Ghost's Privates.

New Digs.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 21:46:00 +0000

You can now find me here.

October Hush

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 15:09:00 +0000

My father passed recently and I have inherited his robe. He wore this robe every morning for the last thirty or so years. I have fond memories of him teaching me how to shave face. Reading the paper. Drinking the coffee. Nylon pajama pant legs sticking out. Now, it's my robe. It's not pretty, but it has a hood. Navy velour, grey trim. Burn marks from dad's pipe tobacco and cigarettes that my mother once smoked. It's just a robe. That's all. Ghost, why the fuck are we talking robes? Because I'm leading in to the rest of this post, douchebag, that's why. Oh. Yeah, 'oh', you impatient fuck.

I seem to have collected a lot of shit in my thirty years, and right now, most of that shit is occupying the GhostHooker garage. I need to get rid of most of it, and I'm thinking of doing so this weekend. Sorta. My old sabre from military school. My felt Stetson from my summer on the ranch. My goddamned golf clubs that haven't been used this year. Wait, I'll be keeping all of this shit. Um, winter clothing. Guess I'll be keeping that too. Hrm. This isn't going so well.

I'll just get rid of all the papers and shit. Yeah, that's what I'll do. There really hasn't been a whole hell of a lot going on around here. The Hooker is still pregnant. I am still waiting for the second trimester. That's the one with all the monkey sex, right? The kids are doing quite well. School is going well for me, I've made three friends. Sorta. Maybe four, I'm not sure. We're campus friends. I have managed to catch some side work doing yardwork for the Hooker's boss. That's going pretty well. Ugh. Yeah, I'd write more, but honestly, there isn't much to report here. Oh! We're getting married in November! That's pretty exciting. Well, for us. Maybe not you, but we're bout it. Bout it.

I guess I should start blogging my nightmares, maybe that would give me something to write about. We'll see. Watch out for falling corpses,

Ghost of Keywork

Here's the Shitty Poetry You Asked For.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 14:39:00 +0000

So, after turning 30, I have realized a few things:

1. Other people are thirty as well.

2. Some people are, in fact, older than you.

3. I'm marrying a younger woman.

4. I have grey hairs.

5. I'm not too old to be a college freshman.

6. My kids don't know the difference.

7. I'm done writing about being thirty.

Now, moving on. A while back, I promised to post one of my poems with you assholes. And, well, here:

'Standing in on the Seated Arraignment of an Old Friend'

There sat Bob Smith in humility,
around him were words
sentences and small tokens
never apologizing only sitting
with him. Without him, around
him the person, him the myth
the myth of him as was telling more
over the glares and
under his oaths and promises standing
over us all and somewhere we see
friends and enemies, hooligans and hoodlums
little pitchers with big heirs, here, hear,
hearing those promises. Bad friends are good
enemies you keep in touch with
smiling again, the crooked smile
crooked smile that echoes the wills
I will do this, I will do that, I will do no
thing that may help the non-I
Bob, and us are all incredible bastards
standing in great proportion to the sitting
decent beings, the quiet decent beings.

You were warned. I fucking hate poetry like I hate fractions. And jazz. I really don't like jazz at all. Jazz hands, the Utah Jazz, Jazzercise. They all suck. Bring on the non-fiction, I can't stand much more of this shit. Also? Line Breaks? I don't use them well. I just throw all the punctuation away and call it good. I promise to never post shit like this again, really I do.

Social Problems

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 14:47:00 +0000

Imagine, if you will, that you were born to take a certain class.

Blueticks: 'Social Problems? That is a class that you should ace.'

GoK: 'Yeah, well...'

Blueticks: 'If you fail that class, it's because the teacher is fucking stupid and can't recognize raw fucking talent.'

GoK: 'Um, thanks, I think?'

Yes, Social Problems. A class where discussion topics so far have included porn, violence, medical marijuana and incest. Yes, incest. This, outside of the incest, is a class I could teach. And teach well. So far, I have made it a point to help my professor teach this class and well, she seems to be warming up to it. I run this class. No one has won an argument in this class against me, I am flawless. Why? Experience, experience, experience. Here is an excerpt from yesterday's clinic:

Teacher: 'Incest is legal as long as both parties are above the age of consent.'

GoK: 'So, I can screw my sister as long as we're both over 18?'

Teacher: 'Well, yeah, it's not illegal. Now, as a society, we find this to be morally wrong. Let's look at adultery now. There are no laws against adultery, but it may be grounds for a divorce.'

GoK: 'Ok, so what does this say about us as a society? Seriously? If I cheat on my spouse, I stand to be divorced and pay alimony, but I can fuck family members all I want as long as they are of age? Just sayin.'

Teacher: 'I'm not getting into that right now, we will hit on that later.'

GoK: 'What if I commit adultery with one of my relatives?'

Teacher: 'You're going straight to hell.'

I would like to note that I don't believe she was condemning me, but I could be in denial. Also, I'd like to note that I don't run the risk of failing this class because of my opinions and my verbal mastery. As long as I show up, participate, do the work, pass the tests, I'm good. So the discussions are like a bonus. Oh, and I'm blogging again. Look at me, look at me, I'm thirty. And dirty.

Read Between The Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 15:03:00 +0000

So, my dad died recently. I turned 30 on Sunday. And as of yesterday, DPH is five weeks pregnant. Discuss amongst yourselves. Pssst, I'm so fucking excited about being a dad again that I can't contain it! Also, we're hoping for a boy. Oh, and 'Pulling Out' is most definitely not a form of birth control. Just in case you were wondering. Make ready the earth for a Pirate Ghost.

The Queen is Here to Make You Laugh

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 15:17:00 +0000

Word, peeps, it's the CageQueen here. I'm filling in for Ghost. I can't be sure but I think he's taking a blog break to attend his dad's funeral. If that's true, send him some warm fuzzies. That's a direct order.

I blog here and here. One of those sites is private because my husband's ex stalks me. Lovely, no? If you wanna see it, hit me up. Or don't.

Ghost gave me free reign to write whatever I want. I was gonna write about why the criminalization of marijuana is stoopid. You might've liked that post because I was gonna tell you an inspiring story. Then I thought I might give you some tips on how to make a marriage work. But then I figured the answer was too easy: sex. So instead, I'm sharing an email with you that I received this morning. I didn't write it so I take no credit other than giving you something that will make you exclaim, "Totally!" from the safety of your computer.

Random Thoughts for Today

I wish Google had an "avoid ghetto" routing option.

More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can't wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that's not only better but also more directly involves me.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

That's enough, Nickelback.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

The letters T and G are very close together on the keyboard. This recently became all too apparent to me and consequently I will never be ending a work email with the phrase "regards" again.

There is a great need for a sarcasm font.

Sometimes I'll watch a move from when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the fuck was going on when I first saw it.

I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I'll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that every one's laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little but harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I'm still the only one who really, really gets it.

How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history when you die.

The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm finishing a text.

A recent study has shown that playing beer pong contributes to the spread of mono and the flu. Yeah, if you suck at it.

"LOL" has gone from meaning "laugh out loud" to "I have nothing else to say."

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

Answering the same letter three times or more in a row on a Scantron is absolutely petrifying.

My brother's baseball team is called the Stepdads. Seeing as none of them are actual stepdads I inquired to the name. He explained, "It's cuz we beat you and you hate us." Classy, bro.

Whenever someone says, "I'm not book smart but I'm street smart," all I hear is, "I'm not real smart but imaginary smart."

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a dick from cutting in front. Stay strong, brothers!

MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I find it hard to believe there are people who get in the shower first and then start the water.

Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty and you can wear them forever.

Bad decisions make good stories.

Whenever I'm on Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who just got the Red Ryder BB gun that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don't mind if I do!

Is it just me or do high school girls keep getting sluttier and sluttier every year?

If Carmen San Diego and Waldo ever got together, their offspring would probably just be completely invisible.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after DVD's? I don't want to have to restart my collection.

There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks if I want to save my changes to my ten page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

Why is a school zone 20 mph? That seems like the optimum cruising speed for pedophiles.

Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I think that if years down the road when I'm trying to have a kid, I find out I'm sterile, most of my disappointment will stem from the fact that I was not aware of my condition in college.

Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in their pocket, hitting the G-spot, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey-but I'd bet my ass everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time every time.

It really pisses me off when I want to read a story on CNN.com and the link takes me to a video instead of text.

I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.

The other night I ordered takeout and when I looked in the bag, saw they had included 4 sets of cutlery. In other words, someone at the restaurant packed my order, took a second to think about it, and then estimated that there must be at least 4 people eating to require such a large amount of food. Too bad I was eating by myself. There's nothing like being made to feel like a fat bastard before dinner.

August And Everything After

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 14:36:00 +0000

Fuck you, August. You came in like a drunk stepmother and ate up all my pills and when you were done, you vomited everywhere. I'll clean up the wreckage, then bury you in the desert where the sun runs over the dirt and sand and carcasses.

So, I lost my father last Thursday. Like all bad things, more shit happened that day and the black cloud is still hanging out over me and mine. Enough with the negativity. On the day my father died, I won free lube from the wonderful people over at AstroGlide. I'm not sure but I think that may qualify as 'strange' yet 'typical'. I think dad would have been somewhat proud, I'll never know. The Hooker and I are headed down to Houston this weekend for the funeral so I won't be around if September decides she needs to start a fight. She's about to smack me with my 30th birthday (sept 13) and I'm hoping that's all she has for me this year.

I started smoking cigarettes at the age of twelve. My therapist told me yesterday that I'm correct in my diagnosis of arrested development. Basically, I'm emotionally retarded. Fucking retarded. He also pretty much told me that he doesn't have the time I need to work this out so I'm being assigned a new therapist. I'm sure I'll have a whole new slew of shit to throw after this weekend. I really don't handle funerals very well, and seeing as how I'm still a teenager emotionally, I'll probably drink my way through most of it. Cheers, dad.

My father and I had an odd relationship. When I was in sixth grade, I got him drunk for my science project. He always loved Bond movies and I get it. Tales of my father's womanizing youth were thrown at me from a very young age and I have to believe that they shaped me in some way or another. I know that he always wanted me to be a fuck machine. He got excited when girls called the house looking for me. He got to see some of his past and I had an excuse to behave unexcusably. I'm not mad about it, I had fun doing it. He taught me to listen well to women. I learned to listen like no man has ever listened. And it worked better than any pick up line ever could. Ok, almost any pick up line. I never understood why he told me these stories yet insisted on telling me that his behavior was inappropriate. Guess I'm still conflicted over that. I know he wouldn't be proud of some of the shit I have done lately and I can't really blame him. I am under the impression that he is watching me from somewhere and I'm trying to show him that I am working my shit out. But I'm guessing he's already hit scene selection on my dvd. I'm pretty sure he's watching year 17, that was a filthy one that played out like a low budget Bond movie. Enjoy that dad, watch the amazing grace in the park at night with the pregnant exgirlfriend. That was for you. I miss the unholy fuck out of you, dad. My heart is an empty promise. The screendoor on my submarine.

I have a guest blogger posting tomorrow, keep your eyes open for that. I'll be back next week.

Poetry is So High School

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 15:25:00 +0000

I'm taking a course in creative writing this semester. Stop laughing, fuckface. The prof is my age and I find that a bit odd. Mostly because I'm realizing that I'm not a typical 29 year old and I'm fine with that. But my latest assignment is really sodomizing my sensibilities.

The first half of this journey is all contemporary poetry. Some of it is really good. But I quit poetry back in high school, it felt too fucking easy to me. So I have to pick one of these poems, deconstruct it, then rewrite it, using some of the structural elements I found in the poem. Oh, and I have to start it with the original first line. My ego is struggling here. Look, tell me to rewrite the entire thing, but don't ask me to use the poet's words to start off. I feel like I am raping this wonderfully innocent virgin while making her father watch and record the act. Hold on, I'm going to take my prozac real quick...........and better. My ego won't allow me to hold back and write the shitty poem she is expecting, so I'm going to get good and ripped tonight and tear that shit up. Then write something tasty.

Enough about that. I've been going through some motherfuckery lately involving my family, the VA, the Unemployment Office, and the dichotomy of good and evil. Ok, maybe I've just been making out with Evil in the backseat of an old Honda. I don't want to bore you all with the details of my mundane and severely aggravating dealings with the above entities, I get all fired up and my self imposed tourette's comes flying in to fuck my day up. I'm working on a few posts for my blog so I can give you all something while I'm at the hands of Loki and PBR. I'm learning photography, and it's hard to teach yourself something you know little to nothing about it. It's sorta masturbatory, but fun. Shutup, Ghost, no one wants to hear that shit. Good call, self.

I remember walking into bars and sitting and just drinking by myself. I did a lot of that in my early twenties. Mostly, I'd smoke two cigarettes for each pint and fix my eyes on the nearest TV. Sadly, the other patrons won't always allow you to fully escape. The occasional Canadian trucker, former coworker, family member, drunken harlot, they all added a lot to my life but I really needed silence and stupid stares. I typically started early and ended late and really got nothing accomplished. I go through phases where I isolate myself in public. It's hard to do. Think of the last time you went out and didn't have to interact with anyone. Doesn't happen very often. Eh. I need to write more. Adios, bitches. See ya thursday, and for those that watch, Wednesday at 830 pm mt, you can catch me and the Hooker on Skankelodeon HERE.

Skankelodeon: The Apron Episode

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 02:06:00 +0000

Resolve

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 14:37:00 +0000

Unemployment gives even the most simplistic of beings a vast amount of time for inner reflection and time to go over all the 'holy shit I did thats' and 'here you ares'. More so when your father is in the ER for the millionth time this year. Here's something I have noticed and its not pretty:

My personal level of maturity and scope of emotions has always directly related to Dad's vitals.

I think that up there is what most would call an epiphany of sorts. Everyone plays a certain role in their family. I never really made it out of the shitty teenager phase. I find that as I near my thirtieth year, I am still in the full nelson of my sixteenth year. I get front row seats each time my father falls ill. Regardless of my new surroundings, I find myself revisiting the year I can't get out of. And it's getting harder and harder to look at that year as I get older. See, the first time I had to call 911 was when I was sixteen. I apparently saved my father's life that night but I still don't really know how to feel about it. I'm not telling that whole story today. I don't want to jinx him, he's back in there as of yesterday and those infections don't need my help.

I was a zoloft dreamer with stained hair and skinny jeans, steel toed Doc Martens and a lot of disgust. I didn't do homework, I ate acid and drank cheap beer. I had friends that couldn't roll joints but had a good amount of money so I would find myself in my room most afternoons, rolling up dime bags. My parents both worked late, I had time to work slow and well. I had a big Stone Temple Pilots poster on my wall, next to the Clash. I still hadn't realized my genetic goody bag but oddly enough I always kept myself close to the service road. Sometimes I would find myself out of cigarettes and have my mom pick up a pack on her way home. She always bought me Carltons. Fucking Carltons. I hate Carltons. For those of you that don't smoke, Carltons are a low tar, low nicotine waste of time. She didn't approve of my habit, but she had been a smoker and after hiding it from her with mild success for four years, I finally quit hiding it. I spent a lot of time staring at my ceiling. That summer, after a miserable showing in the GPA sweepstakes, I found myself staring at a military school in Virginia.

I'm almost thirty. I'm still trying to process something that happened almost fourteen years ago. I still listen to Rancid and Nofx. I still smoke a lot of cigarettes. I still spend time staring at things. But my inner sixteen year old is dragging me down with him now and I guess I'm looking for a nice patch of grass to place him on indefinitely. I'm a tad bit untrusting of myself because a part of me wonders if the sixteen year old is waiting to cross over with the father. Morbid? Maybe. Don't mix me up, I'm not here to excuse anything, I'm not putting anything on my father. I guess I'm just ready to delete that year so I'm left with the better ones. One thing I know is that neither of us can deal with anymore of these trips to the limbo lounge. We don't like watching from a cell phone so many miles from the swarm. I wish that the guys running the health lotto would get him home for a few months and take him to peace before the next infectious torrent settles on him again.

Happy Tuesday, motherfuckers. Once the stress over finances at the Brothel subsides, I will start cranking out my typical upbeat numbers.

Because I Can.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 17:36:00 +0000

"Am I morally bankrupt?"
"Nah, it's just this recession we're in."

One of my favorites from Texts From Last Night. My week has been rather dull, somewhat uneventful outside of the Mr. Mom stuff. Which is wildly wonderful but I'm no daddyblogger so I'm sparing you all the details. I noticed with my last post that many of you have been in my shoes with the unemployment thing and I appreciate all of your kind words and stories. Really. Enough of the hugs, I'm digging in the vault for something you can take with you this weekend.

My image. All of the things that sell me as me are here for everyone to read. I hate to think of it as an image, because most images fade and can be forgotten. Some images stay burned on the inside of your forehead. Like a scalded baby in a small town outside of Port Au Prince. The light from tracers and flares against the timeless night sky of Baghdad. The first sight of your child, out from his mother's womb and into the unforgiving tempest of humanity. There is a reason we cry when we gasp for that first breath. Yes, a medical reason. But I feel like it is a great irony nonetheless. Gasping for air, we all did it and some of us still are. I gasp for air while I sleep. So I've been told. So if this is my image, here, this blog, let it be a burning one.

I remember my time in Galveston quite well, the island has a way of pressing images on your pages. As a child, we would travel to Galveston to visit my grandmother. She always said I would make a wonderful surgeon. Lucky for her, she never had to see the way my hands shake now. I'm pretty sure I would make a horrible surgeon. I don't know why my hands shake, it may be the incessant intake of nicotine or it could just be a nervous tell. Eh. My grand mother was a lean mean preaching machine and you could just about see her hanging with the holy ones. I think she may have been painted over in 'The Last Supper'. She was a great friend to have, for a curious boy such as myself and we had great times together. I found myself living in Galveston at the age of ten, my father claiming some sort of homesteading law as the catalyst for our abrupt move from the Austin area.

I believe that everyone, before they become old and bitter, should treat themselves to living near an ocean or gulf of some sort. Lend yourselves to heavy, sandy, petting sessions. Wake up to the seabreeze. Shout at the fucking seagulls and the Japanese tourists that insist on feeding them. Let the sun go down, grab a flask and walk the beach barefoot. The sounds and smells are orgasmic. With me yet?

I can't recall what made me want to shoplift, but I do remember that there was a great feeling attached to it, knowing that you were fooling someone. Oh, and everyone loves free shit. My co pilot came from a rather well-to-do, Republican family. He and I started lifting baseball cards. Then we began to steal everything we could fit in our pockets, our shorts, our socks. Cigarettes, cigars, lighters, dirty magazines, snack foods, golf balls, keychains, and cd's. We stole malt liquor, hungout in abandoned houses, vandalized anything spray paint would stick to. Once, we sat on my balcony with my old Daisy and decimated an old Ford. We shot out the windows, put holes in the rusted chassis. We filled supersoakers with piss and doused anyone that stumbled down the sidewalk. Every now and then, we would peer through my neighbors' windows and catch him doing some sketchy pagan shit that I still, for the life of me, cannot understand. We weren't the worst kids, but we certainly were a blunt force of motherfuckery.

I don't really feel bad about any of it, and I never have. I'm sure that I should, but I'm lacking when it comes to feeling remorse for things I did as a youngster. I certainly wouldn't say that I am proud of any of this, I just don't want it erased from the records. So I guess there really isn't anything here for you to take, no lesson, no moral. We got caught once at Walmart, my dad was thoroughly confused and disappointed and I see where he was coming from now. Wow. Thanks for enduring that and have a nasty weekend. Don't forget to catch the Hooker and I live tonight on Skankelodeon.

Cue the Housemother Comments

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 14:40:00 +0000

Recently (Tuesday, July 14, 4:00pm), through no fault of my own, I found myself very much laid the fuck off. Yes, after almost 40 consecutive months of faithful service to a certain supply house/pump manufacturer in Grand Junction, I was laid off. Initially it seemed to me that the timing for this was pretty fucking horrible. Here are the things that immediately popped up in my brain housing unit like an ugly prompt window on my mom's old pc:

1. My two children.
2. My fiancee.
3. Our wedding.
4. Bills? Yes, I still get them.
5. Motherfuckers.
6. My dad nearly died last month and is celebrating his birthday this weekend.
7. Hey, GoK, your mother in law is coming in town for the weekend! Can't wait for her to see just how well you are providing for her daughter and granddaughter.
8. Motherfuckers.

After copying and pasting the above list of fuckery, the following morning, a new window popped up. This was a much more favorable list than the first:

1. I now have time to register for Fall classes.
2. I can file for unemployment.
3. I now have time to do somethings around the house.
4. We don't have to pay for daycare for Punk.
5. I can spend time with the kids.
6. I don't have anywhere to be anytime soon.
7. I can get back to my blog.
8. I was going to cut my hours back once I started school anyhow.
9. I really and truly hated that job with a passion.
10. Um, hello vacation.

After weighing the two lists, my early feelings of betrayal and bitterness waned and the silver lining/new tide/positive metaphor lightly grazed my balls, like a cool breeze through my shorts on a hot afternoon. My sandpaper thong had morphed into a pair of silk boxers coated in Gold Bond Medicated Powder (the stuff in the green bottle, I don't fuck around with the other shit.) and life was tolerable. After going through the humiliation of informing my family members of this latest development in the Tragically Humorous Epic of Ghost, I enjoyed a full day hanging out with my new daughter. I took her to KidsPlex. We ate lunch at Burger King. She talked both my ears right off. She had a great time and so did I. I will tell you that I won't be watching a movie that both her and I have seen with her anytime soon. She narrates.

I realize that most of you haven't heard much from me lately, and I won't apologize. My father, after surviving a batch of rather contagious diarrhea, was met with another hammer blow to the face. The doctors found an aortic aneurysm that can't be treated. My father is in his eighties and won't survive another open-heart surgery. So, timebomb it is. I now talk to him at least every other day and i'm enjoying what this tragedy has done for my relationship with him. So is he.

The Hooker has recovered from her bout with a hip absessdemonbitch. And is busting her ass at work and her boss fucking loves her. He even emailed her to let her know that if I need a job, he has connections. Great guy.

Wednesday morning, I journeyed down to the local college to start registering for the next chapter in the History of the All Writing Ghost of Keywork. I filed my claim for unemployment yesterday. I get to spend today with both of my kids and try to con them into helping me scrub this place before Hooker's Mom shows up. It's Friday, I'm in love and a new episode of Skankelodeon hits the airwaves tonight following a heartworming episode of Boomtube. Watch, learn, tell a friend. Happy Friday, I'm typing this from home.

Skankelodeon Episode 2

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 14:30:00 +0000

Well, last weeks' episode was chocked full of failure, so we're going to do this until it feels good. Tune in at 8pm Mountain Time and watch our openers, The Booms, here. They will be live and somewhat intoxicated bringing you Kansas City's best um, stuff. Come check us out at 9pm Mountain Time. We will be discussing rescued kittens, infected holes and why I make strange faces on air. Like you really have anything better going on tonight. Watch. Listen. Obey.

We're Going Live.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Yep. Friday night, the Hooker and I will be coming at you live from UStream. I will post the link tomorrow, and let you all know when to tune in. You can watch us and interact with us via the chatroom. So, help us out. Got a question for us? Leave it in the comment section. What are you dying to know about life in the Brothel? Ask away, fuckers, we'll answer. Keep checking back here for updates, see ya Friday night.

UPDATE: WE WILL BE BROADCASTING LIVE TOMORROW NIGHT HERE.

Update 2.o: The show starts at 9:00 mountain time. There is a live chatroom during the show that we can see, so see ya there!

Sex

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 07:09:00 +0000

Because we are both too lazy this week.

We The People, Oooh! Orange Tic Tacs!

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 19:57:00 +0000

Recently, you may have heard of an election in Iran. While many Iranians were dying at the hands of their own government, millions of Americans were found sitting in their air-conditioned houses, 'caring' and being 'utterly horrified by images'. A small group of techies did us a big favor and pulled a struggling butterfly out of it's ancient chrysilis. Thanks, now we're involved.

Take a look at the history of Iran. Go ahead, take a good hard look. Any christian will tell you that the peoples indigenous to that part of the world were cursed for all eternity, by God himself in the old testament. Ok, don't like the bible? Skip ahead a few years. Fuck, go back fifty, one hundred, two hundred years. Two hundred years. That is a long piece of chain, isn't it? How long have we been the land of the Free? Seems like a while. America is the infant in the global playpen. Fuck that, we're hardly an embryo. Our way of life, our freedom, this democracy, is still in a rather experimental stage. BetaLife. And, like any rookie, we feel the need from time to time to test the veterans. Guess what? Evertime we go at it alone, we fucking lose. You could say we gave the french this, and that, but it simply isn't true. America is at its best when we team up with a veteran. Slow down, Ghost.

So why, in the name of all we hold sacred, do we feel the need to run around and fix the world? Leave the world alone, America, please. Tyranny? Tyranny exists because in most countries, it is THEIR 'democracy'. That is THEIR way of life. It has been for thousands of years. Thousands. Guess what? They still find a way to exist, procreate, and hand down their traditions, ideals, and THEIR beliefs. That is THEIR identity. What would happen if one of these countries tried to pull the kind of shit we pull on our soil? Right, we fucking bomb the piss out of them, leave some troops and let them regroup. The veterans know we are young and somewhat drunk, so they leave us to our vices. Why can't we do the same? We've proven we can defend our soil, our way of life, our freedom. Anybody remember 'Democracy in Iraq'? Oh, right, we still have troops there and Iraq is still waiting for it's next Hussein. I was there when Iraq was liberated, the very day, boots on the ground. Reactions from Iraqis: looting, looting, everyone gets a day off to celebrate. The following week, these people are waiting for George Bush to declare himself new ruler of Iraq. Seriously, WE, AS AMERICANS, STILL DO NOT KNOW HOW TO WORK A DEMOCRACY. WE ARE NOT EXPERTS OF FREEING OTHERS, AND WE CERTAINLY ARE NOT MASTERS OF ENJOYING OUR FREEDOM OR HANDLING FREEDOM ANYMORE THAN A TODDLER CAN OPERATE A CHAINSAW. And that's what we are sometimes, to the earth and it's peoples: an enebriated toddler with a chainsaw.

America, those images you saw in Iran, those were the same images that Iranians and Iraqis live and have lived and choose to live. 'We want American Constitution' - Really? So do we. And we are still fighting, every day to keep it in tact. America, get your fucking dick out of the punchbowl, let's get back to work. Preserving our rights, our freedoms. We live this way because we want to. Because we are willing to work our plan and plan our work. We want freedom. Well, our ancestors did. Today, We The People, Have A.D.D. Let's work on sticking with something we can change before we end up living in tyranny, under oppression. Let's get this right before we go around trying to fix something that isn't broken in other countries. You say tolerance, but all I'm seeing is a stupid, angry mob, bent on world domination. In short, the only way those people will ever be free is if they want to be. And that will not happen in my lifetime. You cannot undo an ancient, violent culture in a matter of minutes. This is our way of life, it works for us, it suits us, it is what we know and who we are. AIDS, it's still in Darfur. Trust me, Sri Lanka is still a fucking mess. Iraq? Who knows what's going on there anymore? Not us, we need a new flavor each week. Basically, what I'm trying to say is this: charity starts at home. Help your neighbor. Help your neighbor's neighbor. Skip church and volunteer your time to being an agent of change. Until then, please shut the fuck up about This Year's Cause. Because every time you angry scared bastards get all shitty about something like this, someone else's son has to go do your fucking dirty work. We lose more Americans over shit like this when these guys need to be home living what they volunteer to protect. Give our servicemen a break, assholes, thank you. Oh, but if you would like to assemble a group to go over and give freedom to Iran, be my fucking guest, I will pay for your one way ticket.

UPDATE: I'm a commie bastard. This is one of my favorite songs and there doesn't seem to be an actual video for the song, so I found this marginally shitty montage. Psst, the Hoff makes an appearance.

Horse Porn Torrents

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 14:25:00 +0000

I got the Cable and Internet of Keywork hooked up yesterday. While waiting for my cable boys (yeah, two of them, cue the porn jokes) I had the pleasure of meeting two different sales people. The first, a youngish girl, was running a scam. Yeah, I'll pass on the magazines, skank. Wait, ok, I know, sales=scams, I know. Look at all them fucking commas. Just look at them. Ahem. Now, I quickly disposed of this girl and put her in pieces in the freezer. Not really, I could never do that. I don't own a chainsaw nor have I ever worked as a butcher. Get out of this, GoK, get out....right, the other sales person.

My cable boys showed up, and they went to work and I went outside to enjoy a cold Pacifico. I onced worked with a guy from Mazatlan, but that's for another day. So, as I am enjoying my tasty beverage, I notice a skinny, rather tired lad wandering my way. David was his name.

David: Hello, sir, I am me. Give me a second to catch my breath.

GoK: You're not selling magazines, are you, David?

David: No sir.

GoK: Good. Do you like barbecue, David?

David: Huh?

GoK: Nevermind. What are you selling?

David: I-

GoK: I see, I can smell cleaning products.

David: Damn, it's hot out here. (Looks at my beer)

GoK: It really is. Why do they make you fellas wear pants? It's summer time, y'know? Doesn't really make sense.

David: Man, I need a beer.

GoK: Tell you what, David, I'll go grab you a beer, cause I sure as fuck am not buying cleaning products today.

David: Thank you.

I grabbed him a beer, dropped the tailgate on my truck and told him to go ahead and have a seat. I noticed he smoked Newports, so I made sure I got one of those from him. As we sat and drank beer, I regaled the young lad with my illustrious and wonderous sales career. I don't think he listened to a fucking word of it, but whatever. No worries, because as soon as he started talking back I spaced out. Something about a missing bottle of cleaner, another employee, WHY ARE YOU FUCKING WEARING PANTS? Jesus, I need to fucking get out of this house for a few hours a week, I think. Either way, before he left, I reminded him to ask his boss about wearing shorts, because I refuse to buy shit from someone that will be coerced into walking door to door in black trowsers in the summer heat. That was it. Got my cable, my internet, and that was the extent of my afternoon. Well, there may have been more beer and a nip or two of rye, but other than that, not much to report.

I'm a Sexy Motherfucker

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 16:30:00 +0000

Stop what you're doing and make sure to wish my baby a Happy Birthday today, she's one step closer to 30.

While everyone is balls-deep in coverage of the Iranian Election Nightmare, I'm busy. I'm busy thinking of all the things that need to be done around the house before I receive the Hooker and her Spawn. And her cats and a snake. My movement around the brothel as of late has been a bit like that 'nesting' thing female humans do right before they give birth. Ok, I'm not even that organized to be honest with you. I'm more like a retarded mute on methamphetamines. Got that image? Good.

The small patch of grass in front of the brothel is, for the most part brown. I blame that on the fact that since I have been there, those sprinklers haven't popped up once. Not once. Well, yesterday, I came home to find them on. Two hours later, I stepped out front for a cigarette, and they were still on. Really? Look, assholes, flooding a patch of dead grass is about fucking idiotic. So, with a beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, I marched over to the piece of two inch pvc pipe that was supplying the flood in my front yard. I found two valves, shut them off and that was the end of that. Until someone discovers that I have thwarted their insanely retarded plans of giving me a pond in my driveway. Fuckers.

Also, now you can all say you found Jesus on Ghost's Privates. Yeah, I just went there. If you haven't already, go check out this from Mr. Lady. I contributed to her survey and the end result is nothing short of fucking hilarious.

Full Circle

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 02:15:00 +0000

Go check this real quick.

When I returned to the States, following my service in the invasion of Iraq, home was different. The world, in my eyes, was no longer a place of beauty. I embraced the privilege of freedom and drank heavily. I won't go into that, I really don't remember much of my first three months back on US soil. The one man that went everywhere with me during the war, Matt, had moved off base into a small trailer with his wife. Our entire platoon spent a lot of time getting good and forgetful in that trailer. Matt's wife brought her best friend with her when she moved to North Carolina.

She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and an enormous rack. Slim, pale, a bit on the stupid side, but you wouldn't need a twelve pack to be forced into the sack with this one. She was always at the trailer. Four, maybe five of the guys in my platoon fucked her. The last one, was one of my close friends from Engineer School. He took her pretty seriously, unlike the rest of us. I remember him, before going off to Afghanistan, telling me to watch her for him. I never meant to fuck her. A week or two after he deployed, she was packed up and ready to move back to Delaware.

Ok, at this point in the story(I'll call her Corridor, from here on), I will tell you that I had a mild obsession with one of Corridor's coworkers. Yes, this obsession ended up being my wife and the mother of my son. Before Corridor left, I agreed to move into her room to help Matt with rent. So I was minding my own business, living on a futon, in a trailer, sleeping next to an eighteen year old girl that I wasn't fucking. Surprised? So am I. So, having slept in the same bed with a girl that I wasn't fucking left me rather vulnerable on a certain night.

The night Corridor was leaving, I was sleeping well, next to said eighteen year old girl. Corridor came in to get the rest of her things out of what was to be my closet. She nudged me until I woke up.

Corridor: Hey. My ride won't be here until four this morning.

Ghost: Oh. Ok. See ya.

Corridor: I'm going to need someone to keep me up until then.

Ghost: (wood)

So, with my yet-to-be-empregnated future exwife sleeping soundly on the futon, Corridor and I moved into the living room. I remember her asking what we were going to fuck on. I hate fucking on cheap carpet, I really do. Apparently, she did too. I grabbed the cushion off the wicker/bowl/chair/thingy and dropped it on the floor. It was big, cushioned, and round, like a huge plush Ritz cracker. We started in on each other but didn't get too far. Matt, my dear friend, the one that was at my side through the entire war, was up and restless. Also, he was ready to cockblock. Corridor and I ceased and made our way to the couch. Matt sat next to us. We smoked cigarettes in the dark and talked in low voices.

Matt: Corridor, that is so fucked up about your dad.

Ghost: (hand to forehead, internal dialogue begins with 'you fucking cockblockingmotherfucker, why?)

Corridor: (starts sobbing)

Matt: I mean, I can't imagine dealing with knowing that my dad killed a bunch of hookers. That is so fucked up. Your life must be hard.

Ghost: (i cannot fucking believe THIS is actually happening, pls shut the fuck up, pal)

Corridor: (more crying, uncontrollable, halfway in hysterics)

Matt: Man, just wow. I'm going back to bed.

So here I am, hard and stuck with the sobbing daughter of a serial killer. So, I did what any other man in my situation would have done: I consoled her until she was ready to fuck again. We decided to go out to my truck, where it was pretty unlikely Matt would show up to smoke cigarettes and make her cry anymore. She pulled out my cock and informed me that (my future exwife that I hadn't fucked yet) was one lucky girl because I had a big 'thingie'. No fucking shit, she called my cock a 'thingie'. Had I not been so hard up, I would have verbally abused the hell out of her for using that term with my cock in her hand. She rode well, and hard. She was excessively wet, like a warm swimming pool. She may have just pissed on me, I'll never know. But she came and then I did. Then she had the sense to ask me if I had come yet.

Corridor: Did you come in me?

Ghost: Yes, yes I did.

Corridor: Huh. I was going to tell you not to, but whatever.

Yeah, that's about it. I fucked a dead serial killer's daughter. Half of my platoon did. What of it? Oh, right, full circle. Steven Pennell, you went out and tortured, maimed, then killed several prostitutes while your family was sleeping in your Delaware home. So while I wouldn't call your daughter a whore, I will say that I know six people that fucked her in a three month span. I think there is some irony in here, I'll let my readers point it out. Because what you put out is what you often will get back, know that none of us felt the need to break out the vice grips, most of us were somewhat gentle with her. I think. Whatever.

It's All In My Head.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 03:13:00 +0000

Rest in Texas, Hank Carnes. You lived a wonderful life in the hills of Driftwood, Texas. You left this life shortly after your eleventh birthday, and you will be missed. You were put in the care of one Les, one Katie, and touched the lives of many other fortunate souls. You loved to chase tennis balls. You loved to make loud hound noises. If I was overdressed for a night on the town, you made it a point to put paw prints on my pants. You were right, no need to get all dressed up for a bar crawl in San Marcos. I learned that your shock collar works on humans also. Thank you for being such a great friend to my dad, I know he misses you more than he'll ever admit. Here's to you Hank, you are sorely missed. Much more so than those two goats, for sure.

"Dog is my co-pilot"

Again, I'm not much of a dog person. That's it today, people. A great dog has gone on to better things.

P.S. Hank, I sincerely hope your new keeper falls for that fucking collar trick.

UPDATE! DAD OF GHOST IS ON HIS WAY TO NACOGDOCHES TO PICK UP THE NEW BOY! HERE'S JOHNNY!

Tie Me Up Real Good, Bitch.

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 29 May 2009 02:50:00 +0000

Just fucking do it. Next week, I'm going to consult with a doctor about getting my lifelines tied off. Yes, a Really Ghost Vasectomy. I've spoken with Mr. Booms in great detail about the procedure, and I'm all in. The Hooker and I have decided that given the recession our wonderful nation is in, some cuts need to be made. And they need to be made on my spectacular scrotum apparently.

Oh, I know, why don't you just wear condoms? Hello, I hate condoms. I can get my loose ends all tied up for free at the VA. Why would I pay for something I hate wearing? Ok, hate is a strong and inaccurate word. 'Refuse' to wear. I really don't know how much they cost, but I'm guessing that given our combined sex drive, even a nickel per jacket is going to cost us a fortune. Also, we already have two children. And I'm not ready to move again, to be honest. I'm not saying we won't get it reversed at some point. I'm not trying to play Allah, I'm just trying to play smart.

Mr. Booms (a friend that has been tied) informed me that the procedure will require me to wear a jockstrap afterwards. Great. There are very few things that I like rubbing up on my piece and most of them are attached to my fiancee. Ok, all of them are. Unless I have an itch. Then he went into detail about how his lovely wife, Mrs. Booms, customized his to make it more sac-compatible. High speed, low drag. So, I've commissioned Mrs. Booms with bedazzling me a custom MasterKeyholder. I can't even tell you how excited I am about having such a wonderful contraption customized for me. That's what friendship is all about: custom codpieces. And baseball. Oh, and wearing shirts with your friends' face on them.

So, here's to the free flowing boys of summer, my trusty swimteam, it's been real and fun and I hope you guys understand that you will see action down the road. Just not right now. You fuckers are rogue as hell, I have to do something to prevent the fertilization of Hooker Eggs. Snip, snip, tie me up real good, Dr.Bitch.

UPDATE: HERE'S A LOOK AT THE BEDAZZLED JOCKSTRAP AND ITS' CREATOR, THE LOVELY AND TALENTED MRS. BOOMS: JOCK.

Then You Went And Took Your Dick Off The Market...

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Tue, 19 May 2009 05:14:00 +0000

I'm back, with bigger sideburns.

Micky, this one is for you.

I really hope I haven't told this one already, if I have, let me know quickly. Marines can be some filthy motherfuckers. Ask any Marine about his fellow Marines and he'll probably tell you something to this effect

"Well, these guys are fucking sick. All of them. The moment my girlfriend/fiancee/sister/wife/mother comes to visit me in my barracks room, the whole lot of them cram into my room and see who can fuck her first. But these are the motherfuckers I want watching my back when we're in the shit."

Don't believe me? You don't have to. As brothers, we always cover each other's asses, no matter where we are. Is your best friend drunk, and starting shit with a hoard of really large bouncers? Well, at least you'll have someone to talk to in jail. What's that? Oh, that guy you hate in the platoon is talking up the nastiest thing in the bar? Well, you let him. In fact, you should get them a cab. Because that shit is going to be hilarious tomorrow.

I remember Casey. He was a big fucking guy. And he loved to fight. Every time we hit the bars, this guy was going to beat the everliving shit out of someone. Sometimes, if he couldn't provoke a stranger, he'd start shit with one of us. One night, in a drunken haze, I remember him running up to a 400lb sack of dead weight and clocking him straight in the suck. Dude dropped like a large quantity of really heavy objects. Well, the cops didn't really like this, and they had Casey in a shitty interview and the rest of us were being watched by a female officer. Adapt and overcome, my friend Skunt came out with this gem:

"But officer, that big guy hit that girl he was walking with. That's fucked!"

to which she replied,

"That is fucked. You guys can go."

That easy. Another wonderful thing about the comraderie is that it doesn't always end in violence. Think you've been cockblocked? You haven't. Nobody cockblocks better than a Marine. Nobody. Look, pickins' is slim within two states of any military installation. The locals know better. Despite all of this cockblocking, every now and then, teamwork does, in fact, pay off. Usually in the form of double teaming a drunk coed.

Why go on and on about all of this? Well, for Mick. Because I'd like to believe that on any given night, you could have stood in for any of these guys, or you would have, given the chance. To all the shit we'll never know, Happy Birthday, Michael. Thanks for everything you add, even when I'm not writing much. Thanks for accepting the odd and rare phone call. Thanks for your concern. Thanks for all of it, friend. If you want a better sampling of the Best of Micky on Ghost's Blog, check my archives. Go read about my almost successful Presidential Campaign. Go read about all of the things that brought about this post. Go fish. Seriously, Happy Birthday, Bulldog, enjoy it.

Your friend,

Ghost of Keywork

Kidnapping Russel Brand

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Wed, 13 May 2009 16:05:00 +0000

I don't really have anything to say this week. I'm still very much pissed off at the FOFM (Fucking Office Fax Machine). It won't do anything for me. Also, I'm a bit upset about my Son's daycare losing the bid for next year. Looks like he will be teaching elsewhere next year. I'm damn near done transporting my shit to the new casa, and I'm pretty much exhausted.

DPH and I are planning a kidnapping. We're Kidnapping Russel Brand. Yep. I think we might even do a documentary on it, just to let everyone witness true happiness on camera. Currently, I have no fucking clue how we are going to pull this off. I'll let you know when we have something that resembles a plan.

If you don't already, feel free to follow me on Twitter. Because lately I'm better in small doses.

Well, Here's To Firsts...

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Thu, 07 May 2009 16:01:00 +0000

I left work just before five the other day, to retrieve His Holiness from daycare. This is one of my favorite things in the whole world. Why? Because every time I show up, he screams 'Daddy!' and comes running into my arms. No better feeling in the world. He never has much to report about his day, typically it's like this:

GoK: How was your day, Holy One?

TNM: Good.

GoK: What did you do today?

TNM: Played. Just played.

I don't get anymore than I ask for, and that's ok with me. The Boy is smart. So, Tuesday, when I arrived at His daycare, I was a bit confused. I opened the gate, no running Boy. Instead, I see the table outside, holding four very troubled looking boys. As I got closer, I saw that the daycare instructor was giving them a good 'talkin to'. Upon getting even closer, I realized that one of these boys was, in fact, my own. The daycare instructor muttered something to me and I pretended to listen, but I couldn't. My eyes locked with my Boy's big guilty blue ones. And I saw that look. I was about his age the first time I looked my dad in the eyes with that glazed stare. The big eyes, full of disappointment on both ends. For a moment, I felt what he was feeling. I remember how it felt, as a little boy, to feel the shame in knowing that you were utterly fucked, you had done something that can't be undone. Doesn't matter what you did, at that age, any trouble seems unbearable. As you age, you condition yourself to accept the obvious and you learn to cope with it. But when you're small, you don't know what can slide and what cannot. So for a brief moment, I saw my little self sitting next to my Son's little self, both of them looking at me with that deep tearful, horrified stare. And I resisted the urge to curl up in a ball and ask forgiveness from a random adult. Mostly because I don't need them thinking I'm any crazier than I already may be.

I separated myself from the supernatural and allowed the daycare instructor to give me the details.

DI: Another parent caught your Son and the other three peeing in the tunnel.

GoK: (parenting is a fucking emotional roller coaster) Oh my. (It should be noted that while all I wanted to do was laugh, I held my poker face. It should also be noted that I don't really play poker.)

DI: So, I've told the boys that this is unacceptable, it's been a long day, I don't know what you want to do...

At this precise moment, I met the only other Guilty Parent present. He was about ten years my senior, and already, I can tell that he doesn't know anymore than I, what to do in this situation. We both stuck to our guns, giving our sons the disappointed, 'you know you did something wrong' guilt. Occasionally, throwing in some all inclusive bits of wisdom so all four boys could benefit. Then he called for a bucket of bleach water and headed over to the tunnel, I escorted the boys over so that they understood that this was costing someone something. I kept the boys out of the tunnel, had them apologize to other dad for making him right their piss, and the Gp and I exchanged words.

GP: Um, uh, wow.

GoK: I know, we aren't supposed to laugh.

GP: Because I'm sure neither one of us have ever done anything like this...

(At this moment, we both turned away from the situation, laughed for a second, got our game faces back on, and grabbed our boys)

I let the Boy know, via the disappointed minimal speech treatment, that I was not pleased with his behavior. An hour later, I cracked a smile, told him I loved him, and he started looking more like my Boy, and less like his little self or my little self for that matter. I picked him up yesterday, he ran into my arms, and all was right with the world again.

I know, big deal, he pissed in a tunnel. Well, that's a big deal to me. Because he's my Son. I'm over it now, I know that the future is going to hold harder solutions, I'm not delusional about what is to come. Happy Thursday,

GoK.

You Look Like A Young David Bowie

noreply@blogger.com (Reverend Ghost) — Fri, 01 May 2009 03:47:00 +0000

Yeah, I had that thrown at me once from a woman, on a hot summer day in Austin.

Also, during my brief stint as a nurses' aid in Arkansas, I had this gem spoken at me:

'Big floppy penis. You've got a big floppy penis, I wanna see it.'

Thanks, Gladys, I'll make sure they put that on your tombstone. I would like to clarify that this woman, odd as it may seem, had never once seen said penis.

I remember one patient though. She was bound to her bed. Her spasms were horrible and detrimental to her health. She couldn't articulate, she wasn't really alive by most standards. They kept her television on CMT. Never once changed the channel. I guess someone decided that she liked CMT. I know, for a fact, that she did not make that request. I'm guessing one of her shithead grandkids got bored and made a nurse bend. I'll keep this part short. I worked the graveyard shift (literally) at a nursing home in northwest Arkansas for a period of three months. My first week on the job, three patients died. Pleasant. I remember, however, changing the bed pad and sheets on Bound Lady's bed one night. She was mildly convulsing in her sleep. I remember looking at her, with Tim McGraw's 'Please Remember Me' playing in the background. If I ever meet Tim, I'm going to fucking hurt him. That shit has fucked with me for the last seven years. She didn't find better love, and I hate to say it, but I bet I'm the only one that remembers her every day.

Ok, on to something lighter, the other night I had the privilege of watching mankind at its best. Every spring in Grand Junction, we are allowed to pile up a bunch of shit on the street and the city comes and cleans it up, takes it away, for free. My crazy neighbor had quite the heap, what with his impending divorce and all. I watched four of the nastiest females rummage through his shit, at ten in the evening, with their Dodge Ram full of children. As they cackled and perused through my former friends' leftovers, the eldest female took it upon herself to go piss on the side of the house. Um, hold on. No, don't, I'm not done. As the other mongoloids celebrated their elder's actions, a loud beep emerged from the truck. A fucking breathalyzer. No shit. One of these bitches was hollering about the beeping, another was running for the truck, and made it in time to pass the test. The Grinch was kinder to the Whos than these vile creatures were to the property across the street.

I am done with this week. I am so fucking glad it is over.