Thursday, January 19, 2012

Hot or Not So Hot?

Okay, so like I am totally confused. I was in the marina public showers today, and this hot guy got into the shower.. but before he got in, he stripped down by throwing his clothes on the dirty shower room floor. Lots of guys getting in and out of the shower: pee and what have you. 

I was drying my hair and the clothes on the dirty floor were bothering me. But get this... when he got out of the shower, he put his dirty clothes from the floor, - back on.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I think Facebook must think I am really important or something, because next to my profile picture it says I have 481 things to review. Does Facebook think I am the chairman of my page or something, and that I need to review things now? Why would I want to review anything? I'm just shitting around here for giggles on Facebook. I don't take it that seriously, do you?

They want me to approve tags, adds to other pages and groups. I have something like 1,425 invites to groups and group functions. Do you people think I am going to fly around the world attending special functions? Heck, I didn't even look at the invites until just now. I usually ignore them, and only look at them when my page flashes to one. I have so many that it would take me two days just to delete them all, so I just let them pile up there, and ignore them.

I've been invited to a 28th Annual Gathering and I have no idea what the gathering is even for, heck I don't even know the people who invited me. There is one invite for a BBQ all the way on the other side of the country. How do they even know if I like BBQ? Do you know how much time and money it would cost me to fly to say, St. Augustine for a BBQ? Even if I got a "to go" bag of ribs, it wouldn't make up for the cost of going there. Do people think I don't know how to make my own BBQ? Maybe I'm a vegan, or soemthing. Oh crap, I bet I'll get vegan requests now.

I have messages for links to, "Browse Single Women In My Area." I mean, for crap's sake, don't they know I'm as gay as Liberace? I've been homo-partnered for thirty two years, now. My page even says I'm in a domestic partnership with a man. What would my partner say if he thought I was browsing for single women via Facebook? How do they even know where my area is? Nobody knows where my area is, or even where I am. Well, maybe one person knows where I am right now, but I can guarantee you that nobody else does. I rarely tell people where I am. I don't want people coming to look for me, or worse, invite me to something I don't really care about or want to attend. Suppose I'm in Poughkeepsie and someone wants me to drop by for their Granny's 95th? I don't even care about your family, much less your granny.

Why don't you people mind your own business? I have an invite to find out about the Oomph in a 150 badge. Whatever that is. There is a link with a ferret on it, asking me to research EVO food for my pet. It's says it's a low-carb, high protein diet for dogs, cats and ferrets. I don't even have a ferret, I don't even know why anyone would own a ferret. Why can't people leave ferrets alone? Leave 'em where they grow, naturally? What makes you think a ferret would want you to own it?

One of my invites is for, "Poop Noodle T-Shirts," and another one of the invites I have is for an event that happened last month. They want me to RSVP. I don't think I will. I mean, it's over, why should I? I have an invitation to Necro speed dating. What the heck is that? I've been invited to, "Lorna Listens." I don't know a Lorna, and if I did, I would probably un-friend her because I think Lorna is a stupid name.

Don't you?

One of the invitations has Dr. Phil's picture on it, and if anyone knows me, they know that Dr. Phil is one person I cannot stand. I'd rather have lunch with Rush Limbaugh, than listen to Dr. Phil, and I hate Rush Limbaugh's guts. He really makes me want to gag my guts out.

The least you people could do, would be to send me a pretty, formal invitation in the mail. Maybe with a little present attached. Something I could hold onto. Something a bit more personal.

But on second thought, why can't you people just leave me alone?

Sunday, November 20, 2011

If you remember scenes like this, you'll understand where I get my snarky, cynical and often sarcastic commentary from. I find humor and see the flip side of life in everything, along with the hypocrisy of living in these modern, and care-less days. Imagine the cramped, legless spaces available on airlines today, combined with lousy stale food, drink and entertainment available for purchase, and'll see why I am so cynical. Everywhere you go these days, less is less.

We rush around like idiots, drive like idiots and stand in line like idiots, all for sub-par service served up with crappy attitudes and snotty comments. I am always overly-polite and gushingly friendly and a bit wild & witty with people who work in the service industry when I meet them. They usually enjoy that, although not often. It's the ones who don't appreciate that spark my creativity and revenge. I've worked as a service person my share of the time. I know what it's like on both sides of the table.

I once flew on a plane similar to this back in the days when flying was an adventure and a party. You could jazz the stewardesses, and back then, they were actually called stewardesses. You could smoke cigarettes, drink a real cocktail and celebrate your adventure. I even sat in the back of a plane one time and smoked pot with some new friends. The stewardesses thought it was funny and they called me, Sweet Pea and even gave me a complimentary bottle of champagne when I got off the plane.
I really know how to smooth talk the help and have a good time.

Back in the day, the stewardess actually carved turkey or roast beef for you. I once quipped: Ah, life's a banquet and we're eating on the plane.
Well, not any more.

Now they're called, Flight Attendents which is actually hysterical because all they do is hand you peanuts, pretzels and a shitty drink, then they hand you a crappy meal that you have to pay for, and pick up your trash. On our flight a few days ago, my partner was given a bag of pretzels that must have weighed half and ounce. It was a teensy little bag with eight teensy little pretzels in it. It looked like something you would give a two year old, or a really tiny midget.

Honestly, I don't know why the airlines just don't save all of us time and money and get rid of flight attendants, needless as they are. When was the last time you saw a bus attendant? Honestly, the airlines ought to set up a bar in the back of the plane, and just let people get up and get what they like. Perhaps they can have bar stools and spicy peanuts & snack mix on the bar, and just skip the lousy, teensy tiny stale food.

They don't even have to demonstrate safety, because the monitors do it for them. As if you're actually not going to claw people to death as you're clamoring to get off of a plane that's just crashed because you are so stupid that you need to wait for assistance from a woman named Yolanda or Betsy.

That is if you survive.

I just flew from Savannah to Atlanta to Orange county the other day, and the safety video said that once the plane crashes, and I'm actually in the water, my blow up life-vest will light up with blinking blue lights.
I looked at the "flight attendant" who was standing next to me and I said: Gee, that's comforting. "Once the plane crashes and I'm in the water."

She said, don't worry, I'll be floating nearby and will look for your blinking blue light.

Gee, thanks Hon.

My book: The Kooks, The Nuts & The Crazy by Steven Hough is now available in paperback.

I have ordered a bunch of copies to be sent to me personally, so I can sign them and send them off with a personal note. If you love to laugh, and I guarantee this book will make you laugh out loud, send me a private message, and I will give you the details on how you can get a signed copy of my new book.
Send a message to me at:


*Also, the book is available for download on e-books, Kindle, Amazon and other venues.

Friday, November 18, 2011

The Day I Accidentally Pooped In A Public Jacuzzi

The Day I Accidentally Pooped in a Public Jacuzzi

I have never liked Florida.
I’ve tried to like it.
But I don't.
My family went there on vacation when I was a kid, and I never saw any redeeming value to it. My partner and I have gone there from time to time, for various reasons, and eh, I still don’t like it.

Well, we had to go down to Florida this past spring for some repairs on our RV. If you know RV’s and you know Florida, you know there is a state of the art service & sales facility there. It's top of the line in ripping people off.
It’s located in Seffner, Florida and man oh man do they take in the rich people and fleece them for all the cash they can get their hands on.

This operation is so smooth, that while people are waiting for their RV to be serviced, they have sales associates who will wheel you around their estate grounds and show you the latest in RV technology state of the art equipment with recreation vehicles that cost two hundred grand and up.
They even serve a free breakfast, lunch and dinner in their restaurant.

We went inside a bunch of the half million dollar motor homes for sale, just for fun, and they had marble floors. The ceilings in these motor homes looked like something out of Las Vegas with halogen lights, granite countertops, marble floors, convection ovens, double flat screen televisions, washers and dryers, marble bathrooms and surround sound stereo systems that would put most movie theaters out of business.

If you stop in this particular RV super center and luxury campground for any service, and you have any money, chances are you will be driving out of there less a quarter to half a million dollars or more.
I know that for a fact, because we saw it happen. This place must have sold one hundred new RV’s in the few days were were there. I think I read that they sell four hundred to five hundred RV’s per month. No shit.

The brakes in our RV went out, and we had to limp in there for repair. Get this, the super center is so big, and so full of 40’ motor coaches that they have 200 service bays, and they’re all full.

So we’re stuck in this Florida shit-hole for a few days because we don’t have brakes and the minute we pull in, our air conditioning goes out and it’s ninety degrees outside. And typical of Florida in late March and April, it’s not only hot, the humidity makes it feel like it’s as sticky and stinky as living in the bottom of a dirty clothes hamper filled with shit stained underpants and t-shirts soaked with body odor pile on top of you.
I hate that kind of humidity. Makes my hair curl & frizz up and I want to gag.

Bright side: there is a dazzling swimming pool, bar and Jacuzzi under a gauzed canopy and swaying palm trees. I figure if I’m going to be stuck in this Florida freeway swamp, I might as well enjoy it, so I meander over to the swimming pool and jump in… ah.
So refreshing.

The sun is baking the pool and I swim around for a few hours. I go back to the RV for lunch and then decide, as evening rolls around, I am going to go back and sit in the Jacuzzi and I am excited to find out that, the Jacuzzi is empty. All the old fuckers have gone to early dinner and I have the place to myself.

So I get in and, oh my god, my balls are floating around in the bubbles and the jets are beating on my back and it feels so good that I think I could actually die and go to whirlpool heaven.
The bar is open so I meander up to it and have the bartender make me a martini, whereupon I go right back to that Jacoo and sit there sipping my dirty, enjoying those magic bubbles. The palm trees were bristling in the wind that had kicked up in the late afternoon, the sun was setting and I was in heaven. I could not have wished to be in a better spot, the gin hit my senses and I was lulled into Jacuzzi heaven, when all of the sudden, I got the urge to pull my pants down and let the jets shoot water up my ass. I love it when Jacuzzi water shoots up my ass or I let the jets blow on my armpits and scrotum. The sensation tickles and it’s really intoxicating.

What I had not figured on, was the pressure of the jets. That water shot up inside my anus like a jet blast on steroids. In fact, the pressure was so strong that it blew my anus lips apart, water shot inside me and it acted like an instant enema.
Oh no!
I had to shit so badly, I could barely stand it.
Instantly, I cramped up. My bowels ached and I couldn’t even get up out of the Jacuzzi, left with no choice, I let loose and released my bowels into the Jacuzzi.
Bloop, bloop!

The turds popped up to the surface like airbags caught in the whirlpool jets, they encircled the Jacuzzi and swirled around there, like teabags caught in a jet stream.

Spinning fast & furious.
I panicked.
Holy shit!
What could I do?

I sat there for a minute, waiting for the jets to blow the turds apart, so they would disintegrate and dissipate and leave no trace.

I felt like the character in Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Tell Tale Heart. My heart was beating faster and faster as the turds are frantically bubbling and bashing up against the Jacuzzi walls.
Those turds were swirling around in that cesspool, and they held together like Old Ironsides after it had taken a beating. I had no other option, panic had set in and I decided it was time to escape the bath & make a mad run for it before the turds were discovered, with me hedging.

Just as I am rushing out of the Jacoo, three couples approached and stepped into the water, as I was stepping out. By this time, I’m sweating bullets, I grab my towel on the back of the chaise, start to wrap up so I can make a run for it. Just as I was about to leave, all six of the people who got in the Jacoo, sunk down into the steamy turd bath.
They were sitting there, up to their necks in bubbles and turds-

four of them, and they were rather large. At least four to six inches long, each of them. But I didn’t have a tape measure on me, wink- wink.
You'll have to take my word for it.

I looked one last time and was astonished. Three of my turds were floating around one lady’s neck at Whirlpool speeds, and the fourth was dolloping around her husband‘s throat and mouth like it was lounging on a raft, bumping up against his lips.
The couples were oblivious.

I threw back the last of my martini, turned and ran like the dickens.
I left the pool deck area and was running across the parking lot laughing so hard, I thought I might fall down… when all of the sudden, I heard ear piercing screams.

When I got to our RV, I was practically choking in hysterics and laughter.
I was hunched over, clutching my stomach and guts, and couldn’t speak. I cramped up with laughter.
Although it was an accident, I cherish the day.

I’ll never forget seeing that lady's face bristling with bubbles & turds.
Let’s hope her husband didn’t inhale.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Help

Oh my~ I just realized I am as bad as the white ladies who live in Jackson, Mississippi We flew to California yesterday and we will be living on our boat for the next few months. from, The Help.
We spent all day today washing the bedding, cleaning the boat. I'm exhausted with the time change of three hours and I've nearly pooped myself out today running errands and whatnot.
Anywho, I just went to take a shower here at the marina. They have private shower facilities for boat owners. I had finished my shower and was just about to dry my hair when in walked 6 big guys who work on the landscaping here. They also clean the showers & toilets for the slip renters- one of which would be me.
These six big workers- The Help, walked in to actually use the bathrooms while I was standing there brushing my teeth. Three of them plowed into the toilets and sat down
grunting, upon whence they started shitting and farting while I've got a toothbrush in my mouth.
So much for the fragrance I had just put in my hair.
The other three men were at the urinal farting and pissing. Although they were not
all that attractive, The Help, as I could see, I could not help craning to see if I could catch a peek of their dingle dangles in the mirror, but could not, no matter how hard I tried.
And then it happened.
The whole room filled up with the stench of defecation.
If there's one thing I can't stand, it's smelling shiz while I'm getting out of the shower, trying to make myself presentable.
I mean, three big guys taking a shit at the same time? Gag me.
I grabbed my stuff so that I could bolt out of that private shower, cursing in my mind
all the while, thinking: why don't they have separate toilets for the help?
As the words were forming in my brain, I realized I am nothing more than an arrogant white lady. Still, there's nothing worse than trying to make yourself stunningly attractive, while, smelling the equivalent of the Orange County sewer system in your nostrils.
Coincidentally, I had just watched, "The Help" on the movie system in the air, yesterday.
Thank god for private in-fight viewing, it's just about the only thing Delta Airlines does right. I hate that stinkin' airline. I only booked that airline because it had a short duration flight from the east coast to the west coast, with one hideous connecting flight in Atlanta.
Some stuck up airline stewardess was forty fucking minutes late yesterday in Savannah
for some unknown reason and the entire flight was delayed waiting for the help to arrive.
Rumors circulated as to why she was late.
"Oh, she's gotta have a break between flights" or "She didn't get her ass out of bed on time, like the rest of us did
-who made the flight.
Several people made rather LOUD comments about it once she walked on-board and sashayed past us.
She was Asian and a few people were so mad they started talking like Asians: who da fook she fing she is, make us way fo' fortay minute fo' her?
I gonna trip her fat ass when she walk down aisle!
I blurted out: Let's kill her!
Then I realized it's probably not a good thing to shout out on an airline.
When we landed in Atlanta, we had to run the length of five god damned football fields to catch our next flight. We arrived at gate E38 and had to run like raging idiots to the train, and then take that to terminal A and then run like holy hell to the other end of terminal A to gate A36.
If you know that airport, you know it's a modern miracle to run from one end of that terminal to the other end even on a day when you have all the time in the world.
I swear I'll never do that again.
Atlanta Airport sucks donkey dicks.
I was running and running and running and I turned around to see my partner Tony, walking kind of slowly and when I screamed at him: hurry the fuck up! He casually replied: I'm on Lexapro, I don't give a shit if we make the plane or not.
Oh for craps sake!
By the time I ran and got on the train, I turned around just in time to see the door slam shut
and my partner had just missed it. I waved goodbye to him from the inside of the train, tears filling my eyes. I could see him standing on the deck waving goodbye as the train pulled away from the terminal, just like a scene from Dr. Zhivago where he runs after Laura on that damned train she got on.
Trains just won't wait for anybody these days. I think they used to in the good old days. Same with planes. Not any more.
Which brings me to the damned plane. Do you think they'd wait for the ten of us that had to make that connection? Hell no. That Asian stewardess could take her time and they held that plane for her, making the rest of us forty minutes late.
When I got to A36 there was a big black woman who was the gate agent.
The Help.
I ran up to her short of breath as I heard them announcing over the P.A. -Final Boarding is now over for flight ticky-tacky to Orange County.
I rushed up to Miss Blackie in a dither and screamed out: Darling, I made it! My partner is just a football field behind me, I think I see him staggering down the corridor, yes- there he is in a white shirt, can you see him? Helloo? Can you open the gate door for us, you see our flight was delayed forty minutes and...
And then she hefts up her girth and shoots me a look over her glasses and then barks at me: I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME.
She yaps.
Well! I never!
What a fucking old whore!
I'd like to see her run her fat black ass all over the airport with those gi-normous tits of hers,
and see how she likes it. I had visions of being put up in some god-forsaken hotel, -at the Atlanta Airport...
We had heard that the next available flights were booked solid, and although we were booked on another flight just in case we missed ours, we were told there were no guarantees. I could see my life flashing before my eyes.
I watched my partner stagger down the airport. He was carrying our dog Haley and a set of Laptop computers with all of the accessories. Rather heavy. I got a little hopped up and thought I might cut a bitch if she doesn't open that gate door and let us on-board, hold that plane and all two hundred passengers on board. Panic set in and I thought I might just get on that flight and leave my partner stranded.
See if I'm going to spend the night in Atlanta. E-yew. I hate that town. What town there is of it. I have no idea why anybody would live there.
We finally sit in our seats just as the captain is pulling away from the gate. Oh and get this, we were seated in the last seat on one of their biggest planes. I was starving as I had only had a bite or two of watery scrambled egg at the hotel at 6 a.m.
I had not been able to sleep the night before, waking at two a.m. and tossed there until suddenly, I realized I had forgotten my shaving razor at 5 a.m.
I went down to the front desk at 5:30 to inquire about a razor. The help at the desk shot me a look and said: you fa'got ya razah? Well, I don't have any razors for sale, but I got some we give away.
Okay, I don't like a smart ass at five a.m. So I turned and said, do you have any coffee? She replies: they just went to get a hot pot hun, be 'bout twenty minutes or so.
Fucking no help.
When they started the meal service on the plane, I was ready to have something to eat. I was starving.
Unfortunately, the plane had over 200 passengers on it, and we were in the last row.
By the time The Help got to us to see if we wanted a meal for purchase, she says: Sorry, I ran out of sandwiches a long time ago.
Peanuts? Pretzels?
Fucking bitch. We were seething as we didn't have time to grab a bite in Atlanta, so I snubbed her and shot her evil eyes for the next hour. She kept patting me on the shoulder
each time she walked by, shot me that sorry look with her big brown eyes.
Repeatedly she tried to apologize, but I wouldn't have it.
About an hour later she walks up to me and says, I found two cheese & cracker trays for you. Complimentary.
As if I would have even considered paying for them.
Oh they were yummy. I hadn't slept the night before, hauled our asses to that airport at 7 in the morning and then, snubbed by the Asian help and no food all day. Blue cheese with crackers and fruit never tasted so good. I was grateful to her at that point, and tried to fake a little smile, but I still hated her guts, even though she liked me.
Really, it's me, isn't it?
Or is it her?
I mean, she is The Help, after all.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

My Gift To You, Flavored With My Bitter Tears

Ack! Thanksgiving is almost here. It reminds me, I have not spoken to my mother, sister or her husband in nearly three years.
It has nothing to do with the last fateful Thanksgiving we spent together, however…
I hope they choke on the dried up piece of shit turkey my sister's husband makes for them, without the stuffing inside because: Ooh, Steven.... you can't stuff a turkey anymore, we'll all get a bacterial infection and we'll get sick and die.

Yeah, choke on your fucking dried up stuffing you lubed up butt-holes. See if I ever make stuffing for you again.

The last time I was there, they begged me to make the stuffing I’ve made for 32 years. It’s a sausage stuffing and it’s perfection in a bowl. I’ve been watching cooking shows since Julia Child was on alongside the Galloping Gourmet. All of the sudden, all the new stupid foodies on television are telling people ya can’t stuff a frickin’ turkey any longer.

So, I said, I’ll make it, but the secret is that I stuff the old bird with half of the dressing, and roast the other half of dressing on the side and then combine the two for a perfect dish. I add egg, cornbread, sautéed celery, onion, herbs and sausage with homemade stock and a shit-load of butter.

So, my mother, sister and her husband all had a fit and make an ENORMOUS stink, because they tell me nobody stuffs a turkey anymore, everybody who does, gets sick & dies from it. It’s all over the Food Network.
I roll my eyes.

I know how to prepare fresh foods without cross contamination.

They finally agreed to let me do it my way because I told them I wouldn‘t prepare it otherwise. I said it won‘t be that good, so just make it your way, really. Reluctantly, her husband and I agreed upon it in the garage and we shake on it. My sister’s husband was going to brine the turkey for twenty-four hours, even though he has no idea what he’s doing and has never cooked a turkey in his life.

I said: Glenn, since you’ve never even made a turkey before, and I’ve been making turkey for 32 years, trust me, just get a fresh turkey and roast it according to the directions, there‘s no reason to brine.
Of course, it was like talking to a brick wall, because he thinks he knows better.

So, he brines the thing all day and all night long and I shut up about it, but when it came time to stuff the turkey, my sister’s husband couldn’t stand it and he screams at me after he puts two tiny scoops of dressing inside the bird: God dammit Steven! Will you fucking shut the fuck up! The fucking turkey is fucking stuffed all fucking-ready!
And then he throws the spoon across the kitchen where stuffing and turkey bits splatter all over the kitchen counter, floors and wall, as he storms off to his bedroom.

I never!

He’s never screamed at me before, although I knew he had it in him. I think he’s been wanting to scream at me for like, twenty four years now, and he finally couldn’t stand it any longer.

I've been eating stuffed turkey for 52 fucking years and I'm still not dead! My mother stuffed her turkey, my grandmother stuffed her turkey and my great grandmother stuffed her god damned turkey and nobody ever died or got sick from it!

My mother is sitting there shaking her head in disgust, because she sides with my sister over everything, and therefore, Glenn won that round. How dare I try to stuff their fucking turkey! My mother says: Steven, nobody stuffs turkeys now. They say it’s dangerous.
I reply: Mom, you stuffed your turkey for 50 years, why don’t you be quiet now?

How was his turkey?

Dried up and foul tasting. Over-salting meat causes the meat to seize up. Never comes out as well as proper roasting and seasoning. Oh, and he tried to cover the enormous thing in tin-foil, which only steams meat, but I shut up. At this point, what choice did I have?

He has a brand new state of the art oven and it dried it out. I think he had it on convection or something, and didn’t know how to adjust the timing. It’s one of those ovens that has a super computer in it. The big show off.

They took the rest of my stuffing and stuck it in the oven and burned it.

Maybe this year, he’ll stuff the god damned thing, and let it sit out all day and all night long, and they really will get a bacterial infection in their lower intestines & colon, causing them to have explosive diarrhea and projectile vomiting for a week.

*Crosses fingers. At least I won’t be there. Assholes.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

The Cops, Me, Mennonites and Jesus

Oh God.
We're staying at Assateague state park for a few days and we actually had the sheriff called on us two nights ago. We're traveling in our land yacht with the dogs, and we're staying in a section of the campground that doesn't allow dogs. We snuck them in, since they're only Yorkshire terriers, two of them, that weigh five pounds each.
Some ass-wipe black guy in the dog section saw my little Zoey over here in the dog free section and called the cops on me.

Not once, but twice.

The first time the park ranger asked if I had a dog, because the dick-wad reported me, I lied and said no. I told them it was someone else who had a dog, pointed to the left and said: they went that way.
The second time, the county sheriff was actually called & came out. I'm quite certain the black guy who reportedly called on me, probably thought he was segregated because let's face it, I'm white and have a dog and I'm in the 'elite' section, and he's not. And he's black, has a dog and he's in the no amenities, segregated section. Oh, and he's huge. I would have beaten him up, if it weren't for the fact that he's about 6'5" and muscular, and I'm 5'11" and gay.

According to some people who talked to him, he's royally pissed.

We don't want to stay in the dog section because there is no water or electric power there, and they probably have to pee in a piss pot and shit in the bushes. It's been cold and I'm rather delicate when it comes to my luxuries. We need heat, I need my laptop and MiFi charged, and I need hot water and lights, because I have a china cabinet in the land yacht, and I need to have my pretty things lit up at night. It's like gay camping. Anyway, the sheriff came and he was so mad, he screamed and spit at me for ten or fifteen minutes before he calmed down. Called us liars and demanded to see: "the dog."

Little did he know we actually had two dogs, because Tony threw our little Haley in the closet when I screamed: oh crap the cops are here, hide the dogs!
Zoey was standing at the doorway with her tongue hanging out when the sheriff spotted her. The park ranger was there, too. A slight woman who giggled when she saw Zoey

The sheriff demanded driver's licenses, vehicle registration, I thought he might handcuff me... fortunately, I have fake tags that say my dogs are service dogs. I threw that in the sheriff's face. I also have a medical card that shows a relatively recent surgery and two letters from my doctor that say I am traveling with my dogs, and that she recommends it because of my, 'condition'.

Whatever that is.

She probably wrote that letter on my behalf, knowing there is nothing really wrong with me, however knowing that I can be an emotional nut-case at the drop of a hat and that I tend to have high anxiety. I've actually broken down in her office and cried before. Sometimes I can appear to be so gay. So, shoot me.

That sheriff was so pissed that you would have thought I had plutonium inside my land yacht and that I was engaged in making nuclear bombs or something. Fortunately, the fake service tags look real, and on the back they have instruction from the American Dissabilities Act saying I can't be segregated or discriminated against for any reason. So they were forced to let me stay in the camping section with electricity. The sheriff started asking me  a whole bunch of questions: why I am traveling so much, what is my physical problem and other nosy bullshit questions that, according to my fake service dog tags, he's not allowed to ask me.
It's against the law.

I could get real service dog tags, because I qualify with the letter from my doctor, however they want a lot of money for real ones. That's why I got the cheap fake ones.

So, I answered his questions anyway, because I'm like that. I have a blabber mouth and will engage and talk to anybody at the drop of a hat. I love talking to people, I learn a lot from it and honestly, what do I care if he wants to know why I am a mental case? I know he's freaking out because my 'service dog' weighs five pounds.

He says, 'What exactly is it she does for you?"
So I say,

Oh... I am on-

m     e     d     i     c     a     t     i     o    n

-(his eyes widen) and see, I know she's tiny, but I used to have big dogs. In fact, my last dog was a 70 pound Doberman Pins... and at this point, I actually wet up a bit, thinking of my little lap-dog Doberman named Ranger. Oh, and I didn't give him that stupid name, he came with the name. Some asstard straight couple was getting a divorce and could no longer keep him. I got him when he was two years old, and I didn't have the heart to start calling him by another name -like Duke, or Duddly or some-other dumb name.
I mean, who the fuck names a Doberman, Ranger? God I hated that name, but he was my 'baby' and by this time, I am shaking a bit because let's face it, I've had the cops called on me twice... so I'm sitting there shaking a bit, wetting-up a bit while telling this guy I'm on:


-as he's glancing over my medical card that says my entire left shoulder, ball and socket, plus the humerus has been reconstructed out of titanium. I think he started feeling sorry for me, because his cheeks looked like they were on fire when he first pulled up to the front of our land yacht, like a scene out of Blazing Saddles or something, and now his cheeks were white again and the forehead un-furrowed a bit.
And he says,

W   h   a   t

k   i   n   d

o   f

m   e   d  i  c  a  t  i  o  n

And I know he's not allowed to ask me that, but I blurt out:

I have mental issues.

Which of course, I do  -but very mildly.

Doesn't everyone?

But, I haven't taken medication in over two years, but he doesn't know that. I do have a lovely collection of pain pills, muscle relaxants, butt-cream, Trazodone and Lexapro. I really should call my doctor and tell her I'm running low on Dilaudid.

At this point, he softens and winks at me and says, 'well, we'll just call this a little misunderstanding then, and feel free to walk your dog all over the campground without any fear of retribution, or anything. You will enjoy it here, and you can walk Zoey on the beach and all... there's a lovely section just over there where you can see the horses...'

and then they quietly got in the squad car, tipped their hats and smiled at me while I waved like a retard, so they would know they really were dealing with a real nut case, for certain.
That was close.
I actually take a deep breath and I'm screaming and jumping up and down like I'm having an epileptic siezure screaming at Tony: thank God I got that letter from my doctor and ordered those fake service dog tags on the Internet!
Woo hoo! What a coup.

And we had our windows open, so we started talking very loudly:




We're saying it as loudly as we can, so everybody who may have reported us, hears it. And then I think: maybe I should walk Zoey over to the segregated section where the big black guy is, and ask him what it's like over there with no amenities... when all of the sudden, five run down, crappy looking RV's pull in next to us and guess who gets out?


Oh for crap's sake. Do you mean I am going to have to spend the weekend staring at Mennonites?
I can actually feel my ball sack tighten up a bit, and my peen goes completely soft. My nipples harden.

Yep. Mennites.

What the fuck?

I'm not one hundred percent certain I even know what a Mennonite is...
except I know they're closely related to Amish and Quakers, and their license plates say: PENNSYLVANIA and I think: yep, weirdos. 

The women look like pasty white pansies. I start wondering if the husbands will try to beat me up or something. They have a little pink in their skin, on the cheeks,  a bit of fresh blush. Their skin is so white it's nearly translucent. They have little hats taped to their heads with giant Bobby pins and they are all wearing pink and white jackets with fake fur on the hood. Honestly, it's not that cold out side. It's windy, and in the 60's, and they're dressed as if it's going to snow at any minute. They also have on long blue jean skirts that skirt the ankles and they are wearing Uggs.


Damn they look Uggly. Who the fuck wears Uggs any more? They're outdated and make people look like clod hoppers. I swear, straight people can be so tacky when it comes to clothing. I bet these Mennonites live on a commune in PA. somewhere and don't even know any gay people, and they certainly don't know about fashion.
Long skirts with Uggs? Bobby pins with cotton caps?


Well, it's obvious. They're Mennonites and let's face it, they lead very sheltered, closed-minded backwards archaic lives. I mean, I know a bit about Quakers, and Skaker Quakers and Amish... and I know Mennonites believe in a bit of technology, whereas I don't think the Amish do.
I start feeling sorry for the women: oppressed by their husbands. Thoughts of Mormons and polygamists run through my head.

And for Christ's sake, they're wearing Uggs!

And the children.

They have children.

Lots of them.

And the little girls are dressed the same way: long skirts, winter coats with fake fur and Uggs.

They're indoctrinating those poor, innocent little people into their cult. This morning I had thoughts running through my head, about taking my little dog outside, and then telling the little kids:
Your mommy and daddy are lying to you. Then I imagine saying something like: you don't see magic invisible Jesus anywhere, do you? (they're all shaking their heads no) and I continue: your mommy and daddy don't see magic invisible Jesus either, yet they're lying to you and telling you that invisible magic Jesus is watching your every move... but you all remember now, while yer growing up, the nice man told you it's all...


And then I imagine that as I turn away, smiling and waving... I say, very softly-

bye now,

and remember,

there's no such thing as

M     A     G      I     C          J      E      S      U      S....

*voice trails off in a soft echo.

So then I start reading about Mennonites and learn how they migrated here from the Netherlands, Germany, blah blah blah. Settled in Pennsylvania seeking to avoid persecution, welcomed by William Penn who at the time, was looking for colonists in his territory, while the Mennonites were looking for a place to escape discrimination and persecution. Mostly from the Catholic church from whom they broke away from, many centuries earlier.
You know how nutty Catholics are... dunking their babies heads in 'holy water', I mean honestly? How nutty do you have to be to believe water can be, 'holy' and then actually dunk your baby's head in it, or worse, schvitz the baby with it all over its innocent little face? And then there's the transubstantiation bullshit where idiotic Catholics think that eating a cracker and slurping down a gulp of wine is actually eating the body and blood of Jesus Christ because some moron who calls himself a 'priest' waves his hands over the mess while speaking mumbo jumbo and jibberish.

I mean, shit -even the Mennonites are smart enough that they don't believe that load of crap.
That's why they walked away from the Catholic Church and their insanity, which is:






-spewed down from generations of idiots who think magic Jesus is real. They think magic is real.
Of course, none of them have ever seen magic things happen, and magic Jesus has never appeared before any of them, yet they continue to insist with all their might, and messed up cult-infused brains, that magic Jesus is all around them, watching everything they do... mostly making certain they don't engage in sex even if it's with themselves. God created the human body, he created orgasm and fantastic sensation, but for Christ's sake, don't enjoy your own body, or you'll go to hell.


But they're very quiet. In fact, they're a shy people. They won't look you in the eye, mostly. They glance down a bit, socially awkward and backwards like most religious, cultist groups that live mostly segregated lives. Anyone or anything outside of their small social world is frightening to them. 
And then I read how they are a peaceful people, refusing war and fighting. They're against it and during the war, they were conscientious objectors, refusing to serve in Canada and the United States in any way. In the states they were allowed to work Civilian Public Service and avoid the war.

Don't they know our country fought a war to end tyranny from the King of England? America's founders founded the country on freedom of religion by fighting a war. And they have the nerve to come here and refuse to fight and kill people? It's un-American.
Why, I ought to go over there and bitch-slap the shit out of them.
The nerve!

What's wrong with them?

The first permanent settlement of Mennonites in the American Colonies consisted of one Mennonite family and twelve Mennonite-Quaker families of Dutch extraction who arrived from Krefeld, Germany, in 1683 and settled in Germantown, Pennsylvaia. Among these early settlers was William Rittenhouse a lay minister and owner of the first American paper mill, Jacob Gottschalk was the first bishop of this Germantown congregation. This early group of Mennonites and Mennonite-Quakers wrote the first formal protest against slavery in the United States. The treatise was addressed to slave-holding Quakers in an effort to persuade them to change their ways.

I wonder what they did during the Civil War? Protest quietly? Gee, that wasn't going to work. The Civil War was the bloodiest battle ever fought on American soil. Wasn't it? It took a whole lotta fighting to end slavery in America. Maybe the Mennonites just stayed home and watched television while making war cookies & sold them like the girl scouts, to raise money for the cause? No, that doesn't make sense.
It's a good thing I didn't shoot them or anything.
I don't have a gun. Maybe I could have stabbed them to death with my kitchen knife.

No, I am non-violent myself.

At least I am not a Mennonite.

I had no idea they were peaceful wimps. Wonder what they would do if someone went after them? Cover their eyes and scream like little girls? Okay, see, that's the crazy in me. My brain thinks like that, and the reason why some people call me sexist. That is sexist, right? Or maybe not. What do you call people who dislike Mennonites? Don't answer that.

I would have liked to call the county Sheriff on them. "Um, hello? Yes, there are a group of peaceful people camping next to me, and although they're super quiet and seem like really nice, lovely people, they're bugging the shit out of me because they believe in invisible magic Jesus and other spooky stories, can you come arrest them for me?"

Maybe Assateague State park should allow dogs in all of the camping areas, and segregate the Mennonites.

I'm hoping they will leave today. They have a lot of kids, and it's Sunday. Shouldn't they be in church or something?
Praying to their invisible magic Jesus?
Don't those little ratty children of theirs have to be in school tomorrow?
Oh good, they're packing up and leaving. Bye bye. Smell ya later.

And for Christ's sake, get rid of the Uggs. 


Coincidentally, I had been watching a documentary on PBS about John Muir, a Scottish-born American naturalist who had a very strict religious upbringing. In fact, his father Daniel thought that anything that distracted from bible studies was frivolous and punishable. So he beat the shit out of his son like a good Disciple of Christ, scared the crap out of him, and gave him lashings for just being a normal, young boy and a human being. His father was such a nutball, like many Christians, filled with nutty and crazy ideas, that he would give his kid lashings and then have him build a giant bonfire. Then he would threaten his son by asking John what he thought it would be like to actually fall into the fire, and burn forever. He told the boy, that's what Hell is like.

I mean, really, how the fuck would he know? Has he ever been there? Do Christians really have to make up such bat-shit crazy stories and scare the hell out of innocent children? The kid would be scrapping on the playground, or looking for bird's nests and his father would beat the ever-living crap out of him. Nice guy.

By the age of eleven,  By age 11, young Muir had learned to recite "by heart and by sore flesh" all of the New Testament and most of the Old Testament. Fortunately, he was an intelligent man, and although he remained deeply religious, in his writings, he later described the conventional image of a Creator "as purely a manufactured article as any puppet of a half-penny theater."

Well, at least he grew up a little bit, which is what we can't say of most religious nuts. He went on to embrace science, and came up with natural explanations for things on earth and specialized in botany. But, that's how nutty the Christian are, I swear, they will believe anything.