I promised myself, after telling ten million people this joke that Grantasm made up a while back, that I wouldn't beat it to death, but I just have to post it:
Q: What happens when you combine Bilbo Baggins and Bruce Willis?
A: Old Hobbits Die Hard!
Will somebody Photoshop these mofo's already?
Love that movie. And Judd Nelson is "fucking harsh!" in it.
So, I again find myself eating a French Toast bagel and pondering the possibilities of life. I was pretty productive at work today, except for that instance late this afternoon when I was so exasperated that I collapsed in a heap in the middle of the front office floor. I seriously wanted to scream at our newest clerical hire, but resisted great temptation and dropped to the ground instead. I don't think she realized I was upset with her, because she kept trying to joke around with me as I lay in said heap.
"When the front desk tries to get at you, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot... When the newbie cops an attitude..."
Sorry. Went away for a little bit. There is no "Roley" on my arm, and the only thing I'm pouring any time soon is another glass of root beer. Moving on.
Yeah, overall, productive day. I did spend most of it trying to keep my mouth shut in front of authority, and trying not to call my snottier teenaged clients jackballs to their faces. I also resisted the urge to yell at one of said snotty clients to get her shitty attitude and trashy self out of my Beastie Boys sweatjacket, even if she was "freezing." Little runts.
And I probably drove poor LoLo nuts when, after she would say something, anything at all, I would mutter, "You're not very turned out. And you don't have good feet. And although you are very pretty..." I'm probably going to pay for that in some karmic way in the near future. Possibly by having to call the Death Star using 1-800-CALL-ATT.
It's free for you, and cheap for Anakin!
Being at Panera at this time of the evening sure is interesting. After I finish this update, I'll pack up and head home, but the eye candy this evening is too startling to deny. I've always found powder blue dress shirts interesting, but this time, I am having an even harder time looking away. This gentleman is pleasant to look at, all right.
Wait, overhead call for an order pickup... He got up to get it. Now I know his first name is Stephen.
Wow. I should probably be rapped about the knuckles for that last one. If anyone wants to identify the pop culture reference used above, be my guest, and get a prize!
It's been a long day in the world of not-for-profit mental health, and I am just happy to be sitting here with my playful little pup at my feet, updating the old Blog.
For the past few minutes, I have been checking my e-mail, trying to convince someone that they shouldn't be drunk dialing anyone on this evening, and trying to pick the burrs out of Riley's coat (her foolish-ass grandfather let her frolic in the brush this evening, then dumped her in my lap and said, "Here," before rushing off to the other end of the house).
Oh yeah, and I've also been trying to download that episode of Saturday Night Live with the skit where Britney plays Barbie's kid sis, Skipper, and finds out that Barbie really isn't her older sister, but her Mom. One of the best parts of that skit was when Barbie reveals that Skipper's father isn't Ken, but a Han Solo action figure, and an incredulous Skipper says:
"He's not even our scale; what kind of slut are you?"
Ah, good times, good times!
Today, kids were just getting to me. They've changed the code on the security doors in the building, and the miserable little buggers were spending all day trying to figure out the new code. This would be no problem for me, of course, if the friggin' keypad didn't beep nonstop from their incessant attempts and codebreaking.
By early evening, the codebreaking responsibilities fell to a trio of towheaded boys who reminded me of The Village of the Damned. There are two security doors that one can go through to get to the therapists' offices, and every time an adult walked up to one of those doors, these boys would be close behind, trying to catch a glimpse of the code.
LoLo and I got so sick of it when they were practically climbing on our backs to see the code, that we told them to go back to their seats and wait for their parents (who, ironically, were nowhere to be found when all these shenanigans were going on).
They asked us if we could tell them the code. We told them that of course, we couldn't. They then proceeded to stand at the noisy keypad and hammered away every code they could think of for a few minutes. Lori told them to go sit down again. They pointed at each other, blaming each other for touching the keypad. I threatened to call Santa a couple of times. I seriously thought of taking out my cell phone and pretending to put in a call to the North Pole, when I realized that it would be much, much better to rat the little hellions out to their mother.
So that's what I did. I asked them where their Mom was. They all froze.
Those little crappers couldn't escape my wrath!
"Uh, she's not here. Uh, I don't know." Suddenly, the little shits didn't know anything.
"That's okay. I'll find her." Total silence. Those kids were shitting themselves. Luckily, I knew their Mom was talking to Randal, and let her know what was going on. Randal didn't seem at all surprised. Mom looked like fire was going to shoot out of her eyeballs. She had that low, controlled voice when she laid eyes on them after I narc'ed. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that mini-van on the ride home!
Sorry, but if I've had a crap day, sometimes making children miserable is the only way to right things.
I'm coming off an Urban High, and then I have to come across this:
Karate Kid, The Musical
Take a moment to view it, then cry, just a little.
Okay, so two jackelopes have a birthday today. Let's get this knocked out before I head to bed, shall we?
Happy Birthday to Jaz and Grantasm!
Old Jackball Number One.
Old Jackball Number Two.
I shall not divulge ages here, as that would probably result in my sound thrashing and utter humiliation. Oh, wait; that would happen anyway. Damn.
If you see either of them, wish them well, and don't forget to give them their birthday whacks. Okay, more later. I have to sleep. Kisses!
I'm sitting here at Dan's House of Pain, updating the Blog from my brand-spanking "New To Me" laptop. Yes, folks, you heard right. My dear family decided to surprise me with it today, and I tell you, I'm loving the hell out of it. It's not a brand new machine by any stretch of the imagination, but it works, and it's mine, dammit!
So, I've already come up with a name for it: Urban Sprawl. Yeah, you know what I mean. If you come up with anything more genius, let me know.
And now, for something that makes absolutely no sense:
Right-o. Moving on.
Just thought you folks would like to see the President of the Festively Plump: the Unofficial Bridget Jones Fan Club, Oviedo Chapter:
"I mean, I fucking LOVED the first one! I heart Colin Firth. What a hottie!"
You may now go about your daily business.
So much to write about today.
I realize that I haven’t written much lately… I got hit with this cold/congestion/feels a little like consumption thing, and I’ve been pretty much OOC for two weeks (Out Of Commission in this case, as opposed to the usual Out Of Control).
And so much has been happening!
Take for instance, the fact that I’ve been drowning in a sea of intakes, and I think that as of this afternoon, right here, from Borders, wedged between an old dude browsing The Drudge Report while bitching on his cell phone to his invisible friend about the NBA melee last Friday, and what I can only presume is a college student doing a current events report (fifth grade, anyone?) on a laptop with a National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacationdesktop image, I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Yes, my happy ass is back at Borders, the Mecca of my work-related productivity. And yes, I am still using the sad work laptop, since I still do not have my own (sigh). And no, I am not going to use this opportunity to scope out available dudes... Aw, hell. Scratch that last one. I’m not a very good liar.
Moving on. Anyway, yes, I’ve been sick for over a week, and have nothing to show for it but a great tolerance for all sorts of cough and cold medicines. I’m at the end of the cold medicine spectrum where I’m actively seeking out stuff that “makes coughs more productive." Productive? Like what, a six-figure annual income and 3.2 children productive? Maybe I should stay away from taking the night-time stuff during the day. Wait. I can hear the old guy’s tunes through his headphones. Must crank my own up a few notches.
I keep jumping off topic. Ah yes... THIS WEEKEND. I’ll admit openly that a good bulk of it was dedicated to two things: THE GAME, and RECOVERING FROM THE GAME. Oh, it was a beaut! There was action, there was drama, there was a spattering of crappy calls, but overall, I found the whole experience WHOLLY SATISFYING. Satisfying in that Route 44 size Orange Slush from Sonic way. Satisfying in that “I’m going to remind Jaz every time I hear “Toxic” that she bitched “My God, I can’t believe I’m dancing to a Britney Spears song for you!” way. Oh, yeah. Like that.
And like this:
Caption: Looking downfield for an open man, Chris Leak feels the impending pressure from Dicks... hee hee... bearing down on him. Wait, I can't do this! I know it's Dickson, but still!
Oh, and there's this:
Caption: Zook pulled out all the stops for what was probably his final game as head coach. This "fly by the seat of your pants" coaching style culminated in the fourth quarter, when he finished off the Seminoles' defensive line with his "Big Daddy Crane" Style.
Man, I should write caption for a living. I'm having too much fun by myself in public!
Now I'm tired, and people are looking at me funny. Screw you guys, I'm going home!
I wonder, can dogs get colds? And if so, is there some sort of Cocker Spaniel Sudafed I can give her?
By the way, click here to view something totally, totally wrong.
This is what I get for listening to "Buffalo Stance" in the car five times today!
I feel like hell. That sore throat that went away, then came back with a vengeance so powerful, it rendered me speechless (!) has turned into a certifiable pain in my tuckus. I've spent most of the day chugging beverages and trying not to yell at children... a formidable task, to say the least.
The good thing is, I managed to sequester myself at Borders all afternoon and got almost all the way caught up with my paperwork. Hooray for me! At 8 tonight, I decided to call it a day and return home to the loving paws of my pooch, whose latest nickname is "DJ Rumpshaker."
Funny how a sense of accomplishment in the little things can change your mood entirely, huh?
The cover image for DJ Rumpshaker's latest album, Hue of Danforth
Anyway, I hope to keep this streak of industriousness going for the rest of the week. I got access to one of the work laptops (which is, btw, old like Methuselah), so I managed to take it on an extended break and hammer out today's paperwork. It just reminded me how much more motivated I'll be to do my work on time on that sweet day I'll have my own laptop.
Which is probably about as motivated as I am at the present to do my work: not a hell of a lot.
Preach on, sister. Preach on!
I think that I am going to do my best to not lose my mind this evening. Granted, I probably have to get up really early tomorrow to get the car towed down to the garage in St. Petersburg (I would love to see Mr. "Women Belong in the Kitchen!" Mechanic's face when he's told that the starter that he put in started burning up under the hood,) but for now, I want to be stress free.
"I'm sorry. I shall choose 'Balloons' for five hundred, Alex."
Sorry. Had a moment.
Anyway, my evening of mirth begins after publishing this post. I'm going to sprawl on the bed and watch the half-hour weeknight editions of Cheaters (and if I thought Tommy Grand was a dork before, this Joey Greco joker with his flavor saver mustache is a total yutz), and fall asleep before the dog does. Oh yeah, and I'm going to post this picture in anticipation of the movie that comes out in 60-some odd days. Mark your calendars, bee-yatches!
"I'm gonna jam this stick... up his butthole! Crikey, he's really pissed now!"
At least that's how I remember the quote. I can't even remember what show I remember the quote from. I could have sworn I heard it on "In Living Color." Then again, I could've sworn I heard the term "Funky butt-loving" in Little Monsters, and we all remember how many years it took for me and Danhole to figure out that we were indeed incorrect in that assumption. Plus, so much swearing. Goodness.
Strangely enough, on my longest work day of the week, I had somewhat of a reprieve from the stresses of the week. That reprieve ended this evening, when the starter in my car decided to go wonky in the Costco parking lot, then wouldn't stop whirring, then started emitting foul smoke that engulfed the hood. Now, mind you, I just got a new starter less than a month ago, so I am none too pleased. The hits just keep coming. So now, I have to cancel the estimate I have an appointment for in the morning (the result of the fender-bender that happened over the weekend) since, well, shit, I can't exactly move the car.
I so seriously need a vacation.
It's been another long day, and I am heading to bed. I will probably post the story about the lazy retail worker later. For now, let us enjoy a little picture from the Halloween phone cam. Riley wore the ladybug outfit for a short while, but the cap just didn't fit right, and ended up looking like a red beret.
I think she hated me just a little that day.
So, I'm feeling a little better than last night. I took some time to vent out with some of my girls (shouts out to Stumpy, Jaz and Ris-K for holding me down! Okay, no more DJ slang. For now). After sufficient bitching and constant reassurance from said girls, I think I'm okay for right now. I'm just going to concentrate on the little things that make me happy, like my unbelievable tolerance for schmaltz. To wit, my favorite audio tape purchased in 1990:
That's right, amigos: Paintings in My Mind, by fellow Jersey native, Thomas Alden Page!
I just heard a collective "WTF?" Hey, I was thirteen, and just coming off the whole New Kids/Joey phase, and the NKOTB did backing vocals on two songs on the album, which, btw, was wonderfully sappy. There were all sorts of cheesy pictures of him in the cassette (!) insert, walking on the beach and whatnot. In fact, I do believe that I can trace my extreme attraction to men in khakis to this very album. Wow, I just realized that. I need to sit down. Oh, wait.
Fine, I'll move on.
No, wait. I just found a more recent picture of Tommy, circa 2000:
It's nice to see that he's keeping up with his craft. Or whatever you call it. And he still appears to have all of his hair!
Okay. Now, I'm moving on.
It wasn't one of my better days. Work was fine, except for the fact that I didn't get nearly as much as I wanted done. The suck started when I was essentially told that it's my fault that someone backed into the side of my car because I apparently think I know everything, and continued when I couldn't find chocolate in the house to complement the non-dinner I had, on through the great debate over whether or not eating marshmallows was such a healthy idea (I reasoned that it was, because the package clearly states that they are "a fat-free food," so whoever wants to quibble with it can f off).
The Circle of Suckitude ceases as of right now, because five minutes ago, I went to the fridge in desperate need of the last caramel apple, only to find that it had either rotted or, more likely, been bitten and put back in the container. I kept asking my mother whether or not she thought it looked rotten or bitten, and she kept replying "I really don't know anything about that," as if I were asking questions with the intent to pin the blame. Well, shit, my whole line of questioning wasn't aimed at blaming, it was aimed at finding out whether or not I could eat the fucking thing. I ended up throwing it out (better safe than sorry and puking, I always say). And I am determined to end this crap by falling asleep to the dulcet tones of my dog gnawing on her chew toy.
It's been a long day at work. I am mentally and physically exhausted from a day full of talking to children about all kinds of crazy things. I need a moment, a focal point, to help me unwind before taking to the bed. Ah, I know:
Yes. Now, I definitely feel better.
Okay. So, two critical comments in a week, huh? This better not become habit:
Ok, perhaps I missed something but the only update I saw was her tongue hanging out... :p Where's the scandal!?My bad, but in many cultures around the world, I would think her tongue hanging out counted as scandal!?
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:
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.
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!
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!
I'm posting this on the Fuckles Blog as well. To wit, from youhavebadtasteinmusic.com:
This Month's Bad Taste Offender: Brock BerlinThis kinda sorta explains a lot. But, wait. Doesn't Brock...
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.
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.
A quick state of the blog report, then I'm going to bed. This week is too damned nuts.
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.
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.
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.
"Come closer! I cannot see you!"
Sorry, I just had to do that. Now, I'm really going to bed.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
I overheard one of the kids proclaiming that at the Lego table situated in one corner of our new waiting area the other day. His gleeful look of victory reminded me of one of the little cuties I used to have at the elementary school a couple of years ago. That dude loved Buffy as much as I did, and he was so well-mannered and cute, I often thought I'd love to take him home with me. Of course, legal issues notwithstanding, I'd have a lot of 'splaining to do at the homestead. That kid is now in the sixth grade. Christmas morning, I'm getting old!
Riley must be really tired. I am openly snacking on some Cheesy Poofs, and she's not even trying to beg. Not even a little.
So, I was at Wal-Mart the other day. In fact, I was there the evening after the whole sandwich debacle. As I was in a semi-Office Space mood that day, I elected to wear jeans and a t-shirt along with my white and pink Reeboks.
Now, I'm not sure if I told you guys this or not, but I wore those same shoes to PMS, and one of the kids proclaimed that I must be in a gang because I was wearing those shoes. Yeah, right. I asked the kid if there was some gang in south St. Pete whose primary color was pink, and if so, did they go from neighborhood to neighborhood, instilling fear in everyone's hearsts by styling and accesorizing the shit out of everything? He didn't get it. Of course not. But he swears that's a "gang color" now, and so do some of my colleagues. Well, crap.
Having said that, fast forward to a couple of nights ago, in the checkout at Wal-Mart. As I'm handing over my cash, the cashier peers over the edge of his stand, looks at my shoes for a good fifteen seconds, then looks at me for another ten before slowly saying, "Nice shoes."
He says this just slowly enough, and looking at me long enough, that I'm slightly uneasy, and am mentally recalling the gang conversation in my head. "Thanks," I try to say nonchalantly, as I pick up my purchases and head for the door, trying not to look like I want to book out of there.
Great, I'm thinking as I head towards the car, some craphead is going to think I'm in a gang and I'm going to get capped in the ass, Boyz N The Hood style. Friggin' fantastic! (Note the sarcasm.)
Suffice it to say, I am happy to report that I have not been capped in the ass because of my shoes. Yet.
So, I was telling Lori the tale of my search for sustenance yesterday. This ordeal occurred, of course, during the three-hour phone conversation and jackassed traffic.
I had decided at some point to forgo Arby's and indulge in a pressed roast beef Publix sub. Mmm. Pressed beef. Well, I drove past my neighborhood to the nearest Publix, and found upon turning into the shopping complex, that it was completely deserted. The windows were dark, and there were no cars parked in front of it. I figured it probably didn't have any electricity because of the storm, so I kept driving.
I proceeded east to the next closest Publix, which had lights on and many patrons milling about. I got in line for the subs, and was three people from the front. It took ten minutes for those customers to get their orders taken care of, and I finally got to the counter. I asked for my sandwich, and the deli worker stated that they were all out of white bread, and only had wheat or wraps. Well, I was not in the mood for wraps or wheat, as I had just had a less-than-thrilling experience with, ironically enough, a wheat wrap. So, I got back into my car and headed for the next, next available Publix, which was closer to my old domicile in Oldsmar.
Knowing that the possibility of treachery being afoot was quite nigh, (What? Did that even make sense?) as I was heading into hostile territory, I entered this third and, as far as I was concerned, final, Publix, in search of my sub. I had already memorized my order: whole Publix roast beef on white bread, light mustard, honey mustard if they had it, with provolone cheese, please press the sandwich before adding the vegetables, because there's nothing more gross to me than hot lettuce, please add to the non-hot lettuce some onion, tomato, parmesan and oregano, and that's it, no combo, thank you very much.
(Yes, I realize that I am the bitch when it comes to run-on sentences!)
I reach the next available spot in line for subs, which, startlingly, is not that far from the front door. This bitch-ass line went from the sub counter, past the rest of the deli, through the bakery, further through the seasonal display, past the checkout, to the door. Swear to God, it was like the Million Man March, but in single file. Fahk.
I bet you Chris Leak wouldn't deny me my GD sandwich. See, he'd even deliver it for me, he's probably that nice!
I took these three failed attempts at obtaining my uber-sandwich as a sign from God. Obviously, after all this driving and frustration, God did not want me to have a sandwich, because if He/She did, my happy ass would be on my way home with it and a bag of cheesy poofs. Word. I gave up on the friggin' sandwich.
God, however, is merciful, and did see fit to let me have the cheesy poofs, sorbet, and root beer, as I managed to purchase those items with considerable ease.
So, what's the point of the story, you may be asking? Fuck if I know. I'm just pissed off that I didn't get my sandwich. But boy howdy, are cheesy poofs ever good when you need 'em!
Nothing would give me greater joy than to subject some of my snottier clients to the occassional "Air Raid" in the middle of session once in a while. Alas, it cannot be. So, I will have to be satisfied with giving the little bastards really difficult puzzles and brain teasers to make their little arrogant heads explode. Hah!
So I heard somewhere that there was a bit of FSU-bashing on this evening's episode of Father of the Pride. I have not had the chance to watch this show as of yet, and am not sure if I am going to invest any time in it. (I missed tonight's episode because I was too busy half-watching another girl with fake boobs from Tampa embarrass herself on national television (again) and hearing about the various degrees of homosexuality there are on the "gay spectrum" (WTF?) on The Real World: Philadelphia. Christ, remind me to refrain from such ridiculousness in the future, unless one of those weekend-long marathons is on.)
Anyway, back to Father of the Pride. Apparently, one of the lion characters was talking about his girlfriend, and said something to the effect of "She's easier to get into than Florida State."
Rad. And Chris Rix still sucks. Did you hear he got injured during the game last weekend? Yeah, and they totally started kicking ass after he left the game! Something about a sprained ankle or some crap. Hey, maybe he can finally use those handicapped spots on FSU's campus for their intended purpose this year!
I know, I'm horrible. But he really, really sucks.
Since the cable went out yesterday during the wrath of Hurricane Jeanne, I managed to finish off the other 3/4 of Season 3 of Alias. Yes, Riley and I decided to spend the day laying about and catching up on espionage and intrigue whilst wind and rain whipped around the house. Hell, we had nothing better to do, since there was no cable, and hence no cable modem, and Riles couldn't exactly go out to pee in such inclement weather (did I happen to mention she was a champ, and held her bladder for almost 20 hours?). Needless to say, I'm probably going to go into Alias withdrawal until January.
Anyhoo, watching all this hot Jennifer Garner action made me nostalgic. Yes, I think you know what I'm talking about...
Time of Your Life, motherscratchers!!!
Ah, to go back to the days when Love was a girl we knew as Sarah Reeves Merrin, who often burst into song at all the right moments. The days when Johnathan Schaech redeemed himself for sporting the ridiculous haircut and horrid eyebrows in That Thing You Do!. The days when Jennifer Garner was Sarah's roommate, Romy Sullivan, who got it on with hot Diego "For the Last Time, My Name Isn't Fucking Pedro" Serrano (how about if one time, when this guy is supposed to be onscreen, Pedro Serrano shows up? Now that would make for quality television!), and the name "Sydney Bristow" was still far from being in the national pop culture vernacular? You know, before Love and Jennifer Garner did photo shoots for FHM and the like, and came away with, uh, interesting shots like this?
I can only imagine what the listing for this guy's job looked like in the Sunday Classifieds!
Anyway, it got me to thinking that even though Time of Your Life was not necessarily loved by all when it spun off of Party of Five, it was still Love's series, and it had a lot of cool shit in it. I loved it as one can only love such a guilty pleasure. They'd better put that shit on DVD, or else they're going to have one pissed off little Asian on their hands. I want a Jen and Jen reunion, damn it!
"Reunited, and it feels so good!" (Yeah, I said it!) Pictured here at the 2004 Golden Globes, Jennifer and Love conspire to take over the world. And as for you over there in the back, no offhand comments about these two and "Golden Globes!" It's already been done to death today!
Please, PTB (Powers That Be), hear my plea: Bring my girls back!
P.S. Extra points to anyone who can identify the source of the reference given in the title of this entry! Prove your geekdom to me!
***(No eyebrows, tattooed men, faux fur vests, tastefully elegant cream-colored formal gowns, or girls named Jennifer were harmed in the making of this post, to the best of our knowledge.)***
I had one of those long-awaited, highly-anticipated phone conversations with Jaz today. You know, one that spans about three hours with intermittent interruptions by other callers, dropped cell phone signals, and jackassed traffic. I've come to regard these monthly conversations connecting Clearwater and Cleveland as happy occasions to hone witty repartee and get yelled at. Or yell at someone. Either way.
Partway through this conversation, Jaz decided to stop at Arby's to get some food. I told her that Arby's sounded good, because I'd gone all day without eating anything, and would probably head to get something to eat after I got out of the hour of traffic that lay ahead of me. Right before placing her order, she gets back on the phone and says, "Hey, do you want anything?" Funny. The girl is just funny.
What's going to be even funnier is when a brown envelope full of Arby's and Horsey Sauce packets show up at her door for no apparent reason six months from now. But you didn't hear that from me. And crap, she's a grad student. She has no time for extracurricular exploits such as reading blogs. Hah! Victory shall yet be mine!
The following is dialogue from the last episode of Alias I watched as part of my crazy "Catch up on all three seasons of Alias before the fourth season starts in January" plan:
Sydney: What were you saying to those guards?
Marshall: I-I think I said "I-I-I can smell you from here," in Ewok.
Sydney: Ewok.
Marshall: Official language of the indigenous creatures on the planet Endor.
That alone is enough to make me keep watching, four episodes at a time. Oh yeah, and there's also this:
And this:
Back to it, then!
I go away for a couple of days to get out of town and unwind, and I think I effectively did that. So how come I am so friggin' exhausted after a weekend of not doing much of anything at all?
I think I'm going to lie down for a while. Perhaps someone doped my Sierra Mist.
This is what I get for talking to the Johnsonian about Nip/Tuck. For serious. I'm all over this shit!
The serious, pissed-off Australian shot:
And, of course, the new standard for female freshmen dorm rooms everywhere:
Off to watch a crapload of Alias now. Toodles.
You actually wind Mao!"
This is the realization I came to earlier this evening on the phone with Dave. I went to dinner with him on Saturday night, and during dinner, he decided that he no longer wanted his way-cool watch, and he was going to give it to me, since I was so amused with it.
Now, let me tell you about this watch. Dave went to China for vacay a few months back, and brought this watch as a kitschy souvenir. Simple, black leather band, but it has a picture of General Mao on it, and not only is the second hand a red star, but General Mao is constantly waving his arm. Oh, if only you could see it in action! Tell me why I should not love this watch!
Ever grateful, I took the watch home, then noticed the next morning that it was behind in time. I popped the crown and reset the time. Later, I noticed the watch stopped completely, and Ol' Mao was resting his arm. Gah. I figured I'd have to bring him into Sears today to replace the battery. Then I thought, wait: David just went to China a few months ago. Crap-ass Chinese craftsmanship!
So, the trip to Sears never came to fruition because I was stuck at work all day. I ended up talking to Dave on the phone, and asked him if the watch ever just stops. And he mentioned it did sometimes. I told him I'd see if they could fix it when I brought it in to replace the battery, since the watch stopped and wouldn't re-start again.
"But, didn't you try winding it first?" he asked, incredulously.
"What the shit are you talking about?" I said, my voice the tone of a helplessly confused person. "Wind Mao?"
"Yes," he said, "It doesn't have a battery. You wind it to keep time."
"Oh. Right."
Well, shit. He just saved my ass a trip to Sears.
Or not. Damned thing still can't keep time for shit.
This puppy totally kicked some ass! Even though this story was published a few days ago, I still tell it to everyone I know! Follow the link below to learn more...
Puppy Shoots Man
I'm not about to get political or anything. I'm not going to do a "Where were you when..."
Just remember and honor those we have lost, and those who continue to try to make things right. You don't have to agree with why anyone's anywhere, just support those that were and are willing to what they do in order to protect those of us who can't or won't.
Much more than this, anyway. I am almost too tired to change the channel to avoid possibly viewing Good Burger. But I will leave the promo for it on long enough to hear the Less Than Jake song playing in the background. Oh, bliss.
It almost makes me want to go a round of Silent Karaoke, since I haven't done that in a couple of months. But, what J.Co said is true: all this hurricane shit is absolutely draining. Being preoccupied with not being able to go where I have to because of closed roads, what supplies I need to get, are we going to get hammered this time?... it's friggin' exhausting. I haven't even had the chance to notice the things that really matter.
Like Silent Karaoke.
Oh, well. Maybe later, after I've mustered the sufficient strength needed that only large amounts of carbonated beverage can provide. Right now, I'm going to probably fall asleep while watching Planet Twelve: The Secret Life of Twelve-Year-Olds. Casualty of the job, I guess. I can't believe I still want to understand these little buggers!
The following was taken from an IM session between myself and Brian Dobeck yesterday evening. It is merely one of many reasons I am including him in my paltry will.
Session Start (gatornation96:misysboy): Wed Sep 08 22:35:37 2004I'm telling you, that kid deserves a parade every year!
gatornation96: damned hurricanes
misysboy: yeah, UM sucks
gatornation96: that's my boy!
Some weird crap has been happening here on the blog today. I tried posting earlier, and things went crazy. Needless to say, I don't have any of that brilliant shit that I wrote earlier. So, I'm a little upset. Let's see if this posts, then we'll go from there.
No matter how bored I get tonight, or how desperate I get for entertainment, or even how much I love Eliza Dushku, I refuse to watch Wrong Turn during any one of its 2,000 airings this month. There, I said it.
Her hot ass be damned, there are just some lines I do not cross.
Another weekend, another storm forcing me to stay indoors with my family. I'm telling you, it almost lead to some quality shouting matches, but I managed to keep my composure long enough to ride out this storm we're having.
On this side of the state (or at least the Pinellas County area), there has been nothing but strong winds and pelting rain for the last day and a half. Riley had yet another "hurricane day" where she didn't get to eat until the evening, and her trips to pee were sporadic because of Noah and his ark going on outside. In proper fashion, Riley spent her day lazing about on my bed, contentedly chewing on her Nylabone keys and occasionally sitting upright whenever the power went off or there was a particularly noisy gust of wind whipping around the house. The rest of the family... well, I think we all basically did the same thing, minus the Nylabone keys.
I would have done some work on the computer if it weren't for the power going out a few times during the day. I was constantly afraid that I'd be in the middle of something, then the power would go off. In fact, the power did go off maybe three or four times today, mostly this morning, but for no longer than a few minutes. So, as the day progressed, and the power outages became less frequent, I decided to watch some programs saved on the DVR to kill time.
I was about halfway into the premiere episode of Hawaii, happily taking in my daily dose of mediocre television, when -zzpt!- the friggin' power went out. I'm wondering if this is some sort of omen for the new television season to come.
I'm not complaining, however. Come to think of it, I was chatting it up with LoLo earlier this evening, and we concluded that we got off light with the hurricane crap for the second time in a month. Those situated in the middle to the eastern coast of the state, however, have not been so lucky.
In fact, I'm hoping to get a check in from everyone in the affected areas, if possible. I hope everyone is doing okay and has managed to stay safe. I will be making the usual calls, and understand, of course, if I won't be able to get through to everyone right away.
Keep dry and keep your heads up, folks.
Eight to eight workday today, and I have to be back in tomorrow at eight in the morning. Found out when I got home tonight that at the last minute, some jerkoff outbid me on eBay. Now I can't find anything even remotely like I wanted on there. Fuckers. I feel like Dan being outbid on Belly memorabilia. I'm going to bed.
