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.