Okay, maybe I should start a separate blog just for SYTYCD. It’s a goldmine of stupid human tricks.
The latest was the girl who was put through to the Vegas round, and ran out the room screaming, as they all do, “I’m going to Vegas! Vegas!” Then she used some made up sign language to spell out the word as she shouted each letter.
“V-E-A-G-S! Vegas!”
Hey, nobody said it was called So You Think You Can Spell.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Hot Fun in the Summertime
Summer has hit. And even though I grew up in Texas, I HATE the heat. Actually, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. And my little city just seems to get more and more like Houston every day in that department. Blech.
What that really means, though, is that I’m cranky. And my usual (low) tolerance for stupid people drops to an even lower threshold. So I was actually quite amused by what I witnessed yesterday.
I was on my way to buy a new pair of fat pants. Behind me in traffic is a beautiful woman in a black VW Beetle. Windows all the way down. Neckline down even further. Dewey fresh girls in full effect. She was jammin’ to some tune—I couldn’t hear what. And in between rhythmic gyrations, she power-primped. Fix the hair, check the teeth, lick the lips. I half expected her to whip out a blow dryer.
Suddenly, she turns and waves seductively at the car next to her. As traffic moves, this car takes the slot next to me. It is one of those pedophile panel vans being driven by a middle-aged African American dude. And he is SMILING like you wouldn’t believe. I guess the view into the Beetle was even more alluring from a higher vantage point. Maybe she wasn’t wearing panties. I kind of grossed myself out thinking of the various possibilities.
The man in the van gave me one of those looks that straight guys give each other. You know, the “check-it-out-Dude-I-could-so-get-me-some-of-that” look.
I looked back, mouthed the word “eww” and tried to inch up as close to the car in front of me as possible. I mean, do I LOOK LIKE I want to empathize with the pussy hound? I kept wishing I had a little rainbow flag. Or that I could tie my shirt off in a halter-esque way. Or maybe I just should have given him a taste of what she gave him and winked, smiled and blown him a kiss.
After all, the van did have privacy shades.
What that really means, though, is that I’m cranky. And my usual (low) tolerance for stupid people drops to an even lower threshold. So I was actually quite amused by what I witnessed yesterday.
I was on my way to buy a new pair of fat pants. Behind me in traffic is a beautiful woman in a black VW Beetle. Windows all the way down. Neckline down even further. Dewey fresh girls in full effect. She was jammin’ to some tune—I couldn’t hear what. And in between rhythmic gyrations, she power-primped. Fix the hair, check the teeth, lick the lips. I half expected her to whip out a blow dryer.
Suddenly, she turns and waves seductively at the car next to her. As traffic moves, this car takes the slot next to me. It is one of those pedophile panel vans being driven by a middle-aged African American dude. And he is SMILING like you wouldn’t believe. I guess the view into the Beetle was even more alluring from a higher vantage point. Maybe she wasn’t wearing panties. I kind of grossed myself out thinking of the various possibilities.
The man in the van gave me one of those looks that straight guys give each other. You know, the “check-it-out-Dude-I-could-so-get-me-some-of-that” look.
I looked back, mouthed the word “eww” and tried to inch up as close to the car in front of me as possible. I mean, do I LOOK LIKE I want to empathize with the pussy hound? I kept wishing I had a little rainbow flag. Or that I could tie my shirt off in a halter-esque way. Or maybe I just should have given him a taste of what she gave him and winked, smiled and blown him a kiss.
After all, the van did have privacy shades.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I Don't Think You Can Dance
My guilty summer TV is “So You Think You Can Dance.” There are so many young ‘uns who can just blow you away with their athleticism. I still think ballroom is the funniest looking thing in the dance world. There is NO WAY to look butch doing a cha cha cha.
Last night the judges even complimented one of the male dancers, who had done some ballroom with his partner, on how “masculine” he looked. Pretty subjective scale if you ask me. I’m surprised he didn’t answer “Thankssss, GIRL!”
The highlight came, though, from the stupid girl--a tall brunette. I didn’t get to see her performance, but her post-elimination interview was HI-larious. Of course, she was sad and bitter. She complained that the judges hadn’t even watched most of her performance (I’m guessing it was THAT bad). Then, searching for some excuse other than her own lack of talent, she decided that they hadn’t liked her because she was tall and towered over some of the males. Then, with a fully serious face, she said . . .
“I think they’re racist against tall people.”
Bless her heart. Tall people have feelings, too. But I guess I’m racist against stupid people. So there.
Last night the judges even complimented one of the male dancers, who had done some ballroom with his partner, on how “masculine” he looked. Pretty subjective scale if you ask me. I’m surprised he didn’t answer “Thankssss, GIRL!”
The highlight came, though, from the stupid girl--a tall brunette. I didn’t get to see her performance, but her post-elimination interview was HI-larious. Of course, she was sad and bitter. She complained that the judges hadn’t even watched most of her performance (I’m guessing it was THAT bad). Then, searching for some excuse other than her own lack of talent, she decided that they hadn’t liked her because she was tall and towered over some of the males. Then, with a fully serious face, she said . . .
“I think they’re racist against tall people.”
Bless her heart. Tall people have feelings, too. But I guess I’m racist against stupid people. So there.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Must Be Lonely On the Mountaintop
I think Shakespeare had it right. In Hamlet, the Queen says “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
In the gay world, we’ve always used this quote to describe men who pronounce their heterosexuality—or denounce homosexuality--with a bit too much vigor. With this spring’s crop of moral conservatives meeting their hypocritical downfalls, it has made me start to think that this phrase applies to them, as well.
A conservative Congressman from New York gets busted for DUI on the way to visit his sick daughter. Awww. That’s sweet. Except that the sick daughter is the result of a years-long extramarital affair. And his wife and family knew nothing about it until the arrest. Oops.
“Family values. One man. One woman. Blahblahblah.”
Or the Dallas mega-church pastor who drove 200 miles to hook up with a 13-year old girl he met online. Turns out the whole thing was a police sting. Wah-wah!
He had even packed condoms. Too bad they won’t let him keep those in jail. Might keep him from becoming the NEXT pregnant man on Oprah.
“God’s word. Sin. Satan. Family values. Blahblahblah.”
Meanwhile, the same people who voted for one and flocked to the other have their panties in a ridiculously tight knot over the legalization of gay marriage in California.
I’m starting to think that maybe the religious right wingnuts should follow the example of the Puritans and set off to find a new home on distant shores. There, they could establish a strict, moral colony. They could trade beads with the natives and host communal meals of thanksgiving. Of course, we all know that eventually someone will wind up with a scarlet “A” on the back.
Some things just never change.
In the gay world, we’ve always used this quote to describe men who pronounce their heterosexuality—or denounce homosexuality--with a bit too much vigor. With this spring’s crop of moral conservatives meeting their hypocritical downfalls, it has made me start to think that this phrase applies to them, as well.
A conservative Congressman from New York gets busted for DUI on the way to visit his sick daughter. Awww. That’s sweet. Except that the sick daughter is the result of a years-long extramarital affair. And his wife and family knew nothing about it until the arrest. Oops.
“Family values. One man. One woman. Blahblahblah.”
Or the Dallas mega-church pastor who drove 200 miles to hook up with a 13-year old girl he met online. Turns out the whole thing was a police sting. Wah-wah!
He had even packed condoms. Too bad they won’t let him keep those in jail. Might keep him from becoming the NEXT pregnant man on Oprah.
“God’s word. Sin. Satan. Family values. Blahblahblah.”
Meanwhile, the same people who voted for one and flocked to the other have their panties in a ridiculously tight knot over the legalization of gay marriage in California.
I’m starting to think that maybe the religious right wingnuts should follow the example of the Puritans and set off to find a new home on distant shores. There, they could establish a strict, moral colony. They could trade beads with the natives and host communal meals of thanksgiving. Of course, we all know that eventually someone will wind up with a scarlet “A” on the back.
Some things just never change.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Too Bad They DIDN'T Shoot Each Other
There’s something about a man in uniform that just works for me. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but they just seem so well put together. So . . . authoritative.
Ironically, there is one profession that requires a uniform, and the guys seem to always look like the biggest doofs. I’m talking about security guards. Rentacops. Whose uniforms deny them the very thing they crave. A respect of their authority.
It’s like they buy the uniforms in bulk, then hand them out randomly, with no regard to a person’s actual clothing size. The uniforms are almost always ill-fitting, the fabrics nasty and cheap.
Ironically, it makes most of these men look like they’re playing dress up. And, sadly, many of the men who inhabit them suffer from delusions of real authority, reinforcing the dress up scheme.
So when frequent AOTSP commenter HOK forwarded me the story about a security guard and a restaurant owner who shot each other with Tasers, I got an immediate visual image. I wonder if cheap polyester conducts electricity?
The two men were arguing over a boot the security guard had put on one of the restaurants vans. Apparently, Rentacop felt the van was parked on the parking lot HE was hired to protect. So he booted it.
YOU WILL RESPECT MY AU-THOR-I-TIE! Or I will boot your ass, bitch.
During the heated exchange between the two “boneheads” (that’s the actual word the police used to describe them), the restaurant owner claims the man in the ill-fitting uniform placed his hand on his holstered GUN (are you fucking kidding me? They gave him a GUN?!?!?) and threatened to shoot.
The Rentacop acknowledged that he had placed his hand on the gun, but never threatened. As if the hand on the holstered gun doesn’t send a message that’s clear as a fucking bell.
YOU WILL RESPECT MY AU-THOR-I-TIE! Or I will shoot your ass, bitch!
In the end, they just whipped out their Tasers and stunned each other into submission. Apparently, neither possessed a penis worth brandishing.
Ironically, there is one profession that requires a uniform, and the guys seem to always look like the biggest doofs. I’m talking about security guards. Rentacops. Whose uniforms deny them the very thing they crave. A respect of their authority.
It’s like they buy the uniforms in bulk, then hand them out randomly, with no regard to a person’s actual clothing size. The uniforms are almost always ill-fitting, the fabrics nasty and cheap.
Ironically, it makes most of these men look like they’re playing dress up. And, sadly, many of the men who inhabit them suffer from delusions of real authority, reinforcing the dress up scheme.
So when frequent AOTSP commenter HOK forwarded me the story about a security guard and a restaurant owner who shot each other with Tasers, I got an immediate visual image. I wonder if cheap polyester conducts electricity?
The two men were arguing over a boot the security guard had put on one of the restaurants vans. Apparently, Rentacop felt the van was parked on the parking lot HE was hired to protect. So he booted it.
YOU WILL RESPECT MY AU-THOR-I-TIE! Or I will boot your ass, bitch.
During the heated exchange between the two “boneheads” (that’s the actual word the police used to describe them), the restaurant owner claims the man in the ill-fitting uniform placed his hand on his holstered GUN (are you fucking kidding me? They gave him a GUN?!?!?) and threatened to shoot.
The Rentacop acknowledged that he had placed his hand on the gun, but never threatened. As if the hand on the holstered gun doesn’t send a message that’s clear as a fucking bell.
YOU WILL RESPECT MY AU-THOR-I-TIE! Or I will shoot your ass, bitch!
In the end, they just whipped out their Tasers and stunned each other into submission. Apparently, neither possessed a penis worth brandishing.
Friday, May 16, 2008
C’mon! They Were Just Fartin’ Around.
Talk about an ill wind. An office worker in Deal, Kent (UK) was awarded a $10,000 settlement after having a male supervisor repeatedly fart in her general direction. Apparently, she was the only woman in the office, and was constantly subjected to such “laddish behaviour.”
Having been a manager for a good chunk of my professional career (obviously before I became a blogger), and having attended endless hours of various types of sensitivity training, I find this type of action to be reprehensible. It’s amazing to me that ANYONE actually still thinks this is okay behavior in the workplace. Although I did work with a woman who wore so much cheap perfume it made my throat seize up. I would have liked to fart on her, if only to stanch her odiferousness.
As a blogger, I find it fuckin’ hilarious! My mind immediately goes to a setting not unlike “The Office” (British or American, your pick), where one person (probably a Michael-type) farts at the Pam-type as a joke, but no one gets it.
Ah, that uncomfortable British humor. Slays me.
The tribunal who heard the case called it sexual discrimination. I call it junior high. The manager was probably just trying to flirt. Apparently, other hilarious hijinks ensued. Like the time they threw a beach ball at her head when she objected to sexist banter. (Why was there a beach ball in the office?).
Or the time her supervisor made her wear a badge that said, “I’m Simple” when she couldn’t figure something out on her computer.
What? No exposing of the penis head while pulling their pants pockets inside out, then asking, “Want to kiss the bunny on the nose?”
Amateurs.
Having been a manager for a good chunk of my professional career (obviously before I became a blogger), and having attended endless hours of various types of sensitivity training, I find this type of action to be reprehensible. It’s amazing to me that ANYONE actually still thinks this is okay behavior in the workplace. Although I did work with a woman who wore so much cheap perfume it made my throat seize up. I would have liked to fart on her, if only to stanch her odiferousness.
As a blogger, I find it fuckin’ hilarious! My mind immediately goes to a setting not unlike “The Office” (British or American, your pick), where one person (probably a Michael-type) farts at the Pam-type as a joke, but no one gets it.
Ah, that uncomfortable British humor. Slays me.
The tribunal who heard the case called it sexual discrimination. I call it junior high. The manager was probably just trying to flirt. Apparently, other hilarious hijinks ensued. Like the time they threw a beach ball at her head when she objected to sexist banter. (Why was there a beach ball in the office?).
Or the time her supervisor made her wear a badge that said, “I’m Simple” when she couldn’t figure something out on her computer.
What? No exposing of the penis head while pulling their pants pockets inside out, then asking, “Want to kiss the bunny on the nose?”
Amateurs.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Bad Parents in the News
This is beyond the shallow end of the gene pool. We’re talking kiddie pool depth, here.
Reports surfaced yesterday from Alice Springs, Australia (familiar to all Priscilla, Queen of the Desert Fans—and basically no one else outside of Australia) about a guy who put a seat belt around a case of beer to protect it, but failed to do the same for his toddler, who was also riding in the car.
The police were quoted as saying, “This is the first time that the beer has taken priority over a child.”
Obviously, they’ve never been to the American South.
Ironically, a quick google search turned up a similar incident this past February in Florida. A driver, who also happened to have two crack pipes in her purse (shocking, I know!), strapped a 24-pack of Busch into the passenger seat, but let a 16 month old ride unrestrained in the backseat.
What the police didn’t know is that the woman had traded the toddler’s twin for the beer, and was on her way to pick up some ribs and spicy hot wings in trade for the other one.
In the “Stupid-about-to-be-Canuck” catgory, an immigrant family from the Phillipines left their 23-month old behind as they dashed to make their connecting flight in Vancouver. Apparently FOUR adults were not enough to keep up with ONE child. Each thought the other had the child. They were not aware of the lost article until a flight attendant alerted them. Mid-flight.
Apparently “No Child Left Behind” works just as well in Canada as it does in the U.S.
Reports surfaced yesterday from Alice Springs, Australia (familiar to all Priscilla, Queen of the Desert Fans—and basically no one else outside of Australia) about a guy who put a seat belt around a case of beer to protect it, but failed to do the same for his toddler, who was also riding in the car.
The police were quoted as saying, “This is the first time that the beer has taken priority over a child.”
Obviously, they’ve never been to the American South.
Ironically, a quick google search turned up a similar incident this past February in Florida. A driver, who also happened to have two crack pipes in her purse (shocking, I know!), strapped a 24-pack of Busch into the passenger seat, but let a 16 month old ride unrestrained in the backseat.
What the police didn’t know is that the woman had traded the toddler’s twin for the beer, and was on her way to pick up some ribs and spicy hot wings in trade for the other one.
In the “Stupid-about-to-be-Canuck” catgory, an immigrant family from the Phillipines left their 23-month old behind as they dashed to make their connecting flight in Vancouver. Apparently FOUR adults were not enough to keep up with ONE child. Each thought the other had the child. They were not aware of the lost article until a flight attendant alerted them. Mid-flight.
Apparently “No Child Left Behind” works just as well in Canada as it does in the U.S.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
One Bowl Too Many
So, I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the stoner dudes who dug up the body and used the skull as a bong? Dudes! Dudes. Dudes?
Weren’t there any apples around? Wouldn’t that have been exponentially easier? And how stoned were you already that you thought this was a good idea? I mean, aren’t there waaaay too many holes in a skull to get a good flow?
I bet there was at least one “I see dead people joke” though.
On my first foray overseas, as a freakin’ naïve 16 year old, I was shocked/impressed by some kids from California who made a bong out of a Coke can. They used said bong to smoke the hash they bought from the open-air market across the street from the hotel.
I’ve always loved the irony of this. You see, our student hotel was directly across from one of the most notorious drug markets in all of the middle east. Nice travel planning there, chaperones! The down side was that I had yet to even have a drop of alcohol, much less partake of the partoke. But watching was fun.
But I digress.
I guess now we know what to look forward to from the next big government anti-drug campaign. Some washed up conservative star (hey, I hear Patricia Heaton is looking for work!) earnestly lying into the camera:
“Drugs make people dig up the dead. Is that how you want your loved one’s skull to end up? As nothing more than . . . paraphernalia?”
To paraphrase Mr. Mackie from South Park:
“Drugs are bad, m’kay. Don’t do drugs. Because drugs are bad. They’ll make you dig up someone’s grandma and smoke a bowl out of her eye socket, m’kay.”
Weren’t there any apples around? Wouldn’t that have been exponentially easier? And how stoned were you already that you thought this was a good idea? I mean, aren’t there waaaay too many holes in a skull to get a good flow?
I bet there was at least one “I see dead people joke” though.
On my first foray overseas, as a freakin’ naïve 16 year old, I was shocked/impressed by some kids from California who made a bong out of a Coke can. They used said bong to smoke the hash they bought from the open-air market across the street from the hotel.
I’ve always loved the irony of this. You see, our student hotel was directly across from one of the most notorious drug markets in all of the middle east. Nice travel planning there, chaperones! The down side was that I had yet to even have a drop of alcohol, much less partake of the partoke. But watching was fun.
But I digress.
I guess now we know what to look forward to from the next big government anti-drug campaign. Some washed up conservative star (hey, I hear Patricia Heaton is looking for work!) earnestly lying into the camera:
“Drugs make people dig up the dead. Is that how you want your loved one’s skull to end up? As nothing more than . . . paraphernalia?”
To paraphrase Mr. Mackie from South Park:
“Drugs are bad, m’kay. Don’t do drugs. Because drugs are bad. They’ll make you dig up someone’s grandma and smoke a bowl out of her eye socket, m’kay.”
Monday, May 12, 2008
Driving Me Crazy, Part Eleventy
Bad drivers truly are the bane of my existence. And surly shop clerks. They kind of work my last couple of nerves as well. But mostly bad drivers.
I witnessed a couple of things this weekend that just completely had me scratching my head. I think part of being a good driver (which I wholeheartedly believe I am) is anticipating what other drivers are doing and are going to do.
Sometimes I think I know what a driver is going to do before he or she does. It’s like a 5th sense, to quote “Baby Mama.”
DISCLAIMER: All of these incidents involve female drivers. I do not think that is an indictment of female drivers—I just think it’s coincidence. I don’t subscribe to the notion that men are better drivers. I think the suckage is pretty universal.
Situation Number One: A driver in the right lane, with loads of room ahead of her, decides suddenly that she ABSOLUTELY has to be in my lane. RIGHT NOW.
A quick blinker and a swerve later, I’m hitting my breaks so that I’m not exploring the trunk of her car. Now, I could kind of understand this bone-headed action if she had needed to make a quick left.
But she didn’t turn. At all. For five more blocks.
So why the fuck did you need to be in my lane?
Situation Number Two: I am in the left lane. There is a car a little less than a car-length ahead of me in the right lane. I am moving at a slightly higher speed than the car in the right lane. The impatient driver behind me, who has been zipping in and out of traffic, accelerates and takes the right lane, where she promptly has to put on the breaks because she has basically driven into an automotive canyon.
I move past the line of cars to my right. There is now an acre of room behind me. So what does Missy Hurry do? Nuthin’. She just sits back there at the end of the line.
So you sped up to slow down? Oh. That makes sense!
Situation Number Three: A new twist on the ol’ tailgator. A slightly post-college woman in her nice BMW was riding the bumper of anyone who happened to be in front of her. At 35 miles an hour, I guarantee you there was no more than 4 feet between her car and the car in front of her. In this case, that was me. While I was wishing for a bigger rearview mirror, so that she could fully register the extent of my reproaching scowl, I noticed that she had now added a notebook and pen to the driving mix and was busy using her steering wheel as a desk, writing away furiously. Over the course of the next 10 blocks or so, I witnessed the notebook being pulled out three more times. Followed by a furious burst of scribble.
Was she writing a freaking novel? A grocery list (if so, those are some complex ingredients). I guess it would make too much sense for it to be her will.
I arrived at my destination and wondered who the patron saint of shitty drivers is. ‘Cause they’ve got to be selling a shit load of those medallions.
I witnessed a couple of things this weekend that just completely had me scratching my head. I think part of being a good driver (which I wholeheartedly believe I am) is anticipating what other drivers are doing and are going to do.
Sometimes I think I know what a driver is going to do before he or she does. It’s like a 5th sense, to quote “Baby Mama.”
DISCLAIMER: All of these incidents involve female drivers. I do not think that is an indictment of female drivers—I just think it’s coincidence. I don’t subscribe to the notion that men are better drivers. I think the suckage is pretty universal.
Situation Number One: A driver in the right lane, with loads of room ahead of her, decides suddenly that she ABSOLUTELY has to be in my lane. RIGHT NOW.
A quick blinker and a swerve later, I’m hitting my breaks so that I’m not exploring the trunk of her car. Now, I could kind of understand this bone-headed action if she had needed to make a quick left.
But she didn’t turn. At all. For five more blocks.
So why the fuck did you need to be in my lane?
Situation Number Two: I am in the left lane. There is a car a little less than a car-length ahead of me in the right lane. I am moving at a slightly higher speed than the car in the right lane. The impatient driver behind me, who has been zipping in and out of traffic, accelerates and takes the right lane, where she promptly has to put on the breaks because she has basically driven into an automotive canyon.
I move past the line of cars to my right. There is now an acre of room behind me. So what does Missy Hurry do? Nuthin’. She just sits back there at the end of the line.
So you sped up to slow down? Oh. That makes sense!
Situation Number Three: A new twist on the ol’ tailgator. A slightly post-college woman in her nice BMW was riding the bumper of anyone who happened to be in front of her. At 35 miles an hour, I guarantee you there was no more than 4 feet between her car and the car in front of her. In this case, that was me. While I was wishing for a bigger rearview mirror, so that she could fully register the extent of my reproaching scowl, I noticed that she had now added a notebook and pen to the driving mix and was busy using her steering wheel as a desk, writing away furiously. Over the course of the next 10 blocks or so, I witnessed the notebook being pulled out three more times. Followed by a furious burst of scribble.
Was she writing a freaking novel? A grocery list (if so, those are some complex ingredients). I guess it would make too much sense for it to be her will.
I arrived at my destination and wondered who the patron saint of shitty drivers is. ‘Cause they’ve got to be selling a shit load of those medallions.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Motherfuckers
I came across this celeb website called Dotspotter (it appears to be half puff news and half celebrity stalking agent). But I about lost my milk when I saw the headline, "Happy Mother's Day Michelle Duggar! You Make Our Vaginas Hurt."
Ahh, the perfect topic for a Mother’s Day blog, don’t you think? Not the aching vagina, but the Duggars. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are they thinking? 18 CHILDREN?!?!? That’s more than were at the polygamist compound, I think.
Now, you know these people have access to birth control. I mean, they could probably shop lift it just by sending the 10 oldest children scurrying through a store. No one would be able to keep up with a few missing condoms, right? But I’m sure they only use the rhythm method.
I, of course, recommend the Bobbitt method. If I were that fertile, I’d be like, “Bring that thing near me again and I’m chopping it off.”
And how close a “family” can they really be? I know they’re all brothers and sisters, but honestly, do you think that child one and child eighteen, or more likely, child three and child fourteen, are ever even going to get to know each other? I can see them running into each other at some restaurant years from now. “Hey, don’t I know you? You look awfully familiar.”
And then there’s the storage issues? Where the fuck do you put the macaroni art of 18 children? I guess if you lived in a double-wide with aluminum siding you could hang all the kids' artwork on the exterior with magnets. It’d probably fuck up the reception on your rabbit ears, but since they seem to fuck like bunnies, I’m sure they don’t have much TV time anyway. (Can you imagine the fights over the remote?)
But who am I to judge? : )
I can guarantee you one thing, though, all those eighteen children combined couldn’t love their mom more than I do mine. She is a sweet ol’ southern belle. A true steel magnolia. Sweet Tea with lemon. And there is nothing—NOTHING—that makes my mama happier than her babies.
As she’s gotten “on in years” as we say, she has become even more colorful and flighty. But there has never been a moment, not a nanosecond, that there was any doubt I was loved. I’m proud to be a Mama’s Boy.
So Happy Mother’s Day to ya, Mom! Glad I’m the fourth of four and not the fourth of 18.
Ahh, the perfect topic for a Mother’s Day blog, don’t you think? Not the aching vagina, but the Duggars. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are they thinking? 18 CHILDREN?!?!? That’s more than were at the polygamist compound, I think.
Now, you know these people have access to birth control. I mean, they could probably shop lift it just by sending the 10 oldest children scurrying through a store. No one would be able to keep up with a few missing condoms, right? But I’m sure they only use the rhythm method.
I, of course, recommend the Bobbitt method. If I were that fertile, I’d be like, “Bring that thing near me again and I’m chopping it off.”
And how close a “family” can they really be? I know they’re all brothers and sisters, but honestly, do you think that child one and child eighteen, or more likely, child three and child fourteen, are ever even going to get to know each other? I can see them running into each other at some restaurant years from now. “Hey, don’t I know you? You look awfully familiar.”
And then there’s the storage issues? Where the fuck do you put the macaroni art of 18 children? I guess if you lived in a double-wide with aluminum siding you could hang all the kids' artwork on the exterior with magnets. It’d probably fuck up the reception on your rabbit ears, but since they seem to fuck like bunnies, I’m sure they don’t have much TV time anyway. (Can you imagine the fights over the remote?)
But who am I to judge? : )
I can guarantee you one thing, though, all those eighteen children combined couldn’t love their mom more than I do mine. She is a sweet ol’ southern belle. A true steel magnolia. Sweet Tea with lemon. And there is nothing—NOTHING—that makes my mama happier than her babies.
As she’s gotten “on in years” as we say, she has become even more colorful and flighty. But there has never been a moment, not a nanosecond, that there was any doubt I was loved. I’m proud to be a Mama’s Boy.
So Happy Mother’s Day to ya, Mom! Glad I’m the fourth of four and not the fourth of 18.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Too Sad To Write
Robare LeRoi des Petits Chiens
October 13, 1994-May 8, 2008
Today is the saddest day of my life. Bar none. I have never had my heart broken like this before. My little man. The Little Dog. The sweetest mini-schnauzer ever.
Robare.
Runt of the litter, but alpha all the way. I’m sure he’ll dine out on the story of the day he brought down the Great Dane. I couldn’t tell him that the Dane was a big friendly gal who just wanted to play with the little dog.
Monsieur Robare, King of the Small Dogs, I bid you adieu. I wish it were au revoir, but I know better. The Countess of Barkelona awaits, tail a-wagging. Like her mother, I’m sure she already has all the cool places scoped out to show you in Doggie Heaven. Wilson will be waiting, too. You’ll be able to ignore each other again. Funny how much y’all seemed to enjoy that. Like kids yelling “I’m not touching you! I’m not touching you!” while holding their fingers as close to the other person as possible.
I remember the day I brought him home. Eight weeks old with his first Schnauzer cut. We stopped into a cool store in Dallas before the drive back to Austin. I was holding my little sleeping bundle in my lap. A Dallas-y woman approached. “Is he a toy?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “He’s real.”
I, of course, realized what she had meant as soon as the words were out of my mouth. But as everyone who reads this knows, I join the ranks of ‘tupids plenty often enough.
It’s amazing to me how much joy one little dog can bring into so many lives. And I appreciate so very much the outpouring of shared grief.
Thirteen and a half years. Through epilepsy. Pancreatitis. Diabetes. Toothlessness. He had the lives of a cat. I guess I just didn’t realize we’d already hit Nine.
Now I know why they call it a perfect 10. Boy, it sure would have been.
Godspeed Little Man. I know you know how much I loved you. And I know that you are at peace.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Dad
(ED. NOTE: This was written on Wednesday. I know I won’t be able to write after-the-fact. As I type, the words blurred by tears, I can still look down to my right and see my sweet boy sleeping on his bed. His little body doesn’t look so gaunt from this angle and I can almost imagine that everything is normal—that we’ll be running and playing when he wakes up.)
October 13, 1994-May 8, 2008
Today is the saddest day of my life. Bar none. I have never had my heart broken like this before. My little man. The Little Dog. The sweetest mini-schnauzer ever.
Robare.
Runt of the litter, but alpha all the way. I’m sure he’ll dine out on the story of the day he brought down the Great Dane. I couldn’t tell him that the Dane was a big friendly gal who just wanted to play with the little dog.
Monsieur Robare, King of the Small Dogs, I bid you adieu. I wish it were au revoir, but I know better. The Countess of Barkelona awaits, tail a-wagging. Like her mother, I’m sure she already has all the cool places scoped out to show you in Doggie Heaven. Wilson will be waiting, too. You’ll be able to ignore each other again. Funny how much y’all seemed to enjoy that. Like kids yelling “I’m not touching you! I’m not touching you!” while holding their fingers as close to the other person as possible.
I remember the day I brought him home. Eight weeks old with his first Schnauzer cut. We stopped into a cool store in Dallas before the drive back to Austin. I was holding my little sleeping bundle in my lap. A Dallas-y woman approached. “Is he a toy?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “He’s real.”
I, of course, realized what she had meant as soon as the words were out of my mouth. But as everyone who reads this knows, I join the ranks of ‘tupids plenty often enough.
It’s amazing to me how much joy one little dog can bring into so many lives. And I appreciate so very much the outpouring of shared grief.
Thirteen and a half years. Through epilepsy. Pancreatitis. Diabetes. Toothlessness. He had the lives of a cat. I guess I just didn’t realize we’d already hit Nine.
Now I know why they call it a perfect 10. Boy, it sure would have been.
Godspeed Little Man. I know you know how much I loved you. And I know that you are at peace.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Dad
(ED. NOTE: This was written on Wednesday. I know I won’t be able to write after-the-fact. As I type, the words blurred by tears, I can still look down to my right and see my sweet boy sleeping on his bed. His little body doesn’t look so gaunt from this angle and I can almost imagine that everything is normal—that we’ll be running and playing when he wakes up.)
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Further Tales of PurtyMouth, Texas
The whole time I was in PurtyMouth, I kept hearing about this woman who was going to come by. She was apparently interested in my mom’s books, of which there were about 4000 in the store. Unfortunately, I had sold all of the books and bookcases to another local. I assumed she was just going to resell them until her daughter told me, “Oh, she’ll probably read ‘em all.”
So much for my Podunk stereotype.
Finally on Saturday morning, she came. A weathered old cowgirl who was probably quite the looker in her younger years. In fact, she probably still got a lot of attention from the old country men. I didn’t know it was THE WOMAN. But I saw a customer perusing the shelves of books, so I felt compelled to inform her.
“I’m sorry, but all of those books are sold,” I said.
“Oh, I’m Cowbell from down the street. (Your dad) wanted me to come by and look at books.” She seemed disappointed.
“I’m afraid all I have left are several boxes of romance novels . . . if you’re interested.” Dumbass, of COURSE she’s not interested. She’s a cowgirl.
“OH?! That’s EXACTLY what I’m looking for!” And the verbiage unleashed like a bronc at a rodeo.
“See, I’m writing a romance novel. I’ve submitted several, but I’m looking to read different kinds. There’s a formula, you know.” She went on to tell me all about the rejection notices she’d received and how she had killed her heroine off in the book—a big no-no in happy ending land.
And then she began talking about the big birthday party for her horse that weekend. He was turning 34 and she had had him since he was 3 days old or some nonsense. He was a quarterhorse and apparently her long, long time pride and joy. Apparently, some years back, his birthday became the impetus for a giant annual celebration on the ranch. Her friends would gather, bringing gifts of apples and carrots, wrapped in gift paper, which the horse would tear through to get to the treats.
Apparently, I wasn’t looking impressed enough.
“Mr. Ed was his brother," she said. "Seriously.”
Oh sure. Play the Hollywood card. But sorry, honey, you'll have to do better than that. This is not my first rodeo.
"Oh? Wow. Cool." Well I couldn't say what I was REALLY thinking.
Cowbell gathered her meager purchases and said her goodbyes.
I sat back down and said, “She seems nice.”
My father, who had been mostly silent replied, “The rumor is she fucked that horse.”
I looked over, expecting to see a grin on his face, but there was none. He wasn’t kidding. In fact, I think he believed the rumor.
“Wow!” I thought, “Cowbell could have been Mr. Ed’s sister-in-law.”
Now THAT was impressive.
So much for my Podunk stereotype.
Finally on Saturday morning, she came. A weathered old cowgirl who was probably quite the looker in her younger years. In fact, she probably still got a lot of attention from the old country men. I didn’t know it was THE WOMAN. But I saw a customer perusing the shelves of books, so I felt compelled to inform her.
“I’m sorry, but all of those books are sold,” I said.
“Oh, I’m Cowbell from down the street. (Your dad) wanted me to come by and look at books.” She seemed disappointed.
“I’m afraid all I have left are several boxes of romance novels . . . if you’re interested.” Dumbass, of COURSE she’s not interested. She’s a cowgirl.
“OH?! That’s EXACTLY what I’m looking for!” And the verbiage unleashed like a bronc at a rodeo.
“See, I’m writing a romance novel. I’ve submitted several, but I’m looking to read different kinds. There’s a formula, you know.” She went on to tell me all about the rejection notices she’d received and how she had killed her heroine off in the book—a big no-no in happy ending land.
And then she began talking about the big birthday party for her horse that weekend. He was turning 34 and she had had him since he was 3 days old or some nonsense. He was a quarterhorse and apparently her long, long time pride and joy. Apparently, some years back, his birthday became the impetus for a giant annual celebration on the ranch. Her friends would gather, bringing gifts of apples and carrots, wrapped in gift paper, which the horse would tear through to get to the treats.
Apparently, I wasn’t looking impressed enough.
“Mr. Ed was his brother," she said. "Seriously.”
Oh sure. Play the Hollywood card. But sorry, honey, you'll have to do better than that. This is not my first rodeo.
"Oh? Wow. Cool." Well I couldn't say what I was REALLY thinking.
Cowbell gathered her meager purchases and said her goodbyes.
I sat back down and said, “She seems nice.”
My father, who had been mostly silent replied, “The rumor is she fucked that horse.”
I looked over, expecting to see a grin on his face, but there was none. He wasn’t kidding. In fact, I think he believed the rumor.
“Wow!” I thought, “Cowbell could have been Mr. Ed’s sister-in-law.”
Now THAT was impressive.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
O'Pine Cones
So I spent most of last week in YouShoreGottaPurtyMouth, Texas helping my mom and dad liquidate the contents of their “store.” The store my mom thought would be her perfect retirement pastime. The store my mom hasn’t bothered to open in three years. So I guess by “store” I mean ‘storage facility.”
This town of 400, with a quaint, four-block-long Main Street (which, coincidentally, is also a busy state highway. Nothing like a steady stream of 18-wheelers rumbling through your bucolic hamlet, eh?) really only comes to life on the weekends. People come from miles away to shop at the “antique” stores, so Saturdays and Sundays can see decent business. But Mom didn’t believe in working on Sundays. That’s the Lord’s day, you see.
So, there we were, basically holding a garage sale in an historic old building. The first day was all locals. Curiosity, I’m sure. Maybe they just wanted to get inside after all those years of only being able to peek through the windows.
It was like the cast of Deliverance and the cast of Greater Tuna all rolled into one. There was Loretta, who owns Loretta’s Café across the street. She was a cowgirl looking for a bargain. Everytime I gave her one, I expected to hear a loud whoop. Or for her to start circling the merchandise like a barrel horse.
There was the wife of the retired Justice of the Peace, who bought so much shit it filled the back of her Suburban. My dad said she came back on Sunday to say she was “ashamed” of how much she had gotten for so little, so she decided to see what else she could scavenge. On the Lord’s day, no less. I guess shame and Sunday mornings DO kind of go together.
And then the Country Queen came in. He owns the antique store two doors down. He minced and fussed, looking over each item as if its very provenance was his sole mission in life. Dude, most of this shit she bought retail and tried to mark it up. There are NO hidden treasure here, just pretty shit. And why is it that all the country queens look like they’re either from a 70’s porno or a Dolly Parton video—playing Dolly? Do you people not have the internet? Does mail not come here? I’m guessing even the Sears catalog has more contemporary looks than you boys are workin. Anyhoo, I made my favorite sale of the day. AntiquePornoGirl discovered a basket of pine cones and just about shit one himself. I knew he was dying to say, “Girl, fabulous!” but practiced his country discretion/restraint. “You like the pine cones,” I said seductively, using the East Texas twang I’ve worked so hard to shed. “I may have more in the back.”
I’m pretty sure I saw swelling in the front of his trousers.
“That . . . would be . . .great. Yes, please!” He could barely contain himself.
Sure enough, I had another giant basket of pine cones tucked on a shelf in the back. (WHY MOTHER? WHY?!?!!?)
I brought them out and watched him swallow hard. Who knew that all you needed was a pine cone? Shit, if I had known that in high school, I would have been a bigger slut than that Grantham girl.
By midday Saturday, I had to head back to civilization. But I have to say, I had a hell of a good time. I got to play retail queen for three days. I got to use my East Texas accent again. And I got to make fun of people in my head. Nice work if you can get it.
Tomorrow: The Lady Who Fucked a Horse
This town of 400, with a quaint, four-block-long Main Street (which, coincidentally, is also a busy state highway. Nothing like a steady stream of 18-wheelers rumbling through your bucolic hamlet, eh?) really only comes to life on the weekends. People come from miles away to shop at the “antique” stores, so Saturdays and Sundays can see decent business. But Mom didn’t believe in working on Sundays. That’s the Lord’s day, you see.
So, there we were, basically holding a garage sale in an historic old building. The first day was all locals. Curiosity, I’m sure. Maybe they just wanted to get inside after all those years of only being able to peek through the windows.
It was like the cast of Deliverance and the cast of Greater Tuna all rolled into one. There was Loretta, who owns Loretta’s Café across the street. She was a cowgirl looking for a bargain. Everytime I gave her one, I expected to hear a loud whoop. Or for her to start circling the merchandise like a barrel horse.
There was the wife of the retired Justice of the Peace, who bought so much shit it filled the back of her Suburban. My dad said she came back on Sunday to say she was “ashamed” of how much she had gotten for so little, so she decided to see what else she could scavenge. On the Lord’s day, no less. I guess shame and Sunday mornings DO kind of go together.
And then the Country Queen came in. He owns the antique store two doors down. He minced and fussed, looking over each item as if its very provenance was his sole mission in life. Dude, most of this shit she bought retail and tried to mark it up. There are NO hidden treasure here, just pretty shit. And why is it that all the country queens look like they’re either from a 70’s porno or a Dolly Parton video—playing Dolly? Do you people not have the internet? Does mail not come here? I’m guessing even the Sears catalog has more contemporary looks than you boys are workin. Anyhoo, I made my favorite sale of the day. AntiquePornoGirl discovered a basket of pine cones and just about shit one himself. I knew he was dying to say, “Girl, fabulous!” but practiced his country discretion/restraint. “You like the pine cones,” I said seductively, using the East Texas twang I’ve worked so hard to shed. “I may have more in the back.”
I’m pretty sure I saw swelling in the front of his trousers.
“That . . . would be . . .great. Yes, please!” He could barely contain himself.
Sure enough, I had another giant basket of pine cones tucked on a shelf in the back. (WHY MOTHER? WHY?!?!!?)
I brought them out and watched him swallow hard. Who knew that all you needed was a pine cone? Shit, if I had known that in high school, I would have been a bigger slut than that Grantham girl.
By midday Saturday, I had to head back to civilization. But I have to say, I had a hell of a good time. I got to play retail queen for three days. I got to use my East Texas accent again. And I got to make fun of people in my head. Nice work if you can get it.
Tomorrow: The Lady Who Fucked a Horse
Extreme Sports
Believe it or not, I’m a sports nut. I love to watch sports of all kinds (not just ice dancing or rhythmic gymnastics!). I played sports in high school and college, and I’m still bouncing around the tennis court in an attempt to recapture the glory days.
But I’ve never gotten the rabid nature of some sports fans. That do-or-die-for-my-team flavor. And to be honest, I generally disdain those people. A lot.
Not the loyalists, mind you. Just the rabid, myopic “hey, Beer Man!” types.
So imagine how wrinkled my nose was this morning when I read about a Yankees fan killing a Red Sox fan because they were arguing over whose team was better. Then imagine how surprised I was that the Yankees fan was a WOMAN. C’mon people! I know that beer and testosterone are a lethal cocktail, but isn’t that estrogen supposed to curb some of that reactive bullshit?
Apparently, 43 year old Ivonne Hernandez deliberately drove her car into a group of Red Sox fans she’d been arguing with in a bar. She claimed she was “just trying to scare them,” and thought they’d move out of the way. Guess what? You didn’t.
And guess what else? She was drunk. Never would have guessed THAT!
Dead was a 29 year old man. A man whose worst crime was chanting “Yankees Suck” with his friends. Hardly deserving of a death sentence. But apparently Ms. Hernandez felt differently.
So here’s what I think should happen to Hernandez, aka The Stupid Ass Bitch.
1. Since baseball rivalry was her key motivation, I think they should beat the shit out of her with a baseball bat, being careful to avoid vital organs or her head. Don’t want to kill her, just bust her up a bit. A couple of broken kneecaps and arms would be a nice painful start.
2. Put her in a men’s prison somewhere near Boston. And make her serve her time in a Yankees jersey, since she’s so fucking loyal. Wonder how brave she’d be about it then.
3. I think they should videotape all of the aforementioned and show it on every television in every sports bar across the country, with an announcer explaining her crime and punishment.
4. I think all sports bars (including Hooters) should be legislated out of business. (Okay, I don’t really think that has anything to do with it, but it’s a nice thought, right? Except then all those funky, rabid heteros would just show up somewhere else. Never mind. Keep the bars open.
Let me just say this: I hope the judge is a Red Sox fan.
But I’ve never gotten the rabid nature of some sports fans. That do-or-die-for-my-team flavor. And to be honest, I generally disdain those people. A lot.
Not the loyalists, mind you. Just the rabid, myopic “hey, Beer Man!” types.
So imagine how wrinkled my nose was this morning when I read about a Yankees fan killing a Red Sox fan because they were arguing over whose team was better. Then imagine how surprised I was that the Yankees fan was a WOMAN. C’mon people! I know that beer and testosterone are a lethal cocktail, but isn’t that estrogen supposed to curb some of that reactive bullshit?
Apparently, 43 year old Ivonne Hernandez deliberately drove her car into a group of Red Sox fans she’d been arguing with in a bar. She claimed she was “just trying to scare them,” and thought they’d move out of the way. Guess what? You didn’t.
And guess what else? She was drunk. Never would have guessed THAT!
Dead was a 29 year old man. A man whose worst crime was chanting “Yankees Suck” with his friends. Hardly deserving of a death sentence. But apparently Ms. Hernandez felt differently.
So here’s what I think should happen to Hernandez, aka The Stupid Ass Bitch.
1. Since baseball rivalry was her key motivation, I think they should beat the shit out of her with a baseball bat, being careful to avoid vital organs or her head. Don’t want to kill her, just bust her up a bit. A couple of broken kneecaps and arms would be a nice painful start.
2. Put her in a men’s prison somewhere near Boston. And make her serve her time in a Yankees jersey, since she’s so fucking loyal. Wonder how brave she’d be about it then.
3. I think they should videotape all of the aforementioned and show it on every television in every sports bar across the country, with an announcer explaining her crime and punishment.
4. I think all sports bars (including Hooters) should be legislated out of business. (Okay, I don’t really think that has anything to do with it, but it’s a nice thought, right? Except then all those funky, rabid heteros would just show up somewhere else. Never mind. Keep the bars open.
Let me just say this: I hope the judge is a Red Sox fan.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Does This Checkered Flag Make My Ass Look Big?
I’d like to offer a belated “congrats” to Danica Patrick for being the first woman to win an Indy style race. I’m sure that will open the door for at least two more women out there who have dreams of compensating for their missing penises by driving around in circles REALLY fast. I mean, that’s why the guys do it right?
The best part is that Danica doesn’t have a mullet. She has a lovely head of hair and has been able to maintain her femininity in a sport primarily sponsored by cheap beer manufacturers and attended by thousands of men owing back child support.
As I perused the celebratory articles in the paper last week, I came across a photo that left me in tears. Apparently AirTrans is a sponsor of Ms. Patrick or their marketing guy is a consumer of the aforementioned cheap beer. Regardless the airline decided to honor Ms. P by putting her face on the plane and changing the name on the plane to . . . ready . . .
AirTranica.
Hot mess! Ferosha! And inadvertently validating to legions of T-girls across the globe. Can you imagine what their flight attendants are like?
"Oh . . . no . . . honey. You need to shut that baby the hell up! I got WORK to do."
"I SAID put your damn seat in the full, upright and LOCKED position! And from the looks of your saggedy ass, I know you know what a locked position looks like."
Of course, I’m sure that no one in the car racing world got the joke. I mean, can you imagine what a NASCAR dad would look like in drag? (A quick scan of Craigslist in quasi-rural areas would probably answer that rhetorical question.)
But all humor aside, I laud Danica Patrick. I think it’s amazing that she crossed that line first. But I still find it amazing that, in a world where people go so fast, it sure took us a long time to get here.
The best part is that Danica doesn’t have a mullet. She has a lovely head of hair and has been able to maintain her femininity in a sport primarily sponsored by cheap beer manufacturers and attended by thousands of men owing back child support.
As I perused the celebratory articles in the paper last week, I came across a photo that left me in tears. Apparently AirTrans is a sponsor of Ms. Patrick or their marketing guy is a consumer of the aforementioned cheap beer. Regardless the airline decided to honor Ms. P by putting her face on the plane and changing the name on the plane to . . . ready . . .
AirTranica.
Hot mess! Ferosha! And inadvertently validating to legions of T-girls across the globe. Can you imagine what their flight attendants are like?
"Oh . . . no . . . honey. You need to shut that baby the hell up! I got WORK to do."
"I SAID put your damn seat in the full, upright and LOCKED position! And from the looks of your saggedy ass, I know you know what a locked position looks like."
Of course, I’m sure that no one in the car racing world got the joke. I mean, can you imagine what a NASCAR dad would look like in drag? (A quick scan of Craigslist in quasi-rural areas would probably answer that rhetorical question.)
But all humor aside, I laud Danica Patrick. I think it’s amazing that she crossed that line first. But I still find it amazing that, in a world where people go so fast, it sure took us a long time to get here.
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