Sunday, October 31, 2004

Apparently, more than two people read this.

I actually got a complaint on the blog. Well, I think it's the closest she can actually come to complaining, anyway:

Btw, where's the Britney update for the week? hmmmmmm?
Fine, fine. If you insist:


I've actually been having a great deal of fun in the past week with the whole Ashlee Simpson debacle. I heard about it on Sunday, downloaded it Sunday night, and watched it Monday morning. What a jackball. I thought things could get no better with my week; then, two things happened:
  • The Red Sox won the World Series.
  • This week's Saturday Night Live aired.
The second, of course, was rife with references to Ashlee Simpson being a jackhole, as well as a whole bit where Osama bin Laden talks about what a travesty it was, calling backing vocal tracks acceptable only during physically taxing dance numbers. I suggest you watch it. It's breathtaking, actually.

Then, there was tonight's 60 Minutes, when Lorne Michaels was asked if, in the entire history of SNL,
"Has anyone ever walked off the set like that?"

To which he thought for only a moment, then replied, "Ummm... No."

Indeed. Going to watch some old Britney SNL and listen to "Do Somethin'" repeatedly to feel better about things.

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Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Why does this make me chuckle?


I'm not really sure. I'm wondering if they were at the game tonight. Perhaps Jen's moxie cancelled out Ben's affleck. Or something. Anyway, congratulations to the Red Sox tonight! Even though Johnny Damon looks strikingly like Captain Caveman, he's a beast. I'll have to admit, though, I just enjoy watching Ramirez do his little dance!

Oh, and sometimes, Theo reminds me of someone. I'm just not sure who.

It's going to drive me nuts.

I imagine Joe Mac is somewhere, smiling his ass off.

Or sleeping his ass off. Whichever.

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Stick it to the Man!

I just wanted to take this opportunity between bites of dinner to take us back to a couple of years ago, when times were simpler:

This, of course, is Master Winston, Tin Cup Chalice, workin' the chain. Seriously. He even had a little ball and chain on his leg. Rules. Wins was on the front page of the old B. World site a couple of years ago from the time he kicked ass in the pet costume contest to the New Year. And what a fetching cover model he did make!

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Sunday, October 24, 2004

Every day is Riley Day...

You can't shut it off, you can't make it go away!"

Today is the anniversary of young Miss Riley Boogie Wooderson Miranda's addition to our humble abode!

I remember the whole week leading up to her entrance into the family was a blur: on Monday I heard about her, then was encouraged to try to get a dog through the shelters instead. By Tuesday morning, I found that any dogs available through the local shelters would be much larger than Perla was willing to deal with running through the house, and was back in contention for the free puppy.

By Tuesday at lunchtime, I found out that I was going to get the first chance to take home a little pup named Shiloh because her owner's daughter was apparently allergic to dogs. I spent the rest of the week at work trying to get ideas for a new name for the dog, since "Shiloh" was just not going to fly with me (that, and she didn't have her own children's television show. Yet).

Friday came, as did my mother busting into my room in the early morning hours with an outfit she deemed suitable for receiving said puppy (I'm not kidding). I went to pick up this scared little poochie at my dad's office, where he ushered me in to introduce "our new dog" to his co-workers. I instantly re-named her in the grand tradition of naming things in relation to the Buffyverse, and I haven't been the same since.


These are pictures taken with my phone, on the day I first got Little Boo.

As usual, Tita Kris knows how to teach the "fundamentals."


Riley after a long afternoon of socializing with (read: getting licked near to death by) Winston.

Today, Little Miss Riley is the apple of her grandparents' eyes, universally loved, and spoiled only a little bit by her mother. We shall spend her special day with the usual Sunday frolicking, as well as a later bedtime (after all, she does have to watch "Cold Case"). And, as soon as she gets pampered later this week at the groomer's, she'll get to wear her brand-new red leather collar! Ah, the joys of puppydom!


Riley doing what she does best: laying about and looking slightly disaffected.

Gotta go now. Long day of celebration ahead of us!

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Sunday, October 17, 2004

Separated at birth.

I'm posting this on the Fuckles Blog as well. To wit, from youhavebadtasteinmusic.com:

This Month's Bad Taste Offender: Brock Berlin

After a comeback victory over Florida State recently, University of Miami quarterback Brock Berlin called ex-Creed frontman Scott Stapp to celebrate. The longtime friends grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana where Brock idolized the older Stapp. It was learned after the game that Brock has heard Scott's music and still seeks his approval. Scott Stapp is bad music.
This kinda sorta explains a lot. But, wait. Doesn't Brock...


Sort of look like...
Carson Fucking Daly?

"Shh! I'm Carson Daly, and I'm still a massive tool!"

My head is spinning from all the suckitude in this post!

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Friday, October 15, 2004

As if you needed any more useless information...

Apparently, with this lovely blog of mine, every time I publish a new post, the BWB (Banana World Blog) shows up on weblogs.com as being updated. This is really cool, except for the fact that a crapload of weblogs are updated at all times during the day, and even if I updated maybe five minutes ago, it would still be 3,oooth on the list of "recently updated" blogs. Gah. Go check it out and see if you can find me. Let me know if you do.

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Thursday, October 14, 2004

Like three the hard way.

A quick state of the blog report, then I'm going to bed. This week is too damned nuts.

  • Now playing: Beastie Boys, To the 5 Boroughs. I'm so totally going to be in pain on Wednesday morning, it's not even funny.
  • Best thing I've heard all day: Lori telling me on the phone, "Jordan's ball is stuck. Not his balls, his ball!" My response:"Well, that seems to sound more problematic, don't you think?"
  • Plan for tomorrow: Don't die. Finish my five intakes like a good girl. Reward myself with icy cool beverages.
  • What I plan to fall asleep to: The Goonies. It's on. I love it. I heart Sean Patrick Astin. What's good enough for you is good enough for me, Mikey Walsh. Woot.

Ahoy, matey! I see the Two Towers on the horizon!

  • How I've been answering people's requests all day: "Hi. No!"
  • What I'm going to do before trying to fall asleep: Whisper positive affirmations to my sleeping puppy. Suggestions welcome.
  • Thing that I thought was so cute I thought I might throw up a little: When I reviewed my voice mail from this morning, and got a five minute long message from Trajana, apologizing to me for not calling about a work thing the evening before, explaining why she didn't, then apologizing for leaving such a long voice mail. Bless her heart.

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Gunfight at the Golden Corral.

A couple of days ago, I found myself passing by a restaurant with a sign proclaiming a $4.99 lunch buffet (with drink!) between the hours of 2 and 4 p.m., so I had to pull in, of course. I figured it was time for lunch, and I had some time to kill after the whole J.Co eBay debacle, which I may tell here at a later time.

I sat happily at the table, eating something labeled "Awesome Pot Roast" (which I found just slightly less than awesome, yet very edible), downing Minute Maid Light Lemonades as fast as my server could dole them out, and eyeballing a small stack of paperwork that I had to conquer, but could find very little motivation to do so.

Midway through my meal, I saw a rather stocky man enter the dining area and find a seat two tables away from me. I could tell he was a bodybuilder type, not because of his ridiculous muscle definition, but his ridiculous rock-hard nipple-bearing tank top that showed off his slightly more ridiculous granite man-boobs that made him look like he had two bald toddlers in headlocks in front of him. I also noted, much to my chagrin, the requisite "World Gym" sweatshorts, black high-top shoes, and, of course, black leather fanny pack (why does this seem to be part of the required uniform?). He loaded up his tray with enough food to feed a short bus, and got to work eating food off of all three plates at once. Done observing this creature in its natural habitat, I went back to the business of finishing my own plate.

A few minutes later, I was going to get up to get a second plate when I noticed another gentleman, another bodybuilder type, enter the dining area. He was equally ridiculously defined, with a similar outfit, except his ridiculous boob-bearing tank top was tie-dyed. This gentleman took a seat at his own table, and sat facing the other muscle-bound gentleman. I decided to watch these two beasts interact.

I would not be disappointed.
Suddenly, the first muscle dude started inexplicably tensing up while he ate. I wouldn't have noticed it if it weren't for the muffled sounds coming from his table. Dear God, I thought, is he... grunting? I looked up and saw him shrugging his shoulders in a pronounced fashion. You've got to be fucking kidding me... he's flexing!

I looked at the diner sitting at the table next to me. We just stared at each other in disbelief for a moment. Surely he must be stretching, right? I thought silently. As though he understood, Fellow Patron shrugged at me.

I would not believe what happened next if I weren't actually there to witness this myself. After all, as Charlie Murphy once said, "You can't make this shit up."

Well, seconds later, we whipped our heads to the look at the other table, where Musclehead Number Two placed his hands on his table and started to scrunch his arms towards his body. He was responding, for crying out loud! A gauntlet was thrown, and we were going to have a flex-off! How fucking crazy was this?

Musclehead Number One started to stretch his neck, turning his head one way and pausing. Number Two responded by getting up momentarily, flexing his back muscles, then sitting down again. Number One then stuck his leg out from underneath his table until it was in the aisle, and flexed his calf. All I and my fellow patron could do was sit there, dumbfounded, getting more and more stupid as we continued to watch this display.
I was hooked like this shit was Wild Kingdom.
Number Two put his forearm on top of his head like he was going to stretch, and flexed his upper arm muscles instead. Number one obliged by crossing both arms over his head and shrugging his shoulders again. I momentarily thought it would be funny to use the back of my paperwork as scorecards, but thought better than to encourage this idiocy. This whole thing went down for a total of twenty seconds until the song playing on the overhead speakers changed.

I shit you not: "Working for the Weekend" by Loverboy came on.

It was unbelievable. Muscles flexed, posers posed, grunts and low groans were emitted. It really just sounded like two guys with very active head colds. Arms, legs, curving, flexing everywhere. It was like vogueing with 'roids.

This continued halfway into the song, at which point, Number Two did the absolutely abhorrent: he picked up a dinner roll, tossed it into the air with his bent arm, straightened his arm out, and hit the roll into his open palm with his bicep.

Yet another in a long list of times I'd wished I had a remote camera crew with me at all times.

It was at this final action that I, my fellow patron, and Number One all simultaneously put our heads down to look deeply into our plates: fellow patron and myself just incredulous that this shit went down in the first place, and that we'd bothered to witness it to completion, and Number One in utter shame and disgust, as it was obvious to all concerned that Number Two had just sealed a resounding victory for himself.

I refused to look up from anything directly in front of me for the next ten minutes, during which I finished off a plate of fruit, some banana pudding, and a dinner roll (which, thankfully, had not been hit by anyone's bicep, to the best of my knowledge). By the time I looked up again, I had just made it to the exit, refusing to acknowledge to any outside observers that I had even glimpsed anything out of sorts.

But I knew. And now, so do you. All about the Gunfight at the Golden Corral.

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Saturday, October 09, 2004

My cynicism knows no bounds.

I desperately need to distract myself from the recent idiocy observed on my tele, that I'm not going to mention any further, lest I let out the barrage of obscenities that are just dying to come out.

Yesterday, I found myself in my car, B.N.T. (that's
Before New Tires, which I just blew a bunch of money on, by the way,) tooling around Tampa, when, at the corner of Sheldon and Hillsborough, I observed two cars parked at a gas station. They were facing opposite directions, but were next to each other. The passenger of the one facing the road was leaning over the car, watching two people standing on the other side of the car, kissing. I observed this while at a stop light, so they were pretty much making out for at least a good twenty or so seconds.

Now, is it bad that upon witnessing this, my initial thought was not "Oh, love. How sweet," but "Wonder if their spouses know"? Am I that jaded that I automatically jump to that assumption? Or is it just that my assumption is becoming more and more the standard, not the exception? Why am I using so many big words? Agh, my head hurts.

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"I'm tired of being your little geisha!"

Yes, I sure am.

So, the other day, I was at work, trying not to die, and I heard a big, booming, friendly voice greet the inhabitants of the medical assistants' office.

Ah, drug rep, I thought. Possibly a hot one. I think it's time to go investigate.

Sure enough, there was a drug rep. And yes, he was hot. Obviously, I had to start talking to him. He was charming, funny, and easy to talk to... and at least this time, it only took me thirty seconds to find the wedding ring.

(For those of you waiting to make the snide comment about it taking me two weeks last time, shut the hell up.)

Our conversation shifted from talking about Depakote and any issues my kids might be having with it, to something cute a kid in his daughter's first grade class did for an art project. Oh yes, folks, once I find out you're not only married, but with children, I can make it seem like I knew it all along and wasn't the least bit disappointed to find out. But don't worry: I silently cry inside later on, all by myself. (Cue the music! And use the Eric Carmen version, not that Celine Dion crap.)

At one point, he was rolling with laughter at my witticisms, which included some reference to Kabuki theater (yes, I am that good). Then Sarah, who, rumor has it, this cute drug rep has a crush on, came into the office, so he disappeared into her office to talk shop. Pleased with my noncommittal banter, I went back to my office. As soon as I sat down, I heard another booming drug rep voice: this time, it was the voice of the lone Asian drug rep I've seen roam our halls. And not only is he Asian, but he's hot, too (in that Russell Wong sort of way. Rrrow).


Hi. I'm Russell Wong, and I'm one pissed off Asian in a t-shirt!

Of course, per a reliable source who shall remain nameless, this drug rep has some sort of psycho bitch girlfriend (ex?) who gives him nothing but grief, and he, too, apparently has a crush on Sarah. Oh, I could just kick someone!

Anyway, I've used my wit and sarcastic charm when speaking to this rep, too. And since he falls in the distinct category of "Don't even fucking bother," I find my cocky, assertive side comes out more when I speak to him.

I heard him offering to grab lunch for one of the med assistants (I really need to look into getting a job like that: going from office to office to exchange pleasantries, gossip, pimp out drugs, and give out food and pens). The med assistant stated that if he hadn't just come back from Subway, he'd take the rep up on his offer. The rep said, "Are you sure? I can always go out and get you something."

Cue the Recently Cocky Asian Girl, from stage left, who breezes into the room, smiles pleasantly at Hot Asian Drug Rep, leans in, and says, "Oh, you're going out to get something? How about something between 27 and 33, smart, funny, single, male, no baggage? Okay," she concludes, clapping her hands briskly, "Hop to it." Exit, stage left to a sharp intake of breath from said drug rep, followed by a drawn out "Wow."

Wow, indeed. Is any of this vitriol related to the fact that I've been listening to a lot of Tragic Kingdom lately? Maybe not. Maybe that has more to do with the "repeat" function than anything else.

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Thursday, October 07, 2004

A word from Jesse.


"Come closer! I cannot see you!"

Sorry, I just had to do that. Now, I'm really going to bed.

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"Getting boys is how I live."

I swear, I should get that on a t-shirt. Right after I order the "I'm a virgin... But this is a really old t-shirt!" tank top for Jaz. Heh heh.

Anyway, I was just thinking about something, and I had to share. I promise, after this, I'll quit for the night. Too much thinking makes me woozy.

So, here it is:


Britney.


Dusty Rhodes.

Now, if Dusty Rhodes is also known in wrasslin' circles as "The American Dream," does that mean that


This

Equals


This?

Too. Much. Thinking. I've got to lie down. Maybe I'll read this week's issue of US, with the title "Why He Won't Marry Her" emblazoned across the cover. Ha! I'll tell you why not: Because she's dirty, and he's a Mama's Boy. Word!

(And yes, "he" and "she" are Justin "Where'd my 'fro go?" Timberlake and Cameron "No mo' Leto, oh?" Diaz. Crikey.)

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Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Why I Heart LoLo.

Lori and I were doing our best to not work this afternoon, and ended up sending each other text messages, despite standing five feet away from each other.

No, let me correct myself: We were five feet away from each other when we decided to send the messages. She wouldn't
allow me to re-enter the Time-Out room while she typed her message, because she wanted "it to be a surprise." I grumbled about it, of course, until the cheery "Mail, Motherfucker!" rang from my phone, and I read the following:

You are the best friend a girl could have! I promise to share any black men I meet with you so you too can have swirled children!
Can a girl ask for more? I mean, really?

However, thinking about it now, mine would be more of a mocha, and hers would be of the dulce de leche variety. Carry on.

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Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Nip/Tuck. Ooh/Ahh.

I forsook all other television viewing this evening for the wonder that is the season finale of Nip/Tuck. As usual, it was topical and erotic, but I still have a hard time reconciling the fact that Jean Grey can be a psycho hosebeast. Here endeth the dorkiness (yeah, right). Suffice it to say, if you haven't caught any of the Nip/Tuck, ever, go rent the first season, then when the second comes out, rent that, too.

Hey, I'm learning my lesson with Lost. So many people have told me how good it is, and I've missed the first two, so I've gone and downloaded them, will probably download tomorrow night's, then I'll be caught up for next week. Not like I'm condoning such action... Actually no, I'm not condoning such action. Yes, yes... I'm borrowing them from Kris and Randal. Right.

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Friday, October 01, 2004

Sorry about your knee, Rex.

So yeah, Rex, I heard about your injury this weekend. Then I saw Inside the NFL, which showed your run for the touchdown, and that ever-feared freaky wobble your leg took. Eww.

Rex in happier times.


Anyway, I hope you feel better. Toodles.

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