There's a cat in a bag in a hole in the ground and the green grass grows all around, all around...

Once upon a time, there was a boy cat named Dingy. Dingy was loved very much by his family, Miss Perceived and The Regulator. Dingy loved them, too. But Dingy had room in his heart ... he had more love to give.

You see kids, when Dingy was a kitten, he discovered his very own nipple. Dingy fell in love with this nipple and would spend entire afternoons sucking his nipple, laughing at its jokes and calling it sweetheart. Dingy's nipple grew and grew from the love. Like an inch. Miss Perceived was proud of this love and shared it with the world. When friends came to visit, she would greet them with her Cheshire smile and say, "Come in ya'll! Come see my cat suck his own nipple!" And there in the corner of this love shack, Dingy could be found, curled into a ball and loving his nipple; curled into a ball because his nipple was placed in a not so convenient place which made loving it hard. But relationships take work, right? "Isn't he just the cat's meow?" she would say. 

Like the flocks of zealots who travel to see the image of Jesus Christ in the shadows of a tree trunk, people came from far and wide to see for themselves this cat named Dingy who loved his nipple. 

But then something terrible happened.

One day when Miss Spoken was drinking beer making sand castles in Santa Barbara, Miss Perceived heard a howl and then watched as Dingy seized up and died. This left Miss Perceived sad. The kind of sad that makes you not wear makeup which is a big deal for Miss Perceived who likes makeup very much. And this wasn't a good time for Miss Perceived to be sad because her mother was moving out of state and Miss Perceived was busy packing. And Miss Perceived's mom had a lot of collections to be packed. Like her collection of Kleenex, lamps, suckers, canned goods from 1991 and pens with no ink. I'm not saying she was a hoarder or anything, I'm just sayin' ...

Anyway, Miss Perceived hadn't sold any of her panties online yet and so she was strapped for cash and didn't have the means to give Dingy and his nipple a proper burial. So she called Puppet Boy and together they put Dingy in a bag and put him in a hole in the ground. In the front yard. Which is by no means private. Not even a fence.

Then late last night, with a storm raging and the winds blowing, there was a knock at my door. And there they were ... Miss Perceived and The Regulator. But why did she look so crazed? And why was she holding a shovel? And why was she wearing a cloak?

"Will you watch The Regulator for a few minutes?"

"Sure! Is everything okay?"

"Huh? Oh ... yeah. I just gotta go dig up Dingy."

**Thunder cracks and lightening splits the sky**

Okay, maybe it was four o'clock in the afternoon  and 69 degrees outside. And maybe she didn't have a shovel. And it might not have been a cloak but a pink t-shirt that said Princess. But she was going to go dig up her dead cat.

Prior to the excavation, aka grave digging, Miss Perceived called the Kitty Crematorium and explained her situation. Which now has made her the most popular girl there and everybody knows her by name. And Miss Spoken never knows when she might have to move a body and it's good to know that Miss Perceived can help her. Because, as Dionne Warwick would say, that's what friends are for.

But hold on to your crackers kiddies because here's the best part of this tale.

Miss Perceived is a busy lady. She has things to do. So before she goes to the Kitty Crematorium, she has to stop by Wal*Mart, go to the post office and of course, The Regulator needs to go to Jump Man Jump for an hour or so.

Where is Dingy and his nipple, you ask?

Oh .... in the back of her mini van.

RIP Dingy ... I mean, you know... as soon as you're buried again and all.

The End.

Babbleville's Town Trollop

Did I ever tell you guys that Babbleville has a Town Trollop? And did I mention that she lives just a couple of houses down from Miss Perceived and I? She sure does. And guess what?

We hate her. And it's a Fill a Sock With Quarters and Beat the Slut Out of Her kind of hate.

Here's the back story. Town Trollop is somewhere in her 20s and has three kids - Blondie (10), Punk Ass (11?) and the Girl Who Never Wears Shoes (2). Miss Perceived and I got to know them over the summer because Blondie and Punk Ass were left alone all day to wander the streets of Babbleville looking for food, friends and in Punk Ass's case, things to burn.

Punk Ass looks like he came from the Village of the Damned, is supposed to be medicated for ADHD and has some "anger management" issues which seem to increase the longer he goes without meds which is always because Town Trollop doesn't see to it that he takes them. She admittedly "gave him" to his Dad because he's so out of control. Oh, and did I mention that I walked in on Punk Ass taking a shit in my personal bathroom? Uggh....

The Girl Who Never Wears Shoes is dirty, whiny and always on Blondie's hip. I saw Blondie once strolling her sister at 7:30 in the morning by herself. I suppose it's good practice for Blondie because once she hits puberty and the boys start to pay her some much craved attention, I'm betting Town Trollop won't be there to help her and she'll find herself knocked up and waiting in line to redeem her WIC vouchers. I hope not, but you know how it goes.

Oh, and they have a black cat named Jig. Which is short for Jiggaboo. Which makes Town Trollop a slut and an asshole.

So, Miss Perceived and I were sort of forced to keep and eye on and feed Blondie and Punk Ass over the summer because they'd show up at the pool, and they'd come over when we weren't at the pool and because we like Blondie and because we are responsible adults when we're not sipping vodka in the morning. Fortunately, Punk Ass is now back with his Dad for the school year so I can stop hiding the matches and taking inventory after he leaves my house. And I can use my bathroom without the fear of walking in on some pale, demonic looking kid cupping his penis and crapping in my toilet.

But the drama continues. Because Town Trollop likes to tell stories about the men she meets online. Like the guy who pretended to get a call from his father and then pretended he was at the hospital and then left her at his house hoping she would leave. Which she didn't do until many, many hours later. After she took a nap. And when I joked about whether or not she went through his drawers to "look for a pen," she laughed and said, "I know, right?! Like, I found a bunch of money! I could have totally taken in. And I've been calling him all morning but he hasn't called me back. Crazy, right?!" Riiigghht.

And how she sometimes puts her kids to bed and then leaves to go to the gym. At ten o'clock at night.

And would I like to watch her kids for $100 a week. Ummm..... hell no. And aren't Miss Perceived and I already doing it for free?

And our hate for this chick escalates as Blondie explains that her mom has said that she's going to start food shopping so Blondie can have a fucking Pop Tart for breakfast before school. And because Knock, Knock .... Can I borrow a pencil because my mom didn't buy me any and I need to do my homework. Blondie also comes to my house every morning before school and walks with the kids and I which is fine by me. Except that I have to hear stories about her fucking mother. Like the time I was dressing the kids and she asked to use a hairbrush because Town Trollop and her stayed at her boyfriend's house overnight which is about two hours away and Blondie had to get up at 5:30 and didn't have time to do her hair.

But what's really got me pissed, is that Blondie has been asking me to sign her homework for her. Because her mother doesn't have time. And today, she asked me to sign her Progress Report. JeezusChrist!  After I inhaled deeply, bit a hole in my cheek and then pressed  the heels of my hands into my eyes so as not to tell this little girl that I thought her mother should have a hysterectomy; that I thought her mother was setting her up for total failure; that when I saw her mother I was going to pull out that sock full of quarters.

But I didn't say any of that out loud. What I said was that I was uncomfortable signing the report. That her grades were awesome (all As and Bs) and that her mom should really see this to which she replied once again that her mom was busy. So I signed it. 

But I'll be stopping by Town Trollop's house tonight. I'll leave that sock full of quarters home because as far as I know, there's no Wi-Fi in county jail. 

Miranda? That's a Whore's Name!

You've watched Nickelodeon, admit it. Whether you have kids like me or grow pot for the Cannabis Club like my dad, you've seen it. And you've liked it. At least some of it.

But for this post to make any sense, let's hold hands as we take a trip back in time to the 90s . . .

The Spice Girls were telling you what they wanted, what they really really wanted. You had a favorite scrunchy and lots of Lycra in your closet. You got drunk on Jello Shots and woke up with a Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo. Okay, maybe not. So it's 1997 and Legal isn't legal and she loves her some Nickelodeon. Shows like Angry Beavers (my nickname in high school), Keenan & Kel, CatDog. And the best show is Figure It Out.

Figure It Out was a game show hosted by the always sporty Summer Sanders. Summer was forever tan, forever blond and had that Of Course I Don't Masturbate look about her. Actually, she reminds me a lot of Miss Perceived except for that whole masturbation thing.

Anyway, the show was pretty straight forward. Basically, some kid would have a talent or skill of some sort (like making paper out of dryer lint) and the Nick panelists would have to Figure It Out. And there was Secret Slime Action. And that's as dirty as it got.

Fast forward to today's Nickelodeon and we have this minx from iCarly:

Please stop yelling at me because I'm not saying this girl is dirty, I'm just saying she could be. And her name is Miranda which we all know is a whore's name.

And here she is clearly high on ecstasy:

If you need more evidence that Nickelodeon and their centerfold iCarly (aka Miranda the Whore) is really a covert operation to sneak just a bit o' porn into your living room, there is their awards show episode where Carly (aka Miranda the Whore) wears a thigh skimming red silky strapless number and black fingerless gloves (aka whore gloves); a chubby kid with a tuxedo vest on and not much else is handing out awards and a team of bare chested European swimsuit models are sporting speedos and dancing around to the Euro-Techno-Did-I-Mention-I-Like-Fisting songs made popular in the bath houses of Northern California.

And then there is this guy who won an award for Most Interesting Yet Frightening Tongue of All Time. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ... Tongue Boy ...

The Shopkeeper Review & Giveaway

The Shopkeeper - A Steve Dancy Tale

by James D. Best

Published December 2007

In 1879, Steve Dancy sells his New York shop and ventures west to explore and write a journal about his adventures. Though he's not looking for trouble, Dancy's infatuation with another man's wife soon embroils him in a deadly feud with Sean Washburn, a Nevada silver baron.

Infuriated by the outrages of two hired thugs, the shopkeeper kills both men in an impulsive street fight. Dancy believes this barbarian act has closed the episode. He is wrong. He has interfered with Washburn's ambitions, and this is something the mining tycoon will not allow.

Pinkertons, hired assassins, and aggrieved bystanders escalate the feud until it pulls in all the moneyed interests and power brokers in Nevada. Can the former city slicker settle accounts without losing his life in the process?

One could never call me an expert of the Western genre, but I did grow up with a Grandpa who loved Spaghetti Westerns and read Louis L'Amour. And now I find myself living in Nevada, searching for an enormous wooden wagon wheel to use as art in my living room, and reading books like The Shopkeeper. Go figure.

But The Shopkeeper is a page turner and James Best is a great story teller. It's also evident that he has done his homework. Best captures the harsh landscape of Nevada in the late 1800s and the brutality of the American West. The characters are well developed but, as this appears to be the first in a series of Steve Dancy books, I expect that they will become even more flushed out as the series continues. I especially loved the brash female characters and hope that old Mrs. Bolton rears her ugly head in his next book, Leadville. I always fall for the villain and she is stupendously malevolent. The protagonist, Steve Dancy, isn't so much of a hero as he is an anti-hero. Wealthy, intelligent, self-enterprising and murderous. These characteristics shift as the plot thickens and as Dancy matches wits, trades bullets and tries to stay alive long enough to end his feud with the silver baron who wants him dead.

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Thanks to Author Marketing Experts, Inc., I am giving away a copy of The Shopkeeper to one lucky reader.

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The Mamas, The Papas, The Junkies and The Pedophiles

Mackenzie Phillips ... Miss Spoken gets it. What's worse is Miss Spoken is not surprised by it.

Because you see, Miss Spoken has a Dad who is also a drug addict, who could also be charming, who could suck the air out of a room and who treated her more like a wife than a daughter. Actually, that's not true. He treated His Old Lady to derogatory remarks and bloodied noses. She was stupid, didn't dress right, didn't pass the white glove inspection at home and should just shut the fuck up when he caroused with other women. Even when one of those women was her own sister. So I suppose Miss Spoken was treated more like Dad's girlfriend.

Miss Spoken understands that the siblings that weren't exposed to this love probably think you are a liar. Of course. Because the whole purpose of this love is to let you know that you are Special.Like.Him. Miss Spoken's Dad has no use for his step-sons and despises her sister, Miss Led. Miss Spoken's Dad could talk to her for hours about life on other planets, governmental conspiracy theories and his former life as a Shaman. During fights with His Old Lady, he would turn his back to her, march around the house and sing "Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead." Then he'd tell Miss Spoken to get on the back of his Harley and they'd drive off into the sunset for a burger. A burger that was paid for with His Old Lady's money because he was too smart for silly things like employment. And when he did have a job (once), he'd blow his entire paycheck on shrimp and cocaine. Did I also mention that he speaks in tongues? Yep. Some might call it the delirious dribble of a man who hasn't slept in thirty years and who sounds like he's attempting to swallow his own tongue but to him he is speaking with God. Yes, God. Because God likes to talk to meth addicts and assholes.

Know what else was special to Miss Spoken? Joining him on his drug runs. Cruising by the homes of pimps, addicts and anybody else that had "it." "It" was usually cocaine bundled in neat triangles that were fashioned from the pages of Hustler. Miss Spoken watched as he got high. Who cared, right? At least she was with him. Better than sitting on the curb waiting for him to come home which he never did when he said he would. Nightfall. No Dad. Just an inflamed mother. But Miss Spoken loooved her Dad.

Nope, Miss Spoken never had an incestuous relationship with her father. But when she was 8 years old and he was 26, his girlfriend was 14. Doesn't take a Shaman or a direct line to God to know that that's not right. One might say improper. The rest of us might say illegal. And that wasn't his first underage love, nor would it be his last. The actual Love Of His Life, his Soul Mate, was a pretty blond 16 year old homeless girl free spirit who hopped on the back of his Harley one beautiful afternoon at a beach in San Francisco. He had never met her before but once again, the Universe told him what to do. In this case, what to do meant taking her home, moving her in and proposing to her. She eventually cut her losses and ran. Dad gave the engagement ring to who else? Miss Spoken.

Then there is the argument as to whether or not John Phillips would have done such a horrific thing had he not been a lifelong drug abuser. Who cares? What difference does it make? His life was drugs. Miss Spoken's Dad is 55 and still pushes anything into his veins that can be liquefied. Smoke anything that fits into a glass pipe.

Ahhhh, memories.....

Like the time his friends broke in and robbed the house while Little Miss Spoken and her family were asleep. And the time he was smoking crack and fell asleep with the torch on. Or the time, convinced he could communicate on a different vibration than the rest of us, went to stay with the tree people in Golden Gate Park for a few days.

Good times, good times.

What's the purpose of this rant? I guess to tell the nay-sayers that there are people out there who buy their own bullshit. That screw their kids and call it love. That use drugs as an excuse for depravity.

Have fun in Hell, boys.