Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

This is beyond overdue

Tuesday, October 12th, 2010

And yet, I still kind of have nothing of any real import to share, so here is a generic list o’ stuff in no particular order.

  • I have been writing the new book. It’s gone relatively smoothly minus the ever-present slight concern that where I’m taking things plot-wise is maybe too far or too slow or not quite perfect, but that’s the way it goes, I suppose. Today I will cross the 100-page mark, which is the clearest sign that an actual novel will come out of this in the end.
  • It’s cold as hell, and yet it’s as warm as it’s ever going to be for quite some time.
  • I’m another year older tomorrow, and yet I’m as young as I’m ever going to be…especially today.
  • My Sims2 have been neglected, but not forgotten…especially not on Saturday night. I’ve created a family based on myself and my dog, except they don’t have dogs in The Sims2, so he is represented by a young black child with white hair named Smelly. Smelly is a lot more useful than the real case study upon which he is based because he’s able to wash the dishes, do yard work, and order a pizza. Hmmm… Maybe I should look into adopting a young black child? Madonna and all them make it look so easy…

    Malamute in city

    Give him a kingdom to oversee, and he's happy.

  • I know it’s $2 or $3 or even $4 a cup, but lattes are so much better than any French press or drip coffee I make myself. And they don’t act as a colonic delivered via my mouth. One more reason I need to get rich…and soon.
  • In the same vein, I realize I’ve got to get my hands on a baby monkey, get it it to ride my dog (backwards being fine, if not preferable), have someone write a catchy and stupid tune to go with it, and become a YouTube sensation. He also does a great thing where he smashes his face against glass doors and rubs his tongue all over it. Hilarious stuff, that.
  • I love Top Chef but I don’t give a rat’s ass about Top Chef Just Desserts. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, and TV is already overcrowded with people making ridiculous cakes and swords out of hard candy and copulating swans out of chocolate. Yawn.
  • I’m headed back  to the east side of the state in a couple days as a very good friend is getting married and then I’m off to Pennsylvania for a couple weeks to watch my dad’s kitty zoo while he’s on vacation. In theory, I will keep up my  book writing momentum, although I plan to do just a few pages tomorrow in honor of my bday and again on Thursday because (as I just told you if you were paying attention) I have to drive across the state and that takes a long ass time during which I cannot (unfortunately) write. Actually, in the spirit of accuracy, I COULD write during the drive, but I would likely also die in a fiery car crash for the effort.
  • The parade of Housewives never ends. I’m happy to report I disconnected from the DC wives and have no idea what happened or who they are or who’s insane, but I am ashamed to share that I did watch about 20 minutes of those godforsaken Atlanta Housewives. Damn it all to hell! And what did Kandi do to her hair with that red section on top? And does anyone else think Kim is a man in drag? And why didn’t Dwight take a single lesson from the plastic surgery mistakes of Michael Jackson???
  • Looking at the clock, it’s about time to go boil some water for some of that colon-cleansing coffee and get my write on.
  • I kind of want to go see that Jackass 3D movie. This is the same part of me talking that misses Crank Yankers and owns the Rob & Big DVDs. The part of me that’s a 12-year-old boy.
  • Having walked the dog and witnessed – and more often that not, picked up – his every bowel movement for three weeks, I can tell you two things definitively:
  1. Think twice before owning a 100-pound dog in a city. Not only will they yank your arm out of its socket over the sight of a Pomeranian in some lady’s arms two blocks away, but they make bigger dumps than those of a horse.
  2. Not all poop can be scooped. Case in point, the mess this morning looked shockingly akin to chocolate cake batter, and I didn’t even get a bag out and fake it for fear of getting too close. Besides, the flies were apparently given advance warning and started swarming in almost immediately. My new attitude toward certain poop scooping scenarios: I really don’t need tourists handing me Wet Ones baby wipes after I take a hit for the team; so watch your step, and wear rubber soled shoes. It’s a jungle out there, and my canine provides the quicksand.

Good luck,  happy sightseeing, and enjoy your smooth expensive coffee, you rich bastards.

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The Signs They Are a-Changin’

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

As you have likely observed, I have a long history of getting discouraged and then suddenly becoming optimistic again. I’m not sure why this is. It’s my own opinion that I have a quick bounce. Bounce – or at least my definition, for what it’s worth – is the time between emotionally hitting the ground and springing back up. Even with extremely tragic or outrageously unfair circumstances, I tend to bounce within a few hours. This is why, despite my arguable host of mental problems and questionable sanity from time to time, anti-depressants don’t really seem to be a prescription I need. Anti-psychotics on the other hand? Perhaps.

Beach Status Signs

Not this kind of sign.

Nonetheless and as I’ve mentioned, the last few weeks I have felt kind of panicked. In the simplest of terms, it’s a feeling of “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!” and it’s a really lame and anxiety-causing sensation, especially because there’s no clear answer. On certain terms, I could argue with the Voice of Urgency that I’m doing the best I can – I’m working on a new book (thinking and planning more than writing at the moment, but that will come), I’m living my life, I’m thinking deep thoughts, I have clever ideas at least once a week, I’m mostly in a good mood, I use very few aerosol products anymore, and, by and large, I’m not hurting anybody (as far as I know). On the other hand – and recognizing that the Voice of Urgency comes from my head and, thus, is me in some fashion – I completely agree with it. Somehow, in ways I can’t quite pinpoint, I am wasting time and, by extension, my life.

Ouch.

That hurts.

That more than hurts. That f*cking sucks.

And then enter – stage right – the bounce.

Not this kind either. If this kind is even real. I'm not sure. Somehow I doubt it.

I have long had (and recently had reinforced) the feeling that if I just keep pushing and writing and working that I will eventually hit upon the idea and the plot and the “it”, and then the magical, mystical force that makes stuff turn out happily ever after will kick in and things will go my way forevermore. Just as suddenly, all the work I’ve done up to that point will become useful and relevant, if not sought after. I like this idea. I am buoyed by the hope that I have the talent and the tenacity, all I need is the bright idea and a little bit of star alignment.

This is probably why I was overly excited when my two – count ‘em, not just one but two – fortune cookie fortunes the other day were so optimistic. The first read “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” Not too shabby. If fortune cookies were guarantees, this beats the hell out of “You find beauty in ordinary things, do not lose this ability” or “Don’t forget, you are always on our minds.” That second one freaked me out. What? Who? Who’s “our”? A collective hive mind or all of your minds individually? And who are you again? And when you’re thinking about me, do you think good things or wish me well or are you have subtle urges to do me bodily harm? In other words, is this a benign threat of some kind? Seriously, who’s “our”?

I'm trying, I'm trying. The signs are harder to recognize - let alone know - than one might presume.

But not the other night. Those predictions were all good. That night I got two fortuitous predictions: “Don’t give up. The best is yet to come!” and “Your dearest wish will come true within the month!” Sweet.

True, there were only a few days eft in the month, and my dearest wish didn’t quite come to obvious fruition during that time, but maybe the seeds were sown? Or maybe they meant 30 days more than the literal month-end? I’m willing to keep an open mind and a hopeful heart. You never know, I suppose.

Meanwhile, if the fortunes weren’t enough, get this: I found a pearl in an oyster I was eating! I did. A Washington state Sunset Beach oyster grown in the Hood Canal. That has to be some kind of  omen of impending amazing luck, right?

Right???

Well, I say so anyway, and in trying to prove it, I came across the following statistics:

  • The odds of finding a pearl in an oyster are 10,000 to 1
  • Odds of getting a hole in one: 5,000 to 1
  • Odds of an American speaking Cherokee: 15,000 to 1
  • Odds of being struck by lightning: 576,000 to 1
  • Odds of being murdered: 18,000 to 1
  • Odds of getting away with murder: 2 to 1
  • Odds of being considered possessed by Satan: 7,000 to 1
  • Odds of being on plane with a drunken pilot: 117 to 1
  • Odds of writing a New York Times best seller: 220 to 1
  • Odds of becoming a pro athlete: 22,000 to 1
  • Odds of finding a four-leaf clover on first try: 10,000 to 1
  • Odds of winning an Academy Award: 11,500 to 1
  • Chance that Earth will experience a catastrophic collision with an asteroid in the next 100 years: 1 in 5,000
  • Chance of dying in such a collision: 1 in 20,000
Change for Homeless sign

I don't think this is real either. If it were, wouldn't they just ask for dollar bills and small bottles of liquor?

So there you have it: I am almost as likely to win an Academy Award or could be considered possessed by Satan one and a half times before I’d find a matching, misshapen pearl in another oyster, and I’d have better luck hitting TWO holes in one as the same occurring. Thus, I rest my case. I think the math makes it plain: this is a harbinger of imminent good fortune if ever there was.

So bring it on, lucky stars: unload a giant truck of the best and make my dearest dreams come true.

I’m ready already.

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No guard dog? No problem.

Thursday, July 29th, 2010

Dogs are so much work.

They have to be housebroken, trained, fed, played with, and – depending upon breed – they can poop as much as a horse.

At the same time, let’s say you have a ramshackle shed and broken-down car situation that needs to be fenced in and posted as dangerous? It would be so convenient to have a guard dog when those circumstances crop up, wouldn’t it? But again, all that work…

Enter your local watch dog artiste, who can paint for you any number of Rottweilers, Pit Bulls, German Shepherds, and Doberman Pinschers in a variety of aggressive postures! It’s all the upside of a guard dog, and none of the hassle!

Keep Out!

Personally, I found the orange low-rider more intimidating than the painted-on Rottie.

No Tresspassing

Rottweilers don't frighten you? How about heavily peeling-off-the-fence Pit Bulls?

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Move Over, Bacon!

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

Now there’s something meatier!

Sizzlean

In lieu of what I was looking for, the other Sizzlean - some kind of drag queen (at least I hope that's what we're looking at here.)

Do you remember those ads? I think the product was called Sizzlean, and their slogan of the 80′s became my brother’s and my battle cry when sitting down, sliding over rapidly, and slamming the other person’s ass (hopefully) onto the ground. The ‘move over, Bacon!” part was yelled as you plopped down, and the final flourish delivered mid-body slam.

That has nothing to do with anything except that these posts need a title, and this was vaguely relative, and I couldn’t come up with any worthy ideas involving Paul the Octopus…not that he’s relevant at all, just that I can’t stop thinking about his perfect World Cup prediction record and how I wish I could get just fifteen minutes alone with him to review some critical life choices and investment options.

In other news, a couple days ago I was channel surfing and saw a snippet of the reality thing starring that guy from KISS (Gene somebody? I try not to know. KISS scares me. Their role in turning me against Dr. Pepper is enough.) and he was cramming for  the bottom-of-the-barrel quiz show “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader”? It was clear that the answer was ‘no’ when he didn’t know that red and blue combined make purple (and a few other basic facts of life I figured the primary school set would have down cold.)

I didn’t actually see him ‘compete,’ but I have to imagine  it was a total blowout. It seems to me in those instances that they should then have a show you could flunk down to…say, “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader With a Learning Disability?” Enter Robbie K. or his equivalent, a boy in my fifth grade class that (back then) would have been labeled “hyper’ and ‘needs improvement’ and definitely would not have sat still and stopped humming long enough to have known that yellow and blue make green.

Ring stack toy

Study up, Gene! This one could be challenging!

If you couldn’t beat Robbie, then how about “Are You Smarter Than a Toddler?” wherein you compete at stacking rings on a cone or identifying basic colors, shapes, and whether or not the face in front of you is a stranger, one of your parents, or your own reflection in a mirror. Still too dumb to be removed from national TV? Maybe “Are You Smarter Than a Lab Rat?”  Try to guess which water bottle contains poison and which one is just water!

If you survive that, let’s just have you sterilized and given a job as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

Sorry, that was probably harsh, but no harsher than my proposed series of programs extending the Man vs. Wild (and now Man Woman Wild) franchise.

Naturally, I have done no research, so I don’t know if the Man v. Wild guy is now traipsing around risking his life for no good reason with his wife in tow or if they’ve found another pair of ‘survivalists’ to entertain us by wandering through a crocodile-infested swamp with beef hearts tied to their thighs or what. Does it really matter?

As it so happens, specifics aside and sight unseen, I know that Man Woman Wild will be too mundane for my tastes. Let’s get some combos out that that will truly impress me. How about Elderly Man, Colicky Infant, Wild?

Rosé wine

Mmmmm.... Wine....

Or Pothead Teen, Nap-Deprived Toddler, Wild?

Feuding Couple on the Verge of Divorce; Hannah Montana-Obsessed Brat; Blind, Arthritic Poodle; Wild?

Blue Man Group, Land Mines, Wild?

Okay, maybe a few of these would be too difficult to put into production, but I think you see the direction I’m going: it’s not entertainment if you’re a survivalist by training or know the difference between poison oak and poison ivy. That’s too easy. Give me somebody that has to work for it. For instance, stick my mother out there with some high heels on and a bottle of rosé and you’ve got some REAL entertainment.

Trust me. I know of which I speak, even if I’m not allowed to blog about it.

(Did I mention she has vertigo?)

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Taking my cue from 70′s horror flicks

Saturday, April 17th, 2010

Remember that part in The Amityville Horror where they first go to check out the house and it (in a rather urgent manner reinforced by the use of a voice that gives new meaning to ‘guttural’) instructs them to “GET OUT.”?

El Centenario house

My second - and much preferred - casita in Mexico. It never told me to 'get out', but the worm did start to turn in the last 24 hours...

Two things have always struck me about that moment:

1. An  inanimate object’s – in this case, a house – powerful sense of boundaries.

2. The human beings’ complete and total disregard of said request/order.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I climb into a rental car and it starts shrieking about how it’s going to twist me up in a fiery ball of molten metal or even just whispers something about how I’d make a nice hood ornament, and I’m out of there. No delays. No questions asked.

Same with a house that utilizes the voice of Satan to share an opinion about whether or not I lease the place.

I’m a child of the 70′s.

Best to heed the cultural wisdom, tune into the collective unconscious, and get the fuck out when you’re told.

That stated, in a mostly polite and largely incompetent way, Mexico gave me the old heave ho.

Woman in yellow room

The thing with these casitas is that they seem to repeat the exterior color on the inside, so you'd better pretty much LOVE whatever you decide to paint the thing (primarily red, coral, and yellow).

It started on Monday.

And – admittedly – 99% of the problem, or at least the incompetence part, was Telcel. Telcel is – from what I can tell – a very large cell phone and wifi and maybe other stuff it can’t do well provider. It’s also owned by the richest man in the world, Carlos Slim Helu. These two facts (large/incompetent Mexican company and richest man in the world) may or may not be a coincidence.

I say not.

Considering Telcel has managed to embezzle $75 out of my tight ass in just two weeks, I’d be impressed if I weren’t pissed.
So as not to devolve into the category known as ‘general bitching’ let me summarize and say it was an experience that can only be described as an extremely frustrating, time-consuming, and largely bullshit internet experience.

Bravo, Slim.

Richest man in the world

Carlos Slim Helu. I don't know about love, but I'd say this is pretty much proof that money can't buy you looks.

Bravo.

But it’s not just Slim and his crap ass company that showed me the door.

There was a trifecta: Internet, Rash, and Bugs – also known as RIB.

When the RIB situation starts to unfold, you know it’s time to head north.

In addition to my extensive and expensive internet woes, I broke out in a massive itchy rash all over the lower half of my body. I never nailed the culprit, but it was either my Mexican-bought SPF 15 or my “Lecha de Burra” cream that caused it.

Yeah.

You read that right.

I’m a friggin’ idiot.

You think I might have given pause at buying a lotion called “Milk of the Ass,” but no.

I didn’t really look at the packaging.

Or the words.

Or the picture of a donkey with a wreath around its neck.

Woman with can of beans

I love beans. So much so that I eat them from the can. And I'll eat them cold from the can. Like a hobo. Wanna make something of it?

I was basing my decision on smell.

And donkey milk smells damn good, apparently.

It sure does cause a hell of a rash though. Or the sunblock.

Either way, I was so freaked out, I didn’t apply anything to my skin for the last three days.

Finally, rounding out the RIB, were the insects.

First came the fruit flies.

Then the house flies.

And then, there I was, lying on my stomach working out my lower back, when I noticed several grains of rice crawling around. And then my brain started it’s slow turn around the hamster wheel, and I realized that rice doesn’t wriggle.

And I never made any rice.

And those are MAGGOTS.

Frickin’ MAGGOTS.

Woman in pool

In the pool. Make note of the hair, because it's gone. Let me rephrase that: It's not GONE, but it no longer looks like this. You shall see shortly.

Jumpin’ Jesus on a Pogo Stick MAGGOTS.

Oh, the horror.

Did you know maggots burst when you crush them under your flip-flop?

Yep.

A nice, satisfying pop

Long story short, Mexico showed me the door – at least for now – and I graciously exited stage left.

But no worries.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger via one of the ten DVDs I had with me: I’ll be back.

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