Nextdoor Kitty and The Stairwell of Death

NOTE: ok this is a repost of a comment i posted on Becka's wonderful blog in case one of her three Hondurian exchange students missed it...alright, actually i'm just eternally slack...but i'm working on a sizeable piece to be posted here soon and hope to get regular with my updates after the holidays die down, so back off Lois! Until then Merry Christmas to all the Online Peepage and let's not forget peace in the new year!!

peace!! BOH
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After about 30 minutes in my cube i am already thinking about coming home to the hoards of overly-festive young people all dressed up in their flamboyantly colored Gap clothes and banging on Pringles cans like there's absolutely no hope of tomorrow.And of course I cannot forget the ten hot asian seductresses gyrating in my hot tub like one of those rap guys girlfrinds, mixing Ketel One martinis and engaging in a hot sweaty catfight over which four get to satisfy the big strong american corporate tech support technican for the next 12 hours.

However, in reality, the most exciting thing waitng for me when i get home is the severed head of a recently killed shrew sitting in the stairwell by my front door, left to me bi-weekly by Nextdoor Kitty as a gift of thanks for a can of tuna I left out for her one night two years ago when it was cold and raining and her owner locked her out. To make this evening even MORE exciting, I will go out there with my broom and knock the said head with a swift but affirmative backstoke down a few steps in a rousing game of Ultimate Shrewhead. I even simulate the whispering commentary of the typical golf announcer... WHACK!...KERPLUNK...KERPLUNK....kerplunk, plunk, plunk ("Oh, there's a beautiful tee shot from the top of the stairs Finny...he's got great distance but knocked it off the railing, could be trouble here...the conditions may be getting to him")... WHACK!...KERPLUNK...dun, dun, dun, dun...("Oh what an amazing recovery shot Finny, right at the bottom of stairs near the mailboxes! That's why Onionhead is the the top money winner on the tour, absolutely brilliant and resilient! He is putting on a clinic tonight. Oh my!")

After I put on the elusive Masters white Hanes T-shirt, the thirteenth of my short career, I celebrate on the sofa by eating a box of Bunch-A-Crunch and watching numerous cats getting their heads stuck in drinking glasses on America's Funniest Animal Home Videos (sorry, i just can't get enough of that, then again who can!!!!). Someone kill me now.

speaking in tongues

I'm always amazed by people who master many languges. Personally if I were multi-lingual it would screw with what little brain cells i haven't killed off yet with Tanqueray and Tonic, wood glue, and Who's the Boss episodes. I can just see myself talking to my peeps in one lanuage and then I would start inadvertantly mixing in pieces of the other languages until eventually i just sounded like a teletubbie on meth.

Nonetheless i love languages, and I try my best to do what I can to speak the native tongue. I also like to share the nuances of my language, and extend a helpful hand out to those who may not know the grammatical or semantic distinction between "fat and "phat" (haha! what a bunch of dummies!!!) . I learned at an early age that trying and sharing are invaluable tools that will pay unlimited dividends toward your success in life. That same year I also learned that I could not marry my dog, that when someone tells you "Hey Sporto, keep your eye on the ball" it's OK to duck if it coming right at your head, and that being in the backseat of the short bus does not make you "the cool kid."

So i have learned a few other languages. My Italian is a little rusty, and is ashamedly based entirely on either menu items or pop culture. Here let me demonstrate with some sample sentences...

Ø Excuse you me sir, you call this pizza, I laugh at your feeble attempt at authenticity, where is the processed meat?
Ø Odie, you goofy slobbering mutt, get that fat, big-eyed, orange cat out of the lasagna!
Ø Most people know him as Carmine Ragusa, but to Shirley Feeney, he will always be known as the “Big Ragu”
Ø Leave the gun. Take the cannollis
Ø Garcon, I’ll have the Tortelloni Buongustaio, some Capellini al Pomodoro, oh and a little of this Gnocchi con Salsa Rosa, two pieces of Toscanella, and a bottle of colli bolognesi merlot zola predosa with one glass…the missus here will have a cup of minestrone soup, a bowl of spaghetti-O’s, a lime jello parfait, and a glass of tap water, extra cloudy please.

So as you can see, at this moment I am rather limited in my Italian vocabulary, but there is clearly potential here, isn’t there? Ok so not too good, but if your Spanish could use a little polishing up, never fear, you have come to the right place. I took three years at La Universidad, and now I can proudly say i speak at a second grade level. This should help me immensely if I am ever lost on a childrens’ show in Spain or decide to audition for a part of a Mexican caveman. Trust me though, if you want to impress your spanish-speaking amigos/as try this out on them:

debe llover, mis granos están actuando para arriba…”it must be raining, my corns are acting up”

or if you are at dinner:

ooooo, soy muerto de hambre… ¿sirven chongos aquí? …”oooo, i am starving... do they serve monkeys here?”

Well enough language lessons for today. If you desire any further instruction just let me know, afterall, I am here for you.

paz!!! el florecimiento cabeza de cebolla

BORDER CONTROL

On the way to a beach trip with some peepage this summer we pulled over at a gas station near the South Carolina border to use the facilities. To our horror in the car next to us was a family that looked like they just jumped out the Snuffy Smith comic strip. Well, out of the family truckster tumbles two "ladies" who I would venture a guess to be in their late teens or early twenties. Let's just say these recent flunkies from the Slim-Slow program had way too much cushin for any type of pushin. Anyway they were both wearing the same 10 sizes too small spandex shorts with the world "BITCH" emblazoned on the back. To top it off they were walking around the mini-mart bending over at the drop of absolutely nothing and acting like somewhere in those shorts was the Holy Grail. What perhaps is more sad was the local gas station gang (some old guys who obviously thought that soap was something you added to your mop water when you took your monthly bubble bath) were star-struck, acting like they were in a David Lee Roth video, sayin stuff over their stank breath like "damn baby" and "ooo wee I’d like to hit dat". Ummm...with what Cooter, a scud missile?

As we drove back onto the interstate I was thinking, "well maybe they are just being honest". Perhaps stuffed up in the cracks hidden along with the remote control and a couple of lost left socks were the words "SKANKY". If that were the case, and only few, the proud, and the very, very brave may know, then I got no problem with it I guess. Honesty is the best policy after all.

been slacking...will update soon!