The Thread Where I Post Stuff That I Just Happen To Really Like

My family own a house in Osijek

Posted this on the shoutbox a couple of days ago but not sure if anyone bothered checking it out so im putting it here as well.

The JCB Song

I've never been much for sweets. They're nice, but after a bite or two, I'm done. And after several bites, I feel sort of nauseated and hectic and I want to melt out of the place.

Even as a child, I never enjoyed Circuis Peanuts or Peeps... all that whipped-up synthetic froth and a taste so overblown that it seemed determined to turn my head inside out, rather than please the palette. Such things made my jaw ache.

I know... I'm weird. My brother used to call me 'Lola Granola', after the Breathed character, because I asked for trail mix in my plastic Easter eggs, rather than candy. I know sugar is supposed to be this amazing thing. I've heard the hype. I have friends who get such cravings for sweets that they'll go out wandering the darkening streets like Lestat on the hunt, until they find the non-pariel of their heart's desire. I'd just as soon not.

When I was a teenager, my idea of the perfect dessert was a slice of bread: 7 grain bread with butter and the merest layer of blackberry jam. Blackberries grew on a single vine that embraced the snowball bush in the front yard of my childhood. They were intrinsic: blackberries knew my most successful disappearances in games of hide and go seek. They were organic: no one fertilized those berries. They grew of their own accord, with no plan and no notion of what a blackberry vine was supposed to be except that pattern buried within the vine itself. Most important to me though: blackberries... taste like blackberries. They're sweet, but they're also tart and sharp, with mellow undertones and they're deep-purple-tasting. Eat one. You will taste the deep purple. All you have to do is pay attention.

My preferencess about love run along similar lines. Oh, I like to taste the pretty confections, the valentines and poetry and all the trimmings. Those whipped up and frothy exchanges are not sustaining for me, though. In short order, the complications cloy and I get that same hectic feeling and I want out.

I want a love like the blackberry vine: not forced, only occasionally pruned, and allowed to grow according to its own internal dictates. I want the love of that person who truly knows and understands me... and loves me anyway. I crave the array of flavors in the deep purple, blackberry, 7-grain love.

This is a pair of short stories written a couple of years ago, by a friend and I (he did the first one).

Life Lesson #3 - by C. F.
In fifth grade, I spent a significant amount of time with this girl Heidi. I was too young, then, to get erections, so it was mostly for the burgeoning tingling feelings that I felt when I saw her. They were like root beer for the skin.

Her older sister Marjorie didn't cotton to this notion, and spent most of her time harrassing me. I was slight and bookish, and for the most part, unable to muster much of a defense. She was older than I, and sort of burly, and I tried to keep away from her as best I could. She had a bad habit of grabbing me by the arm, and digging her fingernails into my skin until I welped and ran away.

Needless to say, this was embarrassing. She was a girl, if I haven't made that perfectly clear.

That year, they started serving us breakfast at school. Being a hungry sort, I often chose to take advantage of this option. One day, I was in line, and Marjorie was behind me. She started pushing me into the person ahead of me, and saying nasty things. The line was progressing slowly, and she just kept pushing me, and pushing me.

I couldn't take it. I turned around and punched her in the face as hard as I could. It was the first time I'd ever punched someone, and from an objective standpoint, it was a good knock.

I caught her square on the jaw, and her head slammed into the brick wall next to her. Her mouth split open like a microwaved hotdog, and she fell to the floor, crying and bleeding.

I just stared at her, and didn't say anything. Miraculously, no authority figure noticed, and Marjorie, for some reason, was in no hurry to tell. She stood up, and walked to the back of the line. Her friend who stayed behind gave me a deep glare and said, "You know, she just got braces."

Like I was supposed to feel bad.

That afternoon, I was walking home from school, and I cut through this field.

From behind clump of small trees, leapt Marjorie and three of her friends, like they were ninjas or something. "I just got braces!!!" Marjorie yelled, and she ran up to me, but she didn't do anything. I think she was still vaguely scared of me, what with the me punching her and all.

But her friends weren't scared. They cornered me, and one by one, kicked me square in the balls. Lacking the lack of pain in my balls, I was stripped of my ability to make sounds, and just sort of twitched.

The worst was yet to come, however. Marjorie walked over to me, leaned down to my ear, and whispered, "I love you."

Then she ran away with her friends. The next day she fell down some stairs, and I think she interpreted that as a karmic response to the 'Were we meant to be together' question, and we never spoke again.

I learned a lot that day, though, and from my experiences, so should you.

Lesson: Punching chicks gets you chicks--bad chicks. Don't punch chicks unless you can handle chicks that like guys that punch chicks. You heard it here first, folks.
______________

Rebuttle - by SammyD.
When I was in 6th grade, there was this boy I knew. He lived in our same trailer park. He had a crush on me for a little while; kept following me around and telling me my hair was the color of root beer. But he was younger than me, bookish and tired easily and I wasn’t interested. He didn’t take that news well. He got very mean after that. He would wait at the entrance to the Hi-Ho Trailer Park and throw stones at me when I came home from school. And he started telling his friends that I was a Nazi, because I had a German last name.

He was very circumspect with his harassment, always waiting until no one was looking. I think this was because he had decided to cozy up to my sister, Heidi. I tried to warn her that he was a mean little boy, but Heidi’s head was turned by flattery. He was quite the word-worker, that boy. But that Nazi rumor got around school, which was so embarrassing. Even when I got my braces, Dr Wankowiez actually gave me two lollypops and said, “you see, Jews are nice people”. I was too humiliated to tell him that it was all just a rumor.

I didn’t plan to avenge myself, but he pushed just too far one day. We were in line for breakfast and he was right in front of me. He kept holding back, so I couldn’t reach for anything, and slamming his tray back into mine. When he spilled my orange juice, I slipped in it and fell against him. He took the opportunity to haul off and hit me right in the mouth! I sat there, bleeding and crying for a minute, and he just looked down at me and very quietly said with a sneer, “that’s for Anne Frank!!”

At this point, my friends demanded to know what was going on. When I told them, they couldn’t believe their ears. “You even made me that Channukah card last year,” said Ulrike Schmittenstein. Greta Gerschnoodleschmit agreed that I was no Nazi and that he was a little creep to spread such lies. We made a plan to get him, after school, and get him we did. We waited in the field he always cut through, and my friends kicked the crap out of him. I stayed out of the action, as my head was still foggy from the knock he’d given me that morning. But when they stopped, and he was still there on the ground, I walked over to him and made sure he understood what this was all about.

My voice was muffled by my swollen lip as I said, “I love Jews.” Then we all ran away.

I had a slight balance problem after that, and actually fell down some stairs the next day, but that boy never told another lie about me.

That's really good. Did you write that?

50 Things I Hate

18. People who yell at other drivers.

Meeeeeee