Friday, February 29, 2008


Don't know why I dig it, but I do. I've always thought that February 29 was the coolest day of the (every fourth) year. It's kind of like when you fly back across the international dateline (west to east) and land before you took off. It's my own little version of a rip in the time/space continuum. Or at least that's my juvenile take on it. : )

Either way, Happy Leap Day!

And You Wonder How He Made Those "C's"

I have a burgeoning obsession with the ideas of fairness and responsibility in our country. At first I thought it was a trait of a younger generation, but it’s not. I see people every day who bring a situation upon themselves, then want to blame someone else.

The most recent example was at my gym (for those of you who don’t know me, YES, I do occasionally push away from the feed trough long enough to work out. For those of you who know me, STOP SNICKERING!).

I was eavesdropping—shocking, I know—on one of the trainers and his trainee. He was talking about how he really wanted to go to med school, but unfortunately, he hadn’t taken college very seriously and most of the classes he would have needed high marks in, he had barely passed with a C.

“Did you know . . . THEY won’t let you take those classes over? If you make a C? If I had failed ‘em, I could take ‘em over. But now they’re on my transcript forever. And it keeps my GPA too low for med school.”

THEY. So it’s not his own inabilities or lack of dedication that’s standing in his way. It’s THEM. He could be a doctor by now, dammit.

Apparently The Spawn of Einstein doesn’t realize that, when you retake a failed class, they AVERAGE your grade, which pretty much gives you a C, AT BEST. But then, I wasn’t really smelling rocket fuel burning off his brain.

He went on to say that he had considered enrolling in a completely different college and “starting over.” He was confident that he could get away with it for undergrad, “but when you get into the 'doctoral program' (i.e. Med School) they go over your background with a fine-tooth comb," and he was certain that once his ruse was discovered he’d be kicked out.

Boy he sure is worrying about a lot of stuff that’s never going to happen. And I’m sure he’s uttered the words “so not fair” in more than one conversation about his thwarted medical career.

I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I don’t have to worry about walking into a doctor’s office one day and seeing this mass of muscle with air on the brain holding the stethoscope. “What up, bra?” the doctor would say as he put the stethoscope to my forehead. “Dude, I can almost hear what you’re thinking . . .”

Oh, well. At least he's pretty.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Jesus Saves. At Wal Mart.

On the way home from the airport Monday, I passed a pickup truck with a couple of bumper stickers on it. The first read, “Got Jesus?” in the “Got Milk?” font. The other one said “Real Men Love Jesus.”

Now, as soon as I stopped sputtering about how unoriginal contemporary Christians are in their messaging (some would say a trait shared with the original Christians, but I won’t go there) I began wondering which advertising clich├ęs had been rejected. For your consideration.

Jesus. The Other White Meat.

Jesus is Grrrrreat!

Jesus. The Quicker Picker Upper.

You Are Now Free To Move About Jesus

Frosted Lucky Jesus, He’s Magically Delicious!

I’d Like to Buy The World a Jesus

Just Jesus It

Jesus. Lifts and Separates.

Have It Jesus’ Way

Where’s the Jesus?

Jesus Brings Good Things to Life

Can You Hear Me Now, Jesus?

Sometimes you feel like a Jesus. Sometimes you don’t.

Feel free to submit your own. And if you've actually seen one of these on a bumper sticker, let me know.

PS For all you hater Christians who read this, I'm not making fun of Jesus. I'm making fun of YOU!

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

May i Present Harry Bellows-Forth

While I am definitely a blogger, I’m not really un aficion.

There are all sorts of things that bloggers have in common, but other than a shared love of adult beverages and an aversion to long pants, I was unaware of them. Until now.

Apparently, there is a phenomenon called tagging. Now, last I knew of the word, it meant you had to wear a baseball cap cattywompus, have an extremely dexterous hand with the spray paint and know how to pop and lock.

Yo. Boy do I feel old.

It took my cunning linguist friend, Heathero to set me straight. And, throw me in the deep end. As pay back, I’m not going to explain the concept (a childish retort which will ultimately accomplish NOTHING, since I’m sure every other fucking person on the planet already knows what this is). If you are one of the few who don’t, ask HOK. Her blog address is at the end of this post.

So here’s what I’m supposed to do, apparently:

1. Grab the nearest book with at least 123 pages.

2. Go to page 123.

3. Type in the following three sentences.

4. Tag some number of people.

Now, just as I do with those chain letter emails, I’ll play along. But I will not propagate. I know Bill Gates is not going to give me a computer. And I generate plenty of bad luck on my own, so bring it. But I like making my friends happy and I secretly like that I got tagged.

So here we go.

I, of course, reached for Rupert Everett’s first novel, “Hello Darling, Are You Working?”

Flipping to page 123, I was greeted by the following passage:

“The Crazy Gang were thrilled to hear about the mini-series and that is was being shot in Tangiers to boot. They promptly invited Dawnford to Ashby de la Zouche’s party that weekend. Needless to say Dawnford, who would go anywhere there was a free toilet roll and a few actors, accepted with alacrity and, before Rhys could stop him, said he would extend the invitation to the entire cast which would include such showbiz bastions as Sir Maurice Goodbuns, the Duke of Darling-Darling, Little Beige Riding Hood and Harry Bellows-Forth.”

Ah, florid-a in the winter.

Check out HOKs blog, “The Days Are Just Packed” at

If you’re a beautiful super-intelligent, working uber Mom with three adorable children and a hottie former Olympic caliber diver for a husband, you’ll totally relate. : )

If not, you’ll probably still get a kick out of it. I do.

And just for fun, I’m tagging YOU, gentle reader. Post in comments.

Slow Taco Death

One of the things I love most about flying out of my local airport is the breakfast taco kiosk. It’s located right behind the main bar, so pretty much everyone knows they can find me in this general vicinity, whatever time of day I’m flying.

Saturday, I was traveling with the fam to visit my godson and his family. A big event I’d been working on for MONTHS (insert sympathy here) had finally happened Friday night, so I was freakin’ exhausted.

I felt certain that all I needed to rev my engine was a delicious overstuffed taco (the diet starts Monday, right?).

Normally my little taco stand is staffed by two, rapid-fire taquistas, or taquilladors—whatever you want to call them. Not this morning, though. Only Miss Molasses (I’m sure she would prefer I call her “methodical,” but that would imply an attention to detail, which was sorely lacking. And, truth be told, she wouldn’t know what “methodical” meant).

Naturally, a line had formed. It was early. People were hungry.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I pretty much figure that, if you’re eating in an airport, you are, by definition, on a deadline. (goddam, that seems like a lot of commas. HOK?)

But I’m pretty sure Mo had a few too many Tequizas last night and la vitesse is NOT on the menu today. And then it all began to unravel.

Now, I have a personal policy (which I’m lobbying to get passed into law) that any time you have to wait in a food line for more than five minutes you might want to have a fucking clue what you’re going to order.

But the stupid girl in front of me apparently didn’t share my ideology.

“ummmmmmm . . . let’s see . . . . Can I have . . . uh . . .” I didn’t hear what she ordered because suddenly the blood was pounding in my ears like a drum line. Sort of how I imagine a vampire feels just before it kills.

As my blood pressure begins to drop, I notice the taquista is beginning to make the tacos. Whew. Crisis averted. Yeah, right.

This particular cart has a glass front, so you can watch the taquistador actually assemble your taco. Fascinating stuff. Apparently Miss Indecision thought so too, since she practically had her nose pressed against the glass watching her taco progress. Which made it even more surprising that, AS SOON AS MOLASSES WAS FINISHED, the customer told her, “um . . . that’s not what I ordered. It was supposed to be . . .”


Had I not been next in line, I would almost certainly have screamed and run for a stale scone at Indifferent Pastries up the concourse. And I couldn’t wish for ptomaine, since I was next in line and would almost certainly suffer from my own curse.

Plane crash? Too many innocent victims. Choking? Hmm. Worth considering. But then I asked WWDD? What would Darwin do? And I realized, nothing. It will all sort itself out. Naturally.

Pretty Ugly

Well, it wasn’t what I was planning on blogging about this morning, but DAY-UM! I open and there it is, a clip of two ABSOLUTELY average looking gals, claiming they got kicked off a Southwest Airlines flight because they were “too pretty.”

Giggle. Snort. Giggle. Snort. Wipe tear from eye.

Now, I know that some feel Southwest is the airline of choice for peanuts and those who farm them, but honestly girls, “too pretty?” You might want to think about filing a claim against your mirror manufacturer.

I must laud the CNN camera operator, who took a long toe-to-head tilt of the dark-haired one with the near-unibrow and gigantic underground zit forming on her lower cheek. I appreciate that this camera operator managed to fit her entire ass into the frame, without pulling to a wide shot, which must have been a challenge. And lingering on her press-on nails, an absolutely stomach-turning shade of Pepto pink. Surely those came factory colored, right?

Oh, and honey, the off-the-shoulder flashdance sweatshirt look. SOOOOOO You.

Pretty? Maybe in a 50’s Italian B-Movie way. Although your tits seemed to be operating more like fraternal twins than identical ones.

The blonde one only appeared in stills, wearing a hoochie dress and leaning on the hood of a Bentley. I’m sure the owner was pleased to find her ass marks on his hood when he claimed it from valet. She remarked that the only thing she could think of (which limits the choices dramatically) was that they were treated the way they were because they looked the way they looked. “I mean, nobody else on the plane looked like us.” So apparently, there were no hookers on board.

The girls do admit that some profanities were exchanged between the blonde and another passenger near the bathrooms. Southwest actually confirmed the story. God, how I wish the spokesperson had used that famous Southwest sense of humor. “Yep. It’s true. These girls were just TOO pretty to fly.”

You know, as an experienced traveler, I would like to give these girls a word of advice. NEVER fuck with the flight attendants! For however long you are in the air, they control all sorts of ways to make your flight better or worse. Maybe instead of rolling your eyes and exhaling like a horse every 5 seconds, you could have sweetened ‘em up.

Who knows, you might have even gotten extra peanuts.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Check out "in the Pink Texas"

Last night, my friend Matty D blogged the Dem debate live on, an hysterically funny blog about politics. I watched my Tivo'd Project Runway reunion show, and the American Idol elimination show. Now, THAT'S American politics in action.

Anyhoo, I think you'll get a kick out of the coverage. And in case you were wondering, I didn't watch the debate because I already know who i'm voting for. Plus, I genuinely like both candidates and hate watching them beat up on each other.

So there.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Who Knew the "K" Stood for "Kill?""

So, last week, I came across an item about an armed man “terrorizing” a K Mart. Now, personally, I find K Mart terrifying enough (I’m more the Target type), but the thought of being confronted by a gun-wielding madman far outweighs the benefits of Martha Stewart products. The big irony, though, was that he stole the gun FROM that K Mart!!

Who knew you could buy yerself a pretty polyester pant suit and .22 all in one stop. Now THAT’S white trash, people. The good news is that he didn’t really threaten anybody, he just kind of ran through the store screaming maniacally and “bumping into people.” He did threaten to kill himself before turning himself in to Sheriff’s deputies.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that I could kind of see his point of view. I mean, have YOU ever been to a K Mart? Can you imagine finding yourself at the back of the store, face to face with the gun counter? Large people of questionable hygiene moving about you murmuring appreciative bon mots over the Malaysian manufactured baby clothes, then screaming at their crying child that he “better SHUT up or I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about!!”

I think the guy was just desperate to get the hell out of the store. Can you blame him?

'Bout What I Expected

I knew it was too much to ask my deliciously jaded readers to play my Valentine's game. I spoke to my dear Jeffoise, who summed it up best, I think. "I . . . just . . . couldn't . . ."

Nonetheless, the prize must go on. Congratulations, ANONYMOUS!! You win lunch, on me! And I expect more Haiku to come!

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Happy Valentines Day Challenge/Contest

I admit. I'm a romantic. But I'm also a cynic (ya think !?!?!)

So Valentine's Day is a bit of mix for me. I usually spend a few moments at the beginning and the end mooning over My Beloved. And the rest of the day wondering what the suicide rate is among Hallmark greeting card writers.

Are you with me? I can't imagine that all that saccharine comes from truly happy people. Don't get me wrong--I could write that dreck. As long as I had a hurl bucket next to my desk.

"The light of the sun is eclipsed by the light of your love"

buuuuuuu-ick. buuuuuuu-ick.

See. It's easy.

Now YOU do it! I want to have a contest. I want all my readers (BOTH of you) to submit their best, over-the-top Valentine in the comments section. COME ON! It'll be fun!

Once we've determined a winner, I'll figure out a suitable prize.

L'amour, l'amour. Toujours l'amour.


Where to Now?

So the headline in USA Today reads:
FEMA trailers flunk toxic tests; residents urged out
U.S. health officials urging Gulf Coast hurricane victims to move out of their government-issued trailers as quickly as possible.

And into what, exactly? All those homes you’ve helped rebuild? Into the communities you have reestablished?

Such fine work from our Feds on this.

It’s been what, two-and-a-half years? These people shouldn’t be in the fucking trailers anyway. I get so pissed off when I see the astronomical, mind-boggling budget numbers for the Iraq war. And the astronomical, mind-boggling profits of the major oil companies. And I wonder how we, as a country, have gotten to where we are today. Especially in a country whose leaders tout, on a daily basis, their unswerving, slavish devotion to Christian ethics and ideals.

Uh, huh. Right. Put your damn foot back in your own stall, Senator.

President DeeDeDee (in the mencia sense) tells a guy to “hang in there, bro.” but he has NO sense of what true brotherhood is. What it means to care for his fellow man. And it shows in his government’s policies.

This government has gotten the Katrina scenario wrong from day one. They have literally made every bad decision they could make, even though they’ve had more than enough information to work with at every turn.

I can’t help thinking, if they hadn’t had their thumbs so far up their asses, maybe they could have put a finger in the dike.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

When Beauty Gets Ugly

You would think it would be the perfect intersection for me. Cheesy TV (American Idol) meets overconfident blonde beauty queen. You’d be right.

I don’t know her name (they have names?). Let’s just call her Miss Opportunity. When she first auditioned, she challenged Simon on his constant use of the word “pageanty” as a pejorative description of an individual’s performance.

“I’m here to show you that some pageant girls can sing.” And she did. Then she gets to Hollywood. And the crown and sash are weighing heavy.

She gets through the mad pack and into the top 50 (I think. I tend to drink more tequila when the blondes are on), where they had one last chance to do a solo, with a band and backup singers.

She tried to soar at the end and completely went off key. She grimaced and said, in her cute-as-pie voice, “I messed up!” followed immediately by a grin, then a frown—the contemporary embodiment of comedy/tragedy, I suppose.

Then the fun started. She wanted to try again. Simon was adamant in his refusal. But then he shocked everyone by saying yes to her performance. Randy said no. So it was up to Paula. And we all know where this is going, right? Sweet Paula who never dings anyone? She declared herself “on the fence.” And the lobbying began.

Miss Opportunity began cajoling. Cajoling in that annoying way of people who are overly used to getting whatever they want.

Not tonight, sister. Paula KICKED HER ASS TO THE CURB!!!! She began to protest and Simon stepped up, saying “nope, sorry. That’s it. You’re out of the competition.”

Cut to Missy crying in the hallway, not the vision of beauty she had so carefully cultivated. And then the cherry. The rallying cry of American youth: “I just wish they would have given me a fair chance.”

WTF? Are you kidding me? Aside from the fact that YOU were doing the singing. And YOU were the one who bounced that sour note off everyone’s head. What other chances did you want?

Go home girl. Your 12 minutes of fame will be enough to earn you the Miss Possum Trot title and a chance to win Miss Yodel Holler.

Who knows, with this level of exposure, you might end up marrying someone other than an extended relation.

Be grateful.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Morning Juice

I need a little help here. It seems like the congressional “inquiry” into steroid use in sports has been going on for years, doesn’t it? And I can’t seem to wrap my pea brain around why I should feel good about my taxes being used this way. Doesn’t Congress have a rather long list of things we would all agree are higher priorities?

I get the whole “sports-as-economic-driver” thing. But these are professional organizations. With individual governing bodies. They are corporations and the “sport” is actually just a business, plain and simple.

I get the idea that we should care if our Olympic athletes are tainted. That’s a different ideal. They represent their country, in a not-for-profit situation. Except for the sponsorships and advertising revenue, of course.

But I keep thinking of all those folks in New Orleans, with no one there to help but Brad Pitt.

I keep thinking of all those soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, ready to see their families and get the sand out of their orifi.

I keep thinking of all the little stupid fuckers . . . er, I mean “the children” we’re not teaching to read properly or think properly.

I think of all the money that could be spent on driver’s ed, my personal choice for Threat Level: Orange.

I think of the old people, the homeless, the housing market, diseases and that other thing . . . oh, yeah—THE ECONOMY!!!

Are all of those issues so thoroughly addressed that we have time to dwell on steroid usage? Or do our Members of Congress just want to have another celebrity photo on the wall?

So leave the steroid hunt to the people most impacted—the leagues themselves. It seems like they are constantly suspending people for one infraction or another. Let them keep their own house clean, or have it fall down around them.

Now, let’s talk about that border fence.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Gonna Blog Myself Skinny

So, one of the first things I see on my morning internet walkabout is a story about a woman whose blog helped her lose weight.

A lot of weight.

It seems that Lynn Bering, a 296 pound newspaper editor had given up her career to open an antiques store because she felt she could hide behind the store. I’m pretty sure that was a metaphor. Otherwise it gives a whole new meaning to “big as a house.” (Hmmm, I never thought about an antiques store as a giant hiding place, but that WOULD explain all those 20th century closet-cases going into the field.)

Then she started blogging and lost 170 pounds.

Now, having lost my girlish figure some years ago (and my innocence long before that), it struck me. Maybe if I blogged more regularly, I could fit into those cute “wishful thinking” pants I bought last year. You know, so I’d have something to wear when I got all buff and ripped. (Somehow, I’ve managed to master the “ripped” part, but I don’t really think tequila is the best stomach-flattener.)

I immediately opened a blank page and began typing furiously, pausing every few seconds to run to the scale and check my progress. I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t work. Nothing. Not an ounce. Okay, maybe an ounce, but my scales only measure in half-pounds, and I hate math, so I have no idea if I lost any weight or not.

Amazingly, the chocolate glazed donut only fell out of my mouth once while I was typing.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

South Be-otch

The INCREDIBLY emaciated girl was yelling into her phone about one of “her girls’” behavior. What? Was she a madam?

“MY girls don’t behave that way. She can find her own way back to Miami!” declared the stick figure (who by the way, was MUNCHING ferociously on a bag of assorted fast/junk foods. I kept praying that she would purge BEFORE we got on the plane . . . ).

Then, a woman and her two traveling companions very gently inserted themselves into the conversation to ask if the three seats around her were taken. I’m sure they were basing that assumption on the fact that Miss Ann Orexia (as I nicknamed her—Bu Limia seemed to Asian for some reason.) had spread her shit out all over the section.

“Is there nowhere else with three seats together?” she huffed. ("Ohhhh, Shit!" I thought. This could get good.)

“No.” replied the kindly woman.

So, vocalizing her exasperation, she gathered her things and the kindly people sat down.

Missy MOVED! I guess that showed them, huh?

Except that, almost immediately, one of the ladies decided she wanted to watch TV and noticed that there were three seats open RIGHT in front of the TV. So, they moved.

Miss Orexia was NOT well for it. And she went OFF on whoever was on the other end of the line.

I'm giggling my ass off. On the inside. 'Cause I don't want the 30 pound girl with junk food habit hatin' on MY ass.

“Oh my GOD!” she said. “This morbidly obese woman just came up and made me move all my stuff so she and her fat-ass friends could sit here. Then they MOVED! I cannot believe this.”

Uh . . . you moved first, bitch.

I kept waiting for an opportunity to pull my friend gardoggy’s trick. He inserts himself into the conversation, saying things like, “you’re kidding!” or “I didn’t know that.”

Then when people ask him what the deal is, he reads them the riot act about how there’s no way he could NOT participate, given the intrusive volume of the person’s conversation. I love gardoggy.

Unfortunately, she didn’t give me an opportunity to be clever. Oh, well. Surely she’d have to throw up soon.

Low Tide

So, the beloved and I took a few days of R&R and headed down to Miami. Now, like the wannabe trend queen that I am, I hadn’t been to South Beach in a looooooong while. The last time I went, the bloodstains were still on the steps of the Versace mansion.

I’m guessing that must have been a sign.

Because all of the life has gone out of South Beach. Where were all the pretty people? Where was all the fabulousness? Whatever happened to customer service?

Hay, mira girl. She’s not there.

In place of the beautiful people are sunbirds and hucksters, figuring, no doubt, that if you were stupid enough to come here on vacation, you were probably an easy mark.

But all we were looking for was a beach and a pool. And a bottle of tequila as big as my head. Somehow, we managed to find all three.

That and a little bit of blog fodder.

Friday, February 1, 2008

White Trash Collection

So, I generally shy away from commentary on the train wreck/punchline that is Britney Spears. I kind of skim the reportage now, looking for the phrase “found dead.” When I realize she’s still taking up valuable oxygen, I go back to my Fruity Pebbles and wonder if a middle aged man wearing footy pajamas is cool and retro or just sad.

So the tally is in for the precise military style operation that was BS’s trip to the hospital.

$25,000. (Or as Britney would say “Twenty-five thousand trips to the Dollar Store.”)

Yup. That’s right. Apparently the City of Los Angeles thinks Britney Spears is worth the money and hassle. So much so that:

“Los Angeles City Councilman Dennis Zine announced this morning he plans to push for an ordinance that would create a minimum "personal safety zone" around individuals targeted by the media. "I don't want a repeat of what happened to Princess Diana with a celebrity in Los Angeles," he said. "We had to have 12 officers" escort Britney, and they could have been fighting crime elsewhere.”

Yeah, but then you wouldn’t have gotten all this publicity. And in the City of Angels, whatever your day job, it is usually preceded by “actor/ . . .”

The cops probably thought they’d get their SAG card if any of the footage showed up on TV.

“Police officials defended the cost, saying that aggressive paparazzi required the dozen police officers.“

Uh . . . have you ever heard the phrase “don’t feed the animals?” Miss BS feeds the paps like they were stray cats. The attention is the only thing keeping her alive.

But for anyone who heard her last album or her loverly hybrid Brit/Coon Ass accent (I guess it’s half-Brit, half-ney), you really gotta think there are better ways to spend 25 Grand. I wonder what Dr. Kervorkian could do for that kind of scratch?

O'Where O'P?

I’ve been a very bad blogger. So I want you to take out your O’Pine action figure (skin-hugging, sparkly ice-skating costume sold separately), and get the miniature cat o’nine tails from Barbie’s Dream Dungeon (you’ll never get THAT image out of your head) and spank your little heart out.

There. Feel better? I do.

Now, where were we?