Gnomes again

Those damn Gnomes are back.

It all started last night when I heard this impossibly high scream outside my Doghouse. I thought someone was dying a horrible death by being skinned alive with hot butter knives.

It was just the Gnomes throw a party on my patio.

I don’t know what it is with them. They can seem to sniff out a Troll from across town and track one down over rivers and glaciers. They love tormenting my kind.

The horrible screams that I heard was a Gnomette expressing her delight at being teased about the size of her elbows. Her laughter could hit the kind of notes that makes dogs howl.

They were collected around a fire on my patio, burning the hair off a bunny, drinking like sailors just back from a year at sea, and all trying to get in the pants (or lack of) of Gnomette of the Large Elbows.

I slammed open my front door hoping to scare them, but was met with indifference. One actually muttered, “Bout time we got you up.”

I yelled at them, I threw things at them, I poured water on their fire, and threw the dead bunny body over the fence. They laughed at me. I turned on Air America. They put in earplugs.

I went back into the Doghouse and got one of my favorite condiments, Pedro Caliente’s Habanero Hotsauce, a real five alarm taste treat if ever there was one.

I started sprinkling it over the dancing Gnomes, anointing their dirty little heads and shoulders with the fluid of fiery foods.

As soon as the first drop hit one in the eye, all hell broke loose. They were running away like illegal aliens after hearing a cry of, ”Immigration!”

I am sure they will be back.

Geriatric jerks

I want one of those scooters that they show on TV all the time.

You know the ones I mean, the ones that old people sing about how they are in love and the company really had a good time selling them a chair that the government was really paying for.

I would want mine to have recorded big rig noises in place of a horn to scare the hell out of those people that stand in doors and mingle in high-traffic hallways.

I want people to look up to see me bearing down on them with an evil gleam in my eye and blaring air horn noises coming from under my powered wheelchair while I scream, “Get outta my way, you evil bitch!”

When I get old a feeble I intend to be a right bastard, scaring little children (“I like the taste of little girl, little girl.”) and middle aged people with my behavior. I want to be the guy at the mall that scares the hell out of everyone just by staring at them with that demented gleam in my eye. Then I want to create a great annoying blast from my air horn and roll about chasing people and drooling over short skirts and great cleavage until mall security runs me off.

Then I would loudly create a scene, declare police brutality and that I am going to sue the mall, just to show up again the next day and pretend that I can’t remember a thing from the day before.

I can just imagine a gaggle of geriatrics storming the mall with mad intentions and a “You can’t do anything to me that ain’t been done already" attitude, sporting bumper stickers that say,
“Grandma is coming, and boy is she pissed!”

“Geriatric gangs terrorize teens.”

That’s a headline I can identify with….

Signs

In your community, do you have those individuals that stand on corners with signs telling you how broke they are and how grateful they would be if you would just give them a handful of spare change?

In the interest of honesty, I think we need to see more signs like this.

“Will lie to you for sympathy and money.”

“Want money for booze, drugs, and this really hot Asian whore I just met.”

“It makes me feel smarter than you if you give me money that you work for.”

“I made $36000 last year and none of it was taxed. I am going for $40000 this year. Please help.”

“Don’t even THINK of offering me work, just throw money.”

“Car payment due, please help.”

“Food? I don’t want your stinkin’ food!”

“Too lazy to work, will lie for food.”

On getting old

I saw something today that I found disturbing. That, in itself, is disturbing.

I saw two older people (I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘seasoned citizens.) , I would guess they were in their 70s, making out like a couple of teenagers at a kegger. They were all over each other, swapping spit and playing tonsil hockey right there in front of God and everybody.

I actually saw the guy grab a handful of wrinkled rump.

I would guess you could say they were in love. It was at least lust, or maybe just an OD on the latest trendy erectile dysfunction remedy. It doesn’t matter.

I realized that I wanted to be one of those people.

No. Nonononono, I am not saying that I want to make out with some 70 year-old man or woman. I am saying I want to be that interested in making out when I am that old.

After I feeb out, I want to be interested enough to try to talk Mrs. Troll into a ‘Baby take your teeth out’ kinda evening, bumping uglies and doing it like we used to when we were making out in the back of my hippie van.

If not, then I would just be happy to still be alive and thinking about it.

Oh, to hell with it, if I make to 70 I will be happy to be alive. If my pecker still works at all it will be a bonus.

And I won’t have to squat to pee.

Safety

I read somewhere that some crazy is complaining that her TV fell over and hurt her kid. She is demanding warning labels on TVs that tell us that they might fall over if inadequately supported.

Here is my suggestion for a rather general warning label that could be used in most circumstances and to help prevent most accidents.


Gravity Works!