Friday, April 29, 2005

Next Blog...

Stealing an idea from SJ, I've decided to check out the Next Blog button at the top of the screen just to see what comes up:

"I'm probably going to have a hard time tonight when I'm allowing God to mold my heart and slap me in the face because reality is trying to give me a wake-up call. I've known that all along. I just hope and pray that I really will get everything out of this weekend that God has called me to."

"I am a woman who acts like a girl, looks like a woman, feels like a child yet thinks like a man. Am I suffering? Not really, it's normal for me, you see, I am D.I.D. Meaning that I have Dissociative Identity Disorder, a multiple, as in Multiple Personalities. Not like that Sybil movie but kind of."

"Finally a policy I can get behind. The Portuguese beermaking industry has hit the streets and handed out flyers at Portuguese gyms describing the wonders of beer as part of a good diet and this humble blogger says that it's about damn time that beer got its rightful place within the food pyramid I mean it helps prevent dementia! "According to them" what more could you want? If you watch the news or if you are watching Bush's news conference "On as I type" A beer might be just the thing to keep your head from exploding so go ahead and drink a tall frosty one to your health."

"Blinded by the Light, Wrapped Up Like a Douche..."

yeah, I know... the lyrics are supposed to be, "wrapped up like a deuce" or some such nonsense. Personally, I think it sounds better (and is SO much more memorable) my way. Of course, "wrapped up like a douche" is so memorable that it blocked out all of the other lyrics to that song. Now if I hear it those are the only words that stick in my head, spinning through the void that used to house my deep and important thoughts.

I was reminded of those same lyrics the other day as I was trying to clean my car.

You see, 3 days ago I spilled about a half-gallon of milk in my car as I was driving my son to daycare. Whatever milk didn't get soaked up as The Man and I frantically blotted the floor with paper towels before we had to rush off to work, was left to simmer all day in the Texas heat. Note: this is a bad, bad, thing. Sour milk turns into the most vile smelling substance known to man. It surpasses baby vomit, brussel-sprout-enhanced diarrhea, and Cousin Zed's body odor as the most deadly aroma ever. EVER. By that evening I wanted to kill myself. I was praying that I didn't get stopped by the police for violating whatever environmental statutes we have left in Texas.

So that night I scrubbed the floorboards of my car with carpet cleaner. That didn't work. Then I tried the "tough" carpet cleaner that said it would take out pet odors and assorted nasty-smelling things - you know the one with the skull and crossbones that has the Poison Control Center number in big red letters? It didn't work either. In fact, I think it just made the sour milk mad. It became incensed that I was trying to obliterate it and fought back with an even more stomache-churning stench.

I left my car windows open all night hoping the smell would dissipate. Or maybe that someone would steal my car and I'd be rid of the devil-stench one way or another. However, much like the Seinfeld episode on the same topic, I had no such luck. My stinky car was still there in the morning. Stink and all.

Finally, I remembered some Hint from Heloise I had read long ago. Vinegar cures everything. If you want to clean your garbage disposal - use vinegar. If you want to clean your carpet - use vinegar! If you want to fight off alien invaders who are trying to enslave humanity - use vinegar! (I'm sure Heloise said that in one of her columns - if she didn't, well, she should have!)

I put some vinegar in a spray bottle with some water and sprayed the crap out of my car. I let it sit in my car over night. Now my car smelled like a douche bag - but at least the sour milk smell was gone! I never thought I'd say this, but I'll take douche bag smell over sour milk any day. 3 days later: the vinegar emerged triumphant!

The sour milk smell was vanquished back to the hell it came from and the vinegar faded away - lifted up to Heaven on little angel wings for its good deed.


Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Movie Review

It's time that I get to what's REALLY important in this blog: Movie Reviews.

Because I strive for triviality and insipidness I won't review "good" movies. Hmmpph! Anyone can do that. I'll only review bad movies. As in "le bad." Really, really, really bad movies. Movies that make you question your very existence while you run around the room tearing your shirt and screaming, "Why God, why!?!?"

Because I am a completely anal-retentive dork I have instituted a number of categories with which to, well, uh...categorize the bad movies. Today's category is: TRILOGIES.

I would start my list with the new Star Wars Trilogy (Phantom Menace, et al) but I'm afraid of George Lucas and his team of attack-lawyers stalking me and slapping me with some ridiculous lawsuit for saying anything mean about his work. So I'll just have to mention it {subliminally}. So if anyone were to Google the phrase {I've farted better movies} or {I can't believe I wasted hours of my life with this donkey-dick-sucking crap} then they might happen to find my blog (or worse) and see said phrase in the same paragraph as the names "George" and "Lucas." By that point if they can't put 2 and 2 together then I can't help them.

Next on the list (or rather "First" because that first paragraph was just an example) is Jurassic Park. The first movie was great. Lawyers getting eaten by dinosaurs! The plot of the second movie (The Lost World), however, had more holes than homecoming week on fraternity row.

I would have loved to have been in the room when the writers were trying to figure out how to make gymnastics a central plot device. I've always thought that there just weren't enough films featuring gymnastics. After Gymkata came out all the gymnasts in the world were probably thinking, "Now's my chance at a lucrative Hollywood career!" Unfortunately, Hollywood let that opportunity go to waste -- until Jurassic Park II! Who would have thought that gymnastics could save you against bloodthirsty velociraptors? (If you're one of the 4 people alive who have actually seen Gymkata then you know that gymnastics will save you from crazy people, but dinosaurs? I don't think so!) I'm sorry, this movie didn't just ask me to suspend disbelief, it bitch-slapped my disbelief until it was nothing more than a terrified, drooling sack of rocks ensconced on the couch consuming large amounts of alcohol in an attempt to dull the pain.

My review of Jurassic Park III will have to wait until tomorrow - off to the dentist now! At least I can console myself with the fact that a visit to the dentist is better than having to watch Jurassic Park II again...

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Fart Nostalgia

Long ago, when I was a starving college student, I shared a house with 3 other people. Two of those people were great - I married one and the other ended up being my bridesmaid. The other one, however... well, where do I start?

For one, Pam was extremely uptight and you could tell she resented the fact that she had to share a house with a bunch of college students. She had graduated and was -ostensibly- in the "real" world (as opposed to our drug- and alcohol-induced technicolor dreamland). Yeah, right. She was "really" fucking poor and couldn't afford a one-bedroom apartment in DC.

Pam also did NOT belong in an urban area such as DC as she was terrified she was going to get attacked by the homeless guys panhandling near the subway entrance. She was also convinced that the above-mentioned homeless guys were actually gang members who were conducting illegal drug operations out of their shopping carts. She deduced this by the fact that one of them had red shoe laces - and we all KNOW that red shoe laces are a sure sign of gang membership, right?

Also, we had to hear about her long-distance boyfriend - Carlos. ALL. THE. FUCKING. TIME. He was from Cuba. He loooooooved her. He worked in New York. He was rich. Blah, blah, blah. I just tuned her out most of the time. It was annoying kind of like a fly that gets caught in the house and flings himself against the windows thousands of times. It became really fucking unbearable, however, when Carlos came to visit for a weekend and ended up staying for 8 (yes, EIGHT!) days because he had the mother-fucking nerve to come down with chicken pox while he was there.

The most annoying things about her though were her noxious farts. She may have acted like her shit didn't stink, but I'm here to tell you she was wrong. So utterly wrong. Yes, I will have my vengeance for all of her inane blatherings about Carlos, and about how she thought the homeless guys in the subway were gang members, and her constant complaints about having to live in a crappy house that was in slightly better condition than the frat house at the end of Animal House. It's never too late for revenge.

I will tell the Internet about how her farts nearly lit the house on fire. How we couldn't venture into the bathroom after she had taken a shit for at least 8 hours. Luckily, we didn't have a gas stove or the combination of the natural gas and the lethal fart-juice ekeing out of butt might have caused an explosion. My other roommate, Staci, said it best when she muttered, "Did the gerbil up her ass finally die of shame and now she's extruding it one gruesome fart at a time?"

Vengeance is mine saith Kim.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Why Must the Chickens Suffer God, Why?

I have so many questions about this story and so little time to ponder them.

1. Why did PETA send these poor Yankees to Texas? Do they hate them? Are they trying to get rid of them? 'Cuz ya know, Brownsville is a border town and it would be SOOOO easy to get "lost" down there and never return.

2. Shouldn't we be targeting that scary mother-fucking Burger King monstrosity instead of the innocent purveyors of poultry over at KFC?

3. One of the protesters was quoted as saying: “We’re out here today to raise awareness about the chickens. All we want them (slaughter houses) to do is gas the chickens instead of killing them.”
So, does that mean we'll be eating LIVE chickens - chickens who are just high from the gas fumes?

Like I said, so many questions, so little time. {sigh}

Friday, April 15, 2005

That Primal Scream You Heard Was Me

This is Day 7 of the Parental Visit. One more day until I can get back to living my regular crap-ass, crackers-on-the-floor, alcohol-guzzling life. Actually, this visit has been pretty uneventful. There was only one occasions when I thought about ripping my fingernails out with the pliers...

The Seatbelt Battle:

Two nights ago as we were leaving the local pizza joint, my mom became confounded by the seatbelts in my car. She couldn't find the clasp. A discussion between her and her husband ensued which I will now quote in full:

Mom: I can't find the thingy.
Mom's Husband (MH): Do you want me to help you?
Mom: No. I can do it myself.
MH: Are you sure? Cuz I'll help you if you want.
Mom: I CAN DO IT. I just need to find it. Where is it?

{At this point The Boy starts to get anxious and starts to wail so from here on out the conversation is punctuated by 2-year-old screams}

MH: Here, let me help you.
Mom: I can do it. It's got to be here. Where is it?
{Insert Screaming}
MH (getting out of the front seat to check on the situation in the back seat) Here, do you want me to do it?
Mom: Fine. Maybe YOU can do it.

{Wailing and lamenting from The Boy continues}

MH: Well, where is it? Are you sitting on it?
Mom: I'm NOT sitting on it. I'll do it. Just go sit down.

{Wailing increases to siren strength}

MH: It's got to be there somewhere. We just have to find it.

{Wailing has reached the 100 decibel mark.
The Office of Homeland Security has been called in.}

Mom: I've been looking! What do you think I've been doing?
MH: Are you sure you can find it? Oh wait... there it is.
Mom: I told you I'd find it. Now go sit down.
MH: You got it? Do you need my help?

{At this point The Man starts to gun the engine in case he needs to outrace the police who are surely on their way by now.}

Mom: Ok. We can go now.

Is it any wonder I'm as fucked up as I am?

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Things I Loathe...

1. The hundreds of inane e-mails I get at work. Work-spam. Every day some perky marketing person spams me with dozens of invitations to events I have zero interest in attending. Exhibit A:
{XXXX} College’s Center for Studies in American Musical Theatre is busy rehearsing for its upcoming spring musical production of “Guys & Dolls!" Come see this classic performed Friday, April xx, at 1:00 pm.

Yes. You read that correctly. All of us involved in higher education should be shot because we even HAVE a "Center for Studies in American Musical Theatre." You mean to tell me there are people - young people - that actually WANT to study musical theatre???? Sure musical theatre is nice -- for me to poop on!

2. People who flick their cigarette butts out of their car windows. I don't care if you smoke or not, but take your nasty, sucked-on, spit-covered, cancer-bits with you. C'mon, your car doesn't come with an ashtray? Ditto for people who open up their car door to spit on the road. I hate traffic as much as the next person, but you don't see me decorating our nation's highways with my phlegm.

3. Daycare centers that have French names. Look, you change shitty diapers all day while trying to keep the little germ-monkeys from eating the cigarette butts some fuck-tard just flung from his car window. Don't get all fancy and delude yourselves into thinking you're a snooty invitation-only society catering to the world's elite. Whether you call your center "Un Petit Academie" or "Ecole Creme de la Creme" it's not going to make zucchini- and pickle-speckled poop smell any sweeter so just get over yourselves. (and don't make me laugh by quoting me a price of $1115 per month to wipe my son's ass 5 days a week)

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

What Others Are Saying About Blogs

I'm always interested in reading articles about blogs, blogging, the blogosphere, etc. This article peaked my interest because he explores some of the issues of why people (like me) blog -- and why we don't blog. Why are some bloggers compelled to explain to their readers why they don't blog every day? Why must we offer excuses for not posting witty (or not-so-witty) remarks each day? Who cares anyway? It's not like we're submitting this for a grade. No one is paying me to write this stuff. Anyway, I can't imagine what sick fuck would pay for this dreck.

Blogging to me is a form of mental masturbation. I get off on it. Notice I didn't say it's like sex. That's because it's all about me. My needs. My words. My bizarre thoughts. Me. Me. Me. Get it? If it were like sex I would ask what you as a reader wanted. I might even make you breakfast or send you off with cab fare after each post - depending on the quality of the post and the comments, of course.

That being said, however, I do like knowing there are people out there who read my posts and care enough to comment. I like to know if what I've written makes you laugh / cry / spew milk through your nose / etc. (You don't have to tell me, however, if my prose bores you to tears because that's a blow to my fragile ego, ok?) Does this make me a closet exhibitionist? I dunno. I'm just asking the questions, I don't know the answers.

What I do know is this beats the hell out of e-mail or text messaging. Don't even get me started on letter-writing or Christmas card-writing - two forms of interpersonal communication that I haven't even attempted in years! As long as Blogger continues to function - at some level - I'll continue to offer up trivialities and trifles.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Euphemisms, anyone?

There are always little ideas and questions roaming around in my head. They occasionally surface and end up here in this blog. Usually though, they pop up when I'm in the middle of a thought and fuck around with my mind until I lose track of whatever it was that I was originally thinking. Like today, for example, when I was walking to lunch. I was thinking about something - God knows what now - and all of a sudden I started wondering: Why is it ok to excuse yourself from a conversation by saying 'Excuse me, I have to go,' but it's not ok to say, 'I really gotta pee. Can you excuse me?' And it's definitely NOT ok to say, 'God, I gotta take a shit. Can we continue this conversation later?'

These are the things that are occupying my little gray cells.

Friday, April 08, 2005

Mental Masturbation for the Cunning Linguist

In one year I can officially start calling myself a Cunning Linguist - something I've been aching to do for most of my adult life. In one year all of the torment and agony of writing papers about morphemes, syntactic structures, and assorted linguistical hoo-hah will be over and I will have that little slip of paper with the words Master of Arts enscribed over my name. HAH! Take that Chomsky - who'll be the bitch then???? Huh?

In the meantime, however, I am still academia's bitch. Paper-writing season is in full-swing. I have exactly 11 days, 5 hours, and 59 minutes to finish my paper or die in the attempt. About 9 days will be spent whining about not having enough time to finish the paper and the remaining 3 days will be spent cursing at the computer as I attempt to vomit all of the knowledge I acquired this semester into a presentable 20 page research paper.

I shall bless you all with a sampling of my linguistic aptitude right now! As you may know there are various ways that new words can gain entry into the English language (unless they're shot at the border by overzealous "Minutemen"). Some are borrowed from other languages, while others are home-grown. By far, my favorite way for new words to enter our language is through blending. Blending, linguistically speaking, occurs when two words are smashed together in such a violent way that some of the extra letters get knocked off. For instance, "smog" is a blend that comes from "smoke" and "fog." Nifty, huh?

Blending also brings us such linguist gems as "cranapple," "urinalysis," and "skort." No other language has so embraced this practice. It makes US special (get it? US = U.S. = United States! Get it now?!? Spiffy, huh?).

So the next time one of those "cheese-eatin' surrender monkeys" goes around talking trash about America, or one of those "tortilla-eatin', soccer-watching mexi-can'ts" starts cheering for Osama you just tell 'em, "Look pal, I don't see you coming up with words like urinalysis or skort! No sir, you have to come crawling back to the good ol' U.S. of A. for words just like you do for Levi's and Nikes!! So suck it!"

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Signs That I'm Getting Old

1. The Spam in my inbox is more likely to be of the "Philips Home Defibrillator - NO RX Required!" type than the "Sexy, Hot S_l_u_t_s!" variety.

2. The 16 year-old behind the register at Starbucks asks, "Can I help you, MA'AM?"

3. I am no longer welcome in the Junior's Department of my local department store and am now advised by the hyper-perky sales associate that I "might find more of what I'm looking for" (read: old-lady clothes that are baggy enough to hide my Depends undergarments) in the Misses Department.

4. Coloring my hair is no longer about deciding which shade of purple or red I want, nor is it an excuse to get together with my girlfriends to bitch about men. It is a necessity and is attended to by a professional.

5. Compound words such as "bar-hopping," and "binge-drinking" are no longer part of my vocabulary. They have been replaced with words like "dependent-care" and "control-top."

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

I'm Illin'

This article certainly made me think. Do we live in a society that is "health-obsessed?" It certainly seems so judging by the growth of "organic" and "low-carb" items in my local grocery store. A few years ago you'd have to travel to a hippie commune to buy soy milk. Now my local Albertson's has a whole isle devoted to the stuff.

Diet has become a bad word. Now people have "programs" they follow to "promote a healthy lifestyle." The other day I had a conversation with my friend in which she uttered the phrase,
"I'm really trying to stick to my program and I think it's working."
Huh? I thought she was talking about a state of "extra-terrestrial" meditation or something suitably new age. I got worried for a minute and asked if she had been offered any Kool-Aid from a nice man named Mr. Jones. DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID! DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID!

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

My Life Is a Bad 80s Song...

"Went to a party last Saturday night
didn't get laid got in a fight, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing
Late for my job and the traffic was bad
Had to borrow 10 bucks from my old man, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing."

...well, the last part is true. The first part about going to a party is more like wishful thinking. I guess 80s hair-metal-rockers probably weren't too interested in writing songs about laundry or how to remove vomit stains from carpet. Although with the amount of vomiting some of them did after long nights of partying maybe they should have included that in their lyrics.

No, if my weekend were turned into a Lita Ford song it would have gone something like this,

"Went to the store on a Saturday night
Didn't have milk or food-that-my-toddler-would-actually-eat-rather-than-
spitting-out-like-a-crazed-llama, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing
Late for work cuz my cat threw up
Had to spot clean the rug and clean up poop, uh-huh
It ain't no big thing."

(Sounds like a gold record to me. Quick! Someone call K-Tel records!)