I know, she just got detained, and has been through hell, and we're all just tired of hearing about her. But this is NOT piling on. This is just to review some real achievements. To give the girl her due.
Her legacy is to have inspired, in the year 2007, some of the greatest comedy ever broadcasted. The "LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!!!!" video is ubiquitous and speaks for itself. Were this all she inspired, it would suffice. But she didn't stop there.
Somewhat overlooked in the shadow of the unfortunate sobbing girlboy was Mz. Spears' inspirational achievement on Saturday Night Live, where she succeeded in using her equally ubiquitous nether regions to inspire a P.E.T.A joke that was actually hilarious. Think of it: either of those things on their own are, in truth, frightening. I'm not sure what kind of genius it takes to live in such a way that the equation: Your Genitalia + Strident Activism = Humour actually works, but she is, in this regard, groundbreaking, if nothing else.
Slightly less known was the sports columnist who advocated that Jamie-Lynn Spears name her fatherless spawn NoChance Spears. That's cruel. But I laughed out loud upon reading it, and I'm still smiling. And I'm not going to make the mistake of giving Jamie-Lynn too much credit here. She was obviously inspired by her elder sister in the way that she conceived (i.e. too young and in public).
Finally, and this one will have flown under the radar, a Sacramento Talk show host referred to our inspiration in a way that absolutely cements her place in the pantheon of whatever she is. In a conversation wherein his radio partner Joe admitted that he would engage in relations with a drunken, propositioning Britney, Jack Armstrong said: " . . . so you would sleep with the zaftig dullard?" Repeat that with me:
ZAFTIG DULLARD.
This might be the greatest turn of phrase in all of 2007 (look them up on dictionary.com if you must.) And we owe it all to Britney. Hence she is awarded the Britney Spears Award for Excellence in Media Inspiration.
She might not win it every year, but it will bear her name in perpetuity.
dimanche, janvier 06, 2008
mardi, janvier 01, 2008
jumble (part first)
* Suddenly I'm convinced that Ceremony (by Joy Division/New Order) is the greatest song in the world. (See also this live version by the older, fatter New Order). Not just because Radiohead covered it on a webcast. And not just because the guy who wrote it killed himself (although, let's face it, that never hurts for sales, right Mr. Drake?) But really, what a great song.
** Where did I become convinced that boiled eggs are healthier than cooked? Can anyone help me substantiate this? Maybe I just want to advocate for all foods that come in their own hygienic biodegradable containers: Bananas, Oranges, and. . . Boiled Eggs? OK, so they're not in exactly the same category, and I can't eat one without a salt shaker in hand (another deficiency), but they're still pretty great. And unlike meat, (wherein something has to die so we can fill poisonous sink holes with pig shite) a cage free egg represents a partnership. I say to the chicken, "I'll give you room and board in exchange for your unfertilized young." (Don't call them chicken abortions, they hate that.) This is a beautiful thing. Hell, I'd take that deal. . . if only I could lay eggs.
*** I've become slightly fanatical about mountain biking; but if you ever see me in spandex, or any kind of official riding attire, shoot my tires. If I keep coming, shoot me.
**** My sister-in-law, who really is wonderful, recently tried to compare the insane crowds crying out for the death of that teacher who let her class name a teddy bear Mohamed to people in Texas who don't mind people on Death Row being executed. She honestly thought we should all make that connection. The fact that an otherwise rational, intelligent person fails to see how sadly specious this argument is constitutes incontrovertible proof that YOUR POINT IS DULLED WHEN YOU USE IT TO GRIND A POLITICAL AX. (If you caught yourself making the same connection as you read it, pull your head out.)
***** The time has come to admit that I am a closet sports junkie. I love ESPN. I treasured the opportunity to watch the New England Patriots make history last Saturday. (If you're not thrilled at the privilege of witnessing perfection in any form, you might be what Wordsworth called "dull of soul.") Yes, I follow sports. I love talking football, or baseball, or basketball, (even NASCAR once! though I'll never admit a vested interest in THAT--I stand by my theory that loyalty to any car or brand of car is one of the primary indications of red-neckitude) with various men in my circle of co-workers and relatives. But my friends do not understand. So I live a double life. Well, it's out in the open now. We'll see who my real friends are.
****** New Year's resolutions are absolutely for chumps. If a goal is important, and you are really dedicated to achieving it, then why wait for, or rely upon, some arbitrary construct to set you off? That being said, whenever January the first rolls around, I inevitably make a goal to talk less in the coming year. I'm tired of the sound of my own voice, and tired of saying stupid superfluous things. I don't know what that might mean as it pertains to blogification. We might never find out: it's a New Year's resolution, and sadly, I probably won't become the first person in history to actually keep one.
** Where did I become convinced that boiled eggs are healthier than cooked? Can anyone help me substantiate this? Maybe I just want to advocate for all foods that come in their own hygienic biodegradable containers: Bananas, Oranges, and. . . Boiled Eggs? OK, so they're not in exactly the same category, and I can't eat one without a salt shaker in hand (another deficiency), but they're still pretty great. And unlike meat, (wherein something has to die so we can fill poisonous sink holes with pig shite) a cage free egg represents a partnership. I say to the chicken, "I'll give you room and board in exchange for your unfertilized young." (Don't call them chicken abortions, they hate that.) This is a beautiful thing. Hell, I'd take that deal. . . if only I could lay eggs.
*** I've become slightly fanatical about mountain biking; but if you ever see me in spandex, or any kind of official riding attire, shoot my tires. If I keep coming, shoot me.
**** My sister-in-law, who really is wonderful, recently tried to compare the insane crowds crying out for the death of that teacher who let her class name a teddy bear Mohamed to people in Texas who don't mind people on Death Row being executed. She honestly thought we should all make that connection. The fact that an otherwise rational, intelligent person fails to see how sadly specious this argument is constitutes incontrovertible proof that YOUR POINT IS DULLED WHEN YOU USE IT TO GRIND A POLITICAL AX. (If you caught yourself making the same connection as you read it, pull your head out.)
***** The time has come to admit that I am a closet sports junkie. I love ESPN. I treasured the opportunity to watch the New England Patriots make history last Saturday. (If you're not thrilled at the privilege of witnessing perfection in any form, you might be what Wordsworth called "dull of soul.") Yes, I follow sports. I love talking football, or baseball, or basketball, (even NASCAR once! though I'll never admit a vested interest in THAT--I stand by my theory that loyalty to any car or brand of car is one of the primary indications of red-neckitude) with various men in my circle of co-workers and relatives. But my friends do not understand. So I live a double life. Well, it's out in the open now. We'll see who my real friends are.
****** New Year's resolutions are absolutely for chumps. If a goal is important, and you are really dedicated to achieving it, then why wait for, or rely upon, some arbitrary construct to set you off? That being said, whenever January the first rolls around, I inevitably make a goal to talk less in the coming year. I'm tired of the sound of my own voice, and tired of saying stupid superfluous things. I don't know what that might mean as it pertains to blogification. We might never find out: it's a New Year's resolution, and sadly, I probably won't become the first person in history to actually keep one.
lundi, décembre 17, 2007
Energy Drink Tutorial
The first idea concerning energy drinks is simple: DON'T. Most of them taste like absolute crap. Furthermore, these "beverages" are for fools who have been bamboozled into thinking that jump-boosting your heart is a legit alternative to getting sufficient rest. It's Christian Crank. It started with little 8 ounce cans of Red Bull in an obscure corner of the corner mart. Now there's an entire section dedicated to an unthinkable variety of 40 ounce monsters (figuratively and nominally). If you are a parent and your kid is drinking these, then I say without reservation that you are either negligent brainless. (Thanks to my son, I've been both).
On the other hand, it might be the best way to get the young started early on their participation in the national caffeine addiction. How else to make sure they make their quota? Seriously, try and tell even ONE coffee cranker that they have a habit. Even the good natured ones will feed you screed. Many will even raise it to the level of a harangue. Most of them--even as they drag their feet and say pitiful things like "don't talk to me, I haven't had my coffee," or even--as I once myself observed--when all work stops at the office until they find an alternative source of artificial pep to replace their broken Mr. Coffee--they consider themselves immune to criticism. They're dedicated to finding "studies" to support the idea of having this one little chemical that you absolutely can't live without. It's the socially acceptable fix.
But this is not the place to combat the caffeine craze. In fact, the above paragraphs only make what I really have to offer here all the more shameful.
See, I work nights for Mental Health (4 nights a week), and teach during the day. Every day. Teaching beginning guitar can be mind-numbing on a full head of steam. Driving a thousand miles a week on the same roads day in and day out on little to no sleep is a recipe for disaster. So I excuse myself in a little energy drink consumption, and have, in fact, become the state's leading connoisseur. I'm the Energy Drink Czar. And for anyone wedged into the same financial corner as myself, I offer the following tutorial.
Once you've broken the prime directive and find yourself needing to consume, the first consideration is, of course, TASTE. Red Bull is a great example of the taste you want to avoid.
The second consideration is, as with so many things in life, SIZE. You want to consume as little as possible. More jolt with less junk. More pep with less poison. These are words for the consumer of energy drinks to live by.
The final consideration is HEALTH. Is the juice in question merely metaphorical? Or might your energy drink actually contain something beneficial to offset the toxins? Let's begin.
On this scale, the greatest energy drink of all time was the BooKoo Mini Shot. It was the cutest little can on the shelf. 5 ounces of fruity refreshment that kicked like a red bull without tasting like the bull's urine. The calories were minimal. And did I mention how cute the can was? You'll notice I'm speaking in the past tense. Alas, the Shot has disappeared. If you work for the company, consider this request official: Reinstate the Shot. If you are a civilian and you happen to see some, buy them all and call me.
Even so, the 5 ounce Shot was lacking in the health rubric. And this brings us to second place. The FRS. The letters stand for Free Radical Scavenger. Essentially a mildly caffeinated vitamin drink, (with more flavanoid antioxidants than 6 helpings of blueberries), the FRS weighs in at 12 ounces, and tastes a little like drinking a vitamin--but with minimal calories it delivers a sustained pep sans crash. It has a variety of flavors, the best of which being the lime and the orange, because the berry flavor is good but has chunks of stuff at the bottom and the peach mango is just plain gross. Even in the presence of the BooKoo, (and despite Lance Armstrong's endorsement) FRS would make a strong case for the top spot.
Next up is the Extreme Energy Shot from the people who brought you Arizona Ice Tea. It is ten percent fruit juice and has a rather pleasant taste. It is one of the few offerings that has stuck with the 8 ounce can. It is listed, however at a mere 99 cents, and even says "trial offer" on the can. It doesn't seem to be restocked once it disappears from the shelves. So I'm stockpiling it. It may be going the way of the BooKoo mini.
In a three-way tie for fourth place is the Sobe Adrenaline Rush, which comes in this high because of the pleasant taste and the 8 oz can, ditto the bizarrely named but grapetastically delicious Hyphy (tastes like grape crush if you can find it) and the elegant Go Girl Glo. I cannot brook the normal Go Girl in the pink can, but the teal tinted Glo is a thing of beauty. A little bulky at 12 ounces, it nevertheless boasts ingredients like Aloe, star fruit, and vitamin E (whence the titular glo[w]). There may even be some pomegranate in it. It is only mildly carbonated, which is very pleasant, and is low in calories. There is an annoying artificial sweetener aftertaste, but that's a small price to pay for a drink that you can hand to a sexy lady and say "Come and glow with me." To be fair, I should mention that I've only been able to find the Glo at one gas station and nowhere else.
And that's it. Everything else has gone the way of the monster and is a 20 to 40 ounce sugary abomination. They taste bad and are bad for you. There is a sub-genre I haven't mentioned (and with good reason): the little energy boosters in vials next to the check out stand. The prime offender is the 5 Hour Energy fraud. Simply a concentrated overdose of B-vitamins and caffeine, you only need to experience the troubling "niacin rush" once to wish to avoid it forever. One of the other vials I tried tasted so bad I actually vomited a little.
So if you absolutely MUST partake, like if it's a choice between crashing your car and sipping a little boosty beverage, then I hope this helps. The best option is (OBVIOUSLY) sufficient rest, abundant exercise, and diligent nutrition.
On the other hand, it might be the best way to get the young started early on their participation in the national caffeine addiction. How else to make sure they make their quota? Seriously, try and tell even ONE coffee cranker that they have a habit. Even the good natured ones will feed you screed. Many will even raise it to the level of a harangue. Most of them--even as they drag their feet and say pitiful things like "don't talk to me, I haven't had my coffee," or even--as I once myself observed--when all work stops at the office until they find an alternative source of artificial pep to replace their broken Mr. Coffee--they consider themselves immune to criticism. They're dedicated to finding "studies" to support the idea of having this one little chemical that you absolutely can't live without. It's the socially acceptable fix.
But this is not the place to combat the caffeine craze. In fact, the above paragraphs only make what I really have to offer here all the more shameful.
See, I work nights for Mental Health (4 nights a week), and teach during the day. Every day. Teaching beginning guitar can be mind-numbing on a full head of steam. Driving a thousand miles a week on the same roads day in and day out on little to no sleep is a recipe for disaster. So I excuse myself in a little energy drink consumption, and have, in fact, become the state's leading connoisseur. I'm the Energy Drink Czar. And for anyone wedged into the same financial corner as myself, I offer the following tutorial.
Once you've broken the prime directive and find yourself needing to consume, the first consideration is, of course, TASTE. Red Bull is a great example of the taste you want to avoid.
The second consideration is, as with so many things in life, SIZE. You want to consume as little as possible. More jolt with less junk. More pep with less poison. These are words for the consumer of energy drinks to live by.
The final consideration is HEALTH. Is the juice in question merely metaphorical? Or might your energy drink actually contain something beneficial to offset the toxins? Let's begin.
On this scale, the greatest energy drink of all time was the BooKoo Mini Shot. It was the cutest little can on the shelf. 5 ounces of fruity refreshment that kicked like a red bull without tasting like the bull's urine. The calories were minimal. And did I mention how cute the can was? You'll notice I'm speaking in the past tense. Alas, the Shot has disappeared. If you work for the company, consider this request official: Reinstate the Shot. If you are a civilian and you happen to see some, buy them all and call me.
Even so, the 5 ounce Shot was lacking in the health rubric. And this brings us to second place. The FRS. The letters stand for Free Radical Scavenger. Essentially a mildly caffeinated vitamin drink, (with more flavanoid antioxidants than 6 helpings of blueberries), the FRS weighs in at 12 ounces, and tastes a little like drinking a vitamin--but with minimal calories it delivers a sustained pep sans crash. It has a variety of flavors, the best of which being the lime and the orange, because the berry flavor is good but has chunks of stuff at the bottom and the peach mango is just plain gross. Even in the presence of the BooKoo, (and despite Lance Armstrong's endorsement) FRS would make a strong case for the top spot.
Next up is the Extreme Energy Shot from the people who brought you Arizona Ice Tea. It is ten percent fruit juice and has a rather pleasant taste. It is one of the few offerings that has stuck with the 8 ounce can. It is listed, however at a mere 99 cents, and even says "trial offer" on the can. It doesn't seem to be restocked once it disappears from the shelves. So I'm stockpiling it. It may be going the way of the BooKoo mini.
In a three-way tie for fourth place is the Sobe Adrenaline Rush, which comes in this high because of the pleasant taste and the 8 oz can, ditto the bizarrely named but grapetastically delicious Hyphy (tastes like grape crush if you can find it) and the elegant Go Girl Glo. I cannot brook the normal Go Girl in the pink can, but the teal tinted Glo is a thing of beauty. A little bulky at 12 ounces, it nevertheless boasts ingredients like Aloe, star fruit, and vitamin E (whence the titular glo[w]). There may even be some pomegranate in it. It is only mildly carbonated, which is very pleasant, and is low in calories. There is an annoying artificial sweetener aftertaste, but that's a small price to pay for a drink that you can hand to a sexy lady and say "Come and glow with me." To be fair, I should mention that I've only been able to find the Glo at one gas station and nowhere else.
And that's it. Everything else has gone the way of the monster and is a 20 to 40 ounce sugary abomination. They taste bad and are bad for you. There is a sub-genre I haven't mentioned (and with good reason): the little energy boosters in vials next to the check out stand. The prime offender is the 5 Hour Energy fraud. Simply a concentrated overdose of B-vitamins and caffeine, you only need to experience the troubling "niacin rush" once to wish to avoid it forever. One of the other vials I tried tasted so bad I actually vomited a little.
So if you absolutely MUST partake, like if it's a choice between crashing your car and sipping a little boosty beverage, then I hope this helps. The best option is (OBVIOUSLY) sufficient rest, abundant exercise, and diligent nutrition.
lundi, décembre 03, 2007
Road Trip (ode to nevada)
It's barren. Bleak even. But the most beautiful stretch of highway in America is I-80 across the top of Nevada. And I'm not kidding.
It goes beyond appreciating the stark, threatening beauty of the desert.
No other highway has exits with names like these. Some simply sound beautiful. Dunphy. Golconda Summit. Beowawe. Elko. Welcome Valley. Its a privilege to speak such beautiful words. They are poetry, in and of themselves. As I drove through the night, and began to feel desperate for sleep, how grateful I was to be able to pull over at an exit called Imlay. No services? Hardly. The name is a lullaby. Imlay. It took the edge off the sound of the 18 wheeler who pulled up behind us. I hoped he also needed sleep, but couldn't convince myself of that fact, and so bid a reluctant farewell. Never trust a long haul trucker after dark in the dark. Not even in Imlay.
I still needed rest. My mind wandered to another category of exits, the ones you might say have Kitcsh. Maybe a little whimsy. Winnemucca. Rye Patch. Beverly Hills. I pulled over at the perfect place: Pumpernickle Valley. It consists of a road in the darkness that wanders away to parts unknown. Not a soul for miles. No light but the stars. It was the best two hour nap I've ever had.
As if Beauty and Whimsy don't suffice, I-80 across Nevada also offers the hard nosed, gritty names that made the west great. Battle Mountain. Silverzone Pass. Iron Point.
In one such place, at 4 in the morning, I met one of the people who live up to such names. The gas station is the exit's only feature. Well, that and a couple of trailers, wherein those who tend the lone gas station most likely spend their off hours. "The sturdy clay of the frontier," I thought. "Salt of the earth. Out here in the hairy belly button of nowhere, eking out a Waldenesque existence in almost total isolation." Couldn't wait to meet them. Upon entering the station, I found no attendant, but was greeted by the theme music of the bleak frontier and its people: Gangstah Rap. I counted 4 "Muthah F*ckin"s and 3 "N*ggaz" before I found the restroom. Washing my hands, I tried to picture the man or woman who must be working there. He was waiting at his station as I walked past the sentinel slots: a short, stocky, white, middle-aged man with graying goatee and a foam and mesh trucker cap. He called me brother. He told me to have a safe trip. I slipped up and said, "You too, man." Even though he was obviously not going anywhere. He jumped on it.
"Hey man, I'm always safe when I'm tripping."
So forget about Route 66. Leave behind the ostentation of California's coastal 101. Take I-80 across Nevada. The faces, and the gorgeous names of placeless places, will fill you with a new sense of America. No matter what time it is.
It goes beyond appreciating the stark, threatening beauty of the desert.
No other highway has exits with names like these. Some simply sound beautiful. Dunphy. Golconda Summit. Beowawe. Elko. Welcome Valley. Its a privilege to speak such beautiful words. They are poetry, in and of themselves. As I drove through the night, and began to feel desperate for sleep, how grateful I was to be able to pull over at an exit called Imlay. No services? Hardly. The name is a lullaby. Imlay. It took the edge off the sound of the 18 wheeler who pulled up behind us. I hoped he also needed sleep, but couldn't convince myself of that fact, and so bid a reluctant farewell. Never trust a long haul trucker after dark in the dark. Not even in Imlay.
I still needed rest. My mind wandered to another category of exits, the ones you might say have Kitcsh. Maybe a little whimsy. Winnemucca. Rye Patch. Beverly Hills. I pulled over at the perfect place: Pumpernickle Valley. It consists of a road in the darkness that wanders away to parts unknown. Not a soul for miles. No light but the stars. It was the best two hour nap I've ever had.
As if Beauty and Whimsy don't suffice, I-80 across Nevada also offers the hard nosed, gritty names that made the west great. Battle Mountain. Silverzone Pass. Iron Point.
In one such place, at 4 in the morning, I met one of the people who live up to such names. The gas station is the exit's only feature. Well, that and a couple of trailers, wherein those who tend the lone gas station most likely spend their off hours. "The sturdy clay of the frontier," I thought. "Salt of the earth. Out here in the hairy belly button of nowhere, eking out a Waldenesque existence in almost total isolation." Couldn't wait to meet them. Upon entering the station, I found no attendant, but was greeted by the theme music of the bleak frontier and its people: Gangstah Rap. I counted 4 "Muthah F*ckin"s and 3 "N*ggaz" before I found the restroom. Washing my hands, I tried to picture the man or woman who must be working there. He was waiting at his station as I walked past the sentinel slots: a short, stocky, white, middle-aged man with graying goatee and a foam and mesh trucker cap. He called me brother. He told me to have a safe trip. I slipped up and said, "You too, man." Even though he was obviously not going anywhere. He jumped on it.
"Hey man, I'm always safe when I'm tripping."
So forget about Route 66. Leave behind the ostentation of California's coastal 101. Take I-80 across Nevada. The faces, and the gorgeous names of placeless places, will fill you with a new sense of America. No matter what time it is.
lundi, novembre 12, 2007
Hey, You!
That's right. I'm talking to you. I'm calling you out. All of you.
To the co-worker who drank my Go-Girl Glo: Yeah, sure. You make fun of me for drinking an energy drink with Aloe Vera and Vitamin E, sweetened with pomegranate and star fruit, and then you drink it behind my back. This is worse than the time you laughed at the idea of girl pants, and then I caught you staring at my sweet cheeks. I don't know which one of you drank it. But you didn't deserve the mildly carbonated lift. And by the way, if you're a man, I'm more man than you in girl pants and a go girl in my hand. If you're a woman, then, well, I'm not more woman than you. That would be biologically impossible. But I am more in touch with my feminine side. Deal with it.
To the guy with the giant hairy butt-crack who crossed the street in front of me with his shirt off whilst I was waiting at a red light: My first thoughts were, PUT A SHIRT ON YOU DISGUSTING WHITE TRASH SLOB! What do you have against clothing? When did it become O.K. to parade around half naked? If a hot girl can't do it--if our society has decided that there is something morally askew about perfect breasts being exposed to the public--then your bloated, hairy belly and shaggy/saggy man boobs constitute a capital offense against our democratic republic. Shirtless people are corrosive to society. Shirtless people whose larded front side prevents their pants, (or acid washed jean shorts) from covering their hairy backside are surely a sign of the apocalypse. YOU WILL PERISH IN FLAME! YOU AND ALL YOUR HIRSUTE ILK!
These were my first thoughts. And I would have made them known to you out loud, except that my second thoughts were: I should get a picture of this! Unfortunately, by the time my inner screed ran its course you were too far away to get a good picture with my phone's crappy camera. How bittersweet for you. Your crack can practically be seen from space, and yet my phone can't capture it. And if you're curious as to why I didn't roll down my window and give you what for, well, just consider yourself lucky that red lights turn green.
The guy who was vacuuming at the car wash just before me: I didn't see you, but the fifty pounds of fetid kitty litter you must have vacuumed into the canister filled my nostrils--and the interior of my car--with an unbearable smell. Thanks for the stink, friend. It makes me wonder. I mean, I don't know what it is about poop, hair, and dander that you "pet" people fancy, but it mystifies me.
P.S. Until you get rid of those cats, we're through. Whoever you are.
I'd go on. But the remainder of my helpful advice is for my family, and can be handled face to face.
To the co-worker who drank my Go-Girl Glo: Yeah, sure. You make fun of me for drinking an energy drink with Aloe Vera and Vitamin E, sweetened with pomegranate and star fruit, and then you drink it behind my back. This is worse than the time you laughed at the idea of girl pants, and then I caught you staring at my sweet cheeks. I don't know which one of you drank it. But you didn't deserve the mildly carbonated lift. And by the way, if you're a man, I'm more man than you in girl pants and a go girl in my hand. If you're a woman, then, well, I'm not more woman than you. That would be biologically impossible. But I am more in touch with my feminine side. Deal with it.
To the guy with the giant hairy butt-crack who crossed the street in front of me with his shirt off whilst I was waiting at a red light: My first thoughts were, PUT A SHIRT ON YOU DISGUSTING WHITE TRASH SLOB! What do you have against clothing? When did it become O.K. to parade around half naked? If a hot girl can't do it--if our society has decided that there is something morally askew about perfect breasts being exposed to the public--then your bloated, hairy belly and shaggy/saggy man boobs constitute a capital offense against our democratic republic. Shirtless people are corrosive to society. Shirtless people whose larded front side prevents their pants, (or acid washed jean shorts) from covering their hairy backside are surely a sign of the apocalypse. YOU WILL PERISH IN FLAME! YOU AND ALL YOUR HIRSUTE ILK!
These were my first thoughts. And I would have made them known to you out loud, except that my second thoughts were: I should get a picture of this! Unfortunately, by the time my inner screed ran its course you were too far away to get a good picture with my phone's crappy camera. How bittersweet for you. Your crack can practically be seen from space, and yet my phone can't capture it. And if you're curious as to why I didn't roll down my window and give you what for, well, just consider yourself lucky that red lights turn green.
The guy who was vacuuming at the car wash just before me: I didn't see you, but the fifty pounds of fetid kitty litter you must have vacuumed into the canister filled my nostrils--and the interior of my car--with an unbearable smell. Thanks for the stink, friend. It makes me wonder. I mean, I don't know what it is about poop, hair, and dander that you "pet" people fancy, but it mystifies me.
P.S. Until you get rid of those cats, we're through. Whoever you are.
I'd go on. But the remainder of my helpful advice is for my family, and can be handled face to face.
mardi, novembre 06, 2007
Last Time (I swear)
I've tried to go clean. I've tried to change the subject. But every time I do, these people keep dragging me back in.
After this, I'll either admit to being a one-note-johnny or move on. I promise.
The Small World ride at Disneyland is closed down. Not to update what is probably the worst attraction at the park. Not to summarily execute all those nightmarish little robots (which were--we can say it now--originally intended to become the first wave of attack in Walt Disney's unholy army of the night. Had he not died tragically early, those adorable little animatronic wonders would at this moment be cracking a whip across your back.)
No, the ride is closed down because the original rinky-dink boats were designed for a different America. Those who imagineered the original lived at a time when the average woman weighed 120 pounds and her male counterpart a trim 175.
Now the boats are bottoming out in the fetid water. And I wish they would have consulted me, because rather than simply post a sign that says "You must weigh less than this to ride this ride," or "this attraction was designed for our less than generously appointed patrons," or "help us avoid malfunction by kindly removing any excess baggage/equipment/body fat," or "if you regularly consume more calories than you burn, you are disgusting and you don't deserve to ride," or even the now classic "NO FAT CHICKS!"--rather than simply asking fatties to ride through It's a Small World alone (as they are destined/doomed to ride through the less popular This is the Real World alone)--rather than post enlarged pictures of the bottomed out boats embarrassingly stopping up progress with the caption "This could happen to you!"--rather than any of these sensible options, Disney has inexplicably chosen to accommodate the obese. They are actually remaking the ride in the image of a gentler, fatter nation.
To which we can only say, in the words of a noted local radio celebrity:
Goodbye, sweet America!
After this, I'll either admit to being a one-note-johnny or move on. I promise.
The Small World ride at Disneyland is closed down. Not to update what is probably the worst attraction at the park. Not to summarily execute all those nightmarish little robots (which were--we can say it now--originally intended to become the first wave of attack in Walt Disney's unholy army of the night. Had he not died tragically early, those adorable little animatronic wonders would at this moment be cracking a whip across your back.)
No, the ride is closed down because the original rinky-dink boats were designed for a different America. Those who imagineered the original lived at a time when the average woman weighed 120 pounds and her male counterpart a trim 175.
Now the boats are bottoming out in the fetid water. And I wish they would have consulted me, because rather than simply post a sign that says "You must weigh less than this to ride this ride," or "this attraction was designed for our less than generously appointed patrons," or "help us avoid malfunction by kindly removing any excess baggage/equipment/body fat," or "if you regularly consume more calories than you burn, you are disgusting and you don't deserve to ride," or even the now classic "NO FAT CHICKS!"--rather than simply asking fatties to ride through It's a Small World alone (as they are destined/doomed to ride through the less popular This is the Real World alone)--rather than post enlarged pictures of the bottomed out boats embarrassingly stopping up progress with the caption "This could happen to you!"--rather than any of these sensible options, Disney has inexplicably chosen to accommodate the obese. They are actually remaking the ride in the image of a gentler, fatter nation.
To which we can only say, in the words of a noted local radio celebrity:
Goodbye, sweet America!
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