WARNING: PART TWO

(Disclaimer: Do not read the following if you're eating a meal or, otherwise, in a good mood.)

Breaking news last weekend out of Colorado from the "Just When You Thought You'd Heard Everything" Department. Seems a lady at a yoga convention in Boulder entered a Port-a-Pot to relieve herself, opened the lid, and, Holy Shishkebab! There was a man sitting inside the dumping grounds! And, no, this wasn't "Candid Camera." This was a real, live, breathing Port-a-Pot with a real, live, breathing man inside it. Yikes! Times ten!

What in the world would possess a person to do this? Voyeurism gone amok? A Charmin fetish? Some sort of "double-dog-dare ya" stunt? Whatever. I'm not sure what city statute was violated here. I mean, who would ever think that invasion of a Port-a-Pot would ever be a problem? But the trespasser was arrested; he was apparently easy to spot since he was the only person at the yoga fest seen running around with a feces-covered tarp wrapped around him.

I don't know what's going to happen to this Porta-Peeper perv, but I suspect when he goes to court he'll be shi** out of luck and the sh** will hit the fan.

WARNING:

I don't smoke cigarettes, and I don't advocating doing so, but I still sympathize with tobacco manufacturers who are upset with the Australian plan to replace packaging logos with "grisly images of cancerous mouths..."

If the government is going to play babysitter for all its citizens, then why not play fair and extend the warnings to other products? Automobiles for sale would display pictures of accident victims; alcoholic beverages would feature a cirrhosis-eaten liver, sweet snack treats would show off fatty hearts; packaging for a pair of scissors would indicate what happens when careless dimwits like The Flaming Bore accidentally try to cut off their fingers while gardening.

We all live on the edge in one way or the other. Pick your poison and hope for the best.

DAILY TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

Day one of the annual fireworks onslaught has passed. Eight more days to go. On a 0-10 scale, with 0 being "no boomers heard" and 10 being "there's a nuclear war going on outside my window," I'd say yesterday was a 3. My spazzola ear didn't snap, crackle, and pop out of control, so I'd say it was a success.

Sweet neighbor girl, whose kitty died a few weeks ago, is excited to report her daddy brought her home not one, but TWO new fur balls to play with. Puppies....soon-to-be hunting dogs for you-know-who. She's happy with anything that rolls around and has promised she will train them not to be bite me or bark at me. Can't beat that. She gave us the cat food they had left over from their kitty experience, and Big Bore gave her the Pedi-Paws that our cats refused to have used on them. Maybe dogs are dumber.

I hadn't watched "The Bachelorette" for a few weeks, so last night I plopped down in front of the TV and watched Lady Ashley wrangle with the eight fellows left in the competition. I swear to god, if I'd had a rotten tomato in my hand, I would have hurled it at the TV screen! She is that much of a pain in the butt! The Flaming Bore will not even attempt to bore her readers with the gorey details. Let's just say that she puts the drama in Drama Queen several times over.

Well, Critter Kitty is up on my lap helping me on the keyboard with her nose. Time to get on with another day.......

SEALED WITH A KISS

I've been slowly chipping away at sorting through "stuff" at Mama Bore's house, which is now officially for sale. Mom is not a hoarder, but she's what I like to call a "chronic saver." Last night I attacked three boxes of greeting cards, sorting them by the "child giver or receiver" who will each get his/her stack for posterity's sake. Birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas, Easter, Congrats on the Birth of Your Child.

These baby cards are most interesting because they are totally generic. Unless the sender has written something that specifies the gender, you'd have no idea whether the baby was a girl or boy. ALL the cards have pink AND blue on them, so color is no clue. This must have been some sort of marketing ploy in the 1940s and '50s.

There were only four cards that I was certain about the identity of the child who was being welcomed because of little clues written inside. "Congratulations on your first" is for Big Sis. "His father must be so proud of the name" is for Beans, who is a III to the ol' man's Jr. Then there's "He's half-grown already" for my younger brother, a 9-pounder; and "Number 5" for my younger sister. Me? Who knows. Who cares. Middle children are always lost in the shuffle--even with greeting cards.

I just ended up putting all the remaining birth congrats cards in the "other" stack, which is huge. Next time I visit Mama Bore, I'm going to take her the stack from me and the stack of "others," which were sent by her friends, and start reading them to her since she can no longer see well enough to do so. I don't care what my siblings do with their stacks I give them. At least there are three fewer boxes in the house. Now, I'm psyching myself up for her box of cancelled checks from the past 40 years.

GO AWAY!!!

When I was out biking last night, I pedaled by the former home of a former student and started laughing to myself. After my divorce 10+ years ago, her father showed up at my front door one morning. It was 7:15 AM on a school day, and I was rushing around fixing my hair, half-dressed, trying to get to work on time--and here's this stranger, a cup of coffee in hand, SHIRTLESS, saying his daughter had suggested he introduce himself to me since he was new in town. At 7:15 in the morning? Without a shirt? Did he really expect me to welcome him inside? "Sure, come on in, sit down and drink your coffee, and tell me all about yourself."

I blurted out something about needing to get off to school and that I had a policy that I didn't socialize with students' parents or anyone in the county, for that matter. Goodbye. It was the truth and better than screaming: "What in the world are you thinking???" He never showed up again, shirtless or pantless. Thank god for large favors.

On the heels of that recollection, another post-divorce headshaker came to mind. I once received a written request for a date from a bachelor rancher who had heard about me from someone...maybe his minister? I can't remember. Anyway, he'd crafted a really awful two-page letter about who he was and how lonely he was. Yikes! I was too afraid to respond, so I just pitched the masterpiece, hoping he'd take the hint. Which he did. Another bullet dodged.

My next bike ride better not jolt back any more memories of my years as the eligible divorcee about town. I might fall onto the street laughing.

TWIN WINNERS

I watched the NBA draft drama last night with considerable interest since KU had three possible draftees, one of whom I won't bother mentioning....but the other two were twins Marcus and Markieff Morris, and they were #13 and #14 among the talented few chosen.

When the two started for the Jayhawks back in 2008, I never would have given them a chance to even become an NBA waterboy. That's how raw they were. I can clearly recall listening to a KU game on my car radio during some outing and just shaking my head at all their freshman mistakes and misses. Agony.

Fast forward three years, countless hours of practice, and spectacular improvement...here they are: ready to sign multi-million dollar contracts. Hooray for their Rock Chalk perserverance x 2!

ROAD WARRIORS

As soon as we entered the big city yesterday, Big Bore shifted the car and his attitude into bitch mode. The drivers there drive him crazy and, I'm sorry to say, he's not totally to blame. Cell phone talkers are the number one offenders on his list, but close behind, sometimes too close, are those drivers who fail to use signal lights and just assume others have psychic abilities to know where in the world the dumb @$$ is headed. Then, there are the speeders and the cutter-offers, and the clueless who don't know they can move forward when the light turns green. They ALL turn Big Bore into one ball of nerves and when he gets that way, I get that way.

At noon we stopped for a leisurely lunch and walk around a lake, which calmed us down, but then it was right back to the insanity---this time trying to find our way around the new exits off a "fly-by." We knew where we wanted to go, we could see where we wanted to go, but actually getting there was like maneuvering a rat's maze.

We're going back to the city a week from tomorrow. Valium may be in order.