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.

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Pick of the litter (box)

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. 😉

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)

Me, Google and the Stanley Cup riots

OMG! I’ll make this quick, but this made me laugh pretty hard. Someone Googled, “name moron vancouver” and landed on my blog! So I tested it and sure enough it goes right to a post about  someone I once knew from Vancouver. The funny thing is the only other links in Google’s search results were for the Vancouver riots after the Stanley Cup. So I had to really laugh hard at that.  And to think this particular person told me once that Hamilton, Ontario was the “***hole of Canada”. Probably because I have relatives there and was visiting for a wedding.  Au’ contraire . ***holes and morons DO come from Vancouver! Just like my relatives in Toronto and the Maritimes told me.  Not only am I thrilled Boston beat the piss out them,which was inevitable, (although I was briefly a Canucks fan when I thought I should be supportive) but I mean honestly, that must have been something huh? Imagine living across the street from that scene. Tear gas, flames, overturned cars…Sounds lovely. I’d like a glass of Primitivo with that please… 😉