Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Why Don't Husbands Ever Just *Listen?*

Sweetie, I don't know HOW many times I have told you, you just CANNOT...

put Mr. Bubble...

in the spa tub.


Sunday, July 26, 2009

That of Which Nightmares are Made

OK, I'm afraid. I'm *very* afraid.

Hubby just called me from the LongLocks studio to tell me about his, ummm... "situation." Apparently we have an infestation of flies (probably came in through the vented window to get out of the INCESSANT rain) and he is convinced the "fly collective" is conspiring against him. I am told they lay in wait until he has enameling brush in hand and starts finishing a design. Then, while both his hands are busy, several flies will distract him while another one will attack his bald spot, using its proboscis to "implant alien beings into his noggin."

You do realize it's not the *flies* that are scarin' me here, right?

Saturday, July 25, 2009

I Am So With It, I Tell Ya!

Look! Over there, to your right ---------> See that? (OK, so now you have to scroll up too because you were too damn slow and didn't get here before this post moved down the page, ya loser). I have a new Feedburner reader subscription link and/or you can now get your Reality Checks in email. Go ahead, click one. I dare you.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Gawd, I Just LOVE Automation!

Check this out, an automatic blog post generator. Below is my own personal auto blog post. Thank god I don't have to write this crap myself anymore and can now freely spend all my time on Twitter instead of trying to amuse you people. This thing writes better than I do anyway, it's a win/win.

Geez I just had a terrible scare when I thought I had not updated this since people stopped clapping and Tinkerbell died. You would not believe how hard it is being waited on hand and foot and generally lounging around. I prostrate myself in sorrow and beg thy forgiveness.

I am absolutely consumed with sleeping my way to the top, selling my soul to Google, and just generally being a biatch to various lawyers I met recently. My day seems to involve the authorities from lunchtime until I run out of alcohol. I am beyond drunk most of the time. Can't they see I am blogging????

I declare solemnly I will update you with my nefarious activities as soon as I get a chance. Seriously! This is for my ever faithful, devoted public.

I Gotta Stay Off Twitter

Today's meme on Twitter is to come up with rejected "First Draft Band Names" (#firstdraftbandnames). Needless to say, this was a very good use of my time. I've listed my favs of my own offerings below, can you decipher all of 'em? Bet not.

LeAnn Busta Rimes
Panic! How Did I End Up At A Friggin' Disco???
Steely Daniel James Stevenson, III
Inexpensive Chicanery
P Diddy Change it Again?
My Chemically-Induced Bromance
Electric Light Garage Band
Kanye Pest
Inhospitable Native Garden
Jane's Intervention
Plagiarized Soundtrack
Neil Ain't So Young Anymore
New Kids on the Chopping Block
Pixie Styx
Da Peach A La Mode
LinkedIn Park
Jimmy All-You-Can-Eat Buffet
The Balding Eagles
Aunty Eminem
Who Do You Do Gurus
Van's Aunt
Dupioni Silk Revolver
UB WD 40
Talking Rest Rooms
They Might Be Really Big Scary People
The YouTubes
The I Like Turtles
Three Dog Day Afternoon
T-Itchy Rash
Anorexic Lizzy
Twisted Second Cousin Once Removed
Scoop Dogg
Smashing Butternut Squash
Jefferson Winnebago
Salt-N-Pepa Steak
Simple Ego, Id and Super Ego
Jessica Simpleton
The Copycat Dolls
Pure Prairie League Bowlers
Public BFF
Mother-of-Pearl Jam
Tom Picayune
The Inlaws
Yoko Oh No You Dinnint!
The O'Kays
The Trucks
Blush Pink Floyd
Poughkeepsie Dolls
My Bloody Christmas Card
"Pure" Milli Vanilli Extract
The Premenstrual Blues
Canned Spam Puppets
Marilyn Manson Family Values
Tim Quickdraw McGraw
Lords of Alkaline
Crazy Bozo Vigilantes
Iggy Pop Rocks
House of Mild Irritation
Hot Tuna Melt
T-Rex Jr
Dead Can Do the Hustle
Dead Mailmen
Destiny's Illegitimate Child
James Dull
Blood, Sweat and Snot
Nearsighted Faith
Keith Suburban
Guns and Pansies
King Fire Engine Red
The Intracranial Hemorrhages

And my personal fav:
Kid Easy Listening

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

My Favorite Joke of ALL TIME

"Hurt me, hurt me!" begged the masochist. Her sadist lover put his lips to her ear and seductively whispered, "Noooooooooo."

Hmmmm. Am I warped?


HaiCuckoo - To A Geek I Said "I Do!"

Archos and netbook
Laptop, desktop and iPod
That's just the BEDROOM

HaiCuckoo - In the Drive-Thru

When extra toasted
I feel an Egg McMuffin
Is food for the gods

Snow Event Horizon Part III (or It Never Snows on Me)

So, I'm watching a show I recorded on the DVR months ago and every few minutes the show is interrupted by a local news flash warning about the huge amounts of snow we're absolutelypositivelydefinitely going to get. Yup, I actually taped the show when I was inspired to write the original "Snow Event Horizon" post and start this blog off by sharing my pathetic inability to be snowed upon. Apparently the original experience wasn't horrible enough and I am doomed to relive it for all eternity.

Did I mention we've had like 4,328 inches of rain this summer? It NEVER stops. Generally speaking, one inch of rain equals 1 foot of snow around these parts. Eeeeeeeyup. Can't wait for winter and the friggin' DRY SEASON.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Monday, July 20, 2009

Sunday, July 19, 2009

HaiCuckoo - What I'm About to Dig Into

Lasagne noodles
Roasted peppers, cheese, meat sauce
Too bad you're not here

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Monday, July 13, 2009

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Saturday, July 11, 2009

HaiCuckoo - Intrusive Crew

Puppies on my bed
Sixteen additional legs
Why not hubby's side?

HaiCuckoo - Please Don't Die 'Til I'm Through

New Archos tablet
Your interface excites me
Your battery sucks

HaiCuckoo - Oh Look, He's Blue!

Hot water heater
You do not hear hubby's screams
When warm turns to cold

HaiCuckoo - Man, They FLEW!

Rev up new chainsaw
Scare neighbor's tresspassing kids
They flee in terror

HaiCuckoo - Tastes Good With a Brew

Oh Philly cheesteak
Artery clogging goodness
My tummy thanks you

HaiCuckoo - Et Tu?

Evil New York Times
Why are your crosswords so hard?
You make my brain hurt.

HaiCuckoo - Uh Oh, Past Due

Dear Late Taxpayer;
Thank you for sending payment.
It is about time.

HaiCuckoo - Hey! Over There Too!

Husband mowing lawn
No matter how hard he tries
Misses many spots

HaiCuckoo - They Say It's Like Flu

Rain, rain go away
The mosquitoes are on wing
I might get West Nile

HaiCuckoo - You Expect FOOD Too?

Lovely potted plants
I water you, yet you die
What more do you want????

HaiCuckoo - Dust Makes Me Achoo!

Messy, messy house
I clean you annually
Might not be enough

HaiCuckoo - Ewwww

Fuzzy white puppy
Must the hair you shed become
A food condiment?

Friday, July 10, 2009

Kids, Love 'em or Leave 'em. LEAVE 'EM! Nono, Really... TRUST Me! DON'T GO THERE!!!!

It occurs to me that in all my 49 years, I have only met one woman who was genuinely happy to be a parent. Really, just one. Granted, she was also "born again" and perfectly willing to do the "lord and master" bit as well, so I'm not sure my lone example can even be considered to be in full control of her mental faculties less a good example of the opposing argument. That being said however, simply knowing her well and being intimately aware of her outlook on life makes me unable to honestly say "no" woman I ever met was happy to be a parent. The rest of 'em should have talked to me first.

I just don't understand the attraction. I suppose my first question is the most basic.


OK, mebbe my first question would actually be "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKIN'???" but I'm trying really hard to be diplomatic here.

When it comes right down to it, I gotta admit the reasoning behind the entire concept completely escapes me. My life and the ability to rule almost every aspect of it is indubitably the most treasured possession I own. I can't understand why giving up that ability would appeal to anyone. What is the attraction? There obviously is some kind of awfully powerful one of which I am blissfully ignorant, as plenty of women are practically desperate to have kids beforehand, it's only after the deed is done that they rethink the intelligence of the decision. And they always do. Other than the afore-mentioned questionably sane person, every woman I have known well enough to share such intimacies (and several I didn't) has regretted the decision, at least to some extent. Maybe it is nothing more than some deeply ingrained instinct to procreate. I don't know if I can buy into even that though, we've certainly evolved far enough along to be able to out-think most of our instincts. I for one have no desire to hoard nuts and berries to tide me over the winter months.

All that being said, can you imagine the pros and cons list if one were to make one before embarking on this tenuous journey? One based on the assumption that everything will go as well as can be expected, of course (and by that I mean everyone is physically and mentally healthy, and your kid doesn't grow up so maladjusted they end up putting out an all-points bulletin for your car and Phillip Jr. after they find your body parts strewn throughout your home).

Shall we? Oh yes, let's!

I get to enjoy the beauty and romance of pregnancy. I will absolutely glow!

I will suffer extreme mood swings, gain 40lbs. (if I'm lucky), puke my guts up every morning for months, likely get hemorrhoids the size of Ohio, have unbearable back pain, stretch my skin so far it scars (what exactly do you think "stretch marks" are?), contemplate if murdering my husband is a viable option as my hormone levels fluctuate wildly, and have to buy an entirely new wardrobe I will wear for five months, tops. I will not make love to my sweetie/devil-incarnate, or even find a comfortable position in which to sleep for that matter, for several months. Then I will experience pain for hours on end far beyond any I have ever previously known, will be sliced open either through an episiotomy or caesarean, and spend several days in a hospital (if my health insurance, assuming I have health insurance, allows for such a luxury).

I have an adorable little bundle of joy to nurture and love.

I will give up what would have been my study (guest room, gym, home theater, shoe closet for the Louboutin collection I will now never own, etc.) so it can become a nursery. I will spend many, many months getting little to no sleep, regardless if I have to get up at 6am when I return to work. If I do choose to work outside the home, I will abandon my career for several weeks at the very least, and will spend an even longer time playing catch-up when I return. Every minute spent at home will revolve entirely around my child's sleeping, eating and eliminating habits. I will either suffer intense breast pain or will live with the fact that I am sacrificing the ultimate in nutrition and antibodies I could give my child when I choose to feed it formula, which hopefully does not include any deadly ingredients manufactured in China. I will spend thousands of dollars a year on disposable diapers, which will end up in a landfill and will just begin to decompose in the next several decades, maybe. I will begin the many years of buying clothing, and soon shoes, that my child will outgrow long before it outwears. It will be months, if not years, before I can leave the house again in the evening for an adult outing, providing I can bring myself to leave my child and actually find a babysitter at all, much less one I can trust. I will add a minimum of $50 to the cost of said night out to pay for the sitter I settle on, whom is likely to come nowhere close to my expectations, and I will spend a good deal of the time during my outing worrying that I may have hired Aileen Wournous' reincarnation to care for my child.

My child will grow quickly and I will watch the miracle of those first important milestones with utmost pride.

I will spend at least a year dealing with The Demon Seed through the toddler period. My child's first words will be "mama," "dada" and "NO!" I will become selectively deaf to my own child's screaming, much to the extreme annoyance and utter disdain of every other person in the immediate vicinity. I will become the bane of anyone trying to enjoy a meal in every restaurant I enter. I will have to live with cabinet locks, outlet guards, gates throughout my home, and a muzzle on all four dogs even though they wouldn't hurt a fly. OK, so maybe they eviscerate flies, but they don't have a taste for human flesh... yet. There's no saying how they'll feel about it after little Jimmy eats all the food in their bowl and then tries to remove a fuzzy ear from its rightful owner. I will not be able to let my child out of my sight for even mere seconds for fear it will either cause itself, my home or a bichon frise irreparable harm. My main focus in life will be reduced to teaching my child to use a toilet as intended, while at the same time teaching it not to use it to flush Mommy's engagement ring, Daddy's iPhone, or the cat. I will spend long periods of time, three times a day, trying to get food into my child, and then just as routinely spend long periods of time cleaning up the food I didn't get into my child, as well as the food that comes out the other end of my child that didn't manage to successfully follow the uninsured diamond, cell phone and feline.

I will watch my child blossom as it grows and begins to learn about the world.

I will go to work every day with a mind to escape the madness, but then spend the day convinced my child is suffering at the hands of a pedophile with a daycare license. I will have quality time with my child in the evenings after I have traveled ten miles out of my way to pick them up from said daycare, for which I spend one third of my salary, and go home to watch the news with the hope I do not see anyone from Budding Genius Babycare being led from the building in handcuffs. I will then spend two hours with my child before they go to bed, which is a half hour later than it should be due to the delay caused by the incessant whining and screaming it took to get them *into* the bathtub and again when I tried to get them *out* of the bathtub. I will read "The Velveteen Rabbit" for the 174th time. I know how it ends.

My child will begin school and flourish with its newfound knowledge.

I will get up two hours before I have to leave for work to prepare my child for school, make a nutritious breakfast even though the thought of food in the morning nauseates me, and pack a lunch (or search frantically for enough cash to pay for lunch). I will then send my child to what has become America's "killing fields" and hope they have enough sense to duck and hide when the bullets start flying. If my child is sick, is home for one of the 186 annual school holidays, or has a "snow day" I will either have to take off work or frantically find someone trustworthy enough to care for my child, since I understand locking them in a closet with a coloring book, a supply of crayons and a few cookies is not an acceptable option in the eyes of the law (as much as it *should* be). I will spend my few free hours attending PTA meetings and parent/teacher conferences, baking cupcakes for a classroom full of other people's brats, and trying to remember how to help mine do the "new math" I learned decades ago, which is no longer new enough to be the way it is done *now.*

My child will become an intelligent, independent free thinker as it enters its teen years.

My child will no longer tell me it loves me, but instead will go into great detail about why it hates me while stomping dramatically up stairs and slamming bedroom doors. My mere presence in front of little Lizzie's friends will embarrass her to no end, no matter whether I have chosen the occasion to intentionally torture her mercilessly for my own amusement or not. I will feel guilt when I wrestle with deciding if I should call the police when my child runs away from home, while secretly hoping they stay away for at least a day or two. I will struggle with the choice of being the "cool, realistic parent" and buy him/her a steady supply of contraceptives, or the "protective, over-my-dead-body parent" and elect to lock them in their room until they are 21. I will begin to wonder if giving up foie gras and tenderloin over the course of almost two decades in exchange for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and Hamburger Helper was worth the gamble that my kids would actually go to college, much less move out of my house before the age of 30. I will cringe at the idea that Mary doesn't know her mother well enough to actually think I will let her leave the house wearing a belly shirt emblazoned with the Playboy emblem and a pair of low-rise yoga pants that proudly declare "Juicy" across her butt. I will continually reassure myself that my son really does have a future as a space shuttle pilot, simply because the only skill Johnny has ever mastered is his outstanding ability to fly a starfighter on his PS3.

I will eventually find myself muttering aloud to my few childless friends with a wistful sigh that I "wonder what would my life have been like if I didn't have kids." And then I will do my best to ingore the sympathy-with-just-a-hint-of-smug-satisfaction look in the eyes of those who were actually smart enough to make a pros and cons list before taking the plunge.

And as terribly difficult as it is, I really do try to keep it to just a *hint.*

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Total, Unadulterated BS. What Fantasies Are Made Of.

So, I am faced with an excruciating dilemma of dire proportions. As many of you know, I lust wholeheartedly after country-music-most-gorgeous-man-who-walks-the-earth-heart-throb Blake Shelton. Not the "real" Blake Shelton mind you, the "for-public-consumption-fantasy" Blake Shelton. The one who looks so finger-lickin' good (that was a country food reference, get it?) in the "Goodbye Time" video. The one who sings "Underneath the Same Moon" while I allow my over-active imagination to wallow, wholeheartedly, in the idea he recorded that one "just for me." Essentially, I want Blake Shelton to be my houseboy. Never mind he's sixteen years younger than I am. I can do the cougar thing, not an issue.

Those who know me know how much an anomaly this is. Blake is not my type by any stretch of the imagination, not even in the fantasy world. Of course, neither is my husband, but that's another story (I love my cute geek anyway, and besides, he takes my incessant Blake Shelton teasing with good humor... usually). Until I married him, I tended to date "sophisticated" men. Architects. Commodities brokers. Heads of international sales. Engineers. Men who would take me to the theatre (see how I spelled "theatre?" That's the "sophisticated" way to spell it), and the Silk Purse for dinner, and would buy me precious gems for no reason whatsoever, and could intelligently discuss current events, politics and recent scientific breakthroughs, and were almost *always* older than me... sometimes *much* older. Ann-Marie, a bud since college who knows my taste in men better than anybody, cannot for the life of her figure out my attraction to Blake and tells me so... often. Oddly enuf, she has never mentioned my choice of husband. Smart gurl.

I digress.

My fantasy attractions, though rare, were never about down home, country boy personas. Antonio Banderas. Cary Grant. Bogey. Robert Redford. Rod Stewart (especially in his hard rock 'n rollin' Faces days). Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Axl Rose (I'm guessin' because he's a clone of the first great love in my life... but not nearly as maladjusted). OK, I do have to admit I have a huge crush on Lyle Lovett and his lyric-writing capabilities (and never could understand why HE married HER), but none of these have ever qualified as true take-your-breath-away-ohmigod-you-are-friggin'-gorgeous crushes, with the exception of Rod Stewart... a crush that was in full swing a good 30 years ago. Blake, on the other hand, is yumminess personified in my fully adult awareness.

Now, I understand that the fun of infatuation, especially with a "celebrity," is the image that is projected rather than the reality of the person behind the image. My husband suggested I might enter the "Be Blake's Roadie for a Day" contest (even though he knows I would have entered *him* into the contest and just tagged along for the ride if he won... I don't actually "lift" things, I point at the things I want lifted). I said I had no intention of actually meeting Blake and ruining the illusion. I'm no idiot. I know Blake doesn't stand out in a field singing his heart out about how "if it's too late for love to change your mind, then it's goodbye time." I know he doesn't practically come to tears standing in the middle of the street because he is reminded of a lost love. I know he doesn't sit in an empty farmhouse kitchen crying into a TV dinner. I know he cut off all that gorgeous hair (and frankly, if that wasn't a deal-breaker, nothing is). However, the fact that I know these things consciously does not affect my ability to effectively fantasize Blake into being the perfect object of my dellusionary affection. No, my fantasy world is willingly self-induced with full disclosure and no mental instability, at least no more than a good daily dose of Prozac can handle. Hence, the dilemma.

It just so happens that Blake has a Twitter account. And Blake does all his tweeting himself. So, alas, I find myself torn. Do I follow Blake and risk exposing myself to the real thing? Will it ruin the illusion? I've seen Blake "as Blake' on TV and he's a pretty hilarious guy, which gains tremendous points in my book. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure at this point that Blake is not going to be tweeting about unrest in Iran, who deserves the Tony this year, nor his fondness of the Democratic party (an assumption on my part due to the usual affiliation of musicians in his genre with that "other" party). So, do I *really* want to know what Blake thinks, does, and eats?

Uhhhh... eyup. Apparently I do.

:::click "Follow":::

Apparently, Blake drinks a lot. A whole lot. Though I've personally never had alcohol with my corn flakes, I can relate. He drinks beer (though he apparently likes mixed drinks too), I drink wine. No big disclosure here, every other song he cuts has him practically laying in a gutter somewhere. Pass.

Blake also apparently chews tobacco. I think chewing tobacco is disgusting. On the other hand, I smoke. Many people think smoking is disgusting. All that being said, the next time I am fortunate enuf to dream about kissing Blake's luscious lips, my unconscious mind will hopefully omit the whole chew thing. I hereby give Blake permission not to consider my bad habit next time he dreams about me. All's fair. Pass.

Blake had to paint his own house, which he feels "his people" should have done for him because he's famous. My level of LongLocks celebrity is comparably infinitesimally low and about as niche as it gets, but that doesn't keep me from feeling I should have my own "people." Come to think of it, I'd feel that way regardless of the lack of any celebrity whatsoever. Pass.

Blake hates PETA. Now, I know Blake is either an animal lover or loves his girlfriend (singer Miranda Lambert) enuf to at least donate time to her animal welfare causes. And I have to agree that animal lover that I am, the PETA fanatics have given the whole organization a really horrendous image, and is not among the animal welfare charities worthy of even my support. On the other hand, Blake hunts. I cannot for the life of me wrap my mind around the whole "I enjoy killing things" mindset (I have trouble killing insects). By complete contrast, I wear fur. I can definitely get my mind around the whole "I love my full-length lavender mink coat" mindset. I happen to be one of those twisted animal lovers who enjoys being at the top of the food (and apparel) chain who would become a vegetarian in a heartbeat if I had to kill my own meat (or fashion trend). Pass. And btw, the whole Miranda thing isn't an issue. She's cute, talented, and much more his type than I'd ever be. Besides, fantasies are customizable. Though if I had my druthers, I'd hook him up with LeAnn Rimes. She's on a more even sexual-tension level with Blake, methinks. Now *that* would be watchable. I'm just sayin'.

Blake loves dogs. PASS *plus* extra credit. Though I'm guessin' he doesn't have bichons. His loss.

Blake is perceived as a pervert by many of his followers. I think those followers are clueless and have no sense of humor. Besides, when he posed the question "Were Tinker Bell and Peter Pan dating? If so, how did they mess around?" my response was "I imagine Bell tinkered with Pan's peter." He did not respond to me. I bet he thinks I'm a pervert, which is *definitely* worth a pass.

Blake likes to drive his truck fast. When it comes to driving fast, Blake is an amateur. When it comes to driving fast *everyone* is an amateur, get the fuck out of my way. NOW. Pass. Pass on the left, right, whatever is convenient and not currently occupied by a patrol car.

Blake has never experienced the magic of matzoh ball soup and apparently thinks chicken fried steak is an appropriate meal to request in NY. Blake is obviously uninitiated to the magic of good food made by the hands of Jewish NYers. I reserve judgment until Blake has been fed a proper salt bagel with smoked lox and whipped chive cream cheese and *then* states his preference. I may not be Jewish, but I'm a native NYer and an extravagant cook. I KNOW good food. Luckily for Blake, I'm willing to share.

Blake is friends with Reba. Reba is the personification of "Republican scum" and trashed the Dixie Chicks when they dared to use their constitutional right to voice what the majority of this country felt, thus helping to fuel the downright terrifying fallout the Chicks suffered from right-wing fanatics. Guilt by the inability to recognize the effect of the association. At this point Blake earns his first tentative "Fail." Conversely, I am dying to know the back story behind Blake's "Reba's a robot, a totally wasted robot" tweet. She may even gain some points. Well, mebbe not, but anything trashin' Reba is dirt worth sharin' in my book, even if it's only a suggestion that something may be untoward. OK, I'll give... half a pass for the effort.

Blake is not afraid to suggest liberal use of the "Unfollow" button and has no intention of kowtowing to make himself more popular among his minions. Neither do I. Feel free, you'll find it at the top right in the side bar. Pass.

Blake has mastered a supreme level of sarcasm. Pass. DUH.

Blake can't spell for shit. I am an English language anal-retentive. But on him it's cute. Pass, though admittedly this one pains me.

OK, so Blake is exactly who he *should* be and not exactly who I would build-my-perfect-guy-from-the-ground-up guy would be. But he's pretty damn funny, has more than half a brain, isn't too offensive (in my admittedly-offensive opinion), and is a smokin' hot guy with a drop-dead-sexier-ohmigod-hold-me-back-look than any other human organism. Pretty much what fantasies are made of.


You can follow Blake and find yerself blessed with his BS on Twitter by going to https://twitter.com/blakeshelton or searching for blakeshelton using the Find People function. Just remember, he's MINE. Don't make me come over there.

Monday, July 6, 2009

So, Tell Me... What's News With You?

Did you know these things happened last week?

The House passed the climate change bill.
Nine staff members of the British embassy in Tehran were arrested in connection with the country’s post-election unrest, two remain in custody and will stand trial, and Iran recalled its ambassador to Britain.
The Honduran military staged a coup against their President and exiled him.
A Yemeni ariliner with 150 aboard crashed in the Indian Ocean, 1 survived.
Al Franken was declared the winner of the Minnesota Senate seat.
The U.S. launched a major operation in Afghanistan, the "most significant" marine encounter yet.
North Korea fired test missiles off its east coast.
The U.S. unemployment rate reached its highest in 26 years.
The Kremlin has given the U.S. permission to ship weapons to Afghanistan across Russia.
Sarah Palin resigned her governorship of Alaska.

Oh... and MICHAEL JACKSON DIED!!! OMG!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT????? And I bet with all this other important stuff going on, you didn't EVEN KNOW! Loser!

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Welcome to the Abyss

I find it very amusing that the Google content-based ads that are currently appearing on this blog are all for "smoking cessation," "drug rehab" and "alcohol." Yeah, they got me pegged.


Sheesh, Who the Hell Raised You People????

Ya know, I'm watching all these sleazeballs cash in on Michael Jackson's death and it just creeps me out. I don't understand why so many people in this country don't have an ounce of propriety nor integrity. Didn't these people have parents????

I signed into my Amazon associate account yesterday and saw the LongLocks Boutique referred a sale of an MP3 download of "Thriller." Apparently someone must have used one of my "hair book" links, wandered around Amazon's site and ended up buying it. I made one dollar and I feel dirty. Contaminated by remote association. IckIckIck.

I love you Mom =)

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Coming Soon to a Presidential Address Near You!

Does anyone but me think "Hail to the Chief" seems so old fashioned and outta place when played with respect to Obama? With all due respect to tradition, which technically I'm all for, you can almost see Barama cringe when his "theme song" is played. He should have a much cooler ditty, something with a beat. Will.I.Am's "Yes We Can?" Love it, but not for this purpose. Simon and Garfunkel's "America?" Nah, too laid back. Springsteen's "Born in the USA?" Not one of my favs Dick, but appropriate and has a good beat. I give it a 92. The Beach Boys' "California Girls?" Sooo NOT. Wait, I got it! Neil Diamond's "America!" THAT'S IT! Just mainstream enuf to make the tradionalists and Republicans happy, with a snappy beat and a much higher cool factor (in a socially acceptible, political sorta way) than "Hail to the Chief." I can almost see Barama when it comes time to give his next Presidential address, strutting up to the podium in time with the music, doing his unmistakeable Barama dance with his little barrel-roll arm move, mouthing paraphrased lyrics:

Got a dream they've come to share
Gonna talk to America

I'm likin' it. Who's with me?