Unexplained Mysteries Discussion Forums: Unexplained Mysteries Discussion Forums -> Purplos' Spelunking Expedition

I have come to believe that people who make sweeping generalizations about groups of people have very small minds.

They must be small, since they are incapable of entertaining an infinite number of possibilities of character, belief and attitude. Indeed, they are incapable of entertaining even a small multiple of possibilities.

Generalization pisses me off. It is a serious detriment to a peaceful world.

LOTR Meets the Muppets

Cup of icy lemonade in hand, I stopped in the living room for a perusal of the front garden on the way back to work at my computer. There was a woman and a little boy staring at the flowers in the garden.

This happens a lot. No worries. The gardens are lovely.

So I stand there, sipping my lemony goodness, and watch them pointing and chatting about this flower and that flower.

And then...

... they begin to pick the flowers. Not just one or two - that is forgivable - but great handfuls of all my flowers!

I plunked down my lemonade, ran for the key, whipped open the door, and burst out onto the porch, eyes a-flame.

"What are you doing?" I yell.

"Picking flowers," the woman says.

"You can't just pick flowers out of my garden," I shout.

"Is this your garden?" she asks.

"It's in front of my house, isn't it?" I snap.

"Oh, we thought it was one of those pick-your-own places," she simpers.

"What? Are you kidding me?" I say. (It's a small yard in front of an obvious house on a street lined with similar small yards and houses.)

She frowns and shrugs. Her little boy is staring back and forth between us.

I walk over to where they are (she pulls her boy almost behind her, like I'll swoop down and eat him up) and hold my hand out. "My flowers," I snap.

"You want them now?" she asks, looking dumbfounded.

"I planted them," I say. "Of course I want them."

She hands over the flowers and, as I stand there with my hand out, she takes the flowers from her kid and hands them over to me. She is starting to glare.

I bend down to the boy (he was maybe 6 or 7) and hand him three of the biggest, nicest flowers. "It's never okay to steal things out of people's yards, hon," I say with a smile. "If you had asked nicely, I would've let you pick a few flowers, but you can't take without asking. That's stealing, and stealing is wrong."

The women goes all indignant and grabs her sons hand and pulls him away.

I retreat inside my house and put my flowers in vases.

Notherworld Insurance Group
1337 Far Fara Way
Sometown, Notherworld, 0U812


Dear Mr. Madison,

In regard to your recent request for insurance compensation for your unfortunate accident, we regret to deny your claim. We at Notherworld Insurance Group are aware that your 1992 Ford was, indeed, totaled in the altercation with the Heebeegeebee Death Worm, and sympathize with your plight.

However, we must draw your attention to Section IV, Sub-section F, Unit XXVII, Sub-unit Q of the Insurance Coverage Client's Manual. The above mentioned clearly states:

Insurance claims will not be honored in the following instances:

1. Damage or destruction caused by naturally occurring meteorological events
2. Damage or destruction caused by unnaturally occurring meteorological events
3. Damage or destruction caused by irate ex-spouses, lovers, or close friends
4. Damage or destruction caused by acts of gods, godesses, demi-gods, demons, minor imps, or false prophets
5. Damage or destruction caused by attack, either provoked or unprovoked, rampage, stampede, general ill will, or hunger or any actual, mythological, cryptozoological, or just plain made-up animal, vegetable or mineral.



We would also like to point out that, since the aforementioned Heebeegeebee death worm was duly warned against on signs posted in the vicinity of the accident, your lack of forethought in entering said area showed the type of idiocy we usually raise our customers into the next payment bracket for. However, since this is your first offense, we shall let it slide this time.

We do hope that this satisfies your claim dispute. We look forward to providing all future insurance needs for you.

Sincerely,

Quasi Loophole
Notherworld Insurance Adjuster

!!!!!

I'm in a pissy mood.

There are three (types of) people I cannot stand:

1) People who feel sorry for me and gush about "Oh, poor you...."

2) People who think self-employed means lots of free time to do whatever THEY want.

3) My father (who is very closely tied to #2)

-------------------

This neighbor..... she's a nice enough woman when she waves from the driveway. But she's getting nosier and nosier and enjoys clucking her tongue at different things. "Oh, that car doesn't work? Oh... tut, tut, tut." "Oh, look at the rusty bicycle... tut tut tut." And her head shakes slowly and she gives a simpering mushroom smile.

Makes me think violent thoughts.

This friend of mine... not a very good friend.... AND my father, AND my mother (a bit).... do NOT understand that I have 0 ZERO 0 extra time to fit in any other chores for them. "Do you think you could go through these boxes for me?" NO! I CAN'T. I have no time to go through your flipping boxes!

Which brings me to my father. I've just taken on the weekly task of heavy housecleaning for him. So, once a week I have to cut homeschooling short, somehow get all my work done in the morning or not do it, and then drive to the next town to scrub accumulated spilled beer and potato chip crumbs off every surface in his house. I spent three hours the other day cleaning just his laundry room.... all while running back and forth to make sure my kids weren't messing things up.

And what do I get? No thank you, no appreciation. "You just did the laundry room? Do you think you can come two times a week, or more?" AGHAGHAGHAGHAGHAGHHHH!

(pant pant pant) My father is almost 75. He doesn't get around too great, and he certainly can't keep his house clean. He won't move to a smaller place either. And I'm the closest one, geographically speaking. So.... if I don't help him out, I feel guilty.

Blurg-hopping Schnitzle Buggers

These people are driving me nuts.

Fiction writers who post their work in public, looking for comments, and then get nasty if you do anything less than give them a b-j for their adolescent ramblings.

John walked into the room. He was six foot two and muscular. He saw Muffy and thought she was beautiful. She had long blonde hair and big green eyes. He walked up to her and kissed her.

AGH! How can you NOT criticize something like that?

And please.... don't get on my about my spelling tonight. It's just not on.

Seriously though, if you are a writer (or want to be one), grow some frikkkken balls - or a thick skin if you prefer to stay in a more socially acceptable anatomical area.

Maybe all fiction postings should have a little code on the side: age of the writer (you don't want to rip into a 12 year old about usage of allusion and metaphorical flashback semi-colons or whatever), what draft the darn thing is on (do NOT slap 1st drafts up in public for review - its like a sculpture dropping a lump of clay on the ground and asking for opinions), and what type of comments you are looking for.

Please! If you want stroking, tell people. If you want a REAL CRITIQUE, ask for one!

By the way, here's my critique for the scherenschnitte (my euphemism of the moment - actually some German art of paper cutting - very pretty - my Mom used to do it) above:

Romance is a great theme, but you make it sound less exciting than matching socks. Where is the emotion? Where is the passion? Or is there passion? Where are John and Muffy anyway? This paragraph could be about two middle aged people, post divorce, at the yacht club. It could be about two teenagers at a church social. It could be about intergalactic travellers initiating a marriage arranged by Quorax 3, the grand high Snorkblatt of Hoovaloo V. My god, tell me something here! And character descriptions should NOT read like a laundry list of characteristics... just in case you were wondering about that.

I have VERY limited patience with people who cannot write well. Maybe (and this is going to sound really bad!), it is because I am good at it, and I just don't understand how it can be so hard for others.

I should probably think about pole-vaulting whenever my brain starts going in this direction. I could never pole vault. Never.

I should have known what I was getting myself into.

I should have been more careful.

It all started innocently enough, an invitation for lunch at a local diner. I had a turkey sub, hold the onions. He had a ham sandwich.

Four weeks later we were living together in a little apartment with a leaky faucet in the kitchen and drafty windows. Was it love? It was something. We spent the days working for our pay, and came back home to snuggle in the queen-sized bed. Money was tight, but we did what we could to keep to our budget. Grocery spending dropped, and gone were the idyllic days of deli-sliced lunch meat and whole grain bread. Now, it was little more than generic peanut butter on crackers that fueled our love.

Late at night, lying in each other's arms, he whispered comfort in my ear. "Things will get better. We'll make it through."

Despite poor nutrition and half-hearted precautions, I got pregnant, and our happy world shivered with the news. "We'll get married," he said, and I, like a fool, agreed.

It was not until the day of our justice of the peace wedding that I met his mother.

She perched on a chair at the front of the room like a vulture, beady black eyes and long-clawed fingers clutching her handbag like a shield. Before the ceremony, he took me over to meet her.

"Healthy boy childs," she rasped, and jabbed one finger toward my belly. "You give my son healthy boy childs."

Frowning, I glanced up to see the uncomfortable expression on my husband-to-be's face. "Umm... I'll do my best..."

"Only one way to make sure." She shifted in her seat, a scrawny figure in funeral black. "My son likes ham sammitches. Ham sammitches every day and you'll get healthy boy childs."

A cantankerous old woman, an elderly mother not long for the world. I could put up with some strange requests for peace's sake. These are the things I thought when I stood hand in hand with my man and repeated the words that would bind us together.

What a fool I was.
-----------------------------------

Just having fun. (No, I did not really marry the ham sammitch man!)

....is oozing out of most of my bodily orifices.

Except the ones that would be REALLY gross to have green slime oozing out of.

I've been sick for a week. My kids are sick. Besided the green slime issues, I am totally and utterly POOPED. (Although I hate that term.)

Doesn't help that it's November and I'm trying to do NaNoWriMo. Maybe good, or I'd be simply wallowing in my green slime.

I've caught a bad


Wahhh....

This isn't meant as a complaint or a "woe-is-me" whimper or anything like that... really. My life is just fine, thanks.

I think I might be feral - you know, like those kids raised by wolves. Not that I growl a lot and eat raw meat...

I have no social skills... I guess. It always strikes me odd that people talk to friends on the phone every day, or go out with them every week. Strange. Really, really alien.

I'm a friendly sort, intelligent, good sense of humor. Introverted, but it's not like I turn into a mute whenever people are around. I just make no impression on people - really. I'm totally forgetable, unable to form attachments, or... something. Even on the internet. I'm just... pass-over-able.

I often wonder how I come across to people. What do they think of me? Or do they at all? Not like I'm pining for attention... just curious. Really.

Weird. I'm weird. My life is weird. I have no clue.

The blank slate
the empty stare
I talked to a man
who wasn't there

He told me secrets
secret things
He fed me dreams
dark things with wings

Tomorrow comes
red creep and dash
Dreams and memory
my life made trash

(insert deep red nothingness here)