Flower Fever

I have a serious medical condition. I didn't show up for classes two days in a row because of it. I have Brandon Flowers-itis. Jesus. I am obsessed beyond obsessed. I am, right now, the kind of person his bodyguard protects him from. Not to say that If I met him I would kill him. No, not in the red yet. But I might molest him. And that's not a good thing... for him. For those of my readers (all two of you) who don't know who Brandon Flowers is, he is the frontman of the band, The Killers. Also, he was voted sexiest man of all time (beating out Jesus and King Henry the II by a landslide). If you for some reason, don't like Brandon Flowers then maybe you should just leave. Because he's going to be my husband and it might be a little awkward for you. I'll wait.... gone? Good.
Anyway. My symptoms include Youtube-ing, itunes-ing, frequent rewinds on the Live DVD, hallucinations, heart palpitations, drooling, screaming, squealing, constipation (that could be a totally unrelated problem), and fainting.
I know what you're going to say. I should probably go to a doctor. But unless she's got a Brando clone in her office, I'm screwed. Or not. depending on how you use that word. I guess the best thing for me to do in this situation is to ride it out... why does everything I say sound like an innuendo? That must be another part of the disease. Help!

Jury Doodie

The Sixth Amendment gives us the right to a jury if we are on trial.
It does not, however, demand that citizens participate in the Jury.... maybe it does, but any sane person can get out of pulling jury duty. Just check a frickin' box. That's all. Who really has time to sit in a courthouse for a god-only-knows amount of time listening to mountebanks selling rotten half-truths? Freelance knitters? The developmentally disabled? The elderly? Welfare recipients? These are the people that jury's consist of. These people determine the guilty and the innocent. Because people who have real lives and are contributing to society check the box. Sane people have better things to do than listen to what is basically a gussied up blame game.
So, we have the right to a jury... but no one ever stipulated as to brain power required between the 12 people.... any lawyer could tell you that.

F*%$ you, Atilla The Hun!

It's a damn good thing exercising releases endorphins (the happy chemical), otherwise, I would have keyed some poor bastard's car today.
Walking out of the gym is a great feeling. Tiredness, accomplishment, sore glutes, the whole shebang. The feeling, however, is somehow impacted when, as you are dreaming of the water bottle in the cup holder of your console, you find, as you approach your compact Civic, that it will be a near impossible feat to get into your own vehicle. You are also kicking yourself that you hadn't gone for the model with a sunroof... the reason for this is that some Jerk-off, low-life, good-for-nothing, hyphen-inducing-son-of-a-bitch has parked on your car's left side. Excuse me, not parked; invaded. You see that their dusty maroon truck is a little too close for comfort. You actually feel bad for your tiny Civic, in your head you imagine your Civic to be a young teenage girl and the maroon monster is a Stanley Tucci like pedophile whose side mirrors are TOUCHING your poor little baby's side mirrors! Whispering dirty dirty things into her innocent ears. [Side mirrors are the ears of the car, in case you were wondering]. You are baffled at how the buffoon owner of the creepy truck could have misjudged his width so drastically. You weren't even parked in a compact spot! And you had parked right in the middle, because you're a damn good parker. And he still managed to get inhumanely close to your ride. You see this predicament. You see, with your eyes that there is only a few inches between his passenger door and your driver's side entrance. You see this, and yet, you still try to get in! Even though you have to bend your wrist in a strange manner to insert your key to unlock the door, you still try to open it. Maybe you were thinking that you worked off billions of calories at the gym, and in actuality, you are now only 65 pounds and can fit easily through cracked windows, cat flaps, and your own fucking car. But alas; you pull the door open and it barely moves an inch before it collides with the maroon charlatan (which you reenact several times, because you just love the sound of it) and closes shut of it's own accord as if to say, "um, yeah... right. Why don't you try the passenger door?" and you say, "But I don't want to try the passenger door! I don't want to find a solution for my problem! I want to bitch and moan for a minute... gawd!" So that's precisely what you do. You stomp your feet and look at the ground; which doesn't help at all, it only gets you angrier because you see the white parking lines that now strangely resemble the great wall of China to you. (Partly, because you are good about thinking in metaphors. And partly due to blind rage induced delusion). The Great Wall, you were safely inside the lines and then fucking Atilla The Hun swerved in, taking up all of his dynasty and a good chunk of yours! And momentarily you consider keying the shit out of his shitty car, but then you feel the dopamine in your veins, and the rage is lessened. So you resign, not wanting to deal with getting maroon paint shavings on your sweaty work out gear. You, instead go to your passenger seat, you sit down, take out a napkin and a pen and write, "Dear Dipshit, next time would you be so kind as to leave a can opener, so I can actually enter my fucking vehicle? That'd be much appreciated. Fuck you very much. Love, the car to your right." You then put the scribbled napkin under the windshield wiper, navigate you way to the correct seat, drive away, and vaguely hope for the rain to hold until they read it. It was, after all, a very nice note. And it'd be a shame if it got illegible.

Warning: Not Funny.

Dear Asshole. Where do you get off? You don't have feelings, do you? There is no fucking way you have what normal people call feelings. If you have feelings, then what everyone else has is something different. You don't care about anyone but yourself. You are an idiotic, childish liar. Since you don't have any emotion other than vanity, let me break it down for you. When you tell someone, who has an emotional vested interest in their lives, that you will be there for them and how much they mean to you and all that bullshit..... THEY BELIEVE IT! And for your information, feelings can be hurt. Oh, you don't know what hurt is, do you? Let me help you out- it's that thing that you are so very, very crafty at. You are the fucking DaVinci of sadism. If being a dick were a sport, you would need to be tested for steroids. And what is fucking unbelievable is that everyone loves you! You are everybody's go to guy. But you don't do it for the love (because, as we all know, you can't feel!). You do it for the attention. Because first and foremost, you are the most pathetic attention whore I have ever laid eyes on. And the show: it's great.... if you haven't been backstage. Your rehearsed performances for attention are so meticulous, I fell for them. You were so entrancing. But when I jumped on the stage, I could see the makeup and the artificial lighting more clearly. The stage managers whispers could be heard and the props crew were all queued up, waiting for the set change. You are a fake. But it's like trying to convince a cult that their prophet is just a lonely pedophile. So, for the time being, there is nothing that I can do; except watch and wait while your life gets steadily better than mine, you get more friends than me, and you get the job I've been waiting for. This will happen because I can't get anyone to believe me. The only thing I really can do is pray that you contract HIV and die a slow and painful death. I think all the suffering you have put me through will have finally been worth it when I can see you feel pain for the first time, and watch as the darkness that is your mangled soul, leaves your empty eyes forever.

Man, I feel better!

Very Important Things

All the world's a stage; and all the men and women merely players... except when you're in the audience, right?
Shakespeare left out that little tidbit, didn't he?
Last night, I had the privilege of being a member of an "on camera audience" for the taping of three episodes of Important Things With Demetri Martin. If you've never seen the show, I highly recommend it. Demetri Martin does some standup, a few skits, and a cartoon here and there: it's quite the comedy.
Every time I go to see a concert, go backstage where there are going to be famous people I love, or see a televised show like this (apparently), I have-in my mind- a way that things should go. It's always completely sane and makes me dream "it's possible!" at the time, but thinking about it later: it's nothing short of ridiculous. I always think they are going to pull me onstage and then become best friends with me soon after because I'm so ridiculously charismatic and witty. Needless to say, my best friend is not Demetri Martin... yet. See, there I go again.
Even though DM and I didn't get a chance to say hello, I still enjoyed being a spectator. I learned he wasn't the guy he is on TV. He could be quite the diva, at times. Off-camera he was complaining about his stool, the noise level of the background music, the volume of his mic, and a whole host of other crap. He was also cool, don't get me wrong; it wasn't like he was crying and bitching the whole time or anything, he was pretty shy [he did however, flash the audience]. But when the cameras were rolling, it was amazing! He was quick and funny, and if he messed up (he only did it three times in three hours) we got to laugh at the same joke twice. All in all it was a pretty neat experience; and I'd do it all over again.

Water = Expensive?

The two highest budgeted movies EVER are Titanic and Water World. These movies don't have very much in common besides the fact that they are both take action in a maritime setting. Which begs the question: Why are movies produced with large amounts of water so expensive? Are boats really that hard to come buy? Do the actors get paid per time they get wet? Or is it the water itself? Is water a finite resource, and we didn't know? You'd think that Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory would have cost more to create than the glamourous Water World in all it's bedraggled glory. Isn't chocolate more expensive than water? Didn't it take longer to clean and dry Agustus Gloop's costume after he fell into the chocolate river, than it took to throw Kate's Dress into the dryer? Your thoughts, please.

My future illegitimate children

It has always been my dream to bare the offspring of talented musicians. Firstly for security. You never have to worry about providing for your bastard children if their padre is going on an international tour to promote his latest award-winning album. Secondly, for the sake of having youngsters with a lot to live up to. You think my illicit children will be okay with being a co-manager at Walmart when their father is being inducted into the rock-n-roll hall of fame? I don't think so. With this method, I am guaranteed to have at least one doctor in the brood.
To semi-fulfill my dream, I went on a website called makemebabies.com and created images of my future spawn.
Enjoy!

Mine and Conor Oberst's pirate son, Henry.

Aww, he's got his daddy's eyes! Let's just hope he doesn't also inherit his alcoholism.

Mine and Brandon Flowers' daughter, Annabel.

I have to say, she is frickin' adorable. I can't wait to have her.

Mine and Jack White's son, Benjamin

I like how they added the headphones... they just knew, I guess. They also played God and predisposed him to be an emotional eater.

Wow, that was a fun journey. You know what I've learned out of all of this? My nose gene must be very dominant. Because all my kids got my nose. Which is a very good thing in Benjamin's case.


As a side note:
You have no idea how many times I hit "redo" in the baby-making process .... the first twenty versions of each child looked like inbreeds with down-syndrome.

I think I've just been had by a panhandler...

It took me roughly 45 minutes to get to the supermarket today.
I first took a detour through some empty country roads to clear my head of the incessant guitar noises emanating from the room adjacent to my own. I had to get out of the house, I didn't have nowhere to go... I knew I was going to the supermarket, I just took a lot longer to get there than usual.
Anyway, after three quarters of an hour had been wasted contemplating my life as a metaphor for the high beams over the dusty roads of Sloughouse, It was time to get the milk and lemons my family had requested of me: (which took me down a whole new path [metaphorically] entirely). The first stretch of my run was filled with me just sitting in my Honda in the parking lot of the Safeway. I guess I still had to process my short journey, you know, get my grocery legs, so to speak. The sitting was a transition. I absolutely loathe grocery shopping. It's so unnatural, gross, frustrating, everything! Finally after hitting my head against the steering wheel and cursing a few times, I exited my vehicle and trudged my way up to the florescent gates of hell. In my head I was chanting, "get the milk and lemons and get out, get the milk and lemons and get out", when out of the shadows comes this Morgan Freeman looking scoundrel sporting about a week of silvery growth. He approaches me with the air of a man rehearsed for a play. At first I get excited thinking that he is going to ask me to sign a petition, but alas, alack, no clipboard. Instead this ruffian's monologue consists of beggardries, bemoaning his son and himself and their need for tacos. He asks not for money, but to accompany me into the store so that he may combine his purchases of; 1 pound of hamburger meat, 1 head of lettuce, and 2 tomatoes with my purchases and graciously offers to let me pay for the entire hoard. Take into account the numbers of what he requested, they will come back. Oh yes, do they ever.
So in a moment of weakness and charitableness I think, "what the hell, huh? What could it cost? Ten bucks?" so I briskly venture inside, thinking this isn't going to take long, with the ragamuffin man at my heels. I head straight for the milk and grab two gallons and then make my way through to the lemons of which I take four. Then, God help me, I take a peek at the grungy man I am sponsoring for the evening and see that he's got four pounds of hamburger in his arms. Four. Remember the time he said "one"? Yeah. So he meets me by the pears and relates to me in the most articulate manner he conjure up that he needs four pounds, because he has an eight year old. I then wanted to say, "and does your 8 year old have an eating disorder where he needs to consume an obscene amount of hamburger on a taco?". But I didn't. Instead I asked, "how much is it?" to which he replied "uh, ten bucks". So I conceded hesitantly. I had just gotten through a rough day and didn't want to argue. He then set his disturbingly large amount of hamburger down on the potatoes while he went to get his head of lettuce and 2 tomatoes. So I take a peek at the price tag. 14 dollars and 32 cents. AND he got the top sirloin. I don't even buy the top sirloin for myself. I feel like I could hit him, 14 dollars is NOT 10 dollars. I took high school math. I know that much about numbers. What a dick. So he comes back carrying a head of lettuce and.... 4 tomatoes... with "organic" stickers on them (for those of you not in the know, at Safeway they have regular fruit and overpriced haute fruits with organic stickers on them that cost three times as much) .... And still I say nothing. Instead I took a deep breath; I just wanted to get the hell out of there. So I say, "alright, let's go" but he stops me from weaving my way between the mandarins and the onions to tell me he also needs some taco shells, which, by the way, he told me he already had. Knowing this guy's exports, I have the sneaking suspicion he is going to want me to buy the taco shells sprinkled with solid gold. So I just stared at him. Does he really not know how much he is pissing me off? His next move made me think 'not', because he then proceeded to whip out a CELL PHONE to call his son to see if they had taco shells. Why he didn't check to see if he had taco shells before he went to the market to PANHANDLE leaves me at a blank. I interrupted his call on his cell phone that was newer than mine to tell him I really didn't have much money to spend. He said "okay, okay" in a very offended way as if he were a missionary trying to bring me to Christ and I had just told him I loved Satan. So I bring the food up to the express lane and assume he is going to at least help me out of the store considering I have two gallons of milk, lemons, 4 pounds of hamburger, 4 tomatoes, and a head of lettuce, and no cart or basket to speak of: instead this gentleman and scholar says he will wait outside for me. Oh, how very considerate of you.... asshole. I know I shouldn't think such things, considering I was the one who gave him an inch in the first place. You can't blame him for taking a mile. But I did. My bill totaled out to be thirty three dollars. only nine of those dollars went to paying for things that I would later use. And since I didn't have a cart I had to get a munchkin of a bag boy to help me out to, not my car, but to the vagabond in the tatty outer layers. When I handed him his shit without so much as looking at him he said "God bless ya" to which I replied under my breath, "God bless me? You're the one who is going to hell.... go to hell... now." Yeah, I'm not very witty when I'm angry. I have to admit, it was some clever deceitfulness he pulled on me, and I laughed maniacally all the way home at my gullible nature. Goddamn it, I hate shopping.

Casting Mark Wahlberg in a leading role is like putting a sheep on the pitcher's mound in the ninth inning. Sure, it's sorta funny... but there are so many other options.

It's An Introductory Level Course... WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?

I love Shakespeare. Even if he was actually Sir Francis Bacon.
I've only read six out of his 36 plays, so I thought It would be fun to take a college course where I could read more and become more familiar with Bill... or Frankie, whatever. The course I signed up for is called Intro to Shakespeare. Sounds good from the title, doesn't it. Not so.
You see, I was under the misapprehension that "intro" meant "introduction". Again; not so. I have since learned INTRO is actually an acronym for Intermediate Narcissistic Thinkers Rambling On. My class is filled with these INTROs. The worst of the douche lords is a fellow named..... let us call him Philip. I am almost certain Philip thinks he is Shakespeare's lover. He has been in community college for 5 years studying Sir Francis Bacon's work. I, myself, would not brag about such a thing. And, to make matters geekier, is always on his friggin' macbook with ninja stickers on it; looking up apocrypha about Will that no one cares about and shouting it out at his leisure. Yesterday he ever so boldly interrupted Ms.D's analysis of Fallstaff in the galling sort of voice used commonly by most 27 year old virgins who bring laptops to discussion classes; stating that Shakespeare loved to wear blue tights, and detested white ones because they were much harder to clean. Bravo Philip, I couldn't tell you how many sleepless nights I've endured, tossing, haggard and desperate: just longing to know what color Mr. Bacon's pantaloons were. Now I can rest easy, Phil. You're my hero. I actually hope he finds this page and reads it during class. That would rock so hard.

Git out my way.

Walking through the mall always makes me contemplative. I think about conformity, sheep, and lumberjacks. But mostly I think about order.
Interrupting my thoughts of sheep cloning, a woman shoved a clipboard in my face calling me "mam'n" and robotically inquiring as to my voting status. Me, personally, do not care what a petition is for, I will sign it. I do not care if it is for a law that demands all children be imprisoned by the age of 5 and must exercise good behavior in order to leave prison. I love our America and love being a part of the law making process. Plus you know that the petitioners love to lie to you. They say things that sound good. They say, "this petition is to get rid of all taxes". But they don't tell you that the downside is that all Americans will become slaves to the citizens of Beijing. So it really doesn't matter. I ended up half listening to this woman speak shortly but passionately about national parks or some crap. After I scribbled down my social security number, the password to my email, my bank account number, the the three digit security code on my credit card, and my debit card pin, I handed the woman back her clipboard and walked away feeling very patriotic and such. When all of a sudden "Bitch, watch wear youz walkin'!" comes out of right field. This (I am sorry, there is no other word to describe her) ghettofied young lady (who I assume was the one who shouted at me) pushed her baby's stroller so that the left front wheel bumped the back of my right heel. I mentally paused. Wracking my brain for something to say to this obviously uneducated woman and her future inmate of a child. But I couldn't, I couldn't think of one thing. All I could do was let the adrenaline and the small amount of testosterone I possess rage through my veins and rape my heart and brain as I caught the last part of a conversation she was having on her bedazzled nokia. "Yeah, uh huh, just walkin' thru da mall... uh huh and some lady just jumps right in front of me. An' I was lyke, Bitch!". I continued to entertain the thought of strangling this woman for hours after that.
That is the problem with people like me. We never react to assholes. We just let it happen. When someone takes our parking space or bumps into us walking down the street, we never say anything. Instead... we blog.

Litter Head

My cat has gotten to the point in his life where he doesn't care where he pees. He doesn't have a litterbox, he hasn't had one in about 9 years, he usually goes outside, but he recently peed on my mom's blow dryer, in my mom's closet, and in her shoes (I get the feeling he doesn't like her) so I was asked to get some cat litter, a litter box and a kitty poop scooper. I made the trek to Target and hauled a 20lb box of sand, along with the other cat fecal essentials, up to the register. When I got there I set them on the little conveyer belt and waited as a red polo clad fellow rang them up. Then he said something that will haunt me. Not the statement itself, but because what he said would be considered natural by most people, friendly even. He asked, "do you have a cat?". How do you respond to that. There is a tub of fresh step, a blue cube of plastic, and a pooper scooper... all of these items had stickers and adverts with pictures of various cats on them. Its such an obvious question. A question that would be overlooked and even responded to by most people, but not this cynic. I gave him an eyebrow raise. Not the one eyebrow, that would have been a little too rude. And a lady knows it's a low blow to be rude to someone with such low standards of intelligence. So I gave him a double. Pretty standard reaction. And said 'yes' in a very ambiguous way. The thought had crossed my mind to say, "A cat? Oh! No, no, no! I like defecating in sand, yep, and then I scoop it away. Toilets, ugh! Who needs 'em, right?". But saying that would have just worried the poor chap. Does anyone read this stuff?

You Think You're So Smart...

People think they are so intelligent and observant when they say things like , "if everyone was successful, there'd be no one to do menial jobs". These people actually aren't smart because they forgot about migrant workers, teenagers and the mentally retarded people that sweep Disneyland.

Turn Signal

Why do people feel the need to use their turn signal while they are in the specified turn lane? It is obvious to me that you are turning that way, otherwise, you should not be in this lane that says "turn only". Tell you what, you can leave your signal on in the turn lane if I can point at my ass when I ask where the restrooms are located. And while were at it lets all meet together to turn on the hot water heater and arrest the armed gunman. Are these pleonasms doing anything for you?

What Popular Culture Says About The Demographic

As a child I was an idealist. I hung onto my idealism for most of my life. When most kids let their fantasies go, I was still playing dress up in Disney trademark halloween princess costumes, convinced that my prince (aka Leonardo DiCaprio [see left]) was going to whisk me away to his fairy tale kingdom where I would lord over the magical creatures and make them my mythical slaves.... well, last week was a long time ago. I have since resolved myself to become more of an adult. But I tell you, it's hard to do when I look around and see the majority of my peers behaving so stupidly. Do you want to guess what non-non-fiction book has been at the top of the new york times best seller list for over a year and a half? Breaking Dawn. A young adult novel about a teenage girl that tricks a 110 year old vampire into impregnating her with a half-sy demon whom catches the eye of an adolescent werewolf.... This is the most popular book in America. You want to know who has the most downloaded mp3 on iTunes, a 14 year old whore-child named Ke$ha singing about liquoring up babies and grinding against drunk homeless police officers. At least, that's all I could hear of the lyrics over the rhythmic bass, plus iTunes only lets you listen for 30 seconds anyway.

So what I'm trying to say is this; my fellow human beings, stop this nonsense. Or at least cut back. I'm out here busting my hump, buying Rufus Wainwright songs and Al Gore books by the bucketload to even out the statistics so we all don't appear to be a bunch of drunk hillbillies.

Commercial Moms

I wish every mother, or every parent for that matter, could be more like the moms featured in commercials. They never get angry. EVER. On numerous occasion, I have witnessed commercial moms walk into a completely destroyed kitchen; pots and pans befouled and stacked ceiling high, chicken juices on the walls, child/dog feces smeared on the granite countertops, a bonfire alight on the stove, and amidst the mess; a shrugging husband. Just standing in the middle of the definition of chaos-gone-biohazard with nothing more than a look befitting a person who forgot to pick up gran-gran at the airport.
But no matter. There is never a situation too insurmountable, a mess too ridiculous, for commercial mom. All she needs for this mess is one tablespoon of Dawn Dishwashing Soap, Lavender Field Scent and half of a sheet of Bounty: The Quicker Picker-Upper. In less than five seconds she is standing in what looks like a model kitchen at Ikea, hands on hips and a mildly pleased expression on her perfectly un-sweaty face. Then the aryan kids burst in the back door, donning soccer attire with a labrador named Max at their heels. Mom found time to clean up the formerly condemned scullery and found time to make chocolate chip cookies! None for Dad, though! Hahahahaha! Thank god for fantastic cleaning power of Dawn combined with the almost magical absorbency of Bounty.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I can not believe The Killers are on hiatus... is it disgusting that I feel so depressed? Ugh!!
(yeah, sorry this wasn't funny, just woke up and heard the bad news).