Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: September 2007
Goddess of Love
Goddess of Love, originally uploaded by Downtrodden Angel. (Here she is with her guy.) (And with this photo I’m flashing on that line from 40-Year-Old Virgin — “I’ll haunt your dreams.”)
Hey, Karen, she’s into tarantulas, too!
At long last, I think I have Dean beat. And Dean, before you claim this isn’t a competition, I’m type A. Everything is a competition.
If this was only a four-day week, why did it feel so damned long?
D.
PS: Funny? Bizarre? Funzarry? You decide. How To Kill A Mockingbird (TKAM — with light sabers and pirates!)
Meanwhile, over at Indecision 2008
Fred Thompson caption contest! (My favorite: MelOakley’s “Move that hand a little lower ma’am, and it’ll be right on the Seat of Presidential Power.”)
Who would be best suited as each candidate’s Karl Rove? The responses for Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani are brilliant.
Going through Colbert/Stewart withdrawal? They’ve got the vids.
Stay tuned for a Friday Flickr babe.
D.
Permanently blissed.
Charlotte Brontë died sometime last night. She was getting up there for a ferret, maybe six years old, and had begun losing hair from her back. Last time we let her out of her cage to jump around, she didn’t jump around much, just raced off to her favorite spot in the bathroom to have another nap. No dancing, no chook-chooking.
This isn’t one of those depressing “woe is me, my beloved pet hath bit the big one” posts. Charlotte died in her sleep, looking as contented as she did in the above photo. I’ve seen so many pets die badly: Chi Chi, my sibling rival who died slowly from congestive heart failure; Perrita, my pal growing up who died while I was away at college, cause of death equal parts old age and neglect from my parents; Brownie the Rat, one of our favorite pets, who died of breast cancer. Baby, our boa constrictor and the first pet Karen and I bought as a couple, went insane after two failed pregnancies, developed mouth rot, and seemed to be suffering so much we had to put her down. Hamachi, our four-horned chameleon, who had more personality than many humans I’ve known, died of natural causes; but when chameleons die, they turn jet black and their eyes sink into their heads. It looks painful.
Our pets seem to die badly no matter how well we try to take care of them. And that’s why this story has such a happy ending: we loved Charlotte, we knew she was old and bound to move on at any time, and she died in her sleep, not a hint of pain evident in her expression or body habitus. I’m very happy about that.
Charlotte was such a sweetie, I’m tempted to get another ferret or two. But what about a guinea pig? Or hamsters? Or gerbils? Or rabbits?
D.
Thirteen Excuses Not to Write a Thursday Thirteen
Yup, it’s a day early. Rejoice — I’ll have more for you tomorrow evening!
Why can’t I manage to write a Thirteen this week?
1. Trite. My dog ate numbers 5 through 11.
2. Whiny and self-pitying. I work soooo hard and soooo many people depend on me and I had this looong committee meeting tonight and I still have to write my Wednesday post.
3. Shirking. My son’s new computer game arrived in the mail today. I’d rather watch him play than write.
4. Shizophrenic. Here:
You see as soon as the skull is smashed and one still has flowers [laughs] with difficulty, so it will not leak out constantly. I have a sort of silver bullet which held me by my leg, that one cannot jump in, where one wants, and that ends beautifully like the stars. Former service, then she puts it on her head and will soon be respectable, I say, O God, but one must have eyes. Sits himself and eats it.
5. Shocked. Damn, coming up with thirteen excuses is harder than I thought.
6. Irrelevant. Look at the kitties!
7. Testosterony (with a dash of politics). I’m too busy searching for nude photos of Fred Thompson’s granddaughter wife.
8. Bizarre. Mind your own business, Mr. Spock, I’m sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?
9. Brown-nosing. You guys are the greatest readers a blogger could ever have in the whole, wide world. You deserve the very best, and if I can’t give you the very best, I’d rather give you nothing at all.
10. Obnoxious. All you ever do is take, take, take, and all I ever do is give, give, give!
11. Vacuous. Uhhh . . . I dunno.
12. Honest. I’m working on a Cosmo Thirteen, but I need more time to do it up proper.
13. Clever. I know: I’ll write a “Thirteen Excuses” Thirteen!
I have a cunning plan . . .
You know what to do, and you have a reasonable expectation that I shall respond in an appropriate manner.
Dan holds forth on childish behavior
microsoar and Ms. Canada take a B-Spon ride
Omigod Darla, I want a becher, too
Carrie’s has the list of new releases. I’m looking forward to 7 and 9.
Kate has even more Jackie Kessler foo!
Trust me, Da Nator, the kewl kids will lurve you.
Oooh. Those amalows.
Pat: Dodge Caliber, Teh Suxx0r of rental cars.
D.
Wheels
Spurred on by Shakesville’s Mustang Bobby, I’d like to tell you about my first set of gas-powered wheels. But first, check out my idea of procrastination . . .
Jess’s Eight Women Who Look Better Bald Than Britney. Yeah, it’s outdated, but I found this while making a point to an old friend and well PERSYS KHAMBATTA IS HOT, OKAY? Do hhhaawt bald women need any other reason?
Jackie Kessler gives it away. (An iPod Nano, three iPod Shuffles, and a Byzantine bracelet, to be exact.) No purchase necessary.
Who says ear, nose, and throat docs aren’t fun-loving guys and gals? All depends what you call fun. Watch that video to the end, and you’ll understand why some of the women I scope say (while watching themselves on the monitor), “Is that . . . ? NO! You couldn’t be down that far!”
Amazing, the poor anatomic knowledge some folks have.
Follow me below the fold for the coolest car ever made.
Hot enough for you?
Remember Jackie Kessler? She looks so sweet in that photo; hard to imagine a face like that concealing a mind capable of writing like this:
He pulls his hand out of me and mounts me, thrusts himself deep inside, deep to the breaking point, then slides out and back in, and again, pumping, faster, faster now, his hands gripping my shoulders and my heart slamming against my chest and my groin is on fire, on fire, oh bless me I’m on fire and he’s smiling at me as he fucks me, fucks me raw and he says, “You’re mine.”
No, Jackie! Please say it wasn’t you who penned those words — not you, the nice Jewish girl (I’m guessing) my mom no doubt wishes I would have married. No! Please say it was a group effort from this trio. I could see them writing a few steamy sex scenes.
Sigh.
The one question I never asked Jackie in that interview (linked above): Do your parents know you write this stuff?
Pity me.
I spent the day immersed in scenery like this.
We’re looking out across the Smith River Valley at the Siskiyou Mountains in the distance. Looking down from our trail, we can see the South Fork of the Smith River:
This looks out of focus to me, confirming I am Teh Suxx0r at photography. Must. Take. Class. (On the other hand, some photos can be blurry as hell and they still rawk.) Trust me, the Smith is so clear, you can count the stones.
Two miles hike in, two miles out, with nothing to do at our destination but soak our tootsies in one of the nation’s few unspoiled rivers . . .
Saturday Flickr Babe: Sexy
Originally uploaded by tati.ana.
So much here that’s not told, not shown, but left to the imagination.
Live blogging, right . . . now.
D.
Quick note to my betas
Just emailed you the latest version of Technical Virgins. If you were expecting to get this and haven’t, I may not have your most recent email address. Leave me a note in the comments, or email me at
azureus
at
harborside (dot)
com
D.