Monday, April 4, 2011

I'll Not Miss Them When They Go...

April 1, 2011

"Oprah Lyin' Lynda has been consistently listed with Jesus, Elvis and Cleopatra (really!)
as among those who have had the mightiest impact on the world. In general,
you have to be really, truly dead to have such stuff said about you."
(Eagerly anticipating her blessed entry into eternity,
I've already written the Requiem and Eulogy.)
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The endlessly entertaining antics of the Barefoot Dirty Girls go on... uh,...endlessly. The libretto for this soap opera has endless pointless hopelessly convoluted plot twists that reveal the true motives of the characters.

We already know most of the narcissistic egotisms of Lyin' Lynda, but now the paparazzi aspect of her harrassing stalker personality has emerged full blown. No less than three times in the 56 minutes starting at 6:54 a.m., she and her ganja babe, Roll 'Em Red, "paced" between their house and mine. Showing some sort of Amazon tribal solidarity, L/L and R/R were wearing a uniform, their patented two-faced reversible sports jackets - a highly appropriate choice for them. (As a small credit to their artless tastes, however, they at least had the jackets turned to the same "face;" it just wouldn't be right otherwise.) At last, L/L had a chance to put her camera to use, attempting to take pictures of me in my side yard not viewable on her surveillance cameras. The Death's Head grin on her tightly lined, in-danger-of-splitting, leathery face confirmed the diagnosis.

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Speaking of sweet ganja babes*... The Kid in the boxy little car came over again, third day in a row. (Damn! got that song, "Little Boxes," running in my head again.) This time he brought another old woman with him, who greeted Auntie Lyn with a hug and R/R with a handshake. Cork-Screwed, who had been bouncing around working in the back in only her training bra (again), came streaking up to the half-together gazebo to retrieve her black T-shirt (who wears black on an eighty-plus degree day?), only to find the Kid and the whole fam-damily as witnesses to her exhibitionism; she rated only a nod. ("Note to self," thought the visitor, "I'm not leaving my Kid around this s--t.") (2nd note: All day long that shirt was on and off more often than Lyin' Lynda's mouth was flapping.)

What C.J. thinks she looks like...
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Rotunda Red

Speaking of sweet ganja babes - and beyond - Roll 'Em Red is not built for... shall we call it "naturism"?... but a different vice. As the deadly dull visit  love fest wore on, Auntie Red and the Kid strolled out to the MJ Sheds for a little one-on-one education. {wink! wink!} Who better to bring up the next generation than the brightest of apothecary to the BDG's, the one with a little book-learnin' and tons of hash-slingin' and vast experience a season in DIY herbiculture and drug-craft, all legal-like? (Go online, pay your $125 and get a "420 card," which bestows instant brilliance on the recipient, and then proceed with your descent from Dope... to Dopier... to Dopiest... to BDG.) Good luck with that education.

As a witness to the BDG's long history of evasion, pretense, and prevaricating, that last little episode confirms that, even being watched, these three will skirt and break this sketchiest of California's drug laws, the Compaaaasionate Use Act of 1996.

To wrap up the visit, the BDG's escorted Mama Bear and her cub to the East End to interest them in one of their innumerable vehicles. Odd choice, though, the Trash Truck couldn't get it up start up. Nope, Cork-Screwed had to go wheel out her sex toys battery charger and juice the old girl up. Not to worry, Kid, it's for the best. That beater's owners myopically missed the State of California's amnesty period for gross polluters. That truck should be turned in whenever it goes off the property.

Trash Truck

Besides, your Auntie Lyn, the Angel of Trash, still wants to be buried in her beloved Trash Truck... or in the relic MFPU. She doesn't know which, won't decide, can't figure out how to decide... you get the picture.

While hanging out working earlier in the day out in the East End, a few long items were loaded into Lyin' Lynda's Big-Ass Black Pickup, which Cork-Screwed hauled away, returning unladen 32 minutes later.

A semi-official source (albeit unreliable, even adversarial) revealed that all the BDG's frenetic purging activity (including Cork-Screwed's obsession with weed-killer?) is prelude to them moving. Let me tell you, that was a real knee-slapper! Someone was lying - again! still! (Not the Oregon story again!) I didn't know whether to laugh or cry - or, that is, guffaw in derision or shed tears of joy. My bet is on this being a desperate repetition of the same, lame deflective lie that Lyin' Lynda shoots off whenever the heat gets too hot. Like a dog returns to her vomit, and a sow to her wallow, Lyin' Lynda always returns to her cesspool of lies and deceptions.**

The crying shame is that certain people (her targets) are paralyzed by her verbal flash-bang and actually believe her, or at least doubt themselves, long enough for her to shift the focus and assiduously shovel blame onto someone else with more out-and-out lies, semi-plausible half-truths, oily innuendos, and non-stop yammering. She lies and self-justifies because she knows she evaporates if she's quiet, yet not realizing she is already devoid of any redeeming social value (one definition of pornography, Miller v. California, 1973.) Those who believe her or gullibly repeat her mutterings are patsies, deceived accessories - part of the problem, not the solution.

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* Michael Franti & Spearhead - Ganja Babe

I wanna make it slow
I wanna make it slow
Make me feel ya

Heavy medicine
ya see my eyes are feeling red again
I'm bringin' light
like Thomas funky Edison
been in the desert for forty seven days
Purple Haze
the poison that I tasted never changed
turn up the woofers so I can feel the beat
vibrate my belly like a bomb in harmony
summer heat
my back is sticking to me to the seat
bare feet
tank top and shorts is all ya need
summer breeze
I'm feelin' kinda fine
I'm rollin with my shorty all the time
wind and grind lovely shake your behind
cinnamon skin be bringing sin to my mind
but whether or not the weather's hot
or the weather's cold
I'm wrapping her like a blanket with my whole soul
so that she can feel me
like Coca Cola I'm the woo-o-oh oh the sweet thing
my girl lollipop she growing mad crops
she rollin' herbs everyday
at about 4 o' clock
tick tock
strike the hammer while the Iron's hot
ooh girl watcha got cooking in the pot
see Mary Mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow?
Hydrophonic ultra supersonic
or does it grow naturally slow?

Ganja babe my sweet ganja babe
I love tha way ya love me and the way ya misbehavin'
ganja babe my sweet ganja babe
come wake body-ody take my mind away

Everybody get down and do the boogaloo
just like the cover of I want you
yoo hooo look watcha gonna do
watcha gonna do when the rent comes due
round up the posse and call up the crew
5 bucks at the door and ya bring ya own booze
call ya neighbor 'cause they can come too
be sure and bring ya records 'cause I only got a few
so baa baa black sheep have you any wool
yes sir, yes sir a nickle bagful
one for my partner one for my crew
some for my ganja baby she needs 2
cuz just like me they want to be... high!


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** 2 Peter 2:22  The dog is turned to her own vomit again, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire.


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