To Russia with Love

Kac va pazhivaiitya?

That’s the only Russian phrase I know, and I’m betting that if a true Russian speaker heard me saying it – he’d say I really don’t know that phrase either.

What’s it mean?

What? I have to know what I’m saying? I usually don’t what I’m saying when I’m speaking English; why should Russian be any different?

The reason for this display of Eurasian erudition (You like that phrase? I got it from Stanley McFarland.) is that for some reason nobody here can figure out, Just Plain Stupid has become (at least temporarily,) popular in Russia. It’s almost enough to make me move. Do they make a borscht Pop Tart?

So at the risk of losing audience (which I do with just about every post,) I thought I might explore possible reasons this blog is getting attention from the land of Czars, Commissars, and Vodka bars.

1) The winters are long. I know it’s not a reason that makes any sense, but any time I hear anything about Russia, I hear that the winters are long.

Why did the Russians beat Napoleon? The winters are long. Why do the Russians wear fur hats? The winters are long. Why do the Russians like potato products? The winters are long. Why did the Russians elect Boris Yeltzin? The winters are long. I figure Just Plain Stupid must fit in with the whole long winter thing.

2) It takes people’s minds off of… best not to go there. Let’s face it, I don’t know a thing about what people in Russia want to get their minds off of . I don’t even know what I’m trying to get my mind off of. I used to know, but I forget what it was, so that must mean this blog is good for that – or that I have a poor attention span.

What number are we up to? Oh yeah -

3) Kremlin domes. (The domes have a point – so there’s no reason I need one.)

4) The ghost of Feodor Dostoyevsky endorsed the reading of Just Plain Stupid as a way of sharing the suffering of that guy in Crime and Punishment who killed his landlady.

5) I have never ONCE made fun of people dancing while sitting down… until now.

6) The sound of my blog being read aloud makes potatoes grow .0032% faster (though with more eyes for some reason.)

7) I faithfully (and uselessly) leave two spaces at the end of each sentence! Of course Blogger auto-corrects most of them, and I don’t even know if Russians like that – but I thought I’d mention it.

8) Word got out that people in France were reading it.

9) The Orthodox church has not yet condemned this blog. (Or heard of it.)

10) The people of Russia miss the comic stylings of… what’s his face – you know that Russian comedian guy that used to say, “what a country!” all the time. Just Plain Stupid makes as little sense as that guy used to.

So – to the people of Russia, here’s a BIG THANK YOU for wasting your time reading my blog posts.

Now go waste your money buying my books,Trouble in Taos and Volition Man

Here's an old routine of Whats-his-face.

Ripping Off Clothes (Ideas)

   This post is dedicated to three FB and Blog friends, AMW (who did that chair thing I showed in a previous post,) PS (who posted some of the pictures you see here,) JMH (who is always knitting, crocheting or something with needles - I can't keep track.)
   In other words, I'm ripping off their ideas, so the least I can do is dedicate the post to them so they don't sue me.
   AMW has been sewing for the last month or so (sew?) and posting some of her creations, though not on her blog here.  I guess she finished her chairs.

   She reminds me of endless hours at the fabric store when I was a kid.  Sitting around in hopeless boredom hoping the aliens, the Nazis, or maybe the Apaches would attack.  Blood and mayhem would be far preferable for an eight-year-old boy than endless bolts of cloth and nothing more entertaining than pinking shears.

   But at the same time JMH has been posting about needle oriented stuff.

  I used to have her blog link but lost it.  And PS has posted some creative stuff that you probably can't find in a common retail store.

    But maybe that's just as well.

   It takes a real commitment to make stuff to make you look that stupid.  Of course it's not limited to humans.

    This has to be a kitten - would a full grown cat put up with this?

    Maybe she's trying to camouflage herself to catch cows and chickens

   Or maybe not.

   Thanks for the warning fellas.

   In my lifetime store-bought clothes became cheaper and more imported than home-made.  And yet there remains a remnant of people like my 3 friends who remind us that clothes can still come from our labors instead of our credit cards.
   And that's a good thing - as long as someone else has to wear it.  Just ask the sheep that supply the yarn.

Okay - which of my friends did this?

   Now - if you want to get started on your own.

Mortimer, the Drop of Goo

Mortimer, the Drop of Goo

by Headley Hauser

He was born at 10:15AM the Saturday that Fred the dad, watched the kids. He didn’t know his origins. Was he grease? Was he jam? Was he syrup?

It didn’t matter now. From the moment he dropped from Fred’s plate and hit the floor, he was goo. He was Mortimer, the Drop of Goo.

Mortimer surveyed the great plain of ceramic tile. He was in a vast world, full of sights and smells. One smell was particularly pungent.

Mortimer didn’t know it, but his life nearly came to an end only moments after it began, for that pungent smell was none other than Barkie, the Labradoodle whose fell tongue had consumed myriad goo drops before him.

“Barkie, come here,” said Fred. “I can’t have you messing up the kitchen or Loraine will never let me hear the end of it.”

And so, Mortimer was spared. Mortimer felt lucky – maybe even a bit crafty to have escaped death. “Beware, cold tile world,” said he, “for I am Mortimer, the lucky, Mortimer the Drop off Goo.”

Nothing much happened in Mortimer’s existence until 11:03AM. Ethan, six-years-old, and barefoot, entered Mortimer’s domain. Ethan entered it so completely that the boy stepped on little Mortimer, creating a tiny sound and transferring half of Mortimer’s goo to the bottom of Ethan’s foot. Surprisingly, Mortimer didn’t feel at all reduced. There was something magical about the bottom of a little boy’s foot that made a small drop of goo multiply into dozens of equal, even greater drops of goo.

“Grow, My People,” shouted Mortimer, the Drop of Goo. “Multiply and subdue the great plain of ceramic tile!”

When Ethan left the kitchen, Mortimer observed his world from a new perspective. “Beware world of Greater Kitchen,” said he, “for I am Mortimer the fruitful, Mortimer the Drop of Goo.

And so things remained until 1:22PM when Isabel, fourteen months and crawling, entered the kitchen. Isabel crawled right through Mortimer the Drop of Goo, distributing much of his substance unto her hands and knees. Perhaps Isabel had the same magic as her brother, or maybe it was a function of toddler drool (and other fluids best not mentioned,)

 but Mortimer was not reduced, but multiplied many times. He spread upon the kitchen chairs and cabinet fronts, he formed perfect fingerprints on the edge of the table. He even coated the bowl belonging to Barkie the Labradoodle – the very beast that might have ended his existence. By the time Isabel crawled out of the kitchen, Mortimer was everywhere!

“A HA!” shouted Mortimer. “I have conquered the kitchen! It is all mine. Let the world beware, for if I have conquered this vast kitchen, I can conquer every kitchen. I can conquer the whole world” said he, “for I am Mortimer the Mighty, Mortimer the Drop of Goo!”

And so for three hours, Mortimer gloated, he plotted, he sang to himself little ditties of world domination. Mortimer was happy in the way every evil tyrant has been happy from the days of Nimrod the Hunter, to Vlad the Impaler, to George the Yankee Owner.

Mortimer kept his evil gleeful revelry until 4:45PM when Loraine entered the kitchen from the door that led to the garage.

“It is through that door that I will spread to the outside world,” thought Mortimer. “Go ahead, Loraine – touch me, spread me, increase my domain,” said he, “for I am Mortimer the Dominator, Mortimer the Drop of Goo!”

“Fred!” shouted Loraine.

RIP, Mortimer the Drop of Goo.

Speaking of world domination - a favorite story of mine...

Body Part Insults

A FB friend ML, wrote a post this week: Out of respect for the human body and its noble excretory system, I have lately challenged myself to stop using body parts as derogatory expressions, but the people near that new Lexington Starbucks had me thinking...well, maybe "armpit."

Does armpit really replace Butt Hole and it’s slightly less polite alternative? Would you be insulted or just confused if someone called you an armpit? It’s no fun to confuse a jerk – jerks must be insulted – otherwise traffic gets too boring.

As a service to ML and other respecters of the lower alimentary canal (go ahead, look it up – I had to,) I’m compiling this list of non-excretory self-evidently insulting body parts.

Pustular Cyst - always a welcome surprise on picture day

Gangrenous appendage - not just for zombie movies anymore

Unconditioned hairpiece - not exactly a body part, but Shatner's not exactly an actor

Enlarged funny-bone - only funny on someone else.

Pink eye - the reason I was afraid to study conjunctions...  What?  Nobody got that?

Ingrown toenail - I can't stand these

Wart hair - your body's little flag to make sure the wart gets noticed

Impacted wisdom tooth - because late adolescence doesn't have enough pain already

Shingle rash - these drive my lupy

Inflamed uvula - not a huge insult.  I just like the word, uvula.

Swollen taste bud - I just wanted to stick my tongue out at you

Varicose vein - I think I'll save this one for pregnant women

Enlarged blackhead - a classic

Over pierced nostril - a neoclassic

Cirrhotic liver - use only with transparent Butt Holes

And finally - braided nose hair - for the jerk whose creativity you respect.

Speaking of being a jerk - here's a kill-joy vid on another popular FB post.

You Gonna Eat That?

Hoarders, Preppers, Members of the Church of Latter Day Saints – I have a question for you. I see you out buying large quantities of the stuff you’ll need when civilization crumbles.

Cream of chicken soup

Extra soft (and crumbly) toilet paper.

Non-rechargeable batteries

Knock-off brand Ramen noodles

Disposable lighters

File cabinet-sized boxes of Cheerios

The thing is – most of the stuff you want in a post-apocalyptic age, aren’t much good if the apocalypse is delayed by five or ten years. Apocalypses are notoriously unreliable when it comes to scheduling – just ask the Jehovah Witnesses.

A delayed deadly reckoning leaves you with dead batteries, empty lighters, vermin-infested dry foods, and distended cans of creamed botulism.

Once your goods are ruined – that's when you get the fire from the sky, the burning seas – all that stuff you might have been ready for if your Aloe Vera hadn’t lost its juicy texture.

 It’s almost as if Armageddon has it in for you.

The toilet paper is still good – but I can’t stand that crumbly soft stuff – especially when I’m trying to pass botulism flavored cereal vermin. It’s just the sort of thing to ruin your radio-active, zombie-ridden, unable-to-get-tickets-to-Thunderdome day.

The post apocalyptic world is not for sissies.

Which leaves us with this pre-apocalyptic world (the current one if you’re keeping track,) that is inconveniently cluttered with decaying barges of cheerios, cans of creamed soups, and batteries finding the end of their shelf life. Is this an efficient way of managing the here and now? Seeing as the catastrophic future is sure to disappoint, might we look for ways to make the present age less cumbersome?

After all – image how ironic it would be to have so much put by, just to have your brain become an entrée for the first wave of zombies. Who then will rifle through your collection of lighters looking for one with enough butane to burn the mountainous heap of infected (and only slightly undead) corpses piled up in your veranda?

You do all the work – miss all the fun. And during your last (pre-brain-eaten) days have no space in your home to unfold your ping-pong table.

Is it really worth it?

Maybe hoarding is a bit like those people who groan as they wrestle to reach the 35^th level of Gardens of Futility on the smart phones. Maybe the whole point in prepping is to enjoy the suffering before the entrails hit the fan.

Where-ever you find your joy.

You got any Pop-Tarts in that pile?

Alright - maybe not that funny.