Mittens not feeling so good...

Mittens not feeling so good...

Though the days are few they're filled with tears...

So, while Betsy's been working along as usual and got some fresh mid-range red and off-white white to work with for her stripes and shit, she was given a moment away from her stitching to actually chat with another human being in the intarnet!

Betsy made an instant internet friend in one of her favorite flag-weaving chat-rooms in the alt.binaries.erotica section, and began a-chattin' away with her. We talked such lovely things about yarn and such. Needle holes, too. So much chitting and chatting, I just have to share some of it with you (left out all the stuff about George W., and how he's reallly fucked up the economy for life down here in the cellar and so on; must be those big wodden teeth of his fucking up his judgement... I sure hope we get somebody older than him next election time boy do I).

...but, apart from a delightfully sweet little dream that made my reality all-the-more pleasant to wake up to in-and-of-itself, there's also a snippet at the end there which highlights all the fun i get to endure living on the corner in this lovely little cul-de-sack of the world (in the span of half an hour, on a Thursday):

BETSY ROOSH (9:37:47 PM): i just had a dream that all this nonsense was over

BETSY ROOSH (9:38:07 PM): it was kind of heavenly

OMG BETSY HAS A FRIEND (9:39:20 PM): haha

BETSY ROOSH (9:42:20 PM): like a job, and everything

BETSY ROOSH (10:44:45 PM): theres like 400 drunk kids out on the street

BETSY ROOSH (10:45:04 PM): and the people upstairs have been moving in for the last 3 weeks, every hour of the day

BETSY ROOSH (11:10:22 PM): haha fuckhead blew a tire right outside

BETSY ROOSH (11:19:16 PM): good god i have to get out of this fucking apartment

Isn't life just like heaven!

here's a picture of a poodle:

there isn't much light in this dungeon

and Betsy's brother is an udder psychotic:











who the fuck are the Knudsens, anyway?

Who the fuck are the Knudsens?

       BLOND MAN
The fuck is this?


       DUDE
Obviously you're not a golfer.

there isn't much light in this dungeon

i am feeling soultastic.

good day sunshine...

(good lord, i need some moonshine)...

So, today Ms. Betsy was awoken to the sounds of smashing and hammering of tools, the breaking downs of doorways in the upstairs main house. Seems they're adding on another room while i'm toiling away down here with no hot water...

BUT, every downpour has its aluminum siding, and today i was given as my morning supplements a withered old and barely toasty bagel. It was handed to me by some hippie of a manservant, looking so withered it looked like a damn 90-year-old scrotal sack. Bland as a motherfucker, too.

LAST NiGHt we had some fun, tho. Me and Ms. Szintilla, the Finnish maid-servant woman from Finnland who sometimes brings me my vittles, we had played the dress-up as we drank some Schnapps. She's quite a hottie in the dress i made for her:



then after that we munched on some carpet until i was woken by more harrowing dreams and some unpleasant hammering.

good morning, good morning...

they're at it again...



...since when did i move to the fucking suburbs? those Foundering shitbags took me from that pleasant plantation location to a fucking suburb. i can hear these motors' hemming, hawing, motoring, and chomping from all the way down here in the cellar.

i was up all night working on the damn flag, then twisting and turning in my sleep cause a some stupid dreams, and i wake up to resume my stichings and a minute later i gotta hear this damn racket of a machine?!

it's getting me all kinds of flashbacks, fucking left and right.

i would even go back to AMsterdamn. with this kinds of waether...

take me back to olde Sanduskie...

Betsy wants to go back to Brooklyn. Betsy misses certain things about Brooklyn...

while my mittens gently sleeps...

Betsy has not woken up to the sound of a lawn mower in quite some time:


It seems that she (Betsy) has been shuffled and moved by Underground railroads to a new location so as to keep working on her mittens with her Mittens...

George W. didn't seem to like her so much in the cellar, and found for her some better accommodations in the cellar of another of the Foundering Fathers's houseses.

we looked just like this in the heat of the night as we was moving:


Mittens made the travel with me alright; i'd just have to squoze her to relieve her as the train rolled along. She is a-napping now by the chamber pot here in the cellar of ours new accomodations.

What might only happen from now will time tell.

but, my god, are my shoulders (and calves) aching from this sewing and a-stichin' ... some heavy roads we've had to climb to get this flag all done up and good -- gots me 8 and one half stars on the bitch now, still workin on them stripes as it were tho (they go all the way down)...

I cannot brain today, I have the dumb

there isn't much light in this dungeon

i need a bridge over troubled Betsy.













.

CELEBRITY SIGHTING IN MALIBU

CELEBRITY SIGHTING IN MALIBU:

MATTHEW NELSON of NELSON was spotted today in Malibu.

He drives a Porsche, btw.

If i grew up on a farm, and was retarded, this country might impress me...

but instead i'm stuck here in this shithole, sewing up a dream of George W.'s America...

And if Mittens wasn't sleeping on my soapbox (one of the few ammentieis i'm allowed here in this dungeon), I'd would climb right up on top of it to say a thing or two. About the fleeting wills and wants of a little old hand-maid with some knitting skillz.











i feel whittled to the fucking knuckles. (aint no thimble gonna cure me).

.

and more on Mittens later; all depends on how much a-stichin' i gets done this evening if i'm gonna scribe yous a little something-something before i crawl up on my straw bed and--

it's getting better all the time...

didn't lose a single sock out on the line today, or in the wash...

must be my lucky day!

there isn't much light in this dungeon

...but, as an old negro plantation worker said to me as i was ducking behind some scrub brush to squat and relieve my rusty old bladder, “What cannot be endured, must be altered.”

i bet a girl with severe brain damage didn't hit on YOU today!

(is that a Beatles song?)

i don't know what else to say; it was just too depressing to put into words (and on so many levels).

so, in lieu of that, George Washington and John Adams and John hancock, and all of that (Paul Fucking Revere, am i right?!)...

American flag, yada yada yada...

this darns flag...

anyhow.

oh, blah... 'D' (omg, iz pixtures heavy)

i'm fixing a hole... where there's a tear in one of the pouch's in my bra. don't know how it got torn. but, life goes on, as they say...

(bah!)


got a neat little stitching project to take me away from this darns flag, anyhow.

---

fixing it right there.





---

but, today must be my lucky day!

my master, Mr. W., let me out of my cellar to enjoy enjoy some of this mysterious countryside weathers (still haven't got a fucking clue where i am). he even lent me his old fashioned bicycle-thing:



fucking thing didn't even work, tho (i mean, come on. look at those wheels). but i had fun... out there in the sun and clouds... fresh air all around...

only on the way home i gots me a flat tire in the littler rear wheel. had to fix the damn thing myself in the middle of a cornfield, where right after i started back up again i was met with a black crow launching off for flight right in front of my very eyes.

It looked just like this (only with one crow):



but, when i got home, there was a lovely little parking space for the bicycle next to the brown shed where Mrs. W does her business. hooray.

then i ate some lovely little porridge i made for mittens and me.
warms me up inside.

(and now it's back to work on the fucking flag.)



butt.



---


...by the way, check this out:






















(imagine how much fun that bicycle seat must be having.)

"And don't grow tired of listening to me, because it's all for your own good."

... that's what that mean old man said to me. that mean old Mr. George W. he's got a mean old hand, he does.

here i am, stitching away ever so stitchily, got two and one-third stars done on moldy gray, like, totally off-white thread... and it's all cold and cruddy in here! i mean, seriously, with all this darkness all around me, how am i supposed to tell a decent yarn?

Mittens has nearly caught hisself a frightful, chilly cold; and i'm just barely making ado with myself here. the Finnish maid-servant brought me some icky curdled, but, you know...

ick.

that mean old Mr. George W. (and you wouldn't believe what he's charging me per yard for this yarn.)

here's a picture of an unhappy puppy (not my Mittens!)...

there isn't much light in this dungeon

and it isn't getting any brighter...

oh, how i long to be, one of the beautiful...

...since my previous post, it has been asked by my readership on a few occasions to share with you the circumstances of my conundrum and to provide some pics of where i am currently stationed.

i am here, living in an undisclosed underground location, adjacent to the privy pits of my master and his family, Sir George Washington, Sr. i have been asked to make a flag... it doesn't have to be pretty, he says; but, he says: "Ms. Ross, you have to make our Country proud." so that is what i'm trying to do!

i'm not happy about it, and that is why i ahve started this blog. but i hope to share with you all fellow readers about my strife and my circumstances as they unfold. thoughts and musings on things from in here. i am sewing everyday, and every day i try to make each day's thread count...

btw, this is what my cellar/living quarters looks like:

he doesn't get much milk delivered in here, so i have to make do with what curdled i can has that's leftover and that which he brings down 4 me. i try to make do, and have rearranged things nicely since picutre was taken. can't you see the corner where my puppy Mittens piles her trade? :(

(he lets me have a puppy)(

get on up, get on up...

ahem, you can read all of my previous postings here:

http://fljoorke.blogspot.com/

See, the Drs. Washington, Adams, and Hancock had for a time a maid-servant-woman who was from Finnland (which they all shared; they weren't into that silly stuff like the Jeffersons). She used to come and bring me my vittles sometimes.

and whenever it was asked of her where i was, her reply would be: "Ms. Ross? Oh, si, she is down in the fljoorke, señor."

and so it came to be!