I need to get to bed. However, there's a pain in my belly because I swallowed a shoe. Well, it was a piece of cheese that looked like a shoe. String cheese. I tear little bits off, since I am spazzy when it comes to peeling the string cheese into neat strings. And one of the bits tonight was shaped sort of like a sneaker. I think this was a sign. A sign that I should have gotten off my ass and gone for a jog or something, rather than sitting on the couch eating string cheese and watching "To Sir With Love."

But I was liking TSWL. I'd never seen it before, and to be honest I liked it. I rented it because Kristen and her family rave about it all the time, and I smile everytime I hear that song because it makes me think of Kristen and her Mom, in their den, both singing away to the lyrics: "...but how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume..." I miss these fools, and watching this movie finally was a good thing for me.

I have to say that there were some hilarious moments in the movie. Such as the very horrible "the class goes on a trip to the museum" montage. Wha...? If you haven't seen it, the whole scene is basically that Sidney Poitier takes the whole class of English troublemakers to the museum. Instead of showing it in film, it's nothing but still shots of the kids in the museum, posing stupidly by statues and copying the faces of stuffed apes and shit, intercut with shots of a very noble and somewhat-happy Sidney. They play the theme song over the whole thing, and it goes on for a long time. It is extremely 1960s cheeseball, and it was making me laugh out loud for some reason. In fact, all of the moments where I felt like laughing involved corny camera shots or the very British looks on some of the kids' faces. Towards the end, one actress' teeth were suddenly and glaringly yellow, reinforcing that stereotype. Sheesh. (I mean, yellow teesh!)

The best part was whenever Sir would say the word "sluts." Ain't nobody says the word "sluts" with the panache and smooth, commanding timbre that Sidney does. I wish some of my teachers would have openly talked about sluts in class. Maybe my life would have turned out a little less...slutty. Oh well. The beat goes on. I think, based on the fine usage of the word sluts alone, this movie ranks higher as a Noble Teacher Film than "Dead Poets Society", in my list of Noble Teacher Films. Yet, oddly enough, it is still slightly below "Summer School." That black guy who was in the bathroom the whole film-- that killed me!

Last week's South Park had Wing on it. Wing is apparently a real singer (and not Trey Parker making the voice, as we had all thought). Anyway, Trish sent me the link to Wing's site today. I didn't "join" as Wing requested, but I did listen to the Free Samples. I highly recommend "I Could Have Danced All Night" and "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." Listen to Wing here: www.wingtunes.com.

It occurs to me that I will never (hormones and god's will permitting) never know what it's like to have a hairy face. I am curious if when you guys grow a beard, a goatee, a stache or even muttonchops, if it gets itchy under there. I say this because I was thinking about being stranded on a desert island today. I know what I'd want-- something sharp to shave my armpits and legs. I know it would be a matter of survival to worry about other things, but that's kind of one thing I feel like the person I am, at this point in my life's journey, I just can't live without. So it stands to reason that I would ponder the "if I were a dude" question, too. Would I be able to stand a beard? What's it feel like? Does it get sweaty under there? Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night with a crazy fear that bugs could be in there? And, if you were on a desert island, bugs-in-the-beard would be a very real possibility.
I never watched Survivor, and have never seen Lost, and to be honest, all I can remember about Cast Away are the scenes with the infected tooth-removal, so I have no pop-culture references to educate me about facial hair dilemmas.
My last thought on beards: my Dad's beard, when he does let it grow in, is red hair. Yet he has brown hair. And his eyebrows are getting blonder (not gray, blond) with each passing year. He is one diverse mo-fo!

My Mom brought up Satan today, and it reminded me that I think it's funny whenever people refer to Satan as "The Prince of Lies."
That is just an awesome, awesome nickname.

You know, I think that making fun of the brain damaged and/or those dying a slow death of dehydration as the country stupidly argues about it is so over. I am moving on to making fun of the blind again. Yes, again. I was pretty big on making fun of the so-called "optically challenged" back in, oh, I guess it was 1992-1996. If you were around, you will recall the knee-slapping laughs and the many pants that were peed over my famous blind jokes. Oh, sweet memories. But then one day things changed. Sometime around May of 1996 a blind person saved my life by pulling me from a canal, where I had fallen when I had gotten myself set on fire as a joke on some firemen I wanted revenge on.

OK, I made that up. My point is, there came a time when blind jokes weren't funny anymore. I became PC overnight. I was serious about it, too. In fact I would make a point NOT to smile or grin whenever someone told that "Helen Keller-masturbating-moaning with one hand" joke. If a blind person walked into a wall or tripped over a curb because the end of his cane had been snapped off by a prankster, making him misjudge the distance, I would look away and bite my lip in empathy. No, sir. The blind? Not so funny.

Tonight I had an epiphany, if you will. It was time to make fun of the blind again! I didn't expect it. I And nothing happened to make me decide this. I didn't even SEE a blind person today. How weird is that. It just occurred to me that not being able to see was freaking hilarious. Imagine the mishaps that could ensue! Imagine the misunderstandings when a blind person cups another guy's balls trying to tell what the other guy looks like-- and the guy happens to have an undescended testicle! Ha! What a crazy, wacky thing to have happen. Ooooh, I better sit down here, I am laughing an unnecessary amount of laughs here.

Some of my favorite making-fun-of-the-blind phrases:

"Sorry, I didn't see you there!"

"Look out!"

"Let's be like the Native Americans and go on a vision quest, and see if we can find...your vision!"

"That's a nice sunset there, move over so I can see it better. It's not like it matters to you, you can't see it or anything."

"We need to take another look at this situation... whoops, sorry there! You can't look because you can't see!"

"Let's see if you, my fellow chef friend who happens to be blind, can make a lighter and tastier souffle than I can, for I am a chef as well although I am not blind. Oh, sorry, I mean, I will see if you can make it, and you will just reach around for the ingredients and cook in the darkness that is your everday existence."

***
Honestly, whew. That took a lot out of me. It turns out making fun of the blind is harder than I expected.

The best thing about making fun of the blind on your blog? It's not like they are gonna READ it.

In case you haven't visited my sister's blog yet, on Saturday we did, in fact, visit the Renaissance Festival. Because sometimes you just want to see people whom you feel OK about mocking in public. Anyway, this picture above is of the Free Spam booth that was set up at the entrance to Ye Olde Festival(e). I suppose they are capitalizing on Spamalot... that musical is set in Renaissance-y times, and I guess that made the Spam People put two and two together and say, "I bet that the people going to the Renaissance Festival are crazy about Spam!" They totally didn't get that at no point do Monty Python and the gang eat Spam in the movie (and let's face it, if Spam is featured in the Broadway show in some way, the fact is that people in Arizona are about 3,000 miles too far away to know about it). I didn't see many people mobbing the Free Spam booth. Sad, really. All that promotion gone to waste under the hot desert sun. I bet it stank over there, too. That's why I took this picture from a distance. I didn't want a whiff of rotting Spam.

Nothin' could be finer than suckin' turkey vagina. Luckily, Kane is a flexible guy, and he settles for a turkey leg.

Brianna, Trish and Kane are clearly not impressed with the Birds of Prey show. Would you believe it... not one falcon! Oh sure, there was a barn owl, a vulture named Ed and some sort of eagle, but no falcons and NO tiny hats. I was kind of bummed so I suggested we leave the Birds of Prey show early. Plus the announcer guy was using a super lame sort-of English accent. And the grass was kind of damp and we all had swamp ass through our jeans. Let's go, you guys. I enjoy this photo because Brianna looks like she just put something tart in her mouth and it's made her slump over in ouchy mouth pain; Trish is like the Great Equalizer for Brianna and she also is the Holder of the Olde Mappe, and kane is doing a fantastically cool male model pose. At the Birds of Prey show, nonetheless. Let's get out of here for real now, guys. I am wondering again why we paid the insanely high admission price for this shit.

Oh man. We really got a little too excited over this witty flag. We (meaning, me) thought about buying it for a second or two. Instead, I made Trish and Kane duck underneath it and poke their wee heads out in a happy manner for a photo. Looks like Kane misjudged though, and knocked his head into the gay pink parasol. He doesn't look too upset being photographed near all that pink. Funny. I named this photo Rum Sissies.

Despite what you might think upon first glance of the picture above, I am a pretty clean person. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the *thing* that is pictured above.

I opened my oven tonight because I planned to store some bread in there overnight. I am making Easter dinner tomorrow for the family. Anyway, I guess I have yet to use my oven since I moved in. I don't bake much, really. I have used the stove probably about 1,250 times and the microwave and toaster oven, but not the big old oven itself. When I opened the oven, I noticed the tin foil on the bottom that the Filthy French Lady Who Used to Live Here left there; I have seen this before because I know I have opened the oven briefly here and there over the past 6 weeks or so I have been living here. No biggie... I pulled out this old sheet of foil and balled it up and threw it away. The foil sheet was not alone in there, though. Oh, no.

The top shelf, upon closer inspection tonight, was moved so far close to the top of the oven that I had missed the old casserole that has been left in my oven by the Filthy French Lady! Before I gagged, I said "You gotta be kiddin' me, no fucking way!" out loud a few times while the dogs nervously peeked into the kitchen from the doorway. Dogs have that extra sense and I think they detected the nastiness well before I did, for they were afraid. I pulled this glass casserole dish from the oven and placed it on the counter and stared at it. It appeared to have been a half-consumed casserole with perhaps chicken or a cream sauce at one point, but to be sure I was going to have to peel back that crumbled foil on the top. I braced for an odiferous onslaught (alliteration). But the kicker was this: there was NO SMELL. My guess? The Filthy French Lady had probably left this shit in the oven months before she even moved out. Rotting food stinks, and to let it get to the point where it has no smell anymore--damn, that is really rotten.

Ironically, I was watching a special on either the History Channel or Discovery last night about the Shroud of Turin. This Shroud was apparently the cloth that was draped over Jesus' body after the crucifixion, in case you don't know, and it has been said to have marks left on it that show Jesus' face, scourging marks and even his watchband's imprint. (Just kidding! Ha.) I just find it very deeply disturbing that when I took this picture and looked at it afterwards, I saw A FACE in the mold! Look closely. You can make out suspicious, elitist eyes, a mushed-up nose, a mouth tensely pursed up-- it looks just like the Filthy French Lady who once lived here! I think this place is haunted and shit, and I am going to wake up one night to the sounds of the Gaelic tongue uttering obscenities somewhere in the hallway and smell merlot wafting about. (Seriously, the bitch who used to live here was an alcoholic slob. I should also mention she left the place filthy, with gross dishes still in the dishwasher and a huge pile of lint in the dryer's lint trap. Not to mention they had to repair the doorframe in my downstairs bathroom before I moved in, because her 10 year old son had pryed the door open after he had been locked in the bathroom as punishment. Those wacky French whores, always lockin' the little illegitimates in the bathroom with a handy crowbar. Oui, oui indeed.)

For the record, immediately after this photo was taken the casserole was swiftly taken to the dumpster and thrown deep inside, never to be seen again, and my hands were thoroughly disinfected with antimicrobial soap. The oven, however, is still on self-clean. Happy Easter, everyone.

I keep laughing out loud every time I think of this stupid thing from "Family Guy": Peter is ordering chicken fajitas at a drive-through, and he keeps pronouncing it "chicken fah-JEYE-tas" so it sounds like chicken vaginas.

Blah, not much going on. It's almost 8:00 and I still haven't had dinner, and I am hungry. What should I have? Perhaps a salad? Or an english muffin pizza? Perchance I shall cram those nooks and crannies with sauce and cheese and go to town. Or, I could give in to the french fry beast and go get some pure junk food. Honestly that might be what happens.

What a boring blog! Someone ought to smite me about the head and shoulders for this.

The other night Trish and I were out for dinner and afterwards we went shopping. I know that we were hysterical because of excessive use of alliteration throughout our conversations that evening. And both times we used it, it involved the letter "f". I was trying to explain why I thought so many chicks are into Sarah Jessica Parker and the other Sex in the City ladies, and I said something like "Women today are looking to follow a feminized female role model" and Trish started laughing like I had just told the world's greatest fart joke or something. She loves alliteration!

Later on we were looking at jewelry, and I burped unexpectedly. Not loudly, just what I thought was a quiet, discreet lady-burp. But unfortunately it smelled like my dinner and the smell drifted right up at her. She was all, "oh, man, and my mouth was open too! Whew, Lisa!" Hey, it's not like I intented to burp right then and there, and that she would be close enough to smell it through her mouth. Crucify me, why don't ya? It's the weekend for it. (And thanks for not blogging about it, Trish. Yet, see what I did? I got desperate for material and shared it with the world anyway. C'est la vie.)

In other news, I am naked under my clothes. I am so happy some people wear clothes to cover themselves. I saw a guy who was freakishly skinny today and I was so happy to not see his bones. Or the mexican't lady in the mall that seemed to have no real torso--her boobs went straight to her hips--there was no middle ground there and it was kind of freakishly mesmerizing.

Katie's feet smell like Fritos.

Tomorrow, we are going to drive out to the Arizona Renaissance Festival. I probably won't get much healthy food there, although I won't be eating a leg of mutton or whatever those fools serve up at the renaissance festivals. What is mutton? Since I don't eat the red meat I will never know its faire taste. You know what they do at these festivals? The Birds of Prey show. Where they have a sissy guy in a leather jerkin holding a falcon with one of those little bird-beanies on its head. And they make the falcon fly around and land on his glove on cue and they give the falcons dead baby mice or something as a reward. I think they should have a "planned accident" once in awhile to stir it up a little. Like the falcon lands in a baby carriage in the crowd and just walks all over a baby. Or it carries away some guy's toupee and drops it in the thorny bushes. Even better is if the falcon just turns on the trainer and starts clawing and pecking his face apart. They'd probably send the Emergency Back-up Jester out to play a little flute and dance around with little bells on his colorful outfit and juggle to distract the crowd as they rush Ye Olde Ambulance to the scene and cart away the guy with the bloody face, and snap the neck of the killer falcon.

Someone please tell me the name of those little hats the falcons wear! They look like helmets and they tie under the falcon's chin. I wonder if that area is called a chin when it's on a falcon, or other birds of prey. Someone should tell me, because I am too tired and hungry to look it up myself. And I need some french fries before I combust from the lack of salt in these here blood vessels.

I think a funny thing is a plastic bag in the wind. I don't mean that stupid scene in American Beauty either. I just mean, a random bag blowing around. It makes people react. It's hard to not react to a plastic bag flying through the air. I tried to ignore a plastic bag once, but my eyes were inexplicably drawn to its crazy, floating motions anyway. Also, if you ignore a plastic bag for long enough it could lead to cancer. Check it out immediately.

My personal favorite is when a plastic bag is blowing around on a busy street. The way cars slow down to avoid the bag; the swerving into different lanes, the hitting the brakes. Why are we so terrified of hitting the bag? Plastic bags are one of the world's softest things. It isn't going to screw up your bitchin' paint job, or dent your bumper. If it hits your windshield, blink and it's gone again, you big baby. And it's not like we can accurately predict where the wind will take the bag anyway, so there's really little point in trying to compensate as you are driving close to the bag's airspace. Wind is unpredictable. Bags in the wind are unpredictable. If everyone would accept that, I know we'd have a nicer world.

I drove right damn straight into a wayward bag the other day as I drove home from work. There was a lot of traffic, and I had nowhere to swerve to and with the tailgating that was going on back there in my car's nether regions, there was no way in hell I was going to hit the brake. And I hit that bag with all the 45 mph force that I could. It felt so cool. I wasn't letting a bag control me. "Fuck you, Bag!" I screamed from the safety of my closed windows. Yet...I found myself checking the rearview mirror to see where the bag ended up after my collision with it.

It could have been:
*Stuck to the front of my car from the impact and force of my speed
*Stuck underneath my car, where it could get stuck to my muffler and melt there and the smells would make my car stink
*Plastered over the tailgater's windshield
*Fluttering along behind me with a tenacious "I'm gonna git you sucka" attitude
*Perhaps carried by the wind out of harms way and into the yard of a happy little child with Kool-Aid mouth
*Gone!

This particular bag happened to make it past my car and was barreling low to the ground right into the tailgater's car. And I saw that guy swerve a little. I was worried for a second he would hit me, or someone in the next lane over, and cause a massive pileup. That didn't happen though. And where the bag went from there is a total mystery. I don't think that bag is around these parts anymore. I think it headed east. Whichever way the wind blows. Like a guy who travels the land, freely and without washing. A ramblin' bag.

A plastic bag, stuck to the bush at the side of the road--especially if it is the big, black, bags we use to gather cut grass, hedge clippings and old clothes for Goodwill-- can look like a person if the light is bad. Like if you are walking your dog at night, and you happen to walk past it and the wind flaps it just a little so it looks like an arm, weakly waving to you for help because it's just been mugged and left to bleed in the bushes at the side of the road. And you jump and do that gaspy thing and it makes the dog go "ARRRR!" and you get even more scared and your heart pounds and then you realize OH YOU MORON, it's a bag, not a dead guy. Still, kick it either way. And shrug and go home.

The other funny thing is when people try to catch flying plastic bags with their bare hands. Anyone who tries to do that will always look like a retard. There is no cool way to catch a bag in the wind. It's all flailing limbs and little jumps-forward and leaps and hair in your eyes. Good luck, fucker. Just let it go. No one wants to have sex with a wanna-be bag catcher. Remember that next time.

You know, I've done a lot in my life, and while I may not be proud of some of the things I've done or borne witness to, I do know this: I have no egrets.

Imagine my shock and terror when I took a picture of what I thought were my dogs, and instead I realized they are both the undead.

As I was driving back to the office just now, I looked over to the scrubby area near the canal that runs along the road. The canal is protected by barbed wire because it's a water source, and you don't want the locals whoopin' and hollerin' and swimmin' thar. I noticed a very large blackbird sitting between two barbs. He was just balanced there, a smudge of black under the sunlight and as I watched him between cars that flew past and obstructed my view of him, he was only tilting his head casually in the breeze. I can't say for sure if it was a crow or not. I think a lot of times when I say "I saw a crow" the reality is that I actually just saw a blackbird.

I'm sure that a blackbird/crow, sitting very calmly on a swaying length of barbed wire, on a sunny, pretty day is some sort of metaphor for something. I'm sure it would be a great image to include in a piece of fiction. I thought about where I would put it, and in which book it would fit, and decided the image is too cinematic and doesn't seem to be real. Anywhere I tried to squeeze that into a story it would appear to be contrived and, well, fictiony. (I mean, would I actually have a character describe that scene all poetically at a moment of revelation in the story? If so, the only way I could do it with any good conscience is if another character said something like, "Yeah, nice phony fucking metaphor. Now why don't you get over here and help me bury this hooker, chucko.") So I doubt it will go into a story anytime soon. I notice scenes like that a lot though... especially when they have to do with birds.

The other day there were all these little sparrows divebombing the air over the traffic under a freeway underpass. I think there were a lot of little bugs flying around in that area, so that explained the crazy flying patterns. Maybe. I was really stuck in traffic for awhile there, so I stared at them for some time and noticed how close they came to slamming right into the cars, the light poles, signs, and of course the hulking concrete of the overpass. But they would veer off at the last minute and spiral upward and without warning, drop down close to the pavement and swish back up again. I was entertained by their antics and eating habits and didn't really want to drive when the light finally changed. I really wanted to just sit under that overpass in a lawn chair and watch them for awhile with my headphones on. Probably I'd get a little pooped on. Oh well. Hey, do birds fart?

I'm hoping this post actually gets posted-- I have had some trouble with Blogger this week and I did write one long post the other day that got swallowed up somehow.

Well, blogging problems aside, I have, oh, not much to say, really. Sometimes I think about killing this blog and starting a new one, totally anonymous. I've been having paranoid moments (could this blog cost me a job interview?) and moments of hating my writing (like this post) and moments of boredom... all three of these moment-types make me think of throwing it all away. But I don't want to be a tired old lyric of a Phil Collins song! And Goonies never say die. So the Blog is safe, at the moment. Still, coming up on two years on this thing, and sometimes it does seem like I run out of things to say sometimes.

I was walking with Katie tonight and I was just sort of breathing in the cooler air, looking at the sky and being relaxed as hell. Nothing of interest happened on my walk, except for the moment when Katie spotted one of those plaster donkeys-pulling-a-cart-that's-a-plant-holder on someone's yard. She was staring the plaster donkey down, growling a very quiet growl. I think she thought it was a stiff dog. Or, more likely, she really hates tacky lawn ornaments. It's been so cool having her around not only for the exercise partner and the security system she serves as, but because she is very entertaining. When I come home, she goes beserk. She barks this high pitched bark and her tail wags so fast her whole ass shakes, and she jumps on me and throws herself to the floor and rolls around and grabs her chew toys and runs around the room... You know, some people may not be into the whole pets thing, and that's cool, but I really think these people have never been really greeted by a dog that loves them. With the exception of Malcolm, I have always had a dog in my life that was super excited when I came home, and I think that has made the difference between me being a total asshole and being a little nicer of an asshole.

Tonight I saw "The Aviator" with Trish and Kane, and we didn't like it. As a group, we concurred that this movie was not up to our liking. I have to say that I think Martin Scorsese definitely DIDN'T deserve the Oscar for this, so I am happy he didn't win. It was way too long and there was too much technical talk of planes, too much of the boring Ava Gardner character and too many jars of piss. I think the only movie of Scorsese's that I have liked has been "Good Fellas" (just of the movies I have seen, anyway). I thought the acting in Aviator was decent, and sometimes even really, really good (I always love me a Katharine Hepburn, so I was glad Cate did her well) but I lay the blame squarely on Marty for making this movie crappy. Maybe the eyebrows are growing so long they are obscuring his directorial sense. I don't know. All I know was that Kane warned me never to watch "Bringing Out the Dead" because, in his words, it was "nothing but two hours of John Goodman and Nicolas Cage riding around in an ambulance listening to Nicolas Cage apologize to some dead lady." You got it, Black, I won't watch it ever. Nope!

I did, however, watch "Kill Bill 1&2" this weekend...I can't top that. I just simply adore those movies. So fucking much. David Carradine is totally getting an invitation to star in my movie, when I write it. Hell, I will write something special just for him. And for the heck of it, I'll also invite Michael Parks (I love Estoban) and Lucy ("...Now's the fucking time!!") Lui too. Robert Rodriguez has to do the score--in tandem with Danny Elfman if Danny goes old school again. Speaking of RR, the happy geek in me is dying to see "Sin City." I can't get over the visuals of those trailers. Can't get over how they managed to make film look like frames of a comic book. I couldn't give a crap about the story in this particular case. I like the look. Sometimes I am so deeply shallow.

Today at the K-Mart I saw the most depressing Easter Bunny. A slouchy employee was dressed in a simply horrible bunny costume. The Easter Bunny's face was all pushed in so he looked like a white sharpei-face. This is the all-time crappiest and most ghetto K-Mart around (the same one that had the guy playing the organ out front one night in the rain that I wrote about awhile ago), and they plopped the Easter Bunny onto a garden bench set up just inside the doors. A red poster hung behind him as the 'backdrop', and another employee, a skinny girl with terrible skin, was ready to take Polaroid pictures of any kiddies lining up to see the easter Bunny. However, both as I was entering and as I left, I saw no children and their parents hanging around this Easter Bunny. I wouldn't either... his posture was very drunk, careless and I'm sorry, but any Easter Bunny who sits slumped over with his legs spread slightly does NOT make anyone other than registered sex offenders want to climb in his lap.

That reminds me: What do kids do when they see the Easter Bunny? I mean, you go see Santa and you sit on his lap and tell him what you want for Christmas. I can't imagine a kid sitting on the Easter Bunny's lap and saying, "I want...chocolate, and...chocolate, and...maybe some gum...and the resurrection of my Savior..." Do kids make Easter lists? I don't recall doing that. Although one year when I was about 7, I was thinking ahead to the possibilities and trying to convince the Bunny not to bring me certain things. I wrote a letter to the Easter Bunny asking him to please NOT bring me a live pet bunny because I thought my cat Benji would kill it. I was always an animal activist. And wouldn't ya know, the Easter Bunny agreed with me and not only didn't bring me a pet rabbit, but that bunny gave me a crisp $5 bill in with my candy that year too. There are photos of that Easter somewhere in the family album, and I am proudly smiling a missing-tooth smile, holding up my $5 bill in one hand and a candy rabbit in the other. I wonder why the Easter Bunny thought money was necessary in this case. Very curious.

Another year, my family's pet Doberman ate my chocolate baby out of my Easter basket while we were at church. I came home and cried at the loss of my chocolate baby. I love that I had a chocolate baby once--and yeah, even if I didn't get to eat it! Where did that come from, anyway? You never see chocolate babies for sale these days. I really loved growing up in the 70s.

One of my gifts is the ability to say things completely out of left field and babble like crazy without having ingested a single drop of alcohol. Last night was a good example of this. A little group of us went to a late dinner at Buca di Beppo and somehow or other, the conversation turned to Muppets, and soon, some of us were singing bits of songs from "Muppets Take Manhattan." Anyway, I soon began to ponder out loud just how Miss Piggy managed to snag Kermit, who for years dating back to the Muppet Babies era, was constantly deflecting her amorous advances. He obviously didn't like her that much, or... was it that "I like you, so I will pretend to be repelled" thing; I'm sure someone knows the answer to this, but I don't. But really--why did Kermit agree to marry that pig?

The climactic scene in Muppets Take Manhattan is the big wedding scene (which makes me wonder... if this an ongoing Broadway show, as the movie suggests, do they have to get married every single performance; and if so, was the marriage even legal to begin with? I am fairly certain stage marriages are not real, otherwise I myself got married about six years ago to some little crazy dude who played Romeo). I think Jim Henson opted to cut out the rather dull "Piggy and Kermey get a marriage license" scene from the movie... Camilla made a big deal of interrupting the proceedings to get Gonzo to get moving on proposing, too, and it really just added an element to the plot that was unnecessary at that point.

Well, getting back to the dinner conversation: for some reason, I couldn't really get the words out to say that Kermit had been P-whipped into marrying Miss Piggy, and I ended up describing poor Kermit's situation like this: "Kermit's cock was enclosed in pork." It was a pretty fun moment for all of us.

It could be said that a woman's life is one long struggle against having cankles. I personally would want to run and hide if someone ever mentioned to me that I had "a little bit of a cankle thing going on."

Seriously, cankles is such an awful word. Kind of like "turkey wattle" or "armwings." I think I am a little superficial because I think about how I don't want to get really huge and have these things. I hate that I already have one of them, and I ain't saying which one, because if you know me you have seen it and you probably have whispered about it behind my back anyway, so why should I deny you of your ongoing fun? Keep poking fun... like I said in the last post, the weight is coming off and that particular physical attribute is going to be gone, too. No more flappy-flap or shlappy-dap! I don't know what it means either, but it is sure to get a giggle from my sister.

At least I don't have cankles, though. Cankles are fat ankles that blend seamlessly into the shins and calves. I have seen quite a few in my day. They are kind of rampant in community theater. Don't believe me? Why don't you head on down to the local production of Brigadoon and come back to me with your Cankle Count. Better bring a pencil and some paper to keep track. Cankles are always on fat chicks named Heather. And Heather LOVES to stop at Whataburger on her way to rehearsal; she turns down the Broadway soundtrack to "Mamma Mia!" long enough to place her order and then she howls away to the score in between greasy handfuls of fries.

Oh, you know how I typed "shlappy dap" back there a paragraph or so ago? That reminds me of this girl Trish used to be friends with as a kid. Oddly enough I have mentioned her name here. Anyway, this girl had two pets with the all-time worst names: Happy Dap and Co-Op. Happy Dap is just an all around mongoloid kind-of name. Can't you just hear a retard saying it, too? "I LUB YOOO, HAPPY DAP!!"

And Co-Op? Co-Op was so named because, simply: "We found her at the Co-Op." Duh. Who wouldn't have guessed that? A cat that hung out at the Belford Fish Co-Op would be named Co-Op. At least they didn't name it something else that comes to mind when people think of fishing operations: That Dirty Snatch Smell. That would be so awesome to yell out the door at bedtime: "Come here, Dirty Snatch Smell! Time for bed! Here, Dirty Snatch Smell!!"

And that ends this blog. Man, I need some fruit. Someone get me a cantaloupe and a bottle of scotch, ASAP!

Meet Queen Katherine. My new dog. We commoners refer to her as Katie. She's a boxer/pug mix with a bonafide snaggletooth. I have had her for just under a week now, but didn't want to post about her until I knew for sure she was staying. I found her through RESCUE, no surprise there. And no one is going to claim this girl. (I didn't write about it, but when the guy who owned Jones called me, I was just watching "The Notebook" and it was right at the emotional part at the end and I was crying and it was TERRIBLE to get a call like that a time like that during a movie like that...) Either way, here's Katie! Don't look too closely at my messy movie collection there. I'm a movie slob. I stack them anywhere I can. Maybe even the bathroom! It could happen. There are weirder things in there. Sometime I should take some pictures of what I mean.

Tonight I was watching the end of "Footloose" on AMC and I was thinking, "Who could take Jon Lithgow seriously as a pastor? That book burning scene--how fucking contrived was that? Like those people would just not challenge Jon Lithgow when he came over and stopped them. They just sort of saunter away and let the books smolder there. What sort of lame town is this anyway? The town of Robots Who Do Whatever Jon Lithgow Says? And what's with all the absolutely horrible hair on those chicks at the dance? No wonder no one wanted to start dancing." I am not a fan of this movie, I don't care. It sucks. You know what else sucks is that stupid Gap commercial with Sarah J. Parker singing "I Enjoy Being a Girl." Ohhh, shut up. I don't care about your 'pretty khakis' and what's this bit in the song that says your teeth aren't teeth but pearls? That can't be good for eating. In fact, do pearl divers regularly attack her to get at her pearls? I would hope so, just to keep it interesting. But seriously, I wish they'd stop with that commercial. It's ugly.

I have some good news-- I am losin' weight. And now with Katie, I am able to do long walks and jogs any time of the day without fear of murder/rape along the way. She could tear some serious stuff off a person if needed. Including me, because I am prone to murder and rape and that's gotta stop. However, all this weight loss doesn't change the fact that I still get downed by migraines. I am thinking of trying acupuncture to keep them away. I am just not interested in trying more medications and all that. But needles? Hell yeah, bring it. That reminds me, I am back to considering a tattoo again. But of what... no clue. I am just randomly typing at this point. I am watching Malcolm sleep, listening to Lisa Gerrard and considering doing some reading before I take Katie out for a little run around the neighborhood. It's windy out tonight, and that is the best time to be me. On windy nights, running, seeing stars in the sky and no police lights flashing and no poison darts being blown by mysterious pygmies in the trees. Excellent times!

Pope does his DeNiro impression. "Eh, you know... I feel eh, so-so..." Is it just me, or does it appear that the nurses left him out in the sunroom for a little too long? Especially in comparison with Mysterious Old Eyes behind him. Why did the corpse gang have to come pick up Popey to take him home? Couldn't we have gotten some live folks to do it? I don't know about this Pope.

Anyone like brownies? I do. I love brownies. Ask anyone who pals around with me; they will say, "Affirmative. Lisa definitely likes the brownies."

Some kids love brownies too much, and frost them with semen. Yeah, check this out:

Teen's semen-frosted brownies eaten by students
Associated PressMar. 10, 2005 01:22 PM

COEUR D'ALENE, Idaho - A teenager has agreed to admit to three counts of disturbing the peace after anonymously sending semen-frosted brownies to a fellow student. The recipient shared the treat with two other teens, police said. They said the 17-year-old Coeur d'Alene High School student was upset after a prank in which the other student put peanut butter in his cheese sandwich days before. He told a school resource officer that "he hated peanut butter and it made him more mad than he could explain," according to the police report. The teen later told School Resource Officer Jeff Walther that he got the idea of putting his semen on the brownies from the movie "National Lampoon's Van Wilder," in which characters send pastries filled with dog semen to a fraternity house.
The student was arrested and booked into a juvenile detention center. He has since been released on a judge's order that he has no contact with the students who ate the brownies. The youth is to be sentenced on April 4 on the three misdemeanor counts, which are each punishable by up to 90 days in detention, prosecutors said. The victims' parents were notified and the children were tested for anything that could have been transmitted through the body fluid, although Panhandle Health spokeswoman Susan Cuff said the chance of the students' health being affected would be "extremely remote." School Superintendent Harry Amend declined comment on any school discipline against the teenager.

****

First of all, how funny is it that AP called the semen-frosted brownies "the treat" in the second sentence? Someone at AP knows the value of good ole-fashioned semen-frosted brownie. MM. Just like Mamma usedta make!

I have so much in common with this kid. I have to admit that peanut butter also makes me "more mad than I can explain." It really does, too.

I never got the peanut butter thing, even as a kid and everyone was eating Reese's Pieces because of E.T. I know I had one of those clown sundaes at Friendly's and instead of M&Ms they put Reese's on it instead... I ate it and thought it wasn't bad, but in my heart I yearned for plain milk chocolate again. As for peanut butter sandwiches, I wouldn't even try it. At one of the camps I went to (prior to 4-H), they were really stingy with the food and would serve us powdered milk and white bread with a slice of American cheese on it for dinner... and they gave us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for one meal. I was so disgusted by the gesture that I took a huge bite, pretended to chew and swallow, waited a minute... and then made a huge show of running dramatically into the woods and pretending to vomit it up. I wanted to make some kind of point about bad food and all that, but my friend Tracy followed me into the woods and demanded to see my puke because she thought I was faking it the whole time anyway. I had no puke to show her. Just some half-chewed lump of jelly, bread and peanut butter. I was such a loser that summer.

So anyway, no, I don't eat peanut butter. Or peanuts. I'll eat PINE nuts, though. On a salad. I have also been known to scarf down cashews, particularly the lightly salted variety. I don't think I hate all nuts, but PEA ones are not the ones I choose to ingest.

Before I typed this post, I thought for a second about how easy it would be to hide semen in food, particularly salty foods. Like a casserole, or maybe even a recipe for pretzel dough. I don't think that it would be so far-fetched if I estimated that 55% of all the food we eat out at an established eatery, restaurant or hot dog vendor definitely has some traces of semen--human or otherwise--within. It's just a fact of life. Anthropologists, behaviorists and even dieticians know that the research shows that people will, when they think no one is looking, put semen in food. Sure, we don't like to think about it. It's not pleasant, and I am the first to admit that! Who wants to think about semen in their food? Not me! Well, OK, I am thinking about it NOW, but it's only so I can write this post. I'm not obsessed with semen in food or anything, all right? I mean, come on. Give me a break here. I am just pointing out the cold, hard, semeny facts. As the old cliche goes, "don't shoot the semen messenger."

Also, I like that the charge the kid was arrested with was "disturbing the peace." Since when do semen-frosted brownies disturb anything? They kind of just lie there on the plate until someone picks them up and eats them. What peace are we talking about? Was there peace prior to this incident? Were the kids all frolicking in an idyllic meadow, very peaceful-like, and then one lifted a brownie to his pimple-framed lips, and suddenly all hell broke loose? When I think of a disturbing the peace charge, I think of someone playing super loud music, letting their dogs bark at 3am and knock over garbage cans or driving past the Old Folks Rest Home and firing shots with their .22 at the windows. Brownies, be they regular old-fashioned fudge brownies, semen coated or even liposuctioned-fat-nuggeted brownies, do not fit my definition of peace-disturbing beings. And I would hardly charge a semen-frosted-brownie-giving teenager with this charge. I would charge him with ATTEMPTED MURDER. TORT OF OUTRAGE. Something like that. Just to scare him, because kids today need a scare put into them, with all their afros and their XBoxes and what-not. I like to see teenagers cry when a cop yells at them. Hilarious.

My old tarnished silver piggy bank wanted to go outside today. When I look at this bank, which was apparently given to me at my christening, I sing this little song: "Put money in the pig, oink oink oink oink!" I was singing that today and it made me giggle.

Do you want a hore?

I know what you're thinking: "Sure, I would LOVE a hore!"
Or, maybe you are thinking: "No! In fact, I wish there was a way I could get rid of my hore!"

But it's not always easy to find a hore. Sometimes they are very expensive. Sometimes you just don't have enough room because some hores are quite big. A lot of hores are hard to ride! In other situations, a hore can get skittish, or hurt you or your family and you need to get rid of your hore. Either way, I happen to know that a great way to get a hore is to take someone else's cast-off hore.

Today on Craigslist, this headline was in the "Pets" section:
wanted : hores
Read the post (it's painfully short) here:
http://phoenix.craigslist.org/pet/62555735.html

This is the yellow robot toy that scared me just now. Yes... it scared me.

I was opening the box for my new toaster oven (that's the box in the background-- you can certainly see why my Mom bought me this toaster oven, what with the delicious tomato-y treats just lurking within) and I didn't expect to see anything inside the box except for, well, a toaster oven. As I pulled the toaster oven free from its styrofoam haven, I turned it over and saw this yellow THING in the bag. For some reason that I really don't understand, the sight of it actually made me jump. I really was surprised. I didn't expect this. Oh, no. Hardly.

I believe this is a "ROBOTS" promo toy; and, to be specific, it's the Amanda Bynes Robot toy...the one who in the commercial says a bit about being all "staticy just thinking about" something. Which sounds pretty nasty. But seriously, Sunbeam Corporation...why did you need to include this in my oven? It seems like an open invitation to, oh, I don't know, put a yellow plastic robot toy inside the oven and fill the entire house with a burning yellow-plastic-robot smell. Not that I'd do that, but I'd do that.

Now the little yellow robot is standing on my desk, and I am enjoying wondering how she lost her leg and arm--notice she has the gimpy leg and arm. Actually, it looks like it's just a bicep she had replaced. It doesn't seem to faze this robot girl, though...she has one heck of a go-get-'em-tiger smile; albeit with a very vacant stare. Stupid yellow robot. Startling me when I open the toaster oven box. I'm done with this robot.

One time, me and the girls went to a "counselor training" program for 4-H Camp. We were 17, I think. Anyway, on the training weekend, we had to walk somewhere in downtown Freehold in a group. I can't remember the details, but it was kind of cold, we were all wearing Bass shoes, and we were all dorks. Karen and I were walking with this girl, Christine, and we started reading every street sign we saw backwards. We'd delight in reading out the backwards words, out loud. I remembered this at random today, as I realized after lunch I called "Bell Road" "DAOR LLEB" out loud in my car as I listened to "5 Years" by Bjork really loud and wondered if the sensible lady in the white Land Rover in traffic next to me was annoyed by my loud Bjorking.

Well, regarding the 4-H events of the past, I think that Karen, Christine and I probably annoyed everyone else on that walk to nowhere in particular. Because, if I recall, this little game didn't just last a half hour or so... we kept it up all afternoon. And we got excessively loud and retarded about it.
If I saw 17 year old me, I would do two things:
1) Ask her what the hell the secret was to being so in shape.
2) Beat her mercilessly. 2 1/2) Tell her to trim those split ends!

And my final thought before I leave for the weekend-- or, to be honest, log onto the Marquee Theater website to try and buy Nine Inch Nails/ Dresden Dolls tickets at exactly 5pm today-- is this: the realization that I actually attended a 4-H Camp. For three years. And was a counselor one of those years. 4-H. How did that happen again? (Kristen, I am looking in your general direction here.) Oh, and PS: I washed green paint out of my shorts in this very bathroom building! Don't you wish you knew why green paint was in my shorts?

Grr, Argh. I wrote a pretty decent post this afternoon and blogger freaked out and ate it. I also couldn't leave comments on a couple of people's sites (Haiku Girl, Toole, Trish, etc.). I thought I would try to re-create my post from today, but that's dumb. So I will proceed to BITCH OUT IKEA.

Yeah, that's right. I've visited the new Ikea in Tempe several times now since it opened-- it's been very handy for furnishing a new home. But I really have a feeling that maybe...just maybe... their merchandise is cheap crap. No, before thou protesteth, allow me to finish(eth).

I bought a desk/table there this week, a mix-and-match deal where you choose the tabletop and then the legs separate. So I got this little set-up that would fit next to my current desk (I am attempting to construct a work-at-home corner), and last night set out to build it. The screws were useless, I stripped them on the first rotation on the first leg. And somehow, "stripping screws on the first rotation" sounds like a headline in Hustler or something. I also damaged my adorable little power screwdriver! So I had to go and find the new bit set I bought and try a new bit on the screws. That was stupid, because I shaved off some more brand-new bit and the screws were still sticking up like a big stupid fuck-up screw would. I spent an entire VH-1 episode of that show that was the behind the scenes of America's Next Top Model trying to attach the four legs to this table. I ended up with a severely chafed hand (another Hustler phrase, this time a caption) and sore biceps and bruised knees from being down on the floor so long. (Hustler again, I suppose) The first leg would NOT attach no matter what I did, so I gave up and went to bed.

Tonight I attempted the table again, this time with a thick workglove on my screwdriving hand. I managed to get 4 of the 5 bastard screws into the table leg. The table is now only a little bit wobbly, but I shoved it into the corner and stabilized the shaky leg with all the wires crowding out my floor in and around my CPU. But I am annoyed that it's so freaking cheap and wobbly.

That's not all. I also bought a nice frame with a matte in it for a little poster of a dog I'd purchased there on an earlier trip. It matches my couch. I was excited to get the picture in the frame and hang it up, and it took me a whole episode of Everyone Loves Raymond in the background to mostly get it together. But then the bottom "bar" of the frame just falls the fuck OFF and onto the floor. The frame was broken. I wasn't gonna let that stop me though... I got some tiny nails out and hammered that shit back together. I even think I uttered the phrase "Yesss!" when I realized I'd fixed it. So, I went about attaching the back of the picture frame, which involved bending down these little metal "flaps" that will rip four inches of flesh off your fingertips if you're not careful, and pressing them against the fiberboard "backing".

Everything was going fine, until I pushed down one of the final metal flaps and felt and heard the sound... the pressure crack. I turn the frame over, and the glass is competely broken on the front. After all that work, and all that half-listening to Ray Romano and everything, the fucking thing was DONE.

That's it. I am hereby saying "Eff You" to the Swedes and their dumb-ass Ikea. I'm sending Ikea a farewell note. As you can see, I am trying to be as nice about this as I can be:

"Dear Ikea,
I've given you a lot of chances, and spent a lot on this relationship, but I have decided I don't love you anymore. Just the other day I loved you, I know. I even said it to my sister and my friends. But today things have changed. I saw you for what you really are, and honestly, you are not strong enough to be my home furnishings provider. I want to see other furniture, take other furniture home at the end of the night. I need quality at this stage in my life. I need to know my furnishings will be able to withstand the pressures, and that the screws will be good. I'm sorry, Ikea, but we have grown apart. It's for the best if I just don't come by anymore. I might stop by to pick up my curtains for $9.99 a pair, but once I have that, I will be out of your store. We had some good times, but now it must end. Good bye, my Swedish bargain."

And the award for Best Pun of the Day goes to Bob Wholey of Pittsburgh, PA, who is the owner of a gargantuan-sized lobster named Bubba. Read about Bob and his lobster here.

He said, in regards to eating Bubba, who could be up to 100 years old and is now going to the safety of a zoo--not the ocean, the zoo, where we ALL go to see large lobsters. When you think zoos, don't you think crustaceans first, before lions, giraffes and gibbons?--: "If you sat down and ate this thing, wouldn't that be a little shellfish?"

Bob, you're killing me. Really. Stop it now.

Oh, and by the way, nice originality with the name BUBBA. I would have named him Vincent the Magnificent, or perhaps Just Gerald, but no one came to me. So in the future, if anyone finds a larger-than-average crustacean, please give me a call and I can help you with the naming. In high school I was known as The Crusty Namer. I was really good at it, back in the day. But I like to think I've still got it.

You could say The Game is afoot! It's funny: I only just heard of The Game for the first time ever, this morning, as I was reading a weeks-only Entertainment Weekly as I ate my delicious breakfast of Cookie Crisp (now with Whole Grain and Cinderblock Dust), and saw a review of his album. I remembered it because I stopped and thought to myself: 'Hmmm, The Game. Quite an interesting moniker for a young fellow."

Now I go online and read the news and what do I hear? I hear that 50 Cent has kicked The Game from his posse. What?! Two mentions of The Game in one day? And that day being the very day I first discovered he existed? What are the chances?

And to make matters worse, there's the matter of Lil' Kim and her untruthfulness. Oh, Lil' Kim, what's going on, honey? You got to start being Big Kim, and taking the high road and not lying all the time about shootings and stuff. Lil' Kim, Lil' Kim, Lil' Kim. What are we gonna do with you? There aren't enough nipple pasties in the world to make me love ya less.

I don't know what that last sentence means, either. I am having another of those stupid headaches at the moment, but that's not my excuse, really. I just say things sometimes and then stop and ask myself, "Now what did I mean to say there? Anything? No? Right. Didn't think so."

Do you think when The Game is with a girl he says, "Oh, baby, The Game is ON!" as he is having sex with her? Oh, I certainly hope so. Otherwise what is the point of a name like that. Come on.

I entered two separate raffles for charity today. I charged one of the entries to my credit card. It's funny because I entered it hoping I would win the Grand Huge Fucking Amazing Prize, which is a lot of money but I can't recall the amount (probably about $356,000 or something a little odd like that), just so I could pay off my debts. Debts= credit cards. Charging tickets to credit card= not getting out of debt faster. Lisa has crappy DNA. Makes her do really idiotic things like that. And eat sandwiches in her car on her lunch hour and then take a nap in the car and have to stumble back into work with carseat face.

You know, I think I like referring to myself in the third person like that. Maybe I can have a conversation with myself about myself, and it would go something like this:

Me: "Hey, do you know that girl, Lisa?"
Me Again: "Yeah, she's pretty cool."
Me: "She has shiny hair, and she told me it's because she doesn't always blow dry her hair, and when she does, she stops before it gets completely dry."
Me Again: "I know one more secret about her hair!"
Me: "Oooh, what is it? I love secrets, especially when they are about Lisa."
Me Again: "That isn't her real hair. It's actually hair she stole."
Me: "What? You're lying. Where would she steal hair from?"
Me Again: "The cancer kids charity-- the ones where they put together wigs for kids who went through chemo. She was walking by one day, the door was open, so she went in and just sort of left with a handful or two."
Me: "What a lousy bitch. I guess she cares more about animals than chemo kids."
Me Again: "You got that right. She is a very selfish asshole, really. What kind of jerkoff puts animals before cute little dying children anyway?"
Me: "Seriously." (pause) "Hey, I got an idea."
Me Again: "I'm listening."
Me: "Ha! You always are!"
(Both Mes share a chortle)
Me Again: "OK. How about we do something to get back at her for her sins."
Me: "...like...?"
Me Again: "Stay with me on this one. OK, say we take a bottle of syrup, and we cover the entire bathroom floor with it. Then, we take all of her shoes, and we place them in the syrup. Overnight they'll really get stuck. She'll wake up all crabby like she always does and probably start crying when she sees her boots are stuck to the floor.. with syrup, nonetheless."
Me: "That's pretty good. But I have to ask you something."
Me Again: "What would that be?"
Me: "Why are we plotting against me? I mean, think about it. This is sort of counterintuitive. We are the ones that will have to clean it up. It is me, after all."
Me Again: "Are you sure counterintuitive is the right word?"
Me: "No idea. And I haven't unpacked the dictionary yet. I just threw it out there, hoping you'd catch it if it was wrong."
Me Again: 'Sorry, can't help ya. Headache, remember?"
Me: "Right."
Me Again: "Anyway, I better go. Lisa's so weird though, isn't she?"
Me: "Oh yeah. Let's have a Smirnoff Ice. What the hell did she buy them for if she's not gonna drink them before bed?"
Me Again: "I think she buys them to look cool when people come over. Notice she always tells people to 'just go in the fridge and help yourself.' Hoping the person visiting will notice that she's not a total geek, she buys alcohol! That's a typical Recovering Geek thing to do."
Me: "Man, she really bothers me sometimes."
Me Again: "Yup. So... how about that Smirnoff? You know the other part of the truth is you really like them. She does, too."
Me: "How many of Lisas are here again? I'm losing track."
Me Again: "Holy shit, I am too. Let's end this ridiculous dialogue. It's not even funny. Good God. It's embarassing, really."