Author Archives: Deborah Stehr

How to Get Assaulted and Thrown Out of a Lesbian Dance by a Man

How to Get Assaulted and Thrown Out of a Lesbian Dance by a Man

For this pride season I thought I would offer advice for those women who would like to experience getting thrown out of a lesbian Pride dance by a bunch of men because one of the men grabs you aggressively and inappropriately. I’m writing this this weekend, in case any women would like to experience this in 2016-like at the All Woman Pride Dance tonight in Santa Fe. Maybe you can write a poem or short-story afterwards, or invent an interpretive dance, after having that kind of “learning experience.”

Setting the Stage for Your Assault

  1. First, it’s all in the planning. Make sure the LGBT planning committee hires a man with a reputation for violence to run the women’s lesbian dance venue. First things first. (Bear in mind these members may or may not have known about him beforehand.). It works either way.
  1. Second, insure the All Women’s Pride Dance is run by a someone who appears to really dislike (possibly even hate) women, evident from past behaviors and who also has a reputation for hostility and being very hard to work with or get along with. Remember women, if you want to get violated, you need to plan ahead and pay attention to these details!
  1. Make sure you hire exactly the man that the organizers for other Women’s Dances refuse to work with on the grounds that said man is rude, intransigent and impossible to work with.
  1. Make sure that all but one of the security team are men, hired by the highly problematic manager. Make sure she is a late arrival when the crisis goes down.

3b. For an added ironic twist, hire a gay man who has these behavioral traits.

  1. Insure that everyone in authority at the venue has been thoroughly schooled in the Blame the Victim Manual 101.

          Yes women this looks like a lot of work and what I’d say to that is: you gotta’ put the effort in so that you can assaulted easily and fluidly, no matter what you say in your defense when it goes down.

And then I would say: actually, this shit pretty much arranges itself—it’s like our culture is set up for this or something. So although it looks like it might be a difficult thing to arrange for a manager of a women’s dance to act threateningly to more than one woman at the dance, if you have the right ingredients, it is actually phenomenally easy! Who knew?

  1. Insure that the venue runs out of freely available water about 5 hours into the evening, on a summer night, making it necessary for all the women to go to the bartenders to get water, bearing in mind that most of the women had been buying liquor all night and that most women stop when they have had enough, so we aren’t banging into each other on the highway on the way home—I believe it is called Responsible Lesbian Drinking Behavior or RLDB.

Note that you only need one bad apple. The rest of the bartending staff can be courteous and enjoyable making sure that the women are lulled into a sense of safety at an All Woman Lesbian/Bi/Curious/Just-like-Jamming-with-Women- Dance during Pride.

6.   If you can control the weather, make sure it is very hot—that will be easy during Pride in Santa Fe in June because it’s usually quite hot and you can count on the fact that most Pride venues provide free tap water all weekend to keep people from passing out. That is a welcome and thoughtful thing, and many venues in Santa Fe do this year round in places where dancing occurs. Thus you, while setting up your own victimization, should not have a problem getting “free water,” into place, bearing in mind that you paid for the water as your price of admission to the venue.

(By the way Patriarchy, if we had equal status in society and made decent money percentage wise, we might buy more drinks at bars and perhaps start assaulting each other because we’re so drunk. So bartenders and managers start voting to equalize things for women. You will benefit. Terrorizing a woman for needing some water instead of more liquor is so last Tuesday.)

7. Instruct the manager of the venue to make speeches to the women who are seeking water to make them feel bad for not buying more liquor instead and to shame them for being thirsty and/or on a budget.

8. Make sure you do drink over the course of the evening so you can be blamed for being drunk. This is essential. If you don’t drink, then say you did because everyone knows that if a woman has had some alcohol, then everything that ensues afterwards, can be blamed on her: everything from being grabbed very aggressively and threateningly, to being raped. Even murdered. Well she was drunk, says the man, obviously I couldn’t help murdering her. Plus her legs were showing.

Remember drunk women are never raped or assaulted.

9. Again make sure the venue runs out of water, necessitating a request to provide more water in the big jug next to the bar, creating the whole domino effect.

10. Make sure security is trained to not listen to you once the drama goes down, so when the bartender starts screaming “Get her out of here! Get her out of here!” security simply surrounds you, putting their hands on you, even though you are just standing there with your plastic, 6 ounce, empty water cup saying, “He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me up into the bar in a very very angry manner and I simply threw ½ cup of water in his face so he would let go of me because I felt threatened and bewildered by being suddenly and angrily grabbed and almost jerked off my feet.”

You will probably find that you have to repeat yourself three times, and have to raise your voice, because the manager-bartender keeps screaming louder and louder as if he is a hysterical girl who has been bitten by a wild animal suddenly and without warning, even though he grabbed the animals paw and nearly pulled it off.

A POSSIBLE SCENARIO YOU CAN USE TO EFFECTUATE GETTING THROWN OUT OF LESBIAN DANCE BY A BUNCH OF MEN

I have found as a teacher, it is helpful to give scenarios, or examples to students, of various social dynamics and principles. Thus I am providing a step-by-step example of one possible scenario that demonstrates how you can get thrown out of lesbian dance while defending yourself from a hostile man who is grabbing you and being threatening.

Here it is important to get a little backstory about the main female protagonist, so when you go to set up your own victimization you will be fully in character and able to manipulate all the variables to your satisfaction. (Or his satisfaction really, because that’s all that is important.) You have to understand how your life has created the seed such that you are the kind of woman who just asks for men to hit you, for example.

 

If you don’t understand the woman’s character and possibly deeply troubled past of having a Ph.D. in psychology and teaching in many university and college settings, and being a published writer, as well as her vocational background as a crisis counselor and assistant director running a group home for troubled adolescent girls, and being a lesbian bisexual, with various successful relationships, having good friends all over the United States, and having traveled abroad extensively, and having had many wonderful and illuminating hours being alive, as well as having a well-developed shamanic spiritual practice, that includes helping other people, you will not fully understand how all these events conspired to turn her into the kind of person who gets thrown out of a Lesbian Dance by, not just one man, but four.

Apparently this sordid past, and her tight red dress and education and ability to detect nuance and sexism, all led her down this train wreck of a situation of making a man assault her.

Women are such bitches, aren’t we? We should never be allowed to abort embryos, use birth control, vote in elections, or get an education because then we run around making men grab them inappropriately and scare them when we defend ourselves with ½ a glass of water.

Let’s run through a scenario:

Two women approach the bar, “Could we have two waters please. There is no more water available out here. The big jugs are empty.”

The manager-bartender hands over two waters in 6 ounce plastic cups. He goes and refills the jug at the side of the bar.

The two women, stand at the empty bar, discussing music and literature.

The bartender comes back, frowning and angry, buts into the conversation and says to the women in a hostile tone, “You should know that next time there won’t be water for you. Not anymore. Tomorrow night at our bar you’ll have to buy water. So be grateful that you are getting something for free tonight.”

The manager then stares at the women and then throws things around underneath the bar in a clunky way that sounds like frustration or anger.

The two women stare at him and then at each other. He stalks off to tend to something down at the other end of the bar. Both of them have purchased tickets. Both have purchased other beverages, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic throughout the evening and are thirsty because of dancing. Both are paying customers. Both have regularly patronized the local LGBT establishment in the past and spent plenty of money. Both are women.

The woman in the red dress says to her friend, “What’s that about?”  The shorter woman in pants frowns and says, “Why did he need to say that to us?”

(The next step is crucial.)

When the bartender comes back, the woman in the red dress says to him, “Why did you feel the need to say all that to us about the water?” (Make sure to come from the point of view that being rude to a customer over water is unjustified and that if she were a man, she wouldn’t let that kind of thing go either. What man would really let another man say to him: okay, but that’s all the free water you are getting tonight and you should be grateful. Bad boy. Bad bad boy.)

“What?” says the manager.

“Why did you need to say all that to us about the water. I mean it was kind of rude to say to us in the way you did, like we don’t deserv- ”

The manager then grabs the woman’s left arm that is sitting on the bar and jerks it hard, pulling her off balance in order to shove his face aggressively close to hers and angrily hissing “We spend too much fucking money on water for you women.”

Startled and scared and immediately self-protective, the woman in the red dress throws her cup of water, about 3 ounces because she’d drunk the rest, in the proprietor’s face in order to make him let go of her arm. Immediately the manager starts yelling,

“Get her out of here! Get her out of here! Get her out of here! Get her out of here!”  (Sounds like Donald Trump huh?)

And then one, then two, male security guards come in and without asking her what happened, grabs her arm telling her she has to leave. She says “Let go of me. Don’t touch me. He just assaulted me and grabbed my arm and was totally rude. I threw water in his face to make him let go.”

In the background, the manager, let’s say his name is Doug Nava, for example, is screaming like a girl, “Get her out of here, get her out of here!”

Meanwhile the woman’s friend is saying, “She didn’t do anything. He grabbed her. He was rude to us.”

Two more guards show up and encircle the woman in the red dress who is fiercely arguing her point. “No, he grabbed me. He put his hands on me. I didn’t do anything wrong. I threw the water on him so he’d let go of me. Do not touch me,” she says to the security guard who is trying to grab her arm, of course to escort her out. To his credit the guard let’s go of her arm.

Meanwhile the manager is yelling “She hit me! She hit me,” like the woman is Calamity Jane or something. (If she had been, he would not have been standing up anymore.)

And now her friends are showing up and saying, “Listen to her. Listen to what she is saying.”

The guards are now telling the two original women, plus any of the other women who are coming to her defense, that they all have to leave.

The woman says, “He puts his hands on me at a lesbian dance and you are saying I have to leave.”

Another woman says, “He shoved me earlier tonight when I was-”

And then another woman says, “He was so rude to a friend of mine tonight while she was trying to figure out what line to stand in to buy a drink ticket that she went home.”

One of the guards is saying, “Ma’am if you don’t leave now we are going to have to take you out by force.”

At this point one female security guard shows up, and says, “Yes I hear you, but it’s his venue and he hired the guards so what he says goes.”

The woman in the red dress says, “Oh so even though he assaulted me by grabbing my arm and being threatening, he gets the final say because he hired you.”

She hesitates and nods.

The woman who has been assaulted says, “So the security is about protecting the man who grabbed me in a totally aggressive and intimidating way and not about protecting the women and the paying customers at all.”

She said nothing, but the woman could tell she had made her point.

So at this point six  women surround the woman in the red dress and they all get thrown out of the dance.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! This is how this goal gets achieved! 

Outside the venue, the woman almost goes home and then decides she wants a record of the events, though it will not help her get un-thrown out of the dance, or un-manhandled by Nava, or the security guards, who at least, kept their paws off her when she demands they not touch her. Plus she figures she will need the police report to press charges if she decides to. (She decides not to because “being grabbed, yanked aggressively and angrily hissed at by the manager,” is may not go anywhere in court and she doubts she can corral the other women who have been the victims of his behavior and attitude to go along and it seems like a lot of work. Plus she knows she will likely be dragged through the mud. If he’d actually punched her, she would have gone through with it, but no one punched anyone. Had she actually punched the manager, as he claimed, she would have left marks for the police to take pictures and note. That did not happen. She was careful to not exaggerate about what he did either.)

Plus then she remembers I wanted this to happen. It’s my fault of course for not letting a man put his hands on me aggressively. This is what I set out to do tonight, get thrown out of a lesbian dance by an angry gay man. You’d think a gay man wouldn’t do that to a gay woman…but I’m obviously stupid.

Someone later will explain to the woman that his bar was imploding and he was mad because (theoretically anyway) he hadn’t made enough money that night to cover the costs. (The Blue Rooster will fold 4 months later, no doubt due to people avoiding the venue. Again it will be the woman’s fault.)

Now outside the venue, the woman calls the police and they show up and tell her that the manager has already called them and filed his report which says that she hit him. What a liar. The woman then files her own report, saying that that never happened and she has a witness, who corroborates the truth.

The police are courteous and professional and there is nothing outright to suggest they don’t believe her. They are men too, but many men are good upstanding people. This woman knows many such men, gay, straight and trans.

She files the report in case she needs the information later and to document what happened in case she wants to file charges of assault against him later. She wants her side of the story told. She’s not just going to sit there and take it, not from a man and not from anyone.

Epilogue

Soon the gay partner of the manager shows up and apologizes for what has happened and offers her and her friend free drinks at their bar down the road to which she says, “No thanks.”  He is not patronizing, but apologetic. She accepts his apology and suggests that the manager shouldn’t be managing people or running women’s dances.

The boyfriend (who will later break up with manager) refunds their money and asks her not to take it out on the bar. She agrees to nothing. He admits his partner has an anger problem.

So, Ladies, this is how to get assaulted by a man and thrown out of a Lesbian Dance during Pride celebrations. No doubt you will want to try this on your own! It’s easy to make this happen, apparently, no training is really necessary if you built the right ingredients.

Maybe in 2016 we can have several women being assaulted by straight men too. I am so looking forward to it.

At this junction the woman could congratulate herself on “getting a free dance.” Such manipulation, but all women are manipulative and need help from men to stay in control. Right?

Some of you may question how I know this scenario will work?

Because it’s all true and it happened to me. Minus the part of my setting it all up beforehand. That was irony and sarcasm to make a point: I, and everyone else, gay, lesbian, bi, straight, curious, and trans should be safe at a gay venue. Especially if we are all gay or friends of gays!

This is Laughing Coyote Reporting

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Everyone have a safe and enjoyable Pride. Even you Nava. No doubt you have also been mistreated in your life.

 

 

Categories: Lesbian-Gay Humor, sexism, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

New Female Viagra Promises 1/2 More Orgasms Per Month to Women Who Are Still Conscious After Taking It

The new female Viagra, called flibanserin or Addyi, promises ½ more orgasms per month for women who are still conscious after taking the drug.

The up side of this is that while on flibanserin, you won’t need to drink because the medication provides for passing out already.

Apparently the drug comes with syncope, or random fainting spells, and a list of AA meetings, because you can’t drink at all when you are on the drug. (I suggested that the prescriptions be dispensed with a free portable fainting couch, but I was summarily dismissed by male doctors who know that women would just prefer to fall on the ground instead).

Presumably that extra ½ orgasm per month makes up for not being able to imbibe your favorite martini.

Researchers are not sure what happens with the ½ of the orgasm you are not having, which seems pretty uncomfortable to me.

Is your orgasm simply on pause, until the next calendar month? That will create some odd expressions while you are shopping, doing a Power Point presentation for shareholders, and caring for your kids. . . Don’t worry kids, mommy is just stuck in the middle of an orgasm she won’t have for another two weeks. Go do your homework.

“Woman paralyzed on bus from not being able to complete entire orgasm,” the Daily News reported last week.

Perhaps this is why women tend to pass out while taking Addyi? And you can’t even have a drink to relax while you are stuck in mid-getting off! I would think having to run around the planet trapped in mid-orgasm might be worse than not starting to have one to begin with.

It could also produce strange wrinkle lines for long time users.

This was denied by Sprout, yes the weirdest-name-ever-drug company that makes Addyi, a word that rhymes internally with Giddy-up, which I think would have been a far better name because isn’t that what they are doing to us? Giddy-up there women and hurry up and have some more orgasms that we can charge you for! Hurry Up might have been an even better name. (Why don’t drug manufacturers ever consult me about these things?)  Hurry Up and have that half an orgasm that you are still paying full price for.

          Hurry Up and come faster and more often so men don’t have to learn about relationships and pleasuring a woman, and learning the difference between a clitoral orgasm, a uterine orgasm and a full-on G-spot orgasm that comes from deep under the earth and ruins your carpeting, not to mention how to make a woman come so hard she spews liquid in all directions: Why should women be the only ones with faces full of cum? (Oh I’m sorry, ‘female ejaculate.’)

Look folks, my political correctness is slipping, I’ve been stuck with only half of my last orgasm for four weeks now, and the rest of the climax is overdue, and I’m overwrought with anxiety because I’m worried that the 2nd half of my medically induced orgasm is going to show up at the wrong time, like my next job interview (because dealing with a month long 1/2 of an orgasm got me fired), while I’m piloting a plane, at a political rally against Donald Trump….actually I want it to show up when Bernie Sanders finally admits that Hillary beat the crap out of him fair and square. Ahhhhhh that feels so good!

 Hurry Up! so women themselves don’t have to take responsibility for knowing how to create and direct their own pleasure. Why take personal responsibility for your libidinal expression when you can pay to take a pill that lowers blood pressure, is very hard on the liver, creates fainting spells and has its own black box warning right out of the gate? The logo should read: Take flibanserin, before it gets banned!

The pharmaceutical company, Sprout, refused to say if some women pass out while having that extra .5 to 1 whole orgasm per month. But fainting can be a plus if you really aren’t that into your partner, and a double-plus plus for men who would rather have sex with an unconscious woman.

This Half-an-Extra-Orgasm Pill can sort of treat your blues too because it was originally developed as an SSRI to treat depression. Personally, I know that ½ more orgasms per month, despite the facial tics I’m developing, has totally turned around my Major Depressive Disorder!

Addyi apparently can provide cures for psychological disorders, as well as make a woman more independent of her partner, an unintended consequence, but real nonetheless.  Below is a testimonial from Dora, who spend years in therapy and in an unhappy marriage. She reports,

“Praise Jesus, I know having one more orgasm, even an increase of half-an orgasm per month, made all the difference in my life. My life went from being fucking meaningless to be completely fulfilling all without having to change my relationship with my partner, myself, or making my man learn how to really make me come. It’s a Partner in a Pill I must say. Now that I have Addyi, I really don’t need a relationship.”

So even though Addyi, a name which sounds like a sexually repressed jihadist might make on the way to blowing up an air terminal-

Or is that the sound the woman makes while having that .5 to 1 more fulfilling sexual experiences?

Or is that the sound she makes when paying for the prescription?

Or the sound that a woman makes when fainting on the cement?

Or was it the sound the original researchers made when it failed to work as an anti-depressant, and failed the first two applications to the FDA as a libido pill, for not demonstrating enough positive effects, to make the side effects worth it?

Addyi! Addyi! Addyi!

(Why did it get passed? Politics and money. The product has not changed.)

Addyi! Addyi! Addyi!

Or was it the sound of the original developers killing themselves so as not to report another failed product to the shareholders? (Addyi does rhyme with Hari-Kari).

Or is it the sound a woman should make when reading the side-effects in THE LITTLE BLACK BOX that comes with the medication. Yes, Female Viagra comes with its own Black Box warning from the get go.  Unlike Prozac and Zoloft which took over 20 years, Addyi has a black box warning now, which is the most severe warning of possible life threatening side effects that can exist on consumer medication.

Maybe the fact that the word “flibanserin” has the word “ban” in it is a bit of oracular truth in all the propaganda. And that’s the prediction some experts are making (see below for a list of informative links below this blog post), namely that the drug will probably be pulled off the market in a couple of years, either due to side-effects or ineffectiveness, but that will be after the pharmaceutical company makes a bunch of money.

Or maybe Addyi! is the sound of a somatic and psychological jihad perpetrated upon women by profit and patriarchal driven big business and medicine, just because men have often suffered from the delusion that there is something wrong with feminine sexuality, when most of the time there isn’t. I think we should develop a pill for Male Sexist Delusion Disorder or MSDD. Women would buy this pill for the men in their lives (and for the insufferable women like Condoleezza Rice and Phyllis Schlafely who do their dirty work for them).

What should give us women, and anyone related to a woman, pause is that Addyi affects the nervous system of the woman, not blood flow to the organs, like in the case of Viagra. Something else: SSRI’s, of which Addyi is one, are known to cause lower libido in patients that are taking it. How in the world can a class of medications known to lower sexual libido be marketed as a libidinal enhancer?

WTF is right!

That’s like trying to sell Valium as all night study aid.

Furthermore, only 10 percent of the sample patients who participated in three studies showed any improvement in libido or orgasm at all. That means that for every 10 women who take it, only 1 will have that oh-so-sought-after ½ of an orgasm per month that will make all the difference. Third, “low libido,” only exists in a fraction of the women in the United States and then you have to measure whether or not “low libido” in those women is in fact a problem. Fourth, the drug can’t be used in menopausal women or post-menopausal women which is when most women might actually need or want it, and fifth, most libido problems are emotional, psychological or hormonal and Addyi does nothing to address the hormones and there’s no real proof it really does anything significant, that ½ orgasm notwithstanding.

I think just getting really drunk before having sex, if you feel inhibited, just might be the more prudent course of action.

It’s what I plan to go back to if I can ever stop fainting!

But Seriously Folks…

I would hesitate myself to take a drug that affects the entire nervous system, with serious possible side effects that compound if a person drinks alcohol, such that no alcohol use at all is recommended while taking the drug. It’s stupid to take medication when there’s no solid evidence to support its need or its efficacy.

Most sexual issues can be remedied by education about how to pleasure and self-pleasure and addressing issues with the partner, that includes knowledge about how women’s arousal patterns and sexual needs are different than those of men and probably will never be remedied by a pill, unless it is one that just makes people horny. Why haven’t we just prescribed rufies or rohypnal for all these women?

Oh yeah, the unconsciousness part!  Apparently this is only legal if a pharmaceutical company does it!

Addyi! Addyi! Addyi!

This harkens back to medicine’s habit and psychiatry’s habit of pathologizing an aspect of women’s sexuality and then medicating the woman for it and in this case, marketing it to make money until people realize that it is dangerous and doesn’t work.

More information is available in the links below and though I find the concept of ¼ an orgasm funny (I had to cut down my dosage), I think flibanserin is an attempt to exploit women and men’s desire for more complete and enjoyable sexuality. Addyi is no Viagra, that’s for sure.

Sincerely,

Laughing Coyote

Web Links for your information below

Pertinent links so you can see some of the research and do your own.

Documentary on the attempt to develop a libido enhancer for women  “Orgasm, Inc.”

http://www.orgasminc.org/

http://www.drugs.com/history/addyi.html

“On average, treatment with Addyi increased the number of satisfying sexual events by 0.5 to one additional event per month over placebo. Across the three trials, about 10 percent more Addyi-treated patients than placebo-treated patients reported meaningful improvements in satisfying sexual events, sexual desire or distress. Addyi has not been shown to enhance sexual performance.”

__________________________________

“Because of severe side effects Public Citizen, a consumer watchdog group says  Addyi will be pulled from the shelves in a few years time because of “serious dangers to women, with little benefit” to them.

“Unfortunately, we haven’t heard the last of this drug,” the group added.

“This is a product that is neither very effective nor particularly safe”” Dr. Susan Wood, a former FDA official told the NBC, adding that she was disappointed by the approval. “It won’t benefit many women and at the same time the approval comes with a lot of restrictions, setting a precedent that a drug for women’s sexual health has to be treated in a very special way.”

www.rt.com/news/312793-female-viagra-fda-approves/

www.theguardian.com/science/2015/aug/19/fda-approval-female-viagra-critics-addyi-us-licence

http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2015-08-19/libido-pill-s-risks-have-insurers-weighing-whether-to-cover-it

October 2010 The FDA rejects Boehringer Ingelheim’s flibanserin for female sexual disorder, saying there is little evidence it increases libido and citing unacceptable side-effects. The company sells it to Sprout.

October 2013 Second FDA rejection.

Categories: psychology humor, Sexual humor, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

How I Plan to Save the World through Greeting Cards

How the fuck does Facebook know where I’ve been even when I don’t have an iPhone? Or any smart phone. I lost mine and have an old dumb phone while I contemplate my next move.

Apparently I was at Pilar NM a year ago and Zozobra a year later, but I didn’t post that. I don’t want to know where I’ve been and I certainly don’t want anyone else to know. I find being tracked unnerving. What am I, the elusive and nearly extinct Jaguar? In fact I’ve been known to call people with iPhones and lie about where I am, just to create a false trail. “Yep, I’m at an Allsup’s in Gallup. Great price on cigarettes.”

How does FB know where I’ve been? I don’t post anything other than political commentary, satire, stupid comments about Windows 10, research about BSS (Bernie Supporter Syndrome) and bits of performance video in order to find out how many people I can piss off at the same time before someone tracks me down and beats me to death with their iPhone. It’s all about livin’ on the edge.

Yes, posting on FB is pretty much narcissism deluxe, but I figure with everyone else bombarding me with posts they should go to therapy for, and re-posting happy inspirational sayings that I find completely irrelevant, shallow and stupid, I am allowed to post my irreverent bullshit too. Until Trump gets elected and Stupid finally wins and we are reduced to grunting and rudimentary symbols.

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If wise inspirational sayings worked on anything, the world would have changed by now and so would I. I did the research online and in reality. I’ve stood in Hallmark day after day reading all those cards and WOW, both world and I HAVEN’T CHANGED A BIT.

In fact, I think there might be a little understood correlation between Greeting Card Inspirational Failure and Trump Insanity Disorder, also known as the GOP’s real agenda. Their greeting card should be: YES WE REALLY ARE THIS BAD.

But wait, maybe there is time to save the world from us. And I think it might have to do with marketing a whole new set of greeting cards. And I’m just the woman for the job.

How Greeting Cards Have Failed Us

The first thing I did is go to Shaman School, which is very easy to do since I live in Santa Fe, home of the International Stolen Shamanism for White People. In one weekend, I learned the time honored technique of Speaking with the Dead and boy are they a boring fucking bunch.

So I went back to the well I’ve been dipping in since I was 20: reading dead philosophers, psychologists and authors. I figured talking to them might be even better and it was. They agreed with me that greeting cards suffer from a sophomoric lack of depth. Then I called Hallmark and proposed a line of greeting cards derived from Frederick Nietzsche. Here are 2 samples.

Sample 1:

Hi! God is Dead.

(Open the card)

Thinking of you!

 

Sample 2

Ubermenche.

(Open the card)

Are you in?

 

Then we branched out to Martin Heidegger:

What do you get when you cross Being with Time?

         

You’re right! A chicken!

 

If you didn’t find that funny, don’t worry, there’s more. Something for everyone. And a little known fact that the chicken crossing the road joke originated in pre-world war II Germany. What people don’t know is that the chicken was crossing the road to get away from German philosophers and most likely made it into France where Jean Paul Sartre’s greeting cards were all the rage at that time.

No Exit?

(open card)

Me too!

 

When I contacted Camus with the Oujia board, he made this classic contribution:

          “What’s the point?”

         

(Blank inside: write your own message)

 

Not to leave out the deceased psychologists from the school of psychoanalytic object relations for Valentine’s, we came up with this soon-to-be classic:

You are so my part-object.

 

 

 

Let’s do the depressive position!

 

And then of course we can’t leave out Hemmingway. It’s a little known fact that Hallmark actually contracted with Hemmingway for a line of greeting cards way back when.  One of them read something like this

“I think I might love you,” she said.

(open card)

He took a drink and looked out the window. There was a mountain. Then the avalanche came. 

 

That card wasn’t very successful. We suspect it was before its time.

I tried modernizing it and throwing in some science. Hemmingway seems like he might have enjoyed the clarity and succinctness of science.

There was the Big Bang.

 

 

 

And then we drank.

 

We are still testing this one.

If Facebook got hold of all this it would say something asinine like:

Debbie was at the Big Bang 2015.

How to make a Rice Krispies Treat Party Hat

 

Well, I guess it’s still happening somewhere.

 

If you have a greeting card suggestion in similar vein we’d love to hear from you. Hit the Reply button at the bottom of the blog. If it makes me laugh, I’ll post it on Facebook! And I will love you forever.  (Imagine heart emojis here. I invested all my money in greeting cards with enough depth to save the world and now I can’t afford emojis!)

Sincerely,

Laughing Coyote

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New Mental Illness that Strikes only Democrats Discovered by Psychologists and the CDC

Psychologists, working alongside the CDC in Atlanta, have discovered a new infectious, politically induced, psychological disorder,  that apparently affects only Democrats (and possibly their pets).

This disorder has been identified as Bernie Sanders Support disorder, or BS-S.  Although it is too early to make a complete determination (research results are still pending), this appears to be an organic brain disorder that becomes active in white, liberal, educated Democrats who listen to Bernie make idealistic speeches that no thinking humanitarian person could possibly disagree with—Let’s end poverty! Let’s raise taxes on the Rich! We need to save the Middle Class—Wall Street Bad, American People, Good!

The first sign of the disorder is when the Democrat mistakes those beautiful words for actually being a practical plan forward. BS-S does two things to these hapless Democrats—induces the delusion that Hillary Clinton is evil, forgets about the sexism that runs rampant in both parties, and fails to recognize that Bernie is functionally the Trump of the Democrats with a nicer vocabulary and better intention, but the result—polarizing the parties—is the same.  Sometimes the BS-S’rs don’t realize that their syndrome induces delusions that could result in stubbornly not voting for the non-Bernie Democratic nominee thereby rendering the entire nation vulnerable to the rampant idiocy and greed that is the GOP. No one wants a Cruz-Trump, Ryan -Cruz or Cruz-Rubio ticket.  When the even GOP wants Bernie to win the nomination, people infected by Bernie Supporter Syndrome, fail to take that red-herring into account.

Even humorists and comedians can be affected with BS-S Syndrome.  One very well unknown comic (interviewed yesterday by a journal that has almost no distribution and doesn’t want to say who they are because of an outbreak of BS-S among some of the editorial staff) told a story about inadvertently coming down with BS-S.

Comedian X told her story:

“Well, you know, last Tuesday night I was feeling a bit idealistic, and I just thought it was fatigue, or a touch of cold, flu, allergy, or delirium from working too hard inside the U.S. school system, or maybe I had  “a touch of the insurance,” which is fever, chills, and headache brought about by paying into any kind of U.S. insurance policy; but by the time I woke up the next morning, I had a full on case of The Beliefs.

But instead of running to the bathroom, I found myself running out into other people’s yards and compulsively planting Bernie posters, and then posting pictures of Bernie and the Bird obsessively on the internet and singing songs from the Feel The Bern musical.

Even though I was alone at the time, it was embarrassing when I started congratulating myself for simply saying things well, and I even got two podiums, one for the living room and one for the front yard, before the BS-S really kicked in and I found myself with even more Beliefs and Emotions and Heart and Caring. . .and I went around my house and started throwing out my whole FACT Collection because Hillary uses them all the time.

I found myself thinking, “Oh my god, Hillary, that evil bitch who was so unappealing and mean that Bill Clinton had to cheat on her in public in order to feel loved, uses FACTS! Get them off me! It burns; it berns!  Aaaagh!”

We had a bonfire that night, me and the neighbors who weren’t inside with the shades drawn praying to the Virgin de Guadalupe in Spanish that the crazy, white,well-educated, liberal, Democrat, academic, and teacher wouldn’t bring over another Bernie cake with leftist frosting, with the letters Eat The Burn inscribed on the top. anyway, those neighbors who agreed with me and/or those who were  too scared to say ‘I’m with Hillary or Trump, or God forbid that Ted Cruz Freakazoid,’  were out with me burning PRAGMATISM, because both Obama and Hillary have used it, from time to time, and look at the burning shit storm we’re in now? We chanted Feel the Burn, Feel the Bern, Feel the Bern.

Before the bonfire burned out, we raised our fists and said, “Who needs Practicality when we Believe things. We believe our government is corrupt. We believe the establishment is corrupt. We believe it is time for a change. We know our great BS will save us!”

But even we were taken aback when the Tea Party guy down the road joined us and then said, “You aren’t Tea Party? Shit, sorry man. Sounded like it. My bad; my bad,” and then he backed away with this hands raised for about 100 feet and then ran away.

Then the fire department came and put out the wildfire fire fueled by our lack of remembering to bring some water. Who needs water when We Believe We Can Change…oops the world is on fire? Did anyone bring a hose?

And then the next phase of the virus kicked in, and I realized that feminism isn’t important in this election and neither is sexism. I found myself calling everyone I knew and babbling about “how. . .you know. . .we are just people. You know? People.  Male people, female people, sometimes male and female people, but people.” My best friend hung up on me when I said, “Animals are people too.”

My friends called the police. And the social-worker on call for Santa Fe county. And the mental health crisis intervention unit, also called BSS, the Behavior Services System. ….my head was spinning with acronyms. I thought Bernie sent them. I told them I was just fine and converted them promptly. I really didn’t understand how ill I really was.

Running a 99 percent-er fever (which is really 104. 3 in thermometer terms) made some of the details of that day fuzzy. I don’t really remember this but I apparently I was texting also and sending Hillary supporters private pictures of my ideology, hoping to persuade them the same way Anthony Weiner did his constituents, or at least the women he was hoping to fuck.

Somewhere in there, I think I tried to stop.  I remember thinking, “Even my going too far is going too far,” but even though I didn’t want to think about The Urn, sorry, the Bern, anymore, I couldn’t stop. I started searching the internet for answers and recording my symptoms in a journal, which is why I have such a good description of various events.

I knew I was really sick when I found myself happily clapping along and mouthing the words of Bernie’s grump speech, I mean stump speech (sorry, like a migraine and stroke, Bernie Supporter Syndrome can affect word-choice, even weeks later, like when you say “Wall Street,” instead of “Isis,” and “free college,” instead of  “realistic economic plan,” and “revolution,” instead of “foreign policy,”  and “gender doesn’t matter” instead of “GENDER FUCKING MATTERS.”  And saying “I will benefit America because I’m pure and idealistic,” instead of “selfish quasi-democratic opportunist.”)

When I started getting invitations via FB and email to join some other BS-S’ers for dinner even in my addled state, something felt off.

During a brief respite from The Beliefs, I knew I had to dial 911 before I became incapable of sensible speech which would turn my call for the ambulance, “Please help me. I’m infected with emotionally based idealism and don’t have long before my brain turns into ideological Left-wing jelly,” into  “Come and get me ambulance and let’s go vote for Bernie in whatever state he’s in today.”

The ambulance came and took me to the Infectious Disease Treatment center, which out here in New Mexico, consisted of a cabin out in the middle of nowhere staffed with nurses, an online library with streaming video, and a TV. It is underfunded. It’s a BS-S recovery program for people who believe things without checking with Rachel Maddow first.

They left MSNBC, alternating with NPR and the BBC (and occasionally FOX!) on all the time as my fervor rose and fell over several days. When I heard that the Koch brothers’ PAC threw some money and support behind Bernie, I felt the siren song of the What the Fuck? And I slowly came out of my ideological delirium.

What? The Koch brothers are on Bernie’s side? I grabbed all the medical staff I could and they spent the next twenty-four hours reading facts about both campaigns and their respective political history.  I came to my senses and realized Bernie is simply another politician trying to make his mark in whatever way he can, just like the acutely politic Hillary, and all those GOP screw balls. Say what you will, they are all politicians of one stripe or another. Since when do we elect politicians who are pretending not to be?

Furthermore, it dawned on me that the cure for BELIEF  is not more BELIEF.  I sent a friend to go rescue my FACT collection.

I have fully recovered from the Bernie Supporter Syndrome now, thank you.

During my two-week recuperation, I studied up on the syndrome, so I can help others.

Unlike most psychological disorders, BB-S appears to be contagious, even over the internet, and is related to another set of syndromes the CDC is calling BSS, or Bernie Savior Syndrome. Researchers are unsure if BS-S causes BSS or if BSS causes BS-S (it’s the usual chicken and bullshit question), but the probably scenario is that Bernie himself suffers from Bernie Savior Syndrome and is running around the planet triggering both BSS and the Bernie Supporter Syndrome (BS-S), kind of like the difference between HIV and full blown AIDS. (And despite the overwhelming evidence, people still like to argue that these diseases/syndromes don’t really exist.)

Psychologists believe that people can be carriers of BSS without knowing it. Witness the befuddled white masses—liberal, can think, but don’t, obviously ready for a Savior with white hair—where have we seen that before? The difference between the types of BS, is that Bernie Savior Syndrome is a closely related, but typically more unconscious, psychological disorder  in many white, well to do, sexist liberals who went to school but could only loosely be said to be educated, and want a father figure, and/or a preacher, to save them. Nice to see that Christianity isn’t dead on the Left. The GOP underestimates Democratic secularism.

I understand this in anyone who is under 30—you have not yet gotten over the idea that there is such a father-figure Savior, but as soon as you hit 31, unless you’ve gone to graduate school, you know that if there is a Savior, He ain’t a politician! (I learned to spell ain’t correctly in grad school).

Look if Obama couldn’t do it with all the momentum he had, and old white man with a socialist/Christian god-complex, who is left of Left, will not be able to do it either. What the hell is wrong with us? Do Democrats have to fight and question at the wrong time? The Boat is sinking, with Captain Trump D. Bligh too near admiralty for comfort, and we’re going to whine and fuss about the proper way to protest the The United States Titanic of Government, instead of just practically finding the nearest Hillary and sticking her in the god damn hole?

She’s prepared. She knows where the hole is, what shape it is and who else to stick in it, when she needs a break, in order to make it to port and then, amidst a ridiculously partisan inquiry, made slow steps towards replacing the Titanic with a more socialist-democratic container ship, and Bernie can help. Maybe they can use the CIA/FBI/NSA/NBC/CBS to assassinate the current crop of Super Right Wing Christian Ideological Terrorists and we can get a new crop of Republicans who aren’t as crazy and adolescent.

People have asked me how I caught BS-S. I don’t know. Maybe one of my democratic liberal friends is a secret carrier?

And it may be a species-jumping psychological virus. Perhaps I caught it from my cats, both of whom are staunch Demo-cats, who were watching Bernie on TV one night. I thought they were so cute, I filmed them. I had no idea what was happening. They could have gotten infected by the BS-S and then given it to me when they licked my hand or drank out of my water glass.

So, I rewound the video in my iPhone and watched it again.

Then I realized what they were doing. They were watching the Bird, not the Bern.

Of course. They are only cats after all.”

That concludes this report. Thank you to comedian X for sharing your story.

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Categories: political humor and satire, psychology humor | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Some Signs My Cat May Be Retarded

 

My cat just dug a hole in the ground and is now sitting in front of it.

Does he think a mouse is just going to wander by and fall in?

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He says “meow” over and over as if it’s the only word he knows.

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And there are other signs he may be cognitively challenged.

Once a week, whether the situation calls for it or not, he jumps down behind the washer and then howls because he is stuck.

While behind the washer he just looks up at me with wide yellow eyes that say, “WTF? No I do not know how I got here or what to do about it.”

He refuses to go to Cat’s Anonymous where they teach about “the crazy,” i.e., insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

And then there’s his habit of rolling in the dirt, licking himself and then throwing up.

Did he not learn about cause and effect in Cat School?

It doesn’t help that his adopted brother thinks he’s a pole dancer.

 

 

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Obviously there are a lack of role models in this household.

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Are your cats suffering from a reduction in reasoning skills?  Does one of your cats show an unnatural interest in kitty porn? Perhaps we should start a support group.

To make comments scroll down to the bottom. The last button near the tabs is the Comments button.

My cat Onyx  informs me that he can stop licking himself any time he wants. He just doesn’t want to.Fall and Winter 2015-1-2016 055.JPG

 

 

Categories: Animal Humor | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

How I Became a Vagina Whisperer

Video not perfect, but wow, video at all!!!!

 

 

Categories: Lesbian-Gay Humor, Sexual humor | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Poem wins Third Place in Green River Writing Contest 2015 (Kentucky) then refuses to speak anymore to poems that didn’t place

News just in:

 

Poem wins Third Place in Green River Writing Contest 2015 (Kentucky) then refuses to speak anymore to poems that didn’t place

“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” said Poet Lariat de Empanada du Banero la Santa Fe des USA.

The poem, entitled “Tactile Alchemy,” was not available for comment. However this reporter was able to get an interview with her creator.

Interview with Laughing Coyote

Reporter: You’d think a poem about language would be more willing to talk, at least to the newspaper.

“You’d think,” said the poet, Laughing Coyote. “I didn’t raise her to be that way.”

The 21-line, free verse poem, that placed third in the “Show Me Your Metaphors” contest (which was not a porn contest) evidently refused to shake hands with those works that did not place in the 2015 online contest. In fact, Tactile was last seen in a group of Runner-Up Poems, sucking up to the First Place Poems, by donating her award money towards a group (or Chapbook) plane ticket in business class, and planning to fly to the offices of The New Yorker for a very important meeting.

“She didn’t even say good-bye. I didn’t even know she knew about planes,” said Laughing Coyote.

Apparently Tactile Alchemy’s behavior was a shock to everyone, not just the losing poems.

“No, no,” said Laughing Coyote, “there was no indication at all that Ms. Tactile Alchemy–we think it’s a she, but with all this trans-formational poetry going on, who can tell–would be mean to the poems that didn’t place.”

Determining the sex of a free verse poem can be especially difficult.

 

Poet LC explains, “It’s very complicated. It’s usually not worth the trouble. You just say ‘it’ a lot so you can get through the poetry reading, the analysis afterward, and then hopefully there’s a lot of vodka at the celebration party afterward and no one will remember who said what about whom. I mean this obsession with knowing the gender of everything. Next, you academics and reporters will want to know who my poem prefers to have sex with. How would I know? I’m just the writer. And what happens when a lyric poem and free-verse one have children? Should poems of different types really be allowed to mingle? I mean, bless your hearts, but there’s a lot of stupid questions you reporters ask.

After a long drink of water, Laughing Coyote adds,

“And then there is always the inter-species concern, the domino effect, the slippery slope. I mean can you believe, after the last poetry reading we did, someone came up and asked what would happen if a wanton free-verse, heavily metaphorical poem like mine had relations with a goat? When I said I didn’t think goats could read and probably would just eat the poem without noticing, the man looked appalled and threw the bound and signed Malpais Review in my face.”

Reporter: Is it typical of such a small poem, with a relatively narrow focus, to adopt such behavior after a bit of success?

 

“No, there was no indication of that kind of ego early on,” said LC.  “She was the first poem of mine to ever get published, way back in the 90’s in a journal in Georgia. At that time, she just appeared to be really happy that she’d gotten between pages of a book that someone else had printed and then she performed really well at the Publication Party. She took it all in stride. Like a pro. Still talked to her 400 brother and sisters, even the poems that pretty much died as soon as they hit the air, or should have–crippled unsightly creepy things that never should have inhabited the curve of a vowel or the pillar of a consonant. But she touched them all, visiting them in the dark dungeon of my various notebooks.  Tactile Alchemy. And she got along with all the other poems in The Eclectic too.

“Are there warning signs that a poem may be going bad? I mean not, bad per se, but kinda going all Lindsay Lohan. . . ?”

“My poem is not an addict, nor a child actor.”

“I just meant, you know, like Garth Brooks, or J-Lo? I mean all that ego, going all Kanye, you know? Wanting to go to The New Yorker in her own jet.”

Laughing Coyote responded, “Um, it turned out to be a Groupon for all 30 placing poems and prose on Greyhound to a bar in Louisville named The New Yorker.

Not to be deterred this reporter asks a follow up question, “But is there a way the public can be protected through some kind of, I don’t know, algorithm or statistics? Some way to predict that a poem may be going a bit postal?”

“For poems gone bad? Well, I don’t know.  It seems hard to predict. I mean a poem that starts out:

With you 

My words don’t

Fall down

Between us

Unused

“You don’t really expect a lot of problems. Especially not the snobbery. I mean s/he had plenty of poems that were friends! Real friends. I mean listen to this stanza:

 

Resting on fingertips

You smooth them into my skin

Alphabet lotion

Human silk

Tactile alchemy

Laughing Coyote adds, “Does that sound like a poem that’s about to let Third Place go to its head? I mean, she’s all soft lotion-like metaphors, not a more rigid, “Give me some press and an award of ten bucks and I’m going all Elitist on your sorry ass! GET ME A PRIVATE JET! I’M GOING TO THE NEW YORKER!” I mean, seriously, when I was writing her, I never would have imagined this behavior. Where is she getting this classist stuff? I certainly didn’t put it there. I mean. . .I’m about 1.5 minutes from being a complete redneck. Born in Oklahoma, my great-grandpa had a still during the Great Depression. (Of course, who didn’t have their own still in the Great Depression?)

There’s no indication of ego here here:

You rub my syllables

My insights

Back into me

A massage of spent words

Revived

As you add your whispers

To my unfinished breath

Wrapping me

In your composition

I am corporeal language

Tingling like a sweet, sandy sunburn.

Laughing Coyote says, “I mean listen to that hiss of metaphor, the semantic steam, and the human element. Touch. Relationship. Peace. Leaves it just at the right moment too. So very satisfying. It’s a poem that knows when it’s over.”

“Do you feel betrayed by your poem?”

“Oh, yes, but doesn’t every poet? They want what they want. They could care less what you think is good for them. Even in the beginning you start out in one place and then end up some place entirely different. It’s like being blackout drunk without the blackout or the drinking. And then you wake up with a symbolic hangover and say ‘Shit, did I write that?’”

“Wouldn’t some poems say that they write themselves, just using the body of the poet?”

“That sounds like something they might say. But they usually just sort of seethe it in your general direction, and don’t say ‘fuck off’ the minute they win a prize.”

 

“Aren’t you really a comedy writer?”

“Uh, that’s just a rumor,” says Laughing Coyote. “What do you mean by that?” What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well maybe you aren’t a real poet.”

“A real poet. What the fuck is a real poet?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I write poems. They sit in notebooks and flash drives. They get published. They win things sometimes. It’s not like I’m some carpenter who uses words occasionally.”

“But most comics don’t write poetry.”

“Well, I’m not that funny, so I have to have a day job.”

“And so your day job is poetry?”

“Well you can’t be funny all the time. What do you do with the other 23 hours and forty-five minutes of the day?  Well I think that’s pretty obvious. You write a lot of poetry. What else can you do that requires so much effort with so little payoff except maybe have a child, teach for public schools, or maybe run for office with Sarah Palin at your side?”

“I see.”

“So are you blaming me and my blogging background for Tactile Alchemy’s bad behavior? If I was a Real Poet, this wouldn’t have happened? No one else’s poems turn into Egoistic Maniacs who refuses to rub stanzas with poems and prose that didn’t place.”

“It’s just that most comics don’t seem to write poetry.”

“Are you arguing that only Poets should write Poetry? Christ, have you ever seen some of that highbrow inbred stuff? Makes you think twice about ever using a vowel again. Do you think that has something to do with it? I should have sent Tactile Alchemy to finishing school before I farmed her out to a contest in Kentucky?”

This reporter shrugs.

Laughing Coyote asks, “Do you think I embarrass her? That I, her mother, the poet, am too low brow for something as silky and symbolic as her?”

“Do you ever think your poems get angry at you for using them to be funny?”

“My poetry isn’t funny! Or, well, sometimes, maybe. When the Refrigerator Fell on my Foot, now that was an excursion into hilarity. Yoni Talk (yoni is some half Sanskrit word for vagina because in English we can’t have sex without sounding clinical) is a poem with some amusing bits where a woman has a conversation with her vajayjay. Oh and I started a poem called The Vagina Whisperer, but had to turn it into stand-up since she was shouting.”

“Do you think maybe your poems don’t feel like a priority? Maybe they are misbehaving to get more attention?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go there. If the twentieth century ever proved anything it was that psychoanalyzing poems and poets is a bunch of nonsense. We’ll probably never know. But now my Tactile Alchemy has hit the road. Maybe she’ll become a star.

Laughing Coyote looks off into the distance.  “I’m going to miss her.  Maybe she’ll come back one day to visit when she’s done hobnobbing with all the right words.

Third Place ain’t bad. I mean hey, how many poems pay for themselves? I mean fuckin’ A, she’s an earner isn’t she? But really just want her to be happy. That’s what any decent poet wants, right? For her poems to be happy. Even if their mother is also occasionally funny on purpose.”

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Thus, concludes our interview with Laughing Coyote, Poet Lariat de Empanada du Banero la Santa Fe des USA

Written by Sam An Tic, Poetry R’ Us Correspondent

______________________________

Tactile Alchemy

With you

My words don’t

Fall down

Between us

Unused

 

Resting on fingertips

You smooth them into my skin

Alphabet lotion

Human silk

Tactile alchemy

 

You rub my syllables

My insights

Back into me

 

A massage of spent words

Revived

As you add your whispers

To my unfinished breath

Wrapping me

In your composition

I am corporeal language

Tingling like a sweet, sandy sunburn.

________________________________________________

And yes, the poem is real and did win third place in the Green River Writer’s Contest. We couldn’t make this shit up.

imagesCAQ9YDJW

 

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What I want on my tombstone

 

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Or maybe

 

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Or maybe

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Possibly

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Or how about,

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Better yet I could have one of those portable arrow marquees with the flashing lights

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The flashing arrow would be pointing at my grave.

This would heighten the amount of attention I will get when I’m dead. Even the dead need to be haunted by the living, yes? Or, it will let the living know which grave to avoid. If you disliked me when I was alive, try me when I’m hosting maggots on my face.

(It’s refreshing to know I can use the same sign to advertise my deadness as I use for comedy shows.)

To add the amount of visitors, we could add an Arrow marquee outside the cemetery gates,

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And ad the caption:  DEAD INSIDE.

Which pretty much captures how I feel on any given day.

However it could have wider implications. That’s the cool thing about language. If it’s any good, it says way more than you planned on. When it’s bad, it uses a lot of words to say anything other than what you meant. Which is which, at any given time, is truly up for grabs. To decipher what is meant you need a psychologist or a pundit. What is the difference between the two? The size of the audience.

I imagine though that the Arrow Marquee Gravestone sitting at a grave site could be confusing, because the arrow could be interpreted to mean a general kind of deceased-hood to the left or the right of the arrow, depending on which way it is situated. Generally the arrows don’t point at the ground. Might the arrow indicate  which direction my ghostly self went? Because I’m just not the type to say, “sure I’ll live in this hole for all eternity now because I’m just so fucking peaced-out.” I’m more likely to say, “Okay, okay I’ll stay    at least until the grave diggers arrive.”

Grave diggers. Now there’s a trade that’s gone out of style.

I love how literal many cultures of the world have been and still are, burying things that the deceased will need in the next life. In that case, I want to be buried in my pick-up, with a lot of money, Grey Goose martinis, cowboy boots, cigarettes,  The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a functioning right hand for orgasms, and some cats that have already died. I don’t want anyone killing cats so that I can have company in the afterlife. Or people. Actually in that case, I’m just hoping there aren’t any people in the afterlife. Just cats.

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(No these cats aren’t dead.They are all alive. Meow. Button and Onyx.)

The people I do love (and you know who you are), I wouldn’t wish my afterlife on. Especially if they are allergic.  If I truly love them, I will not ask them to spend eternity with me of all people. And really I can’t imagine anyone-except one-that I wouldn’t get sick of around Year 3 of Forever.

So to create less doubt about where I am when I’m dead, I should probably get an arrow that points towards the ground instead of towards perpetual ambiguity. West? East? Southwest? Another grave? Oh down there.

Retro Arrow

Retro arrow with space for text, eps 10

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And on the marquee we could write “Debbie lies here.” Like in the westerns. Or the even more instructive, “Here lies Deb’s body,” just in case people think the soul doesn’t have other things to do.

I think the lying part is probably the only thing that will be accurate.

The Grammar of the Dead

But hold on a minute: The Dead are things, so shouldn’t it be “lay?” I’m the object someone else’s action. So, shouldn’t the marquee read, “Debbie got laid here?”

Because if I’m a dead body, I’m not lying or laying myself down anymore.  (If I am, I shouldn’t be in the cemetery and someone-I’m hoping it wasn’t me-has made a fairly tactless, not to mention gruesome, error. Several of them in fact.)

Now, no doubt irate grammarians and people sensitive to dying, perhaps even those who have dyed…or is it day?- whoops I’ve been in lay, la, lie, land too long- Maybe even those who have died, will write in to correct me on various points.

For those of you for whom this has opened a Pandora’s Box, (I hope you are a pagan, or whatever box you just opened can’t exist), I offer the following thoughts:  No God would be lying.  We hope.  The “God lies” is also a problem, especially since he appears to be doing it not only right now but in the future indeterminate. And with God being Himself,  He is never the object of anyone’s action per se, and being a Thing went right out with the Protestants, so God never gets laid, anywhere, no matter how hard He tries…which explains a lot, pushy evangelism, the Old Testament, witch hunts and a little hobby called The Inquisition. . .which really should be called “An Inquisition” or maybe “A Really Big Fucking Set of Chronic Mistakes.”

For those of you who are feeling irate at me (and I can’t say I blame you because I have felt the same way), I have this to add,

“I think I’ll go with cremation.”

I couldn’t deal with the CC& R’s!

Anyway, who needs a location when you’re dead? I’ll omit the obnoxious tombstone too, especially the possible defaming, “I’m with stupid.” Although if I had the arrow on the marquee turned to the nearest gravestone, perhaps that would clear up some questions and maybe not get me tossed out of the cemetery for heresy.

 

Of course calling Satan stupid is probably not a bad idea. We should start calling Trump that so the brainless minions can understand what he really is and isn’t.

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There’s just less complication without a body (I’ve been saying that forever). The Arrow Marquee can just indicate which way the wind was blowing when my best friend (or if things really go badly…or is that bad?), or a complete stranger, throws my godforsaken ashes into the wind.

“She went West,” the Marquee will read, just in case the mourner has failed to bring a compass, moral or otherwise.

Best regards,

The Laughing  Coyote

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Categories: Death, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Introducing CakeHead: A New Way to Birthday

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Featuring a way to have your cake and BE it too!Fall and Winter 2015-1-2016 093

 

Provision for a somber reflective moment when they told me I have to wear the cake for a whole year to get any decent health insurance under the Obama-Cake Provision. (Frosting not included).

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Brightening up a bit, when I realized I could have three more drinks in order to get fully lit.

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Advertisement:

Cake-Head, not just for extroverts!!!

Introducing Stealth-Cake: No we can’t even see you under there. Everyone thinks the cake is talking….

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This blog brought to you by Bake:

CAKE FOR PRESIDENT PAC

WE CAN’T LET TRUMP WIN!!!!

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Categories: Health Insurance, miscellaneous | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

Laughing Coyote Performs “How I Gave My Cat Bulimia and other Weird Tales,” Oct 25 Santa Fe

Open mic PERFORMERS ON BARCELONA, Sunday Oct 25, 6:30-8pm, Unitarian Church in Santa Fe, 107 W. Barcelona.

Come see music, humor, spoken word, etcPhoto0290.  I am one of many performers. See ya’ there. 2015-06-25 20.25.37

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Categories: Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

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