Campy Girlymann Rides Again

It was going to be a tough day. The wind blowing one way and the other, Mexican Monkey kept his wheel from crossing mine, which was better than he usually does when out on a ride. We were hoping to go up Old Topanga to put a little hurt in the ride but the Monkey had ate something that wanted out in the worse way. We made a pit-stop at the Corner Bakery before the climb. Filled with a hearty breakfast just before the ride, we had all the carbo needed for the day, possibly two.

Back on the road, the Mexican Monkey was a bit lighter and ready for some tough hills.  Up ahead of us was a large, I mean really big man in an orange jersey, Campy Girlymann felt confident of once more regaining his title and saw with blob of orange marmalade an easy challenge. Yet the blob was still in front. Campy waited, looking for a sign of fatigue.

Near Old Topanga, we caught the orange man, he was big, bigger than Campy and Campy Girlymann didn't think they came much bigger than him but here was proof, Big Orange, for he had orange rims with a white bike. The bike was Italian and with nice lines. We stayed together for the turnoff, Campy thinking Big Orange would not be heading up Old Topanga. The first section of the climb was the hardest. Steep not far from the turn and stays that way for almost half the climb, actually getting a bit steeper before it begins to flatten out.

Big Orange talked to Campy, "Well, it looks like the big guys are in back again.' We were watching Mexican Monkey take off ahead of us, soon to leave our sight around the next curve.

I laughed, thinking, 'Yes, indeed, and to think I did this climb in my big chain and left Mexican Monkey far behind, but not now. No, now Campy is fat, out of shape and Big Orange on his wheel.'

I wondered if Big Orange knew who he was talking to? Did he know? Know of Campy and his feats of strength and endurance? He seemed to think I was one of him.

He suggested I drink some water. I thought of shooting him. He fell behind on a steep curve but soon returned to ride next to one of the greatest riders known in cycling, Campy Girlymann. And the fucker didn't even know who the fuck I WAS.

This was so humiliating, Big Orange thinks he can give advice on climbing to a god of cycling. I thought of running him off the road, throwing one of my donuts in front of a oncoming car and see if he would take the bait. And I would too if I had one. At the top, we came in with Campy just a wheel ahead, his lungs blown out, his ass sore and his tail tucked well between his legs. Big Orange said something about enjoying the rest of the ride and went back down.  

Which was my plan up until then and so, after a good wait to make sure Big Orange was well on his way, we went back down and headed home. Mexican Monkey couldn't wait to tell of Campy's latest setback, but I'll get even, I always do.

Village Idiot

True to his name, Village Idiot is truly a stupid person. He leaves his recycle bins out in the alley, not bringing them in as we are suppose to. But it is worse than that, he doesn't care if they are empty or not. He never bothers separating the trash, it gets dump in the most conveniently located bin he finds which is usually the first bin. So, when the trash guys come to pick up his shit, there is one container full of crap and the others are empty. What do they do? They slam the bins down so that the containers must be righted to use. But does he right them? Fuck No. 

One of the boards on his fence is loose but does he put a nail in it? No, so his dogs can escape and who could blame them for leaving, yet living with Village Idiot they are unprepared for the real world. The world of cars and hostile humans. Poor things and all because Village Idiot is like some Republican birther. Constantly doing the same thing expecting different results.

I think he would be a Republican if he knew what that meant. As it is, I doubt if he could figure out how to vote much less do the act. He doesn't know there is a President let alone what a birth certificate is, in his case the hospital never filled one out, thinking at the time, 'What's the point?'

Which is why I would like to see the birth certificates, long or short form on voting Republicans. I don't believe they have one.

Drag Queen Pouts

Over at Trans, there is still trash strewn all around the recycle bins. It has been months of heaped up trash, plastic bags over spill and make a mound of debris. I think it makes Trans feel at home. Iraq or somewhere like that, Trans lived in trash. Drag Queen knows trash. She's been around trash all her life and knows its subtle ways, knows how to treat trash. Drag Queen's trash is always orderly, never spills over and the recycle containers are placed just so. Trash, according to Drag Queen, needs care and now that the eunuch has plenty of coins from her psychic  readings, she has nothing left to fret about but the trash at the Western Bunker ran by Trans.

They make nice. They smile at each other at the clap-clap songs the Jihad Party Boys do. While they wear their skull caps, swing the tassels tied around them and jump up and down in their ritual killing songs, the two stare at each other from across the courtyard where they sit to view the Jihad Party Boys in action.

They sit and think of poison, electric shock, curses, auto accidents, accidents in general and, of  course, ripping the beating heart out of the other. Drag Queen has her bodacious butt. Trans has her elective implants and a vagina made from parts of her ass-hole and what they could from her dick.

That's what bothers Drag Queen, not just the trash but that Trans had her dick cut off and made into a cunt. She couldn't just get butt fucked, no, she actually dug another hole in her body for a dick to fit into. That's why, Drag Queen thinks, that Trans doesn't mind the trash that spills over. It's just more of the same, more of Trans' parts spilling over a hole.

They smile, they kiss-kiss and say how glorious the other looks but each are careful not to be pricked by any jewelry, or a hair or sequin being removed. They watch for any sign the other is failing in health and make slights, just ever so cutting to each other.

"Darling, you're fabulous. Really, just fabulous and in spite of the stench that reeks from your side of the alley, I can still smell that perfume you buy at what store? Oh, ninety-nine, I forget, silly, must be the vapors. Do you have an oygyen tent?"

"Of course dear, right this way. You know, I knew you were coming and thought, that ass she lugs must need a bit of air, seeing how that butt crack of yours never has seen the light of day."

On and on they go with their tit for tat. The Jihad Party Boys clap, they sing killing songs, they wear their tossles and bangles, the girls glare and all is good in the land of the Jihad Party Boys.

Ah, The Easter Bunny

And it's Esther for Easter, the fertility goddess. There was a lot of fucking back then when they celebrated Esther and Christian Rome couldn't stomp out a good party so they gave it a new name. Love it. And what a way to celebrate Spring.

I still get some fools who send me these really stupid E-mail Religious cards and I thank them with:

"Thank you for reminding me that Jesus leaves the pit and ascends into the heavens on Sunday. He told me before his untimely demise, that on the way up, he's going to drop a big fat ham in our barbecue. And just before he enters heaven, he will announce, 'Eat this ham in remembrance of me.'"

"I don't care if he is Jewish, the guy is alright!"

We're doing a barbecue, the ham of course, thanks to that unfortunate Jew boy that made Mel Gibson shoot his wad filming him being whipped. And we know Mel's a just a big ole girl wanting to get fisted, so we gay boys party with, yams and  collard greens to go with the ham.  Dafney made a bundt cake, I made a raspberry sauce to go with it.  Margaritas--got it all chillin' in the fridge.

The garden is fucking beautiful. I'll tell ya, chicken shit in the compost is the best. The Columbine is incredible. Years of cross-breeding has brought a real show of these beauties this year. And the vegetable garden pops. We had a salad from it tonight.

So here's to all the gods that claim Spring a good time to Party. Party on Esther, Party on Jew-boy in heaven, and thanks for the ham!

Tweeter

Ever since the demise of Great Horned Owl with a camera for a brain, I have been unable to peer into the activities of the hood. That has changed. For some time now, a small hummingbird has been trying to talk with me. At first I just watched him. Not sure why he like to hover nearby and tweet. But then, the other night, after a half a quart of gin I drank during the afternoon and evening, I finally could understand what he was tweeting.

First, he was sorry to see the end of Great Horned Owl, who was a friend of his, and as he tweeted to me, they often traded bits of information before the horrible bamboo battle when Great Horned Owl was shafted by a pole of black bamboo. Tweeter, once you accustomed your ear to his shrill and rapid voice, is a well of information. It did require several martinis but it was well worth the hangover.

For instance, at the Western Bunker of the Jihad Party Boys, there is a sign in front announcing Drag Queen's new endeavor  as a fortune teller. Tweeter talked of her and the eunuch setting up shop. the eunuch is dressed as a Genii and sits on a great fat silk pillow. It takes the coins of those that want their fortune told by Drag Queen who's drag now consists of twirling, whirling skirts of many colors, gold earrings, bangles and beads that drip from her arms and feet. Gone are the butt flossers so cherished by the Jihad Party Boys. And it's their own fault. Stingy in throwing coins and the last dance where they put gum on the quarters with a string attached to toss to the eunuch and then retrieve from its tits with a tug, was the last straw. They get no more crochet butt flossers.

Drag Queen twirls and whirls while the eunuch beats a drum. She falls into a trance, grabs the hand of whoever is seeking knowledge of the future, be it love or money and groans loud before she announces what is in store for them.  Oh the look on their face when she falls to their feet to grab at their hand. They fear and at the same time are entranced to know what fate has for them.

Drag Queen clutches the hand, she stares deep into the lines drawn across the palm. Sometimes she looks away, announcing it's to painful to go on, other time she laughs at the folly of those that want to test fate. But she always delivers, always has the answers they seek and the coins are dropped into the folds of the eunuchs tits with no gum or string attached.

Unfortunately, I have to stay sober tonight to rid myself of this hangover but I think with a few drinks tomorrow I might be able to understand Tweeter easier and in time, learn his language without the help of two pints of gin.  My liver will be grateful.

The Flght Of Juan Miguel

The Mexican Monkey came over yesterday to go mountain biking. The trouble was he came over at noon when the temp was reaching ninety in the shade. Great weather to kill an old fat man but I wasn't falling for it. He went by himself, so today he actually came over early, the only trouble was, I had no one to stay with Wally so I couldn't go. Saturday a friend comes to keep Wally company but on Sunday I'm on my own.

So, "Why don't you call Juan Miguel and  see if he can go biking, he can use my bike."

"I'll see,"  Mexican Monkey said and called.

"Ask him over for breakfast as well."

"Okay, I'll ask."

This is followed by several minutes listening to Spanish on steroids.  Eventually, Juan Miguel showed up and it was a OMG moment. He is so fucking pretty.

From Columbia, he was in the Columbia army when he found out how much he likes other men. And if you saw this guy, he must have been a wet-dream for many a Columbia leatherneck. From what I gather, he was very popular among the lonely servicemen.

Besides that, the guy can bike. He took to it like a duck to water once we got my mountain bike ready to fit him. Flew is a better word. Climbs like an eagle, drops like a kamakaze. The guy was amazing and what is more, he can hold his liquor, unlike the Mexican Monkey. Get this, he works for Anthony Hopkins and his wife. They are so cool, they support him as a gay man, Mr. Hopkins, telling him not to take any shit from the Right wing for being gay. They treat him well and I could see why, he isn't just easy on the eyes, the guy is actually nice and fun to be around. I'm glad because I asked Dafney over, who brought a bundt cake,  He was X-rayed with Dafney's lazers eyes and didn't bat a lash.

He is still here, in his bike shorts. Bike shorts that I loaned him when I looked good in Lycra and they fit his waist and legs very well. OMG and he is still wearing them. That's the hard part.

How can I get the lycra bike shorts off of him and into a air-tight sealed plastic bag to sell on Ebay?

Or, should I keep them, framed perhaps, with a 'Scractch & Sniff' strategically placed here and there?

Keeping With The Jones's

The water fountain arrived, all eight hundred pounds of it. All cement, every piece the size of a pyramid cube. The directions say it takes two men to put together. Really? I would like to meet these two brawny dudes required to put this behemoth together. We huffed and puffed with a wheelbarrow, got each part close to where we will set it up and called friends to come over this weekend to help put this steeple of spouting water together.

Get this.

The pump they sent, if it was dick, would be pitied. We tried to figure out how it was to fit on the hose that came with fountain and there is no way it is going to work. We got some heavy pumping to do with a big daddy hose that runs up the inside of the fountain. To do this with the tiny squirt gun that it came with, ain't goin' to satisfy a massive structure of solid cement bowls, one inside the other.  I called and of course whoever is in charge of putting the right pump in the right box wasn't there, but they will call tomorrow. Yeah, right.

In the meantime, I've got people wanting to get into water sports, booze and grilled burgers scheduled this weekend. I gotta get a manly man pump by Saturday or my Water Sports party will be a drip.

A Dark Star In The Hood

Across the street and to the east is a strange place with strange people. Today,  Wednesday when I get up earlier than usual to ready for a bike ride with friends, the woman that has all these cars and trucks parked there, all owned by very large black men who wear black clothing and drive black cars, was getting out of her silver colored car. Strange first in that she is the only white there, driving a silver car and everyone else is black driving black cars. But besides that, it was six-thirty in the morning and in front of our house was a red mini-van parked blocking our driveway. The occupant of the mini-van was watching her until she got out of the car and went into the house, then the car parked in front of us left.

I'm waiting for bullets to fly. Something is going on over there, something sinister and dark. Cops with guns and flak jackets driving unmarked cars parked all over watching them? What is that? It doesn't look good that's for sure and, this woman keeps the strangest times. And, the other day her two children were there with an older woman in the front. It is the first time I saw them since they moved in two years ago. How in hell can you keep two children from being seen for two years?

It's very sinister. If I had Great Horned Owl with the camera for a brain, I could find out more but he was shafted by bamboo in our war on the bamboo forest. Hag is holed up, she won't come out until she needs eggs and flea spray. I'm not sure what to use to investigate this important development in the hood. Our very lives could depend on it. And, at the Palace, things have been dark and eerily quiet.

All of this could mean a dark star is loose in our hood and is hovering until it finds a suitable place to put a black hole. I think that is what could be going on with the black men that drive black cars. That could very well be the most evil, vile thing anyone has come up with since the time someone place a Yes On 8 at the end of the corner. Of course I removed it that night, careful lest some religious fanatic might see me as I destroyed their  Christian hate sign.

Could this be reprisal?

Dumb Dumb DOMA

Strange, and I would like to know who makes up the rules?  We spent an hour with this tax guy. The deal was, if he could find a cheaper tax for us to pay, we would use him and pay, if not, no deal. It's part of H&R Block services. They will look your taxes over and see if they can come up with a better deal than who ever prepared the tax. This tax guy couldn't come up with a better deal, but he did print out everything so that it was understandable. I have to give credit to H&R Block for doing a hell of a good job without making any money off it.

There is one big difference, We could understand this guy. He explained it as he got all the info about this new twist in the IRS. That's the strange part.

It turns out that last May, they changed the rules for domestic partners and same sex marriages.  They are not treated exactly as married, and as far as filing, it is more money because you can't do a joint return for the feds, only California. They made same sex marriage and domestic partnerships community property. Now, depending on the State, depends on how they look at community property. Not all states define it in the same terms and that's where it gets strange for California.

In California, it is not community property if it was not bought during the partnership but if you both use funds made from the community property then it is.   Which means in our case you could make a case for either way, but when he ran the numbers for both, it comes out cheaper using this new system. I pay more but Wally pays less and, as it turns out, is slightly in our favor. 

Here's the catch. We can't change it until the end of DOMA.  Until then, this is what the IRS has come up for us queer folk. It's kind of like being a nigger, they still fuck you without the Vaseline, they just tell you how good it feels cause you're a fag.

Sad Hag

The hood is changing and Hag feels sad. Sad because Hag is being left behind in the rush to green lawns and paint houses. Hags don't have their homes painted nor do they green their lawns. They do covet their bushes and brambles and they do love shacks and trees that keep sunlight from them. But Hag is sad, a sad hag is Hag. Her spiders spin and the squirrels scurry for the odd bits of this and that that Hag needs for her potions and spells but there is only one other hag within miles now of Hag. That hag keeps company with dogs, lots of dogs, all of them recovered from alleys that she roams, night and day, looking for leftover whatnot. But Hag just doesn't care for dogs and so she shuns the other hag and does not invite her for a day of potion making or spider spinning.

Some ten or twenty years ago there were plenty of hags around. Then they began to disappear and families moved into their dwellings painting and planting lawns. This of course makes it uncomfortable for other hags and they too soon look for dwellings that have little paint or patches of green. Hard to find nowadays, a hag hideaway. Hag owns her own dwelling and keeps it the way she likes it. The spiders like it and so do the squirrels but the neighbors? Not so much and so they don't come to Hag for a potion or two. They shun her, and now she's holed up and pissed off.

What will Hag do? I have not a clue but a pissed off hag is not something to tangle with, that's for sure.

There Might Be A New Family Member

Mexican Monkey called and asked if he could bring over a small dog that needs a home. Someone he knows has to give her or him up. The dog will be here for the weekend to see how it goes. One more mouth to feed isn't going to kill us, but I sure as hell hope the dog is house broken. Buster is, if he isn't pissed off. If he's pissed then a pile of shit awaits me next to my chair. Betty is so old now that her pooper poops whenever she can't make it out the backdoor. And yes, I do clean the carpet quite a bit, in fact it's nearby where I sit waiting for a few warm days to come in a row so I can suck up the shit remnants.

I didn't want another dog, I like cats. Cats are cool and Millie is about all the cat anyone would want. We'll see what this dog is like but I have a hunch it's got a home.

There will be new neighbors soon next door. The house that has been vacant for years is now finished, the lawn put in and the fence built. If they like this hood then they must be eccentric or crazy or both.

Monday I go to H&R Block for a free look over at the taxes. It couldn't hurt to have a second opinion on them at this point.

Gypsy Tax Lady & The Garden

Well, the garden is in, it is beautiful and a cut worm has already topped one of the tomatillos. Right in front of me, while on the phone with Mom, it fell like a redwood. But that isn't the worse thing that has happened. The worse thing, so far, is the crazy gypsy that did our taxes.

I owe over three thousand dollars. My income from last year was mostly social security. Wally has to pay four thousand quarterly this year, that's double what he has paid. She's nuts.

So I'm going to H &R block where Dafney has his taxes done by someone he thinks is gay. Dafney's gaydar is a bit whacked but he could be right, in any event it couldn't hurt to have a second opinion at this point.

Sometimes I think there is a big dump sign sitting in front of our house. The gypsy dumped on us and the workers digging up the yard next door dumped on us, literally.  We went out for a hamburger last night for dinner and there, next to the fat-ass Cadillac was a cedar bush that was pulled out of the ground from the house being newly landscaped. It was on our side and so close to the caddie I had to move it. That's when I found out how heavy the damn thing was and could barely drag it back to their side. What fucking nerve.

The garden does give us, rather me, some peace, except now there is a damn cutworm on the loose and I went right over to it to find the fucker and he just disappeared, probably flew to another plant to continue is work. A cutworm is now dumping on us. What next?

The Garden

It really looks great. The grape harbor turned out so good that a neighbor is having the carpenter build one just like it. Now, there are all types of vegetables in, grapes going up the four posts of the harbor and it was pleasant to sit outside and just stare at it all. I did that as I sipped wine until two-thirty in the morning when I realized it must be late. It wasn't only late, but I was drunk from the sips. A hell of a hangover to face once I did wake up. And now it's time to go to bed, only this time, I'll be sober and a bit wiser.

Okay, sober.

What's Wrong With The Right

In today's paper, in the comment section, was a gay man's comment about the effects he and his husband had this year in filing their taxes. They were unable to use the computer program they had for their taxes because of their marriage. In California, you are considered a married couple, you file a joint return. But that isn't the case for the federal taxes and because of that, they had to pay to have their taxes done because the program wouldn't work for same-sex couples that are eligible for joint filing in the State but not the Federal government.

We too had a problem. Not exactly us, our tax lady, the gypsy, said she would have to tweak them for her program. I imagine she threw a gypsy curse at her program. We still haven't received the results from her work, she didn't know if we owed or would receive a refund.

Proposition Eight proponents did not want the court to allow same-sex marriages to start again while the case was being appealed, they reasoned it would cause chaos. Really, chaos, for who? It's just another  bogus argument to keep gay and lesbian people from having equality. And the reason is they want to punish gays and lesbians for being who they are. To make life as hard on them as they possibly can so that they will turn straight. Seriously.

Christian bigots, which is what the right wing is vastly made of want to cause as much trouble for gays and lesbians, for woman who want an abortion, for anyone that does not adhere to their strict religious moral code. In the name of their god, Jesus. It doesn't matter if you believe in Christianity or not, they are not satisfied with restricting those that follow their religious convictions, which they have every right to do within the confines of their sect. But not for the rest of us that don't share their religious belief. Yet we must.  We are forced to, which means this country is no different than Iran, Iraq, or any other Theocratic government.

And that is why the Right is so wrong. They brag about being defenders of freedom. Hardly, when you consider woman have no rights(according to them) over their own bodies. The Catholic church is more than willing to allow the death of a woman when to save it would require an abortion. They will kill the mother for their own religious belief. That is a lot of control over other human beings.

And the LGBT?  There are Christian groups actively seeking to have us incarcerated and murdered. Such a loving god their Jesus is---NOT. Which is why, I wonder, how can anyone believe in this nonsense of religion? It is full of lies, deceit and treachery. It is not honest, or pure in any way, but used to control other people by the use of fear in a god waiting to punish. And that punishment will be meted out by the true believers, not the god, which is nonexistent. If there was one, then why isn't the god that doles out the punishment?  It can't and there is a good reason why it can't.