Sometimes “toldja so” is the right thing to say

Never let it be said that I neglected to say “I told you so”. The only problem being that where it was told was a site that no longer hosts my drivel. That it’s likely not you who was the you who was told, well… let’s just call it artistic license. I went to high school with a girl who paid two hundred bucks for an artistic license — she used it to buy alcohol.

The subject at hand: Electronic footprints. I have argued that it wouldn’t be long before the fascist attack mutts started using digital trails to determine who was at or near a crime scene at or near the time of the crime. If you’re within the jurisdiction of the United States of America and are somehow unaware of the many reasons why this should frighten you, ask your mommy to explain it when she’s done reading this to you.

There is, though, some good news: The United States of America will soon collapse and the edifices of its former power will be great places for the formerly powerless to host outstanding parties.


Yay For Snow!

Something very much like winter has finally come to Dinkytown. It’s presently 0°F with several inches of snow on the ground — I’d almost forgot how to work snow and, as predicted, now miss the garage. At this time last year when we wanted to drive somewhere I just shoveled the driveway, backed the truck out, and away we went. Not so any more… gotta shovel and sweep the porch, then shovel a path to the truck, then start the engine before brushing the snow from the front of the roof to the front of the hood and scraping the ice from the glass. I don’t really enjoy the scraping part.

Next year at this time we’ll have a carport and maybe a block heater and be back to shoveling just a bit and going. The block heater will require an exterior outlet we don’t have and I don’t know if we’ve capacity enough to add another branch to the distribution panel — there are empty spaces for circuit breakers but I’ve no idea what’s upstream of them. If there’s capacity enough I’ll soon be doin’ me some wahrin’.

Every year when we get enough snow to make it entertaining I like to visit the ewe’s tube to look at moving images of folks in cars being outsmarted by cold water. It makes me glad that I no longer commute twenty miles each way over on the much more densely populated Front Range. That was at times a little more excitement than I really needed. Dinkytown is one of those wide spot in the road towns with signs on the highway at both ends saying “Speed Limit 25MPH Unless Otherwise Posted” and the only posting otherwise is on the state highway where it’s 30MPH.  We’re situated such that every journey of more than a mile is entirely optional, with the lone exception being the pot shop 48 miles distant, but I can get by until the weather clears when I must.

As right now. I ran out of weed just in time for the weather to turn, dammit. I’m not going until Thursday, between storms. If that’s as bad as life’s gonna suck I can deal with it, but it still sucks.

So yay for snow, but fuck being out of pot. 😀


Dysfunction Junction

My sister finally reached out on Saturday night, in an email message, saying “We are going to need to be in touch regarding Mom’s passing”. I haven’t found the desire to respond yet.

I had thought that our relationship was just about perfect: I hadn’t seen her since 1992 and she ghosted me ten years ago. I liked it that way. When we were children it was easy for me to excuse her unreasonably low opinion and poor treatment of me, as it was the role she was trained for and expected to perform. It’s never been a wonder that we did not bond as brother and sister… I’ve tried reopening that door several times, and each time what came through the opening were signs that her psychological disturbance was progressive. And not just in her opinion of and behavior toward me: Every time I’ve heard her speak to her children it was pure passive-aggressive manipulation. Though I’ve developed the habit of tuning out those parts of phone calls during which parents talk to their children (in order to maintain respect for the parent), I noticed the manipulative speech the very first time and was careful to listen from then on for exception to the rule — none ever came. I don’t know what I don’t know about someone I know so little, but my assumption is that cuntitude remains her normal way of being.

I just don’t want to deal with her, at all, ever. She’s a very unpleasant person. She can never say something directly, like “I would like to discuss distribution of the estate with you” — it’s got to be “we are going to need to be in touch regarding mom’s passing”. She might use the more direct form if she’s angry, but at that point it would still be deceptive phrasing because it would be, in her view, a non-negotiable demand: we are going to discuss the estate now. She is ALL about the mindfuck.

I was there while it was being done to her so I do understand that she didn’t choose to have or to be defined by her psychological disturbance. I also understand that it’s not a fault to be intolerant of it…


One day soon I’ll call the sibling-approximate entity but it’s likely to get brutal. She’s going to go for the mindfuck because she doesn’t know how not to, and I’m going to shut her down immediately because I’ve forgotten how not to. It will be a wholly unsatisfying exchange and if there were no possibility of money to come from it I wouldn’t force myself to endure it.

I’ll be glad when our relationship goes back to normal. With the rat bastards both dead there’ll be no reason I’ll ever have to hear from her again.


Snow shovel fuel

It finally happened: We got a real snow storm. The prognosticators initially called for three to five inches, then after the storm began they reduced it to one to three. We got at least six. Makes me wonder why they bother going to college. We could just ask the nearest random farmer, “Hey Vern, how much snow we gonna git?” and get at least as accurate a forecast. Unless that farmer relies upon the toobs, anyway.

I’ve just cleared the hood and windshield of ye olde truck, AKA The Doat, in the interest of financial responsibility. In Amethyst’s view of the world, apparently though not explicitly, there are two ways to clear snow and ice from a windshield: an ice scraper with the husband attachment, or the defroster. Not only does it completely scrog the fuel economy to rely upon the defroster in that way, it brings the risk of flooding the HVAC plenum — a box behind the dash which houses the heater core and AC evaporator (the cold part), which receives its intake air through the vent between the base of the windshield and the hood. The plenum is designed with a condensation drain, but it doesn’t function as a drain when it’s clogged with ice and, I worry (perhaps needlessly) that the pressure of expanding ice might compromise that heater core I installed a few years ago. I’d be happy to hold the experience of removing the entire dash as a once-was-enough experience.

Otherwise: so far so good. In addition to the playhouse utility bills being only a small fraction of those of the rented house, the area from which I must shovel snow is also a small fraction of what was required there. Once the carport is on, between the parking place and the plowed private road will be a span of about six feet. Fuckin’ A. Ah kin do dat. Today it’s maybe two feet so there’s no reason to bother that small area with a shovel. I just shifted the transfer case into 4WD so the witchy wife can just get into gear and go to start her journey to the place of works in the morning. After she warms the engine for entirely too long…

It is indeed a blessing to have outgrown the habit of worrying about non-worries. Yeah, the fuel economy goes to shit because of the excessive warm-up time, but it helps to extend the oil change interval so all I can say about it is what the fuck. I’m calling it break even. It’s been a long time since I was compelled to scoot on my back through snow to get under a vehicle in order to freeze various body parts while working on it and I hope to keep the streak alive. Besides, the fuel in the tank came from the station down the street from the pot shop which costs thirty cents less per gallon than Dinkytown fuel. Rewarded behaviors are repeated… gotta go buy weed, Darlin’, the truck needs gas. 🙂

I visited said pot shop the other day, and with no great preference I just went for whatever was on special. The savings are, if one accepts consumer-cultured dipshit thinking, like getting a tank of gas for free. I bumbled into a strain that I’ve found exceptional for relief of chronic pain, and due to recent experience I can say that it is more effective than the maximum dose naproxen sodium. The high tends more toward couch-lock than I’d like, but I spend most of my time sitting on my ass anyway so I can deal with it. Pain relief with the only side effect being a pleasant high? Yeah, sign me up.

We randomly bumped into a woman who moved away from Dinkytown many moons ago and has recently returned. It seems that her brother was involved in some kind of a wreck that ruined his body and has just started a home-grow in order to eventually get himself off of the well worn path to the dark side of the grass, also known as an opioid prescription. She said something about him being unable to stay on that shit for the rest of his life and I thought, but didn’t say, that it would take only two to five years to prove that in fact he could very easily do so.

Aw shit. Twenty minutes to sunset and it’s snowing again to undo my do-gooding. Of course I’m in my comfy suicide shoes, loafers that seem to slip if I just look too long at the refrigerator. This close to sunset…


Gawd bless’n Merika

I find myself laughing to keep from crying.

A tiny island nation, almost completely isolated from the world since the collapse of the Soviet Union and enduring widespread poverty solely due to the decades-long US-imposed blockade, is who an American institution must turn to in order to deliver public services in a major city of the United States.

God seems to be blessing America by sending communists to show us how to lead moral lives.



In most computer programming languages, appending “–” (“minus minus” whether Voidpress renders it that way or not) to an integer variable’s name decrements the value, e.g. if the variable a has the value of 3 then a– results in the new value of a being 2. Pretty straightforward. Thus, the title above. Which is to say:

I awoke this afternoon and checked my email from my phone to find out if I had any crises to look forward to after my feet hit the floor, and found a message from a funeral home in Texas asking for my permission to chuck my mother’s carcass into the oven. I wasn’t even aware that she’d moved to Texas; the news I consider important is that there’s one less psychopath in the world today.

I’m sure that when Amethyst returns home from work she’ll be pleased to hear that she outlived the mother in law who openly wished her dead and actively sought to bring it about. Also that Texas has no filial responsibility laws, which had been our primary concern once properly estranged.

My long-held presumption, established by a lifetime of precedent, is that the entirety of the estate will go to my sister — within the dysfunctional dynamics of our childhood home she was the golden child and I the scapegoat, and it’s exceedingly rare that a golden child ever matures beyond that. There’s no motive for it. Why would anyone choose to surrender an elevated station for the sole purpose of engaging a lifelong loser?

For me, anyway, that is all long resolved and should it happen that I hear from a lawyer that my address is required to enable delivery of a check it will be a pleasant surprise.