Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Humor Impaired

A college class was told they had to write a short story in as few words as possible. The instructions were: the short story had to have the following three things:
1. Religion
2. Sexuality
3. Mystery

Below is the only A+ story in the entire class. She wrote:

"Good God, I'm pregnant; I wonder who did it."


In the real world, researchers have discovered that drinking your weight in alchohol leads to sex you're glad you can't remember in the morning. Just how much do these researchers get to crank out this shit? Sounds like an easy gig. I think I'll do a study proving that the sun causes tans, except in really white people.

Monday, the office next door got a new paint job. The painters were outfitted in masks, but it didn't do me and my coworkers much good. By about ten we all seeing visions of lap dancing midgets. My stoned, usually workaholic, boss went home early to wax her dogs. Tuesday didn't help, since I did some more painting on the kitchen remodel project.

The result, I spent the day contemplating the question, "Can you give a dog a haircut with a Flowbee?" Better yet a horse? The Nikster is in the midst of shedding his winter coat, a process which has giant, reddish-brown dust bunnies roaming the property and scaring the real bunnies.

I did some laundry and amused myself folding the J-Man's tidy whities into origami swans. And I fashioned voodoo dolls of my idiot neighbors and shoved pins in their nether regions, hoping to curtain any further breeding.

As one might detect, I'm currently in a profound malaise, fueled by the idea that most of America has lost the ability for critical thinking in favour of "Baaa like frightened sheep and bend over" mode of existence. It's evolution at work.

Rio Rancho, a local municipality, held a mayoral election yesterday. I think the City has a population of like 70K people. About 7,000 bothered to vote. One must suppose since the issues on the ballot weren't "terrorism" or "green-skinned aliens out to get your chiiildren," it wasn't worth their while. If the democracy equation is as simple as "democracy equals voting" (it isn't, but that's what the Masses believe), then we're fucked. Fucked in a "and they didn't even bother to buy us dinner" kind of way.

Meanwhile, Tom DeLay won his primary, making me once again able to say, "Thank God I don't live in Texas." What exactly do you have to do nowadays to get thrown out of office? Eat live babies? With Chianti and fallafa beans? Baby, the other white meat.

Bend over folks and sing the sodomy song.

On a cheerier note, I hit the 50K mark on the novel and am at the making-my-character's-lives-miserable point. I like my protagonists, but it is fun to make 'em suffer, especially since I know a happy ending is in the future.

And in J-Man land, in addition to the huge contract he's working on, he may be doing some work for a local restaurant (custom bathroom fixtures.) Hmmm. At this rate, the kitchen will never get finished.

Hope your Humpy Day is much less cynical than mine.


Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005