I really can't help myself. It's true. A terrible affliction. I hate to lose. I am a terrible, horrible, no good, sore loserpants. But it is only at Scrabble that I cheat. I never cheat at any other game. In fact, I won't even cheat to lose on purpose for my kids as I believe learning to gracefully lose is an important learning lesson. One that I apparently never learned well myself.
For some reason, the idea of losing at Scrabble is unacceptable to me. The little devil pops up at my ear and whispers "He is beating you and the last word he placed on the board was 'fun?' You call yourself a writer? A voracious reader? A brilliant legal mind? He barely reads! The last thing he read for fun was a fishing magazine at Barnes and Nobles which he was too cheap to even purchase. He refuses to see foreign movies because he doesn't like reading subtitles. You are going to let HIM beat you at scrabble?" I argue back, "Listen, I can't help it that all I have are a series of 'I's and 'E's. What the heck am I supposed to do with that? Even Dickens couldn't come with a word worth more than 4 points with the crap I keep getting!" But even the little angel on the otherside of me shakes his head and says, "Listen, you need to step up your game before I smack you silly. Now I need to take a little break, but when I get back, I better not hear you've lost again..."
At this point, it's not like I have a choice anymore, I must cheat, and cheat I will. Strategically holding the bag so the light hits the letters just right, I spy a Z and slyly pick it up along with a few 'O's and 'S's and a very fortunate blank. Utilizing a carelessly opened triple word score box, I crow elatedly over a well placed "Zooms" adding an 'S' to the end of his "fun." As I gloat openly and outrageously at my triple word score, HE coughs carefully and asks me, "Did you cheat?" I look him in the eye ready to angrily deny it and then deflate like a flattened whoopie cushion. I cannot lie to him. He knows me too well. Not because I can't lie, although I do not consider what I do lying, more of a strategic manipulation of certain facts and truths to my benefit, but never outright lies. It is part of the aresenal of a good lawyer. You admit only certain facts, omit others and speak vaguely on all other points. Is this lying? Perhaps that is a topic for another post. For now, I sullenly nod and cross off all my illgotten points. I am losing again. Oh and funs is apparently not a word, which he so graciously pointed out to me. I was not having funs.
Forced to return my purloined tiles, I instead exchange my original crappy tiles for even shittier ones. Now along with all my 'I's, I have only 'U's and 'O's. Apparently for this round of Scrabble, I am to be the Queen of Loose Vowels. As I lose the game 98 to 50 points, I throw a little temper tantrum and kick the board over as I blame everything on the crappy tiles I received. He looks over at the sulky angry brat I've become and asks me if I want a rematch. And I sulk a little longer but then finally agree but ask to go first. He graciously concedes. Viciously shaking the little grey bag, I reach in (without cheating) for my first seven tiles. 'I's. Why did it have to be 'I's? I may have to cheat again. But this time, I hope he doesn't catch me.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Still not completely back...
And do you know why? Cause right in the grand midst of holiday hectic frenziness, the entire family got sick. Like dominoes, one after the other. First the 8 year old, then the 6 year old followed closely by the 3 year old who just turned 4 and then the big baby got sick and that just about killed me. Why is it that when men get sick they revert to the infant stage? My husband pretty much curled up into a fetal position and remained in bed for four days. I AM NOT KIDDING. I get sick and it doesn't matter how sick I get, I could never lie in bed for four days. There is just too much to do and too many things to take care of. Plus my parents were in town and honestly, I don't have the type of parents that come in and help out. Oh no. I have the type of parents that come in and need to be catered to. And because I hate shopping so much, I still had Christmas shopping to do up until Christmas eve, as well as cooking and cleaning and laundry and wrapping and entertaining. All with at least a minimum of 2 or 3 rotating sick people in the house.
So I ask you, why is it that men are such wimps when they get sick? This is an age old question for women. To the ABC News article titled "Are Men Wimps About Getting Colds?" I would answer with a resounding DUH! According to a study by Benenden Healthcare, "Male workers are more likely to call in sick with "the flu," while women tend to go to work and carry about their business when they feel an illness coming on." Is this really news for anyone out there? In fact, there is even a phenomenon called "Man Flu." It even has it's own Wikipedia page . So what is Man Flu? Apparently it is a phenomenon by which men and women suffer the same illness but by which men piss and moan and take 3 times longer to recover than the average woman. I'm sure all my women readers are nodding their heads in sage understanding. Apparently a man will take 3 days to recover where a woman would take a day or a day and a half at most. So why is this? Do women get sick less? Actually, no, in fact, women are more likely to get sick more often because they have more contact with children. Are they stronger? Hard to answer because we would have to consider physical, emotional, pschyological, etc., and how do you analyze all that? Perhaps it is a matter of pain tolerance. After all, the old joke is that if human existence depended on men being pregnant and delivering our babies, then mankind would go extinct faster than you could say "Ice Age."
When I was pregnant for the second and third time, I had very bad pre-term labor. In order to keep from going into early labor, the doctor put me on a terbutaline pump that injected terbutaline into my system every four hours. The problem was I had to insert the needle which would provide the medicine into my system, into my leg and then change sites every few days. Well it was pretty hard to stab a large needle into my own leg. It was NOT like a thin insulin needle, this was bigger, it had the plastic tubing around the needle, and you had to stab it hard past the outer muscle in order to insert it properly. I asked my husband to do it. The first time he nearly passed out and left the needle partly in, partly out, with me screaming at him and him screaming at me that he couldn't do it. I finally slammed the needle in with my palm. But changing it was so bad that I would wait too long to change it and get an infection in my leg before being forced to change the injection site. I finally got my husband to get consistently good at it, but his hands would curl up into claws and he would wince and moan as if he were the one getting the needle. On top of all of this, I also had gestational diabetes and had to inject myself with insulin three times a day. This I did by myself with no hesitation. But if the roles were reversed, I doubt my husband would have been able to go through all that I went through.
In a recent article in Men's Health magazine on Why Men Are Babies the author discusses two types of men, the whimpering crybabies and the stoic silent types that never say a word until they are dead. There are good reasons for both. Men still feel that they are the stronger sex and that they shouldn't get sick and if they do get sick, well then, it must be a horrible illness that is thoroughly incapacitating and everyone around them should coddle and nurse them until they are better. But when weird things happen to their bodies, they are less likely than a woman to go to a doctor and check it out. They will more likely ignore it. This is why men don't catch testicular cancer or prostate cancer soon enough. Because even their doctors will admit that men are babies. (Now I say this because I do think more men need to be more concious about taking better care of themselves.)
OK - I just want to amend my post to also say that my hubby is only sick once a year and is only incapacitated with the flu. So he is that crazy mix of stoic suffering through all other ills and then turning into a baby when incapacitated by the flu. So I shouldn't really complain, it is just hard because usually he is not sick alone - I have a full house of sick people. He is a wonderful hubby and I am just so happy he is better.
So with that rant over, I shall leave you with one last funny ad which cracked me up in my sick bed. Thos Brits have a sick sense of humor.
So I ask you, why is it that men are such wimps when they get sick? This is an age old question for women. To the ABC News article titled "Are Men Wimps About Getting Colds?" I would answer with a resounding DUH! According to a study by Benenden Healthcare, "Male workers are more likely to call in sick with "the flu," while women tend to go to work and carry about their business when they feel an illness coming on." Is this really news for anyone out there? In fact, there is even a phenomenon called "Man Flu." It even has it's own Wikipedia page . So what is Man Flu? Apparently it is a phenomenon by which men and women suffer the same illness but by which men piss and moan and take 3 times longer to recover than the average woman. I'm sure all my women readers are nodding their heads in sage understanding. Apparently a man will take 3 days to recover where a woman would take a day or a day and a half at most. So why is this? Do women get sick less? Actually, no, in fact, women are more likely to get sick more often because they have more contact with children. Are they stronger? Hard to answer because we would have to consider physical, emotional, pschyological, etc., and how do you analyze all that? Perhaps it is a matter of pain tolerance. After all, the old joke is that if human existence depended on men being pregnant and delivering our babies, then mankind would go extinct faster than you could say "Ice Age."
When I was pregnant for the second and third time, I had very bad pre-term labor. In order to keep from going into early labor, the doctor put me on a terbutaline pump that injected terbutaline into my system every four hours. The problem was I had to insert the needle which would provide the medicine into my system, into my leg and then change sites every few days. Well it was pretty hard to stab a large needle into my own leg. It was NOT like a thin insulin needle, this was bigger, it had the plastic tubing around the needle, and you had to stab it hard past the outer muscle in order to insert it properly. I asked my husband to do it. The first time he nearly passed out and left the needle partly in, partly out, with me screaming at him and him screaming at me that he couldn't do it. I finally slammed the needle in with my palm. But changing it was so bad that I would wait too long to change it and get an infection in my leg before being forced to change the injection site. I finally got my husband to get consistently good at it, but his hands would curl up into claws and he would wince and moan as if he were the one getting the needle. On top of all of this, I also had gestational diabetes and had to inject myself with insulin three times a day. This I did by myself with no hesitation. But if the roles were reversed, I doubt my husband would have been able to go through all that I went through.
In a recent article in Men's Health magazine on Why Men Are Babies the author discusses two types of men, the whimpering crybabies and the stoic silent types that never say a word until they are dead. There are good reasons for both. Men still feel that they are the stronger sex and that they shouldn't get sick and if they do get sick, well then, it must be a horrible illness that is thoroughly incapacitating and everyone around them should coddle and nurse them until they are better. But when weird things happen to their bodies, they are less likely than a woman to go to a doctor and check it out. They will more likely ignore it. This is why men don't catch testicular cancer or prostate cancer soon enough. Because even their doctors will admit that men are babies. (Now I say this because I do think more men need to be more concious about taking better care of themselves.)
OK - I just want to amend my post to also say that my hubby is only sick once a year and is only incapacitated with the flu. So he is that crazy mix of stoic suffering through all other ills and then turning into a baby when incapacitated by the flu. So I shouldn't really complain, it is just hard because usually he is not sick alone - I have a full house of sick people. He is a wonderful hubby and I am just so happy he is better.
So with that rant over, I shall leave you with one last funny ad which cracked me up in my sick bed. Thos Brits have a sick sense of humor.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Random Funny Things My Kids Say - Part 4
“That’s enough!” I shouted up to them. “No one plays with it anymore. Please put it away.”
There was a few minutes of absolute silence followed by whispers and giggles and then a loud farting sound exploded in the air as the kids began shrieking in laughter again.
“Didn’t I tell you to put that whoopee cushion away?” I shouted. To which my oldest girl responded, “Apparently we didn't actually need it.”
Evil Temptations
“I can’t believe you didn’t save me even one brownie!” I cried out, quite miffed.
The older two had the grace to look a little guilty but the youngest, who is not yet 4, replied, “But Mom, you said chocolate is an evil tentashion for you, so we was helping you by getting rid of it!”
The other two brightened up and eagerly agreed, the middle child even going so far as to say, "Yeah Mom, we don't want you to get fat!"
I bet they were high fiving each other when I left.
Vurp
“That’s enough,” I chime in. But they don’t listen to me as burps and "agains" keep coming and my middle child is starting to wheeze from the effort.
“Stop it!” I say just as the last burp turns into a vurp – vomit burp with a little spillage, and the middle child starts crying. The youngest stops laughing and says "ill, don’t do that again.”
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Randomness
My Summer Friend Danette tagged me for a Random things meme. Since I've already blogged about a lot of random things and my blog has the term "random" in it, it seems only natural to continue the randomness.
1. I love tabasco. When I went to New Orleans, one of the best parts of the trip was being able to buy a gallon size of tabasco sauce. I put it on everything except sweets, but not for lack of trying. The world is a better place because of tabasco. In fact, I have even composed an Ode to Tabasco.
3. I hate surprises. My husband knows better than to ever throw me a surprise party cause that would piss me off so bad. I've been known to turn to the end of a book I was reading, just to make sure who ever I was liking or hating, lived or died by the end. Of course I would never do this anywhere near Josephine Damian who has promised to smack me upside my head if she ever caught me doing it. Now I've found themoviespoiler.com which is like my new best friend now! I can know exactly what happens before I go see a movie! Ha, my husband hates this! If I ever even inadvertently give away some small inconsequential plot detail of some movie he wants to see, he refuses to see it claiming I have ruined the experience for him. Talk about overly dramatic. I mean just because I told him Bruce Willis was dead in Sixth Sense. Sheesh. ;o)
4. I don't believe in the line "it's the thought that counts." Cause it doesn't. It's not just the thought that counts but how you execute it. Seriously. I would rather receive no present than have a crappy insincere one. For example, I was once friends with a woman who, when she had her first baby, I sent her a lovely baby present. When I had my second child, this woman sent me a present also. I wish she hadn't. It was a baby blanket that no longer had any labels on it so I had a sneaking suspicion it had been used once before. Plus, it smelled of cat piss. I swear to you all. Cat Piss. I would much rather have never received anything from her, or just a card congratulating me would have been much preferable to a nasty stinky baby blanket that some miserable cat pissed on.
5. My embarassing karaoke story. Back when I was a wild young thang, we all went out drinking at some bar that was having a karaoke night. I got drunk enough to be persuaded to sing Like a Virgin on the bar's stage. I was so toasted I couldn't remember the lyrics and couldn't read the words on the screen so I just kept singing "touched for the very first time" and "like a virgin" over and over again and throwing in alot of "Whoas!" All I can remember is that there were alot of military guys out that night who were trying to convince me that I was the next Madonna and trying to persuade me to sing it again but luckily for me, my girlfriends were wise enough to drag me home. The moral of the story is never go out without a good group of girlfriends to save you from yourself.
So I dare anyone else to share an embarrassing story with me! Come on, let's hear it.
1. I love tabasco. When I went to New Orleans, one of the best parts of the trip was being able to buy a gallon size of tabasco sauce. I put it on everything except sweets, but not for lack of trying. The world is a better place because of tabasco. In fact, I have even composed an Ode to Tabasco.
Ode to Tabasco2. I am not good at poetry. See number 1.
Oh glorious red marvel of hot treasure
How I adore thee all the time!
Boring foods now have become a pleasure,
although you burns me behind.
3. I hate surprises. My husband knows better than to ever throw me a surprise party cause that would piss me off so bad. I've been known to turn to the end of a book I was reading, just to make sure who ever I was liking or hating, lived or died by the end. Of course I would never do this anywhere near Josephine Damian who has promised to smack me upside my head if she ever caught me doing it. Now I've found themoviespoiler.com which is like my new best friend now! I can know exactly what happens before I go see a movie! Ha, my husband hates this! If I ever even inadvertently give away some small inconsequential plot detail of some movie he wants to see, he refuses to see it claiming I have ruined the experience for him. Talk about overly dramatic. I mean just because I told him Bruce Willis was dead in Sixth Sense. Sheesh. ;o)
4. I don't believe in the line "it's the thought that counts." Cause it doesn't. It's not just the thought that counts but how you execute it. Seriously. I would rather receive no present than have a crappy insincere one. For example, I was once friends with a woman who, when she had her first baby, I sent her a lovely baby present. When I had my second child, this woman sent me a present also. I wish she hadn't. It was a baby blanket that no longer had any labels on it so I had a sneaking suspicion it had been used once before. Plus, it smelled of cat piss. I swear to you all. Cat Piss. I would much rather have never received anything from her, or just a card congratulating me would have been much preferable to a nasty stinky baby blanket that some miserable cat pissed on.
5. My embarassing karaoke story. Back when I was a wild young thang, we all went out drinking at some bar that was having a karaoke night. I got drunk enough to be persuaded to sing Like a Virgin on the bar's stage. I was so toasted I couldn't remember the lyrics and couldn't read the words on the screen so I just kept singing "touched for the very first time" and "like a virgin" over and over again and throwing in alot of "Whoas!" All I can remember is that there were alot of military guys out that night who were trying to convince me that I was the next Madonna and trying to persuade me to sing it again but luckily for me, my girlfriends were wise enough to drag me home. The moral of the story is never go out without a good group of girlfriends to save you from yourself.
So I dare anyone else to share an embarrassing story with me! Come on, let's hear it.
Monday, December 17, 2007
A Link in the Chain
I forgot that I had agreed to be part of a blog chain. Never done one before so I thought I would try it out. Course I forgot that December is a sucky time of the year to try anything new. Well, as it happens I am following Lynn at the Virtual Wordsmith who had a lovely post about the holidays. So picking up the theme on holidays I decided to write a lovely post about holiday shopping. Or to put it more accurately, shopping during the holiday season.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE MALLS?!!!!! Let me start by saying I am not a shopper. The gene for shopping somehow did not get passed down to me. I abhor shopping. Loathe it. I would rather watch grass grow. I would rather smell my husband's feet. Anything but shopping. So if I am at the mall, I am there out of absolute necessity. My sox have too many holes in it, my kids clothes look two sizes too small, my shoes talk when the walk, etc. (Exception is for books and music. I don't consider that shopping since they are more like necessities of my life.) So I really don't understand the frenzy that attack people whenever SALE signs are posted. And shopping during the holidays is the worst time of the year.
I was at the Gap, looking for a pair of pants for my oldest daughter since it is now too cold for her to wear pants with her ankles exposed. (This is not my fault since it seems that my daughter sprouted over night!) There I was at the sales rack. (Cause who wants to pay full price for anything? I mean I may hate shopping, but I'm not stupid.) As I placed my hands on a particularly cute pair of jeans that had just been marked down, a woman snatched it out of my handS and loudly proclaimed, "I saw that first!" And then scurried away like a rat. I was literally too surprised to say a word - literally stood there with my mouth open and my hands still in a clutching position outstretched before me. (The only other time I ever had anything snatched out of my hands was at Filene's basement in Boston, and not to be mean to anyone from Boston because I love Boston, but sometimes the term Masshole can be quite accurate.) I suddenly realized that the store had filled up and that crazed women were systematically snatching items off of racks and tables with the frenzy of sharks at a fresh kill. Apparently I had arrived right before a big one day clearance sale day was scheduled. Me and the one other man who was not a store clerk stared at each other with open mouthed horror.
A table we stood near had shirts and pants marked up to 50% off. Nimbly and with his long arms, I watched the man lean over a bunch of women (who were clawing through the once nicely folded piles) and snatch up a bunch of shirts and pants. I started to back away in horror but the thought of my poor kid's naked ankles strengthened my resolve and I muscled in and grabbed up a few pair of pants. As I was pulling my arm back, one of the price tags caught a woman in the mouth, bringing her head around as if I had fish-hooked her and was reeling her in. Spitting the tag out of her mouth, she shrieked "Watch it bitch!" I began to apologize profusely but realized she had already forgotten about me as she continued to frantically paw through the diminishing piles of clothing, even as the pile in her arms was growing to ginormous proportions!!
Hurrying away, I looked at the pants and shirts I had managed to grab up. None were in the right size for my oldest, but the prices made me blink. $4.99 shirts and $9.99 pants, Holy Corduroys! No wonder the women were like piranhas attacking a capabera. Determined, I trudged back to the table, determined to get a pair of pants that would fit my 8 year old. Alas, I was too late, in the space of ten minutes, the table had been decimated. The remaining pile of clothes compiled of size 14s and 2s in shades of green that looked like they came from a herbivores dungpile - none of them usable by any of my girls. As I stood forlornly by the table, a sales clerk came by to fold up the unwanted ones.
"Look at those women," the clerk snorted, correctly judging me as a shopping rookie. "They walk out with armloads of stuff that I'll just have to restock when they come back to return them after the holidays."
"And all I needed was a pair of pants," I sighed.
The clerk gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Honey, you are just not aggressive enough."
No kidding! Those women scare the crap out of me.
So the blog chain continues at Sherry Antonetti's awesome blog Chocolate for Your Brain. I can't wait to see what she will post as she is one funny writer. The rest of the fun chain links are as follows:
A Thoughtful Life
Gillian's Food History
Getting Confused and Coming All Undone
Life in the Middle
So You Want to be a Chic Chick
Williebee
Twisted Fantasies
It Had To Be Said
Finding Boddie
Virtual Wordsmith
Random Acts of Unkindness
Chocolate for Your Brain
Virginia Lee: I Ain't Dead Yet!
awchain
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE MALLS?!!!!! Let me start by saying I am not a shopper. The gene for shopping somehow did not get passed down to me. I abhor shopping. Loathe it. I would rather watch grass grow. I would rather smell my husband's feet. Anything but shopping. So if I am at the mall, I am there out of absolute necessity. My sox have too many holes in it, my kids clothes look two sizes too small, my shoes talk when the walk, etc. (Exception is for books and music. I don't consider that shopping since they are more like necessities of my life.) So I really don't understand the frenzy that attack people whenever SALE signs are posted. And shopping during the holidays is the worst time of the year.
I was at the Gap, looking for a pair of pants for my oldest daughter since it is now too cold for her to wear pants with her ankles exposed. (This is not my fault since it seems that my daughter sprouted over night!) There I was at the sales rack. (Cause who wants to pay full price for anything? I mean I may hate shopping, but I'm not stupid.) As I placed my hands on a particularly cute pair of jeans that had just been marked down, a woman snatched it out of my handS and loudly proclaimed, "I saw that first!" And then scurried away like a rat. I was literally too surprised to say a word - literally stood there with my mouth open and my hands still in a clutching position outstretched before me. (The only other time I ever had anything snatched out of my hands was at Filene's basement in Boston, and not to be mean to anyone from Boston because I love Boston, but sometimes the term Masshole can be quite accurate.) I suddenly realized that the store had filled up and that crazed women were systematically snatching items off of racks and tables with the frenzy of sharks at a fresh kill. Apparently I had arrived right before a big one day clearance sale day was scheduled. Me and the one other man who was not a store clerk stared at each other with open mouthed horror.
A table we stood near had shirts and pants marked up to 50% off. Nimbly and with his long arms, I watched the man lean over a bunch of women (who were clawing through the once nicely folded piles) and snatch up a bunch of shirts and pants. I started to back away in horror but the thought of my poor kid's naked ankles strengthened my resolve and I muscled in and grabbed up a few pair of pants. As I was pulling my arm back, one of the price tags caught a woman in the mouth, bringing her head around as if I had fish-hooked her and was reeling her in. Spitting the tag out of her mouth, she shrieked "Watch it bitch!" I began to apologize profusely but realized she had already forgotten about me as she continued to frantically paw through the diminishing piles of clothing, even as the pile in her arms was growing to ginormous proportions!!
Hurrying away, I looked at the pants and shirts I had managed to grab up. None were in the right size for my oldest, but the prices made me blink. $4.99 shirts and $9.99 pants, Holy Corduroys! No wonder the women were like piranhas attacking a capabera. Determined, I trudged back to the table, determined to get a pair of pants that would fit my 8 year old. Alas, I was too late, in the space of ten minutes, the table had been decimated. The remaining pile of clothes compiled of size 14s and 2s in shades of green that looked like they came from a herbivores dungpile - none of them usable by any of my girls. As I stood forlornly by the table, a sales clerk came by to fold up the unwanted ones.
"Look at those women," the clerk snorted, correctly judging me as a shopping rookie. "They walk out with armloads of stuff that I'll just have to restock when they come back to return them after the holidays."
"And all I needed was a pair of pants," I sighed.
The clerk gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Honey, you are just not aggressive enough."
No kidding! Those women scare the crap out of me.
So the blog chain continues at Sherry Antonetti's awesome blog Chocolate for Your Brain. I can't wait to see what she will post as she is one funny writer. The rest of the fun chain links are as follows:
A Thoughtful Life
Gillian's Food History
Getting Confused and Coming All Undone
Life in the Middle
So You Want to be a Chic Chick
Williebee
Twisted Fantasies
It Had To Be Said
Finding Boddie
Virtual Wordsmith
Random Acts of Unkindness
Chocolate for Your Brain
Virginia Lee: I Ain't Dead Yet!
awchain
Friday, December 14, 2007
The Chosen One
OK - so I finally finished Pacatrue's story that he won several weeks ago. Seriously, this one was hard. I must have started and discarded several different story ideas until finally this one worked for me. So here is a funny story for Paca which I hope he and all of you who have the courage to read it, enjoy.
“Master Lee, tell me why are we here again?” Chang asked for the tenth time since they had arrived on the beautiful Hawaiian island.
“Chang, as much as you hate to believe it, but the one before us, who calls himself Paca True, is the Chosen One. All the signs have pointed to him,” Master Lee responded.
“Maybe the signs were wrong!” Chang said again somewhat desperately. “Maybe the monks misread them, how could HE possibly be the Chosen One?”
Both men stared at the tall white man dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy hunter green shorts with brown sandals. He was shuffling about in a manner reminiscent of Gene Kelly, but only if Gene Kelly had been turned into a zombie and had chopped off one of his feet.
“What is he doing?” Chang asked in disbelief.
“I believe he is trying to tap dance or salsa,” Master Lee responded.
After a pivot swing high kick ended perilously close to knocking down an entire file cabinet, the man then broke out into a rap song to the tune of the 70s television show Shaft.
The men approached the rapping white man who abruptly stopped singing and gyrating at the sight of them.
“Can I help you?” Paca True asked nervously. While Master Lee was elderly with a long white pointed beard and crazy white eyebrows shaped like wings, Chang was an entirely scary proposition. His sleeveless white tunic could not hide the steel wall of muscles underneath while his tattooed arms displayed curvaceous dragons undulating around massive biceps. His square jawed face framed dark beetled brows over intense black eyes that raked Paca with scorn.
Master Lee bowed, “Namaste, I am Master Lee and this is Master Chang and we are from the Xia temple monastery. We come seeking the Chosen One.”
Paca looked puzzled.
“Master Paca, you are the Chosen One,” Master Lee said.
“Oh, if you are looking for a master of linguistics, you’ll have to wait for Professor Eichorst. I’m just a grad student, although I AM staff now so you could call me Professor Paca , if you would like!” Paca stated proudly.
“No, son, YOU are the Chosen One, chosen to save the power of the word,” Master Lee said.
“You must be mistaken,” Paca said treating it all as a joke. “I don’t have any talent.”
Master Lee looked penetratingly at Paca. “Are you not the Paca who was left in an orphanage as a young baby in Louisiana?
“Uh, how’d you know that?” Paca asked.
“Who began to speak English at four months of age and could speak Chinese and Japanese by age two?”
Paca’s mouth hung open in shock.
“And aren’t you the Paca who mastered the theory of Language Instinct and systematically disproved it, the Sapir Whorf and Chomsky’s theory of Nativism?” Master Lee continued.
“Wow, you’ve done some research on me, I see…”
“The very Paca who curls up into a fetal position and bawls like a little girl everytime you watch It’s a Wonderful Life,” Master Lee asked.
“Now wait just a minute…”
“And aren’t you the same Paca who couldn’t get a date in High School and actually didn’t kiss a girl til…”
“ALRIGHT STOP! That’s enough, I admit that’s me, but who the hell are you guys?” Paca asked. Master Lee explained that they were part of a secret Xia monastery that monitored the way of the word. Power had shifted. The great writers were being killed and replaced by robot clones with no writing ability who were only provided fill in the blank type story lines that were mass marketed to the public who did not seem to know the differences.
“But what about the book critics? Why aren’t they saying anything?” Paca asked.
“They too have been killed off and replaced by robot clones,” Master Lee said. “Those that were not killed, lost their jobs when the robots took over all the major newpapers and got rid of the book review sections.”
“But the agents and the editors…”
“All replaced with robot clones. Why do you think there has been a drop in true new talent?” Chang said. “Did you really think all these so called hot attractive young authors are real writers?”
“Wow, I did wonder about that. They did seem too good looking... I can’t believe it! I guess I haven’t noticed because all I ever read is Chomsky, Modes of Thought by Alfred North Whitehead or my old copy of the Count of Monte Christo. Do you know who is behind it?”
“No one knows his true name but he goes by the title Evil Editor,” Chang replied.
“We are protectors of the Power of the Word,” Master Lee continued. “But every day we can feel it’s force weakening. People are not reading as much as they used to due to the electronic age and the internet. When they do buy a book, the books are weak, bad in quality. We are losing a hundred words per day, as they go extinct from lack of use. Already we have lost metanoia, acroamatic and cognomen. Pretty soon we will return to an age of grunts and sign language if something is not done.”
“But what can I do?” Paca asked.
“Only the Chosen One can defeat the Evil Editor,” Master Lee replied. “The monks have foreseen this.”
Paca caught the skeptical look in Chang’s eyes and felt similarly underwhelmed at the idea of being the Chosen One.
“OK, so what do we do now?” he asked.
“We begin training,” Master Lee replied. Behind him Chang cracked his knuckles and smiled.
Paca was afraid.
They flew back to the monastery in the Himalayas where they trained for months. Chang was a brutal taskmaster, training him before the sun rose and not letting up until well after the sun set. It was all Paca could do to climb into bed or crawl out of it each day. But no matter how hard Chang trained him, Paca never seemed to grasp the graceful artistry inherent in the movements of the martial arts. After 10 weeks of tai chi, Paca was to give his first demonstration to a group of Xia monks but at the first hint of his golden cock standing on one leg form, the usually somber monks began to shake with silent laughter. By the time he finished with monkey flinging excrement form, all the monks were crying with laughter while Chang stood fuming in the corner. They next began kung fu training. The days were filled with the ancient martial arts training, while the nights Paca spent in lessons with Master Lee. These were the times Paca enjoyed the most. Sitting cross legged on the floor, a large parchment before him, Master Lee trained him in calligraphy and the Chinese characters for the five lessons he must learn - Altruism, Courage, the Disregard of Wealth, Loyalty and Justice.
One day, Paca sat across from the master, his lip swollen twice its size and his eye closed shut. There had been a raid by a group of bandits on the monastery. Eager to prove his kung fu abilities, Paca had taken on a bandit smaller than him. Unfortunately, the bandit had also been much quicker and Paca found himself bested and curled up in a ball waiting for rescue from Chang and the other monks. Depressed and dejected Paca sat working on the letters for the fifth lesson when he asked the Master if he would ever get good enough to defeat the Evil Editor.
“While Chang trains your body and makes you stronger, I train your mind and make you powerful. Remember, it is not through might that you will be victorious, it will be through the power of your mind,” Master Lee said. “That is why these lessons are of critical importance to you, to learn the way of the Xia monks.”
“Too learn these lessons, you must open your mind,” Master Lee continued. “You must release all ties to the material world and seek only the peace that comes from within.”
“But how will I know if I have succeeded in these lessons, Master?” Paca asked.
“Only when you have faced your enemy, will you know.”
One morning an eagle flew into the temple windows and dropped a message on Master Lee’s lap. Unrolling the scroll, Master Lee read the message somberly. Rolling it back up he turned to Paca who had stopped his calligraphy in curiosity.
“Paca, it is time,” Master Lee said.
Panicked, Paca protested. “I’m not ready yet, Master!”
“You are as ready as you can ever be, and there is no more time,” Master Lee responded. “When we discovered Evil Editor’s plot, we had hidden away as many of the famous writers as we could but he is finding them one by one. So far we have lost Ken Follet, Maya Angelou, Michael Connelly, Scott Turow, Cormac McCarthy and Paris Hilton.”
At Paca’s stunned look, Master Lee hastily continued. “Ok so we aren’t too sad about losing that last one. The only reason we were protecting her in the first place was because she was working on a sequel to Confessions of an Heiress and we appreciate the travel perks we’ve received from the Hilton hotel chain…” Master Lee stopped and cleared his throat. “Anyway, apparently he’s after Stephen King now. The movies will never be the same without that man. You must stop him.”
“When do I leave?” Paca asked.
He was to leave right after lunch. In a state of nerves, Paca decided to cook lunch for himself in order to relieve his stress. As he did whenever he was nervous, he began an experiment of fusion cooking. He had a sharp hankering for chili and gumbo. Unable to decide which one to make, he decided to combine the two, creating a fusion of chiles, Tabasco, roux, with protein that seemed like possum and gator, but which he was not quite sure of since it was Chang that had caught and skinned them. Producing a thick goo of chilibo, he quickly downed two large bowls, uncaring that the monks had run away from the fearsome concoction after only one bite.
After his meal, he said his goodbyes to Master Lee, thanking him for all his help before boarding his flight back to the states. They flew into a small island off the coast of Maine, where Stephen King was holed up in a house with its back built over a tall cliff which overlooked pointy jagged rocks. Arriving at the house, Paca, Chang and the small band of monks that had accompanied him realized the enemy had already broken in. The front doors were smashed off its hinges and sounds of fighting could be heard from within. Chang and the monks flew up the front spiral stairs to join in the fighting. Black clothed ninjas fought other Xia monks. Paca ran up the stairs, not quite as fast as the monks. When he arrived he saw the fighting was well taken care of but he glimpsed an altercation down the hall. Rushing into the room, he found a very tall, stout man with a full graying head of hair and long sideburns who held a gun pointing straight at the novelist Stephen King. Before the Evil Editor could fire a shot, Paca picked up a large volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica and threw it with all his might at Evil Editor’s gun. His aim was so bad he missed it completely, but instead hit Evil Editor on the head, stunning him.
“Thanks man, I owe you!” Stephen King said before nimbly running out of the room, out past the fighting monks and ninjas, jumping into his Hummer and taking off. Paca heard a Master Lee’s voice in his head say, “Lesson one, altruism.” Check, thought Paca.
Picking up the encyclopedia, Paca stood as courageously as he could as Evil Editor got to his feet, still holding his gun. The Evil Editor stared quizzically at Paca for a long time before asking him his name.
“My name is Paca. Paca True. And I know who you are. You are the Evil Editor. Why are you killing off all the writers? Why are you destroying the power of the word?” he asked.
“Writers? Who cares about writers?” Evil Editor laughed derisively. “Adverb loving emotionally devoid hacks are what they are! I tell you I’ve done nothing but a good service to the world, ridding them of the angst and misery that writers breed." Evil Editor spat on the ground. "God I hate writers! Twenty years I spent editing their crap. Twenty years I spent dealing with their arrogance, paranoia, greed and stupidity of these little pussies. Twenty years of listening to their whiny complaints. That their agents are only interested in money, their cover art sucks, the editing ruined the integrity of their work, editors don’t know how to edit anymore, blah blah crappity crap! Now the world is a better place, my robot clones churn out the meaningless dribble that the stupid masses want. They can’t tell the difference between the real Nicholas Sparks and my robot Sparks, or my robot Mitch Albom. And my romance novelist robots, why they are pulling in my best sales ever, and no one will ever know the difference!”
“But what you are doing is destroying our language. The power of the word is being depleted. Because of your antics, we are losing one hundred important vocabulary words every day. What will happen to our National Spelling Bee?” Paca cried out.
“It’ll be a lot shorter, that’s for sure,” Evil Editor laughed uproariously. “Look, the only people who will really miss those words, next to the Spelling bee people are those pesky college preparation course people who teach those million dollar words. No one else is going to miss any of these words. I mean seriously, who cares? Who really uses dieresis, adumbrative or enclitic? You wanna know who? No one, because no one cares.”
“I care,” Paca replied. “And I will stop you.”
“Lesson two Courage,” Master Lee’s voice whispered in his head.
“Why stop me? Why not join me. Join my empire. Be richer and more powerful than you ever dreamed of being. You can oversee the list of vocabulary words and the set of four storylines that we use. You can be in charge of all that people read. You can add the words you want to save, I don’t care. You can be in control. You can decide when new story premises are warranted and when to recycle out the old ones. Together you and I can rule the publishing world!”
Paca thought of the power and money Evil Editor was offering him. As he hesitated, he heard old Master Lee’s voice in his head again, “Lesson three disregard of wealth.”
“No, I can’t be a part of that,” Paca said determined.
“Paca,” Evil replied sternly. "There is something you should know. Something that has been kept from you for too long. Paca, I am your father.”
“Wh- wh- what?” Paca said.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you were so hairy and needed constant waxing?” Evil asked.
“You?” Paca asked horrified.
“I had a little fling with a pretty little gray alpaca. I was lonely, she was grazing. And after a lovely springtime romance, you were born.”
“No, it’s not true!” Paca whispered.
“She didn’t want anything to do with you, all she wanted was to return to her herd, so I killed her and wrapped you up in her fur and sent you off to that orphanage. I never thought I’d see you again. But here you are! A linguistical genius! Join me and we will rule the publishing universe together, as father and son!” Evil Editor said.
“Lesson four loyalty,” Master Lee’s voice thundered in Paca’s head.
“I will never join you!” Paca shouted.
Hi stomach rolled dreadfully. Paca knew he should never have had that last bowl of Chilibo. It was rolling in his stomach and giving off twinges of imminent Mexican runs. His stomach heaved again. He could barely hear what Evil Editor was saying to him.
“Paca! Join me or be destroyed.” Evil Editor said as he extended one black gloved hand toward him.
As Paca’s stomach gave another heave, knowing what he had to do, he let the emotions flow through him, preparing his arsenal that roiled within him.
“This is for my mother!” he cried as he heaved out a huge alpaca style spit ball, bringing up the Chilibo and hawking it all in a mass of acidic stomach contents and saliva, he projectile vomited the huge loogie at the Evil Editor.
“Ah! My eyes! My eyes!” the Editor cried as the acid from Paca’s stomach burned his face. Stepping back against the window, his weight pressed him through the glass and he fell over the cliff and onto the jagged rocks waiting for him below.
“Lesson five, Justice,” Paca said. Wiping his mouth, he turned away and headed home.
The Chosen One
“Master Lee, tell me why are we here again?” Chang asked for the tenth time since they had arrived on the beautiful Hawaiian island.
“Chang, as much as you hate to believe it, but the one before us, who calls himself Paca True, is the Chosen One. All the signs have pointed to him,” Master Lee responded.
“Maybe the signs were wrong!” Chang said again somewhat desperately. “Maybe the monks misread them, how could HE possibly be the Chosen One?”
Both men stared at the tall white man dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy hunter green shorts with brown sandals. He was shuffling about in a manner reminiscent of Gene Kelly, but only if Gene Kelly had been turned into a zombie and had chopped off one of his feet.
“What is he doing?” Chang asked in disbelief.
“I believe he is trying to tap dance or salsa,” Master Lee responded.
After a pivot swing high kick ended perilously close to knocking down an entire file cabinet, the man then broke out into a rap song to the tune of the 70s television show Shaft.
Who is the white guy who teaches students to make those Xhosa clicks!The pained expression on Chang’s face was met by the grin on Master Lee’s face as he pronounced, “He must be the Chosen One as I do not understand a word he says!”
You're damn right.
Who is the man who knows how to read spectograms?
Staff!
Can you dig it?
Who's the cat who won't cop out when there's midterms all about?
Staff!
Right on.
They say this cat Staff is a bad motha-
Shut yo mouth!
I'm just talking IPA
Then we can dig it
He's an articulatin' man, and all will understand how to transcribe
Go Staff!
The men approached the rapping white man who abruptly stopped singing and gyrating at the sight of them.
“Can I help you?” Paca True asked nervously. While Master Lee was elderly with a long white pointed beard and crazy white eyebrows shaped like wings, Chang was an entirely scary proposition. His sleeveless white tunic could not hide the steel wall of muscles underneath while his tattooed arms displayed curvaceous dragons undulating around massive biceps. His square jawed face framed dark beetled brows over intense black eyes that raked Paca with scorn.
Master Lee bowed, “Namaste, I am Master Lee and this is Master Chang and we are from the Xia temple monastery. We come seeking the Chosen One.”
Paca looked puzzled.
“Master Paca, you are the Chosen One,” Master Lee said.
“Oh, if you are looking for a master of linguistics, you’ll have to wait for Professor Eichorst. I’m just a grad student, although I AM staff now so you could call me Professor Paca , if you would like!” Paca stated proudly.
“No, son, YOU are the Chosen One, chosen to save the power of the word,” Master Lee said.
“You must be mistaken,” Paca said treating it all as a joke. “I don’t have any talent.”
Master Lee looked penetratingly at Paca. “Are you not the Paca who was left in an orphanage as a young baby in Louisiana?
“Uh, how’d you know that?” Paca asked.
“Who began to speak English at four months of age and could speak Chinese and Japanese by age two?”
Paca’s mouth hung open in shock.
“And aren’t you the Paca who mastered the theory of Language Instinct and systematically disproved it, the Sapir Whorf and Chomsky’s theory of Nativism?” Master Lee continued.
“Wow, you’ve done some research on me, I see…”
“The very Paca who curls up into a fetal position and bawls like a little girl everytime you watch It’s a Wonderful Life,” Master Lee asked.
“Now wait just a minute…”
“And aren’t you the same Paca who couldn’t get a date in High School and actually didn’t kiss a girl til…”
“ALRIGHT STOP! That’s enough, I admit that’s me, but who the hell are you guys?” Paca asked. Master Lee explained that they were part of a secret Xia monastery that monitored the way of the word. Power had shifted. The great writers were being killed and replaced by robot clones with no writing ability who were only provided fill in the blank type story lines that were mass marketed to the public who did not seem to know the differences.
“But what about the book critics? Why aren’t they saying anything?” Paca asked.
“They too have been killed off and replaced by robot clones,” Master Lee said. “Those that were not killed, lost their jobs when the robots took over all the major newpapers and got rid of the book review sections.”
“But the agents and the editors…”
“All replaced with robot clones. Why do you think there has been a drop in true new talent?” Chang said. “Did you really think all these so called hot attractive young authors are real writers?”
“Wow, I did wonder about that. They did seem too good looking... I can’t believe it! I guess I haven’t noticed because all I ever read is Chomsky, Modes of Thought by Alfred North Whitehead or my old copy of the Count of Monte Christo. Do you know who is behind it?”
“No one knows his true name but he goes by the title Evil Editor,” Chang replied.
“We are protectors of the Power of the Word,” Master Lee continued. “But every day we can feel it’s force weakening. People are not reading as much as they used to due to the electronic age and the internet. When they do buy a book, the books are weak, bad in quality. We are losing a hundred words per day, as they go extinct from lack of use. Already we have lost metanoia, acroamatic and cognomen. Pretty soon we will return to an age of grunts and sign language if something is not done.”
“But what can I do?” Paca asked.
“Only the Chosen One can defeat the Evil Editor,” Master Lee replied. “The monks have foreseen this.”
Paca caught the skeptical look in Chang’s eyes and felt similarly underwhelmed at the idea of being the Chosen One.
“OK, so what do we do now?” he asked.
“We begin training,” Master Lee replied. Behind him Chang cracked his knuckles and smiled.
Paca was afraid.
They flew back to the monastery in the Himalayas where they trained for months. Chang was a brutal taskmaster, training him before the sun rose and not letting up until well after the sun set. It was all Paca could do to climb into bed or crawl out of it each day. But no matter how hard Chang trained him, Paca never seemed to grasp the graceful artistry inherent in the movements of the martial arts. After 10 weeks of tai chi, Paca was to give his first demonstration to a group of Xia monks but at the first hint of his golden cock standing on one leg form, the usually somber monks began to shake with silent laughter. By the time he finished with monkey flinging excrement form, all the monks were crying with laughter while Chang stood fuming in the corner. They next began kung fu training. The days were filled with the ancient martial arts training, while the nights Paca spent in lessons with Master Lee. These were the times Paca enjoyed the most. Sitting cross legged on the floor, a large parchment before him, Master Lee trained him in calligraphy and the Chinese characters for the five lessons he must learn - Altruism, Courage, the Disregard of Wealth, Loyalty and Justice.
One day, Paca sat across from the master, his lip swollen twice its size and his eye closed shut. There had been a raid by a group of bandits on the monastery. Eager to prove his kung fu abilities, Paca had taken on a bandit smaller than him. Unfortunately, the bandit had also been much quicker and Paca found himself bested and curled up in a ball waiting for rescue from Chang and the other monks. Depressed and dejected Paca sat working on the letters for the fifth lesson when he asked the Master if he would ever get good enough to defeat the Evil Editor.
“While Chang trains your body and makes you stronger, I train your mind and make you powerful. Remember, it is not through might that you will be victorious, it will be through the power of your mind,” Master Lee said. “That is why these lessons are of critical importance to you, to learn the way of the Xia monks.”
“Too learn these lessons, you must open your mind,” Master Lee continued. “You must release all ties to the material world and seek only the peace that comes from within.”
“But how will I know if I have succeeded in these lessons, Master?” Paca asked.
“Only when you have faced your enemy, will you know.”
One morning an eagle flew into the temple windows and dropped a message on Master Lee’s lap. Unrolling the scroll, Master Lee read the message somberly. Rolling it back up he turned to Paca who had stopped his calligraphy in curiosity.
“Paca, it is time,” Master Lee said.
Panicked, Paca protested. “I’m not ready yet, Master!”
“You are as ready as you can ever be, and there is no more time,” Master Lee responded. “When we discovered Evil Editor’s plot, we had hidden away as many of the famous writers as we could but he is finding them one by one. So far we have lost Ken Follet, Maya Angelou, Michael Connelly, Scott Turow, Cormac McCarthy and Paris Hilton.”
At Paca’s stunned look, Master Lee hastily continued. “Ok so we aren’t too sad about losing that last one. The only reason we were protecting her in the first place was because she was working on a sequel to Confessions of an Heiress and we appreciate the travel perks we’ve received from the Hilton hotel chain…” Master Lee stopped and cleared his throat. “Anyway, apparently he’s after Stephen King now. The movies will never be the same without that man. You must stop him.”
“When do I leave?” Paca asked.
He was to leave right after lunch. In a state of nerves, Paca decided to cook lunch for himself in order to relieve his stress. As he did whenever he was nervous, he began an experiment of fusion cooking. He had a sharp hankering for chili and gumbo. Unable to decide which one to make, he decided to combine the two, creating a fusion of chiles, Tabasco, roux, with protein that seemed like possum and gator, but which he was not quite sure of since it was Chang that had caught and skinned them. Producing a thick goo of chilibo, he quickly downed two large bowls, uncaring that the monks had run away from the fearsome concoction after only one bite.
After his meal, he said his goodbyes to Master Lee, thanking him for all his help before boarding his flight back to the states. They flew into a small island off the coast of Maine, where Stephen King was holed up in a house with its back built over a tall cliff which overlooked pointy jagged rocks. Arriving at the house, Paca, Chang and the small band of monks that had accompanied him realized the enemy had already broken in. The front doors were smashed off its hinges and sounds of fighting could be heard from within. Chang and the monks flew up the front spiral stairs to join in the fighting. Black clothed ninjas fought other Xia monks. Paca ran up the stairs, not quite as fast as the monks. When he arrived he saw the fighting was well taken care of but he glimpsed an altercation down the hall. Rushing into the room, he found a very tall, stout man with a full graying head of hair and long sideburns who held a gun pointing straight at the novelist Stephen King. Before the Evil Editor could fire a shot, Paca picked up a large volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica and threw it with all his might at Evil Editor’s gun. His aim was so bad he missed it completely, but instead hit Evil Editor on the head, stunning him.
“Thanks man, I owe you!” Stephen King said before nimbly running out of the room, out past the fighting monks and ninjas, jumping into his Hummer and taking off. Paca heard a Master Lee’s voice in his head say, “Lesson one, altruism.” Check, thought Paca.
Picking up the encyclopedia, Paca stood as courageously as he could as Evil Editor got to his feet, still holding his gun. The Evil Editor stared quizzically at Paca for a long time before asking him his name.
“My name is Paca. Paca True. And I know who you are. You are the Evil Editor. Why are you killing off all the writers? Why are you destroying the power of the word?” he asked.
“Writers? Who cares about writers?” Evil Editor laughed derisively. “Adverb loving emotionally devoid hacks are what they are! I tell you I’ve done nothing but a good service to the world, ridding them of the angst and misery that writers breed." Evil Editor spat on the ground. "God I hate writers! Twenty years I spent editing their crap. Twenty years I spent dealing with their arrogance, paranoia, greed and stupidity of these little pussies. Twenty years of listening to their whiny complaints. That their agents are only interested in money, their cover art sucks, the editing ruined the integrity of their work, editors don’t know how to edit anymore, blah blah crappity crap! Now the world is a better place, my robot clones churn out the meaningless dribble that the stupid masses want. They can’t tell the difference between the real Nicholas Sparks and my robot Sparks, or my robot Mitch Albom. And my romance novelist robots, why they are pulling in my best sales ever, and no one will ever know the difference!”
“But what you are doing is destroying our language. The power of the word is being depleted. Because of your antics, we are losing one hundred important vocabulary words every day. What will happen to our National Spelling Bee?” Paca cried out.
“It’ll be a lot shorter, that’s for sure,” Evil Editor laughed uproariously. “Look, the only people who will really miss those words, next to the Spelling bee people are those pesky college preparation course people who teach those million dollar words. No one else is going to miss any of these words. I mean seriously, who cares? Who really uses dieresis, adumbrative or enclitic? You wanna know who? No one, because no one cares.”
“I care,” Paca replied. “And I will stop you.”
“Lesson two Courage,” Master Lee’s voice whispered in his head.
“Why stop me? Why not join me. Join my empire. Be richer and more powerful than you ever dreamed of being. You can oversee the list of vocabulary words and the set of four storylines that we use. You can be in charge of all that people read. You can add the words you want to save, I don’t care. You can be in control. You can decide when new story premises are warranted and when to recycle out the old ones. Together you and I can rule the publishing world!”
Paca thought of the power and money Evil Editor was offering him. As he hesitated, he heard old Master Lee’s voice in his head again, “Lesson three disregard of wealth.”
“No, I can’t be a part of that,” Paca said determined.
“Paca,” Evil replied sternly. "There is something you should know. Something that has been kept from you for too long. Paca, I am your father.”
“Wh- wh- what?” Paca said.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you were so hairy and needed constant waxing?” Evil asked.
“You?” Paca asked horrified.
“I had a little fling with a pretty little gray alpaca. I was lonely, she was grazing. And after a lovely springtime romance, you were born.”
“No, it’s not true!” Paca whispered.
“She didn’t want anything to do with you, all she wanted was to return to her herd, so I killed her and wrapped you up in her fur and sent you off to that orphanage. I never thought I’d see you again. But here you are! A linguistical genius! Join me and we will rule the publishing universe together, as father and son!” Evil Editor said.
“Lesson four loyalty,” Master Lee’s voice thundered in Paca’s head.
“I will never join you!” Paca shouted.
Hi stomach rolled dreadfully. Paca knew he should never have had that last bowl of Chilibo. It was rolling in his stomach and giving off twinges of imminent Mexican runs. His stomach heaved again. He could barely hear what Evil Editor was saying to him.
“Paca! Join me or be destroyed.” Evil Editor said as he extended one black gloved hand toward him.
As Paca’s stomach gave another heave, knowing what he had to do, he let the emotions flow through him, preparing his arsenal that roiled within him.
“This is for my mother!” he cried as he heaved out a huge alpaca style spit ball, bringing up the Chilibo and hawking it all in a mass of acidic stomach contents and saliva, he projectile vomited the huge loogie at the Evil Editor.
“Ah! My eyes! My eyes!” the Editor cried as the acid from Paca’s stomach burned his face. Stepping back against the window, his weight pressed him through the glass and he fell over the cliff and onto the jagged rocks waiting for him below.
“Lesson five, Justice,” Paca said. Wiping his mouth, he turned away and headed home.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Wednesday Pick Me Up
A beautiful picture and a beautiful poem to uplift us on a dreary day. I may not be able to write good poetry, but I know it when I see it.
Copyright by Frances A. WileyLord, the air smells good...
by Rumi
by Rumi
Lord, the air smells good today,
straight from the mysteries
within the inner courts of God.
A grace like new clothes thrown
across the garden, free medicine for everybody.
The trees in their prayer, the birds in praise,
the first blue violets kneeling.
Whatever came from Being is caught up in being, drunkenly
forgetting the way back.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
The Girls and Holiday Spirit
The girls were helping me decorate the Christmas Tree when oldest says "Let's all sing Christmas songs!" They immediately begin singing Jingle Bells and Santa Claus is Coming to Town. When they are done, the oldest asks "What should we sing next?"
Middle child shrieks, "Oh I know! My favorite song!" And proceeds to sing this:
"Well I don't care cause I like it!" middle child responds.
"You're not being in the Christmas spirit!" oldest says.
"I'm being in the holiday spirit and since that includes Christmas and Hannukah I can sing what I want!" middle child replies very smartly.
Intervening in what looks like a Christmas/Hannukah fight between the girls, I interject and say, "That's right sweetie, it is very nice of you to sing all holiday songs!"
"See! I told you!" middle child replies and sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry at her.
"Now that's not being in the holiday spirit. Remember, Santa's always watching," I chided her.
"Don't worry he didn't see me cause I was crossing my fingers!" she replied with a big smile.
Middle child shrieks, "Oh I know! My favorite song!" And proceeds to sing this:
O dreydl, dreydl, dreydl, I made it out of clayI start cracking up and oldest says: "That is most definitely NOT a Christmas song! It is a Hannukah song and you can't sing it for Christmas!"
And when it’s dry and ready, o dreydl I shall play, Hey!
"Well I don't care cause I like it!" middle child responds.
"You're not being in the Christmas spirit!" oldest says.
"I'm being in the holiday spirit and since that includes Christmas and Hannukah I can sing what I want!" middle child replies very smartly.
Intervening in what looks like a Christmas/Hannukah fight between the girls, I interject and say, "That's right sweetie, it is very nice of you to sing all holiday songs!"
"See! I told you!" middle child replies and sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry at her.
"Now that's not being in the holiday spirit. Remember, Santa's always watching," I chided her.
"Don't worry he didn't see me cause I was crossing my fingers!" she replied with a big smile.
The Vienna Vegetable Orchestra
So this was so bizarre I had to post it. An orchestra made entirely of vegetable instruments. How very phallic! Although I must say that my favorite was the person playing the head of cabbage. That cracked me up!
Friday, December 7, 2007
Ole Bessie
By The Quoibler, March to the Sea, StrugglingWriter, Church Lady, Charles Gramlich, Akasha Savage, Bernita, Travis Erwin, Mary Witzl, The Anti-Wife and Ello
Back in ought four, my grandaddy done took me'n my lil' sis, Sassy, on a fishin' trip. We was plannin' on livin' in the boat for a day, just waitin' and talkin'. Sassy weren't too big on the whole thing, so's she brought her dolly, Dolly, along.
The sun was just peakin' out as we drove to the dock in the old jalopy that Gramma called The Heavin' Beast. (Grandaddy would smile whenever she said it and pat her on the bottom with a wink.)
Ole bessie was the creatures name. 200lbs she was rumored to be. Nobody had ever caught that fish but today was the day. Grandaddy told the story of the town garbage man back in the early 1900's having it half way into the boat before his line snapped.
Sassy was curious so she let Grandpa put the worm on her hook and she dropped it in to the lake. Ol' Granddaddy pulled the pickup to the side of the road, right beside "the spot," went around back of The Heavin' Beast, and pulled out the biggest ol' cooler you ever did see.
"We's a gonna eat good tonight," ole Granddaddy said, winkin' at Sassy out of his brown eye. We both believed him since we was looking at his brown eye when he said it. Gramma always said look at Granddaddy’s brown eye if’n you wanted to know if he was tellin’ the truth. Don’t look at his blue eye cause you never could trust blue-eyed people. Granddaddy would just laugh and say she was just jealous cause she only had two same colored eyes like everybody else.
As we were settin’ up our rods and reels, a one-legged gypsy hobbled by.
"Lookin for Bessie, are ye?" She dropped her cane next to the cooler and pulled a soda from the ice. "I can help ye. Me and ol' Bessie. We go way back."
“It was eleven year ago when I first met Bessie," the Gypsy said. "Back then I still had two legs, ten fingers, two eyes, and a lot of sass. Old Bessie took the leg, three of the fingers, and the sass. The second eye I lost in a knife fight over an ugly guy. I lost and had to marry the dastard."
The gypsy glugged a swig of soda, let out a belch then held the cold bottle between her tits. That's what Grandaddy called a woman's front when he thought us kids weren't listening.
"He liked to go fishin', the dastard. Alus drug me along too. Was set to catch ole Bessie. Ha!" She cackled and spit over her left shoulder. "Ole Bessie done me a favor. Been a widder these five year t' the day."
The old gypsy flapped one liver-spotted hand at Grandaddy. "Help me to my feet boy," she said. "If I sit here too long chewing the fat, my bones will stiffen and sing the hallelujah chorus when I do move."
She grabbed up her cane, then nodded in the direction of our bucket of bait, a twinkle in her eye.
"You'll need more than an itsy bitsy little worm to catch ole Bessie. You mark my words...the dastard found that out...god bless his soul."
With a chortle she limped away along the riverbank. She stopped a few feet away and then looked at me.
"Whatever your do, don't take a leak near the water. Get a good twenty, thirty yards back in the woods before you unzip. Bessie won't like it if so much as a single drop hits her water."
I turned to grandaddy, "She's just yankin me lef, right?" With a shrug, he hobbled way off into the bushes to do his business.
Meanwhile, Sassie and me busied ourselves by looking for some likely worms. Never mind that we had a good supply of bait; I wanted some fat ones because as soon as I'd heard of 'er, I aimed to catch Old Bessie.
Granddaddy gave himself a shake and frowned down at his shoes as he zipped himself up. "What're you doin' there in the dirt?" he scowled at me.
"We need better than those little bitty worms we brought," I told him. "Didden you hear that old lady say we'd need something big to catch Old Bessie?"
Granddaddy hawked and spat and hitched up his britches. "That's why I brought these," he whispered hoarsely, patting a box in the back of the Heavin' Beast.
I took a peek. Hot damn; it was plumb full of baby water moccasins. Fortunately, they were still asleep. We slipped into the boat being extra quiet cause Granddaddy said Ol Bessie could hear the fishermen coming from a mile away. We started rowing out to the middle of the lake watching intently for any sign of movement knowing we would have to stop immediately if we saw even a ripple.
Sassie elected to stay ashore. I looked over my shoulder. There she was standing on a rock, a little red floater tied to her line, and grandma tying the other end to the bumper of The Heavin' Beast.
I said, real soft, "Lookee, Grandpa."
And he just snorted and said "Wimmin."
When we reached what granddaddy said was a right good spot, we cast our lines out and hunkered down for the wait. Dragonflies flew by skimming the water and leaving small ripples behind. I stared at my rod tip, watching it bob ever so slightly with the swaying of our boat. Thirty minutes of watching the constant swaying and bobbing brought my sleepy eyes to a close and I dozed for Lord knows how long when suddenly the boat rocked crazily. Granddaddy was standing in the boat hauling back on his line with all his might as the boat tipped and water splashed furiously onto me.
“Granddaddy! Watch out!” But I was too late as I saw his white spindly legs fly over the side of the boat and hit the water with a huge splat. Luckily, one of his double tied loops on his fishing boots caught on a raised ridge of splintered wood on the edge of the boat.
“Let go! Granddaddy, let go!!!” I screamed but still I could see him tightly grippin’ his pole even as half his head was submerged in the water. Our boat continued to tip wildly when all of a sudden it was dragged at a rapid click across the lake. I grabbed his leg struggling to try to pull him back in the boat but I couldn’t budge him. Up ahead, something humongous jumped straight out of the water and flew 1000 feet up in the air, blocking the sun momentarily. It lifted granddaddy out of the water, letting him dangle like a rag doll underneath it’s massive tail. For the few seconds that it darkened the sky above me, time stood still as I saw the massive head and long sleek silver scaled body flip over in the air, plunging straight back into the bowels of the lake, taking Granddaddy with it. And then the seething waters became crystal calm again.
Frantically I searched the waters for some sign of him. I jumped in the waters and holding my breath as long underwater, but there was no sight of him. Crying, I hung over the side of the boat, too tired to even pull myself in. All of a sudden a loud splashing commenced. Looking up I saw a massive catfish swim right up to me, it’s ugly flat, squashed face raised up as if it wished to speak with me. Furious I kicked at it and pulled into my boat and grabbed my oar. The fish bumped the side of my boat, nearly knocking me out of it. I swung my oar at it, hitting the water with a resounding splash. Sleekly dodging the blow, the catfish pulled up on the other side of the boat and raised its head again to peer at me, opening and closing its huge mouth. As I raised the oar to hit it again, I noticed something incredibly strange. The fish had one blue and one brown eye, just like my grandfather. Throwing down my oar, I leaned over and looked it dead in the eyes.
“G-g-g-g-granddadddy?” I blubbered.
The fish nodded solemnly. “Granddaddy what happened?” I asked bursting into tears. The catfish could do nothing but continue to stare solemnly at me, blowing bubbles in the water.
“So is that it? Anyone who catches Ole Bessie is turned into a fish?”
The catfish nodded solemnly back at me, before looking behind him where about 30 other large catfish had appeared.
“Are they all victims also?” I asked. The catfish nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head slowly. Pulling himself up, the catfish rubbed its slimy face against mine as if in apology. Backing away, he sunk into the depths of the lake with the other catfish.
From that day on, I never bring a rod or reel anywhere near the lake. Instead, every weekend I pack some potato latkes and some of gramma’s famous pecan pie and head over to the lake. I row my boat out to the middle of the lake where I wait for a humongous catfish with one brown and one blue eye to appear, excited to hear news and enjoy some of gramma’s famous cooking. Sometimes gramma comes out with me, anxious to see if granddaddy is doing alright, eating well, resting enough, before leaving him with a kiss on his fishy lips.
Some silly fishermen still go huntin’ for Ole Bessie at least once every fishing season. And every once in awhile, we will hear report of one of them gone missin’. And I think, well that’s good, another friend for granddaddy to play with.
Back in ought four, my grandaddy done took me'n my lil' sis, Sassy, on a fishin' trip. We was plannin' on livin' in the boat for a day, just waitin' and talkin'. Sassy weren't too big on the whole thing, so's she brought her dolly, Dolly, along.
The sun was just peakin' out as we drove to the dock in the old jalopy that Gramma called The Heavin' Beast. (Grandaddy would smile whenever she said it and pat her on the bottom with a wink.)
Ole bessie was the creatures name. 200lbs she was rumored to be. Nobody had ever caught that fish but today was the day. Grandaddy told the story of the town garbage man back in the early 1900's having it half way into the boat before his line snapped.
Sassy was curious so she let Grandpa put the worm on her hook and she dropped it in to the lake. Ol' Granddaddy pulled the pickup to the side of the road, right beside "the spot," went around back of The Heavin' Beast, and pulled out the biggest ol' cooler you ever did see.
"We's a gonna eat good tonight," ole Granddaddy said, winkin' at Sassy out of his brown eye. We both believed him since we was looking at his brown eye when he said it. Gramma always said look at Granddaddy’s brown eye if’n you wanted to know if he was tellin’ the truth. Don’t look at his blue eye cause you never could trust blue-eyed people. Granddaddy would just laugh and say she was just jealous cause she only had two same colored eyes like everybody else.
As we were settin’ up our rods and reels, a one-legged gypsy hobbled by.
"Lookin for Bessie, are ye?" She dropped her cane next to the cooler and pulled a soda from the ice. "I can help ye. Me and ol' Bessie. We go way back."
“It was eleven year ago when I first met Bessie," the Gypsy said. "Back then I still had two legs, ten fingers, two eyes, and a lot of sass. Old Bessie took the leg, three of the fingers, and the sass. The second eye I lost in a knife fight over an ugly guy. I lost and had to marry the dastard."
The gypsy glugged a swig of soda, let out a belch then held the cold bottle between her tits. That's what Grandaddy called a woman's front when he thought us kids weren't listening.
"He liked to go fishin', the dastard. Alus drug me along too. Was set to catch ole Bessie. Ha!" She cackled and spit over her left shoulder. "Ole Bessie done me a favor. Been a widder these five year t' the day."
The old gypsy flapped one liver-spotted hand at Grandaddy. "Help me to my feet boy," she said. "If I sit here too long chewing the fat, my bones will stiffen and sing the hallelujah chorus when I do move."
She grabbed up her cane, then nodded in the direction of our bucket of bait, a twinkle in her eye.
"You'll need more than an itsy bitsy little worm to catch ole Bessie. You mark my words...the dastard found that out...god bless his soul."
With a chortle she limped away along the riverbank. She stopped a few feet away and then looked at me.
"Whatever your do, don't take a leak near the water. Get a good twenty, thirty yards back in the woods before you unzip. Bessie won't like it if so much as a single drop hits her water."
I turned to grandaddy, "She's just yankin me lef, right?" With a shrug, he hobbled way off into the bushes to do his business.
Meanwhile, Sassie and me busied ourselves by looking for some likely worms. Never mind that we had a good supply of bait; I wanted some fat ones because as soon as I'd heard of 'er, I aimed to catch Old Bessie.
Granddaddy gave himself a shake and frowned down at his shoes as he zipped himself up. "What're you doin' there in the dirt?" he scowled at me.
"We need better than those little bitty worms we brought," I told him. "Didden you hear that old lady say we'd need something big to catch Old Bessie?"
Granddaddy hawked and spat and hitched up his britches. "That's why I brought these," he whispered hoarsely, patting a box in the back of the Heavin' Beast.
I took a peek. Hot damn; it was plumb full of baby water moccasins. Fortunately, they were still asleep. We slipped into the boat being extra quiet cause Granddaddy said Ol Bessie could hear the fishermen coming from a mile away. We started rowing out to the middle of the lake watching intently for any sign of movement knowing we would have to stop immediately if we saw even a ripple.
Sassie elected to stay ashore. I looked over my shoulder. There she was standing on a rock, a little red floater tied to her line, and grandma tying the other end to the bumper of The Heavin' Beast.
I said, real soft, "Lookee, Grandpa."
And he just snorted and said "Wimmin."
When we reached what granddaddy said was a right good spot, we cast our lines out and hunkered down for the wait. Dragonflies flew by skimming the water and leaving small ripples behind. I stared at my rod tip, watching it bob ever so slightly with the swaying of our boat. Thirty minutes of watching the constant swaying and bobbing brought my sleepy eyes to a close and I dozed for Lord knows how long when suddenly the boat rocked crazily. Granddaddy was standing in the boat hauling back on his line with all his might as the boat tipped and water splashed furiously onto me.
“Granddaddy! Watch out!” But I was too late as I saw his white spindly legs fly over the side of the boat and hit the water with a huge splat. Luckily, one of his double tied loops on his fishing boots caught on a raised ridge of splintered wood on the edge of the boat.
“Let go! Granddaddy, let go!!!” I screamed but still I could see him tightly grippin’ his pole even as half his head was submerged in the water. Our boat continued to tip wildly when all of a sudden it was dragged at a rapid click across the lake. I grabbed his leg struggling to try to pull him back in the boat but I couldn’t budge him. Up ahead, something humongous jumped straight out of the water and flew 1000 feet up in the air, blocking the sun momentarily. It lifted granddaddy out of the water, letting him dangle like a rag doll underneath it’s massive tail. For the few seconds that it darkened the sky above me, time stood still as I saw the massive head and long sleek silver scaled body flip over in the air, plunging straight back into the bowels of the lake, taking Granddaddy with it. And then the seething waters became crystal calm again.
Frantically I searched the waters for some sign of him. I jumped in the waters and holding my breath as long underwater, but there was no sight of him. Crying, I hung over the side of the boat, too tired to even pull myself in. All of a sudden a loud splashing commenced. Looking up I saw a massive catfish swim right up to me, it’s ugly flat, squashed face raised up as if it wished to speak with me. Furious I kicked at it and pulled into my boat and grabbed my oar. The fish bumped the side of my boat, nearly knocking me out of it. I swung my oar at it, hitting the water with a resounding splash. Sleekly dodging the blow, the catfish pulled up on the other side of the boat and raised its head again to peer at me, opening and closing its huge mouth. As I raised the oar to hit it again, I noticed something incredibly strange. The fish had one blue and one brown eye, just like my grandfather. Throwing down my oar, I leaned over and looked it dead in the eyes.
“G-g-g-g-granddadddy?” I blubbered.
The fish nodded solemnly. “Granddaddy what happened?” I asked bursting into tears. The catfish could do nothing but continue to stare solemnly at me, blowing bubbles in the water.
“So is that it? Anyone who catches Ole Bessie is turned into a fish?”
The catfish nodded solemnly back at me, before looking behind him where about 30 other large catfish had appeared.
“Are they all victims also?” I asked. The catfish nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”
He shook his head slowly. Pulling himself up, the catfish rubbed its slimy face against mine as if in apology. Backing away, he sunk into the depths of the lake with the other catfish.
From that day on, I never bring a rod or reel anywhere near the lake. Instead, every weekend I pack some potato latkes and some of gramma’s famous pecan pie and head over to the lake. I row my boat out to the middle of the lake where I wait for a humongous catfish with one brown and one blue eye to appear, excited to hear news and enjoy some of gramma’s famous cooking. Sometimes gramma comes out with me, anxious to see if granddaddy is doing alright, eating well, resting enough, before leaving him with a kiss on his fishy lips.
Some silly fishermen still go huntin’ for Ole Bessie at least once every fishing season. And every once in awhile, we will hear report of one of them gone missin’. And I think, well that’s good, another friend for granddaddy to play with.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Story Prompt of the Week
The Lone Fisherman
This was my husband's idea for the story prompt of the week. If you couldn't tell, he is an avid fisherman and being a man of simple tastes, he has a simple request. He wanted to hear a ripping good fishing tale. So what do you say? Can we do it? As always, first person who posts will set the tone for the story. Since it is fishing, I say the genre is tall tale, just like all the usual tales he'd tell me of the ones that got away. Please post as often as you want and as short or as long as you would like. I will end it when I think the story has come to it's logical conclusion and then post the whole thing by tomorrow or Friday. Thanks as always, for participating. I hope you will help me give the hubby a really good fishing story to keep him happy until fishing season starts up again in the spring.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
My middle name is
Dear Larramie at Seize a Daisy has tagged me for a middle name meme. Something about listing one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don't have a middle name, just make one up...or use the one you would have liked to have had.
So my middle name is like 13 letters long and I just don't have that many interesting facts about myself to make this an interesting post. Well, I was feeling weird so I decided to write up the facts and make up a middle name depending upon what I got so here goes:
O - is for OCD. During the winter my hands turn into little alligator clutches cause I wash my hands so much you can actually see the dried up diamond shape markings of my skin. And I would rather pee my pants than use a port-o-potty.
S - is for sarcastic. Try to understand that I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, I really am smarter and better looking than you.
S - is for serious. No seriously, I am smarter and better looking than you.
H - is for happy. Truly I am, especially after I punched that last moron who told me to turn my frown upside down.
E - is for eating. My new avatar is a pig. Need I say more?
L - is for laughter. Hey, if I can't laugh at you, then who will?
A - is for anal. It comes with having OCD. I don't like when people touch my stuff. They'll put it out of order. I don't like lending people my books because I hate it when they bend my spine. I don't like naked dolls. If I see a naked doll, even if it is at someone else's house, I must dress it. This is non-negotiable. While in the Barbados, I got into a little fight with my friend's 3 year old who insisted that her Barbies needed to swim naked in the pool and began screaming at me when I kept trying to sneak clothes on their naked bodies behind her back.
So OSSHELA is now my middle name. But I didn't like the sound of that so I started playing with the letters and switching them until I realized that my real middle name is actually "ASSHOLE." Ain't that a bitch?
So my middle name is like 13 letters long and I just don't have that many interesting facts about myself to make this an interesting post. Well, I was feeling weird so I decided to write up the facts and make up a middle name depending upon what I got so here goes:
O - is for OCD. During the winter my hands turn into little alligator clutches cause I wash my hands so much you can actually see the dried up diamond shape markings of my skin. And I would rather pee my pants than use a port-o-potty.
S - is for sarcastic. Try to understand that I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, I really am smarter and better looking than you.
S - is for serious. No seriously, I am smarter and better looking than you.
H - is for happy. Truly I am, especially after I punched that last moron who told me to turn my frown upside down.
E - is for eating. My new avatar is a pig. Need I say more?
L - is for laughter. Hey, if I can't laugh at you, then who will?
A - is for anal. It comes with having OCD. I don't like when people touch my stuff. They'll put it out of order. I don't like lending people my books because I hate it when they bend my spine. I don't like naked dolls. If I see a naked doll, even if it is at someone else's house, I must dress it. This is non-negotiable. While in the Barbados, I got into a little fight with my friend's 3 year old who insisted that her Barbies needed to swim naked in the pool and began screaming at me when I kept trying to sneak clothes on their naked bodies behind her back.
So OSSHELA is now my middle name. But I didn't like the sound of that so I started playing with the letters and switching them until I realized that my real middle name is actually "ASSHOLE." Ain't that a bitch?
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