He obviously doesn't know who we are. ;)
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Big Blue See
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
I Have Never Shipped a Live Pig to Hawaii
I made the mistake of signing a petition or two recently and now it seems I'm being asked to sign a new petition at least once a day. In the last week, I've received emails entitled:
What you did to Keystone XL
Stop shipping live pigs to Hawaii
Save Bryce Canyon from a dirty coal mine
Lesbian torture clinics.
No, seriously.
I know.
I thought that last one was the next Meetup event planned for the Gay Women of Hampton Roads. It took me a few minutes to realize it wasn't an invitation.
And I don't know who this Bryce Canyon person is, but he can probably do better than this chick they're referring to as, "dirty coal mine."
Apparently, there are A LOT of things out there that people want to protest.
My current favorite is an employee of Target petitioning Target to open at 5am on Black Friday rather than 12am, so that he and his fellow Target employees can enjoy Thanksgiving with their families a little longer.
I get it. I do. But here's the thing, Target Employee: if Target doesn't open at 12am, all those wackadoodle Black Friday shoppers are going to haul their assumed WIDE asses over to Walmart and spend all their money there. And then Target will miss out on that money. And do you know where some (I know, not as much as anyone would like) of that money goes? Into your pockets, Target Employee. And into your health insurance. So I suggest you SHUT THE F*CK UP AND BE COOL!!
Be cool, Target Employee; be cool. Stay employed. It's a good thing in 2011.
Next up? Parents who are purchasing lollipops licked by children with chicken pox and feeding said lollipops to their children in an attempt to stimulate immunization against chicken pox naturally vs. vaccination.
I'm actually in favor of part of this. I won't spoil the fun and tell you which part yet. Talk amongst yourselves.
What you did to Keystone XL
Stop shipping live pigs to Hawaii
Save Bryce Canyon from a dirty coal mine
Lesbian torture clinics.
No, seriously.
I know.
I thought that last one was the next Meetup event planned for the Gay Women of Hampton Roads. It took me a few minutes to realize it wasn't an invitation.
And I don't know who this Bryce Canyon person is, but he can probably do better than this chick they're referring to as, "dirty coal mine."
Apparently, there are A LOT of things out there that people want to protest.
My current favorite is an employee of Target petitioning Target to open at 5am on Black Friday rather than 12am, so that he and his fellow Target employees can enjoy Thanksgiving with their families a little longer.
I get it. I do. But here's the thing, Target Employee: if Target doesn't open at 12am, all those wackadoodle Black Friday shoppers are going to haul their assumed WIDE asses over to Walmart and spend all their money there. And then Target will miss out on that money. And do you know where some (I know, not as much as anyone would like) of that money goes? Into your pockets, Target Employee. And into your health insurance. So I suggest you SHUT THE F*CK UP AND BE COOL!!
Be cool, Target Employee; be cool. Stay employed. It's a good thing in 2011.
Next up? Parents who are purchasing lollipops licked by children with chicken pox and feeding said lollipops to their children in an attempt to stimulate immunization against chicken pox naturally vs. vaccination.
I'm actually in favor of part of this. I won't spoil the fun and tell you which part yet. Talk amongst yourselves.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Tacos, Tails, Vodka, & Tampons
So some of my female dog-owning friends decided that a biweekly (bimonthly? twice monthly? duoweeko?) dinner gathering of female friends and their dogs might be fun. In their brilliance, they named it "Tacos and Tails."
If you don't get it, I'm not explaining.
Tonight was the second one and Girlfriend and I were graciously included. Since we're still battling some of the flea holdouts, we thought it best to leave our particular tails at home.
Dinner conversation turned to teenage girls soaking tampons in vodka and shoving them up their vaginas, as dinner conversations often do...
Oh, haven't you heard?
Yes, teenagers everywhere are trying the latest fad: getting drunk more rapidly and more discreetly by shoving vodka-soaked tampons up their vaginas. Don't have a vagina, boys? No worries! Just shove the tampon in your rectum! Apparently, studies show that one (1) super tampon can hold one (1) shot of vodka.
How much time do you need to absorb this little tidbit? (harrrrr)
Seems some of us at the table knew of this trend and its sister activity, butt chugging, in which the tubing of a traditional beer funnel is inserted into one's rectum rather than one's mouth.
Not for nothing, I'd hate to be the person who rolls up late to that party and mistakes the butt chugging funnel for a regular one...
"What? Why is everyone screaming for me to take this thing out of my mouth?!"
Anyhoo, we the Tacos and Tails of the Monday, November 14th Meeting have the following questions and if you have answers, we'd love to hear them:
1) If the tampon expands after absorbing liquid, how does one insert a giant flaccid tampon into one's vagina?
2) Substitute "rectum" for "vagina" in the above question and pose it again.
3) In the instance of butt chugging, where does all the extra liquid go? Once the rectum is filled, does it start shooting out?
Ah, it's bedtime boys and girls. I hope you've enjoyed this little story.
And just for the record, lest any of you be as mistaken as the proponents of vaginal/rectal drinking -- not ingesting the alcohol orally does not affect your blood alcohol level.
Uh duh.
What will those crazy kids think of next?
If you don't get it, I'm not explaining.
Tonight was the second one and Girlfriend and I were graciously included. Since we're still battling some of the flea holdouts, we thought it best to leave our particular tails at home.
Dinner conversation turned to teenage girls soaking tampons in vodka and shoving them up their vaginas, as dinner conversations often do...
Oh, haven't you heard?
Yes, teenagers everywhere are trying the latest fad: getting drunk more rapidly and more discreetly by shoving vodka-soaked tampons up their vaginas. Don't have a vagina, boys? No worries! Just shove the tampon in your rectum! Apparently, studies show that one (1) super tampon can hold one (1) shot of vodka.
How much time do you need to absorb this little tidbit? (harrrrr)
Seems some of us at the table knew of this trend and its sister activity, butt chugging, in which the tubing of a traditional beer funnel is inserted into one's rectum rather than one's mouth.
Not for nothing, I'd hate to be the person who rolls up late to that party and mistakes the butt chugging funnel for a regular one...
"What? Why is everyone screaming for me to take this thing out of my mouth?!"
Anyhoo, we the Tacos and Tails of the Monday, November 14th Meeting have the following questions and if you have answers, we'd love to hear them:
1) If the tampon expands after absorbing liquid, how does one insert a giant flaccid tampon into one's vagina?
2) Substitute "rectum" for "vagina" in the above question and pose it again.
3) In the instance of butt chugging, where does all the extra liquid go? Once the rectum is filled, does it start shooting out?
Ah, it's bedtime boys and girls. I hope you've enjoyed this little story.
And just for the record, lest any of you be as mistaken as the proponents of vaginal/rectal drinking -- not ingesting the alcohol orally does not affect your blood alcohol level.
Uh duh.
What will those crazy kids think of next?
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Balls o' Napthalene
As some of you may recall, the suggestion was made to fight the great stray cat/flea infestation with a security moat of mothballs...
The mothballs have been lain about the perimeter of the property and now it smells like Mrs. Muccifori, my old Italian (and I mean OLD) landlady from when I was a kid.
We lived in a two-family house, owned by the Mucciforis, until I was 10-years-old. They lived on the first floor and we were on the second. They were tailors from Italy and I spent many an afternoon doodling on dark fabrics with the bars of soap they used to mark their plan of attack on an item of clothing.
In my young mind, the Mucciforis were boiled down to the smallest of generalizations -- Mr. Muccifori slept a lot and liked quiet, which is why I couldn't be too loud outside or stomp around upstairs, and Mrs. Muccifori was always cold, which is why she wore 300 sweaters even in the summer and jacked up the heat to the 80s. Since heat rises, our apartment used to average 98-degrees in the winter. My father used to sleep with the bedroom window open in NJ in the dead of winter and I still can have a mini anxiety attack if it gets too hot indoors...
Hmm...perhaps I should get back to the mothballs... If you ever met my Aunt Rhoda, you understand that I get my meandering storytelling "ability" honestly!
The attic of the house was finished except for two offshoots that remained unfinished storage areas and reeked of mothballs -- Mrs. Muccifori added them to her things to stave off the moths. I knew those were her things, associated the smell of mothballs with her, and to this day think of her whenever I smell mothballs.
And then I almost immediately think of the most puzzling story I've ever heard in my life.
My mother was about 25-years-old when Mr. Muccifori died. Mrs. Muccifori thought it would be a terrific idea to knock a hole in the wall downstairs and install a door between her apartment and our entry way. That way, if she needed anything, she could just essentially come into our apartment foyer and call upstairs.
And she did.
One particular afternoon, she called up to my mother in an Italian-accent-laced singsong:
"Kaaaatie, I want an enema.........."
Now, my mother's name is Kathy.
And what landlady asks her tenant for an enema?!
And more importantly, WHAT TENANT ACQUIESCES??!!
Katie, my mother, that's who!!
I won't go into the details at this time because I've used Mrs. Muccifori's actual name and there's the outside chance that one of her people might stumble upon this story, but I'll write about it sometime down the road using an alias.
In the meantime, if you've ever rented an apartment, just imagine giving your landlady an enema. Under what circumstance would this possibly occur?
The mothballs have been lain about the perimeter of the property and now it smells like Mrs. Muccifori, my old Italian (and I mean OLD) landlady from when I was a kid.
We lived in a two-family house, owned by the Mucciforis, until I was 10-years-old. They lived on the first floor and we were on the second. They were tailors from Italy and I spent many an afternoon doodling on dark fabrics with the bars of soap they used to mark their plan of attack on an item of clothing.
In my young mind, the Mucciforis were boiled down to the smallest of generalizations -- Mr. Muccifori slept a lot and liked quiet, which is why I couldn't be too loud outside or stomp around upstairs, and Mrs. Muccifori was always cold, which is why she wore 300 sweaters even in the summer and jacked up the heat to the 80s. Since heat rises, our apartment used to average 98-degrees in the winter. My father used to sleep with the bedroom window open in NJ in the dead of winter and I still can have a mini anxiety attack if it gets too hot indoors...
Hmm...perhaps I should get back to the mothballs... If you ever met my Aunt Rhoda, you understand that I get my meandering storytelling "ability" honestly!
The attic of the house was finished except for two offshoots that remained unfinished storage areas and reeked of mothballs -- Mrs. Muccifori added them to her things to stave off the moths. I knew those were her things, associated the smell of mothballs with her, and to this day think of her whenever I smell mothballs.
And then I almost immediately think of the most puzzling story I've ever heard in my life.
My mother was about 25-years-old when Mr. Muccifori died. Mrs. Muccifori thought it would be a terrific idea to knock a hole in the wall downstairs and install a door between her apartment and our entry way. That way, if she needed anything, she could just essentially come into our apartment foyer and call upstairs.
And she did.
One particular afternoon, she called up to my mother in an Italian-accent-laced singsong:
"Kaaaatie, I want an enema.........."
Now, my mother's name is Kathy.
And what landlady asks her tenant for an enema?!
And more importantly, WHAT TENANT ACQUIESCES??!!
Katie, my mother, that's who!!
I won't go into the details at this time because I've used Mrs. Muccifori's actual name and there's the outside chance that one of her people might stumble upon this story, but I'll write about it sometime down the road using an alias.
In the meantime, if you've ever rented an apartment, just imagine giving your landlady an enema. Under what circumstance would this possibly occur?
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Pre-Race Goodness!
Wow. I really need to run some of this off during the half marathon tomorrow!! Or, The Long Stroll, as I like to call it. Tomorrow's my first training run for the Shamrock Marathon. :)
Gotta start somewhere!
Friday, November 11, 2011
Grace & Joe (To Be Continued)
Girlfriend and I were fortunate once again to have generous friends in high places, who bestowed upon us VIP ODU Women's basketball tickets for tonight. I had planned on posting a pic from the game and calling it a day, NaBloPoMo-wise.
Alas and alack, Girlfriend's grandmother is ill (mildly or deathly depending on with which family member one speaks), so we're heading out to bring the poor woman soup and good cheer.
I'll be bringing nervousness, as she's very important to Girlfriend and I've yet to meet her.
Eep!
Girlfriend kept apologizing for our missing the game and as I told her repeatedly that it was all right and that of course we should go, all I could think to myself is that I would give anything to spend a Friday night with these two:
As I think I've mentioned earlier, I spent nearly every Friday night of my childhood at my grandparents' house. The fact that it was around the block from my house made it difficult for them to hide. :)
Shoot. Girlfriend's on her way. Gotta wrap this anemic post up. Just hear this -- if you're lucky enough to still have grandparents walking the earth: go hug them, call them, and/or write to them. They're only in our lives for a short while, but if you've been really lucky, they've made a tremendous difference in your life.
I love you, "Mom" and "Dad." Hope you're enjoying a rousing Happy Hour right now!
Alas and alack, Girlfriend's grandmother is ill (mildly or deathly depending on with which family member one speaks), so we're heading out to bring the poor woman soup and good cheer.
I'll be bringing nervousness, as she's very important to Girlfriend and I've yet to meet her.
Eep!
Girlfriend kept apologizing for our missing the game and as I told her repeatedly that it was all right and that of course we should go, all I could think to myself is that I would give anything to spend a Friday night with these two:
As I think I've mentioned earlier, I spent nearly every Friday night of my childhood at my grandparents' house. The fact that it was around the block from my house made it difficult for them to hide. :)
Shoot. Girlfriend's on her way. Gotta wrap this anemic post up. Just hear this -- if you're lucky enough to still have grandparents walking the earth: go hug them, call them, and/or write to them. They're only in our lives for a short while, but if you've been really lucky, they've made a tremendous difference in your life.
I love you, "Mom" and "Dad." Hope you're enjoying a rousing Happy Hour right now!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Stephen King
Can't keeps eyes open. This will have to suffice.
NaBloPoMo's about quantity, not quality, my friends. :)
NaBloPoMo's about quantity, not quality, my friends. :)
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Black & Orange Stray Cats Sittin' on a Fence
Ooooo oooo oooo ooooo...
I won't even get into how many years it took me to figure out that's what the Stray Cats were singing as the first line of "Stray Cat Strut." I got the "...sittin' on a fence" part, but "Black and orange stray cats" eluded me for YEARS.
So embarrassing. Maybe I was distracted since I had one eye in the mirror as I watched myself gavotte.
Bodhi recently befriended a passel of stray cats in the 'hood and being the selfless creatures they are, each time they meet, they leave her with some parting gifts in the form of fleas.
Twelve years of urine leakage, separation anxiety, sour stomach, malignant tumors, benign tumors, and one (1) root canal, she fortunately hadn't seen fit to throw fleas into the mix. Until now.
And for my thirteenth year...
They don't appear to be bothering her, but I'm Frontlining her and staring at her obsessively. Last night there appeared to be quite a few having a party near her chotch (perverts). Now she keeps wondering why I'm talking to it -- as I speak to her in an effort to keep her still, all the while up-close-and-personal with her nether-region, looking for the moving spots. I'm getting more than a little paranoid. I spent 3 minutes trying to pick a freckle off my forearm earlier today.
I made the mistake of discussing the situation with my coworkers, who told me heartwarming stories of tapeworms transmitted by ingested fleas (and discovered hanging from a pet cat's butt), fleas laying eggs in dog beds (I found a flea in Bodhi's fleecy bed yesterday), and all-out flea infestations, requiring mini-vacations while the house in question gets bombed. I'm hoping with a pesticide...
Anyone want some cats?!
Tapeworm Cat Butt Coworker recommended sprinkling moth balls around the yard to keep the cats away. Like nearly every other living being on the planet, cats don't like the smell of moth balls. According to the packaging, I purchased "Old Fashioned Moth Balls" as opposed to those newfangled digital ones, so I'm hoping they'll be extra toxic. "Old Fashioned" probably means "Not Green." Sorry environment, these cats have got to GO.
I called Animal Control to come get them and then discovered that if caught, they'd be taken to a kill shelter. Whoops. I'm kind of torn. Normally I'd be sad to hear such a thing, but dammit, what am I supposed to do? I don't want to keep dousing poor Bodhi in toxic chemicals so these hippie cats can Occupy my 'hood.
If anyone would like to rescue one or all of them, please let me know.
They're going to need some flea treatments.
And for the love of god, please get them spayed/neutered and keep them indoors!
I won't even get into how many years it took me to figure out that's what the Stray Cats were singing as the first line of "Stray Cat Strut." I got the "...sittin' on a fence" part, but "Black and orange stray cats" eluded me for YEARS.
So embarrassing. Maybe I was distracted since I had one eye in the mirror as I watched myself gavotte.
Bodhi recently befriended a passel of stray cats in the 'hood and being the selfless creatures they are, each time they meet, they leave her with some parting gifts in the form of fleas.
Twelve years of urine leakage, separation anxiety, sour stomach, malignant tumors, benign tumors, and one (1) root canal, she fortunately hadn't seen fit to throw fleas into the mix. Until now.
And for my thirteenth year...
They don't appear to be bothering her, but I'm Frontlining her and staring at her obsessively. Last night there appeared to be quite a few having a party near her chotch (perverts). Now she keeps wondering why I'm talking to it -- as I speak to her in an effort to keep her still, all the while up-close-and-personal with her nether-region, looking for the moving spots. I'm getting more than a little paranoid. I spent 3 minutes trying to pick a freckle off my forearm earlier today.
I made the mistake of discussing the situation with my coworkers, who told me heartwarming stories of tapeworms transmitted by ingested fleas (and discovered hanging from a pet cat's butt), fleas laying eggs in dog beds (I found a flea in Bodhi's fleecy bed yesterday), and all-out flea infestations, requiring mini-vacations while the house in question gets bombed. I'm hoping with a pesticide...
Anyone want some cats?!
Tapeworm Cat Butt Coworker recommended sprinkling moth balls around the yard to keep the cats away. Like nearly every other living being on the planet, cats don't like the smell of moth balls. According to the packaging, I purchased "Old Fashioned Moth Balls" as opposed to those newfangled digital ones, so I'm hoping they'll be extra toxic. "Old Fashioned" probably means "Not Green." Sorry environment, these cats have got to GO.
I called Animal Control to come get them and then discovered that if caught, they'd be taken to a kill shelter. Whoops. I'm kind of torn. Normally I'd be sad to hear such a thing, but dammit, what am I supposed to do? I don't want to keep dousing poor Bodhi in toxic chemicals so these hippie cats can Occupy my 'hood.
If anyone would like to rescue one or all of them, please let me know.
They're going to need some flea treatments.
And for the love of god, please get them spayed/neutered and keep them indoors!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
A Prayer for Bruce
No offense to Joe Frazier or Heavy D. (may they rest in peace), but tonight I ask you to pray for poor Bruce Jenner. Let's review:
He used to be a god. In 1976 he won the gold medal for the decathlon, which despite its name, actually involves about 72 sports. And he excelled at them all. He was young and handsome and athletic and he was all over the Wheaties boxes and Love Boat.
He used to be a god. In 1976 he won the gold medal for the decathlon, which despite its name, actually involves about 72 sports. And he excelled at them all. He was young and handsome and athletic and he was all over the Wheaties boxes and Love Boat.
And then...
I don't want to say his appearance in the film Can't Stop the Music was a curse, but it did also star The Village People. As much as I love them and made my mother call me Felipe (the Native American ["Indian" in 1979]) for six months, it can't have helped.
Bruce lay low for a couple decades after that (can you blame him?!) and resurfaced in a charming little reality show called, Keeping Up with the Kardashians, in which the public discovered something had gone horribly wrong with our handsome Olympian:
Now, we know this is the result of really bad plastic surgery because 1) Bruce has admitted it and 2) We have his genetic beneficiary, Brody, as evidence:
And you know that's just gotta burn Bruce up, dontcha? (Look at you, you handsome bastard!)
As if this assault on his face wasn't cruel enough, he also landed smack in the middle of this mess 10 years ago:
And for good measure, even though he already had something like 4 biological kids and 4 step-kids, he felt it necessary to bring 2 more into the world. Now the 2 new Ks seem ok, but they've got the jet black hair of Kardashian krazy and the K names, so there's really no hope for them either.
So now he spends his days bumbling around his house like Ozzy on boring instead of oxy, being alternately mocked and forgotten by his wife and her offspring coven -- and their equally annoying mates.
Please, people, say a prayer for Bruce.
In the last two weeks, his step, Kim, left her Special Olympian basketball hubby (come on -- you thought the same thing!) after 72 days of marriage and then his son, Brody, and his SK8R GRL, Avril Lavigne, got their asses kicked outside a Hollywood bar.
Please, say a prayer for Bruce.
His 2011 decathlon appears to be:
Maintaining Kendall and Kylie's virginity
Repeatedly telling Kris she's not gaining weight
Assuring Khloe she's not adopted
Watching Rob on Dancing with the Stars (PLEASE -- say a prayer for Bruce!)
Getting his ear pierced and hair cut (one event)
Giving everyone unsolicited advice
Presenting motivational lectures for a fee (No, really -- people pay him!)
Remembering all of his children whose names don't start with K
Cowering under Khloe's blistering gaze
Ignoring the most annoying speech affectation on the planet and managing to hear what the 3 older K's are actually laying down
For this, he deserves a medal and more. He deserves your prayers. So please, pray for Bruce.
After all, he's just a guy who learned a really hard lesson: there's no such thing as a free f*ck.
Monday, November 7, 2011
What Goes Down, Must Come Up
I have a couple blog topics floating around in my head... Education in America, the obesity problem, poor nutrition, poverty -- you know, lighthearted fare like that.
But as I sat down to write tonight, it dawned on me that many of you -- this very evening -- may be wondering what it looks like when you recognize that gigantic smile on your dog's face for what it is (a surge in saliva as her glands empty pre-puke); manage to get her outside (Hurray!!); and PUUUUUUSH her off the deck just a little too late.
Well tonight's your lucky night, because I'm here to show you EXACTLY what that looks like!!
(Don't say I didn't warn you.)
Reminds me of a joke my Dad used to tell when I was a kid...
These two bums are walking down the street and come upon a rotting, dead cat. They're starving and the one guy says he's going to eat it. The second guy says he's crazy and refuses. The first guy eats the rotting cat and almost immediately throws up. The second guy exclaims, "Now THAT'S what I've been waiting for -- a warm meal!"
(I'm almost sure I screwed that up and will wait for my mother's confirmation and corrections. In the meantime, I'm going to go throw up now. NaBloPoMo Day 7 is rough!)
But as I sat down to write tonight, it dawned on me that many of you -- this very evening -- may be wondering what it looks like when you recognize that gigantic smile on your dog's face for what it is (a surge in saliva as her glands empty pre-puke); manage to get her outside (Hurray!!); and PUUUUUUSH her off the deck just a little too late.
Well tonight's your lucky night, because I'm here to show you EXACTLY what that looks like!!
(Don't say I didn't warn you.)
Reminds me of a joke my Dad used to tell when I was a kid...
These two bums are walking down the street and come upon a rotting, dead cat. They're starving and the one guy says he's going to eat it. The second guy says he's crazy and refuses. The first guy eats the rotting cat and almost immediately throws up. The second guy exclaims, "Now THAT'S what I've been waiting for -- a warm meal!"
(I'm almost sure I screwed that up and will wait for my mother's confirmation and corrections. In the meantime, I'm going to go throw up now. NaBloPoMo Day 7 is rough!)
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