On the subject of Nostradamus:

"We used to think the Dead Kennedys were just really paranoid,"
but now, we can all sadly agree,
they're soothsayers with a mosh pit.

Behold fan video of "Kinky Sex" by Jello Biafradamus.

And always remember children,
"...judge it for what you will, but for Chrissake, have an opinion."



But if that's way too heavy a topic today,
relax, give yourself a shoulder rub, and
have a bit of Sparks'
"No. 1 Song in Heaven";
another rare form of genius
in their own special way,
in my own special opinion.

(But don't get me started on Klaus,
my number 01 song in heaven forever,
who always, always makes me cry.)

Yesterday's fortune cookie.

Looks like I accidentally got this by mistake,
b-unit, I think it's for you.

Oh, stop, you worry too much.

It's a fan that sucks the heat out of your car.

Well, yes, it is kinda tacky, but...well no,
you can't roll up the window completely anymore...
but it just leaves a tiny gap around it, so what?
Oh, it is not "just the perfect size to leverage a screwdriver."
You fill the tiny gap with the rubber thingies included, look,
you just stick them on...see? No big deal. Gosh.
Just think of how much cooler your car will be.*



*Without a window, without a stereo.

Oh, Jim.
You know I never check mail at myspace, but look.
There is no way in hell I couldn't love you, too,
and there is no funnyman better
for a Haplogroup H girl like me than you.
But the tour circuit is long, it's lonely,
and keeps calling us both,
and for whatever reasons, we both keep going.
But it will never change the fact
that you'll always be my snuggly ol' polar bear.
And if you think for even one moment that
I could do this lonely world tour without your friendship,
you're not funny, you're just mental.

Damn you, Ms. Penney.

Thank you for tempting me with such troglodyte sweetness...

Sacre merde.

La Petite Anglaise dooced for "faute grave."

C'est mauvais but still sounds tastier en français.

"Can a praying mantis fly?"

"Praying mantises have two pairs of wings. They can fly
but usually take flight only to move from one perch to another
or to escape from predators. They are not long distance fliers.
Adult female mantises are often incapable of flight because
their bodies are heavy with the weight of undeveloped eggs. "


..."heavy with the weight of undeveloped eggs"...

!!!

"Bethany, what's wrong with you?"

Nothing. It's just a giant praying mantis
dangling from the ceiling like dripping water torture.
Close enough for me to watch it turn its head
to look at me with two tiny red dots,
sizing me up as its perceived predator?
And it may or may not fly. Neat.

Can't edge far enough away from it.

You're never more alone than
when no one else in the room
is *scared of a bug* but you.
But then again,
no one else sees it like this:
a green freight truck,
idling between gears,
increasingly pissed off
at the price of diesel.

That thing is big enough to eat a grilled cheese sandwich.

"Take a picture of it."

Right, no, IT'S TERRIFYING.

"I wish I could take a picture of you,
looking up at like that, haha!"

Ok. But I'm going to faint.

Everyone thinks it's beauuuutiful.
Ok. I do, too.
Out. Side.
A perfect fucking 10.


Balance. Ignore it.
No bouncing on the ball.
Don't move, don't scratch that itch.

...

I can't put my headphones on?
I can't put my headphones on!
Fear says,
"No headphones unless you want
that beauuuuuutiful thing in your hair
next time you come out of your digital trance
to scratch an itch. Smooch!"

Now,
I'm pissed.
I will not be denied my music today,
possibly egg-laden, perhaps flightless creature
who just inched closer to me.
@#$%!!
This is why I hate camping, too.
There. I said it.
Unless it's a gentle (bug-free)
snowfall on the ground
outside of a warm (bug-free) cabin,
with electricity and a bathtub,
forget (bug-free) me.

"He's not going to bother you."

He already has, and has anyone stopped to think
that he might be terrified, too?
That bug could be in a state of crisis
and ready to jump. Or she, with hundreds more.


Party Shuffle, work it out for me:

All I’ve Got to Do :: The Beatles
If I Fell :: The Beatles
Jump for Joy :: Danny Elfman
Fallen Angel :: Elbow
One Very Important Thought :: Boards of Canada
I'm Amazed :: Pixies
No Sign of Life :: OK Go
Girlfriend is Better :: Talking Heads
Another Day :: Air
Go To Sleep :: Radiohead
U Want to Want :: Cursor Miner
Pimpf :: Depeche Mode
The Journey Within :: Soundscape
Playgirl (Snap Ant Version) :: Ladytron
Country House :: Blur
J'Ai Dormi Sous L'Eau :: Air


You're not still here,
are you?
Oh man, I'm sorry.
Shaun, my hero, took him outside.
Put him in a tree. Bird probably ate him. I'm good now.
I still may faint though, and my teeth hurt.


One More Time :: Clash
Destroy Everything You Touch :: Ladytron
Music is My Radar :: Blur
Coming Second :: Elbow
Exit Music (For a Film) :: Radiohead
Stop Breathing :: Pavement
Novocaine for The Soul :: Eels


(Hey. Cool.)
(Thank you, iTunes,
thank you, terrible, beauuuutiful praying mantis.)

I dreamed I was at a baby shower for a friend. She had it in an underground strip-mall in upstate NY. When we all left for her house, my ride left me, but luckily, it was a possessive ex I hadn’t seen in years, so I was relieved he left without me. I turned around to find a way back, and Vicki Lawrence was standing there, looking down at me through those smoky, half-mirrored 70’s-type aviator sunglasses. Honestly, the gold and brown tints matched the highlights in her hair exactly, the sunlight beamed brightly through her hair, she looked like a vision with a peroxide halo, but still, I was unimpressed and saddened because of it, because I wanted to be impressed for her sake.

She wore a ghastly, hand-knitted, acrylic yarn poncho, style at the time, and offered me a ride, but only if I’d wear a similar poncho. She handed it to me. I hated it, but I put it on and dealt with it. We crunched across a rocky parking lot to her car. It was a splendid sweet steel supersled of a car, a monster muscle one along the line of a Pontiac Gran Prix '72-ish, triple dark green, heavy chrome details sparkling and radiating heat, raised white lettered tires with that new rubber smell, lambswool seat covers, and we sped off through a bunch of construction.

Along the way, she ran over everything in her path, but I felt nothing -- boulders, fallen highway lights to be replaced, and three construction workers working in a blasted trench, to which I could only reply, “This thing sure has excellent suspension.” She agreed, but she could only navigate the car if she sat in the middle, *close to me*, which had nothing to do with her career at all and was the oddest part of the dream to me besides the strip-mall.

(("Mayday mayday, this is Dark Purple Accord, 137562,
2.5 miles due east of Point Dry Cleaners,
enemy Trolley fast approaching at 7:00, over."))

(( "Repeat: Can anyone hear me, this does not look good, over..." ))

(( "I repeat, can anyone h-- {audio interrupt/missing audio}" ))


(( "MAYDAY MAYDAY! Attacked! This is
Dark Purple Accord,
1-3-7-5-6-2,
taking on water rapidly, cannot stay afloat
more than a few minutes, one person on board,
Maintaining watch on Channel 16. Accord, 137562, over!" ))



Trying desperately to see a way back, heart throbbing,
choking me, confusion, the pounding in my ears, my eyes,
running out of options, running out of time,
my soul grew heavy and cold,
and I felt myself slipping away.
So I crossed myself, kissed a picture of my mother,
and crushed it in my fist without realizing
until I felt my palm burning,
my nails breaking through skin.
I let go, I looked out, that one final time.
It's funny how an instant in time can slow just enough
to make you aware of your surroundings,
make you feel like you have some control over your final destiny,
but then in that same instant,
your everything spirals out of control,
explodes,
that one last time. So.
I looked out into the distance one last time, forever.
And just when it looked like it was over,
I came upon this one sitting duck, lazily drifting.
This pink-o Soviet ally, his comrade, my sworn enemy.

"Holy Sweet Mary of Third Street," I breathed.

Seizing the moment in a white-hot burn of adrenaline
shooting up my neck and down my arms,
with a brilliant display of firepower, I blasted him
into an unholy smokecloud of splinters, smithereens,
with my front-mounted, semi-automatic, jet-powered cannons.

Quarters, dimes, nickels, shrapnel,
whizzed by me, and into me, and all around,
for what seemed an eternity.
Then, nothing, but quiet, and stillness.
My shaking hands instinctively searched my face.
Wiping the blood from my eyes,
not even knowing if I had eyes anymore,
I saw what was left.
Nothing.
Just the smoke, just the smell.
The rest of his gutless, yellow, bastard fleet
just turned on him and ran, just like that,
like a bunch
of soiled

French

schoolgirls.

And that's how I got this scar, and that's how we won
the Battle of Madison Avenue and Second Street.


Don't feel sorry for them,
they knew what they were up against,
they understood when the signed up for the job.
If you want to make an omelet of war,
you have to break some eggs.

"Secret ingredient: one dead squirrel!"

It was that Sunday we decided, Grandma Nonny
needed the specialized, individual care
that only Shady Blossom Estates could provide.

Grandpa always called her special dish "Sideways Pie,"
but that's just way too disturbing to get into.

Not to brag but,


Another.

"Police haven't ruled the latest finding a homicide, but
if they do so, it would be the 97th this year."


Nice pace so far, killers, keep up the good work!
The winning local record to squash is 1993 with 213 murders.
We're right on track to beat last year's bittersweet 153,
so when I say beat, I mean *lifeless*
otherwise it'll just get filed under "Attempted."

This heat should really help crunch some numbers.
Need more motivation? Check it:

How we match up with other cities
of comparable size through the first week of June '06:

Memphis (pop. 650,100) — 92

Nashville (pop. 545,524) — 45

Charlotte, North Carolina (pop. 548,828) — 33

St. Louis (pop. 348,189) — 62

Little Rock (pop. 183,133) — 34

Detroit (pop. 951,270) — 203

Be all like that, Detroit.
You best believe we can bring the pain train.
I'm just sayin', it's hot, but we just lit the fuse, baby.

As I was leaving work yesterday,
instead of getting a standard "goodnight" exchange,
the woman at the parking garage toll booth told me,
"You look tiiiiiiiired."

To which I laughed and said,
"Really? Well, I almost made it to Friday, didn't I?"
But really,
here's a list of

The Top 15 Things I Thought Instead:

15. Oops! Guess I better save up for that surgery!

14. Oh thank God, one day closer to the silence
that death will surely bring.

13. Really?! You should see what I did to your mom!

12. Yeah, on my way to my Cannibalistics Anonymous meeting.
But hey...what're you doing for dinner?

11. I know. Israel blew up some airport today.

10. Well, now that you mention it,
my crumbling bones do sort of ache...

9. What? F*ck you!

8. No really, get in the car, and kiss my tired butt.

7. Sorry? I can't hear you. See, my soul is dead.

6. Yes. Life is exactly the way I dreamed of it
as a sparkly-eyed little girl.

5. Oh stop making me laugh, I just shattered a spleen.

4. Here. Take this free brochure on
"Why God Loves Me, Not You."

3. Close. "Vitriolic."

2. I'm sure it's just a tumor.

1. So, wait now,
where is the nice lady you replaced,
you know, the PRETTY one
who called me "baby" every night?



Thinking back on it, maybe I was just tired.

Think

icebergs

snowballs

penguins

icicles

snowmen

sno-cones

ice cream

ice fishing

hockey

heatstroke

(damn, start over)...

At first, I thought it said "MYFACE"
and almost threw my drink on it.
Yeah. Pavlovian conditioning is fascinating.


(and)


Teen gets 45 years for dismembering classmate.
Honestly, the dramatics here are so unoriginal.
Whatever happened to girls hazing each other
into life-long eating disorders instead?


(and)


"My brain is a walnut."
Enjoy the Story of the Color Red.

And the other colors are mighty fine as well.
Oh, you care, you know you do.

To: Bridgeheads L. Raspiest, Twila,
and Yankertina Lemelin

I don't need any Sensationall revoolution in medicine
to E''nlarge my p''enis up to 10 cm or up to 4 inches!
Even if Its h'erbal solution what hasnt side effect,
but has 100% guaranted results,
thank you for your concern,
but really, no thank you.


(and)



Aw!
Sara brought me chocolate
back from Ireland.
Sweeeet.


(and)

General advice to those who watch "Hell's Kitchen"
and keep the cellphone closeby on the couch
only so your best friend can call,
screaming at you during commercials
"YOU'RE A *beepin* DONKEY!! GET OVER HERE!
WHAAT...WHAAT ARE YOU THINKIN', YOU DONUT?!"
while you scream similar things back:

Don't forget to put the cellphone back into your purse
unless you really like losing your bad-ass parking space to
drive home to get your phone, still on the couch.
Ooo-yeah, and it's raining now.
You *beepin* donkey and/or donut.

Y'never know. This advice may come in handy someday,
and no thanks necessary.

To: Zomwpa Mwemoghmb, Calisthenic L. Dressage,
Posey Ricky, Matues Felts, and Marcello Krach

Sounds nice but not interested
in shares of Mongolian mineral resources,
am good without the Ci@lis and Hoodi@ 5000+,
but did have an interest in a safe natural remedy for P.E.
when I thought you meant Physical Education
and not Premature E-whatnots.

Answer:
(Man, where to start and where to begin...)


Thankfully, some people have beat me to the punchlines
I'd think but never post, but I'll tell you,
the correct answer really is:
Do not poke fun at this pioneer couple.

Pioneer men are skilled riflemen who'd more likely
tan and handcraft your infernal hide into
several, wide-brimmed workhats
than look at you in your fine fancy garb, smelling of soap.
And pioneer women are quick, wiry, and
wield the bloodied, cast iron skillets handed-down to them
(sometimes more of a long toss or misthrow)
through the generations what done come afore'em.

They may not have teeth, but they sure will take a bite.

The Dixie in me will just have to *swanny* to you
that I'm giving you solid advice,
so have fun, but watchyerbutt at Yahoo! Answers,
heavy on the *yahoo* at times.

No, it's not the Sea of Tranquility on the face of the moon.

As sadly promised,
it's "The World's Flattest Baby Bird"*
courtesy of "Parking Can Be Fun"...

...and deadlyyy.

Aren't you glad you dropped by?


*Which reminds me of the time my mother had a garage sale,
and a little kid ran up to her with fifty cents and a sail-frog**
(very similar to the sail-bird pictured above).
Face twisted in confusion, my mom walked over to the table
where my dad had apparently put the frog,
the kid pointed up to the sign reading,
"One Slightly Used Frog, 50 cents.***"

That's nothing compared to the time my father
fashioned a cross out of two 2x4's
and wrote "Here lies Old Mean Sue"
complete with birth and death dates,
then stabbed it into the freshly-tilled rosebed,
not-surprisingly, about the same size and texture
of a freshly-cut grave.
This was all for the benefit of the roofers
my mom had hired,
the roofers who never came back.

**a frog that is thin and crispy enough
to be sailed like a frisbee.

***not to be confused with the rapper,
Fiddy Cent.

So there are lobotomizing daytime talk shows all over the world, yes.
Don't think about it too long or you'll cry and laugh at the same time.
But it's almost worth it if you can make it through the crap
to Eddie Izzard sneakin' a look at the female cohost's boobs
while shaking her hand at the end of the interview. Well, finally.
At least she, hers, and the tank top were good for something.
I could just kiss him three times for each plausible reason.
Anyway, that one's for you especially, Jacquie.
ps: Calling you this weekend,
so step away from the cartoons and
break out the headset and the red wine.

"Subject : MassiveDickAction"


Oh, stop. I'm sure it's not what you're thinking.
Right?
Obviously, it's a movie announcement.
Inviting us all to see the latest film.
Starring an unfortunately-named action hero.
Right?
Right.
Innocent.
Okay.


It does make me remember, for some strange reason,
a few good new adult entertainer names
that came to me at the beach:

Taffy Puller
Candy Floss
Cara Mellow
Sweet Vanilla Swirl
Thickie Fries
and
Caramel Tubs
(the last two are either rappers or
"acquired taste"-types of performers)


Must all just be coincidence I thought of them.
I better go check the movie times,
I don't want to miss this action-packed piece of pork.
Work.
Piece of...
anyway...

Also note, Good News, Citizens!
I did not see one t-shirt proudly boasting:
"I went to Ocean City Beach, and all I got was crabs."

I did see one "Git 'er Dun" t-shirt design,
but it was small, unwanted, without a rebel flag background,
and delightfully on sale.

And,
I didn't see one knock-off Calvin or Hobbes sticker
peeing on anything.

(If you don't get any of the above,
take a moment now to thank the almighty powers that be.)

It made it really hard to leave is all I know.

xo and much love - Candy Beans

Using William Blake's "The Tyger"
as a starting point, it's way beyond words now.

And so is just about everything at sharpeworld.
I'm always the last to know these things.
But at least I appear happy about it.

(Swiped from scooterdeb)

Which OS are You?


(Sssh, I'm not really transparent. It's just that blinding lack o' tan.)







Back from vacation, but never ever back from the ocean.

Ocean City.
It's good to finally know where I'm supposed to live -
two blocks from this chilly ocean's boardwalk,
which calculates out to
an exact 180-degree welcomed shift away from
sweltering heat, cottonwood allergies and other
eye-damaging mau mau, and liquored-up
singing hobos wafting aroound you
and your daily downtown walks-turned-rushes.
All of which I've spent two or three lifetimes
almost growing accustomed to, almost.
But never ever quite fond of, and it's
definitely nothing more than a romantic notion
at best.

Ok. I live down by the river. But the Atlantic Ocean?
Oh yes, now that's what I've been looking for.
And, thinking more on it,
it wouldn't hurt my feelings at all
to keep going as far east as possible.
So east in fact that I may work my way back west.
This is all scribbled in the *good to know* margins
of my mildewy, tattered soul.

Of course, that stuffy nose could be from the cat
wrapping himself around my head and sleeping on my face.
It was nice to be missed, so thank you, Googie.
You swollen bag of marshmallows you.



Nah. It's definitely the cottonwood.
And the hobo pee.


Man.
I have a zillion pictures to go through.
There are some nice ones, I'll show you.

Best part of the trip:
besides the fresh mozzarella at Piccini's,
besides Eve,
besides the salty, warm ocean air,
I listened to "Siddhartha (Unabridged)"
by Hermann Hesse, narrated by Firdous Bamji.

Slake that eternal thirst on your way to the banyan tree,
and enjoy this work of art forever.

No, really. Get it.
It's the bong-bong, noble sangha, total enlightenment.

And right when you and I both forget that I speak the g-dog...

No, really. Get it, and share it.


And happy (early) holiday to everyone.
Enjoy a sparkler or two.
Maybe something out of a can, maybe something on a bun.
And remember, kids, fireworks are fun.
But don't blow anything off that you might need later.

You're right.
That would look nice embroidered on a throw pillow.