Sunday, July 30, 2006
Random Weekend Crap
I went to see Clerks 2 Friday night. I am a huge fan of the first Clerks movie and this was definitely a fitting follow-up. I laughed my ass off, and even now, two days later, when I think of some of the shit in that movie, I start laughing all over again.
Jason Mewes' impression of Jame Gumb's penis-tuck dance from The Silence of the Lambs, complete with the music, lipstick and nipple-rubbing (while wearing a "Got Christ?" t-shirt, no less) and tucked penis, was absolutely brilliant, and it is worth the price of admission to the movie for that scene alone. I shit you not, it is that good. Unfortunately, the folks I was at the movie with hadn't seen Silence of the Lambs (like, who hasn't seen that? Weirdos) and didn't understand why I was laughing so hard that I almost choked, but eh. What can you do?
So, go see Clerks 2. Right now. Unless you haven't seen Clerks for some stupid reason, in which case you should watch Clerks and then go see Clerks 2 immediately after that.
Thank you, Kevin Smith. You light up my life. You are also the wind beneath my wings.
I spent Saturday at Lake Erie, because I am dumb. One of the kids' dad's best friends called me around midnight Friday night, "Yo. Slut. Wanna go to J's birthday party tomorrow? I will come pick you up."
Me, "Sure, why not?"
Why not, indeed. While I had fun, seeing people I haven't seen in forever, and meeting J, who was turning one and whom I hadn't had a chance to see yet, it was hot, people. I mean, HOT. Fucking sweltering hot. No relief from the pain hot. Oh my god we're all gonna die from dehydration and sun poisoning hot.
And it was Hillbilly Central, too, so I saw more morbidly obese women in tiny bathing suits and beer-bellied toothless balding men in tiny swimming trunks than I ever hope to see in my life again.
Though it was sort of nice being the skinny girl. I felt petite and gorgeous. R, the kids' dad's other best friend was like, "GODDAMN!" at me.
"You lost weight!" he says.
"Yeah, going on like 50ish pounds now."
"You look great. I think I gained what you lost, though."
"Looks like it, you fat fuck."
Ah, the love.
Actually, that is love. That is how we talk to each other. When D pulled up in his truck to get me, I greeted him by shouting, "Sup, faggot!" and he greeted me back with, "Get in the fucking truck, you slow whore."
"Slow? I hope you're not trying to insinuate that I might be retarded or something."
"No, I mean you take too fucking long. When I want to call you retarded, I just call you retarded. Retard."
"Okay, just making sure. Dick."
And so on for the hour ride up to the lake.
And that was fun.
Y'know, except for the heat and the rednecks and the being surrounded by a bunch of people I don't know and don't care to know.
But I really just wanted to see R and D and the baby, so I guess it's all right.
I did get to see some excellent things that day, though, like the following:
1.) No less than 10 different overweight men pedalling around on undersized bicycles, which prompted D and I to sing "fat man on a little bike!" repeatedly, every time we spotted one, and giggle hysterically.
2.) The idyllic scenic view of a nuclear power plant rising above the horizon over the lake. Ahhh, nature.
3.) A small child on another bicycle, with a large black innertube slung over his shoulders, peering desperately above its surface so he could see to steer, and failing miserably, thus producing a strange weaving motion and eventually causing him to ram into a tree.
4.) 5 grown men playing with what I was informed was a $300 remote control monster truck. Which, granted, it was very fast and they could make it do neat tricks, but hello, grow up. Okay, I confess: I sat and watched them play with the damned thing for at least 20 minutes, mesmerized and slack-jawed with what I won't call awe - it was probably heat stroke.
5.) The cutest one-year-old that wasn't my kids at one-year-old desperately trying to cram her birthday cake up R's nose.
6.) A brand-new minivan someone decided to paint "GIT-R-DONE" on with what appeared to be black spray paint.
I imagine how that conversation went:
"Honey, you know what would make this here van perfect?"
"What, Jethro? Another gun-rack?"
"Shit naw! We already done got 2 of them! Naw. What would make this here van perfect is if'n I take some black spray paint and write "GIT-R-DONE" on the side! Whatcha think 'bout that?"
"Jethro, you is the smartest man that ever was! Getcha ass out there and paint that shit up! We'll have the best lookin' minivan in the trailer park and that Claudine down t'street gon' be SO JEALOUS! She think she better'n everyone else now she got one of them doublewides."
"Shit, I just want you to have the best, honey. Only the best."
7.) A woman that must've weighed 450 pounds wearing a bright blue and white flowered bikini - with an attached skirt, for modesty, I'm sure - screeching at her slope-shouldered husband to find out where the hell the chips went.
Then she was distracted by another fat woman screeching that her fat ass didn't "need no chips nohow" and to just shut the hell up.
"YOU shut the hell up! I'm starving! Besides, I already done lost 35 pounds with that Weight Watchers," screeches the bikini atrocity.
"35 pounds?! From where? You ain't lost no 35 pounds! You as fat as ever!" shouts the other woman, cackling.
Another screeching fat woman joins in with: "Well, she did get her hair cut!"
"Hmm. All right. That greasy mess might've weighed 5 pounds at the outside, but if her fat ass lost 35 pounds, then I'm the Queen of Gawdamned England."
8.) While sitting on a blanket with someone's Aunt Peggy, keeping an eye on 6 kids swimming in the lake, she remarks to me, "I hope none of them kids drowns, 'cos my fat ass ain't running out there to save 'em."
"Well, that's okay, I guess. I know CPR and stuff. I used to be a lifeguard in high school."
"Yeh, but you gon' have to run out there into that water and get 'em if they drown and it's HOT."
"Yeah, you're right. If a kid starts drowning, we'll just let him drown."
"That's right. If he don't got the sense not to drown on a day like this, then he don't deserve to breathe anyway."
"Amen, Aunt Peggy."
Hmm, maybe it wasn't such a wash after all. It's not every day that you get to observe such interesting things.
All together now! Fat man on a little bike! Fat man on a little bike!
I spent today watching Flightplan with Ms. Jodie Foster (wasn't bad, wasn't great, wasn't a complete waste) and then hauling a bunch of junk out to a friend's van for his church rummage sale. The bastard church won't take clothes or books, though, so they suck. Their Jesus must be too good for the likes of readin.'
He's coming back for another load of crap on Friday. Which is great. Take it all away! I don't want any of it anymore!
Oh yeah - for those of you that expressed interest in taking some of my books off my hands, email me and we'll get the logistics sorted out.
That is all. Carry on.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
It's that time again...no, not that time. The other time. Silly.
I loathe humidity with an unreserved passion. When it is humid, I am put in a foul mood that can only be partly lifted by smashing something or perhaps acquiring a fine Wendy's Frosty for myself.
There is nothing nastier than stepping outside of a morning after a nice shower and immediately feeling as if you've been smothered with a hot, wet, moldy blanket. Wow, that's sexy.
Sometimes I feel like I just feel bad for emos more than I hate them, but then I realize that I'm actually feeling bad because I don't have a bourbon IV and the feeling bad has nothing to do with the emos at all and I really just hate them.
Seriously, emos. I hate you.
Not long ago, while I was in St. Louis, I got dragged by a 13-year-old into a Hot Topic. I was horrified, but couldn't leave the girl alone, because she'd never been to such a large city before and was therefore pretty much helpless and I was worried that if I took my eyes off of her for longer than ten seconds, she might morph into a cracked-out hooker with glitter on her face or something.
So, I am stuck in a Hot Topic. I notice they have t-shirts on sale for 5 bucks. Hot Topic or not, a deal is a deal! I start flipping through the stack of shirts.
"Crap emo band. Crap emo band. Crap emo band. Limp Bizkit. Korn. Crap emo band. These shirts suck."
As I am muttering this, I look over to see three little emo kids staring at me, with big velvet deer eyes.
"Aww," I think. "I wonder if they will cry."
They don't cry, and this saddens me, but while the girl is paying for whatever random crap she decided to purchase, I strike up a conversation with the cashier dude after he compliments me on my Cannibal Corpse tank top.
"Yeah. Thanks. Dude, how do you stand this place? It's like...emo central..."
He nods sadly.
"It's like, I'm looking through those shirts, and it's like, crap emo bands left and right, and I am commenting on them, and I look over and there's emo kids right beside me. The horror."
"Yeah," he says. "This place is crawling with them sometimes. I can't escape the Fall Out Boy and the stupid hair."
Look, emos. You suck. There's nothing that will change that. Your clothes are lame, your bands suck, and your hair is fucking ridiculous.
Look at this hair!
I think that first one might be a girl. I am pretty sure the other two are boys. But it's hard to tell.
I can ignore emo girls for the most part, because I hate girls anyway, but emo boys, uhm, you're boys. What's with the lady jeans? What's with the makeup? What's with that flippy hair thing? What's with the sensitive weeping?
You may think chicks will dig you if you act like a sensitive poet and write a stupid song about love and killing yourself because you're so misunderstood while you weep in a corner...but I will let you in on a little secret. Chicks might say they like the sensitive type, but they really don't. You may keep the chick for a little while, but she will soon tire of your mood swings and go after the hot jock that can wipe the floor with you and your stupid haircut while belching and smashing a beer can on his head.
If you want to mope and embrace the darkness or whatever the fuck you think you're doing, go goth. Goths have a sense of humor, at least. And much better music. And generally not so stupid hair, though that can be tricky (Perky goths, I'm looking at you.)
I will leave you with some friendly advice: stop stealing your mom's jeans and mascara, lose the stupid music, and stop crying all the fucking time. No one gives a shit about your sad, misunderstood suburban life. Wah.
Here's a video:
And another, in case you've never heard emo music, in which case, you used to be fortunate but now I've ruined you:
And now, to wrap this up, I bring you my most wonderful El Bastardo, who hates everything like me and is also large and angry, with a section called El Bastardo's Views on His Fellow Man. This week, he takes on people with retarded bumperstickers.
First, I hate idiot bumpersticker patriots. For example: "We do not negotiate with terrorists." How fucking stupid. I mean, we have done that for years? Moammar Qaddafi. The Pan Am bomber. Did we not negotiate with him and Libya? Hell, Cheney did illegal business with him during the embargo. And who are you supposed to negotiate with, if not your enemies? Friends? Family members? Kids? That is WHAT negotiation is!! Fucking stupid. Treaties are not negotiations? If we do not negotiate with terrorists...WHAT THE FUCK ARE HOSTAGE NEGOTIATERS FOR?!?!
And there you have it. A bunch of hate, some stupid haircuts, a funny video set to a terrible song, and El Bastardo calling more than half the people in this country idiots.
A fine Thursday, indeed.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I am half-dead from the working and the breathing, so I cannot write.
But I can give you joy in the form of Hope is Emo.
I hate emos, but I will save that rant for tomorrow, since tomorrow is Thursday.
This is done by the dudes at Ask a Ninja and Christa Flanagan from MadTV.
Oh yeah, and check this out. Got that by way of SJ at I, Asshole. SJ rules.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Cell Phone Antics
I got a new cell phone today.
That couldn't be easy, though. No, of course not.
I ordered it from the online Sprint store a few days ago. It was a fantastic deal. Yay for me, I thought.
I fill out the little form thing. I get to the part where it asks for a home phone number, and leave that blank, as I do not have a home phone number. I have a company cell phone and that is all.
Order form won't let me continue without a home phone number. Hmm. So I click on the little button that says "Live Chat Support" or whatever.
An agent joins my chat and fun ensues.
I saved it to a text file for you. Aren't you happy.
Also, I changed the names so as not to reveal that ALBERT FROM SPRINT CUSTOMER SERVICE IS A FLAMING RETARD.
I'm so good at making friends.
Anyway, after I explain the problem about the home phone number:
Guy: Use a neighbors number
Me: Well, I can't do that. I don't know any of my neighbors like that.
Guy: use a family member in the area
Me: I have no family here.
Guy: you have to have a landline number in youre area so we can verify you are who you say you are
Me: Uh...using my neighbor's number won't verify anything about who I am.
Guy: It will show up as being in the area of your address when we run the reverse check.
Me: Oh. Okay. So, can I use the 7-11's number? That's close to my house.
Guy: No it has to be a neighbor or family member.
Me: Well, 7-11 is just as good, dude. Since I don't live with my neighbor or a family member, it's pretty much the same thing, right?
(long pause ensues)
Me: Okay. I will MOVE IN to the 7-11 and live in the milk case. How about that?
Guy: This is not a joke.
Me: I'm not joking, dude. I will live in the 7-11. All the Slurpees I could ever want. That would rock. And I will do this because I want your little cell phone OH SO BADLY. Really, I don't see why this has to be so difficult.
Guy: Its not difficult.
Me: Okay, it's not difficult. It's RIDICULOUS.
Guy: You could try calling Customer Support.
Me: Oh, I get it. Now you're trying to get rid of me, just because I don't have a stupid home phone number. That's discrimination. DISCRIMINATION.
Guy: Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: Whaddaya mean "else"? You haven't helped me yet.
Then he did that "thanks for contacting Sprint" automatic response thing and left the chat.
Well, I never.
I ended up using my office's answering service number and ordered my phone that way.
Sprint didn't bother to email me a tracking number, so I call to get it today. They give it to me, and I check the UPS site to see that they'd tried to deliver it twice already, but since no one was there to sign for my phone, they didn't drop it off.
I call UPS to find out if they can just leave it at the door on their next attempt. No, the girl says, they cannot do that. It must be signed for. They will come back tomorrow and someone can sign for it.
"No," I say. "No one will be there to sign for it."
"Then you'll have to come pick it up."
"Okay. Where do I go to do this?"
"Give us a contact number and someone will call you within the hour, with a time and place to pick up your package."
"Lady, this isn't some sensitive material. It's just a damned phone."
"Someone will call you."
I think this is weird. What's with all the cloak-and-dagger? It reminds me of some covert espionage bullshit. I always wanted to be an International Spy Extraordinaire, but UPS isn't really my idea of high intrigue.
But fine, I want my stuff.
20 minutes later, my phone buzzes.
"Is this Zombie's Real Name?"
"This is So and So from UPS. We have your package."
"Okay..." I say. Oooh, they have my package. Is she going to ransom me for it?
"You can pick it up at 8:00 PM tonight at the hub on South Mansfield."
"Is this like some back alley thing?"
"Huh?" she says. "You'll need to bring some government-issued ID with you, like a drivers' license or a passport."
"Lady, it's not like this is CIA secrets or something. It's a damned cell phone."
"We just need to make sure you are who you really are, ma'am."
"That's okay. I ship all my CIA secrets FedEx, anyway."
"Nevermind. I'll be there at 8:00."
And so we go. I am half-expecting something interesting, like maybe teh FIBI or polices or something, but lo, it is only several other people waiting to pick up their junk, too.
But now I have a new gadget. My new phone is black and shiny and has a cool blue screen on the front that announces who is calling me.
It also takes pictures!
This will do wonders for the blogging. I can now take pictures on the fly - no longer will all (3) of you be bereft of pictures of Woman With Orange Hair That Exactly Matches Her Orange Shirt or Stupid Man in Ugly Bike Helmet and Tight Shorts.
I am overflowing with joy right now. Overflowing, I tell you.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Wherein Zombie Says Many Things That Are Completely Unrelated
Continuing with my Getting Rid of Everything in Sight theme for the summer, I went into my closet and pitched almost everything.
See, I had a box of clothes in there For When I'm Skinny Again. I figured now was a good time to go through it all and get rid of the stuff I don't want/need anymore. So I tried everything on - and lo, my things from high school fit again! But...do I really need these things? I thought about it for a little while, perched on my cedar chest.
Yes, the bondage pants fit again and are rather special with the straps and the jingly silver bits, but...where will I wear them? I cannot wear them to work. They are a bit much for grocery shopping. And I think I have grown out of my "HEY LOOK AT ME WEARING THIS WEIRD THING WITH THE SHINY STUFF I AM SO AWESOME AND NONCONFORMING" phase.
So I put them in the bag, and it was easier from there. Fishnet shirts? Gone. Shiny vinyl pants? Gone. Various velvet minidresses and skirts? Gone. My vast collection of striped tights? Gone. Okay, I take that back. I did keep the red and white striped ones, in case I ever feel Alice in Wonderland, and I kept the black and white striped ones, because every girl needs a pair of black and white striped tights, in case she ever ends up in prison. But the rest? The green/black, red/black, black/blue, etc. Gone.
I did keep all my thigh-highs, though. One pair looks like cobwebs. I love those. I may never wear them anywhere again, but I will always know they are there.
And I found my Jim Rose Circus FREAK shirt, so that's cool. Also found my Misfits t-shirt, several of my Pantera shirts that I thought were lost in the abyss, and my Halloween/big knife stabbing a pumpkin shirt. Those I kept.
I also cleared out everything in my dresser, keeping only such things as don't make me look like a sausage and/or bag lady.
I shall deposit these bags of surplus lacy/fishnetty/blacky things into a Goodwill collection bin on the morrow, and hope the nice Goodwill ladies aren't freaked out by my bondage pants. I will also hope that if they sell them, they ask a decent price, 'cos those fuckers were expensive.
Starting tomorrow, I will also begin the hideous process of going through all the kids' things.
After that, I will start on the books.
If any of you want some books, I will send them to you for the price of postage. Just let me know what you like to read and I will assemble a goodie box of that sort of book and you will love me forever.
My son turns 6 tomorrow. How did I end up with a 6 year old? Cripes.
I finally got around to seeing XMen 3 last night, and that was totally a disappointment. At least I only saw it at the dollar theater, and I had a free pass, so it wasn't like I had to pay for it or anything (how ghetto is that? Free pass at the dollar theater? I love me.) but still -- they screwed that movie all up.
Granted, they did have Juggernaut in it. And I had heard that Juggernaut uttered the now-famous "Don't you know who I am? I'm the Juggernaut, bitch!" line, but I was not prepared to find that they had, for some reason, decided Juggernaut should be British, of all things. So he did say the line, and that was fine, but he said it in a Cockney accent, and that just ruined everything.
If you don't know what I'm talking about, please watch the following video. It's funny as hell, even if you aren't an XMen geek like me.
Anyway, so, the movie: it was watchable and even had some entertaining parts, but they really could've done so much more with the Dark Phoenix thing and the cure thing...I think they were too ambitious.
And Famke Janssen looks a hot mess, people. Her Dark Phoenix looks like Evil Willow in Season 6 of Buffy, black eyes and veiny head and all. Now, I liked Season 6 of Buffy, and I am not knocking the whole Willow thing, but...this is a big budget movie. Surely they could've come up with some better effects. The proper Dark Phoenix can destroy a solar system. Dark Phoenix in the movie? Picked up a house and dropped it. Big fucking deal.
So, yeah, that was disappointing all around. But Hugh Jackman is pretty, so I can pretty much forgive the movie for bringing the suck like that. And then I got a burrito from the Qdoba and that made up for everything.
I think it is Qdoba burritos that will eventually bring about world peace. But that's just me.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday
Wella-well, it's Thursday again already and that means it's time for more hate!
1.) Being chained to my desk.
Today was the last day of Insane-o Huge Important Project Thing at work, which is nice, but it also meant I was to be chained to my desk for the better part of 9 hours. Being the Idiot Savant Tech Person that I am, I had to run interference like a mofo from the office where the technology lives, while the other members of my office made a Large Presentation to Important People With Much Money in another state.
From the moment I set foot through the door, I was doing stuff. Fixing this, deleting that, making a new thing, breaking something else, fixing it again, etc. I had several people telling me to do 900 million things. I was bizzy as all hell.
But then I had to pee. So I left my desk for all of two minutes to do so. I came back to my desk to find several frantic MSN messages telling me to answer the phone and like 3 missed calls. In two minutes!
Then Intern came to the door and said, "Boss says you can't leave your desk. We will order you lunch and dinner. I will bring it to you when it gets here. If you need a drink, message me and I will bring you that, too. Where do you want food from?"
Well, damn. I can't leave my desk? But...I sometimes have to go to the bathroom. Will they bring me a bucket? Perhaps a litter box? Sheesh. Hate!
I ignored the orders to not leave my desk, because, really, I will not hold it for hours on end and that's just silly, but made another intern keep an eye on my monitor whenever I left, with instructions to scream bloody murder if anything popped up on the screen or caught fire or disappeared into a black abyss.
None of that happened, and I got free Chinese food, so I guess it's not all bad, but honestly. They are totally not paying me enough to piss my pants.
2.) That Woman In Front of Me at the Checkout With a Million Coupons.
You, Woman With Coupons, I hate you. I hate standing in line a lot, but I hate it even more when I am stuck behind you.
I hate when you dig through your handy accordian folder with grim determination, muttering all the while that you're just sure you had a coupon in here somewhere for 10 cents off Velveeta Macaroni and Cheese. I hate when you brandish a fistful of crumpled paper bits at the cashier, who then has to sort through them and scan them all and it takes forever.
I hate when you argue with the cashier when said cashier will not accept a coupon for a dollar off toilet paper when you are trying to buy tampons. Do you not understand that toilet paper and tampons are not the same animal? Why would you get a dollar off tampons when the coupon is for toilet paper? That makes no sense at all. Perhaps your brain is addled with a money-saving fog and decides that since both toilet paper and tampons are vaguely bathroom-related, they are somehow the same thing, and therefore interchangeable.
I understand that you want to save money. I know the value of a good deal, being generally poor as dirt. I myself even employ a coupon from time to time. But I will never, ever be caught dead haggling with a harassed, zit-faced 16 year old boy at a cash register over a nickel and a loaf of fucking bread.
If that nickel is so darn important, perhaps you don't need to be eating. Perhaps you should be saving up your nickels for the coming worldwide plague instead, so you can bribe your way out of having to be one of the many slaves that we smarter folks will require to till the soil and haul rocks around. If you have enough nickels, we might allow you to perform other functions up at the Big House, such as laundry or cocktail-mixing. However, if you shrink any of my clothes or fuck up my drink, no amount of pretty, shiny nickels is going to save your ass from being locked in a box and poked with sticks for my amusement.
So keep that in mind next time you hold me up in line at the checkout, m'kay? Glad we could have this talk.
My hate for Wiccans is made of a pure, white light that shines forth from the very essence of my being.
I don't just hate Wiccans because they are irrational theists. Irrational theists bug me, but as long as they keep their irrational theism to themselves, I am generally fine. After all, there are a lot more irrational theists wandering around than there are those of us that are happily godless, and as we are one of the most hated philosophies on the planet, we must sometimes just move along and ignore the stupid lest it overtake us completely and we be washed away on a tide of idiocy and retardation.
No, I hate Wiccans because of their tendency to smug self-righteous indignation and rigorous clinginess to ridiculous shit.
You see, your average Wiccan isn't very bright. Your average Wiccan is convinced that his or her religion is ancient and that it has Been Around Since the Dawn of Time Itself. Your average Wiccan traipses around yammering about the Goddess (and any goddess will do - Kali, Hecate, Isis, Diana - doesn't matter, just pick one that you think sounds sexy and roll with it) and brandishing a hubcap-sized pentacle. Your average Wiccan was bored of Christianity and wanted to rebel against society but was too scared to try devil worship.
Your average Wiccan shrills about Merry Meet and Merry Part and Bright Blessings and White Light and other such nonsense. Bad things do not exist to the average Wiccan. The average Wiccan only does good "magic" or "magick" or "majick" or "majik" or "majgisodgsda" or however we're spelling it this week. There is no grey area. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Your average Wiccan thinks life is all cupcakes and sparklies. Your average Wiccan is delusional.
But while your average Wiccan clutches desperately to this shady ideal of goodness, it also is desperately in love with the dark side, be it vampires (or vampyres or whampyres or whatever other stupid shit) or Vader's version of the Force or playing an evil mage in AD&D. Your average Wiccan shops at the Hot Topic and gets its incense from the local Kroger.
Your average Wiccan is all about compassion and love for Nature and Everything In It, but will not hesitate to attack you viciously if you dare disagree with them about anything.
Your average Wiccan will also not hesitate to brand a Christian an idiot for his or her beliefs. Yes, belief in Jesus is SO FUCKING CRAZY as compared to your belief in several thousand gods and goddesses belonging to several hundred different cultures and pantheons, not to mention your belief in faeries, dragons, ogres, elves and talking elk or whatever. Faeries = normal and rational. Guy that may or may not have lived 2,000 years ago = REALLY FUCKING BIZARRE.
There are two types of Wiccans that I hate most. The first can be called several things: Fluffy Bunny, White Lighter, Everloving Retard, Waldenbooks Witch, or, my favorite, Dances With Credit Cards.
You all have seen Dances With Credit Cards. She's the one lounging about in the New Age section of Borders, wearing something suitably black and gothy, complete with Cleopatra-style eyeliner and henna-tattoo ankh. She's buying all the Silver Ravenwolf books she can carry, with Daddy’s credit card. At home, locked away in the solitude of her pink gingham bedroom (Mom and Dad won't let her paint her walls black, they are so lame and do not understand her unique individuality), she will write spells for love philtres and dark darky poetry about dark darky darkness. She hates Christianity, and all Christians are out to get her. If you poke her with a stick, or even just glance at her books casually, she will not hesitate to expostulate on the glories of Wicca, and the common misconceptions of this Goode and Ancient Crafte.
Much like one of those toys on which you pull the string so that it spits out certain phrases, Dances With Credit Cards is programmed to say certain things, such as:
"Male witches are not called warlocks!"
"Christianity stole things from us!"
"I swear to Gaia!" (Variations on this theme include, but are not limited to: "Oh my Goddess!" "Oh my Lord and Lady!" and "Oh my Gods!")
"Wicca has been around since the dawn of time!" (Variations on this theme likewise include, but are not limited to: "I am a 65th generation Wiccan." and "I learned this Ye Olde Ancient Crafte from my great-grandmother’s diary. She was burnt at the stake in the Salem Witch Trials, for being a real witch. It’s genetic, you see.")
"Who in Summerland is Gerald Gardner?"
"REMEMBER THE BURNING TIMES!"
I want to have a burning time every time I see one of these fuckwits staggering around under the weight of too much AquaNet and Ye Olde Booke of Shad0wz0rz that she keeps in her Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper, frantically searching for another spell to make Bobby the Quarterback recognize her special need to give him head.
The second type of Wiccan that I hate so much is truly hideous. This one is the Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex. Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex is a whole lotta woman. Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex loves the skyclad dancing and mutters incessantly about the Divine Feminine.
Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex has to mutter incessantly about the Divine Feminine, because her vagina must somehow be special as compared to the rest of us that never really worried about whether or not our vaginas were divine. Without her Special Vagina, Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex will not be able to attract skinny, acne-scarred Wiccan boys and lure them away from their twelve-sided dice and mail-order QVC katana stroking. And if Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex can't do that, then Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex can't get laid. How will Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex celebrate her Divine-Vagina-Havingness if she can't get some sweaty potato-chip-crumb-covered Tantric porking?
Never fear, though, because Fat Wiccan Goth in Spandex is also probably bisexual, as that gives her more opportunity to engage in sexual encounters. Also, being part-lesbo is in this season.
And woe unto Zion if two Fat Wiccan Goths in Spandex meet and decide to have some lovin.' The stench of Doritos and long-forgotten vegetable-matter playthings wafting from the collective vag in the waterbed will be enough to drive all of the neighbors screaming from the area.
Poor me, for having had that mental image.
And poor you, for having me subject you to what goes on in my brain. THIS is the true crime of Wicca. Wicca makes me think of rotten vegetable vagina. It is a menace to society indeed.
If you have nightmares because of this vegetable problem, I might be sorry. But probably not.
You're welcome, anyway.
In conclusion, Wiccans make me completely lose my shit. If you are Wiccan and you are reading this, do us all a favor and burn yourself at the stake so I don't have to think about you existing on the same planet I do.
I'll even supply the lighter fluid and spring for those more-expensive strike-anywhere matches, just to make sure it catches good and hot.
Thank you and good night!
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Zombie is the Most Awesomest Ever
When I got home from work today, I was immediately In a Mood. This Mood made me want to throw away everything I could get my hands on.
When I got out of the car, I noticed that the garbagemen were incredibly late and that made it the perfect time to be in such a mood.
So, I grab a garbage bag and begin stuffing random crap into it. I clean out a kitchen cupboard - coffee filters, egg noodles, bag of sugar, ice pack I have no use for, box of pudding dating back to the time of Moses, other random foodstuffs - begone! I go to the next cupboard - tea, macaroni, microwave pasta thing I will never eat and am not sure of why I bought - begone!
"This is fun," I think. "I shall throw away many more things!"
I grab another garbage bag and go to the little bookcase near the dining room - manuals I will never read for stuff I already know how to work, file folders full of who knows what, random puzzle pieces from the basket I keep change in, two boxes of markers, a pile of unmarked CDs, skads of random papers - begone!
That doesn't fill up my garbage bag, though, so I go trolling for more things. I start grabbing random crap as I wander around the house. I stuff most of it into the bag without even looking at it.
"LO!" I think, loudly. "THROWING OUT SHIT I DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ON A DAILY BASIS IS LIBERATING!" Yes, it appears I can control the volume of my inner monologue. I'm not sure if that is healthy or not. But anyway.
Broken toys from the kids' room. Out! Shoes that hurt my feets. Out! Shoes the kids don't wear anymore. Out! A pile of things the dog chewed on and tried to hide in the kids' room. OUT!
Then: The Unthinkable happens.
I stare at one of the many stacks of books in my bedroom. For a moment, I hesitate. "You are on a roll," I lecture myself. "You will never read these again. You do not need them. Yes, you can donate them somewhere or try to sell them some day, but that day isn't today, and after this moment, you will go back to weeping like an infant over the thought of getting rid of a book, so just do it. DO IT."
And I do. I sweep the entire pile, probably 15 paperbacks, into the bag. Out!
"LO!" I think. "I AM REMOVING ACTUAL BOOKS FROM MY HOME FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOREVER. I AM THE MOST AWESOMEST EVER!"
I drag my bag back out to the kitchen. I stare around wildly. My bag is full but I am still insane. No matter. Out to the back porch I go, grabbing the other bag on the way. I drop them and trot to the garage to grab the extra garbage can. See, our town has instilled a limit on how many cans you can put at the curb without having to pay extra. I will just stuff as much as I can into the last can and then I will feel better, I decide.
I haul the bags into the can. Still room left! Yes!
I rootle through the toybox we keep on the porch. Broken things. Out! Stuff that's covered in mud because my kids appear to have a mud fetish. Out!
I look around the porch. Flower pots I didn't fill this year. Out! Shoes I mow the lawn in. Out!
The can is full. I am panting. I feel liberated and energetic. Yes, it may be 9 million degrees outside, but I just threw real books into a real garbage can for real garbage collection! And here comes the real garbage truck to take it away!
I do the only thing one can do in this situation, when one has excess energy and is feeling like the best thing on two legs: I mow the lawn.
And when I am done with that, I go back into the house and stand there, staring at the floor for a few minutes. "LO!" I think. "YOU HAVE GIVEN YOURSELF BRAIN DAMAGE AND HEAT STROKE. NOW YOUR HEAD WILL FALL OFF!"
I go into the bathroom and vomit. I come back out and spy the air conditioning unit.
See, this is a wall unit, and as such sucks up all the electricity in the free world and costs me an arm and a leg to run. Therefore, I don't run it. Except for when I've mowed the lawn and it's 900 gajillion degrees outside and I have just gotten so hot I've vomited for 15 minutes. Then I will run it. I deserve it. Oh yes I do.
I approach the air conditioning unit. "Yesss, my precious," I think. "I will turn you on and you will prevent me from dying right here where I stand."
I click it on. It makes the most wonderful sound in the world: the sound of manufactured cold air blowing into my little rathole of a house. I lean my forehead against its lovely, lovely vent.
"I love you, air conditioner," I say aloud.
And this is how I find myself, ten minutes later, standing with my head against the A/C. Anyone walking by on the street might've seen me doing this, as we have a large window in the living-room-we-don't-use-for-living. They would've seen a sweaty, crazy-haired woman hugging a wall unit.
But it probably wouldn't matter because they most likely already think I am a vampire or something.
I feel marginally better after the appliance-hugging, so I sit down to read a magazine for a while and finish cooling my dumb ass off. Because, really, that was stupid. Just because I am manic and an idiot doesn't mean I am invincible, and I could do myself some damage by shoving around this lawnmower that is missing its automatic-drive function and therefore HEAVY AS SHIT in heat like we are having.
When I relate this bit of business to El Bastardo later, he tells me I could've boiled my brain like the little bunny in Fatal Attraction, and then I am contrite. But now that I think about it, would boiling my brain really make that much of a difference?
I somehow doubt it, friends and neighbors. I somehow doubt it.
But no matter! I have thrown things away! And I will continue to do so until I have no extra things and I feel lean and mean and not bogged down by worthless junk. I have had a breakthrough, by throwing away those books. If I can throw away books, I can do anything I damned well please.
Indeed, I am the Most Awesomest Ever.
Monday, July 17, 2006
War. What's It Good For?
Absolutely nothing. Say it again.
That's also what I got: absolutely nothing.
I was writing this long rambly post about nothing, but then I heard a weird noise. I went upstairs to investigate, and lo, it is the wind, being windy.
Suddenly, my front blows open. I go over and shove it closed and throw the bolt. Then I figure I better start shutting windows, which is a hellacious prospect, considering it's about nine thousand degrees in this little oven I call home.
I look out one of my bedroom windows before I close it and holy hell! It's the end of the world!
Okay, it's just really windy and freaky-looking clouds and lightning are boiling up over to the east. I realize I'd better get the dog out to piss before the sky cracks open, and get my flip flops and the leash.
I drag him outside and the wind is picking up even more. "Hurry up, dumb dog," I tell him.
I don't know if any of you have had the dubious pleasure of experiencing a Michigan summer storm, but it's really not much of a picnic.
By the time the dog decided on a suitable place to unload his bladder, the wind was howling and had ripped my hair right out of its hair thingie and was doing its best to knock my ass down.
I hate that.
Anyway, while I'm standing there, haranguing the dog to hurry up before it starts raining or we both get struck by lightning, the power goes out.
There goes my post. Dang.
Power came back on a few minutes later, but really, I am annoyed. I cannot have the weather messing with my blogging like that. It's just not kosher. And I am all about the kosher. Me and pareve? We're tight.
So that's why this post sucks mightily. The weather made me do it. I can't be blamed.
Until I learn to control the weather, that is. Then I can be blamed. But I won't care, because controlling the weather? Total goal of mine. And once I do control the weather, look out, Saskatoon. I got my eye on you. Eye of a hurricane, that is. Heh heh.
I really shouldn't try to write when I am this tired.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
But Inside I Am Screaming, Plus Improper Thought Permuting
Sometimes, I can't sleep.
Last night, I couldn't sleep, even though I knew full well I'd have to go in to work today and break my brain just a little bit more on this project.
No amount of stern talking-to, desperate cajoling or weeping on the floor would make me sleep. So I read. Then I finished the book and couldn't bring myself to start another, so I dragged myself downstairs to see if any interesting infomercials were on.
None were, curse my eyes. None were.
But I did find a show on MTV called "Why Can't I Be You?"
"What could this be?" I thought, gazing at my handy Comcast guide thingie. "Could it have something to do with...
...? Has MTV made a celebreality show featuring Robert Smith, His Fabulous Hair and that dude in the black face that appears to be stuck in a pair of giant foam lips? Could my life be so gorgeously lucky?"
No. Unfortunately, this show turned out to have nothing whatsoever to do with The Cure. Sigh.
But it was surprisingly entertaining at 4 in the morning. See, on this show, you are some form of loser, and you want to be some form of not-loser, so you tell the show people you envy this other person, and then you ambush this person you envy and tell them you admire them and want to be like them. Then they agree to take you under their wings for 48 hours and teach you how to be like them and they get 1,000 bucks at the end.
My favorite episode of the three I watched involved a boy named Jonathan who knew he was too weird and wanted to learn to talk to the ladies. So he envied some dude named Cliff and went to live with Cliff for two days.
I am sure Jonathan is a nice boy that means well, but, I must say, he was a bit creepy. When he found out that Cliff was married, he was like, "Oh. Is she hot? What does she look like? What fragrance does she wear? When you sleep at night with her, do you put your arms around her?"
There was more weirdness from that guy, but I don't remember the specifics.
At any rate, the point is this: Someone should envy me so I can be on this show. I have two very excellent reasons why this is so. They are as follows:
1) I need a thousand bucks like almost more than I need air right now, and 2) I know there is some poor sap out there that just totally needs to be like me.
This is why I've taken advantage of my sleeplessness in order to compile a short guide to being me. You're welcome.
Being Zombie for Dummies: A Short Guide to Instant Fabulous
1.) Hate pretty much everything under the sun and absolutely everything not under the sun.
In order to more fully develop your Zombie Within, you must hate pretty much everything. These hatreds can be real or imagined and directed at things worthy of hatred or not. Above all, these hatreds should be strong to the point of being irrational. These hatreds should be all-consuming. Nothing is more Zombie-esque than all-consuming, irrational hatred.
Some acceptable objects of hatred include, but are not limited to, the following:
If hating anything and everything animal, vegetable or mineral sounds too daunting for a fledgeling hater such as yourself, feel free to try hating some of these to get yourself started:
Choosing to hate even one of those will surely get your hating off on the right foot.
Now, it must be made known that Zombie only hates pretty much everything. In your quest to be more like Zombie, you are allowed to love some things. These things are as follows (and are limited to only those things that are as follows):
It is permissible to love all of these things with abandon.
2.) Succumb to crushing despair and self-loathing at least once a day.
Zombie likes to temper her overwhelming hatred and rage with a daily generous dose of crushing despair and intense self-loathing. While Zombie's irrational hatred of most everything is the key to her fabulous, you cannot direct that level of hatred outward all day long without giving yourself a headache or stroke. No, sometimes you must direct the hatred onto yourself. It keeps the natural balance of the universe in order. And you don't want to be responsible for the Earth falling off its axis, now do you?
So, once a day, find yourself a completely inappropriate time and place to succumb to crushing despair and self-loathing. Develop a scathing inner monologue to help get you through it. Also, give it a catchy title. Zombie prefers to call her inner monologue "The Bataan Death March" and sometimes refers to it as a separate entity. You can also do this, but you must think up a different clever title for your inner monologue, or Zombie will hate you for taking her best line.
When succumbing to your bout of crushing despair and self-loathing, you may curl up into the fetal position in a corner, sob relentlessly at your office desk, wave your arms around like a newborn baby in a complete panic, or staple your hair to the floor. Extra Zombie Points for insomnia or vomiting.
3.) Acquire a daily theme song.
Zombie has a Daily Theme Song. This is a song that most exemplifies her mood that day. You should also have a daily theme song. Your daily theme song can be anything that catches your fancy, but cannot include any Top 40 hits or country songs.
A recurring Zombie Theme Song is the following:
Fear Factory, "Self Bias Resistor"
Burn your fuse to detonate the human machines of hate, indeed. Extra Zombie Points if you develop an unholy love for Dino Cazares and wish he would have your babies.
4.) Get a blog.
This is most important. Getting a blog can make or break you when it comes to Being Zombie.
Give your blog a pretentious title and harass people with artistic talent into making a banner for it. Extra Zombie Points if you inspire a comic strip from same artistic person.
When posting to your blog, try you use as many run-on sentences as possible. Zombie is very wordy and uses said wordiness to thinly disguise the fact that she has absolutely nothing of value to say. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't, but you will find that the more wordy you are, the less people pay attention to what you're saying and just nod and smile.
Your blog will be an excellent place to spew out all your pent-up irrational hatreds. Take advantage of this. The real people around you will tire of your unending stream of invective eventually, so your blog is the best place to put it. Everyone knows that Interwebs people aren't real, so it's okay to say anything you want to them.
Extra Zombie Points if your blog catches creative Google searches like "vaginal cork" or "agent scully in a thong." Super Extra Zombie Points if your blog ends up being fourth on the Google list for "taking retards to the zoo."
Congratulations, sports fan. You are now well on your way to Being Zombie. Zombie hopes that you have found this short guide to be very helpful in your new venture. If you can master these four Zombie Skizillz, you will truly attain Instant Fabulous.
Good luck and fuck off!
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Saturday YouTube Madness
I had to work today and that was lame. But it was only for three hours instead of the 900 hours I expected, so I guess it's not as bad as it could be.
Anyway, I have decided to bestow upon you some choice videos I've come across on the YouTube.
I love the YouTube. You can find anything you want on the YouTube, from music videos to kids acting like idiots to people getting hurt in fantastic ways to...well, you get the idea.
So, first up we have this excellent video of some chick called The Reverend Alecia. I actually did not find this one on my own - I got it from Crunk + Disorderly via Rich at four four.
I know that I praise Yahweh every day by dancing in a chair like old ladies at the Senior Center. It's a great way to keep fit and praise the lord at the same time. I'm a multitasker like that.
The Right Reverend Alecia is awesome, though. That's some quality chair-dancing, right there. Maybe the best I've ever seen. Not that I've seen a lot of chair-dancing, or anything, but this is just one of those things I know intuitively. It could be the gold lamé she has artfully draped over the back of her office chair.
I found this next one a long time ago and kept meaning to share it, but y'know, the retardation sometimes makes me forget stuff.
But never fear, as it is here now. This is, quite possibly, the best music video ever made. I cannot sing its praises enough.
This video only serves to cement for me that Finland is the greatest country on the planet. Not only has Finland given me the happy that is Children of Bodom...
...but they made it possible for me to view Armi ja Danny and their awesome backup dancers. The choreography in that video is just...astounding. If I ever make a music video, I hope that I can get that choreographer for it. Then I would surely rule the world.
Ahh, the YouTube...
Friday, July 14, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday: Special Friday Edition
I will first announce something I actually love. I love it that when I went to the clinic on Wednesday for the Shot of Death in my stomach, I got weighed.
And I have lost 50 pounds in the last three months and that is FANTASTIC. So go me. I love me. LOVE ME. I love me so much right now that I could almost throw all caution to the wind and marry myself at the guitar-shaped Elvis chapel in Vegas.
Except writing that down reminds me that I am terrible to be around. If I am going to marry me, I should first do some serious thinking about it. Some in-depth (non-existent)soul-searching. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with me? Do I want to have a family with me? Am I really the right person to saddle myself with forever and ever amen?
On second thought, maybe I won't marry myself, even if I do love me deeply at the moment. Maybe I should just buy me some new shoes instead.
Anyway, now that we've got that brief bout with mental illness out of the way, on to the hate...
1.) That chick with her bare foot hanging out of the car window.
Whenever I see a chick with her bare feet hanging out of a car window, I instantly choke on hatred. Usually, you see this happening on the passenger side of the car. You can guarantee that the chick doing this is white and lives in a trailer park somewhere and is probably missing at least one front tooth.
However, today, I witnessed something new. On the way home from work, I saw a chick with her foot hanging out of the driver's side window of the vehicle. Because she was driving.
Why would someone do that? Is that even comfortable? How do you drive like that? I don't know, and I don't want to ask her to find out, because I would much rather carve up her face with one of the empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon that I am sure are rolling around on the floor of the car, but still...if you're going to hang a body part out of a car window, please make it your head, so it hopefully smacks into something and there's one less fucktard in the world.
Y'know, I have come to the conclusion that I have road rage.
Which is made odd by the fact that I don't actually drive. But I do have road rage.
As soon as I get into a car, I'm pissed off. If someone goes too slow, I am like, "T-t-t-today, junior!" and if someone goes too fast, I am like, "Slow down, jackass!" I wave my hands at people, like, "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?" when they do something stupid, such as breathe.
No breathing. Not on my watch. I won't have it.
But this topic brings me directly to my next topic of hatred, which is...
I actually just hate feet in general. Even though I love me and briefly considered marrying me today, I don't even like my own feet.
And I certainly hate your feet, so just keep them away from me.
Feet are only there to keep your ankles from wearing down. Otherwise, they are just disgusting appendages that I do not want to look at.
3.) Nicole Richie.
I hate you, Nicole Richie. I know I have never met you, but that's okay. I see you enough every day, from reading The Superficial and Pink is the New Blog and all of those other celebrity gossip blogs I cannot stop looking at, to know that I hate you.
I don't hate you because you are so thin I can see your spleen clawing at your ribs and gasping for nourishment. I don't hate you because you have a freaky little beaky face, either. Mostly, I hate you because sometimes I see a photo of you in which your skin is the same color as your hair, and that creeps me right the fuck out.
Skin is not supposed to be hair-colored and vice-versa. Please stop that right now. If you don't stop that right now and I someday see you on the street with skin-colored hair, I will surely snatch you bald-headed.
Anyway, there is extraneous and ill-thought-out hate for you for Friday, to make up for my short and brain-damaged hatey post for Thursday. Aren't you so lucky.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday
Well, it's Thursday again, and that means it's time for another installment of Things Zombie Hates Thursday. The joy. The unrelenting joy.
Okay, okay, so technically, I could be called a programmer, since I do some o' that at work, but I don't hate me (at the moment) so I am just talking about other programmers. Specifically the ones we've hired to do a Very Important and Time Sensitive Project.
Coworker #1 and I spent all day breaking the software they built and then taking screencaps and indicating, in minute detail, what needed fixing. Then we would dash this off to the programmers, they would contact us to say it had been fixed, and we would discover that, while fixing that, they had fucked something else up.
Look, I do not have time for hand-holding. If we had the time to walk you through this shit step by step, we'd have just built it ourselves. But we don't have time for that, and that's why we hired you. We have other shit to do. We are not amused. We are also brain dead. And it is all the fault of Indian programmers.
We are not paying you negative 2 rupees an hour to not do this properly, dammit.
And I have several more fun-filled days of this to go! Huzzah!
Just the thought of it makes me want to go insert my head into the garbage disposal.
2.) Shots in the stomach.
I had to get my Depo shot in the stomach yesterday. Nothing like a giant needle to the gut to get you going in the morning.
I went in and said, "So, which hip this time around?"
"Oh, no, we don't do that anymore."
"Okay...I get it in the thigh?"
"Hmm, that needle looks much larger than last time."
"Yes, because it is going in your stomach."
"Ha ha, that is very funny! I thought you just said you were going to give me a shot in the stomach!"
"I did. Lay down."
"Uhm, why do we have to do that?"
"Because studies have been conducted that show that getting it in the hip for too long can cause muscle damage," she said.
"That's okay. I don't mind a little muscle death. Shot in the stomach is not necessary. Really. Hip is good."
"Just lay down," she ordered sternly, brandishing the Needle of Doom at me.
"Christ, what's next? My neck?"
And then, shot in the stomach! The pain! She said it would hurt LESS than the hip! She lied to me! It burned and burned and then it made a bigger bruise than usually happens and then it got swollen and red and angry at me. I tried telling it I was really sorry and it wasn't my idea, so if it could just calm down with the trying to kill me, I'd appreciate it, but my stomach apparently did not care. It made its unhappiness known.
I went to work after that, and hobbled around like a dead old lady and that caused the hate.
I am going to cut this short this time because of the brain death caused by the programmers. I can't think, let alone write. That causes the hate, too. But I am sure you can deal. Or not. Whatever.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Zombie's Movie Review Corner
Breaking news: I've watched some movies. Ooo. I've recently seen two movies that are new to me. I am usually behind on these things by at least 7 years, so bear with me, okay?
The Jesus Snuff Film
Up until a couple of weeks ago, if anyone asked me, "Have you seen The Passion of the Christ?" I could say "NO, NOW GO AWAY" quite honestly. I can still say "GO AWAY" honestly, but I cannot still say "NO" without being a lying liar. Well, actually, I can say "SORT OF, GO AWAY" since I didn't finish the movie.
My mother had the DVD while I was out in Seattle and I thought, "I have nothing better to do. I might as well finally watch this film that has changed the lives of millions."
For instance, it changed my father's life in a profound way: he discovered that sometimes movies aren't in English and there's just nothing you can do about it.
My sister told me that she walked into the living room to find my father staring at the TV and banging the remote on the coffee table.
Not So Shrinky-Dinky Sister: What's the matter, Dad?
Dad: This damned DVD is broken or something.
Not So Shrinky-Dinky Sister: Looks okay to me.
Dad: Yeah, but it's not in English.
Not So Shrinky-Dinky Sister: Uhm...
Dad: Can't find the thing that makes it go back to English. It's the damnedest thing ever.
Not So Shrinky-Dinky Sister: Dad, you can't make it go back to English. The movie is in Aramaic. And Latin.
Dad: Well, what the hell kind of stupid thing is that? Why the hell wouldn't it be in English?
At this point, my father apparently got fed up with foreigners invading his TV and turned it off, never to try to watch it again. Fair play to my Dad, I say. If the King's English was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for us! We don't need any funny-talking trying to fancy up the joint, do we?
Indeed, Dad. Indeed.
Despite the marked lack of English in this movie, I decided to watch it anyway. Please let it be known here that I don't like movies with subtitles, on principle, because such movies generally involve a lot of moody staring into space and dramatic pastoral scenes replete with shepherdesses and mules or whatever, and I can't really be bothered with all that. I want stuff to blow up, or, at the very least, catch fire, and we all know that foreigners are just no good at that, don't we?
The exception to my no-foreign-language-movies-EVER rule is, of course, Bollywood films, because I am consistently amused and fascinated every time there is a very dramatic scene in which all life hangs in the balance, and suddenly, everyone breaks out into a cheerful song-and-dance number, thusly relieving the tension and distracting me with shiny turbans. I love that.
Anyway, so I settled down with a Diet Coke and The Passion of the Jesus. Now, I had heard about this movie, mind you. I had heard that it was violent. I had heard that it was full of the gore. I love me some violence and gore, especially when it's directed at the Son of God, so yay for this! Bring it on!
I got to what I'm guessing is about halfway through - Jesus was just arriving, with much fanfare, to the top of Golgotha - when I gave up and turned it off.
For real, y'all, what a lameass movie. Sure, there was violence. Sure, there was gore. But it all just seemed so pointless. I like my violence and gore to have a point, dammit. After all, this was a Mel Gibson film. I kept expecting Jesus to rise up against those doing him harm and start kicking a little ass, hero-style, like, "You made my mom cry! I won't have it! I'm not going to do what you bad guys want me to do! I'm not going to die for any sins on your terms, oh no, I am going to save my family and blow shit up on my terms. Perhaps wearing a tricorn hat! Take that, Romans!"
Suffice it to say, I was very disappointed, because this never happened. Instead, it turned out to be the same tired Lamb-of-God-Who-Takes-Away-the-Sins-of-the-World-Miserere-Nobis bullshit, except with a weird bald chick in a cape.
While I might generally not be adverse to a weird bald chick in a cape making a cameo appearance in a film I am watching, did she really have to have that freaky fat baby with her? I mean, what was up with that? What were you trying to say, there, Mel? I dig that the weird bald chick in the cape was supposed to represent Sin or Evil or something, but what does a freaky fat baby represent in your strange, strange canon? Perhaps this was a nod to the accepted horror-flick custom of including an evil devil child to add a certin je nais se quoi to the whole thing...? "Jews in fabulous hats are scary, sure, but what would REALLY get them is if we have the weird bald chick in the cape cart around a malformed, obese infant! I smell an Academy Award, fellas!"
Perhaps Mel just has a thing for freaky fat babies. I certainly don't know. Sheesh.
But seriously, Jim Caviezel is the worst Savior of Mankind ever, people. He got his ass kicked and didn't even whine about it. Nary a peep did Jim Caviezel make. If I was getting my ass kicked like that, I wouldn't be all pious and For God So Loved the World. No, I'd pipe up with at least one "If you kick me in the kidney one more time, Evil Roman Footman #12, I am so not dying for your sins. Everyone else's, sure. But yours? No way. Asshole."
After a while, I just got tired of watching Jesus get his ass kicked.
After a while, I found myself saying, "Can't we just get this scourging shit over with and hang the guy up already? All this fancy-pantsing around is really getting rather boring."
After a while, I found myself saying, "Okay, Romans, we get it. You're mad and you're not going to take it anymore. You hate Jesus. But if you kick him in the face one more time, he might not actually make it up the hill for the main attraction, so I suggest calming down a little bit. Just a little? A smidge? A tad? No? Damn."
After a while, I found myself saying, "JUST FUCKING DIE ALREADY, JESUS. OKAY? JUST FUCKING DIE."
I did think it was funny that Pilate was portrayed as such a nice guy, all tears in the eyes and looking to his hot wife for comfort while he is forced by the evil Jews in the fantastic hats to sentence poor Jesus to death by hanging on a stick.
Yeah, because Pilate was really such a nice guy. Right. For someone so concerned with "historical accuracy" that he would make an entire film in Aramaic (and Latin), Mel Gibson sure ignored the part where Pilate was actually a bloodthirsty bastard that regularly had guys hung up on sticks and stuff.
So, I turned the movie off at the point where we reach the summit of the Place of the Skull, because I just couldn't be bothered anymore. I'm sure the end part where Jesus dies was very touching and that I would be moved to tears by Jesus' plight and then uplifted when I realized that he suffered through all that bullshit so that I could continue to be a rat bastard in life and still make it through to check him out while he's lounging at the right hand of his father (if I said I was sorry, of course!) so that we could, together, sing a duet of a popular Mr. Mister song and whatever, but seriously, Mel. You're gonna have to try harder next time.
The Exorcism of Emily Rose, or, What Not To Do if Your Kid Might Be Possessed by a Satan
A FAR more entertaining movie is the one I just finished watching, entitled The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I laughed, I cried (because of laughing) and then I laughed some more! Especially the part where all the cats attack the priest 'cos the demon told them to, and during the ensuing brouhaha, the demon makes Emily chuck herself out of a window. Now that is what I call entertainment.
It was also far more educational than The Passion of the Dude in the Bloody Loincloth. Here are some things I learned from this fine feature film:
1.) If your kid has epileptic fits, she might be possessed by a Satan!
2.) If your kid exhibits all of the classic symptoms of schizophrenia, she might be possessed by a Satan!
3.) If your local parish priest tells your kid to stop taking her seizure medicine, it's probably a good idea, because priests are just as good as doctors, and also, she might be possessed by a Satan!
4.) If your kid stops eating, she might be possessed by a Satan!
5.) If your kid sees old ladies' faces melting off, she might be possessed by a Satan!
6.) If your kid speaks in tongues and claims to be a Satan, she might be possessed by a Satan!
7.) If you sign over your kid's care to a priest you've brought into your home and your kid dies, it's not your fault in any way at all and no one will blame you, because she might be possessed by a Satan and priests are supposed to be good with that sort of thing!
8.) If your kid dies from medical neglect/being possessed by a Satan, it will make for compelling courtroom drama!
So thank you, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, because without you, I might never have known all of that, or experienced the awesomeness of cats kicking a priest's ass while some crazy chick chucks herself out of a window.
And that's way better than watching Jesus get it from some dumb Romans in leather skirts.
Thus concludes Zombie's Movie Review Corner. I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did.
Oh, and by the by, when I mentioned the next day, to my father, that I had watched The Passion of the Guy Getting His Most Holy Ass Kicked, Hosanna in the Highest but hadn't finished it, my father looked up from his can of beer and said, contemplatively, "Well, I guess we already know how it ends, anyway" and then went back to ignoring me.
Indeed, Dad. Indeed.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Wherein I Say Many Things That Are Only Funny to Me and El Bastardo
El Bastardo and I frequently have interesting conversations, many of which would make for excellent blog fodder (except for the pornographic ones, because NO), but many of them might give away his Secret Identity, forcing him to retire to his Fortess of Bastarditude for the forseeable future, lest some crazy supervillain rear its ugly cartoony head and perhaps annoy us both.
And we all know how well I deal with being annoyed...let's just say that annoying El Bastardo could, quite possibly, be even more detrimental to your health than annoying me would be.
Except I can annoy him all I want without too much of the whole fearsome repercussions thing, as I am charming and adorable and also have large breasts.
Ha ha, I win.
Anyway, last night on the phone, I was musing on what to blog about today and we somehow ended up doing the laughing-hysterically-thing at a conversation El Bastardo once had with his best friend (we generally laugh about this at least three times a week, sometimes more), and it was decided I would blog about that. But we'll tell it from MY point of view, because, really, this is my blog and I can do whatever I want. So there. I shall try to recreate it as accurately as possible.
Zombie's Cell Does That Little Vibrating Buzzy Thing It Does When It Lives in Her Pocketses
El Bastardo: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
El Bastardo: AHAHAHHAH. Oh. HAH. K, so I was just talking to Best Friend and he is having a problem with his girlfriend.
El Bastardo: And he is like, "I need some advice." And I am like, "Well, what is the problem?" AHAHAHAHAH.
El Bastardo: He says, hahahhaha, he says, "She won't let me fuck her in the ass anymore."
Zombie: That is a terrible problem, indeed.
El Bastardo: Yeah, it is. So he asks me if I know of any good ways to casually work it into conversation, subliminally-like, so that he can fuck her in the ass again.
Zombie: Because that's such a casual-conversation-like topic...
El Bastardo: Yeah. So I say, "How the FUCK can you work that into conversation? 'Hey, baby, how was your day? Wannafuckyouintheass. Nice weather we're having, isn't it? CanIfuckyouintheass. What do you want for dinner tonight? Fuckyouintheass?'"
Zombie: Well, that could work, I guess...
El Bastardo: And he says, "FUCK YOU!! Come on. Stop making a joke out of this." And I say, "How can I NOT make a joke about this!? Come on!! How the fuck can you bring that up in conversation?"
Zombie: Wait, I have an idea. You tell him to get a little tape recorder and record himself saying, "You want me to fuck you in the ass. You need me to fuck you in the ass," over and over again. And then he can put it under her pillow at night while it plays. And while she sleeps, it will become ingrained in her mind, and when she wakes up, she'll be all like, "Hey, you know, I want you to fuck me in the ass! I need you to fuck me in the ass!" And bingo, buttsecks galore. That's totally subliminal.
This conversation took place many weeks ago, but we still laugh about it a lot and come up with new ways for Best Friend to subliminally mention this to his girlfriend.
Last night, we thought he could do it like they do at the movies: y'know, when they're playing that little "Let's go out to the lobby and have ourselves a snack!" thing with the box of popcorn and the box of Raisinettes and the paper cup of pop doing a conga line across the screen, and the subliminal "DRINK COKE NOW" thing comes up, and suddenly, you are very thirsty for a Coke and you go get one, because the subliminal message has compelled you to?
Except Best Friend could just insert a picture of his girlfriend's ass and a picture of his penis where the "DRINK COKE NOW" is, and that would totally work, I think. Totally.
Really, it's no wonder that it's turning out that I am pretty good with the whole marketing thing.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Let Me Say, Pepsi Generation...
While in Seattle, as previously mentioned, I had a chance to hang out with the Incredible Shrinking Sister on several occasions.
Turns out she's not so Shrinky-Dinky anymore, because her therapy appears to be working. This is a good thing, because the whole praying mantis thing she had going on before was more than a little disturbing. Kid is back to eating again, though she's on a diet that her therapist put her on that doesn't allow for the carbs. I took her out to lunch and observed her vacuum up an omelette that I probably couldn't even finish (and, y'all, seriously, I can pack it away if I have a mind to). So that's good. She's eating the foodstuffs and has a good job and a cute Filipino boyfriend that buys her Swedish fish without her prompting him to do so, so all is well for the Seattle Branch of My Mother's Daughters.
(Re: the Swedish fish, I told her, "Look, kid, you have a guy here that buys you your favorite candy without you even asking him to do it, and that is very, very rare, because guys, especially guys his age, don't generally pop off with the nice without some prompting and/or serious hint-dropping. So don't fuck it up with him, k? K.")
And I am back to being the Daughter What Sucks A Lot. But that's cool. I am most comfortable in that role. I was feeling very weird when I was the least-not-normal one for a while there.
It'll really shatter my worldview if she turns into a spree-killer or something, because really, how can I out not-normal a spree-killer? I ask you.
Anyway, so the first day we hung out, she dragged me down to Seattle's U District for some shopping.
We wandered around a thrift store for a little bit. The downstairs of this store is full of costumes and it was there that I spied a full-on Elvis jumpsuit, complete with really wide belt and tons of rhinestones. If I had had enough money, I would've immediately purchased it and mailed it to Skippy, because I know how that would help him in picking up the ladies. They also had some badass platform shoes with a plastic goldfish in the heel, which would've gone great with the Elvis suit and Skippy would never want for getting laid again. Curse my paltry bank account what won't let me outfit my friends in hot clothes that will get them laid! Curse it!
Though, to be fair, the goldfish shoes were obviously not authentic, because the goldfish was plastic. To make them REALLY hot, they'd have to actually be circa the 70s, with a REAL goldfish in the heel. If they were circa the 70s and had a real goldfish in there, the goldfish would probably now be a little rotted skellington of a goldfish and that's even HOTTER.
I can see it now.
Skippy, after dinner, leaning back in his chair, lighting a cigar, and propping his feet up in the dessert tray: So, sweetcheeks, wanna talk about Eddie Gein?
Sweetcheeks: Uhm...is that a rotten goldfish in the heel of your shoe?
Skippy: Why, yes. Yes, it is. I like to keep it old-school like that. That is just how I roll.
Sweetcheeks: Wow. That's really hot. Please perform anal sex on me immediately.
I'm sorry I wasn't able to buy you the outfit that would get you fucked a lot, Skippy. Next time I am out there, though, I am totally bringing enough money to do so.
But back to the subject at hand: shopping with my sister. We enter a "boutique" and go in different directions. We meet up in the middle of the store and, in unison, say, "Well, now I know where to shop if I ever decide to be a stripper."
Then we sort of stare at each other for a minute and, in unison, turn and walk out of the store.
Outside, she lights a cigarette. We stand there, chatting about nonsense. A man approaches us. A dirty man with a beard and a suitcase on wheels. I immediately began envisioning our wedding, because obviously, this is the man I am destined to marry - a dirty man, dragging around a Samsonite on wheels which is probably full of severed heads or maybe comic books.
"Can I buy a cigarette from you, please?" he says.
Dirty and POLITE, too! Swoon!
He holds out a quarter. I rummage around in my bag and come up with a stale cigarette and hand it to him. "Keep the money," I say.
My sister and I go back to chatting. The man is still standing there. We turn our backs to him and keep talking.
He sticks his hand between us, as if for a handshake. "I'm Frank and - "
"Oh, honey," I say, looking over my shoulder at him. "Me giving you a cigarette was NOT me giving you permission to speak to us. Run along."
He calls me a bitch and my sister giggles. So he calls her a bitch, too. I point out that he's still talking to us and that was not part of the agreement. He leaves.
Guess we won't be getting married after all.
Later, we are thirsty, so we go into the Jack in the Box for some life-saving Diet Coke. We wait in line behind a very tall black man.
"I gotta piss," announces my sister, ever the classy one, and goes off to find the bathroom. While she's walking through the dining area, a fat man says, "HELLO" loudly to her.
"Er, hi," she says as she leaves my field of vision. Seconds later, she is back at my side. "Bathroom is fucking locked."
"HELLO!" shouts the fat man. "WHY DIDN'T YOU GO INTO THE BATHROOM?"
"Ignore it," I say to her, because really, is it any of his business why she didn't go into the bathroom? Why is he worried about her bladder functions?
"HELLO!" the fat man says again.
"It's locked, okay?" my sister tells him. I hiss at her to shut up. The fat man falls silent.
We turn our focus back to waiting in line. The tall black man in front of me finishes his order and turns around. He catches sight of us.
"Woo," he whistles at me. "You're a pretty girl."
I blink at him.
"You sure are pretty. It's always nice when you see a pretty girl standing in the line at the Jack in the Box."
I blink some more. My sister snorts. He turns his attention to her. "You're pretty, too!"
"Thanks for noticing me, asshole," she says, offended.
"Well! Fiesty, too!" he says and wanders off.
Finally, no weird men are talking to us and we are able to order Diet Cokes. I get the cups and we go over to the pop dispensing machine.
And no Diet Coke comes out. NO DIET COKE COMES OUT. THE END IS NIGH.
I go back to the counter and tell the cashier boy that no Diet Coke comes out. He says that is because they are out of the Diet Coke and therefore there is none to come out. I demand a refund and we leave.
We are five steps out of the Jack in the Box when the door opens behind us. "HELLO!" shouts the fat man, leaning out of the doorway. "DID YOU GET TO USE THE BATHROOM YET?"
"OH FUCK OFF ABOUT THE BATHROOM ALREADY," my sister shouts back.
Ah, she makes me proud.
Apparently, nasty men saying things to me is not limited to my home turf. No matter where I go, nasty men will say things to me. This causes the hate.
Note to Nasty Men of the World: Do not say things to me, or my sister, or I will hate you. And my hate is pure and possessed of a razor-sharp edge that will cut you just like a hooker from southern Louisiana will cut you. It will.
And Jack in the Box now causes the hate, because I had to put up with nasty men saying stuff and still didn't get a Diet Coke out of the deal.
Jack in the Box, you are on notice. I don't care if you have a weird clownheaded thing for a mascot or are in the habit of making strange tacos and have burgers on sourdough bread. You're on notice.
That's them told.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday
Welcome to a new feature here at Deus ex Machina. We're going to call it Things Zombie Hates Thursday. And it will happen on...Thursdays. And it will be about...things I hate. Because I am clever and subtle.
Because, now, this may come as a shock to you, but I hate things. I hate a lot of things. And I thought Thursday would be a good day o' the week to talk about these things (also 'Thursday' creates a slight-but-not-really alliteration with 'things' and that allows me to pretend I am poetic and good at thinking up catchy titles for things, which I'm not, but WHATEVER. MY BLOG.) and stuff.
So, on with it:
In the car, coming home from work yesterday, I was thinking about how I hate bicyclists. Because I do. In fact, even the slightest glimpse of a bicyclist causes me to immediately be consumed with rage.
This is a problem, considering where I live. Everywhere you look up here, there's someone on a fucking bicycle. This happens for one of two reasons:
A.) You live in Ann Arbor and are consequently a tree-hugging, patchouli-loving, vegan-sandal-wearing, organic-vegetable-consuming, refined-sugar-suspicious hippie whose Benz happens to be in the shop, or
B.) You live in Ypsilanti and are too poor to afford a car.
I guess we could throw in C.) You live in Ypsilanti but desperately want to be the hippie from Ann Arbor so you throw on some fair-trade-handmade-by-oppressed-midgets-in-New-Guinea-culottes with your plastic-I-hope-no-one-notices-plastics-are-made-from-dead-animal-parts-fake-Birkenstocks and hope someone mistakes you for an Ann Arborite.
Whichever letter you bicyclists belong to, however, I hate you.
I hate seeing you pedal furiously down the side of the road with your stupid helmet and water bottle. I hate it when you are wearing a skirt and I have to see your pasty thighs churning around like fleshy, disgusting egg-beaters. I hate when you casually walk your bike across the intersection as if you owned the world because you have a BMX and your El Camino or whatever is up on blocks in the front yard.
But most of all, I hate it when you are in front of me while we're driving somewhere, and you're acting like you are a car, because HELLO, you are not a car. You are too slow to be a car and you are holding up traffic.
I hate seeing you waiting at red lights, in the middle of the lane, poised and ready to rocket off at negative 5 miles per hour as soon as the light turns green.
I hate when you are not using the fucking bike lane and instead are hugging the little white line that marks the edge of where the cars can go, making it impossible for anyone to pass you and thusly leaving us all to crawl along slower than snails until you get the fuck out of the way.
In summation, bicyclists cause me to be consumed with a fiery fury that will only be sated when I one day snap and tell Roommate to floor it while I open up my car door and whack some asshat on a mountain bike with it, causing, hopefully, severe bodily harm.
I do not just hate tomatoes: I loathe them. The mere thought of a tomato being in my mouth makes me shudder with unholy dread.
It is not the taste of tomatoes that I dislike. No, I quite enjoy ketchup. I also enjoy tomato sauce, as long as it is smooth. It's the chunks that get me. I cannot eat chunks of tomato or I will skeev out entirely and perhaps vomit on my shoes.
Attention Burger King Workers: When I say "no tomatoes" on my Whopper, Junior, I fucking mean it. Do not, ever again, let my burger get all the way back to the office only for me to bite into it and discover you have put a fucking tomato on it. Ever again. Because if you do, I will figure out where you live and hunt you down and cram whole tomatoes down your throats until you die. I will.
Don't try me. I'm dead serious.
3.) Tim Horton's.
So I have been on a diet and this means I have cut out most of everything that I hold dear, including baked goods. This is what has allowed me to drop four jeans sizes in the past few months. I am proud of myself, and that means I give myself a treat now and again, just so I don't go postal for lack of baked items and shoot someone in the neck.
So yesterday morning, I woke up with a severe urge for a blueberry muffin and I decided I would give in to this urge because I have not had a blueberry muffin in ages.
I go to the Tim Horton's, Maker of Fine Baked Goods and Not-Too-Shabby Sammiches. I ask for two blueberry muffins and then proceed to take them to work with me. I will have one for the breakfast and one for the lunch, I decide. Ah, life is good.
I get the first muffin out of its little paper bag home. The top of the muffin is golden and delicious-looking, just as the top of a muffin should be. I crack it off, as I like to eat the top of the muffin first, since we all know that is the best part, and...what?
The middle of my precious muffin is raw. I am holding, in my poor little hands, a shell of a muffin. A shell of a muffin filled with blueberry goo.
"What the fuck!" I exclaim, and grab the second muffin.
I crack the top off of that one and it, too, is full of raw blueberry batter.
Tim Horton's did not cook these muffins properly! Tim Horton's wants to give me salmonella! Tim Horton's must burn to the ground!
That is why I had a Whopper, Junior, today. Because my muffin treat was ruined and full of unhealthy, disease-causing blueberry goo, and even then, I was not happy, because of tomatoes.
It is much easier to pick a slice of tomato off of a burger than it is to remove a bunch of batter from the middle of a muffin, so I guess it will have to do.
But it should be known that Tim Horton's now causes the hate, so if I ever go in there again and ask for a muffin, I will make the girl behind the counter crack the muffin top off to check for disease-causing batter before I will pay for it. And if I spy even so much as a trace of uncooked muffin parts in there, I will promptly grab it from her and throw it to the floor, shouting, "TAKE THAT, MUFFIN OF DEATH!" Then I will stomp on it and walk out.
4.) That Fat Lady at the Mall.
Yes, Fat Lady at the Mall, I'm talking to you. You with the cropped halter top that is barely containing your breasts and certainly not covering your stomach. You with the tiny, tiny spandex shorts whose seams I can hear screaming for mercy every time you shift your bulk there on that bench. Yes, you. I hate you.
I hate that you are not wearing adequate clothing and are therefore subjecting me to the sight of your impossibly wide ass trying to keep its square mileage suitably compressed into that black spandex. I hate that your stomach is hanging out all over the fucking place and it is wobbly and gross.
I hate it that you think you look good. Because really, does anyone get dressed in the morning and say, "Wow, I look fucking atrocious in this! That means it's perfect to leave the house in!"? Does anyone do that? No, they don't. People get dressed in the morning and say, "Fuck, I look HAWT" and saunter out the door.
So yes, I know you think you look good like that. Perhaps you think you look sexy. Perhaps you are under the impression that the siren song of your monstrous thighs rubbing together will lure some poor, unsuspecting redneck truck driver to his untimely demise in your bed. Perhaps that was your goal this morning when you assembled this sartorial disaster, put it on, and actually left the house in it.
And for that, you cause the hate. Because you are hurting my eyes and the eyes of everyone around you. Because, as a big girl myself, you are hurting the reputation of big girls everywhere. Because from the moment someone sees you until they die, every time they see a big girl, they will see your ghastly visage superimposed over her image, no matter how well-dressed and attractively-attired said big girl may be.
But most of all, Fat Lady at the Mall, I hate you because you appear to have consumed all of the pie in the tri-state area. And I really like pie.
So next time, leave some for me. k, thanks.
5.) Capri Pants and Their Evil Male Counterpart, the Man-pri.
You, Pants That Are Not Pants But Not Quite Shorts Either, you cause the hate. Why are you in existence? Do you not realize that no one looks good in you? Do you not understand that no matter how thin the woman wearing you, you will cut her off at the exact part of her calf that will immediately render her stumpy-legged and oddly-shaped? And if she's wearing those bastardly ballet flats at the same time, woe is her, as Fashion Disaster has descended and taken up residence on the lower half of her body.
So, Capri Pants, I do not care how trendy and awesome you are or if Vogue told me you are hot this summer. I know that if I put you on, my lower half will somehow take on the appearance of the Pillsbury Doughboy in heels and people will tsk and the neighbors will talk. And don't think that every time I see a woman wearing you, Capri Pants, I don't want to grab some scissors and hack away at her legs until you become proper shorts or she loses a limb for daring to leave the house wearing not-pants.
And as for you, the Manpri, can someone please explain to me what it is you think you are doing? Hmm? If I see another man wearing shorts so long they are very nearly pants, BUT STILL NOT PANTS, I will cause some sort of a ruckus that will distract everyone long enough for me to grab the Manpri from its victim, set up my sewing machine, fashion some sort of extension that will turn the Manpri INTO PANTS and put them back on the victim without anyone noticing. And immediately, women in the vicinity will swoon and want to have sex with the man, because he is no longer wearing the Manpri, and Not Wearing the Manpri = Hot and Fuckable. Let that be a lesson to all you men. Wear shorts or wear pants, but don't wear something in between, or you'll never get laid again, except for Cheeto-dust covered Britney Spears (K-Fed is a big fan of the Manpri) or maybe Fat Lady at the Mall.
And that is all for now. Stay tuned for next week's installment where I'm sure I'll have more things to hate, because, hey, the well never runs dry when you live on Planet Earth and I am always hatin' somethin.'