Pursey Tuttweiler

HOW SISSY AND I CREATED BLACK MALE TWINS

How Sissy and I Created Black Male Twins; Another Inspiration by Don Pritchard

 

 

Don Pritchard is my muse. We got to yacking in a thread and he brought up this memory how my Mom used to threaten Sissy and me to behave or she would grab us by our ying yangs. Later in life, I figured ying yangs were dicks, but it turns out they are assholes. Gross, Mom would threaten to grab us by our assholes? Now, exactly how does that work. Seems like a lot of trouble on both ends. I mean, why not just yank us by our hair or some other body part with easier access?

So now I find out that there is a fabulously successful crunk rock group called the Ying Yang Twins. Shit, now I have to look up crunk rock. And if ying yang means assholes, does it mean these two guys are a couple of assholes?

Anyway, I hope these two assholes know that if it were not for Sissy and me they would probably be nobodies, just like the rest of the assholes. SO YING YANG TWINS, WHERE'S OUR MAILBOX MONEY?

Ying Yang Twins trying to look all poor and shit

And quit standing around trying to look all poor and shit. I know about your platinum records. Just who do you think you are trying to kid here? I didn't just fall off a turnip truck. I am hip to your shit. Send me the money or I will grab you by your ying yangs!!!!!!!

Lesson III on Degrees of Southernatude; Cuba -Still Cogitating

Well, to help me cogitate I decided to post this delightful picture series.

The Poet, Part II

Here is another poem by Jim Spurr.  Photo is of Chet Baker, fellow Okie like Jim.  This poem is NOT about me.

                                Very Scary Mary

Her satchel was a stuffed thing that contained cigarettes and a whiskey flask

along with keys to her parents 1951 Ford Victoria

and she had one friend, Jenny the B.

Mary and Jenny were not team players.

They believed that it was a weakness to have beliefs.

That allowed them to avoid religion, politics and sports.

The friendship welded based on an agreement

that they were living in the wrong decade.  1952 was an error of nature.

Cruel and dumb.  Jenny felt they would have been more comfortable

at the turn of either the last century or the next one coming up in 48 years.

It hailed the day they graduated from high school as they expected it would.

It was like they were trapped in the midway at a carnival gone broke.

They went different ways, Mary and Jenny the B.

Jenny went to state college

then disappeared down south and hung for most of her life

with the lower classes in a roadside bar and grill, maybe Texas or Arkansas,

Where she made few friends and died alone listening to "Heartbreak Hotel."

Mary missed the funeral.  It took a year to find her.

She got moved around a lot by the penal system.

She rubbed out her husband John three years into their marriage.

He had been a B student in highschool and went on to college

where he was a third team wide receiver which gave him many bench

opportunities to meet cheerleaders.

Had he not wedded Mary, he could have had a Jimmy Stewart Wonderful Life.

With cheerleader humping as an added bonus.

And John, like Mary and Jenny, had done

what he could to keep his life simple.

Simple, that is, as simple can be simple.

That's how the cops saw it.

To quote the investigating detective,

"Open and shut.  Husband messes around.  Wife shoots husband.  End of story.  Anyone know if she has family?  What about friends?.......None?  Figures."

M

The Poet

My brother-in-law, Jim Spurr is a poet living in Shawnee, Oklahoma.

He wrote this poem about my husband and me.

The Earth All Shook Up

He's a jazz drummer,

my brother, and a smart guy,

Playing in a smart band.

The Katie O Combo.

And his wife is a looker

from Memphis.

She never knew Elvis

but she knows his haunts

and she knows the mystery

of the why and the need

for that man and that music

at that moment..

I know these things because

I know her

And I know the drummer-man.

She says

Memphis holds the secret

of it all.....

the stage, the shoes

the sideburns, the Blues

Beale Street.

America its plain self.

 

by Jim Spurr

Degrees of Southernatude; Lesson II

Today we will explore the topic of Tennessean Southernatude, an exquisite form of Southernatude best defined by the state motto, The Volunteer State. 

Tennessee women wear the pants in every family, and are not shy about it one bit.  Tennessee men are secure enough with their manhood to not let it bother them one bit either.  Some Tennessee men are secure enough in their manhood to have gay friends and like art too.  Not all, but plenty.  For example, Elvis Presley's home decorator was a gay man.  Even though Elvis hailed from Mississippi, he adapted to the Tennessee ways very quickly and hired himself a gay home decorator.

Tennessee women are not one bit afraid of hard work.  They will bust their asses in the kitchen, the bedroom and the office and never whine very much.

Tennessee women want to make sure that everyone is fed at all times.  This can lead to obesity but they do not care one bit.  For example, if you go to visit a woman in Tennessee, she will ask "Would you like a slice of meatloaf?"  If you say "no, I just ate lunch," she will ask if you would just want a sandwich since you already had lunch.  If you say no again she will offer you a slice of pie.  If you turn down the pie she will offer you a "bar of candy" which means candy bar. She will continue to offer you different food items, increasingly smaller in size until finally she is offering you a Tic Tac, which you better take in self-defense or otherwise she will start offering up individual grains of sugar. 

Tennessee women are often big on long salutations.  For example, one Tennessee woman used to answer her phone like this:

"Hello, this is Susan Flippin Johnson, wife of Peter Franklin Johnson, Dean of Bethel College in MacKenzie Tennessee." 

Now, if my middle name were "Flippin," I might have not wanted to repeat that every time someone rang me up, but Tennessee women have incredible names and they do not care one wit what anyone else thinks about that either.

Tennessee women are capable of blurting out pretty much anything.  Well, except for one I knew and she would not blurt out a gall durn thing, so if you go to Tennessee to a women's' soiree expect half the women to blurt out whatever is on their mind, and trust me, they all have tons of things on their minds at all times, or they will dummy up and trying to prize a secret out of their mouth would be worse then trying to extract a needle out of a porcupine.

Tennessee women do not take any shit off of anybody at any time and will go to all lengths of finagling to ward it off at the pass.  For example, one Tennessee old lady wore her sweater inside of her dress, a sleeveless dress at that.  Whenever someone would blurt out "Why do you wear your sweater underneath your dress,"  she would blurt out, "Because if I wore it over my dress you are going to ask me 'if I'm hot and then say don't you want to take your sweater off?'

So, the myth and stereotype attached to most Tennesseans is that their motto of "The Volunteer State" was owed to the vast number of men who volunteered to fight in wars.  Now, you may have thought they were patriots, but get a grip.  If you were married to a woman who would beat you bluntly about the head and neck, both physically and verbally at any given moment, and who answered the phone with a salutation longer than The Declaration of Independence and who trotted around with her sweater under her dress, well, you'd probably volunteer to get your ass shot off in a war too.  And always remember this if you start to doubt my words,  Tennessean Pin-up girl, Bettie Page, was the first '50's model to pose with a whip.  Sure, men thought that was pretty sexy unless you were a man living in Tennessee.  Tennessee men were not impressed and thought, "So what, that's par for the course." Their only consolation was a never ending supply of meatloaf, sandwiches, pies, bars of candy, Tic Tacs and individual grains of sugar.  And if you don't believe that just ask Elvis Presley.

Lesson One on Degrees of Southernatude

Most people who do not hail from the south tend to lump all southerners together in a common stereotype.  The  elements of this stereotype include, but are not limited to, certain "facts"; that we all talk like Jimmy Carter, carry guns, have horses and wear cowboy attire in plus sizes. This in no way encompasses the true facts; there are widely different degrees of Southernatude dictated by the region in which one was born, and each region possess unique and clearly definable qualities. Today we will explore lesson number one of three regions of the South; Texas, Tennessee and Cuba.

Lesson One, Texan Southernatude: 

Texas women are constant caregivers, particularly Sunday mornings which are often devoted to carefully combing the obituaries to discover which Texas Oilman was recently widowed.  When such tragic discoveries are made, the rest of their week is spent stalking the newly widowed man to offer him their most sincere condolences.  This ritual always includes a King Ranch Casserole, carefully and painstakingly prepared by the best caterer in town, purchased by the female barer to bestow upon the  the pitiful, recently widowed billionaire, who was heretofore a complete stranger.  Other niceties may be offered up once said casserole has been accepted and the female caregiver is invited into the palace of the crestfallen stranger.

This fact has been carefully investigated by leading journalists and published in newspapers throughout Texas. In other words, I am not making this stuff up, just repeating it. However, I am the first of such journalist to investigate the foundation of this ritual, best described as Social Darwinism. Before Texas women discovered Texas oilmen, their lives were those of hardship and servitude.  These facts are best reflected in the lyrics of the great philosopher Tompall Glaser, in his truth revealing smash hit, Put Another Log on the Fire.    

Put Another Log on the Fire

Put another log on the fire

Cook me up some bacon and some beans

And go out to the car and lift it up and change the tire

Then wash my socks and mend my old blue jeans

Come on baby, you can fill my pipe and then go fetch my slippers

And boil me up another pot of tea,

Then put another log on the fire, babe,

Then come and tell me why you're leaving me

Now don't I let you wash the car on Sunday?

Don't I warn you when you're gettin' fat?

Ain't I gonna take you fishin' with me someday?

A man con't love a woman more than that

Ain't I always nice to your kid sister?

Don't I take her drivin' every night?

So sit here at my feet 'cause I like it when you're sweet

And you know that it ain't feminine to fight.

As you can see, once Texas oilmen were discovered by Texas women, all that followed was preordained as survival of the fittest ensued. This resulted in tumultuous times of both vast prosperity and losses. Great advances in surgery were made once the breast implant was perfected in Houston.  This medical miracle led to the birth of the modern day titty bar and the invention of the pole.  Texas divorce lawyers benefited from an unexpected boom in business. Vast scientific strides were made in the uses of  peroxide and all this took place as Texas braced for an inevtiable and devastating war loss when the Vietnamese invaded, conquered and occupied Texas nail salons armed only with chemicals, face masks and their small hands.

Now, I hope I have cleared up some long held stereotypes.  Texas women do not talk like Jimmy Carter, they do not wear plus sized attire (except in bras), they do not have horses, they own ranches.  I  reluctantly admit, there is no way to dispel the rumor about the guns.  I hope this lesson was useful and come back next week when I tackle other misconceptions about Southern folk and enlighten you on another degree of Southernatude, Tennessean Southernatude, where many Tennesseans are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Colonel Sanders is truly Asian and mayonnaise is the bottom tier of the food pyramid.  And please dear readers, always, always fight for truth wherever you can and work tirelessly to dispel rumors and stereotypes whenever you encounter them.

Lesson One on Degrees of Southernatude

Most people who do not hail from the south tend to lump all southerners together in a common stereotype.  The  elements of this stereotype include, but are not limited to, certain "facts"; that we all talk like Jimmy Carter, carry guns, have horses and wear cowboy attire in plus sizes. This in no way encompasses the true facts; there are widely different degrees of Southernatude dictated by the region in which one was born, and each region possess unique and clearly definable qualities. Today we will explore lesson number one of three regions of the South; Texas, Tennessee and Cuba.

Lesson One, Texan Southernatude: 

Texas women are constant caregivers, particularly Sunday mornings which are often devoted to carefully combing the obituaries to discover which Texas Oilman was recently widowed.  When such tragic discoveries are made, the rest of their week is spent stalking the newly widowed man to offer him their most sincere condolences.  This ritual always includes a King Ranch Casserole, carefully and painstakingly prepared by the best caterer in town, purchased by the female barer to bestow upon the  the pitiful, recently widowed billionaire, who was heretofore a complete stranger.  Other niceties may be offered up once said casserole has been accepted and the female caregiver is invited into the palace of the crestfallen stranger.

This fact has been carefully investigated by leading journalists and published in newspapers throughout Texas. In other words, I am not making this stuff up, just repeating it. However, I am the first of such journalist to investigate the foundation of this ritual, best described as Social Darwinism. Before Texas women discovered Texas oilmen, their lives were those of hardship and servitude.  These facts are best reflected in the lyrics of the great philosopher Tompall Glaser, in his truth revealing smash hit, Put Another Log on the Fire.    

Put Another Log on the Fire

Put another log on the fire

Cook me up some bacon and some beans

And go out to the car and lift it up and change the tire

Then wash my socks and mend my old blue jeans

Come on baby, you can fill my pipe and then go fetch my slippers

And boil me up another pot of tea,

Then put another log on the fire, babe,

Then come and tell me why you're leaving me

Now don't I let you wash the car on Sunday?

Don't I warn you when you're gettin' fat?

Ain't I gonna take you fishin' with me someday?

A man con't love a woman more than that

Ain't I always nice to your kid sister?

Don't I take her drivin' every night?

So sit here at my feet 'cause I like it when you're sweet

And you know that it ain't feminine to fight.

As you can see, once Texas oilmen were discovered by Texas women, all that followed was preordained as survival of the fittest ensued. This resulted in tumultuous times of both vast prosperity and losses. Great advances in surgery were made once the breast implant was perfected in Houston.  This medical miracle led to the birth of the modern day titty bar and the invention of the pole.  Texas divorce lawyers benefited from an unexpected boom in business. Vast scientific strides were made in the uses of  peroxide and all this took place as Texas braced for an inevtiable and devastating war loss when the Vietnamese invaded, conquered and occupied Texas nail salons armed only with chemicals, face masks and their small hands.

Now, I hope I have cleared up some long held stereotypes.  Texas women do not talk like Jimmy Carter, they do not wear plus sized attire (except in bras), they do not have horses, they own ranches.  I  reluctantly admit, there is no way to dispel the rumor about the guns.  I hope this lesson was useful and come back next week when I tackle other misconceptions about Southern folk and enlighten you on another degree of Southernatude, Tennessean Southernatude, where many Tennesseans are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Colonel Sanders is truly Asian and mayonnaise is the bottom tier of the food pyramid.  And please dear readers, always, always fight for truth wherever you can and work tirelessly to dispel rumors and stereotypes whenever you encounter them.

I Confess

I have a confession to make.  As happy as I am about the election and this wonderful mood in our nation, I still want to say "F" you to the Republicans.  Each day I few renewed and energized but that does not change this uncontrollable urge to say "F" you.  Not to anyone's face mind you, which makes it even stranger because I am basically hollering it out in an empty room while at home.

Something always triggers it, like some Republican whining about some decision by Barack or the Democrats.  I just shout out, "You said to us, 'F YOU' for eight long years, so everytime we do something that displeases you I am going to say F YOU and laugh my ass off.  Some may call this unhealthy, not letting go and so forth.  I am thus far finding it very cathartic. especially the peels of laughter that come forth after shouting curse words at the television or newspaper.

Here is a prime example of a situation that called for the big F-You-athon.  Kitt Bond was on the tele blathering about how no one in his state wanted the GITMO prisoners transferred there.  He said "Send them to San Francisco!"  Now what  in the hell was that supposed to mean?  He was talking about how dangerous the prisoners from GITMO were and how he did not want them wandering around Missouri if they broke out of prison.  So, I guess Kitt Bond thinks it is fine to have so-called dangerous criminals busting out of prison and attacking folks in San Francisco!  And I am sure San Francisco is code for gays, hippies, dope smokers and whoever the hell else he hates.

Kitt Bond's time has come and gone.  It is our time now.  He can find all the conservative goofballs he wants in Missouri to re-elect his hateful dumbass but right now the progressives are in control and he can rock back and forth with spittle running down the sides of his mouth and moan and groan and hopefully suffer one iota of the agony we went through every damned day for eight years.  The long national nightmare of the likes of Bush, Cheney, Wolfowitz, Feith, Tenet, Rice, Rumsfeld, Abramoff, Delay, Frist, Reed, Perkins, Paulson, Hagee, Fleisher, McClellan, Perino, Hughes, Spelling, Matalin, Limbaugh, Coulter, Ingraham, Rove, Libby, Miller, and the casts of thousands who supported this rape and pillage who are now irrelevant.  Sure, these goombas can still make money spouting out their stupid shit to the morons who still cling to the hope that they will all be resurrected one day, but for the next four years I can shout out F YOU, you do not count right now, so step aside!   I never claimed to be a uniter, that is Barack Obama's job!

Worst Hat Ever

H. W. Bush wins the prize for wearing the worst hat ever to Barack Obama's inauguration.

Adieu les Criminels

Dick Cheney was hauled out of the White House in a wheel chair today.  The official story is that he sprained his back moving  boxes.  I can buy that. He was probably trying to haul out all of his top secret files.  On the other hand, it could be that he simply refused to leave his office and someone had to tackle him, rendering him stove up.  Maybe  Randy The Ram lept on him or something.

Bush trotted out on his own two feet and was serenaded by a very respectful crowd of five million who sang in unison.  Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye. Gary DeCarlo, Paul Leka and Dale Frashuer wrote the song in the early 1960s, when the three men were members of a Bridgeport, Connecticut band called The Chateaus. (wikipedia)  Hat's off to the Chateaus and the five million Americans who helped the world celebrate the most significant event in American History.