The Best of Blogs: 2009-2010 - Leslie Thompson (reading fiction txt) 📗

Even if the wormhole could only go to Tennessee, there are still people who want to go there to see Dollywood, the Smokey Mountains, and Appalachia.
Now if only I could figure out a way to make the bugger do what I wanted it to do...


War!!!!

It was a Wednesday evening when it began, and I had decided that it was a good time to do my weekly shopping trip. I headed down to our local Super Wal-Mart to purchase the various things we would need for the next seven days. My daughter Julie decided to come along so that we might enjoy some "girl time" without the interference of her Dad and brothers. We arrived in high spirits and full of girlish glee, happy to be out and about together. We wandered the isles, picking up the things we needed, gossiping about Julie's school friends, and doing our best to stay out of the way of other customers.
As we were contemplating the virtues of light ranch dressing versus the regular stuff, a middle aged woman covered in designer labels entered the isle, pushing her cart like a NASCAR driver. We ignored her as she approached, our shopping cart was parked flush with the shelves, and Julie and I stood as close to the salad dressing as we could without actually climbing onto the shelves. We were confidant that we were well out of the way, and Designer Labels would be able to go about her business without incident.
Suddenly, Julie squealed in pain and grasped at her ankles with tears springing to her eyes. Startled, I looked down at her feet and saw that her slender ankles had been scraped and were bleeding profusely. As I hurried to my 11 year old daughter's side, I looked around for the cause of her injury. My eyes locked with Designer Label's cold gaze, and her heavily lipsticked mouth curled in contempt.
"Well, why doesn't she just watch where the f*** she is going!" she snapped haughtily. I admit, her response had me floored. It took several seconds for me to wrap my brain around the heartless assault on my daughter's ankles, and the remorseless reaction of the perpetrator. Then my brain snapped like a tightly coiled string, and I let out a series of profane curses that silenced Julie's cries of pain and left Designer Label speechless. Enraged, I continued my tirade, calling the awful woman every name in the book, and then creating a few new ones. By the time I had expelled my anger, Designer Labels was in tears and running for cover.
While this is the worst incident my family and I have endured, this was not an isolated event. Since then, I have had my backside striped with bruises from being raked by shopping carts driven by little old ladies, I've been stalked (using the loosest definition) by lewd college boys, and I have been forced to fling my children and myself out of the way as shiny new cars sped the wrong way through the parking lot while someone's grandparent gave me the finger. My husband has been caught in the crossfire of lover's quarrels and come close to being struck by flying beer bottles, and nearly run over by cars backing out of parking spaces.
Therefore, I have declared war.
From here on out, I declare that any individual twelve years of age or older, and in otherwise good mental health, will now be subject to a calling out, verbal assault, or outright humiliation whenever they do something rude. Rude is defined as inflicting physical pain upon my children, my person, and my spouse; as well as destruction or theft of property. Foul language that is directed at me and mine and blocking traffic will be met with as much embarrassment that is required until such behavior is ceased.
I will also report a casualty list once a week at the end of every blog. This week's casualty list include:
8 teenagers- humiliated for blocking exit and ignoring three polite requests to move their conversation aside to allow me to pass.
1 woman, approximately 80 years old- assailed with my horn as she drove nearly 40 miles an hour in the wrong lane in the parking lot. One finger salute returned.

Why I haven't been blogging

I have to admit it, I've been neglecting my blog. There has been months and months of time to go about looking for the strange and goofy things that people do. In that time, I could have written, perfected, and found a punchline for all 12 people who read this blog a dozen times over. I suppose you're wondering why I didn't do my job.
I could tell you that I've had migraines for the last 10 months, but I've been posting regularly on Facebook during that time. I could tell you that Kwiss and Sonic have been causing too much trouble and I've been too irritated to be funny. I could even complain that I got leprosy and my arm fell off. But that would be lying, and the 6 of you who love me don't deserve that kind of treatment. (The other 6 who hate me, can kiss my butt.)
The real reason for my laziness, my deficiency of humor, and my general lack of anything intelligent to talk about can be blamed on one thing, video games. I have been seduced by the flashing lights and bright colors moving across the screen. I am hypnotized by the soothing sounds of gunfire and the screams of the digital dying. Certainly with such amusing distractions so easily accessible, I am not to blame. How can I be?
I have sat hunched on the floor in front of the T.V. until my back grew a hump. My fingers which were once so manicured, are now cramped with the tell-tale calluses of junkies on each thumb. My brain no longer functions in the real world; all that it can think about is finding a way to splatter my husband with a rocket launcher. I wander through the house with my trigger finger twitching and yelling "BLAM!" whenever one of my children turn a corner. Every time I hear music I expect to be eaten, shot, or blessed by a scantily clad fairy. I drive my car gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles strain under my skin in desperation as I struggle to make it to the finish line first.
I have not showered or groomed myself. The five-year-old will not come near me. I have shadows darkening the flesh beneath my eyes. This morning Sonic screamed in terror when I tried to feed him breakfast. Later on he told his Pre-K teacher that there was a flesh eating zombie living at his house. I arrived at his school to pick him up and was confronted by his teacher.
"Did you know that your son thinks that there are monsters in your house?" she asked.
"Really?" I gasped, uncertain of where my son could have gotten such idea in his head. "He hasn't said a word to me. He just sits on the couch and plays video games with me."
The teacher eyed me judgmentally. "Sonic told the entire class about it and none of them would sleep at nap time. Then they all made shanks at arts and crafts then assaulted the lunch lady."
Needless to say, that conversation didn't end well for me.
I can no longer make decisions for myself. Yesterday I stood staring hopelessly into the refrigerator for several minutes. My husband then appeared.
"BLAM!" I yelled.
He gave me an annoyed look and asked, "Why are you standing in front of the open fridge?"
"Seems like I should be doing something." I muttered. My husband glances at the clock.
"It's almost time for dinner, why don't you make a nice salad?" He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.
"BANG!" I yell, trigger finger twitching.
I barely slept all month. Indeed, I am so sleep deprived that I've begun to hallucinate. I see barbarians traipsing through my living room. Elves work side by side in the kitchen with genetically enhanced soldiers of the future.
"Hon, why is there chains wrapped around the toilet?" My husband asks.
"Because there is a gnome living in it," I reply, not looking away from the T.V. where my battle against dark gods is playing out to a gory finale.
"A gnome?" My husband repeats, scratching his head in confusion.
"I was worried that it might attack the children, so I locked it in."
"Well, could you take the chain off? Julie has to use the bathroom."
How can I possibly blog under such harsh conditions? How can I be expected to be funny and intelligent while their are gnomes living in my toilet? What is to blame for the fiasco that is now my life? Video games of course!


Invisible people

I began this blog early this morning, intending to state my views on illegal immigration with dignity and intelligence. I wanted to take a journalistic approach, educating myself on the subject, presenting the facts from both sides, and presenting credible sources so that everyone who read it would be better informed so that they could form a better opinion for themselves. Four hours later, as I was flipping from the New York Times, the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the Commission for Illegal Studies websites, I realized that there were about three guys in London who actually read this thing, and I decided that it wasn't worth the sweat and anxiety.
So just let me just state what I think of illegal immigration and let you three English guys get on with your day.
Everyone knows why governments dislike illegal immigration. It raises taxes on their citizens, wreaks havoc with the health care system, and much of the money meant to stay in the borders is mailed to other countries to support those economies while contributing to the economic collapse of the host country. Of course there is always the "Job Issue". Illegals do get jobs, and they do them for less pay. However, I will never understand why anyone would bitch about foreigners 'stealing' that career in fruit picking. Maybe its more glamorous than it looks, because I've seen the benefits package and it sucks.
Anyway, there are definite drawbacks to being invisible in America, the greatest of which is that there is almost no justice for you. If some psychotic jumps on you and cuts you up into little bits, the cops don't know who you are. They don't know where you came from, and they don't know who your family is. Without knowing the answers to these vital clues, finding leads to the murderer is three times more difficult than necessary. Often, these murders go unsolved, and the unfortunate victim, who had once nurtured hopes of a better life, is resigned to a pauper's grave with a cheap plague engraved with the surname Doe.
The Invisible also run the risk of becoming slaves, indentured servants, and prostitutes. Usually this occurs in the course of being a victim of human trafficking and smuggling, and individuals caught in this web