Monthly Archives: December 2006

A Message From the Humans

Stardate: 12/31/2006. Captain Blue-Orks reporting on Field Mission #010011000: Earthling Pastimes. So far I’ve examined the following activities: the strange phenominon called “werk”; feeding Earthling grubs mood-altering substances; observing archaic religious holiday customs, such as the worship of the Santa; watching something called “sporks” on their teevies, like footch-bull, barfit-bull, golf-bull, and the highly entertaining “rustling”, in which half-nude males stimulate each other on mats while other males watch.

Today I will be examining a slightly more sophisticated, but equally escapist Earthling activity: maintaining a Bloog.

Blooging is not unlike the making of these field reports, in which we seek out planets potentially suitable for colonization and transmit data via computowave back to the Orks Mothership. Many Earthling Bloogers are similarly occupied with overthrowing existing authority. One, in particular, has caught my interest. It is an Earthling female, called “the Blue Ox”. It has declared itself President of the World, and its group of followers seems to support its plans for world domination. Earthling Ox could be a significant ally to our . . . “cause”. MWAAAAAW HAAAAAAAW HAAAAAAAAW HAAAAAAAAW!!!! After all, the Earthling name “Ox”, when translated into our own glorious and ancient language of communication, means “she who has great physical strength and horns and also walks upon cloven hoof”. JUST LIKE US! Except that we also have 49,000 barbed fangs and acidic mucus for skin. Top THAT, weenie Earth-Ork!

Ahem. So, as the little blue planet rounds the Sun-Star and Earthlings everywhere reflect upon the Earth-year past, I will survey the psychological atmospheric conditions of the collective Earth-mind during the year 2006, in order to definitively determine if takeover of the Earth will be a viable option for our Regal and Viscous Species. In order to create a scientific and balanced survey of all Humankind, I need look no further than the Bloog of the Blue Ox. Hidden within this Bloog is a message to our kind. By excerpting text from posts and comments throughout the year 2006, I will now be the very first, I, Captain Blue-Orks, to decode the Earth’s Message to Alien Invaders!

And it reads:

“Hundred of hot butches
wearing / tall black fuck-me boots
secret piercings
and sequined cowboy hats
Yeah, baby!
I’m all woman!
Are you strong enough to be my man?
Baby Blue
at the strip club
hissing, jumping and popping all over
until I EXPLODE
Have I ever told you you’re about a dozen of my favorite people?
Thanks, Frankie.
His name was Dick.
Oh / sorry.
He / Must be the donor.”

Oh! Heh heh. Sorry, Mothership. Wrong texts. I was just . . . um . . . researching something ELSE . . . there.

And now – Earth’s Message to Alien Invaders!

“2006: Year of the Meatball.
mmm meatballs
mmmm eat balls
Cat cat dog, I am a tree! Eeeee! Minute Maid Coke, I am a poodle! Eeeee!
Where the fuck is Dodge?

Snails are aliens.
Horses are aliens.
The Teletubbies are aliens.
My child is an alien.
Stooges in your plans for goldfish domination.

First a blog, then the world!
No pants and ready to fight
President Bush / fucking Shirley Temple
“Get off me, Bitch!”
Lord Jesus, hear our prayer

Hopefully you’ll get used to
life with your thumb stuck to your
spirally intestines

My wife is not a terrorist
that eats its children.
We don’t eat our pets.
We don’t eat weevils.
That is just ICK in a shiny gold suit.

Our / people:

Psycho / daddy / Miss Elsa
the quiet, mysterious type
in one of those scary-sexy outfits
simultaneously suicidally depressed and about to barf

Visit with the Evil Butch of Darkness
She’ll / tell you
“Mmmm. Puppies.”

Jewel / has
a brass cock ring
and sings
“Eye of the Tiger” in falsetto

Sweet butches
mug you for cheeto money

Listen.
There is no way, in a hundred million years
you’ll get used to
cactus
scorpion
fire ants
water moccasin
killer bees
ice-cold-lite-beer’s
Hokee-Dinkum
or
ABBA.

It’s a
disgusting, nasty, putrid, stinky, horrid cesspool
here.
A / hallucinatory carnival ride.
Get out! Get out!
Shake-a-booty!”

Mothership, what do you think? Should we invade?

Captain Blue-Orks of Scout Ship 3-million-and-1, over and out.

Curse you, John Deere, and your Tractor Beams!

Stardate: 12-29-2006. I am in orbit around Planet Earth. It’s quiet out here in space. Quiet and dark. Space is an endless black void, into which one can endlessly stare. Oh, the stars. There must be BILL-YUNS of them. White stars. Yellow stars. Red stars. Twinkling, far, far away. In the blackness. And silence. The vast, vast silence. Of space. Out here. In orbit. Hey, look down there – it’s 4640 Scinton Drive, Louisville, Kentucky. There’s a car with a cartop carrier on it in the drive. A cute little low-rider dog in the yard, looking up at me with a puzzled expression. Lets zoom in a little . . . STOP – that’s close enough.

In the livingroom, a giant monitor of some sort with what they call “footch-bull” – Earthling males with padded buttocks, throwing a ball, catching a ball, falling down a lot. Someone should do a study on it. Or not. In the kitchen, where nutrients are consumed, another, smaller monitor, showing something called “Sploogebub Scarepants”. Or something. I can’t quite make it out. An Earthling grub, perhaps 2 Earth-years in age, is sitting motionless, its face several inches from the glowing screen. It is eating – cokies, I think they’re called? Disc-shaped pastries filled with something they call sogar, that endows grubs with the energy of a thousand suns, until they collapse in on themselves in a screaming fit. Also in the kitchen, a small box emits radio waves – some sort of religious broadcast. All the sounds are meeting, colliding in the middle of the dwelling, creating a headsplitting cacaphony of voices and noise. Look there, more Earthlings – an elder female, interacting with the grub – offering another cokie, I think. An elder male, turning the volume up on the footch-bull. Their offspring, a female – rather handsome, I must note. For an Earthling.

What’s that . . . there seems to be one more, but I can’t quite . . . oh, there it is. A ghost of a thing . . . lets zoom a little more . . . it appears to be another female, staring vacantly at another monitor, not unlike my own ship’s computer I’m sending this report on . . . zoom a little more . . .

OH GOD! IT’S GOT ME IN A TRACTOR BEAM! HELP! HELP!! HEEEELLLP!!!

Must . . . break . . . free . . . engaging automatic evasive action . . .

Oh, thank god. Back in space. Beautiful, black space. Earth looks so – peaceful, from up here. Orbiting. Up here in space. Beautiful, black space. Dark. Silent. An alien can breathe out here.

Mo is from Mars, I am from Venus. Or something.

Our time here at Mom’s is coming to an end. Melissa and I are going to have a day-long argument about whether we leave before dawn (m’s choice) or later in the morning (my choice) so we can have one more relaxing morning.

Here is my family: Quiet. Calm. Sip tea. Gaze at twinkling lights. All watch a movie together. Take long, slow walks with dogs. Lounge about all day in your pajamas. Sipping tea.

Here is Mo’s family: Exactly the opposite.

And lo, there was much gaiety, and laughter from all corners of the house, and there were many TV’s you could hear, and we heard a blaring football game in the livingroom and a minister on the kitchen TV and morning radio talk show host also, and there were 20 people having 10 conversations what which they were all involved in somehow, and wine was guzzled by all the Ammican spouses, and it was good. Except that it gave me a headache. And I was hiding. Because my brain was about to explode.

Me and Melissa, we’re just cut from different cloth. I am of monochromatic hand-spun wool, and she is some sort of extremely brilliant, crazy-colored quilt. She can do the chaos thing. As my grandfather used to say, I have a one-track mind with eight tracks playing at once (when I’m at my in-laws’).

Arab-American in-law vocab:

“Ammican”: what my in-laws call me and my fellow caucasian marry-ins.

There’ll be a test on it. Tomorrow, when I get to Louisville. Whatever time that turns out to be.

And lo, we beheld the glorious loot

Rocky’s song of the day: “Reindeer Keep Falling on my Head”

Well, hello! I’ve missed you, my sweet oxies. We’re having a lovely time here at Mom and Jeff’s, stuffing ourselves silly on Mom’s Most Amazingly Kickass Christmas Cookies. Merry Rip-N-Tear, as Mom says. Though I have to tell you something about my daughter – she is more calm about unwrapping presents than the most jaded humbugger. I just said “humbugger”. Sounds like the word for a gay Brit in a McDonald’s costume. OK, that was bad.

Seriously, the child wakes up, calmly has her morning nukins, calmly goes potty, strolls out to the livingroom, the livingroom glowing with magical golden light (my mother can cook AND decorate) and completely packed with shiny candy and colorful presents; she calmly surveys the Christmas landscape, gives the empty plate and note from Santa a disinterested glance, then heads for the tree and begins to root through the heaping pile under it.

Then we call Evander and her moms, and we hear the sound of frantic shredding, jumping and shrieking in the background.

And that pretty much sums up our kids.

Then this afternoon, Rocky looked at me very seriously, pointed a finger at me and told me, “YOU’RE Santa.”

Me: sound of heart stopping.

She said, “You’ve got the Santa hat on! You be Santa, and I’ll be the reindeer!” Yes, yes indeed, I found I was wearing the red hat and she had felt antlers.

Me: sound of heart restarting.

So, a Merry Rip-n-Tear to all, and to all a good night!

We made it.

My mother makes THE BEST COOKIES I’VE EVER TASTED.

Meeerrrrry Chrithtmuth!

Conversation at the grocery store:

I notice a flash of metal in the cashier’s mouth. “Nice tongue ring,” I say.

She smiles broadly and reveals a mouth full of braces, as well as the shiny tongue jewel. She says, “Oh, you like that? I LOVE pierthingth. I had nine, but I had to take a bunth out becauthe of work and all. Can you tell what it ith?”

“Uh, a tongue piercing . . . ?”

“No, Baby!” she reaches across and slaps my arm. “Look at it!” She sticks out her tongue. It is a Texas Longhorn. A burnt orange UT tongue-stud.

“No freakin’ way,” I say.

“Yeah, Baby! Hook ’em Hornth!”

I. Fucking. LOVE. Texans.
……………………………………………………………..
At this moment I am going on less sleep than I have perhaps ever had – no, I take that back, there was that night with the bar and those underage women and the passing out on the bus to Belchertown . . . ok, second least amount of sleep ever. And Belchertown really is a place. I know, because when I woke up the driver was saying, “Belchertown center. Last bus.” And I got off the bus and stood there completely alone, shivering on a darkened village green in a blizzard. With no way home.

Brrrrrrrr. All right, here I am in my toasty (because the oven’s on) house, and I was telling you something – what was it? Oh yeah, of course I’m supposed to be packing the truck. Because Melissa’s sleeping, because Melissa drives. I navigate. That pretty much sums up our marriage. We’re taking off at 4 a.m. for Atlanta, to my mother and stepfather’s house, to what we lovingly call Hannuchrimaanzasolstidan – we are currently pseudo-Christian, Jewish and pagans in the family, and since there are always old spouses leaving and new spouses entering the picture we’re just covering our holiday-name bases. From there we drive off to Louisville, to my in-laws’ (out-laws’?). That will be ONE holiday, and ONE holiday only, and its name is 2nd-generation Arab-American Eastern Orthodox CHRISTMAS. And that means church, in about 70 languages and big golden robes and hats and no women behind the altar. There will be no talking, there will be no clapping, there will be only prayer and worship in the highest-church form. Holy Christ Child, Batman. They love me there. I actually mean that – they really do love me. Love the sinner . . . right? I’ll get to wear my fancy clothes and new makeup and make a grand entrance in my biker jacket, because the only warm stitch of outer lining I own is shiny black cow pelt. Welcome to my world, baby.

So I will go now. I have probably 2 hour’s worth of shit to finish. It has been one hell of a busy month, and tomorrow, I SLEEEEEEEEP . . .

When I talk at you next, I’ll be in a place I’ve never seen! I LOVE that!

love
Blue

I just want to write a few things, Honey. Really.

Considering the heap of work to be done before we leave for Atlanta Friday morning, I believe I can safely surmise that Melissa is going to kill me when she finds out I’ve been blogging. Don’t kill me, Baby. You’ll make these good people feel bad.

Embarrassing quote of the day, said to no one while using client’s heavy, unwieldy old vacuum, and I can’t believe I’m telling you:

“I’m gonna wrassle this puppy into submission.”

In response today a spokesman for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, or PETA, had this to say: “I am shocked and dismayed that a highly public animal rights advocate such as Ms. Ox would use such puppy-bashing language.”

A spokesman for People Eating Tasty Animals, or PETA, responded,

“Mmm. Puppies.”
Client of the Day:
The Fenton Lady (of “DO NOT TOUCH THE FENTON!!” fame), in a pre-emptive warning-note to me:
“DO NOT DUST THE ARTWORK!!”

So I thought, well, if I can’t dust it, I guess I should polish it! Black shoe polish.

In other news, we stopped and chatted with Maria and Jaime (of some-goddamn-asshole-called CPS-on-our-friends fame), and it turns out the person who called them in is probably their cross-the-street neighbor, who has been nothing but trouble for everyone on the block and has had it out for these particular folks for a while, because of the falling-down state of their rental house. Once I can find out for sure, I’m thinking of doing something incredibly immature in a spontaneous fit of revenge. Flaming poop-bag on the porch trick? Hmmm… Of course, my Christian Goodness will probably win out, and I’ll just end up praying for her. How lame.

Remember the horrid wench who stiffed me my money? No link, it’s not worth it. At the direction of Evander’s Mom (ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUMYSTRONGBRAVELAWYER) I sent her a bill. EM even had me add “Thank you for your business!” on it. She’s good. Reeeaaal good. I was cackling as I licked and sealed the envelope. But no response. So the next step is the lawyer letter … my question is, should I go ahead and release the hounds (yeah EM, that’s you!) or should I let her enjoy her holidays? While I go on my trip short the money she owes me? I think I just answered my own question.

Another reason to love lawyers: two of my lawyer clients gave me $50 tips for Christmas. I will never, ever be without legal help.

One final note – the really nice guys downstairs doing the construction on our new studio apparently have no idea how thin the termite-eaten boards are between us and them. In between belching, guffawing, hitting their thumbs with hammers and cursing, they occasionally belt out 80’s songs. I just heard “Eye of the Tiger” in falsetto.

Smoochies,
B.O.