If one more so-called meteorologist on our third rate local newcast comments on the "beautiful, clear weather ahead" I'm going to start kicking asses and taking names... Anything over 90 -- scratch that, over 85 -- is hot, do you hear me? HOT.
Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with non-anorexic figures who can't wear an eentsy little spandex thing and shorts with a clear conscience. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us with upstairs bedrooms that don't cool down until midnight. Hot is not "beautiful" for those of us who have to WORK for a living (in a place with inadequate AC, no less) rather than lounge by the freakin' river and swill PBR all day.
Hot is hot, sweaty, scratchy hell. Got it? This is Oregon. If you like this crap then move down to Southern Freakin' California and shut up.
Thanks, I feel better now...
19 July 2005
18 July 2005
What the...?
Eric Rudolph angrily denounced abortion at the hearing and told the federal court that "deadly force is needed to stop it."
From The New York Times Website
July 18, 2005
Am I missing something here? It's not the first time I've heard this kind of oxyMoronish justification for the misdeeds of cowardly weasels, but every time I'm struck anew by the irony and complete lack of logic. Where does it come from? Upbringing? Mental illness?
No matter the reason, why is the son of a bitch allowed to live? Perhaps. though, that is the worst punishment. I would personally rather die than be locked up for the rest of my life. Here's to hoping this asshole feels the same way...
From The New York Times Website
July 18, 2005
Am I missing something here? It's not the first time I've heard this kind of oxyMoronish justification for the misdeeds of cowardly weasels, but every time I'm struck anew by the irony and complete lack of logic. Where does it come from? Upbringing? Mental illness?
No matter the reason, why is the son of a bitch allowed to live? Perhaps. though, that is the worst punishment. I would personally rather die than be locked up for the rest of my life. Here's to hoping this asshole feels the same way...
12 July 2005
Recipe for Whirled Peas
Today, boys and girls, we're going to talk about manners. What's that you say, you never heard that word before? You don't know what it means? What a surprise.
Whether you want to call it manners or not is up to you. The real subject matter is basic, common courtesy. It's that little inner voice that your parents should have started drilling into your head from birth that says...
How does my current behavior affect:
a) my coworkers
b) my friends
c) my neighbors
d) the person behind me in the checkout line/turn lane/ticket line
e) the driver ahead/behind/beside me
f) my child's development
g) all carbon based life forms within range of my actions
Wouldn't the world be a far better place if everyone had that little voice? And actually cared what it said at any given time? Consider these examples:
"Gee, I'm at work. I wonder if the annoying ringtone and volume of my cell phone bother anyone? Maybe I should turn it to vibrate, or -- here's a thought -- off completely?"
"Hmmm, I'm in the mood to listen to gansta rap at full volume. I wonder if my badass bass booster spreads this crap for blocks, annoying the hell out of everyone but me?"
"I know I'm going to be writing a check. Maybe while I'm standing here waiting I could get my thumb out of my ass and start filling in everything but the amount?"
"I've been hired to do some work on a private residence. Do you suppose they'll mind if I bring my little inbred hillbilly family along to hang out all day and stare in the windows?"
"Perhaps my religion is just one of many here on earth, and maybe, just maybe, my religion is wrong and all others aren't going straight to hell. So maybe they don't want me to knock on their door or blow up their buildings to get my point across."
What would the world be like right this very minute, if the parents of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden had put that little voice in their heads?
Whether you want to call it manners or not is up to you. The real subject matter is basic, common courtesy. It's that little inner voice that your parents should have started drilling into your head from birth that says...
How does my current behavior affect:
a) my coworkers
b) my friends
c) my neighbors
d) the person behind me in the checkout line/turn lane/ticket line
e) the driver ahead/behind/beside me
f) my child's development
g) all carbon based life forms within range of my actions
Wouldn't the world be a far better place if everyone had that little voice? And actually cared what it said at any given time? Consider these examples:
"Gee, I'm at work. I wonder if the annoying ringtone and volume of my cell phone bother anyone? Maybe I should turn it to vibrate, or -- here's a thought -- off completely?"
"Hmmm, I'm in the mood to listen to gansta rap at full volume. I wonder if my badass bass booster spreads this crap for blocks, annoying the hell out of everyone but me?"
"I know I'm going to be writing a check. Maybe while I'm standing here waiting I could get my thumb out of my ass and start filling in everything but the amount?"
"I've been hired to do some work on a private residence. Do you suppose they'll mind if I bring my little inbred hillbilly family along to hang out all day and stare in the windows?"
"Perhaps my religion is just one of many here on earth, and maybe, just maybe, my religion is wrong and all others aren't going straight to hell. So maybe they don't want me to knock on their door or blow up their buildings to get my point across."
What would the world be like right this very minute, if the parents of Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden had put that little voice in their heads?
07 July 2005
Wake-up Call
Just when I'm filled with self-righteous contempt for my intolerable living situation, some damned terrorist has to go bugger it up.
I've spent the last two weeks or more bitching to all who would listen about all the trailer trash in my neighborhood blowing things up for their own reptilian amusement. After this morning's events I feel a little ashamed.
(Not totally, since the local dumbasses are still dumbasses no matter what happens in the rest of the world.)
But just imagine: You're riding the bus or train like you would any morning, sitting there half-asleep or reading the newspaper or lost in a blissful IPod world, and kablooey. Your little corner of the world blows up. You may now be: just scared shitless; covered with someone else's blood; looking at the stump where your hand used to be; dead. Dead is probably the least traumatic option, for you anyway.
Guess a few fireworks aren't that bad.
I've spent the last two weeks or more bitching to all who would listen about all the trailer trash in my neighborhood blowing things up for their own reptilian amusement. After this morning's events I feel a little ashamed.
(Not totally, since the local dumbasses are still dumbasses no matter what happens in the rest of the world.)
But just imagine: You're riding the bus or train like you would any morning, sitting there half-asleep or reading the newspaper or lost in a blissful IPod world, and kablooey. Your little corner of the world blows up. You may now be: just scared shitless; covered with someone else's blood; looking at the stump where your hand used to be; dead. Dead is probably the least traumatic option, for you anyway.
Guess a few fireworks aren't that bad.
27 June 2005
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.
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.
23 June 2005
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
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
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