The city from my view.

A pulse on a vibrant Megalopolis.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Mom and Mexican Monkey Fly Home....Sort of

Mexican Monkey can be really testy at times, as this morning. Mom was coloring her tits with a bit of sun in the garden and I had just sat down after fixing breakfast to read the paper with a cup of tea. But wait, Mexican Monkey wants to go to Morro Bay to a special, high-end nursery. Now, I like nurseries myself and I do like this particular one in Morro Bay, except everything is expensive. They do have plants that are two dollars in two inch pots. They also have wind chimes in the thousands of dollars. I really did like the moving sculptor for a mere fifteen hundred but that kind of garden work is out of my league.

"Mike! Let's go. I want to see the the nursery in Morro Bay." Mexican Monkey says with a pout.
"We'll go, we have plenty of time. Your train doesn't leave until two and we don't have to be at the station until one when David arrives.

"I want to go now, there won't be enough time.'

"There's plenty of time relax, why don't you take a walk before we go."

"No. I want to go now. How come we can't go now? Huh? Why?" Mexican Monkey turns and shouts at Mom sunning her tits. "Mom, lets go. Put some clothes on its time to go."

Mom had a hangover left from the other day or the day before,she can't remember when the hangover started but it was there anyway.

"Mike. Come on. You can read your paper later."

"We have plenty of time, just chill out for a while will you?"

"I want to to go to Morro Bay."

Mom and me tried to ignore Mexican Monkey. We went back baking tits in the sun and reading the paper.

"Mike. Mike! MIKE."

What the fuck is it. Huh, What the fuck is it with you that you can't sit still for ten fucking minutes."

"I want to see the nursery and we won't have time. Let's go!"

"Fuck, might as well go. You're not going to let me read and you're not going to let Mom get a little color on her kazoos so let's the fuck go."

We get there so early the fucking shops aren't open. We end up wandering the streets for an hour until they do with only the public bathroom to run to when the cold fog became to much. But he can't stop there, once the nursery opens and he has seen everything he wants to see we have to leave for the fucking train. So what if we're early, so early that the first train that's going to take them back hasn't arrived with David.

That turned out not to be the problem. The train David is on had an accident and lost its air brakes. David had to take another train where David had to stand for three hours because the train was over packed. Now we go back to Cayucos, have some beers, fish and chips and wait.

Needless to say, I was, at this stage, wanting Mom and the Mexican Monkey to leave more than they wanted to go with all their god-damn bitching. We get there, David is there and their bus that they would take to Santa Barbara to catch a train is there. And without looking back or waving we left Mexican Monkey and Mom to board their asses on the fucking bus. Good riddance.

We did find a nice rice-paddy hat for Mom to wear when she gardens. Just like in the old country and I can't wait to see her squat among the egg plant wearing her new rice-paddy hat.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

What Comes This Way?

After rolling a joint for the walk into town, and after having a tasty Margaretta, we opened the back gate in the garden to stroll, once more along the boardwalk. The sea air felt clean and new from being whipped into the atmosphere by waves just a short walk away. The local boys were out, tattooed and lean with sun-kissed skin and auburn locks in tangles. They walk with assurance, their bodies toned and tight, sleek as the seals and dolphins they emulate.

I watched as he approached, the boy with tattoos on his arms and gut. His free gate in bare feet, the tattoos flying up around his ankles, his body fresh and wet from a plunge in the sea. His eyes caught mine for a moment,could he see the lust? Something he must be use to, from both sexes, for who doesn't enjoy the beauty of an athletic body. And why would he so openly display his if he didn't like, perhaps yearn for that admiration.

At the pier we walked out to where the waves rolled under us, formed into giant tubes of water and fell like a moving waterfall in its race to the sand. Some would make the pier sway as if on a ship so that you could feel its power, its strength. We watched the surfers surf in their wet suits. We watched them sit with their legs spread, sitting on their slim crafts waiting for the right wave, the next ride.

The sun warmed us while the sea air felt cool on our skin. Sitting on the pier, watching, waiting as the surfers did  for the next wave, the still between sets, the rhythmic movement of bits of kelp floating on the surface of the sea lulled us to dream of warm summer days of long ago when the sea called to us.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Some Like It Hot

Wally and I are at the beach in Cayucos. Lovely place by the ocean on the Southern end of Big Sur. Usually the weather is a bit too cool but not this time. Ninety-five yesterday before it cooled in the afternoon to a comfortable mid-seventies.

The weather isn't the only thing hot here. We got Mom drunk last night. She decided to take our advice and cruise the main drag for dick. Mom, when she had a few, let it be known her taste in men. Not any man, mind you, men with big dicks and rough manners. What can I say, she's our mom and we love her.

So, Mexican Monkey dressed Mom in a saucy outfit that showed her assets. Mom downed the rest of her Margaretta and went off in search of dick and plenty of it.

Or so we thought.

We were in the motel's garden getting liquored up and placing bets on what day Mom would show up, satiated and glowing. But Mom came back within an hour into the hunt. We were surprised.

"The sheriff slowed down when he passed me. Then he turned around and came back to ask if I needed help." Mom said as she searched for a glass with some joy-juice left in it.

"Well, did you need help?" We asked.

"Hell no, he was butt-ass ugly."

"That's it?" We asked.

"Well, a hot guy in a truck came by and smiled at me. Then he turned around and drove up next to me so I smiled back."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. I didn't get to the end of the block before these two yokels took the bait. This place is hot."

We agreed and Mom now felt better  knowing she could get dick anytime she wanted by stepping out of her motel room.

But that's not all. This place is filled with testosterone. Most motels have some dumpy old women to change the sheets but here, there is a tall, good-looking, marine haircut guy vacuuming and dusting. He could dust me any day.

Then there is the two guys at the meat counter at the local market. And it looks like they know their meat. But that doesn't exclude the rest of the circus in this town. Take a walk on the pier and watch the surfers dive into the water so that they don't have to paddle out. That's a show and a half with free admission.

The finale, and it was a doozer, was this guy with his arm around a freshly fucked babe. His shorts were pulled so low that the top of his pubes were showing. Tall, built, you could count the six-pack gut on him. His display of pubes had me on my knees begging for more. I love honeymooners with their fresh fuck smell.

We will soon ready ourselves for another stroll in town. Young men just from the sea with salt water glistening on their tanned bodies. Their shorts showing a tad of crack, making you want for more. Maybe we'll stop in at a local watering hole for some libation with the locals, who knows? We're on Holiday
Mom's happy, Mexican Monkey is happy and so are we, here in Cayucos by the sea.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

In The Tent of Mean Queen

The palace has a tent erected in the backyard. Like the ones at the East and West Bunker. There is dried-out tree limbs on top, as required by their god. They are to go outside, and scream and yell at each other while eating rather than inside where they usually do their screaming.

Their god wants the neighborhood to know how they live. That's why he requires at the end of their New Years they spend time in an open-air tent--together. Now the Jihad Party Boys at the Western Bunker, they party but not at the tent of the Mean Queen. Nope, Daddy sits ready to dispense justice as Mean Queen screams back and forth with her court. It's not that the hood hasn't heard them, its now unavoidable to hear them.

Now, maybe Mean Queen isn't hurling insults and accusations. Maybe she's passing the time with pleasant, humours conversation but it doesn't quite come off as humorous with no one laughing. There is the clatter of dishes and the occasional burp but outside of that, you would never know they were eating a meal together, more like throwing food at each other from behind a barrier with an occasional screamed insult as to the other person's missing link in human ancestry.

Ahh the Middle East and now that we have it streaming live in the hood it is so much more fascinating. I'm waiting for a coffin to come down the alley surrounded by mourners, some trying to grab the dead body out for one last look--just a touch maybe. Scarfed women, badly dressed men and children who look like they don't know when they last ate.

The one thing that bothers me the most, outside of the flagrant child abuse, animal abuse, abuse of women and the elderly is that they don't know what to do with a live plant. They'll eat them yes but for some reason to grow something is very foreign to them. Their idea, from what I've seen, is to eat the green thing and put cement in its place. Probably from getting all their food from places that actually like growing green things, they think that by placing a piece of cement in its place, it will grow a store. No wonder the national pastime of the Middle East is to throw rocks at each other. Rocks are everywhere but not so much asparagus or a tender endive.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Jihad Party Boys

Last night there was a good old fashion clap-clap song. Oh did the Jihad Party Boys at the Western Bunker have a time. Drag Queen was at her best, she had made some really fine butt flossers and as her eunuch played and Drag Queen jiggled her ass the Jihad Party Boys clapped and clapped. What they got for all their clapping were butt flossers tossed to the crowd. They went so crazy that some Party Boys took off their cheap black pants and cheaper white dress shirts and put on the tossed butt flossers mimicking Drag Queen's dance of the Seven Butt Flossers.

They had a good time the whole night long flossing their butts and clapping. They drank cheap wine, wiggled and shook to the beat the eunuch played and all the while, as the night wore on, Drag Queen made sure to kick all the coins tossed toward her eunuch who was instructed to pick them up quickly and secure them between its fat tits. Drag Queen had caught on early of a little nasty trick the Jihad Boys played. The cheap bastards glued the coin to some string and when tossed they would let it sit there until Drag Queen went into a twirl before she tossed a butt flosser. Then, while she was spinning, they would snap the coin back to toss again. Drag Queen caught on quick and now has her toenails cut in a manner to sever the coins from their strings. She then, deftly, kicks them to her eunuch. The Jihad Party Boys haven't figured out why their string no longer retrieves the tossed coin. They bought better glue, better string and still loose their coins to the wicked slice of Drag Queen's sharpened big toenail.

Drag Queen knows not to cut all the strings. She allows a few to remain free and thus fooling the Party Boys that their little trick can work. This keeps the Party Boys tossing more coins than they would normally do and Drag Queen has learned another trick, she can, in most cases, kick the coin right between the eunuchs tits where it falls into the folds of fat and is hidden.

Once, when the eunuch was tired of playing and almost fell asleep with its flute in mouth, Drag Queen kicked a coin at the Eunuchs head and woke it up. Now the eunuch is wary of the kicked  coins and makes sure its tits are open to receive the kicked coins.

Drag Queen had the Party Boys sing a song she devised that they never caught on too, to the rhythm of 'Kicked Through the Goal Posts of Life'. With a slight variation they sing, "Kick The Coin Between the Tits." And they never caught on that Drag Queen was doing just that.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Wheels

We're going down life's highway today in our Fat-ass caddie on the freeway when the old girl takes a dump. Luckily we were near an exit to get off and out of traffic. Twenty minutes later the tow guy shows, and he is easy on the eyes with a nice manner. It makes paying the higher amount for service worth it in Triple A. Our Fat-ass is now at the mechanic getting exorcised of demons.

And a new wheel is in use. When I went to pick up the new book, Freedom to read at the beach next week, they had the Nook on display with a rather engaging salesman. I was against these new e-book contraptions. I was against e-books in general but this one caught my eye. First, it is about the size of a book though thinner than most hardcover books. The price was in my range too when I looked at the cost of the book I was going to buy at thirty dollars and this at a hundred and forty-nine dollars with storage for fifteen hundred books and books going from free, Moby Dick The White Whale to, Freedom for twelve ninety-nine.

It has some cool stuff as well, like a built in dictionary. You navigate the cursor to the word on the page and it will look up the meaning. It also opens to the last page you were on and you can put in bookmarks where you want as well. It has a chess game to play against when you want to feel really stupid and it is Internet ready if you want to use it for that.

What I like is how easy it is to use for reading. I can grab a read here and there, you don't need to turn it off after use, it will put itself in sleep mode after a set time that you decide on and wake up with a touch of a button. The battery will last ten hours if in full use, days in sleep and can fully charge in one or two hours.

And there is a lot of books. I was surprised at the gay and lesbian section, history, fiction, erotica in fact you can browse books by genre and sub-genre. It is hooked up to Barnes and Nobel and google books. It is able to download books from your computer as well if you want to use the public library e-book section.

Where I thought these machines may spell the end of books, I think what it will do now is bring more literature to more people. The price and convenience of this thing is great plus it is fun to use. It really is fun in a weird way. Just looking up books that are out there is fun. I'm thinking I cut an entire milk-crate of books I usually bring for our two weeks at the beach to this one little device. You can subscribe to newspapers and magazines with it and have them down-loaded to the Nook every day. Amazing really though I don't tend on getting rid of my morning read as yet, I do like the paper in hand for the morning.

Well, it's back to the Nook. While one wheel is being repaired I can still ride round in another.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Freaky

There was a battle most fierce at the Palace the other night. Daddy yelled and a child pleaded. Daddy screamed and a girl whimpered. Daddy caused someone or something--pain. Terrible pain, the animal screamed for help. The little girl cried and begged, and Mean Queen prayed to Daddy for mercy.

It was most awful and our cottage had to be shuttered, the animals watched, the air inspected, the voices silenced. Ghosts swam by in the cool night air that held Daddy's frightful words drowning the cries of an animal and a little girl.  And I thought, I might ask Hag if she knew of anything to dispense such a mean person. Hags love to talk of those that crossed them but now, are no longer heard from. But hags tend to steer clear of telling you how to rid of those most foul. No, I needed to talk to the wee folk instead.

The Palace is being made ready for a celebration. A tent is being erected with an open ceiling. What will they celebrate? The pain of an animal? pleas for mercy falling on stone from children? Or a god of vengeance? A god full of history of punishing cruelty? It must be a terrible god they worship. One that looks on suffering as a noble sacrifice.

I left food for the wee folk and good drink. I encouraged them to stay in the garden to make our little wonder a safe haven once again. They worked all night casting spells, singing enchantments and by the time the first rays of light fell, harmony crept back to the garden. The Palace and those poor creatures behinds its walls
--silent. 

Daddy most cruel, wielder of fear. His god a vengeful god who needs suffering to verify its existence.  Daddy is to be feared  and worse--hated.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Millie. Great Warrior Cat

She was not to engage with the filthy hordes of rats stealing the girls' feed. She was to harass and intimidate but Millie took it personally that  rats were invading her turf. And that meant war. She girded her loins, put on her battle face to confront the invasive army of rodents in the dead of night.

Millie! Great Warrior Cat. With the bluest of blue eyes, watched from the top of the hen house. Her coat of many colors reflected moonbeams that were transformed to a halo glow. Her tail flicked. She knew they were there--waiting--waiting until their sinister leader of Ratania would give the orders to march on the hen house.

Oh, if they only knew. If, by chance, a wandering possum or toad would have warned them in advance of the Great Warrior Cat perched on the wall of the hen house. But rats have no friends, not even possums and toads like the company of rats. Hags will tolerate rats to some degree, will use them for sinister plots but usually  rid of them in time with a puff of smoke. Hags love their toads and toads hate rats.

So does Millie. Her tail now flicks quickly at the end. Her eyes dead-on deep in the still of night. They open wide to absorb all light that comes, like a great telescope, her eyes peer into deep space, Millie sees and plots. There is no fear on her, only battle-tight fits her sinewy body. Millie! Great Warrior Cat, is about to proclaim Armageddon on Ratania.

The commander of Ratania sneers when his paw drops to signal the filthy hordes advance. Little do the hens know of what is about to happen. Asleep, the girls are dreaming of eggs to be laid, bugs to catch and fresh ripe corn. Millie is their shield. Great Warrior Cat is on watch.

The first come near to sniff, Great Warrior Cat stiffens for battle. Her breath held, she waits for the precise moment. The lookouts smell at the fence. There is food there, somewhere food is inside the hen's home. They take a step and then two. Others follow, the throng of varmints seep across the alley and canvass the shrubs and dark spaces.

Millie is on top watching, waiting and when the time is just right, when she knows their guard is down and the multitude is assembled. She pounces. Claws slip out in stiletto style. She rips and tears at the shrieking troops of gutter slum.

The rats of Ratania run amok, but some try to battle Great Warrior Cat. They fall like spent matches to the ground. One after another, Great Warrior Cat slashes and skitters the rodent filth. But one, one laying on its back, devious vermin that he was, waits for Great Warrior Cat to near and when she does, thrust is bony claw into her soft belly. Great Warrior Cat raises and looks at the prey beneath. With one swift swoop, her nails slice the rat into pieces that bleed the rat's last bit of life.

Great Warrior Cat looks at her belly, a small wound, some blood forms on her soft fur but Great Warrior Cat looks at her cut as a medal of victory for a night of celebration, dancing and drinking. Great Warrior Cat will tell her tale of valor with mug of brew and in good company.

Hail, Great Warrior Cat. Hail.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Wild Thing

Recently, in the morning inspection of the chickens and coop, I noticed the food bin bare. Not just out of laying pellets, but even the layer of pellets turned to flour was gone. In addition to this, the fly trap had a slit in the side and most of the liquid leaked out.

There could be only two things, varmints or Village Idiot. I could see that to get to the chicken feed, Village Idiot would have difficulty with the fence and the gate, in that he can lumber over things in his klutzy manner but it would be impossible for him to actually scale a barrier of the most rudimentary type. And though I'm sure Village Idiot would like nothing better than to lick the fly trap clean, he would still have the gate and fence to contend with.

That left it to rats. A rat colony has found a source of food and have grown. The food bin is now stored, and Millie left with orders to harass the rats at every opportunity but not to get near them. Great Horned Owl with the camera for a brain is on alert as well.

Once we had a rat problem. Quite a big one actually, after the quake of ninety-four hit, rats of every size came out. At first it was traps, and when over thirty rats were killed, sometimes two in one trap, they got wise and out came the poison. Hated to use it but there was no other choice available to rid them with. They were in the attic, chewing holes in the walls, running along the fence while we sat outside and worse, had killed the birds that nested at night in the bamboo. The rats raided their nests at night and we could hear the chick's cries for mercy while the parents fretted and then finally, abandoned them to a horrible fate.

That isn't going to happen this time, it is war on the terrorist Rats.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Cool Hood

Now that the heat has been turned down, in fact, it seems off, the hood is popping. Hag came out while Mom was in the garden doing her favorite thing, weed abatement. The woman is a human tractor at pulling up weeds. While among the tomatoes and peppers, in her Asian-squat position, with a pair of scissors and a screwdriver (her father showed her how to pull up weeds with a screwdriver) Mom watched the wooden gates of Hag Hideaway open to the alley.

A bony hand clasped the gate and pushed it opened before Hag appeared. Our neighbor, eternally fixing his place up for rent, although it never has been rented as yet, was in his backyard. He is directly behind Hag Hideaway and Hag, with bent back, walked to his side and asked if his mother would be moving in.

He was unsure, his mother hadn't made up her mind as yet.

Hag was obviously disappointed because she was hoping to have another hag in the hood. There are fewer and fewer hags hanging in the hood. Someone, I suppose someone, is poisoning them. It's hard to poison hags, I know, after supplying Hag with a can of flea spray for her omelet of eggs that she needed for a recipes. Yet it appears they are slipping away, one hag at a time.

It's not that Hag likes company, but there is nothing like a familiar face, another haggard being to wave hello or swap tales while shuffling about the hood looking for hanging fruit or cans in the trash. There is another hag living on the next street. She is as almost toothless, and a keeper of lost dogs. She shuns the public, another trait of hags and seeks the company of abandoned pets. She is a good hag. Her family cared for from miles and miles of walking the hood in search of recyclables, her train of lost dogs near her and they don't bark. I don't know how she does it, but as quiet as a hag can be, and they are quiet, she opens the lids of trash bins while her furry crew mill about, silent as fog.

I see her every once in a while and, when on a walk, found her hideaway. A comfortable and respectful hag home. Overgrown shrubs, how they love their overgrown shrubs and tightly curtained windows, the building in need of paint. As if no one lived there, one would think, someone as silly as a child.

Yes indeed, a place for children to gawk at and make dares for others to cross. And they always take the dare--children, a hag's favorite meal, to roast with roots and forest herbs. But the rest of us know. Those of us that survived a dare to cross over and enter a hag hideout. Where spiders and lizards run rampant. Where only  Black Widows, with their hour glass mark, are tickled to turn pages in dusty books. Who could forget the unmistakable smell  of a silly child roasting in an iron pot?

Not I.

Monday, September 6, 2010

A Man's Holiday

You couldn't ask for a better day than this Labor Day. The temperature is heavenly, a tad below eighty with a soft breeze. After coffee and the paper, Wally and I mowed and trimmed the lawn. Wally pushes a hand mower and I follow up where he missed. Good exercise, ever since we went through the last gallon of gas for the power mower and never bothered to fill it up again, instead got out the quite usable push mower and we have been mowing with it ever since.

Friends are coming over later, a Labor Day barbecue is in order I think, and some good ole' blue collar beer drinking. Beer, barbecue and friends go well together on this Blue Collar Man's holiday.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Sunday's Read

In the New York Times is a section in Sunday Styles called Modern Love. The New York Times is a good read any day but Sundays are when I look forward to savoring a new article about love in its many forms and nuances. Also in Sunday Styles, in the back are weddings.

Not just the traditional wedding but included with pictures of the happy couple, gay weddings. I scan across the heteros, only stopping if something about them is really interesting and search for gay men and lesbians who have wed.

Wally and I had a wedding too. No announcements in the New York Times or the Los Angeles Times but it happened on July 4th when California gays had that window open for a few brief months before religious zeal broke out and stomped on our rights as citizens to marry the person we love. Religion, that great lie formed to make sense of things we didn't understand at the time.

Our wedding was a little different is some ways. Years earlier, Wally wanted to marry in San Francisco when the mayor there opened the doors to us. Wally was witty then, smart with a comeback. We had friends made from both the groups we came from, bridge parties, birthdays and bicycle adventures, there was always something going on in our lives.

Then one day that all changed. Wally had a mild stroke that left him intact, his body, but his mind now has dementia. Average dementia, the doctor informed us. We dealt with it, it's hard on the both of us but we still had each other and married while we could before the window closed and before the dementia became impossible for Wally to decide if he still wanted to marry.

When I read of these young men, so happy looking, with rich full lives in front of them and married to someone they love, it stings a wee bit. That jealous sting of wanting the same thing--a rich full life ahead with someone you love.

We're looking forward to our two weeks at the beach. The cool ocean breezes and a walk on the shore and fishing pier with glimpses of the fisherman's catch. We went to the Hollywood Bowl every Thursday and had summer parties but it was with a silent partner. My spouse would need help to find the bathroom and his way to the car or house. Ours now is a silent conversation of smiles and hand holding. But we're still married and still together, its just that life ahead is much shorter each day that goes by and we both know that.

All the Best! To those that marry, may your lives be rich and full and your days together longer each day that passes. And may you always find love close to you both, for better or worse, rich or poor.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Flipin Hot

Warm it is and the hood is cooking. Across the street, where the couple had Ventura sheriffs pay them a visit wearing body armour and guns, were tossing out trashed furniture. It was to get this hot red porsche into the garage. They deal with cars in some way. It is why the Ventura cops were there shortly after they moved in.

The chickens have made little fox holes to cool in. The mister and fan blow steady, cool, moist air over them as they nap. They get up to drink and peck and then hunker down in a vacant fox hole to wait out the baking heat. There is a mister in the vegetable garden supporting the Swiss chard, peppers and eggplant. There are misters and fans working in the patio but still it was short visits, a game was on and the air-conditioner has the house nice and cool.

Soon the weather will turn and perhaps we won't have a gun battle in a hood cooked well.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Spit--Gibbering Jihad Party Boy

A kingpin of the Jihad Party Boys is one fat fuck. I hear him yelling into his phone as he waddles to and fro in the alley. He throws spit out like a construction guy with the word, fuck. The alley, as hot as it is, was left wet where he walked. He screamed and screamed again into his cell phone held somewhere in his overstuffed mitt for a hand. Ah yes, and right behind Hag Hideaway.

Hag hates the fucking Jihad Party Boys. She hates their spit-gibberish talk and their cheap black pants, and cheaper black shoes. Hag stayed awake for two nights searching for a potion, a spell. The spider crawled up to the top corner of the page and turned the vellum before going to the center to hold the pages back. Hag's scrawny finger scrolled across the writing. Only Hag is left to translate the ancient text, only she knows the value that the symbols etched on the pages hold.

A curse perhaps? She thought at one point. Nothing like a good curse to whip people into shape. In fact a whipping curse might be order but knowing the kinky tastes Jihad Party Boys have, decided it would do no good to excite them. Drag Queen  wanted more money tossed at the eunuch after the Dance of the Seven Butt Flossers but that was a tall order for Hag. The only thing harder than money to get out of Jihad Party Boys was a change in underwear.

Her finger tapped the page as she read  a lovely curse. Not overbearing but an unpleasantness at the very least. A few screeches to her lizards and they left in a scurry to find what was needed for the curse of jock itch. For Jihad Party Boys, however--this was diaper rash.

How perfectly suited for those who do not want to part with their underwear for fresh clean ones. Yes, thought Hag, a perfect curse to toss at the spit-gibbering Ultra Fat Jihad Party Boy that screames behind Hag Hideaway.