These stories we read on BC are fiction. Once upon a time if anyone put "Barbie Lee" into ANY search engine, they would be reading about me or something I wrote. Mattel also took note and sent their Legal Beagles after me with the insinuation "Barbie" was theirs and theirs alone to use. I was to immediately stop using my name, pay them an ungodly amount of funds, and turn over my domain name to them.

If one searches for "Barbie Lee" now there are hundreds of thousands of hits and very few are me. There is Barbie Lee porno star, hair dresser, realtor, photographer, etc. and thousands of stories with "Barbie Lee" doing things that would make a Ranger blush. Needless to say, I broke Mattel's hold on the name and unleashed a torrent of "Barbie Lee" wannabes.

The crux of this long diatribe is it doesn't make any difference what "all those" people do. It isn't me and I really don't care how many John Smith or Barbie Lee are out there. Unless they get my full name, my address, my social security number (which is pretty unique itself) and my picture in their web posts, or their stories, or leave messages behind after they rob a bank, threaten the President..., I just don't care.

I leave you with this. When one gets upset because a writer, published or non published, writes a story which is fiction, uses disparaging words against a name, location, state, country, race, color, or religion, or...,? Remember most all stories are a war or clash of good against evil. It is what our real world has been going through since Cain slew Able. And a long time before that. Can one tell me what exactly writers are supposed to be writing about if the Good, Bad, and Ugly isn’t written into a story? (Sorry Eastwood) Name any religion and it is the same thing, good verses evil.

I'm gonna tell you a story which is not fiction and it happened last night when I was outside running across the yard in my nightgown waving a damn big pistol in my hand. First I want everyone to never go back to bed with a half loaded gun. Some of the chickens at one time or another decide nesting inside the henhouse isn’t for them. They fail to understand almost everything considers chicken a lunch delight. One of the little red hens gave the Great Outdoors a try last night. At 12:15 she starts squawking. Being the uncivilized country gal that I am, I raised the bedroom window and put one shot up into the air.

Normally with that done, any chicken eating thief would realize my chickens can cause one to end up with lead poison. They would vacate said premises post haste to never return. Ten minutes later the little Red Hen was squawking again. Disturbed twice in one night is too much. I head out the back door with a humongus flashlight in my left hand and a lead poison ejector in my right. I put two shots up into the air.

Keep in mind I’m barefooted, in a shear nightgown, and getting sorely pissed. The squawking chicken came flying across the yard from my right to my left into some more weeds and brush. I walked out to where the chicken came from and a big ??????? I had ever seen came running out. My sleep addled mind is trying to define this ??????? Is it a cat or dog or? Finally synapses engage and lock on target. Identity is the biggest possum I had ever seen. I got off one snapshot before it ran under the shed. Jessica Rabbit I ain’t. I didn’t hit it. But with any brains at all it would know to leave said premises. I go back to bed.

One A.M. the Little Red Hen is squawking again. I know the drill, gun and flashlight. Right? Wrong! The flashlight falls apart when I pick it up. “Damn!” Boy Scouts are always prepared. I toss the thing back on the bed and grab another. Yeah, I go to bed with five of em. I’m really pissed now. Back out in the yard and I’m searching as the squawking has stopped. Something moves in the weeds. It is that damn possum dragging the hen.

I put two through him. With the gun I carry those bullets aren’t stopping in something as small as the biggest possum in the world. Game Over! Both the hen and the possum are kaput. I’ll do something about hiding the bodies in the daylight.

Two fifteen A.M. the “dead” chicken is squawking. I go out and look where she was last. She’s not there. I circle the yard and there isn’t any chicken. I head out toward the back. Another possum ran out of the weeds ahead of me. One shot and he is still running. Did I miss? I pull the trigger two more times and nothing but click. I didn’t reload before going back to bed. The possum stopped and fell over. Is he playing possum? Nope, I didn’t miss.

Looking back at where the critter came from I find the hen. She isn’t going to make it. Two many possums fighting over a chicken dinner was her last night out of the henhouse.

That damn hound dog watched all this from the safety of his doghouse. I’m thinking a Kanga for a replacement hound might be a good idea. Jake you stupid hound, earn your keep! Well he is a “watch dog” He watched it all, wasn’t asleep. Maybe I need to rename him Killer or Kujo to get his adrenaline flowing in times like this?

The moral to the story is don’t go to bed half loaded. The night might not be over. There could be more than one ? They might be dumber than dirt thinking a grab and run is an easy theft. I think there is another moral and it might be go to bed with your jeans and your boots on. But then that’s just my opinion. I cleaned the pistol and reloaded before I went back to bed the umpteenth time. Maaannnn, the nights are killing me. I am going to have to give up sleeping.

Have fun with life, it’s too short to take it seriously
Always,
Barb