Thursday, August 31, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
Worship at your leisure.
1.) Medication commercials.
I hate commercials for medications.
I do not want to turn on my TV so I can watch "Dog the Bounty Hunter" for four hours straight while hanging my head over the side of the couch and drooling only to see a commercial for some random medication.
I hate the ancient vaginas rambling about how they don't let osteoporosis get them down. I don't give a shit about the tiny little fractures in your spine that were making you get short and bent-over and ugly. Who cares. Except you, I mean. I guess. Whatever.
I hate the smiling middle-aged woman telling me that her husband's erectile dysfunction no longer embarasses him because he talked to his doctor. Doesn't she know that her husband's impotence is supposed to cause him shame and embarassment? Doesn't she know that the fact he can't get it up on his own is supposed to drive him to drink and scream at her and tell her it's because she's old and fat and ugly and then knock her around of a Saturday night? DUH. She's not supposed to go on TV and announce that he was such a lamer that he actually admitted it and talked to his doctor about it and started taking a pill for it that may cause a four hour erection that will need immediate medical attention! That's crazy. Where have all the cowboys gone, indeed.
I hate the radiant and smiling young people frolicking in the ocean now that herpes isn't such a pain in the genitals anymore. I hate them smiling and telling me that it's still possible to spread herpes to others, even though they are taking the miracle medicine that maybe, possibly, can reduce outbreaks. Wait a minute, sounds like this medicine is pretty worthless to me. It might not reduce your outbreaks and you can still spread the herpes around...why fucking bother?
Oh, but what I hate the most is the list of side-effects all of these commercials give us at the end. Pharmaceutical companies must think we're all a bunch of idiots. Well, granted, most of us are. But still.
I saw an allergy medication commercial that listed some of the possible side-effects as being congestion, stuffy nose, coughing and sneezing. Uhm, hello? The side-effects are the same as the fucking allergies themselves. What's the point? Here, America! Here is a pill that will cure your allergy symptoms by giving you side-effects that are exactly like your allergy symptoms! Saddle up, hoss, 'cos this shit's expensive, too! Woo!
There is a commercial for a rheumatoid arthritis medication that lists "lymphoma" as a possible side-effect. LYMPHOMA. A SIDE-EFFECT FOR THIS ARTHRITIS MED IS FUCKING CANCER. Yes, rheumatoid arthritis sucks, but I think it's safe to say that we'd all much rather have the arthritis than the fucking cancer this medicine can give you. If anyone thinks cancer is the lesser of two evils, so they can try it out, I invite them over for a nice tumor in the brain, al dente, with a little chemotherapy on the side. Oh, and cole slaw. Mmm, cole slaw.
I also hate the lists of reasons why you can't take a certain medicine that are tacked onto these commercials, in such a soothing, nice tone of voice. "If you are a one-legged, one-eyed, gallbladder-less Pygmy from Darkest Borneo, This Dangerous Pill may not be right for you. Talk to your doctor before taking This Dangerous Pill. If you cannot afford This Dangerous Pill on your own - and really, what Pygmy with one leg, one eye, and no gallbladder from Darkest Borneo can afford it - Pfizer may be able to help offset the costs if you ask really nicely and promise us your first, second and third born children. Maybe. If we feel like it. Aren't we nice that we'll think about maybe, possibly cutting you some slack on the costs of This Dangerous Pill, especially when it might give you cancer? We are great."
I really fucking hate that shit. Shut up already. You're interrupting Dog and His Mullet Most Magnificent.
2.) Getting Smashed by a Mattress When There's No One Around to Save Your Dumb Ass.
I really hate it when I'm moving mattresses around, by myself, and by the time I get to the last one - after having moved two box springs and a mattress and a bunch of heavy boxes and stuff - my little arms lose their bones and somehow I get smashed against the wall by the mattress. And then my aforementioned little arms and my just-now-mentioned little legs flail around uselessly, but I am too tired and too weak to get the fucking thing off of me, so I make a small noise, like, "Help," but alas, there is no one around to save me.
So I stay that way for a few minutes and contemplate the meaning of life and where my good Tupperware has got off to and did I leave the gas on and how in blue fuck do I afford my rock and roll lifestyle, anyway? Thereby giving my poor abused little body time to summon up enough energy to slide out from underneath the stupid mattress and then kick it at least five times, to show it exactly who is moving whom around up in this here bizzotch.
And then I am vindicated, because even though I just got my ass whupped by bedding, at least I got in the last kick. SO THERE, SEALY POSTURPEDIC. PWNED.
And now, El Bastardo...
The Fuckwits at The Weather Channel Who Never Seem to Get It Fucking Right.
Morons That Feel Sympathy for People That Do Something Stupid to Themselves.
The well just never runs dry, my friends. It never runs dry.
Monday, August 28, 2006
The Little Things That Mean So Much
Every day, when I check my little site meter, I am filled with joy. I like seeing where you freaky people come from, but more importantly, I like seeing the Google searches that get people here.
You see, it turns out that I am now second on Google, behind the illustrious Pamie and one of her blogs, The Lotion and the Basket, when one searches for "Jame Gumb tuck dance." Some other variations of that will also land you here via Google, but the specifics don't matter. What matters is that quite a few people get to this little blog of mine, every day, by searching for a fictional serial killer and his awesome dance.
And that makes me happy.
Now, the reason people are getting here for that search is because I mentioned Jason Mewes' impression of said dance in Clerks 2. Good ol' Jay and Silent Bob. I figure all those people that are landing at the blog and not finding Jame Gumb's tuck dance are probably disappointed. And I wouldn't like to disappoint anyone when it comes to serial killers dancing nakedly to "Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus, perhaps while thinking about making himself a new lady suit out of poor Catherine, who is stuck in a hole in the basement. That just wouldn't do.
So, here is a video clip of Jame Gumb and his penis tuck. Because I care enough to send the very best.
It rubs the lotion on its skin! It does this whenever it's told! It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again!
I will follow that masterpiece with Jason Mewes' impression, which is equally brilliant. Of course.
Bear in mind that this video is bootlegged, so the quality isn't perfect, but it includes all of the bits of Jay dancing, as well as a couple other brilliant parts, most notably the "EAT PUSSY" graffiti bit and the part where Randal and Jay harass poor little Elias by singing King Diamond's "Welcome Home" to him until he runs away.
Let me help you out of the chair, Grandma!
And just because, here's another clip of Jay dancing and Randal's awesome summary of The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Better Get Your Coat, Dear. It Looks Like Rain.
So, on the way home from work yesterday, I got the idea that I might not have enough Diet Coke to last me the weekend, and this caused the panic.
So I had Roommate stop at a package store out on Packard. This is a package store I have not been to, but is now my favorite store, even though they charged me an arm and a leg for two 12-packs.
Anyway, I get in there and I grab my Coke and mosey up to the counter. There are two dudes behind the counter. They appear to be stoned. Lynyrd Skynyrd is playing on a little radio. I bob my head to "Free Bird" while the guy rings me up.
"I'm gonna need to see some ID," says the guy.
"Okay..." I get my ID out, thinking he wants to check my name against my card's name or something. Fine.
The guy squints at the ID and then at my cases of Coke.
"Y'know...because...Coke's alcoholic. And stuff. I just carded you for Diet Coke. Shit," says the guy.
I start laughing. "Oh. I thought you were checking my name against my card's name."
"Oh! Yeah. That's...that's what I was doing!" says the guy.
Hah. I got carded for Diet Coke. That rocks.
I will go back there next week and see if the guy cards me for some Slim Jims or something. I don't like Slim Jims, but it would be funny to get carded for Slim Jims.
The power is back on, all is well. So here is late hate from EB, called El Bastardo on Busybody Parents Who Think They Have the Right to Tell You How to Deal With Your Kid
So, a few months ago, on the way to the store, my kid is being a shit.
And, to wrap this up, I bring you two wonderful videos. Feel the love.
I'm gonna betchslap you, shetbag!
Israeli-Palestinian Conflict Muffins!
Man, that's the shit. Those are done by a guy named Liam and he is damned funny. EB and I have been quoting the "Shoes" song back and forth at each other for several days now. Mainly because he thinks I am like that about shoes. And I am. Because I am a girl. And that is what girls do.
Those shoes are mine, betch!
I found the muffin video last night and it made me laugh so hard, I hurt myself. The "blood" bit kills me.
So, yeah. Good stuff. Pass them around.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo, In Absentia
Run, motherfucker, run!
1.) Half-assed compliments.
I have gotten many half-assed compliments in my short yet unbearably cool and sexy life.
Half-assed compliments are those ones where someone, usually unintentionally, says something that is supposed to be nice, but ends up being...well, not.
Examples of half-assed compliments that have been paid to me:
"You don't look that bad, Zombie's Real Name."
"You're not that fat, Zombie's Real Name."
"You look pretty good for having had two kids."
"Are you ever self-conscious about your very large forehead? Not that it bothers me. I like large foreheads. I'm just curious."
Example of a half-assed compliment paid to a friend of mine:
"Well, see, those hot girls are the kind of girls you just want to bang. You're the kind of girl you want to settle down and have kids with."
Example of a half-assed compliment I overheard once:
"I think it's really cool that we have a lot of the same opinions on this, especially when you're so old."
Let's examine this.
"You're not that fat." Okay, so I'm fat...but not that fat. I'm fat, but not hugegantic, ginormous, big-enough-to-have-my-own-moons-orbiting-around-my-ass fat.
And the one about the kind of girl you want to bang vs. the kind of girl you want to settle down with? Yeah. What that really says is, "Those chicks are super-hot and way out of my league. You are not super-hot and therefore not out of my league. While I would prefer to settle down with the super-hot chick, she would most likely have nothing to do with me. But you...you are the kind of girl I could settle for. I assume you might be grateful to have me, since you are not super-hot and therefore cannot get any man you want and maybe are slightly desperate. If you are grateful to have me, you won't mind bearing my children, picking up my dirty socks or putting up with my pathetic attempts at foreplay. All in all, that makes you my kind of girl."
Let's not forget the "you're so old" comment. This was said to an attractive lady in her early 40s. She is not old. She is not 70 and in need of a walker. What that comment is saying, though, is, "Wow, I can't believe you and I have anything remotely in common, as when I look at you, I see ancient vagina and I can't fathom that an ancient vagina might be so hip as to think anything similar to what I think. Because I am young and cool."
And the forehead comment. Oh, that was the best ever. I will always remember that one. The answer to "Are you ever self-conscious about your very large forehead?" is "Well, no...I mean, not until just now, anyway. Thanks for that. And it sure is good to know that my giant alien forehead doesn't bother you. Thank you for deigning to be attracted to me despite my giant alien forehead. I am so glad there is someone in the world that is so accepting of the flaws in others. So...just...thank you for you."
Now, please bear in mind that all of these half-assed compliments were delivered by men, to women. I am fully aware that when these males said these things, they had no idea what they sounded like -- which is to say, complete assholes. I think that, in their minds, they were delivering awesome compliments from on high that should be met with accolades and laurels and perhaps blowjobs.
After such a half-assed compliment is delivered, the receiver usually responds with a blank stare or a look like, "Wait, did you just say what I heard you say? GOD."
Which is followed by the deliverer going, "What? What'd I say? WHAT?"
"Gee, honey, I'm glad you temper your admiration for my body with a tinge of reality. I sure wouldn't want someone to overlook the fact that my thighs are a bit wobbly when paying me a compliment. I'm glad you know I'm fat, but really, since you also know I'm not that fat, I am terribly flattered."
Men are not the only ones that deliver these compliments, but I think they are the only ones that deliver them unwittingly on a regular basis.
I have heard women do this, too. Though, with women, it's harder to tell if they know what they're saying or not. Women are, by nature, catty and prone to saying nasty things in a nice tone of voice.
Let this be a lesson to you all that do this: if you can't say something completely nice, don't say it at all. A half-assed compliment is NOT better than no compliment at all. I would much rather hear the sound of silence than some idiot telling me I don't look as bad as I used to. Because telling me I don't look as bad as I used to implies that I used to look fucking bad and now I just look less bad.
Less bad =/= good.
Less bad = less bad, as in "bad, but not quite so terrible as before." Absorb this. Understand this. And shut your fucking mouth.
PS - I'm not fat. I'm big-boneded.
2.) People that ask for my "honest opinion" and then get upset.
Look. I am not long on the tact. Nor am I quiet or a shrinking violet. My Brain to Mouth Filter is, on a good day, only barely functioning.
Anyone that has known me for more than five minutes should realize this. In fact, since I broadcast this about myself all the time, you don't even have to realize it on your own little oddy-knocky. Just hear it and take it at face-value.
But still people ask for my "honest opinion" and then get pissed off at whatever I say.
Well, SORRY. You ASKED. If you didn't want to hear it, why did you ask? And why did you ask me, of all people?
Did you think I would not be honest? Did you think you were somehow special and therefore not subject to my honesty?
So, next time, let's not play this game, O my brothers.
If you want to know what I honestly think, then ask for my honest opinion.
If you want to hear platitudes and have your ego lovingly stroked, then ask for that. Say, "Zombie, I would like to know what you think about this, but I would like you to tell me in such a way that I may continue to undeservedly feel good about myself and blindly gambol through life on a bed of sunshine and daisies."
Better yet, don't ask me at all. I'm not good at making people feel good about themselves even when I'm telling the truth. If I have to strain and lie about it, it's just going to make me feel vaguely itchy. And I don't like itchy, vaguely or otherwise, and might still end up trampling your fragile psyche by saying something like, "Wow, this is the best poem I have ever read! You fucking rock! And you give me a rash! An itchy, nasty rash! MY SKIN FLAMES FROM HAVING TO TELL YOU THAT YOUR PIECE OF SHIT POEM IS GREAT BECAUSE IT'S NOT GREAT AND YOU MAKE ME ITCH. SO THERE."
3.) People who give Jesus credit for their good fortune.
...especially if that good fortune is the result of some hard work on the part of other people or yourself.
Look, Jesus did not go to your job and do your work and earn your money and deposit your checks and pay your bills on time and earn you good credit and buy your new car. YOU DID.
Jesus did not decide to turn your life around and stop you from ruining your life by drinking/gambling/fucking hookers with syphilis of the gums/stealing/lying/cheating/wife beating/children beating/mother raping/FATHER raping/enjoying the musical stylings of Britney Spears. No, if you stopped all those things, YOU DID.
Stop giving credit for YOUR hard work to some invisible cosmic daddy in the sky. It was YOUR hard work that gave you your good fortune, or it was the hard work of someone around you that gave you your good fortune. Have some self-respect. Recognize when you've done a good job and give yourself a pat on the back. Don't denigrate those around you that helped you by basically saying that their work means nothing because your Jesus is responsible for this boon, not them.
If your good fortune came to you via a stroke of good luck and no doing of your own, then you can thank Jesus or purple rabbits or flying monkeys or Zebibobo the Pagan Pink Unicorn of Death, for all I care.
But if you worked for it, thank yourself. Otherwise, you're annoying and stupid and I hate you.
4.) People that take forever to make a point that doesn't make sense.
I go into a blind rage every time I am around someone that opens his mouth only to have...absolutely nothing come out.
If you have something to say, please say it. In a timely manner. Do not say, "Uhhhhh...." for 15 minutes. Do not say, "Well, I think....uh...uhm...I don't know how to say it, exactly, but it's like...when you...uh...uhm....you know?" No, I don't know, because you haven't told me. I don't think that you know, either. You're wasting air and time. And you're making everyone around you uncomfortable. So knock it off.
Think before you speak.
It's not hard. It's a simple process. You are in a discussion. You have something to say. You think about what you want to say - you don't have to think forever, just long enough to be able to have a coherent sentence come out of your mouth - and then you open your mouth and you let that sentence come out.
Whew, that was easy, wasn't it? If you find any part of that process difficult, you shouldn't be talking at all. If your brain moves too slowly to be able to coherently form a sentence, then just don't talk. We're all better off not hearing what you don't have to say.
Do not come to my door to try to sell me something or get me to donate to something. I do not have any money. And if I did have some money, chances are I don't want to spend it on whatever crap you're peddling about.
If I wanted to buy whatever crap is in your little catalog or donate my pennies to a worthy cause, I would do it on my own. I am not languishing around the house, just hoping that someone will knock on my door and present me with the charitable giving opportunity of a lifetime.
Yes, I realize being a door-to-door salesman is rough. I realize it's hard to go from house to house, begging for money for the Society for Confederate Widows and Orphans of Policemen Killed in Action on the Banks of the Polluted Body of Water That We Must Clean Now Lest All the Fish Be Lost Forever and Ever Amen in Partnership with the American Red Cross Please Give Money and Blood If You Have That One Blood Type That's Universal But Not If You Have Some Crap Blood Type We Don't Want, Hey, By The Way, Support the Pistons. That must be rough. I get it. I'm sorry.
The reason it's rough is that no one likes you. Don't ring my doorbell. Don't corner me in my driveway. Don't snag me by my mailbox. I am not standing by my mailbox, ogling my ridiculous energy bill, just HOPING some jackwad with a backpack and a clipboard will accost me and ask me to give money to the fucking Sierra Club.
I DO NOT HAVE ANY MONEY. Have you SEEN my energy bill lately? Jesus!
Still, even if I did have money, I wouldn't give it to you. I like money. When I have some, I like to hang onto it or buy shoes with it or use it for some other purpose I see fit to use it for.
So, don't bother me.
And if you DO bother me, don't continue to bother me after I've already declined to help fund schools for one-legged, hare-lipped 8-year-olds in Lower Mongolia.
Do not go for the "second ask." I know what the "second ask" is and I know that you will then go for the "third ask" and "fourth ask," if I do not shut you down immediately.
Look into my eyes. See the hate there. Never send to know for whom the hate tolls. It tolls for thee.
In conclusion, I SAID "NO," SUCKA!
6.) Power Outages
El Bastardo will not be appearing on today's post, because as we were getting ready to put it together, his power went out.
He informs me that he called the power company and was told that a customer had been digging and that's what has caused the outage.
All I want to know is this: WHY on EARTH would someone be digging in the middle of the night, let alone digging deep enough to mangle the lines? WHY?
The only explanation I can come up with is that this person was digging a grave in his wife's vegetable patch. He's burying a body. The police better go check that shit out. They may find a severed head nestled amongst the rows of wax beans.
Look, I don't really give a toss if you want to bury a body in your vegetable garden under the cloak of night, but, next time, can you be a little more careful so you don't cause a fucking power outage?
Your little shenanigans are ruining our good time. Your right to bury dismembered limbs stops where our good time begins.
So let's just have a little respect and common courtesy up in this bitch, okay? Thanks.
Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week. Try the flounder!
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Isle of Fucking Creepy Toys, Plus Mangling!
So, I'm moving.
I am continuing with the getting rid of everything. It's freeing! It's wonderful! It's...back-breaking labor! Hooray!
Now, I wouldn't want to be the bearer of bad news (ha!) or anything, but I must tell y'all: if you run up and down the stairs 900 times in 3 hours, carrying heavy stuff? You get really tired. Like, really tired. Like, Hmm-This-Concrete-Sidewalk-Looks-Mighty-Comfortable-Right-About-Now, Think-I'll-Just-Have-a-Bit-of-a-Lie-Down tired.
But, I am pleased to report, I have not succumbed to sleeping on the sidewalk between my deck and my garage like a crazy homeless person or perhaps a drunkard that couldn't quite make it up the steps.
No! I have resolutely tromped to and fro, lugging boxes of junk to go to the dump and/or Salvation Army.
I have also mangled myself in the process. Because, really, I wouldn't be me if I didn't manage to hurt myself in some stupid way, would I? As we all know, I am Very Graceful.
That there is a giant Band-Aid covering up my sliced-all-to-hell finger. Isn't it gruesome? No? Whatever.
See, it turns out that the inside lips of Diet Coke cans? Are all sharp and shit? And I didn't realize that? And when I craftily stuck all of my fingers into the mouths of some Diet Coke cans to craftily and efficiently carry them up the stairs while also lugging a box of junk in the other arm, I cut the hell out of my finger.
But I didn't actually realize that until I was upstairs in the kitchen and I looked down to see spatters of blood all over the floor. Which I stared at stupidly, like, "Durrrr. Wha? Wha that?"
Yeah, I'm awesome.
To the point of today's missive:
My kids have a lot of creepy toys.
A few years ago, the creepy toy problem started with my son and a Banana in Pajamas.
See, I had this Banana in Pajamas that I acquired in the 8th grade. It looked like this:
Cute, no? It sang the song, too. The "Bananas. In Pajamas. Are coming down the stairs! Bananas. In Pajamas. Are coming down in pairs! Bananas. In Pajamas. Are chasing teddy bears! 'Cause on Tuesdays, they all try to catch them unawares!" song in Australian accents and it was all very adorable.
The Bananas in Pajamas hung out with some rat in a hat, who was cleverly named Rat in a Hat. Such wit! I laugh! Ha ha!
Anyhoo, so when I had my son, and he got old enough to have such a wonder in his life, I presented this Banana to him to play with.
And he screamed bloody murder. And only stopped screaming when I stuffed the Banana (in his Pajamas) into the closet.
So periodically, after that, I would bring out poor ol' B 2, thinking that Asher would've gotten over whatever it was that made him scream bloody murder. I mean, honestly, it's just a damned Banana. In Pajamas.
And each time, he'd scream bloody murder.
This continued until he was about 2 years old, and could talk. If ever we opened the closet where we kept the Banana, Asher would begin wailing and flailing his arms around, "No, 'nana! NO! NO!" He'd sink to the floor in a little ball of terror, palm out to ward off the Banana of Death.
This was, of course, very funny. So sometimes we'd say, "If you don't pick up your toys, we'll get the Banana."
"NOOOO! NO, 'NANA! NOOOO!"
I've finally figured out why he was so deathly terrified of that Banana in Pajamas. It's because whenever my tiny son set eyes on it, he didn't see what you and I see. He saw this:
While sorting through which toys to keep and which to pitch, I was reminded of that Banana in Pajamas, because I noticed that my kids have a lot of creepy toys and it's a wonder they don't run around the house, screaming in terror, constantly.
Though now that I've collected some of these things all into one spot, I might start running around the house, screaming in terror.
1.) Deranged Barbie
My mother sent this to Meredith for Nondenominational Gift Giving Day (that's "Christmas," for all you heathens out there). It is called Barbie & Me. And it is scary.
What's wrong with its feet? Why is it so bendy? Why are all of its fingers all sewn together like that? For god's sake, where are the KNEES?
This doll is supposed to be easy for small people to dress and such, but from experience, this is not so. Anything that says it's "EASY FOR SMALL PEOPLE TO DO" on the box is fucking lying. Nothing is easy for small people to do, especially a doll with clothes and shoes that tie. The small person will not be able to do it and will constantly hound you to please put the jacket on, please put the shoes on, now tie the shoes, now please take the shoes off, now please take the jacket off, now put it all back on, no, nevermind, Momma, let's put on the ballerina dress!
And then your head falls off.
So, if the deranged appearance of this doll does not render you insane, the EASY FOR SMALL PEOPLE features it also possesses will surely drive you mad.
2.) Tarantula of Horror
Imagine this, if you will: You are walking through your darkened kitchen when a blobby something on the linoleum catches your eye. DEAR SWEET BLEEDING JESUS, WHAT IS THAT?
Oh. It's a wind-up purple plastic tarantula with red eyes that your son has left on the floor.
3.) Demented giggling things
I don't know what it is about toymakers these days, but it appears that everything that has sound must include amongst its sounds the high-pitched demonic giggling of children.
Look, we all know kids are creepy. (See: Children of the Damned, The and Omen, The) My own children have, on occasion, frightened the life out of me.
We don't need toys that advertise this attribute. And I certainly don't need to be walking past the toybox, minding my own business, only to be scared to death by my kids' Fisher Price Ferris Wheel from Hell.
Welcome to the Carnival of Hades! How about a little brimstone with your cotton candy? No? That doesn't do it for you? Well, then just ride this crazy plastic ferris wheel with its weird (but politically correct!) plastic people while it emits annoying music and occasionally spews out strings of demonic giggling, often for no reason at all!
Yes, you too can offer your children hours of entertainment with this piece of manufactured evil! They will play with it and drive you crazy with the singing and then put it away. THEN, later, in the silence of the night, it will, for no reason at all, start the giggling. Because that is what battery-operated toys do. They lie in wait so they can randomly make their noises and wreak their vengeance.
4.) This Wretched Thing
Boss gave this to Meredith for her birthday last February.
It's a Care Bear. A robot Care Bear. That "exercises" by bending at its mechanical knees and singing that Olivia Newton John classic "Let's Get Physical" in a strange high-pitched, child-like voice.
It doesn't get much worse than that, folks.
It got left out in the rain one day, though, so it doesn't sing or dance anymore. I have no idea how that happened, really. Must've been a freak accident. I certainly would never do such a thing to a prized possession of my own dear child's on purpose. Oh no. Not me. I would never think, "There is a nasty storm approaching...hey, where's that fucking robot bear?" I would never then proceed to hunt down the robot bear and chuck it out into the driveway where the rain would infiltrate its little mechanical innards and rust them all up and render them useless.
I'm not that sort of mother. Not at all.
Okay, maybe I am that sort of mother. You want to make something of it? HUH? I'll throw your shit out in the rain, too, so don't try me.
5.) Pure evil.
My best friend S's son had a...thing. Given to him as a gift. It was called, of all horrifying things: Tucker, My Talkin' Truckbot.
Apparently, his brother was Chuck, My Talkin' Truck. Or something. I don't know what these people are smoking. And I don't think I want to have any of it, either.
Anyway, Tucker was annoying. He would roll around and its eyes would light up and it would say things, loudly, like, "BEEP BEEP! COMIN' THROUGH!" and "COME ON, BUDDY! LET'S GET TO WORK EARLY!" Yeah, because getting up early for work is such a fun riot. Whatever.
One night, after all the munchkins were asleep, S and I were lounging on the couch with a couple of beers. We're chattering along about nonsense and then...what was that?
"Did you hear something?"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"
*coooommmmmeeee oooooooonnnnn buddddrooooooaaahhhrrr*
We look around frantically, thinking the Mouth of Hell has somehow just opened up in her living room.
And there, beside the recliner, is Tucker. His eyes are glowing red. His little robotic jaw is slooooowly going up and down. He is emitting the maniac noises we are hearing.
Apparently, if Tucker gets low on batteries, he will spontaneously get possessed by Satan and talk in slow-motion demon-speak.
WOW! That's FUN! TOYS ARE GREAT!
We promptly yanked Tucker's batteries out and threw him in a closet. Fuck all of that, is all I'm saying.
So, there you have it. Toys are creepy. People that make toys are creepy. They make up creepy things that do annoying/scary stuff. And kids love it and play, play, play, and meanwhile, us parents are sitting on the couch, wide-eyed with terror, hoping the demon toys do not come to life and suck out our eyeballs.
And after writing this, I think I will throw out all of my kids' toys and replace them with nice playthings like washrags and empty oatmeal cans and lint and air. I will tell them if they squint real hard, they can imagine that the oatmeal can is really a Motorized Toy of Death What Scares Mommy and Makes the Mayhem, and it's just as good. Only without the motorized or the death or the scaring Mommy or the mayhem.
Just as good.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
Nothing, nothing, tra la la.
I hate hats.
Okay, technically, I like hats. It's the fact that I look like an idiot when I put one on that I hate.
I would like to be able to wear hats without vaguely resembling some drooling caveman reject. Like maybe the one that was driven from the village for being too weird or something and left to fight off the dinosaurs all alone and die a grisly death at the jaws of a raptor or something. Because we all know man walked with dinosaurs. Just ask Kent Hovind.
My head is either too oddly-shaped or just too big or some damned thing. I don't know. All I know is that when I see a hat and put it on, I immediately look about 50 IQ points dumber. I can't wear baseball caps (not that I would really want to, but still) because they make me look like a jug. My ears don't normally stick out, but put a fucking ballcap on me and I look like a jug. Great.
This is cause for hate, because I would like to don a large-brimmed hat, perhaps with a scarf, and swoop around like a black-and-white film star, all glamorous and fabulous and decidedly not stupid-looking.
It also means I can't realize my dream of being a revolutionary-type political assassin. Because I look like a moron in berets. And everyone knows you can't assassinate political despots without a beret.
It's just not done.
So, thanks a lot, hats. You've ruined my dreams.
I've decided I won't blame my head for this, because I already feel bad enough, and it's much nicer if I make it the fault of all hats in existence, rather than blame my head for being misshapen.
Zombie's Decidedly NOT Misshapen Head: 1
Every Single Hat in the World: FUCKING ZERO.
El Bastardo on the Stupidity of Cracker Politicians
Have you ever noticed - I mean, unless you are a Baptist - how most politicians, particularly from the South, are the dumbest, most racist motherfuckers on Earth?
Case in point: The illustrious George Allen, Senator from Virginia.
On a recent campaign stop on the Virginia/Kentucky border, he addressed a young man that was filming him for his opponent's campaign.
The young man, one S.R. Sidarth, is of Indian descent. Allen directly addresses him, with the camera fiming away, as "Macaca." Allen then goes on to say that he welcomes Sidarth to America and the "real world" of Virginia, and that the rest of the white supporters present should give him a hand.
Seems harmless, right?
Well, let's delve into this further, boys and girls.
S.R. Sidarth is a native, born-and-raised-all-his-life-in-Northern-Virginia American. With nary even an accent that would make you think of Apu from The Simpsons.
And his name is NOT "Macaca." What is "macaca"? Well, the animal encyclopedia says it is a genus of monkey found in Persia and Asia.
The Urban Dictionary has some much more interesting definitions, though, like "A racial slur used against Arabs or dark-skinned people of North Africa, meaning monkey."
So, I ask, WHAT kind of fucking genius does it take to not only call someone that - someone that you know works for the other side - but to also say it to the guy's CAMERA??
Clearly, Mr. Allen has the intellectual capacity of chinchillas in an inbreeding program.
But, in all fairness to Mr. Allen, perhaps it was a mistake. So I checked into his past.
Let's see: In his high school yearbook picture, he wore a Confederate flag pin.
He is a former Governor of Virginia and in his office, he proudly displayed the Confederate flag, a lynching noose and various Confederate generals' portraits.
Oh and hey!! He gave the state the "Confederate History Month," which, of course, never mentioned slavery....
BUT HE IS NOT RACIST!!
Umm, yeah. By the way, George, your white sheets and hoods are ready to be picked up from the cleaners.
Oh, but Mr. Allen's chronic, racist stupidity does not stop with just him.
His staff has shown us all why cousins should never marry.
His tard people tried to find someone with a tan to say Sidarth was not singled out because he was the only non-white there.
His communications director basically came up with the excuse that Mr. Sidarth wears a mohawk (Actually, he has a mullet. See picture below.) and is always spewing caca...so, basically, what Senator Allen REALLY meant to say was...Sidarth is a shithead.
So what we have here is that George Allen called Mr. Sidarth either a monkey, an Arab nigger, or a shithead.
But, you know, Mr. Allen is NOT racist.
Maybe we need to beat the shit out of the South again so they stop producing these extra-Y-chromosome, KKK, sheet-wearing dickheads.
Better yet, let us make the entire South into a theme park!! We can call it Deliverance Land.
"Come on down. Let your kids participate in a re-creation of an actual lynching!
Come ride the SQUEAL LIKE A PIG, BOY! rollercoaster.
Or enjoy some authentic deep-fried cuisine at the Sho' Got a Pretty Mouth There, Boy restaurant."
Actually, let's just put a big fence around the entire area, and call it what it is: a captive inbreeding wildlife preserve.
I am not sure what was going on inside George Allen’s head, but I am betting that he wasn’t thinking about zoology.
Thank you! Come again!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
And I Just Said "Up Yours," Baby!
So, I haven't blogged in days and days, but this time I have a real excuse that doesn't involve me being tired or lazy or antisocial or not giving a shit.
I couldn't log into Blogger.
The Blogger start page would load, all nice and neat, but the new sign-in function they've acquired while implementing the Blogger Beta? Well, that part wouldn't load. It appears to be attached to Google somehow, because you can use your Google login to log into Blogger, if you so desire, and the little address thingie is a Google thingie. And that would remain a little white box in IE and turn into a oh-it-timed-out-sucka box in Firefox.
"That's okay," I think at first. "I will wander around the help files and find some other page to log in on."
But the Blogger help files? Tell you to log in at the start page. And offer no other places to log in. At all. That I could find, anyway.
This caused no end of annoying, for obvious reasons. Annoying that lasted for days and days.
Surely there is some other easily accessible login point for Blogger. Surely. But the help files do not offer such or they do and I cannot see it because I am Quite Possibly Retarded.
I finally just figured out how to get around it after searching through mountains of Blogger's help forums. There does so happen to be another Blogger login point...it just doesn't appear to be in an obvious place. And so I won't repost it here, in case there's some Blogger Gestapo out there that doesn't want me to log into Blogger EVER. Perhaps there is a special unit assigned to the Zombie, keeping an eye on me so I can't get onto my blog and ramble in my usual incoherent nonsense manner and plug up the Tubes of the Internets with my Random Shite. Because, as we all know, the Internets is not a big truck!
I don't want the Blogger Gestapo to know that I know there's another way in that doesn't involve the clusterfuck of a sign-in function they've added to the main page.Perhaps they think I shouldn't be going around clogging the Tubes of the Internet with my frothing at the mouth. Perhaps they want to silence me.
Or maybe I just have delusions of grandeur.
It's possible that this fuck-up has nothing to do with me, personally, at all. It's possible that it's just a random error that has occurred due to the switch-over to Blogger Beta. It's possible.
But I doubt it.
I know you're after me, Blogger. I can smell you. But I won't be silenced. I won't!
So, anyway, thank you, forum people. And if any of you Blogspot owners need some Blogger help, don't go to Blogger's help files, since they are not all that helpy. Go to the forums.
I am still having other (seemingly) unrelated (maybe this is also caused by the Blogger Gestapo...oh, I'm onto you, buddies. I am.) Interwebs problems, but at least this one is fixed. Well, not fixed, since the original log-in problem still remains. Circumvented, if you will.
I am all about the circumvention if it allows me to get what I want/need, though, so that's cool.
In other news, I still hate things and will be bringing you your regularly scheduled Things Zombie Hates Thursday tomorrow. Which is Thursday. The day for things I hate.
Isn't that convenient?
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
Here comes the pain!
1.) Idiots on p2p thingies what keep around fucked up mp3s.
You know how you're buzzing happily along, downloading some music, la la, and you finally get a song you've been wanting for a while and then you play it and...pfft? It skips or makes a weird noise and basically ruins the song?
Yeah, I hate that.
But what I hate more is that people keep these messed up files and spread them around to others. You will search for a song and see that 500 people have it, and you download it, and it's messed up.
That means there are 500 people out there, clutching a ruined file for no apparent reason. Perhaps they like the skipping? Or the weird *skriiik* sound a CD makes when it skips? Perhaps this soothes them? I do not know why they do this.
All I know is that I hate it.
If you are one of those people, one of those people what keeps the file that's all screwed up, please stop doing that. Because every time I download something that I'm looking forward to having and it's messed up, I get pissed. Really pissed. Like, if I knew where you lived, I'd come over to your house and fix your little red wagon pissed.
I won't get into what fixing your little red wagon would entail, because some things are better left to the imagination. Just know that it would probably be painfully humiliating for you and definitely make me feel better.
That is all. Thanks!
2.) All You People That Block Aisles at the Store
Today, I went to the Mart of Wal to acquire Food of Dog. Or Food for Dog, rather, as I don't think kibble is made of dogs, just meant to feed them. And feed my kids sometimes, too, when I'm too lazy to heat up the Dogs of Hot and Cheese of Mac. Or pour the bowls of Charms of Lucky or Pops of Corn.
The local Mart of Wal is a magical land of wonder and mystery, where anything at all might happen. On any given day, you will see all manner of white trash and ghetto fabulous attire, including, but not limited to: tiny shorts on impossibly wide asses, shirts featuring Winnie the Pooh on grown women, sweatshirts featuring cats or dogs, Harley Davidson Couture, weaves in impossibly strange colors that are arranged in laws of physics defying sculptures, stained wife beaters, jeans big enough to fit 900 people into, and, of course, sports bras worn as if they were shirts.
This is generally amusing, and hey, the Mart of Wal has low prices, always, so I sometimes shop there. I know about the prices because the bouncing yellow face thing on the TV screen told me. Always heed the words of the bouncing yellow face. It controls you.
Anyway, today at the Mart of Wal, there was an epidemic. A pandemic, almost. Of retards leaving their carts situated in such a manner that they entirely block the aisles so you can't get through.
I hate that. Don't leave your cart at the gateway to Aisle 9 (Housewares) while you run to the other side of the store (Menswear) to grab something. Take the cart with you.
And if you have done that, don't get pissy with me because I happen to move your cart so I can get around it, just as you are returning from Darkest Borneo bearing 7 dollar t-shirts in size XXXXXL.
Do not give me dirty looks and leap to your cart to save it. I am not going to take anything out of your cart. I do not want your 20 packages of Little Debbies or your laundry detergent or your condoms (though thank you for not breeding!) or your cat sweatshirt or your Winnie the Pooh overalls or your Garth Brooks boxed set.
I just want to get to where I need to get without your Cornucopia of White Trash blocking my way.
Also, please wash your hair.
3.) The Utter Lack of Tastykakes in the Sad State of Michigan
Talking about the local Mart of Wal just reminded me of something. Once, many moons ago, in the snack aisle of the Mart of Wal, I spied the Holy Grail of Snack Cakes.
Yes, there on the top shelf were boxes upon lovely boxes of products from the Greatest Snack Food Line of All Time: the Tastykake.
There were Kandykakes and Peanut Butter Krimpets. I immediately was rendered blind with happiness, as I hadn't had a Tastykake since I left Pennsylvania and often felt the lack of Tastykake in my life like a painful thorn in my side.
But there! There were the Tastykakes!
I grabbed some and ran home and ate them all right away.
But you know what happened after that most glorious of days? The Mart of Wal stopped carrying them just as I found out that they did carry them. Of course. And thus, my dreams and hopes crumbled into so much dust and I turned into the bitter, disillusioned wretch that you see today.
Thanks a lot, Mart of Wal. And though I hate to say anything bad about the Tastykake, as the Tastykake is like, cosmic in its awesomeness, I really insist that they start making more stores in Michigan carry the Kandykakes. Just for me. Thank you.
And now for El Bastardo's bit this week, entitled El Bastardo's Love of Jesus:
At one point in my life, I was very religious. I mean, we are not talking your typical "I go to church 5 times a week and I have a shrine for the Pope and 20 of my favorite saints" here. I am talking like...uber-religious. So religious that my constant companions were chronic guilt and a need to impose my will on others 24/7 (yes, I was clearly Catholic).
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Don't You Look At Me In That Tone Of Voice
You might have noticed by now that I am a little bit weird. Okay, more than a little bit.
But I like to use my weirdness to amuse myself, which I do on a daily basis.
For example, I like to enter Coworker #1's office in a strange manner.
Sometimes, I'll burst into the room, hollering "HEY!" Sometimes, I will peek around the doorjamb and make a weird noise. Things like that.
Today, the first time, I went into her office doing the Nazi walk John Cleese does in the brilliant "The Germans" episode of Fawlty Towers. I tried finding a clip of it, but the BBC is anal and made all the YouTube people take it down. HATE!
Here is a still shot, in case you don't know what I am talking about:
Anyway, the second time I went in, I did so while making that "chicka-chicka" noise from that classic 80s hit "Oh Yeah" by Yello.
I am teh win.
Anyway, so Coworker #1 and I chat for a bit. She tells me of the new guy she's seeing, who is nice and cute and stuff. He has a flaw, though, which is that he is a Loud Talker.
You know the Loud Talker. The one that can't seem to figure out how to work his volume control and talks as if he is trying to hail a cab for 100 yards away?
Yeah, you know the one.
This led to a discussion about other Talkers, like the Close Talker and the Low Talker on Seinfeld.
Coworker #1 regales me with a tale of a girl she once worked with, who was a Staring Talker.
Apparently, this girl would come over to you and say something, like, "I like your shirt."
You would obviously respond with a thank you.
But then she'd just stand there and stare at you. Like so:
"How was your weekend?"
"Fine, thank you."
This cracked me up like crazy, for some reason. We decide to try it on Secretary.
I go over to Secretary's office, with Coworker #1 on my heels.
"Yo, Secretary," I say. "I like your shoes."
Secretary blinks at me. "What are you doing?"
"I just like your shoes."
She blinks at me again and Coworker #1 and I fall down laughing..
We explain the story to Secretary and she cracks up, too.
"Let's go try it on Secretary's Boyfriend!"
So we all troop down the hall. We try to decide who should be the one to do this to him.
"I can't do it anymore," I say. "I will bust out laughing."
"I can't do it, either," Coworker #1 says. "Secretary should do it. She is used to having to look at him."
"What's THAT supposed to mean?" Secretary asks.
And we all fall down laughing again.
After we compose ourselves, Secretary goes to his office and taps on the door. She sticks her head in. Coworker #1 and I wait behind her.
"Hey. Was your lunch good?" asks Secretary.
"Yeah, it was awesome," he says.
"What the..." says Secretary's Boyfriend.
"Uh..." says Secretary's Boyfriend.
Then I snicker and all of a sudden, all three of us are just laughing hysterically again.
"What?! Do I have something in my teeth?! WHAT?" he says.
We just keep laughing and laughing, hanging onto each other, and he slams his office door shut.
Secretary goes and opens the door and explains what is wrong with us.
And he joins in with the laughing, and soon, everyone in the office is cackling away like a pack of hyenas.
Yeah, we're weird.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Zombie's Movie Review Corner: Ron Howard HATES Me
I saw The Descent on Friday.
That was one badass movie. Unlike The Passion of Mel Gibson's Ego, the gore in The Descent has a point and is tastefully done. Even when one of the main characters is literally swimming in what amounts to a kiddie wading pool of blood and gobbets of flesh, it seems so...artful.
I'm not going to give away plot points or anything, though the story itself isn't really much to write home about. It's predictable with the whole monsters-in-the-dark-cave-ahhh-scary way, but what isn't usual for a horror film is that the characters, all female, are, by and large, not the typical shrieking and shaking "What was that noise? Let's go investigate while wearing high heels!" female characters that so often populate a horror movie.
The women in this movie are all strong, and while they do give over to crying sometimes, it's realistic crying. I would also cry if my dumb ass got stuck in a cave with monsters that were attempting to eat my entrails.
They do not give over to weeping in corners and doing nothing else, though. They make wise decisions and informed choices when it comes to trying to get out of the cave. No one ends up running around like a maniac, waving her hands frantically until a Big Bad swoops down and eats her face off. I like to see a girl kick some ass Rambo-style when she realizes it's either that or get dead. And eaten. And possibly have her blood and bits of flesh added to the Monster Slip-n-Slide.
Because the women aren't the sobbing morons you'd expect, it is their interactions with each other that make the film stand out and provide the meat, as it were, of the movie. It is almost as if the slimy creepy-crawly neck-eating monsters are backdrop. And that's cool.
The movie does not end with the sort of OH NOEZ/DIDN'T SEE THAT SHIT COMING surprise a la The Skeleton Key (because, for serious, and maybe it makes me lame, but I didn't see the end of The Skeleton Key coming), but it does have a rather interesting plot twist and I found it rather satisfying, all told.
In short, I recommend this. Go see it. Right now. You can watch the trailer first, if'n you wanna, roight heah. Trailer doesn't do it justice, nor do the two clips Yahoo saw fit to include there, but that's okay. I give it The Zombie Seal of Approval, and that should be enough for you.
The Da Vinci Code or Ron Howard HATES Me
I honestly didn't expect The Da Vinci Code to provide me with a quality, engaging film experience, but this movie was flat out bad. I really only went to see it because I had some more free passes for the dollar theater and staring mindlessly at a dumb movie seemed like an okay way to pass 90 minutes.
Except it didn't pass 90 minutes. It was much, much longer than that. In fact, it was an hour longer than that. I sat through 2 hours and 29 minutes of this shit, and when it was over, I had a headache the size of Montana.
Now, I hadn't read the book. I started to read it, but I got two pages in and couldn't take it anymore and threw it across the room. Fine. That obviously doesn't bode well for Dan Brown, because I am notorious for suffering through crap books just because they're books and I usually read whatever books come across my path.
But I thought the movie would at least be vaguely interesting.
And I was dead wrong.
There is absolutely nothing of worth in this film, unless you count Ian McKellen hollering "NEVER TRUST THE FRENCH!" at some disgruntled British police as being of worth - and frankly, after sitting through this bloated corpse of a melodramatic, crappily-acted movie, I just can't.
The dialogue is terrible. The acting is horrendous. The plot drags. And it should've ended about 15 times before it actually shambled to a stuttering, retarded halt.
When the credits finally rolled, I virtually leapt from my seat. I had thought it would never end. I had thought I was going to be forever trapped in the theater with a horde of snuffling, oddly-giggling (Yeah, Annoying Guy That Was Sitting Behind Me, your ridiculous titter nearly provoked me into whirling around in my seat and grabbing you by the throat so I could drown you in my vat-sized cup of Diet Pepsi. If I ever see you again, I will spit at you. And your children, if you have any.), sneezing, mouth-breathing, defective humans, while this cinematic abortion dragged on and on until the end of time.
There were times that I laughed because something was so ridiculous, I couldn't keep it in.
At one point, Tom Hanks' character, Professor Mullet or whatever, is locked in a scene of dire tension and drama and oh no we must save our friend from the frightening albino monk assasin and what does he come up with? His brilliant plan? "We've got to get to a library!"
Cut to Professor Mullet and Hot French Female Co-Lead, on a London city bus.
"It'll take us a half an hour to get to Chelsea library! It might be too late by then!"
Well, I sure hope no one ever has to rely on public transit in order to save my ass. "Dear GOD! I have forgotten all of my subway tokens at home in my other pants! How will we ever rescue poor Zombie now? Oh, woe unto Zion! All is lost!"
I also hope no one ever has to rely on Tom Hanks' acting in order to save my ass, because I'd be in some trouble. I don't like to mock Forrest Gump, because he has done some fine work, but he was horridly miscast in this role and lumbered about the screen like a lump of Play-Doh in a bad, greasy wig. A bad Serious Academic Mullet greasy wig, no less.
At least in Forrest Gump, there was a kickin' soundtrack and Hanks ran around real fast and there was shooting and the consumption of alcohol. Professor Mullet provided me with no such stimulation. Perhaps he should've taken up jogging. It might've made the film more interesting.
I think I might've dozed off at one point, but I do know I was awake for the touching and heartfelt speeches Professor Mullet and Hot French Female Co-Lead What Turns Out to Actually Be the LAST LIVING DIRECT DESCENDENT OF JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF exchange towards the first of the many false endings.
Professor Mullet regales us with an inspiring and uplifting tale of falling into a well as a child and praying to Jesus as he flapped around in the water overnight, and how he knew Jesus was in the well with him, thus allowing him to survive his terrible ordeal.
And all I could think was, "What's that, Lassie? What's that you say? Jesus has fallen into the well? OH NOEZ!"
That time, I laughed so hard that I had to bite my hand, for fear of laughing out loud and bringing the wrath of the obviously enthralled crowd around me down on my head, where I might be bitten and contract Stupid...or worse...Bad Taste.
Oh yeah, and the albino monk assassin? What a fucking lamer. He had a (misrepresented) cilice on his leg to mortify his flesh for Jesus, praise the Lord!, and when he moved it from one thigh to the other, he whined and cried like a baby. And he staggered and sobbed while flogging himself. FUCKING WALK IT OFF, FLOWER. If you're going to self-flagellate, fucking do it right. And that means no sissy la-la crying. Jesus don't want your tears. He wants your pain.
I just can't find myself getting all wary of a stumbling, limping, mostly inept, crap at the self-flagellation assassin, and therefore, the Big Bad was...well, not. Try harder next time.
I think that's enough talking about that. BAD. BAD. BAD.
Thanks a lot, Richie Cunningham. I always knew your boyish grin hid unspeakable evil.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
And away we go...
1. That Woman That Brought Those Kids to My House Last Night.
I'm moving out of this dump soon, to a shiny new place, which is cause for the happy...but what's not cause for the happy is that they are showing the house right now, to potential new renters, while I'm still in it.
Generally, this is not a problem, as the people come in, gawk around for a few minutes, and then leave, but last night...oh. The horror.
This family shows up. The mother is loud and has shifty eyes. The father seems a bit cowed. The one daughter is barely three years old and oddly quiet.
Then I figure out why they are all like this - her older sister, who is 9, is the most monstrous child I have ever encountered in my life.
I do not say this lightly, as I have encountered many monstrous children, but this girl took the biscuit in a rather fantastic way.
Immediately upon entering my humble abode, she looks at me and opens her mouth.
"I am thirsty!" she says loudly. "I would like a drink! Of juice! Now!"
I stare at her for a few beats. I look over at the mother, who says nothing about this titanic rudeness.
"I WANT A DRINK!" the girl says, upping the volume a bit.
"I am sure you do," I say calmly.
"GET ME SOME JUICE!" she says to me.
"No. I don't think I will," I reply.
Her face screws up. She is apparently unaccustomed to being denied things.
The mother butts in with, "If you could get her a glass of water, I would appreciate it. Please."
Oh, all right. Since someone said "please."
I get the girl a cup of water and get out of the way as the family tromps around my house. The girl spies my dog and makes a beeline for him.
Now, my dog is a greyhound. While he is rather large and weighs around 80 pounds, he's a big fucking baby. He was rescued from a track and he is terrified of people, despite repeated attempts to get him to calm the hell down. In his little doggy eyes, this banshee of a child must've closely resembled whatever passes for Satan in Dog World.
"HI, DOG!" she shouts, advancing toward him. "BIG DOG! HI, DOG! HIIIIIIIII!"
He bolts down the hall. She gives chase. Various people and items of furniture are between me and my horrified animal, so I can't leap quickly to his defense.
"YO!" I say, loudly, starting to maneuver around the crap in my way. "Leave the dog alone!"
I envision the dog dissolving into a shivering puddle of piss on my bed and sigh. "YO!" I say, louder. "Get away from the dog."
"Now, honey," says the mother. "You leave that dog be."
The girl doesn't listen, obviously.
I make it around everything and down the hall to rescue the dog. I steer the girl out of my bedroom, where she'd begun simultaneously bothering my dog and messing with my shoes. My shoes. For fuck sake.
Returning to the kitchen, I see everyone is trooping downstairs to the basement, where I keep the "family room," which means that's where the couch and TV live. And also Frankencomp.
The girl follows her family. I follow, too, sensing this child is a menace to anything breakable. She heads right for my TV and turns it on.
"I WANT CARTOONS!" she shouts.
"Honey, you leave people's things alone," says the mother.
I go over and switch the TV off. "You are not here to watch cartoons," I tell her. She gives me a dirty look and begins jumping on my couch.
What the hell?
"Honey, don't jump on the couch," says the mother. The girl keeps jumping.
"Take her outside!" the mother says to the father. He drags her up the stairs and outside.
The mother turns to me and my landlord. "She's really a handful sometimes."
"It's because she's really smart," the mother says.
"Uh...right," Landlord says.
"It's hard to control her because she's so smart. She gets bored easily. So she gets into stuff."
Really. I could've sworn she didn't act that way because she was smart or bored...but because she's a rude little shit with no manners, whose parents haven't taught her any better. Fancy that.
"Anyway," says the mother. "We really like this house. You take HUD, right?"
"Good. And we're not white trash. Really. People think that if you're on HUD, you're white trash, but we're not white trash because we're on HUD."
Really. Well, she's right about that one. Being on HUD doesn't make you white trash. It makes you someone who needs to be on HUD. Being a ridiculously poor excuse for a human being, with disgustingly mannered children that behave in a socially unacceptable manner in someone else's home, though? Uh huh. White trash. Fancy that.
The mother yammers on about not being white trash and how smart the kid is for a while, but I stop listening, as I can hear strange banging around out on my deck.
Then the back door slams open and the kid runs back into the house. I track her sandals clomping down the hallway...right back into my bedroom. The father does not seem to be in evidence.
Shit. I go back upstairs, only to find - you guessed it - the kid harassing my dog some more.
"HIIIII, DOG!" she is bellowing. "HIIIIIIIII!" The dog looks at me as if to say, "Please shoot me. Please."
"Leave the damned dog alone," I tell her in a bored tone of voice, as I do not want her to think she is bothering me. Generally, letting a kid like that know you're bothered is a bad idea.
Back down the hall I steer her. The mother and Landlord have come back upstairs and the father is standing in the kitchen, as well.
"Take her back outside!" the mother shrills.
The girl heads for the door, so I turn and go back to my bedroom to check on my poor doggie.
A few minutes later, I come back out to the kitchen. I see father, mother, little baby girl, Landlord and...no kid. Where's the kid? Shit.
I hear thumping downstairs. Shit!
I go downstairs and the child is banging on my computer. And the TV is back on.
WHAT THE HELL?
"Get away from that immediately," I tell the girl. Then I holler upstairs to the parents, "Someone come get this child before she breaks my computer. It is an expensive machine, and if she breaks it, you'll be paying for it. Come get her. Now."
The mother scuttles downstairs, muttering apologies interspersed with comments about the blinding brilliance of her daughter's mind, blah blah. Whatever. Get away from my computer and get out of my house.
The daughter is dragged back upstairs and outside. The mother finishes signing the lease.
Good lord, Landlord must be either stupid or a masochist to want to rent to these people. That little demon of a child will have the house burnt to the ground within a week. And if she doesn't manage to burn the house down, after a week of having to live near these people, I think the neighbors may form a mob with torches and come slay the monstrosity in their midst themselves.
I might like to see that. I hope someone has the presence of mind to record it on video for posterity.
But seriously, Woman That Brought Those Kids to My House Last Night. Your kid isn't particularly bright. She's just particularly nasty and ill-mannered. Nastiness and bad manners only signify intelligence if they're coming from me or El Bastardo. But coming from a 9 year old? No. I'm sorry. It just means you're shit at raising kids.
But that's okay. Because, right before you left? When you asked if the heating bills for the house were reasonable and affordable, and I said they were completely reasonable and totally affordable, don't you worry?
I fucking lied.
And now, another missive from my El Bastardo, which he is calling El Bastardo's Run-In With Idiot Homophobes this week. Y'all are just too lucky.
But not as lucky as me.
One time, some idiot was claiming that kids being around homersexuals makes them turn gay.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Will All Mothers Please Die in a Fire? Please?*
*Okay, not all mothers, since I am a mother and I don't have a particular yen to burn to death today. But the rest of you? Oh, you.
I was just reading the illustrious Skippy's blog. It should come as no surprise that he is again talking about breasts. Often, when reading one of Skippy's many, many posts about breasts, my eyes glaze over, because I don't really care about breasts all that much.
But today! Today's topic is very interesting to me, as it pertains to fuckwittery and I am always keen on hearing about what new stupid thing my fellow humans have come up with, said or done.
Today's specific fuckwittery is this.
"I was SHOCKED to see a giant breast on the cover of your magazine," one person wrote. "I immediately turned the magazine face down," wrote another. "Gross," said a third.
The cover? Well. You may want turn your eyes away, as the depths of debauchery I am about to show you are almost beyond comprehension. If you are weak of stomach or moral fiber, you may not be able to handle the image I am about to bring you. But in the interests of fair reporting and science or whatever-the-fuck, I will show it to you. I am not afraid.
I know! The HORROR!
Babytalk is a free magazine whose readership is overwhelmingly mothers of babies. Yet in a poll of more than 4,000 readers, a quarter of responses to the cover were negative, calling the photo — a baby and part of a woman's breast, in profile — inappropriate.
Hmm. Mothers of babies find this photo inappropriate. Why could that be, I wonder?
One mother who didn't like the cover explains she was concerned about her 13-year-old son seeing it.
Oh, I see. Because breastfeeding is sexy.
Sure it is.
Look, I have two kids, as you may or may not know. I also breastfed both of those kids. Since my kids aren't that far apart in age, this means I ended up breastfeeding for nigh on 4 years straight.
And that means I have a little experience in the matter, and I can tell you this flat-out: breastfeeding is NOT sexy. At its best, breastfeeding a baby is a vague relief, since manufacturing enough milk to feed a ham-like garbage disposal can create a large amount of pressure in your breasts and feeding aforementioned ham relieves some of that pressure. At worst, it's FUCKING PAINFUL.
The middle ground is that it's mildly annoying, sometimes degrading (and not in a good way - the good way being a sexual way), messy and slightly inconvenient.
Yet I did it for almost 4 years. You may wonder why I did it for 4 years. Well, I'll tell you.
In fact, it's not even cheap. It's FREE.
Have you seen the prices of formula? Ho-lee shit. Expensive.
Sure, I put up with 4 years of having a ham hanging from my tit. I put up with the sore nipples and the pain of being used as, alternatingly, a teething ring and a pacifier. I put up with the grand indignities that are breast pumps (for serious, using an electric breast pump is like attaching yourself to a Hoover and has always put me in mind of rows and rows of cows in stalls, attached to those milking machines, mooing away in bovine resignation - I now know the pain that a milk cow suffers on a daily basis. Bessie, I salute you.) and I endured waking up in a sopping puddle in the middle of the night because the baby slept past his feeding time and my lactating tits would just not be contained a moment longer. I lived through 4 years of being looked at as nothing more than an all-you-can-eat buffet for an infant and stains on my shirts and the pain, pain, pain. Oh yes I did.
Because it was free! A deal is a deal, and I am the cheapest motherfucker alive. I love me some free stuff like a fat kid love cake. Boy howdy.
Okay, okay, I breastfed for other reasons, too: it's healthier for the baby, it's healthy for the mother, it's natural and all that stuff, you don't have to worry about sterilizing bottles or warming them up or scalding the baby's mouth because the formula was microwaved too long, formula-fed babies smell kinda funny, blah blah.
My kids have crazy-strong immune systems and rarely get sick. In fact, my son has only had one earache in his life, and that he didn't even get til he was five years old. My daughter has never been even remotely seriously ill. Because breastfeeding is good for kids. It's healthy and it's natural. Do you think women 200 years ago were running around warming up Carnation Instant Breakfast for Rugrats? No, they were not. Because breastfeeding is one of the things a boob was designed to do, and it's pretty good at it. It's good for kids.
I still like to think my milk has special healing powers, though, anyway, because it makes me feel like a superhero of some sort, able to dispense a life-giving, healing elixir, armed with nothing more than my Grade-A, USDA-Fuckin'-Approved, E Cup rack.
And I am also a little off topic.
Back to the issue at hand.
You might notice that nothing in the pros or cons I just listed about breastfeeding mention sex.
This is because breastfeeding has nothing to do with sex.
Yes, I am aware that there are some people with fetishes for lactating women, but there are also some people with fetishes for barnyard animals, tires, Saran Wrap, stuffed animals and Pamela Anderson. But just because there's someone out there that can make something patently not-sexy into a prized fantasy doesn't make it actually sexy. That's just the way the world works.
How many people really look at the cover of that magazine and think "WHOA! PORN!"? I look at the cover of that magazine and see a child eating.
It would be a lie if I were to say I was surprised by this article or any of the sentiments expressed therein, though.
During my days as an Ambulatory Continental Breakfast, I sometimes found myself in a situation that required feeding one of my babies out in public.
I remember a specific instance most clearly. We were at the park and my son wanted to eat. Not one to (often) deny a child such a basic necessity as food, I took him over to an unpopulated area of the park, sat under a tree, positioned a blanket over us so that nothing scary would show, and proceeded to give my son his lunch.
A woman made a beeline for me.
"Don't you think you should do that somewhere else?" she hissed between her teeth.
"Like where?" I asked.
"The bathroom!" she said, jerking her head in the direction of the restrooms.
I looked over to the restrooms. Public restrooms in a public park aren't really known for their sanitary properties and these were no exception.
"Okay!" I said, cheerfully. "You go grab your lunch and I'll meet you there in five minutes!"
"What?" said the woman, horrified. "I wouldn't eat in there!"
"Then why do you want me to make my son eat in there?" I asked, eyes wide.
"I just think you're disgusting, that's all!" she said, turning and walking away.
"That's okay!" I called after her. "You make me feel a little queasy, too! Have a nice day now!"
The point of all this screaming is that people are stupid, and mothers can be especially retarded.
I find it funny that the headline that goes with this image is "Why Women Don't Nurse Longer." Could one of the reasons be that women that breastfeed are often made to feel like they're doing something wrong or gross? Could one of the reasons be that we're such a weird Puritanical society here in America that we automatically equate a breast - even one with a ham attached to it - with sex, and therefore, breastfeeding women might feel as if they are doing something dirty? Could one of the reasons be that other mothers are most likely to make said women feel that way? Gee, I dunno.
I would expect a mother that is subscribing to a baby magazine to understand that the breast depicted in this cover photograph has nothing at all to do with fucking and everything to do with feeding a baby.
If your 13-year-old son happens to look at it and get a cheap thrill, so fucking what? I bet he's also gawking at those topless saggy-breasted women in Third World countries that they so often show in National Geographic. I bet your 13-year-old son is also getting his jollies by staring at your Victoria's Secret catalog, any and every clothed woman he encounters, both in print and in person, and your Sunday paper's Sears sale flyer. Are you going to shred National Geographic, the Sears flyer, all of your catalogs and also attempt to maul everything female that your son may or may not come into contact with, after which you will then go make whining comments to some less-than-stellar news reporting agency? Please.
Get your damned head out of your ass. Or you can keep it in there, because like most things in life, if you don't want to see it, you don't have to look. And with your cranium lodged firmly in your anal cavity like so, you won't have to see much of anything at all.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
More Improper Thought Permuting
I took yesterday off of work and missed the email about how we had clients coming in today and I should dress up.
I show up in my usual tank top and jeans combo and Secretary's Boyfriend immediately tackles me and drags me into the storage closet.
"Clients today! Didn't you get Secretary's email?"
"What about the text message?"
"Okay, well, you need to have something on that's not a tank top or Boss will be pissed."
"Crap. I don't have anything else, though."
"Guess you'll have to wear one of the t-shirts?"
See, we have t-shirts, with our company logo on them or one of our urls. Unfortunately, the only shirts available at that moment were white with black letters and bright orange with black letters.
I can't wear the white on account of my bra is black and that's just too white trash, even for me.
So he hands me an orange one.
I scurry to the bathroom and change.
I gaze at myself in the mirror.
"Lo," I think to myself. "I look like a pumpkin."
And since the lettering on the shirt was black and I was wearing black jeans, I also looked like Halloween.
I wandered back out of the bathroom and passed Secretary's Boyfriend.
"Is this okay?" I ask.
"Rock and roll pumpkihn! Say it again!"
"Y'know. I look like a pumpkin. 'Cos the shirt is orange."
"Rock and roll pumpkihn! Say it again!"
So I spent the day wandering around being a Rock and Roll Pumpkihn, singing my theme song.
No one knew that song, though. Which is unfortunate, because it was done by one of The Greatest Bands of All Time, Green Jellö.
Green Jellö is probably most known for its crappiest song, "Three Little Pigs." And also probably pretty well known for being sued by Jell-o because of their name. This is why they later changed it to Green Jellÿ. It's okay, though, because as they have so graciously explained, a 'y' with an umlaut makes the same sound an 'o' with an umlaut makes.
This is how we know they are totally awesome and hardcore, because what's more metal than an umlaut in the band name? Even though they got sued by Bill Cosby and his Puddin' Pops or whatever, they still stayed true to their metal roots by using that ÿ.
I searched the YouTube for the song, and I found it, but the guy disabled embedding and he's the only one that has it. So go here and be prepared for total domination. If I ever find out where that guy lives, I will kick him in the junk for not allowing me to embed this video. HATE!
Anyway, here are some more Green Jellö videos for your viewing pleasure:
Follow your nose! It always knows! The flavor of death! Wherever it goes!
Goddamn, what would you all do without me to bring such refined culture into your lives? My blog is just as good - if not better - than the Louvre or some fucking opera or something.
Ha, Louvre! I totally pwned you. Take that, Götterdämmerung!
Wait. Götterdämmerung has two umlauts in it. I think it's safe to say that, after observing this, the Götterdämmerung is totally metal. So we'll leave that one out.
We'll just tell Madame Butterfly to get fucked instead.
PS - If you're really, really good, I might bring some more culture to you, in the form of GWAR.
Yes, that's right. GWAR.
I totally want to be Slymenstra Hymen when I grow up.