Monday, June 26, 2006
Edit: Not to sound like a broken record, dear friends, but if the cards and letters in my inbox are any indication, there still seems to be some confusion as to the authorship of the post below. No, I haven't discovered a newfound sense of peace and whimsy, nor have my photography skills improved a thousandfold. What follows comes from the pen and shutter of the beauteous McBeth, who would be on quadruple probation for jacking my blog without giving me so much as a warning, only she's just so damn funny and sweet...
Mon DIEU et voila, who will believe that I am inviting my dear readership into the luxurious bounty of my two beautiful (but natural. nature versus neuter. nothin' nefariously manufactured here, more along if you're all for super or subnatural, that's a different state altogether and none of the 50 really wants to discuss it publicly) scoops? No one, that's who. But hells bells, that has never prevented me from opening up and offering out ...
Take. Munch. This is my pinecone which is given for you. Take. Lick. This is my berry drop goodness shed for you. For as often as we lay these bricks criss-crossedly or fotografically find foods in nature, you do this for the rememberance of me.
Lloyderina may have a thing or two to say (or not, it may be as insignificant as the barely visible shift of an eyebrow hair) about my two luscious and oh-so-lickable scoops. In the rock stars sans guitar category, Lloyderina stands alone due to his general cool hang-out-ability. But like I say, he's not afraid to go lookin for the tall grown-up glasses we only take down when company comes visiting so he can pour me another round of ShutTheHellUp when we both need a long drink. What can I say, some phraseology just sticks with a person.
Hmm, what else might this recipe need? Oo! I know! A dash of heaviness. That's what I need to finish this off, yes! I cannot send my lovely readers away lusting after my conages, c'est ne pas bonbon dee bon. Bring it around, sister, you can DO this! Loads of ennui dappled with ash sprinkles. We could all ponder our growth processes together (please make no mistake though, I don't want to have to think about your growth. I've got a constant battle on my hands managing my own. Send me your Cliff Notes, I'll browse it later and can then tell you if you're onto something. Hold hands with your neighbor now, this could get rocky ...
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh mahhhhLorrrrrrrd
Kuhmmmmmm byyyyeeee aahhhhhhhhhhh
How silly of me to ever doubt my own beauty.
That's what I really just need to say. I have a process - my process - my peculiar process (pat.pend.) but eventually, when I'm done following my peculiar process (pat.pend.) I come back to what I know is true. Shaddap. I DO!
I'm not a frump.
I've never been a frump.
I sometimes wear the frump's costume, just so I can be sure to understand her perspective should I ever feel the need to defend her against rooty-tooty fresh n'fruity know-it-alls who think they do while the rest of us giggle at the holyFUCKisn'titobvious fact that they SO don't.
But I am absolutely and most definitely not a frump.
Stick that in your cone and lick it, sweethearts.
(touches forehead gently)
(pats hair to make sure it is okay)
I don’t know what it is, but something about me feels...different...somehow. 
McB, is this just a gentle encouragement to come out for a visit?
(mmmmwah 
Okay, I had to go scout around for pictures of all the fun party times of last week, just to get a glimpse of this frumpadelicness of which you spoke. All I could find was some gorgeous chick in a baseball shirt though, so I must have been looking in the wrong place.
I wholly discourage visits.
Visiting is for wimps.
Move, woman, MOVE. Move to Veroqua (they WERE just recently featured in Mother Joneses keeping up with the Mother Earths, well, some motherly magazine printed by hardworking crickets all named ‘Jiminy’, all work done on 100% recycled hemp ashtray leftovers holdovers of the “Don’t throw it! For crikey sake, we may NEED that shit again one day!” administration.
That there is baking land. The hills of punched and pummeled dough, rising up to meet the new sunrise right along that tender pink line of cloud. Yep, thems good people out there, they are. Yep.
So yanno, if you want to read into any particular thing that I might be suggesting you merely visit the great land my people call… well, we call it home, or Wisconsin, or a host of other occasionally funny names, like have you heard the pathetically and untreatably Midwestern Nice people refer to their over-the-border neighbors in such a teasing braid-pulling way as those FIBbers next-door in Illinois and how those F*ckin Illinois Ba*tards drive? yeah. well. Think again, sister.
Okay. Visit. then think again. about something else.
Oh Bakes,
You are such a talented and beautiful person. When I am feeling low, I know where to go. No you are not a frump.
I am terrified of contemplating my own growth processes for fear of disappointment. I know what I am. I am lazy. I am an underachiever. I am obsessive (not in a good way). But I am kind. So I don’t loathe myself. But I do take tremendous pleasure (such the voyeur) in seeing others contemplate their own growth and revel in it. It is inspiration. Nothing gets a lazy slob off his ass more than seeing others celebrate a sudden growth spurt.
Emotions ebb and flow, dive and grow. Some bad days bring us to the very brink of despair, but when they bounce back to extraordinary heights it gives us so much more to marvel at.
Stick THAT in your cone and uh, lick it, I guess. Otherwise it’ll just melt down your wrist to your elbow, all sticky and yucky.
nmiguy
I’m glad you’re finally listening to me. I told you last week that you’re not a frump. Ahem.
There’s no frump, no grump and no lump that I’ve seen. Let’s ban the “umps” from your vocabulary forever.
Now, once again I must thank all y’all for your sweet sentiments. But alas, once again I must issue forth a disclaimer, namely that this post was not written by me, but rather by the lovely McBeth posing as me. *She* is woman, hear her roar. *I* am not convinced on the whole frumpiness issue.
(That gentle tapping sound you hear in the distance is the sound of everyone unfortunate enough to have already been subjected to the original frumpiness conversation beating their heads against their desks.)
well, i’ll cherish the rocking horse picture anyway.
Wow! You can hear my head hitting my desk all the way across the country?!? Damn, I wish I had your hearing!
And thank you, McBeth, for this wonderful (and oh so true) post.
remember in civics or humanities or western civilization or whatever your local curriculum called those classes where we as 15-17 year old hormone-laden and sweat-soaked babies had to sit in a some kinda funky smell classroom, pondering the higher good of purposely fucked-up scenarios?
John “Decent Dude” Doe has been married to his wife Jane for many years. John is deeply devoted to Jane. Suddenly, Jane is stricken with a rare disease for which there is only one unreasonably expensive cure, and without that treatment Jane will die a quick and generally grody death. John has done everything in his power short of robbery to try to help his ailing wife. Would it be wrong for John to break into the secret underground Pfizer lair to obtain the medicine to cure his wife?
Well my trouble with that always seemd to be that if John was anything like me, he’d be pissing his shorts right down his spaghetti legs if he had to break into the Pharma Lab. We all know that they have secret people hiding in dark corners in those places and, if my reticence re: playing laser tag is any indication, I don’t relish surprise creepy protective service people aiming their lasers at my chest, even IF I got someone languishing on the couch at home.
But the higher good is the higher good, and I suppose if my languisher would be willing to help me wash my shorts and rub my tense parts after I’d returned from lairjacking -which in my mind is something we’d have to be clear about before I would even agree to leave the house in the first place- well then, let’s go for it.
The higher good. Now dat’s whuddeyemtawkinbout.
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(touches forehead gently)
(pats hair to make sure it is okay)
I don’t know what it is, but something about me feels...different...somehow.
McB, is this just a gentle encouragement to come out for a visit?
(mmmmwah