Look inside
the mask that we
adorn; to hide
what none can see.
There is the lock,
here are the keys,
now, with no shock
meet the willies.
Hello and welcome on a Sunday.
This calls for a Sunday Sideshow for you. God Help You.
This here Sunday Side Show is a Shed. What does this mean?
It means that this is a place which contains many things for you to explore, or else get nightmares from, or just maybe,
enjoy.
Sometimes, fear and pain bring arousal and pleasure.
Depends upon which end of the knife you are on, true?
Care to descend into the madness of the caverns below this old, dusty, forgotten Shed?
Here's a nice knifey song. Welcome! Take a load off.
Your TDC bud the willies has dug up some bones for you to peruse. Take a nibble, why don'tcha?
World’s five creepiest places.
If you are about to die, what would you write on a comment card? On a jet?
How about on fire?
100 most bizarre laws of the world, present day.
In case of cliche emergencies---
Antidote: bottomless glass of wine.
Rub your meat the right way, but don't get caught stealing.
Always been a fan of these guys. Kinda makes one mist3-eyed.
Or, in another direction, Newsweek's best of lists.
Best Cleavage moments in TV history.
Weird love. Enjwoie!
An old friend. Subservient Chicken. Now pwned by the King.
This guy makes cash from betting slips that folks toss in the trash. Talk about recycling?
Now for some
People Rip Off News, ya think?
People
Rip
Off
News
OK, let me spell it out for ya. PRON. But just a taste. Then back to the torture.
Unseen Japan. Enjoy.
Good ol' Arnold.
MPL has it’s own view of things.
Now for another chapter about cars, and not dying in them.
Here's a song for ya.
CARS 5:
The next car crash involved me in an ’84 Ford Escort wagon, T-boned by a ’69 Ford Mustang. One was made with cast iron stove-metal, the other, with tin foil.
I’d gotten out of work at the absolute worst job I have ever held, which I will tell you about in a minute.
First, this: never go back to a police officer after you have given your statement, and a couple beers, and try to change your story. This does not look good. Especially if you are underage for drinking.
You see, the light was stale amber, do I decided to turn left, into the oncoming lanes, which SHOULD have been stopping. But not this older lady. She was driving to beat the light, and she crashed into the passenger side of my fragile Ford Escort wagon, with her Mustang. This course of action caused the rear seats to crumple up like an accordion, and the whole back part became thin as a park bench.
Good thing that no one had been in the back. As far as her car, she was able to back out of this mess with only a wrinkled front right panel, just behind the headlamp, and a few scrapes that could be buffed out of the baked-on enamel paint/ cook-ware coat. For chrissakes, she didn’t even break the damned headlamp!
After I inadvertently scared her back into her car, as well as others who were simply trying to see if I was OK, Johnny Law came by for a smoke.
Actually, I found out that if I had waited until the light was RED, then it would have been her fault. But since it was only stale amber, I was at fault.
I was only three blocks from my girlfiend’s house, so I walked there and had a couple beers to steady my nerves. Well, OK, some more beers, after those I’d had at the shop just before the accident.
My insurance company settled it as “no fault” instead of going to court with the speedy lady in the Mustang’s insurance company, since my car was demolished, and hers only had a wrinkle.
You see, judges will always opt in favor of the weakling with the broken legs in a fight, not the big bully who only has a scratch under the eye.
My car was totaled out, and I got a decent enough settlement check to put down money on a better car.
The job from which I had just been leaving? Why thank you for asking, and drudging up those memories.
I used to crawl under houses in the hot California afternoon and pull wood and debris out, to stave off termites. These crawl spaces were more often than not infested with cockroaches, in addition to the termites. The sprayed poison would take care of them all.
Except, they were alive when I went in there with my drag tray for the debris, my trusty flashlight, and a dust mask.
Well, I soon learned the benefits of duct tape around the wrists and the ankles, and, of course, the neck.
Cockroaches will scramble, you see. When you lift something up, there is a perfect outline of it in black, which then scatters apart at frightening speed, many of these big bugs slipping towards you, looking for a safe place to hide.
Like, up your shirt sleeves. Up your pant legs.
I found out that cotton balls in the ears would be helpful as well.
Well, this one time, I got trapped in the crawl space between a hump in the dirt and the floor joists, and dropped my flashlight.
I scrambled to get extricated, breathing hoarsely, and couldn’t see the opening of the exit. I’d kicked up so much dust that my sweaty dust mask clogged up, so I tore it off, and dug my way around to find the dim hole out of this hell, bleakly shining in the cloud of dust I’d kicked up.
In full-on panic mode, I clawed my way towards it with my fingernails and kicked and shoved off with my sneakers, until I was free. I pulled myself out of that hole, covered in muddy sweat, spitting out half-chewed bugs and grit, and rolled around to kill the ones scrambling around inside my shirt and underwear.
It was like a birth from a Hell hole.
I grabbed the foreman’s cover-all by the lapel and shrieked, “Fuck This Fucking Shit Hole Job! I Quit!”
But that was three months after the car accident.
Next week, the next car accident I survived without a scratch.
---willies out.
yup.
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