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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?

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Health Care Wisdomry

  I noticed that the quality folk were makin' their presence known on this health-care debate.  Them that support this legislation seem to be the scienticians, the thinkers, queers, punks, pagan idolaters, just the type of people you'd never want by your side in the case of an Indian raid on your settlement. No these people who've been teabagging against this boondoggle is jus the opposite-the folks who split the logs that build the fort, the farmers who know to circle the wagons and hide the children, wives, whiskey, smoked meat and other valuable properties from the heathen- I ain't a racist, I know not all Indians raid in such a way, just most of em, but I digest.
   Well, being a peaceful man, I find it a right shame that it ever had to get this far, this truculent. The fact is a few Appalachian home remedies could solve most of this affair.   Take one such example, my ma used to have to sit in the shed during her moon-time, but she weren't worried about wilting during that shameful and unhygienic time, nope, she weren't. Her Grandmammy's Grandmammy all the way back to Mayflower or some such told her a simple solution: the rusty nail. Now I ain't gettin excessive vulgar with ya: I mean to say you put a rusty nail in an apple. The professor used to say the little irons in the nail spread throughout the fruit and get the women upright in their shamefulness, but I think the Reverend may be more on the right track. It was the woman who first bit the apple and screwed the human race and puttin a nail in the apple shows how the feminine apple pickin' screwed us. So long as they remember that and take a rusty apple for the team, they get a little bit back from the old man upstairs. On the other hand, anemics should be careful before takin' a bite, always ask granma if there's a nail.
  Now when it comes to venery, grab-ass, rotten-crotch, crotch-crickets, and other filth, take it from a man who has survived a thousand and one Appalachian nights: the answer is a little moldy bread in whiskey and a little medicine rubbed on the wound. Depending on your circumstances, that documentarian from Russia named Borat was a little closer to the mark with his suggestion of gypsy tears- given that Jews, gypsies, certain Catholic orders are responsible for a  good deal of plaguery, it stands to reason that they'd have a natural immunization to'em.
   Doc Ramson used to tell me that when it doubt, call on mister Jim Beam. Ye can put it on wounds that are infected, silence teething infants, cure the doldrums, and drink it during extreme cases of cabin fever.  
   In cases of extreme diseases like so called "cancer," "hepatitis,"  "fatal Aids" and other misfortunes a little witchcraft may be in order. A God-fearin' man ain't proud to use what black magic he learned from the Weird Sisters in the Appalachian Mountains, but you'd be surprised what making a poppet out an Indian’s sock, a little grave dirt, human hair and toad’s blood will do.   Ya gotta make a graven image of the being in question and affect it powerful in some way, but pard, ya probably shouldn't practice witchcraft unless you know a reliable midwife, lesbian, or some other devilry practitioner.

Life Imitates The Jerry Springer Show

It wasn’t all that long ago (just under a decade) that I was “seeing,”  if that’s what you want to call it, a woman a good deal older than me. Exact ages don’t matter, but think of Eminem juxtaposed against Joey Ramone. This woman was a bit chaotic and the house was something like “Neverneverland” where her adopted adolescent vagabonds hid away from the terrible world of school, parents, and sobriety. I remember buzzing on the couch, feeling as if I might pass out at any moment while the ultra violent movie American History X played. Two goth 18 year olds were staring at the ceiling, quietly out of touch with their surroundings. One of Ms. Ramones’ sons stealthily reached for my beer. “Hey,” I slurred. “Get your own

  Jump ahead about 10 years. Many things have changed, but I guess once you get the nose for a type, you just don’t lose it. 4 weeks ago I learned after hearing the name “Ms. Ramone” that I was dating her niece--this time think of Eminem as contrasted to Snoop Dogg?!  My life has officially become a bad comedy. Don’t get me wrong. It’s never been a show worth seeing, but with this twist we’ve entered sit-com material. Oh hell, let’s take the dive into Jerry Springer country.

Jerry Springer “Our guest today is Ray Ray Montoya. Ray Ray Montoya has been seeing Bible Thumper for over a year now and says they enjoy a nice relationship, but today Ray Ray has something he needs to tell Bible Thumper.”

Ray Ray Montoya
“Sweetheart, you know I love you, and I’d never do anything to hurt you, right?”

Bible Thumper
 “ Well, I love you too, but you took me on Jerry Springer, so I wanna hear what you have to tell me…”

Ray Ray Montoya
  “Well, ten years ago, you aunt and I…”

Bible Thumper rushes Ray Ray Montoya, slapping him repeatedly.
Springer’s heavies pull an angry Bible Thumper away. They both return to their Seats.

Jerry Springer “Well, Ray Ray, we have some more excitement for you. Everyone, would you please welcome Ms. Joey Ramone!”

Ms. Joey Ramone “First off, I’d never do this in real life, but since this is Ray Ray Montoya’s ----- up little day dream….”

Ms Joey Ramone runs towards Ray Ray Montoya. “Who the _____ do you think you are? Are you that desperate for a blog entry?” Bible Thumper joins in on beating. Estranged family reconciles. Ray Ray Montoya checks into internet addiction rehab.

Thursday, August 11, 2011


       Generalizations are fun, and distrust is prevalent in these parts. For that reason, I thought it might be fun to make a list of professions that I don’t trust. Statistically, most people will tell you that lawyers, bankers, and politicians and the least trustworthy, while police officers, nurses, and doctors are the most trustworthy. I don’t have much interaction with politicians, bankers, and lawyers, but I suspect drug-use on the part of those of who find doctors and police officers to be especially trustworthy. Welcome to Mr. Montoya’s neighborhood. Here’s my list of untrustworthy professions. The order is personal, but not necessarily from greatest to least or vice-versa.

1 Cops 
If you think cops don’t lie, then you clearly haven’t had much interaction with them or have been mystified by the gleam of the badge. Detectives routinely lie to suspects to get them to confess, “we’re not looking to prosecute you, but we do need to know what happened.” Similarly, if you’ve even been arrested, scrutinize the police officers arrest report. Cops complain about the unreliability of eye-witnesses and people at crime scenes, and similarly criminals and witnesses ought to complain more about the dubious memories of cops. Suddenly 32 year old pastors turn into foul mouths, 5’4 mothers become brawlers, etc.  Cops are often more honest than most coming into the job, but as seasoned veterans  if they "know" you’re guilty and lack evidence, they’ll make the evidence they need.

2 Doctors 

Do you really think doctors are equally committed to each patient? Doctors working in public hospitals, treating the beneficiaries of social services likely don’t have enough minutes in the day or patience in the soul to give poor patients the same amount of attention they give to the more prosperous patients who show up to their private suburban practice, located in some air conditioned office park. Similarly, while all doctor’s are expected to be competent, some seem to be a little more competent than others. Who hasn’t heard of an inveterate doctor who ignores the little requests of patients? I know of incompetent surgeons who’ve nearly cost patients their lives because of their errors, but less dramatically, I’ve heard about patients who had to argue with their doctors to give them prescribed follow-up treatments that their doctor forgot about, or who had to insist on renewing their prescriptions that their doctors insisted they didn’t prescribe. Forewarned is forearmed! Ray Ray Montoya is putting you on notice: the medical profession closes ranks and protects a fair amount of drunks and amnesiacs!

3 Waitresses

    Waitresses are very often beautiful women who put a lot off effort into charming diners who they find annoying or unmemorable.  There’s nothing wrong with  wait staff flirting with diners- it makes the experience more enjoyable, but I’ve seen more than a few waitresses give bogus phone numbers or falsely promise to meet up with customers who didn’t quite understand that waitresses are always on the clock.

4 Truck Drivers

    Up for days at a time in some cases, fueling themselves with high doses of caffeine and stimulants, and in many cases coming home for only days at a time, more than a few truckers have been psychopaths. People with keens noses have told me that truck-stops reek of stale sex, and looking in truckers gift shops where very often all sorts of mace cans and blackjacks are sold along with standard smut, I do wonder what cargo a teamsters carries with him. I sense some of you will think this generalization is just plain unfair and simplistic.  To which I reply that all of these generalizations and bits of hearsay have been unfair and simplistic, but let me ask you this. When you see an Asian massage parlor or “adult” book store with a sign that say “truckers welcome” what does that bring to mind?

5 Clowns (Mimes/Santa Clauses/Costumed Types)

It’s a small minority of people that actually find red-wigged, ivory painted grown men who make honking sounds amusing. I’m not convinced that most children find them amusing, but even if they did, most children think Mcdonald’s is the best restaurant around and that the Jonas Brothers are a considerable musical talent. Most adults find them annoying as shit and are a little frightened of whatever the make-up, large shoes, obnoxious clothing and wig are concealing. Same principal applies to anyone who wears extensive make-up or costumes professionally. See Stephen King’s “It” or Rob Zombies “The Devil’s Rejects” for a more accurate and therefore less disturbing interpretation of clowns.

6 Landlords

 I get too angry just saying the word “landlord” to be wry, insightful, or even amusing about landlords. Landlords get paid each month for merely owning something that you live in. In my experience, important repairs or maintenance can be delayed a few days or even months, but a more regular schedule is kept where rent is concerned. What more can I say about a profession that allows parasites to make more money than they ever invested in their property while causing tenants to struggle each month just to survive? Like bad parents, they don’t spend a lot of time helping you do things to be better or more responsible individuals, but they are more than ready to assert themselves every time the control freak they bottle up gets loose.

  Haha, and that’s how I ruined a perfectly good dinner with the Pope. Where was I? A laugh a second around here.  I won’t delve too deeply into the more obviously or clich├ęd untrustworthy professions, only to say that security guards don’t have extensive background checks, training, or authority-but they usually want the last two, Catholic priests are men who are choosing not to marry or live with women, and many overly enthusiastic store managers are wannabe-professionals who have deluded themselves that they are going places and make their employees miserable in the meanwhile. And before I go, unskilled temporary day laborers are most often ex-cons, drug addicts, and transients. Do you feel as dirty for reading this as I do for writing it?

Reality Television: Life in Mr. Montoya’s Neighborhood

My friends and I, when we’re not busy doing hours worth of lawn-care or checking on our investment banking and hedge funds, like to discuss the kinds of reality television shows we’d create if we had money to invest in stupidity. At this point, I think it’s safe to say that the Fox network would broadcast anything from snuff-films to midget porn if it thought it might result in profits, so good taste need not inhibit our imagination.  Some ideas:

-MAN VS BEAST: The show would pit humans against animals both directly and indirectly. The first half hour segment might feature men trying to roll over vehicles, then bears or big cats trying to do so. In a more Homer Simpsonesque vein, the second half could see cash-strapped or overeager celebrities in physical combat with animals. Tell me you wouldn’t like to see Flavor Flav or William Shatner box a muzzled and gloved polar bear! Of course as America gets more “Romanized,” the show can get more gladiatorial or brutual-but only with the well being of the celebrities. The trained animals would be the real stars.

America’s Fattest Families:  

Fox/Sky/Murdoch will be working overtime trying to find anything socially redeeming about this show. In essence, this show will be camera crews following around morbidly obese families and paying special attention to their eating habits. Meals catered by fast food restaurant chains would be the highlight of the show, and producers could pay bonuses to the personages of the program for rolling around in tubs of gravy, making head dives into pizza, and forgoing utensils. Other highlights might include a trip to the fair-the family bouncing around in inflatables, public pool outings, and irate family members going to diners.

The Rumble: 

  If you’ve ever see the Taiwanese or Japanese parliament when things break down, then you’d understand my bold vision. Nothing is more exciting than elected officials breaking out into fisticuffs. After a few weeks of stock footage, from Asian parliaments, the show could announce it was moving westward, promising 15 minute interviews with participants in E.U. or American parliamentary/ legislative brawls. Be honest, you could think of a few demagogues and media-whores who would love to show their “zeal” and “passion” by commenting on footage of themselves in brawls with their political opponents. Initially, we’d have to settle for elected officials, local and national, but we could extend the format to include any celebrity fighting in an open forum or formal setting. It would get to the point that anytime Pat Buchannon went on MSNBC promos would hype it up as follows “Will the conversation be intellectually stimulating, or will the fascist Irishman express himself the way he does best? Find out tonight.” Something tells me O’Reilly might just be egomaniacal enough to call out any number people in hopes of boosting his ratings-only to get his dentures knocked out.

When Women Betray:

 It is my sworn and solemn duty to remind you that reality television isn’t quite reality. With all the scenarios being so contrived and the personages so coached, it’s seems more like television improv to me. “When Women Betray” would be reality television in name only.  Ice-T, since he does anything, can host this show and introduce each segment before going to the “real life” footage of actresses conspiring against their men. One segment might have grainy footage and poor audio with sub-titles of a woman hiring a hit-man to off her aging, wealthy husband. The scene could end with detectives and the spurned spouse kicking down the door and slapping the cuffs on the woman. The husband could really ham it up, screaming about betrayal and how meaningless it’s all been. Another segment could purport to show the very moment a woman decides to cheat on her man. There could be about 15 minutes of an evil, flirtatious courtship, then the kiss. Fade to black. My favorite show will involve a man looking from the outside in as he see his brother and his wife in bed, obviously getting entangled. He then storms in, shooting both of them.  A good natured Ice-T wraps up by saying, “Unfortunately, Marc is facing murder charges for the shooting deaths of his wife and brother. While we here at “When Women Betray” certainly don’t advocate breaking the law, I think it’s safe to say we’d all want to do the same thing.”


  Misleading television executives would sign dubious contracts with various celebrity closet-cases. The celebrities might think they were being paid to make appearances or appear on more conventional reality television shows, but the fine print would reveal that “YOU’D BE SURPRISED WHO’S GAY” had the right to show up to their homes, haunts, and private functions at anytime they so desired. Let the forced outing begin! Cameramen could burst in on Kevin Spacey en flagrante with his “personal assistant.”
  Tom Cruise could be recorded shouting “It’s not gay if I’m on top” while in the throes of passion, disillusioning his fellow upright Thetans.

Friday, August 5, 2011

It’s Too Loud and I’m Too Old

As all refined people know, expressions of  gangster/homeboy sexuality are the enemy. Their muscular, tone bodies and strong complexions only remind me of my own inadequacies as a flabby, tight-belted, unfashionable thirtysomething codger. We’ve  all seen those bumper-stickers (which I disagree with by the way) that say “If it’s too loud, you’re too old.” Well, to riff on a similar withered vein, I must bring to your attention that I don’t like people who play their music loud enough that I can hear every single lyric, and I can’t help feeling mildly insulted/irritated when some young punk walks around with his pants past his knees to the point where I can see the entire outline of his ass protruding through his boxers. Like I said, it reminds me of my own temerity and lack of appeal. However, I’m non confrontational and believe that love will solve all problems.  I will go behind young black,white, Latino, men and tell them just how much I admire their physical fitness as revealed to me by the exposure of their undergarments.

Hey man, nice boxers, ooooh, baby.” After verifying the tautness of some young man’s hindquarters I could compliment him.  In another, similar situation: “Man, looking at your rear I’d have to say you’re in shape, tiger.” These young men, bright with positive self-image and health would no doubt appreciate the kind words of the paunchy, balding white man known throughout the neighborhood for checking out their asses. Although I’m overflowing with praise, I do have a question I might need to ask:  “What do you gangstas do if you get in a fight? Do you have an “emergency belt” that you gird around your waist in one single fluid motion? I guess the same applies to running." I’ll spare your pristine sensibilities only to speculate allowed that certainly bodily functions, during and after must be akward if fabric gets caught or puffs out like I think it might

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

The Uncle Tells a Story

    I remember the first time I saw a locomotion engine rolling down some tracks.  I saw some cattle being transported in a box car, and I hopped in, g’warm.  The cow hands on the other end of the line told me it was the damndest thing they ever saw- a man riding the freight train when there was a passenger train to ride for only 25 cents. "Do I look like I have 25 cents, asshole?" I asked. Those cowboys guffawed over that one. It was at the time that I pioneered the art of train-hoppin' a few years before canned beans and overalls, but I digest.
   Cowboys is all Texans and in Texas they don't hold no stock in evolution or the moon landing, but they do value the pro-wrestling. Now I hear a lot of queers, sissies, and  Democrats claim that professional wrasslin ain't real, but apparently they ain't been in the front rows, spat on, bled on, and sweat on. Well, let me tale you one time I was at a county-fair outside of Ft. Worth, and  I seen that there were a tough-man contest with  a prize of $10 to the man who could stand for 10 minutes with a man known as "The Colossus."  My memory ain't quite what it used to be, but as  I remember, the  Colussus's name was Jason Krueger, and he would later be arrested for chainsaw murders on Halloween. He was tusslin with another one of them travelin' wrasslers of lesser size and getting knocked around a good bit too.  That skinny one tossed that behemoth against a rope, which does snap you back like a slingshot as any skilled pugilist like myself knows, and then little runt forearmed that giant's forehead  so hard that it was like the big 'un fell a few seconds before actual contact-now that's fast- at the time I thought it was too fast. Seein as I come from a long tradition of grizzly bear wrangling, I thought  to myself that $10 was an awful lot of spirits for a few broken teeth and the favors of carnival whores that would surely follow my victory. Well, things didn't turn out quite as expected, and in fact my entire jaw was put back together by a local tinsmith. That Ole Colussus Krueger smacked me out black in 5 seconds flat. My pride was injured( and my choppers of course too).
 A few years down the road, I caught up with that sumbitch in Mobile where he was getting ready to brawl that fancy pants Gorgeous George. I couldn't stand for a wrassler knockin' me out fair and square so I pushed past the Pinkertons and rushed the ring. If it were all fake, then I don't think the police would've objected to me gettin in on the make-believe and addin to the marks' fun, but then I ended up spending the night in the jug with all them local cotton pickin', barn burnin',cider sippin',mountain dew swillin' Burger King experts laughin at me.

1001 Tales of Rural Depravity

                  Uncle Rip insists on contributing to this blog. Normally, I wouldn't let this deranged 100 year old rednecks appear in public or have any kind of a forum, but this was getting absurd. Here it goes:

As an advocate for Christendom and the white man in this terrible age, I appreciate the kind words of those who've called me "racist" and "sexist." To them, I says "thank ya." However, there's been some discussion implying that I'm a bit off kilter or even a denatured pig
I may be a backwoods, inbred,century old cannibal, but that don't mean I accept any responsibility for having anything to do with this here block, book, log or whatever in damnation that pervert has put up. I just needed a place to stay and a few sneaks of whiskey, and that boy needed a life.... to record.... so this abomination is the result. I got mixed feelings about sovereign Indians and papists, and I don't hold with communists, crossdressers or any other foreign threats! Now, if you'll excuse me I got some white lightning to sip and KFC to shove down my gullet before the X-Files documentary comes on.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Gruff Hobo Honesty

 A few years ago, as a way of working off some community service for repeatedly passing out at the city hall, I found myself  as one of them fancy telephone working volunteers. There was 3 days of training for it, but I was busy watching monster truck re-runs, so I sent 'red nosed' stewy to them meetins for me in exhcange for a few blue ribbons of beer. I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing, but it seemed like a lot of upset folks was callin' to me, whinin', "I don't know why to go on, I'm lonely, etc."
I says,"Pard, you need me to send the police? Ye got an injury? Or  you callin in to vote against allowin' Polynesians in the neighborhood? Cause, these things isn't things anyone can help you with."

   After I heard a shot go off, I figured that one probably did need the police, but I had no address, so what's the point I figures. I'm sitting, answering telephones and feelin' rather important while giving people similar doses of reality. I gets another one of these calls, the last of the night as matter of fact.
 "I'm $600 in the whole, my girlfriend is pregant. it's probably mine, and I keep getting these stress headache,...." 

  Right then, I knows what to do.

"Partner, you need to cash in your chips then, this ole rock ain't working out for you too well."
 The other day I was rousted out of slumber by an Officer Friendly what used his night stick to pry me off a particularly comfortable bench. The officer says to me, "Why don't you read the newspaper instead of sleeping under it?"  Now, as I've said on many different buses, in many different lines at the social services office, afront of liqour stores and in any other public forum, I don't believe in newspapers. Which ain't to say they don't exist, but only that the men of the 20th century and I have different priorities. In the old days, we were learned on the Sear's Roebuck calendar, and most of my literal flowers come from that booklearnin'.
   I suppose its because of this swellin  of the gord that I have more stories than I have time to tell.  This damned rumplestiltskin apparition who follows me around For instance, I can't tell you about:

- the real story of Johhny Appleseed-it's really rather vulgar, and those of you at the soup kitchen know I won't hold with it.

- The time when great, great, great, grandpa refused some hobo a drink of water and a  few months later a sulfurin and fiery volcano burned away his 'stead.

- the time I worked at the print shop in Florida,  year 2000, and the boss claimed I made some errror on the ballots we was copyin' fer the state, but that he didn't have time to fix'em.

-  How the Men in Black movie had to be held back in order to turn it into a commentary, err, comedy full of laughter.
  and the list goes on, but I suppose I am open to suggestion.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Dr Centenarian's "The Shame Driven Life"

                                My Deranged Uncles Proposed new self-help book's chapter list:
                         1 Your fears, your guilt, your fault!
                         2 If you ain't careful, it's going to happen
                         3 Better shameful n' safe  than anxiety free and dead
                         4 Yer Obsessions is warnins you should pay attention to!
                         5  Doors locked, bottles out!
                         6 Trying to control the future
                         7 Help your neighbor with his problems too
                         8  Maybe you are just a loser
                         9  You might just want to quit
                         10 Think About Your Death