Automatic Voodoo Doll

Has your loved one sailed off taking all your earthly possessions including your heart and the cat? Are you so busy picking up the pieces of your shattered life that you just can’t find a spare moment to get revenge on your ex loved one? Or are you simply so livid that you don’t even want to see a likeness of the now rotten apple of your eye long enough to stick pins in it?

We here at Alitloff Center have your answer: the automatic voodoo doll. Send us a photo of your soon to be sufferer, and we’ll send you back this handy item. Simply fill it with bird seed, chant the included incantation, and hang it up. Every time a bird picks out a seed, your former till-death-do us-part partner will flinch. Savor the thought that while you are hard at work trying to rebuild your dismantled dreams, your wastrel will be wondering why on earth those bits of flesh are so sore.

Using the Automatic VooDoo Doll
When you are certain the intended victim needs to be punished, this is the proper path for your wrath.
The Chickadee Curse may:
• Home in on the victim as if directed by avian radar.
• Cause them to fear cats, owls and hawks.
• Make them flap their arms a lot.
• Give them a craving for bird seed.
• Cause them to squawk at four in the morning.
• Give them funny sore spots.

Order your automatic voodoo doll today!

CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse

Today’s guest post comes from the netherworld of Danules, rhymes with Hercules, well okay it doesn’t, but you get the idea:

Let me tell you about the time I invested in a race horse. I had some stock money lying around that I wasn’t sure what to do with. The stock market was fluctuating, real estate was in a slump, and this friend of mine said he could bring me in on a once in a lifetime opportunity to buy a race horse descended from the very best bloodlines. It seemed a little risky, but after some careful contemplation over a large bottle of rum, we decided to go for it. He really was a beautiful horse. He even looked fast. We named him CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse. He really had four hooves, not three feet, because generally speaking horses don’t have feet; we just liked the name. It had a certain ring to it. Anyway, we found CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse a great jockey and the best trainer available, and we got him whipped into shape, so to speak. In no time, he was blazing down that practice track like a Ferrari. Eventually the time finally came for his very first race. He came in fourth, which wasn’t too bad. We got a ribbon for that one, but no money. The next few races he came in second or third, but we still had high hopes for his winning one until about the tenth race. CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse always ran a good race, but he just didn’t seem to have what it took to win. He still placed second or third, just missing by a nose. We had some ribbons and trophies, and every now and then CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder horse would get his name in the paper, but he wasn’t generating any revenue. We were starting to get a little worried about our investment. After his fifteenth race, which he lost by a nose of course, my partner and I went out to a bar to help sooth our losses. Normally I’m not a real alcoholic kind of a person, but I guess we both had a few too many that evening. We were sitting at the bar complaining about our predicament, and we just happened to be overheard by a guy in a booth who just happened to be a plastic surgeon, and happened to be even more intoxicated than we were, because he concocted this plan as a joke. But as the river of alcohol continued flowing rather mightily that night, our plan started to become less of a joke and more of a mission inspired by some unquestionable higher power. Anyway, about two in the morning, we led CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse into a freight elevator at the Bowling Green Medical Center, rode him up to the fifth floor, and led him down a long hallway to the Doctor’s office. And to make a long story short, which I guess is a useless gesture at this point, from then on CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse won every single race he ever ran by a nose. Even if the other horses were faster it didn’t matter, because when they got a glimpse of CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse’s eighteen inch nose extension, they veered off the track. After that, the racing commission passed a bill which outlawed any type of cosmetic surgery on race horses, so that CrazyLegs the Three Footed Wonder Horse wasn’t allowed to race anymore. But my partner and I did manage to sell him to a traveling circus that didn’t have enough money in the budget for an elephant. The bearded lady fell in love with him and vowed to look out for him as long as he lived, so everything worked out okay in the end.

Bad Drivers Beware: Falling Sheep

Arriving back in the US after spending months in the slow moving environment of a small sailboat is always a shock. I recently traded small, peaceful islands for acres of pavement with vehicles flying every which way. Originally I had planned to be in this asphalt jungle for only a short period, but it is looking more and more likely that for now, I’m stuck. Without a car of my own, I’m really stuck. I swore I didn’t want to own another vehicle, but am now looking to purchase a used car. I did my internet research and picked out possible heaps in my area. Then I arranged to borrow a vehicle so I could go look at other vehicles. This involved a trip two hours north to borrow the pick up truck of a truck driver who didn’t need his little truck while he was out driving the big truck.

There was one car I wanted to check out on my way to Grandfather's 91st b-day party, and I started out with plenty of spare time. But everyone else was diddling that morning. When I finally got underway, I immediately got stuck in the first little town's annual hoe-down festival traffic. Of course there was the usual moron in an SUV who decided to go sit in the middle of THE intersection into town. He was headed towards the beast of burden parade, and was effectively blocking everyone who was trying to leave. Did it not occur to him that by not letting anyone out of town, he wasn’t going to get in? Finally, cars squeezed together enough to get this idiot out of the way, so that those of us who wanted to escape the yodeling contest could do so.

Free at last from the sight of parents chasing cotton candy covered children down the sidewalks, I was rolling along nicely through the countryside, until I came across my first farm vehicle. Ordinarily these are passable, but the road was very winding with many blind curves. I am not so much of a gambler as are my fellow drivers. I’m not willing to bet that the odds are in my favor that there isn’t some bozo flying around that blind corner the very second that I make a move to leave the giant pile of metal in my wake. I also know that following two inches from the rear end of this lumbering behemoth is not going to make it go any faster. It will only lead to the possibility of being irrevocably crushed by falling sheep if those rusty metal bars give way. There’s nothing to do but slow down and enjoy the ride. The sheep finally turned off into a field, only to be replaced by a tractor, dragging what looked to be a medieval torture device behind it. Unlike a lot of people who try to push other vehicles off the road and out of the way once they realize that they are going to be late, I practice Zen patience. Feeling a bit peckish, I decided to take advantage of the slow speed to search for berries growing along the side of the road. I found a few sprouting brambles, stopped, and picked myself a snack, which caused me to lose track of the rack. But never fear, there’s now a delivery van in front of me, obviously lost and a slow reader, as it almost stopped at every cross road to closely monitor, photograph and record the names on the street signs. Finally the van either found the correct address, or gave up and just picked one. After it turned off, I resumed a speed just slightly above the speed limit, and carried on unimpeded for a bit, without even the usual hurry-up-or-I’ll-kill you driver trying to park in my trunk. This is one thing I just don’t understand: How is it that the same person who drives 62 mph on a small, secondary road filled with school bus stops and slow moving Amish carriages hidden around each bend, can stand in the yard screaming at people who travel in the same manner through his or her own neighborhood? I have a lot of fun when drivers like this are up my butt because I know that even if I’m late, driving like I’m in the Indy 500 is not going to improve my chances of being on time. When I have one of these impatient imbeciles trying to drive over my car, I slow down. And continue slowing down, until I come to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Usually this confuses people so much that they just sit there for a second, before roaring around me with a screech and a gesture. I resume traveling at my sedate pace, catching up to them at the next traffic light.

Today’s trip was so far blessedly free of driving fiends. But wait, what on earth is that very fuzzy thing up ahead? I suspect that this was the moment when I missed one of my turns, being unable to see anything past that enormous ball of hay crawling along in front of me. By the time I noticed that I was no longer on the correct road, I had to make a long circle back on course. I ended up arriving at the car dealership at the time that I was supposed to be pulling up in front of my family's house, still forty minutes further down the road.

Unless it’s in a marine store full of used boat bits, I generally despise shopping. But I do like car hunting. I am the daughter of a mechanic. That means that I know enough about cars to be dangerous to used car sellers. I keep this knowledge to myself and pretend that I don’t have a clue. I also have a highly developed BS meter. When something untrue flows out of a person’s mouth, I am usually aware of it. I like to play along to see just how much rubbish I can get from one single individual.

When I screeched up in the truck, I parked it between the car I wanted to look at, and the front windows of the car dealership. I leapt out of the truck, and immediately threw myself down on the pavement to have a look under my prospective future ride. All was good except for a fairly substantial oil leak from the pan. I noticed salesman-shod feet coming at me, so quickly picked myself up off the ground and pretended I was looking at the pretty upholstery. Before the guy even had a chance to fire his BS launcher, my first question was "how long has this car been sitting in this particular spot?" That caught him off guard, and he responded with “about four days”, before he even realized that he was telling the truth. Yes, a hefty oil leak indeed. Normally I prefer to drive the car down the road, stop, and do all this checking of systems out of sight of the dealer. That way I know what the car’s obvious problems are, before making the decision whether or not to enter into the dickering stage of the game. But there was no time for a test drive; I was already too late. All I had time to do was to start the car and check its vital signs. By now the salesman had recovered his composure and was telling me that the car had been owned by an older couple. “Aren’t they all?” was my response. Only once have I ever met a used car salesman who hasn’t said “this fine vehicle was owned by a little old man/woman who only drove it to the supermarket and to church on Sunday.” And into telephone poles and onto curbs and over animals large and small and under ladders and can't even remember the home address, let alone that cars ever needed servicing. Spare me.

I bought my last car from the one salesman who said, “I dunno who mighta had it before. We brought it back from the auction two days ago and parked it there. Haven’t had time to service it yet, so I can’t tell you if it’s any good or not. You maybe can try carfax.” I drove that cheap heap for five trouble-free years, covering over 140,000 miles. When I left to go sailing, I gave the vehicle to a friend, who still drives it today. No, I can’t have it back. And yes, I plan to visit that used car dealer tomorrow, in the hopes that history can repeat itself.

In the case of the leaky car I looked at yesterday, my cover has been blown. But when I resume my jalopy hunt tomorrow, I will have nothing else scheduled except to have fun with more car salespeople, and this time I will not let on that I know which end of the car is the front.

Happy Birthday, Grandfather

Four of us were out having lunch on a Sunday afternoon, me, my grandparents and their daughter. The daughter wanted to borrow her parents’ car sometime during the upcoming week. Her car needed to go to the shop for the day, but her husband was going to be out of town all week with the other car. Both grandparents each pulled out their daytimers, put their heads together, and started debating.

Grandfather: “Well, let’s see. I already know Friday is out because I have the library board meeting in the morning, and then we start the new yoga class in the afternoon.”

Grandmother: “Monday morning won’t do. I have three appointments. Is there anything scheduled for the afternoon?”

Grandfather: “The afternoon is booked too. Remember, we’re leading the seniors ‘shop till you drop’ mall trip. We’re going to harass all the teenagers.”

Grandmother: “Oh yes, I forgot to write that in. And I see we have the bowling league in the evening. How does Tuesday look? I can’t read what I’ve written here.”

Grandfather: “We have the ‘Save the Wild Conch of Abaco’ luncheon. I’m giving a speech. And later on we’re going line dancing with two other couples from our aquatic aerobics class.”

Grandmother: “Wednesday is pretty full with the book club, the church officers meeting, and the annual ‘Walk in the Park after Dark’ group, you know, the one where two off duty cops come along fully armed, so no one gets mugged like last year?”

Grandfather: “Oh yes. I love that walk. Let’s see, Thursday morning I drive Mom to the spa. While she does her thing, I’m going to pop over to help decorate the Meals on Wheels lounge for the big party on Friday night. I’m getting an award for all my years of delivering to shut-ins. Hey, look, here’s an opening. We don’t need the car between 3 and 5 on Thursday. You can have it then. Will that do?”

Daughter sighed and said, “Never mind, my car will probably hold together until hubby gets back. Thank you anyway.”

At the time this conversation took place, Grandparents were 87 & 84, respectively. In my 30’s at the time, I was awed that these two senior citizens had a more active schedule in a week than I had in a month. As I sat at the table contemplating what now appeared to be my slothful existence, I was thinking, ‘wow, these people are truly amazing-I’m glad we’re family.’ And, ‘note to self: get a life. A real one.’

Grandmother went on ahead last November, a week shy of her 94th birthday. Not long after, Grandfather was introduced to his first computer. He has discovered the cyberworld. He is grocery shopping by peapod online, ordering needed items to come to his door, doing netflix, emailing, and keeping up with news, happenings, and watching all that is going on in the world. He even jokes about internet dating. A gifted writer with a wonderful sense of humor, he is able to recite poetry or break into old Broadway show tunes apropos to any occasion. We’re waiting for the website or a bit on youtube. He turns 91 today.

Truth in Advertising

In my real life, I don’t own or watch TV. I usually live on a boat, and sail around experiencing life in the raw, true and unedited, instead of watching someone’s fake plastic version.

Recently, however, I have had the joy of commercials. Mind you, I only watch the weather channel in the morning, while eating my cereal and waiting for the tropical update, to see if there are any named storms bearing down on my beloved, who is sailing ‘out there’ somewhere. tag (See previous post) This few minutes every morning is enough for me to see dozens of commercials, which leads me to scream,

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???!!!”
Now I understand what has gone so horribly awry in modern society.

I actually suspected a long time ago that advertising was at the root of our shallowness and insecurities. I think the quintessential example was the mouthwash commercial that introduced us to a concept that didn’t exist before advertisers thought it up: morning breath. Thanks, mouthwash maker, for teaching us that instead of waking in the morning, sighting our loved one beside us, and greeting that person with a smile, a kiss, a cuddle, and perhaps even more, we were supposed to turn away in shame, leap out of bed and race for a big swig from that blue or green bottle beside the bathroom sink.

Razors for women were invented by advertisers. It started in the early part of the last century, during the flapper phase when dresses for women became sleeveless. As the dresses grew shorter, the razor companies saw an even greater opportunity to sell more products. It’s acceptable for men to look like men, but if a woman looks like a woman, and not like a prepubescent little girl, STONE HER, she must be a witch. Or a lesbian. Okay guys, I can see that the little girl fantasy might get you arrested. The closest thing you can get is a depilated adult female.

Women must have a certain body shape, and their boobs MUST conform. If these mounds don’t fit the image, there are various types of torture devices, commonly known as bras, to try to force these unruly masses into the proper configuration. Failing that, there’s always the silicone option. Have you ever used silicone? It’s oozy, messy, impossible to clean up, and doesn’t hold up well. If I avoid using it on my boat, why the heck would I want to put it in my body?

While it’s a tragedy to die young, it’s a sin to look old. Buy the red sports car, cover that gray, transplant that hair, zap those unsightly wrinkles away, take that pill and dance like a teenager! Take this pill and perform like one too! Great, you too can have a heart attack while reliving your misspent youth.

Hmmmm…Come to think of it, advertisers may be right on that last one. I know I would prefer to go out with a dance and a wiggle, rather than zonked in the recliner in front of the TV watching commercials. Moving on…

We have been conditioned to spend all our time, effort, energy, and money chasing an entirely elusive and subjective concept: Perfection.

If you believe what you see, it’s impressive to consider how much the average person in modern society needs to rush out and purchase to become even marginally acceptable.

Guess what, folks, my boobs are small, free and unfettered, my legs are hairy, no chemicals are plastered on my face, and my hair dries in the fresh air. I drive an aged ford escort, buy clothing from goodwill, and don’t care what the neighbors have/do/look like that I don’t. In fact, I don’t give a #$%* at all what the neighbors think of me. I accept myself, despite advertisers trying to subtly and subliminally point out all my flaws. I like me!

I should be exterminated. If more people started living naturally as I do, think what that would do to products currently sold by the billions. World economies would collapse. Entire industries would disappear. And we would all have more time to spend enjoying each other, which is a lot more important that spending our lives in the bathroom, trying to live up to a standard that does not exist.