Ted Kennedy; Legacies

When the media broke the news of Ted Kennedy's death earlier today, I thought about legacies.

We each leave some sort of legacy - even those of us who aren't popular, or big on doing or saying lots of things to lots of people.

What sort of legacy will we each leave when we die? How will people remember us? What will they say to each other about us when they find out that we're gone? What, if anything, will be said about us twenty years after the funeral?

It's just one of those things that came to mind today, that's all.

Pirate Patch Patrick and Pointy Sticks

Some of the weirdest things show up in the search keywords that lead people to The Pointy Pen. Like…this, for example:



Obviously, our dear Internet searcher is looking for a sarcastic piece about the ridiculousness of such an idea. I’m sorry to be the one to disappoint him (or her) on this one.

That idea – legislating inanimate objects out of existence in the name of safety – has some merit. Innocent, beloved children have been poking out eyes for thousands and thousands of years, with pointy sticks no less, so we need to do something. You know. For the children.

[Here’s where I pause, close my eyes reverentially, and inhale deeply, obviously fighting the urge to begin weeping at the thought of little Pirate Patch Patrick struggling to explain to the Vision Center employee at Walmart that he needs JUST ONE CONTACT LENS, DAMMIT. In the background, you hear the faint, but increasing, strains of Michael Jackson’s “Heal The World.”]

Manliness! Alaska! Trophies!

One of the manliest competitions ever, the World Beard and Moustache Championships, is being held in Alaska this year - tomorrow, in fact. I for one will be checking the Web site to see if Beard Team USA can pull off an epic win or two.

Now, you're probably asking yourself, "What's wrong with this chick? How is growing a bunch of facial hair manlier than rugby, American football, and lumberjacking?"

Easy. We have female rugby and football players, as well as lumberjills. But unless there's something totally out of whack with the chick's hormone levels, she's not going to have a beard, moustache, sideburns, et cetera to enter in the World Beard and Moustache Championships. Growing facial hair is, therefore, one of the manliest competitions ever - except, of course, for the He-man awesomeness that is Best Ranger.

Dear USPS Employees:

When I retrieved my Undergear catalog from my Post Office box, I noticed that the seal had been broken. You know: that small, round sticker that secures the pages for mailing? Yeah, that seal. Broken.

I also noticed that there were a few crease marks, where someone’s thumbs had been turning pages. Obviously, at least one person saw my catalog and, before I could get up to the Post Office to grab it, decided to take a look.

It’s okay, ladies. I totally understand. The man on this particular catalog’s cover is smokin’ HAWT. I would have totally checked out the rest of the pages too if I were one of your coworkers and had a few free minutes to revel in the eye candy.

P.S. Judging by the intensified crease marks on page 20, I imagine that you really, really liked that page. Yeah, so did I. Whoever you are, at least you have good taste.

Man, I Hate Chewing Gum

For last semester's creative-nonfiction class, I concluded the term with an essay about my search for chewing gum that does not suck. It seems that, in the several-year period in which I did not even glance at chewing gum (having a mouthful of busted teeth will make this choice rather appealing, but heartbreaking at the same time if you love gum like I do), the chewing-gum market exploded. Now, there are more brands and flavors on the market than there are lies in a politician's speech. Amazing.

Chewing gum is frickin' disgusting because manufacturers have, for the most part, begun adding phenylalanine as a flavoring. Oh, yes. We have yet another sugar substitute in our food. This one tastes slightly bitter. Does real sugar taste that way to you? No? Me neither. So how is this a good substitute? Oh, right. Phenylalanine enables the manufacturers to boast of their brands' decreased calories, which is obviously more important than, you know, taste. God knows that I'd rather munch a dog turd than ingest a whopping fifteen, twenty calories from a stick of delicious, old-school Big Red.

If my formerly-favorite chewing-gum makers go back to pouring obscene amounts of sugar - pure, blessed, sugar! - into the vats, I'll buy their wares by the gross.

Stuff That Rocks

Tonight, let's talk about Stuff That Rocks.

One: Sonic has a dollar menu. The Jr. burger? Worth a dollar plus tax. Yay! Now I can afford to grease up my arteries a little more often. Thank you, Sonic, for making your killer burgers more affordable to us po' folk.

Two: I just picked up another David Sedaris book (not his latest, but that will come soon enough, I'm sure). If you like creative nonfiction, you should read this guy's collections. He's hilarious.

Three: Japanese people trying to teach other Japanese people how to speak English. This video...oh, man. I had to capture the audio and make a ring tone, because it makes me laugh so hard every time I see or hear it.

Happy New Year!

Happy 2009. Now, get back to work. Uncle Sugar needs your tax dollars. Millions of people on welfare are counting on you, ya know.

This year, I resolve to rant more often. Oh, quit whining. You enjoy my rants. Admit it. They're informative, entertaining, and well written, unlike my other posts.

Here's one for you now, in fact.

Local news stations spent part of yesterday's newscasts warning us to not shoot our guns at midnight. It seems that, if you fire your gun without first ensuring that the round will travel in a safe direction, bad things might happen.

Well, duh. Even if you don't know squat about handguns, you know that gravity requires objects to come down after they've gone up. Simple concept, really, for most of us.

But people still fired their guns in the air at midnight anyway, because a select few are too stupid to breathe without reminders. These idiots play Russian roulette with other peoples' lives. Without thinking, they go out to celebrate, and endanger innocent bystanders as well as property.

They're violent criminals the moment they pull the triggers. That being the case, they should serve long prison sentences for what they've done. They belong in prison with all the other violent offenders, from the rapists to the armed robbers.

Most firearms owners would agree with me on this. The overwhelming majority of us do not do anything along these lines with our guns, and want nothing to do with these oxygen thieves. They endanger other people and make the rest of us look bad. As far as I'm concerned, these idiots need to be locked up or deported to a tiny island, where they can all shoot each other. No big loss if that happened, you know.

Maybe they'll do the world a favor and have themselves sterilized. Heaven forbid the irresponsible idiots who do things like this reproduce, thus bringing another generation of morons into this world.

Little Twit

So we have this kitten, Sonny Boy, who's bright orange and white.

Now, I've learned one or two things about cats over the last twenty-seven years, having spent the overwhelming majority of my life with at least a couple of them around.

Orange cats have The Asshole Gene. This is a scientific fact, proven by any orange cat who's ever existed. Even subdued-orange kitties, who look more like wheat than traffic cones, have this...errant gene. Their condition causes them to constantly be up to something, and it's rarely good.

Cats with The Asshole Gene tend to purr loudly, especially when caught doing something that they shouldn't be doing - like attacking your eyelashes while you're in REM sleep. They also tend to be males, for some reason. We did, once, own a female fur ball named Spidey who was, actually, orange. Fluorescent orange. With occasional white accents. She was a semi-asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. She liked to lock her front legs around your ankle when you walked through the house. And she purred while she did it - preemptive purring to stave off the inevitable scolding.

Sonny Boy is definitely in possession of The Asshole Gene. The little twit is not quite three months old, but already knows good and well what is and is not allowed around here. However, because he possesses this defective gene, he just doesn't care. He does whatever comes to his tiny, pea-sized mind, and usually with a flagrant air of superiority. "So what?" his body language seems to say. "What if I did do it? Whatcha gonna do? Take away my crappy dry food? Ooooh, I'm so scared."

The family and I aren't overly strict. We don't give a crap if the cats sit on the couch, or take a chair. They can even stretch out on the back of the recliner if they so choose. We don't care if they sleep in bed with us (we prefer that, actually), hop up in the window to catch some sunbeams, or claim an empty Dr Pepper box as their own personal hidey hole. Whatever makes them happy.

However, the counter and table are not cat-approved zones. The fur balls might THINK that they're entitled to our people food, but they aren't. We have spray bottles full of tap water for "reminding" the fur balls that they can't hang out on these surfaces. The older cats figured this out rather quickly. Sonny Boy and his friends, though? Not so much. Especially Sonny Boy, who goes out of his way to sneak onto these surfaces when he thinks we aren't watching. The twit.

Yesterday, Mom had a tray of tater tots in the oven. She let them cool off in there, then removed them. (We like ours at room temperature, for some reason.) She put the pan on the counter, then turned her back on it like the silly person that she can be sometimes.

She and I were in the living room, yakking, when we heard a horrific crash. Followed, immediately, by many little thumps of tater tots hitting the floor. Tiny little tater corpses, hitting the linoleum in darned-near-perfect synchronization with each other. It's a weird sound. Trust me.

Sonny Boy was perched on the counter's edge, his head hanging down and his tail twitching excitedly, staring at the mess he'd made. The tots were all over the floor - like a potato frag grenade went off in my kitchen.

While we stood there, just staring at this unholy, salted mess, Sonny Boy sloooooowly lifted his head and stared at Mom. His tail stopped flicking as soon as he realized that she was, really, yes, looking at him.

They stood there, nearly eye to eye, just watching each other for a very long moment.

I stood nearby, staring at the staring contest and wondering who would blink first. I fully expected Sonny to give Mom his, "What? I didn't do it. This is obviously the dog's doing" look and amble away.

Instead, Mom started snickering. The kitten blinked a couple of times, tilted his head to one side in confusion, then realized that he was Getting Away With This. You could see the exclamation point light up over his head as he realized that he just might even get to consume his treasured tots. Obviously, as far as this kitten is concerned, this turn of events proves that Santa Claws really does exist, and really does love him.

That's when the dogs bounded into the kitchen and began scarfing down the food. Sonny Boy hopped down and nosed his way into the pack. He managed to fish out one tot with his paw and drag it out of the circle. He dragged his prize underneath the table and wolfed it down, occasionally growling to make sure we humans understood that he was not willing to share.

"What an asshole," Mom snickered.

This occurred the day after Sonny Boy bravely hopped onto the counter right behind Mom, who was frying bacon at the time, and snagged an entire piece from the plate. She didn't even notice until she went to retrieve the plate and saw that there were not, in fact, three pieces of bacon on it any more.

Eventually, the cat will learn to either a) not get caught, or b) make sure that we're in good moods when he is caught, so that we're too busy snickering to get the spray bottle.

Little twit.

Dear Acquaintance

Dear Acquaintance:

We run into each other every few weeks, because you work at one of my favorite stores. This being the case, we see each other often. I do enjoy the random snatches of conversation that we have when you aren't too busy with actual work. You're intelligent, which is always a plus. You know the products in your store very well, and almost always recommend great things. I appreciate you as both a knowledgeable store employee and an interesting human being. Believe me, if you ever mention that you enjoy firearms, you have a standing invitation to the range.

However, I'm not interested in a date. As much as I enjoy chatting with you, and as interesting as I think time spent together outside of your place of employment would be, we just aren't compatible.

It's not because you're older than I am. I like older - usually, my relationships work best when I'm younger by at least a few years. You being several years older bothers me not one bit.

It's not because you wear weird pants, either. I'm not sure why you insist on wearing pants that cut off the circulation to your calves, but that's your choice. A bit odd, but hardly a reason to turn down a date. It's not anywhere close to being a registered sex offender, or owning a VW Microbus with "Virgin Sacrifice Tour '08" emblazoned on the side door.

It's not because you work irregular shifts, either. I'm quite happy to work with the other half's schedule, as long as he's willing to work with mine. We could make time to hang out together. I've done it before, after all.

It's because you're not a man. Call me closed minded if you want, but I like girls as friends - not girlfriends. You're an attractive lady, and I'm sure that another woman out there is waiting to meet you and make you happy in your weird pants, but that woman just isn't me. You haven't actually asked me out on a date, but you're making it quite obvious that this sort of thing is on your mind. I don't have gaydar, but I don't need that ability when I notice you eyeballing my ass, and pretend not to notice that you keep asking me questions about my love life.

Also: If you're going to ogle my almost-nonexistent rack, please do it in a more-subtle fashion. I really don't want to have to acknowledge the fact that I know you're looking. That would be uncomfortable for us both. If you take infrequent glances, I'll pretend that I don't notice, and you can keep enjoying yourself.

Sincerely,

Strictly Dickly

We're quite the wasteful society

America, as a whole, is a very-wasteful society.

Given the choice between a disposable, plastic spork and toting metal cutlery around for our lunch breaks, most of us will reach for the spork. Then, when lunch is over, we’ll toss that into the trash can without a second thought. When we hit the drive-thru, and the employee crams a dozen or so napkins into the bag, we throw away the extras – even though we could put aside the clean, unused napkins for future use. (Because, as we all know, the drive-thru employees of America sometimes forget to give us napkins at all.)

Restaurants continue serving massive portions – enough to feed me two whole meals, actually – and we keep throwing away the food instead of asking for a to-go box. I don’t understand this at all. The to-go box does not cost me anything, but throwing away half a plate of food does. Why not take the leftovers home and re-heat them later? I’ve taken leftovers to work before. I’ve eaten them for lunch or dinner the next day. A little time in the microwave or oven and the food is every bit as good as it was when it was first served to me. Better, in some cases, actually.

Better yet: If we aren’t going to finish the adult portion, or take the leftovers home, why don’t we ask the server if the cook/chef can either a) give us a half portion, or b) prepare us something from the kid’s menu?

Even when aluminum soda/beer/energy drink cans were worth more than sixty cents a pound where I live, I still saw plenty of people throwing them into the trash – or, worse, out their car windows. There are plenty of scrap-metal yards here. Turning in a few bags full of cans takes just a couple of minutes. You walk out the door with cash. Why wouldn’t you toss your empties into a box in the back yard or something, then turn them in for the folding money? I’ve walked out with fifteen dollars before. That’s a lot of money for doing almost nothing. And when times were really tough, I salvaged cans from the roadsides around my house. That was a bit of effort on my part, yes, but the cans were cash, right there in front of me, free to take.

And yes, I do know that some people have serious space constraints. But I managed to save my soda cans even when I lived in a 400-square-foot apartment. The trick is to rinse them so that they don’t attract bugs. You can also sprinkle boric acid in the bottom of your collection container (I used a plastic trash can) to further discourage pests.

I’m also surprised at the overwhelming amount of repairable, or even perfectly-good, stuff that we just throw away. If you live in a university town or city, go look at the Dumpsters on campus at the end of the semester. You’re going to see all sorts of good things sitting around. Students throw away everything from perfectly-good novels from their English classes to furniture. Seriously: some of us would rather throw out our almost-new end tables and chairs than haul that stuff back home or try to sell it before moving out.

The same goes for stuff that can be repaired. I’ve acquired perfectly-good electronics from people several times in my life. These things were broken, but not beyond the point of repair. In one case, all that I had to do was change the batteries in the portable CD player and it worked just fine. One of my brothers got a big honkin’ TV for free because the volume control didn’t work. He bought a ten-dollar universal remote and configured it for that set. The TV works perfectly.

These aren’t difficult repairs, and they don’t require much thinking to figure out. I completely understand getting rid of something that’s beyond your ability to repair. And I understand dumping something when the repair would cost more than simply buying a replacement. (If you buy super-cheap pieces of crap, you can expect this to happen quite often. If you see a Durabrand product, run away. They’re the worst electronics and appliances on Earth.)

But changing batteries? Trying a universal remote before giving up on the thing? Both simple, dirt-cheap fixes. The people who gave us this stuff were on their way to the Dumpsters. They were just going to trash these perfectly-good electronics. Landfills are packed full of things that could be easily repaired.

These same landfills are also full of things that aren’t broken at all. A surprising number of Americans simply throw away their old stuff when they acquire something newer and better. People trash perfectly-good clothes, PC monitors, TV sets, you name it. This is easier, it seems, than posting them on Craigslist, dropping them off at a charity shop, or even simply putting them by the curb with a “free” sign scribbled on cardboard.

I am not, by the way, a tree hugger, or even close to it. I’m wasteful, just like many other people here are. You will catch me trashing plastic soda bottles, for example, because there’s no plastics-recycling facility within driving distance of my house – and I can find creative uses for only so many of the things.

To be honest, my big angle here is the money that I save by not being wasteful. Most of us are having budget problems right now, what with the economy being so messed up and all that. Saving money – even if it’s only a few bucks here and there – can make a difference. Why not give it a try, especially when the small changes you make requires almost no effort?

My Opinions. You Know You Want Them.

A quickie for today.

* Auto-industry bailout: Bunch of horse nuggets. If they can't figure out how to stay in business without taking the government's money (which was taken from John Q. Public), they deserve to go under. I didn't notice Uncle Sam swooping in with a big, fat bailout check when my parents' business attempt went terribly, horribly wrong. If my folks can figure out how to low-crawl out of the wreckage, then so can Chrysler, Ford and GM. Surely their CEOs have plenty of brain cells between them to find a solution to their epic problem.

* Crazy-huge number of gun sales: Interesting, but not surprising. Too bad I can't afford to get the eternal awesomeness that is the Kimber Ultra Carry. That, my Dear Readers, would be sweet. Heck, I'd be happy to have enough cash in the gun fund for night sights on the handgun I already own.

* My bank went under. A bunch of bankers (people in the business of playing with funds) couldn't figure out how to manage a big pile of other peoples' money, so another institution bought them out. My bank, which will soon be a past-tense type of thing for me, is full of idiots, it seems.

Bees. In November.

A couple of days ago, when the temperature was up there in the seventies, I went outside and saw a whole swarm of honeybees. They were all happy and active, greedily cleaning up the Dr Pepper cans in the storage box outside my room.

It's November. In other parts of the country, the honeybees have taken cover for the winter. Here, though, they have no idea that their Northern cousins are freezing their stingers off.

But I really like bees - they're useful, and the honeybees don't bother me as long as I don't bother them first - so it's nice that they're still around.

It's just a little odd, that's all.

Hoodie Weather

Even though I despise winter, I do enjoy breaking out my hoodies. I have several, including a brand-new, orange, UT zip-up that I just got last week.

Hoodies are just comfortable, folks. It's really hard to argue with a cozy, oversized sweatshirt that comes with a huge pouch. Everything in the world fits there, from my car keys to my cigarettes. Oh, sure, I have regular pockets, but this? This is awesome.

So: I did wear one of my hoodies for a while today, and I did enjoy it very much.

Why Your TiVo/DV-R/VCR Failed During "House"

A lot of "House" fans are wondering why their recording devices flipped out during last week's intense, dramatic final scene. For very good reason, these viewers are, well, annoyed, to say the least, because many of them missed part of that final scene.

Networks are not overly fond of recording. If the executives had their wishes, we would all watch our favorite shows as they're broadcast, instead of recording them for later. Why?

1. If you record "House," you can skip the commercials. As much as I hate advertisements, they fund networks. Without them, I don't get "House."

2. Because you have a recording of each episode, you are not as likely to go buy the season DVD set as those of us who don't have recordings. You might still purchase the season, yes, but some people with DV-R capabilities won't. That's lost revenue, on top of the fact that many people who record their favorite shows don't bother viewing the advertisements.

So: what are networks beginning to do?

Intentionally overrun the air time. By having the program conclude two minutes after the top of the hour, the networks effectively cheat "record for later" viewers out of the best part of the show: that intense conclusion we've all been talking about since last Tuesday.

You can, however, work around this problem. Set your device to continue recording past the top of the hour, if said device has that capability. I know that you can set a VCR to do this. The same is true of most, if not all, DVD recorders. I don't, however, have any clue about what you can or can't do with TiVo.

Or, if you can, watch the show as it airs. Use the commercial breaks to go to the bathroom, refill your drinking glass, nuke some pizza rolls, whatever.

Helping Emo Kids Everywhere

Yesterday, after several emo sightings, I realized that I have a solution for one of the group's biggest problems: jeans.

I notice that emo kids like skin-tight jeans. These jeans hug the skin right down to the ankles. Shoving manly feet through those girly leg holes has to be a challenge for emo boys everywhere. (Unless, of course, emos spray-paint their jeans on in the morning.)

Fortunately, I am kind and compassionate enough to think of a solution: one that will satisfy the emo community's need to wear tight jeans with super-baggy shirts and clunky skater shoes. A solution that will help them help themselves. (Because goodness knows that nobody else is going to do it for them.)

Google "Chinese foot binding." Follow the instructions and, in a few months, those feet will fit right through the tiniest leg holes. Emos who follow this advice will be the envy of their fellow giant, weeping vaginas emo kids.

And foot binding is even better than cutting. In fact: binding makes cutting feel happy and gleeful by comparison.

None of the emos out there have to thank me for my advice. All I ask in return is that they stop blasting "My Chemical Romance" when their Crapmobiles are beside mine at a red light.

Red Wasps and Me

Red wasps - those bright-red insects you find all over East Texas - have decided to build a nest on the eave outside of my bedroom. For the last few days, they've been assembling there, just outside my door. (My bedroom is not connected to the main house. Hence, the door that opens directly to the outside.)

This isn't a comforting thought to some people. Red wasps can, after all, sting you. I can tell you, from firsthand experience, that this type of sting does, in fact, hurt. The sting is not as bad as a scorpion's, but worse than a honeybee's. Add to this the fact that wasps can, unlike bees, sting you repeatedly and you're in for a joyous time.

However: I like having these little guys and gals around. They don't typically bother me. Unless I accidentally lie down on one that's found its way into my bed (which has happened to me once in all the years I've lived here), they tend to leave me alone. We have a mutual agreement: They don't try to build nests inside my room, and I don't try to discourage outside building.

Things were not always this way, though. Last month, I had to chase out at least one wasp per day. They were finding their way into the bedroom, and were trying to build nests on my ceiling. This? I don't like this at all. Until they help pay the electric bill, they don't get to soak up my air conditioning. Cheap twits.

So, for a few weeks, I would trap at least one offender per day between a cup and a piece of cardboard, open the door, and toss the bright-red goober into the yard. They seemed all right with this. They would flap their jet-black wings in protest and, occasionally, stare at me for a long minute. But they didn't organize a Red Wasp Mafia to attack me while I slept. They just kept sneaking in, one by one, like odd-looking, miniature ninjas.

Finally, I figured out how they were getting into my room. I forgot that there was a small hole in my ceiling. The wasps were crawling up over the eave and finding their way in. I would have fixed the hole sooner if water were leaking into my bedroom but, because there wasn't any real problem, I had forgotten all about the small hole. Oh, well.

So I fixed the hole and, since then, have rather enjoyed having the little guys and gals around.

The colony currently setting up a home outside my door don't seem to mind me. They don't protest when I crank up Ludacris and turn up the bass. They don't complain when I slam my door. And they haven't tried to muscle their way into the air conditioning.

Oh, and they eat bugs. I like that part.

Homeowners Associations

Homeowners Associations go against one of the most basic ideas of American citizenship: that we are free to do as we please with our private property.

If I buy a home, I have the right to paint it any color I wish.

If I want to build a statue out of scrap metal and display it in my front yard, I should have that right.

If I want to let my grass grow to a staggering inch and a half in height before I mow, that is my right.

However, HOAs are all about controlling your private property. Some are benevolent, in that they care only about avoiding obvious health hazards. Others? Not so much. In some areas, you cannot do anything that the HOA does not like - from erecting solar panels to be more eco-friendly to letting your grass get a bit too long.

The truly astounding thing is that, in many cases, you pay HOA fees. You're paying the little tin gods to tell you what you may and may not do with property that you own. This makes no sense to me at all. Why would anybody willingly move into a subdivision that's controlled in this manner? Why not just buy a house in an area that isn't full of tyrants who want to slap you with a fine for leaving your trash cans on the curb ten minutes longer than necessary after pickup?

Even when the HOA can't be bothered to dictate personal choices, I don't see how they're necessary. If your neighbor is letting trash pile up in his front yard - an obvious health hazard - then you call the health department, or code enforcement. Whatever the case: there is already a government entity in place to address these problems. We don't need HOAs to deal with these things.

I'll never live someplace with an HOA. I can be queen of my castle without an HOA's interference, thank you very much. And if my neighbors don't like the way that I paint my house, or how long my grass grows, they can look the other way when they drive past my house. They have as much right to dictate my choices to me as I have to dictate theirs to them. In other words: none.

Mmm...sausage.

I could not give less of a rat's furry butt about the average meat-bearing animal's plight. As far as I'm concerned, the cows and turkeys, chickens and pigs, are here for me to consume as fast as I possibly can. The faster a nice, fattened pig makes its way to my plate, especially in the form of sausage, the happier I am. I feel the same way about all the wonderful dairy products we get from cows. No cheddar cheese and no milk make Sarah go crazy.

However: reality has grabbed me by the ears and cruelly slammed my face into the local grocery store's dairy cooler. Repeatedly. With prejudice. Not even two weeks ago, a bag of shredded cheddar cheese was seven bucks and change. Last weekend, we needed to buy more of this delightful dairy product.

How much did we pay last weekend for the same bag of cheese? Eight dollars? No. Eight dollars and fifty cents? No. Not even close.

We coughed up ten dollars and change for this bag of cheese.

Me: If meat and dairy prices keep rising, we'll have to go vegan.
Mom: The hell we will.

To be honest, I would rather hack off my own toes and eat them than give up meat and dairy. Enchiladas do not exist without cheese. Bagels without cream cheese are horrible. And you cannot have a proper breakfast without something that either was an animal - or came out of an animal.

By the way: if I ate my own toes, would I gain or lose weight? I'm thinking that I would lose weight because I would burn calories processing my not-so-tasty self. I would also eliminate part of said toes afterward, which would drop my weight a little more. Yes, this IS the sort of thing that I ponder in the early hours, when I'm supposed to be asleep.

Anyway.

If meat and dairy prices don't stabilize, I'll have to get in line with the vegans and start chanting.

Meat is murder - on my wallet!
Eggs are murder - on my Visa!

Somehow, I don't think that the vegans would be amused.

Go AWAY, Bees!

Down here in East/Central Texas, the Borroum clan is living with...honeybees. It's the middle of October, but the lil' blighters are out and about. They're swarming around the house for reasons that I don't quite understand. It's late in the year. They should be holed up, trying to survive winter by now. We haven't seen any bees in MONTHS, either, which leads me to believe that they WERE in hibernation mode until a few days ago.

Why did they come out? It's probably because we still haven't had so much as one cold day. Oh, sure, I've been wearing my long-sleeved shirts after the sun goes down, but that's because it's CHILLY - not COLD. Maybe nature tricked the honeybees into thinking that they slept through winter and it's now time to come out for foraging.

Or maybe honeybees just hate the Borroum clan.

For the most part, we leave the bees alone. They can swarm around outside our house all they want. Nobody here is allergic - and we're rarely stung anyway because we're careful to stay out of the warpath. Somebody will chug most of a Dr Pepper, take the can outside, and place it away from the house - it's a cheap, easy decoy that doesn't hurt anything (except for the occasional Really Stupid Bee, who inevitably gets stuck and drowns...stupid bees).

But lately, the Super-Cheap Bee Decoy has not worked. They want FULL Dr Pepper cans, which means that we have to safeguard our sodas when we're outside. It's that or buy bottles instead of cans, which isn't going to happen as long as we can recycle the aluminum for a few pennies a pound. (No plastic recycling center within driving distance of our place, so that idea is pretty much out.)

The day before yesterday, one of the honeybees took offense to my youngest brother's selfishness. Instead of sharing his Dr Pepper, he kept that soft drink all to himself.

So one of the braver (or dumber) honeybees flew up and stung my brother's big toe. After a few seconds of madly hopping around, Bro. ran inside and grabbed the ammonia. This, incidentally, soothes some of the stinging - and helps keep down the swelling.

So there Bro. was, splashing ammonia all over his foot and yelling at the bee.

"I swear, if I figure out which one of you did this, I'll kill you!" he yelled.

"Hey, Bro? The bee's already dead, dude."

Bro. sighed. "I KNOW, Sarah. His guts are all over the stinger that I just dug out of my foot. But I still wanna kill him."

Fair enough.

The next day, Kid Sis offended another honeybee - again, selfishness was the culprit. This time, the honeybee stung...her big toe.

As she hopped around, splashing ammonia on her foot and complaining about the stupid bees, she realized something.

"It's a conspiracy!" she yelled. "The bees are gonna take us out...one toe at a time!"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I haven't worn my Crocs or my sandals in the last two, three days.

Like I Know What I'm Doing

I really have no idea of what I'm doing. Or why I'm doing it, for that matter.

Hi, everyone. My name is Sarah. I'm a gun-toting, Libertarian, freelance writer, college student, cat lover, avid reader, et cetera.

This blog is about pretty much all of the above, and then some. Enjoy reading, feel free to comment and - by all means - come back every now and then.