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.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Throw Mama From the Plane!
So we’re on the way back from our brief respite, flying out of Wide Stance International Airport (also known as Minneapolis/St. Paul). I am, of course, like a kid in a candy store. I love airports. I love watching people in airports (can’t imagine why?!?!).
Our gate was near the end of a moving sidewalk. The origin of said sidewalk was out of sight, but I can only imagine the origins of this particular cluster. As I watched, an entire family came into view. Three generations, led by Grandma, closely followed by the married couple and grandkids. Actually, I should say they were led by Grandma’s WALKER. That’s right, they put grandma on a moving sidewalk . . . WITH HER WALKER!!
Cue disaster! Cue hilarity! Cuz, bitches, pretty soon that sidewalk ends. And ya gots to get off. Grandma and her walker had NO CHANCE. Apparently, they were an especially close-knit family, since they were giving each other essentially zero personal space. I’m all for family ties, but in this instance it was a bad, bad idea.
As Grandma struggled mightily to put her history of ambulation to use and stay upgright while exiting, the rest of the family plowed into her (guess they never thought to walk backward). Literally they all wound up in a giant pile at the end of the moving sidewalk, Grandma on bottom.
Fortunately, no one was hurt. Except for me. I slightly pulled a muscle turning away so they wouldn’t see me laughing.
And yes, once again, I’m aware that I’m doomed to the fiery pits of hell. We’re on the same flight.
Our gate was near the end of a moving sidewalk. The origin of said sidewalk was out of sight, but I can only imagine the origins of this particular cluster. As I watched, an entire family came into view. Three generations, led by Grandma, closely followed by the married couple and grandkids. Actually, I should say they were led by Grandma’s WALKER. That’s right, they put grandma on a moving sidewalk . . . WITH HER WALKER!!
Cue disaster! Cue hilarity! Cuz, bitches, pretty soon that sidewalk ends. And ya gots to get off. Grandma and her walker had NO CHANCE. Apparently, they were an especially close-knit family, since they were giving each other essentially zero personal space. I’m all for family ties, but in this instance it was a bad, bad idea.
As Grandma struggled mightily to put her history of ambulation to use and stay upgright while exiting, the rest of the family plowed into her (guess they never thought to walk backward). Literally they all wound up in a giant pile at the end of the moving sidewalk, Grandma on bottom.
Fortunately, no one was hurt. Except for me. I slightly pulled a muscle turning away so they wouldn’t see me laughing.
And yes, once again, I’m aware that I’m doomed to the fiery pits of hell. We’re on the same flight.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Mosquito Cost
Sometimes I am a diva. This will come as a complete shock to . . .absolutely no one. While I apply my Southern Belle upbringing in wide swaths, I have moments where my actions and intentions don’t exactly go together.
Take this holiday weekend. My proscritos del norte invited us to join the family at their cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior. Beautiful. Bucolic. Relaxing. Inviting. All the things you’d want from a brief respite. Except for the SWARMS of mosquitoes. Billions by my quick mathematical calculations (#of actual mosquitoes minus futile fanning divided by degree of exasperation time degree of exaggeration). It was ridiculous.
I don’t know, maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was being so close to Canada that I got to thinking I was Celine Dion carrying prefab twins or something, but I fished out my metaphorical Marie Antoinette wig and boldy took action: I decided to pay the offspring to kill the mosquitos.
A dollar.
Per mosquito.
Uh-huh, I know.
Who knew that a 12 year old could be a killing machine. Two hundred mosquitoes later and daddy is thinking “that coulda been a bar tab instead of a mass hit on the Cheeshead mosquito population.” Hell, I may have to go give blood a few times to scrape that together. Should have just given it to the mosquitoes and cut out the middlemen.
Take this holiday weekend. My proscritos del norte invited us to join the family at their cabin in the woods of northern Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Superior. Beautiful. Bucolic. Relaxing. Inviting. All the things you’d want from a brief respite. Except for the SWARMS of mosquitoes. Billions by my quick mathematical calculations (#of actual mosquitoes minus futile fanning divided by degree of exasperation time degree of exaggeration). It was ridiculous.
I don’t know, maybe it was the margaritas or maybe it was being so close to Canada that I got to thinking I was Celine Dion carrying prefab twins or something, but I fished out my metaphorical Marie Antoinette wig and boldy took action: I decided to pay the offspring to kill the mosquitos.
A dollar.
Per mosquito.
Uh-huh, I know.
Who knew that a 12 year old could be a killing machine. Two hundred mosquitoes later and daddy is thinking “that coulda been a bar tab instead of a mass hit on the Cheeshead mosquito population.” Hell, I may have to go give blood a few times to scrape that together. Should have just given it to the mosquitoes and cut out the middlemen.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Gentleman from Georgia
Sigh. You know, it’s not just the Republicans in this country who weren’t paying attention in science class (because they thought the Debbil would get them for learning about evolution) but apparently a certain Democratic congressman from Georgia. And he even comes complete with a rube name, Hank Johnson.
In a hearing on Capitol Hill about relocating some military operations to Guam, Rep. Johnson voiced his concern about the additional population on an island that is, by his estimation, “24 miles long and about 7 miles wide at its least widest point.”
You see, the brain trust that the people of Georgia elected to represent them is afraid the island will “capsize” due to the extra population. Which is actually about par for the course for Georgia intellect. But still . . .
I’m dumbstruck. Which means I’m struck by how fucking dumb this fucker is. Lord, did ya not have enough gray matter that day? Did you think, "shit shit shit, I’m outta brains!! Hey, maybe I’ll stick him in Georgia. They’re not exactly my best work, so maybe no one will notice THIS FUCKING RETARD." (Yes, God says “retard.” He invented it. I’m just quoting him. Take it up with him if you have issues.)
Meanwhile, Hank Johnson is busy up thar in D.C. making laws and shit. Yep. We’re doomed. But at least we can watch it on YouTube.
In a hearing on Capitol Hill about relocating some military operations to Guam, Rep. Johnson voiced his concern about the additional population on an island that is, by his estimation, “24 miles long and about 7 miles wide at its least widest point.”
You see, the brain trust that the people of Georgia elected to represent them is afraid the island will “capsize” due to the extra population. Which is actually about par for the course for Georgia intellect. But still . . .
I’m dumbstruck. Which means I’m struck by how fucking dumb this fucker is. Lord, did ya not have enough gray matter that day? Did you think, "shit shit shit, I’m outta brains!! Hey, maybe I’ll stick him in Georgia. They’re not exactly my best work, so maybe no one will notice THIS FUCKING RETARD." (Yes, God says “retard.” He invented it. I’m just quoting him. Take it up with him if you have issues.)
Meanwhile, Hank Johnson is busy up thar in D.C. making laws and shit. Yep. We’re doomed. But at least we can watch it on YouTube.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Jump Skeeter!
I think I’m going to pee myself. The blogs are all atwitter about a 23 year old Tennessee man who jumped from his moving vehicle, a vehicle his wife was driving because “she wouldn’t shut up.”
Oh, sweet Jesus!! What hath the flood wrought? I mean, first of all, who among us HASN’T wanted to jump from the prison of a moving vehicle with an overly chatty companion. Thoughts of death over torture bring a slight smile to our face.
But we are fucking smart enough to override the impulse. Not in Tennessee, land of hillbillies and those who love ‘em. Naw, Mister Man just thought, “Fuck it bitch, I’m out!!.” And leapt. Now he's in critical condition. Fucker's probably faking that coma, just so he doesn't have to listen to his wife.
You would think that with the amount of time it took to untie the door handle, he might have reconsidered.
Oh, sweet Jesus!! What hath the flood wrought? I mean, first of all, who among us HASN’T wanted to jump from the prison of a moving vehicle with an overly chatty companion. Thoughts of death over torture bring a slight smile to our face.
But we are fucking smart enough to override the impulse. Not in Tennessee, land of hillbillies and those who love ‘em. Naw, Mister Man just thought, “Fuck it bitch, I’m out!!.” And leapt. Now he's in critical condition. Fucker's probably faking that coma, just so he doesn't have to listen to his wife.
You would think that with the amount of time it took to untie the door handle, he might have reconsidered.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shocking Sex Tape!!
The gossip rags and blogs are going crazy with the news of sex tapes that are about to be released featuring Kendra Wilkinson. Okay, can someone please ‘splain something to me? Why on earth is ANYONE shocked or scandalized that Kendra Wilkinson, A FORMER PLAYBOY PLAYMATE AND GIRLFRIEND TO HUGH HEFNER, made a sex tape?!?!?
I don’t know for sure, since I’m not all down with the vazhine, but wouldn’t that have been part of her job description? Maybe people are getting confused because her TV show was called The Girls Next Door. Folks, that title is ironic. The Girl’s BACKdoor would have been a more appropriate moniker.
I feel like I’m living in a bad redux of Victorian England. Except instead of having all of these morally superior elites, we have morally superior fucktwats.
SHE’S A PORN STAR. That’s what she’s known for. Playboy maybe soft core, but it’s still only in existence to give pre-teens boners. (Does anyone else actually read it?) Watching Kendra Wilkinson get boned on screen is roughly the equivalent of waiting for the little man to wave his rag at me at the car wash. It’s a job. It’s HER job.
The bunny ears are for life.
I don’t know for sure, since I’m not all down with the vazhine, but wouldn’t that have been part of her job description? Maybe people are getting confused because her TV show was called The Girls Next Door. Folks, that title is ironic. The Girl’s BACKdoor would have been a more appropriate moniker.
I feel like I’m living in a bad redux of Victorian England. Except instead of having all of these morally superior elites, we have morally superior fucktwats.
SHE’S A PORN STAR. That’s what she’s known for. Playboy maybe soft core, but it’s still only in existence to give pre-teens boners. (Does anyone else actually read it?) Watching Kendra Wilkinson get boned on screen is roughly the equivalent of waiting for the little man to wave his rag at me at the car wash. It’s a job. It’s HER job.
The bunny ears are for life.
Mein Grout!
Here at the Maison d’O’Pine, I’ve been entertaining a steady stream of workers. The latest was a tile duo who are redoing my entry hall. Yesterday, I had brief, meaningless conversations with both the boss man and his underling. The underling, whose name I never caught, was actually in the background and we didn’t have much exchange.
What a difference a day makes.
Today, Underling came back to finish the grouting. He arrived approximately ten minutes ago and this is what I now know about him.
He is 49 tomorrow. (“Happy Birthday”, I say)
He is divorced.
He lives at his mom’s because he lost his house. (I remembered many nights in my youth when I lost my house, but still thought better of asking if he’s put out “lost house” flyers on neighborhood telephone poles.)
He’s worked for this tile guy for 19 years and hates him.
The tile guy yells at him.
He thinks the tile guy does a lot of things in an “old-fashioned” way and doesn’t keep up with the times.
He has a 1967 Chevelle show car
He scored #1 on a City civil service exam, but still didn’t get the job.
He used to be an endoscopic technician and knew how ALL the doctors liked their trays arranged (hmm, that could be a handy euphemism), but got laid off.
He’s had two knee-replacement surgeries, at least one of which incurred a workers’ comp claim.
He’s had rotator cuff surgery.
He used to make $30 an hour, “pretty good, huh?” (well, yeah, I say, that’s like 100 times more than a blogger makes)
Okay, seriously dude! I have hung out with sorority girls on speed who didn’t share as much information.
Thinking quickly, Brett Michaels flashed in my head, so I faked an anyeurism, fell to the floor and crawled back to the rear of the house to get “my meds.” I figured there was probably blood coming out of my ears already, so it seemed like a plausible feint.
I think he’s still talking. But I can’t hear him over the primal scream in my head.
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.
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