btw, no kids

listening to
Frank Sinatra
“…fly me to the moon, let me play amongst the stars…”

I feel civilized

obsessed with
fishing, anyone?



so the post is late



united airlines

Just a friendly reminder to those of you who fly United Airlines that, after May 5, 2008, they will be charging $25 for the second piece of checked baggage. This means you should find a way to get your hands on a super-giant duffel bag that will also fit your cue, if you haven’t already, to avoid the extra charge for your luggage and your cue.

Damn terrorists.


thank you

Thank you Allie Kat, Grand Feline Dame East of the Mississippi for your generosity.

Here is a short cat cartoon in thanks (it includes a garden gnome).

=^.^=   <– kitty cat emoticon



Friday, February 29, 2008


I had a barbox eight-ball tournament starting tomorrow that was a little ways away from my corner of the world, so I was going to carpool with my friend Meister to a bar tournament where we would meet our other friend Godfather. After the bar tournament was over, Meister was to to drive me over to the hotel I would be staying at for the weekend tournament. To save parking spaces, I took a short hop over to where they were at via bus.

As we know, I have many interesting encounters during these rare bus trips.

Please examine this fellow below.


It is hard to tell in the photograph, but rest assured this man had no teef (teeth, for you city-slickers). The photograph also does no justice to his overpowering body odor. Yech. While this gentleman was thoughtfully sucking on his gums, he looked over at me and said, “Are you homeless?”


“Are you homeless?”


“You know, living on the street?”

Gentle readers, I was dressed in nice black pants, a nice shirt, heels, with a nice purse. Furthermore, I was talking on a cell phone. I did have a backpack with me which contained my clothes and items for the weekend. “Do I *look* homeless to you?”

“Well… yeah.”

“How do you figure?”

“You got all this stuff in that bag of yours.”

“Just because I have a backpack full of stuff doesn’t make me homeless.”

“Oh. Do you want a place to stay?”

“Hell no.”


At the weekly tournament that evening, I did well, but not well enough and I ultimately finished fourth. Of course, this tournament only paid the top three places. “One-outta” is the story of my life. Meister finished somewhere in the bottom half while Godfather went all the way to the hotseat, but ultimately came in second.

After the tournament was over, Godfather left for home and Meister and I left for my hotel. After some extremely unsettling driving incidences, most of which were fueled by too much alcohol on Meister’s part, we eventually arrived at the hotel very, very late. I was tired, and more than a little pissed off, but at least I was alive.

I had to register at the tournament site at 9:00 a.m., which left me with, at best, four or five hours of sleep. Meister insisted that there was still plenty of time for drinking, but I declined the offer.

After being wound tighter than a nit’s wallet during the harrowing commute to my hotel, I had trouble sleeping, but eventually got about three or four low-quality hours of shuteye. This irritated me because I had been completely prepared to win tomorrow’s tournament, and I knew I was handicapping myself by not getting enough rest.



Saturday, March 1, 2008


I woke up today and felt like absolute s—. However, the tournament would go on, and I would play in it, no matter how terrible I felt. My friends Godfather, Scot, and Lalique were also playing in the tournament. Scot must have thought I had a hangover instead of lack of sleep, because he instantaneously handed me a Bloody Mary. It was only 10:00 a.m. I drank it. It was going to be a very long day.

My first match wasn’t until 2:00 p.m., but our tournament directors warned us that if they were ahead of schedule, and we were not there when our matches were called, we would be forfeited. I opted to stay put on mybarstool. I tried to remain chipper and alert, but by the time match time came around, I was half-asleep. As expected, I completely dogged my match, and lost 5-1. My next match on the loser’s side wasn’t scheduled for eight hours later. I opted not to leave, and stayed to watch some of my friends’ matches instead. There are very few people who can tolerate me in the world, and I must show support for those who do.

Godfather lost his first match, Scot won his first match, and Lalique lost her first match.

I took a walk over to Starfux to get some liquid alertness. While waiting for my drink, I saw this:

What a bargain!


It was lucky I chose to stay, because my match was called early. My opponent shot out to a 3-0 lead in about 15 minutes. That was rather depressing. However, I ground it back to hill-hill and in the final game, after much patience and playing of excellent safeties, as well as the fine execution of some creatively offensive shots, I won.

I attribute my win to the coffee. There was no rest for the wicked, though, as I was told my next match would be up shortly. And by shortly, they meant three hours.

Finally, my match was called. I struggled mightily to stay alert and focused, but it was extremely difficult. Added to my mix of frustration and exhaustion were two magnificently hillbilly-esque observers (complete with farmer’s tans and raggedy John Deere caps) I will name Tweedledee and Tweedlestupid.

Tweedledee and Tweedlestupid had parked themselves at one of the cocktail tables near my match table. The venue was crowded enough as it was, but these two dragged their chairs and table even closer to my match. F—ing great.

Both of these fine specimens of Drunk-Ass Bar Player had no courtesy, whatsoever. While they were fully aware I was playing in a match, they tried to carry on a conversation with me. As of late, I have tried somewhat to be more polite, but these two have cured me of that disease known as civility. Here is an excerpt of the conversation:

“Hey, how old do you think she is?”

“I dunno, you wanna ask her?”

“Hey! You! How old are you?” It took me a moment to realize Tweedlestupid was talking to me.

“What does it matter?”


I looked daggers at this imbecile, but I answered as chillingly politely as possible, “I’m old enough to drink.” I continued trying to focus on my match. These two have obviously not figured out that asking a woman her age is impolite, and asking a woman her age while she is embroiled in an eight-ball battle to the death is just plain rude and retarded.

“She’s old enough to drink? Does that make her older than eighteen? I think she’s older than eighteen.”

“I dunno.”

“HEY! So, you’re over eighteen, right?”

Honestly, that’s just f—ing creepy, and stupid. If you can’t figure out the legal drinking age of the United States (21, for those of you who don’t know) while having lived in United States (and most likely drunk a lot of alcohol), you shouldn’t be allowed to procreate.

And why the obssesion with whether or not I’m eighteen? Save your pedophilic fantasies for the Disney Channel starlets.

“Oh man, she’s GOT to be over eighteen. That’d be g r  e    a     t     .”

After this remark, I migrated over to hide behind my friends and did my best to tune those two buttf—ers out. Damn pedophiles.

Ultimately, I played terrible, far, far, FAR below what I would be capable of on a ‘normal’ day (by which I mean seven hours of sleep), and dogged my chances of winning this tournament all to hell.


This was a heartbreaking lesson learned, but at least it was learned: I’ll get my own damn self to a tournament next time. If I want something done right, I have to do it myself. My own fate should always be in my own hands, so that I always know where to lay both the blame and the glory.

Lalique also lost her last match, while Godfather and Scot made it to the second day. Scot suggested going to IHOP to salve the wounds of my competitive heart with massive amounts of cholesterol.

It didn’t heal me completely, but it did a fair job.

While we were eating, Lalique saw the canisters of syrup, and told us a funny anecdote from the past:

“I had a bunch of guy friends who were drinking syrup one day, just straight out of the bottle.”

“Wow. That’s kind of gross, even if the stuff is sweet. I’ve heard of contests drinking hot sauce, but not maple syrup.”

“Yeah, but you know what the most messed up part was?”


“Every time they farted, it smelled like pancakes.”



Sunday, March 2, 2008

* sigh *

I returned to the scene of the crime today to support my friends.

I brought my cue along with me, as there were a few open tables and I thought I might like to play while I waited. I walked by Tweedlestupid from yesterday and he said:

“HEY! You still in?”


“Then what you bring your cue for?”

“For you. And anyone who might think a chick can’t play pool.”


I sat down to watch Godfather’s match against some overly-trendy kid. This kid had been Godfather’s first match and had sent him to the loser’s side. The kid had played well, and Godfather had not won a single game.

Godfather told me that this morning, the kid had told him that yesterday he “hadn’t been on top of [his] game”, and that today, he was “playing REAL good, the best” he could possibly play.


This, the Trying To Be Subtle But Only Succeeding In Sounding Cocky-Stupid Intimidation Move is the standard amongst mediocre players everywhere. The kid’s remarks roughly translate into: “Hey, I totally whipped your ass yesterday while I was playing my very worst, so you have NO stinkin’ chance today because I’m so f—ing hot on the pool table right now, the devil himself pays me to power his domain.”

I couldn’t stand this kid’s cockiness but I really, really couldn’t stand his carefully gelled and spiked hair, his overly-trendy jeans, and his overy trendy pseudo-biker/tattoo/goth t-shirt studded with rhinestones. Dude! RHINESTONES! He made me feel like less of a chick, he was such a pretty-pretty boy.

The kid won the first game, but Godfather was a tough, solid player who refused to be intimidated. Godfather started playing some good safes, and soon, the kid was struggling. The kid missed a lot of shots, played sloppy position, and you could see him floundering in the open water as the sharks closed in.

The final score?

The kid got one game. He accused Godfather of being a hustler, which we all found funny, since Godfather, apparently, was not a hustler the day before when he lost to the kid. And the kid was playing his absolutely best today, too. Funny how stuff works, eh? Go to hell, pretty boy. The devil’s waiting for you.

After Godfather’s highly satsifying victory, we went next door to an awesome Italian sandwich shop where I got this magnificent BBQ pulled pork sandwich for the incredibly reasonable sum of $4.00 (including a bag of chips!).

The food gone, we went back in to watch and wait for more matches. I saw this layout and I knew I had seen it before. I think it was the illustration under “clusterf—” in the dictionary.

Finally, my entire road crew was out of the tournament. We decided to stay and watch some of the matches and we were treated to some great eight-ball played by non-hacks. While my friends went to go eat, I remained to watch more matches.

They thoughtfully fed me with plain white rice, sweet-and-sour sauce, and soy sauce. 🙂

All things, good and bad, must come to an end, and so it was with this tournament. I regret that I did poorly, but I am happy that my friends did well and are inspired to play in more tournaments.




Monday, March 3, 2008

Tonight, the opposing league team did not show up, so we won by forfeit. Always a nice way to win — all of the taste of victory, and none of the calories.

Here are some cool illustrations I found on the wall of the bar.



Tuesday, March 4, 2008


It’s time for league yet again…

I got there a little late tonight since I got lost on my way to the venue. I ended up playing a very beatable player, but I dogged it yet again, due to lack of concentration. The worst part was, I didn’t really care very much about the loss itself. I do not think I really wanted to be there.

That tells me I’ve finally reached that point where I’m burnt out on league pool.

I quit the team and went home. I’m of no use to a team or myself when I’m not driven to win. Playing league three days straight a week is tough and I think I need to regulate my addiction to self-frustration. I might return to this Tuesday night league when my Monday and Wednesday leagues end in a few weeks.

Sorry folks, Tuesdays will be light on entertainment for a while.


Food is fun and it puts me in a good mood. When I got home, I started therapy — by making a BLT. I had some cherry tomatoes that were about to give up the ghost, so I used those instead of regular tomatoes. The end result was very nice.

let the healing begin

sweet nice 'n' neat

how it's done

Bacon makes everything (except my pool game) better.



Fun Links!

“What the @$%#?”



2 Replies to “btw, no kids”

  1. Allie Kat says, “You’re purrrfectly welcome!! And thanks for exchanging some purrrfect recipes!!”.

    “Now go kick some azz!!”.

    -Princess Allie Katzenzoomerbabies (her full name)

  2. That is the most amazing blt I think I’ve ever seen.

    And I don’t even like raw tomatoes.

    Don’t worry about the hillbillies, they’re probably not used to seeing women who aren’t related to them…

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