Remember The Emu

Do you remember about ten years ago when someone persuaded America that Emu was the cash crop of the future?  These flightless birds were going to change the face of ranching in America. They were reported to be easy to raise and very profitable. One of the selling points was that you could use every part of the bird. And at six feet or better, there was a lot of bird to use.

While this change in the face of ranching was going on, I was working with a man that had the bug. He was going to become an Emu rancher and retire early. He was somewhat passionate about the birds, and inadvertently taught me why I should not become an Emu tycoon.

The first thing that turned me off the beasts was tales of disemboweling kicks. It seems that these birds are far from domestic and like nothing better than giving you a good reason not to come into their pen. Daily he told tales of one particular bird chasing him and generally causing havoc. (I learned later that he had hit this bird with a shovel and that it wanted revenge.)

Another reason to not get into the biz was the cost. These bastards at the time were selling for more than a good used car. I seem to remember him saying that he was getting a good deal at about $5000 a bird, and of coarse you need at least two of the flightless retards to get any good from them. You had to have incubators as well, costing more than pocket change, as well as a hatching room, and growing room, and vet bills and, well, you get the picture. There was a lot of up front expense.

As he spent more and more money, he had more and more tales to share of his learning curve. Initially he paid for a breeding pair, but after more than a year, he still had no results for his effort. It was at about this time that he learned a very important lesson about Emu. They have no overt genitalia. By this I mean that their naughty bits are hidden on the inside both in the guys and the gals. This makes telling the guys from the gals a bit challenging. (Throwing eyeliner in the pen does no good, they just eat it.)

You have to throw the creature to the ground, avoiding that kick that I mentioned earlier, and stick your fingers into it’s nether regions, feeling around for something or another that I have no desire to know more about, to tell the males from the females. After risking his life to stick his fingers into the insides of a couple of pissed off birds, he learned answer to his egg shortage.

He had two males.

Another point that he soon learned was that these birds bond. They bond to whatever is in their environment. In this case, his male bird bonded with his other male bird. That’s right, he was the proud owner of homosexual Emu, now and forever unable to make emotional connection with the fair sex.

He called his bird pusher, and they came to the agreement that the pusher would deliver two guaranteed females for a ‘special price’, this price being a large section of this man’s life savings. Of coarse he agreed, conveniently ignoring his knowledge of the fact that the birds were already bonded, and most likely would not change their sexual orientation.

But more birds meant more pens, and more pens meant more money, and the pusher had pretty much done a number on my hopelessly optimistic co-worker. Nonetheless, he coughed up the money and effort and made a lovely living space for his new livestock.

He was a lucky man. One of the birds did on fact develop a liking for girls and became a convenient heterosexual, to my co-workers glee. He still had one pair that was not getting along, and one of those birds pining for his lost love, but things were looking up. He had at least one pair bumping uglies and making eggs.

At this point, the bottom fell out of the Emu market. Is seems that a lot of people had bought the not so little devils, and not having had the difficulties that this man experienced, were now selling the results of their breeding program by the dozens. The prices dropped to just about ten percent of what they were the year before, and then dropped again. Soon people were setting their birds free just to avoid having to feed them.

I don’t really know what became of him and his birds. About this time the company decided that they did not really need my services any more and let me go. I was never really close to my former work buddy, mostly because I made fun of his raising gay birds for profit.

Several years later I saw him on the TV, trying to avoid the questions that the news-person had about why his employer was shutting down the plant. Ever the optimist, I am sure he thought if he sang the company song they would give him a job in another location.

Sucker.

I wonder if he ate the birds.

The day after, part II

My breakfast this morning consists of turkey enchiladas. I made these with my own little hands, and they ain’t too bad, if I do say so myself. I made them with the remains of the beast bird that was our main coarse at the holiday feast. Twenty-one pounds of bird leaves for a lot of leftover meat, and I wanted to make use of this wealth.

This also makes for a HUGE pan of enchiladas. I bet that bugger was ten pounds when it left the oven. We are going to be eating a lot of enchiladas or throwing out turkey in just another more labor-intensive form. I guess that I underestimated the meat or overestimated my interest.

This breakfast put me in mind of years past, in another marriage, when the spouse like unit would make things from the turkey that would not pass as dog food, yet insist we had to eat it and act like we liked it. Green chile turkey stew by the gallon. Good for the first bowl, lost any attractiveness after the second, by the third you would rather strangle yourself with your own intestines than to eat another bite or even smell the fowl concoction.

She had another recipe that came back to haunt us every turkey day. It involved mushrooms and sherry. Over the years, the quantity of sherry grew larger while the flavor grew more and more repulsive. It got so that I could not stand to smell it being prepared, and to this day I find the odor of cooking sherry to be disgusting.

Then do it all over again for Christmas.

Now I find myself doing the same thing, preparing vast amounts of food that will probably soon become repulsive. I, at least, am aware that my fine endeavor will become less than attractive and will not pitch a bitch if the remains become refuse. Hell, I will probably be the one to toss the shit out.

The difference being, that I will not get my feelings hurt if the family does not think that my attempt at cooking is manna from heaven. It kinda takes the enjoyment out of a meal if the cook DEMANDS that you enjoy it. Trust me on this; my ex could make punishment last a L-O-N-G time if you inadequately expressed your delight.

So here I sit, sharing things from my past, and knowing that when MY food becomes unattractive it shall go to the place where crappy food belongs.

NO, I am not talking about my ex’s house. (But it IS a thought)

I mean the trash.

What do you do with your leftovers?

Black Friday (AKA The day after)

The pilgrimage to seasonal frenzied commercialism is a pop culture phenomenon, one that I can happily do without. Mrs. Troll and I went as observers, and in that role, had a great time watching ladies run over each other in their mad dash to be the first to purchase last years trendy, must have, gadget.

I can’t believe that we were actually there with the ‘Black Friday’ crowd. These people were lined up for about one half mile in each direction just to get ‘SPECIAL’ deals on cheap things. (Who in hell needs five portable DVD players? Or five computers?)

When the doors opened at ‘Wally World’ people were literally running to keep place in line. Mrs. Troll and I simply sauntered up and slid in the door, making the idea of waiting in line for hours simply laughable. (And incidentally pissing off anyone who noticed that we were line jumping.) Once in the door, the fights began. There was more than one altercation in just the first five minutes. We were in and out in less than thirty minutes, including a dispute at checkout over the correct price on a toy. (Mrs. Troll won.) Pissing off all the others that were in line behind us. (We were evidently keeping them from an important appointment at 5:30 in the morning.)

Frankly, I just don’t get it. To stand in the cold for hours to save perhaps one hundred dollars seems like more of a social event than bargain shopping. I think that if people were to shop smarter they would not need to stand in the cold for hours. But what am I saying? Shopping smarter requires thinking!

It was a good time for the observer, a bad time for the serious shopper. We refused to take the whole thing seriously, seeing as how Mrs. Troll (A contender for the shopping championships.) had all of her shopping done over a month ago. We had the option of just walking out with nothing and not feeling like we had failed.

That’s an example of smart shopping, do it before the deadline and take your time, picking and choosing purchases with forethought.

For those of you that participated in this years frenzy; I hope that you got exactly what you wanted and escaped without injury. I thank you for the entertainment. I also hope that you learned something and avoid doing it again like you would avoid sex with a porcupine.

The day after

Damn.....BOTH dogs are still alive, Mrs Troll prevented me from going to the store and purchasing Nair for the offending cat that started it all, and I am fat and sassy....

Actually, the day was very good. Mrs Troll made a Fine meal without my help, and the pets got over their war.

Next......The worst shopping day of the year. I was AMAZED at how many fools there were out waiting in line at 5:00 AM.

Happy Thanksgiving

Like many Americans, we are a family with pets. We share our house with two dogs and three cats, not to mention the famous terrorist goldfish, Remington. The cats and dogs have established an uneasy truce, with the cats maintaining ‘Base’ areas where they are not pestered by dogs. It return, the cats will knock items off high places for the dogs to chew, picking only the most valuable things that belong to me. They do not touch things that smell of Mrs. Troll. All the pets ADORE Mrs. Troll.

Today, however, they all have been acting a bit strange. The dogs, usually fawning creatures with love in their eyes and slobber on their lips, have been going out of their way to avoid me. The cats are doing happy cat things, like playing tag in front of the dogs to tease them. It’s obvious that the cats are up to something. After hours of gentle persuasion with rolled newspaper and threats of the imaginary ‘CATapult’, the truth came out. (Have you ever tried to interrogate a cat? Its not easy!)

One of the cats told the dumber of the two dogs that we eat DOG for thanksgiving. Not being the most gifted of creatures, the dog fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Now I have an emotional wreck of a dog, Mrs. Troll thinks I have been torturing pets before breakfast, and the cats are having the time of their lives, laughing their little kitty laughs behind their paws. I know they are laughing at the dogs and I.

The stepTrolls are adding to the confusion by telling their mother that I kept them up late last night sharpening my knives and interrogating the cat. The dog overheard and went zipping into the bedroom to hide under the bed. Mrs.Troll is trying to persuade her to come out with promises of treats and protection from me.

While she is in the bedroom, the cats are eyeing the turkey that is on the counter, awaiting it’s slathering of aromatic oils and herbs. The first one that so much as sniffs too closely shall be bound for exile in the garage before it can switch a tail in righteous indignation.

The phone has been ringing off the hook, friends are canceling dinner with us, and the tension mounts.

I can see that it is going to be a fun day.

I love being an American

When I left the hotel room this morning, I was surprised to see a young lady, about fifteen or therebouts, standing in the hallway and holding a rifle.

She did not make any threatening gestures, so I was not alarmed.

Then an adult male entered the hall carrying a large gun case. Following him was a boy carrying TWO rifles.

I think they were going hunting, but did not ask.

I rather like living in a country where I can see someone armed to the teeth and not be alarmed. When you feel safe, the chances are that you are safe.

Where else in the world can you encounter a gun-toting stranger and not look for cover?

On the road again.

Greetings from Carlsbad New Mexico, home of the really big hole and miles and miles of……..miles and miles.

I am here for work. Sometimes you gotta go where you gotta go, and this time I gotta go. I will be back on the road tomorrow to be home before nightfall. That makes for a lot of driving for just a short time at work, but I will still be home with the lovely Mrs. Troll and the teenage stepTrolls in time for Thanksgiving. (And I have a lot to be thankful for. Thank you, Mrs. Troll)

Dinner tonight was interesting in the fact that this restaurant was more of a social gathering place than a real fast food chain. Someone actually had their 5 year old in the kitchen, running around and barking like a dog. Some woman was sitting near the kitchen door, filling out her Avon paperwork and gossiping with the workers that would sit with her on the way in or out of the kitchen. The ‘New Manager’ was complaining about having to wear a tie, and his assistant was complaining that she was getting less per hour now that she has been promoted to assistant manager.

All of this went on where we could easily hear it and be annoyed. What am I saying, you could hear the barking 5 year old everywhere. I am surprised that youngun’ is not playing with the meat slicer before leaping like a gazelle into the deep fat fryer. Why anyone in their right mind would let a child that young run amok in a kitchen is beyond me. Perhaps they do because they are not in their right mind.

Now there are two kids running a race down the hall. They are now on lap three and I want the right to throw the winner from the roof. Fat chance. People usually frown upon me wanting to throw their children anywhere. It’s not that I don’t like kids, I don’t like kids that are not house (or hotel) broken. If you can’t keep ‘em under control, then don’t bring ‘em out in public.

Slamming doors end the race, but the parents yelling the kids into submission does not seem to be working. Now the kids want to go to the pool, shrilly screaming their desires and jumping up and down for emphasis. My room is shaking.

I can see that it is going to be a L-O-N-G night………..sigh.

Maybe I can grab one as it is running by. Think anyone will notice?

Like we NEED a new conspiracy....

Road construction seems to be the great American hobby, with renewing roads going on everywhere, slowing us down and taking up precious time in our daily commute.

I, however, am convinced that there is another reason this rampant recreation is going on, Aliens. We are living witness to the coming end of humanity. I don’t know when, but I see the writing on the wall.

As the innocent and unknowing persons who actually build our highways do their daily job, they are unknowingly placing dormant eggs into the concrete, where they can stay protected for as long as it takes to mature. I am certain that everyone has seen those green cylinder looking things that go into the concrete on little wire racks before the great mucking concrete spreader covers them. Those are Alien eggs, hidden from prying eyes until the time of The Hatching.

They tell us that those green dowels are put there to make the highway stronger, but I think that they have been brainwashed. How in hell could a little green thing make the road stronger? It is not as though they are all held together in a long flexible net, they are just placed every so often, like marbles on a tile floor.

All those orange plastic looking barrels are actually Alien observation systems, placed there to monitor the progress of the mobile meat puppets that are hiding their precious offspring to be. They are also used to monitor the habits of the native life forms, namely us. They are in a perfect place to see humanity in its natural state, then the natives are protected by steel and glass cages and thinking they are unwatched and cannot be harmed.

I imagine a time in the future when all these eggs hatch. Roads crumbling before our eyes, tendrils/claws emerging from the disintegrating concrete to grab passers by for their first meal in their new home. Millions of scampering aliens, genetically engineered to live on our planet, leaving the destroyed highways to hunt for food.

America would be a total wreck in hours, roads destroyed and voters being eaten at an astonishing rate. The infrastructure collapses, communications destroyed by ravenous
critters that eat flesh and steel.

The Hatching will be remembered in the archives of the Aliens, their greatest and easiest defeat of another planet. “The natives never knew what hit them.”

Dear Reader, help save humanity from this terrible defeat. Please tell your friends, spread the word of this evil plot. We should stand against the evil eaters of flesh and steel. Plan now against the day of The Hatching. We can, we MUST defeat them, throw their lifeless corpses into our landfills and use their exoskeletons for lampshades and satellite dishes.

Now that we are aware of this evil plot, we can protect ourselves and prevent this tragedy. Send a signal to the alien observers, steal orange barrels and put them in front of your TV on the History channel. That way those evil bastards can see what we do to the ENEMY. If we can do that stuff to ourselves, just imaging what we will do to THEM. Tell your orange barrel tales of torture and chasing another alien civilization across light years to exterminate then for accidentally killing the Dodo bird and the passenger pigeon.

Show your orange barrel guns and films of atomic weapons. Put Starship Troopers on the DVD player for days at a time. Tell them that our science fiction movies from the 50’s are actually documentaries and that we always win against the alien hoards

If we can lie to them enough, we can scare the alien snot equivalent from them and get them to leave us alone.

Act now to save humanity.

Protest THIS war, Cindy Sheehan!!

Fast Food II

Just to prove a point to myself, I went to the same brand-name fast food joint that I posted about before. This time I was careful to go to another location and hopefully different management.

This experience was far different. Service was fast, pleasant, and not provided by an individual that is allergic to soap and water. I have to admit, however, that I could do without the prerecorded greeting at the sign. Whoever came up with that idea should be put into a room and forced to listen to the greeting for hours at a time.

The potato patty was just that, a deep fried potato patty. I am pretty much convinced that you would be challenged to mess up one of those. Unfortunately the challenged are usually employed at places like this.

The sandwich was not overdone, oversunlamped, stale, or too greasy. Let’s be honest, these things will never be a culinary delight, but this little puppy was prepared as it should be. This is quite a change from my last experience.

The coffee was lacking in offensive additives. Though slightly bitter, it was rather good and worth finishing. Good enough that I went back to the truck when I discovered that I had forgotten it. It is amazing what a clean container can do for the taste of coffee.

All in all, I would rate this as a pleasant experience. If I choose to eat at this name brand again, I will be certain to eat at the second location.

Surprise!

Upon arriving home after work, something dawned on me.

For the first time in weeks, I did not feel bad.

This sickness is finally in remission, my head is clearing, and I might return to Trollanity in time to feel like sh*t for some other reason.

But at least I will have a clear head.

Merry Chastisement

I was right. It was not ready. I forgot to mention visiting!

For some unknown reason, your relatives think you have nothing better to do with your hard earned time off for the holidaze than to go visit and entertain them. On a schedule that suits them, not you.

In a previous life, (Not what you are thinking) I actually saw people eating up to three holiday feasts in a single day, as well as driving for over six hours. Why in the world would anyone do such a thing? Just to keep the peace. They felt it was better to torture themselves and the other members of their immediate family than to not attend family functions.

In that same previous life, I got so that I would schedule vacation for that time just to not have to put up with all the nonsense. It did not help. The next year the family just got their plans made sooner so they could be certain to ruin my plans.

In this life, things are different. We spent time with who we want, when we want, and that’s that. The holidaze are stressful enough without adding shifting schedules and unreasonable demands. Be it friend, relative, or wayward goat that I happen to feel sorry for, I expect to spent the holidaze with people (or goats) that I want to be around.

It is still not stress free, but it is certainly an improvement.

Crappy Holidaze

I should have posted this right after Halloween, but circumstances prevented me from feeling like it was ready. Now I will post it, ready or not.





Now that my favorite holiday of the year is over, I feel that I can say that it is official; The Christmas season starts earlier every year.

I know that retailers make a considerable portion of their profits in the seasonal rush, but does that give them the right to extend the length of the season?

I expect to start getting pounded with holiday advertisements any minute now. (Ch Ch Ch Chia) Going into a retail outlet is already making me uncomfortable. When I see eight-foot tall inflatable snow globes and animated grazing deer made from plastic covered wires I feel violated. We have just begun to have frost on the pumpkin, and I live at almost 7000 Feet above sea level! It’s still too damn early!

Retail makes Christmas last for almost two months. I remember a time when retail waited until Thanksgiving to begin the advertising flood. That day is now gone, never to return. I miss it.

I prefer to slip into the holidays like getting into an old and familiar pair of shoes, taking my time and enjoying the feeling of being enveloped in something familiar, warm, and comfortable. Instead I feel that retail is forcing me into Christmas far too early. Before I have even begun to think about putting my pants on, retail is shoving new shoes at me with a catchy jingle and an implied promise that everyone will love me and tell me how beautiful I am if I just shell out two hundred of my hard earned bucks.

Over the years, I have learned to associate the holidays with stress. Face it, there are a lot of expectations from others during the season. We all want to be satisfied for the holidays, and someone has to do the satisfying. Gift buying, cleaning, decorating, planning, cooking, entertaining, card sending, more gift buying, wrapping, buying a tree, more decorating, the list grows and there is still more that needs to get done.

No matter how hard we try, someone will walk away unsatisfied, thus the guilt begins. We begin to think, “Next year we will do it bigger, better, and have more fun. We will make everyone happy.”  Hogwash.

You cannot satisfy everyone. It just ain’t possible. Hell, some you could not make happy if you gave ‘em a gold brick. Some people thrive on being unhappy.

Next year we will get deeper into debt, and work harder, just to have someone walk away unsatisfied. I call this The Cycle of Celebration. Based on guilt and stress, it is a fixture of life in America.

Perhaps we should rename this time of year, ‘Stressmas’.

Does anyone know where I can get a “Get out of Christmas Free’ card?

You deserve a brick today.

I like breakfast. I believe in breakfast. I think that if everyone in the world could get a good hearty breakfast every day, then there would be no world conflict. I believe the concept of ‘Continental Breakfast’ is a joke invented by Europeans to get even with us for things that were done in WWII and explains unstable French politics.

But being a lazy American, sometimes I would prefer to not make my morning breakfast, and instead, buy one on my way to work. This does not leave many options. There are not many places open at 4:30 in the AM.

Last week I gave in to my cravings and stopped at a national fast food franchise for one of their over-advertised morning offerings. This was not a good idea on my part.

After placing my order at the colorful sign telling me that it was helping guarantee accuracy, I drove to the second window. It seems that no one was manning the first window this fine day.

When the window opened in all its automated glory, I was introduced to a breath of warm air from inside the building, contaminated by the stench of unwashed human. The guy that came to the window looked to be a genetic throwback to some earlier time, and smelled like he had never been introduced to warm water and soap. That at least explains why he is working the window and not the front counter.

He took my money and knew all the right things to say, but I was not particularly comfortable looking at him. He had large lips that looked as though some Muppet somewhere was without a mouth, and talked like his tongue was made from silly putty. I wanted that window closed, anyway.

I do not rate an eating establishment by how attractive the servers are, so I got my order and drove away. I started with the potato patty. Not too bad, crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside, taste like a deep fried potato patty. Then I turned it over and saw for the first time the large blemish that reminded me of a birthmark. Not appropriate for breakfast. I never eat anything that looks like a birthmark for breakfast. I do not even want to think of something that looks like a birthmark before two cups of coffee and a sweet roll.

Time to try something different. I take my little breakfast sandwich from its paper wrapping, and it makes it’s first attempt at escape. That damn thing knows how to use the excess grease to its advantage, and seems intent upon obtaining freedom. Fat chance. I am determined to eat this little bugger no matter how hard it tries to escape. I am larger and have experience at wayward food.

My first bite is informative. It is obvious that the excess grease is in fact suntan lotion for eggs as this little gem has been sitting under the sandwich equivalent of a sun lamp for a long time. The pasteurized processed cheese food is now more processed than anything, and has the texture of damp newspaper and tastes almost that good. The texture of the egg makes me think of tofu and pencil erasers, with little bits of latex glove here and there. The sausage patty is tasty, but sun bathing has given it the consistency of the tongue of my left work boot. The enclosing bread product is chewy, as is should be, but hides little mines of dryness, just like when you leave the bread package open partway.

Ordinarily I would turn something this delightful into coyote food, but I knew that it would be all that I got until lunch, and being hungry makes me cranky. I don’t like being cranky. (Much) I shoved this morsel into my ravenous pie hole, half expecting a fuzzy taste to appear but not finding it, discarded the deformed potato patty, and thought to wash it down with the fluid of morning; coffee.

Someone at this particular location had decided on his/her own to add a new ingredient to the coffee. I think it was llama spit, but am not that familiar with the taste of llama spit, but that is what immediately came to mind. Kinda earthy, yet grainy and slightly bile like, like the taste of a burp after eating fast Mexican food while drinking heavily the night before, only with a bitter after taste.

This joins the potato patty as I pull over to get real coffee from my thermos to wash away the foul remains of the llama fluid.

All in all, I would have to give this experience a –4 for value and taste. I believe that I could have had a better experience if I had just dumpster dived my breakfast at the same location, and I would not be out nearly four dollars.

I have eaten at other outlets in this chain before and have never had an experience this bad. (except that one time when I was wearing my ‘if you can read this you should suck my cock’ t-shirt, but that is another story)

Just to keep things in perspective, I went back the following week, just to have even a worse experience. This particular franchise seems to be experiencing difficulties. Please stay tuned for more morning eating experiences.

Quandry

Did you ever rush to the facilities to release an emergency brownload, just to learn there is no toilet paper and no one in the house to help you? What is the politically correct solution? Wiggle and walk? Finger the offending goo and wash well? Waste another pair of underwear and hope no one notices? Just wondering, thats all.

Leaking

I know, I know. It has been far too long since I posted, but I plead sickness. I was leaking like a broken pipe and so stuffed up that I could not READ at times. My left eye was twitching like a junkie at the thought of free smack. I spent the weekend in bed and did not even turn on my 'puter Saturday.

I seem to be feeling better now, the coughing has been reduced to levels that no longer make me shudder and shake. I can catch my breath and don't feel as though I am floating from place to place.

I can remember a time when I thought I liked that floating feeling, and would drink large amounts of booze to get there. Now I would rather feel sober.

It's a bitch growing up.

Dam Inspectors

I was watching CNN the other day and happened to catch yet another story about irate citizens in what remains of New Orleans. They want to know what the Army Corps of Engineers is going to do to guarantee their safety from levee breaks in the future.

I don’t think it is the Corps responsibility to guarantee their safety. It’s the Corps job to do the best they can with what they have.

I think that if you live next to a levee, your ass should be out there checking it yourself. There are few guarantees in life, and safely from water is not one of them.

I do not count on the government to assure my safety. They make laws that help, and point people in the right direction, but my ass is on the line, and I am not going to count on them to look out for me.

If I live below the dam, then you can bet your bottom buck that I am going to watch it for leaks. If I do see a leak or potential for a leak, don’t expect me to just sit there and watch things get worse. I am going to get to high ground, taking my family and friends with me.

What I am getting at is an issue of personal responsibility. If you choose to build in a place that has risk, then take precautions against that risk. If you think that it is someone else’s job, then you will probably be hurt and dismayed when they fail to protect you.

Do you lock your doors at night? If your door was unlocked and somebody came in and raped your pet hamster, would you blame the builder for not installing a better door?

All of the people of New Orleans left the door to the levee unlocked for decades, and a big girl came in and raped their hamster. Now that she is gone, they want protection from others like her.

The problem is that now they can’t pay for that protection. When they could, they did not seem to think they needed protection, or that it was a low priority.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.