Friday, June 17, 2005


Or, when will the Goddess of Glitch refrain from piddling on my parade?

By Famagusta Lubcroy, a ridiculously polished Heavy Media Operator, part-time Heel Washer n’ Wheeler, and lead Hog Head Singer at the Jawbone Breaker Bar & Grill in Noodle, Texas

Being a meat-packing maven doesn’t leave me much time for pussy-footing around really big, big issues like life, liberty, and everything in between.

So rather than perspire like a pig or sweat bullets like a sloth – take a leaf out of my loopy little lesson book.

First, whistle a warbling, wonky, if not whipperginny tune. If you don't know any, fear not. Just close your eyes and say these picayune prayers to relieve your stress, strain, and sickening “why me” stories…

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I cannot accept,
And the wisdom to hide the blessed bodies of those I had to dispose of today (because frankly they began to get on my nerves).
And while you're at it, please help me to be careful of the toes I stepped on yesterday (as they may be connected to the feet I may have to kiss tomorrow).

Oh, and before you loose all your remaining marbles (to the God of Gaffs), light a candle and hum. If you can't hum quietly, then mumble loudly these wallopy words under your breath:

Help me to give 100% at work…
Let's see that’s roughly:
- 12% on Monday
- 23% on Tuesday
- 40% on Wednesday
- 20% on Thursday
and 5% on Friday.

And dont' ever let me forget that:

When I am having a bad day ...
and it seems everyone's trying to wind me up:
it takes 42 muscles to frown, 28 to smile and only 4
to extend my arm and smack some poor sot in the mouth!

And after all that flapping of gums, jostling of tongues, and rolling of one’s eyeballs back into one’s horrible head (just to see the frantic look on the faces of friends, family members and even foes) ... I’d say you had a particularly pleasurable paddy-whacking day!

If that's not enough, try this merry-go-sorry mantra on for size:

May fleas enjoy a rip-roaring respite in your sleeping bag,
May the bats jump up and down in your belfry, and
May the Goddess of Glitch find somewhere else to demonstrate her whomping, whooshing, and other assorted wonder-wench talents that leave you in a sad sack state of mind not to mention dampen your appetite for Buzzard’s Breath beer with a side order of messy "bleeding-heart" sob stories.


So who needs mantras anyway?....

Moi --'ve got to be kidding!


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