What I learnded today...

Place: The Southbound 36 Broadway bus

Time: 10:24 AM

Background: The heavens smile upon me and I actually get to sit down on the bus for once. Delighted by the luxury, I open my backpack and pull out the book Slander by Ann Coulter. (I'm enjoying it, although I take everything she says with a grain of salt. I might pick up Al Franken's book next for a little counterbalance.) I read contentedly for about five minutes when I sense someone’s eyes upon me.

I glance up to meet the gaze of another passenger. She’s sitting perpendicular to me in some sort of yoga pose which I’m sure has a lyrical name but I know only as “Indian-style.” The cut of her short dark hair shows her jug ears and her long skinny limbs are all tucked inside of themselves. Her natural-hewn brownish shirt is bristly and appears to need a shave. Big googly sunglasses complete her ensemble. Her overall visage is disturbingly simian. I return to my book.

She clears her throat.

I continue to read.

She clears her throat again, louder this time.

I look up and give her a quick half-smile which I hope communicates, “I’m smiling because I’d like to look friendly so you don’t use your tail to grab a knife and stab me in the neck. But if a neck-stabbing is not your intention, my smile isn’t so welcoming that it leads you to believe I want to buy your fundraiser M&Ms or chat about your intense personal relationship with Jesus Christ. But, hey, thanks for thinking of me, and how about I just return to my book now.”

No dice. Koko wants to chat. She removes her glasses and I note her small, dark, hooded eyes and sloping brow.

Koko (gesturing at my book): “She’s a fascist.”

Me (noncommittal and not looking up): “Mmm.”

Koko: “Everything she says is a lie.”

Me (smart enough to know not to engage): “Uh huh.”

Koko: “All she does is spread filthy lies and hate.”

Me: “Mmmph.”

Koko (growing agitated, she begins to point at me with the kind of slender, tapered fingers which are perfect for picking off nits in those hard to reach places): “She LIES. It’s ALL LIES AND HATE. STUPID, STUPID LIES AND HATE. WHY ARE YOU READING STUPID LIES? YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU READ STUPID LIES?”

Me: “Uh-uh.”

Koko: “YOU TURN INTO A STUPID LIAR! A DUMB, UNINTELLIGENT LIAR WITH NO BRAIN CELLS!”

Me: “Huh.”

Had she not been so tiny and full of chimply goodness, I might have been scared. Frustrated that I didn't pitch my book out the window in a gesture of primate solidarity, she throws her paws up in disgust and turns away from me. (FYI, Mom, this is why I prefer to take cabs even though they are more expensive.)

Right before my stop I notice something. I lean towards Monkeygirl as I rise.

Me: “Excuse me?”

Koko: "WHAT?"

Me: “Your shirt’s on inside out.”

I exit as she throws a banana at me.

The End

OK, the banana part was a lie, but how hysterical would that have been if she had?

1. I believe in ghosts and I'm not a'scared of em. Unless they start throwing stuff at me.
2. I've almost always had two jobs. One is always at a bar.
3. I treat everyone with the same respect until they piss me off.
4. I love to brush my teeth but I hate flavored toothpaste.
5. I could sit inside a mall for hours and just watch people.
6. My mom has short fingers but long toes. I have long finger AND toes. I can tie shoe laces with em.
7. I learnded a long time ago that I'm a coffee snob.
8. I think Jagermeister can cure cancer if you let it.
9. I have a mean streak a mile long. (See #2)
10. I think "Lather, rinse, repeat" is bad advice. How do you know when to stop?
11. My appendix burst and was removed when I was 12. My mom thought it was just the flu. I nearly died.
12. I won't eat anything that swims.
13. I can't stand talking on the phone.
14. Train rides make me yen for the days before air travel.
15. My eyes don't wander to other men when I've a boyfriend.
16. I love to play harmless pranks and practical jokes.
17. I almost never take anything seriously -- unless I have to.
18. I absolutely *HATE* playing Monopoly.
19. I colored my hair once to hide the silver hairs.
20. I actually read spam.
21. I actually eat Spam.
22. I wear shorts even in the Winter.
23. I don't do drugs but, I wanna try "X" just once.
24. Bowling is my favorite sport. I suck at it.
25. I hate wearing socks to bed -- even if my feet are freezing.
26. My mom calls me "A flotsom of useless information". I know lots of dumb trivial facts.
27. I broke my shoulder blade when I was a kid. Now I can predict changes in weather.
28. I constantly get Barry Manilow songs stuck in my head.
29. It's usually "Copa Cabana".
30. I love to watch medical programs on TV. My world stops when ER is on.
31. I want to get married and have kids.
32. I adore pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns.
33. I love dogs.
34. I laugh when I hear anyone fart.
35. I'm decidedly NOT good with numbers.
36. Country music depresses me.
37. I love reading books. But only biographies of mean people or expose non-fiction.
38. I have 2 overdue library books on my coffee table right now.
39. I love Band-Aids that have fun cartoons on them.
40. Snakes creep me out.
41. I think The Simpsons totally rock!
42. I can watch the Game Show and Food Networks for hours on end.
43. I hate Emeril.
44. I love the smell of fresh gasoline and diesel exhaust.
44. Add Yanni and Michael Bolton to the Emeril list.
45. I love to pretend the power's out when a big thunderstorm hits.
46. I still occasionally make a fort in the living room out of bed sheets.
47. I love animal slippers.
48. I never real the manual to anything electronic. Trial and error is fun.
49. As much as I hate talking on the phone, I have to have the latest cell phone technology.
50. Pinatas are cool.
51. I have in-depth conversations with my parents dogs. You should hear what they have to say about George Bush.
52. Beer is good.
53. I wear the same pair of pants a few times before washing them.
54. I almost got married to a woman. I still love Julie.
55. The spiral staircase in the living room creeps me out. I always think it'll fall when I'm on it.
56. If I could, I would invite Benjamin Franklin, Lawrence Welk and Harriet Tubman to dinner.
57. Call me silly, but I always look for a genie's lamp or bottle on the beach. Hey, ya never know.
58. I still watch cartoons on Saturday mornings.
59. Air turbulence, no matter how slight, makes me fear for my life.
60. I love crossword puzzles.
61. The sound of children laughing and playing annoys me a little.
62. I love to drive to noplace in particular. I pick a direction and go till I have to turn and keep going. You find the most interesting places that way.

It occurred to me in the shower today my 20th high school reunion is next year. Gah! When did I get so old? And shouldn’t my skin be clear finally?

Seems like I should have accomplished something by now. If you compare my life to the typical measures of success, I am sincerely lacking. I mean, I don’t own a house, I don’t have children, and my life savings is a pitcher full of nickels sitting next to the TV.

Granted, I’m happy and I have no regrets. But still… on paper? Big loser. So, now I’ve got a little over a year to become either thin or wealthy if I want to attend the reunion.

I think I’ll concentrate on rich, because I really hate sit-ups.

Sorry it's been so long since I last posted. Here's a Cliff Notes version of what's been going on.

It's reopened! YAAY! The original owner was finally able to get all the necessary affairs in order and get the bar open -- Just in time for Market Days. Many of the old employees are back, but some of us -- me included -- have moved on to other gigs around boystown.

It's confirmed that the former owners (James Fritz and Robert Kane) never paid a bill beyond the necessary ones that kept the bar open (and sinking like the Titanic). They never even paid the sales taxes! Anyway, it's my personal opinion that it cost more to re-open the bar than it's actually worth. Stay tuned. I'm sure there's more in the works...

Evilyn and Tom DiLicio's latest stab at drawing out the noise problems between them and the club has caused more problems for them than it has for the bar. They were to attend the latest hearing at the liquor commissioner's office and allow the city into their condo so they could take sound readings. Since they're the most vocal whiners in the whole foray the city's holding them to a higher standard than the few others involved in the effort to shut Circuit down. They never attended (and it was required that they attend) the hearing, nor did they let the city in their condo to measure the bass levels during peak hours at Circuit.

The whiners stand by their assertions that the readings from their sound decibel meter is much higher than what Circuit and the city's equipment reports. Thankfully, the officials at the Liquor Commission refuse to lend any credit to what the DiLicio's say as their equipment is most assuredly improperly calibrated and of inferior quality compared to that of the city's measuring devices. Circuit's equipment surpasses that of the city's (and they provided it to us!). This coupled with the fact that the DiLicio's are no longer playing fair ball with the city has caused them to lose much steam and credibility with the Club, the neighbors and the city.

What's more, the signitures they gathered during their petition drive were turned in on August 4th, the deadline for the petition to force a referendum question on the November general election ballot for the 33rd Ward. Here's the rub: Many of the signatures on the petition appear to be of the same penmanship and are scattered about the petition. This raises red flags about the validity of the remaining signatures.

The beauty of the whole thing is that Circuit is allowed to call or visit each and every participant on the petition to veryify that 1) they actually SIGNED the petition. 2) that they actually reside in the 33rd Ward (only residents may participate) and 3) they actually completely understood the circumstances surrounding the petition (they must FULLY comprehend the petition). If any condition is absent, or if the participant decides to recind their signiture, it becomes an invalid entry. What does that mean? It means I'll need comfortable shoes, a cushy cushion for my rump and a pad for my dialing fingers because we're visiting and calling on each and every participant. The beauty is that each visit is independantly witnessed by a person who is far-removed from the issue and the calls are recorded should the whiners oppose.

Well, it's mostly done. I moved from Roger's Park to Downtown Not much to say. It's a nice pad.

What Are You Most Likely to Utter During Sex by UMAJohnnie
Name
Sexuality
Age
Most Likely to Say	"Oh just twist it, make a point, and stick it in."

Created with the ORIGINAL MemeGen!

How people rate you by misssmanson

name

face: 56%

body: 57%

clothes: 57%

personality: 71%

madness: 63%

ambitions: 25%

in bed: 59%

Created with the ORIGINAL MemeGen!

Dear Google Management,

We have a problem.

I don’t me “we” as in “I.” Although I often refer to myself in the third person, I would never use the plural. (Because, you know… ick.) Frankly, I’m all about your service. I use it a million times a day and love it so much that I’ve invented words like “Googlicious” and “Googleholic” to describe said affection.

The dilemma is that old-school, semi-repressed, grandfather types like my dad have discovered the utility of your service. Now your search engine is just dandy when they need to find plaid pastel golf pants, local Lincoln dealerships, and discount plane tickets to Florida.

However, a crisis occurs when they employ amorphous search criteria. For example, when my father decided to do a little reading on Stephen Hawking’s theories of the nature of space and time, he googled a variation of the term “black holes” and ended up on an entirely different type of website.

I could hear his shrieks one state away.

To compound this quandary, this retired executive class spent a professional lifetime with the aid of a competent secretary. Hence, they never developed an eye for noticing small details (that’s what “their girl” was for) because they were so busy taking action. Had Barbara been around to assist my father, he would have never accidentally clicked through to join the Log Cabin Republicans while googling information on building a rough hewn timber home.

For these reasons, Google, I beg you to please add an “Old White Guy” parameter to your search engine. These men, although tigers in their prime, have been weakened by a lifetime of double Manhattans, unfiltered cigarettes, and a propensity to consume large slabs of red meat. Their cardiovascular systems simply cannot handle the sustained and perpetual shock than can result from bad googling.

Thanks,

Jeff

P.S. My friend also had an issue when searching for Catholic school uniforms for her daughter. A Soccer Mom button may also be in order.

Can I tell you how much I love whoever picks the music at my grocery store?

Last time I hit the local Jewel they were playing Whitesnake. Granted, I didn’t care for Whitesnake back in the day, but still - Whitesnake! At the grocery store! I bet David Coverdale never expected the anthems of his youth to echo through the produce aisle.

Anyway, tonight was even better because while perusing fresh sausages, I heard the Bay City Rollers. Woo-hoo! I used to love them, not only for their educational music (they taught me to spell “Saturday”) but also for their wicked fashion sense. Although the song gave poor Allan, my frind, an aneurysm, I was struck with a powerful yen to purchase plaid bellbottoms. Unfortunately the Jewel doesn’t stock those, so I picked up some Ben & Jerry's instead. (By the way, I saved over $27 by shopping with my Preferred Card. I mention this to highlight my spokesperson ability just in case I make it big and I become famous, and the endorsements start rolling in. Oh, yeah. That bitch Patricia Heaton? Is going down. Those Jewel commercials are MINE.)

When I got home, we bumped into my brand new neighbors. They drive a BMW SUV (Strike One), she’s got a terrible boob job (like two grapefruit halves placed an inch below her chin, Strike Two), and he shaves his head. People, I can’t stress this enough. Unless you are Michael Chicklis or my friend Jeff Roscoe, white guys should NEVER, EVER, EVER shave their heads. So Strike Three, you've failed my patented Good Taste Test and I already hate you both. (Unless you invite me over to use your hot tub, of course.)

While unloading my purchases, the phone rang with a call from the Cook County Jail. What drama! Intrigue! Excitement! The little voices in my head advised me not to answer it, but I was WAY too curious to let it go to voice mail. When I picked up, a pre-recorded message told there was a collect call, and to accept the charges I’d have to press 0. My mind raced through who I knew that could possibly be calling me from the joint. (Uh-huh. I watch Oz and I am all about appropriate prison lingo.) I wondered who might have been arrested, and while rapidly scanning my mental Rolodex, realized that out of all my friends, it was MOI who is most likely to wind up behind bars. And then it dawned on me that no one would call me because I have no money to bail them out.

When the operator’s message ended, the convict’s portion of the message played. Had he specifically been calling for me, I imagine he might have known or mentioned my name but he didn’t. And judging from the word choice employed in his brief communiqué, I’d guess he was arrested by the Grammar Police.

Obviously imprisoned for the murder of the English language, I realized it was a wrong number and hung up. He called back a half dozen more times, but I simply let it ring. It’s not like I could have helped him. Besides, allowing $3.49 worth of Chunky Monkey ice cream to melt would have been the real crime.

Point?

I thought this was going to be a boring Sunday.

So, like last Saturday (June 26) was Pride Fest on Halsted and I was working the tent at Circuit cooking food and pouring beer 'n stuff. And like, this guy who works for the city was leaning on a lamp post by the back of the tent muttering something on his cell phone. I don't know what, really.

I heard him say "What did I do to deserve to clean up after these fucking queers?"

I wanted to say something, but I was 1) working and 2) filling an order of 5 BBQ Chicken sammiches. So, I did what came naturally. I flung a a big spoonful off BBQ sauce on his ass and said "Clean up after this 'fucking queer', breeder." and went back to feeding my delightfully gay brothers and sisters a wholesome meal.

My Quaker friend would slap me for that. Who knew marching could be so messy -- and chock-full of sticky hickory flavored goodness?!

...Some of us must sit on the curb and clap as it marches by."

That's one of my favorite quotes by Wendy Carlos. She is a male-to-female transsexual who has given us great music such as Switched on Bach and Switched on Bach 2000.

To me, that statement says that not every one of us were made to be the activists - the men and women who stand for our rights or speak of our own ideals as a community or back us up in moments of adversity. They march in the parade.

Some of us attend rallies to listen to the activists or go to seminars or hearings to listen to those ideals. And, some of us will whip out our cell phones and call for assistance to help those faced with adversity. Or offer financial assistance to the causes of their choice. They clap for the parade that marches by.

I was a clapper. I Preferred to quietly stand behind the men and women who are out there fighting for us. I was happier donating money and time to organizations that I believed in. I was content that this was my way of making a difference in my community and that this was my way of taking pride in everything around me.

That is, until last Thursday. Here's what happened.

On my way home from my shift at Circuit I stopped at 7-11 for some Gatorade and a piece of fruit to nosh on. As I was waiting in line, a person in drag was ahead of me. One person was being helped so there were three in a rapidly moving line.

At some point a cab driver came in and as the first person was wrapping up his order the cabbie barged ahead of the person ahead of me and barked out his order. I didn't think much of it, really. I just wanted to pay for my stuff and get back in my car. But the person in drag would have nothing of it telling the man that the line formed behind us.

Long story short, the cabbie started calling the person a "Fucking faggot." in rapid succession. Now, the person in drag is of very short stature and the cabbie was rather large (rotund) and a little taller than she. It was clear that he could have taken her any time, but I never underestimate the power of a drag queen. This time, the person was rather intimidated by the cabbie.

I stopped clapping and started marching. I don't know what came over me, but I stepped forward pushed the cabbie to my right and invited the person in drag to pay for his items. But instead of stopping there, I continued to push the cabbie out of the store and onto the corner. All the while, I kept saying "I'm a faggot. Call me a faggot. Come on. Call me a faggot.". He said nothing. He just looked up in shock. I had at least 4 inches and about 20 more pounds on him.

I wonder if the parade needs a tuba player?

Happy birthday to Liz! Happy birthday to Liz! Happy birrrrrthday dear Lizzy! Happy birthday to Liz!

My neice turns 13 today! Woo Hoo!!

Hi Kids! It's been a while, I know. But hey I'm a busy beaver. IML and BPX were a boat load of work, but it's done. Nothing really funny happened. I was way too busy to do anything or see anything beyond 10 feet around me.

So... There. That's that with that.

Oh... Well, one thing did happen. I got rid of the coffee shop guy. He got all motherly and pissy with me when I was working over 130 hours during IML (which happens once a year and pays my bills for pretty much the rest of the year) and didn't spend any real time with him.

Ya know, when you s'plain to the guy that you're working non-stop for 7 days to make some money and that he won't get much more than a phone call from me during that time, you'd think it's a done deal after he says "That's OK. I know you get busy this time of year and I have my own things to do.". Boo hoo.

Men.

Bar Olympics is officially OVER! Hydrate took 1st place overall and took the Spirit of the Games. I have to say that the kids at Hydrate did a great job at every turn. They raised a boat load of money and they had fun doing it.

As for me, I'm totally relieved that B.O. is done. And, I can't wait to do it all over again next year. The broken nails, headaches, the late nights... All worth it.

Here's to you, Queer Chicago. Thanks for a very fulfilling experience!

FMI, visit http://www.chicagobarolympics.com

So like this afternoon is absolutly BEAUTI-FREAKIN'-FUL and I had some errands to do. Ya know. Get stuff kinda stuff.

So I'm like dinkin' around, running to the Bank, zipping to Osco, pinchin' the melons at the fruit market and I realize I need some coffee - like badly. I'm down to my emergency stash of Taster's Choice ®. I recently discovered that there's this little coffee roaster shop under the "L" at Morse, but they're like never open, and there's no hours posted anywhere around the shop.

I decide to give it a shot and if they're open, buy a pound of their beans. I gets there and they're closed. DAMN! But there's folks in there milling around, doin' their thing and a kinda cute dude sees me and unlocks the door and lets me in! Like, SO-OO-OO cool of him. The kinda cute guy just got cuter.

He tells me that they close at 11 and re-open at 1, then close again at 3. Goofy hours, but whatever. So I tells the kinda cute guy who just got cuter that I wanted to buy some beans but I sees that their shelves are empty and I start to make my way to the door. KCGWJGC (kinda cute guy who just got cuter) chirps that he's JUST about done roasting a new batch for tomorrow and that if I waited for a little while I could have the beans that are fresh outta the doo-hickey. I'm like... "cool".

So he's roasting. I'm watching (never saw a roaster before) and he starts talking gabbing with me and the whole time KCGWJGC is eyeing me like I was the last pork chop sandwich at Morton's during lunch hour and stupid me never realized it till I walked home... Long story short, KCGWJGC made it clear that he's interested in me and wanted to know if I wanted to go out with him. I was like stammering. I mean, I wasn't even dressed to impress. I was in cut-off sweat pants and a generic t-shirt - the gay equivalant of a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

So I was like.. Yeah! When? He's like How about tonite? I'm like "I gotta work". He's like "Tomorrow?". I'm like "Sure!". So we SMS each other our contact info and I like have a lunch date tomorrow with KCGWJGC! Woo hoo!!

So I spends the weekend at home in Milwaukee again. This time, for Mumsie's very own special Day. So like, when we kids were well, kids... we would take Mumsie to McDonald's because like Mumsies would eat for free. We kept that tradition alive throughout the years, although they don't give freebies anymore. Ehh...

Then after we do Mickey D's we usually head to the Domes for a trounce through the flowers 'n stuff. So, we're like trouncing and we're having fun sniffing the beautiful flowers n' stuff when my neice attempts to make her pig-tail braids twirl like a helicopters. She's having a hard time getting them to twirl so I try to help her. No dice from me. My big lesbo sister tried to help but to no avail. Then my Mumsie steps in and shows her how she did it when she was a kid.

Now, ma, she ain't got no long hair so it's like all body motion for her. Ma's getting into the motions and Liz's getting some results. It kinda goes like you were working a hula hoop but with more neck english, ya know? So ma's getting into the twirl when her bra snaps. She doesn't even really notice and keeps twirlilg. Eventually, her... umm.. "MOM"eries join in the dance and start flopping around like a trout outta the water. Not a pretty sight to see. We had a great laugh outta that.

Before I left for Chicago, I found a erotic gift shop and bought her pasties. She loved them.

So I spent the weekend in Milwaukee. I visit moms and pops once a month to do some heavy work my parent's house and to just get away from Chicago.

Oddly enough, nothing funny happened. That's a good thing, really. I like my visits home to be uneventful and laid back. And that's exactly how it was.

While I was hanging out with some friends at Harbor Room (One of Milwaukee's leather bars) on Saturday night, my friend Todd asked me what was wrong as I wasn't smiling or being chatty like I usually am. Actually, nothing was wrong. I was having a great time. I was "smiling on the inside".

You see, when I'm here and working, I always have to be "On". That is, schmoozing, all smiles, laughing and all that. Don't get me wrong... I love schmoozing 'n stuff. But, sometimes it's nice to take a break and not have to focus on making sure that everyone around me is having fun. To be "off".

If any of you were just hoping for something funny... There was something that was kinda funny. We discovered this weekend that my parent's painfully gassy, man-hating Rotweiler, Valkyrie, is absolutely TERRIFIED of bubbles.

Flame ON!

WHEW!

It's been over a week since I made an entry. Lots have happened! Here's the best of the best...

My Drunk Boss

Boss gets hammered. Boss and me do late nite dinner. We get on train. Head home. Boss needs to puke. Boss pukes on train platform we stopped off at. I give gum to boss to freshen breath. Boss chews. Boss sneezes. Gum flys out. Boss locates gum. Inserts gum in mouth. Continues to chew.

Ew.

Cell Block

A couple things happened with that bar in the past week.

1) When those bums fired me, I clearly said to them that I would tap dance on their doorstep the moment they close their doors to the public. Well like, last week a former co-worker finds me at Circuit and said to me "Girl, dust off them dancin' shoes!". I'm like "NO!!" He's like "YES!!" So I grab him and about 10 other people who know I hate those bums and I have the first dance. After that, the rest join in. It was PURE heaven.

So like, while we're dancing away and having a good time, lo and behold, one of the current owners pops his head out of Kit Kat to see what the comotion is in front of his bar. When he made eye contact with me I just pointed a finger at him and said "Told ya!" and went back to dancing.

2) I won my case against the new owners of the bar for wrongful termination and lying to unemployment regarding the circumstances surrounding my termination. I donated the money because I really don't need the money. I just wanted to teach the bums a lesson to not bite the hands that feed them. Sweet revenge tastes better than a bloody finger.

3) The common denominator in the rumors surrounding the closing of the bar seem to be that A) They owe quite a bit in back bills and B) They're over 25,000 dollars in debt to the former owner. Apparently, they never showed up to either of the meetings to close the sale of the bar, never returned any phone calls to the former owner and won't even talk to the employees that work(ed) there. So, the former owner basically foreclosed on the business and changed the locks.

It's not sure if the bar will re-open or not. But if their website (http://cellblock-chicago.com) or their phone message -- which listed the current events and daily specials are any indication, it probably won't open any time soon.

Quiet Metal My ASS!

Ever see those Ford commercials that tout their new "quiet metal" that dampens noise rather than amplify it? Well...

Not too long ago I was trotting down Halsted St. doing some last minute shopping for an event. On my way down the strip, I see a friend who's a police officer, I wave and he pulls over to chat a while.

As we're gabbing, I'm leaning on the metal part of the front of the car and the Chinese food I munched on a while earlier starts to... well... umm... well it's being 'processed'. I let out a little toot here, a quiet fizz-fazz there. Nothing that my friend can hear. Then suddenly, another one creeps up on me and so I lean a little to my left and gently caress the odorous gas out into the atmosphere.

It's like the heavens opened up and thunder came from nowhere! It rattled so hard that -- and I kid you not -- my KEYS vibrated against the metal of the car! My cop friend, looks at me like a bomb just exploded in his face and the next thing I know he's on the ground laughing so hard he's crying. Next thing I know, I'm laughing just as hard as he is. But instead of tears coming out of my eyes, more methane is escaping my rump! It was a never-ending cycle. I was never so blissfully embarrassed in my life.

I'm just waiting for a bill from the CPD for a new Right-front quarter panel for beat 2320. No more broccoli.

Ever.

So like last nite, MCC and I went to Berlin to check out the body painting competition for Bar Olympics, an annual event I help coordinate.

MCC and I spent some quality time together, which was cool since I was missing him, anyway. It was a great time for me and him. So like my friend Kami was in the painting competition, and she won. Kudos, to her and her crew!

But Kami was a little boozed. Like really boozed, really. She was all excited and bouncy because she won. So excited and bouncy that she started showing us her... umm.. ta ta's

She hopped on MCC's lap all happy n stuff, and then like MCC like did something to her boobies. He nibbled on the nips! EWW EEWW!! Girl GERMS! Then she hops over to me trying to get me to do the same thing. I'm like NOOO!! The horror! The humanity! NOOO!!!! I resisted.

I called upon the Godly forces like Tammy Faye Bakker to repel this she-devil. No luck. I screamed like a little girl. No dice. I was damned to this lap dance unless I partook in the nipple of the female kind. I resigned myself to do it, hoping to cast this deamon back to the Kit Kat Club, from whence she came.

I opened my mouth, curled my lips as far away from her smooth, milky skin, and proceeded to nibble her nipple. I SWEAR she lactated right there. Now I can relate to Lucy when Snoopy would give her a kiss.

I need another shower. I feel so unclean.

I tell ya, Kids. The recent events of folks cutting across Metra tracks is really getting to me. I mean COME ON YOU WEENIES! You're crossing choo choo tracks! Look where you are going! Take them headphones off!

Back in the day, I lived near a strip of woods along the Milwaukee River and nestled inside the woods was a VERY busy set of freight train tracks that belong to The Milwaukee Road. And, tucked inside the woods, not too far from the tracks was a fun playground with kick ass swings (They're still there after almost 40 years!).

As kids, we would always wanna go play in the park along the river and swing our asses off. And, even though the park was a straight shot down the wooded hill and just a few hundred feet from the tracks (fenced off) we still had to walk to the OFFICIAL track crossing to get to the park. The crossing was like 2 blocks out of our way. But it was worth the walk all a'cause the tracks were busy. Our moms and dads told us to NEVER cross the tracks except for the marked crossing that gad gates and wig-wags (ya know, the lighted pendulums that wig one way and wag another to tell ya not to cross the tracks).

If we were caught crossing the tracks at any point that's not marked as a real crossing, we got our asses whupped. I know. It happened to me. It still hurts (Damn that wooden spoon, MUH-THER!). We were even forbidden from placing pennies on the tracks. My dad used to do that for us. But it was for our own safety, and each and every time we would go to the park on the river, mom would always caution to cross at the crossing and to STOP, LOOK AND LISTEN -- a'cause sometimes the wig-wags didn't work.

To the families who lost loved ones that irresponsibly crossed train tracks and got hit by a train:

I'm sorry for your loss. I really am. But I don't wanna turn on the news to see you crying the blues because Junior or Jane got hit.

Yeah, life is fleeting. But we all have to be responsible for our actions and those of our children. YOU need to teach them that train tracks are ABSOLUTELY taboo under any circumstances except at marked crossings. On top of that, you need to teach them that the gates don't always work. You need to stop, look and listen. Why in the hell do you think passenger busses do it? Common sence.

You should have takeen more time being a mom or a dad to your kids and this wouldn't have happened. We're all busy. I know that lament. But we all need to take time to teach our children common sence. What's more precious? The lexus in yout driveway, or your own kids?

Love,

Mamma

Your Sex Sign is Scorpio!

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