54 MINUTES

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Fifty-four minutes––that's how long I lasted at work yesterday. It was the length of the team meeting. 

The entire meeting consisted of the supervisor telling us you can't do this, you can't do that, if you do such and such, you will be terminated immediately. 

Meeting over and I logged out. Told the sup I hadn't slept the night before, which was true.

I cannot and will not work where I'm threatened constantly. If I wanted to deal with threats, I could have kept the last shit job I had, which included better benefits. 

When I'm threatened, it awakens all the threats in my past, especially my husband telling me, I'll see to it you're locked up in a mental institution for the rest of your life.

I didn't sleep again last night and texted the sup I couldn't work today. I added, I can't deal with the negativity. 

Next step is going back on a leave of absence because I'm experiencing crying jags and I'm definitely depressed after my depression being in remission for a few years. Then I have to make some other decisions. 

When I finally slept sometime yesterday, I had another cooking-related nightmare, but instead of strange people making chocolate pudding in my kitchen, I was preparing fudge frosting for brownies Rebekah had baked. I made the frosting on the stove as needed, but when I needed to stir the mixture to thicken it, I poured it into a bamboo organizer in one of my kitchen drawers and was trying desperately to beat it as it spread throughout the organizer and threatened to run over the top. I woke up before I had to clean up the mess.  

It looks as if I'll have to add another skill to my repair abilities. The heating element is out in the oven. Several years ago my son replaced it, but I don't remember where he got it. I have to figure it out and make the replacement. Then my businesses will be Junebug Lawnmower Repair, Junebug Oven Repair, and everybody's favorite, the Lake Junebug Resort & Rumpus Room.

I wish you all anxiety-free jobs and sweet dreams.

My supervisor never says anything nice to me. I thought it was enough that he doesn't shout, but it's not enough. Not when I have to listen to threats.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

HI HO HI HO HI HO HO HO

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

It's back to work for me today. I wish I could say April Fools, but I'm afraid I really must return. At least the trip to work is only five steps. 

I have decided on a new career if I should need one, however. Recently, my lawnmower wouldn't start. I wielded screw drivers and took Clippy apart to the extent I was able.

I used the vacuum cleaner on her, and when I was finished, she started. With one success under my belt, I see lawnmower repair in my future. 

I also see air conditioning in our future. It's supposed to be 90° today.

Here's Carol with her BLEACHED BLONDE BAD BUILT BUTCH BODY t-shirt. Her friend Lolita gave it to her. Carol and Lolita have only been friends for about 80 years.

Carol kept me company Friday afternoon when I went in for my mammogram. It was the quickest mammogram I've ever had. Two shots of each boob and I was outa there. 

Now I need to take my car in for service. I've had it a year. It has all of 2,200 miles on it. I don't get out much, and that's fine with me. 

Penelope isn't ready to make her very very very very very important announcement yet. She says she's still writing her speech. This should be big, folks.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

PENELOPE SPEAKS: I HAVE A VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE

 Hello. It is I, Penelope. How are you? I ask to be polite, not because I care. Right now I only care about events in my own home, where, as you know, I am in charge.

Before I make my announcement, I must discuss some private information with you. Please join me behind the couch. I don't want Mom Mom to hear us. She doesn't like it when I discuss her personal problems, but I simply must let you know what's happening so you can sympathize with me over the heavy burdens I bear.

I know it's crowded. Do your best to scooch in here with me.

Shhhhhh. Mom Mom is unhappy. It's all because of the bad work thing. Every year she's told if she's doing a good job or a bad job and if she'll get paid more. She used to be told, Good job, good hooman, you get more money. But last year and this year she was told, Bad job, bad hooman, no more money for you. 

Two years in a row of no more money while prices go up and Mom Mom works hard. Plus, the bad orange man got to move back into the house that's white. We all know he makes everything worse. All the smart hoomans feel sick when they see him.

Wait a minute.

Mom Mom went outside to read so we don't have to whisper. Back up! You can get out of here and quit crowding me. 

Mom Mom didn't expect that two years in a row she would be told bad hooman, and she was very upset when it happened. She cried. 

She took a break from the bad work thing.

Then she took a leave of absence, and she hasn't worked in months and months and years and years. That would be fine with Princess and me if Mom Mom weren't so sad. She went into a depreciation.

The clients at the stupid work tell Mom Mom, Thank you, hooman. You are nice to us. You are patient. You explain everything to us and make our documents correct.

The stupid work tells Mom Mom, You are naughty, hooman. Don't be so nice. Stop explaining. You must be fast fast fast. They have her listen to what other hoomans do at work and tell her to be like those hoomans. But those hoomans break the rules! Mom Mom got into trouble before for not following the rules. Now she doesn't know if she's supposed to follow the rules or not! Everything is confoosed. 

Mom Mom says she must go back to stupid work soon because we need money, but she has anxiousiety about work. She does not know what is right and what is wrong! 

I do not understand why we need to get money. The piece of plastic money is always the same. It doesn't get smaller. We can use it to buy anything we need. 

If she does the stupid work, then Mom Mom might get depreciated again. When she is depreciated, Mom Mom sleeps a lot. She wakes up to feed us and take us outside, but she doesn't play or talk much. 

And what if I need to see Dr. G? My arthuritis plagues me; it simply plagues me. I do not like seeing Dr. G. because he sticks thousands and thousands of needles in me, but some of the needles help my arthuritis feel better so I might have to go to him. If Mom Mom is asleep, how do I get to his office?

The only one of us who knew how to drive was my big brother, Franklin.

Franklin is not here to drive me now. Waaaaaaaah waaahhh sob sob sniffle excuse me I have to blow my nose sniffle sniffle

My legs are not long enough to reach the pedals in the car. Maybe Princess can learn to drive. Do you think so?

Princess went to College For Dogs. She is very obedient. If I get her behind the wheel and say, Princess, drive, then I think she will drive. 

So if I have to see Dr. G., I think Princess and I can get to him and take the plastic money with us. We could maybe even swing by Pet Supermarket for new toys and extra treats.  

We will be two cool girls out on the town.

We can pick up Fritz! He will help us cheer up Mom Mom! Boy, will Auntie Rebekah be surprised when we bark at her door to tell her we need Fritz. I wonder where apart meant is . . . .

Fritz, Princess, and I will help Mom Mom with all the depreciation and anxiousiety so she'll feel better in no time. 

I am so glad I have solved this problem.

That is all. Good bye.

P.S. I forgot to make my very very very very very important announcement, but I am tired now and I need a nap. The announcement is very very very very very important so I will return soon to tell you about it.

PENELOPE SPEAKS: I CAN ONLY TELL YOU A LITTLE NOW

 Hello. It is I, Penelope. All is not well here.

I'm checking for Mom Mom, but I don't think she can hear us. Maybe she went outside.

Mom Mom has very bad anxiousiety. And before the anxiousiety, she had depreciation. It is all mixed up with that bad work thing she does. 

Do not worry. I am in charge. I take care of Mom Mom with assistance from my little sister, Princess. All will be well. I will tell you more soon. 

That is all. Goodbye. 

If you talk to Mom Mom, be nonchalant.
Pretend you don't know anything.

THE CHOCOLATE PUDDING NIGHTMARE

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I had a horrible nightmare last week. It was the kind of nightmare so vivid that I think everything is real and I try to escape but can't. But I remembered this nightmare and thought about it and decided it was really pretty funny.

The nightmare begins: A man I used to know came to my house to demand I loan him $19,000. I was shocked and kept trying to find a private place where we could talk so I could find out why he needed the money. I also needed to tell him I didn't have 19K. 

We couldn't find a place to talk, however, because he had brought friends with him. The friends were a married couple and their three young children: two girls and a boy. Everywhere I went in my house, the kids were up to no good. I found the girls going through the drawers of my dressing table and removing, of all things, band-aids! The band-aids had green wrappers. The girls were opening the wrappers and ruining the band-aids. I told them to leave my things alone and they ignored me! Next they'd be stealing my jewelry.

Then I found the boy jumping on the couch! The horror! He was the youngest and I was afraid the little idiot would split his head open on the wood floor and I'd have to clean up the blood.

I went to look for the parents to tell them they had to control their children. The evil parents were in my kitchen making chocolate pudding. How dare they? Plus, they were making the pudding with my stand mixer and the larger of the two glass bowls. Completely inappropriate for the preparation of chocolate pudding. They hadn't asked for permission to use my kitchen and it was not okay for them to use my Oster mixer and the glass bowl. Shame on them! Shame!

I was furious, yet frightened these people were in my home. 

I decided the man and I should go out to lunch. At a restaurant, I would be able to talk to him alone about the $19,000. But the hideous parents and their three vile children piled into my car to join us. 

At that point, the nightmare ended. I have no idea how seven people could fit in my Nissan Sentra anyway. 

I awoke, frightened, but fortunately thought it hilarious later.

Too bad I can't wake up from the nightmare of the orange demon who defies court orders. 

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

#THEIDESOFTRUMP

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I headed out to the post office yesterday to purchase 10 postage paid postcards. 

Here are my messages to the orange buttface.

 Hey Don! I had a nice private lunch with Melania the other day. She said you've been impotent for years, and she confirmed you are not Barron's father. But you already knew that, right? That's why you referred to Barron as "her son."

      Sorry.         Not sorry.

Dear Low IQ Individual,

That lie you told about lower grocery prices on day one got you The White House, but you aren't staying. Quit blaming Joe Biden for the mess you are making with the economy. Prices are higher now!

Dear President Musk: Stop including that ugly Donald Trump in everything you do. I think he's always drunk or high because he says such stupid stuff.

         May I please be your next baby Mama?

When you and JD JD Married Lady met with the President of Ukraine, one brave, fine leader was in the Oval Office. 

       His name is President Zelenski.

   I stand with Ukraine!

Why don't you and JD hire professional make-up artists? Your orange concealer is terrible, and JD overdoes it with the eyeliner. Raccoon eyes are not a good look. Do you both wear denim shorts and crocs, too?

Donald, please seek psychiatric help before it's too late. A combination of medication and meeting frequently with a therapist can help you deal with your delusions of grandeur, narcissism, and breaks from reality. It's not too late for you to have a somewhat fulfilling life. 

Dear Fat Pig,

I understand your dementia makes you confused, but you need to be aware of some facts:

1. The millions and millions of dead people who receive Social Security are going to use all that money to come after you (they are zombies).

2. The transgender mice are out to get you, too.

5 Things I Did Last Week

1. Prayed you would go away.

2. Worked hard but still couldn't afford much at the grocery store.

3. Was cheated by a billionaire who lied his way into the Oval Office.

4. Was appalled by all the stupid comments you continue to make.

5. Prayed again that you would go away.

Dear President Musk Melon and your exceedingly stupid, stupid & unattractive wife, Dawn,

    Please go away. I will bake cookies for you if you will go away and stop saying stupid shit. 

Hey Con Man, or do you prefer Grifter?

     Dead people aren't receiving Social Security

     Mice aren't transgender.

     You are not a very stable genius.

      Your talents are lying and attacking. Roy Cohn taught you well. He was fucked up, and so are you.

The postcards will go out in the mail today. I'm taking them to the post office because my mail carrier doesn't always pick up my outgoing mail.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug

PREPARE YOUR POSTCARDS, PLEASE

 Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

On March 15th, many people will mail The Felon a postcard that publicly expresses our opposition to him. And we, in vast numbers, from all corners of the world, will overwhelm the man with his unpopularity and failure. 

We will show the media and the politicians what standing with him—and against us—means. And most importantly, we will bury the White House post office in pink slips, all informing The Felon that he’s fired.

Each of us—every protester from every march, each congress calling citizen, every boycotter, volunteer, donor, and petition signer—if each of us writes even a single postcard and we put them all in the mail on the same day, March 15th, well: you do the math.

No alternative fact or Russian translation will explain away our record-breaking, officially-verifiable, warehouse-filling flood of fury. Hank Aaron currently holds the record for fan mail, having received 900,000 pieces in a year. We’re setting a new record: over a million pieces in a day, with not a single nice thing to say.

So sharpen your wit, unsheathe your writing implements, and see if your sincerest ill-wishes can pierce Donald’s famously thin skin.

Prepare for March 15th, 2025, a day hereafter to be known as #TheIdesOfTrump

Write one postcard. Write a dozen! 

Take a picture and post it on social media tagged with #TheIdesOfTrump ! 

Spread the word! 

Everyone on Earth should let The Felon know how he’s doing. They can’t build a wall high enough to stop the mail!

Then, on March 15th, mail your messages to:

President (for now) Donald J. Trump
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

It might just be enough to make him crack.

(Not my original post but someone else's great idea!)

I copied this information, with permission, from Bob's blog at I Should Be Laughing. Bob said he got it from Debra at She Who Seeks who got it from another blogger, and that's the way the word spreads. If you live outside of the United States, please join us. We need everyone who opposes the felon in the White House to help us. Help us drive him nuts with postcards the way Graydon Carter messed with him years ago by calling him a short-fingered vulgarian. He'll say he doesn't care about the hatred and the opposition, but he cares. He cares very much.

Infinities of love,

Janie Junebug