THE SMASH-IT-UP THEORY

When poring over the big city newspaper every morning, Big Bore and I often make comments about what we’re reading, and here’s a conversation from yesterday:

“Listen to this,” I started. “There was a man in Georgia who busted up 29 flat screen TVs at a Wal-Mart with a baseball bat he grabbed from the sporting goods department. I wonder what set him off?”

“Maybe he was pissed at being overcharged at the check-out stand,” BB said. “Or maybe he was just trying to get the attention of a sales associate.”

“Or maybe he’d been working for Wal-Mart and had just gotten fired for having anger management issues,” I chimed in. “Or maybe all those TVs were set on the same station and he couldn’t stand seeing 29 Sarah Palins all at once. Or maybe he just doesn’t like flat screens. Or maybe he was shopping with his wife and he couldn’t get a word in edgewise because she was a nagging shrew who wouldn’t shut up. Rather than take a bat to her mouth, he just whacked away at the TVs instead, which was actually wise on his part.”

“Or maybe the guy was homeless and jobless,” said BB, “and at least now in jail he’ll have a warm roof over his head, three meals a day, and free medical treatment.”

Hmmmm. Actually that’s not such a bad idea. But sad.

A SWINGING IDEA

The merry folks in London have come up with a stellar idea. It’s a “playground for old folks.” Hey, count me in! Every town has a playground for little kids, but who wants to compete with them for the swings and get sand kicked in their aging faces? Not I. I want my very own place to frolic. Here is what my adult playground will need:

I want one of those rock climber deals. You know what I mean? It’s a fake cliff with fake rocks that stick out for hand grabbing and foot landing. Those look so much fun, --and let’s throw in some elaborate monkey bars for good measure. Next, I want a low-grade trampoline and some swings and teeter totters. And a go-cart track for those of us who’ve grown tired of teenagers zipping by and making faces at us for driving so slowly at the current public theme parks.

Oh, and I want a big cork crew slide. I love the one at the park in Independence, but let’s go for something even higher. I will be sooooooo glad that I no longer have to be stared at by little kids wondering what in the hell I’m doing on their slide. I also want some tree houses that are linked with rope ladders and Tarzan swings. I’ll be Queen of the Jungle.

My old folks park also needs a mini-golf course, with 18 holes, and a couple of horseshoe pits. I love to toss those horseshoes. And to top it off, at the end of the day, we swinging seniors can head off to the park’s heated pool, spa, and bar for an hour-long hot stone massage and cool refreshments. All that action is gonna make my body ready for some serious rest and relaxation! No kids allowed!!!

Now, if we can just just get this idea Medicare-approved, our Golden Years are set!

UGH

Today I wish to make it official and declare the opossum as the ugliest animal on the planet. I absolutely hate opossums. Their black beady eyes are too close to their long piggy snouts. They have greasy looking coats and they waddle around cluelessly most of the time. I once took out an entire opossum family of five on Highway 54 late one night returning home from the big city with the Library Lady. As my Honda approached them, instead of scampering on across the road, they just froze and “thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.” Geesh. What’s wrong with them? They don’t have the sense to get outta my way? Do they think playing ‘possum in the middle of a highway is going to save them from harm? Library Lady was mortified, as was I, --at how stupid they were for thinking I was going to swerve off into the Flint Hills at 60 mph just to avoid them.

A few years ago I received a lovely lime green “Possum Queen Contest” T-shirt from Dr. Maureen and her husband Scott. Apparently the strange people of North Carolina have put the varmints on a pedestal and celebrate them. I actually do wear the shirt from time to time, and it always provokes questions like, “Were you really in the ‘Possum Queen Contest?” and “Where in the hell did you get that ugly shirt?” and “Is that a ‘possum or an alien on your shirt?” Hell--opossums ARE aliens!!

Well, as that great southern philosopher Forrest Gump would say, I guess that’s about all I have to say about opossums. Ugly is as ugly does.

A MINI MOVIE REVIEW

Big Bore and I went to the city yesterday to see Crazy Heart. We rarely go to the movies, but he agrees with me that Jeff Bridges is a-okay, so off we went. I really liked the flick, giving it an 8+, but my critical companion only rated it a “5 or 6.” He liked the acting and the music, but he thought it was too much of a chick flick. Plus, he also said, “He (the Bridges character) reminded me too much of myself,” in a previous life. Get drunk. Get sick. Smoke endless packs of cigarettes and cough up a lung. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to go there again. Amen, brother. But--Jeff Bridges truly is great in this movie, so check it out anyway. We'll soon see his crazy heart clutching an Academy Award. Thumbs up.

A SIGN OF THE TIMES

Every time I back my car out of the garage, I am reminded that a relic from my college years needs to tossed away--but I just can’t get my sentimental heart to do so. A Do Not Enter sign, autographed by numerous old friends, rests along the east wall, gathering dirt, rust, and cobwebs. I’ve had it since 1970. It was given to me by Baseball Ray, who took it from one of the strip pits west of our college town. He wrote, “Virgin Territory” underneath the formal lettering. It was the only “gift” I ever received from him during our dating days. What a guy!

I, along with a few miscreant pals, was a procurer of signs forty years ago. My prize was a Highway 69 sign I found, abandoned, in my neighbor’s garage. An old stop sign was found in much the same way. The only one that was ever taken under highly suspicious circumstances was when my friend Kathy Mac took a Men Working sign in front of the Pizza Palace late one night when we were dragging Broadway in my VW Beetle. I was stopped at a traffic light, she exited the car and then returned, much to my surprise, with this big, swinging yellow sign. She was a Townie who still lived with her parents, so I became Keeper of the Goods. Included in the stash was also No Parking, 12-Minute Parking, No Dumping, and Government Property No Trespassing.

When I finally graduated and moved away, all the signs but one were left in the custody of those who remained behind. I kept the Do Not Enter sign and it has moved with me into other states and burgs over the years. I just can’t seem to part with it. I don’t know why. It just sits in the garage getting grungier looking with each passing year. I guess it makes me feel young and silly again--if only for a fleeting moment in time.

BLOGGUS INTERRUPTUS

(Three blog starters that never got finished.)

Yesterday Big Bore and I had a conversation about breasts. The topic arose when we were watching a woman on TV who was hauling around some heavy duty boobies that were propped up to her chin with an even heavier duty bra. “Breasts aren’t supposed to be up that high,” BB observed. “I hate it when these women get surgery to lift them up so they pop straight out. It’s not natural. Breasts are supposed to hang a little bit.” Well, ain’t that music to my ears.

What the heck is going on down in Mexico? Practically every day I pick up the newspaper and there’s some gruesome blurb about another hideous murder that is drug-related or tourist-related. One article described a victim’s face being skinned and stitched onto a soccer ball. What’s with that? How can anyone be so vicious? I get the willies just from drowning fleas I comb off the cats. Plus I don’t sew very well, either.

Well, it’s taken me several days to recover from last Saturday night’s KU-K-State basketball game, but I’m finally ready to watch KU get back on the court tonight. Thank god I have a bottle of Xanax warming the bench just in case reinforcements are needed.

Happy Hump Day to all!

SNOW QUEEN

Fifty-three winters ago the mini Flaming Bore was an accomplice in creating the above voluptuous snow woman, which was mostly the work of the males in the family, of course. I suspect I was the mastermind for her somber face, since most of my people drawings at the time gave emphasis to nostrils. “The better to breathe with, my dear!”

It is not the snow woman that I care to write about today, however. Instead, I want to focus on the pathetic looking child in this picture. Step into the Twilight Zone. Is she a refugee from a third-world nation? An orphan from the cast of “Annie”? A “Project Runway” reject? What is going on with that outfit? From top to bottom, it’s a total disaster! Does anyone wear headscarves these days? Are they even still made? Why am I wearing a dress over pants in subfreezing temperatures? Was I having some sort of gender identity crisis that day?

Next, there’s the overcoat, which looks like it’s been worn a few seasons too many, since I’m busting out of the buttons. And then there’s the footwear. Now, I’ve blogged before about this particular pair of hand-me-down rubber boots from hell; however, I’m sure no one believed that they existed and that I was only just imagining that I wore the ugliest rain/snow boots of any child at Mound School. While other little girls had their cutesy yellow, pink, and white slickers, I had these clunky two-tone brown cowboy-style boots with the classic “pull 'em on and yank 'em off” fit. Thank god by 6th grade my feet finally outgrew them. It’s a wonder I wasn’t in therapy for years. Maybe low self-esteem hadn’t been “invented” yet.

I challenge the entire Blogging Network to come up with a personal picture that is a bigger fashion mess than this one. Dig into your archives and see if you can come close. My guess is that you’ll find it impossible to top The Flaming Bore’s stunning winter ensemble. Snow doubt about it.