Thursday, September 22, 2011

BDG Shysters*: "Get'cher Tea Head Turncoats (tm) Here!"

BDG self-confession began long, long ago...

 The Barefoot Dirty Girls
  • Mistresses of Flim-Flam**
  • Purveyors of TLC Roach Coach Swill
  • Growers and Distributors of Sierra High (c) Marijuana
  • Brains (?) and Producers of Tea Head Turncoats

I guess Lyin' Lynda and Roly-Poly Red have been ruminating on my proposal from last January, in the post "Opprobrius Chameleons: Reversibles and Rip-Offs" - a jacket that announces to the world what bad-girl bad-asses they are on the outside... but warm, fluffy, virginal, cuddly and affirming on the inside.

NO camouflage covers the BDG's the moment they open their mouths.
(Hmmm... maybe camouflaged duct tape over their mouths...)

In patenting this "invention," the most telling sentence in the entire Innovation Application is this one, penned by Theresa Ann Brassey in 1998 (though undoubtedly dictated to her by Lyin' Lynda Sue Allen):
"If the team [s]he is rooting for loses the game or is otherwise unacceptable to the rest of the fans, e.g. for example [sic] if they are the visiting team, the user can simply reverse the jacket and present those fans in the stadium with a logo for a team and/or player that is acceptable to them."
What a slimy, manipulative confession of unprincipled action! This applied statement of Lyin' Lynda's and Roly-Poly Red's credo grows out of their blind paranoia that someone might see them for who they really are; it attempts to validate their schizophrenic view of this life; and it embodies their anxiety and dread of the here-and-now and the hereafter.

"Just turn the coat (and hope no one looks inside.)"

The Barefoot Dirty Girls are merely recycling their wasted lives. As one online encyclopedia put it,
"The fear of the past coming to upset the newly-found stability is always present in the mind of the turncoat. The past is rewritten and whitewashed to cover former deeds. When successful, this activity results in the distortion and falsification of historical events."


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

But the story continues and gets better. Their plan was (is?) to capitalize on the patent by trademarking a clothing line label - Turncoat. (Yes, Turncoat! From their own mouths! I know...!)

Not one, but two trademark applications were filed. It appears these two snake-oil saleswomen have been through litigation before. New action took place a few months ago on one of the trademark serial #'s, cancelling the original litigated one.

Trademark Serial # 76454909 (live)
Litigated Serial # 76533488 (dead- cancelled 04Feb2011)

It looks as if our local turncoats are attempting to re-launch some sort of camouflage enterprise.

The BDG's:
Drive '89 Chevy submersibles
We blend in 'cause we wear reversibles
Don't dare you detract!
Don't give us no flak
By sayin' we're gas-filled dirigibles.
Yeah, that black market "Manteca medical" marijuana money needs a Turncoat (tm) money laundering front in order to evade numerous more laws. As spelled out repeatedly in the Showtime series, Weeds, the BDG's need some sort of cash-based scam going to hide their activities and perpetuate their miserable existences. Just like their earlier roach coach food business, drug money funding; now, instead of cash for emetic comestibles, cash sales of Chinese-made sports apparel (especially for a worthless franchise in a useless industry.)

If anyone happens to spot one of these monstrosities in real life -- a jacket or a BDG (no diff) -- check it for a hidden zipper pocket for smuggling a marijuana inventory stash into Raider football games. (Now we know why the fans of eyeless, toothless pirates are so wigged out... Go, Red, weed-brained daughter of the San Leandro Pirates!)

Here's another suggestion for
Lyin' Lynda, Ravaged Red, and Guts[y] Green -
just sew large, scarlet A's
on your personal jackets... inside and out...
after all, "A is for Asshole[s]."

(And watch out for those gas-filled dirigibles that float over stadia full of people.)

* shy·ster (n) Slang. A person who uses unscrupulous, fraudulent, or deceptive methods in business. An unethical, unscrupulous practitioner, especially of law.

Word History: Calling someone a shyster might be considered libellous; knowing its probable origin adds insult to injury. Shyster is most likely derived from the German term scheisser, meaning literally "one who defecates," from the verb scheissen, "to defecate." Sheisser, which is chiefly a pejorative term, is the German equivalent of the English terms bastard and son of a bitch. [Middle High German schzen, from Old High German skzzan; see skei- in Indo-European roots.]

** The Flim-Flam Man (20th Century Fox)  George C. Scott plays Mordecai C. Jones (self-styled "M.B.S., C.S., D.D. — Master of Back-Stabbing, Cork-Screwing and Dirty-Dealing!"), a drifting confidence trickster who makes his living defrauding people in the southern United States. [Really? Criminals drifting through life on lies and evasion? Sound familiar, BDG's?]


Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Ticky-Tacky Little Narc Squabs

Duh... what happened to all my Dodo squabs?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My email to the Superintendent of the Manteca Unified School District regarding the illegal marijuana cooperative operating right behind Sierra High School:

Mr. Messer,

Consider this an update from last year, when the three residents were growing their own weed at 810 Fishback Street. That usage was apparently legal. Those three moved last Easter, turned the property over to a relative, yet still return to collect the crop. That activity, however -- growing for non-residents -- constitutes a cooperative or collective, which is strictly prohibited within a thousand feet of a school, not to mention being in a residential district.

I would suggest you request another police visit to ascertain the cardholder status of the property residents, and investigate the shipments of marijuana to non-residents (ie., a co-op.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

His response:

Mr Behling,

We did contact the Manteca P.D. again and they emailed Sergeant Mraz,, who is the supervisor for the narcotics unit.  They did a compliance check on the home and they meet all requirements.  The address on Fishback is in compliance with state law.  They recommended that if you needed any further information you could contact Sergeant Mraz.  Thanks for keeping me posted.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Compliance check, my ass! Contacting Sergeant Mraz - or any other useless, unreliable party - at the Manteca P.D. is a waste of time, breath, or any other resource. (I'd love to see some dip-shit email him with words of encouragement and support for not enforcing the marijuana laws. Be sure to leave a copy here on a Comment; I'd love to post it!) The former residents had to be forced into structural "compliance" the previous year, although there was an awful lot of collective "sharing" of the more-than-three-persons crop going on. City law requires destruction of excess marijuana, not "sharing" or selling it to persons not holding some perjured doctor's medical recommendation.

Compliance with state law? Barely... California law does contemplate private cooperatives among medical marijuana patients only (but not the so-called cannibis clubs.)

Compliance with Manteca law? Bullshit, Sergeant Mraz! The new residents, relatives of the scofflaw Barefoot Dirty Girls, are openly distributing the crop off the property, which is a clear cut restriction on a collective or cooperative in Manteca's very own officially adopted -- but heroically unenforced! -- Municipal Code (here.) While you're reading subsections F. and G., be sure to also read about not having co-ops in a residential district or next to a school.

Compliance check, my ass! What'd you do, Sergeant Mraz? Read last year's reports? They don't tell you that:
  1. The formerly barely legal residents became non-residents.
  2. The current residents are growing weed for those non-residents (ie., became a co-op.)
  3. The current residents are illegally distributing weed off the property for those non-residents and others.
  4. MMC 8.35.030, subsections F. and G., prohibits co-ops in residential districts and next to schools.
Make sure of your entries on the police department service call logs for that so-called "compliance check." Hell, Sarge, you probably went over, all right... just to pick up your monthly vig of Sierra High (c) whacky tabacky.

It appears the overly  highly  educated  educators  administrators at MUSD are willing to trust  believe  be duped by the underly educated  Voc Ed dropouts  _?_?_?_ at MPD regarding this law - and breach the duty they owe to the students and parents.

The people of Manteca, and parents within Manteca Unified School District, get exactly what they deserve when they cede authority to such troublemakers, scoundrels, beatniks, bumpkins and bastards!

To honor (or ridicule; they won't know the difference) the rabble of monumental imbeciles on the public dole  employed at the Manteca Police Department, I composed alternate words to a ditty seen/heard earlier on this blog:

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Little Narc Squabs*

(sung to the catchy little tune of "Little Boxes," here, Season 1, Episode 1.)

Little narc squabs, in Manteca,
Little narc squabs smoking tacky-tacky,
Little narc squabs, bumbling drug cops,
Little narc squabs;  not a brain.

There’s a nose ring, and a tattoo,
And the ones should been fired long ago,
And they all smell of homegrown ticky-tacky
And they all act just the same.

So the potheads in their grow sheds
Still cultivate with impunity-
They just put some in special boxes
When the narc squabs call again.

Some for Mayor, some for Sergeant,
And a whole host of other City squabs,
’Cause they all toke lots of ticky-tacky
And they look the other way.

And the kiddies in the schoolyard
See the narc squabs playin' fast and loose;
“What the hell, then, I can smoke, too,”
Is the kiddies’ last refrain.

But the teachers and the principal
And even the Superintendant
Take the word of reeking narc squabs
That there’s nothing going wrong.

There’s a fox and there’s a henhouse,
And the one’s to keep the other safe.
In Manteca, them’s the narc squabs-
Keep the co-ops nice and green.

There’s a fat one and a thin one
And a pock-faced really ugly one,
And they all smell of homegrown ticky-tacky
And they all act just the same.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
* squab (n) 1. A young, newly hatched, or unfledged pigeon. 2. A soft, thick cushion, as for a couch.
(adj) Young and undeveloped; newly hatched or unfledged: "a narc squab."

All these descriptors fit: unfledged, soft, thick... esp. thick...


The Return of Cork-Screwed's Old Trailer

The return of "Cork-Screwed’s old trailer,"
last seen being hauled away on Saturday, May 21st, at 5:46 p.m.
Yes, indeed-ee,
They came back, the old haunts, looking gray, looking gaunt,
With their hangers-on, tough red-necks all,
For Cork-Screwed’s old trailer, that neighborhood failure,
To set up for the next small town’s fall.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

But, like dogs returning to their vomit... like belching, bloating, gut-wrenching, diarrhea-producing indigestion from one of Rotund Red's TLC Catering truck burritos... the Wilderness Advantage travel trailer is back. Because the last reputed owner was the third-wheel Barefoot Dirty Girl, Cork-Screwed (aka, Cornelia Jane "Corky" Green), its return to storage on this property is another proof of Lyin' Lynda's sham property trade to evade consequences of her/their illegal occupations.

Despite Cork-Screwed's monstrosity being unlicensed for at least four-and-a-half years (2007 through May 21, 2011), someone managed to cough up enough bucks to finally make it road legal in June of this year. (Maybe Bubba bought it? Lotsa drug money floating around...)

Rather than being parked to showcase the BDG's extensive collection of leftover trailer trash inoperable vehicles littering the property, it is parked to hide a broken down vending truck and an inoperable Mobile Food Preparation Unit (MFPU, or, roach coach) from the at-last-defunct, illegal TLC Catering operations.

How is one supposed to make out the FOR SALE signs in the windows of the trashed trucks?
Here's how the boneyard looked last Easter '11 - vehicles are just rearranged.

More importantly, does this free dumping ground continued storage for live and dead vehicles mean that Cork-Screwed, Resectioned Red, and Lyin' Lynda are close enough to Manteca to continually make reappearances at their Sierra High (c) Marijuana Cooperative Farm at 810 Fishback Street?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(Bubba must be so proud to be so used...)
Oh, where were the boys
To use as my toys?


Thursday, August 25, 2011

BDG Origins: "How We'as Raised!"


by Ambrose Bierce,
from Beetles in Black Amber

I lay one happy night in bed
And dreamed that all the dogs were dead.
They'd all been taken out and shot--
Their bodies strewed each vacant lot.

O'er all the earth, from [Pinole] down
To San Leandro's ancient town,
And out in space as far as Niles--
I saw their mortal parts in piles.

One stack upreared its ridge so high
Against the azure of the sky
That some good soul, with pious views,
Put up a steeple and sold pews.

No wagging tail the scene relieved:
I never in my life conceived
(I swear it on the Decalogue!)
Such penury of living dog.

The barking and the howling stilled,
The snarling with the snarler killed,
All nature seemed to hold its breath:
The silence was as deep as death.

True, candidates were all in roar
On every platform, as before;
And villains, as before, felt free
To finger the calliope.

True, the Salvationist by night,
And milkman in the early light,
The lonely flutist and the mill
Performed their functions with a will.

True, church bells on a Sunday rang
The sick man's curtain down--the bang
Of trains, contesting for the track,
Out of the shadow called him back.

True, cocks, at all unheavenly hours,
Crew with excruciating powers,
Cats on the woodshed rang and roared,
Fat citizens and fog-horns snored.

But this was all too fine for ears
Accustomed, through the awful years,
To the nocturnal monologues
And day debates of Oakland dogs.

And so the world was silent. Now
What else befell--to whom and how?
Imprimis, then, there were no fleas,
And days of worth brought nights of ease.

Men walked about without the dread
Of being torn to many a shred,
Each fragment holding half a cruse
Of hydrophobia's quickening juice.

They had not to propitiate
Some curst kioodle at each gate,
But entered one another's grounds,
Unscared, and were not fed to hounds.

Women could drive and not a pup
Would lift the horse's tendons up
And let them go--to interject
A certain musical effect.

Even children's ponies went about,
All grave and sober-paced, without
A bulldog hanging to each nose--
Proud of his fragrance, I suppose.

Dog being dead, Man's lawless flame
Burned out: he granted Woman's claim,
Children's and those of country, art--
all took lodgings in his heart.

When memories of his former shame
Crimsoned his cheeks with sudden flame
He said; "I know my fault too well--
They fawned upon me and I fell."

Ah! 'twas a lovely world!--no more
I met that indisposing bore,
The unseraphic cynogogue--
The [hags] who's proud to love a dog.

Thus in my dream the golden reign
Of Reason filled the world again,
And all mankind confessed her sway,
From Walnut Creek to San Jose.

[...Because L/L and R/R - and all their dogs! - moved to Manteca.]


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Seen One, Seen All Three

Some of The More Famous Tetons
How does a man respond to wickedness?
Some sulk, some fulminate, or pray, or curse.
My choice has always been to turn to verse
To neutralize the causes of my distress.

And this may be why my satire appears
So gentle, with spines and thorns that are intermixed
With flowers. I don't expect the world to be fixed,
And laughter serves my purpose better than tears.

The Regrets, Joachim Du Bellay (c. 1522 – d. 1560) (trans: David R. Slavitt, 2004)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The thoughts and verses, above and below, are those of highly acclaimed French Renaissance poets, although the English words were supplied by scholarly and talented translators.

The stark contrast between the following two Clément Marot epigrammes illustrates that when a woman goes wrong, she goes horribly wrong. (Or, worse, when a threesome of them go wrong, they become Hell Incarnate.) Rather than fulfilling her call to heavenly grace, she becomes instead an instrument of torture and bondage; she fails to help lift the heavy burdens of life, contrarily adding only misery atop those burdens. The object - the breast - is merely a methphor for "The body whole of [the] possessor," and the mind and spirit besides. This dichotomy really has nothing to do with youth or age, physical tautness or sag; but, like beauty or ugliness, peace or hysteria, emanates from within.

Du beau Tetin (Of the Fair Breast)

.....Breast, whiter than an egg, and quite
As smooth as satin, fresh and white:
Breast that would shame the rose; plump Breast,
Of all things known, the lovliest;
Firm Breast, indeed, not Breast at all;
Rather, a small, round ivory ball,
And in the middle, a cherry placed,
Or berry, and with such beauty graced
That, though I neither touch nor see
It bare, I vow such must it be.
Breast red-tipped; Breast taut, and that never
Waggles about, whithersoever,
Coming or going, running, leaping;
Left Breast - coy, sweet - your distance keeping,
Properly, from your mate, discreet.
Breast that reflects, from top to teat,
The body whole of your possessor!
Ah! Were I but her breast-caresser!
Many's the man that, when he sees you,
Tingles with lust to hold and squeeze you;
But he must rein his appetite,
Never draw near lest soon he might
Burn with a fire quite otherwise!
.....O Breast of perfect shape and size,
Alluring Breast, who, night and day,
Cry: "Find me a husband, quick, I pray!"
Breast swelling full and comely; Breast
Quick to add inches to her chest;
Ah! Right the man who says that he
Is blest who fills you generously
With milk, to turn you, ma petite,
From virgin's Breast to Breast complete.

Lyrics of the French Renaissance, Clément Marot (1496-1544), Epigrammes, I, LXXIX (trans: Norman R. Shapiro, 2002)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Source: Danny Henessey / Artdoxa
Du laid Tetin (Of the Ugly Breast)

.....Breast, nothing more than scraggy skin;
Breast with no solid flesh within;
Sagging and loose, like swaying flag,
Or - dare I say? - a saddlebag!
Black gross-tipped teat, long, ugly (very!),
Funnel-like, that an ordinary
Touch will set wagging in the breeze.
And should, perchance, one choose to seize
Your flaccid form, well may he crow:
"I lend a hand to knead sour dough!"
Breast dry as dust, breast drooping free;
Breast withered, limp, whence loathsomely
Not milk but muck comes oozing, spewing:
Vile Breast, the very devil's doing.
Breast foul as tripe; Breast I would not
Be much bemused to learn was got
From some old she-goat, lying dead;
Breast wrought in Hell, that might have fed
Lucifer's child; long, swagging sack
Fit to be slung athwart the back,
Over the shoulder, like a cape
Of yesteryear, round neck and nape.
Many's the hand that, when one sees you,
Quakes with disgust, forthwith, to squeeze you-
Well gloved, perforce!- and flail the face
Of her who hides you in disgrace.
Pendulous Breast, gaunt, misbegotten,
Ah, what a smell, abhorrent, rotten,
Wafts from the sweat that you secrete:
Civets and scents galore, replete
With stench, I warrant, that might choke
A hundred thousand gentlefolk.
.....Breast that makes nature blush with shame
To call you Breast; you who defame
The very name of Breast; the first
Among the foulest and the worst;
Breast with your nipple suppurating
Slime - putrid, noxious, nauseating...
By George! - the saint, that is - no more!
Shit, pen be still! Be silent, or,
If you keep writing so, no doubt
I'll retch and puke my innards out.

Marot (trans: Shapiro), ibid., Epigrammes, I, LXXX

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Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Barefoot in Hell's Kitchens: Frequent Impalements


Barefoot in Hell's Kitchens:
Frequent Impalements

Reviewing the Animus, the Actively Scamming-Us,
Of Vile Neighbors- Lying, Horrendous;
The Blathering, Dawdling and Stupidly Twaddling
Of Corrupted Manteca's Officious;

Jack Courts, and Jill Judges, Stuft Lawyers (the Fudges),
F'd Up Beyond All Recognition (FUBAR).
If This Is to End, Please, God, Quickly Send
Fire and Brimstone or, At Least, a QWATUR.
= = = = = = = =

A morning to die for! Another clubbed gopher!
This daybreak is my cup of tea.
God, I wish the same for my southerly neighbor
And then I would truly be free.

The setting to tell this story 'bout Hell
Is Manteca, a small bad-ass town,
Where bullshit runs deep, slows things to a creep;
Its odor is hard to keep down.

Be warned at the fore there are arms, legs galore
And more shit to spread thickly around;
Fat cats, and their knobs, and wee Pinole cobs,
Contribute the loud brassey sound.

In her own words:

"Our company's called TLC."
[A falsehood from A clear through Z.]
"That grandfather bloke
Was dreamt up to cloak
Our bare-assed il-le-gal-i-ty."

So said, we now resume the narrative:

Despite the loud screeches of Three Rabid Beaches,
This business was simply not legal
To have in their yard– nor the mobile home, ‘tard!-
TLC? No! but pretensions were regal. (*1)

Their visages mousy and roach coaches lousy,
Where dogs, cats, and chickens all shat,
Round Red and Skin Green both kissed up the Queen,
Sold her dope to put coins in the hat.

Short, stumpy Red's dumpy, the picture of frumpy,
Blessed with half of a keen half a brain;
She cooks; she hooks; her dishwater looks
Mere bubbles as she swirls down the drain.

The smallest of packages, the biggest of lackages
And the shrillest of keening high vocals,
The prime BDG (*2), "Hear me, but don't see,"
L/L (Lyin' Lynda) scares all the piss out of locals.

The deliberate horrors of these ice-pimping whores
Caused the Stewarts an early demise;
The complete lack of sleep kept their depression deep.
All for chorros, burritos, and fries?

Another word?

"Aboon them a', thee skelpit twats!
Thegither we be thrivin';
They be nae pintles t' gar us loup,
But damn braw triple rivin'!"

Pardoning that unfathomable ejaculation...

Should you ever get stuck ‘hind a catering truck,
Please know that they simply are cooled
With buckets of ice, dog slobber and mice;
Beware the street drain! Don’t be fooled.

Midnights were nice... 'cept for crashing of ice
Into five-gallon white plastic buckets!
The icemaker hummed, then it squealed and it thrummed,
While "Lil Brother" did doggie snout dunk-its.

Deliveries at six- and at four in betwixt-
At eleven, the Darling grease monster;
Truck trips quite a few to Costco: "Yoo-Hoo!
We need sodas and that doggie food - Chompster."

Great barrels of grease; trash stacked to the trees;
The whole story strains one’s disbelief.
To ask it, to sigh it, to pine for some quiet
Became number one goal for relief.

One big piece of flotsam– the ancient, loud Scotsman
Lyin' Lynda's most precious sex toy;
'Til it lost its Freon... and juice wouldn’t stay on...
Her flaccid, deflated life joy.

The fridges, the freezers, all six canine sneezers,
Shared space with the vast fleet of trucks
Cramped onto the lot, where they really ought not;
A false catering front for the schmucks.

Back to droppings bovine, which are 'specially divine
‘Round that place which is called City Hall,
Where po-lice, and fire, and more thugs for hire
Each has his/her well-padded stall;

Just fork in the tax! The chiefs start to relax
And the milk lets down inside their udders.
But call and complain, and you’re met with disdain;
Per-spi-cu-i-ty (*3) brings on them full shudders.

Ambrose (*4) did confer (and I- hell, yes!- concur)
His tragically funny description
Of Planning's, Enforcement's, obstructive deportments
And their earned- well-deserved!- malediction.

To them: What’s the law? Just something to gnaw-
No reason to rush into action;
All that noise nuisance stuff is surely enough
To induce gross adverse stu-pe-fac-tion (*5).

For twenty-three years the icemaker jeers
And the spoutings of shrill Lyin’ Lynda
Made her protestation of true annexation
The big lie of a dried up, old spinsta’.

The resident _unts pulled some stupid-ass stunts,
Like growing Sierra High © weed,
And parking more toys, and making more noise
Than anyone ever should need.

Such was the case when brought to the place
Where councils, in all their great wisdom,
Are to hear out each side and– just maybe?!- decide
To enforce their own city’s provision.

Mister Oleander spoke goose and spoke gander,
Couldn’t seem to at all get a fix.
Among all the rest, if he is the best,
This parochial town’s run by hicks.

The Decibel Man kept harping old plan
Replaced by him just the year prior.
He got Rex-O-Saurus to join in his chorus;
They threw city law in the fire.

Just kicking the can, the verbose Milk Man
Spun great webs of airy, fine words.
Yet still, in the end, his will made a bend;
His vote plopped!… just like great milk cow turds.

Quite late, some attorney wheezed sounds from his gurney
And roiled the mud up right royal;
His fork’d, serpent tongue first flapped, then it stung.
Our tax money made sure he stayed loyal.

So on to the Mayor, who tried to use prayer
To usurp his namesake, Holy Willie (*6).
His odorous rants (through the seat of his pants)
Made his sucrose orations sound silly.

Assigning old blame is this council's game-
Not fixing the final solution.
With a genius motion (a fresh hemlock potion)
They washed their hands– causing pollution.

What low-down, lily-livered, yellow-bellied hounds!
There wasn’t e’en a woman among them
To stand for the right and remove the blight,
Their supposed modus operandum.

Ah, yes, ain’t it nice? They give free advice,
Which is sure to be worth every cent.
They smirk, fart, and snort, “Take L/L to court.
Our political mojo’s not spent.”

With research compiled and first papers filed,
A lawsuit was thus set in motion.
The evil return? An eighteen month burn-
A LOUD increase in backyard commotion!

We now meet two charmers, paid beagles from Farmers,
Who came on the drear reservation
Espousing a claim of righteous domain-
Held solely in imagination;

Blind shareholders must put way too much trust
In these goons who give no thought to rules.
If there is a buck these fools can muck,
Then there go our rights, lives, and tools.

Oh, retaliation! L/L’s new installation
Of radio, speaker and wire,
Was the bitch’s bright notion (her full term abortion)
Of which she seemed never to tire;

Every morning at seven, this musical maven,
Blear-eyed, slithered out to her shop;
Without fail the witch would toggle the switch
And fill each new day with her slop.

Tell me it warn’t so?! Yes, ma’am, I do trow
That fake rock and her head looked the same;
They both had a mouth that suffered no drought,
And the points on the tops very plain.

On Easter of ’10, this fart-for-brain hen
Turned her radio up, then departed.
The cops came at noon, heard the notes and the croon,
And ticketed the noise that she started.

With the city fast sinking in red ink- and stinking [bullshit]-
I stood for a council election;
But the voters all said, Pile more on our head,
And they made their olfactory selection.

So, four years of more what went on before.
The people have begun to falter
While Manteca brass gets office-chair ass;
The cows will fit horses to halter.

The summer was hot; the music was not;
Played constantly to beat the bands.
Yet Joaquin and Alex (*7), dogs Castor and Pollux,
Let the speaker slip right through their hands.

With cameras up high to blanket the sky,
The Dirty Girls spied on their neighbor.
A calendar quarter he suffered disorder
‘Til his own eyes returned their fell favor.

That got the old goats- they practically choked!-
Cranked their music up and started toking.
The returning cop said the music must stop
And informed them their rap sheet was smoking. (*8)

With impotent flailing, they tried to go sailing
With big tarps and some very tall timbers
To block direct view of the shit that they do.
Winter winds blew those masts into splinters!

What Lyin' Lynda really means to say:

“Our aim’s to provide some strange weed
To the sickly-- (and those in sore need.)
A big toke or two-
Flush brains down the loo.
No refunds on claims of bad seed.”

“Hey, we got drug business to run;
Kill you all without use of a gun–
Not body, but spirit-
And don’t you dare queer it!
(We do that with ourselves, just for fun. ;-) )”

Getting on with it...

Thought they had learned, but their baked weed-brains burned
And their cameras stayed still in place–
Until one went, "Crack!" ("We’re under attack!")
Taken out by a BB gun ace.

L/L screeched! Ear-split pishing! Off'cer "Herb" came a-fishing
With camos, guns, search warrants, O' me!
An hour they toss for gold, but get dross,
On the say-so of Ass-bay-yawwwn-ee.

The judge and DA met most of a day
To cipher if they had a clue.
Their final conclusion: gross mental contusion (*9).
So, what’s the infraction? Who knew?

On Easter ’11, the twits rooossse up to heaven
(At least, they’re not found on the earth!);
No more cackling voices; Mom Gaia rejoices,
But naught can repair their scorched turf.

A nephew called Bubba, and his hot hubba-hubba (*10),
Moved into the departed’s place.
Much traffic is showing the MJ’s still growing-
L/L's business still running apace.

Tick-Tock! Tick-Tock! The BDG’s clock
Musta’ rung, ‘cause they came back (!) on time
To stay HIGH... on top of their herbal cash crop,
Which the dopers all claim’s not a crime.

They came back, the old haunts, looking gray, looking gaunt,
With their hangers-on, tough red-necks all,
For Cork-Screwed’s old trailer, that neighborhood failure,
To set up for the next small town’s fall.

The lawyers all say that, real soon, some day,
This suit must slip out of its traces;
The Beaches skedaddled, with the queerest death rattle,
To save their Medusa-like faces.

Save face! Save face! The plague of the race,
A vile, insipid invention.
Man up to the sneers, the cat-calls, and jeers;
Be glad, at least *negative* attention...

Order established– and all five books published-
One illegal land use now ended.
But here we are, stuck, with stinky bad luck-
The "grow hydroponic" well tended.

There is nothing mystical about the logistical
Arrangements to move all that weed-
Simply alternate weeks- swap filled trucks with the freaks
Who sell dope for the BDG's greed.

A simple deception (that's L/L's perception),
Just like the fake property swap.
Real hard to pin down as she drives a new town
Still slinging her hash. ("Jus' cain't stop!")

So, what of that co-op, school mom, school pop,
With an AWOL Manteca narc squad?
The law is an ass when it comes to queer grass.
P’rhaps the school board will give it the nod?

Thus ends the foul war that I early had swore
Would wage red hot until I prevail;
Some storms, some clouds; at last, the death shrouds
'Cross her ugly, small life. Back to Hell!

Back To Hell With You!
The prime use of land and the particular brand
Of the BDG’s pot, I’m remanding.
It’s now between God and the Manteca sods;
They can flip for jurisdictional standing.

{God: Gimme a QWATUR.}
{Manteca: F’ you! We stole it fair and square.}

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(*1) TLC Catering - what does it mean? The TLC could stand for many things, but the acronyms with perfect applicability are:
Three Lying __unts.
Thievin', Lyin', Cheatin' __unts.

See this post for a more full exploration of the subject.

(*2) Barefoot Dirty Girls (BDG’s): Name obtained from a customer complaint, recorded by Environmental Health Department catering truck inspectors in the field on 7/19/1999. (It is incredulous to imagine any - or all - of these bitchy broads being called “girls.”)
“Both girls are dirty, but one is very dirty–
does not wear shoes and feet are black with dirt.”
  • ALPHA bitch: Lynda Sue Allen, from Pinole, CA. Appropriately known as Lyin' Lynda; a.k.a. L/L; a.k.a. Auntie Lyn (self-styled.)
  • BETA bitch: Theresa Ann "Red" Brassey, a redhead from San Leandro, CA; a.k.a. Rotund Red, Roly-Poly Red, Resectioned Red, and all other appropriate descriptors that start with the letter "R."
  • GAMMA bitch: Cornelia Jane "Corky" Green, from the "southerly" side of some rock; a.k.a. Guts[y] Green (for her prominent muffin-top); a.k.a. Skin Green (for her compulsion to exhibit her belly-flab.)
(*3) Per'-spi-cu'-i-ty (n) Clearness or lucidity, as of a statement. Synonyms: 1. clarity, plainness, intelligibility. 2. transparency. 3. derived from a Latin word meaning “to see through,” i.e., clearness of style or exposition, freedom from obscurity. Antonyms: dimness, opacity.

(*4) Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914.) An American journalist and author; a contemporary of Mark Twain. Here is his Devil's Dictionary entry for Commonwealth, in describing a government entity:
COMMONWEALTH, n. An administrative entity operated by an incalculable multitude of political parasites.

This commonwealth's capitol's corridors view,
So thronged with a hungry and indolent crew
Of clerks, pages, porters and all attachés
Whom rascals appoint and the populace pays
That a cat cannot slip through the thicket of shins
Nor hear its own shriek for the noise of their chins.
On clerks and on pages, and porters, and all,
Misfortune attend and disaster befall!
May life be to them a succession of hurts;
May fleas by the bushel inhabit their shirts;
May aches and disease encamp in their bones,
Their lungs full of tubercles, bladders of stones;
May microbes, bacilli, their tissues infest,
And tapeworms securely their bowels digest;
May corn-cobs be snared without hope in their hair,
And frequent impalement their pleasure impair.
Disturbed be their dreams by the awful discourse
Of audible sofas sepulchrally hoarse,
By chairs acrobatic and wavering floors-
The mattress that kicks and the pillow that snores!
Sons of cupidity, cradled in sin!
Your criminal ranks may the death angel thin,
Avenging a friend whom I couldn't work in.
(*5) Stu'-pe-fac'-tion (n) 1. the state of being stupefied; stupor. 2. overwhelming amazement or astonishment.

(*6) Holy Willie's Prayer, by Robert Burns

[sixth stanza]
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear,
An' singing here, an' dancin there,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.

(*7) Foreign language speaking handymen; also doubled as radio-playing yard guards during the BDG's absences.

(*8) Black Beetles in Amber (A Celebrated Case), by Ambrose Bierce.
The Judge on the bench he looked awfully stern;
The District Attorney began to attorn;
The witnesses lied and the lawyers--O my!--
Sing too-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo-ral, i-yi.

The chap that defended her said: "It's our claim
That he loved us no longer and told us the same.
What else than we did could we decently do?--
Sing too-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo."
(*9) Con-tu'-sion (n) Injury (to tissue), usu. without laceration; bruise.

(*10) Purely literary license as to the "hot" part.

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Monday, August 1, 2011

The True Meaning of T.L.C. (Yes, Virginia, There Is A Grinch.)

T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli (TLC)
I hate to think of the last four years, wracking my brain, trying to think of the true meaning of TLC! All that wasted time! All that being Mr. Nice Guy, giving the benefit of the doubt to the three poor, miserable wretches ekeing out a living selling chips and sodas {and something weird wrapped in tortillas.} All that vain worry about the Barefoot Dirty Girls chilling their foodstuffs with ice flecked with doggie saliva, and upside down ice buckets used as step stools in the dirt.

Wherever did those hillbillies from the Contra Costa come up with this acronym?

  • Did it mean (as most people think) Tender Loving Care? Perish the thought! That is completely contradicted by the personalities, mannerisms and lives of the BDG's. It is not cosmically possible.
  • .
  • Maybe they named it after "T-Boz" (Tionne Watkins), "Left Eye" (Lisa Lopes), and "Chilli" (Rozonda Thomas), the BDG's alter egos in a girl band called TLC. Strong possibility here but, with such an horrible accident of naming, those girls do not deserve to be painted with the BDG's broad acid brush. The BDG's possessed absolutely NO musical abilities whatsoever and, besides, they fancied themselves more like these three:

  • Did it stand for (Rotund Red) Teresa Teressa Theresa Brassey, (Lyin') Lynda Allen and (Guts[y]) Corky Green? No, not if the name was chosen before T & L moved to Manteca, because flabby Guts[y] joined the ménage à trois later. Good try, though.
  • .
  • Could its intuitive etymology confirm Three Lying  _unts... uhn, Three Lying Culinaries? Getting warmer!
  • .
  • How about Three Little Pigs? (Aw, come on!) Colder.
Ok, Ok...
  • "L" is easy, it's a given - the embodiment and immortalization of L/L, or Lyin' Lynda.
  • .
  • "C" has a narrow array of possibilities, primarily Cxxt, Culinary, and Cod Liver Oil; or, in light of patterns being repeated recently with non-payment of taxes, the winner is Cheat. Now, something for:
  • .
  • "T"... Taxes? {No, too repetitious} Three? {No, too mundane for such goddesses} Hmm... Lie, Cheat,... Steal! Ahhh, ahhh... Thieving!

Three truly perfect descriptors for the Satan spawn downwind!

- The true meaning of TLC Catering -

Thievin', Lyin', Cheatin' Cxxts Culinaries

The Barefoot Dirty Girls have forever tainted the acronym, TLC. Whoever uses it in the future will suffer under its poisonous stigma. Never will I think of TLC the same way again.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Sierra High Pot Co-op Still Thrives!

Illegal marijuana cooperative at 810 Fishback Street,
with Sierra High School buildings in background.

Here is Manteca's definition of a marijuana cultivation cooperative:
“Medical marijuana collective,” “medical marijuana cooperative,” “collective,” or “cooperative” shall mean a location where medical marijuana is cultivated collectively or cooperatively by more than one qualified patient, person with an identification card or primary caregiver, as described in California Health and Safety Code Section 11362.775. (Chapter 8.35 CULTIVATION AND POSSESSION OF MEDICAL MARIJUANA)
Given the ineptitudes of Manteca law enforcement, the backsliding perversities of San Joaquin prosecutors, and county and state judges who greedily insist on rewriting law from the bench, even the "more than one" phrase has been adulterated to encompass all residents within one property. But even the debased definition of "more than one" user has limits; it does not allow for users from other properties (non-residents) to share in the cultivation on a property not their residence, unless such a "sharing" arrangement is registered as a cooperative or collective.

8.35.030 Cultivation restrictions.

F. Requirements for Collectives or Cooperatives. A cooperative or collective must file articles of incorporation with the state and conduct its business for the mutual benefit of its members. No business may call itself a cooperative or collective unless it is properly organized and registered as such a corporation under the Corporations or Food and Agriculture Code of California. Cooperatives or collectives must follow strict rules on organization, articles, elections, and distribution of earnings, and must report individual transactions from individual members each year. Cooperative or collective corporations are democratically controlled and are not organized to make a profit for themselves, as such, or for their members, as such, but primarily for their members as patrons. They must be nonprofit operations. The cooperative or collective must not purchase marijuana from, or sell to, nonmembers; instead, it must only provide a means for facilitating or coordinating cultivation projects, including the allocation of costs between members.
Observations of such obvious contempt for and breaking of law by Lyin' Lynda Sue Allen, Theresa Ann Brassey, and Cornelia Jane Green are commonplace. It has gone on for years, decades, documented in this blog, while Manteca officials sit by, eyes closed, gently rocking and humming in their corners. The three scofflaws named above vacated the property at 810 Fishback Street on Saturday, April 23, 2011, and turned the pot farming operation over to a relative. Yet they still return regularly (June 27 and July 27, pictured above) to collect their collective crop. Other arrangements have also been made for delivery service.

"Ah, ha!" you say, "Why are you telling this stuff to the Barefoot Dirty Girls? Won't they just turn around and register their co-op and make everything all legal-like on paper? After all, aren't they successful businesswomen who [illegally] ran an catering truck enterprise for decades from that very same property?"

All good questions. Here is the answer: It is prohibited for medical marijuana users, under both California state law and Manteca city code, to operate such a cooperative within 1,000 feet of a residential district or school - or, in this case, on an R-1 property and zero feet from Sierra High School. Yet, here are the BDG's doing it anyway - this is yet another example of "who they are."
MMC 8.35.030 Cultivation restrictions.

G. Collective or Cooperative Cultivation. For the collective or cooperative cultivation of marijuana, such cultivation shall be prohibited within any residential districts as defined by the Manteca Municipal Code or within one thousand feet of any residential district, school, recreation center, or youth center.

In October of last year, I posted this prediction: The Beginning of a New Illegal Business Operation? Well, here it is City of Manteca and Manteca Unified School District! A new, illegal drug business, in a residential district, right next to Sierra High School, right under your insentient* noses! I'm sure Manteca's police department will come up with one or another of their well-polished excuses for their incompetence [bad], official ignorance [worse], or active abetting [worst] of these prohibited activities. It would be nice if they spoke up and didn't mumble so.

(What is that dried green stuff... oregano?... in the pizza sauce?)
(I dunno... Duh! Let's ask Off'cer "H__b". He's gotta know his weed, if not the law.)

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* in·sen·ti·ent (adj) Devoid of sensation or consciousness; incapable of feeling or understanding things; inanimate.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

The New Manteca Cow-Tipping

Pic from Michael Bluejay's web page on Burning Man porta-potty etiquette
Two-Holey Latrines, Batman! Those Pop Warner parents and kids must eat some really weird shit! (Sorry... it's shit when it comes out their asses, not when it goes in their pie-holes.) I wonder if any of them actually got their feces *inside* the holding tank because the new A&A Shit Shack smells like an open pit latrine instead of a porta-potty. The stench is overpowering. I imagine the inside looking like this:

After the Manteca Unified School District meeting last night, I was told that the problem was resolved and the Crap Shack was moved. I looked the gent in the eye and told him the offending outhouse was still in place and stenching up the whole neighborhood - that is, they moved the wrong one! (If one was moved at all...)

Yup, the new one on Fishback is still *undeniably* in place on my driveway and a drive down the Wawona Street block this morning showed those three plastic turd buckets still in place. Somebody at MUSD or at A&A Shit Shacks has his/her head up his/her ass. (They must love the smell, or they're writing reflective haikus for decorating Burning Man porta-potties.)

The man had - shall we say, crappy? - intelligence from the field. It's a good thing a map was drawn for him for his use in a redux.

- - - - -

Burning Man Tips: Help for the Porta-Potty Shy

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Afternoon update:
The outhouse has been moved, but still upwind. Thirteen sections of fence, about 8 feet each, the shit can is now about 100 feet away.


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Life Lessons, Ambrose Bierce Style

Cover of edition by Dark Moon Prees
Last year I used the definition of Politics supplied by Amrose Bierce in his classic work, The Devil's Dictionary. (And in a fabulous introspect, A.B. vindicates his own contribution, ie., DICTIONARY, n. A malevolent literary device for cramping the growth of a language and making it hard and inelastic. This dictionary, however is a most useful work.) It is time again to turn to Mr. Bierce and his elastic dictionary, rather than Mr. Webster's tablets of stone, to interpret the events of the past few years, chronicled in the foregoing 300+ blog posts.

PAST, n. That part of Eternity with some small fraction of which we have a slight and regrettable acquaintance. A moving line called The Present parts it from an imaginary period known as the future. These two grand division of Eternity, of which the one is continually effacing the other, are entirely unlike. The one is dark with sorrow and disappointment, the other bright with prosperity and joy.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Note: In direct contrast to a blasted four-year PAST, there is a bright FUTURE ahead...
Future, n. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured [and our quiet undisturbed].
... at least, undying hope for that FUTURE.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Yes, indeed, "sorrow and disappointment" were the scanty gleanings of the PAST, scratched from the tainted rocks of 810 Fishback Street and the barren fields of 1001 W Center Street in Manteca, California. Those street addresses are/were, respectively, the gravel business yard of scofflaw neighbors and the even more detestible makers, but non-upholders, of local ordinances at City Hall.

Ah, a neighbor! A most interesting, complex, ephemeral, amorphous, necessary, inescapable concept. Our featured lexicographer elaborates thusly:
NEIGHBOR, n. One whom we are commanded to love as ourselves, and who does all she knows how to make us disobedient.
In the present case, all the neighbor problems stem from Lyin' Lynda's lies and deceptions. Of course, she and they will deny that and cop to no more than a fib.
Fib, n. A lie that has not cut its teeth. An habitual liar's nearest approach to truth.
Yes, everyone who intersects our existence is our neighbor, but it should be obvious that a contemporaneous, yet unmet and unknown, inhabitant on the far side of the globe receives far less of our expenditures of emotion, time, thought, or money than one who lives just opposite a surveyed property line.

  • Great Neighbors - those with whom you seek to associate; followers of the Mosaic Ten Commandments, the two Great Laws of Christ's Gospel, and the twelve points of the Boy Scout Law; friends, confidants, family by choice rather than birth, and so forth.
  • Good Neighbors - those who demonstrate restraint and accomodation, and otherwise mind their own business, not making their business yours, nor yours theirs.
  • Bad Neighbors - those who lack maturity or judgment; whose thoughtless actions and gossipy intrusions, though disturbing on occasion, are generally without malice.
  • Neighbors From Hell - those for whom the word "Hell" was invented in the first place to describe their effect on anyone who intersects their individual-sized worlds.
While the Devil's Dictionary does not have an entry for HELL, it does have entries for HEAVEN and HADES, so we can figure out what those places are, leaving all other exigencies as a working picture of HELL.
HEAVEN, n. A place where the wicked cease from troubling you with talk of their personal affairs, and the good listen with attention while you expound your own.
HADES, n. The lower world; the residence of departed spirits; the place where the dead live.

Among the ancients the idea of Hades was not synonymous with our Hell, many of the most respectable men of antiquity residing there in a very comfortable kind of way. Indeed, the Elysian Fields themselves were a part of Hades, though they have since been removed to Paris.

When the Jacobean version of the New Testament was in process of evolution the pious and learned men engaged in the work insisted by a majority vote on translating the Greek word "Aides" as "Hell"; but a conscientious minority member secretly possessed himself of the record and struck out the objectional word wherever he could find it. At the next meeting, the Bishop of Salisbury, looking over the work, suddenly sprang to his feet and said with considerable excitement: "Gentlemen, somebody has been razing 'Hell' here!"

Years afterward the good prelate's death was made sweet by the reflection that he had been the means (under Providence) of making an important, serviceable and immortal addition to the phraseology of the English tongue.
Having reviewed the attributes of various sorts of neighbors and their abilities to "raze Hell," we now turn our attention to the municipal corporation (such as the City of Manteca) charged with enforcing the laws which support the lofty goals of securing our persons, properties and rights, and enabling our pursuits of happiness. The devilishly exquisite entry for such a governmental entity is:

COMMONWEALTH, n. An administrative entity operated by an incalculable multitude of political parasites, logically active but fortuitously efficient.
This commonwealth's capitol's corridors view,
So thronged with a hungry and indolent crew
Of clerks, pages, porters and all attaches
Whom rascals appoint and the populace pays
That a cat cannot slip through the thicket of shins
Nor hear its own shriek for the noise of their chins.
On clerks and on pages, and porters, and all,
Misfortune attend and disaster befall!
May life be to them a succession of hurts;
May fleas by the bushel inhabit their shirts;
May aches and disease encamp in their bones,
Their lungs full of tubercles, bladders of stones;
May microbes, bacilli, their tissues infest,
And tapeworms securely their bowels digest;
May corn-cobs be snared without hope in their hair,
And frequent impalement their pleasure impair.
Disturbed be their dreams by the awful discourse
Of audible sofas sepulchrally hoarse,
By chairs acrobatic and wavering floors-
The mattress that kicks and the pillow that snores!
Sons of cupidity, cradled in sin!
Your criminal ranks may the death angel thin,
Avenging a friend whom I couldn't work in.

The references to sleep disturbing "audible sofas", "acrobatics", "kicks", and "snores" could just as well be stand-ins for a 24/7 cycling commercial icemaker; hours of manually scooped ice crashing into plastic buckets; rusty, squeaky wheelbarrows of those ice-filled buckets; slamming freezers, garbage bins, doors; and shouts of, "Where ya' at?!", all of which - and more! - were part and parcel of the open illegality known as TLC Catering operating during midnight hours on property not zoned for it.

Of course, the poetic intimations of psychedelic hallucinations may refer to the vast amounts of marijuana consumed by these hellish business owners. Which also explains their absolute absence of thought regarding anyone else in the world trying to sleep during their early morning bumbulations.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Living next to these hellions in this backwater cow town brought a few life lessons home.

#1 - Shoot first, ask questions later. (Hey, easy there, trigger-happy MPD! Just kidding...)

O.K. ...

#1 - Noise, n. A stench in the ear. Undomesticated music. The chief product and authenticating sign of civilization. (Closer, but still not quite the life lessons referred to.)

Alright, already! Please, have:

#1 - Patience, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as virtue.

#2 - Experience, n. The wisdom that enables us to recognize as an undesirable old acquaintance the folly that we have already embraced.
To one who, journeying through night and fog,
Is mired neck-deep in an unwholesome bog,
Experience, like the rising of dawn,
Reveals the path that he should not have gone.
..................Joel Frad Bink

#3 - Existence, n.
A transient, horrible, fantastic dream,
Wherein is nothing, yet all things do seem:
From which we're wakened by a friendly nudge
Of our bedfellow Death, and cry: "O fudge!"

#4 - The law is a[n] ass. (Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, Chapter 51)
Lawyer, n. One skilled in circumvention of the law.
Justice, n. A commodity which, in a more or less adulterated condition, the State sells to the citizen as a reward for his allegiance, taxes and personal service.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

My sincerest wish for the Barefoot Dirty Girls, Yellow, Red and Green, is that they hastily and forever enter into:

Oblivion, n. The state or condition in which the wicked cease from struggling and the dreary are at rest. Fame's eternal dumping ground. Cold storage for high hopes. A place where ambitious authors meet their works without pride and their betters without envy. A dormitory without an alarm clock.


Friday, July 22, 2011

Political Shit

Uh... Uhh... I gotta go Number 1 !
This morning, an A&A Crap Shacks truck was blocking my driveway (using it as a loading/unloading zone) while delivering the newest addition to the sights and smells of Manteca. The driver only shrugged and claimed to be a simple delivery man, simply following orders, when I asked if it could be installed away from my driveway.

Whose orders? Manteca Unified School District? or their renters, Pop Warner Football and Cheer (Manteca Chargers)?

Who woulda thought taking a dump was such a political matter?

For many years, Pop Warner Football and Cheer has been renting the practice field at Sierra High. For all those years, the rental contracts must not have allowed use of school bathrooms. (Oh my, oh my, I've got a bladder disability! I demand the right to pee!) Suddenly, last year the whiners got MUSD to install Port-A-Potties at every school gate on the Wawona Street practice fields. Now every recreational walker who circles the block gets three foul snootfuls each time they walk that leg.

This year - in fact, this very morning - the locust plague browbeat MUSD into putting a shit can at one of the two Fishback gates.

Wouldn't you know it? The gate right next to my driveway! This is the straw that broke this camel's back!

For four seasons I have put up with the block party hordes blocking my driveway, both to drop off and pick precious Johnny or sweet little Susie. Those who stay the entire 3-4 hours every weeknight for six months bust out the beach chairs and coolers and swill away. Instead of setting the example for Johnny and Susie by going potty before they leave home (somewhere right here in Manteca, no doubt), they bitch and moan about not having a pot to pee in while "helicoptering" around their cute little athletic star.

So here it is, in a view from my porch.

Ah... Uhh... now I gotta go Number 2 !

This A&A Crap Shack happens to be directly in the path of the prevailing NW winds (which any pilot, cyclist, or homeless person knows about, but not school facilities people?), so my house, which uses actual windows and doors for ventilation, will now be laden, day and night, with airborne molecules of potty chemicals and ripening human waste.

(As a matter of note, in the background of pic Number 1 is the Daniel Teicheira Memorial Stadium at Sierra High School, home of the Timberwolves.)

Nancy Teicheira happens to have been reelected as a school board trustee in 2010, and it is she who received my first telephone call regarding this obscenity. After consulting with the the MUSD Superintendent, Jason Messer, there were promises to move the shit can and to review the possibilty of relocating the gate away from my driveway. The callbacks next week will be encouraging, I hope. (After all, it was MUSD that got Manteca's police off their asses when my other neighbors were growing marijuana openly next to Sierra High.)

Precedent for not using this gate, with its attendant congestion and plastic outhouses, comes from MUSD actions on the southern side of the Fishback/Mason property two doors southward. That gate, which did not even generate the same level of traffic congestion, was welded shut a couple years ago. I wonder what level of complaint was made to have that effect?

Pop Warner Footballers - mentioned in my very first post and again a little later.

- more later -