Creative Cusses Contest

I love a good contest. I even love a horribly unfair contest! Witness how I was soundly trounced through unapologetic neoptism on Tony Park's blog last August! Ali g's entries were somewhat pathetic. Crooked Paw's were inventive... but a bit too cerebral for his own good. Dozy's were cute. Trin's... well. That girl has an attitude, and she is soooo competitive!

My entries were astounding. Hilarious. Top shelf. I cracked myself up!

But I lost to Ali g. What a load of BALONEY!

Hehehe... aw, I was happy that my good friend Ali g won. But it was obvious that TP was scared of me. My greatness intimidated him. He'd never imagined a Yank could be so sharp! Well, I guess he knows NOW!!!

Anyhoo, he instructed his ethical assistant to decide the winner (or so he said) and that winner just happened to be... Ali g. Can you imagine?? Pfft.

A star was born; for Ali g went on to win the next two contests he entered on GAG. And amazingly... TP had nothing to do with it. One was a random draw, and the other winner was chosen by my friend and neighbor--and she doesn't even READ my blog! (Did I say she was a friend? Hmmph!)

But I digress. What I'm here to announce is a new contest. The Creative Cusses Contest. We need to keep this site clean. After all, I have a reputation to live down... I mean, UPHOLD! I am the author of Young Adult fiction, and as such, I must set a good example. (Plus, let's not forget, there's always the chance my mother could read this...)

So, please come up with some creative ways of expressing yourself without using any of those traditional expletives we've grown accustomed to. Let's cuss without needing to use asterisks. Let's give someone holy old he!! without them having a clue what we're talking about. Let's vent our spleens and let it all out of our systems without insulting anyone. Let's save our offensiveness for our real lives, and not our virtual ones.

Does it sound like a plan? Wanna know what you'll win?

Okay!

The winner will receive a bottle of homemade Dingleberry Wine and two wine glasses. Well, okay... two plastic cups. Hey, shipping is expensive, you know! And I'm into recycling, too. These plastic cups have been used a half dozen times already, and they're hardly worn out...

And if, by chance, it is one of my Aussie friends who wins, I'll just send you the plastic cups and the Dingleberry Wine recipe, okay? Because, you see... I'm on the Australian Customs 'Naughty List'. They still haven't forgiven me for the Spud Smuggling Debacle of 2009. There's no way I could mail a bottle of alcohol and get away with it. (Talk about uptight! Sheesh...)

No, seriously, if an Awesome Aussie wins, I'll order you a bottle of Oz's equivalent of Dingleberry Wine from the liquor store nearest you. And I'll still send you the plastic cups and recipe, too.

So... get those creative juices flowing! I wanna hear how you can insult someone without them ever knowing! I want to hear how you can describe certain actions or functions without giving a hint of what body parts might be involved. I want you to swear like a sailor... while sounding like an alter boy.

Contest ends on Independence Day, July 4th, 2010. Thanks for playing, and good luck.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

Christmas is over, and I am taking a break from packing away the decorations to post a quick poem to GAG. This is not a holiday poem, but it was a gift, of sorts.

I have a very good friend who lives in New South Wales, Australia. Ali g is currently visiting family in Africa with his lovely wife, and even though I haven't spoken to him for a couple of weeks, he's been on my mind, nonetheless.

Last summer it came to my attention that this man only ate potatoes which were frozen and came from a bag. Well, that revelation was astounding to this girl who began her life in northern Maine, a place famous for its logging industry and its potato-based agriculture. I couldn't believe that my friend had never experienced the epicurean delights of a potato that had been mashed, baked or stuffed straight from its glorious, raw form! It was my duty, as his favorite gal from Maine, to make Ali g a connoisseur of les pommes de terre!

So, I sent him some.

Alas, there are party poopers the world over. Apparently, it is taboo to mail the products of a farming woman's labor and love across international borders. For, instead of potatoes, my friend received a notice from Australian Customs. Instead of a nice side dish of Maine taters, Ali g got a letter telling him that his carton of potatoes had been confiscated and destroyed!

Exactly how does one 'destroy' a potato? I've simply GOT to know what Customs did to my pertetters! Surely, the act of peeling, boiling, mashing and then EATING a potato would ensure the complete eradication of a tuber! Would't it? Just imagine all the tax dollars that could have been saved if Australian Customs had allowed nature (and a simple country girl) to handle the issue!

I was worried that my impulsive act had embarrassed my friend, and I wrote him the following ditty by way of apology. But Ali g is far tougher than I gave him credit for, and he has a marvelous sense of humor, besides. What did he do upon receiving my poem?

He promptly forwarded it to the Customs Office in Sydney! If those good folks didn't recognize my name before, they've got it memorized now! Thanks, Ali g. I believe this makes us 'even'.

Never let it be said that I don't learn from my mistakes. No posting taters Down Under! Got it!

I miss you, my friend. And never fear; I'll find a way to provide you with an authentic Maine experience. What are your thoughts on fiddleheads? Sauteed in butter and garlic? Hmmm? Keep an eye out for a package once you return home, won't you?

Heh.

Kazza, The Notorious Spud Smuggler

There once was a farm girl from Maine
Who danced in the nude to make rain.
When needing some sun,
Then naked she’d run
(Nude dancing and running were pains.)

But she was a maiden devoted.
Her spuds, while with dirt they were coated,
Still needed attention--
And that’s why I mention
Just what all her nudeness denoted.

And then came the wonderful day
When this Kazza turned over the clay
And pulled from the ground
Potatoes so round…
They’d been incubating since May!


The goddess then took four young spuds
And washed from their skin-- dirt and mud.
In paper she wrapped…
T’was newsprint she’d scrapped…
And packed them to mail to her bud.

See, Ali's a funny old geezer…
Eats taters he pulls from the freezer.
They’re already sliced,
Or shredded or diced
He swears they’re an appetite pleaser.

But Kazza, that girl from the hills
Knows frozen spuds can’t give you thrills.
She did her utmost
To mail through the post
Potatoes, quite whole, with no frills.

But the Customs man checking Down Under
Did heft Kazza’s parcel and wonder
If it held cocaine
That was grown up in Maine…
(Do you grow it? Or is that a blunder?)

Well, anyway, Customs had cause
To check that box shipped into Oz.
Potatoes they found…
Who knew they were round?
And dimpled and brown? Were they flaws?

This girl who did farming while naked
Promoted potatoes whole bak-ed.
Not pulled from a sack
Piled on pan, slid on rack…
She wanted that concept forsak-ed!

But Aussies don’t grow their potatoes…
At best, they can raise some tomatoes.
They’d rather eat fries
Or ‘chips’, I surmise…
To eat with their pasta al fredo.

The Customs man sent him a letter.
He said, ‘I must keep your pertetter.
It is contraband
I’m slapping your hand!
These veggies are doomed for the shredder.’

The SWAT team was thusly deployed
And Kazza’s potato-- destroyed.
When assumed it had died,
That spud-- it was fried
And Customs, those chips they enjoyed.

Now Ali's distressed, it would seem.
His whole life it had been his dream…
Potato skins crisp
Were now will o’ the wisp…
As were bacon, and chives…sour cream.

But Kazza will not let him down!
Those customs guys gave her a frown
They dared confiscate
Food meant for his plate,
And caused her to look like a clown!

She knew that her heart--it held purity!
What nerve—to make her feel dir-ity!
So spuds she did pack
In her carry-on sack…
She’d chance it with Homeland Security!

They patted her down in the lobby.
It seemed an unwarranted jobby!
Her bra could not hold
Potatoes so bold!
Perhaps it was more of a hobby!

The x-ray guard then let her through
She sat down to put on her shoe.
They called out her flight--
The timing was tight!
To make it—through airport she flew!

She was the last one on the plane.
Getting frisked was a heck of a pain!
As the plane reached the skies
She—dismayed-- realized
Her potatoes were still back in Maine.

So Kazza, now quite empty-handed
In Australia much later she landed.
She promptly was cuffed,
In a prison bus stuffed…
For leaving her carry-on stranded.
********************************************

Oh, and Ali g? I've sent you another amazing gift while you've been traveling. I know you'll like it! It's called 'rain', and I danced my butt off to deliver it to your home. Phew! I'm exhausted. And COLD!

:o)

You're very welcome.