The Daily Scrum and the Journey back from Oz

The Miami Herald

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You will not believe this! But corporations lie. What you say? It cannot be you say? You must be living under a rock then. So sorry for your oblivion.

People lie. All the damn time. About everything. Obnoxious really isn’t it? On the microcosm level the narcissist is but a speck of filth arbitrarily fibbing his way through life taking prisoners down into a dark deceptive cavern from which there is no escape much like the way light cannot escape the grasp of a black hole. But this is singularly only a bumper or movie trailer of a corporate ideological film we have all seen over and over again.

Politics is making headlines. Again. The same damn story with the same bad actors, as the audience eagerly awaits a revolutionary outcome. C’mon folks, this movie has been made about a million times. You already know how it will end. Stop pretending or at the very least, open your eyes and keep them open this time. I promise I will too. In the political as well as the corporate arena, mords are getting wixed up.

I just spent about $2000 bucks to learn two new vocabulary words. Produce and Telemarketing. Oddly, believing I already knew the definition of each, I could have sworn that those definitions were distinctly different but apparently I was wrong. Or, could it be that yet one more lie has been perpetuated upon the least suspecting. Me. Somehow I thought “produce” meant, to cause something to happen, creatively. Wait a second, let me refer to Websters. Be right back…

Ok, I’m back. Here is what Webster’s says:
Origin:
1375–1425; late Middle English producen < Latin prōdūcere to lead or bring forward, extend, prolong, produce, equivalent to prō- pro-1 + dūcere to lead.
— vb
1. to bring (something) into existence; yield
2. to bring forth (a product) by mental or physical effort; make: she produced a delicious dinner for us
3. ( tr ) to give birth to
4. ( tr ) to manufacture (a commodity): this firm produces cartons
5. ( tr ) to give rise to: her joke produced laughter
6. ( tr ) to present to view: to produce evidence
7. to bring before the public: he produced two plays and a film last year
8. to conceive and create the overall sound of (a record) and supervise its arrangement, recording, and mixing
9. ( tr ) geometry to extend (a line)

And my query…

tel·e·mar·ket·ing
[tel-uh-mahr-ki-ting]
selling or advertising by telephone.

EXACTLY. So I was right. One has nothing to do with the other. One is creative and positive. The other is abysmal and banal and puts you in danger of being sued or if nothing else, conjures up supreme hatred on the other end of the phone. No worries. I found something much better.

A darling cottage on the edge of the woods where nearby a lake gently laps the shore. Odin and Loki, the two phenomenal white felines prance in the leaves. I can smell a fireplace burning in the distance. Jack, god rest his gentle soul, frolics with my father in heavens garden. I know this because I saw them there together just recently. They are keeping one another company and Dad loves my dog and they watch out for one another. Dad magically let me find something today. A 1943 Nippon Ginko 1000 yen. I know he placed it where I could find it. It is his way of letting me know that he is still here.
My stunning, ethereal auburn haired daughter is recreating a new life for herself and my Hollywood-handsome leading-man son just finished editing his work for Fashion Week in NYC. For the baby Sophia, the angel with a star instead of a belly button, I brought her a Capiz shell wind chime. Lovely lavender, turquoise and pink shells cut to resemble the wonderful creatures of the sea that she loves just like her Nona. I am home doing the most important job I have ever held. I don’t need to search the world over for a place in the sun, for gold or for love. It was always right here.

My daily scrum is the continuation of my writing and producing the best and only way I know how. Content, copy writing, websites, music management and my manuscript. It is a labor of love and as I have always maintained, we must always do what we love no matter what.

I recently read a really good book, Live Like a Fruit Fly and I would like to shout out to the author, Gabe Berman, editorial writer for the Miami Herald. Mr. Berman, I have always lived like a fruit fly. Your book was genius. Thanks for reminding me that time is of the essence.

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Beware terminators from the outer Blogalaxy!

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I admit it. I am not very good at reading lots of blogs or commenting on them. When I have any spare time at all, (and I am always surprised to find that so many people have so much of it), I read and comment on blogs I find interesting, provocative, humorous or even just cute and furry. I am always very happily surprised at the amount of excellent content that is out there. It inspires me to write more better and it makes me appreciate that we’re all one big happy family living in some Sibylline Blogalaxy together.

I try to be a team player but those kindly suggestions by our unflappable Happiness Engineers to get more readers by commenting on other blogs, never really spurs me into action. Plus I feel like I am being ordered to do something and I hate being bossed around.

I don’t even have a Gravatar. Just the “unknown man icon”, which is probably reserved for hackers, geeks and freaks hiding from the FBI and trying to keep their web footprint down to a bare minimum. Every time I see one of these, I shudder. Probably some kind of psycho serial killer I reckon. Nevertheless, this is what I chose to represent myself. So what does that say about me? Perplexing to say the least.

Today I clicked the, “Comments I have made”, link in my dashboard, and unbeknownst to me, I had several replies to my previous comments and even a few requests for my url dating back months ago. When I tried to respond to these blogs, a big mailer-daemon type thingy appeared, admonishing that the blog had been deleted! Dreaded horror engulfed me. My cyber-digit friends from planet Blog had been vaporized!

I won’t envisage anyone self-terminating their blog. After pouring out your heart, posting your favorite photos, making friends with fellow midnight writers; What would cause someone, with such riveting, well thought out and even researched material, to simply evaporate?

At first I pondered some type of planetary abductor from Blog, maybe whisking the blogger away to be forced to send out massive emails for all eternity via AOL with nothing but dial-up because they broke some kind of cardinal blogging rule. Or worse yet, they wrote something against the Proletariat and are now languishing in a frozen cell on Pluto with some anthracite and a slab of rhyolite. See, this is why I have my blog. If I told a therapist this stuff, I’d get locked away for sure or at least be put on psychotropic meds. Fo Sho...

I couldn’t do it. My blog is my baby. It’s  a part of my anatomy. It’s my friend when no one else is around to listen to my prattle and my demented stories and therefore my therapist. I love this doggone thing more than most people. That sounds really bad doesn’t it? Maybe that Gravatar is a good representation then…

So now, I’m really getting nervous wondering where those bloggers went. Some of my blog posts are about the truly bizarre and peculiar people that have crossed my path and how the revelation of their irksome strangeness came as quite a shock to me.

Does this mean that even in the blogalaxy I cannot correctly assess a cogent entity? That I am completely unable to recognize the lunatics, the fruitcakes and screwballs and now this? Alien terminators from planet Blog? What’s the world coming to?

Well, at least I’m partially safe, hiding behind Unknown Man icon. No QR codes for me folks. No aliens are terminating or vaporizing my blog. Heck, Big Brother doesn’t even know my real name.

Pick of the litter (box)

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Somewhere in my attempt to understand human relationships, I made a connection one day several years ago that choosing a mate can be quite similar to choosing a pet. That realization came back to me last week, while tending to my mother’s cats’ litter box.

I have driven far and wide and paid a fair penny in my choice of animal companions. Once I drove to Fredericksburg, Virginia from the Jersey Shore to purchase a puppy. Not just any puppy mind you, a top bred Bloodhound from a long line of man-trailing hounds whose lineage harkened back to the Civil War. The breeder was an FBI agent at Quantico. The puppy I chose, tripped over his ears and weighed in at 17 pounds at a mere 7 weeks. He was  gi-normous. His Auntie Jemima, had given testimony in a murder trial. She uttered  a “Woof” when presented with the scent of the perpetrator and helped to convict the assailant. (I was informed at the time that when it comes to canines, it is only the Bloodhound whose testimony is accepted as a forensic science in a court of law. I swear I couldn’t make this up).

He was an incredible hound, with ten miles of ear canal and feet the size of a saute’ skillet, upon which he typically carried the entire backyard’s mud into the house with. He also deposited what I affectionately coined, “shoestrings” on the ceiling. Mucous drippings that averaged over 2-feet in length. It was reminiscent of the Gak that kids poured over each others heads, a ‘la,  Nickolodeon kiddie programming. Or at the very least, Alien slime. My days were spent dodging slime covered ceilings, counter tops and door jambs. I wanted everyone in the house to call me Ripley, as I felt we had a common bond.

To this day, I refuse to be a serf to a beast who needs his ears cleaned or toileted day in and day out. If you are unskilled in these minor tasks, our relationship probably will not last.

But how I loved this dog. Who tracked my missing three-year old one day with the help of local law enforcement; only to be found in a neighbors basement eating an entire pizza by her tiny self. We were never able to ascertain if the hound had tracked the child or the food to the hidden location. Either way, we were happy she was all right and he gorged himself on cheese.

Jean-Luc lived to the ripe old age of 11. He died after delicately, surgically even, removing 2 ears from 2 different human beings. Oddly enough, this Civil War lineage, FBI trained hound, was the pick of the litter.

My second choice in animal companionship was a German born and bred, solid black German Shepherd who understood and spoke, German. Achtung, der Hund wirklich verstehen Deutsch! Weighing in at 135+ pounds, he is the exact replica of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. But, it was not the breeder at Jaegermeister Kennels  that convinced me of Jack’s  linguistic abilities, even though all of my dog’s forebearers were international Shutzhund champions that only responded to German commands. It was the day he sat in front of the television, mesmerized by old black and white grainy WWII footage, cocking his head sideways like the Victrola phonograph dog Nipper. Listening to Adolph Hitler’s agonizing German rhetoric and propaganda, I was simultaneously entranced and terrified. Again, my choice was the pick of the litter and it cost me nearly 2k.

Nowadays, I keep my menagerie much easier to handle. I have 2 white cats. What is wonderful about them is that I am not reduced to being a litter box maid. They are trained to do their business outside. I refuse to manage a plastic container in my home filled with foul smelling dukie. Anyone with cats needs to understand that this is simply not a viable solution to a habitual problem. Cats prefer to poo in the bushes out of doors, where they can dig a hole to bury the stuff and wipe their paws on the surrounding fauna. A box, to which you must regularly purchase litter for and then scoop the poop to maintain the thing in the laundry room or some other place within the home, is weird to say the least. Honestly, why would anyone keep a box of poo hanging around anywhere? So I will have none of it and we are all the better for it.

Last week I found an old boyfriend’s sweatshirt buried in the back of a closet. At first I believed he was perfect in nearly every way. Handsome, polite, charming and intelligent. If you have read any of my posts about sociopathic relationships or narcissism, you probably know him by now.  It turned out, he was none of these things. A liar; a married cheating womanizing thief and someone who can only be pitied for his inability to be a human being with a conscience. He was not the pick of the litter. He was the pick of the litter box. Coining that phrase years ago, it had not occurred to me I had met one until the sweatshirt discovery. Ranking far below a man trailing Bloodhound, the slime he produced, a Hitler fascinated canine linguist or 2 pussy cats. He ranked right next to a cat turd.

I found myself laundering this sweatshirt and while I folded it without thinking, I came to my senses. Aghast, I took the sweatshirt, with his diving company logo emblazoned on the front, and promptly tossed it into the garbage. Since I was visiting my mother at the time, who has the nasty habit of being a litter box maid, I lovingly took out a pooper-scooper, and added a nice mound of cat poo to the sweatshirt, bagged it up and took it to the garbage can outside. It seemed a fitting end to that ugly sweatshirt, the nasty cat poo and decidedly to the only pick of the litter box I’ve ever known.

“Pick of the litter box” is a Summersaid Registered Trademark  😉

Pussy Talk

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A purrrrfect morning with twin brothers, the fabulous snow white felines Odin and Loki of Norse legend, find themselves attempting to catch lizards in the morning light. It often goes something like this:

Odin: Pppppuuuurrrrhappsss we should eat that lizarrrrrrd Loki, he looks like a grrrreeaat sourrrrrce of pppppabulummmmmmm….. Prrrrrrrrr.
Loki: Okay Odin, I’ll wait for you. I’m prrrreety comforrrrtable rrrrrright here. You go get him. Pppprrrrrrr….
Odin: We are the pppppaaaalllatinesssss of the hood you know! Grrrrrrr….
Odin: The entirrrrrre herrrrrrrpetological kingdom fearrrrrrr us! What are you afrrrrraid of brrrrrrooottthher? Prrrrrr….
Loki: I’m not afrrrrrrraid of anything! I’ll eat him afterrrrrr I bat him arrrrrround a bit. You go get him. I’m still enjoying my morrrrrning Joe.
Odin: You lazy bastarrrrrrrd! I always do all the hunting and you just sit back and watch. Then you rrrrrelish the fun of torrrrrtuurrrring my prrrrrrey!
Loki: Parrrrrdon me Odin, you may catch lizarrrrrrrdssssss but I maintain the perrrrrimeterrrrrr….I keep an eye on all the trrrrrraffic and make surrrrrre your head doesn’t end up under a tirrrrrrre. Grrrrrrrr…..
Odin: Fine. I’ll trrrrrapp him in the corrrrrrner. When I grrrrrrrrab him in my teeth, you corrrrrrdone off the arrrrrrea. Pppprrrrrrrrr…..
Loki: Grrrrreat! Knock yourrrrrrrself out! Prrrrrrrrr….
(Meanwhile, Loki, who is always filthy and fails to maintain his lovely snow white coat on his own, feigns prrrrrrreeeeenning).
Odin: (Under his brrrrreath) That lazy prrrrrrrrima donna, he’s useless anyway. I’ve got this pppppppalinola down to a science. I’ll crrrrreep up behind the lizarrrrrd, and when he darrrrrrts to the left, I’ll pounce on his hind quarrrrrrterrrrs. Grrrrrrrrr…
Loki: Nice move brrrrrrrrother! OH NO! GRRRRRRRRR!!!!!
Odin: Damn thing released his tail from his body Loki!! I’ve got only the tail! Only the tail! Rrrrrrruuuunnnn….Go get him Loki, he’s running forrrrrrrr it!!! Grrrrrrrrrr!!!!…
Loki: All rrrrrrright, all rrrrrrright, rrrrrrrelax, I got him. I’ll swing arrrrround the house and catch him on the otherrrrrr side. Get rrrrrready to pounce!!!
Odin: Yeah! That’s it! You got him corrrrrrnerrrred!!! Grrrrrrrrrab him!
Loki: I got him, I got him, I got him, I don’t got him….I got a fore leg. Crrrrrapppppppp!!!! Not even a snack Odin! This lizarrrrrd is verrrrrry verrrrrrry smarrrrrrtttt!
Odin: Well so farrrrr, we have a tail and a foreleg. Which parrrrrrt do you want to eat firrrrrrrst?Prrrrrrrr…..
Loki: The forrrrrreleg. Grrrrrrrrr. I don’t eat tail. You should know that by now Odin. Grrrrrrrr……
Odin: I don’t either brrrrrother. What arrrrrrre you trrrrrrying to imppppppply???
Loki: Save it for the Palmetto family. Theirrrrrr brrrrrroke and theirrrrrr kidsssssssss arrre starrrrrrrving since the economy collappppppppsssssssed. Mom feeds us pate’, we don’t need to eat no stinking lizarrrrrrd. But I’m going in for anotherrrrrrr trrrrryyy anyway. Grrrrrrrr.
Loki: Neverrrrrr quit Odin! It’s not about the destination! It’s about the jourrrrrrney Man’! Grrrrrrrrrrr….
Odin: Hey man, look I got him! Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow!
Loki: Dude, it’s dead. He’s limp in your teeth. You scarrrrrred the ssssssshhhhhhit rrrrrright out of him.
Odin: Oh well, neverrrrrrmind then. Let’s go have a snack of sarrrrrrdines and turrrrrrkey. I’m rrrrrrready for a napppppp now anyway.Prrrrrrrr…….
Loki: Yeah, that was rrrrrrrrealy harrrrrrrd work. Prrrrrrrr….

Pussy Talk is a registered trademark of Summersaid. As you can clearly see, anyone can act and speak like an animal. 😉

Kindly ask Google to clear their cache

If anyone is wondering what to do about posts they find offensive once they have been removed from blogs but still show up in Google’s cache search, you may want to ask Google to clear their cache. I doubt they will honor your request, so you may just have to wait it out. It could appear in their cache for months even though they no longer appear here. I cannot control Google.But I do like them and they like me too. Sorry…
I have no need to be bothered with your filth or writing about your filth. I find humor in all of your despicable, sociopathic, twisted, lying crap. It has made for some really good material though. Don’t ya’ think? 😉 I mean honestly, people are rolling in the aisles. Shame, shame. You should have behaved more above board and maybe even a bit more like a man you complete asshole. I’m so done with all of your stupid bullshit. But I will write what I like and I will have fun while doing it.
In other words, FUCK OFF.
Fuck off with your Google searches of old posts, fuck off with Googling your name and fuck off with your constantly looking at and copying my photos you completely twisted dirtbag. Sometimes, actually most times, you get what you give. You gave it out and I gave it right back to you. So please, fuck off. My boyfriend thinks you need to go to Man-Up school. You sniveling wuss.
And just so you know, I see your searches, I get your clicks and I get your locations and IP’s. You have got to be the dumbest bastard I have ever known.
I think I will send you my medical bills by the way. At least my attorney thinks I should.

Here is the bottom line. You totally fucked up asshole. You know you did, I pointed it out, I called you on it. Get over it and grow up. I am allowed by law to write what I like and as long as I speak truth and can back it up, all is well in the US of A. This is America. You stupid left winged, socialist prick. Oh yea, I forgot, you hate Obama remember?
I wonder…Maybe you’re having an identity crisis. Why don’t you invest in some psychotherapy and some regression therapy. Apparently, you had a very screwed up childhood.
As my friend from New Zealand would say, “go fuck your dog”.

Even the Losers….

I absolutely love this place. This world. This blog. My life.

A one time hard left turn onto a paper street has turned into career opportunities, income, travel, new friends and great times. I guess I need to thank someone. Even the losers get lucky sometimes. So I need to thank them, both of them, properly.

It’s funny though, looking back, that for even one second I fell for the biggest pack of nonsense that ever filtered in between my two ears. Never in my life have I consciously chosen to be associated with anyone with qualities like lying, cheating, and stealing. But then again, people like that tend to hide those qualities. It seems then, that if someone was to lie about themselves, who they really are and what they really do, that they would fall under the “loser” category and as such, I never belonged with a loser. So to all you Narcissists and you Sociopaths, you get a giant “L” in the middle of your foreheads.

One loser deserves another loser. And so it goes….

My ranking on Google is wonderful. Thanks losers. I’m making money on my writing. Thanks losers. I don’t wake up next to a liar, a womanizer or Gary Busey. Thanks losers. Life is happy, happy, joy, joy for me every day. Thanks losers. I have never laughed so hard in all my life ;D Thanks losers, (oh and no worries, you should at least get mentioned as an extra in the cast of characters)….I already have affectionate names for them.

Anyhoo….the moral of the story is, when a loser approaches you,(Caution: Narcissists are Losers) and your first instinct is to run for your life, do it. Stick to your guns dammit! But, if you don’t and you get snagged by a big load of bullshit, don’t worry. Always remember you can write about it later and then thank the losers for all of the great material and for saving you from, well, from being with and living the life of a loser.

Yup, even the losers get lucky sometimes. (I love that song)

Thanks Tom.

(and Mr. Forest Hump and Sasquatch)

This Social Worker is a Social Disaster

Can it be? Is it true? Is it possible that someone educated in public social policy and with a background in social work and primary care for less fortunate children can also be a drunk, waggling her tongue out in photos with lesbians playing pool while guzzling pints of Guinness? Is that person honestly sporting a barbed wire tattoo on her ankle and Kokopelli on her enormous cheese covered rump in a pathetic attempt at weight loss reduction? I mean honestly. Did you catch a cab for the last leg of the race?? Whoaahh. This social worker is a social disaster.

Can it be that this so called “high-brow” educated intellectual, sleeps around with not just one married man but with two at the same time? That this supposedly world cultured and well versed woman writes an infantile blog, not in the first or second person or even third, but in a dogs voice about going across country with more typos, grammatical and syntactical errors than a paper written by a 13 year old boy about what he did on his summer vacation?

Can it be that this tree hugging liberal who touts social programs for the less fortunate can actually uproot someone’s life and nearly cost them their career? Who has a person thrown out of their own house on false charges of domestic violence? Forcing the homeowner to rent an apartment and lose all of his belongings while she merrily brought another married man to that house to fornicate with??? Oh dear God, say it ain’t so….

If all of this sounds outrageous to you then hold on to your hat. This is a true and accurate picture of a woman who poses as a clinical social worker who writes policies for Medicaid to determine how states should spend their money and on which programs. If you are like I and are concerned about the state of our health care systems and the social programs our governing entities institute, then look no further. This is who is employed to do the work so desperately needed for the less fortunate and who is behind the scenes acting as chief cook and bottle washer for America’s children, sexually battered women and the federally subsidized Medicaid programs instituted to help these victims. If you want to vomit now, please do. I already have several times.

This is a woman who is childless. Knows nothing of child care or what is involved in properly raising them. She is far to selfish to ever truly devote her life to that.  In fact she knowingly entered into a live-in relationship with a man specifically right after he got his divorce settlement for the sole purpose of getting his money, had him removed from his own home on false domestic abuse charges and then took his dog and left the country. World be warned This is a walking social disaster with a masters degree in social work. It must be akin to why hairdressers always have ridiculous looking hair styles or politicians are always lining their pockets with tax payers money. I could laugh but in all honesty it sickens me.

This woman, this childless, short and stubby, overweight, mustachio-lipped creature, actually believes she is an intellectual. Attempting to hobnob with the high-brow and in elite educational circles. It must be some sort of sick joke. Did I miss something here? Are you also a trained ballet dancer and violinist? Is your ear trained on classical music too and can you read music as well? Really? Did you come from an entire family of Ivy Leaguers, Yale graduates and Columbia University professors also? Did Noam Chomsky come to your house also when you were a kid? Do you even know who Noam Chomsky is you moronic imbecile?  Since you swing hard to the left as I understand you do, you should. Somehow, I seriously doubt that you know who he is or that he visited your home . Your pathetic attempt at trying to be an, “intellectual” is paper thin. Trust me, you are anything but that. You are nothing but a gutter snipe going from married man to married man, older man to older man looking for a sugar daddy and lying to the world about caring about battered women, victims of rape or broken destitute families. You are a disgusting excuse of a woman and a social worker.

How odd is it that you are not able to see through the deceptive man you are with now?  Didn’t your high brow education afford you a few classes in psychology? Can it be you are this obtuse? Or, conversely, is it likely that you both are completely aware of the deception you both perpetrate on others? Can one snake not recognize the other? Simple animal physiology tells us that snakes emit no odors; it is one of the ways they can capture their prey without detection along with their slimy, slinky mechanized approach and attack.That seems a good fit for both an overweight idiot and a married womanizing cheat. Perhaps the ace predator metaphor gave too much credit. What a crew.

Do the world a favor, go back to Ghana and start over. Perhaps a valuable lesson was missed while posing as a Peace Corps recruit. Being a social policy analyst and delegating for people’s lives means you need a soul and a heart. Not merely paper accreditation. You need practical social  knowledge and the life skills to back it up. You don’t know a thing about children, marriage, divorce, drug addiction, rape, battered women or social programs. Your nothing but a paper pusher. Faking your way with a pathetic paper degree is only worth the paper it’s written on when you clearly have zero practical application. Take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror. Maybe you need a trip to visit the Oracle of Delphi to absorb the true meaning of KNOW THYSELF. 

Dear God, thank you for letting me see the truth in people’s lies and their false representations and intentions and for bringing the good people into my life that would assist me in that matter. Thank you for my God given ability to speak and write truth. Thank you for the US Constitution and the 1st Amendment.

Dear America, this is a true story. We can either shake our heads in disbelief or do something about it. It is our right as American citizens to do something about it.