The 100 Word Stories' weekly challenge is getting the best of me now that the humidity has set in and I only think of maybe 15 good words in a 24-hour span. I'm happy about that, because if I was pissing all my brain power into Twitter I'd really need to examine my priorities.
This week's topic is The Games We Play, and me? Games? Have you seen my basement? Have you been lured in there by the smell of cardboard boxes and '70s plastic? Have we played Which Witch? together? Did I drop it down the chimney and turn you into a mouse?
Sorry about that.
I didn't mind so much when my family put me in a home because I never liked those selfish bastards, and once I discovered strip bingo night I was sorry I didn't commit myself sooner!
At first it was a little weird, watching my new neighbors struggle to get their shirts off when their first numbers were called, and I regretted having my cataracts removed when some of them got close to winning, but then I made a load of new friends when I yelled that all I needed was an O69.
That old coot Harold Blonksy hasn't stopped laughing.
Ages 8 and up, contains small parts, don't use dice as bludgeoning devices unless your opponent summons an earth elemental, do not pass go, draw 4 cards and lose a turn.
To encompass both my wild activist youth and a potential future I've spent too much thought on, I have chosen Walking Down Madison by the late, great Kirsty MacColl to be this week's song of my misspent youth.
The date figures into it, of course. It was the WDRE Shreeek of the Week during this week way back in a year I was so frikkin' glad to get home I didn't leave the house again for weeks. Mainly because I was sick, but that's beside the point. I've wasted a lot of time freaking out about losing my house, like I can do anything more than I've always done about it.
But it may be that knowledge that I could be homeless in an instant that makes me see the people who are already living that life. We've got a local man who comes around with a wagon and collects cans. We used to take them back to the store for the deposits but honestly he can use it more. There's another dude who sits inside the liquor store some days during the winter. I say hi to him. He hasn't killed me yet.
I love writing for the 100 Word Stories' weekly challenge because I can go be someone else for a minute or so and that's the best way to live, really. Totally be a different person every five minutes or 18 days or seven years--no, five minutes is good.
This week's topic involved THUNDER, however...and I happen to have some history with thunder. I'll just say this one is two truths and a lie and let you figure which part is which.
My father loved to tell me bullshit stories during thunderstorms. His favorite involved dinosaurs stampeding out of a crack in the earth. I guess it was one he'd been told. He was struck by lightning three times.
Years later my uncle explained that the rumble I was freaking out over was from static electricity in the clouds. I calmed down, enjoyed the rest of the barbecue, and fell in love with science.
I told this story to the Dr. Wu when the power went out, and he laughed.
He said, "That wasn't thunder, that was the dinosaur we cloned, escaping."
12 other cracking tales surround mine in a perfect storm of fart jokes and fabulousness that can be heard from miles away here.
The part of Dr. Wu was not played by B.D. Wong this evening. Dammit.
There is a saying that makes people's heads catch fire about what should be a right and what should be a privilege...which I'm not going to mention.
However, it got me thinking about something.
Back in the day, when the Bill of Rights was being drawn up, this is what healthcare looked like:
There was no question about whether someone could afford the help they needed, or if in fact they wanted the help they were getting, because if they lived through the night they'd probably give the doctor a bottle of booze or a horse or something or maybe they'd shoot the doctor if he messed up and that was that.
Now--with the exceptions of that nurse who recently exposed hundreds of people to hepatitis C...and everyone who catches MRSA in the hospital...and the ludicrous drug-pushing that goes on--medical care seems appealing. I want in. Nineteen years is enough. Especially coming off a weekend where I ended up face down on the concrete waving my good arm until someone noticed. Only I'd have to pay 10x more a month to insure this lump of flesh banging away at the keys than I do to insure my car, providing I lied about my pre-existing condition and never mentioned I'm Google-able and then...let's just whisk past how I've been spending a majority of my time.
So I have a selfish reason for wanting the utter bullshit I've been hearing and receiving in e-mails over access to necessary healthcare for poor people to stop. Any further argument involving the word socialist from anyone who regularly enjoys the cold touch of a stethoscope will merely be met my bleary glare and a very special finger extended on the arm that still works properly.
Poor people have as much of a right to live as those snowflake baby things in the petri dishes. Healthy poor people have a 50% chance of being not as poor within a short amount of time, too, according to a statistic I just pulled out of my ass. MMM, increased productivity!
The opinions expressed in this post are those of the personality of the blogger that comes out on every alternate solar eclipse not visible to the U.S. and should not be taken personally if you, the reader, feel poor people should die. She really loves you more than politics but needed to get this off her wheezy chest in order to resume the life she rather fancies despite all the falling down.
Summary: I am for the public option and single-payer plan and all the stuff the senate is dicking around about. President Obama wants the public option. It's the Senators looking to be re-elected by poor people haters that are dragging their feet. Remember this ten years from now. Also, I have a bow saw if anyone needs their leg seen to.
This week, for your listening enjoyment, I picked Crazy by Seal. As opposed to Crazy by Willie Nelson, Crazy by Patsy Cline, Crazy by Icehouse, Crazy by Alana Davis, Crazy by Alanis Morissette, Crazy by Gnarls Barkley, Crazy by Ray Lamontagne or Crazy by The Violent Femmes. All of which I really love.
But this one has SEAL. Seal singing the line, "We're never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy," and who doesn't need to learn that lesson at least fifty times in their life?
I can't really comprehend having written 20 entries for the 100 Word Stories' weekly challenge, but here it is, 20 weeks straight of actually submitting stories and it doesn't seem that long, but then I can't remember what I did yesterday.
Shrouded In Mist was a topic I knew I sink my fangs into, because who spends more time watching Hammer films? Who else can quote Transylvania 6-5000? Who else--okay, I'm sure a lot of you have watched Hammer films and quote Transylvania 6-5000 and THAT'S WHY I WUV YOU.
Ven night falls and ze vild volf howls, look to ze full moon high in ze southvestern skies. Zere, upon ze hill, shrouded in mist, you may see it. Follow ze forest road, taking ze first left after ze graveyard. Pass ze vaterfall where ze fallen oak tree rests and continue until you reach ze fork. If you see a man vith a shovel, proceed with caution to ze right. Ven you spy a vooman selling flowers, bid her good evening and ride on until ze road ends.
Zere you will find ze Best Vestern. Tell zem Maleva sent you.
To hear my horrendous Maria Ouspenskaya and 11 other misty delights go here. Go...now! Before the moon rises.
One thing a lot of these songs of my misspent youth have in common is they keep coming back, year after year, and it's like, when I hear them I have to wonder which time I prefer. Like...roasting in the back of a car, sitting in the dark after lightning struck the ungrounded telephone line and took out one entire circuit, or hitting the worst bout of explosive rage I'd ever accidentally let a few people notice I was having.
There is a Toto song called Africa. It contains a line, "I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become." Guess who thought that was an awesome line? No, me. I thought, "YES. I don't want to be a powerless mopey girl who catches fire all the time!"
Now, if you've seen the video, as I first did back in 1983, you may already be laughing your ass off at the memory of all those huge '80s eyeglass frames and library intrigue rivaled only by The Mummy. Or maybe The Librarian.
But the song figures heavily into little pasty Lynda's life. And yeah, I totally used to spin my globe and try to get it to stop on Chad just like in the video because I am that ridiculous.
If, like me, a hundred men on Mars couldn't pull you away from that song, Andy McKee does a pretty neat acoustic version of the song you should hear if you haven't yet.
As my brain continued to melt under the July sun, I still managed to come up with something for the 100 Word Stories' weekly challenge. Unfortunately I'm still not sure it makes any sense.
The topic was Step Into A Slim Jim, and oh, did I think of something hilarious! A serial killer of spokesthings who crash though walls...then I looked up what exactly goes into a Slim Jim and holy crap that is gross.
"What've we got?"
"Macho Man Randy Savage. Looks like he blew through the wall of that skyscraper, did the big diving elbow drop."
"Ew."
"Yeah."
"Find any tire tracks?"
"Nah, if it was that bus his body wouldn’t be here."
"True. Think it’s the same perp that lured the Kool-Aid man out of the Space Needle?"
"Beats me."
A Slim Jim crunched under the coroner's foot. He picked it off the ground and bit into it. I cringed.
"What? It’s not like he’s gonna eat it."
High above, the leader of the mechanically separated chicken justice league clucked contentedly.
This crime and 11 other crunchy treats can be heard here, and if you go listen you get to hear how totally insane my vocal cords are! Note to self: record an intro at the same time as the story.
You have another chance to live this excitement in 12 hours. Properly, too, as technically this is 00:34:56 on 7/8/9 and that makes no sense whatsoever, even to me.
I gave a lot of thought to starting a blog post out with, "I am actively trying to kill myself through neighborhood beautification."
I knew it might bring out a few reminders that I have everything to live for by people who don't know me, don't get my sense of humor, and don't get how I sort of nearly die when exposed to sunlight. I also knew it might invalidate the insurance should I in fact drop dead of the stroke I'm pretty sure is coming.
Not that I'm really actively trying to kill myself, but it's summer, and after all these years I'm getting bored with this malfunctioning scrapheap I'm stuck in. I do have everything to live for...I'd like very much to do that without the sound of grinding gears emanating from my throat and the smell of whatever just washed up my throat in my ears.
After all the thought, mainly done while raking and hacking away at overgrown things, I said screw it and posted the damn thing anyway. It's up there with the migraine-brought-on-by-the-Oscars post, really. By the time this post goes up the episode that brought it on will be as forgotten as what I opened the browser for.
What did I open the browser for?
I'm getting incoherent from the heat and sun, kids. Nothing I can do about it, it happens every time. This is only a warning that I may be around even less. Then again, maybe my plan will work, and like the vampire Lestat in that book where he goes out into the desert to roast himself and instead gets a spiffy tan, I'll come out the other side a little bit tougher.
Because I'm not already as huggable as a brick wall.
I know, I know, you're saying, "But [whatever you call the me in your head], you're perfectly cuddly and huggable!"
In response, I offer you a translation of a recent noise I made that sounded like, "Okay, thanks!"
The next well-meaning soul to suggest wearing a hat will solve all my problems gets my clippers so far up their ass they'll be able to help me trim things just by blinking.
America by Neil Diamond may be the only song of my misspent youth that has evidence of the misspent time posted on one of my old websites. One night in @rassm, I brought up a drawing I did based on The Jazz Singer, a movie I watched (say it with me) while out of commission with a migraine. Jade, wise leader of The Porkinites, suggested I put my drawing online with musical backing and call it The Neil Diamond Experience. I still consider it one of the greatest uses of webspace ever. Go ahead, look at that and see how much better I draw now.
The drawing of course was based on this:
For the non-U.S. readers, today is the 233rd anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, which was a pretty bad-ass leap of faith for its time. To this day even people from states that weren't represented by the original thirteen states blow stuff up and have cookouts to celebrate the firing of King George III for acting all crazy by a bunch of dudes who did a way better job running the country on what would now be considered a shoestring budget. I just like to re-read the Declaration each year and marvel at how a relatively small group of people got things done back then.
I realize the song I chose is sort of more or less a wacky '80s pop tune about immigrants, but one of the problems the signers of the Declaration of Independence had with the old rule was that he was preventing immigration and I'm descended from loads of immigrants, and I love sequins, so it's perfectly logical that I would pick this song for today, really.
I could have gone with Miss America by David Byrne, a song I loved from the first time I heard it in the summer of 1997, during the time when I had to give up the idea of ever getting back to finish my degree because the roof needed to be replaced and carpenter ants were eating the laundry room and the water heater was gassing us and the mulberry tree had to be cut down and my mum was sick as hell but just had to sleep it off because she was uninsured and I spent a lot of time gardening and fixing computers because that's what girls like me do to turn a buck legally while staying really close to home where they're needed but that's all kinda depressing and I don't have a crazy drawing associated with that time, only the beginnings of a blog, but the color scheme was horrendous. Perhaps one day I'll doodle David Byrne in his kilt and link to this very post so it doesn't seem completely random and unwarranted.
I guess what I'm trying to say is don't be afraid to go off on your own if it means you ultimately get a standing ovation from your parents, but remember embrace your heritage, kids. It's probably got some weird history and maybe some parts you aren't entirely happy about, but it's all yours, so celebrate the good times. Don't lose any parts with the firecrackers tonight. Unless you're a hater, then feel free to blow off your reproductive parts in a spectacular fashion.
Who wants a story? Tough, you'll get one and you'll like it. You really ought to be visiting 100 Word Stories all the time, you know, not just for the weekly challenges.
A Bucket of Gruel was the topic we all had to digest, and for some reason the random lunacy generator in my head saw that as an opportunity to lampoon those eBay listings for haunted stuff.
For sale: One lightly used bucket of gruel. My children don't appreciate the healing properties of my fine millet and honey recipe, so I'm selling it along with their video games to teach them a lesson.
What makes this bucket of gruel so special is that after my son vomited in it last Thursday, the spirit of a Mayan priest emerged from the swirling chowder and summoned a delightful goblin who cleaned our house top to bottom before playing many amusing tricks on us.
Don't miss out on this one of a kind delicacy with bonus goblin! Local pickup only.
Hear me and nine other sweet nourishing stories here. Seriously, listening to them is even better. IF YOU DON'T LISTEN TO THE PODCAST, YOU CAN'T HAVE ANY PUDDING.
