Follow by Email

Saturday, December 24, 2011

What Little I Have to Offer You Should Probably Refuse

             I'm going to concentrate what little mental energy I have to offer you and regurgitate a blog. After all, there is no reason my expurgations should be confined to the topsy turvy waste rooms of large buses. Yes, my unwavering dedication to family manifested itself in all its glory, which only seems appropriate on the Greyhound, but I digress, digest, well, no, not really... moving on. Today's word, children, is "Onomatopoeia," which means words meant to mimic actual sounds. Think "ding-dong," "pop," "hiss" etc. It's really not a difficult concept, but is a word that I have trouble remembering. My advice for the faux intelligent? Don't use the word until you hear someone else use it in public without getting laughed out of the room. Honestly, that word doesn't just roll off of the tongue. Email is safe too. It's a word you might here in a poetry workshop as well. Usually, after everyone is done reading, people actually begin to pay attention and get into criticism and shoptalk. Someone will confidently use this word in a sentence as if they've been using it since the age of six, but it's more likely that it's fresh in their minds because they just read the word somewhere and looked it up. Given the introduction of this blog, you might imagine how I'm tempted to further shares examples of onomatopoeias, but my many sponsors have insisted that I clean up and class up this wretched little blog.
                                         happy holidays,
                                       Ray Ray Montoya

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Synecdoche and Insanity

Some days begin rolling out of bed at 5 PM, throwing off ruffled sheets and in a deep, utteral voice growling words like "syyyyyyynecdochee," or as it's properly spelled "synecdoche."  In years past, when I wading through the width and depth of wordy bullshit that was the study of  an English grad student, it was one of those damn words that I would always come across, look up and forget. It wasn't always that easy to understand how the word was used in context either. My dears, a synedoche is, simply put,  a part that represents the whole. An element that symbolizes the entire. Common examples include a "pair of hands" referring to  a worker, "steel" referring to a gun, "boots on the ground" referring to soldiers, etc. In case you're wondering, the word should be pronounced like "connected city," not "signed douche."

 I very often hear people refer to others not by their minds, faces, or other redeeming features, but by their posteriors, poopers, backsides, booties, butts, asses, bombas, coolos, fannies, tookuses, tushies, cans, glutius maximi, well, I said I would keep this blog above board,so we'll cut the tangent here, only for me to ask you simpletons how often do you hear someone say "Hey, get your ass down here," or "hey, wake your butt up" or the like? This is a familiar synecdoche; indeed it is a rather stupid, common one. I haven't exactly figured out why we think the way we do as a species.

 Synechoches are also found when specific brand names are used to describe a whole category of items. Think Kleenex for any kind of tissue or imagine our less developed brothers and sisters in Texas and the Deep South referring to all carbonated, high fructose corn syrup beverages as "Cokes." Imagine going to a dusty diner somewhere in the Panhandle of Texas and and responding to the pink aproned waitresses' query by saying "I'd like a coke, please," to which she responds "Wut kaaaaaand?" Confused at first, but you reason correctly that she's asking "what kind?" as in what kind of Coke. Savagery, coke is the primary drink and should be the assumed choice. I think I've wasted enough time on this subject for now, so I'll leave you with two completely unrelated questions:
                                                       1 In America, schizophrenics are very often convinced that they're being followed or scrutinized by the C.I.A. This being the case, do British schizophrenics often imagine that they're being followed by MI-6 or MI-5?
                                                        2 A common trope to crime fiction and dramas is that regular beat cops hate internal affairs or professional accountability departments. Is this true? As best I can tell, cops think it should be their right  to give or not to give a  traffic ticket to whomever they please, but that seriously criminal cops deserve any harassment they get. What do you  know about this nonsense?

Friday, December 9, 2011

Ebonics and The Blahs.

 As you might expect of me, I'm lily white, and I have frequent Caucasian moments while working with the clientele and interacting with the neighbors. The other day, two of my students were using the term "boo."  Boo, for those of you more isolated and boring than I am is a word many African Americans use in the same way one might use the term "honey" or "sweetie." It's often used for your lover, but it's acceptable to call other dear ones "boo" as well. Their discussion brought to mind at incident at the ghetto grocery store where some chunky sized brother with a little swagger walked up in line behind an attractive sister and said "What's, boo? To which she admirably replied, "Don't call me that." He said, "Alright" and chuckled, but  she was unrelenting, "no really." Boo politics.

  I most understood Ebonics when I was younger, had more diversity in my life, and listened to more hip-hop . Now, I'm a decade shy of Archie Bunker casting, and I don't understand much of anything contemporary or fresh. In part, Ebonics is meant to give black people a way of maintaining linguistic distinction from their pale brethren. Taken to an extreme, it's a way to avoid being understood by the wrong people. Some Jamaican Rastafarians told me once that their patois was a way of being able to communicate "in a crisis." You know, think white overseers on warm islands with large, formerly enslaved African populations. This probably isn't the whole explanation, but there's no doubt that pinning down the exact meanings of certain words and phrases is difficult, in no small part because of the multiple meanings that words, particularly those words,  convey. Look up the word "Chickenhead" on Urban  if you think origins and meanings are clear. There isn't a well-designed, accessible website for understanding Ebonics for obvious reasons, and I think I'm going to stop writing before I get tempted to try my hand at the dialect-maybe after I've had a few, but no minstrel.

   Which brings me to the next bug in my craw. I'm tiring of this blog, At the very least, I'm tiring of the subject matter. I'm not going to stop. I enjoy having a small following, and I want to make at least some G.D. money off of this, but new themes or topics might be embraced in future blogs. I would like to write about my  constant, miserable battle with OCD and depression and political opinions that I might not express in polite society or around people who I otherwise agree with. That all may or may not make sense later.

                          be well,
                                     Ray Ray Montoya

Friday, December 2, 2011

Over-Exaggerate, Nowadays, and The Alliteration Disaster

I need to class up my Twitter and online-presence, which to me and most of you means not using any unnecessary profanity or directly referencing any bodily functions or sexual situations. That said, don't worry. I'll still used my deranged imagination to take you places you don't want to go. I mean I can't avoid doing that to myself, so how can anyone following my thought process end up in some tropical paradise at the end of the train? Now, where were we?

Grading a paper, I came across the phrase "now day's. Now days are two words people often mistakenly use to inaccurately try to describe this period in human history as completely unique. "Now days, there are all sorts of rude people and some folks don't have the same values as the rest  of us." Gee, because it's not as if some scientists or historians hadn't  pinpointed the year 1803 in America to be the year of complete agreement over right and wrong and a year free of unpleasant people. Old people like to bitch about young people. That's a fact in every civilization for every time period in Homo Sapien Sapien history. Enough cheap bourbon, and enough ranting. The correct way to refer to the contemporary condition in question is "Nowadays." Personally, I find that spelling counter-intuitive. I don't know if it's a "Combination Word," and I don't think it's a Portmanteau, so I'll leave it to my readership to once more embarrass me with the right term for words like "Nowadays," "Heretofore," and "Nevertheless." I didn't take off any points for that error, by the way, if I, an iconoclastic, influential, inspiring,,insurmountable, incalculably intelligent instructor didn't know (although I damn well should have) then I'll give my student a pass.

   As a senile, surly, sottish, stupid, sloth, I miss a lot of what should be obvious. Again, my Twitter homegirl Tonia pointed out to me another redundant word that is.... redundant and to be avoided : "overexaggerate." Obviously, I should have picked this one up in my earlier blog. It would be an oxymoron and impossible to "underexaggerate," and excess description or inflation is implicit in the word exaggerate, so that's another word that must be cast into the lake of fire.
And with that, this tirade is even starting to bore me. Be well!

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Fracking The Ladyparts

              As you know by now, I slum it many ways: I ride the bus, I sleep in opium dens and brothels, and I even drink American beer. However, even after living in any number of bachelor pads with ex-con roommates and associating with cheapskates, predators, and other lowlifes, my least dignified hobby has to be my regular viewing of WWE (professional wrestling) on cable television and pay per views. I, along with millions of others, rarely miss my weekly 4 hours of choreographed and preposterous brawls interspersed with dialog and plotting that shouldn't even hold the interest of an intelligent 5th grader. You're probably correctly thinking that, like my blog, mind, and life in general,  none of this should merit a second thought or mention. You're right, but I use any strange use of language or new word as an excuse to write, so here we go. Twice in the last week,  The Rock, who is probably the biggest celebrity to ever come out of the WWE, has threatened to kick Wrestlemania opponent, John Cena in HIS "ladyparts." At first, it seemed like the typical thoughtless bluster that wrestlers go through in order to hype up their upcoming matches, but then, The Rock, just to make clear that he wasn't merely implying that Cena wasn't very strong , reiterated his threat with a little more detail, "The Rock is going to kick John Cena is his ovulating ladyparts."  Cowardice and weakness, thy names are feminine anatomy, or "ladyparts." Cena and The Rock are both musclebound behemoths, so it's absurd to imply that either one of them aren't physically strong, longsuffering, or masculine. No, The Rock's insulting of John Cena stems from the fact that he's a woman, and women are bad. I don't entirely agree with aforementioned analysis, but either way, great messages being given to the young boys watching the program. Good stuff.

   Let's pick the subject matter's up I.Q. by 20 or 30 points and discuss the word "Fracking." The first time I heard the word "fracking" was when I was watching Battle Star Galactica. The humans of Battle Star Galatica come from worlds like our own, but different. They don't blay basketball; they play "pyramid" ; they don't pray to God; they pray to the gods; their paper is roundish and seems to have wifi, and when they want to talk about crude sexual activity or swear, they say...."frack" or "fracking." Unfortunately, environmentalists and fossil fuel extractors had to ruin the fun by using the word in a more serious and realistic way.  According to Wikipeda, source of all knowledge, fracking also refers to making pressurized cracks deep beneath the surface of the earth in order to extract petroleum and natural gas. I am politically on the left side of the spectrum, so while I don't quite understand the problems with fracking, (nor do I care to) I know that I'm supposed to be angry about it. As with creationism and global warming,  I have only a superficial understanding of the debate, so I'll just watch for familiar faces and pick my side in those fights based on who I do and do not like.

                                                   Ray Ray Montoya

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Grunions of The Portmanteau

 In my last blog, my limited vocabulary failed me once more and the dear dreaded genius handed me the dunce cap once more, along with the definition of the word  "Portmanteau" which, according to Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge, is used to describe a linguistic blend, namely "a word formed by blending sounds from two or more distinct words and combining their sounds and meanings into one word. When I asked my friends, they came up with examples ranging from the vulgar "shart," to the zoological "coydog." Wikipedia, all hail Wikipedia,  has a decent list of them, but I've already covered the funniest in my uninformed, not so humble  opinion.

For all the good it does me as a teacher,  I always train my disciples, er, students, to use context and prior knowledge to better understand what they read. In my own case, brimming with excitement over expanding my vocabulary to include "Portmanteau," I though I had discovered a new one in the word "grunion." Mr Dumbass, (an angrier,stupider version of Mr. PotatoHead) yours truly, thought it meant "Ground Onion" or something to that effect. No, in fact, grunion isn't a portmanteau. A grunion is a fish that lays its eggs on sandy beaches, and burries them under the sand. In a few days, the tide washes the flailing and flopping larvae back into the ocean from whence they ultimately came. Before you forget, get a growl in your throat, find a loved one, and chase them around, saying and growling nothing but the word "grunion."

Friday, November 18, 2011

Compound Fracture of The Mind-Portmanteau

If you take remedial reading classes, and I know all of you do, you may learn that that terms  compound words refers to words like breakfast, launchpad, dustcart, switchblade, or any other single word that combines two words. There may be something insightful or interesting in exploring such words, but I'll  be damned if I can find it.

No, as of late, my unwholesome obsessions have been on the combination word-which is hardly an authoritative or official term, (No Merriam Webster backing here, but can't I make a word and give it to the urban dictionary?) but for my purposes it refers to words that combine parts of two words. For example, think of the word liger, which refers to the offspring of a tigers and lions.  This list I've been able to come up with is as follows:
                        1 jorts
                        2 skort
                        3 brunch
                        4 spork

These are ugly words. They sound like the names of northern European men as recalled by American women who want on vacations so many years ago and had summer trysts with enchanting, accented men, but I digress.
 Ahh, I've thought of another one, but it sounds more like an African name to me: "chillaxin," you know,  the pointless word the kids use to indicate that they are either chilling or relaxing? I suppose these words may have the purposes, but I'm dragging my heels while being pulled forward by the inevitable forward progress of Father Time. It is, unfortunately, most difficult to bury your head in the sand while being hauled down the trail.

Addendum: I'm not being modest or self effacing (I'm too insecure for that) when I tell you that most of my friends are more intelligent than I am. I consdier myself slightly more intelligent than the average American, which may not be saying much. Apparently the word I've been awkwardly fumbling for is portmanteau- this is the word refers to combinations of two differen word sounds into one word. I could revise this entry, but this is just goverment work for now.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Burning Your Hubby

  Hey bumlookers,

     I wrote about inflated, excessively long words in the last blog, and since I lack creativity and enjoy being a sponge, I thought I'd blog about a friend's observation. He mentioned that the words "flammable" and "inflammable" have no practical difference in their usage. He's right. The word "inflammable" evolved into "flammable" when  some angry firemen insisted that they didn't want inbreds and illiterates burning themsleves because they thought the word "inflammable" meant "unable to burn." Thus, stateside anyway, we switched the word "flammable." Grammar nerds and Brits be damned!] For once, I'm not just lying or transcribing my kereosene huffing induced hallucinations : you can verify this for yourself at the link I've provided courtesy of "Grammar Girl."

So what other rehashed, repeated ideas will I recycle today? Words I don't like.  Another drop in the bucket of hate. I hate the word "hubby." To me, "hubby" is one of those words middle class women who sell Tupperware and Mary Kay products use to remind you that : 1 They area absolutely normal, perky, and upbeat and 2 They're married. They aren't like those single, unfortunate women with less status. They're married and respectable! They made their bones and took their prize in the game of life. Yeah, I'm a bitter son of biscuit, but I'm not so lazy or lame that I find the word "husband" just too long or formal to use in public.
                                                 Ray Ray Montoya

P.S. If you want an alternative to "hubby" check out the Bitches in the Burbs blog- use the term "WH" which can stand for "wonderful husband" or "worse half"according to how well he's been behaving.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Hot Air Balloons

             Many people, including yours truly, enjoy displaying word power by using a 25 cent word word when a single syllable word would do. Some words just sound good and we represent ourselves with our choices of words, but, sometimes, this principle of using big words where little ones will do is just plain stupid. Many jail-house "scholars," low-end storefront preachers, and uneducated celebrities seem to enjoy using words with just one syllable too many. They use these words when clear alternatives that are less of a mouth full are obvious.  

 The offenders:  1 Resiliency:  If you're talking about the quality of people, creatures, or "whatevers" to keep going no matter what kind of injury they've suffered, then why not just use the word Resilience?  Both words mean exactly the same thing.

                        2 Relevancy: This word shouldn't even be used by prison lawyers standing before judges. "Yo' Honor, I maintain my previous murders have no relevancy....naw that's stupid, relevance..."  Again, there is no difference in meaning between this word and its fraternal twin, Relevance.

                        3 Economical : Before you word enthusiasts attempt to poke my eye with your index finger, I need to state that I am aware that these words, which are both adjective variations on the nouns economics or economy, carry different connotations. Economical often means "thrifty" or "efficient." Economic simply refers to the the financial workings of the world. Nonetheless, many fail to make the distinction, so we see word abominations like "economical factors."

                       4  Irregardless: This word is just stupid. If you mean to say "not regarding," then pray tell me what exactly is wrong with "regardless"? This is the kind of word your redneck co-worker who was listening to Rush and now wants to share the conservative gospel with you uses, " Rush says irregardless of how much plutonium we release into the atmosphere, we couldn't possibly, blah, blah, blah,."

Avoid the false sense of word power that comes with unnecessary syllable and a stupid word.


Friday, October 28, 2011

Courtesy and The Gobsmack.

I wrote before about the misnomer "courtesy call," which is to say an annoying  phone call, usually made to you in your own home, where some stranger asks you for something. I think Corporate America is most responsible for pimping out the word "courtesy." Wal-Mart doesn't have inter-store phone lines or intercoms, but instead has "courtesy phones." Meijer's doesn't provide customer service stations, but refers you to the
"courtesy desk." Those pull-down walls you change your baby's diaper's on are called, if memory serves, "courtesy tables." I don't know if those are the exact particulars, but you get the gist. The wise, often- cited (in this blog ) word observer once heard heard heard Wal-Mart management send maintenance over to the grocery section to clean up a "courtesy spill."  I've seen some patrol cars with the motto "courtesy and service." In an increasingly   irony proof world full of misnomers, Orwellianisms, and "oxymorons," it won't be long before police brutality victims have to file lawsuits against "courtesy officers." How much footage "peace officers" beating the incapacitated have you seen?

Onto less ominous issues: the word "gobsmacked." This word makes me think of getting spat on or have something sticky thrown on to me. The "Free Dictionary" says the word means "to be utterly astounded." It apparently has nothing to with slime or really good heroin.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

The Fear of Words

I read a story years ago, in one of those "News of The Weird" sections of a newspaper that some man somewhere shot his girlfriend for saying the wrong words. "Well, duh," you're thinking, "words are provocative." You aren't on the same page with me yet. He shot his girlfriend for saying the words "Philadelphia" or "snickers."  Take a beat to contemplate that. Now, don't get angry with  me, but those may not be the actual words, but they are illustrative of how random and noninflammatory (to most of us) the words that caused the violence were.  In this particular case, which I can't find any reference to, the man thought his girlfriend was about to say one of the verboten words and knowing that the best defense is a good offense then shot her.  Tasteless humor aside, I would appreciate any link to this case anyone can find.

The most commonly used term for the fear of words is "logophobia." It's hard to find any interesting or informed commentary on the psychological aspect of this fear, instead people see it through a political lens as  a fear of free speech. It's shouldn't come to anyone as a surprise that words like "nigger" or "kike"  provoke a strong emotional response. Similarly, it stands to reason that the word "pain" itself as well as words associated with physical pain would dredge up  bad memories and associations. I'm far more interested in the idiosyncratic fears of random words. I've already written a blog about words that I hate, but in truth those words, at worst, are about as uncomfortable to me as slightly  loud music or a dog slobbering on me-I can cope. I am far more interested in people who have medical conditions or genuine phobias associated with certain words. There are some who claim that phobias of names, long Greek inspired words, and talking itself are extant. As one stupid blogger, I'm not qualified to speak on whether or not I think these are medical conditions, but I believe the fear to be real. So, I'm going to put the ball in your court: do you know where I could find the news article I mentioned earlier? Do you know of anyone who jumps out windows upon hearing the word "gazelle"? I'm searching!

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Pithy Observations, free and worth every penny.

                Hey folks,
It's Montoya, and when I'm not ogling the former Secretary of Defense (Hubba Hubba, Donald Rumsfeld) I'm making pithy observations about words:
 1 Eating at a Chinese restaurant the other day, I noticed a feline icon dubbed the  "Business Cat." Yes, because when you think of good successful businesses, you think of cats. Asians are, of course, a feline and inscrutable race, and this icon was obviously a graven image of one one of their  Asian gods. In the not too distant future, when your children are speaking Chinese, any businessman with ambition will have to join the Cult of The Business Cat and pay monetary and verbal tribute, "All hail the business cat!"

2 Ivoronics: What Ebonics is to blacks, Ivoronics is to whites. I guess we should think of the accents of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Minnesota, Wisconsin, surfers, skateboarders, and gamers.While I have trouble coming up with too many specific examples of Ivoronics, I'm pretty sure it involves saying the word "dude" a lot and occasionally telling others to "die in a fire... man."

3 Food Insecurity: Orwell, eat your heart out. This term is the U.S. governments way of  saying "you, just like a lot more of your fellow citizens than we're willing to admit, can't afford to feed yo'self. Guess, who's headed to the food pantry/ soup kitchen/ social services office?" This blog ain't much? Fuck you, man; it's all I got! Please imagine that last line said with the voice of "Cheech Marin."

Saturday, October 15, 2011

The Small Minds of Men

        You know there is a wold of tics, thoughts, hang-ups, hang-ons that really mean nothing, but somehow manage to keep me up at night and interfere with my sorely needed beauty sleep. George Carlin called them the "thoughts that kept me out the better schools." Strictly speaking, words like water, bread, fruit, cheese, don't have plurals. We might ask for a "glass of water," a "slice of cheese" or something like that, but if we are going to be grammar slaves, then we really shouldn't pluralize many of the words that we do. That said,  it's convenient and more and more acceptable to do so these days to use words like "breads" and "cheeses" or whatever. On the other hand, it doesn't seem particularly useful or helpful to use words like "shrimps" or "mooses" in common language. I would also expect careful language from specialists. The other night, safely locked away from active and interesting people and in front of the television in a friend's living room, I was watching some History Channel type documentary on a series Red Sea shark attacks. A marine biologist speculated that people had been feeding the "fishes" that sharks normally preyed upon, and for that reason, the sharks had been closer to people and in some cases were used to being fed themselves by reckless divers. What rankled me was that the specialist repeatedly (at least in my head) used the word "fishes." Women, children, and ESL students, please know that there are no "mooses," "deers," "shrimps," and there are sure as hell no "fishes!"

  Whatever, it is all context, and language is a vehicle, not a law, and this is boring me already. Certain subjects don't seem to bore human beings if the number of words for them is any indication of interest or obsession though:                                                            1

sex/ sex acts (any verb can used to imply sex)
                                                                           2 masturbation-some of the idioms and euphemisms are positively genius-I like anything that references bishops.
                                                                           3 genitalia- human male genitalia is the source of all that is just, noble, strong, rational, and productive in this world.  References to female genitalia are uncouth and vulgar just like the portal itself.
                                                                           4 Feces/piss/ disposal of said things and related products.  I'm not going to talk about this, but we're all familiar with the idiots who like to update on their last elimination with a euphemism that makes our skin crawl more than if they had just been plainspoken.

                                                                            5 intoxication- Seriously the verbs, idioms for being intoxicated are richly variegated and are even particular to the substance. I love the idiom for opiate use, "chasing the dragon."
                                                                            6 Eating

                                                                           7 Fighting- I'm always impressed with adults that discuss their fighting prowess at length-classy!

  Think about the alternative ways of describing these activities, 1-7, that you know of. Then ask yourself if you know that names of your great grandparents, neighbors, the capitals of African nations. Hell, I don't even know what's happened to half of my family, am not up on the politics of Togo, and I'm glad not to know the neighbors too well.  In some ways, we aren't but a blink in eternity ahead of the knuckle draggers, feces flingers, savage tribes that were our predecessors. Hell, we probably invented 50 new words to describe gorging ourselves on woolly mammoth carcass and then having orgies afterwards.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

A Fun Sized Blog

                       Keep'em shakin, ladies!
  Very quickly,

            Have you ever noticed that when candy is sold in the smallest portions or units, it gets referred to as "fun-sized"? I guess that has more of a ring to it than "very cheap product." Truly fun sized candy bars, sodas, pretzels, whatever, would be about the size of a small child or family pet (other things which make for great eating).

   Jimmy boy, little Jimmy, whoever the hell  you are.... You're too old to refer to the long standing science fiction institution known as "Star Trek" as "Star Track." If "Star Track" had been a show, it would have been about inter-stellar shuttle races around the galaxy:

       Announcers: In the 20th century, competitive racing occurred on the track. In the 23rd century, space jocks race around the GALAXYYYYYYYY (fade out and cheesy disco drum beat picks up). The show might have all the actors, but just a new focus on "space-jocks" racing their speed shuttles throughout the galaxy in pitched inter-stellar competition. Kirk would be the racing boy-wonder, Mccoy a surly bartender who shared folk wisdom with the young racers, Spock would be the high-school kid at the library who shared theories on how to improve the aerodynamics space shuttle("Thanks Spock, my racer wouldn't fly half so fast without you, kid") and Mr Scott.... would still be the mechanic, essentially.... enough of this.

    Another thing, ignorami, please don't use the non-existent term "expresso." I have already ground away 7 teeth this year as a result of hearing this word and my dentist says at this rate I'll be infantile and smooth mouthed by the year's end. The word is "espresso." If "expresso" was a word, then according to my very precise and scientific calculations, it would either refer to: 1 An Italian Sports Car meant specifically for highway driving or 2 A low cost, unreliable package mailing service meant to compete with UPS, RHL, Fedex or the like.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

A Misanthrope and his Misnomers

 There are some words and noun phrases that are either inadvertently ironic or are straight-up oxymorons. I have just written one of the ugliest sentences in the English language. In all seriousness, between betting on cockfights, watching pro-wrestling and panhandling outside of the Department of Social Services, I contemplate and get irritated with the inaccuracy of certain terms-although these aren't the words I hate; that's an earlier post. So with no further boring introduction, the list of misnomers begins:

1Dignity Pants: I can appreciate that people lose control of their bowels, bladders, pipes, valves, vents, and other openings, but to me to me adult diapers and the word "dignity" have no relationship whatsoever. Do I have to say it? There's nothing dignified about dignity pants! Grown folks wearing diapers, God bless them, should refer to their layer of protection as their "unmentionable underpants" or something similar.

2 Gentleman's Club: For all of you heathen foreigners, this is the American euphemism for strip clubs or nude show-bars. A bunch of budding perverts, young adults, matured perverts, and drunken bachelors flock to an establishment to gawk at a woman as she embarrasses her current and future family by fucking a pole and playing with herself in front of hundreds of hungry eyes. The "gentlemen" place dollar bills in their zippers, mouths,wherever, anticipating that the sex worker will pry the bill away from them with her lips. Is this what comes to mind when you think of a classy sorta fella? These places should be called "Voyeur's Clubs" or "Slut Venues."

3 Adult Beverages: I find this term often abused when referring to saccharine sweet wine coolers, cheap,weak malt liquor, or even Boone's Farm soda-pop/bum-wine. All of those drinks are preferred by adolescents who are getting used to drinking booze. Seriously, drinkers with any kind of mature taste or 'sense for drink' do not rush to the liquor to celebrate their distinction with a Mickey's 40 Oz. You know, the kind that leaves that ring of green around your lips because the cheap glass bleeds its color? If there's too much fruit or not enough strong flavor, then the alcoholic beverage is probably best referred to as an "adolescent beverage."  Along similar lines, should porno magazines and movies be referred to as "adult magazines or movies"?  I think "high-school boy whack-off material" might be more appropriate.

4 Courtesy Calls: Simply put, the courteous do not call your house, at anytime, asking for money. Imagine a liquor store beggar walking up to you and asking, "Could I do you the courtesy of taking some of your pocket change?" Courtesy calls, in the context of telemarketing, are the worst kind of oxymoron-most telemarketing firms realize this by now and don't use the term "courtesy call."

Gentlemen Callers: Again, I'm hung up on abuse of the word "gentlemen." Having a man come over to your house does not mean you are expecting a "gentleman." No, although you may be planning to play fan waving, sweet tea serving southern belle hostess to a two-time convicted armed robber whose hobbies consist of text-messaging, polishing his grill, and arguing with his other women, you are most certainly not entertaining a gentleman. I would go as far as to say that if  this guy, "Tron," is a gentleman, then anyone is a gentlemen. If anyone is a gentleman, then no one is a gentleman.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

A Truly Shameless Blog

  Before the vulgarity and body humor commence, I feel the need to announce that my mother claims to have purchased an android. If my mother has truly purchased an android, then I expect to have an artificial manservant at my disposal ready to perform my calculations and do my bidding. One that performs like Mr Data from Star Trek will do just fine, but I digress.

My great American forebears did not have bodily functions. The virtuous lady Puritans did not menstruate or go 'on the rag, ' but rather they had a "period." Similarly, their wholesome male descendants (it goes without saying not the women) did not have use for toilets, but instead bathed constantly by going "to the bathroom." Cleanliness in next to Godliness. To this day, our grandparent's dogs merely water the bushes or "make dirt." Americans don't have intestines or orifices, and neither does our culture have a tradition of bodily decay or mortality. Our European heritage at first led us to refer to the largest of rooms in good sized houses as the "funeral parlor," but soon we learned that dealing with our loved ones in their final respite is a task best left to strangers, so we converted our more spacious rooms into "living" rooms. In summary, we live forever now, and American women do not have bowel movements or flatulence. If they do, it is, thankfully, a well kept secret.

Since were on this most mundane and earthy of tangents, I need to relate some confusion I experienced lately. Recently, someone told me she had to go to the gynecologist, so that the gynecologist could perform a rectal examination. Vagina is a nice place that I have visited many times, but as it is shrouded in  feminine mystery, I still opt not to live there. This latest of revelations that the v-j doctor is probing other ports of exit in the nether regions is only further confusing my mental map of that neighborhood. What is the vagina doctor doing with your butt?

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Steal This Blog (copyright rules apply)

Hunter S. Thompson said "When going gets weird, the weird turn pro" or something to that effect and working on 3 hours or so of sleep with a healthy dose of neuroticism, I think I can fit the bill. So far now, we'll put aside crazy family members, insolent students, and neighborhood association plots, and commence to blog.
 Dear readers, inspiration has not poured out in abundance these last few days, but I  think I can still share some amusing word observations with you in the next few sentences. So stop looking for mirages, wring your hands no longer, I am back. For you.

1Dates without Stones: My bitter rival and sometimes battlefied opponent, Les Floyd, took a break from weightier matters to note that a package of fruit he was about to get into read "dates without stones." Does this mean unarmed suitors, a period in the earth's history before solidification, gelding half-men? Only you, the reader, know for sure.

2 Robotic Fish: I glanced through a local university's student newspaper only to see that the local whiz-kids and mad scientists had been engineering "robotic fish." I've warned repeatedly that  nothing good would come out of allowing children to watch the The Transformers and this only bears out my observation. Soon, those robotic fish will evolve into robo-amphibious ground dwelling creatures and in a matter of centuries into artificial simians. You will wake up one day and speak robot.

3 Spontaneously Combusting Pensioners: Harry Brown really would have chased the thugs out of Lodon like the pied piper drove the rats out of Ireland if he could "human torch" himself at will. Apparently, retired pub-dwelling Englishmen have been quietly sitting around with other old men, nursing their beers, and then "Whooosh," bursting into flames. I haven't heard or read about this personally, but some guy on Twitter said it was happening and that's good enough for me.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Rolling with the Apostles.

In what will go down as one of the most obvious statements in history, I hereby declare that the words we choose reflect our opinions and values. The unique acquaintance of mine who I've referenced before on here has his own individual names for just about everyone he regularly interacts with. He refers to me as "Carnophage" which is ironic since I don't eat the flesh. He calls my mother "Dr Martinez," his lover (who is female) Emmet and another mutual acquaintance "The DARPA Chief." On my cellphone, I have him listed as "Troutface." I feel like I've said enough on this matter, and I will only add that there is some kind of a rationale behind all these appellations( a rationale as unique as he is), and that's all ye know and all ye need to know.
The pastor of  a church I go to and appreciate uses his words in attempt to reach younger generations and remain "culturally fluid." I enjoy his sermons immensely, but there have truly been some verbal atrocities that have found their way into his message. A few week ago when discussing Paul's conflict with some other early church leaders he used the phrase "all up in his grill" as if to suggest Paul was all up in "Jesepheus" grill. Discussing Paul's friendship with some traveling missionary or servant he said they were "BFFs." It culminated in what I thought was the final mistake when said God's attitude to those demanding miracles as a condition of belief  was "Homey don't play that." We, the children of the nineties, are getting old. I seem to remember in his latest sermon about emphasizing the centrality of Jesus and the Resurrection that he used the words "rad" and "neato," but as a traumatized English major I blocked it out.
   Sadly, I have no great word combinations discoveries to offer this entry, save one: "Italian Bookhunter." Please note that the Italian Bookhunter is not to be confused with his close relative the "Portugeese Libros Aficianado."

Saturday, September 17, 2011


     Welcome back to the meatpacking corner of the blog. Last time, my shameless free association for a blog was likened to making sausage- a lot of unwholesome ideas being wrapped into an unhealthy meat. I don't want be repetitive, so we'll say that this is the written equivalent of making hot dogs.
     Teaching the Parts of Speech to older students is not its own reward, but it occurred to me that it would present an opportunity to wreak intellectual havoc. If I were to ask beginning or ESL students what part of speech the word "God" falls under, they would probably agree that it is a noun.
 I would respond,"A noun is a person, place, or thing though." They would get demoralized quickly.
     "In western culture, we really don't believe that the God of Abraham is a man-Mormons excepted- and obviously we don't believe God is a place." A lone student may argue that God is a spirit, and a spirit is a thing, but if questioned he may not feel comfortable describing God as a "thing." By most accounts, God has a character or personality, but He is more than that too. As spirit-which is a thing- and more, God would qualify as a noun, but if we have to invent a new part of speech for Him, I'd like credit.
   Now, I'd like to address something far less interesting and relevant: interesting word combinations I heard this week.
1 Meccan Idolators: These Meccans were the Arabs in the city of Mecca before Mohamed and Islam had completely dominated the Arab world and Middle East. I don't care about that-I like the metallic, vibratory sound of the words "Meccan Idolators."
                              2 Tackle Box: I guess the idea of a box holding a "tackle" is an amusing concept. The verb/noun tackle is a violent one. I'd heard of tackle boxes for fishermen, but I hadn't heard it used to refer to an area on the American football field until just today-I guess its something to do with a quarterback's danger zone?

Lastly, one more thought on the binding power of names: In the English language, it is wildly inappropriate to name your son "Jesus." Similarly, speakers of German, English, or other European languages should not name their offspring "Adolph."

Friday, September 16, 2011

The Name Theory and Other Brilliance (If you take this seriously, then consider donating to my charity)

  I had, perhaps have, a friend with several unorthodox, or maybe just irrational, ideas about the laws of the universe. One such law was that the women of Ohio were more likely to share their favors with male suitors than the women of Indiana or Michigan. Yes, the women of Ohio realized that their state was pretty similar in many respects to their other Midwestern neighbors, so in an effort to show them up, they put more out. Some good thinking going on out there.

  There were other theories, but the best the best gift the world of arts&letters was the notion that the names of people were somehow their titles or personality descriptions. I remember he had a particular hang up about women named "Alice" and was convinced that they were prickteases meant to sow chaos among the males of the species. "Pauls" tended to be intellectual and paternal in demeanor. "Cathies,"  we agreed, were " a little slutty, a little nutty."  "Steves" could be hyper, nervous and sometimes treacherous. "Jasons" were often overstated and beligerent, but not without principal and conscience.

   As mentioned, under this theoretical conceit, names could also be functional or descriptive. Carnival barkers and scam artists refer to their dupes as "marcs" ; consequently, suckers or people who look like idiots are "Marks." Honest people are frank-just follow the JustCallMeFrank blog if you need proof(  Trust me, our idea only gets more illuminating. What do you think now of women who are named "Candy"? Names like "Hattie," "Mildred," and "Bubbles" tell you that you're interacting with a geriatric female. Osama Bin Laden, John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Norman Collins, they all tell me that the great writer of the universe intended to give us some prior warning when we're dealing with psychos-watch out for those known by three names. An extra name is to titles what an extra chromosome is to genetics-often a sign of extreme aggression. My father married two women with the same first name, and my Uncle went out with several women with that name as well. Clearly in their primitive limbic minds "Jane"=woman. Aurora, of course, means you're as radiant as a star, celestial yourself perhaps.

 This friend read things into labels and names of businesses as well. Only a woman woman of questionable virtue could own "Kim's Party Store" and taverns known as the Wooden Nickle or Back Door would not escape his notice.  A bar named "Buddy's" seemed  rather pathetic to him-as if asking for friends. We both agreed that bottled water called "DNA" was highly suspect-neither of us wanted to drink water that contained DNA samples. I do miss the conversations with my co-author of these pithy observations, but brilliance only begets brilliance, and by now I'm sure there are new batshit crazy chapters waiting to be written.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Matrimonial Ineloquence

 This summer I attended 2 times as many weddings than I had ever attended before. Yes, I attended 3 weddings this summer as the office arm candy of the Bible Thumper. Weddings are meant to remind other families of their relative paucity in both family and monetary resources. On of these weddings was held in some idyllic church retreat's cathedral. Another was held at a prestigious conference center on the University of Michigan's Ann Arbor campus. The last wedding was held at country-club in one of Detroit's mega-rich suburbs. No, the world of large families of tall, strapping Aryan men or healthy young women, open bars, outdoors weddings, 10 layered wedding cakes, gourmet dinners, champagne, post 4-course meal pizza is not mine. I appreciate the generosity of my lady's kin and comrades. Hell, I didn't even know them from Adam and Eve, but they still picked up the tab for my vegetarian fettuccine and Cuba libre (s). I'm not here to whine about my small and impoverished tribe, critique the white people dancing at the reception or badmouth the brides.
  No, the usual fascination with words carries over to the toasts of the maid of honor and best man at one of these weddings. It seems to me that one would not necessarily choose a close personal friend, but rather an eloquent and diplomatic spokesperson when it comes to significant toasts. Wedding roles have to be chosen carefully. For instance, your ex has no place at your wedding, lest they joke with your new spouse, "If memory serves, you're going to have quite a night tonight, but don't forget, I hit that first! Hahaha." Neither should your pearls be tossed before bride swine.   An excerpt:
  "Ironically enough, we're both women (off to a great start)" The maid of honor then relates that both she and the bride disliked each other upon first meeting-mainly because they both misinterpreted each other's disdain for a mutual acquaintance. Once they decide it was someone else they didn't like, the maid of honor discovered that "we both love Red Bull and Vodka, Jagerbombs." Later, she related the absolutely heartwarming story of how one morning the bride brought her a Burger King Whopper. She knew "it was love."  In sum, they both love drinking, Burger King, music and God. Unique as snowflakes. By this point in the rant, the rest of the table assented to my earlier assertion that the made of honor was blitzed, bombed,buzzed, crunk, crushed, destroyed, En ditzed, hammered, inebriated, sauced, soaked, tanked, tipsy, toasted. The last thing I remember tuning into hear was that she hadn't always liked the groom, but that she wished them well. The man of honor was equally poetic. "I would say she doesn't deserve to have you, but anyone who would have you deserves you." Careful readers will note that the subtle wordplay changes the toast from praise to an "aw shux" insult.
   Later on, the first words the bride comes over to tell me she had secured a vegetarian meal for me. "Oh by the way, we made sure they made a vegatarian meal for you. You're welcome." I didn't know how to respond. "I don't know what to say. I mean I didn't event to come, but my girlfirend insisted."

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Sausage and Schite

   I am not all that familiar with how sausage gets made, and it's certainly not a regular part of my diet, but I'm lead to believe that the sausage making proccess is a particularly grotesque one. Using the elasctic skin of intestines or other similarly textured meat, the butchers then use the stretched out rinds as casing for other meats-lips, headcheese, ligament flesh, and all sorts of other savory delights stripped away from the cows, pigs, chickens, ostriches, gorillas, stray dogs and other victims that make up America's disgusting meat industry. For good measure, rat feces and sawdust probably gets included into the stuffing.

  This blog is the casing or container of my week's worth of mental shit. I love odd word combinations, and I stumbled into one earlier this week. I went back to school at the age of 25, and I finished grad school at the relatively geriatric age of 30. These damn kids, like me, were required to get a university issued laptop. Unlike me, these kids learned how to deftly exploit the computer; think Napster, Ipods, burning CD's and software, webcams, sending images and info back and forth. I remember hearing the younger, thinner little ones get excited some 6 years or so ago about Facebook and Myspace. My improv troupe participated in an icebreaker that  involved pairing off according to wether or not you had one of those "books" or online "photoalbums"-at least that's what I thought they were until I found out about social networks. Knowing that this is the level I operate on, then you shouldn't be surprised that I was delighted and intrigued to discover the word combination "otterbox." I laughed outloud hearing people casually discussing their "otterboxes." Otters are funny animals, and to the best of my knowledge they don't store possesions in boxes. Box has a few connotations, but I didn't think people were referring to rodent vaginas or especially hairy bushes. Someone had to burst my bubble and tell me just what they are. It wasn't the only amusing word combination I heard.
"Python Tutorials." I still don't know exactly what a "Python Tutorial" is. but I know what I want it to mean. I'd prefer to think it had nothing to do with heavy machinery, but instead was the male equivalent for kagel woman tightening, or something similar to Pilates or "the rack." The poet Sir Mix A Lot said something on his album having "the long black snake; just gotta make it move. Know what I mean?" I think if you have python tutorials, you do.
   Lastly, a term I know and understand, but love to say, "Raw foodist." I love the sounds of the words "Raw Foodist." Try saying it with a growl in your voice or with true invective, almost angrily.  I don't care  much about every new diet and trend that I can't afford to partake in, but I still love reading about raw foodists, because Raw is War, and, for me, saying "raw foodist"  is as satisfying as as growling.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Is Horny, Baby

I wish I had reason to keep a diary; moreover, I wish that every diary entry ended with the words "and then we had sex."  Like you, I lead a life that isn't generally worth writing  ( or blogging ) about. Yes, believe it or not, nobody wants to hear about your yummy vegan brownies, bland as chicken feed polenta patties or your other culinary "innovations."  I don't care about your child's confusion over the reality of Transformers, and your hackneyed politics is boring, provincial, and and pre-packaged. The internet is also saturated, steaped, and dripping with the hot, oily words of erotica writers as well. I'd unfairly malign them as well, but most of the foul-mouther tramp talking cyber harlots I've met have been much more literary, sweet, and interesting than the average Jane. It stands to reason. Humans fixate on sex. Sex is interesting. I've seen all the silver screen celebrities fuck, but what my neighbors are doing is far more interesting-bedroom walls are the last boundaries in some ways.

Certainly, I don't like pornographic material very much, and much of what passes for erotica is low-grade smut-to me, the personal revelation is interesting-the mechanics are sticky and unappetizing. Gentlemen never tell, but their diaries (not mine) do.  A few summers ago, working out east at a resort in the Poconos, my friend young Mr. "Harold" had quite a summer. Harold was thin then, with thick, curly hair, at a time in his life where he didn't say much, and his Uncle lent him a convertible for the summer. He worked as a waiter, and he mostly worked with Eastern Europeans who either waited tables or worked in the kitchen. The convertible hinted at wealth, survival, the dumb corn fed looks hinted at citizenship. He had a good summer. Most of the time, he said nothing, but alcohol soaked Mustang runs down bumpy country roads were an attractive prospect to young women who'd been on their feet all day serving fat, rude New Yorkers Swiss steaks and Budweisers. Oh hell, my point is he fucked a lot that summer. He fucked a lot of women he wouldn't been given the time of day from otherwise, and most of these women had not mastered English idioms, articles, or any other nuances. Mid-coital malaprops, here we come!
    Heard in the throes of passion was, "I'm chickenhead, baby, I'm chickenhead. Wery bad girl!" Equally as tasteful were some play referencing home countries. One woman, while removing her top, one "cup" at a time said "I'm from two countriesCzech (one breast revealed) and Slovokia (another breast revealed).  The other woman guilty of poor world play was from Hungary. I'll let you speculate on her pun.
Another occasion, there was some grumbling between two lovers over the Slavic tempress sharing her milkshake with all the boys at the bar. Exasperated, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, he bought me a drink so I gave him a head."
  This is as graphic as I want to get, but at one point, taking her from behind, she yelled out "Yes, take me like tiger, baby, tiger." Things got a little more bizzare when, for unknown reasons, Ms. Bulgaria yelled out "hit us harder! harder!"
  Finishing up, an appropriate enough transition, things would get even better. "Oh, my cat is happy, sweety." Yet the very last garbled, misapplied idiom is the best in my opinion. With the earth about to move, she yells out "I think you're coming on to me."

                         Good night, Kids.


Wednesday, August 31, 2011


Internal dialogue Voice 1: You should write another blog. This is the longest you've gone without updating, and the people who feel sorry enough for you to read you will wonder what's up.

Internal dialogue voice 2:  Nah, nobody gives two moldy pillows, and besides, what is there to write about?

Internal dialogue voice 1: Well, you wrote that you were working on a blog about the words writers and people (note the distinction) love, and three people including one of your favorite  bloggers deigned to respond to you. Relatively speaking, that's a lot attention for your sorry ass!

 Internal dialogue voice 2: Fuck you, voice 1, my sorry ass is your sorry ass! Besides, ever since we've been on the exercise bike.....

    Abort Abort Abort (too much self reference)

  If I didn't find words and certain word combinations fun, then I simply wouldn't write. Some words provide cheap thrills either because they relate an interesting story  or because the word itself is exciting, appealing to my prurient nature. If it weren't for someone I know, I probably never would've bothered to think about favorite words, but because of him, I'm conscious of my verbal and diction preferences. This person spends a lot of time thinking about words that titillate him. He may cleverly insert the word "launchpad" into a conversation about aerodynamics or the beginnings of careers. If only he moved to Great Britian, then gone would be the days of the "garbage truck," instead he would experience the constant rapture of the word "dustcart." There are other words and other effects, but I don't wish to break confidences.

  My own favorite words are clearly indicative of what psychologists term "being fucked up."  To wit:

                                          Defenestrate: this is nothing but  pretty word for throwing things, including "people things" through windows.
                                           Labial: As you know, the labia refers to the "lips" of the vagina, but this word honestly makes me think of flowers-although flowers and vaginas have had symbolic connections.             
                                            Abbatoir:  A two-bit word for slaughterhouse. Ten will get you one it's French in origin.
                                            Misanthrope:  Did I say French words? This word means one who hates humanity-without grace, that's me.

  Between my frequent drug use and Golden Girl marathons, I asked some writes I harrass on Twitter what words they liked. I didn't get many responses, but the responses I got were interesting @Litatweets, real estate lawyer and girl reporter, "tweeted"-I don't like that word- that her favorite words were "snafu," (we'll allow it) "reluctance," "derivative," and "semi." Interesting I think. I suspect "reluctance" is a diplomatic lawyer word for "I'm not getting anywhere near your stupid idea."  Another good soul submitted her list of words: "incadescent," "wretched," "akward," "soliloquy," "quagmire," and "radiant." I would add the phrase "good mental health" in contrast to my list of words-almost of the words she suggested could vivify or improve a sentence. My last contribution came from Blogger Emeritus, Heavyweight Champion, @Justcallmefrank. Her blog is worth following as are her tweets- which are by turns very warm and kind and then gleefully naughty, menacing even. I read her clearly when she said among her favorite words was the word "allegedly." Frank denies it, but I maintain they are (see the blog; I didn't subject/verb disagree) the creator of the word "stabby." I don't like the sonic quality of "stabby," but I do like the fact that sheer force of will is making it part of the stupid Twitterverse's lexicon.

Friday, August 26, 2011

West Virigina Child Farming

I remember it was somewhere in West Virginia in the hill country where I saw a Mudder pushin around her brood in a wheelbarrow. It took me for a turn at first, but I got used to it, hell they push most of the young’ins around in strollers, most of the old ones around in those wheelchairs, suppose that the wheelbarrow is just another thing to push around. I’d see her at the store, going down the aisles, occasionally putting some candy or cheese cube in the mouth of her whining little chicks, and it was a spectacle, but only for awhile. Eventually, I got over the wheelbarrow and started to notice that these kids was wide at the beam and close to the ground. I never really knew them or their maw, but every time I walked  by them in that small town, I heard them squeelin’ about food, or fightin over a package of Twinkies that was already getting grubbed at inside the wheelbarrow. There must have been half a dozen of them damn lardasses in the wheelbarrow, and whenever I asked I asked where they lived and where’n they come from, folks would just “I think they live in a farm just up the road.”

  I remember once the mom had stopped into the post-office, and probably figuring this post office was too small to bring in her kids, she left her wheelbarrow outside as a vunerable as a nest full of baby birds fallen to the ground. I walked by that nest, but it was clear they didn’t know it. I peeked closer and closer until it became clear they sensed me. “Are youuuuu the Mcdonald’s man?” they asked.  “I guess that’s just my essence,” I said. They didn’t seem to take no notice of my words, another one, I think a girl asked “do ya get any extra fries from the end of the day?” I was a little surprised by all of this, and I saw the mother walking out the door, so I scooted on out.

   I figured that was as about as up close and personal as I’d want to get. Some time went by and I was still sparechangin’ and shitkickin’ around that cracker town. In truth, those was special, difficult times. I had occasion where I had to eat what was left over in exchange for doin’ dishes at some nice old lady’s restaurant. I remember whenever them kids came in thinkin to count my lucky stars because after they absolutely cleaned to a shine their own plates, sometimes the momma would grab the plates out of the bus-tub and feed what remained to those kids, scraps, skins, half-chewed and all. I told that lady who ran the diner and all she said in her twangy way, “It’s best just to stay out of other folks business in my experience.” Which is some true, Mark twain shit of wisdom, but I couldn’t help but know too much. Very late one night, maybe I’d had too much bumwine and I was roamin’ about, looking for love, for soup, whatever, I was drunk. I seen that the restaurant’s alley door was open a bit, propped out a bit with a crate and I heard at least some activity in there. I think maybe you have an idea where I’m going now, but jeslisten.  I hear some talkin, some squeelin, but I don’t see no one in the kitchen, no one is in the stock room either. The bathroom smelled like someone was in it, but no one was. Mother of God, I thinks to myself, robbers tied her up and left her in the freezer! I raced into the freezer and what I seen next……. What I seen next. Them kids was hanging from harnesses and the glare from their shiny, white rump meat was blinding! The old lady and the maw seemed to have some kind of stent stabbed into their back creating a wedge of white meat that the old lady seemed to be stripping with a long knife. “Maw, the old hag got enough from me already,” one of the children said, “It’s Jespa’s turn to get stripped!” It was like that Warlock, trying to take a pound of that virgin’s flesh! The maw didn’t want to hear them young ones whinin’ “She ain’t even got to the sweetmeat yet, ya lil brat, no shaddup or you ain’t getting none of that fried chicken she’s keeping in the warmer,” she said.
 By this time, one of them kids, hanging like a bat says, “I smell Mcdonald’s, is the Mcdonald’s man here?” They all turned around and glared at me.  She weren’t going to try to lie,“Well, what do you expect?” the mother said looking at me like I interrupted going to the bathroom, “you think I can afford to feed these little hogs and sows without makin’ them carry some of their own weight?” The old hag was a little more apologetic, “It really don’t hurt’em all that much, once every few months I get one of these nice sharp blades and trim a little fat off the bone is all”, then she smiled and spoked towards the kids, “and I always send’em home with my famous fried chicken.”  One of them, a boy I think, grunts “We been good tonight, ain’t we? We’s getting the fried chicken ain’t we?”  “Well, will see, won’t we?” says the restaurant owning hag gentle like she’s telling them fairy tales. I reckon at this point I have enough of telling you this story, sometimes even my stories is worse for me in the telling. I guess she weren’t slaughterin’ the kids and there’s something to said for that, but I ain’t gonna say it for now.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Uncle's Tale of Rural Depravity

He slashed away it what he done. You want to hear it prettier? He struck me numberedly with the razor. For all I know, their names were Cletus and Jethro. I had pulled off for a bite to eat about 20 miles outside of Greensville, then havin' eaten my quality bacon burger, chili fries, M-T-Dew and a milkshake (I remember the good times)I thought I might round the respectability of the of the whole affair and get a haircut. I may have grown up on dirt floors, but I still have my priorities straight enough to keep my hair sheared so as not to look like one of the hippies or ladyboys what avoided the war of Vietnameese aggression. Hell, the sign said the haircuts only cost $5.  So I steps into the ramshackle, screen-door, fancy panties trailer. "Got more hair n' ya need?" asked  the bony peckerwood. "Yes, sir," says I, "just wantin to look decent while I still got money in my pocket." There was some fat piece of shit sitting on what some know as a couch in the parlor room or something, reading smut that would have turned a beatnik red. He gave a chuckle when he heard me use the powerful word "decent," but I didn't think nothing of it at the time. Nervous geeks, pinheads, and other mongoloids is prone to laughter my pastor  always said.  Well, the bony motherfucker says, "Now then, come on up and sit in the chair, papa, come'n now." Immediately I backwashed in my mind, trying to figure if I'd crossed the plain around here before, but I was in the clear so far as I could remember. Still, I knew things wasn't quite right when he pulled a trashbag over my head to keept hair out of my skin. "Never seen a trash bag used for that, Mister" I said. He didn'  say nothin' but "don't you worry, poppa, you'll be lookin decent alright you'll be lookin decent." Damned if he didn't whip out a pot but like what you boil beans in. He suds up the water n' pulls out a razor. And at this point, the lard-ass with the boobies, butts, and cooters magerzine is standing right behind me, grinnin-he's wearin' a ‘Stars and Bars’ T-Shirt I notice, which is respectable, but his arm pits were sweatin through the shirt and his odor were unattractive, but I digest. He's shaving me alright I guess the warm water and soap and the luxury that comes with it had me closing my eyes and relaxing. The next thing I knows,  the fatboy, with his two meat hocks fer arms has in a vice-grip like what the stocks feel like when you get vegetabled for siding with the loyalists. The bony Appalachian starts whoopin it up, "Time to clean you right up, shitbird, make sure an hold him tight, poppa"-this time he wasn't callin me "poppa" either. He starts slicin and dicin me real thin like he's some kind of slant-eye chef cutting up vegetables fer his watch. I seen my blood in the pot, mixed with the soapy water, but for whatever reason, I haven't reacted yet. That peckerwood took him a break for the slashin, liftend up a window, but not for air. Some big Rottenwhiner son of a bitch( as must be the case for science) sticks his head in the window ad is whining while licking blood and bits off of the flat of the blade! "Now, now, Poppa," said the fat one, too excited for for his words, "give-give 'em the finishing touch." So Elmer, or whatever that lanky bastards name is, pulls his razor away from the dog and pulls it across my cheek to my ear! They both start laughin so hard that I can finally out to  the door and back to the rig. I'm bleedin like a bunch of whores without a planted seed in em, but I still  go right to a pohlice station. I guess there's only so much they can do for there. I get some guaze, too many bandy-aids, and a whole bunch of ice like what was produced at the Chicago fair and I  apply some pressure.  I told the police to go nail them river bandit sumbitches. I suppose I could've compromised my principals and gone to one of them quack farms they call a "hospitable," but my manly good looks ain't goin to be less for a couple of scars, and neither is them scars the difference between me and a beauty queen. In fact, the only time my family ever had such honors is when Uncle Jimmy was doin a bid up the river, but again, I digest.  Forget about all that, I done told the sheriffs where that barber-shop was  is, and they really had the nerve to tell me, "No sir, no such address." Well, I can only think to say, "There is such an address, and I was jus there, asshole!" The situation never resolved itself to my satisfaction, so onward I rolled my stones.

Monday, August 22, 2011

This ain't Politics; This is Comedy

   Hey folks,

      My name is Montoya and I still argue with gas station clerks over the price of candy, but I also, on occasion, read the news and pay attention to the politics. For the record, I normally don't give two gangrenous rats over the minutiae and fluctuation of the politics of our declining empire, but I do enjoy the obscene and absurd-which sounds like a strange soap opera.
  China, Saudi Arabia, and Pakistan, besides being this year's lovely vacation spots (Spring Break Islamabad!) they are also Orwellian fucktard states that are irony proof. To wit:

          1This week China called upon Momar Ghadaffi to "respect the will of the Libyan people and step down." I guess this means wait for the approval of  51% of the people before you imprison, shoot, and harass the other 49 %
         2 Pakistan sent troops and police officers to Bahrain to help maintain stability and keep the peace. Cause you know, aside from having several regions of  its own country that it has no governmental authority in and being unable to control the Taliban and Al Qaeda types in its mountainous regions and countrysides, Pakistan is a model state where security is concerned. I read some Islamo-fascist genius comments to the effect that "If you are a friend of the United States, you can't survive; if you are a true enemy of the United States, God willing, you will live forever." I wonder if Osama Bin Laden thought the same thing before Seal Team 6 shot his breakfast out of his intestines and on to the wall.
      3 Best of all, Saudi Arabia told Syria that it's been committing huge human rights violations. The Oil wealthy, feudal monarchy let Syria know that it needed to make "necessary reforms." Take it from Saudi Arabia, before homosexuals get their heads chopped off in the kingdom, they get a final phone call, a coke, and a smile from their friendly executioner.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Words We Hate

Do you ever hear an oft repeated phrase that is annoying enough to make you squirm? There are certain disorders that cause individuals who hear "trigger words," certain  emotionally powerful words or word combinations,  to feel nauseated, enraged, or otherwise overstimulated. Sadly, I don't know anyone who's shot their wife or lover for saying the words "Snicker's Bar," but I do know some people with interesting word hang-ups, myself included.
  If you've ever seen that Monty Python movie with the "Knights who say neep," then you can, in part, imagine a pal of mine's torment and visceral disgust at my use of the word..... well it means the same thing as buddy and rhymes with bend. I once used the word repeatedly, directing it at him, doubting  true revulsion to so basic a word, but in truth I was being cruel. He really does hate "the f-word." In his ideal world, when children are asked what they did "today" by parents, they would respond, "Oh, I just fucked around in the sandox with some associates of mine." The "F-word" you and I refer to as "The F-word" is of no import to him. It's the root of the word "amicability" that bothers him. If he sees John McCain greeting a crowd of supporters in such terms on C-Span, he flips off the television screen without fail. If he hears a song played on the radio, he flips off the radio, then turns it off or twists the dial. To his credit, he puts his hand in his pocket when he flips off people who unknowingly transgress to his face. To be offended at the very existence of the word seems extreme, but I do understand some annoyance with how insincerely the word gets used. There are a lot of people at work, on facebook, in the twitterverse, old aquaintences, familiar waitresses who describe me using the non-traditional "f-word," but if most of these people saw me in person, or on their doorstep, or out of a comfortable situation, chances are they would avoid lengthy conversation or even eye contact. Which is to say, if you call Big Ray Ray a "fri--d," be aware that I will show up to your home next Friday  with some chips, soda, and a few of my favorite Star Trek DVD's-just saying. One last parting shot on this word: have you ever noticed how bad guys in movies often address someone they're torturing or trying to kill as "My old friend"?

 Perhaps life in Mr Montoya's neighborhood is colorful. Someone else I know used to be averse to being called  "human" or "female." The individual in question is not triple XXX material but she is definitely XX material, thus the use of the pronoun "she." Neither of the individuals I've described are psychotic or at all insane, just distinctive. The woman who at times preferred not to be thought of as such viewed her physical body as a small part of her greater self, a detached consciousness waiting to be made whole.

 The words we love is another post, but I, myself, also have a few words and phrases that irk me. I'm throwing myself to the wolves with this confession, (if you can call 6 buddies who feel sorry for you and read your blog "wolves") but the record will reflect I often get uncomfortable around people who use words that end with a long "e" syllable. I feel like I have to scratch and itch just thinking about some of those words. My demanding father used to tell me to gather up the "empties" into a paper bag before we went to the store, and all I could think was that he was being too lazy to say the words "empty pop bottles and cans." I hear pretty  young ditzes refer to machines, techonologies and penises as "thingies," and I, uncharitably and sometimes inaccurately, think "damn, she's sumdumbitch." Then there's the word "icky." Again, that's a word used by sumbumbitches (misogynist much?) who usually think animals, bodily functions, and thinking are "gross."

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Drunken Hack Writer Lets Loose

I am a hack writer. I used to write scholarly, journalism quality articles for a pittance. In other cases, I've written pay per view self-assigned articles that earn money depending on a number of factors that must not be named, lest I incur editorial and media mogul wrath. It's nice to continue to write and to be published, but the thing is "they" know that. They know writers will accept flat-rate payments that wouldn't pay a phone bill in exchange for professional work and the thrill of being published.Those bastards know when you write your own articles for them you'd be lucky to earn $20 in a year if you didn't know what you were doing, and they won't make it clear what it is that earns revenue. Again, I'm a man of exceptional personal integrity, schooled in all major religious and philosophic texts and vouchsafed by the pope, so I'm not going there. I only seek to point out to other writers that although professional opportunities are out there, your ignorance of these scam industries may deprive you of what you deserve

 Again, I say little. The robots, scientologists, and atheists are watching what I write, so I won't complain about some of the topics that these "studios" or clearinghouses offer up as subjects  you can write about for a few dollars:

How to build a Floating Desk

High  Speed Arts and Crafts

Build a Paper Hindenburg

French style hovercrafts

  Do you think I'm exaggerating, grasshopper? Do you think I haven't seen things like this?  I'm not. The truth is if I were capable of writing articles or performing such feats of carpentry and engineering, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be writing well researched articles for $15 a piece. I'd be a wealthy engineer  who would view such assignments as fit for the insects I crushed under my feet everyday while walking into my garage to get into my Lexus that I'd drive to work.

  In the meantime, I'll continue to self-publish work I did in grad school, poems I've written over the years, and anything else I can publish. I make tens of cents over a matter of weeks. I'll continue to write new articles on strange religions, professional wrestling, and I'll continue to opine on issues everyone is sick to death of. Lastly, I'll continue to vent these disjointed, anti-social ramblings and sincerely appreciate the people who regularly read them.

                 Good night, turn the damn lights off,
                                    Ray Ray Montoya

Applachian Wisdom: Zombies

 I was sitting in the general store awhittling away my version of Mrs. Potatowhore and her many tater-toddlers toys when on the television came the cinematic depravity known "Night of the Living that Ain't Dead." It was an abomination in the sight of the man, and I want that known for the record. I watched every minute of it just to verify that opinion.  Cannibalizing ain't a pretty subject and Romeo or whoever made that crap really should apologize fer preachin it or glamorizing such truck.
  I remember as a boy of 15, 16 years old when my paw took the barrels from the still to town. He told us he was gonna be gone for a spell. He told us not to stay out too late, and not to get into the hooch locker unless for medical purposes or to put the baby to sleep. Paw didn't come back right away though. I seen the sun come and the sun come down. These young obsese youngsters don't know about the hunger like I did.  We had some provisions, squirrels to shoot, the well to drink from, and mold potaters in the mold room, but they run out. I had my father's collection of runts and bastards to look on after, and I had to celebrate the holiday of Thanksgivin-If you love your freedom from the Indians, thank a vet by eating turkey, but I digest.. Things was desperate them winter days in the woods.  Thinking of those days reminds me of my ole huntin' hound, Roofus. My but he could tree a varmint or a Mormon. without much time passed.Ole roofus was a good  reliable dog, specially  on a spit ,with some whiskey flavorin too.  It was a tough time fer me and the brood, ya see.My pa, as mentionified earlier on, had a lot of mouths to feed up, 33 children if I recall correctly, and I rarely do.  Well, it got to the point when no one wanted to go to the woodshed with me because of my salivation, but  I figured the less family, the more food, especially when family was becomin.... Well I suppose I shouldn't go into all that, I think you get the pitcher...  Needless to say, two weeks later, when Pa finally came home he were none too pleased. "You demonseed, you hadn't even eaten all the potatoes, and I stepped on a fat squirrel on the way up the trail to the cabin!" I apologized, figured the damage was  done, and was trying to finish the ribs-they was good with the old 'juice- when the old man, not sated with whuppin' me pulled out the Smith and Wesson. Well, I run pretty fast and been a ramblin man by and large ever since.
  Of course, let me get back to the Zombie fixanation you little shits seem to to have. If there are zombies its likely cause they were eaten before they woke up and that's all they remember! It's a known fact that before modern history, Indians ate each other like Kentuckians! The redskins ate each other jes like my clan used to eat the mice, squirrels, stray cats, and other rodents that fell down the well or strayed a little too close to the house, outhouse, inhouse, henhouse, penthouse, well, I digest, you get the idea.It ain't like them Indian ALL have some burning resentment that could bring em back fromt their graves only to wreak havoc on the livin' white men, is it?