Young Democrat Alyssa Howald attempts to pluck out John McCain's eyeball during a tour stop in Ohio this weekend.

Happy Halloween

More Lolcats.

60 Seconds

Come to find out, I'm a bad-ass even when it comes to velociraptors.

I could survive for 60 seconds chained to a bunk bed with a velociraptor

And you?

Suck It

Blogs and Web sites I wish I'd thought of first:

Unnecessary Quotation Marks

Passive-Aggressive Notes

Lolcats

Apostrophe Abuse

Best of Craigslist

So suck it, people who thought of them first.

Love,

Dawn

You Can Pick Your Friends...

There are at least 10 good reasons that I am absolutely thrilled, THRILLED I tell you, that John McCain picked Sarah Palin as his running mate. And not a one of them has to do with the fact that she is allegedly in possession of a vagina.

1. His personal involvement in selecting Palin consisted of a single meeting with her. I spent longer vetting exterminators.
   
   
2. Her 17-year-old daughter is preggers! That's right, up the duff, eating for two, knocked up, in a family way. Hee hee. I normally wouldn't find teenage pregnancy so hilarious, but in this case I'll make an exception.
   
   
3. Her future son-in-law (shotgun, anyone?) previously announced on his MySpace page that he doesn't want kids, and on that same page, describes himself as a "f$%#&* redneck."
   
   
4. Before she was an angel sent straight from heaven to be McCain's VP, she was a pork-loving politician, which McCain just hates. The Chicago Tribune reports that McCain's list of "objectionable pork" has, in the past, included several projects in Wasilla, while Palin served as mayor--a $500,000 transportation project, a $1 million emergency communications center, and $450,000 for an agricultural processing facility. Maybe it's just everyone else's pork that's bad?
   
   
5. Also on the God tip, Palin has said that we should be praying the troops sent to Iraq are on a "task from God." She also recommended praying for people to come together on the issue of an apparently controversial gas pipeline. I had no idea God was available for these kinds of requests. God, if you're listening, I'd like to lose 20 lbs. (without doing anything,) and I wouldn't mind a new car either.
   
   
6. There's talk around the watercooler that maybe, just possibly, she got her former brother-in-law fired, along with Alaska's public safety commissioner, who refused to fire her brother-in-law. Or something like that. Either way the Alaska legislature is currently investigating.
   
   
7. As "Sarah the Barracuda" on her high school basketball team, she was also responsible for leading the team prayer.
   
   
8. She got her passport last year.
   
   
9. Despite being someone who purports to value Alaska's natural environment, she's also a big fan of drilling in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge.
   
   
10. While running for governor of Alaska, Palin called for teaching creationism alongside evolution. But not to worry, she hasn't actually advocated for it as governor. No harm, no foul.
    
    
    

Chicken or the Egg?

This weekend, while standing in line at Bloom (a grocery store) I observed a tattoo-covered gentleman standing in front of me waiting rather impatiently, it seemed. To be fair, the intellectually-challenged (my diagnosis) individual in front of us, confounded by the check-out, was trying my patience too.
But then I looked down and noticed that tattoo man was holding two items--a large box of condoms, and a home pregnancy test. I found this perplexing. Bad history with condoms? Girlfriend could already be on stork watch, but if not, it's party time? It left me confused, except about his decision to use self-checkout.
P.S. Yeah, it's been a month or two since I checked in. What are you gonna do about it?

I'm So Embarassed...

This is one of the sweetest, most moving things I've ever seen. It made me cry when I watched it. (And not just the first time.) It's making the rounds on the news and the Internet right now. Watch it, and then tell me animals don't really experience emotions. If you're really still comfortable with that position.

Where Quality is Job One

Again this week, inexplicably, the "Who Wants to Be America's Next Top Pussycat Doll Star" show was on at our house. This is the second Wednesday in a row, mind you, and I'm not sure what that means. Perhaps it means we're retarded. Perhaps it means we're too lazy to change the channel. I was probably getting beaten at Scramble on Facebook and Darren was probably reading articles about blogging about reading articles about blogging about bikes, or looking at pictures of hot girls taken at bike races. But I'm already bored taking about that, so let's move on.

I liked two things about the show. The first, is that nearly every single one of the pussycat model stars spent an inordinate amount of time in her one-on-one interviews talking about how she was just going to have to work even harder to get to the top of the cat doll heap. Several of them proclaimed through their tears that they were going to have to give it more than 110%, or that they were going to have to work at it every day. I enjoyed this, because it seemed to imply that the girls were already giving more than one could reasonably expect from your average hot pants-wearing, heavily made up, marginally competent 19-year-old singer/dancer girl . They're only human, after all. If you prick them, do they not bleed? (Hot pink, I assume, but nonetheless.)

The other thing I appreciated occurred at the end of the show, when the judges were reviewing and rating the evening's performances. Pussycat Doll inventor Robin Anten was discussing the relatively lackluster performance of one of the potential top pussycats when she said, and I quote, "Just okay is not going to cut it for the girls who make it into Girlicious." Which is exactly on point. If we don't demand excellence from the girls who may very well become Girlicious (American's next top possible cat dolls 2.0) from whom do we demand it? The Hooters girls? I think not. Brain surgeons? Maybe, but I guarantee you some of them do not look as good in a bikini and fishnets.

Food for thought. Happy Friday!

The Short, Pudgy Arm of the Law.

I'm not sure how I feel about 11-year-old Landon Wilburn.

On the one hand, been there kid. In the house on the rural road where I used to live, I could often be seen flinging the door open to try and catch a glimpse of the moron speeding up my hill at 50 miles per hour.

On the other hand, he's standing out on the side of the road wearing a bicycle helmet and an orange vest, waving a Hot Wheels toy radar gun around at a bunch of licensed drivers, as if he might have some authority or something. Even though he's 11 YEARS OLD. It's not difficult to imagine that the kid is going to grow up to be kind of a prick, right? Some chop-busting middle manager just waiting for his boss to retire, and making the lives of his employees as miserable as possible in the meantime.

But nevermind that. It's Friday, and the week should end on a good note. By which, in this case, I mean ridiculously cute:

Happy Friday!

My Thumbs, They Are Green

That's right. We're like horticulture savants or something. What makes me say that? A little something I like to describe as the world's most perfect tomato.

Actually, it's not just me. I'm pretty sure anyone who saw it would have described it as the world's most perfect tomato. Exceptionally symmetrical? Check. The perfect size? Of course. Practically oozing fresh, delicious flavor? Duh.

The savant part comes in because we can apparently grow these perfect tomatoes with virtually no effort. We even left the aphids on them. Suck it, Mother Nature!

We moved them into the sun a few times. Added a couple of doses of fertilizer, hosed them down, and voila! I don't know how we do it, but there's no denying it-we are good.

Speaking of fabulous accomplishments, we also own the world's most perfect, delightful, friendly, and obedient puppy, and I figured what better follow up to the world's most perfect tomato?

I just hope you can handle all the perfection. I recommend small doses. Just look at one picture at a time or something, to avoid being overwhelmed.

Beasley thinks about the little people.

Beasley works on ferocious.

Beasley rejects "fetch."

There Was an Old Woman...

For a brief time I was friends with an older woman who, for lack of a strictly scientific description, had several loose screws. There were more than a few signs, but each one in and of itself wasn't particularly disturbing.

One day she bent over to fetch something from her purse, and I noticed a thong rising up several inches above the waistband of her extremely low-rise jeans. I was given momentary pause, during which I thought "Late 40s, right?" The combination struck me as oddly age-inappropriate, but being judgmental is a specialty of mine, so I let it go.

And then I read this article:
"Woman Sues Victoria's Secret Claiming Thong Injury."

And I realized it isn't just age-inappropriate to wear thongs in your later years. It's downright dangerous. And then I felt better because I realized, I wasn't being judgmental when I saw that thong. I was being a concerned friend. Which should come as a surprise to no one.

I Think I'm in Love

This guy is angry:

http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/tor/649999147.html

And I love him.

Feats of Clay

Today, I had a lot of trouble with the news. Some days are worse than others. So many people dead in Myanmar. More victims of the China quake found. The insurgency is gaining strength again in Iraq... None of that really phases me.

But today I dreamed, I mean read, that Clay Aiken is expecting a baby. I know, it stopped me too. It just doesn't compute. It's like reading "Ann Coulter becomes UNICEF Ambassador" or "Study finds fried foods speed metabolism."

But it gets weirder. I mean, for me, it was weird enough because I kind of thought he was gay. Of course, Melissa Etheridge is gay, and she has babies. And lots of gay men have a beard (a female companion who deflects questions about a gay man's sexuality) so maybe Clay has one, she got pregnant so they're conveniently claiming it's his. To be honest, I don't really know a hell of a lot about Clay Aiken and his personal life. And frankly I'd like to keep it that way. But since the headline stopped me in my tracks, I did manage to read the story. Apparently, Clay's best friend is a 50-year-old woman named Jayme Foster, sister of record mogul David Foster. Clay and Jayme live together, and Jayme has been artificially inseminated with Clay's sperm. Yup. You read that right. You don't have to make this stuff up.

And that giant crunching noise you here? My sources tell me it's the universe collapsing on itself.

"Not Everything's Black or White, You Know"

Sometimes people say that to me. Often I consider these people to be stooopid. Because duh, of course not everything is black or white. Only a moron would classify everything as being black or white.

But many things are easy to categorize. Like people. People are easy to categorize. All you have to do is say "There are two kinds of people in this world..." and then complete the sentence with whatever you think is most descriptive. Lately, I've come up with a bunch. And I'm sure now that I'm thinking about it there'll be a lot more, so feel free to check back:

There are two kinds of people in this world-

• The kind who think audience participation is fun, and the kind who wish their chair wasn't bolted to the floor, so they could use it to bash in the heads of the people who like audience participation.
  
  
• The kind of people for whom the yellow light indicates to proceed with caution, and the kind of people who are already think of explanations in case they get pulled over for running what was really barely a red light anyway.
  
  
• The kind of people who stand back and wait for an elevator to empty before entering, and the kind of people who press their noses to the metal, just waiting for the car to arrive at their floor so they can launch themselves in as soon as it opens. Because, of course, there wouldn't be anyone else on it waiting to get off.
  
  
• The kind of people who like to try new foods, and the kind of people who dry-heave at the mere mention of things like curry, or sushi, or, and I can barely type this, tofu.

My four extremely loyal blog readers can feel free to share their own.

With This Ring...

Sophocles said "One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life; That word is love." But things have changed since Sophocles' time, and today sometimes the one word even more freeing than love is bail, as in "your bail has been posted."

Maybe you don't agree, but I suspect dentist David W. Wielechowski, 32, of Shaler, and his newly betrothed, Christa Vattimo, 25, might. On Saturday night, these two lovebirds were arrested at a Holiday Inn in Pittsburgh, after getting into a brawl in a seventh floor hallway and attacking two guests from another wedding party who tried to come to the bride's aid.

The entire story is pure poetry. I can only imagine how much fun it must have been to write. My favorite line: "Wielechowski left alone, sporting a swollen eye, tuxedo pants, a bloody T-shirt and one shoe."

Takeaway? There's no more auspicious place to begin a life together than the Holiday Inn in Pittsburgh, and nothing rounds out the wedding photo album like a thoughtfully composed mug shot.

Read the whole story here: http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/04/29/newlywed.brawl.ap/index.html?iref=mpstoryview
I mean really, you should read it. If nothing else it will make you appreciate your spouse.

It's a Bird

Overheard today while I waited at the social security office in Fairfax:
"Starling is a bird. You live in Sterling. Not Starling. Starling is a bird."
The SSA employee was sharing her knowledge of ornithology with a slightly bemused Indian man, who clearly just wanted to take his paperwork and go.
For some reason, no one else in the waiting area found this as funny as I did. I guess humor really is subjective.

Big Pimpin' (Or "What I Did This Weekend")

I've often heard it said that there's no prettier a place than Virginia in the springtime. Everything's in bloom. There are amazing sights to see, made all the more beautiful by nature's glory. And this weekend I happened to capture one of those amazing sights:


Notice how the flowering tree and bright green grass dramatically set off this pimp's finery. Okay, I'm not sure he's really a pimp. And to be honest, he'd have been quite a site to behold, nature's glory or not.

Of course, all of this may lead you to wonder exactly how I spent my weekend. Alas, nothing quite so interesting as researching a documentary on the world's oldest profession. In fact, it was just another bike race. And not even any place interesting. The building in the upper lefthand corner of the photo is actually my office, around which the Tysons Corner Circuit Race travels. Big points for convenience--it was quite cold here yesterday, and a warm building with internet access and a coffeemaker is not a luxury one enjoys at every bike race. More generally, it's freezing cold or getting sunburned because I forgot sunblock, and seeing how long I can wait to pee, because at literally any bike race, I'd rather pee my pants than set foot in the portable toilet.

I happened to be sitting on the curb, waiting to snap the bikers coming around again, when I heard a strange clomping noise behind me. I looked up and spotted Huggy Bear. In the most heartwarming moment of the day, two small children rounded the corner a few minutes later with their dad, laid eyes on Huggy, and shouted "Santa!" The older one gave him a quick hug around the knees before they continued on up the street.

You see a lot of weird stuff at bike races, at least when you've been to as many as I have. But yesterday definitely made the top of the list. Apparently, though, the guy was just there to watch the race like everyone else.

P.S. Ruth, I mean it. I really do know my sight from my site. Geez. I'm so embarrassed. I may never blog again...

F%$#^*G Girl Scouts!

This is the last day of March, which is delightful news as far as I'm concerned. Why, you might ask? (You know you asked.) Because today is the day the f%$#^*g Girl Scouts will go back to their cheery, helpful holes, and stay there until next March. And they'll take with them the few boxes of overpriced, under-delicious Samoas, and Thin Mints, and Tagalongs that they didn't manage to pawn off on poor unsuspecting grocery store customers, office workers, and teachers the nation over.

Since my current co-workers don't have Girl Scouts of their own, I'm mercifully no longer cornered at my desk with the grease-stained, ink-splotched, barely decipherable order form, listing fellow employees who succumbed to the Cookie Mafia. ("Jesus Bob, four boxes of Samoas?") But just like the real mafia, they find you eventually. In my case, it's because they've staked out every godforsaken grocery store from here to D.C., and a person's got to pick up supplies sooner or later.

The first weekend when I rolled into Trader Joe's and saw the dejected moms standing guard at the cookie table, while a gaggle of nine-year-old girls turned cartwheels and jumped up and down and threw paper cups at each other, I thought about turning around and coming back once it was past their bedtimes. But since TJ's is a 20-minute drive, I steeled myself and stepped out, immediately assaulted by the shrill cries of "GET YOUR GIRL SCOUT COOKIES!!!" and "THIN MINTS, SAMOAS, DO-SI-DOS!" over and over like a broken record. I steeled myself to run the gauntlet, grabbed a cart, and hustled inside. Just like in prison, or if confronted by a vicious dog, the key is to avoid eye contact at all costs.

Of course, it doesn't matter how you did on the way in, how you managed to perfectly time your entrance while two scouts were helping "customers" and the third was busy with back handsprings. If you go in, you're going to have to come out. And even if you succumbed on entry, you're not assured future immunity. After all, how are they supposed to keep track of every moron who gives them $4?

Ironically, it's not even a good deal for the little satan spawn, who only receive 60 cents for every box of cookies they sell. And that rate is only for troops who rack up a certain number of sales. It's a racket, people. Which is all beside the point, because it doesn't really matter to me whether the Girl Scouts are savvy enough to identify a good business proposition. My only desire in this situation is to enter the grocery store in peace. To this end, I propose the Girl Scouts cease their lazy "bake sale" system and go back to the traditional pavement-pounding method of harassing people at their offices and homes. At least that way I can hit the deck when the doorbell rings and wait until they go away.

Until then, a whole blissful 10 Girl Scout-free months. See you next year, Green Demons!

People Who Definitely Totally Suck, Part I

A few days ago, I introduced a new feature here at Yankee Scum: People Who May Not Suck. Yesterday, a quick glance at the headlines indicated that a far more important feature might be: People Who Definitely Totally Suck.

Of course, given my outlook on humanity, one might think this feature could become somewhat overwhelming. You know, as in take over the whole blog and leave no time or space for my insightful commentary and pithy observations. But rest assured, dear reader, that my prudent approach to posting, née laziness, will rule the day. It's a foregone conclusion that posts here, including ones about people who suck, should stay pretty manageable.

But on with the show. How to pick a subject appropriate for the inaugural post about people who suck? The good news--it sort of picked itself. On CNN (sometimes I like my "news" in small, digestible bites--sue me) I read that Wal-Mart had successfully sued a severely brain damaged woman (and former employee) named Deborah Shanks, to recoup $470,000 in medical bills that the company paid after a debilitating car accident left Shanks brain damaged, disabled and penniless.

The problem, apparently, is that Shanks received a settlement from the trucking company at fault in the accident. The balance after legal fees, somewhere around $470,000, was placed into a trust to cover the astronomical costs of her future long-term health care. But according to the fine print of its medical plan, Wal-Mart (which netted $90 BILLION in sales in just the third quarter of 2007) doesn't have to pay health care costs for enrolled employees who've received a legal settlement. The policy apparently doesn't take into account how desparately that money might be needed, but what does Wal-Mart care? It also took them three years to realize that this woman was sitting back enjoying the spoils of Wal-Mart's hard work, but hey, justice doesn't punch a clock, right?

A week after the verdict, the woman's son was killed in Iraq. Her brain damage is so severe that despite being told about his fate, she regularly asks how he is doing. And did I mention that her husband had to divorce her so that she could qualify for Medicaid?

Who says corporate America isn't totally awesome? And congratulations to Wal-Mart CEO Lee Scott, who earns the honor of my first "People Who Definitely Totally Suck" post.

People Who May Not Totally Suck, Part I

Yeah, yeah, I haven't blogged for a while. What are you going to do about it?

And in that same spirit of kindness and generosity, we (that's the royal "we") introduce what could quite possibly become an irregular feature here at Yankee Scum: People Who May Not Totally Suck. Whilst I believe that most people suck practically beyond measure (and am generally proven right time and time again) every once in a while I come across someone I don't wish to run over with my car.

Tonight, while not paying attention to the Evening News with Brian Williams, I nonetheless heard a story about this year's Congressional Medal of Honor recipients. Among those honored was a man named Don Schoendorfer (this guy):


(yeah, I know, it's quite a moustache,) who founded an organization called Free Wheelchair Mission. According to the organization's website: "Twenty seven years ago, the sight of a crippled Moroccan woman crawling across a dirt road planted a seed that germinated in 1999 when Don Schoendorfer...invested his education and professional expertise as a PhD Mechanical Engineer to create a simple, rugged, and inexpensive wheelchair" like this one:


The website gets a little "God's Love"-y from there, but you get the idea. Based on Schoendorfer's pretty incredible concept, the organization has donated just under 300,000 wheelchairs to some of the world's poorest, most disadvantaged people, in 70 countries around the globe. That's just cool.

So, Don Schoendorfer, should I happen upon you crossing the street, trust that I will not swerve to hit you. To the rest of you, don't be so sure.

For more information about the organization, and how the wheelchairs are made and distributed, go to www.freewheelchairmission.org.

Uh, Say What?

Today while I waited in line to order coffee, I couldn't help but
overhear the conversation between the two middle managers behind me. You know the type--Oxford shirts, khakis from Macy's, bluetooth, youth long since slipped through their fingers. One lamented the fact that he's always forgetting his Starbucks gift card. To which the other replied "Hey, don't worry. I got bling." My snort was involuntary, promise. I couldn't help wondering, though, whether the gentleman intended to offer up a giant bejeweled necklace, or similar, in exchange for the two coffee drinks. A furtive glance behind me revealed nothing involving diamond-encrusted initials, or even a giant gold clock.
This is what happens when middle-aged men try to be cool. Money is not bling. Even I know that. And I live in the suburbs. The world's most trusted source of information, Wikipedia, (after Fox News,) says bling is short for "bling bling" (which I wish more people would use, actually, because it's hilarious) and refers to expensive jewelry and other accoutrement. But not cash.
Which just goes to show you that after a certain age, you shouldn't be allowed to watch MTV anymore.

Power-Washing Your Kid: Passing Fad or Good Parenting?

A few days ago I read about a woman in Florida who power-washed
her 2.5-year-old kid because the girl was apparently having a tantrum. The incident was caught on an unpleasant CCTV video and caused at least a small uproar.

What surprised me most about the whole thing is that it's apparently not common practice. Being mercifully sans children, I'd just assumed that at least every third child wailing like a demon at Target was taken outside in short order and given a good dousing. That's what we do with the cat when it's clawing the couch. (With a water pistol, not a car wash hose, but the cat's smaller.) And when dog's are fighting the recommendation is often to throw a bucket of water on them. Seems to me it's a fairly reliable way of discouraging unwanted behavior. Plus, some people just find it refreshing.

That Ain't No Etch-a-Sketch

I find the conversation about whether "Juno" is a really good movie or a pretty bad movie, to be fairly entertaining. I'm open to persuasion one way or the other on the issue, but I particularly enjoyed this guy's take on it:

http://www.vanityfair.com/ontheweb/blogs/daily/2008/01/the-oscars-is-i.html

I want him to be my friend. I just thought you should know, home-skillet.

I Spy a Giant Hunk of Space Junk

Is anyone else excited that the U.S. Government plans to shoot a giant, poisonous super-secret spy satellite out of the sky some time in the next few weeks? That just sounds cool, right?

If we're going to have an ignorant, misguided, willful, arrogant bastard in the White House, the least he can do is make something cool happen. Re-creating the plot from "Armageddon" only with a spy satellite instead of an asteroid (perhaps even cooler) and without Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis, is, well, it's still awesome.

Apparently, the classified plot was hatched through super-secret meetings with super-secret top scientists. Two Navy destroyers are currently positioned at secret locations in the Pacific, north of the equator, awaiting orders. And there are also super-secret emergency response teams (okay, I don't know if they're actually secret) standing by as we speak, in case the plan doesn't work. FEMA has issued guidelines about responding to the emergency, including, helpfully, that one should avoid giving mouth-to-mouth to anyone who has inhaled hydrazine or beryllium. Fair enough. In my case, the government need not worry, because there is very little chance that I am going to purposely lock lips with a complete stranger, regardless of whether they've been poisoned by rocket fuel.

In any event, stay tuned, because this operation may be a huge success, or a monumental failure, and either way it's going to be fun to watch.

I Like Mixed Nuts and I Cannot Lie

On Friday evening, Darren and I took a trip to Sterling, in hopes of ending my hunt for a really, really cheap bedroom chair. In addition to its no doubt many fine qualities, Sterling is host to a Big Lots, and despite Jared's assessment that these stores are fairly umm...gross, I decided we would take our chances.

While we didn't find a chair, we did find loads of interesting items. Probably the most interesting area was the food section. It included things like canned sardines in a variety of sauces--mustard, hot, vomit. Okay, not that last one, but close enough. There was also strange candy, no-name tomato sauce, and Northern Virginia's most extensive selection of potted meat products.

A long time ago, my roommate and I occasionally shopped at a place called Boston Barn, which featured bargain foods of all types. A sort of "scratch and dent" place, but for things you actually ingest. I stopped shopping there the day we were checking out and a woman approached the cashier to explain that she wanted to return her box of cereal, on account of the things moving inside it. So now, while I do like finding things on sale--10 for $10 Diet Pepsi, for example, feels a little like Christmas morning--I'm not a big fan of discount food. I did find one item, however, from which I could not walk away, and that item was Rap Snacks.

Sure, maybe you've had a Rap Snack before. Maybe for the fly circles in which you run, Rap Snacks are old, and tasty, news. But I suspect 34-year-old Caucasian females from the suburbs are decidedly outside of Rap Snacks' target demographic. Nonetheless, as soon as I saw them, I knew I had to buy them. Rap Snacks, which have apparently been around since 1994, feature superstars of the rap world, and each variety includes an inspiring tag line. The variety available at Big Lots was Stat Quo's "Sour Cream & Extra Cheddar." Stat Quo instructs snackers to "Pursue Your College Degree." (So we'll overlook the myriad grammatical errors on the back, including the one which refers to Stat Quo as a former graduate of U of F.)

I planned to leave the bag unopened, as one should with any fine collectible but while I was out running errands on Saturday Darren succumbed to the siren song of the Rap Snack. He reports that Stat Quo's flavor is a delight. Since 80 cents a bag seems like a small price to pay for a piece of history, we'll probably want to restock.

I am currently on the lookout for other Rap Snacks, including Pastor Troy's "Hot Cheezie Popcorn," which reminds youngsters to: "Stop playin' and get serious!" and YoungBloodZ' "Southern Crunk Barbecue" advising snackers to "Get Crunk!" (I have no idea what that means.) With no disrespect intended, I may skip Chopper Young City's "Pork Skins & Cracklin'" despite its inspiring maxim, "Seize Every Opportunity."

As an homage, Jared and I are currently working on a series of Snack Raps, of which this post's title is merely a sneak peek. Expect big things. Maybe even a spot on our own Rap Snack.

I Know It When I See It

Recently I learned that an Abercrombie & Fitch manager in Virginia Beach was arrested for refusing to remove corporate advertising which some customers felt was obscene.
That got me thinking.

Things that Are Obscene at Abercrombie & Fitch:

The Hearing Damage- Thanks to music played so loud that humans over the age of 18 fall to the ground, writhing and shrieking in pain until they are able to cover their ears and crawl back outside.

The Price- As in paying $69.50 for this-


The Shorts- If you're wearing bottoms, you should not need a Brazilian, however, I suspect in these you might-


The Child Exploitation- Because apparently if you call the children "models" instead of "underpaid sales associates" they don't mind spending five to eight hours a day folding polos for minimum wage.

Things at Abercrombie & Fitch on which the Virginia Beach Police and I Part Ways, Obscenity-Wise:

Sure, it's definitely selling ass, or rather, using ass to sell jeans (which I guess you have to be 21 to find compelling, jeans purchase-wise). But if we banned every piece of advertising that used ass to sell something non-ass-related in this country, there'd be a lot less advertising. Ummm...hold on. I think I might actually be on to something...

Of course, now that I'm starting to come around to their way of thinking, the police go and drop the charges. We'll just have to agree to disagree, I suppose.

Whatever

I'll be honest--I don't understand football. I just don't. And it's not that I'm intellectually incapable of comprehending the rules of the game. I see the meatheads who play it (and, let's be fair, the ones who watch it) and I'm pretty sure if they can figure it out, I can. The difference is that I simply can't be bothered. I know some of the terms. I know there are downs and they have to do with yards or something and you only get so many of them before it's the other team's turn. I know what a field goal is, but not when you're allowed to kick one. And I know what a touchdown is. But I'm getting bored just thinking about it.

For the most part, I don't like people whose necks are as wide as their heads. I know it's wrong to pre-judge people based on a physical characteristic--particularly one over which they have no control. It's not as if it's a poorly chosen haircut, or those giant holes some people decide to punch in their ears, and then fill with what appear to be rubber stoppers. But in my experience, the whole neck-to-head ratio thing is generally a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff, if you will.

Additionally, neck-to-head ratio not withstanding, football fans are not typically my people. They're not the kind to laugh at my jokes (which is a sign of something seriously wrong with you, you know, in my opinion), they enjoy things like light beer, or kielbasa, and many are given to excessive displays of exuberance, at volume levels that are only appropriate if you're calling for help from the bottom of a well.

All that having been said, I am from New England, and if a New England team makes it into the final round of any sports competition, I'll pay at least half-assed attention. In this case my reward was watching the Patriots flounder around until Eeyore Manning, oops, I mean Eli Manning, managed to lead, sort of, his team to victory. The lesson in all of this? I was right all along (surprise, surprise): football sucks.

Like the Corners of My Mind

Today, I read that Lindsey Lohan is shopping around her memoirs. And then I squeezed my eyes closed real tight and whispered "Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God."

Doubters will say "But Lindsey's so young. What wisdom could she possibly have to offer?" Whatever. Lindsey's young, sure, but she's lived, man. And you? You've probably never even thrown up in a limo. Or at least not more than once. And I suspect you can probably recall many of the individuals with whom you have had sexual relations over the years. Lindsey often can't remember who she's having sexual relations with while she's having them. And it's those kinds of experiences from which life lessons are born, folks.

Excerpts below. Come, learn with me!

November 1, 1997

God, Dennis Quaid is such a douche. It's like he doesn't even care that I play TWO people in this movie. I'm in every scene, twice. That's like Lindsey Lohan Squared. Does he think it's easy? Whatever. He is so washed up anyway. I told my agent I wasn't even doing this stupid movie unless we could get somebody important, like Robert DeNiro, or Will Smith, to play my dad. But my mom says I have to do it because they put the house up for dad's bail and she's worried he's going to leave. I told my personal assistant that I don't care if he leaves but she said I really do and then I threw the phone at her.

Last night, after we got done shooting my scene, I had the limo driver take me and my friends Ashley and Mary Kate to this bar. I can't remember the name. My mom went too, which is so not cool. But whatever, she just sits at the bar and tries to get free drinks. While we were doing rails in the bathroom this skanky bitch came in and she was all 'Oh my God, Lindsey Lohan!' But I was all 'Get the f#%^ out of here, whore.' Mary Kate says her name is Paris. Which is so retarded, because Paris is, like, a country in England or something. My tutor is going to be so psyched that I remembered that.

Love,
Lindsey

May 16, 2007
God, rehab gets lamer every time. What the hell is there to do in Utah, for f*#&'s sake? Sleep with a Mennonite or whatever? No thanks. Yesterday they tried to serve us water with lunch, but I was all 'Uh, do I look like a goddamned refugee? Who do I have to blow to get some Cristal around here? I will seriously burn this place down.' My therapist says I need to be accountable or something, and that I'm acting out because I'm angry at my mom. But I said I have like an accountant and a personal assistant and two maids, and they can do my accounting or whatever.

Last night Riley and I snuck out and went downtown to break into a drugstore because he thinks I gave him gonorrhea, so he wanted to steal some Bactine or something for it. Which is so ridiculous, because if I had gonorrhea I think my assistant would have told me. And if I really do have it, that skank Wilmer Valderamma gave it to me, for sure. Riley's totally annoying, but I am so not going 90 days without humping anything. He said I'm a firecracker in the sack, but I thought he was going to say firecrotch, and I totally hate that name, so I hit him with a lamp. He actually looks kind of cute when he's passed out.

Serenity now,
Lindsey

Dr. Spock's Got Nothin' on Britney

OMG! Paris Hilton and me are sooo on the same page. Today she said she thinks Britney Spears is "a great mother and a great girl..." Me too! Totally! I mean, she's no Joan Crawford or even Lynne Spears, but she definitely seems like a pretty good mom. People get so uptight when you drive with your infant on your lap once in a while, or if your kid (accidentally, y'all!) falls out of his high chair and fractures his skull a teeny bit. And I think all of us have tripped over our bell bottoms while walking in our platforms. And if I had a baby, I'd probably have been carrying mine when it happened too. Geez. Let she who is without platforms cast the first stone, you know?

As for the picture, well, the jury's still out on second-hand smoke, and it was obviously taken outdoors. Not to mention the cigarette's a solid 18 inches from the kid's face. You can't baby them all the time, or they'll never grow up.

And finally, uh, I think Paris Hilton knows what she's talking about. She isn't just pretty and talented and extremely large of hoof. She's smart and insightful too. If she says Britney Spears is a good mother, I don't think any of us are in a position to say otherwise.

Never Mind the Bollocks

I think each of us remembers the first time, sitting in traffic, when we glimpsed a set of giant testicles hanging from the pick-up truck in front of us. And while we all may have reacted slightly differently, the one thing that probably occurred to all of us is "God, male genitalia is soooooo hilariously unpleasant looking." Which is correct. There's just nothing all that aesthetically pleasing about what amounts to two golf balls swinging in a baggy, hairy sock. Gagging yet?

And that's why I can get behind Virginia Delegate Lionel Spruill, who has proposed a bill to ban the display of human genitalia replicas on motor vehicles in the state. Usually, I'm not the kind of person who tells other people what to do with their genitalia--real or fake. But when you choose to swing them from your bumper, forcing me to look a them, even briefly, I think I want the state to intervene.

Regardless of the proposed legislation, one question remains--what type of person actually wants a big ball sack hanging from their vehicle? Vulgar? Check. Kinda sad? 10-4. Misguidedly enamored of their own goofy genitals? You know it! Plus maybe tobacco-chewing, or most likely to get in a bar fight.

And yes, I know the Virginia legislature probably has more important things to do, but let's face it, we all know they're not going to. So why not do this in the meantime? Plus, at the end of the day, any piece of legislation that spawns headlines like "Possible Testicle Ban In Virginia" can't be all bad, right?

Twisted

Last July Blogger made this guy a blog of note, and deservedly so:

http://www.bentobjects.blogspot.com/

I occasionally remember to check it and each time I do I am totally floored by how cool/funny/innovative/geniusy it is. Today after checking it, I decided that the three or four people who sometimes read my blog should know about it too. Whether or not you think it's cool is probably a good litmus test of whether or not I think you're cool. There are exceptions either way, of course, but I'd say it's a good rule of thumb.

It also reminds me, in some (not completely related) way, to this stuff:

http://www.sloanetanen.com/

or in case you're lazy, it's like this:

Also cool and hilarious.

I'm painfully jealous, since I lack even the most microscopic speck of creativity.

Good thing I've got my crazy smarts, and supermodel good looks to make up for it. :)

There Will Be Blogging

Last weekend, we went to see "There Will Be Blood." Which has already won an assload of awards, and will likely win a whole lot more before all is said and done. Did I like it? Meh. The acting was out-freaking-standing, to be sure. There were some strange choices though--particularly the weird, climactic anti-climax. But what bothered me most about the film itself was the score. It, too, is getting crazy good reviews and critical acclaim, but to all of that I say "whatever." It was weird, and loud, and super dischordant--like a monkey playing a violin and a cello at the same time. And most of all, it seemed like it was meant to accompany a different movie. It would ratchet up to the point where I was certain something pivotal was about to happen, and then...nothing. They'd drink some goat's milk. Or go to sleep. Leaving me confused.

But what we saw is not nearly as important as how we saw it, or how much of it. Our choices were few, and we ended up at Cinema Arts in Fairfax, which, commendably, focuses on small, independent films. Less commendable is seeing only 8/9ths of the movie, because the clever theater designers chose not to bother staggering the non-stadium seats, instead placing each one directly behind the one in front of it so that unless you had the foresight to round up a theater full of midgets, I'm sorry--little people, some of the movie will be the head of the person in front of you.

That would probably be plenty to piss me off. But then there was the forced recline. Generally, when I sit down in the theater, my first job is to distribute the contraband. This is made difficult when your chair and seatback form a 120-degree angle that doesn't respond to even the most valiant efforts to sit upright. Several times I wanted to apologize to the person behind me, above whose lap my head hovered. Later, after the film concluded, I got somewhat carried away while demonstrating to my companions why I thought the seats were problematic, and ended up scaring two old people trying to watch the credits. Oops.

All of this was iced by the theater manager, whose practice it is to come in before the previews to tell you weird stuff you don't really need to know and then walks around topping off people's popcorn (without asking.) I focused on not making eye contact. Which is one of the many good reasons to go to the movies in the first place--no human interaction. It's the same reason I use self-checkout. For my money, it didn't add a whole lot good to the experience.

In summary: "There Will Be Blood"=Meh; Stadium Seating=Woo hoo; Sitting directly behind the person in front of you=Blurgh; Monkeys Playing String Instruments=Cute!; Theater Management in the Style of Chatty Patty=None for me, thanks.

So Long Old Friend

"There is no faith which has never yet been broken, except that of a truly faithful dog."

Attention Northern Virginia Drivers!

This is a traffic stop:
They are generally a routine occurrence, and do not require that you stomp on your brakes. The police officer is typically occupied at the time you observe such an event, and unless you are waving your crack pipe out the window, honking your horn and flipping the officer the bird, smashing into the car in front of you, or generally committing some other significant, attention-getting violation, they do not care what you are doing. Perhaps you find such an event fascinating, on par with a meteor falling from the sky. In this case I suggest getting out more often. It's really not all that interesting. If it's such an unusual site that you must become accustomed to viewing it, try an image search on Google. There are plenty of photographs, like the one above, of people being pulled over. Maybe after viewing enough of them, you will be able to withstand the overwhelming desire to slow down and stare, mouth agape, when a fellow motorist is being stopped, and thus I WILL BE ABLE TO GET TO WORK ON TIME.
Thank you. You may now resume being a moron.

The Show-Me (Your Bible) State

When I was little we traveled to Missouri a few times to visit my father's family in St. Louis, where he was born and raised. I was always excited for these trips...we got to see the Cardinals play, go up in the Arch, buy soft pretzels from street vendors, and eat at White Castle. (What? I wasn't always a vegetarian, and we didn't have White Castle in Vermont.) Plus, there were strange bugs to poke at, kids to play with, and a next door neighbor who always gave us candy (back in the days when the neighbor wasn't just using the candy to lure you inside and eventually boil you in a pot on the stove.)

But today, Missouri isn't quite as alluring as it used to be. I have many kind and lovely relatives who still live there, and I don't blame them, but it seems that Missouri has taken a turn for, well, the evil.

First, there was the story this morning about a town in Missouri that may ban swearing. They also want to ban table-dancing and profane music, in order to keep the town's rowdy bar patrons under control. Right. Because it couldn't be the alcohol or anything. There are few things more sacred to me than my right to swear. It's what separates us from the animals, after all. (Yeah, and the thumb, I know.) Take away the table-dancing if you must. I'll find other ways to express my art. And if profane music includes the likes of, say "My Humps" or something, I guess I can get behind that. But no one gets between me and my colorful vocabulary. No one.

I guess I should have seen it coming. After all, it is the state that unleashed John Ashcroft on an unsuspecting public, and where a middle school attempted to prohibit an eighth-grade girl from participating in her graduation ceremony unless she wore a dress, and additionally, in which the town of Purdy continues to enforce a historical ban on high school dances, possibly inspiring the plot of "Footloose" (and perhaps Kenny Loggins' rousing anthem to "cutting loose, footloose.")
I offer this information only as a warning to anyone who occasionally employs the F-word, enjoys cutting a rug, or in the case of you women-folk, prefers pants. The only thing Missouri would like to "Show" you heathens is the border.

Some things I would have blogged about if it hadn't been a distractingly crappy month (or My Triumphant Return to Blogging)

1. Holiday Crafts Weekend- During which we purchased a tree, hung a stellar, yet classy, display of Christmas lights (man, I love Christmas lights, seriously, of all kinds), and bought cranberries, destined for a craft we never completed. Maybe someday. Darren's exemplary light-hanging work was noticed by the neighbors, who slowly succumbed to the holiday spirit and hung their own lights. Just not as good as ours.

2. Hooters- It all comes down to this: What in God's name are they wearing? And why do people go there? Ever? I began asking questions when I saw the Hooters waitresses featured as ring girls at that fight we attended. The giant, blinding white aerobics sneakers (high tops required, per the official Hooters employee handbook), orange shorts, WITH PANTYHOSE (suntan, also according to the handbook.) A wife-beater with the word "Hooters" emblazoned across the front, as if to caption its contents. I guess if you're going for white trash you might as well go all the way. It's probably also worth mentioning that Hooters has a special "Kids Eat Free" day (Thursdays, in case you want to bring little Johnny or Sally along.) Seems a little outside of their target market, but I suppose you gotta start 'em young.

3. Santa's Nuts- That's as in "the nuts belonging to Santa" as opposed to "Man, Santa is nuts." Why was I thinking about Santa's nuts? Well, who wouldn't? But also, I did read an article about a woman in Connecticut who was arrested for groping Santa Claus at a mall. She was charged with fourth degree sexual assault. And while I do not support sexually assaulting Santa Claus, I have to admit I wondered for a brief moment if, given all of the crying and badgering and maybe even vomiting that your average mall Santa has to endure, if maybe he didn't like it just a little tiny bit. Does that make me a bad person?

As for why it was a really crappy four weeks, I'll just mention a few things: 1. The holidays are emotionally and financially stressful-I am sure you did not know this; 2. Our veterinarian has a solid start on a college fund for the little ones, or took a trip to Acapulco for the holidays, thanks to our eight visits during the latter half of December. Most importantly, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, Weasel is back in force, so all's well that ends well; 3. As a result of 1. and 2. I may now qualify for food stamps. Donations are welcome, but sadly are not tax-deductible.

My New Year's resolution? Occasionally remembering that I have a blog.