oh johnny.

it's kind of staggering how hot johnny damon is with his beard and the hair. i mean, sure, jesus-y, but in that fucking hot, who's-your-daddy way. i am fine with that way. in fact, i like that way best. sort of dirty, and scruffy. he's been playing for the red sox, which really means he's a scrapper. a real live sports movie come to life. and well, look at him. it's not just me, right? the red sox means nothing to me beyond the fact that i have a couple friends that are red sox fans, and when the red sox lose, i feel their pain inasmuch as they feel the pain, well, because generally, we all suffer when the sox blow it. still, now they are a success story, and johnny damon's hot form really represents that.

but generally, the kind of venom i have for the yankees is a little akin to what i feel for the cowboys. i would root against the yankees on any given day of the week, if they were playing anybody. but i have so much more fodder now that damon has signed a four year, 52 million dollar contract with the fucking yankees. let's spell that out, shall we? damon helped the red sox, sworn, mortal enemies of the yankees, win the world series for the first time in however many years, and now, johnny damon, mr. red sox, is playing for the FUCKING YANKEES. which whatevah, i would drool over him in pinstripes or red, but the yankees go too far. they have to kill everything beautiful and good in the world. i hate them. H-A-T-E. it's not right. they are making dude shave and get a fucking flat top. it's not right. why not kill puppies and cavort with clowns while you're at it yankees organization? you already scare the fuck outta me with your shenanigans. shit ain't right.

humbug.

t minus 6 days until we celebrate the birth of our saviour baby jesus and all the angels sing and we celebrate by going to the gap for that one unique heartfelt gift that says, 'baby jesus died for your sins and all i got was this lousy t-shirt.'

current mood: a little george bailey at martini's bar, pre-clarence.

i spent yesterday trying to wrap up the shopping and the joy and fa-la-fuckin'-las. i'm almost done. i know i am forgetting people. i am forgetting things. it all seems so forced finding gifts, and tokens of your love. right now. and despite my pledges that i wasn't going overboard, i feel overboard. it doesn't seem enough. and yet it seems too much. why are gifts for my mom so hard to buy, for example? i mean besides the fact that she is ubershopper. she always gets what she needs, and inevitably says she wants nothing. or she says, sure get me slippers. and when you talk to her a week later, she says, "i just got the cutest slippers." anyway, just say something, am i right? like, yeah, for example, i have always wanted a marionette. a really creepy marionette that i can learn to do creepy things with. i am currently obsessed with scott radke's work. anyway, this would force people to look for one weird thing and not buy me a bunch of crap i don't need or want. i am bitter. i want it all to be easy. instant gift that gets my loved ones teary-eyed. it's not going to happen. i buy off of wish lists. i am just that kind of person.

it other scroogey news. santa wars as deposed father christmas fumes. this whole article is incredibly interesting. i am especially fascinated with the competition for santa of the world itself:

At the Games in Gallivare in Swedish Lapland, Santas sled, race reindeer-drawn sleighs, eat porridge -- with a splash on the beard earning instant disqualification -- climb chimneys and deliver presents under the watchful gaze of a panel of judges.

Horniblew said it all came down to the reindeer sled race.

"You go up two at a time, head-to-head," he told The Mail on Sunday.

"I was up against the Estonian and I won the race. He actually fell off his sleigh. But he got awarded extra points for falling in a particularly Santa-like style.

"I was pretty miffed at that, I can tell you."

holy shit, that's funny. but this is what upsets me, because most of you know, i really enjoy the seeing santa at the bus stop, drunk with a cigarette.

Uniformed Santas must not smoke, drink alcohol, or swear.

what?!?!? that is what christmas is all about in my family. merry christmas, you wonderful old building and loan!

the 6th level of hell: abercrombie & fitch. at christmas time. in a new jersey mall.

it's not that i particularly hate the young, beautiful and skinny. granted, i am old, ugly and fat, so there is a sense in which i have an almost existential sense of the fuckuppedness of it all now. a grander understanding of the huge cosmic joke which is a becoming a 30+ year old woman in a world that makes prepubescence and anorexia sexy. friday afternoon, my sis and the kids and i headed over to the cherry hill mall to fully grasp what hell is like, all its circles. it's divine comedy, so to speak. no, it was fine. fun to be with the family. but you know, i really am afraid of teenagers. i cross the street. look at the tops of my shoes, pray to sweet baby jesus that they don't steal my credit cards and then mock my sense of style and my lack of understanding of the crazy shizzle that comes out of their perfect little mouths. so imagine my horror and surprise when walking by abercrombie and fitch, i see in the doorway a male model with no shirt on, and a female girl, both hot teenagers posing. here is my sister and my exchange:
"holy fuck." i said, "i hate those people."
"oh, it's much worse than you think. they charge 15 bucks to get your picture taken with one of them."
"WHAT?!"
"yeah, 15."
"you'd think they'd get a prettier model for that."
"she's okay, i think the thing is she is young."
"who would do that?"
"teenage girls, i suppose."
"man, i should do that. that would be fucking hilarious. and when i go up and say, 'yeah, i'd like picture.' and they put the hot young guy next to me, i say, 'no, no, with her' and wink at her. perhaps i would get arrested for pedophilia though."
"that would be hilarious, but really really creepy."

ny times think of this hilarious practical joke with pig's blood at the senior prom.

i'm reading this article on the NYTimes with the headline: doctors removing growth from teen's face, because, well, i'm morbid like that, and read any article that sounds like it might have a freaky picture on it. article reads and i quote:

A 14-year-old Haitian girl underwent a rare operation Wednesday to remove much of a 16-pound tumor-like growth on her face that all but obliterated her features.

This is a sad, inspiring story of american medicine. a heroic one, one where obstacles are overcome. A 14 year old girl whose features are obliterated by a tumor the size of a three month old child is SO not getting a date for the spring formal. she is incredibly thankful. everything is going well. somehow my sympathetic false memories of having a carrie-like high school experience exude from my pores, and i think, i would be friend with you 14 year old haitan girl. i wipe a tear, sort of. seriously, i am touched, and then out of the corner of my eye i catch a moving ad, you know, how they are on every fucking page you click on these days. and i see this:

the nytimes is just fucking mean. ha ha, growth girl! in your face, ha ha. they are like junior high school boys, que no? can't find a better fucking page to put that ad on? not only that, it is a microsoft ad whose tag is something about evolution. can we be a little more sensitive, you fucking nation galaga shit head assholes. is this not the premise of like every john hughes movie. so, just for shits and giggles, i click on this story: the face of the future in thursday style section, and the ad on that page is for cartier's bridal collection. GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. so the article about how extreme plastic surgery with a picture of a seemingly attractive woman covered in plastic surgery stuff gets a cartier ad, like you TOO can get married if you have extreme plastic surgery to make you look like a stepford wife. i have not the words to describe the levels in which this rubs me up the wrong way, and yet seems like something that would only make me mad. and you don't want to see me angry.

if i were a little pony, i would be this one.

yeah, i am currently all about the candy canes. i mean, i have a self-imposed limit of one candy cane a day, and during lunch hour, after downing like an andre the giant size meatloaf lunch with this wicked good gorgonzola sauce, asparagus and sweet potatoes of pain, i went a lookin' for my one allotted candy cane. no. where. shivers. shakes. it was no place to be found. i eventually recovered it from the pocket of my jacket when i was headed out to buy a box. why am i so so insane? i mean, it's christmas, yes. it's shoved down our throats and everything, and i am totally shepeople. a perfect marketing target audience for santa and all his clauses, que no? i can't get enough. ubermensch has got the ray coniff singers crooning their stupid saturday night special on abc crap on infinite repeat. i am wearing red everyday and currently on the prowl for some rocking holiday ribbon for my homemade wreath. if i buy anything with a snowman on it, and say, it is so cute, y'all have officially earned the right to buy me a pack of cigarettes, a fifth of j.d., and tie me to a christmas tree beating me incessantly with wrapped gifts until i get bitter and angst-y again.

all that being said, i am going to get HUGE. the fact of it is that it was minus 1 degree out there this morning with the wind chill factor (read: i haven't been riding my bike). i mean, my ass is not getting any smaller with all the candy canes. AND then, starbucks, the bane of my existence and my only source of joy, begin the death march of chub. egg nog lattes. yep. a venti egg nog latte contains 530 calories. FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY. in case you care, that's almost six glasses of wine or five shots of bourbon. my current second addiction right now: petite cookies. OH, they seem innocuous enough. and only 40 calories per ccookie. look at them. little powdered sugar vixens. how they mock me. but they are the devil. i can't get enough of them i heart them. i want to tongue kiss them. i know there are all kind of them gingerbread, chocolate (blech-y), raspberry, but no, i am currently obsessed with the peppermint ones. and only 40 calories sure i can eat a couple. i just ate 8 of them. all at one shot, with an egg nog latte and followed by the candy cane.

the shizzle. i'm telling you. i'm a fucking cow, but i am in a zen-like state of happy christmas world.

i know you want to mock me relentlessly. go ahead, skinny head, you better do it now, since i am fat and complacent, and currently unable to chase you kids down with a candy cane in my mouth, egg nog latte in my hand, and powdered sugar will leave finger prints on your pummeled form, you lucky bastard, but just so you know, i am bitter and angry about being not bitter and angry. and i will sit on you, if i catch you, you skinny biatch. word.

i want crazy ass pigtails, too.

though preferably not a monkey whose face looks like ass, neither do i want some mutant white kid gene that makes my teeth way too big for my mouth, or freckles, which just would look weird on me as a brown girl and stuff, but definitely i think the sentiment is there. i want a monkey. there i said it.

et tu, anthropolgie?

i admit i like anthropologie, even though it's owned by republicans and the clothes are clearly sewn by three-fingered blind people in ecuador who hate americans (yeah, the quality isn't worth a crap, i've gotten some better made things at the sleezy pickin's on chestnut), and tailored to fit 6 foot, rich, anemic vegan hippies who weigh 100 lbs wet, and pray to the all mighty thor, god of thunder. still, i like them, if only because i strive to wear my glasses and look sexy in old lady/librarian clothes. it's my thing. it's your thing. it's everyone's thing.

most of the time, when i see an anthropolgie outfit i think. boho. chic. funky. it defies planet gap. so, there have been times when i, angie k., have been know to spend an inordinate amount of money on a sweater i will more than likely wear only once, because the fucking catalogue made it look good. i am a marketing target audience. sad but true. in the end, as you can well imagine, the sweaters themselves generally make me look like a homeless, pudgy, dwarven freak with a big ass. and lawd knows, i have the anti-ass, so if it's making me look like i got some junk in the trunk, the problem is with them, not me.

but my point is, have you ever gotten a look at the catalogues, though? i mean, the women look awesome, even if they look like schizophrenic kennedys. you almost forget that nothing they are wearing matches, or is even in the same decade of cool. if you went out of the house wearing any outfit in the anthropologie catalogue, your partner would walk ten steps behind you, or use the relationship blow gun, meant only to be used in extreme circumstances of embarrassing.

whump.
ouch, what was that in my neck? mmmm, feeling sleepy.

next thing you know you are in gap jeans and a black tee. thank god, for the blowgun. but, really, i am currently drooling over these five hundred dollar boots, which, let's face it, i would never wear. i acknowledge this. they are cool as fuck. and i would try them on with every outfit determining that they wouldn't work with ANYTHING. so, this is why i fucking hate anthropologie inasmuchas i love anthropologie. blame genetics. blame my ability to put a fucking chic outfit together. whatever. i. fucking. hate. them.

so, what do i do, even though i know this about my tenuous relationship with anthropologie clothing? i wait for it to go on sale, then buy it on line. everyone at work aaaaaaaaaaahs, and ooooooooooooohs, because, let's face it, they are stylish clothes, that look good on sticks, and in say, plastic. then i take it home and try the items on daily to make sure they still don't look good on me. and never wear them. this interesting, and clearly dysfunctional, relationship i have with the anthropologie people has gotten out of control, because since i order on-line, i have two addresses on their mailing lists: one for delivery, one for billing. so, imagine my chagrin when i receive yet another catalogue from these people yesterday.

let's count them, shall we? i get fall, then late fall, the accessories, then holiday, then gifts, now i get a fucking SOLSTICE catalogue. solstice? only the marketing geniuses at this stupid ass place would send a solstice catalogue and charm me. damn you, anthropologie. and i don't just get one, i get one at home AND at work. two, i get two. of each. i'm sick of being stalked by these assclowns. really. because i have now looked through the same catalogue i looked through this morning, at my desk, because it was in my work mailbox. i know i am encouraging them, but it's haunting and hypnotic. and why have i decided to rant today, because this stupid ass outfit looks good to me, and i blame them. i blame anthropologie for whittling my sense of fashion and style down enough that this ac/dc short pant, suede green huge boot uglyass outfit looks good.

i'm not even going to go into the levels of pain the urban outfitter catalogue causes me--i've never even ordered from them, but seeing twelve year old hipsters staring at me with their methadone-induced pallor makes me rabid. ugh, i need a coffee and a cigarette, and clearly, a therapist.

give the gift that keeps on giving, and talking about itself incessantly.

ever feel like a self-important prick? or maybe like over margaritas one night, you maybe talked about yourself a little too much with your best friend? or even maybe, like after being giving the dubious award of being the "worst film ever admitted into cannes film festival", you still speak of yourself in the third person and call roger ebert a fat pig with the physique of a slavedriver (whatever the fuck that means)? well, fear not, friend, you have no fucking idea how big a dude's ego can be. you are fine. just fine.

vincent gallo really redefines the term egomaniacal to be all about him. check this shit out: vincent gallo merchandise. really, the depth of vincent gallo's ego is much like dante's levels of hell, in so many, many ways. perhaps it is a joke, and he cracks wise at himself, or perhaps his ego is SO overinflated that he thinks he can sell other people's shit signed for thousands of dollars, but whatever it is. i mean, i thought i have known some narcissistic people in my life, but i am consistently impressed with the levels of his obnoxiousness. i'm embarassed to actually be on this site, and yet, i can't turn away. it's mesmorizing. so, confused as to what to give your 30 something single girl friend who has everything? why not give her vincent gallo's sperm? it's only $1 million. i just have to cut and paste the description. it is hilarious.

Vincent Gallo's Sperm

$1 Million

Price includes all costs related to one attempt at an in-vitro fertilization. (A $50,000 value) If the first attempt at in vitro fertilization is unsuccessful, purchaser of sperm must pay all medical costs related to additional attempts. Mr. Gallo will supply sperm for as many attempts as it takes to complete a successful fertilization and successful delivery. Sperm is 100% guaranteed to be donated by Mr. Gallo who is drug, alcohol and disease free. If the purchaser of the sperm chooses the option of natural insemination, there is an additional charge of $500,000. However, if after being presented detailed photographs of the purchaser, Mr. Gallo may be willing to waive the natural insemination fee and charge only for the sperm itself. Those of you who have found this merchandise page are very well aware of Mr. Gallo's multiple talents, but to add further insight into the value of Mr. Gallo's sperm, aside from being multi talented in all creative fields, he was also multi talented as an athlete, winning several awards for performing in the games of baseball, football and hockey and making it to the professional level of grand prix motorcycle racing. Mr. Gallo is 5'11" and has blue eyes. There are no known genetic deformities in his ancestry (no cripples) and no history of congenital diseases. If you have seen The Brown Bunny, you know the potential size of the genitals if it's a boy. (8 inches if he's like his father.) I don't know exactly how a well hung father can enhance the physical makeup of a female baby, but it can't hurt. Mr. Gallo also presently maintains a distinctively full head of hair and at the age of 43 has surprisingly few gray hairs. Though his features are sharp and extreme, they would probably blend well with a softer, more subtly featured female. Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions. Though a fan of Franco Harris, Derek Jeter, Lenny Kravitz and Lena Horne, Mr. Gallo does not want to be part of that type of integration. In fact, for the next 30 days, he is offering a $50,000 discount to any potential female purchaser who can prove she has naturally blonde hair and blue eyes. Anyone who can prove a direct family link to any of the German soldiers of the mid-century will also receive this discount. Under the laws of the Jewish faith, a Jewish mother would qualify a baby to be deemed a member of the Jewish religion. This would be added incentive for Mr. Gallo to sell his sperm to a Jew mother, his reasoning being with the slim chance that his child moved into the profession of motion picture acting or became a musical performer, this connection to the Jewish faith would guarantee his offspring a better chance at good reviews and maybe even a prize at the Sundance Film Festival or an Oscar. To be clear, the purchase of Mr. Gallo's sperm does not include the use of the name Gallo. The purchaser must find another surname for the child.

**Clicking "Buy Now" will charge a $1,000 deposit via Paypal. The remaining balance will be due by cashiers check, wire transfer, or personal check and is due within seven days of purchase date. Item will ship when full payment has cleared.

Coke Yak, you mean?

coke to launch coffee-infused coke blak. holy mother of god, that sounds disgusting, no, i mean, a really horrible idea. bad. and i am a coffee fan. not only that, it is going to be like that coke 2, or whatever the fuck it's called, that made me throw up a little in my mouth when i first tasted it. no. really. it did. it was after a metric century, 100k, and john k. and i were rolling into the final area, there are the coca-cola clowns all set up handing out sample cans of c2 with that splenda shit in it. 'oh, thank you,' i said, all nicelike, and really i was thankful and thirsty.. and i would have thrown up completely, if c2 hadn't instantenously dried out my entire mouth and nasal passage with its chalkiness, exactly what you do NOT need after riding 63 miles in july. if i had not been dehydrated, i would have turned around and thrown that shit right back at that blonde fucking coke cunt, but alas, it made me complacent as well. and thus, my rant ends. thank you.

squirrels are assholes.

first, it was ants that scared the fucking bejesus out of me. now, it's a wild pack of russian squirrels which have made a sport out of killing dogs. squirrels? SQUIRRELS. first, plague carrying rodents. now, roving bands of serial pet-killing punks. they are great pointed archers (RATS) with fuzzy tails, and they suck. this story is insane, perhaps it is the writing, but it sounds like an episode of law and order with the russian mob, except being played by squirrels. i am copying parts of the piece, because it is disturbing on so many levels, the image horrifying. i am almost a little nervous to go into rittenhouse square. have you seen the number of squirrels in there? certainly, for many reasons, i am not headed to kent, ohio, where the black squirrel rules with an iron fist. it made the nuts an offer it couldn't refuse. btw, i have bolded the parts that are particularly disturbing to me:

Squirrels have bitten to death a stray dog which was barking at them in a Russian park, local media report.

Passers-by were too late to stop the attack by the black squirrels in a village in the far east, which reportedly lasted about a minute.

They are said to have scampered off at the sight of humans, some carrying pieces of flesh.

A pine cone shortage may have led the squirrels to seek other food sources, although scientists are sceptical.

The attack was reported in parkland in the centre of Lazo, a village in the Maritime Territory, and was witnessed by three local people.

A "big" stray dog was nosing about the trees and barking at squirrels hiding in branches overhead when a number of them suddenly descended and attacked, reports say.

"They literally gutted the dog," local journalist Anastasia Trubitsina told Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper.

beyond this story, there is a rather crazy, disturbing website that catalogues the horror inflicted by squirrels. north american defense against squirrels. some of the headlines on this page, which link to stories are:

Squirrels Break into Truck and Cause $700 in Damages
Psychotic Squirrel Attacks Biker
Granddad guns down terror squirrel
Crazed squirrel attacks hunter

sweet boxing moses

make it stop. except, wait, do i hear the eye of the tiger?
suck.
suck suck suck.
suck suck suck.
suck suck. suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

why am i such a misfit?

i am not just a nitwit. oh, fuck it, yes i am. feliz navidad, merry christmas and all that other shit.

so, yeah, it's the beginning of the holiday season with snow this weekend and last night. of course, just to highlight my own ineptitude, i had no idea it was going to snow until i was already at work with my bike. so, yeah, it really is starting to feel festive in these here parts.

yesterday, i really began to realize it was the holidays when i took a half dozen overdue bills over to the post office. i mean, i'm lazy about bureacracy and, like, walking during lunch and stuff, so they had been piling up. why, you ask? you, a responsible adult, uberwensch, with a real, big person job in a tall building. well, honestly, i gots the fucking money, okay? i was out of stamps. I ADMIT IT. i didn't pay my bills and collected late fees, because i'm fucking lazy and i hate the post office in downtown philly at lunch hour. so, i decide to finally suck it up all in the name of my credit rating (thanks, anna, for awareness of that) and walk over at 1:15p. certainly things would have calmed down by then.

if you thought that, you are just plain stupid. dumb. because no, no, it was madness over there. like, are they giving out blow jobs with first class insurance? there were two lines, one from the front desk which was to the door, and another for the stamp dude, and that was to the front counter and then back to the door again. i basically looked in and said, 'holy fuck. i'm too old for this sh--.' (yeah, clearly, i'm in a danny glover movie.) but there were like people who were aged 150 in there, and i thought, 'come on now, suck it up.' but i couldn't. i simply, absolutely could not stand in line. or i would have died. so, i look around desperately clutching my pgw bill. where? where do i go? i can't take them back to work. i would be such a huge idget. there was no line at the machine, YES. so i bought just enough stamps from the little machines, because i only had two bucks (yes, you are right, that is just enough for a cup of coffee at starbies).

so then, i realize i haven't sent my christmas cards yet. (or bought ANY gifts for that matter.) or done anything. this is the kind of stuff that makes people have anxiety attacks, change their name and move to topeka under the name jane koslowski. so, maybe noone will get cards this year. or perhaps everyone gets 50 bucks. i finally understand that lazy ass uncle i had who just stuffed 10 bucks in a white envelope with no name on it. like whichever kid shows up gets an envelope. it didn't feel special, but who cares?

today, since my officemate is out sick with the gout (i shit you not. it's like when will had the shingles. i told everyone because i just wanted to say, 'yeah, will has the shingles real bad.') so, i am blaring the traditional christmas music via yahoo music launch. great music. i mean, i have not heard one instance of celine dion singing 'oh holy night'. is that not glorious? does that not prove the miracle of baby jesus right there? i mean, do your fucking ears bleed when she sings or what? i will not listen to mariah carey massacre any traditional tunes. i refuse. and 104.5 only plays the fucking crapass pop music christmas music. i mean, the funkiest i get is perhaps bowie's christmas song. or do they know it's christmas in africa? i mean, do they? it's the age old question. i can listen to rosemary clooney sing anything fifty times in a row, but one fucking sap rap version of 'silent night', and i am like in ohio highway road rage, you know?

so, this has adequately gotten me in the mood for putting up the christmas tree tonight. i'm too excited. and while i have been writing this blog, i have also ordered my first on-line gift--something for ubermensch. it's all going to be okay. now, pass the damn figgy pudding.

Yeah...

what i said before about understanding boys a little more, uh, scratch that.

monday morning, blech-y.

it's monday morning, around 9 something, and i'm at work. you can see the tragedy in this situation, right? i had a stupidly busy weekend. up early on saturday (oh, right, you already know that), and i didn't stop much on sunday. baking. baking. cleaning. and helping sam write a paper. i sort of was sore from too much working out, which made me stretchy and crabby, then i just got in a lousy mood in the evening and today. and hitting my 30s, i'm telling you, things change. it's exciting. i love coming into my own and everything, but things also change. call it biology. call it evolution. call it evolutionary biology, but i think i understand teenage boys a little more, and why men start wars, blow things up, and engage in suburban boxing clubs.

so, to bring myself up, i visited mcsweeney's this morning. coffee literally, and i mean, much to the chagrin of my co-worker, literally, came out of my nose from laughing so hard at this. i want to attribute this, and the link is below, but i am posting the whole damn thing, because it is too fucking funny for you people NOT to read. i don't trust that you will click on it. really, the trust thing is my problem, not yours, but the laziness thing is something, maybe, you should look at.

i don't know what the big deal about having a baby is. by wendy molyneux.

If there's one thing I'm tired of, it's hearing about how hard it is to have a baby. I hate to break the news to you, but people have been having babies for literally billions of years. In the olden days, women would have their babies right out there in the field, or on the back of a dinosaur, or, when we were still fish-people, right there in the stream. Then they would put the new baby in a crib made of stones and let a brontosaurus watch it or whatever.

But ask any modern pregnant woman whether she'd let a dinosaur watch her baby and she'll freak out as if you've just said the most outlandish thing ever. I guess irrationality is just one of the many so-called symptoms of pregnancy. Another symptom seems to be a case of the chubs. I don't know if these women know this, but nobody likes a fat girl. Sure, I'd love to order the nachos and the onion rings and claim that I'm "eating for two," but I guess I have something these pregnant women don't: self-respect.

When they aren't busy eating, pregnant women are constantly crying or going to the bathroom. They'll swear up and down that these are more of those famous pregnancy symptoms, but I watch television and I know that unstable women who constantly need to run to the bathroom are drug addicts. Perhaps you remember a certain episode of Saved by the Bell, when Jessie Spano got addicted to caffeine pills and Zack Morris had to stage an intervention to get her to stop the madness? Well, every time one of these pill-addled fatties waddles down the hall toward the loo, I wish I had Zack's courage.

And the worst part is that the endless complaining doesn't end after the baby is born. Rather than appreciating the fact that they had a normal child in spite of the drugs and the reckless overeating, new parents go on and on about how hard child care is. Everyone knows that kids love television and candy. Yet I've met parents who refuse to give a baby candy or let it watch TV, and then complain when it cries. Wouldn't you cry if someone took away your bourbon and cut your cable line just as Desperate Housewives was about to commence? What if Eva Longoria said something especially sassy and you missed it?

And then there are the babies themselves. Try saying something polite to a baby, such as "How are you?" or "Did you see Lost this week? Were you surprised to find out what was in the hatch?" The baby will simply fix you with a cold, fishy stare and not reply at all.

Listen, I don't want to brag, but I've done a lot of hard things in my life, and I'm tired of being told I have "no idea" what it's like to have a baby. Why, just last week my friend Carrie gave me a set of Calphalon pots and pans. These pots and pans are not machine washable, and you can only use nonmetal utensils with them or you'll risk scratching them. In short, my Calphalon pans are just as hard to take care of as a baby. But try pointing this out to a pregnant woman and the next thing you know, she's kicked you in the crotch.

WAKE UP, MIDSHIPMEN.

it's 530 in the am: do you know where your second cup of coffee is?in my belly. damn straight, homes. i'm on cup two and it's not even 530 yet. fuck you, sleep.i kick your ass.

this week has been slow and boring on the blogging front. sorry. work has been insanely busy and stupid, and well, that prevents me from reading things on the internet, and from writing stupid things about it on here. i hate work. i can't believe no one pays me to exist yet. well, now, i can devote time to writing about stupid shit that noone cares about. it is before 6 am on saturday after all, what else am i going to do?

Baby, you make my "love molecule" soar [yahoo] that bastion of journalistic integrity, yahoo news, has this piece on love. basically, to sum up, some italian researchers found that when you fall in love, you produce more of this molecule called nerve growth factor, but after a year, it is signficantly reduced in the blood. yahoo's conclusion. you can only be in love for a year. stupid yahoo. the researchers conclusion are actually that the molecule provides a strong role in social chemistry. alright. whatever dude.

bush gets jury duty. tee hee. that shit would have been hilarious. if he was sitting on a jury for like a dui or drug charge or something, pure irony, then as punishment to the sort of scruffy jeff bridges type character, the president makes him be president for a week to see what real responsibility is, they go for bike rides with the secret service, they fall in love...man. comedy. costner movies have been based on less substance than that.

MoDo, can i just say, briefly, hon, i miss you. i mean, i seriously, ache for you. oh. maureen, why have you let them make you into a tool for the haves? what about the little people, mo, what of us? i want to read your piece--w's head in the sand. i know what it's about, what all your pieces are about, leftist propaganda.feminist propaganda. it will make me smile. it will make me pensive. but most importantly, it will make me rant, and you know how i love a good rant. your flippant little comments. your stupid one line paragraphs. your unsophisticated below the belt jabs at bush. your clever, yet glib cuts will make me insane, yet, i am compelled to read you, maureen dowd, for the times you really make me think, you really make me say, FUCK YEAH, GIRL, rock that commentary. but i REFUSE to pay the ny times. i am holding out. and really, i'm probably only hurting me, but i can't do it. sorry, babe, you are just too high maintenance for me.

subway apologizes to kansas. [nytimes] so, this headline. i mean, i had to click it. what is this strange language in which states and public transprotation are communicating? what happened, did some turnip truck faller offer miss the f train and the subway said, 'we are sorry, tourist, not just to you, bt to all of your people, and your state, for being a cold heartless city.' but no, no, you are much more clever then me, que no? you knew they meant the subway food chains. they had an ad campaign for their salmon sandwich saying, 'another reason you're lucky not to live in kansas.' that shit is funny, you know, for an ad. midwesterners were not amused. fuck'em. learn how to take a joke, you live in fucking kansas. you need something to smile about. really, if you aren't laughing at yourself, then it's just us. and laughing alone is sad.

Woman sues Pizza Hut

i love the facetious first sentence in this piece. and usually facetious isn't really my thing. but i heart the morning call. and chris parker, whoever the fuck that guy, or gal, is. i just have to say, though, if i got burnt by pizza hut and i was suing and i was now disfigured. i would sue for like a million or something. why the fuck not? don't look at me, jury, i'm a monster.

Woman Sues Pizza Hut Over Burned Chin

By Chris Parker
Of The Allentown Morning Call
A woman is suing the Pizza Hut in Lehighton, Pa., because the hot poppers she ordered as an appetizer were, well, hot and popped when she bit into them.

Sorana Georgescu-Hassanin claims she may be permanently impaired because the ''excessively hot'' oil in the deep-fried, cheese-stuffed hot pepper severely burned her chin.

Her husband, Hatem Hassanin, is suing for the loss of companionship and comfort of his wife.

They are suing Pizza Hut for at least $25,000 each.

The suit names the Dallas corporation and Richard Whitson, who owns the Lehighton franchise and his company, QSM, LLC. It says they failed to warn Sorana Georgescu-Hassanin the appetizers were hot and neglected to drain the oil from them.

Whitson declined to comment, other than to say, ''The incident took place before I owned the store.'' He bought the franchise in April.

Pizza Hut spokeswoman Julie Hildebrand said the company would not comment on pending litigation.

Posted 11/30/2005 at 4:30 PM

the differences between most viewed and most emailed, boys and girls

i admit that i enjoy the yahoo news feature called photos. really, it makes me laugh that it is in the news section, because most of the photos are shit, and ridiculous stupid pop culture shit at that. the picture to the left, for example, are the mascots for the 2006, or 2008 i didn't read the fucking story or caption, beijing olympics, which looks like the picture on those weird sushi candies that anna gets for me in chinatown. i love those candies. DAMN. mmmm, gummy hamachi. now, i can't concentrate on my post because i'm thinking of bad candy. mmmmm, okay, focus. i blame the superfriends and the smurfs, and schoolhouse fucking rock, not starbucks, for my adult adhd.

ANYWAY, my point is that the yahoo photos are great for being, you know, shallow. and empty. and bad. i try to get a sense of what those humans find interesting (always on the pulse of america, i am). so what i really find interesting is the most emailed vs. most viewed pages. i mean, you could do a fucking dissertation in psychology and sociology about this. today, i broke down the two page ones of these features, and drew some conclusions.

ON the most emailed photos thumbnail page, there are 20 photos. Of those 20, seven are animal photos, four are of the hottie teacher in florida who is on trial for schtumpping her student and pleasuring him orally while his friends and cousins looked on (HOT DAMN, that's a story!), three are of cars and/or motorcycles which may or may not have a woman in a bikini on it, two are mariah carey's very ample bosom, two are landscapes, and two are of bush making a stupid face. so, for those keeping track at home, the animal shots win in the most emailed photos. cute animal shots.

however, on the most viewed section, SEVEN are of the blond teacher, three are of cars and/or motorcycles which may or may not have a half nekkid woman sprawled across it, two are of mariah's boobies, two are of jennie mccarthy's boobies, one of hilary duff sitting on a boy, one of lindsay lohan pretending to sing, one is of a dead guy in iraq, one is a weird shot of a church and two are of cutesy animals.

let's review, shall we? the most emailed photos are mostly of cute animals, like the ringtailed lemur above. clearly, the woman i work with are the ones emailing photos to each other and setting them as fuckin' screensavers, which just begins my fucking rage within, as you know. the most viewed, however, is like a little peek into every man's brain. NOONE knows what you view, right? i mean, you can just look at the yahoo news section photos in your history. so, my conclusions--boys view TONS more yahoo photos than girls. so they click on the teacher, think, 'dude she's hot. i would have been so psyched to have been banging my hottie teacher if she looked like that when i was 14. let's see another angle. and another one. wait, let's go back to the first one'. but guys, pretty much keep that shit to themselves. the occassional random dickhead emails a pic with the message text, 'DUDE, check out mariah's boobies.'  to me, the breakdown of most emailed clearly points to the fact that mostly women email photos to each other. like, 'AH, that's cute. i gotta send that to helen.' so, what do we surmise? women think about others, and what they might find interesting, and email that off to other people; whereas, men are self-absorbed pigs who enjoy privately getting off on jennie mccarthy or teachers who look like jennie mccarthy who do a little boom boom with 14 year old kids. but we all kind of knew that already, right?

oh, the morning call, always a wealth of blog fodder.

so, i'm just perusing the police beat section of the morning call, the nation's favorite hometown paper, when i read this headline,

2 Rifles, Fop Flag Missing From Police Office

i was like, wow, the headline writers at the morning call are really being judgemental and harsh. it might as well read really faggy flag stolen from the police office. but no, really, my first thought was, what the fuck is a Fop flag? yeah, i know now too. they mean fraternal order of police. It's FOP, dude. when you are using an acronym you must capitalize all the letters. otherwise, what it actually says is that 2 rifles and a flag owned by "a man who is preoccupied with and often vain about his clothes and manners; a dandy*" was stolen from the police headquarters.

also, this headline and brief description is going to haunt the 18 year old bangor man for the rest of his days. can you imagine doing this stupid assanine crime, you get arrested after easton police have clearly done some serious policing, and then the brief description of your sentencing says that your mom was crying? could you feel any worse? i mean, this makes you instantly catholic. it just sucks. i just have to say, arrested in a bb gun vandalism spree at 18, with a front page headine in the morning call, to me, seems like punishment enough. plus, everytime he dates a chick and they talk late into the night after a rousing make out session, and she asks in her i'm-into-you-and-want-to-know-everything-about-you way if he's ever been arrested for anything, he will have to answer, if he sees a future with her, yeah, for random acts of vandalism with a bb gun. he is so not getting laid.

man who serenaded police found guilty of fifth dui offense

there are so many reasons why i love this story, and why i love this story being covered by the morning call. firstly, you don't really even need the end of that headline, i mean, i think once you write "man who serenaded police found guilty" we can pretty much figure out what the crime is. the homeless caught driving drunk (good lord!) perhaps only in allentown would a homeless man have a car, let alone drive it drunk. so, dude began singing a neil young medley, and playing air guitar. really, who hasn't this happened to at some point in their life? i mean, the drunken neil young medley...besides the fact that neil  young has been trying to kill me for a good 16 years, i am still a fan of harvest moon, you know. at any rate, the morning call needs to covers stories like this because the morning call has a sort of maniacal dedication to reporting all the details that we didn't actually need to know. what song the dude was singing to the cops actually has NO BEARING whatsoever on what the story is actually about. still, it's amusing and it makes me happy. case and point:

Police took Stires to the DUI processing center in Easton, where defendants are videotaped. Stires in the video is seated in a raised chair, waiting to have blood drawn.

''All you guys are cool with me,'' Stires says in the video. Asked how much he had to drink, Stires begins singing. ''Keep on rockin' in the free world,'' he warbles, stomping his left foot and pretending he has a guitar.

''All right,'' he says, ''Let's go to another one.'' He performs another Neil Young hit, ''Needle and the Damage Done,'' again accompanying himself on an invisible guitar.

''Listen,'' he says. ''I want this whole department to know, you're the best.''

he actually sounds like a nice guy who just happened to steal a car and get rip roaring drunk, which seems to be a habit of his. they must of loved him at the processing center. i will bet you a hundred bucks one of the cops said something like, "okay, sinatra, let's go."
* definition from dictionary.com

i pity the fool who sends me left instead of right.

this is perhaps one of the coolest ideas evah. mr. t to offer voice for the onstar service. wouldn't it be cool if it were william shatner? still, i love the idea of mr. t giving directions in your car. for my in car voice, though, i might pick jacques cousteau, his namesake. or like james earl jones or something. it's like that idea that jeanine garofalo had about having her answering machine be wilfred brimley's voice says, "don't worry, cupcake, he doesn't know what he's missing."

ants suck, too.

Ants Reportedly Eat Woman's Eye in India

From Associated Press

November 15, 2005 8:30 AM EST 

 

NEW DELHI - A woman died in a Calcutta hospital after ants ate one of her eyes as she was recovering from a cornea operation, media reports said Tuesday.

Gauri Chakraborty, 55, had complained of terrible pain after the operation at a state-run hospital, but a nurse told her it was normal and left her unattended, her son Soumen told the Press Trust of India news agency.

He said that when her bandage was removed the next day they found big black ants nibbling at her eye, PTI reported.

"She died a ghastly death. We don't even know the reason of her death," Amitabha Kar, Chakraborty's son-in-law told PTI.



i'll tell you amitabha kar, why she died,  she died from having her fucking eye eaten by ants. holy fuck. i mean, i would have a heart attack once i realized that was happening. that is like the worst death ever. it gives me the willies and the shivers and the shakes. ICK. when i was pre-five. i must have been 4 because we lived in south allentown, i was playing outside and a big black ant, of which many lived near that house, bit my finger when i was playing with him. i guess, perhaps i wasn't playing with him in his mind. and now, in my memory, the incident is huge, like the ant had huge chompers and bit the whole tip off, but i distinctly remember him biting me, like a cartoon. okay, my memory has made the ant into a cartoon, but besides the point. i guess my point being, all you have learned about ants, FORGET. they aren't hardworking insects intent on propagating their nests, they are eye-eating murderers. word.

rich kids suck

from page six of the new york post as reported on defamer. November 15, 2005 -- PARIS Hilton's new pet monkey, Baby Luv, went bananas when she took the peeved primate on a lingerie shopping spree in Las Vegas last weekend. We're told that Baby Luv bit Hilton and clawed her face when she walked into the Agent Provocateur shop at Caesars on Saturday with the beast on her shoulder. Paris managed to pull Baby Luv off her and hooked his leash to a cabinet while she rang up $4,000 worth of bras and panties and a bullwhip, says our eyewitness.
 
i want a monkey. the fact that paris hilton has a fucking monkey makes me question all sense of justice i have come to accept and believe. why does baby jesus hate me? right now, i hate everything. if i had a monkey right now, i would slam my hand on my desk and yell, "monkey, coffee and a handkerchief for heavy weeping. go." but i don't, and that makes me sadder.

careful, or joey jones might steal your number# 42 afternoon shift driver card, superstar of the walnut street routes.

yes, that's right. i am only giving you a public service announcement since joey jones stole my fucking tony dorsett football card in 1984 and i'm still bitter about it. still, that isn't the point, just consider it free advice from a girl and her cards.

nothing beats the idea of septa trading cards in the realm of stupid fucking useless advertising marketing ideas. yeah, that's right, next on the septa marketing horseshit train are septa worker trading cards. you TOO can own a card featuring your favorite surly septa worker. i'm not sure who huttle is, but good lord, i don't want to meet that gary bussey looking mutherfucker in a dark alley. can anyone say leather and ball gag? just saying, some people you can pin that shit on, and huttle is one of them. anyway, if i can go back to the rant, holy fucking shit, do we need this? who are they trying to kid? these people aren't super stars, they are the meanest bunch of fucking whiners.

 do you think we are going to forget having to walk for a week? NO. we BOOED santa claus. you think we are going to start collecting cards reminding us that you hate us.

quote from the article in inky poo:

"thanks to a $600,000 SEPTA ad campaign featuring employee trading cards and expressions of Philly loving. Conductors detail the finer points of cheesesteaks wit (and witout), and drivers wax poetic about gravy "cooked all Sunday morning after church." Collect them all!
"The ad campaign offers a unique sample of the language, traditions and 'ad-di-tude' (sic) that is 'Genuine Philly,' " says a SEPTA news release."

there are so many things wrong with those paragraphs, i am not really sure where to begin. first of all--expressions of philly loving? what the fuck? this is philadelphia we are talking about, right? pennsylvania? where i have lived on and off for 14 years? who's loving who here? i mean, if you aren't scoring touchdowns, we could give two shits. plus, is this love from us for our busdrivers? i'm a cyclist, if a busdriver doesn't aim for me at least one time a day, i feel sort of empty, but not unloved.

talking wit or witout? if i have to hear this overused, tired, ridiculous phrase as sort of a quintessential philly phrase again, i think my head is going to actually explode all over the orange line express train. and gravy? noone but people who try to pretend they are south philly italians use the phrase gravy cooked sunday morning after church. are you fucking kidding me? we are more than the sum of our cheesesteaks and sauces. we are more than our fattening food here in philly. we are about berating public sports figures. not taking celebrity or god too seriously. we work hard. we play hard. we drink a lot of yuengling. we like it that way. we will support you 100% if you work and play with heart, but start your tired old bullshit, and we call you on that shit.

genuine philly? i'll give you genuine philly--quit your fucking whining, you overpaid piece of shit public transit driver. considering you are constantly in the hole, septa, and every station smells like tinkle, and your workers could seriously use some anger therapy to deal with their feelings of inadequacy at having to work for septa, do you really think $600,000 for an advertising campaign that will undoubtedly be mocked by an entire city hellbent on knocking you and yours down a couple of pegs was a hot idea? i mean, you just seriously fucked the city here for a week. that means economic stalemate, workers stuck and unable to feed their kids, noone getting to sporting events. you don't need to advertise. you have a fucking monopoly. you clearly are giving us substandard services, charging us the highest fares in the country, and not even offering convenient routes, and yet you still brought the city to a standstill. you don't have to advertise. maybe a clean fucking station not teeming with plague-ridden rats and homeless schizophrenic lyndon larouche supporters is really the best advertising you can have.

no, no, listen, now, i'm all about power to the people, unions, all that kind of shit, but i gotta pay for my health insurance, and then have to listen to the suburban people complain about how they are coming into the city, all day long i heard about this last week. YOU INCONVENIENCED ME, SEPTA, AND THAT MAKES ME UPSET. your cards don't make me feel better. seeing the faces of the people who constantly hang on my biking ass and beep, swerve into me, don't say good morning, won't give me change when i need to buy tokens, tell me not to go out the front door, all those people suck. i would only collect their cards from some hoodoo santaria ritual. whew. i'm tired.

so in case y'all missed some jackass's fifteen minutes, this guy todd got on espn behind lee corso's blathering for a long enough time to make people cheer a drunk guy. who hasn't wanted to do this in the most lizard part of their brain. i think it everytime i hear john madden fucking talk. so this appeared initially on rammerjammeryellow hammer. and they hilariously got an exclusive interview with todd the lee corso is a penis guy. the interview is just great, because it is exactly what you want it to be. por ejemplo:

RJYH: How'd the sign come about? And why, in your opinion, is Lee Corso "a penis," and not some other derogatory term or body part?
Todd: Being a Bulldawg fan my whole life I have noticed that the press never gives us or any team in the SEC enough credit. Especially Lee Corso. When he picks UGA to win we refer to it as "Corso's Curse." It's just hard for me to watch year after year as everyone on ESPN Game Day overlooks the SEC -- especially Corso. Which is what makes him a penis. I guess there are a few other phrases that could capture Corso, but penis fits best.

oh, morning call, how i have missed you?

it just occurred to me that i have not checked the morning call all week. it's sort of like forgetting to brush your teeth before you leave the house. i mean, you do it everyday, it's part of your being, you don't even think about it, but then when you realize you didn't brush your chompers on your way to work, it seriously shakes your sense of being and self. 'i should schedule an mri or cat scan or something,' you think as gently imagine your life without a frontal lobe. anyway, we are back on track now. whew, you can stop panicking. i read the morning call, so you don't have to.

i'm not saying anyone should have seen this one coming, but opening a candle shop in the lehigh valley drastically increases your chances of fire destroying everything you have worked so hard for. i know the owners really were making a go at a serious business and everything, and this is a tragedy, no doubt, but really crime and bad news in the lehigh valley is like god's personal ironic playground. the 600lb anvil will fall from a transporting plane onto the acme building. irony in the lehigh valley crime/bad news scene, well, it just goes hand-in-hand.

see what i mean about irony: woman hit in eye with bb. it's like the christmas story mom is the puppet master in the lehigh valley and everyone is living out her worst fears. "don't leave that candle burning, you will burn down the whole store." "don't play with that bb gun, you'll shoot your eye out."

christ, it's like a cartoon in the lehigh valley this week. man hit in head with frying pan during robbery.

hooters air flight ends with passenger in handcuffs. not for the reason you think, though.

quotable quotes from my sister on the first week of november.

after a bitch session about a boy:
it, once again, begs the question, 'why can't men be women?' ANSWER THAT ONE, JESUS.

after i asked her how she was:
did i tell you that i think Max (her 8 month old) is eating ants on a regular basis?

work is interfering with my life.

to quote raising arizona, "H.I., you're young and you got your health, what you want with a job?" not so much blogging this week with the novel writing and, like, working, okay. but whatever, mama's cranky and needs more coffee, valium and cabana boys. it would take the edge off. this is why ceo's have bars in their offices, you know. still, it doesn't hurt to have co-workers with nothing to fucking do and who send me amusing onion articles to make me giggle and not take myself too seriously while i am wearing 3" heels. (homegirl looks goood today! rowr.)

i am always preparing for the worst, hoping for the best. it's my nature. still, it is interesting to ponder, what is the worst that could happen? for me, it could be...clowns burst into my office, grab me and tickle, while wearing their stupid shit-eating perma-grin, then torture those closest to me, while i am forced to ride around and around them in circles watching on a tiny little bike. it would ruin biking for me forever.

not for nothing, but when i first saw this picture of the mel gibson, i thought it was saddam hussein. the beard makes him look a little nutsy. okay, a lot nutsy. mel, mel, mel. just because you went all catholic, and the press is like on your ass all the time because you say wacked out fundamentalist catholic things, and speak in aramaic and shit, doesn't mean you have to appease them by dressing like a drunken raving homeless lunatic. next thing you know, you'll be holding a sign that says 'lyndon larouche is right!' he's not right, mel.


no, for reals, i actually really like mel and his wacky catholic thing. i mean, i respect people who are extreme, crazy, raving and/or totally nutty. the grey pluralistic type people feel uncommitted to me. if you are going to be fundmentalist, pre-vatican II catholic, speak latin, aramaic and greek. stop shaving. do what you have to do. it's so much better than those fundy protestants who are writing articles, (i shit you not i read an article like this in university) like, jesus was a republican. and it said, 'jesus wasn't a long-haired hippie like the lefties have led you to believe. he was a capitalist and a republican with short hair.' no, actually, jesus was not politically affliated, except 'romans, go home.'

anyway, i like mel gibson's projects. the passion was amazing, in my humble, non-committed catholic opinion. this new one is in ancient mayan and it is going to be rockin' good. i can just tell. there is a fine line between genius and bat shit fucking crazy, and mel is walking the line, baby. I LOVE IT. plus, i just dig people in beards. when mel came out and announced he was doing a movie in mayan, defamer had the best comment.

Look, when you’ve got $600 million of Passion of the Christ fuck-you money, you can make a black-and-white documentary about nymphomaniac donkeys overdubbed in Klingon if you feel like it. If anything, Mel Gibson’s choice to go Mayan feels a little bit safe.

i, for one, welcome our new squirrel overlords.

ladies and gentlemen, we have a plot.

it's not like it's original or anything since, well, it's all about me me me, but what isn't really? (i assume my reputation for arrogant presumption has preceded me.)  but i mean, where else am i gonna get a plot in three days replete with character, names and locations? come on, a no-brainer, of which, incidentally, my ex-husband had to remind me. of course, i will fictionalize whatever i damn well please, because i am the author, motherfucker. so, if you are afraid to appear in my crappy, tell all, roman a clef, month-long novel, let me know, and i'll be sure to make you be the biggest fucking asshole prick in the book. i get to do what i want, bitch. no, really, i do. it's my book. gosh, novel writing and novel thinking has made me mean. well, i guess that's what genius does.

so, interestingly, i wikipedia-ed (it doesn't work as well as google to become a verb, eh?) autobiographical novel, and this entry came up. i know how fucking nerdy of me to wikipedia it, but whatever, it's my world, you are just reading about it. the interesting part was that after the definition, there is a list of famous autobiographical novels. something to note was Ballard's Crash is mentioned with this note after it: described as "an autobiographical novel in the sense that it is about my inner life, my imaginative life." two words: holy fuck. that was the sickest book i have ever read, man, and i have read some sick fucking books. i couldn't finish that shit, seriously. i mean, i did, but i was having some serious vomiting issues during parts of that. let's think happy thoughts, shall we? like, look it's blythe!

wonder twins powers, activate. Form of Useless Shit.

not for nothing, but my sister and brother-in-law are raising my nephew like it's the 70s. the dvd of spiderman, schoolhouse rocks, and my sister and my favorite cartoon ever--the superfriends. it's funny watching them again, from the bleedingly obviousness of aquaman's homosexuality to the complete uselessness of the invisible jet, it's amazing what we missed and that what we thought was cool was really worthless and totally absurd. let's take the wondertwins, por ejemplo, they turn into really gay things that are totally useless. i mean, zan can only become water related things. how fucking useless is that! how emasculating! if he becomes water, he needs a bucket and a fucking monkey to carry him, if he is ice, he can melt. jayna on the other hand can only become an animal of some kind. like an elephant or an eagle, which i will grant you can be useful if you have something with opposable thumbs as a counterbalance. i mean, her partner in crime is liquid. useless. impotent as a superhero. completely. anyway, a band called gleek would still be rockin'. or was it jayna and gleek? my sis might remember what the name of our band was. gleek and the smug hussies.

UPDATE: It was Gleek and the Bear.

i hate when this happens

Someone Stole My Scotch After I Passed Out, Man Tells Police
BETHLEHEM

A Bethlehem man who said he passed out after drinking scotch reported to police that the rest of his unconsumed whiskey was missing, city police reported.

Jeffrey Walters, of 8 E. Broad St., told police that sometime between when he passed out at 3:30 a.m. Saturday and when he awoke at 5:30 a.m., a half bottle of scotch whiskey was removed from him, police said.

Walters told police he was drinking with a friend when he passed out and woke to find that his whiskey was gone. 
 
listen, baretta, i think your prime suspect might be the friend. just a hunch.and instead of "stole", i might just use the word "drank" when you were passed out cold from "stealing" your own bit of scotch.
actually, the more i think about this, the more it really is mind boggling that someone would report this to the cops.

as jon secada sings the national anthem at game 4 of the world series (and after announcing the latino dream team with two panamamenos by the fucking way), i am reminded of my friend ken's party circa 1993. a house full of people. ken came up to me in the kitchen and pointed to some dude in his living room.
'is that jon secada in my living room?'
'i dunno, man, but it does look like him.'
'hold things down, ub, i'm going to tell that sappy mutherfucker to get out of my house.'

make the screaming stop

yeah, yeah, it's a freaking awful night out there, and yet, despite it all, there is still a couple screaming at each other under my window. 'go ahead. fucking hit me' she is yelling. in the rain. and cold. on a monday night. she is getting hoarse. and why not? it's pneumonia weather out there. there are some things about the city i will never understand, and the ability to ignore that you are in a city is one of them. i am constantly aware that about a bazillion other people live within earshot of my every conversation. we are stacked like gerbils or japanese over every conversation in this place. the kids from the suburbs have no idea, they ell drunk and pissing in your flowerbeds on friday night. yes, i think, 'quiet, what will the neighbors think?' if this makes me a podunk, then so be it. the irony is if i interfere, and say, yo, do you need help? she would tell me to fuck off. granted, i turned off my music to listen to them, so i clearly suck at life too.

oooooooooooooo, i want an elephant.

philadelphia zoo contemplates giving away its elephants. [kyw3]


me. me. i will name him stompy, and feed him peanuts, and love him very much.

rip bling

You know, i am not much for the gambling, well, except for the weekly football pool, and march madness, and, like, who is going to be the next apprentice, or america's top model pool or whatever. oh, and lottery. and, uh, blackjack. texas hold 'em. OH, nevermind, you know what i mean. i hate vegas. still, over at oddjack, they have a great bet going on: nba props: who's going to suffer for their bling? y'all know what i'm talking about? the nba has instituted a mandatory dress code for their players, like homeboy gotta be wearing a suit and shit. nah, it all good. it's just business casual. and by business casual, i mean, brothah can't even be wearing his bling outside his shizzle. damn. that cold. but the morbid sonsabitches at oddjack got allen iverson at 2 to 5 as the first nba player to be fined under the new guidelines. not for nothing, but let's take this opportunity to look at kevin garnett in a suit (marvel above). aaaaaaaaaah. that dude is, like, the most handsome man, ever. just look at him. go on. he looks like a statue.


still, back to AI and the hatorade that the world splashes on him after every victory. he's a good guy, he just has his own style, and do you watch him? he gets thrown around more than a midget in a midget tossing contest. all those big lugs elbowing him and shit. well, here is what allen had to say about the whole thing:

"Honestly, I really think that I will [keep the dres code]," Iverson said. "Once they start talking about suspending me, then I don't have a choice. I don't want them to take my money, either. I don't want to just give my money away. That's just like taking it and burning it.

"But when they start talking about suspending me and hurting what we're trying to do here as a basketball team, then I don't have (any) choice but to abide by it."

it's a mature response and all, i mean, he's not giving his money away to the nba, because lawd knows they don't need it. later in the article entitled Iverson says he can conform to dress code, allen notes:

"I feel like if they want us to dress a certain way, they should pay for our clothes," Iverson said.

"I don't think it's good for the league. I really don't, because it kind of makes it fake. The whole thing is fake. You've got all these guys with different personalities. Tracy McGrady is different from Kobe. Kevin Garnett is different from Tim Duncan. And I'm different from those guys. Everybody has their own style. It's just unfair when you take that away from people."

Iverson was especially bothered by the section of the league memo prohibiting players from having "chains, pendants or medallions worn over" clothes.

"Basically they're saying, `Don't dress hip-hop,' " he said. "What does a chain have to do with your outfit? A lot of guys wear chains with their religion on them or personal things. I have chains with my mom's name on it, with my kids' names on it, a chain with my man that passed away on it, and I don't think that's right for people to say that I can't express it. I think they went way overboard with it."

you know, it is unfair. it is unfair that the corporate fucking machine makes us conform to their little insipid shows of power and control through our dress. it is unfair that they are making us sheople by making us shop at the fucking gap, and live on planet reebok and shit. it is unfair that i have to fucking wear business clothes all fucking day in my fucking cubicle, allen, and i can't show my shoulders, or ankles, or heels. here is the thing, though, about the nba BUYING your clothes for you. listen, allen, you make 12.4 million dollars. TWELVE POINT FOUR. MILLION. DOLLARS. A. YEAR. broken down, this is $6200/hour. i shit you not people. this means, for all you keeping score at home, i make .4% of allen iverson's salary. ain't no nba buying my shit for me. math is not my strong suit or anything, but for $12.4 mil a year, i think i can say, SHUT THE FUCK UP and WEAR THE DAMN KHAKIS, JACKHAT. i mean, come on, that is like a fucking 2 hour commitment to not wearing bling. of taking your fucking job seriously. i agree that me not wearing my "your retarded" t-shirt on a daily basis to the office is sort of fake, but that's what i have to do to pay my rent and feed my childun. it's life, allen. that's what fucking happens when you grow up and stop playing games on the school yard. oh, wait, right. nevermind. bling away, yo.
anyway, in other related interesting factoids about how much my life sucks compared to ai, while i have been writing this blog, allen iverson has made $733.66 and i have made a whopping $3.03. that hasn't even paid for my latte. you can calculate that in weber grills at this site. well, you too can see how much the rich and famous make compared to you here at salary wizard. it is a very cool program, but i just want to say i hate everything.

lusting after the bikes of bucks county

this weekend i did a 50 mile covered bridge ride of bucks county. lots of middle aged guys in spandex. lots of money. lots of sweeeeet rides. damn, if i saw another orbea, my brain was going to explodamente. bianchis. le mond. holy crap, old school pirandellos. check out the orbea if you don't believe me on it's extremely beautiful body and sleek engineering.

but why do the girl's version always look so much dorkier? why can't girls ride black and orange bikes?

there was a dude with an old school, european touring bike and a hoffenbrau jersey, and a stunned into stupidity fucking expression on his face. that dude was my nemesis. i always have to pick one. the person i am not saving if the plane is going down. that is hoffenbrau guy. we'd hit a hill and my girls would kick it. my legs hard steel pistons pumping up the hill, i'd punch by the stupid upright dumbass in his hoffenbrau jersey and think, not in my house, muthahfucker. girls rule, boys drool. booya. yeah, i'd think all that and plenty of more cusses too. he would turn his head and with his stupid simpleton smile nod, and then when i ran out of gears and was down on speed, my girls start bitching and running out of steam, pee wee fucking herman would pull up along side me with his silly, shit-eating grin and blow past me, until i was mad enough to bury him again. then i would hang low, wait for john and repeat on the next hill. i swear i didn't pee next rest stop, just so i could catch 5 minutes and i didn't have to see the dude on any hill ever again. his non-chalance mocked me.

anyway, not to worry, there were hicks and rednecks a plenty in bucks county, even if they can't afford the taxes, they still blow into the county to try and hurt men who shave their legs and the women who love them.rich dickwads with big suvs plowing by us at 50 mph beeping their horn. obnoxious bitches. i got a bottle thrown at me, and consequently a thousand little shards of glass in my tire. damn, a-holes. some guy made chase, but alas, the gmc eagle is no match for the trek 1500. it shook me up, the vehemence and random act of violence always upsets me and shakes my belief in people as inherently good. the bottle crashed against a wall right in front of me, clearly aimed at scaring the crap out of our group of cyclists. john k. had a slow leak after that too. i now need new tires. i am thinking about getting those cool mag tires.
the ride was beautiful, though, here is the breakdown of hills and what not:

2700 feet of climbing in 50 miles. well, when you put it like that, it doesn't sound like much. the wind was fierce though. but all in all, a great way to end the organized ride season. here is a picture of me in the morning (i think i am number 98 of the 447)and here is another making a climb 5 miles from the end (and three photos ahead of john k). i look pretty much the same in both. like a smiling alien. as david bowie so eloquently put it, is there life on mars? oui, david, oui.

strung out on peeps, part 58

strung out on peeps, part 58

my boss just gave me a six-pack of delight-fills, pumpkin shaped peeps filled with chocolate cream. holy shit, these are good. i mean, i am not for messing with peeps too much. call me a peep purist. i get a little turned off by peeps even shaped like fierce kitties for halloween, but they still taste like peeps, just happen to be a different color and shape. i can live with that, but like the orange cream gigantic peep egg that my sister and i got for easter one year was just WRONG. my sister's exact quote was "this is so good, it tastes just like baby aspirin." anyway, the peep delight-fills would be so good on a stick over a campfire. just sayin'. or roasted on my gas stove. holy crap, i'm a genius. i should get the noble prize in crap that will make you throw up. currently, i have one resting on top of my computer monitor so it will get all crusty.

anyway, so to get this picture of the delight-fill at the top of this post, i visited the official peeps website. so, there is a fan club, and a page with crafts and recipes, things like sugar cookie with a peep on it, or a mobile with different halloween peeps hanging off it (that is frightening to have roaches all over your house because of a fucking craft done entirely in peeps). so, then there is a link that says, "ingredient information", which i clicked and i get this screen:



that sucks. it is so lame. it says contact consumer information for ingredients. i mean, just say sugar and nothing found in nature. who cares? we are fucking peeps moonies if we are on your site, popping around and looking at fucking recipes and crafts that will make us more obsessive about peeps, we would eat it if the page said, 'made out of babies and rat's ass.' they are soooooooooo good. that are THAT good. sidney i'm sure remembers when i worked at makam's kitchen on 24th and lombard and would walk to that horrid sleven on lombard, but where the street curves to south street bridge, and i would buy like the worst, most disgusting seeming candy, and mostly just LOVED it, things like gummy burgers. so, my favorite candies are candy corn, licorice, peeps, fun dip, i mean, shitty fucking candy, nothing like belgian chocolate or whatever. in new zealand, i would just buy these bags of penny candy, which everyone calls lollies, and just constantly nosh on crap, get excitable, then be mean, then crash out.  can you tell i'm a little wired on peeps? next thing, i am going to be ramming my head into the wall, and trying to hit someone's little sister.