Pitchfork, baby

Just a few pictures from the Pitchfork Music Festival here in ShitCargo the weekend of July 29-30. So:



Hi, Cletus! Taking a little break from Coke refinery salvage? Lookin innocent! Or mebbe guilty? No, I DIDN'T hear that noise. But check yer pants anyways.



















I don't know what the appeal of these sticky, stainy motherfuckers was, but they where everywhere.
I almost lost count, on account of my counting the disgusting comeback of 70's jogger shorts replete with multi-colored tube socks. Pulled up all the way.
I hope all you sucker suckers enjoyed. Here's one guy being a good sport and showing me Sucka Love. Yay!




Same guy, doing of the Shareness with none other than Miss Effie Laughmonger, Most Beauteous Artiste of the Poignantly Inane. Double Yay!




You know how when you go to public events, like, oh, concerts, and there's usually some Capital Douche whose M.O. is to be Growly, Glare-y and Punky-Intimidatingness? And all that other yesteryear teenage bullshit?

Here's a nice shot of her apathetic behind. Effie, girl, I so would have kicked her ass for you, baby.
But I was feeling nice that day.





Oh, Lonely ChinAlternaMan! In this heat you guzzle so! Upon who do you wait? Do you pine for the underground sounds of the favorite band you yourself discovered and are the One True Fan, or do you await the return of your porcelain-skinned Goth Babe from the Ricefields of The Underworld?

Lookit Them Guns!

Hello! These are my parents. They're AWESOME. For real!
My mother-- at the tender, new-driver age of 16-- fell for my father when she walked with a friend after school one day to visit with the friend's honeybutt.
Apparently Honeybutt worked at an auto garage, and so did a very bicep-y, dark-haired Scoop of Handsomeness named James.
Upon seeing this fine thang, my mom pooped herself and exclaimed, "That's MINE! Mine, mine MINE!!!"

Well, she didn't poop herself, but she knew immediately who her lobster was. (psst! lobsters mate for life; watch the Discovery Channel once in a while, fool)

So, here they are, Kathleen and James.
The reason I'm here.
The reason I'm happy!
The Divine Combination which conceived and nurtured and taught me to love, laugh, and pass it on.

I LOVE YOU, MOM AND PAPPY!

BuZizzy BEeYotch

Yeah, that's the troof.

What? I misspelled? Eff-YOU, Richie Cunningham.
No "Eeyyy", either. I ain't no Fonze; I'm a busy bitch, bitch.

I began a course for certification in EMT-B about 3 weeks ago, and it's nerding me out. In a good way, though!
I mean, there's talky classroom stuff, but with practicals on CPR, lifting patients (speshal emph on the heavies), and how to get your compromised airway open again (cos' you can't breathe, mutha. nor can you tell me, duh) so I can get you to the pros.

I'm talking to YOU, fatass Angina Pectoris Man.

Can you believe I am actually working on saving fatfucks like you? You angry, huffing, puffing fist-shaker? You kicker in the shins of feeble peeps? You cantalope squeezer? You faker of hairs in your restaurant food for a free meal (even though we all know a graying chest-hair don't get into your linguine without your deliberate plucking, but we all see your wife's withering, shameful silence as you sheist us, and because she's put up with you, we love her)?

Oh. And: You Ventriloquist of Farts? C'MON, I think we all know by now that it WASN'T the pink elephant, raccoon, or toddler who just ran by.

I'm so kidding. I'm just saying this because as I go on my experiential runs (not doodies, yo) with actual ambulance crews, this is what I'm experiencing.

This is lifey, and this, my buds, is how it is. I have no expectations of glamour, or romance, or... what have you.

I simply felt the need to do a leedle update in my crazed state... and to warn you not to get old, persnickety and crappy on me.

But that's my expectations of you. My expectations of me, however, are much higher.

Poop away, Crap-Crickets! I'll try updating soon with verve and brilliance galore...