CHALK MAN

Bill Bryce sat in his car, staring in the direction of the Wal Mart entrance. He dreaded the thought of having to go into a place that he hated so much, but he needed a car battery and no other store in town was open at 7 am on a Sunday morning. He despised the people who frequented the store. Bill was a racist to begin with, and the thought of having to brush past black and Hispanic shoppers, as well as those who he considered to be white trash, made him almost turn and head back home. He sat for about ten more minutes and then decided to just go in and get it over with.

The store was crowded. It did not matter what time that a person was there, it was always crowded. Bill started to navigate his way toward the automotive section. He turned down an aisle and found it nearly blocked by a Mexican family. He flipped his cart around and headed in the opposite direction. “Damn wetbacks,” was all that came to his mind.

He turned down another aisle and saw that there were only two groups of people on this particular row, a woman pushing someone in a wheel chair and an old lady staring at some craft items. He proceeded toward the wall of tires which he could see lined up on the other side of the old woman. As he approached the woman pushing the wheelchair, he found that there was not enough room for him to pass. He was enraged, as he always seemed to be about something.

“God Damn it!”, he said, directing his comment toward the woman pushing the wheel chair, “Don’t you people have home care workers or something? You push these cripples around in these big chairs and take up the whole fucking store! Normal guys like me can’t catch a break!”

“Cripples?” The woman responded, in a state of shock. “This poor girl is 18 years old! Her name is Gwen, and you are willing to condemn her for the fact that she cannot move her arms and legs. She has not always been like this, she just lost her ability to move in the last five years. It is an attitude like yours that is causing Gwen to give up on life. She is slipping away because of peoples lack of compassion. She could be YOUR daughter. What would you do then?”

Bill pushed his cart around the wheel chair, and then turning his head back to the woman, he said, “I would put her in a home.”

He proceeded down the aisle. As he approached the old lady, she stepped in front of his cart.

“Would you get the hell out of my way!” He almost yelled.

She was an odd looking old lady. There was a blank look in her eyes, almost as if she was teetering on the edge of dementia. She walked over to Bill and grabbed his shoulders. Looking him straight in the eyes, obviously not intimidated, she said, “Some day, you will be in the way. I curse you, you evil man.”

“Why do all the freaks shop on Sunday morning?” He asked her sarcastically, walking away from the encounter.

The old woman walked over to Gwen, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about that evil man. He will understand, one day.” she said, sympathetically.

The woman pushing the wheel chair responded. “Thank you for the kind words. I am Gwen’s mother and it meant a lot to me, also. Gwen never even talks any more. It is like she has given up. People like that will never understand.”

“This one will.” She said with a smile, and then turned and walked away.

Bill arrived back at his house about an hour later. His wife was still in bed, and his daughter was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. He looked at her and smiled, feeling grateful that she was a normal thirteen year old. They said their good mornings, and then he exited the house with his tool box. He was not much of a mechanic, he was a telemarketer. He made a good living being rude and obnoxious, it seemed to be his forte.

While completing the battery change, Bill’s feet began to itch. He hated athletes foot. He seemed to get it a lot, and always had some spray in the bathroom. He went inside, and sitting down on the edge of the bath tub, he proceeded to pull off his socks. He was puzzled by how his feet looked. They were not red and inflamed, as would normally be the case with athletes foot, but instead, they where whitish in color. His toes itched so bad. It was like no itch that he had ever felt before. He started to scratch them, and what happened next was horrifying. The skin on his toes began to come off like dust. He could not even feel his hands touching them. Then his entire pinky toe snapped off, like a piece of chalk. He tried to stand up and all his toes disintegrated , leaving a pile of ash looking dust on the bathroom floor. There was no pain, no blood, just a scream of disbelief..

Bill’s wife called 911 and the whole family rode to the hospital. The doctors took him immediately, and were completely baffled. His toes were gone, but the ends of his feet were smooth and healthy, almost as if no toes had ever existed. There was nothing that they could do for him, he seemed healthy, and there was no sign of any disease. He was released, having to go home with a wheel chair and a walker.

He spent the next week buried in a drunken state, hoping that this was just a nightmare, but it seemed that reality had won out. He reclined in his chair and turned on the TV, hoping to lose himself in an auto race. That is when his legs started itching below the knees. He looked down and saw that both of his shins were almost white. The itching was so intense that he was compelled to scratch. He dug his finger nails in and scratched ferociously. A chalky dust filled the air as his fingers dug through what was once his lower leg and into the chair below. His wife entered the room and screamed.

“What is happening to me?” He yelled!

His wife looked down at his legs, and as had been the case with his toes, his skin was smooth and perfect at the knees, but there were no legs remaining below that point, just two piles of dust.

Another week at the hospital and a battery of tests produced the same result as with his previous visit. They could find nothing wrong with him. The doctors wanted to keep him and study him, but Bill was not going to be a lab rat, he would rather die than be a specimen.

Weeks went by and the itches on his legs came back two more times, robbing him of all of his lower extremities. He was starting to fade into the depths of despair. He was now in a wheelchair, and had nothing to look forward to but what was on TV. He picked up the remote control, and that is when the fingers on his left hand started to itch.

“Nooooooo!” He screamed. It was such a loud scream, such a surrendering scream, that it was heard in houses throughout the neighborhood.

A few months later, Bill and his wife had to go to the grocery store. In the past, Bill would never make the trip, but now, she could not leave him at home alone. Their daughter, who was afraid to watch her dad by herself, came along and pushed the shopping cart, while his wife pushed the wheel chair. Bill had no arms or legs remaining, just tiny smooth stumps. He wore a ball cap and sunglasses, to hide the embarrassment of his existence. He never spoke any more, and remained in a daze at most times. His wife was contemplating putting him in some kind of home, but she knew that it would go against his wishes.

She parked his wheel chair off to the side of the aisle and began to put food items into the cart.

Two women walked past his wheel chair and smiled at him. Continuing to walk away, the younger woman began to cry.

“I wish that I could help him!” She said.

The other woman spoke. “Gwen, you cannot help everyone. I wish that you could. I don’t know how you got your arms and legs to function again, even the doctors don’t know. I like to think it is because you have a good heart and honestly care about people. I am not just saying that because I am your mother. I don’t know how that poor man over there lost his arms and legs, but you cannot feel guilty because you can walk, and he cannot. Those years that you were in that wheel chair were the hardest years of my life. I like to think that good things happen to good people.”

As they embraced in a loving mother daughter hug, an odd looking old lady, who had been standing within ear shot, turned to them and said, “….and bad things happen to bad people”.

They thought that she looked familiar, but could not quite place her.

Moving On

This should be interesting! I have part one of a two part story. Brian Miller will have part two for you sometime today!

Dan Porter woke to the feel of the morning sun shining upon his unshaven face. These days there were no mechanical alarms to wake him. There were no responsibilities that required him to meet any deadlines. He had not worked in months, and had not gone through the proper channels in order to collect unemployment benefits. With just a few weeks remaining until Thanksgiving, most of his utilities had been cut off. He knew that the house was going to be taken from him, just as his car had been, nearly a month earlier. It was Sunday, and he felt like this would be a good day for him to make his move.

Dan got out of the bed, going through his usual ritual of grooming without the luxury of running water. He had a few water jugs that he had been secretly filling from the neighbors outdoor faucet. He went to the kitchen, opening up the pantry to see what kind of food that he could scrounge up. Peanut butter and crackers had been the staple meal for quite some time. He proceeded to eat his meal , washing it down with the tiny bit of Scotch that had remained from the night before. Alcohol was no longer an occasional indulgence, as it had been in the past, now it had become a way for him to take the edge off of his bitterness. After finishing his breakfast,
he then started to organize a game plan..

Dan knew that when he departed his neighborhood on this day, that he would not return to his house. He needed to take just what he could carry with him, it was time to say goodbye to his old life. In the course of a year, he had gone from being a Wall Street Professional, living in an upper middle class suburb, to being on the verge of the unthinkable. He had no family that he could rely on. The only relative that he really knew was his father, and they never got along anyway. His mother and his aunt, had died years ago. He was all alone.

He grabbed a duffel bag, and started going through his belongings, keeping anything that was comfortable and warm, or anything of value, which he might be able to pawn or trade at a later date. In the end, he had a full bag with about three hundred dollars worth of clothes, and left behind a closet filled with suits and ties. He walked toward the front door, and then stopped in his tracks. He had forgotten something. Dan retreated to the living room and grabbed a small photo album off of his coffee table. He put it in the duffel bag and walked out into the cool November air.

The neighbors watched him walk away. He could feel their pity, and he despised it. “Poor Dan”, had become a pair of words that made his blood boil. There was a part of him that was happy that he would not return to this place.

He walked for a while until he came upon his Church. It had been almost a year to this very day, since the last time that he had stepped foot into a house of worship. Dan was a religious man most of his life, attending Church regularly, always active in community events. He looked at the building and on this day, he felt compelled to walk to the entrance. He stepped inside and sat in the very back row, putting his duffel bag by his side.

He began to listen to the sermon and he heard words like “faith” and “wisdom” and “kindness”. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his little photo album and flipped it open to the first picture. It was a picture of him with his arm around a beautiful woman and a young girl standing between them. On the bottom of the photo was the writing: “Mommy, Daddy, and Chelsea”. It was written in a child’s handwriting.

It was in the beginning of November, the previous year, that he and his family had decided that they were going to do some early season Christmas shopping. Returning from the mall, an oncoming car veered into Dan’s path, forcing him to run off of the road and down an embankment. At the bottom of the hill sat a 52,000 pound piece of construction equipment. His sheet metal Honda was no match for the heavy steel monster. Like it is the natural human instinct to do, he steered his driver seat away from the crash, leaving all of the impact on the passenger side. He was dazed and bruised, but not seriously injured. His wife and daughter were dead on impact.

He looked at a few more photos, and listened to a few more “Amens”, and then he stood up.

“Hey!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, completely silencing everyone in the building, including the Pastor. “What kind of God would let my family die the way that they did?’ Tears began to roll down his face. “How can all of you people sit here and just buy into this crap that is spewed week after week? I am here to tell you all that you are wasting your time. Blind faith is for fools!”

Everyone stared at him, a few people gasped, but no one said a word. Two men started to approach him, and at that, he picked up his bag and beat them to the door. A year ago, right before Thanksgiving, he attended a service before he buried his Wife and Daughter. At that time, he swore that he would never enter another church again. He broke that vow today, in order to see if he wanted to give God one more chance. His family tragedy had cost him everything, his loved ones, his sobriety, his job, and especially his faith.

He began to walk down the street, no home, no destination, and no hope. It was going to be a pretty awful holiday season……..

Go see BRIAN and see what he has cooked up for Dan's future! Your guess is as good as mine!

Happy Hour Friday

In Emails with RxBambi, a great friend of mine, we decided to co host a Friday post called "Happy hour Friday". Friday is the end of the work week, and a doorway to free time and hopefully fun. Just list some things that make you happy, and Have a fun weekend! BE SURE TO VISIT RX BAMBI :)

I know! How can someone who has been bitching and whining all week about the flu, do a Happy Hour post?? I will tell you!

the NY YANKEES won the series!!!!! That alone makes me ecstatic! I have watched them win the World Series 7 times in my life, and it never gets old!


I am still happily remembering my weekend trip, the family, the blog meeting, the marathon.

You know that point of being sick when you realize that you are on the upswing and all of a sudden, your energy and motivation return? I am at that point, and am very grateful that my flu symptoms were not much worse.

Please go see RxBambi, I think she hates it when she sees Otin Otin Otin! hahaha!


I did away with my link poem, because it was getting outdated and replaced it with a blog list. There was no pecking order or favoritism, but I did not include all of the blogs that I follow. If yours is not on there and you would like it to be, let me know. (Unless you are one of the porn blogs that I follow! LOL! just joking, maybe)

I think that I am actually glad that I have not been able to taste anything for a couple of days. I ate to much this weekend and the lack of taste has let me drop a few pounds. It is amazing how easy dieting becomes when nothing has flavor. However, a nice big pizza might be on the menu for Friday night!

I love this video, I think I might have posted it before, but who cares! Gretchen Wilson and Alice in Chains! (Turn the music player off to view)


OK, here we go....I am Happy Happy Happy! I am happier than Donald Trump with a can of hairspray! Happier than Roman Polanski at a Girl scout Jamboree! Happier than a deaf man at a Coldplay concert! Happier than Peter North at a sperm doning clinic! (If you get that one, you might not want to admit it! haha!) Happier than Charlie Sheen with some acting ability! And Finally, I am so much Happier than the Phillies fans who bought tickets for game 7!

WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY?

PITTING BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER part 2 (Theme Thursday : CASTLE)

I WROTE THIS LAST WEEK AND PEOPLE WANTED A CONCLUSION. IT WAS NOT REALLY MEANT TO CONTINUE IN MY MIND, BUT I WAS NOT FEELING ALL THAT CREATIVE, SO I DECIDED TO GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANTED. THE NEW PART IS MARKED FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ALREADY READ THIS PART.

PART 1

“And that was the battle of Gettysburg…………” The teacher finished his line, just as the Bell rang. Mark Turner, shook the cobwebs from his brain and gathered up his books. He had a problem paying attention to things when he did not find them interesting. He was always daydreaming about being a pro ball player, or an astronaut. His mind never really seemed to stay firmly planted in reality. He was like a dream factory. Every night, he was off to a new world, some exciting, some strange, and some, very scary. Today, while they were learning about Civil war battles, he had been the lead singer of a huge rock band. His grades were terrible, but his imagination was stellar.

Mark was glad that the school day was over. He was really tired and wanted to go home and sprawl out on the couch, filling his head with whatever useless cartoon or silly afternoon show that he could find. He was twelve, it was not hard to entertain him. He had developed quite a crush on Hannah Montana, although he would never tell his friends that he ever watched such a show.

He arrived at the house and his Mother was busy in the kitchen.

“Hey honey, how was school?” She asked. It drove Mark crazy, because she asked the same question every day and always got the same answer.

“It was boring, as usual.”, Mark replied.

“Well, if you don’t get your grades up, your Dad is going to have to deal with you. You are a smart boy, but all of this daydreaming in class has got to stop.”

“Whatever,” He said sarcastically. “Dad working late tonight?”

“Nope, he will be home about six.”, his Mother answered.

At that, Mark retreated to the living room and switched on the television. The week had caught up with him. He surfed through the channels and his eyes got heavy.

“Wake up dickhead!” Mark’s older Brother, Arte , said ,punching him on the bicep. “Mom says dinner’s ready.”

Mark hated Arte, most of the time. He was an obnoxious older brother. He was a straight A student, and obviously his parent’s favorite son, at least in Marks mind.

“Is Dad home? What time is it?” Mark asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“Yea, it’s time to eat, unless you are going to go beat off to Hannah Montana, like you usually do. It’s 6:15.”

The four of them sat down to dinner. Arte began to toy with Mark.

“Hey bro, how come every time that Hannah Montana is on, you have to spend 15 minutes in the bathroom afterwards?” Arte asked, just waiting for Mark to explode.

He did react, but it was far worse than Arte had ever expected.

“Fuck You!”, Mark Screamed, leaping from his chair and swinging at his brother.

Their Mother was horrified! As far as she was concerned, the F word was a mortal sin. The boy’s father was not to happy about it either, although he could somewhat understand that accusing your brother of masturbation while at the dinner table, was not too cool.

“Go to your rooms! Now!” Their Dad said angrily.

“But Dad….” Mark started to say.

“Not another word. I will not have that crap at the dinner table! Go to your rooms and stay there until I say! NOW!!!”

The boy’s got up from the table and stomped off to their bedrooms.

“Dickhead”, Arte mumbled under his breath as he made the left hand turn into his room and closed the door.

“I’m gonna kill you”, Mark responded as he made the right into his bed room.

Mark was still tired, and annoyed, and he was really mad at Arte. He put his pajamas on and crawled into bed. He had had enough of this day, maybe tomorrow would be better.

There was smoke all around and the sounds of guns and cannon fire were deafening. Mark was wearing a blue uniform and holding a rifle. He looked around and saw bodies sprawled out in front of him. Some where wearing the same uniform as him, whilst others were dressed in a mish mosh of rags and grey uniforms. There was so much blood, and some people were so mangled that you could not tell which
uniform that they were wearing. A bloody battle raged around him. He stood like an observer in time, not feeling like he was really there, that is ,until a bullet hit his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He reached over and grabbed where the bullet had hit. It hurt, but was not all that serious, it had just grazed him. There was a little blood, but it had just been the surprise of getting shot that had knocked him off balance. He stayed down for a minute and watched what was happening. His teacher’s words rang in his head. “Pitting Brother against Brother”. Even in his dream state, he knew that he was at Gettysburg. He picked up his gun and scurried off behind a tree. He hoped that he would just remain there until it was all over.

A confederate soldier emerged from the smoke, seeing Mark hiding behind the tree. He raised his gun, pointing it at Mark.

“What are you doing over there, Dickhead?” The soldier asked him with a taunting grin.

It was Arte! Surely Arte would not shoot him? Arte pulled the trigger and there was a snap. The gun did not fire. Something had gone wrong. Arte threw down the rifle and pulled out a pistol. Mark knew that his brother would kill him, after all, they were on opposite sides.

“Pitting Brother against Brother”

Mark raised his gun and fired at Arte. His shot was not a misfire. He watched his Brother’s chest implode and his lifeless body fall to the bloody Earth. He had killed his brother, like so many had done upon this battlefield.

Mark woke up in a cold sweat. He looked at the clock and it said 10 pm. He had only been asleep for about 2 hours. He jumped up from the bed and burst into the Hallway. He threw open the door to Arte’s room, expecting to see that Arte would be sleeping soundly, but what he found instead was shocking.

There was no bed, or posters, or anything that belonged to his Brother. There was a desk, and a couch, and a book rack, containing hundreds of law related journals. This was his Dad’s office. He had been there many times, watching his Dad work from behind the desk. This was crazy! His office was downtown!

Mark ran into the living room, seeing that his Mom and Dad were sitting together on the couch, watching TV.

“Where is Arte?!”, he almost yelled at them.

“Who???”, they both asked, almost in harmony.

“My Brother, your other son, who do you think that I am talking about?”

“Now Mark,” his Father said, “ This is getting out of hand. Last night it was a sister, tonight it is a brother. You have had 5 imaginary friends in the last six weeks. I think that I am going to make an appointment for you to see someone. You are beginning to scare me, son. Maybe you should not go to bed so early.”

“Oh my God!”, Mark’s Mother exclaimed, looking directly at him. “What happened to your shoulder? Why is there blood on your shirt??”

Mark pulled his shirt down, revealing a one inch wide scrape across his skin.

“I don’t know, Mom”, he said, “I don’t even know where I am.”

**********************PART TWO


Mark’s mother rose from the couch and guided him to the bathroom. She proceeded to get out some antiseptic spray and a large bandage.

“You have no idea how you cut yourself?” she asked him.

“No, I really don’t. I am really confused right now.”, he said, ready to cry.

His mother hugged him and said, “Don’t worry, honey, I am going to make an appointment for you while you are at school tomorrow.”

She gave him another hug and then led him back to his bedroom. They looked around for a few minutes to see if they could determine how he had cut himself. Mark knew that they would not find anything. He could not explain to her that he had been shot at Gettysburg, she would have him committed for sure.

“Damnedest thing that I have ever seen,” she said, “How did you cut yourself without getting blood on anything? You are hiding something from me! I hope that those friends of yours did not give you any of that dope.”

“Mommmm!” Mark replied in a tone that suggested that his mother was being irrational in her line of thinking.

She did not push him any more. She guided him to his bed, gave him a kiss, and left the room. He just laid on his back and stared into the darkness for the longest time. He was afraid to sleep.

The alarm clock blared and Mark reached over and fumbled for the off switch. The room looked the same as it had when he had gone to bed, at least that was a good start. He reached for the bandage on his shoulder and found that it was not there. He looked at it in the mirror and saw that there was not even a wound! This made him extremely happy. He just had a good feeling, like things were going to be all better. He threw on some pants and went out into the hall. He somehow knew that what was his father’s office the night before was going to be Arte’s room this morning. He entered the room, expecting to see Arte getting dressed, but instead saw a young girl in her bra and panties. She must have been about sixteen. She was horrified. She grabbed a towel and covered herself.

“Mom! The little perv is at it again! You’d think that he would just read magazines like the rest of the kids, but no, he has a thing for trying to see his sister naked!”

Sister? He really did not even recognize her. He really was going insane. Another door opened down the hallway.

“Thank God you don’t look like Hannah Montana,” Arte said, directing his comments at the girl, “He would probably crawl into bed with you at night.”

As much as Mark hated Arte, at that moment, he was actually glad to see him. He would take all of the insults in the world this morning. He had his brother back.

A voice came from down the hallway. “Susan, I told you to lock your door at night, you know how Mark is with his sleepwalking.” Their mother appeared in the picture. “I think that I need to make Mark an appointment to see someone about all of this. You kids get ready for school, and I will see if I can line it up.”

Mark thought that it was interesting that in every scenario, his mother talked about getting him help, but it never seemed to materialize, it was always just talk.

He was starting to remember his sister. Susan was the oldest, and they were never very close. Maybe if this were still some form of dream that he was having, that is why he did not recognize her.

The school buses came and the three children went off to school. It seemed normal enough, he recognized everything . He was settling into the fact that he had finally found a true reality. His friends greeted him and the teachers were all the same as he had remembered. He finally started to breathe easier and began to fall into his daily routine.

Mark’s day went smooth until his seventh period world history class. The teacher began to talk about Kings and Knights and Castles. Mark stared out of the window and his mind began to wander.

He was in a courtyard of a large Castle, dressed in armor that a knight would wear. He stood alone, holding a sword. As he glanced around he noticed that there were hundreds of people looking on. He actually recognized most of them. They were classmates, and teachers, and even some family members that he had not seen in a long time. The King and Queen sat in a stunning luxury box, with the breathtaking Castle at their backs. A gate opened and another knight entered the courtyard. It was a Black Knight. He drew his sword and ran at Mark. Mark had no choice but to fight! He raised his sword and met the Black Knight’s blade, sending sparks into the air. The crowd roared! The battle was one sided, Mark had nothing that could stop the Black Knight. His defenses were being beaten down. The crowd was cheering for him, but it was all going to be in vain. The Black Knight swung his sword and knocked Mark’s sword from his hand. Mark was on his back, with the Knight above him. The Black Knight lifted his helmet. It was Arte! Arte threw down his sword and produced a gun. He fired a single shot into Mark’s belly. The crowd fell silent as Mark squirmed on the ground. Mark looked over at the King, and realized that the King and Queen were his mother and father, and that his sister sat in the background, behind both of them.

Arte, picking up his sword, looked at the King and asked, “What shall I do now, My Lord?”

“Put him out of his misery!” was the last thing that Mark ever heard.

“It was the right decision”, the doctor said to Mark’s Dad, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “His brain showed no activity, and even though he may have come off of the respirator eventually, he would have never been able to respond to anything.”

Mark’s mother and sister huddled together in the hospital room, crying uncontrollably. Arte was in the corner all alone, in a state of shock.

They should have never went to Paul’s house that day. Paul was bad news, and Arte knew it, but the thrill of firing a hand gun was enough to make him over look that fact. Mark begged Arte to let him come, and because they were so close and had such a great time together, he decided that bringing Mark would be no big deal.

Arte had been holding the gun, when Mark had stepped in front of him and started grabbing at it.

“Let me see it!” He kept whining.

He grabbed for the gun and it went off, sending a bullet, point blank into his abdomen. The Surgeons repaired the damage, but the blood loss had left him an a state where he was declared brain dead.

His Father had just made the decision to pull the plug. Arte knew that no one blamed him completely, but also knew that he would always live with the guilt. What he felt worst about was that he took away Mark’s ability to dream. Mark was such a dreamer. It was hard for him to imagine Mark being brain dead. He would often wonder if Mark was thinking anything at the end. Maybe it was best that he never knew.

IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR, CHECK OUT THE OTHER THEME THURSDAY PEOPLE CLICK HERE!

WTF Wednesday

Hit 40 has been What The F*cking us for a few weeks so I thought that I would join on in on the fun! WTF!
TURN OFF THE MUSIC FIRST!

WTF do I have to do to go the whole winter without catching some cold or flu bug? How about if I stay away from the people who want to talk to you while their faces are one foot from yours?

How about if every child that I run into would not be congested and then cough in my direction without making any attempt to cover their mouths?

If I could do away with sinus infection and the flu by being an anti social hermit then I would do it!
How much snot can one Goddamned set of nostrils produce? I should weigh 100 pounds by now.

Sometimes I think that the human race is like a colony of ants and these viruses are just a form of bug spray. We keep developing tolerance to the spray, and nature creates stronger viruses. I feel like if they ever do wipe out some of the big diseases that some far worse ones will surface!

WTF is it with me that I am such a compulsive blogging idiot that I use the flu to catch up on my commenting?

I cannot even look at the screen without my eyes watering!

On top of that, why do we insist on the word verification?? So what if you get spammed. Other people know that the Chinese guy is not commenting on your Halloween costume. 3 times today, I typed the word verification word wrong and then they gave me an easier one to type. What kind of security is that?? They should have just given me the easy one to begin with!

WTF is with some people at Halloween? I went out with my brother's family and my nephew, and there was one house that had a sign in their yard that said "Trick or Treaters" and it had a red circle around it with a line through the middle of it. I wish that I had a picture. That is a little bit harsh toward 7 year olds, I thought!

WTF is it with some drivers from Jersey that make them think that because I have North Carolina plates that I don't know where I am going? I am traveling on roads that you could not find on a map! I don't think that them getting around me because I am only doing 60 in a 35 is really warranted!

Last but not least, if the Yankees blow it and lose the world series, next weeks WTF will be long! LOL

Semi Random Tuesday Thoughts

I went to New York to watch The Optimistic Pessimist run the Marathon. Who knows if I saw her or not? I stood in one area for over an hour. Chances are that she ran past me and I did not even know it. But as I watched, I realized that it did not matter if I saw her. The marathon itself was a huge inspiration! All different races and religions running together. People stopping their own runs to help other people who had cramps. I actually saw one man almost carrying another. I saw people with no use of their legs, pedal bikes with their hands. OP knew that I was there, that is what mattered to me, but the whole thing was just an inspiration.

HERE ARE A FEW VIDEOS TAKEN WITH A REGULAR CAMERA (They are brief)








I met two wonderful people on that same day! Midtown Girl and Ice Queen. Jaime could not be there, and Little Miss Blogger had an ear infection. I was in contact with both of them and they really were upset that they could not be there. I cannot post any pictures of the two women, but I will tell you that they were very stunning. It was kind of a beauty and the beast thing with me in the pictures! LOL

Here is where we had brunch

I went Trick or Treating with my nephew. It was raining and I was thinking that I might get sick.

I got sick! I woke up Monday morning with a hell of a cold and then had to drive 9 hours sneezing all the way.

There were 3 near accidents that I was almost a part of on the way home. Nothing that was my fault, but nothing that I would have walked away from either. Two of them involved trucks. One who failed to brake coming down the hill, and one that almost flipped on the New Jersey Turnpike.

I am glad that you all read Angel May's story on the previous post! Being that she is southern, I should say Y'all!

I was going to serenade you again so I could link with Jules, but I got sick! (I use any excuse to link up to Jules! hehe!)

I was thinking the other day how I love being erect. It would suck crawling around on all fours!

As always, Bang Un Mom's button and go see her, it is her meme after all!

T.A.P.S.

The ladies of the Tuesday Afternoon Pinochle Society referred to it as TAPS. They thought the acronym was hilariously funny since there was not one of them younger than 75. They met faithfully for a game of pinochle every Tuesday afternoon and, for the most part, were very happy with the arrangement. Except for one little thing: Margaret. They had tried, quite unsuccessfully, everything they could think of to get rid of Margaret. Today they were going to kill her. It was the only way.

Myrtle and Gertrude had talked it over and over. Gertie was Myrtle’s closest confidant and friend, you know. But there had been no point talking it over with Gracious because Gracious was nearly clueless about everything – in a completely innocent and pleasant way, of course. But she knew her pinochle.

It was Gertie who had assisted Myrtle in her previous efforts at eliminating Margaret – after first suggesting that maybe they could just ask her to resign from the Pinochle Society and seeing Myrtle go all pale and fainty with the vapors and explain that that just couldn’t be done. It would hurt her feelings, for heaven’s sake! No, there had to be another way. So Gertie had agreed and that was when they had tried other solutions. It wasn’t her fault that Margaret had tripped sideways over the garden implement on the doorstep and landed softly in the petunias, instead of tripping straight on and breaking her neck on the concrete walk – as planned. And it certainly wasn’t either of their faults the Tuesday Myrtle concocted a “special” lemonade and placed the glasses carefully on the serving tray in just the right order and then Gracious had come along, picked one up, set it down again on a different spot, then picked up the whole tray and turned around a couple of times completely confusing everything. Thank heavens Gertie had had the presence of mind to accidentally spill the entire tray of lemonade and they ended up having tea, instead – and Margaret for yet another interminable Tuesday.

This time Myrtle was convinced their plan would work. She was sure that she had covered her trail nicely at the gun store when she asked the helpful young man to show her how to shoot right then and there at the indoor shooting gallery. And also when she had accidentally on purpose spilled the open box of bullets, deftly palmed and pocketed one of them, and insisted afterwards that, no, she didn’t want any bullets. She had said to the nice young man, “Oh my! No! Bullets are dangerous. You could kill someone. Just the gun, please.” She said the gun itself would be enough to scare off an intruder and she had just wanted to see how to hold it and how to point it realistically so that she would look convincing in the event she ever actually needed to. The nice young man was not about to argue with a dotty old lady in a silly hat and so rang up the sale.

Myrtle reasoned that later, once the deed was done, she could claim to the police, who would certainly come to investigate, that perhaps the nice young man had forgotten to remove one of the bullets from the gun after his demonstration and that’s how she came to accidentally shoot Margaret. And the nice young man wouldn’t be able to say for certain that he hadn’t because she had, without doubt, flustered and distracted him more than enough by spilling the bullets and by stabbing him in the foot with her cane at least twice and then apologizing profusely and looking as innocent as a 76-year-old lady in orthopedic shoes and red-feathered hat can look. It was the perfect plan.

Today was the day. It was Tuesday and Myrtle was fussing around the room setting up the card table when Gertie and Gracious arrived within minutes of each other. Gracious laid her scarf on the curio shelf near the door next to Myrtle’s much-loved orange-red Murano glass bowl that her late husband had given her on their trip to Venice over twenty-five years ago.

“Gracious! Be careful of that bowl! You know, I have to tell you that every time you come. I would just die if anything happened to it. You know how much it means to me!”

Gracious looked apologetically at Myrtle. “Oh dear. I am sorry, Myrt. I know how you love it.” She moved the scarf away from the bowl.

Gertie gave Myrtle a questioning look and, when Myrtle nodded in the affirmative, she swallowed hard and took her place at the card table and tried not to appear nervous. Gracious, of course, suspected nothing at all and took her place across from Gertie and began to shuffle the deck with a dexterity and aplomb that would impress a seasoned croupier.

Just as Myrtle was setting out the little iced teacakes on the serving cart, Margaret came banging through the front door. “I declare! It is so windy out there today. Did you notice how windy it is when you arrived, Gracious? Well, of course you did. How silly of me. Who wouldn’t notice? It’s just blowing like an absolute hurricane out there. I told Vincent not to worry, though. I’d be ok. What’s a little wind? Gertie, you are looking very nice today in that flowered dress. But then, you always look nice. Gray is certainly your color. I’ve told Vincent so many times that I wish I looked as nice as you do – always just neat as a pin. And so collected! Oh! What darling little teacakes! They look just good enough to eat! Ha-ha-ha! Of course they look good enough to eat. And that’s just what we are going to do, isn’t it? Gobble them up!” Margaret stopped talking for an instant and laid her scarf on the curio shelf – exactly as Gracious had done – beside the Murano bowl.

“Margaret! I’ve told you and told you to please be careful of the Venetian glass!” Myrtle gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes at Gertie. Gertie looked at the ceiling.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Here, I’ll move my scarf. I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for harming that lovely bowl. It was so thoughtful of your dear Harvey to buy it for you on your trip to Italy. I told Vincent that he bought it for you on that trip. I wish we could take such a nice trip. I’m always suggesting it but he just never seems to hear me. I can’t imagine why. I think he is losing his hearing, poor thing. Myrtle, your house just looks lovely today. Spic and span as always. Your cleaning lady is just a wonder… blah blabbity blah blah. Yada blah blabbity blah? Blah blah blah…”

“Please, let’s get started.” Myrtle interrupted the never-ending monologue as she settled into her chair across from Margaret. The cards were dealt, the bidding commenced, meld was laid out neatly, picked up again, and play began.

Between hands Margaret helped herself to a teacake. “I declare, these teacakes are just delicious. Don’t you think so, Gertie? I wish I could bake like Myrtle does. She’s just a wonder in the kitchen. So talented. I’ve always told Vincent that she’s yada blah blabbity blah blah blah…” Play resumed and Margaret continued to chatter.

Gertie cut her off finally. “Margaret! You must follow suit! Don’t tell me you are out of hearts already!”

“Well of course I’m out of hearts. Otherwise I wouldn’t be trumping, now would I? Gertie, sometimes you are so funny. But in a very nice way, of course. If there’s one thing I don’t do it’s cheat at cards. No ma’am. I just wouldn’t. Did I ever tell you about the time blah blah yada blabbity blah…”

The game continued and so did Margaret. Gertie’s and Myrtle’s eyes had long since glazed over and their hearing had dulled to the point of buzzing. Gracious, oblivious as always, played her hands magnificently. She was a jewel of a partner and Gertie was not about to let her go. Not even to Myrtle. Once Margaret was gone, Myrtle would just have to find herself a new partner.

At last the game was over and the teacakes consumed. It was time. Gertie stood nervously by the window pretending to listen to Gracious discuss the finer points of the game. Margaret was standing at the curio shelf retrieving her scarf and telling one of her stories and when she paused to draw breath, Myrtle rose from her chair and announced that she had something interesting and exciting she wanted to show them. It was to scare off intruders, she said. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the pistol, casually pointing it in the general direction of Gertie and Gracious. Gracious’s eyes became grey half-dollars behind her coke-bottle lenses. She let out a tiny shriek and threw her hands into the air stick-up style.

“For heaven’s sake, Gracious!” Myrtle waved the gun wildly as she spoke until it was pointing directly at Margaret. “Don’t worry, it’s not loa—“

A mere fraction of a second before the deafening ZAP rang out, Margaret had noticed that her shoelace was untied and bent over to tie it just as Myrtle pulled the trigger. The ZAP was instantly followed by a PING as the bullet sped over Margaret’s head, grazed the underside of the Murano bowl’s thick, wide rim, and lodged in the foyer wall by the front door.

What happened next was reminiscent of an award-winning Sam Peckinpah action sequence. Time and motion seemed to slow to a preternatural crawl. Jaws dropped slowly and mouths gaped open. All eyes were riveted to the scene before them. They watched in horror as the bowl lifted on one side from its resting place and spun around several times – like a coin spinning on a table-top. With each spin it became increasingly unstable and wobbled closer to the edge of the shelf until it finally – and fatally – rolled over the edge and crashed into the tile floor where it sprayed a thousand orange-red glass fragments in every direction.

Time and motion suddenly returned to their normal pace and Gertie leaned into the wall for support. Gracious put her hand to her lips to suppress the tiniest of smiles. This was more excitement than she’d had in forty years. Myrtle was dumbstruck. The gun was still in her hand by her side, her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wide with horror and disbelief.

Margaret, shoelace tied, quickly righted herself and took in the scene. “Well, for heaven’s sake! The gun was loaded after all! Are you all right, Myrtle? They always do say to watch out for unloaded guns, don’t they? Don’t they always say that, Gertie? I know I’ve heard it said a thousand times if I’ve heard it once. You should be very careful, Myrtle. Frankly, I don’t think you would ever have to worry about intruders, but I guess you never know. Anyway, it’s just so horrible that your lovely bowl is broken. Just such a disaster. I know you must be devastated. Just devastated. I would stay and help to clean up all the pieces, but I promised Vincent that I would be home at five on the dot to prepare his dinner. He likes to eat right at six, you know, and it seems like such a small thing to do. Will you look at that wind! I’ll have to wrap my scarf around twice to keep from losing it! Just so sorry about your bowl, Myrtle. I know you are just devastated. Poor Myrtle!”

Margaret put on her scarf and out the door she went, holding her hat on her head to keep it from blowing off in the wind. “Well, bye-bye! Do have a lovely week! See you next Tuesday!”

Written by Angel May at Angel May's Growing Pains! Go see her!!!