Posts Tagged ‘humorous stories’

Five signs you might be living above your means

Sunday, July 26th, 2009

So I saw an article on Yahoo with this headline and followed it, hoping for some kind of awesome insight. Sadly, it was super boring and predictable. Mortgage is some gargantuan chunk of your income? Can’t pay your credit card bills? Duh.

It occurred to me that some of you may be living beyond your means and not even know it (and besides, since when does a 600 or less credit score mean you’re living beyond your means? It could just mean you’re a deadbeat or a total f-ck up or think repaying student loans is for chumps).

Regardless, I thought I’d offer some REAL tips to clue you in that maybe it’s time to cut back a little on the champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

1. Your revolving credit card balance is in the high-six or low-seven digits.

The key word here is REVOLVING. It’s one thing if you’re racking up the big bills every month and able to pay them in full, and it’s another thing if not.

(By the way, if you’re of the former group, could you shoot me an e-mail or buy me a beer or several hundred beers or whatever seems reasonable?)

2. You have a gold plated swimming pool with a custom mosaic of your face on the bottom…and you’re paying that off with your job as night manager of a Taco Bell.

Enough said.

I know I keep picking on him, but it's meant affectionately. Really. Probably.

I know I keep picking on him, but it's meant affectionately. Really. Probably.

3. You’ve turned your face into a sphinx, have a $50,000 a month pill habit, your own amusement park in your yard, and at least three doctors on permanent staff, one of whom puts you to ‘sleep’ with anesthesia.

Doesn’t sound so bad?
Did I mention you haven’t really had a hit album since like 1988?

4. You just chartered a private jet to Mustique for a week and got home to find your gas, cable, and electricity have been shut off.

Not judging. Just saying you might want to make sure you can cover the basics before you start sharing Mai Tais and tanning oil with David Bowie and Mick Jagger.

5. You’re on a first-name basis with your local repo-man.

Once again, enough said.

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Not cool, North Korea. Not cool.

Wednesday, June 24th, 2009

Dear Kim Jong-il,

Please put down the crack pipe or the opium pipe or the freebasing spoon or whatever the hell you have going on over there and listen to me for a second.

Word on the street is you’re gearing up to bomb Hawaii.

Are you completely out of  your damn mind?

Did you eat some kimchi that had turned and now you’re lost in a perpetual hallucination?
Hawaii!? Seriously?

I’m sorry. That was probably a bit harsh. Let me start over and catch you up here: Hawaii is part of America. A part which, historically, we get a bit sensitive about when someone decides to bomb it. Do the words ‘Pearl Harbor’ mean anything to you?


What about a little something called Hiroshima?

Because - and I’m not condoning this sort of behavior, but – it’s arguable to say that Hiroshima happened because Pearl Harbor happened.

I’m hoping you can read between the lines here… 

If not, let me break it down for you: Fire a missle at Hawaii and get a nuke dropped on your @ss.

It’s pretty much that simple.


Who would ever doubt that a man of such obvious physical prowess was a golf superstar?

Who would ever doubt that a man of such obvious physical prowess was a golf superstar?

Moreover, Hawaii is by far one of the top-five best states we have. It’s tropical, lush, warm, and beachy. And it’s native peoples are one of the only ones with some balls. When the Spanish Conquistadors or whomever came and tried to claim it for themselves, the Hawaiians more or less executed them on the spot.  And rightly so.

If only Geronimo had been so bold.


Regardless, they’re still native peoples and they’re still getting the shaft from the U.S. government and the occasional haole and they really don’t need your guff too.

Plus, at least one of the islands of Hawaii (Kauai) has tons and tons of roosters. You like roosters, right?

Or is it only dog that gets your salivary glands going?

Never fear, like any good island, there are plenty of mongrel dogs there too.


Moreover, I understand you’re a huge film buff, your favorites being – what’s that you say? – AMERICAN MOVIES. Yeah, I hate to break it to you, but Friday the 13th and Rambo are American movies. So, by the way, are Elizabeth Taylor and Michael Jordan. Americans, that is. Americans who possibly live on or vacation in Hawaii and who you may accidentally bomb to kingdom come.

So you crazy Dear Leader, you, why don’t you go back to kidnapping local directors and actresses and forcing them to make films for you and put these crazy ‘bomb Hawaii’ plans aside for a while? Or make a movies about it? Or just go play some golf and shoot four or five holes-in-one as you reportedly do every time you play.

Too bad you had to be a crazy dictator, because even Tiger Woods hasn’t got game like that…

In conclusion, lest you think that I’m so different and there’s no reason to listen to me, let me assure you that my birth, too, was foretold by a swallow and heralded by the appearance of a double rainbow over the mountain and a new star in the heavens. So you can trust me. Minus the dog-eating and kidnapping, insane military anarchy plans, and ugly outfits, we’re two of a kind.


Thanks for listening!

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Are Canadians Funny?

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

This is an important question worthy of exploration.

large_flag_of_canadaCanada – a large, cold, and often unnoticed country to the north of us (and which many stupid Americans apparently believe is a state) – has a lot of people. But are those people funny?

Preliminary evidence suggests no, they are not.

Exhibit A: The Canadian Comedy station on XM/Sirius radio (I don’t know which is the proper name any more). With XM, the best station by far was channel 150, but now that they are combined, there are about 10 different comedy stations, all weak in their own way (e.g. old school, filthy, blue collar/redneck, and the weakest of all, Canadian Comedy).

I don’t have a specific example of why it’s not funny. It’s just not funny. In the same way that those two sentences aren’t particularly funny. They aren’t particularly anything, but we both know they’re not funny. Ergo, Canadian comedy.


Nope. Not funny.

Nope. Not funny.



Exhibit B – Jim Carrey. Not funny. I don’t care what you say, making faces and acting like an orangutan isn’t funny. The only time I can tolerate the man is when he’s NOT trying to be funny (i.e. in the recent movie Yes Man, where he was mostly ‘normal’ except for a brief plot line where he drank too much Red Bull. I recommended this movie to someone and had to promise them that there was only this one derivation into the annoying, manic, rubber face stuff so that they would even consider watching a film he stars in. That’s how not funny Jim Carrey is.)

Exhibit C – Leslie Nielson. Need I say more?


Between the goatee and the two earrings, he looks like some kind of Marvel Comics villain.

Between the goatee and the two earrings, he looks like some kind of Marvel Comics villain.

Exhibit D – Howie Mandel. Gag.


Exhibit E – Bob and Doug Mackenzie, a.k.a. The Mackenzie brothers (of ‘shut up, you hoser’ and Strange Brew fame). I admit I once found this funny – and I even named a poor, helpless Himalayan cat Hosehead – but in my defense, I was 17 years old at the time and not particularly wise. And the cat was Canadian and thought the name was rather hilarious.

Exhibit F – Tom Green. Need I say more?

The defense rests.

On a related note, who’s that awful comedian in the Hawaiian shirts who has the bit about being ‘fluffy’ (a.k.a. fat)? Can we blame Canada for him? Gabriel Iglesias (thank you, Google). I can’t stand that guy, but sadly, he’s our problem.

Although he sounds to me like he speaks with an ESL accent, apparently he was born in San Diego. Tomorrow’s topic: Are Mexican Americans funny?


Cheech and Chong – funny

Carlos Mencia – not even

(Unless, of course, I get distracted and go off on a totally unrelated tangent instead…)

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Some stuff on my mind

Monday, June 15th, 2009

Okay, bear with me here.

Okay, trying that again. I had a brief moment of panic that I had used the wrong bear. I hadn’t, but you just can’t be too careful. I would hate to suggest to you loyal blog followers that we get naked. Party naked! Read blogs naked! Boo-rah! 

 Bare with me! Bare it all! Bloggers gone wild!

***Chastely brushing down my petticoat and fourteen layers of bloomers and aprons and chastity belts and all other appropriate chastely stuff***

All together on the same poster. The confusion intensifies. WTF?

All together on the same poster. The confusion intensifies. WTF?

So anyway, I have this  conundrum which has recently resurfaced in my mind and I struggle to articulate in a way that doesn’t sound simultaneously manic  and retarded, and yet still drives me nuts.



It goes like this: When I was a kid, I was aware of  (but did not enjoy) the Pink Panther cartoons. The Pink Panther, at least as far as I understood/understand it, was a cartoon about a panther that was tall and lean and pink and walked like a man and perhaps solved mysteries and hung around with an actual human being (albeit a cartoon. You know what I meant.) who was a solid foot shorter than him and suspicious-looking and possibly Russian or citizen of another  Cold War nation and wore a tightly wrapped trenchcoat (which is perhaps redundant?)

At the same time, I was aware of a movie of the same name featuring actual (non-cartoon) human beings who talked funny (a.k.a. British accent)  and a theme song that went something like “Da-dum, da-dum, da dum da dum da dum da dum da DAAAAAA da-da-da-dum….” (I could go on, but I realize the da dums aren’t really hacking it nor nearly so compelling as me singing for you. Speaking of which, it occurs to me: What a terrible way to venture onto YouTube. Imagine [to our mutual horror],  me singing the Pink Panther theme while staring blankly at the camera imbedded in my laptop. Perhaps while a barely perceptible but still present stream of drool trickles out of my mouth? And as I think about Elvis and why he loved fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches and whether or not that would actually taste good.)

So to get to the point: What WAS this!?!?

How can two distinct and separate Pink Panthers exist in the same time-space continuum? Doesn’t that violate some kind of law of physics?

Or were they related?

Or the same thing?

And if so, what does a cartoon panther have to do with two guys solving crimes or whatever it was/ is the Pink Panther movies are about?

And why release them at the same time?

Was this meant to confuse young, impressionable children such as myself, forever tainting their understanding of panthers and private dicks and insulation and the color pink? (And re-reading this, I recognize that it could be taken out of context and if you are doing that, then shame on you, you filthy pervert.)


 And in a related note, today I realized that the guy who played Young Frankenstein in (you guessed it) Young Frankenstein is the exact, same actor who played the dad on Everybody Loves Raymond. I, personally, do not and did not love Raymond, but I am somehow astounded by this strange and unexpected coincidence (is this the right word? Probrably not. How about revelation?) Wow.

Color me stupefied.

Last but not least, a not so private message to Geico: Isn’t it time to give up the Cave Man thing?
Is there anyone on earth who isn’t over it?

Word on the street is that newborn babies arrive with an innate sense of ‘anti-Geico caveman gimmick.’

Not judging, just sayin’…

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There’s a fine line

Friday, June 12th, 2009


I’m staying with my friend in DC, and I walked over to the National Zoo – a few blocks from her home – today.


En route, no less than five men screamed at me from their car windows (varying versions of ‘Hey baby’ or ‘How YOU doin’?), while another seven or eight did so from the sidewalk. Sometimes I would quietly say, “Hey,” back, but mostly I pretended to be deaf.

It’s a funny thing about unwanted attention: there’s a fine line between flattery and harassment.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m as capricious as the next woman. Sometimes I go for a six or seven mile run and not one car honks at me and absolutely no one behaves inappropriately and – let’s me frank here – it’s a little bit discouraging. Am I losing it? Is it something I ate?


Chinese restaurant. I love the Peking Peeps.

Chinese restaurant. I love the Peking Peeps.

On the other hand, when I stop into a grocery store for two minutes in order to quickly procure a cake for my friend’s birthday (ultimately settling on an Entenmann’s cheese coffee cake when it they don’t have much of a bakery section. Coffee cake is still cake. It has the word ‘cake’ in it, thus making it cake, albeit not a traditional birthday cake) and hear an unfamiliar booming voice announce, “I love white girls. I’m going to take care of you tonight. I love you, White Girl,” I wish I had lost some of it. 


The same man recommended I look some stuff up on the internet (the names of which I promptly forgot, but by and large suspect was porn) and return the next day to the Safeway in order to be ‘taken care of”, and I considered pretending I didn’t speak English. In the end, I was able to wriggle free without too much trouble and – glancing behind me to make sure I wasn’t being followed – I headed back through the maze of leering and commenting strangers to the apartment.


Tee hee.

Tee hee.



Unrelated – or maybe it is related? – it is so humid out here, and my hair has gone absolutely nuts. It’s like a frizzy cross between Howard Stern and a Standard Poodle, and it makes me crazy. I invest a lot of time, energy, and money into fighting my naturally curly hair and seeing it break free of my efforts and shake its groove thing is neither desired nor appreciated (nor attractive).  On the other hand, perhaps this is somehow related to my sudden popularity on the streets of Washington D.C.? Lecherous men love frizzy curly hair?

(Note to self: Possible PhD candidacy thesis idea…)


The grand prize winner. As it should be. Super cool.

The grand prize winner. As it should be. Super cool.



In closing, it turns out that every year the Washington Post holds a Peeps diorama contest, and you can see the finalists and winners at Artomatic. If somehow you’ve been living or a cave, or a country that doesn’t celebrate Easter, or a country that doesn’t celebrate Easter with the consumption of gross quantities of packaged sugar products, Peeps are marshmallow candies in the shape of little ducks (or sometimes rabbits and other stuff) and covered with colored sugar. In other words, complete junk.

Anyway, as  part of the annual contest, people arrange the peeps in varying dioramas (kind of like a project you’d do in elementary school) and the best ones – as previously mentioned, the best as judged by the Washington Post – win. Having examined the offerings in this year’s collection I was impressed, but I also struck upon a common trend – come up with a clever idea, execute it enough to be recognizable, and you’ll probably win.

Since I do not live in D.C. and will probably not be participating any time soon, I offer up some of my own thoughts, yours for the taking:

American Gothic  (maybe call it ‘American Peepic’ or ‘APeepican Gothic’?) – Take two Peeps and stretch them long and thin. Outfit them in a farmer outfit and long dress, respectively; make sure the man has a pitchfork, and provide a bucolic background.

Jabba the Peep – Smoosh an entire package of yellow Peeps together into a singular ‘Jabba the Hutt’ shape. Consider involving a blow torch or glue – whatever it takes.  Next to him, place a shapely Peep wearing a gold bikini with a chain around her neck. Watch the movie and provide whatever background is appropriate. Voila! You have recreated an iconic piece of American filmmaking 

Land of the Peeps (the TV show, not the movie. The movie looks awful. Actually, the show was awful, but the damage is already done – I’ve seen it – so I may as well work with it) – Take three Peeps and outfit them in plaid shirts and jeans. If you can, stick some yellow braids on one of them. Take a fourth Peep, lick it all over, and roll it around in dog hair or bark or whatever you can find. Set them in a spartan and poorly rendered cave home and provide a poorly written script for context, and you’re a shoo-in!

You’re welcome, and good luck.

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