How Did I Miss This?

OMG! I have hit the big, pretty, stupid motherload. I sort of had a vague cognizance of this new TV show called America’s Most Smartest Models. But really nothing had triggered a need to explore further. Until now.

Apparently, the first thing these pretty men have to do each day is decipher a code to get access to the bathroom and the fridge. And we’re not talking rocket science, here.

Now, granted, my mind is not running full throttle first thing in the morning. And especially not with urgent bodily evacuation on my mind. But I’m pretty sure I could figure out a complex Roman numeral without too much time a wasted.

Each of the bathrooms has a different code, so there can’t be too much information sharing. And the boys had access to encyclopedias.

Ohh, the beautiful furrowed brows. That look of confusion that replaces the usual vacant stare. It was HEAVEN. Pure Himbo Heaven.

One guy, who looked like an even buff-er Adam Levine, was convinced that he had gotten the number right and the producers had screwed it up. Seems BuffAdam forgot the old chestnut about subtracting when the smaller number precedes the larger. Oh, those wacky Romans!

Then his equally buff, and possibly prettier, roommate walks him through it, eventually figuring it out. They reward each other with high-fives, but Prettier doesn’t let BuffAdam into the bathroom with him (although it appeared that BuffAdam very much wanted to accompany him) and said, “Bra, I get to drop a deuce now.”

BuffAdam replied gleefully, as the door closed, “Dude, you have EARNED that deuce!”

And I learned something from a Most Smartest Model: a new use for the word, “deuce.”


PS: since I still don’t know how to drop a live link in here, you can check out the video yourself at www.hunkdujour.com. The video is at the bottom of page one.

Organic Stupidity

With family in from out of town, we had to go show off the Whole Foods flagship.

As I was pulling into parking garage, I saw that traffic was CHAOTIC. I approached the first of several four-way stops knowing that I might not move through on the regular rotation. Traffic was so heavy that for me to move across the intersection would probably mean I’d block the box, which I am anathema to do.

But I wasn’t alone at that four-way stop. No. I was joined by the passive-aggressive lady in the Honda Civic. Let me break it down for you. Unless I’m mistaken, four-way stops are the grown up version of the kindergarten principle of taking turns. REALLY. NOT. COMPLICATED.

Yet, every time I’m confronted with one, people seem to freak out and not know whether they should go or not. Profoundly irritating.

So, bizzotch in her Civic VIGOROUSLY motions me to go ahead. Now, it was technically her turn. And I really had nowhere to go, since traffic ahead of me was pretty much at a standstill. But mama was VIGOROUS. If her follow-through had been any more pronounced, she would have slapped herself.

So, against my better judgment, I went. And sure as shit, I was hanging out into the intersection. So I attempted to mitigate it by edging to the right, creating a bit more room in the throughway.

And then she honked. AT ME. Fucking cow! OH NO! YOU. DID. NOT. JUST. HONK. AT. ME!!!

I mean, HONESTLY. Why the fuck would you wave someone through, then honk at them? Not surprisingly, my maneuver had left her PLENTY of room to get through, but she had to swerve. Guess mama don’t like to swerve.

Proceeding on into the garage, I found my way blocked by a driver who is attempting to go the wrong way up a lane, in order to get a parking space that’s facing the other way. My turn to honk.

But the joy of the season returned moments later. Parked and walking to the entrance, I see the same driver STILL trying to execute a turn into that space. La la. Hee hee. Ho Ho Ho.

The store is pretty crowded, and there are tons of special displays. Including a gigantic wine display near the cheese. VERY nearby, one of Miss Teen South Carolina's lesser cousins (I believe that Children are our future) has cavalierly tied her heavy coat around her waist creating far more need for navigable ass room than she’s used to.

You know where this is going, right? Thought so.

Her “new ass” knocks not one, but two bottles of wine off the display, sending them crashing to the floor. And when she turns to survey the carnage, she knocks off two more in the other direction. If this girl is majoring in Cluelessness, she'll be Summa Cum Laude, fer sure.

We manage to escape the shrapnel and get the hell out of Dodge. But by this time, I can't help thinking how much I could have used some of that wine about now.

Another Smart One Falls

For the last two days, I’ve been in a bit of a state of shock. Upon awakening yesterday, I learned that Benazir Bhutto had been killed. I have long been a fan of this amazing woman and was very hopeful about the leadership and change she could bring to her beloved country, ripped asunder by the forces of terror and jihad. Before Al Qaeda became part of our vocabulary, there was a particualry treacherous band of idiots called The Taliban.

I can remember my sweet friend Chick impersonating the sexy way the CNN anchor would say “the Taliban” when reporting on the troubles of the day (was it Amanpour?) I would giggle and life would go on.

Point being, terror has resided in Pakistan for far longer than America has really been paying attention. And Benazir Bhutto represented hope for a people terrorized by their own. Imagine if Fundamentalist Christians like Pat Robertson ran America . . . okay, maybe that’s too close to the truth . . . imagine if Southern Baptists ran America . . . SHOOT! That’s not abstract enough either. Whatever.

But now, Bhutto’s dead. First believed to be felled by a suicide bomber, then the victim of a shooter. Now comes word from the Pakistan Interior Ministry that she died of a skull fracture when she hit her head on the sun roof lever of her Land Rover.

Hunh? That’s the best propaganda you can come up with? Her “assassination” was actually a “slip and fall?” So . . . what now? Should all of her supporters say “oops,” and go home? I'm sure that's exactly what the Pakistani government would like.

I can just hear the conversation in the Interior Ministry (read in bad Hollywood Pakistani accent):

Abdul: Lululululu! There is chaos! Bhutto’s death will martyr her. The government will surely fall now! Whatever will we do?

Mo: We cannot allow her a martyr’s death. Perhaps we could say it was an accident?

Abdul: An ACCIDENT?!?!? There were thousands of witnesses. People heard gunshots. They saw her fall. Then the explosion! There are photos and videos! Are you crazy?

Mo: Crazy? Like a fox, maybe. My cousin has a Land Rover just like Benazir’s. It seems like every time I am hanging out of the sunroom, ululating loudly and firing my assault rifles in praise of the Almighty, I bang my head on that little sunroof lever. Oooh, it hurts so much. It brings tears to my eyes. One time I hit my funny bone and the rifle went off. I almost killed my driver!

Abdul: I do not follow . . .

Mo: What if . . . consider the possibility . . . Benazir merely recoiled from the assault, BANGING her head on the little lever! Surely that would crack the skull of a woman—I mean, really, it hurts!! But isn’t it possible that could have killed her?

Abdul: I don’t think so.

Mo: Karim!! Prepare an official release! Find a doctor who will sign off on it! It was all an accident.

CNN BREAKING NEWS: BHUTTO DIED FROM SKULL FRACTURE SUSTAINED WHEN SHE HIT HER HEAD ON SUNROOF LEVER.



Godspeed Benazir Bhutto! The stupid people are still in charge in Pakistan. May your death be a catalyst for the kind of change you would have brought in life.

Get Off Me Daddy, You’re Smushin’ My Cigarettes

And so the news comes that 16-year old Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant by her 19-year old LIVE IN boyfriend. For those of you who don’t already know (anyone? anyone?) Jamie Lynn is Britney’s baby sister, and a teen star in her own right.

Now what I find so amazingly delicious in all this is not the pregnancy news, but the announcement by Lynn Spears’ publishing house (Lynn is Mama Spears) that her new book’s publication date will be pushed back indefinitely.

The best part? It’s a book on parenting!!!! Who the fuck would pay Lynn Spears to write a book on parenting? Is the title, “What Not To Do?” It should be called “Not a Fucking Clue.”

Guess it just goes to show that you can take the girls from the bayou, but you can’t make ‘em wear shoes.

These People Need to Watch More Porn

Under the Headline, “Coach Turned Holiday Displays Into Porn” CBS46 in Atlanta reported that a middle school coach took a bunch of kids around rearranging Christmas scenes in Marietta, Georgia (which is impossible to say without sounding like a Southern Belle)

Now, I would guess that a not-insignificant number of gay men clicked through to this one. You put “coach” and “porn” in the same sentence and we’re ready to play ball. But as I read the report, I realized this was just another bunch of repressed stupidity.

The reporter, who apparently also edits her church newsletter, referred to the “lewd Christmas prank” and said, “The group even made several homeowners’ displays X-rated, police said, including placing reindeer in sexual positions.”

(Gasp!) SCANDALOUS!

Are you fucking kidding me? THAT’S what you consider “x-rated??!?!?!?” Animals procreating are now PORN?! As a writer, I would have categorized it as “sophomoric,” but “porn?” I expect that Fred Phelps and His Phreaks will soon be boycotting barnyards everywhere.

Having grown up in the country, no one ever thought it odd when animals went at it. It was usually a source of a childish giggle, or an opportunity to explain the facts of life to the young ‘uns without having to whip your own junk out.

Apparently, the times they are a changin’.

Look, Georgians, if you want to have a fucked up, repressed point of view about human sexuality, knock yourself out. I mean, it doesn’t seem to have hurt you so far. Except for your astonishingly high poverty rate and astonishingly low literacy rate and your tendency to fuck your cousins. And pretend it’s still the mid 1800s. Other than that, YOU KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON, CRACKER!

But I think we ought to take a page out of the animal playbook and accept the fact that sexuality is as human as breathing and eating—or in Georgia’s case, belching, praying and farting.

So come one people! Don’t you think it’s time we let poor Rudolph join in the reindeer games.

H is for Humbug, B is for Booger

From the “are you fucking kidding me” department.

Had to make a trip to the mall. Now, I’m not fond of the mall on regular days, but during the holiday madness, it’s a fucking stupid convention. People stop at the top of escalators, looking for stores they’ve been to a million times. People ooh and aah over some of the scariest shit ever sold. There’s a fat guy in a Santa suit smoking out back somewhere, while his “elves” “try” to placate the waiting hordes.

I thought that if I entered through JC Penney it would be less crowded. My logic? Middle and lower-middle class folk are working today, therefore there should fewer people. (ed. Note: bloggers are their own socioeconomic class. Somewhere between fast food worker and Green Peace petition signature getter.)

Boy, was I wrong. Either there have been a lot of layoffs at the plant this year, or a whole bunch of white trash called in sick, because Penney’s was HOPPING.

I took care of my business, stopped by for a quick Chik-fil-a sandwich (my own little bit of white trash heaven—with extra pickles) and headed back through the JCP to my car.

And what’s the last thing I see, before escaping the mall completely? An older woman (maybe in her 60’s) with that witchie-poo hair I’m so fond of, wearing a pink acrylic sweater set with those old people jeans that look like they’re made of synthetic denim. She was talking on a customer service phone and picking her nose like she’d lost the Hope Diamond up in there. We’re talking double-knuckle digging here people. I managed to slip out the door before she was able to reveal the fruit of her labors.

But suddenly I wished I hadn’t ordered the extra pickles.

Whoa Means Woe

Oy, what a weekend. As you might imagine, bloggers are a bit attached to their computers. On Saturday morning, however, my computer decided it wasn't attached to me. I suffered a catastrophic hard drive failure. And probably lost everything. To make matters worse, it was completely avoidable. I actually own an external hard drive solely for back-up purposes.

But, apparently I'm better at being a smartass than a smartie, so I hadn't backed my files up since March. Yep. That's right. March. So I'll be spending the next few days (and not an insubstantial number of dollars) in data recovery mode. Hopefully, one of these specialist will be able to cure me.

Meanwhile, I probably won't be blogging much. But as soon as I can get my shit together, or some stupid person pulls a gigantically bone-headed stung, I'll be back. More likely this week than next.

Peace.

The Intersection of Stupid and Stupider

Are the stupid people gathering? Is there a major offensive planned against the smart?

Because the last few days have been one stupid thing after another. Pedestrians crossing against the light, causing traffic snarls. WTF? Did your mom teach you to look both ways before crossing, but left out the part about, “oh, yeah, when you look both ways, if there are cars, DON’T FUCKING WALK!“

This happened THREE times this week.

Then there was the cyclist, also running the red, causing traffic to snarl so that he and his unwashed hair could get there THAT MUCH FASTER. And what really pisses me off is he’s probably one of the activist cyclists who want cars to be more respectful of bikes. Well, if you obeyed traffic laws, like you’re supposed to, it might be a good first step toward détente. Or—just a thought—you might use the fucking hike and bike trail, located EXACTLY 20 feet to your right, running parallel to this major artery for, oh, the NEXT TWO MILES!!! Wonder why they put that there?

Or the lovely lady in the mini van. The one with the WitchyPoo hair. The one behind me at the red light. Who honked at me. Because SHE wanted to turn right. I, on the other hand, was going forward. In the appropriate lane, I might add. But she had to honk. And give me the "WTF? palms up" gesture.

Let me tell you, smart people, there is NOTHING that brings out my inner black drag queen faster than an inappropriate censure. If you’re going to fucking honk at me, you better have a good reason. So my head starts to bobbing and my finger starts to weaving and all I can hear in my head is Pootifah (my inner black diva) beginning to roar a “OH NO SHE DI INT” (something I’d never say out loud, but it’s the perfect accompaniment to a “bob and weave.” Or a “bobbing weave” depending on yer hair did.)

But what’s really spooky is that ALL of this happened at the same intersection. The major intersection a block from my house. Suddenly I feel like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Like my house is actually sitting right at the vortex of stupidity.

Hopefully I won’t wind up on the roof, looking like a backup dancer from an old Pat Benatar video, speaking in tongues to a Rick Moranis doppleganger. But if that’s what it takes to stop the madness, know that I would take this one for the team.

Stay strong smart people.

Truly Bone Headed

Further stupidity from yours truly. Took the two (remaining) dogs out for their constitutional yesterday. I have to stay in the yard with them because the landscaping is unfinished and there’s a spot they can wriggle under the fence. And by “wriggle” I mean run straight through.

The Runner was actually on the other side of the yard, trying to mind-control our radical insurgent squirrel population. The squirrels were trying to mind-control her right back. My old, slow Little Dog was puttering around on his usual rounds, re-marking the spots he had re-marked only hours before.

I called the two to come in. The Runner immediately headed for the open door, while I walked further down the yard to collect Little Dog. As I returned to the house, I assumed The Runner had headed directly inside.

I collected my things and headed off to my meetings. About three hours later, I walked into the house and was greeted by only one dog. Hmmmm. I wandered through the house, checking closed closet doors and under beds, but no Runner. FUCK!! Could I have possible left her outside? So unlike me. So LIKE a stupid person.

Blech.

Did I mention that this is the pet of our nine year old? Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be fun. “Hey, buddy, want another hamster? Cuz I lost your dog!” FUCK!!

I called and called, but no Runner. So, I set off on foot to scour the neighborhood, an urban area with dense traffic and busy intersections, hoping not to find a furry throw rug in the middle of one of them.

As I left my house, the taco wagon pulled up to offer lunch to the construction workers in my ‘hood. And I heard a bark.

No, the taco people didn’t have my dog! But good Runner had only run a couple of doors down, gotten a bit of exercise and was now ready for one of those delicious smelling tacos.

I was so relieved I almost bought her one.

How Much For The Coconut Monkey?

I had a garage sale this weekend. Or, rather, I participated in my friend’s garage sale, something I hadn’t done in years. And may never do again.

First of all, even though you wind up with a sizable chunk of change, if you divide the money by the number of hours invested, it’s not really that great. Of course, the hourly rate for a blogger doesn’t quite compute, but my friends actually make decent bank. Second, you wind up with a wad of singles, making you feel what I call "stripper rich."

We rolled open the garage door pre-dawn, in order to have everything set up by our announced opening time of 7 a.m. Now, anyone who has ever had a garage sale knows that people COMPLETELY ignore the posted start and finish times.

Sure as shit, we had this rather butch lady show up at the crack of 6:30, flashlight in hand, ready to rummage.

Now, I know a lot of people who stand firm and won’t allow early shoppers. The way I see it, a garage sale is just people paying me to haul off shit I don’t want anymore. So, I was like, “Lady, knock yourself out. Feel free to start digging through the stuff we haven’t put out yet.” She informed us that this was her hobby. EVERY Saturday morning, she hops out of bed and is off to find a bargain.

Who are these people?

My favorite moment of the day came when a patron got into an argument with my Beloved (and TRUST me, you DO NOT want an argument with my Beloved) about what street we were on. “This isn’t xxxx street!” she said. “The sign said xxxx street.”

“The sign said yyyyy at xxxx,” answered my B patiently-ish. “See the house is on a corner. It faces xxxx. The garage faces yyyyy.”

“Well you shouldn’t have put xxxx street. I live on xxxx street. This is yyyyy.”

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “but you found it Lady Miss Dumbass. Buy something or get the fuck out.”

By the end of the day I had come to realize that people buy the strangest shit. Old, beat up, worthless one-offs go like wildfire. The $200 Robert Graham shirt never sold. Nor did the fabulous sweater I bought in Paris. Actually, I pulled that one back off the pile. I love that sweater and I just couldn’t bear to sell it for a dollar.

The Robert Graham shirt was a gift from someone who no longer deserves my friendship, so I was happy to give it to a thrift shop at the end of the day.

Condescension mixed with altruism is a delicious cocktail.