Things I'm Doing/Not Doing

Doing: Writing a post to make up for the crap I've been writing lately.
Not Doing: Succeeding.
Doing:Watching Becker on TV.
Not Doing:Enjoying it.
Doing: Wondering if I can touch my big toe to the top of my head.
Not Doing (but seriously considering): Sending Larry Jones the medical bills resulting from trying to touch my big toe to the top of my head.
Doing: Wondering if this person found what she's looking for.
Not Doing (but, again, seriously considering, if I had a way to contact the above person): Sending her this link as inspiration.
Doing: Wondering if the owner of that site will leave me another nice comment, thanking me for the free publicity.
Not Doing: Counting on any sort of financial compensation for this publicity.
Doing: Staying up way later than I should/need be.
Not Doing: Continuing to write this drivel.

Caveat Mother-Fucker

Open Letter to the Judgemental, Pushy and Rude Fucker Who Called Me Today to Strong-Arm Me Out of Money:

Dear Judgemental, Pushy and Rude Fucker:

Thank you for your insincere attempts to engage me with small talk. Thank you also for your irritating and pointless (not to mention unfunny) attempts at humor. I do this for a 'living', and I just have to say: Damn, but you SUCK at it.

However, I would most like to thank you for your use of scare tactics, and attempts to shame and humilate me, and most importantly, when I expressed that I believed it to already have been paid, your blatant refusal to provide me with any proof that this is still a valid debt. It was this statement, especially: "If you want proof, then take us to court!" that prompted me to call the original company to whom I owed this money, to validate that the debt still stands. By doing this, I was able to make arrangements to pay them directly, therefore making your involvement (I'd say your entire existence, but I don't like to brag), totally and completely unnecessary.

In summary: The original company gets their money, we save $30.00, and you get to take your fee/bonus/generally-being-a-pushy-prick kickback, (or whatever it is called in your office), and SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS.

I love win/win situations.

Go Fuck Yourself Sincerely,

The Little Guy

I Got Yer 15 ... No, 30 Minutes Right Here, Pal!

Here's the second installment of Plagiarism, American Style, where I have absolutely nothing to say, so I go around and rip off snippets from other blogs I link to. (Note: not all are linked on this site, some I just read and am too damn lazy or insensitive to add their links.) Enjoy, anyway.

Like all the best whores, I'm complete without conscience or dignity, incapable of being embarrassed. I was reminded of this strange phenomenon when I glanced over at the donut that had been sitting next to me for well over an hour. All I tasted was banana and water. Why, God, why!? It doesn't do to make pregnant people cry. Keep it up and the next hooker you buy will be loaded with the clap.

Tell me, where are all the Kelsey Grammer pin-up magazines? From now on I think we should re-shape our world to where reality matches porn. I'm game, but I need a video camera. If you enjoy it, I might just make this a new feature. I totally turn into a gawker - you know, slow way down and hang open the mouth. Then I needed to wash my corneas.

We got to sample the famous Korean Airlines bibimbap lunch, and it was surprisingly good! Two fucking armadillos in a cream cheese sauce. You see where this is going, don't you? Until it was washed, it would sit around and stink, or perhaps get moldy. Not exactly the best marketing tactic I've ever seen.

Is this or is this not SEX ON WHEELS? There were some slow places, but overall a cute "date" kind of movie. It was the 1998 made-for-tv version, not the 1980 made-for-tv version, if you're interested. Explosions make great TV. And with some work - the Slinky was born. Fuck, that was insightful.

Did you know if Ernest Borgnine drowns in his hot tub I get a toaster? I don't know how such a small amount of hair can be made to stick out so forcefully in all directions. That's probably another reason why it's a good idea I'm not a mom. Then again, I'd be a hollow shell of a man without my Mickey Mouse waffle iron. We'll need it, as we have a full day today as well.

A Few Things

1) WTF is up with everyone looking for THIS ? I still don't get it, and I'm starting to feel a little concerned.

2) I don't know, what DO you do? (And I hope your furry little friend is okay.)

3) Ooooh, can I play tambourine?

Juuuuust About Drunk Enough ...

Sometimes it takes a minor catastrophe to make you appreciate what you have left. Say, for example, your computer finally goes belly up, and you have to restore to factory condition, losing everything you ever added, in the process. However, what you are left with is a computer that doesn't freeze up everytime you sneeze wrong, as well as the realization that everything you've written thus far is complete and total crap, anyway.

And, for instance, your grandmother has, by all accounts, decided that she doesn't want to live anymore, and has stopped eating. (Which isn't really minor, but just keep reading, mmm-kay? Mmm-kay.) This makes you finally realize and come to grips with the fact that your mother, despite her many assurances to the contrary, is pretty much emotionally vacant. However much you wish that she was different, that she would just be able to listen to you cry while she plays with your hair and hug you when it's all over, it's something that is never going to happen. However, it also makes you realize that despite this, you have raised a swell couple of kids, who always know that you love them, that they can express themselves without fear of having their emotions held up and subsequently pissed on. Kids who will offer up their stuffed animals as a consolation, and offer to call Grandma back, to try and explain why she hurt you, which is just so fucking noble and selfless that it makes your heart hurt.

You also come to realize that you may have married the best man in the entire world. A man who will field her calls, and calmly explain that Yes, she's still upset and No, she doesn't feel like talking to you right now and Yes, I understand why she feels this way and here's why I don't understand why YOU don't, and No, I won't just put her on the phone, and OK, I'll tell her you called and she'll call you back when she's ready. Then, after the kids are in bed, he'll go about his business, staying sober while you get steadily drunker and you know that once you can't feel your fingertips anymore and slide off the chair, he'll be there to carry you, unconscious and drooling, to bed. (Because, let's face it, The Old Gray Mare ain't what she used to be, and after 2 glasses of wine, she's facedown on the floor.)

Finally, you can appreciate your friends. You know them, the people who you don't want to hit repeatedly with sticks and who put up with your crap without pointing out what a tool you really are. Friends who will listen to you bitch and moan, and will send you pictures of baby giraffes, and will in turn bitch and moan to you, while you send them pictures of masturbating cats. (Llama, feel better, and thanks for not smacking me with the stupid stick for all my questions.)

OK. So, the vodka is all gone, I've done my drunken rendition of Sally Field in Steel Magnolias, and aren't YOU the lucky bastards?

Ode to a Llama

This post was going to be an eloquent treatise on life, death, and everything in between. Full to the brim with mournful prose, W.H. Auden poetry, and quite possibly the MP3 of Seasons in the Sun. There wouldn't be a dry eye in the joint, my e-mail box would overflow with sympathetic notes, and I'd reach legendary blogosphere status for my beautiful words.

Then, while I was in the midst of composing this piece, Llama gave me this informational tidbit: "They arrested the Wendy's Chili Finger Lady," which just brought everything back into perspective for me. To wit: Screw that idea, I'm not nearly drunk enough.

So, I'll leave the epitaphs and soliloquies for my nearest and dearest, and use this space to report on all the rest of it. (Unless, of course, I finish off that bottle of vodka in the cabinet, then all bets are off.)

This Is Just A Post To Convince Bunches of People Who Couldn't Give A Crap That I'm Not a Crazed Stalker or A Husband-Abandoning Hussy

Really.

If You Bring It, They Will Snort Coffee From Their Noses

If I ever decide to switch sides and bat for the other team, and if those pesky anti-stalking laws are taken away, and if I can figure out a way to find this woman without requiring actual movement, my husband is SO last week.

Well, I'm Pretty Sure That Gretchen Could Kick John Ratzenberger's Ass

So, we've got a new Pope, but did you watch The Amazing Race tonight? (If not, there are huge, mondo, fucking gi-normous spoilers, so go off somewhere, play with something entertaining, and come back when you're ready. And you've washed your hands, because I have no idea where that thing has been.)

Are they gone?

Okay, then, hang on kids, this is gonna be good. (Yes, it is, don't start, or I'll turn this post right back around and you can sit home and think about what you've done.)

It's official, I'm totally and completely in love with Joyce and Uchenna. (I've listed them both, because I have no idea who belongs to which name, but it doesn't matter, because when she unhesitantly agreed to shave her head, and he protested and I briefly thought that he was doing it because he didn't want to be with a bald woman but this sentence is going to have some form of punctuation I promise but I have to get this out quickly before I bust but he really was protesting FOR HER SAKE I just fell totally in love with them both. (See, I told you there would be a period eventually.)

Ok, that felt good. And Meredith and Gretchen (another couple with confusing names, and who marries a man named Meredith, anyway? I'll tell you who, Ms. BadAss Gretchen, that's who!) are The Little Geriatrics Who Could. They're just fucking unstoppable, the Energizer Bunnies of the Geritol crowd. And Gretchen, who unfortunately dropped a few jillion points in my estimation when she was standing like a deer in headlights last episode, not doing anything but whining when she should have been opening boxes like an ADD child on speed on Christmas morning, tripled her score when she was laughing at Amber and making snide comments when her camel decided to double back and go the other direction in the challenge. I was hoping against hope that she would pull a Jack Palance/Curly/City Slickers, and grunt something along the lines of "I crap bigger'n you" or "I have underwear older'n you*." Still, her inner bitch came out, and although she's no Joyce (or is it Uchenna?) I love her.

Rob and Ambah are still in the running, and I'm just hoping they stay around to keep things interesting, and then possibly get sat upon by a camel. Ron and Kelly, the Ron and Ambah wanna-bees, are just plain irritating, and I'm wondering how she's going to explain next week how 'Being a POW' equals 'getting out of the military'. Unfortunately, they didn't get eliminated or pushed off a cliff by Rob. However, Lynn and Alex were apparently befuddled due to a lack of face cream, and went to the wrong palace, and ended up in last place, and were eliminated, which just sucks.

And ... that's it!

(*Addendum: This last statement was uttered by my husband. Reason # 189084, even though he's going bald without the use of ANY major or minor appliances, that I love him way more than I could ever love Joyce, Uchenna, Gretchen, or even Meredith.)

Things I'm Not Thinking Anymore

I was going to regale you all with a remarkably witty post about what thoughts were running through my mind, but since I've apparently confused 'remarkably' with 'horrifically' and 'witty' with 'long-winded piece of crap', I decided not to.

Instead, I'll just give you the highlights:

Yes, that was leftover popcorn bits scattered on the floor, and no, I didn't vacuum them.

My husband is not having an affair, but he still didn't respond to my link to the Worst Halftime Show Ever or what I want for Mother's Day, so he gets to sleep on the couch.

For Mother's Day, I'm considering designing my mother a spiffy spandex superhero costume (no capes!), and start calling her Mega It's Not MY Fault Woman, because she was obviously bitten by a radioactive spider that absolves her of ever doing anything wrong, and therefore she never has the need to apologize for anything. Ever. (I was sorely tempted to borrow Brent's idea, but that would indicate blame, which is not possible.)

Blah blah blah blahbitty blah blah.

Should that be spelled blahbiTTy, or blahbiDDy?

Can't ...write... Boredom ... crushing ...will ... to ... live... Must ... drink ... alcohol ...

Scavenger Hunt, or Bizarre Fetish?

Because I keep getting hits from people looking for this.

(And points to anyone who can explain to me what the 'Recover post' link is all about, on the top of the Create Post window.)

Things That Concern Me More Than They Probably Should

My last post.

Being linked somewhere, yet not being able to figure out where the link came from. Most of my links I can follow: The Monkey Cage begat The Son of Cheese turned into Pop's Bucket ... blah-blah-di-blah ... and that's how a cow becomes jerky, boys and girls.

The fact that I have not, as yet, been labelled as 'that sanctimonous sea-cow.'

The fact that although I will most certainly be labelled as that NOW, it just won't be the same. Some things just have to happen, you know?

THIS MAN. Although, looking at this group of pictures, I've decided that he bugs me just about the right amount. Hey, Ty? (That's not a real name, by the way.) I have some Extreme Makeover ideas for you: Comb your hair. Shave off that ridiculous soul-patch, that only works on hot straight men, or hot gay men who are not pretending to be hot straight men. Try reading a book without pictures once in awhile, stupid is only funny if you are really good at it, incredibly hot, or a puppy.

My feet.

So, It's Not Elvis. Sue Me.

"Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated." *

(Disclaimer: Yes, this is a sad, pathetic little attempt at a post. [MPH, mock at will.] I will hopefully be back in full-on, crazy ass 'what the fuck is she on' mode soon. Or not.)

*Addendum: I am not on anything other than my ass, at the moment. And, for those of you who are wondering what the fuck I'm on about, here ya go: The dude looks like Mark Twain. Mark Twain has been incorrectly quoted as saying the above. And at the time of posting, I truly thought it was clever. Bite me.

Life Lessons: Alias

Judge Judy just hasn't been coming out with the wise, wise words so much lately. The People's Court has been off it's game for some time now. So, I've had to search out other sources of enlightenment from the pretty moving picture box.

Thankfully, Alias has stepped up to the plate and provided me with the latest words to live your life by.

If I ever become rich, powerful, and obsessively yet understandably paranoid about hiding my shit from prying eyes, I will never rig up a security system that involves a retinal scan. More specifically, MY retinal scan. This is to protect myself from some computer geek with day old baby puke on his shirt getting all up in my bidness, offing me with a cell phone/handgun, and removing my left eyeball with a spork.

Heed these words, people, because nobody wants their eye(s) gouged out of their skull with a plastic eating utensil. Nobody.