kibosh is a weird word. so is kielbasa. but this post isn’t about sausage. sausage just isn’t as worthy as bacon. bacon is king.

back to kibosh.

know what you can put the kibosh on? i’ll tell you what because it’s my blog and i’ll kibosh if i want to.

you can put the kibosh on low back pain. that’s an imperative and not an auxiliary verb in case you were wondering. so, who can i count on here? (auxiliary)

i somehow injured my lower back and have a constant burning and radiating pain.  it’s got me all in a funk because i’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt for a year and a half. maybe two. which means i won’t be able to ever work out or play tennis. and then i’ll become fatty patty. i just know this is how it’s going to play out.

i sit at a desk and write for a living so it tightens up and gets worse everyday.  it’s got me so depressed, i’m losing it.

how do i know i’m losing it? i’ve been obsessively:

• picking the scab on my heel which means my boot blister is now open and raw again.
• clenching the steering wheel of my car like i’m choking it to death.
• twirling my hair like a school girl into an alfalfa like horn and tugging on that shit.

one thing i like about blogging is that you never know what may show up in your posts

i wonder what you’ve done for low back pain. keep in mind, i live near and work in a northeastern city so i need the remedy to be fast. i also can’t afford to get fatter. unless it all goes to my boobs. which it won’t.

by the by, i’d also put the kibosh on arm swingers. especially the ones walking slow, holding a cigarette or carrying an umbrella.

and hipsters. they’re so smug and unethusiastic. enthusiasm and passion are way more hip. besides they all look alike making them conformists and not really hipsters.

and boy scout popcorn. at $9 a bag it should have crack in it, like the girl scout cookies. i’m all for supporting the troops, but gimme a little buzz for my money.

i’m patty punker and i approve this message.

time for me go into my cage punkers. don’t be concerned. it’s a self-imposed imprisonment. i shouldn’t be near people right now cuz i’m all ragey and hormonal.

and angsty.

and angsty ragey hormonal.

when i enter my cage, i look like an untamed bush woman with dilated pupils, and sticks, leaves and dirt in my dreadlocky hair.

when i’m in this condition, primping and grooming take a back seat to wanting to closed-fist punch a baby bunny.

the cage is good for me. it’s full of oversized cushions. but also with knives and small feather pillows that i can mad stab the fuck out of.

it’s stocked with potions like pitchers of sangria and franzia boxes laced with xanax for soothing my savage beast.

the cage is also replete with lotions for softening my skin, conditioning my hair, calming my nerves, relaxing my muscles, and inducing deep rem sleep.

there is a life size voodoo doll that i can jab with chopstick sized needles to circumvent the irritating behavior of:

• slow walkers (stick in the hips)
• loud talkers (stick in the throat)
• ego-maniacal corporate bosses (stick in the gut)
• douchey drivers (stick in the eyes)
• mean girls (stick in the back)
• catholic priests (stick in the scrotum)
• people who eat up all of my time by talking incessantly about all of the minutiae in their lives (stick in the neck).

i have a pretty young thing who comes to shampoo my hair, massage my scalp and give me a blowout. she brushes my hair for hours, does foot reflexology and applies lotions where i can’t.

there is triumphant music piped in like beethoven’s ode to joy when i need to jump up and feverishly conduct. and tender lullabies like asleep by the smiths when i want someone to sing me to sleep (for the last time).

or i may choose to partake in the magical poppy garden.

it is sunny, 80 and breezy in the cage. there are splendorous butterflies and an eccentric lepidopterist who explains how the butterflies got their brightly-colored and complex-patterned wings. he also teaches me how to catch and hold a butterfly. the always curious look in his eyes and his baritone voice pacify me.

there is copious fresh fruit and delectable cheeses.

no shoes.

only sundresses and warm skin.

and what cage wouldn’t be home to my inner barbarian without the perfect social anxiety drug (no side effects, no half-life grogginess, no calories). in abundance.

the bars on the cage are there so i don’t try to leave. sometimes i’m a glutton for punishment and feel the need to leave my protected environment to go out tilting at windmills.

enter again the untamed bush woman.

won’t you join me in my cage? my guests must be careful not to overwhelm or overstimulate me. and do not think it possible to enter unless you can amuse me with fantastic tales or braid my hair.

Babies, midgets, prepubescent girls, and pugs are supposed to be roly poly. Triangle, inverted triangle, hour-glass, oval, and rectangle body types are all fine. But if your body type resembles a marshmallow, you’re too fucking fat. If you’re not a weeble but you wobble, then you’re too fucking fat. And if this wobbling turns you into a slow walker, then I have issues with you.

I’m not thin by any measure. I’m of German-Irish descent. We breed ‘em hearty and big-boned. We’re a beer and potato people. I also happen to be a cheese junkie.  So I’m not here to advocate skinny ass figures.  I’m also not saying super fast walkers are cool. They look like spasbots. But what I absolutely can’t get behind is a slow-walking fat ass. Literally, I hate getting behind them.

I’m a woman with a mission and people who can’t move at an average or accelerated pace slow my shit down. This is a big concern when I’m leaving work or shopping for a new party dress. When a slow walker, or much worse a pack of slow walkers, totally obstructs my way this causes a rage spike which in turn compels me to pop a piece of nicorette.  Maybe slow walkers should chew nicorette, too, to get their fucking heart rates up once in a while.  There are four flavors to choose from:  White Ice Mint, Cinnamon Surge, Fruit Chill, and Fresh Mint. Eight if you consider the teeth whitening varieties.

Anyway, I think these slow-walking fat asses should be required to place a warning placard on their rear ends so people can try to avoid getting too close and blocked from further forward movement.

If you think I’m insensitive, you’re dead wrong. I’m really looking out for these fatsos. If these people don’t lay off the grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, they’re going to suffer the inevitable revolt against slow walkers where slow walkers who get caught (and they’ll all get caught, thank you captain obvious) will be confined to their homes and when they die of obesity, the only way to cremate them will be to burn down the house while they’re still in it.  Like poor Gilbert Grape’s Mom.