05.12.14
Why 'cooking....for people'? This is a question I assume you're asking because you're someone who thinks when there are 'dot,dot,dot's after a word, that there's some sort of mystery to be solved. Then when that mystery is solved with, say, 'for people', you think "why people? Why not dogs? Dogs are groovy".
Yes, dogs are groovy. I wholly agree. However, I sometimes don't think they truly appreciate the food that's made for them. They're more of the 'I like it or I don't' type and that's okay. I just like a higher echelon to make their judgements on my rare cooking. A dog would've dug dinner tonight, but would they have savored, or appreciated the craft behind it? No....because they're just simple, loving, magical beings.
I cooked tonight. Here's the thing; I NEVER cook. Ever. Except for last night. I also cooked last night. And both times I learned something very special about myself; I am not a total fuck-up. Cooking was the last thing I had to prove to myself and others and my martial-arts teacher, that I could accomplish decently. I think I even exceeded my expectations for myself.
For the love of god - I made something jerk, fruity AND savory. I kicked all the asses! What the fuck!? Hahahahahahahaha!
Oh wow.....wow. I guess what they say is true; be careful of the spoon, the skillet, the pan, the fish, the pineapple, the jerk seasoning and the peas - they'll make you into someone you don't even recognize. But the salt and pepper are cool. Those are cool.
In conclusion; I don't suck at cooking, and I'd like to cook for you! Only, I strictly cook for people with whom I am having or will-be-having sex with so.....ball's in your court.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Friday, April 11, 2014
This 1950's home; the REAL 1950s
04.11.14
It really has been too long. That's a phrase that was very popular in the 1950s, but in the case of the home of a certain 96-year-old-woman, it's gone beyond too long, back into the realm of campy, and now it's downright fucking cool.
The link at the end of this article is of a house that has been completely kept up with authentic 1950s decor, and as long as you can't get enough of bright colors that make it look like noon when bathed in moonlight, then you are going to be floored by this shit!
I don't know when the word 'floored' came to mean hypothetically being knocked off one's feet. I'm certain it was before the 1950s.
Anyway, just look at this place. Personally, it made me long for a time where people covered up their bigotries, prejudices and alcoholism with pastels and "oriental" design. Where women still knew their place and pregnant teens were treated as though they donned the scarlet letter and were explained to others as victims of 'refer madness'.
A time where kids could still deliver newspapers without parental consent because they were still too scared to tell their parents about the guy who says his house is made out of candy...from the inside.
A decade where free love got you nowhere. Unless you were a dude, then it got you a promotion. Women could only be secretaries, which was the style at the time.
Finally, jello-molds. Everywhere. Fucking everywhere a goddamned jello-mold with fruit hidden like "treasure". Fruit is not a treasure it is a terrible necessity! \
I don't like a lot of fruit.
So please, enjoy this great thing guaranteed.....a 96-year-old woman's home, literally, from the 1950s.
http://www.hgtv.ca/photos/gallery/?gid=6de87f25228a34488b5868fba7132c55#!/6
It really has been too long. That's a phrase that was very popular in the 1950s, but in the case of the home of a certain 96-year-old-woman, it's gone beyond too long, back into the realm of campy, and now it's downright fucking cool.
The link at the end of this article is of a house that has been completely kept up with authentic 1950s decor, and as long as you can't get enough of bright colors that make it look like noon when bathed in moonlight, then you are going to be floored by this shit!
I don't know when the word 'floored' came to mean hypothetically being knocked off one's feet. I'm certain it was before the 1950s.
Anyway, just look at this place. Personally, it made me long for a time where people covered up their bigotries, prejudices and alcoholism with pastels and "oriental" design. Where women still knew their place and pregnant teens were treated as though they donned the scarlet letter and were explained to others as victims of 'refer madness'.
A time where kids could still deliver newspapers without parental consent because they were still too scared to tell their parents about the guy who says his house is made out of candy...from the inside.
A decade where free love got you nowhere. Unless you were a dude, then it got you a promotion. Women could only be secretaries, which was the style at the time.
Finally, jello-molds. Everywhere. Fucking everywhere a goddamned jello-mold with fruit hidden like "treasure". Fruit is not a treasure it is a terrible necessity! \
I don't like a lot of fruit.
So please, enjoy this great thing guaranteed.....a 96-year-old woman's home, literally, from the 1950s.
http://www.hgtv.ca/photos/gallery/?gid=6de87f25228a34488b5868fba7132c55#!/6
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Beyonce
04.01.2014
I realize by the date you may assume that I'm foolin' you but indeed I am not.
Who run the world? Girls.
Who told us that? Beyonce.
Unlike a lot of people, I didn't really need Beyonce to tell me that I rule the world; I kind of figured with the comments I get about my great ass and how all I've ever had to do was say "I want" and pretty much everything came to me; but it doesn't hurt to get that little extra ego boost from one of the sexiest, most powerful women in the world.
Oh yeah, that Beyonce is a powerful woman. Jay-Z sure as hell couldn't stay away. Through all the gossip of their break-up, who came off as the biggest testes sack of them all? Oh my god, it was most definitely Jay-Z. Of all the woman at his "finger-tips", Beyonce was the one who broke every tip he poked at her, until he finally conceded that she was, in fact, the Queen and his lucky ass could only hope she'd keep him as her King. Lucky for that guy, she's also a smart business-woman (and loving, I'm sure. I just feel like she's a very loving woman, too, because you can be loving and hard as hell. Just ask me; I'll tell you).
So today's article goes to Beyonce; a great thing/person guaranteed.
I realize by the date you may assume that I'm foolin' you but indeed I am not.
Who run the world? Girls.
Who told us that? Beyonce.
Unlike a lot of people, I didn't really need Beyonce to tell me that I rule the world; I kind of figured with the comments I get about my great ass and how all I've ever had to do was say "I want" and pretty much everything came to me; but it doesn't hurt to get that little extra ego boost from one of the sexiest, most powerful women in the world.
Oh yeah, that Beyonce is a powerful woman. Jay-Z sure as hell couldn't stay away. Through all the gossip of their break-up, who came off as the biggest testes sack of them all? Oh my god, it was most definitely Jay-Z. Of all the woman at his "finger-tips", Beyonce was the one who broke every tip he poked at her, until he finally conceded that she was, in fact, the Queen and his lucky ass could only hope she'd keep him as her King. Lucky for that guy, she's also a smart business-woman (and loving, I'm sure. I just feel like she's a very loving woman, too, because you can be loving and hard as hell. Just ask me; I'll tell you).
So today's article goes to Beyonce; a great thing/person guaranteed.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Pizza By the Goddamnd Slice
02.21.14
First of all, did you know 'damned' has an 'e' in it, but if you put 'god' in front of it, the 'e' becomes unnecessary? What a powerful asshole, that god.
There is a delightful coffee shop/pizza joint/great-beer-selling joint in Peoria called 'Broken Tree'. About a year ago (or so) when this place opened, it started with just some really good coffee. Which was enough for me. Although at that time they ran banker's hours, but that's just because the guy who runs it also runs a bank and couldn't get out of the systemic oppression opposed upon him by his overlords.
I don't think that last part's true.
But if it is, he somehow broke the chains and like a renegade from the ashes (a.k.a. a phoenix), decided 'nay, no more banker's hours and this coffee could use a yeasty companion. I shall call it....pizza!', even though 'pizza' was already a thing. I think he was kidding.
So now, there's a new pizza joint in town. But do you know what the best part of a pizza joint is? If you can't answer this, then you are skimming, not reading, and therefore, not paying close attention. I hope you aren't like this when you're driving.
The answer, of course, is pizza by the slice, DUH! I am so disappointed when I go into a pizza joint and find out that I have to get an ENTIRE pizza for the price of an ENTIRE pizza when all I really want is ONE SLICE OF THAT PIZZA! So of course, I pay for the whole pizza, take my slice, and leave the rest with the perplexed, yet soon-to-be-full, restaurant staff. But never again...thanks to the business genius of this one individual and his lady, I can enjoy a single slice of pizza at anytime! Up to 7 p.m. because that's when I generally stop eating. I am on a pizza-only-before-7 diet.
First of all, did you know 'damned' has an 'e' in it, but if you put 'god' in front of it, the 'e' becomes unnecessary? What a powerful asshole, that god.
There is a delightful coffee shop/pizza joint/great-beer-selling joint in Peoria called 'Broken Tree'. About a year ago (or so) when this place opened, it started with just some really good coffee. Which was enough for me. Although at that time they ran banker's hours, but that's just because the guy who runs it also runs a bank and couldn't get out of the systemic oppression opposed upon him by his overlords.
I don't think that last part's true.
But if it is, he somehow broke the chains and like a renegade from the ashes (a.k.a. a phoenix), decided 'nay, no more banker's hours and this coffee could use a yeasty companion. I shall call it....pizza!', even though 'pizza' was already a thing. I think he was kidding.
So now, there's a new pizza joint in town. But do you know what the best part of a pizza joint is? If you can't answer this, then you are skimming, not reading, and therefore, not paying close attention. I hope you aren't like this when you're driving.
The answer, of course, is pizza by the slice, DUH! I am so disappointed when I go into a pizza joint and find out that I have to get an ENTIRE pizza for the price of an ENTIRE pizza when all I really want is ONE SLICE OF THAT PIZZA! So of course, I pay for the whole pizza, take my slice, and leave the rest with the perplexed, yet soon-to-be-full, restaurant staff. But never again...thanks to the business genius of this one individual and his lady, I can enjoy a single slice of pizza at anytime! Up to 7 p.m. because that's when I generally stop eating. I am on a pizza-only-before-7 diet.
Monday, February 17, 2014
A Few of My Least Favorite Things (i.e. Inspirations)
02.17.14
Mini Vans
Growing up, mini vans were a staple of the family who just knew they had to accept their place in life. There would be no 4x4 or Dodge Durango (family edition) for them, for their poverty-level pay wouldn't afford them beyond a vehicle who's biggest selling point is you can force a child into the back seat and - with a little DIY gumption - build a sound-proof barrier that could carry you across the country knowing everyone would get to live to tell about it.
But they also carry another reality; eternity. This is what you will drive for, literally, the rest of your life. Why? Because you soon realize that this mini van not only suits the needs of your ever growing family, but inspires that little voice in you that says "run.....run the fuck away now and they'll be able to talk about you in therapy with faint recollection and waning sincerity". It's inspiring; it makes you feel that no matter what, there's an escape.
I see things differently.
I see a vehicle that can sub for a boat, and that's not healthy. Any person who's had that vision has likely driven their car into a lake with their children inside. Not out of spite, but out of necessity. And then they blamed a black dude and the news bought it. So to combat postpartum depression and the struggle against racism, I choose not only to not purchase or drive a mini van, but I also choose not to have children & retain this border-line-phobic fear of the auto industries least cool vehicle design.
Stick Figure Window Decals
As a dear friend of mine once said "I'll never have any of those window decals on my vehicle because I don't want serial killers to know how many people they will have to murder" (that is from my dear friend Rishika. She's hilarious. You should follow her on twitter. You can find her on my twitter, @AmeriKaleena, and she'll be the only Rishika, that I know of).
Rishika was not without her point, and it is a very good one, but it's not what makes these stickers so frightening to me.
On the contrary, I'm afraid I would pray for that serial killer so I didn't have to soil my family's good name.
I'm not against families, really. I'm against advertising that you have one. Why do I need to know that? Why does anyone? Isn't it enough that during any sports season, I have a good idea of who your children are, what sports team number they wear and whether or not they're heading to state? Just so we're clear, yes, that should be enough!
I also fear that my approval of any forms of sticker decal families will equal pregnancy. You know when people try to make light of multiple pregnancies with the quip, "haha, don't drink the water!". I never drink the water. Never. If I come into contact with three pregnant women in one town, I will vomit any water I've drank that day and take two RUB-40's (I don't think that's right, but I like the idea that RUB is in the name of a pill that ends pregnancy. It's like a genie lamp, get it?). I don't fucking play when it comes to growing another human being inside my own body.
In conclusion, sticker family decals are great for serial killers, hell on those of us who are trying to be fiscally and environmentally responsible.
Baby Announcements
We are in an age of cleverness. It's everywhere. People are coming out with cakes, announcing their weddings while volunteering in the trenches of a third-world during its civil war, posting dog photos with the dogs dressed as people! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! You'll have to give me a minute; that last one always kills me!
Phew! Oh my.....haha....hahahaha..ahhh....
And of course, there are the baby announcements.
These were already weird, to me. For one, telling anyone about a pregnancy within its first three months is a black-cloud over the whole thing. It's bad luck. It's the one bad-luck thing I hold on to. That and eating an apple before sunrise.
They're also very weird. When a couple announces "they're" pregnant;
Which, okay, I'm going to side-track - we're pregnant? Where's your fetus, dude? Yeah, it's technically your sperm that made this possible (supposedly) but she's the one who's got this thing in her for 9 months - 6 at the least - and you're going to take any credit? In a lot of states, if you ditched out, you wouldn't have to pay child support b/c it's not worth it to a state run mostly by men, to chase down their hero! So until you correct that injustice, how about "She's pregnant and I helped but not as much as I should have and I will not take praise for the hell she's about to bear", as a subject for such an announcement?
Also, I don't hate men. If you're responsible and you love her and blah blah blah...congratulations on not being able to love another human that you didn't create, I guess.
I digress...
I recently saw an announcement in a time-line like the husband was filling his wife's ever-growing belly with air from a tire-pump and in the end - boom! A baby explodes from her! But the photos aren't very realistic when it comes to the birth. If that baby had had to come out of her belly, firstly, it would be bloody, messy and downright un-photogenic. Unless you're a med student and then you get off on that shit, you weirdo (thank you for your service).
Second, a baby doesn't necessarily come from a woman's belly! What lesson do these photos teach children? That having a baby is a beautiful, wonderful and painless experience. It's downright irresponsible.
These are just a few of my pet peeves that plague the town I live in because it's small, boring, and infested with families. Regardless, we're surviving. Thank you all for the support and letters of encouragement. They are greatly appreciated.
Mini Vans
Growing up, mini vans were a staple of the family who just knew they had to accept their place in life. There would be no 4x4 or Dodge Durango (family edition) for them, for their poverty-level pay wouldn't afford them beyond a vehicle who's biggest selling point is you can force a child into the back seat and - with a little DIY gumption - build a sound-proof barrier that could carry you across the country knowing everyone would get to live to tell about it.
But they also carry another reality; eternity. This is what you will drive for, literally, the rest of your life. Why? Because you soon realize that this mini van not only suits the needs of your ever growing family, but inspires that little voice in you that says "run.....run the fuck away now and they'll be able to talk about you in therapy with faint recollection and waning sincerity". It's inspiring; it makes you feel that no matter what, there's an escape.
I see things differently.
I see a vehicle that can sub for a boat, and that's not healthy. Any person who's had that vision has likely driven their car into a lake with their children inside. Not out of spite, but out of necessity. And then they blamed a black dude and the news bought it. So to combat postpartum depression and the struggle against racism, I choose not only to not purchase or drive a mini van, but I also choose not to have children & retain this border-line-phobic fear of the auto industries least cool vehicle design.
Stick Figure Window Decals
As a dear friend of mine once said "I'll never have any of those window decals on my vehicle because I don't want serial killers to know how many people they will have to murder" (that is from my dear friend Rishika. She's hilarious. You should follow her on twitter. You can find her on my twitter, @AmeriKaleena, and she'll be the only Rishika, that I know of).
Rishika was not without her point, and it is a very good one, but it's not what makes these stickers so frightening to me.
On the contrary, I'm afraid I would pray for that serial killer so I didn't have to soil my family's good name.
I'm not against families, really. I'm against advertising that you have one. Why do I need to know that? Why does anyone? Isn't it enough that during any sports season, I have a good idea of who your children are, what sports team number they wear and whether or not they're heading to state? Just so we're clear, yes, that should be enough!
I also fear that my approval of any forms of sticker decal families will equal pregnancy. You know when people try to make light of multiple pregnancies with the quip, "haha, don't drink the water!". I never drink the water. Never. If I come into contact with three pregnant women in one town, I will vomit any water I've drank that day and take two RUB-40's (I don't think that's right, but I like the idea that RUB is in the name of a pill that ends pregnancy. It's like a genie lamp, get it?). I don't fucking play when it comes to growing another human being inside my own body.
In conclusion, sticker family decals are great for serial killers, hell on those of us who are trying to be fiscally and environmentally responsible.
Baby Announcements
We are in an age of cleverness. It's everywhere. People are coming out with cakes, announcing their weddings while volunteering in the trenches of a third-world during its civil war, posting dog photos with the dogs dressed as people! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! You'll have to give me a minute; that last one always kills me!
Phew! Oh my.....haha....hahahaha..ahhh....
And of course, there are the baby announcements.
These were already weird, to me. For one, telling anyone about a pregnancy within its first three months is a black-cloud over the whole thing. It's bad luck. It's the one bad-luck thing I hold on to. That and eating an apple before sunrise.
They're also very weird. When a couple announces "they're" pregnant;
Which, okay, I'm going to side-track - we're pregnant? Where's your fetus, dude? Yeah, it's technically your sperm that made this possible (supposedly) but she's the one who's got this thing in her for 9 months - 6 at the least - and you're going to take any credit? In a lot of states, if you ditched out, you wouldn't have to pay child support b/c it's not worth it to a state run mostly by men, to chase down their hero! So until you correct that injustice, how about "She's pregnant and I helped but not as much as I should have and I will not take praise for the hell she's about to bear", as a subject for such an announcement?
Also, I don't hate men. If you're responsible and you love her and blah blah blah...congratulations on not being able to love another human that you didn't create, I guess.
I digress...
I recently saw an announcement in a time-line like the husband was filling his wife's ever-growing belly with air from a tire-pump and in the end - boom! A baby explodes from her! But the photos aren't very realistic when it comes to the birth. If that baby had had to come out of her belly, firstly, it would be bloody, messy and downright un-photogenic. Unless you're a med student and then you get off on that shit, you weirdo (thank you for your service).
Second, a baby doesn't necessarily come from a woman's belly! What lesson do these photos teach children? That having a baby is a beautiful, wonderful and painless experience. It's downright irresponsible.
These are just a few of my pet peeves that plague the town I live in because it's small, boring, and infested with families. Regardless, we're surviving. Thank you all for the support and letters of encouragement. They are greatly appreciated.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Coporate Irresponsibility
02.16.14
One week ago today, I saw a commercial that I found inappropriate and provocative (not sexually. Unless you're into murder fantasy, then you're going to LOVE this).
It was a commercial for Jello. I followed it pretty well at the time but it's been a week and I didn't have room for that memory. What I do remember of it is, it went from a family eating in their kitchen to a truck of filled with the jello gelatin powder backing up to their pool and proceeding to relieve their approximately three tons of cargo into the family pool. Instead of calling the authorities or at least Googling the safety of "swimming" in a pool full of gelled jello, the family threw caution to the wind and dove right in.
At least, that's what we're meant to believe because that is the moment that the commercial ends. It begs the question; when do we address corporate responsibility in advertising?
It didn't take the public long to crucify Joe Camel for being cool and making adult choices, but when Jello suggests, nay demonstrates, swimming in a pool full of their dense substance, we just sit back and laugh and laugh. While you know there are thousands dead because they are just dumb enough to make this their last contribution to society.
And yet, I see no picket signs, no uproar among MADD members or PBS supporters. In fact, if anything, hospitals are proving they support this type of irresponsible, corporate behavior by serving even more jello than they have in years past!
I am not saying jello doesn't have its place in Americana - it certainly does. Where would this country be if we couldn't make a jello cake that can double as a symbol for our patriotism? Where would our children be if we deprived the children of jello; the American Medical Association's most herbal remedy.
Well I tell you where we wouldn't be; America, goddammit.
Of course, this raises a unique conundrum indeed; how do we support the American freedom of speech whilst boycotting the very food that made this country what it is today? My only idea is this; when you pick up that box, put disgust behind it. Genuine disgust; make sure you crinkle your nose after sniffing the box. Shake your head as you place it with disdain in your basket, and don't stop shaking your head until you're out of the store. If you hold back, no one will believe you're on the side of the angels.
One week ago today, I saw a commercial that I found inappropriate and provocative (not sexually. Unless you're into murder fantasy, then you're going to LOVE this).
It was a commercial for Jello. I followed it pretty well at the time but it's been a week and I didn't have room for that memory. What I do remember of it is, it went from a family eating in their kitchen to a truck of filled with the jello gelatin powder backing up to their pool and proceeding to relieve their approximately three tons of cargo into the family pool. Instead of calling the authorities or at least Googling the safety of "swimming" in a pool full of gelled jello, the family threw caution to the wind and dove right in.
At least, that's what we're meant to believe because that is the moment that the commercial ends. It begs the question; when do we address corporate responsibility in advertising?
It didn't take the public long to crucify Joe Camel for being cool and making adult choices, but when Jello suggests, nay demonstrates, swimming in a pool full of their dense substance, we just sit back and laugh and laugh. While you know there are thousands dead because they are just dumb enough to make this their last contribution to society.
And yet, I see no picket signs, no uproar among MADD members or PBS supporters. In fact, if anything, hospitals are proving they support this type of irresponsible, corporate behavior by serving even more jello than they have in years past!
I am not saying jello doesn't have its place in Americana - it certainly does. Where would this country be if we couldn't make a jello cake that can double as a symbol for our patriotism? Where would our children be if we deprived the children of jello; the American Medical Association's most herbal remedy.
Well I tell you where we wouldn't be; America, goddammit.
Of course, this raises a unique conundrum indeed; how do we support the American freedom of speech whilst boycotting the very food that made this country what it is today? My only idea is this; when you pick up that box, put disgust behind it. Genuine disgust; make sure you crinkle your nose after sniffing the box. Shake your head as you place it with disdain in your basket, and don't stop shaking your head until you're out of the store. If you hold back, no one will believe you're on the side of the angels.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
BONUS.......quizzes & photo stalking
02.13.14
You literally do not have to wonder who you are...ever. There's a quiz for that.
It's so handy. All the questions I've ever wanted answered aren't going to take pain, suffering, joy or experience in order to receive said answer. Instead, all I have to do is open my web browser, click in the question bar on the Google homepage because (even though I see the cursor that's already appeared in the box, I don't necessarily trust it to have had the time to access my senior citizen lap-top's mouse pad),
so I click in the box and I ask for answers;
1. Why Am I Having Trouble Focusing?
A: You have adult ADD and are in immediate need of drugs to control your damn self. Source - Web Ph D (I'm protecting the website's anonymity).
2. Am I Gay?
A: Duh. But you like dick sometimes, too. You're going to struggle like hell with this one, hahahaha! Source - Anne Coulter (take that you uncool strumpet)
3. Are My Parents Really My Parents?
A: No. And they tried to give you up several times before running out of gas money and just deciding you could stay with them if you lived. Source - The Otey Family's 2001 Family Reunion
4. Will I Live A Long Life?
A: Oh absolutely - but you're going to struggle like hell with this one, hahahahaha! Source - my own funny joke (see #2)
As you can see, Google has friends in high places. Google knows you. It feels you. It's inside you because it's filthy but you just can't quit it.
Photo stalking is another thing the internet has given us. What's great about it is - everyone's doing it! So you're not the creep! You're just going with the times. You're hip! You're on point! You're going to be able to weed out the weak from the strong simply by looking at photos of them in their only escape from responsibility and the other 99%. It's allowed us to judge, wrongfully or not. It's also given us the self-esteem that comes from realizing you're so much better off than the other 1% of your friends. And there's really nothing quite like peace of mind to help you sink into your perfectly molded memory foam mattress.
You literally do not have to wonder who you are...ever. There's a quiz for that.
It's so handy. All the questions I've ever wanted answered aren't going to take pain, suffering, joy or experience in order to receive said answer. Instead, all I have to do is open my web browser, click in the question bar on the Google homepage because (even though I see the cursor that's already appeared in the box, I don't necessarily trust it to have had the time to access my senior citizen lap-top's mouse pad),
so I click in the box and I ask for answers;
1. Why Am I Having Trouble Focusing?
A: You have adult ADD and are in immediate need of drugs to control your damn self. Source - Web Ph D (I'm protecting the website's anonymity).
2. Am I Gay?
A: Duh. But you like dick sometimes, too. You're going to struggle like hell with this one, hahahaha! Source - Anne Coulter (take that you uncool strumpet)
3. Are My Parents Really My Parents?
A: No. And they tried to give you up several times before running out of gas money and just deciding you could stay with them if you lived. Source - The Otey Family's 2001 Family Reunion
4. Will I Live A Long Life?
A: Oh absolutely - but you're going to struggle like hell with this one, hahahahaha! Source - my own funny joke (see #2)
As you can see, Google has friends in high places. Google knows you. It feels you. It's inside you because it's filthy but you just can't quit it.
Photo stalking is another thing the internet has given us. What's great about it is - everyone's doing it! So you're not the creep! You're just going with the times. You're hip! You're on point! You're going to be able to weed out the weak from the strong simply by looking at photos of them in their only escape from responsibility and the other 99%. It's allowed us to judge, wrongfully or not. It's also given us the self-esteem that comes from realizing you're so much better off than the other 1% of your friends. And there's really nothing quite like peace of mind to help you sink into your perfectly molded memory foam mattress.
Real Big Asses
02.13.14
I have a huge ass. All my friends will tell you. If you've ever seen me onstage, then I'VE told you, but you may not have been listening. Because I have some "friends" that do that - don't listen, I mean. I'm pretty sure they have ADD because that's what I tell people that I have when I completely blank out on what they're saying all the time!
Recently I went to watch the fantastic HBO show 'Girls' at a dear friend's house and she's addicted to reality t.v. so we had to watch a bit of 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians', which isn't as difficult as the show would lead you to believe. Pretty much the hardest part is dragging all that fucking camera equipment up 276 marble-coated stairs (they're marble coated because money's tight).
Of course, whose ass should come into play but the two Kardashian sisters who have asses of which to speak. There was a lot of doubt in the room as to whether or not their asses were 'real', to which I replied "haha, yeah; real expensive!". Then we all 'oooo'd like an Oprah crowd, high-fived, then sipped on our cosmopolitans.
We didn't do that. Thankfully. I love those women but if that was how we spent those evenings I'd drink the nail polish remover.
Instead, we contemplated, we questioned, we sought the truth and in the end, my dear friend made some pretty compelling arguments;
1. Only two of the 17 Kardashian children have plump, round, bodacious booties; mysterious, right? What happened to the other 23 offspring? Where are their asses?
2. My dear friend has a series of 'before and after' shots that she assured us would solidify her conspiracy theory.
With all that talk of asses, my mind felt like it was encased in silicone, which is as comfortable as it sounds. But it turns out I was smoking weed so I stopped feeling so poetic about it.
What's important is, big asses are the shit. But even if you don't have a big ass, you still use it to shit. We all do. And that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Please take care and clean your beautiful ass, even if it says 'self cleaning' on the package.
I have a huge ass. All my friends will tell you. If you've ever seen me onstage, then I'VE told you, but you may not have been listening. Because I have some "friends" that do that - don't listen, I mean. I'm pretty sure they have ADD because that's what I tell people that I have when I completely blank out on what they're saying all the time!
Recently I went to watch the fantastic HBO show 'Girls' at a dear friend's house and she's addicted to reality t.v. so we had to watch a bit of 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians', which isn't as difficult as the show would lead you to believe. Pretty much the hardest part is dragging all that fucking camera equipment up 276 marble-coated stairs (they're marble coated because money's tight).
Of course, whose ass should come into play but the two Kardashian sisters who have asses of which to speak. There was a lot of doubt in the room as to whether or not their asses were 'real', to which I replied "haha, yeah; real expensive!". Then we all 'oooo'd like an Oprah crowd, high-fived, then sipped on our cosmopolitans.
We didn't do that. Thankfully. I love those women but if that was how we spent those evenings I'd drink the nail polish remover.
Instead, we contemplated, we questioned, we sought the truth and in the end, my dear friend made some pretty compelling arguments;
1. Only two of the 17 Kardashian children have plump, round, bodacious booties; mysterious, right? What happened to the other 23 offspring? Where are their asses?
2. My dear friend has a series of 'before and after' shots that she assured us would solidify her conspiracy theory.
With all that talk of asses, my mind felt like it was encased in silicone, which is as comfortable as it sounds. But it turns out I was smoking weed so I stopped feeling so poetic about it.
What's important is, big asses are the shit. But even if you don't have a big ass, you still use it to shit. We all do. And that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Please take care and clean your beautiful ass, even if it says 'self cleaning' on the package.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Knee-High Boots; Sexy Leg Burqas.
02.04.14
*Author's Note: This was intended to be published on Monday. That's why it's mentioned right off the top. It's no longer Monday, but I'm the author so I can pre or post date the shit out of my entries. For this article's sake, it is Monday evening. I have just come home from work and am probably perturbed about life in general as I've let myself sink into the pessimistic mindset that follows most Monday work days. I'll come into the apartment, have a short chat with the spouse, then probably exercise. Maybe - it's Monday, who the fuck knows; maybe I don't feel it that day. Maybe.....no, I definitely worked out - it was my first day at the gym. My free 30 day trial. And I don't plan on telling them who I am until the very last day. I'm going to see if I can wait out the dude who sits in the office and looks at me when he thinks I'm not looking; not because he finds me attractive (that can NOT be it - not in my version of gym clothes), but because he keeps wondering if I'm the woman he's leaving voice messages for who just flat out refuses to pick up the phone or call him back. On second thought, I think he wants to fuck me on the treadmill.
This morning I had a really critical decision to make. First of all, it's Monday. The first day of the week. The first impression you make on Monday, is the only impression anyone will have of you for the following 5 days, because your co-workers are cruel and shallow and don't care about you as a person so much as what you're wearing. I'm just trying to save you from the false security you've created based on what the magazines and t.v. are telling you.
Luckily, my coworkers are better than that *wink*; regardless, I'm shallow. I want to look good. Especially when I've pushed my wake-up time to its limits so I don't wake up in time to wash my body, let alone my hair. To top it all off, I like to done the blackest stocking cap I own so basically, I go to work looking like I'm going to carry out an after-work-time robbery.
Do you know why burqas are sexy? Mystery. They aren't giving anything away. How is that not sexy? If you're arguing with me on this, I can't hear you, so shut up.
Knee-high boots are like burqas for your legs. They shroud it in a synthetic leather or suede that covers just enough and you have to wonder; what is she hiding?
I've really only recently discovered this joy and will be using it to find happiness for the remainder of winter. I'm admitting to you right now, I'm using it in one of my stand-up sets. Will it go over? I have no way of knowing. All I know is, it makes me laugh and that's pretty much why I do stand-up in the first place.
*Author's Note: This was intended to be published on Monday. That's why it's mentioned right off the top. It's no longer Monday, but I'm the author so I can pre or post date the shit out of my entries. For this article's sake, it is Monday evening. I have just come home from work and am probably perturbed about life in general as I've let myself sink into the pessimistic mindset that follows most Monday work days. I'll come into the apartment, have a short chat with the spouse, then probably exercise. Maybe - it's Monday, who the fuck knows; maybe I don't feel it that day. Maybe.....no, I definitely worked out - it was my first day at the gym. My free 30 day trial. And I don't plan on telling them who I am until the very last day. I'm going to see if I can wait out the dude who sits in the office and looks at me when he thinks I'm not looking; not because he finds me attractive (that can NOT be it - not in my version of gym clothes), but because he keeps wondering if I'm the woman he's leaving voice messages for who just flat out refuses to pick up the phone or call him back. On second thought, I think he wants to fuck me on the treadmill.
This morning I had a really critical decision to make. First of all, it's Monday. The first day of the week. The first impression you make on Monday, is the only impression anyone will have of you for the following 5 days, because your co-workers are cruel and shallow and don't care about you as a person so much as what you're wearing. I'm just trying to save you from the false security you've created based on what the magazines and t.v. are telling you.
Luckily, my coworkers are better than that *wink*; regardless, I'm shallow. I want to look good. Especially when I've pushed my wake-up time to its limits so I don't wake up in time to wash my body, let alone my hair. To top it all off, I like to done the blackest stocking cap I own so basically, I go to work looking like I'm going to carry out an after-work-time robbery.
Do you know why burqas are sexy? Mystery. They aren't giving anything away. How is that not sexy? If you're arguing with me on this, I can't hear you, so shut up.
Knee-high boots are like burqas for your legs. They shroud it in a synthetic leather or suede that covers just enough and you have to wonder; what is she hiding?
I've really only recently discovered this joy and will be using it to find happiness for the remainder of winter. I'm admitting to you right now, I'm using it in one of my stand-up sets. Will it go over? I have no way of knowing. All I know is, it makes me laugh and that's pretty much why I do stand-up in the first place.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
'80's Trivial Pursuit; the Light on Conspiracy
02.02.14
Have you ever played the '80's version of Trivial Pursuit? If you have, you may have gotten this enlightening little tidbit of information; Amygdalin was a test-drug for cancer in the 1982 that was discontinued because it contained the lethal poison, potassium cyanide. In the same year, some lunatic poisoned Tylenol Extra Strength and it ended up killing 7 people in Chicago. What do you suppose was that poison? I really hope you guessed potassium cyanide because, I mean...pretty obvious (my friend Rishika had to give me a pretty big hint so don't feel TOO bad if you had a silly guess at first).
Naturally, this warranted a conspiracy theory. To those of you who were born after the '80's, it was a tense time in the country (much like the 70's, 60's, 50's, etc.). Tensions with Russia were mounting to what would be a very confusing and probably one of the most bad-ass wars in history. No, war is not cool. I'm not condoning war. I'm just saying - spies were never cooler or deadlier than during the Cold War.
The Cold War didn't just "happen"; it would seem it was kind of a 'world war' but with the word 'cold'. It was what took over when World War II was getting tired. People were like "genocide is unsettling and very, very wrong. We're sick of having to actually see the war as it happens"; and the Cold War was born.
When many think 'Cold War' they think spies. Spies, spies, everywhere - wait, is that a spy? Haha!Get it? How would you know!?
Spies were the basis of every 80's movie - this includes 'Breakfast Club' and 'Say Anything'. You couldn't go anywhere in the 80's without having to worry that the person hiding behind that newspaper was going to lower it menacingly as you walked out of the coffee shop with your purchase. In this time of tension & mistrust, how could the government get anyone to volunteer for their spy-games tactics?
This is where the cyanide poisoning gets conspiracy theoried (that is my tribute to the podcast 'Stuff They Don't Want You to Know'; give it a a listen).
The level at which the CIA would need to use in order to kill a person on the side of the enemy wasn't something you'd get a lot of sign-ups for. Even drug addicts and mental-patients-forced-homeless wouldn't put their scratch on that pad! So, why wouldn't the government just, you know, use it's own? The theory is that the CIA put various amounts of cyanide in various drugs to test the fatal levels. For the cancer drug, it wasn't a lot. A smaller amount was used in the cancer-treatment drug so it didn't kill the "test subjects", but it did make all but one of their tumors grow. As for the Tylenol Extra Strength? Well, if the theory is true, then someone one the inside of the factory was paid to lace a batch of headache relief with what some would consider the ultimate relief. That's death, by the way. Which means that whatever that amount was was clearly much too high.
The things you get from a game of '80's Trivial Pursuit are so much more than you ever expected. If you want to play a game, hit me up.
Have you ever played the '80's version of Trivial Pursuit? If you have, you may have gotten this enlightening little tidbit of information; Amygdalin was a test-drug for cancer in the 1982 that was discontinued because it contained the lethal poison, potassium cyanide. In the same year, some lunatic poisoned Tylenol Extra Strength and it ended up killing 7 people in Chicago. What do you suppose was that poison? I really hope you guessed potassium cyanide because, I mean...pretty obvious (my friend Rishika had to give me a pretty big hint so don't feel TOO bad if you had a silly guess at first).
Naturally, this warranted a conspiracy theory. To those of you who were born after the '80's, it was a tense time in the country (much like the 70's, 60's, 50's, etc.). Tensions with Russia were mounting to what would be a very confusing and probably one of the most bad-ass wars in history. No, war is not cool. I'm not condoning war. I'm just saying - spies were never cooler or deadlier than during the Cold War.
The Cold War didn't just "happen"; it would seem it was kind of a 'world war' but with the word 'cold'. It was what took over when World War II was getting tired. People were like "genocide is unsettling and very, very wrong. We're sick of having to actually see the war as it happens"; and the Cold War was born.
When many think 'Cold War' they think spies. Spies, spies, everywhere - wait, is that a spy? Haha!Get it? How would you know!?
Spies were the basis of every 80's movie - this includes 'Breakfast Club' and 'Say Anything'. You couldn't go anywhere in the 80's without having to worry that the person hiding behind that newspaper was going to lower it menacingly as you walked out of the coffee shop with your purchase. In this time of tension & mistrust, how could the government get anyone to volunteer for their spy-games tactics?
This is where the cyanide poisoning gets conspiracy theoried (that is my tribute to the podcast 'Stuff They Don't Want You to Know'; give it a a listen).
The level at which the CIA would need to use in order to kill a person on the side of the enemy wasn't something you'd get a lot of sign-ups for. Even drug addicts and mental-patients-forced-homeless wouldn't put their scratch on that pad! So, why wouldn't the government just, you know, use it's own? The theory is that the CIA put various amounts of cyanide in various drugs to test the fatal levels. For the cancer drug, it wasn't a lot. A smaller amount was used in the cancer-treatment drug so it didn't kill the "test subjects", but it did make all but one of their tumors grow. As for the Tylenol Extra Strength? Well, if the theory is true, then someone one the inside of the factory was paid to lace a batch of headache relief with what some would consider the ultimate relief. That's death, by the way. Which means that whatever that amount was was clearly much too high.
The things you get from a game of '80's Trivial Pursuit are so much more than you ever expected. If you want to play a game, hit me up.
Friday, January 31, 2014
'Africa' by Toto (a.k.a 'More Than a Feeling' by Boston)
01.31.14
For no reason should the song ‘Africa’ by Toto have anything less than an entire article devoted to its greatness. No, I did not misspeak; I said it’s greatness.
A few months ago, when winter was starting to become a real cunt about things, my spouse and our dear friend and comedian companion, Rishika, and I were driving to the QC (Quad Cities) to visit some more dear friends. Jake, my spouse, had been spending time working on mixes of the greatest songs of all time and he had one of these mixes blasting as we sped along the highway.
On came what I considered to be the greatest song of all time; ‘More Than a Feeling’ by Boston. Oh my god...have you heard that song!? If you are struggling to think of the song then hold your place here, go to Youtube, and get your fix. You will probably want to watch it way more than one time so luckily, this article will still be here when you get back.
Okay, back? Great. Or, thank you for reading, whichever is appropriate.
So, pretty amazing, yes? Absolutely. Everything, just everything, about that song is amazing! The beginning verse is so soft, you’re not sure what you’ve just gotten yourself into. You’re skeptical; “really? This is what’s so great?”. But you give it a minute because you can feel it; you can feel the magic unfolding in your deep insides. Suddenly, there’s a crescendo that’s exquisitely introduced as such that you’re not even aware you’re riding it until you hear;
“I closed my eeeeeyes and I slipped awaaaaaayyyyyyyyyeeee”
AND THEN YOU’RE THERE!
And everything is perfect. It’s just perfect. I guarantee, if you’ve heard this song, you are either singing it to yourself or in your head, or you’re searching frantically for the album you swear it’s on! Only to find it’s not on there and you actually don’t have that album and you happen to be one of those people who still don’t know how to use the internet so you are freaking out!
Relax! Just keep reading.
Because this isn’t about Boston. Or ‘More Than a Feeling’.
It’s about the little song that won me over.
After ‘More Than a Feeling’ ended, I swore there was no song on the planet that would beat that sweet ear candy (i.e. ear cocaine).
This is when the little diddy, ‘Africa’, cued up. When it started, my initial reaction was “oh my god - this song suuuucks!”. Good lord...I am not proud of that moment. I’m really not. But I’d never heard it outside of a grocery store and I always just thought it was really funny because kids don’t understand music that they can’t memorize in 3 listens.
Jake was the fierce defender.
“What are you talking about? This song is awesome!”
I think there was more to that but it was a long time ago so those are the only words based in fact that I can remember.
“It’s a grocery store song!” I replied (sort of, not word for word).
Thus was born the argument of ‘which is better; ‘More Than a Feeling’ or ‘Africa’?’, and for months I was on the side of Boston. I never had another song that made me feel so happy and whimsical!
But the more I heard ‘Africa’, and the more I attempted to actually understand the lyrics, the more I realized that Boston was seeing some tough competition. I tend to make everything a competition. In this case, they are tied neck and neck. Will either ever come out on top? Oh..I don’t know and frankly, I’m not concerned about that.
‘Africa’ really takes me back to the 80’s. It’s flamboyant in both style and comfort. It makes the gold and fur and diamonds and silks and perfect manicures feel...normal. There’s also a longing that I could relate to. It took me back to when I was a child and I used to dream about what it would feel like when I got older and longed to be a child again. That’s what we call meta-depression. It’s the depression with the highest suicide rate. But Toto knew what they were doing, as they also happen to be the cure. Goddamn brilliant.
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