruit is blueberries.
I once od'ed at a concert and nodded through the whole thing. Then I tripped going down the stairs and nearly killed myself. When confronted, I vehemently denied being high.
I can guess your weight to within 10 lbs every time; it's an eerie talent.
My biggest hair disaster was an even tie between the huge hole the 'stylist' cut out on the backside of my head (& neglected to mention), and the time I wondered if I could rock a fauxhawk. In case there is any confusion, I could not pull it off.
I diligently served the people in an elected capacity for 6 consecutive terms.
I will trade blowjobs for backrubs. But I need the backrub up front, and then I will probably fake falling asleep to get out of the blowjob...

A Monday Meme Morning

2010-11-01T05:40:00.009-05:00

Memes - some people like them, some hate them, some try to build their entire blog around them (mistake, btw). I can generally take 'em or leave 'em, but the odd one is fun.

If you'd like to do this meme on your blog, let me know & I'll link you up to this post. Also, there is no doubt in my mind that your blog will soar in popularity should you be linked here, so there's that to chew on.

1. What is the biggest challenge you face as as a blogger?
Finding my blogging 'identity' has been the toughest thing for me.

My kids are technically grown, and I have a limited attention span for stinky diapers and all the cute shit your kid does. So mommy blogger is out then.

I tried a stint as a humour blogger and gained most of my followers while trying that on for size, but the truth is that I'm not talented enough to be funny every day.

My gluesticks dry out from lack of use. Plus, macaroni is better with cheese than Elmer's glued into 3D murals. With this attitude I've got no chance at all of making it as a craft blogger.

I also couldn't cut it as a bitch blogger. Yeah, that surprised me too. Bigtime.

Too old to be a 20-something blogger, too young to be a 35+ blog. What? You heard me, jerk, I said too young (looking).

Too scared to shoot white water, parachute, go looking for crocodiles on purpose, or ride in a hot air balloon. SO not qualified to be an adventure blogger; that's why I read This Rugged Life. Martin is adventurous enough to cover him and me both.

Summing it up - you can't label me. Neither can I.

2. How often do you post?
It took me a while to settle in to what is comfortable for me. Early on I felt a strange inner pressure to post almost daily; I think there are plenty of bloggers who fall victim to the same OCD. That shit made blogging feel more like a chore than a semi-creative outlet, and I came close to crashing and burning the whole shooting match. I finally just gave myself permission to treat blogging like a hobby and not a fucking career - doing so also took the sting out of the low remuneration...

Other than the odd unexpected curse-filled rant or the infrequent technology-free holiday, VSL posts reliably once or twice a week. The quality of posts, however, is subjective.
Deal with it, sucka.

3. What kind of blogs do you follow?
You can see from my blogroll that I'm all over the board on this one, kind of like my drug &/or chemical dependancies.

I will give anyone a chance, though I will generally read 6-10 back posts before I decide to follow. I frequently dip my toes in the blogrolls of others, reasoning that if I like them, I may also like who they follow.

Sometimes it works out great. Sometimes, not so much.

4. Name & link to one blog you never miss, and tell why you're faithful to it.
Fugly Horse of the Day, because Cathy is not shy about calling out fucking asshats for their acts of cruelty, stupidity, neglect, fault blindness, poor breeding practices, and general ass-hattery. I am just one of 1358 followers; Fugly's #s increase daily.

Fugly is also where I learned the word 'asshat', so thank you for that Cathy.

5. Name & link to your most faithful follower.
This one is easy - my most faithful follower is #1! I call her #1 because she was my very first follower, but her name is really Marilyn & she's generous and kind and funny and faithful.

Marilyn is the sole genius behind VSL's signature look. Early on in our friendship, realizing that I am too lazy & maybe too blonde to learn how to do it myself, #1 created VSL's first departure from the standard blogger templates. VSL's current look (which is perfect, so therefore permanent) was also created by Marilyn.

Fat Bottom Farm is an eclectic mix of down home humour, awesome photos of her ever growing farm family menagerie, and the occasional outburst of enthusiasm for creating homemade soap, crocheted rag-rugs, comfort food, and havoc.

You should go check it out, and please leave her a comment so ~~I can get all the credit~~ she knows where you found her.

Loverboys Again - Kemosabe

2010-10-29T12:08:00.009-05:00

This young buck very nearly slipped my mind altogether, he left that much of an impression...

Kemosabe was ice-smoking skinny long before ice was ever conceived. In reality he was an alcoholic who had been walking at a pretty good clip towards self-destruction on that road paved with empty bottles. At the time I thought his skin was a sort-of-pretty(?) bronze, looking back I realize he was most likely severely jaundiced and his liver probably gave out long before he was 30.

Kemo was a lazy ass who identified more closely with Robinhood than, say, any ordinary working stiff.

I once questioned why, in light of his brilliance, he landed up in the hoosgow so often; Kemosabe said it was "just the cost of doing business". Only he pronounced it 'bidness' which totally put that gangsta spin on it &, believe me, if I had a time machine I'd go back to that exact moment in time and kick him in the throat just for that alone.

One morning I came upstairs to find every flat surface covered in bakery products -- doughnuts on the end tables, cookies on top of the tv, cinnamon buns, bread sticks, garlic twists, flaky pastries, & bags of mini-pita pockets piled on top of the couch and coffe table. Littered down the hallway, burying the kitchen table & every counter top 5 deep, were loaves of every kind of bread imaginable, most of them mangled to some degree. Kemosabe & his proteges had pulled off a big heist knocking off the bread truck at the end of the block.

"Hey man", I remember asking, "ever heard that saying, 'Don't Shit Where You Eat'?"

Kemosabe flicked his disinterested glance up from Sesame Street for an instant and replied, "Huhn?"

"Yeah. That's what I thought." I said.

Kemosabe lit a smoke. Tucking his left hand deeply into his waistband, leaning back in the chair blowing smoke rings and peering at me through one squinted eye, he said, "Don't worry about it. This was a contract job; the buyer's coming over. Take whatever you want though, I put some in the fridge for you guys already."

I pulled open the freezer to find it stuffed full of baked goods, opening the fridge door I found what had been in the fridge the night before (carton of orange juice, jug of milk, a jar of polski orgorki, mustard, and 3 hotdogs) pushed into one small corner and completely surrounded by yet more bakery products.

I blinked hard, unsure of the etiquette in such a situation. Drawing a blank, I finally just said, "Well, that's.....um... mighty white of you. I guess."

I dug the toaster out from it's bread cocoon and began toasting a legally purchased poptart when, suddenly, Kemosabe grabbed the back of my head and jerked my head back.

"What the hell, are you going to scalp me or something now?", I yelled. "Get your hand out of my fucking hair Kemo, you asshole!"

And then his arm was behind my back and he was kissing me and the smell combination of rye whiskey and sugary yeast made me start gagging & retching up into his mouth.

"Some foreplay, crazy bitch.", Kemosabe said, letting go of my hair and moving lazily away from me.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

"Whaaaat the hell are you talking about Kemo? You're here sniffing after Donna all the time, not me, and where the hell IS Donna anyways? Does she know you're doing "jobs" on our neighbours, for cripe's sakes? Get this fricking bread out of this house, and then you get the hell out of this house. You're no fucking Jesse James you know, Dickhead!"

Kemosabe, stung by my words, sputtered defiantly back at me, "That's because Jesse James stole MONEY!" He folded his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at me.

"Yes Kemo, yes. That's the difference between you and Jesse James. Other than that, you're totally the same."

"Damn right, damn right, Jesse Fucking James. Damn right." He said it all with pride, forgot all about romance and turned back to Ernie & Bert.

*Blink. Blink. Blink.*

Yeah that, in a nutshell, was Kemosabe.

10 Things You Could Go Without Knowing

2010-10-25T09:42:00.011-05:00

Each of my dark vices is represented somewhere on this list; I will leave you to guess which statements are Venom, which are Secrets, and which might be Lies...

My favourite colour is every shade of purple.

When I was 10 or 11, I convinced my younger sister to take all the blame for peeking into Christmas presents.

I have a small beauty mark on my right foot, and another just under my left collarbone.

Technically speaking, I have been abusing prescription drugs for at least 15 years. I don't abuse the non-prescription drugs, I use them strictly as intended.

I have a masturbation scar.

I deeply & heartily loathe (in the following order) puppymills, backyard breeders, & irresponsible pet owners who do not have the good sense to spay or neuter before the animal reproduces.

"Supernanny" flat out stole my parenting playbook. JoJo should be paying me a royalty, but she does not... that thieving Bitch.

I dearly love a road trip!

I have a $130,000+ race horse standing idle in my pasture; she is insured for a mere $5000.

In my younger days I sported a platinum blonde stripe in my hair (Bonnie Rait style).

My Poor, Poor Pussy

2010-10-22T15:57:00.009-05:00

Dear, sweet little Tripod.

My adorable three-legged ball of orange and white fur.

We are all sad at your passing, even the Bitch howls.

Out in the country, sometimes cats don't get to live all 9 lives.

Peg Leg at Last

2010-10-14T09:00:00.005-05:00

Taking a break from the Venom list of lovers today; some of you are grateful I know, others will be disappointed. Some days I just can't win.

I am glad to report that I am pseudo-walking these days - well ahead of the doctor's predictions too, because I'm totally advanced that way. I am supposed to be using crutches (btw, NOT as easy as it looks), but I occasionally limp around without the sticks for a short time and pretend that I'm way closer to good as new than is the case. It's hard to be patient. For me, frustration level max times four.

Monday (Canadian Thanksgiving) I whipped around the kitchen cooking up a storm, leaving the crutches leaning against the divan after the counter top proved a much too precarious place to prop them. I took narcotic pain relief & sleeping pills that night; Tuesday morning the leg was swollen from 4" above to 6" below the knee and felt like it was caught in an invisible flaming leg hold trap. A buttload more painkillers kept me from attempting to gnaw off the limb, and I'm back to crutching all over again.

Anyways back to Monday evening: after they enjoyed the feast that I lovingly prepared just for them, I caught DOH and the Golden Child mocking me as entertainment. The two of them lurched around the house in a greatly exaggerated fashion. DOH pretended to carry a cup of tea and pantomimed slopping more of it on the floor than got to the table.

The Golden Child laughed her head off at that and then took her turn poking at me. She rattled on in imitation as she acted out my stated plan to ride much sooner than the doctors think I will. She drug imaginary straw bales down from the stack and fashioned against one imaginary stall wall a mini-chute of sorts that, in my head, would make for a short climb into the saddle and a shorter drop down out of it, landing only on my good leg, of course.

She led my imaginary horse straight between the bales and then made a big show of grooming and tacking. With each movement her knee became more leaden and less flexible; GC then pantomimed digging in her pocket for narcotic relief (Tic tacs. *Nice eh, she brought props for her part of the show.) and came up with a handful of 4. Shaking her head, she dug around again and came up with another 4 and then dry swallowed the handful. Then she yelled out to DOH, "Oh Honey, can you bring me a whack of antihistamine in case I'm overdosing here please?"

After downing the 6 or 7 antihistamines (*Orange tic tacs - which makes me think that they'd been rehearsing this for a time), the GC snugs down her imaginary hat and whistles for the MightyHunterShepherdBitch. GoldenChild as me swayed unsteadily to the stall and grasped the edge, making a big show of being unable to scramble up on top of the improvised straw mounting block. DOH was laughing out loud, I protested, "Hey now, I could definitely get up on the bale, come on, you're making out like I'm helpless here!" The two of them didn't even slow down the mockery, much less stop.

The evening devolved from there. The Golden Child pulled my leg brace out of the closet and ran giggling (sigh) away from DOH who was rolling after her in the wheelchair, popping wheelies every few yards or so. Finally he went too far trying to corner fast and went over backwards, smacking his noggin on the floor with a loud thunk. I gasped, but he got right back up in the chair and DID IT AGAIN.

Sometimes I think I married stupid; other times I'm downright positive.

This slapstick humour party took an unexpected turn when GC revealed that they all make fun of me on a regular basis; it's practically a family sport. Apparently, I am oblivious.

Maybe I'll invite them all home for a weekend and play cripple related pranks on them. Yeah, like when my lazy-ass nephew starts doing his impression of me clutching my knee and sucking air through his teeth in agony? And he keeps sucking the air in really deep, and then releasing his lungful in a drawn out groan? I think I might reach out with a crutch and push him into the bonfire.

Ha HAH! Good times. Arrrrr!

The Fox, part Ib

2010-10-04T08:56:00.004-05:00

I was put in mind of the Fox by a new and rampant Venom fan, Robblogger. Robblogger employed a backhanded, but effective, approach* to inviting traffic to his page -- the Fox had a similar approach to romance.

Setting the record straight right from jump, the Fox was not so

much "foxy" as he was one conniving, clever little bastard. All of 5'8" and a buck fifty, & sporting a moustache with the potential to topple him, the Fox barely registered on the radar. But he was creative, I'll give him that much.

There was a party full on rocking the house of Venom (& roommates) the night that the Fox made his biggest play. And by rocking, I mean that everyone was impaired in one way or another. I do not believe there was a single person fit to drive in the whole place. Not a one time phenomenon; we had City Cab on speed dial #9.

Speed dial #'s 1, 2, 3 & 4 were the local liquor store, the off sales place, a guy named Shady who made 'special deliveries', and Boston Pizza. No shit. But I guess that's a story for another day.

The Fox, like any prey driven animal, was always working an angle to separate the weak and stupid from the herd. This drunken night the Fox had his little carnivorous heart set on the only redhead in the crowd; he began to circle with extreme patience. The Fox would move in almost close enough to pounce on Rose (sad choice of name for a redhead, if you ask me. And you didn't.) but she obliviously ducked him time after time. This animalistic dance carried on for well over an hour before the Fox changed tactics.

The Fox announced to the drunken crowd that the "Kissing contest" was about to commence, with himself as judge of course. Several other 'judges' volunteered their expertise and, no surprise, things quickly got out of hand. Just what qualifies as 'out of hand' in a house with a speed dial list like ours? Well, I can't describe it all, mostly because I was royally inebriated, but the Fox did end up judging Rose to be the best kisser in the house and they were a couple afterwards, so the scheme worked out quite well for him.

No doubt you're all wondering, did that slutty Venom kiss the Fox or not? Well, I did, but the judging was obviously rigged so any comments made would have absolutely no merit.

I do vaguely recall a quick word of suggestion from the Fox: "too much suction", I believe were his exact words.

The following Monday afternoon, GQ called out of the blue and asked me out on 'a real date' (his words), and he wasn't the only one who called over the next few days. I later learned that the Fox had blabbed his assface off to a lot of guys about all the smooching.

Apparently, the suction observation was intriguing rather than off putting to some.

(*See 'Midnight Cowboy' comments for specifics but, I warn you, it's now been done.)

The Midnight Cowboy, part Ia

2010-09-26T09:37:00.001-05:00

A gent who did not make the 'TOP FIVE' list has strangely come to mind; I called him the Midnight Cowboy. He kinda looked a little like Jon Voight did in that movie... the jeans, the mop of blonde hair, and the tilted back cowboy hat. One side of his mouth was always drawn into half a grin, he drawled more so than spoke, one thumb seemed permanently hooked into a belt loop, and he had an 'Aw shucks ma'am' thing going on that made me feel a little warm when he dropped his frequent winks my way.

I was working part-time at a truck stop off the highway in between school terms. The joint was a corny chain where we were forced to dress as buxom serving wenches in bustier dresses that laced up the front with full skirts that would twirl up for a good view if you got to moving too fast. MC was a twice nightly patron; he'd stop for supper on his way south, then 6 hours later or so he'd swing in again for late night coffee on his haul home.

A truck driver with an entrepreneurial streak, MC had a fairly brisk side trade dealing light weight out of his sleeper-cab. MC traveled with a selection of herbal remedies: from Maui Wowie to Thai stick, and a cornucopia of multi-coloured pills that his customers foolishly trusted MC to dispense. The terms 'black benny' or 'black beauty' were bantered around quite a bit in that crowd.

And then, of course, there was the powder. Oh yes, popular with the men and the ladies was MC. And there was I, aware of what was going on, but waaaay too innocent and self-righteous to be a part of that scene yet.

Not only did MC have plenty of jingle in his jeans for over tipping or the odd, silly little gift out of the blue, "Saw this here cute thing & right away knew I couldn't git you offa my mind 'til after I'd give it to you. You like it? Aww, wellll, I knew that flashing, stuffed purple unicorn key chain was just right for such a little girlie-gal as yourself."

It wasn't just me he dazzled with that bad boy smile; oh no, he was an equal opportunity charmer and had all the truck stop gals believing that, if only he had the time, he'd be very glad to drop in for more than coffee & pie...

Occasionally, instead of climbing into the bunks for a little shut eye, some dumb asshole would pull out a jug and the foolishness would commence. I shudder now to think how many guys drove out of that Voyageur parking lot more than a little impaired, but I have to admit that, with my cloak of teenage invincibility clutched tightly around me with one hand and a drink of whatever had been passed around in the other, I didn't really think too far ahead. I will confirm that I did wake up in my car more than once that summer - just my little nod to MADD.

MC, who walked on his own version of sunshine about 85% of the time on account of his hand was in his own kitty much of the time, declined the jet fuel of the day and so was generally the only 'sober' driver to be found. This one night, my roommate was so far gone, she really needed to get home. I mean, that drunk puker was no way going to sleep it off in my car! MC volunteered to take her home in her car and, without actually consulting me, I was elected to follow along and give MC a ride back. I found it hard to say 'NO!' to people in those days...

Flash forward about 45 minutes and the drunken roommate was all tucked away. MC & I made a 'dusting off' motion with our hands and laughed. When the laughter stopped, he stared into my eyes and waggled his eyebrows at me suggestively. I didn't back away when he slipped his hand behind my neck and drew me in for a very long, moist, sexy kiss. It was a good thing he had hold of me when the kiss ended or, my legs all jelly, I might have just slid down into a horny puddle on the floor.

We went into my room and laid down to make out. I expected MC to be smooth and 'take charge' but, as it turned out, that dawg was all bark and no bite. Finally presented with the opportunity to make good on all his flirting, MC's feet had turned into icebergs.

Suddenly MC remembered that he was a married man AND a father... but would I please keep that information under my hat? Wow. Just... wow. MC produced a fattie from behind his ear and said as he was just so danged worked up that he just needed to take 'er down a notch or two. It didn't sound like he was asking permission, so I got him an ashtray and left him there, propped up on my bed with his icebergs crossed out in front of him, and went off to brush my teeth.

When we got back to the parking lot, the men started with the nudging and the winking and the chuckling. 'Oh well now that's just GREAT', I thought, 'they're just assuming that I did him. Those frigging pigs.'

I was just about to go off in a huff when I overheard MC saying to a group of the pigs, "Hell no, I did not take advantage of little Venom! And something else, if I hear a word against her character SOMEbody's gonna loose a mess of teeth. Y'all hear that ?"

I've kept both MC's secrets safe until this very day. I never once mentioned his family or his problem with occasional impotence. MC went on driving a big rig, dealing merchandise out of his sleeper, and flirting up a storm right, left, and center, but the winks he dropped on me thereafter had an altogether different meaning.
And that was A-Okay with us.

Venom Lovers - part I

2010-09-16T09:01:00.005-05:00

I awoke this morning feeling rather restless. Sadly for me, I was quite alone; luckily for you, my juices were flowing. My creative juices, that is. I have been known to exhibit occasional poor judgement, and I blame that for today's decision to write about my lovers. Obviously, this will be a series.

Including the two that I married, I have had five lovers. Well, five of any real significance. I reason that, if they are so damned easy to forget, then that is how it should be. For the purposes of this topic, the number shall be five. Unless, of course, another important gentleman should suddenly pop to mind...

Lover #1, The Mechanic
My first lover was terribly angry with me for a long time after he 'deflowered' me.

He demanded to know why I hadn't told him I was a virgin; I didn't have an answer for him, or for myself even. He said that it had been all wrong, damn it! He blustered that I should have told him, that he would have wanted to make it something 'special' for me.

To this day I am not sure what he meant by 'special'. Would he have sprinkled rose petals around the blankets? Would there have been wine? Would we have done it in a bed instead of on the dining room floor?

Unkindly, I suspected that he would have liked to have known that he was taking my cherry so that he could have made the experience that much more 'special' for himself. I came to know only much later that he had really meant what he'd said.

I was 18, he was 27 -- looking back now, I see how I took advantage of him. Though he was not particularly my 'type' physically, we were well matched intellectually and both romantics at heart. In my innocence, I thought that alone might make us soulmates.

I chose him to be my first because he was experienced, and I reasoned that one of us should know how things were supposed to work out. As it turned out, I was right about that at least.
"No wonder you didn't know where to put your knees!", he sputtered afterwards, still indignant.

No doubt, had he taken on the role of teacher knowingly, he'd have had his lesson plan all mapped out. Taken by surprise as he was, he was too upset for any further instruction that night. Instead he took me by the hand and led me to my bed, where he held me tenderly until the morning. I think he cried a little for me and I wish now that, for his sake, I'd shared the secret of my virginity before I let him have it.

Laying in bed one night almost two years later he made a proposal, but not the one I wanted to hear. I did love him very much, though I was not IN love with him. I would not actually know the difference until I met my second lover, my first husband, but the Mechanic knew all along. That night he proposed that, if I would lose ten pounds, he would quit smoking.

At 20 years old, I'd have had to resort to laxatives to lose 10 pounds, and I didn't care that he smoked. But he knew long before I did that we weren't meant to be forever, and perhaps it was the only way he could think to make me leave him. With those words barely out of his mouth, both of us knew that I would shortly move on with my life.

Whether he ever understood or not, that first night with him was indeed special. I trusted him to take me from girl to woman; his tears that night told me that, while I should have done it differently, I was not wrong to choose him.

Tucked warmly there against him under his heavily muscled arm, I felt the beat of a man's heart inside his chest for the first time. It was wonderous.

It is still wonderous.

My sweet, sensitive Mechanic... to this day, you were the right choice.

True Stories and Other Lies

2010-09-08T09:41:00.001-05:00

These days I am confined to a wheelchair, a walker, or a pair of crutches. I get left behind a lot, not sure why that is. Okay, maybe I do have some idea. My children ~~have fled the house~~ are now both out on their own - FirstBorn pursuing a career & TheGoldenChild pursuing higher education.

My husband is out in hot pursuit of something else entirely.

No, not that. That I could understand. His mistress is a 9 iron; my husband loves to golf. I feel like I should be joining some kind of family support group; do they have Golf Widows Anonymous? Or is there maybe an umbrella organization called Sports Widows United meeting in some damp church basement nearby?

He says to me on his way out the door, "I'm going to the city to look at a log splitter; on the way home I'm going to stop off for a quick round." Wait, I might've wanted to go look at log splitters... he's already long gone.

There is no such thing as a quick round. The game should be called 'takes too fucking long' instead of golf. Or 'Go ahead & eat, I'll just grab a bite at the 19th hole'.

Did the scots who invented this thing have nothing to do? No sheep to herd or shear? No game to be hunted for the family larder? No equipment in need of repairs? No weapons to be fashioned, sharpened or maintained? No marauding romans or gaels to fight off? Nothing? Seriously?

When we first met, he thought he could convince me to love the game as he does. I later realized that what he really wanted was to see me bending over in really short white skirts, so we skipped the golf and went straight to the peep show.

Over the years I have played in a number of golf tournaments. Texas style tournaments, that is. In this type of tournie, only the best score for each hole is recorded and the other 3 don't count. You start off the morning with a complimentary breakfast, and there are cases of Baileys and orange liquer under the coffee pot tables. There's an attendant there to help you; I had to take the bottle out of his hands and pour my own. I could only carry two trays out; I guess there was some kind of limit or something??? My teammates said, "Oh yay, Venom brought the coffee!" "Oh please Bitches, get your own" I said, already crushing the first cup and handing it to yet another attendant. "I can take it from here", I said, but I was quickly outvoted on that and Agnes did the driving.

The rules are slightly relaxed, and the beer carts actually follow you around. Okay, they followed MY team around. I don't know if anyone else got to drink but we were well lubricated. It's so important to be nice and loose and bendy when you're playing sports, less risk of injury.

True story: Agnes had the pedal pinned to the floor in an effort to outrun the Golf Marshall, I was crouched down, clutching the handlebar and leaning way out the side, scooping up as many balls as I could get while we whizzed past them. I was reaching for my Baileys coffee just as we crested a little rise and the golfcart actually went airborn... tuck & roll, I thought, TUCK & ROLL!

Between the four of us, we were able to flip the cart back onto its wheels and grab up all the coffees that had tried to escape (it's amazing how well those lids hold), climb back aboard and flee to the next hole before the GM caught us. We did lose a lot of balls during the spill though. Eh, a lot of them we were not sure belonged to us originally anyways. But that's the chance you take when you buy cool coloured balls, that drunken women will steal them on sight. Stick to plain white balls and you will tempt no one.

At that next hole, from the bottom of a hill, I chipped one right into the cup, I actually didn't even know the pin was up there. I wasn't even aiming, I'm just that good. Better with Baileys... it should really be their slogan.

The Only Permanent Job

2010-09-02T08:40:00.005-05:00

The way I remember youth it went something like this:
teenagers + music + hanging out = drinking, smoking up, and making out. It was all good when we were the teenagers, but that attitude often changes when we become the parents of teenagers.

Some parents completely rewrite the truth of their youth. They'll tell their kids that they didn't drink until they were of age, that they never inhaled, & that they were virgins until their wedding night. Uh, yeeeaaahhh. Teenagers can smell bullshit from about the 2nd word outta your mouth &, while they may look like they're paying rapt attention, they've undoubtedly stopped listening right about the time your story started to smell like fertilizer.
We do the best we can to prepare them for getting out into that world, but they aren't robins, we don't push them out of the nest & forget all about them. Usually kids start dipping their toes into the world about kindergarten and by the time they're 16 or so they're in it about up to their waists. When you have daughters, that's of grave concern. Ba dum pum. FirstBorn has been living on his own again for the second time, having had one false start, and The Golden Child is just now trying out her fledgling wings.

I never lied to my children about my younger days (though I make it a practice to tell no story before its time) and so they know that I've made some bad choices, taken some big risks, and been very lucky a time or two. I've lived during my life, & I've been honest about that. I do my best to be understanding and calm (even when I've been freaking out inside), & so my kids come to me regularly to share their lives and occasionally for advice, commiseration, or solace. Sometimes their stories make me laugh out loud, and sometimes they make me shudder (that'd usually be stories from FirstBorn). Mostly though, their stories let me know that the lines of communication are open between us, and that tells me I'm doing my job.

Her first day of kindergarten... The Golden Child wore a little pink dress and a grin from ear to ear. I went along with, ostensibly volunteering my time in the classroom. From the first moment, she loved school. She was thirsty to learn new things, excelled at sports, and along with high marks was always some variation of 'social butterfly' in the teacher's comments. Next Tuesday is her first day of university. She'll wear something jaunty and fashionable of her own choosing, but I've no doubt her grin will be the same.

Yesterday her dad, one of her girlfriends, and the new boyfriend (shudder) helped The Golden Child move into her new place in the city, an hour away. She is so happy and excited, and I'm happy & excited for her too. I have my fears & worries of course, what mother wouldn't? But I'll never be further away than a phone call from my children and they trust that, and that tells us all that I'm still doing my job.

Taken Out @ the Knee, Final Chapter

2010-08-25T11:11:00.003-05:00

I was so thirsty, my lips were dry and my throat felt like a desert. ‘Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink’, I thought as I gazed at the foul swamp around me. Without much choice I grimaced & rubbed my dry lips with my wet hand. I was distressed to suddenly realize that I needed to pee quite urgently. There I was, half floating, half drowning in stinky water & wondered why I was busting my bladder; I giggled out loud and it sounded looney in the air. ‘What the hell’, I thought and let it go.

The water level began to drop steadily until at last I had dragged myself onto a soggy but warm patch of ground. I fell back in gratitude and lay there enjoying the feeling of victory & the sun on my face.

The sense of elation I felt faded quickly as my pain level, with no more water to buoy up my leg, began to amp up seriously badly. I looked down at my pant leg, which was bursting at the seam with my swollen limb. I felt slightly nauseous. “Heeeelllpp! Wicked, Help me please!” Pulling my trusty timex out of my hatband I read the time, 1 pm.

I considered my timing. Wicked would for sure be coming outside any minute now; our german shepherd was due at the vet’s office to have stitches removed at 1:30. Calculating that they’d only be outside for maybe 5 minutes, I hollered my head off so loud I thought I would sprain a lung. Surely to God the dog would hear me, but it seemed unrealistic to think that she could do more than signal with a cock of the head and maybe a concerned whine. ‘Jesus’ I scolded myself, ‘she’s not fucking Lassie you know.’

Hearing nothing but nature, I planted my hands behind me and scooted backwards again. Whoa! Bad move. My pain receptors were firing just as they should, maybe overtime. My heel was caught up on a little chunk of mud, but it felt as though it were hung up on a rock as big as my head.

‘Holy shit, holy shit, oh my god, oh my god, ohmyGOD!’ The words in my mind seemed so clear that I must’ve said them out loud, but it came out more like, “AAAAHHHHH, motherF’Er, that hurts!” My hands flew up to clamp down above my knee and skidded my clumsy peg gently to a more level spot. The fireworks in my leg banked down into mere waves of fire eating me alive. I squeezed my thigh hard & waited, panting, until I could scream again for help that just wasn’t coming.

I flopped down onto my back and big jagged sobs ripped through my chest, feeling like razors cutting me to shreds. I heard Angel nicker weakly and the sound of splashing that told me she was thrashing to get herself up again. The thought that she might make it to her feet and then crash through the swamp towards home, blindly trampling me in the process, terrified me, but the splashes were only half-hearted & soon stopped. I knew my gorgeous horse was giving up; I cried harder knowing that she was still waiting for rescue and lacked the capacity to understand that I could not help either one of us.

I yelled and yelled, and cried and cried, and at last I felt quite hopeless. It was nearly 1:30 & I felt certain that no one had heard all the screaming or any of the racket I had been making for the past 2-½ hours. Finally I was just all out of tears, I was out of anger, and I was out of determination as well. The sun on my face felt like the warmest of blessings; the frog song, the crickets, the birds chirping, and the wind softly rustling through the grasses sounded like music to me. In that moment, I let go of my own will to all that power so much greater than me and quietly surrendered.

Time passed, just floated away on lazy swells of summer heat as I lay there flat on my back, my arms outstretched in desperate supplication. In the distance I heard the faintest purr of a motor, but it didn’t seem real, couldn’t be real. Idly, I wondered if it was a chainsaw, or a weed whacker, or a lawn tractor, or… could it be the little quad that we use as a daily workhorse? The sound pulled away a bit, then seemed closer for a moment, then pulled away again. I thought once that perhaps I heard the slightest echo of a voice, but it was not real enough to disturb my peaceful resignation.

The sound of the motor grew steadier and seemed to be drawing nearer again, and then I heard him, faintly but clearly, “Where are you?” he called. The tall grasses surrounding me shielded him from view as I bolted upright, waving my arms in the air & screaming out to him, “Here! I’m here, I’m here, I’m heeeeere! Good God, don't run over me, I'm here!” I didn’t think I had tears left, and yet out they poured in floods of relief.

And then there he was, crashing through the grass, my shining knight on his modern day warhorse. I pulled my watch out of my hatband again and looked at it a final time, it was 2:25.

Now, dear Venomites, is where I will try to make this very long story just a bit shorter (and the wisest among you will not comment that it took far too long to do so).

911 was summoned and then Wicked waded out into the swamp to strip Angel’s tack; I yelled after him to stay away from her legs (good advice from a complete idiot with a leg close to being sheared off neatly under the kneecap). The Golden Child called a neighbour who hopped on his tractor & headed over to help rescue my good horse. But in the meantime Wicked went back out with a halter and, with a mighty effort, helped the 1100 lb beast back onto her feet before the neighbour even arrived. Wicked led Angel from the water onto dry ground and home to the barn where the vet was waiting. After more than 3 hours down, Angel suffered no more serious injury than one puffy leg and after a week of bute, stall rest, and barnyard turnout, she seemed to forget the entire ordeal.

I was lashed to a backboard, lifted onto the back of the quad, and hauled to an ambulance waiting in the field. My other 4 horses were there, pestering the paramedic in hopes that he carried apple-flavoured treats in one of his many pockets and poking their heads curiously into the open doors of the ambulance.

Two days later an orthopedic surgical team put my leg back together with a steel plate and six long screws; I’ll definitely be setting off metal detectors for the rest of my life. I spent 8 long days in a semi-pleasant morphine haze before strongly demanding to be transferred back to the small town hospital closer to home. Within hours of my kicking up a fuss, the same paramedics swooped in like the A-team and whisked me away. I spent another 5 uncomfortable days in the local hospital and then signed myself out. They said I should stay longer, but I’m pretty sure they were secretly pleased to see the south side of Venom. Without the 55 mg of morphine per hour they’d been pumping into me in the city hospital I was a somewhat less agreeable patient… go figure, eh?

6 weeks later, here I sit in my wheelchair, once again tapping the keyboard. Over the last 4 weeks as I wrote out my story for you, there were a lot of times that I was right back out in that swamp, cold and soggy and scared to death. It seems as though I’ve cried as many tears just reliving the story as I did on the day it happened.

I saw my surgeon this week and got the okay to finally ditch the heavy, hot, itchy, clumsy, metal & plastic brace that had encased my leg from thigh to ankle. He tells me it’ll be another 6 to 8 weeks yet before he thinks I’ll be able to bear weight on the leg, and perhaps another 3 months after that before I feel comfortable walking. My knee is stiff and numb on the side of the 6-inch scar where the plate is screwed into the bone. It often feels itchy, but scratching does not register on the skin; it doesn’t feel at all like my own leg anymore, and I sometimes wonder if it ever will.

Seeing elderly people shuffle along pushing their walkers it looked relatively easy to do, but the longer I hop along one-legged behind mine, the more empathy I feel. I’ve been outside my house exactly 5 times in the last 6 weeks and, watching the summer fade towards autumn, I feel robbed of all this time I could be spending on horseback. I know I should feel grateful that I will ride again at all, and then I feel guilty for my lapse in appreciation.

This past Sunday I hopped out to the barn to visit with the farrier, and dammit but didn’t we build that barn awfully far from the house. I sat on a stool next to Angel’s stall; she stepped up to the front and hung out over her door, draping her big head over my shoulder. She closed her eyes in pleasure as I stroked her lovely face and thought how easily her forgiveness was granted.

I looked up at the barbed wire clock hanging on the tack room wall and, seeing that it was 2:25, I felt a slight shiver of deja vous.

Taken Out @ the Knee, part III

2010-08-16T10:16:00.006-05:00

part III: Get Me to Higher Ground, Lord

“Heeeeelllllpp!” I yelled as loudly as I could. My voice cracked and rasped, my throat hurt but I yelled until I thought I might rupture a vocal chord. It was time for a change of tactics. I decided to shout every 5 minutes or so, loudly but not so loud as to induce a hemorrhoid.

Maybe Wicked would hear me when he went out to the patio to enjoy his morning coffee.

If he were awake yet, and if he weren’t drinking it in front of the computer in the quiet house, if I were lucky. The Golden Child was home from work, but the chance that she was out of her bed before noon was pretty slim. We have one neighbour a half mile down the road, but if he weren’t at his job then he’d be out haying.

“This never would have happened if Minnow had been with us you know Angel.” I muttered to the horse, “Never would have happened.” The german shepherd bitch was my constant companion out of doors; accompanying me when I rode out was her favourite thing in the world. Whenever I reach down a halter she starts to quiver in anticipation, running circles around the barn, making those little ‘Hurry Up!’ whines. While I ride, Minnow scouts ahead, weaving in & out of the bush, plunging through some tough country & serving as my only early warning system here in bear country. But Minnow had been confined to the house for the last few weeks recouping from a severe injury that had required life saving surgery.

The big mare held her head up out of the water; her neck cranked back to look at me patiently, putting herself in my hands once again. “Well old gal,” I said to her, “I was kind of hoping for a boat, but I guess God helps those who help themselves, doesn’t he?”

I cast a look over my shoulder at the 6 foot wide path of flattened grasses we had made getting to this point, but the path was swallowed up by swamp grasses waving lazily 4 feet high out of the water; I couldn’t see anything more than tree tops in the distance, no markers that would indicate to me how far we had already come, nor how much further we had ended up from where I knew to be dry ground.

Finally I decided that even if going back were a shorter route, with my leg so bad off, it would be smarter to just head for the barnyard and hope for the best. I decided to make my way around Angel’s belly side; the last thing I wanted to do was go too far off course, so I took a bearing on the tiny fringe of willow branches that I could see overhead and hoped I wasn’t imagining the more direct route than trying to go around behind her.

I reached out with my left arm and grabbed a handful of sharp edged grass and dropped into the cold water on my side, but stabbing pain exploding in my leg told me that was not going to work. I rolled onto my belly, and now I was the one blowing bubbles. No go. ‘Well shit,’ I thought, ‘now what?’
My leg was playing a symphony and I felt so helpless, I just sat there in the swamp and cried for about 5 minutes. My good horse never took her eyes off of me, and finally she nickered softly as if to tell me to quit feeling sorry for myself and get moving.

“You’re right Angel. This is nothing to what those boys go through overseas; some of them lose limbs and keep right on fighting. How many of them drag themselves, horribly wounded, across battlefields and conditions way worse than this? Lots of them, that’s how many.”

I felt shame for just wanting to be rescued rather than soldiering bravely onward. Pep talk over, I spun around on my arse & reached behind me, grabbed a big handful of grass in my hand and pulled hard while scooting backwards. Yeah, not easy, but by flattening the grasses behind me handful by handful, I created a tangled carpet of swamp grass beneath the water to support my weight and slow progress was possible. I caught Angel’s eye for a moment before the grasses came between us, “Don’t worry big Girl, I got this. Steady on.” I told her as I dragged myself slowing out of her sight.

The going was slow, and I stopped to rest often, my leg floated on the surface of the water throbbing only gently, I wondered idly if I were going into shock. The thought frightened me, what if I were to pass out, would I come to if I slipped underwater altogether? I didn’t know, but the thought got me moving again. Reach behind for another handful, pretend its just rope & ignore the sting of the hundred tiny slices the grasses cut into my hands and arms. Scoot backwards 6 inches at a time, 6 inches closer to home.

Reach back, grab, drag, and scoot. Reach back, grab, drag, and scoot. “Just get me to dry ground, hey God.” Reach back, grab, drag, scoot. Reach back, grab, drag, and scoot. “Just get me to dry ground and I’ll be okay.” I found myself chanting, “Dry ground, dry ground, dry ground.”

Every few minutes I called out loud for help, but held out very little hope of being heard. My teeth began to chatter and my arms trembled and threatened to fold; there was no feeling at all in my leg as it bobbed uselessly in the water. I rested for a couple of minutes and wondered honestly if I maybe really would die, in broad daylight, so close to my home and my family within it. At that moment I was as close to despair as I have ever been.

I dragged myself backwards across the carpet of grasses in fits and starts, somewhat hypnotized by the repetition, occasionally leaning backwards to stare above the grasses into the distance and realign towards the tops of a stand of willow trees near the narrow throat of the north pasture. All I could see of the way I’d come was a 3 foot wide swath of flattened swamp grass, Though I couldn’t see her, occasionally Angel would grunt or splash or nicker wearily and I would call out what I hoped were confidant reassurances to her. Hearing her still patiently awaiting rescue spurred me onward.

The water level began to drop significantly at last and I called out to Angel cheerily, “Almost there Big Girl, I’m almost on dry ground! I’ll be able to belly crawl from there, no problem Angel. Won’t be long now, dry stall, clean drink, and a rack full of yummy hay for you. Hang on just a little longer.”

I felt renewed energy and double-timed backwards toward the edge of the nasty, stinking swamp.

*final chapter*

Taken Out @ the Knee, part II

2010-08-05T11:50:00.005-05:00

Hey yo, I'm glad to see you back for a second helping of my horror story - let's get back to it, shall we?

Taken Out @ the Knee
part II: Bargaining with God

Angel collapsed into the water with a loud, lung-draining grunt behind me. Only the thick snarl of grasses that she'd flattened in her struggles cushioned the thousand+ lb mare against sinking like the Titanic. She fought weakly to keep her head up as each time she laid down one side of her face was submerged in just enough water to cover her eye & I could hear her exhaled breath bubbling.

'Holy Jesus Christ!', I thought. When Angel had gone down I'd instinctively jumped away from her the full length of the reins, which were still clutched tightly in my hand. Now I muttered gently to the horse, knowing that my own state of mind would influence her to calm or to panic.

I had to get behind the downed animal and unfasten her gear; wearing that 40 lb saddle and battling the swamp she would have little chance to get up on her own. I unbucked the near side of the breastcollar and then reached under water for the other buckle, but Angel was laying too flat on her side and the tangle of grasses made it even more difficult to try to work the stubborn buckle. In a moment of piss-poor judgement, I stepped out in front of her head and reached down between her legs for the snap attached there to her cinch...

In an attempt to please me, I'm sure, just then the big mare made one mightly effort to stand. As if in slow motion, I saw her neck flex and her shoulders heave as that powerful front leg shot out and caught me perfectly flat against the side of my left leg, directly under my knee.

I felt the bone crushing impact & flew through the air, windmilling my arms & landing with a splash somewhere behind the horse. Without thinking I scrambled away to a safer distance - maybe 12 feet behind the struggling beast. She stilled and fell back for a moment; I heard what sounded like a dolphin surfacing as the far side of her head submerged.

"Angel!", I cried out in fright, "easy BigGirl, easy now!" I fought to keep my voice strong and steady for her, hoping she could draw calm from me if she could still believe that I remained just even a little bit in control. "Steady there Gal, eeeaassy now there Gal." I said it over and over again, like a powerful mantra that calmed me also as I considered the revised predicament into which I'd gotten us both.

I talked out my thoughts in a strong but steady voice; it seemed to help both Angel & I to hear something more than buzzing and frogsong. Angel whinnied weakly, and in the distance, we could both hear one of the small herd at home answering. She raised her head to look at me, then touched her muzzle to her cinch as if to say that, but for that heavy saddle, maybe she could be the one to save us. Her huge, expressive brown eyes shone with trust as she held my gaze while I babbled on & on.

"Yeah Old Gal, we're in a pickle here alright; I should've listened to you, I admit it", I said to her, "but let's come back to that once we're safe & home, shall we? I promise you one thing, we are not dying laying around out here in the stinking swamp 1/4 of a mile from the gaddang barn! Oh no, we are not. No gaddang way."

I laid back in the water, propping myself up on my hands, & it occurred to me to check out my leg as part of formulating a plan - not such a good idea. It floated lazily on top of the dirty water like a piece of driftwood bobbing in the surf; the leg of my jeans looked as though it were ballooned up with the water, but felt stretched tight against my flesh.

I looked off into the tall grasses as a little wave of nausea threatened me, be damned if I'd be caught dead floating around in swamp water and my own vomit! On the tip of my floating boot a frog no bigger than the top joint of my thumb watched me; he seemed to croak encouragement. "Fuck off Kermit", I muttered at it in bad humour.

"Help!", I yelled. "Heeeellllpppp! Heeellllpppp! For God's sake, pleeease help!" Incessant buzzing & chirping & croaking were the only sounds left in the air after my cries faded. I knew that Wicked & The Golden Child were at home, but I had left them both sleeping soundly in their beds hours ago, and my best guess told me it was likely they were sleeping still. I held my breath and listened harder. No, nothing but nature. 'Damn it.' I thought to myself, 'What the hell do I do now?'

It came to me without conscious thought - prayer. Some might call it bargaining with God; believe me, I was feeling frazzled enough to make deals. "If you're there God, and if you're talking to me these days, I could use a little help here please." I prayed out loud, as though doing so might deliver my message more urgently. "Angel is too young to die, and this would be a ridiculous death God", I pleaded, "there's no way she shouldn't deserve to die peacefully, warm & happy with a full belly in her own comfortable stall, many years from now, right? She's earned that over & over again; didn't she earn that much at least God?" I looked up into the brilliant sky and imagined my higher power listening quietly; funny that I couldn't seem to think of anything I might say to convince Him of my own worth, but for the sake of Angel my pleas came easily enough.

A brazen horsefly settled on my wet tee-shirt but before he could take a chunk out of me I flung my hand up out of the water and swept him away with a curse. The sunlight glinted off the silver bangle of my watch, catching my eye and momentarily distracting me. I rarely wear a timepiece, except to work, and I cannot recall what made me slip it on that morning, but it suddenly seemed very important to me that it not be ruined by the water.

It was still ticking! A few seeds stuck to the face and strands of green were caught between the band & my dripping wrist, but it was still running and that seemed to me like a sign that God was indeed with me.

It was 11:03 am, July 12. 2010
*part III*

Taken Out @ the Knee, part I

2010-07-29T18:07:00.001-05:00

Well howdy dear Venomites,
So yeah, once again, I've been missing in action for a while; please do accept my apologies for not doing too much commenting over at your place as I try to catch up on my favourite bloggers. I'm hoping maybe you can cut me some slack for being absent this time - I have a doctor's note.

Seriously. A doctor's note, I have one.

It's called a tibial plateau fracture - basically, it is easily the most agony I've ever been in, and I'm just barely down the start of a long road. Keeping in mind that I have 2 grown children, I think I know the true meaning of pain, and (trust me) I'd really rather have had another baby... without an epidural.

A few weeks ago I got myself into a helluva jackpot out on the south forty while attempting to scout a dry route through what was once a productive hayfield.

There's been so much rain here the last few years that we are drowning; this is our third summer here and we haven't yet had a prayer of getting a tractor onto that field! Kinda kicks the shit out of being a "self-sufficient operation" when you can't even grow feed for your own horses, and I can tell you that the revenue man does not have a lot of patience or empathy for small-time family farms in the red.

Fair warning: this is kind of a long story and, at the moment, my tolerance for wheelchair-bound keyboarding is mostly small increments.
If you're still tuned in, here's my tale, broken up into a couple of bits to ease my discomfort...

Taken out @ the Knee
Part I: Swampbait

Angel & I were at the tail end of an 8 mile ride on that pleasant July morning; the sun was climbing high in the bright blue prairie sky and a light breeze kept us cool and the bug activity light.

Half a mile from the house, I chained the far gate behind us and gently chastised my bay standardbred for not standing politely for my remount.
"Let's just remember it's the two-leggers who make the decisions around here, shall we old gal?" I remember saying to her.
We headed off in a mostly northerly direction at an easy walk, aiming between two distinctly marshy areas choked tight with bullrushes for a double highway width stretch of wild hay running on through to the east pasture up back of the house and straight to the barnyard.
The sweet smell of my horse under me drifted upwards on waves of warmth from the golden grasses, and the cacophony of myriad frogs and buzzing flies lured me toward inattention as I lazily scanned the bush & pasture before me.
Without warning Angel plunged, headfirst, into a sinkhole up above her breastcollar! Thrashing wildly, the big mare tried to propel the two of us backwards, to no avail. I ripped my boots out of the stirrups and flung myself off to the left, landing without grace on my feet in the brackish waist deep water.
Trying to remain authoratative and confident, I flipped the braided reins over Angel's head and forged through the muck hoping to gain us solid footing. With each determined step the swamp seemed to suck against our legs & feet harder and harder. Finally, exhausted, my beautiful girl went completely down and my heart sank with her into the stinking muck.
**Stay tuned for part II, coming soon**

Escalating Body Count

2010-07-12T01:52:00.006-05:00

Corpses pile up quickly as they drop under the line of fire and must be swept away daily, lest they begin to stink.
There are no wounded here, only the decimated bodies of a common enemy. The sound of the carnage could drive any sane person mad...

...if that person gave a shit, that is.

Snap! Crack! Pop! Sizzle!

Wait a sec -- Sizzle?

Abso-fucking-lutely SIZZLE!

Fry you GD little bastards, & I hope like hell you can hear me laughing as you explode.

*No disrespect meant to any honourable member of the armed forces - Venom has nothing but the greatest respect and appreciation for your service to country & countrymen.*

Slasher Films Pale in Comparison...

2010-06-29T20:33:00.004-05:00

...to the drama of the past weekend, I swear.

I've been MIA for the last while because there's been company at the Venom Palace, & the computer is in the guest room. When I play hostess I feel that my guests deserve to have space to themselves -- haven't we all been guests somewhere, at sometime, when we felt like we needed a little privacy? So yeah, being all heroic-like, I do that for people who stay here... but I digress.

Returning from work Saturday evening, I pull into the workshop/garage and notice that the MightyHunterGermanShepherdBitch's pen is gone. You may remember the Bitch from such past entries as TKO - Shepherd's Pie Anyone? , or You'll NEVER Catch That Squirrel!

Hmmm, I think, that's weird -where's her pen? The house is so empty there's an echo when I call out - again, that's weird. I finally find everyone, including the Bitch, in the attached garage which we also call 'the rumpus room'.

What??
Did I really just refer to a 'rumpus room'?
Well yeah, I'm guess that I'm heroic AND odd, go figure. This is your invitation to stay with me here in this decade please Venomites, rumpus rooms and other such anachronisms can (and likely will) be discussed at another time.

So the Bitch is there in her pen - with a HUGE bandage encompassing her lower left hind leg. As I'm told, Gramma decided that it was a great day to go clean up the last of the known dumpsites on our property. Not talking body dumpsites or anything awesome like that, just plain old regular dumbass-farmer dumpsites from back in the days when dumbasses in the country just made their own; why the fuck is it that many places have multiple, unreclaimed dumpsites to this day, I just do not fathom.

Additionally, these sites always seem be in spots that are difficult to access when the present generation wishes to make them safe for livestock by 1) covering them in loads of dirt and compost deep enough to grow shit on again, or 2) picking up and properly disposing of the garbage in legal landfills. We have chosen option #2, and believe me Brother, we have hauled boatloads of glass, metal, and all manner of crap off this place in the last few years.

So the Bitch followed them all out to the site and, though she's been over hill and dale here daily since we rescued her from the shelter, that day she stepped on a hunk of glass and nearly severs her freaking foot! Of course, she immediately ran to the barn and hid under my desk in the tackroom, FirstBorn in hot pursuit of why the "Yipe!" before she fled. FirstBorn had to drag the Bitch out and there was blood JETTING out of her leg. Whipping a tourniquet on the leg & rushing the Bitch to the vet hospital 15 minutes away (where they did emergency surgery to repair an artery and two tendons) & very narrowly saved her life. The vet also charged roughly a month's salary for this service.

I did not know that FirstBorn knew first aid -- but I'm sure glad he did as I'm kind of fond of the Bitch (as you may have guessed).

So the Boy is my hero again, and the Bitch is now worth more $$ than his car. Like that's a newsflash...

He Said Swallow...

2010-06-15T09:47:00.006-05:00

...I didn't think I could even do it; I found the very idea repugnant.

"You don't want any babies, do you? Then do it now and do it right Girl" , he said. It was clear that he meant to force me if I didn't go along.

Feeling slightly sickened & afraid it might splash into my eyes, I squeezed them tightly shut. I gagged a little, the stream was so strong. It began to run down my arm and drip from my elbow.

At last, it came crashing down in wet, muddy chunks.

A barn swallow's nest, that is. What in heaven's name did you think I was talking about??

Ooooohhh!! I see now where your dirty gutter minds immediately went. As if I'd ever tarnish my reputation in that manner. Hmmph.
For shame people, for shame.

Busted!

2010-06-10T00:52:00.005-05:00

The Golden Child: I so can't believe you Mother.

Venom: What? What did I do?

TGC: You know what you did.

Venom: No, nope. I don't have any clue what you're talking about.

TGC: Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Venom: I'm wearing a dress. Nope, no pants so (it must follow) no lies.

TGC: I read your stupid blog.

Venom: Oh. In that case, I'm sorry.

TGC: Now that's an understatement....

More Aberrant Behaviour

2010-06-04T02:40:00.001-05:00

Today I out & out lied to The Golden Child.

*Bad Mommy, so bad!*

TGC has been cashiering at a grocery store, but she has been wanting to work in the one & only 'cool' store in town. Today I was in that store and, knowing they are presently hiring, I asked the owner whether he had TGC's resume on file.

TGC would be mortified to know I was in there pimping her out; I may have mentioned this to the man.

He said, "No sweat, just tell her I phoned & I want her to come by for an interview." Small town guys, gotta luv 'em.

Outside I spotted TGC and her friends cruising on their lunch hour and I blasted my horn at her until she pulled over - coincidentally right across the street from the cool store.

I casually gave her the message and she was so excited that she actually squealed. She suspected nothing. *mwahahah*

The only question she asked was, "Do I look cute right now?"

Which, of course, she did and I told her so.

"Oh good, I'll go over there right now to meet the man & shake his hand!"

*That's my girl.*

And off she skipped straight into the cool store, leaving her buddies swinging their heels waiting for her.

I drove home (again, no seat belt) feeling like the cat who swallowed the canary.

I probably deserve a spanking for that, right?

*hopeful eyebrows*

Volunteers?

*deafening silence*

My Crime Spree Continues...

2010-06-03T00:20:00.005-05:00

Today I drove around town in my pick-up truck without buckling my seat belt.

The Old Man left his cell phone in the truck and I used it to make a quick call to The Golden Child.

The cashier at the dollar store gave me too much change. I didn't notice at first, but when I later realized that she had made a mistake, I did not go back to the store and return that dime. Hey, my dad will tell you, theft is theft whether it be 10 cents or 10 dollars.

Then, while driving home, I was traveling @ 105 km/hr in complete defiance of the clearly posted 100 km/hr speed limit.

Oh yeah, I am such a badass.

Do Handcuffs Chafe?

2010-06-02T03:34:00.003-05:00

I only ask because I may soon be wearing a pair, and (sadly) I don't mean the "oh Baby, oh BABY, yesyessYESSS!" kind of cuffs.

Tonight, I committed a heinous crime. *hangs head in shame*

In this family of law enforcement fanatics ANY sort of criminal activity is frowned upon. *Sorry Dad, I really only mean 'fanatic' in the professional sense of the word, of course.*

What is my crime you wonder?

No, I did not poison the fucktard contractor... but good guess - YOU have obviously been paying attention up in here now. But the crime...

No, tonight the Old Man & I toured on out to our eastern-most ditch & dug up a bunch of wildflowers. OMG, now I've implicated the Old Man! Shit, this is probably gonna look bad to his employers...

Acting all on my own, with absolutely NO accomplices, I replanted that bunch of pretty posies right there, bold as brass, up in my front flowerbed. *Come & get me Coppers!*

What the hell kind of wildflower would possibly be worth jail time, you ask?

Pictured here, the yellow Ladyslipper, a member of the orchid family. Yeah, that's right, wild orchids growing in a boggy ditch smack dab in the middle of Manitoba's armpit. Bet you wouldn't have guessed that.

The neighbour from up the road insists that what I've done is highly illegal, as well as selfish. My research shows that she may well be mistaken. But then again, she is a native of this province (& therefore self-proclaimed expert).

She can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut for all I give a shit.

That boozy old bitch better not try & start something with me, or.... well, I don't know what, but surely to Gawd it'd be something that could land me in a set of cuffs, right? *hopeful look*

Mow 'Em Down!

2010-05-22T06:44:00.007-05:00

Earlier in the day I had somehow missed avoiding one of the not quite flat rocks that spew from the Manitoba earth like the diarrhea you'd get from eating green bananas.

Old Man: Geez, the grass is looking pretty ragged. I guess I'm gonna have to buy a new blade for that tractor, there's not much of an edge left there for me to grind down anymore.

Venom: Hmmm? Ragged? Does it really? *best wide eyed & mystified look*

I guess I was a little tuckered to notice how the lawns actually looked after mowing out there in the blazing sun for 3 1/2 hours today...

I noticed it was shorter though. *hopeful eyebrows*

Old Man: Ahhh-yuh. It is shorter.

*suspiciously, his gaze pans the vast expanse of grass we refer to as the yard - his face darkens* You haven't been running down young trees again, have you?

Venom: Only one, but it tiny & it was dead anyways. And that was 3 1/2 hours work in the scorching sun before I ran the mower out of gas, eh? I only had to finish that little patch behind the shop when it ran out. You know, it's hard to pour in just enough gas to leave the tank empty when I park that thing.

Old Man: *shaking head* You really have it rough, don't you?

Why Buy The Cow...

2010-05-14T16:00:00.003-05:00

...when you can get the milk for free.

Nope, that didn't just come off the top of my head; rather it is an example of the many colourful euphemisms with which I grew up.

I mean, at the very least I could have made a lame attempt at originality for the sake of loyal Venomites, but I'm trying to stay on track here. Don't derail me man, I have such a fragile grasp on the here & now that it's best to just go with it & hope I get to the point sooner than later. *looks @ watch*

So anyways, yesterday I met a gal who I would like to get to know better and I was all enthusiastic about it. I may have mentioned it in passing...

But this morning I woke up with the vaguely familiar feeling *wiseguys out there better just shut the hell up* that a young woman might get if she were to sleep with a guy too soon; slightly dirty and knowing that he's busy carving another notch in his bedpost.

I regretted being so open yesterday. I talked too much & didn't listen enough. I served her coffee warmed in the microwave instead of making a fresh pot! I am such a shitty hostess. Gawd, the desperation must have been rolling off of me in fragrant waves. I knew for sure that I'd never again hear from her.

What the hell, I thought, I don't need friends, I'm just as happy being a hermit. I'm gonna buy a shotgun and start spending hours at a time in the attic, looking out the window and watching the road for trespassers to fire upon.

Today she emailed me - I opened it with trepidation, positive it was a 'Dear Jane' note and subconsciously forming a loose plan in my head to find out where she lives and pepper her front stoop with horseshit. Repeatedly.

Luckily for her, she likes me. *obviously she is a terrific judge of character*
She wrote that she & her significant other are looking forward to coming over this weekend for a couple's play date.
*Horseshit plan on hold until further notice*

Instant Chemistry

2010-05-13T13:35:00.005-05:00

Not talking about the old baking soda/vinegar volcano here either.

I'm talking about chemistry between people; that almost audible 'click' that just happens in your head, your soul, or sometimes in your heart. Chemistry that cannot be manufactured or forced.

Often this kind of chemistry is thought reserved for lovers, but there are really no boundaries & it's usually a surprise when it strikes.

I met someone new today; we have in common a life's passion for horses. She visited the palace of Venom and within 30 minutes of meeting we had saddled up and gone for a ride. We spent a total of 3 hours together, including coffeetime, and the conversation never lapsed.

It's been a while since I hit it off with someone so quickly. Actually, since moving here almost 2 years ago I hadn't met a single person whose company I would seek out; maybe today that's changed.

I hope she felt that 'click' too.

Family...

2010-05-11T00:09:00.005-05:00

...can't live with 'em, can't beat them over the head with the nearest heavy object and drag their bodies out to the compost pile behind the barn.
*sigh*

However, today I seriously considered doing my brother the favour of making him eligible for an early widower's pension...

Brutal Withdrawal

2010-05-05T12:06:00.009-05:00

Picture this scenario:

You go on a total runaway from home & have a really great time for say, I don't know, maybe a month.

You arrive home and have the best sleep evah in your own bed on fresh, crisp sheets, with your own pillow.

Then you wake up with what feels like about the worst frigging hangover of your entire life, but you got your last drunk on about 3 days ago.

Right about now I am reminded that ultra-rapid detox from the sweet green leaf is never a good plan.

You know what I'm talking about? This happens to you too, right?

Oh! Yeah, no. Me either.
Well, just forget I said anything...

Venom's baaaacckk...

2010-05-04T23:17:00.005-05:00

...rested.

Rejuvenated.

Revitalized.

But not to worry, just as raunchy & raucous as ever.

Ready to rant & rip in whichever direction deserves it most.

Best to duck & cover kiddies, duck & cover.

Don't pretend there isn't something special between us;

I know you totally missed me.

Vous m'adorez.

Gonna Get my Drunk On

2010-04-02T09:01:00.013-05:00

Spring break is almost over... for the kids, that is

Oh yeah, Venom is jetting outta this dump very early manyana, and I'll be gone maybe as much as a month, if I'm lucky. I am headed for private beaches, fast horses, wilderness adventures, & bartenders who free pour.

You know you wish you could stowaway in my suitcase...

There will be no cameras allowed on this trip. That's how bad I'm gonna be - SO bad that I cannot allow my debauchery to be recorded.

BUT, if you should happen to see a series of 'Who's that Incredible Hottie?' pics bandied about the gossip media, it'll probably be me, because I'm awesome as you know. Unless Paris Hilton is also featured; I will never(!) share a cover with that round-heeled, flat-backed cooze again.

Sunny skies, beachcombing, waterfalls, horse racing, & wild adventures, here I come!!

The Venom, the Secrets, & the Lies will start flowing right here again in May. Until then, go ahead & envy me.

Don't Shock the Semen!!

2010-03-30T22:26:00.007-05:00

At one time I worked at a genetics transfer station. Qualified technicians jacked off pigs and then sent the jizz to me in the lab; it was the closest I've come to working in the sex industry.

A GTS is a fast paced environment because semen is a sensitive product that must be collected, examined, and processed rapidly. Once the semen has been extended it is more stable and ready for packaging, cooling, & distribution.

The lab is a temperature controlled environment because, if the semen is 'shocked', there is a high mortality rate of sperm cells. Dead swimmers command a low market price... obviously.

Little known factoid: the optimum semen storage temperature is 17 degrees celcius (62.6 degrees farenheit).

Venom is ALL about the gatheringing and dispensing of intriguing information that is guaranteed to stick in your mind permanently.

Go ahead, just TRY to forget the optimum semen storage temperature....
*waiting*

See? You cannot do it.
What is learned cannot be unlearned.
*You're welcome.*

Don't even try to tell me that you won't be dazzling people around you with this information, because you totally WILL and probably sooner than later. Like, if you're at work right now? I bet you won't even make it to your coffee break before you share with someone who will also be simultaneously stunned, intrigued, and a little bit wiser for the knowledge.

So when you trot out this particular bit of trivia, tell them that you heard it here at Venom, Secrets, & Lies. Tell them that you personally recommend that they get a little Venom in their lives.

Cum Sprayed Up Her Back...

2010-03-21T09:29:00.007-05:00

... & into her ear, the last few drops landing across the bridge of her nose and in her eyebrows.

"Wow" I said, turning away to hide my big grin & popping the leaky tube of semen into the heat sealer. "Good thing you had your mouth closed."

"You are going to be the one explaining to the ER nurse @ the hospital WHY my hearing aid is stuck in my ear.", she replied dryly.

That job was like a bad porno.

My Nipples are Snap-Off Hard...

2010-03-18T17:05:00.006-05:00

...but at least I don't have to watch my son wander around shirtless today.

Seriously; FirstBorn rambles around the house barechested in board shorts & a ballcap as though we live on Ventura Blvd. or something. This is March in the fuzzy navel of the Canadian wilderness -- there is still snow on the ground here!!

People question why I keep my thermostat set at 69 degrees; it is because even at that temperature I have to look at my FirstBorn half naked across the dinner table, though he does take off his hat for meals as he's not a total heathen. He acts like everyday is a campout and we're all just sitting around the fire balancing plates of beans & weenies on our laps.

Yes, I object. Strenuously. But he's 20, and I have learned to save my strength for the battles that really matter, and just let be the little things like nipples.

Now, who among you is still eagerly awaiting a dinner invitation from Venom?
Yeah. That's about what I thought...

Venoms' Snarky Survivor Recap

2010-03-12T08:56:00.003-06:00

Heroes
Back from tribal council, JT justified his vote for Cirie as merely looking out for the team, AND a last minute decision. JT really like his feathers smooth. JT swears his allegiance to Amanda, James, & Ruppie. Amanda claims that she is not buying it, but JT's country boy charm has soothed savage breasts a time or two before hers.

Rupert is pissed with JT. Aw, poor bushman Ruppie is pissed. F-off Rupert; go make a fire or something. Oh wait, that's right, you can't even make fire, can you Caveman?
Please, won't someone just push to vote this clown off the damn island? I am sick to death of his false 'good guy' persona struggling to veil his basic ass-holery.

Villains
While the rest of the tribe joins in a session of 'Beach Coach-chi', Russell is a busy boy; he dug a trench 2' deep over two days and finally found the idol buried not 2" deep on the inside edge of his trench. Of course, this find convinces Russell that Boston Rob is no match for him and that he will now change the course of the game. After the tribe collectively agreed that anyone who even searched for the idol is a goner, Russell may have made the biggest mistake of his game. Or not.

Back on the beach, the Villains seemed to seriously follow Coach's example in the tai-chi routine, until he started in chanting his mantra causing a chain reaction of giggles and rolled eyes.
I'm telling you - COACH! No fricking CHANTING, man. Just. Stop. With the chanting.

Reward Challenge
With a feast of chocolate awaiting, the Villain women salivated over the tiny slivers of chocolate that Jeff offered as a tease and the Villain tribe was determined to prevail in this challenge. When the plate went by Courtney, she said, "I'm watching my weight", which I hope all normal women will hold against her.
That emaciated, bleached blond bimbo waitress should be attacked and ravaged by a pack of rabid rats just for that shit.
I volunteer to get on a plane, lay in wait for her in a dark New York alley, then jump out and punch her in the face as she passes by -- simultaneously stunning her, breaking a few of her perfect store-bought teeth (because you know anorexics trash their teeth with all the puking), and knocking her to the ground so that the vermin could get started eating her face off.

Conversely, the Heroes brusquely refused the plate of chocolate dots offered to them. Jeff asked Dorkby why they seemed so insulted, but Dork told him they "didn't need no stinking chocolate - Let's Go". Old Jeff sharply reminded them all who really runs Survivor, saying, "I got the message brother; we'll go when I'm ready."

Oh, it was an awesome challenge. A loose combination of football/basketball played to only 2 goals for the win. The game was physical right from jump; James Delicious was beautiful to watch as he ran and jumped just like in the pro NFL games -- until his knee buckled and medical made him leave the game before the first goal was made (by Amanda). I would be remiss if I did not float the idea that James, in real life, give up his shovel and become a professional underwear model. OMG, just so........ Mmmmmmm. He doesn't really need Survivor to become a millionaire, all he has to do is accept a call from Calvin Klein.

**Calvin Klein, if you are out there, you're a fool if you don't put this man on billboards across the globe and shower him with $$$; women buy more underwear for their men than men do for themselves, and James Delicious would sell your drawers, I guarantee it.**

JT threw Boston Rob to the side to recover a rebound, then Rob grabbed him under the arms and he & Coach dragged JT to their platform where, ultimately, Rupert got the ball back for the Heroes. Tyson scored one for the Villains, but the real show was on the field as JT slammed Coach to the ground hard, driving the wind out of him. Rupert had Jerry by the arms and was swinging her out of the way when he accidentally whupped her face first into a huge post. She collapsed like a sack of cheese, both hands holding her nose. If Coach hadn't been flat on his back trying to get some air, things might've gotten hairy between the Caveman and the Dragonslayer. Oh yeah, you know the Dragonslayer would have leaped to avenge the honour of the lady(?).
Ruppie is busy yelling how it was a accident, are you okay, yadda yadda. Jerry picked herself up and threw a quick & justified "FUCK YOU!" @ Ruppie, who immediately changed from apologetic to mean and spiteful. "Oh yeah, like I meant to do that!" he shouted. "Whatever Dude, WHAT. Ever." Jerry threw back at him as she readied for another round (*featuring ultra cool mid-air ball blocks by both JT & Boston Rob). More determined than ever and playing to win, the Villains were victorious again.

At the reward, chocolate covered the entire floor of a large gazebo, every kind of chocolate that you can imagine, more chocolate than I have ever seen all plated for consumption. The Villain girls were practically orgasmic over the mere sight and gorged themselves to the point of illness.
While the others cavorted in an amazing salt water pool & underground cave surrounded by skyscraper sized trees and accessible only by a very long ladder, Russell revealed to Parvati that he had the idol, and that all she had to do was ride his coat tails. Parvati told him haughtily that she doesn't "ride ANYbody's coat tails, baby". Russell wisely & swiftly backed off of that tactic. The two then agreed that Coach "is a scared little kitten", and that they could get him to do ANYthing.

Hmmm, because that worked out SO well for Parvati last time she tried to manipulate the Coach...

However, it turns out that Russell has a good handle on Coach's physche; he flattered Coach's alter-ego and Coach fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Coach went so far as to fall on one knee (*inducing much, much more eyerolling on my part*) before Russ, who knighted him in a mock ceremony. The two then proclaimed themselves KING & the Dragonslayer. *Still more eyerolling yet.*

Boston Rob, you may have lost too much of Coach's love when you refused to 'bond with him' except before challenges. That may have been a fundamental mistake that will allow Russell to sway the numbers in his favour; only a trip to tribal will tell.

Back @ Hero Beach, Amanda is absolutely distraught over the possibility that James may be forced to leave the game due to injury - AGAIN. She does seem legitimately sad for James, but I see far more fear for her own safety without James. She clearly recognizes that, with James out of the game, JT's strategy is likely to change, killing their alliance & leaving she and Rupert out in the cold where Dorkby, Tom, & Candace have been.

When James is spotted hobbling back down the beach, Amanda cannot contain herself and runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck and crying in relief. James, seeing her running, stood still and just waited for her to come to him. Surely I am not the only one to get the idea that this is a relatively familiar occurance in the life of James Delicious?
James vows to make 'lemonade out of this lemon knee', after he takes a nap, that is.

Immunity Challenge
James & Jerry postioned themselves as callers for their team mates in a game of blindfolded couples searching a large area for enormous puzzle pieces. James shouted himself hoarse, near the end jumping up and down, beating his chest, and croaking out as loudly as he could "Walk yo ass! Walk it! Walk it! Walk yo ass!" James certainly did his part and got his team to the matt first. The heroes quickly doffed their blindfolds and that's where they, once again, fell apart. As the Heroes succombed to individual thinking, the Villains once again mind-melded with Boston Rob and handily seized immunity.

Back at camp, the Amanda alliance boldly states that Tom is going home. Candace bravely tries to suggest that James is no longer an asset to the team, & campaigns that healthy Tom is still worth keeping for the strength of the tribe. Predictably, the Caveman turns on Candace viciously for voicing her opinion. JT swears solidarity to his alliance, but admits to Tom & Dorkby that James is the more logical vote. Amanda & Rup both think JT is shaky, and Dorkby declares JT 'wish-washy' and "just playing the hand that suits him".
Well duhhh, Dorkby. It's called strategy man; when you get home, you be sure to look it up.

Tribal Council
Jeff questions the tribe about James' disability, saying that his niece could beat James in a footrace. James Delicious took great offence to that, and told Jeff that, while the knee brace might make it a little harder, HE (Jeff) couldn't hope to beat him (James) in a race, even so.
James went on to lay blame for the challenge loss on Tom & Candace. Both tried to defend themselves, but got no significant back up from anyone, though JT (ever the diplomat) did point out that no one person could take all the blame for the losses of the tribe.

Tom made a valid argument for voting James, but James wasn't having it! He declared that, "I am honestly over both y'all. It's whatever."
Tom made his point that it was a nonsensical pretense that the tribe would vote to keep James as a physical advantage, that the tribe would only keep James as their loyal vote.
"Shut up and do what you're told is his (James') voting strategy, not his game strategy", said Tom. James, claiming there would be no hard feeling either way, confidently dared his tribe to vote him off if they really believed Tom could outperform him.

At his turn to vote, Tom gave the best quote of the week when he proclaimed, "James -- all mass, no class." ZIIIIINGER!! I do love to look at him, but James Delicious can be a bit of an ass when he opens his mouth.

JT thought he would be the swing vote (as before), but his vote was never actually revealed, except to the camera. Candy-ASS, despite all her arguments, voted with the alliance that doesn't even include her!!! An alliance that is, in fact, purposely EXCLUDING her.

What a stupid fucking jam tart chickenshit! Turncoat! Traitor!

Dorkby isn't going to like her anyMORE, because you know how he is, and Candy-ASS gets NO LOVE from the rest of them. Mark my words, she is going home the very next time that the Heroes go to tribal.
I will bet $20 cash money on Candy-ASS going home next vote right now!
Any takers?
No?
I didn't think so.
Your ASS is grass bitch.

*Regarding my last (offensive?) post about large amounts of smelly cum: in the near future I will explain further. Stay tuned, dear Venomites, for more cum talk to come.*

Cum, in large amounts, STINKS to High Heaven!

2010-03-09T15:36:00.003-06:00

I'm sorry if that title is offensive; truth be told, I'm not sure that any vernacular exists that would make the statement less disgusting.

However, this is a statement of straight up fact. Just trust Venom on this one folks.

Even for those among you who are unusually curious and would normally conduct your own research... ugh. Please don't bother, just trust me when I say the odor of ejaculate grows more & more repugnant with every tablespoonful. In large volumes, 1/2 to 2 cups at a time say, the smell will literally curl your toes.

There is a logical, job-related reason that I know this to be true, & no, I do not work in a massage parlour, or a sperm bank.

I'm just going to leave you to think about that for a day or two.

Try to keep the comments clean people...