Attack of the Stupid People

LUV, deux.

2011-08-29T13:42:00.001-05:00

Since that last post was so long, I decided to give the second story it’s own little spot. Once again, on Southwest. This time with Paula Deen’s less successful sister as one of our flight attendants. GAWD, that molasses voice over the loudspeaker! I just wanted to slather myself in butter and beat somebody to death with some extra-crispy bacon. Yawwwl.

But it wasn’t her voice, as much as the one thing she did that just chaps my ass beyond all recognition (digression: can you chap an ass in assless chaps?). The lovely dumbass sitting in the bulkhead committed her first offense by putting her back further down the aisle, the backtracking to get the bulkhead seat.

Great. Now when the door opens, we’ll have to wait for Miss Einstein to block the aisle and fight the departing hoard like a horny Alaskan salmon to retrieve her bag. Of course, she was also bright enough to think she could put all of her personal belongings on the floor at her feet, an act that pretty much anyone who has ever even SEEN an airplane, knows is a no-no.

But L’il Deen was having NONE of it.

“Yew cain’t put yer bag there, hun. It’s gunna hafta go in tha overhead bee-uhn.”

When the woman looked at her quizzically, L’il punted. “Sorry. It’s not MY rule.”

Yes, you sorry sack of shit. It is absolutely YOUR rule. YOU are the airline. YOU (and all the other flight attendants in the world) make damn sure we all understand that you are NOT a sky hostess, but an important piece of the safety puzzle. YOU ARE responsible for maintaining a certain safety level in the cabin, and this exact issue is one of the primary safety precautions for which you are responsible.

Yes, I know that it’s waaaaay more important to be liked by a passenger, but come on. Own it. It’s your job. And your job means you support and enforce the rules, not undercut them with your own fear of being disliked.

I see this particular trait more and more across our great land. This unwillingness to accept responsibility, even when some unpleasantness ensues.

“It’s not MY fault!”

Yeah. It is. So very many things that are wrong with our country right now are your fault.

Of course, I had to walk right past her on my eager debarkation. I cringed as she said, “bah bye! Thank yewwww!”

Well, at least she got the “ewww” part right.

After the LUV is Gone

2011-08-29T13:36:00.001-05:00

Air travel is always a great provider of stupid people in action. Lately, I have had the unfortunate occurrence of flying Southwest—the LUV airline—a couple of times. In general, I’m a big snobby queen about air travel. Even though I spend the vast majority of my time in coach, I prefer airlines where there is at least a possibility I could get upgraded and fly with what is usually a bunch of overweight traveling salesmen logging their 8 millionth mile of the year.

And that is decidedly NOT the Southwest model. Southwest is like Yokel Air now. Amateur travelers and Tea Party devotees, with a dash of Bumpkin Businessman for spice.

Back in the old days, Southwest was just easy and fun. It was no fuss, you jumped on, you jumped off and the cute young flight attendants were hired as much for their senses of humor as they were for their ability to actually attend.

Then apparently the hiring department of Southwest was taken over by the cast of Hee Haw. Jesus H. Christ, could they BE more cornpone. The made up songs, the banjo accents—I’m surprised they don’t sell tooth black out, fake freckles and pieces of straw in the company store.

But all of that pales in comparison to the surliness I experienced during a recent boarding.

The Beloved and I were flying back from a crazy weekend in LA (where we were entertained by a couple of Top Chefs, a Real Housewife, some real chefs and, of course, dear friends. When I printed out our boarding passes, his was A59. Not great, but not horrible. I printed mine out immediately after and it was A6. Suh-weet! I wasn’t sure how I had scored such a great boarding number, but figured it had something to do with the fact I had flown down at a different time, and perhaps my fare category was different.

As I’m standing in line, I notice another passenger has a boarding card for A6. Hmmm. As I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and begin to head into the jetway, I notice that my card doesn’t ping it’s approval. Of course, I should have kept walking, but I turned to see what the problem was. The gate agent was standing there with a sullen look on her face.

“Is there a problem?” WHY? Why did I ask? Just get on the damn plane.

“Um … yeah. You’re not A6, you’re A60.” This made perfect sense, given that my Beloved’s number was 59. But that wasn’t what my card SAID.

“But it says A6.”

She pointed to a small number 60 in the lower corner of the boarding pass, then piled on, adding, “And it doesn’t say “Business Select.”

And it doesn’t say you have to be such a hateful cow, either. She sent me back to slot 60.

From my perspective—the perspective of the CUSTOMER—it shouldn’t be about what my fucking ticket DOESN’T say. It should be about what it does say. It wasn’t like the printer left off a zero. It was very clear that I had been assigned that number. And I’m sure I could have fought it, but it was late and I was tired and waiting in line with my Beloved is really a lovely way to spend time, so I didn’t protest.

My ticket also didn’t say that I wanted to be seated across from an absolutely horrible screaming child, spoiled rotten beyond belief, with a couple of ineffectual, milquetoast parents who mistook placation for punishment.

But that’s what I wound up with. And I was feeling the H8.

Who Likes White People?!

2011-08-28T22:07:00.001-05:00

One of the reasons I was really wanting to get back to this blog was Cahngresswoman Michele Bachmann. You know, the utterly batshit crazy representative from Minnesota? Yeah, her.

(complete and utter digression, but whomever in the world came up with the nickname “Lady Bird” for Marcus Bachman, I will BLOW you, anytime, anyplace. Genius! Absolute perfection!)

So Mrs. Bachman gave a speech this weekend. And guess what her opening line was?

“Who likes white people?” (while raising her own damn hand).

I am NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU.

Now, to be “fair and balanced” she was apparently following a band called the White People Soul Band

She continues with:

“I am Michelle Bachman and I am a member of Congress and I’m running for the Presidency of the United States…But I am here to talk tonight about the Creator of the Universe, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Whattywhafuckityfuck? No offense to my Jesusian friends, but I’m pret-tee sure that nobody EVER claimed Jesus was the Creator of the Universe. I’m pretty sure his dad gets the credit. God must feel like Robert Downey. Or Efrem Zimbalist (yeah, I dug back that far!) Or Thurston Howell, Jr.

Now, I am well aware that Mrs. Bachmann has a loose way with the facts, but isn’t she kinda running on the whole Christian platform? Isn’t she a certified Dominionist? So, is she just incredibly stupid or just incredibly careless?

Either way, I’m sure as hell not thinking those are very presidential traits. Of course, I would lit-rally move away if the "majority" of people in this country thought Mrs. Bachmann was more qualified, and had better leadership potential, than our sitting president.

Of course, I’d have to change the name of the blog to L’Attack of Le Stupid People. And no one wants that.

The Haves vs. The Have Nots

2011-08-18T19:27:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles for a charity event one of my dearest, dearests was chairing. It was a kinda swanky event—an afternoon garden party at one of those big old movie star casas. Being the gigantic queen that I am, I decided that I couldn’t just drive up to the valet parker in ANY OLD CAR. No, no. Miss thing needed a luxury rental.

Upon arriving at the airport, I saw my “luxury” ride awaiting. A champagne colored Lincoln MKZ. Mary Sweet Mother of Jesus. What an ugly piece of grandmother shit. I thought for a moment about asking to swap, but then just went with it.

The interior was all burled, blonde wood and soft, buttercream leather. The car was essentially a Taurus playing dress up. And it was obviously designed for the blue-haired female population. I thought, “okay, I’m not THAT big a queen,” but accepted my fate and figured that I would probably still get some valet attitude.

The car was pretty tricked out, with gadgets and screens that no senior citizen would ever be able to navigate (yeah, I’m a hater. So what? I’ll be an AARP card-carrying senior before you know it. So I’m getting my licks in while I can.)

One feature I found particularly odd was an audible beep beep beep whenever the MKZ got too close to another car. This was usually in effect during parking maneuvers, but did sound off on other occasions.

For instance, when the homeless woman who was panhandling on the street got too close to my car. I almost laughed my ass off. The fucking alert went off. Cuz honey, nothing says luxury like protecting the occupants from the “undesirables.” The HORROR! Shudder to think.

Oh, and by the way… I almost forgot to mention—there was no valet parking at the event.

Serves me right.

Orange With Envy

2011-08-11T11:46:00.002-05:00

I know this is old territory, but doesn't John Boehner have someone to tell him to shut off the mystic tan? Does he not have an iPhone? You can set all kinds of alerts that will prevent you from overdoing it.

Of course, Speaker Boehner obviously has a problem. Tanorexia, while generally the province of bored, underachieving, purge-prone starlets and sorority girls, is a serious issue. And I think Speaker Boehner would make an excellent national spokesperson. If only he could use his bully pulpit for good and not evil. I mean, the motherfucker can cry ON CUE. Can you imagine how powerful his PSA's would be for the cause? Dude, you don't even have to pick a color for the cause-it's already written on your face.

But apparently, he doesn't recognize that he has a problem.

Who knows, maybe he wanted to be a carrot when he grew up. Either that, or there's an Oompah Loompah in the woodpile.

A Month of Sundays

2011-08-11T11:36:00.002-05:00

When I was growing up, my people would use that phrase when they hadn't seen anyone in a while. "Why I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays!" For some reason, maybe because Sundays were "holy," it always seemed like one of those subtle Southern backhanded chides. "Bless her heart" is probably the most common of these, but "a month of Sundays?" It always seemed like an accusation that you hadn't been to church in 30 weeks or so.

Looking back at my last post on this site, I realize it's been 29 Sundays since I added my voice to the din. So let's call it a "Leap Year February of Sundays" or just, "too damn long."

So for anyone who still actually checks this site, let me say "thanks and keep checking back." I can't possibly sit out the craziness and gigantic attacks of the stupid that are going on all around us. Rick Perry actually contending for the Presidency? Stupid. Michelle Bachmann being taken seriously? Too Stupid. Marcus Bachmann? Girrrrl, stupid.

But it's not just the Republicans and Tea Baggers we need to worry about. There are plenty, plenty, plenty of targets out there, just ripening to the point of rupture. And feel like poppin' some balloons. Are you with me?

Whisper to a Scream

2011-01-20T14:16:00.002-06:00

Here in NorCal, we have a chain of sub shops called ToGo. Long o’s. I mean, sure you can take them to go, but that’s not how you say it. It’s Toe Go. Anyway . . .

I’m in line at the ToGo yesterday, waiting on my delicious #20 with prov. There’s a line of people waiting, but service is smooth and we’re all in a “kumbaya, gimme my sammy” kinda place. Then this adorable young mother walks in with her two beautiful children (seriously) and walks right around the line to the phone-in order counter.

I gave her a side-eye, just to make sure she wasn’t cutting, but one of the clerks asked if she had a phone order.

“YEAH! IT’S UNDER LESLIE!” she screamed at the clerk. Now the joint was a bit noisy, but, bitch please. The man is two feet away from your face. And I’m 8 inches away from your blow hole.

She continued, “IT WAS TWO SANDWICHES! I ALSO NEED CHIPS AND A DRINK!” She said this last part as she reached around my back to the chip rack.

Lucky me! I get your shriek in stereo now.

Enough was enough. I turned to her, leaned in where she could hear me plainly without shouting, smiled my southern beauty queen smile and said, “Inside voice.”

She looked at me like I had shot her. But she piped down.

Damn, that sandwich was good.

Salty Tears at the Beach

2011-01-02T11:42:00.002-06:00

So, after a wild ride of a year, my Beloved surprised me and the now almost 13 year-old offspring with a well-needed trip to Maui (apparently, Paris HIlton was there too, but thankfully there was no sighting). After asking around for all the "must do's" we planted our fat asses firmly in the sand outside our hotel room and never moved unless food or drink was involved. We splurged on those gay little beach chair duos with the pull-up canopy (they called them "cabanas" just to make them even gayer, but darlings, you might want to google "French Riviera" and see what a real cabana is). To complete the visual, wrapped a sarong artfully around my rotundity, perched a large, floppy straw hat on my pate and donned sunglasses large enough to serve dinner on. It was a look that screamed, "yes, I'm famous. And NO, you may not talk to me."

Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!

The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.

What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.

Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!

Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)

Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.

In All Things, Balance

2011-01-02T11:33:00.002-06:00

So . . . anybody still out there? Yeah, I know. I suck. The good news is, it was SUCH an amazing and productive 2010 that there simply wasn't a lot of bandwidth for personal projects like this here bloggy thingy. But I missed it oh so much. The bad news? Work is still ginning along at rocket speed (I guess that's really good news, but you know what I mean).

In the spirit of the new year, however, I am resolving to refresh and relaunch AOTSP. However, I am also trying to be a kinder, gentler person, so you can see the inherent conflict I'm facing. Oh, well, if I have to break a resolution . . .

Therefore I am in deep, secret negotiations to do all kinds of fancy thangs here. So stay tuned. If you're there.

Meanwhile, I'm going to start posting again. Starting here! Starting now!

xoxo and Happy New Year,

Seamus O'Pine

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

2010-10-28T08:52:00.001-05:00

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?

Okie Smokie

2010-10-27T12:42:00.002-05:00

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!

The Hollow Promise of Hope

2010-10-22T11:58:00.002-05:00

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.

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

2010-10-20T10:20:00.001-05:00

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 . . .

Who Still Barks?

2010-08-04T18:19:00.001-05:00

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.

God’s Will

2010-06-14T17:32:00.002-05:00

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.

Throw Mama From the Plane!

2010-06-02T16:43:00.001-05:00

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.

The Mosquito Cost

2010-06-01T19:42:00.001-05:00

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.

The Gentleman from Georgia

2010-05-21T17:49:00.002-05:00

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.

Jump Skeeter!

2010-05-20T11:34:00.002-05:00

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.

Shocking Sex Tape!!

2010-05-14T11:18:00.000-05:00

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!

2010-05-14T10:51:00.000-05:00

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.

In your FACEbook!

2010-05-11T18:53:00.000-05:00

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

2010-05-11T10:00:00.000-05:00

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

Need Some Help With Your Bags?

2010-05-06T09:36:00.003-05:00

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.

Hey Judas

2010-05-01T12:10:00.001-05:00

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

Incongruous, Part Two

2010-04-30T17:38:00.002-05:00

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

2010-04-30T17:36:00.002-05:00

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'.

Chasing a New Demographic

2010-03-25T10:42:00.002-05:00

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.

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

2010-03-23T18:32:00.001-05:00

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.

What Passes for Sports News

2010-03-22T14:34:00.000-05:00

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?

The (Not So) Good Sam

2010-03-13T09:54:00.001-06:00

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 . . ."

Power to the Stupid People

2010-03-03T16:41:00.004-06:00

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!

2010-03-03T16:40:00.001-06:00

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.

Where Ladies Who Like Ladies Go On Vacation

2010-03-02T17:21:00.002-06:00

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.

Faking My Olygasm (or LOLympics)

2010-03-01T10:50:00.002-06:00

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

2010-03-01T10:48:00.002-06:00

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.

Lowered Expectations

2010-01-12T18:39:00.001-06:00

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

yet

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
quarterback
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!

2010-01-12T12:35:00.002-06:00

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.

Quick! Someone Call a Wedlocksmith

2010-01-07T13:07:00.001-06:00

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 fiancée.

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

Silicon Valley of the Dolls

2010-01-04T11:32:00.003-06:00

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.

Need I Say More?

2010-01-03T23:03:00.000-06:00

Snooki.

Tagging the Turd

2010-01-02T17:31:00.002-06:00

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

2010-01-02T17:28:00.002-06:00

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?

Christmas Goose

2009-12-22T15:08:00.002-06:00

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.

Maybe We'll Skip Marfa

2009-12-09T15:19:00.002-06:00

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.

Eye of the Tiger Storm

2009-12-07T08:25:00.000-06:00

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.

Put the Turkey Away Until Next Year

2009-11-30T10:14:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-30T10:13:00.000-06:00

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.

Simpatico

2009-11-16T10:58:00.001-06:00

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.

Prejean Hearts Palin

2009-11-12T10:02:00.004-06:00

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

2009-11-12T10:02:00.001-06:00

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.

So Right. So Wrong.

2009-11-09T15:49:00.003-06:00

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.

Warm AND Fashionable

2009-11-08T16:11:00.001-06:00

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 . . .

Showing Us How “Opposites” Do It

2009-11-05T09:56:00.001-06:00

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.

The Dark Lord in Person

2009-11-03T11:39:00.003-06:00

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.

Should O'Pine Acquaintance Be Forgot

2009-11-02T09:38:00.001-06:00

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.

Ready to Itch?

2009-09-23T16:28:00.002-05:00

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.

They Ain't Gunna Lissen.

2009-09-08T09:03:00.000-05:00

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.

Mama's Milk

2009-09-04T16:41:00.003-05:00

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?

Dear Madonna

2009-09-01T11:08:00.001-05:00

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

I'll Take Mine to Go

2009-08-27T09:49:00.001-05:00

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!

Trafficking in Freshman

2009-08-26T13:25:00.001-05:00

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.

What's Next? Jesus Soap on a Rope?

2009-08-25T11:06:00.001-05:00

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.

I Think She Forgot What the "i" Stands For

2009-08-24T08:49:00.002-05:00

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.

My Favorite Quote from a Reality Competition

2009-07-22T17:26:00.000-05:00

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

Dressing for (Cosmopolitan) Success

2009-06-09T14:14:00.002-05:00

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?

Poison at the Tonys

2009-06-08T08:12:00.002-05:00

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.)

Stupid Goes to Washington (National)

2009-06-05T14:00:00.002-05:00

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 . . .

El Dumbass

2009-05-16T16:56:00.001-05:00

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?”

Craigslist Cleans Up

2009-05-14T17:07:00.001-05:00

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.

TwoFace Book

2009-05-13T11:59:00.003-05:00

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.

Ay! Mi Gente!

2009-05-12T09:42:00.002-05:00

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!

Betty Brown Eye

2009-04-10T08:56:00.002-05:00

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.

Yes, I Know I'm Going to Hell

2009-04-09T15:21:00.001-05:00

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.

The Bush is Back

2009-04-08T09:48:00.000-05:00

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!

Begging for Mercy

2009-04-06T10:07:00.002-05:00

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

2009-04-06T10:06:00.001-05:00

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.

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

2009-03-18T11:23:00.002-05:00

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.

Pope Fucks Up Again

2009-03-17T13:33:00.001-05:00

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 habitué 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.

New Vocabulary Words

2009-03-13T08:23:00.003-05:00

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?

It Doesn't Get Any More Real

2009-03-12T11:58:00.001-05:00

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.

Not Bristol and Levi!

2009-03-11T18:18:00.003-05:00

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.

Dear Bad Texas Drivers

2009-03-04T14:53:00.003-06:00

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!

2009-03-04T14:52:00.000-06:00

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.

Beware the Ides of March

2009-03-02T08:16:00.000-06:00

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.

Show Me Something!

2009-02-25T14:43:00.001-06:00

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.

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

2009-02-24T13:29:00.002-06:00

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.

Ahh, the Moneychangers

2009-02-17T08:09:00.000-06:00

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.

"Special" Delivery

2009-02-11T14:33:00.000-06:00

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.

The Taxman Cometh

2009-02-03T15:24:00.001-06:00

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.

Pardon My French

2009-01-29T14:52:00.002-06:00

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.

Clean Up on Aisle 9

2009-01-28T08:51:00.001-06:00

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.

Why Is It Always The Guy From Texas?

2009-01-22T08:49:00.001-06:00

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.

Buh-Bye!

2009-01-20T09:17:00.001-06:00

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.

It's My Dick in a Box!

2009-01-19T14:41:00.001-06:00

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?

2009-01-19T14:39:00.003-06:00

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?

Making Babies in Batches

2009-01-15T11:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Bobbitt One-Upped

2009-01-07T10:48:00.000-06:00

I saw a report today on one of my favorite blogs that an Australian woman had set her husband’s penis on fire. (insert burning bush joke here) Apparently, she saw him hug another woman and immediately assumed an affair. Because . . . that’s what people do when they’re having an affair? Hug their girlfriends in front of their wives? Uh-huh.

So Mrs. Loster Marbles decides that she wants to “mark” her hubby’s piece as “her property.” Could you not have just pissed on it? Or maybe used a sharpie to write your name, like you do on kids’ clothes for camp?

But wait! Apparently, she doused his member in a flammable liquid, set it on fire while he was asleep. Naturally, the smell of burning hair and flesh (and maybe the pain) woke him up. In his frenzy put out the “fire down below” the fellow knocked over the flammable liquid, set the house on fire and caused over a million dollars worth of damage. And threatening the lives of their three children, who were sleeping at the time and barely made it out of the blaze.

Crazy people. When will they learn. Not that a burned stump of a dick isn’t a definite deterrent to future extramarital activity, but HEY CRAZY LADY, it’s also a deterrent to intra-marital relations. So NOW what are you going to do? Oh, that’s right, you’ll be taking a broomstick up the ass from some lovely lass in the Aussie penal system.

The man whose shrimp was put on the barbie has denied any extramarital infidelity. I can only assume he will honestly be able to say that from now on, as well.

It’s Worse Than We Thought

2009-01-06T13:34:00.001-06:00

Over the holidays, I finished another Matt Taibbi book. The Amazing Gardog was kind enough to pass it on to me.

Matt is the political reporter for Rolling Stone and one of the most entertaining writers I know. If you’re a liberal. If you’re a conservative, you OUGHT to be entertained by him, but it’s hard to be entertained when someone is pointing out the inherent hypocrisy of you and your peers.

Taibbi spends most of his ammo on Congress and how the system is essentially wired to be ineffectual. The rest he reserves for conservative Christians mega-ministers and their lemming-like flock.

The book I just finished, The Great Derangement: A Terrifying True Story of War, Politics & Religion at the Twilight of the American Empire, saw him embed himself in a San Antonio mega-church. Since Matt is a self-described atheist, the journey he takes is surprising and enlightening, even to him. And his characters are straight out of Christopher Guest. Or maybe Christopher Guest’s characters are straight out of a mega-church. Hmmm. That could be a great next movie from him. Sir Chris? Lady Jamie Leigh? Are you listening? Anyone?

Prior to the election, Gardog had handed off Smells Like Dead Elephants: Dispatches from a Rotting Empire, and advised me to wait until after the election to read it. It was full of microscopic reportage about Tom Delay and his brazen sadism. Also knows as House Majority Leader skills.

All I’m going to say is READ THESE BOOKS! I’m relieved that, with the election of Obama and a congressional majority, the Rule of the Stupid People may be drawing to a close. But these books serve as a cautionary tale, especially in light of Bush One’s suggestions this week of what a great President his son Jeb would make. Well he should have thought of that before we elected the retarded one. Some have snarkily suggested the former Florida Governor should adopt his wife’s maiden name. Alas, her maiden name is Gallo. Which means “rooster” or “cock” in Spanish. (And “cheap ass wine” in most other parts of the world.) No, I’m afraid poor Jeb is out of luck. As Robin Williams said recently, “What does it say about the family when the smart one is named Jeb?”

Maybe we should just refrain from electing any Republicans until they’re able to rid themselves of the cancer of fundamentalism that plagues them. Or maybe we’ll just sink back into our torpor of apathy in about 100 days.

The Seven Habits of Highly Ineffective People

2009-01-05T09:43:00.000-06:00

1. Always make a “to do” list. If you put the days on it, then you can just copy whatever didn’t get done on Monday and paste it to Tuesday. Repeat.
2. Deadlines should be set and met. But it’s actually more of a challenge if you wait until the last possible minute to get started, then sprint across the finish line. What a rush! And completing even the most mundane tasks gives you a HUGE sense of accomplishment.
3. Surf the internet for inspiration. A lot. But remember, porn isn’t technically “inspiration” and shouldn’t be surfed on your work computer.
4. Work from home as often as possible.
5. Meetings are an amazingly useful tool for passing time without actually making any progress. The more meetings you can schedule in a week, the busier you are. 50% is a good starting point.
6. Be very familiar with your company’s policies and procedures, especially as it pertains to “vacation” and “sick leave.” Mental Health is as important as physical health, so you might be able to use a sick day to recharge your batteries. Game on.
7. It’s always 5 o’clock somewhere.