humor · life

consider yourselves warned

Over the course of my life I’ve been pawed at, propositioned, manhandled, flashed, molested, drugged, threatened, and harassed. By hormonal clods, such as the newest Supreme Court nominee. I chose to ignore these episodes and move on, because I didn’t want to deal with the indignity of reporting them or confronting them or giving them the time of day.

The doddering geezers of the Republican Party, however, have changed my attitude toward sexual aggression. They dismiss it as inconsequential or plain delusional. To even consider the possibility of impropriety they demand airtight evidence of sexual assault, verification along the lines of notarized photographs and certified, time-stamped documentation. Proof far above and beyond any doubt — reasonable or otherwise.

All rightie, fair enough.

In that case, the very next asshat who makes a lewd comment, grabs me or my ass, ‘accidentally’ brushes a boob, or so much as leers in my direction will be walking funny the rest of his sad, dissipated life. The police can then examine his bruised, swollen testicles and enter them into evidence for the court proceedings I’ll cheerfully initiate.

I swear to God, I’ve had it, so keep your hands to yourself or I’ll go full feral on you. And don’t forget to thank your GOP Representatives for their assistance. Their absolute indifference has been an inspiration.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

dear canada

Hello, eh?

You Canadians are sensible people, right? You’re bright, well-mannered, helpful, a perfect neighbor. So would you do us all a big favor and invade America? Seriously, send your armed forces, by land and by sea, and save us from the bloated misfit in the White House (located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC  20500 — you can’t miss it). We’d really appreciate your assistance.

Come on, you’ve dealt with that blowhard. You know he’s nuts. He goes around scaring me and everyone else with his wild ranting and unhinged threats and trashy friends. The guy is not only a danger to society, he’s ruining the country.

America used to be a nice place, remember? We had our problems, sure, but we were decent folks just doing our best to get by. We got along with people. We had allies. Then Sideshow Don colluded with the Russians, the election was hacked, and, well, you know the rest. It’s been nothing but disaster and chaos and disgrace after disgrace after disgrace ever since.

Trump is either repealing thoughtful policies and / or looting the place, those are his only two strategies. We’re now, for all intents and purposes, his own personal country club, where he decides who is worthy and who isn’t. Pfft, like he’d know. Without swift and effective intervention, Trump is on course to bankrupt the U.S., morally and financially, drive us to the brink of civil war, and then skip away scot-free. The damage will take decades, maybe centuries, to repair.

Please, Canada, I’m begging you, send your Army Guys.

Sincerely yours,

the whirly girl

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

that wasn’t a tax cut

Let’s be clear. The Republican ‘tax cut’ isn’t a tax cut; it isn’t tax reform; it isn’t an overhaul or economic stimulus or job creation. It’s a redistribution of wealth.

In starker language, it’s the rape of America, a craven power move to show who’s in charge. Simple as that. Forcible, nonconsensual, frenzied, and carried out in the wee, small hours. Darkness is the preferred venue for criminals and their nefarious activities, you know.

However, for the sake of decency, we’ll call it a pillaging. The Senate and House will like that better, sounds manly and war-like instead of gutless.

We — the ordinary folks — have no standing in this government. We’ve no voice, no influence, and no hope things will change anytime soon. America no longer exists for us. It’s been repealed and replaced by an underhanded party of toadies, men who are beholden not to voters in their redrawn and gerrymandered districts, but to fat-cat donors — the neediest, most deserving among us.

Heck, the Russians have more influence than the average citizen, just not legally or openly. Campaign contributors and lobbyists, consultants, people with deep pockets and narrow minds run things now; they’re buying up media outlets to peddle their warped, delusional philosophy. The poor dears are pretty heavily outnumbered — by roughly 99% to 1% — so distorted messaging is called for. Think Breitbart. Think Project Veritas.

We shouldn’t expect government protection from their practices or Wall Street or pharmaceutical industry greed. Nor do we need the foresight of environmental regulations or access to healthcare. What we need are more guns and less education, dammit; college isn’t good for us, according to 54% of Republicans. It puts thoughts in our heads. We’ll gain far greater benefits by learning practical skills rather than original, independent thinking.

An educated population is nothing but trouble. Which pretty much explains the GOP’s blind devotion to Sideshow Don, an inept businessman who rose from bankrupting his own companies (6 times) to bankrupting an entire country — morally, ethically, and soon financially.

So here’s my question: if this is such a powerful, all-encompassing solution, why the rush? Why the secrecy? Why the running and the hiding? Why the misrepresentations? Let me guess — because it’s a stinking handout?

Fasten your seatbelts, buckaroos, we’re in for a long, very disheartening ride.

 

copyright © 2017 little ittys

humor · life

the not-so-secret society of flashers

I have a friend. She moved last week, but I can see her apartment whenever I look out the window.

She is, in fact, only three short blocks away — happily situated on the tenth floor of one apartment building, while I’m content on the eleventh floor of another. And, as luck would have it, we face each other. Nothing stands in our way, we have a clear, unobstructed sight line. It’s a perfect setup.

The nifty arrangement allows us to skip the traditional phone calls and visits. In their place, we use the clandestine messaging technique of 10-year olds: we flash our lights. Every night at 10:00 we position ourselves at our respective stations — she at a light switch, me on the balcony, flashlight in hand. The trial run wasn’t very promising; my co-conspirator fell asleep before the 10:00 pm rendezvous. That’s the big danger when you’re our age. Spontaneous naps.

Nevertheless, night two went off without a hitch. At the stroke of 10:00, lights flashed like crazy and kept flashing for long minutes. I felt exposed and conspicuous, standing outside, but sheepish gave way to rowdy the instant I started laughing. It was a gas. I waved my flashlight like a shipwreck survivor, sketched wild, swooping arcs with the beam, flipped it on and off and on and off.

Mind you, all this transpires in the middle of downtown, where I’m surrounded by tall buildings and thousands, of windows. Hotels, offices, churches, hospitals, restaurants, bars. Eventually and inevitably, someone somewhere is going to spot these shenanigans and mistake our antics for a distress call. 9-1-1 will be alerted and emergency personnel dispatched. In that case, criminal charges will almost certainly be filed for issuing false alarms or creating a public nuisance. They’ll think of something; city officials are notoriously humorless.

In the meantime, however, watch out! Mooning isn’t out of the question, installing a zip line is a possibility. Obscene gestures and profane signage are virtually guaranteed, as well. Heck, maybe the flashing will catch on and the entire city will start strobing like a disco ball every night.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life · science

a scientific breakthrough

Gravity, I propose, is cumulative.

I made this astonishing discovery last Saturday afternoon when I went swimming. Although, for the sake of accuracy, I should change swimming to floundering, because I’ve acquired the natural buoyancy of space junk.

That’s upsetting, since water is my greatest refuge. Pools, oceans, rivers, bathtubs, they’re all life-enhancing habitats, in my opinion. Where else are you a weightless, effervescing mass of atoms? Well, I’ll tell you: nowhere. Dry land positively sucks thanks to gravity — a constant force pulling us, inexorably, toward the center of the planet. We’re all victims of this crazy phenomenon. 

Me, possibly, more than most. Crash landings are pretty standard for me.

You see, I’ve tried to defy gravity my whole life and it’s been to my peril each time. Except in water. Water activated my secret booster rockets; it gave me thrust and the fizzy  properties of carbonation. Notice my clever use of the past tense there? That’s intentional. I’m helplessly earthbound these days. The sneaky, invisible accretion of gravity has grounded me.

I expected to be rusty and awkward after being so long away from pools, of course, but I also expected to have some lift. I don’t. I’m dead weight. Diving in gave me no upward trajectory whatsoever. I didn’t soar, I didn’t even rise; I toppled. That ungainly maneuver created an outsized splash similar in scale to storm surge. Other swimmers found themselves yanked and tossed in the roiling waves created by my ‘dive’.

That wasn’t the worst of it, either. My arms didn’t slice through the water, my legs didn’t kick like pistons, I’m not a sleek torpedo. What I am is ballast, resembling nothing so much as a trussed up body in cement shoes with pockets crammed full of rocks. Reality is so discouraging, you know? Swimming was the one thing I could do and do well.

On the plus side, my little misadventure didn’t require stitches or x-rays or the application of a tourniquet. So, yay.

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

 

humor · life

they’re giving misfits a bad name

Oh my gosh, the hostile life forms known as Trump supporters are feeling ‘disrespected.’ Well, hmm, quick question: what were they expecting for their abject contempt of truth and reality and plain, simple decency? Admiration?

The poor dears are deluding themselves, as usual.

We, the genuine, bona fide members of the Misfit Society, would like to set the record straight. We’re not with them. We — the square pegs and odd ducks  — are fine with our outcast status. Really, don’t worry about us. Death threats and mindless chanting are not our thing. Although, we admit, we do enjoy a good conspiracy theory now and again, such as falling rocks are causing the rise in sea levels. But only for the entertainment value. It’s hilarious stuff.

So please just don’t confuse us with them. Our members are a quiet bunch, content with being overlooked and ignored. We don’t hold meetings or rallies or marches, but if we did our signs would have the correct spelling and grammar and we’d be bumping into each other all over the place. As you know, we’ve no sense of direction or rhythm or our own importance. We’re perfectly harmless.

Plus, the Misfit Society does not endorse political candidates. Ever. For anything. We believe they’re all corrupt, venal idiots with shady intentions. In that spirit, we politely request Sideshow Don and his brainless band of toadies, to, please, for the love of God, shut the Hell up. They’re not only making us look bad, they’re giving us a splitting headache.

copyright © 2018 little ittys

humor · life

boo-o-o-o

There’s nothing spooky about Halloween Day. Creepy doesn’t happen during daylight hours. There aren’t any ghosts afoot, or bats on the wing, no hook hands hanging from car doors, or bubbling cauldrons of witch’s brew. That’s strictly after-dark stuff.

So I felt fairly confident when I got up this morning. Work was a frightening prospect, of course, but no scarier than usual. I shuffled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and screamed like a teakettle. An Undead! Glazed, bloodshot eyes stared from a gaunt, desiccated face. Hair plastered to a bony, misshapen skull. I stumbled backward. It stumbled backward. I ducked. It ducked. What th —

Oh, whoops, that’s the mirror. And morning me. Please pardon the screaming. Carry on. And have a crazy-happy Halloween.

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

humor · life

how I spent Christmas night

With a laptop stuck in my pants.

Perhaps you think I’m kidding; I’m not. See, I decided Christmas was an ideal time to do laundry. I’d have the laundry room all to myself. It would be wonderfully peaceful, maybe even offer a little redemption (what with the washing of stains and all), plus I could jam to any music I pleased. I’d not only complete a chore, but dance in the process.

I cheerfully sorted my clothes into two loads — whites and colors — packed them into laundry bags, grabbed the detergent and fabric softener sheets and a handful of quarters. Then, although it was slow to dawn, I realized I’d no third hand to schlep the laptop safely. So I did what any self-respecting genius would do: I stuffed the laptop into the back of my pants. Not only was it a tight fit, it also looked ridiculous, a problem easily solved by pulling my shirt over it. Tada, and off I toddled.

How did I get to be so smart, you wonder. Well, it comes from a lifetime of being single — you learn to invent new and unorthodox ways to manage on your own. I can, in fact, haul impressive quantities of household goods hither and yon, things like groceries, cleaning supplies and appliances. I can also fall off  ladders, trip circuit breakers, mow lawns, paint ceilings, shuttle furniture like a plow horse and look completely ill-suited to every task.

The laptop in the pants trick is just the latest example of my do-it-yourself inclinations. Except, this time, I couldn’t do it myself. After loading the washers, I couldn’t get the laptop out, it was trapped in my pants. I couldn’t wiggle it out; I couldn’t yank it free; I couldn’t pull or push; I couldn’t sit down or breathe, either. Turns out, it’s impossible to get a good hold on anything behind you, especially something with no handle wedged inside a waistband. I twisted and contorted myself into unnatural positions seeking a better angle, but to no avail.

I was forced to admit defeat and seek assistance. My go-to responder, the office, was closed. The halls were deserted. Even the parking lot was empty. I was certain I’d die, felled by a laptop cutting off my breath and my circulation — my hips had long ago gone numb. I leaned against a wall to rest.

Long story short, a stranger did, finally, come to my rescue. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem surprised or incredulous or the least bit curious. No, she acted as if pulling a laptop out of someone’s pants was common practice. I adore such people — the ones who don’t get all sniffy when confronting stoopidity.

 

copyright © 2017 the whirly girl

humor · life

an unproven, unscientific, fake theory

This is just me, ruminating without facts or research to back me. I’ve kept a critical eye on things, though, so there’s at least some basis in reality. Which makes for a nice change of pace, considering the current state of, um, discourse. Which isn’t really discourse so much as accusations and conjecture and name calling and preposterous lies. So my sentiments are as valid an any others.

And here’s what I think: being white and male is no longer a golden ticket in these United States or anywhere, maybe. The world has changed and white men, particularly conservative white men, are deeply offended by this unwelcome turn of events. Their place atop the food chain is threatened; their hold on unbridled power is, quite possibly, slipping. What we might be witnessing here is the collapse of a species; the fall of the white guy.

Rather than accommodate a changing society, these laggards choose instead to vilify and handcuff the striving. They shake their silly fists and they load their great big guns and they redraw voting districts, proclaiming themselves manly men. Ho-flipping-hum.

Look at Sideshow Don, a fat, bald, aged Lothario, a Yoda look-alike. You think he’s not seething with anger over his fate? Of course he is, and he’s venting his fury on every living thing — the entire planet is suffering because he’s a wrinkled up has-been. If he wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be just another dotty gasbag. But he’s a certifiable menace to society, thanks to the cowardice and greed of another bunch of withered, old white dudes: the GOP.

Those guys see power and privilege, primacy and domination as their birthrights and they feel their grip weakening in a diverse, progressive society. It scares the bejeezus out of them. They haven’t the skills or cleverness to adjust, so they fortify themselves with intolerance for all but their exclusive club of Lily White He-Man Woman Haters.

Yet civilization stubbornly continues moving forward, while they fume on in impotent fury.

In all the coverage of the massive march against gun violence Saturday, one image struck me as perfectly representative. It was a guy standing alone in protest, trying to look tough and nonchalant in his carefully posed military stance, AR-15 strapped defiantly across his chest. If a big, scary gun is your only tool in today’s high-tech, fluid society, then, yes, you’re in trouble. Bigly. You can’t shoot your way to relevance.

copyright © 2018 little ittys

humor · life

the disillusioning

I’m neither a mother nor a grown-up. The sum of my experience is as a kid; I’ve been one my entire life. Somewhere around the age of 10, I took a look around and decided to halt the maturing process right there. Irresponsible and heedless suited me better. Therefore, I know a little about the need for forgiveness.

In the early years, my mother was incredibly innocent and hopeful; she beamed at the progress of her kids — first steps, first words, et al — and just assumed those successes would continue forever. She dressed us in petticoats and little white gloves, sent us to ballet and swimming, enrolled us in Girl Scouts and cotillion. Like every parent, she had lofty, ambitious plans.

Like every kid, I had other ideas, funner ideas. And the two were nothing close to compatible. An  early example of our differing objectives stands out in my memory:

One fine spring afternoon, I discovered a pond near our house that was teeming with wildlife. Frogs and fish, bugs, algae and floating scum. I didn’t try to resist, I just waded straight in to catch some real, live specimens for a rip-roaring Show and Tell presentation. My classmates would be goggle-eyed at the exotic creatures — the tadpoles and such — and spellbound by the plucky narrative I’d surely deliver. (Maybe toss in a few sea monsters for good measure.)

I splashed and dove in the fusty water of that dank pond all afternoon. By the time I left, I was coated in wet slime and filth from head to toe and as proud as it’s possible for a human to be. I swaggered across the backyard, grinning from ear to ear, and was met at the back door by a woman who looked very like my mother, but didn’t sound familiar. This woman sounded squeaky and high-pitched. Not a scream, per se, but in that neighborhood.

I watched her face turn a purply red as her hand flew to cover her nose, caught the word ’reek,’ something about a ‘swamp,’ and I think ‘crazy’ was mentioned, then she grabbed the hose and turned it on me. Full blast. And washed away all her bright, shiny hopes for a ladylike daughter. I think it was probably her Waterloo, but you know what?

She stuck with me for the rest of her life. Shell-shocked and wary, but my greatest champion nevertheless. Oh, she threatened to move regularly and without a forwarding address, she also turned off the lights and hid when I stopped by, and disguised her voice when I called, claiming not to speak ‘zee inglitch’. She didn’t fool me for a second.

My old mom was, and still is, the best friend I’ll ever know.

Happy Mother’s Day, all!

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

that’s not a car

Don’t be fooled by appearances. That’s an oven. A 4-door, 5-passenger, all-wheel drive oven.

The tires are what threw me, but it really does look like a car; my car. So imagine my surprise when I unlocked the door and hopped in. The instant my butt hit the seat, I sizzled and became self-basting.

Fortunately, sweating is healthy, it’s our air conditioning system. The human body has three million sweat glands (+ / -) working to regulate our internal temperature. Located in the layer of skin called the dermis, alongside nerve endings and hair follicles, sweat glands come in two types: eccrine (scattered all over) and apocrine (restricted mostly to the armpits).

Eccrine sweat glands secrete a fluid composed primarily of water, but with high concentrations of sodium and chloride, as well. Sweat from apocrine glands is similar, but with the addition of proteins and fatty acids — substances that lead to the ugly yellow armpit stains on clothing. The maximum amount of sweat a human body can produce is in the 2- to 3-liter per hour range. Perspiring, while beneficial, is a messy, unsightly business.

Nevertheless, sweating is what I do, because the air conditioning in my car is on the fritz. Driving even short distances requires very great fortitude. Remember the hot box in Cool Hand Luke? Like that. Yesterday, the air temperature reached a toasty 94º, but with humidity factored in it felt like a colossal 110º. Inside the car, though, the temperature was upwards of 5,000º. I’m not kidding, it was surface-of-the-sun hot.

The car is black, a heat absorbing color, and the seats are vinyl. So after sitting in the sun and preheating to ungodly temperatures, I was driving a skillet. Touching the steering wheel caused second-degree burns and I almost suffocated waiting at a stoplight. Plus, I worried my shorts would combust as my brain simmered quietly. Through it all, however, I was a sprinkler system — spurting and gushing and happy as a clam.

Welcome to July, everyone!

copyright © 2018 the whirly girl

humor · life

these are gloriously stoopid times

Welcome to the heyday of stoopid. Percipience is at historic lows, while boneheadedness is in full, fragrant bloom. Here, in America, we’re operating at a ‘check-for-a-heartbeat, there’s-no-brain-activity’ level of stoopid. It’s awesome.

Rather than an organic deficiency, our ignorance has its roots in willfulness. We’re zealous in our absolute refusal to think. Or explore. Or accept facts contrary to our own opinions. Now, I’m no fan of persuasion — factual or otherwise. I’m deeply skeptical of everything and everyone; I take nothing at face value.

You see, from  birth onward, we’re browbeaten by pushy, officious types trying to teach us a lesson or two. To hustle us along the path to a thoughtful, enlightened, well-mannered existence. Everyone from babysitters to teachers to bosses tries to influence our intellectual development. Well, ha, we showed them. Butt out, right? They held no sway in our power centers, also known as our brains.  We very successfully resisted their efforts to educate us.

7% think chocolate milk comes from brown cows.
8% believe Elvis is still alive.
25% don’t know the earth orbits the sun.
58% of Republicans say colleges and universities have a negative impact on the U.S.
66% can’t name the three branches of government.
80% support mandatory labeling for food containing DNA.

Yay, us!

So, here in closing, I’d like to assure you the President of these United States applauds our steep intellectual decay. In his very own words, which are the best, most tremendous words ever in the history of words:

I love the poorly educated.’
— Donald Trump

copyright © 2017 little ittys