Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Tammiiee Must Be Stopped or Too Many Vowels

While driving to work today, I heard on the radio's "All Disco/All Day" channel that there is very little chance that the Bee Gees will be having a reunion tour due to the fact that two of them have died, and the third seems to be both unwilling and uncooperative.

This apparently came directly from the mouth of Do-the Hustle-Steve, the foreign policy correspondent for the BBC, so I feel confident relaying the information here in print because I tend to believe anyone with an accent.

Hustle Steve also reported that the Republicans are defensive, the Democrats are on the prowl, and that there has been a new federal law passed that prohibits people from texting while driving. Cell phone use affects a driver's reactions as much as having a blood-alcohol level of 0.08% -- the legal threshold for driving while intoxicated.

What a great thing and timely as heck! This is what certainly comes from good people trying to do good things to fill their busy Washington time and the taxpayers money. It's just super! Absolutely renews my faith in... things and stuff.

I am wondering if Washington, for it's next wonderful and heart warming trick will come up with a cool new law that will keep people from gun-slinging and whisky-shooting at family reunions, lighting firecrackers at gas stations, and wearing “Donna Summer Forever” tube tops to Mormon weddings. Ya know, something that will affect me?

People, people, ...peep-hole! Do we really need someone to tell us that texting while driving and/or operating machinery/or over an open heart/or while building nuclear bombs could be an unwise move? Have we really come to a point in our society where we have to have some posh, tanned dude wearing expensive shoes in D.C. tell us how to behave?

Yes! Yes!! & Heck Yes! Long time coming, man!

Where have you been lawmakers! I'm glad you got the text on your expensive blackberry already, Senator Webster-Rockefeller-Hilton. Put down your drink and lets celebrate like people who are not going to be killed by Tammiiee,-the-texting-teen from across the street. Because up till now she hasn't been stopped.

Tammiiee has already killed to many trashcans to note, and has put several mailboxes in the hospital. She weaves in and out so much that there is a sign on the sidewalks that state "Tammiiee Lane". Her photo has been placed at all local cellphone shops - not like any "Wanted" signs, but to pay homage in deference to the amount of minutes she uses. She has put several cellphone salesman through college and has a loyal if slightly cultish following.

When on the town, I tend to pullover quickly when I see the cars in front of me shiver in fear when Tammiiee has been spotted. The best defence is to hide in fear. I have tried, as have many others, to send her gifts of makeup and cheep jewelry to encourage her to post her school schedule so we can plan our day.

So the plan is to stay of the road until the law gets to Cherry lane, Tammiiee posts her class times or until we get enough money to offer her a chauffeur service. One of my neighbors from Australia told me this would not have been allowed to go on this long down under, and that they would have had a chinwig with the yobbo and gee-gee would have been on a walkabout for sure months ago.

I believe him. He has an accent, so it must be true

Friday, March 26, 2010

We're Going Where?


I Like it Pointing East. Somehow it Makes More Sense



If, while on vacation, the locals you have to ask for directions have to ask other locals for directions, then you should probably plan on an extra hour or five to find where your wife thinks she wants to go.

We went ghost town hunting for our vacation this year - something she has always wanted to do. Which, based on what we did today, was to four-wheel around the southern state pumped up on allergy medication in a van filled with kids, an emergency reserve of Diet Coke I hid in the spare tire well.

And no map.

The reason there was no map was because I forgot the map. It was my one responsibility - that and packing my suitcase - which I thought was a completely unreasonable assignment to begin with. My wife was in charge of the whole sh-bang which she is for every vacation we have ever had because of the freak incident in my tempestuous youth having to do with a family outing gone a-wry which, I feel, absolves me from any responsibility while vacationing. Instead I brought a 60 pack of Twinkies and my He-man pillow.

Even if I had brought the map, it would have been no help. These are towns that do not exist anymore. there is no map. Oh, my wife has been looking on the Internet for the last three months in ghost town sights of the old west. The maps read like a third world guide to places to avoid. Here is a sample...

“proceed in a south-northern direction until the cock crows. Then turn towards the three sisters for twenty minutes at seven miles per hour. Turn left at the old sandstone cleft. At this location 1n 1860 there were miles of Cedar trees. Which are different that these Cedar trees. Those were older. These are just like them, only not as old. Once you hit this point, you are on your own, because there is a reason everyone left hundred years ago. There is nothing here. except this foundation of the house they lived in back when there was nothing here due to it resisting the earthquakes of '67, '92, '07 and '13 - another reason that there is no one here.

As if they weren't done in by the Indian attacks, floods & drought (same year)or because, eventually, they discovered that they were living in the middle of nowhere. Little Sally, the one who was in charge of herding the cows out of the cabin for the evening's supper of boiled cactus and sparrow, thought to ask, where do little girls come from?, and her Mother and Father suddenly remembered they about stuff like food, and sheets and not wearing the same thing for years at a time.

And now, we are seeking out the places they vacated for better pickings.

We seriously traveled three days to visit a visitors center in an old bank turned into a museum/Avon headquarters to have a nice old lady tell us that this old bottle on the shelf was different from this old bottle on the shelf because it was wider at the top and had a nick. When I asked her where the "old town" was, she waved her hand towards the mountain and said – "over there somewhere, but I wouldn't wander over there cause of the old traps and snakes and stuff."

Excuse me? I slept all the way out here while driving only to look out the window at a hill that looks like every other hill in the inter mountain west and smell lavender sachet?

The next ghost town was really a graveyard. There was a monument that listed everyone buried and the reasons they died which should have been what alerted them to the fact that this town was going nowhere - when someone starting carving the plaque. What made this stop memorable was the conspicuous lack of anybody else. Houses, schools, saloons, haystacks, They all migrated in, died, and then left the town before it became a graveyard.

Well, I have learned my lesson. I am not going to die in a ghost town. And sitting here on the floor because the kids have the couch, I am not worried about dying from diphtheria or scurvy, or whether or not I will have enough time to get the grain out of the field before the early snow. Or children being safe from things that want to kill them, like me in the morning which is at noon.

I am a new man. And I smell like Avon lavender sachet.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Hairier Than Thou

I Blame the Hair Cut.
Bad, bad hair cut.


We cut our own hair here in the Cheney house.

Let me be specific. Me. I have been cutting every one's hair since my wife and I got married. I trim bangs, shave the back of necks, tame cowlick and in Megs case, I cut nails and clean ears. Meg is our dog.

I also occasionally trim lead feathers and braid tails: Chicken and oldest son.

I have been through mullets, shags, buzz cuts, The King and I – School Version, perms, colors, Halloween, St Patrick leprechauns and punk. To be fair, anything I am asked to do that I can't do I call punk, as in “I don't do punk”.

This has always been good enough for the Cheney family. There have been no complaints from kids, wife, in-laws, neighbors or food critics. The food critics have said nothing, and I take this as a good sign.

Suddenly, Myelda, my eldest daughter, has to go to Fantastic Espresso Cuts! 'cause she is sooooo ooooo much more hairy than the rest of us. Apparently she has outgrown me and my usefulness as a beautician and has developed...,what did she call it?...oh, yeah. Good taste. Good Taste is for food critics who, as mentioned, so not have a problem with me.

Now, I know taste. Mr. Flo-bee and I know taste real good. But not good enough for Myelda. Overnight, it seems, vacuum attachments that trim hair are neither cool enough nor sufficient to the task. And adding insult to injury, she has stopped wearing the sundress I made for her out of old terrycloth washcloths and pop cans.

She has to wear her own clothes, she has to cut and dye and dye and dye her hair. And then color it. She has to use all my colored ink to print out the next style. She has to spend everyone s money, she buys her own groceries with their money and gets all mad when I eat them, and her fresh guacamole dip was heave. I cant afford guacamole dip because I give her all my money with which she buys guacamole dip. And hair dye. Its like some eternal round chapel ceiling as painted by Michelangelo with a buzz cut, a guacamole face mask while being high on hair dye.

Speaking of hair dye, you can hardly tell she is a member of the Cheney family anymore, what will all that original hair. And I don't really mean original as in the color a loving God gave her. No one remembers and the photo we matched to was so faded she looked like strawberry shortcake in a horrible fog – the same color as her leftover wallpaper from her sweet and kind period.

The rest of us all have the same hair color with the same streaks in all the same places. Once I have perfected something, I think it is only right that I should utilize the skill over and over again – like a talk in church or the Olympics. Light brown with blond streak age is good enough for our family, two chickens and dog and a rabbit, it is good enough for Myelda.

The only way I am going to quit harping on this is if she gives me some of her guacamole dip.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Open Letter to the Homeless




Please consider these photos as friendly suggestions!






My neighbor, Illona Smithsonian, has asked me to print the following because she couldn't get the local paper to do so as a "letter to the editor". I am only doing this because she has threatened to tell the homeowners association about my two chickens if I don't. Here is is...

Dear homeless people.

First, let my start off with a pleasantry such as, "Hi", or "How are you?". I am having to post this open letter because there doesn't seem to be any type of address on file for any of you.

I will get to the point. Would you please leave the nice areas of the neighborhood? You are making the rich people nervous and uncomfortable. Have you ever heard of a personal space bubble? You are getting in ours. Don't you have any other options than hanging around our banks and shops asking for money.

Your sign says that you are willing to work for food. How about working your way across town to a more appropriate area where you just fit in better - like the train tracks or the blood bank or thrift stores?

Your clothes do not match. Did you know that? Is it possible that you really don't know how distasteful it is for us to move about town knowing that you are always there sitting or laying or standing someplace that was made for riding or walking? Are you really so comfortable there? Wouldnt you rather just go to your homes and watch some TV? How about a change of clothes? Or teeth?

If you really can't afford a new coat, can't you just brush your teeth better? Tooth brushes are not that expensive and they fit in your pocket, so there is really no excuse.

I heard on the Family Values Radio Network that times are tight. I understand that we all have to cut back where we can. We, on the right side of the tracks are willing to do our part. We promice that we will try not to shop after, say, eight o'clock at night excepting weekends when there are late night movies, and all we ask is that you try to stay out of sight until we leave. Deal?

So, to recap, You: brush teeth more, try to look nicer, sleep on walkways only late at night (and you can stay until 8-ish cause I don't get up until noon) and try to get an address as soon as you can so you can watch more TV.

If you have any questions, please text me or e-mail my husbands secretary.

Tx's so much!
Mrs. Ernest Howard Smithson Jr. - Illona :)

P.S. Thanks for the space, Mr Cheney. Your secrets safe with me!