Stuck in School Bus Limbo.

ALBERTA 1975-84 (SB) SCHOOL BUS plate and stickersImage by woody1778a via Flickr.

A school bus with flashing crimson lights suddenly appears in front of my car, squeaking in ancient brakeage tongues before creeping to a stop.

“You Move. You lose your phone and radio privileges.”  The bus driver speaks from a microphone.

But I’ve got an itch on my blind side.

To further drive home the point, a satanic red octagon extends from the side of the bus, bearing the silent screaming word, “STOP!”

No more confusion here. Foot meets brake. Foot hates brake and wants to break it off. No such luck. Foot is stuck in a dysfunctional relationship while I wait for the start of the school bus hustle.

It commences with a shriek. One child, now two, then three, bounces down a driveway the length of three football fields, heading toward the school bus with mother tagging behind.

She issues orders. “Hurry up. Don’t fall. Don’t forget your lunch.”

How could they? She cradles three lunch boxes underneath an arm like footballs, a charlatan coach on a Hail Mary run.

The minutes tick by, as the three inch-like forms approach the bus at amoeba speed. Five-minutes later, the children begin the Mt. Everest climb onto the bus, while mother catches up, breathless, her chest heaving, the results of a sedentary life, parallel parked on the couch in TV Land ─ too many Bon-Bons, too little time on the treadmill.

My heartbeat quickens. I anticipate an imminent bus launch from the curb. But wait! There’s more mother.

“The lunch boxes!” she screams. “You forgot the lunch boxes!”

As if there was a remote possibility of that occurring in an unfrozen hell. “Humph,” I grumble, unaware of the diabolical plot soon to unfold.

With the one, two, three sprouts planted in their seats, mother grabs the handle inside the door and hoists herself up onto the bus.
“Oh, God. No!” I scream, a helpless witness to a commuting crime.

Her rear baggage disappears, as she ascends huffing her way up the stairs. Hunched over, gasping, her shadowed form limps down the aisle toward the rear, sucking up seconds, then minutes with each intake of breath. She stops and leans against a seat. In slow motion, she hands out a lunch box to each DNA pod. Then mother says “Goodbye” and heads back to the front, an impossible feat with just her two feet.

Hobbling past the offspring of others, mother approaches the perimeter of the bus driver’s lair. She grabs the handrail and turns. “Shut off your iPod,” she warns. “Or I’ll report you.”

I’m ready to report her to the commuter hit squad. One less parent left at the curb; one less tardy employee paying for stolen time.

The bus driver lifts his arm, his middle-finger extended, throws a shadow across her back. A blunt yet surreptitious gesture, as mother disembarks empty handed from the bus.

The door shuts. The engine revs to a rumble. Red lights blink then stop, as the sign slips back inside the bus.

I release a deep relieving breath. Only ten minutes of my life wasted here. I’ve got more to spare before my midlife downward hyper-spin to the otherworld of indentured teeth, adult Pampers, and car key dementia.

The bus jerks to a start, while mother sloths her way up the driveway dragging one foot behind. She looks to be about thirty-five, stuck amid the harrowing onslaught of motherhood, a precursor to midlife-hood, then down-under-hood where you linger in limbo, sitting in an idling car behind a yellow school bus stuffed with souls, heading toward hell for a serving of their just desserts.

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Grim and Grimmer – War of the Whirly Words

You must write everything out.

E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g o-u-t. What’s the point?

There is no point. I put my hands in my pockets to avoid a point.

A finger point?

Yes, I had a finger point. You need to use your fingers to recapture the lost art of handwriting, not hieroglyphics. Management doesn’t allow writing on the wall. 


Writing by hand is archaic, like sending emails by pony express but without the saddle sores.

You must waste your time by writing labels and envelopes in long hand, to execute the same repetitive action over-and-over again, until your head explodes or your hand falls off.

Isn’t that what a database is for?

I suppose hospitals have hand databases. You never know when you might wave too hard and say goodbye to that hand of yours when it goes flying.

Hands don’t fly, but pigs do, which reminds me of eggs and bacon. I’m having breakfast flown in from Eggs and Bacon Bay.

Is that near Bacon, TX?

No, it’s in Australia where they have detailed maps of public restrooms.

I can never find the restroom in this building.

That’s because they are Porta Potties on wheels or PP mobiles. Management likes to move them around based upon the Port of Call.

I need a PP location list.

Just stand by the Porta Potty door and tap your foot three times. When it opens, you’ll see a right-handed politico seated on the john or whoever, tweeting bird-brained words to his baseless base. He’ll hand you the PP location list on a piece of TP written in cursive – I’d wear plastic gloves if I were you.

Cursive. How refreshing.

It stinks.

No, it’s refreshing that the art of handwriting isn’t lost.

Oh, it’s never been lost, just flushed, or stuck to the bottom of a shoe. There’s a piece of TP, smeared with obscenities, hitching a ride on the sole of your shoe.

I can’t see it.

It’s there. Trust me. I’ve seen the writing on the wall.
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Spam Soap — An Oxymoron and Post Extracted from the Blogger Drainpipe.

SIERRA MADRE, CA - MAY 29:  Seventieth anniver...Image by Getty Images via @daylife
This is a repost of As the Spam Turns – Tales from Nigeria.
I just read a post about spam called Scamming 101 at Leeuna’s great site My Mind Wandered – and it never came back! That’s where I got the idea of reheating the spam. 

Leeuna is a very funny humor writer, so when you get a chance, please stop by her site. She also needs some love since she’s been sick with the flu and is BNH – Beyond Nyquil Help.


(A long distance phone call off a short Nigerian pier)
Hello Friend. Please excuse my English. I learned it from watching reality TV. How are you doing today including your work, I hope all is well with you.
I’m fine. but my work is not.  Maybe you haven’t heard. The U.S. economy sucks, but I’m being rude. What did you say your name was?
Before I proceed I will like to introduce my self very well to you. My name is Mrs. Vivian Salife; I was born in South Africa but I work and live in West Africa, I am 32 years old. I worked with the Union Bank of Nigeria Plc as the Senior Accountant In my branch.

Ah. Yes. Vivian. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you or Samuel. How is he?
I am a widow to late Samuel Salife, my husband died as a result of political gang up in the nation and after the death of my husband things became very much difficult for me and my only son Ali who is critical sick in the hospital right now Suffering from heart problem that needed to go through surgery operations as the doctor confirms.
Oh God! What a horrible run on sentence and terrible news about Sammy’s demise. My heart goes out to you about Ali’s health problems. Also, what exactly is a political gang up? Does it have anything to do with hookers? It must have been devastating.
This made me to run into a serious dept with my bank and many other people helped me to make sure that I saved his life.
Do you mean dept (short for department) or debt (short for insufficient funds)? How many people are helping you save Ali’s life – half of North America – and what is the money being used for?
All this money was been paid as part of deposit to the hospital where my son Ali is taking an emergency treatment.
Can you be more specific? —
Please dear I really needed your assistance in this business which I will introduce you into now so I can save the life of my only son through this business.
Ah. So, he’s the only son of Sam. What can I do to help? I bet it has something to do with oil and a Nigerian bank.
There is a man his name is Mr. Ziya Bazhayev, he is doing a contract with Chevron and Shell Oil Company in South East zoon in Nigeria as an Oil Barron.
Where exactly is South East Zoon? And how can I get a job as an Oil Barron?  Haven’t seen that job posted yet on Craigslist. But please tell me more about this man.
This man made a deposit of 6.2 million dollars in our bank branch before he died, beside am his personal accountant when he was making this deposit in our bank branch through my desk.
That is such sad news about this man, which I assume is a nickname for Ziya. I’m so sorry that everybody you know is either dead or dying. Poor this man.
(Crying and blowing nose in my ear)
this man have been so good to me when he do visit our bank and he is the President of the Oil Alliance Company, he died on Yak-40 aircraft, on a charter flight from Moscow to Kiev on March 9,2000.
Why did you let him into the vault so soon after Sammy’s death? That can’t be good for Ali’s heart. And, why was the Yak-40 aircraft named after a wild ox? No wonder the plane went down. Unless, it was because of an active fund. They emit ash clouds that can clog airplane engines.
Moreover this fund has been dormant in his account with our Bank without any claim of the funds in our custody and the banking law here stipulates that if such money remains unclaimed for nine years, it will be forfeited to the Bank treasury as an unclaimed bill it is only a foreigner that can stand as a next Of kin.
Only a foreigner or next of kin can claim the money? Which one am I? Are we related? If so, when is your birthday? I’d like to send a card.
My dear I want to seek your permission to have you stand in as next of kin to our late customer so that this fund will be released and paid into your account as the rightful beneficiary’s Next Of kin now that the bank is still expecting a Next Of Kin to come claim the fund. I have all the information about this man which will help us in this business.
Do you need my bank info? I’d be happy to give it to you since I am a foreigner, as well as a long lost relative. Just tell me how I can help. Btw, do you ever use punctuation?
What I want you to do is to stand as the next of kin, you don’t need to come down here my dear, all you need is to follow my instructions so that we can work as one.
Thank goodness because I’m broke. Oops! I blew my cover. I was trying to get your bank account info, too. After all, we share the same DNA. Is that the same as DNR but with a different letter? Speaking of which, how can I find out more about the plane crash?
You can equally read more news about the plane crash on these Websites,
Thanks for the link. What will my cut be on this?
You will get 40% of this money as soon as it gets into your account and I will come over with my only son Ali so you can help me fine a very nice hospital where I can treat him.
I’ll make up the guest room for you. Can’t wait to meet you and Ali.
I wish to hear from you the moment you might have finish reading this massage.

I could really use a massage. Email scams make me tense.
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Premeditated Blogging, Criminal, or Anal?

A scene from Disorder in the Court.A Scene from Disorder in the Court.Image via Wikipedia

Warning: Blogging Crime Scene!

Sometimes it takes me two hours or more to write a blog post.

Initially, the words bleed out onto the page, but then I review what I’ve written and the autopsy begins. Afterward, I put the pieces back together in a postmortem revision.

I wonder if that’s a good thing.

Shouldn’t blogging be a mental carnage brain-dump without an analysis from internal editorial forensics?

My internal editor also removes word splatter from my clothes.

Reading a raw blog post with all its flaws is more entertaining than reading a post that has been tweaked to death. I’m guilty of murdering many of my posts. So, cuff me, bring in CSI, and dust this blog for prints.

My DNA is all over the Blogger dashboard. I always shed cells while bashing the keyboard with my fingertips. I’m surprised there isn’t blood on the screen from smashing my head against it when I have writer’s block a.k.a. thought constipation.

No one should suffer from thought constipation. Someone please tell me. Why isn’t there Metamucil for the brain?

I get thought constipation when I think too hard and painstakingly choose my words. I can’t even spell painstakingly right. There’s a red line under the word. I should leave it there to prove my point – but I didn’t. Damn anal editor.

What was my point?

That a polished post takes the spontaneity out of blogging and the fun out of writing extemporaneously. Wow! Spelled that right.

Is it me, or has blogging evolved into something totally opposite of what blogging should be?

Hermetically-sealed, prepackaged posts clutter my desktop. They shouldn’t be gathering dust on my desktop while the “all about” stuff wrecks havoc in my head.

The “all about stuff”- worrying about stuff that has nothing to do with writing – causes writer’s block.

Stuff like …

  • What is my subscriber count?
  • How many comments did I receive on that post?
  • Am I wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday?
  • How many bullet points constitute a proper list?

As bloggers/writers, we have to remember why we started blogging in the first place. For me, it was to prevent thought rot from damaging my brain. Rot also gets into wood and can create a termite problem.

That’s all I need – critters feasting on my brain cells.

Writing/blogging should be fun, not work. When blogging becomes work, it’s time to take a break and revisit your roots. My ancestors are from Hungary and Denver, Colorado. I have a picture of my grandmother when she was a girl seated on a horse drawn carriage.  I was going to use the word “buggy” but it reminds me of termite infestations.

Hey! That was spontaneous. Live blog TV without the moving pictures. Before there were blogs, Twitter, and FaceBook, there was vaudeville and actors performing live in front of an audience without a rewind button.

I’d like to put my rewind button back into mothballs even though mothballs smell horrible. That’s why you put mothballs in places you rarely venture, like the attic where you can never find that book that went MIA or the closet with toxic BO blouses lying in a pile on the floor.

I guess a dry cleaner would be a more suitable place for the blouses if I want to spend money having a stranger clean my clothes. However, since I don’t know where he’s been, I’ll wash all shrinkable things cold, except myself. Even after undergoing therapy, I still prefer hot showers to cold.

I torture myself enough, which is why I need to write. However, writing is only therapeutic when words are victims of their own crimes or unpremeditated.

Let’s get rid of the rewind buttons, thesauruses, and expel spell check from our computers. Let it try to spell extemporaneously without looking it up.

Will I do a spell check once I finish writing this post? Damn straight. My internal editor is always looking over my shoulder and removing word splatter from my clothes. Although, I will place my editor in mothballs every now and then to see if she can handle the stench of preserving perfection.

What are your thoughts on blogging? Would you rather be outside doing dog poop collection?
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Best Dead Stuffed Animal Gifts for the Home.

I took this photo myself.Image via Wikipedia

       Top Selling Items

  • Guinea Pig Paperweights.
  • Parrot Wall Hangings – Wonderful decorative accents for any room.
  • Persian Cat Hand and Foot Warmers.
  • Hermie the Hamster and Gerry the Gerbil – Rodent Replacements. You never have to feed them.
  • Goat Drying Racks for the Mudroom.
  • Hedgehog Book Ends.
  • Pig Banks – For long-term saving. After stuffing the coins down the pig’s throat, they have to be surgically removed.
  • Kangaroo Umbrella Stands.
  • Platypus Paper Holders.
  • Pygmy Horse Supports for Lawn Jockeys.
  • Pelican Designer Wastebaskets.

Please feel free to add to the list.

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Doctors Say Hurricane Season May Cause Tropical Depression in Some People.

Tropical Storm Erika

       Image by Desirade via Flickr

At a recent meeting of the Shrunken Shrinks Alliance, a radical splinter group of the National Psychiatric Association, keynote speaker Dr. Stanley Turdgarden passively-aggressively shocked psychiatrists by revealing how he first discovered the correlation between storm and psyche.

“… When news of a hurricane hits the airwaves, my phone never stops ringing, and quite frankly that depresses me,” said Dr. Turdgarden. “… Just knowing that I have to drive 30 miles to my office every day when I could be out lounging by the pool is a real downer.”

Afterward, Dr. Turdgarden told Headcase Daily, a weekly email subscription service, “The rise in patient visits can be attributed to lightning crashing into low hanging cumulonimbus clouds. It’s like hitting your head on a cabinet door that was left open. When the two fronts collide, they create an electrical imbalance in the air, as well as in the sensory area of the brain and then people don’t know WTF to think.”

He went on. “Many people struggle with thoughts like, ‘Should I be happy that it’s finally going to rain and turn all the brown grass in the yard green, or should I be sad that there’ll be more grass to mow?’ It’s natural for folks to be confused under such adverse weather conditions,” said Dr. Turdgarden.

“I, for one, don’t know whether I should be watching HBO or Netflix during a storm, unless of course there’s a blackout, and then I’ll be watching the insides of my eyelids,” he laughed, and then stopped to reflect for a moment before continuing. “That’s interesting. I said whether you know like the weather. I wonder what that means. It might have something to do with my mother sending me out to play during a blizzard when I was a kid.”

Dr. Turdgarden offered this advice to the public. “During hurricane season, folks should avoid listening to weather reports or any weather-related news and instead start drinking Mai Tais at 10 a.m. That way they’ll stay off the roads and out of the rain. A nice tropical island delusion works wonders in times of duress. Fantasizing about swimming in warm aquamarine waters during a tropical depression is like taking a psychotropic drug without all the side effects.”

Dr. Turdgarden is counting down the days to the end of hurricane season so that he can scale back his schedule and spend his time doing what he loves best. “In the fall, after the damn phone finally stops ringing, I can get out onto the golf course again and start hitting some balls.” As an afterthought, Dr. Turngarden added, “That sounds so Freudian.”

Members of the Shrunken Shrinks Alliance agree with Dr. Turdgarden’s findings and intend to publish a paper on the storm-psyche phenomenon later this month despite outrage from the National Psychiatric Association. When asked about the NPS’s reaction to the paper, one SSA spokesperson said, “We hope the whole thing blows over.”