Dude!



Crab Apples are so fricken sweet. Growing up we had a crab apple tree in our front yard that was constantly rotting. Like a much beloved fruit dispensing zombie.

They are as hard as rocks, slightly larger than grapes, and hurt like a song of a bitch when thrown.

Well, now is the time for them to ripen and fall off the tree; giving plenty of ammo to the poor souls forced to live under their projectile burden.

To make myself feel better, here is a picture of a crab apple titty.



ya, you so want to tap that

Ahoi,

On Halloween last year I accomplished two fine things. First, I sold my piece of shit car to a guy in Rochester for more than I should have; but he was as desperate to get a cheap car as I was to sell one. Second, I bought my very first new car. Yum, so sexy you could climax just looking at the tail pipe... which reminds me of a very disgusting story I need to tell sometime when very, very drunk. (It isn't about me, and I could tell it sober but it is more believable after a few dozen.)

Well, short of our one year anniversary some colostomy bag threw a Zima bottle at a window and put a dent in the door and cracking the paint off. I have unleashed the hounds in search of his loved ones.

My question to you, dear estrippers, is where should I go to have that little dent repaired. I don't want the exposed metal to start to rust.

thanks

Well, well, well,


My brother Jordan is about ten years younger than his two older siblings, me and my younger brother Matt. Matt and I were free to blaze a trail to adulthood, dabbling in secret vices like tobacco, drink, or satanism. Jordan however was marched at gun point down the same path, but without the side trips of vices to those wonderful vistas of opium or grain alcohol. It is the path that our folks could see, and not the whole one they couldn't. One day, I am going to tie him down and force a bottle of cheap wine down the kids throat and not rest until he has done a line off a dead hookers ass.

Well, he has come to one of those kind of vistas, the respectable kind in which grandmothers love you all the more for being apart of. Like his two older brothers he just became an Eagle scout. For those who had fun childhoods and not in the know, Eagle scouts are like boy scouts par excellence. They can start camp fires with a glint in their eye and help old ladies across the street with superhuman speed.

It is an honor for him and one that is accompanied with much pomp and circumstance. No hooded men speaking an occult tongue decipherable to only the initiated. Rather, in the basement of a church the county executive's liaison shakes his hand and tries desperately to relate himself to Jordan. More on that in another post through.

Two of my friends and my brother Matt all had me write a little speech for them: a humorous appraisal of them as a person fluffed up with some genuine praise. Well, Jordan wants me to offer the same sort of speech.

Problem is, I don't like the boy scouts, not one bit. I run into some problems with them as I am an atheist homosexual. Ouch, two strikes. In fact, in 2004 I was still an actie member, teaching classes and such, when I tried to get my council (an organizing body, like a county) to draft a statement saying we were opposed to discrimination based on sexual orientation and religious belief. Two weeks letter I received a letter I had to sign for from the national headquarters in Texas. I was kicked out.

I would love to use this ten minutes of time to just slice into the institution who I worked for and who's highest honor I earned. But, instead I have 17 years worth of dirt on this kid. He is my little brother. I changed his diapers as a kid. I mean, how can you let material like that go to waste?

I have now done teacher observations in two school districts: Buffalo and Orchard Park. The difference is disgusting.

In Buffalo, the teachers hadn't had a raise in six years.

In Orchard Park they have their own TV studio.

In Buffalo there were 35-40 kids in a classroom.

In Orchard Park there was 20-25

In Buffalo kids were doing fundraising to keep their drama club going.

In Orchard Park they offer horseback riding.


Now, I don't want to take those nice things away from Orchard Park. But if it is good enough for them it is certainly good enough for the poorest schools in Buffalo.

(e:Janelle) has been journaling about the Sims, that video game where you... uh... simulate humans? You know, soup to nuts. From planing out their home and rise in a simulated capitalist economy to the micromanagement of sending them off to pee. And at a time-laps pitch it is oddly addicting.

Well, I played the Sims once, when it was a new game. Like Janelle I started off modestly. But mostly because I didn't read the instructions and just moved into the first shack I came across. Well, living in a miserable tiny apartment with room mates I wanted to axe murder I thought I would play out my childish fantasies. So, two guys move in and I try to get them to fall in love.

Now, this isn't a one-who-got-away sort of story. At the beginning they didn't like when I made them hug. But they kind of liked it when one bought a gift for the other. They could joke and pall around, but if I made them flirt. Yikes! It was uncomfortable.

But, I was persistent and my fantasy couple got together. One was an artists, because that sounded much more exciting than the waiter I was at the time. The other was in the military. Oh, everyone knew about his boyfriend, but it was never talked about on the base because our man was such a good soldier.

One morning, the military man wakes up early and sneaks downstairs to make the other breakfast in bed. A few weeks earlier they bought a grill for their anniversary. He starts cooking on the grill as the other gently slept and then.... BOOM!

FIRE!

FIRE!

Military man was engulfed in flames and died. A little tomb stone stood among the chard remains of the grill. The other sim would spend all day weeping beside it. He lost his job because he spent all day grieving.

Occasionally military man's ghost would appear and try to hug his lover. But the living sim would get frightened and run away. Then, when the ghost would disappear hugless the other would just return to the tomb and cry some more.

I was taking a Modern Russian history class at the time. The Albany winter was especially cold that year and reading the Gulag Archipelago for class should have been a harrowing experience. But the death and suffering of thousands was less depressing than my one and only game of the Sims.