What is it with everyone playing god these days

Last night I was on the bbc website and I read an article that made me sob. Just what is it about people these days deciding who should live and die especially innocents. Suolas remarked how strange it was for something to upset me so much and he could see where I was coming from but usually I have a stoic look about me when reading such things. I still cant link properly so Ill cut and paste the web address http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6702267.stm, but I am sick to the pitt of me the way people extinguish out innocents lives just because they are unhappy with their own. If you dont like your life do what you have to do, but dont be a selfish looser with your emotions and take the lives of others..

Double the security

On retirement homes; because if this seasons fashions are anything to go by , it will look like a geriactric catwalk. I am NOT a follower of fashion by no means, I have my own distictive style thank you very much but if these patterns are anything to go by there should be licences issued with these patterns they are that loud. why would anyone want that nylon / polyester look going on, not to mention sweaty crevices?? Its going to make buying new clothes in the next few months increasingly difficult for me with these bright colors and crazy patterns. Someone had left a fashion supplement from a paper on the bus and I was astounded that women obviously want to go for that bedsit wallpaper look..

I dont know what it is about the whole deal with this look but why does it scream grime, sweat and copious amounts of pubic hair. Each to there own and live and let live but I just had to say Blerghhh!

Numb Nuts

More news stories but this is more like a serial gimp is on the loose. He would have had more luck in a lesbian bar feeling boobies for that result.. Anyhoo heres the official take on it..
Police in Ontario are looking for a man who allegedly approached women and asked them to kick him in the groin.
Three women reported similar incidents to police and two of the women reported the suspect was on a bicycle. The various incidents allegedly occurred over the last two months.

Police Sgt. Cate Welsh said the man's request is not a crime, but they are concerned it may be a precursor to sexual assault.

"That kind of behavior tends to be a precursor to sexual assault. That's what we're trying to determine," Welsh said.

The suspect is described as white, in his early twenties, with a brown goatee and a large gap between his front teeth.

None of the women reported injuries.

This Little Piggy Went....DOWN!

This is when the second ammendment comes in handy especially when a gargantuan pig is invading your personal space - thing is if it weighs so much I cant immagine chasing it would be a problem... I kinda want to ignore the fact the kid had been hunting and using a gun since FIVE YEARS OLD FOR CHRISSAKE but lets just gasp in awe at the sizable porcine zeppelin..For those of you who missed this little (?) story here it is..

AN 11-year-old boy used a pistol to kill a giant pig that his father says weighed a staggering 476kg and measured 2.74m, from the tip of its snout to the base of its tail.

Think of hams as big as car tyres.

If the claims are accurate, Jamison Stone's trophy boar would be bigger than Hogzilla, the famed wild hog that grew to seemingly mythical proportions after being killed in Georgia in 2004.

Hogzilla was originally thought to weigh 453.6kg and measure 3.6m long.

National Geographic experts who unearthed its remains believe the animal actually weighed about 362.8kg and was 2.4m long.

Regardless of the comparison, Jamison is revelling in the attention over his pig.

"It feels really good," Jamison said. "It's a good accomplishment. I probably won't ever kill anything else that big."

Jamison, who killed his first deer at age five, was hunting with father Mike Stone and two guides in east Alabama on May 3.

He said he shot the huge animal eight times with a .50-calibre revolver and chased it for three hours through hilly woods before finishing it off.

A message from Ray

The Pop up seems to have disappeared - but please please let me know if you guys see anything on my page like that again, it really pissed me off to a height over the weekend knowing that little window was whoring itself on my page - thanks to all who notified me..
This one is for all you little whoring windows out there

Pop ups

Today when using another browser I found a pop up on my page. It was for a gambling company. Now I hate pop ups they are fucking annoying and because I had a blocker on my pc at work and used the same browser on the mac here at home I would have never known but because suolas was on another browser up it popped..

I contacted them to complain but the guy couldnt see it (so he said), so Im asking you guys if any pop ups do show up on my page could you guys email me and what the pops up where/company name ? Thanks!

When laughing turns to cryin'

If this doesnt freak the bejesus out of you I dont know what will

Election 07

Tomorrow Ireland goes to the polls and Im totally undecided who to vote for - for those not au fait with irish politics theres a new kid on the block, a contender if you will to Bertie Ahernes throne - Enda Kenny. How and ever without boring you guys with the dimness of their policies this made me howl - granted not as much as it would you guys but I thought I would share.

Breakfast Anyone??

I dont get time in the mornings to have any breakfast between getting the rest of my family up and kickstarting some order to the house and inbetween getting myself ready for work. So when I do get into work I will have a cup of tea and a slice of toast and jam. There is a big divide on jam in my house; your either strawberry or raspberry, I come from the latter camp and positively love its seeded sweetness, so this morning I am having the usual and what do I spy in the jam on the knife??

One of these buggers


It did not freak me out, strangely enough, a lot of people would have hurled the pot away from them in disgust/shock but I quite matter of factly rang the company and told them of the dessicated findings in their product. So now I await a phone call to either arrange for them to collect it for analyzing or whatever. Now I could go the Oscar performance of how Ill never be able to eat jam again and how I honked my stomach up or simply just state that it was an easy thing for them to not notice this little bugger amongst all the berries.. What would you do O conscience discernable reader?

Puss Pool Thang

Puss & Pool have had this on a meme thing so Im doing it out of boredom since over the weekend the windows by my desk where smashed by some vandals and the glaziers have my corner to work away on so, just having a laptop to work on and doing no real work until theyve buggered off I'll do this

Available or single: Single

Best friend: Ehmm On one hand Suolas and on the other my mom

Cake or pie: Pie for moistness

Drink of choice: Red wine, cider, ameretto, schnapps, hot chocolate, diet coke, tea, ice cold milk

Essential item: self worth

Favourite colour: Black – hardly surprising

Gummi Bears or Worms: worms for the freudian overtones

Hometown: Dublin

Indulgence: baths on a stormy night

January or February: February - January is the waiting room of the world post christmas

Kids: 2 sweeties

Life is incomplete without: Love, Sex and my family

Marriage date: Unlikely

Number of siblings: 3 brothers 1 sister

Oranges or apples: Oranges but theres nothing worse than a sour or tasteless one

Phobias/fears: Bluebottles

Quote, favourite: Theres nothing worse than a bollox , than a bollox thats right (my dads quote

Reasons to smile: Aside from my children, Good Sex & all the bills paid off

Season: Autumn, cooling down, intensity in nature, ripeness, darker days

Tag three: I cant I will be lynched by all in blogdom

Unknown fact about me: My eyes change color

Vegetarian or oppressor of animals: Was veggie for 16 years had a thing for hot dogs when pregnant

Worst habit: Smoking.

X-rays or ultrasounds: X rays

Your favourite foods: Salad sandwitches, Mash, onions, peppers - all salady stuff, chicken ala king, Baked potatoes, fried noodless,Colcannon, basil spaggetti, Shellfish, Omellette, Special Fried Rice, Corn on the cob, My mothers mince and onions & stew

Zodiac: True Scorpio

I know Im going to hell

And if you laugh at this your coming with me

Cat Drill

No Fucking Excuses

Night Owl, Morning Lark thats me. My usual routine at night is to go to bed on average about 12:30am and in between and that time and lets say 6am most likely my girls will wake up looking for me or I have to use the bathroom. I average Id say 5-6 hours sleep. Still you wont find me in a bad mood or cranky because of it. Dont get me wrong, Im not chirpy or acting like Ive done a few lines coke for breakfast I dont spring from bed, full of vim and vigor, or wax eloquently on the beauty of the breaking of dawn, Im civil, even keeled and yes tired but for all my tiredness I will be able to manage a sincere smile and just get on with things. Suolas is a nightmare to wake up and needs about 20 mins to function properly, which I dont mind at all - theres the distinct difference hes not an early riser, I can live with that. But the other individuals who claim they dont do mornings sound like they just like to spite themselves and the people surrounding them here lies the crux of my pet peeve.


I have lived and worked with a few people who claim they are 'not a morning person' and quite frankly theres no excuse for it. Put it this way, they said that they are still waking up and dont want to talk much etc etc I can live with that for about 10 - 20 minutes or so but how much wake up time do you fucking need? Now if they where told that they had just won a dream holiday or cash sum upon awakening, where would that cranky/sleepy mood be then? Out the fucking door leaving their host smiling and in good spirits like any other decent human being- is that what it takes for you self centred fucks to be civil? Anne Marie (the infamous biohazard flatmate in the uk) was one of these people. I would say good morning to her and she would grunt, I would offer to make her a coffee and she would just take it without thanks (BTW this didnt last long me making her a cuppa)and find the worst in everything that was wrong with the world/house/her life. If there was a vase of wildflowers on the table, she would ask could she move them as they where too cheerful looking at the table for that hour of the morning (I would have gladly shoved them up her arse) and then there was a paramour Nick, who was an absolute arsehole for the first two hours of the morning,tutting kicking the odd kitchen chair out of his way, throwing his coffee cup into the sink from a distance and all because quote unquote 'couldnt be arsed with mornings', and this was very much the reason why I didnt have him stay over with me anymore.



Its very much like the morning after scenario where the drunkard for whatever reason finds themselves in trouble, the excuse is shoveled out like the bullshit it is 'I was drunk at the time'. Bollox if your best friend had the shit beat out of them in front of you , you would soon sober the hell up. It ruins the atmosphere for the morning, sets the person up in the firing line to a shitty start and then by lunchtime the jekyl hyde syndrome has settled and they are back to themselves and youre supposed to act like nothings happened?? If you people who 'dont do mornings/ not morning people' you are obviously aware on how bad tempered and ill fucking mannered you are and hide behind the thin veneer of the excuse 'Im not a morning person'. If you dont want to be around people put your jacket on, go for a walk and come back when you have woken up and in a better mood.

For Garlic Lovers

A few bloggers like to post up some of their favorite and personal invention of recipes. This is my very own original receipe. Be Warned. It is not for the faint hearted and there are some of you who may very well email me to ask is there traces of cocaine in this receipe. It is also for those of you who love garlic. So unless you dont want to have a game of tonsil tennis with someone. Have yourself a bowl of this tastiness.

Judes Cold Garlic Pasta Salad
3-4 cups of pasta shells
5-6 cloves of Garlic
1 small Cucumber
1 tin of red kidney beans
bunch of Spring onions and one red onion
10 small new potatoes or 3 large baked potatoes with skin still on
1 red pepper
4 seeded tomatoes
1 cup of cooked petis pois
1 Large carrot
3 dessert spoons of Mayo or Miracle whip
salt & pepper
2 teaspoons of blue poppy seeds
Method
chop cucumber into small cubes with skin remaining
drain and wash the tin of kidney beans
chop onion and spring onions finely
remove pith & stalk from red pepper and cut into small squares
grate the carrot
with a garlic press , mince the garlic of 5-6 gloves - depending on taste, for a mellow smokey taste bake the clove bulbs for about 10 minutes in a hot oven
chop your large tomatoes removing the seeds
chop your potatoes into small bite size chunks

now add in pepper, cucumber,tomatoe, potatoe, onions, kidney beans and carrot to a large serving dish, mix in the minced garlic and 3-4 dollops of mayo/miracle whip
cook the pasta shells until soft and rinse in cold water immediately.
Drain the pasta and add to vegetable mix. Add seasoning of salt and pepper with poppy seeds.

This is delicious on slivers of toasted bread or with fish, Great for barbeques or with green salad and crusty french stick.

The Witch & 007

I found this article in sundays observer newspaper, strange little tale about James Bonds creator and travesty of justice to Helen Duncan.

More than 60 years on, the case of Helen Duncan, the last woman in Britain to be jailed for witchcraft, refuses to die. As her supporters seek a posthumous pardon, evidence has emerged that she may have been the victim of a plot involving British intelligence agents, including Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond.
In the 1940s Duncan, a Dundee housewife and mother of six, travelled the country performing seances for a war-weary public often seeking reassurance about their loved ones. As a 'materialisation medium', which involved her going into a trance and producing 'ectoplasm' through which spirits would take on earthly features to communicate with the living, Duncan built a reputation as one of spiritualism's greatest heroines
However, during a sitting in Portsmouth on 19 January, 1944, Duncan, 47, fell foul of the security services when a sailor from HMS Barham is alleged to have formed in ectoplasm and greeted his surprised mother sitting in the audience. His death had been kept a secret by the Admiralty, which had been trying to conceal news of the ship's sinking three months earlier.
Fears that Duncan had access to secret information alerted the security services, and an investigation led to her trial at the Old Bailey, accused of contravening the Witchcraft Act of 1735 by pretending to 'bring about the appearances of the spirits of deceased persons'. She was jailed for nine months.

At a time when the military authorities were anxious to keep plans of the Allied invasion of occupied France secret, Duncan and other psychics were seen as a potential threat to security. Drawing on new research and trial documents released to the National Archive, an academic and award-winning film-maker, Robert Hartley, has claimed that the evidence points to a state conspiracy to crack down on security leaks ahead of D-Day by making an example of Duncan.

'In the run-up to D-Day, the authorities were paranoid about potential security leaks and Duncan was in danger of disclosing military secrets during her seances,' said Hartley. 'Helen Duncan was giving out very accurate information. There were other mediums round the country giving out news on soldiers that had died and someone in authority took it seriously, whatever the source of the information. D-Day was coming up and it was absolutely essential to keep the Allied deception plans intact.'

After examining all the documents, Hartley believes there is evidence to suggest that Duncan's conviction by an Old Bailey jury in March 1944 was unsafe. In a new book, Helen Duncan: The Mystery Show Trial, he suggests that among those responsible for the conspiracy to convict Duncan was Fleming, a key figure in the naval intelligence services, and John Maude, the prosecuting counsel at the trial. 'I am convinced naval intelligence were working with MI5, and when I began looking at that connection Ian Fleming's name kept cropping up as being involved with people either involved in the case or on the sidelines,' said Hartley.

More than half a century later, Duncan's case remains a cause celebre, with more than 30,000 websites, translated into several languages, detailing her story. The 'official Helen Duncan website' claims to have received at least 42 million visitors in the last few years, leading to a worldwide campaign for justice and a petition to the government calling for the dowdy woman, who died in 1956 and is now regarded as a spiritualist martyr, to be pardoned.

Despite popular belief, Helen Duncan was not the last person to be prosecuted in Britain for witchcraft. In September 1944, after the D-Day invasion, Jane York, 72, from Forest Gate, east London, was charged with seven counts of pretending to conjure up spirits of the dead. She was bound over for the sum of £5 to be of good behaviour for three years. Duncan's comparatively heavy sentence just months earlier has been cited as further evidence that she was being made an example of. 'It seems clear to me that the security services conspired to imprison Helen Duncan as part of the tight security operation undertaken in the run-up to D-Day,' said Hartley. 'It was the Admiralty's view that she posed a security risk that needed to be dealt with.

'I appreciate that the conspiracy was undertaken with the intention to protect the lives of allied servicemen and women but now, over 60 years later, it is time to put right this wrong, otherwise it continues to undermine the very rights our nation was fighting for.'

Arthurs Avalon

I still have a great affinity with ol blighty and her legends - this is glastonbury tor and it was taken a few days ago by an amateur photographer, Spectacular isnt it? The Magic still hums in the land today.

Open Letters !!

Since you enjoyed open letters so much heres some more including one of my own as General Catz suggested! Enjoy

To the remote controls that reside in my house

Dear Remote controls that reside in my house,
For some time now there seems to be something not quite right between you all, Have you had an argument between yourselves? Or are you simply rebelling under present circumstances? What ever the reason you guys wont stay together surely I am within my rights and understandably anxious to know what is going on. TV remote, you and VCR remote where inseparable for the best part of 8 years, sure you had your differences and TV remote even kicked the pants out of your Battery case at one stage but you guys got over that and even seen each other through the difficult times when my daughters raison d’etre was to slobber you two in drool and gummy chew you at any available time. Was it the appearance of the satellite and DVD remote that set off your penchant for disappearing around the house? One time I even found TV remote in the bathroom, What was that all about?? I noticed that both you and VCR remote would stick to one side of the room and DVD and satellite remote would take refuge in the bowels of the armchair or sofa. I thought we where making progress with a 4 sectioned holster that draped over the armchair that it would bring a sense of family to you guys but there was always two of you AWOL.

I would like to take this opportunity to issue you all a warning. This carry on will not be tolerated in my house, the constant goose chase you give me on a daily basis is enough to enrage the common man. Either tolerate each others presence and stick together or else I shall be forced into making the drastic decision of buying a ‘one for all’ remote and hurtling you out in the streets, destitute and homeless. The most you could hope for out there in the cold uncaring world is that some 5 year olds find you and pretend that you are mobiles eventually getting bored and jumping on you like a cockroaches. Its either Shape up or ship out!

Your Aggravated Owner

To: My Cold

From: Your Host

Re: Uncle

04 • 13 • 06

Dear Cold:

Surely a recap of the past two weeks is unnecessary. No need to revisit in this letter the hacking, the aches, the nasal horrors, the thermal roller coaster, the throat like a skinned knee that must somehow find a way to swallow. Since you were there I will spare you redundant descriptions. Suffice it to say, you really did the joint up.

Indeed, once you had strong-armed my body into hosting your event, it was no longer just a matter of your little virus and my various immune responses. No: you had the chutzpah to invite your friends over and before long, my usual allies were leaving in disgust. Acne made a surprise appearance (oh hi!), causing the already put-upon morale to depart unceremoniously. Depression smoked in the driveway, never quite storming the place but menacing enough to scare off some of my more fragile associates: focus, motivation, optimism. Some straight-arrow friends of mine (self-respect, discipline), sensing the place had taken a turn toward chaos, also slinked away, shrugging their regrets as I stood helpless at the door. Hygiene remained only by force. By day three, it was clear that I was no longer calling the shots; you and your friends would leave when you were good and ready. In the meantime, I was welcome to sulk.

Cold, since you specialize in disruption, you may not realize just how unusual the past two weeks have been for me. I assure you: this is not how things normally go. There are certain tendencies, suspended during your stay, that characterize my life when my days are ticking along in their accustomed way. These may include but are not limited to: waking up in a neutral-to-positive frame of mind, thinking, smiling, caring at all what is going on with other people, reading whole pages of text at a time, listening when people speak, and having some inkling that a world exists beyond my own skin and preoccupations. You will no doubt be amused to learn that in my more self-satisfied moments, I have sometimes thought of these tendencies as spokes protruding from the central hub of something called My Character.

Well, Cold. Bravo: you have put the lie to this monumental arrogance of mine with tools no more sophisticated than a rhinovirus and some mucus! It took you about 48 hours to render me sullen, self-absorbed, humourless, dull, cranky, oozy, hopeless. Over the past two weeks you have laid waste not only to my plans and routines, but to my very disposition. They say the veneer of civilization is thin, and that the slightest unrest can bring out the barbarism that lies jut beneath the surface. If civilization is veneer, then my personality, it seems, is a substance so insubstantial as to make the denser gases snicker. The symptoms you provoke should, by rights, fall under the heading of "irritants" rather than "identity-manglers." But it seems I am susceptible, like an unpleasant cousin out of Jane Austen.

You may claim (although you have not demonstrated a flair for encouragement in the past) that it is not so unusual for suffering to change people. It is well known that while a few admirable souls are ennobled by pain, most are diminished. In Alain de Botton's snappy formulation, "Many unhappy syphilitics omit to write their Fleurs du mal and shoot themselves instead." This is fine as far as it goes, but it has little to do with my experiences of the past two weeks. Alas: my own recent suffering has been shot through with the awareness that sneezes and sinus pressure do not even deserve registry in the log book of human pain. Indeed, were a catalogue of my complaints recorded on a napkin, to use it as a bookmark in said encyclopedia of affliction would be an affront to world history. You, Cold, are nothing.

Sure, you may be strong compared to me (see above re Jane Austen) but before you grin that microscopic grin of yours, know this: the world contains illnesses that melt people's organs. The world contains illnesses that cause people to develop all the world's other illnesses. The world contains illnesses that devour people, bloat us, distend us, wither us, hollow us out, make us incomprehensible to others, make others incomprehensible to us, vaporize our memories, blind us, deafen us, immobilize us. (And these are only afflictions of the flesh! The matter of non-clinical heartsickness remains unbroached!) To one who knows true suffering, your powers would be--well. Let's just say it's rare to hear the crucified complain of splinters.

Now, I admit that my pronouncements of your weakness do little to elevate my own character in this sad story. Despite your low ranking among the world's ailments, you have beaten me in straight sets. You're pretty much rubber here, and I'm pretty much glue.

Even so, as my head has grown clearer these past few days, I have begun to feel there may be reason for hope--and not just the giddy hope of breathing through both nostrils. Cold, this matter of my character (see above re negligible film) has got me thinking. Consider: you were successful in laying waste to some of the personal attributes I thought inherent and immutable, not to mention winsome. You, recall, are a tiny bug.

I am a higher primate! My God--if you can banish my charms, surely I can stamp out some foibles? You took verve, cheer, empathy. Might I not send sloth, melancholy, selfishness packing? You heaved enthusiasm, thoughtfulness, curiosity overboard. Might not pettiness, ennui, smugness walk the plank? It took you just days to make me unrecognizable to myself. What might I manage in a year? Ten? Thirty? Why stop at virtue? Time travel! X-ray vision! Movable ears! Telekinesis! Animal languages! Invisibility! Underwater breathing! Esperanto! Pole vault! You have shown me the way: change is possible!

So go ahead, Cold, and tell your friends you laid me low. Tell them it took less than 48 hours for you to dismantle me. Tell them I wished my suffering upon children and the elderly. Tell them I sniveled and begged. Tell them I failed.

Oh but tell them I'm young.

Until next time,

Your Host

AN OPEN LETTER
TO MY SISTER'S
PSYCHOTIC
DOGS.

October 2, 2006

Dear Psychotic Dogs,

I think you may have noticed my affection for other animals—including my own dog—and wrongly assumed that it extended to your snarling, demented selves. But you couldn't be more wrong; I utterly despise you both. Moreover, I'm astonished that you're too obtuse to sense the waves of hatred that radiate from my person like heat from a Ben Franklin stove whenever you have the temerity to poke your noses at my crotch or stand there barking witlessly at me for no earthly reason.

I thought dogs were supposed to be sensitive to human emotions, but I guess that's only normal dogs. Dogs afflicted with your particular brand of psychosis are stripped of empathy and possess only a predatory ability to sense fear or vulnerability, especially in children.

Which brings me to why I feel that you two are the most despicable creatures a kind person was ever misguided enough to rescue from the pound. I first began to hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns when I caught you stalking my 2-year-old child like a pair of ravening velociraptors. Since it happened five years ago, you probably thought I'd forgotten it. But let me tell you something, Psychotic Dogs, I will never forget it. I was standing right there, for Christ's sake, talking to my sister and watching my sweet, innocent little girl toddle around the yard, bothering no one. And then I saw you two coming at her with murderous intent. Fortunately for you, I was able to interpose myself between you and my daughter before you could do anything more than scare her. For that reason and that reason alone, you are both still alive.

Psychotic fleabags, you have given me plenty of reason to go on despising you ever since. I hate the cowardly and hypocritical way you wag your tails at people when they're facing you, only to then take a nip at the cuffs of their pants the moment they turn their backs. You are sneaky and deceptive, which are bad enough qualities in any creature but seem even worse in dogs, which are generally noble, honest, and kind. You bring discredit to your entire species, Psychotic Dogs.

I also resent the fact that you've become a bone of contention (if you'll pardon the expression) between my sister and me. I am tired of her making excuses for your brainless thuggery. I've heard more times than I care to recall about your lurid puppyhoods before my sister rescued you, and you know what? It excuses absolutely nothing as far as I'm concerned. Do you think my childhood was a bed of roses? I assure you, Psychotic Dogs, it was not. And yet I manage to get through life without resorting to the vile behavior that is so regularly observed in you. I believe that we are responsible for the obnoxious behavior that survives our childhood, and that principle definitely extends to the animal kingdom.

Hear this, Psychotic Dogs: If I ever catch you menacing my child again, I will pick up the nearest lawn chair and wrap it around your thick skulls. Then I will pull up two tomato stakes from the garden and drive them through your black hearts with a croquet mallet.

You need to remember that even though you undeservedly live a pampered and privileged life by taking cruel advantage of a kind soul (whom you repay by occasionally biting), you have no real legal status in this country. I could kill you with impunity. Sure, there are animal-cruelty laws, but, believe me, I could mount a justifiable-homicide defense bolstered by legions of gardeners, pool men, neighbors, and assorted others unwittingly drawn into your malevolent web. I would not only be acquitted but would probably receive a civic award for dispatching you. So never cross me again, Psychotic Dogs. It may be the last thing you ever do.

Sincerely,

Sherry H. Ciurczak
Florida

Hope for Madeline Mc Cann

Please if anyone who lurks in my blog sees a little girl with the distinct pupil that bleeds into the iris, contact the relevant authorities. I think every parent in the world has had nightmares over her abduction. My heart & prayers for herself and all who love her. My little girl is the same age as her. I cannot imagine what life would be like in her parents footsteps.

groovin on a saturday night

Create Your Own PaloozaHead - Visit Lollapalooza.com
The deliciously cool reflection pool had these little make your own rockstar thingamabobs on her site so heres mine, btw girls its not that big and clever to miss a meal and be like a skinny malinky So I guess the choice of song is apt.

Open Letters

I found these at Mcsweeneys.net, please enjoy the letters and unrelated posters
AN OPEN LETTER
TO KEITH RICHARDS'
IMMUNE SYSTEM.
December 10, 2004
Dear Keith Richards' Immune System,
Hey! How are you? I know you're busy sustaining four packs a day of Gitanes and overcoming the long-term effects of black-tar heroin, but here's the thing: I need your help.
I have an illness, CFIDS, that suppresses my immune system, and I don't like it. I get fevers that last a month and I'm allergic to 72 foods. (Food, the thing that sustains life, frequently makes me sick.) But I'm not writing on my behalf. No, what keeps me up at night is that AIDS is enveloping Africa, Asia, and Russia with horrifying speed. Tens of millions of individuals—people with families and middle names and private jokes and birthdays—are dying, and all science has been able to do is slow things down a bit.
Here's where you come in. Out of the 6.1 billion human immune systems on the planet, you're clearly the strongest. You've triumphed over the aforementioned tobacco and opiates, and over Mick's preening vocals on "Hot Stuff." What other immune system can claim the same?
On behalf of the immuno-compromised populace, I'm asking that you allow epidemiologists to study your molecular activity before it's too late. Had researchers pounced while Charles Bukowski and William Burroughs were alive, millions could have been saved and I might eat eggs without throwing up.
To paraphrase Princess Leia: Help us, Keith Richards' Immune System. You're our only hope.
Thanks and much continued success,
Litsa Dremousis
AN OPEN LETTER TO
MY CATS, WHO ARE JEALOUS
OF MY NEW BABY DAUGHTER AND
ARE ACTING OUT NOW THAT SHE
RECEIVES ALL THE ATTENTION.
September 22, 2006
Dear Cats,
I'm on to you. I see the way you look at us. Those devious cat eyes glaring at us from under the rocker during a 2 a.m. feeding. You don't think I see you, but I do. You see, I've been watching you, too. I am aware of what you are up to, you maniacal bitches. Go ahead, chew on the newly purchased stuffed lamb with a bell inside of it that we bought to make her giggle. Rip it to shreds. I've got plenty of money and there is a Pottery Barn for Kids right down the street from our house. And if you are attempting to mark your territory with the "wet spots" that I find in her nursery, you better step up your game. It takes a lot more than damp carpet to raise my ire. The vomiting? What the hell is that all about? Just because she can do it without getting sprayed with the squirt bottle and chased down the stairs, you think that gives you the right, too? Your constant pleas for attention are duly noted. I can deal with these things, and I can deal with your perching atop our headboard while we sleep, making your low, gutteral cries, begging for attention, yet at the same time figuring out ways to disfigure my face with your rear claws and sharp teeth. I can deal with that. (Although, I have to admit, you're starting to freak me out.) But where I draw the line is with what you did yesterday. Your weaving around my feet while I carry her is not just unappreciated—it is dangerous. (Note to self: Never carry baby down the stairs with the cats around. They'll eventually figure out that that's where we're most vulnerable.) This child is helpless and, though your jealousy runs deep, your deliberate attempts to "take her out" will not be tolerated. I extend my hand to you in truce. If you promise to change your ways, I promise to teach her to not chase you and grab your tails when she is mobile enough to do so. I understand your feelings of having to play second fiddle, and for that I'm sorry. Truce?
Eric Heedum

AN OPEN LETTER
TO THE AMAZON PARROT
I HAVE BEEN SUPPORTING FOR
OVER 15 YEARS WHO STILL
TRIES TO BITE ME FOR NO
APPARENT REASON.
May 19, 2006
Dear Amazon Parrot I Have Been Supporting for Over 15 Years Who Still Tries to Bite Me for No Apparent Reason,
I am writing because I have a surprise for you. Ever since you've been living with me (rent-free, I might add), you have led me to believe you can't understand a single word I say. Even a simple command like "Please stop pecking at my eyes" goes unheeded. You've also seemed completely unable to imitate human speech. For an embarrassing number of years, I carefully repeated the same simple words and phrases, always hoping that someday you might repeat them back to me. One morning I would be preparing your usual gigantic breakfast assortment of tropical fruits, whole-grain toast points, and pricey organic cereals, when a wee voice would issue from your little feathered head and you would finally say to me, "You're such a pretty bird! I love you, pretty bird!" That was my dream.
Instead, over a decade later, you have apparently learned only three vocalizations: the cackling laugh of an evil hag (a sarcastic parody of my own innocent laughter?); a tuneless steam-whistle sound rising in pitch like an engine about to explode; and your favorite, the sudden, high-decibel bloodcurdling scream.
Well, guess what? Recent scientific research has finally exposed your perfidious avian secret: Several parrots have been proven to understand and speak perfect English. As a result, we now know that your species has self-awareness, awareness of the feelings of others, and a heretofore unimagined intelligence. Unimagined by me, anyway, since you never indicated by word (ha-ha!) or deed that you possessed anything more than the simple self-seeking cognition of a lower animal, like, say, a cat. I actually felt sorry for you and your tiny bird brain.
But now I know the truth, Amazon Parrot I Have Been Supporting for Over 15 Years Who Still Tries to Bite Me for No Apparent Reason. You have lived a life of deception and mockery at my expense. And I do mean "at my expense." You are a high-maintenance money pit with feathers. Even though I raised you from a baby, and protected you from all harm, you still won't let me touch your precious little feet and razor-sharp beak without attempting to kill me. As a result, I am forced to pay for a visit to the bird vet every time you need a trim. Yes, only a highly paid professional can safely handle your temper tantrums, your rabid biting, and your needlelike claws aimed at her face.
And what about the overpriced toys I have lavished upon you, only to see you cringe and act as if I'd left a slavering monster in your cage whenever I present you with the latest carefully designed construction guaranteed to "keep your bird happy and intellectually stimulated"? The cleverly designed spiral exercise ladder I bought for you two weeks ago, which you attacked and demolished in a matter of minutes, cost me over $60. I'm not made of money, you know. Oh, that's right—you do know, because you have been eavesdropping on every conversation I've ever had within your hearing, no doubt filing away any information that could be used to manipulate me in the future.
However, O Exalted One, you apparently can't be bothered to actually carry on a conversation with me, even though it is now very clear that you have the ability. Why not? Am I not interesting enough for you, Your Highness? Do you sneer at my lowly human intelligence? Or perhaps you have made a secret rule for yourself that it is beneath your majestic dignity to speak to your groveling servant.
Now that I think of it, I'm actually paying for the "privilege" of serving you. My life now revolves around you and your many needs, all because I thought you were cute and helpless and unable to fend for yourself in this complex world. But it isn't complex for you, is it? You simply demand, and it is done for you. Your wordless scream has been carefully calculated to waver around the exact eardrum-shattering pitch that will drive me into frenzied attempts to placate you so that the awful noise will stop. And, all these years, you could have simply asked me politely for whatever you required.
But no, you kept your cognitive and language abilities to yourself, forcing me to guess frantically at what you wanted, and shrieked like a nuclear warning siren whenever I couldn't somehow psychically pick up on the exact nature of your request. It is now obvious that you are quite the little intellectual, and that your species isn't afraid to use our human technology for your own ends. Now that I have read about your fellow parrots' ability to operate a computer so it will show only the pictures they prefer (pictures of themselves, of course), I think I have figured out just how my new laptop got infected with a mysterious virus that destroyed the hard drive.
Well, the next time you bite into me for no apparent reason, your evil charade will come to an end. I will feel free to demand that you apologize immediately in grammatical, clearly enunciated English. If no such apology is forthcoming, you will find yourself tossed out on the street. Where the hawks and eagles live. Just try playing dumb with them, Amazon Parrot I Have Been Supporting for Over 15 Years Who Still Tries to Bite Me for No Apparent Reason. I'll bet those raptors are just as smart as you.
Sincerely,
Renee Prince

Salem, Oregon

AN OPEN LETTER
TO JAMES RANDI
REGARDING HIS "ONE MILLION
DOLLAR PARANORMAL
CHALLENGE."
July 10, 2006
Dear James Randi,
I am writing to you in regard to your offer of $1 million to anyone who can demonstrate, under proper conditions of scientific trial, paranormal abilities. I deeply admire your policy of holding those who claim to possess supernatural powers to the rigorous standards of scientific inquiry and rational thought by working with these claimants to develop a preliminary, and then a formal, test of those abilities.
The warning, posted so ominously (and, dare I say, smugly) on your website, that "no one has ever passed the preliminary tests" only deepens my conviction to be the first.
Delightfully, I have not only a love for the scientific method but also a demonstrable paranormal skill! I have the ability to control men's minds with my vagina.
To test the claim that I can control men's minds with my vagina, I propose the following experiment:
A statistically significant even number of volunteers will be recruited to participate in the test. Volunteers should be male, heterosexual, and unknown to me, and should have at least $5 on their person. Each volunteer will be assigned to a group: "vagina" or "no vagina."
In every trial, the volunteer will be seated within a short walking distance of a hamburger stand. Volunteers in the "vagina" group will also be seated within a short walking distance of my vagina. Volunteers in the "no vagina" group will have a leaden wall placed between them and my vagina. To ensure that the "no vagina" group is not motivated by even the suggestion of my vagina, I will not be seen by them, and my voice will be conveyed only through a voice-altering device that masks my gender.
For each trial, I will ask the volunteer if he will buy me a hamburger.
I predict that volunteers in visual proximity of my vagina will be at least 50 percent more likely to comply than those separated from my vagina by a leaden barrier.
I think you will agree that mind control of any kind is certainly a paranormal phenomenon, and that this proposal represents a fair test of my ability to control men's minds with my vagina.
As anecdotal evidence—which I am aware is not sufficient for your challenge but seems apropos in an introductory note such as this—I have previously obtained a number of hamburgers in this manner.
Sincerely,
Jennifer Dziura
P.S. With fries!


AN OPEN LETTER
TO THE GYM SHORTS
THAT ARE NOT IN
MY GYM BAG.
November 3, 2004
Dear Gym Shorts That Are Not In My Gym Bag,
I think we need to talk, Gym Shorts That Are Not In My Gym Bag. This has to stop happening. We've had this problem a couple of times before and, seriously, I thought things would improve. I thought you could change. Do you know how it makes me feel when I get into the locker room, carefully remove and hang up my business-casual attire, and attempt to change into you, only to find you missing? Don't you know how I wonder where you are? How this could have happened? Do you think I can't hear the snickers as I walk, dejected, out past the other people in the locker room? Well, I can. And it hurts.
Oh, don't try to turn this around on me. Forgetful!? That's rich. I'm the one making all the effort here. Everyone else made it into the bag; the socks were there, Wake Forest Men's Track T-shirt showed up, even the change of underwear, the usual culprit, was right there in the bag. But where were you when I needed you? Sitting on the bed, right where I left you this morning. You hadn't even moved!
You know, when I bought you, you were full of promise. You entered my life at a time when things were turning around. You represented hope, the promise of a new day, as well as stylish performance. But the breathability of your fabric belied your commitment. We were supposed to be a team. And a team is only as strong as its weakest member. That weakest member is you, my friend.
The promise of that day, three weeks ago, at Sports Authority, seemed like forever ago as I stood there on the cold tile in my black work socks and boxer briefs. Gym Shorts That Are Not In My Gym Bag, I'm disappointed. I thought we had something. I guess I was wrong.
J. Mohan

Good idea at the time...

*it took me all day for blogger to let me post this so excuse the errors I will fix them after I bath and send my monsters to bed*The first place I ever moved into I was the ripe old age of 23 and in Leicester. It was in a nice leafy stretch of road with some fabulous houses , some with sweeping gravel driveways but nearly all of them had a real estate value of about £1-2 million . The house where I lived was a lovely Victorian four story house, it was I believe a hotel at one stage as all the rooms had ensuites. It was a bed sit really but I suppose you couldn't get a more grander one in that neck of the woods. With an industrial sized kitchen, a basement laundry and a hangar sized living room it was quite the find for a would be flat hunter such as myself. My room had its own floor so to speak, nine steps up and had an Olympic sized swimming pool of a bath. It was cosy when I put all my things in it and the landlady on occasion ,would show people my room as an example how nice/cool one could get their room if they chose to live there. This was their first foray into letting out rooms so I was the first to move in. After that it was a matter of about 4 weeks before every room was taken. Out of the nine of us living there I think there was only one or two people that was from the uk, there was a guy from the Seychelles , one from Australia , New Zealand, another from Ireland, another from France. All in all not many people apart from myself knew many people from the area , so most evenings we would congregate downstairs with a few beers and chat. This in tow became a regular occurrence , everyone would get a bit hammered and with each evening of drinking that went by the drinking became heavier and heavier. I was fond of my Landlord , Rash, he and his wife lived in a 'granny flat' at the back of the house and they often came up for a chat and a drink. Rash was a Bacardi man and I would goad him in my slightly inebriated state that Bacardi was in fact a girls drink, backed up by my fellow Irishman at the time, who indeed verified that in Ireland it was only the pink pound or the girlies choice of drink, Rash threw down the gauntlet for 'the ultimate drinking challenge ' and see who out of the entire house could survive the night. Every drunk in the room ran with that gauntlet and it was agreed , Saturday night coming was to be the liver Olympics.

The rules where simple , bring your own choice of drink but make it enough to get drunk on 3 times over , not liking beer and not one for spirits too much I brought to the table 6 litres of Taurus Cider and a small bottle of Captain Morgan rum to pace myself. Everyone had taken the precautionary pint of milk and food to line the stomach to stop themselves from getting too drunk to quick, a lot of sturdy meals where prepared and eaten a couple of hours before the evenings activities and I being in no humour to make myself a meal, opted for a bowl of shreddies (malted wheat's).. There was a great buzz that night, hilarious stories shared, drunken games played and gentle but hilarious teasing were thrown back and forth but one by one my flatmates threw in the towel and there were four of us left. Rash my landlord, John from Ireland, Alan who was from Nottingham, and of course myself. The worst part about drinking in the living room was that if you needed to use the bathroom, you would have to climb the stairs to your respective rooms and if you had a room on the top floor there was every chance you would not make it back down again by either having a conversation with your liver that it was pure suicide to go back down or one could miss their footing and have a nasty tumble up or down the stairs. Being so paranoid and drunk I let the guys use my bathroom each one of us brought our glass with us for fear of it being spiked by our rascal of a landlord who was very much as jober as a sudge at that stage. But as we took our turns our bottles where being slowly filled with vodka by Rash and what he didn't know that John from Ireland was putting Poteen (moonshine) in his when he went to the bathroom. How we did not go blind from that night remains a mystery. Alan was in a pretty bad way and he left with the help of rash and john, they were gone for about 15 minutes , and 15 minutes is a long time for a raging drunkard like myself. It turned out that the had to sit Alan on the toilet and manoeuvre his head into the sink to make sure he was alright. And then they just spent the rest of the time doing knock door run on all the others doors etc

When they came back down , we where all feeling the toil of the night and feeling very much worse for wear and we called it a night. Agreeing that there where no winners in this game, that we where all equals and we crawled to our respective rooms and man do I mean crawled. I went up those 9 stairs on my hands and knees and lay on my bed. The bed felt like it was on the crown of a whirling dervish and I knew it was a matter of time I was going to honk like articulated lorry. I staggered to the bathroom and let ejection run its cycle. Convinced I wasn't finished, but in desperate need of comfort and sleep I decided to bring with me the small bin as a receptacle should I need to avoid a Mama Cass Situation. I awoke to see the strange image of an empty shampoo bottle, squeezed out tube of toothpaste and several tubes that once held toilet paper strewn about the bed. In my drunken state I had emptied the contents of the bin onto the bed and left the bin back into the bathroom instead of its rightful place by my bedside. Aside from the second heartbeat turned up full volume in my head , my body told me I needed to use the toilet bad, the aftermath of malted wheat's and cider evident on the cistern and tiled wall such was the force. I looked in the mirror eyes so red it gave my features a lizardish cast and my hair looked like it was starting up a new wave band. I needed some liquid to rid the dehydration. I walked very slowly to the kitchen where I met John who seemed to be doing the same thing as I, both of us afraid to talk too quickly scared we would punctuate our sentences with vomit. We both agreed we had lost the ability to generate saliva, to us death seemed pretty awesome right there and then. Just as we where about to leave for our respective rooms Rash's 14 year old daughter Naomi arrived with a note for me which went something to the tone of

Dear Bastard

I will be sending for a doctor soon, I hope you are feeling as foul as me if not worse. I can just about breathe but only very gently

Rash

Ps I think I'm in trouble with the wife over the carpet.

Turns out Rose, Rash's wife woke up about 6am to find Rash, Bollock naked, ass smiling up at her as she entered the bathroom , on the floor his arms death-locked around his porcelain lover , snoring and hastily cleaned up puddle of vomit beside him.. The newly fitted £900 bathroom carpet would have to be torn up as Rash's steak and kidney Guinness pie he had that evening seemed to stain glue itself to the ivory pile. I sent him a reply back via the daughter

Dear Fucker

It looks like I have jaundice and a junkie has styled my hair. If its of small compensation to you, my stomach is heaving like that's its full time job and all I have to remember the night by is my shreddie encrusted tiled wall of my bathroom and a black vacuum populated with shifting, vaguely-menacing shapes. Congratulations sir now fuck off and allow me to regain the will to live again, I neither feel human nor mammal.

Jude

PS Don't fancy the grief your going to get for the carpet.

I calmed down drinking after that, most of us dared not imbibe for a good week and it was a month before I went near the gut rot again. As for Alan, he said that he had no recollection of being brought upstairs and sat on the toilet and his head in the sink, he was grateful because he got a nasty bout of the squits as a result of all the mixing of alcohol and eating a hot masala beforehand, also he did have some carpet burn on his face from falling off the toilet but I think his major concern was who had the bright idea of whipping down his jeans and sitting him down like a toilet training 3 year old. He didnt quite make use of his facilities in the end and had to rid himself of his jeans as a result... Had I continued the pace at which I was drinking back then Im pretty sure I would have ended up a bum and Im 100% sure a night like that now would most likely kill me as a bottle of good red seems to have me in cheery enough form but its best times like that remain where youth is king and you can stare death square in the eye..

DIE YOU VERMIN DIE

Bluebottles this side of the pond, Blowflies the other, Whatever the word you use for them I have a different one for them. Bastards.


I cannot even begin to express my loathing for this species and yes I would love to break the glass and use the reserve *c* word for these vomits with wings. In my last post I spoke of my love affair that I have with winter and colder days, I guess somewhere up the top of the list for reasons I love that time of the year is that these bastards are dying in their thousands.

I have this loathing ever since I was a small child. My brothers would take advantage of this hatred/ phobia of mine and take a blue and red pen and draw a squiggle on the corner of their rolled up marvel comics and come chasing me with the alleged squashed bluebottle. One night (summer dont you know) one was in my room, buzzing around, no amount of tea towel flicking or newspaper swiping would deter the annoying fucker out, so I sat beside the door waiting for it to fly out, it took nearly an hour and my mother came upstairs and asked what I was doing, I told her and she said I was mad, as soon as she said that it flew from my room to hers and all she could hear was a muffled 'I may be mad but he's your bleeding problem now'..

Where I work, outside in the salvage yard, the food for the dogs is prepared which consists of tripe and chicken. The mere smell of this cooking in the open air is enough to make a tramp gag and the carrion denizens come out in their thousands. Most days you will find me when not parked in front of the pc , I lie in waiting in various locations of the office with a patience and endurance I’m not known for, with anthing that qualifies as a weapon in my mission to cull this species. One of the many treats I give myself on hot days is to go outside and use the blowtorch on them. I apply the same level of coldness that any terminator would exude and bake the bejaysus out of them the acoustics of 'die you horrible bastards, die!' can be heard as far as a few blocks Im sure. I wont rest though until winter finally finishes the job for me.

Summer Sucks (and so does Blogger)

I had diligently typed up a witty and interesting post this morning and knowing that I was on a 'flow' with words did not bother to draft the post when I was uploading photos. The Blogger swallowed up the whole thing when I hit publish - it would not let me hit a 'back ' button to retrieve it so I’m pretty pissed off with that and with the upcoming elections and campaign policies being blasted outside from car and truck speakers I’m ready to crack at someone. Jude - deep breath - and r-e-l-a-x..
Over the weekend I spent some time out at my parents. My girls thoroughly enjoyed exploring my mothers wall to wall lined lilac garden and feeling the grass between their toes. I have a problem with summer though, the heat makes me irritable, headachy and tired but I soldier on and not try to let it bog me down. In the rush of trying to get the girls ready and out the door I forgot to put on sun screen and in turn I ended up looking a bit like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters (thank the gods for SPF in foundation) lobster red down one side.

What is it with people in the pursuit to bake themselves every 12 months? I am quite bewildered as to why people, although using sunscreens, will work themselves down factorwise to expose the skin to fry slowly. You see them everywhere in sun chairs , in the park, sprawled fingers catching every ray of sunshine there is to be had. I myself have never sunbathed since I was about 12 so I have very pale skin but I’m comforted in the fact that I wont age prematurely in that respect. A sun and sand holiday is my idea of hell and I find myself pining for the smell of smouldering autumnal leaves, the sharp orange coldness of the teatime sun of October and the heavy rainfall of November nights. I don’t think I suffer from seasonal adjustment syndrome its just all this sultriness and heat, Id much rather be shambling around in my winter coat and feeling alive with the weather rather than feeling listless and bordering on a bad mood with the heat - I cant be arsed with it.

Bottom line is I suppose roll on the short days and long nights. I will be happier when the summer ends and the promise of cosy days come knocking on my door once more. Not a popular view I know, most people are in better humour with the grace of the sun and have a happier disposition. But not this miserable bitch you see before you.


*As Yosemite Sam would say 'great hornitoes ! blogger is not letting me upload any photos at the moment- useless fuckers, (heat anxiety already kicking in here) so be sure to call back and see some 'interesting' photos* ** managed to let me do it now as you can see**