CRACKERS IN THE HOOD

Yes, it's the fourth of July, and while it's a perfectly fine holiday and should be a day for everyone to put petty bickering aside and remember all the things that are great about being American, I'm not feeling so generous right about now. My neighbors, the hillbillies currently plummeting the property value on our street, are on thin ice with me.

For the last 8 days, from about 3:00 to 4:00 p.m. to approx. 3:00 to 4:00 a.m., those beer swilling dentophobes have been setting off the trunk load of firecrackers that they bought illegally in a neighboring state, setting off one single blast after another. It sounds like a 22 pistol being shot into the air every forty-five seconds or so. They're obviously not interested in a serious display of flash and boom, but more interested in dragging out their neighbor's misery for as long as possible. Each single lonely blast is almost sad, and speaks to the low economy hillbillies face all the time, much less during a national recession.

The poor dogs in our neighborhood have given voice to their upset in a cacophony of barks and howls. I'm with them, but my uniquely profane protests can be heard coming from our various windows as, "I'm calling the cops Jughead!" and "We're trying to sleep over here you fucking morons! Don't you ingrates have any clocks?!" And my personal favorite "Stop with the noise you god-damned hillbilly goat-fuckers or I'm gonna fuck some son's of bitches up with some cherry-bomb enemas!" My husband loves that one. It pleases me to no end to have a voice loud enough to boom through my windows and around the block whenever the situation calls for such projection. My angry disembodied shrieking is usually answered by creepy cackling hillbilly laughter. As in previous years, my threats have not changed the bangs that echo non-stop up and down our street. I hate the hillbillies down the block, and I'm comfortable with that hate, as though it were something inborn. I don't think I'm just speaking for myself when I say that most people are born with the innate ability to hate specific types of people in our population. Types like murderers, rich bankers and hillbillies. We typically hate them all with equal malice.

Now I know what some of you are going to say, everyone says it. But believe me we've tried. If I thought the cops would come, I'd call. But we know from having these pinheads on our block for six years now that on July 4th, and the week leading up to it, the local Fuzz won't even bother stopping by unless something is on fire or a body part has been blown off. And even then it seems they're only here to be part of the crowd of looky-loos and are not at all interested in writing any tickets or carting the offending hillbillies off to the pokey. I dream of a world where much like it was in the Old West I could be quickly deputized in these situations. I'd put on the temporary badge I'd just crafted from a soup can lid and take those damned hillbillies at gunpoint. I'd read them my own colorful Miranda: "You have the right to remain stupid, drunk, and to sleep with your sister..." then tie them to pine trees and let the neighborhood dogs and wildlife have their way with those pesky bastards for a couple of days.

A girl can dream can't she? I believe a rich fantasy life is essential to being fulfilled and happy. I also believe that tires, plastic flowers, windowless travel trailers, cars on blocks, dirty naked children, empty kegs and rabbit hutches do NOT belong in the front yards of my neighbor's homes.

Well, that's about all I have to contribute on the subject of July 4th. Now go have fun with those firecrackers ya Yankee Doodle Dumbasses. Just do it in someone else's neighborhood and don't come crying to me when you blow off your Uvula.

Ruby Has Spoken.

PRODIGAL BLOGGERS: WE'RE BACK!

Well hello all, it's been a long damned time hasn't it?

We've been side-tracked by major medical setbacks and other shit too crazy to go into, but we're still alive, back in the blogging saddle, and raring to go. Thanks for all the great emails and support during our hiatus.

For those of you who asked specific questions, Pamela has no more cancer and is back to her old self mentally, and will be physically in not too long! We're back online and pissing people off again, so BIG bonus there right? Yeah baby yeah! Life is good. (Gotta love Twitter!)

Our sister Veronica won't be showing up around the blog much now as she's busy doing nasty-time with her new squeeze. That skankity-skank took off with her neighbor's septic tank guy. Only a desperate pole hugger like Veronica would be dumb enough to fall for a guy who handles shit for a living. But seriously, we wish them the best of luck. They're gonna need it.

Sadly, we lost ALL of my followers when we switched to the new blogger system and moved things around. We hope to find all of you again somehow, because harassing you mercilessly has been great therapy for us. You all of took our abuse so well...it almost brings a tear to one's eye. Almost.

We look forward to giving you hell once again and for a long time to come. Stop by soon and let us know you're still around!

Time for you to vacate now. Get the Fuck out. Ruby needs her Schlitz and Slim Jims and Pamela has some neighbors to harass.

~ Heartfelt bullshit and roses, xo Pamela

~ RUBY HAS SPOKEN.

WALKING ON THE SUN WITH RUBY

CAUTION: THIS POST IS FILLED WITH OBSCENE LANGUAGE AND THINGS THAT WILL HANG IN YOUR MIND AND FILL YOUR DREAMS WITH DREADFUL IMAGES. BEWARE. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

Hey you bastards, It's me, Ruby.
I'll be posting something soon that's relevant to the whole question and answer thing. Right now, I've had a few shots of Rot-Gut and a handful of Schlitz Malt Liquor's and I need to let fly. I live in Colorado. Two weeks ago we had snow. Today it was a scorching 101 degrees. I shit you not. Tell me, is that hot? Of course it is you little nitwit. (hang on, I'm opening another can of juice.) I can't stand it. I'd give anything to roll around butt naked in a snowbank right about now...


***CAUTION: Rant commencing in 3..2..1..
GODDAMMIT MOTHER FUCKER IT WAS SO FUCKING HOT TODAY I WANTED TO KILL SOMEBODY! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? WE HAVEN'T EVEN HIT THE FIRST DAY OF SUMMER YET AND IT'S LIKE LIVING IN THE MOJAVE FUCKING DESERT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!! AND I’M IN THE GODDAMN MOUNTAINS FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!? HELL ON EARTH IS WHAT'S GOING ON, FIRE AND BRIMSTONE BABY! SHIT THE BED!!!

I SAW SATAN TODAY, HE WAS DRESSED LIKE A RETARD FRIGGIN’ WEATHERMAN ON CHANNEL SEVEN WHO CAN'T FUCKING SEEM TO GET IT RIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING PETE!!! PRANCING ABOUT WITH HIS LITTLE POINTER....AND THAT DEALY HE USES TO TOUCH THE MAP WITH.

THAT FLOOR FLUSHING SACK OF SHIT THINKS IT'S MIGHTY FUNNY THAT WE'RE SETTING STATE RECORDS FOR FRIGGIN' HEAT THAT'S KILLING PEOPLE BETWEEN THE RELATIVE COMFORT OF THEIR AIR CONDITIONED VEHICLES AND THE DOORS TO:
THEIR HOMES, THE GROCERS, & RESTAURANTS! PEOPLE ARE ROASTING TO DEATH WHERE THEY STAND! WE'RE ALL SCREWED JUST LIKE THE POOR FUCKERS IN POMPEII!!! !!

I'M SENDING HATE MAIL TYPED ON RED DEVIL STATIONARY TO THAT FUCKER ON CH. 7. I'M RIGGING IT SO WHEN PRETTY-BOY OPENS THE ENVELOPE A LITTLE PACK OF MATCHES WILL LIGHT ITSELF AND A TINY FLAMETHROWER WILL SHOOT UP AND INSTANTLY CHAR THAT FAT-ASS-T.V.- EVANGELIST HAIR-DO OF HIS! THIS SHOULDN'T BE A PROBLEM AS HE USES MORE HAIRSPRAY THAN A BUNCH OF SMELLY NAGS AT A BEEHIVE CONVENTION!! WHAT A FUCKING PUSSY! MOTHERFUCKINGWEATHERWHORE!!!

GOD HELP ME, I’M SO HOT MY GRANNIES HAVE MELTED TO MY FAT ASS!!! OH GOD! THE HUMANITY!! AAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Show's over folks. Now go play with yourselves; I've got some hate-mail to assemble.

Your favorite Sex Kitten,

Ruby Blathergab

Disclaimer: The Administrators of this blog do not share the Schlitz Malt Liquor induced opinions of Ruby Blathergab, nor can we be held accountable for anything that Ms. Blathergab says or does. Anyone wishing to lodge a complaint about this or any other post attributed to Ms. Blathergab may do so in the comments section. Thank you, Management.

**FOR SOME REASON SEVERAL POSTS HAVE BEEN ATTRIBUTED TO PAMELA WHEN IN FACT RUBY WROTE THEM. IF RUBY SIGNS A POST, IT'S ALL HERS.

KITTIES AND PISS SHEEN; We advise a sexy scientist

Veronica writes:

Yea, I like flipping off. And not only people, but inanimate objects as well. Like when I am at work, boiling samples down, sometimes they start to look like piss or motor oil. Then they get down to their proper volume, and they smell like piss and tar. I like flipping those friggers off.

And what about the clients that send them to us. What in the hell is this shit and where did it come from? They also get the finger. Oh, and try adding sulfuric acid to these oily, pissy samples. Sometimes they boil right over. Just what I wanted, sulfuric acid all over my lab coat, gloves, and work surface, not to mention another hour's worth of work to fix this mess. Another finger emerges.

Love and kisses,
Veronica


Dear Veronica:

My assessment is that of all the difficulties you face in your everyday life as a Sexy Scientist, your most serious seem to be associated with the general hatred of "Piss"; which leads me to this bit of priceless advice: Don't live with men or cats. They both reek of it, and you will too if you keep their company long enough. I (Pamela) will comment on the "Men & Piss" situation, while Ruby will grace you with her booze-driven advice regarding Cat's urinary issues.

All right Veronica, you can quit yer bitchin, cause Ruby's here with a solution for all things related to Felines and Pee. Read it. Take my advice, or you'll be sorry.
CATS:
Yes, cats. I know their shit stinks, but they usually confine those kitty colonics for their litter boxes and our flower-beds. The real problem with cats as I see it is that they piss on everything. A cat can piss in just about any position imaginable, which makes it one hell of a pissing master. (Imagine a feline on the spacestation...floating about in zero-gravity, pissing in all directions, sharpening it's stupid claws on the thin outer membrane of the space-stations walls.) NASA needs a memo on this pronto:

ATTN SPACE COMMAND: No Cats in Space. REPEAT MESSAGE: No Cats in Space.

Okay, let me illustrate my point about cats and their piss. You walk into a home where a cat resides, or rather "Rules", and what do you notice straight away? Not the pretty new Sofa, the imported Italian marble floor, or the shiny 90" Flat-Screen Telly hanging on the wall, no no no! You get hit full in the olfactory's by the oxygen-sucking whiff of Cat Piss! Cat piss that begins the fermentation process long before it exits the cat's bladder and blesses some random surface of the cat's choosing.

The smell of cat piss elicits strong emotions in some persons, like myself. Emotions like rage, directed at cats and cat people. That rage is quickly brought on when I arrive in a home resided in by cat people. The acrid odor of fermented Cat Piss that someone's precious kitty has lovingly deposited on their: plants, carpets, furniture, clothing, countertops, pianos, curtains, toasters, children, fellow pets, and on rare occasions, the sodding litter box the filthy animal is supposed to be using in the first g.d. place!!!

If you get a cat, people will eventually know that you have one of the evil little shits just by walking past your home on the sidewalk. A cat's personal perfume travels far to assault unfortunate noses. This is the sole mission of cat piss, to insult the nasal sensibilities of other beings.

Life is short. Don't get a cat. Cat's suck ass. If you're reading this and you love cats, I don't want to know you.

Oh yeah, and the good folks over at PETA who take umbrage with my cat-bashing: Go lick a litterbox.

Now take my imperial wisdom and be gone. Ruby is craving hard likker and the El Camino needs to have the dust blown out of her.

Love me in spite of yourself,

Ruby Blathergab

Pamela's P.O.V.:
Men think they have to stand up to pee. Or as they refer to it: "Take a leak", "Check the Water Tempurature/Depth", "Water the Horse", "Make the Snake Hiss", etc., etc. ad-naseum. There seems to be some link to the caveman-brain in this behavior; something that turns a switch on in their primitive little melons when they unzip their fly--for any reason. Seems to make them feel all manly and Caveman-ish. "Grockk hungry! Grockk kill Boar! Woman cook me Boar! Man piss on cave wall! Woman smell piss! Grockk piss everywhere! Grockk love hold piss snake draw saber tooth tiger on wall!"

What is the true allure of standing up, holding The Johnson, peeing all over hell, shakin' it and putting it away damp? (That whole stuffing the Twinkie back in the pants half wet thing really grosses me out.) What the hell is really going on in those tiny little man-brains while they're writing their names in the snow with their 'Wee Yellow Hi-Lighters?' What's floatin' around in those empty male heads while they're re-decorating our powder rooms with Piss Sheen?

Personally I think the man in my house daydreams about Fran Dresher and Camilla Parker-Bowles during his pee-splattering parties. I can't be sure, but I suspect it's true. Many of these questions have haunted me for years, then one day I set out to do something about it this shit.

I bought 2 dozen tiny cameras and placed them in toilets--both public and private--and even put one in one of those construction site Johnny Stands. The footage was amazing, and if edited well could easily win me an award in the Documentary Category of the Cannes Film Festival.

On one splice of film I saw a hard-hat in a Johnny Stand peeing while at the same time scrawling something on the wall. I went to the Johnny Stand and this is what the half-wit wrote: "MY DIXIE WRECKED! HA HA IF YOU READ THIS YOU ARE A GAY! HA HA YOU HOMO ASS LOVER!" Men in hard-hats; what a bunch of fucking baboons. I should know; I live with one.

Why the hell doesn't some forward-thinking woman invent a toilet that forces the ingrates to SIT THE FUCK DOWN for fucks sake! Picture it: Man walks into bathroom, lifts both lid and seat, unzips fly, pulls out his twanger, and then a womans voice says clearly and calmly:
"It puts the seat down, it sits upon the seat, and it urinates into the water." The man hesitates. He's never heard this before. He looks around wondering if he's being had by a prankster, and once again the female voice speaks, but a little more sternly;
"It puts the seat down, it sits upon the seat, and it urinates directly into the water." Without thinking he exclaims; "I will not!" at which time the toilet seat drops; smacking the knob-end of his tiny tool on it's way to the bowl. "OWWWWW! God Damnit! What the Hell!?" the man screams in agony. The toilet lady speaks again, in a much firmer tone;
"It SITS it's bottom ON the seat and it urinates DIRECTLY into the water!"

How many times do you think a fella could take having his knob-end fwapped by a toilet seat before he just sat his ass down and peed like a civilized human being? Not long I dare say, not long. At this point in my scenario, the man never has to be asked to sit down again.

~And there would be much rejoicing amongst all Woman-Kind the world over.~

I think it's an invention with great promise. Someone with an engineering brain cell send me a schematic on the thing and let's get a prototype mocked up for the Chinese so we can sell millions of them on info-mercials. We'll find a great name for it. Maybe:

"Silence of the Glans" or

"To Pee or Not to Pee"

That's all I have to offer you today Beaker-Babe. Hope that helped!

xo Pamela

P.N.N. (C) Copyright 2008