Nyan Hippo Blog

Back again. I know, I know. It’s been about a week and a half since I last posted some of my amazing and poorly edited prose and all of you, my dozen loyal readers all across the globe: The U.S., Russia, Romania, Great Britain, Vietnam, Canada…wait. Vietnam? While I appreciate anybody and everybody who would take the time to actually read the stuff that falls out of my brain and on to the keyboard, I even appreciate Nebraskans, I wonder why Vietnam? Not that I have anything against any nation or any people that inhabit these nations, it’s just strange to see Vietnam pop up on the views list. The first thing that comes to mind when I see this, is that someone is trying to steal all of this valuable information that I put on here. Then I think, well maybe I’ve truly reached across nations and cultures, and that the web really does have the capability to bridge gaps and bring us all together as one world, as human beings, instead of violent defenders of cultural and religious identity. Then I realized that the internet has, in the not too distant past, been used to Rickroll one another and to proliferate Nyan cat. Maybe that’s what my blog has become: the new Rickroll or Nyan cat. Damn it—anything but Nyan cat. [BTP] All of you have been wondering, waiting, salivating over what comes next. nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nya-nya-n-nya-n-nya-nyan. NO! Get out of my head Nyan cat and go back to 2011! nyan [BTP!] If you’re wondering why my [back to point] has an exclamation point within the brackets that would be because I just wasted twenty minutes of precious life watching that accursed flying Pop-Tart cat.

Honestly though, the whole Nyan cat is a step up from what I usually have to endure. You see, I have a 15 year-old step-daughter. And the thing with 15 year-old girls is that they absolutely love the most horrific music. Case in point: “Somebody I used to know,” by Gotye. Not more than a week ago I, again, found myself in the unenviable position of being trapped in a moving vehicle with music which, I am almost sure, was forged in Hell’s bowels. Notice I didn’t say, the bowels of hell as one would expect. This was not a grammatical oversight. I believe that by ascribing Hell’s bowels to the place of origin from whence this song sprang is the only way that one can get a full understanding of the fecal-ness of the noise which was permeating my ears, my mind, and my very being.

To be fair I didn’t hate this song the first time I heard it; nor the second, or the third. It really is a good song. But the thing about 15 year-old girls is that they haven’t developed the element of self-control and are a slave to their impulses. So after hearing the song approximately 8,439,228,991.16 times over the course of two weeks, I hate it. Not a mild loathing or an extreme dislike, but hate—deep, dark, black, soot-covered flaming hatred. I’m beginning to wonder if the 15 year-old is using tactics on me similar to the tactics used when the U.S. invaded Nicaragua or Panama, or whatever country it was, back in 1989. When Noriega holed himself up in an embassy and the U.S. military used psychological warfare and blasted bad ‘80s metal at the disposed ruler on loudspeakers for days on end which finally pushed him to madness and he ran screaming from his redoubt and, after setting fire to his own genitals, drowned himself in the Panama canal? (That was a historical fact I just stated. Don’t believe me? Read it again. It’s on the internet, so it must be true). This may be the situation I’m facing here. But I refuse to yield. There aren’t any major bodies of water near my neighborhood in Devil’s Tookus and I don’t have the nerve to cook my junk. [BTP]. Nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan nyan—No! Wrong point! http://nyan.cat/

[BTP again] My wife and I were driving the 15 year-old female vessel of impulsiveness and materialistic pining to a mid-week church thing. All the while I was planning a desperate flight away from the maniacal repetition of that God-damned song, when, lo and behold, we arrived at the church. Praise the Lord, though I just used his name in vain, I was forgiven, relief found me and the music ceased. I told my, recently minted, step-daughter to have fun learning about Jehovah with an I. Nobody got my Indiana Jones reference so I slunk back in the seat and enjoyed the consolation of relative quiet.

As we exited the church parking lot my eye caught sight of something so terrible and so heinous that I could barely contain my rage. There, in the playground of the church day care, were climbing apparatuses shaped in the form of a Hippopotamus and a Crocodile. What the flip, my mind screamed. Okay, it wasn’t flip I thought, but I do, on occasion, censor myself. It wasn’t the Crocodile that offended me, it was the Hippo. Kids know instinctively that Crocs are dangerous and violent creatures, that’s why they have shoes named after them. But Hippos? Hippos appear to be harmless; big toothy smiles inviting young children to play in their gaping mouths. But these animals are one of the most dangerous creatures on the face of the Earth. What the hell were these church administers thinking? The irresponsibility was mind-blowing. These kids are going to grow up thinking Hippos are safe and cuddly pets. Then they will travel to Africa, go out on pontoon boat (I don’t know why I chose pontoon boat, I guess it’s because I rarely get to use the word ‘pontoon’), and get bitten in half by the massive jaws of a Hippo. Hippos will bite you half. They do it all of the time. Don’t believe me? Google Hippos biting people in half and I’ll bet you’ll find at least a hundred stories on Hippo bitings. I then had a greater realization: Noah’s Ark. There are stories of this guy building a big-ass boat and stocking it full of Hippos. According to the story the Hippos were passive as they entered the Ark. Bull. (This reminds me, male and female Hippos are called bulls and cows, which further lends itself to false notion that they are safe. What could be safer than mankind’s primary food source?) I knew at once that the story was designed to lure children into the false security that Hippos are safe and gentle and that I had stumbled upon a greater conspiracy.

Hippos in the playground? Hippos in the Holy writings? I believe this to be some sort of twisted plot to cull the human population. The authors of the Bible knew the human population was getting out of hand and therefore decided to remedy the situation by making people believe that Hippos were, and are, safe. They already had people putting their faith in the text anyway, so why not add in a little population control? What they didn’t know was that Hippos didn’t exist anywhere else in the world other than Africa and that the Hippo-less Asians would be such prolific breeders. I guess the Supreme Being forgot to mention that to them. For those who are offended by the Asian remark—what? They’re not? There are two Asian nations that have a population of over a Billion people and there isn’t a Hippo in either. I only state facts here.

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I feel it is incumbent upon me to warn the people of this great planet of the danger Hippos are to the human race. Don’t let yourself fall complacent in your vigilance against the Hippo menace. I will use this forum to be ever watchful. Maybe we really can use the internet as a force for good? Nyan nyan nyan nyan nya nya nyan. ...Shit. Maybe not.

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It's Tebow's Fault, or...Stapling the Weatherman.

After enduring the first half of the local news broadcast last night, and becoming steadily more depressed and irate from hearing fifteen minutes of stories about mankind’s penchant for depravity and mayhem, I was informed by the anchorwoman’s nasally shrill voice that weather and sports were next. Alas, a break in the visions of misfortune and I could see highlights of the baseball game I missed. I knew I would have to endure the weather portion to get to those highlights, but small sacrifices must be made. I briefly entertained changing the channel to ESPN, but their ongoing love affair with Tim Tebow held me back. I admit, I did try to watch SportsCenter earlier that evening, but I was not up to the task of sitting through listening to them try to make the sport of driving around in circles for three-and-a-half hours sound exciting.

So as I sat and waited, the weatherman appeared on the screen and during my haze of disinterest, I heard him say, “It’s only going to be 105° tomorrow.” At that point I wished I had Wonka-vision. I wanted to go inside the TV and beat the little man with hand and fist for saying it’s only going to be 105 degrees. Here in Devil’s Tookus, California, in the great Central Valley where, for some reason, though I don’t know why, I live, 105° does indeed, to the uninitiated, seem like a cool-down. But saying it’s only going to be 105 degrees is like me going to this weatherman, via Wonka-vision, and telling him, I’m only going to staple your mouth shut. Okay, I wouldn’t actually staple somebody’s mouth shut just for spouting off about how much cooler it’s going to be while he flits about the studio in his suit and tie, but, when I walk outside and the space-faring giant glowing death orb is blasting me with its carcinogenic waves of thermonuclear radiation, 105 degrees just does not feel like a relief. He went on to say that the heat warning is over. Yippee! For those of you who don’t know what a heat warning is, *(Usually, at this point, I would refer to Nebraska, but I’m going to leave Nebraska out this discussion, because, by the looks of things, it appears as if the Sun has parked it’s corpulent derriere right in the middle of that state), a heat warning means this: go outside and you will be instantly charred, singed, seared, and/or scalded to death. Whatever clothing you are wearing will be baked into your skin and,  if you somehow survive the Sun’s blistering attacks, (think Super-Mario Bros. 3), and you walk out onto the street, you will sink up to your knees in the melted asphalt and then be eaten alive by roaming packs of hell-hounds.

[BTP] Living in Devil’s Tookus—hold on. You need to know this next part: *(Because this is a valley, where I live is not really the entire posterior of Satan. It’s more of the anal cleft, but naming this place the Devil’s Crack leaves too much to the imagination. I want you to know—nay, understand and feel—that if the Devil is indeed real, then the place I call home is the place from which she/he/it defecates devoured lost souls). [btp] Devil’s Tookus does have its benefits. Well, if truth be told, one: if you get an extremity amputated, you can press the bleeding stump against a scalding, white-hot, sidewalk and instantly cauterize the wound. So that’s it; I live here just in case I lose a limb.  

[BTP]After putting up with the talking suit’s weather forecast, I prepared for the baseball highlights. And wouldn’t you guess it? The signal from my old friend Xfinity/Comcast (see previous rants), had a glitch, and I ended up watching  two minutes of something that reminded me of a rerun of Max Headroom instead of the baseball highlights I had waited so long and endured so much for. Such is life…

UPDATE: I just saw the current temperature—109°… He is a liar! The weatherman is a filthy, filthy liar! 

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One Direction and Dead Fish

I had the opportunity to travel all across my home state of California this summer. I also traveled to Chicago, but people only talk, or write, about stuff when they want to complain. I immensely enjoyed the windy city, so I’ll leave it out. Its only downfall is its close proximity to Nebraska. Well, Chicago is closer to Nebraska than California is, so therefore—close proximity. Now I’ve previously stated that I don’t have anything against Nebraska, I’ve never even been to the Cornhusker state, or Grassy-field state, or Field-mouse state, or whatever its nickname is. That is I never had anything against it until now. You see, I didn’t think there were lakes or streams in that place, I figured they got their moisture from tobacco juice being spit on the soil then harvested by saliva gathering combines. But, behold, I saw a news story that said every single fish in Nebraska died this summer. I guessed that had to be around 8 fish from somebody’s tobacco juice aquarium. Apparently I was wrong. Now I do have a problem with people turning against fish and the wholesale slaughter of our ichthyoid friends. They’re fish, not wasps, leave them alone. All they do is swim, eat, poo, and mate. Replace the swimming with walking and that’s all people really do. Just give a fish legs and an iPhone and they become people. I was trying to figure out why people would want to mercilessly beat a fish to death and then I remembered they are Nebraskans and they have moral objections to mating. So that’s it. They must’ve had enough of fish fornicating in their limited water supply. Hold on a sec… What’s that? Hottest summer ever, drought, lakes and rivers drying up? Okay, so just forget what I said about beating fish to death for gettin’ it on.

[BTP] During my travels around California, I concluded that every, highway, freeway, expressway, interstate, avenue, street, road, boulevard, cul-de-sac, alley, path and cattle trail in the state is under construction. As I have previously stated, the traffic in California is, what I would call, constipated. I’m not talking just, oh that took a little work, constipated, but full on, pass me the glycerin and enema, constipated. So, when every possible path has the ‘Roadwork Ahead’ signs out, the traffic becomes a complete bowel obstruction. This wouldn’t be so bad, except for one thing: Aquafina. For those of you who don’t know, or who aren’t fool enough to spend your money on something that comes out of the tap at home, Aquafina is a bottled water company.

I purchased my bottle of Aquafina in a mini-mart in a toilet-town. You know the towns, the ones that don’t appear to have any other industries other than fast-food chains and a waste water treatment facility. [btp = mini ‘back to point’ as I didn’t stray too far]Aquafina bottled water company has decided to become eco-friendly and now makes their bottles out of plastic-cling-wrap. To make matters worse, Aquafina fills the bottles to the absolute top and puts the caps on so tight that you need vice-grips to assist in opening the bottle. As my wife drove, listening to her choice of music, which happened to be One Direction, followed up by Celine Dion, I gave the bottle what for. *As a side note here, the combination of One Direction and Celine Dion = Testosterone loss. Not just a little bit of naturally occurring hormone reduction, I’m talking about a complete loss of all things male. Within the span of six minutes I grew boobs. Not moobs, but fully lactating breast. I had the urge to watch The View, shave my legs, and read People magazine. (Okay, that wasn’t fair to People magazine, because, what guy hasn’t picked up his wife’s or girlfriend’s People while sitting on the hopper?) [BTP] I was stuck in the car with the sound of a plaintively whining androgynous teen-boy band, followed by Celine’s mournful wailing. However, I was not without options. The first would have been to cast myself from the vehicle, but being as how we were driving on the one 10 mile stretch of highway in all of California where there was no road construction going on, and because, when on the open road, my wife believes if her calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 mph…you’re gonna see some serious shit, that meant almost certain death if I were to bail out. In hindsight, that may have been the better alternative to my new occupation as wet-nurse. The second was to stab my eardrums with pointy things, but I didn’t have any pointy things other than my freshly budding bosoms. [BTP] You know… scratch that BTP. Because I believe if it hadn’t been for the estrogen enhancing music combo, I would’ve been able to open the Aquafina bottle, or, at least, had less trouble with it. As it was, I gripped to the plastic-wrap bottle too tight while struggling with the cap and squeezed its contents out and onto my lap. Needless to say, I spent the remainder of the trip with wet panties. Yes I said ‘panties,’ because the feminine power of One Direction and Celine Dion caused my boxers to become women’s undergarments.

I have since begun a testosterone restoring treatment plan of listening to AC/DC, beating my neighbors with a hockey stick, and wearing my old work-boots. The progress is slow, but it’s coming along wonderfully. Wonderfully? Maybe it’s not going so well? Ah crap! Barry Manilow is on the radio. Now I’m PMS-ing.  

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To anger bees and wasps

There have been many things over the years that I have felt qualified to offer advice about or give an opinion on. Trouble is, most of the time I have been the only one who has felt that way. However on this subject I do indeed have vast experience. You see, for more than a couple of decades I have excelled in pissing off bees, wasps, ex-wives, and other remarkably annoying creatures. But for now, I’m going to stick with educating the general public on irking the flying insect variety of stinging nuisances and inciting them into attacking you.  In fact, I’ve incited bees into killing themselves just to have a go at me. It is really an amazing thing to anger something to the point where it gladly gives up its own life just to cause another creature an hour or two worth of annoyance. I’ve thought of doing just that, when the cable guy didn’t show up for two days and after he did and left, the problem I called about still persisted. Have you ever lost a game while playing online due to lag? Or wrote a 700 word blog just to lose internet connection before posting? (I’m plugging Xfinity here. What kind of name is that anyway? Is that infinity, as in it takes forever to connect? With an X as in I will soon be an X customer?). [BTP. You remember BTP from the previous post right? No? Well go back and read it, I’ll wait…]. Well if you have been frustrated by such things you can understand the bee’s mindset. Okay, I’ll admit, I wouldn’t act like a bee and tear off my body parts in retaliation, but I would rant and complain. That’s kind of close to the same thing.

[BTP] So if you have never been stung by a flying insect you really are missing out on one of life’s most unique experiences. To feel the sensation of fiery electricity burning through your soft tissue because of some turd of bug, no bigger than the size of my little toe decides to assault you for no good reason, (other than it felt its life threatened or bad internet connection), is something I feel everyone should know, because, as my wife recently found out before a procedure, when a nurse tells you this I.V. will feel like a bee sting, a person should have a point of reference. Having never been stung, my wife’s expectation of pain was smaller than it should have been. She should have started screaming and swatting at the nurse. To that end I will, from this point on, give you a step-by step tutorial as to how to achieve this. These suggestions all come from personal experience or from watching others. None of this next section is made up. Now I know you’re saying, “wait aren’t you that fantasy author who is hoping to make a living by lying about rampaging, viscous, intelligent, killer penguins in his upcoming novel Rise of the Penguins?” (Shamelessly plugs book). Why yes, yes I am. But I swear this stuff I’m about to write is the gospel truth. So now just sit back and read about how to piss off wasps and bees.

            I) Obliviousness. You can achieve this by paying little or no attention to your surroundings.

I first learned this method when I was about 10 or 11 years old while hurrying to look at a dead rattlesnake that got ran over while riding with my dad in the hills. Now I stated before that I live in Devil’s Tookus, California. In the hills above the valley where Devil’s Tookus lies, are great bodies of water called lakes. (I say this for the benefit of Nebraskans. I don’t think they have lakes or water there). Surrounding these lakes is dirt. Lots of dirt. And in this dirt a horrific beast known as a Mud-Dauber wasp makes its nest. So as I made my way to see the spectacle of rattlesnake guts I stepped on a ground nest of these minions of hell. Now I’m going to age myself here and tell you that this took place during the 1970’s. For some reason during this era, pants only came in two styles: Bell-bottoms and Super Bell-bottoms. I was wearing the latter. *As a side note, if you choose to adopt this technique, the modern-era equivalent of bell-bottoms would be those super baggy pants or man-capris. If you wear skinny-jeans…well just don’t. Go out in your boxers or whitey-tighties instead, it wouldn’t be less humiliating for you. The baggy pants are bad enough, but if you’re a man, do you really want to wear pants that look like leggings? Unless you also wear a tunic; then you’d kind of look like Link from the Zelda games. For women, wear a dress and you’ll definitely get the full experience of this. [BTP] The bell-bottoms perfectly funneled the death-dealing hellions up my legs. As I said, this was the ‘70s, so I was also wearing tube socks. Because I was adorned in the traditional tube-sock/bell-bottom garb of the time, the only logical place for the flipping things to sting me were the back of my knees. I don’t remember if I used profanity, I might have, but I do remember gyrating wildly in the middle of the mountain road, frantically shaking the beasts out of my pant legs. I might have dropped my pants, but I don’t know. I also remember burning white pain and a vague sense of my dad calling me something that sounded like Nancy. Nancy? Maybe it was pansy or panty, or sugar-tits. In fact I’m sure of it.

At this point I’m just gonna move on. There are certain things that should be left in the past. We can talk later about the times when I picked up boxes or two by fours without knowing wasp were chewing on them. In fact, it was probably the same wasp. I’m assuming it was some kind of futuristic terminator wasp sent back in time to give me pause over swatting their kind with whiffle-ball bats. It did, so now I just spray their nests with lethal toxins.

            II) I’ll call this technique panic like a six year old girl.

I’m not saying that six-year old girls are the only people who are prone to panic, but I have a daughter who was once six years old and she would panic quite often. Though truth-be-told, it was usually while I was chasing her around the house with a spider I had smashed with a napkin and telling her, “it’s still alive!” The screams were ear-piercing, but it taught her how to power-sprint and deftly dive over furniture to evade the still alive (dead) spiders. In fact this was a tradition I carried on until she became an adult. It ended when, while attempting the next spider chase, my grown daughter looked at me with an icy steel glare, (you know the look; the menstruating-Mestophales-don’t you dare-glower that could stop a charging Bengal tiger in its tracks and cause the poor creature to slink back into the bush like a scared kitten?). Well needless to say the game was over at that time. Spider society is grateful to my daughter, because it was just no longer any fun to kill them if I didn’t have anybody to chase around while holding mutilated arachnid corpses. [BTP]. My first experience with the panic technique was while I was playing hide-n-seek in Pismo Beach. Now why I was playing hide-n-seek in a trailer-park instead of frolicking on the beach, I have no idea. But I was about seven years old and frolicking in a trailer-park must’ve seemed infinitely more exciting. At what point in a person’s life do we stop frolicking? I would probably get arrested if I were to go a-frolicking at my age. I’d be charged with over-age frolicking. I’m thinking you have to stop frolicking once puberty begins. It wouldn’t do for a person with hair on new places to frolic. I’m trying to see how many times I can use frolicking or a form of it in one paragraph.  I’ll wait while you count… Eight? Are you sure? I’ll wait while you double check… [BTP] While playing this game I squatted into some tall grass along the side of a chain-link fence and silently hid. I had excellent stealth for a seven year old. Nobody could find me. Looking back, I doubt anybody was actually looking for me. Regardless, I sat there as still as a stone gargoyle for the better part of the day until I was finally found. Trouble was it wasn’t a person that found me; it was a bee. I knew I blended in perfectly with my surroundings, as I was wearing my green and white Incredible Hulk t-shirt, because apparently this bee thought my nose was a blossom of a sort. I stared cross-eyed through the lenses of my over-sized turtle shell framed glasses at the fuzzy monster, (I give the description of my glasses so you can have an idea of what sort of specimen the bee was dealing with. As a child I inspired fear in nothing, perhaps that’s why the bee felt safe to perch on the tip of my nose). Fear struck me and I did what any other red-blooded American girl would do; I screamed, panicked, and swatted. In all fairness, I instigated this battle so I can’t blame the bee for retaliating. My attack initiated the bee’s suicide response and it plunged its stinger deep in my nose. I took the time to stomp on my already dead opponent before I ran shrieking to my Grandma’s trailer. People came out of their homes at the sound of my banshee like wailing; probably thinking a toddler girl had her dolly stolen or a pig had been castrated in the street. My Grandma ran outside and looked me over, probably thinking I had been shot or stabbed, then realized what the issue was, reassured the neighbors I was fine and I was indeed a boy, and then scraped the stinger from my nose. Eventually, my older brother, who was one the hiders or non-seekers, showed up and feigned concern. When my grandma left the room, I’m relatively certain he made reference to me being a woman’s reproductive organ, though at that age I didn’t know what it meant. Why was he calling me a cat?

I think that’s about all of the reminiscing my psyche can handle this week. Over the next week or two we’ll cover a technique which I observed my Grandpa performing. It’s called Bold Claims and Drunken Crapulence. Until then, I think I need a session with my therapist.

Ever yours,

            Sugar-tits
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Hello people in internet land. My name is Steven Hammond and I am about to start blogging. Aren’t you so very lucky to live in a time where you get to read the blathering of some random stranger; a person you have never met and likely have never desired to meet, and will, after reading my irreverent prose, be even more likely to go out of your way to never meet me?  I mean if you saw me on a subway (which is highly unlikely, because I live in California where people’s idea of mass transit is sitting in a constipated line of pollution producing steel and plastic death traps [cars], and insistently honk their horns as if that will cause the traffic jam to suddenly dissipate like a patch of clouds facing a blazing sun or snail v. sadistic child with a salt-shaker), [BTP=back to point], you would without a doubt think to yourself, why, that’s that idiot who doesn’t know when to stop writing. He’s a dick. I’m standing over here. I couldn’t say I would blame you. But let me go on record as saying that I am not a creeper. By creeper I mean I’m not the guy who stands at the back of the grocery line, with a blank-faced stare watching the cashier bag your personal items. THAT is not me. I am happily, monogamously, married and could care less about your personal items. Whether you use quilted toilet paper or the regular stuff; I don’t judge, regardless of what it says about your personal life choices.

[BTP]. What I was saying was you might not stand next to me on an imaginary California subway because at some future point you might read something of mine and think would I want my daughter marrying somebody like this? Or, hell, would I even want her to know him? Okay, so that is a little extreme on your part. Sure, I may, again at some future point, refer to my recent, and all too frequent, prostate exams, I might write about how to piss off wasps and bees, or even write about my pasty whiteness and the ill-effects sunlight plays upon my dermal things. But is that any reason to bar me from marrying your daughters? Well that and, as I previously stated, I am happily married. And being happily married means I have no desire to partake in polygamy, nor do I want to go into an arranged marriage. What is this? 1843? And, to be honest, who would want to be a polygamist? Could you imagine the spousal support you would have to pay if it all went sour? Suppose one day a group of the fathers of your brides decided they wanted to set up their daughters with some unknown writer from California. You’d be in a pickle, that’s for sure. Which leads me to my next straying off point; how the hell do you get in a pickle? Okay, I understand getting in a situation where all options will lead to a perceived disaster; but how does that pertain to a pickle? I would understand if somebody said, “Well, you really got yourself in a tar-pit now, didn’t ya?” That makes sense. If you get stuck in a tar pit, you are likely going to sink and die or worse, get eaten by a saber-toothed cat that will also sink and die after bringing vultures with it down into the black tarry abyss. (I guess ‘tarry’ is a word or maybe my spell-check thinks its tarry, as in “to delay”. Actually I guess it is a word as I have always been told to beware of tarry stool by web-doctors. Tarry stool? Really? Hmm…I guess it sounds better than ‘sticky’ or ‘gummy’ poo).

[BTP]. I am going to be honest with you here. My one to zero readers deserve honesty. I lost my point somewhere back in the constipated California traffic. And really, where I live, the traffic isn’t all that bad. It is, however, hotter than the devil’s (edited for the purpose of thinking some family somewhere in Nebraska might read this to their children around the dinner table. Not that I have anything against Nebraska, but when I think about morality, for some reason Nebraska comes to mind. I’m sure Nebraska has its share of hookers and politicians, but thinking of the plains states makes me think of upright living). [BTP] It is hotter than the devil’s tookus where I live. My spell check is telling me that tookus isn’t a word, but I know better. So arranged marriage polygamist, tarry-stooled, Nebraska hookers aside, if you ever meet me in an imaginary California subway, don’t fret, I’m safe to be in public…or so the doctor’s say. 

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