Thursday, October 28, 2010

Witchy Poo and the Amendments, or What’s in First?

So, witch-dabbler, Teabagger Senate candidate and walking punchline Christine O’DonnelL appeared on a local radio station in Delaware to spread her message of enlightened ignorance. As usually happens these days, the radio interview was also videotaped (most radio shows have live webcams of their broadcasts).

The O’Donnell campaign was apoplectic (that means “really mad,” Christine—don’t sue me!) and demanded that the video be turned over and destroyed. (Uh, pick one. They can’t turn it over AND destroy it. Chain of custody. Dumb ass.)

The best part was when O’Donnell’s attorney (I’m picturing a baby-faced ideologue with a third-rate law degree in an ill-fitting hand me down suit) called the station to say he would “crush” them with a lawsuit if they didn’t turn the tape over.

The stations attorney apparently suggested that the campaign lawyer might need a bottle and a nap—and maybe a refresher first year constitutional law class. Because, you see, there is nothing illegal about videotaping a guest on a radio show. In fact, the action is protected by the First Amendment.

Apparently, when told of the response, Christine (the candidate, not the haunted car) rolled her eyes and said, “THAT’S in the First Amendment?!?!?” When told that, in fact, it was, O’Donnell said. “Somebody get me a copy of that thing. What the fuck ISN’T in there?”

If you’ll recall, Ms. O’Donnell (who apparently thinks her first name means she’s related to Christ) has been having lots of confusion about the First Amendment lately. Given all the new information she’s been getting lately, it wouldn’t surprise me if the crazy lady decides to “plead the first” the next time she doesn’t want to answer a difficult question.

Seriously, people, can you imagine this woman in the Senate? I mean, sure, we’d have a few laughs as we watched h the American empire continue to crumble on the shoulders of the O’Donnells and Angles. It would certainly give me plenty of blog fodder. But honestly, shouldn’t John Cornyn really be the low water mark for a Senator? Anything worse than Cornyn should be against the law. Isn’t that in the first amendment?

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Okie Smokie

Yesterday, the state of Arizona executed convicted killer Jeffrey Landrigan. His final words were “Boomer Sooners!” OU’s official response was, “riiiight. Like YOU have a college education.” Funny, but I would have thought from his picture that a cry of "soooooooooeeeeee! Pig! Pig! Pig!" would have been a much more likely finale.

As a University of Texas alum, it crossed my mind that being an OU alum shouldn’t be a crime worthy of the death penalty. Especially since being an OU alum is a bit like a life sentence anyway.

And before you start thinking, “what a stupid murderer,” consider this: he was smart enough to escape from an Oklahoma prison.

{Probably when they asked for his papers in Arizona and he pulled out a pack of Zig-Zag, they decided he was too stupid to live there. That's saying something.)

Oh yeah! He had steak for his last meal. Dude, don't you know that shit will stay in your colon FOREVER!

Friday, October 22, 2010

The Hollow Promise of Hope

I’m confounded by our President. Yesterday, he released a message for the “It Gets Better” campaign, the now rampant effort started by Dan Savage to help victims of bullying keep the faith. Loads of Hollywood types have already chimed in here, and even a Fort Worth City Council member delivered a heartfelt and tearful personal plea from the dais last week. All good stuff.

I will even let it slide that he’s a bit late to the party (Can’t say “tardy,” people. No free bad wig promotions here. At least not today.) Politicians are notorious for checking the temperature of the water before they wade in like it was a bubble bath or something. No, what really, really gets me is that our President is CONTRIBUTING to the atmosphere that tells bullies “it’s okay to pick on the fag kids.”

President Obama has pledged to end Don’t Ask Don’t Tell in our military. As with so many issues of concern to the gay community, the debate around DADT and it’s potential repeal have centered on the interaction in the ranks between heteros and homos, the tension in the showers for the men (nobody seems to care about lesbians in the women’s ranks—probably because some General thinks that’s hot) and the accompanying morale problems. Even though every single country that has allowed gay and lesbian soldiers to serve openly has had almost no integration issues, the smartest, greatest country on earth continues to cave in to the basest fears, no matter how irrational.

Each branch of our armed services prides itself on “molding” its men and women—teaching them, ingraining in them that they don’t question orders. They react. When told to jump, they say “how high?” And then they go for a run while singing nursery school rhymes (I don’t know, but I’ve been told . . .)

But let’s forget all of that for a moment. The Pentagon is busy “studying” the repeal and its impact. Uh huh. Like they haven’t already studied the shit out of this issue. But it’s just before a mid-term election and the nutwings and asshats are out in full force. Talk about Halloween coming early!

And then SOME JUDGE (and tell me when, exactly, it became okay to criticize the role of judges? Are some of you constitutional realists forgetting that there are THREE branches of government, each empowered to check the others? Dumbfuckery) decides to say that DADT is discriminatory and therefore must be struck down. Good on ya, Judge. That’s exactly why you’re there. To check the political cowardice/gamesmanship from the other two branches.

Sooooo, you would think the Obama administration would use the moment to avoid the political fallout. “We would have preferred a legislative solution . . . but what can you do?” would have walked that fine middle line. Problem solved. They take no heat.

But they decided to appeal. They decided to appeal a decision they think is right, something they were already planning to do. (Let’s not even talk about how DADT was done by Executive Order. Doesn’t that mean that it could simply be UNDONE by Executive Order?)

Mr. President, the message you are sending is that STILL, somehow, Gays and Lesbians are "less than." And THAT, sir, is precisely why some kids feel it's okay to bully them. And PRECISELY why, too many of those kids are taking their own lives. How would you feel, sir, if YOUR government leaders sent a message that it was okay to bully Sasha and Malia every day for being African-American. I'm sure none of that goes on at Sidwell Friends. But it would be wrong. Wrong in every way.

We need your LEADERSHIP ON THIS. Take off your underoos and put on your big boy pants.

This President was elected on a platform of HOPE. And I hoped that he would be the best President ever. I have defended him against his detractors, begged for time, asked for a long view. Now I can’t even ask those things of myself. I’m losing hope quickly, because I thought, of all people, THIS President just might do what was RIGHT, rather than what was politically expedient.

Especially since he doesn’t seem to be able to manage the politics very well.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Good Morning, Senator Asshat! Good day, Governor Nutjob!

It’s been a long time since I dropped anything here. In case there’s anyone left still checking in, lo siento mucho. Not sure what killed my stupid gag reflex, maybe the California summer, maybe the fact that I’m actually doing paying work. (Who knew you could actually make $$$ from this blogging thing?)

Lately though, I have begun suffering from Stupid Tourette’s. Are you fucking kidding me? I take a few months off and the US of A LOSES ITS FUCKING MIND?

Christine O’Donnell? FUCK! Carl Paladino? MOTHERFUCKER! Sharon Angle? FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! Certifiably crazy and spewing complete and utter horseshit. In any other election cycle, these people would be the candidates from the “Bless Your Heart” party. Yet here they are as major party nominees for GINORMOUS public offices. Also, does anyone else think Meg Whitman looks like Kristin Wiig’s character with the tiny hands from SNL? Maybe she can sell ad space on that forehead to pay off campaign debt. Or, if she actually wins (shudder) maybe use it for PSAs against gay marriage. If she IS elected, I’m going to be watching closely to see if a tiny hand creeps out to lay on that bible.

And apparently gay is the new black. Rachel Maddow did an entire segment last night about how the same tactics are being employed in 2010 as in 1964, with gay civil rights now being the straw man as Satan’s Little Helper, with full on rehashed Jim Crow-esque philosophies being espoused. WTF?

Have all the smart people left the building? Hello? Anyone?

I remember when facts were the ultimate trump card. The “gotcha” moments were when a candidate was caught getting the facts wrong and was turned out publicly. Now, Tea Party candidates simultaneously mock the fact that a smart candidate thinks the separation of church and state is laid out in the 1st Amendment (it is!) and tries to block the press from covering events in Alaska. Ummm, maybe those words don’t mean what you think they mean.

As for me, I think I’m going to have plenty to comment on for the next few . . .

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Who Still Barks?

I was just watching a clip from the rehearsals for Neil Patrick Harris’ production of Rent, which goes up at the Hollywood Bowl this weekend only. It’s pretty much an all-star cast (“all-star” meaning “Dancing With the Stars” caliber) but they were knocking the vocals out the park.

The tune they were working on ended and the people present at the rehearsal applauded enthusiastically. And someone barked.

You know, the old Arsenio Hall Dawg Pound bark. The one that was originally accompanied by an odd circular motioned fist pump. And it made me wonder, who the fuck still barks?

I mean you always hear it, but who actually does it? What’s the bark demographic? In my mind it’s the Jon Gosselins and Michael Lohans of the world. The backward baseball cap and Ed Hardy wearers. Or maybe it’s just someone’s retarded cousin who gets to go to lots of events.

Seriously though, it’s the opposite of tough. It makes you look like such a pussy. Even if you’re a lesbian. It hasn’t been cool since White Zinfandel was on wine lists. It’s the Tequiza of enthusiasm.

And you know when I’m disparaging an alcoholic beverage of any sort, it’s serious.

So do me a favor. Save your barking for a full moon. At a campsite. With the guys. Over a cold Tequiza.

Monday, June 14, 2010

God’s Will

One of the more . . . interesting . . . things to come out of the BP disaster is the right wing insistence that this is somehow the liberals’ fault, or my favorite, “an act of God.”

Mmm, hmm! ‘Cause God is in the oil business you know. I'm pretty sure that if God wanted oil all over the fucking place, he would have drilled those holes himself.

But then I started thinking. You know there are an awful lot of “acts of God” that seem to especially victimize the South. Hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, humidity, televangelists. I could go on, but you get the picture. God obviously hates the South.

But wait a minute? Isn’t the South all red states? Isn’t the South the bastion of conservatism, especially religious and way too busy minding other people’s business?

Holy Shit! God hates religious conservatives and red staters! How could I have missed this? It’s so obvious.

Maybe all that “God’s will” you keep talking about is actually taking his name in vain. And that’s a pretty big sin according to that book you like to thump around.

Glory, indeed.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Throw Mama From the Plane!

So we’re on the way back from our brief respite, flying out of Wide Stance International Airport (also known as Minneapolis/St. Paul). I am, of course, like a kid in a candy store. I love airports. I love watching people in airports (can’t imagine why?!?!).

Our gate was near the end of a moving sidewalk. The origin of said sidewalk was out of sight, but I can only imagine the origins of this particular cluster. As I watched, an entire family came into view. Three generations, led by Grandma, closely followed by the married couple and grandkids. Actually, I should say they were led by Grandma’s WALKER. That’s right, they put grandma on a moving sidewalk . . . WITH HER WALKER!!

Cue disaster! Cue hilarity! Cuz, bitches, pretty soon that sidewalk ends. And ya gots to get off. Grandma and her walker had NO CHANCE. Apparently, they were an especially close-knit family, since they were giving each other essentially zero personal space. I’m all for family ties, but in this instance it was a bad, bad idea.

As Grandma struggled mightily to put her history of ambulation to use and stay upgright while exiting, the rest of the family plowed into her (guess they never thought to walk backward). Literally they all wound up in a giant pile at the end of the moving sidewalk, Grandma on bottom.

Fortunately, no one was hurt. Except for me. I slightly pulled a muscle turning away so they wouldn’t see me laughing.

And yes, once again, I’m aware that I’m doomed to the fiery pits of hell. We’re on the same flight.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

The Mosquito Cost

Sometimes I am a diva. This will come as a complete shock to . . .absolutely no one. While I apply my Southern Belle upbringing in wide swaths, I have moments where my actions and intentions don’t exactly go together.

Take this holiday weekend. My proscritos del norte invited us to join the family at their cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior. Beautiful. Bucolic. Relaxing. Inviting. All the things you’d want from a brief respite. Except for the SWARMS of mosquitoes. Billions by my quick mathematical calculations (#of actual mosquitoes minus futile fanning divided by degree of exasperation time degree of exaggeration). It was ridiculous.

I don’t know, maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was being so close to Canada that I got to thinking I was Celine Dion carrying prefab twins or something, but I fished out my metaphorical Marie Antoinette wig and boldy took action: I decided to pay the offspring to kill the mosquitos.

A dollar.

Per mosquito.

Uh-huh, I know.

Who knew that a 12 year old could be a killing machine. Two hundred mosquitoes later and daddy is thinking “that coulda been a bar tab instead of a mass hit on the Cheeshead mosquito population.” Hell, I may have to go give blood a few times to scrape that together. Should have just given it to the mosquitoes and cut out the middlemen.

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Gentleman from Georgia

Sigh. You know, it’s not just the Republicans in this country who weren’t paying attention in science class (because they thought the Debbil would get them for learning about evolution) but apparently a certain Democratic congressman from Georgia. And he even comes complete with a rube name, Hank Johnson.

In a hearing on Capitol Hill about relocating some military operations to Guam, Rep. Johnson voiced his concern about the additional population on an island that is, by his estimation, “24 miles long and about 7 miles wide at its least widest point.”

You see, the brain trust that the people of Georgia elected to represent them is afraid the island will “capsize” due to the extra population. Which is actually about par for the course for Georgia intellect. But still . . .

I’m dumbstruck. Which means I’m struck by how fucking dumb this fucker is. Lord, did ya not have enough gray matter that day? Did you think, "shit shit shit, I’m outta brains!! Hey, maybe I’ll stick him in Georgia. They’re not exactly my best work, so maybe no one will notice THIS FUCKING RETARD." (Yes, God says “retard.” He invented it. I’m just quoting him. Take it up with him if you have issues.)

Meanwhile, Hank Johnson is busy up thar in D.C. making laws and shit. Yep. We’re doomed. But at least we can watch it on YouTube.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Jump Skeeter!

I think I’m going to pee myself. The blogs are all atwitter about a 23 year old Tennessee man who jumped from his moving vehicle, a vehicle his wife was driving because “she wouldn’t shut up.”

Oh, sweet Jesus!! What hath the flood wrought? I mean, first of all, who among us HASN’T wanted to jump from the prison of a moving vehicle with an overly chatty companion. Thoughts of death over torture bring a slight smile to our face.

But we are fucking smart enough to override the impulse. Not in Tennessee, land of hillbillies and those who love ‘em. Naw, Mister Man just thought, “Fuck it bitch, I’m out!!.” And leapt. Now he's in critical condition. Fucker's probably faking that coma, just so he doesn't have to listen to his wife.

You would think that with the amount of time it took to untie the door handle, he might have reconsidered.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Shocking Sex Tape!!

The gossip rags and blogs are going crazy with the news of sex tapes that are about to be released featuring Kendra Wilkinson. Okay, can someone please ‘splain something to me? Why on earth is ANYONE shocked or scandalized that Kendra Wilkinson, A FORMER PLAYBOY PLAYMATE AND GIRLFRIEND TO HUGH HEFNER, made a sex tape?!?!?

I don’t know for sure, since I’m not all down with the vazhine, but wouldn’t that have been part of her job description? Maybe people are getting confused because her TV show was called The Girls Next Door. Folks, that title is ironic. The Girl’s BACKdoor would have been a more appropriate moniker.

I feel like I’m living in a bad redux of Victorian England. Except instead of having all of these morally superior elites, we have morally superior fucktwats.

SHE’S A PORN STAR. That’s what she’s known for. Playboy maybe soft core, but it’s still only in existence to give pre-teens boners. (Does anyone else actually read it?) Watching Kendra Wilkinson get boned on screen is roughly the equivalent of waiting for the little man to wave his rag at me at the car wash. It’s a job. It’s HER job.

The bunny ears are for life.

Mein Grout!

Here at the Maison d’O’Pine, I’ve been entertaining a steady stream of workers. The latest was a tile duo who are redoing my entry hall. Yesterday, I had brief, meaningless conversations with both the boss man and his underling. The underling, whose name I never caught, was actually in the background and we didn’t have much exchange.

What a difference a day makes.

Today, Underling came back to finish the grouting. He arrived approximately ten minutes ago and this is what I now know about him.

He is 49 tomorrow. (“Happy Birthday”, I say)
He is divorced.
He lives at his mom’s because he lost his house. (I remembered many nights in my youth when I lost my house, but still thought better of asking if he’s put out “lost house” flyers on neighborhood telephone poles.)
He’s worked for this tile guy for 19 years and hates him.
The tile guy yells at him.
He thinks the tile guy does a lot of things in an “old-fashioned” way and doesn’t keep up with the times.
He has a 1967 Chevelle show car
He scored #1 on a City civil service exam, but still didn’t get the job.
He used to be an endoscopic technician and knew how ALL the doctors liked their trays arranged (hmm, that could be a handy euphemism), but got laid off.
He’s had two knee-replacement surgeries, at least one of which incurred a workers’ comp claim.
He’s had rotator cuff surgery.
He used to make $30 an hour, “pretty good, huh?” (well, yeah, I say, that’s like 100 times more than a blogger makes)

Okay, seriously dude! I have hung out with sorority girls on speed who didn’t share as much information.

Thinking quickly, Brett Michaels flashed in my head, so I faked an anyeurism, fell to the floor and crawled back to the rear of the house to get “my meds.” I figured there was probably blood coming out of my ears already, so it seemed like a plausible feint.

I think he’s still talking. But I can’t hear him over the primal scream in my head.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

In your FACEbook!

So, I’m chatting on Facebook with one of my LTBFFs and I see, under “Suggestions” that perhaps I should friend Waterloo Records. Being a longtime devotee of this Austin institution, I thought it was a lovely suggestion, even though I NEVER take Facebook’s suggestions. So I bit.

Well, apparently the friendbot inside remembers all those slights.

The moment I clicked through to become friends with Waterloo, I was accosted by the following message:

Too Many Friends.

Sorry. This user already has too many friends.

Then, to add insult to injury, the only option I have is to click, “okay.” But it’s not okay!!! I suddenly feel like I’m back in junior high and everybody got invited by me. So, I go their Facebook page and they have this totally random number of friends, like 4,997. WTF? You can’t squeeze in one more? Not even one more you fucking solicited, like some big-dicked evangelical Republican in a men’s room?

And guess what? I can see all of my friends that are their friends. It’s all the cool kids, of course. Laughing and singing and playing all the cool records they got at Waterloo.

Then I glanced at a handful of the other people on the list. I knew several of them And they SOOOOOO don’t deserve to be there. They are NOT that good a friend to Waterloo. I’ve been a far better friend, but here I am . . . on the outside looking in.

In the words of Bob Schneider (whose albums I ALWAYS bought at Waterloo), “World goes round. World goes A-round. World goes ‘round and around.”

Like a record baby. True dat.

Tiger's Swing Coach Quits

Apparently, Tiger's swing wasn't what it used to be.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Need Some Help With Your Bags?

On my way to the office today, I was behind a car with a funny bumper sticker. There was an illustration of the little Darwin version of the Christian fish. It was accompanied by the line, "We have the fossils. We win."

It made me think of all the "Christians" that will be provoked by it, fomenting those rabid responses of faith uber alles. Suddenly it dawned on me, if these people are so completely secure in their "faith" then why are they constantly being defensive about it. Why not a beatific smile and a shrug. If they know the fucking secret, then why the need to overreact. It's a bit "methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Kind of like the right wing nut job homophobe, Dr. George Rekers, who just got caught with a male prostitute traveling companion. He said he needed him to carry his luggage due to a medical condition. ummm-hmmmm. So that's what the kids are calling it these days.

(Given the advanced age of the Christian leader I'm betting his luggage is "soft-sided.")

What I guess I didn't realize is that a man like Dr. Rekers purports to be (Christian, moralist, holier-than-thou and thou and thou) use gay escort sights as a good place to find employees. I guess it IS sort of like a temp service.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Hey Judas

Isn't it nice that the Vatican "forgave" the Beatles this week? Guess they didn't have anything more pressing on their plate.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Incongruous, Part Two

I noticed on the way home today that KFC is doing a promotion for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. They've even changed the colors on their buckets to Komen pink. I always find it odd when an entity not particularly known for its commitment to the health of the general public suddenly gets all charitable. How many heart attacks, strokes and states of general obesity has KFC contributed to? Guess it's time to give back.

But I guarantee you that at least one person in that planning meeting suggested the bucket be all breasts.

Incongruous, Part One

One of our sweet pups had to pay a visit to the vet last week. Nothing serious, but it required a regimen of pills and drops, plus a return visit this morning. As I was about to pull away, I noticed for the first time that there is a Korean restaurant immediately next door to the vet hospital. A little too close if you ask me. Just sayin'.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Chasing a New Demographic

Okay, if you are not a teenage girl this post will seem completely irrelevant.

Joe Jonas and Demi Lovato are SO not a couple. After watching their painfully derivative performance on American Idol last night, i was shocked at the complete and utter lack of chemistry between the two of them. Could it possibly be that they are a made-up Hollywood couple, proffered solely as a means of publicity for their shiteous new single? Shocking, I know.

Did you see when he put his arm around her? It was like his entire body was saying, "ewww." I know. Me too.

What? You didn't see it? Oh, you must have one of those things . . . what's it called? Oh, yeah....A LIFE.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

It Would Be Funny If They Didn’t All Carry Guns

Yahoo published the results from a brand new Harris Poll of self-described Republicans. It has the most comedic results ever. Or the most pathetic.

I can’t decide.

It’s more of the “belief” overtaking proven fact and reality. Are you ready?

67 percent of Republicans (and 40 percent of Americans overall) believe that Obama is a socialist.

Except that he isn’t.

57 percent of Republicans (32 percent overall) believe that Obama is a Muslim.

[Even though they themselves tried to tie him to his fiery Christian minister after said minister made a few poorly thought out statements]

45 percent of Republicans (25 percent overall) agree with the Birthers in their belief that Obama was "not born in the United States and so is not eligible to be president."

[Again, not even close. And do we really think Hilary would have let this one slide if it had even a shred of possible truth?]

38 percent of Republicans (20 percent overall) say that Obama is "doing many of the things that Hitler did."

[I’m guessing that close to 100% of those folks could only tell you two things Hitler did: gas jews and gays. Doesn’t really remind me of Obama. Actually reminds of Republicans.]

Scariest of all, 24 percent of Republicans (14 percent overall) say that Obama "may be the Antichrist."

[If they be the “Christians,” then one can only hope.]

The article goes on to say, “Respondents without a college education are vastly more likely to believe such claims, while Americans with college degrees or better are less easily duped. It's a reminder of what the 19th-century educator Horace Mann once too-loftily said: "’Ignorance breeds monsters to fill up the vacancies of the soul that are unoccupied by the verities of knowledge.’"

I’m liking Mr. Mann.

Monday, March 22, 2010

What Passes for Sports News

The headline: “Swedish Curler Fails Doping Test at Paralympics.”

File Under: Who the fuck cares.

I mean, seriously? First of all it’s CURLING? What kind of drugs do you take to improve your performance in CURLING? A sleeping pill? A bong hit? Second of all, it’s the Paralympics. I know it’s not polite to have double-standards for the para-people, but dear God, aren’t they entitled to a little somethin’ somethin’?

And why do we worry so much about “enhancing” drugs for professional athletes? I’m still riled about congressional hearings on steroid use in Pro Baseball. Don’t we have bigger fish to fry? I mean, professional athletes have trainers and nutritionists and physios and coaches and more. But god forbid they “juice up.”

Which of course, begs question: did the doping paracurler win?

Saturday, March 13, 2010

The (Not So) Good Sam

Had to do a little client traveling this week. And while airports are usually the mother lode for post topics, it was actually the rental car counter that gave me this gem of customer service.

I was cheerily greeted by Sam, welcoming to WonkyWagonWental. Sam took my license and credit card, then began his routine of routine conversation. “You’re from Austin, huh?”

“Yes, but I’m in the process of moving to California.”

“Oh! California’s nice. Are you moving out there for work . . . retirement . . .?”

ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!? You just asked me if I’m RETIRED? Fuck me. No, fuck you! AARP hasn’t even started sending me solicitations yet, and they start when you’re FIFTY!!

Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam. Your mama would not be proud. Of course you probably tried to bury her when she was in her early sixties.

“Now, mama, simmer down. It’s inevitable. Might was well go ahead and get ‘er done now. We’re burning daylight.”

As I walked to my car, all I could think was, "if that motherfucker gave me a Buick . . ."

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Power to the Stupid People

Rick Perry won the Texas GOP Gubernatorial primary outright against a well-funded, pretty well-respected US Senator from Texas. No runoff. He'll now face Democrat Bill White in the November coronation, er, I mean general election.

Perry's win in November (trust me, any other outcome would be a miracle. The Dems didn't even field viable candidates in every statewide race.) makes him the longest serving governor in Texas history. And the only one other than Ann Richards to have gay rumors spread about him.

Perry is now being mentioned as a potential Republican nominee in 2012.

I will say the same thing I said when GW Bush was being given the same push. OH SHIT! At the time I didn't think we Americans were really daft enough to elect W. And then we did it twice.

Please God, smart people!! Let's derail this train before it gets out of the station. If you live in Texas, go get a Bill White bumper sticker, write a check and volunteer. Put a sign in your yard, host a party--DO WHATEVER YOU CAN. This isn't just about the future of my dear home state. Think about the bigger picture. After all, Karl Rove is back in Austin.

Mitt Romney is STREET, Yo!

I know this is old news, but I’ve been dying to write about it. Apparently, Mitt Romney, of the sacred underwear and failed presidential bid, wants you to know that he’s not afraid to get jiggy. Or down. Or hood. Or crunk. Or whatever word you think he should use to make him seem more urban. Or relevant.

It seems that a rapper type in the seat in front of him refused to put his seat in the full, upright and locked position prior to take-off. Being the fine, upstanding Republican (who probably prefers his seat back to be in the full, upright and locked position throughout the flight in order to keep the stick up his ass) conservative that he is, Mitt felt that he should step in and rectify the situation. By placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

But apparently, he picked the wrong muthafuckin’ attention whore publicity hound to go off on. You see, this wasn’t just ANY wannabe, this was Berry Motherfuckin’ Gordy’s nephew. That’s right. NEPHEW. Which makes him Rockwell’s cousin, if that’s of any interest to you guys. You remember Rockwell . . . he was the one-hit wonder who got his one hit by singing the verse no one remembers around Michael Jackson’s uncredited (but completely unmistakeable) chorus. “I always feel like . . . somebody’s watching meeeeeee.” And cue the money with the googly eyes.

Of course the entire altercation was about as white bread as you can possibly get. And honestly, it just gave the rich nephew even less street cred than he already had (which is apparently putting him into the negative).

Police were called, of course. Romney did his best Ward Cleaver impression, while the most likely overeducated rapper, after reciting the ubiquitous, “Get off me man!!, pulled the officers aside and explained his relevance and dire need for publicity of this kind.

Oh, BTW--his name is Sky Blu, which is only sliiiiightly more street than his real name, Skyler Gordy. Bwahhahahahahaha. Sorry. And his group? LMFAO. No, that’s the name of the group. Yes, that’s what I’m doing, but that’s really the name of his group.

Apparently, all was forgiven. Romney managed to get his “garments” out of his crack and no one has heard from Gordy since. And I’m sure it will stay that way.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Where Ladies Who Like Ladies Go On Vacation

California living has been quite the adventure. Still exploring, and probably will be for years. Our little hamlet is very well situated for access to city, mountains, ocean, bay, wine, garlic and bad drivers.

A couple of weeks ago, the offspring came out for his birthday weekend. (OMG, y’all—only one more year left before the TEENAGES—crikey!) We decided to head up to the mountains for a bit of snow skiing.

On the way home, we were trailing a couple of lipstick lesbians in a cherry-red Mercedes convertible. Even thought it was the middle of winter, they had the top down. To be fair, it was a bit warm for winter and, you know, lesbians are tough like that.

Since it was just a little two lane road through the mountains, I was paying close attention to the activities of all the other drivers, especially the ladies, who were directly in front of me. As we approached an intersection, our ladyfriends made a sudden deviation in course, deciding to hang a quick left at this random intersection in the middle of nowhere.

As they turned, I saw a sign and it all became clear. Apparently, this is where one turns to go to Moaning Caverns.

I see.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Faking My Olygasm (or LOLympics)

OMG. Thank God the Olympics are over. (I’m sorry, I mean the “winter Olympic games.” Technically only the SUMMER games can be called the Olympics. But only Jacques Rogge and some Dutch woman with a wooden shoe in her ass actually insist on the distinction.)

Yesterday, I spent the better part of two hours watching a tape delayed telecast of a marathon on skis. WTF? And of course, there’s no counter-programming. No one even bothers to put ANYTHING else on TV for the two weeks. Being a sports fan in general, though, it was seriously disappointing to know the results of every event before the telecast even began.

So I guess my beef isn’t so much with the Big O’s as much as it is with NBC. The laziness with which they covered these games was appalling. They had obviously identified the “stories” of the games, built their packages and rammed ‘em down our throats, regardless of the outcomes of the races. Lindsey Vonn is the BEST BLONDE SKIER EVER!! Doesn’t matter that one of her teammates (whose name I can’t remember) actually out skied her. LINDSEY VONN!

And I totally get rooting for the home team, but the O’s are supposed to transcend borders. Yet, NBC’s team would go to any length to get the AMERICAN story in each event.

“Uter Hundrlinr has just shattered the world record!!! But look at that AMERICAN, young Jimmy Whippersnapper! He said himself that anything better than a 30th place finish would be a personal triumph. And he’s at 28!!!!! WHAT A STORY!!!” Yeah, there's a headline for you.

Unless of course it was the Austrian skier who had almost died or something and here he was now winning everything. Uh . . . dudes? Just because you’re broadcasting this during the day doesn’t mean it has to be like daytime television.

And how many fucking hours of curling did you broadcast? Sweet Jesus. When I saw that funny commercial about the broadcasters getting all psyched for curling, I thought it was a parody. I didn’t realize there was this pent-up demand.

And then there was Apolo OHNO HE DI-INT. Yes, 8 medals is amazing. But he didn’t skate all that well and got two of his medals because other people fell in front of him. Not exactly the kind of achievement you want to skate around the rink holding up your counting fingers for. Didn’t see Michael Phelps do that. And he won that many GOLDS. In one Olympics. But he does have a great ass. I’d give him a medal for that.

Slumber of the Sleepy Bear

YAWN!!! Streeeeeetch! Growl. Aw, c'mon. You know bears hibernate in the winter. Plus, this bear had to find a new cave in a different forest. But spring is almost here. The trees are starting to bloom. And this bear is ready to shake off the lethargy and get back to business.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Lowered Expectations

My proscrita del norte shared this with me. Not sure whether it was because of the UTexas loss or because I hate stupid people. But it's nice to be reminded every once in a while that not EVERYONE is an idiot.

60 yard pass
by Charles Bukowski

most people don’t do very well and I get discouraged with
their existence, it’s such a waste:
all those bodies, all those lives
malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses,
in-competent carwash boys and presidents,
cowardly goal-keepers inept garage mechanics
bumbling tax accountants
and so forth


now and then

I see a single performer doing something with a
natural excellence

it can be
a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
and completing that winning
60 yard pass

which lets me believe that
the possibility of the miracle is here with us
almost every day

and I’m glad that now and then
some 3rd string quarterback
shows me the truth of that belief
whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
medicine, politics, and/or etc.

else I’d shoot all the lights out of
this fucking city
right now

Jazz Hands!

One of my thoughts upon moving to California was that I could use the transition to drop a few (well-earned) lbs. My Beloved has a company gym which has spousal privileges (snicker) and they offer a bevy of classes to pique your fitness interests. Since I’ve noticed that my cardiovascular condition has been somewhat lacking, I wanted to do something aerobic in nature. I actually have fond memories of aerobic classes from the 90’s, but those all seem to have been supplanted by Krav Maga or Cardio Kickboxing or HipHop Dance. And seriously, you DO NOT want to see a fat bald white man in his late 40’s bustin’ a hip hop move.

After looking over the schedule, I chose something almost as comical. Jazzercise. That’s right, bitches! Motherfuckin’ JAZZERCISE!!! I mistakenly thought this would be some sort of contemporary retelling of the genre, but I was woefully mistaken.

In walked Chris, our perky instructor. Based solely on her age, I had to check the door to see if she had brought her walker along. But sister was fit, fit, fit. Mostly because, as she shared with us, she has been teaching Jazzercise for 25 YEARS!!!

The first thing I noticed was that this room obviously employs funhouse mirrors to motivate you. Surely I have not actually let my body morph into something resembling an Idaho potato. But I pulled up my leg warmers, adjusted my braided Olivia Newton John headband and began doing my headrolls, shoulder rotations and other warm-ups, all the while pretending I was about to audition for So You Think You Can Dance.

I wasn’t really intimidated, since the small class seemed full of newcomers. Then in walked the willowy thin fella WEARING HIS JAZZERCISE T-SHIRT. Seriously. I would have been intimidated if I hadn’t fallen on the floor and laughed so hard I farted.

Chris introduced her prize pupil to the class and informed us that HE had been doing Jazzercise for 15 years, so if we had trouble following her, we could always watch him. Wiping away my tears and fanning my flatulence toward the skinny fit girl to my left, I prepared . . . to MOVE.

Chris was appropriately perky and had me wheezing like the fat old man I am in a matter of seconds. Soon, the sweat was pouring down my bald pate, with only my sparse eyebrows to fend off the torrent. Unsuccessfully I might add. My eyes began to sting as my lungs began to burn, which I’m sure is what caused me to falter on the choreography. And just as I was about to give up and go sit in the locker room and watch guys change clothes to get my heart rate up, I decided to watch Mr. Jazzercise himself.

OMG, he sucked! He was completely uncoordinated and graceless. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe I was . . . JAZZERCISING. I managed to make it through the hour without a cocktail or a coronary. And I realized that everyone else had taken the class in the spirit of good fun. We all sucked. But none of us cared. We bounced and stepped, sometimes heading the right direction, sometimes not. And yes, we even occasionally used our jazz hands.

Now I’m just waiting for the dryer to finish. I’m going to need that headband again tomorrow night.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Quick! Someone Call a Wedlocksmith

GRRRRRRR. I thought we were done with this shit when President Bornagain left office. The link to the Ticker on CNN said, “WH Aide Admits Out-of-Wedlock Child.”

What is this, Ye Olde Shoppe? Give me a fucking break. “Out of Wedlock.” I feel nauseous. Especially after reading that basically the guy had a baby with the woman he had been in a long term relationship with, but unfortunately they broke up before the baby was born and now he’s engaged to someone else.

The right squawkers will I’m sure use this as further “evidence” of the faulty moral compass of the President.
I’m just like, “Do you people NEVER leave your house? Do you not know ANYONE? Do you not get cable?”

Of all the scandalous goings-on in our government, this isn’t even a blip. It’s unfortunate that the parents’ relationship didn’t work—for THEM. It has nothing whatsoever to do with our country. Or US. It’s none of our fucking business.

So, why oh why is CNN suddenly getting all FOXy on us? I blame Kathy Griffin and her New Years Eve potty mouth. Oh, and the guy is now engaged to an ABC correspondent, so there could be some professional monkeyshines at the network as well. I’d be curious to see if the CNN reporter had any history with the ABC fiancĂ©e.

But mostly, I’d just like for us all to grow the fuck up and get our noses out of other people’s business.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Silicon Valley of the Dolls

So my first day as a Silicon Valley housewife is off to a good start. Put the offspring on his first ever solo flight (back to Austin). Cried. Dropped my Beloved off at the office. Didn't cry, but welled up a little. Now I'm back at the casa getting ready to clean up from the weekend and prepare for our first house guest in the new quarters. (Yay, Gardog!).

Looks like all I'm missing is a box of cheap chablis and a variety of prescription pills. Although i think I'm far more like Edina Monsoon than Neely O'Hara.

I'm chanting as we speak.

But I do like to sparkle now and again.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Saturday, January 2, 2010

Tagging the Turd

Yesterday, I met the Mighty Mandrax and the Godson for breakfast. They had generously offered to keep the Offspring for New Year's Eve, giving both him and us a welcome respite. Not knowing what would be open early on the 1st of January, we opted for the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank. Huge menu with something for everyone. Sort of like an authentic prototype of the Cheesecake Factory.

After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.

Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril

But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."

You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.

Surrounded by Newness

So, I'm sitting at the dining table in my BRAND NEW APARTMENT in California. I've followed my Beloved to his new place of employment at the epicenter of the high-tech universe. We drove 1700 miles in 4 days, including a New Year's Eve pit stop with some of the LA peeps. Gracias para todos, y'all!

Based on what I've seen in my first 24 hours, I'm sure the blog posts will be coming fast and furious. Let's kick 2010 off to a big, fat stupid start, shall we?