Now that you mention it...

A few people have pointed out to me that it's hopeless to vote for someone that is destined to lose. I should vote for a winner.

You know what? That kind of thinking backed King George in the American Revolution, and I won't hear it. You have some logical argument, like I'm all pro-choice and so is candidate y? Let's talk.

On the other hand, some obscure politico thinks that having only two parties might be bad for America.

His initials included a "G" and a "W".



Oh, and let me toss out my favorite statement: "The only wasted vote is the one that is not cast."

Get out there and do your country a service by expressing yourself. I'd prefer you didn't vote against someone so much as for, but I promise not to judge you.

Nanoo?

I'm gearing up for Nanowrimo, and...

You know what? I'm going to tape a key down and walk away. 50K words later, I'll get my shirt and a tremendous feeling of accomplishment.

Because whatever idea I come up with will not bear up under scrutiny... they will invariably be incredibly stupid.

Even if I think they're brilliant. Or, at least, passable.

So, this way, I won't have wasted the effort, but I'll still have "participated."

Go

Me.

'Tis the season

I play a few online RPGs, PBeM, and recently ended a run playing one of my all-time favorite characters: Dot.

Dorothy Sullivan had a knack for invention that went beyond description... one might call it cyclopean, were it a tomb. In-between some of the game we ran what were known as "green room" scenes. We were permitted to let imagination run wild. During one Halloween season I presented this:

Dot nodded and finished up her lantern. It took on an
eery green backlight casting itself over her as well.
The top ripped itself open and a humanoid of pumpkin
gore and seeds lurched out, as if trying it's last to
escape a torment that its hollow eyes and wretched
face could not describe. Seeds it used as fingers,
clawing outward toward a nearby pumpkin until it
ceased, as a body, to move forward.
Out of the pulpy creature came seeds, half-hopping
in some crazed attempt at mobility, tendrils of gore
lurching forward until the seeds found themselves upon
the surface of a new, fresh, victim. They then
burrowed under the skin, a crackling noise emanating
even as the surface crawled. A face of undescribable
horror etched itself across the fore and sinewy claws
reached forth from its mouth and clutched at open air
before finding the eyes and pulling, the smell of
burning pumpkin assaulted the nostrils as it silently
screamed and the flesh melted into a bubbling mass,
leaving the crisped culprits arrayed in the center.

Dot looked on in glee, "pumpkin seeds are ready!"

Oh, Happy Day!

Satan
Many of you know that my ex is well beyond abnormally cranky and into full-blown Stupotic (or, if you like "duh-raazy").

The latest episode revolves around the document the court gave us a while back and UB's birthday. See, this year his birthday falls on a weekend, and it's her weekend... but it's supposed to be MY turn to have him on his birthday.

I have been warned not to fight her on this, because this state favors the mother regardless of mental acuity/state, fitness, or any other quality. Bonus points for crying on the stand. Because men are all evil.

That's equal rights for you.

So, she calls me up. "There's a conflict," she says. I hadn't noticed one, so I pull out ye olde parchment of legal wisdom... no. Seems pretty plain to me. Your weekend except where it infringes on his birthday (defined as being from 6 the previous day to 6 the day of... go figure). Those hours I get visitation.

"But it's my weekend! Why are you trying to steal from me? I'm his mother!" Yes, she tries to pull that crap on me. I tell you that if hitmen weren't so darned expensive, I'd be sorely tempted.

"But," I respond, "I'm not stealing time from you. It's not your time in the first place. It's a bit like my owning a bunch of bananas that I bought at the store two weeks ago and having you claim that I deprived you of them."

"Well, you did."

I cannot roll my eyes far enough to get them away from the affliction she has. I only hope it's not catching.

"Look, I'll give you two options... you can split the weekend with me, or you can take an extra day sometime that doesn't interfere with school."

"Fine. I'll pick him up Friday and take a day during Christmas vacation."

Admittedly, I'm feeling ruffled at this point, so I might've said something about her inability to decipher the word "options" which suggests a menu of multiple choices, of which she will have to decide not to have at least one of these. Since I presented a list of two, that pert near narrows down the choices. Pick one, damn you.

"Fine. I'll pick him up on Friday."

This was the last email I got from her, and I responded simply that, should we not agree on anything, I'll have to assume that she means to abide by the letter of the document. That being the case, I'll pick him up from her house around 6 p.m., Friday.

As a footnote, I'd like to add that I have inquired as to UB's opinion on this. He likes the idea of sharing that day with both parents, and urges that we not fight over the time. Sadly, it looks as though she will not relent until she gets what she feels is hers, even by stealing time from me. I've told her of his opinion, but she doesn't seem to care. If he can see what she is, and has figured out that she only sees him as a pawn in some sort of "game" between the "adults", I hope that she has trouble living with the result, becomes an alcoholic bingo-addict wannabe porn-star and ends up in a dark alley trying to peddle anything she can get her hands on in exchange for Elmer's Glue. If it happens I'll post pictures here.

I'll feel sad for him, because it's never good to watch anyone slide that far, but I'll laugh heartily at night and sleep pretty well.

But she's a peach of a lady... woman... thing, my ex.

They sell peaches by the roadside in Georgia. I'm just saying...

Exit, stage left

This guy cracks me up.

He's a dance instructor running on a poorly considered (or worded... or both) independent platform for the position of Governor of the state of Colorado.

I am so voting for him. (Lost causes are my "scientific speshee-al-ity."

Don't Download This Song

"Weird Al" Yankovic's first single from his new album "Straight Outta Lynwood" (in stores September 26). Video directed and animated by Bill Plympton.

These floors are dirty as...

I do ramble when I'm tired, and today I got hold of the GOP (I hope), and sent them this:

For a long time now I've been frustrated with the focus the Republican party seems to have on the Democrats. While, as an independent voter, I could vote either way, I tend to swing for the Republicans because I believe they share most, if not all, of my opinions. I've decided that such shall not be the case any more.

One thing is abundantly clear to me: politicians will not cease to sling mud unless forced to do so. I will, from this day forth, vote for the candidate who slings least. This may mean that "3rd" parties, whackos, and freaks get my vote. So be it.

This time around the Republicans have absolutely repelled me with the awesome amount of mail, phonings, and radio ads (thankfully I don't watch television). But, why would I tell you this? Why tell the Republican party what they are doing wrong in my eyes?

Because they can fix it. They can regain my vote through simply acting like they actually promote family values, America, and basic goodness. If my children behave like that, should I not reprimand them, tell them what they've done wrong, and let them think on the error of their ways?

This is not a new trend, and I don't imagine my one message will get through, but if I cannot hope for a better future, what have I to hope for?

Sincerely,
Charles Ulysses Farley

P.S. Stop sending me stuff, mailing stuff, or polling me. I don't care that you aren't "endorsed by a candidate." Your behaviour reflects on all Republicans. You just wind up making yourselves look bad.

Ahem...

It really is challenging to describe just how in (-sane, -nane) my ex is. I may have to create a new adjective for her condition. For the time being, I shall settle for telling you of the latest issues and her response.

I'm fairly content with the schedule as it is. From my perspective there are few conflicts and that it gives my ex a chance to stop yelling at me and (assumably) yell at other people. Sometimes she makes fun of them, but it's a little like seeing a retarded pit bull try to sing the Monkee's greatest hits. I digress.

The latest issue is UltraBoy's birthday, which falls on the same day as her weekend. This annoys her because she's missing out on valuable parenting time. She wrote the schedule, so I don't have a problem with it conflicting with her at all. No, I didn't have a chance to refute or edit. Bad lawyer... no cookie.

At any rate, she's been trying to trade that weekend for another. While I have parts of other weekends, and even tacking 2 extra days onto her summer schedule, she has denied me, owing to her "wanting to spend time with him on his birthday". Whiskey? Wouldn't that go against trading the whole weekend in the first place?

Not only that, but this weekend was traded for some time in January so that UB could go to a family wedding. But she's still yelling about it.

Lemme give you the latest text:

I am done talking about about Ultraboy's birthday weekend. You are dead set on stealing every minute you can from me. I have offered different solutions about correcting this scheduling conflict, with no help from you. I refuse to let you cheat me out of one more second with my son. If you want him for his birthday you will trade me the weekend before or after his birthday, but Ultraboy will not lose out on time with me. And as you heard he did not do his Latin homework assignment because he feels like he does not get to see me enough and wanted to do it when he was with you instead.

As for band, Ultraboy has to be getting your monetary difficulties from somewhere, maybe it is your lack of food in the house, your not letting him have dinner, his feeling of not wanting to eat as much so his brothers will have enough to eat.

I did not know she was failing two classes or that he was in a remedial writing class. I do not know these things because you have not told me these things. Because again that would mean you growing up and not acting very immature when it comes to me having anything to do with Ultraboy's life.

If Ultraboy has an instrument why did he ask me for one? I feel you can not afford one (or food) and you are to pride full to let me know.

(end message)

Part of this message gives good indication as to why I prefer to do everything by email. I may have foolishly given the word about his failing classes over the phone and not followed up. I don't think that's the case. Otherwise, she's full of crap. Totally. I actually feel like inventing new curse words as well, as the old ones just aren't sufficient. The rest I can back up with cold data (and leftovers). But, should I present such evidence, she tells me I'm making it up, that I'm a liar, and that everybody knows it.

Did I tell you that she said in a conflict over the visitation schedule she wins?

I'm thinking of asking her if our time is of equal value, in her opinion, because I know what her answer, were it honest, would be. And the courts might actually support me a bit with that in hand.

Who knew?

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Damn your eyes!

Satan is having another conniption. She says, once more, that we are not feeding our children, but, most importantly, we're not feeding Ultraboy.

It was possible, had he continued to goof off, that he might've missed dinner. Once. I have to have some means of punishing him for these things, and I can't spank him. Yelling has no effect. And it would be once.

Then she brought up the banana bread thing again... the one where, all summer, all I fed my kids was banana bread. Even though a CPS agent came out and noted that, although our house was a wreck, we had plenty of food and evidence that it was getting eaten by kids (aside from the banana bread).

An interesting part of the conversation went like this:

"And you know that paper you're reading?"
"Was reading, but yeah."
"It says that every time there is a conflict, I win. And that you are a liar."
"I don't care if it says I'm a devil-worshipping baby-eater. Stick to the issue."
"You are a devil-worshipper. I've heard about that church you go to."
"Well, at least you're admitting I attend church now."

The entire run of the conversation was her yelling at me, and I'm simply not up to taking it. I came so close to tears it's not even funny. But, if it goes to court, I bet that I wind up in chains, or more broke than I am, and without Ultraboy.

Because this state would rather see a mother who will let her kid be anally raped nightly have custody than a father who struggles to motivate the same kid with difficulty.

Today I feel Silly

It's the title of a book by Jamie Lee Curtis.

Today I feel quiet. It's the best time to write, because people feel like a threat. I could fear them all and lock myself away and not come out of my little space and cry quietly in the night.

I composed a poem about it, but you can't see it.

It's private.