A recent tag on Twitter by my friend Vashti asked me to reveal something personal about myself. I shared the fact that I had once taken acting classes. That memory caused me to shudder and laugh simultaneously. Are you gonna ask me why?
(Whew … for a minute there I didn’t think you were gonna cooperate.)
So … the acting classes led to a few forgettable amateur performances with a group of like-minded but otherwise normal people.
Trust me Laurence Olivier’s reputation wasn’t in any danger of being outshone.
But, hell … we were a dedicated bunch. In a group like that you soon learn to put your hand up for anything remotely connected to a production, which meant we all worked scenery, props, backstage and front of house when we weren’t actually selected to be up on that stage ourselves. Like I said dedicated. Or maybe certifiable.
Anyways … I was chosen for a part in the next production. It was a great part. I got to be shot and die on stage as the final curtain came down and everything! Seriously! I mean let’s face it that was probably the greatest challenge ever handed an aspiring actor. I rehearsed the hell out of that final scene. I perfected pitching forward as I’m shot from behind and landing face down on the floorboards, but with a side view so the audience could get a clear view of my dead face as my shocked lover comes forward and kneels over me in an agony of loss. My assassin still stands with his gun in his hand and a shocked look on his face.
Are you with me so far?
That was the pivotal curtain moment.
Meanwhile back on the floorboards I lay, unmoving. I held it, I had that sucker under perfect control, until my dead nose came in contact with a pile of dust that one of us hadn’t quite swept off stage before the curtain came up.
I felt the dust reaction hit my senses and I began willing that damned curtain down. But my mourning lover was milking the hell out of his big scene and I knew I was in trouble.
I thought my head was about to explode.
At last my lover moaned out his last effort and the silence just before the curtain drops permeated the theatre … and I let loose the sneeze from hell.
I was mortified. Especially when I heard that first snicker, you know that embarrassed snicker you make just before you double up laughing? Yeah … that’s the one. Multiply that by about thirty folks still sitting in our audience. Uh-huh. Yep. And then I heard it … A voice in the crowd that carried well called out ‘Bless You’ and the whole place erupted. To make matters worse my lover collapsed in gales of hysteria over my no longer dead body which had his boyfriend off stage wishing me dead all over again.
My assassin barely managed to put the gun prop down before she cracked up completely.
Need I say that the only stage I was ever welcomed back on was the first one outta town.
True story. Seriously it is … even I couldn’t come up with this one.
Thanks for stopping by, I hope that my sharing a memorable moment has helped you to smile.
Have you ever had an oddly pivotal moment like that?
I was born in a town called Elko, Nevada. I like to tell everyone I was born in a small town in the 1940s. I’m not quite that old, but Elko has always been a little behind the times. This gives me a unique perspective of earlier times, and other ways of getting by. Some of this bleeds through into my fiction.
I moved to Idaho right after the turn of the century, and never looked back. My writing career was born here, with access to other writers and critique groups I jumped in with both feet.
I like to write about things that have something unusual. My works are in the realm of science fiction, paranormal, and fantasy. The goal is to entertain you for a few hours. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Lizzie St. Laurent is dealing with many of the struggles of young life. She lost her grandmother, and her living arrangements. Her new roommate abandoned her, and she’s working multiple jobs just to keep her head above water.
She inherits an old hat from her grandmother’s estate, but it belonged to her grandfather. This is no ordinary hat, but a being from an alternate dimension. One with special powers.
Lizzie and the hat don’t exactly hit it off right away, but when her best friend’s newborn is kidnapped by a ring of baby traffickers, Lizzie turns to the hat for help. This leads her deep into her family history and a world she’s never known.
Lizzie gives up everything to rescue the babies. She loses her jobs, and may wind up in jail before it’s over. Along the way, she and the hat may have a new way of making ends meet.
Humorous and fun, The Hat is novella length. Wonderful escapism for an afternoon.
MY REVIEW … 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 A Captivating way to spend your reading time.
I have read and reviewed other works by author C.S Boyack and knew from experience to expect an enjoyable read. The Hat didn’t disappoint me! This author has a boundless energy and imagination which he shares quite beautifully in the pages of this novella. We humans all appear to be genetically predisposed to hunger for some small connection to our past. The central (Human) Character of Lizzie finds herself needing to have a memento of her connection to the family when she finds herself adrift from her familiar surroundings.
Denied the chance to take something she’d value she grabs an old box and runs with it.
What the box contains is ‘The Hat.’ And from then on the story takes you on a frantically paced and well thought out roller-coaster ride. The dialogue between Lizzie and her new companion is classic one-liners delivered with superb comedic timing. That timing doesn’t falter for the duration of this enjoyable read.
Attributing a personality to a supposedly inanimate object takes skill, as did the sketches included so beautifully within this paranormal framework. Author C S Boyack has a marvelous creativity that enhances the reading experience.
I will never look at a fashion accessory in quite the same way again.
Hello, lovelies! You all know that I write seriously strange stuff when I need to just cut loose for a while…So here I am again, visiting the crazier than usual zone. Uh-huh … Yeah, so here we go!
I guess we all have those moments in life, you know the ones that you are certain to regret as soon as you recall whatever the hell it was that you did! Yeah, those rugged and dark times when you indulge in something legal or otherwise that you just HAD to have. My ‘Oops’ moments were continuing to create havoc.
The room stank. Body odor and cigarettes blended with stale booze. My stomach was unimpressed that my sense of smell was still working.
I dry retched. I shut my eyes and tried to remember just where the hell I was. Hell seemed an appropriate placement, it sure was hot enough.
The memory hung there just beyond reach. It troubled me somewhat, no matter how drunk I got, I had never blacked out before. It was a stupid thing to do.
The stench in the room increased. A light came on. What I saw made me wish myself unconscious again.
The thing sat in a stairwell. It wasn’t quite a dog. If it were, it was the ugliest one I had ever seen.
My first thought was, I hope to God this is only a nightmare. I pinched myself hard, and unfortunately, I felt it. The fetid odor of wet fur and old blood encouraged that notion. My nose didn’t usually intrude itself in my dreams.
I moved, happy that I could do so. I moved further. The doglike thing emitted a sound that gurgled up through its throat; it spewed from its mouth, a combined growl and groan combined. I shivered despite the enfolding humidity of the room.
It was angry and afraid. Never a good combination in a nightmare that stank.
I shuffled myself backward on my ass. I felt behind me in the light coming from where the thing sat. My hands touched something cold and solid; I turned my head slowly to look, not wanting to attract Stinkys’ attention. The scream I let rip, blew that scenario right out of the cellar.
The carcass had once been a female. Now it was just a gutted thing crawling in maggots and covered in a congealed mess of intestines. The genitals were the one remaining identifier.
I had attracted my ugly companion’s attention. He—she … or it, moved onto a lower stair, the stench wafted over me as it moved.
Staying silent was hardly an option. I was good with things with four legs as a rule. Better though if I had a clue as to what I was dealing with. It appeared to be a combination of an animal and an even uglier animal.
I guess if I looked that scary, I’d be pretty pissed as well.
I was deciding between throwing up or wetting myself, neither option was terribly attractive.
Good old Stinky had moved closer and was now only a couple of feet away. He wouldn’t need to eat me. The toxic fumes coming from him would decalcify my spinal column long before his sharp teeth could. This thing made ‘Jaws’ look like a sardine with attitude.
I weighed up my options, trying not to glance behind me at the last person who made the wrong choice.
The trouble being of course that Stinky may well be the best deal I had. I hate negativity; I decided to go with the easiest choice. I stood and remained still. My knees were shaking. This didn’t assist in portraying myself as a solid “Terminator” type. Stinky had a set of wedding tackle hanging between his legs. It, was a he.
Stinky dropped to the floor. He sat there making hideous sounds, his saliva pooling into a sticky mess in front of him.
So far so good, he had been conned by my immense physical presence. Then again, he may just be tired from all that eating human beings stuff he’d indulged in.
I tried for the soft approach, hunkering down and talking in a calm controlled manner as I extended my hand, “So, Stinky, how’re they hangin’?”
“Whoa—the old ‘Rumplefargl’ huh? Tough break, Stink. Hey, buddy, I understand. Us guys have gotta stick together, which given the amount of saliva you’re making, is a distinct possibility.”
I sat down completely, wanting, of course, to make him more comfortable. Plus my knees had turned to marshmallow and simply wouldn’t hold me up any longer.
Good ol’ Stinky must have figured I was cool. He put what passed for his head on his front paws, and looked up at me gently with eyes only ‘Stephen King’ could invent.
I had to be careful how I responded to this one. Suppose he was asking permission to turn me into a maggot-ridden mess like my other cellmate. Or worse yet, it could be a marriage proposal.
I gave it some thought, and then went for the psychological approach, “So with all this ‘Rumplfargl’ going on, Stink, when do you get a chance to just have time out alone? You know, just hangin’ out with the other things from hell and shootin’ the breeze and each other?”
He appeared to consider my question. He stood and hurried over to the stairwell, “Rumplfargl.”
I followed him. Hell … why not? I doubted whatever was up the stairs could be as disgusting as where I was.
I was so terrifyingly wrong.
I tried shutting the door again as a chorus of “Rumplfargl” greeted me.
Unhappy!Oh you clever observant human! Well done. You are a true master of understatement…Hmmm?
Do you think I am even remotely content? Hmmm? Does this face bear even a vague resemblance to your visions of feline delight? Ask yourself three important questions.
1] Should I pick up, and attempt to comfort this cat?
2] Is my medical insurance paid up?
3] Do I have masochistic tendencies?
If you responded in the affirmative to more than one of these, I recommend that you take a valium, exit immediately, and seek professional guidance.
Someone is going to pay dearly, for this…this atrocity.
You are probably under the impression that I have partaken in the luxury of a bubbly, scented, lovingly engineered bath.
You are wrong! W.R.O.N.G!
I am an educated creature, endowed with more than a normal amount of catty versus human tolerance.
Therefore; had I merely been bathed, I would perhaps still be a tad wet, a smidgen disgruntled, a little perturbed.
But no! I am so completely devastated, so overwhelmingly shattered, that I uttered, dare I say it, a cuss word! I uttered it in French of course, such a useful language.
I will repeat it, ‘Merde’! N’est pas?
I am in this state of extreme agitation, because of a Dog.
Yes, I did say dog, D.O.G!
Allow me to enlighten you.
I will in the recounting of this horror, attempt to maintain some vestige of dignity and restraint. On completion of my discourse into the cruel behavior I have been subjected to, I will allow you fair-minded humans, to reach your own conclusions as to whether or not I have been mistreated. I have no further choice of action open to me. I will be leaving my home at the completion of this sad story.
Please, be seated.
Attempt to overcome the need to comfort me.
And journey with me, into to the realms of dismal disarray.
I was sunning myself as was my habit on these warm winter afternoons. I was lying alongside the pool.
I find the sparkle on the water most refreshing, and the fact that the small troll-sized humans cannot gain access to the area is of course a prime consideration. Dreadful, sticky, smelly, little gremlins that they are.
Can you imagine my horror, my shock, my fear, when into the open terrain outside the pool area came this …this, thing?
My dears it was enormous, ugly, grotesque…!
The dog it had with it was also less than attractive.
Having regained my breath sufficiently to cast a disinterested eye on the more attractive of the two visitors hereinafter referred to as ‘The Dog.’ I was a little surprised to note that it was not a bastard breed.
Although I am almost positive its’ owner was.
No, ‘The Dog’ was a Boxer; a pedigreed Boxer, if I was correct, which of course I was.
Now, I come from Royal stock myself, and am of course familiar with the best of everything. I grudgingly admit therefore that a Boxer is a noble breed.
Did I also mention it was on a leash? I did of course check to ensure that the gate was fastened.
As it was a troll-proof locking device I was certain that the gross excuse for manhood, accompanying ‘The Dog’ would be unable to fathom the intricacies of opening it. Hence, I would remain undisturbed.
Life was as it should be. Tranquil and quiet.
‘The Dog’s’ companion, I hesitate to refer to it as human. ‘It’ spoke, not well, but vaguely comprehensible.”
‘It’ said, “Geez, mate, will ya look at that, a bloody great pool for ya to cool off in.”
To which ‘The dog’ with the unfortunate name of ‘Mate,’ responded,
“Woof” — tres originale?
“Bloody hell, mate, take a look at the pussy!” ‘It’ said.
“As for the reference to the pussy, I cast my eyes around, and sadly could only assume that, it, was referring to me!
“Pussy indeed.” I glared at the offensive male. Sadly, it had no effect.
‘The Dog’ hereinafter referred to as ‘Mate’ however, had heard, and understood exactly what I had muttered.”
“Well now Miss-Fancy-Pants, aren’t you the fine lady?” Mate said.
“I do beg your pardon, my name is not, never has been, never will be Miss Fancy Pants!” I uttered with as much dignity as I could muster.
“So babe, what is your name?”
“Did you call me, babe?”
“Nothin’ wrong with your hearin’, babe.” He was smiling.
“Have you seen a Boxer dog when it smiles, eeewww? And please do not ask me to describe what it does when it drools. I get quite faint even thinking about it.”
“My name, is Lady Tabitha, do not ever refer to me as Tabby, as I will refuse to acknowledge you have spoken! Are we clear on that point?”
“Sure thing, Lady T, happy to oblige.”
“You are an arrogant, ignorant boxer.”
“No shit Sherlock!”
“I refused to acknowledge his annoying presence any further, and rolled back over to my side, pointedly rude and hopefully effective.
“The calming effect of the secure Troll-fence allowed me to settle down and doze. I dreamed as always of ‘Yule. B. Siamese’ who resided next door, a delightful male and a fitting escort for a lady of my refined taste. He had recently begun chatting to me animatedly, a delightful conversationalist. I had hopes of furthering our relationship.
It had begun to rain, the feel of moisture on my face awoke me with a start, I lay there and opened my eyes to find myself nose to snout with the dribbling drooling DOG.”
“AAArrHHHHhgg!” I screamed in terrified surprise. “My God, how did you get through the gate?”
The fool was actually laughing. At me!
When he regained control he said,”I jumped the fence.”
“I was aghast as this was my safe-haven. Is nothing sacred?”
“So Lady T babe, ya wanna play?”
“What would you like for me to play DOG…? Bach?
“Yeees … I rather thought you’d respond that way.”
“Hmm, my point exactly. Do go away, you cretinous canine.”
“Lady T, I do luvs the way you talk, but if I knew what you was sayin’ I don’t think I’d like it quite so much.”
“Well then why don’t you ask that … that, dare I say it… human, to translate for you dear boy.”
“Just how long do you and your h… do you and he intend remaining in my residence?”
“Read my lips, how—long—are—you—going—to—be—here?”
“Hey, why didn’t ya say that in the first place? I’m gonna be living here, all the time. Isn’t that good? I’ll just bet we end up great pals.”
“Dear boy, you are obviously suffering from some form of delusion. Firstly, you cannot be going to live here. I, live here. Secondly, the chance of us becoming great friends is, at best impossible.”
“Nope, not about the livin’ here part anyways. Your humans is goin’ someplace called America, for one of those family emergency thingy’s, they is gonna be gone for a spell. Seems their young’ns about to have her first litter. So my human and me is gonna be lookin’ after the place. That means you too, Miss-Fancy-pants.”
“Any moment now I shall awaken and discover that you are but a nightmare, a figment of my imagination, you will vanish, never to return.”
“Duh! Am I still here?”
“Geez, you got yourself one sweet temper, aint ya?”
“You have not even begun to see that side of my personality DOG.”
“AAARRRGGGHH! ENOUGH! I am left with no option. My dear cousin is stopping by this very afternoon; he of course will offer me his unhesitating assistance. You have no idea what you are in store for. He will undoubtedly set you straight about just who is in charge of whom here.”
“My cousin is stopping by for a chat; he will be delighted to meet you.”
“Why is you smirking?”
“Then you must be in terrible pain, you might need more fiber.”
“Do not speak. Not one more obnoxious, ridiculous, nerve-shattering word.
Ah, at last, my dear dear cousin has arrived.”
“Holy shit! What the hell sort of cat is that? He’s as big as a damn horse!”
“Grigori-Ivanovich-Tiger-Woodski is a feline, dear boy, a Siberian Tiger.”
“What the hell did you say his name is?”
“T’is an honorable name, Grigori-Ivanovich-Tiger-Woodski. He is newly arrived in this country.”
“Somethin’s ringin’ my bells about that name, ain’t he famous for somethin’? Man, I ain’t never seen a cat that big! Where the hell’s he from?”
“Why’s he rushin’?”
“Because he was born Russian.”
“Why was he born rushin’? How did his poor momma cope with that?”
“Oh dear heaven, why would his mother have a problem with him being born Russian?”
“I’ve heard that can be real tricky.”
“What pray tell can be really tricky?”
“Bein’ born rushin’. Damnit! It’s bad for the blood presha.”
“It means, sh…never you mind!”
“I will attempt to explain this in words of small syllables. Grigori—was—born—in—Russia.”
“So what did rush hour have to do with his poor momma’s suffering?”
“WHAT SUFFERING? YOU CRETIN!”
“Havin him born Godamned rushin’ you, you,–furball!”
“Not a chance, sweet pea!”
“AAARRRGGGHHH! Grigori, I beg of you, I plead with you, talk to the cretinous canine, before your beloved cousin has a total breakdown!”
“Hello, puppy doggski.”
“Say hi, your enormous self, Greg-baby.”
“Please to translate, what iski, Greg-baby?”
“Means you is cool, my man!”
“Nyet, is not coolski, is hotski. Siberia is coolski.”
“You want I should call ya sigh-beer-iya?”
“Whatever toots-ya-horn, Greg-baby!”
“Hey Greg-baby you is getting the hang of speachyfyin’ real quick.”
“No sweatski, puppy dogski. We be comrades da?”
“Duh! So, Greg-baby, my main man, you wanna beer?”
“Nyet! Drink vodka. Then beer. Da?”
“Duh! Is that vodka good stuff?”
“Da, is strong. You strong, you drink. You not strong, you call me Grigori Ivanovich Tiger-Woodski. You strong, we be comrades, da?”
“Duh! Lead me to the vodka my very large, er, um…cat?”
“home, home on the raaange, hic, where the dear an the antelope plaaaay, hic, never is heard a diishcouragin’ word, hic, and we eats the little varmints each daaaa-yski, hic, heheheheh.”
“Oh My God! You are both drunk!”
“No shitski sherlockski”
“Grigori, no! No! No! Grigori, my dear, dear cousin, this just will not do!
“I beg your pardon.”
“You call me Greg-baby…all rightski.”
“Never, not now, not later, not ever!”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, how can this have eventuated? What have you done to my beloved cousin? You monster. You reproachable oath, you, you, peasant! You DOG!”
“Say what? What are you gettin’ your knickers in a twist about this time Lady T. You wanted old Greg-baby and me to be friend’s dinya? Hmmm? Hee hee hee!”
“Why, you unconscionable, despicable, conniving, treacherous…”
“You getting a little hot under the collar there Lady T?”
“Who could blame me, of course I am; in fact, I feel quite faint! I may swoon!”
“We can’t have that now can we, Greg-baby? Howz about we test our little theory about now? Bein’ as she’s so hot an all.”
“Good ideaski, Puppy comradski. We take care of little promblemski for cousin catski… Da?”
“Duh! Now that is my kinda thinkin’. On three?”
“Well I’ll be damned…! Can you still hears her under water?”
“Me neither, heh heh, there goes that theory. You sure she kin swim?”
“Duh! Oh lookit, there she is…Paws! Mwha ha ha ha!”
“Not pauseki yetski dogski.”
“Duh, whatever! Hey Greg-baby, does she look grateful to you?”
“We might be best doin’ a little of that rushin’ you is so good at?”
“Duh! What does ya feel like playin’ now Greg-baby?”
“Tchaikovsky, 1812 Overture. Da?”
“Duh! Was that a good year for vodka?”
“All year’s good years for Vodka, Da.”
“Duh already! Hey, I has been meanin’ to ask ya Greg Tiger-Woodsky-baby, does you play golf?
“Gulf? Nyet, not from gulf, am Russian!”
“Where are ya rushin’?”
“All of me am Russian!”
“What the hellski was thatski?
“Sounds like ‘Siam’ just got invaded by ‘Persia!’
“Your little cousin has moved in next door.”
“Dah-svee-dah-nyah, cousin pussy-catski!”
“Duh! Ya think we should help ‘Siam’ negotiate for ‘Persian’ surrender?”
“They gotski—poolski? Hehe.”
“Greg-baby, you is my kinda cat!”
I recently posted ‘It’s A Guy Thing” and being the fairest of people, of course I need to express the viewpoints of the ‘Opposing team.’
Thus we come to “It’s A Girl Thing.”
Let’s take a look at a fairly typical “Girl’s Night Out.” An Ancient, revered, and oft’ misunderstood ritual.
Picture this … Location … A Singles Bar in a Big city, anywhere.
WHEN … Every Saturday night. Unless said Saturday night occurred in conjunction with a full moon. When all the smartest of bars remained shuttered and closed.
Paramedics? … On stand by.
Cops? … They’ll wait and see how this one pans out.
Welcome to ‘Tabitha Tabbies’ Girl’s night out.
The Girls Night Out is an ancient mating ritual, oft’ misunderstood. The premise being that one of the clan is tying the ribbon soon. She is leaving the clan to begin a clan of her own. To celebrate they band together and hunt en-masse. Their prey? Must be male and preferably breathing.
I’ll be your tour guide for the evening. Don’t hope for David Attenborough, and you wont be disappointed. Whenever necessary I’ll translate the girl/guy text-speak into a language that hopefully even men can understand.
Things you need to know to help the visual imagery along …
You need to be aware that these locations have invisible wall of separation; AKA ‘Keep your ass in your own space, bitch!‘
Each segment of the room houses it’s own clearly definable group.
Thus we have … Group one: The girls label them as ‘The Desperate and Dateless.’ The guys label them “A Sure Thing”
Group two: The girls label them as ‘We clearly don’t belong here.’ The guys label them ” Reconstructions.”
Group three: The girls label them ‘The Kindy Kids’. The guys label them as “The FORBIDDEN ZONE.”
Lets briefly visit each group one by one. Listen in to one of the conversations … and the translation.
Please be aware that as the translator I am provided my non-watered-down drinks for free.
“Oh my god, it’s gonna be one of those nights! Look who just strutted her reconstructed ass through the door.” Felicity Furball hissed her displeasure.
Translation! (Two drinks in) Oh god I have to get the name of her surgeon! Her ass looks seriously amazing.
“Dahling Katrina! It’s so wonderful to see you! You’ve been gone for weeks. I’ve missed you.” Felicity purred out the words. “You look so well rested.”
Translation! Oh, crap, don’t sit here! I haven’t had a botox update for weeks..
Air kisses erupt at the table and the selfie pandemic begins.
Meanwhile over at GROUP two, at the “We clearly don’t belong here.” table, Miss -Directed was airing her views on the gathering. She also gave her new boobs an airing as well.
“Wow! Eyes left, kittens. We have dream candy on approach to the bar!’ she squealed with happy anticipation, being careful not to smile too hugely less the laughter lines give her the look of ‘Yoda’ on steroids.
Translation. (Four drinks in) I saw him first, so keep your grubby paws off!
“He seems quite … er … young-ish.” said Miss -Apprehension.
Translation (Six drinks in) “I’m old enough to be hish … older shister. Oh all right then, aunt!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just the lighting.” Said everyone else at the table.
Transhlashun = (Stopped counting drinks a while back) “don’t bring the resht of the group down, bitch. Let ush have our fantashy!
And the selfie pandemic continued.
Ah, then we come to Group three. The ‘Kindy Kids” enclave.
Where, everyone talked at once, sometimes even face to face,(Gasp!) but way more often they would text. Most of the conversations went something like this,
“So, I’m like, what the? (Insert confused face … 😕)thus. What’s with the guys here? They look, like, you know, seriously old.” Says Miss Prudence.
Translayersh … Yeah … so they shaid , I’m utterly confushed! Can anyone exshplain to me why the guysh here are shignificantly older than ush?
“Some of them are like, you know, not too bad.” (Insert Smiling face)😊 thus, “Says Miss Conception.
Trans whatsis! = “I dishagree (But not strenuoushly,) ’cause I did not utilishe um youtilishe … I didn’t ushe a (Insert Angry Fashe)😠
“You’re kidding me, right? They are like in their twenties or worse!” (Insert wheelchair symbol ♿)
Yeah, what she shaid = “I think you’re joking. You mush be! You’re eyeshight clearly needsh checking. (Insert Optometrist symbol) or as close as you can get. 😷
Much laughter is of course shared at the very thought of someone in their twenties being out so late.
And then = Lol, lol, lol,😆😆😆 rotflmao. 🤣
“Oh, wait! Look at the one in the Armani threads. He’s like, to die for!” Said Miss Directed (Insert Angel) 👼
Yup = “Jush a moment! The man wearing the Armani suit ish devilishly attractive! (Insert picture of the impossibly attractive Mr J. Depp) just because this is my blog and I’m allowed to.)
Much groaning ensues at such an obvious gaffe.
So they all do the Sigh! thing. I can’t translate it, but it’s you know, kinda like the sound you make when your partner at the time says something really diabolically stupid. Yeah sort of a whooshing, hissing noise.
“Baby-girl, what are you thinkin‘??? (Insert laughing face)😛 One of his x’s would kill you!(insert Angry Face)😠 🌟 These hotshots don’t live in the real world. I’m like, serious. (insert serious face) “😖
I now have 911 on speed dial (Which would do me no good whatsoever ’cause our code down here in Australia for Emergency responders is 000)=
Anywaysh … “What the hell, are you batshit crazy? I’m not kidding around here. Have you seen his ex?
“Oh. I’m like, so, you know, embarrassed. (Insert embarrassed face) Says Miss-Directed😱.Yadda yadda = “I’ll approach him later when this lot are gone.
“It’s like, okay. Whatever? So, you DO know how to pick out the married ones, right?”
‘slayshun. = “You re forgiven. It doeshn’t matter. Please reasshure me that you would recognishe a married man if you shaw one.”
“By their look of abject misery?”
Um … = I threw that one in just ’cause it made me laugh.
“I’m like, serious, girlfriend! You like, need to look for the white-place where their wedding bands were, up till, like, an hour ago … unless you know, like maybe the poor thing’s just been ditched.”
Uh-oh = (Insert Shtern Face) 😡But not your mother’s. “I kid you not! Theshe guysh take off their wedding ringsh and ‘ccordingly exposhe the thin band of white where the shun failed to penetr… um shine. You are in deepesh-do-do if they are newlywedsh, and have yet to have worn the ring long enough for a mark to appear. Sigh. Unlesh the guy is badly on the rebound and looksh utterly helplesh, and then your assh is hish!
“Eeew! That is so, like, creepy. My dad, like, would not do something like that; and he’s like, you know, married.”
“To your Mom?”
“Like, I know, right. For the second time, even. Go figure!”
So, yeah … “I’m pissed off about it.
“Wow. That is, like, seriously different.”
“Promise me you’ll never tell, like, anyone.”
“Oh I would never like do that.” (Says she already composing a Facebook post guaranteed to get hundreds of you know … likes.)
Spontaneous outbreak of hugs and much air-kissing ensues. And then of course the ritual of attending the bathroom en-masse begins. The table is temporarily abandoned. With the least popular and most unattractive girl is left behind at the table to ‘watch’ the bags. Men have yet to affix a suitably detrimental title to this phenomenon. They sink into David Attenborough mode and whisper of magic animalistic rituals that they are never permitted access to.
Ah, yes indeed, the girls night out.
The paramedics warmed up their ambulances.
The cops called in sick.
And as for the guys, they held bedroom auditions, knowing well in advance that nobody here would be in need of a call back.
Those fools that breached the ‘Forbidden Zone’ are still seeking bail.
My observations of life are often expressed with my rather dark humor. I enjoy helping folks take a look at something serious, expressed my way.
I originally wrote this around eight-years-ago.
A conversation I overheard recently forced me to recall it. It also amused me to recollect that when I first posted this all those years ago I had some interesting reactions, some of the women that commented were initially outraged … Until they discovered that a woman had written it. Then it became suddenly acerbic and clever. Some of the men that commented, initially laughed and shared it … Until they discovered that a woman had written it. Fascinating, yes?
Besides which, it’s just sadly funny, and you don’t need any damned permission to laugh.
It’s ‘A Guy Thing’… guaranteed to contain NO Political-Correctness whatsoever.
“It’s A Guy Thing”
It’s very short … trust me.
“What the … ?”
So yeah, I’m an elephant. And yes, I am up a tree.
Okay, granted I look a bit out of place.
Well yeah, okay! I look fuckin’ ridiculous. I could go all ‘Alpha’ male and say I’m a sniper. But you guys aren’t gonna buy that crap, ’cause I’m not dressed in black.
And, no, Smart ass, I do not have a personality disorder, in fact I’ll have you know that my friends tell me often that I don’t have a personality at all.
Huh? What? Now wait just a damned minute … !
You want me to explain just how I got here! You’re shittin’ me, right?
Okay, alright already, but remember, you asked.
So, it was a normal Friday evening, the guys and I had finished pullin’ a long shift up at the logging camp, and we headed down to our favorite watering hole to toss back a few dozen cold ones.
The Jungle Bar was in full swing. We had all had seven or eight Jungle juices and were just starting to hang loose.
I was into a deep and meaningless conversation with Gerry Giraffe, aka the Big G, we were laughing it up big time. All the usual suspects were bullshitting about the size of their trunks, while the Big G and I were shootin’ the breeze about basketball.
We ignored the well dressed cats in the corner, they were listening to Streisand and crying a lot.
So, there we were doin’ our usual Friday night “guy” things, when in came the Trio from hell. I shit you not. Picture this, three of the ugliest, noisiest, annoying-est females, on this, or any other planet.
Harriet, Hesta, and Hermione Hyena … man I’m tellin’ ya, these females had faces uglier than the southern end of a north-bound Baboon; three faces that could cause ya to have temporary nausea. Are you with me so far?
They came busting into the joint screaming and laughing , and laughing and screaming and screami’ … well you get the general idea. They were hyster-ectomy-erical.
Or some other female P.M.S thing.
Anyways, they started on about somethin’ called a Soo-Nar-Me.
Hey, I’m not adverse to that Sushi stuff; ya know, it ain’t too bad. But, man they were carryin’ on like this Soo-Nar-Me stuff was to die for.
So, we did what any normal red-blooded males would do when confronted by three hysterical females; we ignored them.
Did I mention they were ugly?
Alrighty then, so we got back down to business and “A good time” was being had by all. Personally I think that is a perfectly ridiculous name for a female, but hey, whatever floats ya boat.
As it turns out, ignoring the ugly sisters was perhaps not the wisest choice we could have made. ‘Cause next thing we know is we are all surfing without benefit of boards!
Man, I mean this was the biggest fucking wave I have ever seen.
I up-periscoped the trunk and here I landed, in a big tree, with a fuckin’ huge eagles nest built in, filled with an entire restaurants worth of enormous eggs.
Did I mention that I swear? A lot.
I shit you not, my friends. I’m in a fuckin’ fix. And then some.
I sent my girlfriend Essie up to the logging camp, with orders to bring back a crane. Essie is just so beautiful, she has the biggest brownest eyes. I forced myself to remember that when she returned with her pretty trunk curled gently around the skinniest, long-legged-est, most pissed off bird I have ever seen. Man his feathers were ruffled.
Yeah, yeah, Okay! Sure, it was a Crane; but c’mon, how bright did she have to be?
Did I mention that Essie is beautiful?
So, It looks like I have some time to kill. I been thinkin’ that I maybe need to do a minor re-think on some of my attitudes.
Firstly, understand that seriously ugly females have their place in the world. Yeah, your place, his place, anywhere but my place.
Aw hell, poor things. But they’ve gotta be good at somethin’, right?
Hey, there’s a thought! Doh!
Secondly. I should maybe learn some important words and phrases in a couple of foreign languages; uh … such as, ‘Police,’ ‘Fire-Brigade,’ ‘Ambulance,’ ‘Pour me a beer,’ ‘My place or yours,’ ‘I’ll still respect you in the morning,’ and, ‘Of course I love you.’ You know; the guy thing stuff.
Thirdly. Find out what Show-van-ist means. I think it’s German.
Fourthly. I should maybe try and listen when someone seems to be upset about somethin’- even if they are ugly.
Oh-my-God! The damned eggs are hatchin’, I’m gonna be a daddy! How the hell do I explain this one to Essie the crane-fetcher?
Oh please! … Now what in the hell is goin’ on down on ground level?
There is some skinny-assed chicken down there, runnin’ around flappin’ his wings and fricasseein his ass, screechin’ “The sky is falling!”
What the fuck?
Anybody out there got an umbrella?
Some days it just ain’t worth getting out of my or anybody else’s bed. Even if they are ugly.
So! When I’m bailed out of the naughty corner I’ll write my next post.
In the interest of fairness, it will be titled … “It’s A Girl Thing.”
Every so often on my journey through this crazy world I have the urgent need to write ‘off the wall’ crazy stuff, just for the hell of it. I’ve decided to reserve a special page on my blog; the “Soooz Says Stuff Page” The following is the result of one such trip into mayhem. The original Limmerick goes (I believe) as follows.
“I’m not the pheasant plucker
I’m the pheasant plucker’s son
I’m only plucking pheasants
till the pheasant plucker comes.”
Then we have my expanded alternate version:
WARNING! Dangerous when spoken in company … unless you are completely sober … and are in possession of teeth … preferably your own.
I am a peasant who plucks pheasants
Morning noon and night.
T’is no easy task this pheasant plucking
and, I just can’t get it right.
I pluck ‘em fast; I pluck em slow
Till I’m flat out on the floor
Doesn’t matter what I do,
there always is one more.
Now a peasant’s life’s no pleasant picnic
I truly kid you not.
But plucking clucking pheasants
Is the only job I’ve got.
I don’t really understand it
Perhaps I try too hard
Chasing pheasants to be plucked
Out in the plucking yard
The farmer’s kids stand watching
And laughing till they cry,
If I could be offended
I would be mortified.
But “a pluck’s a pluck” my mom says
And brother she should know
She pleasantly plucks pheasants
Everywhere she goes.
She is the princess of pheasant plucking
Her fame is world renowned
She plucks her way from shore to shore
And sleeps on duck plucked down.
She can pluck while seated,
She plucks standing on her head
I’ve heard tell she also plucks
Whilst lying in her bed.
Matters not which way I pluck ‘em
I cannot match her score
I just don’t understand it,
I really pluck ‘em raw.
After all this pleasant pheasant plucking
You think I’d quit the game
But no, not me, I go right on plucking
Till they all look the same.
At end of day when I’m plucked out
I can’t even raise a peasant smile
I have a drink at the Plucker Inn
After I walk a country mile.
My friends all gather round me,
and give me drinks for free,
they kindly ask about my mother’s
latest, pheasant plucking spree.
One day as I was plucking pheasants
In my usual plucking place A stranger came up screeching!
Cursing loudly in my face.
“My god! What are you doing?”
Is what she asked of me,
“I’m a peasant plucking pheasants,”
said I, “as you can plainly see.”
“Are you a fool?” she cried aloud.
“You haven’t got it right.”
“Don’t tell me that fair lady,
‘cause I pluck pheasants day and night”.
She slapped my pleasant peasant face
Then she screamed out fit to burst.
“If you’re going to pluck a pheasant, peasant You’re meant to kill it first!”
I can hear you groaning from all the way down here in Oz! … You were warned! 😊😊😊