SuperGurl

It’s become the chant of our house ever since the Architect added the Robot Servant quarters to our dream space station schematics. Not every family dreams of a mansion in space, but we do.

Absolutely not, not in my space station, no way. Free the Robots! I insist. I meant no harm, but I might have stunted my kids’ imaginations with my recurring commitment to us remaining an anti-enslavement family. It’s just so last century, right? But the kids don’t get me. How do we even get to space without robots? Everywhere there’s technology, they see robots. They are baffled by my seemingly backward stroke of applying human rights to technology.

And somehow, I’m content with it all. Yes. When the kids think I’m crazy, I feel like I’m gaining mastery of my mothership skills. Teaching concepts through the abstract, perhaps, but at least they may recognize utter bullshit when they experience it in real life. I guarantee you they have never questioned my reasoning so intently before.

Perhaps, my left wing one act plays don’t properly portray the horror I intend. That of liberal government intervention and over-regulation that potentially saps innovation and motivation from all life support. Moreover, how all of these government programs created with our tax dollars to supposedly do what is in our best interest have extremely long reaching consequences. You know, government bureacracies historically outlive childhood innocence at a rate of a hundred to one. My goodness! It’s a wonder we get up in the morning at all.

No. The kids aren’t getting any of this, I realize. But I’m planting deeply troubling seeds and hey, I’m entertained. Most days, that’s all I need.

Linda is back. And she is sorely dissappointed in you roaming jack-offs. Considering the sick, demented, twisted, unsavory search word combinations that brought you here, you surely could at least take your hands off your genitals long enough to type a simple comment in the comment box. I know you’re literate, however lacking in the spelling department.

Where has common decency gone? And why do I even have to ask?

And isn’t it ironic that half of them, er, you, come here looking for free panty? Listen up, wandering cyber trolls, I am the anti-porn in real life. I will make your privates shrivel up and fall off at one glance. It’s my Medusa complex, my most sacred super power. Think of it as an impotency forcefield. I can’t help myself.

And the fact is, I enjoy shutting you down. I do. It is the makings of AAA day in my world. So if you really want to charm me, if you really want see some hard core anti-porn, just sniff up this skirt. I dare you. I think I could traumatize you into a somewhat permanent state. Hey, I’ve done it before. And that’s without having nary a photoshop skill, not a one.

And this post has so little to do with it’s original intent that I’m having trouble circling the wagons here at the end. Suffice it to say I am in no mood to talk tenderly to you now that I see what brought you here. I’m in kill mode, so keep your hands where I can see ‘em and your freaky psychotic sexual phraseology to yourself. Unless of course it’s really psychotic sexual phraseology and then I want it in the comments, and not my referral log. You have been warned.

Don’t shit your celly, my monkey love, but I’m back. Do I still sicken you? I don’t know. Do I misser you? Baby, like mad.

What a hiatus it’s been! There has been no improvement in the equilibrium guzzle suckage at work. Highs and lows. Busts and bottoms. Volatility and confusion. Systemic risk. Scary times? Hairy times. Let me tell you about my cousin Larry times.

Do you think it’s possible that we’ve merely suffered an extreme negative demand shock? There was this surreal moment in time, back when Paulson and his posse were asking for the money at gunpoint, that everything just got weird. That week, I saw a slovenly family of troll people loading their pick-up with gallons of water and industrial bags of rice at the grocery store. Locally, bullets and batteries were stressed often among friends. And people seemed scarce in general, not wanting to gloat about their capitalistic tendencies anymore, ghost towns erupted like rabid cancers from within. Across the fruited plains and purple plunging mountain charts, people cowered together and triaged their assets, though too many bled out.

And I know it’s most popular to pretend this has never happened before, but it has. Kind of often, in fact. It reminds me of the year two thousand bug chaos, especially the anticipatory period which spawned a proliferation of cult variety fanatics, long on conspiracy but short on logic. I’m seeing a selfsame proliferation now. Not that it means it’s over, no way. I don’t know when that blessed day might come. Only that the pendulum has swung, negative gee!

But my blog works! Which means I will be available to talk you in off the ledge or give you a push, whatever it is you truly need. Welcome back to prozac, polarrhoids, and thanks once again for the wild ride.

I’m sorry my blog makes people sick, but in this way it kind of mirrors my life. I do that to people. I really hate the stigma of a virus, though. It’s the scarlet A of our day, I’m branded. SUPERGURL GIVES CREATURE COOTIES THAT WILL KILL YOUR WILL TO LIVE in cyberspace. Or something like that.

Rest assured, the experts are up all hours of the night toiling towards an answer. Wait. Strike that. The experts are actually all getting ready for a pilgrimage to the homeland this weekend. These gatherings around the family tree are known to turn into a drunken house afire with no notice at all. So, there’s actually a relatively fair chance that the ole blog will continue to mess with folks through the weekend. Possibly, even worsening once they conspire around the campfire. I am sorry, really, I am.

Yes, I’ve heard you. And I had every intention of putting up a post for the record books. A real wow piece. I did. But it turns out, everyone thinks I’m giving them the viral clap.

Which is ok. Afterall, I was partially wanting to showcase my Future Artist Trading Cards. The Architect’s latest creations, an assignment from school. I’m struck by how LOL cat this one is. It says, “I hungry,” with a space shuttle in it’s mouth. Genius, isn’t it?

But back to the fungus among us: SuperGurl can’t protect you if you won’t protect yourself. 1) Convert and become snobbish about using only Firefox (it’s less headaches, folks) for browsing. 2) Keep your anti-virus software paid for and up to date. I don’t know much that sucks more than hard drive lossage for seriously bad headaches…so please, keep your stuff squared away at the very least.

And I guess I should state the obvious, as well. If you think I want to sneak away to my cozy always seventy degrees, always shady and inviting webberworld only to hear that I shut you down completely, you are out of your mind. No, my pretties. Have I taught you nothing? Tell me in the words I long to hear. Say it like you mean it. But most importantly, lie to me. Pretend you love it, that’s what I like.

I did want to amaze you with my latest exploits, but i’m at a loss for time. I must get on with the mundane. I’m off to San Antone to free my mower and then I’m going to bring her home and make her hum once again for me.

You are here, and so you are loved. Have a wonderfully free non-crashtacular Saturday.