The Mad Hatter

A friend of ours, Bob, is a pristine snob. He has lived by himself, happily, all his adult life. Rich, and came from money so he is extra rich. Bob, the Mad Hatter, is eccentric to the ump-teenth degree.

We went to dinner at the, Off Vine Restaurant. Nice place and on Mondays it's half off. Bob said to meet him at seven, he was going to park earlier, go over to the Spot Light, the last gay hustler bar in Hollywood proper and chat up the bartenders. Bob, you see has never worked a day in his life. However inconvenient it is for you is of no consequence. He said he would make reservations and was thinking of asking someone else. He feels it is necessary to take us to dinner after so many home cook meals at our house. I don't have a tally but whatever.

"Please don't wear your hats," was the rich boy's wail.

"Okay,' I said and completely ignored what it was he said. You see, he always tells me that. One time I said I had company, he calls the day of for these events and he said, "Bring them along, but please don't wear your hat."

I had everyone in the group with a hat on and told them if they wanted a ride back to the valley, thirty miles away, they damn well better have the hat on throughout the evening. They did. I thought it would solve the problem with the hat thing, with the fucking Mad Hatter. But it didn't.

No, at today's invitation to dinner, I was to not wear my hat. Ignored but the Mad Hatter didn't make reservations. I went there, they had no reservation under his name and the poor host was doing his best for us. We live over thirty miles away and have to drive into the city at rush hour. We left early and it was freaky, there was no traffic in either direction. We got there super early. And no reservation under the Mad Hatter's name.

Wally and I are a table for four in the center of the room sipping wine and ice tea, looking forlorn and bored. At seven the Mad Hatter appears.

"Bob, you said you were going to make reservations."

"Oh yeah but you don't really need them here," he said staring at my hat, a lovely cap made in Ireland and not cheap.

"Okay, well it all worked out. How have you been?"

"Jus' a sec. I gotta talk to this guy over here, he has a fabulous body and I've seen him at Gold's gym."

The Mad Hatter leaves and Chuck is there to entertain us after the Mad Hatter jumped on the table and walked over to Mr. Buff for a chat.

The wine was good, a Merlot from Rutherford Ranch. The duck sausage--dry. Other than that, the food wasn't bad, slow in arriving but not bad. Valet parking by a Pakistani Muslim that if you don't want him to throw a Pakistani curse on you is ten dollars.

Forging the Palace Walls

Daddy is on a mission. He is afraid of my prying eyes. Rather, not my eyes but those of the plastic owl that oversees the garden. A Great Horned owl with a camera for a brain. Daddy hates the owl and is building a fence between our properties. He is so cheap. Really, a tree went up today. Two months ago it was a small row of Italian cypress. Sprigs, right at the property line. Now a fucking tree in the parking strip between properties.
Why?

The cheap fucker doesn't want to deal with trimming half. Lazy fucking cheap bastard and the lawn goes un-mowed for up to two months. I agree with Mean Queen, she got so mean cause of Daddy. Not to worry, Mean Queen. And she is forced to lay hundreds of eggs in the vast underground chambers, poor Mean Queen, she lost the shouting war to Daddy.

Mean Queen screamed and screeched on the day of shouting. The day when spit-soaked gibberish was thrown at each other and the hood. It landed houses away, you could hear their argument in Middle Eastern three houses down. Oh she screamed, and then it suddenly grew silent. Daddy had screamed the final words that caused Mean Queen to cower. Her rants were no more and the Palace fell silent. Mean Queen left but came back, her egg laying not done, her slaves unattended, she gave herself to the power of Daddy.

Now the wall of Italian cypress, a filthy tree that only goes straight up and only looks good in the distance. They will have to meet an unfortunate demise. The same for the spindly Eucalyptus tree he planted. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy--What in hell were you thinking? A Eucalyptus?

Now the Great Horned Owl must be unleashed. The Great Horned Owl with a camera brain will swoop down and poop on Daddy.

Revenge is on the way Mean Queen.

The Dance of The Seven Butt-flossers

While sitting outside, after going to Panorama City to take a shower, I heard music coming from the alley. A bright full moon was in the sky while crickets chanted in the warm evening. The music was Middle Eastern, a eunuch singing in a high voice, AhhieeeOOhaHEEahhAAH... on and on went the eunuch. That's when I knew Drag Queen was out in the courtyard of the right bunker. A full moon to light her stage, perfect for Drag Queen's performance of the Dance of the Seven Butt-flossers.

It was really lovely to listen to, eunuchs have such an odd singing voice, a high, slightly mournful pitch. And I was clean, in spite of Davids frugality. David offered us his shower but we had to wait until he came back from picking up a neighbor's dog at the vet. David prides himself in his frugal ways and he isn't joking. If he wasn't as frugal as he is, he wouldn't be able to waste half the money he does now.

I pulled back the curtain of his shower and there on the shower head was what looked like a juice can with needled pin-holes at the end. When I turned on the water, it misted out, some water came in drops that formed at the bottom of the fruit can. If you maneuvered your body around, the mist got it damp and the drops that fell at its end, wet the skin. I wanted a cool shower and got one using only the hot water tap. But what really was disturbing was the douche hose wrapped around the shower spigot. All in metal, it looked to be one for a high colonic, the end of which had more holes, and bigger, than what was punched in the juice can above. I didn't dare touch it, I didn't even think of using it to shower with so as to actually get soaked. Something like that, something that goes where the sun should never shine, is something better left in back of the bottom drawer, not wrapped around the shower as if it was a sinister alien in a B horror flick.

David's gas bill was nine dollars this month. He must have had company. We had dinner at Home Town Barf. I really hate it there, and David hates it there but its the price. Yes indeed, the price. And he doesn't eat all that much. But what he does love about the place is to talk about all the overweight people that go there. He has no mercy for them, describing the types of tools they need for daily hygiene and how fat they look. He has his unique way of describing these things as they walk by. Well waddle, and so David has something evil to say while eating and that way he feels good about himself. It's not his fault, he listens to AM talk radio.

So after the mist and the battle with the douche snake with some trough eating thrown in afterwards, I was at home, a glass of wine, the evening and listening to, The Dance of the Seven Butt-flossers.

I knew Drag Queen had a eunuch. All those Middle Eastern bitches got one. It coos to Drag Queen, telling her how hot she looks, even though she has no tits, she does have an ass. And drag queens need an ass to perform the Dance of the Seven Butt-flossers.

Drag Queen is center stage, kneeling with her head slightly bent down. A veil covers Drag Queen's mouth and honker. She uses the power of eye shadow to dazzle the crowd but not at first. She waits, huddled in a wrap of a fuchsia colored scarf. The boys are arriving, they are gathered with skull-caps on, some kind of rag hanging out of their pants with tassels and murmurs in their spit-soaking gibberish.

As the moon rises and now ripe with silver light, the eunuch plays its flute. Drag Queen raises her head and looks out at the crowd, batting her lashes like a lazy butterfly. She stands slowly, raising up so that her belly shows and the loins, with a flash of butt-flosser. The eunuch puts down the flute and begins to beat its drum and chant in yah-yah as Drag Queen rotates her ass. showing where the butt-flosser finds it way between the cheeks of her melons. She raises one foot than the other to make her butt cheeks flinch and grind against the butt-flooser.

The Zionist Jihad Party Boys are mute. They stare at the great buttocks of Drag Queen, the dainty butt-flooser glimmering where the ass melons kiss. Is it mauve? No, perhaps deep purple with a single thread of silver. The crochet butt-flosser entices the Jihad Boys to clean their glasses in hopes of catching a wink from Drag Queen's rose bud.

But the bitch don't give it up easy. She taunts the Jihad Boys, she bends and spreads only to slap her ass cheeks closed before they can see clearly the butt-flooser deep in her crack. The eunuch beats the drum faster and Drag Queen slips her scarf around her in a twirl, deftly changing into another butt-flooser before the crowed notices.

Now a canary yellow dips and taunts them, it has tassels here and there, and Drag Queen shakes them. This causes the Jihad Boys to rattle, they touch each other, feeling the cheap white shirts they wear and the slick black pants. The Jihad Boys want to see butt and butt is what they get. Drag Queen shakes her booty. She shimmies while the eunuch beats the drum and chants in its shrill ball-less fashion.

The scarf goes in the air and covers Drag Queen. Another deft change and a different butt-flosser is on. In her hands are the first two, she twirls them as her booty shakes. The crowd is in want. They cry for a tossed butt-flosser. She is such a bitch. No fucking butt-flossers for these cheap ass-holes. They'll have to throw money first and Drag Queen knows they will.

The eunuch's drum is thumped with rapid slaps, its drone now a shrill of desire. Drag Queen goes through the Dance of the Seven Butt-flossers until she is at the last one. The prized butt-flosser. and the Jiahad Boys are ripping off their skull caps, digging into their cheap black slacks and pulling out coins, some bills and throwing them at Drag Queen's feet.

She has them. She knows a butt-flosser or two must be flung for the crowd to fight over and sniff. And at the precise moment, when she can see the Jihad Party Boys pockets are relieved of all change, she throws them a tidbit and they go wild. The eunuch beats furious and screams in a shrill pitch before tossing its drum aside and diving for the spoils. Drag Queen has a wicked smile. She slowly flaps her eye lashes, covers her beak with a scarf and walks off stage to wait for the eunuch's cache of fortune.

Writing on the Bathroom Wall

The head is under construction. It is a small bathroom and it was in really bad shape. The shitter wasn't attached to the floor, the wood beneath rotted so that bolts wouldn't hold it. The old linoleum was coming up, the shower door didn't close unless you lifted it at the base over the drip catcher. It was a real shit hole.

I am such a cheap fuck, I got a guy that gutted the bathroom, then went to look at houses out in Palmdale and while there, had his debit card information stolen. They cleaned him out. So I had to go with him today to buy the supplies. It was a whole lot of fun.

Now the shitter can flush, I don't have to go to the neighbors with a pail and get water from their hose to fill the tank. A small blessing. Tomorrow I get to drive to Panorama City to take a shower and put on fresh clothes. And maybe, just maybe there will be water to wash dishes and hands when I get back.

The Whirly Birds

They spin over us night and day following the freeway to get where they want to go. Some speed across the valley, but the real big ones, the ones that thump the ground and beat the house with wind from their blades almost always follow the freeway. They cause dread to fall when they cut the air. I really hate them, these war machines that make Millie run for cover as if she was hunted by them. They make me feel so vulnerable and exposed as if they possessed eyes that could peer through cement and send destruction no matter where you tried to hide.

I hate them most when I'm in my garden picking fresh string beans with my panama hat on and the wind chimes competing with the birds who are waiting to pick at the bugs in the pepper plants. They take all joy away and there is nothing to stop them. They go from one military base to the other following the river of cars that stream across the 101 freeway nearby. We are a military country, we have been at war as long as I can remember. One war after another and with each war, better killing machines are added, each more lethal than the last.

When will they come for me?

Night Patrols in the Land of Jihad Party Boys

It's brisk at night, enough to wake you from an evening of martinis. And that's when the Jihad Party Boys are up and at their best. From one barrack to the other, they drive cars up and down the alley. In between these strange wanderings, other cars pull up in back of both or one of the barracks, park and one male exits into the barracks and later back to the parked car. Sometimes with small bags I can see them carry. I suspect this activity is the result of Drag Queen.

Drag Queen, knows how to make butt flossers. Once she saw mine, drying on the chain link one day, and heard the tales of a skull-cap wearing, bouncing pouch in a butt flosser, Faygala, dancing in the alley, she knew what Zionist Jihad Party Boys wanted. They want the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers.

I knew that a particular butt flosser I have, drying there in the sun caught the eye of Drag Queen, she salivated for it and of course, being a real drag queen, knows how to make her own curtains and granny shawls. Crochet is in the blood of every drag queen. She, though, crochets with silk and fine threads. Beads and sequins, because the butt crack of a drag queen can take a lot of abuse. And no drag queen worth her weight in eye mascara, would ever be caught dead with a dangling dingle berry.

Why do I never see Drag Queen at night? The Zionist Jihad Party Boys have her dancing the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers while they sell Ecstasy. And it's easy to see why they have so many customers, after viewing the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers, who could resist drugs? Especially those that make you happy.

Oh those Jihad Party Boys, sweat-shopping hapless Drag Queen into night after night of erotic dancing to a flute and drum. Oh, poor Drag Queen, by day it's trash and to crochet butt flossers for that night's performance.

The alley is the land of Baghdad in Jerusalem. Land of the night patrols of the Zionist Jihad Party Boys.

A Sports Bar with Desire

Wally and I have a favorite bar near us. It's close enough that we could walk but don't. Chili's Bar and Grill. It's a young crowd there, the bar is bright, airy, windows everywhere that look out on Ventura Blvd. and the parking lot that is always filled with cars. It's Encino, the heart of and in a mall, but of course.

We watched the Lakers game there last night. Us and a whole lot of other people. What I like about the bar is that for hustling bars, this is the top of the food chain. Men, women, they are all hustling at the this bar, any day and anytime.

The first one to go for me was a young guy with his daddy. Young guy had his billed cap on backwards. I could have told him that, you know, that's how a submissive cocksucker wears his hat, so the bill doesn't get in the way of going down on dick. I didn't though, I had the feeling he already knew that. Daddy was rich, and about two years into his last face lift. Good looking man too and the kid was frisky. Daddy apparently can't afford everything the young guy wants or needs so he hustled me right off. To play coy and challenge young guy was a lot of fun, until he got the idea I was as cheap or more than Daddy.

Then a young girl brushed up against me, she had a gold nose stud in her beak. A few questions mostly dealing with how much money do we have and a few rubs of her leg against my thigh bidding me to go on but didn't.

Do the hustle.

It's really fun there watching the crowd. Fuck the game on the tele, it's the people in the bar that's far more interesting doing the hustle. Another interesting side is that, so far, none of the waiters or bar attendants are from California. They mostly come from the South or parts nearby. Which makes me wonder why. Why no local yokels? Perhaps the locals would do the hustle, which they do as easy as taking a breath. That could be it, keep them on one side of the bar and the cash register on the other. It sure is a busy place and fun. If you like to people watch and fend off hustlers. I do anyway.

A Rumble

The Jihad Party Boys are at it again. A fight broke out at the west bunker. Screaming jihadist were pelting each other. The cops didn't come as they did earlier. The Zionist Party Boys were filled with crazed lust for Drag Queen who was out in the alley wearing something cheap, black and tight.

Drag Queen loves her trash and after the fight, she sauntered over to the east barracks to drive them wild with her dance of the seven butt flossers. She stopped on her way to look at the chickens, posed and continued on to the eastern barracks. She left the western barracks still snarling in their Middle Eastern gibberish, growling in that guttural crap they spew for words. Evidently, the language was born from spitting on one another.

The palace lawn is growing again, waiting for another hapless gardener to be snared into labor to cut grass as high as an elephants ass. My gardeners refused the last time. Once taken by Mean Queen and Daddy, they know what these two are up to. The palace is dark and quiet. Daddy is plotting and Mean Queen is waiting for the trap. She knows she is on a thin line with Daddy.

Tilt

Sunday we visited Wally's sister-in-law, Dina. Robert, Wally's brother, is dead but both the brother and Dina treated us like family, so I guess we are. She's nice, in that heterosexual-Filipino way. Dina has rheumatoid arthritis. It's really bad with her but her spirit is strong. She is just bigger than a big dog. About the same height too as a dog and with that same, happy to see you, that dogs have. There are two Filipinos who live with Dina both nice, both Catholic, very, there's statues of Jesus and Mary with gold crowns and gold halos. saints, crosses, rosary and something I thought I would never see, candles on the mantel over the fireplace.

Dina is terrified of candles. I gave her a candle once for Christmas and she just stared at it. I mean stared at the bloody thing like it was a ticking time bomb. Her husband at that time, Robert said, "She won't stop looking at it until you put it away. She thinks its going to catch the house on fire."
Okay, I thought, but it ain't lit. I apologized and put the candle in the car. Who the fuck knows, maybe she was in a house burnt down by a loose candle when she was a kid. And there were two candles in candle holders, never lit with Dina in the room giggling in Tagalog. I guess faith in sweet baby Jesus has done another miracle. Dina can now stay in the same room as a candle. Nothing for her rheumatoid arthritis though, fuck no, but the ability to have a candle on the mantle with Jesus and Mary next to them, probably to catch the candles and blow them out if they should ever be lit and fall.

I believe in miracles.

Here's the worse, after lunch at the Chinese restaurant down the street, the two Filipino's staying with Dina brought out a karaoke machine. I'm not fucking kidding and it gets worse. There is nothing to drink in the way of liquor. And worse, the karaoke is all for Filipinos. Made for their consumption because apparently, the two things in the Philippines that Filipinos like is basketball and Karaoke.

I looked at the clock and sat a time that we had to leave by. They recorded my voice singing Yellow Submarine. Please forgive me Ringo. The statues looked down upon us, the huge television set showed places in the Philippines with some kind of love-lost action by Filipino actors strolling and moody as you sang Bette Midler show tunes.

I don't need to see the Philippines now. They have karaoke and basketball there. And I thought they were all cannibals at one time. Now that's something to see.

The Two Davids Birthday Party

Juan the plumber called and said he could fix the sink today. Mexican Monkey was here chattering away and had me in a spin thinking it was Friday and not Saturday. Friday is when Mexican Monkey turned my world upside down and when he showed up at eight this morning, something he can't do on Sunday I was thinking, "Dang, the fucker is still here."

He is a monkey after all and of course always ready to push buttons, open cans, turn things upside down, it's just normal for a monkey.

Fucked my whole day. Today is the celebration of the two Davids birthdays. They are about a week or so apart but at this age, it all melds together anyway. Wrinkles don't get longer, they meld.

The sink is in, along with a new garbage disposal. The dishes are washing, I've had a few beers and can see there is room yet for more because the hedge is still squared. We're having the biggest fucking scallops I've seen with steak, roasted corn on the cob and potatoes. Mexican Monkey, after causing chaos, left to make money. I had to cut our bike ride short to get back and deal with Juan the carpenter and ice the beer while Mexican Monkey and Mom went merrily on their cycling way. Do you think Mexican Monkey would stay for a fucking free dinner? Fuck no, he's an American citizen now, he's got to get to the factory and scream at some real Mexicans to work harder and longer for the Yankee dollar.

I'm writing the Juanster's mom another letter. I'll plead that I think my life is now shortened. Por favor, what are the prayers to make Mexican Monkey go Norte.

The Mexican Monkey Returns

The Juanster is a very important Patron.
Mucho Importanto. In his world.

In my world he is the Mexican Monkey. He really hates being called a Mexican, being from Columbia. When friends of his in Columbia come to America to work at his silk screen factory with cushy un-Mexican type of, over- the- border-work, in other words, desk jobs rather than sweat and grunt jobs, they can't get use to American ways. Our, in the fast--you want a siesta? What are you crazy? ways. They go back to Columbia.

"Juan? How long did it take to get use to living in America?" They ask.

Without thinking, Juan says, "About two weeks."

His sainted mother took in laundry to pay for the Juanster's passage to America.

"Mijo, El Norte," she said and pressed the cash in his palm.

Not that Juan's family needed money. They came from money but Juan is high energy. If mom didn't rid the nest of the Juanster, the youngest, she would be doomed to an early death.

"El Norte, Mijo," she waved to her youngest when he left on the plane. Then prayed to the Madonna, thanking her for giving her the will to go on and a special prayer to St. Anthony that she would light candles for seven days and nights if he will keep the Juanster from finding his way home.

Not to worry Mom.

The Juanster is happy in America. He is making lots of Yankee dollars and became a citizen so he can continue to make more Yankee dollars. Juan is at home in a hyper-active-do-or-die society absorbed with wealth.

Mexican Monkey promised, as monkeys do, that he would be over Thursday to trim the hedge in the alley. He knows how important the task is with the Zionist Jihad Party Boys roaming the alley night and day. Village Idiot alone, directly in back, needs constant monitoring lest he starts the hood on fire.

He was busy making money at his silk screen factory. Really, he couldn't come over because he was waiting for a client to come after work hours. The fucking hedge is growing and is no longer clipped flat at seven feet but now has pointy growth. How the fuck can we get drunk with a fucking pointy hedge? It throws you off, you think you've already had enough to drink when there is actually more beer time.

He came, after ten in the morning and thirty-one seconds. Mexican Monkey is very high energy. If he comes over earlier, and I haven't read my newspaper, his monkey antics begin to really irritate the fuck out of me. I've chased him down the street with my cane.

"Mike. Mike." Mexican Monkey pleads as I read.
"Mike! MIKE!"
"What the fuck is it now Juanster?"
"Look at this, it's a picture of how bone chips, like the ones in your foot and back, cause you to have a heart attack. Look at the pictures, Mike."

When I stood and headed straight for him, my fingers spread to grip the scrawny neck of a five- foot-four ninny, he fled in terror with a three legged fat man close behind. My foot hurt for three days chasing him down the block. If I was going to have a heart attack, it would have been then. I wrote a letter to his mom asking what prayers did she say because I don't think Los Angeles is Norte enough. I think the Virgin thought Los Angeles but mom was thinking New York.

After that, Mexican Monkey can only come after ten. Now ten and thirty-one seconds because he thought the idea was stupid. I told him that if he wanted not to have serious breakage of his body, that ten and thirty-one seconds would be safest.

After the hedge was trimmed, he agreed it did make it better for more beer than the pointy hedge led you to believe. We had some suds and then went to our local sushi bar for a few more pints with sushi. Mexican Monkey made phone calls, I paid the bill and he left to make more money bugging the living shit out of someone else.

And I'm still waiting for Mom to send me those prayers. All I got so far are postcards with a silly happy face on them.

Mom and the Mexican Monkey

I got me two of the greatest gifts any gardener could have. A Jap and a Mexican Monkey. Mom is hundred percent Jap who, when not dispensing advice on what will happen to you if you eat a bug, can squat like they do in the old country. I got her a rice hat, well actually it was one of my old beach hats but put her in it and have her squat in the garden to pull weeds and you could take a picture and swear you were in an Asian rice paddy.

She likes to use a screwdriver to dig out weeds. Fine with me, shit, she can dig him out with a clam digger for all I care, the woman is a weed-o-matic and loves it. She don't eat much either and drinks even less except for a martini or two when she's in between boyfriends.

The Mexican monkey is actually from Columbia. He owns a silk screening factory and loves to boss people around except I need him to climb ladders for Christmas decorations and hedge cutting. He's good at climbing being so damn short and as a kid, swinging from banana trees, coffee bushes and coca plants. Feet like a girl, he shimmies up the ladder and as long as I have a hold of his leash, the electric cord for the hedge trimmer, can't get to far away.

The two of them together, Mom barking orders in her squat, and the Mexican monkey jumping all around cutting the hell out of the shrubbery, the place looks pretty damn good. Cost me though, had to feed them hamburgers and give a gallon bag of string beans to them with a half dozen eggs but shit, to have a Jap gardener and a Mexican monkey work in your garden?
That's fucking cheap.

Death's Waiting Room

A call came in from the doctor, I was to pick up a prescription to replace what my bum thyroid can no longer do and Wally had an appointment in geriatrics. The waiting room in the geriatric clinic was busy. A large woman with no throat, I had heard her tongue was removed along with other things and dying of cancer was there in a wheelchair. A wheelchair so large it was difficult to get it through the doorway. Everyone there was nearing the end and that includes me. The thyroid, then?

It was a long fucking wait. They were busy, a lot of folks are dying nowadays. Another lady who lived here for forty years but originally was from Massachusetts and pronounced her r's in that strange kind of way was there talking to us. Attired in pajamas and house slippers. She has great grandchildren and wasn't sure what the word dementia meant. I know what it means first hand.

I have to talk to a doctor in tranquilest. The doc talks to Wally, Wally smiles, blinks and then the doctor will glance at me and I'll answer. It's as if I had my hand up Wally's ass pulling his smile, blinking his eyes and saying his answers. He needed an EKG, another appointment with his regular doctor to have his cholesterol checked and an appointment with the hearing clinic. Blood work, try not to nap, cut his half of an Aricep tab in half again to wean him off the memory drug and, I don't know, try not to get depressed.

How the fuck do you not get depressed in Death's waiting room?

Tanked Up Party Boys

Drag Queen has excited the Zionists Jihad Party Boys. Her booty shakes, her hands twirl fans and she wears a pink satin butt flosser. It's too much for skull-cap wearing party boys. It drove them into such a sexual frenzy at today's performance that the eastern barrack took off in the biggest fucking tank--ever.

Big ole nasty thing. It roared down the alley, a tank with tanked up Jihad Party Boys. Their skull-caps and beards flying in the wind. Drag Queen has sent them on a quest I'm sure. A quest to retrieve some bauble for her. A promise, perhaps, of special favors only a drag queen can perform with lip muscles that have no limits.

Scared the shit out of the chickens. If I see Drag Queen, I'll have to comment that she could have had some eggs if she only didn't scare the fuck out of the chickens. Not her fault, drag queens can't help themselves when the fleet is in. These Zionist Jihad Party Boys never met a guy more girl or one so manly as Drag Queen. Jihad Party Boys like he-man men. They even like their girls that way too.

My thyroid kicked out on me. I now have an excuse for being fat. Not that I needed one, but when I sit and eat for four hours straight, I can say, it's a thyroid condition, I won't be lying. Well, not that anyone would believe me. Mother won't wait on me when I told her, "The doc said I should be waited on hand and foot until they can get me the pills for a bum thyroid."

Hell mom won't give me her thyroid and she won't give her sister a kidney. Mom is like that. Not selfish, just stingy with her body parts.

Trash Wars

The hood was on full alert yesterday. Trash day and everybody wanted their trash removed pronto. Drag Queen, who knows her trash, had it ready and waiting. Proud of her ability to stuff every bit of trash in the dumpsters, she gloated and clapped when pick-up began. The Village Idiot, had a couch out and was, in his idiot way, trying to get the green trash people to take it. It isn't fucking green, Village Idiot. Drag Queen saw the dilemma I have with Village Idiot, she smiled and watched his fool antics in trying to get the green barrel people to take his stupid, flea ridden sofa.
Lady of the Forest, had two barrels of green from her trees. She had more but they only pick up what is in the barrel, something Village Idiot never learned. But trash day was chaotic and pick-up was untimely and upsetting to the barracks and to the palace next door.

Daddy had the lawn mowed and, what's more, watered. The crew had been there for an hour at least. It wasn't mowing so much as harvesting the wheat. Their grass had all gone to seed and really, I enjoyed the wildness of it. No screeching on the part of Mean Queen, though her car was parked there for a short while. Daddy won and Mean Queen has lost the battle of wills. She is preparing a fatwa on Daddy. A Jewish fatwa to kill Daddy but the Zionist Jihad Party Boys will have nothing to do with it. They have Drag Queen and she knows trash when she sees it and she sees plenty with the Party Boys and their skull caps and clap-clap songs.

The alley is clean, the palace is mowed and Drag Queen saved us by keeping the Party Boys happy with many bouncy butt flosser dances.

Saucy Drag Queen

Oh, she is a bitch in heat alright. Drag Queen comes out to dump trash every time I'm in the garden. Every fucking time. Today was a goose wave. One of those, raise your hand high like a goose neck and then make the goose speak by bending the hand back and forth, waves. I had a quart of string beans in my hands, my butt flosser on and panama hat. She adored me.

Later, after I waved back and bent over to give her a view of my ample ass, I thought while searching the bean poles, 'I should have offered her eggs and string beans.' I didn't though, once you make friends with drag queens you're their friend for life, no matter what you say or do. Like a gob of gum on your shoe--they stick.

I dated a drag queen once, years ago, before I won, in a dating contest, a drag that liked to go to straight bars and pick guys up. I was commenting on her absolutely stunning looks as a woman but why is there a tooth missing. Well, apparently some people have issues at straight bars but that didn't stop her. I gave her the free dinner for two we won at some restaurant and wished her well. But the other drag queen, the one I fell in love with in my twenties, well, he was a pro drag. Tall and thin with Irish eyes and smile. He was in faded jeans and an easy wearing plaid shirt. We talked and I'm ready but he said his show was about to go on. So an hour later, out he comes in drag and he doesn't lip-sync. He does his own version of the song of the performer he is impersonating. I'm intrigue and wait until three fucking in the morning to go home with him.

Biggest fucking dick I've seen in a while and hard. The man loved pounding ass. Didn't get screwed himself, so he said, but there was a price.

He was an entertainer and I like sports. When the sun sat, he got up, and when it rose, he went to bed. That and his next show was in Nebraska, where he wanted to whisk me off. Picturing myself in fields of corn I would only see at night, I stayed behind.
Oh, I know drag queens alright and Drag Queen has her party boys and her trash. But for drag queens, one is too many and ten are not enough.