"If this Christmas doesn't blow, I'll eat my hat."

I'll have that hat cooked medium rare. After all my usual fear and loathing, Christmas this year was "fine." In any other family that would be kind of "meh," but for my family it's a pretty damn good year if nobody gets in fight. People were eerily pleasant. Pod people? Affable zombies? Who cares? Not I; looking a gift horse in the mouth is not my style.

I even received a spectacular gift: The Complete Calvin and Hobbes
I was soooo excited, especially to read the 20 page introduction by Bill Watterson. Watterson basically never grants interviews and I am eager to read what he has to say about Calvin and Hobbes. The set weighs roughly a billion (22.5) pounds though. Interestingly, today's Foxtrot was about just that:

Happy Birthday!!!

Merry stupid Christmas.

Ok, National Department Store of Doom and Misery, I surrender.

In a particularly underhanded act Nationwide Mega-Store Hell has yet again shown me that they are too large and too evil to fight.
The preternaturally evil and devious weasels who run this shadowy company pushed back my schedule from 3-11 to 3:30-11:30 at the very last minute giving me an additional hour of nothing to do before work. A mere day after unilaterally declaring to my co-workers that Ever After was the worst non-ironically intended movie ever made, as a “treat” to the workers, Our National Department Store of Ever-Lasting Torture rented a movie to show in the break room. Being the kind souls they are, they looped the film to increase the likelihood that one could view it in its entirety. The sound of Barrymore’s abysmal accent distracted me so badly that I incorrectly filled in 4 sudoku puzzles before giving up and playing Tetris on my phone.
Ever After, showing ALL DAY at your local Vile Department Store of Eternal Damnation, is set in France, where the people all have English accents (the exception being Barrymore). Barrymore, who apparently was rendered so broke from her failed marriage to Tom Green (thanks Canada), that she could not afford the elocution lessons which could have provided her with a moderately non-retched English or even, dare I suggest it, French accent. Although since she lacked the follow-through to hold her own indeterminable accent through an entire sentence, much less an entire scene, I don’t suppose it matters anyway. Beyond the general outlandishness and predictability of the film, Barrymore’s revoltingly horrible accent manages to cause Ever After to out-suck even Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. In the movie’s favor, the writing is not obviously awful, the acting was actually quite good (if one can overlook Barrymore’s acting), and really it’s a quite visually pleasing film. Having Barrymore in it undoubtedly increased the throngs of America’s Top Model Viewing Morons, but killed any possibility of it being a kind of cutsie but overall satisfactory film. Worse yet is the fact that Barrymore’s accent and lack of theatrical uhm… talent manages to render one of the most beloved fairy-tails in the lexicon of frightening children’s stories completely toothless. Gregory Maguire’s Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister managed to rejuvenate Cinderella, so we can’t really blame the story.
While I believe the worst aspect of the movie was Barrymore’s distracting accent, most people at Nationwide Department Store of Unceasing Sorrow found the presence of Leonardo da Vinci in France the most irritating. In a fine twist, the most seemingly outlandish part of the movie is the only realistic part. In 1515 da Vinci was in France under the auspices of King Francis.

Darwin Award Winner Unjustly Denied Prize

I am addicted to yet another show on the Discover Channel. It is called "I Shouldn’t Be Alive." It shows dramatizations and interviews with people who have faced deadly circumstances and have used cunning to overcome them. The first one I saw was the story of Chris Moon (Kidnap in the Killing Fields). Moon was a retired British military man volunteering in Cambodia as a de-miner. He and his colleagues were kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge, but Moon used his courage and wit to rescue his group. The next one (Jaws of Death) was the story of Greg Rasmussen, an Australian working to preserve African wildlife. Rasmussen displayed amazing strength and wisdom in his efforts to survive a plane crash in the middle of an African game preserve. In fact Rasmussen survived with no food, water, or radio in spite of his shattered legs and broken hips.

However, the next episode was about Saul and Larry (Swept Away). Saul and Larry decided to go on a kayaking trip through the San Juan Islands, in dangerous waters, in November. (Is this a good juncture to mention that the water in the Puget Sound is approximately 52 degrees in November… or that the waterway they picked to cross is famous for its forceful tides?) In a cascading series of awe-inspiringly stupid acts the kayaker who had NEVER been in a kayak before, Saul, ended up being swept out to sea (surprise). This forced Larry to abandon him in order to paddle to shore to mount a full scale rescue attempt. Eventually Larry’s only good decision resulted in Saul being rescued despite his best attempts to get himself killed.

While Moon and Rasmussen were thrown into life and death situations by volunteering to do remarkably selfless things in only moderately safe environments, Larry and Saul were thrown into their life or death situation by their overriding need to go to a nude hot-spring. They nearly died to ogle boobies. And they admitted so on national television. Furthermore, while Moon and Rasmussen used their smarts to get out of their situation, Saul (at least) made every wrong decision possible. He even admitted that he knew what the right decisions were but decided to gamble. Now if I acted like a complete bone-head and nearly got myself killed so that I could go to a nudie hot-spring, the last thing that I would want to do is have it dramatized on the Discovery Channel.

Which leads me to my point, which is that the Discovery Channel needs to have two survival TV shows. One should be called "I Shouldn’t Be Alive": the true stories of people who used wisdom and courage to survive life and death situations. The other should be called "I Don’t Deserve to Be Alive": the true stories of people who survive life and death situations in spite of themselves.

The Penis Mightier

Recently I was on a date with a nice fellow. He was hands down the most interesting person I have been on a date with in ages, except… he happened to mention that he was at the WTO protests that turned into a riot in Seattle a few years back. He was going on about this amazing use of his right to protest and all I could think was “Golly, it’s a good thing that you were around to march in the streets, otherwise that WTO would still be out there.”

As I’m sure you are aware, I am all about the use of our civil rights, but let’s pause for a moment and think about this. What is more effective 2,000 people screwing up traffic and breaking the windows of Starbucks OR 2,000 well-written letters arriving at the office of their Senator? Something tells me that the pen is mightier than the idiots dressed as turtles.

I think you do, Trebek!

Divine Intervention

God does not want me to work.

The signs are clear.

Sign1:
I have been sick for like a month. The Black Death? Typhoid Fever? Bird Flu? I'm not quite sure with what, but I've woken up every morning feeling like something that cat dragged in. Every day I wake up (face encrusted with drool) with my nose completely stuffed. Perhaps a pair of Nasal Hamsters has decided to nest in my sinuses. Respiratory rodents?! Thanks Jesus, that's just what I wanted!

Sign 2:
God trapped me in my apartment. Last Thursday I awoke from bed still sick, but determined to make it into work. Finally, armed with laundry and lunch I turned my deadbolt. Kachunk! I thought, "Hmmmm 'kachunk' is not the expected noise." I turned the handle and lo, my door was still dead-bolted. I tried turning the deadbolt back to locked but it would not move. I was trapped. I went to my window and opened it, pushing the screen gently. Nothing. Rather than break my screen I decided to call my manager. Not home. Called the emergency line, they said they would call back. They didn't, I called again, they asked if it could wait till 9. "Nein."
Chuck Norris style I kicked out my screen and clamored out onto the sidewalk in my skirt, running my stockings. Thank God nobody called the police over a disheveled thief (pink underwear displayed) escaping from a first floor apartment, arms full of loot. I was over an hour late to work that day. In the car I left a somewhat snarky message for my manager demanding a new lock by that day as I had a house guest flying in from Wisconsin that day and I really could not expect her to clamor in and out of my window with her luggage. It turns out that Thursday morning is when he has his Vietnam Vet Support Group Meeting and that's why he wasn't there. Thanks for making me feel like an asshole, God!

Sign 3:
This morning I arrived at my car to find it completely frozen shut. What the hell? I finally got the trunk open. First I pulled out the stuff for charities that had been accumulating in my trunk. Then I crawled in and after pushing my way into the cab managed to use my legs to get the passenger door open. I then threw my laundry (didn't get finished last week) onto the driver seat, crawled into the passenger seat and maneuvered my laundry into the back. Then I scraped the windows and crawled back in through the passenger door. By the time I got into work the driver side door was defrosted. Yay! Unfortunately in my excitement in exiting my car through the customary door I was not cautious about the icy sidewalk and promptly fell on my ass. It was awesome.

A New Hope

Stick with me as this entry is more convoluted than a Lucasfilm production.

In addition to John Edwards, Colin Powell, and John Sydney McCain III, I have a new political crush. On a lady this time (hey, I went to Bryn Mawr, don't judge me). The lady, Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf is known as the Iron Lady. No, she is not the newest member Steve Harris' metal band. She is the new President of Liberia. She seems like such an excellent choice: Harvard educated, a believer in the UN, former employee of the World Bank, someone who has bravely faced a corrupt government in order to attain great things for her nation. SO exciting.

And yet I feel nervous. Nervous that all this is too good to be true. I feel like Africa is cursed. That no matter how good the situation seems, it will all end with underfunded UN troops discovering mass-graves on CNN.

But Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf gives me just a glimmer of hope for Africa, for women, I guess even for human kind.

I know that this will sound revoltingly geektastic, but there is this part of Terminator 2 where Eddie Furlong and the Governor of California are watching two little boys pretending to shoot each other and Eddie says "We're not going to make it are we? People I mean." And the Governor responds "It is in your nature to destroy yourselves."

Which brings me right around to Charles Taylor, remember that one time when George W. Bush forced his resignation? Yea, well he is still out there. He is in hiding in Nigeria, and they won't turn him over. Charles Taylor is on Interpol's Most Wanted list, noted as possibly being dangerous, and is wanted for "crimes against humanity, grave breaches of the 1949 [4th] Geneva Convention." (And now you know what happened to Charles Taylor.)

Which brings me right around to the pot and kettle. You remember that whole Bush thinks that torture is super ok, well this is a bit of a problem with that crazy [3rd] Geneva Convention.

Choice bits of the 3rd Geneva Convention:
(Art 13): "Prisoners of war must at all times be humanely treated."
(Art 13): "...Prisoners of war must at all times be protected, particularly against acts of violence or intimidation and against insults and public curiosity."
(Art 17): "No physical or mental torture, nor any other form of coercion, may be inflicted on prisoners of war to secure from them information of any kind whatever. Prisoners of war who refuse to answer may not be threatened, insulted or exposed to unpleasant or disadvantageous treatment of any kind."

To answer your unasked question, there are a total of four Geneva Conventions: The first regarding treatment of casualties of war, the second regarding war at sea, the third about the treatment of POWs, and the fourth about the treatment of civilians.

Apparently all Geneva Conventions are not equal. Or perhaps all Geneva Conventions are equal, but some are more equal than others.

Porn Title or Torture Location, YOU be the judge!

Jason Jones, "Daily Show" Senior Human Rights Correspondent, on anti-torture legislation negotiations: "It works like any negotiation.... Both sides go in overreaching with their best-case scenario going forward, knowing they're probably not going to get exactly what they want. McCain has opened with no torture, any time, any place. The administration has countered with, we want to do whatever we want,whenever we want, to whomever we want, and we don't want anybody knowing about it. So they're not really that far apart. There's some wiggle room there. And if you know anything about torture, you do not want to spend any time in the wiggle room" ("Daily Show," ComedyCentral, 12/8).

What a Feeling!

Last weekend at nation-wide department store I was placed in my new home department, department 0305, the department known as Mecca to some and as the Coach Counter to others. As I walked teary eyed with wonder into the back room to hunt down the morning’s first sale (a large black signature soho hobo bag, style 8635) I rounded the corner to find shelves up to 12 feet high and as many as 20 feet long completely stuffed with Coach handbags. There were so many handbags, in fact, that there was a pile 2-3 feet deep on the floor at the foot of the shelves. And I thought to myself “Dare I?” I did dare. I shuffled delicately into the wading pool of soft-tanned leather, their protective garments tickling my ankles and ruffling my skirt. I climbed onto the step ladder and reached up reading each style number “8601, 8609, 8620, 8625, 8634, 8635.” I gently pulled the corner of a bag to free it from its niche. All around me, onto my head, my shoulders, my toes, handbags tumbled down from their lofty perch. I briefly imagined my self as the scantily clad vixen from Flashdance, dancing my iron-welding heart out and in the grand finale of my exotic dance routine heavily throwing myself into a chair and pulling a cord, releasing not water, but hundreds of Coach bags.







My pilgrimage to Mecca will be short, I am only at nation-wide department store hell for a month more, but now I know that like Jennifer Beals, even if it is for just a brief moment, I can really have it all.

I guess you can have an opinion too...

Seattle Umbrella Conspiracy will now allow comments, but try not to suck, Ok?

… signifying nothing.

So, some of you are upset by my lack of updates recently. The reason for this sudden fall in bloggish amusement is that I HAVE NO LIFE. I have picked up a second job to pay off my car. Shockingly, when you work between 60 and 70 hours a week nothing interesting happens. Starting at the first of the year I swear I will have plenty of grousing but unless you want to hear about my trials and tribulations at un-named major department store-- and trust me, you don’t—relax, sit back and read Goats instead.

I'm so lonly.

So today a coworker asked me, "How do you spell barron? One 'r,' what do you think?"
I said, "I don't spell on command."
"You don't... spell?" she asked.
"Yes. Haven't spelled since 1988."
"Why's that?"
"Lost the third grade spelling bee. Lonely, forgot the 'e.' I was heartbroken."
Then another coworker popped up, "Lazy, I spelled it 'lassie.'"
The the first co-worker said, "Mahogany, I missed mahogany."
Well shit, I still can't spell mahogany. She must have gone to a better school than Pahrump Elementary.

"And special thanks to Wingy...

who gave his life so that we might beat our own world's record from last year."
So yesterday I heard a story about these guys in the Netherlands who shot a sparrow that flew into the building where they were working on their dominos to beat the world's record. Being an Okie I thought, "damn straight." Then I heard they might be making a memorial or dedication to the bird. And still being an Okie I thought, "It's a bird, you stupid hippies!"
Well it turns out that the bird is an endangered species. Is it really hilarious, or am I a total bastard?
My favorite part of the article is when the environmentalist website was urging people to break into the building and knock over their dominoes in retribution.
That'll show 'em.

God bless your tiny soul.

The Axis of Evil

Henceforth to be known as the Nazgul:

1. Senator Wayne Allard (R-Colorado)
Committees:
-Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs
-Committee on the Budget
-Committee on Appropriations
- Chairman of the Subcommittee on Legislative Branch.
-Subcommittee on District of Columbia (That makes TONS of sense since Colorado is very close and similar to DC.)
-Subcommittee on Energy and Water
-Subcommittee on Homeland Security
-Subcommittee on Interior and Related Agencies
-Subcommittee on Military Construction and Veterans' Affairs.

2. Senator Kit Bond (R-Missouri)
Committees:
-Chairman Transportation, Treasury and Housing and Urban Development
-Agriculture, Rural Development, and Related Agencies
-Commerce, Justice, State
-Defense
-Energy and Water
-Foreign Operations

3. Senator Tom Coburn (R-Oklahoma)
Committees:
-Chairman of the Senate Homeland Security
-Chariman of Governmental Affairs Subcommittee on Federal Financial Management

4. Senator Thad Cochran (R-Mississippi)
Committees:
-Chairman of the Appropriations Committee
-Member, Subcommittee on Homeland Security
-Subcommittee on Agriculture
-Subcommittee on Defense
-Subcommittee on Energy & Water Development
-Subcommittee on Interior
-Subcommittee on Labor, Health and Human Services & Education

5. Senator John Cornyn (R-Texas)
Committees:
-Armed Services Committee
-Chairman Emerging Threats and Capabilities Subcommittee
-Readiness and Management Support Subcommittee
-Strategic Forces Subcommittee
-Judiciary Committee
-Chairman Immigration, Border Security, and Citizenship Subcommittee
-Constitution, Civil Rights, and Property Rights Subcommittee (NICE)
-Corrections and Rehabilitation Subcommittee
-Intellectual Property Subcommittee
-Terrorism, Technology, and Homeland Security Subcommittee
-Budget Committee
-Small Business and Entrepreneurship Committee
-Joint Economic Committee

6. Senator James Inhofe (R-Oklahoma)
Committees:
-Chairman of Committee on Environment and Public Works
-Committee on Armed Services

7. Senator Pat Roberts (R-Kansas)
Committees:
-Intelligence Committee Chairman
"As Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, my job is to ensure that our Intelligence Community has the ability to protect the nation from threats at home and abroad. It is my goal to see that our intelligence agencies have cutting-edge collection capabilities and perform accurate analysis of intelligence information so that we can win the war on terrorism."

8. Senator Jeff Sessions (R-Alabama)
Committees:
-Senate Armed Services Committee
-Subcommittee on Strategic Forces
-Subcommittee on Airland
-Subcommittee on Strategic Forces (Chairman)
-Subcommittee on Readiness and Management Support
-Senate Judiciary Committee
-Subcommittee on Administrative Oversight and the Courts (Chairman)
-Subcommittee on Crime, Corrections and Victims’ Rights
-Subcommittee on Immigration, Border Security and Citizenship
-Subcommittee on Terrorism, Technology and Homeland Security
-Senate Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions Committee
-Subcommittee on Retirement Security and Aging
-Subcommittee on Education and Early Childhood Development
-Subcommittee on Employment and Workplace Safety
-Senate Budget Committee
-Senate Republican Steering Committee
-- Chairman-Congressional Joint Economic Committee
-International Narcotics Control Caucus

9. Senator Ted Stevens (R-Alaska)
Committees:
-Committee on Appropriations
--Subcommittee on Defense
--Subcommittee on Commerce, State, Justice
--Subcommittee on Interior and Related Agencies
--Subcommittee on Labor, Health and Human Services, Education
--Subcommittee on Legislative Branch
-Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation
--Subcommittee on Aviation
--Subcommittee on Communications
--Subcommittee on Oceans and Fisheries
--Subcommittee on Science, Technology, and Space
--Subcommittee on Surface Transportation and Merchant Marine
-Committee on Governmental Affairs
-Committee on Rules and Administration
-Joint Committee on the Library of Congress

These are the 9 Senators who voted for torture. Is anyone else concerned with this? Chairman of Senate Committee on Homeland Security?! These men are not schlubbs. They are important people with great power. And look at what these ass-clowns are doing!

I'm sure these guys are good huntin' buddies, but wouldn't you, after seeing how this was going to go down, have decided to vote with everyone else? Who wants to look like an asshole? This is my theory as to why so many congressmen voted to go to war-- who wants to look unpatriotic and uncaring towards the families of the victims of 9/11? I guess these guys are ok with looking like assholes. But I guarantee this is going to come up and bite them in the ass later. Ok I don't guarantee that. But I would like to think that Americans want to live in the America where people are not tortured. Where foreign citizens are not detained without trial indefinitely. (And let me clear something up. POWs are held until the war is over, then depending, they go to trial. Well, terrorism isn't ever going to end. EVER. Are we going to just hold these guys till they die? With no trial?) I guess it's not a big deal now to raise your head high and say "I think torture is completely OK." This is who people want running things? Hitler was surely efficient, but wasn't 6 million Jews a bit steep to keep the trains running on time? How many people are we going to torture for our information? Is 6 million too many? I guess there are a lot of Muslims. Oh, it is so hard to decide.

Isn't it fairly obvious that torture is wrong? What the hell is wrong with us? I want other people to care and I want them to vote. But they don't. I want people to care about Africa more then they care about tires. But they don't. I want people to care about the land they live on. But they don't. I want people to stand up, look around and see what we are actually doing. Look at us like everyone else can, and I want them to stand up and say, "No, that is not the way I will live." But I don't think they ever will.

Wouldn't it have been amazing if the Senate of the United States of America had stood together and said, "America will not stand for torture." I want to live in that America, the America that we tell our children we live in.

Dear Bushy,

Dear Mr. President Sir,
I was browsing BBC news today and found a fascinating article about White Phosphorus, an incendiary weapon that we said we didn't use in Iraq but we really did. My point is not that burning people to death is kind of yucky. And I know we didn't sign that treaty saying we wouldn't use incendiary weapons, so we can use them. So, why do you need to say we are not using White Phosphorus when we are? Didn't you think that since so many people knew, it would be a difficult secret to keep. You were the ones who called for embedded reporters. So why are you painfully un-sneaky?
My point is that I would like you to stop getting caught lying. Everyone fibs, but your administration is miserable at lying. "Oh we didn't leak that... ok we did." "We don't torture... well, only at our secret gulags. But we're not breaking the law... ok we're cutting it close... but don't worry we're going to get that law changed." "Saddam Hussein was totally in cahoots with the 9/11 bombers... ok he wasn't but we didn't know... ok we knew... but he was really really scary."
Just quit getting caught. You are totally embarrassing me.

If a picture paints a thousand words...

then this one could have saved me about 50 pages of my thesis.




















Thanks to R.K. Milholland, who won't be suing me for printing this without permission, because I'm so damned cute. And look a link, I'm sweet too.

Oh Jon Stewart you sexy, sexy man.

"Last month, the Senate voted for a ban on torture 90-9. You heard me correctly, nine United States senators refused to vote against torture. Those senators included Illinois Democrat Thumbscrews McGee, Iowa's Cattleprod von Analpair, and of course, Ted Stevens of Alaska.... The vice president is lobbying to keep torture an option. That's the guy not running for office in 2008"
("DailyShow," Comedy Central, 11/8).

Burning with Shame

Geeky thought for those who read comics. So the mayor of NYC is actually a two years term in office. Now where does this leave the comic Ex Machina after Mayor Hundred uses his two years? Re-election, back to super-hero work or a presidential bid?
Ex Machina, if you don't read it... you should.

Ahhhhhh... so this is compassionate conservatism.

Yesterday (I think) in Panama our president was asked about torturing POWs. Bush replied: "Any activity we conduct is within the law. We do not torture and therefore we are working with congress to make sure that as we go forward we make it more possible to do our job."

Good golly Miss Molly. That's one interestingly phrased answer. It took just a minute to figure out what that means: Any "torturing" we do is perfectly legal and doesn't count, however we are working towards legalizing torture as soon as possible.

What kind of sick bastard would like to go down in history as the guy who thwarted John McCain's "Anti-Torture Amendment?" Well, I guess now we know.

Additionally, I wish people would stop referring to these men as "foreign detainees." These people are POWs.

Four hours after the president's astonishingly honest comment on torture, Jeff Bingaman (NM) addressed the Senate with the following statement: "It's a sad day when an American president has to assure allies in Latin America that the US does not contemplate torture."

I think that it's worse that the White House is willing to make it abundantly obvious that the US absolutely is contemplating torture.

Charles in Charge

So I was reading about Liberia yesterday. Yea, do you remember a couple months ago when Charles Taylor fled Monrovia? Yea, me neither, you know why? Because after that one news blurb we never heard about it again. Why? Because America does not care about Liberia-- but they should.

You might remember Liberia from that one time when we (America/Quiana’s ancestors) were like, “You know what would totally make life easier? Making other people do all the crappy jobs.” Then we kidnapped or bought a bunch of folks from Africa (Quiana’s other ancestors) and made them do all the crappy jobs. Which was apparently going really great until some other people (more of Quiana’s ancestors) said, “Doesn’t this seem, I don’t know… wrong?” which caused everyone to blow the hell out of each other.

And once they had killed as much as they could a bunch of folks were worried about the ex-slaves being pissed-off so they thought, “I know we’ll just return them. This is going to work great.” So they put a bunch of ex-slaves on some boats with some pox-filled blankets and some beads and then the ex-slaves used those to buy a big chunk of land from the natives. Then the natives who used to live there were pretty pissed when they realized that all these dudes were showing up and taking all the good land and all they got were some crappy-ass beads. Then there were some problems because the folks who came from the states were all hoighty-toighty and were fighting with the others a lot and they got all the good stuff which made everyone else pretty pissed. And there was war and coups and the fancy constitution some smarmy Yale guy wrote for Liberia never got used. Then there were some weapons (and money) that some guys (Reagan/Bush) kept giving the evil dude in charge, because it was the cold war, and Quadafi was all up in our shit, and there was this really profitable tire factory there. Then the evil guy was captured and tortured to death on film in a really really nasty coup.

It was Charles Taylor’s coup and he is basically twice as evil as Dick Cheney but an eighth as sneaky. And then he fled and now you know twice as much about Liberia as all of your neighbors combined.

But I bet you still don’t know whatever happened to Charles Taylor.

Dick Cheney you are evil

I could barely believe what I heard on NPR yesterday. They said that you, Dick, traveled to Arizona to try to persuade Senator John Sydney “drank my own pee for five years” McCain III to get behind your campaign to exempt the CIA from the Geneva Convention. Naturally he refused for several reasons, not the least of which is that torture is absolutely wrong. Dick Cheney, are you made of stupid? Did you honestly think that a man so dedicated to playing by the rules that he refused to leave the POW camp ahead of other soldiers in spite of gruesome injuries and conditions was going to just say, “Hey, let’s go torture us some POWs?” I can't understand how you thought that you'd persuade McCain to turn his back on his beliefs by rescinding a law that he, personally, created.
I want to live in a safe country, but not if it is made safe by the murder of POWs. Dick, do you really think that our fellow nations will respect us if we torture POWs? Do you actually believe that our enemy nations would treat our POWs with respect if they know that theirs are being tortured? That we would be able to trade for our POWs if theirs die in torture cells?

You disgust me.

Clouds in my Coffee

March of the Penguins was an awesome movie but I hear that in the original French, they had actors playing the roles of a male, female and baby penguin. Apparently it was decided that this wouldn’t resonate with American audiences when it was test shown with subtitles and the people laughed hysterically. The lines were apparently “hilariously French.” For example, describing penguin sex: “They danced the dance, the dance of love, the dance that will go on all night.” (In America it should have read “giggity giggity.”)

In the theater I saw the penguin sex and I looked over at my friend and whispered “Is this penguin porn?” And he looked at me as if to say, “Are they having sex, because it doesn’t look very good.” And he was right, Kevin Bacon had more fun dancing his forbidden dance in Footloose than these penguins seemed to be having during the only time over the course of an entire year that they get to dance the dance, the dance of love, the dance that will go on all night.

This desire to insert emotion into everything is so French. I dated a Frenchman once. I know. I know. I met him at a ski resort in Japan during Christmas. He was good looking and charming in a Frenchy kind of way. His name was Jimmy. No, I am absolutely not making that up. Anyway, Jimmy was a wine importer. I don’t drink wine. Jimmy simply could not fathom my not drinking wine. It was like him telling me that he was an oxygen-importer and me saying, “You know I’m just not into that sort of thing.” He described wine like sex. He described shoes like sex. Actually everything had an emotional intensity to him. I think he likened my dislike of wine to my emotional distance (mostly due to my North American-ness.) He would open increasingly expensive bottles when we’d hang out, as though if he could train me to love wine, he could train me to have feelings and talk about them to him as we smoked tiny cigarettes and cuddled in trendy cafes. All the bottles of wine tasted equally terrible, though each one was soured with an increasing amount of guilt.

The white sweaters, the constant romantic gestures, the gifts, it all struck me as… French. Too French. I began to resent his ridiculously expensive squishy cheeses and wine; even his accent which had so intrigued me on our ski trip began to wear on my nerves. My roommate Galvin, who seemed to have a crush on Jimmy, would say, “He can’t help it, he’s just French.” The Frenchman’s flaw was not his devotion to me, his beautiful body and face, his money, or his complete head of hair, it was his very Frenchness.

I think he was beginning to sense my growing anglophilia and started to react in the Frenchiest possible way. One night we were watching soccer in a pub downtown and a Canadian I knew came in with some Aussies. The Canadian was a typical expat: white, not terribly attractive, and positively fanatic about Asian women. I didn’t know him incredibly well, but we’d been at some of the same parties and shared a love of hockey and other Canadian things. Jimmy, sniffing the English fluency wafting about Rod’s tiny potbellied Canadian frame began to feel threatened. Being French, Jimmy used his most powerful weapon: seduction. He scooched close to me, placed his arm around my waist and watched me intensely. Rod and I were discussing the lack of American president and other political excitement and out of no where Jimmy turned to me with francophonic intensity and said, “Make for me a kiss.” I blushed and hid my face in his beautiful neck as the Australians laughed. He pushed the bottle of wine he’d been drinking into the center of table and got up to leave. I stayed seated. He said “very well” put his scarf around his neck and sulked out of the bar.

His scarf, it was apricot.

So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel

Yesterday I was watching Myth Busters, one of my favorite shows and they were trying to bust the urban myth that in a car collision, your tissue box in the back seat can become a lethal projectile. They tested a whole bunch of stuff that they said might be in the back seat of a car… a bobble head, a fire extinguisher… an axe… a bowling ball. Later that day my friend Monica and I were running to the store real quick and I was telling her about the show. I was going on “Well unless I was returning from a fruitful trip to Crazy Frank’s Axe Emporium I couldn’t imagine why I would have an axe in my back seat. And the bowling ball…” At that crucial moment heard a clink and thud. That would be the sound of the bowling ball rolling around my backseat.
Ok, Jamie, you win that point but I still think that the axe is a bit much.

Tender Morsels

So NPR ran a story on Morning Edition this morning about how chimps are selfish bastards. Apparently this study was done where there were chimps in cages that shared walls. One chimp had two ropes it could pull. Rope one would feed him banana chunks. Rope two would feed him AND his neighbor banana chunks. The results showed that out of the tested chimps, only 40% of food releases came from pulls to the second rope, in spite of the chimps in the neighboring cages begging and pointing to their mouths going “Ahh, ahh!” So, even though they had nothing to lose the chimps still wouldn’t help their neighbors out. After the initial story ended another scientist protested that he’s seen kindness among chimps and that maybe they were just really excited about the banana. Well, I hear that.

But this scientist must not have cable because my buddy Steve watched this documentary The Dark Side of Chimps or as Steve calls it, Chimps are Bastards the Movie. He told me that chimps in their natural state eat monkeys and baby monkeys most particularly as they are more tender and delicious. So when the monkey’s habitat got destroyed and they left/died off, the chimps went for the next best thing, human babies, which are also tender and delicious.

The moral of the story: watch out for Steve.

I guess they didn't all make it onto the ark....

Today at a rather tedious meeting about a new program, the woman running it, who I am quite fond of, kept referring to the elusive 'asstrich'.
Yes, you see that the fields on this form that have an asstrich must be filled out before you can click 'submit.'
Yes, I see that is quite clear. Now if an ostrich is a large flightless bird; then is an asstrich a large flightless ass? Does this then imply that somewhere out there (I would conjecture Africa, as that is where ostriches live) there are large flying asses?
Patrick, you live in Africa, please do some research on this.


Jim or Ron, you folks are artsy, this is the perfect place for the artist's rendition of the asstrich in it's natural environs.

Watch it.

Ong-Bak

Here he fights while on fire.
















That is barbed-wire, jumps through it at a full run.
















Tuk-Tuk chase scene.
















They didn't use any wires in this movie.


















Look, he fights these badasses....
















Best marital arts movie ever made, hands down.

Bon Appetit, asshole!

So, Married Guy at Work Who Sucks at Adultery, you’ve realized I’m mad at you. Good job! Apparently, you haven’t figured out why. I’ve determined this by your kind invitation to lunch. The invite came at the end of a long series of emails that you were too lazy to follow up on and asked me to follow up on for you. Thanks for the invite, I wasn’t sure I’d be free for lunch this Saturday, but I forwarded your email to your boss, my boss, the teacher who asked the question you were too lazy to answer in the first place, and her boss, just in case they could make it.

Work is for Suckers, Where's my Sugar Daddy?

Dear colleagues,

Do not imply that I am prettier than you in a nasty way. Do not tell me that I don’t need to be on a diet. I’M NOT ON A DIET. I like salad. Perhaps if you liked salad you would not need to be on a diet. Additionally, I’ve gained nearly 30 pounds since college so if I want to go on a diet, you should understand. I am 50 or more pounds lighter and 20 years younger, I’m going to be cuter. I bet when you were 25 you were pretty cute too.

Please do not disparage my cute outfits. Yes I have nice clothes and accessories. Due to the availability of self-esteem and cheap birth control methods in this modern age I have been able to not get pregnant. The dearth of piano lessons, Abercrombie Kids denim minis, and orthodontist bills keeps my lifestyle nice and cheap. I can spoil myself, not my children, so don’t act like I’m behaving selfishly. We all make choices in life. I bet you wouldn’t trade your rug-rats for a Coach handbag so don’t act butt-hurt about no having one.

I don’t want your wastrel nephew, son, or godson. If nobody else wants them I assure you that I am not going to buck the trend.

I also don’t need to be reassured about not being married. I’ve been dodging that bullet for years, so don’t bug me. I don’t know if I will get married and it is certainly not your business to discuss my fictitious children. It is up to my fictitious husband and myself to determine whether or not we want to face the immense life-long responsibility of parenthood, or to simply get a dog and spend a lot of time traveling and buying cute shoes.

PS- Don’t touch me.
PPS- Don’t hit on me.
PPPS- Don’t sneak up behind me in my cube.

Steve drives me crazy, and I can't help myself, hoo hoo-ooh.

Steve just said "I know what drives men crazy."

Give Mama Some Sugar

Look Nosey Old Lady at Work, I could overlook the day when you said “does somebody have a case of the Mondays?” hell I could even over look the times you have tried to hug me and I had to go into Emergency Human Contact Avoidance Mode; but when you threw out my chocolate pudding cup, you crossed the line.
Granted that very same pudding cup was in the fridge two weeks and the Fridge Dictator, un-shockingly you, made Fridge Residencies of over 1 week illegal. However, as it was a sealed Jello Pudding Cup, I had thought it would qualify for the Condiment Dispensation Act.
It’s a Jello Pudding Cup for Christ’s sake, it is not going to go bad. Possibly ever. In fact, during the end days it will be cockroaches and pudding cups square dancing on our graves.
The only thing that gets me through the day is my two o’clock treat break. It is 1:45 and I have nothing to look forward to and nothing is more dangerous than a woman with nothing left to lose.

"Where am I?"

The Pit of Despair! Don't even think... (hacks phlem) don't even think about trying to escape. The chains are far too thick. Don't dream of being rescued, either; the only way in is secret. Only the Prince, the Count, and I know how to get in and out.

My friend Gail invited me out to her lawyer’s 40th birthday party. Now, in her defense, she did warn me that it might be a bunch of middle aged rednecks, but I thought, hey, come on, this is Seattle, we’re pretty low on red neck lawyers….
We arrive in West Seattle (which I’ve been to twice prior to this) and as we pull up to the bar I could tell right away that my night was going to be very different than usual.
I was dressed in jeans, heals, and a satin tank top. Or maybe I should say over-dressed. The people there were wearing un-ironically intended trucker caps, free t-shirts and fake nails. Gail walked up and hugged a normal looking middle aged fellow. He immediately spotted me and said, “Gail, you didn’t have to bring me a present. Well, Present, what’s your name?” I thought better of calling myself “KiKi” my family name which is easy to remember and spell for morons, and went with my full name. He then shook my hand in what I can only describe as a sleazy manner.
The table where the birthday boy was sitting was full so Gail and I decided to belly up to the bar for a drink. The bartender gave Gail a beer and then eyed me and said, “Sweetheart, are you old enough to be in here?” I couldn’t decide if she was asking me if I was 21 or if I really intended to loiter about in a disgusting dive bar with a bunch of over-paid, over-sexed, middle-aged ass-clowns. I gave her the eyebrow and handed over my ID. She studied it for an unnecessarily lengthy amount of time before asking me what I’d like. I gave her a huge smile and said “Sprite, please.” She gave me the stink eye and I carefully observed her pouring my Sprite. (Might I add as a parenthetical side, that Washington State specifically makes easily recognizable IDs, where the under 21 ID is vertical and the over 21 ID is the traditional horizontal.) When we turned back around to face the abysmally terrible trio ruining the songs of marginally decent bands we saw that Gail’s Lawyer had cleared space for us across from him at the table. Goody.
We sat down and Gail’s Lawyer introduced us to what seemed to be every redneck cop and lawyer on this side of the mountains. “Bob, this is my good friend Gail and this is my Birthday Present.” I was feeling uncomfortable on more than one front, first off, he kept mentioning unwrapping this present; worse yet, I was feeling a little bit like the One Ring as he seemed eerily like Gollum.
Eventually, we got around to a couple further down the table. The husband looked like someone had inflated the brother-in-law from Arrested Development, Dr. Funke, with cheesecake. He had this mustache. I asked him if he was a cop. He said no. I wanted to ask him if he was Hitler. Gail wouldn’t let me. “Bu..bu..bu.. but Gail, he needs to know that mustaches are for cops and Hitler.” Next came his wife. As Gail’s Lawyer introduced her I was so startled by this woman’s appearance that I didn’t hear anything said for quite some time. This is what she looked like:








No serious, she looked like that. But Fatter. White frizzy hair. White blotchy skin. Scarey swollen lips. And to top it off… she had fey eyes and sharp, unnaturally long, overly pale French tipped acrylic nails.
I was afraid that I was staring. I looked down. I wasn’t staring… she was. She looked at Gail and me with predatory intensity. In my nervousness tradition, I shot her a double plus extra smile. She made a completely incomprehensible facial expression back at me. It was some form of showing her teeth. And those were some chompers; solitary dwellers, none touching their neighbors, inhumanly uneven and jaggedly sharp, clearly designed to rend raw flesh from bone. I didn’t know if that was a smile or not. I decided to look the other way. The fat middle aged man way, YIPES.
After being propositioned with the following:
“Hey my buddy thinks you’re hot, so let’s make it happen.”
“Make what happen?”
“How many drinks would it take?”
“I’m on the wagon.”
“Can I borrow your present when you’re done?”
“You can’t afford this present.”
“Ever been with an older man?”
“You remind me so much of my father.”
Eventually, we made our escape having no phone number or bodily fluid exchanges. Gail’s Lawyer seemed to think that I would actually go home with him. I should mention that his wife is 27. 25 is not much of an upgrade, though to be fair, she outweighed me by at least 75 pounds….

So I'm here till I die?
Until they kill you, yeah.

Welcome to the Seattle Umbrella Conspiracy

That’s right, I’m smiling at you. Here we are jogging or walking around the lake. It’s sunny or raining or gray. And I am smiling at you. You think I’m nuts, or hitting on you and you look down. And you looked down yesterday. That’s fine because I don’t have to share my secret smile with you. It’s a secret that only a few of us know. I’ll share it right now though, since you might miss it otherwise.

That sunset. That one there, over the lake and the trees and the joggers and strollers and the puppies. That one. Today’s sunset. It is the most beautiful sunset that I have ever seen in all of my life. And I am amazed to be happy, healthy and alive to see it. Every day.

Revenge of the Herks

Update-

So last Saturday, as I lay in bed trying to forget my weekend (updates on that gem forthcoming) I was startled to hear the sounds of really loud herking. You may recall the freaky warning that I received from Peculiar Neighbor regarding noisy vomiting, I certainly did at the time.

Here is the basic scenario:

God my night blew. Could it actually have blown more? Not likely. Poor me. Boo hoo.

HERK!!!!

What the fuck was that?

Bleh... bleh... herk.

Mother of God! Jabba was right, he sounds like he's right outside my window.

HERK HERK HEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRK!!!!!!!!!!!! SPLAT!

What the fuck???

herk. splat. heeeerrrrrrk. spllllaaaaaat. HEEEEERRRRRRRK!!!!!! SPLATTTTTTT!!! sploosh sploosh.

Fuck. And I peep out my window. Double Fuck. That better not be a huge puddle of puke two feet from my window.

But alas, in the morning the Lake Superior and Lake Eerie of vomit had been lovingly placed before my window.

Before I continue, I think that it is important that I mention that I have had problems in the past with public herking. I used to live in a quite nice apartment a few years ago and there were several exciting tenants such as Ginormously Fat Loud Sex Guy. He lived with Skeezy Guy From My Gym and Surprisingly Nice Guy From The Loud Party Apartment. One Friday I returned from clubbing or whatnot quite late at night/early in the morning to find that someone (probably Ginormously Fat Loud Sex Guy) had nicely vomited out their slider. The vomit fell through their grated porch creating a two foot wide chunk/slime trail down my balcony window and splattering onto and through my porch and down the windows and porches of the three floors below me.

The next day I went to the office and politely related what had happened. They said "thanks for notifying us." I stared at them in disbelief.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Actually. I want that vomit washed off of my window."
"Oh. Well, I guess we can have someone go out there or something."
"Ok, that sounds great. How about my porch and windows are cleaned, oh say... TODAY."
After that they were never friendly and were somehow shocked that the vomit incident and the multiple parties held across the courtyard where I was cat-called/ living on the same block as a project/ having my newspaper stolen every damn day/ the beer cans everywhere were reasons that I might not want to renew my lease....

Anyway, to avoid a repeat of that situation, I wrote a note to my manager that basically went thusly:

Hi!

I'm sorry to bother you, but last night VERY late I was awakened by the noise of a man on a porch above vomiting onto the patio a foot from my window.

I desire two things:

1. I would like the vomit removed expeditiously.
2. I would like the vommitters discovered and notified of the inappropriateness of vomiting off their porch.

My apologies again, and thanks in advance.

I delivered the note and went to lunch with Monica. By the time Monica and I had arrived back at my house, post-lunch, the vomit was gone.

I left a nice note for the manager to thank him for his efficiency.

But keep this in mind, Mystery Puking Neighbor, the next time I hear herking outside my window I am going to run out in the courtyard and take a picture of you and post it on Craigslist.



PS- My high school mascot was Herky The Hawk.

Smart People on Ice!

I’ve been listening to the John Roberts senate judiciary hearings that NPR has been podcasting. Yes, I am a HUGE geek. This is not the point.

The point is that Roberts is my absolute hero. He is incredibly quick and flat out just too damn smart. In fact smarter than our legislators, who have been assigned to grill him on issues such as right to life, legal torture, prisoner of war rights.

He has been notoriously picky about which questions he will answer, and while his inquisitors seem to be upset about this, none of them can force, persuade, or trick him into it. Everyone knows that he is perfectly qualified and he is clean as a whistle, so this is just an opportunity of partisan posturing. Here is an actual transcript chunk from when Schumer, loses it:

Charles Schumer (D-NY): May I just say, in all due respect sir and I respect your intelligence, and your career, and your family, this process is getting a little more absurd the further we move. You agree we should be finding out your philosophy and method of legal reasoning, modesty, stability, but when we try to figure out what your modesty and stability means, we don’t get any answers. It’s as if I asked you what kind of movies you liked, tell me two or three good movies, and you say “I like movies with good acting, I like movies with good directing, I like movies with good cinematography”, and I ask you to give me an example of a good movie and you don’t name one. And I ask you to give me an example of a bad movie, you won’t name one. And I ask you if you like Casablanca and you respond by saying lots of people like Casablanca. You tell me it’s widely settled that Casablanca is one of the great movies.

Arlen Specter (chair) calls for a break, but there is an interuption...

Judge John Roberts: First, Dr. Zhivago and North by Northwest.


It is hilarious that this guy is slipping free of the most powerful democrats in the nation (and some republicans too) without breaking a sweat. Too bad my new personal hero will probably remove my right to control my uterus.

If you missed the exciting Senate Judiciary Hearings: Roberts Trial, you can still get the podcasts on NPR.

Oooooh does'ums kitty have a tummy-ache?

Dear Steve and Addy,

I hope you will understand why I am giving you your keys back. Your cats just didn’t want anything to do with me. After unsuccessfully trying to coax them from their hiding spots, I decided to pour them some of their scientifically formulated dirt-chunk style food, in order to lure them into the open. This was completely ineffective.

I had just set my non-dirt-chunk style lunch on your table when my phone rang. It was you Steve. I swear to God that your cat is seriously fast. I turned my back for literally 8 seconds and when I turned back I found my self on the crappy end of a rather sloppy hostage situation. You see one of your cats, the tiny one, was on the table with its face in my lunch. I was frozen for a moment and then I said, “No kitty, that’s my lunch.” I slowly approached and in a panicked coup de grace she grabbed the remainder of the fajita and ran under your bed. I could not coax her out from under there without risking severe blood loss. She seemed a little bit grouchy, possibly because she was enduring a bout severe gastro-intestinal distress. I think this quite adequately explains the strange odor you noticed.

Good luck finding a new cat-sitter… and carpet.
q.

patriot games

I made the lamentable mistake of going to the Mariners game on Sunday. No, it wasn’t a mistake because they suck. Suck to the point that even with 6 players in trouble over their use of performance enhancing drugs, we still lost over half our games so far. It was a mistake because I had not remembered that Sunday was THE day. Sunday, as everyone else in America knew, was September 11. I have usually hidden somewhere far from tributes, TV movies, or memorials. I don’t feel ownership of that tragedy. I don’t think that the pain and fear of that event should be tied up in a bow and delivered to everyone in America every year like a reward for being a citizen. I think that this glorification somehow sullies the truth of the event. I guess I want to rave from the clock tower- “this isn’t about you!” And while I don’t want us to forget September 11, we have made NO policy changes to try to keep it from happening again, so what I want people to remember is WHY September 11 happened.

When the adorable autistic child at the outfield entrance tried to give me a flag I said with a large smile, “No thank you!” I know that sounds bad, but I do not want to keep the tiny plastic flag forever and have no proper means of respectfully disposing of it. I also think that what the flag is supposed to say is not what the people handing out flags are trying to say. And I don’t want to feel that I have been misusing the symbol of our hard-won freedom to support troubling foreign policies. We arrived at our seats just in time for the tear-jerking tribute to 9/11. They pulled some returned service men from Iraq, some of our fireman who flew out to NYC to relieve theirs for funerals and continuing to deal with rubble, and all the players onto the field. We were treated to a lovely view of a huge American flag, while serenaded with several patriotic songs and a POETRY reading. All around me people were sniffling as someone spoke of the buildings falling. Then a cheer and applause went up for our service men and women, protecting America at home and abroad.

Of course, because I am a terrible person, I couldn’t get choked up about thinking of all the men and women who died on September 11, because I was too busy ruminating on Cuba. “Protecting America… abroad?” I stood there pondering the statement. All the while growling, “They better be referring to Afghanistan.” Come on guys, don’t you remember? Afghanistan was harboring our terrorist enemies (not like Syria), we simply “liberated” Iraq. I bet all the Cuban and Puerto Rican players on the field, hats off and gazing at the giant flag were feeling very liberated too.

Hey guys, remember that one time we liberated Puerto Rico, then we realized that Puerto Rico was so cool that we just decided, “What the hell, let’s keep it! But we better restrict their privileges, like electing high level officials. You know to protect them and some shit.” Or that one time we liberated Cuba. That went super great! Hey, what’s the name of the guy we put in power… starts with a C and rhymes with Astro? Awesome, we rock at this!

As the tear jerker ended I kept feeling like a failure. I try my best to be a good and patriotic citizen, but I guess maybe being a patriot means something different to me.

I remember

When I was tiny I used to get cards from my dad for every single holiday. His checks were on time. And I always thought that my dad loved me, because my mother said so and his cards said so. Dad had beautiful cursive handwriting.

And one day the checks started coming late or not at all. And they were different. Not animals, just plain. And they came without cards. I thought my dad had stopped loving me. But he hadn’t. He had never loved me. It’s a funny thing though. His wife, who had never seen me, barely spoken with me, never held me as a baby and cooed over my tiny little feet, loved me. But I guess, like my mother, she realized dad would never love her right, because I guess he can’t. And she was gone.

All my life I wondered about her. I think it is amazing to love someone so much that you want them to look like the kind of man you wish they could be. A doting father. A generous giver. To care so much about a man that you can pour out love in gifts and letters to some child that didn’t even occupy his thoughts. I’m glad that she escaped. I’d gladly trade all the gifts, cards, and affection for the hope that she is off somewhere being loved by a genuine soul.

Love is an amazing thing.

Gobo may jobo, Solo.

Yesterday as I was slinking out of my apartment to go on my daily jog I was intercepted by my next door neighbor. In fact this neighbor is why I slink out of my apartment as it is.

The day I met her I was carrying boxes into my shiny new apartment, hoping for a sexy young stud/librarian as a neighbor. I was very bummed when a quite middle aged rotund (we’re talking ‘Violet you’re turning violet, Violet’ on her way to the juicing room rotund) lady leapt out of the doorway.

“Uhm, hi. You must be new.”
“Yeah, I’m just moving in.”
“Yeah, about that. You know you shouldn’t leave your door open. I’ve been watching it for you, ‘cause Green Lake isn’t a safe neighborhood you know.”
“Well, I’m just moving here from Lake City, so it’s a major improvement. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Well, we had a rape here last year.”
“In this building?”
“Well no, over on Aurora (notorious for prostitution etc. also not near my house at all).”
“Oh, I see. Uhm. Well. I’m just unloading these boxes, so the door will be shut when I’m done.”
“Yeah, well, you should make sure you keep your door locked at all times. And your windows. I don’t even open them all the way. Only as far as the low setting on the lock. You know a lady living alone can’t be too careful.”
“Of course.”
“Being on the ground floor as well.”
“True.”
“A girl simply must protect her virtue.”
LOOOOOOONG pause.
“You’re absolutely right.”

2 thoughts:
1. Darling, I’m plum out of virtue.
2. You have got nothing to worry about because unless the mad rapist you fear specifically has a thing for fat/old chicks (to the point that he absolutely prefers them to young thin girls i.e. the other inhabitants of the building) your virtue will be intact when they put you in the ground.


So since then I’ve been avoiding her craziness. Until she got me yesterday- she must have been waiting with her ear to the door.

“Uhm, wait, uhm, Quiana, uhm, did you hear er… noises last night?” I shrank back inside the happy spot in my brain fearing that this woman was out there threatening the world by procreating. “Uhm, what noises?” She leaned in and whispered “Vomiting noises.” “Uhm, no,” I responded inching towards the hall door. “Oh. Well good. Because it wasn’t me. It was my upstairs neighbor. He must be sick. I just didn’t want you to think it is me.” “Of course not, I would never… anyway, I must er… run. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ahem.” What I wanted to say was: look honey buns, something tells me I’d be able to tell if you were bulimic.

I’m bad, but I’m not that bad.

Ok, look buddy. You called me from Kansas while I was at work to ask me the following question:

“So if you were Ebaying 8 Quantum Leap comics, what would you start them at?”

I protested that I had no idea. You said guess. I told you to look online. You asked where. I facetiously said, “I don’t know search for an online comic emporium.” I know that when comicsemporium.com popped up on your screen, it didn’t do much for my “street cred.”

I admit I like comics and I admit I am a nerd; in fact, at the bumbershoot festival, while my friends were cruising to the toons of popular bands I was attending lectures by Dave Eggers, Sarah Vowell, Mike Doughty, and Nancy Pearl. But let me make it abundantly clear that I am a NPR binging, documentary film obsessing, polictics arguing, x-box playing, indie music listening, bookworm type nerd who happens to read comics. I am not an elvish reading, quiddich playing, wing wearing, Klingon speaking, anime jerking off while denying that it is porning, kind of nerd.

I swear to God I’ve never said/thought/moaned: Scott Bakula in a tutu? Comedic genius.

Good things come to those who wait... and wait... and wait....

Last night as I was searching my bed-stand for a pen I knocked a small black box out of my drawer. It is a jewelry box- the paper kind that fits around the clamshell case that finer jewelry comes in. It says the Bon Marche, which dates it a bit since the Bon was bought out by Macy’s (bastards) a while ago.

The box had fallen onto its top and was resting upside down. As I leaned out of bed to pick it up I read small silver writing, that I’d never noticed before. The bottom of the box reads: “Good things come in Bon Marche boxes. Please reuse yours.”

It’s my condom box.

Get off my panda, bitches!

Everyone who lives in the Washington DC area, stop hogging the baby panda. You can take the metro to go see it. I can’t. I HAVE to watch it be fucking ridiculously cute over the internet. It is the only cute thing I see all day and damn it, it’s the NATIONAL zoo. That means it’s my zoo too, so quite taking up all the bandwidth! Bastards.

http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/GiantPandas/

Yay! Now I don’t have to go to federal pound me in the ass prison for your murder!

This morning I emailed Married Man at Work Who Sucks at Adultery a file for a project that we are collaborating on- the lag time was literally 24 hours. His response:

"You’re fast. Thanks. Fast computers and fast wom… I mean bright wom nothing."

Might I mention that while I am not a "fast woman”, I'm not slow kid either and I am going to get your filthy lying cheating ass fired with these harassing emails. Keep typing, bitch. You'll need the practice for revising your resume.

Oh, and for the record: I'm not fast, I’m ambidextrous.

What kind of useless shit do I have to invent to get a little respect around here?

For quite some time I have had this nerdish obsession with the Hoberman Sphere. No seriously, I have. It’s just fucking cool. I mean look at it!!!













You can use it as a child cage! Hurrah!

Anyway, so I am a geek and a few weeks ago I decided to go online and finally buy a replacement for my Mini-Hoberman Sphere that I didn’t want back after my ex boyfriend’s frat brother used it to… well nevermind that. Sufficed to say he kept it…. That is where I found out about why the sphere was actually created: retractable roofs. Fucking Brilliant. Here’s a picture that isn’t that great, but if you go to: http://hoberman.com/fold/assoc/profile.htm there are some awesome pictures of the large scale retractable objects.








Furthermore, according to the website the Hoberman Sphere was featured in Y Tu Mama Tambien; being in soft-porn is sooooo cool!!!!!!!!













Chuck Hoberman, I salute you!

Then, a few days ago, on my jog, I was meditating on the Segway Idiot Mover (I live by a park where you can rent them and apparently run over joggers with them) and I wondered, is it possible that Dean Kamen (inventor of said device) is not a complete ass-hat?

Apparently it is possible(from website):

Dean Kamen holds more than 150 U.S. and foreign patents related to medical devices, climate control systems, and helicopter design. He's an inventor whose rebellion against convention has consistently yielded smart solutions. As a high school student, he developed an audiovisual control system that was used in New York's Hayden Planetarium. While in college, his brother—then a medical student—told him how difficult it was to administer intravenous drugs to cancer patients and diabetics. Dean thought about it and invented the portable infusion pump, enabling these patients to receive their medication without being confined to a hospital bed.
Dean built on this success to form DEKA Research & Development, where he and his team went on to solve a wide range of medical problems. They designed a portable dialysis machine the size of a VCR to replace one larger than a dishwasher. They created a vascular stent that provides arterial support during angioplasty procedures. Then came the IBOT™ Mobility System, a balancing aid for people confined to wheelchairs that gives them new freedom while raising them to eye level with the rest of the world.
All the while, Dean pursued his other great passion—cultivating the next generation of scientists and engineers. He founded For Inspiration and Recognition of Science and Technology (FIRST) to inspire high school students to pursue careers in science. The effort is popular with science teachers, and enjoys wide support from corporate America.

Well Dean, I guess I owe you an apology…
These people are ass hats,















but you are cool.



(Dean, 'I feel the need... the need for speed,' Kamen)










Extra geeking for super nerds.

finders keepers, losers weepers

I ran down to the IT department today. IT is the land of sorrow and murrishness, for within the darkened depths are people to avoid:

1. Ex-boyfriend.
2. Married man at work who sucks at adultery.

Having successfully completed my mission and evaded the ex, I was cruising out of IT feeling VERY smug, when I heard “Hey, stranger.”

Damn.

“So... I saw this girl upstairs and she looked HOT, so I thought I would just go over and introduce myself, but then I realized that I already know you. Bad me- I was checking you out.” Married man who sucks held his hand out to me to be slapped. I stared at it momentarily and walked off without responding.

Well married man who sucks, let this be your first warning. Do not thrust any appendages at me because I guarantee that you will not get said appendages back.

World Penis Survey canceled after local man destroys all will to live

Mostly naked hippie man, why were your friends throwing your accoutrements upon the street? Perhaps they desire you to wear pants? I know I did. Your angry junk waggling went far to communicate your displeasure at this forceful eviction, but why did you run at my friend Monica who was hobbling on her crutches with amazing speed towards the secured lobby of her condo? As you charged her like a deranged bull (well, a very poorly endowed deranged bull), and I began to open up the car-door to jump out and kick the shit out of you, all I could wonder was "why us?" (Well, that and "where did you get that sweet Grateful Dead tie-die shirt?") Monica and I didn't force you to suffer the indignities of partially nude unexpected homelessness, so why should you thrust your penis at us so aggressively?

We are all about the free love endorsed by the hippie crowd, so long is comes after no less than four cocktails (nice ones) purchased for us by an attractive, employed, pleasantly smelling young man at an at least marginally swanky bar. See. We are on your side. But, it was a good thing you turned around at the last minute and ran back to your friends to angerly gesticulate at them with your penis; otherwise they might have thought you had forgotten about them or something.

You must have been surprised when the police showed up. I know I was. Well technically I was taken aback, though I do acknowledge that the other sense is gaining increasing currency through its use. I bet you didn't realize that junk wagging would necessitate 5 cop cars. I didn't either! In my old neighborhood not even one car would show up to respond to violent brawls/gang activity in the street, but one tiny (and I do mean that double-entendre) hippie will summon a veritable flock of cops. I suppose that the white woman in distress clause comes into play in Monica's neighborhood more often than mine. Maybe that's just sour grapes talking; I'll admitt that I am a mite jealous of the all that police attention that Monica received, considering she called about a penis and I called about assults both with and without weapons.

Well, anyway, I hope you're doing ok, pantsless hippie man. Even though I know you should repulse me, I can't help but feel a tiny bit of warmth towards you. It's almost as if you remind me of something...




















Alternate titles:

Local blogger stymied by surplus of pithy titles

Entire SPD responds to hippie-penis emergency crisis

Christmas comes early for local blogger

Alleged similarities to characters entirely coincidental says Disney spokesperson.

Local woman loses childlike innocence/lunch

Ver Clemped

“What do you think he’d like?” my grandma asked me in the floral section of Fred Meyers.
“Uhm…” I said nervously looking at the book of balloon designs. “Well, these are nice,” and I pointed to the balloons in the shape of hearts. All I could think was that this whole situation was utterly absurd.
“What about this one?”
“Uhm, that’s nice too.”
The teenager helping us at Fred Myers stared off into space as we debated the various designs.

Having never bought a balloon for a dog I was unsure of which he would prefer. Dogs are color blind, aren’t they? Anyway, I just picked one that read ‘You’re so Special.’ When you buy a balloon for a sick old dog you can’t buy the same kind of balloon that you would buy a person. Somehow buying Dodger a ‘Get Well Soon’ balloon seemed messed up since we all knew we'd be putting him down the next day.

Normally I am all about mocking the grandparents about their mutt herd, but somehow I didn’t want the balloon guy to look at grandma like she was nuts; I didn’t want her to feel like this loss was any less significant than if it were any other gray haired, wrinkled old man with a penchant for bacon.

When we got home I found grandpa sitting on the floor of the dining room, force feeding broth and water to Dodger with a turkey baster. Grandpa never looked so desperate or sad. He’d bought Dodger to keep him company after he divorced his first wife and Dodger was his only company for a few years.

Over time Dodger had grown to favor me. He pushed me out of bed every night, sat on my feet all the time, and barked at me when I’d get home as if to say, “Bitch, get in the kitchen and bake me a pie.” Having Dodger as a pet was like living being married to a tiny, fat, bad-tempered Jewish man with gray chest hair peeping out of his track suit. When I had arrived at my grandparent’s house yesterday, Dodger heard me in the hallway and tried to come over, but he couldn’t make it and collapsed on the linoleum. I picked him up and set him on his bed and patted his head. He was so weak he couldn’t wag his tail. Tears welled up in my eyes when he wouldn’t take a bit of roast beef off of my fork.

After dinner grandma gave Dodger his balloon, forcing him to hold the string with his little paw while they watched World Championship Poker. But the whole time Dodger watched me, looking at me as if to say, “Oy vey, woman! Get off your tuches and help me! These people are crazy!”

I get paid to do the Wild Thang.

Say what?!

Guys Gone Wild??

Getting a guy naked is easier than breathing, so here’s my question:
Why would anyone want a video of guys whipping out their vacuum cleaner-like genitalia and wagging it on VHS?

I mean who owns a VCR anymore?

Well, besides me.

Apparently a whole fuck-ton of people bought this video because according to the Overstock.com Top One Hundred Movies, this was in the top 50.

Three thoughts:
1. Please Dear God let there not be anyone I know on there.
2. When I was dating Greek, did I really believe that my frat boy boyfriend wasn’t like all those other frat boys?
3. The last time I viewed one of the fine “Gone Wild Videos” it was a spring break one of college girls, one of whom was pulling her pants down to give everyone a view of her merchandise apparently without remembering that she was wearing a tampon, the string of which was hanging out of her thong underwear. Only God knows what frightening things may be lurking in these ‘wild guy’s’ genitals.

Midnight in the Garden of Yuppies and Evil

Once you get what you want, you don’t want it.

The entire duration of my stay in my last apartment I longed to be free of it. Though the building was nice the neighborhood was awful. Sirens, motorcycles, fights, screams, breaking glass, and gunshots punctuated my phone calls with my mother. My proximity to the red-neck bar drove me nuts, adding to my insomniatic ramblings; I need at least 4 hours of sleep for coherent speech.

While I was in Lake City I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of:
“Bitch, where’s my hat, you fucking stupid bitch!”
“Fuck you, asshole, fuck your hat.”
“Fucking cunt, something something unintelligible hat….”
“Well fuck you.”
“You don’t fucking come near me, or I’m gonna mess you up.”
“Fuck you. I’ll fuck you up.”
“Come here, asshole.”
“Fucking, asshole.”
“Where’s my fucking hat, fucker?”

In Green Lake I hear…. NOTHING. Occasionally a car passes and I can dimly hear the hum of the freeway, but primarily the only noises in my new place are coming from my incessant yacking and the TV or stereo. I have no urban lullaby to sleep to. Consequently, I am sleeping even less than usual, which is really quite ridiculous. In fact I was so exhausted last night that I actually considered putting on clothes and going all the way back to my old apartment. But I was too lazy to find pants.

Perhaps like the main character in the movie version of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, I should record the sounds of my old home and play them at night. Imagine my new neighbors’ confusion at the sounds of fat spiral-permed blondes being assaulted, men scuffling for no discernable reason, and my personal favorite, the randomly screaming woman, all pouring from my windows and traveling across the waters of my clean new pool.

Yea I gots plenty of bitches, fool, look at my ride!

Here, take this orally before bed and you'll be asleep in no time at all.

This is a houseplant.






















This is me. (Ok, me dressed as a pirate...)



















The resemblance is pretty poor.

I say this in order to clarify that, in fact, I am not a houseplant, nor do I aspire to become one. Colleagues, friends, aunties, grandma, mom, please stop implying that I need some one to take care of me.

I pretty much raised myself, put myself through college, and support myself at the highest standard of living that I have EVER had with a job that I got… all by myself. (Ok, my job essentially blows, but I’m working on that.) My point is that I never had a Daddy, and I don’t need one now.

So please don’t try to make me feel incomplete without a husband. Don’t try to assert my helplessness to inspire me to desperately search for a man. Don’t use your imaginary M.D. to diagnose that my insomnia would be cured if only I had a strong man to alleviate my anxieties. Sex will not cure my insomnia. Trust me.

Ohhhh Mexico, I’ve never really been, but I’d sure like to go.

The Anti-Defamation League wants you to know that Mexico is not dirty. Apparently they’ve never been to Mexico.


T-shirt said to be offensive to Mexico
Claims ‘New Mexico: Cleaner Than Regular Mexico’

The Anti-Defamation League has asked Urban Outfitters, a Philadelphia-based retailer which targets 18- to 30-year-old shoppers, to stop selling the shirt.


The Associated Press
Updated: 3:28 p.m. ET July 26, 2005
PHILADELPHIA - The Urban Outfitters retail chain is once again upsetting some people with a T-shirt it’s selling. The shirt reads: “New Mexico, Cleaner than Regular Mexico.”
An official with the Anti-Defamation League wants the retailer to stop selling the shirt -- because it suggests that ”Mexico is a dirty place.”
Urban Outfitters has run into similar controversy before. Two years ago, it stopped selling a game called ”Ghettopoly” after black civil rights leaders protested. Last year, it stopped sales of a T-shirt that read, “Everyone Loves a Jewish Girl,” surrounded by dollar signs. The Anti-Defamation League objected to that one, too.
It also angered pro-voting groups with a shirt that said, “Voting is for Old People.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, here goes Quiana and her Anti-Defamation League prejudices. Damn straight. I can’t help but be angry about how, according to the ADL, it’s apparently ok for Falwell and Santorum to vilify homosexuals, but God forbid you pick on Mexico. God forbid you use your right to free expression to offend other people. Good thing being a bitch is illegal in America (I’d better go into hiding). Good thing that the ADL’s right to sue and be little whiners supersedes our rights to obnoxious garb. “Harold that man’s T-shirt is too glib, quick call the ADL!” I feel like the ADL is a bully that can run around telling people that creating funny t-shirts (although a bit outrageous) is wrong—quick accuse the makers of anti-Semitism, racism, sexism, ageism. Tie them up and burn them at the stake!

I know that the ADL is concerned that people will believe that all Mexicans are dirty if they see that t-shirt (not that the shirt is even implying that), but let’s be serious, if I see a lady with a t-shirt with a picture of a beaver on her shirt and an arrow pointing down, I don’t think that there is an actual beaver in her pants, nor will society at large begin to think that all ladies have large flappered mammals in their pants. Likewise I think that people who hate Mexicans are stupid assholes who not only have the right to any stupid t-shirt they want, but who the ADL can’t make not be assholes no matter how many clothing retailers they blackball. It’s every American’s God-given right to be an asshole if they feel like being an asshole and no amount of t-shirt destruction will stop that. So while I can see where the ADL is going with this (even though I think that they are a bunch of liberal art major, bourgeois, ass-clowns) I still stand behind Urban Outfitters. The American government set the precedent for picking on Mexico so why should our retailers take any more care? Mexico’s condition is appalling. Its government is fundamentally corrupt in every fashion, from the president down to the neighborhood police force. Things are so terrible in Mexico that leaving your family, swimming a river and risking death in the desert to come here, live in fear, not be able to communicate, to be the victim of atrocious racism, and pick our fucking berries is the best possible opportunity available for people to improve themselves. This sob story may make you believe that the ADL is right, quit picking on Mexico. Well fah, I say. I think that Americans would do well to remember that Mexico isn’t really Cabo and Mazatlan, Mexico is Tijuana and tiny towns full of desperate dirty people.

About 8 years ago I went to Tijuana to work with orphans and the destitute at the Tijuana dumps. The dump used to be a pile in a valley with mountains all around. They’ve filled the valley, to the point that the mound of refuse is a mountain now. Countless poor live next to this mountain making their living by sorting through the trash. Eating what they can, selling anything worth money. I bathed children for the first time in their lives because water is too precious to waste; I deloused them and gave them the only new clothes they will probably ever own. These are kids with scabies, worms, and appalling health problems and deformities that are so awful that, were your pet to have them, you would have it put down. I didn’t know that there was that much puss in the entire world, and I sat and squished it out of sores on babies so the staff doctors and nurses could figure out what the hell was wrong there.

There is a cemetery at the dump for people who are born in the trash and die in it. The people are so poor that they don’t know what to do with their loved ones when they die, so they bury their dead children, parents, and friends in cardboard boxes or just leave them on the ground knowing that if they buried them someone would just break in and steal their clothes anyway. There are decaying corpses on the ground and the children play on the other side of the road. But don’t worry, the cemetery will probably be swallowed by garbage soon if it hasn’t happened already. At least then they will be buried.

I know that Mexico isn’t even the poorest place in the world, but remembering this experience makes me feel despondent so deep inside I can’t even express it.

ADL, don’t you fucking dare sit in Manhattan in tailored suits drinking Starbucks and tell me that Mexico isn’t dirty. Or that that t-shirt isn’t funny just because it’s true.

Sorry guys, this was going to be knee-slapping funny, but I just got pissed off instead. Don’t fret, more poop and sex entries to come.

And I said, I don't care if they lay me off either, because I told, I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting

Below is an ACTUAL email that I received at WORK from a COWORKER. Let me preface this all with the statement that this went out to at least 300 other people who also work with us. Additionally, aside from omitting names (i.e. trying to not get fired) I have made absolutely no changes to the content, punctuation, spelling etc. of this email. Continuing in my preface might I add that this woman is a 45 year old white chick and is also quite large.

Oh and incidentally they just moved my desk and I'm hopping mad. Now people can sneak up behind me and catch me updating this blog. Bastards!

_____________________________________________________


First.... August 11 in the AM I will be unavailable to answer the phone. Additionally, (program she manages) will be unavailable. Here's the scoop-a-rooney, I will be working with (company that makes program that she manages) that morning to beef up a few things and learn a few more tricks to impress you with! One thing that we will be doing is adding more report options for you! Neat Huh? I thought you'd like that!

So in order for me to not loose my little mind trying to answer questions and fix all sorts of other stuff, I need to focus on this so that I can be the best that I can be! I do this out of love for all my peeps! :)

***************************************

Ok... Second......
I am going to give you more power... yep.. you heard me right. More power... but with more power you can cause MORE damage.... so I need to give you a stern lecture, warning, directive, call it what you like..... if you goof it up.. I will have no choice but to remove that power..... got it? Sorry to be such a "parteey peewper" but for the safety of all concened it has to be that way. With that said here's the deal;

After payroll upload tomorrow I will flip a switch on your (program she manages) adminstrator profile that will enable you to make fabulous changes to your employee files. Changes like addresses, phone numbers, job descriptions, work hours and stuff like that. Stuff that will make your job easier. Like the ability to print mailing labels and other fun things. You will no longer have to wait months on end for me to dig through a pile of changes to get to your site. You have the power!!! Wahooooooo!

The problem is that this will give you power to change (certain variety of employee) records as well. This must not be done!!!!! Do not under ANY circumstance change a (certain variety of employee) record. Nadda, Nyet, Nein.... Don't eeeeven think about it! Even if it seems non invasive. There may be a good reason that their name is not spelled the way they write it. Perhaps that's what their social security card has it spelled. You don't know... so don't touch! Don't change their phone number or anything! Call me if you have a question.

Cuz.... if you change it... the change log will reflect YOUR name! That's right! So you can't even do a sneaky! I'll be all over you like mustard on a ball park dog!

Live long and prosper... but keep your hands to your own site information!

Sheesh... I need a nap... being such a dictator is brutal! I'm all tuckered out!

If you don't have your Password and User name to access (program she manages) yet.... let me know.. I'll do it post haste! (or at least after payroll has been uploaded!)

Naptime.... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
:)
Name of Coworker Withheld

you stink

Came into the office this morning and went to wash my coffee mug and there was new soap. That's fine. Whatever, however if you have ever puked Smirnoff twisted orange vodka or Absolut Citron, don't use this shit:
Dawn Direct Foam Citris










I seriously almost snarked into the sink. It gave me the same reaction as smelling tequila after heavy drinking....
Also possibly the fucking freakiest graphic ever:













It's like the resulting baby if Snuffy from Sesame Street was making love to a soap bottle during a radioactive space wind storm.

I'm not with Stupid*

You guys want a post?! Well fine, here's a post, but it ain't gonna be funny. Whiners.

Today I was meditating on Rick Santorum (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rick_Santorum). Guys like him make me embarrassed to admit to being an evangelical Christian, even though I'm a barely practicing, jubilantly sinning, tragically liberal, practically not Christian at all kind of Christian.

I won't rant about what a self-indulgent ass-clown Rick Santorum is, but it suddenly occurred to me that this is one tenth of the embarrassment that my Muslim friends described to me whenever terrorists use the Koran to excuse their sins. When Santorum and other Christian extremists equate being homosexual with being a child molesters it must feel frustrating and ludicrous in the same way as when Muslim extremists claim that their martyrs are treated to some 20 virgins or whatever. (Being that most of my Muslim friends follow Islamic law with the same enthusiasm that I follow Christian law, they are aiming to get their 20 virgins now.)

Shouldn't a common enemy bring us together? I feel like we are all in the same boat. We, as religious groups, are being embarrassed by a disturbingly large portion of our fellows being manipulated in their beliefs by a minority of ass-holes (and in this case, their contents).
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Savage_Love)

*Alternate title intended for the entertainment of Steve: "Dude that was so NOT extreme."