Thursday, December 30, 2004

"I will tell tales of your compassion!"

Earlier this evening, I headed to the Blockbuster closest to where I was at the time to go rent the third and fourth DVDs for the first season of Alias, as Dan and I kicked the first two DVDs in the ass yesterday (along with almost a whole tray of veggie lasagna, which tested my gastric fortitude later in the evening). The only reason I'm renting is because I lent my first season out a bit ago, and I didn't want to ask for it back, knowing the borrower hadn't finished it yet. Besides, it was free because of that whole "Blockbuster Rewards" deal. Sweetness.

Anyway, I was there, at a Blockbuster far from my home store, dealing with this rather eccentric cashier (he kept talking to himself, then asking me if I wanted to renew my "Rewards," then commenting on his register computer's idiosyncracies as if I gave a crap), when I heard my name being called quite loudly from the other register. It was one of my clients, with his entire family.

The thing is, I had spotted his folks in the aisles a few minutes previously, and managed to duck past them to avoid notice. I was a sitting duck at the register. Fahk.

It's funny about the rules of confidentiality and whatnot. I can't tell anyone else personal details about my clients or their families as a general rule; however, clients have the choice to tell (or not) others anything and everything they choose. I've had several children, even parents, just out loud tell the general public about how I'm their therapist, and what they say in session, blah, blah, blah... Which I guess shouldn't really bother me, since it's not me breaking confidentiality, but sheesh, I have to stand there stupidly while they talk about deeply personal things in public for all to gawk at or ignore.

Anyway, there are some families that you don't have to worry about, because they seem to understand tact and diplomacy and all the other social graces. There are also those families that you pray to your higher power about, begging for the mercy to never encounter them in a non-work setting. The weird thing is that it's those families that always seem to like me the most. Dammit.

With this family I encountered this evening, the kid is socially competent. The bad thing is, his parents aren't so great with that. I'm glad the kid was the one to call out, and not the mom. He just looked generally startled to see his therapist out in the world, as if at the end of the day, we don't go home, but are put away in our hyperbaric chambers for the evening to recharge for the next day. It was kind of funny. The part that made me want to run was when the Mom came up to me to compare rentals, and suggested that I rent from their family, because they have over 350 DVDs now. This mom reminds me of the one that called me a couple of weeks ago to talk about how she thought of me often, and was hoping to run into me in a work capacity, and why is it unethical for us to hang out socially if her kid isn't my client anymore? Sheesh.

Anyway, I grabbed my Alias with Jennifer Garner-like stealth, wished them a Happy New Year, and high-tailed it out of there like... well, I can't think of something clever. Shit.

Speaking of Alias, I am geeked that the new season starts next week! I told Dan that he needs to catch up on the first three seasons before the premiere of the fourth season next Wednesday. He may have muttered something rude, but I probably chose to ignore it.

In preparation for next week's happiness, I have been updating Danhole on the series, walking everywhere in stealth mode, and watching the third Elektra trailer. That comes out on the 14th, and she hosts SNL on the 15th, so next month will be chock-full of Garner. But, what I'm really excited about is the return of my boys!


The future Mr. Julie M. Johnson. Or so she thinks!


I know it's small, but I thought it was hilarious.



"You want to go out sometime? No? Okay." Marshall's so awesome! I mean, do you know anyone else who can speak Endor?


Ah, Sark. You've been naughty. Which is why you can hang out after, if you want.


I know I promised someone that he could play the Messianic in the movie, but if he pisses me off with that Bridget Jones shit one more time...

Anyway, I think I am going to think up different designs to spray paint on my laptop. Suggestions welcome.

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Wednesday, December 29, 2004

I need a new job.

I've been on vacay for three days now, and all I can think of is the next weeklong break I have, coming up at the end of January.

Mind you, I never take vacay, and it's about time I did, but just the fact that I have no desire left in me to go to work is a bit frightening. Never mind that someone who predicted I would get the job I am currently in said to me a couple of days ago that she didn't see me being at my present job for much longer; I am in need of newness.

Couple that need with the depressing thought that I slugged my way through grad school in one of the top programs in the nation for what I do, and slugged my way right into a lifetime of debt, just to realize that this line of work doesn't pay much more than peanuts, and you've got a delightful vacation, full of empty hours to think of such nonsense.


I need to get off the Depressio Train. This is too much.


Ah. That's much better.

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Best three dollars I spent all day.

It's late, and I probably should be sleeping. But, I'm not, because I'm quite excited about the purchases I made this afternoon before heading to Danhole's for an Alias mini-marathon.

See, I made a pit stop at the Bargain Basement, where you are likely to find out-of-date over-the-counter medication and all kinds of other stuff. I was fully expecting to just get some hair elastics, and possibly a couple of Care Bears composition books, if I was lucky. I did manage to find a planner and a bandanna, but I was not prepared for what waited for me at the end of the last aisle before checkout.

Like a beacon in the middle of the afternoon, I saw it: the Care Bears Magic 8-Ball.

Best. Idea. Ever.


If there was ever a toy that sounded more like a street drug, I have yet to hear about it.

Of course, I had to get one. Problem was, I only had ten dollars until payday, which is this coming Friday. What a conundrum!


"What was I to do? How was I to proceed?"

I picked one up and looked at the price: THREE DOLLARS. Well, shit, in that case, I was buying one for me and Kris! Woot!

So now, I'm going to bed, with $3.58 to last me until Friday. Oh, hell. I'll be broke, but at least I'll be fuckin' entertained!

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Sunday, December 26, 2004

How did this happen?

So, I'm sure most of you know the story of why I have "bananawhirled" instead of "bananaworld" in my blogspot address. For those of you who don't, let me give you a quick summary.

When I signed up for this blogspot loveliness, my first choice was obviously "bananaworld," shouting out to the old web page, the original computer, Bloom County and whatnot.


The most important men in my life, from the ages of seven to now.

Well, much to my chagrin, I discover that someone else already has http://bananaworld.blogspot.com. And according to the title of the page, that motherscratcher apparently has trademarked it (?!).

It doesn't look like this fellow, whose name is apparently Eustace, is going to be giving up his blog address any time soon. Apparently he's some kid from Singapore in some sort of Army officer training over there. Feel free to browse his site if you like, but here is an unedited excerpt from his thoughts on the movie Alexander:

Alexander. The flick was kindna er... Maybe it was too intellectual for me. But their English was super Power man... More Powderful than powerful man..

It shows how Alexander grew to his throne. His obession about his overloving Mom (Angelina Jolie), how he conquered Persia until India, his gay partners and straight partners and many others. Yup... He IS gay. Apparently i think its because of his obessive Mom, it makes him quite difficult to believe in women, so he turns to GAY! [So beware women! Don't LOVE your boy-children too much, otherwise they turn gay...] And the show actually shows a woman bearing her breasts!


*gasp*

I'm still quite immature at this. But apparently i'm not so comfortable watching nudity on movie screens just yet...

I have something to confess online now. I think i'm really man with no confidence.
Wait. Listen... Do you hear that? Somewhere, in the confines of this county and within viewership of this page, a gay man is fainting. Will someone please be kind enough to help him back to consciousness!


What would Opus say about this travesty? Better yet...


What would Oliver, original owner of the Banana Junior 2000 Computer, say?

I have so much to say on this, I just can't find a starting point, for fear a deluge will occur. I just wish I had the blog name I intended to have. Oh, well. Maybe this is better.

Accept no substitutes! For absolute mediocrity, this is the place to be!

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Saturday, December 25, 2004

Nothin' says "Yuletide" quite like Jennie Garth!

Wouldn't you agree? I mean, for crying out loud, her middle name is, literally, "Eve"! Can you ask for a more seasonal blessing?

If I was a smarty, I'd post a picture of Shannen Doherty, circa 1991, and have the caption "Ho, Ho, Ho!" But, I'm not, so I didn't.

I think I'm a little slaphappy from all this Holiday Cheer. Just typing all that above has me thinking of rewriting the tale of the Christ Child's birth with Brandon, Dylan and Steve as the Three Wise Men, bringing gifts of Mustangs, Porsches, and Corvettes. Andrea would play the role of the Virgin Mother, while... So this is what eating too much good food at once does to you.

Just be glad that I didn't start thinking of the previous scenario with the cast of Alias. My head would have probably exploded.

Moving on. Please.

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"Hey there, Mr. Hinduist, Merry f***ing Christmas!"

"In case you haven't noticed, it's Jesus' birthday. So get off your heathen Hindu ass, and fuckin' celebrate!"

That's one of my favorite songs to play during Christmas dinner at my house.

This holiday is going quite swimmingly.

I've been excited all week because my Little Brat Sister is in town, and I've had a few opportunities to harrass her. Yesterday, we spent the afternoon snacking on some "whores do-overs" with family and friends (did I mention Kid Smartypants makes a mean peanut chutney?). Then, last night, my brother and I took shifts sleeping in the car before Midnight Mass. After Mass, we ate dinner and opened presents (Riley really cleaned up this year). Fabulously, DJ Rumpshaker and I got to sleep in longer than I anticipated. Right after I rolled out of bed and took her out for a quick constitutional in the rain, we ate a crazy-ass Christmas lunch, honey-baked meats courtesy of my Aunt in Jersey. Stocked for hibernation, we managed to catch a quick catnap before spending the rest of the afternoon watching movies.

Now, Perla is working on cooking up dinner, and I'm planning on opening up two of my other four stomachs to accomodate. And do you know what else just tickles me? It's Saturday night, and even though it's Christmas, they're still airing the weekly hourlong episode of Cheaters! Rock out with your cock out! 'Tis the season for yuletime WT! Woot!

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Thursday, December 23, 2004

"I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be..."

Yet another long day full of nothing. I worked until eight tonight, and had nothing but four kids showing up. Wonderful. At least I got two intakes knocked out while I sat on my ass waiting for kids to not show up.

I knew from the go that it was going to be one of those days. I even stopped at Publix before getting to the office so I could grab some eats to last me through the day. I knew I was getting desperate when I saw the spray cheese on sale and thought it would be a good idea. I knew I was finally at desperate when I actually bought a can, along with a box of Ritz crackers. I knew I had to seek my own professional help when I sat at my desk ten minutes after getting to the office, bored to tears, and took out the crackers and cheese and spelled, with each letter getting its own cracker, the following:

I AM SURROUNDED BY A-HOLES!
I then proceeded to rearrange letters to spell silly things. I felt like I was doing the word games in the Sunday Parade or some shit ("How many words can you make with the letters in 'a-holes,' kids?"). And it took me a hell of a long time to finish eating those crackers, as they were surprisingly dry and I ran out of soda quickly.

All this happened in my first half-hour at work.

The rest of the day went similarly slow. My last client of the day, who I sometimes would like to smack with a raw fish, didn't bother showing up for her appointment, but somehow convinced her grandfather that she would "meet him there" after she left the house to meet up with her boyfriend. And since he showed up for the appointment, I had to wait at least twenty minutes to see if she showed up before I could send Grandpa back home. And of course, in that twenty minutes, Grandpa regaled me with tales of hand surgery and workman's comp woes whilst his punkass grandchild ran wild in the streets (note to J.Co: please refrain from singing Bon Jovi right now).

I felt like re-creating my Ritz cracker message at the front entrance to the building by the time 8:00 rolled around.

Maybe tomorrow I will post what happened after work. But for now, I am exhausted. I still have a few hours before I have to go at it again, so I'm going to spend them sleeping next to a snoring DJ Rumpshaker.

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Sunday, December 19, 2004

Musical residue.

I have been sitting here at the domicile, doing anything that is the opposite of doing actual work. I decided to listen to some streaming audio whilst surfing the net. Usually, its' a nice distraction and easy way to fill up the quiet of a room that contains a dog napping next to her new Nylabones.

This evening, however, is a different story, as what only occasionally happens to me occurred again, but with much brute force: I got a song in my head, and am having a hell of a time getting rid of it.

Normally, I wouldn't sweat something like this, but the main problem here is that the song was Mr. Big's "Be With You." I will refrain from posting lyrics here, as I don't want you loyal viewers to suffer my same fate. Hell, some of you may already be singing the song in your head, and are thusly affected. My apologies.

The friggin' song won't go away, and I've tried all the usual tactics: playing a slew of other songs (I even played "Vienna" three times in a row, but that didn't work); I tried to distract myself with other things (hence I now have five new ringtones for my cell); I even scooped up the dog and drove over to PetSmart to finish up her Christmas shopping (resulting in previously mentioned Nylabones for her and a cone from Marble Slab for me). This can only mean one thing, my last resort:

Debbie Gibson's Greatest Hits Album!

As real as it may seem, it was only in my... oh, forget it.

Well, it's either that, or hunt down plugins for Trillian. Let me think on that one for a sec.

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People are funny. Disgusting, and funny.

I think that my people-watching quotient has gone all kinds of wonky. I've been in situations in the past month that lend to nothing but watching others and not getting my work done. Even when my goal is to do non-work things, I can't help but find myself mired in the observation of fellow humans. This crap has got to stop.

This morning, I found myself at a Waffle House, trying to eat at least 70 percent of my All-Star Special, when I witnessed the lady seated next to me bitch at the server because she didn't hear the server order her "seven minute waffle," then proceed to pour about a cup of sugar and
four coffee creamers into her bowl of grits. Eww. Eww. Eww.

It was all I could do to not throw chunks. I can't imagine how those grits tasted, but it looked horrible. I had to just keep downing glasses of water, not look at the lady, and remind myself of all the money and delicious food that would be going to waste if I spewed.

Fast forward to an undisclosed shopping location (kept secret so as not to give away the site where I might have purchased a certain anonymous someone's Christmas present,) where I witnessed some high-pitched woman screeching at her significant other that she needed "This, this, and this," all whilst piling very expensive accessories into his arms. He, of course, dumbly accepted the heap and paid for everything. I can't wait for the day I can be that scrawny, privileged, high-pitched woman doing the same thing (note intense sarcasm).

This is too much. I'm going to go and not have a bowl of grits right now.

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Friday, December 17, 2004

"The sky is blue and all the leaves are green..."

"...Dan is as cheap as a baked potato!" Oh, wait. That's not how it goes. Sorry.

Dan is making me watch
The Last Starfighter from somewhere in the middle of it. I could punch him in the eye.

We tried taking more Christmas pictures of DJ Rumpshaker today. She looks evil in almost all of them. There is no truer testament to her being mine.

Okay, back to the salt mines.

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"That's the smartest thing that bitch has done all night!"

I'm telling you, that Hufflepuff is a damned riot. The above quote, of course, came as we watched the conclusion of Center Stage a couple of weeks ago. As a reward for her wit, I have not commented on the status of her turn-out since then (unfortunately, LoLo has taken the brunt of that).

Chocolate croissants are bad news. I mean it. I'm ensconced here at Panera again, but this time, I'm at one that has consistenly fresh-tasting chocolate croissants. One thing I still don't get, however, is why they insist on putting your napkin on the tray for your food, under the greasy/sticky/otherwise non-dry food itself. It's an enigma, and it's pissing me off.

It's slim pickings at Panera today, what with all the ladies with small children and the elderly couples. Looks like there will be no shit-starting today for me. Sigh.

DJ Rumpshaker went to the groomer's today, and came back with Christmas bows on her ears. She looks friggin' adorable. I'm supposed to go by Danhole's this afternoon so we can take some more pictures for Riley's Christmas cards. In fact, I just got an IM from him that simply said "you ready for doggy pics?" This, of course, coming from a man who sent me the first set via an e-mail entitled, I shit you not,

Pics (Doggy Style).
I mean, seriously.

I'm getting tired of this Panera Holiday Music. There's never any words to the mofo's. I think I will surf around for a live feed, then get back to this. After a refill on my Diet Pepsi, that is.

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"Oh my God, I'm gonna die. My cheeks hurt!"

That's what one of my favorite kids said to me today after we laughed hysterically for twenty minutes over stupid shit. It's rare moments like those that make me semi-quasi glad that I work for a non-profit organization. It was worth it for her to go from her cheeks hurting, to saying her lungs were going to pop, to saying her brain was going to erupt.

Luckily, none of the above happened. I could just imagine the look of disappointment on her Mom's face when I would have to tell her that I just broke her kid.

Balls.

I really should be getting to bed soon. I have to take DJ Rumpshaker to the groomer's tomorrow for her Holiday Hosedown, then have to finish some insane Christmas shopping. However, I still find myself in front of this blogdoggery, typing away and listening to the latest episode of Mauryplaying in the background.

I swear, if it wasn't for my DVR, I wouldn't watch even a fraction of all the WT glory that I do. Nor would I get to watch all those Golden Girls episodes in rapid succession. I heart my DVR.

Okay, I'm getting out of my tree now. Going to bed, and praying I don't wake up with a furry, slobbering canine hat in the morning.

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Thursday, December 16, 2004

MORE "More than a Feeley."

More chuckles, from ESPN.com's Page 3:

A.J. FEELEY, Miami Dolphins
On occasion, I'll look to the sky and ask, "Why is it blue?" Or maybe I'll look wistfully up at a basketball rim and ask, "Why wasn't I born to dunk?" In sports bars, I frequently hear, "How the [expletive] is A.J. Feeley dating Heather Mitts?"

In the event you're out of the loop on women's soccer here's the skinny on Mitts: As a member of the U.S. National soccer team and Page 2's Hottest Female Athlete of '04, Heather Mitts is one of the most desirable female athletes on the planet (apologies to golf's Next Big Thing, Natalie Gulbis). Mitts, she of the cover-girl looks and disarming smile, has attracted many a suitor, namely ex-boyfriend, Pat Burrell (overrated Philadelphia Phillies outfielder) and actor John Cusack. A newspaper report in June of 2001 alleges Cusack attempted to kiss her after taking her to dinner in Manhattan, but she responded with the pullback. Ouch.

Feeley, 27, appears to have won her heart. Back in October of 2002, a newspaper spotted the couple cutting a rug on the dance floor at a club in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Three months later, things got quasi-serious, as they attended the Super Bowl together in January of 2003. By March, they were Philadelphia's cutest couple (meanwhile, Burrell privately stewed and had the worst season of his young career).

Many predicted the relationship would go kaput when Feeley signed with Miami. Not quite. Word on the street is the 26-year-old Mitts has moved with him in Florida, and of all the quarterback couples, these two appear to have the greatest staying power.

Okay, some things:
  • Lately, when I see media coverage of the Heather/AJ machine, I hear Fozzy Bear in my head. I'm not even kidding.
  • In sports bars, I frequently hear, "How the [expletive] is A.J. Feeley dating Heather Mitts?" This statement can most clearly be heard at the Gator Goal Getters booth at the Beard, as well as at The Swamp Restaurant, the Gainesville Ale House, and walking towards Concordia Condominiums on a sunny, autumn Sunday afternoon.
  • A newspaper report in June of 2001 alleges Cusack attempted to kiss her after taking her to dinner in Manhattan, but she responded with the pullback. Ouch. Haven't I always told you Mittsy was a smart girl? And to think, back in 2001, she didn't even know about Cusack's personal odor or his traveling "herbologist." Smart like a Gator!
More on this later. Because of the Holiday Eats at work, I have reached Critical Mass.

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Saturday, December 11, 2004

Always fun on a Saturday night.

In an effort to take a break from all the cleaning and chore-like things I've been doing all day, I decided to leave the domicile for a couple of hours. After a harrowing half hour at Wal-Mart (and don't worry, I will never need to be reminded to stay away from the WT Capital of the World during the Holiday Season ever again), I find myself at the Panera that I believe is closest to my domicile: the one in Oldsmar.

There seem to be a lot of families here this early evening. And since this area is ripe with young professionals and their SUV-inhabiting offspring, there seems to be an unusually pungent aroma of... dear God... is that Red I am actually smelling? Do they still make that stuff? The last time I smelled that perfume on purpose had to have been ninth grade, and even then, it had a negative connotation in my mind. I think I'm going to have a flashback!

Oh, never mind. A kid in the booth next to me just started crowing like a buzzard. I think I'm okay now.


This post brought to you (unwittingly) by The Man in White!

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I call this one, "Buble in the Bubble."

There is nothing better than camping out on the bed with your favorite pooch, catching up on this season's episodes of Las Vegas. The only complaint I have so far is that they have one of those jackballs from 7th Heaven trying to woo the LV girls by telling them he's dying of cancer. And I think he's trying to do that whole slightly-scruffy-yet-clean-cut thing that Josh Duhamel already does so well. Sorry, Mr. WB Castoff, but there's only one Danny McCoy at the Montecito Hotel and Casino! That's right! Tad Hamilton's a-gonna kick your WB-lovin' ass!


Isn't he dreamy?

Sorry. Lost myself a bit there.

I've got a little one here to tuck in, but before I go, let me leave you with an exchange that just exemplifies why I love this show (and why I'm glad the first season is coming out on DVD in January):

Nessa (Watching Danny and Mike playing a fighting video game): Two men, fighting half-naked in a bathroom. That's not gay!
Mike (Never taking his eyes off his game): Gay like a fox, baby!

Comic gold, I tell you! Goodnight!

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Friday, December 10, 2004

Grant tells the Best. Jokes. Ever.

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?

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Thursday, December 09, 2004

A naked lady walks into a bar with a poodle under one hand, and a two-foot salami under the other.

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!

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Wednesday, December 08, 2004

"So what are you waiting for, America? Someone to hold YOUR boobs?"

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.

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Oh. My. God.

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.

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"Must be my birthday!"

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!

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Saturday, December 04, 2004

Passed out flat on my ass in Pinacoladaburg.

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.

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Monday, November 29, 2004

The Edge of Reason. Reasonably, schmeasonably!

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.

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Monday, November 22, 2004

"I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind. I feel free now. "

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!

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Tuesday, November 16, 2004

DJ Rumpshaker can't stop sneezing.

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.

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Monday, November 15, 2004

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce... the high hat!"

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.

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Thursday, November 11, 2004

"I'm sorry, but I'm a comic book hero that wears panties."

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!"

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This week needs "to be over like Rover the Casanova!"

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.

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La Resistance lives on.

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.

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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

The DarkChild Remix.

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.

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Monday, November 08, 2004

Yeah, so today sucked.

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.

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Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Tired.

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.

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Monday, November 01, 2004

"I can roll if you can; don't be a punk!"

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!?

Fine, fine. Here's the Britney Scandal Report of the Week, brought to you in part by Suzanne "Thank God She's Pretty" Bourne Reyenga*:

There is no scandal this week. Other than the fact that Britney is still married to that idiot. I seriously think that if he stopped dressing like a prison bitch and shaved his facial once in a while, he could be passably attractive.

Oh, my kingdom for Anson Mount!


Rrrow.


Double rrrow.

Or even that French guy in the "Don't Let Me Be The Last To Know" video. He was hot to trot (ass tan lines and all).

Heh heh. Frenchy. Heh heh.

Wait, wait! I found something scandalous!
A picture from the "Outrageous" video shoot (remember, the one where Brit busted her knee again and had to cancel the rest of her tour?).

Now, if this doesn't say, "Holy Shizzle," I don't know what does! I hope they finish that video. That'd rule.

*Oh, hush. She knows I love her. :)

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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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