At Last I Welcome Kara Borden into the Jail Bait Hall Of Fame

This whole Jail Bait thing was just my idea for drawing traffic to my website. As much as I hate to admit it I need you. Not that your attention doesn't cause me some cognitive dissonance. OK it doesn't even cause dissonance, I just like using big words you don't understand.

For a reason I can't quite fathom people in Turkey love to search for Polish Porn. I had no idea that Polish Porn was even a real category. But it is. Trust me. My stats don't lie.

None of that has anything to do with Kara Borden. And if you don't know who Kara Borden is then you should. Kara is a 14 year old girl who convinced her 18 year old boyfriend to shoot her parents. After he shot her parents in front of her she ran off with him.

Kara Borden Teen Seductress and Femme Fatale

Now guess if she did any jail time over this. Nope. Because the authorities think Kara is a victim. Check out my good friends over at The Daily Pitchfork for their amazing coverage of Kara. Pitchfork's original reporting brought Kara to my attention. The Crime Library has tons of news from newspapers sources.

I'm not sure why it took so long for Kara to make it in the Hall Of Fame, but sometimes even the greats get treated this way. How long did it take for Scorsese to get an Oscar?

David Ludwig went to jail just because Kara got her way.

I can't answer your obvious question why a teen seductress who entices her boyfriend to kill her parents, and then runs off with him after he murders her parents, in cold blood right in front of her, gets away with, serves no jail time, and then writes about the hardships she has to endure on her Xanga page while her former lover faces the death penalty took so long for to get inducted to the Hall of Fame. I can only guess it's because the story feels made up. But the facts are both sad and true. And this chick is at least twenty times more guilty than my personal hero Scott Peterson.

Beware of the Jail Bait.

Hugs and Cuddles.

Romius T.

P.S. If you are really disgusting you can visit Kara's MySpace page that includes text messages she had with the real victim-her boyfriend.

Lindy Slinger is my HERO

I bought 2 large Pizza Hut pepperoni lover's pizzas to go with watching the NFL draft today. Anytime I get hungry I place two slices in the toaster oven until the cheese melts. I am now sick of pizza. Pizza Hut seems to not know that tomato sauce is a key ingredient to pizza.

MY review of PIZZA HUT.

The pizza is dry and the cheese tastes like styrofoam. All I really want is Indian food or a baloney sandwich.

I got up at 9 am. In the morning. To watch the NFL draft. I have a friend who likes watching the draft. He likes to watch it with me.

Just a quick non-football note about the draft. Notre Dame Quaterback Brady Quinn's girlfriend Lindy Slinger might be hotter than Ashlee Simpson and Christina Aguilera combined. I hear she plays soccer or something which makes me think she's got a lot of stamina. I am not sure why stamina is something that would attract me to her. As I have no more than 3 seconds of stamina myself. Sometimes I get winded from typing to fast.

Ashlee Simpson (above) a well known skank bag

During today's NFL Draft the camera crew from ESPN kept showing close-ups of Lindy. They couldn't get enough of the girl who had hitched her ride to a falling star. Would she walk out? Would she cry? And what about Lindy?

All I know is that Lindy and her boyfriend have been going out for 5 years and rented a cabin in Mexico for Spring Break. So you know she totally does it with him.

Go Redhawks!!!!

My Bathos site has a video of Lindy and Quinn & And I have posted another blog entry about Lindy at The Needs of the Few.

Kirsten Dunst has small boobs

Kirsten Dunst has small boobs

that don't move around
They stay put.

Stuck in the middle of her chest
they are
pissed
off
at the big titted
chests

Because they will always be
small
inconsequential,
mediocre
like me.

I hope kirsten doesn't stumble on this blog
or read the mean things others say about her.
Or get depressed
when she stops to think
about her small tits.

I love big tits
but I like small tits too.

But I am sure
I wouldn't like being stuck
in the middle

like small tits

on a girl
who wants to be pretty.

I don't need to be the happy of a girls with big tits
I want to be small tit happy
like you Kirsten

so I can bend over

by the side of the pool
and pick up the paper
without much cleavage showing

but I won't read the nasty things

they say in the paper

just the good news

because I am a chickenshit coward

like my father before me

just like luke skywalker says

or bukowski did

in a documentary today

go back to sleep kirsten

where you can dream away your small tits

and where you don't have to apologize

for dreaming away

in your dreams it's ok to have insecurities

about small tits

about small boobs

it's ok you bent over

it's ok if I see them

'cuz I won't say anything mean

or write
anything nasty

I'll just write you love poems

and rub lotion on your back

because you freckle easy

and my lips will get cold

from all the wine we drink

swallowing our youth
like bitter
lawn darts

Part III Of the Trip to Find Billy Jack.

Frankly folks this happened so long ago I can barely remember anything that happened. A friend offered this bit of advice. "Just write we met a bunch of old chicks and they wanted to get busy with us. At least then it's over."

I will include an excerpt from a post that explains the Cougar phenomenon:

What is a Cougar and why are they dangerous?

Definition: An older woman trying way too hard to look young. Usually heavy makeup and way too tan, sometimes orange. Generally has leathery, smoking damaged skin, short skirt, and may have obvious breast implants. See any big city bar scene.

Part III. We are Attacked by Four Wild Cougars in Jerome, Arizona.

My friends want to sit at a table far away from the door and pool table. But I object. “I want to sit on the bench.” I tell them the bench is the only seating located next to other people in the bar.

We spot cougars...

The table located next to us has 4 very drunk women seated at it. The band we hoped to see had just stopped playing. I got asked if I liked to dance by the drunkest of the four women, Nurse Betty.

“No.” I replied.

“Darn. We were hoping for some action.”

I took a sip of my beer and rolled my eyes at her.

“What... you mean we aren’t enough action for you?”

I glanced over at her friends and waived my hands toward them. She took my bait and all 4 of the cougars joined us. And in one voice assured us that were that we were "all the action they could need."

I wore a baseball cap. So did Card Shark. Drunk Nurse Betty wanted to look under Shark’s hat, but he told her he was bald. That didn’t bother any of the cougars. They claimed to like bald men. "Pat" put an end to any refusal we could offer by claiming to love combovers. Pat thought combovers were sexy.

Nothing could dissuade these women from looking under are hats. Shark finally freed his tussles from under his cap. The girls took turns running their fingers through his long hair.

Next they turned all that post-menopausal attention towards me. They wanted to see what was under my hat too. I was not dressed for sex play. I had on jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a baseball cap. “I’m balding.” I told them. “You aren’t going to want to see what’s under my hat.”

But when cougars see their prey they get aggressive. They are like 14-year-old boys. All pent up sex energy. But unlike a sexually immature boy, an older woman feels entitled to satisfy her urge. Now that nature had released them from child-bearing, they molested us with abandon. They relished in the child's play of desire.

“We want to see what’s under your hat.” They repeat. I relent. I give them a peek. They see for themselves the receding hairline. Maybe it reminds them of getting old, because they quickly turn their attention away from it.

But they don't want me to feel bad. They start in on me. Telling me how they each like hats on men. They encourage me to keep it on. With my hat and casual clothes I could be mistaken for someone 25 years their junior. I think they like that part of me best of all.

We drive to Clarksdale because Clarksdale has a band. Married Guy sits up front with Card Shark and two of the Cougars. Joe and I make the trip in the back of the pickup bed along with the other two Cougars.

It's cold and windy. And we all anticipate getting frozen on the trip. Joe does something that astounds me. He snuggles up with the only half way cute cougar. Probably in her 40's, she doesn't wear tapered acid washed jeans. She still colors her hair. And she is decently in shape. Her face gives away her age, but at least the giveaway says "Milfy" not "Gilfy."

I am left to fend with the most obnoxiously drunk older woman I have ever seen. She had little or no self-awareness of her drunken state. The following conversation is not verbatim.

Drunken Nurse: "Do you want to snuggle, why don't you want to snuggle with me? Are you gay? Do you like women?"

It is precisely because I like women that I am not turned on by you.

I am annoyed at myself for allowing this turn of events. I know I can give no encouragement to Drunk Betty. I know any encouragement I give to Nurse Betty will become hands tugging away at my limp manhood. I don't want that. I am still hopeful that Milfy will give me a try.

But my my hope for a turn with Milfy dies as I watch Joe snuggle. I underestimated my competition in GI Joe. I assumed he would be lackadaisical. I was not prepared to deal with his assertiveness. I should have been angry about the way things had turned out, but instead I felt only a begrudging respect. The old man had a few tricks up his sleeve still.

I stayed warm in the back of the pickup because I borrowed a jacket from inside the truck. I stay warm with out the any of the human contact that Nurse Betty so desired. She complained the entire drive about how cold she was even after I allowed her some side-to-side touching. I know women are always cold, and it was 30 degrees with 60 mph winds, but I had already offered her my jacket. I was not about to offer my loins.

The Cougars who sat up front in the cabin were hungry. They asked if we carried any food or snacks in the truck. Card Shark kept a wary eye on his third cookie and did not share it. Even when asked directly, he refused.

***
A side note to women everywhere. When you first meet a man. And you ask him for a favor. If he turns you down. Assume he finds you ugly. ***

Clarksdale, Arizona.*
Home of the 10/12 Lounge and the One Class Act Blues Band.

A truly terrific band. Like most blues fans I am white. And like many whites I trace my love of the blues back to Bill Cosby. The appearance of legendary bluesman B.B. King on the Cosby show when I was in the 9th grade changed my musical tastes forever.

The lead guitarist and singer walked around the room as he played. Much like another Arizona bluesman, Carvin Jones. The band was elated to see a group such as ours enter the bar. We shouted along with the band. We cheered and applauded their efforts. It felt like destiny. The band played inspired.

Most Cougars love to dance. And these cougars were no exception to the rule. I danced with all 4 cougars. One cougar gave me the "fuck you eyes." I cannot express to you how disturbing it is to have a women 10 years older than your mother look you up and down like a piece of meat. She was ravenous in her sexual hunger. She did not mind showing me her desire. She showered it upon all three of my companions.

Her eyes said "I will fuck you tonight." Her mood was was confident and secure. She seemed to be saying that, "I know I am not what I used to be. But I am willing. And men enjoy that. Moreover; I am ready to abandon myself to the instinctual."

I will not play with that kind of fire.

But I danced for the first time in several years. I remembered what it was like to have the attention of a woman. I recalled why I missed that attention. A woman makes a man behave and feel differently. I felt more alive though I was dancing with death. I grew in confidence. I thought I could be valuable. If not to the world like any man of substance desires, then to a woman, and if not to these women, then to some women somewhere.

I saw my friends sharing that same feeling. They would not be dismayed by life completely either.

We drove the cougars home. Back to their hotel room in Jerome. They were sorry to see us go. But Married Guy needed to get home. They understood. G.I. Joe needed to feed his dogs. Dogs that love to lick me. Now I would not get laid because of Trixie the Dog.

I could have stayed. They wanted to cuddle. I am not sure I can satisfy 4 hungry cougars. I am not sure there is enough meat to feed such a hungry group.

But I think I would have liked to have stayed.

* The actual name of the city is Clarkdale, but the sound "Clarkdale" in my head disturbed the story for me.

My Mom used to get mad at me whenever I got pnemonia for using all the guest tissues

I know I am supposed to feel guilty that I haven't posted in awhile, but I don't. I am sick. I've got a runny nose, and sore throat. I cough up lemony colored snot. I am breathing underwater. And every time I swallow I get the distinct impression of diet flavored ginger ale.

I can stop drinking diet ginger ale but I can't control anything else.

***

Why do I suddenly feel bad for Don Imus? I have a friend who hates Don and I can't say I like him, but I often listened to him on MSNBC at 4 in the morning when there was nothing else on. A writer from Slate fleshed out why I think some found him compelling...

"As an enemy of pseudo-speaking, of the scripted and the canned, Imus made his career, among other things, by being a racially ambiguous figure. From his speech patterns, which borrow liberally from the great American religion whose deacons include Billy Sunday and Wolfman Jack and Howlin' Wolf, to his love of white blues, he played the cracker who has more in common with the Negro across the tracks than with the Man.

As the media critic Susan Douglas has put it in a particularly astute essay on talk radio, "For many of his listeners, Imus turns the tables on money, power, and entitlement"; his show is a place "where polite people in prestigious and influential jobs have to 'suck up' as Imus puts it, to a man who breaks all the rules of bourgeois, upper-middle-class decorum." Here, of course, is how he slipped into troubled waters.

To understand his comment, that the Rutgers women's basketball team were "nappy-headed hos," you have to see it in its many dimensions. The comment was witless and dehumanizing, an insult not only to these players but to African-Americans, women, women athletes, and any permutation of the above. But it was not said principally to that effect. It was said on the (false) premise that being "politically correct" is still a cornerstone of "bourgeois, upper-middle-class decorum," and is still a dominant mind-set in the culture at large. Imus was exploiting a cynical confusion, a common one on the AM dial. In talk radio, the P.C. bogey is kept on life support, the better to allow the heaping of abuse on the marginal and disenfranchised to pass itself off as speaking truth to power.

just in case you haven't noticed

Posting has become sporadic. It will remain so for the foreseeable future.

Part II. The trip to Prescott. Part III is next.

The trail we took out of Arcosanti reminded me of the Old West. A dirt road. Navigating the bumpy, windy road on bad shocks meant we never took speeds better than 15 mph.

I was dehydrated so the jostling and sliding over the road delivered no undue pressure to my bladder. It took 20 minutes to drive the 3 miles back to the freeway.

Back on the highway we maneuvered the car towards Prescott. The road to Prescott is no longer a desert scenic highway. Instead the area is dotted with Indian food restaurants, condominiums and hotels that get sculpted into the hillsides.

We passed many of those markers of progress on our way to Prescott. Only one of those symbols, a local Walmart, had the decency to be built in a valley low spot. Conspicuously hidden, it suggested to us the cost of urbanization. Walmart understood the resentment that locals would harbor for a corporation who chose to destroy this landscape. Walmart chose to hide.

Prescott is hilly.

You have to walk up and down hills to get anywhere. Though I was out of shape, I enjoyed the strangeness of my environment. The Valley is completely flat. I never think about the side walks in Phoenix. In Prescott I walk up a hill and my attention gets directed to the ground.

The Peace Fair in the center of the town had hippies dancing to a very bad band. Three members of the band played the bongo drums. None of the band members wore shoes. Each had dirty black feet. A hippie girl with no bra danced by herself. Her arms were outstretched and her feet pointed in two different directions.

Card Shark watched the girl dance. He wanted to join her. He thought dancing with her with was his best opportunity to "hit" on her. This offended the Married Guy. Married Guy lived on a commune as child. His parents were former hippies who now voted for Clinton. Married Guy wanted to defend the hippies against Shark's advances, because he knew Shark's opinion of hippies.

The hippies gave away free food. I tried a metal container labeled Tea, but found only hot water inside it. The hippies also made homemade jam and bagels which they stacked down a long buffet table.

Most of the people at the festival gathered around the buffet table. Few of the festival goers were interested in any other stands. Those stands were covered in literature about peace, Darfur, and the War in Iraq.

The only exception to the general lack of interest in booths that contained no food was a "free bicycle repair" stand. Hippies from all over Northern Arizona patched their tubes and tires there. I wondered how so many hippies could pedal to Prescott on bald tires and ungreased axles.

We finally left the fair when I got tired of searching for something decent to eat from the hippies free food buffet. We made out way over to the ice cream shop featured in the Billy Jack movies.

In the movie the children of a local American Indian community and a group kids from a progressive hippy school are denied service at the ice cream shop. In one scene flour is poured over some of the children and the owner refuses to sell them ice cream cones. Eventually Billy Jack steps in to defend the kids. He fights a whole gang full of the local bad guys using his karate techniques.

I was a bit worried that my friends and I wouldn't be sold ice cream or cheeseburgers either. But the staff at the shop was very friendly. They were eager to tell anecdotes of the real "Billy Jack" visits. And they cooked up burgers and fries for us all.

We were surprised that the shop contained no actual memorabilia from the movie and that the owner of the ice cream shop instead chose the decor of a 1950's diner.

We set sight next on Jerome, Arizona. The adventure climaxes there. Part III is meeting 4 cougars. Your patience may be rewarded when I finally recount our story from Jerome. If you have come this far, I hope that Part III does not disappoint.