And so the news comes that 16-year old Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant by her 19-year old LIVE IN boyfriend. For those of you who don’t already know (anyone? anyone?) Jamie Lynn is Britney’s baby sister, and a teen star in her own right.
Now what I find so amazingly delicious in all this is not the pregnancy news, but the announcement by Lynn Spears’ publishing house (Lynn is Mama Spears) that her new book’s publication date will be pushed back indefinitely.
The best part? It’s a book on parenting!!!! Who the fuck would pay Lynn Spears to write a book on parenting? Is the title, “What Not To Do?” It should be called “Not a Fucking Clue.”
Guess it just goes to show that you can take the girls from the bayou, but you can’t make ‘em wear shoes.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
These People Need to Watch More Porn
Under the Headline, “Coach Turned Holiday Displays Into Porn” CBS46 in Atlanta reported that a middle school coach took a bunch of kids around rearranging Christmas scenes in Marietta, Georgia (which is impossible to say without sounding like a Southern Belle)
Now, I would guess that a not-insignificant number of gay men clicked through to this one. You put “coach” and “porn” in the same sentence and we’re ready to play ball. But as I read the report, I realized this was just another bunch of repressed stupidity.
The reporter, who apparently also edits her church newsletter, referred to the “lewd Christmas prank” and said, “The group even made several homeowners’ displays X-rated, police said, including placing reindeer in sexual positions.”
(Gasp!) SCANDALOUS!
Are you fucking kidding me? THAT’S what you consider “x-rated??!?!?!?” Animals procreating are now PORN?! As a writer, I would have categorized it as “sophomoric,” but “porn?” I expect that Fred Phelps and His Phreaks will soon be boycotting barnyards everywhere.
Having grown up in the country, no one ever thought it odd when animals went at it. It was usually a source of a childish giggle, or an opportunity to explain the facts of life to the young ‘uns without having to whip your own junk out.
Apparently, the times they are a changin’.
Look, Georgians, if you want to have a fucked up, repressed point of view about human sexuality, knock yourself out. I mean, it doesn’t seem to have hurt you so far. Except for your astonishingly high poverty rate and astonishingly low literacy rate and your tendency to fuck your cousins. And pretend it’s still the mid 1800s. Other than that, YOU KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON, CRACKER!
But I think we ought to take a page out of the animal playbook and accept the fact that sexuality is as human as breathing and eating—or in Georgia’s case, belching, praying and farting.
So come one people! Don’t you think it’s time we let poor Rudolph join in the reindeer games.
Now, I would guess that a not-insignificant number of gay men clicked through to this one. You put “coach” and “porn” in the same sentence and we’re ready to play ball. But as I read the report, I realized this was just another bunch of repressed stupidity.
The reporter, who apparently also edits her church newsletter, referred to the “lewd Christmas prank” and said, “The group even made several homeowners’ displays X-rated, police said, including placing reindeer in sexual positions.”
(Gasp!) SCANDALOUS!
Are you fucking kidding me? THAT’S what you consider “x-rated??!?!?!?” Animals procreating are now PORN?! As a writer, I would have categorized it as “sophomoric,” but “porn?” I expect that Fred Phelps and His Phreaks will soon be boycotting barnyards everywhere.
Having grown up in the country, no one ever thought it odd when animals went at it. It was usually a source of a childish giggle, or an opportunity to explain the facts of life to the young ‘uns without having to whip your own junk out.
Apparently, the times they are a changin’.
Look, Georgians, if you want to have a fucked up, repressed point of view about human sexuality, knock yourself out. I mean, it doesn’t seem to have hurt you so far. Except for your astonishingly high poverty rate and astonishingly low literacy rate and your tendency to fuck your cousins. And pretend it’s still the mid 1800s. Other than that, YOU KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON, CRACKER!
But I think we ought to take a page out of the animal playbook and accept the fact that sexuality is as human as breathing and eating—or in Georgia’s case, belching, praying and farting.
So come one people! Don’t you think it’s time we let poor Rudolph join in the reindeer games.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
H is for Humbug, B is for Booger
From the “are you fucking kidding me” department.
Had to make a trip to the mall. Now, I’m not fond of the mall on regular days, but during the holiday madness, it’s a fucking stupid convention. People stop at the top of escalators, looking for stores they’ve been to a million times. People ooh and aah over some of the scariest shit ever sold. There’s a fat guy in a Santa suit smoking out back somewhere, while his “elves” “try” to placate the waiting hordes.
I thought that if I entered through JC Penney it would be less crowded. My logic? Middle and lower-middle class folk are working today, therefore there should fewer people. (ed. Note: bloggers are their own socioeconomic class. Somewhere between fast food worker and Green Peace petition signature getter.)
Boy, was I wrong. Either there have been a lot of layoffs at the plant this year, or a whole bunch of white trash called in sick, because Penney’s was HOPPING.
I took care of my business, stopped by for a quick Chik-fil-a sandwich (my own little bit of white trash heaven—with extra pickles) and headed back through the JCP to my car.
And what’s the last thing I see, before escaping the mall completely? An older woman (maybe in her 60’s) with that witchie-poo hair I’m so fond of, wearing a pink acrylic sweater set with those old people jeans that look like they’re made of synthetic denim. She was talking on a customer service phone and picking her nose like she’d lost the Hope Diamond up in there. We’re talking double-knuckle digging here people. I managed to slip out the door before she was able to reveal the fruit of her labors.
But suddenly I wished I hadn’t ordered the extra pickles.
Had to make a trip to the mall. Now, I’m not fond of the mall on regular days, but during the holiday madness, it’s a fucking stupid convention. People stop at the top of escalators, looking for stores they’ve been to a million times. People ooh and aah over some of the scariest shit ever sold. There’s a fat guy in a Santa suit smoking out back somewhere, while his “elves” “try” to placate the waiting hordes.
I thought that if I entered through JC Penney it would be less crowded. My logic? Middle and lower-middle class folk are working today, therefore there should fewer people. (ed. Note: bloggers are their own socioeconomic class. Somewhere between fast food worker and Green Peace petition signature getter.)
Boy, was I wrong. Either there have been a lot of layoffs at the plant this year, or a whole bunch of white trash called in sick, because Penney’s was HOPPING.
I took care of my business, stopped by for a quick Chik-fil-a sandwich (my own little bit of white trash heaven—with extra pickles) and headed back through the JCP to my car.
And what’s the last thing I see, before escaping the mall completely? An older woman (maybe in her 60’s) with that witchie-poo hair I’m so fond of, wearing a pink acrylic sweater set with those old people jeans that look like they’re made of synthetic denim. She was talking on a customer service phone and picking her nose like she’d lost the Hope Diamond up in there. We’re talking double-knuckle digging here people. I managed to slip out the door before she was able to reveal the fruit of her labors.
But suddenly I wished I hadn’t ordered the extra pickles.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Whoa Means Woe
Oy, what a weekend. As you might imagine, bloggers are a bit attached to their computers. On Saturday morning, however, my computer decided it wasn't attached to me. I suffered a catastrophic hard drive failure. And probably lost everything. To make matters worse, it was completely avoidable. I actually own an external hard drive solely for back-up purposes.
But, apparently I'm better at being a smartass than a smartie, so I hadn't backed my files up since March. Yep. That's right. March. So I'll be spending the next few days (and not an insubstantial number of dollars) in data recovery mode. Hopefully, one of these specialist will be able to cure me.
Meanwhile, I probably won't be blogging much. But as soon as I can get my shit together, or some stupid person pulls a gigantically bone-headed stung, I'll be back. More likely this week than next.
Peace.
But, apparently I'm better at being a smartass than a smartie, so I hadn't backed my files up since March. Yep. That's right. March. So I'll be spending the next few days (and not an insubstantial number of dollars) in data recovery mode. Hopefully, one of these specialist will be able to cure me.
Meanwhile, I probably won't be blogging much. But as soon as I can get my shit together, or some stupid person pulls a gigantically bone-headed stung, I'll be back. More likely this week than next.
Peace.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Intersection of Stupid and Stupider
Are the stupid people gathering? Is there a major offensive planned against the smart?
Because the last few days have been one stupid thing after another. Pedestrians crossing against the light, causing traffic snarls. WTF? Did your mom teach you to look both ways before crossing, but left out the part about, “oh, yeah, when you look both ways, if there are cars, DON’T FUCKING WALK!“
This happened THREE times this week.
Then there was the cyclist, also running the red, causing traffic to snarl so that he and his unwashed hair could get there THAT MUCH FASTER. And what really pisses me off is he’s probably one of the activist cyclists who want cars to be more respectful of bikes. Well, if you obeyed traffic laws, like you’re supposed to, it might be a good first step toward détente. Or—just a thought—you might use the fucking hike and bike trail, located EXACTLY 20 feet to your right, running parallel to this major artery for, oh, the NEXT TWO MILES!!! Wonder why they put that there?
Or the lovely lady in the mini van. The one with the WitchyPoo hair. The one behind me at the red light. Who honked at me. Because SHE wanted to turn right. I, on the other hand, was going forward. In the appropriate lane, I might add. But she had to honk. And give me the "WTF? palms up" gesture.
Let me tell you, smart people, there is NOTHING that brings out my inner black drag queen faster than an inappropriate censure. If you’re going to fucking honk at me, you better have a good reason. So my head starts to bobbing and my finger starts to weaving and all I can hear in my head is Pootifah (my inner black diva) beginning to roar a “OH NO SHE DI INT” (something I’d never say out loud, but it’s the perfect accompaniment to a “bob and weave.” Or a “bobbing weave” depending on yer hair did.)
But what’s really spooky is that ALL of this happened at the same intersection. The major intersection a block from my house. Suddenly I feel like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Like my house is actually sitting right at the vortex of stupidity.
Hopefully I won’t wind up on the roof, looking like a backup dancer from an old Pat Benatar video, speaking in tongues to a Rick Moranis doppleganger. But if that’s what it takes to stop the madness, know that I would take this one for the team.
Stay strong smart people.
Because the last few days have been one stupid thing after another. Pedestrians crossing against the light, causing traffic snarls. WTF? Did your mom teach you to look both ways before crossing, but left out the part about, “oh, yeah, when you look both ways, if there are cars, DON’T FUCKING WALK!“
This happened THREE times this week.
Then there was the cyclist, also running the red, causing traffic to snarl so that he and his unwashed hair could get there THAT MUCH FASTER. And what really pisses me off is he’s probably one of the activist cyclists who want cars to be more respectful of bikes. Well, if you obeyed traffic laws, like you’re supposed to, it might be a good first step toward détente. Or—just a thought—you might use the fucking hike and bike trail, located EXACTLY 20 feet to your right, running parallel to this major artery for, oh, the NEXT TWO MILES!!! Wonder why they put that there?
Or the lovely lady in the mini van. The one with the WitchyPoo hair. The one behind me at the red light. Who honked at me. Because SHE wanted to turn right. I, on the other hand, was going forward. In the appropriate lane, I might add. But she had to honk. And give me the "WTF? palms up" gesture.
Let me tell you, smart people, there is NOTHING that brings out my inner black drag queen faster than an inappropriate censure. If you’re going to fucking honk at me, you better have a good reason. So my head starts to bobbing and my finger starts to weaving and all I can hear in my head is Pootifah (my inner black diva) beginning to roar a “OH NO SHE DI INT” (something I’d never say out loud, but it’s the perfect accompaniment to a “bob and weave.” Or a “bobbing weave” depending on yer hair did.)
But what’s really spooky is that ALL of this happened at the same intersection. The major intersection a block from my house. Suddenly I feel like Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. Like my house is actually sitting right at the vortex of stupidity.
Hopefully I won’t wind up on the roof, looking like a backup dancer from an old Pat Benatar video, speaking in tongues to a Rick Moranis doppleganger. But if that’s what it takes to stop the madness, know that I would take this one for the team.
Stay strong smart people.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Truly Bone Headed
Further stupidity from yours truly. Took the two (remaining) dogs out for their constitutional yesterday. I have to stay in the yard with them because the landscaping is unfinished and there’s a spot they can wriggle under the fence. And by “wriggle” I mean run straight through.
The Runner was actually on the other side of the yard, trying to mind-control our radical insurgent squirrel population. The squirrels were trying to mind-control her right back. My old, slow Little Dog was puttering around on his usual rounds, re-marking the spots he had re-marked only hours before.
I called the two to come in. The Runner immediately headed for the open door, while I walked further down the yard to collect Little Dog. As I returned to the house, I assumed The Runner had headed directly inside.
I collected my things and headed off to my meetings. About three hours later, I walked into the house and was greeted by only one dog. Hmmmm. I wandered through the house, checking closed closet doors and under beds, but no Runner. FUCK!! Could I have possible left her outside? So unlike me. So LIKE a stupid person.
Blech.
Did I mention that this is the pet of our nine year old? Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be fun. “Hey, buddy, want another hamster? Cuz I lost your dog!” FUCK!!
I called and called, but no Runner. So, I set off on foot to scour the neighborhood, an urban area with dense traffic and busy intersections, hoping not to find a furry throw rug in the middle of one of them.
As I left my house, the taco wagon pulled up to offer lunch to the construction workers in my ‘hood. And I heard a bark.
No, the taco people didn’t have my dog! But good Runner had only run a couple of doors down, gotten a bit of exercise and was now ready for one of those delicious smelling tacos.
I was so relieved I almost bought her one.
The Runner was actually on the other side of the yard, trying to mind-control our radical insurgent squirrel population. The squirrels were trying to mind-control her right back. My old, slow Little Dog was puttering around on his usual rounds, re-marking the spots he had re-marked only hours before.
I called the two to come in. The Runner immediately headed for the open door, while I walked further down the yard to collect Little Dog. As I returned to the house, I assumed The Runner had headed directly inside.
I collected my things and headed off to my meetings. About three hours later, I walked into the house and was greeted by only one dog. Hmmmm. I wandered through the house, checking closed closet doors and under beds, but no Runner. FUCK!! Could I have possible left her outside? So unlike me. So LIKE a stupid person.
Blech.
Did I mention that this is the pet of our nine year old? Oh, yeah, that’s gonna be fun. “Hey, buddy, want another hamster? Cuz I lost your dog!” FUCK!!
I called and called, but no Runner. So, I set off on foot to scour the neighborhood, an urban area with dense traffic and busy intersections, hoping not to find a furry throw rug in the middle of one of them.
As I left my house, the taco wagon pulled up to offer lunch to the construction workers in my ‘hood. And I heard a bark.
No, the taco people didn’t have my dog! But good Runner had only run a couple of doors down, gotten a bit of exercise and was now ready for one of those delicious smelling tacos.
I was so relieved I almost bought her one.
Monday, December 3, 2007
How Much For The Coconut Monkey?
I had a garage sale this weekend. Or, rather, I participated in my friend’s garage sale, something I hadn’t done in years. And may never do again.
First of all, even though you wind up with a sizable chunk of change, if you divide the money by the number of hours invested, it’s not really that great. Of course, the hourly rate for a blogger doesn’t quite compute, but my friends actually make decent bank. Second, you wind up with a wad of singles, making you feel what I call "stripper rich."
We rolled open the garage door pre-dawn, in order to have everything set up by our announced opening time of 7 a.m. Now, anyone who has ever had a garage sale knows that people COMPLETELY ignore the posted start and finish times.
Sure as shit, we had this rather butch lady show up at the crack of 6:30, flashlight in hand, ready to rummage.
Now, I know a lot of people who stand firm and won’t allow early shoppers. The way I see it, a garage sale is just people paying me to haul off shit I don’t want anymore. So, I was like, “Lady, knock yourself out. Feel free to start digging through the stuff we haven’t put out yet.” She informed us that this was her hobby. EVERY Saturday morning, she hops out of bed and is off to find a bargain.
Who are these people?
My favorite moment of the day came when a patron got into an argument with my Beloved (and TRUST me, you DO NOT want an argument with my Beloved) about what street we were on. “This isn’t xxxx street!” she said. “The sign said xxxx street.”
“The sign said yyyyy at xxxx,” answered my B patiently-ish. “See the house is on a corner. It faces xxxx. The garage faces yyyyy.”
“Well you shouldn’t have put xxxx street. I live on xxxx street. This is yyyyy.”
Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “but you found it Lady Miss Dumbass. Buy something or get the fuck out.”
By the end of the day I had come to realize that people buy the strangest shit. Old, beat up, worthless one-offs go like wildfire. The $200 Robert Graham shirt never sold. Nor did the fabulous sweater I bought in Paris. Actually, I pulled that one back off the pile. I love that sweater and I just couldn’t bear to sell it for a dollar.
The Robert Graham shirt was a gift from someone who no longer deserves my friendship, so I was happy to give it to a thrift shop at the end of the day.
Condescension mixed with altruism is a delicious cocktail.
First of all, even though you wind up with a sizable chunk of change, if you divide the money by the number of hours invested, it’s not really that great. Of course, the hourly rate for a blogger doesn’t quite compute, but my friends actually make decent bank. Second, you wind up with a wad of singles, making you feel what I call "stripper rich."
We rolled open the garage door pre-dawn, in order to have everything set up by our announced opening time of 7 a.m. Now, anyone who has ever had a garage sale knows that people COMPLETELY ignore the posted start and finish times.
Sure as shit, we had this rather butch lady show up at the crack of 6:30, flashlight in hand, ready to rummage.
Now, I know a lot of people who stand firm and won’t allow early shoppers. The way I see it, a garage sale is just people paying me to haul off shit I don’t want anymore. So, I was like, “Lady, knock yourself out. Feel free to start digging through the stuff we haven’t put out yet.” She informed us that this was her hobby. EVERY Saturday morning, she hops out of bed and is off to find a bargain.
Who are these people?
My favorite moment of the day came when a patron got into an argument with my Beloved (and TRUST me, you DO NOT want an argument with my Beloved) about what street we were on. “This isn’t xxxx street!” she said. “The sign said xxxx street.”
“The sign said yyyyy at xxxx,” answered my B patiently-ish. “See the house is on a corner. It faces xxxx. The garage faces yyyyy.”
“Well you shouldn’t have put xxxx street. I live on xxxx street. This is yyyyy.”
Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “but you found it Lady Miss Dumbass. Buy something or get the fuck out.”
By the end of the day I had come to realize that people buy the strangest shit. Old, beat up, worthless one-offs go like wildfire. The $200 Robert Graham shirt never sold. Nor did the fabulous sweater I bought in Paris. Actually, I pulled that one back off the pile. I love that sweater and I just couldn’t bear to sell it for a dollar.
The Robert Graham shirt was a gift from someone who no longer deserves my friendship, so I was happy to give it to a thrift shop at the end of the day.
Condescension mixed with altruism is a delicious cocktail.
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