Thursday, December 24, 2009

SPOILER ALERT: Barack Obama was my brother's tooth fairy.

This evening I need to address a phenomenon that irks the innermost part of my soul. It incites rage violent enough to motivate the kicking of puppies and other similar assorted adorable things. It's completely unavoidable, and what's worse is that it seems to easy to combat but every attempt brings certain failure. What phenomenon is this? The event in which the conditioner ALWAYS runs out before the shampoo. WHY?!

Agreed? Completely unavoidable. I've had hair for almost 22 years now. (I was pretty much bald till I was 3. My mom had to scotch tape a bow to my head so people would know I was a girl. I spent the first three years of my life looking like a Christmas gift.) No matter how many times I try, the conditioner runs out before the shampoo does. It can't be stopped. But it MUST be stopped. This is a vicious injustice. I've tried everything. I ration the conditioner as if it were fuel in 1942. I splurge on shampoo to try and even things out. I am an expert at the putting water in the conditioner bottle and shaking it like crazy to get every last drop out. It has never worked. I have never run out of both products at the same time. Not once. I am convinced that the tooth fairy has moved from exchanging money for teeth to sneaking into bathrooms and siphoning conditioner out of the bottle. I have half a mind to booby trap my shower and catch the little slore in action. I have beef with the tooth fairy. My brother and I must have been contracted by two different tooth fairies. My teeth gathered a dollar per piece on average. My brother received a minimum of three dollars for each tooth, and I distinctly remember his right bicuspid fetching five whole dollars. We are 3 years and 7 months apart, and being an economics major, I know for absolute fact that the inflation rate in the mid-90s was not between 300 and 500 percent. I'm pretty sure my brother's tooth fairy was Barack Obama. It was very difficult for me to watch him buy 3-5 times the candy I could buy and even harder to watch him toothlessly chomp away at whatever would rot the next tooth and bring in another outrageously high tooth subsidy. A politics lesson at an early age. And you wonder why I vote red.

Back to the conditioner. As my own silent protest, I like to quit using the shampoo when the conditioner runs out and refuse to buy the same brand again. I'm not one to fall to big brother shampoo company's scheme to get us to buy another round of S&C. I know they know it's a problem. But do they make the bottles two different sizes to compensate? Absolutely not, because they're supercalifragilisticexpialiDOUCHES. As a sad little consequence of my protest, I have 18 bottles of shampoo, 1/3 full sitting in my bathroom. What am I supposed to do now?! Wash the dishes? My plates could use some strength, moisture and shine. And I'm sure that the silverware wouldn't mind smelling like Redken. I checked, and consignment stores do carry shampoo. eBay? I can't be the only one with this problem. If only I could find someone with the opposite problem: a shampoo overuser. Now that would be something. Worthy of being the subject of a child's nursery rhyme. Or a Lifetime Network Original Movie.

Bottom line, there has got to be a solution. I'll catch that deviant tooth fairy eventually, but until then, please keep all puppies away from my right foot.

Moving on.

I'm 24, I live on my own, and as such I exercise rights that I did not have when living at home with my parents. These include, but are not limited to: jumping on the bed whenever I want, eating cookies for breakfast, sitting too close to the TV, and most of all -- not making my bed every morning. I see no point in it. I am going to sleep in it the next night, so why bother? It takes quite a bit of very tactical tossing and turning to get my covers twisted into the position that satisfies me. I owe it to myself to not make extra work for myself every night by starting the tangling process all over again. To this, my dad would reply: "You wipe your butt every day, but you're going to poop again, so make your bed." I can't tell you how many times I have heard him say this. First of all Dad, EW. Second, these are two completely different things. It's like comparing apples and extended cab diesel pickup trucks.

My bed does not itch if I don't make it. Nor does it start to develop unpleasant odor, or leave streaks in my underwear. See, completely different things.

And that is why I do not make my bed.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Charlie was cute. You, sir, are not.

This might be one of the most adorable things on the planet:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM&NR=1&feature=fvwp

Who doesn't love teeny tiny English children? They're precious. When I have kids, I think I might send them away to boarding toddler school for a year or two just so they come back talking with a cute little accent. I'll even help them retain it by sitting through a Hugh Grant movie or two. And I'll pronounce words like "shhhedule" and I'll call my fries chips, and I'll forget to brush my teeth once or twice. It will all be worth it because maybe, just maybe my kids will be that cute.

Not a bad idea, right?

This was at least my mentality until I encountered something that would make me regret the words I wrote above.

The Charlie Bit Me REMAKES.

Honestly. Don't you people have anything better to do than humililiate yourselves with some poorly reproduced spoof starring oversized, fully grown American people possessing three quarters of an ounce of talent?

Take this one, for example:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaeuzeIWfUY&feature=related

I don't even know where to start, the baby talk from a fully grown male, the atrocious attempt at an accent, or the sheer lack or creativity of the copycat. I can't imagine any excuse for being that bored. You're in college, boys. It's called beer. Try it sometime.

At least those guys had the decency to do their own audio, unlike these kids:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJG_LiN6heM&feature=related

It's like a Britney Spears concert gone wrong. I never thought I would see lip syncing come to such extremes. Someone needs to buy these boys a ball, kick them out of the house, and only let them come back inside when someone has a black eye. And make the front kid get a haircut, he looks like an ugly little girl.

There are more remakes than I care to think about. Please don't honor them with a hit on their video to investigate for yourself. Just take my word for it. They're dumber than a blond trying to smell a scratch and sniff sticker at the bottom of a pool.

I guess we can't really blame these YouTube users. They've been subjected to remakes for their whole lives. Was 90210 really good enough to need a 2nd run? I don't think so. And don't even get me started on when the Saved By The Bell kids went to college. And the only thing that saved Boy Meets World in the post high school years was eye candy by way of Matthew Lawrence, and of course...good 'ol Feeney staying along for the ride.

If you really want to get me going, just bring up unnecessary sequels. I know you didn't ask, but you're reading my blog, so I'm gonna bet you're interested in what I have to say. If not, well then go watch some more Charlie copycats. Trust me, you're better off here.

In many cases, I prefer when the lack of sequel leaves the future of the characters up to the imagination of the viewer. I'm sorry, but I don't need to know the life story of the Little Mermaid's grand-daughter. I didn't really care what you did last summer, and I still don't care again this summer. Not only can golden retrievers not play basketball, but they sure as hell cannot ALSO play football. Talking pigs are cute when they're saving sheep on the farm, but I have no need to see that same talking pig tour the Statue of Liberty. And Elle Woods, your dog's mother probably wasn't harmed by the shampoo that spooky lab tested on her. And the amount of pink you wore in your second film toed the line of socially acceptable.

Not all sequels are bad. Some are truly amazing. But know when to quit, Mike Myers.

However, even if you're watching the first of a series, the pleasure of it can still be ruined by the other audience members at the theater. No, I'm not talking about the catty girls to the right that pop bubbles the entire time while clicking away on their cell phones. I'm talking about the giraffe that sits right in front of me. I'm the shortest person in the theater, and you've got a neck longer than a hockey stick. SERIOUSLY? Did you have to sit directly in front of me? I paid to see the screen, not to see the light dance about your bald spot. Sit somewhere else.

I have little use for tall people. They look down at me, taunting me, bragging about how fresh the air is up there, and how they can reach the spice cabinet without assistance. Whatever, Stilts, I feel the rain last, and I can still go in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese.

Speaking of disproportionate bodies, what's the deal with Barbie? Do you honestly believe that Kelly and Skipper are her sisters? No. Ken didn't wrap it. Twice. And how many career changes has this woman had? If Barbie lived in the real world, her student loans would outweigh all the money she could ever earn. And this doesn't even take into account her athletic training, plastic surgery, and wardrobe costs. And somehow, somewhere, she's had the time to pop out two equally overachieving daughters. They're the type of people you love to hate. I always thought Mattel should come out with Divorce Barbie: she comes with Ken's car, Ken's house, Ken's boat, Ken's motorhome, Ken's beach house in Maui.....sigh. It's an old joke, but it still cracks me up every time.

I think I'll take some of my own advice and quit while I'm ahead. Until something else is worth ranting, whatever. I'm getting cheesefries.

Friday, November 27, 2009

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

I'll set the scene for you:

A 3 bedroom cabin with 7 people and 1 gigantic Labrador. 5 laptop computers, 5 internet browsing smartphones. 1 xbox. 2 TVs.

This is post-Thanksgiving at my house. The family is together for the first time in many months. Are we bonding? Absolutely not. Rather, we're all glued to our respective electronic devices. For a time, I refused to join the crowd. Instead of opening up my laptop and feeding my internet addiction, I flipped through the pages of my wine marketing book. Certainly, I would rather be re-reading Harry Potter or catching up on some Edward Cullen, but I'm trying to be a mature grad student and enhance my mind to get the leg up on the other hundred thousand people that aspire to be wine marketers. Before too long though, I realized that this was too good of a rant opportunity to pass up. And that was good enough of an excuse to fire up the ol' Toshiba. Because really, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

We're not Black Friday people. First of all, after all the wine we had last night, we were not about to pull ourselves out of bed for a bargain. I have no interest in bolting through the aisles to get my hands on the latest trend. I love a sale every bit as much of the next person, but the opportunity cost of fighting crowds of Octomoms looking for a 2 for 1 Pull-My-Finger-Elmo doll is exponentially higher than any sale is worth. My worst nightmare is arm-wrestling Redneck Peggy Sue for Wal Mart's last copy of Ernest Goes to Burning Man Special Edition DVD. Note to my readers: if you ever find me in the situation, please drag me over to the tools department, find the biggest wrench you can, and hit me upside the head to put me out of my misery because I couldn't live with the shame.

I'll further describe the scene to you, clockwise. My father sits immediately to my left with his laptop. This time he's not playing Mavis Bacon, thank God. He's reading about Tiger Woods and his car accident this morning in which alcohol was allegedly not involved. Ok -- seriously? It was 2:25 AM after Thanksgiving, and he crashed into a tree and fire hydrant in front of his own house. Yeah, my bet is that Tiger had been into the sauce. Although, he is part Asian, so maybe we can just blame the horrible driving on his heritage.

My cousin sits to the left of my father, browsing his iTouch, finding the most obnoxious sound the device can make. This is, of course, interrupted by the periodic public display of images of "hot girls in snow" or "hot girls doing the weather report" or "hot girls carving the turkey" or pretty much any image of some scantily clothed skank doing whatever scantily clothed skanks do. He recently took a shower, and I have a few inclinations as to why.

To his left until very recently was my aunt. Her laptop was on her lap, and I can only assume she was deeply immersed in an online crossword puzzle. A quick piece of advice: never, NEVER steal her crossword. Especially if you like all 10 of your fingers.

I just got kicked out of my perfectly warmed prime real estate couch spot because my cousin wants to show my dad a website, that just absolutely had to be shared.

One more couch cushion to the left is my mother, playing some Boggle knockoff on her iPhone, as she receives text messages from my brother who is across the room on his MacBook. His headphones are on, but I can still hear the Daft Punk.

My uncle is in the kitchen doing who knows what on his laptop.

Every time someone even moves toward the remote to switch on the TV, the rest of us cry out in protest. How dare someone interrupt our internet time with something as archaic as a television. Agreeing on a TV program is unheard of.

A few hours ago, someone suggested that we play a game of Rummy Cubes, a pre-internet family favorite. A few of us were down to play, but upon the stipulation that the game waited until we were done doing whatever we were respectively doing on our computers.

2 hours later and we haven't moved.

This is what technology has brought us. This seems to be a recurring theme in this blog.

Oh well, pretty soon someone will decide that it's beer thirty and the river of booze will begin to flow. My brother and cousin, manly men that they are, will pop open their Mike's Hard Lemonades, my father will get into the gin, my mom and aunt will find whatever is left of the Pinot Grigio, and me....well, I think today I'll start with straight tequila. Then we'll all start talking politics, and reminiscing about the time that Grandpa threw the hamburger across the dinner table. Ah, family.

It's 27 days until Christmas eve. By that time, I am quite sure that we will have acquired another 2 or 3 electronic devices to further excuse us from talking to each other.

Happy Thanksgiving. Or should I say...where's my beer?

Friday, November 20, 2009

The de-evolution of modern civilization, and we only have modernity to blame.

Technology will be the death of our civilization.

I love technology, don't get me wrong. I have panic attacks if my cell phone battery dies and I don't have a charger around. I check my email obsessively. DVR literally changed my life. I don't know how people survived pre-internet. I would die without my iPod in my car to match my playlist to my every mood.

But despite my affinity for the above, I still stand that technology will be the downfall of our civilization.

We are so lazy, it's shameful.

Last night, I called my mother to inform her that I had survived a truly horrific final exam. I can only imagine that she was doing one of 3 things when I called:

1. Spider solitaire in her office. The woman is addicted. God forbid should you accidentally clear the high score list, it will get the death stare and a month of dishes and trash duty.

2. Facebook. Yes, my mother has Facebook. And if you post a movie quote or a song lyric as a status update, she will take it literally. No, Mom, I don't REALLY have an anaconda, and trust me, if I did, it wouldn't want none if you got buns, hun.

3. Tetris on the circa 1999 GameBoy that she "bought for my brother" but promptly commandeered it once the novelty wore off and Pokemon became "uncool" upon entering the 8th grade. Her thumbs have carpal tunnel, and don't interrupt her when she's on level 37, even if the house is on fire. Level 37 is more important than 3rd degree burns.

I finished my conversation with my mother and asked to speak with my father, to hassle him about the upcoming football battle between his alma mater and my own. (Go Ags, beat the Hornet!) I can only imagine that my father was doing one of three things:

1. Sitting in his chair, watching American Idol reruns, clippping his toenails, and dumping the clippings in the container where he also stashes the dog toys.

2. Sitting in his chair, watching The Bachelorette, throwing a mangled and saliva ridden stuffed duck across the room as the dog intently stares, waiting for her chance to make a 5 foot retrieve.

3. Sitting in his chair, watching Huntin' with Hank, his computer on his lap, playing Mavis Bacon Teaches Typing. Mavis and my father are BFF, and yet the man has yet to surpass the hunt and peck.

Bottom line, I would bet my life on the fact that my father was sitting in his chair, watching some form of low quality, second rate television.

What appalled me was my mother's response to my request to speak with my father:

"He couldn't find the cordless earlier. Call him on his cell."

Seriously?

Not only was my father unwilling to pry himself from his chair for a slight moment to find a working cordless phone to talk with his firstborn, but my mother was unwilling to walk the 34 feet to the family room to hand him the phone on which she was speaking to me.

This, friends, is what our world has come to.

My parents are both able bodied people with fully functional legs. Still, it was too much effort for either of them to use said legs to get up and find a phone.

I didn't call my father's cell out of protest of this abomination. However, I am quite sure that he would have answered because much like myself, the man can't be more than a foot from his cell or his blackberry, lest should the Queen of England call wanting to refinance Buckingham Palace.

Again, technology will be the death of our civilization. We are going to start devolving as a species.

I estimate that due to email and text messaging that we will lose our ability to speak within the next million years. What's the point of talking, if you can just text what you have to say? The phone call is a thing of the past. It's so 2000. The downside of this text message revolution, however, is the fact that we are all going to have severe thumb problems in about 20 years. Our thumbs were just not built for rapid and repeated button pushing. I recommend right now that anyone going into medicine should seriously consider specializing in hand orthopedics, because thumb reconstruction surgery is going to be highly lucrative within the next two decades.

Thumb surgery is going to be the laser eye surgery of the 2020s.

On the positive side of text messaging, my 83 year old grandfather is getting quite good at it, and I couldn't be prouder. My grandfather could out-text your grandfather. I guess he realized that if he wanted to keep in contact with his grandchildren, he had to get with the times. The technology addiction is spreading like the swine flu from the Gen Y, straight on through to the Gen X, hitting up Baby Boomers, and not stopping until it infects whatever people older than the Boomers are called.

My advice: Do your thumb calisthenics before bed and try to speak aloud for at least one hour daily. Help save the human race.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

You can keep your dog in your purse, but don't screw with my candy.




I saw a car inside the grocery store today. It was one of those stupid Eurotrash hippie magnet tin can on wheels Smart Cars. I'm not down with those. They're lamesauce. Hey Smart Car driver, if I sideswipe you with our ski-bum tank of a Suburban, you're going to be freeway debris and I'll drive away without ever feeling the dent.

Who makes these things, Hot Wheels?

Everything is getting smaller these days. Except for those things that are getting bigger of course. But enlargement of things is fodder for another day's rant. (That's what she said?)

I'm OK with the cell phones getting smaller. It leaves more room for gum and mace in my purse.

I'm OK with clothes sizes getting smaller. It gives us something to aspire to. That is, if what you're going for is looking like you're pregnant when all you've done is swallow a meatball . (Ahem, Nicole Ritchie).

I'm OK with the average size of dogs getting smaller. I'm all for purse dogs. They give me something to laugh at, and they're great for practicing kicking field goals.

I'm even OK with cars getting smaller. I'm not going to drive one of those dinky little things, but at least when their douche of a driver takes up two spaces on a busy street, I can rally a few bystanders together, and we can pick the poor thing up and move it to a handicapped spot to guarantee a whopper of a ticket to Liberal Joe, the Smart Car dufus.

Generally, I can deal with the decreasing size of many things. But recently I have been enraged by one particular downsizing. It violates everything that is good in this world. I refer, friends, to...

The Fun Sized Snickers.

Have you noticed how much smaller it has gotten? Not cool, Mars. NOT COOL. The chocolate to nougat to peanut to caramel ratio was perfect as it was. Why would you change something like that? And don't you dare say to combat childhood obesity, because that is a giant load of crap. Children are obese because their parents don't make their whiny little asses eat their broccoli. The size of the Snickers has nothing to do with it. The Fun Sized Snickers are not nearly as fun as they used to be. They should change their name to "Not As Much Fun Sized Snickers." Or to "Extremely Disappointing Snickers." I think I will adopt Almond Joy as my Snickers boycott sponsor. I thought about Milky Way to try and mimic the Snickers flavor compilation minus the nuts, but then after careful research, I found that Milky Way is also Mars owned. The same goes for Twix. 3 Musketeers wasn't even an option. All for one and one for GROSS. 45% less fat, 100% less taste. Then I thought about Baby Ruth, but I just can't bear the image of Bill Murray pulling it out of the pool, taking a whiff, and then taking a giant bite of what appears to be a solid log of human waste. And Pay Days are not widely available, so I just can't chance it. I can only stomach a limited amount of Butterfinger, and it makes a mess which is undesirable when trying to look like a lady while om nom nomming a candy bar. Almond Joy it is. Pure coconut decadence with a side of the essential proteins of a nut.

Speaking of candy, did you know that Nestle owns Jenny Craig? Now that's just hilarious. Again, we find ourselves on the subject of marketing genius. Nestle markets its candy bars, people buy them, eat too many of them, can't fit into their clothes, sign up for Jenny Craig, and again Nestle profits.

Folks, Nestle is profiting on both the weight gain and the weight loss of America. Now that's the way to conquer the business world. Next merger? Smirnoff and Alcoholics Anonymous. Or maybe Marlboro and Nicorette. Or Chiplotle and Chipotl-away. The possibilities are endless.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Do you know what I am saying?

When you look at the image above what comes to mind? If it's "YUM, that's great tequila!" then congratulations, YOU are the subject of today's rant. Aren't you lucky.

For all you Patron lovers out there: It's not as awesome as you think. Really. You're just flat wrong. You, my little lemming of ignorance, are a victim of an absolutely fantastic marketing ploy. Patron is in fact, liquid crap. Now, don't get me wrong -- Patron is a gazzilion times better than Senor Jose's agave urine, Sauza juice, or the God-awful Bandolero liquid hell. BUT! It's definitely not worth what you're paying for it. As you slap down your 45 bones for some fancily packaged craptastic drunk potion, the Patron marketing team is laughing their asses off over a pitcher of Centenario Anejo margaritas, relishing in their success in taking the money of another American sucker. I commend those dudes. I hope to be that good at marketing some day. It shouldn't be too hard. All I have to do is take something crappy, put it in a nice bottle, wrap it up in a shiny box, and give it to rappers to slam down beats about. Success. Screw grad school, my business plan is set.

And while we're on the subject of rappers, who in God's name is "Shawty?" This woman that every damn rapper has got something to sing about. The girl must be a giant skankasaurus, and I'm sure her crotch is one of those "hot dog in a hallway" situations.

Back to tequila. Silver tequila also makes me very very angry. So many people are all like, "Blanco is soooo much better than gold tequila, it's so much smoother." You're wrong. Blanco goes straight from the steel fermentation tank to the bottle. Gold tequila goes into oaked barrels and is allowed to absorb the lucious oakey flavors as it mellows into a tasty treat. You people that are all about the silver are just uninformed and again, victims of a genius marketing team. Feliz Navidad, homes.

Bottom line, if you like paying a crapload for harsh, crappy tequila, please by all means, buy Patron Silver.

But the bottle sure is pretty, isn't it?

Speaking of pretty things, the picture below is certainly not.


What's the deal with the low rider trucks? If you ask me, they're one of the stupidest things known to mankind.

TRUCKS ARE FOR UTILITY PURPOSES! WHY? WHY? WHY??? Would you lower them to 1.4765 inches from the ground so you can't even drive over so much as a pebble? Trucks are made for driving over dirt, hauling manly things, and attracting girls like me. Your low risin' truck can't drive over a piece of hardened dog crap, and it ain't gonna get you no bitches. It can't even haul your mama, who by the way, is so fat that when she goes to the movies, she sits next to eeeeeverybody. No. Your low rider truck is the stupidest thing I have ever seen. Your "sweet ass ride" looks like a steel caterpillar. And you know what I do when I see a caterpillar? I scream and flick it away.

Have you ever noticed that the level of pants directly correlates to the level of lowrider vehicle? And the level of the vehicle directly correlates to the level of intelligence of its owner. Or really, who are we kidding? These people don't actually own their cars, their moms do. And if they do, by some snowball's chance in hell, own their truck, well then, shouldn't that money be better spent on child support?

Yeah, I went there.

Now, to the classy side of life.
I have never seen something as contradictory as the stemless white wine glass. Really? White wine is to be drank chilled. Your hands exude heat at 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit. What part of this do you not understand, wine glass manufacturers? When you drink white wine, please for the love of Dionysus, HOLD IT BY THE STEM! Keep your wine chilled! When you have no option of a stem, your best option is drinking handless with a straw and looking like a Grade A Dufus. At least when people drink white wine out of a red party cup, or a coffee mug, or straight out of the damn bottle, they know they're being ghettofabulous. These folks just want to get wasted. That's cool. I've had my share of those moments. But the stemless white wine glass people -- I just wanna backhand you across the face. You're following a trend that is contradictory to the principles and etiquette that pertain to white wine drinking. Drink all the red wine you want out of a stemless glass, I don't care. But if you're popping open a chilled Chardonnay, please, PLEASE give that sweet nectar some respect and drink out of something with a stem. That's why it's there.

Lastly, I do not know what "Hyphy" means.

Do you know what I am saying?

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

WTF, El Nino?


I think we got enough rain yesterday to drown Michael Phelps.

And that makes me very angry.

Why?

El Nino.

El Nino is the redheaded stepchild of the Meteorological Phenomenon family. Mr. and Mrs. Meteorological Phenomenon should make him live in a closet under the stairs and serve him a diet of lima beans, unripe avocados, and Odoul's. Or give him up for adoption.

I hate El Nino because he is a giant tease. We have all this rain, and are my mountains getting any snow? NO! It's 45 degrees at the base of Alpine Meadows, and the storm snow total thus far is a whopping ZERO inches. That is one big load of BS. The moment I heard the forecast for a "storm," my Pavlovian ski instincts kicked in. My nose got cold, my quads got sore, and my vocabulary expanded to include ski bum words like "wicked," "sick," and "gnarley." And then someone reminded me that it's supposed to be an El Nino year. I know it's wrong to shoot the messenger, but I wanted to crop dust that person at that very moment. I HATE El Nino! All this precipitation, and not a flake of snow. I had a dream last night where my poor skis and snowboard were alive, and they were whining like puppies at the window, wanting so badly to go outside and play, and I had to play the bad guy and tell them that it's still too early and too warm to go outside and play. It was heartbreaking.

I've been listening to Dean Martin's "Let It Snow" on loop for a few days now to do my part to ward off the warm weather. If the powers of Deano can't bring me snow, what can?

Alpine Meadows opens in 52 days, and I don't think I can make it that long. It's going to be a warm winter, folks. Our powder is going to be wet and heavy. The trees are going to drip drip drip all season. I'm going to resign to the fact that the seat of my pants will pretty much be soaking wet from December 5th until April 1st.

Maybe I'll treat El Nino as an excuse to buy new ski pants. And while we're on the subject of ski-clothing....what's up with the people that wear waterproof jackets inside? Those people annoy me. What are you scared of? YOU'RE INSIDE. It's not going to rain on you unless you live in a hut with a thatched roof. And if that's the case, then sell your stupid jacked and use the money to buy a real roof, dumbass. My only thought is that these people are afraid that the ceiling fire putter-outter sprinkler things (this is a technical term) are going to go off at any given moment. Um, I've got news for you, inside jacket wearer people. Your time could be better spent just making sure that the building doesn't set on fire.

Moral of the story? El Nino is weak sauce, and I want to ski NOW!

Oh, and while they're giving out Nobel Prizes like candy, where's mine? I went #2 in the big girl potty yesterday, I think that deserves a time-honored, globally respected award.

Friday, October 2, 2009

What do discount potato chips, urine cocktails, and homeless people have in common?

I have decided that I need to rant about Rob Roy.

If you're not familiar with Davis, you might not get this one.

Seriously, WTF is with this dude? He thinks he's all that and a bag of chips. But really, the chips inside this bag of douche are some dollar store off-brand stale, mealy bits and pieces of potato fodder trying to pass themselves off as chips with "all that" seasoning. Rob Roy is not a tasty snack. Rather, he's a giant disappointment that leaves you unsatisfied and thirsty.

I've never met Rob Roy, but I see him at bars. He wears old man hats. He's one of those guys that thinks vintage tuxedo vests are awesome. No no, Rob Roy, they make you look like a douche. At least he dresses the part. When I look at Rob Roy, I think of Jughead from the Archie Comics series.

The self proclaimed "Party King of Davis" has been known to drink his own urine. Well, he mixed it with beer, but in my world drinking pee is drinking pee. I don't care if you mix it with beer, wine, tequila, holy grail juice, or water from the freakin' fountain of youth. It's still pee. And rumor has it that he has also lit his "area" on fire, just for fun. Talk about a need for attention! Gross. I'm afraid to drink in bars now because I know that the glass I'm drinking out of was possibly once also drunk out of by the guy that drank his own pee. You're not the party king of Davis, buddy. You're a weirdo. Graduate, Van Wilder. And by the way, you're not nearly as cool. And you're nowhere near as attractive as Mr. Ryan Reynolds. [Google image search break.....siiigh]

What really grinds my gears is that Rob Roy has run for Davis City Council 2 times. Thanks to the common sense of Davis voters, he's lost both of those times. This dude makes a mockery of political campaigning. You can't expect to spend $250 on a political campaign and actually win. Rob Roy, your cardboard and spraypaint stenciled signs make you look homeless. "Vote for Rob Roy, he'll sit on the corner all day and ask you for money and then instead of putting it toward the city budget, he'll spend it on beer."

I'm a passionate person, I really am. Don't judge.

Rob Roy has worked at Ben & Jerry's for as long as I can remember. The dude scoops ice cream for a living. Not to say that scooping ice cream isn't a respectable profession, it is. I like ice cream, and I especially like when it's scooped. But I don't want my city government being run by a dude that rolls frozen dairy products into balls and dribbles sauce on them for a living. Oh, wait, sometimes there are whipped cream and nuts involved. That really complicates things. And it really prepares you for locally elected public office.

And while we're on the subject of Ben & Jerry's, I'm still flaming mad at PETA for the human breast milk idea. See Rant #1.

Thank you, Davis voters, for not letting this imbecile into elected office. I'm not registered in Davis. I refuse to belong to the voting constituency that is the People's Republic of Davis. I like Target, I don't bring my own bags to the grocery store, I drive an SUV, and I recycle only when convenient. That said, because I did not vote in the Davis City Council elections, I really have no say in whether this dude is elected to office or not. But seriously, Davis, BRAVO. You've done a lot of crazy things, like building a tunnel for the frogs, and refusing to just build the long awaited Trader Joe's, but choosing to give Rob Roy the shaft was not one of those things.

Let's drive him out. I wish exile were still an appropriate form of punishment.

The crime?

Douchebaggery and tuxedo vests.

Monday, September 28, 2009

No one cares, Political Facebook Status Updater.



Facebook is the world's greatest avenue for procrastination.

No, I take that back.

Facebook is the UNIVERSE'S greatest avenue for procrastination.

You know I'm right.

I am unwilling to admit to the public the number of times that I log on to Facebook each day. It is frightening. I enter the Facebook world for a brief moment of relaxation, and it turns into a whirlwind of photo comments oh wow, Joey got really drunk this weekend, bumper sticker and flair searches lol this one reminds me of that one inside joke that one person made that one time, becoming a fan of anything haha I too am a fan of not being on fire, and of course, the unavoidable stalking moments ohhh...so cute treadmill guy from the gym is single now *poke!*.

You know I'm right.

We all do it, whether we choose to admit it or not. In a few years, some burnt out dotcom exec with a severe internet addiction will start a Facebookaholic Anonymous group, and we can all participate in the 12 step program toward recovery. Until then, we just all have to feed our addictions. And quite frankly, I'm ok with that. I'm not ready to give it up. In fact, there have only been a few times in my Facebook lifetime in which I have seriously considered cutting ties and going cold turkey. Each and every one of those times has been due to....

THE POLITICAL ACTION FACEBOOK STATUS UPDATE!!!

Duh - duh - duhhhhhhhhhhh.

And here we commence with the rant.

I have absolutely no desire to read what you think about Prop Whatever. I don't give a rat's ass about your opinion on the UC walkout. I couldn't care less about your stance on those hungry kids in Africa. I don't want to hear your whining about marriage equality. I don't need to hear what you have to say about illegal immigration, welfare, socialism, the war in Iraq, genocide in Darfur, George Bush's IQ, Obama's birth certificate, or how you define when life starts. Now, don't get me wrong, most of these are certainly important issues, and I have strong opinions on all of them. But damnit, I don't want to see it on Facebook. If you have ever posted anything political on your Facebook status, you have been hidden from my feed. I promise. I don't want to see it.

And no, if I agree, I won't post it as my status for the rest of the day. I will, however, post a smart ass comment in retaliation to yours, and flip the bird to your self righteous profile picture. And then you'll get clicked into the vast depths of hidden people that have also committed such an offense. Once you get clicked in, you've crossed the point of no return, there's no coming back. You're banned like Pewee Herman from elementary schools. If Dante were still breathing, I'm sure that he would reserve you people your very own circle of hell where you'd be forced to eat live kittens for all eternity.

Facebook statuses should be reserved for lighthearted humor, quick updates on day to day life, celebrity death announcements, life changing purchases, guitar hero high scores, triathlon splits, what you ate for dinner, mood descriptive philosophical song lyrics, today's hangover rating on a scale of 1 - 10, etc.

To help my readers understand, I have listed a number of acceptable status updates:

______ says, Patrick Swayze, Imma let you finish, but Michael Jackson had the best celebrity death OF ALL TIME!

______ wonders if we will ever experience a world where chickens can cross roads without having their motives questioned.

______ is slappa da bass, mon.

______ is the proud owner of a brand new feather bed. Thanks to the 576 parakeets that sacrificed so much to make this possible.

______is feasting on a scrumptious lobster, chocolate, eggplant and sardine salad for dinner.

If you're confused, please feel free to send me your status updates for my approval before you post. I've got spare time. Bottom line -- just say NO to the Political Action Facebook Status Update. If someone asks you if you want to post something political, go tell an adult right away. Be above the influence. Find your anti-drug.

We can take Facebook back. This is where we fight! Fellow Facebookers, ready your breakfast and eat hearty....For tonight we dine in hell!

And mark my words, if I ever sign up for Farmville, any one of you reading this has full permission to put me out of my misery. Beat me over the head with a meat cleaver. You can even borrow mine. It's in the drawer to the left of the pantry, right next to the silicone brush.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Rant Potpourri

pot·pour·ri (p p -r )
n. pl. pot·pour·ris
1. A combination of incongruous things: "In the minds of many, the real and imagined causes for Russia's defeats quickly mingled into a potpourri of terrible fears" (W. Bruce Lincoln).
2. A miscellaneous anthology or collection: a potpourri of short stories and humorous verse.
3. A mixture of dried flower petals and spices used to scent the air.

Definition #2 above will serve as this evening’s rant theme. There is nothing to tie these together other than the fact that they need to be ranted, and I couldn’t decide which one should go first. And I’m not one to deny myself a good rant. I suppose that makes me a rant-glutton. Whatever, I’m getting cheese fries.

1.
LOL CATZ. What the HELL. Whoever created these damn things needs to be severely and eternally punished. I have half a mind to hunt this individual down and imprison him/her in a styrofoam cave whose only menu item is cooked carrots, and this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNTxr2NJHa0 is on permanent loop in surround sound. Don’t know what LOL CATZ are? Consider yourself lucky. Curious? http://icanhascheezburger.com/ Please proceed with caution. You might want to drown yourself, and there is no lifeguard on duty.

Back to the rant. First off, cats are actually quite smart. And if they could read English they would be super pissed to know that the cyber world thinks of them as animals with severe speech impediments and complete lack of ability to spell correctly. If cats could talk, they would do so correctly, and with tremendous poise. If cats could spell, they would do so impeccably. If you’re going to put words in an animal’s mouth, geez, do some research first. Hey, LOL CATZ creator, just because something is cute doesn’t mean that it needs this baby talk crap. Yeah ok, you can has cheezburger. Right up your ass!

2.
Why is it that it is ok for small children to stare and point at things, and it’s not ok for me to? I want that privilege back, damnit! Kids get a free pass to stare at funny-looking-right-out-of-a-fairytale-people, extremely-obese-need-a-crane-and-a hole-in-the-roof-in-order-to-leave-the-house people, super-hot-drop-dead-gorgeous-please-wear-less-clothing-people, nearly-dead-just-recently-puked-red-wine-hungover-people, albino-omg-have-you-ever-been-outside-people, midgets, punks, emos, piercing addicts, and uglies. But if I’m caught staring at funny looking people, fatties, uglies, albinos or midgets, then I’m a Class A horrible person. If I’m caught staring at the hot people, then I’m creepy and probably mackin’ on some otha woman’s maaan. (I can’t believe I just used the word “mackin’”). If I’m caught staring at the emos, the punks, and the dudes with more metal in them than a 747, then I’m an unaccepting mainstream fashion slave prude. And if I’m staring at a hungover person, then Hangover Joe might get angry and throw up on me or crop dust me with Keystone Light fumes.

What kind of double standard is this? I want my staring rights back. I want to be able to stare are whatever I damn well please, and have the general public’s only reaction be…awww look she’s laughing! Peek-a-boo! Oh! I got your nose! But nooooooooo. It’s not socially acceptable for a 24 year old female to stare uninhibitedly at the world’s abnormalities. There’s gotta be some affirmative action clause that pertains to this injustice! I’m pulling the ageism card!

Together, we can fight this discrimination. Our first move – the political action Facebook status update**.

“No one should have to discriminate what they stare at based on their age. No one should refrain from staring at something truly hilarious or hideous just because they’re older than the age of 5. If you agree, please post this as your status for the rest of the day.”

Yes, we can.

This message was not funded at taxpayer expense.

**Political talk on Facebook statuses will be ranted on in the near future. I promise. I’m salivating just thinking about it.

3.
Have you ever tried to not think about anything? I try it every single time I go to yoga, but every single time I try to not think – all I can think about is not thinking. And that itself is thinking, no? So, what to do?

Try it.
……………………..

You’re thinking about not thinking aren’t you?

It can’t be done.

Clearly, I’ve put a lot of thought into thinking about not thinking.

And this, friends, is why I need a job.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Spider Sex, But Were Too Afraid To Ask

Until yesterday, there was one spider in my pantry. I'll refer to the spider as "it," because I don't know if it is a girl spider or a boy spider. Who knows how to tell? If you do, you're a loser. Or an entymology major, which is cool, but weird. So you're either a weirdo, or a loser. In some cases, both. We let it stay there because it was eating the moths that we have since killed with traps. Technically, now we could get rid of the spider because it no longer serves any purpose. But none of us are tall enough to reach the ceiling where the spider resides. Even with the stool that I use to reach my spices. Because of this severe lack of height, we have elected to just leave the spider alone.

Today, we discovered that out spider had a spider friend.

Crap.

What if they make baby spiders?

::Shuddder::

This led to an in depth conversation -- do spiders have sex? We've never seen it...do does it happen? Some bugs have sex. Dragonflies hump each other like there's no tomorrow! Swear, sometimes I just wanna grab them, rip them apart, and give them a good scolding: "For the love of everything that is holy, get at room!" Or at least hide behind a leaf-cluster or something. But noooo, dragonflies have got to do it in the wide open. It's like they're bragging or something. Whatever, they only have one position option. And I guess if my life span was only a month long, I might drop trou in the wide open too. So who can blame the horny bastards?

Back to spiders. I HATE spiders. I don't like bugs in general. I screamed like a pre-teen-red-bull-hyped-Jonas Brothers-fanatic last week when we had a cricket in the house. I am terrified of cockroaches, but I have sat on my porch and watched a bear eat my trash. Don't ask me about the logic, I can't explain it. I just hate bugs. But bugs with an excessive leg count are more terrifying than your average-everyday-run-of-the-mill-bug. As far as I'm concerned, there is no single logical reason for any organism to have more than 4 legs. The idea of spiders breeding in my pantry is bone-chilling. My pantry is my sanctuary. Creepy crawlies with more the neccessary number of legs and potentially fatal venom are not something that I am comfortable with having where my food resides.

My fear for spiders has nothing to do with the point of this entry, however. I'm here to blog about spider sex. I learned a lot today.

Spiders do, indeed, have sex. And this next part is where the rant really starts. (Finally!)

Special thanks for the Google search "do spiders have sex?" that led me to "How do spiders mate?" on eHow.com.

"Male spiders have their work cut out for them. When a male detects the signs of a female nearby, he first checks whether she is the same species and if she is ready to mate."

Well, that certainly is nice of male spiders. First, thanks for checking if the female is the right species. The same cannot be said for dogs. I can't tell you how many times my leg has been humped by a dog. Honestly, Fido -- get off me. It could never work between you and me. You eat poop, lick your own balls, you wear the same thing every day, and your farts are just plain intolerable. Please don't misconstrue the belly rub I gave to to mean anything more. And thanks, spiders, for checking to see if she's ready. Dogs don't ask. They just find an ankle and go to town on it. I got news for you, you damn mutt -- that's not where you're gonna find it. Although, if I'm being frank, good ol' Fido has got a better vag-compass than some. I'm just sayin'. Not speaking from experience, but I've heard stories.

"Spiders are known for using elaborate courtship rituals to entice females. Many believe that this is to prevent the larger females from eating the smaller males before mating can actually occur."

Well that shit is freaking hilarious! Hmmm.....mediocre sex or dinner? I'm not gonna lie, food might win over. Let's just be honest with ourselves here.

"Web-weaving spiders use precise patterns of vibrations in the web as a major part of their rituals, while patterns of touches on the female's body are an important part of courting for many spiders that hunt actively. "

Well shit, I guess female humans have more in common with female spiders than I thought. Vibrations? Patterns of touches? Um, duh.

"If courtship is successful, mating will begin. Male spiders do not produce ready-made packages of sperm to insert in the female by their genitals. They spin small sperm webs onto which they ejaculate and then transfer the sperm into syringe like structures on the tips of
their pedipalps. This whole procedure is done before the courtship begins."

Typical male. Counting on sex before he's sealed the deal. Or before he's earned it. Unless of course, all spider females are total skanks, in which case, I would commend Spidey for his forethought to plan ahead.

And I don't know what a "pedipalps" is, but I can only assume that it's just a spider pet-name for his junk. Like "Krog the Warrior King," or "The One Eyed Trouser Snake" or "Cockasaurus Rex."

Bottom line, adult human males have more in common with spider males than I am comfortable to admit. At least human males only have 2 legs. Although some like to claim that they have three. And really, buddy, stop fooling yourself.

So, to top it off....do you think that once female spiders go black, they never go back?

The world may never know.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Why isn't there a mute button for obnoxious people?

There are few things in the world that are worse than a truly obnoxious person. And I encountered their queen last night.

To set the scene for you: A nice dinner catching up with a friend that had been out of town for a few months. Patio seating, beautiful evening, a giant avo bacon burger, and a cute guy in a soccer jersey sighting. (Sigh...) A nice atmosphere...until....cue Queen Obnoxious the Loud. I had to double take and make sure she wasn't a human megaphone. Nope. That voice box was all natural. She could be the town crier for New York City. Of course, only if the City of New York would consider hiring someone with 2 ounces worth of brains. Sitting 6 feet away, my back to her, I learned:

1. She calls her dad "Daddy" only when she wants something out of him.

2. She was on her way to an AXO party.

3. She only passed Spanish because she gave Professor Montoya a lap dance.

4. She thought Roe v. Wade was a debate about the best way to cross a river.

I might have made a few of those up.

Nonetheless (it's one word, look it up), she was nothing short of horrible.

And this is what leads me to wish that I had a mute button for obnoxious people. Not like that movie "Click" with Adam Sandler. That movie made me want to bitch slap Adam Sandler with Scuba Steve's left flipper, and then force Gatorade down his throat. But the concept of the human-remote is not a bad idea. I would have muted that girl faster than I mute the FreeCreditReport.com guy. He needs to shut up. No one cares that he's serving fish to tourists in T-Shirts. Buy a shredder, shred your receipts, don't shop online without a secure connection, and don't give your SSN out over the phone. If you're not stupid, you won't get your identity stolen, and your credit won't go to shit. Together, we can put this dude out of work. Then, instead of making horrible commercials, he really will have to serve fish to tourists to make a living. Ahhhh, sweet justice.

Back from Tangent Land....this girl was the epitome of annoying. I played cymbals in a marching band for 4 years. I can't hear anything. I wouldn't hear it if my roommate was being attacked by Lord Voldemort in the middle of the night. AND I HEARD EVERYTHING THIS GIRL SAID!

This brings me to my next point. My friend says, "She will never marry." To which I responded: "I hope not. Or at least not before me." And now we proceed into another tangent...

How is it that obnoxious people are in relationships, and I'm single? Maybe my answer to a finding Mr. Right is to triple the "likes" in my sentences, get one of those purse-dogs, and talk incessantly about John and Kate Plus 8. And while we're on the subject of John and Kate, someone needs to tell Kate Gosselin that it's a vagina, not a clown car*.

There's gotta be some reason. Do they lactate draft beer? Do $100 bills fly out of their ears? If you look deep into their eyes, can you catch the latest episode of SportsCenter? I will get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do.

And I'll start looking into getting an ESPN feed installed in my brain. I'll even spring for HD.

*Joke courtesy of my friend whose brain has a shell on it.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

I don't need to see your butt crack, thank you.


I have a butt crack, you have a butt crack. All butt cracks are pretty much the same -- some are hairy, some rise higher than others, but really, a butt crack is a butt crack.

I don't need to see yours, thanks.

Unintentional butt crack appearance is just horrifying.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that a random, perfectly timed mooning is absolutely hilarious. Whether it's through a car window, on a river bank, at the Utah-Nevada border agricultural inspection, a commencement ceremony, or your grandmother's 80th birthday party -- the shock factor can be priceless. However, this rant is not intended to praise the random mooner. This is a rant about unintentional butt crack appearance.

WHY, honestly, WHY is this such a regular occurrence? When Joe the Plumber is working on my garbage disposal, I don't need to be introduced to his ass crevice! And why are plumbers always the biggest culprit? It makes me want to lobby the plumbers union and advocate mandatory belt usage in all plumbing jobs. And you can't not look at it. It's there, just waving at you, saying "Hey look at me, I'm an ass crack!" I called you to unclog my sink, not to get a first hand visual of the San Andreas Fault, thank you.

Ugh.

Or what about the girls that ride their bikes around town, with their little butt floss thongs sticking a full fist's length from their pant waist? Um, no Skankasaurus, we don't enjoy it. Or are you just trolling for some skeeze of a frat boy to drop a roofie in your tall-double-shot-iced-non-fat-tuxedo-mocha-no-whip, and take you back to the spank tank to "show you his guitar?" Meanwhile, the roofie kicks in, and he plays some Snow Patrol, and you wake up the next morning only to find yourself bike-of-shaming it home thongless, having lost your string to a thumbtack on his wall, and your dignity to a notch on his bedpost. Way to go, sweetheart you'll go far in this world. And by far, I mean straight to the corner of 5th and K.

And what about Speedo guy at yoga? Yeah, you. You stand right in front so everybody can watch. Aaannnd at the moment you stretch up for Half-Moon, the rest of us see a full moon. I was unaware that I would get an astronomy lesson with my yoga package. As if I weren't nauseous already.

Just say NO to unintentional butt crack. I've never been to Arizona, but I think I've seen enough Grand Canyons to serve me for a lifetime. Cover 'em up, folks.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

So, if I want to be hot, then I have to look like a flooz?

What's up with America's obsession with long blond hair?

I recently attended a wig party. My choice of hair was a long blond wig that I used for a Barbie costume a few years back. My real hair is a medium brown, so the wig was a noticeable difference. I pretty much looked like a floozie. I used to be blond for real, in fact. Yeah, it was scary. My best friend has absolutely forbade me to go blond again. And she's my fashion and image consultant, so I trust that her request is well-intentioned. And while I really have no intention of ignoring her "orders," the comments I received on wig night made me at least consider it:

"Has your dad seen you? You better not let him see you, looking like that." (That one was thanks to a good friend of my father's, by the way.)

"Wow, you should do your hair like that every day."

"Damn girl."

"Wow, sweetie, you look really cute." (My very own mother).

"I'm Daniel Craig, you might know me from the 007 series, will you be my next Bond Girl?"

Ok, so the last one was fake. But that would be be sweeeeeet. [Ranting pauses to Google Image search Mr. Craig in his classic, irresistable tux. Strip poker, anyone?]

Point is -- Thanks, everybody for telling me I'd look great as a skanked out stripper, and that my alter-ego skank image is much preferable to my actual self. That's great for the self esteem. I'll just get myself a good bleach job, pay a few grand for some extensions, lose a few brain cells, learn who these "The Hills" kids are, start using the phrase "Fro-Yo," and make a living at Centerfolds. Too bad I have deep-rooted fears of that place. But that story is for another time, and another place.

And this is where we check off the issue as thoroughly ranted on and say: "Whatever, I'm getting cheese fries." Until I find something new to rant about...you stay classy.

Some throwback rants to get us started....

Throwback rants. Like those 1970s Kings jerseys that they wear a few times a year to boost apparrel sales. These are some of my old ones. And what a perfect way to start a blog of rants than to show their roots. I give you, my beloved reader(s) (Let's be honest here), my collection of pre-blog rants, with a few new additions.

June 1, 2009 -- Things that prove that the human race is devolving:

1. Guys that sag their pants so far down that you can see their entire asses. Buy a freaking belt. You look stupid. And you have a hole in your skidmarked boxers. You know how that trend got started? In prison. Easy access. Swear. Heard it from my mom who heard it from some guy that's apparently a legit source. Think it's cool to act like prisoners? Try dropping the soap in front of a gargantuan lifer named Butch, and see how fast you barter your pruno stash for the nearest belt.

2. People that say the word “irregardless.” I don’t care if it’s been technically accepted as an alternative to “regardless.” This only serves as further proof that the human race is devolving, because we are so stupid that we add words to the dictionary that were made up by people that don’t know how to speak proper English. If you say it in front of me, rest assured, I am judging you.

3. People that have misspelled tattoos. Honestly. Invest in a dictionary before you permanently ink yourself. Here’s your sign.

4. Girls that wear miniskirts and Uggs at the same time. Did you get dressed in the dark?

5. People that end every sentence with “You know what I’m sayin’?” Yes. We do. And it was retarded. You don’t need to ask.

6. People that don’t use vowels in text messages. For the love of some higher deity, texting is not hard. And it takes you less than a second to type out the remainder of the word. This is not acceptable: “lol whn u cming hre I nd 2 c ur fce*” I have come to accept acronyms such as “lol” “omg," "wtf" and “brb”. Those are phrases that would be annoying to type every time you want to cyber laugh, exclaim something exciting, show geniune confusion or disbelief or whenever you have to pee really badly. Even the occasional “u” or “ur” is alright if you’re in a hurry. But anything else is just idiotic. Thanks for textsfromlastnight.com for triggering this rant. Oh, and DFTBA.

7. Girls that insert “like” in between every single other word of their sentence. It like, totally like makes you look, like, hella stupid, and like dumber than a rock. Like, really. Honey, lay off the blonde hair dye, cut up Daddy’s credit card, pop open a Smirnoff Ice, and get a f***ing vocabulary book. Like soon, please.

8. People that cannot correctly use an apostrophe. Apostrophes are correctly used when they are to show possession, or indicate omission in a contracted word. I don’t care if you “really love margarita’s”. You now look stupid because apparently you love something that is possessed by a margarita, but you failed to tell me what that possession is. Now, if you told me that “you really love margaritas”, I would respond “I do too, let’s go have one.” Instead, I’m shaking my head at you, and we’re not going out for a drink. Sure, there are some exceptions, but being a smart ass by trying to point them out by commenting on this rant is not going to get you anywhere. You learned this in the 3rd grade. Were you too busy picking your nose with your #2 pencil to listen to the teacher?

9. Their, there, they’re, your, you’re, two, too, to. Please don’t get me started. See the last 2 sentences of Rant #8.

September 25th, 2008

What pissed me off: PETA writing a letter to Ben & Jerry's asking them to use human breast milk instead of cow's milk for their ice cream.

Oh man, don't get me started on PETA. I don't want any freakin' breast milk in my freakin' ice cream. GROSS. Damn crazy assed hippies. We decided here at the office that the newest flavor would have to be "Mother's Milky Way." DISGUSTING. I hate PETA. I'm having veal for dinner. And I'm gonna go buy a fur coat. And I might even buy a product that was tested on animals. And I'm going to go to the zoo. And I'll make sure to enjoy it. Good, PETA, you make some breast milk ice cream and see how well it sells. It's called capitalism. Go wear your hemp woven clothing and eat your goodamn hummus in some socialist country that won't give a crap about you either. (PS, I actually really like hummus).
June 23rd, 2008
I loooove Norah Jones. Love her. Her music is so sensual and calming. And one of the best songs is "Turn me on." At the Farmers' Market today, it was RUINED for me! This crazy broad with a mic and a saxophonist did their "rendition." CRAP. Beautiful song turned into something that made me want to cry out in pain. DON'T cover Norah unless you can do it right. I am extremely disgruntled. THEN her next song was trying to make Joplin's "Piece of my Heart" into a FREAKING BALLAD. NOOOO biatch, it's a rageous "Come and get me, damnit!" tune. IT'S NOT A SAXOPHONE ACCOMPANIED BALLAD!!!! HOW did you ruin JOPLIN and JONES in the same 10 minutes!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!??!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!??!!??! BAH! A pox on your house, crazy woman.