Things that Gross Me Out

Frankly, I’m grossed out by too many of things. Cows with five legs, frogs with eight. Snakes with two heads. Ann Boleyn.

And I’m not normally bothered by too few of things. People and animals lose arms, legs, fingers, ears, etc. all the time for perfectly valid reasons.

My grandpa, for instance, lost part of his finger in an elevator accident. Yes, I still wish folks had bothered to clarify that it was a grain elevator, rather than leaving me with a lifetime’s worth of fear about people getting chopped up by the elevators I encounter every day, but nevertheless, I wasn’t grossed out by my grandpa’s appearance.

And yet, what I’m about to link to is so gross that it makes me nauseous to even think about it. I can’t even tell you what it is because I’m trying to eat some crackers. Seriously, I live in fear of ever seeing something like this in real life. I respect the folks who tried to keep it alive, but if I had been there when it was born, I would have run screaming from the house and not been able to return.

I know this kind of makes me a bad person, but there you go.

Okay, here’s the link.

[Edited to add that it’s now on the front page of Yahoo! and it’s giving me the willies every time I go there. I seriously may switch to Google full-time just to avoid seeing it.]

I Bet These Folks Have More than One Jacket

Our friend and crazed libertarian, the Wayward Boy Scout, writes today about a story so disturbing that it makes me want to punch someone in the head*.

I have used my considerable math skills to discern that, if these folks are actually making only $300 a day and let’s say they’re only going out begging five days a week, fifty weeks a year, they’re still pulling in $300,000**.

On the one hand, this really pisses me off. On the other hand, I stand in awe of their chutzpah.

I’d mention this to the recalcitrant brother–that he might make better money carting the youngest nephew around Atlanta begging for change–but I’m afraid of what would happen if he approached the Wayward Boy Scout. Some kind of armed confrontation, I’m sure.

*It’s either the story of the after-effects of a house full of toxic burning plastic fumes.
**Can that be right? Damn my poor math skills. Hopefully an engineer will come along and correct me.

Mrs. Wigglebottom is More Famous than Me

At the drive-through at the West End Jack-in-the-Box the other day, I’m listening to Missy Elliot, loud, waiting on my cheeseburger. The kid comes to the window and says “Hey, aren’t you that white lady with the beautiful pitbull?”

“Yes,” I say, “I guess.”

“I thought so.”

“You should have brought that dog with you. I love a good looking pitbull.”

“Well, okay.”

“Next time?”

“Next time.”

Whatever

So, yeah, I had to put the burnt orange jacket on this morning to walk the dog because I only own one lightweight jacket.

And you know it just pisses me off that six years of higher education didn’t make me rich enough to afford, say, two jackets or maybe a jacket and a sweatshirt that wasn’t lost in the great car repossession of 2005 and never replaced because I spend my extra money, when I have it, on booze like the true fucking trash I am.

No, all six years of higher education did for me was move me from the kind of poor person who lives out in the country and shits out some babies for a man she’s slowly poisoning with all that fried food to the kind of poor person who’s supposed to feel okay about being poor because she has the priviledge of being around “smart” people.

The recalcitrant brother’s first son’s mother is this pissed-off rural Georgia girl whose family’s all in the Klan. She has this way of spitting out “Whatever” so that it sizzles in your ear like bacon in a hot pan and stings like flying grease. I say it all the time in her honor, but most days I lack her ability to infuse it with the right amount of bitchy fire.

Today, though, walking around my “WT”* neighborhood in my burnt up coat with my shoes I can about put a finger through the bottoms of, I sounded just like her when I was like “whatever.”**

*Did I tell you how when the Man from GM came to visit me the first thing he said when I pulled onto my street was “This really is a WT neighborhood” and I was like “What the fuck is a WT neighborhood?” and he lowered his voice like there might be someone else in the car who might overhear him and said “White Trash.”
**I believe this is what the Boy Scout calls impotent rage.