Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?

Straight from the horse’s …

I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I also don’t know what the hell to say about this.

Aussie Michael Francis Klan Sends Video of Himself Having Sex with Horse to Ex-Wife

from Moral Low Ground

An Australian man has been sentenced to two years’ probation after being found guilty of having sex with a horse and then sending his ex-wife a video of the shocking event.

The Queensland Times reports that Michael Francis Klan, 36, of Fairney View pleaded guilty to carnal knowledge of a horse, or bestiality, in Ipswich District Court. Klan recorded himself raping the horse and then sent his ex-wife messages asking if she wanted see video or photos of the crime. After sending her a video, she notified police and showed them the footage.

Crown Prosecutor Caroline Marco called Klan’s shocking actions “disturbing and abhorrent,” and a psychiatrist testified that he needed specialized treatment for his zoophilia and other issues.

While Judge Sarah Bradley concurred that Klan’s crime was “disgusting” and an outrage to the community, she took into account the stress he was under due to his failed marriage and other problems. Bradley sentenced Klan to two years’ probation with the condition that he get any treatment programs deemed appropriate.

Steve Kissick, Klan’s defense barrister, said his client has found a new girlfriend, who is standing by him during his ordeal.

Percheron Pate anyone?

Recently, Congress quietly lifted the 5-year ban on the funding of horse meat inspections, which means horse butchering could start up again in the states in the next month. While I find this completely reprehensible since I adore horses, I’m not surprised. The economy is in the shitter, and Congress is doing piddly-shit crap like this as a lame attempt to jump-start it without having to raise taxes on the disgustingly wealthy. What’s weird is the USDA doesn’t have the budget to do these inspections at the moment, but I’m sure they’ll figure something out eventually.

My feelings about this are contradictory: I find it appalling because of my personal history with horses, and I see the comic material as well. This got me thinking about the names of possible equine dishes at some of the fine and not-so-fine dining establishments in this country. Thanks to Laura Bong, Paul Sloth, Jeff Myers, Ajit Samudra and Jill Weiss for their contributions.

Here we go (with apologies to Lucky Lady, Buttsy, Filly, Thunder, Sesame Street, Desiree, Lady Bug, Charlie and all of the horses I have come in contact with in my lifetime.)

Coming soon to a menu near you!

Shetland Pony Pie

Connemara Cutlets with a lovely Belgian Bechamel sauce

Gelding Goulash with Paso Fino Paprika

Palomino Pancakes with Secretariat syrup

House-made Hoof Hash

Clydesdale Clambake

Man O’ War-wich

Trigger Tri-Tip

Mustang Masala

Lippizan Lasagna

Chincoteague Pony Cheesecake with a Goldolphin Ganache

Selle Francais Chopped Salad

Shire Sherbert

Alydar a la Mode

Welsh Pony Rarebit

Risotto del Ruffian

Burro Burritos

Zuppa del Zenyatta

and finally, Seabiscuit.

It’s safe to assume that I’ll be in horse hell where I’ll be stomped, bitten and shat on for eternity.

More musings on random crap

I’m still in California and for some reason, being out here has cooled my snarkiness and made me more chill n’ shit. I realized this earlier after I spent about 20 minutes contemplating the importance of vanity license plates. For a moment, they didn’t seem all that self-absorbed to me. In fact, they seemed kinda cool.

Oops. That’s when I realized I needed to be rebooted and since I’m not quite sure how one reboots oneself, I dove into the McCrabass version of a panic room by reading the news.

Here are a few nuggets I dug up.

First, these things will haunt my dreams. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the whole Star Wars series. I think I saw the original Star Wars (or Episode IV or whatever it’s called these days), 7 or 8 times when it was in the theater. And, for the record, I saw the other two just as many times. So yes, I became attached to the characters, and I waffled between wanting to be either Princess Leia or Luke Skywalker (paging Dr. Freud).

Funny side note: I was big into horses as a kid and I used to pretend that my horse was some sort of Star Wars-ian animal.

Off to fight the Dark Side

Our mission was to rescue the last of the Jedis with my magical powers and wise wit. All of those fantasies came crashing down when I took a tumble off my horse into a patch of poison ivy. Misery ensued when I was covered in poison ivy from my head to my toes. I had to sit in a cool room with fans blowing on me, and a mixture of Caladryl Lotion and Ivy Dry kept me from scratching my skin to the bone. I wasn’t able to save the Republic, and by the time I was rash/ooze free, my obsession with all things Star Wars had passed and I was into being a pissant kid with my partner-in-crime, Chrissie Lander.

My pre-Star Wars days.

Back to the creepy dolls. However, I’m afraid if I spend anymore mental energy on them, I’m gonna need a lobotomy to get them out of my mental Rolodex. I just closed my eyes for a second, and all I could see was baby Chewie. Someone …. please… call for backup. ….

“You use your mouth purtier than a 20 dollar shape-shifting donkey whore.”

I love it when I can incorporate Blazing Saddles lines into a post–even when it’s half-assed.

However, this is what I’m referring to. From NewZimbabwe.com

“A MAN caught having sex with a donkey stunned a court on Monday by claiming that the animal was in fact a hooker he pulled from a nightclub.”

I really hate it when the hooker I grab at a nightclub turns out to be some farm animal. Chickens are the worst, fyi.

“Sunday Moyo, 28, from Mandava township in Zvishavane, was charged with bestiality on Monday.

Zvishavane magistrate Mildred Matuvi heard how Moyo was found by police officers on routine patrol performing a sex act on the animal inside his yard just after 4AM last Sunday.

The donkey, which had been tied by the neck to a tree, was lying on the ground.”
In my next life, I hope I’m named Sunday. Or Mildred. But I hope I never perform a sex act on an animal. If I do ever do it, hope I’m not caught.
“Although he was not formally asked to enter a plea, Moyo admitted committing the crime but told the magistrate an enthralling tale which had the court in stitches.
“Your worship, I only came to know that I was being intimate with a donkey when I got arrested,” he began.

“I had hired a prostitute and paid US$20 for the service at Down Town night club and I don’t know how she then became a donkey.”

The magistrate remanded Moyo in custody to October 27 and also ordered that he be examined by two government psychiatrists.”
It’s nice to know that the courts in Zimbabwe have a sense of humor considering the country is run by a complete whack-a-doo. And if it makes Mr. Sunday Moyo feel any better, it’s no fun having a hired piece of ass turn into an actual ass. Trust me on this one.
Finally…

Strippers Earning $2,000 Per Night in Oil

Boomtown of Williston, North Dakota

I’m moving to Williston to get my bend n’ snap stripper style on. The lucite heels I just purchased are guaranteed to minus 20 below zero, and have special traction. Sounds like these roughnecks get drunk enough so they won’t care I’m stumbling toward middle age with one of my asses leading the way.