I had a strange experience in the house last weekend where all the batteries in the living room died. No kidding, everything that ran on lithium or cadmium batteries died. I discovered this when I went to use one of the approximately 7 remote controls we keep on the coffee table. It didn’t work. I tried a different remote. It didn’t work. I tried the next. I worked my way through all of them. None of them worked. Now, it’s common for the remotes to drain batteries. I’m sure that two at a time is merely coincidence, but all seven of them?
Oh, it gets better. I replaced the batteries in the two important remote controls, then went to check my email before heading to bed. The battery in my wireless mouse was dead. No light, no cursor movement, the mouse was dead. The work station is a built-in unit about a meter from the television. The batteries in the digital camera that resides on the desk were dead. It appeared as though some mysterious force wandered through my living room and ate all the batteries. That or the electronics just couldn’t take it anymore.
I am now potentially facing a mass battery suicide…or something…else.
You all know who we need to call, and it ain't the Ghostbusters or Domino's.
It wasn’t over yet. I realized that I was stuck in the middle of some crazy ass supernatural occurrence, so just out of curiosity, I went to check my cell phone. My cell phone was hooked up to its little charger a few meters from the coffee table that appeared to be ground zero. I left it on the charger a few hours earlier, enough to get some sort of gas back into the little bugger. I unplugged it and looked at the screen. The battery light blinked back at me. No batteries, please connect to charger. Something sucked what should have been a full battery completely dry.
I know nothing about electronics. I am a chemist, so I have an idea about the exact chemical process behind designing and building a simple battery. However, that is not my forte, and I have no clue as to how modern electronics work. I do know that every battery in only one specific area of the house shouldn’t die at once. So, what the hell happened here? I don’t know. If somebody has any plausible theories, I’d love to hear them.
I can only speculate. My life, thus far, has been blissfully free from any sort of supernatural bullshit. I’d like to keep it that way. However, I can’t shake the paranoia that comes with every battery in one room of the house dying in a matter of minutes. I need an explanation, if only so I can sleep better at night. Just don’t even bother mentioning that goatsucker thing. Mention that and it’s nothing but a smack in the head for you.
I’m hearing quite a bit about sex addiction lately. Now, I have to stop right here and give a quick disclaimer. I grew up in a house full of drunks, drug addicts and generally insane people. I don’t subscribe to that whole “addiction is a crippling illness” bullshit (I’ll get to that in a bit). I bring this up because I look at the people who are supposed sex addicts and just roll my eyes.
Sex addiction, according to Psychcentral.com, is “a progressive intimacy disorder characterized by compulsive sexual thoughts and acts.” “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Volume Four describes sex addiction, under the category ‘Sexual Disorders Not Otherwise Specified,’ as ‘distress about a pattern of repeated sexual relationships involving a succession of lovers who are experienced by the individual only as things to be used.’ According to the manual, sex addiction also involves ‘compulsive searching for multiple partners, compulsive fixation on an unattainable partner, compulsive masturbation, compulsive love relationships and compulsive sexuality in a relationship.’”
At least they have enough taste to not insist it’s a kind of disease. Let me tell you something I know about disease from the viewpoint of a biochemist. Cancer, leukemia, rheumatoid arthritis, etc., are all diseases. You can take some mitigating steps in your life (good diet, exercise, not smoking) to try to avoid them. However, sometimes, despite all your better efforts, Mother Nature decides that you will get a disease. There is nothing you can do about it. She/Fate/God/What Have You makes the decision and you get the disease. There’s not a thing in the world you can do about it.
There is a whole WORLD of difference between getting a disease and acting like a goddamn whore. And that’s all you are if you’re a sex addict. Male or female (especially if you’re male, I’m sick of that term only being applied to women), if you fuck anything that moves, you’re a goddamn whore.
Look familiar sex addicts? No, it's not your reflection...
Sex addiction seems to be limited to the realms of the rich, famous and affluent. Let’s face it; only those types can work the stroll all day and not have to worry about being back before their lunch break is up. The rest of us just get to listen to these dicktards whine all day about how hard they have it and how they’re truly sorry and how they have to get back to country club rehab.
What they really need to do is just shut the fuck up. Seriously. You’re a goddamn whore, so stop making excuses for your ho shit because nobody’s buying it, least of all me. Now, put your dicks back in your pants, stop your fucking whining and pull your shit together. Nobody feels sorry for you.
Oh, and stay the hell off my furniture.
I'm sure there's hidden consequences to your little "disease." One of them will NOT be pus on my sofa.
After all your ho shit, there’s no saying what kind of dick gangrene, crotch critters or jungle rot you have going on down there. I really don’t want to know. I will tell you one thing, you better stay the hell off my furniture because I’m really not in the mood to burn the sofa. If I do, I’ll make sure you’re still on it at the time. There’s nothing like the purifying power of fire, I always say.
I would insist I am of sound mind and temperament, but I’m beginning to wonder lately if I really am. I’ve come to a conclusion. Either I am completely batshit, or worse, I am the only sane one left in America these days. Don’t argue with me, just look at the proof:
Pssst. You forgot to get dressed.
Did you see it too? Whew! Okay, I’m not alone. Since when has it become acceptable to wear your pajamas in public? Did I miss the general memo that went out to all Americans that this was in some way appropriate? I went to buy Girl Scout Cookies the other day and decided not to because there were little Victoria’s Secret bimbo wannabes there in their “Pink” brand pajamas and Ugg(ly) boots. No uniform, no sash, no badges, NO SALE. End of discussion. It’s never too early to conduct yourselves with dignity, ladies. Yes, I let their parent/guardian/overlord/whoever the hell she was what I thought.
Just when I thought I managed to escape the insanity, I had to pass this Bull. Shit.
If the belt isn't around your waist, your fucking pants ARE NOT ON.
They’re not on. There are women and puppies in this neighborhood, and none of them want to see your ass. Really. We don’t. Ask around. Please get arrested for indecent exposure while you’re at it.
I was confronted by this “message” on my Facebook wall the other day:
i googles him n its jus soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo sad wat happened 2 him. all im askin is tht u lyt a single candle 2nyt when the sun goes dwn. he shld of n wld of been 21 yrs old 2day. im still stuck on how 2 10 yr olds cld b THT cruel n sadistic 2wards A 2 YR OLD !! ((james was 2 when he was murdered by 2 10 yr olds))
If anyone has any fucking clue what happened there, please let me know in real English, or even Spanish (I speak, read and write both), not gibberish. I’m sure there was a valid point there, I just have no fucking clue what it is.
You know, the world is not kind to English majors and those of us who can be bothered with writing grammatically correct, coherent sentences. I’m the old-fashioned, stuffy one because I feel that there should be some level of comprehensibility to anything you write. I’d like to think that the only reason something like the atrocity above exists is because the poor person writing it only has two fingers left, both located on the same hand. I fear that may not be the case. Anyway, if you can translate this from lazy dumbass to English, please let me know.
Oh, and there is a thing on all QWERTY keyboards, your cell phones and PDA’s called the “Shift” key. It makes big, pretty letters that look like this: I, K, E, R, V, B, etc. You get the idea. Feel free to use that whenever that naughty little personal pronoun “I” crops up. There’s no charge, it takes no skill and anyone can learn to do it.
Maybe I just need to leave social media for a bit. Take a walk, look around the neighborhood, say hi to everyone….
What. The. Fuck.
I'm sure she parked the horse about a block away and decided to walk.
This is clearly a commercial image. However, on the average day in Oakland or San Francisco, you will see at least a dozen young impressionables wearing riding boots while striding up and down the hills of the Bay Area. Why, I don’t know. Once again, nobody remembered to tell me about the massive outbreak in ponies we had in the city last month. I don’t have a pair of riding boots (anymore). What happens if I happen to encounter a pony? I don’t have boots, a lariat or even a taser should the pony become violent. People need to let me know this is happening.
I can’t even take shelter in a store. Every time I do, I’m confronted by this:
They're fugly. Just STFU about how supposedly comfortable they are, admit it and move on.
These are the ugliest fucking shoes manufactured in the history of mankind. A shitty piece of gaudy colored plastic with holes so you can put your Hello Kitty charms in them. Really? You’d wear that as an adult? Look, the only time these pieces of shit are appropriate are when you are 6 and hanging out at the beach. They’re only one step up from flip-flops, which, I don’t give a fuck what you say, are still not shoes. They’re not even close, and don’t attempt to justify your affinity for having a quarter inch thick piece of shit rubber on your feet by saying they have rhinestones on them. Flip-flops are not fucking shoes. Period.
Somebody get me a bucket and some Ativan. I'm not joking. Scratch 'n sniff, everyone!
You know, I’m just going to go home and bleach my eyeballs. And my brain, so I don’t have to live with the traumatic memory of all this shit. I can’t take it anymore. Somebody, please make it stop. Just please, for the love of God and your own human dignity, make it stop.
America has become a nation of illiterate, lazy slobs. Yet we still find time for righteous indignation when other countries make fun us. At least we can still muster up enough energy to do that, if not pull our pajama bottoms up.
Yeah, I'd learn English, but I'm not doin' that 'cause some liberal, pinko, commie, egghead snob sez so. Besides, "American Idol" is on.
Hi, my name is…you know, it’s still not important. Anyway, I have a confession to make. I hate clowns. I don’t just hate clowns, I fucking hate clowns. We had a clown week in an online game I play, and I temporarily quit in protest. I have since walked it off. “Why hate clowns?” you ask. Here’s why:
Yeah. I think I'm skipping that birthday party.
There’s no end to the reasons to hate clowns. Even their phobia instills fear: Coulrophobia. It’s pronounced how it’s spelled. It sounds like it should be a fear of Cholera. (We should naturally fear Cholera as we do clowns. Cholera sneaks into your bowels and kills you, as do clowns.) I don’t want to be around clowns, I don’t want to visit the circus and I sure as hell don’t want any clown related items in the house. You never know when something like this may happen:
You know you’d get that thing outta there too. I take issue with the definition of Coulrophobia. It’s described as an “irrational fear” of clowns. There’s no such thing. Clowns are scary. They’re especially frightening for children. Think of how all that make up, crazy ass hair and freak show outfits must affect a child. You may as well just let them watch Lady Gaga or Christina Aguilera. Between the batshit outfits and 13 extra pounds of makeup, it would be hard to discern between them and a clown troupe. Just never let your children watch this:
It's a klassic. I watched this as a child and I swear I didn't sleep for a week.
That was a klassic. Poltergeist featured a scene in which an evil clown doll terrorizes a small child. I believe this probably happens in real life. This scene scared the shit out of me as a child, and has stuck with me as an adult. Apparently I’m not the only one. There are almost a thousand sites dedicated to Coulrophobia, including this one:
Yes, an entire site made for satiating all of your scary clown needs. I hate it. Yet strangely, I can’t bring myself to look away. I hate it. I really hate it.
My parents eventually gave up on trying to take me to a circus. Between the clowns and the sheer trauma of seeing people beat elephants with cattle prods I was fucked up for life. It wasn’t a matter of me being neurotic or overly sensitive, it was a matter of clowns being scary and assholes beating the hell out of an animal that by all rights should have squashed them flat. About the only thing worse than a clown is: MIME. I hate that filthy, filthy four letter word. Fuck has nothing on it. It shall never be mentioned again here.
Sometimes those creepy clowns actually get theirs. Scary Movie 2 was a particularly lame comedy that had little if any redeeming value. However, there was one scene which I totally got into. It’s this one. Couldn’t happen to a better doll.
I’m suffering from a case of the lazies, so here’s the best I can do.
Have you ever been cleaning out a desk, cabinet, drawer, etc. in your house and pick up some random object and think, you know, it was at this point where things just really started to go straight to hell? I had that happen to me today. The random object was a box of canceled checks that I had written over the years. Why I still had them, I don’t know. Some of them are from back in 2005. Anyway, I started looking around and realized that my entire life is crowded up with random objects.
These do NOT in any way represent the moment where it all started to go straight to hell. In fact, most of them bring back fond memories. So, in no particular order, here are 7 random objects.
Flask I bought at a comic book show. There was no potion to put in this, but I loved it and had to have it.
They're actually protectors. Makes me want a Mai Tai.
Hand made sake cup from Takara Sake in Berkeley, CA.
The genius of the cup is the flat side. It has a slightly concave thumb hold on the side so you can keep a better grip. Safe drinking everyone.
Sushi plate from Maui, Hawaii.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, EXCEPT this ugly ass 3D wall hanging. I think I'd rather have a hooker follow me home.
Draft doggie I've had since college the FIRST time back in uh---19 something.
That just about sums it up. The random objects around me are the detritus of more than two years worth of adventures. Funny thing is, I barely notice these things on a daily basis. However, if I were to lose any of them, I’d be heart broken. All except for that tacky as hell Vegas thing. I’d use it for kindling.
As I sit here typing away, the delightful sound of clickety-clack of metal hitting metal in the dryer keeps me company. I’m thrilled, because that random clacking means I’ve just hit the laundry lottery. I sure hope it’s a quarter this time. I’m not the only person who’s broke in America. Seems that unless you’re a CEO at a major bank or an entertainer these days, you’re shaking the sofa cushions and scraping the gutters for spare change. Not to worry, an inordinate amount of lenders are just waiting to come to your assistance.
I received a brilliant offer from Quick Click Loans in the mail last week. Quick Click loans is an online payday loan service. Now, if they’re totally on line, it sort begs the question of why they send out junk mail via the US Postal Service, but I digress. The thing is, I have a loan offer, and they’re going to give me a loan for up to $3500 based on my winning smile and ability to not fart in public. (I think those are the qualifications, but I really can’t tell. Harvard lawyers don’t understand payday loan and credit card offers.)
BUT. (Somebody’s big but is always in the way.) The big but here is the one condition they actually spelled out in the offer. The annual percentage rate (APR) is 96%. No, you didn’t read that wrong, the APR is almost 100%. Sadly, I’m learning that 100% APR is a good deal for payday lenders. Payday lenders demand anywhere from 36% to 400% APR on their loans. Basically, you’ll need a loan in order to pay off your loan. Shit, and here I was thinking that usury and loan sharking were somehow illegal in this country.
It turns out that Congress essentially got rid of all usury laws in the US at the end of the Clinton administration. That opened the door to unbridled greed from the banking industry (that and the repeal of Glass-Steagall, lest we forget). Now anyone can be a loan shark under the guise payday lending. A lot of these services only exist online. This makes me wonder, how do they shake someone down in cyber space? I don’t know, maybe they send the hit man to your physical address by UPS or parcel post or something so he can break your legs. I wouldn’t sign for that package if I were you.
We laughed about that interest rate. After all, who wants to pay 100% of their loan every month? It seems insane at first. However, I’m sure that there are plenty of people who don’t read the fine print or live with an assurance that they will pay that bad boy off before Mean Uncle Leroy comes to collect. It’s a scary thought. Here’s something scarier. Want to know about everything that’s wrong with this country and its blind, asinine worship of the free market/capitalist system? Watch this clip:
Let’s pick it apart bit by bit. There is no government sponsored/single payer health care system in America that covers working people. NONE. Most employers do not need to provide health benefits to employees working under full time. Full time is usually 40 hours per week here in America, but the thing is, if you work 39 hours, you’re not eligible for any benefits. An employer with a conscience (ha ha) can offer it, but the odds are you don’t have coverage. What happens if there’s a law passed to make 35 hours/week full time? Why, you make sure all your employees don’t work past 34 hours. It’s just that simple, and happens in every state. What happens if you, or in the video, your child gets sick? Well, you do your best to beg, borrow and steal the money to treat an illness. Where does the money come from? Funny you should ask.
Americans have seen no real increase in wages since around 1970. No, you didn’t read that wrong. Sure, salaries have gone up, but so has the cost of living. Unfortunately the cost of living has far outpaced that of salaries, employees now pay the lion’s share of overpriced health insurance (if they even qualify) and the cost of housing skyrocketed to the stratosphere. Combine that with mass layoffs, no job re-training, student loans where applicable and needing to take in at least two, preferably three paychecks to make ends meet and we have the perfect shitstorm of financial ruin. Throw in a health crisis for any family member and the only thing left to do is pull the shroud over your finances and wait for the coroner to arrive. The payday lender appears to be offering a lifeboat in the middle of the shitstorm. What they’re really offering is an easy path to bankruptcy.
The bailout is for the BANKS, not you, dumbass. Now sign yourself over to the slave holders at the bank and prepare to work until you die.
This brings us full circle on why nothing works in America anymore. Banks and special interests own the politicians, who answer to them. No public funding of campaigns ensures average Americans don’t have a voice. No cops on the beat makes sure corporations always win. They don’t need to pay a living wage, benefits or taxes. You and your family have no health insurance. One illness makes you broke, which means you’ll turn anywhere to get money for food, which means you’re back in the hands of the corporations at the cost of 36% to 400% interest. Gee, what’s wrong with this picture? I can see it, too bad the rest of the people in this country can’t. Now, if I were rich, would I hate the poor too? Certainly. But since I’m never in the 10% of the population that controls 80% of the wealth, the question is irrelevant to me.
I’m sure Warren Buffet, Bill Gates and Scrooge McDuck are in that tiny little green portion.
So, I laugh at the 96% interest rate. It’s one luxury I can afford right now. However, if anyone is in the position where this might not sound so bad, I strongly suggest you consider doing hand jobs for money before you sign your life away. No, it’s not legal, but it’s more ethical than usury. That’s something to take to the bank. Here’s some more cheeriness about the death of the middle class. It won’t make your day brighter, but hopefully it will make everyone think about how damn rigged the system has become.
One of my old high-school friends decided to give me the boot off her friends list. It’s a bittersweet moment, because I looked forward to reconnecting after all this time. The thing is, when I bumped into her again, even if it was in the virtual sense, things were a hell of a lot different than what I expected. For one thing, I found out my friend not only moved to the southern US, she fell right into the lifestyle. Yes, the pretty well-grounded friend I knew all these years grew up, became a right-winger and decided to vote Republican. And now, she decided to quit that bitch who became the typical Californian liberal, commie, pinko hippie.
Well that sucks. I’d say I’m sorry, but, I’m only sort of sorry. I wish it could have been a fond reunion after all these years. It wasn’t. Lesson learned: Life looks like this:
What to do, what to do....?
Ever wonder what happens to people over time that they end up making the batshit decisions they do? Yeah, I do to. I guess a life of prayer, worship, fear and passing off bitterness and disappointment as “God’s will” is the ideal life for some. I wonder why some of us interpret every little shitty thing in life as a wonderful, joyful test of faith and God’s love, and others, no names *cough, cough* say, “Fuck it,” and move on. I don’t know what happened between then and now. I only know that I’m a blasphemous heathen no longer worthy of that friendship. That’s the self-righteous, self-serving, good, holy Christians for you.
On a side note, it irks me that I’m supposed to accommodate everyone’s batshit beliefs in the name of tolerance and open-mindedness. I have to tiptoe and self-censor lest I offend the faithful, fragile and delicate. Mention that I really don’t hold truck with any gods and I’m targeted for prejudice, scorn and derision. Funny how tolerance only needs to work in one direction, isn’t it?
You had to see this coming. Don't panic, he's only a minor one.
That’s my good friend Ronwe. Now, I know you are all writing him off as a small-time player in the grand scheme of things, but give him a chance. This is the one guy who makes all our lives miserable. See, this guy is the demon of knowledge. Yes, there’s a demon of knowledge, and if you ever regretted knowing anything, you’ve met him. He’s looking over your shoulder the very minute you realize that you lived, learned, got that unfortunate education and now moved on. When you base your opinions on facts, don’t believe everything you hear in church and stop praying because no matter how shitty anything gets, no amount of wailing to the invisible presence in the sky is going to change it; he comes for a visit. He also leaves with your high school friend who now thinks you’re an evil bastard.
At least nobody tried to convert me to something this time. They just tucked their tail in and left like an alley cat after the food’s gone. Thank Ronwe for a small favor.
Thanks to the graces of social media I can now travel 3,000 miles from where I grew up, look back, and wonder what the hell happened there. Why do some of us become indoctrinated and others do not? I don’t know the answer, but it’s amazing how many people who claim to be such good friends later end up throwing my ass to the curb when they find out I didn’t grow up to be as gullible and superstitious as they are. The joys and pains of leaving small town, USA. Look, I took the one path. It may have not been the road less traveled, but that’s okay. I met a a lot of swell folks that didn’t get upset because I don’t live up to unrealistic standards set 20 years ago.
Okay, enough downers for one day. Because I’m such a heathen, I’m treating you to an Amanda Palmer video. It’s so catchy, I’m thinking of completely abandoning all hope of being saved in favor of a pasty featuring little felted bunnies.
Just a quick note since I haven’t checked in for a while now. Ever notice how visual we are? I fall for it too. Trust me, there’s a reason some posts are 90% pictures. I used to think it was because I had the articulation of a small mollusk, but then I realized it’s only because I’m a sucka for the visually stunning. Case in point, have you ever purchased a bottle of wine because it had a pretty label? I have too. To add weight to this statement, this confession comes from somebody who works at a goddamn winery. You didn’t misread that. I work at a winery and just bought a bottle based solely on its amazing label. In my defense, take one look at this and tell me you wouldn’t buy it as well:
I have label envy. Why don't we have a Manga artist on staff?
That’s a bottle of Fetish’s 2009 V Spot Viognier. I don’t even particularly like Viognier, but there you have it. I saw the bottle and had to have it. Now the debate is whether or not I’ll drink it. I love and hate such things, because the truth is, what’s in that bottle may only be two steps from gasoline, but Fetish sold thousands of them. I love it because they pulled it off, even though it may be gasoline. I hate it because it makes our labels look so plain and uninviting. I have serious, incurable label envy.
On a brighter note, I went spooking around the Valley recently and visited some of the locals. I don’t really consider them competition per se, but I still like to see what everyone else is doing. It’s nice to see other boutique wineries still hanging in there despite the shit economy. The majors like Wente and Concannon can lick my sweaty ass crack. Anyone can mass produce barely drinkable swill or piss in a bottle and call it “youthful Pinot Grigio.” The people go there in droves for cheap, mass produced wine queefed out for the sole purpose of quantity. The boutique wineries attract those who really appreciate the art of wine making. It’s only at the teeny tiny vineyards that you bump into the real characters in the industry. Case in point:
Christ, they'll let ANYBODY drink at this place.
Sure he’s a pig, but the good thing is you’ll never hear him complain about the quality of the snacks at the bar. He also never claims to be a wine expert because he got drunk and puked in the bushes outside Mondavi in Napa. So there you have it. I’ll take my pretty label and questionable company over mass production any day. In the mean time, I’m looking for this in a size magnum:
Ummm, I see you forgot to clean the windshield there. Could be worse, could the the shit of a 1000 seagulls.
I have another Bay Area mystery for you all. Every morning last week I beheld a magickal sight while walking the dog. It was there for approximately four days, blessing the eyes with yet another chance to simply speculate.
What you see next to this paragraph is a van. Not just any van, no, this van seemed to attract a lot of flowers. Single red roses, little stuffed toys, perfume and even lingerie adorn this special van. My apologies for the crap angles, but I’m sure whoever this is wouldn’t appreciate me putting their plate up on the Internet.
This van remained parked in the same space every day collecting trinkets and clutter. Eventually, the dumping died down and all that was left was eerie silence and flowers drying in the sun. There was also a little bitty tiger on the windshield. And here we are, left to sigh wistfully and speculate. My mind has come up with three distinct possibilities. Here’s scenario number 1:
Baby ain't taking the bait. Careful backing up, that one thing is glass!
Baby is going to be so surprised when she sees what I set up for her. She’s going to come to the van in the morning, maybe not aware of how much love there is in the world, see all the flowers and Bada-Bing! Instant getting laid powder. Wait, I forgot. Is she going to be at that electronics show in Vegas this week or next week? Shit. I may have put all that shit out there for nothing. I hope the neighbor kids don’t steal the bears.
Nothing says "I'm sorry" like lingerie lightly coated in asphalt and cigarette ash.
I’m sorry. I’m really, really, really REALLY sorry. I am so sorry I’m going to cover your van in presents and hope like hell it counts for something. Surprised? If it makes you feel better the process of removing my foot from my mouth hurt just as much as your feelings. *sniff*
Scenario #3 (The one I think is most likely after watching this unfold all week with no words or actors.)
I hope this bottle is safe to use as a butt plug, because something tells me if she ever sees you again, she's going to shove it clean up your ass.
Apology NOT accepted. You can take your dick out of that ho, shove it up your ass and go fuck yourself, you motherfucking douchetard. How stupid do you think I am? Fuck you, fuck the horse you rode in on and fuck the ugly ass horse that rode yo’ momma to make you. If I ever see you around here again, so help me God, I am going to take these flowers and shove them right up your ass. Now, take your shit and get outta here because I don’t want it. And don’t you leave that shit on my front porch, I’ll just take it back that hoopity ass van you drive and dump it there.
Love is fleeting and fragile.
So what is the truth? I don’t know. You don’t know. And eventually the van, flowers and gifts disappeared. Whether the owner of the van took them, the neighborhood kids poached them or the landscapers tossed them I’ll never know. It’s just another peaceful day in the neighborhood.
Found: One very sad bear/dog thing laying on the sidewalk. Owner can pick it up at his/her own risk.
Last Sunday was Superbowl Sunday in the U.S. For those of you tuning in internationally, the Superbowl is the culmination of way too many fucking months of American style football. Because we in no way resemble North Korea or the USSR circa 1977, we need to start every sporting event with the playing of our national anthem. We do this because we are most assuredly patriots and not because we resemble a military dictatorship in any way. Sometimes the national anthem goes well. Other times, a little something like this happens.
Okay, grab a tissue and dab up the blood leaking out of your ear holes, it’s over. Thank God, because this bitch has no talent for this sort of thing and didn’t even attempt to get the lyrics right. This is a theoretically talented pop star with an assload of money and an entire entourage, including a police detail, all to herself. Why the hell couldn’t she get three lines of a song right? Seriously, were there no interns to beat before sending them off to look that shit up on Wikipedia? It’s the national fucking anthem, for Chrissake. It’s not like they asked her to actually remember epic poetry or the ingredients off a tortilla bag or something.
Maybe I’m being too harsh. After all, it would appear most Americans don’t know how to read or write English, let alone remember a complicated treatise like the national anthem. Let’s face it; we learn that song when we’re about five years old, and generally only sing it at sporting events. Singing at sporting events essentially means that everyone is drunk off their asses or at least getting there and all lyrics are negotiable. We’re all little hazy when it comes to anything patriotic besides depriving fellow Americans of their basic civil rights and making sure everyone, including the mentally incompetent, have access to automatic weapons. Of course it takes a non-American to point this out.
Okay, so here’s the idea. Let’s throw out the national anthem. Seriously, just get rid of it. Nobody knows what the hell it is and most people’s improvisations aren’t nearly as funny as Eddie Izzard’s. I’m having a thought here. Let’s make our new national anthem Bad Romance from Lady Gaga. No, no, no, NO. Hear me out. I think a bunch of slovenly drunkards who are too lazy to learn the damn thing even when they have to sing it in front of millions of viewers would do well with Bad Romance. I think we could all get through lyrics like these:
Want your bad romance
You can get through that drunk or sober, and even if you can’t, the improvisation is infinitely easier. See:
Blah, blah, blah, rah ah ah….
Roma, Foma, my ma!
Goggles are embossed!
Want more sad fire ants!
See? It works. I’m not being a pinko, commie, fascist, socialist terrorist here, I’m just trying to make life simpler for everyone. Think about it, then call your congressperson. Together we can make a difference. Now about those bleeding earholes: fill them with this.