Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Christmas Goose

Today, I took the dogs for the daily stroll through the giant park across from Chez O'Pine. One of the features of this park is an 18 hole disc golf course. There are always interesting Austin types throwing their discs around, occasionally quaffing a cold beer and even smoking the odd spliff now and again. Hey, it's Austin! Nothing really throws me off my game anymore.

But today I saw a gaggle of "golfers" being accompanied by a full-grown goose. It was just waddling along like part of the gang. It would stop when they stopped. Walk when they walked. I was completely blown away by this seemingly domesticated goose.

I assumed it must be their pet, since it was so obviously part of the group. But when I happened across a golfer in a different group, I asked if it was a pet.

"No," he said. "They picked it up at the 6th hole."

Just a park goose hangin' with some homies. And that's exactly the sort of thing that I will most miss about Austin.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Maybe We'll Skip Marfa

So my beloved and I are embarking on a great new adventure. His part of the adventure involves going to work for one of the best companies in the world in a great job in a great locale. My part of the adventure involves the logistics of getting us there. You know, selling a house, buying a house, coordinating the move, getting the dogs and the offspring from point A to point B, a distance of a couple thousand miles.

Having plenty of experience producing things, I decided to treat the whole thing like a production. And until yesterday, I thought everything was going swimmingly.

Now, one thing that most people don’t know about me, and have never seen, is that I have a temper. It doesn’t crop up often, but when it does, it’s not pretty. And you might imagine that dealing with stupid people is like the expressway to the trigger. So yesterday I’m trying to book our hotels for our trip. I figured if we’re going to drive 10+ hours a day, we ought to try and make our overnights fun and in cool locales.

First stop? The Mystery Lights of Marfa. Now Marfa has developed a reputation as the epicenter of laid back coolness, and somewhat deservedly. It’s a pretty groovy little place. But really what makes Marfa Marfa is the people and stuff you do together. And that usually happens on the weekends when everyone comes in from out of town. During the week, it’s a bit of “hello! Is there anybody here?” kinda place.

So I call the groovy motel that I like to stay at and get what has to be the STUPIDEST receptionist in history. I really wondered how many times she heard the phone ringing and said to herself, “What’s that noise?”

At first it went well. It was the usual--date of arrival, date of departure, which room did I want, cost . . . everything looking good. Then I attempted to confirm that dogs were, in fact, allowed on the property.

“Um, yeah. Dogs are cool. There’s, like . . . a 50% deposit.”

“Oooookay. 50% of what? You website says it’s $50 per night for the dogs. So 50% of that?”

“And you’ll need to check in on the 28th. We’re all booked up on the 31st.”

WTF? That caught me completely off guard. I had said I wanted to spend one night there. The night of the 29th.

“Umm, no . . . I only need the one night. The 29th.”

“Well, there’s a three night minimum.”

And then I started to lose my temper. Because really, I all wanted was one fucking night at the cute motel in the cute town.

“BUT I’M NOT STAYING FOR THREE NIGHTS. I’M JUST PASSING THROUGH FOR ONE NIGHT. AND YOU TOLD ME YOU HAD AVAILABILITY.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to check in on the 28th, though.”

“I WON’T BE IN MARFA ON THE 28TH!!”

“But it’s a three night minimum.”

Cue the cartoon steam coming out of my ears. “Is your manager there?”

“No. Why?”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE AN IDIOT!!!!!! And I want to talk to someone who actually makes sense.”

Shockingly enough, this didn’t phase her in the least. She began again to try to explain to me that all I had to do was check in on the 28th and everything would be cool.”

I screamed into the phone, “YOU’RE CRAZY!!!!” and hung up.

My mama would be sooooo proud.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Eye of the Tiger Storm

So the Tiger Woods tramp train rolls on. We’re now up to, what, 11 women who have come out publicly? First of all, let me say this. I don’t really give a shit about Tiger’s private life. And I don’t really think it’s any of my business. These are not people who are making their livings based on their character. (Although I’m sure there are a bunch of 80-year-old Buick owners who are losing their teeth over this).

This to me is such hogshit. Our “moral outrage.” Whatthefuckever. (Of course, I find the entire concept of “moral outrage” a ridiculous notion. It’s such a holier-than-thou kinda thing, and we all know how much I dig that.) Professional athletes have been poking their, um, nose where it doesn’t belong FOREVER! Anyone who is surprised that the world’s most famous athlete is too, is a sand breather.

But can someone please explain to me why the “other” woman/women are always such skanks? If I’m Tiger Woods, and I’m stepping out on the blonde goddess I have at home, wouldn’t you do it with actresses and models? Instead of Vegas cocktail waitresses, kino girls and truck stop parking lot attendants?

The other thing that cracks me up is how they’re all coming forward. All trying to cash that check. They’re talking about Tiger’s endowment. His prowess. They’re showing off their text messages and voicemails. And best of all THEY’RE JEALOUS OF EACH OTHER!!! They each thought their skanky ass was what Tiger truly wanted. And each feels she was “cheated on” too. BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

Oh well, at least some good can come out of this. Saturday Night Live got some hilarious punches in. And Elin Nordgren is now a very rich woman.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Put the Turkey Away Until Next Year

I love November. It begins with me turning another year older during the Festival O'Pine, then ends with a certain snarky blogger deep in a food coma. Damn near perfection. So as the month of Turkey comes to a close, I pause to give thanks. I am truly the luckiest damn guy on the planet. I have a hubby who loves me like there's no tomorrow. And adorable child who alternately gazes lovingly at me or rolls his eyes so acrobatically I expect Cirque de Soleil to pop out of one.

I have a freakin' fantastic family. All full of crazy ass-ness and drama. But bursting at the seams with love and support. There has never been a moment in my family where I doubted I was loved and supported and encouraged.

And there are my friends. Wow, oh wow. I would put mine up against any on the planet. They define friendship. I have received so very much from my people. They encourage me, support me, pull my hair back when I'm throwing up cheap box wine, and tell me when I'm out of line. It is a true honor and privilege. And even though they are scattered hither and yon, we all make the effort. We keep in touch. We know what's what.

So, for me, every day is Thanksgiving. I can only hope that I'm able to return a fraction of the love and support that is given to me.

And to the three people who read this blog who don't fall into one of the above categories, special thanks to you. I hoist this one last turkey leg in your honor.

Have a Nice Day

Each day, my beloved takes our two dogs for a lovely long walk in the park across the street from our casa. If I’m not breathing last night’s tequila, I occasionally tag along. A good stretch of it is off-leash, so the dogs can frolic and run and burn off a bunch of energy. Energy that would otherwise manifest itself in the destruction of various household items and furniture.

It’s a nice park, full of nice people walking the dog. Everyone greets everyone else, says “hello” and “oh, isn’t your dog adorable.” “No, YOURS is!” “No, yours!”

You get the picture.

But every once in awhile, you pass someone and say good morning and they don’t reciprocate. Now, sure, maybe they just had a death in the family or their bunions are acting up, or their migas just aren’t sitting right. But would it fuckin’ kill you to smile and nod? I mean, seriously. The other day, this older woman looked as if it was taking every ounce of energy she had just to sort of scrunch her mouth when we said “good morning.” It was like she was completely incapable of expressing pleasure. Or politeness.

It’s not going to make your day any worse to acknowledge a pleasantry with one of your own. In fact it might make it better.

So I ran after her and kicked her really hard in the ass.

“I SAID ‘good morning.’” Maybe next time, she’ll be a little more sociable.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Simpatico

Inside every gay man is a teen girl trying to get out.

Friday I was doing my thang at the gym (read: whining about how heavy the princess smartbells are) when I overheard a snippet of conversation that had me giggling all weekend. One of the cute, tough female trainers had brought her daughter to work. And this kid is 6 going on 16, let me tell you. Cool little chick.

One of the cute, young gay boy trainers was keeping her company, and apparently they were having quite the in-depth conversation. The little girl said something I couldn’t hear, but the gay boy immediately responded with, “Ohmygod, I know!’ followed immediately by an eyeroll.

I laughed so hard that I considered it a complete ab workout. Thank God I had my flask in the gym bag for the cool down.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Prejean Hearts Palin

Well, it is called ATTACK OF THE STUPID PEOPLE after all.

When asked who her personal hero is, Prejean told Larry King it was Sarah Palin.

King asked if she would vote for Palin for President. Prejean said she thought Palin would "make a great President," but that "She's smart enough now to get out of that. She's doing great things."

Uh . . . ooookay . . . she's on a book tour and wishing for a talk show. I guess that does trump being President of the United States.

Dumb da dumb dumb.

Why Do Blonde Jokes Write Themselves, Part XXX

I SWEAR this will not turn into the Carrie Prejean blog, but I just finished watching a clip of her on Larry King last night and it was too rich to resist. The clip I saw had Larry asking why she had chosen to settle her lawsuit. Her response was that all discussions held in mediation were covered by a confidentiality agreement and she couldn’t discuss.

Larry probed—gently—and she accused him of being “inappropriate.”

That’s right. She can pose topless and make a sex tape, all while representing California as a beacon of beauty and purity. All while espousing her conservative Christian values. And trying to keep my ass off the gift registry. Talk about inappropriate!

Oh, I wanted Larry to go off on her. But she decided to pull a diva move and, after calling Larry inappropriate several more times, took off her mike. And sat there.

WTF? Hey Rocket Scientist, if you’re gonna pull the stunt, you’re supposed to leave the set, not just sit there being petulant. God, you don’t even know how to exit stage left? They even do that in pageants.

And come on, honey! Give us a break with the whole “confidentiality” thing. The whole world knows that while you were trying to bust the Miss California USA pageant’s balls, they whipped out a little clip of you apparently trying to teach your vagina sign language.

And given your steel-trap of a mind, I’m surprised you didn’t think to use that as a defense.

“Larry, not many people know, but I have a deaf vagina. It’s a very misunderstood condition. This video was actually part of a PSA shoot. I hope that by making the PSA public, I can shed some light on this very serious problem and help scores of women who are my fellow sufferers. Teaching my vagina sign-language is just one hands-on approach to ending the shame, and hopefully bringing more deaf vaginas into the light. Trust me Larry, tonight MILLIONS of women all across the world are trying to teach THEIR vaginas sign language. And I would like to think that I had a hand in that.”

Oh, Christian Barbie! Thank you for being the poster child for uninformed right wing bimbos all across our great land. I know a certain Miss Teen North Carolina who is thrilled that she’s off the hook.

Monday, November 9, 2009

So Right. So Wrong.

So, the offspring has a couple of friends—two brothers—who live across the street from his mom, where he spends most of his time. The kids are nice enough, I guess, although I suspect they are headed for major hooliganism based on my exposure to them. But the parents recently shared some info that has just made my skin crawl and my stomach turn every time I see them. Actually even if I just hear their name mentioned.

See, they let our boy’s mom know that they wouldn’t let their boys have sleepovers at our house for moral reasons. You know, because sleeping in the same house with a boring old gay couple is bound to scar the boys for life.

I’m guessing they think that once the lights go out, a ball-gag automatically drops from the bedroom ceilings like some over-the-top scene from Bruno.

They went on to say that, since the mom’s boyfriend was sleeping over and about to move in, their two sons wouldn’t be allowed sleepovers at HER house anymore either.

But I’m sick of these fucking retards calling themselves Christians, and claiming to live by their “Christian” ideals. They don’t mind the kids playing at our house. And they don’t mind drinking our beer and wine when they come to pick their borderline hooligan sons up from a playdate. But they don’t want to have to explain to their kids that people who aren’t married, and people of the same sex, actually HAVE sex. Or in these cases, sleep in the same bed. Because that’s ALL these kids would be aware of. That two adults went into a room together and came back out the next morning.

I’m dying to call the mother of the friends and tell her that OUR boy won’t be allowed to sleepover at their house because we don’t approve of their judgmental assiness. Or that we’re afraid their brand of Kumbaya just isn’t quite good enough.

Of course, I won’t because the only person that would suffer would be the only one I care about. And I care more about the child than I do the sand-breathers (think ostrich) his friends call Mom and Dad. Grr.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Warm AND Fashionable

For the last several days I’ve had this annoying cough. Last night I OD’d on Nyquil and today I feel like my head’s still swimming in the stuff. And since it’s kind of a nasty, rainy day, I’ve been pretty much parked on the couch with the TV on.

Sunday morning TV is pretty much the province of pitchmen. Most are selling Jesus, but some are selling even less useful crap. I barely even looked up when the Snuggie commercial came on, until I heard the whoreish looking model say, “I love my Snuggie, but when are you going to make a more stylish version for people like me?”

Before I could say, “You mean ‘whores?’” the voiceover informed me that “the wait is over.” And there before me magically appeared the two new patterns of Snuggie: leopard and zebra. So yes, I guess they did mean whores.

I laughed so hard I started coughing again. Are you fucking kidding me? What was THAT product development conversation like at Snuggie HQ?

“Well, we’ve been successful beyond all expectation with our line of cheap fleece blankets with arm holes. But so far we’ve limited ourselves to a fairly bland color palate.”

“But isn’t there ANY way to make this fucking thing uglier than it already is?”

“You know, there was this exotic lady in the trailer park where I grew up who always wore leopard or zebra print jumpsuits to get the mail. She chain smoked kool lights and she’d flick her ashes in an empty PBR can.”

Yeah. That.

Great idea, Snuggie brain trust. Now, may I recommend a product extension? We’ll call it the Wedgie . . .

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Showing Us How “Opposites” Do It

I don’t hate Carrie Prejean. I think she’s a vapid, narrow-minded Barbie doll, but I don’t hate her. I think she’s absolutely entitled to her opinion. But there is this recurring theme amongst these “moral” folk who think gay rights is the first sign of the apocalypse. They can’t seem to keep their morals in their pants.

Apparently, Ms. Prejean has dropped her lawsuit against the California pageant people after they showed her a copy of her own sex tape. That’s right, Miss Biblethumper apparently dropped her prejeans and took it like a missionary. On tape. Because that’s what good role models do, right? Talk about the Rapture.

Hypocrisy. Idiocy. Lies. Hatred. God Bless.

I don’t think that means what you think it means.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Dark Lord in Person

So I had a little Squeaky Fromme moment yesterday in the Austin airport. My amazingly wonderful Beloved was whisking me away for a surprise birthday celebration and we decided to grab a quick bite. There, in line for Salt Lick barbecue, was the devil himself, Karl Rove. So much for appetite.

As I watched the beady eyed fucker wait his turn, I ran through a series of scenarios in my head. I could just run up and kill him. Sure I'd wind up in prison, but the world would be a better place, no? Then I realized that's a bit like closing the barn door after the cows have gotten out. I mean, honestly, hasn't he pretty much connived himself into irrelevance?

So maybe an "accident" where I turn suddenly with a milkshake in my hand, dumping the entire contents of my glass on his traveling clothes. He'd either have to change clothes and shove his sticky ones in his bag, or travel sticky. Either way, an appealing option for my devious and vindictive mind.

Eventually, I settled on the perfect plan. I'd sidle up to him casually, then give him a big wet one right on the lips. Give him something gay to think about.

But wouldn't I really be the one who was punished in that scenario? Blechh! It would be like kissing the crypt keeper.

In the end, I simply ate my tacos and glared at the man responsible for the near downfall of our country and wished him a bad case of heartburn. God knows he gave us all one.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Should O'Pine Acquaintance Be Forgot

Happy New Year!!

Tomorrow is my birthday. For years now I have used my birthday as my new year—a time for thoughtful introspection. And turning 39 always brings about great reflection for me.

One thing I like to do is my resolutions. Things I’d like to change, do more of, experience, quit . . . just like January but without all the peer pressure. Near the top of my list is this lil ol’ bloggy thingy. Bit of a red-headed stepchild these days. So I’m determined to begin again. To share my warped perspective with the tens of people in my loyal cadre.

So, for me, today is New Year’s Eve!! Will there be champagne tonight? Probably. Will there be regrets tomorrow. Most definitely not. But there will be blogging.

Cheers.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Ready to Itch?

Last week, I had to make a quick Target run on my way out of town. As I'm dashing up and down the aisles, looking for the ONE item I need to grab, I come across an American tableau that has become all to familiar. An older, haggard woman with long streaky, greasy gray hair, was pushing her cart ahead of me. Her daughter, equally inbred looking, came dashing up holding the largest container of RID I'd ever seen. For those of you who haven't had to suffer through any of the infestations which RID is used to treat, suffice it to say that "itchy creepy crawlies" pretty well sums it up.

As the daughter handed off her find, she said, somewhat defensively, "It's the biggest one they got, mama."


Eww. Itch. Eww. Itch. Looks like somebody's uncle gave 'em crabs again.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

They Ain't Gunna Lissen.

Today is usually a big day for me. The day after Labor Day, for me, has always symbolized the onset of Fall (more in the school sense than the season sense—Texas doesn’t really have four seasons). A time to reboot. A time for new possibilities. A time for making progress.

I guess all those years of back-to-school excitement created a Pavlovian response which persists to this day.

This year, though, I’m just sad. Sad that a whole bunch of stupid fucking parents are objecting to a pro-education speech by our President being shown in public schools. Objecting to the point where they are threatening to keep their children home from school rather than “subject” them to the “brainwashing” of The President of the United States.

Oh, the delicious irony of depriving your child a day of education to prevent them from seeing a pro-education message.

Believe me, I understand how much one can dislike a President. I still have “I’m the decider!” flashbacks. But what I guess really gets me is how we, as a country, continue to let this group of vocal yokels hijack national debates and our national agenda. I used to blame the Republicans, but now I’ve decided to just blame NASCAR.

I mean, really, when you think about it, this is an activity that consists of people, primarily “aw shucks” males, driving their cars around in circles as fast as they can, being cheered loudly by thousands of people with duck calls in their pockets and not enough teeth to eat corn on the cob, winding up several hours later in the exact same spot which they started. Then celebrating their “victory” by spewing cheap ripple on everybody, especially the buxom, bikini-clad bimbos who materialize from behind the checkered flag.

These are the same people who show up at town hall meetings and shout people down with McCarthy-esque cries of “socialism” (look at you and your four-syllable word!) and a desire to see our country go round and round in circles REALLY FAST.

My favorite (?) was the dumbass motherfucker who derided Obama’s “Afro-Leninism.” WTF? How stupid are you people? I mean we have the Kinsey scale to determine how gay you are. How about the O’Pine scale for stupidity?

What would that look like? I guess a 1 would be some drooling hillbilly and a 6 would be Stephen Hawking? Okay, maybe it needs some work.

All I know is that, for me, the day after Labor Day has been tainted. I’m almost too saddened for ridicule.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Mama's Milk

I’m reading the new Bon Appetit. Cuz I do. And there’s a really cool blurb on the resurgence of milk home delivery. They’re calling it a trend that supports local dairies. My grown self thinks that’s pretty cool. My child self, however, went fucking ape shit.

See, I’m juuuust old enough (wipe that smile off your face!) to remember the Milk Man. No, not because he was the first man I called “daddy.” Just because during my grade school days, we lived where such delivery was available. And I thought it was the most amazing thing ever.

I begged—seriously, begged—my mother to sign us up for a Milk Man. It wasn’t some latent attraction. Never really wanted to do a Milk Man. But I was completely captivated by those cold clear bottles, right outside your door, next to the morning paper, EXACTLY like it was in every TV show and movie I’d ever seen. At least the ones that involved milk delivery.

I thought the milk tasted better, richer. And it made me feel better. And richer. There was something decadent about its simplicity. Then I discovered that they delivered CHOCOLATE milk, too. Are you fucking kidding me? For a ten year old kid, that’s like discovering that your mom’s tit produced milk in multiple flavors (which apparently it does, reflecting what you’ve ingested. Mine would be tequila and asparagus. But that’s another story). I needed that chocolate milk fix.

Lo and behold, my sweet southern mama knew her shit. She knew my “special” (that’s what they called adolescent gay in the south back then) way of thinking would quickly tire of the idea once it had lost it’s “specialness.” So she signed us up. And the milk began to flow. At first, it truly was manna. I wanted it every day, but mama reminded me that we hadn’t drunk the one from yesterday, so it would be wasteful for us to take EVERY day delivery.

Even that one-day gap caused me to quiver with anticipation. This lasted all of three weeks. By then, I knew the routine. I anticipated my anticipation. Which takes all of the fun out of it, and fills the void with stress and indifference. And one day, it might as well have been buttermilk. The taste was gone. I was milk fickle.

Now, all these years later, I realize my mom probably DID order buttermilk that day. She was rather fond of it and loved to crumble her cornbread into a cold glass of buttermilk. But once that taste was in my mouth, I could easily draw a line to the shared flavor profiles with whole milk. But I’ve outgrown the memory of lost anticipation.

And I can now start to wonder, when will the milk man get here?

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Dear Madonna

I, like millions of other gay men, gleefully navigated to the video of Madonna’s new “single” off her latest, greatest hits. Say what you will about the Madge, but she has proven to have staying power in a notoriously fickle industry, and has consistently produced pop candy, while exposing the world to a ton of interesting collaborators.

She has teased, taunted and titillated. But now it has to stop. So, I’ve crafted this note to the former Mrs. Richie and Penn.

Dear Madonna,

Honey--we’re getting old. Touching your puss suggestively while groping your new model/dj/boytoy isn’t hip and cool. It’s kind of creepy. In a cougar creepy way. It’s not “keeping you young.” In fact, it makes you look even older. Being the only AARP member in a troupe of twentysomethings reeks of desperation. It’s kind of like that old people smell.

Don’t get me wrong. You can still dance your ass off. You are still amazing and magical. And I believe that there’s nothing wrong with being a role model for post-menopausal sexuality. But you’re becoming the female equivalent of the old guy in the trenchcoat.

When you simulated masturbation on stage during your Like a Prayer days, it was a celebration of your sexuality and I applauded you. Now it just seems . . . unseemly.
You can still be provocative. Jesus, I just saw Grace Jones perform live and one of her costumes was completely backless. And it was hot. But she didn’t touch herself.

I’m not saying you should act your age. I’m just saying maybe don’t act your daughter’s age either. Even though your boyfriend is, like, 20 years closer to your daughter’s age—I’m okay with that. Get it while you can.

Love,

O’P

Thursday, August 27, 2009

I'll Take Mine to Go

So, I’m grabbing a coffee at Juan Pelota (Lance Armstrong’s ironically—and hysterically—monikered coffee shop attached to his bike shop). As you might imagine, much of the clientele is super-fit.

One such woman, easily in her 40’s, but with a bangin’ bod and wind-lifted facial features (okay, maaaaaybe there was a scalpel involved at some point, but why go there?) stepped up to the counter and ordered her latte with skim milk. As she and her friend are waiting for their order, the guy behind the counter approaches and apologizes, “I’m so sorry, but we’re out of skim. If you like, I can steam the whole milk up really frothy, so it’ll take up more room in the cup, but use less milk. That way there’d be fewer calories, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Now, in my book, this is exceptional customer service. It’s problem-solving, smart-thinking—all the things I wish for in a less-than-ideal situation.

But Missy couldn’t be bothered. The eye-roll of exasperation was accented by a heavy sigh. “No!” she snapped. “That’s okay. Just give me whole milk.”

The guy immediately went about his task of making her whole milk latte. Meanwhile, she turns to her friend and stage whispers, her voice still dripping with exasperation, “It’s not the calories I’m worried about. It’s the fat.” Her implication was clear. What a dumbass the barista was, right?

Um . . . let’s see . . . last time I checked, smaller quantity meant less of EVERYTHING. So, skinnybitch, if the nice young man’s solution had reduced the calorie count of your latte by using LESS whole milk, wouldn’t it necessarily have ALSO reduced the fat count?

Of course, from the looks of your body, the bulk of your fat is between your ears, so maybe this really is too advanced a concept for you. Or maybe you can spend an extra 45 seconds on cardio to make up for the 1 extra gram of fat or whatever. Sha!

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Trafficking in Freshman

So, Biggerthan U, right up the street from my house, is gearing up for the Fall Semester. That means a whole new class of traffic, caused by a shitload of cars each bearing a shiny new, “My Child and My Money Go To Biggerthan U” bumper sticker.

Most of these suburban transport vehicles are driven by fathers whose anxiety on this day is second probably only to the nights leading up to the birth of this child they’re now pushing from the nest. These anxious dads are all trying to find their way without asking for directions, wreaking havoc on any jaunts I might feel compelled to take.

Now, granted, I don’t take these jaunts often this time of year. Leaving your air conditioned space in August in Texas generally indicates some genetic vulnerability. Plus, the variety and abundance of bad driving causes my blood pressure to rise uncontrollably. (I started to say, “drives me to drink” but we all know that just breathing does that.) But on those rare occasions when I have ventured out, I’ve noticed two particularly annoying manoeuvres that have me flummoxed.

First is blocking the box. How fucking complicated is it to be aware that you are, essentially, parked in the intersection. It’s not just people getting stopped short. I see people creep into the box when there is absolutely ZERO movement on the other side. There’s nowhere for them to go. Except directly in front me. Keeping me from getting to where I need to go. They always seem so sheepish, or else they do the “no peripheral vision/stiff neck” thing. You know, like they can’t see you, or they’re so focused on the car ahead of them. Which still hasn’t moved. Nor have I. It’s a win-win, right? ‘tards.

My other great disdain is for the converse of this situation: the driver who decides to stop traffic to let you turn, even though traffic is moving and he’s only blocking one lane so it’s not like you could actually get across the street without having an accident and now there’s a whole row of people who think YOU are the asshole for not taking advantage of the guy’s largesse thereby allowing them to GET ON WITH THEIR JOURNEY. Whew.

Hard to imagine that this many stupid people could produce offspring smart enough to get into Big U. I can’t wait to see how good the kids are behind the wheel. More joy to come.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

What's Next? Jesus Soap on a Rope?

I’m pretty sure I’ve posted before about the inability to escape the church newsletter of my childhood congregation. Each month, like clockwork, a little Xeroxed newsletter arrives in the mailbox, offering up Jesus-y news on people I have never heard of. Occasionally, there will be someone I recognize in the Prayer Requests section. It never says what you’re praying for, but I guess that’s okay.

Personally, I like to be very specific in my prayers. If I’m praying for a new Maserati, I pray for specific accessories, colors and trim. I don’t want to risk having God select mine as the “prayer of the day” and deign to fulfill it, only to get some raggedy assed used car in pimp purple and cloth seats.

But I digress. The church newsletter . . .

This month, I was greeted by Love Notes from the Pastor. I find that vaguely creepy and sooooo Catholic Priest derivative. But the first line of her missive (yes, the pastor is female) had me scratching my head in between the church giggles: “I smelled the aroma of Christ!” she wrote. Ummm . . . didn’t realize Jesus had come out with a fragrance. And what exactly did it smell like? Was it all flower-dy? Or was it more sandalwood with hints of murrh?

But seriously, you “smelled the aroma of Christ?”

She was referring to a volunteer outing where school supplies were provided to needy children. And she uses the same metaphor THREE times.

“You truly put on the aroma of Christ as you greeted each child . . .” Hunh? So you can actually spray this shit on? Or is it a roll-on?

Growing up in East Texas, we always hated when the wind would blow a certain direction, because we could smell the pulp from the paper mill. It essentially smelled like the forest farted. Could THAT be what she was smelling?

Regardless, she obviously thinks it’s a good thing. She closes her letter with “Keep on smelling like Jesus.” If only I knew what that meant.

Monday, August 24, 2009

I Think She Forgot What the "i" Stands For

Amanda Fortini hates her iPhone.

WTF, you ask? Who is Amanda Fortini and why should we give a shit about her iRage? Well, she is a writer for salon.com. And quite frankly, we shouldn’t give a shit about her. Or her phone.

Normally, I take this sort of thing in stride. It’s part of my world. We’re not all supposed to like every product. Sure, manufacturers would love it if we did, but that’s why there is so much money spent on demographic research. That way, marketers can hopefully exploit the perfect product with the perfectly receptive audience.

But in this case, it sounds like Missy Fortini is one of those Americans who likes to foist their own shortcomings onto the gadget nearest her. She describes herself as “clumsy, scatterbrained and accident-prone.” And her iPhone as “evil” and ruining her life.

Yes, it is her iPhone’s fault—or rather her FOUR iPhone’s fault. That’s right. The iPhone has only been in existence a couple of years and she’s already on her fourth one.

“My starter phone lasted for a little more than a year, until the battery got old and the phone, which had never behaved well, really began to act up. The next one wasn't around long: I dropped it; it shattered. My third, a fussbudget sort, got a little bit damp and refused to work. Now, I am on my fourth iPhone, whose screen cracked weeks ago, and which plagues me daily with its many bugs and quirks and connectivity issues.”

“I dropped it; it shattered” and I swept it under the rug. When her phone got “a little bit damp” it became a “fussbudget.” Uh, it “got” wet. Just happened to “get wet.” Love the passivity. Hey lady, EVERYONE knows that you don’t get your phone wet. I sent my Motorola through the spin cycle once and I didn’t complain that it couldn’t take a little “clean-up.”

And then the “cracked screen.” And now it's full of "bugs." They probably got in through the cracked screen.

Oh, Amanda, I’m thinking this is more “user-error” than evildoer Apple. And why the fuck have you bought FOUR of something you hate that is ruining your life. I’m thinking your problems run a little deeper than you imagine. Maybe you should quit trying to use the Genius Bar for therapy.

Oh! Oh! And in her attempt to foment the revolution, she also published this bit of free verse from an anonymous poster (‘cause posts are REALLY where I get my accurate data):

my iPhone is a piece of shit

fuck this fucking piece of shit

it can suck my dick

twice

Now I have a whole ‘nother bone to pick. Isn’t getting your dick sucked, even once, supposed to be a pleasurable experience? Isn’t the number one complaint of heterosexual guys that their girls won’t give them that brand of love? Maybe it’s because you’ve turned it into punishment for being on your bad side.

My guess is that the poster hasn’t ever had his dick sucked.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

My Favorite Quote from a Reality Competition

I’m really a nice person. My honesty makes me seem like I’m bitchy. But I’m not. I’m just honest.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Dressing for (Cosmopolitan) Success

I’m not much of an online or mail-order shopper. I’m more tactile and want to actually see and feel the things I’m considering buying, rather than just looking at a professionally lighted and retouched photograph. This is especially true when it comes to clothing. Thus, I don’t make many mail-order lists. Not a large pile of catalogs here at Casa O’Pine.

Yesterday, I received a men’s clothing catalog. And the cover caught my eye and forced me into the book. Not because I was smitten with the clothes or even the model, but because the whole thing had me saying, WTF? Is this a practical joke?

I’m still not entirely sure some hipper-than-thou entity isn’t having a go.

The catalog is dedicated solely to the work of one designer, a Swiss man named Edo Popken. Sounds like a joke already, right? Popken’s tagline: Cosmopolitan Successwear.

(stifled snicker/snort. Not so stifled snicker. Bwah-ha-ha!)

Seriously? Did someone who was not a native English speaker translate this, or write this? What the fuck does it mean?

There’s a reasonably handsome man on the cover, wearing a cheap denim-ish blazer with a cheap looking, gold threaded crest on the pocket. No wait, it’s too shiny for denim. It looks like a synthetic wool now. Still cheap. Our Cosmolitan Success is sitting in the dining room of a hotel, one of those small touristy European joints. The kind you get on a package deal. He has a tulip glass in front of him filled with what appears to be the combined leftovers of his pilsner and his dates’ white zinfandel (aren't you going to finish that?). There are some random peanuts in a white Styrofoam bowl near his hand.

As you flip through this mess/waste of paper, it is always the same model. But wait, there’s a picture of Popken himself. It’s an awfully small photo. He’s wearing hipster glasses and . . . hold on a minute . . . could it possibly be? I think Popken is his own model!!!! I’m not positive. Although I’m thinking of drawing some hipster glasses on one of the larger photos to see of that confirms it. At the very least, he has some serious narcissism going on in his model selection.

As I thumbed through, I was completely shocked and appalled. This shit is cheap, cheap, cheap looking. It’s shiny. It’s garish. It’s ugly. And he’s created his own logo/crest (which is writ LARGE on his garments) that involves stylized lion holding a giant sans-serif E. I think it stands for “ewwww.”

Man, who did I piss off to get put on this list?

Monday, June 8, 2009

Poison at the Tonys

I hate to admit it, but I'm not a theater queen. Or is that Theatre Queen? Regardless, I'd rather watch vacuous blondes parade around in bikinis, vying for "scholarships," celebrating "opposite marriage" and "the Irag."

So, the Tony Awards sort of never make it onto my Tivo schedule. But something in the the reportage of last nights ceremony caught my eye this morning. Brett Michaels injured himself by running into a piece of scenery. At the Tonys. Apparently the Rock of Love ain't so tough.

But WTF was Brett Michaels doing at the friggin' Tonys? Was he part of some stunt casting for the revival of Hair? Was Constantine Maroulis giving blood that day?

No, apparently the organizers of the Tonys brought the band of hair called Poison in for a performance. Michaels said he guessed that the show wanted to add some "edge." Umm. They could have brought in the shaving gel called "edge" and fit the bill more appropriately. Poison hasn't been "edgy" since . . . okay, Poison has never been "edgy," unless by "edgy" you mean "noisy" in that way that high school juniors use volume to drown out the drumbeat of their own testosterone and lack of popularity.

No, my guess is that the Theatre Queens who actually put on the Tonys thought it would be ironic, like pink flamingoes were in their day, or hot oil treatment by Alberto VO5. Speaking of which, I'm guessing there were more than a few catty comments about the state of Mr. Michaels' tresses. You know how those Theatre Queens can be. (maybe I'm more of one than I thought.)

Friday, June 5, 2009

Stupid Goes to Washington (National)

Nothing like an airport to mine for los gentes estupidos. As I come through security, they are wanding a buxom blonde, who looks like a cousin of Dolly Parton dressed up like a sorority girl. As they pass over her right boob, the wand squeaks.

“That’s me!” says the prepbilly. Ahh! A PIERCED preppy hillbilly. NIce.

The wand squeaks again on it’s journey past her left boob.

“Me again.”

I don’t wait to hear the rest, but gather my things and go to the lovely seats provided to put your shoes and accessories back on. But wait! Here comes the entire prepbilly clan! Turns out she’s a mom! Not exactly surprising given the fact that she’s a yokel and over the age of 13, but ya know, she WAS wearing some decent jewelry.

“You know,” she began, in her post-patdown briefing, “they have this thing back home in Tulsa that scans yer whole body and produces a picture that’s practically pornographic.”

Her offspring stare back, not surprisingly, slackjawed.

“YOU know,” she says more emphatically, “at the Tulsa airport. They have a machine that takes a picture of you that is practically pornographic!” Tulsa. That explains a lot.

Her daughter, probably almost of birthing age herself, says, “That’s gross!”

(NOTE: My standard response when anyone says that something sexual is “gross” is “not if you’re doing it right.” That was the thought that popped into my head.)

The son decided he needed to chime in, offering his expertise to the already heady mix. “I thought it just showed what was under your skin.”

I thought I heard grandma humming some tune on the banjo. Maybe Battle Hymn of the Republic.

You can take the family out of the holler . . .

Saturday, May 16, 2009

El Dumbass

This afternoon, The Beloved and The Offspring stopped by the neighborhood sub shop for a quick bite between Saturday errands. As they were finishing their $5 foot-longs (my baby loves a cheap foot long) a fortyish white guy emerged from the, um, facilities.

He addressed the young Hispanic man working behind the counter: “La Cabanyo no es working. It’s full.”

To which the young man replied, “I can’t understand what you’re saying. Could you speak English?”

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Craigslist Cleans Up

Rather than face criminal charges in several states, Craigslist has decided to remove it’s “Erotic Services” section postings altogether.

OMG! What on earth will people do now that they can’t access the “for pay” sex listings? Gee, I dunno, maybe move UP a link and search through all the FREE sex on display. But after a cursory search (research purposes, of course), I discovered that apparently all you get on there are “endless emails,” people who don’t look anything like their pictures, people who want YOU to provide the drugs, and an exponentially higher risk of catching an STD.

And speaking of “down under,” the Australian National Rugby League is embroiled in a sex-scandal involving an alleged rape in 2002, where a New Zealand woman had sex with at least 6 members of a rugby team, while at least 12 other team members or staff poked in and out to watch.

The info has only recently come to light, and while I always wonder what, exactly, a woman expects to happen when she returns to a hotel room with a rugby team, “no” should always mean “no.”

Although when it comes to rugby players, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to remember that word.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

TwoFace Book

There is this guy here in town who is a VERY good friend of a VERY good friend of mine. We have often been at the same small events and I’ve even been to his home a couple of times.

The problem is, whenever I run into him when our mutual friend isn’t present, he refuses to acknowledge my existence. At first, I would say “Hi, FriendofFriend!” He would look at me like, "Who the fuck are you?" Like he’d never laid eyes on me before. He would sort of haltingly say, “hello” with the most abject confusion in his voice.

And the truth is, I wasn't really interested in a relationship of any kind with him. I just was being social because of our mutual friend. So finally, I stopped even bothering to greet him, and settled for complaining about what a douche he was to our mutual friend.

Recently, I saw him at a small, political function. I was LITERALLY 18 inches from him. He looked directly into my eyes and there was absolutely no recognition. I was a stranger in a crowd. It didn’t really bother me. It was behavior I had come to expect.

So imagine how hard my dentures hit the floor when, last week, I got a friend request from said douche on Facebook.

You should know that when I first got on Facebook I was ecstatic. The competitive edge came out and I wanted to link to as many “friends” as possible. Soon, I realized that I had overindulged (how unlike me!) and had linked to a lot of folks that sort of fell into that “better off dead” category. You know, people you remember fondly, occasionally wondering, “Whatever happened to . . .” Well, now you know. And there was a reason your friendship lives in the past tense.

But this was new territory. How could I be friends with someone who refused to acknowledge my very presence in the same room. And why would I want to be friends with someone who exudes all the personality of a non-flowering shrub. Snarky lil ol’ me wanted to send a response. Something along the lines of “you’re fucking kidding, right?” or “did you mean to send this to someone else?” or even, “I’m sorry, have we met?”

But instead, I just gleefully, and perhaps with a hair too much might, punched the “ignore” button. After all, he’d been punching my ignore button for quite some time now. And I have to admit, I feel smugly superior all of a sudden.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Ay! Mi Gente!

One of my all time favorite friend stories involves a girl, "Bea" and her friend, "Javier." One day at lunch, Javier observed some Hispanics behaving badly. "Fucking Mexicans!" he said. Shocked, Bea turned to him and said, "But Javi, YOU'RE Mexican." Javier sighed and slumped his shoulders, then dramatically declared, "Ay! Mi Gente!" Loosely translated that means, "Oy, My People!"

Having spent much of the last couple of weeks "on assignment" in Spain (part of my budding side-career as a travel writer), I had been blissfully spared the acts of stupidity so common in my daily life at home in Texas. Of course, maybe it was just because I don't speak Spanish very well, so I wasn't able to conveniently witness the verbal stupidities, but based on action, I'm pretty sure there are just fewer stupid people in Spain.

I was shocked back into reality upon arriving at the airport.

"YOU SHOULD NEVER LEAVE THE UNITED STATES!!!" cawed the oooooold woman in the wheelchair. As taken aback as I was by her random pronouncement to the room, I was even more gobsmacked by the three jingoistic jackasses who APPLAUDED her. WTF? Taxi! Back to El Centro, por favor. Queria vivir aqui ahora!"

Then there was the six-some of seniors, wrapping up their Odd Couples vacay. There was the vacuous one, sitting waiting with her blank expression. Upon discovering that we would be taking a bus out on the tarmac (not at all unusual), she became slightly agitated and said, in a whispery voice, "we have to take a bus!" Then, in a spooky sing-song voice, "Take the bus to the train, and the train to the plane." Hunh? Umm, lady . . . there ain't no train. although i would be significantly happier if you WERE taking a bus to a train. A train to somewhere other than where I'm going.

The hard charger of the six-some (for some reason the men all seemed to be entirely pussy-whipped. In fact this one kept hers on a leash via walkie-talkie) was freaking out because she had decided FIVE MINUTES BEFORE DEPARTURE that she wanted to change her euros back to dollars. "But the money changer is on the other side of security! Can you believe that?!?!!? I would have to go all the way back through security, just to change my money."

Or you you could take your bold-patterned-clad fat ass to the cambio in the New York airport. Dumbass.

And of course no trip to a foreign land would ever be complete without the wonderful American who thinks the language barrier can be breached by volume. As we're checking out of the snack bar line, she literally yells at the poor cashier (who for some odd reason DOESN'T speak English), "DO YOU WANT TO CHARGE IT? (pause) OR CASH? (pause) AMERICAN MONEY!"

Yep, good old fashioned "american money." A buck and a scream will cover you in just about any situation.

Ay! Mi Gente!

Friday, April 10, 2009

Betty Brown Eye

WHY?!?!?! Why is it always Texas?

Maybe I should be grateful that I live in the land of blog-fodder, but really? I’m sure you’ve seen the reports of one of our very own, State Representative Betty Brown (R-Athens) and her efforts to push through Voter ID legislation. Her latest salvo was to recommend that Asian Americans (emphasis on AMERICANS) should change their names to make them easier to pronounce for white people.

“Rather than everyone here having to learn Chinese — I understand it’s a rather difficult language — do you think that it would behoove you and your citizens to adopt a name that we could deal with more readily here?” Brown said.


I am SPUTTERING. ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY SPUTTERING. You understand NOTHING, you ignorant ass.

“You and your citizens?” They’re AMERICAN, you fucking retard.

And “learn Chinese?” I guess it would just be way too much to expect Rep. Brown to understand the difference in Asian peoples. Fine if you’re some backwater housewife, who spends her days waiting for the latest Wal-Mart circular with bated breath. But you are an ELECTED OFFICIAL. Maybe it would “behoove” YOU, Mrs. Brown, to get the fuck out of our legislature and quit embarrassing the rest of us.

I mean seriously. How did this retard get elected? (I’m guessing because she represents Fucktard County, a heretofore unknown region of Texas.)

She’s making LAWS people. LAWS. This wigstand is making laws! Now she might be great at making cookies, lemonade, even pies for the church supper. But not laws. Leave that for people who actually have a clue.

Brown went on to tell an Organization of Chinese Americans representative, “Can’t you see that this is something that would make it a lot easier for you and the people who are poll workers if you could adopt a name just for identification purposes that’s easier for Americans to deal with?”

Not surprisingly, Brown refuses to apologize. The republican’s (shocker) mouthpiece said that Democrats “want this to just be about race.”

What the fuck else could it be about? Phonics?

The sad part is, how many people JUST LIKE HER are in elected office right now? People who somehow manage not to shove their sensible shoes into their gaping pie holes every time they speak. But I’m sure they’re there. That horrible woman in Oklahoma who has a personal crusade against homosexuals, Sally Kern? Reelected. And that’s just off the top of my head.

There ought to be a law.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Yes, I Know I'm Going to Hell

Caveat One: If you are a slave to political correctness, you might want to navigate elsewhere.

Caveat Two: If the terms “retarded,” “retard,” or “midget” offend, you might want to navigate away.

Oh, who am I kidding, you wouldn’t be reading this if you were wired like that . . . So, last night, an organization that I’m deeply involved in had a little outing. We partnered with the local professional basketball farm team for a night at the game. Since my dad played pro ball once-upon-a-time (back when they still wore tiny, satin shorts), I thought it would be fun to get him, my beloved and the offspring and show our support.

Luckily, two other people decided to do the same thing. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Obviously, this was a professional bloggers night out, right? And since bloggers are notoriously averse to pants and getting off of couches, that would explain the poor attendance, right? Not exactly. This was actually a respectable professional organization, but basically nobody showed up but us.

As we walked into the arena, I was having mild palpitations about some announcer proclaiming it “our night” and expecting there to be mad cheers from our section. I knew there was no way the six of us could generate the kind of volume needed to even begin to save face.

I needn’t have worried. You see, it’s never “your” night at the game. They’re not that stupid. They invited MANY groups to the game. For instance, it was also “Pet Rescue Night.” Five local rescue groups actually had cages full of sad-eyed creatures, each doing their best to appear irresistible. Mostly, they pulled it off.

There was also another group of dogs looking to be rescued. It was apparently Hoochie Night at the ballgame, as well. Their clothes, what little they were, appeared to have been sprayed on. In fact, I’ve seen Mystic tans that didn’t cling so tight to the skin. I’m sure these girls are big basketball fans.

Apparently, it was also Special Needs Night, as an extremely large contingent of severely retarded individuals descended upon the arena and, just to make my night perfect, all sat in our section. Well, I thought, maybe I can get them all to cheer when they call our group’s name? Or maybe I could just pretend to be retarded and cheer when they call THEIR group’s name. Or maybe I just AM retarded and should have stayed home.

I must say, there were quite a few characters in the bunch. And it actually made the game much more enjoyable to see their enthusiasm and humor, especially through their particular lens. But the really odd thing that struck me was how many “normal” people look mildly retarded. Now, you have to understand, the official group were very apparently afflicted. They suffered from physical affects as well as mental. They were not subtle. But then, some average Joe would walk by and I’d be struck by his or her resemblance to my section-mates. Could it be? Are the stupid people of the world actually just mildly retarded?

And watching the typical straight male sports fans go apoplectic on the refs, etc., then comparing that to the model behavior of the special needs gang, I realized that there is a place in this world for the word “retarded,” but not for these special needs kids

By the way, there was only one quasi-midget in the bunch. And I think he was actually with OUR group.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The Bush is Back

Laura Bush was on TV last night. Apparently they were giving her some sort of award and she was in Austin to receive it. I used to really like her. I always felt she was the balancing force of good in that relationship. But as those fourteen years wore on (yes, people, we Texans had to endure nearly twice as much as the rest of you.) I grew up a bit and my jade grew a darker green. Now, I really just see her as a chain-smoking librarian and enabler. The girl who married up and down at the same time. She said they really missed Austin. Safe to say, we don’t miss them.

She commented on how welcome they had felt upon returning to Dallas. That there were all of these “Welcome Home George and Laura” signs. (I personally saw some of these on my last trip to Dallas. Not only was I shocked at the sentiment, but at the familiarity.) Needless to say, there are NO SIGNS LIKE THAT in Austin.

Seeing her made me also reflect on the cool, new progressive vibe that is sweeping the nation (gay marriage in the Heartland? Who knew? Thanks Iowa!). It’s like the Chileans must have felt after Pinochet fell, or Spain after Franco. We can finally get back to the idea of free speech without being branded a traitor rather than a dissenter.

In Texas however, we are still in dire need of vermin control. The Republicans, and not the good kind, are still very much in control of things here. Nowhere is that more evident than the fact that a Republican is running for Mayor of Austin. There are two good progressive candidates running, but our former Mayor, the oft-married, Carole Keeton McLellan Rylander Strahorn, also known as “One Tough Grandma” . . . excuse me, I had to vomit a little . . . has thrown her hat back in the ring. “Carole” as her campaign signs identify her (c’mon, there’s only so much real estate on the sign) was elected to statewide office several times as a Republican. Many folks in these parts felt that it was not so much a philosophical shift as it was an opportunistic one. She is more ambitious than she is principled. No shocker there when it comes to politics.

However, the thought that sweet little liberal Austin, long a bastion of free-thinkers, might actually elect a Republican sends shudders down my spine. Hopefully, the progressives won’t split the vote so badly that it opens the door for Grandma.

FYI, I’m almost as appalled at having a Grandma at the helm as I am a Republican. Not to be ageist, but if that’s how you primarily identify yourself, then go play with your grandkids and leave the rest of us alone. (Don’t poke my eyes out knittergran!)

I have nothing against Grandmas. I loved mine dearly. But I just don’t think that should be the qualification you run for public office on.

Now I do have to note that one of Carole’s kids, Mark McClellan, was the first White House official to write a scathing insider view of Bush’s performance. So, there’s that. I’m not sure what Bush’s nickname for Mark was, but I’m guessing the book probably earned him a brand new one.

Heckuva job!

Monday, April 6, 2009

Begging for Mercy

Okay, don’t really care whether Madonna gets to add to her brood or not. But can you imagine when little Mercy James grows up in Malawi, discovers a pop star called Madonna, and is informed that she could have been the woman’s fourth child? I’m guesing that she will pull some diva shit that will PROVE she should have been adopted by the Material Girl.

Now, just in case Madge is reading, there is a bitchy gay blogger who would be happy to ride around in your G5. I would even call Guy Ritchie "Daddy" if it helped the other kids with consistency. AND, I would even pluck Lola's eyebrow. Really. I would be happy to. Every little girl should know the joy of two eyebrows.

So, jet your ass into Austin. As they say, it's "like a whole nother country."

The Dog Ate My Blog

You know, I’ve been trying to find an excuse for not blogging more. Or, point in fact, not blogging at all. I’d like to blame the economy. Work has been slow, so I’ve been dancing as fast as I can trying to scare up work (thankfully, it has been sufficiently scared up). I could blame the Obamas for putting me in the blissful state of relaxation, in spite of the worst recession since the big D (I mean, honestly, when was the last time you even THOUGHT of GWB? See what I mean.)

It’s certainly not for a lack of stupidity permeating my daily existence. Why just yesterday, at my favorite student crosswalk, a new high (low?) for pedestrian behavior. Two groups of friends, passing each other in the crosswalk, STOPPED TO CHAT. In the middle of the fucking crosswalk. Traffic came to a standstill while they exchanged pleasantries, punctuated, I’m sure, with many, “um . . likes” and “OMGs.”

Nadya Suleman can alter her appearances to look like a porn star version of Angelina Jolie and push out enough kids to form a government, but Madonna can’t adopt an African orphan.

A former soldier kills three cops who responded to a call from his mother, because his dog peed on her carpet. And he was stockpiling guns “to protect his constitutional rights.” So guns are okay, but gays aren’t?

So, I ask myself, do I have stupidity fatigue? I looked for symptoms.

I still get the headaches from exaggerated eye-rolling.

I’m still the bitterest queen at any party (except at dinner Saturday night, where John E. stole my sash and crown. Subtlety, girl, subtlety. We’re supposed to be LAUGHING with/at you, not squirming awkwardly in silence between courses.)

I’m like Velcro for stupid people. They approach and stick to me.

Nope, I think I’m just a big fucking slacker. And it’s absolutely gorgeous in Austin right now. And nothing really pisses me off when the weather is this good. But what the hell, let’s kick this thing off again. After all, April is the month of fools.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

How Can Something So Wrong Feel So . . . Wronger?

Call me callous if you will, but I’m kinda burned out on all the missing child stories. Maybe it’s because that’s Nancy Grace’s stock in trade and I hate her so bad that I’d rather have Rachael Ray talk me through a meal. Never mind, just shoot me if those are the two options. But let me eat the food.

But I digress. Apparently, a little cracker girl named Haleigh (note to parents: if your child’s name rhymes with Schmaley, you might want to double up on your security. First Caylee, now this. Who’s next? Bayley? SheLayleigh? Maelee?) went missing last month from her home. The last person to see her was her 17 year-old babysitter, Misty Croslin, who also happened to be her father’s girlfriend. Are you with me so far?

Well, apparently, the ordeal has brought the couple closer together. A week ago Sunday, AT THE LOCAL CHILI’S, Haleigh’s dad, Cracker—er, I mean, Ronald—got down on one knee and proposed. She said yes, they ordered some chili cheese fries and they began planning their blessed event.

“How’s Wednesday for you?”

“Well, I don’t get out of trade school until 2:30, so it’ll have to be after that. And I gotta be at the Wal-Mart to work by 6.”

Seriously. They waited three whole days to get married? They must have been sticking to old "no butt sex until marriage" vow. And guess what else? 17 year-old Cracker—er, I mean, Misty—had to get her mother’s signature because she was under age.

Meanwhile, there’s still a child missing. Of course, maybe the little girl just got tired of rolling her eyes and decided to go hang out at the Octo Mom’s house, knowing how hard it is to accurately count to fourteen, when all of the countees are in constant motion.

Even the new step-mom acknowledged that the timing might take some by surprise. "Everybody is probably going to take this marriage thing the wrong way," Crac—er, Croslin--said. "This is what Haleigh wanted. She has always talked about it, and even if she's not with us, she is still with us."

Hunh? Man, that 8th grade education shore is comin’ in handy.

Of course, Gramma Cracker had to get in on the action. She went on the record with none other than Crack(er) Attorney and Heavily Accented Talking Head, Nancy Grace.

"My grandchildren, both Haleigh and Junior (really?!?!), have very often said that they would love for their daddy to marry Misty and that they wanted Misty to be their mommy. And so I feel like they are just trying to fulfill a wish for Haleigh so that when she comes home she will have that extra happiness to come home to."

Ronald, Misty, Junior and Haleigh. I can see the Olan Mills portrait now.

Appearing on a different show, with a different talking (cracker) head, the Granny Get Your Gun thought the missing child was really missing out on some fun. "It's an event that Haleigh really should be at, but when she comes home, we'll have a great big wedding so she can be the flower girl and see it all again."

Or maybe you just could have waited until she was found before you moved on with your life there in Hooterville.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Pope Fucks Up Again

In spite of all my rantings to the contrary, I think that religion can serve a very useful purpose. Mostly in the area of coping, where one can hand off one’s worries to a “higher power” and in the areas of moral compass. The problem lies with those whose compass doesn’t ever move. It always points in only one direction, with no room for outside facts or influence.

Those people would probably call this faith. I tend to think of it more as The Ostrich Syndrome.

The latest example is Her Highness Princess Redpradashoes, also knows as Pope Benedict. BTW, if you’re a hard-core Catholic, you might want to navigate away, or just go ahead and damn me to a fiery hell in the comments section.

The Popita is on a visit to Africa and the first damn thing she had to say was that condom use isn’t the answer to the AIDS crisis in Africa. Now, I haven’t actually had sex with the Pope, but according to my sources, Miss Cardinal was quite the habituĂ© of the gay scene in Rome. Once he ascended to the papacy, he of course returned to the celibate life all popes live (bwah-ha-ha-ha). And I’m guessing that the only reason he lived long enough to become pope was the fact that he used a condom while he was “ministering” to the flock. Also known as flocking.

Once upon a time, the church was like government. They were the moral authority, the civic authority and a way of creating community and fellowship. However, the world has changed. And archaic traditions for the sake of tradition should only be trotted out on special occasions, like . . . Saint Patrick’s Day!

And as fun as sex is, if it qualifies as a “special occasion,” then you’re not getting enough. Which may be exactly the point for Pope Prissypants. Your role in this world is to DO GOOD. NOT EVIL. But I guess that’s hard to figure out when you went to Nazi Youth camp as a boy.

Friday, March 13, 2009

New Vocabulary Words

I like words. (Obviously). But I especially like new words. Not bullshit words like WYSIWYG or QWERTY, but words that actually mean something. Words that are abundantly clear the first time you see or hear them. So, I present to you the TWO new AOTSP vocabulary words.

Hatefuck. No, this is not what you do with your ex. It's like a clusterfuck, only with bad intentions. Courtesy of Jon Stewart. I'll be sprinkling it liberally in future posts.

Groupidity. Brilliant. Needs no explanation. Pompous and Pious Christians and Republicans are especially adept at this. And Alabamans.

What are your favorite vocabulary words in the AOTSP lexicon?

Thursday, March 12, 2009

It Doesn't Get Any More Real

I’ve steadfastly avoided coverage of the “Octo-mom,” (with the exception of Jimmy Kimmel’s absolutely hilarious video, if you haven’t seen it, go find it. Awesome!). I just felt like she was too big a trainwreck and I didn’t want to contribute to the hype in any way. Granted she is a perfect candidate for inclusion in this forum, given that she is a gigantic retard. And I mean that in the most biased, insulting way.

But over the last couple of days, I’ve actually come to believe that she does, in fact, deserve her own reality show. I mean, interest is still super high, based on the fact that she’s all over the internet, even on legitimate news sites. And Jon and Kate seem to be drawing an audience (completely fucking baffles me, but oh well). So why the fuck not. At least then maybe she’ll be out of the news and on her show, which I won’t have to watch.

I would, however, like to offer a few suggestions for the structure of the show. Since Hollywood mansions always seem to be available for reality shows, move her ass into one of them. Don’t give it to her, just let her live there for the duration of the season. If she performs in the ratings, she gets renewed and she gets to stay in the house for another cycle.

Add a twist by having a contest to find the perfect sassy nanny. Start off with 14 contestants, one for each of her litter. But each week, one contestant will get voted off and the other nannies will have to take on extra duties. The top contestant in a given week will get to choose which child he or she would like to nanny in the following week.

Ideally, we would wind up with a south-of-the border sassy nanny, who would mutter epithets in Spanish under her breath, HATING every minute she’s in the same room with Mama Lips, but giving the babies some real love.

We could also cast the fertility doctor as the wacky next-door neighbor who would pop by and say clever things like, “Hey neighbor, can I borrow some eggs?” See? It’s a surefire hit!

Of course, in subsequent seasons we would see the children removed from the house by Child Protective Services and placed in a variety of foster homes and different adoptive situations.

The possibilities are endless.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Not Bristol and Levi!

So the liberal media is reporting that Bristol Palin, that case study in the effectiveness of abstinence education, has dumped her babydaddy, Levi Somethinerother. The story broke when Bristol changed her Facebook status from "married (almost)" to "SO single."

The best part was that Levi's sister, Forgetta Belle Somethinerother said that Bristol wouldn't let Levi have the kid because she didn't want them hanging around "white trash."

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahah . . . okay. Let me catch my breath. Okay, first the obvious. Pot? Kettle!

Honey, your mama maybe the leader of the largest state in the union, but she's the moosiest governor EVER. And you daddy is, like, a snowmobile repairman or some shit. And he looks like an aging porn star. Which, I confess, makes me just a little bit hot.

Of course, I completely respect Bristol's right to change Levi's status from LOL to SOL. But I would much rather not even know Bristol and Levi and baby Trig (or whatever other fucked moosey acronym they used) existed.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Dear Bad Texas Drivers

Especially the two of you who had the supremely minor fender bender on the main artery by my house. The law says that if your vehicle is operable, the FIRST thing you should do is move the fucking thing out of traffic.

But no, you two boneheads blocked TWO lanes of traffic to exchange epithets and insurance information. Nice. And I had to take an alternate route because the traffic was so backed up. I hope you both have a really high deductible and the touch up paint that will be required to fix your cars has to be paid for out of your pocket.

And I hope you get stuck in a really long line of traffic because someone stupid does the same thing to you. Of course, you'll bitch to high heaven at that point. And I won't get to witness it, so not satisfaction for me there. Never mind.

Puttin' the Ho' in Jai Ho!

Not sure how I missed this, but apparently Michael Steele, the chairman of the Republican Party, has been talking “street” in interviews. Ahhh, nothing like having an actual minstrel in your minstrel show, eh Republicans?

When Steele, an African American by the way, was first appointed I was torn. Part of me thought, “see, this is what happens when we elect someone different as President. Doors get opened that wouldn’t have before.” We all know that there’s NO WAY IN HELL Michael Steele would have been put in charge of the Cracker party unless Obama was in the White House. But that’s also my dilemma. He wasn’t picked for his qualifications (and I’m not in a position to comment about whether or not he’s qualified, but you know, how hard can it be to do better than your predecessor in that position, right?), he was picked for his race.

But I thought perhaps it would just be a great learning experience for the Republicans. They really could have a bigger tent if they just stopped using them exclusively for revivals.

Then the man starts being street. It’s like he wants to be Randy Jackson or something.

But the topper was when he was encouraged by a radio jock to give his boy Bobby Jindal a shout out. ‘Cause, ya know, Jindal’s brown, too. And really, if it’s not white, it’s all the same. Not white. At least in Republican land. Of course, Steele took the bait and proceeded to give GOVERNOR Jindal some “slum love.” As in Slumdog Millionaire.

OMG! This is soooooo fucking offensive. I don’t even like any of these people, but I feel sorry for them. They are so ignorant of anyone that doesn’t look exactly like them (your choice of two models: shellacked hair and evangelical fervor; or toothless, slump-shouldered and evangelical fervor) that they don’t even realize how demeaning, patronizing and offensive they’ve become.

In fact, I would bet you a dollar that at least one top Republican strategist, in the post-mortem conversations of Jindal’s speech last week, thought maybe they should have ended it with a big Bollywood number.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Beware the Ides of March

Speak, George, Speak!

I knew it was bound to happen. But DAYUM, so soon? Really?

Former Texas Governor George W. Bush is about to make his first stop on the professional speaker’s circuit. In Calgary, Alberta Canada. Which is essentially the Midland, Texas of Canada. You know, where the big event each year is a rodeo, the Calgary Stampede. So I guess that kinda makes sense.

For me, though, the kicker here is that Bush has not ever been known for his public speaking abilities. In fact, it has been quite the opposite. Bush’s isms made Dan Quayle look like a Rhodes Scholar. And even if you believed in his policies, do you really want to see and hear him talk? I’m sure the rate is far lower than any other former President’s fees, but still.

It’s kind of like wanting a celebrity and booking Tara Reid. It’s technically correct, but so wrong in so many ways.


On the other hand, President Obama’s Attorney General, Eric Holder, has announced that states will now be allowed to make their own laws governing marijuana. He said that the DEA will no longer be raiding California’s medical marijuana dispensaries. So, for all my sick, sick friends in California, congrats!! No go google “bogart” and delete all the answers that reference Humphrey.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Show Me Something!

Last night, the Republicans trotted out their answer to Barack Obama. And after I got over the, “look, we have a brown person, too!” aura of the whole thing, I sincerely wanted to see what Governor Bobby Jindal had to say. I kinda keep up with Louisiana politics and I have followed Jindal’s story closely. I must admit I was shocked that he was elected. A son of immigrants. A Republican. I guessed that Louisiana decided collectively to replace “laissez les bon temps rouler” with NIMBY. Shocking that a people so given to celebration and the rich melting pot that is Cajun and creole culture would swing so hard to the right, but then again, eight years of Bush will rot your brain.

I also tuned in because I sincerely wanted to hear what the Republicans would say in rebuttal to the President’s speech. I’m a big believer in healthy discourse and debate, but I’ve been disappointed (I know, I know. Manage your expectations better.) by the harsh partisan rhetoric the Congressional Republicans have decided to unwaveringly cling to. I hoped that Jindal would be different. Since that was obvious the word that came to mind when the R’s were trying to decide who to offer up.

Instead, it was just the third act of Rove: The Musical. The talking points he laid out were completely Bushy. I wanted to phone him and say, “Governor, you DO realize that there was an election a few months back? And the people of America RESOUNDINGLY rejected your way of thinking.” But I didn’t. Mostly because I don’t have his celly number. And partly because I try not to mix good tequila with bad politics.

Honestly, though, if you’d strapped a pair of drag queen boobs on him, given him an updo and some sexy librarian glasses, it could have been Sarah Palin standing there. And speaking of which, since she’s all determined to be our next President, why didn’t they let her give the rebuttal? Hmm. Smells like fish to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t for a minute think that Bobby Jindal is an idiot. But basedon last night, he is a HORRENDOUS speaker. Having worked with a lot of people to hone their public speaking skills, I can honestly say that whoever is working with him needs to be fired. He needs an acting coach. Badly. The false earnestness of his emphasis. The cocked head. The scrunching of his eyes to let you know how much he meeeeeaaaaaannnns it. Appalling.

And let’s not even talk about the stupid shit they made him say. Criticizing the government for their response to Katrina? Hello?! It was YOUR FUCKING GOVERNMENT! YOUR PARTY WAS IN CONTROL OF THE WHITE HOUSE AND BOTH HOUSES OF CONGRESS! You got fucked in the ass by the very people who are buying your dinner now. And I hate to tell you this, but it’s supposed to work the other way around.

Lastly, and just to show you how completely out of touch the Republicans are, it was Mardi Gras. A day when ALL Louisianans THROW IT DOWN. And poor Bobby Jindal couldn’t even have a cocktail until it was all over. He did wish everyone “happy mardi gras,” but it was the saddest, lamest, least convincing greeting ever. He was wishing YOU a happy mardi gras because his was sucking elephant ass.

The least they could have done was let him wear some beads.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

When I Say Texans Are Deep, I Mean . . .

So this morning I heard the news of a young Texas man who, in the process of trying to impress his friends with how long he could hold his breath, drowned off the coast of Corpus Christi.

Apparently he couldn’t hold his breath for as long as he thought he could. And I don’t know if his name was Christi, but he’s certainly a corpus now.

Details of the “accident” (That doesn’t seem like the right word. “oops, I drowned. Didn’t mean to do that.” But I don’t know, what the fuck else are you going to call it? ) are sketchy. Several details, however jumped out at me.

1. It was dark.

Um. . . hey dumbfuck, you’re in the OCEAN at night. Have you not ever watched a scary movie in your life. Don’t go in the ocean at night. Hell, I won’t even go in a pool at night unless I’ve turned the light on and off real quick to check for monster . . . . and if there’s a Daniel Craig look-a-like waiting naked at the other end.

2. His girlfriend (who was present) told the first responders she was a lifeguard.

Um . . . hey dumbfuck’s girlfriend (also known as Dumbfuck) I wouldn’t exactly be bragging about your mad lifeguarding skills while talking with the authorities about witnessing your boyfriend’s drowning death. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But maybe you only completed the daytime course.

And by the way, at EXACTLY what pool do you lifeguard? Just wondering.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Ahh, the Moneychangers

A Virginia personal banker has quit his job rather than be forced to follow a new company policy that allows Mexican nationals to access banking services if they have a consular ID card. Apparently, these cards are issued even to illegal immigrants and the banker felt that this was in conflict with his strong Christian values. Say WTF?

Now, we’ve all seen the Christi-Ans do some crazy shit in the name of the Lord, but how exactly does immigration fit into this? Is it something to do with Exodus? I mean seriously, help me understand how a Mexican national transacting some financial business IN ANY WAY crosses over into religion? Is it because racism is so intrinsic in so much southern religion that he just thought generic racism was religious?

And of course, with all the fucking BULLSHIT that has gone down in the banking industry lately (you know, that whole raping and pillaging our economy thing) I find it absolutely hysterical that THIS is the issue that caused his moral outrage. I’m thinking there’s a whole lot more in the bible about greed than immigration.

He, of course, prayed over the issue. Hey, mr. dumbfuckracistbankermotherfucker, that “peaceful silence” you heard when you were praying? It was God, completely gobsmacked that the cute little baby he made has turned into such a morally corrupt soul who uses his God and his religion as a moral bludgeon.

I completely understand the conundrum of feeling that you’re compromising your morals for a paycheck. After all, I worked for John Cornyn for four years. Believe me, I get it. But this guy is just unhinged. With a bible burr under his saddle.

"Why should Christians and patriots always be on the defensive against bad policies? Where are the Christian businessmen and entrepreneurs who can create companies that are viable and profitable so that Christians can work without being placed in a position where they have to choose principle over a paycheck?" Hey dude, there’s always Cracker Barrel.

No word on how much of his savings will be spent on strippers and cheap booze.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

"Special" Delivery

So last week I saw an article about how the post office is facing huge losses and essentially bankruptcy. Oh, hang on, let me grab a hankie. WAAAAAH fuckin’ WAAAAH!

My tragicomedy of errors with the P.O. is well documented. Sure, I wave and smile at the mail carrier like we’re characters in a Norman Rockwell painting. But really, who am I kidding. Aside from not being able to get my 215 magazine subscriptions delivered to my door, they don’t bring me anything but junk and bills. Would I really be that upset if they just went away? Or if we all had to get P.O. boxes and eliminate the route carriers?

One option they really are considering is to only get mail every other day. You know, fine by me. In fact, there are times when I DO only get mail every other day. I can manage. If it’s urgent, I’ll use FedEx anyway.

Now, to provide just a hair of balance, I also noted that under the Federal guidelines, the Post Office is supposed to make a profit and reinvest those profits into better services. But they can only raise postage rates to keep up with inflation, not to counter demand, or lack thereof.

So, our wonderful Feds decided to semi-privatize the whole shebang, but didn’t provide them with enough tools or room for success.

But maybe the solution would be to hire better workers and pay them commensurate to the work they’re doing. Oh, and maybe incentivize them. You see, according to the article the “average” postal worker makes over $60,000 a year. Now granted, they’re all below average, so who knows how much they really make. But get this—their raises are GUARANTEED. No evaluations, nothing. Just show up, clock in, clock out and you’ll get an increase come raise time.

No fucking wonder their service sucks hind teat. I’m not sure I would be motivated to provide any customer service either. Aww, who am I kidding, I’d probably be like the Kenneth the Page with jazz hands, turning it into Surly Post Office: The Musical.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

The Taxman Cometh

I love President Obama. I’m thrilled by how much he has been able to lift our hopes and offer the promise of a resurgent America.

But goddamn, man, did you even bother to vet your nominees? First there were issues with Hillary (via Bill). Then Gov. Bill Richardson, himself a former candidate for President, withdrew his name from consideration for Commerce Secy, because he was being investigated. Then there was Nancy Killefer, slotted to be the first ever Chief Performance Officer, or Head Budget Scrubber, who withdrew because of “unspecified tax issues,” i.e. she didn’t pay ‘em.

And now comes former U.S. Senator Tom Daschle, one of the world’s leading experts on health care and a very widely respected legislator. Who didn’t pay his taxes.

WTF? It’s not that hard. Count up all—yes, all—the money you earned. Deduct all the things you legally are entitled to, and pay taxes on the rest. They even have people who are trained to help with these sorts of things. They're called “accountants.”

As disappointed as I am in this many nominees going down, I’m even more concerned about the team that recommended them in the first place. I mean, yeah, you’ve got some political capital, but is this really the way you want to spend it?

It’s like winning the lottery and blowing it on strippers. I mean, they look all “sexy time” and shiz, but in the end, you’re still going home with a boner and a pair of blue ones. Not to mention the empty wallet.

What happened to “Yes we can!” How about “Yes we can . . . pay our damn taxes.”
Maybe every Obama nominee should get a copy of TurboTax in their gift basket.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Pardon My French

Twice in the last 24 hours, I have been in meetings where someone has said, “excuse me, but . . .” just before they used a curse word. And I suddenly discovered a new pet peeve.

You see, I love to cuss. I love using all of those words. In fact, with ONE notable exception that begins with “c” I use ‘em all on a regular basis. I know, this comes as a shock to exactly NONE of you. My mother used to beg me to find alternatives for my “foul language.” I would simply retort that it wasn’t a vocabulary issue. I don’t use these words because I lack alternatives. I use them because I think they’re the perfect words sometimes. So sue me. And fuck off.

But I discovered yesterday that I actually throw up in my mouth a little bit when someone apologizes preemptively, then uses the most benign cuss words. Damn, hell and shit are practically Pollyanna in my book. And excuse me motherfucker, but if you have the self-control to apologize, then don’t use the fucking word. You’re obviously a pussy, so just revert back to your goshes and darns and geewhillickers.

And what do the French have to do with it. French is one of the most lyrical, poetic languages. Even when they spit out the word “merde” (shit, for those of you aren’t cuss-bilingual), it sounds like something from the sea! Is it because our grandparents, just as they were “saving their frog asses from the Nazis” realized the French were a bit . . . saucy? If you're going to say "pardon my French" then SAY SOMETHING IN FRENCH for fuck's sake.

It’s false piety. It’s the worst kind of apologea. The same goes for substitute words. Frickin’, freakin’ fargin’—it’s all fuckin’, okay? You MEAN the same thing. You just don’t say what you mean.

I had an uncle who would say “goshdamnit.” Whatevs. I’m pretty sure the big guy either doesn’t care, or can see right through your intent. I have the same disdain for people who say “oh my gosh.” Really? Do you realize how absurd that is? Saying “Oh My God” is actually a cry to your higher power. And who is your gosh, anyway?

So the next time you feel compelled to apologize before you use the word “butt,” just stop. Just say the word. NO ONE cares. And if they do, you don’t want to be around them anyway. Now, if one of those folks had said, “Excuse me, that’s just fucking bullshit,” I might not have minded so much.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Clean Up on Aisle 9

I’m a bit under the weather. Nothing major, just enough to completely fuck up my busy week. When I’m sick, I’m a complete baby. Only I don’t want anyone fussing over me. I just want to sit in a corner and pout. Yeah, I know, lovely character trait. My Beloved has long since adjusted. He knows how to strike the perfect balance between nurturing and avoiding the freak show. And I love him for that, among a billion other things.

In my quest for sick self-sufficiency, I dropped by the local grocery chain for some canned soup. Progresso Hearty Chicken Noodle, to be precise. It soothes me when I’m feeling icky. When I got to the soup aisle, it was clogged. Two women were standing, back-to-back, each perusing different products. One was an average, non-descript woman. The other was a tall, willowy blonde, sharply and expensively dressed, and carrying one of those giant designer purses that are all the rage now.

Poking into the aisle was an endcap of cheesy Valentine’s cards. Sort of a cross between the ones we handed out to classmates when we were kids and the more elaborate, embellished ones Hallmark gags us with annually.

So, given the traffic jam, I parked myself discreetly out of everyone’s way and waited for the ladies to make their selections.

Miss Big Bag was apparently one of those people who is blissfully unaware of her surroundings, I’m guessing so that she doesn’t have to feel like one of the masses. As she shifted to get a closer look at the canned goods, her purse knocked an entire section of cards off the end cap. It was a rather noisy affair, so Plain Jane turned to look. And that’s when it got weird.

Miss Big Bag looked at Plain Jane with that condescending “Oh you poor clumsy dear” face. AS IF JANE HAD DONE THE DAMAGE. And Jane bought it, kneeling down and beginning to pick up the cards. Then, as I stood there with my mouth hanging open, Miss Big Bag deigned to kneel down to “help.”

I waited for the detritus to be cleared, grabbed my soup and bolted. But I was absolutely gobsmacked by the woman’s cluelessness. Did she really not know that she had done it? Was she really that clueless? Or was she just a West Austin bitch who had become bored with running people off the road with her Suburban. Either way, it was a nice bit of street theater. But it didn't make me feel any better.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Why Is It Always The Guy From Texas?

So, the junior senator from our great state (and my former boss—blech) decided that it was critical to block a voice vote on the confirmation of his fellow Senator, HRC, as Secretary of State. Why? Because he had grave concerns and unanswered questions about The Clinton Global Initiative’s foreign contributors.

Oooo-kay.

I think it’s great to work within the rules to make sure there is no rush, to make sure that all of your questions are cleared up.

So he waited a day and then voted to confirm her. Hunh?!

Of course, if a “Global Initiative” were only being funded by Americans, it wouldn’t look very global, now would it? But that wasn’t really the point, was it? I mean the Obama team had pretty much already vetted all this, right? The point was to play “gotcha” with an Obama appointee on inauguration day. A day when over 80% of Americans (I’m guessing the other 20% were mostly cracker Texans. Sheesh.) were agreeing that Obama was the right man in the right job. Thanks, Senator. Way to start the new day with the spirit of bipartisan cooperation. Beady-eyed motherfucker.


You know, I had wondered what Cornyn would be like once his Master left office. I don’t say that lightly. Cornyn was Bush’s guy from the day he was elected AG here in Texas. He didn’t really care about much except doing Bush’s bidding and building a power base to further his political career. He served one term and ran for Senate, where he was in absolute lockstep with the White House, carrying Bush water on the Hill again and again. And we are SO proud.

But at least now I have my answer. He will continue to be obstructionist, petty and mean. He’s like a schoolyard bully. But let me tell you, he has incredibly thin skin. My favorite word to describe him is “embarrassed.”

Several of his senior staffers and I thought it was a joke the first time we were told that something had “embarrassed” the General (that’s what our AG is called. Pretty funny stuff, huh?). We thought, “whatever dude. There’s no way a man who has managed to get elected to statewide office in Texas can be embarrassed by such trivial bullshit. We were so wrong. And when he gets embarrassed (which happens with alarming frequency) he gets angry. And when he gets angry, his big old balloon head turns bright red and that white hair just glows.

So maybe he’ll read the article in today’s Austin paper (“Cornyn’s Pettiness Sullies a Historic Day”) and pop a gasket. More likely though, he’ll gloat at the “success” of his maneuver. Just to torture myself, I read through all the comments. It was the typical schoolyard taunting between ignorant people of divergent ideologies. Some defended Cornyn’s right to process (I agree) and some called Clinton everything short of the AntiChrist (I disagree), but the best comment came from RobInGTown:

Dear Senator Cornyn: I know you will be taking heat for casting what seem to be a petty vote on Senator Clinton's nomination to be Secretary of State, but I wish to applaud your efforts and make a further suggestion. From the founding of Harken Oil through the operation of Ignite!, the Bush family has received tens of millions of dollars from the Arab world, from some of the very same figures who financed the terror attacks of 2001. Perhaps you would, Senator, devote your remaining time in Congress to the profitable examination of the Bush family's many connections to terrorist funders. And it's only a shame you didn't start years ago. Sincerely, RobInGTown

I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Buh-Bye!

MY last day of bush was actually somewhere in the mid 80’s.

But I felt I should take a moment to acknowledge something here in the last few hours of the Bush “presidency.” You see, most of you are relishing the thought of only occasionally having to see or hear the man. But for those of us who reside in central Austin, we know that he can pop up at any time.

See, they still have friends here. And although it’s FAR more likely to run into Laura “Packaday” Bush (my god, that woman can suck down a ciggy!), there’s still the off chance of an encounter. And I would prefer to let this presidency evaporate like a bad dream.

I actually have a history with this President. When he was Governor of our Great State, I had to work with him a couple of times. It wasn’t pretty. Everything you think about him now, times ten. He was like the privileged, cocky frat boy that found out he’d just come into his trust.

Shortly before he was elected, I was approached by someone I knew well, a politico with ties to the Bush camp, and asked if I would be interested in a White House appointment, should the Governor win. It seems Bush was intent on appointing a gay or lesbian, just for diversity’s sake. I know how hard that is to believe now, given his penchant for far right ululation, but I was quietly impressed that he was even thinking about it. I still said no.

Then, during the transition, I was approached again. In the interim, I had seen an amazing episode of West Wing, where a young Republican girl takes a job at the liberal Bartlett White House because the country belongs to all of us, or some other poignant Aaron Sorkin phrase. I begin to think that having a dissenting voice, no matter how small, might be a positive thing. I was again told that the President-elect had held one slot open for a gay or lesbian appointee. This time, I said “Why not?” The chance to serve my country shouldn’t be taken so lightly. And wouldn’t it be historic?

Oh, I was all up in myself. I’m surprised I could get my head through a door. The process didn’t get very far, however. Mr. Bush decided to give the “gay” appointment to a straight white guy.

In the end, I wouldn’t have lasted very long, had I even been able to make it through vetting. As presentable as I must have looked, you wouldn’t have had to scratch the surface very far to find dirt.

So I stayed home. The Bushes went to Washington. And America begin it’s descent from Mount Olympus.

Today, the trek back up the mountain begins. Good Luck, President Obama! Good Riddance, President Bush. And as we say in the South, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Monday, January 19, 2009

It's My Dick in a Box!

I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten around to writing about this yet. But I’m sure you’ve seen the clip of Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper on New Year’s Eve, right? The one where Kathy thinks they’ve gone to commercial and yells at a heckler, “Hey, I don’t come down to where you work and knock the dick out of your mouth!”

God, I love Kathy Griffin.

I didn’t see a ton of coverage of it. I’m guessing the comment was just too . . . too for mainstream media to figure out a workaround. The best though was that, because of the way she was turned, some thought she was talking to the sexually ambiguous (except when he’s undercover with a twentysomething Filipino) Cooper. Anderson’s sexuality is a really open secret, but with Kathy’s will to shock, I guess people always expect the elephant in the room to be acknowledged.

Anderson, of course, knew that Kathy wasn't referring to him. He doesn't suck dick for a living, silly!

Nancy, Why Do I Hate You So?

Can we please stop referring to Casey Anthony as the Tot Mom? She has a name and deserves to have it spat out of people’s mouth with all the venom and loathing they can possess. Of course, it doesn’t help me that Nancy Grace, the Paula Deen of soft news, coined the term. GAWD, that woman (Grace) grates on me. My idea of hell would be to be trapped in a small room with her and Rachael Ray. FINGERNAILS on chalkboard, with a side of righteous indignation. Shoulda been a preacher Nance. Then there would be almost NO chance of me stumbling across your ridiculous rhetoric.

But back to Casey Anthony. What is a Tot Mom? Does anyone even use the word Tot? Ever? Obviously, she’s innocent until proven guilty. But I’m pretty sure that if she WERE innocent, she might have been a little more helpful throughout all this. I’m thinking coat her naked body with something gators like (what do gators like, besides Sooners?), tie her ass to a stake in the swamp and broadcast it live. Or is that not punishment enough?

Then maybe Nancy Grace could start referring to her as Gator Bait. Or Half-eaten Mom. Either way, the story would be put to rest. Who knows, maybe Nancy Grace would have to go off the air since she didn't have anything to talk about.

Now what can we do about Rachael Ray?

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Making Babies in Batches

Okay, maybe it’s a hetero thing and I just don’t get it. But what the fuck is the American public’s fascination with multiple births? The top story in our local paper today is a local family that is expecting quintuplets. The TOP STORY.

Really? There’s nothing more pressing or vital than a couple of breeders who managed to fertilize FIVE EGGS at once? You’d never know that we are mere days away from an historic turning point in American history. You’d never know that Israel and Hamas are bombing the shit out of each other.

No, we want to laud and publicize this “blessing” of “God’s will.”

Naturally, the couple are avid churchgoers. In fact, there were originally SIX fertilized eggs and the doctors recommended “selective reduction” to ensure the viability of some of the babies, but the couple refused. One of the feti didn’t develop, so now there will just be 5 new hungry mouths to feed. Plus the kid they already had.

My favorite paragraph from the article is:

“Casey and Ethan met in the seventh grade at the "Howdy" back-to-school dance in Denton. He was a soccer player with spikey hair and a pseudo-mullet. She was a green-eyed blonde with long permed hair and big '80s bangs.”

Are you fucking kidding me? This is NEWS? This is my TOP STORY of the day?

Of course their friends are “rallying around” and donating tons of things like diapers and high-chairs (I sent a giant box of condoms and a bottle of RU486). All of this will go into their four-bedroom 3800 square foot home. Nice. (You know, I just can’t help thinking how much nicer it would have been for 5 underprivileged families to have received this kind of help.)

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, my beloved is an avid viewer of “Jon and Kate + 8” a treacly reality show about a bossy wife and her pushover husband how had TRIPLETS, then QUINTS. I have to leave the room when it’s on. More than a minute or two and I start to feel my NRA membership kicking in.

In the end, though, I respect that individuals have the right to breed profligately, if they so desire. But it really does baffle me. And I think that God probably has his own sense of humor. “You wanted some babies? I’ll give you some babies!!!”

I have a feeling Casey and Ethan may not be as enamored of the whole thing a few weeks after the babies are born.