Beer Bongs

Texans have a long history of being a mens men, strong burley sorts with large biceps and overly large hearts who pass their spare time swilling American made beer and enjoying manly things after sweating all day at their jobs.

If the litter I see is any indication, they take beer drinking very seriously in these parts.

Where I come from, the 12-ounce can is the norm, littering highways and waterways all over New Mexico, like flowers on the prairie in spring. I heard that at one time the government was considering the 12-ounce can as the state flower, before they accepted the orange barrel in its place.

Down here in the Lower Rio Grande Valley I see no cans smaller than 16-ounce and mostly 24-ounce. No whimpy 12-ouncers down here, dammit, its 24-ounce all the way along with a cry of, “Miller Lite all nite!!” All these cans are crushed, as against someone’s forehead, thankfully not mine.

Spring break has not even started yet, tho the shops have signs advertising beer bongs are only $1.99.

I can see that the month of March shall be interesting and filled with the sounds of mass puking and police sirens.

I can’t wait.

WLSA

I have mentioned before that my Internet access is somewhat sporadic.

Today I drove twenty-one miles one way to get online, where I was introduced to something I have never seen before.

Wireless Low Speed Access.

It took me six tries and over twenty minutes just to get 6 E-mails. All of them were spam.

The system was terribly slow and would stop for minutes at a time. Last week it was reasonable, this time it SUCKED!

I have to find something better, even if it means going to ((whisper) a local church.)

You know I am desperate.

Tears of the Gnomes

A long, long time ago, back even before the Dead Sea was sick, Trolls and Gnomes lived in peace.

The Gnome King, Fornicator of Bunnies III, Dreaded Trash Gobbler, and Potentate of Putrescence, persuaded a Troll by the name of Neil into providing muscle and knowledge to provide shelter for the Gnomes. The Gnome King persuaded Neil with promises of hard work and quiet nights.

The Troll King, Builder of All things Bigger than a Breadbox, was told a tale of Trollnapping by Neil’s wife, Fatassbitch. She lied to get Neil back; as she was much of the reason he went to the Gnomes in the first place. She knew that without Neil, she would have to do something other than stuffing her face and would rather sit at home and eat gummy worms (real ones, still wriggling) while watching the kids play than actually lift a finger or anything that might actually resemble real work. Her specialty in life was complaining and being shrill while trying to change the rest of world into a place that she liked better.

The Troll King, thinking F.A.B. was sincere, declared that Neil would be rescued and returned to F.A.B. The Troll King was bored and longed for the days of Fairy tales and bloodshed. What he got was terrified Gnomes that gave up Neil (and their virtue) easily in order to keep their blood on the inside. Gnomes have no dignity to protect and are self serving opportunists.

Neil did not want to be rescued. He liked his new life and enjoyed the hours of hard labor. He felt like he is doing good, and was definitely creating a higher standard of living for Gnomes, who now have roofs over their heads and heated caves. Gnome infant mortality went down and Gnome health insurance became affordable. They got indoor plumbing and no longer had to go outside in the cold to pee. The latter makes the Gnomefems particularly grateful as the Gnomebutt is unusually close to the ground and in the winter months Gnomefems are always imprinting their cheeks to the snow when relieving themselves.

As Neil missed his beloved Gnomes, (And the peace of not living with Fatassbitch) so did the Gnomes miss him and the freedom from work he provided, to this very day they all cry every night in honor of Neil and pray for his return.

Thus began the war between Gnomes and Trolls. It lasted almost a full year and three gnomes got rather nasty paper cuts while sending letters to friends. One Troll was injured when a Gnome threw a rock at him and actually hit him near the eye. The rest of the war was pretty much uneventful with a lot of name-calling and gestures across some imaginary line in the forest.

Neil tried to return to the life he loved, but Fatassbitch, not wanting him to ever get away from her, had tied a thin wire to his neither regions in his sleep. Not being the brightest of Trolls, he cut off his naughties jumping from a second story window and bled to death in the night. He never knew what happened.

Fatassbitch had screwed herself and ended up as a scullery maid in the cellars of the Troll King and was forced into hours upon hours of mindless drudgery due to her own laziness. (And not thinking her restraint of Neil all the way through. She should have tied his ankle instead of his wankle.)

In modern times, each morning we see the legacy of The War of Trolls and Gnomes. The dew that coats our cars and growing things are the Tears of the Gnomes. They are forever destined to actually have to work for shelter and are forever unhappy about it, crying their eyes out almost every night.

Messy little bastards, aren’t they?

Monsters with alarm clock voices are screaming me awake

Last night was filled with dramatic dreams. I remember few details, but I know that they woke me several times scared as hell and trembling between the sheets while dripping sweat in the 100% humidity and whimpering like a little girl.

I don’t know what’s up with that, but at least its dreamland instead of the real world.

Or perhaps I am dead wrong and this is the dream world and the other world is the real one. In that case I am in a heap o’ shit and better get back to it before the football headed boy from “Family Guy” eats my liver with pinto beans. I think I can take him. He’s just an infant, after all.

Goo’ night all.

If I don’t come back, you may want to rethink your worldview.

How to ruin a marriage

I once knew a couple that I thought were the poster children for the marriage made in hell. They both thrived on excitement and drama. They were both married for the second time and should have known better. They both had children from the previous marriage. They each brought more baggage into their relationship than could be fit in a freight box.

I saw them use techniques on each other that I have only heard of being used in mental institutions, cults, and brain washing facilities.

The wife would always keep her husband confused as to what was actually going on. She took over his business, his checkbook, and all of his investments. She directed his social life and scheduled his appointments. She became his mother. I think that she even told him how to dress. She would change things at random and not tell him. She would make appointments for him, then never tell him, them blame him for not being there.

She ran his business into the ground, forcing him to sell everything. Then she blamed him.

(I would like to point out that he had grown a rather nice business from practically nothing, owned commercial property, and was working everyday. In less than two years he had so sell his vehicles, his property, and his house.)

These are some of the techniques that I saw her use. She was quite adept and made very good use of each and every one.

If your spouse is never really clear on what is going on, then they are always open to manipulation. If a person's grasp on reality is never rock hard, then they can be easily swayed to another person's will. In a relationship, it clearly defines who is "wearing the pants" without taking actual responsibility. Control issues modified with a lack of responsibility on everyone's part. Kind of a slick bit of doublethink, I think. Another way of doing the same thing is to have your partner drink a lot and tell them tales of bad behavior that never really took place.

If one is always flying off the handle, one is flying and not thinking of being grounded. Without ground, one is always unsettled and unsteady, wobbling around like a windmill gone wild, whirling which ever way the wind blows. She would have screaming fits over the smallest thing not going her way, but would never become open to a solution to a problem unless it created more confusion. She would endlessly confront others, but never accept responsibility for anything.

This gal acted like her naughty bits were made of gold and far more precious. She would withhold sex as a tool to get whatever she wanted. She would brag about it to her friends. Her hubby never had the sense to just jack off and do without. She definitely has him by the short and curlies. He was a fine example if the phrase, “When a man gets an erection, all the blood runs away from his brain.” Before he even married her, he had bought her new silicone implants that she displayed proudly.

He certainly could not be called blameless in this thing. He let her do all these things because he was afraid of conflict. He would put himself into the hospital before standing up for himself. Marrying this gal magically removed his spine, making him incapable of remaining vertical without someone holding him up.

I don’t have a good ending. I lost touch with them (On purpose) and let them go their merry way. I heard about how they were doing for a couple of years, and then everyone lost interest as they fell off the face of the earth.

I can see them in my minds eye, seasoned citizens, still living together and fighting nonstop. She is accusing him of lusting after the wheelchair bound lady in the apartment next door; he replies that his pecker hasn’t worked in fifteen years.

Let’s face it, they are probably very much in love.

Sunday Morning

I have never been comfortable with Sunday morning. I never thought I was doing it right. Every Sunday I felt like an outsider, having nowhere to go, nothing to do. I felt like I was missing something by not having standing plans for every Sunday like most other people.

I was never one for going to Church, and sleeping in and wasting the day away is not something I have ever been good at. Sunday became that day each week where I didn’t know what to do with myself. I would wander the house, trying the TV, a book, cooking, or even going back to bed.

For a period of time, I found something that let me feel like I fit in by not fitting in; bicycling. I never rode with a club; I was always on my own, even when I was with a partner. When I was younger I would ride up to one hundred miles a day. I rode to and from work daily. I loved it. It was a way of life, pedaling my ass all over New Mexico.

My ex-wife put an end to all that. She whined, bitched, and made my life uncomfortable until I simply gave up and stopped riding.

I have tried a couple of times since the divorce to start again, but that is hard work. Part of me wants to ride like I used to, and I am not in any kind of shape to do that. It is like starting all over again, and I have to be careful to not to go too far.

On this trip to South Texas, I have been riding again and loving it. The environment is wonderful this time of year and the terrain is flat, a great place to get the legs into it and the body ready.

Bicycling gives one a certain sense of intimacy with the environment, partly because you are not wholly a part of vehicle traffic or a pedestrian. You seem to be in a world of your own, and even most cops don’t know what rules apply to you. (I once got pulled over for crossing 5 lanes of traffic in a construction zone without stopping or even slowing down. I got a verbal warning.)

In a car you are separated by the outdoors by glass, steel and speed. Riding a bicycle forces you to become aware of environment. The wind is your friend or your enemy, but you are never indifferent to it.

Going up every hill on a bicycle becomes a challenge, the top becomes an achievement, and the downhill side becomes a celebration. The end of every ride is a time of personal achievement.

So now I have something to do on Sunday morning while everyone else is on his or her way to church or sleeping in or complaining about his or her hangover. I hope I can keep it up.

What God wants...

Over the years, I have heard many people ‘justify’ what they are doing (and telling others to do) by saying, “its God’s will,” or something very similar.

Wars have been fought for this reason, but who exactly is it that decides what God wants? Is it religious leaders, politicians, or just your average Joe with a day job and a mortgage? God doesn’t seem to be talking too much these days. When I ask His opinion, I get nothing.

I don’t think I have ever done anything and said it was God’s will. I probably could have. I think I’m just crazy enough to pull it off.

Me, “But officer, it’s OK! God told me to rob that bank!”
Cop, “You’re crazy.”
Me, “Yep! Thanks for noticing! Can I go now?”

Certain TV evangelists will tell you that God is punishing America for something or another by hurricanes and other natural disasters. Then the PR people that they pay large amounts of money to keep their butts out of hot water say that they have made themselves look like assholes again and tell them to publicly apologize.

Overseas, certain religious leaders tell people that God says it’s a good thing to kill the infidels and make their way of life the standard for the whole world. They are obviously assholes.

In each case, they seem to be telling us that God is on their side and no other. In each case, I think that they are acting like assholes.

Therefore, I feel that I can safely say, with all my Trollish wisdom, that God must want you to be an asshole.




I am in no way assuming responsibility in any way. If you get into trouble, on your head be it. If you are crazy enough to actually take this shit seriously, then you are crazy.

What is Truth?

I am sure that those of you that read this blog, (both of you) have figured out that I do not always tell the truth. I confess. I make some of this shit up. I don’t make things up to confuse people or to make them seem foolish. I make things up because I like to make things up, the more absurd the better.

I enjoy making fun of the human condition. Get over it.

I do this to vent my need to express myself, not to make readers end up in the nuthouse. But if you take what you read here too seriously, I am sure that you could end up there. That’s your problem. I don’t make you read this shit. You do that on your own. (You could also become obsessed with toast and make the acceptance of toast as a vegetable your life’s work.)

(Let me interrupt this rant to for a moment to give way to the pictures in my head. I see visions of people marching in some great protest thingy, waving signs that say, “Get a Hairlift,” and “Ketchup is a vegetable.” People on the other side are chanting slogans and waving signs proclaiming vegetable rights while flying a huge carrot balloon above the crowd with a great mucking sign that says, “Do I look like Toast?”)

Think of this site as entertainment. I assure you that the free entertainment here is more consistent than stories on popular TV. The shit that they would have you believe is way stranger than what I say here.

I hope to entertain you, perhaps enlighten you, and at the best, show you a point of view that you have never seen before. If I can do that, I am happier than a dog eating cat shit.

If I just entertain you and maybe make you laugh, that’s enough for me.

If you really don’t like what you read here, then maybe you should not be here. I can live with that as well.

In the meantime, I will let those voices in my head finally have a forum. Then maybe they will leave me alone and go play with you good folks that pretend to read this shit.

But then who will I talk to when all my voices are talking to you?

Damn. Maybe I should rethink this whole thing……….

Back in the day

Back in the day, when I was just a wee Trollsprout growing up in the hills of Northeast Ohio, I spend a bit of time walking the highways of the area.

“Why in the name of all things Trollish would you do that?” I hear you asking. (I would appreciate it if you would ask a little bit quieter. You don’t have to yell. I’m right here.)

I did it because that’s how I could go see my friends. Back then, you did not go to Mommy or Daddy and ask for a ride to go see your friend that lived a mile or two away.
You would walk there, or not go at all. Riding a bike was flirting with death, as the roads were narrow and well traveled.

As I recall, at about this period of time we did not even own a car. My father drove the company car and Mom went without. Please understand that our nearest neighbor was 1/2 mile away and the nearest store of any kind was more than six miles away. It was the dark ages, after all, and things were much more primitive back then.

On my treks for companionship, I became introduced to Road Refuse. Road Refuse is things that either have fallen out of a passing vehicle, or things that are thrown out of a passing vehicle. We now call it litter. (I just can’t resist alliteration, sometimes.)

I would find all kinds of things, but for some reason, I mostly remember finding quite a bit of porn, or what we would call nowdaze, ‘pornlite’. Back then, the sight of a naked breast would make me think I was in Heaven, and that was about the level of the porn that I was finding, so things worked out OK.

Flash forward to present day; MizfiTroll has been seen riding his bicycle around the roads of South Texas, still with an eye toward Road Refuse.

I have noticed something; I am seeing quite a lot of farm equipment catalogs. Enough that I have become convinced that the teenage boys down here must masturbate to pictures of tractors and other large farm equipment. (There is more evidence than just that, but frankly, it is just a little gross, and I would prefer not to go into it at this time. Let’s just say it involves latex gloves and certain bovine lubricants, OK?) **

Upon further observation, I am even more convinced. I have noticed that the nubile teenage girls often seem to be wearing panties and underwear that are the color commonly called John Deere green. This frightens me. (NO, I have not been baby snaking, just observing.)

I realize that this is an agricultural area, but has the youth of America become so jaded by sex on TV and radio that they are turning to this? (and no jokes about ’autoeroticism’.)

On the other hand, maybe I am missing an opportunity. I should go into the Agriporn business, pictures of real naked women on farm equipment, looking provocative and stimulating the imagination of pubescent farmers. Nothing hardcore, of course, just attractive, naked young women sitting on tractors while fondling corn and other suggestive vegetables.

Catch the boys at a young enough age and get them thinking about damsels and not diesel. Introduce them to naked titties at about thirteen and a glimpse of bush at about fifteen. Keep the dream alive. (No pink. They have to learn to go for pink on their own.)

It’s time someone did something to get the minds of rural boys off of tractors and back on girls where they belong. Where else is the next generation of farmers going to come from? We need to keep our boys and girls on the farm, breeding up a passle of other would be farmers to help keep America fat. (I mean fed)



**(And as a side note, there is some man down here that has been charged with having sex with a dog. They have evidence. He videotaped the act. His girlfriend gave the police the tape. They busted her for knowing about the act and not acting more quickly. She waited until they had a fight. There were other acts in the tape as well. This seems to be a somewhat sexually diverse environment.

Let me just say, “Ewwwwwwwwww!!.”)

Visit

The Mrs. has come all the way down to see me. I am happier than a Gnome taking a shit on the White House lawn.

I have not seen her in about a month. In that month I learned that she is what keeps me from exclusive relationships with my imaginary friends and from drawing the blood of people that piss me off, then burying the bodies in gravel pits.

I have missed her.

AND; She will not see this until she gets back home.

I could take advantage of the situation and tell tales of her involvement with evil monkeys that are holding President Bush’s brain hostage.

Instead I will take this opportunity to leave her a surprise and tell her I love her in front of everybody, violating some unwritten man-code and probably getting me fined.

Mrs. Troll, I love you.

Amazon Women on the News

I have noticed a tendency toward imposing women on local TV. When I use the word ‘imposing’, I’m not trying to be polite and lead you to think I mean large or ugly. I simply mean they would scare the hell out of me if I met them face to face.

They share a demeanor that leads one to believe that they personally make the news with hammer and anvil, driving the point home with cruel intent and swilling cheap rotgut after an evenings entertainment of torturing small woodland creatures and possible suitors.

Their clothing suggests designer body armor. Think of a scoop neck Kevlar blouse with lots of sparkles and you will be getting the idea. I half expect to see some anchorfem wearing gold chain mail and holding a seven foot spear in her left hand while Wagnerian music heralds her coming on camera.

They have a severe makeup style that vaguely reminds me of women wrestlers or transvestites. The makeup is done with sharp contrast and vivid colors. Black eyeliner is seriously black, while rouge is a large red spot on the cheekbone with very little feathering into the surrounding lighter skin color. The lipstick is bright red to pull your eye toward the words coming from her mouth and away from the eyes that are shooting lethal daggers of light into your soul.

All the hair is helmet hair, properly lacquered into place and unable to move. I would not be surprised to learn it is also Teflon coated and bullet resistant. When a head suddenly moves, each hair acts like it is attached to the scalp at both ends and does not even think about so much as a single quiver.

These are the kind of people that I would choose as bodyguards if I were as rich as The Donald; stunning, stark women that can cause a man to loose control of his bladder by just staring at him.

I bet that there are sensitive children out there that burst into tears when one of these women appears on the small screen in their home. “Mommy, the lady’s eyes make me pee….”

If  Zena the Warrior Princess, had a TV news show, it would be popular here. I could believe that all the local Femcasters are fashioned after her in some way; breastplate wearing, sword wielding women on a mission to keep you up to date and informed about breaking news in the Rio Grande Valley.

“Pay attention. Worm! What I am about to tell you is IMPORTANT! If you show proper respect, I may let you lick the dog shit from my shoe.

“Next; your Accuweather with Howard Wormlish.”

It’s not that these women are unattractive, but they certainly are unappealing. I find it increasingly hard to watch the local news. They seem driven and feel capable of browbeating all audience members into submission. They want you to know that when news breaks, they are there to fix it and no nonsense.

I think I feel better watching Mr. Rogers, and I hate watching Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers never made me feel like I should put on clean underwear because I might be involved in a car accident with the man whom the police have been looking for because he escaped from jail after being convicted of sexual relations with a nine-year-old collie. I don’t want the headlines to be about my skid mark shame.

“Skid marks show man was not in control when he hit the car of a convicted dog sex criminal today in the Valley. More at 11.”

I think these ladies do more to prevent crime than all the public service announcements shown on TV. They make you want to not do bad things because they will expose your bedwetting phase when you were five years old, or that you once hit your sister when she took your dump truck and gave it to the retarded kid down the street.

I will certainly be on my best behavior while I am down here. I don’t want the world to learn about the dump truck incident.

Oh shit………..

”Blogger charged in child abuse scandal. More at 10…….worm”

Parade

Yesterday was the first day of the rodeo and necessary parade in the small town that is now my home away from home.

The parade was less than three hundred feet from my front door. It only lasted about an hour, so it really wasn’t too bad, just noisy.

This is an excuse for all the prepubescent girls in the area to put on their glittery clothes and dance the “Cotton-Eyed Joe” down the main street of town to the music blasting from the bed of a pickup truck.

The older girls got to ride horses and yell. I heard, “WOOO  HOOOO!”, no less than thirty times in 12 minutes. Teenage girls delight in any excuse to yell. The glittery girls want to grow up to become the yelling girls. I harbor secret desires to pick them all off like a postal worker after a bad lunch.

There were the usual marching bands, showing what they have practiced for years, and fighting to keep in time because they can’t hear themselves above the other marching band right behind them.

I don’t believe there are many sounds more ear shattering than two out of tune marching bands trying to out-loud each other. The different songs and tempo create peaks and valleys of conflict. Choreographed car crashes on your front porch would have about the same impact.

I was particularly under-impressed by some marching band’s rendition of “La Cucaracha.” I am not at all thrilled by a song tribute to vermin, even if it doesn’t want to smoke, drink, or travel. Hearing the song performed by a marching band does nothing to improve it to my ear.

The rodeo could be heard quite clearly from the Doghouse, so I had a blow by blow commentary without paying a dime. Too bad I don’t like or even understand rodeo.

All in all it seemed a fun time for all, judging from the smiling faces I watched go by all day. Now I hope it’s all over so I can get some sleep.

Stupor Bowl

Sunday celebrates the fortieth annual football extravaganza. It also celebrates forty years of partying and excessive drinking.

I‘ve heard that this day has the highest rate of domestic violence of any day of the year.

Please have a safe and fun Super bowl. Don’t get too drunk. If you do, go to bed and get over it.

And if your team wins, don’t tell me about it. I could care less. I don’t follow football and don’t want to change my ways. Have fun.

I will probably go for a bike ride.

You go have your fun, I’ll have mine.

Happy Ground Hog Day

Today is Groundhog Day, and I offer you a little end of winter treat.

I was put in mind lately of something that happened to me a very long time ago, when I was still using trendy chemical amusement aids and did not take life very seriously.

I was at the State Fair in a wheelchair. The circumstances of my being in that wheelchair are long and tedious and I feel no need to go into them here. Let me just say that I did not really need that chair. Anyhooooo , there I was, decked out in my Fair finery,  (T-shirt, jeans, and a hat with a nice new hat pin that I had begged off of someone just because I could.) wheeling around and popping the occasional cripple wheelie just to show off and get the sympathy vote from strangers and  people that I hope to never see again.

After a couple of hours of this, it seemed a good time to take a break. There were about five of us sitting and standing in a circle, talking and having a good time, solving the problems of the world and correcting all that is wrong. (AKA bullshitting and getting fucked up)

One of the guys in the group, about six feet tall and a strapping figure of a man, gets an inspiration and starts doing his impression of a Southern Baptist Minister. Getting into character, he had the attention of the entire group and the occasional passing stranger when he went for the ‘Big Finale’.

Yelling “AND YOU WILL BE HEALED” he smacks me square on the head with the heel of his hand, jamming the backside of the hatpin directly into my skull. It hurt like hell! It was just like hammering a small nail into your skull with one hit.

Not thinking, I LEAPT out of the chair, ready to pay him back in some painful fashion, when I realized that others were watching, others who had no idea that this was all an act and thought something remarkable had taken place. His yelling and gestures had attracted quite a few people, and that few now had their collective attention on me, the recipient of his blessing.

I threw my hands into the air and yelled, “Thank you lord! ” and fell to my knees, wrapping my arms around his knees and hugging his legs, being as dramatic as hell and making a seem like a big deal. (All the while wishing I could bite him and pay him back for the hole in my head.)

The ‘audience’ loved it.

He, however, lost the sense of adventure entirely and got embarrassed. Not knowing how to behave, he pulled me up and helped me back into the chair. Making noises about his being done here and the like.

I don’t think he ever forgave me for leaving him holding the bag. He was a proud man and hated getting embarrassed.

Sometimes I love being an asshole.

Global Warming

CIPNN (Completely Insane Person’s News Network) has uncovered a startling revelation.

The sun heats the Earth.

Imaginary scientists have experimental evidence that proves when more sunshine hits the surface of the earth, the warmer that area is, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that the sun is responsible for global warming.

There you have it.