Raisin Utopia

Those who have been fortunate enough to hear my raisin utopia must have come to one of two conclusions- either I'm kidding around, trying to get a laugh/negative attention or I'm one crazy bitch. I assure you, although, I may have been a little over-the-top with some of the assembly line, fat kids with bad teeth imagery, I am far too self-absorbed to care about anyone's reaction. No folks, I was dead serious about the heart of the matter - raisin heaven pretty much sums up how I view the Kingdom of God. I guess Crazy Bitch is in order, your honour.

When I ran through the concept with my boss, she laughed from the belly and called me a black widow spider, this was minutes before I was asked to stop cutting off a certain set of balls (I'll save you for first box if it makes you feel better).
I will admit that from the outside looking in, I have painted a self-portrait that could appropriately be entitled 'The Castrater'. I am "intimidating", "scary" even and while I find it fun, fun, fun- it's not really the interpretation I was seeking. I have rethunk. Perhaps I have been a wee bit harsh. A revision of utopia is wanted if it pleases the court.

I shall keep the keagle muscles, the sucking out of all boyish myrth, the womb as filter and the energizing of my spirit with the souls of those that need purging. I maintain that the shriveling up to litte raisins is absolutely essential and the conveyor belt and packaging is a fairly suitable analogy for what we vagina weilders have had to go through. I will take out the "Happy Halloween" stamp and the Aunt Jahmima logo- my intent was never to be racially or religiously discriminatory- and I will replace them with something more neutral like "cheers" with a sunflower. Oh! I will also include a fortune so that each box may provide not only mystery but a good old fashion piece of advice.

Next, scrap the fat boys with bad teeth, they'll be in a box themselves soon come (which incidentally, will require a mechanism something like a breast pump to suck manually because lets face it- who's gonna want to do some of that and we sure as hell don't want a world with nothing but fat, smelly, ugly guys)and instead, send the boxes to Africa or South East Asia or somewhere else with starving little children. Each raisin will be cherished and honoured as they help to restore and sustain once dying innocents. The fertilizer will then be used to plant more food and grow some of the most beautiful and medicinal plants the world has ever seen.

Once this has been realized, I will release my superhuman powers to shine the light of now purified souls over the world, a light from which none will ever wish to avert their eyes. And our own sons will respect the wombs that bore them as they were never able to before and our own daughters will bask in the glory of what they may now become.

As the light blankets the earth all will bless the day of the coming of the raisins and those who once thought me to be nothing but a castrater will understand the required sacrifice for the glory of the greater good and they will wink knowingly when they see me pass.

I realize that some soon-to-be-rasins may not wish to go along and although the idea of force is tempting it is not really my style. To correct this theoretical problem- utopic shriveling men to raisins sex will be the man's only means to multiple, wowwer than wow orgasms; a way to feel 100 fold better than ever fathomed. Men will not only agree to be raisins but they will line up for the experience.

Now which woman can envision raisin utopia without writing her very own mental list of first pickings?

the defence rests

Read This

‘I always read you’ I heard it said and I found the ambiguity so hilariously apropos that it has required quite a bit of thought to suitably respond. Still now, I find my finger very near the backspace as I snicker, then frown, then laugh and shake my head in utter disbelief. Ah so you read me, this blog, these bits of scrap that I throw out for my own personal satisfaction. I am flattered that you find ‘me’ worth reading. I sometimes read myself and I wonder why anyone would care to spend those few minutes moving the eyeballs from left to right in order to hear my tripe. And I say tripe because I feel no ways to readily admit that the large portion of my writing is drivel. I am faithfully committed to it- and as there is very little I’m faithfully committed to- this in itself speaks volumes.
But I digress…you read me. Yes honey, you read my blog or rather, because I can only guess the full scope or identity of my readership, I must take you at your worm. But you want to know what I really think? You must if you always read me. lol.

I think you don’t.

That was just you trying to be cute in a could-have-been-awkward situation. But let me clarify; even if you had passed your eyeballs (behind a pair of sexy nerd glasses no doubt) from left to right you did not read me, you’ve never read me. What you’ve been reading, is a poppy-cock blog. You never wanted to read me, you never could have read me even if you had wanted and to believe anything otherwise- well that would just be even more nonsensical than the blog itself. I must applaud you for the poli-polish you seem to have acquired in the trade but spare me it, please. If you have read any of me surely you must know that I am not your average woman.

Little Children and Bare Stress

IZ and O quarrel all the time. On the way to school this morning O had a sword and was jucking IZ in the guts. IZ had no weapon to retaliate. Envy lends to tattle tales and so of course, IZ took it upon himself to whine "mommy...Ocean bringing a sword to school!!" I look through my rearview at them and a plastic rainbow sword near takes off my neck.
"Ocean!! Put that sword down!!! You are not to carry toys to school!!!Toys are to be left home. Next time don't bring any toys in my car."
Ocean, a mere 3 years, retorts in full Bajan accent, "Next time- I gine put de toy in my bag!"
Wouldn't you know, when we get to school Ocean hasn't got a bag.

He's left it on the couch at home.

Roller Reunites with Roadworks in Idiot Village

My driveway is now the official parking lot for a Ministry of Transport and Works road roller. It's been parked under my window for a couple months and it has become the boys' favorite outdoor toy. (They climb on up and mock drive it like one of those cop cars in Chefette Wildey.) Whether the road works crew use the roller or not I can't be sure. I saw it moved but once. That was at about 2 in the morning when a very loud, ginormous truck rolled in through the gates and lifted said roller on its back to have its flat tyre fixed. She was then brought back home the next morning, tyre repaired, to resume her post guarding the frangipani tree. "Yuh mean, I gotta let out de air in dese tyres tuh get dis move from hay?", asks Ricky.
With the amount of road repair going on in the island, one might consider this roller reststop a gross waste of productivity but considering road works have knocked up a little board house in the bush, have found a waterhole in my freezer and a toilet in the pig pens, it actually makes perfect sense that their vehicles should join them behind God's back in this idiot village.

Like Anywaayz What-Evehr

The critics (who never leave any messages) have accused me of using too many big words and writing about not fun things. Recall that my Gloria project -step 1. toward taking over the world is to improve the vocab so I can out-mouth them but ok anything to please my fans... This blog is a dedication to the office dead head who's so bored she's going to take a 6 month vacation to an Afghan army base. It is an attempt to make-up for the exegesis/eisegesis blog prior which I have been told, sucked but which I have also opted not to scrap because dude, that's what I study, that's what I do and that's all I know.

So ok like I went to St. Winnie's today and like I got some books from this old lady who's the president of the PTA or something but anyways, I told her right? that my sister like she used to go there and she made the teachers so mad 'cause she would go to Shitey Whiteys and the Boat Yard and come to school with the stamps on her hand the next morning right? and she would wear her skirt like totally above the knees and the teachers wanted her to get in trouble with our mums or whatever and they like totally tried to set her up and mums wrote them back this letter like "My daughter can't like come to school 'cause she's too busy injecting heroin and getting prego from drug lords" but like she was so good at school that she could party all night and get super drunk and then write a cxc and like totally ace it. So I tell the old lady my sisters name is on all the walls and they like totally hated her 'cause she was smarter than their kids or her kid or whatever and the old lady said something about bad examples and HIV.
So ok like now my sister graduated from like a U F T or something and she must have drank harder and worn her skirt shorter or something 'cause like now she don't know english no more but thats ok whatever I mean like between Afghani rebels and American soldiers she won't need to know any english anyways.

National Pride Unfeathered

Rumours of replacement pelicans to a pond of the north have helped to ease the sorrow of last week's pelican murder.

Dear Little School Boys

I know hitting birds with rocks is second nature for your prepubescent little brains but let me make a small suggestion.

Hit a few black birds (they scared the crap outta my Koko), a wood dove maybe (I've hit a few with my car), hell come to my yard where the big boys get off shooting those foul shitting pigeons with riffles.
Or hey, hit an egret- they spread ticks. Or a chicken- a chicken's good- we can eat it after.
But please, please leave the pelicans.
It's a national embarassment to kill our only single solitary national bird at home base.
Now that Pelys cousins have come to mourn him- leave them be. Use those rocks and that testosterone to lick down a few cocks instead. I know plenty that could use a good whack to the head.

Thanking you in advance for your kind consideration.

Row the Roses

Yesterday I watched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on cable. I haven't seen it since I was a kid. Funny how it's not the same movie anymore. Like who knew the old dudes were singing "grow the roses" and not "row the rowses" espeacialy in light of the fact that they were all holding oars and buoys.
What's strange is how experience colours the way we internalize a story. IZ says "Mummy, you know, Lost is so stupid. How they could be in the jungle and still living in a big nice house?" 'tis true-'tis true.
One of the things that nauseates me about acadaemia is this masculine fetish for all that is supposedly objective and exegetical. I happen to like eisegesis seasoned with subjectivity. It's a lot more honest isn't it? and it does away with the bullshit of "transparency" in the prologue where scholars spew their my-space profile in an attempt to expose their personal bias up front and personal like that will somehow make them more impartial. Who determined that reading out of something is better than reading in to it? Who said there was any difference betwixt the two? As I see it- it's a dialogue and whoever wrote the thing has no more rights to the story than I do. It all boils down to who is the authority- objectivity in scholarship is a notion that is founded on the belief that the only view that is valid and untainted is the one held by the white well-to-do male who's piggy backed off of a long line of white well-to-do males and have have had the monopoly on Truth passed on to them as if it were a fraternity handshake.
Because here's the thing, now I know that the words are "grow the roses", I still acknowledge the ironic homonymous onomatopoeia in the pantomimed rowing of aforementioned old dudes with oars and no one can tell me it's not there.

Sourcing Souls from Idiotville

I had another 'I hate Barbados' moment yesterday when I attended a Town hall meeting on the upcoming Bathsheba Heritage Festival.

This is BIM

Legacy Barbados with World Cup 2007 have implemented a community project using Bathsheba as the guinea pig under the premise that tourists are not just looking for nice beaches anymore- they want to experience 'we culcha'... our culture. So- they've organized a festival for Independence Day in Bathsheba celebrating all that is Barbadianna. Nature walks, Food and Drink, Cultural Shows, Picture displays, Treasure hunts you get the picture. They've also pledged to make it green (good luck to them).

It is supposed to be an opportunity for residents in Bathsheba to have first dibs of stalls, jobs, etc... to which they(Legacy) are coughing up half of the bill to rent the stall, doing the set-up and the security and the clean-up and the marketing and the bussing in of tourists and the promotion of individual businesses and products. Sound Good?

To me it did. Ok. You make a few fish cakes and they bring in 1500 people to potentially buy them. Good money for one day- very little effort required.

Here's how it went:

A flyer about the meeting was sent to every house in the area. I say every house but really every adult 'cause I got two in mine. When the meeting started there were two people there. My sister and my self.

Ah Community Apathy how well I know you from the PTA.

But then, we did get a couple of residents in.

Angry as the fires in hell about copywriting of the name 'Bathsheba Heritage Festival' and exploitation of the residents and their culture and the ramifications of World Cup and "soon from now we won't be able to walk down the street" and you people want to come in here and take over and profit off of us and stomping foot and pointing finger and puffing chest and witholding names. It was so juvenile.

Poor poor dude who came to explain the festival- doesn't he yet know that when there's room for anything except apathy in this country it's contention, derision, jealousy and negativity?

The evening culminated nicely in the appearance of drunk asshole who came in to "bre'k up this meeting" because he has a beef with the Chair of Legacy over parking. (He doesn't own a car, mind) Upon seeing Michelle and I maternally comforting the wounded idealism of the Chair's protege, he bellowed out my most favorite Babadian argument for anything from cookware to cockfights:
"Those white bitches come from away and tink dey can come hay and slave 'bout de people dem. I born hay. I 100% Bajan. Dey want going to fuck long what part dey come frum."
(His father is a white foreigner, of course)

Ah Barbados...Why are you so hung up on sourcing your souls from Idiotville?
Will I ever be able to stomach the spiteful mentality of your offspring?

Somewhere Under de Rainbow

Yesterday the brightest rainbow I ever did see was in full arc over my property. And it wasn't alone- another fainter rainbow sprawled over it's twin below. IZ went out lookng for the leprechauns and because you could actually see the end of the rainbow in the sea, I had to tell him they were swimming, protecting the gold on the ocean bed. Of course children don't miss a trick,
"so if de leprechauns are wid dis rainbow- who wid de odda one?"
well...they're swimming really fast between the two.
"but mummy ohhh...what about de sharks?"
dolphins
He's always been too sharp for me-when IZzo was just learning to talk he was sitting by the tobacco tree and quiped "where's de onebacco?" since then I've never been right.
Then this morning dressing it was "But mummy why we gotta tuck-in and de teachers don' gotta tuck in?"
I don't know what that rainbow meant (yeah yeah IZ- God's promise of no more floods...)
but for sure
it was for us.

Lost In BIM

A truly Bajan experience is easily achieved by having no idea how to get somewhere and asking the natives for help.

I set out with an address- something like "Sunbeam-St. George" between Market Hill and Francia.
Pretty easy.

I drive to Market Hill and ask man on balcony watching traffic could you tell me how to find blah blah.

Man on balcony gets off balcony crosses road and says,

"Best ting fuh you to do is turn round and mek de first left, guh down to de gas station, pass de school and yuh know what part dey wokin' 'pon de cut rock? Is down tru a cyart road 'bout day. Yuh can get tur it from hay but de roads goin' get wunna confuse-"

Good directions.

I know the gas station, the school, the cut rock- I go.

When I get to the cut rock I ask fat man with dumb face sitting on house step "could you tell me how blah blah"

The man says "yeah I hear a dat place. Turn back pass de gas station and don' guh down to St. Joseph but foller de next road."

I say, "but it's supposed to be here- between Market Hill and Francia"

"Yeah I tink I did hear something 'bout that place tuh. Go straight 'den"

Thanks.

I turn left at the next available gap where I ask rasta man with the buckets of sweat and the red eyes "could you blah blah blah"

High as a kite he says with no breaks between the words...

"yuhgottagorounddatbendandfollowderoadandbackarounddereandpassdathouse
denroundtodeleftandroundtoderighttilyuhgettoahydrantyuhknowwhat'sahydrant?iswunnadosetingsfuhwaterwitderedtopturnuptrudererounddechurchandupsomemoh
denleftand
onetwotreeyuhdere."

He's standing in the road so a car wanting to pass blows the horn.

He shouts

"Drive de rasshole car yuh dumb fuck!!!"

The driver passes him and he starts back repeating the directions

"yuhhearwhatIdidtellinyuh?yuhgottarounddereand......."

At this point Ricky's going,

"Press Gas!!!!!"

I go a little farther and I see two guys looking pretty normal chatting on their bicycles "Can you blah blah blah"

The guys say.

"Turn left by de church"

Good directions

Left at the church but still not there yet I'm getting fed up driving slow and car man coming at me looks me in the face and drives by slow too. I ask "Can blah blah blah?"

"Tell you what to do" he says, "Follow me."

He drives me round a couple bends makes a few turns and stops.

"Go up tru day"

"thanks."

I drive across a cart road for 10 minutes that is less of a road and more of an X games track.
....ah cart road...(remember man #1)

I reach.

Thanks be to God.

Things They Never taught You In Sunday School

Here's a little bed time story...

God made the firmament and the stars and the trees and all the fuzzy little animals ran about.
Then God made man.

Man, being the indiscriminately horny little penis-pounder that he was (is) wanted to get jiggy with it.

No women yet for penis-pounder to pester he set about making nookie with all and every female beast he could find.

horse, dog, zebra, camel, cow, skunk, porcupine, anteater...

"These just don't feel right" man complained to God, "couldn't you make me something my size?"

God went generous and made woman.

Man took woman and tried to get it on

Woman said,

"listen boy, this ain' wo'kin' for me. I gotta get on top 'cause you've obviously no idea how to satisfy a woman. Dis ain' a charity yuh know."

man said,

"God made me first and I say stay on your back!!!"

woman said,

"Back this swine fucker-"

and took off towards the sea.

Man cried

"God the animals don't like it they just chew grass and ignore me, the woman neither - she gave me the finger and flew off ...oh make me another woman that'll lie on her back and I'll give you blood sacrifice forever."

God made Eve

Who's Up For Good Things???

Today I learnt that "I hear you're doing good things" is code for "so you've got crack for sale."
This is useful information. I am now equipped with the knowledge of how to respond the next time I'm asked if I have any good things to report.

I obviously don't have good things going on but I do know where the good is readily available to anybody wishing to end up really really good ie)homeless, unwashed and begging for small change.