This is the last time I offer to help an old bitch down the steps!

She was hunched over, frail and carried a cane.  At the edge of the steps about to walk down she looked so teeny, susceptible to an unhealthy tumble.  “Sure you don’t want to take the elevator, Methuselah?”  I said.  “No, no, I’ll be fine,” she warbled.   That lying wrinkly twat!  I’d seen her before.  We’d had the loveliest of chats — she’s 200 years old, she is, and had some stories to tell from the days of yore, as you might imagine.  But the last time I recall she had taken the elevator, as I had suggested.

Well, I just couldn’t see it, her getting down those stairs in one piece.  I ran to aid her.  “I’ll help you — here,” I said offering my arm.  “Well, I could just hold the banister,” she said.  But it was two miles away from where we stood in the center of the steps.  “Here, let me,” I said again.  “Oh, o-okay,” she warbled taking my arm, and blibbity, bop, clop, cloppity, clack, crack – we both fell!  “Oh, oh, I told you I wanted to hold the banister,” she bleated – “You meant well, but you don’t know how to hold a person,” she scolded.  What the — why, I orta!  We finally got her old ass up off the steps, she went to her car and drove away.

From here on end, any half-dead, dried up raisins I see who need help crossing the street, or stepping off the bus can kiss my ass!  And I’ll be good goddamed if you get my seat on the bus – no, no, I’ll continue to do this – so people can see how magnanimous I am.  But other than that I mean well, but I just don’t know how to hold a person — so fuck off and die!

The Crazy B*tch Blog

I’m renaming my blog.  “The Crazy Bitch Blog,” I think.  I’ve written about being aroused by a ninety year old man, euthanasia mobiles and about getting approval from the neighborhood bum. There are other things but I don’t want to make it worse on paper.

Today I wanted to write about erotic armpit odor — this is no pretense, no cheesy shock value effort (like the title of my book – ha!) – help please…  After hanging out with some very normal people lately, I’ve been able to evaluate myself, to look at my past.  Why did I find the necessity of creating my own planet?  No seriously, this isn’t funny anymore.

Yours truly,

SCB

This is my very first blog post! Aside from my facebook friends, I don’t think anyone else really saw it… It’s a great idea, I think.  It’s where I got the idea for the name of my blog.

1800ukillme

 

Once this has been totally legalized, these would be a great idea.  The mobiles could be painted in bright designs, to take the stigma out of euthanasia – inside the mobile could be a party atmosphere.  We could have some with pictures of beautiful women and men surrounded by clouds, hands out, beckoning, calling those thinking of suicide to ‘come, come’, ‘you can do it.  I did!’  The truck could have a theme too, like an ice cream truck.  It’d be rolling down the street playing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’.   The slogan would be ‘Come, let’s just put you out of all of that ‘ol misery.’

You see my biggest fear is that I’d shoot myself in the head, miss the important artery and wind up being a vegetable.  Or I’d hang myself, the rope breaks right where my brain’s been starved to the point of…

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Euthanasia Mobiles

 

Once this has been totally legalized, these would be a great idea.  The mobiles could be painted in bright designs, to take the stigma out of euthanasia – inside the mobile could be a party atmosphere.  We could have some with pictures of beautiful women and men surrounded by clouds, hands out, beckoning, calling those thinking of suicide to ‘come, come’, ‘you can do it.  I did!’  The truck could have a theme too, like an ice cream truck.  It’d be rolling down the street playing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’.   The slogan would be ‘Come, let’s just put you out of all of that ‘ol misery.’

You see my biggest fear is that I’d shoot myself in the head, miss the important artery and wind up being a vegetable.  Or I’d hang myself, the rope breaks right where my brain’s been starved to the point of no return, and I’d be the drooling idiot nauseating the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner.  Auntie Barbie would have to feed me.  For some reason she’s the only one that I’d take to without writhing in protest since I’d be unable to talk.  My sister would be mad and would shove the fork into my mouth with the intent of stabbing me I’m sure.  My brother, well, he’d say, ‘She did this to herself.  Let her starve to death!”  I wouldn’t even be able to laugh at the irony of that.  Auntie Barbie’s the most sensitive of all of my mother’s sisters plus she’s a nurse.  The food would roll out of my mouth back onto my plate in a heap of mush.  Everyone’d try to be evolved about it but in reality, they’d think it was gross.  Auntie Barbie would roll her eyes at them and keep feeding me, martyr that she is.  She’d tell them that God spared me from death for some reason because he had some special purpose for me then she’d prop up my bobbling head and wipe excess saliva from the side of my mouth.  But regardless, some of my relatives, ever so quietly in the back of their head would still wish that I hadn’t missed my shot.  If you think about it, after all this was a goal that I’d sought that I hadn’t been able to achieve.  But oh well.

So you see, the mobiles would eliminate the possibility of this kind of an error.  They’d be staffed with the finest experts in the medical community.  And the mobiles would be great because they’d come right to your door.  All you’d have to do is call 1-800-U Kill Me and they’d be there lickedy split.  Because face it, most people thinking of killing themselves are too depressed to drive or to take the bus anywhere to some kind of a euthanasia center.  The mobiles would even encourage more people to kill themselves perhaps.  People who normally wouldn’t consider such a thing would entertain the idea now because it would be so darned convenient.  We could rid ourselves of all types of nuisances who need only a nudge to go through with it; the self-pitying depressives that suck the lives out of us, the ones who go around blaming others for their misfortunes; people who call you ten times a day because they can’t figure it out for themselves – you know, those people David Byrne talks about in ‘Psycho Killer’, the ones who start a conversation they can’t even finish, the ones who talk a lot, but aren’t saying anything.  What about those miserable gossips who can’t find any value in their own lives?  And then there are the ones whose looks you don’t like; people who stink; people who look at you funny; people who let their car alarms go off while they’re standing right there; people you see everyday who don’t say hello; people who don’t deserve the good fortune they’re receiving while you haven’t gotten shit that you’ve asked for…okay, okay – so I’ve gone a little off track with this last group, but you get my drift about the other ones, don’t you?