Whatever Happened to Baby J?

DISCLAIMER: As I could not be bothered to look up the actual details of this story or verify its validity because all of my strength and will had been previously wasted on a last minute, 10 pm trip to Wal-Mart, do not take the following as anything more than jaded cynicism in a crunchy coating of sarcastic humor (much like all the other things that spew forth from this swirly of disaster I call Brain):

A woman somewhere (could have been Here, could have been There, maybe even 13 miles outside of Elsewhere down Interstate WhoGivesaCrap) awoke or just finally wandered out into the light of day to find her front lawn strewn with up to 10's of small, rosy-cheeked plastic babies. Astounded by the notion of a possible (though improbable) Christmas miracle of raining Baby Jesi, she ran about in cartoonish circles the late, great Barbera would have wept at the sight of before calling her local priest and confessing the sin of hosing off the sons of god.

Apparently some pious devotees devoid of reason and the knowledge of the social ramifications of stealing the plastic offspring of others was incensed at the idea of Baby J making an appearance before his mythical anointed arrival date.

The found Jesi were rounded up by local parishioners with the help of snickering law enforcement, checked for signs of abuse or neglect, questioned as to whether they’d ever been touched inappropriately by an angel and returned to their grieving owners who more than likely plopped them back in their little mangers and scurried back into the throng of the pushing, shoving, anti-peace-on-earth-good-will-to-[people] (must keep up with the PC-ie-ness after all) hordes of mall-goers and last minute shoppers elbowing one another in the names of Christ and Good Savings.

So if Baby Jesi aren’t supposed to be left to freeze in badly lit, apparently dog-approved nativity scenes until Christmas, I suggest we follow this rule of dumb to guarantee that crimes of this inconsequence do not persist. I even recommend we go all out to ensure serial doll-snatching is left to the professionals, the little brothers and school yard bullies who have made such an art of it.

I think I’ll start with a very pregnant Mary complete with stretch marks, hemorrhoids and turkey-timer bellybutton. Maybe I’ll even throw in a skeptical Joseph and a disillusioned goat. According to the story there were others there as well, regular people looking for a warm place to stay. How ‘bout a hobo, a wino (there's a distinction) and a shady lady with her veil askew? If we’re going to be sticking to anachronistic history I’ll have the magi show up about a week late with stale frankincense, leftover myrrh and colicky camels, and a week after that I’ll introduce Herod and the souls of hundreds of murdered children…

And after I wake up from my pious-pummeling-induced coma, I’ll start planning a 1:10 scale reenactment of the beautiful, heart-wrenching story of how an industrious wittle rabbit called forth the armies of hell and regained control over Easter.

Loophole Revisited

Phase 1 Complete: Target 1 Eliminated.

Phase 2 Beginning...

Target 2 Locked...

Commence Demolition in 5...

4...

3...

2..............

Missed Chance at Found Porn

I hate cell phones. Despite the emergency capabilities, in the long run they are useless little bits of insurance liability despite the amount of bit-ty crap you can cram in one or the cute little stickers I can slap on my RazR. I hate people who drive with them. I hate people who can’t go 2 minutes without chatting with some other vapid, cell-phone junkie. I hate people who think they don’t look like complete nutters talking to themselves in shopping centers and grocery stores. I hate people who text others in the same house because they’re too damn lazy to walk downstairs. And oh so many more. Well, maybe hate is a strong word. Replace all previous instances of hate with any one of the following: “am annoyed by”, “dislike severely” or “pity”.

Now that we all have the back-story of my wish to not let modern technology eat away my brain one wave length at a time (Darn you, Stephen King!) for one teeny-weeny millisecond-ish moment I regretted my aversion to all things cellular (I also hate genetics but that’s a different cellular story for another more futuristic time to be announced whenever I get around to figuring out what this parenthetic ramble means). If I wasn’t such an anti-cell-phone tech-geek (I know! Someone’s gonna come tear up my membership card – well, take it away at least. The paper’s a little thick, and we all know about the average computer nerd’s lack of upper body strength) I’d have photographic evidence of the 6’ tall nonsense that had me giggling like a 12 year old when you say the word “boobies”.

For 40 minutes this morning I was stuck behind this plastered on the back of a trailer.

What were these people thinking, or how much did Lance Armstrong pay to try to make this an American catch-phrase?

Look at me! I'm all introverted!!!

"Mastermind". Introverted intellectual with a preference for finding certainty. A builder of systems and the applier of theoretical models. 2.1% of total population.

Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

You Are 70% Weird

You're so weird, you think you're *totally* normal. Right? But you wig out even the biggest of circus freaks!

At long last....

Been a while since I mentioned the newest members of our dysfunctional cohabitation, but I've finally removed all the pics off the phone. So without further (or maybe just a teeny bit less than usual) ado I give you:

Pi (a.k.a Piewackett)

Phi (prounounced Fee, a.k.a Feeny) with a side of Pi

And for anyone wondering if Sir Conner of the Large Buttocks will be able to survive obscene doses of cuteness and the occassional wet nose in the hiney region:

The disturbingly white lump is a very sleepy and apparently pillow-esque (no fat jokes!) Conner (he's more a polar-bear dingy in real life).

Going to post the rest here:

Fuzziness Incarnate

The Evolution of Meat Puppets: Point me to the Salt-Lick

In Midland for another training. Flew in this time, so that means no transportation, no freedom… The upside is I have a great deal of free time to wax moronic; such as:

As much as man likes to believe he is far above and well beyond the average beast in the field, it always surprises and saddens me when we revert to our baser selves. For example:

Men, women, children and the occasional dog meander aimlessly, groups merging into groups until it’s hard for even the most observant observers (sounds so much nicer than “voyeur”) to tell who was with whom and so on and so forth, etc. etc. etc. There are new acquaintances, old friendships, reunions and passing-bys. Man shows his prowess by performing that which even the most advanced of primates (you know, other than us) has yet to master – the sacred rite of texting. So we wander and wait and smile shyly at strangers and admire the emotional baggage of others while we wait for the physical to arrive. There is a veritable air of the dominance of Human, all this walking upright and non-guttural communication. We are masters of our individual universes, answering to no one other than the gods of common courtesy. Then the buzzer rings and thousands upon thousands of years of evolution, of striving for supreme superiority is temporarily quashed as we are drawn to the sound like cattle to the slaughter. Eyes glaze, family ties are forgotten and it is every man for himself in the hunt for our modest (and now more than likely damaged) possessions. We are reduced from lone wanderers or family units to a milling mass of slack-jawed anticipation.

Long Live Pickle!

Long live Pickle- the coolest fishie that ever was.

No other pet has loved glam rock so much nor been quite so adept at teasing Conner into hysterics.

You will be missed.

I'll add a newer pic as soon as I get off my grieving ass and upload them.

LOOPHOLE!!!

That is all; carry on.

The Evolution of Meat Puppets - Part 2

Since the beginning of man's ability to think of himself as the superior (albeit just as fuzzy) animal on the planet, great advances have been made. We can fly like birds and swim like fish and eat smaller, cuter animals on toast with a sprig of parsley. Each generation has contributed something of value somehow (we're not going into the righteous f-ups here; just the good/quirky/not so evil). But if you sit and ponder (as I sometimes do at stoplights or jury duty or while handling machinery) all the glorious things that man has added to this world, 99.9% of the ones that are not soul-less evil on a stick have been brought about by pure and simple laziness or vanity or a disturbing combination of both.

Examples:

We are the only creatures that despite our obvious superiority over all lesser fuzzy things in the vicinity we insist on insisting that we are not descended from apes and monkeys because we have the common sense to shave off the evidence. Now don’t get me wrong – I am all for this human practice. I wish more people would take this into consideration. In fact I can think of a couple of mustaches that I’d like to take some duct tape to. (Sorry, ladies; but Jeezie Creezie! Did you know it wafts in the breeze when you breathe?)

We are the only creatures that require a way to record/rewind/replay things we missed on TV because we left the house to go do things that are meant to make us miss TV. (I’m guilty of this one... At least I was until I saw the price tag on TIVO and said, “Screw it; that’s why the media gods invented reruns”)

“I can’t wait 10 minutes for a pot pie! I want it now Now NOW!” *Ding* It doesn’t ever seem to bother us that the middle’s ice cold and the edges are molten chicken-flavored napalm.

“The TV’s waaaay over there and there’s a Beyonce’ video on and if I have to listen to her screech for one more minute I’m going to poke my eardrums out with knitting needles…” *Click* What did people do before remote controls or my butt scooting across the carpet? It took me a long time to not automatically move through the living room like a dog with worms.

Speaking of lazy ingenuity – When’s the last time I picked up a pencil? If technology ended the roaches would mock.

Enough is enough is enough... Right?

I've put up with being insulted...
I've put up with my family being insulted...
Now that my job's been belittled by a veritable welfare whore can I please, Please, Please just do what I do best and destroy, Destroy, Destroy?!?

No, I have to keep quiet. I have to be the "better person" (what ever the hell that means in a situation where the target can't remember what they had for breakfast yesterday let alone what mean, spiteful, insipid, stupid-ass thing they said five minutes ago). I have to "be nice." Peh!

I'll behave because I was asked too, but the second there's a bloody loophole...

Oh and I've been uber-busy the past two weeks and slightly stressed (see above and add nonstop classes and no sleep and new puddles of fuzzy deciding shoes are fun and tasty) so no brain-droolings. But I should be back to my usual dorky self as soon as I get a chance to sleep.

The Evolution of Meat-Puppets: Part 1

One day, a long, long time ago in a land that had never heard of nonsense like "Down-Sizing" and "$750 Sneakers" and "PETA" a man (or a woman; I'm an equal-opportunity kind of gal) wandered through a beautiful field bursting with flowers and grass and eeny wittle bunnies. And in this meander he came across a large, smelly, creature with pendulous breast-like contraptions dangling about its nether regions. So the man wondered for a bit, pondering possible names and uses for such a creature for man was a self-centered, conniving creature even then. Despite no outward signs of value, the man ventured closer and began to list the possible possibilities.

“It walks on four legs so it is not a man,” he surmised, “and therefore perfectly killable.”

He circled about to get a different perspective. “It seems sturdy enough to do the hard labor I am too weak to do; and if not I can always have a nice barbecue and invite the neighbors two caves down.”

He climbed a nearby tall thing to see what lurked above. “If I beat its skin against a rock for hours on end it might just make a fashionable frock for those unibrow mixers that are all the rage these days”

And at last he kneeled down beside it and wondered, “I wonder what those taste like..” And thus began mans’ real obsession with breasts…

Wait, wait, wait; that’s not the point I meant to make. Note to self: The Evolution of Sweater-Monkeys. Where was I? Oh yeah…

So for thousands upon thousands of years man was dependant on what became known as Cows. It became a staple of the human diet. We made countless things from it like Cheese and Steaks, Ice Cream and Glue, Seat Covers and Gelatin. All of a cow is useful and most of a cow is yummy (except for tripe and cottage cheese. Eww). So this has continued on, generation after generation, until one day man popped on over an evolutionary hump with a single, life-changing, society-altering idea:

Take the Milk out of Milk.

(Ok, technically it’s "Take the Lactose out of Milk", but really, who actually knows what the hell lactose is? I’m allergic to the stuff, and I have no freakin’ clue. Is that a scamper for Wikipedia I hear? And can two people really cause a scamper?)

And thus the world became a safer, kinder, less stinky kind of place. A land where a man, woman or child of questionable gastrointestinal integrity could enjoy a heapin’ bowl of sugary evil and not alienate a county; a peaceful place where Oreos are not the precursor to possible evacuation.

For all you anti-evolution people out there you can think of it this way – god finally got really tired of the universal fart joke and gave us a little more free will to stink a teeny bit less. Of course we’re only trading in less stink for more ways to distort nature, but that’s just the cheeky little bastards we are.

***Just for clarification I am not of the stinky kind – I’m more in the category of writhing about on the floor in complete and utter agony because I can’t resist a face sized bowl of Cocoa Pebbles every once in a while.***

Today's Lesson...

Why Not to Annoy Lin after She was Trapped on a Plane

with Baby-Germs and a Woman Eating Something that

Smelled like Feet and Pits and other Corporeal Cavernous Crevices

I recently received this via e-mail (an e-mail address not directly linked to this blog, by the way, so that narrows down the suspects quite a bit):

Mind your own business has sent you a link to a weblog:
For someone who is so damn busy you sure do have alot of time on your hands to be making Commentaries.

Clarification:

It’s called Cut-and-Paste, a combination of basic Windows’ commands allowing one to cut text/pictures/what-have-you (from, say, a text document written the night before from the comfort of your own home) and paste them someplace else (like a dialog box when you have a free second in the day). It’s standard stuff, really. A kindergartner can do it. You should try it some time. I’m sure you can find a first grader to help you out if you have any problems.

A Stranger Sexed my Kitty!

That's it. Just wanted to put that little thought out into the world and see what depravity it unearthed.

But really, the orphans (currently in foster care as I am not a baby-person and would have more than likely accidentally flushed them or something) are officially a boy and girl.

They've currently got a real Flintstone's vibe going - big, bulky boy and teeny, cutesy female.
The only difference is that teeny, cutesy female can beat the formula-fueled snot out of the male. Well, when she's not too busy taking on the dog with the paws bigger than her whole body, that is. My kinda girl!

Viva La Onion Ring!

Actually it should be more like:

Long Live the Onion Ring!

Viva la Listerine!!!

It's a training day, and I made a bad lunch choice this afternoon. Well, not really 'bad' per se. More like 'Downright Mean.' But my love of Onion Rings shall now be quashed!!! Luckily today didn't require any major one-on-one tutoring at a student's desk so offense was kept to a minimum (I hope).

Bad, bad, tasty ring of stinky goodness!

My earliest memories are of being tempted by baskets of golden brown and delicious. It was considered a harmless treat, passed about at family picnics and baseball games, the perfect accompaniment to hamburgers and sunburn. But those smiling faces tempting you to “Take some more; there’s plenty” never want to break the spell of a slow, lazy summer afternoon spent spinning in a pool of cousins and troubling warm spots with Truth and Knowledge and Consequence.

Onion Rings are a gateway drug.

On blustery afternoons, I’d catch myself jonesing for just one more crumbly bit of the perfect combination of crunch and goo. When a fix couldn’t be found, I could be found in all-night convenience store searching in vain for just one more bag of Funyuns, just something to tide me over until a deep-fryer could be located. After a while, Onion Rings just weren’t enough. I needed more. More fun. More Fried. More FIXIN’s. There’s no turning back when you’re buying in bulk and cramming 20 pound bags in a side-by-side’s freezer.

Next came Okra, but instead of helping to curb my fried-food-fixations, it only led to an even more disturbing Ranch dependency. Once I started scrounging money for gallon-size jugs, I knew I was a goner.

After Okra came mushrooms, cauliflower, pickles… Anything that could hold a batter was fair game. To this day, Mounds bars cower in fear.

I’m happy to say that today I’ve got this affliction under control. I no longer see all vegetables as a possible brush with grease fire, and Ranch is solely social fodder. Though I still have minor relapses (Darn you, Whataburger!) I can honestly say that I am mostly tempura-free. I just take it one day at a time (as if 2 or 3 were an option) and whenever a craving strikes I remember my mantra:

Colonel, grant me the Sensibility to accept the things I should not fry,
Common Sense to resist the things I can
And Will-Power to walk the hell away from the Fry-Daddy.

Note to to the Somewhat Uptight: I am in no way making fun of others with more life-threatening or destroying addictions. Those who know me know why I’m free to mock and those who don’t, well it ain’t any of your business anywhoo. :-P

Pope says what...!?!

I'm not going to even try to sort out the political ramifications of speaking against anyone's religion, especially not when there are so many different angles to consider and countless ways to piss someone off. But I will ask blatantly hypothetical questions and be very disgruntled when I don't receive responses.

1. Dear Mr. The Pope:

Why!?! That's it. Just 'Why?' I know all those Vatican file-monkeys are a little behind on the atonements (the last apologetic shout-out went out to all those dissed in the 3rd century or so), but why start some shit that won't even be up for debate on whether or not you should pass a papal "My Bad" until the sun is up for renewal? Yes, the media took a snippet and ran all willy-nilly, but Christ on a Cheez-It, man! What's gonna happen to you? Nuthin' cause the pope-mobile's all gassed up and fitted with rocket-launchers, and you've got billions who'll sacrifice their pew-flattened behinds in the name of your silly hat alone. What about all the innocents, the good and even not so good christians and catholics and what-have-you's, that get to deal with the aftermath?


2. To Anyone Planning Genocide Because Some Old Coot had One too Many Communion-Margaritas:

If someone calls you “idiot” you don’t run with scissors off a cliff into a pool of laser-touting sharks, right? If someone says you’re “smelly” you don’t boycott soap and deodorant to demonstrate how mistaken they are. So if someone says you’re violent, why do a butt-load of things to prove them right? Better yet, send the offending party a nice fruit basket with a card and shame them into submission.

Scenario:
Joe Pope: Steve’s a poopie-head, and I don’t want to be his friend any more. I’m gonna tell everyone he wets the bed and smells like monkey tits.

Bad Solution:
Steve Islam: Joe Pope said what!?! Well, that does it. I’m gonna punch him and all his friends in the box and burn his clubhouse to the ground.

Good Solution:
Joe Pope: Hey, someone sent me tropical fruit. That rocks! Wait, there’s a card.

‘Dear Joe,

I’m sorry you’re such a twat-waffle,

but you can kiss my peace-loving ass.

Signed, Steve

P.S. Enjoy the fruit, you intolerant twit.’

Well, that told me. I’m just another in a long line of bully’s who only pick on others because they secretly despise their domineering father. I'm going to drown my shame in a bowl of Christ-Chex and think about what I've done.

What is this thing you call 'Golf'?

I've been out of my element before. Hell, I spend, at a minimum, 9 hours a day in an office smothered in slacks and polo shirts. But when I think about tomorrow I choke down bile and fear (oddly enough the combination tastes like spinach).

What is the irresistible appeal of hitting a ball that has never done you or your loved ones or very likely complete strangers any harm, playing hide and go seek with it, and just when it feels like it might have gotten away, that the abuse may finally stop, you find it, sometimes pet it and clout it again? Seems barbaric. The fact that this is sometimes accomplished with the aid of clever clown-like disguises makes it doubly so. (What is with those damn pants?!? And do you wear the hats to sidetrack?)

Have you ever really looked at a golf ball? Picked it up and held it and given it a name? They're adorable; all dimply and bright. It's like tossing a cross between Shirley Temple and a hairless gerbil into a mud puddle and stomping around a bit. You wouldn't walk up to a happy, sparkly Girl Scout and say "Excuse me, miss; but even though (or possibly because) you’re so cute and endearing and all things sweet, would you mind terribly if I punted you in the ass with this titanium stick and stole a box of Thin Mints?" (I hope not, at least) And the sound they make bouncing on a tiled floor? *sigh* Heaven!!! (The golf balls, not the children. That’s more of a <*Thump* “Bastard!"> Don’t ask.)

I’m all for violence in sports. Grown men taking slamming into each other for fun and profit up a notch with a few choice punches to the groin is o’tay by me, but don’t take what is veritably a stalking of innocence with butchery on your mind, dress it up in chinos and highballs and call it Sophistication.

As you saunter up to the tee to take that final executioner’s whack, thank your golf ball for its sacrifice to a wasted afternoon and the need for ludicrous jargon. When it winds up in the rough, don’t scold the poor thing for your incompetence; wish it well on its quest for freedom. When arguing the minute rules, regulations and legalese of water hazards, consider the horrid possibility that while you grumble and whine on dry land, little Benny or Sally or Hajib never learned to swim.

So, if you insist on perpetuating this malicious and, in the grand scheme of things, unpatriotic amusement, please, Please, PLEASE do this one thing for me (you club-toting miscreants): The next time you find yourself tooling about in checkered pants and matching pompom, an arsenal of wallop at your side (or the side of your underpaid, underappreciated college- or high school-aged pack-monkeys), take a moment to stop and smell your balls.

Too Lazy for Religion

Came to the realization... or did it really come to me? I was driving at the time so I may very well have slammed into the realization's ethereal ass smashing it into a kazillion teeny pieces and thereby inadvertently absorbing the light bulb of another. Is there a term for the rape of an epiphany? Do we already call this Congress? Wait, where was I? ...

Somehow this idea was formed in my tired, de-caffeinated brain that in the grand scheme of things I am much too lazy for the rigmarole of religion.

* I've no urge to remember holy days or Saints and their gruesome, psychotic-crowd-pleasing ends. Although their stories do make a good Christmas-Eve read - I was opposed to the happy, puffy, probably-diabeitc-by-now-fat-man-with-a-penchant-for-fur-and-leather, house-reeks-of-faux-fir-for-months foolishness of it all long before Christmas became known simply as "The Day Before..."

* I can't keep track of what I can eat and what causes me to break out in pustules of icky let alone what god considers a venial oopsie.

* The idea of possibly sharing a pew (that sounds nasty all on its own) with people I know for a fact have been beating their kids/wives/pets with the blunt end of a pogo stick makes me nauseous, too nauseous even to partake in a flaky little wafer and a sip of grape juice from what, after 10 or so mouths, can only be described as the Sacred Spittle Cup of Eew.

* I can't remember where I put my stick-man step-by-step of the almighty directional signal. The only thing I can recall is "Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch" but seeing as I'm sans 2 of those things (I can't wear a watch without it fizzling out in an hour and after 27 years I'm pretty darn sure I don't have a set of those other things hidden on me anywhere) it's a might confusing.

* I can't remember names, faces or affiliations of relatives so an address book chock-full of polytheism would just confound me and anger them and then we'd run into each other waiting for a bus and I'd be all like "That guy looks familiar; who do I know that's blue?" and they'd be all like "She hasn't sent me flowers in a while; I wonder if she's been seeing that Jesus chap again" and we'd smile at each other in that way that says, "No, you say hi first" and there'd be awkwardness aplenty and right when I'd mustered the nerve to say, "Hey, there.... you... How've ya been?" his lotus flower would arrive and that'd be that.

* I have no talent for recalling the secret names of trees and rocks and furry little animals that would probably taste really good deep fried in the fatty secretions of more sacred 4-legged beings.

* Babies and children are for borrowing to get into LazyTown on Ice and movies that by going to alone you are automatically tagged as a pedophilic pervert and for blaming the purchase and/or discovery of anything rated PG on. (For example: CDs: Shrek soundtrack, anything by Christina Aguilera, DVDs: Ella Enchanted, The Aristocats; Books: If you Give a Pig a Pancake, If you Give a Moose a Muffin) Not for the propagation of the species or to fulfill some convoluted prophecy about spreading my seed. Besides the neighbors and their 12 kids and grandchildren have more than likely got my quota covered.

* There are more but to further expound on the title - Just Too Lazy.

Now don't get me wrong; I'm a big proponent of Faith (there's a distinction). I believe people are good and bad and what you do with your own particular cocktail is your own business. It's comforting to think that there's some overall concept of ingenuity pushing us along on our paths to whatever else there is, and if a church/temple/open field is your way of cuddling up to that unseen thingiemadoodle that ties each and every one of us together in a lumpy, misshapen, but thoroughly glorious pile of human then go for it.

Label and Prostrate and Flail About to feel that link.
Sing and Dance and Be Kind to strengthen it.

I believe really trying to be good cancels out any of the mean, petty, childish things each of us is capable of. And being Truthful, even if your truth can be dark and ugly and full of squirmy bits, speaks more of our potential than any number of shiny virtuous veneers.

Undead and... WTF!?!

I'd just finished a book fraught with human misery and after running across a friend's glowing recomendation for an audio-book he'd just finished listening to, I thought

'I can use a pick-me-up. Hey, this one sounds good. I shall trust this man's judgement and read this book about socialite-wannabe vampires and their love of shoes.'
(I sound much more mature in my own head)

Off I went to B&N with a perfect excuse to meander and waste some cash, but lo and behold I could not find it. I wandered all through Fiction but no luck. I finally broke down and asked a search-biscuit* where I might find the aforementioned books. Turns out I was in the entirely wrong section. So, my blog-perusing friend, you've done something that no one else has been able to do, not even the old biddy's I call relatives and friends - You made me want to buy a romance novel. And according to the spine this is no ordinary bodice ripper; it's a Paranormal Romance. So thank you for introducing me to the wonderful world of non-Fabio-smothered book-jackets and non-sensical romaticisms. Just make sure none of your home-security-loving homies see the CD case *evil grin*

* Heh heh! If Kevin sees this I'm gonna get in trouble for stealing his schtick

Five Years Ago Today...

Five years ago today I was sitting in front of the TV with my dad watching the 9/11 newscasts. All I can remember other than the sight of the towers coming down was the fact that for once he had nothing to say; for once in the 22 years I had known him, my dad was quiet. No complaining. No old-man commentary. He just sat and stared with this look of utter disbelief on his face. He'd seen war and hard work and a lifetime of trying to keep his family afloat with little regard to his own well-being, all the while peppering the days with his sometimes inappropriate, most times spot-on opinions of life and god and the neighbors. But this time, that particular morning, he was silence and reverance and, somewhere deep down, seething anger at the audacity of others. I'm 99.9% sure that that's not how he would have put it, tho. He'd probably have said something more along the lines of "Mother****ers" or some extrememly racist reference to an entire group of people's head-gear, but this was my link to the reality going on 2,000 miles away. This is what made images on a dusty TV screen real - the silence of an opinionated, out-spoken old man stunned into complacency by humanity's capacity for evil.

MSN Archives

Yep. Ran out of steam after one cut and paste, so here's a link. All previous instances of my brain betraying my true nature can be found at:

http://techiehoodoo.spaces.live.com/

Along with pics and random literary tidbits.

Stolen from MSN

Stolen from MSN - the Archives (complete with typos but minus formatting cause I'm too lazy to make things pretty.)

August 21, 2006

I feel so used!

Still mulling this over since Friday. It's taken that long for the sporadic blurtings of WTF! to subside.

On Friday I went to a movie. Not just any movie, mind you; a movie far beyond the realms of what I consider worth 8 bucks and 2 hours of my life, but I wasn't paying so like the uber-dork I tend to be I trusted in the thought-patterns of another. One hour and 46 minutes later I left torn between two distinct feelings:

1. Somehow I'd been caught up in a huge cosmic joke, as if this were the test of mankind as a whole and we had failed so completely and utterly that hell would be a sticky movie theater with this as the main feature for all eternity, a continous loop of utter disbelief but the inability to stop watching and preserve what little sanity may still be lurking in the backs of our minds with out a Twizzler in sight.

2. Advertising agencies and the mental health industry had come to an agreement on the newest and best way to test the average American's capacity for nonsense by piecing together the most bizarre and fantastical and downright assinine aspects of our society and rolling them about in gobs of dogshit and teen-speak drivel then finally force-feeding us by indoctrination through websites and blogs and TV talk shows.

I dread mentioning this movie that is more thing than entertainment for fear of becoming just another part of the dirty, yellow snowball it has become, but their evil plan must be working, for I cannot resist. I appologze to all four of you, but this bastion of train-wreck-i-ness is none other than

Snakes on a Plane

On the upside, I have decided to simply accept that I cannot stop the internet juggernaught of corruption and cell-death and will see it again... with a sack of rubber snakes in tow.

August 16

CONTEST!!! Name the Kittens!

Prize: the heart-warming knowledge that maybe, just maybe, two adorable little orphaned kittens will be scarred for life because of the total strangers

No, really. I am in a serious conundrum here. About a week and a half ago we found two incredibly tiny, incredibly new-born kittens in the abandoned house next door. We're talking still sticky. A friend has graciously and Mother-Theresa-esquely taken on the responsibility of getting them through the nipple-fed stage. They need constant attention, and I am a firm believer that if you can't pick up after yourself (which in a kitten's case translates into 'poop in a box') or survive for longer than 20 minutes without someone nearby you are not for me, so thank you, thank You, THANK YOU!!!! Be forewarend that I intend to take full credit for any cuteness they may exhibit but all bad habits will be on your head, surrogate mommy!!!

Sooo.... Ummm... Yeah.

They're ears are opening soon and so they need names. Kind of hard when their personalities aren't quite done yet, but unlike renaming children halfway through their toddling years I'm sure there'll be no drastic harm done if we change our minds mid-growth. Pets we already have named consist of
A labrador retreiver name Cooter (I am in no way responsible for this!)
A teeny Burmese named JayJay
A piglet/cat named Conner
A fancy beta named Pickle
A very large toad who lives in the backyard named Fred (all icky things in the backyeard seem to end up being named Fred)
A rabbit hare fern named Ramone (you have to roll the R's for this one)

All choices so far have been vetoed by everyone else:
Hoss and Burpie - no way in hell
My mother's reply when asked for her opinion: No and More
Just to be severely annoying I've been tossing around Myshkin and Natasya

They're teeny and black by the way. If we end up keeping both of them (I may be able to just keep the one with thumbs) then we'll have a double, double, double stuffed oreo arrangement of catsteeny little black cat Chunky Monkey Conner of the large buttocks teeny little black cat

August 15

*grumble* Stupid City *grumble*

This started out as a letter to a friend, but it has incited me to action. Well... near-action. Whining is generally the first step in changing the world, it seems.

Apparently I missed my teeny, eeny window of opportunity to see Clerks II. Checked the listings that day (you know, the day when I checked the listings?) and the one showing was just peeping out from behind Ricky Bobby and that weirdo Superman. So I get all happy-like and decide, responsibilities be darned, I’m gonna go see it Friday. No… No I wasn’t. No more showings. Apparently it just wasn’t as popular as animated animals dancing about willy-nilly or angry girl movies. So I have decided El Paso sucks (all those times I said it before was just aimless whining; I really, really, really mean it this time hence the multiple really’s) and until it finally comes out on DVD (almost wrote ‘video’; geez I’m old) I’m gonna be a sullen, sullen girl taking pott shots at Will Farrell and any CGI cows I may come across.

Be forewarned, Mr. Farrell, you creepily annoying man; before you were ‘that dork from Elf’ now you are the end of all reason and sanity and must be put-down like the twat-waffle* you truly are!!!

*I would like the thank Marcos (or is it Markus? he can't spell it either so I'm OK with it) for adding this new word to my vocabulary. Nothing gets the point across like a dirty word taught to you by a 3 year old.

August 14

Things I Would Invent if I were Clever-er Part I

A self-squeegy-ing Spaghetti-O's can so I don't spend another 10 minutes making sure I have every last delicious little O out.

A remote-controlled exploding pen that would work up to 50 miles so the next time someone steals mine I can make them pay from afar

A cat-repellant bookmark with industrial strength, chew-proof tassel

August 07

June 7th Revisited

The smell of rotting onions has dissipated only to be replaced by the scent of a paddock of swamp water flavored with horse manure and that special breed of neon-green algae that only hay and alfalfa can produce.

Enough Already! Part 1

"______ is the new _____."

i.e.:
Iraq is the new Vietnam.
Cyan is the new Chartreuse.
Mastiffs are the new Chihuahua

Ok that last one I'd like to see. I wanna see celebrities and models and the severely vapid who can't lift a hamburger try to lug Great Danes around in LV handbags. Tell them Paris said it was all the rage. They won't know and she won't remember and it's all good if it's a senseless, socially-retarded fad.

Flooding in the Desert

We've had twice as much rain in 2 weeks than our rainy-year rate. Reservoirs are overflowing, dams in Mexico are threatening to break and take out downtown, entire neighborhoods are becoming swamps, old people are amazed... At least I haven't heard some news-monkey saying dumb things like "This is our Katrina." (It's bad but there is no comparison.) One of them might have been foolish enough to utter this nonsense, but lately I've been trying to stay as far away from the pulse of the city/the country/the world/my own life as possible. What's funny is all these people are complaining that the rain is horrible and when will it stop but the second it does and the humidity and mugginess and overall stink of a city without proper drainage settles on us these same people will be the first to wish for rain to was it all away.

All the parts of town that like to think they’re better than everyone else are the ones being hit the hardest - the NE, the west side, a certain overrated stink hole one school district over. I actually heard residents of the latter were badmouthing my humble little neighborhood because of its proximity to the border and the about to overflow Rio Grande. They seem to have forgotten that they're a helluva lot closer to it than we are and our "Bad" neighborhood doesn’t stink like unregulated Mexican sewage plant.

Family recap:
Cooter (4 year old black Lab): severely tired of the rain because all his friends (3 sheep, a cow, a moose and a chicken) taste like mud which requires them to be carried around with extreme caution, usually by a teeny foot held delicately in a large mouth.
Conner (20# 1/2 cat, 1/2 troubled child): incredibly upset that we are trying so hard not to let him out the front door and into all that gooey stuff where his favorite dirt patch to roll around in once was
Jay-Jay (5# bundle of evil that has had 10 years to refine itself): Her feet are wet; she is not happy; and when the Mama-Cat isn’t happy, no one is safe
Pickle (fishie extraordinaire): It's just water so we're all a bunch of wussies
Ramone the Hare-Foot Fern & The Hanging Pothos Orchestra: they've been singing their Top 1200 hit 'Stop chewing on us, you stupid, stupid cat' or so I assume because I do not speak houseplant
People: Who cares? The pets at least have an excuse for not picking up after themselves and they very rarely sass

Things to be grateful for the rain for:
the yard is fully watered and then some (baby grass is sooooo cute)
my car is washed daily with no effort required from me
El Paso stinks a little less
the Wet-Footed Cat dance enacted hourly on the front lawn
the Labrador spiky 'do

*grumble grumble* Stupid nerd *grumble grumble*

Got the whole "You use what to blog!?!" so I guess I'll be moving all my MSN stuff on over here soon (in my life soon could mean when I'm old gray and about to croak tho). In defense of my obvious mistake (obvious in this sentence really means - "Don't rightly give a poo but MSN is popping up way too many errors so what the heck.") it is easier to post and looks much more ADD friendly with minimal work from me.