Dear Rudest Piece of Crap in the Entire Universe;
The risk of throwing parties is that people like you show up. It's the liability when living in an awesome house that is perfect for parties - with a big shindig, the random dregs of society filter in from the streets. People steal, they have sex in bathrooms, they eat your breakfast food, costume-less assholes no one knows attempt to sexually torment women. It sucks, but it happens. There's always a few of you to ruin an otherwise really fun night.
Let's get one thing straight. If I was around when you grabbed my partner-in-crime's breasts and said one of the stupidest things known to fucking mankind, I would have hit you and you would have deserved it. Well, truthfully probably just caused a scene verbally, because I don't know how to throw a decent punch.
And because you were a woman, it makes the whole thing ... maybe less ominous? But only maybe. And certainly more more infuriating. Perhaps you thought you were being "wacky drunk girl." Instead, what you were being was a total fucking nightmare of a human being. So, good job on being a sexual predator.
I don't know who you are. I don't know what you were dressed as, because she wouldn't rat you out (what an unbelievably kind gesture, consider it Halloween charity) which is a shame because I would love to share a few of my choice thoughts. You epically suck! How's that for starts?
Otherwise, a toast to Fickeween once more. I always love a throwdown that has Beam, 95% fantastic people, knitted Brain Slug hats, and polite and orderly lines for the bathroom.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
grumpy old woman also hates kids on her lawn
I am not alone in the dislike of the encore.
Also, my casual internet polling led me to discover others who dislike the neti pot.
Rejoice, comrades!
Also, my casual internet polling led me to discover others who dislike the neti pot.
Rejoice, comrades!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Fin Fang Foom
Our furnace, which has been apparently operating at about 11% efficiency, crapped out for good last week. It means our house is actually cold instead of just emotionally cold. Fortunately, tradition afforded us a way to get out into the sunshine on a beautiful October Sunday: Del Ray’s annual costume parade!
Two clarifying things about that paragraph:
1. The parade starts at 2pm, about the time when two free-wheeling adults used to wake up on a Sunday in autumn. Those people are dead and their souls stripped like Black Lanterns. They now try to spend the eight hours before the parade wondering how they are supposed to entertain a tiny dragon who refuses to take naps and breathes fire.
2. The term “parade” should be used loosely. Tradition mandates at least one fire truck, a few motorcycle cops and a grand marshal. And these elements pass dutifully in a relatively straight line. Afterwards, however, it becomes impossible to distinguish the participants from the spectators as all panic breaks loose and people run willy-nilly into the street, often in the direction opposite of the official route.
The Del Ray Costume Parade 2009 was very much similar to past parades in that it was extremely awesome to the extreme. It serves several ends but is especially effective at gauging what movie studios and franchises have the best costume marketing teams. This year we’re looking at vampires and werewolves, natch, but extra glittery for some reason. Harry Potter lingers too. And it seems that no one will ever put a proton torpedo into the thermal exhaust port that is the Star Wars cultural empire.
But the biggest gainer this year (besides Max from Where the Wild Things Be Hidin’ At) has to be the costumed super-hero get-up. There’d been plenty of Spider and Super Men in the past, for sure, but this year every other kid was bedecked as an Avenger or Justice Leaguer. I think there was even a Brother Voodoo.
But Winner #1 was this kid who went as your basic Kal-El.
He was bending foam pipe insulation so enthusiastically that he received standing ovations at every block. It was pretty fantastic.
Winner #2 was a costume that I didn’t even notice at the time of the parade. It wasn’t until later that evening when I was looking through the pictures trying to find a Batgirl that I realized what I had.
Some dude actually dressed up as a White House spokesperson. Auburn pride and all.
I know, terrifying.
Two clarifying things about that paragraph:
1. The parade starts at 2pm, about the time when two free-wheeling adults used to wake up on a Sunday in autumn. Those people are dead and their souls stripped like Black Lanterns. They now try to spend the eight hours before the parade wondering how they are supposed to entertain a tiny dragon who refuses to take naps and breathes fire.
2. The term “parade” should be used loosely. Tradition mandates at least one fire truck, a few motorcycle cops and a grand marshal. And these elements pass dutifully in a relatively straight line. Afterwards, however, it becomes impossible to distinguish the participants from the spectators as all panic breaks loose and people run willy-nilly into the street, often in the direction opposite of the official route.
The Del Ray Costume Parade 2009 was very much similar to past parades in that it was extremely awesome to the extreme. It serves several ends but is especially effective at gauging what movie studios and franchises have the best costume marketing teams. This year we’re looking at vampires and werewolves, natch, but extra glittery for some reason. Harry Potter lingers too. And it seems that no one will ever put a proton torpedo into the thermal exhaust port that is the Star Wars cultural empire.
But the biggest gainer this year (besides Max from Where the Wild Things Be Hidin’ At) has to be the costumed super-hero get-up. There’d been plenty of Spider and Super Men in the past, for sure, but this year every other kid was bedecked as an Avenger or Justice Leaguer. I think there was even a Brother Voodoo.
But Winner #1 was this kid who went as your basic Kal-El.
He was bending foam pipe insulation so enthusiastically that he received standing ovations at every block. It was pretty fantastic.
Winner #2 was a costume that I didn’t even notice at the time of the parade. It wasn’t until later that evening when I was looking through the pictures trying to find a Batgirl that I realized what I had.
Some dude actually dressed up as a White House spokesperson. Auburn pride and all.
I know, terrifying.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
GOD I LOVE STANDARDS TOM LEE DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS QUICK FIX THE INTERNET
oh hey look a blog.
So someone help me out here. Why do some websites/blogs/online diaries/journals/tumblahrs/twatters/whathaveyous use the word "next" to go FORWARD in time (newer posts) and some use it to go BACK in time (older posts). Can't this be standardized?
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WORLD NOW I'M FRUSTRATION-CRYING CAUSE I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO READ ABOUT FUNNY LOOKING CATS OR WHAT KANYE IS UP TO.
So someone help me out here. Why do some websites/blogs/online diaries/journals/tumblahrs/twatters/whathaveyous use the word "next" to go FORWARD in time (newer posts) and some use it to go BACK in time (older posts). Can't this be standardized?
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WORLD NOW I'M FRUSTRATION-CRYING CAUSE I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO READ ABOUT FUNNY LOOKING CATS OR WHAT KANYE IS UP TO.
These is an attempt to push the poison ivy one further down the page.
Mark these words. In the next 10 years, Shaggy will have another top ten hit. Not in the next 5 years, though, because that’s obviously too soon. But around 2014 we will collectively realize that we have been without his honeyed voice for too long and somebody will make the effort remedy it.
He has earned that from us.
The end.*
*not the end. Need proof? In Mr Boombastic, he rhymed please, breeze, keys, at ease, please (again) ha-chum sneeze, cheese and peas, all in one verse.
He has earned that from us.
The end.*
*not the end. Need proof? In Mr Boombastic, he rhymed please, breeze, keys, at ease, please (again) ha-chum sneeze, cheese and peas, all in one verse.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Listen, its cause we dont have anything else to write about
When faced with budget shortfalls, it’s the common practice for our backwater governing council to postpone some of the normal county-wide maintenance. They don’t fire 400 teachers like they do in DC or poison all the animals at the nature center like in Arlington. Basically, it means the mayor needs to change his own goddamn desk lamp light bulb for a few weeks.
Most commonly this issue manifests itself when Fairfax County stops recreational field maintenance. When a spring seasons starts, the fields are usually a muddy slough. As the year passes, games are played on a pitch that has literally gone to seed. A kicked ball will roll about 4 feet before getting Velcroed in the long grass. Recently, having absorbed a years’ worth of complaints, the county’s park service decided it would easier to turf most of the fields so they’d never have to pay for another gallon of high-priced Herndon lawn mower gas. Sure, it cost me and your parents who still live in Vienna a few dozen bucks upfront in taxes upfront but that weed whacker string can run substantial coin of the course of a summer. And the games don’t get rained out since Astroturf holds up to hurricane force deluges.
Good right?
Almost.
While the fields are now uniform in speed, dimension and soullessness and require no upkeep, the same cannot be said about the vegetation that grows where the fun ends and the savage land begins. To borrow a phrase, the condition of the over growth is Flintstonian. For the modern tick collector, it’s a pure Eden. Chigger aficionados congregate to add specimens to their collections. And for poison ivy enthusiasts like me it’s a rashy, swollen and histamine-filled trip through the itching glass.
The only bonus is that the soccer kit regulated the effects to the area directly below my shorts and above my socks. But the two inch band circling both knees is incredibly irritated.
------
Speaking of which, I need new pants. But are we really about to do this, The Gap?
I need better access to my knees and if this is for real, then I’m on board.
Most commonly this issue manifests itself when Fairfax County stops recreational field maintenance. When a spring seasons starts, the fields are usually a muddy slough. As the year passes, games are played on a pitch that has literally gone to seed. A kicked ball will roll about 4 feet before getting Velcroed in the long grass. Recently, having absorbed a years’ worth of complaints, the county’s park service decided it would easier to turf most of the fields so they’d never have to pay for another gallon of high-priced Herndon lawn mower gas. Sure, it cost me and your parents who still live in Vienna a few dozen bucks upfront in taxes upfront but that weed whacker string can run substantial coin of the course of a summer. And the games don’t get rained out since Astroturf holds up to hurricane force deluges.
Good right?
Almost.
While the fields are now uniform in speed, dimension and soullessness and require no upkeep, the same cannot be said about the vegetation that grows where the fun ends and the savage land begins. To borrow a phrase, the condition of the over growth is Flintstonian. For the modern tick collector, it’s a pure Eden. Chigger aficionados congregate to add specimens to their collections. And for poison ivy enthusiasts like me it’s a rashy, swollen and histamine-filled trip through the itching glass.
The only bonus is that the soccer kit regulated the effects to the area directly below my shorts and above my socks. But the two inch band circling both knees is incredibly irritated.
------
Speaking of which, I need new pants. But are we really about to do this, The Gap?
I need better access to my knees and if this is for real, then I’m on board.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Triple C
There’s a house in our neighborhood that thinks every day is that special trash day when you’re allowed to throw out huge pieces of garbage like armoires and rickety old Tony Little Gazelle Freestyle Elite workout apparatuses. Its always too much stuff for the garbagemen to take into their truck. So while they might take entire bar with matching stool set they will leave the 30 year old, 400 lbs projection TV set with matching red, green and blue bulbs. The TV will sit there for a few days until it magically disappears on non-trash days, hopefully into the sewer.
Currently there are at least 3 cords of wood and what looks to be an entire deck that’s been ripped of the back of a cheap, Reston townhouse. So, you know, if you want to host a giant bonfire that will crush some drunken Texan college students, I know a good place to start.
Last week, however, someone upped the ante.
It appears that someone is now using the corner as a drug drop point. And not even good drugs but regular drugs that can be used to make your basement explode and secure arrest warrants in 7 mid-Western states. Do people still do meth or try to get meth-like high from decongestants? Isn’t there some new rec drug now that kids can abuse?
I’m not really sure what to do about this. If this is some sort of drug drop, it’s comically inept. At the same time, though, this telephone pole is about 20 yards from a middle school. And now that I’m grown up, the idea of low-level drug dealers in my neighborhood isn’t a fun novelty anymore.
But I’m not narc, man, and I ain’t going to call no cops. So I’ll just assume that the Alexandria police will read this. And if they happen to be near Episcopal and have nothing to do, they might want to look out for this drop area. It’s near the bus stop, across the street from the house with a broken dishwasher, 500 copies of National Geographic wrapped in twine and snowblower with no wheels right there on the curb.
Currently there are at least 3 cords of wood and what looks to be an entire deck that’s been ripped of the back of a cheap, Reston townhouse. So, you know, if you want to host a giant bonfire that will crush some drunken Texan college students, I know a good place to start.
Last week, however, someone upped the ante.
It appears that someone is now using the corner as a drug drop point. And not even good drugs but regular drugs that can be used to make your basement explode and secure arrest warrants in 7 mid-Western states. Do people still do meth or try to get meth-like high from decongestants? Isn’t there some new rec drug now that kids can abuse?
I’m not really sure what to do about this. If this is some sort of drug drop, it’s comically inept. At the same time, though, this telephone pole is about 20 yards from a middle school. And now that I’m grown up, the idea of low-level drug dealers in my neighborhood isn’t a fun novelty anymore.
But I’m not narc, man, and I ain’t going to call no cops. So I’ll just assume that the Alexandria police will read this. And if they happen to be near Episcopal and have nothing to do, they might want to look out for this drop area. It’s near the bus stop, across the street from the house with a broken dishwasher, 500 copies of National Geographic wrapped in twine and snowblower with no wheels right there on the curb.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Go green and gold!
I have this long-winded diatribe written out concerning a guy who approached me at Home Depot yesterday with the ol' "I need gas money to see my dying dad" spiel. It was the details of his story that made me so angry, not the thinly-thinly-thinly veiled panhandling itself. Like, be a better liar. You had a lot of time and people to practice on, so this story should be way better! Don't waste two minutes I that could be better spent contemplating what color stain I'm buying for the front door. (I went with "Jacobean." That's a color????? Apparently.)
So, Dear John, "George Mason student who is trying to get to Raleigh to see his dad who had a heart attack 20 minutes ago and is probably dying and I've asked 30 people here for a favor and none of them speak English but you do and if you could just spot me whatever you can part with I will TOTALLY find you and pay you back I swear, also could you pray for me?": Let's try this story again, shall we? Start from the top before I hand you a fiver.
Anyway. How do you respond in situations like this? I have a list of all the things I could have/should have said. I won't ruin the surprise/your opinion of me by telling you exactly how it ended up.
So, Dear John, "George Mason student who is trying to get to Raleigh to see his dad who had a heart attack 20 minutes ago and is probably dying and I've asked 30 people here for a favor and none of them speak English but you do and if you could just spot me whatever you can part with I will TOTALLY find you and pay you back I swear, also could you pray for me?": Let's try this story again, shall we? Start from the top before I hand you a fiver.
Anyway. How do you respond in situations like this? I have a list of all the things I could have/should have said. I won't ruin the surprise/your opinion of me by telling you exactly how it ended up.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sorry this is so late, I was playing football under the Whitehurst Freeway in the street for 7 straight days
Back in the early 90s, cable TV provided three things well for pre-teen boys.
1. Nickelodeon
2. Scrambled pornography that resulted less in arousal and more in migraines.
3. The first 15 minutes of each pay-per-view movie for that month unscrambled every two hours.
Most of the time, catching 15 minutes of movies like The Fabulous Baker Boys did nothing but cultivate a distaste for piano bars. But some months featured awesome things like Ghostbusters 2 even though nothing good happens for about 30 minutes when they go underground to fight the ghost Metro.
Then there was Roadhouse. I’ve never seen it in its sum but I have watched the first 15 minutes perhaps 300 times. Unlike the toothless rendering I imagine you can see on cable these days, the pay-per-view version that aired in 1989 was shown in its entire R-rated glory. And do you know how the first substantial fight occurred in Roadhouse? It involved boobs.
This is the closest I can find to a transcript. (attitudes = tits, for some reason)
Ever seen a better pair of attitudes?
Fine, ain't they?
I’ll tell you what, for 20 bucks,...you can kiss 'em.
Are you kidding?
Ten a kiss. Here and now.
Go ahead. Do it, go on.
Go on. - Come on. Come on.
Ten a kiss. Go ahead.
Yeah!
Hey, buddy, what are you doin'? Are you gonna kiss 'em or not?
I can't.
What do you mean, you can't?
I ain't got 20 bucks.
Oh, shit. - Fight!
Break it up!
(glass shattering)
You son of a bitch!
Bastard!
Baby!
Havin' us some fun tonight!
I understand if that’s hard to follow. Basically some redneck with a hot girlfriend allows another redneck to fondle her tats with the understanding that he will fork over more money for more access. But the jokes on Redneck #1 because Redneck #2 ain’t got no $20! OH TWIST!
Then there’s a fight, obviously.
I don’t exactly know how old I was in 1989. But it was an age when seeing boobs every two hours was the most important thing in life. My friends and I would stop whatever we were doing that summer, find the TV that was farthest away from our mothers and watch this scene every time it was on.
I have never seen Ghost. I have never seen Dirty Dancing. But I still believe this is the greatest thing Patrick Swayze ever contributed to mankind, ever.
1. Nickelodeon
2. Scrambled pornography that resulted less in arousal and more in migraines.
3. The first 15 minutes of each pay-per-view movie for that month unscrambled every two hours.
Most of the time, catching 15 minutes of movies like The Fabulous Baker Boys did nothing but cultivate a distaste for piano bars. But some months featured awesome things like Ghostbusters 2 even though nothing good happens for about 30 minutes when they go underground to fight the ghost Metro.
Then there was Roadhouse. I’ve never seen it in its sum but I have watched the first 15 minutes perhaps 300 times. Unlike the toothless rendering I imagine you can see on cable these days, the pay-per-view version that aired in 1989 was shown in its entire R-rated glory. And do you know how the first substantial fight occurred in Roadhouse? It involved boobs.
This is the closest I can find to a transcript. (attitudes = tits, for some reason)
Ever seen a better pair of attitudes?
Fine, ain't they?
I’ll tell you what, for 20 bucks,...you can kiss 'em.
Are you kidding?
Ten a kiss. Here and now.
Go ahead. Do it, go on.
Go on. - Come on. Come on.
Ten a kiss. Go ahead.
Yeah!
Hey, buddy, what are you doin'? Are you gonna kiss 'em or not?
I can't.
What do you mean, you can't?
I ain't got 20 bucks.
Oh, shit. - Fight!
Break it up!
(glass shattering)
You son of a bitch!
Bastard!
Baby!
Havin' us some fun tonight!
I understand if that’s hard to follow. Basically some redneck with a hot girlfriend allows another redneck to fondle her tats with the understanding that he will fork over more money for more access. But the jokes on Redneck #1 because Redneck #2 ain’t got no $20! OH TWIST!
Then there’s a fight, obviously.
I don’t exactly know how old I was in 1989. But it was an age when seeing boobs every two hours was the most important thing in life. My friends and I would stop whatever we were doing that summer, find the TV that was farthest away from our mothers and watch this scene every time it was on.
I have never seen Ghost. I have never seen Dirty Dancing. But I still believe this is the greatest thing Patrick Swayze ever contributed to mankind, ever.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Filling your head with lies and your pants with hands
This is how Celebrity Jeopardy ended tonight.*
How is it that one of these people has their own show and the other doesn’t?
Now go watch an old episode of Andy Barker P.I. on Hulu and feel bad about yourself for not watching it when it was on TV. Go on, it has a one-legged Amy Sedaris in it.
*Technically, the one on the left finished final Jeopardy with $2000 since they give celebrities at least $1000 to play with, even if they finish with -$4600.
How is it that one of these people has their own show and the other doesn’t?
Now go watch an old episode of Andy Barker P.I. on Hulu and feel bad about yourself for not watching it when it was on TV. Go on, it has a one-legged Amy Sedaris in it.
*Technically, the one on the left finished final Jeopardy with $2000 since they give celebrities at least $1000 to play with, even if they finish with -$4600.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
This is what Democracy smells like!
Distressing news has been filling my in-box for the past two days. Our two starting flag football offensive linemen have dropped out for the season because they are giant babies. Actually, that’s not true but it’s what I will call them to their faces. The real reason they dropped out is because they are giant fatties.
That is 100% true. But it’s the reason they are offensive lineman. It’s harder for punk-assed GW frat guys to run around these two fatties and sack our quarterback than it is to run around me with my bad knee and soft, excellent hands. However, being that big means your body isn’t always going to do what you want. Especially if what you want is to not blow out your Achilles and go to the emergency room and end up bankrupt because you don’t have insurance.
I don’t want to stray into the health care debate because I don’t understand things like that and stuff. But the real reason our two linemen have dropped out because they have no insurance and don’t want to risk injury in our full contact, no pads league. Unfortunately, it’s a legitimate concern and it puts our ability to repeat as divisional champions at risk.
So I’m starting a movement.
We need Congress to draft bipartisan legislation that will guarantee out nation’s offensive lineman health insurance. Actually, scratch that. We only need wording that pledges coverage for sports related injuries. Treatments for pig flu or monkey pox or whatever that one was you got from eating civets in China are not covered. Nor is anything that would assist in losing weight or encourage healthier eating. The only things to be covered are medical treatments in the emergency room, ice, pain and anti-inflammatory medication, crutches and maybe a soft pillow to prop your leg on to prevent swelling.
So call your Senators and Congresspeoples today. Tell them that only they can save my flag football season. Unless, of course, you live in the District because you don’t have representation and are a giant sucker. And have fun getting your bike stolen for the third time and riding the metro, you train-loving hump.
That is 100% true. But it’s the reason they are offensive lineman. It’s harder for punk-assed GW frat guys to run around these two fatties and sack our quarterback than it is to run around me with my bad knee and soft, excellent hands. However, being that big means your body isn’t always going to do what you want. Especially if what you want is to not blow out your Achilles and go to the emergency room and end up bankrupt because you don’t have insurance.
I don’t want to stray into the health care debate because I don’t understand things like that and stuff. But the real reason our two linemen have dropped out because they have no insurance and don’t want to risk injury in our full contact, no pads league. Unfortunately, it’s a legitimate concern and it puts our ability to repeat as divisional champions at risk.
So I’m starting a movement.
We need Congress to draft bipartisan legislation that will guarantee out nation’s offensive lineman health insurance. Actually, scratch that. We only need wording that pledges coverage for sports related injuries. Treatments for pig flu or monkey pox or whatever that one was you got from eating civets in China are not covered. Nor is anything that would assist in losing weight or encourage healthier eating. The only things to be covered are medical treatments in the emergency room, ice, pain and anti-inflammatory medication, crutches and maybe a soft pillow to prop your leg on to prevent swelling.
So call your Senators and Congresspeoples today. Tell them that only they can save my flag football season. Unless, of course, you live in the District because you don’t have representation and are a giant sucker. And have fun getting your bike stolen for the third time and riding the metro, you train-loving hump.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
and the summer comes undone
august/september accomplishments:
- eaten unidentified parts of a whole suckling pig (it was dark out. brains on toast!)
- used the term "avatar" as a verb
- IM'd with AMattos about "Guiding Light" plotlines (I've never seen this show but it sounds awesome?) Actually most of my summer has been spent coming up with crazy awesome ideas with Amanda. It's amazing we aren't famous/rich/both yet; or quickly becoming less famous/rich because we're blowing our money on cocaine and bentleys. ("15 to 20 cars???? We only need 3 or 4.")
- threatened to create a totally for real food blog called "justmicrowavethatshit dot com"
- watched a lot of "Ghost Hunters" on youtube thanks to a friend's recommendations (it's incredibly stupid awesome)
- drank a LOT of blue moon
- played softball very very poorly; let strangers comfort my offspring as I failed to field grounders
- read a few music websites thinking "who the HELL are these bands?" and then given up completely on identifying any modern music i like. i feel like my mom.
- fantasy plotted the of elaborate homicides of people (old dudes) who have treated me like some sort of 1950s era secretary
- finished Infinite Jest (or will have by tonight)
- Cheap pitchers of beer at the Knights of Columbus pool (important: befriend the Catholics!)
- have read a Curious George book aloud 5600 times & counting.
So I'll cap off a pretty great summer by going to Chicago then going to the beach to watch the sibs gets hitched.
Also, did you hear about Jason Biggs getting attacked by a monkey? I know, right?
- eaten unidentified parts of a whole suckling pig (it was dark out. brains on toast!)
- used the term "avatar" as a verb
- IM'd with AMattos about "Guiding Light" plotlines (I've never seen this show but it sounds awesome?) Actually most of my summer has been spent coming up with crazy awesome ideas with Amanda. It's amazing we aren't famous/rich/both yet; or quickly becoming less famous/rich because we're blowing our money on cocaine and bentleys. ("15 to 20 cars???? We only need 3 or 4.")
- threatened to create a totally for real food blog called "justmicrowavethatshit dot com"
- watched a lot of "Ghost Hunters" on youtube thanks to a friend's recommendations (it's incredibly stupid awesome)
- drank a LOT of blue moon
- played softball very very poorly; let strangers comfort my offspring as I failed to field grounders
- read a few music websites thinking "who the HELL are these bands?" and then given up completely on identifying any modern music i like. i feel like my mom.
- fantasy plotted the of elaborate homicides of people (old dudes) who have treated me like some sort of 1950s era secretary
- finished Infinite Jest (or will have by tonight)
- Cheap pitchers of beer at the Knights of Columbus pool (important: befriend the Catholics!)
- have read a Curious George book aloud 5600 times & counting.
So I'll cap off a pretty great summer by going to Chicago then going to the beach to watch the sibs gets hitched.
Also, did you hear about Jason Biggs getting attacked by a monkey? I know, right?
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The only thing people hate worse than looking at your vacation pictures is being told about your dreams
I don’t really like doing this but I had a dream last night that was so upsetting that I woke up at 5am and couldn’t get back to a sleep state because I refused the potential of revisiting it. I was working for a Chinese local TV station and we had to break into live coverage after Wesley Snipes was killed. Apparently, this was big, breaking news in China and I had to dictate an obit live into the reporter’s ear.
I can’t remember if I’ve ever discussed this here but I few years ago I was hypnotized on stage as part of a comedy routine at the Improv. Among other embarrassing things, I made some incredibly racially insensitive remarks. I think this dream is related.
優秀美國演員 Wesley Snipes 今天死了. Snipes 為他的在展示他的love of Asian culture 和unremarkable martial arts skills 的动作片的角色是最響譽. 他的最著名的影片是 Passenger 57 和 Blade trilogy 為時也擔任主角 Kris Kristofferson 和 Patton Oswalt. 最近， Snipes 與 IRS 衝突，並且他被判了刑對 3 年徒刑，雖然他保持自由，當 the case is being appealed. 他继续行動，但是大多他的影片是 straight to DVD 包括最近 發現的西部 Snipes fighting zombies in Africa. 詞組在美國高中一瞬間成為了普遍的口頭禪 "Always bet on black."
I can’t remember if I’ve ever discussed this here but I few years ago I was hypnotized on stage as part of a comedy routine at the Improv. Among other embarrassing things, I made some incredibly racially insensitive remarks. I think this dream is related.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Or maybe in the car with the windows rolled up?
Imagine you went to a nice, classy New Jersey wedding and they had a college sports-themed ice luge with 6 different kinds of vodka and you eat so many hor d'oeuvres that you split your tuxedo pants while dancing from the zipper all the way to the belt in the back. (Good thing you paid the $1 tuxedo rental fee! Suckers tuxedo rental place!) That would be a fun wedding.
Now imagine that you went to a much less fancier wedding in New Jersey and the most exotic alcohol related stunt was a crappy champagne glass pyramid fountain. But then suddenly you were required to take that fountain to a baseball game! In fact, you have to play in that game! But you must keep the fountain safe or the bride and her mother will get so angry that their combined rage will gain sentience and attack an out-of-the -way Antarctica research facility six days before the next supply cargo plane is scheduled to arrive.
Do you leave it on the sidelines where a foul ball could hit it and knock all the Korbel goodness to the ground? Or with a player on the other team who has little to no champagne glass pyramid fountain tending experience and may resent being asked? Or maybe behind a fence but also next to a hornets’ nest?
Upon further reflection, I still think my decision was the right one - take the fountain out to left field with you. If the ball comes near you – which it will obviously will on the very first pitch – you are in the best place to protect it. You can judge the trajectory better, the speed better and, unless you completely useless outfielder, throw you entire body onto the ground to prevent the ball from rolling into the fountain.
Sure, it may cry some when you leave it to chase a grounder that slips past the shortstop and its mother will furiously shoot daggers with her eyes at you from second base. But that champagne glass pyramid fountain made it home a-okay and slept for 10 hours that night. Just like a baby, in fact. The champagne fountain was a person. A tiny, fragile person.
Now imagine that you went to a much less fancier wedding in New Jersey and the most exotic alcohol related stunt was a crappy champagne glass pyramid fountain. But then suddenly you were required to take that fountain to a baseball game! In fact, you have to play in that game! But you must keep the fountain safe or the bride and her mother will get so angry that their combined rage will gain sentience and attack an out-of-the -way Antarctica research facility six days before the next supply cargo plane is scheduled to arrive.
Do you leave it on the sidelines where a foul ball could hit it and knock all the Korbel goodness to the ground? Or with a player on the other team who has little to no champagne glass pyramid fountain tending experience and may resent being asked? Or maybe behind a fence but also next to a hornets’ nest?
Upon further reflection, I still think my decision was the right one - take the fountain out to left field with you. If the ball comes near you – which it will obviously will on the very first pitch – you are in the best place to protect it. You can judge the trajectory better, the speed better and, unless you completely useless outfielder, throw you entire body onto the ground to prevent the ball from rolling into the fountain.
Sure, it may cry some when you leave it to chase a grounder that slips past the shortstop and its mother will furiously shoot daggers with her eyes at you from second base. But that champagne glass pyramid fountain made it home a-okay and slept for 10 hours that night. Just like a baby, in fact. The champagne fountain was a person. A tiny, fragile person.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Escalators are death traps anyways
See this banged up piece of precision electronics?
Now that my Ipod’s flywheel no longer spins and its insides are filled with saliva and my camera is in 6000 little plastic pieces, this little radio is the most valuable piece of technology I own. To be exact, it’s a Sony SRF-M37V TV/Weather/FM/AM Walkman. It’s small and light weight. It gets great reception. And it’s worth a fortune on the black market
I use the FM function to listen to NPR.
I use the AM function to listen to Nats games.
I’ll use the weather band function to protect myself from rogue Hurricane Danny waves that wash through the Tidal Basin and sweep all softball players out to sea.
The TV function is a non-function since the digital television transition wiped those bits of the spectrum out of the sky and gave them to the NSA so they can weaponize them and read my dog’s thoughts. But it used to be great.
I lost this little radio a few weeks ago and while trying to find a replacement discovered they are no longer produced. No one listens to the radio via a walkman unless they are weirdo nomads. And since this little guy was one of the best made portable radios in the last two decades, it’s highly valued on the Ebays by those same weirdoes. Top dollar, I’m told.
The single negative of this wondrous device is that the clip designed to attach it to my utility belt is inadequate for my active lifestyle. Many an evening finds me chasing the radio over red Metro tiles as it goes in one direction and its lone AAA battery goes in another.
This was the situation I found myself in on Monday night after a brisk jaunt down the Foggy Bottom escalator. The clip again malfunctioned and while the headphones remained in my ears, the radio tumbled down the stairs. I barely saved the battery before it got sucked into the gears. Unfortunately, while bending over to collects the pieces the dangling mini plug end of the headphones got caught in the grate and began to grind its way under the escalator. I jerked my head back and the last 3 inches of broke off, rotated under the mechanism and met their demise. The still-in earbuds and wire swung uselessly against my chest.
Damnit.
Ah well. What’s the worst that could happen? I can’t even listen to the radio underground anyway.
Oh.
My bad.
Now that my Ipod’s flywheel no longer spins and its insides are filled with saliva and my camera is in 6000 little plastic pieces, this little radio is the most valuable piece of technology I own. To be exact, it’s a Sony SRF-M37V TV/Weather/FM/AM Walkman. It’s small and light weight. It gets great reception. And it’s worth a fortune on the black market
I use the FM function to listen to NPR.
I use the AM function to listen to Nats games.
I’ll use the weather band function to protect myself from rogue Hurricane Danny waves that wash through the Tidal Basin and sweep all softball players out to sea.
The TV function is a non-function since the digital television transition wiped those bits of the spectrum out of the sky and gave them to the NSA so they can weaponize them and read my dog’s thoughts. But it used to be great.
I lost this little radio a few weeks ago and while trying to find a replacement discovered they are no longer produced. No one listens to the radio via a walkman unless they are weirdo nomads. And since this little guy was one of the best made portable radios in the last two decades, it’s highly valued on the Ebays by those same weirdoes. Top dollar, I’m told.
The single negative of this wondrous device is that the clip designed to attach it to my utility belt is inadequate for my active lifestyle. Many an evening finds me chasing the radio over red Metro tiles as it goes in one direction and its lone AAA battery goes in another.
This was the situation I found myself in on Monday night after a brisk jaunt down the Foggy Bottom escalator. The clip again malfunctioned and while the headphones remained in my ears, the radio tumbled down the stairs. I barely saved the battery before it got sucked into the gears. Unfortunately, while bending over to collects the pieces the dangling mini plug end of the headphones got caught in the grate and began to grind its way under the escalator. I jerked my head back and the last 3 inches of broke off, rotated under the mechanism and met their demise. The still-in earbuds and wire swung uselessly against my chest.
Damnit.
Ah well. What’s the worst that could happen? I can’t even listen to the radio underground anyway.
Oh.
My bad.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Why would a mockingbird even try to eat a piece of cheese?
Before Prince Charming swept her off her tiny, delicate feet, the Governess lived like a terrible hobgoblin under a haunted bridge in Central Arlington. Her roommates were vermin and the building’s square footage would shrink every day as the building gradually collapsed in on itself. The backyard was completely overgrown and sheltered the entire cast of the Secret of NIMH who attacked any passerby with glowing red eyes and terrifying hisses.
As a good faith gesture I bought some rat traps in the hopes of eradicating the collective scourge. I’m not talking about the humane ones rat traps for do-gooders. I bought the ones that’ll snap a finger clean off and cauterize the wound because they generate so much heat.
But it was wildly unsuccessful.
I caught zero rats. The rats in Arlington attend those Northern Virginia high schools that are regularly listed in the US News and World Report list of best in country. One with a GPA of 3.20 wouldn’t crack the top 100 of its class. And the ones that don’t get into college still go on to run successful garage door installation businesses and live in Great Falls.
The other animals are not as smart and chose their own execution over their bucolic, carefree lifestyles. I caught squirrels, chipmunks, mice, voles and mockingbird, for some reason. After the bird, I gave up my campaign to rid the house of these pests and just elected to marry the G and buy her the castle where she still lives to this day. It was cheaper and easier on my conscience. I haven’t dabbled in pest control since.
Recently, I bought some new rats traps and the clerk asked me if I had some sort of infestation. Mindful of my past failures, I truthfully told him no. I bought them for possibly the best reason anyone has ever bought rat traps and I told him this directly.
“They’re for teaching someone a lesson.”
Look out world, I'm coming. Don’t stick your hands into dark places.
As a good faith gesture I bought some rat traps in the hopes of eradicating the collective scourge. I’m not talking about the humane ones rat traps for do-gooders. I bought the ones that’ll snap a finger clean off and cauterize the wound because they generate so much heat.
But it was wildly unsuccessful.
I caught zero rats. The rats in Arlington attend those Northern Virginia high schools that are regularly listed in the US News and World Report list of best in country. One with a GPA of 3.20 wouldn’t crack the top 100 of its class. And the ones that don’t get into college still go on to run successful garage door installation businesses and live in Great Falls.
The other animals are not as smart and chose their own execution over their bucolic, carefree lifestyles. I caught squirrels, chipmunks, mice, voles and mockingbird, for some reason. After the bird, I gave up my campaign to rid the house of these pests and just elected to marry the G and buy her the castle where she still lives to this day. It was cheaper and easier on my conscience. I haven’t dabbled in pest control since.
Recently, I bought some new rats traps and the clerk asked me if I had some sort of infestation. Mindful of my past failures, I truthfully told him no. I bought them for possibly the best reason anyone has ever bought rat traps and I told him this directly.
“They’re for teaching someone a lesson.”
Look out world, I'm coming. Don’t stick your hands into dark places.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
More weird mail
Has anyone else received a letter from someone claiming to be Katie Sackoff from Battlestar Galactica? I got this in the mail a few days ago...
Anyone?
Dear Mr Nabob,
It’s been too long.
By now you’ve probably heard the good news that I’ve been cast in some upcoming episodes of the hit FOX’s series 24. I’m excited to play Dana Walsh, a computer expert at CTU’s New York branch who’s got something sinister to hide. My character will also be romantically involved with the show’s other new cast member, Freddie Prinze Jr! You may remember Freddie from Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed and She’s All That.
But that’s not why I’m writing.
I want to talk to you about the BSG series finale because something needs to be cleared up. There have been petabytes of theories written on the internet about my character. Some speculate that I was a Cylon. Some say I was a ghost or an angel. Or maybe the whole thing was the dream of one of the lesser characters after the initial Cylon attack on Caprica put them in a coma. Hot Dog, for instance, since there was no sign of him once they got to Earth.
Here’s what really happened. If you remember, I was talking to Apollo in the long African grass about our past relationship. Then there was a flashback about a pigeon or some bird trapped in my old apartment or some jazz. I said to him "Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Lee." And then he went on about wanting to climb mountains and explore and when he turned around I was gone.
So what happened? When the final set of DVDs come out, it will include the script from that final episode. But I wanted to give you, one of the shows biggest fans, a preview. It turns out that Starbuck was really tired of Lee. His whole whiny act had become old and I realized I was trapped with him on this new Earth because Anders flew all the spaceships into the sun. So when he turned around, I just laid down in the long grass. He couldn’t see me when he turned back because the grass was so tall. And then I snuck off to try my luck with some cavemen.
Unfortunately, that weak-assed pigeon metaphor put all these crazy theories into people’s heads. How could I be a ghost? Or an angel? Come on. Had there been any precedent for that on the show? Sure, there had been episodes of mass hallucinations and acute delirium but angels? The only real explanation was the Cylon one and even that was a stretch.
So there you have it. That’s what happened. Go on your blog and explain it to the world. I’ve moved on, so should everyone else.
Take care, Nabob, and thanks for watching.
Katee
PS - I’ve included a copy of The Last Sentinel so you can get your Sackhoff fix until the fall when I get my Jack-Bauer on.
Anyone?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
'Course it's boring, that's the point. Write it down.
one of my all-time favorites, Bull Durham, was on some terrible ALL DUDE CABLE WOOOT TESTOSTERONE channel last night. Regardless, I sat my ass on the basement floor and watched the whole thing. This bit of trivia (5th bullet) alone should explain the weird soft spot in my heart for Costner, even after years of suckitude.
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