Those Darn Kids and Their Technology....get outta my yard, youtube!!

Some things have to be shared....notice that I and I alone created this video. Basically, what I did was travel back in time a la Christopher Reeves (too bad that penny messed things up), and set up a small webcam in the bunker.

Had I been smarter, I would have brought several copies of Action Comics No.1 back with me....

Ahhhhh....back'a in the saddle....

Hi, Fans of the Blog...or FaBlo's if you prefer!

Well, well, this was a week... of changes. I changed my clothes, my hair, my face, man, I ain't gettin' nowhere...damn you, Bruce Springsteen, you awkward dancing bastard, get outta my head!!



By the way, you see that offputting way that Bruce dances? Certainly would look out of place at a salsa club, wouldn't it, gang? He got that from me...

...happened so one day that I was trying to start the lawn mower, and it was being a total Palin. Not wanting to lose my temper and toss it in the neighbor's hot tub (again), I instead vented my teary rage by dancing around the mower like I had a brick in the back of my pants and suffering dreadfully locked elbow syndrome. Success in life, as my dancing style embarrassed the mower into starting, just to make me stop. Suck it, 6.5HP Briggs & Stratton...E-Z-Start, my ass! Bruce was in the neighborhood, trying to conscript ideas from the working class for songs about the working class. He used our bathroom (number 1 on the pop charts that week), and stole a towel...


As I was saying, my beloved FaBlo's, a week of changes!! I am back in healthcare after several years of supporting illegitimately-born bankers and of course, helping to foist tons of unwanted khaki pants on an innocent public. I must say...the fit of me to healthcare is quite good. Knowing that, though I am not a doctor nor do I play one on television (if I did, I would probably be Dr. McScreamy, an impatient, gruff, but lovable sociopath of a doctor who cures people by screaming at them, venting his spleen while removing theirs), it is personally satisfying knowing the end result of my labors means that a patient somewhere is receiving better care.


If Bruce Springsteen would shut up for a moment, I can share that someone has to empty those Sharps containers...just gotta reach in there, barehanded, and pull out all those used syringes. Mmmmmm....free insulin. That someone is...me. Yes. Think about that the next time you see a Sharps Ccntainer in the water closet.

Sometimes, when I get a sticky-owee from a needle-wheedle, as we say in my field, I make a face like this...

All this to say...I am glad to be back in healthcare. There are many, many rewards to this field that you will find nowhere else.

Now, if you will excuse, I must go to the Lady's necessity...I just got paged that there is a Sharps container with my name on it....wonder if there is some cake in there....mmmmmm...pointy-hurty cake.

Warning!! Government Predators on the Prowl! And Ted Raimi!

Hi, all,

Hopefully this will reach you in time to prevent you from being hung up in a cocoon of sugar in your basement, to be slowly consumed by space alien clowns, victims of U.S. government-sanctioned predators known as Census Takers. Some call them... the Clipboard Creatures. I call mine for dinner.

According to my right-wing friends currently arming to overthrow the public works department of Remington, Virginia, this is all part of a vast (read: obese) government conspiracy to steal shit from us under the guise of collecting politically viable statistics. Valuable, natural resources such as our Little Lulu comics...(Don't you agree that if Little Lulu applied some makeup, she could trade up on the dating scene and not be limited to that red-headed cheapskate? Maybe change that smelly dress she has been wearing for 70 years.)

...or that swatch of hair we ripped from the bloody scalp of international film star, Ted Raimi. Ted would be Little Lulu's beau if she could get her stuff together, and act like she cared about herself.
(Yes, Ted, we all pine for Lulu)


Either way, we here (yes, I will) at D-and-D are more than a collection of snarky, thinly-veiled mental illness masquerading as written brilliance. We are, like a certain Trojan, here for your protection. Since America has lessened its reliance on brains, and can only read lists, we offer the following for protecting against these Census Takers, or Clipboard Critters...I am repeating that again once more because you forgot what they are called, didn't you?

Defeating the Census Takers

1. When you hear that doorbell or that knock or see that light flash, scream real loudly in a Canadian accent (like a French accent, but more meaty, reminiscent of fat-laden ham hocks) "I'll kill you, you all-count sumbitch!! I was defecating and you just made it go back up!"

2. Open the door naked, and ask them if they want a strumpet. Then giggle, correct your error...."Oh, my exposed genitalia, I meant crumpet!! Up here, perv, I am up here."

3. Throw your recliner out the window, followed by a Steve Guttenberg film...any one will do. Something good, followed by something stinky is the message you are sending.

4. Go out the back door, then to your front yard, and roll around, swatting at imaginary bees. This is effective even if there is snow on the ground. Which is the case in suckhole Wisconsin, which has snow 53 weeks out of the year.

5. Invite the Clipboard Critter in, then proceed to speak in tongues, and answer every question with a quote from Monty Python...nie nie nie!

6. Slow clap a la Duckie from Pretty in Pink (not spelled with a Y, like it matters....who are we kidding? She was never going to do Duckie...not when she had a perfect pretty boy with money courting her. Why is that girls never go for the oddball, fun, witty nerd who gets them and treats them good? Why do they have to go for the pretty studly boy who is going to crap all over them, and then leave them as soon as they hook up with that whorish busgirl at Hooters? It's just not fair...poor Duckie. Of course, having Duckie as your nickname is admittedly not a babe-attracting move.)
7. Answer all questions but only after you cram about 39 pieces of gum in your mouth (if you are Deaf or a native ASL speaker, chew 78 pieces and then spread the gum on your hands). Offer to rub it in their hair.

8. Keep saying "Helen Keller" over and over to every query or comment of the Clipboard Creature. Don't stop...ever. Why? Helen Keller loathed Deaf people, which is a personal thing for we here (yes, I will) at D-and-D. Not a vendetta thing, mind you.

9. Sniff the air repeatedly and suspiciously. Ask the Clipboard Creature..."Did you expel gas from your lower back onto that recliner? Did you? Because it smells of your offal." Then offer to share some leftovers from Taco Bell...

10. Embrace and do not let go, not even when it becomes awkward. If you hug the Clipboard Creature just right, it won't become awkward. It could even lead to a 'meet cute' story for the grandchildren that you currently ignore because you hate them. Afterwards, you can go to StarBucks and mock the dweebs there with their little laptops, acting like they are writing a novel or blogging about the scone they just ate. "Oh, that scone...it had seeds in it, and you know how seeds trigger my brain rash? Well I ate it anyways as I need protein to finish my novel about the anorexic train engineer/serial killer detective who hates Deaf people. Oh, yes, I am indeed an...Artist."

Be safe out there, they are coming....

It's a Hard Noggin' Life for...Dutchola

Hi, Blog-Lovers!!

I am a bit late getting this off, and had dithered over whether to actually post this...please send Gramm-maw and the children out of the room before continuing...

Apparently, favorite blog victim, Count Dutchola, he of the sewer pennies fame, caught cold a few weeks ago. Being of a certain austere mind when it comes to the expenditure of even one of his precious sewer pennies, he decided a cost effective (read: cheap bastard reluctant to part with a dime) cure could be found at the local bathhouse. Or as is known in the common vernacular, the YMCA.

Completely starkers, and ignoring the rule requiring towels to be strategically placed for modesty and hygienic reasons , Dutchola strolled into the sauna and took a seat on the wooden benches. The chief thought running through his head, was, as always, pertaining to how much money he was saving by his continued practice of cheap-bastardness.

Out, damned cold, and farewell, $10 co-pay at the local physician's, reverberated in his mind.

Dutchola felt the healing heat and steam invigorating his lungs, almost as exiting and effective as the thought this was costing him...nothing.

It was hot...and getting hotter. He was starting feel better...mmmm...bet hotter means a better cure...a mistake he was soon to regret.

He swooned, and before anyone could catch him, he fetched his head hard upon the smelly, greasy floor of the sauna. His legs splayed open, and Dutchola ended up in a most unladylike position. The rawness of which can be best described through the medium of...sushi. I apologize for the blueness of this post, as this is normally a family blog.


Eventually, after everyone had a chance to photograph him as "Nude Dutch Male Prostitute Trawling for Business", he was revived.

He reported that he had quite a lump on his head, and his ribs were sore. But, he smiled...

...it had cost nothing. And he has gotten some calls because of the photo. Which meant free dinners, and who knows where that would lead? Maybe a second free dinner if he played his cards right!

Heal sooner, my Dutch friend, and may sewers continue to barf free pennies at your feet.

NOT the last post, but funny...I laughed so hard, I peed blood.

I am not laughing AT this, mind you. I am laughing because millions and billions of dollars and they can't spend 5 dollars for some encryption and authentication software?!?

"Grammy, the insurgents peeked up my drone-hole!!" Seriously, military-type and defense contractor people...encryption and authentication...look it up!! My fricking cell phone requires that I enter a passcode so that I can listen to voice mails from my imaginary friends, including the ones with hideous social skills who insist on working in professions requiring great people skills. The passcode on my phone is "ba ba loooey!!" Also, the one about Mischa the Dog works too. Go ahead, damn dirty insurgents, listen to my voice mail from my mother about how the neighbor showed her his dingus again while they were re-shingling the roof on her double-wide.

Anyone want to explain why this happened? The drone, not the dingus, I should clarify. It is not like the money is being spent to create jobs or to provide decent health care, or to study the effects of oatmeal on my complexion (resolved: it sticks to my skin, but tastes real good with some sugar!!).

I am having second thoughts about deep-sixing this blog as I get to be an ass so cleverly that it delights me. What do you say , my two faithful readers, and that one odd lurking reader whoever says anything but reads silently, moving her lips and sounding out the harder words...like duh? Should I keep going?

Just post a comment or send an email to: ohmygawdcharles@totallyrocksmarryme.wordyone.com.