Shrubbery

Good morning you pozitoodinally crazed mutha effers.  To all you bastions of negativity I say

Ni!

Back off you negative Nellies or I will be forced to spank you with the largest shrubbery I can find.

Ha!

Try as you must, you will not win.  Nope, cuz I am pozitoodinal SuperNova, that’s right mr. jeff, I am a pozitoodinal Super-fucking-nova and I am going to shine bright until my light is finally extinguished.

SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE, SHINE

Hey EFENZ - months ago I took your advice and did something you told me to do and guess what…..

Yep, per the US  I am the proud owner of the phrase “Synaptic Provocateur.”

YEE FUCKING HA!

Or should I say Synaptic Provocateur ®

So, coming soon, look for the link for the Synaptic Provocateur store selling all things related to synaptic provocateur.  Come on, you knew all along it was all about the cake not the juice…..

I was chatting with a friend yesterday and we came up with a word I cannot find in the dictionary.  The word is newl.  We determined that it’s a combination of the words cool and newl.  Like say if you bought a new pair of shoes that were very cool - they’d be newl.

Not sure what that has to do with anything but I always think it’s important to share useless information.

Is it just me or were any of you rooting for Bertha to make a beeline right towards New England?  All day long yesterday I had the Grateful Dead tune Bertha in my head…..here are the lyrics so y’all can have it in your head today….cheers

I had a hard run, runnin’ from your window.
I was all night running, running, Lord I wonder if you care,
I had a run in, run around, and run down.
Run around the corner, corner, Lord run smack in to a tree.

I had to move, really had to move,
That’s why if you please, I am on my bendin’ knees,
Bertha don’t you come around here anymore.

Dressed myself in green, I went down unto the sea.
Try to see what’s goin’ down, try to read between the lines.
I had a feelin’ I was fallin’, fallin’, fallin’,
I turned around to see,
Heard a voice al callin’, Lord you was comin’ after me.

I had to move, really had to move,
That’s why if you please, I am on my bendin knees,
Bertha don’t you come around here anymore.

Ran into a rainstorm, I ducked back into a bar door.
It’s all night pourin’, pourin’, pourin’,
Lord but not a drop on me.
Test me, test me,
Test me, test me, test me,
Why don’t you arrest me?
Throw me in to the jailhouse,
Lord until the sun goes down, ’till it goes down.

I had to move, really had to move,
That’s why if you please, I am on my bendin’ knees,
Bertha don’t you come around here anymore.

I had to move, really had to move,
That’s why if you please, I am on my bendin’ knees,
Bertha don’t you come around here anymore.

Monkeys fish, why can’t I?

OKay so it’s late.  The good news is that there is a fierce thunderstorm going on outside ushering in some cooler air for us folks in the Northeast….

So I am sitting here and in between looking at multiple weather radar sites (yes I still am addicted to the weather) what do i find - yep an article about monkeys that fish and actually catch fish!

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080610/ap_on_sc/indonesia_fishing_macaques

Now when I think about my fishing prowess I now have to change the ranking scale.  For years I had myself in front of monkeys - but no, lo and behold there are these indonesian silver haired fishing macaques( Sounds like some bad country group to me) who fish.  What I don’t understand is who is making their fishing rods for them the damn gorillas?  There’s probably some sweat shop set up and staffed with a bunch of young rhesus monkeys turning out fishing rods for the damn silver haired macaques.  I guess it’s better than ending up over your head in formaldehyde waiting to be dissected by 10th graders.

Back to the monkeys - so now in my fishing ranking chart the monkeys have moved ahead of me.  Shit, good thing squirrels don’t know how to fish - do they?  

Enough nonsense….off to dream about landing the big kahuna of fish.  cheers 

So is it hot enough for ya?

Hey New Englanders, how many times have you heard that in the last few days?  Sure it’s hot, not nearly as hot as the tension I feel in the air.

People are showing signs of serious stress.  Between the heat,  gas prices, food prices, employment rates, foreclosures, Dubbya and his take on “high-dra-car-bins,” Iraq, the stock markets and having to mow the lawn peeps are not chillin with a positive groove.

Here’s the beautiful thing about a positive groove or as I like to call it - pozitood.

IT COSTS NOTHING!  Nope, not a cent - zippo, squat, null - nothing.

Folks, we need it more than ever.  We need to be chillin with a pozitoodinal groove.  We need to be sharing that pozitoodinal groove.

What’s the saying, ” you reap what you sow?”  I think that’s it.  Means that if you plant watermelons and expect to harvest corn you’re going to be disappointed. 

Bottom line is that if we demonstrate a pozitoodinal groove, we’ll get back a pozitoodinal groove.  Damn, if enough of us do it we can create an insurgence of pozitoodinal groovation.

I’ve always wanted to be an insurgent.  That’s right - we’ll be the pozitoodinal rebels.  Can you imagine, a wave of pozitoodinal energy sweeping across the country.  Talk about a breath of fresh air.

If we’re gonna be pozitoodinal rebels we’ll need one of dem death star thingees they had in Star Wars.  Except ours will be called the Life Star - it will still need to have one of those giant ray guns. 

I want one of the vader helmets too.  I can walk around and say, “the pozitoodinal force is strong with this one,” in my most bass sounding voice.

Whoa, that was a bit of a tangent…..

So take that medication, smoke that doobage, whatever it takes - find that pozitoodinal groove and share it with everyone.

PS - It’s really fucking hot today so make sure you double up on your deodorant cuz no one likes a stinky pozitoodinal rebel.

Cheers

 

Get your Cold Wet Nutz Here!

The monkeys flew at dawn, that was 3 hours after I was already awake and more than 2 hours after I was standing waist deep in a dark, cold, salty liquid otherwise known as the Atlantic ocean.  Sent here as some form of punishment for sins I have commited or will soon commit, sent here by Special K - he, the commander of the flying monkeys.

How I got here I do not know.  All I know is that the damn monkeys slept in and I was jealous.

The cold briny morass of darkness is all around me.  I can’t tell where the damn water ends and the sky begins.  I feel like a democrat torn between the Obama and Clinton camp.  I know I need to make a decision soon or the evil doers led by the kid most likely to lose at hide-and-seek is going to be leading us all into a haliburton sponsored hell.

Morass - I love that word for all the wrong reasons…

I stand waist deep, the damp coldness creeping up from my toes to my nuts.  A coldness I can only compare to diving into an icy lake on a February night in central Vermont after a long night in a sauna and a handful of synaptic provocateurs.  Even then the coldness took hold of my nutz and squeezed them for all they were worth.

In my right hand is the key to escape, its an LL Bean fly rod - and not a very good one according to Special K.  I know, deep in my heart that I will be forced to stand in this cold, large crab-eating aquatic beast infested pool until I am able to coerce one of the those crab-eating beasties onto a fly and onto the land for all to see or until the sun comes up and we know the breakfast place is open. 

The best thing about being cloaked in darkness is that fact no one can see the true level of my ineptitude with the fly rod.  About every three casts I manage to tie the fly line into a huge jumble of string in the line basket around my waist.  The jumble looks a lot like a Robin’s nest, only bigger.  That only happens when I am not busy catching the fly on my back or causing it to spin around my rod like a plane in a death spiral.

Coming Next Morning 2:  The art of stepping into cold, wet, sand encrusted waders at 3:15am

Final - Night 2:  The Art of casting a fly line with a 26 knot tail wind - otherwise known as - pissing in the wind.

They’re everywhere

Shhhh, the alien-cheney creatures have me trapped in my basement.  Yep, the damn havahart trap wasn’t worth a damn. 

I baited the trap with something I knew the alien-cheney thingees couldn’t resist - yep, I put a little container of oil in the trap and covered it with some sand.  Blammo, not 5 minutes later I trapped one of those alien-cheney fuckers in the trap.  Greedy bastard had already siphoned all the oil outta the cup.

So as I stood there looking into the trap, the little bastard looks right at me with those evil, alien-cheney, beady eyes and whips out his alien all-in-one tool and selects some laser beam thing and proceeds to start cutting through the metal mesh of the trap.   The tool had some kind of name on it with a symbol….I think it was Notrubillah.  I am not sure if that was the name of the tool or maybe it’s the name of the alien-cheneys world.  Shit, who knows maybe it’s the little fuckers god. 

I can hear the evil bastards chanting now, “Not-rub-illah.”

“Not-rub-illah, all praise to Not-rub-illah.”

The heathen little monsters.

Thinking quick I went to grab the trap with the idea I’d throw it outside and lock the little alien-cheney bastard outside.  Duh, do you have any idea how hot metal gets when it is being melted by a laser?  Hot

In my haste I drop the trap, the door springs open and the alien-cheney turdball runs free into the middle of the kitchen.  With the most evil of looks the beady-eyed bastard looks right at me and fires the laser at me.

Shit, the laser hits me in the shin and hurts like a damn bee sting.  I run towards the little beastie and he jumps from the floor to the top of the refrigerator and lets out what sounds like a maniacal laugh while firing the little laser at my head.  Great, just what I needed these little alien-cheney thingees are bionic.

I duck outta the way while the little bastard scampers up to the top of the kitchen cabinets - outta my reach.  He fires again and the laser hits a Grateful Dead cd on the kitchen island and ricochets off.

Damn.  Just then I feel two more bee bites on the back of my calves and I spin around to see 4 more alien-cheney oil sucker standing in front of the oven firing their little lasers at me.

Ow!  I scream as the leader hits me in the ear with a blast from his laser tool from on top of the cabinet.

Shit, I say to myself as I run for the basement door and slam it shut seconds before getting blasted by the little bastards.

Damn, damn, damn. 

I can hear the alien-cheney thing making weird sounds and then I hear the pitter-patter of more little alien-cheney feet.  Damn, I am screwed now.

I tie the door handle to the railing with a piece of rope.  That should secure the door for a little while and give me time to figure out what to do.

First thing is to have a beer and make a plan.

A plan is always really important.  I am sure the little alien-cheney bastards have a plan.  You’d have to be insane to come to try and take over my kitchen, heck for that matter a planet, without a full proof plan.  Is it full proof or fool proof.  Either way, the little buggers would be idiots to try and take over my kitchen without a plan.

So, I need to get inside the little bastards minds.  Do the alien-cheneys even have minds.  I don’t know. 

So what do I know -

I know they like peanut butter, cat food, oil of all kinds. 

The alien-cheney thingee I caught seemed to be their leader.  He also seemed prone to shoot his weapon off at any time for any reason.

The laser beam harmlessly bounced off the CD.  Hmmm, maybe there’s a way to use the CD.

I started looking around the basement for weapons to use against the little fuckers.  I found a stack of 2 ounce paper cups and a quart of motor oil.  These will make great traps.  I also found my golf clubs.  Perfect.  I can set up the cups with a little motor oil in each and when the alien-cheney fuckers come to get the oil I’ll whack them with my pitching wedge.

See if the little bastards like getting hit with a 90 mile-per-hour pitching wedge. 

Hehehehehehe, splat go the alien-cheney fuckers……

Next time - the plan in action

 

When Bunnies Go Bad!

Hef, you can relax.  This isn’t a story about Uzi toting, scantily clad, silicon encrusted, well shaved blonde’s.  This is a story about funny bunnies - not that your bunnies can’t be funny too Hef.

Remember a  couple days ago I was whining about being sore from working in my garden?  Well, two days ago, a mere three days after planting the garden, I come home to find these two long eared leaf eaters sitting amongst my parsley.

They are so pre-occupied they don’t even know I am standing there.  It’s quite obvious to me that the male bunny (on the left in the photo) is looking to get lucky.  He seems to be insistent that it’s time to answer natures call to procreate.

Conversely, she is more interested in grooming herself so she looks good for later action and is totally ignoring the poor dude bunnies advances. 

Well as I stood there he makes his move.  I have to tell you, as someone who knows, this poor dude bunny got no game.  He got no bunny tail either. 

As you can see from the last photo, dude bunny is rebuffed in his attempt to further dilute the bunny gene pool - damn I can think of a lot of people who should be so lucky….hehehehe

 So now she’s pissed, his ego is severely bruised and they move over and are sitting on my spinach.

That was the last straw - I couldn’t watch anymore of “When Natures Dates Go Bad.”  I make a noise and the little bastards look at me and take off for the woods.

I am confident that later on when the dude bunny is hanging out at the bunny ranch with his dude bunny friends he’ll brag about getting some bunny tail and will tell a bunny tale of how he stood his ground to this evil human to protect his bunny love.  He’ll also probably tell them where to find some sweet young romaine and spinach and I will come home to find my garden empty. 

While he’s busy spinning tales his bunny love will probably be out with some other bunny, doing the bunny mambo in my garden.

Damn bunnies.

  

Dildosytters of Nantucket Part 4 or something like that

“Well sonny, that’s quite an unbelievable story you just spun,” said Dick.  He told me to call him Dick after about the first hour of my story and a couple 10 ounces of rum.

“If I understand you correctly, you’re from like, 150 years in the future and I am your great, great, great, great grandpa,” Dick summarized.

“Yep, that’s about right,” I said.

“I look forward to hearing more about these dildo’s powered by batteries you say they have in the future that are made out of rubber and plastic, fascinating,” said Dick sort of looking out into space. 

“Are there shops like mine in the future?” Dick asked.

“Sort of, however, there’s not the hands on customer service that you offer,” I said. 

“Well now, until you get this contraption of your fixed your gonna have to help me in the shop, you know be my apprentice,” said Dick with growing confidence.

“Dick, I’ll try but you need to know I am not the most handy of people when it comes to working with wood.  Heck you might even say I don’t know dick about making Dicks.” I said, feeling the full effect of the rum we had consumed.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Dick laughed.  “Maybe I’ll change my motto and make it, Johnson’s Dildosytters of Nantucket - We know Dick about Dick’s,” he said almost falling outta his chair laughing.

“Well, let’s get your contraption covered up from prying eyes and well start your first lesson on dildo making the “johnson way,” dick said.

So we covered the time machine in an old oil soaked sail and headed into the shop.  Dick put me in front of some lathe like machine with a chisel and told me to practice rounding the edges of the foot long piece of wood in front of me.

As I started working on the wood a younger lady walked into the shop and began talking to Grandpa Dick.  She suddenly stopped talking as she spied me in the work shop. 

“Who’s that out back Richard?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s my nephew from the mainland.  He’s going to apprentice with me for a while,” Dick said with clarity and confidence.

“Oh,” she said, “he’s kinda cute.”

“Paddy,” called Dick, “come out and say hello to widow Macy.”

I walked out and there stood widow Macy.  She couldn’t have been more than 30 years old.  “Damn, for a whale wife she’s looked pretty hot,” I thought to myself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you ma’am,” I said as politely as possible.

“Likewise,” she said.

“Good luck in learning your Uncle’s craft, he’s made many a happy women on this island,” she said with a smile and I thought a little gleam in her eye and then added, “maybe you could even make one for me  when you get the hang of it”.

“I will do my best ma’am, thank you,” I said retreating to the shop.

Widow Macy left the shop and Dick came back to where I was working and said in his most serious tone, “Paddy, you need to watch out for that one, she’s already buried two husbands and there’s word that she uses opium.”

“Hmmm opium,”  I thought to myself.

I got back to my practice wood.  If this was morning I’d say I was working with my morning wood.  Hehehehe.  I have to admit I thought I was doing a pretty good at removing the wood and turning this long rectangle into a long tube shaped thing.

“Hey, grandpa I called, what do you think of this,” I said proudly as I held up my new creation.

Dick looked at it and began laughing his ass off.

“Paddy, that’s beautiful if your gonna have a store that makes dildo’s for a duck’s ass.  My god, if that was any thinner I think I could use it as a toothpick,” he continued trying to catch his breath from laughing so much.

“Lookie here,” he said, holding up something that looked more like a Louisville slugger than anything else.  “This is my best seller, this is the size and shape we’re looking for,”  said Dick, still laughing about my first attempt to make a dildo.

“Here’s another piece of wood,” he said as he threw me a piece from in front of him.  “Use this as a model and give it go in the morning,” he laughed as he handed me the Wonder Wood dildo that per his instruction, was his best seller.

“Thanks grandpa, thanks alot,” I said with a laugh as I sit back down and got back to whittling the wood in front of me.

 

 

YA WHO!

I had to be careful with the title.  I didn’t want anyone to confuse it with the company that Microsoft had made an offer for but was subsequently spurned.  I would encourage Mr. Gates that any financial contribution to this Ya Who would be welcomed with open arms (and open wallet).

It is a pozitoodinally righteous day.

I am sore as hell and loving every minute of it today.  It is a SPECTACULARLY BEAUTIFUL day here in the Happy Valley.  Sun is out turning the landscape different colors by the second and I feel great, albeit very sore.  It’s a good sore, it’s a good sore in that I managed to survive my personal form of torture.

Raking.

I mean this with no disrespect to anyone or any government - I am convinced that raking is the worst form of torture.

I spent the past few days raking out my garden and lawn and am paying the price today. 

I have muscles that are sore that I didn’t even know I have.  It’s not like you can go to the gym and jump on the raking machine to build up those raking muscles.  Raking sucks.

Of course I have the scars of raking.  You know, the blister on the lower part of your thumb closest to your index finger.  AND I HAD GLOVES ON !  Never mind the blister issue, half-way through raking I snapped the handle of the rake.  Talk about insult to injury - now I had to go buy another torture device.  Ughh

Next time we capture a few evil doers - let’s put them on a farm somewhere (other than Cuba) and make them rake for a few hours.  You know, make them rake a pile of gravel from one side of the yard to the other.  Once they completed that, make them rake it back to where it was in the beginning.  Shit,  from a physical and psychological perspective they’d be broken in a day and they’d be telling us all their secrets.  Plus if it’s done correctly we might even get a clean yard outta the deal.

So I raked and then I rototilled the garden.  Borrowed a little beast of a machine from J&D.  They said, I could use it, I just had to get it running.  Took out the spark plug, cleaned it up and corrected the gap, put it back in the little monster and the bastard fired right up.  All this machine wants to do is tear up the dirt.  

With the little monster running I attacked my garden.  I am not sure what it’s like trying to hold back an animal, like a goat, from charging, however, I can only imagine it’s similar to trying to use this nasty little bastard of a machine.

I got the garden turned over while my bro was raking out some of the crap and then we added some manure and peat moss and turned that into the existing soil.  Came out pretty damn good….at least I think that now.  If nothing grows I’ll now that I fucked something up.

My bro and I planted a bunch of perennials, some herbs (no not those kind you druggie), a few veggies and now all we have to do is sit back and wait.  That’s good, cuz the way my hammies and back feel, sitting back is the only thing I want to do.

Did I mention that the black flies are out again.  For those of you who need more info on black flies or want to read yet another post in which I whine about being sore from doing some labor check out a post from a year ago …..post 27.  http://paddymac.wordpress.com/2007/05/14/monday-monday-monday/ 

Sometimes we forget how lucky we are to have a garden to tend or a lawn to rake.  Sometimes we forget how luck we are about a lot of stuff.  Shit, sometimes we forget how lucky we are just to be.

I think you can see it coming - yep, time to fire up that light and let it shine.  Shine the damn thing in every corner you can find.  Shine it bright and shine it often.  Most importantly - shine!

Off to conquer myself.  Cheers

 

 

Nothing to gloss over

He, he, he, he, he, he.

Just saw that some experts concluded putting lip gloss on increases your chances to get skin cancer.

File that under NO SHIT!

Anyone that would use lip gloss instead of a good SPF suntan lotion is crazy.  Never mind the cost!  How many lip glosses does it take just to cover your shoulders.  Damn.

What’s that, oh, they’re just talking about using it on your lips, oh.  Sorry.

To make a comparison, putting lip gloss on ones lips would be like me slathering Wesson cooking oil onto the top of my skull where there once was hair.  I couldn’t imagine going out in the sun with my head shimmering like a silicon enhanced boob found on some oil-wrestling tart.

While we’re talking about things to put on your lips  - get your mind outta the gutter you pigs.  I was going to talk about Chapstick.

I believe that chapstick gives you chapped lips.  Yep, that’s my theory.  The more you use it, the more you need it.  It’s a big conspiracy that is being perpetrated by Wyeth.  Once again, big pharma squeezing us for every cent we have.

Think about it.  If chapstick really worked you’d put it on once and your lips would be all set.  Think about how many chapsticks you’d need in a lifetime - one maybe two.  They’d be outta business.

I know people who are addicted to chapstick and use it year round.  It’s worse than oxy for these poor bastards.  That’s fucked up and it’s all the companies fault!

We need some form of benefit concert.  Some kinda save our lips drive.  Heck, maybe I should start a rehab clinic for habitual chapstick users. 

 

there’s something there part 2

Okay, it’s getting very weird in my house.

First there’s the alien fucker living under my stove in my kitchen and now I am hearing things move in the walls of my office.  I ain’t shittin’ ya.

I was in my office with Bob the miniature, talking elephant the other night working on a mailing list for my biz when we both heard a scratching noise from the corner.  How’d I know we both heard the noises?  Cuz Bob looks at me with these huge miniature, talking elephant eyes and says, “shit we got aliens in the walls.”  I got up and walked to the corner of the room and sure enough I could here the little bastards in the walls.

Yep, somehow with that alien brain of theirs they figured out how to infiltrate one wall of my house.

Damn, they must have some kinda wood disolving rays that they can shoot outta their eyes or maybe the brain sucker tool they have is like one of those leatherman thingees.  You know the tools with everything from a knife to a blender all in one tool.

They must have one of those alien leathermans.  It has a brain sucker tool, a wood dissolving ray tool, probably an interstellar signalling beacon and every alien tool has to come with some form of anal probe (ouchie).

So now what am I going to do.  The alien bastards have taken over the area under my stove and inside one wall. 

Bob is scared shitless and has climbed up onto my shoulder.  He’s perched there like some fat pirate parakeet.  That’s probably my fault because I was telling Bob the other day, when we first discovered the aliens, that they were gonna come out at night and suck his brain out because aliens love nothing better than miniature, talking elephant brains.  Hehehe.  I was just kidding but now I can’t get him off of me.

OK - I have to make a plan.  I know, I’ll go to the store and get me one of dem don’t kill the little fucker traps.  I wonder what store I go to?  Maybe a hardware store.  OK, we’re off.  The plan is to set the trap tonight and I’ll report back in the morning.

PS.  Gotta love any story that you can work anal probe into.  That probably wasn’t the best choice of words to describe how I used anal probe in the story. Wait, let me be clear, no anal probe was used in the creation of this story.  It was simply a reference to one of the tools the aliens probably carrying with them - given the number of alien abduction reports that detail said use of anal probes… oh, fuck off, never mind.