My 7am Angels

So there are two angels that have been brought to Planet Earth courtesy of Pansy's Prolific Loins. They are more perfect than anyone's kids...especially your ugly bastards. And their Perfection is Official, too!

At precisely 6:00pm PST on February 26, 2008, Mr. Pansy returned home once again. Because he is very well trained plus he's not equipped to survive in the Big, Bad World. Because Pansy strips him at least twice daily and removes his survival juices. Anyway, when he stepped into the house, Mr. Pansy declared "I have some really kick-ass children. They are self sufficient and not afraid of anything in the world." Then, upon Respectfully Requesting and being Graciously Granted access to the Pansy Bunker Mr. Pansy declared: "Oh Holy Mother Of God This IS The Best Bunker Ever!" Duh! And it's true. All of those statements.

Anyway, either of these Angels can, and would gladly, kick your ass 8 days a week. And don't you doubt it because the last conscious thought you would have would be this: "Did I actually say that Out Loud to her?"

ONE daughter is destined to be The President For Life Of These United States Of America By God.
OTHER daughter is destined to be The Bodyguard Of The President For Life Of These United States Of America By God.

ONE strives to be squatting at the riverside in the mud eating snails.
OTHER strives to be lounging on the yacht savoring escargot.

ONE is vegan.
OTHER is omnivorous.

ONE is so soft hearted that as an 18 month old she cried over torn automobile upholstery and asked "is something wrong with it?"
OTHER will tear your soft heart out, eat it raw and ask "is something wrong with it?"

ONE can outmanuever you mentally and be long gone before you know what hit you, leaving you in shock.
OTHER can outmanuever you physically and be long gone before you know what hit you, leaving you in shock from blood loss.

ONE studies geography hard, gets Straight As, learning how to precisely document every little speck of her arguments.
OTHER studies medicine hard, gets Straight As, learning how to precisely dock every little speck of her victims.

ONE is a "morning" person.
OTHER is not a "morning" person.
Can you pick which is ONE and which is the OTHER in this photo taken at 7am?





ONE won every spelling bee, speech contest, essay contest in her schools from 3rd grade to...well, she hasn't stopped winning yet.

OTHER won every horse show she entered, volunteered for Afghanistan as a Combat Medic, and personally hauled a 200 pound unconscious man by his own belt around his wrists into a hotel, up 3 flights of stairs while she was wearing a miniskirt and high heels. No, she didn't harm him. He was an Army buddy who drank that drink she warned him not to take from those strangers at the bar. The drink was spiked. He passed out. She administered IV fluids to flush him out enough to pass next morning's muster. Your Army at work. But now she is a civilian.

ONE and OTHER are hot. Too hot for all human male mortals. They are each currently unmarried. ONE and OTHER will put many husbands in early graves. The corpses will have very big smiles on their faces.

pick ONE or the OTHER. But whichever you pick know this: Pansy is the Mother In Law.

The Tour Leader's Wailing Wall

It all began SO VERY long, long ago.......

Pansy was at her first ever bicycle club meeting. This particular bicycle club fell victim to being the Club of Choice for the Pansys simply because the club's meeting night was the ONLY night of the week/month that was still open and available in the Pansys' lives for consorting. The OTHER bicycle club is forever and ever grateful beyond measure at how closely their fates could have turned in another direction. Over time, however, the OTHER club's fate did indeed go down a bad road since the Pansys eventually joined both clubs. Pansy is still a bit miffed/mystified (not sure which) that at the end of the OTHER club's recent holiday party several members yelled "Mr. Pansy we are SO glad that YOU are married to her." Like he threw himself on some sword of death that they don't have to endure. In their dreams.

So, at this very first meeting there is some guy who is a dentist in the back of the room. Pansy is, as always anywhere, up Front and Center. Discussion is about a woman who had been on the recent club tour. Pansy recalls only this part of the discussion:

Club Member: She had a tough time on the tour possibly because she is a new rider. And she is in her 50s.
Some Guy Dentist: (very scoffing tone of voice) Oh, she is MUCH older than that!
Pansy: Now how would you know that? What did you do? Count her teeth or something?
Room of People: raucous laughter directed at Some Guy Dentist (Pansy, not knowing at that time what kind of landmine she had just stepped on, does recall thinking the laughter had a kind of nervous edge to it.)
Some Guy Dentist: Makes a "confused, kinda hurt feelings puppy face". An expression Pansy has been delighted to make happen on his face many times since and will continue to do so for the rest of her natural born life. As Some Guy Dentist has aged, his face more resembles a "hang dog look." hahahahhahahaha! Pansy learned during the meeting that Some Guy Dentist is also Tour Leader. And he called the woman "old" to rationalize away any complaints that the tour route had been perhaps less than ideal. We will explore those tour routes in other stories.

Thus, began the long, strange, trippy relationship between Tour Leader and Pansy. Tour Leader Wife and Mr. Pansy just stand back, shake their heads and say "Kids! What are we going to do with those two?"

Pansy is the first to admit she is a high energy person. But she is also a total slacker when given half the opportunity to slack. She is "bossy" but in a really fake way. She does not think she is always right, even though she is. She is very flexible, to the point of being a contortionist. She can really go with the flow. And she has the very, very uncanny ability/skill to pick up on other people's vulnerable and tender psychological "weaknesses". Not that those people are weak, but Pansy does have her own kind of Vulcan Power Grip that fortunately she chooses to use Only For Good...FUN.

Tour Leader is your classic Recovering Horrifically Guilt Riddled Catholic Hyperactive Kid, grown up. He USED TO be very convinced he had somehow been secretly elected Boss Of The World For Life. Until he met Pansy. His one Saving Grace is that he instinctively and possibly immediately realized Pansy was fun and that she would not harm him. Too much. This was like a Revelation Of The Greatest Order to all who knew Tour Leader BP (Before Pansy). Even Tour Leader's Wife said "you changed his personality."

Tour Leader is a disaster combo of guilt and industry. So he's always fidgeting around: building decks around his house, painting the house, remodeling the house, doing all the mechanical repairs on all his cars and appliances, making a "mountain stream" in his backyard, playing farmer with a barn, goats and sheep, just busy busy busy. And then doing it All Over Again! Plus riding his bicycle to Ireland, New Zealand, Germany...many, many places. Yes, I said riding his bicycle TO those places. He might as well have. He is at his Especially Busiest Best in making the rest of us fools look like slugs. It would be very easy to just hate him. Except we are all too exhausted from watching him and his busybee-ness. It's like "calm down already"! Don't they have Ritalin available in adult dosages?

There is one aspect to Tour Leader that you most definitely Do NOT want to get Pansy started on: that would be Tour Leader's gawdawful fucking MURAL on Tour Leader's front hall! Oops! Too Fucking Late! hahahahhahahahaha!

Pansy cannot adequately describe this MURAL. It started out as a plain, but happy and even functional, white wall. Before the Pansys met Tour Leader, his wife (the MURAL is all HER goddamned fault by the fucking way) said one day "I sure would like it if that hallway weren't so plain. Maybe some wallpaper with a pattern, like trees or something naturelike." That's like throwing a match into a can of gasoline aka setting Tour Leader's "imagination" on fire and this particular suggestion unleased a hitherto unknown trait of Tour Leader: that of INNER ARTISTE. Oh fucking christ save us all. No one can seem to get through to Tour Leader that his Inner Artiste has been extensively examined and medically declared to be: STILLBORN. DEAD. DOES NOT EXIST. NEVER FUCKING EXISTED. WILL NEVER EXIST GODDAMMIT.

Tour Leader freehand paints abstract, leafless, branchless, ugly brown "trees" all over the poor innocent hall walls. And that's how the hallway existed....in an ugly odd brown stick hell....for lord knows how many years before Pansy ever first saw it. It couldn't have been TOO many years since we all know that Tour Leader does things All Over Again on a very frequent basis. Then the Pansys show up and Pansy mocks the MURAL. Tour Leader gets that stupid whipped puppy ass look on his face. Pansy is then informed by Tour Leader Wife that said MURAL is Tour Leader's pride and joy. Pansy says "He must have a very low threshhold for pride and joy." You would have thought Pansy had insulted Tour Leader's penis size or said his children were ugly--which they so fucking were Ugly Mutts until THANKYOUGOD Tour Leader Wife's genes kicked in and saved their homely asses. Which fact Pansy repeatedly explains over and over to the dense and stupid Tour Leader. So he won't forget it.

Evidently the Pansy MURAL mocking severely wounded Tour Leader (we were early in our relationship) and as a direct result the MURAL FROM HELL began to emerge. Yes, now it is all Pansy's goddamned fucking fault and Tour Leader's wife is very grateful to have had the Mural Burden lifted from her shoulders. If those walls could only talk. Well, they wouldn't talk they would just start screaming and never, never, never be able to stop.

The MURAL FROM HELL aka Wailing Wall began as a whitewashing of the ugly odd brown stick hell mural. Then the entire wall is painted with some fugly green in a shade not to be found in nature, this galaxy or this universe. I mean it was GREEN with a capital FUCK. Worse, it wasn't "left over" or even "accident" paint that was on sale. Noooo! Tour Leader proudly declares it to be the Best Bright Green Paint Money Can Buy. Who would have ever guessed that all of us now bleeding-eyed mural viewing victims would rue the loss of the ugly odd brown stick hell mural? Oh, rue we did and still do.

Originally Tour Leader was planning to "create" just a grassy meadow. But that was quickly deemed too small a concept for his Giant Imagination. Every freaking week (why we kept going over there to torture ourselves we will never know but it's too fucking late now so we can't quit) there would be a new gawdawful "element" added to the Nightmare on Hope Doesn't Live Here Anymore Street or whatever the fuck is the name of the street Tour Leader's Wife and The Mad Artist live on.

First came the "sky" (Best Bright Blue Paint Money Can Buy!). Then the "mountain range". It was almost okay. It was a very monotone dark gray (it, too, was the Best Money Could Buy but even Tour Leader can't fuck up GRAY too much) in an undulating line across the wall in sort of, kind of, maybe, almost, just about the right place for a mountain range to be, in its own horrid lack of perspective way. After all, technically speaking, it was between the BLUE and the GREEN "parts". But only if it is possible for Really Green grass, Really Gray mountains and Really Blue sky to occupy EXACTLY the precise same amount of 1/3, 1/3, 1/3 of all occupiable space available.

Now is as good a time as any for Pansy to mention that Tour Leader's Inner Artiste is evidently Very Rigid in all ways possible. And regimented. And very, very obsessed with Exactly The Sameness. For Tour Leader's Wife's sake ONLY, Pansy actually dearly hopes another part of Tour Leader is reliably rigid.

Then the "snow capped mountain peaks" were created with a Precisely Rectangular (Pansy suspects a leftover chalkboard eraser from Tour Leader's Catholic schooling) dipped into SNOW GLARING WHITE ENOUGH TO BLIND YOU paint (The Best Money Can Buy!) and stamped across the wall like marching rigid soldiers in caskets. It was so bad even Mr. Pansy couldn't hold back his laughter. However, the laughter elicited a particularly fetching rendition of that stupid whipped puppy ass look on Tour Leader's face that Pansy so loves, so THAT particular Mural Viewing was worth it. And Tour Leader's Wife finally felt not so terribly alone anymore in her aghastness over the Wall.

Next came the "forest" of Extremely Natural Trees that curiously resembled a Christmas Tree Cookie Cutter dipped in yet another shade of GREEN FROM RADIOACTIVE OUTER SPACE. But Tour Leader had learned his lesson from the snow capped peaks and cleverly used Different Sizes of cookie cutters so the trees would have "perspective". Uh, no.

Never one to be deterred by naysaying nabobs of negativity, Tour Leader assessed the Wall and determined it needed a house.....like......the cute Chateaus he saw in Germany on a bicycle tour (even though chateaus are Fucking French, dodohead) and then.....EUREKA! VOILA!! HIS INNER ARTISTE'S SPECIAL PURPOSE WAS BIRTHED! The Wall would incorporate all "special memories" from all his bike tours from everywhere. Now he was cooking with gas! The rest of us fought viciously over who got to put their head in the gas oven first. In our frenzy we failed to realize that putting Tour Leader's head in the oven first would solve all our problems, bring about world peace and etc.

Tour Leader feverishly painted for days, weeks, months on end. During this time Portugese Washer Woman developed a toothache. But she's afraid of dentists. I called Tour Leader's dental office, told them what was up, transferred the call to Portugese. She fell for the ruse and now had a dental appointment. I begged her, BEGGED HER, to chit chat with Tour Leader and insert this phrase "So. How's your mural doing?" She was all set to do so but when push came to shove she realized he had her life in his hands. And sharp tools in her vulnerable mouth. She said nothing. I will never ever really trust that woman again. However, upon telling Tour Leader later on what I had tried to make Portugese say to him the look on his face was almost as good as if Portugese had followed through. Because it was then that he realized the Wall Mockery was very likely nationwide. But he was wrong. It had long gone international. Starting with weekly discussions of the Mural during my office's Monday Meetings. Boy did my attorney's wife LIVE for those Mural Updates.

The wall developed hives (strange botanical things that don't exist in nature); cess pools (low lying "foothills" that don't exist in nature); a floating and undoubtedly haunted "chateau" which floating Tour Leader tried (and always failed right to this moment in time) to anchor with shadowing, then bushes, then a fence. There was a fissure that scarred the landscape from top to bottom. It is the Very Best Rendition of an Ass Fissure Pansy has ever seen even though she has never seen an Ass Fissure--which she would gladly volunteer to view Many Ass Fissures if doing so would destroy this Mural. Tour Leader claims it is a "country road". At least now Pansy knows what the road that leads to Hell looks like.

Then, one day, the Low Lying Rock Wall began to take form. It was actually in the "right place". It looked "good" even with its just a bit too precise rocks that curiously resembled identical books standing on end. But the rock colors were, like, real-ish. In that they varied in shading. A first for Tour Leader...to vary the shading. Pansy has seen real live rocks in most of those colors. Could it be that Tour Leader is improving? No. We were all just so battle weary we couldn't go on. No mas, we cried. No mas. Is it possible Tour Leader has won the Mural Battle To The Death? We will never know. What we do know is that he was probably getting tired, too. Naw. Because the next thing we all knew he was Out Back fixing the "mountain stream" AGAIN and looking at extending a flagstone path down to the barn. But first, this deck has Got To Go!

Pansy: The New Dr. Ruth

Pansy is constantly misunderstood or maybe it's misinterpreted. I mean, all she is doing is Saying Stuff and others get all queasy or funky looking!! For example, one of her favorite jokes:

Dentist has never married, lives with mother all his life. Finally mom dies and he decides to try dating. Goes out with several women but the relationships never go anywhere. Finally he is dating a woman who really does like him. She questions him one night:

She: Why do you never go beyond kissing me?
He: Because my mother told me about you women and what you have down there.
She: What are you talking about?
He: You know. You all have pointed teeth down there.
She: That is a lie and I'll prove it. (Pulls her dress up, panties off. That's it, guys. Will you please continue reading this post. Sheesh.)
He: Well, of course, YOU don't have any teeth. Not with that nasty case of gingivitis you have going on.

I told this joke to Tour Leader dentist and his wife, forgetting they are PRUDES. They actually blanched. I thought it would warm them up. Instead it killed the holy fucking hell out of any chances for group sex between us THAT night. Dammit.

It is true that sex is one seriously hard (pun!) driving life force. Pansy got her "diagnosis" in 2003 and was thrown right into some seriously nasty chemo. One night as Pansy was spending the evening doing her new usual (laying on the floor in the family room vomiting) she did dip into a bit of moroseness: "Is this it? I lay down and vomit until I am dead? No more work? No more play? No more sex?" Even she was surprised that she was missing sex in the middle of vomiting. Then Pansy got over herself and went and had sex with Mr. Pansy until HE puked. hahahahahha. Now, HOW can that be TMI? You want TMI? Oh, I gots some TMI racheer fer ya!

Pansy caught a really lucky break on the cancer/chemo thing. Which is a good thing because Mr. Pansy would have been one sad empty shell-man if I had left him behind back then. Now I can fill him up all I want to with lots and lots of Pansy. Not that I didn't before, but perspectives change when your very own personal Sweet Chariot swings way down low for YOU. I can still feel its tire tracks all across my back.

You only have one life. Live for today while knowing that you are likely going to have to, dammit, answer for it tomorrow. hahahhahaha. Seriously, now is the time to get it on. For me and Mr. Pansy we are a strange kind of couple because as "Love Children of the 60's" we felt very strongly about having an Open Marriage. That means: you want out of this marriage? I'll give you a hundred yard head start and then I'm opening fire on your sorry freaking MARRIED TO ME FOREVER ass." We are vehemently monogamous. Which means we got to have our fun.....WITH EACH OTHER. Dammit. Now I am the first to admit we undoubtedly have a very vanilla sex life but it's fun for us and that's all that counts. I am just sorry some kinds of fun took so long to warm up to. Oh, I was all warmed up to them before cancer. But still, what was I thinking? Holding out on the poor boy like that.

No, I don't have any actual wisdom to dispense. Just letting you know you shouldn't miss out on what you can already have. You would be surprised at how the simplest of things rocks it for your spouse. I am only speaking from a female point of view (despite the undisputed fact I am the Most Manned Up Woman On Earth) but good god when just "personal shaving" elicits a raging erection like you can't believe...every time? I would laugh but that would be impolite. Oh, wait. I like being impolite. hahahahahhahahahaha! So now we are working on frequency/location issues. I say we have sex all the time. Like no less than 10 times a week. He says we hardly ever have sex. Like as infrequently as only 10 times a week. But we both love the hell out of Hallway Sex. How we do it is when we pass each other in the hallway we shout "Fuck You" at the top of our lungs. Good thing the children have moved out so we don't have to muffle ourselves anymore.

Work Hard. Play Hard. Stay Hard.

Pansy's Car Was Dirty....

Pansy recently came upon a photo of Mr. Pansy because he is soooo cute. He is one seriously whippet thin, smooth shaven, Pansy's favorite kind of "not tall", greaseball car monkey, housepet man creature. One Yummy Yummy SnackBoy. Mr. Pansy, thankfully, just misses being perceived as a metrosexual. Pansy just learned the hallmark signature of a metrosexual is they wear good smelling cologne. Mr. Pansy doesn't wear cologne, just mouthwash and the lingering smell of cheapo Walgreens shaving cream from shaving me. Right now I am looking at the photo. MY God. [long, vigorous silence.......] Well! Now I have to go and wash my "Bad Lil Pansy Parts" until I come clean. Again. Some afternoons ARE delightful.

What? Who's crying "AUGH!!!! TMI!!!!! TWICE!!!!!!! AUGH!!!!!!!" I ain't even begun.

COURT TRANSCRIPT:
It has been duly noted by The Court that consideration has been given, to wit: indeed, there is no evidence proferred at any time by any party, consenting or coerced, that at any time did alleged "victim" cry, or type, "STOP with the TMI already!" Therefore, The Court, in Its Infinite Wisdom, has concluded Pansy may continue with her rampaging spewing of TMI, whether said TMI is true, fictional, or otherwise. Entered Into Evidence This Date of 20, February, 2008. ~Court smiles~

THERE WAS A BRIEF, USELESS APPEAL:

FUCK! Stupid loopholes...
signed,
The Fuckee, who respectfully requests* that all future submissions of a TMI nature, as defined by The Fuckee, be expunged from the record BEFORE they've been recorded.

*using proper form: STOP with the TMI already!


THE COURT HANDED DOWN THIS FINAL RULING:
The Time Travel Stipulation to effect said requested "premature expungulation" is----nay, WILL!---cost Extry. Roolz iz Roolz and any further "respectfully-ness" will be dealt with Extremely Harshly.
Court.....OUT!

Premature Expungulation of TMI: STOP....READING....NOW!!!

In a satiated mood from the photo viewing, Pansy thought it was now safe for her to take her dirty car to her local car wash establishment. But it was a gray dampish day. Her car wash was closed! There was road construction going on so Pansy had to take a detour. She got lost. And happened upon AN OPEN CAR WASH! All right! It looked a little rundown and there were only two workers on duty. But, oh well.

Just as her car was entering the carwash, the track that pulls the cars through the wash zone BROKE! Pansy got out of her car, distraught. The water hoses then suddenly started spraying cold, soapy water even though the track was still stalled. Pansy got soaked! She gave a tiny shriek when the cold, soapy water sprayed her. The carwash workers saw her dilemma and the 2 of them rushed in to help. One grabbed her from behind and he somewhat brusquely grasped her wrists and pulled her arms down to her sides. He said "I am Raul. Be calm." The other carwash worker was in front of Pansy and somewhat brusquely rubbing her down with towels. He said "I am Jack. Be calm." Pansy, still breathless from the cold, soapy water spray, could only haltingly whisper "Oh, Jack, Raul. Thank you."

Jack did what he could with the towels but they were soon soaked and useless. Pansy was shivering now. Jack knew he had to get her heated up. He told her he was a trained rescue person and he was going to have to warm her skin-to-skin. Jack pulled down on her sheer, sodden, surplice blouse when suddenly the delicate fabric tore and revealed her ample trembling bosoms, encased in a black stretch lace, front closure, strapless brassiere. Jack peeled the lace down from the chilled boulders revealing their summit peaks. Jack gently thumbed the peaks to even higher elevations.

Meanwhile, Raul was warming her neck with his hot, steamy Latin breath and whispering "let it all go." She said "ooohhhhh. yesssssss." Raul, taking his cue from Jack, had removed his coveralls and was slowly, slloooowwlllyyy inching her skirt up her smooth thighs...slowly. He asked "does the downstairs match the upstairs?" She, shamed because she had forgotten to replace her panties after her earlier enjoyment while looking at that photo of her yummy yummy snackboy, said "oh, please. NO." Raul became more insistent and with one last tug revealed her bareness. He caressed her hipline and said "tell Raul about the meesing pantees." "They, they are black stretch lace, with boy cut leg openings and a low rise waist." "More. Tell me more about your meesing pantees. How low do they rise?" as he provocatively traced along the tender flesh below her pretty innie-belly button. "Ooohhh, lower than that, Raul." she panted. He traced lower, lower, lower until he reached her nugget.

Meanwhile, Jack was pressing warmly against her and massaging her ever so delicately with his man-fur. He asked "Are you dirty?" She growled "Yes. Dirty all the way down." And he scrubbed her clean as a whistle.

Meanwhile, Raul, firmly pressing HIS man-fur warmly against her back loading zone, said "Are you dirty like that girl in town?" She moaned "I AM that dirty girl in town." And he scrubbed her clean as a whistle.

Pansy said "After all these twisted roads that we've been down together I think it's time to say goodbye. And believe me if you think I'm gonna get down and crawl you don't know me, you don't know me at all.

Jack and Raul both said "And when you need us and you think we're gonna be there when you call? Well, you don't know us, you don't know us at all."



Sincere apologies to Don Henley. I have no explanation whatsoever for how this story came to be other than Bad rock and roll influences. Just like the old folks warned us about.

Why Doesn't He Take Pansy To Dinner Anymore?

So, I have this "son"....a baby attorney who sublet office space in a law firm Pansy worked for. This worked out just great since Baby Attorney (BA) was not, technically, a co-worker. Leaving Pansy quite free to sexually harass and horrify him as often as Pansy felt the need AND no worries over lawsuits being filed against her rantings. Ahhh!!! And he could easily be made to blush. Over time he got "used" to me and my ways. But he never could see them coming. What a great target.

Once we all received new chairs at work. Very ergonomic. The Portugese Washer Woman kept referring to them as "origamic." I finally had to straighten her out on that one, that the actual word she wanted was "orgasmic." We hear BA sputtering in his office. We wimmin are having difficulties in adjusting the chairs, so BA helps out by getting all manly and adjusting the chairs. I ask him later about how he did that.

Pansy: BA! What did you do to get those chairs the right height?
BA: I twisted the adjustment knob underneath.
Pansy: Oh. Like this? (makes a circular, twisting motion with her hand)
BA: Yes.
Pansy: Well, now I understand why we wimmin couldn't get it figured out. We are way more used to doing it like this. (makes a jacking off motion with her hand)
BA: Gaaaaahhhhh!!! (closes/slams his office door)

For a time I worked in the fine jewelry section of a department store (yes I did, too!) and had the usual employee discount on anything in the entire store. BA needed a new suitcase so we went to the store on our lunch hour to select one. I told him I would buy it, that the discount would show up later on my monthly statement and that he could just reimburse me then.

We are in the store buying the chosen suitcase and the cashier is narrating as she goes "10% sale price, extra 5% for buying today (extra discount day) and the total is...." This is how it should be. I would get the additional 40% on my statement. But BA doesn't remember that detail and tried several times to tell the cashier "what about the employee discount?" I practically have to stomp his foot to get him to shut up already because, of course, it is not kosher to be using my employee discount for other people. Like that's never been done before! It is such a charade, but we must play it.

FINALLY, stupidass BA gets a clue that I want him to shut up. But now he's thinking he can get in a little payback. He says (loudly) "Thanks, Mom." To the cashier he says "My mom is buying this for my birthday. Today is my birthday. Thanks again, Mom!" And, truly, coming off as so stupid and lame that the sales clerk looks long and hard at me and then him and then me again. I know she was thinking "That poor woman. She's going to be burdened with that Special Needs boy forever." OR! She could have been thinking "That woman is some kind of a major slutty whore. How could she be old enough to be that man's mother? I wouldn't be surprised if they are fucking each other. They are both disgusting." We escape the store and he laughs at his cleverness. Forgetting, again, that Pansy plays Serious HardBall when it comes to Paybacks.

Soon thereafter, we are all out together for our somewhat bimonthly evening of eating/drinking/catching up with each other nonsense. Attendees are the usual suspects: Me, Portugese Washer Woman, Sexy Mexican and BA. A couple years earlier us 3 women had started wearing matching clothing as pretend mother-daughter getups. For this particular dinner I asked the girls to wear our newest blouse acquisition: it was a nice, lacy blouse that snapped up the entire front. Just to look dorky and make it easy for BA to find the 3 of us in the restaurant. And to set up my payback.

I wait until we have been eating and drinking for some time. And the restaurant is full. I then stand up and tap my glass. The other diners respectfully pay attention to our charming quartet of people. I loudly (you know how loud I can be) go into a sweet little speech:

"I just want you all to know that my 3 children here have taken me out to dinner tonight for my birthday. (polite applause) And, my son here.....stand up, honey (he complies...what an idiot). My son gave me a lovely t-shirt for my birthday. The problem is, I really don't know where I can properly wear this t-shirt. Perhaps some of you folks might help me out."

I then rip open my lacy, "cover" blouse (for which those snaps were so wonderfully convenient to do this maneuver) to reveal a t-shirt that BA had, in actual fact, given me for my birthday a couple months earlier. It is a black t-shirt with a white chalk outline design of two dogs humping each other and the words "Copulation. The Mating Season."

I continue to loudly say: "For those of you who cannot see the t-shirt clearly, it says on it "Copulation. The Mating Season." Now, what kind of a son would give that kind of a t-shirt to his mother? Especially since I am a widow now."

BA went redder than Pansy's hair. The restaurant crowd, smart people that they are, realized it was all a joke at BA's expense and laughed mightily. I wonder if BA is still enjoying his suitcase.

Pansy's Stupid Elderly Elder Brother!

Yeh, Pansy's stuck in the middle with her siblings. Her Stupid Elderly Elder Brother (SEEB) is actually stupider than her Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS)! Because he invited Pansy to his wedding. In Noo Yawk City.

SEEB married a wonderful lady who so totally does not deserve that the rest of her life is going to be spent being "related" to any of us freaks. She started learning that hard lesson 2 days before her wedding. I shall call her Long Suffering Woman (LSW).

The entire family flies east to SEEB's house for the wedding. That first night LSW brought home a "treat" (and their personal favorite) for dinner: loads of Popeye's Extra Hot Extra Spicy Extra Crunchy Chicken. We all begin chowing down and immediately spewing these compliments: "It's burning my gums!" "My lips are cracked and bleeding from the crunchy crust!" "I need water! My tongue is on fire!" "This stuff is horrible!" Etc. After many, long minutes of this incessant bitching and whining, SEEB sheepishly looks over to LSW and says "They are saying how much they love it, in their own way." Oopsies! Even I "got it" that we were being very rude for having Just Met LSW For The First Time Ever Two Hours Earlier! Oh, poor, poor LSW.

Next day we are getting to know each other a bit more. I am nursing a 3month old baby and brought an outfit for the wedding that for some unknown reason I had not tried on to see if I could even get into it. I gain 70 pounds whenever I am pregnant and this outfit is tight even when I am at my skinniest. Naturally, it does not fit. So we make do with a chain of paperclips and safety pins to "enlarge" the waistline. And every time I hear the baby make a noise my boobs sprout like the Trevi Fountain in Rome....torrents of milk soaking whatever I am wearing, down to my ankles. OH, and milk spewed "outward" too, all over LSW's hair. Nice. Now we have to get my silk outfit dry cleaned before the next morning's wedding. And buy some duct tape to strap down my boobs so they can't spew except when there is a baby attached to them. LSW decides she should stay "away" from me tomorrow once her hair is done and she is in her wedding clothes.

Then, to top the day off, my SEEB develops alarming symptoms: losing peripheral vision; dull, leaden sensation in chest and left arm; dizzy; nauseous; "hearing" buzzing sounds.......enough that Dad drives him to the hospital ER. Hours later in the late evening, with no phone calls or updates, they both come straggling back. During the extensive and Very Expensive tests and procedures, the doctors ask SEEB if he is under unusual stress of late. SEEB's answer? "I don't know. Umm, let's see: I am getting married tomorrow; my entire family has been living with us for the past 2 days; they have never met my fiancee before this; I haven't eaten since last night; and, oh yeh! My fiancee and I each got fired from our jobs in the past 24 hours." FUCKING DUH!!! The eventual diagnosis was: SEEB was having a "silent migraine headache." Gee, some $10,000+ in tests for a headache. LSW is the one who should have been having the headache but SEEB is the one running up the medical bills! I tell ya, women are the stronger of the species.

After the wedding, Pansy finds herself surrounded by friends of the wedding couple. She thinks "well, maybe they would like to hear SEEB stories." Oh, yessss.

Story #1: SEEB is a know-it-all high schoolian and had a running argument with Dad for an entire summer over this: Terminal Velocity. Dad explained it meant the fastest speed a falling parachutist could possibly reach...after which, no more acceleration was going to occur. SEEB vehemently denounced this idiocy by smugly showing up The Old Man with this logic: Terminal Velocity is the speed at which the falling parachutist will DIE. And that is why they pull the parachute ripcord. To avoid falling at a faster speed, which speed will keep increasing until they DIE. The more daring parachutists will push the envelope but that was only because they had fancier stopwatches to help them know exactly when they had to pull their ripcord. No amount of discussion could dissaude SEEB from this foolproof, castiron, extremely logical conclusion. And he did have the cred to back him up: he was President of The High School Slide Rule Club.

Story #2: SEEB was All About cowboys and indians and their horses as a young boy. One day a neighbor said: Good morning, Skippy. So! Are you Roy Rogers or Gene Autry today?
Outraged Skippy: I am Roy Rogers! Cain't you see Twiggah?
Neighbor: laughs heartily at "Skippy" sending him into a lifelong identity crisis highlighted with numerous massively debilitating depressive episodes.

Story #2 naturally led right into Story #3: The entire crowd of friends had NO IDEA that SEEB's childhood nickname was: Skippy! OMG! This just killed the friends, who had many a "Buffy" "Chip" "Scooter", etc. amongst them. And who had been roundly teased and mocked by SEEB for years over their Yuppie nicknames. And now they learn he is "Skippy"!? And, why "Skippy", pray tell? Because as a child he had been SO happy and cheerful and sweet that he literally skipped everywhere he went! hahahahhahahahahahaha! SEEB is, how shall I phrase it, NOT so "Skippy" as an adult. Much more bookwormish, serious and possibly "dour". Except that he really is funny. He is a Pansy Relative, you know.

Just after Pansy finished telling the "Skippy" story, SEEB joined our laughing little group, wanting to know how we were all getting along. When the crowd roared "Oh, look! Skippy has decided to join us!" he actually went beet red. SEEB broke up the little story-time gathering but Pansy managed to sneak around during the rest of the party and tell snippets of other stories. It was a great wedding reception party.

SEEB invented his own college major: Genetic Anthropology. Which wowed Yale so much it lured him away from California and all but gave him a Ph.D. So you would be led to conclude that he is smart. Maybe. Maybe not. Some years later we were all sitting around reminiscing over our various weddings. SEEB went on and on about the mountainside, the string quartet, the guests in their "hippie" clothing, etc. All fine and good and true......but that was the setting for his FIRST marriage. In California. NOT his marriage to LSW. In Noo Yawk City. LSW gave him the most scary Stink Eye Pansy has ever witnessed and a 3rd degree burning, scathing comment. Ahh, LSW has adapted very well to life with SEEB and his people.

LSW has chosen to keep SEEB, bore their one and only child, a son, who has been a good son. For son's high school graduation, SEEB and LSW threw a party not too far off the level of Coronation Of The Queen Of England. The third floor of a hoity toity restaurant completely swarming with SEEB people. Drinking SEEB people. Somewhere during the festivities it became mandatory to randomly shout "To SEEB Son" and everyone would slam down big glugs of wine. In a very short amount of time, poor SEEB Son, being merely a high school graduate, was the only sober one in the room. And don't you just hate it when you have to be the sober one in a room full of drunks? Finally, SEEB stands up to toast his Wonderful Son and makes it about this far: "My son is such a good son...." and fell into such a blubbering heap that half the rest of us burst into tears as well. Oh, great! Now it's a room full of not only drunks, but drunk SEEB people who are now also Crying! We screeched and yowled for a lot of hours at that restaurant. It was fun. The Queen missed a really good party. I already fear for son's college graduation and wedding events. Those are going to cost so much they will require both parents to take on paper routes. And that will barely cover the cost of hankies for the hordes of drunken, crying SEEB people.

SEEB is a good elderly brother. He taught Pansy all about horsemanship; bicycle repairs/maintenance; gave her rides to high school dances; never acted like he could not stand to be around her. The only negative part is that we are creepily identical twins. When we are skinny we just look like ME (that way we are prettier). When we are chubby we are totally Tweedle-Dee/Tweedle-Dum. I pick "Dee". He already is "Dum(b)".

Yeh,yeh, yeh. Hey! I warned you in my first blog post: this blog is only about Pansy Stories. Even the not profane ones.

SEEB on his pony, whom he named Prince before he even saw the pony. SEEB was so happy and cheerful and sweet and trusting and, well, "skippyish".....UNTIL he got a load of the promised "white stallion" parents gave him. SEEB will never trust anyone ever again.

The Donner Party Got Nothing On This Oregon Tour

Darling Pansy had a very rough week in Oregon this year. Thank goodness she is Man Enough for anything. And vengeful. Thus, this tattle-tale story:

One of the bicycle clubs we belong to puts on a members only, low-cost, fully supported/sagged tour each year. This year we went from Gold Hill, Oregon down to the coast along the Rogue River to Gold Beach, Oregon; to Crescent City, CA, and then diagonally back up to Gold Hill. The Pansys went along as (1) food truck driver/Mr. Pansy; and (2) sag wagon driver/Pansy herself. Because the original drivers bailed at the last minute or came to their senses(!) and the Pansys are reknowned as "go to" people. Really.

2/3 of the group had no idea who we are or, at most, just that we were club members. 1/3 of the group knows us very well. We have been club members since 1986. The 2/3 group, to the Pansys' great astonishment, treated us (The Reknowned Go To-ers!) in quite a demeaning manner. All week. It was strange. Could someone explain to me what makes cyclists on a supercheap tour get all full of thinking they have some sense of entitlement? Naturally, this only brought out the Very Most Pansyish Behavior from The Pansy.

TRAVEL TO OREGON DAY: I work very hard to memorize all names to faces. And keep at it until by bedtime I had them all in place. Because I want to be a very good sag driver and really make them feel watched over and cared for. There is one particularly bristly guy who was especially aggressive and unfriendly. I make a snarky remark along the lines of "Oh. I see I shall have to make you my bitch this week." He responds with a simply scathing "No. You won't." My peeps (the 1/3 group) who are nearby and overhear this exchange all burst into laughter and say "Bristly Guy, our money is on Pansy. You are going down."

DAY ONE: I get dressed in "easily identifiable at 500 yards" clothing so that the riders will know it's ME and proceed to do my first ever stint as a sag driver. I rescued 3 people that day.

FIRST RESCUE: A guy had a flat tire so I skid around in a dirt/rock throwing u-turn, park near him, leap out with water bottles and snacks and a floor bike pump and a first aid kit. After a few moments of conversation, he makes me realize he is not with our group while begging me to stop bandaging his hands behind his back. He says "Maybe I know some of your group. What are their names?" I mention about 4 and then say "Wait. Where are you from?" He says "Oregon." I laugh and say we are all from California so he couldn't possibly know anyone. Then it dawns on me what his scheme is and I screech at him "What kind of creep are you? Now I suppose you are going to steal the identities of the people whose names I just gave you!" We laugh, I fuel him up, he's on his way. Shaken but okay.

SECOND/THIRD RESCUES: An older couple (probably in their 50's!) rides by the turnoff where I have parked to make sure no one misses the turnoff. I peel out, race to cut them off, leap out and yell "You missed the turn off. It's back there." Yeh, they, too, claimed they were not part of my group. We chit chat anyway, I fuel THEM up with water, snacks, etc. And we all go our own way.

People look different with helmets and sunglasses on. So I re-memorize the group that night.

DAY TWO: The Pansys wake up, declare to each other "this is the longest week of my life" and promptly burst into tears when we realize it is only Monday morning. But I dutifully get into more "identifiable clothing" and go on with my rescuing ways. Bristly Guy says to me "I hear you and I graduated from the same high school in the same year." We discuss names we recall and determine there is no degree of any kind of separation between us when I suddenly shout: "Wait! Why are you breaking our sworn oath that we would never acknowledge each other in public again? Especially after I had to pay those people to take the ugly babies? And what makes you think those were your babies anyway? You were just one in a Very Long Line of other guys that night of the Sophomore Sock Hop. Just deal with it, dude!" He (and the nearby campers in the KOA) looked shocked.

DAY THREE: Four events:

1. My maps are taken by a rider since he couldn't find HIS maps. I AM THE SAG DRIVER! DO NOT TAKE SAG DRIVER MAPS! I seethe/smirk/plot all day for an appropriate punishment.

2. We are setting up camp on the grounds of a junior high school for which we have paid, have insurance riders, receipts and all. But that is the day all the sports teams were to practice and we are on their lawn. Snafu, but not our fault. Big, snarly men come over and demand to know what we are up to. The principal and the superintendent of schools arrive and snarl at us. A police cruiser came through. After appropriate papers are produced they leave. What was particularly intriguing is that all these authorities made extreme efforts to NEVER look directly at me, not even in my direction. Their efforts were so obvious that the cyclists all burst into laughter afterward. I was in a particularly extreme Pansy suit.

3. I finally have hit upon the perfect punishment for map stealer. He is about 80 so I can't do anything too physical to him but then the perfect punishment is really the one that perfectly matches the crime. You want to take the Sag driver's maps? Then you will BECOME the sag driver and I dressed him up in Pansy Clothing. To the great delight of the crowd and he was embarrassed but ecstatic to be a Pansy Victim (aren't they all?). He was precious. But he did wear the clothing/makeup/wig just a wee bit too long and made a lot of us uncomfortable.

Earlier this day, I decided to stop by a thrift store to find stuff for the Map Stealer. I was in an "outfit" and walked in, put my hands on my hips and yelled "Don't tell me there isn't something in this store for me!" I explained my situation to the open-mouthed people and said that while I wasn't certain what I needed/wanted, I WAS certain I would recognize it when I saw it. They tried to sell me a bath rug shaped like a bear skin. No. Then they looked for feathery, ruffly things. Nope. And then, there it was: a rack full of old, huge, nastily-stained grannie bras. Eureka! Map Stealer wears a 48DD. The bra, when being placed upon Map Stealer, was heard to whimper "it's a good thing I am already dead."

The store people groveled to get me to come back when they had a camera so they could take a picture. I said "No, I am from California, so let's do it this way: we'll take the pictures with my camera, give me your email address and I'll send them to you." Then I goofed in the front of their store, posing in the royal purple velvet La-Z-Boy and yelling at the employee to work with me. Just like a runway model diva. It took awhile to get a decent picture since he was shaking the camera too much from laughing. Perhaps crying. Hard to say. The store is called "Maybe This?" and they felt I embodied the concept of that name.


4. Bristly Guy said to me: (well, I'm going to make you wait for THAT).

Turns out Bristly Guy is an attorney (hahahhaha) but we have not crossed professional paths. However, he is a regular poker player with the Tour Leader and as time/beers/wine go by we actually bond and he is quite likeable and vice versa. We then turn on Tour Leader (to whom snarky attorney boy had gone to on Day One....I think to complain about me making him my bitch!) and declare that we are now best friends and that we don't like Tour Leader anymore. Tour Leader's crestfallen face was delightful! Don't worry, I will tell you what Bristly Guy said. Later.


DAY FOUR: My 19-day old cell phone (birthday gift from Baby Pansy) gets stolen. Bristly Guy's best friend from his early high school years comes to the junior high where we are camping. Best friend had been the principal there until last year when he won several million in a lottery and promptly retired. So I extensively smear on him about his "dedication to the youth of America" and how the lottery had fully exposed what kind of person he really is. Bristly Guy and I tell him about how we have become best friends on this tour. Then lottery winner and I end up best friends, turn on Bristly Guy and tell him he is no longer OUR friend. I never said I wasn't fickle.

DAY FIVE: We have a 6 mile stretch of road that is far too dangerous to bike across so we set up a staging/sagging zone in the parking lot of a hotel. Which did not know of and is not getting anything for this invasion of their property. Good planning there, Tour Leader! The Pansys go in first thing in the day, buy snacks and drinks at the bar and chat up the workers. Tell them what's up, gripe about how we have been mistreated, etc. Make friends. I go out to the parking lot, change into my "identifiable clothing" of the day and start ferrying riders.

The other sag driver shows up and (a) unloads her two dogs, in cages, onto the lawn. Next to the sign "Absolutely No Dogs. No Way." (b) parks in the handicapped zone (c) on her first ferrying trip promptly backs into a light post in the parking lot, knocking the post completely down and breaking the light. The Big Pooh Bahs of the club went into the hotel, told them of the damage, and gave them $200 cash on the spot. Nice, except for they talked down to the hotel people as badly as they treated the Pansys. "This is certainly FAR MORE money than the damage warrants so be glad we are giving you money without making you go through insurance hassles."

I, not knowing of this little exchange, later in the day went in (in "identifiable clothing" outfit) to order a lunch to go and give them an "award" for the broken post light. It was a plaster of paris flying eagle, with a broken wing. Do not ask Pansy why she has these kinds of things with her. She just "knows" what to pack. Sometimes it's handcuffs, sometimes its broken winged eagle trophies. I am there with the last 3 bikers to shuttle and they are my peeps. I make a grand presentation of the eagle award and realize the people are pretty tweaked off. Just like ME! So we commiserate, I apologize for the Pooh Bahs, they even said "well, we kind of knew about this because a couple came in this morning and told us." I raise my hand and say "That would be me and my husband." They stare and stare at me and finally recognize me. And burst out laughing. As we wait for my food to go, I riff on the men sitting out in the car (including Tour Leader), things in general, and we all had a great time. It's good to make friends.

DAY SIX AND SEVEN: Who cares? More maltreatment from the 2/3 group, etc. But the week goes by, we drive home to live another day.

Each night we would have a "Heave the Huffy" contest. We each would toss a child's size Huffy bicycle. Teams were (a) the cook crew for the day and (b)the worker's crew (that would be us mistreated peons and Tour Leader). Yes, I, weakling NO DISCERNABLE BICEPS Pansy threw the Huffy 30 feet. Farther than any other woman and up in the Top 5 overall. Unfortunately, that 30 footer was as a DH (designated heaver) for an injured old man (probably in his 50s!) on another team. Which I did not duplicate for MY team (only 24 feet, but still further than #2 woman who managed 22 feet). So, MY team came in 4th place and injured old man's team stole 3rd place. Tour Leader emailed everyone the results and asked me to bring my Benedict Arnold outfit for next year. I responded: I would, but my suitcase is already full with my "F Street Landlady" outfit. That would be an obscure reference to Dorothea Puente, notorious murderess in Sacramento. She killed 7 or 9 of her Social Security tenants and kept collecting their benefit checks. For years. And here I have a daily fight with Social Security over MY benefits. I tell ya, where is the justice? But I do have my new friend, the lawyer....

AND NO, I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN TO TELL YOU WHAT BRISTLY GUY SAID TO ME ON DAY THREE!

The VERY BEST of all of this was what Bristly Guy said to me, in his efforts to "place" me from high school: "Hey. Wait. Did you used to be thin?"

HEY....WAIT..... DID....YOU....USED....TO....BE....THIN?

I thought I would never stop laughing. And he truly looked horrified and dismayed with what his mouth had done to him. What kind of crack (using?) attorney is he? How could he soooo mal-express himself? Of course, I knew what he meant since I did not hit 100 pounds until the August after I graduated from high school. It was quite the priceless moment for Pansy.

When I Used To Be Thin (that's me on the left and my stupid elderly baby sister on the right----yeh, we've been giving men "groin cramps" all our lives!):

Twice The Fun or Double The Alimony?

It sounded so romantic. It looked so romantic. Just thinking about it made us so romantic. We would buy a tandem bicycle! Our Love Bike. CUT!! Abrupt shift to reality. Tandems are, well...a parallel universe to bicycling as most people know it. So familiar and yet so foreign. There ought to be a support group, maybe Tandem Survivors Anonymous.

What could go wrong with this tandem dream team? We are a unit. We were entering 19 years of wedded bliss, with two young children and so much debt we are welded together by the credit cards we've melted from the friction of purchases made one-after-the-other-at-the-speed-of-light for lo these many years. The proportion of those purchases directly related to bicycles and requisite accessories is so obscene as to be offensive even to attorneys! We are similar in height, weight, bicycling experience, handling skills, endurance and speed. We even look like brother and sister. (Well, except for that one incident in 1968 when we were mistaken for sisters. But he has gone bald since those days.) Take it from someone who has been through the chainringer of experience: If you are only dating and your other is talking about wanting a tandem it could be a BIG clue they want to break up. Since we are Married With Children, we have to decide: is our tandem Life In Hell or are we just on Practical Jokes and Bloopers? It is a little bit of both. This is HER story, a true account from HER perspective: A View From The Rear.

HOW TO DECIDE ON WHAT TANDEM TO BUY. In every biking couple there is the tech-freak who will dictate the brand, model and color. He will then leave it up to Her to do the number-crunching and initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing necessary to pay for their Love Bike. Starry-eyed, pockets bulging with cash equal to three years of debt, the Tandem Unit sets out to find a test ride.

THE TEST RIDE/HIS TAIL (uh) TALE OF WOE. No bike shop within a 75 mile radius will have on hand the tandem you are seeking. We got so close to just ordering the bike. After all, we knew what we wanted! We are a Unit! We finally conceded we should at least ride a tandem that was in stock. This was a decision we would live to regret, but was it genetic or environmental? The facts: He was 9 days into recovery from surgery for hemorrhoids. The itchy burning bleeding really bad attitude kind of hemorrhoids. Even the surgeon declared this to be the worst case of all three varieties ever seen in the Western Hemisphere. It is a real party stopper when He shows off His surgery scars. Butt, I digress. He thought He was up for a test ride due to thought processes clouded by major drugs courtesy of the surgeon. He was UP, all right, and definitely should not have been operating heavy machinery, power tools, and definitely NOT tandems. A really asinine thing to do in his condition.


She was stoking and did not see what all occurred on this maiden pedal. She does recall a lot of wobbling and negative barking from Him. Something about contributing to the pedaling. How was She to know that the pedals are all connected together and required in-unison pedaling by both participants? (Usually one of us is "done" first, with the other coming soon after, so this "at the same time" stuff will take some practice.) He was doing it all WRONG anyway. When She coasts it is the left pedal that stays down and when She goes around corners with the pedals parallel to the ground it is the right pedal that is in the forward position. How could He goof up something so basic as that? Besides, She was already totally occupied with freaking out from claustrophobia and visual deprivation back there. She does not want to be that close to anyone's rear on a bike even if He is the beloved husband-for-life. Some intimacies should not be so pubic...errr...public. It should have been called a day right then and there, but No-o-o-o-o! She gets on front, He gets on back and...She has suppressed whatever occurred or was said during that time frame. Only a fragment memory remains of seeing the tandem back in the store and slinking home like a pair of coupled dogs, uh, like a couple of dogs that had been separated by a water hose. Talk about a dream dying. This one derailleured so fast it left our heads spinning.

ONE YEAR LATER. He is off the post-operative drugs, She has a lead on a local owner of the Exact Same Model Tandem they are seeking. The tandem owner drives to their house and lets them ride his so-new-it-still-has-that-factory-smell beauty around for an hour. Tandem survivors like this guy are either saints for letting neophytes ride their valuable machines OR they are worse than drug dealers. "Heeeeere, take a 'free' ride!" And then you suddenly find yourself dragged down into the tandem underworld. Hooked...sooo Hooked!

ORDERING THE TANDEM. Every bike shop said "two weeks; four, tops" from placing the paid order to receipt of the tandem, our Love Bike. The bike is ordered in time for a 19th anniversary ride, 2-1/2 weeks away. As we left we did not recognize those sounds we heard from the shop staff were muffled laughter. He comes home a couple days later, arms laden with the legally required twin suits of bike clothing. She is in a swoon. They rush to the bedroom to try on the clothing and to practice some tandem positions.

FIVE MONTHS LATER. Was that metric time or what? The bike shop has closed down, we are paying interest on our line-of-credit-funded/paid-in-full tandem and making some frantic calls to the bike factory. The factory people handled us very well. They even gave us an option on the color. The option was "red." He had ordered "Black Forest." She is rather inchoherent on the subject of "red" because Her racing colors are red and white. She begged to get a "red" tandem. He acquiesces to Her, the beloved wife-for-life. The Tandem arrives....(!)....on Halloween Night. The children have to delay their trick or treating as we drive with joyous expectation to pick up our Love Bike. It is beautiful---a luscious, deep, glowing....Maroon? Rubyesque? Pretty, but NOT "red." Even the children tell Her "It is NOT red." Serves Her right He says. If He can't have Black Forest, at least She did not get Red either. There is no doubt...Tandem, thy name is Trick Or Treat. So prescient.

THE NEXT DAY - THE FIRST RIDE. 40 mountainous miles await us. The group barely conceals its anticipation of certain hilarity to come. We disappoint them. From our smooth take-off, we "locked and rolled" up and down that road like a Tandem Unit. She suffered some sort of physical discomfort but it was probably that pie She had at lunch. It couldn't have been...Trick Or Treat? Surely just a small adjustment on the fit. Hah-hah-ha!!

WHO'S ON FIRST? WHAT'S ON BACK? Trick Or Treat is a 56/53 tandem. She rides a 56 road bike. He rides a 53 road bike. She is the captain and He is the stoker...for 50 feet. She stops the bike because He has turned the handlebars and Her saddle 90 degrees starboard. Talk about backseat drivers. She daydreams about submission training sessions for Him. He denies having a testosterone/control freak problem. At least He has the decency to be embarrassed by His lack of trust in Her captain skills. She still believes He is secretly proud of His strength.

FITTING THE TANDEM - HER TAIL (uh) TALE OF WOE. He fits the captain end of the bike to His needs and rides as if to the tandem born. He has the typical male body style: long ape-ish torso, short stumpy legs, gnarly body hair. She has the typical female body style: svelte, lissome, supple, long of limb, with glorious, flowing locks of thick, luscious red hair crowning Her winsome head. She has to squash up and curl over and reach way down to the handlebars that are too low for Her because they are attached to the extemely lowered saddle for the stumpy legged one in front. There are many 30 to 70 mile rides. All cause various degrees of stoker pain. He claims He is the one suffering because He has to listen to Her incessant whining voice behind Him. She maturely keeps Her assessment of Him to Herself (call me a whiner? you weiner!) and single-handedly saves their marriage....Again!

300 MILES LATER. The fit problems become resolved at great expense, of course, with accessory parts that have since been removed from the bike, of course, and now languish on garage shelves, of course. All except the road shock to the stoker's saddle. She has continuously said cushioning is the solution. He has continuously said more saddle time is the solution. She is a woman who has never suffered a moment of saddle soreness in Her life from riding bikes or beasts, including Him. Finally friction and heat ferment into a world class yeast infection so severe as to practically require amputation and it is Not between Her toes! Now She is mad. Without permission (gasp!) She finds and buys a gel saddle pad. He balks because it does not look cool. She says it is this pad or a big spring-loaded dork saddle with a fuzzy sheepskin cover......and rides as if to the tandem born. Hah-hah-ha!! grrr...stupidmumble...stubborngrrr...testosteronemumble.

THE FIRST TOUR. He told Her "I want to take you on a 20th anniversary second honeymoon. We will tour 30 miles a day over flower-filled meadow roads; sup in quaint restaurants; sleep on feather beds in country inns with hot running water and bubble baths." She is not able to do the number-crunching or initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing necessary to pay for their Love Tour. Starry-eyed, pockets bulging with $300 worth of traveler's checks, the Tandem Unit sets out on the Alternative/Parallel Universe Tour: 350 miles with 16,000 feet of elevation gain along the central coast of California with 50 people to share the second honeymoon. Amenities included cooking one day for the 50 people, making and breaking camp every day and sleeping on the ground in mummy bags. At least the bags could be zippered together. One romantic night She felt the Earth move. He confessed it was just an earthquake. Most of the time She felt like She had been ridden hard and put in the barn wet. After a week of 60 mile days, no sunshine, skin-peeling headwinds, waiting in line for communal, non-coed, tepid showers and 36 consecutive hours of rain, the Tandem Unit came back home....hooked on tandems. So hooked! Who needs Tandem Survivors Anonymous anyway??

EPILOGUE. He and She have successfully survived tandem interruptus of their married bliss. Trick Or Treat got a companion tandem (Dirty Trick) as soon as She was able to (all together now): do the number-crunching and initiate the "rob Peter to pay Paul" creative financing. The children became stokers so that family rides (and vacation tours) could be at a faster pace. This idea was so perfect! The Tandem Family Unit!! What could possibly go wrong with THAT dream plan??? Hah-hah-ha!!!


And now The Tandem Couple has been together going on A Whole Lot More Years. The children are grown and gone. They still say out loud that the tandem rides were among their best childhood memories. The tandems hang in the garage content in their reminiscing about their Days of Glory. Maybe this year we'll bring them out of retirement. Then again, who needs that aggravation! He still has that stupid, stubborn, control-freak, testosterone issue going on. hahahahhahaha!

The Dog From God--Just A Sweet Dog Story

March 11, 2004. It had been 3 months since I started the new chemo which never works. But was working. Before my eyelids opened that morning I "heard" these words----just as clearly as if someone were in the room speaking out loud to me: "You didn't die. You have to rescue something. Today!" Great. What's that supposed to mean? So I get up and go about my usual. Which was eating and lying in bed and watching movies.

Late in the morning as I walked to the kitchen I see something standing on our front lawn. It is a dog. A Shetland Sheepdog, a Mini Lassie. He was beyond beautiful, a classic sable with big white ruff. Oh, my. I got very excited because all week long a wonderful movie channel I had happened upon was "all Lassie, all day." They were showing only Lassie movies. It was like a train wreck. I could not have stopped watching those movies if my house had caught fire. I had NO idea as to the wonderful and rich history of Lassie and 2004 was the 50th Anniversary of Lassie. Thus, the Lassie Movie Marathons.

All the movies were from the 40s and had insane plots. If you could even call them plots. Said plots, every one of them, involved Lassie being tragically separated from her "real" family and swimming through oceans, rivers, waterfalls, etc. to return home. I am pretty certain many Lassie dogs died during the making of these films. If it is possible for a dog to look frightened-----what am I saying? This is LASSIE we are talking about! OF COURSE, she looked frightened. As she should have. She was often in a real river with real Class 6 rapids. I felt frightened even knowing that particular dog (just an actor dog, not the REAL Lassie) has long been dead. I know this because dogs don't usually last much more than about 16-18 years. Except The Real Lassie, who is still alive. She lives quietly in a mountain community in Southern California. But don't spread it around. She likes her privacy.

Lassie in the movies is a riot! The best movie was her as a War Dog. The writeup in the paper for the movie plot was this: "Lassie snarls at Nazis in Norway." PANSY FUCKING WANTS THAT KIND OF A JOB! Imagine the plot writeups she would create. Amazingly, during the war movie Lassie did, in actual fact, come upon some bad Nazis (2 of them so she was even outnumbered!) on the shore of Norway (is there more than one shore?) and SHE GROWLED AT THEM. Them fucking scairdycats ran like pussies with their tails tucked between their cowardly legs! I laughed and wept with joy and relief over Lassie's successful fight against the Nazis.

But she could also be a bad actress. There were those rumors about substance abuse, you know. Bac'n Bites are terribly addictive. Worse than Greenies, even! There were several scenes of her picking her way back from the warfront to get help and she got wounded. Well, in one scene the bitch would be limping on her right paw. The Very Next Scene she is limping on her LEFT paw. What a faker. And to make sure we moviegoers knew Lassie was wounded, she had a black streak smeared across her face. Except for the streak was left-to-right in one scene and then it was right-to-left in another scene. It was terribly embarrassing for Lassie. Makeup crew shoulda been hung for that stupidity. I hope Lassie bit them.

After 2 Lassie movies, I am again heading for the kitchen and the dog in the front yard is now sitting down. I make myself be good and not go out there and snatch the dog up and drag it unwillingly into the house. But I want that dog something fierce. Maybe it is just resting. Or waiting for someone.

Then I watch Lassie movies some more. In one of the movies, well actually in ALL of the movies, there is always a scene in which the crusty, mean old guys in the middle of some harsh harangue suddenly turn and say "oh, but by god, she IS a beautiful lassie, tisn't she?" And everyone lives happily ever after.

Now the dog in my yard is lying down. I can't take it any longer. I go out to the dog and talk all sweet to it. No reaction. Hmmmm. Could be deaf or maybe just luring me closer for the kill? The dog keeps looking up and down the street but doesn't run away from me. So I gingerly approach it and pet it and kind of check it all over. No wounds, not acting dangerous. I roll it over and even though Pansy does know what a Penis looks like (she saw those junior high Health Lecture diagrams), this dog's gender is a mystery to her. It's not female but then it's not male either? This seems odd. Pansy keeps checking, just waiting for the moment when she crosses the dog's "personal space" line and it kills her. Eventually, Pansy determines this dog is in fact a male dog. He's just a tad fat, though, and cleverly hiding his Huge Penis in his tubbiness and furriness.

Dog comes in the house with Pansy who is already madly in love with him and wants to keep him forever and ever and how in fuck is she going to explain this to Mr. Pansy? We already have that damn Pomeranian and those 2 mangy cats. And besides who knows when this stray dog is going to snap and become Cujo? We do kind of like the smaller animals and don't need another dog whose habits we have no clue about.

Well, Mr. Pansy comes home and Pansy makes a "found dog" sign for the front yard and we wait. Days go by. No one has lost this dog. No ads in the paper. Pansy gnashes her teeth because she really WANTS this dog. He is beyond perfect. Never barks. Plays with the Pomeranian and the cats. Waits his turn to eat last. TOTALLY HOUSETRAINED....unlike that rat Pomeranian freakazoid. Well, the stray dog does have ONE odd little behavior: when the phone rang he would run through the house to find a human and bark and bark and bark while leading us to the phone. It was amazing. Maybe he's a trained hearing dog.

Then Pansy takes the dog to her vet and damn, damn, damn, he has a microchip. Calls are made, Pansy is sad and.......the last vet this dog went to says their records show the owner is deceased as of a few months earlier. And his name is [gag, retch] "Frasier." And the other vet had no contact person or way to find where this dog has been living. Pansy's vet says it is quite common for people to now abandon dogs in neighborhoods in the hopes that someone will take it in. We have had the dog for about 14 days and he continues to behave wonderfully and let us know when the phone rang. Mr. Pansy suddenly turns one day and says "oh, but by god, he IS a beautiful dog, tisn't he?" WE GET TO KEEP HIM!

Mr. Pansy goes to work. Pansy sits with new dog in the backyard waiting for the stupid Pomeranian to decide if he's going to pee today or not. Pansy and Dog talk awhile and she explains he is going to stay here to live now but that she really doesn't like his name. He nods his nead. Pansy then realizes that this dog is what she "had to rescue" that day of the Lassie Marathon so she tells him that since the Pansys have rescued him, his new name is going to be "Timmy." He barks for joy and we begin living happily ever after.

Timmy helped the Pomeranian grow up and get over his broken family background. He played "chase" with the Pom---including taking turns to chase or be the chasee. He was an alternate scratching post for the cats to play with. He lost weight and grew a Penis! Most of all he made Mr. Pet-Hater Pansy love him to bits. Mr. Pansy called Timmy "angel dog". Timmy bonded to us after about 2 months and was proud to showoff and protect me on our short little walks up and down the street.

Timmy only stayed with us for 20 months. One day he was well, the next day he had an esophageal collapse. After a weekend in the hospital the vet called us Sunday night at 8pm and said he had taken a turn for the worse. It was a very sad night. I still do not understand why someone would not keep such a perfect dog. I'm glad he stopped by that day, March 11, 2004.

Our Family's Only Heirloom

So! The handmade, handblown, hand-whatever word it takes to emphasize this item is irreplaceable, cannot be replicated, is "almost" priceless, etc. hobnail glass cream/milk pitcher that is clear/opalescent/pale blue in color and goes back almost to John Alden/Mayflower Ship days (but actually only back to whenever glass became readily available to common peons) was officially "passed on to the eldest daughter" in 2007.

It has traversed its way westward via covered wagon-----or hand carried or on animals' backs or in hot air balloons, maybe even Sputnik. By whatever vehicular mode each generation used to westwardly traverse. I am allegedly the current "eldest daughter" although I am so incredibly young and foxy there must be some mistake! My Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) and I drove to our parents' place to fetch the pitcher in sissie's Lexus hardtop convertible, with the top down and our natural red hair flying in the wind whilst wearing large sunglasses and totally passing for not a day over 48.

We pack up the glass pitcher in a towel, put it into a box, and then put the box into an insulated picnic/food carrier the old man foisted off on us. We photo document the "handing down of the pitcher" from dad to Eldest Daughter. My Mom didn't get to be unsenile long enough to do it herself. Then we make the old man toddle outdoors to take a picture of us in the Lexus.




We drive off, make a U-turn to exit the grounds and see.......in the dirt on the side of the road where we had been parked.......the insulated picnic/food carrier containing the priceless heirloom. Where I had put it since it would not fit in the trunk with the hardtop roof retracted.




I am pretty sure I intended to put it inside the car but the car was locked, we apparently were distracted and possibly too excited (gotta cut back on the sugar) about having a picture taken of us in the Lexus convertible, the sun blinded me, whatever. I do know it was Elderly Baby Sister's idea to get the convertible photo taken so the "Heirloom Debacle" must be her fault.

Right now it is full of soapy water and in the microwave for 35 minutes. Think that'll clean it up all nice and shiny? And I noticed some markings on the bottom that look remarkably like "made in china." I plan to lick it. Hope I get a good buzz from it. [You all DO recall last year's China scare where everything from China was fatal if ingested?]

I just hope SEBS's Senility is not contagious and Thank God my mother does not know this happened.

How To Humiliate Your Child Without Even Trying

WARNING!! This is a sobering and somber example of what can happen to a Perfectly Normal Person who gets too deprived of human contact while being imprisoned in a house with screaming brats. If this doesn't Scare You Straight (To Kleenex Tissues), what will?


One day Pansy's daughter, Pansy Junior, said to her boyfriend--who was the son of not just one, but two, doctors:

P.Jr.: My mom is really sick.
BF: How sick?
P.Jr.: She is SO SICK she has a rag in her mouth.
BF: Whaaaa?
P.Jr.: You know. She has a RAG IN HER MOUTH.
BF: What in fuck for?
P.Jr.: So she won't get laryngitis.
BF: How does this rag thing work?
P.Jr: [see explanation below]

Pansy used to never be sick. She was healthier than THREE draft horses put together. No, she didn't resemble three draft horses, she was merely as healthy as three of them. Her inability to be sick began upon entering the Hallowed Ranks of Motherhood. Not because germs no longer affected her. It's that germs don't give a fuck that mothers are TOO BUSY with those screaming brats to have the time to be sick. So, in general, mothers just plow on through...germs or no.

When the occasional ailment did succeed in snagging Pansy, usually by one of her fetlocks, she would Always get so sick that eventually her braying voice would be silenced. Total amnesia. NO. Wait. That doesn't sound right. She would get Total hoarseness into complete laryngitis. How Mr. Pansy would skip for joy and beam!

Then, one day, just as she was starting to really get sick she had an epiphany! She carried a cloth hankie around all day.....hanging from her mouth. She would allow her drool to saturate the hankie. She would then mouth-breathe through said soaking wet from drool hankie. Because it created moisture-laden air for her raw and achy throat. Of course, Pansy also would blow her green, bloody snot onto this hankie. No sense in dirtying more than one hankie at a time now, is there? And guess what?! NO MORE LARYNGITIS! How Mr. Pansy wept. His hopes for even just a few days per year of blessed silence were shattered.

Pansy loved this new Medical Breaththrough she personally invented. Pansy does NOT find it odd that no one in her family said what any Normal Human would have said: THAT IS FUCKING GROSS, YOU SICK FREAK! Of course, Pansy is reknowned for slaying messengers so maybe her family wasn't all that unobservant. They were just cowed.

This Medical Breakthrough happened before the Pansy children were toddlers so they grew up their whole lives evidently thinking this was perfectly normal behavior. It never occurred to them their sainted, all-knowing mother was behaving any differently than all other grownups in the world.

Which is how innocent Pansy Jr. came to be explaining this Rag Business to boyfriend who just about died laughing. He then shared it with his parents who also heartily laughed. Even as they put in motion whatever legal steps were required to cease having anything further to do with the nutcase family Pansy Jr. was now mortified to realize she had been burdened with. Come to think of it, that is just about exactly when Pansy Jr. began her "teenage rebellion" years.


p.s. This fabulous Medical Breakthrough has never been patented because Pansy is a Caring Person and wants you all to be able to enjoy the health benefits, too! She is even thinking of making and marketing "pre-soaked" hankies in convenient travel size pouches. And who couldn't appreciate the accessorizing zestiness that a drool-soaked, bloody green snot encrusted hankie can add to an ensemble?!

Pansy's REAL Maiden Name

THE Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk FAMILY STORY

Great, Great Grandpa and Grandma, with 2 boys ages 7 and 4, walked from Germany to Russia in the 1700's because that lying bitch Catherine The Great (big, wart covered, fat assed, hairy everywhere, whore) promised everyone free land and no conscription into the Russian military. During the actual walk, the 2 boys became separated from their Mom and Dad and the parents were never seen again.

Further into the walk (a stroll through the park kind of thing I am certain), the 2 boys then became separated from each other, never to see each other again. My ancestor, Heinrich Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk (typical German spelling), the older boy, was found and adopted by a family. He grew up in Russia, went to town one day when he was in his 20s and many people kept calling him "Mr. Hase". He said he was not Mr. Hase but everyone was adamant about getting him to come back to town on a specific date. They met and bore a remarkable resemblance to each other.

Yes, it was the long-lost brothers together again and everyone was quite happy about this turn of events. Mr. Hase had a different last name from "Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk" because back then when foundlings were adopted they were not given the adoptive name, to keep the lineage information pure. When he was found he was huddled up and whimpering like a scared little bunny. Hase is German for "hare". Heinrich, being the older one and having more memories of Mom and Pop told brother Hase about them and that THEIR REAL LAST NAME IS: PANSYER. You read that right. My real maiden name actually is PANSYER and I grew up to marry Mr. PANSY.

Heinrich got saddled with "Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk" because he had in his jacket pocket a Bible with his home town written in it. MY FREAKING MAIDEN NAME HAS BEEN A BIGGER LIE ALL MY LIFE than that whore Catherine fibbing about no Russian Army conscriptions. And worse, Mr. PANSY is undoubtedly my damn brother once removed. Aacckk!!

So, Heinrich Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk lived and died in Russia. His son, Heinrich Jr., grew up and had a son named Carl Kkkhhhhaaaacckkk. Heinrich Jr. and Carl (and rest of family) came over to America where Carl grew up and had my Dad and now I are here! Not in freezing Russia/Black Sea area. Ta Daaaa!!!

The reason my Stupid Elderly Baby Sister and I did not know this sooner is that even though Carl told his children this story, he had 11 kids. I theorize that by the time they got to my Dad (in the middle of the litter) and all the younger ones, the older ones said some smart-ass thing like "Oh, Dad! Not that tired old story Aggaaaiiinnnn!" And not until early 2005 did this information come down from my dad's older siblings, who continue to refuse to die. But my own Dad knew this story and never passed it on to us!

We also think we have French royalty bloodlines, so I might be some sort of princesska. Sure I are! I think the reality is probably more this way: we are the offspring of the King's daily prostitute or such. Actually, most white folks with genuine lineage they can prove do come from royalty, sideways or other ways, since the regular folks hardly made a dent in the ground with their graves much less on paper anywhere. Churches, thank God!, used to be very important and are often the only source for lots of information. And then they have the nerve to go and get burned down or flooded or blown up by war! Had they not HEARD of "backing up files" in the olden days? You would think those lazy monks could have spent at least some of their time copying the records over instead of all of their time torturing my heretic ancestors.

I have actual proof of being directly related to John Alden. And Pansy gets VERY tired of people saying "Who was John Alden?" Go fucking look it up you stupidheads. Didn't any of you retain one speck of information from school? I also can be a card-carrying DAR (if I put up some bucks and take oaths that are probably politically incorrect but my mom did at least get us on their rolls) and there were both Yanks and Rebels involved in that War of Northern Aggression, etc. All from my mother's side.

I say she married "down" into that German rabble. Heaven knows I married "down" into Mr. Pansy's rabble.


MRS. PANSY.......In-Cest La Vie

Cheerleader Road (of death) Trip

Cackle! The Pansy Wimmin (Pansy and Baby Pansy) were going to San Jose for a cheer competition WITHOUT supervision! Oh, joy! First a visit to Mapquest and then they Roar Off in their rockin' 1972 Dodge Charger (no hemi, dammit). They leave at O-dark-thirty for the 9am start of the competition but begin to suspect things aren't as they should be when they drive by cattle feedlot after cattle feedlot with all the lovely ambience and odors involved. This don't look nothin' like them Fancy Freeways Californee is All Famous About?!! They drive on anyway since there is no way in hell Pansy can possibly figure out how to get onto better roads. She's just grateful that she appears to be heading westish. And she barely knows that and ONLY with the help of Baby Pansy who says "Mom! Everyone knows the sun comes up in the east. Geeez." Potty mouthed bitch said "Geeez!" Mama Pansy don't allow no swearing from her fucking little smart-ass daughters but she didn't smack the little shit up side her haid since Pansy also don't want bruises to mar the photos.

The Pansy Wimmin drive and drive and drive. They turn onto "San Antonio Road." An hour later they understand that they are very likely in actual fact headed for San Antonio, TEXAS. In a blue haze of swearing, Pansy whips the Dodge Charger around and peels out...almost taking out a minivan full of other lost cheer moms and their weeping cheerleaders. We confab in the road awhile and, naturally, Pansy takes control of the situation. We caravan to a lone bedraggled looking mini-market kinda place and walk inside. The owner/counterclerk/whatever is a full-on FOREIGNER. Very nice but absolutely not one word of English in his repertoire. Literally. I look around for a map to buy. No such luck. Then the situation goes south.

Into the store walks the most gawdawful, hideous, creepy looking, skinny, chain smoking, filthy, stinking, white trailer trash, at least 85% tattooed (because he did not take off his pants although we all know that was going to be on the menu eventually), stained wifebeater wearing, cheerleader mom raping (and then the cheerleaders too), murdering, shallow grave digging, dirtbag pedophile Pansy has ever seen. And believe me, she has not only seen a lot of them she has dated most of them, too.

He is totally Every Frankenstein in Every Nightmare (EFEN) of every mother everywhere on earth. EFEN [for the Stupid Impaired: F*IN as in FUCKING] Creep discerns the dilemma of all these wimmin wearing dark denim pantsuits decorated with glued-on sequins, "jewels", beads and metallic decorative appliques (the official Cheer Mom uniform), surrounded by their glitter-spackled, hairspray shellacked, made up like 12 year old whores Cheerleaders.

He asks "whose rockin' Charger is that?" Oh no no no no no nooooooooo!?!? Pansy is going to be his First Victim! She tries to shove a couple of the Other Cheerleaders forward as appetizers but NOoOOOoooOOOO....the goddam, back-stabbing, selfish, hairy (on their heads, don't know about their "personal patch" areas), old whores all point to Pansy and scream "It's hers!" And then they try to make a run for it out the front door.

Where they are brought to a very abrupt halt by......the 18 BARKING PIT BULL DOGS F*in owns and has brought with him in his filty, beat to shit, used to be white but now is mostly rust, cracked windows everywhere, bumpers long gone, pickup truck, that has shovels(!) in the bed and a rifle rack with 2 rifles in the cab. The 18 Barking Pit Bull Dogs are literally: on top of the truck cab; inside the truck cab; in the truck bed; on the sidewalk beside the truck; at the front door of the mini-market; and NOW the damn other hags have let a couple of the dogs into the store!

F*in laughs, has a long coughing spell with LOTS of sputum (a word Pansy despises more than the prospect of going on a "date" with F*in), laughs some more and yells at the dogs "Now git on back inter the truck, y'all" (which makes Pansy wonder yet again perhaps she actually did drive all the way to San Antonio, Texas). And then F*in has another long wet hacking coughing session. Finally he spits out a big wad of chew and says: "Y'all wantin to be goin to the high school for that there cheer contest what just started up a few minutes ago?"

HOW IN FUCK DOES HE KNOW ANY OF THIS? I mean, sure, he can tell we are a bunch of cheer people but dear lord he knows way too much so now we know he really IS our nightmare come to life and in Living Color. Mostly red blood running in the bed of his pickup truck and our soon to be occupied shallow graves.

He proceeds to tell ME, the obvious Boss and Person In Charge, all about how to get to the high school. All up close and personal if you know what I mean. Which high school we are miles from and Mapquest is now being added to Pansy's list of Taking You Out With Her. And then.......HE LETS US GO! We run like crazy wimmin, clutching our children to our heaving bosoms but then we stop that since Heaving Bosoms will definitely kindle F*in's baser interests. We get in our cars and burn rubber like rubber has never been burned before.

Because now we are all late and Baby Pansy's group is up first. I get through a traffic light that turns red for the minivan behind me so they squeal to a dangerous sideways stop. Baby Pansy and I see them ALL (moms and girls) throw their hands up in total despair because all is lost for them. Pansy knows to just pull over and wait for the traffic light to go back to green and so she does. The minivan comes roaring through the intersection, Pansy peels out and we continue driving like crazed cheer moms for the high school.

We arrive and leap out while simultaneously grabbing our supplies of: more glitter, more hairspray, more whore makeup, and backup supplies of extra glitter, extra hairspray, Lots of Extra whore makeup. Baby Pansy's group has just finished warming up and when they see her they all scream and cry and so now us Pissed Off/Stressed Out Cheer Moms have to trowel Much More of their whorey makeup onto their tear-stained faces as well as shovel more glitter/hairspray all over their pin-on, fake, over the top, 80's style, rilly curly ponytails. They do their routine pretty well and make the first cut.

Now we all get to do the Most Important Part of any cheer competition: stand around for hours and hours, bored out of our gourds, pretending to cheer and care about and be all "we are just here for the fun and camaraderie" with the skank competition bitches. They know and we know that all any of us wants is to pound The Others into the ground with OUR way hot pyramids, scorpions, arabesques, tumbling routines, synchronized standing toe touches into a backflip immediately into forward flips, and SMILE GIRLS SMILE. Plus, everybody knows all those Other Cheating Cunts use filler bodies for their lame-ass tumbling runs. That means they have "ringer tumblers" who cannot cheer or do pyramid stunts or contribute in any meaningful way whatsoever except to fill the performance mats with glitz and shouts until they are up for their tumbling runs. They are sooooo fake. And they are all built like hairy draft horses.

It is all over. We finished third (out of 4) so naturally we get a HUGE ASS trophy, ribbons for all, little trophies for all, and diabetic comas from all the sugary junk foods we have been devouring. The Other Cheer Moms (never Pansy!) ate so much they busted out the seams in their Official Cheer Mom dark denim pantsuit uniforms. We scrape off most of the glitter and makeup from our exhausted little Cheer Whores and everyone changes into comfortable traveling clothes.

Pansy and Baby Pansy stagger out to their rockin' Dodge Charger. Which will not start. No matter what. Because when they started out this day it was dark and Pansy left the headlights on all day long. Groan. Everyone is gone. I don't know how THAT happened, but it is true. Everyone is gone, it is getting DARK and whooooo drives up? Oh, yes, you do so know who! F*in and his 18 barking Pit Bull dogs! Shit, shit, shit, shit!

He says "well, well, well! Lookie here! That rockin' Dodge Charger agin!" And proceeds to charge up the fucking dead rockin' Dodge Charger. Which took ForEver since F*in's truck is like some hideous 4-cylinder thing. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves what kind of Pansy "small talk" she had to make with F*in for the 22 minutes this Charging Up the Dodge Charger took. And the Pansy Wimmin Roar Off into the night! Pansy thinks she really should have way more properly thanked F*in but frankly she just wanted to get away alive and without germs/diseases.

It is now dark, we have basically the entire long drive still ahead of us and we are starving. So we go to a drive-through Jack in the Box because I totally am afraid of turning off the rockin' Charger since it will die on us. And while we are in the driveup line some employee is out there taking a survey of customers. She asks Pansy questions! And Pansy is totally really ready to answer questions, too!

"Why are you here?"
Pansy: Because we really love Jack in the Box food!
"Where do you live?"
Pansy: Sacramento.
"And you are here in San Jose for what reason?"
Pansy: To eat at THIS particular Jack in the Box. It's our Favorite One!
"Really."
Pansy: Yes!
"Where are you going after this meal?"
Pansy: Straight back to Sacramento. We only come here for this Jack in the Box!
"Really."
Pansy: We do this about once a month!
"Really."

Pansy has to try to get her little jollies where she can. Now we are really ready to hit the road. But at the very last possible second, because At Long Last Finally God decides to fucking look out for us, Pansy observes the gas tank guage is on Empty. Who knows how long? Maybe since Sacramento at O-dark-thirty. She pulls into a gas station and realizes she is still afraid of turning off the car because it won't start again. She asks the 3 toothless Inbred Cousins O' F*in:

Do you have jumper cables in case my car won't start again?
Uhhh...nope.

Great. So Pansy decides she will just leave the car running while she fills up the tank. She asks:

Will the place explode if I keep the car running while I fill up?
Uhhh...dunno.

And they ease back to the far side of the gas station. This is quite confidence-inspiring but Pansy pretty much doesn't care by this point. She goes back to take off the gas cap and discovers........that sabotaging, evil, paranoid, son of a total bitch, bastard, cocksucker Mr. Pansy has put a locking gas cap on the car! And the KEY to the locking gas cap is on.........Pansy's chain ring that is in the car ignition and cannot be turned off because then for sure now the car will not start again.

Pansy begins the sweat-inducing, nerve-wracking, hand-trembling, bomb-dismantling process of removing the gas cap key from the key ring without turning off the car. Which takes her so long she is almost catatonic from stress over worry that she took so long to get the gas cap key that the car undoubtedly will just plain run out of gas, stall on her, and then Really never start again.

Baby Pansy actually gets worried until Pansy assures her: "This is what credit cards are for. If I have to, I will buy a new battery. We can also call a tow truck. (That was a lie because Pansy is positive that F*in would have shown up as the tow truck driver!) Hell, darling. Mommy might just go buy a car over there (Hummer dealership). That'll teach dad to fuck us up like this."

The gas cap key is liberated, I fill up the tank, and the Pansy Wimmin Roar Off. Headed home at long last. This time, though, they are going home on those Fancy Freeways Californee is All Famous About. This is working like gangbusters until they get to a toll bridge. Pansy never has cash on her. What little cash she did have this day was long gone on buying:

Important Cheer Clothing Accessories (sweatshirt that says "If Cheerleading Was Any Easier They Would Call It Football")

Cheer Jewelry (earrings shaped like megaphones)

Cheer Stickers (Honk If You're Cheerful!) and etc.

So the Pigs at the Rip Off Toll Station (what exactly about FREEways do they not fucking understand?) make Pansy fill out a huge form and give her an envelope and a copy of the form. To mail the toll fee........yes, the $2 damn toll fee!!!! The paperwork and envelope alone had to have cost more than $2! This exchange of information/supplies makes the huge and growing huger line of cars behind Pansy's rockin' Dodge Charger VERY CHEERFUL. Pansy knows they were Cheerful because they were honking and honking and honking. It was nice to have new Cheer friends.

We drive on. And on. And on. Where are we? Why is this taking so long? Pansy will never know but finally the Pansy Wimmin arrive back in Sacramento. To the demanding Mr. Pansy who wanted to know what took us so long. We were only 3 hours later than he expected us. He evidently is also completely as fucked up as Pansy is about MATH because he had not added in Pansy At The Wheel Exponential Expansion of the Known Universe factors. Then he wanted to know why Pansy was in such a godawful bitch mood.

He made Pansy earn the toll fee. The hard, 200 times in a row way. He even called Sweet Pansy a cocksucker! The prick.