Ninny Poop Head!

Yesterday, at five o’clock, my brain melted after a two-hour phone conversation with a QuickBooks ProAdvisor.

Gurgle! Sploosh!

She hijacked my desktop, remotely, and then commandeered my mouse.

The medium Eva Carrière with a light manifesta...

The medium Eva Carrière with a light manifestation between her hands and a materialization on her head. Carrière also performed under the names Eva C. and Marthe Béraud. Photograph taken in 1912 by German photographer Albert von Schrenck-Notzing (1862 – 1929). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Several windows opened and closed.

The cursor sped across the screen, telekinetically, and then screeched to a stop at the taskbar.

“Just press this!”  the ProAdvisor ordered.


WTF happened? The window disappeared. I think I just witnessed QuickBooks Armageddon.

The application quit when the locusts swarmed. Loser! So, what? It’s just a little buggy.

I shifted my chair into reverse, rolled backwards and braked.

Much safer here by the brimstone and fire.

In the name of the Lord, I renounce myself of QuickBooks.

It’s your mouse now. Feed it twice a day and give it plenty of water.

Now, click amongst yourselves.

If you need me, I’ll be over here doing my carpal tunnel exercises, bending and stretching my wrists, whilst you and QuickBooks consummate your relationship.

Be sure to remove the “Do Not Disturb” sign as soon as you’re done.

By that time, I’ll have roasted a bag of marshmallows and a bushel of brain cells.

Just send me the bill and I’ll send you the obituary.

At 5 p.m., Lauren’s brain died in the line of duty.  R.I.P. cognitive function.

Bilden är tagen 8 maj 1912 av Baron von Schren...

Bilden är tagen 8 maj 1912 av Baron von Schrenck-Notzing (1862-1929) och föreställer mediet Eva Carrière som frammanar ett ansikte av ektoplasma. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How’s your noggin?

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God is the Ultimate Rule Breaker

Day 29 Prompt: “Breaking the rules.” One more day left of 30 Days of Writing, hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese.  Please stop by the We Work for Cheese Emporium to link up or read other inmate posts. We’re all crazy, you know.

Cheese Plate with Sriracha

Cheese Plate with Sriracha (Photo credit: Refracted Moments™)

On the 29th day, God appeared to me from atop the computer monitor.

“Breaking rules is like breaking wind,” he said. “It happens suddenly then lingers until you clear the air.”

“Thanks for the public service announcement.” I replied. “Now, please move. Your beard is covering the screen, and I can’t read my emails.”

It was unfortunate he reacted like a drama queen.

My monitor rattled from his hissy fit, while his eyes exploded with hell fire. “Never fuck with God,” he bellowed, and then was gone in a puff of gas.”

As I choked and hacked on the heavenly fumes, his voice echoed in the sky. “Remember,” he said. “I created Limburger cheese.”

Getup Get God

Getup Get God (Photo credit: prettywar-stl)

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The Turning Point at the Giant Fork in the Road

Day 28 Prompt: “The Turning Point.” Two more days left of 30 Days of Writing, hosted by Nicky and Mike at We Work for Cheese.  Please stop by the We Work for Cheese Emporium to link up or read other inmate posts.

The Giant Fork in the Road

“Ah, the turning point,” said Gladys GPS, “The proverbial fork in the road that has impaled many unsuspecting travelers before you. But you can avoid fork fate, and being skewered by giant cutlery, by following a three-pronged-approach to highway travel.

Dinner Fork in the Road


Prong 1 – A giant always has the right of way

When stopped at a colossal fork in the road, it is imperative to close any open sunroofs or convertible tops. Then, a giant can’t yank you out of the driver’s seat and stuff you in his goody bag.

Most giants travel the countryside, along stretches of deserted road, in search of people snacks for Soylent Green barbecues. A happy time for giants, when they get together with distant relatives from the Land of the Giants, as well as monolithic pets from popular “B” movies.

At giant gatherings, King Kong and Godzilla often enjoy playing fetch with 727s and tractor trailer trucks. In the distance, a human might hear a giant yell, “Fetch Zilla, fetch.”

Giant families congregate in condemned caverns where they swap recipes and body parts then hand out goody bags when it’s time to leave.

Prong 2 – Not a photo op

Never leave your car to take a picture of a fork in the road. Giants have an acute sense of smell. They can smell the blood of an Englishman with their “Fee-fi-fo-fum” sonar and also hear a pitchfork drop.

If you should reach a fork in the road, continue traveling left or right, depending upon your political affiliation. Giants don’t participate in the political process or vote since they can’t read the tiny print on the ballots. This agitates them. For that reason, it is advisable to avoid discussing politics with a giant, as he will crush you with his Goliath intellect and Parthenon sized shoes.

Prong 3 – Never climb a fork in the road

Besides the obvious downside of shimmying up a spike, once a giant spots a human wedged between two prongs, its salivary glands gush from the anticipation of a roadside snack or bob kabob. After all, one man’s misfortune is another gargantuan’s opportunity.

So, be street smart when you travel, and you won’t end up lost in the bile of a giant’s intestinal tract.

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The Banker Intervention or Let’s Make a Deal


Day 26 of 30 Days of Writing – Today’s Writing Prompt is “An Intervention.” Please swing by We Work for Cheese to link up or read other posts by the criminally insane.

A Dramatization


Five members of the Banker family are seated around a lavishly decorated living room. Their attention is on Betty who is standing in front of the fireplace. Her gaze follows Bob as he frantically paces the room.


I’m really concerned about Bob.

Bob climbs on top of a piano on the wall opposite the fireplace.


Betty Banker, come on down! How much do you think I paid for that Rembrandt above the mantel? C’mon, I’ll give you three guesses. It’ll cost you nothing to guess unless you take too long. Then, I’ll have to charge a late fee.


Bob doesn’t make sense anymore. He only wants to play games, talk about doubling his money and charging fees. That’s why I called this intervention.


C’mon, guess the price. Damn it! If you’re right, you’ll get a chance to spin the wheel. Take a risk. Show some spine. The worst that can happen. You lose your house but get a toaster.


(Shakes head)

Every time I walk into the kitchen, Bob hands me a toaster. The other day he started charging refrigerator fees every time I open the door.


If you’re within five thousand dollars, I’ll give you the green Rolls Royce parked in the garage.

Betty’s brother Stan removes a calculator, stares at the painting and starts assessing its value.


I can’t tell you how many times Bob has foreclosed on our house. He has a stack of foreclosure signs stuffed inside the bedroom closet. I can’t reach my shoe display anymore. That’s why I’m wearing these old things.

Betty glances at her Prada shoes.


Awful. Terrible. I think he needs meds.


He charges a finance fee every day we don’t have sex. Lately, my wifely income has taken a hit. Last week alone, I lost $700.

Bob dismounts the piano and lays a hand on Horace’s shoulder.


C’mon, Horace. Take a guess. What do you have to lose?


They already took the boat.


Isn’t this fun!!!


Uh, no!


He’s charging the neighbors a fixed feces fee every time their dogs crap on the lawn. The urination fee is liquid and subject to change.


I think the Rembrandt’s worth $250,000.


Sorry, Stan, that’s market value. I’m talking net value after all the auction house fees.

Bob grabs Stan’s wallet.


You didn’t say anything about market value.


It’s printed on the cocktail napkins in 2-point type.


Yesterday, Bob chopped up the bedroom furniture and sold the pieces at a yard sale. We have no idea where the pieces are or who owns them.

Stan gets up.


You can’t leave now. We just started.


I can’t afford the intervention.

Stan races out the door.

Bob laughs.


What’s so funny?


He didn’t pay “the wrong answer fee.” I just had him arrested for fraud.

After exchanging concerned looks, the family vacates their chairs and leaves the house.

Betty reaches inside her purse, removes a $100 bill and hands it to Bob.


Here, Bob.


What’s this for?


The finance charge for later tonight.

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Stiletto Heels or Insoles


"High Heel Shoe. Talon haut. Stiletto. Ta...

“High Heel Shoe. Talon haut. Stiletto. Talon aiguille” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I never wear stiletto heels because I’m a klutz. Going stiletto would trip me up and put me in the ICU. That’s why I wear safe, low-to-the-ground, sensible shoes. If I trip, the possibility of suffering a concussion diminishes by three inches.

As a klutz, I’ve never been much of a shoe risk taker. Because, as every klutz knows, most days we face unprecedented dangers, from walls to dog gridlock and tripping over a shadow; furniture accidents are a constant threat.

My legs wear bruises like purple hearts. Whenever I undergo a physical, my doctor scrutinizes my legs.

I know she thinks, “Her husband beats her.” When in fact, tables and chairs beat me up, yes; smacked around by stationary objects.

I’m not proud of my tendency to lean left, at times I should lean right. But that’s not true of all the issues.

People who know me think I’m a klutz because my mind’s always traveling to exotic places, instead of conducting reconnaissance up ahead. I can’t blame my mind’s proclivity for spontaneous flight for my inability to walk a straight line. Unfortunately, alcohol is never a factor.

I would love to wear three-inch heel stilettos, open in front, with peek-a-boo toes. Then, I’d paint my toenails hot fuchsia pink and wiggle my digits at strangers I pass on the street.

A girl can dream while she’s awake, can’t she?

Sadly, I’m destined to a life with reclusive bland toes, toes that belong hidden below inside the dungeons in my shoes. It pains me to look at them when they’re in need of a trim. If only I could treat them to a pedicure. But taking my toes out would just traumatize a manicurist at a salon.

First, she’d shriek, and then her cheeks would turn a pasty white. While pointing at my feet, she’d scream, “Those aren’t toenails. They’re machetes! Someone call 911.”

That’s all I need – an APB out on my feet, with the warning, “They’re probably hiding out in a pair of Keds.” I hope government spending won’t be wasted on police work attributed to my feet.

I guess I should remove toe pampering from my bucket list.

Even with a toenail overhaul, I wouldn’t make it past the shoe server in a store. My slender, slightly bent Quasimodo toes always instill terror in the eyes of the beholder. One gander at my toes and the sales clerk would be on psychiatric leave.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always had an aversion to toe jam sandwiches.

Over the years, I’ve learned to accept my flat-heeled fate. I’ve already passed the other stages of footwear grief: denial, anger, bargaining. I’m okay with it though. Wearing stilettos will never be a rose-colored glassy-eyed delusion for me. I know that three-inch heels will never grace these cursed feet, along with the stylish glow of the sexy stiletto.

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Like There Was No Tomorrow End of Days Rap

I’m following Linda’s lead @ The Good, The Bad, The Worse and reposting my rapture rap for Day 22 of 30 days of Writing, the brainchild (or shock therapist) of the catering staff @ We Work for Cheese.

Written on MAY 21, 2011

Revised on JUNE 22, 2012

Rapping the Rapture

Image via Wikipedia


When I stepped outside to get some air,
I got the fire and brimstone in my hair
The sky was dark as midnight, as dirty as coal
Then, a swarm of Locusts flew up my nose
My sinuses throbbed, thought they might explode
I couldn’t find a tissue and that really blows

I’m enraptured with the rapture, the end of days
Got a pile of bills I don’t have to pay
My credit cards melted in volcanic flames
But the fire’ll be doused in the tidal wave

Fighting my way through a crush of bugs
According to Anderson 360, they’re more to come
A gang of badass gangster six-legged thugs
Knocked me down to the ground face first in the mud
With my wrists stuck together with a pest strip rope
I can’t photograph the rapture on my new iPhone

I’m enraptured with the rapture, the end of days
Got a pile of bills I don’t have to pay
My credit cards melted in volcanic flames
But the fire’ll be doused in the tidal wave

Before my cell phone dies, please help me, God,
Just one text message is all I want.
Got to post the rapture photos now to my blog
‘Cause the only cell service is in Hades or Prague
Once he dragged the world to a hotspot inside his domain,
Satan posted, “Now You’re Fucked!” to his Facebook page

I’m enraptured with the rapture, the end of days
Got a pile of bills I don’t have to pay
My credit cards melted in volcanic flames
But the fire’ll be doused in the tidal wave

Got the rapture
Got the rapture
Woosh! Tidal wave.
Still hot down under
Here after the end of days
That’s a rap.

My Uncle Once Had a Camel Called George

Not to be confused with the other George who was curious.

I don’t think camels are curious. From what I remember, which isn’t much, camels are nasty, as well as prolific spitters. Unless that was someone, I once worked with.

Notice I didn’t say, “With whom I once worked.” That’s too formal for me and a bit pretentious.


Camel (Photo credit: @Doug88888)e worked.” That’s too formal for me and a bit pretentious.

After all, I’m talking about a camel without a literary background.

My uncle wasn’t a writer like George, but he dabbled in oil paints for awhile, in his twenties, during the Beatnik days in New York City.

In his thirties, my uncle turned in his beret for a cowboy hat. Not really. I never actually saw him wear a hat when training an animal.

I never actually saw him train an animal either.

My uncle mostly trained dogs for television and movies.

I would like to think, or not, that George was the camel in the movie, Ishtar, starring Dustin Hoffman. Ishtar was a disaster, not a disaster movie.

I really wanted to believe that about George until I found this on Ishtar at Wikipedia.

The film’s animal trainer went looking for a blue-eyed camel in the Marrakech market, and found one he considered perfect. But he chose not to buy it right away, expecting he could find others and use that knowledge to bargain with the first trader for a better price. He did not realize that blue-eyed camels were rare, and couldn’t find another camel good enough. He returned to the first trader, who had since eaten the camel.

I’m pretty sure George didn’t have blue eyes or end up sautéed on a Bedouin’s plate.

George may not have had blue eyes, but he had a muzzle. Because, as I mentioned earlier, camels are nasty, as well as wicked spitters. They also look down at you in a judgmental sort of way.

But despite George the camel’s attitude problem, I still like to romanticize the memory of him and my uncle’s farm on the hill, with more dirt than grass. I’d like to remember seeing standoffish George, tower above his wood slat corral, contemplating dusty camel thoughts, while the neighbors barbecued burgers on the grille.

Welcome to day 19 of 30 Days of Writing, a creative writing challenge at We Work for Cheese. Today’s prompt is “Camel.”

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