Which Would Win In A Fight…Writing Or Child Birth?

Writing for me is hard.

It’s really hard.

Writing to me, is like spending days, weeks, months, even years in labor. Pushing and prodding, sweating and cursing, groaning and straining and out pops the top of the head…but only the top of the head. You look at the head and think,

‘That’s a nice looking head, but what could be better about the head? I mean, I like the shape and the little wispy hairs, but..is that a dent on the side? What are those red blotches? Can I make those red blotches look better? I can’t. I don’t know what would make those red blotches look better! Dammit! Is there too much hair going on up here? Is there too little? I hate this baby! No I love this baby, I will never give up on it!’

So you push some more, and it hurts…oh boy does it hurt! But you produce a whole head! You look down between your legs and marvel at the head you have just produced. You see two bright blue sparkling shiny eyes and a nice button nose…wait…my baby’s nose is really a button! That’s not good. We can fix that in the next draft, no worries. OK, what else here? Oh yes, cute little mouth with some toothless gums…that works…and a right ear and only a right ear…

What the hell? Where is the other ear?! I just spent three weeks on this baby and it only has one ear! How can I fix this? I can’t! I just squeezed out this whole head and it’s missing an ear! There is no repairing this! I can’t just shove this head back into my cranial vagina…it’s already hanging out there! I even made the mistake of telling a few friends that I was thinking about birthing something! I remember telling the neighbor yesterday,

‘Yeah, I decided to birth a short story. I don’t know, maybe if it goes well I might turn it into a novella or possibly a novel. We will see. There a couple of publishing nurses I was thinking about shopping it around too, but you know it’s so hard nowadays with all the HMO Blogs and the Affordable Health Care Self-Publishing Services nowadays…the completion is fierce. Dr. Mom says I should go for it. She says I have always had the writing cervix for it, so I figure…what the hell? How hard could it be?’

So now I’m hunched over, cradling this one ear baby as I try find some inspiration. Do you know how hard it is to waddle around with a one ear baby dangling between your legs? Starbucks won’t serve you in this condition.

I tried.

“Um yes…I would like a Mocha Machismo Skinny Carmel Al Pacino Latte, Extra Froth, Double Lid, please.”

“Sorry, we only serve Hipsters, Accomplished Writers, and Moms here.”

“Really?! Since when?”

“Do you know you have a one eared baby hanging between your legs?”

“Yes! I guess I’ll go to Café McDonalds instead.”

“Good, and you might want to be careful! You’re banging that baby against your leg every time you take a step…on its good ear.”

Writing sucks.

It’s also hard to sleep with a one eared baby between your legs. It’s annoying. The thing is always crying,

‘Feed me! Finish me! Fix my ear! Change my sentence structure, its dirty! Where’s my Starbucks?’

I can’t get you Starbucks, its only for clever people, clever people that can sit down and bang out a 92,000 word novel in two hours and its sequel over tea with the Queen of England while inking the movie rights to Steven Lucas del Toro.

I can’t even fix your ear. I’ve tried. I tried hot glue, duct tape, cookie batter…

Then it comes down to the point of:

Do you just live with this baby head, ignoring it for the rest of your life?

Or

Do you take a Samurai sword to it, aborting it into the digital trash can, never to see the light of day again?

Or

Do you keep pushing, hoping the rest of it comes out alright? You know, two arms, two legs, a feasible plot line, a cute little belly button romance perhaps…or at least an “innie.”

(“Outies” are so in your face.)

Or

Do you just put a gigantic hat over it, covering it up, and call it, “taking a break.”

If you could see all the gigantic hats I have in my drafts folder, you would call me a whore.

More often than not I want take this one eared baby between my legs and punch it in the face and scream at it,

“I hate you one eared baby! Things were going to well! Why did you have to have only have one ear?! Do you think Steven King ever produces a one eared baby? No! How about Tom Clancy? I think not! What about J.R.R. Tokien? I’m pretty sure all the Hobbits had two ears and that extra ‘R’ in his name stood for Radical!”

Whoever invented writing hates puppies.

So why do it? Why write? Why bother?

I don’t know. These thoughts just get inside my head and I feel the need to put them on paper regardless if they are good, or bad, or rambling…or stupid. Does everyone else in the blogisphere actually really enjoy doing it? Am I the only one that hates it? I would rather sit on the couch and eat jalapeño Cheetos and watch really bad reality television than write…but I know my brain will turn to mush.

Well…mushier.

Mush potatoes.

McMush potatoes.

Now to be totally honest, there was no point to this except I’m stuck at a point in my story called, “Fatty McFat Fat Fat” and I needed to take a break. I decided to continue the birthing process, be it good or bad, or if it has one ear or three…so thank you for listening for a minute.

I feel better.

I’m going to waddle out of here now, please stop staring at the baby head between my legs.

My Simplistic Review Of How to Blog for Profit by Ruth Soukup

I subscribe to BookBub, and what BookBub does is send you emails when there are discounted ebooks on Amazon. You can set up the categories you’re interested in like Fiction, Non-Fiction, Historical, Poetry, Horror, Zombie Horror, De Voss, etc., and everyday you will receive an email with anywhere between 2 to 8 different ebooks ranging in price from free to usually no more than $5.

Monday’s email featured the ebook, How to Blog for Profit by Ruth Soukup. It normally costs $4.99 but was on sale for $.99. I usually just stick to the free zombie books, but due to recent life altering events, it seemed like it was a sign for me to buy.

I’m not expecting to make money off of this blog. I think the other blog I’m part of has a chance to make a couple of pennies. It has a lot of talented writers behind it. I’m not one of them, but I can ride coattails really well.

I mean I can really cling…like balled up saran wrap…

I’m just happy they include me because I kind of bring the intelligence quotient down over there, but every village has to have an idiot.

I bought the book for the marketing chapters, but decided to read it from cover to cover. It basically starts off from the aspect that you do not have a blog…

or you have a blog but don’t know what to do with it…

or you have a blog and you have about three readers…

two of them being your pet cats and the other your weird Uncle Stan…

or you saw my blog and thought;

“What? Do they give these blog things to any idiot who knows 23 of the 26 letters of the alphabet?”

Yes. Yes they do…and they are free…and you only need to know fifteen letters as long as ‘E’ is one of them.

My favorite advice from the book is, and I’m paraphrasing here; “If you want a great blog, have great content.”

Which is like saying; “If you want to win the sporting event you’re playing, score more than the other team.”

Or

“If you want to win the war, have your side die less.”

Or

“If you want to be a millionaire, get a million dollars.”

Side Note: I would like a million dollars.

What I read of the book isn’t bad, I’m not putting it down the ideas in it, but…

Hello!

Now, to be fair to the book, so far I have only read two chapters.

But the other thing that kind of hit me in the face like a dead sea bass wearing a hulu skirt was this paraphrased statement,

Side Note: I just looked up what paraphrased means, so I’m planning on using it a lot.

“You need a clear direction. Randomness will turn off your readership.”

Well…that chaps both of my blogs like the inside of a slightly overweight teenage girl’s sweaty thigh on the 4th of July while waiting for Junior Barnes from down the street, who promised to kiss her during the finale of the Farmer’s Day  Firework Spectacular, but has yet to show up…and it’s getting close to finale time…and now she is suspecting that he just said that…and that he had no intention of kissing her during the finale or at any time of her life…which is really sad because she has liked Junior Barnes since Kindergarten when he first fell over a block tower she was making and he started to cry of embarrassment…but she didn’t think it was embarrassing, she thought he was cute.

Side Note: I tend to be random.

Ruth Soukup writes a blog about being thrifty while maintaining a family and a room full of assistants to help her maintain her blog.

Side Note: I want a room full of assistants to help me with my blog.

I think this book is more geared to help craft or recipe or mommy bloggers. There are a lot of those type of blogs out there, and I guess they are easier to sponsor since they are so specific in their content.

I personally read blogs that make me laugh or are random like mine.

So are random blogs marketable?

Probably…not.

I’m sure the rest of the book is very helpful, I’ll let you know when I find time to finish reading it, or my randomness gets sponsored.

.

A Tale Of Love Lost In Forty-Seven Acts Condensed Into One

The bug hit the car’s windshield with as mighty of a thud as a bug hitting a windshield could make. It’s guts spreading flat against the smooth glass creating a kaleidoscope of brownish-grey-green hues across it’s surface. In an instant, the driver of the car, a Mr. Alan Furlow, hit the windshield wiper fluid and the blue liquid squirted the messy guts away. Well, not really away, the guts now congealed on the windshield wipers as they waved back and forth, back and forth, way much too long over the arch of the windshield.

What was really unusual and quite coincidental about this bug was that his name was also Mr. Alan Furlow. The driver, Mr Alan Furlow, had no way of knowing that he just accidentally killed and washed away his bug doppelganger, Mr. Alan Furlow, thus giving him a pass on Bad Karma’s ugly head intervening in on his day, but it also didn’t change the fact that this death still occurred.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver not the bug, suddenly felt the need to step on the gas petal harder. The car protested for half a second and then sputtered five pistons faster. Alan felt the hairs on his neck rise, but he didn’t know what that meant. He scratched the back of his hand absently.

Half way around the world, Mr. Alan Furlow’s true love, a Miss Margery Pinklestein, also absently scratched the back of her hand. Mr. Alan Furlow and Miss Margery Pinklestein had never met, no would they ever meet, for they were doomed from their birth to wander the Earth without each other. In a weird twist of fate, the bug versions of Mr. Alan Furlow and Margery Pinklestein had met and were in fact, married. Margery of course, was now a widow, although at this moment she didn’t realize it. Currently she was sitting in their 4 bedroom dung hole assuming that Mr. Alan Furlow, the bug, not the driver of the car, had been distracted…again…on his way to the big sunflower with which she had tasked him to collect some pollen for dinner. Margery, the bug, not the hand scratching human half way around the world, was planning on making her famous Sunflower loaf in celebration of his recent promotion from poop roller to poop scout.

Meanwhile Margery Pinklestein, the person, not the widowed bug, had nothing of interest going on this day and will not be talked about again in this diatribe.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the driver, not the dead bug who will not be dining on Sunflower loaf this evening, nor will he be bragging to his friends at the stagnant water hole about his recent pay raise, decided to go through the drive thru of his favorite burger place; Colonel King Burger. The sales promotion of the month was the Double Loaf Burger. Mr. Alan Furlow purchased one of these and drove away. As he unwrapped his Double Loaf Burger from the greasy wax paper, his heart felt heavy. A single tear leaked from his tear hole and slalomed it’s way down his chubby cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and thought nothing of it. He sighed and also thought nothing of that as well.

Mr. Alan Furlow, the living not the dead, finished his loaf, and while licking his greasy  fingers tossed the wax paper into the backseat of his car. It landed on top of a pile of many other Colonel King Burger wrappers. It disturbed a family of bugs whom Mommy Bug had just given birth to a litter of 50 brand new spanking baby bugs.

And she was debating naming one of them Alan.

(Their last name was Hippensnatch so it didn’t mean much, but you know…whatever.)

~Fin~

Those Insensitive Children’s Games We Played

Play time is different for kid’s nowadays. Gone are the times when your parents would kick you out of the house armed with only a ball and your bike, and you wouldn’t see each other until dinner.

Friday was meatloaf night, I was always late on Friday night.

Imagination and pick-up games ruled the neighborhood. Everyone would meet at the “spot.” And the “spot” was different per social class child gang.  Our “spot” was a cleared out field that was going to be developed into houses as soon as the plots of land were bought. In the background stood the forest which was only  a few hundred feet of uncleared woods, but at 10 years old, perfect for building a tree fort or going hiking without any fear of getting lost forever like Hansel and Gretel…the Brothers Grimm version, not the weird movie remake.

Two other important differences from the way children play today.

One:

There was a clear cut winner, whether it was an individual or team sport. Not everyone had an equal chance of winning. It did depend on your skill. If you swung and missed the ball three times with your bat, you sat down, you were out. You didn’t keep swinging until you eventually hit the ball. Often if you were the kid that sucked at baseball, you were the kid that was King of dangerous homemade bike ramp jumping.

Two:

For better or for worse the names of the games were not always politically correct. No one seemed to notice or care. Two prime examples from my childhood was: Smear the Queer and Black Man’s Tag.

If you are unfamiliar with the game Smear The Queer, the rules are simple. Throw the ball in the air and whoever catches has to run without being tackled. This could be played with any number of kids from 2 to 200. There is no designated place to run to, you just keep going until A) you’re tired or B) you’re tackled. If you get tackled then you throw the ball in the air and it starts all over again.

The great thing about this game: no thinking required. A helmet should have been required, it wasn’t, but definitely thinking went out the door. Your caveman instinct of survival kicked in and you just ran and ran until your friends piled on top of you like fat kids on the last Klondike bar.

For most, the offensive word in this game is Queer.  But I think the scarier word is actually; Smear. Think about how you would Smear something. Now think about violently Smearing something…or someone. Queer could be derogatory or empowering depending on how you say it. (Think Queer Eye For The Straight Guy) However, Smearing is Smearing, and there is no coming back from a proper Smearing whether your finger painting or recreating a Slasher movie.

In Black Man’s Tag the basic concept was that one person was “It”, and would tag the other players who were running back and forth between two safe zones. If you got tagged, you would join the “It” person and help them tag people until their was only one left, which was usually my friend Gilbert. He was damn fast. He was German. I don’t know if that is what made him so fast, but I think Germans played around with genetic enhancing during Word War II.

He may have been a by product of that.

We played this in the school’s parking lot with each end of it being the safe zones. You could not be tagged in the safe zone. If only big cities worked this way too.

A Simple graph for visualization.

I don’t know why it was called Black Man’s tag. Never really thought about the name until I became an adult. I had Black friends who played it. They never said anything about the name either.

“Hey, why does it have to be Black Man’s tag, why can’t it be Island Pacificer Tag? Or Spanish-American-Croatian Tag? Huh? Racist!”

The names of both of these games could admittedly have been chosen better. Maybe Black Man’s Tag could have been renamed Zombie Tag and Smear The Queer could have been renamed Rugby.

But as a kid it didn’t matter what the name of the game was, we just wanted to play.

Good job Gilbert, you genetically enhanced bastard. Good job.

Philosophy Fueled By Sangria

How To Be A Sangria Philosopher:

Step One: Drink a lot of Sangria.

Step Two: Drink even more

Step Three: Grab a pen and paper before you pass out.

—–

The world is divided into two groups: the Haters and the Hated. Now if the Hated also turn into Haters, then  the world would essentially be full of Hated? Or would it be full of Haters? Or would there no longer be two groups, the Hated and Haters, and just one collective hashtag-hater-hates.

It’s hard to say.

It’s hard to think.

If all we do is hate, then we as a society will hate to be hated, thus fueling more hate upon the hated-haters.

Hashtag: Rock-n-Roll! Hashtag: Rick Rolled!

HAHAHAHAHa……..what?

Essentially what the world needs now, is love sweet love…papa was a rolling stone…

What the world needs to do is just love, man. Love.

I love you.

Does anybody even understand the lyrics to Champagne Super Nova anyway?!

What?

Oh yeah…the world needs to stop hating. It doesn’t matter if your black or white or ebony or ivory…Sister Christian, oh the time has come, don’t cha know that you’re the only one to say, ok.

Ok.

Because you’re motorin’.

Yeah…you’re motorin’!

That’s so deep, man! Think about it!

So, to sum it up….stop hating, even though Ebony and Ivory is sung by two legends doesn’t make it a great song, and Oasis and puppies are over-rated.

Peace. Must. Sleep. Now.

If Taylor Swift Wrote About Real Life

McDonald’s Story

Standing in line waiting to order a burger

Your register girl is slow like a tumor

She doesn’t even know what a number 2 combo is

A number 2 is

The next thing I know

A wet floor cone is on the floor

I see no spill

So I walk around it

Walk around it

Chorus 1:

I ordered a 10 piece

You gave me 9 pieces

Where’s my Bar-B-Que?

It doesn’t look like the picture

Is this even real cheese?

This is my McDonald’s story

 

I look at the fry carton, it’s only half full

Just ’cause I’m skinny

Doesn’t mean I don’t like french fries

I like french fries

The drive through is backed up

People are screaming

Problem is the manager is only 14

He is only 14

Chorus 2:

I ordered a 10 piece

You gave me 9 pieces

I ordered a milkshake

You gave me a smoothie

Ronald kind of scares me

This is my McDonald’s story

 

 

 

I’m Sorry (For No Reason)

I’m sorry…

I’m sorry if the font on this blog is not good enough for you!

I’m sorry if sonetimes I misspell words, or, use, too, many, commas…

Or my sentence structure hard is to read!

I’m sorry if sometimes I use bold headers in inappropriate places.

I’m sorry if my socks don’t match!

I’m sorry if you don’t like the fact that I call my butt a bum and only British people generally do that!

I’m sorry if you find my jokes unfunny, or my Twitter/Facebook statuses unfunny. (I would include Google+, but I’m sorry, no one uses that.)

I’m sorry I don’t have a third nipple! All you high brow third nipple people can go have a dance party for all I care!

I’m sorry I’m using I’m sorry in this post a lot! I would use a synonym but that would require opening a new tab on the browser, and looking up one. I’m sorry, but I’m laying on my side while writing this, and that would require sitting up!

I’m sorry my taste in music makes you itchy.

I’m sorry that you disagree that Letters and Numbers should not be mixed together and therefor Algebra should be banned from the planet. Call me colonial purist.

I’m sorry you didn’t show me your boobs when I asked you too, and now you feel awkward about approaching me to ask me if it’s okay to show them now. Yes, it’s okay.

Speaking of awkward,                         I’m sorry for the awkward space in this sentence.

I’m srry yu disagree with my decisin t drp  a certain vwel ut f this sentence, thus rendering it hard to read. There are places where everyne uses every vwel in the English language, all the time.  Maybe yu shuld stick t thse places.

I’m sorry I’m not the poster child for Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I will sympathize with yours, but I can not represent you in Congress.

I’m sorry you don’t find it funny when I replace words in songs with ‘Fart’ or ‘Penis’. If that makes my core audience consist of mostly boys ages 9 to 14, then so be it. I’m sorry but ‘Fart In The Wind’, ‘Penisrazzi’, and ‘I Left My Fart In San Francisco’ is funny!

I’m sorry there is 🙂 a smily face in the middle of this sentence.

I’m sorry I made this picture:

I’m not sorry I made this picture:

Dear…Sincerely

Dear Candy Crush,

Playing Level 65 a thousand times without beating it is not fun!

Sincerely,

Not Spending Any Money On Charms You Bastard!

—–

Dear 6 Year Old,

I’m changing my name so you can’t call it a million times an hour.

Sincerely,

Mxyzptlk-ya-gowkza (Formally Known As Dad)

—–

Dear Game Of Thrones,

All you have done is talk for 9 episodes, and now we are going to make it exciting?!

Sincerely,

Smells Like Boardwalk Empire

—–

Dear Fart,

Your timing sucks!

Sincerely,

She Is Not Impressed With My Lovemaking Skills

—–

Dear Lazy People,

TV Remotes, Dishwashers, Car Clickers, ATMs, Cell Phones, Sporks

Sincerely,

The Spork Is Underrated

—–

Dear Iphone 6,

We have already released our phone so you could copy the features and make everyone buy new phones again. You’re welcome.

Sincerely,

Galaxy 4s

—–

Dear TV Executives,

Sleepy Hollow, Hannibal, Bates Mates…recycling at it’s best.

Sincerely,

That Does Nothing To Save The Planet

—–

Dear Three Blind Mice,

Sorry to hear your tails got cut off.

Sincerely,

1-800-Find-A-Lawyer

—–

Dear Eminem,

It would be cool if you were a TV advertising spokesperson. Just saying.

Sincerely,

M&M’s

—–

Dear Every Light On In The House,

Kids…Why? Is This Necessary?

Sincerely,

Thanks For Making Me Sound Like My Dad

Age and Gender Appropriate

On Thursdays we reblog here. Every Thursday…well most Thursdays. Some Thursdays we forget because…well…we are stupid. Today’s reblog is also about some stupid stuff. But it’s funny stupid stuff…which is what we like.

I don’t know why I used ‘we’ like Gollum when it’s just ‘I”.

Precious.

Enjoy.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s Christmas time once again, the streets are trimmed with tinsel and lights, the children are laughing and making their lists. Grandma and Grandpa are making their home made hot chocolate in both kid friendly and “Grandpa’s Snoring Medicine” versions. The babies are discovering for the first time the joys of Rankin and Bass Christmas specials while candy canes poke from their mouths. Their sticky fingers leaving prints on the glass table. Aunts and Uncles are preparing wonderful festive side dishes to bring to the big family feast. In the meantime the most succulent turkey is filling the kitchen with smells of tradition, and Christmas past, and hope of the coming year. Mom is wearing her Christmas apron which is dusted from flour of a thousand cookies that are cooling by the sink. She laughs at the mess of bowls with left over cookie dough stuck to the side, and licked clean spatulas, whisks, and measuring cups scattered to and fro. The sounds of holiday music fill the air, both timeless and familiar, where everyone knows the words to every song.

I sit in my favorite chair with my favorite pipe, and hand stroking my chin, looking at the joyous abundance of family and friends. I reflect on this Christmas and Christmas of past, and come to this very profound and very true realization:

Santa…

You’re a dick!

I mean who do you think you are?! I worked and sweated and paid for all of this shit…and YOU get the credit?! What the hell?? Seriously! You have done jack shit except hock Cola products and wave in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with your glued on beard half falling off. In the meantime I have stressed and slaved to bring everyone, everything their little greedy hearts desired, despite the fact that December’s bills don’t go away. Why do I have to do this? Because you, my mythical non-existing friend, with your tales of god damn Christmas miracles have deemed it. Yet you don’t contribute one red cent to this incredible unrealistic pipe dream you have bestowed upon my children! Thanks fat man for that! Now I’m spending my lunch breaks eating only carrot sticks in order to be able to afford that $400 bike Little Timmy has always wanted because he “believes in you”!

My favorite is come Christmas morning, after 3 months of scraping and planning, which only lasts for about 10 minutes by the way, is how everyone thanks YOU!

Thank you Santa.

YOU. DID. NOTHING!

I did EVERYTHING!

I understand I gave you the credit since the beginning of my children’s verbal understanding of all things, but that is kind of been forced on me by society. It’s really a vicious cycle that has been going on for god knows how long…

Santa you’re a dick!

I could rant on and on, but instead I composed this song.

It’s called: Santa You’re A Dick

(Sung in the key of G*)

Santa, You’re A Dick

You get all the credit

You prick

I spend the moneys

You get the honeys

And your red suit

Makes me sick

 

Chorus:

Santa, Santa, You’re A Dick

Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick

Dicky, Dicky, Dick, Dick, Dick

Because Santa

You’re A Dick!

 

The Bridge:

I slave and I save

And my children don’t appreciate it

They don’t understand my sacrifice

All they know come Christmas morn

Is all the presents wrapped up nice

 

Chorus:

Santa, Santa, You’re A Dick

Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick

Dicky, Dicky, Dick, Dick, Dick

Because Santa

You’re A Dick!

 

(guitar solo)

(drum solo)

(bullroarer solo)

 

Your story makes no sense

With reindeer, trees, and ribbons

And a Jewish dentist 

Which I don’t get in my defense

So shove off dear Santa

Don’t shed a tear

I’m taking the credit

This year

 

Chorus:

Santa, Santa, You’re A Dick

Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick

Dicky, Dicky, Dick, Dick, Dick

Because Santa

You’re A Dick!**

 

This will be performed by Willie Nelson and the ghost of Michael Jackson and released on Bitter Records. 

 

*I’m not musically inclined. I really don’t know what that means.

**Not really mad at Santa, it’s just for comedy purposes. Please don’t bring me coal Santa! I’ve been good. I have!