Das Swine Hund

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has happened.  I have contracted the Swine.  Today is the first day I have managed to make any prank phone calls, drink water not from the ensuite bathroom, and partake in my usually asshole like day to day activities.

 

Let me tell you about the Swine Hund.  I know I talked a lot of shit about how tough I am, possibly made a couple references to myself surviving the apocalypse, etc, but for all seriousness, you want no part of this.  The government was not blowing my skirt up… this time.  Swine Hund is most certainly the love child of Cancer and Mono.  Trust this.  I have spent the last couple days delirious and barking at the walls in my bedroom from within my sweat soaked cave of sheets.  I pore puked on to all of the blankets in this house to the point that this morning I woke up wrapped in a bunch of oversized bath towels. 

 

The bedroom is currently being fumigated and yes, it is necessary.

 

I’m pretty sure the only reason I lived to tell the tale is because I drank enough wheat grass to choke even a Scotts Green Classic.  That and the fact that I took part in the Nuremberg Trail that is Tamiflu.

 

I am not usually one to take part in any immunizations or unnecessary medications.  I have had far longer relationships with a single bottle of Tylenol than I have had with most men.  I am one of those granola assholes who makes you tea from oregano and emu piss when you’re sick.  It has never really let me down before so drink it or I’ll kick you in the face.

 

This time was kind different.  I was scared shitless.  Being that I am right there in the demographic of PEOPLE WHO DIE and considering how unbelievably shitty I felt I wasn’t into taking any chances.  So I ran crying to der Arzt like a little bitch and here I am waiting for my take-out and telling you a story.

 

I got a text today from everyone’s favorite Inter Peeping Tom, a Mr.  Rod Bruno, who asked me if there was anything he could do to help.  Well as we all know, Rod is a civil servant for the Ministry of Truth (Minitrue) and cannot be trusted whatsoever.  He and the rest of the Lizard People are clearly trying to take inventory of those who have been infected and I refuse to help them gather data.  I asked him point blank for the antidote and he denied its existence.  I then demanded he let me speak to the Head Lizard and he hung up on me.

 

They must have been listening.

 

Then I got really hungry, but only for a certain kind of sandwich so I dragged my carcass down the road to an undisclosed location where I dined and possibly infected the entire staff.  This may sound terrible but they have it coming to them.  I have picked more stay hairs out of my shrimp club while eating there than I do when I’m hacking back matt’s unibrow.  This is not a joke.  In my teens I took Food Safe level One and Two and this filthy selection of teenage girls and their kitchen habits could blow the mind of even the gnarliest patron.  Still we go there all the time.  Best sandwiches ever.

 

Keep fighting the good fight my little proletariat wonder muffins.

Are you there God?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are you there God?

 

It’s me Raeleigh.

 

As you already know, it is my daughter’s third birthday party today.  Considering your whole omnipotence gig, I imagine you are already aware of the time, energy and money I have put into planning said event. 

 

For that matter you probably also saw me stealing and gorging on my daughter’s Halloween loot last night and then to add insult to injury, I may have also had premarital sex on the mountain of discarded mini chocolate bar wrappers.  Okay, I then may have accidently spent an hour spying on some drunken neighborhood partygoers having sloppy Halloween induced sex in the backseat of their car.  Come on.  It was Captain Crunch and a Pirate Hooker.  I bet you couldn’t tear your all-seeing eyes off it either.

 

So where does that leave us?  Theft (from a child), Gluttony, being an unwed slut and Voyeurism.  I will apologize for those first three no-nos but I refuse to take a hit for the voyeurism part.  WWJD is what I was clearly thinking when I came upon this option for my evening entertainment.  Jesus would watch through his tears as Captain Crunch solicited sex from a crewmember of the Queen Anne’s Revenge.  Of this fact I am sure.  I was only doing what I thought he would want. 

 

Ahoy Mating.

 

I would have cried too but the antidepressants wouldn’t let me.

 

Anyways, the reason I called is we need to discuss the weather.  I am not sure what you have previously planned for today but I have a vested interest in the fact that there be no rain for my event.  It is hard enough for a mom to plan a birthday party of epic proportions in November, without having to worry about the skies opening up.  I think my show of trust in planning an outdoor event this year should be enough for you to reward me with sunny skies.  Just sayin’.

 

Also while I’ve got you on line, I was sort of wondering if you could make me stop getting my period.  I know Margaret was always nagging at you to aid in starting hers and eventually you came through, so perhaps I could request the opposite.  You can totally mull it over.  It is just an idea, really.

 

So that is about it for today.  I’m sure you are super busy what with condemning all the post-apocalyptic Halloween business.

 

Keep your chin up.

 

Love,

Raeleigh Jane

Jungle Love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our family recently acquired a new animal friend.  The acquisition of said animal friend was the brainchild of our delightful little daughter.  With her third birthday just around the corner, delightful daughter informed us that the third annual celebration of her using my vagina as a door could not be complete until she was mothering a kitten of her very own. 

 

Much guilt ensued. 

 

I love animals but I am not always crazy about cleaning up after them, particularly in the shit department.  Not to mention the fear I have clearly developed about the existence of a litter box in my own home.  I have, after all, openly encouraged people to shit in them.

 

It is one thing to shatter the dreams of a single adorable near-birthday girl, or even one orphaned kitten but when faced with the combined dreams of the two of them at exactly the same time…  Well much to your shock and surprise, not to mention my own, I discovered I am not entirely made of stone.  Who knew?

 

So we made the trip to our local SPCA.  The staff was incredibly helpful and very thorough.  I was amazed at the amount of volunteers that were milling about, various people coming in to foster the cats and kittens until they found forever homes.  The whole scene made me feel super awesome about my whole hedonistic, entirely selfish lifestyle.  Not one person was asking my most commonly uttered question, how does this benefit me?  Who are these people?  I knew right away that they were getting some of my money, adoption or no adoption, if only to ease my guilt.

 

One of my major concerns was that, considering we already have two dogs at home, our prospective cat had read cover to cover “I’m Okay, your Okay:  The Canine Version.”  I spend a significant amount of my life putting out fires without having to coexist with an oft-tumultuous animal relationship in my home as well.

 

We were then given two possible options for our adoption:  1.) A kitten that had been fostered in a home with dogs, or 2.) A kitten young enough to be able to successfully and quickly adapt to the dog situation.  A kitten made of putty, as it were, for us to mold into a cat with which we could successfully coexist.  We were then ushered into the SPCA’s pussy housing district where I learned something new.  There were two distinctive types of kittens that were available for adoption.  One of these sets consisted of a bunch of very young, various colored little nuggets that had just became available for adoption.  I was encouraged to adopt immediately if I fancied one from this set as they were apparently going like hotcakes.  The other set was a selection of various aged, yet significantly older, black teenage cats.  I asked why there were so many black ones that had not yet been adopted, and I was told that the discrimination of humans is not exclusive to humans.

 

Wow.

 

We went home that afternoon empty handed.  We had not yet purchased the necessary items needed to properly house a cat and I was totally reeling in my newly discovered local cat racism issue.

 

I sincerely cannot understand why it would make any difference at all what color your cat is.  I think I would actually prefer a black cat, what with all their badass juju and such.  Far more interesting than not worrying about crossing paths with Senor Calico.  Where is the thrill in that?  Not to mention their enduring style.   I think Black Cat is the new Black.

 

So after discussing the situation with the other adult in the house we decided that the adoption was a go.  It was mutually decided that the only adopting we would be doing would be of a cat of the discriminated black variety.  We are an equal opportunity cat family and that is how we roll.

 

So the daughter was sent in to make her first official Sophie’s Choice.  I had previously explained to her the situation in which we had been thrust, what with the fact that we were living in a city that time forgot and some people were still treating each other and apparently cats in a manner that is not acceptable in our family.  She quickly decided on a sweet little black girl cat to be her very own.  It was love a first sight.

 

On the way home I asked my vagina’s #1 enemy if she had decided on a name for her new fur daughter and she immediately informed me that her name was “Bondo Sweetheart.”  This is interesting to me because when I received my first pet, also a kitten, at her age I named him “Jelly Bean Bastard.”  Our people have evolved from a triple name to a more simple double name, that thankfully does not include a swear.  And that, my friends, is called progression of my species.  Just another genetic step out of the bayou. 

 

So it has been a couple weeks since B.S. the cat became a Van Good Breugel and I’m not gonna lie she is a pretty monstrous pain in my ass.  At the same time however I have developed a fondness for the little Sex Panther…  60% of the time she shit in her litter box every time.  And thankfully she is nearly over the snot flu she arrived with.  Apparently it is common for cats that are kept in close quarters to pass viruses around.  Currently, her favorite place to sneeze is the back of my neck while I am desperately trying to fall asleep.  I can’t begin to explain to you how this act rattles me to my very core. 

 

Cat snot on my bare skin.

 

I have also set up a closed circuit video camera in our “Dora Bathroom” in which her litter box is located.  It is also equipped with an alarm in the event that anyone tries to tamper with it or shut it off.  In the event that you, as a guest in my home, attempts to crap in the litter box the video footage of said scandalous act will immediately be added to youtube and the shame you incur as a result will be something that could possible haunt you for the duration of your life. 

 

Consider yourself warned. 

 

Baby… did you make this?

 

This is so ridiculously fucking good.  People are forever asking me how I do the black magic that I do with my main squeeze Photoshop.  Well, I start by watching Photoshop tutorials and once in a while I stumble upon a little gem like this.

 

Happy Thursday.  Keep it real, Seal. 

Blow Job Betty

 

 

Teenagers these days are extraordinarily hardcore.  Terrifying, in fact.  I have quite a few friends whose lovely children have recently entered their atrocious teen years and the stories they reiterate ala their teens absolutely blow my fucking mind.  They have most certainly amped up the whole sex, drugs and rock and roll deal to a whole new plateau.

 

Case in point:  The Lifesaver Party. 

 

These dirty little prositots are hosting blowjob invitationals in the basements of their parent’s homes. At these parties each girl is given a different flavor of lifesaver to holding in their mouths while the boys, with their pants around their ankles, make their rotations around the room.  The object of the game is for the boys to get a dick stain from every flavor of the lifesaver roll via someone’s daughter’s mouth.  Oh.  My.  God.  And this story out of the mouth of a twelve year old.

 

When I was twelve I didn’t even know what a penis looked like.  Honestly I actually thought testicles were two separate sacs that hung behind the penis, hence the plural of “balls.”  When I saw my first set at the age of sixteen I was quietly surprised but did not want to say anything at the risk of appearing inexperienced or stupid.  I lost my virginity at sixteen but did not have a penis anywhere near my mouth until I was eighteen years old.  It was all awkward missionary through my entire high school experience.  It wasn’t until my early twenties that things really started to get away but by that point I was completely educated as far as the goings on of my body, safe sex and confident in who I was and the decisions I made.  Still, I never found myself on my knees in a conga line of random cock.  In my high school experience being sexual did not overshadow having self-respect.  The boys had to earn that shit.  We knew that the more we denied it, the more they wanted us.  It was a power thing.  Let’s not kid ourselves; it is still and always will be a power thing between men and women of our generation.

 

Why are these little skanks handing over their power?

 

They part that really floors me is the cavalier nature in which these misguided little bimbos are letting various dick enter their mouths.  Maybe it is my OCD talking but isn’t anyone a little concerned about disease or at the very least hygiene?  I am of the opinion that having oral sex with someone is remarkably more intimate then the act of having sex.  Particularly if it is some stray dude we are discussing.  If you are actually going to engage in this random sort of extracurricular activity doesn’t it seem a lot more safe and intelligent to have condom fortified sex?  Realistically, the girl is going to get a lot more enjoyment out of the act then she would providing a blowjob service, not to mention the crucial factor of the lack of fluid exchange.  You know, at least until you get to know homeboy enough to be sure he doesn’t live on Hepatitis Island?

 

I am in no way attempting any sort of self-righteous trip here.  I did my fair share of fucking in high school, and as mundane and self-conscious as it was I sort of envy the little hookers of today.  We never engaged in any crazy shit because really it was crazy enough for us in those days that we were actually having sex.  Even if we were enticed to, the prospect of pregnancy, disease and gaining any sort of whoresque reputation put a lid on it.  What I am attempting to address here is when those factors ceased to be a consideration.

 

I have a three-year-old daughter and the prospect of how much more terrible things are going to be by the time she reaches this age scares the shit out of me.  I imagine myself misting her down with Bactine as she arrives home from school every day.  Alas, I have quite a few more years before I have to really start worrying about it so in the mean time I have been really enjoying polluting the minds of my friends who are currently raising their filthy teenagers. 

 

There is no better entertainment then asking a father how his daughter is doing and then immediately bursting into a graphic story about getting finger banged when you were her age.  For some reason, use of the term “finger banging” provides a more graphic and horrifying series of mental images then almost anything else you can think of.  Being your local generous philanthropist in imagery you never want to attain of your kids never seems to get old for me.

 

Don’t worry, I know I’ll get mine soon enough.

H1N1-Night Stand

 

It is official.  I have reached my breaking point in the company of incessant discussers of the dreaded H1N1 virus.  I refuse to have the Swine addressed in my presence, ever again. 

 

That is it. 

 

Seriously. 

 

The next person to exercise their need to wax poetic about the Swine is getting a swift donkey kick to the junk via me.  This punishing blow may be unpleasant but trust me it is for your own good.  It means you are terribly boring and your throbbing junk will serve as a reminder to your uninteresting self that it is time to change.  You know, expand your conversational horizons a bit for the betterment of the earth in general.  Check yourself.  It is your time.

 

For those of you who are sincerely ill, I have a small favor to ask.  If you a currently packing a confirmed Case of the Hog, like doctor’s note confirmed, I want to have a play date with your feverish ass.

 

Why would I want to contract the Swine, you ask?  That answer is three part. A hat-trick answer, if you will.

 

My reasoning is simple.

 

1.  If it is actually going to happen, I would like to get it over with.  To bite the hog bullet, so to say.

 

2.  I enjoy adding to my immune systems all ready startling resume. 

Mono, check. 

Beaver fever, check.

Flesh-eating disease, check.

Shingles, check.

If it is obscure and needs a couple hours with a textbook to diagnose, you can bet your ass that at some point in my life, I have graciously hosted it.  Consider me the Vancouver to your Swine Olympics.  I am a frequent traveler on the road of drinking out of creeks and kissing the monkey in Outbreak.  I am of the opinion that germs are not to feared and One-Step Sanitized, they are to be ingested and murdered by your immune system.  It has to be an inside job.  Sure, I am kind of gross but the fact remains that I am basically cut out of steel and you are not.  When the population of the world is wiped out by some weak epidemic, the cockroaches and I will still be here, thriving.  We will be here and we will be snooping through all your personal belonging.  In your home, eating your canned goods while we laugh through hours of your homemade porn that we found in the box under your bed.  Maybe shit in your cat litter box if we don’t have anything else planned.

 

You only have yourself to blame.

 

3.  If I am successful in obtaining the Swine, I have compiled a medium sized list of people, that for one reason or another, I would delight in transmitting it too.  So if I show up unannounced at your front door in the next couple days all ashen and wanting to share a can of diet Pepsi, don’t be alarmed.  It just means I hate you and we should hug it out.

 

Biological Warfare is my favorite kind of warfare.

 

So if you are packing Swine heat here is what I propose we do.  You come on over and I will cue up a little P.M. Dawn and we can share a delicious plate of spaghetti, ala Lady and the Tramp.  I get to be the Tramp though, if we are going to try to make this believable, being the Lady would just be too much of a stretch for me.  Then maybe we could spoon on the couch for a couple hours and watch Quarantine.  After that you have to leave.  You have to leave and I never want to see you again.  This is only an H1N1-night stand and those are the rules.

 

I am in a relationship but if getting Swine from you is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

Eye Candy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Can someone please explain to me what the fuck is going on?

 

I recently spent a weekend in downtown Vancouver.  As a former resident, I feel totally justified in expressing my concrete, somewhat controversial opinions on the city and it’s inhabitants.  The Vancouver I was exposed to during my infestation was one of considerably tougher competition in the fuckability department then it is currently exhibiting.  And I am in no way singling out the gentlemen here, girls, your mud fence factor is soaring as well.  I was so anticipating a glorious weekend abounding with a series of ocular rapes committed by myself against you, the good people of this city, but sadly I found myself (with maybe two exceptions) entirely unmotivated.  In the case of mois, this is significant.  You should probably know and then take into consideration that I can occasionally be found staring lustily at various inanimate objects.   A chair, a pile of laundry, sometimes even the toaster.  I’m not a particularly discerning customer when it comes to the solicitation of eyeball sex.  I am a cheap date and it is something I have always enjoyed.  My organ of vision wants to be sexing the shit out of you and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.  If we are in a public place, you should know that you are likely not the first since my arrival and you are even less likely to be the last.  You should also know that I never use protection as I find it decreases the sensation.

 

This is the sound of my heart breaking and you should be ashamed of yourselves Vancouver.

 

I blame fashion.

 

I was recently discussing this phenomenon with a friend of mine, thee Mr. Jesse Vanson, who expressed similar distaste for the current state of vogue.  I only reference dear Jessica in this because:

 

a.)  Jesse is a well-known Jedi Master Hipster.  His hipstering capabilities are so profound that unlike your everyday Hipster who has honed their willful obscurity regarding their independent thinking, style and culture to, in their opinion, a level of entirely obscure precision that you could probably never understand it; Jesse is so incomprehensible even he doesn’t understand it.  Finding your own unintentional obscurity to be too obscure to even understand yourself and then not really giving a shit… That is fucking cool and therefore makes his opinion sound.

b.)  He agrees with me.

c.)  Actually being cool and supporting my opinion is all it really takes to land yourself referenced on Textually Active.

 

I addressed the fact that, for those of our generation, this is the first time we have experienced a recycle in the fashion rotation.  This is actually where most of us first became aware of style and fashion.  The god forsaken 80’s. So the shock and horror I experienced while watching myself, as if from a million miles away, purchase a pair of skinny jeans, can be compared to my mother laughing hysterically while during my grunge phase I hauled out all of my dad’s terrible 70’s gear.  For the record, my dad was a fucking fashion icon.  Homeboy actually owned a variety of crush velvet pantsuits.  Every photograph taken of him between 1965- 1980 looks like it should adorn the cover of a framed and never touched LP. 

 

 

So perhaps this is where our intolerance stems from?  The whole been there, done that awkwardness.  Jesse agrees that any dude in skintight jeans looks like a massive tool.  This is an absolute fact.  While they look moderately hot on women, as a woman, I have to admit to feeling fairly uncomfortable while rocking a pair.  Why would I want to be that outwardly clear in my ass to gettawaysticks ratio?  I already endured a high school career of being dubbed “Chicken Legs,” thanks so much for that, Rave Scene.  The anticipation of becoming known as “Trendster Bowling Pin Mom” at this juncture in my life around The Apple Barn is not appealing to me so much.

 

 

And I am barley going to get into the whole heinous Christian Audigier/Ed Hardy/Affliction douche bag adornments.  Dudes were never, EVER meant to be bedazzled.  Why does that even need to be said?

 

Vancouver is teeming with small armies of gross tanned men in sparkly shirts and perfect hair.  Do other women dig this shit?  This obvious degree of extreme preparation?

 

I can’t imagine that I am alone in the fact that, as a woman, the more effort you put forth, the less I am interested.  We want to have sex with guys.  Real guys.  Guys that don’t give a shit either way.  We hate to love to know that you don’t care so we can attempt to make you care.  That is our gig.  I don’t want to hear any weird feminist bullshit regarding this either because it is the truth and you all know it. 

 

There is nothing hotter then a hot piece wearing yesterday’s unwashed jeans and an old t-shirt, has tousled I-couldn’t-be-bothered hair and when you get nice and close smells a bit like sweat and Old Spice deodorant.  The only tan he is sporting is a result of him bringing his hottest outdoors.  He pays you  absolutely no mind because realistically there is like 4,357 other girls probably hotter than you who are still waiting for him to call them back.  He will probably treat you like shit and you will definitely have to bring your a-game but this asshole is the reason we shave our legs.  The mystery, the lack of control and the challenge.  Not the manicured retard bobbling around Yale Town, all a glitter, reeking of desperation and entirely at your disposal.  The path of least resistance is very rarely a worth while stroll.

 

This entire conversation happening between dear Mr. Vanson and I while I openly ogled his ridiculously hot wife right in front of him.

 

“So anyways…. Dude….I don’t remember what we were talking about…Seriously, Andrea is insanely fucking hot.”

 

“Thanks, I guess.  You sort of mentioned that a couple times already.”

iWrestle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has been drawn to my attention that due to our online warfare some individuals may have come to believe that things are perhaps unwell in the Van Good Breugel household.  We appreciate your concern but there is no need to worry your pretty little heads.  Mommy and Daddy are not going to be living in separate houses just yet.  That is just how we express our love and occasional contempt for each other.  It is called two assholes, one relationship.

 

We are not particularly into fighting, in fact, we actually far prefer Greco Roman Wrestling if the occasion calls for actual physical resolution.  Seeing as we are currently a few provinces apart and those bastards at Apple have yet to create my brilliant suggestion of iWrestle, we have no other course of action.

 

Please feel free to chime in if you feel inclined.  But only if your on my side.

The Human Condition

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like it or not, we share a multitude of distinctive features and experiences that are exclusive to our shared human existence.  Some are common within most human lives while others are inevitable.  These features and experiences are the only real and worthwhile things we will ever have during our sweet little cameo on this planet.  The precise and vast nature and scope of these experiences are the only things we have to tie ourselves to one another and to experience our shared humanity in any sort of meaningful way.

 

This is not a chapter in “Raeleigh’s Existential Crisis: Day five” that I am trying to coax you into.  “Who am I?” and “What is my purpose?” can feel pretty fucking profound when you have a joint hanging out of your mouth at your high school graduation.  Personally, I find the intangible to be a waste of my precious time and the self-indulgent piece of shit discussing it, frankly pretty tedious.  You can rest assured that I was the girl standing beside you on grad night thinking pass the joint, Kierkegaard, it’s not a fucking microphone.

 

I like real human experiences.  The beautiful, the outlandish and the disgusting.  I enjoy feeling a part of something on account of my faults and weaknesses.  In ways that our bodies fail us.  In our embarrassment and our shame.  I love finding humor in our mutual defects and limitations.  I truly think that this is what it is all about.  Building one’s self a community rooted in celebrating our faults and self imposed inadequacies.  Card-carrying member of “ The Sincere and Openly Self Deprecating” are my bread and butter.

 

One of my favorite things in the world is to ask an elderly individual how they are feeling.  Grandpas never hold back.  You can be sure he will launch into a graphic diatribe of his day-to-day battle with his constipation and gout.  How “there may be snow on the roof but that doesn’t mean that the fire has gone out in the furnace.”  How your 85-year-old grandmother is still a tomcat in the sack despite her vaginal prolapse last summer.  Grandpa will bring it fucking home.

 

Then everyone gets to feel all uncomfortable and humiliated by Grandpa’s forthrightness and lack of discretion.  They get to question whether or not Grandpa is loosing his shit and whether or not it may be time for him to take up residency at Shady Acres.  Everyone gets to sit around being totally fabulous and concerned and pretend that they will never, at some point, start shitting their pants on a regular basis or have to take up a role as sentry in the company of their fleeing vagina.  The fact of the matter is simply that Grandpa is fucking over himself.  He is over himself and he is talking about life.  Life in its truest and purest forms.  He is past being worried about what you will think of him, how his honesty will reflect upon himself and what you assholes may view as appropriate dinner conversation.  The fact that this could make anyone uncomfortable or bashful is pretty telling about our society.  We have bodies, functions and urges.  Every single one of us, at whatever stage of the game of life we happen to be residing in.  The need to act dignified in denying these facts, is to me, not dignity at all.  It is not respecting one’s self to denying meaningful parts of your life and the physical experiences of being human.

 

My two-year-old daughter has been announcing to crowds that, “she had been “ponsticated” but Mommy gave her medicine in her bum and then she pooped like a big girl.”  It’s a true story and she is pretty proud of it.  The first time she publicly brought it up I wanted to put her in my pocket and run.  Not because I was uncomfortable with her disclosure but because I wanted to protect her from the reactions of others.  The test group/audience she chose for this controlled experiment was a line up of various individuals at the grocery store.  Some people laughed, others became obviously uncomfortable; one woman gave me a knowing look and openly congratulated her.  She is the only one I didn’t want to curb stomp.  It occurred to me to have a discussion with my daughter on the way home about the difference between public and private conversation as dictated by our ridiculous society.  I vividly remember as a child when I first became aware of what was and what was not considered appropriate as far as self-disclosure.  I remember the feelings of shame and insecurity about my own body and its functions that followed soon after.  I never want her to experience that but at the same time I know it is inevitable.  I chose not to say anything to her and instead we talked about horses.  I am so enjoying how proud she is of her own body as she discovers and relates to the similar functions of others.  Our most basic commonalities.  It would be impractical to hope that she will never loose that innocence and self-acceptance.  Despite this fact, I refuse to have it happen though me.

 

If you enjoy reading my nonsensically ramblings maybe you get this.  When I feel a little uncomfortable when I press publish, I know I am making the right decision.  When my mother is horrified with what I’ve written, I am even more convinced.  If you laugh, I’m happy.  You’re laughing because you can relate and that is what this is all about.  If it were up to me, laughing and embracing each other’s humanity is the only thing all of this should be about.  The good, the bad and the ugly.

Escape Goat

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some people work in oils, others clay, some though music, while others choose to express themselves though the lens of a camera.  My medium is judiciously placed blame.  I like to work in profanity to artfully separate myself from responsibility for my actions.  As of this point in time, my work has yet to be recognized as an “actual” work of art or my effort as a “publicly recognizable” discipline.  Though as you can obviously discern I am clearly ahead of my time, so I just keep honing my brilliance while I wait for the rest of the world to catch up.

 

In the quantitative sense, I create my masterpieces though my creative, innovative and artistic practices in the careful arrangement of blame.  When viewing my finished product, one can clearly appreciate its aesthetic value.   Were I to be asked to categorize it within the field of art, I would defiantly have to place it within the category of Fine Art.  The word “Fine” not so much denoting the quality of my work but more so the purity of my discipline.  

 

I find inspiration everywhere I look.  Whether standing atop a mountain viewing the distant landscapes or simply enjoying a meal surrounded by the familiar faces of my family.  Everywhere I look I see spectacular blank canvases in which I can begin to artfully relieve my culpability.  It comes so easily to me that I am sort of forced to view it as my calling.  Matt particularly tends to appear again and again in the majority of my best work.  He is my muse.

 

It is pretty high culture, I suppose.  So don’t fret if you can’t see or appreciate its beauty.  You just aren’t as evolved as I am.  Your shortcomings and imperfections are purely a result of your stunted developmental process.  I still love you, regardless of this fact.  I love your prominent eyebrows and brow ridges.  I love your large cerebellum and your beautiful cave paintings. 

 

Now don’t you feel better?