I caught you a delicious bass.


Here.

But if you'd rather have some Ralph Wiggum, just listen to your heart. That's what I do.

Back to happy fun time!


No talk, just love. Many happy Japanese love time for me and for you.

Click "menu" then start the song.

Two more things to live for: June and October.


You know how I feel about Tim Burton's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" due out in June 2005. It makes my eyes glaze over like two enchanted Krispy Kremes. See the clip here if you haven't yet. I watch it every now and then when things get monotonous. So, I have watched it lots lately. It's one of the strings I keep tied to the sturdy oak so I don't get lost deep in the forest, you know, the one you can't see for the trees on most days.

So now, I have two trees. I think I'll make this one an elm. Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride". See? Life is very good. And really, life-after-death looks very slimming.

"Then we shoot dogs and have a party."

You know, it's the optimism in me that always makes me forget just how boring business can be -- I mean real business, like being busy for the sake of producing practical business items to sell. Belch. Then being lazy after being busy like that is, well, just depressing. It's an endless circle that looks exactly like a pie chart to me. So I've got nothing much to talk about unless you feel like talking about lumps of coal and projects due in 24 hours, with a 2-liter Coke and breadsticks for only $17.99.

On top of this, it's a full moon, and I have developed another undying obsession with Borat and Kazakstan.

I am embarrassed to say that I am addicted to a terrible song. This is partly Scott's fault because he introduced me to this particular song Borat performed in a cowboy bar in Tucson, Arizona.

No, it's not one of those dandy-fop, leather-chapped cowboy bars in NYC where the conversation is witty and the talk turns to rugged fabrics over three or four cosmopolitans. No, this one is a little more authentic, where they actually ask you to "give a hoot'n' a holler" to this person on the stage, but it's not as rough as the bar in The Blues Brothers where they sang "Rawhide" in a chicken-wire cage.

So now I'm basically stuck in this quagmire (bonus points for use of the word "quagmire") over this horrible song named "In My Country There is Problem". I apologize to anyone who doesn't know me, to those who do know me, and to anyone who doesn't understand that his approach is actually brilliant.

Anyway, Ron found the official site of Kazakstan, and now I know why Borat's fun evening in Kazakstan is shooting dogs and having a party. They have a game (under "Culture", nine links down in National Games) in which you Fight Over a Goat's Carcass. What? Am I making fun? Man, give peace a chance. It's fascinating.

Luckily, I can't find the video clip for you to actually see Borat sing it. It'd only make things worse for you because you'd have the images of the innocent Borat with his giant cowboy hat on and his unwashed-for-seven-years suit (so he said and I believe) singing amongst a bunch of semi-cowgirls and -boys in a bar who find it ok to sing along with this song.

Oh, I can't say anything. I skip down the street singing it now. This is the first day since I have seen it that I haven't woken up with it in my head. I hope that's not one of the first signs of schitzophrenia.

Oh rats. I found it. Here. Enjoy, and I'll save you a seat at my new support group, "Misunderstanding Laughter at the Expense of the Audience, Not the Song, So Don't Hate Me or Anyone, Ever, Unless it's Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan."


And finally:

Who knew, in the spirit of "shakin' those haters", this week is No Name Calling Week. Next week, it's Explosion of Repressed Rage Week. Oh, you saw that one coming from a mile away, didn't you? Well, I cannot wait.

Man, that last post sounded terrible, didn't it?

Ah well, you know I was just trying to be funny. Trying, trying, trying. But I bet I'm not alone in thinking that a Hummer could be driven into Paris Hilton in more way than one. I must be jealous that I'm not a millionairess.

No. She's an annoying waste of space. Yes, she annoys me. At least Versace and/or others can advertise on her for free.

Ok, enough of that! Drive out the jive and unpack the love -- Happy Monday, People! I got nothin' to talk about today. Can you tell? Ever since I got my new garbage can, my life has been kinda status quo. And uneventful, like a gardenhose. I could use a cupcake though. Or a piece of birthday cake. Or something like that. Sorry I'm extra-boring today.

Good story, huh? I need a nap.

Don't shoot shoot shoot that fug at me.


Oh, I mean this: Thank you, Bushra! I'm serious. This blog helps fill the void left by my gay menfriend who've either moved away to work other places like Disney World, or we've been fired away from each other in an unfortunate series of career events. I could've sworn this was written by a gay man, but upon closer inspection I think it's fueled by the hate of two women together.

Even better.

So fug my Star magazine up the ole Paris Hilton with a Hummer. Go Fug Yourself is succinctly more fun. Yeah. I said "succinctly", you dirty shoe-whorin', bow-tyin', soiree-plannin' thing, you. With your fat sushi-barfin' cow friends like Mary-Kate. Me-fuggin-yeow.

Aww, Starbucks, you shouldn't have.

No, really. You shouldn't have. This is liquid chocolate, junkieman. What are you, some kind of sadistic Willie Wonka?

Wait, hold on. Maybe it's just me. On second thought, I'm positive that it fits somewhere nicely in the new Food Pyramid. Maybe you know something we don't. Maybe soon we will be invaded, enslaved and glad that we packed on that extra supply of fat reserves for us to burn through.

You are too sweet to us, Starbucks.


This is a day late but hey, happy belated birthday!

So I ripped this out of Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" email from yesterday. Yeah, I know, I sound 104 years old for admitting I'm subscribed to that. But anyway since Lorrie Moore is such an eencredible fakkin writer (that's Australian for "exceptionally good") and is highly recommended by David Sedaris (who made my glasses fog up October 17th, 2003), I thought I'd wish her a belated birthday and force you to ordering a Lorrie Moore book now. If you want to read something damn good, treat yourself to Lorrie Moore. It's good for you, might give you a slight buzz, plus it won't give you a myocardial infarction like liquid chocolate:

It's the birthday of short story writer Lorrie Moore, (books by this author) born in Glens Falls, New York (1957). She's the author of the short story collections Like Life (1990) and Birds of America (1998). She skipped a grade in school when she was growing up, and the difference in age between she and her classmates made her feel especially small and shy. She said, "I felt so completely thin that I was afraid to walk over grates. I thought I would fall down the slightest crevice and disappear."

She started writing in college, and published her first story in Seventeen magazine. She was so happy she proceeded to send them everything she'd ever written. She said, "They couldn't get rid of me. I was like a stalker. I sent them everything, and of course they didn't want anything more from me."

It was only after she told her parents about her publication that she found out they had both wanted to be writers themselves. Her father went up into the attic and brought down stories that he'd once submitted to the New Yorker, and her mother admitted that she'd given up journalism for nursing.

In grad school, Moore realized she had to decide whether she wanted to devote her life to writing or to the piano, which had been her first love. She said, "The typewriter and the piano were actually similar ideas, for my mind and for my hands. I was completely unaccomplished musically [but] I was having ecstatic experiences in the practice room and wasn't getting any writing done. So I had to choose." She chose writing, and published her first book of short stories by the time she was twenty-six years old.

Lorrie Moore's first book was Self Help(1985), in which the stories were written in the style of how-to manuals, including "How to Be an Other Woman," "How to Talk to Your Mother," and "How to Be a Writer."

"How to Be a Writer" begins, "First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age—say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire."

When she was asked in an interview why she writes so often about characters who make lots of jokes, she said, "I feel that when you look out into the world, the world is funny. And people are funny. And that people always try to make each other laugh. I've never been to a dinner party where nobody said anything funny. If you're going to ignore that [as a fiction writer], what are you doing?"

I didn't think I'd have anything to say today. Well, I don't really. Luckily, Scotthead sent me this link of interest on Ali G. "Thank you, Scott" and "Dammit, I love Borat". So there you have it. Otherwise, I got nothin'.

I think I am dazed and confused. Really scared. In the past week, I have gotten:

- one new, red garbage can

- rid of an unused health club membership
plus dismissal of 3 months' accrued fees

- Free Play of all games at the local Jillians,
until my arm cramped from too much Galaga

- lots of things I needed On Sale

- errands done

- sleep

- exercise

- My Way, in general, with life.



Eek?

Even more links, even less talk!

I yammo mui busy-eeto right now, but I have linkies for youuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

Enjoys-es!


many, many cool Interactive cards

Hashai.com

and

illville

More links, less talk:

Here are some fugitive links for a fugitive Monday. I'm not even sure what I was going to say about these now, you lucky thangs! Enjoy:

complaints.com

viceland.com

tidelandthemovie.com

What is EPIC?

collectivegood.com

Let The Eat Cake! Sweepstakes

Ever catch yourself wishing that you had the glamorous, carefree life of a celebrity, even if it was just a dumb one? And then you see a picture like this and you think, "No. I'm good. Thanks."

Link from my favorite show's blog, best week ever







And: Thanks for the link, M!




Manolo says, "This is a one funny piece of a blog."

This is almost as nice as the Paris Hilton pencil holder or the Nicole mug warmer you made me last January 14th.

Almost one year ago! My, how time flies when da ho's get dey own shows.*



*That was too easy, huh? Well, I had ta.

Domo Origami, Mr. Robami.

One of the best presents I got this year (besides The Beatles book, thank you, Bhead!) was an Origami Calendar.

Foldy-foldy every day. Soon I'll be an Origami Sensei and have one more interesting-yet-non-paying talent. Or maybe I should rephrase that as "at least one." Ahem.

Get one!

I wanna party with this person!

But they are too busy reading books. Check this out! I wish I could read books this fast. No, really. This person eats books for breakfast, lunch, mid-afternoon snacks, and then a light dinner. Sometimes dessert. And they still have time to blog reviews about those books. Man. I am so impressed, and so completely worthless at the same time.

Ravenous Reader

Can you see me waving?

You...yes, you. I'm waving a hearty "hellooooo" to you from USDA Hardiness Zone 7!

Sure, it was snowing two weekends ago. And today it's only like 30 degrees F. But this weekend, it's going to be 60 degrees. That means I have to phrekin jazz myself up about redoing The Yarden.

The gay man across the street may have the most superfly trees on the block, but when it comes to my Yarden compared to his, he comes across heterosexual. (In all fairness, he saved his mighty gardening talents to grow tiny, cherry tomatoes which dangle between the slats of his white picket fence, holding up his rosebushes next to his flowerbed filled with pink and yellow blooming things that I can't pronounce really, directly across the patio from his hot tub. I don't have to tell you he has outdoor speakers--white to match the trim on his house that I can see directly into and halfway up the stairs when it's dark outside, but that's another story.*)

The Yarden suffered some minor damage to the Canna plants (not to be confused with cannabis plants, dooooood) which in the end is a o k with me since all my canna plants just turned into frikklin Grasshopper and Wasp Motels. I can't handle bugs unless they are *cute harmless insects* like butterflies, caterpillars, and Hugh Grant.

For some other reason besides the bugs, the canna consistently annoyed Ron. I don't know if it was the height, or that they grow all over the place in no time, or maybe it was the hurtful names they yelled at him as he walked by. Whatever happened, this year I'll plant the mini versions and hope they grow to a normal proportion.

For any guys reading this far into the post, warning: you might be gay. If so: let's be friends! If you are a guy still reading and not gay, you are most certainly an enigma and therefore must be a friend of mine already.

So this weekend, I'm planning on getting extra-domestic and figuring what plant goes where, and I'm trying a new dog cookie recipe that I hope Otis will like. I know, I know: Dogs eat their own barf and lick their own unmentionables. But honestly, he does have a very selective taste. He knows how to eat from a fork, and currently he's working on learning a spoon.

Anyway, what's with this newfound and slightly-irritating domestication? Well, beats me. Maybe it was all that mundane talk about garbage cans.** It could be because I finally bought a new bridesmaid's dress (SquEEeEEeEEeeeeeeeaLLL!)for Katherine's wedding. Possible, but not probable.

I'll betcha it's most likely because I started reading this book, and I feel like a new female unit serial number 282394_FHCU_basicwhite from Zone 7.

Basically, I don't feel so alone anymore. I am coming to terms with myself. And to terms with the people in my house always messin' up my mad grip. This will probably surprise no one when I admit it. I can't deny it any longer and actually, I think this is probably the latest trend, but that's not why I'm coming out with it. It's basically so I can drive out the jive and unpack the love:

"Hello, everyone... my name is Bethany...and I am... a closet homemaker."

You thought I was going to say "alcoholic" didn't you? Hell no. I'll never come clean on that one. Even though I made alcohol in my closet this year. Hmmm.

Well, anyway...

Not a homemaker like Betty Crocker. Not Hazel the wacky housekeeper like apparently every living thing at my house thinks I am, but a person who understands the philosophy behind keeping the place you live, eat, and sleep in order to produce total tranquility and harmony, man. Oh and to prevent nasty crap like e.coli from growing in your kitchen sink. You know, useful stuff.

(Ok, I'll admit to being a wino that hugs too much and breaks wine glasses, but that's just the spazz coming out in me. Anyway...)

Ok, so that's enough of my Suzy Sunshine. I'm getting on my own nerves. I hope you have a grande weekende and may the Force of Zone 7 be with you.


To anyone who read this far, I thank you, and will bake you cookies if you want.***




*Ooo. That even creeped me out when I read it.


** WHICH BY THE WAY I FINALLY MUTHER FLIPPIN' GOT! Pyrotechnics show at my house tonight at 8:00pm. You're invited for closet wine, ice cream cake, and dog cookies.

***See? Behold the upside to the new, exposed me: homemade frikkin treats for everyone.

What? Me worry?

Ron emailed this link to me. After this whole garbage can, stinky gym business, he may be planning his escape. Finally.

But it does remind me of my favorite joke in the whole world. Maybe it's because I can never remember jokes. None, except this one and one knock-knock joke.

Anyway:

Man wins the lottery. He flies home to his wife and says, "Honey, pack your bags! I just won the lottery!"

She says, "Oooo, what should I pack for -- the mountains or the beach?!"

Man says, "I don't care, just get the f*ck outta here."




(See? I try to keep it a family show around here, even after weaving yesterday's tapestry of endless obscenities.)


Last joke is a knock-knock joke -- you start it...

you: "Knock-knock!..."

me: "Who's there?"

you: ("I hate her.")

Update on Garbage Cans and Gardenhosers

This morning, the ol' dirty bastard garbage can flipped over and vomitted its contents down the alley and onto the next block. "Thank God, we're gettin' a new one!" I blurted. "Maybe no one will know where all this came from. Maybe I can shove all the disgusting evidence back in the can before anyone gets a positive ID on us..."

But the kitty litter, complete with clods of cat crap and (ironically enough) kitty-urine cakes, stayed nice and perfectly heaped in place, X-marking the spot of whose garbage can exploded in the gumdrop community.

You godless, lying customer service woman from Southern Disposal, worst waste management company ever. Yet again, I didn't get a new garbage can today, did I.

Ron: "Not only did we not get a new garbage can, but the lid blew off down the street and I had to go find it."

me: "How incredibly sad is this, that those @#$%er @#$%ers have ruined my entire god@#$%ed @#$%er @#$%in' day over a @#$%er @#$%in' garbage can?"

Why this is important:

I used to wonder why some people just snap one day, pick up an axe and bust up someone's desk until they were finally stunned to the ground by a gaggle of cops. Nevermind, where's my B B Gun...

And I was so close to finishing the day without any pain in my butt. That's what really twists the ole panties in a bunch. Speaking of panties...

And then, the health club calls. (Sounds better than "stinky gym," doesn't it?) Not my number, even though I gave them my new number. No, they call a friend of mine. For the third time. Even after they've got my work number now, which no one has but my mother and those meatheads. So I call them yet again to ask them kindly what this is all about (all the while thinking, how much money do they want to leave me alone for awhile). And customer-service Kurt got, basically, curt with me. WwwwwwWELL. And like a hormone-stricken little girl trapped in a man's body, he waited for me to say thanks at the end and then hung up in my ear.

So before my eyes started to bleed, I called him back and with that luxury you have only with a desk phone, I slammed the phone down in his ear.

I see a pattern.

I hate everyone today. Except anyone reading this.

And I'm confused because is this really over a garbage can? What? We drank 6-packs and ran our cars through the yards of people who cared whether or not they got a new garbage can. We toilet papered the trees of the people who cared about their yards and their garbage cans and their garden hoses.

Ok, so maybe I sat in the car while they papered the yards, but I was there, man.

But I had a point somewhere... oh yeah...

How can I get my dignity back even though I have become domestically-focused and mundane:

I wish that I could get, oh say, around one million dollars to stay home for good and take these customer-service people on full-time. Or anyone who needs a good smack. First I'd try by phone. Then I'd like to go around with a ruler and slap rude and/or inane people on the forehead for making other people's lives mundane. My new reality show: "Ruler of Justice. Gardenhose of Doom."

Only two more things that will make me feel better:

One more time, with feeling, slam the phone down on Kurt. Then go home and have a beer. Domestic, of course. Gimme a 6-pack, and I'll run ruts in my own yard.

Dontcha love being on hold so long that you actually forget what you called to complain about in the first place?

That's what usually happens to me. And I'll just tell you, it just ruins your credibility and bargaining power, too.

Call it stupidity or call it optimism, I've been on hold for a new garbage can from my garbage company for 6.11 minutes now. I've already asked them for one about 2 months ago. And what to my wondering eyes did appear: No new garbage can. Just a big, fat nothing.

me: "Hey, we're getting a new garbage can! I finally remembered to call those bastards. They told me to leave the old one out for a few days, and they'll replace it. Neat huh?"

Ron: "That's the spirit."

The real spirit is that I actually got excited over the promise of a new garbage can. My dreams as a little girl are all coming true.

First, a new garbage can. Next stop, Hollywood.

me (at Home Depot, with Ron, heaving potting soil and mulch up to a counter on my day off):
"And to think, I thought I'd be a rich, famous actress with a yardman by now."

Only problem with that is I don't like to act.

12.52 minutes on hold. Even though I still remember what I am calling about, now I have to pee. Nature wins out over patience and stupidity.

No. I cannot be that weak, can I? I mean, if you really want something in this world, you have to be able to stick with it. As small as my dreams and aspirations have become, I want a new damn garbage can. Is it worth renal shutdown? Perhaps.

14.12 minutes, and I am feeling sick just thinking about how stupid things like this are. But I'll be tied to a stake and burnt before I hang up. Or, is it smarter to actually hang up and try again later?

I read somewhere once: "In a hundred years, this won't matter. It barely matters now."

If I don't get a new garbage can soon, then in a hundred years, I'll come back to haunt every one of my neighbors' shiny new garbage cans. I can feel it.

Even though they'll all be innocently dead and our houses will be levelled to make a Super Giant Wal-Mart, I can feel the oncoming haunting in my bones. Even though my eyes are beginning to glaze over from the onset of kidney failure, I'm good.

Dreaming big is fine, but dreaming small is more practical. That sounds like something urine-filled/yellow-bellied weakling would say!! What has happened to me?

Ew. I referred to myself as "urine-filled." Oh well. To some, that's sexy and hails big bucks. I still to this minute do not know what a "flexy girl pee hole" is, but it's still the most popular search referral to this site.

So get an eyeful here of that wonderful Flexy Girl Pee Hole, whatever that may be, you frantically searching soul, you. It's not as exciting as waiting breathlessly steeping in your own tinkle in hopes you'll get a brand new garbage can, but I'll admit, it sure seems related somehow.

17.42 minutes. Oh my dear Lord: a human voice. She sounds sweet. Almost angelic. I recognize her. This is the customer service rep I talked to last time. How could she have done this to me? She sounds so sweet.

me: "yeah, I called to get a new one, like, two months ago."
her: "Oh my! You called back in August, that's longer than two months. Let's see..."

That's right. Make me feel special.

her: "It says they tried to deliver and failed, they called this number -- 468-0293..."

me (thinking "who the @#$%in' hell's number is that?"...hey WAIT a MINNIT...you told me to leave the garbage can out, no questions, no cops, and I'd get a new one...no cally calls on the phone! -- you're obviously trying to bamboozle me! WHY I OUGHTA --) : "huh. I don't know that number. Try this new one..."

her: "Thank you, ma'am. You'll receive a new garbage can tomorrow... Can I do anything else for you?"

me (Yes. Make me a rich, famous actress with a yardman): "No, that's it. Thank you very much!"

And now, it's tee time.

Hey. Someone out there is searching to know these things.