Complete and Total Randomness

Okay.

I am not proud of this.

Gypsy wedding party. Thank you friends whose weddings I have been in for not making me dress like a whor....um....like this.

But I have a burgeoning obsession with this totally wacko show “My Big, Fat Gypsy Wedding.” This stuff is CRAZY. These chicks marry at 12…okay, I exaggerate, 17 and 18 (BUT STILL!?!?!) and dress like street walkers yet have never kissed anyone, and they bedazzle EVERYTHING, and somehow the men are all straight out of “Jersey Shore” (in so many disturbing ways) and they brush their teeth with bleach and…

***breathless***

Brace yourselves. At this rate, we are ALL going to end up starring in a reality TV show on TLC.

Mine is probably going to be called “King of Hawaii” or “Fit for a King” or some nonsense both related to Elvis and my ridiculous, self-important, pig-headed, gorgeous dog…and that will be partly my fault because he is one of the more consistently interesting things about me.

I’m okay with that…mostly.

The reality of my reality is if I”m the focus of a reality show on my own, it will be about the jerk neighbor never ONCE taking the trash out (and you’ve already heard that story, although not the part where I fell down on my butt under the weight of it the other day: the driveway is STEEP) or  me constantly breaking these cheap-ass poorly refurbished internet modems Time Warner Oceanic gives me. “Please don’t make me talk to India” I pleaded with the guy today.

Gah. India. They always blame my laptop.

Maybe they’d mix it up with an episode about my obsession with this salad I’ve created (I’m prone to salad obsession. We all have our weaknesses) or the terrible gas mileage of my Jeep or my burgeoning singer/songwriter efforts or…WHAT IS WITH THIS HAIRDO WHERE THESE GUYS COMB IT STRAIGHT UP FROM ALL DIRECTIONS??? Is there a universe where that’s attractive?

So in contrast, my dog is regularly interesting…so to speak. I don’t call him “Mr. Piss” for nothing.

Back to the gypsies:

I think this speaks for itself.

OMG. This 40-something lady is remarrying the horrible redneck “gypsy” baby daddy she already divorced once. And he makes moonshine. And he was clearly wasted at their wedding and interrupting constantly to say his pathetic vows even though they were nowhere near the vow part. And now he’s “belittling” her outfit (“Big white dress” – TLC called it belittling in a voice-over so I’m sticking with their opinion although I suspect she wasn’t all that offended considering she married the jerk TWICE) and picking his teeth with his fingernail and…these people may call themselves gypsies, but I think the sad reality is that they’re really just rednecks. Inbred, train wreck, can’t quite look away but I think this – my third episode – has cured me from ever looking again, rednecks.

In other news, I almost cooked up a chicken with cancer tonight. Trust me: any details beyond that will make you puke.

All I will tell you is: BEWARE FOSTER FARMS and check for tumors. ( I’m no cancer doctor, but go with your gut on this. If it makes you want to projectile vomit, don’t roast it.)

In other OTHER news, I’m supposed to include a natural sentence involving the phrase bespoke fitted wardrobes and after consultation with six – six! – other Americans, we all realized we have no idea what that means. God help us, we are Americans. We got mad about tea taxes and launched a big fuss and have become increasingly ignorant ever since. We don’t understand the Queen’s English. We are shockingly checked out, really. Say “fashizzle my nizzle” and my 90-something grandmother could probably identify the source, but “bespoke”? We’re clueless.

Thank you Wikipedia, for saving me from my Kardashian, Jay-Z, Jell-o, Snoop Dog, SPAM, Jersey Shore, Red Bull and vodka, Big Fat Gypsy/redneck ignorance: “Bespoke is a British English word meaning an item made to a buyer’s specification (personalized or tailored). While it is applied to many items, including computer software and luxury cars, the term historically was applied only to men’s tailored clothing, footwear, and other apparel, implying measurement and fitting.

Armed with this knowledge, bespoke fitted wardrobe makes a TON of sense. And sounds quite nice. Go get one for yourself if you can.

In addition, and in tandem with the title of this post, I have recently discovered that in the event you have no real limes, RealLime (alleged) lime juice in a plastic lime is an excellent substitute, especially if you like your food to taste a little bit like poison.

And poison (I’m guessing) tastes all like chemicals…and bad.

No comment.

In conclusion, if you’re both fascinated/repulsed by “My Big, Fat Gypsy Wedding” stay far, far away from “Toddlers & Tiaras”. I just watched a six-year-old boy (BOY!? He’s named Traven. He’s a nightmare. He competes at the pageants with the girls and acts like Beyonce on crack.) SHRIEK at his mother about how he’s an adult and don’t tell him what to do…and I realize I may be capable of assassination. That little punk needs a beat down. Seriously.

My god, America: GET YOURSELVES UNDER CONTROL.

I appreciate you’re clinging to some old roaming/fortune-telling culture or think kids in full Tammy Faye makeup is cute, but seriously: this is just plain, old embarrassing.

In the words of Tiny Tim: God bless us, every one.

p.s.

Now people are bring out babies – boy and girl – dressed like fairies.

I’m going to do us all a favor and say nothing.

p.p.s.

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