There’s a Place for Drugs

I am currently blogging under the influence of hydrocodone. It’s fabulous (for me).

Last week I started feeling a little achy in my upper back. It wasn’t a big deal, hardly noticeable. I vaguely thought maybe I’d strained a muscle while lifting weights or running. Then I suddenly had a burning ache in my upper left abdomen under my ribs.

An internet search helpfully suggested everything from an enlarged spleen to gastritis to Hodgkins Lymphoma. I’m too much of a lightweight to develop a raging case of pancreatitis; but in the off-chance the Mormon god is fer realz, I knew I was screwed anyway. He gets off on making women suffer in the most ironic ways and saves his richest blessings for lying politicians. Proly cuz they have better lobbyists.

It would be just like Elohim (that’s his name, now you know) to curse me for savoring two beers the preceding Friday, while blessing Mitt Romney with capital gains income totaling $57,000 per day — for standing for nothing — for very long that is. Maybe Elohim is partial to nice hair? We’ve already established he favors dicks. True story.

Anyway, I quit reading at pancreatic cancer. If I’m going to die I’m more interested in getting my affairs in order and finding a reliable and discreet dealer than in graphic details involving lots of pain.

On Monday of this week, various tests from blood taken last Friday came back normal. In the meantime, I broke out in a lovely humungous little rash, raised pink splotches dappling my left side, wrapping from the pit of my stomach to my spine, creating a pattern like playful sunshine mischievously peeking through aspens in a pristine alpine forest. Or like John Boehner’s face getting all splotchy and moist while he reminisces about being a janitor. Choose your own visual.

The rash follows a nerve line. Aha! A clue. I would take a picture and plaster it right here as a visual aid but for the risk of a wardrobe malfunction exacerbated by my temporary intoxicated state — and temporary aversion to certain articles of clothing, particularly of the supportive kind. And you all know how hard I work to keep this blog family-friendly. (insert smiley emoticon here)

Anyway, if you guessed shingles, you guessed right. Damn nasty little buggars they are too. Of course I’ll take them over pancreatic cancer, lymphoma, or internal hemorrhaging. Hell, I’ll take them over gluten sensitivity. Indeed, when the rash showed up my first thought was one of relief.

Although it’s my personal thing to generally avoid drugs and go easy on the alcohol, I am currently gushing with gratitude for antivirals and certain narcotics with the ability to KO aches that ibuprofen can’t touch. Being able to sleep without snuggling up to the feeling of a knife inserted under my ribs is a good thing.

And I can hardly wait to watch tonight’s GOP debate while flying like a birdie under the vaulted ceiling. Intoxication will add a new dimension of hilarity while buffering my disgusted, “You did not just say that. Oh no you di-n’t!”

Watching Romney and Gingrich destroy each other during the last debate was delightful enough without narcotics. I’m having too much fun seeing flummoxed Republicans agonize over choosing between the Rombot, the Despot, and the Zealot — not to mention the Crackpot who actually speaks some sense about some things but when that happens he looks like a liberal. Anyhoo, it promises to win Best Comedy of the Year.

Bring on the popcorn and the little white pills.

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Eating Crow: Tasty and Profitable

(Click for source.)

Recently it occurred to me that I’m going about life all wrong. To wit: My belief that everyone wants to be enlightened is only so much pie in the sky. Perhaps it’s time to stop denying this fact and start capitalizing on it. Send me a check and (after it clears) I’ll send you my secret herbal formula that will make your breasts bigger, perkier, and 77% more fun.† Recommended by four out of five dentists.

†These statements have not been evaluated by the FDA, which agency is of the Devil anyway.

For example, when I discovered I’d been duped by the Corporation of Mormon Spin, I thought I’d stumbled across something monumental, of worldwide import. I had to inform the masses, or at least other Mormons. Because oh my god. Doesn’t everyone need to know that Mitt Romney won’t really be a god of his own planet? I know I was shocked.

Turns out the masses didn’t give a shit — which, in retrospect, is understandable given my equally appalling lack of enthusiasm for diving into the mildewy bowels of Catholicism or Scientology, notwithstanding the fancy man-dresses and the aliens. As far as the masses were concerned, I may as well have been pointing out the Emperor’s willy while standing on a nude beach along the coast of France.

In contrast to the masses, the Mormons plugged their ears, insisted the Emperor was fully clothed, then prayed for my fallen soul.  Either way, I was the only one standing on the beach pointing at an old man’s junk as if it was something worth noting. Clearly, I was the one with the perception problem.

In the fable about The Fox and the Crow, the crow finds a tasty piece of cheese and flies up to the highest branch of a tree to enjoy his morsel. A fox with a hankering for gruyere fueled by a sense of entitlement decides to steal the crow’s lunch. “You are beautiful and have such a lovely voice. Please favor me with a song,” lies the wiley fox, slicker than a serial adulterer waxing sanctimonious about the sacrament of marriage.

The daft and vain crow opens its beak and serenades the fox with its hoarse caw, dropping the cheese into the fox’s waiting jaws. In another version the fox eats the crow. Six in one, half a dozen in the other. The crow is the fox’s chuck wagon. Death by flattery.

All the other animals witnessing the exchange can’t understand why the crow is unable to see through the fox’s strategy. It’s embarrassingly transparent. Is the crow stupid or what?

When I heard some of the good Christians of South Carolina jeer and boo Ron Paul for advocating their Lord and Savior’s Golden Rule, then in a hoarse cawing cacophony cheer Newt Gingrich when he advocated precisely the rule’s opposite (“We kill ‘em!”), I lamented all that lost cheese. Just the cheese, mind you.

Because it’s hard to feel sorry for the crows. They are the assholes of the bird kingdom, after all, self-righteous obnoxious know-it-alls that have nothing but disdain for anyone who doesn’t agree with them. They’re the first to peck out the eyes of the messenger sent to warn them about the foxes. Maybe they get what’s coming to them. The foxes, privately disdainful of the crows cheering them on, have their number.

Yes, the foxes are clever, much more so than I initially gave them credit for. Because what kind of idiot takes a firm stand in favor of gay marriage when he knows he’s being recorded, then flip-flops a few years later, dishonestly claiming he’s never been in support of gay marriage? Obviously, he’s lying. He knows he’ll be caught, but only by the people whose votes he doesn’t care about anyway.

Thinkers and fact-checkers were never his target constituency. He’s banking on his ability to manipulate the willfully ignorant — who, by the way, love being manipulated. Crows wildly cheer their flattering foxes on when the foxes berate the fact-checkers attempting to hold the foxes accountable — for lying to and stealing from the crows. Just typing that last sentence made me dizzy. But eight years of Bush prove the viability of the foxes’ campaign strategies: Never underestimate the power of stupid crows in large flocks. I mean these crows believe Reagan was thrifty and hated big government. Erm.

The crow is like the destitute woman strategically “thrown” $60 by the guy who considers $375K in speaking fees mere pocket change. I can hear the tactical conversation between the Fox and his Aides: “The polls suggest you’re an emotionally disconnected asshole. Throw Mary $100 and we’ll alert the press.” “Okay but in this economy how much money does the average American carry around in his wallet? We gotta make this look authentic.” “Yeah, you’re right. Give her $60 …”

Perhaps it’s time to start sampling the crow buffet …

(Hat tip to Kuri for posting this video and to Daily Kos for putting it together)

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Lessons from Zion: Random Musings of a Prospective Granny

Not long ago I discovered I am going to be a grandmother. Meaning the biscuit is in the oven. Given my personal experiences with my own grandmothers, it took me a few days to come to grips with the prospect of thick heeled oxfords, loud polyesters prints, and temporarily losing my chest only to run into it later in the vicinity of my belly button make adequate preparations for the exciting reveal that’s scheduled to occur June-ish.

A recent ultrasound has confirmed what my daughter already suspected: The half-done baby biscuit is a boy. He obviously posed for the picture, proudly displaying his his-ness without inhibition, even pointing out a few impressive [if I do say so myself] things when prompted. He’s destined to be the most intelligent and attractive child that ever lived.

I’ve thought a lot about our little guy and have already planned various activities involving hanging out with Grandma. How small do they make cross-country skis these days? How soon can the cute little critters start hiking? Is 3 months too soon?

These questions were on my mind when Mike and I took another trip south over the Christmas break. Our daily schedule: Hike somewhere in Zion National Park, then land back in Mesquite around 4:00 p.m. for $0.25 poker and “free” beer (I was up $7 until the last day; the grand total: 8 beers for $13; a far better deal than I can get for Negra Modelo in Utah). Then we hit the casino buffet for dinner.

Which leads me to Lesson #1 for my little guy: Pay attention to the little [and big] things, like this one: You don’t see many fit, slim, and attractive people loading up at the all-you-can-eat Virgin River buffet.

Lesson #2: We’re not as big, important, or exceptional as we would like to think we are. It’s a wonderful thing to discover we’re all just people. Those who believe otherwise comprise the world’s “biggest and most important assholes and buffoons.” Avoid them, and for god’s sake, never vote for one.

Lesson #3: No matter what anyone says, the Earth is not only 10,000 years old and snakes don’t talk. However, you will likely run into the occasional talking ass.

Lesson #4: As a species, we’re not that smart. If we were more evolved on the intelligence front, no one would give a shit about the Kardashians, Mitt Romney would not be the presumptive front-runner, there would be no wars, and children would not die from starvation.

Lesson #5: It’s smart to ask any presidential candidate about his religious beliefs. Anyone who hides behind the veil of political correctness and criticizes you for asking “discriminatory” questions has something to hide. Does he ever.

Lesson #6: Follow your dreams, wherever they take you. If anyone tries to stop you along the way, tell him/her to take a hike.

Lesson #7: Despite the pejorative label “birdbrain,” never underestimate our feathered friends’ intelligence. They’re far smarter than your average Republican.

Lesson #8: If you’re ever in a bind, I’ve got the goods on your mother.

Lesson #9: People who are offended by honesty are not your friends. Like my Grandpa used to say, “Some people wouldn’t say ‘shit’ if they had a mouth full of it.”

Lesson #10: The best things in life really are free. A few other things that enhance the aforementioned best things are overpriced in Utah. Buy them in Wyoming or Nevada.

Lesson #11: If you’re stranded on a deserted island with a religious fundamentalist, run like hell. They require 24-hour supervision by an Invisible Divine Babysitter; and their superficial morality skids to an abrupt halt when they think He isn’t watching. You don’t want to be stuck with Pat Robertson’s hand massaging your knee when that happens.

Lesson #12: Examine all of the evidence before making any conclusions. One of the best gifts you can give to yourself is the ability to think critically. Always remember these 8 words: Weapons of mass destruction. Oops. I mean oil.

Lesson #13: Home is where the honey is, spread generously on a thick slice of respect.

Lesson #14: Anyone who tells you they have the Happiness Formula is lying and probably wants your money. No one can give you happiness or tell you where to find it. You get to create your own.

Lesson #15: If it walks and whoops and hollers like a coyote, it’s not a wolf. The claims that it is a wolf are merely so much propaganda. And speaking of marketing, it probably has its own time slot every Sunday morning on Channel 5. Any coyote who markets himself as a wolf has a self-image problem.

Lesson #16: Never stop exploring the real world. It’s magical, mind-blowing, and so much more attractive than any surgically enhanced socialite whose only notable accomplishment is her butt.

Lesson #17: Seize life with both hands and jump in with all 4 feet. Jesus won’t be carrying you anywhere. He’s too busy helping Tim Tebow win football games.

Lesson #18: If God does exist, the last thing She needs is to invest in an expensive marketing campaign.

Lesson #19: Because. Right?

Lesson #20: One of the best feelings in the world is being surrounded by beautiful natural wonders that make you feel small. It’s an even better buzz than downing 3 glasses of Chardonnay midway through a GOP presidential debate.

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Posted in Animal Porn, Beer is real food, Beer is True, Faith is Not Smart, If I Only Had a Brain, In the Beginning, Life is Beautiful | Tagged , | 25 Comments