Remembering the Good Old Days...
Ah yes, it wasn't long ago we all bent over our keyboards and pounded out our latest entry for one of Rance's essay contests. As I think back on it now I realize Rance must have laughed until he cried at not only the number of responses, but at the seriousness with which some were written, including myself.

In a tribute to Rance, I hereby deem every Thursday to be "Queer Essay Topic Day", because let's face it folks, his topics were queer. For today, in 500 words or less, please write about the following:

If sentenced to death in a Hollywood Prison ran by celebrutantes who narcissisticly implemented a "last reel" instead of a "last meal", what movie would you choose to watch and why?

The Nun...
One thing I've observed throughout the blogging community is that if you're a male you instantly have a built in audience...women. I've searched deep within myself (almost precisely the depth of an ice cube tray)to understand why this is so, bein I'm as guilty as the rest. I believe I have found that answer. It's quite simple, you see. It all boils down to supply and demand.

Wherever you go, wherever you are there are always women who are willing to, if not already, talking. They talk about their emotions, their dreams, their passions, their fashions...their "friend" who just stepped in the loo. To cut to the chase, women and their words are a dime a dozen.

Men who talk, however, are rare. When they arrive home from work it practically takes the jaws of life to pry their lips apart to get a response other then "uh" or "huh" or "huh huh". To find a male writing and expressing themselves for the most part unfettered and using actual, factual words is like walking through the forest and stumbling upon the most exotic, intriguing creature that has yet to be discovered. It's fascinating.

Well, today I give you something way more fascinating and rare than that...a talking nun. I have finally succeeded in my quest to find a nun who would be so kind as to share her inner most thoughts and fantasies with us. This is a rare treat, my friends.

For the purpose of privacy we'll call her Janis. Janis is an ex-nun who now lives the life of a private citizen. Over the next several weeks she has agreed to share with us her experience as a nun, why she became a nun and her departure from the convent.

For today, she has decided to exhibit a few selections from her writing, a group of poems. Please enjoy and I hope you look forward to her future discourse as much as I.


Hard Habit To Break:

The heart of the wise inclines to the right.
The heart of the fool to the left.
Today my heart yields to the left.
I'm consumed by your lips.
Which taste like sweet wine.
Quench my desire by flowing gently over me.
I'm faint with your love.
Place me like a seal over your heart.
You're a hard habit to break.


Communion:
Let's assemble for a kiss.
Let's bunch up to cuddle.
Let's congregate to caress.
Let's converge to make love.
Let's gather to court.
Let's mass to embrace.
Let's rendezvous to romance.
Let's unite in communion.



The Fighting of the Tongue:

And while in communion...
Kiss my forehead.
Kiss my eyes.
Kiss my cheeks.
Kiss my throat.
Kiss my bosom.
Kiss my breasts
Kiss my lips.
And if you touch my teeth,
Or my tongue,
Or my palate,
It's the "fighting of the tongue".


Reversed Communion:

69.
Yang and Ying.
Flip-flopped.
We set the world upside down.
I play the part of you.
You play the part of me.
We are in "reversed communion".

Apocalypse now...really...
With all the recent wacky weather and horrific natural disasters I have begun to fear it might be the end of days. After all, it is New Years Eve...five years after the Millenium. Suppose the "prophets" had the right day, just the wrong year.

I don't know about you all, but I've been looking for other signs as well. Something to assure me that the end is near and we must all prepare for battle.

That sign has come my friends. The battle between good an evil has begun. Mark the score Good = 0 Evil = 1 or Good = 1 Evil = 0 depending on how you look at it or whose side you're on...

What is this sign, you ask? Martha Stewart has lost a decorating contest in prison to her fellow inmates. Yes, it's true.

Each team was given $25.00 worth of glitter, construction paper, ribbons and glue and were challenged to create a display depicting "Peace on Earth". Martha's team made paper cranes, which they hung from the ceiling while her competitors put together a nativity scene complete with snow covered hills and sleds.

Be prepared...

The Price is Right...
I had this disturbing dream last night that I was doing the horizontal with Bob Barker. I have no idea why. I don't even watch his show. I do not discriminate based upon the year scrawled on one's birth certificate, but there is something such as age appropriateness. What is he now, like 90? This was not appropriate.

The dream lingers with me this morning and makes it hard to think about anything else. Is there some subliminal message I'm not getting? Like, is the price right for that new chair I'm wanting? Do I need to come on down and buy it? Does someone I know need to be spayed or neutered?

Perhaps I can find my way through the visual train wreck to the message beneath. Regardless, when it comes to Bob and me, the price will never be right, I will never come on down, not even if we've both been spayed and neutered...

There, now I feel somewhat better.

To bring you all up to date on potential guest bloggists I share with you the following:

The nun remains mum. Perhaps she still holds true to her vow of silence, or perhaps she didn't find me amusing, or perhaps she's still on Christmas break and hasn't checked her email at the school.

Bubba - I did email Viggo. I even promised to let him talk about his beloved horses and what we could do to save them. I even vowed we'd all sign the petition to be put before Congress. What did I get? Not a word...

I have secured one guest bloggist, perhaps he'll show on Monday. I think you'll appreciate his sense of humor and his views on many things. I'm keeping it a secret until he shows. You just never know when someone may cancel and I surely don't want to disappoint you.

Santa sent me something for Mikeeeee. He said "Sorry it's late Mikeeeee, but I don't read minds. You're lucky I didn't get you what you really asked for or you'd be spending New Years applying aloe to your ass. Merry Christmas."

And for Snubby, she took the time to write this fabulous poem for my Christmas Special and I deleted it upon error. If it were a contest she would have won. It's fantastic. Enjoy!

'Twas the night before Friday,
and all through the house,
not a creature was cleaning,
Not even a spouse.

The father was out
With the broad down the street,
The kids watching DVD's
with the machine on repeat.

The mother sat
And stared at the wall
What did she do
To deserve this all?

She does all the laundry,
She sweeps all the crumbs,
She cooks all the meals,
And cleans when they are done.

She can't get on the internet,
Or read a book or watch TV,
Someone is always crying,
Help me, help me, help me, me, me...

But for now, she has decided,
To hell with this shit...

She dreams of a world
With duckies and whales
Memoirs of Hollywood
And all its sordid tales.

She loves the politics,
The Rants and the Raves.
She loves the poetry;
The stories, the games...

She jumps out of her chair,
And yells, "Rance hold on!
I'm going to spring you,
and then we'll move on."

The kids look up,
With their mouths agape-r
And say "Mom!"
Rance is just some kid
Writing his term paper!

Mom sits back down
In her chair with a boom.
"Can't blame me for trying..."
"Go get me my broom..."

Later the kids tell
of mom's determination,
And Dad says, "Wow honey,
You have some imagination."

Mom swears,
"I'm not a crazy loon..."
I love my Rance,
From here to the moon.

Guest bloggist, The VW
Now that I've got your attention, what am I going to say? Who is Rance? Or for that matter, what is Rance? Am I Rance? I could be, or maybe not, but then again, does it really matter?

I've met Rance. Didn't you get the invite? He threw a huge party down at Denny's. Everyone was there, the waitress, the cashier, the cook, the manager, Rance, me, myself, and I. He came bearing gifts, an area rug for my mouse. That was a buck fifty well spent. We both agreed your time would be better spent writing to someone who actually read what you wrote. A suggestion: My Soldier

Sorry you missed the party. It was swanky.

Toodles,

The VW

Out of Respect...
for the earthquake/tsunami victims I am not putting up a new post. I don't feel it to be appropriate to be funny or trite today. Any wishing to leave condolences/thoughts/prayers for the victims and the survivors feel free to do so here. It's the least I/we can do...

Snubby
Please resend me your "night before christmas" poem. I think I may have accidentally deleted it. Thanks. Just mail it to rubberdeeduckie@yahoo.com

Holiday Cheer Cont....
The Grand Prize Winner of our Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is.....

#5) I sat all alone on the verge of the threshold of the fringe of the edge of the cliff contemplating the thought of musing over whether to consider if I should ponder the idea of deliberating the logic behind the rationale of my conviction to envision the image of myself aspiring to hurl myself gleefully over the edge.

By The VW.

According to our rules "The VW" is hereby dubbed a "guest blogger". Send in your piece by Monday, December 27th. I want to thank all of the participants. I got a kick out of every entry!

Today's poem is by Trillian....

Twas the night before X'mas, and all thru Toy's R Us,

Parents were scrambling, fighting, and ready to cuss

The parking lot overflowed with cars and suvs,

As each parent hoped that here the perfect toy would be.

Those in the checkout line were ob'viously weary,

As visions they had of children teary.

"That's not what I asked for! That's not what I wanted!"

Nothing would suit but the "N-ray 3000 Comet".

Not Barbie, no red wagon, no GI Joe,

Nothing else would work, not even Elmo.

These parents who began their shopping too late,

Found themselves victims of a horrible fate.

Everywhere from FAO Schwarz to the local Wal-mart,

Hung signs that read "Sorry,please try back in March."

They'd scooters, and bikes, and roller skates galore,

Aisles of baby dolls, those that cried, walked, talked and more.

But no new technology, or hallowed classic,

No toy complicated, or ever so basic,

Could compete with the appeal of the vaunted,

(And heavily advertised) "N-ray 3000 comet"

Suddenly every parent froze in fear,

Over the intercom came "Please make your final decisions, closing time's near"

As parents moaned, weary workers inwardly cheer,

Soon the night would be over, then home for a beer.

The parents hastily grabbed every shiney thing in sight,

Hoping against hope that it would be alright.

Maybe Timmy and Suzy would be so caught up in the joy,

Of so many packages, they wouldn't miss one little toy...

Next morning as weary parents tumbled down stairs,

To the sight of ribbon flying, and the sound of paper as it tears,

They all held their breath, and hoped against hope,

That with such disappointment, their children could cope.

Would they cry? Would they scream, would they bite?

Cry "Mom and Dad never buy me anything, now even Santa can't get it right!"?

But, wait.. was that laughter that met their ears?

Was it possible after all of their fears?

The toys piled in the corner, as though they were things noxious,

While the wee ones merrily played with the boxes.

And Mom and Dad realized, there really is no need,

To encourage the children towards selfish greed.

Nor to lie to them, with stories of things fairy,

All such trappings are unneccesary.

Instead, teach them to find true joy in living,

Love others, speak truth, and be forgiving.

For if you search with an open heart you will see

"You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."

John 8:32



"Trillian"

TWAS RIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS...
`TWAS RIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
(or A TRUE STORY)
By John Dough
www.inhaler70.blogspot.com

`Twas right before Christmas, and down by the mall,
Not a creature was stirring, except for them all.
The traffic was bad, we were told to prepare,
But the shopping wasn't finished, so we didn't care.

The cars were all nestled on road up ahead,
While visions of Sig-Alerts* danced in my head.
The Mrs. was my passenger, so I gave her a smile,
Who knew it would take two hours to go half a mile?

When out on the road there arose such a clatter,
I looked over the dash to see what was the matter.
Down came the window, just like a flash,
I saw a taxi driver who just got whiplash.

The sun on his taxi made his blood boil red,
So he gave a long honk to the car just ahead.
When what to my wondering eyes would I see?
An old run-down mini van with a brand new Christmas tree.

With a little old driver, so lively and mad,
I knew in a moment, this was going to get bad.
More rapid than eagles, to the taxi he came,
And he whistled and shouted and called out these names:

You prick! You asshole!
You big piece of shit!
You cunt! You fucker!
You old saggy tit!
From the top of your head!
To the tips of your toes!
I'll kick your ass! I'll kick your ass!
I'll punch you in your nose!

The cabbie yelled back; he couldn't be shy.
And from under her breath, my wife said, "Oh my!"
So right in front of us, the obscenities flew,
in the presence of everyone, and a Christmas tree too.

And then in a twinkling, I watched as he stood,
the prancing and pawing of his fist on the hood.
As for why this was happening, I was at a loss.
Then he reached through the window with a forceful right cross.

The cabdriver ducked and he bobbed and he weaved,
And the man with the Christmas tree just got more peeved.
He flung open the door and jumped into the cab.
Let the fighting begin; who threw that right jab?

The taxi--how it trembled! The suspension, how scary!
They fought with ferocity, and their forearms were hairy.
Their droll little fight was drawing up like a bow,
but then they continued, like wrestlers gone pro.
I got out of my car, and another man, too.
We just looked at each other... Well, what should we do?
You might think me a coward, or a real yellow-belly,
but the car shook and it shook, like bowl full of jelly.

As quick as it started, it ended, this brawl.
The cabbie was okay, in spite of it all.
The man with the Christmas tree climbed out of the cab,
But then remembered something else that he wanted to grab.

He spoke not a word, but went back to his work,
And reached through the window with a smug little smirk.
Straight from the ignition, he snatched up the keys,
And then threw them away, right into the trees.

He sprang to his mini van with his fresh Christmas tree,
And full of holiday cheer, it was easy to see.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!"



*Any traffic incident in Souther California that will tie up two or
more
lanes of a freeway for two or more hours.

Of note: The voting on the Bulwer-Lytton contest will continue thru this evening and will be closed at 12:00 a.m. CST. Up tomorrow will be the announcement of the winner and another Christmas Poem submission. Please take the time and visit John Dough's blog. The link is provided above.

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest continued...
I found it too difficult to choose a winner so I have decided to let the readers choose. The winner will be awarded a guest blog spot right here on our very own "Rance Wuz Here".

I've tried to insert a poll here, but alas it is not to be. You will have to post your votes. BUT, to keep it from becoming personal I am not including the blogger's name with their entry. I will put up the sentence with a # beside it. When you vote you merely put down the number that corresponds with the sentence you most liked. An HONORABLE MENTION goes out to all the bloggers who participated in the contest. Thank you all...

P.S. You may vote anonymously if you wish, but play fair.

THE FINALISTS(in no particular order):

#1) Dawn was breaking when Miranda first realized the enormity of what she had done, and as the pale amber shards of light crept their way slowly, quietly, up the faux-finished wall of the dimly-lit study...not the "good" kind of faux finish, mind you, but rather a faux finish that can be achieved by anyone who has watched one episode of TLC's "Trading Spaces" and can operate a wet rag...the dread that was causing a dull ache in her mid-section was ever-so-slightly replaced by the first pangs of hunger and thirst after a long night spent hunched over the humming, glowing laptop, and while she rose to reheat a stale cup of coffee and find a muffin to ease the rumbling in her stomach, she knew she needed to focus...FOCUS, Miranda...on what could be done to minimize the effects of the inevitable and vicious viral assault that would result from her careless and inadvertent click on that f****** e-mail attachment.

#2) She knew that he knew that she knew what was going on, and they both knew that he knew that she was pretending to be oblivious to his ghastly, guilty secret which was slowly changing their relationship, one that all her friends had been terribly and obviously jealous of, from one of trust and warmth to a laughable mockery of the same.

#3) As the phone rang, she reached for it automatically even though her mind was a million miles away, caught up in so very many important thoughts... when did I water the plants last, did the kids walk the dog before they left the house, what am i going to make for dinner, how do i get him interested in me again... all this whirling through her brain as she lifted the receiver and said "nine-one-one, is this an emergency?"

#4)As he slipped the huge brilliant sparkling rock onto her finger, she looked at her handsome suitor, his impossibly white capped teeth smiling at her, his impeccable hair in which the implants were finally starting to blend, his aristocratic aquiline surgically corrected nose, his soulful eyes ably highlighted by colored contacts and thought to herself "It's probably cubic zirconia".

#5) I sat all alone on the verge of the threshold of the fringe of the edge of the cliff contemplating the thought of musing over whether to consider if I should ponder the idea of deliberating the logic behind the rationale of my conviction to envision the image of myself aspiring to hurl myself gleefully over the edge.

#6) I shoulda been able to tell that Willy Simpson Shanks was trouble when I first met him at the Renaissance Faire, for immediately after his first "Huzzah" he tackled me and spilled mead down my corset and asked me if I shaved my golden tri-force; I got the Zelda reference immediately and, boy, if only I didn't, 'cause now I, a 9 to 5 business women, have committed a murder all in the name of love for a man whose livelihood depends on selling velvet doublets and giant turkey legs.

#7) With one eye on the door and one on the stranger sleeping next to her, she surreptitiously scanned the room for some sign of the slinky black dress and sparkly stiletto heels she remembered putting on last night before leaving for the office holiday party, but the only familiar thing she located was a lacy bra and panty set that coquettishly adorned the bedside table lamp---and she was by no means certain that these items belonged to her, or that she wanted to touch them, even if she could reach them without waking the snoring lump slumbering beside her.

#8) Preacher Melmack had been at the lopsided graffiti carved (ex:"nuns do it better") half brown and black podium for half an hour talking about the evils of dramatically ornate oriental weaponry such as gold plated nunchaku's and gem studded ninja short swords when Melanie, poor sad lonely abandoned at the altar of life Melanie, burst into giant hurricane sized teardrops that crawled down her cheeks and into her lap, much like her ex fiance once did, all this at the mention of decapitation which reminded her of her step half sister Cordelia who had died three weeks prior in a tragic Pilate's accident.