Independence Day My Arse
It's that time of year again, when my blood pressure soars and already taxed patience disappears. Fireworks season. A proud symbol of our American freedoms, right? WRONG. It's just an excuse for the local trailer trash to assault the air, land and water with various ballistic devices guaranteed to shatter the eardrums of all within a quarter mile. We're not talking about the legal fireworks available locally; annoying as they are, they can (almost) (not really) be tolerated for a brief span of days. No my friend, we're talking M-80's, mortar shells, sticks of dynamite, freakin' H-bombs for all I know. The concussion is more than deafening, shaking houses and nerves for blocks. Lord only knows how panicked the other neighbors' dogs are. Our normally brave cat slinks in terror under the bed and won't come out for hours.

And of course the police are "very busy" and it will "be awhile" before they can come out. I bet they'd make haste if I went over and shot the bastards firing off the shells, wouldn't they?

Here's a question for you: How do these ignorant fools afford this stuff? The crap they sell at the local corner stand can run into hundreds of dollars, let alone going out of state to purchase the illegal stuff. (Don't even get me started on why it is that dangerous items, illegal most everywhere, are legally sold on reservations...)

These assclowns can't afford to fix up the dozen or so junk cars parked all over the street; for that matter, they can't afford to live in a decent place that's large enough for their in-bred brood. Overheard "conversations" (read: loud swearing while drinking beer in the driveway with their children) indicate an intelligence level slightly above that of fungus.

Very slightly.

A Blogging Virgin Bites the Dust

So here it is, the long awaited blog from the Klevabich. Oh, so you haven't been waiting? Hummph.

Having recently discovered the joys of the blog, of course I was drawn into this vain pursuit. While I've never admitted to a love of writing, let's face it -- anyone who scrutinizes each and every email for misspellings and grammar and wit must have some sort of a jonesing for the written word.

You may wonder about the name Klevabich. In my latest attempt to reinvent myself, this time as a graphic designer, I attended Lane Community College. During class critiques we ran out of fresh adjectives to apply to each other's designs. The word "cute" was used a few times amid much derision, so I suggested "clever." Naturally, if the receiver of this compliment was female, it followed that she was a Clever Bitch. You can figure out the rest.

More later.
Nancy