Have you heard about the whack-job that made a life size statue of Jesus out of milk chocolate? I’m all for most anything made of chocolate (as you already know), but give me a break. That’s not even the bad part. He conveniently left out the loin cloth that every other depiction of Christ is respectfully adorned with, leaving him completely naked. What possesses people to do this sort of thing, I’ll never know. Short of peeing in the holy water at church or catapulting fetuses from a high rise, that’s probably a sure fire way to go straight to Hell. I’m guessing.
What a fucking loony. Surely this is a man without a momma. If I did some senseless shit like that, my Mom would make me eat all that chocolate in one sitting, saying Hail Mary’s the whole time. I totally get that he’s an artist, and he’s worked with food in the past, and blah blah blah. But dude, don’t act surprised that people want to pull your eyes out and shove them up your ass, so you can see what a shit head you are for pulling something like that during the holiest week of the year. Dumb ass. Can't you just do some enema painting or fling your feces around like everybody else?
Sure, you can say whatever you want because of freedom of speech and all, but I dare you to scream the “N”-word in the faces of some gang bangers. There will be repercussions my friend (assuming you’re white anyway). And don’t insult a Brown man’s momma either, that shit will get you stabbed, even if the crazy bitch did make him eat 200 pounds of chocolate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Monday, April 2, 2007
Cheerio Mate
I was having cheerios for breakfast this morning, and about half way through, I was overcome by a feeling of disgust. Kind of like when you take a girl home after a night of drunken festivities and become sober in the middle of playing hide the sausage, only to realize the travesty you hooked up with (hypothetically speaking of course). I felt like I was eating soggy cardboard.
I have pretty decent breakfast rotation, but after today, I’m done with cheerios. As the Trumpster would so emphatically declare, "You're Fired!" I don’t suppose there’s anything really exciting about them anyway, besides that they help lower your blood pressure or cure cholera, or something like that. Wooptiedoo. They certainly don’t turn your milk into a sugary rainbow of delight, make cool crackling noises, or lacerate your gums. They don’t even stay crunchy for very long, and no amount of blueberries or strawberries will ever take away the fact that they taste like the box they come in (or an old shoe).
The more I think about them, the more I realize how much they really suck. No wonder I’m so grouchy in the morning. I have a big bland boring bowl of odorless, tasteless, insipid, and characterless cereal to look forward to. Cheerios are so inviting, they don’t even have a freakn’ mascot. How do you not have a mascot these days? C’mon, if you want to sell me on something you have to bring out some black vampires, senile pirates, Irish midgets toting marshmallows, or something. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have some oatmeal instead. At least they have some cool Amish guy on their box.
I have pretty decent breakfast rotation, but after today, I’m done with cheerios. As the Trumpster would so emphatically declare, "You're Fired!" I don’t suppose there’s anything really exciting about them anyway, besides that they help lower your blood pressure or cure cholera, or something like that. Wooptiedoo. They certainly don’t turn your milk into a sugary rainbow of delight, make cool crackling noises, or lacerate your gums. They don’t even stay crunchy for very long, and no amount of blueberries or strawberries will ever take away the fact that they taste like the box they come in (or an old shoe).
The more I think about them, the more I realize how much they really suck. No wonder I’m so grouchy in the morning. I have a big bland boring bowl of odorless, tasteless, insipid, and characterless cereal to look forward to. Cheerios are so inviting, they don’t even have a freakn’ mascot. How do you not have a mascot these days? C’mon, if you want to sell me on something you have to bring out some black vampires, senile pirates, Irish midgets toting marshmallows, or something. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have some oatmeal instead. At least they have some cool Amish guy on their box.Thursday, March 29, 2007
Eat Fresh
I went to Subway for a late lunch today and was on the verge of starvation. Standing in the long line while my stomach ate its neighboring organs, I fell into a state of reverie, pondering the more vexing details of life like why this place smells like baked feet and why the hell the chick in front of me decided to walk on her pant legs for three years instead of getting the damn things hemmed. (I’m guessing it had something to do with why she didn’t brush the cluster-fuck atop her head either.) I just love it when girls go out in public dressed like the homeless in flip-flops, but are carrying $700 purses. That shit doesn’t make any sense to me. She saved enough for the purse, but thought it would be cute to dress like a hobo and leave her feet looking like she just walked through the desert with Moses.
My disdain for the fashion debacle in front of me was disrupted by another thought. Why doesn’t subway just have a touch screen monitor to order food? Why must I try to decipher what dialect I’m being spoken in, just to order a damn sandwich? Knowing three languages has really helped in piecing together heavy accents and broken English, but there really is a limit to how much effort I’m willing to contribute to a conversation with someone who mumbles like Rocky Balboa in a foreign language. This is what happens when I wait too long to have lunch and don’t bring any snacks to get me through the day. I end up having a little less patience for things I normally would have considerable tolerance for. Thank god I don’t teach kindergarten. Some kids wouldn’t make it home.
By the time I made it to the register, I was ready to beat my sandwich specialist to death with my sub, and take a pair of scissors to gypsy girl’s pants. When I’m handed my change, I’m presented with another dilemma, do I leave a tip in their little jar? And if I do, how much is appropriate really for losing a year of my life? I’m very cognizant of how much to tip in most situations, but find myself oddly perplexed in this moment. I drop a quarter in the bucket and scuttle off before I accidentally choke someone. This better be a good sandwich. I wonder how to say that in Arabic?
My disdain for the fashion debacle in front of me was disrupted by another thought. Why doesn’t subway just have a touch screen monitor to order food? Why must I try to decipher what dialect I’m being spoken in, just to order a damn sandwich? Knowing three languages has really helped in piecing together heavy accents and broken English, but there really is a limit to how much effort I’m willing to contribute to a conversation with someone who mumbles like Rocky Balboa in a foreign language. This is what happens when I wait too long to have lunch and don’t bring any snacks to get me through the day. I end up having a little less patience for things I normally would have considerable tolerance for. Thank god I don’t teach kindergarten. Some kids wouldn’t make it home.
By the time I made it to the register, I was ready to beat my sandwich specialist to death with my sub, and take a pair of scissors to gypsy girl’s pants. When I’m handed my change, I’m presented with another dilemma, do I leave a tip in their little jar? And if I do, how much is appropriate really for losing a year of my life? I’m very cognizant of how much to tip in most situations, but find myself oddly perplexed in this moment. I drop a quarter in the bucket and scuttle off before I accidentally choke someone. This better be a good sandwich. I wonder how to say that in Arabic?
Monday, March 26, 2007
La Cubana Gringa
As some of you may have gathered, La Cubana Gringa and I are wonderfully close friends, but live on opposite coasts. So, we don’t get to be obnoxious to each other in person nearly as often as we would like, or as often as we did in high school. Needless to say, we make a point to see each other whenever the opportunity arises. Even if that means she’ll call me in the wee hours of the morning, with a layover in my city, needing a place for her and the Brit to crash. Mi casa, Cubana casa.
Lucky for us, LCG has been in town this weekend on another medical research convention/seminar/study group thingy to exchange the newest information about breast cancer as she prepares for her journey into oncological bliss, one breast at a time. (Exactly how I would do it.) We got together on Sunday and hung out, laughing and being obnoxious just like the old days. Except now her boobs were more incredible than ever, thanks of course to Tulip. I complemented her hair, which she now wears much darker and shorter than in our younger years.
We took her great hair and boobs to a place that brews its own beer for dinner and had a few drinks at the bar while we waited for our table. We continued to exchange stories while a couple of softball playing lesbians made out next to us. LCG has lived in California so long, that this went unnoticed. However, the fact that smoking is still allowed in our bars did not.
Before long we were led to our booth and greeted by our waitress, a soft spoken, well fed Indian girl named Janelle. It was my first encounter with either an Indian named Janelle, or one who was over weight. (This restaurant was the kind that served little pastries shaped like breasts adorned with icing instead of bread, which may have been Janelle’s main source of nourishment.)
The rest of the evening went as would be expected when the two of us get together, laughing hysterically, exchanging stories of near-death experiences, and taking obnoxious pictures with aforementioned pastries. We shared our favorite movies, our hatred of the Titanic, and reminisced about High School.
As with her last couple of visits, our time was limited, so we couldn’t spend the rest of the night terrorizing other local establishments and traumatizing children. We’ll have to save that for next time. We ended up calling it a night, as the future of many many breasts would depend on her one day. After we coordinated our next adventure and said our goodbye's, I started my long drive home with a smile. It was really good to see La Cubana again, I miss her already.
Lucky for us, LCG has been in town this weekend on another medical research convention/seminar/study group thingy to exchange the newest information about breast cancer as she prepares for her journey into oncological bliss, one breast at a time. (Exactly how I would do it.) We got together on Sunday and hung out, laughing and being obnoxious just like the old days. Except now her boobs were more incredible than ever, thanks of course to Tulip. I complemented her hair, which she now wears much darker and shorter than in our younger years.
We took her great hair and boobs to a place that brews its own beer for dinner and had a few drinks at the bar while we waited for our table. We continued to exchange stories while a couple of softball playing lesbians made out next to us. LCG has lived in California so long, that this went unnoticed. However, the fact that smoking is still allowed in our bars did not.
Before long we were led to our booth and greeted by our waitress, a soft spoken, well fed Indian girl named Janelle. It was my first encounter with either an Indian named Janelle, or one who was over weight. (This restaurant was the kind that served little pastries shaped like breasts adorned with icing instead of bread, which may have been Janelle’s main source of nourishment.)
The rest of the evening went as would be expected when the two of us get together, laughing hysterically, exchanging stories of near-death experiences, and taking obnoxious pictures with aforementioned pastries. We shared our favorite movies, our hatred of the Titanic, and reminisced about High School.
As with her last couple of visits, our time was limited, so we couldn’t spend the rest of the night terrorizing other local establishments and traumatizing children. We’ll have to save that for next time. We ended up calling it a night, as the future of many many breasts would depend on her one day. After we coordinated our next adventure and said our goodbye's, I started my long drive home with a smile. It was really good to see La Cubana again, I miss her already.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Mea Culpa
Yes, I know that I haven't been writing lately and I really wish I had a good reason like I snorted 8 grams of splenda, or I exchanged livers with a diabetic unicorn. But sadly, the truth is I just haven't been very motivated and the unicorn really isn't diabetic. Okay, so that's not the entire truth either. . . . . the stabbing reality is that my life is not all that exciting so I have to make up shit about unicorns and edible underwear to keep the five of you who read my blog mildly entertained long enough until something worth documenting actually happens. (I'm still waiting for those booby traps to go off.)
One common practice I seem to run into a lot when reading other people’s blogs, is the “apology entry”, also known as the “sorry I haven’t been writing lately because [insert lame excuse here].” I would most certainly conform to such practices if I hadn’t coerced or bribed all of you to visit my blog to begin with. That’s kind of like apologizing to someone before you amputate their foot. So, in lieu of an eloquent, well thought out, meaningfully sincere, and elaborate apology, I’ll just admit to having done quite a bit, but being too lazy to put any of it into words for your entertainment, however mild or short it may be.
Alright fine . . . . . . . . . I’m sorry. My bad.
Stop looking at me like that.
One common practice I seem to run into a lot when reading other people’s blogs, is the “apology entry”, also known as the “sorry I haven’t been writing lately because [insert lame excuse here].” I would most certainly conform to such practices if I hadn’t coerced or bribed all of you to visit my blog to begin with. That’s kind of like apologizing to someone before you amputate their foot. So, in lieu of an eloquent, well thought out, meaningfully sincere, and elaborate apology, I’ll just admit to having done quite a bit, but being too lazy to put any of it into words for your entertainment, however mild or short it may be.
Alright fine . . . . . . . . . I’m sorry. My bad.
Stop looking at me like that.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Five things you didn't ask to know
Apparently I’ve been tagged, and not like some rogue migratory bird suspected of Avian Flu, but tagged in the sense that I’ve been forced against my will to divulge five things about me that you didn’t know and that you didn’t ask about either. I would have preferred the passing of a torch, but I suppose a baton will have to do. . . . .
1) I hate being nominated or called out for public entertainment. I don’t mean like being tagged for a blog or anything, but more like for comic relief at a social gathering. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love to do jokes and impersonations, but there is always some drunken jack ass at a party who wants me to “do that voice” or “tell that joke” for a crowd. Nothing makes me feel more like a fucking ass than people putting me on the spot for their enjoyment. One of the components of humor is spontaneity. You kind of shoot that in the ass the second you herd a group of people together and beg me “to do that one skit where you talk like your Scottish, and you’re drunk and really angry and you rant about golf and then all those other characters come in, that one’s hilarious. Yeah, do that one.” See, now I’m in between a rock and world peace, because if I don’t do the skit or tell the joke, I’m an asshole, or chicken shit, or anything else you won’t remember calling me come tomorrow. And if I do perform said skit, it won’t be nearly as funny now that everyone knows what’s coming. Don’t be a jerk. Let me relax and have a couple of drinks and trust me, the jokes will come. They always come.
2) I’m a hopeless romantic. I can probably thank my plethora of sisters for that. I can already feel the testosterone seeping out of my testicles as I write this, but I enjoy watching romance movies and romantic comedies. I’m a sucker for an epic love story like The Notebook (a must see by the way), or What Dreams May Come, or even Forrest Gump. And just for the record I hated Titanic.
3) I love chocolate. I know this doesn’t help you out much, but we aren’t really here for you now are we? This is about me, so it’s imperative that you know the degree to which I adore chocolate and its many forms. Let’s not misconstrue my affection for chocolate as some weird food fetish, because I definitely don’t see the sense in wasting perfectly good chocolate to rub all over somebody’s crotch. That’s just nasty. Now, whip cream on the other hand . . . . .
4) I also love candles. (I would have paired this one with number 3 and actually have given you 6 things about me, but my OCD forces me to number things methodically and inhibits my otherwise strong urge to associate things that normally wouldn’t go together.) I don’t eat candles, but I love them nonetheless. I try to hide my addiction to candles behind the fact that I’m a massage therapist, but the truth is I would probably still have enough candles to light the Vatican for a week even if I weren’t an MT. I would marry Pier One (or at least whoever makes the candles).
5) I’m practically bi-polar and my inherent desire to stab random people worsens if I don’t eat every two hours. It really sucks I know, not only to suffer from chemical imbalances but to also have the metabolism of a cheetah. I have to constantly shove food in my face, and frankly I’m tired of eating. Being hungry means that I have to find food, which seriously conflicts with my genetic predisposition to be lazy. So, basically I can’t go out in well populated areas for extended periods of time without being happy and well fed because otherwise I’m just a hungry, bi-polar cheetah looking to kill the next idiot who mistakes my furious countenance for one of inviting conversation. If you ever invite me over, and you want me to be funny, have some damn food. For those of you mathematically inclined: food = happy.
Well, there you have it. I’m going to assume that you’re supposed to tag someone else at this point, and I nominate my girl bitty. Thanks to La Cubana Gringa for forcing me against my will, again. But come to think of it, I kinda do like it rough.
1) I hate being nominated or called out for public entertainment. I don’t mean like being tagged for a blog or anything, but more like for comic relief at a social gathering. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love to do jokes and impersonations, but there is always some drunken jack ass at a party who wants me to “do that voice” or “tell that joke” for a crowd. Nothing makes me feel more like a fucking ass than people putting me on the spot for their enjoyment. One of the components of humor is spontaneity. You kind of shoot that in the ass the second you herd a group of people together and beg me “to do that one skit where you talk like your Scottish, and you’re drunk and really angry and you rant about golf and then all those other characters come in, that one’s hilarious. Yeah, do that one.” See, now I’m in between a rock and world peace, because if I don’t do the skit or tell the joke, I’m an asshole, or chicken shit, or anything else you won’t remember calling me come tomorrow. And if I do perform said skit, it won’t be nearly as funny now that everyone knows what’s coming. Don’t be a jerk. Let me relax and have a couple of drinks and trust me, the jokes will come. They always come.
2) I’m a hopeless romantic. I can probably thank my plethora of sisters for that. I can already feel the testosterone seeping out of my testicles as I write this, but I enjoy watching romance movies and romantic comedies. I’m a sucker for an epic love story like The Notebook (a must see by the way), or What Dreams May Come, or even Forrest Gump. And just for the record I hated Titanic.
3) I love chocolate. I know this doesn’t help you out much, but we aren’t really here for you now are we? This is about me, so it’s imperative that you know the degree to which I adore chocolate and its many forms. Let’s not misconstrue my affection for chocolate as some weird food fetish, because I definitely don’t see the sense in wasting perfectly good chocolate to rub all over somebody’s crotch. That’s just nasty. Now, whip cream on the other hand . . . . .
4) I also love candles. (I would have paired this one with number 3 and actually have given you 6 things about me, but my OCD forces me to number things methodically and inhibits my otherwise strong urge to associate things that normally wouldn’t go together.) I don’t eat candles, but I love them nonetheless. I try to hide my addiction to candles behind the fact that I’m a massage therapist, but the truth is I would probably still have enough candles to light the Vatican for a week even if I weren’t an MT. I would marry Pier One (or at least whoever makes the candles).
5) I’m practically bi-polar and my inherent desire to stab random people worsens if I don’t eat every two hours. It really sucks I know, not only to suffer from chemical imbalances but to also have the metabolism of a cheetah. I have to constantly shove food in my face, and frankly I’m tired of eating. Being hungry means that I have to find food, which seriously conflicts with my genetic predisposition to be lazy. So, basically I can’t go out in well populated areas for extended periods of time without being happy and well fed because otherwise I’m just a hungry, bi-polar cheetah looking to kill the next idiot who mistakes my furious countenance for one of inviting conversation. If you ever invite me over, and you want me to be funny, have some damn food. For those of you mathematically inclined: food = happy.
Well, there you have it. I’m going to assume that you’re supposed to tag someone else at this point, and I nominate my girl bitty. Thanks to La Cubana Gringa for forcing me against my will, again. But come to think of it, I kinda do like it rough.
Monday, March 12, 2007
It's not a Tumor
On my way to work this morning, I noticed a man in the car behind me picking his nose. Although I do not find this behavior completely unusual, his blatant disregard of the world around him and his serious dedication to the task at hand did have me amusingly perplexed.It’s one thing to quickly insert the tip of a thumb to scrape the inside of a nostril in hopes of dislodging a “crusty” from disrupting the free flow of air, or even sneaking in a discreet sweep or two of an index finger, (I hear that the pinkie twist is also highly effective), but it’s entirely different to shove a finger well beyond it’s second joint to scratch the inside of your skull as if to remove a brain tumor or extract a tracking device. I’ve often observed children concentrating extremely hard to chase down an elusive booger, but I seriously cannot recall the last time I’ve ever seen anyone pick their nose with such fervor.
I chuckled out loud at how long this man was going at it until he removed his finger to examine the tip, as if he were looking at a contact before putting it back in his eye. He continued this ritual for almost a whole ten minutes, even picking up the intensity when we came to a stop light. I tried to signal to other motorists to check out the show, but people have been well trained to not make eye contact with a brown man flailing his arms in a near by vehicle. Eventually he did stop, but only to put his dirty digit on the steering wheel so he could switch fingers. I’m not sure how much further he had to go, but I certainly hope he finds what he was looking for.
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