Turkey Day, An American Tradition

27 11 2009

Stuff a large bird with bread and bake it. Make gravy from the bird’s organs, but call them giblets, because that sounds more lighthearted. Make enough gravy to fill a cruise ship. Serve the bird with massive side dishes of mashed potatoes, corn, and green bean casserole. Don’t forget the warm rolls slathered in non-hydrogenated margarine, because butter is unhealthy.

Eat until it hurts. There’s not enough room for salad, but you think you can squeeze in another spoonful of casserole. Sit on the couch with the remote control and flip through the channels. Surf the internet during commercials. While the TV is blaring in the background, find something more interesting to watch on Hulu. Watch The Biggest Loser and be thankful that you’re not 400 pounds yet. Belch. Fart. You discover that there’s room for dessert. There’s a starving Ethiopian living in your left leg. 

Take notes on Black Friday deals. You might not even have to leave your chair this year. This delights you.  Pull up another window on your screen. You watch a YouTube video about the 33 year old man who died in his recliner because he was morbidly obese. You’re thankful that you can get out of the chair with the greatest of ease. You unbutton your pants to let the turkey breathe in your belly.

This year you’re hoping to skip the smack down in the toy aisle over Twilight Dolls and Zhuzhu pets. Last year you camped out in the parking lot in a long line. Once you got into the store, some large black woman lost her wig to a white bitch.  There was hair pulling and blood.

 It’s important. You will be sacrificing your comfort to obtain family and friends  items that they need to have by December 25. So you can exchange gifts between mouthfuls of ham and chocolate truffles. Aunt Doris would have died without The Clapper last year. And the Chia Pet that she gave you—well, you thanked her profusely and discreetly placed it on the Goodwill pile when you got home.

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From the lesbian corner

20 11 2009

Being neighbors in the city is quite the paradox. You come to know personal habits of complete strangers without ever learning their names—like witnessing a neighbor sitting on their toilet through an un-curtained window. Instead of introducing ourselves, we make up names for them and sometimes stories.

After two months of partying, Mr. Braid is moving.  It seemed like partying anyway.  The front yard was set up with two picnic tables and random furniture. And the grill was lit every night while the men sat around the picnic table smoking and drinking beer. But I’m starting to think that maybe it wasn’t a party. Maybe his house was too full, and there wasn’t room enough to cook and eat inside because he had taken in a less fortunate family. 

But now it’s cold, and the party has ended. And Mr. Braid who was going to lead a crusade against dog owners who didn’t pick up their dog shit, has taken his picnic table elsewhere. He would always dream big when he was drinking and smoking at his picnic table. He’d call us over, Hey Honey. Hey Sweetie. He thought we were sisters. He’d tell us his next big plan. The neighborhood pig roast. The new park. Then he’d drive drunk in his Chevy truck. Now his house is dark and the Chevy is gone.

The only thing I ever saw of the neighbors that lived in the house before Mr. Braid was the constant glow of the big screen TV. For all I know, there might have been a corpse rotting on the couch. Mr. Braid was different. He’d actually come out of his house to plant tomatoes and play horse shoes. He even helped fix up the former crack house. Mr. Braid was the only neighbor who ever talked to us. Let us know when he’d be out of town. Invited us to his Pig roast. Returned our green bowl after the party. Offered to mow our lawn.

Maybe he’s the only neighbor that talked to us because he thought we were sisters instead of the scary lesbians on the corner.

The Catholics, our neighbors in the big black house, thought Mr. Braid was in a Mexican gang, because he had so many people over to his house. The Catholics come from New York—obviously not the city of. It’s not like he was flashing his colors and rolling up one pant leg. He doesn’t even have tattoos.

I don’t think they’re really Catholic, but they’re in their late 30’s and on their 5th kid. They listen to Christian music and talk to their kids about God sometimes. I think they work or volunteer at some food pantry. They don’t seem to have real jobs. They’re home at odd times. For a while, they home-schooled their children. When she had their last child, they were gone for a month. Jacks said that they had to go to Jerusalem to have their baby.

Mrs. Catholic dresses in organic, hippy clothes. Mr. Catholic looks like Dean Kane. I’ve rescued their runaway dog Scout a few times. We’ve given them a Christmas wreath and Christmas cookies. Now they have a homeless man living with them–the same man I called a bum. I think I may have offended them. But he was hanging out between our yard and their yard, drinking beer. Then he tried to climb our fence and threatened my dog. Mrs. Catholic hasn’t talked to me since I called the man a bum. He wasn’t particularly friendly. So I’m not up on my PC. But they thought Mr. Braid was a thug. So whatever.

We are sandwiched in between the Catholics and the Volvo drivers. They are buddies.  They made a special door in their fence, so they could share yards. Mr.& Mrs. Volvo are renting from the Christian Republican Dyke that moved back out West. She looked like a Dyke. Only ever had women friends over. Women friends that drove Chevy trucks and also looked like dykes. She was 40 and single with an old dog. She had spiky hair and stovepipe legs.  But she flew Easter flags and had a Bush Cheney sticker on her front door.

The new neighbors drive a Volvo and have 2 children. It seems like they might actually work. They keep their curtains wide open so you can see inside. They have a Tibetan peace flag hanging in their house just like the Catholics. Their living room is the same color as ours. Jacks said they copied our color scheme.

Mr. Nascar Roofer Man lives across from the Catholics. He drives a white work truck. Mrs. Catholic said he’s a recovering Drug addict. The Catholics and Mr. Nascar used to be friends, but they aren’t that close anymore. I don’t think the Catholics wanted their kids mixing with the other kids in the neighborhood. His wife yells at the kids a lot. The bums hang out on his stoop. He re-roofed his house last summer.

While he was on his roof, he had a conversation with Amelio’s Mom a block away.   I call her that because she is always yelling for AMELIO in her deep, throaty smoker’s voice. Her yelling doesn’t help any. Amelio is all of 5 years old and always plays in the street.  I almost hit him once. There doesn’t seem to be any problem with abductions in this neighborhood. The kids just keep coming back, walking through our lawn as if the sidewalk is an incidental piece of cement.

I have lived in this house for 4 years. Just last month, Amelio’s mom introduced herself as our neighbor. Well, no shit. We can only hear you yelling every fucking day of our lives.  Wish she’d fucking shut up for once. It wasn’t a social call. She was looking for some rakes that her sons had lifted.  Those rakes lay on our lawn for 2 weeks. Like I know where they’re at now.

Amelio’s Mom drinks beer with the Mexican family at the former crack house. There’s a lot of people living in that house. My favorite is the Alzheimer’s Grandpa. He’s always walking, pushing an unwilling child in a stroller. The teenage boys wear skinny jeans and skateboard. They watch Univision all day with the door open in the summer. Sometimes I can smell corn tortillas.

There used to be an African family in the former meth lab house, but they had to move. Apparently, the landlord lost the place, because the renters on top weren’t paying. Foreclosure takes a long time. The non-paying family still lives on top. Non-descript mixed couple with a new baby. Makes me angry that they are still there and the Africans are gone. They were quiet and kept to themselves and kept their lawn nice.

The obsessive compulsive lady on the other side of the Volvo neighbors drives a red minivan and rakes her leaves into the street every autumn even though everyone else pays for yard waste pick-up. She constantly sweeps her driveway. Sweep sweep sweep.

Every once in a while the little old lady that wears purple and drives a purple truck and lives in a purple house walks by. Not always in purple. But it’s always a 1 color outfit. Her house has been for sale as long as I have lived here. I suppose nobody wants to buy a purple house. I feel bad for her, having to live in this neighborhood and not being able to sell her house.

I’ve thought about making Christmas cookies this year to give to the neighbors. I don’t want to be friends or anything–just friendly. I want a neighbor that watches my shit while I’m out of town–a neighbor that would call the police if someone was sneaking through my window instead of filming it for Youtube. But I wonder if it’s really worth the effort. They might be worried that the lesbians are trying to poison them.  After all, I’m sure we’re known as the lesbians on the corner. Because I’ve never introduced myself and nobody has ever asked. Even Mr. Braid only knew us as Honey and Sweetie. And I only referred to him as Mr. Braid, because of the braid in his hair–even though I think his real name is Al.





Fuck You Chase!

6 11 2009

I received a phone call from Chase Mortgage Company. They hold my mortgage. Some new person was handling my loan modification.  I was confused. As far as I knew the account had been closed.  I had not qualified. Two months after submitting my application, I had called to check on the status. I talked to some woman with an accent.  I was being down-staffed a shift a week. Student loans were looming in the future. But she said that she didn’t see the problem.

The woman suggested that I try to refinance instead. I had tried to refinance in 2008. After I was told that I would most certainly be refinanced and paid $400, I was denied. They kept the $400. Yet, Chase granted me another $5000 credit card. Gee, thanks.

I was all set to call this Chase representative back and tell him to fuck off, I don’t need your help anymore. But I’m a pussy. And he’s not Chase, just a worker for the man who has his own bills to pay.  He congratulated me on my new job.  He wasn’t like the woman.

If I can help it, I will never finance anything through Chase again. I will not recommend them. BOYCOTT CHASE! I realize that Chase is a corporate-conglomeration and my opinion, happiness and well-being means very little to them. The feeling is mutual.

I will continue to pay my payments on-time and look eagerly to the future when I can sell this house and not owe Chase a damn thing.





Voyeurism

27 10 2009

Ah, the voyeurism of Facebook. It allows you to befriend acquaintances from high school, friends from former lives and relatives that you haven’t seen in at least 10 years. Maybe it’s about getting the friend numbers up there in order not to look like a loser. Because it’s not like you really talk after the befriending. They’re static pictures with profiles.  Once in a while they’ll send an update. After 15 years, you find out that they’re enjoying coffee or their kid is home sick with the swine flu.

But what do you really say after so much time?  Hey, I fuck women now. I hate kids. And I don’t believe in the same bullshit that you do. Instead I put a disclaimer on my page, warning of controversial topics. And some of these friends and acquaintances from my former life disappear quietly–perhaps wishing that they hadn’t learned quite so much and desperately trying to remember the way I used to be.

I’ve clicked on these distant friends, looking at their pictures, asking myself if I look that old. I’m obviously in denial. Then I click on their friends and their friend’s friends. And I start to find people that I used to know. People that I left behind for another life. And I realize exactly how much time has passed. Time enough for children to grow into adults, unrecognizable giants compared to their former selves. Time for hairlines to recede beyond denial. Worry lines turn to crinkles and to wrinkles. Salt & pepper hair turns white. People that were old then, ancient now. Some thinner, some fatter and a few unchanged.

The last time I saw you  . . . . . .

You were at the garage sale that Jessie threw. She insisted on getting rid of all our junk. You recognized the white dress that I let you borrow for some big event. You had a ring on your finger. Before that, we were raking someone else’s lawn and you told me you were going to date him. I think you might have felt bad about it, but you didn’t know then, that I didn’t really care. He was the least of my worries.

 

We were in church. And you made sure you looked the other way. Before that we sat together on a park bench in Zeeland by the fountain where I gave you the “let’s be friends” letter. You cried.

 

I saw you in Ange’s back yard. At least 10 years ago– maybe more. And the time before that was at Vonnie’s when Robbie was like 2. Then again in 1989 on our Spring Vacation. We drove all the way to Dunn. You played the Cocktail Soundtrack. You were into Hippy Hippy Shake. The first time, you were a baby in my house. Gram Fran was there. I got a doll that year for Christmas and I named it after you.

 

We saw you at Family Video store in Holland. You were driving an antique car.

 

You were working at Wal-Mart.

 

 I tried to avoid you as I walked out the church door. Moments before that you had been behind the pulpit giving your sermon.

 

You were in the front row at church. You were grade school age. Your nose was always stuffy because of allergies. I think you had a stack of pogs.

 

Your hair was permed and you were probably playing your trumpet on stage.

 

We were both shopping at Target. You were visiting from D.C.

 

You were up from some other state, visiting. We ate at TGI Fridays.

 

In our 1 bedroom apartment. You told us to try an open relationship.

 

In a smoke-filled apartment in Okalahoma City, the day after New Years. Someone had made Mexican chicken tortilla soup.

 

I have a vague recollection of seeing you last at a nursing home. You must have just started working there or something.

 

You were bringing your son to the Emergency Room. I was on my way into work.

 

We were passengers in a friend’s car. Your boyfriend wouldn’t stop calling.

 

I saw you at Wheatland with your husband, but you didn’t hear me when I called your name. I let it go. You disappeared into the crowd.

 

 





Slavery Ads on C-List

3 10 2009

Ads copied, pasted & altered (except for original spelling errors)from C-List (green font denotes name change to protect the allegedly guilty):

In Need of Line Cooks (Lizard Room/The PapSmear HouseLounge)

Located downtown on the corner of  Slavery & Indentured  Servitude.
Must be open to work
3pm-11:30pm Monday-Saturday.
Must being willing to learn to roll sushi.
Must be able to handle the stress of two restuarants from one kitchen.
Will get a set schedule.

Please don’t call or stop in! Email resumes to fuckmeintheasslounge@slavery.com
 
 
 

 

  • Location: Lizard Room/The Papsmear House Lounge
  • Compensation: 7.40
  • This is a part-time job.
Entry Level Management (30-40 hours/wk)
Starting Position – Lead Night Cook
Full Time
Paid Vacation
Demostrates Leadership Skills
Great Work Ethic – Role Model
Conscientious
Works well within a team environment
Great at cost control
Great at food quality
Career minded in the food industry
Compensation: $8.50-$8.75/hr.

 ***

The Lizard Room wants a line cook to handle the stress of making food for 2 restaurants, roll sushi, and maintain a flexible schedule (be available 6 days a week, but not necessarily work or get paid) for $7.40 with no benefits. Notice they can’t even spell restaurant correctly in their ad.  $7.40 is minimum wage. The dishwasher is making the same amount by spraying dirty dishes and running them through a machine. I’m not suggesting that the dishwasher get paid less, but should the line cook only be getting the same for work that is more difficult? You could probably make just as much or more working at McDonald’s or holding one of those cardboard signs that advertise Eat at Joes or Going out of Business.

 It wasn’t that long ago that I saw a dishwasher position posted on C-List for minimum wage. They wanted them to be able to pass a drug test. WTF? If I was working in a hot, stinky dish room, getting paid $7.40 an hour, I would have to take drugs just so I wouldn’t kill myself.

 The Lizard room menu features sushi rolls ranging from $6-8 per roll with the most expensive rolls being $16-18. The poor little line cook in the back has to work almost 3 hours to pay for one of those top dollar rolls that s/he made.  You will also find on the menu Asian fusion cuisine and signature martinis for $12.  They have a fancy website featuring a half naked chick, and advertise being the premier college bar. I always thought that independent businesses treated their employees better than the corporate conglomerations.

In the second C-List add you can manage a Family Restaurant for $1 more/hr—that is if you meet their high quality standards.  

 There are other independent restaurants that pay a little more. Take SuckMyDick  Restaurant  for instance—an upscale establishment that makes all their food from scratch. For $9/hr you can have keys to the restaurant, open the restaurant, prep, clean, maintenance equipment, be on-call without pay, create your own recipes for daily features,  cook food for catering or in house parties while simultaneously getting slammed by the lunch/dinner rushes, and fix the toilet. Benefits? Zero. You can smoke pot and expand your culinary skills, but other than that . . . No paid vacation. If you take any time off, you just don’t get paid. If you’re sick, you have to bring in a doctor’s note even though they don’t offer health insurance. It doesn’t matter that you work full-time. Oh and that day that you requested off a month ago—well, you have to work. Sorry.  But you say that you have formal chef training and a Culinary Arts degree. That’s nice. You still only get $9/hr.

 This isn’t the glamorous life of  the iron chefs on food network with their pretentious dishes. This is real life. Artists don’t get paid.

So when you go out to eat and order your pita bread with hummus and your grass fed filet mignon, remember the one who cooked it to order and arranged it nicely on your plate. Your expensive little dinner is probably more than what they make in a day. And when looking at the unemployment rate in Michigan also consider those people who are working, but getting paid minimum wage without benefits. Go to school, get an education! Some of these people have gone to school and do have an education. And even if they don’t have a degree, doesn’t everyone deserve to get paid what they are worth? If someone wants to work and pay their bills, they should have the opportunity to do so. $7.40/hr does not equal life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It equals slave labor. You could make more prostituting yourself out on C-List—only the authorities have been  cracking down on that sort of thing.





Socialism is Bad MmmmKay

17 09 2009

Marijuana was completely legal until the government said that it wasn’t. Hemp production interfered with cotton farm special interest groups. They demonized Marijuana and coined the catch phrase Reefer Madness! It is still demonized today. Alcohol was legal until Prohibition. It was demonized from 1919 to 1933 when it was miraculously made legal again under government control. Was there anything inherently bad about alcohol that it had to be made illegal? No, the government just wasn’t making any money on it. They had to take it away, make us want it really bad, so much so that we wouldn’t mind if they let us have it back with stipulations—a sin tax.

My point being is that the government will say that anything is bad or wrong or illegal if they are not gaining from it in some way—usually monetarily. This is also true of certain political ideologies. The government plays these little mind games with us, using propaganda to make us think that certain ways of thinking are unpatriotic and dirty. It’s bad, because we say it’s bad. We are being mind-fucked.

Quotes from George Orwell’s 1984:
“And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past’ ran the Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.'”
– George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 3

“Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct; nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary.”
– George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 3

I think we compartmentalize everything and believe that certain things can never touch or co-exist like socialism, capitalism, communism. But they do coexist. They all ebb and flow into each other. Can you really have pure capitalism? Do people really want pure capitalism? Do you now what they would entail? It’s all just Propaganda. We are trained to believe that Socialism and Communism are dirty words.

socialism:
–noun
1.a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the means of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole.

Socialism that exists in America:
Independent Self-sustainable Hippy Communes, Amish living, Churches, Welfare, God’s Kitchen, GoodWill, Non-profit Hospitals, Food Pantries, Salvation Army, Student Grants, Public Schools, Fire Departments Police Department, Public Libraries, Public Parks

Government Worker Programs
Civil Service Retirement Systems
Federal Employee Retirement Systems
Railroad Retirement System

Housing & Urban Development (HUD) Programs
Public Housing
Rental Vouchers & Certificates
Section 8 Housing Vouchers
Shelter Plus Care
Single Room Occupancy
Low Income Home Energy Assistance

Social Security Programs
Social Security (OASDI)
Unemployment Insurance
Temporary Disability Insurance
Medicare
Medicaid
Medicare Prescription Drug Plan
Welfare Programs
Supplemental Security Income
Temporary Assistance for Needy Families
Food Stamp Program
Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC)
National School Lunch Program
School Breakfast Program

communism:
–noun
1. a theory or system of social organization based on the holding of all property in common, actual ownership being ascribed to the community as a whole or to the state.
2. (often initial capital letter ) a system of social organization in which all economic and social activity is controlled by a totalitarian state dominated by a single and self-perpetuating political party.

Marx also detailed the 10 essential tenets of communism, namely:

Central banking system
Government controlled education
Government controlled labor
Government ownership of transportation and communication vehicles
Government ownership of agricultural means and factories
Total abolition of private property
Property rights confiscation
Heavy income tax on everyone
Elimination of rights of inheritance
Regional planning

^Some of these Communist tenets do exist her in the United States. What are you going to do about it? Eliminate public education?

After WWII, everyone got nervous about Socialism and Communism, because they associated these political ideologies with crazy fucked up dictators like Stalin and Hitler. These leaders were fascist totalitarians. Any political leader has the capacity to be corrupted regardless of political ideology. So even though we have socialism in our society today, we don’t call it socialism, because that’s a dirty word.

totalitarian:
–adjective
1.of or pertaining to a centralized government that does not tolerate parties of differing opinion and that exercises dictatorial control over many aspects of life.
2.exercising control over the freedom, will, or thought of others; authoritarian; autocratic.
fascism:
–noun
1. (sometimes initial capital letter ) a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.

Tactics used to demonize Socialisim/Communism:

Red Scare – U.S. witch hunt for Communists. If you were even remotely unpatriotic, you might be considered Communist—thus a threat the U.S. Today we would use the word Enemy Combatant, and they would send you to Guantanomo Bay. This was if you expressed any views in opposition to the government. Forget about Free Speech.

Cold War –USSR vs The West (aka U.S.) U.S. tried to push Democracy and Capitalism onto Communist Russia. This led to the Nuclear Arms Race and Space Race to see who had the bigger dick.

Democracy does not equal Capitalism.

Democracy:
–noun, plural -cies.
1. government by the people; a form of government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised directly by them or by their elected agents under a free electoral system.
2.a state having such a form of government: The United States and Canada are democracies.
3.a state of society characterized by formal equality of rights and privileges.
4.political or social equality; democratic spirit.

Democracy actually sounds like it might have some socialistic properties.

Everyone demonizes everyone else. Conservatives demonize Liberals and Socialism. Liberals demonize Conservatives, Capitalism and Patriotism. I think somebody is purposefully manufacturing rifts between us. There is NO difference between the Republican and Democratic Parties. They are all friends behind the curtain. They have to make it look like they are enemies, so that we will be satisfied–so we can pretend that there’s a choice. But they are all together working toward this secret invisible goal. More money for them.

They want us to fight. That person believes in gay rights and a woman’s right to choose, so they turn left. You believe in God, Guns and a baby’s right to life, so you go right. But those are the issues that the politicians present on the surface. They don’t give a damn about my issues or your issues or the environment or aborted babies. They use those issues to divide us, so they have the control.

Whether we have Capitalism, Socialism or Communism—the people at the top always make the most money and make all the rules. So it really doesn’t make a difference. Not really. There’s too much corruption in government for there to ever be any real change.


capitalism:
–noun
An economic system in which investment in and ownership of the means of production, distribution, and exchange of wealth is made and maintained chiefly by private individuals or corporations, esp. as contrasted to cooperatively or state-owned means of wealth.

Privately controlled could be a mega corporate-conglomeration or an independent small business owner. Capitalism includes both Wal-Mart, your source for cheap plastic crap from China and the farmer selling his crops at the Farmer’s Market. I don’t think the founders of Capitalism ever envisioned Wal-Mart. There is also Free Trade in Capitalism– your job sent to Mexico or China. Where do you see an opportunity for the hard-working man to be a part of this free market? Getting on top? Making lots of money? Big Markets are going to squash the little man or the little woman. You only make money and get on top if you are already making money and on top. But these Corporations have jobs. That means money for the little guy. If we can’t make money on our own, we have to prostitute ourselves out to someone else.

We have all been programmed to believe certain political ideologies are superior to certain other political ideologies. Just as we have been programmed to believe that certain religious beliefs are preferred over certain other religious beliefs.

Remember we have all been Mind-Fucked. Beware of the Thought Police.





My Word for Poop

14 09 2009

Poop. It’s a funny word. You can’t say it without smiling a little. Maybe because it’s everyone’s dirty little secret. Everyone likes to pretend that they don’t have to and that theirs doesn’t stink. Before Kindergarten, I was unfamiliar with the word “poop.” Mom made up her own word for that embarrassing bodily function—“ahkee.” I don’t now how it’s spelled, and I can’t find it on Urban Dictionary. Maybe the word was passed down from Grandma. Dad called it something else “taking a dump” or “shit.” “Taking a dump” doesn’t lend itself very well to conversation when talking about poop as a noun. And “shit” was not an acceptable choice for a Kindergartener. When the subject came up on the bus (because poop is a subject that always comes up), I chimed in with what I knew about “ahkee.” The conversation halted abruptly, turned to laughter and finally ridicule. That’s where I went wrong in school—not by dressing funny or being overweight or asthmatic. It was because I didn’t have the right word for poop. If I could do it over again, I’d say shit instead.

As a nurse, I’m frequently concerned about other people’s poop—whether or not they are pooping and making sure it’s the right kind of poop. I refer to it frequently as a Bowel Movement or B.M, especially to the 65 and older crowd. If I say that to anyone younger than 40, they look at me like I just spoke to them in Mandarin Chinese. Nurses may have to change their terminology soon.

Jacks says that in her line of work, everything she makes turns to shit eventually. That Coconut Risotto, Gourmet Grilled Cheese, and Artichoke & Blue Cheese Bisque—all goes to shit.

I recently spent a three day weekend at the Wheatland Music Festival. No running water. Just lines of blue, plastic port-o-johns from a company called Fresh Start. Each year, the conditions of these port-johns declines as the festival goers become more drunk and stoned. One year someone decided to shit along side of the hole instead of in it. The piles of shit in the blue water rise along with tampons, paper and foreign objects. Don’t’ forget the flies and the abandoned beer bottle sitting to the side. Why would you ever bring a drink into one of those things?

Fresh Start was out there every day with their shit hoses and tanks of blue water. Each truck had a cute little name with a cartoon. Honey Pot, Honey Jar, Honey Trucker, Honey Bucket. I realize that honey is a product of bee shit. But I don’t really want to associate deliciously sweet golden honey with human shit. Not appetizing. No matter what you call it, it’s still shit. There’s nothing cute or delicious about it. Especially as the smell of raw sewage wafts over you as you take a bite of an elephant ear.

Last week, I was watching the news with my parents.
“No one uses the word manure anymore,” Dad said.
“Oh?” I said. Where the hell was he going with this?
“They used the word scat,” he said.
“Are you sure they used that word?” I asked.
He had been watching a news program earlier that week that referred to monkey manure as scat. I informed him that scat is a sexual practice involving shit. One should never have this type of conversation with your parents. Especially before 6am.

I was having a drunk conversation with JW. I joked that at the next Wheatland, I would just wear a diaper like the NASA astronauts. Whenever I would hold up my index finger and have a strained look on my face, everyone would know that I needed a moment of quiet. And as always with poop, the conversation steadily declined to dirtier and more profane subjects. JW asked if I had ever heard of Space Docking. Of course, I immediately thought of space ships, space walks and satellite repair. Apparently this is a sexual practice that involves pooping in someone’s vagina. Can you say E.Coli? We determined that it would have to be a solid turd rather than diarrhea otherwise it could not be called docking.

No wonder Mom told me it was “Ahkee.”