what a great cover. esquire, may 1968.

The Great Pointed Archer.

The Great Pointed Archer.

All of the facts to convince me to rename rats Great Pointed Archers are not helping. They can jump 48 inches. They can produce 15000 more GPAs in a year. Their fur smells like grape soda. (Thank you for that, I will never drink grape soda again.)

Here is my take: They are fucking rats. The end.

nietzsche family circus

Nietzsche Family Circus makes me happy. In a nihilistic way.

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?