Holding Poat – Bad Trip part ducks

that’s french you ignant bastards –

bad trip

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Our Friend Rosetta

Rest in Peace, Rosetta

~thank you for the gifts of your humor, your love, your hugs, and

your wonderful being you~

June 17, 1769 – April 9, 2016


The following is a post originally published on October 26, 2011. It was a brilliant concept where we all wrote eulogies about each other but got to read them before we were were gone. Below was the eulogy written by BlackIsWhite on Our Friend Rosetta:

*** *** ***


Allen Klein said “Humor does not diminish the pain—it makes the space around it get bigger.”

Allen must have known our friend Rosetta, who was taken from us at far too young an age by the first known transmission of plant-to-human potato blight.

From an early age, Rosetta knew the kind of emotional pain that many are fortunate not to experience until later in life.  When he was 7, his parents allowed him to be kidnapped by cast members of “Up With People” when the show passed through his home town, or so he thought.  As it turned out, they actually sold him to the producer of the travelling production, although he did not find this out until later in life when he had a chance meeting with his brother in a latex fetish store that he had wandered into seeking a neon pink hosenphucker suit.  He was soon reunited with his parents, who were impressed that his fetishes had exceeded even their own in terms of their weirdness.

Those early years in the theatre made an impression on our young friend, as did the straps and leather ties used on him by his “uncles and aunts” as soon as he was old enough to drive the touring company bus.  While he never liked to talk much about those formative years, they did nothing to reduce the sensitivity of young Rosetta, whose overriding love of show tunes (especially the score from “Paint Your Wagon“) was only surpassed by his fascination with latex clothing and the myriad of colors and styles that were introduced at the annual Latex Fashions Show in Berlin.

When Rosetta left the travelling theatre company to put down roots and attend community college, he soon realized that his upbringing was anything but average.  He excelled at his studies, having trained himself five years earlier to get by on only an hour of sleep a night.  While his perspective was not often appreciated by the more serious peoplesurrounding him, others quickly came to realize that he was a funny mofo, and he quickly drew a following that was willing to overlook his personality quirks and Howard Keel-esque voice belting out famous show tunes through the dorm hallways after the local bars had closed.  Not a few of his fellow students also came to resent his easy wit and ability to charm the pants off of their girlfriends…literally.

By his senior year in college, Rosetta believed he had no skills to speak of and thought his prospects to be dim.  Over a pitcher of caiphurnias, a friend convinced him that while no one would ever be looking to him for the next great mathematical equation, the grand unified theory of physics, or the next great novel that high school students around the country would someday be forced to read, it didn’t matter, because he was a funny mofo, and if he used it to his advantage, he could be richer than all those other guys.  Realizing that the charm he used to talk comely co-eds out of their frilly panties and bras was the same charm that could sell Eskimosice futures and politicians shares in wind farms,  he went into financial services, and never looked back, proving George Herbert‘s apt observation, “In conversation, humor is worth more than wit, and easiness more than knowledge.”

Although he managed to turn laughter into conquests, he eventually met a beautiful woman who left him hopelessly smitten.  He tempered hischarm with heartfelt sincerity, and she was impressed beyond any words other than “I do.”  However, he never stopped appreciating the variations on beauty that surrounded him, and never lost the appreciation for a great set of overstuffed boobs that was taught to him by the jaded old queers in the travelling theatre company.  When he saw his first picture of Kerry Marie, devouring an all-you-can eat Chinese Buffet, by herself, he began a lifelong infatuation, marked by photos of the buxom lass in numerous cheeseburger and pizza stalking positions, leaving him the exquisite torment of a fixation that could never be requited, but could at least be calmed by an annual subscription to her website, a CD with a copy ofQueen’s Fat Bottomed Girls on a continuous loop, and the ability to add her in a BBF post every few months, so he could read Wiserbudcomplaining about how much fatter she was in the newest post than in the last BBF post he included her in.

Rosetta drew many people, regulars and lurkers, to the Hostages, mostly because he could make anything into a joke.  People stayed because Rosetta’s jokes and gags helped so many to cope with personal tragedies and setbacks, as well as a world that brought fresh news daily about how it chose in large and small ways to abandon reason, and make the absurd the new normal.  Another friend of mine once remarked that it is a very angsty place.  But it was also a place he helped to make a home. Whether he was blaming Mare, or explaining how he had decided to declare himself a racist because a teacher had decided to be a douchebag to a politically aware young lady who had the temerity to wear a t-shirt that offended thepolitically correct teacher’s sensibilities, he was finding ways to tailor humor into a universal language that made you laugh and made you cheer as he poked the finger into the eyes of those who wanted to suck the joy out of life for others around them.  This bald, grinning man displayed one of the kindest souls I have ever encountered, and understood better than most the power of the tongue.

He never used it to build up, but he also never used it to tear down, which is a remarkable thing.  He was a rare man.  One who understood this great power, and could have used it himself to great effect, but chose instead to use it to help people to forget, or at least take refuge, if only for a few moments, from those things which they could not forget.  I believe that this was because he knew all too well about the sorrows that life could inflict upon the human condition, and generously gave of himself that which he wanted most for himself…to feel the stings of life neutralizedby the healing joy of laughter.  This is why he could touch so many people in ways that left them wanting more, instead of wanting to press charges.

When I read the account of the birth of his and his wife’s son Max, I cried.

In a profession that necessarily robs you of your humanity, just so you can keep other people’s secrets, and bring order to the dysfunction of their lives, I never thought that I would be able to be moved by someone’s story that way.  But that was our friend and brother’s greatest gift.  To remind us that our experiences shape our souls, but our character defines who we are, and I fear that I could never face the same thing in my life without letting the pain twist my soul and saturate it with a bitterness that would contaminate everything about me.  I think of the things that so many of us carry around, and I think this is a confirmation of the old bromide that “God never gives us more than we can handle.”  Rosetta had so much love to share with children that the loss of one couldn’t change who he was; there was so much love that flowed out of him like a river that it couldn’t change him.  And when his son Henry was born, we saw the light that Rosetta carried around shined even brighter.

Even if I could, I wouldn’t ask God to bring our friend back to us; Max waited patiently for his time with Daddy, and even someone as jaded as myself isn’t that selfish or cruel.  My request is for the next best thing:

That God never lets his words lose their power to touch us.

Those words, with our memories, are the legacy that he left for us.  And if we cannot enjoy his company any longer, then those words, and the laugher they draw out of us should be sufficient to take some of the stingout of the tears that we shed today at the loss of our friend, who understood what Sir Francis Bacon knew when he said “Imagination was given to man to compensate for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is.”

“Goodbye” is uttered too often by grieving people at their loved ones’ funerals.  Rosetta and I shared the belief that shuffling off the moral coilis only the beginning.  Therefore I will only say “Expect us when you see us, man, man-lesbian.  Until then, keep the indians cold, and give Max a kiss for us.”

*** *** ***

Hugs for all



Hello beautiful people, and welcome to Big Boob Friday.



Your model for today was born in Dallas, Texas on December 2nd, 1979.  She measures 5’5″, 34-24-36 and 120lbs.  She is a soap opera actress and has huge chest pillows, red hair and the crazy eyes.  Yep, I dig her.  Please catch me before you welcome, Miss Melissa Archer!

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So, What’s Your Favorite Pickled Food?

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Movie Review: John Wick

It’s easier to review a movie that sucks balls because spoilers don’t matter since whoever wrote the review doesn’t want you to see it anyway.

This is a positive review so if you haven’t seen John Wick and you like action movies, guns and a lot of bad guys getting killed, rent John Wick and don’t read anymore because the rest of this review will spoil the shit out of it.

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Point – Counterpoint

Hahahaha!  I mean, SEXIST!!

Please add counterpoints to the comments below.




Ivana 1

I, Eye, Aye

Happy Halloween

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It Ain’t Charlotte’s Web

Some time ago I saw an ad for help wanted at a pig farm.


“Gee,” I said, “I like animals and have worked on plenty of farms, plus the money looks right.  Imma be a pig farmer.”  Sure as shooting, I’m a pig farmer now.  However, I feel that I may have made a grave misunderestimation of the situation.

On my first day the Boss Man said, “We’re going to start you out pressure washing one of the barns.  We have shower caps, rain hats, coats, hip waders, gloves, and aprons.  I never wear any of that stuff, but you can if you want.”

Retard Power:  ACTIVATED


No, It actually happens quite often.


“How bad could it be?” says I, and grabbed an apron.

“Dude.  You are sooooo fucked,” says the universe, and collapsed in a puddle of hysterical laughter.

Boss Man led me down a dim, creepy corridor.  An idle thought flickered through my mind; Could this be an omen?  Nah.  Omens are silly superstitions.  I marched cheerfully on.

Abandon All Hope

Abandon All Hope

A half mile later I was ushered into the most remote barn in the facility.  He gave me a quick demonstration of the pressure wand, and left me to my piggie fate.

The pig pens are built on platforms above a sluice.  It’s a sewer for the hogs called the Pit.  Every now and again they have to be cleaned out, which is where the pressure wand comes in.  It liquefies all of the waste that has accumulated under the platforms and can be flushed into a catchment pond.

Anybody from California can tell you that liquefaction comes with some unpleasant side-effects.

The first and most startling side-effect was the rats and mice that boiled up from the Pit when I pulled the trigger.


We will eat your face while you sleep.


I did not scream like a girl.  It only sounded girlie because the Doppler Effect kicked in when I ran.  And really, it was hardly a scream at all.  I would call it an extended shriek.

The second side-effect was the smell.


Eau de Putresence

When the offal liquefies, it releases an unholy stenchified miasma.  It hangs in the air like an oil slick, so thick and vile you can actually taste it.  My eyes watered, my throat itched and burned, and only an iron grip on my gag-reflex prevented me from adding my own waste to the Pit.

The miasma is sentient.  Some portion of it had attached to me like a lamprey.  I became Peanuts’ Pig Pen brought to life, ambling about in my own personal cloud of filth.

I did not have breakfast that day.  Or lunch.  Or supper.

And finally, we have the third side-effect.  This is where things get interesting.

Dante did not mention this circle of hell.  What a jerk.

Dante did not mention this circle of hell. What a jerk.

When you fire off a jet of high pressure water in a confined space, you get some significant blowback.  Try to wash out your bathtub with the spray attachment on your garden hose.

The wand used in the Pit is rather more powerful than that.  Random fountains of slurry erupt from between the slats in the pens and rocket into the air, showering down on the poor bastard standing behind the wand.

Dear God!” I screamed.  “It’s in my mouth!”  I let my jaw hang slack, slobbering and drooling and spitting for fear of swallowing anything.

In minutes my face was splattered and streaked, pig shit oozed down my neck and under my collar, my coveralls were saturated from the waist down, my feet squished in my rubber boots, and my hands looked like I was wearing black, elbow-length gloves.

If only.

If only.

For eight hours I worked in a rainstorm of porcine diarrhea.

Because of certain health concerns, there are bio-containment procedures in place to prevent spreading disease.  We all shower before and after each shift.


The shower I used at the end of my shift had five different varieties of body wash and two of shampoo.  I used them all with no result.

When I got home I grabbed a bottle of Pinesol and took another shower.  Pig stench laughs in the face of Pinesole.  Other things that do not work include Chlorine Bleach, peroxide, Scrubbing Bubbles, Spic and Span, Comet, Apple Cider Vinegar, peroxide with baking soda, mouth wash, Windex, two additional flavors of body wash, Irish Spring, and some sort of Peach scrubby stuff.

My shaving kit.

My shaving kit.

In desperation I decided to go steal some gasoline from the lawn mower.  I grabbed a towel to go to the garage when I saw a bottle of Lysol stashed in a corner of the linen closet.

Back in the shower it was.  The Lysol stung like a bitch where I had scrubbed my skin raw.  I finally staggered out of the bathroom, stoned out of my gourd on household cleaners.

But, I had won.  The stench was gone, and all I could smell was the sweet perfume of victory.