( or maybe it's just me, I don't know )
Why, why, why, for the love of God why did someone hack my userpics so that my default pic cycles randomly to a picture of Obama? Ok, thanks for picking one where he's like grooving out or something, but fuck all, what did I do to deserve this? Is he trying to get on my dance card with the escort service? Jeez, like Clinton doesn't have my number memorized or anything, he could pass it along -- I'm sure I'm still on the Oval Office speed dial, Bush kept pushing the button lableled "sardine pizza" thinking he'd get actual pizza, LOL.
Queued, was that you?
Damn, I'm in a mood today.
"I want to ban the use of the word 'share'. It has become a word to
justify being selfish; as in 'Let me share this with you (regardless of
the fact you're not interested, and I just want to make my point)'. And
Yes, how does one respond to "I'd like to share this with you" when clearly the sharing is undesired and the hint is not taken? Does one say "Yes, Howard, and I'd like you to go to hell, but clearly, only one of us is going to get our wish today..." ?
I've got a new hobby now. Coming up with responses to "I'd like to share this with you."
"And I'd like to be a millionaire, but I don't see that happening today, either."
"Do you really mean share? Does that mean I get half?"
And my personal favorite:
I've been delighted to have something new to chew on in my head to replace the chew toys that have been leaving slobber in my brain. And that's not even counting election slobber. *shudder*
( election slobber )
So when I can't sleep at 3 am, haunted by the Ghosts of Fucknuts past (will my nightmares end if I leap out the window and throw a turkey at an urchin? Who knows? Dickens isn't around to answer my questions, and there's never any convenient turkeys or urchins with which to experiment when the urge hits) I come up with this fuckery. Beats shooting from the roof of the building with a scope and a rifle.
However, your sad pathetic little attempts compare in no way to my real life. Hah. So I taunt you with this:
Perhaps it's the water; perhaps it's just in how one looks at thing. Honestly, the things that entertain me...
I brought the old retaining ring to the gentlemen at Napa, who found it the most entertaining part of their day. No, they didn't have "one of those, but not sucky." Damn, it worked with my last plumbing project. Home Depot had matching screws, and it's like Toys R Us. My Trusty Machining Apprentice worked his magic with screw threads and pitches while I poked through the shiny drawers of screws and toys and glue. I could have stayed all night in the toy store. Mmmmmmm, screws. I whacked the crap out of the retaining ring with a hammer -- Hah! It's my Superpower! and we'll glue the car together tomorrow.
An de hoodoo man say, "De car, she be espensive, but she will always run, chile. De car, she is undead."
Hey, picture this with me: It's 1900. You and I have just been arrested at a suffragette rally, speaking out for the right for women to vote. They typically charged women with being prostitutes then, and those are the charges along with resisting arrest. So you and I are sitting in a jail cell together, hair disheveled, matching black eyes -- you should see the cops who brought us in! -- and we look at each other at the same time and say,
"You know, fuck these corsets too." :)
This is fabulous news for the 3 months or 3,000 mile free top-off service for my oil changes, because I go through 3,000 miles long before 3 months are up. I'm looking for something positive in this, along the lines of "The earth will be destroyed tomorrow? Fabulous! Now I don't have to clean the bathroom!"
I wonder if I am condemned to own cars that are required to have non-working dashboard gauges. The Triumph had none whatsoever. At least I learned to judge speeds by the tachometer in that car, a very useful skill now as cops seemed to be everywhere this weekend. I remember before the Triumph died I did want to see how truly fast it could go once, on one of those long stretches in Wyoming. I had to judge speeds by how fast the mile markers went past, because I couldn't tell from the tach. When I floored it, I actually had to look back to see where the semi in the other lane went. The impression was that it had been vaporized by aliens or blew up, I accelerated so fast. Lovely. Last count, I was doing more than two mile markers a minute. Mmm. I miss that car. The Prelude tries to shake itself apart at 90.
But now that the speedometer is good and truly broken, that annoying sqeaky bird noise is gone. See? Optimism!
Why did I choose to shoot cows (on film, and not in the "slow elk" kind of way), you ask? They looked so lovely and pastoral, I thought it would be a charming composition to work with reminiscent of 19th century painters who did similar pastorals, maybe I could even do a soft digital composition in a painterly w--oh hell, I just felt like it. But apparently, my bovine friends did not feel like posing. They looked perfect before I stopped the car. Like a chapter from my art history textbook. They were farther from the road than I thought, though, and I had to get closer to get the shot. Who would have thought you'd need a 400mm sports lens to shoot cattle? They're frigging cows, not racehorses. As soon as I popped the gate and walked into the field, I became the most interesting thing to happen all season. Dammit, lay down. F*ckers all stood up and walked to me. No, go back. No, I do not have treats. No, you all nosing me and blowing lawnmower boogers on me is not painterly, damn you. Go the hell over there where you were. No, do not --- no, no jesus! Now I see why farmers do not wear Manolo Blahniks. Shit. Euw. Christ, have a breath mint. Yeah, have the whole roll. Eat the wrapper, too, see if I care. No, NO, NOT the camera! Ok, screw this. They all followed me like ducklings to the fence, and I beat them back with the gate. Kang! Kang! Kang! They didn't seem to take it personally...
Nowhere in these lovely FANTASY pastoral paintings of the 19th century is it recorded that the cows followed the artist, knocked over his stool, paints, and easel, blew snot all over him and his materials, and ate the paint -- because I'm certain he had lead poisoning and was woozy high on turpentine fumes.
Got some nice pictures of rusty barbed wire and cow patties. I'm going to make it into "outsider art" and charge a fortune from my mental facility cell.
( I'm a d8 )
Funny, and creepily accurate, as strangely all the memes I've been sent lately have been.( Enneagram Six )
Although I have to say, my favorite part of the dice one was the "viscous sarcasm." What the hell is that, 50 weight? How viscous is that, runny like honey or thick like molasses? Are you not supposed to use that in winter lest it clog the engine? Oh wait, perhaps I think I see what they mean...
All the cool kids are doing that, too.
I am reassured that I still own all the ladycaviar domains in the world, though, with the exception of the one belonging to that one French nutbar. Hah.
I'm driving along the other day, it's a nice day, I have the windows open, and I pass a skunk. Whooeee, it's pungent.
So I, of course, change the radio station.
It's been interesting to see the reaction of non-synesthesiacs, hehehe.
So again, I’m driving along, and I have my hair down, which is unusual. However, when I do, I find I get a lot of attention from certain types of fellow drivers (usually passels of gardeners yelling in Spanish) because now I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car. Hair up: fussy old librarian begging to be cut off; hair down: apparently, I Must Have You Because You Yell Unintelligible Things At Me. Who knew life was a set of clearly defined roles determined solely by whether I happened to have a hair clip handy or not?
Today, it’s Haile Selassie next to me--you know, the former king of Ethiopia deposed and I think eaten by Idi Amin, used to wear this little leopard fez--driving some very expensive BMW. No leopard fez, which is a shame, because I have a weakness for leopard, but he is grinning like crazy. And I grin back, because it’s a good day. Ok, so he’s weird, possibly insane, he has no chance in hell with me, but he thinks I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car, and who could hate that? He waves his cell phone at me, I shake my head no. How the hell am I supposed to know what his number is anyway? I'm hot, so I'm psychic? He motions me to pull over with a very big grin, but I let him know I’m having none of that and race off.
And then I think, "There’s that Nigerian general who’s always emailing me. Bet he wants his 20 million back.”
I don’t know if anybody else on earth would get that, but it makes me spit milk out my nose.
Every time I go to a mechanic, I have these two stupid discussions. "Think your carburetor's clogged, ma'am?" "That'd be a neat trick, because I have fuel injectors." "But it's a Prelude," they say, looking at their computers. Look at the damn car, jerk, it says fuel-injected right on the engine. Now I have more sympathy for the other stupid discussion, which goes like this: "Want your automatic transmission fluid topped off, ma'am?" "No, that would ruin the gears, since it's a manual." "But it says it's an automatic," they say, this time looking at the car. Yeah, but this is the 6th (yeah, you heard me) transmission in the car, and after the first crappy one fell out, I had standards put in. "Can you do that?" they ask. No, jerk, I pushed the car here. Now stop asking stupid questions and put the oil I asked for in the freaking car...
But back to the goddamn distributor cap. Seems Mr. Engine doesn't want to go if Mr. Electricity doesn't get Distributed through Mr. Distributor, and Mr. Electricity doesn't like Mr. Corrosion, who invited himself in with Mr. Water, not that they asked me. I've been waiting for a nice day, but no, I'm an idiot and I have to do this in the sleet. Apparently, in order to work on my car, you have to be an idiot.
So I'm feeling all Idaho self-sufficient girl and I unfold the manual to the appropriate page with its crappy directions for a different model year of car than mine, and immediately I hate whoever designed this car. There is no way in hell to get a screwdriver into the engine to get the old fucker off. I am not strong enough to rip the hoses off, and already I'm in pain. Not a good sign. The neighbors are staring at the crazy lady swearing at the car in the sleet, and I haven't even started. Sweet.
I decided to use the screwdriver incorrectly as a prybar and a stripping tool and a hammer. Good mechanics are turning in their graves under shady trees somewhere, but not here, because I'm being pelted with sleet. Two HOURS later, I have removed most of my airflow system and the distributor cap. I am shaking with pain, but Whoo hoo. I flip it over, and
THERE'S NOT A FUCKING THING WRONG WITH IT! Why did I remove this thing? Do I have a starter problem? Perhaps I should slam the hood shut and pretend my car was vandalized. Wait, I don't have comprehensive, that won't work. Shit. So I pull on the rotor, and it won't come off. I have no strength whatsoever, and I hurt. I go inside for a Percocet, and I can't feel my hands.
I incorrectly use the screwdriver as a prybar again. Ok, I feel better. The rotor is so corroded I don't even know why my car started on dry days. Oh wait, why do I feel better? My distributor is toast. Hey, will WD40 fix that? Will Coke? Will bourbon? I get the WD40 and a Coke. I decide to try the WD40 on the car first and the Coke on me before I try the other way around. Works a treat.
I have no fear anyone will ever steal this car. They can't. Only I can make it run, and I suspect it's like Wonder Woman's plane--it runs on my thought waves, because it sure as hell doesn't run because it's mechanically sound in any way. Also, the neighbors seem to be frightened of me for some reason, and are shuffling the children away from me.
I incorrectly use the screwdriver as a hammer again to bash the rotor where I think it goes. I can't remember how the other one came off, and it's not like I can feel my hands anyway. I try to put the new cap on, and it's worse than taking it off--the evil fucker who designed this car expected me to fold space to put it back together. No wonder those idiot mechanics charge so much--they have to disassemble the whole damn car to get that one screw in. Apparently I am loudly swearing again, for I have frightened the mailman. Fuck him, flaunting his bravery in the sleet.
My plan of repeatedly yelling "AAAGH! AAAGH! AAAAGH!" with every misuse of this poor screwdriver seems to be working. Not that I can see anymore, things have frozen to my eyelashes, and my nose is dripping into the fusebox. Hah! One screw! Now for the second! Shit! It doesn't line up! Well! It's! Going! To! Because! Agh! I'm! Going! To! Kick! It! Mother! Fucker! Pus! Bucket! God! Damn! oh hello mr price, what a pretty dog, yes you are no I'm fine, thank you Son! of a Bitch! Get! In! There! You! Bastard! Ow! My! Back! I! Swear! To! God! If! You! Don't! Line! Up! oh holy shit it worked. Now to strip the threads on this screw, hah!
Ok, let's assemble all the hoses. Hmm. It seems, when one kicks the crap out of one's car, one loses all the hose clamps somewhere in the engine. That was another good 40 minute scavenger hunt. Did you know it's harder to get the hoses back on that to rip them off? I don't want to do this again, this sucks.
I make sure the car starts, yay. Boy it sure sounds better than it did before. I go in, clean up, fall over, and then I remember that you're supposed to replace the plugs & wires when you replace the rotor.
Luckily, just then, the power decided to go out at the house (I'm not making this up) so I took this as a sign from God I should lie the hell down and take a nap.