So This is Christmas...

Nothing begins the pre-Christmas gorgefest (or ends it, I suppose) like reviewing your Turkey Day meal in glorious technicolor Blork-O-Vision. (This was previously known as Vomit-View, but the public relations voices in my head forced me to change it.) Yup, precisely 30 minutes after downing the last bit of my second helping of thirds of sweet potatoes, my stomach did it's best impression of Mt. Vomituvius (the 12 year old humor voices in my head have just murdered the public relations department, deal with it), and that's how I spent my 3-day holiday; curled up in a fetal position praying for mercy while having my insides gnawed upon by demonic elves, not really feeling my best, rather than getting trampled to death outside a Wal*Mart on Black Friday. Life just isn't fair ...

What else I didn't get to do, until Sunday afternoon, was go to the latest Harry Potter angst-fest. But, as noted, I did go on Sunday, and after months of eagerly anticipating it, and after 3 days of bitching and moaning mildly expressing my displeasure about how I was going to miss it again, I was there ... and I was disappointed. Yes, they touched on all the key points, (Big Ass Snake! Dead Muggle! Burning Scar! Quidditch! Death Eaters! Goblet! Teen Angst! Cho Chang! Dragon! Ron's Gone Mental! Rita Skeeter! Mad Eye Moody! Where the Hell are the Dursleys! More Special Effects! Hermione's Suddenly an Hysterical Git With No Logical Reasoning Behind It Unless You've Read the Book and Why Won't Ron Get a Haircut, Already! etc and so forth.), but didn't bother to put in enough back story to make logical sense of anything. I had initially bitched and moaned till my fingers bled put down a lengthy discourse on the flaws of the film, (anyone interested in discussing this, feel free to e-mail me and we'll dish), but here's the condensed version: Fine, leave out the Hermione/S.P.E.W. bit, but was there any other reason to leave in the Rita Skeeter part other than to give Miranda Richardson something to do? Wouldn't that time have been better spent explaining why Hermione suddenly had a meltdown at the end of the ball (teen pregnancy is such a drag, even within the wizarding world) or why Harry suddenly felt compelled to give Cedric information on the first task (busting a meth lab in Diagon Alley)? And, is it just me, or what the hell was with Harry nekkid in the tub with an egg and Moaning (ahem!)Myrtle deep sea diving bit?

Those Brits, sick perverts, the lot of 'em.

And, this just in: What the FUCK happened to Sarah Connor?



















(Photo courtesy of the Fug Girls. Who knows where the hell they got it from.)

Next post: My Dog's a Carpet Muncher.

Can't Talk ... Eating ...

"I'm glad I'm ME."

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

**Bonus points and extra cranberry sauce for the first one to get the reference(s).**

Friday Free-For-All Quickie

Yes, I know it's late. Yes, I know you were all waiting with bated breath for my latest installment. Yes, I know that I shouldn't let you all down, you need me to survive.

What I don't know (and don't really want to find out, either) is how the hell they collected this.

That's it, you may now go on about your lives. Nothing more to see here.

(And yes, I realize how much this post sucked. I'll get over it.)

Because Sally Struthers Was Busy

Due to a recent flare-up of Ennuitis-Shit-For-Brains Syndrome, I was roped in to chairing the silent auction at the Fall Festival at the kids' school. What this means, roughly translated, is I was responsible for doing every fucking thing except complaining about the results. Well, except for picking up 3 items. 3 items out of 100+. The evening went well, we made a decent amount of money, I only had to be physically restrained to prevent bloodshed twice, and if I ever find the person who told me that 'It won't be that much work, you'll have a lot of support!', I'm going to auction off their spleen next year.

Yes, I said next year. Unfortunately, my disease is chronic, there is no cure, and there is little chance at my having a normal life. A normal life where I'm not sleeping under a pile of to-do lists, where my children don't get catfood instead of Cheerios in their cereal bowls because I've only had 3 hours of sleep in the past 2 weeks and the phone isn't permanently grafted to the side of my face and dear god why can't I just say no and don't bother me can't you see I'm busy and where the HELL ARE MY SHOES I HAVE TO GO.

Now, remember I said little chance. There is a glimmer of hope for sufferers of this horrific disease (which, at this point and from here on out includes ... myself ... and that's about it), and that glimmer is you. Well, you and money. I'm starting a most-definitely-for-profit foundation to buy me games, books, movies; whatever it takes to keep myself occupied and the hell away from any and all volunteer-driven events within a 25-mile radius. I accept money orders, cashier's checks, and well-concealed cash.

Don't expect any thank you cards, receipts, or photographs of the poor soul you're sponsoring.

I'm just too damn busy.