Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: police work

This Just In

Rom’s three-year-old granddaughter Fiona informed us that her friend Bingo Pingo had recently died. We did not know much about him, except that he was large and lived in the forest. The cause of death remains uncertain at this time, but is probably due to a witch or a big bad wolf. (Evidence is sketchy, but these are the usual suspects in such cases.) However, Bingo Pingo’s friends Honn-ghost and Fronn-ghost managed, by the aid of powerful magic, to bring him back from the dead. Unfortunately, a spell with such power can turn on its user, and in the course of the proceedings, Honn-ghost and Fronn-ghost themselves died–and, as it turns out, Bingo Pingo himself is still in peril. Fiona and her brother Archer plan to neutralize this threat, using powerful magic which they intend to purchase at a gas station. (As Rom pointed out, magic is something most people could really use while on the road.) Archer is characteristically close-mouthed about the details of their plan, although he did confirm his own involvement. I wondered how Fiona and Archer could avoid the fate met by Honn-Ghost and Fronn-Ghost, but I couldn’t think of a tactful way of asking. I will keep you informed of any further developments.


You knew there had to be one eventually, didn’t you?

You know you’re in trouble when you not only see, but smell, that the women’s room is occupied. There was a stench extending into the hallway, and multiple flushes were called for. “Oh no! A multi-flusher!” I thought. “Not only will I pass out when I finally get in there and take a breath, but the next person will think I did it!” That was too much to bear, so I quickly slipped into the men’s room.


–The walls are tan and the floor is brown, unlike the women’s room, where the scheme is, I believe, white and gray. (I can’t call it to mind for sure, even though I’ve been in there countless times.)

–The urinal is low enough for even little tykes like the aforementioned Archer, who is also three.

–Most interesting of all, the only functioning condom machine is in the WOMEN’S RESTROOM. How about that, ladies? “MALE SEXUALITY–WE DON’T CARE. WE DON’T HAVE TO.”

At any rate, I transacted my business, then thought, “With my luck, I’ll step out the door, and bump into Nick, who will then charge me with exposing myself in the men’s room, or something.”

Almost. He was around the corner, getting himself a fountain drink, so he’d have something to spill in the car later. He saw me and approached with great caution, ridging his back up, so I’d think he was even bigger. (He’s already bigger than I am, as he reminds me frequently. Yeah, and I don’t have wings and a tail either, so whatever.)

“Are you in mourning?” (I was all in black.)

“Yes, for the breakup of R.E.M.” (I was showing off my recently-acquired 1987 tour shirt, not that I saw them on the 1987, or indeed any, tour.)

He then quoted lyrics of “Losing My Religion” to me, which I believe he got by stalking the “About” part of my Facebook page. Unfortunately, he did not sing those lyrics, which I’m sure would have been worth hearing, for one reason or another.

Long story (as usual) short, I picked up the requisite apple ale for my current vacation, with the assistance of these two intrepid officers. This was a lot easier than carrying 2 6-packs myself, especially since I also had a fountain drink, and don’t have 3 hands. So Nick carried my fountain drink in his teeth (see–he can be gentle enough not to puncture styrofoam–a trick I haven’t completely mastered yet!). Yes, I was carded (I look pretty young, but I’m just backdated), and the clerk thoughtfully put the 6-packs in bags, so people wouldn’t think I was buying booze for the cops. I got into the squad car, thinking, “Tanya, please don’t give them a run…” (Although, in all fairness {well, some fairness}, I feel compelled to add that the last time a ride home almost turned into a ride-along, Nick did not make me beg to be let out of the car, as I’d feared he would.)

Nick pretended he was going to take a drink of my soda (think you’d enjoy caffeine-free diet cola with sugar-free mango spritzer, DO YA, PUNK?) (well, maybe he would–he drinks pink lemonade in public) and said, “Then you’d never throw away this straw,” which is mighty big talk coming from a beast who starts to salivate whenever he sees me. When we got to my house, he cheered me on through the police loudspeaker as I maneuvered my various beverages into the house, offering helpful suggestions as to how this might best be accomplished. And I am the thoughtful type, so I forgot to offer him and Sam banana nut bread with chocolate chips, which I had at my disposal.

I have more to say, including the Scratchy Glitter Guide to Fireworks, but I think I’ve gone on long enough. Apple ale awaits.


After the Deluge

Nothing like being almost at work, juggling bag of food, 32oz drink (I wisely avoided the 44oz, which would have been even harder to juggle), and umbrella as it suddenly starts to pour–and then the wind starts to blow as well, rendering said umbrella useless. After two blocks, I looked as if I’d jumped in a swimming pool. (I’m guessing that’s what I looked like. I do not frequent swimming pools.) I arrived with soaked socks, squelchy shoes, and my chicken tenders had been dipped in my blackberry cobbler (and I am normally opposed to foods touching each other on my plate). There remained only a slow and lingering death by air conditioning. But an ANGEL OF MERCY, my co-worker Princess Carol, offered to run me back home to change clothes, which was approved by the Powers That Be. The only thing that wasn’t wet was my bra, so the umbrella wasn’t completely useless. (I believe sitting around in a wet bra causes you to get mildew.) Of course, it then took us an hour and a half to deal with (minor) emergencies brought about by, at most, five minutes of storm.


The day before yesterday, I spilled cola on myself. Yesterday, I spilled banana malt on myself. I can’t wait to see what type of fluid today will bring. (“You had a banana malt? And I didn’t even get to eat dinner??” Nick says, and begins to wail. Well, most days he gets an undisturbed hour to eat, and I don’t get any dinner, and have to work while I eat if I do, so he can just suck it, or munch it, or whatever it is he does with his type of mouthparts.)


No sooner had I observed that “Everyone loves a smartass” yesterday, or whenever it was I last wrote–I saw a sentiment on Facebook to “Stop Hating Smartasses.” We supposedly perform some useful function in society. It finished with “Born With a Smirk. Smartass for Life.” (I’m inclined to substitute “Until Death,” since people want to wipe the smirk off our faces.) But I thought, What a cool statement! Nick & I can get matching tattoos! When I suggested this, he growled, “Not for all the ride-alongs in the world.” He is no fun. But he was just cranky because he didn’t have a banana malt like I had. I had a greasy cheeseburger, too. I’m sure I enjoyed consuming it more than he enjoyed escorting drunks to jail. Life is hard sometimes.

Growing Old Gracelessly

I saw a gray-haired, obviously old man on the bus today, wearing a Doors “Light My Fire” t-shirt. “He really should have reconsidered that shirt,” I thought loftily, “fearing not I’d become my enemy in the instant that I’d preach,” as Bob Dylan observed. I mean, have I not, IN THESE VERY PAGES, mentioned similar items I own and wear? Why is it pathetic on the gentleman in question, but on me, just a sign of my quirky charm? After all, I get offered senior discounts all the time (that I didn’t ask for and am not yet entitled to). And while we’re on the subject…


…in search of my “U.S.A.” one the other day, I pulled out the 2-skulls-in-yin-yang-formation one, the Blue Oyster Cult one, and the R.E.M. one, the latter two of which are, I’m sure, mortal enemies plotting each other’s downfall. Also, I own enough work-related t-shirts, received/purchased from various departments/divisions, that I could easily wear nothing but those. (“We would prefer that you also wear pants,” they say, but I don’t believe the dress code specifies that, and you know how I am about dress codes.) So I’m guessing fashion maturity won’t be striking anytime soon.


The Beast is back on the job (more or less), his navy-blue scales buffed and polished. Or they were until the last run I sent him on. Upon his return home, his owner said, “WHAT have you been rolling in now?!” and banished him to the outdoor enclosure, without even a mirror to keep him company. But, after a thorough sand-blasting and detailing (I don’t mean they removed his tail–that would be inhumane), he is now acting as guard beast while his owner enjoys a four-day birthday extravaganza, in an exotic locale where they drink alcoholic beverages for breakfast. I myself have been tipsy in the presence of this abstemious beast, and I can only say, Everyone loves a smart-ass. Oh, they don’t? I’VE BASED MY LIFE ON A LIE!! (I had to take a moment to decide on the number of exclamation points that sentence called for. Is one enough? Are three too many?)

Read It and Weep     

…as usual.

WordPress told me “Your blog is getting a lot more traffic than usual!” Yeah, that’s what 3 people staying up all night catching up will do for you. Staying up all night reading this thing would be–well, an experience. I’m not sure I’d be up for it.


Introduced, I am ashamed to admit, on May 14…


The AT200 Smart Toilet from DVX, subsidiary of American Standard, which is currently owned by Lixil Co. in Japan (?!) features:

–hands-free flushing (because who has the time?)

–an automated lid that opens and closes (well, one hopes)

–a seat warmer (but no seat cooler for summer)

–an adjustable two-nozzle water spray system for front and rear cleansing with integrated air dryer (write your own joke, because I’m not going to do it for you)

–a nightlight (in the toilet? Give Light And The People Will Find Their Way.)

–a massager (because it has been the dream of all humanity through the ages to have someone–or something–massage your butt. I assume that’s what’s being massaged here.)

All this for $6000. It would have made a great birthday present.


Don’t get Metamucil in your hair (don’t ask, won’t tell).


Nick has returned from the abode of misery and filth, but must spend several days being gradually reintegrated into society. While he was gone, his owner removed all the mirrors from his enclosure, because he had been attempting to mate with his reflection.


–because a guy is skipping in the street

–because there’s a ten-year-old boy outside your house threatening to beat up your family

–because you want to evict your landlord who’s been living with you

–because someone parked a car across the street, left it there all day, and then came back and got into it and just sat there

–because someone who threatened to beat you up last year saw you today and smiled.


Fashion Pointers & a Sitcom Episode


As I was walking along, I saw some children’s sidewalk chalk drawings. One block was a series of military weapons, realistically-detailed. The next block was a bunch of hearts and flowers. “But what did you, World Leader, used to draw in your childhood?” you ask. Mostly snakes and arrows, which were less weenie than hearts and flowers, but easier to draw than modern weaponry.

Speaking of which (more or less), I walked into a restroom the other day, and a little girl, in there with her mother, looked up at me and said, “There’s a man in here!” Now, I like to think my days of “I can’t tell if that’s a boy or a girl,” (as I overheard one saleslady say to another in the 70’s as I walked by in my voluminous shirt) are over, so I glared at her and said, “I’m not a man!” Yes, I argued with a five-year-old child. Well, turns out there was, indeed, a man in the stall. Apparently the men’s room was otherwise occupied. I did not have an opportunity to apologize to the little girl (“as if you would have,” I can hear Rom saying), who had already left the building.


Nick has been sent to a two-week taming facility. They awaken him with kicks and curses, load him down with insults and opprobrium, and drive him forth into the wilderness, where they make him dig a hole and then curl up in it. In the rain. He is sullenly defiant at this point, but I suspect being deprived of chocolate will finally break him.

And where is Sam right now, you might ask? (I know I did.) Kicking back at a beachfront resort. So I think we can tell who’s been naughty and who’s been nice here. Or, if you will, Good Cop and Bad Cop. Just picture the TV episode–Nick gnaws on grubs and wishes he could have a shower. Meanwhile, Sam sips a margarita and adjusts her bikini, wondering if she’ll be able to even out her motor-patrol one-arm tan before vacation’s over.



–Is there any way we will not get pictures of pranksters’ penises? Job description: “The position requires looking at numerous penises.”

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