Monday, October 31, 2011


While not my favorite holiday, I do enjoy Halloween.

I am, as I'm sure you would imagine, one of those grownups who likes to dress up.  This time of year makes me think about how much I loved my costumes as a kid.  I loved them all.  The store bought, hot ass sweaty, rigid mask with the rubber band pinchin' my skull and the homemade costumes.  I was fortunate enough to have a crafty Mom & Nana who didn't believe in half assin' things.

As a grownup girl I've been the Great Pumpkin, a clown, a boxing nun* (based on a hand puppet I just had to own.)

I've been an angel.  (Wow.  A poor typing rearrangement of letters almost made me obtuse.  Glad I caught that before one of my dumbass friends found it and gave me a deserved new nickname!)  I've been SuperGirl.  Because of my enormous love for my pillow stuffed and belted around me giant ass pumpkin face overlay and a stem hat, I've also been the Great Country Pumpkin (I added cowboy boots) and the Great Drunkin' Pumpkin' (I added copious amounts of booze). 

(You can ever soooo slightly see the Great Pumpkin costume - Click Here/2nd pic)

But my favorite adult costume was two years ago.  Inexplicably I had an overwhelming desire to be the big brown Bee Girl.   Ya know:

Why?  I.  Do.  Not.  Know.  But I did.  It has now eclipsed all others as my favorite.  Mainly, of course due to it's sheer ridiculousness--  It was an old school, random pop culture homage to a semi popular-ish band and their one (I'm too lazy to Google to discover if that's true or not, so kindly grab your grain of NaCl.) hit.  And it was a crazy ass idea to think it was even a good fuckin' idea to be the Bee Girl, as both a fat ass and a grownup.  But you know what stopped me?  None of that.  Nope.

Behold, for all of your mockery and ridicule, have the fuck at it:

(What were the odds that some random song from
1993 would pop on the radio 10 minutes after arriving
at MBG's party I was ruining attending?)
  [re: photo inclusion; You're welcome PF3]

Tonight I will be participating in the annual tradition of going to AnonD & AnonR's to help hand out candy.  AnonD and I sit on the front porch to critically assess costumes hand out candy.  AnonR pops out to grab candy and say hello from time to time.  AnonD and I catch up, eat too the fuck much candy as we ooooohhhhh and aaaaaahhhhh over the treat wantin' tykes.  I also serve double duty by running the fog machine.  While I'm lookin' forward to that, there are things I'm not looking forward to...

Each year I inevitably see two things I don't want to see.  1) Slutty tweens.  I expect to see an array of adult slutty Strawberry Shortcakes, naughty nurses and the like.  I do NOT however expect to see whore'd up pre-pubescent girls inappropriately dressed.  (Attn: Parents-- START FUCKIN' PARENTING!!)  And B) Babies trick or treatin'.  Listen, if Halloween candy actually poses a choking issue, that kid is too young to be trick or treatin'.  I understand your 9 month old makes a cute pea pod, but you carrying it around the neighborhood taking candy from people?  That you're gonna eat?  What the fuck?  You're a grown up.  Get your own bag of candy.  You'll have exactly the type of candy you like and I won't think you're an asshole.  I get you wanna show that you had sex off your baby, I'm just sayin' maybe you could walk it around giving a piece of candy to your neighbors.  Social.  Showin' off your tot.  And people will think you're super nice.  (And, again, not an asshole.)

*The year of the boxing nun the party I attended also included a Jesus and a priest.  Talk about an unholy trinity...  First of all, our intern/Jesus came as Jesus because I had named him (as I am wont to do)...Jesus.  I would pretty much only refer to that poor intern (who's real name I can't even begin to remember) as Jesus.  Except for when we were in front of clients (or similarly real people), when I would call him Jesus in Spanish.  (aka:  Hey.  Zeus.)  I'm not a complete ass after all.  Anyhoo, the priest, for some reason had an enormous fake cock.  God, I wish for the life of me I could remember why the priest had a big ass fake johnson, but needless to say somewhere out there someone has a photo of a big brown boxing nun on her knees givin' fake holy head to a priest.  With Jesus a step away watchin'. 

...Well.  Now that I've creeped you out and giving you a sight your eyes may never recover from shared waaaaaay the fuck too much; 
Haaaaaappy Halloween!!


Friday, October 28, 2011

~How Uncle John Almost Died

Uncle John and I were having our nightly bedtime routine.  Uncle John had a lil' stick of celery and a couple of baby carrots.  While I gobbled the rest of the 3/4's of a Hershey bar I had started the night before.  (Girl can't keep her blog titled Big Brown Girl if she doesn't keep her fat ass figure you know...)

Sometimes we play for a minute, sometimes we just plop down and prepare for the Sandman to creep in.  For some reason Uncle John hopped off the bed and left the room.  While it was unusual for him, I just figured he needed one last drink of H2O before slumber.  When he didn't return I called for him to come.  ...And he didn't.

Now, I've had a loooooong ass day and am kinda tuckered out, so I call for him several more times.  Still, nuthin'.  Now I'm getting pissed.  Mostly because now I have to get outta my warm and cozy bed, leave my blue cave room and go on a walk about for my ill behaved and noncompliant dog.  I know in theory, I should be able to let Uncle John have his doggy sleep any place he fuckin' pleases, but here's what happens if I do:
  • At the ass crack of dawn Uncle John will see something;  Someone out walking their dog.  The newspaper 4:30am deliver-er, a 'I'm free!  I'm free!!' taunting squirrel. Whatthefuckever.
  • Uncle John will bark.
  • Uncle John will wake me up making me cranky.
Which is why I insist he sleep somewhere upstairs, which usually ends up being my bed.  As he's 15 lbs and an indoor dog for the most part, and get's regular baths, I don't care that he sleeps in the bed.  To tell you the truth, that lil' dog really throws some heat which is kinda handy during cold months.

Anyhoo, I'm clearly digressing. 

So I traipse downstairs expecting to see him obdurately sittin' on the sofa giving me his pattented 'whaaaaat?  Me? Doin' wrong?' look.  But he wasn't to be found.  Then I go to the top of the downstairs-downstairs steps and continue my verbal pleas for him to now, "come the fuck upstairs, Uncle John".  Even for Uncle John this was a high degree of insolence.  I walk down to BBG HQ, turn on the light-- gettin' ready to really get Uncle John in trouble as I saw his lil' schnauzer ass standing, looking in a corner.  With a bag over his head.

Earlier in the evening I had called dinner one of my world class grilled cheese sammies and the last 5 ginger snap cookies remaining from my recent house sitting adventure (click here) scavenger hunt. Usually, because I'm lazy, too lazy to want to have to clean up some big ass mess at a later time, I put stuff in the trash on my next trip past a bin.  But for some reason I'd left it on a table where tv is watched.  Apparently, that was too much temptation for ol' Uncle John who was compelled by his canine genes to get into it.  Literally.

By the time I wandered downstairs Uncle John was standing with his doggy face against a wall, shaking and hyperventilating.  Poor pooch.  When I discovered Uncle John and freed him from his bag-y death chamber, his lil' face was all sweaty and hot from his heavy (recirculated air) breathing.    I'm soooooo glad I didn't just roll over and think, 'oh, Uncle John's just off doin' Uncle John junk' and fall asleep.

I've grown accustomed to Uncle John tryin' to kill me (click here) but Uncle John tryin' to kill himself?  Well, that was a first.  And hopefully the last.

Viva la Uncle John!


Wednesday, October 26, 2011

~Down With Nazi's

So I'm riding in a car.  Shotgun, of course.  I see this kid, a toe head boy child, maybe ten-ish?  Anyhoo, he's walking down his lil' boy sidewalk (frankly I felt dangerously close to a heavily traffic'd thoroughfare, but I'm not his parents, who were standing right there on the porch) and he's walkin' with his lil' boy arms outstretched and high steppin'.  Like.  Full on goosestepping.

So immediately, I'm all, why the fuck would those parents be training their kid to be a Nazi?!? 

...And then, after we were well past the youngster mind you, it registered that he was (DING!!) probably bein' a zombie. 

Probably, just a zombie and not an abhorrent ethnically cleansing zombie.

When I had the 'regular zombie' epiphany my first thought was 'awwwwww shhhhhhhit, I'm suchhhh a dumbass'.  That's when in a delusional attempt to make myself feel better it hit me that I eventually am gonna hone in on the more reasonable and rational plan/explanation/self made truth, etc., but that my natural inclination (obviously) is, more often than not, going to take me to the cracked out first.   It's a present my mind gives me of having everything as an option-- everything is on the table.  Kinda, momentarily at least, making all possible.  Which in a warped way is nice (helpful?  amusing?).   It might take an extra minute to get to the reasonable path or thinkin', but sometimes my kooky allows me to approach things in such an unlikely fashion that it can result in borderline brilliance*. 

I routinely come up with surprisingly lazy innovative ways to approach things because of my lack of initial conventional thinking.  They say there's more than one way to skin a cat and my mind wants me to consider 9 other ways before it goes to the most commonplace method.  So I guess having to eliminate the ridiculous is the trade off for being creative, outta the box, and a free range thinking BBG.  And I'm ok with that.  Fuck.  I'm kinda grateful for it.

...Or at least that's how I choose to 'silver lining' the workings of my mind.

Here's hoping you encounter zero zombies today, and that if all of your thoughts aren't reasonable and rational, that at least they're entertaining.

*This NOT being one of those times.

P.S.  In non-zombie, or crazy thinkin' news:  Haaaaappy Birthday to Abby's Dad!


Monday, October 24, 2011

~I See Dead People

And frankly, I do not like it.  I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly the squeamish sort, which I know is all subjective 'n junk.  So for perspective purposes, allow me to share a childhood day seared into my memory.  Seared, in only a way your mom being pissed the fuck off to the nth degree can stick with you after so many passing years.

Let's suffice it to say I was a headstrong, gonna-have-my-way, just smart enough to be crafty, kinda kid. Being quick with a smile, a tad gregarious, and occasionally thoughtful, probably saved me from both daily ass kickings in school, and from being dropped off at the local home for obstinate and incorrigible youth.  When people say I'm a handful, I always suspect they mean Andre The Giant's...

(Andre The Giant, you are still missed.)

...And if I'm bein' honest, I can't really offer up refutable proof to the contrary.

I was maaaaaybe eight?  9?  My Dad was studying for the Sargent's exam on the local constabulary at the time.  One day I stumbled upon some of his text books and being an avid picture looker at-er reader, I found myself immediately captivated and totally enthralled by the pages.  Everything from fingerprinting and other identification techniques (pre DNA days, don'tcha know.  Yeah, I'm old.  Suck it.), teaching me accident investigation proceedures and new shiny words like yaw (if'n ya don't know - click here) to how to determine trajectory of gunshots.  I know you must find yourself thinking get to the fuckin'' point BBG! what about reading could make my Mom flip her lid?  Reading is good.  According to Carol Burnett, it's fundamental for fuck's sake.

Well.  It wasn't so much the practicing of literacy that made her lose her mind up in here, up in here (Apologies for the random DMX-ness.) as it was the subject matter.  On this day Mom wandered into a room to find her sub-10 year old daughter perusing pages showing in great graphic, up close and technicolor, in stark morgue-y detail gunshot head (and other body part) entry and exit wounds.  There I was learning to discern the difference between a entry and an exit hole, a wound from 1' vs. 8' and long gun vs. handgun wounds.  I remember I thought it was the neatest thing.  Not in the, 'I'm gonna start wetting the bed, starting fires and harming small animals' kinda way, I just thought it was cool knowin' stuff other people didn't know.  (Public Declaration:  I, BBG am fully aware that this story signifies that I am an odd ball.  Next time you're visiting 'da World and you reading some of my cracked out ridonkulousness, at least you know I come by my odd ballness naturally.  No juicin' here, baby.)   Mom expressed her displeasure at Dad for leaving such subject matter easily accessible by a Little Brown Girl.  Let's just say it wasn't pretty. 

So there.  That is my level of squeamishness with dead people.  So when I say I'm seein' too damn many dead people, I think that's sayin' sumthin'.  And I am seeing too many dead people these days.  First it was dead MJ (click here for my version of the story if you missed it) then this past Thursday it was Gaddafi (Kaddafi or any of the other 17 various spellings).  Until these two, I don't recall the news showing dead people like that here in the U.S. 

Things are changing rapidly. 

When the news broke of his demise Matt Lauer gave a big ol' danger-danger Will Robinson! before they showed a still photo of the dead Gaddafi.  Here's how fast we as a society changed that day;  By the 6:30pm news they just jumped the fuck in with rollin' video of a floppin' around, bloodied, dead and dying, Condi lovin', Just For Men abusin' Lybian dictator.  It struck me that over the span of the morning news to the evening we went from not being accustomed to seeing dead people, with seemingly little, if any uproar or outrage.  I haven't heard of anyone gabbin' about being appalled.  But I'm kinda shocked.

I know that it's very commonplace in other areas of the world for dead people to be aired on tv.  I'm sure the watchers of Al Jazeera are phased zero by catching a glimpse of some news worthy corpse.  I'm not even making a judgement on that.  Who the fuck am I to say just because it's not sumthin' I'm used to it's wrong just because I'm unaccustomed to it?  I mean, I can see how that's (our until now not being exposed to dead people on the news) perceived as provincial.  And maybe even hypocritical, we are after all, the sausage people of death.  We don't mind engaging in it (death penalty, wars, etc.) either outright or tacitly, but like snausage, we do not wanna see how it's made.  We don't have the societal stomach to see the result of such actions.  Noooooo, sir.  Not in America. 

Until (mark it down, kidz) Thursday, October 20, 2011.  When it all changed.  Sometime between 8:30am and 6:35pm EST.

I gotta tell ya this change leaves me a tad melancholy.  To see that content and images that once would have struck horror into a parent if their child saw it/them, now is the new, and seemingly unnoticed status quo.  Perhaps it's just the natural evolution in an era of saturated by CSI this and Call Of Duty that.  Back in my day it if ya wanted some snuff a sick and twisted fuck person had to know somebody familiar with back channel sources to procure their death porn.  The interweb made it easier to access such things, but still, *you* had to purposefully seek it out and troll for  Today we've morphed into a society where ya might get a corpse with your coffee.  Death porn has officially moved from some sketchy $.25 booth on the outskirts of town to literally Time Square.  (Irony ruling, Mr. Giuliani? [for out of U.S. visitors, Rudy Giuliani, former mayor of New York City cleaned up Times Square transforming it from a collection of porn emporiums and other adult fare to a family friendly tourist trap attraction. Essentially driving porn into more residential areas.])  I gotta tell ya, these death depiction ch-ch-ch-changes make me yearn for the good ol' days of Small Wonder and PacMan.  (<-- Well.  I guess now you can mark down today as the day I turned old.  (Stay tuned!  Stories of how long my walk was to/from school and how much snow there was and the price of gas and bread when I was young to come.) 

Although in fairness, while this is a "new" turn of events in our culture, we should acknowledge that 100 years ago many American families would have considered packin' the kids up, hitchin' up the horses and taking the wagon to the town square to watch a hanging with a nice picnic lunch to have been de rigueur.

It's important to note that much of my panties in a bunchedness over seeing dead people is that every time I do my brain silently whispers 'I seeeee dead people' to me.  And then it's a double whammy for me;  dead people image and that creepy Haley Joel kid in my head (Jealous?  No.  I thought not.).

Sooooo group participation time...
Seeing dead people on tv?  Yea or Nay?


Wednesday, October 19, 2011

~Lions, Tigers & Bears: Oh, My!

First, I wanna thank whoever is responsible (God?  Mother Nature?  The kind hand of fate?  Jacob and/or Edward?  The Beebs?) for letting me live to see such a day.

My how I do love those, 'well, I didn't think I'd ever see/hear that' moments/situations.

'Round these parts, we're coming up on the season where kiddies benefit from snow days, too bitterly cold days and even fog days.  But today was a first when I heard some area schools were closing due to an unusual situation unfolding.  Specifically, Don't Let Your Child Get Eaten/no school day.

For those of y'all not in central Ohio, to bring ya up to speed:

Because I am a horrible grandchild, my first inclination was to torment my granny with these breaking news details.  (I'm sure that's some kinda sign, and likely, not of the mentally stable good variety.)  Anyhoo, there I was 7:12am jingling Nana. 

(Early ass ring-a-ding-ding)

Nana:  Hello.

BBG:  Just wanted to let you know Uncle John and I have already been out and are still alivvvvvvvvvve.

Nana:  Good.  What's that mean? What's going on?

BBG:  (surprised that she was unaware of the ta-doin's.  Her local news, all of 60 minutes away isn't carrying such unique news, as if there's just a ton of more interesting tales outta Buckeyeland this morning?)  Well...blah story details, blah, fuckidy blah.  (massive amounts of childish and likely inappropriate laughter)

Nana:  My God!  Next time you take Uncle John out you take a chair and whip!

(I love that Nana's got me all top hat and black taile'd up!  Awesome.)

The story broke last night and needless to say I was sucked in from go.  This morning I woke to my local news reporting that Jungle Jack Hanna (Columbus Zoo, Director Emeritus and national wild life celebrity) was on scene directing things, reassures me that everything will be jussssst fine soon. 

One of Jungle Jack's sage pieces of advice was, "if you see an animal, stay indoors."  (Noted.)  I think you can see why I'm so confident in his abilities to rectify this situation. 

While I am over? filled with glee because of this crackedout, crazy ass tail tale.  In seriousness, I do feel sad about animals who have been put down.  Apparently today one of the things Jack is overseeing is trying to tranq the remaining roaming animals instead of shooting on sight.

News Flash:
(Who fuckin' knew there'd ever really be a news flash here in BBGW?!?  ...It truly is an amazing day, kidz.)

My inside scoop, who will remain anonymous, has friends in the area, tells me scuddlebutt is that the owner of the animals was recently released from the pokey on gun charges and that his wife had just left him.  My source also tells me that he opened the cages/gates and free ranged all of the animals, left a note saying something to the effect of "Marion, you hated these animals now their yours to catch/deal with" and shot himself. 

I'm sure as the day goes on we'll be able to check the veracity of that you-heard-it-here-first story.  The only thing to make this day better would in fact be that I scooped Ann Curry, ya know?

STAY ALIVE my peeps!!


The Sheriff in the jurisdiction, along with Jungle Jack held a news conference about 1/2 hour after this was posted and confirmed that the owner had committed suicide and was the person responsible for freeing the animals.  (Note to Ann Curry:  Suck it!)

Since then my source reports that he may have done this on his estranged wife's birthday.  And that this guy has a history of crazy.  Apparently the former Vietnam vet (pilot)/owner once landed a plane at the local fairgrounds while a horse show was happening for reasons unknown, and had had some legal troubles over starving a herd of longhorn steers as part of his record.  ...Watch out Brian Williams!


Monday, October 17, 2011

~And The Hunt Was On

As last we left off, I was engaged in a deeeelightfully wacky scavenger hunt whilst house/dog/carsitting.

Items retrieved include:
  • Mini Mt. Dews.  I'm 99.44% sure were placed so that I could feel like a giant when drinking them.  (P.S.  I did.  P.P.S.  It was fuckin' awwwwwesome.)
  • These things that I'd only seen on TV prior to discovering (making me super excited to try 'em!):
(They tasted just like I thought they would.  Like a host/wafer/Jesusbiscuit
[I possibly have made the last up.] with nonpareils, hard chalky nonpareils. 
Honestly, I kinda really liked 'em.)

  • Some Mike & Ike bubble gum
  • Magazines
  • Pringle's
  • Barrel O' Monkey's (Jealous?!?  Yeah, that's right I got a Barrel O' Monkey's.  Suck.  It.)
  • Mini candy bars
  • A blow up bop-it type toy:
Sadly, this wonderful and entertaining turtle toy had the life expectancy of a goldfish.  A sad, overheated, livin' in dirty water, possibly rabbies ridden goldfish.  (Dear Anyone new here:  I am fully aware aquatic life neither carries, nor is susceptible to rabies.  I enjoy making things up from time to time for my own personal merriment.) 

Yesterday I blew it up and bopped (punched) it a few times, causing Abby Cadabby (Mom and her code nameless main man's lil' d oh double g, to skitter for shelter and safety, while Uncle John jusssssssst fuckin' stood there.  Lookin'.  Like, 'what could be weird about this situation?'.  (Which may be very telling of poor ol' Uncle John's BBG HQ existance...)  I wouldn't swear to it in a court of law or anything, but I think I saw him shrug his wee doggy shoulders. 

(Side note time:  A big ass shoutout to my Mom, who sat there, watched her grown ass daughter come in, sit down and proceed to blow up an ages 3 and up latex turtle and begin to play with it and didn't immediately Google the local straightjackeotorium.  Lady, I bless the day you were born.)

After a probably too damn long period of time few minutes of playing.  ...And of course after making my Mother stick her finger through a turtles tail and whack it around a few times, likely for seeing something else shiny or sparkly I sat it down.  We continued to gab away and all of the POP!!  Turtle toy that I hadn't even named spontaneously exploded. 

RIP Latex turtle 
Sunday, October 16, 2011 - 4:45pm
Sunday, October 16, 2011 - 4:58pm

Always in my heart.

Of all of the things I found durring my Adventures In Sitting (click here), perhaps the most surprising was a lil' sumthin'-sumthin' I spied while looking for um, well, I'm quite the wordsmith something (remote?).  I'm pretty sure that somewhere on YouTube if you type in "WTF" you'll find footage (<-- complete fib) of a BBG, somewhere in middle America, in a room alone with two dogs witnessing the biggest double take ever.  Followed quickly by actual ol' time-y peeper rubbin' to ensure that I was seeing what my synapse's were telling me I was seeing.


In case you also find yourself thinking whaaaaaat, lemme clarify that:

So, yes.  I am leaving you today with big ass squirrel balls.  That's right.  It's squirrel ball Monday kidz.  And may it be the best one ever.


Wednesday, October 12, 2011

~Adventures In Sitting

Uncle John and I have left the general crackedout'dness solitude of BBG HQ for a few days of house/dog sitting at AnonD HQ.  Their eldest chocolate lab, Logan, has a few health issues, of the 'I'm gettin' to be an old dog' variety.  He's not bad off, just not good enough off to be traipsing through every sketchy trail in the Upper Peninsula of michigan with AnonD, her hubby AnonR and the two 2 year old pups.

This does not mark the first time I've been in charge at AnonD HQ.  The running joke is that 33% of this place is mine, when they both are here.  (50% if I'm visiting and AnonR is at fight club, but the first rule of that, is of course, that I cannot speak about it...)  My household responsibilities generally include safety issues.  Occasionally I'm in charge of some minor chopping or stirring if I'm serving KP duty.  I've been voted Most Likely to blow out a candle or lock a door for all my life straight, which is probably a good trait in someone you've turned over 100% care for your homestead, pet and with a quick, "here are the keys, there is the car if you need or just wanna drive it", a sporty AnonDmobile.

Because AnonD HQ is also on the BBG Annexed list, other than having to pull my toothbrush outta a bag and having to adjust to a different cable provider/remote, it's like being at home.  I know where everything is and how it works, so out-the-door details are usually helpful data like, "we'll be back Xday", "the gun is here" or "I left brass knuckles on the table for ya".  (Note:  Contrary to those real statements, AnonDVille is a very nice and safe suburban hamlet, all elementary school this and community pool down the idyllic beautiful established tree lined street that.  My actual safety here is much closer to Amish safe than to name any big city safe.  But always nice of a friend to arm you with a lil' sumthin' lethal as a departure gift, no?  Tres thoughtful.)

Seriously, who wouldn't like a few days get away to a place with a big ass backyard for Uncle John to free range in, a natatorium (unfamiliar w/ a natatorium? - click here)  flat screens in every room, a laptop left for ya, a fridge full of your favorites and brass knuckles?  Oh, P.S. that's only 10 minutes from your house in case you've forgotten something?  Talk about a no problem, win/win, easy ass favor to do.  Sold.

I was welcomed to my sitting adventure with flowers and a thank you card informing me of a scavenger hunt within the confines of AnonD HQ.  (Man, does somebody know how to entertain a BBG or what?  I mean the only better entertainment woulda been, 'hey, Vin Diesel or Rick Rossovich/Michael Rappaport/Bruce Willis/Edward Norton/Stanley Tucci/Bob Saget [I like a lotta different guys] is your co-sitter who's duties also include everything you say to do, ya know?  <-- Funnily enough, prior to my arrival, AnonD did sanction any BBG gettin' it on that needed to happen.  I assured her that if'n I needed to be involved in brown-chicken/brown-cow, I could probably just manage that at my own place.  But again, it's a good friend who tells ya you're free to get it on in their home, a good friend indeed.)

Because I watch too much tv am safety conscience, before they departed I asked if either of them had seen 127 Hours.  AnonD then started to describe some movie commercial where you pay 4 minutes for coffee, which was about when I knew we were talkin' about two entirely different movies.  I told her how 127 Hour guy had to cut his muther fuckin' arm off because he went wild-ing and nobody knew where he was in order to dispatch a rescue, and that I felt like in addition to having their house still standing and their dog still alive, one of my responsibilities of sitting should be helping to direct life saving rescue crews, if hopefully not needed.  This of course making me have to utter a sentence I didn't know I'd ever be called upon to construct;  "I love you guys enough to not want you to haveta chop your muther fuckin' arm off, so text me to let me know your general whereabouts in case I need to get all 911 wit it." 

As they pulled outta the driveway my parting words were, "have fun doin' some shit that sounds horrrrrrrrrible to me." 


Camping with God's creatures who are trying to kill you (hey, it's called the food chain for a reason, people.  And yes, we're supposed to be on top, but out in nature, they've got home field advantage and the ability to diabolically inter species team up.)  while dodging roaming wilderness-y adept psychopaths on the run/loose/lamb, and possibly yeti's, does not sound like my idea of a good time.  Sherpa-ing days worth of provisions and the actual, albeit fabric, roof over your head, while traversing rocky and pitchy trails while attempting to not fall the fuck down?  Hellz to 'tha no.  Being exposed to bug bites and ivy's o' poison?  Pfffffffffffft.  Nofuckin'thanks.  ...But serious biz, ennnnnnnjoy allllllll that.

I'm happy "camping" on an inflatable (bigger than my actual bed) bed, that Uncle John seems to believe is his own personal canine bouncy house.  Where there is Direct tv.  A shower, microwave and gourmet bottles of ginger ale.  ...Just one of the items discovered on my scavenger hunt, so far!

Also, so far:
~House still standing (Check)
~Logan still alive (Check)
~No need to use any lethal weaponry (Check)
~AnonD & AnonR still alive (As of last text; Check)

...But, ya know, totally keep your fingers crossed and all.


Thursday, October 6, 2011

~I Believe

Anytime I see a man alone in a car in a parking lot, particularly parked as far away from any other vehicle as possible, that he is whacking off.



Tuesday, October 4, 2011

~Tatanka, Tires, Glow Stick Dildos (& Apologies)

Saturday AnonD swung by after errand running to pick up Uncle John who was heading over for a doggy sleepover while I hit the road to have a sleepover at LB2'd HQ, about an hour and 1/2 away. (FYI a trip which can be made at 04:30 in the morning, at least, if you are told a new life is about to pop outta your besties lady business, in approximately 45 minutes.  ~My apologies to Buckeyeland law enforcement.)

There are several (too many?) houses I visit that are de facto BBG annexes.  Homes where even though they technically belong to others, I treat as my own upon my arrival.  I know where everything is.  I know where my stuff goes.  I'm free range coming, going and doin' whatever the hell I please places.  Those you're visiting, but not a visitor locations.  I love those places.  (And their owners.)

Anyhoo, I spent some time with the Godkidz catching up, getting school pictures, seeing new accomplishments, even got to do some ohhhhh and ahhhhing as Lenz prepared for her Homecoming.  It was all very wholesome, in fact Little House on the Prairie was discussed, oddly enough.  After the requisite fancy dance pictures were taken and Godkid J and Mini Me were fetched some food and entertainment for the evening, the grown ups (LB2'd, Hubby To Be #3 et moi) headed out 7 minutes down the street for some adult fun, which I think as we all know turned into a randomness-o-rama.

That probably started when we inquired about the "tatanka sauce" listed on the menu at the college adjacent establishment.  Weirdly, last weekend Dole Pineapple and I were hanging out when the conversation turned to tatanka and resulted in the both of us gittin' all Dances With Wolves wit it making the hand signal for it, a la Kevin Costner (nee, John Dunbar). 

(Damn you Google for not having a
pic of him with fingers as horns!)

("Tatanka", so says the timeless classic Costneriffic epic, is a Native American word for buffalo.  If you're curious, feel free to relinquish 17 hours of your life to watching Dances With Wolves to verify the veracity of my description.  I dare ya.)

We were all a beer in when we frightened amazed our blue hair'd, facial pierced, flannel wearin' waitress when spontaneously both Hubby To-Be #3 and I took fingers horns to head as we queried what the fuck tatanka sauce was?  Because A) we're old and 2) our waitress was born into a world where everyone has always had a phone in their pocket, not only was she taken aback by our synchronized hand gestures, she also had not fuckin' clue one what it meant.  Putting us in the impressive position of not only being assholes, but being teachers of pop culture history.  It was a proud moment indeed.

(Side note:  Tatanka sauce, as it turns out is kick ass goooooood!!  Especially with deep fried green beans.  ~My apologies to all foodie and health nut readers who are now repulsed to discover that we will actually batter and deep fry any veggie.  But it does keep one of the B's in Big Brown Girl, so suck it.)

A high school friend, who I saw at my recentish reunion (Reunion-ing v2.5 click here) who also lives in the area joined in our tomfoolery, which was deeeelightful, as one of my all-time favorite BBG hobbies is looping my friends from one area of my life with other friends from another.  It's indicative of the cool ass nature of the people I select as friends that they all seem to get on great when I combine them.  Are all people I know gonna wanna go on to be new best friends?  Well, I donno about that, (more power to 'em if the mood strikes) but they all seem to like each other well enough to want to be included next time shindigery breaks out, and that's good enough for me, ya know?

Her arrival, apparently ushered in some new and interesting additions to the clientele.  I found myself surveying the new arrivals when I noticed this guy with glasses (however sans a fuzzy ball topped chapeau) who was wearing this wonderful chunkily horizontal striped orange and light gray sweater.  Prompting me to proclaim that I found Waldo.  (~My apologies my wasting time online reader, I am kicking myself for not snapping a pic.)

Soon we were being given some PsyOps potential for future audio-torture musical offerings entertained by a local "artist".  Prompting Hubby To-Be #3 (H2B#3) to show his appreciation for the emo/lounge-y guy doin' a cover of Adele:

All the kool kidz where present and accounted for...

...Or so I thought when I first noticed this guy (which when you see a man who seems to have two plastic cocks hangin' off his belt will happen pretty fuckin' quick).

Exhibit A:


Oh, after what?

After Blue Hair'd Waitress (BHW) stops by our table.

BBG:  Do you know what Sideshow Bob has hanging off of his belt?

BHW:  Who?

BBG nodding towards this outrageously wild, fro-y curly topped tall guy a table over.

BHW:  Who?  Mike? (kinda pointing)

BBG:  Yes, Sideshow Bob.

Followed by my "come here Sideshow Bob, whatcha got goin' on over there?"  (Yes.  I am a shy and shrinking violet of a girl.)

Apparently, they were not, in fact, a grand display of his sexual proclivities, as I had surmised.  After a brief interrogation chat, it turns out they were a fantastical light show on the go, behold:

(Sideshow Bob doin' it to it groovy LED style)

The joint was still filling in with the, cooler-than-any-of-us set, when we headed home at the very decent and respectable hour we did.  As we drove away I couldn't help but wonder what other sources of entertainment people that lil nondescript spot on the map was gonna draw.  I do hate missing out on adventure and cracked out situations.

I also hate to have to get all back in time (outta my head Huey Lewis and the News!) wit it, but I need to wrap up story time...

So on my journey over to LB2'd HQ, I noticed that my ride seemed to be pulling.  I knew that it could mean an alignment issue, but I couldn't recall bangin' into something, so I took all good medical show advice on making a diagnosis and thought about the adage that when you hear hoofprints think horses not zebras.  Deciding to start with seein' if my damn tires were properly inflated.  (<-- Girl Smart Move)

As I rolled on down the interstate I started to consider that while I have my own tire gauge, know how to use it, know how to put the air in myself...I.  Just.  Really didn't fuckin' want to.  Thus, making my "helloooooo" to H2B#3 sound a lot like;  "I need you to do sumthin' manly for me.   Blah, blah, fuckityblah, possible PSI issue...  Now before you answer, know that I'm fully capable of doing both the checking and the filling but that I just don't want to."  (<-- Horrible Horrible Lazy But Honest Girl Move)

(Filling the BBGmobile - Good egg:  H2B#3) 

Since he was already workin' all of the fillin' tools (BBG translation:  the air compressor), H2B#3 ended up checking and filling the tires on his ride and on LB'2d's too.  He told me one of LB2d's tires was pretty low as well, so he was glad he'd checked/attended to it.

BBG:  So what you're sayin' is I just saved your wife's life?  (You'rrrrrrrre welcome LB2'd). 

Making my take away lesson:  Laziness saves lives!!

Weekend:  You were festive and fun, and really what more from you could a girl ask?  Thank you.

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