My Friend Barry

As the sun sets on Day 7 at The Scottsdale Links Resort, I can’t help but feel I owe the assholes at the Legacy Golf Resort of Phoenix an apology for considering them — during my stay last week — the most virulent form of Knothead to ever flip-flop their off-season holiday feet across The Valley of The Sun.

I’m not entirely ready to issue said apology but I see that their conversation making in loose clusters in the parking lot pales in comparison to the loutish braying-from-balcony to be found here at The Links. And another thing, I know The Scottsdale Links sounds fancy but in fact, no. 

Imagine if you will, Bedrock’s Butte Crack Public Housing development designed by Mr. Slate; throw in a fountain with the water dyed Distilled Windex No. 12; a pool area with teen-shopping music emitting from faux rocks; a large television that on a recent evening had swimmers and loungers enthralled by a Bonanza episode plus smaller satellite TVs all tuned to a hockey game and you have the paradise that is The Scottsdale Links.

Also the golf course isn’t even their golf course. The least of amenity-deficit scandals in my opinion.

But at least they’ve got Turner Classic Movies so I don’t see what all this bitching is about. At this very moment I’m watching a Shirley Temple movie (she’s about to lose the Civil War; fucking Yankees! But wait, there’s one good Union soldier, well not good but not a monster…) with the volume off while listening to a Blues show on the radio; plus eating spaghetti and drinking heavily. (Later the heavy drinking turned out to be two-thirds of a glass of Bonterra Sauvignon Blanc — yet another cry for help.)

However, I have made a friend: Barry the Barrel Cactus.  It’s a shame we did so poorly at our family activity.

He blames me, I can tell.
(See below.)









By The Time I Get To Tease It


Suppose you’ve got, oh, five hours to kill in downtown Phoenix. What to do? Well there’s always missing the turn-off over and over to the Curly Tail BBQ and resigning yourself to a couple of Mickey’s Big Mouths and a sack of Beer Doh!nuts from the Keg ‘n Kreme Glazed and Brews, then belching through a showing of Sausage Party followed by heading over to the car dealership and putting no money down, no interest for 6-months on a new Chevy Silverado
But that was yesterday.

So naturally I opted for the $70 Bridal Updo at The Coiffure Salon. I’ve never had a Bridal Updo!
I thought — gee, it might be weird mentioning how I came in because of the air-conditioning and having nowhere else to go and wanting to get the Beer Nut smell out of my hair — but once I started telling them about how real super Chad was and how his sister and mom were flying in from Myrtle Beach and how we had our rings custom-made out of burl and the big reception at The Curly Tail, well I’m fairly sure I fit right in and it didn’t seem weird at all. Here’s my bridesmaids!
As you can see, poor Francie ended up with more of a Doggie-do than an Updo.

I Couldn’t Possibly Comment…

Dear NPR,

I have recently learned of the closing of the comments section on I also understand with this exit go all previous comments.
I left but one or two contributions over the years but feel certain they were of the most edifying variety. I feel I would benefit imeasureably from reading them again before they vanish; mIght I ask for assistance in locating them?
They may be found doing a search containing the following key words and phrases:

Volkischer Beobacter
Bike chain-scented candle
Vocal hangnail
Squidly Do-Right
Charred vacuum cleaner bags
Ira Flato souund dru k
Popcorn balls

Thank you ever so much.


One day, when I’m a grandmother — or, you know, one of the nice ones who doesn’t complain about the Reddi Wip at the Senior Luncheon — or, you know, a decrepit lunatic blocking the Coke machine — children will ask me “What did you do in the Great Culture Wars of the late 20th and early 21st century, you crazy old bag?”

And will I tell them of marches, petitions, phone banks, defacing of Yvonne Beckmeyer’s Junior Birchy Birch Society book bag? No sir.
I will tell them of the time I single-handedly prevented a tiny (we’re talking fire hydrant-sized) 84-year-old lady named Harriet from purchasing a Dick Morris book in the summer of 2008.

It called upon reserves I didn’t know I held, yet the struggle, the sacrifice, was worth it to preserve our democracy, give hope to our children and our children’s children, and deprive Mr. Morris of the thirty-nine dollars and forty-two cents or whatever percentage therein due to him from said exchange.

I’ve never been comfortable talking about this dazzling heroism and I don’t tell you this to make your own efforts seem flabby, useless, weak; pathetic in their extreme — but to inspire you forward. Not by trying anything as fearless as this — no, obviously not. But to encourage you on, ever on.

Thank me? No,  please — no need. Just knowing I’ve been of help in some small yet perfectly formed way is all the thanks I require.

I shall, with alacrity, take questions below.

Thank you and in the words of Tiny Tim, God bless the people of America (and their superior nutmeat exports), God bless Father Christmas, God bless Mr. Scrooge.

God bless us, everyone!

Grace Slick to the White Courtesy Rabbit please!

Following my 16 unsuccessful bids to obtain a seat in Parliament representing Sudbury South, I was forced to take a position as a White Courtesy Rabbit at The Bangalore Airport. This was a very low point for me.
In addition to the tedium of having people talk into my ear excitedly, the phone cord would tangle-up in my tail in a most unsettling fashion.

It was at this time I began working on the plot of what was to become my first brilliant novel “Charing Cross Road — Hurry — Not Quite — Almost — Nearly — After this lorry — Oops, Go back”

It was wildly successful — in certain circles. And I went on to enjoy notoriety and acclaim yet I never quite lost the political bug as it were; the itch, the scratch, the tickily feeling all over.

So I returned to the campaign trail!

(to be continued… )

Meet George Bunnington

Meet George Bunnington!

Your Labour candidate for parliament.

Below are George’s various slogans used in his 16-unsuccessful-runs for office in Sudbury South.

1940 I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and fake coins with my face on them!
Vote Bunnington!

1943 Victory In Europe, Bunnington In Vegetation
George Bunnington For The Win!

1945 Peace for Britain, Prosperity With Bunnington
Vote Labour This November!

1947 If I Could Just Get In!
For The Love of God
Vote Bunnington!

1948 (By-election due to death of incumbent, Sir Purnup Hoggle)
Hustings Ho!
Bunnington In ’48!

He’s Back For Britain
Labour Sudbury South Bunnington

Vote For Me?
George Bunnington?

Yes A Ceramic Rabbit, But Have You Seen The Other Guy?
George Bunnington, MP For Sudbury South

Here’s A Photo Of An Old Poster; I’m Out Of Money
Bunnington Now!

New Hope For A New Decade
George Bunnington For SS!

Even Rabbits Get Tired of Running
Could Be You’re Last Chance: Bunnington!

Wish me Luck!
Buoyant With Bunnington

Not Your Father’s Bunnington
Nor His Father’s Either, Apparently

Why Indeed?
Labour’s Most Seasoned Candidate

Aw, C’mon!
Bunnington, Ear ‘e Is Again!

Keeping Delusion Alive in ’75!
George For Today’s Tomorrow or Tomorrow’s Today or..
Oh pfff!

I’ve Got A Golden Acorn


Right. Here it is the last day of February and if I don’t get anything posted on this here blog it will make for the first time I have gone a whole month without posting something on this
And good thing it’s a Leap Year or I wouldn’t have made it.

This is bad. And another thing that is bad is that if it wasn’t for the above paragraph and this one here, I wouldn’t have anything written at all.

No — it would just be another silly photo with one or two sentences which is what things have been reduced to. Pathetic! Have I already posted about how pathetic my posting are? I probably have and don’t even remember! Pathetic!

But I’m saving my insights for, uh, something. Not sure what yet. But they’re being safely and securely squirreled away in high quality nut-cache fashion.

Which leads to this photo of a building in a park with a squirrel on it. He seems to have an acorn. A Golden Acorn!!!

What Can It All Mean?


Here we are, near the stubby end of January, and I still haven’t figured out the meaning of the illustration on my free calendar from G&G Market (two convenient locations). Is the man sitting on or emerging from that book?

And if he is being delivered from it — Alien-style — how did he know to wear a white shirt?

And the bubbles. Surely the bubbles mean… something?

Ah yes — now that a dam busters army of Jumbuctopii (The Wonder Jumbo-underpants drying Octopus) has arrived — it all makes sense!