Possumblog

Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.


Thursday, October 31, 2002

YET MORE PARTICIPANTS IN THE THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

Chuck Myguts over at Redneckin' leaves the wily forest critters alone for a bit and lets loose with a monstrous story of two imps, Grubby, firewater, and pee--
[...] Priming the pump, we asked Grubby that afternoon about the old cemetery and if there were any ghosts there. Grubby was more than happy to oblige. Fishing his bag of Beechnut out of his hip pocket, he started to put a massive chew in his cheek, then thought better of it. He carefully looked into the bag, fingering the long dark strands of tobacco before putting a wad in his mouth. I suspect it had something to do with his already having heard about old lady Davis finding worms in her snuff can that she had left on the porch swing. Now ready, he launched into the first of several gruesome stories about the ghouls, murders and such that all happened in Pumpkin Bottom. The stories were so graphic, so chilling that they had Mikie and I reconsidering going into the graveyard after dark. [...]
On a serious note, I don't know if Chuck's ever said it on his blog or not, but since he's a pretty active hunter I'm sure he's heard the old saying--"There's only two things I'm afraid of in the woods--dogs, and men." Stay safe out there, Chuck.

AND THEN ANOTHER...

While posting the above, I just got an e-mail from long time ("long" being relative here, even in Internet time) Possumblog reader and Fighting Falcon Fixer Upper Nate McCord out in Utah (who keeps saying he's going to start his own blog--GET TO IT, MISTER!) who send the following:
Terry, your story today about the mill was very good. And believable. I don't really know where my belief in the supernatural came from, but I do believe there are many things out there that can't be explained through scientific study. I'm not superstitious and not afraid of things I can't see either but I do believe there is a supernatural possibility that is occasionally revealed to us.

But I have a story too...

It was fall of 1973. I was a high school senior in Alliance, Ohio and dating the woman that would become my first spouse. She lived a few miles out of town in an old farm house with her extended family. Our usual routine on Saturday nights was to watch a local movie program that specialized in 50's scary movies featuring pie plate flying saucers and rubber lizards eating large metropolitan areas.

On this particular evening we watched said scary movie that was as I recall a sci-fi alien invasion type feature. Afterwards we had ice cream in the kitchen with her uncle and we talked about the possibilities of UFOs and space aliens for quite some time. This subject had even been in the news for several days as the governor of Ohio had reported his own sighting of "something" while on a trip in Michigan.

So, lots of talk about spooky stuff, then time for me to go home. As was our usual hormone driven habit, my girlfriend and I proceeded outside to neck for a few minutes against the fender my 1964 Pontiac Gran Prix before I returned home.

We're outside; its dark, cold and we're keeping warm by close personal contact while smooching. I'm leaning on the car, she's leaning on me. Suddenly a loud BONGGG reverberates through the driveway and from not very far from our spot. Now girlfriend is nearly standing on my shoulders trying to get away from something! She's clamoring for the safety of the porch and its 60 watt security.

Seems that empty 55 gallon barrel over by the garage cooled off enough to suck down the top... No space aliens but a might fine jumpstart to the adrenal glands!
Thanks for the story, Nate! (You ol' sly devil, you!)

AND I SEE HERE A STORY DESCRIBED AS...

EXCRUTIATING!!! Aaaaaiiieeee!!! Anywho, Quana Jones of Eristic with a gripping yarn of terror in the dark woodlands...
[...] In the last few minutes of official daylight, I leaned forward expectantly, now kneeling on one knee to give myself better balance for the shot. As I gazed downward, I suddenly became aware that something was moving behind me, just up the bank. Something big. And quiet. Whatever it was, it was moving toward me very slowly. I turned my head left and right, gazing up the bank. Nothing was visible in the deep brush. I listened intently.

Schlp...schlp! Silence. [...]
(Quana also gives me a great idea for a fun activity for the next Axis of Weevil company picnic--wet tee-shirt contest!)

AND MORE KUDZU PICKIN'S--

Larry Anderson comes up with another good story about...human papilloma virus!!!!!!!
[...] If you had warts you went to old Andy who by casting a spell removed the warts. Now I read everything I could get my hands on as soon as I learned to read and by the age of ten or so, I had become a sophisticate and did not believe in such hokum. Old Andy was fun to hang around however since he had the best stories of any of the adults I knew. I had a string of warts on the back of my left hand that had been there for several months. One day I was visiting with Andy when he happened to see the warts. He asked to see my hand. Holding my hand in one of his, he waved his other over it and muttered something I did not understand. [...]
...Probably something like "This derned kid needs to quit letting frogs pee on him."

AND MORE, FROM A GIRL WHO GETS A NOD EVEN THOUGH SHE'S NOT PART OF THE AXIS OF WEEVIL BECAUSE SHE IS PART OF THE SPAWN OF POSSUMBLOG--

Francesca Watson at Yorkie Blog, another long-time reader and not-so-long-time blogchild reads over the chilling and frightful tales of misery and woe found upon these pages and feels compelled to share her morbid memories--
[...] Our front door was on the latch… open, unsecured, the lock shot across so that the door could rest nearly closed against the latch. This never happened -- never, ever, ever. Safety and security were watchwords in our home. Something was seriously wrong.

My heart pounding in my chest, I flew back to the bedroom as fast as my little feet would carry me, flinging myself into Mark’s small trundle bed and wrapping my arms around him. This was not common Big Sister behavior, and Mark’s Worry Antenna, always sensitive to begin with, shot up instantly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked apprehensively.

I didn’t know what to say -- the hugeness of what was wrong was beyond my ability to articulate. We were alone. Finally, with as much Big Sister bravado as I could muster, I said:

“Mom’s probably dead. But don’t worry, Mark, I’ll take care of you.”[...]
YIKES!



Searching the local haunts--History of suffering makes South fertile for frights, professor says
[...] One professor, who studies ghost folklore, said places in Alabama, really in the entire South, are especially fertile for haunting, or at least for tales from the netherworld.

"I think a lot of it has to do with the sad legacy of slavery down here and the Civil War. People in the South, as a region, have suffered more than the rest of the nation," said Alan Brown, professor of literature and writing at the University of West Alabama.

That suffering gives rise to stories of tragic death. Combine that with deeply religious beliefs of an afterlife and you've got all the makings of paranormal visitors lurking on many a staircase, he said.

"Southerners love to tell stories anyway," said Brown, who recently published a book called "Haunted Places in the American South." [...]
Oh please, that's just an old worn-out stereotype!



EU Files Suit Against Tobacco Giant

'Muffler Man, Jolly Green Giant, and Shoney's Big Boy Meet to Plot Anti-EU Strategy'



Bed Forces Sleepyheads to Rise in Morning
NUREMBERG, Germany (Reuters) - A German schoolgirl has invented a "merciless bed" to ensure that sleepyheads get up in the morning.

The bed gradually raises the mattress after an alarm rings. After five minutes, the sleepyhead is rolled onto the floor.

"I constructed it myself," Iris Koser, 16, said at an exhibition of inventions this week.
Nah...too easy.



THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

Well now, since I have used an entire 4/5 of a workweek building it up, here is a story my dad told me that never fails to give me a weird skincrawl.

As I have for the past few days, I will preface this by saying my family has never been superstitious, and whenever I was little and my sister would torment me with scary stories, my mom’s usual reaction was to simply say “Aw, pshh.” Nothing more—she’d just turn back to whatever it was she was working on. As if ghostes and boogermen really weren’t real! Imagine!

My dad was the same way, and even more so, for as my mom had some sense about her to not do things which were deliberately dangerous, not only was my dad completely devoid of fear of the otherworldly, neither did he have much hesitation about trying any danged-fool stunt that came along. He was a practical joker, and bullshitter extraordinaire. He took great pride in preying on the skittish, the unsuspecting and the superstitious. Luckily, no one ever got mad (much), because he was such a good sport about it.

In any event, to him ghosts and witches and devils and stuff were just tools to tease silly women and the weak-minded. He grew up in a harder time—when storebought shoes came once a year, when a trip to the woodshed meant something, when boys played football wearing open faced leather helmets. His growing up world was one populated by rough men, miners and railroad bulls and hoboes and moonshiners and Kluxers. He wandered through the jungles of New Guinea while still a kid, and came home to work in the steel mills of Jones Valley. He didn't need superstitions--he had already seen some of the worst of reality.

He started out his adult work life at U.S. Pipe as an ingot mold stripper, or ‘ignorant mold stripper,’ as he liked to say, and decided there had to be something better than the heat and backbreaking toil, so he took some classes and learned welding, and finally was able to swing a job with U.S. Steel, working maintenance of way.

“Maintenance of way” is mill-speak for fixing the miles of railroad tracks which laced Birmingham’s industrial west bringing in coal and ore and limestone and sending out millions of tons of steel and iron. Although similarly laborious, and occasionally dangerous (his motorcar was nearly hit by trains several times) it did give him some freedom, and he loved being able to set his own work schedule and be outside and riding around the tracks. This also allowed him to make maximum use of his natural garrulousness, and he knew folks all over Fairfield and Ensley. Again, these men were rough-and-tumble iron and steelworkers, proud, profane men who had fought Germans, and Japanese, and Italians, and Red Chinese; who had fought for their union, when fighting might actually mean bloodshed and death; and who would fight each other just for fun. But, as I said, my dad’s tools were a quick wit and a mischievous streak—he never went in for the drinking and fighting stuff, thankfully, but still he was a fearless man.

As the years wore on, the old Ensley works, which was built by Tennessee Coal and Iron in 1899 before it became a part of U.S. Steel in 1907, began to dwindle in importance, its old blast furnaces and Bessemer converters giving way to more productive technologies, and finally a decision was made to shutter it in the early 1970s.

It was one of the typical steel mills of the turn of the century, with rows of old brick buildings and sheds— here is a postcard of it from probably the early 1900s from a collection at the University of Alabama, and here are a couple from a postcard seller on E-bay--one shot… and then another. (It was reopened briefly in the mid-'70s, then almost as quickly shut down again, this time for good. It was eventually demolished between 1982-1985.)

During the first shut down, maintenance crews still performed routine repairs and checked security, which brings us the real story.

I don't really remember when my dad told me this story—since it was during that first shut down, I suppose I was probably about 13 or 14. I distinctly remember my mom being in the den when he was telling this, but I called her today and she doesn't remember a thing about it. Typical. To her it was probably just a bunch of forgettable BS as with most of the stuff my dad came up with.

However, I remember it mainly because it seemed the precise OPPOSITE of the corny hoo-haa he would make up—I knew the men he told me about actually were men he knew, and he never let on that this was a joke. His normal thing was to lead you on then drop the act and have a good laugh. Same thing with the guys from work—after the joke was told, you would start guffawing at reeling in a big suckerfish. This was different, though.

As far as I know, my dad was the only person that was told about this, and I think mainly because the man who told him was afraid of being teased and mocked for it. Which makes me wonder why he would tell my dad, given his penchant for doing that very thing, other than the fact that the fellow figured he could trust my dad. I only recall him telling the story once, and even with all the websites for Alabama ghost stories, this one is not listed anywhere.

I am not going to use the real names my dad's friends. I don't know if they are still alive, and if I have incorrectly remembered this story, I don't want them to have to put up with any mess should this ever find its way back to them. (I really doubt it would, but I'd rather just be safe). And again, maybe this was just some crap they made up. I don't know.

Anyway, enough build-up—the story starts back in 1971 or so right before the shutdown, when one of the old timers at the plant passed away. His name was Asa Reed, and had worked at Ensley since before the Depression, working at the rail mill, the rail car shop, and in later years in one of the small tool storage buildings. He was a big and friendly man, and knew all the ins and outs of the mill and everyone there and truly enjoyed going to work—he was one of the few who actually didn't mind working second shift. He passed peacefully at his home. My dad knew him to look at him, but as they were in different departments they never were really acquaintances.

Two of my dad's friends who were assigned to plant maintenance did know him, however—one was a machinist named Mince Hicks, and the other was a journeyman mechanic named David Gray. After the shutdown they were kept on with a few other men just to keep things from falling apart.

As my dad told the story, he said Gray (he always called everyone by their last name) came by one afternoon before my dad's quitting time to drink coffee. Gray mentioned that he and Hicks had a peculiar thing happen. My dad said Gray kind of laughed it off, but that you could tell it still bothered him. He related that Gray told him that he and Hicks were having to work second shift at the old plant. Since it was late, there was nothing to do but sit around, except for the occasional request from the Fairfield Works (the other, more modern mill which sits a few miles to the west which is still in operation today) to send something over by courier or for a spare repairman when something broke.

He said Gray told him that they got a call one evening earlier in the month to send over some sort of tool or part or something, and that he and Hicks walked over to the tool building to get the item. They unlocked the door, locked it behind them when they came in, and turned on one dim row of lights over on one side of the shop up above a storage mezzanine. They walked over to the staircase to go up and Hicks stopped him. "Look there." At the top of the landing was a big man, arms hanging at his sides, dressed in a ratty old thermal jacket, bib overalls and workshirt, and an old welder's cap pulled down over his eyes. Neither man moved—Gray said, "Hey there—what're you doing in here!?" The man on the landing didn't move or speak.

Gray told my dad both him and Hicks were standing there when Hicks suddenly called out, "Asa?" The man slowly turned to his left and walked on down between the rows of tall shelves full of boxes. Reed told my dad that he and Hicks just looked at each other, then shouted "Hey!" back up the steps. Again, no answer, so they decided to go on up and find out who this was. They reached the top of the stairs and switched on the rest of the lamps over the mezzanine. No one was there. Just shelves and boxes. They had just come up the only set of steps, and had seen no one leave, or heard anyone make any noise. It was just empty. On the old wooden shop desk in the corner of the mezzanine sat the part they had come for. They grabbed it up and quickly went back downstairs, once more having to unlock the shop door to get out.

Gray told my dad that he and Hicks didn't say anything else about what had happened the rest of the night. Gray said, "You know, I don’t no more believe that kind of s**t than anything under the sun, but that sure was a peculiar thing to have happen."

My dad allowed that indeed it was.



Quite possibly the single most accurate Google hit to Possumblog of all time: long winded conversations with non sequiturs. Finally, I am being recognized for my prodigious talents in this subject. Thank you--thank you all.


Wednesday, October 30, 2002

FURTHER TALES FROM THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

See, I got the date right now! (And I went back and fixed it everywhere else. Maybe) ANYway, Mistress of Fright Janis Gore of Gone South has produced three tales of suspense--the first of an evil known only as "Paul":
[...] The house I live in now is on the edge of town, near farm fields, and is very dark despite the neighbors' mercury lights. The master bath has a window that lets onto the back yard. Even now I expect to see a face scrunched against that window one night. And I stifle a shudder when I hear critters rooting through the flowerbeds or scratching at the screen. At least nobody is hanging from the live oaks.
Then, there is the Hitchcockian terror which is the hallmark of gay paperboys--
[...] One evening I was taking a good hot shower before going out on the town. As far as I knew, I was alone in the apartment. I was busily soaping my hair when a hand reached in and touched my foot. [...]
And finally, there is the chillingly prescient tale of attempted strangulation--
I, like most people, have some extremely realistic and frightening dreams. One night I dreamed that I was asleep in a recliner. [...]
AAaaaarggghhhh! NOT THE RECLINER!

Again, the Axis of Weevil Legal Affairs Department and Screen Door Repair Shop disclaim any liability for injuries or mental instability caused by the continued exposure to these horrid stories. And despite the fact that I keep linking to websites about Count Floyd, any similarity between Monster Chiller Horror Theatre and the A-FAoWSSBo2002 is purely coincidental.



Hey cool--I managed to beat Instapundit to a story! Here is Dr. Reynold's link of today, and here is my comment (well, actually more of just a complete cut and paste) back on Thursday the 24th. Advantage: Slow moving, dull witted marsupial!



You know, over the past three days, I have been using the headline about the Scary Story Blogburst of "2003." Some of you may be wondering why it is that I keep doing this, knowing full well that it is 2002, and not 2003. The best explanation I can give you is that I typed in 2002, and I keep typing in 2002, but some mysterious force keeps changing it to 2003. The only other alternative is that I have a terrible sinus infection, and the lack of oxygen reaching my brain due to my stopped up nasaltory passages has caused a flare-up bout of my chronic stupidity.



THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

Mac Thomason The Ectopundit summons up a tale of frightened Yankees, rental cars, Courtney Cox and the undead--
[...] Still, we figured it was just one of those random murders like you get in the city, and one of the Beaufort cousins took the house over and sold it to a young couple. But they were only there for a couple of weeks when they said they couldn’t stay there any more. It seemed someone had tried to strangle the wife in her sleep, but when the husband heard her choking there wasn’t anyone there but him and her. [...]
All the rest of you need to get to work!

UPDATE--I just now looked over in the Kudzu Acres patch, and see that Larry Anderson has once again been on a productive streak with two more stories--the first of gunplay and bloodshed:
[...] Every night during the training period, Jim and his mentor stopped at a roadside tavern, one of the hundreds that still stand at the intersections of otherwise deserted country roads in the Southwest. Jim's job was to go into the bar and buy two cigars for the evening's patrol. Over the year of training, the routine became: Jim enters mostly empty bar. Barmaid yells "Hi Jim", Jim yells back. Jim buys cigars, says bye and leaves bar.


First night with Gun: Jim enters bar, barmaid ignores him. He is a little taken back, but then sees that patron at bar is pointing a pistol at the barmaid. Jim draws .357. Patron starts to turn. Jim sees second man with gun off to his right. [...]
And then there is the scariest story of all, complete with reference to the one and only Prince of Darkness!
Way back in 1992, I bought a 1960 Austin Mini with the intent to restore and drive it as my daily transportation. [...]
AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!! Good night a'living I nearly get a heart attack every time I read stuff like that!!



VH1 pulls the plug on Liza Minnelli's reality show before it starts; says husband was difficult
[...] VH1 has pulled the plug on the singer's planned reality TV show, complaining that her husband, David Gest, was impossible to work with. [...]

Gest would repeatedly cancel production meetings and shooting schedules, and restricted VH1's access to his wife, according to an official at VH1 who spoke on condition of anonymity.

He was also a "neat freak" who ordered a VH1 staff member to stand duty with a portable vacuum cleaner while a hole was drilled in a wall, the source said. The New York Post said Gest required VH1 crew members to wear surgical booties while in their apartment. [...]
This is just so darned shocking.



Over the years, I have purchased enough stuff from The Sportsman's Guide catalog to pretty much assure myself of a lifetime supply of catalogs and e-mail offers. They generally have some pretty interesting things--I have gotten some good prices on closeout boots and various frightening bits of militaria. I really regret that they quit selling their ladies' camouflage lingerie sometime before Reba and I got married, but I was tickled to death to see this comfortable item in the catalog, just in time for Christmas!



"The WORM Factor" via Gnat's dad--
[...] It all could come down to Mondale. How likely is his victory? It's not a sure thing. Yes, he beat Ronald Reagan in Minnesota, but he won by fewer than 4,000 votes. This time his opponent -- a breezy ex-lib named Norm Coleman -- need only remind the voters of Mondale's acceptance speech at the Democratic Convention in 1984. When it came to taking money from your pocket, Mondale was clear: His hand almost trembled with anticipation. Recall the famous promise from the '84 speech: "It must be done, it must be done. Mr. Reagan will raise taxes, and so will I. He won't tell you. I just did."

This was intended as an applause line.

As for foreign policy, Mondale promised to stop helping the Contras in El Salvador in his first hundred days, which could have handed the country over to communism for the foreseeable future.

He decried Reagan's indifference toward arms control by lurching into hysteria: "Why has this administration failed? Why haven't they tried? Why can't they understand the cry of Americans and human beings for sense and sanity in control of these godawful weapons? Why, why?"

Perhaps because Reagan had decided to defeat the nation that pointed the nukes at America, instead of spending all his time on a treaty that would confine their warheads to 10,000. President Mondale would not have insisted that Mr. Gorbachev "tear down this wall." He would have implored the Soviet leader to enter into sincere, bilateral discussions that would make the wall 17 percent thinner. [...]
Of course, that 17% would have gotten added back to the height, but that's another set of discussions.



White House 'gabfest' gives select radio hosts special access to administration officials
WASHINGTON (AP) -- Six days before Election Day, the White House opened its gates Wednesday to talk radio hosts, staging an invitation-only North Lawn gabfest that gave the select few direct access to Bush administration officials.

Democrats complained that the event favored conservative radio programs and was just the latest example of Bush's willingness to use every tool at his disposal to influence next Tuesday's elections by getting out the conservative vote.

About 50 radio talk shows and news programs participated in "Radio Day," held under a vast, heated tent just outside the White House's front door from 6 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. on a cold, rainy day. Most of the shows broadcast live from the North Lawn, with the rest using material from stringers or correspondents. [...]

Shrugging off the timing as mere coincidence, the White House denied any political motive for the special-invitation talkfest. Taylor Gross, the press office staffer who organized the event, said it was long in the making and designed to give access where it is rarely granted. [...]

Those chosen came from across the political spectrum, from liberal to conservative to just-the-news neutral, Gross said.

Democratic National Committee spokeswoman Jennifer Palmieri found the White House explanation lacking, saying the event represented an inappropriate mixing of the official and political with the overt purpose of promoting the Republican Party's agenda.

"I don't find that believable," she said. "First of all, there just aren't that many liberal talk show hosts, that's the sad fact. ... It's clear that the White House's Radio Day is a thinly veiled get-out-the-vote effort." [...]
'Why, they didn't even have the decency to have a corpse!'



ALABAMA THRID IN HOMICIDES ...and number 49 in education.



Breaking News From Chattanooga.com! Man Reports Dead Possum Put In Driveway
Here are the latest crime reports from Bradley County:

River Pointe Circle, man reported a dead possum thrown in his driveway. A few nights before he received hang up calls and pumpkins smashed in his driveway. [..]
SHOCKING! Of course, even more shocking is this one from a bit further down the page--
[...] Moore Road, husband and wife in an argument, then his brother got involved, no assault.[...]
Now what are the odds of THAT happening!?




THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

So far today we have two good ones from Larry Anderson over at Kudzu Acres--one speaking the unspeakable about the chilly spirits found in the Leavenworth Artillery Barracks--
[...] On the night in question, Judy was lying in bed reading when she heard a noise that seemed to come from the living room of the apartment. She assumed it was Saber moving around until he came running into the room at top speed, jumped under the bed and hid. With the dog whimpering under the bed, Judy got up and investigate. [...]
The other is the terrifying TRUE STORY of a brush with unrestful souls--
[...] Most of the killings alluded to by the jury took place in a low, treed, narrow spot in the road about a half mile from my grandmother’s house. She always insisted that we never walk through there after dark since the ghosts of the victims were there and seeking vengeance for the crimes committed against them. Of course, such cautions are bait to teenage boys so one dark Autumn evening we snuck off to check it out for ourselves. In the party were my brothers, three brothers who were our best friends and me. Oh, our best friends were the great-grandsons of the hanged man. [...]
Once more, I tell each and every one of you that I put no stock in such stuff--the mind is a wonderful bit o'meat and manages to concoct all sorts of wildness that in the light of day and reason are no more than swamp gas and indigestion. I have to keep saying this, because the story I have for tomorrow, a similar true one to those above, told to me by me never-ever-frightened-by-anything father, never ceases to cause the bristles to go taut over my spine.

For today, though, my yarns shall be of the more tepid variety, although at the time they happened, when I was but a wee tiny lad, they were scary as all get-out to me.

I had a very active imagination when I was young (long since atrophied) and had a wonderfully tyrannical older sister who took great pleasure in inflicting large amounts of emotional distress upon me. Her favorite TV show was Dark Shadows, and I was the brunt of endless torture as she would talk like Barnabas Collins and jump out at me and tell me about all the monsters that lived around us. She was also fond of preying upon my gullibility, and on one evening as she was babysitting me, I apparently rubbed her the wrong way to the point that she got our great big black telephone on her lap and started dialing..."Hello, Gypsies? Yes, hello, my name is Teresa and I need you to come and take away my little brother Terry..." I started screaming and crying and hollering until she had her fill of fun and finally told me to shut up, that she had her thumb on the hook the entire time. Which was some relief, but still left me with the impression that the Gypsies were yet only a phone call away. Then there was the time that her and my dad decided to have a little fun out in the yard--this happened a few years after The Birds had hit the theaters--but they got outside the house and started squeaking their fingers down the window glass...EEeeee!! EEEeeee!!! EEEeeee!!! EEeeeeeee!... along with various shouts and yelps about birds attacking. Needless to say, this prompted another bout of crying and hollering on my part (and you wonder why I act the way I do), even after I saw what they were doing. My mom made them wash their fingerprints off the glass, though.

I also managed to scare myself pretty good, too, without any outside help. I remember watching in absolute terror as my dad pulled the car into the garage one night as I stood holding my mom's hand. It was dark and as the taillights passed through the door, the shadows of the bushes on either side seemed to attack and follow him in. Of course, it looked like really wide, furry, short monsters as I was still kinda shaky on that whole light/shadow concept, so I just knew they were going to eat him when he got out. They didn't. I figured they must have been too scared of him.

Then there was the Flying Saucer Thing. We had a set of 1959 World Book Encyclopedias, which I loved to look through and see all the pictures. One was very disturbing, though. It was a black and white picture of some sort of wide-eyed animal holding something in its mouth. I went and asked my mom to read the caption, and even though she read something to the effect of "The tropical [insert name of animal] uses its saucer-shaped eyes to find small prey in the dark," I was still struggling with words and such (shaddap--no jokes, please) and it hit my ears as "The blahblah [insert name of animal] flies in a flying saucer in the dark blahblah." After hearing such, the thing it was holding in its mouth finally became recognizable as a TINY HUMAN BEING! Just like on one of those scary flying saucer movie posters! I always hated running across that horrible picture, until years later I found it and read the caption and noted the thing in its mouth was a tiny little lizard.

Then there was the Light. Now this one I still don't quite know what to make of. I was probably no more than three or four. It was evening and we were sitting outside watching the cars go by down on the highway. My dad was sitting in an aluminum folding chair to my right and smoking a cigarette, and I was toddling around beside him when suddenly a small bright ball of white whisked past right in front of the shrubs. Now we had a white dog, but this wasn't a dog, and it sort of glowed and it moved too fast. I asked what it was and my dad got up and looked off across the front yard to the left and then back into the back yard on the right of where he was sitting to make sure the dog was still in the fence. "I don't know what that was." I asked him about it years later and he didn't remember anything about it, and my mom swears it never happened.

That one still kind of creeps me out.

But not like tomorrow's story.



I mentioned last week that Charles Austin is sure to go for 74 this season, especially if Pitcher Dick keeps lobbing eephi. True to his status as the Idioatarian Poster Child, Mr. Cohen doesn't even try to deliver any sort of change-up, and takes crayon in hand (among other things) and pretends that he is not one, but two incandescent lunatics. His latest topic is apparently an attempt to allow Johnnie Muhammad and Bullet Boy to be rehabilitated as medical researchers and move in with him, rather than keeping their appointment with Mr. Hypo. 'Cuz that's the way it happens in the movies. And in Europe. Mr. Austin steps up to the plate...
We are now in the company of Iran, Iraq and North Korea -- an axis of execution, some wiseguy is going to say.

I understand that David Duke likes vanilla ice cream. Does that mean that everyone who likes vanilla ice cream is a racist?

Sir, as the horror of the snipers' crimes fades …


In about 150,000 years.

… pressure will build on you to be reasonable, humane -- even civilized -- and not seek the death penalty.

I can just picture John Ashcroft saying, “Silly young cousin of Richard Cohen, I’d rather be unreasonable, inhumane, and uncivilized.” Can’t you?

While it is true that death will not bring the 10 victims back to life, and life in prison is, really, an awful punishment…

Having to read Richard Cohen columns is an awful punishment. Depriving these two murdering bastards of their next breath is justice.

I recommend, sir, that you merely stick to your guns …

No doubt, Dick just cracks himself up. The long winter evenings at those A-list parties must just fly.

… an unfortunate turn of phrase, maybe…

Maybe?

… but one that sums up our entire position.

Or at least, the caricature of John Ashcroft’s position that Richard has no nobly built for him. But I still can’t assume Richard’s position that we should try and rehabilitate these two and hope that they will be able to do some good for humanity in the future.

Bastards.

All three of them.



Dapper Don, King of Denial--Lottery stirs less attention this time

Displaying his profound ability to sincerely and simultaneously believe two mutually exclusive ideas, Dog's Hind Leg spouts forth with this gem:
[...] Siegelman admits the lottery has been a "sleeper issue" in terms of media coverage and campaign debate, but he says it's the No. 1 issue voters want to talk to him about.

"The vast majority of people supported the lottery last time. We just got out-voted," Siegelman said. [...]
Yeah, whatever. Siegelman still labors under the false impression that he won the last election over Tinker Fob through the promise of a state-wide lottery to fund education. Don has never seemed to understand that he beat Fob James not because of his stupid lottery proposal, but because James was a great big, hulking, moronic embarrassment to the State of Alabama, which, given our incredible ability to embarrass ourselves, is saying quite a lot. ANYTHING was better than Fob, including someone as avaricious and venal as Mr. Siegelman.

The fact is, plenty of money IS available in this state for The Children™, but we will never be able to access it until we really decide to fix our stupid state constitution. Siegelman, apparently concerned that he not be painted as a tax and spend liberal (much better to be painted as venal and avaricious), thinks that the best solution is one which holds out the dishonest promise of something for nothing. Oh sure, folks spend lots of money playing the Georgia and Florida lottery, but that doesn't mean it's a good idea. Just like the stupid taxation provisions of our current constitution prey disproportionately upon the poor and stupid, a lottery does the same thing. And this claptrap about making "big, out of state corporations pay their fair share" is just baloney-flavored hogwash, although it again points to Siegelman's pathological inability to find any equitable solutions. You want Big Corporations to pay their fair share? Then quit promoting these economic development deals to lure the Hondas and Mercedes and Toyotas to the state--all that money could be used for The Children™, you know!

In the end, the people of the State of Alabama owe it to themselves to not gamble on the education of their kids. If free, compulsory public education is truly valued and deemed desireable (as it has been through most of the history of the American republic) then it falls to each citizen to pull his or her fair load. The best way anyone has found so far has been through the use of property taxes. They are a more stable, more equitable source of funding for this purpose than money filtched from the pockets of the stupid.

In the end, though, no fundamental, fair change will ever be possible until we take control of our destiny by correcting the cumbersome and misanthropic 1901 constitution. We will forever be wasting huge wads of cash through duplication of services, inefficiency, political posturing, greed, and fraud, and always come up at the end of the month going to the payday loan store or pawning our car title or trying to scrape together change out of the couch cushions.


Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Siegelman appears at school, loses mock election
A week before the real election, Gov. Don Siegelman showed up Tuesday for the student mock election at Verbena High School - and lost.

The students' votes: Republican Bob Riley 115, Democrat Don Siegelman 108, and Libertarian John Sophocleus 14.

Many high schools hold mock elections, but Verbena's voting took on an extra dimension when Siegelman decided to make a personal appearance Tuesday and the Riley campaign responded by getting its supporters and campaign signs to the central Alabama school.

After the votes were tallied, Riley campaign spokesman Pepper Bryars said, "It's the funniest thing that has happened in this campaign."

Siegelman campaign spokesman Rip Andrews said the results were not a surprise in Republican-leaning Chilton County and that Siegelman did better at Verbena High School than he did in Chilton County in the 1998 election.

"We expect the outcome next Tuesday to be close, but with a different victor," he said.[...]
Yeah, whatever. All I know is that it's a good thing he didn't show up at Hewitt-Trussville Elementary. I got home this evening and Middle Girl and Boy both told me about the mock election they held today, in which Bob Riley got around 900 votes and Don Siegelman got around 200 votes.



Gosh, it must be Holy Grail Day...After war of words, France postpones summit with British leader

I don't wanna talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!

Is there someone else up there we could talk to?

No. Now, go away, or I shall taunt you a second time!



Wow, color me shocked--Little Proof That Chiropractic Care Helps Headache

Next thing you know, they'll be saying that naturopathy doesn't work. I guess I'll have to go back to trepanning to get rid of these bothersome headaches.



Bid to save blue swallow
Durban - The University of Natal and Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife have begun a bid to save South Africa's most endangered bird - the blue swallow.

A group from the university's School of Botany, Zoology and Geography and Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife have begun an exercise to find out how to slow the bird's decline. [...]

During the breeding season from September to March, selected swallows in the Impendle area of the Natal Midlands will be fitted with tiny telemetry transmitters - a tracking device so small it can be fitted to a bird's feather.

Researchers will be able to track the movements of the birds to determine how they use their habitat and environment. [...]
No word yet on the ability of the birds to grasp the husks of a coconut, nor upon their maximum airspeed.



Birmingham lawyer disbarred for fraud conviction
BIRMINGHAM, Ala. (AP) -- A Birmingham lawyer serving a prison term for a fraud conviction has been disbarred by the Alabama Supreme Court.

Allen Eugene Perdue Jr., 37, who was admitted to the state bar in 1998, pleaded guilty to defrauding Alabama Power Credit Union and SouthTrust Bank while working at both institutions.

He is serving a 41-month sentence at the federal prison in Talladega, and has been ordered to pay $237,457 in restitution. [...]

Federal prosecutor Ron Brunson said Perdue was a loan officer at the credit union in 1999 when he conspired with a car dealer to set up loans for customers with bad credit histories.

Instead of seeking approval for the loans from the credit union's loan committee members, Perdue processed the high-risk loans by forging committee members' signatures and initials, Brunson said.

Once the loans were approved, the car dealer gave Perdue kickbacks, Brunson said. Perdue took out about 20 loans in the scam from March to August 1999. [...]

When the credit union discovered the scheme, they fired Perdue, who later got a job at Colonial Bank, Brunson said.

While at Colonial Bank in 2000, Perdue secured personal information and Social Security numbers on several Colonial Bank customers, Brunson said. Perdue used the information to order credit cards from SouthTrust Bank, Brunson said. [...]

Perdue had the cards mailed to his church, where he was a deacon.

Video from security cameras at ATMs showed Perdue using the cards, Brunson said. Perdue's use of the cards cost the bank $55,000, Brunson said.
Quite a statement there--young lawyer, banker, church deacon--turning to a life of crime to bilk hundreds of thousands of dollars from small depositors, when the obvious alternative was going into politics. I guess some things are just too horrible to contemplate.



A mind is a terrible thing...

Once more, as I delve into the repressed memories of past terror in my life, I feel compelled to state that I do not believe in otherworldly visitations by ghosts or other such malarkey. The reason I keep saying this is for the benefit of my last story of the week, which I will post Thursday, which never fails to give me the creepy crawlies every time I think about it.

And of course, thinking never ceases to get me in trouble, because the brain is an odd creature. No matter how much you tell yourself everything can be coldly and rationally explained, your brain decides it’s going to mess with you just for fun. The following two stories are not necessarily spooky (which again, will be built up and saved for Thursday), but at the time provided a nice little jump start to the old fight-or-flight response when they happened.

Eek Number One—Back when I was at Auburn, I lived in a tiny little travel trailer at #41 Campus Trailer Court. This lot sat at the very bottom of a hill, and across the road from a huge pond. It was actually a sewage basin, but believe it or not, it never smelled bad, and had quite a crop of wildlife including all sorts of frogs and water birds. This is important for atmosphere of the story, though, because it did get sorta foggy down there at night, and the tall thicket of brush around the basin held all sorts of noisy animal things.

It was always pretty peaceful, in that sort of forgotten, back pasture that got turned into a trailer park way—lots of big trees, neighbors really quiet (except for that one semester when a group of loud-mouthed trash moved in next door and woke up every morning screaming at each other), and that was about it.

One night, I was wedged sideways on one of the narrow little couches having a conversation with my good friend Mr. Television. (Party animal I wasn’t) As I laid there, I heard a distinct rustle of dry leaves outside the wafer thin wall of the trailer.

Crunch…crunchcrunch.

I didn’t think too much about it at first, because, well, that’s just silly—crunch.

From the back of the trailer—crunch. Moving to the side opposite me. Crunch.

Oh this is nice—someone’s dickin’ around outside—probably one of my moron friends. Crunch. crunchcrunchcrunch. Back to the backside of the trailer.

Wait.

Wait.

Crunch right behind me again.

Alright, now this is getting stupid. I rapped on the wall of the trailer. No sound. Well, good!

crunch.

Alrighty now, this needed to be stopping pretty soon! I didn’t know if someone was just wandering around, or if they were trying to break into my storage shed, or trying to set the place on fire, or just trying to spook the crap outta me—whatever, they had managed to quite well do the latter. I flipped the light off and turned the TV off.

c……ru….nch.

Oh for pity’s sake. I grabbed my handy hogleg…

[We interrupt this narrative for a moment to point out the obvious—young, heavily armed, trailer-dwelling, white, Southern, conservative, male; quiet, tending to live away from others; well read; religious beliefs not part of mainstream; mechanically inclined—yes, I fit every possible bad stereotype.]

…mainly because I didn’t like the idea of NOT having it, and eased the door open.

It was dark, of course. And misty, of course. Little woods critters called to each other, of course. No one out. Trailers all around were dark. I stepped out onto the little concrete patio beside the trailer, straining to see back toward the shed…

WHHHHUUUOHHHHHHIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!! [Intended to replicate the sound of me squealing in panic like a small girl]

From behind, a cold wet THING had rubbed itself up against my pasty white hamstring—I whirled around and was met with the snotty wet nose of my neighbor’s golden retriever. STUPID F$#%^ G**$^ D*$# M(%^&^$( F$#^ C**&%# S($&##& STUPID BU*%%$#@ DA(&^^ DOG!

Yes, I had just relived the entire version of Jerry Clower’s story of Uncle Versie getting cold-nosed by a coon dog, minus the shotgun blast.

Small wonder.

Eek Number the Second—This one happened a few years ago after I was nice and married and moved into our first house in Irondale and was no longer a (serious) threat to society, and it’s not really creepy scary spooky, but is in a similar comic vein to the first.

I had to get up before sunrise one winter morning to go do construction observation on a job way down in south Alabama. I kissed all the still sleeping kids (only two at that time) and my wife. I eased downstairs and out the garage to where my truck was parked on the driveway. It really was a beautiful pre-dawn morning—cold, just a slight breeze. The trees back behind the house filtered the last bit of moonlight, with the tops of the naked branches standing out against the clear sky full of stars. It looked like a black and white engraving in a horror story book.

I turned to the door of the truck and fumbled a bit for my key.

WHooHOOOHHHHHOOOOO!!!!!

Who says white men can’t jump!?

I looked up behind me from where the noise came and saw the silhouette of a gigantic owl, perched up in the top of the sweet gum tree. I stood there for a moment and suddenly it launched out and swept down on perfectly silent soft wings, across the yard and disappeared into the woods across the street.

Just a bird, sure. But one that sure knew how to pick its moments.



Jimmy the Rug Sings--Imprisoned former congressman's election campaign airing low-budget ads
YOUNGSTOWN, Ohio (AP) -- Former Rep. James A. Traficant Jr., running an election campaign from prison since he was ousted from Congress, is asking voters to re-elect him to show they don't fear the government.

Two commercials started running this week for Traficant, who is serving an eight-year term in a federal prison in Pennsylvania.

"No American should fear their government," Traficant says in one commercial, filmed the day before he was sentenced in July. "You and I both know that many Americans fear their government."
Especially those Americans who can't quite get their brain cells around the concept of "law abiding."
He tells viewers to show the government they're not afraid by voting for him, running as an independent, in the 17th Congressional District over Democrat Tim Ryan and Republican Ann Womer Benjamin.

"I believe I can do a better job than half the people down in Washington," he says.
Sad thing is, he's probably right.
The commercial is the first time the public has seen Traficant since he was sent to prison for bribery and racketeering.

Traficant does not appear in the second commercial. It shows projects he supported, including a federal courthouse and federal prisons, and closes with a voiceover: "Say what you want about him, but Traficant gets the job done."
'Heh, heh--yeah, say whacha want--but youse might wanna be careful--IF youse know what I mean...'
Youngstown State University professor Bill Binning said the low-budget campaign ads are part of Traficant's image.

"They defy modern advertising. Not professional, not colorful, not upbeat," said Binning, comparing them to home movies.

Traficant's campaign has spent $32,976 on "media time," according to its latest Federal Election Commission report.
Only 32K? Better get to work selling some cigarettes...or something. (Shame the Feds won't let him wear the toup in the slam--could have prolly made some big bucks playing "hide the ferret.")



Porsche in Possum Country

Porsche shifts driving school to Leeds
RUSSELL HUBBARD
News staff writer

Porsche, maker of expensive German sports cars, said Monday it plans to move its $1,500-a-day driving school for auto enthusiasts to the Barber Motorsports Park near Leeds because it has outgrown its home at race courses in Atlanta and Florida.

The company's North American unit plans to begin offering one- and two-day classes in advanced driving techniques at the park in March 2003, Porsche North American spokesman Martin Peters said. The Barber race track, scheduled to open next year, will be the only site in North America offering the instruction. [...]
Despite earlier reports, I will actually be picking up a Porsche GT2 on the way home today, rather than the aforementioned Benz. Again, this is strictly for use in an important upcoming role, so as before, please ignore the obvious signs of theft.



And speaking of scary...Ryder Told Saks She Was Researching Role
[...] Saks security manager Kenneth Evans testified that Ryder was "polite and apologetic" when she was stopped leaving the Beverly Hills store and found with some 20 items of designer clothes, handbags and accessories concealed about her person and in her shopping bags.

When Evans told Ryder that the police were being informed of the incident, "she immediately stood up and took hold of my hand and apologized for what had happened," Evans said.

Ryder then told him "my director directed me to shoplift in preparation for a role I am preparing," he added. It was not clear what role or which director Ryder was referring to.

In opening statements, prosecutor Ann Rundle told the jury that the Oscar-nominated actress went to Saks with intent to steal, even bringing scissors to clip security tags from purloined items and wads of tissue to conceal them.

Although she did pay for three items, she had her "own two-for-one bonus program -- for every item she purchased she would help herself to another," Rundle said. [...]

Her lawyer, Mark Geragos, said Ryder was innocent of shoplifting items valued at more than $5,500 and had been singled out by security staff "who got out of control" because of her celebrity status. [...]
I'm sure Winona's next role as a woman in prison will likewise be heavily researched.

Just to stay out of trouble, I would like to say up front right now, that the new Mercedes S-600 L I will be picking up this afternoon is needed for a new role I'm working on. Please ignore the Slim Jim on the seat and the dangling wires.



THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002

So far, things seem to be on schedule for visitors to various Weevilite sites to have access to some of the bestest, most frightening spook tales imaginable. Phyllis Jean, who is keeping track of respondents, says we have received agreements to participate from Quana Jones, Janis Gore(y), Lee Ann Morawski, Sue Lizano, Emily Jones, Larry Anderson, and Fred First--who regales us with tales of embalmed kitties, skulls, and skeletons in "The Coffin House."

Speaking of coffins, and odd occurences, My Friend Jeff, who has never read this blog, and does not know of its existence or of the current call for stories from the spirit world, and in fact doesn't even know what a blog is, just this very minute sent me an e-mail with the following true story:
A man was walking home alone late one night when he hears a.......

BUMP...

BUMP...

BUMP ... behind him.



Walking faster he looks back, and makes out the image of an upright coffin banging its way down the middle of the street towards him


BUMP...


BUMP...


BUMP...

Terrified, the man begins to run towards his home, the coffin bouncing quickly behind him...


faster...

faster...



BUMP...


BUMP....


BUMP.


He runs up to his door, fumbles with his keys, opens the door, rushes in, slams and locks the door behind him. . .



However, the coffin crashes through his door, with the lid of the coffin clapping...



clappity-BUMP...



clappity-BUMP...



clappity-BUMP...


clappity-BUMP...



on the heels of the terrified man....


Rushing upstairs to the bathroom, the man locks himself in. His heart is pounding; his head is reeling; his breath is coming in sobbing gasps. . .


With a loud CRASH the coffin starts breaking down the door. Bumping and clapping towards him.


The man screams and reaches for something heavy, anything ... his hand comes to rest on a large bottle of Robitussin.


Desperate, he throws the Robitussin as hard as he can at the apparition.






The coffin stops.


DISCLAIMER: The Axis of Weevil, its agents and assigns, accept no responsibility for any injuries or death caused by fright, shock, or other emotional or physical distress caused by exposure to these stories. Read them at your own risk. Any similarity between the character of "Count Floyd" as played by Joe Flaherty on SCTV and any person associated with the Axis of Weevil is purely coincidental.


Monday, October 28, 2002

Study Faults Bolts in WTC Collapse

Aw, heck, let's get this over with and blame God for gravity. This part is troubling--
A federal investigation said the towers' unconventional design contributed to the collapse, noting weak floor supports gave way during the attacks — a similar conclusion to the one drawn by the MIT researchers in their upcoming report.
I'm not sure which federal investigation they're talking about, but as I have posted in the past, everything presented so far concludes that the tower's perfomance far exceeded its design specifications. Yes, it fell, but it cannot be said that it was designed in a way that was knowingly detrimental to the public health, safety and welfare. As the FEMA report (again, the only one I know of--there may be others) notes, other buildings may have stood up longer or not, but there's basically no way of knowing without doing a full scale test of DRIVING PLANES INTO BUILDINGS! In retrospect, given what has been discovered, there are some changes that can be made to building design that provide additional protection for occupants at a reasonable cost, but absent the IMPACT CAUSED BY CRAZED ISLAMIC TERRORISTS FLYING FUEL-LADEN MULTI-TON BOMBS into the towers, there was no way to validate the benefit of such changes.

As always, there seems to be an undying urge to blame someone other than the culprit--in this case, I would have to say it was Boeing for not producing a Nerf airliner powered by rubber bands. They recklessly endanger millions every day by sealing people into non-squishy tubes full of flammable stuff.



Getting some blog mileage outta this Halloween deal...

I have just sent the following message to each of the members of the mighty and fearsome Axis of Weevil, in order to bring to bear their prodigious writing skills to a topic of interest to us all--hopefully the effect will be to fill up some empty space here on Possumblog while simultaneously providing an opportunity for the talented writers of the Alabama Stump Pulling and Blogging Association to strut their vowels and consonants.

Anyway, here goes:

Good afternoon, fellow travelers—

WHEREAS it is late October, when all the frightening, creepy, scary things come out (such as haints, goomers, boogerbears, and politicians), and

WHEREAS this fine State of Alabama, and indeed all of those surrounding it, are all eat up with wild, otherworldly tales of particularly peculiar, gruesome, and terrifying natures, and

WHEREAS we all, being in some odd way connected to the great and wonderful assemblage of counties and municipalities which make up the State of Alabama, and

WHEREAS we have become further associated together by the alchemy of time and circumstance to form the blogospheric alliance known as the Axis of Weevil, and

WHEREAS any goodly Axis worthy of its name does occasionally take it upon itself to work in concert to produce trouble and woe, and

WHEREAS I thought it might be fun, and

WHEREAS it helps fill up space on my blog,

THEREFORE, let it be RESOLVED, that all of we’uns should take the opportunity presented by our association and by the fortunate and auspicious time of year to produce

THE ALL-FIRED AXIS OF WEEVIL SCARY STORY BLOGBURST OF 2002,

in which each member of the Alabama Society for the Preservation of Mendaciousness agrees to post at least one heeby-jeeby story of brushes with paranormality, inexplicable occurrences, pure D evil, disembodied voices, woodland critters, or other such foolish trash.

We are all greatly aware of the debt we owe to Kathryn Tucker Windham, but for the sake of originality and in the great tradition of Southern storytellers, we seek stories of mayhem and fright of your own personal experience (or failing any dalliances with the undead—just make something up.)

SO THEN, minions of Weevilosity, who is up to the challenge?

Cheerfully yours,
Terry Oglesby
I have several such stories, all of which must be prefaced by my saying that I do NOT believe in spooks, witches, ghosts, goblins, poltergeists, elves, orcs, or Don Siegelman. I think ghost stories are mostly foolish claptrap surrounded by a goodly dollop of irrationality. However, having said that, nothing makes the prickles go up the backbone by a tightly told tale of run-ins with the forces of ol' Scratch.

The first I have is one told me by a college friend. I never gave much credence to him, mainly because he was (and still is) very...ahem, "flighty." He always reminded me of Dana Carvey doing "Lyle, The Effeminate Heterosexual"--always hyper, running around, yacking about flowers and pants and tops and soap operas. Anyway, one year he asked a few of us to go to his folk's house in Demopolis for Christmas on the River, which is pretty much what it sounds like--boats with lights and a rolling party on shore. His folks were super nice, and lived in a big 1870s house right on the Tombigbee that they had restored. (Cue spooky music)

Now, as I said, my friend was a frenetic sort of grown-up kid, and I always thought he was wound just a bit too tight (his tour of their house included him playing on the piano every time he walked past it and showing us his little brother's pictures in his clog-dancin' outfit--Clogging? Clogging!? Jiminety) but as the day wound down he finally got over his Red Dye 40/sugar/adrenaline overdose and began to calm down to normal people levels. At this level, he was finally calm enough to allow that he didn't like sleeping in the house.

It seems one day he was doing his normal be-bop all over the house and came prancing downstairs and found a dollar on one of the steps. Which was, to him, just like FINDING A DOLLAR ON THE STEP!! WOO-HOO! Lots of silly jumping, I'm sure. Anyway, he shoved it in his pocket and went on about his business that day. (Which I'm sure included him talking 90 miles and hour and various hops, skips, and plies.)

He went out that night (on a date--WITH A GIRL!) and came back in the house and started bopping back up the steps when he stopped where he found his dollar bill--who knows, maybe he thought there might be another--and then he says he heard a very quiet voice.

"I want..my...dollar."

Needless to say he freaked out and went screaming up the steps and woke everyone up.

Again, I think one of his big brothers (both of whom played football at Alabama--go figure) was probably messing with him, but I still get sort of a weird feeling when it's late and quiet and I'm coming up the steps at night.

Anyway, that's one of mine--I'll post some more in the coming days--be on the lookout for those from fellow Axis of Weevil members.



scourge is an excuse for southern hospitality

Charles Austin had fun with Googlism back on Saturday--yes, I'm proud of you, Charles, but now it's broken due to everyone rough-housing and trying to play with it at once and dropping it on the floor. Yes, I'm mad. I didn't get to play with it.



As I was walking up 20th Street an hour ago to meet the lovely Miss Reba for lunch, my only thought (aside from her) was "Golly gee-whillikers, I sure hope they have soup today. A big bowl of soup would open me up and allow me to breathe. Soup, it does a body good, you know. Mmmm-mmm good. Soup. Soup. SOUP." (Of course, I think I was thinking this and not saying it out loud.)

Anyway, I got there (there being Dyson's Deli, which is where we eat just about every day) and discovered that I had indeed been living right--not only was there soup, it was GUMBO! Nice, thick, hearty, spicy, bay leafy, sausagy, okralicious gumbo! Halleluiah!

Or so you would thing.

Let me tell you, if you're someone with a low grade fever and you're going to have to be in polite company, probably the worst thing for you is to eat something hot and spicy, especially if it comes about that you find it necessary to walk back to work eight blocks in a light rainstorm, which, although it is relatively cool outside, has driven the humidity to 100%.

By the time I got back to the office, I was (and still am, for that matter) a big fat runny snotty sweaty bedraggled mess. And of all days to change from my usual plain white dress shirt, today I have on my really happening and stylish light blue shirt which shows even the most minute traces of bodily dampness.

Ick.

That sure was some good gumbo, though.



CBS debuts its new 'Early Show' format with four anchors

One of them being Julie Chen who, it seems, can't quite get enough abuse from journalistic collegues for her stint on Big Brother, and now goes on to CBS's early morning news show equivalent of a Potemkin village:
[...] They were joined at one point by former Mayor Rudolph Giuliani in the show's most awkward segment. An old hand at television, Giuliani read cue cards introducing upcoming segments and promoted his recently published book. [...]

The four hosts struggled for their roles in the Giuliani segment, mixing talk about his "wonderful book" and "new hairdo" with a meaty question from Storm about the sniper case that referenced Giuliani's background as a prosecutor.

Then, the interview went offtrack when Chen asked, "Needless to say, you're hot right now. Why do you think you're in such demand?" [...]

The most obvious evidence of first-day jitters came in the form of heavily-caffeinated chattiness among the hosts. [...]
::sigh:: Julie Chen sure does look nice, though. Surely that counts for something. (If nothing else, it counts for driving up visits to Possumblog of persons looking for pictures of her without her clothing on.)




I hate staff meetings. Now then, I feel better.

Not really--whatever grotesque sinus packing the children brought home with them Friday they graciously decided to share with their poor befuddled dad, and so now I sit here with blurry vision, a dull, thudding echo between my ears, and great gobs of viscous humours which only drain with gravity. Attempts to forcefully expel them into various bits of paper or the atmosphere are met with sudden painful squeaking ear stoppage and severe pain, with painful hurtness around the eyes and ears. Better to slowly suffocate than have to do the gaping-mouth fish face maneuver to try and unstop the old eustacian tubes. Of course, the kids feel fine.

I never managed to get away Friday, which is probably just as well, as it gave me about two more hours of freedom before having them deliver their biological weapon attack. The kids got their report cards, and for the first time Boy got STRAIGHT As! Catherine got all good marks (which consist of S--Satisfactory, N--Needs Work, and U--Unsatisfactory). She got all Esses except for two Ns in "Knows Birthday" and "Knows Address." Rebecca slipped a bit this time--last year she went all year with straight As, but this time she had three Bs--although they were all 89s--one more point on each and she would have had all As, so it's hard to fault that. Ashley did better than I expected--she has been an unrighteous terror the past couple of weeks, which we have determined from past experience to be an indicator of poor performance in something--she doesn't want to let on that something's wrong, so she compensates by acting like the spawn of hell. In any event, this time she had a couple of As, some Bs, and only one C. Of course, the lowest grades were in classes in which the teachers hate her. Of course. They're mean, they hate everyone, they never explain stuff, they don't let me lie and say I haven't done my homework, they expect me to listen, they give tests--mean ol' biddies. I've said it before, I'll say it again--it's like listening to Yasser Arafat. Anyway, at some level she knows she has to work harder.

Saturday was icky weather, but I got up with my head feeling like it had an interior carpeted in wet fur and got Bec and headed out to Liberty Park. We had to stop at Target on the way to pick her up a new soccer ball, the other having finally succumbed to a puncture somewhere in its fragile little bladder, and had to pick up something to eat. I got her a nice little bowl of fruit with some sort of healthy, wholesome beverage, and I got a Diet Coke and a bag of salty fried starch. MMmmm!

Got there and got settled and they played very well, winning 1-0 against a pretty good team. Our biggest problem was shooting the ball, which has been a problem all season, but at least this time the girls all played together, especially on defense. Rebecca played outside midfielder and sweeper and did really, REALLY well. I was impressed--she's really getting good. Bad part was sitting out in damp drizzly weather with percolating germs in my head. Other bad part was the coach for the other team who seemed to be channeling the ghost of a meth-crazed Ricky Ricardo. Entire game he screamed in rapid fire Spanglish, and the only surprise was the lack of "Lucy, you dissy ret-het!" Hey, I appreciate dedication and all, but this guy was a nut job--they're 10 years old, hombre, calm down a hair--turn it down a notch--ease off the gas--or better yet, shaddup.

Get through, go back up to Trussville park to catch Boy's game--Cat's game was yet one more defeat, 8-2, but I missed that one. Boy's team played Clay to a 1-1 tie, and they all did pretty well. Jonathan kicked the ball a couple of times and didn't let anyone get by him, so all in all, a great effort.

Got 'em all home, stripped their nasty clothes and threw them (the clothes, not the kids) into the washer and I left Mom to tend to them so I could go up to the church building and get ready for the Fall Festival. Set up chairs, tables, fixed the area outside for us to sacrifice marshmallows, and then went to get some more goodies from Wal-Mart. You know, it's not even Halloween yet. Yet, right there at the entrance to the garden shop, two gigantic blowups--one a snowman, one a Santa. AAARRRgggghhhhh! Can't you folks have the decency to wait till November?! Inside--Christmas trees and decoration. ::heavy sigh:: [Alabama Cootifier] WHYYY, back in my day, we didn't have no fancy-schmancy dis-count ree-tailers a'settin' up desecrations until DECEMBER! Next thing you know, we'll be dressin' up like Frankenstein and singin' "Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus" to the tune of "Monster Mash!" It just ain't right, I'm a'tellin' y...hey! HEY! YOU KIDS GET OFF MY PORCH! [/Alabama Cootifier] Got back, and the rest of my volunteers had started showing up, all of them wanting to know what to do. Bravely resisting the urge to begin hurling insults and curses (out loud), I did the next best thing and shrugged my shoulders and said for them to do what they volunteered to do. It's not like they haven't ever done this before. Anyway, stuff like this works better for the kids when there is a bit less structure. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

We did have a good time, though. Had a pretty good turnout, considering we had intermittent rain, and several families couldn't come, probably close to 70 or so. A lot of the kids came wearing their costumes (although I did announce that witches or ghosts or demons or stuff wouldn't be a good idea--don't want to be sending the wrong message, eh)--Catherine dressed up against type as an angel, Jonathan came as a ninja, Rebecca was a bobby-soxer with a poodle skirt, and Ashley was some sort of Renaissance princess. My time was mostly spent driving the tractor for the hayride. Let's see--I have a raging sinus disease, I have already been out in the rain for hours, and now I'm going to spend another three hours astride an ancient Allis Chalmers diesel tractor smelling rich, oily exhaust fumes and hay. Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good plan. I guess it could have been worse--I didn't burn anything or die from a horrible crushing accident. And the kids had a grand time. We've got about five acres of relatively flat yard and a few trees, so we went all over the place, including a nice little interlude where I weaved in and out of cars in the parking lot at the blazing top speed of 20 miles per hour. Unfortunately, the wonderful little campfire I built got no use--between all the stuff going on inside the building and the hayrides, no one got to roast any marshmallows. I blame Santa.

Anyway, got all through about 7, went home, rebathed everyone, then I went BACK to the building at 9:00 p.m. (!) to pick up Oldest, who had gone with the teen group to some sort of "fun" activity with the kids at another congregation. I hate the thing of changing clocks back and forth, but Saturday, I was truly grateful for that extra hour.

You will notice in this whole little exposition that I have not, until now, mentioned the drubbing Auburn administered to the Bayou Bengals. That's because I heard the final score after the game was already over. I didn't get to see it, or hear it. But, such does not preclude me from a small amount of gloatage for Miss Janis' benefit, not did it stop me from phoning My Friend Jeff™ this morning as I had mentioned last week and singing "War Eagle" into his voice mail and making fun of the LSU battle cry of "Geaux Tigers" by saying "Go-ex HOME, Tigers!" followed by an evil hillbilly yelping laugh. In response, he just sent the following:
You're just mean. Mean, mean, mean!

Oh, and EVERYONE in the office enjoyed your rendition of the Auburn fight song. So there!!
As if he thinks I care that everyone heard my lovely singing! Pishposh and rubbish! Play it all day long, buddy-boy! When asked if he enjoyed the addendum of the laugh at the end, he wrote thusly:
I know I did. It took the awfulness of the fight song and added a little levity. It made me laugh. It's not Go-x Tigers either! Quit mocking our rich and vibrant Cajun heritage!
(For what it's worth, I figured LSU would live up to their Top 10 ranking and give us a hard time. That's what I get for figurin'. Of course, I'm not about to tell HIM that!)

Sunday was spent in further trips back and forth to church, with the added fun of me having to prop my large, mucilage-filled head up and try to lead singing. My normal three note range was further inhibited by not being able to hear anything except my own droning due to my stopped up ears, with the added pain of those three notes being so low as to be out of reach of small children, pubescent boys, and most of the women. I made up for it by singing "War Eagle." (Not really. I mostly just hacked and coughed and wildly waved my arm about.)

It sure was nice to get home last night and not have to go anywhere else. Well, except for the horrifying dread of having to return here today with my feverish head and sandy eyeballs. Ick.

Anyway, that was about it--feel free to carry on as you were before.



Made it! Of course, you'll have to wait a bit to find out more, because the calendar says "Monday," and the clock says "8:30," which can only mean one thing--time for our stupid weekly staff meeting. So, off I go, but when I return, hooo-boy, will you be sorry!


Friday, October 25, 2002

Well, that was interesting--a productive afternoon spent over a skimpy crawfish poboy (Best Sandwiches in Town, according to Birmingham magazine--my hind foot says I) with My Friend Jeff™ pondering the wisdom of his brother-in-law's recent purchase of a complete but inoperable '58 Buick Super four door hardtop, and discussing the finer points of the Honda Odyssey (Now With More Homer!), Minnesota, air travel, class reunions, shot glass collecting (send me all you have!), the car show, children, Vanna White (believe it or not, I have only two degrees of separation from both Vanna and her two breasts--and I have actually touched one of her makeup puff applicators), stupid people, architecture, valet parking, the big stack of discarded chairs by the dumpster of the Wendy's next door, and on whether to say anything to the somewhat bearded waiter who brought Jeff his two dollars in change, then picked it back up when he changed a ten for me. We decided that I would leave a dollar on the table, give Jeff 50 cents, which would make it a total of $3 for the waiter, split equally between Jeff and me, except since the waiter already had two of his dollars, if he didn't realize what he had done, and only saw a dollar on the table, he would think he had gotten stiffed by these two morons. So we got ready, I dropped it under the rim of the plate and we ran.

We swapped car magazines, and on the way out I swung over to the aforementioned Wendy's to see what the deal was with the chairs, because I am a pack rat, born of parents who grew up during the Depression and who never threw anything out, and doggone it, no one should just throw away chairs like that. Hmmm, all in good shape, just dumped by the dumpster, begging me to pile a selection into the back of the van. Hmmm. HMMM. Free Chairs! I even pulled into a parking space and very nearly got out and went in to ask the manager if it would be okay. Freeeeee. Chaaaaaaiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrs.

Because I am such a friggin' idiot.

I sat there for a moment and pondered the huge pile of junk in the garage--"HEY! I don't NEED any chairs, even if they ARE free!" No more clutter for ME, nosiree!

(I wonder if they'll still be there this evening)

Anyway, got back, went to the library, found some cool old photos, including a post card from the early '20s and some nice close ups done in the late '30s before the first round of modernization after it was sold and a new Kress built up the street, decided to get them copied onto a CD, and found out that such a simple interagency request requires much brow furrowing, hemming, hawing, consternation, call rerouting, promises of an indeterminate nature, darkly suspicious glance casting, small white gloves, and other things I dare not divulge. Finally get an invoice, which I must take downstairs and get a purchase order number assigned to and a check cut, but only after first getting the deputy department director to approve it. Alternately, I could have just paid it myself, and gotten reimbursed. Which would have been even more difficult, and taken four weeks. Bah.

In among all of the calling around to various supervisors, our secretary told me Reba had called and said that she was having to leave work and go pick up Jonathan and Catherine who were sick at school. ::sigh:: Got off the phone with her just now--each one has brain hurtage, eyeball ouchies, severe bouts of glassy-eyed quietude, and blazing temperatures of 98.8. And Catherine peed in her pants. Luckily, Daddy had just this week put in a fresh change of clothes in the old backpack for just such an emergency--of course, having clothes is good, but having a fresh pair of Underoos would have been a good thing to remember to pack, too. She didn't care, though, and probably liked the breeziness.

So, this is it for me--I'm going to roll out a bit early and go help tend to the litter. Hope you all have a great weekend (and as always, mine has about 3,000 words worth building up--soccer games, Fall Festival at church, Tigers v. Tigers, church, sick kids--and I just heard that there is an overturned chicken truck that has traffic backed up all over the interstate.)

See you Monday. Maybe.



And now it's Friday!

Hooray! Despite my disappointment that there was no ER last night, I must say that the Kathryn Erbe Show was quite entertaining.

Today is gonna be a busy one again--I am supposed to be doing some research over at the library (the archives are housed in the original Birmingham Public Library Building built in 1927, which is, of course, haunted) on a 1915 H.S. Kress store building downtown that is in the process of undergoing an unsympathetic updating, made more frustrating by the fact that 2/3 of the building (and its facade) is owned by one person, and the other 1/3 by someone else, and neither wants to work with the other and neither really wants to do anything but slap on something to cover up the crap someone slapped on there in the Fifties, and even though the building was once a very nice prototypical Kress store, all of the significant pieces of the storefront--the stone base on the bulkhead and the prismatic glass transoms and terra cotta column ornamentation-- was long ago taken to the city dump.

Neither owner wants to start work, giving the excuse that they really don't know what to do and want to make sure they coordinate with the other owner and do it correctly so the facade once again reads like a single building. To which I say, "Shyeah-right!"

If you would like to see the building I'm researching, go to the Birmingham Historical Society website and look on the page for Education--there are several giganto-humongoid PDF files of various downtown tours and stuff for school kids--one in particular is called the "Going Downtown History Hunt" and is full of neat pictures of Old Birmingham. Look on page 3 for the Kress store.

Anyway, not much for you today, although I'm sure lunch with My Friend Jeff™ will be cause for extra fun bloggage. (Although not as much fun as the person looking for Saudis in Bikinis might wish!)

Y'all come back after while and we'll talk some more.

(Shouldn't that be "burq-inis"?)

UPDATE--I just noticed that the Smiter of Big Swingin' Dicks Charles Austin is back blogging with not one, not two, not even three (even though I miscounted earlier) but a whopping huge FOUR mighty Scourgings, No. 57, 58, 59, annnnnd 60. Will he get to 74 before the end of the season? If Ricky baby keeps lobbing eephus pitches, he just might!


Thursday, October 24, 2002

You know what, it's about that time.

And of course, Thursdays are the worst. All three of the younger kids have soccer practice so Mama and Biggest Daughter and I all wind up having to stay at the park until they get through. I can pretty much keep an eye on one or two, but after that I need reinforcements.

Then it's home and try to fix something hearty and nutritious that only takes two minutes and get the smelly clothes and socks stripped off and put into a toxic waste barrel and make sure all the homework got done while they were waiting to be picked up at school and sign all the assignment books and take out all the papers from the folders and put snacks into backpacks and start the bathtub relay and break up the bar fight that started when Boy stuck his tongue out at Oldest, who had called him a brat, because he said she had a big bump on her forehead and get them into bed as they get out of the bathtub and answer the phone from the guy who says that they are running a special since they were going to be in the neighborhood and wants to know if we want our ducts cleaned and I have to tell him that all our ducks got eat up by the neighbor's pet bobcat and scratch Wife's back righttttt THERE! and try to get the last kid in bed so I can sprawl across the foot of the bed in my underwear (yes I know you were expecting a silk nightshirt, pipe, velvet fez and smoking jacket and Jacquard slippers) so I can watch the Maura Tierney and Ming Na Show.

Tomorrow will be fun, too. I'm having lunch with My Friend Jeff™ so we can swap car magazines. Miss Janis may be interested to know that MFJ™ is also an alumnus of Louisiana State University (BArch, 1988 or so), and on the odd years when Auburn beats LSU, I call his voice mail at work and sing the entire War Eagle fight song. On the years when LSU wins, Jeff's reward is that I don't call his voice mail and sing War Eagle. (He was also in a fraternity, so even if we don't win, I can still heap abuse on him for that.)

SO then, in about thirty minutes or so, I'm outta here.



A Darned Good Question!

Someone just knocked on the screen door of the trashpile that is Possumblog pondering: where's norah o'donnell

You know, I don't know--I haven't seen her lately (of course, I haven't had much time to watch the evening news)--but she called in the other day and said something about having the flu and she hasn't been into the office. If you see her, please tell her to pick up her messages, and Sheryl Lyn says that the Tupperware bowl with her name on it in the refrigerator is going to get thrown out next week if she doesn't come in and get it.

(In a related semi-rant, whenever I italicize Miss O'Donnell's name, it displays not one, but two O'Donnells. Browser bug? Blogger bug? Blogspot bug? Where's my stinkin' can of Raid!?)



Disney, Microsoft Form Internet Service

...Thus legitimizing the use of the terms "Mickey Mouse," "Goofy," and "Dumbo" when referring to Microsoft.



As usual, America takes the blame

An article written by Christie Blatchford of the National Post :
[...] Just as in the wake of the 9-11 terror attacks last year, a chorus of voices began to point the finger of blame at the very nation that had suffered that enormous loss of life -- seeking to make the connection between U.S. foreign policy and Islamic terrorism -- so is the temperature of this particular crisis likely to soon shift in a similar direction, to what in the criminal courts is denounced as blaming the victim.

The early signs are all around: Federal politicians are again calling for a national ballistics fingerprint system (its effectiveness untested, it ideally would hook up every bullet in the country to the weapon that fired it); CNN duly derisively reported last weekend that, "believe it or not" one of the few events in Rockville, Maryland, that was not cancelled because of the sniper was a local gun show, and some leading American newspapers have begun running opinion pieces about the need for gun control.

It is becoming more clear by the day that one way or another, Americans will wear it for this sniper: If he turns out to be a foreign national, the prototype of some new version of a homicide bomber, apologists will trot out the old 9-11 root-causes rationale to explain him, and blame them; if it turns out he is a home-grown assassin, he will be pronounced the inevitable product of a country in which there are an estimated 222 million firearms and they will be blamed for that.

Curiously, the very night before the sniper last struck, seriously wounding a 37-year-old man as he left a Ponderosa restaurant with his wife in the suburban town of Ashland just north of Richmond, Michael Moore's new pro-gun-control documentary, Bowling for Columbine, was opening to sold-out audiences at select theatres in the beltway area. [...]

One of its final scenes has Mr. Moore, in his usually dishevelled and not terribly clean state, appearing unannounced at the posh Hollywood home of the NRA president, actor Charlton Heston, who actually invites him back the next morning for a chat.

During it, Mr. Moore demands Mr. Heston explain why the United States has so many gun-related homicides while other nations with equally well-armed citizens do not, berates him for failing to offer an easy answer, and then tries to force him to look at the picture of a little girl killed in a horrid tragedy of a gun incident at a Michigan school -- a little girl to whom Mr. Moore has no more or less legitimate or honest connection than Mr. Heston.

This is the best illustration of the film's astonishing tone, which manages to achieve the impossible, in that Mr. Moore successfully cloaks himself as a pacifist while at the same time behaves with overt aggression.

But the scene is also a perfect, tragic metaphor for the way in which gun advocates and the urban liberals who are their foes are inevitably portrayed in the major media.

By any fair measure, Mr. Heston behaves as a reasonable man remarkably civil to his ingrate visitor, perfectly willing to discuss the subject in a sensible way if not to be called upon to come up with a facile response for Mr. Moore on demand. But Mr. Moore controls the camera, and the editing room, and Mr. Heston is left looking foolish, flat-footed and a little feeble-minded, with, guess who, Mr. Moore, appearing the noble-intentioned hero.

This odd result -- that the polite soft-spoken man should emerge the villain, and the bully the good guy -- is also a recurring theme in the sort of American tragedy that began here on Oct. 2, when the first of the sniper's victims was killed.

Americans are perhaps the most generous people on the planet.

Picture this: You are travelling with your husband, and decide to stop for dinner. Afterwards, on the way to the car, he is felled by a single shot to the abdomen. He is flown to hospital, undergoes two separate three-hour surgeries to save his life, during which he loses bits and pieces of various vital organs, and still faces another round of surgeries and probably the raging sort of infection that typically follows gunshot wounds to the gut.

When you have something to say publicly, what do you say?

Well, the wife of the sniper's latest victim yesterday issued a brief statement.

Through Nancy Martin, the trauma program director for the Medical College of Virginia hospitals, this unidentified woman thanked her husband's doctors, area residents and those from their unidentified home town, and asked only for their continued prayers. "Please pray also for the attacker," the woman added, "and that no one else is hurt."

I found the same forgiving folk on my recent trip across this country preparatory to the 9/11 anniversary in New York City. The relatives and friends and co-workers of those who were murdered at the World Trade Center, at the Pentagon and in a plane that fell into a field in Pennsylvania field responded almost uniformly in this remarkably charitable and unvengeful manner.

[...] The truth of America is that it is a place open, ludicrously free, in every regard, not merely in the ability to get and own a firearm. The truth of Americans is that they are in the main good, God-fearing and forgiving people. They are no more responsible for creatures like this sniper than they were for 9/11, or as Mr. Heston is for that dead child whose picture was held before him by Mr. Moore, quivering with righteous rage.
Thank you, Ms. Blatchford.



Notable Quotes
"It's been 10 months of having people mock her, of having people say awful things about her."

--Winona Ryder's lawyer MARK GERAGOS prior to the actress's scheduled shoplifting trial on Thursday.
Yeah, people can be so mean. Hold on. Okay, that's better--I had to get a tissue. ::sniff:: Don't people realize that it's wrong to mock? Hmm? What's that? Winona was on Saturday Night Live? And she made fun of herself? Well that just can't BE! I mean, really... Hmmm? Let me see that...
[...] The fun-loving actress started the show by joking about SNL producer LORNE MICHAELS' decision to install security cameras backstage during her rehearsals for the show.

She joked, "I've noticed people acting a little strange - there's lots of locking of doors, shifty eyes and a lot of frisking."

"To my face, everyone is so sweet and nice but I feel they're looking over their shoulders at me."

A joke meeting between Michaels and Ryder caught on a security camera also featured the producer checking for his wallet as he left the actress' dressing room.

The season finale was advertised earlier in the week with the line, 'Winona Ryder, she'll steal your heart. She'll steal everything.'
Well, it's wrong for everyone ELSE to say mean things about her, but as long as it's broadcast by a media conglomerate on national television and she gets some free publicity out of it, it's okay. So just shut up about her, okay?

Hey, where's my pencil?



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