Sunday, October 29, 2006
Turns out that my daughter is more useful than I previously thought.
True, she makes valiant attempts at pulling her weight. After all, by the tender age of two, I had sent her out, like her brother before her, to get a damned job and start earning her keep. Ever after, she has been working like a migrant under the hot sun, tilling the soil and picking the cotton.
Saturday, I found out that she may have a more promising career ahead of her:
Apparently, 4 year olds are quite into the idea of reaching into half-frozen pumpkins to yank out their cold, squishy, stringy guts and stuff them into a shopping bag.
I like jack o'lanterns and all, but I hate sticking my hand in there to scrape out the nasty.
So now I'm thinking she can quit tilling the soil and instead go work in a factory that hollows out pumpkins to make canned pie filling or whatever.
This will probably bring in more money for me to spend on periodicals and keep her from complaining about how she needs a spine replacement from all her back-breaking labor.
I try to remind her that a little hard work never killed anyone, but we both know I am lying.
"Mommy, why is my future so slimy?"
It should be noted that my son wouldn't touch the pumpkin-innards, so I guess he's stuck shoveling coal for the forseeable future. Some people just have no upward momentum.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday Hallowe'en Special
I did not die. You may or may not be pleased to learn this. I can never tell with you jackals.
I think EB is off on a clocktower-esque type killing spree at the moment, though. I tell him he needs to get rid of this excess aggression in a constructive manner and that is what he comes up with?
I'm so proud.
Anyway, ZOMG TEH HATE COMETH.
The Disappointing Nature of Hallowe'en These Days.
When I was but a wee Zombie, I loved Hallowe'en. In fact, I still do - but it was those Hallowe'ens of my youth that instilled my current deep-seated love for the day.
When I had my son, I thought, "Brilliant! Now I can go Trick or Treating again! I shall use this small human as an excuse! He can't eat candy, but I can! Wee!"
You see, I remembered that when I was small, I used to bring home quite the haul on this most joyous of days.
In fact, often, my friends and I had to pause in the Trick or Treating to actually stop off home, unload the pillowcase to make more room, and then dash off to fill it up again. This Trick or Treating was done at night. This was also done unaccompanied by parents, after we were of a certain age, because parents are slow. And my friends and I were not going to be slowed down by some drag-ass parents dawdling about on the curb when there was loot to be had on the next block. No, sir.
Indeed, I have many fond memories of these nights. Sure, it was Pennsylvania, so there might be some snow coming down or something, but that did not stop us. Nearly every house in our neighborhood had the porch light on, signifying that there was candy available if we banged on the door and shouted a lot. The smell of pumpkins, smashed the night before by the older kids and left to rot on the sidewalks and streets, wafted on the air.
And the candy! Oh, the candy. Tons of chocolate - Reese's Cups and Snickers being my favorite - and even whole cans of pop. Okay, so sometimes an old lady would sneak in an apple or a fucking toothbrush, but that did not detract from the glorious amounts of sugary, tooth-rotting goodness that overflowed from the hands of kindly neighbors.
SO, just imagine my chagrin on my son's first Hallowe'en.
There, of course, had been a lack of Trick or Treating in the preceding few years, because I was apparently considered to be "too old" - turns out people get sort of surly at you if you show up on their doorstep and beg candy when you're 13. Who knew? You live. You learn.
Instead, I whiled away those years, longing for the time when I could take my mother's place as Lord of the Candy, and hover above my own children, saying, "Okay, now I have to check all of that for razor blades, hypodermic needles, and cyanide. Oops, this Reese's Cup looks tampered with. I better take that. Oh, and that one, too. And that one. And that one. Well, hell's bells, it looks like ALL of these Reese's Cups have been tampered with! I can't have you short people getting stabbed in the mouth or poisoned, so I better just dispose of these in a safe place."
A safe place being my stomach, of course. Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Also, while I longed, I had been relegated to handing out candy myself to the small people at the door for those years. I did not mind this, except for those times when the kids would ask, "What are you supposed to be?" and I would end up surprised and have to say, "Er, nothing. I always dress like this," and they would get kind of nervous and scuttle away. Little shits.
Anyway, back to my chagrin.
Now, Trick or Treating in this town, at the time, had been moved to the middle of the day, for safety reasons. A little girl had been nabbed off of the sidewalk a few years before, and this, naturally, caused some public disturbance and made people all hyper and "BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?" and so forth.
So I understood that we couldn't Trick or Treat in the dark, even if I wasn't too happy about it -- but Lord of the Candy! My son's first Hallowe'en! This was going to rock!
Thought my dumbass self.
I don't know what happened during my Non-Trick-or-Treating Years, but apparently, people in general have stopped giving much of a shit about this most sacred of autumn evenings. My best friend (a fellow Hallowe'en enthusiast, with a baby 3 weeks older than my own tiny tot) and I got the kids all tarted up and off we went out the door, delirious with the prospect of finally having a decent excuse to beg candy off of strangers, despite our advanced ages - "Uhm...Trick or Treat? It's for the baby. In the stroller. Uhm...he's 3 months old...ish. But it's for him. Really."
But do you know what happened that terrible day? We got jack shit, that's what! No huge haul like I remembered from my youth! We were lucky if every fifth house had a light on! The bastards!
And it's only appearing to get worse as my kids age - even now that we Trick or Treat in a different state, it's no better. So I can't just blame Pennsylvania. It's a nationwide epidemic. You're all bastards.
What's the matter with you people? Do you know how disheartening it is for me to watch my youngsters tramp up and down the street for a long time, in the bitter cold, wearing kick-ass costumes, only to manage to gather a half of a plastic pumpkin-bucket's worth of candy?
And not even good candy. No, there's no full cans of pop in there! There's no tampered-with Reese's Cups for me to take away from them!
There's not even any goddamned apples! Or tooth-brushes! Even the health-freaks have given up! And you know it's a sad day when someone that's so gung-ho about oral health that they would actually pass out toothbrushes on a day that it is to ruin your dental work - nay! the ONE DAY it's down-right acceptable and encouraged that you ruin your dental work - has decided to stop giving a shit about the teeth of the neighborhood at large. That's a sad day, I say! A sad day!
No, instead of all that good (or at least acceptable) stuff, there's 900 Pixie Sticks, which, UHM, NO, WHAT THE HELL. That's like crack for kids. Stop that.
And there's Mary Janes, which, EW. No one eats those. I mean, we got those when I was little, but we promptly fed them to the dog or left them sit in the candy bin until next year, by which time you'd think they would be petrified with age, but no, they still look the same as they did when you got them - because I am under the impression that Mary Janes are much like the fabled Christmas Fruitcake - there are only a few of them actually in existence, and people just pass them around every year, back and forth, like a retarded, artificially-caramel-flavored version of tennis.
Same with Bit O' Honey. NO ONE LIKES THOSE, EITHER.
This, of course, doesn't mean my kids aren't happy with their haul. After all, they don't know any better. They don't have any previous, glorious, wonderful Hallowe'ens to look back on and sigh with nostalgia over.
And so, I can't figure out what causes more hate - that my kids don't get to experience the magic I experienced when I was that age, or that they haven't got any tampered Reese's Cups for me to gank out of their buckets under the pretense of looking out for their small lives.
Baking Cookies at 1 AM.
It's 1 AM-ish and I am baking cookies because I stupidly agreed to bake them for the kids' school parties tomorrow. And could I get around to doing it at a reasonable hour? Of course not! But can I let the children down? Of course not!
So I will bake pumpkin cookies for roughly 70 children at 1 in the morning, because I am not bright enough to say no when asked to do something like this. I think, at the time of the asking, that it sounds like a lovely idea and, sure, it will be no trouble at all and two cookies per kid sounds just fine.
Duh. Shut up, Zombie.
I better get my black-and-orange Tupperware back, though, or some heads are going to roll, is all I'm sayin.' I know how those public school teachers are woefully underpaid and probably just fiending to get their hands on my festive plasticware.
I won't have it, though. I've carefully printed my name on the bottom of each one, with a Sharpie, boldly marking my territory.
Jesus, I've turned into my grandma, industriously writing her name on the casserole dish she's sending over to a funeral, to make sure none of the bereaved make off with her Corningware.
I guess this means that if I send food to your funeral, you best keep your mitts off my crockery, or I'll be all sorts of pissed off.
We will see if Hallowe'en has perked up at all this year, friends and neighbors. I am not optimistic, but we will see. You tell me if your kids fare any better than my poor wretches have the past few years.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have somewhere in the area of 9,000 more cookies to eat - I mean, bake. BAKE.
Good night and good luck.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Here comes low-flying random! Watch out!
1.) I have joined this writing group, under the silly, silly impression that joining a writing group may spur me to actually write again. And by "write," I mean write anything that's not for work, a food-shoppin' (Hey, my Pittsburgh is showing! Get back now! 'n 'at!) list scrawled on the back of my energy bill envelope in red crayon (list usually consists of DIET COKE, DIET COKE, MORE DIET COKE, DIET!!!! COKE!!!!, PERHAPS SOMETHING IN THE BANANA AREA FOR THE CHILDREN TO MUNCH ON), or an overly long-winded ranty blog post.
The reality of what this writing group appears to have done to me is that now I can't even write blog posts and my food-shoppin' lists have greatly suffered.
Evidence of this: Today's food-shoppin' list was just one big query mark, indicating that I should just wander blindly around the grocery store until something shiny (and hopefully food-related) caught my eye and made me want to huck it into my cart.
This is how I came home from said grocery store today approximately 60 dollars poorer, but without much in the way of food that can be assembled into nutritious and delicious meals.
"Mom, what's for dinner tonight?"
"Wella-well, children, how does a package of mushrooms, a stray can of Dole pineapple tidbits, some squash, and Fig Newtons sound to you? What? No? No takers? You have no sense of culinary adventure. Fig Newtons, after all, aren't cookies. They're fruit and cake."
Further evidence of this: The fact that I am lowered to writing a post at least partly oriented around my food-shoppin' lists and/or lack thereof. I'm sorry, y'all. This is what I get for trying to better myself.
My work writing has not suffered at all, however, because I get paid to do that and money always gets me moving.
2.) My daughter's new preschool is extremely...colorful. I eagerly await her return from school each day, where I will ask her how her day went, and she will regale me with strange tales of wonder and mystery.
For instance, today, I heard The Tale of Two Hannahs.
There are two girls named Hannah in my daughter's class. Meredith will have us know that Hannah B. puts EVERYTHING in her mouth. Not to be outdone, Hannah L. is a BITER and all and sundry are warned to stay away from a BITER because BITERS will BITE you.
Upon hearing this, I briefly indulged in a mental image of small girls with placards reading "PUTS EVERYTHING IN MOUTH" and "BITER" on them, lest anyone get confused about the Hannahs and their respective differences.
I think we can all deduce what sort of career path these girls are on. Start 'em out young, that's what I always say.
3.) I just finished watching Super-Size Me and I think I might never eat again.
Wait...are those cookies? Refined sugar? Holla!
4.) Here is an interesting thing I did not know before: Apparently, if you have wonderfully clear skin all throughout puberty and rarely ever have a zit in high school, when most people are prone to having the zits, all of them will suddenly appear at once during the October of your 24th year and you will want to bury your head in sand.
That will teach me for feeling so superior about my flawless complexion while my fellow teenagers were busy coating themselves in Clearasil and trying not to eat anything with grease on it.
If only I had known...
5.) Growing up, there were certain words and phrases my sister and I were absolutely not allowed to use. Obviously, we were not allowed to use "swear words." But there were other, more benign words and phrases that would get us into Big Trouble should they escape our lips.
- Stupid, as in "You're stupid" or "That's stupid."
- Shut up
- Screw, as in "That's screwed up!" or "Don't screw it up!"
I can only assume that my mother's intent was to raise us as genteel, sophisticated ladies that would never stoop to using colorful language.
The actual result, however, seems to be that I have a fouler mouth than the proverbial sailor does and my wee sister is even worse.
This is why I've decided that, starting tomorrow, I will teach both of my children to shout, "HEY, RATFUCK!" and suchlike at random people on the street.
That way, when they grow up, they'll...uhm...have an over-developed, yet highly interesting vocabulary? Or something. I don't really think these things through, you realize. It just occurred to me that it might be funny if my 4 year old shouted, "HEY RATFUCK!" at a passing Officer of the Law.
PS - It wasn't until many years later that I realized that "dork" might actually refer to genitals of some sort. So now it makes more sense to me when I think about it. At the time, though, I just thought she was SO UNCOOL. I mean, gawd, she doesn't even own a t-shirt slide or anything but she thinks she can tell me, and my highly-awesome neon printed black t-shirt, WITH T-SHIRT SLIDE, and my several pairs of slouchy socks in differing colors chosen specifically to match the t-shirt of the day and worn all at the same time, how to talk? What a lamer.
Thought my 9 year old self.
Obviously, I hit the summit of cool when I was 9 years old and it's all been downhill from there.
Well, I think that's just about enough of that.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo, In Absentia
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries
of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
1.) People Using Those Walkie-Talkie Phone Thingies in the Store.
You know what makes me crazy? I mean really crazy, not my usual chipper sort of stream of consciousness yippety-yapping about twenty subjects at once sort of crazy.
And if you've never had the dubious pleasure of having to listen to me do that, count yourself lucky. The rambling thing I do here on the blog is NOTHING compared to how I am when I am talking to someone. It's a wonder EB is not deaf by now. Not because I'm loud, per se, but because he put something sharp in his ear in order to avoid having to listen to me chirp about shoes AND how annoying something is/was AND how I wish death upon such and such AND (insert other random and pointless thing here) at the same time again. I think Skippy blinded himself years ago to avoid having to see my constant rush of blather pour into his IM box and is only pretending he can read now.
The thing what makes me crazy: I am ambling along an aisle at the store and then, "Chiiiiiirrrrrppy chirp chirp cricket, (insert other, more accurate phonetic representation of that hideous noise here), krrriiickkk static can you krrraaaakkkk static some static beer static static please? static glrk."
And then, of course, the person holding the Small Talking Device of Despair couldn't understand that, and so the phone makes that horrible noise again and the person SHOUTS into it, as if that will somehow make things clearer, "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I'M AT THE STORE. DO YOU WANT ME TO GET ANYTHING?"
And the cycle repeats. Cricket-thing, static, cricket-thing, screaming. And on and on.
Look, people: obviously this technology isn't all that great. You know why? Because it doesn't usually fucking work, that's why. You can't understand what the person on the other end is saying to you, they can't understand you, you're shouting like a maniac into your hand, and everyone hates you.
Not to mention that the little cricket-thing sound scares the everloving crap out of me every time. For serious, I jump. I almost go "Yipe!" like Scooby Doo.
I never expect to hear that noise, and then there it is and AHHHH. I jump and I have to stifle the Scooby and I really hate that.
It's really hard to make like you're a classy broad while ambling through the store when you're jumping and yipe-ing and Scooby-ing every five seconds because you're surrounded by imbeciles.
To me, this walkie-talkie bullshit appears to be the modern-day equivalent of tin cans and string.
So, People Using Those Damned Things at the Store, I think you'd get better results if you lit a goddamned campfire in the middle of the Mart of Wal and used a bathmat to send smoke signals to your white trash husband, who's sitting on his can at home in front of the television and just remembered he's out of Pabst Blue Ribbon but can't be bothered to actually DIAL your phone number - no, he has to use the neat-o walkie-talkie function.
Except, since I figure you're probably illiterate to begin with, perhaps the smoke signals thing wouldn't work.
"HYE RAM T A STARRRR DUE EWE KNEEED NEFING?"
"YARRR KNEEEEED BEEEEEEEAIR GLRK!"
"WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU."
Oh, just fuck OFF, already.
2.) My New Mailman.
My new mailbox is one of those ones that is attached to the side of my house, right next to my front door. I ADORE this! I do not have to trek across the Bog of Eternal Shoe-Eating in the rain and snow and such anymore! I can just open my front door a crack, snake my arm out there, and stick my mail into the box.
The only downside to this great new mailing experience is that my new mailman appears to be a complete twat.
Ignoring, for a moment, the fact that he's one of those middle-aged, pot-bellied mailmen that insist on wearing the Post Office-issued mailman shorts (and really, no one needs to see your knees, please put them away), he is really crap at his job.
Now, I can imagine that being a mailman is difficult. There's all that driving with your steering wheel on the wrong side of the truck to get used to. Then there's the walking. And the no rain, nor sleet, nor snow getting you a day off from work thing.
But is it that hard to come to my mailbox and remove my mail? I shit you not, people, there is a letter in my mailbox, as we speak, that's been sitting in there for going on 6 days now, something that MIGHT be important to someone SOMEWHERE, but it has not been removed from the mailbox because my mailman is a twat.
This mailman will actually put my new mail in the box - ON TOP OF THE OUTGOING MAIL.
I guess he thinks that if he doesn't feel like it, he doesn't have to take my mail away. I guess he thinks that if he doesn't feel like it, he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to.
Well, I got news for you, Sunny Jim. You may think you're clever, not taking my mail away and always avoiding my surprise ambushes by coming at a different time each day, if you do happen to show up and stuff my junk mail into the box without checking to see if there was something to go out, that is...but I will get you. Oh yes, I will. I will one day be hiding behind a hedge and see you in your little man-shorts chugging along down the street and I will LEAP OUT! I will leap out and I will say, "I HAVE MAIL! OUTGOING MAIL! YOU SHALL TAKE IT, VILE POSTAL WORKER WEARING VILE SHORTS, IF I HAVE TO CRAM IT DOWN YOUR VILE POSTAL WORKER-Y THROAT! Maybe you think you are too good for my mail, but I assure you that you are not. No one could be too good for anything when they're wearing such man-shorts. No one at all. Do you see how I have not only ridiculed your style of dress, but also called you vile? See? I can be mean. Mean and clever. You don't want to fuck with me, Sunny Jim. Get this shit out of my mailbox and be on your merry man-shorts way! ON YOUR WAY, I TELL YOU!"
I think that when I do this, I should be wearing a Viking helmet. Perhaps the kind with the really long braids attached to it. And I could brandish a sword I've made from tin foil. I bet I'd be very menacing. MENACING, I SAY!
3.) This Headache I've Had All Day.
I woke up with the mother of all hangovers this morning. Except I haven't had any alcohol in a couple of months, and I'm pretty sure hangovers don't show up unannounced several months later to lay seige upon your innards.
So I guess I'm just ill. Or something. All I know is that this headache is perhaps the worst headache I've had EVAR. It feels like a troupe of very industrious dwarves (not the cool midget kind - the sucky kind with the pointy hats that live in caves or mines or whatever) have taken up residence in my skull and have been tap-tap-tapping away on the inside of my forehead with their very sharp pick-axes. Which, FUCK! That hurts.
EB's hate coming later, natch.
Now I am going to go lay down and stare at the ceiling until my head stops trying to make me vomit.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I Am Be Zombie Radio
So I thought I'd take a moment to just introduce you all to some excellent songs I've come across this week.
We'll start with a video clip from Da Ali G Show, featuring the well-loved Khazak, Borat. This clip is from his country music adventure - which is hilarious in its entirety, and can be found here.
The bits leading up to the part I am posting involve Borat going to a country and western dancing class and proceeding to teach the unwitting class members how to do a traditional Khazak dance, which contains moves like "beat the gypsy" and "walk like the homosexual."
The crowning moment of this sketch, though, is the following (and you must watch video or else I be execute):
I LOVE THAT. I love that so much, I wish I could marry it. I love it because Americans are DUMB and actually sing along with him. Note the one woman that pantomimes horns on her head when Borat sings "You must grab him by his horns," like you would mime "Little Bunny Foofoo" to a kindergarten class. This is classic.
Everybody now! Throw the Jew down the well! So my country can be free!
If you aren't familiar with Ali G, you might perhaps live under a rock, but he is a British Jew comedian, and his real name is Sacha Baron Cohen. He does the Borat character, as well as a homosexual character named Bruno. He interviews people and is generally fucking hilarious. That Borat bit above just beats all, though.
Now, this next video is very special to me. I found it via the lovely SJ over at I, Asshole and cannot stop beholding its magnificence. EB is going to probably lock me in a closet for showing this to other people, as he was absolutely appalled by it and thought it sounded like a parrot being anally-raped. Which is actually an apt comparison, so I have to give a "hey, big pimpin'!" to him for that, even if he does not share my love for it.
Now you must behold:
I KNOW! How fucking cool is this guy? It's so bizarre, I cannot look away. I find myself sneaking back to I, Asshole to view it again and again and again. It has come to the point where I now know when...that noise...is coming and I start chanting "HERE IT COMES!! HERE IT COMES!! YES!!!!" before I collapse into hysterical laughter. And it never gets old.
This is a dude named Vitas, who is apparently a Latvian-born pop-singer that is quite the sensation in Russia and also quickly taking China by storm. Well, he has won ME over, I can tell you. I am simultaneously cracked-up and appalled each time I watch this video.
I particularly enjoy the mugging he does for the crowd - nice use of the eyebrow, dude. Also, the ice cream man meets lounge singer outfit is a great touch - subtle, yet refined. Well done there. Well done, indeed.
But...that noise...is the craziest thing EVAR.
Dig on some more Vitas. If you can handle the beats he's layin' down, that is.
I wish I knew what the Chinese subtitles that pop up when he's making...that noise...actually say. And I like the hooded orchestra and the people sitting on the bleachers performing The Wave as if they have all been slipped a roofie or two or seventeen.
You know you love me.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Put On Your Stompin' Boots, Kiddies: It's Clusterfuck Time!
My son came home with this...flyer...today. Now, you all might have noticed EB and me (EB and me, har, that rhymes, I'm so poetical-like) complaining about our kids getting exposed to religious shit that we don't approve of. And we don't approve of any religious shit, so just GET AWAY FROM OUR KIDS YOU OBNOXIOUS PACK OF CUNTS AHHHH I CAN'T STAND IT. AHHHHH. Ahhh. Ahh. Eh.
Err. Sorry. Outburst.
Today was my son's day to come home with a notice about Bible study.
Now, this is annoying on so many levels.
First, I don't want my kid coming home from PUBLIC SCHOOL with a FLYER ABOUT BIBLE CLASS.
Second, the grammar in this is atrocious, and we all know how that makes me rend my garments and gnash my teeth Old Testament style, don't we?
And, honestly, what's with the little traffic sign graphic with the running children? Why are they running? Because the Bible is scary? Run, children, run, or the angel rapers will catch you! God will send out a pack of bears to eat you for making fun of a bald man! WATCH OUT! FLEE WITH A QUICKNESS!
Now what I like about this bit here are the graphics at the bottom. We have a clip art Bible, which, okay, that's nothing special. That's to be expected. But the second graphic is so very compelling.
If you look closely, you'll notice that on the second image, superimposed over the obligatory flag-motif outline of the Good Ol' U. S. of A, we have a church building. And superimposed over the church building, we have what appears to be a...target? Like for shooting?
A target for shooting.
Uh...what's up with that?
What exactly are they trying to say here? What did the artist mean? That these people feel persecuted? That you are free to take potshots at their Bible class and they'll make it easy for you by painting a big ol' bullseye on the front of the building? What? WHAT? I must have answers. I must know why.
Anyway, as you can probably guess, I'm not going to be sending my son to Bible class, despite the fact that target-shooting appears to be involved. While I'm all for very young kids having access to the shooting range, I'm not sure I want him to mix his religious non-education up with his future mercenary work. I can't have him getting all love-thy-neighbor and full of moral qualms when it comes to disposing of unnecessary people for fun and profit, now can I? That just wouldn't do. I need him to be ruthless, immoral, and evil, so he can bring home the bacon in the profession I have chosen for him.
On second thought... maybe I should send him to Bible class. Maybe it will prepare him for his future mercenary work. After all, religious folk do seem to have the monopoly on not feeling bad when ridding the Earth of people they deem unnecessary (see: Kurds, the and Jews, the for more information on unnecessary people).
Hmm. Now I'm having a crisis of non-faith. Shit!
In other news, my daughter is apparently the world's first 4 year old lesbian Jesus-freak.
In the car the other day, she announced, "Jesus made everything!"
"NO, HE DID NOT!" I announced right back. Again with the wanting to rend the garments Old Testament style.
"Yes, he did! My girlfriend told me!"
So she has a girlfriend. Okay...
Later on that day, she informed EB that her girlfriend kisses her.
I'm so traumatized by this. I mean...how can I have a child that is that way? What did I do to deserve this punishment? Where did I go wrong as a parent? I mean, is she crazy? She cannot possibly turn out to be...a...a...oh, I can hardly bear to say the word...a...Christian.
It's ridiculous, I tell you! I don't care what you say, either! It's an abomination and unnatural! People aren't born that way! They choose to be that way! So she better unchoose quick, or I'ma have to get all medieval on her ass.
Iron maiden, here we come. RUN TO THE HIIIILLLLLLSSSSS. Anyone have a spare rack lying around that I can borrow for the weekend? I promise to disinfect!
Friday, October 06, 2006
El Bastardo Comments on Republican Fucktards Who Try to Cover Up Their Pedophilic Brethren and Blame It on the Media
Okay, How can ANY of you not know what has transpired in the last week.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday, With Special Guest El Bastardo
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it.
1.) Overtired Whirling Dervishes.
I love that my daughter goes to a nice preschool, where she is now getting swimming lessons and writing her name efficiently and coming home to inform me of Very Important Things, like which kid always spills his milk because he's a big baby and what sort of dress so-and-so was wearing and how this one kid colored his picture of a tiger green, of all things, and can I believe that?
That stuff is awesome.
What's not awesome is the fact that about 15 minutes after getting home, she morphs into Wee Psychotic Whirling Dervish, Princess of Overtired Land. My little girl is a sweet little girl - until she gets so tired that even air pisses her off and she starts shrieking like a steam whistle at even the slightest stimulus.
I keep trying to fix this problem by pushing her bedtime up in fifteen minute increments. We've moved from 8:30 to 8:15 to 8:00 to 7:45 to 7:30 with pretty much no luck.
I figure that, if this keeps up, I'll be sending her to bed before she's even woken up in the morning. And I think that will be fairly hard to manage, unless I can somehow come up with a way to cause a rip in the Very Fabric of Time (which is made of cotton! The fabric of our lives!).
Perhaps if I am able to manage to teach George W. Bush to stop speaking like he's a fucking putz yokel and somehow make him at least vaguely eloquent, it will cause the conditions necessary for the Very Fabric of Time to rip apart, thus allowing my daughter to get enough sleep.
Harrrrr. Like that will ever happen.
The Bush part, I mean. Not my daughter getting enough sleep. I'm pretty sure the heroin will take care of that.
2.) Emo hair.
I've spoken before about how I hate emos, but I saw one with a really ridiculous haircut today and I thought that I should just take the time now to do a sort of public service announcement for all of the emos out there, as well as those that might be considering an emo makeover. I'm a great humanitarian like that. I'm always willing to help those less fortunate (see: Homeless, the Making Fun of and Puppies, the Kicking of and Little Old Ladies, the Knocking Over of for more information on Zombie's Great Acts of Humanitarianism).
If you get an emo haircut (also known as "hair that does that flippy thing"), no one will think you look cool. Well, except for other emos, and they don't count, since they're obviously operating on less than full capacity, if'n you know what I'm sayin' and I think you do.
Here is a visual warning to all those considering making their hair do that flippy thing.
When non-emo people look at you...
...they will not see a cool kid with an edgy haircut that is simultaneously expressing how sensitive, thoughtful, and deep he is while evidencing his utter disregard for conformity and how he really couldn't care less about what society thinks of him, because he's so far beyond all that. Wow. Awesome.
No. When non-emo people look at you, they will see this:
Yeah, that's right. I said you'll look like a fuckin' yak. Or a bison. Or whatever that is. Something that has stupid hair and grazes.
So, before you go to get that haircut, just remember:
Emo Hair = Yak-ish Thing
Don't do it. Please.
Think of the bison.
This has been a Zombie Public Service Announcement.
3.) Shaolin Showdown.
I'm not sure about the specifics regarding this cartoon, or even which channel it lives on. All I know is that I was sitting over here at the computer last night, minding my own business, and my kids were watching this...thing.
It's some sort of anime-ish type dealie, with lots of jerky movements and large-eyed people with big oval mouths and the obligatory very short thing with a weird skin color that's some sort of martial arts master.
I don't usually pay attention to my kids' cartoons, unless it's Spongebob, because I love me some Spongebob like a fat kid love cake - but this one caught my attention for a few seconds. These few seconds were long enough for me to find out that one of the Asian-looking characters on the show is named Raymundo.
I have no more words.
4.) That Lady That Mowed My Lawn the Other Day.
First, let me just say that I appreciate that you mowed my lawn. I do. It was a nice thing to do, really. But...did you have to make me feel so...so...hateful about it?
I know the grass was high. I myself have been looking out the window at random intervals over the past weeks, expecting a roving band of pygmies to appear from the depths of the grassy jungle, carrying a miniature antelope on a spit slung over two of their tiny, sunburned shoulders, as the bones in their noses sparkled in the sun.
So, really, I did know the grass was high. But you see...I haven't got a lawnmower and have no idea where I could borrow one. And I'm certainly not going to purchase one. That's just insane.
Besides, it's October. It's very likely that it will snow in about ten minutes. And do I really want to go to all the trouble of hunting down a lawnmower and possibly beheading some pygmies with the mower blades when it's quite possible that we will have a foot of snow on the ground in less than 2 seconds?
No, I don't think I do.
So, thank you for relieving this burden for me. But, next time, when I come out onto my porch to find out what sort of machine is making all that racket, do not stop the mower for 15 minutes to regale me with your many fine qualities of kindness and love thy neighbor. Do not remark no less than 50 times how high the grass is, because, HELLO, WE COULD ALL SEE THAT THE GRASS WAS FUCKING HIGH. Unless some of us are blind. Which...well, who cares? Right.
Please do not go on and on at length about how the mower stalls a lot and this is inconvenient and how you never, ever mow the lawn, that is man's work, and your husband always mows your lawn, but today he's busy doing other things and you just didn't think you could wait for him to get home to mow my lawn, you couldn't wait to dispense your overwhelming kindness upon me, you couldn't wait a moment longer - huh? Oh, where's my husband? Ahhh, I get it now! You are a clever boots, eh? And still somehow not quite clever enough.
So. While I am appreciative that you mowed my lawn while I wasn't looking, I am just not convinced that this was a hail-fellow-well-met sort of gesture. I think you might've been trying to figure out whether or not I am Quality People. Because you're really nosy. Really nosy. And you didn't need to point out, over and over again, how nice you are for mowing my grass.
Because I get it. Really. I do. You're nice. You're great. You're a good person. You're more humble than Jesus. You're certainly not over here to pry. Of course not! That's just silly.
At any rate, just so you know: I'm not Quality People, however smiley and friendly I may have appeared there on the porch. I may have managed to lull you into a false sense of security and make you feel like I might bring 'round a casserole or some manner of baked goods during the holidays, but that certainly doesn't mean that's what I'm really like. Goodness gracious no.
Because while I'm baking you some cookies (mmm, chocolate chip!), I will also be assembling my meth lab and Gigantic Death Ray of Doom and Destruction down in the basement.
And then we'll find out what is really going to get mown down up in this here biotch, won't we, little missy? Who's the clever boots now, hey?
That's what I thought.
EB's hate will be late again. I think it's because he's realized he has to do something about all the severed legs he's got lying around in the rec room, but I can't be sure.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
In Which Zombie is Extremely Helpful
I've done this before, but I'm going to do it again, because it's apparent no one pays attention to this stuff. And people need to. The Interwebs is becoming a vast garbage dump, and it's all your fault. Yes, your fault. You. You, the one that writes the blog and puts it on the Interwebs and hurts my brain. You. I hate you.
Earlier today, I was completely amazed by several blogs. These blogs were supposedly written by "professional" writers - folks that write for real magazines or newspapers or perhaps have a book out or something to that effect. All of them, down to the very last one, made repeated, easily-corrected mistakes with their grammar and punctuation. Over and over and over again, they did this. My despair knew no bounds.
Seriously, folks, what's up with people writing when they don't know how to write? I'm not talking content here - after all, my own blog is often dreadfully devoid of content, a fact I like to try to hide by producing extremely wordy paragraphs and posting videos and suchlike.
I figure, at the rate I'm going, I may eventually descend into the comedic abyss of cheap dick jokes... but at least they'll be extremely wordy and impeccably constructed cheap dick jokes, thank you very much.
But I digress.
No, what I'm talking about here is the actual nuts-and-bolts process of writing: grammar, punctuation, spelling and all of that happy crappy.
"Eeeeuuugh," you are saying now, recoiling from your monitor. "You're going to devote an entire post to grammar? MUST you do this, you pedantic and evil, yet unbearably attractive and civilized Nazi?"
Oh, yes. I must.
You see, I'm sort of (okay, make that "really") tired of watching people butcher the English language in new and uninteresting ways daily.
I am not referring to the occasional typo, which everyone - including Ye Olde Exalted Yours Truly - makes from time to time. I am not talking about doing something incorrectly on purpose (like when I do this: "zomg you makes teh speling error u r dum ha ha u suX!!!!eleventy").
I am talking about the complete and utter disregard of the correct use of the language. I am talking about people that spew out any old nonsense, pay no attention to what it is they've put down, slap it up on the Interwebs, and then expect us all to decipher what it is they were trying to say. If I have to work to read your stuff, I'm not going to read your stuff. It's that simple.
So, to help those of you that are decidedly deficient in the Knowing What the Fuck You're Doing department, I've compiled the following resource to clear up common mistakes, misconceptions, and outright fuck-ups when it comes to writing in English.
I'm sorry, but all of my readers from scenic Uzbekistan will just have to go hang, because I can't help you.
Not that I actually have any readers from Uzbekistan...but if I did, they'd have to go hang, because I can't help them.
Just thought I should clear that up.
Here we go. Introducing...
Hey, Fucko, You Write Like a Dumbass: A Short and Handy Guide to Basic Writing Rules for Clownboats That Didn't Pay Attention in School
Let's start with some commonly misused words, shall we?
1.) "It's" and "its" are entirely different words. They are not interchangeable. Please cease using "its" where "it's" should be, and vice versa.
"It's" is a contraction. "It's" is a contraction for "it is."
"Its" is a possessive, used to describe something as belonging to something, as in the following: "The door does not work. Its hinges are broken."
2.) As in No. 1, "you're" and "your" are entirely different words and not interchangeable.
"You're" is a contraction for "you are."
"Your" is a possessive.
3.) Likewise, "they're," "their," and "there" do not mean the same thing.
Here is a sentence using all three words correctly:
4.) "Too," "two," and "to," are, as you can probably guess, also all different words and not interchangeable.
5.) Ditto for "then" and "than." I realize that when people are speaking, they often pronounce "than" as if it were "then." They do not mean the same things, however, and should not be used interchangeably.
I was more drunk than he was.
Another pair of words that is butchered like "then" and "than" is "accept" and "except."
If you accept something, that means you take it. If you except something, that means you leave it out. Someone fucking this up can sometimes be amusing, like when I get an email from a Jesus-freak:
Well, imagine that! He's right! I have excepted Jesus and my life is much better! The problem is that he really should've written "accept" because he wants me to let Jesus in, not leave him out.
I could answer him and say that I have excepted Jesus, thank you, and my life is just peachy, but he wouldn't understand why it's funny and might think he's converted me or something, and that just won't do at all.
Anyway, you do see the differences, right? Okay.
6.) For fuck sake, stop using "loose" and "lose" incorrectly. Observe:
Bad grammar makes me lose my shit.
The differences there are very easy to see. These words are even pronounced differently, and people still fuck it up on a regular basis. You wouldn't use "noose" and "nose" interchangeably, would you? No, you would not. Bear that in mind next time you are using these words.
Let's move on to some more complex issues.
7.) There is a proper time and place for the comma. You should not fling commas around arbitrarily, nor should you forget them entirely.
Commas can completely change the meaning of a sentence if used incorrectly. If that happens, then your meaning is lost. If your meaning is lost, what's the point of writing at all? That's what I thought.
Rules For Using Commas:
a) Commas should be used when addressing someone or some thing:
b) Commas should be used to separate things in a list.
Note: There appears to be some debate now over whether or not it's necessary to use a comma before the "and" in a sentence like the one above. I learned to do it that way in grade school and that is what I am used to, though it's apparently now acceptable to leave that comma out. Use your own discretion on that, as long as your discretion isn't retarded.
c) Commas should be used to separate compound sentences.
d) Commas should be used to separate off bits of the sentence that don’t really need to be there. The technical terms for those bits are "parenthetic phrases" and "introductory phrases."
I realize that sounds a little ambiguous, but let's break it down using an example, shall we? In fact, I can use that previous sentence to break it down.
The bit that doesn't really need to be there and is consequently preceded by a comma is the "shall we?" bit. If you removed that part of the sentence, it would not change the sentence's meaning in any way. So, if you find yourself writing a sentence and aren't sure whether or not something should be partitioned off with commas, just try taking that bit out. If the sentence still makes sense without that part, then you can put the commas in there. If the sentence becomes incoherent, those words are necessary and probably shouldn't have commas.
WARNING: Just because you take a natural pause when reading or saying something does NOT necessarily mean a comma should go in that spot. Follow the rules to decide whether or not a comma should live there.
WARNING, THE SEQUEL: Commas belong inside the quotation marks. An exception to the quotation marks rule is if the quotation comes at the end of the sentence, as in:
Notice that the comma is outside of the quotation marks in that instance. Also note that the period goes inside the quotation marks.
Another exception is if the quotation ends in a query mark or an exclamation point, as in:
"Are you insane?" she asked.
8.) Don't say "but yet." Instead, use "and yet." I don't really have the patience to explain why. Just don't do it. Thanks.
9.) However painful this may be for you to hear, "alot" isn't a word. The correct term is "a lot." See the space in there between the "a" and the "lot"? Learn the space, use the space, love the space. The space is your friend. If you don't believe me, click here. That's right. There's one dictionary entry for "alot" and it's a motherfucking acronym. I win.
Even though I just used the dictionary to prove a point, I am going to be a big hypocrite now and say something else.
10.) "Irregardless" may now be in the dictionary, but I don't care. It sounds stupid and I say you're not allowed to use it. The word "crunk" is probably going to end up in the dictionary, too, at some point, but that doesn't make it any less ridiculous-sounding.
Check the dictionary entry for "irregardless," since one of the usage notes includes the lovely phrase "logical absurdity" and makes me happy.
Ditto for "alright." Use "all right." "Alright" is non-standard and it's silly. Stop it at once.
11.) When using "affect" and "effect," you only need to remember one thing. To affect something is to change it in some way. The effect is the result of that change. Now, isn't that easy?
12.) Stop using "would of." It's "would have." "Of" is a preposition and prepositions do not go with verbs like that.
13.) Don't use "supposingly" or "supposably." It's "supposedly."
14.) Quit screwing apostrophes over. What did they do to you, anyway? Why must you harass them and make them do things they aren't meant to do?
Do not use apostrophes to pluralize a noun. Most nouns only need the addition of an "s" to make them plural. Some nouns need "es." Then you have the freaky nouns like "mouse," which turns into "mice" when pluralized. That's all.
No apostrophe is necessary to make a noun plural, so leave the damned apostrophes alone.
Apostrophes were made to do three things and three things only.
a) To form a contraction.
b) To form a possessive.
c) To pluralize lowercase letters.
That is it.
Please note that the last one there refers to lowercase letters, not capital letters. Lowercase letters. If I see one more person write "CD's" to talk about his vast music collection or "DVD's" to talk about his shelf full of movies, I am going to find the nearest clocktower and start blasting away. Just sayin.'
NOTE: Using the apostrophe to replace the "g" in "saying" counts as a contraction. Aren't we all getting more and more clever by the second?
15.) "Literally" should not be used in place of "figuratively." I realize that common usage has people using "literally" left and right when they really mean "figuratively," but it drives me crazy and it's incorrect and if you don't stop it right now, someone is likely to get hurt. I won't be held accountable for my actions. I mean it.
Listen: "Literally" literally means "not figuratively." See what I did there? Using "literally" correctly in that sentence? Aren't I so cute?
You should not say something like, "I was laughing so hard, my head literally fell off." Your head did NOT "literally fall off." If it did, you wouldn't be able to say that to me, as your head would actually be somewhere on the floor and perhaps rolling down the hall. Maybe your head figuratively fell off, but I can assure you that it did not literally fall off, unless you happen to be some sort of freak of nature whose head can be detached at will and still retain the power of speech. Are we understood? Good.
Oh, and now I have to add Number 16.
16.) Mixing up "whose" and "who's" is annoying, so knock it off, damn you all.
"Whose" denotes possession.
"Who's" is a contraction for "who is."
Well, now. I'm glad we got all of that cleared up. I feel so much better. Don't you? Now you have no more excuses for screwing any of those things up and you are instantly a better writer than you were ten minutes ago and that makes you more attractive, consequently dramatically upping your odds of getting laid. I don't know about you, but good grammar really turns my crank. It is no coincidence that EB has impeccable sentence structure, after all.
Christ, I really should be famous by now, what with all my thought-provoking sentiments and helpful guides for living. Someone get me on TV right away! I have a world to change - one tiny-brained, malleable mouth-breather at a time!
Your Friendly Neighborhood Spelling and Grammar Nazi