Sunday, May 30, 2004


This is the third time I've tried writing this one single silly post. Suffice it to say, I want to apologize for all the rotten words I wrote yesterday. My apologies for being a total and utter bitch to a man that I care for. My apologies for waking up on the wrong side of the bed. 'Nuff said.

Now to the 'real' stuff. The raccoon dick bone did not bring me any luck whatsoever, therefore it shall rest peacefully with all the other dead animal bits given to me by the now-deceased Lakota-Sioux man.

My day started off on the wrong foot. I'd gone out with Jason and Andy the night before and had a wee bit of a hangover when I woke up. Then the viking called right before I had to open the bar and I was a bitch. I admit it. I was mean to him and had no right to be, and it made me feel shitty all day. George's was pretty quiet for the most part, just the usual regulars: Harry, the sweet old man that has brought me a red rose every Saturday for ten years; Howard who brings me the tv guide from his newspaper and I set him up with his 'rations' (two burger patties and two buns for him to take home for dinner); Rick and Dan, jogging buddies who come in every Saturday and overtip me...

But then... some guy I'd never seen before came in and sat down at the bar. He'd just returned from Iraq. He showed me the scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder for which he received a silver star, told me a few horror stories that I don't feel would be appropriate to relate here. They're not my stories. They're his. His name is Jonathan and he's in the Navy. The guy couldn't speak. He stuttered and had trouble getting his thoughts out. My heart went out to him. He would cry, then apologize. He wanted a hug, so I gave him one. I tried to tell him that everything would be ok, but what the hell do I know? I only served him one shot, but he was there for almost two hours. I didn't realize just how wasted he was (I thought he had Tourette's Syndrome), and I didn't see him walk in. But when he started to leave, it was pretty darn obvious he'd been drinking somewhere else. He almost fell down a few times, he couldn't walk a straight line... I followed him out and offered to call him a cab, but he wouldn't accept. What would you do? I was worried about him, so I called the police to intercept him. I felt bad doing it... but he could have hurt himself. That happened toward the end of my shift.

So on top of feeling shitty for having been a bitch at the beginning of my shift, I then felt guilty (??!!) for calling the cops on a guy who has some serious issues in his life to work out and I couldn't help him. Ugh. What a heavy day. When I got off, all I wanted to do was forget it all. Jason came down so we had a few cocktails together. After he left, I just sat around waiting for the band (Dave Moore played with a drummer and an upright bass player). I sat at the bar, drank a few beers and just let the music wash over me. They played a version of "Summertime" that about had me sobbing in my suds. So I came home and posted an ill-tempered-I-had-a-shitty-day blog, and I deserve to be blog slapped for it.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Saturday, May 29, 2004

Raccoon dick bones and other good luck charms

Fuck the world, fuck you, and fuck the horse you rode in on.

Now that that's out of my system, this morning I stumbled across the raccoon dick bone a Lakota-Sioux had given me a long time ago. This guy would come to George's (the bar in which I work/play) and leave some of the strangest things for me in my tip cup. Once it was mule teeth wrapped in red string and connected to a leather strap, another time a coyote tooth, and even once (having been 'gone' for a month) he turned up with a pipe stem he had carved for me (with the instructions that I had to create the bowl). But this one day in particular, he left me a raccoon dick bone with a dollar bill and a piece of leather wrapped around the base of it. I don't think the guy had any idea I knew what a raccoon dick bone was (hey, I'm from Iowa and you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a raccoon dick bone in the spring), but suffice it to say, the next time I saw him, he got an earful. I took the whole thing as an insult... I mean, what's up with the dollar bill? Am I right here?

Anyway, this post isn't really about raccoon dick bones and the like. I just found it today and it made me remember this guy who left dead animal bits in my tip cup.

However, I do feel like bitching a little. I haven't been laid in the three weeks, and I'm starting to wonder if the viking is going to head north (to head south) anytime soon. Man, am I being blown off? Again? Kinda pisses me off. Why is it that most of the guys I date have an emotional IQ of 14? I'm too old and too tired for this shit. Hell, I'm turning 30fucking9 years old on August 31st (yes, I expect y'all to remember that and send flowers) and the longest relationship I've ever sustained was just about two long hellish years. Fuck. At least I got that with the viking. But now I'm spoiled and I WANT TO GET LAID. NOW. I'm in my prime, for chrissakes!! (As my brother-in-law would say "Ang, maybe you need a bigger dog." What a sick fuck).

Well, enough of my (lack of) sex life. Let's discuss raccoons. First off, how many of you know what a raccoon dick bone looks like? I'll tell ya. It's shaped like a question mark (?). Believe it or not. The end of the curved part (the head) is bisected... looks kinda like a snake tongue. When they mate, the male 'locks' into the female. If you ever come across two raccoons mating, you'll notice they won't separate until dude is done. 'Cause they can't. Well, I'd like my own version of a raccoon dick bone and not separate from someone 'til I'M done. Fair 'nuff.

I'm working at the bar today. I only work there on Saturdays. Monday through Friday, my 'real' job is business manager for an architectural firm. Woo. My world is somewhat limited. But today, well... it's all about me. I'm going to carry that raccoon dick bone with me all day long and see if it nets me some good luck. If so, I will spread the joy and pass it on to someone else who needs it. (Yes, Marco, I'm bettin' you get it next...)

So, sorry faithful readers for my little bitch rant. I don't even know for sure if the viking is blowing me off, but my choche is screaming out for some attention. In the meantime, guess I'll get back to my coffee and cartoons...

Who dat snappin' back? |

Thursday, May 27, 2004

An **ass** story for the Anonymous Marco in Baton Rouge

Maybe this'll stop yer bitchin' buddy.

Ok. This is a tale of the time I bared my ass to an entire wedding reception, the band, the bartenders, passers-by...

My friends Kim and Scott decided to do the deed, and I was just lucky enough (dripping sarcasm) to be chosen as one of the bridesmaids. Woo. It was a hot and humid July day. Our dresses were SKIN-TIGHT-FULL-LENGTH-OFF-THE-SHOULDER black frikkin' taffeta or whatever shiny material that is they make these things out of. I'da sooner been encased in a wetsuit.

We had to go through all that wedding bullshit of having our hair done, our make-up, etc. For those of you who don't know me, I have really thick, really fine, can't-do-a-damn-thing-with-it hair. The second we stepped out of the torture parlor, my hair went splat. Great, $40 for nuthin' (and on top of a $300 butt-ugly dress I'll never wear again...).

May I just say that, well... this wedding wasn't really something I wanted to be a part of (though they're still married to this day despite Kim's bitchy mother's disapproval). I digress...

It's time to walk down the ol' aisle... The other bridesmaids are in a que, I'm the final one, and Kim starts to hyperventilate, saying she can't go through with it. **OH C'MON!!** I give her a little pep talk ("Get on your feet, bitch. You are marrying Slinky whether you want to or not."), and then, as the last vestel virgin, pissily lurch down the aisle with my groomsman escort (who was a good foot shorter... never fails).

Eventually, the entire ordeal is done with and the party gets going. Is it any wonder we all got drunk? Heck, I even skipped part of the reception and went bar-hopping by myself. Nothing like taking yourself out on a date (your 'date' always buys, you have brilliant, witty conversation, whisper sweet nuthins in yer own ear, and pretty much say all the good stuff that's gonna get you in bed later).

Anyhoo, I went back to the reception quite a bit more inebriated than at my departure. The band was playing, I was dancing, people were dropping like flies on this floor. The staff must've put like 30 coats of wax on it, 'cuz NO ONE could stand up. You got it: I went down like a tight sack o' taters. However, when I got up, I didn't think anything was amiss until my boss' wife kept grabbing the front of my dress and pulling it back up.

Sigh... for what they charge for bridesmaid dresses, you'd think they'd actually SEW the seams together. But no. By and large, they're just glued. So when I wiped out, the back seam of my dress split wide open like Moses parting the red sea. The only thing I had on under said dress was a pair o' pantyhose. No undies (didn't want any unsightly lines), no bra (why bother?). I do believe this was captured on someone's camcorder which is why I don't watch things like "America's Funniest Home Videos". So if any of you ever see footage of a 6 foot blonde as described above, let me know if the pervert wins any money for it, 'cuz I'm gonna get my cut!!

Who dat snappin' back? |

Bloggers beware!!

Yikes! I'm addicted to my blog. And it doesn't even get me drunk. (Click on the title to see what I mean...)

Who dat snappin' back? |

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Blind date HELL..

I hate blind dates. I hate it when my friends say "Ang, I know the perfect guy for you." I hate the idea of trying to look or act a certain way to 'snag' a guy. My idea of looking nice is to make sure my socks match, my hair is in some sort of bondage, and there's nothing stuck between my teeth. Beyond that, I'm not too picky about my clothing. Me... I'm built for comfort, and in my book, that's its own style.

I digress. The worst blind date EVER. Some guy that had been hanging around George's somehow got my phone number and called up to ask me out. After several minutes, I realized who the guy was, thought 'what the hell, he's cute, I'm bored' and agreed to meet him at George's one Saturday after I got off work at 6:30.

Right away I could tell this was a mistake. Dude was 35 minutes late, and when he did bother to show up, didn't even apologize. I guess this is a cool thing to do in Lisbon (make your 'date' wait for you). So we had a few cocktails and made really boring small talk, like "yeah, I've always wanted to have that mole removed" and "uh-huh, being a bartender is pretty challenging..." I swear to Great Spirit this guy was stooopid.

But, in keeping with the date format, he asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. Well, preferably someplace with live music so I don't have to listen to your meaningless tripe, Jethro. So I suggested the Sanctuary. I knew Steve Grismore was playing that night with one of his jazz bands. Perfect.

Next comes the "who drives?" conundrum. I was certainly not going to get into a motor vehicle with that yahoo behind the wheel... even though he was driving this baby blue '57 Caddy convertible, probably 'borrowed' from a member of his extended family. I end up driving. More small talk. He tells me that he's an iron worker, to which I reply that I work for the State Archaeologist. He says he likes buildings. How neat that we're sort of in the same business. Um, ok. He then goes on to tell me that his dream is to become a cocaine dealer so he could do it for free. That's why he broke up with his old 'old lady'; she didn't want him doing coke during the week.

**I mean GOOD GOD!!!**

Needless to say, I'm about ready to take a right down Burlington and shove his ass out of my car and hopes he falls in the Iowa River. But being the sweet gal I am (and hungry), I continue driving to the Sanctuary. We arrive, we sit, we order drinks. Gris sat with us for a few minutes, which were best few minutes of the entire date. (It actually gets even worse, believe it or not).

A little while later our waiter takes our food order ($18 for a fuckin' pizza? the dude is freakin'). After we place our order, he asks me where the nearest money machine is, so I direct him up the street a few blocks to the Quik Trip (now Kum n Go, Spurt n Split, etc.) The creep is GONE for 45 minutes, and I'm thinking the only reason he came back is because he left his jacket. But he finally shows up, barely beating his food from the kitchen. The band is playing, we're ignoring each other, then at one point he leans over the table and yells "What the fuck kind of music IS this?" I yell back "JAZZ!!" Apparently, in Lisbon, Iowa, home of the Sauerkraut Festival, jazz is not classified under music but under strange forms of small animal torture.

At this point I'm wracking my brain about how best to remove myself from this quagmire of holy-shit-what-have-I-done, when he suddenly stands up (**oh please just run out the door, I'll pay...**) and....

...sits down next to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. Um, WTF??? Answer: three of his friends drove all the way down from Lisbon to come check me out. Well, damn if I didn't feel like a breedin' cow on display at the Iowa State Fair! These people neither sat down, nor personally addressed me. They just stood there with their arms crossed, looking through me, around me, anywhere but AT me, talked with creepy dude (who was evidently the leader of their lame pack), then left in a flurry of ill-conceived, tricky-ass handshakey things that resulted in one of them gettin' popped in the puss.

I do believe that Jethro and I were outta there not more than twenty minutes after that. Of course, his car was at George's. Upon arrival, he then wants to know if I'd like to have one more 'beer or sumpin'.' Well fuuuck! I wanted to go have a few nightcaps... alone. But I said sure. We ordered a few beers, 'talked' for about ten minutes, he finally got the hint there was not a single chance in the universe that I was leaving with his skanky ass, so he stood up to hug me, I held out my hand, we shook, he took off, and I sat at the bar for another hour telling my friends this story about the worst blind date I'd ever been on...

Who dat snappin' back? |

Sunday, May 23, 2004

Let's take a poll...

Question: What is the next embarrassing story you'd like me to write about?

1. Mooning the wedding party (the accidental one).
2. Mooning the wedding party (the intentional one... which actually did turn into some red cheeks...)
3. My grandpa's funeral. Yes, even I can turn something 'tragic' into a something that's not only embarrassing, but kinda sickly funny.
3. Hmm... or some random thing that isn't really all that embarrassing unless I actually tell someone...? (And Pooter, DON'T go there!!)

Dammmmmn... I thought I had a lot more stories that were personally mortifying to me at the time. Maybe I just think I'm funny. 'Course, there're ALL sorts of things I could write about. Remind me to tell you of THE WORST **BLIND** DATE EVVVVVVER.

Well, folks and folklettes, it's way past my bedtime and I keep grabbing my cell phone like it's the mouse... I will get used to this 'puter soon. BUT I WILL purchase a mouse.

Nighty night.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Friday, May 21, 2004

My baby was delivered today!!

Um, I mean my Dell... no need for me to litter my life with chilluns. They're cute 'n all (especially when they belong to someone else who is in charge of keeping them away from me), but screaming, jumping and hand-tugging isn't my idea of bliss.

AnyHOO, the gregarious and lovely UPS man (Michael... happy 40th tomorrow, man! And I hope the Cubs spank the Cards' ass tomorrow!!) came to the office today bearing the gift of a Dell Inspiron 600m notebook. I have been literally giggling (like a little schoolgirl) ever since. There seriously ain't nuthin' in the world to make me heat up like a shiny-ass piece o'blood-boilin' hardware. It's a beeee-aaaa-yooooo-teeful sight to behold. Alas, I am at work, so the only thing I can do is stroke it, whisper sweet-everythings, and dream of the honeymoon that will commence directly at 5 p.m. CST.

Any ideas for a name?

Who dat snappin' back? |

Thursday, May 20, 2004

Smellin' the flowers...

One Saturday afternoon while I was working at the bar, this little, wizened old lady came in. She ordered a burger and a beer and I found her simply wonder-full. She told me about her children, her dead husband, her friends... all the stuff that people talk about. I asked her where she was from originally, and her reply was: "Oh darlin', I just live wildflower to wildflower." It absolutely took my breath away...

Who dat snappin' back? |

Apathetic Cicadas

Ever have those days when the world is too much with you? Or the days when the world is so far away? I'm having a combination of this shit, and I don't like it. Why can't every day be at least minimally pleasurable? Life doesn't have to be a constant orgasmic experience, but what the fuck is up with this apathetic, fickle pit of dissonance?

Ok, so this post has absolutely nothing to do with cicadas other than I don't want to ever come back to life as one. I mean, think about it. Stay underground for seventeen years sucking your sustenance from the arboreal root, only to finally break the surface, break the cycle, fuck and then die?

Sigh... someone tell me a funny joke. Quick.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Sunday, May 16, 2004

Another embarrassing story

So many to choose from... but today I've decided to tell you one of the many stories of my innate gracelessness. Onced upon a time when I was just a silly little thang, I was engaged to a boy who didn't appreciate the fullness of my wonderfullness. So, we broke up. It absolutely shattered me. But one day I decided to show him what he was missing out on. I went to an expensive boutique here in town, bought myself one of the most flattering outfits I could find (I might still be paying this thing off and I haven't fit into it for YEARS), and went home to doll up. Damn, I looked hot! So, this guy worked downtown at a place on the ped mall that had huge windows overlooking the whole area. Here I am strolling leisurely by his place of business in my hot bitch outfit, and decide to bound gracefully (like a gazelle, no less) down the very shallow steps of said ped mall directly in front of his place of business. Well, it was a windy day. And did I mention that my hot bitch outfit was comprised of a low-cut, form-fitting-with-a-flare, sleeveless number and elephant pants? Once again, did I mention that it was windy? As I was 'bounding', my left foot got caught up in my right pant leg, and I went full goose bozo sprawling toward a bed of daisies. You know how when you trip and you're just propelled forward by the sheer force of your clutziness? Well, my push-up bra pushed up about an acre of daisies. I couldn't do anything for a full two minutes other than just lie face down in this flower bed and pretend to myself that I was having a bad dream. Unfortunately, a really good lookin' guy gave me a very real hand up, all the while laughing his ass off as I picked earth out of my nose, my bra, my hair.. and then I looked over to the window where my ex-fiance was standing, also laughing. Moral of the story? NEVER try to be something you're not. I will never in my life try to be graceful again; it just doesn't wear well on me...

Who dat snappin' back? |

Friday, May 14, 2004

THE conversation that inspired Cootersnap

Micah doesn't have access to the internet at home, so she graciously shared her notes with me of the evening that cootersnap became a growing light in the back of my head:

Scott G.: I know more people who've lost their toes to snapping turtles than to lawnmowers.

Ang B.: Once they get a taste of toe meat they never go back.

Scott G.: I really dislike snapping turtles. Snapping turtles are nasty-ass creatures. I'm tellin' ya, snapping turtles are really fucking nasty. Don't ever walk barefoot in the Turkey River -- don't EVER do it. I hate snapping turtles.

Ok, so that was a portion of the conversation that was written down so that someday Micah might use it in one of her best-selling novels (unless I beat ya to it!).

Scott, my apologies for getting such a kick out of your hatred for cooter.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Thursday, May 13, 2004


All right, so last night I was hanging out at George's with Micah and Mona. For whatever reason, we were just GOING OFF on 'female stuff'. Having sat back most of the evening just dipping into the conversation from time to time, I decided to tell the story of THE TIME I HAD A URINARY TRACT INFECTION **drum roll, please**

At the time I'd been dating some jackass or other, and to blow off steam from enduring hours of his ego, I'd go the rec center and play racquetball. So there I am one day, acourt, when I just got this overwhelming urge to piss in the corner. I ran to the locker room, eked out a flaming drizzle of pee, when it struck me: somethin' wasn't right with my choche!

So after the game (which didn't last nearly as long as my many treks back to the locker room), I went to the Rx for a little OTC medication for this nasty, irritating affliction. I'm sure all you ladies know what's comin' next. Yep. The stuff turned my urine into day-glo Tang. After about three days of this, I decided I better go to the doctor.

Here's the great part of this story... I'm not sure I've ever been more embarrassed in my life. Oh wait. I have. I'll post a new section for that... Anyhoo, I go up to the counter in a very crowded waiting room, and this **deaf** woman asks me why I'm there. I demurely tried to tell her I needed to be treated for a UTI, whereupon she repeats it, only about 60 gazillion decibels louder. Ok, great. Thanks bitch. You got the Mennonite women to blush.

Eventually I'm shown to a restroom and given a cup to pee in. However, they've changed the rules for pissing into a damn cup from when I was in high school. I couldn't just hold it under the stream; I actually had to SPREAD (*ahem*) myself in such a manner that I guess would allow no pubes to fall into the specimen cup. Why a pube or two would throw off the test, I don't know. Unfortunately, somewhere in this process, I missed rule number fucking seven or something, and when I let myself go, my day-glo went EVERYWHERE! The last time I had pissed on my own self was camping in 1976 when I was a kid (and I still don't pee in nature to this day because of it).

So here I am sitting on this toilet with my HAND covered in pee, my left LEG covered in pee, my right KNEE covered in pee, and a nice puddle at my feet. Shit. How could this really get any worse? I'll tell you. That OTC medshit STAINS. I was in that damn bathroom for half an hour trying to clean the orange from the white tile (I'm a Virgo), trying to 'out, out damned spot' my various limbs all to no avail. And did I mention that it was a normal hot and humid August day in Iowa? You know, the kinda day you wake up and half convince yourself that it really would be ok if wore your underwear outside. So what's a girl to do? Well, I held my head high, walked back up to the counter, handed my steaming cup o' piss to the deaf woman (with a matching day-glo hand), and shouted "Here's my urine specimen for you to test out for a possible urinary tract infection!!!" The Mennonites were cowering by now, but damn it, I just wasn't going to be embarrassed again because I'd had SEX with a JACKASS that gave me a UTI.

And that, my friends, is the story of THE TIME I HAD A URINARY TRACT INFECTION.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Wednesday, May 12, 2004

Too much with the world...

I don't think I've ever felt so heavy with the world as I have the past few years of the Bush Reich. What happened to Nick Berg is just another hash mark (which is in no way meant to imply that it is not uniquely tragic in its own right) in a long list of heinous acts perpetuated by our fucking government's inability to take care of its own. We've got morally deficient lemming-like Lynddie England saying she was given direct orders from a high ranking official on HOW to pose with the detainees at Abu Ghraib. We've got spum-weasel Senator Inhofe stating that he's more outraged that people are incensed about the abuse than with the abuse itself. We've got Christian militant William Boykin waging war with 'the wrong god', and meanwhile back at the ranch, we're spending $4.7 BILLION A MONTH to fuel a travesty that never should have happened. Makes me sick to my stomach to think "what if?"

Can Iowa cede from the union and become part of, say, Italy? Is it possible we're facing another Civil War?

Who dat snappin' back? |

Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Natty Boy

This morning I saw the best t-shirt in the world (barring my sporks t-shirt, to be printed in the future...). A guy walked into the Suburban BP with a black tee on that said (on the front) "Angry Townie" and (on the back) "BLAME THE WATER". Methinks that's pretty killer. And natty.

Who dat snappin' back? |

Laughing at someone else's expense...

Ok, so this is how I came up with the title to my blog. Last night I was sitting in a certain bar (George's) in a certain town (Iowa City) talking with certain people (the usual geeks). I know not how the subject came up, though at one point someone (me, I think) shouted out "Free cooter!", and a certain other someone (Scott G.) responded with "I hate snappin' turtles!" Not only did he mention (several times) that he hates snappin' turtles, but waxed poetic on WHY he hates snappin' turtles. Needless to say, I cannot do this conversation justice, so I'm hoping that another certain person (Micah) will log onto this site at some point and post the notes that she was jotting down out of sheer enjoyment of just how ridiculous it sounded at the time. Drunk speak.

Ok then. I need to figure out more about how to work this thing.

Who dat snappin' back? |

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