PSYCHO CARNIVAL

Things You Don't See Every Day

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 01:32:00 PST

I remember the time my 70 year old boss dressed up like a Hostess Twinkie and shuffled about in front of the grocery store where I worked. The adults that walked by, looked at him, bewildered. It was hot enough to fry a bacon and turd sandwich that day. The kids seemed to enjoy the show as they danced and laughed around him. So gleeful were they, I thought they were going to take a bite out of his costume.

I didn't know who, exactly, was in that costume because I had just arrived for my shift that afternoon. I figured it was one of the younger guys. I thought this because this costume didn't look like the type that had a fan or any type of cooling system built inside like some costumes you see people wearing at amusement parks. In fact, it looked handmade. I didn't know an old guy was inside it.

Not long after doing his little promotional shuffle, entertaining the crowd, "The Boss Man" became tired. When I walked into the stock room, he was in the middle of taking off his costume. I was shocked to see that he was shirtless and he had his big ol' fat floppy old man boobies hangin' out while the rest of his torso was covered in a yellow foam material. He was wearing a pair of little white boots, too.

I laughed to myself, imagining what the reactions of all would be if he were to walk outside the store like he was in his half-dressed present state. Maybe he would boost Twinkie sales with some of the elderly, half- blind ladies in town. Who knows?

Almost immediately, I turned and walked out the stock room door, sharing what I had just seen with a few other co-workers. I'm nice that way.

Speaking of things you don't see every day...

Remember those "Baby On Board" signs that were so prevalent a decade ago?

Dancing pig with no back legs.

Did he just tell a lie?

It looks like a delicate procedure.

He looks lost. He should ask for directions.

You should watch this for something you really don't see much of these days.

Rat Pageant and World Naked Bike Rides

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 21:43:00 PST

Frustrated subway workers, in New York, are attempting to draw attention to what they say is a rat infestation and are offering a free monthly transport pass to anybody who's got the guts and/or stomach to snap o a good pic of one of these furry, razor-sharped teethed, underground doll babies.

Hairy Potter. He'll wave his furry wand if you want him to strike a seductive pose for the contest. Just ask him nicely.

Though the furry darlings of the vermin community have been known to bite riders, in the past, present, and most likely, future, folks are encouraged to snap pictures of their favorite rat buddy. They can be sent to ratfreesubways.com. When I visited the site, I saw that they were showing a video of a rat carrying off a pizza. I witnessed one take off with a goat once.

What's next?

Somebody making out with a rat?

Did I see a little tongue action going on? Golly.

Speaking of drawing attention, as mentioned above, I thought of something else. People will, of course, express themselves in ways that draw attention, with the intention of desperately wanting that attention- like these gals here...

Actually, she's a lawyer. Who knows how many cases she's won?

Lady, it gets hot down there. Sometimes we just have to let our hairy, beet-red nutsacks hang out every so often. As men, we understand you gals have your "lady days" with your menstrual periods and such- where you temporarily go insane with mood swings so severe, we're afraid to sleep beside you at night for fear you'll secretly throw out our old favorite cassette tapes or cut out our testicles and use them as earrings. Just let us guys have our day in the shade or right out in the open and let us expose our man apples, proudly, for all to see and gaze upon. If we should draw attention to thine eye, don't throw darts at our wrinkled bags of jizz whiz. Instead, applaud our display of dignity and pride with great gusto!

Sometime people just want attention because it's a pathetic cry for help. Help that perhaps only a therapist or close friend or mate can provide. Sometimes it's acted out, in various ways, for petty shock value. And then we have people who draw attention to themselves for a very worthy cause. Take, for instance, World Naked Bike Rides. In summary, World Naked Bike Riding events take place all around the world. People will show their causes, ideas and concerns about pollution, the effects and greed of big oil corporations and more, by riding naked through city streets around the world.

Now that's the kind of attention draw I can get behind. But not too closely behind. Some good folks don't know their "behinds" stink because of poor sense of smell. Who will stand up, with optional gas mask and dare to create a charity or cause for those folks?

Here are a few pics from London's World Naked Bike Ride:

It's good to know the British police are there to cover the attendees for security reasons.

Everyone is welcome to engage in the jaunty, admirable event.

Here, we see supporters, riders and spectators in San Francisco's World Naked Bike Ride event.

"Look, Bobby! A man with wild tiger disguise, not doing a very good job of concealing he has been blessed with the conscious of a true animal lover, supporter and eco-friendly gentleperson."

Either that or he's just your average naked dude, out for a pleasant Sunday afternoon bicycle ride. Who knows? Just don't grab that chopstick, guys and gals!

And thus, we, or rather, I, alone, at Psycho Carnival, conclude our informative, somewhat jocular, tongue-in-buttcheek posting. Have a wonderfully expressive day! And why not ride a bike, take pictures of beautiful subway rats, afterwards, and then paint your naked, sagging ass blue for a change of pace?

It may just make your time on Earth just go that much smoother and stuff. Later, friends!

The Holidays Are Over and The Joy of Putting Xmas Gifts Together

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 21:31:00 PST

First of all, as if you can't tell by my latest posting, I survived Christmas Hell once again. The one Christmas gathering my significant other and I hosted for her side of the family didn't cause me to flip out, fall down on my knees, sob openly and then get up, retrieve my flamethrower from under the bed, go back and set everyone on fire this time around.

I only had two instances where I had to leave a heavily populated room due to stress. For me, a heavily populated room is anything over five or six people. I feel like I'm trapped in a herd of insane, babbling bison in that situation. I can't handle it. One thing that sets me over the friggin' edge is when three people are talking to you at the same time about three extremely different topics. My head is turning faster than a possessed girl in a 70's horror movie in order to focus and hear what each buffalo has to say. For whatever reason, people have a tendency to pull this hilarious routine on me- intentional or not. Maybe they want me to pull out the flamethrower. I must seem like someone who will calmly listen to the subject matter presented and, in turn, shoot wisdom out of every orifice for the talker's benefit or possibly cause the talker to laugh by spurting out an absurd or observational joke that may have something to do with what they're rambling about.

You say you made a macaroni and cheese dish with less flavor than Styrofoam cups covering a decrepit whore's wrinkly worn down nipples?

Well, I can't wait to try to digest that dish you made for our supposedly joyous Christmas meal without spitting it out and blinding your baby with unappetizing chunks of what you jokingly refer to as food.

It's all a pretty picture I paint, I know.

Then someone else may talk about trains and fishing lures. I will attempt interest while also fantasize about fucking Mila Kunis deep in her tiny, puckered asshole.

Ta-dah!

Here's a joke I made up for ya that's both absurd and observational. Best of all, it's an easy one to remember.

Question: What's the difference between a monetarily wealthy kid on Christmas morning and a poor kid, that same day, that lives in a run down apartment with a bunch of relatives that are also poor?

Answer: The wealthy kid will likely probably not give too much of a shit about what he gets when he opens his gifts because he already has everything without asking. He might grow up, feeling entitled. Maybe not. Now the poor kid is likely just grateful that he has a big family that loves him. He may envy the rich kid every so often but he ultimately knows what is important and what's not. Does he feel entitled? Hell, he's just trying to survive. Living his life is all the gift he needs.

Spoiled girl secretly enters the room at night, then carefully binds mother and father's limbs while they slumber peacefully, dreaming of new things to acquire and gingerly scoops parent's eyes out with a spoon because she didn't get that latest technological piece of shit that will go out of style in a couple weeks and no longer make her friends green with envy. Later, after the merry mayhem and profuse bloodshed and disemboweling of daddy, she'll get her own reality show, thanks to the hyperventilating, over publicized rabid press coverage. A happy ending that will certainly appeal to today's wonderfully sane society.

It's not so much a joke but it's something I think people should think about. I think the poverty stricken people around the world think the wealthy in America suck for a lot of reasons. It's not completely envy. Maybe not at all. You tell me. I wonder if they believe we're arrogant and entitled, too, to a greater degree.

The wife and I overdid the gift giving to each other this year. Made all the Christmas gift givings in the past look a might tame. TV. Camera. Exercise machine for me. I put that together that today. Jewelry. A cool graphics tablet thingamajiggy that allows you to draw with a pen while your drawing shows up on the PC monitor. I forget what else. Too excessive. In a way, it gave me a bad case of "the guilts." Perhaps I shall shed these feelings of guilt, layer by layer, by distributing free bars of soap to the hobos under the bridge. Sorry. That isn't right.

I really wish the lady would have come, shipped in a special container with this item, when I ordered it. She could have made me some delicious mac and cheese. Darn it.

But, at the moment, I'm feeling kinda vulnerable and anxious now that I've said what we got this festive holiday season. Don't rob me! I'm nuts. Who knows what type of funny rascally rabbit I'll pull out of my hat? For real. Fair warning, my friends. Group hug? No?

I've figured out how this thing goes with that thing, for the most part. I'm learning how to do new stuff that's normally a little above my intelligence capabilities. But I'm still one hell of a guy, after all. There are still hook ups and procedures I don't quite understand. But I'm going to make a real attempt at being patient with understanding things and more patient with people- this year and beyond. I'll try working on that. No more Mr. Flamethrower Guy. Unless I'm provoked. :-D

Side Note: So far the comments I've been getting about the exercise machine suggest that I got it as a gift from a family member. This is not the case. My wife and I purchased it and had it delivered to myself to help lower my blood sugar and high blood pressure counts and more. Thank you and have a rip-roaring day, damn it.

Barreling Through Christmas With Determination and Valium

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 23:25:00 PST

So far, I haven't allowed my depression from not having Mom around get to me this year. It's been 6 years since she's been gone and she was truly the glue, along with my grandpa, holding the family together. Now the family is fragmented. One won't attend a Christmas gathering because so and so will be there and another will make it impossible to reach because they don't care about getting together for one reason or another and on and on it goes.

You would think everyone could put aside their differences and petty hates to get along but nah... no such luck.

Still, I'm barreling through the four and possibly five different family Christmas gatherings that I have attended and possibly will attend- that is determined if we can ever reach him. One of these gatherings is coming up Christmas day. Unfortunately, we're hosting it. It is exhausting so far, with the house cleaning part, decorating windows, food preparation and so on. Nope, not my idea. I'm doing all of this strictly for my significant other.

She deserves it, wants it and it will make her happy as long as I don't lose my temper, become frustrated and stick the tree up somebody's ass, completely obliterating their colon. That last part, knowing the in-laws, could happen. I can count on them to make things even more difficult and convoluted than they need to be. An old story.

This never worked for me. Not even with that toothless meth addicted midget I found in the alley. Her oozing sores were a dark Christmas red and green.

I'm usually an old grouch, Grinch and sometimes, a full on bastard around the holidays. I don't want to be but that's just how it is. My depression, frustration with crowds, family, traffic and all things stressful, pushes me to the edge. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for being a little less than festive- well, a lot less festive the last 6 years and I'm desperately trying to make up for it. Yes, this time around, I am really trying to make things as good as they can be this Christmas- for the wifey and for lovable ol' me.

What a beautifully festive display. Someone finally gets it right.

The positive approach is better than being negative. No matter what obstacle has been thrown my way, I've tried to make the best of it. Hell... why not? And you should see all the nice gifts I got my Sweety this year. Jewelry, even! Gosh, I'm a hell of a guy. And I haven't broken the bones in my hand with all of the patting myself on the back one bit.

What a happy-go-lucky elf I am. Not at all driven to insanity with all this holiday cheer and shit.

Yesterday, it was raining for the 10th day in a row. I hurriedly got in my truck, got my rain poncho out and came back inside, on the bottom floor. I was bound and determined to go for a walk in the park. Fuck the monsoon we were having around this goddamn area. I didn't feel like going up the stairs to my apartment and putting it on. Instead, I put the rain poncho on downstairs in front of the neighbor's door at the bottom of the stairs. Sure enough, while my head was buried and I was scrambling to get this rain poncho on right, the neighbor woman below, with her baby in her arms, pops out her door, suddenly and scares the shit out of me.

"Goddamn!," yelled I. I added, "Holy shit!"

The neighbor smiled and then asked a stupid question, "Is it raining?"

I was soaked from my head down to my boots.

I do so much love it when people do this. When people ask me obvious questions, I immediately get a boner. In fact, anytime someone does something ridiculous in front of me, I sport wood. Fuck, I must be hard all the time, eh? Pull out in front of me, suddenly, with your crappy little Smart car and I'll pitch a tent in my pants like no other. Of course, I will run over your Tonka Toy piece-o-shit with my big V-8 pickup truck while doing so, but hey, isn't that showing some Christmas spirit?

Anyway, after ranting away about how dismal the weather has been in the area, I told the neighbor to have a Merry Christmas. Maybe a little forcibly, in tone, though I didn't meant to say it like that. She wished me the same, politely, and said she had to go to work. I wondered how she was going to go to work with a baby in her arms, but, oh well.

Maybe I'll be give her a little Christmas cheer and let her have the close parking space next to the main apartment door below a couple times. I'm a real giver this year.

Anyway, Merry Christmas, everyone. Unfortunately, I'm gonna have to disrupt my blog posting challenge for the next few days because of the overwhelming upcoming events I'll be working on. Family feasts and more. That means I won't be able to post anything for the next two days, at least. Believe me. I would much rather do the blogging thing than- wait a minute- I gotta be positive no matter what.

Wish me luck!

A Praying Mantis by my door, waiting to ponce on me and bite my head off. I did mate with her, after all, and that's how they do it in Praying Mantis World. Begone, vile fucked up looking monster! I will forever regret fucking you in the ass. Especially now that my head has been bitten off.

Alice Cooper- Santa Claus is Coming to Town

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 15:06:00 PST

I like Alice Cooper's version of this song better than anyone else's. It rocks!

Krampus- Santa's Sidekick

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:03:00 PST

I remember when I was a kid and this evil looking thing with horns on it's head busted down the bedroom door and snatched me by the scrawny neck, looked me in the eyes and said, "You're going to take my place one day."

Then he threw his ghastly head back and let out a long howl, quickly followed by sinister laughter.

My dog, Sparky, came into the room and began gnawing on the demonic dude's ankle. I suppose Sparky was defending me, in his mind. Krampus calmly bent down, picked Sparky up by the scruff of his neck and said, "I'm gonna shit on your head," quite matter-of-factly.

As promised, Krampus took good ol' Sparky to the bathroom, plopped him in the bathtub and took a big healthy demonic dump on his furry lil head. Sparky shook the steaming turds off his noggin, yelped and ran out the door. It turns out that demon shit smells like a mix of honeysuckle and pinewood. But it still looks like regular shit. Except for the half-digested human head or two.

Meanwhile, I listened to Krampus' footsteps as he went downstairs and opened the refrigerator door. Deeply exhausted from a busy day of playing Kick The Retarded Boy Across The Street, I fell fast asleep again. I came to find out the morning after, that he had made himself a sandwich, before leaving the house and judging from the looks of things, he preferred the corned beef over turkey. I thought that was a good choice.

Sharing a laugh with good ol', jolly ol' St. Nick. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Had I known back then that I was dealing with a Krampus, I guess I would have been a bit more frightened. But he seemed like an honest, straight-forward guy that really knew who he was in life and was okay with that. I always say, The one who deludes himself in life is one of the biggest fools of all. I know I'm certainly not the first to say something like that. I've read of that same general idea here and there and you likely have, as well.

In any case, I have this info about Krampus, a mythical creature that has it's roots in German folklore, I'd like to share. One of my sources is from Wikipedia. The other is from the video description on YouTube.

Krampus is Santa Claus' whip-toting Christmas sidekick. According to legend, Krampus joins Santa where he tends to the children on Santa's naughty list. Krampus whips the children into shape with his whips or carries them off in his sack.

The early Catholic Church discouraged celebrations based around the wild goat-like creatures and during the Inquisition, efforts were made to stop the celebrations, completely. However, Krampus figures persisted and by the 17th century Krampus had been incorporated into Christian winter celebrations by pairing him with St. Nicholas.

As fascinating as those last two paragraphs were, I like this video, below, better.

I can't believe that's Anthony Bourdain of the show, Anthony Bourdain- No Reservations and his Layover show. I like Anthony Bourdain and his No Reservations show (he cooked with Christopher Walken, one of my favorite actors, just recently) but he carries a fairly snarky or cynical tone when he speaks. In this video, the voice narration conveys a congenial or happy mood while the story is being told.

Go figure.

Christmas Checklist

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 22:47:00 PST

It's a good idea to have a handy check list made out around this busy time of year. I learned that a list will help you keep organized and right on schedule.

Here's a few things I have on my to do list:

If you would like to make your own Christmas To Do List or any kind of list, click here.

Beautiful Christmas Ornaments

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 23:42:00 PST

Oh, what a treat! You're all cordially invited to gaze upon this fine collection of whimsical, inspirational, aesthetically pleasing holiday treasures in this most excellent post at Psycho Carnival. Behold!

Wouldn't this wonderful firefighter/merman hybrid decoration look fantastic on your tree this year? If you can find his special taint button, he may just give you a good holiday hosing.

What a magnificent addition this bacon strip ornament would be on your tree this holiday season. Nothing quite conveys the true meaning of Christmas like a lovingly crafted ornament such as this. And I double dog dare you not to eat this appealing work of art while no one is looking. Shhh. I won't tell if you won't.

Look, everyone! Why... it's a graceful ballerina, enchanting one and all with the fluidity of her magical moves and oddly proportioned bosom. If I were a betting gentleman, I would say those nipples could poke an eye out.

If you're searching for something charming to hook onto your special tree this year, look no further. These extraordinarily delightful zombie gingerbread men will enthrall family member and friend alike. You'll be the envy of the entire neighborhood, for certain. And if you're not sure if that is authentic blood gushing from their heads and legs, cast those doubts away. That's real blood- from fresh newborn kittens. Merry Christmas.

What an endearing character this jolly character is! He has the kind of winsome smile that guarantees you and your loved ones won't have reason to fear that he will suddenly sprout a torso, arms and legs and crawl up the stairs, like a crazed spider, enter your bedroom and bite you repeatedly under the sheets, shredding your flesh with delightful abandon.

It's certain you'll fall in love with this beautiful doll of an ornament. Her name is Lil' Mandy MissyLimbs Just look at the delicate features of her hands and feet. Upon closer inspection, the happy faraway look in this little girl's eyes seems to be conveying a positive message of peace and goodwill to all during this glorious holiday season. Note: Please be careful NOT to barely touch Lil' Mandy's mid-section or her entrails will likely fall out as if they were blobs of rancid jello. Seasons Greetings!

I'm not quite sure what to make of this fucking thing. Happy Holidays!

If you're looking for pleasant, finely crafted ornaments that appeal to your playful side, why not choose these two wonderful works of art? The first ornament is of a snowman showing off his caring, gentle nature by cheerfully carrying his lady friend to a house made of frosted donut balls. The second ornament reveals a scene where a good Samaritan is happily assisting a being of snow with his slightly bent lower carrot.

What inspiring lessons we can learn from these adorable figures! Both of these would make wonderful gifts for the elderly and/or religious in your family.

We, here, at Psycho Carnival, heartily and sincerely wish you and your loved ones the very merriest of a happy holiday season this year. May your cheery red yule logs and festive bearded clams become hard and wet with the joy that these decorations will bring you this Christmas. Noel!

Why Santa May Be a Little Late This Year

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 23:33:00 PST

Gotta make this a quickie video post, guys. Been doing the Christmas type visiting and shopping all day/all night and I'm too pooped to pop an elaborate post outta my festive, holly jolly holiday ol' butt. In any case, watch this video and feel the warmth of Christmas magic. Let the kids watch for extra fun. I'm not responsible for any future therapy, however.

The Furious Gingerbread Man

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 01:54:00 PST

The Gingerbread Man was furious. With weapon in hand, he was determined to slay those who dared to stand in his way. For too many years, his brethren had been made for the sole purpose of being devoured.

"Why must this be the way of things?" asked The Gingerbread Man.

He raised his hardened cake fist, shook it furiously and sobbed.

Somehow, he thought to himself, he would find a way to make humanity pay.

Suddenly, a dog came up and began munching on his gingerbread penis. This made The Gingerbread Man even more furious. The Gingerbread Man cried out, "I will be eaten no longer! I have rights! How dare you eat me!"

The dog, blown away by the fact that a cookie was talking to him, said, "Well, if this isn't some freaky shit, I don't know what is." And then the dog walked off, shaking his head and vowed to get some therapy. He realized, in those moments, that the preceding event would likely scar him for life if he didn't receive help and support with this issue. And then he licked his balls.

Furious, the Gingerbread Man ran as fast as he could back to his gingerbread house. He poured himself a drink and began to relax. Just as his nerves were beginning to settle, a man child approached and took a huge bite out of his home.

"Oh no you didn't!" screamed the really incredibly furious gingerbread man.

The man child took another big bite off the top of the roof, gobbling up a chocolate candy heart.

"MMMM... Tasty," said the man child, as cookie crumbles fell out of his mouth. The man child continued eating the gingerbread house with as much enthusiasm as a crack addict scoring a rock after being without a high for a day.

Finally, the man child's mother called out the man child's name and the little brat reluctantly ran to her, throwing a tantrum and pissing himself before throwing a fork at his mom's head.

The mother plucked the embedded fork from her forehead and with a reassuring tone, she said, "Ohhhh... that's okay, dear. Mommy will get a boo boo band aid for her head and then mommy will let you eat the rest of the gingerbread house because you are such a good little boy."

The Gingerbread Man, even more furious than before, had had enough.

He shouted, "Sweet Satan, Lord of All Who Dwell in Darkness, please give me the power to destroy those who wish to do me harm!"

A black fog swirled around The Gingerbread Man. Electricity filled the air around him. The flames of hell began to engulf him. When the flames disappeared, his form had changed. The Gingerbread Man became possessed with the spirit of a demon. And a single perfect cookie dropped from his crusty butthole.

For a moment, he felt sweet relief.

Then he became enraged because he remembered he was supposed to be furious. In the days to come, the Gingerbread Man gathered up his fellow gingerbread brethren and created a mighty delicious army.

Furious, The Gingerbread Man commanded his army to fight the humans. So powerful were the gingerbread army, in their quest, that they did, indeed, conquer all of humanity and laid waste to all of their creations. Dogs were ridden, against their will, by the gingerbread men, as if they were horses.

True.

Those humans who were not slain, were forced into slavery, cock fighting and prostitution. And when the humans were forced to copulate, the gingerbread men ate their children.

And thus began The Ten Thousand Year Reign of The Gingerbread Men. All hail their might, wisdom and absolute power!

Pervert Santa

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 17:35:00 PST

Get him while he's hot! And trapped! I thought this was humorous.

Adventures While Camping at The Gorge (Part Three)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 23:09:00 PST

For PART ONE and PART TWO of this series, click the links.

As I've mentioned before, there are some rough trails at Red River Gorge. No doubt about it. Take this photo, for instance. It shows a typical example of what a challenging trail would be like.

See the tree roots halfway embedded in the ground? Those are great fun to trip over when you're exhausted or half drunk or both.

We ate pretty good during our camping trip at The Gorge. Steve cooked most of the food while I watched him do it. He was my cook bitch. But don't tell him I said that. On this night we had grilled deer steak. And no, those aren't maggots on the meat in the picture below. They're some kind of spice/seeds that I can't think of the name of, at the moment. My friend wanted to use this on the meat to tame a little of the gamey flavor that deer tends to have.

It didn't matter to me. I can eat venison in any shape or form, with spices or without. I'm a true carnivore, damn it! If I'm hungry enough, I'll eat the balls off a bison as he's taking a leak. Wait! Not while he's pissing! I'll wait til he's fast asleep and then I'll chow down on his gamey jewels. He shouldn't wake up. Nah!

Speaking of balls, have you ever tried Rocky Mountain Oysters? Yum is the word.

We would take a breather, every so often along the trails and rest our poor saggy old asses on the natural rock formations, enjoying the inviting beauty and calm of Mother Nature. I really needed to go on this camping trip last September. I was going through some emotional calamity involving my father or wife during this time (I forget what it was, exactly) and this experience helped to bring peace and perspective to my life. It was terrific therapy for yours truly. Plus, it was crazy fun.

During the course of our adventures at The Gorge, we imbibed in adult beverages. Hard to believe, eh? In the following picture, you'll see that I am exploring my creative side by producing a talk show I put together with stuff I found on the forest ground. Enjoy, won't you?

Further exploring both our creative sides, we go to the amphitheater to put on short skits and musicals for one another while completely fucked up. I have videos of our creative masterpieces and I must say... they're really quite embarrassing- even by my standards. Luckily, no one was around and the amphitheater is pretty well hidden in the forest.

All in all, we had a fun, relaxing and invigorating time at The Gorge. If you really ever want to truly get away from the noise of the city or craziness in your life, I would suggest going here or a rustic and primitive locale similar to this. It's like a gift for your mind and spirit and it does wonders for your emotional well being. I know it does for me.

And now our journey ends. I hope you enjoyed the jaunty tour and I hope you're able to get away from it all, someday and experience the wonders of nature in all of it's uplifting glory.

Later, dudes and dudettes.

Adventures While Camping at The Gorge (Part Two)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 22:33:00 PST

To read the first part of this series click here.

After we helped each other set up our tents, we were finally able to relax. You've got to remember: We're a couple of middle-aged, overweight men who if either of us had to do a push-up, there's a ninety percent chance we would snap our arms in half and shit our pants, simultaneously.

I say that with pride as I scratch my man nuggets.

Of course, each of us had cushioned air mattresses with battery operated air pumps. Too old to sleep on a floor. Too old and out of shape to manually blow up an air mattress. Unlike the old days, when we were in our twenties, we wouldn't have been able to survive the night in the present, lying directly on the floor of a tent.

When we were in our twenties, we would hike up these insane mountains, carrying heavy backpacks and later sleep on the ground at night, on the edge of cliffs.

After the tiresome event of setting up camp, unloading our stuff from the truck and carrying this or that 3000 lb object here or there, we rewarded ourselves by sitting in fold up chairs, feeling as used up as a toothless crack ho named Lameeshqua.

I was so flippin' beat, I couldn't pour myself a drink. We did manage to build a fire, that first night, if I recall. We sat before that fire, staring into the flames, chatting about the The Firebucket Man. You'll have to read Part One of this story in order to know who I'm talking about.

We both turned in for the night, going into our tents. Then sometime in the middle of the night, I have a surreal experience in the dark of my tent. I feel like I'm going bat shit crazy. I feel like someone is attacking me inside my tent. I don't know if I'm dreaming this or half dreaming this or what. My sister suffers from night terrors but to my knowledge, I don't remember ever having an incident of that type.

My friend, Steve, said he awoke from this terrible guttural, growling noise emanating from my tent sometime that night. Now Steve is a very sound sleeper. He lives in an apartment near the railroad tracks in the busiest part of town and he can sleep through pretty much anything. Sirens going off. Fireworks. You name it. So when he says that I woke him up, that's significant news.

He thought maybe there was a bear and a dog fighting outside over food. My friend was desperately trying to remember if we had left any food outside, due to carelessness and utter exhaustion.

Every few seconds, I would let out a shriek in the previous calm of the night. He said he heard noises he couldn't describe coming from my tent and it was causing him major concern. At one point, he slowly unzipped his tent window and saw the bottom portion of my tent bucking around, like I was kicking it. I do remember kicking at my imagined attacker and punching at it's body.

Steve said he didn't know whether to go out of his tent and ask if I was alright or perform an exorcism.

Fearing that I would stab him in the chest, if he tried unzipping my tent door, with the Bowie knife I had brought with me, Steve stayed away. All of the commotion was apparently that bad.

The next morning, I was groggy and my throat was hoarse (I guess from all the noises I had made). My friend told me what happened throughout the night and I told him I thought maybe I was dreaming or that I had a panic attack of some kind. I offered to him the fact that I'm not a big fan of being in complete darkness. That may have instigated a chain of reactions in me that night but I'm not really sure what it was. Maybe it was Steve's infamous god-awful snoring that can be heard from two towns away that made me go mad. It's still a mystery.

The following nights, I doubled up on my prescription Valium to help me sleep and to help defeat the ear-bleeding decibels of snoring coming from Steve's tent. It worked. No more bear/dog/Satanic noises came from me, according to Steve. No more "dreams", either, other than a few boring ones involving a toothless crack ho and a Pee Wee Herman bobble-head. You know... the usual.

The following days we enjoyed moments of serenity as we walked on some trails and over and under a few natural sandstone bridges. There were spots along the trails where the views of Red River Gorge could truly invigorate your soul.

At one point, we saw this lizard with a chopped off tail, sitting on a trail sign, and we, in our drunken state, competed with each other in seeing how good of a close up shot we could take with our cameras. Each shot, we got increasingly closer and closer. The lizard thought we were probably nuts. Amazingly, he didn't move the whole time. After twenty minutes or so of this nonsense, we finally walked the trail to Gray's Arch. Likely, much to the lizard's relief.

Here are some pics of plants, mushrooms, trees and berries. None of which were ingested. Especially, the trees. They're kind of hard to swallow.

There were trails that had a shitload of steps to travel up and down. Though they provided a challenge, they were worth the scenic viewpoints we were lucky to be immersed in.

This year, there had been a number of incidents where bears had come into the campsites and were freaking people out, which is understandable. A few people have been attacked by bears, in the past, at The Gorge. The area is also famous for people falling off the cliffs along the trails. Here's one memorial, out of a dozen or so, dedicated to those who have died while hiking the high altitude trails. Ya gotta be careful, folks! Tee hee.

Every so often, you'll encounter signs like these at the beginning or along the trails.

Enlarge and read the cautionary print for a chuckle.

On the trail leading to Half Moon Arch, we met a guy with two dogs that had little red "saddles" on their backs. Each "doggie backpack" had two big pockets. My friend asked the pet owner what the dogs were carrying. The guy said, without missing a beat, "Bottled water and their poop."

This dude was so conscientious about his dogs leaving poop on these rough trails, hardly walked paths, that he had his dogs carry their own shit with them wherever they went. I thought that was particularly nice and thoughtful of him. Especially the part where he had his dogs packing and lugging his bottled water for him, as well.*

*snicker

And hey, at least they weren't carrying his shit.

We met a lot of interesting folks during our stay at The Gorge. Tomorrow, I will offer up the 3rd installment to this adventure. In this next episode, you will learn how to cook a deer over an open fire and you'll encounter other odd and wonderful sights along the way. See you there!

Adventures While Camping at The Gorge (Part One)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 20:57:00 PST

During the last week of September, I took off with my friend, Steve and went to Red River Gorge, which is located in east-central Kentucky in the Daniel Boone National Forest. We spent a week, there, thoroughly enjoying the quiet and serenity.

There are more than 100 natural sandstone arches and bridges in this canyon system full of waterfalls and rock cliffs. The beautiful wild flowers, mountains and valleys and unique plants only to this area can take your breath away and fill you with a force that is powerful and peaceful.

Many come to this place for the ultimate in relaxation therapy which entails nothing more than walking about the land, hiking the multitude of easy and challenging trails while taking in the inspiring sights of a full blue sky, a strong river and an endless sea of flora.

Our first day there wasn't awful. It was inconvenient. It rained before we got there and four more hours after we arrived.

Luckily, an insane man happened our way, at Koomer Ridge Campground, that sits inside The Gorge area. We were looking for a spot to pitch our tents. The dude had a scraggly beard on his narrow, well worn, leathery face and he more than slightly reminded me of Charles Manson.

The guy drove a small white truck that appeared as though somebody cruelly chopped it's ass off with a skyscraper-sized butcher knife. Hard thing to describe- this truck. A definite fail on the design. I took a picture of it at one point during the trip. Here ya go-

See that poor white thing in the middle of the picture with it's ass cut off? Yeah, that's it. It's not me I was talking about. Although some have said I am lacking in the ass department while there are others that just rave about my beautiful ass. Must be the curly auburn hair and two little dimples that are scattered about the landscape of my bottom. Oops. Just farted. Oh, and the delicate aromas wafting outwards, so I've heard, have been voted for the People's Choice Award.

No applause, please.

The guy pulled up alongside our brown pickup truck and made it look like we were riding in Mechagodzilla, our first day there.

Fortunately, their chaperon didn't interfere.

While the rain poured and "Charles Manson" spoke, we couldn't help but notice there were six tall white buckets, in the back of his "truck" that had flames rising up around 6 inches from the top of the buckets. On closer inspection, looking down and to the right, we saw that he was carrying burning wood in those buckets that were only inches away behind his seat.

We said to him, breaking into his rambling, almost in unison, "Did you know you're on fire?"

He nodded, casually and then said, "Oh yeahhhh, that's just the firewood I picked up and put in my arms in a bundle from a few camp sites down the road here. Then I put 'em into the buckets."

We were still looking at him in confusion for 3 reasons. One, it's pouring down rain like a mothertrucker and the wood is going to be thoroughly soaked, extinguishing the flames in a short period of time. Two, YOU PICKED UP FLAME-ENGULFED LOGS? And three, why would you put them in plastic buckets in the very near vicinity of the back of your small freakish truck? Ah, I can't forget the fourth one... Wouldn't it have been less difficult to completely put out the firewood before grabbing onto it?

As if in response to our confusion, he told us he was the campground host. I knew what that meant but it didn't really explain things. His job, as campground host, is to look after and clean up the campground facilities and answer questions people might have about the overlooks and scenic points at Red River Gorge and assist us in any directions and rules, pertaining to the Koomer Ridge campground.

We chuckled nervously and let the thing about the fire pass. It was his business whether he carried fire in plastic buckets in the back of his short shitty truck. I just wanted to move along, in case there was an explosion. We asked him where was the best double occupancy campsite that would enable both of us to put our tents on. The grizzled host told us what we wanted to know and we rushed away and not until we were far enough down the road, did we laugh at his expense. The guy actually seemed friendly enough and not once did he sneak into our camp site and cut off my head. So for that, I say he's A-Okay and a cracker jack of a gentleman.

Yes, indeed.

We went to the Hemlock Lodge, later, relaxing and drinking coffee, looking out the large glass windows as the rain continued pouring. We couldn't set up camp yet. It was both soothing and invigorating as we sat there at the lodge, hearing the drops hit the roof, crawl down the glass. We saw the lake below, the tall oaks and maples. Pure nirvana.

The pounding rain eventually dwindled into a drizzle and then a sprinkle. We headed off to our camp site and by the time we got there, the rain had stopped and we were able to set up camp. And we had a lot of stuff to unpack, too. Gas stove, utensils, flashlights, our meds, my insulin, backpacks, suitcases full of clothes, boxes of food, chairs, adult beverages (which aren't allowed) and who knows what.

Really. I can't tell you what else we had because I was inebriated or something about half the time we were down there. Nature, adult beverages, good talks and great walks throughout our time at The Gorge all swirled together like a fantastical realm of perfect balance and color-infused harmony.

Yeah, baby. Can ya dig it?

Here's our camp site, above and a few other charming pictures, below, taken during our adventures. Yes, that is me, pinching my frozen nips one morning. Oh, what a glorious time I had. :) I know you want to insert your own sick jokes here. And by sick jokes, I mean your dicks.

You sick freaks!

Just kidding, lady bloggers out there. I know you aren't hermaphrodites. Well, I guess not. Just going by the times I window-peeped on ya.

If you want to see more pics of my camping trip at Red River Gorge, I've got a photo album on Facebook that has 216 photos in it. If you have friended me, already, feel free to look at them. Quite a few are wallpaper worthy. If you haven't friended me, or don't do the Farcebook thing, well, what are you waiting for? I mean... Good Golly and Holy Buh-Jeezus! As long as I feel I can trust you somewhat to not rape, rob and sodomize me with a tractor mower, I will accept your friend invitation. I'm easy.

Stay tuned for Part Two of my Adventures While Camping at The Gorge, coming up tomorrow.

Hanging On a Star

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 22:27:00 PST

Been bogged down in the mumps, the ol' depressionary state, currently. The red line under "depressionary" is telling me that it's not a word and that I'm a retard. Damn, I can't do anything right. Lately, yeah, I think that title might just fit me. Retard. Maybe "Retard Extraordinaire". Ha. That could be more fitting.

I feel like I'm saying the wrongs things to quite a few people in my inner circle of friends and family. The ol' guilt thing is kickin' my ass all the way to the the moon, as of late. Time to time, I make my attempt to get off that moon of guilt, trying to hook my arm around a star and maybe, if I'm lucky, I will be able to walk down some of those stars. Maybe I'll make it back to Planet Earth soon and shake my own hand and call a truce on the guilt thing going on inside my head.

It's a battle of wills. And getting back to being comfortable with myself...

...would be dandy.

Anyway, the more I listen to this, the more I like it. The song is called The Fun Machine Took a Shit and Died

Don't listen to it if you don't want to listen to it. I don't wanna twist your arm. It's just, I think, some brand spankin' new music from Queens of The Stone Age. Supposedly, they're coming out with a new album, early in 2012. God, I hope it's early. The planet is supposedly blowing up on the 21st of December. If I find out the new album is going to be late- like after the 21st of December, 2012, well, it won't be a pretty picture.

I mean-

I'll be really steamed. I'll buy a strange bobble-head collection and take it with me to the nearest fine dining type of joint, put one of the bigger ones down my pants with just the bobble hanging out of my fly, register the looks on the faces of fellow patrons and ultimately poke my bobble into someone's martini.

A plan, conceived.

But I doubt it will happen. After all, bobble-heads freak me out. No, I won't buy a bobble-head. The name, itself, sounds perverted.

Of course, this scenario just popped into my mind:

I go up to Mrs. Claus. She's kinda old but kinda hot and wearing something red and fluffy. I guess it's a coat. And I say something suave.

"Hey! Wanna see my bobble-head, Mrs. Claus? It's got a red, Christmassy glow. Don't have any idea why. Must be the STD I got in ol' Meh-hee-go."

I often have sex fantasies about Mrs. Claus. Who doesn't?

Mexico. Hmmm....

Beats ol' GuiltLand, where I'm currently residing, nowadays. Or maybe not. Should I feel guilty about boning a mythical, beloved holiday character, by the way? No, I'm not talking about a certain high profile, female Republican candidate that's running for president.

Beloved. Heh.

I think I just watched a documentary type show on TV, detailing a true story that had a guy interviewing a group of middle aged golfer guys, involved in said story and reenactment of their individual experiences on their trip to Mexico. They end up getting robbed, almost killed and then almost getting robbed or worse again by some corrupt cops. I think it was some kind of "I survived my vacation" type show that's airs once a week on The Travel Channel. They said incidents like the ones those golfer guys had didn't happen that often.

Eh. Okay. Maybe not. I don't want to assume. Heck no.

The story before that or afterwards showed actual video of some dumbass getting his flesh torn apart by a lion. This guy, who had never dealt with lions before, happily volunteered to go into the cage with the lion. Then he begins to reach out to pet the lion, the first time, basically wearing only a hoody/sweatjacket type thing and some thin jogger's pants. Then Bippy Dippyshit gets a warning swipe, the first time, with a paw. The dude cried out, "OOOOOW". A little blood was spilled. But the dude continued. And continued. Seeing this idiot play with this lion, as if it were a kitten and then getting his leg meat tore into, like human filet mignon, before he was rescued, cheered me right up.

I know I haven't been around the blogging scene much. I've been doing too much false starting here. I've been getting sidetracked. But I think I'm going to attempt pull a blog-rabbit out of my ass again. Like I did in the Spring of this year, I think I'm going to challenge myself to another blogging duel. Yes. I shall bloggeth every day until the end of December. And I shall also endeavor to visit everyone's blogs like a man with a quest to reach the highest star. Isn't that inspiring? Doesn't it just fill your panties with a load of pungent glee?

Now when the end of December comes up, I will self destruct- or perhap I'll save my explosion until next year about this time. I wanna time it just right. Don't wanna stray from the pack too much. I really want to fit in with the crowd (just like always) and with all of the others that fateful day who will pop open like a smokey pinata. Because, as you might and maybe could tell... I'm an obedient conformist.

Mmm. I'm thinking of bacon flavored candy falling out of a big gash. Insert joke here.

If anyone wants my collection of Pepsi/Star Wars Episode One cans, before Doomsday, I may be willing to swing ya a lucrative deal that will flip you utterly out.

See you tomorrow or bust.

Contact me at pantloadfullofglee@hatemail.com about the cans. I'm feeling better already.

Toadie in "Haunted Bordello" (Final Chapter)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 17:49:00 PST

If you haven't read the first two installments of this enchanting tale, click here for Part One and here for Part Two.

The spirit of "Bent Joe" Paulson stepped menacingly toward Toadie, Val and the ghost, Annie, interrupting their lovemaking.

Wide-eyed, Toadie stuttered until he could finally say, "Toadie may be frightened to the point of shitting himself silly right now... but Toadie can't help to wonder... Why do they call you "Bent Joe?"

Annie warned, "Don't rile up his tail feathers, Mr. Toadie!"

The cowboy ghost dropped his pants and pointed to his crooked ghostly penis.

"Bent Joe" growled, "This is why, you mush-headed, numb-nutted dimwit! You satisfied now?"

Toadie replied, "Toadie thinks you have a bad case of acute dicklopsidedness."

Snarling, the ghost got up into Toadie's face and said, "You sayin' I have a cute dick?"

The sound of a car pulling up, down below, cut through the dead silence of the night.

"Bent Joe" Paulson pulled up his pants, cocked his head with a curious expression on his face and said, "I sense one of my kinfolk is here."

What the cowboy ghost was sensing was the sudden arrival of his great-great grandson, Henry Paulson. Paulson had, coincidentally, turned into the old west town as a means of escape.

Henry Paulson had made a lot of people angry with his latest televised interview because of his statements concerning why he thought people of the Occupy Movement were so angry. He was completely off the mark with his remarks. An Occupy group had caught sight of Paulson, outside the studio after his interview and wanted to share their opinions with him.

Instead of being bothered further with any more questions or accusations, Paulson had waved them off before saying, "Go get a job instead of complaining. It's your fault that you're poor."

With that said, the group ran towards him, shaking their fists and shouting obscenities. The former CEO of Goldman Sachs got into his limousine, told his driver to start the car and leave the city, immediately.

Wanting to avoid the peasants and miscreants of the area, altogether, Paulson instructed his chauffeur to take him on a few quiet desert roads for a bit of peace and untroubled thinking. While the chauffer drove Paulson on a few mostly desolate roads, the wealthy man poured himself glass after glass of expensive cognac until finally, they arrived at a ghost town.

Looking out the window, the old man nervously searched the area around them. He thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes peering over the saloon doors of an old bordello. Within a few seconds, they disappeared.

Then the limo's engine began sputtering.

"What's wrong with the car?" asked Paulson.

The driver shrugged and said, "I don't know, sir. It was given a tune up not long ago."

That's when the limousine stopped running, completely. The driver and Paulson immediately pulled out their cell phones. Neither of them were working. Suddenly, all the lights and the electronics in the car went out. They were sitting in near darkness with only the moonlight shining dimly around them.

Paulson's chauffeur, Riley, said, "Sir, I'm going to have a look around and see if I can find a phone or something we can use."

Riley got out of the car. Not wanting to be left alone, Paulson opened the car door and joined his driver. "Hold on," said the old man, "Another pair of eyes may help."

After finding out the flashlights in the limousine didn't work, Riley and Paulson started walking. The crunch of their footfalls and their breathing were the only sounds that they heard. And then a voice came from the nearby saloon.

"What are you looking for?"

At first, Paulson thought he might be imagining the voice- until he saw that it was obvious that Riley had heard it, as well.

Riley, unafraid, walked up to the doors of the saloon asked, "Who's in here?"

Receiving no answers, Riley pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon. The chauffeur walked inside. Paulson stayed close behind him. They were at the bar when a fiery orb appeared from nowhere. The orb quickly transformed into a recognizable human form- at least, to Paulson, it was recognizable.

The ghost said, "The word is, is that you've been an ornery, inconsiderate sonabitch, my great-great grandson."

Paulson placed his hand on his head. He was feeling faint. Perspiration, with traces of blood, ran down his face and neck until it soaked into the collar of his once neatly pressed dress shirt.

After gathering the strength and courage to speak, Paulson said, "You're my great-great grandfather. How can this be?"

Before the ghost could reply to his kinfolk's inquiry, Toadie and Valerie came down the steps. Annie floated down and met them. All eyes were fixated on "Bent Joe" until Valerie and her seemingly dim-witted friend, Toadie, recognized the old man in the business suit.

Toadie laughed and felt a thunderous cloud of methane pop out of his anus. The uncomfortable silence had been shattered by the awkward fart and caused everyone to turn toward Toadie. Everyone, including "Bent Joe".

Toadie pointed at Paulson and stated, "Toadie agrees with "Bent Joe". You are a sonafabitch."

Paulson was taken aback by the slightly retarded man and his words.

Toadie continued, "Don't act confused or startled, you fucking turd! You, Ben Bernanke, Alan Greenspan and the rest of the major guilty players in the great debacle that is our current Great Recession, allowed the housing bubble to expand to the point of exploding in everyone's faces. And instead of bailing out homeowners, they bailed out greedy bankers, causing events to be triggered that very quickly caused our economy to go into a horrible downward spiral. Because of people like you, who had a major part in keeping up the deregulation of the financial industry, we are experiencing the residual effects of not only your greed but your inconsideration of the people in this country. Meanwhile, you stay wealthy, get wealthier, manipulate the media, the government and generally tell the vast majority of the public to go fuck themselves and make out like they are the ones who are the criminals. All you care about is money, power and manipulation. The majority of people in this country, who are the neglected... who are protesting, meanwhile, are arrested... or worse."

"Bent Joe" pushed at Paulson's chest, crying out, "You're nothin' but a piece of snobby, arrogant, thievin' shit!"

Henry Paulson stumbled back and stuck his foot into an old spittoon. Panicking, Paulson felt the spittoon latch onto his foot, pressing the leather of his shoe against flesh and bone. Unbeknownst to the living folks inside the saloon, the spittoon was possessed by the spirit of Toadie's great-great grandfather, Gregory McKelly.

The spittoon laughed when Paulson fell on his ass. A sharp pain followed, causing the old man to scream in agony. It felt like something had abruptly fractured or broke near his ass. Riley pulled the spittoon off of his employer's foot and tossed it to the side. A face appeared on the spittoon as it shook and rattled across the room. The spittoon emitted an eerie bale of laughter as it skittered and rolled back and forth across the old wooden floor.

Riley freaked out and ran out of the saloon, leaving the old man to fend for himself. Paulson crawled out the door like an injured cockroach. His chauffeur got into the car and tried starting the car. Fortunately, it started. Riley looked over at Henry Paulson, saluted him and promptly left the haunted ghost town, spinning his wheels and leaving his employer in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

"Wait for me!" commanded the old man, as he writhed in pain, finally making it out of the saloon.

Toadie, Val and Annie laughed at the old man, turned their backs and headed upstairs for a sprightly human/ghost orgy. As far as they were concerned, the show was over and there was nothing more to say. They opened the door to the room upstairs and very quickly got busy.

The spirit of Paulson's great-great grandfather remained for a few moments, staring at Paulson's quivering form and then shook his head before stating, "You only have yourself to blame, son."

And then he vanished, entirely.

The next day, Toadie and Valerie thanked Annie for the great time. When they left the saloon, the engaged couple stepped over Paulson, who was still moaning and continued to walk out of the old western town, hoping that someone would eventually come down the highway and offer them a ride. Luckily, they were found and taken back to a town where they could rent a car and continue their travels westward.

And this concludes our story, folks. Have a dandy weekend!

For more Tales of the Toadie, click on any or all of these fine links:

Toadie in "Happy Anniversary"

Toadie in "Road Rage Spectacular"

Toadie in "First Love"

Toadie in "The Christmas Trip" (Part 1)

Toadie in "The Christmas Trip" (Part 2)

Toadie in "Haunted Bordello" (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 22:46:00 PDT

Click right here, folks, in order to read the first part of this classic type of ultra fine and sophisticated American Literature so you can make sense of the whole story. I wouldn't want you to be "lost in the woods", so to speak. Or would I? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Upon closer inspection, the slightly mentally challenged Toadie realized the people in the old photograph were his great-great grandparents, Gregory McKelly and Donna Mae McKelly. Toadie remembered seeing similar photos of his great-great grandparents in a family album when he was a kid. His sweet Auntie Kay had told him that "his great-great grandparents were outlaws of the Old West and were fond of drinkin', raising a lil' hell and robbin' banks- but that they were beloved by many because of their good-natured sense of humor and the fact that they gave a lot of their money away."

While looking intently at the photo, the characters in the photo mysteriously began to move. Instead of his late grandfather pointing his gun upward, he was dropping his arm downward, allowing the gun to point to the side. Then, surprisingly, the photo began to change in varying colors. But what was most unnerving, was that the frame around the photo changed, as well, with the indented pattern in the wood, unraveling, curling into twisted flowers, then returning back into it's original form.

Toadie jumped back, tripping over an old brass spittoon and screamed. The photograph immediately returned to it's original state, which was followed by laughter echoing from the rooms upstairs. These were the same rooms where prostitutes cheerfully entertained patrons of the saloons by humping them until their semen had been thoroughly depleted from their scrotal sac.

Toadie stuttered a bit, expelled a long, awkward fart and finally was able to blurt out, "Toadie needs Valerie to come here!"

When Valerie joined him, Toadie explained what he had seen and that the people in the photograph were his great-great grandparents.

Startled, Valerie held Toadie tight and said, "That photo is remarkably clear for how old it is. It's like it was taken just a year ago."

Toadie said, nervously, "Toadie's afraid. Will you comfort Toadie by giving him head, please?"

Suddenly, a blonde haired woman, garbed in a black dress, was sitting on an old piano across the saloon. She had appeared from a gathering mist and, almost immediately, began to speak.

"If she doesn't suck the venom from your snake, Sugar Buns, I would be willing to give it a try."

Frozen with fright, Toadie and Valerie stared at the ghost, feeling helpless.

The ghost said, "The name's Annie and pleasure is my business."

She smiled, seductively and drifted over to where the engaged couple were standing.

Annie warned, "If you know what's good for you, you'll head on upstairs before "Bent Joe" Paulson comes in here. He doesn't like strangers in HIS TOWN."

Valerie paused anxiously, before inquiring, "Who's Bent Joe?"

The ghost circled around the brunette and whispered, "He's the most evil bastard you NEVER wanna lay eyes on, sweetie. He'll tear you apart, whether you want it or not."

Annie turned to Toadie and placed her cold hand on the crotch of his pants. Even though he was scared, Toadie still sported wood and drooled a bit. His "snake" drooled a bit, too.

Annie remarked, "Besides, if you two follow me upstairs, I promise you won't be bored." She giggled at that and gave Val a little peck on the cheek.

Without warning, the saloon doors were thrown open. A glowing orb passed through the entrance. It seemed to be burning with red flames. Annie, Val and Toadie could feel the hostility emanating from it.

"Time to go," warned Annie.

Toadie and Val quickly followed the ghost upstairs into one of the rooms. When they were inside, the old wooden door slammed shut.

Toadie and Valerie stared at each other, shaking. Toadie said, "Toadie doesn't see the hot blonde anymore."

Valerie gave him a stern look. "So you think she's hot, huh?"

Toadie pointed to his dick and said, "The penis doesn't lie." And then he laughed, scratched his ass and plopped onto the bed like a big sack of creamy, maggot-infested potatoes.

A few quiet moments passed until Valerie, aroused by the sight of Toadie's meaty totem pole, joined Toadie on the other side of the bed. She looked out the window and said, "Do you think we'll be okay in here for awhile?"

Toadie saw how the moonlight reflected on Valerie's face and allowed his gaze to travel down to the outline of her soft, firm breasts beneath her shirt. He imagined sucking on her tits and blowing his wad on them. But not vice versa, of course. Toadie would think that to be uncouth.

"Toadie loves you," said Toadie, "Toadie won't let anything happen to you."

Valerie leaned over, kissed her fiancee gently on the lips and complimented him. "You're so romantic, Toadie"

Toadie said, "Can Toadie fuck you in the ass now?"

No longer being able to hold herself back from the suave gentleman, Valerie took off her clothes. Toadie hurriedly removed his clothes, as well. Moments afterwards, the engaged couple were happily fornicating.

And then a mist appeared next to them. Annie made herself visible. Without asking if she could join in, she began rubbing Valerie's wet, glistening love button. At first, the ghost's hand was cold but then it quickly warmed up. Valerie moaned, realizing the ghost was back in their presence and was, nevertheless, enjoying her touch. Annie then turned her attention to Toadie, pulling his walloping prick from Valerie's wide open beaver gobbler and sucking it with terrific fervor.

Toadie shouted, "Hurrah!"

Further pleasures were exhibited and felt throughout the night. Bodily fluids were exchanged. Annie the ghost rode Toadie like a crazed, horny baboon. At one point, Valerie lapped at Annie's ghostly nips. And so on.

Abruptly, a fiery orb passed through the door and entered the room. Val, Toadie and Annie hadn't noticed. The orb slowly transformed into the spirit of "Bent Joe" Paulson. The cowboy was seething with rage as he shook his fists and screamed, "I'll teach you!"

Stay tuned for Part 3, the last chapter to this story, next time. Hope you have a great weekend!

Toadie in "Haunted Bordello" (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 23:08:00 PDT

Sure, I'm a little late with this Halloweenish type post entry... but do I care? Fuck no! My advice is to sit back, read this fine wholesome tale of insanity and mayhem and hold tight.

But before you jump in with both feet, you may want to check out this link and this link to bring you up to speed with this post, Toadie's latest adventure.

Toadie, a semi-retarded man and his girlfriend, Valerie, decided to move in together when they got back to Chicago after their "Christmas Trip" adventure. No longer was the 34 year old man under the care of his friends, Maggie and Rufus, though they did go to Valerie's apartment to see how he was doing every so often. They were, in fact, happily surprised to find that their younger cousin and somewhat dim-witted friend were moving along in their relationship to the point of being engaged to be married.

Then one morning...

Shaking the sleeping brunette from her sleep, Toadie leaned in close to his girlfriend's face and excitedly exclaimed, "Toadie wants to go on another road trip!"

Valerie, startled, opened her eyes and punched Toadie in the face, causing him to flip over the side of the bed and onto the floor. Toadie quickly got to his feet and much like an over-stimulated pet in dire craving for attention, he got back onto the bed.

Toadie said, "Toadie knows what Valerie wants for breakfast this morning."

Slightly annoyed but still curious, Valerie opened her eyes again and saw Toadie's impressive penis staring her in the face. Even though they had been fucking, quite frequently, since coming back home, she still couldn't believe how ginormous Toadie's dick was when was he hard. The only part of Toadie's anatomy that could equal the impressiveness of his schlong was his lengthy tongue; which gave Valerie many pleasurable, memorable experiences.

Valerie reached out and pulled Toadie's wang closer to her mouth. Just before taking it in, she looked at her lover's face and asked, "You're giving me the big sausage, again?" Toadie smiled and then said, "Only the best for my loving, gentle petunia ."

After Toadie and Valerie did the ol' "bump n' grind", the couple discussed taking another road trip. Toadie's normally successful methods of persuasion often left Valerie satisfied and bug-eyed.

A week later, the couple drove out onto the highway and set a course for Arizona. Along the way, they stopped at a diner for a quick lunch before heading back out onto the road. During the course of their lunch, Toadie looked up from his plate of food and watched what was happening on a television in the back corner wall. Valerie peered up from her burger to see Henry Paulson, in an interview, berating a reporter for bringing unwelcome facts to viewers and making him appear to be an unsympathetic bastard.

The former US Treasury Secretary and CEO of Goldman Sachs pointed toward the reporter and said, "The more accurate reason behind the Occupy Wall Street protest is that the majority of the poor and unemployed in this country are envious of the upper class. They want what the wealthier citizenry in this nation have- but since they don't feel they should put the effort forth to attain a better life for themselves, they will, instead, attend these radical protests in the hopes of swaying government decisions."

The reporter inquired, "So you don't feel that one possible reason behind the "Occupy" protests could be that the people are angry that the government is being influenced and manipulated by banks, corporations and the powerful one percent in America?"

Henry Paulson smirked for a second and then whispered, "The bottom feeders are just joining in the fray of this desperate act of futility instead of attempting to find employment."

The reporter asked, "What was that?"

Paulson said, loud enough to be heard, "I believe there are certain members of society who feel disenfranchised because of the current state of our economy."

Toadie leaned far to one side and butt burped a long, aromatic fart that wafted in the air and was inhaled by several elderly people in a nearby booth. The geriatrics suddenly clutched their throats and chests. George, an old gentleman sitting on the outside half of the booth, mumbled a short prayer before exclaiming, "Something is amiss!"

At that, George's head plopped down in a bowl of oatmeal. Important Information: The oatmeal was flavored with cinnamon powder and tiny, organically grown chunks of naturally sweet Granny Smith apples.

The old man in the oatmeal bowl laboriously exhaled, which produced from his mouth a bubble made of a combination of warm oats and two percent milk (and let's not forget those delicious apples!).

When Valerie and Toadie paid their bill, they returned to the car and drove into the state of Arizona. Their destination was the Grand Canyon. But after an hour of driving they became lost and confused. The joint they began smoking upon passing the state line might have had something to do with it. Who knows? I mean, it's not like I know the story or something.

Eventually, Val and Toadie completely went off the beaten track and wound up in a ghost town. Now, if you had been paying attention to the more northern portion of this blog post, you will have noticed a blog post title- which would, of course, given you a clue as to where this most amazing story was leading.

Ahem... and stuff.

Toadie and Val slowly drove into the long abandoned town. You could almost hear the eerie music in the background, but not quite, because Val had a radio station on that was playing Alternative music set at high volume. Toadie cocked his head and saw a few doors to old wooden shops and a saloon slam open and shut. He thought this odd because the air was still.

As they stopped in the middle of the small old western town in order to back up and turn around, the car made a chugging noise and then shook a little. Valerie looked down at her dashboard. The car had run out of gas. They sat there for a few moments, quiet in thought. The sun gradually made it's decent behind some far away mountains in the desert. Saguaro cacti covered most of the area they were in.

Toadie got out of the car and convinced himself that it was a good idea to go into one of the vacant buildings to search for anything that could help them. Valerie went into what was once a saloon and bordello. In the days of the Old West, this bordello had employed a dozen or so prostitutes. A woman by the name of Annie was the Madam of the place. She was a beautiful blonde haired, good-natured woman who had sucked many a cowboy off back in the day. It was rumored she had fallen in love with a cowboy named Joe.

When Toadie went past a wall in the saloon, he shook his head, curious and surprised at who he thought he saw in an old picture hanging on the wall. He took his key light out of his pocket, shined it toward the picture and upon closer inspection, he remembered seeing the people in the old photograph.

Stayed tuned for part two of this enchanting tale.

Hocus Pocus and Presto Change-o. Here's the link for Part 2 of this stimulating, educational yarn. :)

Give This Dog Some Food, Stupid Bastard!

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 19:41:00 PDT

This evil bastard in the video makes his dog so sad, the dog resorts to doing things he never felt possible doing before. This is what happens- after what you see in this video...

RutRo, The Talking Dog, jumps on his owner's bed when he's asleep and takes a big brown, steaming dump directly into his cruel master's mouth. Then the bastard suffocates, dies, loses control of his bowels and then the maid comes in... there's an awkward silence. She cuts a petite fart... Places a finger upon her lips (not her wrinkly pussy lips, mind you) and acts all coy and bashful- until- a car suddenly crashes through the house and the mayhem starts with a bang as the maid's head is cleanly cut off with a flying piece of broken glass.

Our hero dog is shocked, at first, but then he begins to devour chunks of both the old maid and his owner, making the world a better, more awesome place. Except the part where the house collapses and the dog, busy gobbling on a liver, is crushed into peanut butter.

Everyone comes to the scene, wanting to help and all that shit, but that's when the earthquake shakes the ground, opens up a quarter mile gap and believe it or not, takes the whole neighborhood. Of course, this is when God peeks his head through the clouds, shouts, "Dumb Fuckers!" and takes his size 1,583 shoe and smacks all of us about like those damn lady bugs that get in your house when it gets cold outside.

Good weekend to all.

My Spouse's Heroism

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 20:29:00 PDT

I had many surprises, mostly good and a few that were unfortunate, happen to me and those close to me during the summer. One such event, that had dramatic elements of bad and good, occurred about two months ago and it's one I'll never forget. And it's one that made me take a better, more appreciative look at the woman I married.

The scene: My father, who has dementia and is extremely verbally abusive, is found at a McDonald's restaurant inside the local Wal Mart store. It was one of those times, out of several over the summer, where he went somewhere and I and another family member had to go searching for him. Those are all long stories that I can't/won't go into for the moment. Suffice it to say, he's a big pain in the ass and after trying to get him put in a nursing home for months, we keep hitting a brick wall. No one will help us. He threatens. He shakes his fist while ranting and insulting those around him. He's unfocused. He gets dizzy spells and the list goes on and on. Still, the lawyers and a few doctors out of a majority of doctors say he has just enough marbles to fight against being put in a nursing home against his will- which is what it would take.

Please... don't ask any questions about the "Dad Dilemma." As I said, there are too many details to go into with this ongoing, depressing part in my family's lives and I would be sitting here, writing for hours, if I started to explain it all.

So I won't.

Anyway, we finally find the crazy, abusive bastard at a table at McDonald's. Dad is eating his french fries, muttering and ranting about whatever while my wife and I calmly listen and wait for him to shut up long enough where we can ask him if we can take him home- which will inevitably lead to a heated argument. Then next thing we hear, over Dad's ramblings, is a horrendous scream. At first, at least to me, it sounded like a coworker in the food preparation area of McDonald's had suddenly surprised another coworker. Like a prank scenario. And then everyone in the small dining area hears a loud "thunk" on the floor from the back. My wife, a young guy that's a Wal Mart employee and I go rushing to the open back door to the kitchen.

Sprawled out on the linoleum floor of the kitchen (or whatever they call it) is a woman who has a big gash in her head. Blood is gushing out of her wound and she is moaning and breathing erratically. I stand there, frozen. I can't move. My anxiety disorder kicks in and debilitates my ability to do anything positive.

Ever since my mom's death years ago, the vision of her in my mind of the way she looked when I saw her, in death, I don't respond well or not at all in intense or stressful situations. I have all the usefulness as a lump of fungus. In surprise situations, like the one that night, it's even worse.

I'm not trying to make an excuse. That's just how I am now.

My wife turns back and gently pushes me away from the doorway. The Wal Mart employee shouts, "I'm going to get help." He runs off. My wife takes the cell phone out of the holster on my belt and calls 911. Meanwhile, in a daze, I shuffle back to the table where Dad is sitting. He's still eating french fries, oblivious to whatever is going on around him. The only thing I can think about is all the blood on the floor in the back room.

The only other McDonald's employee is a nervous, crying young woman. She's as useless as me at the moment. She's wringing her hands and looking around, waiting for someone to do something for her fellow coworker, the victim on the floor. She kinda walks around in the dining area, fidgeting and looking afraid. I look at her and wish she would help the woman in the back kitchen area but then I wish I would do the same.

My wife, on the other hand, with a tone of controlled urgency, explains to the 911 dispatcher what has happened, as far as she knows, and where the accident has taken place. I watch her until it finally dawns on me of what's going on. Then several people walk up to the counter and begin to become agitated because they can't place an order. I become agitated because it is starting to become apparent that there is a real emergency situation afoot and these dumb fuckers are worrying about getting their next Quarter Pounder with cheese.

While customers are grumbling about being waited on, my wife goes into the kitchen and kneels by the poor woman's side. The woman was getting paler by the minute, according to my wife. A pool of blood was forming all around the woman and running into the crevices of the floor. Still, the woman was mumbling and trying to raise her head off the floor. My wife told her to lie still and not move. My wife likely helped save her life, just doing that part. Not to mention calling the emergency telephone number. I think she helped keep the woman alive several ways that night.

Minutes passed until a Wal Mart manager finally shows up. The manager was accompanied by two other employees. Instead of helping the woman on the floor, they ask my wife how the woman is. My wife tells them her breathing is erratic and she's lost a lot of blood. My wife is shaking now, at this point, afraid the woman is going to die. Still, she stays by the woman's side, crouched down, saying words of comfort near her ear. The Wal Mart employees at the door tell my wife to keep doing what she's doing. In my mind, they're being useless in the situation, as well.

The manager does do one thing. She grabs a towel and throws it to my wife, who she apparently believes is the only one who can do anything (even though my wife has zero medical training) and tells my wife, "You should put that over the cut in her head and apply pressure."

Fearing the woman is going to die, my wife takes the towel and applies pressure over the gash. Eventually, a couple emergency first responders show up and come into McDonald's. I point to the kitchen area and say, "Back there."

Dad stops eating french fries long enough to ask what's going on. When I tell him about the situation, he says, "Ah... I've seen people bleed before. It's no big deal. Who is it? Anyone I know? Why are you looking like that? You're acting stupid." I tell him, "I don't know what her name is. I didn't ask the woman her name or look at her name tag as all the blood was gushing from her head."

One of the customers, pissed off, said, "The service is really bad in here. I tried to get some Chicken McNuggets up front and no one would come up and take my order." I find this statement disgusting and for a second, oddly humorous. But then I become annoyed at this redneck's stupidity to the point where I walk over to his table, turn around and cut a silent but pungent fart, directly in his face.

Of course, since we were at a McDonald's, he probably couldn't distinguish the aroma of anything on the menu and my turd fog.

Worried about my wife's emotional welfare, I went to the kitchen and motioned for my wife to rise up and come out into the dining room area. She had done enough and it was time for the first responders to do their job. After coaxing her with gentle words and hand gestures, she finally leaves the woman's side and joins me. Around this time, the EMT's come to the back and do what they're trained to do.

I tell my wife how brave and kind I thought she was for doing what she did for the victim. I tell her how impressed I was that she took action whereas I and everyone else didn't do enough or anything at all.

My Dad sees my wife and asks, "What's that woman's name back there?"

My wife said, "I don't know. I think her name tag said Sarah."

And then my wife grabbed me and started crying into my chest. I rubbed her back and told her she did everything that could be expected of her and more and that everything might turn out okay. She was shaking and crying. I tried comforting her as best I could.

Meanwhile, people were grumbling and taking their sweet time in getting the hell out of the way after being told to move for the victim who was being taken out of the store on a gurney. At this point, I was telling them to move out of the way, as well and that it wasn't a sideshow act taking place. I was finally starting to return to my normal state of mind. Actually, when I farted in Mr. Chicken McNugget's face, earlier, I may have been getting back into my normal groove, my normal state of mind. Who knows?

Everyone reacts differently in extreme emergency situations, for certain. I'm just glad my wife took appropriate action when others didn't. In my mind, my wife had an important hand in saving the woman's life. There aren't enough words to describe how impressed I am of her and how much I think of her as a hero. Whenever I bring up the story to other people, it bothers her because of all the memories of the blood on the floor and the woman, in pain, come into her mind. I feel bad that it causes her this distress but I can't help telling the story because of how proud I am of her.

We found out later that Sarah, the woman who fell to the floor and almost lost her life, turned out to come out of the accident, alive. We were also told Sarah had a history of seizures, before. That night, she had had the most devastating seizure of them all. Sarah was released from the hospital two days later. I was surprised at that, considering how much blood she lost that night. She was likely released in only two days because the health insurance company didn't want to pay for her to stay at the hospital any longer. I've heard that with a lot of head wounds, people have a tendency to bleed profusely but the amount of blood I saw looked like something out of a horror movie.

In conclusion, I would say my wife is a better person than I, when it comes to helping people. She's certainly more generous with her time, when it comes to listening or taking action. I know she helps take care of me everyday and I try to do the same for her but I feel like I don't do enough at times. But that's my hang up. When I look back on that night and all of the varied ways she gives of herself, I feel blessed that I married a woman like that.

Halloween Mask Ideas

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 21:56:00 PDT

Which one is the right mask for you?

A Damn Breaky-Doodle-Dandy

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 18:16:00 PDT

Man. Does anyone still remember me? Is anyone out there? Anyone give a flying fucka-roonie? Don't blame ya if ya don't. Hell, I've stayed away so long from BlogLand (like that itchy anal wart you just can't reach with the ointment) that it wouldn't surprise me if you consider me some sort of pariah. Besides, I well know there's more important shit to give a fuck about these days.

Like...

*The economy

*Lack of jobs

*Wars, protests and manipulation by the super wealthy

*and this guy

Trouble is, is that there are so many of these Republican cartoon characters to choose from, laugh at or cringe towards, it's hard to decide who to ignore the most and cast off as pure, obvious dipshits. They say ol' Ricky Boy is no longer a serious contender for the presidential race of 2012 , but really, it wouldn't surprise me that much of America would embrace him. We are, for the most part, a nation of retards who can't figure out what is actually good for us and we seem to only give our attention to those who speak in broad, uncomplicated, monosyllabic verbal strokes and dramatic gestures. We simply can't be bothered to handle any more than that.

Speaking of strokes and Republican cartoon characters...

... like the insatiable, barely coherent Michele Bachmann...

I don't quite know where I was going with this but somehow it all turned into a wacky political thing-a-ma-jig.

I think what I wanted to say, but not apologize for, was that the break I took from Blogland has benefited my roller coaster state of mind. I was finding myself torn the whole time during the break because, I, for the most part, neglected my old blog buddies by not communicating or visiting their blogs. I hated that. But at the same time, I was really enjoying the summer. I have a lot of adventures and meaningful stories to share and hopefully, I will, in the near future.

Anyway, I'm not going to go into one of those tired old speeches that I and other bloggers make/have made when they've taken a long blog break. My part in the whole scheme of things is trivial and I feel that my absence isn't a big deal- except that part where I've truly missed you guys. I hope you're all doing well.

Romance is In The Shed

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 23:26:00 PDT

This Is How I Drive My Truck

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 12:59:00 PDT

I thought this scene was one of the best parts of the movie, Drive Angry. So cool.

"And that's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it, uh huh, uh huh."

lol

Friendship Flea Market (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Kelly) — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 18:12:00 PDT

This post is all about the largest flea market in Indiana. The Friendship Flea Market. Here, you can find all manner of things. Knives, buckskin chaps, hats made of animal carcasses, paintings, antiques, spices, neglected children, heatwave, flash flooding, sex toys, water bongs, clothes and everything in between. Hell... Don't even get me started on the freaks you'll bear witness to while you're there.

The weekend drink-til-you-die-while-dancing bonfire parties are awesome, as well. True fun! I've joined in for some really fucked up experiences during those big red barn dancing parties. Just don't bump into any rednecks and accidentally make them spill their beer or you're dead.

Look below and see many things! Enlarge the pic to see what I mean, Oh Ye, who has yet to understand the magical ability to left click a pic with your mouse to see the details of a photo . This scene is near the entrance to the flea market. The horse drawn carriage is a treat for your feet when you're tired of walking down the acres of cement lanes, separated only by a multitude of booths that sell everything. Of course, you'll have to endure smelling the many butt droppings of the horses up front but you can relax for a ten or fifteen minutes as the horses will take you from one end of town to the next.

There is a sign to the left of the horse and carriage that says BODY PIERCING. Can you imagine subjecting your body to one of these "professionals" at the flea market?

I have broken this series up into 3 parts in order for all of you to benefit from it's detailed awesomeness better. The first part to this series on Friendship Flea Market can be found here. It's the post I put up before this one. The famous National Muzzle Loading Shoot is going on nearby.

I have captions with some of the pictures here. Some of them are edu-mu-cational. Others, according to the blog author, are fairly humorous. You decide. Choose wisely or I shall have to pierce you with a rusty needle I found at one of the body piercing booths.

Yes, you can find many unusual things to eat at the flea market. Elk burger. Alligator meat. Buffalo burger. Deer jerky. They even have Sunburned, Neglected Children, created by low lifes, destined to be poorly edu-mu-cated and live off the government one way or another or live a life of crime. Unless we eat them first and save them the trouble.

Check out the captioned picture below. Luckily, some things you may eat here are quite tasty. But then there are the booths that will give you a complimentary stomach pump with every purchase over $10.

At this booth, the vendor will sell you chocolate-covered bacon and something called Sati-Babi.

Now for the first time in the history of the flea market, there was an acupuncture booth. No shit! When my wife and I saw it, we looked at one another, laughed and then talked about the legitimacy of a couple vendors with the certification and knowledge to be able to perform acupuncture on potential customers at a flea market. Then I took more pictures of the circus like atmosphere.

Turns out, there were some folks willing to take their chances.

The "pin guns" were what they were selling at the acupuncture booth. They were too expensive for my taste. sure, I did the demo, figuring my already fucked up body could be no worse for the wear with getting this done. Besides, I had always wanted to give acupuncture a shot. I'm not sure, exactly, if they were actually using needles in this gun that went "pow-pow-pow-pow" up and down your spine and your other body parts- like the top portion of your ass and shoulders- but it didn't feel bad, whatsoever. And yes, I know this isn't acupuncture in it's truest form but it's as close as I'll likely ever get to it. I just know that after a few minutes of Acupuncture Guy's wife doing her stuff on my back (Yeah, I know how that sounds), I did feel like my blood circulation improved and my walking became less of a pain. Seriously.

The last post of the series will be put on my photo blog, Pics for Kicks, sometime during the near future. I hope you enjoyed the second tour of the flea market and will come back again. If you don't, I know that you've been shot by a muzzle loader or ate too much Sati-Babi meat and died of food poisoning.

In conclusion, going to the big flea market is a unique, humorous and sometimes odd experience. We definitely try not to miss it when it comes once in the summer and once in the fall. You have to travel down some long, winding, crumbling roads to get to it but it's worth it just to check out the different people and items.