I had to go to dinner tonight with a group of people, some of whom I hadn't met before and others for whom I didn't really care prior to this dinner.
Things did not improve tonight.
I was subjected to three of the most pretentious quotes I've ever heard all within a span of a few minutes. My head was spinning trying to remember them just so I could spit them out verbatim. These people are lucky I was only armed with a butter knife and a stomach full of horse tranquilizers.
We were discussing dependence on technology:
You know, technology is supposed to make life easier, but it really only makes it more complex.
Which Dilbert cartoon did you take that from? That one simply annoyed me.
On the same topic:
Computers really are the end of civilization (said seriously).
Oh, you're so above it all, aren't you? You probably only know what a computer is because you heard your neighborhood newsy shouting about it on the street corner.
But this last one sent me over the edge. I mean, I love animals and all, but holy goddamn fucking, cunting shitballs cock twat.
I don't even call them animals. I mean, we're all animals aren't we? I call them my brothers and sisters.
Nothing I say can properly express the rage I felt when I heard this. First of all, no you don't. You don't say that, you fucking idiot. Nobody does. Imagine if you did.
"I can't go hang out tonight, man. My brother's sick and I have to make sure I'm there to feed him."
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"Sure you did. You've met Mister Perriwinkle Starfeathers before."
"Your cat is your brother? Well, it's a shame that I'm no longer friends with you as a result of you being a complete fucking moron."
I know, Internet. It's been a while, but the only thing that keeps me coming back is my hatred for that giant yellow tag. I said "tag," with a T; this is not about you, George Takei.
So, I was doing some shopping for other things at the Target near the Best Buy today, so I figured I'd stop in because, although I hate it, I had read that they were having a sale on assorted comedy DVDs for $5. I went in and picked up two of those (Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Idiocracy if you must know, a-hole) and decided to look around.
There was a display for assorted Adult Swim DVDs on sale, so I figured I'd look since I enjoy it, but always forget to watch it. And when I say display, I mean that they were on the end of the aisle with a sign about two feet wide and one foot high above it advertising this sale. But it's fucking Best Buy, so of course things aren't always that easy. The sign said, "Save $10 on assorted Adult Swim DVDs." So I looked at the price, subtracted $10 and decided I would buy seasons 1 and 2 of Robot Chicken.
And everything turned out just great. No problems at all. Talk to you in eleven months.
You don't believe me? Good, because I was lying like the dirty whore I am.
I rushed to the counter to pay to escape with my newly-acquired, but let's-be-honest-maybe-never-to-be-watched DVDs. I reach forward and before the woman can even say hi to me, I ask her what they ring up for because it's Best Buy and they, like Good Charlotte, only exist to suck out your soul and feed it in loving, Hep-C laden spoonfuls to Paris Hilton and Nichole Richie.
"$26.99 each."
That's right. Of course they were.
"Well, there's a sign over there that says they're $10 off."
Immediately, without hesitation, the woman passed me off.
"Go show her," she said pointing to a girl I'm assuming is the manager because to be a manager at a Best Buy, you have to pencil in your eyebrows and wear a shirt that may have fit in sixth grade (I'm 1 for 2!).
I walked the woman over there and she examined the sign like she was trying to verify a lost Da Vinci painting. After a couple of minutes, she and I headed back. I WON!
We got to the counter and the other woman, non-manager, re-rang back in my items.
"Okay. $21.99."
"$21.99?" I say. "The sign didn't say..."
"Yeah. $5 each."
"But the sign didn't say buy two and save $10. It just said to save $10 on Adult Swim DVDs."
Defeated by my logic (logic, something talked about in hushed tones in the back alleys of the Double B, but rarely, if ever, actually seen in use), the manager sighed and said, "Yeah. $10 off each."
Before I paid, the woman ringing me up was training somebody, and she said to me, "Ooh, well, since we saved you so much money, you can go ahead and take our phone survey."
I almost told her that if I didn't know the incompetence that runs rampant through Best Buy like Hispanic children at Red Lobster, I would have saved zero dollars.
Instead, I paid in hot jars of urine I'd been saving in my car for such an occasion.
On the way out, the security alarm went off as I passed through and without looking back, I just yelled, "I stole all of this," and kept walking.
So, I came home from work just now to find my apartment smelling - strongly - of bacon. Now, I don't know if it means a faerie is hiding in my cupboard or I'm being haunted by the fattest ghost to ever exist, but I'm simultaneously alarmed and overjoyed.
I mean, it's bacon. I could come back to find it smelling like something terrible: mold, shit, sweaty taint. But I come back to find it smelling like one of the best foods ever. Still, though, it's kind of strange to come back and have your apartment smelling like anything other than that hobo I stow in my closet and cut pieces off of to use as bars of soap.
The guy who parks next to me in my apartment complex is a goddamn douche bag. He parks like frat boys wear hats: crooked and like a fucking DOUCHE BAG. And it's not like he drives some big car that's hard to park. It's some early 90s Nissan Sentra piece of shit that's filled with garbage and assholes. By the way, my memoir will be called Garbage and Assholes: A Tale of Courage...and Assholes.
Well, this guy leaves his passenger door unlocked all the time. I park on that side. I know how to open doors (lest we forget I was in GATE), so I could very easily get into that car and fuck some shit up. But what do I do? I don't want to incriminate myself, but I want to get back at this guy who parks like a Chinese girl's vagina - slanted and filled with shame.
The obvious thing I could do is stick something really terrible beneath the passenger seat and let it stink up his car. But that's easily remedied. I want something that sticks. I also thought about getting a box of condoms, sticking it in the glove compartment with one missing, leaving the receipt so the date is on there, and sticking the wrapper of the missing one in the car somewhere. I've seen that this guy does have a girlfriend, so this could be wonderful. I would love to ruin this guy's day because he ruins my day every time I have to make a 12-point turn just to leave the lot.
Please give me ideas. I want revenge and I want it now.
Tonight at the grocery store, while I was purchasing generic Cookie Crisp (Chip Mates), the cashier guy let his freak flag fly. I look off to the side as he starts to scan my goodies and I see this girl leaving. I take note and don't avert my gaze because she's wearing a half shirt and low-rider jeans. It's pleasant enough.
Joe Albertsons notices and this conversation happens.
JOE ALBERTSONS You see that? Yeah. She's a regular. She comes in here all the time.
Editor's note: Like I'm a fucking idiot and I have no idea what the hell a regular means.
ME Yeah?
JOE ALBERTSONS Yeah. She's always wearing some half- shirt and no bra.
ME ...
JOE ALBERTSONS It's pretty great. Those huge Double Ds. It looks like she's horny all the time. It's like she's smuggling 48 caliber bullets...
And he trails off while I silently scream inside my own face praying he stops talking about this before he starts jerking off with the tub of Country Crock I bought. Because that's why I bought it. It's for me.
I went to the Magic Castle tonight in Hollywood for a friend's birthday and as we were going to leave, I overheard the best exchange. There was this older magician guy, really sleazy looking, hitting on these two young girls sitting waiting for the valet to return with their car. It was obvious, to me, that he had no chance with them, but I don't think it was obvious to him. Well, that is until this happened.
He says to the girls, "Magicians are like wine. They get better with age."
It sounds like I'm making it up, but I'm not. Michael Jackson wants to build a giant, 50 foot robot of himself that shoots lasers to roam the Las Vegas desert. I'm sorry, maybe you didn't catch that. Michael Jackson wants to make a giant robot of himself that he'll let loose in the Las Vegas desert. And it shoots lasers.
I want to know how it will work. Will it be one of those things he sits inside like a bad guy in a video game? Or can he control it from a secret underground lair? Maybe, while it's being created, the building will be struck by lightning and it will take on a life of its own. It'll be like Johnny 5 from Short Circuit, except with a huge, Vitiligo-riddled robo-dong.
That sounds like something he told somebody he wanted to do after he had a terrible crying fit over something.
INT. MICHAEL'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT MICHAEL sits on a couch, arms folded, crying. His agent, HARVEY, stands pleading with Michael.
HARVEY Michael, I'm sorry that we had to turn off your XBox, but you had been playing for 30 straight hours. Please stop crying.
MICHAEL But I wanted to keep playing XBox.
HARVEY Your children were worried about you.
MICHAEL Children? I don't have any children. I made new friends using my penis and magic!
HARVEY Okay. Well, whatever. Just stop crying. What can I do to make you stop crying? Do you want something?
MICHAEL Yes.
HARVEY What do you want, Michael? You want me to shape Elephant Man's bones into tiny dinosaurs for you again?
MICHAEL No! I want...I want...a giant robot.
HARVEY A giant robot? We can do that.
Harvey picks up his phone.
HARVEY (cont'd) (into phone) Get me a giant robot. I don't know. Japan probably makes them. They love that shit.
He hangs up.
MICHAEL Wait. I want a giant robot of me. Yeah. And...and...and...
HARVEY Of you? People can't be robots, Michael. Only robots can be robots.
MICHAEL And it has to shoot lasers. Yeah.
HARVEY Fine. You want a giant Michael Jackson robot that shoots lasers. And then you'll stop crying?
MICHAEL Maybe.
HARVEY Where do you want me to put it? Neverland Ranch right between the pirate ship made of graham crackers and the tree shaped like Emmanuel Lewis?
MICHAEL (yelling) NO!
HARVEY Well, you're out of room, Michael. Where do you want it?
MICHAEL (still yelling) I WANT IT TO ROAM THE LAS VEGAS DESERT!
Harvey Of course you do.
MICHAEL (still yelling) AND THEN I WANT TO BUY LAS VEGAS AND HAVE ALL THE SLOT MACHINES GIVE OUT FREE COTTON CANDY! AND THEN...AND THEN...
Harvey One thing at a time, Michael. One thing at a...
Harvey looks over at the couch. Michael is curled up, asleep, clutching Richard Pryor's corpse.
Harvey (softly) ...time. Goodnight, sweet prince.
Fin.
I'm not going to make any pedophile jokes, though. Those are hacky and overdone. Plus, he hasn't ever been convicted of those crimes, so it wouldn't be fair. This is absolutely true, though. When asked why he decided to build this contraption, Michael responded that he had been trying for years to find a way to rape that adorable Bob's Big Boy.
I won't make fun of him. He makes my heart happy and that's saying a lot if you know my heart. If you do know my heart, by the way, please ask him if he's been fucking my liver. I think it's pregnant.
Here he is.
I don't care if he's an act or not, it's goddamn beautiful. The look on his face when he's playing couldn't be greater.
Phil Collins was a man ahead of his time. Granted, the words to his song bearing the same name having nothing to do with this post, but I just thought I'd mention it. Invisible Touch? Genius and about telekinesis. The only other song about telekinesis that I know is It's Raining Men.
On to the meat of this thing. I have a tattoo that says exactly that a couple inches below my belly button. It's written in Ye Olde English-style lettering because I'm a classy lady.
If you take a multiple choice test and guess 'C' the entire time, odds are that, if there are four options for each question, you'll get around 25% of the answers right. While 25% is not a passing grade by any stretch, it's still better than the track record that my mighty president has when appointing members of his Presidential Dream Team or whatever the hell it's called. In fact, he would have had a better chance of getting Larry Bird elected to the Supreme Court than Harriet Miers. At least his name is exactly what an eagle is and Americans fucking love eagles.
The latest of his appointments to go south and reek of baby vomit baked in a kiln made of beer-shit and ball sweat is Alberto "He's Mexican, Look How Diverse the President's Cabinet Is" Gonzales. See, he tried to fire the U.S. prosecutors who opposed GWB's ideas because they opposed his policies. I heard that he's not supposed to do things like that because it's unethical or something. It's been a couple of years since I took the Bar.
But, how can somebody be so consistently bad at making decisions? That's like this girl on The Price Is Right.
But even she eventually wins. (Spoiler alert)
I would love to meet GWB in person, just to see how far his idiocy goes.
EXT. WHITE HOUSE - DAY A crowd of onlookers mill about for some made-up occasion so that I can have some one-on-one time with George W. Bush. I approach him, holding my fists clenched, arms out toward him, backs of my hands, facing the sky.
ME Okay, Mr. President. You'll get three chances here. I have a one hundred dollar bill in one hand and nothing in the other hand. Three chances. Two hands. One hundred dollars. Pick.
GWB Is this a trick? I guess your left foot.
ME Okay, that's one guess, sir. No. It isn't my left foot.
GWB Aww, shoot. I had it on good authority that it was in your left foot. You got me.
ME Fool you once...
GWB Yeah. I like that saying.
ME Next guess. Two more guesses. Two hands. You can do this, sir.
GWB Well, I can see something sticking out of your right hand that looks like it might be some money. Hold on.
GWB snaps his fingers and a MAN who is chewing on a bloody, disembodied child's arm drops it and runs over.
GWB (cont.) Dick, he's got some money in one of his hands. Which one is it?
DICK CHENEY Well, Mr. President, did you try...
GWB Yes, I tried his left foot. He says it's not there.
DICK CHENEY Hmm. Well, there goes my first guess. But he has some money sticking out of his right hand, so obviously he's trying to trick you and it's in his left.
ME I'm not trying to trick you. That's a very good guess based on the evidence that's right in front of you. If I were you, I'd definitely pick my right hand.
GWB You. You're tricky. I'm going to say your left hand. You're not going to make a fool out of me.
I open my left hand to reveal nothing. Cheney scurries away, growling at a crying, one-armed girl who quickly drops her bloodied stump and runs away.
ME Wow, sir. When I started to write out this scenario, I thought for sure you couldn't possibly be that dumb.
GWB I'm full of surprises. Do you like magic?
ME I'm a grown man, sir.
GWB I love magic. Have you seen that David Blaine fellow? I'm pretty sure he's the real deal. I saw him fly. He's so mysterious just like a real wizard.
ME That sounds impressive. You have one more chance. It's not in my left hand or somehow in my left foot and your only other choice is my right hand. What do you choose?
GWB You know, I'm going to have to ask the American people. See what they believe.
An ASSISTANT hands GWB a sheet of paper.
GWB (cont.) It says here that there was a poll taken by some guy named Roy Ters.
ME It's Reuters. It's a news..how do you even misread that? It's impossible to even think it says that. Whatever. Talk.
GWB And Roy says 95% of the American people believe that the money is in your right hand.
ME There. Go with them. They're right. Listen to them. Listen to the American people.
GWB One second.
GWB closes his eyes and nods his head, mumbling under his breath.
ME What are you...?
His arm juts forward, his finger pressing against my lips, quieting me.
GWB Shhh. I'm talking to Jesus.
ME You don't need to talk...
I open my right hand face up revealing the money so he can see it.
ME (cont.) See that? That's the money in my right hand. Just say that it's in my...
GWB (quickly) Jesus says it's in your left. Am I right? Did I get it? Where's the confetti?
I went to Vegas this past weekend and I saw midgets. I didn't just see a midget. I saw many midgets. I realize that using the m-word to refer to them is rude, but they can't read anyway, so they'll never know what I'm saying about them.
First, I saw one--and I wish I would have taken a picture because it sounds made up--dressed like a leprechaun. He had a microphone and was trying to get people to go into O'Shea's casino on the strip. Needless to say, I went the fuck in. I couldn't have been more in that place. Sadly, he was the only one there. He was standing in the sun, out front of the casino and here's a little bit of trivia I learned: midgets don't have shadows.
Then I saw a gaggle of midgets that night. A herd. A flock. A pride. A murder. A den. A fucking bunch. And, to make this sighting even better, I saw them at the top of the Stratosphere. For those who don't know, the Stratosphere is this giant tower thing that's 108 stories high where you go to ride rides and pretend you're not scared out of your fucking mind. 108 stories! To the midgets that's like 216 floors up. If one of them fell off the top, they would burn up in the atmosphere before hitting the ground.
There were five of them and they were all old, which is another weird thing since I was taught that once midgets hit 30 years old, they start regressing in age back until they don't exist anymore. My parents really shouldn't have let Professor Hate-Tank the Bearded Prophet tutor me until I was 16. I always found it strange that I had to meet him "by the beef jerky in the 7-11" for class.
Sean "Diddy" Combs, producer of such songs as "I'm Sad You Got Shot and Died," and "Too Bad Bullets Ain't Made of Chocolate Chips Instead," was accused of battery by a real estate agent in Los Angeles.
I only glanced over the story because reading is a sign of infertility, but I think I know how this transpired.
INT. HOLLYWOOD HOTEL - MORNING DIDDY, a man monetarily wealthy, but broke talent-wise, approaches real estate agent GERARD who looks startled.
DIDDY Yo, Gerard! Where my house?
GERARD Wh-What?
DIDDY Where my house?
GERARD Wear your house? Like clothing? It's a house, sir. I can't wear it. I can try it on if you like, but it will be too big. I'm sure of it.
DIDDY No. Not wear my house. Where my house?
GERARD I hear the words that you're saying, Mr. Diddy, but it just doesn't make sense grammatically.
DIDDY (yelling) Where my house? Where my mufucking house?
GERARD Okay. You want me--oh, I see what you're saying. You're asking me where is your house.
DIDDY Yeah, son. Where my house?
GERARD Now I get it. You were just being niggardly with your use of verbs.
DIDDY Oh, hell nah. What'd you just call me?
GERARD Oh, shit. It's not what it sounds like--
Diddy, plus or minus three BODYGUARDS, beats the Hell out of Gerard.
Fidel Castro, who has seemed so close to death the past year or so that the Cuban people carry pinatas and party hats in the trunks of their cars, has once again announced that he isn't dying any time soon.
That's where I've been the past week and a half: investigating internationally. I don't just Photoshop silly pictures of Britney Spears; I'm all detective-y and shit.
I learned just how it is that the Cuban dictator manages to stay alive against all odds. He drinks Cuban orphan blood from a bronzed cup made of pieces of JFK's skull. It's a literal fountain of youth. While he was busy stuffing a kitten into a paper shredder so he could shower (you'd think he'd have people for that), I stole a sip of his magical broth. I'm sure you're curious what it tasted like, but it's a personal experience, like accepting Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior or your rules for thumb wrestling.
I can tell you this much: the side effects are amazing. Not only do I feel twenty years younger (which makes me eight), but my urine now has three settings like those fancy shower heads. Also, if I fart in a jar and save it, a week later it will become a magical fairy which will grant me three wishes.
So, while Cuba may be under oppressive rule for eternity, at least now my belly button is a mouth which dispenses financial advice to me.
Not content to sit idly by with some dead lady hogging all the spotlight, Britney Spears took it upon herself and a child-safe pumpkin-carving knife to get all the attention she so desires. But I'm sure you heard about that.
I've known for a long time that I was a spaz. Going back to my childhood when I would "Mac out." What's that? You ask. It's self-explanatory, really. See, when I would get angry, I would have to tap into something that was in me, but on a completely other side of my personality. I would "Mac out" and then I'd flail my arms wildly at my older brother, most times.
But where did its name come from? "Mac out?" That seems strange. Well, notorious hot-head tennis player John McEnroe was known for snapping and going off on angry tirades at the referees. I took a page from J-Mac and called upon his fury in times of need.
How would my brother know when I was in "Mac out" mode? There was a very simple cue to help warn any potential predators that I was "Mac'ing out." Much like aposematic coloring in the wild, one could tell simply by looking at me that I was dangerous. I would throw my arms up in the air like I had just lifted an invisible barbell (man, barbell is a fucking dumb word) above my head and yell, "Mac out!" Then my brother would laugh, but I would take it as nervous laughter because of the Hell that was about to be brought down upon him. It was like mental PCP when I was seven.
Anyway, so I'm a spaz and prone to fits of OCD or other behavior at times. This morning was terrible. Not in quite the same vein, but it still shows how screwed up my mind is.
I woke with an uncontrollable urge to dissect the word "Please" into as many different words of three letters or more as I possibly could. So, the very first thing I did this morning was that. I sat down at my desk, got out a pen, titled a piece of paper "Please" and started writing. A few minutes later I had this list: Elapse, lapse, pales, pale, peel, peels, eels, eel, lease, leap, leaps, slap, lap, laps, sale, seal, sea, see, pal, pals, ease, easel, peas, pea, pee, pees, seep, plea, pleas, sap, ape, apes, spa, ale, ales, asp, sleep, asleep.
And I thought about the word Alps, but that's a proper noun and not allowed in this imaginary game in my brain.
Do you remember where you were? I know I remember exactly where I was when 9/11 happened. I can recount in detail where I was with the Challenger disaster and now this. I mean, it must be on the same scale the way I heard it. A few of us at work were waiting for the elevator to go down to lunch when the doors opened and out rushed a Trinidadi fella I work with.
"Did you guys hear?"
Oh shit, what? He seemed panicked. It must be awful. Another terrorist attack, right? Dammit. I knew it. I'll never complain about taking my shoes off at the airport again.
"They found Anna Nicole Smith dead."
It was like my heart took a shit inside of my brain's mouth.
She contributed so much to society. Boobs. TrimSpa. She blew old dudes for money.
The worst part about all of this is that now I'm totally going to lose my office Oscar death tribute applause pool. I have Barbaro.
Driving home from work tonight, I was accosted by a vaguely foreign-looking fella in the car next to me. So, I turn my head while I'm sitting at the light to see who is admiring my visage at this moment and I see this guy with his pale skin, buggy eyes and unkempt 70s afro staring at me, his eyes shining like a bat with a bad sense of direction.
I know that look. It's the I-need-to-ask-you-something look. See, I'm not from the future like most of you. If I want to roll down my passenger window, I need to lean over and turn the handle in a circular motion. Hoping he's going to ask me if I want a shiny new hundred dollar bill, I roll it down. The look on his face is so sad, though. There's like an 80% chance he's not actually going to give me $100. But, I roll down anyway, because there's still hope.
"Excuse me. Can you tell me where is Fry's?"
Now, you know I'm bad with quick verbal reactions to strangers, but I'm all over this one. I know the answer and I spit it out before he can even finish. See, I work right across the street from the Fry's in question. I've got this shit. I just came from near there; it's behind us about two blocks.
"It's back there just a little on the left-hand side."
"Back there?" he whines, the look on his face growing sadder with each syllable he makes. "But I've turned around three times already."
Three times! Do you know how big Fry's is? It's an electronics store like Best Buy or the Cinnabon. It's fucking huge. If he can't see that building with his big-ass eyes, he needs to get his sonar checked. But the best part about it was his tone of voice, which I'm sure is being appropriately relayed in writing here. I'm such an idiot.
He said it like he thought everybody in Burbank was playing a trick on him--that there wasn't even a Fry's in the city. It was this big inside joke that the whole city played on people, they'd ask and, whichever way their car was facing, tell them it's the opposite way. I just drive the streets hoping somebody asks me if I know where Ikea is. Explaining the trapdoor in the Wendy's drive-thru will be fun.
So, the other day I was checking an order I made on Amazon trying to find out when it would arrive and I found out what was taking so long.If you can't see that, it says that my package was scanned upon arrival in Burbank at 3:59 and 59 seconds on December 31, 1969. My towels are almost antiques! I mean, Abraham Lincoln could have used them; they are made out of log cabins.
It's like that movie Frequency, but with terry cloth instead of Dennis Quaid. And aren't the two interchangeable anyway? I'm almost positive that the towel could have made Dragonheart more interesting.
