Apocalypse Now?... What About Now?... How About Now?

The thought of a large asteroid plowing into Farmer John's cow patch (or whatever it is that's supposed to happen in the year 2012) and wiping out the earth's population doesn't bother me. Why? Because after I die, nothing matters any more.

Plus, that would be a relatively painless death and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's pain. And lots of it.

Pain is the initial reason I didn't want to have kids. I passed out in my 9th grade sex education class when they showed a film strip (that's right - I said film STRIP, remember those?) of an OB-GYN exam, so how could I survive a watermelon coming out of my hoo-haw if I can't handle a picture of a doctor's hands getting all up in there?

Also, I don't know about you, but I don't do so well with torture, either. Don't hire me to be your spy. I'd sing like a canary the second my kidnapper opened his ribbed aluminum case of shiny blades and corkscrews. Hell, I start to confess about my poor flossing habits as soon as my my dental hygienist swings the tray of torture in front of my face. You know, the neatly lined up stabby pokey devices? They may as well start the tape recorder right there, 'cause I'll tell them everything!

Would you expect me to protect my country when I'm accosted and taken behind enemy lines if I have to fast forward through the slow slicing scenes of 24?

But anyway, I didn't call you all here to discuss my weak knees. I was talking about the End of the World.

So, I'm okay with dying because of the earth acting like the Ford Pinto of planets in the event of a giant asteroid on one condition: everybody else has to die, too. It wouldn't be fair (although with my karma, it would be typical) if I had to give up the rest of my life while a bunch of jackasses got to keep living. Call me competitive, but if other people got to live, or WORSE, if I didn't die, but got MAIMED by an alien visit gone awry, that would totally piss me off.

And if a bunch of A-holes survived whatever catastrophe, do you think that would teach them a lesson about living a better life? Heck no. It would enable their bad behavior. Jerks.

Oh sure, maybe at first they'd be all, "Oh I'm just lucky to be alive. Maybe this is a sign that I've been given a second chance at life. To do something good for my fellow man."

But it wouldn't be long before they forgot all about their promises to God and they'd be selling the movie rights of their close brush with death and get right back to taking life for granted. Idiots.

And boy, would I be super angry if I got annihilated by a fireball because here I am, scrimping and saving for retirement and for what? Nothin', that's what.

So if this 2012 alien/asteroid/whatever thing is going to happen, I want to know now so I can blow my wad. Of dough, that is. But once again, with my luck, I'd splurge like there's no tomorrow and then 2012 would come and go like all the other Doomsdays and then I'd have to get a job as a Wal Mart greeter until I'm 100 because there will be no such thing as Social Security and Medicare to carry me through my Autumn years, all because a bunch of prognosticating bozos promised that this time, THIS TIME it would be different. Morons.

This whole End of the World issue is exhausting to debate. I mean, do I live it up for the next three years, maybe travel the world before it's blown to smithereens? Or do I ignore yet another Chicken Little prediction and grow into an old and bitter cantankerous woman chasing robot children off my lawn with a broom?


(Photo courtesy of Flickr)

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

Nobody likes a whiner, but nothing gets my whiny engine roaring faster than bearing witness to the unfairness of life. "Living in the Moment" was never my thing and I blame my mother for that (that's right, I'm a victim - see? I'm already whining.). She raised me to consider the consequences of my actions. And now I suffer because of it.

You wanna get my goat? Act without thinking. Let your heart rule your head. Jumble your priorities. Make use of a banana peel in a dangerous prank. Become a high-profile person and then consumed with power, sleep with whomever you wish, regardless of your marital status. Get away with murder, or worse, get a sub-prime loan on a house you can't afford and then walk away from it, or why not even sell one of those sub-prime loans? You know, little things like that.

And then if someone wants to boil my blood until pink steam shoots out of my ears, they will enable your behavior by saying nothing (or lying for you, or bailing you out, or forgiving your debt, or refusing to allow hard evidence into your murder case because of a 'technicality'). And now, because I'm RESPONSIBLE, I'm subsidizing your slack. Well, not YOUR slack, of course. You people are perfect. It's those OTHER people out there that I'm talking about.

Why can't I just relax like everyone else? Live in the moment? Let it go? Throw all my cares away?

But I digress. In fact I think I digressed before I even got started. The real reason I called you all here today was to talk about how I can never seem to find the perfect balance between over-thinking and under-thinking. For example, the last time I posted a picture of someone's car on my blog, I forgot to blur out the license plate. And then I worried too much about it. I considered the consequences. (So I guess I didn't digress THAT much - I'm still on the consequences thing.)

I vowed that the next time I posted a car's picture, I would blur out the license plate, because I keep imagining myself getting into big trouble when the owner finds out and sues me for invasion of privacy. This would be an example of me over-thinking because, really, as if my puny blog is on anybody's radar. Besides, I probably don't have to worry about getting sued until I'm rich and famous. So, not for at least a couple more months or so.

Anyway, I still stress out about it and figure I should blur out the car's plate to be on the safe side. But then it turns out, I'm going to be posting THIS picture of a car I saw on the freeway recently:


                                           License Plate = MYPNK69

And seriously? A vanity plate is all about vanity, the whole vanity and nothing but the vanity, your Honor. The owner WANTS everyone to see it. And in the Dress-How-You-Want-To-Be-Treated Department, a pink car is not exactly trying to pass through life unnoticed. So do this attention whore a favor and NOTICE HER ALREADY! (By the way, I apologize for not risking my life further by capturing a better view of the pink wheel covers.)

Oops, I probably shouldn't have called her a whore. I mean, I'm sure she doesn't mind her car and even her license plate being broadcast all over the internet, but to call her a whore? Well, now I've gone too far and I probably will get into trouble for this. Should I take out the "whore" part? She probably won't even read this. I mean, what are the chances? It's not like a lot of people see this blog, right?

What if I called her an attention hog, would that be better? You think she'd mind that? It doesn't carry the punch of "whore", but you know, I don't want to make anybody mad. Like last week's post that brought in 137 F-bombs from a cowardly anonymous commenter.

How about pig? Would pig be okay?

Motorcycle Diary of a Madman

Those of you who arrived here by Googling "motorcycle panties" have come to the right place. Anybody landing here through the key phrase "billy goats in high heels", that's next door...wierdo.



Why are we so comfortable hindsight-quarterbacking bad behavior, feigning dismay and asking, "What were they thinking?", insisting that we would NEVER do such a thing, when in fact, we pull stupid crap all the time. It's just that we don't wind up maiming ourselves, or get caught on camera for the rest of the world to judge us afterwards, claiming that they would NEVER pull such a stunt and what were we thinking?



After announcing our infallability, we ostensibly sensible folk then jump on our motorcycles with our pants stretched halfway down our butts because it's cool. It shows off our panties and it impresses the ladies. And when we zoom by said ladies on the freeway we weave in and out of traffic to get their attention.



But then our balls get all sweaty, because our legs are hugging tight against hot leather seats in the desert sun. So our leader, Gerard, gets a little wind flappage going in his shorts and stretches his legs straight out like kickstands. We think Gerard has one-upped us showing off for the chicas, so we follow his lead and play around too, because - say it with me - - "It sounded like a good idea at the time."

Speaking of dumb-asses on motorcycles (oops did I type that out loud?)... have you seen this? Apparently, in India (hi Scratch Bags!), "Hands Free" means something else entirely:









* * *



NGIP would like to thank Mojo over at Why? What Have You Heard? for adding Nanny Goats In Panties to his blog roll. Mojo is working toward "charming curmudgeon" status.

Culture, Schmulture, Where's the Can?

Anybody who uses "Sacramento" and "Culture" in the same sentence is lying. Not only have I personally witnessed Sacramento citizens' lack of support of the arts (I give you Bodies Revealed), but I have also been a victim of its steadfast squashing of any hope to stir up interest in such matters.

Why, just recently, I was visiting an art gallery and took a liking to their featured artist. I thought it would be courteous to ask if I could photograph the art for my blog. You know, show the world that Sacramento could actually have some cool stuff.



But when I asked the woman in the rear of the gallery about the art, she kept her back to me the entire time, stirring her cauldron. Her hesitation to grant me a decent audience with her majesty dripped with an attitude so thick with part seething judgment and part bitter NYC MOMA wannabe, that my intentions quickly transformed from a glowing review of the art gallery itself on an internationally popular blog (hello Dublin!) to a review that is fighting the urge to name names as well as call them. Let me warn you now, I do not succeed entirely. She had the audacity to act as if WE were the local yokels and SHE was not. Never mind the fact that I was accompanied by a woman from Marin County (which is NOT Sacramento in case you were wondering) who used to be the coordinator of THE largest art festival in the country.

As any writer hell-bent on revenge would do, I present to you an open letter to that person in that unnamed (so far, anyway) establishment.

Dear Art Gallery Beeyotch,

You had a chance to promote your gallery, yourself, and the potential to sell a few pieces of art. But you chose instead, for some unknown reason, to judge my friend and me. Was it something we wore? Something we didn't wear? Not that you looked. You are clearly a bitter, bitter woman who either flunked out of Sotheby's Art Academy, or couldn't even get accepted and have had to settle for managing a gallery in a substandard city that is beneath you. And that bitterness shows.

I would think that if your job is to SELL art, that you might spend some time trying to SELL that art. If you think people from Sacramento are lame and uncultured, why not try educating them so they can appreciate what you have to offer. When we asked you if the artist was local and had a website, you sneered and said that he might, but you wouldn't help us with that information. I tried to take this as a poor attempt at humor, and forgave you this blunder, and presumed this meant that if we wanted to buy his art, we would have to buy it through you, but you did everything in your power to prevent us from becoming interested in purchasing from you. You never stopped once to turn around and look me in the eye and engage me. I know if I came in again next week, you would not recognize me from the week before.

You know nothing about customer service or sales. When a potential buyer comes in and brings up the possibility that an artist must have a website because it's probably a great tool for promoting and selling their own work, you do not say, "Well, not really."

And you do not hire assistants who simply mirror your ability to contradict the customer. I explained to your mini-me, that I know how some places forbid photography. I was trying to demonstrate a courtesy to you and the artist. But instead, your "helper" used it as an opportunity to condescendingly tell me how a true art appreciator would never be so gauche as to photograph someone's paintings and besides, the pictures on THEIR website would be far superior to anything I could take (was she referring to the gauchely taken ones or the non-gauchely taken ones on their website?) Clearly, I appeared inept in every way, including that of a photographer. I mean, look at this piece of shit photo... you can't even tell what it is, right?

The Persistance Of Bunnies by Mark Bryan

Do not ask me why, but I tried to engage your better half in conversation by mentioning the idea of how you couldn't photograph the Mona Lisa, and she jumped right in and said, "Yes you can." Why the hell would you continue to boldly contradict the customer like that? When was the last time you garnered a commission from THAT approach? Since she decided to take me literally and get argumentative about it, I stooped to her level and informed her that I knew for a fact, based on experience, that you were not allowed to photograph (with or without flash) the ceiling of the Sistene Chapel. I should have said "Sixteenth Chapel", just to see what she would have said. But she neither confirmed nor denied my claim. Why? Because she's never been there! So HA! I guessed I showed you and your little secretary there.

Anyway, I circled the gallery and came back to try again. I thought I might appeal to the self-centered part of you by asking what you thought of the artist, if you'd met him, what you thought of his work. Granted, you let me see one side of you I'd never seen before. Your left side. But it wasn't long before you flashed me with your back again.

Do you think Mark Bryan would appreciate such poor representation, hearing about how you refuse to talk about his paintings to someone who probably makes way more money than you, you mere docent? If you knew anything about his work, you did not demonstrate it. Your unprofessional attempt at art snobbery came across as tart snottery. You obviously had no idea who I am and how powerful my words can be when wielded against your sorry ass. I mean, my good woman, I could eat your lunch for breakfast! Dare I say, I...drink...your...milkshake!

My point here is that as long as people like you are running the art galleries in Sacramento, the cultural IQ of the area will continue to stagnate and wallow. In other words, fuck you and the tight-assed easel you rode in on.

And another thing, I hope your face freezes like that.

Sincerely Yours,
Nanny Goats

P.S. If you like something, you'll tell one friend. If you don't, you'll tell ten. If you have a blog...

So anyway, there's this new artist whose work I found compelling. He's got a bit of Dali, Alice In Wonderland, and Wizard of Oz with some clowns, robots, bunnies and politics thrown in. Do check his website out. Not only did I find the website by merely Googling his name, but also because the art gallery where I first saw his work had it, along with the artist's contact information, visibly displayed at the front of the gallery. As opposed to the back, where the "experts" are, who can't help you with that kind of information.

This here's another shitty photygraff of a painting I had tooken while scratchin' my crotch in public and spittin' on the floor while sneakin' a chug o' moonshine from the jug in mah overalls.:

Again, here is Mark Bryan's Website, since I'm so stoopit I kan't remember the shop that showed the nice pitchers, so y'all won't be able to buy nuthin' from them. Duhhhh..........What's this button do?


* * *

Nanny Goats Shout Out

A big shout out to Domestic Glamour who has so generously added Nanny Goats In Panties to its Blog Roll. Domestic Glamour's post entitled: Bathrooms are Not For Food, Drink Or Toys may find all parents nodding in sympathy.

Also, a big THANK YOU goes to WillThink4Wine for putting Nanny Goats In Panties on her list of Five Blogs That Make Her Day. Big HUGS right backatcha darlin'!

* * * The following is for NGIP Loyalists Only...This means YOU! * * *

If you've made it this far, could you extend Nanny Goats the favor of clicking on this link or the Humor-Blog logo on the left hand side of this web page? At press time, Nanny Goats is rated #88 on the site (having climbed over nearly 900 sites to get there). If we get to #50, then something faboo happens with the traffic because our posts will suddenly appear on Humor-Blogs's Home Page! Then some executive from some major movie studio like Sony discovers the awesomeness that is Nanny Goats In Panties and we're inking a screenwriting deal like THAT! And all because of you guys.

Let There Be Blight

Ahhhh, back in Sac, the little town that hasn't. Did you know Sacramento ranks #5 in the country in foreclosures? Yeah, we're pretty proud of that. I get to come back home to news stories like the one about the people who are vandalizing the homes they can't afford anymore (that they couldn't afford in the first place, actually, and now if they can't have it, no one can.)


Wishful thinkers disguised as talking heads tell us that we're close to the bottom and things should get better next year. It's amazing how the media coupled with mob mentality can be so effective in creating mass delusion. People have a short memory, and believe what they want to believe.

I'm not bitter or anything, but a few years ago flippant flippers swooped in, raped and pillaged, and scrambled out, all the while proclaiming that home prices were going to climb forever. "...and you can just get this interest-only loan with a zero down payment...." What could possibly go wrong?



And now housing market optimism hype spreads like teenage STDs.

But the fact is that there are still plenty of 3 or 5 year adjustable-rate loans that have yet to reset in 2008 and 2009, not to mention all those "liar loans" dotting the financial landscape. (For those of you who haven't fallen asleep yet, liar loans are no-doc loans or stated income loans where the borrower is simply asked to state their income, and taken at their word.)

Foreclosed homes remain vacant, and many are vandalized, creating neighborhood hazards described with words like blight, disease, and poverty. These conditions take years to recover, if they ever do. What part of all that allows the market to "turn around" by next year?

I thought blight and disease were reserved for trees. Granted, houses are made out of trees and Sacramento is the City of Trees. We should we change our motto to: Sacramento - The City of Blight and Disease (which rhymes with trees, by the way).



Kinda makes you want to bust out your AAA Travel Guide book and arrange a trip to the capitol of California right away, doesn't it? Yeah, and if you're interested we've got a McMansion or two or twelve for sale, dirt cheap. Come on down.

... IN OTHER NEWS ...

Nanny Goats would like to step off the soap box for a second to give mad props to Onedia In The Ozarks. This beautiful blog, run by the Super D Duper Miss Onedia, has been generous enough to not only link to Nanny Goats, but to also throw it into the "Laugh Out Loud" category. Thanks, Onedia!

I'll Have the Short NoFoam Extra-Dry Life, Please

I don't know about you lot, but this Pasadena smoke is putting a damper on my plans for "going outside and getting some fresh air".

I know you are all wondering about another item as well, but the jury is still out on what caused the power outage in my neighborhood last night. It could have been the copious amounts of air-conditioning that L.A.'s Westside was gulping but does not typically require. One nameless theorist suggested the Pasadena fire as the culprit (although it's many miles away).

But I like the idea that the lights and the DVD player and the TV flickered off just after Phillip Seymour Hoffman's and Laura Linney's characters asked their Dad what to do if he was in a coma. My roomie and I were watching The Savages and it was a gripping scene. The three characters are in a coffee shop and the father yells, "Unplug me!" People at the neighboring tables turn their heads toward Hoffman and Linney and their father. Within seconds, our whole neighborhood was blanketed in darkness.

Perhaps we'll never know, but odds are, some idiot was talking on two cell phones while leaning over to pull something out of his ass the glove compartment and plowed into another car which, in turn, smacked into a power pole.
And walked away from it.
And did not have a valid driver's license.
Or insurance.
And will not suffer any consequences as a result of his or her bad (let alone illegal) behavior.
And will do it again in the future.
And will probably kill someone next time.

Tune in tomorrow for my lecture on Optimism: The Secret to a Long Life.
Unless of course, I should meet my demise before then, in which case, you're all on your own.

Obama Bo Bama Fo Fama

Today I pulled up behind a big black SUV (in retrospect, probably American made) with 2 bumper stickers. The sticker on the left said "OBAMA". The one on the right said "SUCKS". I was so dumbfounded that someone would stick anything on their nice new looking vehicle - I mean, what are they going to do with it after November? Throw the whole thing away and buy a new pick-em-up truck? I was equally dumbfounded that someone would slap these things on their vehicle and drive around town with them where people these days could just pull up next to the guy and "put a cap in his ass", as it were.

Of course the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. "Obama Sucks" is about the stupidest political statement you could make. It's a fairly unreasoned argument for one thing. Only an idiot would blurt out such a comment without corroborating evidence. So, clearly, the guy is an idiot. Every once in a while, I forget my own wisdom that explains all idiotic behavior: If they could get a clue, they already would have.

Initially, I gave the guy the benefit of the doubt, like the stickers were some inside joke I wasn't aware of, because it was so over-the-top. I thought he had to be kidding, right? I came home and Googled "Obama Sucks Bumper Sticker". Well, that was a mistake. It just exposed me to many many other idiots that I'd just as soon not know exist: and not just the racists, but the dummies with keyboards sans 3rd grade English. I get all worked up when I see such ignorant vitriol and I want to go out and shoot every one of them. I can't seem to get past the seething hatred I have for such people, I can't dig down deep and conjure up any sympathy for these bastards. They are the reason for everything that is wrong in this world. And they must die.

If I were king, I would paint everyone purple, enforce a dress code of Spandex burlap (that's breathable, of course, for those really sweltering summer days), and divert all space exploration funds into inventing a lie-proof lie detector so we would never need juries, or Death Rows, or anything else that just wastes everyone's time and money because of people's lies. God I hate politics!

Oops! Gotta go. O'Reilly's on.