What’s This Plug For Anyway?
I, like the rest of the country, have been listening to, reading and seeing the tons of publicity concerning the case of Terry Schiavo. I will not link to any websites concerning the case–opinions have been like assholes on this subject so use Google and check out all the viewpoints you can find that way. Not only has the mainstream media done its part to stage this circus sideshow, nearly every blog I read has a post on it. I will also not express my personal opinion on Terry’s life and death here, nor will I post “what I want done when…” either.
Instead I’m going to practice what I preach–I’m going to write out my Living Will and Health Care Power of Attorney, documents every single bit as important as your Last Will and Testament. The Living Will outlines exactly what you want to happen in the event you can’t tell your doctor how you want your treatment to be done; the Health Care PoA tells the doctor who to listen to when you can’t talk yourself.
Here’s where my non-humble opinion comes in. I’ve been on both sides of this fence.
I was a Certified Nursing Assistant for many years (I could be now too–I’d need a 2 week class to refresh my credentials and a back capable of doing the work). I worked in nursing homes–exactly the place where Advance Directives apply the most. I cared for many, many people in all stages of life, all the way from “I just need a little help here and there” to “Mom is about to go and we want the best for her.” I was lucky–the scope of my work didn’t include giving actual orders, but it did include finding folks in various stages of “passing on.” That’s when those directives helped me personally–it meant the difference between running like hell and grabbing the nearest RN and quietly kissing a no-longer-furrowed brow, covering my charge, and trying not to cry while I told the nurse.
Now, for the other side of the fence. I don’t talk about Rich much. Those of us fortunate enough to know him will never forget, and there’s just no way to explain him to anyone who’d never met the man. I will always miss him. Unfortunately, Rich had a disease that eventually killed him–alcoholism. He likely set a record for the highest number of visits to the local Alcohol and Other Drug treatment center. The longest he stayed sober was the last four months of his life–it took him nearly all his too-short life to find what it took to recover.
I’m not going to go into the details that led up to needing to implement the documents he filled out a couple years before his last illness–they’re not the point here. The point is, about two years before he died, he was hospitalized with a complication of the cirrhosis that was taking him away from us. He did very nearly die then, and that’s when he realized that his mom just would not be able to make the hard calls he wanted made. He knew he didn’t want heroic measures–no tubes, no CPR to kick-start his heart, no respirator, no heart-lung machines–when God wanted his ass home, he was ready for Him to take it. He’d told his life’s love, C-man, and I both how he wanted to go when it looked like it was his time.
Six of us sat down then-Rich, C-man, Mama J, Rich’s doctor, myself, and the only nun I’ve ever been able to stand, Sister C. Sister C had all the papers, Rich had almost all the answers. We spent about two hours poring over the long lists of interventions–all the way from “Tylenol or aspirin” to “Are you certain you’re not comfortable with receiving liquids thru a feeding tube?” The Doc was in and out, a necessary part of her job, but she was there enough to be certain every single check-mark beside every single bright idea the medical community has ever come up with was 100% Rich’s wishes.
The last part of the process was very touchy. Rich hadn’t told his mother yet that he didn’t want her to be the one to make the final decisions. He knew she wouldn’t be able to handle telling the Doc that there would be no respirator or tubes or anything that would just keep his trashed body breathing. His brothers would have been even less capable of letting him go. He took a deep breath and said, “Ma, I love you more than life. But you wouldn’t be able to tell them not to keep me alive. I want C-man and SSS to tell them all what we said here. I don’t want CPR when my heart stops. I don’t want machines. When it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go. I have to be sure that there’s someone that makes sure no one stops me when it’s time.”
She smiled, took him in her slender little arms and said, “That’s the most loving thing you’ve ever done for me. I know you want to go but you’re my son–I could never tell anyone not to keep you here, even when you needed to go.” She kissed her 34 year old son, so small in that hospital bed, then hugged both C-man and I close to her. “You’re family, just like his brothers, and you will always be family. Don’t forget that and don’t let my son down.” He signed the forms Sister C filled out in her tight, neat hand, then both C-man and I signed with one of the nurses as witness. The forms were notarized and filed in his medical record.
We didn’t let him down. When the time came, he went peacefully, comfortably and with the dignity life didn’t always allow him to have, without tubes, machines or electric gorillas jumping on his chest to make his still heart beat again. I don’t remember a lot about the week after that–I was in shock, even though I knew the day was coming when we’d have to let him go. I do remember the years since Rich died tho. His mom still calls C-man and I “hers,” and one of his brothers, Dr. Space, used to call me about once a month or so, just to talk. I didn’t mind, even if those calls were usually at 4:17 am on Sunday morning. That’s just the way Dr. Space was–he had to have a snootful to look at the hard things, so I didn’t bitch. Much.
Going out of Business and Sale
Well, looks like I’m going to have to shut down–issues involved with the move that I thought were worked out simply aren’t going to resolve themselves anytime soon. Meanwhile I’ve ordered a lot of supplies to make products with, since I thought I’d have a weekly Farmer’s Market and several very large art fairs to exhibit at.
Sooo, thank Gods for eBay–I will be listing everything I’m not keeping for making goodies for family and friends either in the store or at auction! I will keep making things like Skeeter Dope, Cherry Sandalwood, Celestial, Contraband (a new men’s scent I’m working on), MidKnight Blues…all them ones you all tell me you really like! If I missed one in the list, post it in the Comments below and I’ll make sure I stash some for you.
Oh–and Blackberry Sage? I have 1 lb up for auction on eBay, 1 listed in the Store listings and will break a third pound up for smaller purchases. Sheila Tyler–I’ve marked a spot for you to kiss. See, it’s right here…on my sweetly-scented, Goddess-proportioned, tired of your bullshit ass!
Please note there’s a method to my madness with all the links–if a buyer comes into the auction or store listings thru the Me page, the Store’s homepage, or clicks in from one of the listing URL’s, I get a discount on the listing’s costs.
If there’s anything special you’re looking for, be sure to let me know–if I have it I’ll get it to you.
The Pitch
“You’re out of your rabbit-assed MIND if you think I’m going to green-light this, Quentin.”
“But–but–but it’s so retro! You know retro’s in–and anything with my name on it makes a fortune at the box office!” Quentin looked truly confused. He hadn’t been told “no” by a studio in years, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer now.
The guy in the suit gestured, moving the large pile of typewritten pages, storyboards and photographs into a fan, covering the deep-stained grain of the desk’s mahogany top. Nothing else littered the immaculate expanse–just the pieces of paper outlining Quentin’s entire life for the last week. “Look at this–gangstas about to go camping in California? For Christ’s sake, no one’s going to even BEGIN to buy that premise, Quentin, let alone the rest of this crap!”
Quentin might look inbred, but behind the stupid expression ticked a genius-level mind. “Last year this studio put out a major action star as a motherfucking NANNY and you’re telling ME no one’s gonna buy a good old-fashioned horror flick? Have you even LOOKED at the garbage you’ve green-lighted in the last year?”
Another gesture and another picture flies from the pile to land neatly in front of Quentin. His eyes flicked to the photograph of young, good-looking corpses littering a floor. He sighed, amazed at how someone can completely miss a point even when illustrated in living color. The suit continued, “Let me make sure I have this right–four guys go camping in Cali, find mushrooms that look just like the ones they saw pictures of on the Internet, the ones that make people hallucinate. These dipshits eat the mushrooms, start tripping, find a Goddamn SCHOOL in the middle of a state park, and because they ate especially strong, EVIL mushrooms, they hack and slash their way through the school.”
“Don’t forget the satan-worship. That’s very important to the plot.”
“WHAT fucking PLOT? All this bullshit is is an excuse to shove hot bodies into a movie that doesn’t HAVE a plot to keep it going!” The suit flicks the photo away. It floats, much like shit will in a toilet, to the floor, to join the growing pile.
Quentin takes yet another deep breath, wishing once again he had another fatty’s worth of that weed he’d been smoking all week. “There is a plot. There is a great plot. It’s all right…” He reaches over to the file.
The suit smacks his hand away. Anger bulges the vein at his temple, pulsing in time with the geometric progression of aggression, dismay and pure irritation building in Quentin’s head. Visions dance there as well. Graphic visions, more graphic than the dance and massacre in the picture relegated to the floor. Visions starring the practicality-bound executive he finds himself having to kiss the ass of. Anything to get this picture made–if Quentin has to blow this guy, this picture will get made. All this excellent imagination can’t go to waste–he can’t get more of the insane weed he smoked to come up with it, so a movie idea this great will never come again.
“All right,” the suit sighs, “Let’s assume the box-office crowd actually swallows this pile of shit so far. They won’t believe this–or this–or, Quentin, a Goddamn terrorist training camp? They’re not going to go for this either.” Each “this” is punctuated with a flick and a fall as each outline, storyboard and subplot joins the pile of discards. “They’re NEVER going to believe Gooze-fucking-ZILLAS feasting on AIRPLANES! They’re dumb, the moviegoing public, but NOT that dumb! No matter HOW many times you remind them that the whole thing’s a hallucinogenic drug experience, they’re not gonna get it.”
One more deep breath–one more reminder that the machete in his briefcase will only mean having to go through another inane meeting with another clueless studio exec. “You know the best parts of my movies are the ones that go just a little over the top…”
The suit breaks in “A LITTLE? A LITTLE OVER THE MUTHAFUCKING TOP? That’s like saying Angelina had a little COLLAGEN in those lips!”
“YOU LEAVE MY EX-WIFE OUT OF THIS, YOU DUMBASSED LEMMING!”
“All right–that’s it–you’re out of here Quentin! Get the fuck out of my office and pick up every single scrap of that thing you have the nerve to call a movie pitch!” The suit picks up the phone, presses two numbers, and begins to speak. “Security?”
Quentin rises from his chair, barely able to contain his rage as he picks up the papers littering the suit’s office. Biting his lip so hard he nearly draws blood, he shoves the disarranged paperwork into the file and loads it into his briefcase. Before opening the office door, he looks back at the exec, who sits back in his leather chair, red-faced and fuming.
“Just remember–you said exactly the same thing about ‘Kill Bill’ The exact. Same. Thing.”
Fox 2 You Ignorant Sluts
In what MUST be the most idiotic fuck-up this year, Detroit’s Fox affiliate ran a promo for its news at 10. In the promo shown 2 commercial breaks before the actual announcement, Fox showed American Idol contestant Mikaylah Gordon, alone onstage, singing her swan song in tonight’s outfit!
Fox2, what the fuck were you thinking?
That’s not a Smoothie, bitch!
I've had to be quiet the last couple days and will have to be for a couple more. I tore an upper abdominal muscle Monday afternoon, spent the rest of Monday being poked, prodded, yelling, whining, whimpering (all my least-favorite things) and taking tests to be sure I didn't do more than that. Doc's orders are no unnessary moving around, work or mattress dancing. Normally doctors can kiss my lily-white, cellulite-pocked, long-haired, Goddess-sized ass, but I get a little scared when it hurts to breathe, so for the time being I'm Goodlil McPatient. That ER trip left a lot to be desired, tho. (Yep, soapy lurkers, this is the one you've been asking for).
This trip didn't start well–I sat for half an hour while everyone else was registered first despite my whimpering and attempts to curl my giant ass up into a fetal ball in the waiting room. While trying not to blow eardrums, I heard cackles of laughter coming from the registration desks. Uh, what the FUCK do you silly bitches have to laugh at when I'm about to rain hell on your heads? I looked up to see Honey's Thundergod face firmly in place as he rose to go see for himself why the six women in the registration office should be allowed to keep sucking air. Turned out my forms had gotten wadded up in the bin and missed. They apologized, I bitched, they apologized some more and asked the usual stupid questions.
Once registered, I was escorted back to the ER area very quickly, and staff got busy right away (Unusual for the hospital I went to). Unfortunately, the PA who saw me decided my ulcers were the problem and ordered the nurse to feed me a "GI Cocktail". They're great for massive heartburn but don't do jack for anything else, and I was already pretty sure this wasn't just blick-bad heartburn. By the time the third nurse and second PA had seen me, two more hours had passed before FINALLY someone coughed up some pain meds! Ahh, morphine–bad for you but great on kick-in-the-sternum pain. It was a good thing I hurt less before they started the rest of the party, because things went downhill on a trash can lid from there.
I expected the blood tests, an X ray or CT scan or something–I didn't expect a cheery redheaded nurse to come in seconds after I ask for something to eat, asking, "Do you want a banana smoothie?" I don't as a rule do smoothies, but I'd been in that damned ER for five hours and I'd have eaten the ass end of a bear by then. Honey excuses himself–he hates bananas–as I realize that smoothie bottle looks entirely too…medical…to really taste good. "Drink all this fast as you can, then we'll take you for the CT scan"
Uh, riiiiiight. I read the bottle quickly, catching one word right off the bat–BARIUM. "That's not a smoothie." The nurse explains that the doc wants a dye contrast on the CT scan, so "bottoms up and we'll see you in a little bit"
You first, bitch. Thinking that did no good–Little Nurse Ratchet saunters out, undoubtedly to administer an enema with tacks inside to that poor old man I saw come in just ahead of me. The old man starts yelling right around the time I'm gagging down the first swallow of banana-flavored wet chalk. I can get better banana flavorings–why in blue hell can't this company? I decide to deal with a personal matter before that pseudo-smoothie and I have anything more to do with each other.
While in the hall, the nurse calls my name. "SSS, only drink half that bottle now." Yay! I only have to choke down half as much chalk!
Well, not quite–seems they want me to drink the other half right there in the Radiology lab. Bleh. No reprieve. I make faces both from the residual pain in my gut and the thought of more of that garbage in the bottle. I do manage to make 1/2 the bottle stay down before the Radiology tech comes to get me. Once we get to the lab, she only makes me drink a couple more ounces before lining me up on the scanner and getting the pictures. FINALLY a break! I cheer as the Libation from Hell hits the shitcan.
Three hours later, I am told that I've "just" torn an abdominal muscle and given my sailing orders and prescriptions for various pain-relievers, along with instructions to be a good little soaper and behave myself. Since I'm crocked to the eyeballs, I nod, smile dreamily, put the paperwork in my purse and let the nurse live without even telling her off about that lie she tried to tell me about that dye shit.
I still have the NASTIEST taste in my mouth here–combination of fake bananas and chemicals. Fucking fake-redhead pill-pushing enema-sucking ass-roaming needle-poking vampire BITCH!
That high-pitched whine
I couldn't believe it. My jaw dropped while Honey let loose with a worse stream of invective than usual. All told, it was the worst 10 seconds of my life. I've seen a lot of awful, tragic, Satan-worshipping, Paris Hilton Naked revolting, Vince Neil fucking anybody nasty, hairball-smelling, dog-humping, LN and the Nun disgusting things in my life, but tonight I saw something that took the cake.
"Sweet Home Alabama" performed c-rap style. Yep–the one song I used to watch perfectly sane teenaged guys call a radio station repeatedly to promise their 2 year old sister's virginity if only they would spin the vinyl just once. The track that died first on all three of my Lynyrd Skynyrd tapes. My CD's, as many of you know, walked off with the last roommate I will ever tolerate. Yourmusic.com has begun to mitigate that loss, but I may never be able to listen to one of my all-time favorite songs ever again without picturing those sacrilegious ass-monkeys waving their arms and yelling, "Whoahhhh". Besides, there's something interfering with my hearing…you all know what it is.
This affront to humanity was apparently recorded by the hippy-hoppy duo B.A.M.A in 2004. That's when it started.
To us classic rock fans, Lynyrd Skynyrd is just not something one fucks with, in any way shape or form. Doing so has led to lawsuits, bad American Idol performances, the eruption of Mount Saint Helen's and global warming, not to mention…you know. "Sweet Home Alabama" ROCKS, people! It gives you happy feet. It inspires even the scuzziest looking biker guy to boogie! It does not rap, and it sure as shit neither hips nor hops. Who could keep a beat anyhow, with that damned noise going on?
Huh? Oh, for the love of Southern-Fried Rock, you all know what I mean! Just listen…shut the hell UP and LISTEN. You'll hear it.
There you go–you can hear it now? That high-pitched whine?
Folks, that's Ronnie Van Zant, spinning in his grave.
Happy Birfday BRO!
Everyone go wish Beow01|= at Waste of Internet Space a very very Happy Birthday! Those of us fortunate to know him know he’s an excellent guy with not nearly enough time on his talented, busy hands. So go find a post on his blog and give him good birthday!
Beo….I wuv you….
Don’t hurt me, please.
LN Open Letter in Archives
Note: Post edited
For those looking, "An Open Letter To (redacted name)" is in the archives–click here to get to it.
This blog is the #1 Google Search on the Demented Prevaricatrix' name! I'm surprised it's not (redacted website).
Incense Supplies Buy–IN!
Hello to all my happy scentmonkeys!
The last half of the shipment is IN–I just got it from the new place, and will start packing tomorrow. I hope like holy hell to have it shipped Wednesday!
Thanks for all your support!
For all you sick little monkeys
Before I post this link, I’m warning you–this is graphically violent, not friendly to our animal friends, features violence and loads of dripping gore.
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/pingu2.php
I got 842.3–that puppy hit 4 land mines!
Beat my ass! Go ahead!
RCBC Friday Contest
Since I am not entering Stephen Keane’s Friday contest this week (due to my having won more than my share the last two weeks), I’m going to start by saying, “GET YOUR BLOGGERTRASH BUTTS OVER THERE AND ENTER!” The guy is an amazing artist and I am going to get my prizes matted and framed!
That said, here’s this week’s Raccoon City Book Club contest. No, I am not reprinting his hard work–you can click a link.
I really like this week’s subject tho, so I’m going to take a shot at it here.
Silly Scented Serra’s Frankenpet
I would have to start with a large body, but not too large to let it hop up on my bed, because my back lands me there a lot. Something about the size of a Lab would be perfect, with about 60 to 70 pounds mass, enough pet to hug when life sucks in every other view but my pet’s eyes. The eyes would be deep brown, expressive, a little sad, but they’d sparkle when I walk into the room. I love Beagle eyes–at first glance they seem dull and expressionless, but once you get to know them, you know exactly what’s going on in that hard little head.
No, I don’t want a dog’s body–while our Flat-Coated Retriever is the perfect hug-dog, I love the way cats move. Each little fur-painted paw is delicate no matter what size the cat is. The finely muscled legs and haunches ripple as the cat moves, each step deliciously planned ten steps ahead of time. They have an easy, sinuous grace to them, no matter what the size. I was struck by this while watching videotape on WDIV’s website (There’s a cougar-type large cat in a neighborhood in suburban Detroit)–that “stalk” is gorgeous to watch, especially when you know that in an instant it can switch from the slow, slightly rolling pad-pad-pad of elegant feet to a full-out DASH culminating in a POUNCE on the unsuspecting morsel that’s attracted the cat’s attention.
As much as I love both dogs and cats, I do wish they could talk. That big body will support a nice-sized head, so I would want Frankenpet to be able to talk. I don’t want it to just be able to mimic me; I want full-out (perhaps not debate-quality but I’ll deal with it) discourse! Of course, this would involve a little adjustment to the jaw, throat and brain, but I’m pretty sure it could be done with just a little alteration, not a full-out human head copy. (It’s my Frankenpet, I can do what I want!)
From there, I’m flexible (shut it, pervs!). The two things I still would want in the specs for Frankenpet is a loving heart and a trusting soul. Every great pet has both, and Frankenpet deserves the best. I really think it’s why having a pet and being a pet work–the loving heart lets an animal, even one of very little brain, bring itself to a contact that its wild state would never allow–touch by a human being. The trusting soul allows it to learn that even tho its instincts tell them not to play with the bald big things, that soul leads them back to their chosen person.
Yeah, it was mushy–bite me. But I did have fun.
Back!
Here I am again–didn’t find those nekkid pics I wanted, but thanks to my smart bro Beow01= I am back up on my own machine, without much loss of data. Happy I am, back on my puter, full of corned beef, cheese potatoes and one bottle of Killian’s Red.
Damn, I’m a cheap drunk.
That’s what I get for using IE
Hi, everyone,
I'm going to be a bit scarce–I picked up Narrator trojan about 36 hours ago. I've gotten it out but in the process got rid of a file for IE and only have Net access thru Honey's computer.
This is what I get for looking for nekkid pics of Steve Bacic.
See you all soon,
SSS
Incense Supplies Buy UPDATE #5
Hi, everyone!
I spoke with my supplier today–due to being out of stock on sticks, both types will be drop shipped to me; the rest of the order will come directly from him as usual. I am assured I will have tracking information by the end of today. I expect a week to deliver; from there it'll take me 2-3 days to ship to you.
I'm very sorry for the hold-up but it's beyond my control and I know the goodies we're getting well enough to know they're worth the wait.
Thanks for being patient.
My First Car
You always remember your first car. Most people have fond memories of some slightly old, somewhat beaten, about to break down but always fun once-hot car.
Mine? Mine tried to eat me.
I was 29 and a brand-new mommy. My little bundle of joy needed to get to places and although there was taxi service in Eau Claire, I had finally reached the point where it would be cheaper to drive and maintain a car than it would be to rely on their service. I got lucky on the car-shopping crap, I'd thought. A friend of mine just bought himself a new-to-him Suburban, so his 1982 Ford Granada was about to go on the market. I paid $200 for it–it ran great, burned a little oil and the gentleman knew how badly I needed one. He even volunteered to take me out driving so I could practice for my license. Granted that Fords suck, but it was in relatively good shape and I couldn't beat the price.
Great! I owned a car, I could drive it, and I even had off-street parking. Now, to play under the hood. My little Minkey was sleeping off her afternoon bottle, so now was a great time to make sure the basics were taken care of. I have limited knowlege of the workings of the internal combustion engine. I can, however, in a pinch, change the oil, and I can certainly check same. That was the first thing I needed to do, and I popped the Monster's hood and proceeded to do it.
Ten minutes later, I'd finally found the catch, popped it, and realized that it had to be propped with a bar. To no surprise at all, I find the bitch is low on oil. I ducked out and grabbed the bottle of 10W-30 the nice man had included in the $200 sticker price, ducked back in and fed the oil to the crankcase. As I ducked out to replace the lid, I felt one elbow brush the hood's prop–SHIT!! I ducked and yanked myself out of the way…almost. I got most of me out, but my left arm didn't quite make it. I looked down to see it hanging out of the car's hood, like a scrap of spaghetti dangling from a Mafioso's maw.
All right, this is NOT COOL. My baby's asleep in an upstairs room, it's 2 pm, everyone's at work and this is pre-cell phone days so I'm fucking STUCK. I had one option, one I hate like hell to use. Yelling. So I let loose–and again–again. I wind up yelling my head off, one arm stuck in a damned FORD'S hood, the other too short to reach the front of the car's hood release. It's been about 45 minutes since my daughter lay down for her nap and I'm starting to panic. My arm hurts, much less than I thought it should, but my kid's going to wake up and start screaming, which would be MOST unacceptable!
Finally, after what seemed to be a lifetime of hollering, screaming, swearing and pulling, my neighbor's wife comes out and looks around like she's expecting an alien ship. She sees me–fucking FINALLY! Of course, the silly ditz just HAS to spend a precious five minutes asking the obvious stupid questions:
"Are you all right?"
Hell NO I'M NOT ALL RIGHT YOU DELIVERANCE EXTRA–I'M BEING DEVOURED BY A FORD! "Is your arm stuck in the hood?" NO! I'M A MODEL FOR A RETRO CAR AD! HERE'S YOUR SIGN.
"Where's Minkey?" SHE'S AT THE NAVY RECRUITERS ASKING WHERE TO SWIM OUT TO MEET THE BOYS! WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK SHE IS??? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE OR CALL SOMEONE WHO WILL!
Finally, she puts the two brain cells left in her head (One's normally waving BUH-bye to the other) together and starts actually looking at the apparatus of my car's hood. Fortunately it's relatively easy to get my arm out–unfortunately it involved pushing the hood down enough to engage the second of two latches. SHIT–OWOWOWOWOWOWOWWWWW–finally, I'm out of the damned hood!
My arm's DENTED, but not broken. There's a clear bite mark, 2 inches wide, impressed into my flesh. It takes two days for just the depression to spring back to normal–the deep bone bruise and rainbow on the stained skin last over a month. But the bone's not broken and it only hurt to move the hand, wrist, elbow and shoulder.
And Minkey-girlie? Still sound asleep when I made the mad dash up the stairs to our apartment. They really are cute when they're asleep.
Look What Hank Found
Thanks to Bathroom Reading for the fun.
An Open Letter to (redacted name and state)
Note: Post edited
To the Gag-bitch who has little idea who's she's messed with this time:
You have fucked up. In your quest to completely trash the handmade bath and body industry, you have taken the one step that will ensure you no place online to hide. You have personally pissed me off. To quote you, posted to soapbusters Yahoo discussion list today, March 10, 2005:
"It's [Dipropylene Glycol] a solvent that is used, mostly by people who make incense. The purpose is that because fragrance is so expensive for the purposes of making incense sticks, the DPG allows a reasonable solution for makers of incense to be able to make incense affordably."
Let me explain why your ignorance is exceeded only by your false platitudes of faith.
First, you incredibly demented prevaricatrix, Dipropylene Glycol is used much more extensively than you lead your reader to believe. Go, now, look at the labels on things you didn't make. You will see that your food contains similar substances, your manufactured bath and body products contain it, and many things your sociopathic mind has no conception of have made use of this ingredient. Before you expose your complete lack of knowlege further, open a browser and do some research. You're in dire need of it.
Second, incense makers do not use DPG in order to cut manufacturing costs. I, like the many other careful, reputable craftsmen and artisans who make quality incense, use DPG in order to make BETTER incense, not CHEAPER incense. If I wanted to make cheaper incense, all I would need to do is use your fragrances, since it's well-proven that you have cut your product farther than I do for incense-making. Quality is the number one priority in my work, not profit or production cost. Improperly treated, full-strength fragrance oils produce black, soot-laden smoke, unlike the light whitish-gray smoke that well-made incense produces in the burn. I prefer to get full-strength fragrance, then treat it with the appropriate amounts of diluent to ensure that I get strong, highly-scented, clean-burning incense.
Once again you have opened your mouth before putting what's left of your untrained brain into gear. You have spoken of a matter you have NO knowlege of in a belittling and derogatory manner. In doing so, you sanctimonious cunt, you have pissed me off on a personal level. I know every single thing you have done in your five years in business, and I have been angry because you've trashed and bashed many fine men and women in the supply side of this business. My anger at your incredibly astounding ignorance has risen now that you've touched on my personal work and pride in doing it well.
I will not allow you to continue to slander and libel good people. Before you perpetrate more incredibly moronic twaddle to the rare scentcrafter unfamiliar with your campaign of evil and those who have no clue that you are the Antichrist you fear the appearance of, you psalm-singing hypocrite, I strongly suggest you and the God or Goddess of your understanding have a chat, one where you admit to both of you that you have practiced evil incarnate in all the forms Christianity lists and many that you have thought up on your own.
God might just forgive you. This open letter is notice that I will not.
Less Beagle to Love
So far, Operation Fat Beagle is going very well.
We did try feeding both dogs twice a day–the big dog still lets the little one pig out before he'll eat anything so she's still getting more than she should. So, it works best to feed the big one first. If we feed him second, he won't eat, even though he's used to eating after she does. Once he's eaten we let her out of her kennel and feed her face, which takes moments, most of them involved in actually putting the food out. Once it's out, it's gone.
However, she's much smaller already–not the size she should be, but a little less mini-Cow like, so we're hopeful that we'll get our sleek little beagle's butt back in proportion with the rest of her.
Bizarre News Photo of the Week
Hi, folks,
In my effort to make your day nicer and nicer and nicer, here’s Lewis’ Photo of the Week:
I wish I could do this and have it work!
