Saturday, December 31, 2005

If I don't see you before then,
I wish you the happiest New Year you've ever had.

Have a safe and warm trip to the other side of you,
where you can begin again, adding the brand new
to the old you've broken in to fit you so well.

mucho love to all - bny

Friday, December 30, 2005

Eat it, it's good for you.


Since she did the whole thing without laughing,
I give her a 79.

I like this a lot, called gutnotes.

Headlines that I think are humorous
but the client will not, so nevermind:

"Overchilled chardonnay? Over our dead bodies."

"Comes with an anti-jam feature. Just wait for the anti-jelly one…"

"Have the world's best disposal at your disposal.
You filthy, rich bastard you."

(Didn't say they were brilliant.)

And finally,
turn the volume down for
a shining example of why having kids is overrated,
and quite possibly, certain people should just stop altogether
and let the world purge itself.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

(Three weeks of good advice from three cracked cookies.)

Movie Review, Movie Review:

So I watched "Wattstax" last night. It was very good. I liked it.

Wait, I can do better than that. Please. Ok...

It had a well-centered message of peace and love and an even greater meaning of hope and happiness, yes it did. And you should watch it for that, and for Richard Pryor. I've been missing him for a long time now. But you know me, I'm more interested in the sparkly aspects of anything. Now all I can think about are splendiferous, bouncy mounds of gravity-defying afros, so what, of course, I want one now. Ooo, and the shiny, tiny hot pants and swingy, polyester dresses -- I wanted those, too. But I get cold too easily so that's right out, oh well. But the boots, dear God, the boots, I love the boots. Even the men wore them. Wait, especially the men wore them. And lo, they were superfly. The Bar Kays were superfreaks, who knew that? I didn't. All I ever knew about them was that they used to be someone, and now I think they play in smelly, mumbly lounges and darkened, indifferent casinos. But geez, I hope not. But hey, on the bright side - doesn't that just describe everyone you know plus me to a perfect size 7.5 boot size? No? Just me then? Huh...ok...well, anyway...

Afros were called "naturals" back in 1972. So don't say I didn't learn anything because I did. Sure, I was somewhat alive in 1972 but more concerned with dangerous toys with sharp edges, my bunny slippers, my hamster, getting to Sesame Street and not spilling Koolaid which was easy SINCE MY MOM WOULDN'T BUY IT, FOR STARTERS. And evidentally, this is where the repressed rage began. So anyway, I also want a vest made out of gold chains like Isaac Hayes had because I bet it was real gold, and buddy, I'd melt mine down for cash money and sail the seven seas with my pirate's booty. Booty, booty, booty. And more booty.

So there you have it - a deep and powerful movie was made, and all I can talk about is booty in one form or another. Isn't that interesting. Well, that's me. I'm that simple.


Ok. So now I will try to produce a more intellectual opinion of "What I Got Out of a Deep and Powerful Movie like Wattstax" a la how I used to do it in elementary school. Here goes:

What I got out of "Wattstax" besides the distinct feeling that things seemed a lot easier in 1972 than I realized, but I'm sure it wasn't however everyone still complained a good deal because I guess that's our jobs, y'know as humans to do that, like squirrels find nuts because it's their job. And they're good at it, too, dammit...

Good Lord, whatever, so much for a deep review. That was a good try for me, but as you see, the tires blew apart in the middle and sent what may have been an actual thought crashing into the drainage ditch.

I'm tired, that's what it is. Booty.

Ok, one more time: I got the want for an afro, and the need to feel the music and the people from the inside out because within this shivering white girl with a constant scarf and ponytail, really, is a dark-and-lovely giant of a woman with a deep, rich, warm soul and voice, never one to hold back from uncaging her rendition of "Amazing Grace" on wings up to God in a river of tears down this side of the mountain and back, and ready to get funky on yo' jive turkey ass because she don't play like that an' she will not walk behind in the blues some man done tried to lay on her, no ma'am, an' all those ones out there who try to keep her down can kiss her ass on Capital Street, an' she'll give you two weeks to draw a crowd because she's like that an' so was her mama, you better believe, so don't even.

That felt good. But that's not quite the point.

For the last time, that's not what I got out of the movie. It's a wonderful film. You should buy it in fact. If you don't like the funk, you just might be dead already. I'm just always like this. I keep going back to the afro I wish I had, and the Koolaid I never drank.

Oh come on. You care, you know you do. Yeah, I understand. I barely care today either. I'm rambly. The shivery white girl's fighting to stay awake for some reason.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Aw, fishsticks!

The cat ran away with my memory. Again.

One more reason to love Canadians - Amoebacorp.

And lastly, a discussion topic for you:

Yes. I see where they were going.
But is "Sudden Headache" really a good name for a drink?
How debonaire can one seem swaggering into a
trendy cocktail bar full of overpriced people
and ordering a drink named "Sudden Headache"?
Why not "Gas Pain" instead?
Unless I'm just reading it wrong, anything is better.

"Panic Attack"

"Chronic Backpain"

You can even branch out into "Oncoming Traffic"
or "Impending Doom" as a similar yet different route.

See? Try it. It's fun.

Aw, no. Thank you.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Back to the crushing grind.

And bored already? Ah, well.

I can't say I made it through unmarked, but at least I'm in one piece.
One horrific fight, lots of gifts, and a half knitted scarf.
Ah. Good times, good times.

And now, a public service announcement:

You think there is no help in sight,
and you think there is no way out.
But there is hope. In a bag.

You see, at Labmonkie Institute, we understand holiday feasting, and we're here to help you get back to that normal path of least resistance called "life." Our scientists have uncovered a breakthrough in treating those struggling with the crippling holiday feasting epidemic. Our doctors hold the key to a bright new future and your complete recovery. Endless research has shown, only one powerful substance can successfully treat this addiction:

Chex Mix: It's the methadone of the holiday feast addicts.

By administering small doses of The Mix every four hours around the clock, the DTs will pass. And you will come clean.

So if you or someone you know needs help,
call 1-800-CHEX-MIX now. We'll crack a bag for you.
And the ass you save just might be your own.

Because here at Labmonkie Institute, we care.
No, really.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

In my case, "Happy Birthday and Mad Props to the Big JC"
observed in this consumerists' year 2005 AI,
Annus iPodNanos. Amen.

However or whatever you may or may not
be celebrating or not celebrating,
deck those halls or haunt them.
Whichever makes the most peace.
Happy December 25th to you.
Today (same as every day except with a bow on it),
I wish you eternal happiness and love.
Eternal, I said. Infinity. So go, world.
Spread it around like chunky peanut butter.*
Smooth, if you like.

*Or soynut butter, if you're allergic to peanuts.
If you're allergic to soynuts, too, well...I can't think of anything
past unflavored gelatin, but you get the idea.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Ooo. Is it Friday already?

In my world, always.

Get your festive swerve on for the impending holidays
with the modern mixologist and my favorite, the mixilator.
Damn, I love peppermint schnapps and pink elephants.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

(thank u for the link, Scottshead)

Monday, December 19, 2005

Things I realized today at the Honda dealership:

Some but not all Southern women are endearing when they gut-laugh at a man violently shaking a vending machine. But it has to be just the right type though. Of woman, not machine.

Most cheap air freshners do not freshen the air at all.

I either almost fell asleep or it's a hypoglycemic coma. I'm not sure.

Man. Kids sure have gotten to be fat little creampuffs, haven't they?

"Wazzhannin', bra" is a totally acceptable way to greet a coworker at the Honda dealership.

Japan: It's not that far away, and I really need to go.

Alecia, you are wanted on line one.

This year, this whole "happy holidays" versus "merry christmas" discussion topic has made me too sensitive, I think.

My eyes hurt. It's Memphis.

The person who eats one free donut at a car dealership is most likely to eat three.

Alecia. Please. Line one.

Bush is on tv. Why. Did something blow up. No one in this waiting room is listening to him, not even me. But someone is rattling a bag of porkrinds and drinking from a styrofoam cup.

I haven't sent my friend Tina her birthday card yet because I don't know what to say.

Someone is looking at me and wondering what my problem is.

Damn. That boy over there is good looking.

I miss the way my grandfather talked to me.

It takes three hours and forty-seven minutes to replace dirty brake fluid, a leaky oil gasket, and a blown lowbeam.

The employees here are getting turkeys and hams apparently. This might sound predictable, but if I hear the word "ham" one more time, I need to know what would happen if I screamed.

The moon was high in the sky behind me today as I left home.

"They ain't no liiions er tiiigers on the bus...aiight? on th' telephone, not th' television. If you was on th' television, I'd be able t' see you, aiight?...yeah....hey. hey save up some money so you have somethin' to leave with...aiight?..."

Ok, you know what, this big guy loitering in my space, swaying back and forth on his feet, is absolutely pissing me off.

But that pissed feeling was warm in comparison to getting in my car and realizing I need all new tires, and it's going to take me another two hours+ to get those on.

"Yew wait here any longer, and yew'll have to clock in," he said. "No, if you make me wait here for 29 more days, you'll give me a free month's rent," I said.

Next lifetime, I'm living in a place with safe public transit options. I'm a train girl myself. This I know for sure.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

It's official. I'm off.

Yes, I'm *away from my desk* from December 19th until the holiest day of them all -- the day after the day after Christmas, December 27th. By then it'll just be a confused, blurry memory soaked with bourbon drinks, silvery sprinkles on cookies and three or four types of cheeses that no one knows the names of but everyone seems to like just fine. So I figured out what I want for Christmas. I want next year. I'm ready for next year. Like, right now.

Yeah, I know..."But ye olde horoscope told you to suck it up and take it like a merry-making consumer." (Oh, Star magazine astrologist, you really do know me. Even though I added the "consumer" bit. Oh, come on, it's implied.)

But you know, if I really feel the strong desire to get bent about Christmas this year then you know what, cosmic rulers at Star magazine? I warmly invite you and your staff assistants to kiss my buche de noel, ok? Sure, it's a delicious and intricate dessert that deserves a hell of a lot more respect than it'll ever get, but you can just roll up your stellar astrological note real tight and shove it up your fa la la.

I just need some french fries. No. Coffee. And patience. For my return and a departure at the same time. If nothing else these days, I do know how I feel and what I think is as constant as the moon. Sure it changes and has its phases and is sometimes covered with clouds, but it's always there, always the same, and always the brightest thing in the darkest sky.

Man, I get tired of the tv and magazines telling me what to do all the time.

Can I get a witness? At least an "amen"? How about five bucks. And I'm turning off the tv.

But. I do have a few more magazines to read. It is Sunday and all. And we partied like one-hit-wonder rockstars last night but luckily, no one took the brown acid. But I feel like Tara Reid's liver. Her poor, screaming liver.

Speaking of that, I need to go shopping today. Have to. Oh come on. You care, you know you do.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

"Oh NO. My REINdeer."

Bad news, kids:
No Christmas this year,
courtesy of me and the Gorillaz.
And I...well...
I'm sorry. Really, I am.
Well. Chin up. It's for the best.
You have too much crap anyway.
Consider giving some away.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Where I'm from, it's stepping into the front yard

and firing off two shotgun blasts.

Just in time for the holiday season, it's
how to handle house guests that stay too long,

Oh, come on now. The holidays aren't that bad.
Ok ok, maybe they are.
Well, don't look at me like I invented 'em!
Get your mind off the whole damn thing
with this snowflake maker by zefrank.

Because really,
how can you be sad with a snowflake in the room?
You might as well get pissed at a donut.
Yeah, I don't know what that means either.
Just make sure to click the 2D and 3D Rotate buttons,
and crack out some yuletide on the rocks if you have to...

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Oh, Kazakhstan.

A Two-Word "Product Review, Product Review" of
my long-awaited encounter with
Colgate Lemon Ice:

Lemon Pledge.

Also, an urgent plea from Jacquie (+ a massage from daniel):

Who LOVES Stella?

(me me me me me me me!)

but you DO love me,
please please please sign
this online petition for a
Season Two of Stella:

daniel will give you a massage!

writER*bunny |liberatOR chick

Thursday, December 08, 2005

I was (only partially) wrong.

Luckily, no one fully cares.
However, I said that Patton Oswalt
was the funniest person in the world.
That is still true, mainly because
existing in his own zachosphere,
there is Zach Galifianakis.
So he is the funniest person closest to the world.
So I'm wrong.
I was right after all.

That doesn't mean that my love and respect
for Patton as the saner one is a bad thing.
It just means if one of them had to do something normal
like make a turkey sandwich with cheese,
I'd let Patton do it before I'd let Zach supervise.
And I'd know exactly which one
might accidentally put my eye out with a fork.

See the documentary
responsible for the series now on Comedy Central
as soon as you can.

"The Comedians of Comedy"

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Oh yes, that's right.

Don't tell your kid "no." Just blame it on the sponge.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005


Somewhere, my sister is going overboard with the good news.

Speaking of:

Call of nature saves man from garbage crusher.

The man "suffered only a minor head injury and mild shock."

Oh and alcoholism. He suffered that, too.
And mental issues, yes probably.
But otherwise, he was as right as acid rain.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Ah well, so much for my soul.
Maybe next lifetime around, I'll do better.
I seriously doubt it though.

But for now, make your own church sign like I just did,
and I'll save you a seat by me and all my friends
at Hitler's Tea Party in hell.

Thanks for the link, Jacquie!

Saturday, December 03, 2005

The XBox 360 sells out within hours.

What this means exactly:
Ah yes, the unfortunate, veal-like herd of cornfed consumers
have been trained to gorge themselves most efficiently. Huzzaaah.

I can't say a damn thing. I bought the mister an iPod Nano* for xmas.


*Shh. Don't tell him.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

It's not easy, and it's simple at the same time.

Somebody just asked what it was like to be me. Although I personally don't condone or recommend it at all, I suspect not many people really want to try it anyway. But here are the highlights for today, as some of these could change tomorrow:

You're addicted to lipgloss (especially if it has vitamins in it) and toothpaste (especially if it promises you things).

How you did it, you don't know, but you left your purse at home this morning.

You're sorry, you really are, but you have to be true to yourself. Although you don't admit it freely, you feel that Bob Dylan is overrated. There, you said it. Because people who really like Bob Dylan take that comment as a personal attack, and you don't get that. At all. You don't get the Grateful Dead either. But you love The Beatles, and if anyone said they were overrated, you'd get so incredibly pissed off. But you would get over it and probably forget that they said it at all.

Some people call it a buzz. You call it contentment with newfound energy and inspiration.

It's not your fault. You never claimed to be smart.

Remember when you thought "Surely in the 21st century, I'll just get an eardrum transplant or something, whatever" when you listened to alllllllll that music too loud? Oops, too bad: That's why you're staring at lips all the time.

Another thing, you think direct eye contact with someone you don't know very well is piercing and borderline maniacal anyway.

Tunnel-vision just might get you killed one day.

Discussing your feelings about the people who are closest to you: No. That's like breathing. You take it for granted, but it keeps you alive.

Sometimes you hate your hair. Sometimes you like it fine. You really should probably cut it though. All you ever do is wear it up in 3 different ponytails. What is up with you anyway...

Screw it, you like your damn ponytail, and you're growing out your hair long, again, for the apocolypse.

Reading a book is impossible unless you read it in the bathtub. That way, the fear of falling asleep and drowning keeps you awake and focused.

Most of the stuff you read in the bathtub is a bunch of magazines like "Star", "Self", "Real Simple", "New Yorker", and "OK!" and two more that you secretly won't admit: "Cottage Living", and "Countryside" so one day, you can live off-the-grid in a yurt with a cable modem connection and some blueberry eating goats.

You have a good plan, but it isn't completely thought out yet.

Whatever. You just love your damn magazines.

Like you said, there are a lot of things you take for granted. But one thing you know is that all of the friends you have are seriously genuine and talented people, and if they'd never spoken to you first, you would never have known them at all.

Rarely if ever do you talk on the phone.

The cat only tears up the things you like, so you can't ever have anything nice. So just forget about it for a few years, okay?

You like roses and sparkly things, and you admit that freely, too, although no one really cares one way or the other by the way.

Narrowing it down is something you can only do when someone asks you what you don't like.

That garden gnome you laughed at? You have one now. Ha ha.

You get bored/distracted/whatever very easily. That's not exactly your fault either.

Somebody turned the heat up, and you feel dried out and dusty. You can't get up. Man, this is serious -- you are too burned out to get up anyway. Maybe tomorrow. Oh man, yeah, tomorrow is Friday, thank you, God.

Vitamins and supplements: You get 200% RDA and could use more, Dorian Gray.

You think it's only a matter of time before they find the cancer somewhere in your body.

Cooking is fun to you. But you end up cooking mostly pasta, mainly whole grain, with different types of sauces. Quinoa makes you happy, too, in that sad kinda stupid way...

Whoops, you've bored yourself again. Man. Oh well, at least you're consistent.

Weeding is relaxing to you. Oh now that's it -- what a nerd. That makes you feel old, doesn't it? But eh, like you'll ever believe that. Besides, what else are you up to on a Saturday? It's not like you're out running a marathon with that back, granny. You freak you out. Stop it!

Did you really wear black socks with your Nikes today? YOU DID! ... What is WRONG with you?!

Not many people around you understand a damn thing you are talking about ever. For some reason, that never stops you. But the ones that do understand just know everything you are thinking unspoken, and you want to know more about what they think. But you usually don't offer up any information unless someone asks you to because you're either listening or not listening, it's hard to tell.

You forgot to get olives at the store again, so way to go.

People mistake your squinting for aggression. And you're too nice, so stop with the nice already.

Yeah, we know. You can't.

To you, Patton Oswalt is the funniest person in the world right now, and Denis Leary just needs to retire. Honestly.

You miss your sister but not all of her. You miss the person she seemed to be when she was about 21 years old.

You could go on for days, but eventually you get goobed out writing a list about what it's like being you. But you publish it anyway because you're like that.

You like people who like you.