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Rednecks and Royals

Like most everyone else across the world, I have been following all the news about the upcoming royal wedding.  The news people go the extra mile to bring every delicious tidbit of information on anything and all things ‘William and Kate’.   I probably know more about those two than I do my own kids, and that is a bit disturbing, don’t you agree?  These days, nothing is left to the imagination.   By the time this fiasco is over and done with, we will indeed be experts on royal nuptials, pomp and circumstance, and the proper way to do everything from polishing the silver to curtsying before the Queen.    I don’t know about you, but I’m freaking stoked!

My imagination knows virtually no boundaries, and of course the royal wedding has not escaped my tendency to conjure up a tall tale or two.   For example, what would happen if a family of rednecks from rural anywhere, USA, were sent an invitation to the royal wedding, all expenses paid?   Wouldn’t that be a hoot?   Let us explore that magical moment when the invitation arrives, shall we?

Setting:   BumfuktEgyptVille, USA.  Scene opens with Billy Bob, his wife Katie Mae, their two younguns, Dale and Daisy, 11 year old twins, and Grandma Weezer, all sitting on the front porch enjoying some afternoon refreshment of Mountain Dew and pork rinds.   Joe the mailman pulls up and comes running up the walk.

Billy Bob:  Well howdy Joe. How the hell are ya’ll today?   (Rest of family chimes in with a big friendly Howdy)

Joe the Mailman:  Afternoon Billy Bob, Katie Mae, Weezer.  (Nods to the younguns, while tousling Dale’s red hair playfully)

Katie Mae:  What ya’ll in such a all-fired hurry for, Joe?  Your britches on fire?  (Everyone laughs.  Britches humor is highly revered here in BumFuktEgyptVille).

Joe the Mailman:  I got here a Special Delivery letter all the way from London, England, and it’s fer ya’ll. All of ya’ll.  It’s even embossed on the back.  Postmaster says it’s from Buckingham Palace.  That there’s where them Royals live.

Billy Bob:  (Gets up from his rocking chair and approaches Joe)   Well hand ‘er over, Joe.  Let’s see what them fellers want.  I don’t reckon I know any of them, at least not so’s I can remember.  ‘Course, you never know who you might run into at the county fair.  I recall some fancy lookin’ foreigners walking around at last month’s fair.  They was looking at our prize hog, licking their chops.  Hehehehe  (cackles out a laugh, while spittle from his chewing tobacco drools down his chin).

Katie Mae:   Shut up Billy Bob and open the damned letter.  And for God sakes, wipe your chin.  You ain’t got a lick of manners.    Just open the  letter.

Billy Bob:   (Opens the letter and begins to read)  This here’s a invite to the wedding.  I heard about it on the TV.   That Prince William is getting hitched to that perty little Kate.  Looks like we’re invited.

Katie Mae:   (Grabs the letter out of Billy Bob’s hands)   It says our plane tickets and hotel are paid-fer and all we have to do is show up.  Well aint’ that something.   Yeehaw, younguns, looks like we’re a going to a weddin’!   (everyone cheers, Billy Bob spits and Weezer breaks some air.  It was all just too exciting.   They was all about as happy as a pig in shit.)

Weezer:  I hope ya’ll know how to act around them highfalutin folks.  I’m staying right here on my porch. Me and old Duke (the dog) will be just fine, thank you very much.  I ain’t getting in no airplane and flying across no ocean for Jesus, let alone some foreigners who can’t speak good English.  But ya’ll better figure out what to wear and how to act, because I watch the news, and I know they are pretty picky about that stuff.  I don’t reckon they’ll allow your chewing tobacco and banjo pickin’, Billy Bob.  And even your dress-up overalls won’t do for them fancy goings on.  And Katie Mae, you’ll need to leave that snuff box home, and you’ll have to wear shoes and put your teeth in before getting over to the church.  It’s just respectful is what it is.   I been around this old world a long time, and I know things and you need to listen to me about this.

Joe the Mailman:   Weezer’s got a point, ya’ll.  Them people is much different than us.  Why I heard tell that they drink beer instead of water over there, even the younguns.  I think I might like that!

Billy Bob:   Beer’s ok, but a weddin’ is not a proper weddin’ without some good moonshine for the men and a little muscadine wine for the ladies.  That there is what’s proper in BumFuktEgyptVille.  Maybe I’ll bottle some up and take enough for the Queen to sample.  She looks like she needs a good belt or two to loosen her up.  She looks perty wound-up on the TV.  Has a sour look on her face. Kinda like a corncob’s stuck up her ass or something.  Yea she could use some muscadine wine.

Katie Mae: I think the Queen probably just needs to get laid.  That always helps me when I get cranky.  She looks cranky to me.

Dale and Daisy(in unison.  They always talk in unison.  They don’t know but about 24 words, but they always say them together.  They’re still working on their ‘Hooked on Phonics’.)   Do we git to go too?  Huh Daddy?   Can we go too?

Billy Bob:   Well of course ya’ll can both go.  They invited all of us.  Weezer, you can stay home if you want to, old woman, but the rest of us is going to a weddin’.   Yeeee Hawww.

(Joe bids his goodbye and goes on about his mail rounds)

Katie Mae:   Well, I’m gonna go air out your good suit, Billy Bob.  I think I might wear my new Sunday-go-to-meeting hat.  I’ll need to work on it though.  The cat got ahold of it, trying to eat the little fake birds nesting in the hat.  Cat almost choked to death, but she finally hacked up a hairball with the birdy right in the middle.  Wonder if I can super glue it back on my hat?

Billy Bob:   I don’t know, Katie Mae.  That sounds awful fancy to me.  You don’t want everyone looking at you instead of the bride, do you?  We should just try to blend in.  Your gingham dress and penny loafers should be just about perfect.  Matches my light blue jacket.  We will fit in real good.

Weezer:  Ya’ll better take lots of pictures.   I’ll be right here with Duke waiting for you to come home and tell me all about it.

(Scene closes as they all go into the house.   The neighbors are butchering a hog and they are unluckily down-wind)    

(As camera pans away from the house, Billy Bob is overheard …)

Billy Bob:   Shit, Katie Mae, I don’t think we’ll be able to make that weddin’.  I just looked at the calendar and the Annual Tractor Pull is that same weekend.   Them royals should have picked a date when nothing important as that was going on.

Katie Mae:  Ok I’ll send the letter back with our Regrets.   I ain’t missing that Tractor Pull.  I hear the Monster Trucks are gonna be here this year.....

And Fade Out........

 (Image from Google Images)

Words Unspoken

Deb went to Starbucks to get some writing done.  The walls at home were closing in on her, and it was just too damned quiet.  She had to be among the living, the breathing, and some noise, other than the white noise behind her eyes.  She had to feel something again, in order to write anything worth writing.  It took her years to get to the point where she made her living as a writer.  Oh she wasn’t famous for the great American novel, but she had sold some pretty good pieces to a couple of magazines.  She was doing well, if you didn’t count her pack a day and caffeine habits.

Kathy, her lover of 2 years, had left her a couple weeks back.  She left without a credible reason, and took nearly everything they had accumulated together.   Deb didn’t care about all the stuff, so she didn’t complain as she watched the movers clearing out their last two years, as if they never happened.  She just sat on the porch and had a cigarette while she watched her drive away.   She suspected there was another woman, but it didn’t really matter.  Deb always believed that when someone was ready to leave, it’s just best they leave.   She couldn’t make her stay, and she wasn’t really sure at that moment if she even wanted her to stay.

After two weeks, however, depression had begun to take its toll and Deb was feeling and looking like she needed help.  She’d always kept her feelings inside, and wasn’t like Kathy, who wore her heart on her sleeve.  No, Deb didn’t feel the need to put her business out there for judgmental so-called friends looking to buy a ticket to a train wreck.  She’d always lived her life honestly and given her love completely.  It just never seemed to pay off for the long run.  She thought her bedroom skills were adequate, but who knew if a whole new set of sex rules had been invented since anyone confided in her.  Maybe she just stank in bed.   She quickly shook that thought off, however, as she knew self-deprecation was not going to help her feel any better.   Hell no, she was amazing in bed, that’s all there was to it.   Kathy had said so many times, although not so much in the last 5 or 6 months.

As she sat there in Starbucks sipping her Vanilla Latte and pretending to be reading something important on her laptop, she noticed a couple out of the corner of her eye.  She briefly glanced over and discovered Kathy and  a man seating themselves on the couch by the window.  He was helping her off with her coat and looking very happy to be in her company.  Hoping they hadn’t seen her, Deb slouched down into the booth, covering her face with the laptop, glancing their way every few seconds because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.   They sat very close together, and his arm went around her shoulders.   They seemed so engrossed in each other eyes and smiled constantly.   Deb’s stomach was beginning to ache and she felt a bit nauseous.   The man leaned into Kathy and kissed her gently on the lips, and then kissed her a second time, with more depth and feeling.    As a tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, Deb stared at the happy couple with a sadness she’d never felt before.   Suddenly, she folded her laptop, gathered her things and tried to make a hasty but unnoticed exit.    Pulling on her coat while walking down the street, tears were coming so fast she couldn’t see.  She was sobbing heavily now, and all she wanted to do was flee to the sanctuary of her home and those four walls.

Just as she approached her car and reached for the door handle, she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder.   She turned around and looked into Kathy’s beautiful face, but had no words for her.  She had every emotion possible circling around in her body and her heart, and she couldn’t speak a word.    Kathy said, “Please baby, let me explain.  It’s not what it appears to be.”

Still, Deb could say nothing.  It was as if she had no voice.  Her mind kept coming up with plenty of things she wanted to say to Kathy, but she would never hear them.  Deb turned around and got into her car, with Kathy begging for her to just listen.  Staring straight ahead, Deb started the car and pulled out into the street and left her lover on the sidewalk.   Kathy was no longer a part of her world.  At that moment, Deb hated her, but at the very same time, she realized she had loved her desperately.    Why couldn’t she have just spoken the words?

To Whom It May Concern

This week's Red Dress prompt was to write a formal letter to you or your character's greatest fear. I chose my greatest fear(s).


April 22, 2011

Terri Sonoda

1 Bone Dry Street

Las Vegas, Nevada 88888-6666

State of Nevada Varmints and Critters Division

90 Eleven Freaking Little Bugs Boulevard

Las Vegas, Nevada  88889-BUGS

Dear Sir/Madam:

Please accept this as my formal letter of complaint against the unwanted, unwashed, uninvited and unbelievably annoying inhabitants of our fair state of Nevada.   Of which do I speak, you may ask?  My distinct distaste and displeasure resides with any and every crawling, creeping, slithering, sliding, biting, stinging, hanging, hiding, hideous, and have I mentioned uninvited critter within a 10 mile radius of my person.   Gentlemen/ladies, I did not move to Nevada to find a scorpion in my bed.  I was thinking more on the lines of a showgirl.   Where, may I ask, are all the showgirls when you need one?  Hmm?  I also did not move to Nevada to hike amongst the beautiful mountains and Red Rock Canyon, alongside venomous, poisonous, sneaky, slimy, sadistic (they must be into that stuff, being the spawn of Satan!) snakes and lizards.  I don’t care if they do have a famous tortoise named Mohave Max who predicts the weather like that groundhog, only later in the season, and he’s never correct.   How would I propose to alleviate this situation, you ask?  Why, just pay your park rangers a little more than minimum wage and maybe they’ll keep those hideous hellions at a safe distance.  I don’t care if we are visiting their home!  They should learn to be polite and not send our seniors to the hospital with heart attacks.  Have your rangers look into that, will you?   I would very much appreciate any assistance you could offer with this issue.

As for the critters in and around my home, I would like my home to be patrolled 24 hours per day by a professional exterminator service.   I don’t expect to have to pay for this service, either.  I pay taxes, for crying out loud.  Snakes, spiders, lizards, roaches, ants, crickets, and rats (Chihuahuas included) should never be allowed near a human being, unless of course, that human is completely insane and is into that sort of thing.

In summary, I am most disturbed and disheartened that Nevada didn’t turn out to be the blissful oasis of gambling, drinking and women (lots of women) that I saw in the brochures and viewed on the Chamber of Commerce video mailed to me in the dead of winter to my home in Ohio.  Of course I moved.  You forgot the Memo, however, about the nightmares I would have going to bed at night wondering what is going to crawl into bed with me.   Please, effective immediately, put a restraining order on every living and breathing creature entering my bed between 10 pm and 6 am, except for those showgirls, who would probably do no harm to my person.

I trust you will take care of the above grievances in a timely manner.   I look forward to your response.

Warm regards,

Terri Sonoda

I'm in love with a bag lady

My love for bag ladies is not a recent event.  It has, in fact, been afflicting me for a few months now.  One particular bag lady, Corrine, who is strictly a fictional character, has managed to capture my heart.   I find myself dreaming of her smile, her fashion sense, her big bag, her O de’ La Pew scent and the fact that I feel compelled to write about her.  Is it possible to have a fictional character as one’s muse?  Ponderous.  But wait;  let’s back up just a sec.  I suppose I need to provide some history or some back-story, if you will, for my bag lady.

Just after Christmas this past year, I was feeling particularly writerly, as well as a bit melancholy, along with the fact that I was still pouting because I didn’t get the iPhone I wanted.  Or the iPad.  Or the Red Corvette.    Instead of continuing to wallow in my own self-pity mire, I poured myself a generous glass of merlot and sat down to write something remarkable (Like all my stuff. Goes without saying).   I invented my bag lady, unnamed in my first story, blended her in with a ‘Buy Me a Drink and Tell Me a Story’ post.  Some of you may recall reading it.  If not, please do.  The story is called ‘The Picture Window’.

I will wait.

That seemed to assuage my hunger for writing about the street world, until March rolled around and once again, my thoughts drifted to my imaginary muse.   This time I gave her a name (Corrine) and her very own post, without the intro story about my newest choice of libation.   The story is called “Smoke Break” from March 10th, and you can go ahead and read it now, if you haven’t already.   Or you can read it over again.  It’s that good.   Would I steer you wrong?

I will wait.

Back to present day and my angst/thirst/hunger/ridiculous obsession for writing about my beloved Corrine.   I have been working on a new story for Corrine, and I am stuck.  I want to bring out her wonderfully gentle, giving, and goofy qualities, but I feel like, in order to keep your interest, my story needs some action/horror/thrills/drama/or other enthralling bait.   So far, our Corrine has narrowly escaped a security officer in an old abandoned building, and exited by way of the side door, where she grabs her cart and takes off down the alley.   That’s all I have so far.

My question to you is, should my storyline include any of the following:   a mass murderer, a love interest, a bank robbery, a drive-by shooting, a lost child, a lost puppy, a lost bottle of Boones Farm wine, a choking incident, getting frisky, an obsession, a speech therapist…..or finally, the remnants of a 3-course-meal left enticingly alone atop a smoking barrel outside a local bistro.      Yes, people, I have thought about this a LOT.   Corrine could have any number of adventures.  Hell, she could even end up being my long-lost mother or die and leave me her vast fortune which has been carefully stashed under the lining of the old wool coat she wears even in the dead of summer.

Is it any wonder that I have trouble getting my school work done?

I’m just in love.  That is all.

Side Note:     It is not my intention to make light of the homeless.  Any of us could be homeless, with a couple missed paychecks, or an illness or other catastrophic event.  I write about Corrine because I see so many homeless in Las Vegas, and many Many of them are the elderly.     My heart goes out to them, and I try to help when I can.  I hope everyone does.  As for Corrine, she will be written in a good light.   That I promise.

On Writing, Depression and Other Whining

You may have noticed, or not, that I haven’t been posting as often as I used to post.  And you may also have noticed, or not, that I haven’t been posting sketches as often, either.  And thirdly, you may have noticed, or not, that when I do post, I’m torn between trying to make you all laugh through my self-analysis and deprecation and my beloved (to me) fiction.   Wow, kudos for all that noticing! (or not)

Lately, my funny bone has been tucked somewhere up under my ass and I can’t seem to find it with two hands and a flashlight.   It’s sad, really, because when I start getting too serious, life just isn’t as much fun.  I don’t know how many of you go through depression, but I fight the demon fairly regularly.  Most of the time, I win, but it can take days and sometimes weeks.  I have to have a trigger to go into depression, something such as too godamned much homework, constant frustrations of job hunting, and the fucking tax man.   When I get depressed, I don’t write unless I have to and I certainly don’t talk to people very much.  I withdraw into myself.  I heard that is not normal for an extrovert such as me.  But then, who the hell ever figured out that any kind of depression is normal?  Are those brilliant people making a lot of money, because if they are, I want to ride that gravy train?  I can make up stupid shit, too.

Back on topic (always thinking up ways to make money.  It’s my Achilles).  In just the last week, I’ve had two papers to write, 3 to 5 pages in length, about the books I read the first week in school.  I managed those, along with the massive reading and now two more books for next week.  Yea, grad school is fun, and Not Easy, but I’m such a stubborn bitch, I’m going to make it through.  Even if I pull all my hair out and have to walk the graduation platform bald.  I will strut my bald self up that aisle and ‘pretend flip’ my hair while accepting that degree and vowing Never to step foot in another fucking institution of higher learning as long as I live.   Yes, it will be a proud day for me and my family.  Well me.  My family may be hiding behind their ceremonial programs, pretending their graduate has not come forward yet.  Keep in mind, I am bald at this point, and ‘pretend hair flipping’.   ‘Nuff said.

So, I miss writing just for the pure joy of it.   I’ve decided to put yet another little morsel on my daily plate, in order to blend some balance back into my dull and boring existence.  (poor pitiful me….get out your little violins).    I read in a book called, Writing Down the Bones by Nathalie Goldberg (thanks for the referral Nancy!)  that you should set aside some time every day to write.  And by writing, the author means to write with wild abandonment, not worrying about structure or spelling or even page borders.   She says just to write.  It’s called Writing Practice.   I enjoyed her book, and am convinced that this is something I need to do, so each morning I will grab a cup of coffee and just write my little heart out for half an hour.   Then I will start my day.  What do you all think about that?  Waste of time or good idea?  Does anyone out there already do this, and if so, how’s it working for you?

As for the sketching, I don’t have a plan to sketch every day, yet.   I can’t start too many new things at once or I am doomed to fail.    Anyone wants to join me in this writing adventure, email me.

We can swap ideas or just bitch and moan.   Couldn’t hurt.   I’m hoping this extra writing every day will help in several ways, one being to stave off that demon called depression.   We shall see.

Film at eleven.

That’s a rap.

Later tater.

After while crocodile.

Rock on.


Moshi  moshi.

Arrivederci  Roma.

Yo  Momma.


You  hang up first…..

No, you hang up first….

Totally unrelatable Tiger picture, but beautiful nonetheless.

(Image from Google Images)


There was a path stretching from the edge of my aunt’s driveway in rural Tennessee, and just behind the chicken coop, about a quarter-mile through the thick woods and spilling out onto the graveled driveway to the house where my cousin and her family lived.  The path was one of many twists and turns, with uneven surfaces and slippery-sliding ridges.  I would begin the short walk on an even plane, taking in the smells and sounds of the chickens, until the rich musky odor of wet pine commanded my senses.  As the path took a downhill slope, I was forced to watch my footing, but rarely did as a girl, and instead made a game of trying to see how fast I could maneuver the challenges of the terrain.

After entering the thick forest and while making my descent down the steep hill, I made still another game of counting the huckleberry bushes.  I had to touch each one that was within my reach without leaving the trail, and made a mental count each time my fingers touched a new bush.  There were hundreds of huckleberry bushes in those woods and the summer brought many a trip off the trail for picking and filling a coffee can full of the delicious berries to sell at the local gas station up by the state line.  We kids could rake in a dollar for each can of berries picked.  Of course, we always ate more than we picked.   Tummy aches abounded, especially for us city kids who visited the mountains and their sweet treasures infrequently.

About half way along, the path dipped to its lowest level, and during the wet season, a small trickling stream ran through, which I easily hopped over and began my climb up the other side of the ravine.  The mid-way point was the darkest and deepest part of the woods, and sometimes I would become a bit frightened and nervously try to scamper myself up the other side as quickly as possible, in order to stave off any dark, impending doom that followed behind me.  Other times, however, I simply enjoyed the climb, and often continued my huckleberry bush counts along with trying to make my steps as long as I possibly could.

On the occasions I would not be alone during my trek along the path, my cousins and I would most likely make a race of it.  I came in last most of the time, as most of my cousins were boys.  However, if my sister came along, I delighted in the fact that I could outrun her every time.  Of course, she was four years younger than me.  I remember sometimes making her cry when I’d leave her behind on the trail and she became frightened.  I caught heck for it when Mom found out, too.

As the years went by, the summers came and went, and we grew into adolescence, the path took on a whole new meaning and adventure.  At 16, and the product of a dysfunctional family, I lived most of my world within myself, especially when we would visit the country relatives.  I found my boy cousins to be annoying and tedious and I grew impatient and bored with their inability to entertain me to the level I felt they should.    We were too old to play in the red mud and run and hide among the trees and bushes of the forest.  Now I would take the path by myself, and sometimes three or four times back and forth, just so I could be alone with my thoughts and dreams.  I walked that path and made plans for leaving Georgia and Tennessee and my parents and the life I was sure I had outgrown.

The years moved forward to the summer I was 28 and I walked the path with my husband and son, while visiting the country relatives for a family reunion.  That was the last time I ever walked that path and I recall it looking so much smaller and different than I had remembered.  The huckleberry bushes were still there, along with the pine trees.  Nothing about the forest had changed except for the size and thickness of the trees.  I had changed though.  I had seen many things, been many places and had experiences that altered my perception of everything.  I would never again view the path in the forest as I had in my childhood.

Now I can walk through a lovely park with big trees and be transported back to that little path in the Tennessee mountains.  I didn’t appreciate the beauty back then, as I’m sure I would now.  However, I did accomplish something much more important.  I experienced the same path as a child and later as a teenager, and then an adult, but each time I took a separate journey.  A journey that connected not only two properties, two houses and two families, but one that connected me with myself.


Knowing it All

Picture an adorable 5-year-old little girl, with a big toothy smile and long golden curly locks, giggling and chattering on and on about everything from “favoritest color in the whole wide world” to “Mom bakes the biggest, best cookies ever!” to “I bet the President’s daughters like to play Barbie’s, too”.    Cute, huh?  There’s nothing these pint-sized princesses don’t know, and if you don’t believe it, just ask them.  Little Miss Know-it-All.   You gotta love that.

However, there are some ‘Know-it-All’s that are not so cute, but rather make you want to pour cement in your ears to get a little peace and quiet.

Once upon a time, there was a very annoying woman who worked for me.  She would come into work, usually early because she knew it was important to catch all the latest information before everyone else on the shift.  That way she could be the ‘communication device’ from which such vital tidbits flowed as new candy supply in the sales department, third stall from the left had overflowing toilet, so and so had a better mouse than she did, training guy’s pants were too tight, office manager’s cleavage was showing, and even the boss was in a bad mood.   Yea she knew it all.   No need for my input.  She had it covered.    Sometimes it was laughable and sometimes I wanted to slap the ‘information’ right off her mouth.  I didn’t, though, because I was a professional, you understand.  I had to remain calm at all times.  And if you believe that……want to buy a bridge?

Another example of a conduit for all things chat worthy was a woman I had to work night shift with years ago.  Night shift in the computer room was supposed to be a time for reading, surfing the internet or leaning back in your chair while checking your eyelids for pinholes….from the inside.   Oh but Little Miss Know-it-All vocalized ad nauseam her vast knowledge-base all through the night.  I heard about the guy in accounting that scratched his ass, picked his nose and farted, and sometimes simultaneously, with apparently no remorse as to the gross meter he was tilting.  I learned how much the president and all the VPs were making.  I learned all the freaking words to every country song since the beginning of time, or the beginning of country music, whichever came first.  I learned how she invented a new type of urine-collection cup (sprinkle free if memory serves) and had it patented.   And finally, I learned that if I started both the big printers at the same time, it would almost drown out her incessant drone.   I could still see her, though.  And smell her……but that’s another story for another day.

Not wanting to leave the guys out, equally as ear-straining was a man around my age who also worked for me.   He would come into my cube (a lot) and sit down (without being invited) and start talking about all the gay people he knew.   He wasn’t gay, as he informed me on countless occasions, but “some of his best friends were gay”.  Where have I heard that before? It seemed he wanted to connect with me on a gay level.  To this day, I have no idea why.   It seemed important to him to relate to me, so I went along with it.  That is, if you call going along with it, staring at him in silence while he shared tales of visiting the different types of men’s bars in the city.  Quite admittedly, I did get a bit of an education, as I had no idea there was a bar just for guys in leather.  Wow, the odor that must permeate in such an establishment……the beer, the sweat, the leather, the bodily…….oh never mind.  I think you get the picture and you may  have vomited by now.   Sorry for that.

And finally there’s the “I’ve done that, too” and “Not only have I done that, I’ve done it better”, and “I can top that!”   kind of Know-it-All.  Don’t you just love that kind?    Everyone has a relative or a friend of a friend or a (God forbid) next door neighbor who has done it all and much better than you.   These are the kind of people you avoid like the plague, yet they find you.  You don’t want to “talk story” with these folks because you are going to lose.   For example, you very well may have been a hero and saved an 80-year-old man from drowning in the lake, but I guarantee you that Mr. Know-it-All will have saved an 80-year-old man, his 75-year-old wife and their 3 Chihuahuas from atop their old Buick that was floating away in the big flood.  You see?   You can’t win.   It’s best just to back away slowly until you reach your door, then turn and run inside and bolt the door while saying you’re not feeling well.  Of course, he would just yell through the door that his cancerous acne was acting up.  Silly you, only having a headache.  Had enough by now?  Just purchase some pepper spray.  It wouldn’t be unheard of.  Just sayin…

I love Know-it-All’s.  My Dad used to call me that when I was a kid (along with a couple other names I so deserved).   I don’t think I was ever really a Little Miss Know-it-All.  I couldn’t help it if everyone I talked to was stupid.

(Images from Google Images)

Pia voted off...What the ?

Well, I’m not happy.   I just finished watching American Idol, and thanks to America’s gazillion 11 year old girls, another talented young woman gets voted off the show.  Actually, we can’t really blame the 11 year old girls, now can we?   They carefully take their time to frantically vote over and over and over and over and over and over.  They are accustomed to all that texting and tweeting and their little thumbs can go 150 miles per hour on those cute little pinkly bedazzled phones they got for their birthdays.   We sit back all smug, pretending not to watch Idol, yet making our opinions known to anyone within yelling distance….but do we Vote?  Hell no, we are too mature for that silly stuff and we don’t “really” watch American Idol anyway.  The kids or the grandkids have the TV on is all.  We just happened to be sitting there, checking our financials on our fancy smart phones, reading or writing a thought-provoking novel, or dozing off because we had too much supper.  Meanwhile, those tweenies are just voting away.   And do you know who they are voting for?   I’ll tell you who they are Not voting for.   They are Not voting for the women.  They probably don’t even notice it’s a singing competition.  No, those hormones are raging and all they see is Dreamy Dude in his tight jeans and curly hair.  It’s just part of growing up, people.  Hormonal Hula.

American Idol is not meant for us.   It never was.  It was invented to make money.  Everyone is invited to vote, but the tweenies are actually hypnotized right through the television…. to vote for their favorite over and over and over and over and over again.   And of course, their favorite is going to be their idea of Dreamy.  It’s like a fever….a Justin Bieberish Plague, if you will.   And if you ladies don’t believe me, just take a minute to think back to when you were 11, 12 or even 13.   Not old enough to date, but you had these strange and wonderful  urges feelings about the cute guy in the back row.  You know, the one with the crooked smile and the dreamy blue eyes and the ‘just don’t care’ attitude.    Yea that guy.   Or maybe the guy that lived across the street from you who had a rock band and they practiced in the garage every night……and you probably sat out on the curb in front of your house with your best friend, and stared at him.   And then after the band went home, you sat there just a little longer, just in case he decided to come  out and ride his skateboard down the street. Because he might have noticed you and said hello.   Wouldn't want to miss that.........uh, where was I? Oh.  Yea that guy.

Lovely Pia didn’t have a chance.   She doesn’t look a thing like Justin Bieber.  Oh she’ll get a record contract and she’ll do just fine, and American Idol will go on.   I’m heartbroken, but what do they care?

American Idol belongs to the tweens, bless their little irritating hearts.   Let them vote!  Let them be young!  Let them use their thumbs voices!  Hear them roar their mighty tween roar!


You could send the little brats to bed early so the rest of us could enjoy the freaking show.

(Images from Google Images)