Observations by Key Monroe~~Home of Right Opinions, Cynical Viewpoints, and TMI in Hefty Doses
|E-mail: keymonroe [at] alltel [dot] net

May 31, 2004

Thinking About It

Happy Memorial Day. Kelley, Eric, Rob, Jim or Jack provide beautiful words of tribute. I wish I had the time to read the hundreds more that are out there.

Appreciating our freedom every day honors our fallen every day.

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posted by Key on 09:05 PM | Comments (1)

A Little Help Here Please...

Would somebody get this bum up offa my sofa and outta my house?

Actually, the man is right. I am painfully neglectful of my dear blog on the weekends.

As for his description of my house...Well, I'll describe, you decide.

Cosmo, huh? Actually I used to pick up a copy during the summertime, as it made decent pool-side reading. But I haven't picked up a copy in a while.

But of course, if there's an article on sex, I am going there first. (I'm not so dorky as to use a highlighter, though.) I will reluctantly admit that once upon a time, I did learn a little something from one of these articles. In fact, my husband (after his recovery) actually questioned me as to where I had learned such techniques. ...ahhh, success. I laughed it off until he said, "No, seriously..."

The man is painfully wrong about the refrigerator. Anyone who would save a Happy Meal needs to have their head examined. McDonald's food expires about ten minutes after it's purchased. (And good luck trying to get the milk to last long enough to expire in my household.)

In the fridge presently is leftover lasagna, apple crumb pie (home-made down to the crust, people...and in a side note, if you don't have one of these, GET ONE!), various juices, milk, beer, oranges, cheeses, and several condiments.

Thank bejus Rob got the toilet paper thing right! If he'd pegged me as the "mounted under" type, that may have been unforgivable. It's gotta be rollin' off the top. I will actually go through the trouble to change it if it isn't. (And my lid cover isn't "frilly." Do I look fru-fru to you? It is a plain black lid cover, and you just do whatcha gotta do to hit the water, 'kay?)

Not bad guesswork regarding the bedroom. I do have candles and scented lotion, but I keep my robe in the closet and my toys in the lingerie drawer.

Hey, I can't be sloppy about that! I don't even want to think about what kind of stammering piss-poor excuse I'd have to come up with if Miss Priss were to lay eyes on Mr. Pink!

(Oh, and uh, what exactly were you doing with Mr. Pink to be running down the batteries? ...Do I need to run him through the dishwasher?)

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posted by Key on 08:24 PM | Comments (6)

drive-by blogging

Heh. I just broke into Key's house because I know that she's NEVER home on the weekends, and I hate to see a blog with no recent posts. I'm going to look around here and see what I find.

Hmmm... here on the coffee table is the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, open to page 64. The story is "Ten Sex Secrets Every Woman Should Know To Drive Men Wild." Lemme look at this.

Bejus! She's used a yellow highlighter pen on eight of the secrets! I suppose that she wants to remember those. But what about the two that AREN'T highlighted? Has she already mastered these techniques, or does she think that they are just too disgusting to attempt? I'll have to ask her about that if she ever speaks to me again after reading this post.

What's she got in the refrigerator? No beer. Just damn! There's a half-eaten McDonald's Happy Meal and a suspicious-looking bottle of milk that appears to have curds floating on the top. I think I'll have a glass of that. Probably tastes like buttermilk.

I wonder where she keeps her glasses? Aw, what the hell. I'll just drink the milk straight from the bottle. She'll never know...

ARRRGGGH!!! That tastes like shit!!! I didn't mean to spray the refrigerator door with projectile milk-spit, but I couldn't help myself. Besides, that clotted milk hanging like strings of snot from the refrigerator makes her kitchen resemble mine. I'm not going to clean that up. I'm going to have to eat the rest of that stale Happy Meal to get this horrible taste out of my mouth.

ARRRGGGH! The Chicken McNuggets have bugs crawling all over them! I didn't realize that fact until I had eaten one and a half McNuggets. But... upon further reflection, I have decided that the bugs provide a delightful crunch with a delicate aftertaste of Raid insecticide. I've eaten worse. I'm going to finish this meal.

Okay, I always like to check the bathroom. Let's go there... and AHA! Just as I suspected! The toilet paper is on the holder and it feeds with the top sheet unrolling from the front. I always figured Key for an "outie" kind of person. But she's also got one of those feminine, frilly toilet-lid covers that make it impossible for a man to piss using only one hand. If I don't hold the lid up with one hand and piss with Roscoe in the other, I risk a very bad guillotine experience as the lid slams down of its own accord. (Okay. Maybe "stubby" would escape unharmed, but just the idea of a commode snapping at me like the giant shark in Jaws puts me off very badly.)

Listen, Key... take Acidman's Hot Sex Tip #11: DO NOT put a frilly cover on your toilet lid if you want to keep a man around the house. He'll either leave you or piss right on the lid if you insist on putting that kind of bullshit in a man's world. Trust me on this.

Okay, what's in the bedroom? Candles, a well-made bed and a nice scent of perfume. A fluffy robe neatly flung like road-kill in one corner. Something here on the nightstand that resembles a sawed-off baseball bat made of shiny plastic. It has a button on it. I wonder what happens if I push that button....


Got-Damn, Key! You should be ashamed of yourself!!! Don't give me any shit about using that thing for "massage purposes only." I know what it's for.

But I had better get out of here before I run down her batteries.

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posted by Key on 01:38 PM | Comments (7)

May 28, 2004

The Look

Here is the entry that Rob meant to post here, but accidentally posted here!
(I guess I should've given him a better tour of my home.)

Have you ever seriously courted a woman who made you feel as shy as a teenager at a high school dance because you felt a special attraction to her? Have you taken your time during that courtship, being careful not to rush the relationship, because you didn't want to fuck things up?

Did you bide your time, handle everything like a total gentleman and then finally see THE LOOK? I have, three times in my life.

THE LOOK is something that you can't plan and you can't schedule. It happens when the time is right and you'll know it when you see it. It's all in the eyes, which suddenly seem to sparkle like the stars in a clear, midnight sky. If you look closely, you'll see a strange combination of surrender, challenge and fear in those eyes, and if you look too deeply, you'll feel as if you're one step away from plunging off a cliff into deep, mysterious waters.

You feel surrender, challenge and fear, too.

When you see THE LOOK, you know that the woman wants you as much as you want her. She wants you THIS NIGHT and she's ready to give herself entirely to you. The touch of her hand suddenly feels different. She walks more closely with you. A kiss on the sidewalk turns into an embrace and you want to burn with a blue flame from sheer passion. You want to meld with that woman's soul.

You don't have sex after you've seen THE LOOK. You make love, and it feels wonderful. After that first night, you'll never see the same look again, but you'll always remember it. And it will send tingles down your spine.

I haven't seen THE LOOK in a long, long time, and I miss it.

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posted by Key on 09:29 PM | Comments (11)
» Straight White Guy links with: Lucky...
» Bad Example links with: TODAY'S LOVE NOTE

Key Firsts

First Memory:
I must have been about 18 months old. There was a get-together at my grandparent's house. A grown up was trying desperately to force me into a highchair as I kicked and screamed. Was I the only who saw the BIGASS nail protruding from the exact spot my delicate end was supposed to go? Not only were these people lacking in observation skills, they failed to understand a simple word that I knew how to say quite articulately, "Nooooo!" ...Not to worry, they finally figured it out. I remember a chuckle and a southern drawl, "Well, no wonder she didn't want to sit there..."

First trip to the beach:
Ten years old. A deep-thinking, socially inept, beach bum at heart, those were the longest ten years of my life... And then one day, my grandparents bought a condo at Tybee. We were there every summer for the next few years. And to this day, if you can't find me, I'm begging, borrowing or stealing a trip to the beach.

First kiss:
It was a youth retreat. He was a preacher's kid. Yes, they are the worst. And an interesting couple we made. He was cute, but I was a good four inches taller, so most of the making out occurred on our favorite bench. We got a little carried away one particular afternoon. He tasted like cheese doodles, which was kind of gross, but not enough to stop me. I felt an eerie silence. That stopped me. It turns out we were the featured attraction. At least a dozen kids were staring at us, but I didn't see them. I was gaping at the counselor, who was gaping at me. (We picked up a lot of trash for the rest of that hot August afternoon.)

First sign of rebellion:
Sneaking out at night from the rented vacation home on Pawley's Island to meet a guy I had met a month earlier at Six Flags. He was stationed at Myrtle Beach. I was 15. First drink was also that night, but I behaved otherwise. (To his credit, he was a perfect gentleman, and he didn't know I was 15.)

First reality check:
I graduated from high school at the age of seventeen. Two weeks later I was on a mission trip in Honduras. Two weeks later, I returned to find a real estate sign in the front yard, and a mostly empty house. My mother had found a two bedroom duplex for herself and my brother. I scrambled to find a roommate and a place to live, which needed to happen anyway. But the actual reality check was in the grocery store. I was so excited to finally get to be the one deciding what went into the cart. No chunky salsa, no Spam, no off-brand cereal...I was about 10 feet from the checkout line when it hit me, Shit! I have to pay for this! That was sobering.

First time:
Aha...you thought I'd tell, didn't you? Okay, I'll disclose one detail...I'm married to him.

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posted by Key on 09:08 PM | Comments (4)

Just Testing

snow pic.jpg

My first posted pic.

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posted by Key on 02:15 PM | Comments (10)
» The Brier Patch links with: My Back Door Girl

May 26, 2004

I'm Sick of It.

Have you ever had an incredibly large, un-ignorable situation going on within your household?

It's there, it's important, you want to be kept apprised and you fully support working it out as quickly as possible, but as the household must go on, there is no need to monopolize every second of every day with conversation on said topic.

Understand that this is coming from someone who talks shit to death. When my husband yells, "Alright already!" that would my cue to shut the hell up.

But as big as this war on terrorism is, and as much as I support (and will be voting for) Bush, I would like to hear something else come out of his mouth when he addresses the nation.


What else are we working on? Tax structure sucks. Foster care program sucks.
(I really don't get why I am being taxed to fucking death to support entitlement programs catering to lazy adults, while their own children suffer.)

What makes it even worse, is that the speeches seem to be more and more desperate in their attempt to justify our involvement overseas. I understand that he's being attacked. But I don't think he owes them an explanation every time he opens his mouth.

If people do not get the "WHY?" part of it by now, they're not going to. They need to shut up, sit down and let someone else think for them.

Of course they're not going to, but why cater to them? Why not use the hour-long addresses to the nation to talk to those of us who are with him?

I could appreciate something along the lines of:

I. So here's where we are on the war:
A. How we've responded to the dumb shit they've pulled recently.
B. What our immediate goals are.
C. How our long term goals have changed, if at all.

Moving right along...

II. This is where we are domestically:
A. Liberals are trying to suck you dry and...
1. I'm fighting them?
2. I'm letting them?
3. What?
B. Clinton left a big stinky mess up in here and I'm...
1. Fixing it?
2. Ignoring it?
3. What?

What else is happening? I don't want to talk about gay rights or prescriptions for the elderly. What else?

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posted by Key on 11:22 PM | Comments (6)

May 25, 2004

Snowflake Adoptions

When I discussed adoption earlier, I neglected to mention a method that is growing in popularity.

Many couples, after In-Vitro Fertilization, have leftover fertilized eggs. In an effort to prevent their embryos from being used for stem-cell research, many parents have donated their embryos to the Snowflake Adoption program.

They match genetic features between bio parents and adoptive/birth parents as closely as possible.

IVF is always expensive, but this program allows an adoptive mother to form and give birth to her child.

Personally, I won't be jumping on board. I've given birth once, and that is enough for me. But I know someone personally who has all but given up, so I'll be sending the link her way, and I thought I'd share it here as well.

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posted by Key on 02:41 PM | Comments (3)

May 24, 2004


I was pampered this weekend. I hung out at the spa Saturday afternoon.

I'm not really the day spa type, nor am I into self-pampering, but if I didn't use the gift certificate that my husband bought for me (last Mother's Day) this week, it was going to expire altogether.

My idea of pampering is parking my butt in a beach chair and letting waves roll over my feet ...or being made to sit down while the husband straightens up the kitchen and pours me a glass of wine ...Oh yeah, that would beat the spa certificate, particularly if he threw in a massage.

No such luck, but the half day at the spa wasn't bad. Reluctantly, I am able to see how one might grow to appreciate the ass-kissing royal treatment.

I did have to continually remind myself that I had my husband's blessing as I undressed and waited under warmed sheets for Kenneth, my massage therapist.

His hands were nice, soothing. The lighting was dim, the music...weird little nature sounds. And the air...Mexican. Yeah, that must be what he had for lunch, and yeah, I could have gone without knowing that.

I'm thinking that being a hottie is prerequisite to getting a job in said establishment, because my hostess for the remainder of the day could have been a body double for Lucy Liu. ...but more importantly, she administered a painless manicure. (And it didn't hurt that she was pleasant to talk to.)

So, I survived a day at the spa. It was difficult, but understand, it had to be done.

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posted by Key on 07:59 PM | Comments (3)


MT is haunted.

I deleted a post, but it didn't go away. Actually, it went away on my end, just not here.

Then I posted again, and the new one posted over the ghost post that was dead, but didn't know it, so it still showed up here. ...until it was replaced.

Soooo....isn't there a way to delete a post and get it to disappear, without having to immediately replace it?

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posted by Key on 05:59 PM | Comments (5)

May 21, 2004

Okay Look...

I know this is old news at this point, but I'm still having a hard time with it.

I just don't know if I can believe it.

If a healthy, adult male thought his thingy had only the function of emptying his bladder, then don't you think he'd panic in the morning when it was swollen and he couldn't pee??

I have my doubts.

Maybe they were the offspring of religious freaks.

I remember sitting in Bible class when I attended cult Christian school. My Bible teacher informed the class of the evils of the flesh, as we studied David and Bathsheeba.

He proudly gave us his own chaste testimonial.

"I didn't even kiss my wife until the minister gave me permission to do so at our ceremony. And we ONLY have sexual intercourse if we are trying to conceive a child, as that is its purpose."

We were all a bunch of fourteen year old virgins, but we knew this guy was out of his mind.

Innocence is God's gift to children. Orgasms are God's gifts to adults.

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posted by Key on 12:03 AM | Comments (8)
» Lemur Girl links with: Linky goodness!

May 19, 2004

Quick Question...

Do nurses hate me?

I get the same thing every time:

"Have a seat."

These will be the last words that she will speak to me until it's time to get my weight.

She almost looks at me, as she glances away from my chart long enough to poke a thermometer into my mouth. (I then go cross-eyed trying to read it, because I know she won't bother to tell me the results.)

She writes down the results and pulls out the blood pressure cuff. Again, if I want the numbers, I have to ask for them. That, or read them upside-down as she writes them down. If I go this route, I must do so quickly, before she slams the file shut and asks the inevitable:

"I'm gonna need you to step on the scales."

Yeah, I won't be trying to read this one. She can keep this nasty little number all to herself.

So, I step on the scales. She plays with the slidey-thing, turns around so as to face the audience of her peers, and like a village crier, articulately screeches out my weight to all within earshot.

What? Is she friggin kidding me? I feel like the victim of poor sit-com humor.


Do nurses scope us out in the waiting room, and then place bets as to where we'll weigh in?

Somebody enlighten me.

This happens every. single. time.

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posted by Key on 10:05 PM | Comments (13)

May 18, 2004

Naked in the Morning

I figured that since I've gotten to work an hour early for the past week, today I'd take my time getting in. Why not?

I knew the boss (husband) wouldn't be in anyway. (I had him booked all morning long.)

So, I got Miss Priss off to school, watched the news, highlighted my hair, and took my time getting ready.

Clothes are last. Right? Doesn't everybody do it that way? I don't want to be dressed while I'm blow-drying my hair. I'd get too hot.

Therefore, I was butt-ass naked when the doorbell rang.

Panic. Very rarely do we get drop-ins.

So in soap opera world, if someone comes to door when you're undressed, you put on a skimpy satin robe and answer the door, as though your attire were the most normal outfit imaginable.

I picked up my robe. That would work if my guest was a little neighborhood kid who had lost his frisbee on my roof... Nope, not at 9:24am.

Then it hit me. It's the third Tuesday of the month. Oh, crap... the bug-man! I had to be dressed.

I reached into my closet and grabbed something. It was a sundress. I poked my head through it and allowed the rest to fall into place as I went to answer the door.

There was my bug-man. His face was a beautiful shade of crimson. Great. How did he know?

"Um, do you want me to come back some other time?"

I thought about it. Then I thought about the big, nasty evil-looking spider that I had chased off of my crown molding with bug spray just moments earlier, and having to watch it's putrid carcass writhe in agony as the poison fried its nerves.

"No need. Come on in. Excuse the big hair; I was just blow-drying it."
(That's a good reason for not hearing the doorbell, right?)

I was just thankful he didn't come while I was fetching the bug spray from the Kitchen...

So, am I suffering from some sort of lack of modesty disorder, or does everyone walk around naked in the morning?

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posted by Key on 07:12 PM | Comments (22)

May 17, 2004


How can I not link this thread?

I've basically been spending all of my "writing time" the past couple of days in Pam's comment box.

This is a subject near and dear to my heart, as it is hers.

Cheaper by the Dozen is called "the kind of movie that makes you glad you're childless." I left wanting to fill my house with eleven more, and wishing I had the money to do it. If I ever win the lottery, I'll do it, and you guys can hold me to it.

As it stands, I'm looking at adopting a slightly smaller sibling group. After parental rights are severed, all they have is each other, so I think it's particularly tragic when siblings are separated.

I took in Jacob, age three, in May of 2002. (The date is wrong in the last post.) I found out a week later that he had two sisters, an eleven month old and a six year old, in another home.

I marched into the DFCS office and told them how wrong I thought it was that they had been separated. I was asked to sign a pink slip. "What's this?"

"This," she said, "gives you guardianship of all three."

Fine. So for six months, I had four children, including Miss Priss (who is my one and only bio-kid.)

There was much fussing, complete chaos more often than not, and a great deal of baggage. My house became way too small all of the sudden, and everything I touched had somehow become sticky.

But I saw the first steps, and I played tooth fairy to the first lost tooth, and I would have gone to hell and back to keep those children from going back into the hell that they had known only a few months earlier.

Luckily, the parents decided they would rather sign over their rights than go to trial, particularly since things would come out during the course of the trial for which they could be criminally prosecuted.

The children are now living with an aunt...two aunts actually. Yes, they split them up. I hated it, and I would have taken them all. But placement within the family is preferable, and I see the value there. Besides, this is a country cousin family; they all live on the same street anyway.

I won't lie to you. These children were the easy ones. From my experience, the issues seem to compound with age. I'll tell you about some of those stories when I'm not trying to promote foster parenting!

Many of you have written, asking what is involved. First of all, you need not be saint. In case you haven't noticed, I am not a saint.

Second, the requirements are slightly different from state to state, but here's a start.

You do not have to commit for life. Burnout happens. I've been doing this two years, and once I adopt, I may or may not continue for a year or so more. But if new folks don't siphon in, they won't let us out!

Once approved for fostering, you are automatically approved for adoption. Most children are quickly swooped up by their foster parents once parental rights are terminated. Some are not. These children are considered "special needs." They are listed by name and photo, and they are available for adoption now.

Me and my I've-got-to-do-something personality have a hard time navigating away from that page, but I force myself. Most of these children are above age eight, and I feel I owe it to Miss Priss to maintain the birth order, allowing her to be big sis.

This concludes my shameless plug to recruit foster parents. Am I forgiven if it's for a good cause?

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posted by Key on 10:13 PM | Comments (5)

May 15, 2004


Lynne solved the riddle.

Inquiring minds want to know. Did you dream up the answer, or did you know it already?

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posted by Key on 05:33 PM | Comments (5)

Manipulative Brats and the Parental Units Who Love Them Anyway

It's so incredibly humorous when it's somebody else's kid!

Yes, I did laugh out loud when I read this sentence:

So, I calmly paid for my cat food, apologized for the disturbance, and stepped over my child's head, looked down, and said, "Fit-pitching gets you nothing in our family." I then exited the convenience store by myself, and got in the car.

Yeah, I'd say that went well. Seriously, it did. I wouldn't have handled it any differently myself. Well, except for the fact that Kelley is nicer than I am. She was left with an after-feeling of remorse, while hours later, I'd still be shaking off an after-feeling of irritation.

They don't know that they're clueless little punks. They come into this world fully believing that they are king and you are servant. There are no lengths too extreme, no request too lavish, if it temporarily satiates the demands of the adorable little leech.

Now, while "fit-pitching" requires no particular talent, manipulation is a skill. You get that with the brainy ones. Kelley provides a beautiful example of said behavior. When Spidey's request for a toy is turned down, he has this to say:

"Oh, well. I guess you'll just have to buy me a Special Treat and take me through the car wash, then."

Oh, yes! I nearly fell out of my chair. Miss Priss tries that bullshit EVERY DAY. She never tires of it. And, even worse, she says it with this authoritative tone, as though it is my duty to follow through with either her primary objective, or the alternative, which she has been so gracious as to offer as well.

What?! Of all the unmitigated gall. WTF? Whose script are you reading?

Obviously, I can't say what I'm thinking, so I calmly explain - again - that I am boss and she is child, and I will make the decisions and she will live with them.

And that is quite effective. In fact, it lasts ten, maybe fifteen minutes.

It's trial and error. Those of us who care, do the best that we can. What separates a good parent from a bad parent?

Many would say that that question is impossible to answer. I disagree.

A good parent makes every effort to parent their child in the exact manner that they would have liked to have been parented. We may never make it, but we strive for the ideal.

A bad parent refuses to give their child anything more than they had as a child. They want their child no more loved, nourished or educated than they were. God forbid they should actually make more of themselves. (Yeah, they're out there. I've had their children in my home.)

Character building is a precious job. In the extended entry, I've included an archive which entails my very first encounter with a foster child. (Yeah, this would be your turn to laugh at me!)

Read More "Manipulative Brats and the Parental Units Who Love Them Anyway" »

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posted by Key on 05:23 PM | Comments (10)

May 13, 2004


What is the difference between a cat and a comma?

My daughter asks this of me, and it's actually a good one. Any takers? (No brownie points for you if your kid tells you the answer.)

(hint: think grammar)

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posted by Key on 11:56 PM | Comments (4)

Google Fun

In the previous post, I mentioned "google worshipping." That is not to be confused with "google fun."

I would like to point out that 6 months ago, I WAS the one and ONLY under the google search for ASSCRACKLICKER.

I am hereby taking credit for the coining of said term. (Maybe not the activity, but the term, none-the-less.)

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posted by Key on 11:52 PM | Comments (3)

Blogicide Reaches Epidemic Proportions

There are two types of blogicide:
1. Those who have forgotten why they started blogging to begin with. They have turned into the media that they originally cursed, feverishly hit-counting and google worshipping until their ego is so far up the ass of their blog that they lose indivual appeal. There's the metaphorical blogicide.

2. The literal form (abandonment/annihilation) seems to be less common, but has been spreading like wildfire lately. I see dead domains...scattered as blemishes upon a chalky ass, wallowing in quiet misery as their owner refuses them nourishment.

I don't know. Maybe it's a good thing. People are living, instead of "virtual living." Yeah, I can see the attraction there.

But I'm beginning to think that my blogroll is cursed. I've lost four in two months, not including the latest. (But in his case, I firmly believe that no matter the geographical location, he'll find a terminal.)

But WTF happened to Donnie? I've chased his domain-changing ass all over the place, then last time I checked in, he had a page resembling a newspaper with no comments. Now I can't even find that!

And Girl, beat somebody, bribe somebody, sleep with somebody, whatever you gotta do, okay?

If you're a blogger, why do you do it? No, not rhetorical. Yes, want an answer...

If you're a reader, why do you visit? No, not rhetorical. Yes, want an answer...

Allow me to answer, I want nothing from you other than adoration and free tech support. There is no tip jar. I like having a forum. Where else can you spew at the mouth, flirt your ass off, cuss like a sailor, mutilate trolls, rant uninterrupted and spit in the face of political correctness, without the neighbor finding out and sacrificing you to the gossip gods?

I like the interaction. Say something. Comment. Speak it. Tell me I'm full of it, tell me I haven't thought it through (which is often the case), tell me I've gotten really boring, tell me you agree, tell me you don't...I may not address every comment, but I read every one of them, and I enjoy the email interaction with many of you as well. (A warning: If I have to put a great deal of thought into the reply, you may be waiting a week...or two. Otherwise, I'm rather timely.)

Okay, so I answered. You're turn.

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posted by Key on 11:33 PM | Comments (10)

May 12, 2004


But, what the hell, you're forgiven anyway.

The truth of the matter is that you suck at saying goodbye. You've said you'd call and haven't every time you've gone on an extended journey.

You'll find that cafe, I'm sure of it. And you'll write, because you can't help yourself.

Before you go, how about zipping up that novel and sending it my way? Maybe I can post pieces of it in your absence to keep the 'ol gut rumbling.

Take care, stubborn bastard hon.

(...and use protection.)

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posted by Key on 10:10 PM | Comments (5)
» Madfish Willie's Cyber Saloon links with: Life & Times of Madfish Willie

I'm too disgusted

My gut reaction is in the comment blocks of the following blogs:

Jesse has the appropriate link. Eric has the appropriate cursing.

Update: I was holding my breath and waiting for it, hoping it wouldn't come, knowing it would. And, as I said in Jesse's comments, if I knew they'd retaliate and do something stupid, someone else should have known. The idiot holding the camera in the prison camp should have known. WTF did they expect?

Jack speaks. And I reluctantly admit that in areas of emotional frustration, he does so much better than I. Having said that, this is perhaps the most emotional that I have ever seen Jack.

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posted by Key on 12:03 AM | Comments (4)

May 11, 2004

Oh yes...

...the return. Kelley, I read it, and I felt it. So true...

Last time I was out for a long weekend, I could tell you, upon my return, everything my family had consumed in my absence.

Littered along the counter were buffalo wing bones, pizza boxes, burger bags, a variety of empty cans, and several candy wrappers.

And any typical household mess is always doubly compounded by a child's love of clutter. (Everything has value to them. It's not that they haven't gotten around to throwing it away, it's that they don't want to...)

I'll add this as a tangent: Among the items currently being "saved" in my household is a fairy godparent fruit snack box with a secret internet code inside... Why? Why do these marketing retards have to do this to us?

But from what I can tell in this case, the long weekend seems to have been well worth the pre- and post-trip stresses. Beach therapy is very useful. Now, next time, TAKE ME WITH YOU! Seriously. I'm not kidding. I'm a beach whore.

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posted by Key on 07:21 PM | Comments (4)

May 10, 2004


from therapy today.

Ha! Shows what she knows. Luckily, we didn't get into the childhood "key issues," or I'd be graduating post-mortem.

So, party at my place. I'm going to lure you all in, and then enslave you for use as my own personal therapists.

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posted by Key on 08:51 PM | Comments (5)

May 07, 2004

Irritating that it happened...

I've read Jack, and I've read Denny.

I can see both sides on this one. Not everyone knows how to channel their rage into cold, calculating, brain over brawn strategy. Their actions may not have personified the American ideal, but they were human.

Yes, we do strive to be more than that. They know that. That's why they know that they can get to us by refusing to let this go. That more than annoys me.

Meanwhile, nobody wants to talk about the most recent car bombing or the latest innocent American hostage who was abducted....because they're still so friggin excited that THE AMERICANS FUCKED UP!

…That’s not supposed to happen. No, it’s not. But we’re not robots. We can’t program our men in uniform to respond to stimuli in the same way time and time again.

It's like a bunch of rotten kids who are in trouble all the time, but one day they catch dad letting out a string of cuss words….and it’s all over. Dad will never live it down. Not to defend Dad for losing his cool – he shouldn’t have – but consider just how much crap dad must’ve put up with before he did. Everyone has a breaking point.

We weren't there. We don't know how much English those guys knew or how they were electing to use it.

They could have been taunting the prison guards in hopes that they might persuade them to compromise their integrity.

…Or the guards could have simply been a bunch of defective, perverted assweeds.

No, there's no excuse for it either way. Neither is there an excuse for our crap-brained, self-serving media.

If the general population were no better than the media, I’d be ready for another flood.

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posted by Key on 10:57 PM | Comments (11)

May 06, 2004

My finger hurts

Flipping people off gets so tiring.

Actually, this is a different finger - this would be the "turkey" or ring finger, I guess.

The good news is that I finally got the girls throwing a mean softball. The bad news is that I was holding a bat, not a glove. But I caught it anyway. I just had to bite my tongue and walk away after I did it.

My finger turned a beautiful shade of periwinkle, and I raced the swelling of it to get the rings off.

Then I thought... You know, I have had the same ring for ten years. Maybe I should have let the swelling engulf it, resorted to having the ring cut off, and then I would have HAD to get a new one...Right? Right. Always Monday morning quarterbacking, I am.

I'm convinced Miss Priss has psychic powers comparable to the little boy in the Twilight Zone special who had his family kissing his ass.

It seems that anytime I lack compassion for one of her ailments, it comes back to haunt me.

Last week it was her thumb during a game. I looked at it. It looked like a thumb. I put my arm around her, told her to shake it off and hustle back onto the field.

The next day she had a multi-colored thumb, with a beautiful shade of violet under the nailbed.

Coincidence? I don't know! (My finger is now a striking plum color.)

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posted by Key on 11:46 PM | Comments (7)

Get rid of Rumsfeld?

Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you?

Fat chance.

Maybe if we had a waffler in office, you could depend on that "fickle in a pickle" nature to pay off for you.

Unfortunately for you, some people place integrity before saving face, and friendship before campaigning.

Not to mention the fact that getting rid of Rumsfeld would just be stupid. (The fact that Harkin thinks it's a grand idea is evidence enough of that...)

My Little Disclaimer: Let me make something clear regarding the prisoner abuse. I do not defend anyone who in their words or actions, knowingly or unwittingly, attempts to make a mockery of those things for which most Americans stand pridefully. I could go on, but it would just be more of the same. Go read Velociman's take.

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posted by Key on 06:26 PM | Comments (1)

May 05, 2004

Before I abandon the Penis topic completely...

I just have one question:

How come you fellas out there give us absolute hell if we want to obsess over the size of our boobs, thighs, feet, whatever...yet it's okay for you to obsess over the size of your "manhood"?

If you can't answer the question, just admit to the double standard, and we'll call it a night.

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posted by Key on 11:30 PM | Comments (17)
» The Brier Patch links with: Too Much Banana

Dear Spammers,

Thank you so much for the overwhelming concern you have shown regarding the length of my anatomy.

Believe it or not, none of my family or friends have taken the time or condsideration to even inquire as to the wellbeing of such appendages.

Yet, I open my mailbox, and every day I see the words of yet another poor, misguided, marketing department reject, who has taken the time out of his or her pitiful life to introduce me to a product that could change mine.

I am touched in a special place.

I'm sure that you will be relieved to hear that I am satisfied with my genetalia, and will not be needing your mystery meat in a bottle.

But I am very interested in your study. Would you mind sending over the demographics on your targeted audience? I'm curious to see exactly who is demanding these prono mutant ninja shlongs.

Maybe I can devote some of my time and energy into this friction relign business.

I'm thinking China shrink cream. That's it. It'll be mass produced, and it will be used deep and wide, narrowing the gap between your profit margins and mine.

And then soon... very, very soon, we will have no use - NO USE AT ALL - for the long dongs...

No, you'll be gone. Gone I tell you! Out of business... AaaHAhaha!

Perhaps you can take your product, and use it to plug your anal leaking ass!


Oh, but, uh, thanks again for your concern. Good luck to you in your endeavors.

Key Monroe

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posted by Key on 03:23 AM | Comments (8)
» The Brier Patch links with: Too Much Banana

May 03, 2004

Where'd everybody go?

Okay, I admit it. I've been somewhat neglectful, as life is getting busier and busier for me.

But just because I'm not watching you, doesn't mean you get to slink away.

This one got taco envy, and we never heard from her again. Ken disappeared one sad day, but at least I know how to get in touch with him.

What's up with Geek? And the latest...Chelle?! I don't even have her e-mail address!

I can't blame you for taking off. I think we all contemplate blogicide from time to time, but you guys didn't follow proper protocol.

Here's the stages:

Stage 1: Bitch and moan and threaten to quit.
Stage 2: Repeat stage one for a few weeks, often refusing to post for several days at a time.
Stage 3: Plan a dramatic exit, perhaps even redesigning your page for the occasion, as you anticipate mass linkage on your way out.
Stage 4: Alternately disappear and reappear until it gets old, at which time you pick one or the other.

Now, I saw no such warning signs. Okay, one could argue that I've been in my own little self-absorbed world, but then I would have to slap "one" upside the head.

Having said that, I may commit blogicide one day, but I plan to do plenty of bitching and moaning first. Then, when you think I'm gone, I'll just come torment you on your site.

And if anyone wants to write me a scathing eulogy comparable to this one, I will be duly flattered.

As for you four...if it isn't over, you may want to speak up before The Reaper gets a hold of you. He gets trigger happy sometimes. I think he actually likes sending people to the netherworld.

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posted by Key on 11:41 PM | Comments (11)

Hemorrhoids for Brains...

...should not have children.

That's all I have to say about that.

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posted by Key on 10:32 PM | Comments (0)


Yeah, I'm aware that my clock is off, as it is not quite yet tomorrow...

Inspecting my new home, figuring out all these new gadgets, fixing the blogroll...all of this is on my do list. Admittedly, in order of priority, it's coming in after work and sleep, but, eventually it will be done.

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posted by Key on 01:14 AM | Comments (1)

Bragging Rights

Okay, she may not know what a "fake" is, but Miss Priss is coming along. Hey, I know, it can't be easy being a coach's kid and all, but she actually seems to be thriving under the pressure. She's definitely progressed from the unenthused priss that was capable of dodging every incoming ball with acute precision.

We had a make-up game Saturday. Seven players showed. This means that we took an automatic out every time #8 was up. The batter just before the automatic out in the line up - whose mother eagerly signed her up for the sport - hates the game, whines incessantly, and is a guaranteed out (unless the ball miraculously hits her bat). Another hits at practice, but tenses up during the games. This put alot of pressure on the remaining five players; I really did feel for them. I was afraid that some of their parents would come through the fence if they screwed up.

Among those missing were one of my three power hitters and our third baseman. I wanted to see what Miss Priss could do, so I put her on third.

I was so impressed. These seven girls played their hearts out, and they did not disappoint.

Miss Priss hit the ball every time she was up, and she hit it to third, rather than first. (We have been working on that.)

In the field, we held them at three runs. Miss Priss missed getting a couple of runners out by - what seemed like - fractions of a second, but not once did she let the ball get past her, holding them at third (and irritating the hell out of the third base coach).

We walked away with a 5 - 3 win.

They've come a long way. When we started coaching them, they were throwing the ball all over the field. It was incredibly rewarding to watch them put some thought and effort into their plays. They looked good.

Such moments almost make it worth putting up with all of the parental crap. ...almost.

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posted by Key on 12:52 AM | Comments (3)