Badger Bait

Over the weekend sometime I was reading this news story about a midget, excuse me, dwarf, (or are they little people again?) that was killed.

The first odd thing about this midget was that he was an apparent giant in the world of English pornography. Poor word choice I know. For serious folks, this dude was popular. Why was the midget popular in English pornography you ask? Because he looked like Gordon Ramsay, the potty-mouthed chef with a inferiority complex.

Here's the second odd thing. Do you know how said midget/dwarf/little person died?

Badgers.

Yes, badgers. The English policemen found him half-eaten in a badger den. THEY ATE HIM. Well they ate half of him and saved the rest for snackies later.

... ... ...

I've done some research about badgers (Meaning I can use the google and the Wikipedia.) and here is what I've found out. Badgers are members of the weasel family, Mustelidae. Because this happened in England the badgers that ate the poor guy are in the subfamily Melinae This probably doesn't mean much to you, the lay-person, but, Hell who I am kidding? It doesn't mean shit to me either. I'm skipping to the good parts.

A few choice quotes. Please remember that I am quoting Wikipedia directly. DIRECTLY.

"Their lower jaw is articulated to the upper by means of a transverse condyle firmly locked into a long cavity of the cranium, so that dislocation of the jaw is all but impossible. This enables the badger to maintain its hold with the utmost tenacity, but limits its jaw movement to hinging open and shut, or sliding from side to side without the twisting movement possible for the jaws of most mammals."

This will be important later.

Again, another direct quote about the eating habits of badgers, specifically english ones:

"The diet of the Eurasian badger consists largely of earthworms, insects, and grubs. They also eat small mammals, amphibians, reptiles and birds as well as roots and fruit."

Well, so they eat small mammals. I'm just going to leave that one alone.

The Wikipedia article goes on to discuss the English government outlawing the hunting of badgers (A practice they may want to reconsider for the good of their little person population.) and that badger hair is used to make shaving brushes. Who knew?

Here is the kicker: "In 2007 suggestions that British forces deliberately released man-eating badgers near Basra, Iraq, to intimidate the local population were refuted."

Ah ha! So the fact that there are badgers out there that eat people is obviously a fact because why else would they cover it up? Plus there is a wikipedia article about a killer-badger; I've left the link above so that you can see and judge for yourself. We have also established that they eat small mammals. I don't think it's a stretch to think that a family of badgers could eat a small human being, seeing as how we are technically mammals and probably taste better than worms, grubs and roots and fruit. Maybe, I don't know that. For the record I do not eat people. But if I was to eat them I'm pretty sure that my jaw would unhinge because my lower jaw is not articulated to my upper jaw by a transverse condyle firmly locked into my cranium.

Badgers would obviously be bad at giving blow-jobs. For multiple reasons. Mostly because they'd probably eat your penis.

I don't know about you but this adds another whole dimension to my list of 'Unreasonable shit that I am afraid of.' Badger's could very well eat me; I'm only 5'2". In fact they could build a den under my bed and I'd never know because I don't go looking under my bed because I don't keep anything under my bed (The reason why is actually a really funny story that I'll have to tell you one day.) and thus have no reason to venture under there. They could just get hungry one day and pop out while I'm asleep or in the shower and then catch me unawares and BAM! I'm badger food. (Can badgers even climb?)

For Christ sakes alive people, watch your children. They may end up badger food.

I wonned another award. BECAUSE I AM AWESOME!

Yvone over at 'Attracted to Shiny Things,' a completely HILARIOUS blog, has given me an award. Actually she gave it to me a while ago. I am lazy and couldn't think of ten interesting things about myself in a quick like fashion. Plus I've been busy.

*Imagine that this is a picture of a blog award. I cannot figure out how to save the picture of the blog award to my iPad so when I get to a computer that I can actually do that on I'll include but for now imagine this as a blog award picture. ---> [] (It's square, like an actual picture would be. :D tee hee)

Blog award picture that I finally figured out to upload. Even if I had to do it on a laptop instead of my iPad. Technology. Schmeck-nology. Geez.

So to do something with this blog award I have to tell you 10 deep things about myself. I feel that this should be easy because you blog readers already probably know waaaaaaaay too much about me as it is. Here's some more stuff to make you feel awkward.

Ahem:

1. When I was in first grade I took my socks off one day because my feet were all sweaty and put them way back in the back of my cubby and left them there all year. On the last day of school the teacher was cleaning out the cubbies and found the socks and asked whose they were. I never admitted they were my socks. This has been secret for 20 some odd years now. Mrs. Priddy, they were my socks.

2. I'm afraid of Howard the Duck. Seriously.

3. I went black. And came back. So that whole posit is wrong. 

4. I hate cheersing people. Why in the world we need to clink our glasses is beside me. I think it's dumb and I hate it. I hate it when people make me do it and I HATE feeling like I have to do it because there is an expectation of some doe-eyed, grinning person across from me with their fucking hand out with a beverage in it. Don't they know that it's easily possible to actually clink your glass and lose the alcohol in your glass especially if it is still full because you haven't yet drank from it yet? ALCOHOL ABUSE. Stop being a puss-box and drink your fucking drink. Clearly I'm happy for you because I'm sitting with you, drinking, in a bar, or at a table. As long as we aren't under the table then things are good. Needless to say, I hate cheersing people. It's stupid and I won't ever initiate it. There may be a perfunctory chest bump after a really awesome shot but no, not ever, will there be a cheers.

5. Actually I have a list of things that I hate. I update it regularly. One day I will post it. 

6. One time when I was at my boyfriend's house in high school he asked me to get him some Sprite. And then he goes on a 3 minute tirade about how to pour the Sprite out of the bottle because apparently I cannot pour Sprite out of a 2-liter bottle correctly. I totally spit in the Sprite bottle and shook it up when he went away. Just for spite. (:

7. I'm afraid of ending up old and bitter and alone. I'll probably off myself at 30 to prevent this. True story. So enjoy the blog while you can.

8. Actually I could probably stand some pretty intensive therapy. Unfortunately the state just voted to up our mental health co-pay so it looks like I'll be self-medicating and espousing my paranoia here for the next, near future. Aren't you the lucky ones?

9. This one is going to piss some people off but here goes: I don't think OJ actually killed his wife. Shrug. I think he had it done but I don't think he was the one that actually did the killing. I think it was the wierdo house keeper Kato.

10. This past spring when I had Salmonella and I went to the doctor, she stuck her finger in my ass and didn't even buy me dinner. Also this was the first time anything has EVER been stuck in my ass. TMI I know but I thought that was point here. I anticipate that the only things ever to be stuck in my ass will be medically related and hopefully won't be for a good many years yet.

Now I'm supposed to pick some blogs that I read and think are totally cool and that you should read too:

Sassafras Junction

A Beer for the Shower

Secret, Spineless Whine

sewNAmber

it's time I said something about this

Well there you have it. Blog Award, numero 2. :D

Thanks Yvonne!

PS - I'm reeeeeeeally sorry for taking so long to post this. I am le-lazy.

*If you haven't figured out that I figured out how to add the picture then there is A WHOLE LOT of figuring left for you to do. 

An unreasonable request.

I have an unreasonable request. First the back story.

Swimmy stuff indicative of a flashback-type thing. dooo doo doooo

(Yes, that is the proper onomatopoeia for flashbacking.)

Today I gave blood at work, because for some reason I feel compelled to be impaled (See what I did there? It's coming back to me! or maybe not. The ability to actually write, coherently.) by some angry nurse type person. Seriously? Are they real nurses? I should check next time.

Overall it went pretty well except my appointment to have my blood drawn was at 3:15 and I was walking out of the room where the blood drive was held at 5 PM. Yes, I was there for an hour and 45 minutes.

You may think that my unreasonable request relate to the fact that the Red Cross lackeys do not know the difference between an appointment and a walk-in. We've moved on past that anger.

Now, we, or I, am angry at the people whose genetic identity I share. Later this evening I went to the local homeless shelter to volunteer like I always do every other Tuesday and while I was there I became extremely light-headed and had to lay down in the counselor's office to keep from passing out.

Fast-forward to speaking via telephone with my mother whose current complaint is that her mouth is dry. Here is our conversation:

Mom: You know Anna, I'm not sure what I've taken but my mouth is so dry. I had to drink water ALL DAY LONG.
Me: You're supposed to do that Mom. You have one kidney and it only limps along.
Mom: Yes, but I had to drink water ALL DAY LONG. ALL DAY Anna.
Me: Well I almost passed out at the shelter tonight.
Mom: I don't understand why my mouth is so dry. I'm only taking one diuretic so that my kidney doesn't hold the water it collects. Why is my mouth so dry Anna?
Me: I don't know, you probably need to drink more water. By the way, I kind of passed out this evening.
Mom: I do drink a lot of water. It's all I do. The doctor told me I needed to drink lots of water. So I do.
Me: If you drank the right amount of water your mouth wouldn't be dry. I almost died tonight Mom.
Mom: I'm telling you Anna, that isn't it. I drink plenty of water. We need to investigate why my mouth is so dry.
Me: I am currently dead. I'm speaking to you from beyond the veil of existence.
Mom: And another thing, I've got this odd rash that I think could be from these antibiotics I'm taking. Do you think?
Me: Seriously Mom, I'm dead. D.E.A.D. Dead.
Mom: Hmmm, maybe not though. I was outside in the yard today with the dog. You know, the dog is awfully thirsty these days too. Maybe her mouth is dry too? I wonder if that's related to my mouth being dry?
Me: I'm also pregnant. By a gimpy, hobbly circus clown. We're moving to Guadalajara to run away and join the circus. We're gonna put a pumpkin on the baby's head and call it 'Pumpkin-Head' and have it in the sideshow. That baby is going to make us rich.
Mom: I guess it could be the change in the weather. You think?
Me: Sigh. Yes mother, I suppose it could be the change in the weather. Or maybe you just don't drink enough water.

Do you see that? Do you see that she is no longer my parent? Shit, she longer even listens to me; I am not required for conversation between the two of us, any warm body would suffice really.

For once I would like my parents to put themselves aside and do some actual parenting. Not for the rest of their lives or anything but if they could just take 10 minutes out of their busy self-absorbed schedule to say 'Gee, Anna. Are you alright? Do you feel okay now? Don't put a pumpkin on the baby's head. We'll love it no matter what.'

But I guess that is the true unreasonable request.

You are not prepared for this.

Seriously. I don't care who you think you are or how tough you think you are or even if you are hardcore.

You Are NOT Ready for what I'm about to show you.

Your paradigm will shift.

Your world will tilt.

You will probably pass out.

And this is totally and completely and utterly NOT SAFE FOR WORK. DO NOT OPEN THIS AT WORK as it may cause your head to explode and your boss does not want to clean your brains out of your keyboard.

Your mother on the other hand may be a little more inclined to do this service for you.

Are you ready? Go ahead and click on it. I'll wait.



You will be speechless.



Told ya.

Anna Gray is not dead. But sometimes wishes she was.

Hola Blogger Nation,

I've probably lost my entire reading audience which I was proud to say was a not-to-shabby 36 people willing to read this here blog and here I am neglecting it.

My sincerest apologies but my sense of humor got up and left. And it hasn't really returned.

It has been nothing but a rollercoaster ride of visits to doctors and dealing with my momma for the last few weeks and I don't think that I have to you, blog reader, that I'm about 3 ticks shy of a full blown apoplectic fit.

Daily I talk myself out of maiming a relative. Sometimes multiple times in a day. Tuesday of this past week we, my mother and I, were asked to leave the physician's office and take our 'conversation' into the parking lot as we were screaming at each other at the top of our lungs in the middle of the waiting room. That was a little embarrassing but we bounced right back to re-have the same fight, the very same fight that we've been having for weeks now, again 30 minutes later. That ladies and gentleman requires talent.

What fight is this you ask? The fight in which my mother declares that she's going to die reasonably 'soon' and that, drum roll please, she's ready to 'GO'. The problem with this being mostly that SHE ISN'T DYING; she's not even reasonably close. Sure her wound won't close and her kidney function isn't great but not one doctor, and we've seen at least 5 different ones, has looked at her and said 'You know, this isn't looking good.' Mostly they roll their eyes, look at me with empathy and give me the name of yet another specialist I need to drag her to. Because they're trained to do that. And they're glad they don't see her everyday to put up with this melodramatic bullshit. So I do the normal thing and threaten to haul her punk ass to the ER because if she really feels THAT BAD then she shouldn't be at home. Of course that provokes an entirely different fight about how she's not doing anything she doesn't want to do. (Boy I'm gonna feel like a jackass if she kicks the bucket soon; I still maintain she'll outlive us all just for spite. She'd seriously do that. If only to piss me off.) Then I play the guilt card and she finally shuts up and we move on to the next topic.

There are bugs in her bed. Sometimes they even crawl in her ears.

Now, this is a genuine fear of mine (Especially when my bff's husband told m a story of his crazy friend Bob White who actually had a cockroach eat his ear drum. I went into convulsions in the middle of her floor and scared her dogs into peeing themselves.) so when that started I raced her to the doctor to have her ears examined for the presence of bugs, and maybe a brain. I then drug her memory foam mattress (Which is heavy as a mother-fucker.) into the yard and beat it with a stick. I then sanitized her sheets and bedding and still there are bugs in her bed.

There are no bugs in her bed. I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb. I've called the exterminator and personally directed him to spray every nook and cranny in and around that house. The dog hasn't been quite right since.

But that may be the steroids.

Yes, not only am I arguing with my mother to take her pills, I am now responsible for coaxing the dog to take HER pills. Hot dogs, I tell you. Dogs love raw hot dogs.

Do you know why I'll be forever single? Because my fingers smell like raw hot dogs.

And I have to talk to myself, out loud mind you, to not dis-member people in public. I saw this crazy woman in the CVS the other day and I asked the clerk if he'd like me to remove her from the premises and he looked at me like I was the one playing house with the gummy bears in the middle of the incontinence aisle. Whatever dude.

Anyways the point of all this being I'm not dead and I'm sorry for not posting and reading your blogs. I'm lame. I know. But if you'd like to arrange for me to be put in a vegetative-like coma for a few weeks I could totally get down with that. Or you could just come kill me and put me out of my misery.

But totally freeze me so I can come back once the woman has calmed down. What? I'm not suicidal. That's just plain morbid.

Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

*<i>This is like the 9th re-try of this post. I kept screwing up the formatting. Sorry bout that.</i>

Because I cannot fetch a proper relationship I've been attending this weight lifting class. Actually I've been attending this weight-lifting class to tone and firm my body but I'm doing that for the aforementioned reason so there you go.

Please see my last post on whether or not I need/want a relationship. It's not that I really want one, I just feel that I need one. Mostly because I wake up in the mornings and find my uterus doing a jig at the end of my bed sticking its tongue out at me with its thumbs in its ears and proving yet again that I still suck at life. SCORE! Before you ask, yes I do find it odd that my uterus has ears. I don't know either.

And I feel that if I am indeed going to be reproductively successful I'd like to have a partner to do that with because we, as humans, have the reproductive strategy that benefits from the pairing of two individuals in order to raise a tiny human. And someone else is going to have to change the tiny human when it poops because I am not doing that. I am currently accepting applications for 'Tiny Human Collector of Poo.'

So I've decided once again that I'm single because I'm fat and not because I'm fucked up as a football bat. I do so enjoy making these decisions.

Except damn ya'll, I'm getting kind of HAWT. I hate to brag but damn. The waist keeps getting smaller and while as yet the bust is shrinking it looks bigger because my waist is smaller and my ass is just getting higher and tighter. God I look like Gena Lollobrigida (I have no clue how to spell this). Doesn't that suck? MWA HA HAA, Right, yes it does actually because I look like that in this, the 21st century. You menfolk think I'm fat.

Frack the lot of you.

Anyways. SO I'm doing this weight lifting class. And for our chest we do these flys with free weights and then about 9 million push-ups. And in the midst of doing these 9-million push-ups I glance into to the mirror and guess who I see in said mirror on the stair master staring into said room?

Oh that would be Sex-on-Skates.

Maybe you do not have awesome breasts. I do. Maybe you can do multiple push-ups. I cannot. I can do a bajillion flys and and a bajillion bench presses but apparently if I was dying and had to support my upper body weight with my T-Rex arms I'd die in about a minute and a half. Mebbe just a minute. They're awesome, my breasts, but it sucks trying to move them. I mean I can do it. I amm hardcore. I just cannot do it often right now. Because I'm a girl. And I have T-Rex arms. And breasts.

So anyways that is my opinion on why breasts are not conducive to push-ups and I don't think that I should have to do them. Not that I do a lot of them to begin with but still.

I'll leave you with this lasting thought: You know those uber-hard-core muscle bound women on those fitness shows that can do one-handed push-ups and all the other assorted sundry push-up type things? Do they have attractive breasts? Do they even have breasts at all?

Ooh! I just thought of something else! Chickens! Chickens have significant breasts, because they're genetically modified but still, and they cannot do push-ups either!

There you go. Conclusive proof that if you have breasts, you cannot do push-ups.

And yet, I still continue to suck at life.

So you, blogger-nation, don't know this but the thing-of-which-I-must-not-speak fizzled into nothingness as he broke up with me before we even started dating. TRUTH.

Why, he did this I'm not sure because what I had said was 'Let me know. We'll stay in and watch a movie.'

I'm sorry and it may be because I'm old but I seriously thought staying in watching a movie was in 'Single' vernacular code for: Let's fuck because I'm afraid of commitment and do not want to go out into the public where people may see me. Apparently he thought differently. I'm not sure why?

So I've been brave. I've been resuming my normal schedule, which right now is not my normal schedule because I'm dealing with my mother's gaping, open wound twice a day and freaking because she's halfway running a fever and I'm scared to death she's going to DIE because that is how my life works. She'd be fine and then I'd trot my happy ass over there one AM to change her bandage and she'd be dead. Because I SUCK AT LIFE AND TO PROVE IT THEY'D KILL OFF MY MOM. Oh God I'm a mess.

So anyways, fast forward to this evening and the complication of tripe that is my emotional status right now and I make the ever prudent decision to invite the one person I know would go out to have a drink with me because I self-medicate like any adult person. Guess who shows up at the bar? The obtuse bar out of the way? OH IF YOU GUESSED COACHY TYPE PERSON AWARD YOURSELF 40-MILLION BONUS POINTS. I had even forgotten about him because I'd chatted up this HAWT undergraduate who had majored in Philosophy and thankfully I remembered some shit about teleological ontology. Seriously that is all I remembered. The actual phrase. I have no clue what it means. But he was interested in me because he waved at me when he left. I'm having roomie FB stalk him tomorrow. Roomie doesn't know this yet because he's in bed but he's graduating soon and he's majoring in philosophy and he is a total fucking hipster which I totally hate but he's suuuuuper cute and told me I wasn't old when I told him my real age. Plus he was this total ugly fat girl. I can say that because she was plumper than I and guess what ya'll? I apparently am hot bitch status. BOO-YAH. So Roomie: (The rest of ya'll ignore this part) He's at our alma mater, you know which expensive southern private school that is, and he's majoring in philosophy and Dr. Lewis is his major advisor, brunette, about 5'11, glasses, HAWT, probably interested in shit that Dr. Lewis would be interested in besides flax seed oil and silver plated things. So now that we're done with that we can continue our conversation about COACHY TYPE PERSON AND HIS OBVIOUS LACK OF TASTE.

It is one thing for him to show up at the bar that I frequent that is ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY HOUSE on the one night THAT I TOLD HIM WE GO THERE. It is another thing entirely for him to show up at the random bar out of the way on a Saturday night and then RUN THE FUCK OUT THE DOOR FOR HIS FRIENDS TO SETTLE HIS TAB. And maybe he's not cut up over me, that is completely possible. Then maybe if he wasn't he would have a sac and walk over to me and be like 'Hey Anna, how's it going?' like I did last week after the whole 'Hey I'm not looking for a relationship debacle?' And he was all like 'Why wouldn't we be cool?' That really is an admirable quality about you menfolk. You forget shit in 0.48 seconds. Oh I sent you a text message breaking up with you before we even went out, why in the world would we not be cool? I'll stand here awkwardly and stare longingly at your tits and kick myself and then proclaim 'WHY WOULDN'T WE BE COOL?' After I've approached and asked 'Hey, are we cool?'

Clearly he has not met me. I invented 'Hit it and quit it.' Seriously that new song 'Toot it and boot it.' I get royalties from that. If I wanted a real relationship I'd have one, why? BECAUSE I'm too damn stubborn to not have what I want. Yes, I bitch and moan about being single but you should all thank THE LORD ABOVE I am still single otherwise this blog would be much less funneh and much more 'OH GOD I AM GOING TO WITHER AWAY AND DIE!' because I'm in a an actual relationship. My favorite relationships are the one's I don't know I'm in until I'm preggers.

Oh damn, that's right. I'VE NEVER HAD ONE OF THOSE.

The point of this post being this: GO THE FUCK ON AND STAY AWAY FROM MY BARS. WE HAD A CONVERSATION ABOUT THIS AND YOU ARE CLEARLY AS FUCKED UP AS I AM SO WHY ARE WE DOING THIS? I don't go to your bar. LEAVE MY BARS ALONE.

UGH. OR AT LEAST GROW A SAC AND SAY HELLO. You're talking to a bitch in a romper.

I'M NOT INTIMATED BY THAT. MY RACK IS STILL BETTER THAN HERS AND WE KNOW THAT BECAUSE YOU VERY OBVIOUSLY RAN THE FUCK AWAY.

BOO-YAH BITCHES.

Except you don't really care do you? GOD MUST I STILL SUCK AT LIFE.

Mebbe I'll die soon.