Jury selection began for Michael Jackson's trial today. Initially, the defense just wanted to pull people from outside the courthouse. They seemed partial to people holding signs saying, "Michael Does Not Love Pretty Young Things No Matter What His Song Claims!!!". People screaming Michael's name and crying as he passed by were of particular interest to the defense.
To ensure a fair selection process, a survey is being handed out to the jury today. Because I was willing to compromise my integrity, (hoping, actually, not just willing) I was able to get my hands on one of these surveys. We already know the defense will be looking for jurors who answer "red leather zipper jacket" to Question #37: What is the most timeless fashion statement ever?
But what sorts of answers are the prosecutors looking for? In keeping with the hard-hitting news you've come to expect from Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, here are a few of the questions potential jurors must answer and the appropriate responses that will earn them a seat in the jury:
Q: Who is the King of Pop?
Prosecution's Desired Answer (PDA) "Dr. Pepper" or "Mountain Dew"
Q: Is it wrong to commit lewd acts and try to hide the crime?
PDA: If the acts are not being committed on Iraqi soldiers, Yes.
Q: What song do you hope Michael sings first?
PDA: This is a trial. Not a concert. (But if he is going to sing, I prefer something from "Off the Wall".
Q: What is the most evil act committed so far this century (besides what MJ probably did)?
PDA: Superbowl Wardrobe Malfunction
Q: Have you ever had cosmetic surgery?
PDA: No. It's wrong.
Q: What is your profession if you're wearing a surgical mask?
PDA: Child Molester or Surgeon, but probably Child Molester.
Q: Do you think "Finding Neverland" will win an Oscar?
PDA: I don't watch porn.
Q: If guilt were a wardrobe color, what color would it be?
PDA: White
Q: Complete these lyrics...
"It's close to midnight, and something evil's lurking in the dark. Under the moonlight, you see a sight that almost stops your heart. You try to scream, but terror takes the sound before you make it. You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes, you're paralyzed. 'Cause this is ____________"
PDA: Michael Jackson
Monday, January 31, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
Part of the Family
I went with Auburn Pisces to her brother's funeral last week. Although her ex-husband clearly hated me because I was the date of his ex-wife, the rest of the family made me feel welcome.
So, after receiving a drunken invitation from Auburn Pisces' burly brother, Bobby, I've decided to become part of her family. This will mean that Susan, my new ex sister-in-law, will be making appearances at Vortex parties wearing dark-colored hose in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the track marks on her legs. My new cousin, Candy, will be bringing me her special recipe for Beef Mound. She was very eager that I try her beef mound after the funeral last Friday. She called it a cheese ball. But it was really just a mound of cheese the size of a bowling ball covered with dried beef. I managed to swallow a couple beef-laden cheese chunks without gagging, which made Candy very happy.
Drunk Bobby made me hang out with the family. For some reason, he was unable to focus on anything other than my height. "Who is that tall mother fucker?!" he yelled at me across the yard. "We met earlier," I said, my voice trembling as he pushed his face closer and closer to mine. "I work with your sister at Company X." Bobby moved even closer. "My sister don't work at Cormparny X," he slurred.
"Oh," I answered. "Where does she work?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, maybe she doesn't work with me at Company X. But she is at my office every day when I go there."
Auburn Pisces stood across the yard chatting with her 300 brothers and sisters and their wives and ex-wives and husbands and ex-husbands. I silently pleaded with her to come over and save me. She says she can "feel me" when I need her. Apparently she had her feeler on mute, cause she wasn't paying me any attention. I know her brother just died, and she had other things on her mind. But I was starting to fear it would be a double funeral with Hot Toddy as the special guest dearly departed if she didn't do something fast.
"Get up here in the yard and quit hanging out by the street. You're part of the family now," bellowed Drunk Bobby. I felt self-conscious in my funeral clothes. Bobby was wearing a ripped Harley-Davidson shirt and jeans. I was in a blazer with dark slacks and a turtleneck. I felt like people were whispering, "Who's the city boy?"
I was so uncomfortable. When Bobby singled me out for the twelfth time and shouted "Who's that tall mother fucker? I may have to kick his ass!", I leaned over to AP's sister and said, "Why am I the center of attention? I am trying so hard not to be." She just laughed and said, "poor baby."
I frantically telepathed my thoughts to AP. "Save me. Save me." By this time I guess she had put on her aluminum foil hat to shut out my energy, cause it was clear I was on my own.
Or was I?
All of a sudden, I heard angels from the heavens singing a Hawaiian love song. A sea of Harley-Davidson t-shirts parted, and out stepped one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. Keoni. Sweet, beautiful Keoni, also known as "The Reason I Was Meant To Be At This Funeral" - well, that and the comfort of course. I mean, mostly I was there for my friend - um - whats-her-face. I'm sure she was holding up just fine, wherever she was. But I wondered if Keoni, visiting from Hawaii, was okay. I just felt his energy, and he seemed so sad and horny. And lonely and horny and sexy. And warm and virile. But kinda sad.
"He's related to Auburn Pisces. He's gay. And they are all very sexual people, as she's told me several times," I thought to myself. At that moment I knew Keoni was an angel sent to rescue me from Drunk Bobby. I swear I would have eaten a whole beef mound and given ex-sister-in-law Susan a leg massage just to have one kiss from Keoni. He smiled at me, and we both made lots of eye contact. We talked about his next visit and he promised to go out on the town with me and AP next time. And I could swear he invited me to accompany AP and her daughter to Hawaii for a visit.
By the end of our afternoon, I held a box of chocolates from Hawaii in my arms. My angel gave me candy the first day I met him. I kissed him on the cheek to say goodbye and literally bit my tongue to keep from saying to him, "you're beautiful".
As my heart warmed and I could almost smell the coconut oil I would someday rub on Keoni, my thoughts ran away with me, "I am so glad to be on this date. It's the best first date ever. No, wait! No!! It's a funeral! A funeral! Not a date! Where was AP? Was she holding up? Shit, I'm supposed to be here for her and, oh, look! Keoni is driving away! Bye, Keoni! Aloha! Aloha my swarthy sexy lover!"
AP probably didn't need further comfort. She's a strong woman. She's got ovaries of steel, that one. I think we did some more stuff and hung out some more. Or maybe we left right after that. Who knows. Everything was a blur for me. I just kept looking at that box of Hawaiian chocolates and thinking about his smile.
So, after receiving a drunken invitation from Auburn Pisces' burly brother, Bobby, I've decided to become part of her family. This will mean that Susan, my new ex sister-in-law, will be making appearances at Vortex parties wearing dark-colored hose in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the track marks on her legs. My new cousin, Candy, will be bringing me her special recipe for Beef Mound. She was very eager that I try her beef mound after the funeral last Friday. She called it a cheese ball. But it was really just a mound of cheese the size of a bowling ball covered with dried beef. I managed to swallow a couple beef-laden cheese chunks without gagging, which made Candy very happy.
Drunk Bobby made me hang out with the family. For some reason, he was unable to focus on anything other than my height. "Who is that tall mother fucker?!" he yelled at me across the yard. "We met earlier," I said, my voice trembling as he pushed his face closer and closer to mine. "I work with your sister at Company X." Bobby moved even closer. "My sister don't work at Cormparny X," he slurred.
"Oh," I answered. "Where does she work?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, maybe she doesn't work with me at Company X. But she is at my office every day when I go there."
Auburn Pisces stood across the yard chatting with her 300 brothers and sisters and their wives and ex-wives and husbands and ex-husbands. I silently pleaded with her to come over and save me. She says she can "feel me" when I need her. Apparently she had her feeler on mute, cause she wasn't paying me any attention. I know her brother just died, and she had other things on her mind. But I was starting to fear it would be a double funeral with Hot Toddy as the special guest dearly departed if she didn't do something fast.
"Get up here in the yard and quit hanging out by the street. You're part of the family now," bellowed Drunk Bobby. I felt self-conscious in my funeral clothes. Bobby was wearing a ripped Harley-Davidson shirt and jeans. I was in a blazer with dark slacks and a turtleneck. I felt like people were whispering, "Who's the city boy?"
I was so uncomfortable. When Bobby singled me out for the twelfth time and shouted "Who's that tall mother fucker? I may have to kick his ass!", I leaned over to AP's sister and said, "Why am I the center of attention? I am trying so hard not to be." She just laughed and said, "poor baby."
I frantically telepathed my thoughts to AP. "Save me. Save me." By this time I guess she had put on her aluminum foil hat to shut out my energy, cause it was clear I was on my own.
Or was I?
All of a sudden, I heard angels from the heavens singing a Hawaiian love song. A sea of Harley-Davidson t-shirts parted, and out stepped one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen. Keoni. Sweet, beautiful Keoni, also known as "The Reason I Was Meant To Be At This Funeral" - well, that and the comfort of course. I mean, mostly I was there for my friend - um - whats-her-face. I'm sure she was holding up just fine, wherever she was. But I wondered if Keoni, visiting from Hawaii, was okay. I just felt his energy, and he seemed so sad and horny. And lonely and horny and sexy. And warm and virile. But kinda sad.
"He's related to Auburn Pisces. He's gay. And they are all very sexual people, as she's told me several times," I thought to myself. At that moment I knew Keoni was an angel sent to rescue me from Drunk Bobby. I swear I would have eaten a whole beef mound and given ex-sister-in-law Susan a leg massage just to have one kiss from Keoni. He smiled at me, and we both made lots of eye contact. We talked about his next visit and he promised to go out on the town with me and AP next time. And I could swear he invited me to accompany AP and her daughter to Hawaii for a visit.
By the end of our afternoon, I held a box of chocolates from Hawaii in my arms. My angel gave me candy the first day I met him. I kissed him on the cheek to say goodbye and literally bit my tongue to keep from saying to him, "you're beautiful".
As my heart warmed and I could almost smell the coconut oil I would someday rub on Keoni, my thoughts ran away with me, "I am so glad to be on this date. It's the best first date ever. No, wait! No!! It's a funeral! A funeral! Not a date! Where was AP? Was she holding up? Shit, I'm supposed to be here for her and, oh, look! Keoni is driving away! Bye, Keoni! Aloha! Aloha my swarthy sexy lover!"
AP probably didn't need further comfort. She's a strong woman. She's got ovaries of steel, that one. I think we did some more stuff and hung out some more. Or maybe we left right after that. Who knows. Everything was a blur for me. I just kept looking at that box of Hawaiian chocolates and thinking about his smile.
Double Post Friday
It looks like I have a lot of writing to do today.
I have something very important I need to say, but I am feeling pressured to supplement Auburn Pisces' account of her brother's funeral, which we attended last Friday. So I am going to have to say the really important thing first. Then I will write about the funeral and post that later today.
Don't go read her story yet. Please stay for this important announcement. Then you can go check out Auburn Pisces.
And now, my announcement:
No birds are going to want to visit our bird feeder. It is ugly. It is a bunch of dry sunflowers tied together hanging from a branch on a tree next to our backyard patio paradise, The Vortex.
First of all, the cigarette smoke from The Vortex will kill any birds that think about perching nearby. Or they will get hit by the whiskey bottles we toss over our shoulders. Actually, I'm the only whiskey drinker in the house, but sometimes if I am toodrunk tired, I will ask The Handsome Prince or The Math Whiz to toss my bottle for me. It sounds like a euphemism for something else, doesn't it? "Hey, will you toss my bottle for a couple minutes?"
Anyway. Besides its proximity to "the wrong kind of people", the bird feeder isn't a hotel. It is a known fact that most birds prefer little wooden hotel or bed and breakfast birdhouses/feeders. Our bird feeder does not have the class of a bird hotel. It is not even a Motel 6. Staying at our bird hotel would be like sleeping on a compost heap.
I have always wanted to go inside a bird hotel. But I don't try to peek inside of the bird hotels anymore. You should hear the little birdie screams that emerge from the bird hotels when I stick my eye up to the hotel and try to look inside. Since I don't like to terrorize the guests, I am left to my imagination.
I imagine boy birds trying to pick up on girl birds as they sit at the hotel bar inside. I am not trying to sound homophobic here. It's just that the bird hotels I've seen could never be gay hotels. They are too cute and "country" and usually have "Welcome Feathered Friends" or somesuch nonsense painted on little wooden signs out front of the hotel. Gay birds would need to stay somewhere with neon out front.
Some lesbian birds probably visit the country inn bird hotels from time to time, but they probably pretend to be sisters or best friends so the straight birds don't freak out. Country inn bird hotels can be quite conservative, and some of them don't even have cable television, so there is nothing to do but read old issues of National Geographic or take a pair of binoculars outside and do some peoplewatching. Well, that's what I imagine anyway. Like I said, I've never been inside a bird hotel.
I feel better now that I've addressed this important topic. Now I will be able to turn my attention to an account of the funeral last Friday. It was quite an experience, and, remarkably, Auburn Pisces and I found much to laugh about in spite of the sorrow and loss she is experiencing. I never met her brother, Jim, but I don't think he would mind my making his sister laugh when she's hurting. He loved her so much. I think he'd want it that way.
Thanks for listening to my important thoughts on bird feeders. You can go now. Auburn Pisces is right over here.
I have something very important I need to say, but I am feeling pressured to supplement Auburn Pisces' account of her brother's funeral, which we attended last Friday. So I am going to have to say the really important thing first. Then I will write about the funeral and post that later today.
Don't go read her story yet. Please stay for this important announcement. Then you can go check out Auburn Pisces.
And now, my announcement:
No birds are going to want to visit our bird feeder. It is ugly. It is a bunch of dry sunflowers tied together hanging from a branch on a tree next to our backyard patio paradise, The Vortex.
First of all, the cigarette smoke from The Vortex will kill any birds that think about perching nearby. Or they will get hit by the whiskey bottles we toss over our shoulders. Actually, I'm the only whiskey drinker in the house, but sometimes if I am too
Anyway. Besides its proximity to "the wrong kind of people", the bird feeder isn't a hotel. It is a known fact that most birds prefer little wooden hotel or bed and breakfast birdhouses/feeders. Our bird feeder does not have the class of a bird hotel. It is not even a Motel 6. Staying at our bird hotel would be like sleeping on a compost heap.
I have always wanted to go inside a bird hotel. But I don't try to peek inside of the bird hotels anymore. You should hear the little birdie screams that emerge from the bird hotels when I stick my eye up to the hotel and try to look inside. Since I don't like to terrorize the guests, I am left to my imagination.
I imagine boy birds trying to pick up on girl birds as they sit at the hotel bar inside. I am not trying to sound homophobic here. It's just that the bird hotels I've seen could never be gay hotels. They are too cute and "country" and usually have "Welcome Feathered Friends" or somesuch nonsense painted on little wooden signs out front of the hotel. Gay birds would need to stay somewhere with neon out front.
Some lesbian birds probably visit the country inn bird hotels from time to time, but they probably pretend to be sisters or best friends so the straight birds don't freak out. Country inn bird hotels can be quite conservative, and some of them don't even have cable television, so there is nothing to do but read old issues of National Geographic or take a pair of binoculars outside and do some peoplewatching. Well, that's what I imagine anyway. Like I said, I've never been inside a bird hotel.
I feel better now that I've addressed this important topic. Now I will be able to turn my attention to an account of the funeral last Friday. It was quite an experience, and, remarkably, Auburn Pisces and I found much to laugh about in spite of the sorrow and loss she is experiencing. I never met her brother, Jim, but I don't think he would mind my making his sister laugh when she's hurting. He loved her so much. I think he'd want it that way.
Thanks for listening to my important thoughts on bird feeders. You can go now. Auburn Pisces is right over here.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Blog Secrets Revealed
I'm overwhelmed with what I've learned about blogging recently. Did you know that, according to this article from BBC News, Technorati tracks over six million blogs and that 12,000 more are added daily?
I checked out just a few of the Bloggie nominees yesterday and hope to read lots more today. I sipped wine in The Vortex last night and read some of the articles I printed off from the category, "Best Article or Essay About Weblogs". Well, first I filled my shirt pocket with lots of pens (yes, I used protection) and then I put tape on my glasses. Then I read the articles.
In one article, the author discusses how to blog. Tony Pierce has some great advice for bloggers, and I had to stop and think (yes, it hurt) for a minute. Do I reveal too much here?
On the one hand, Tony says to write about whatever you want. But he also insists there are certain people who should not be informed of your blog's existence. For example, he recommends that people you want to date shouldn't know of your blog.
Oops. Actually, I can see why he offers this advice. It can be a problem when someone you want to date or, in my case, someone with whom you've been romantically involved, reads your blog. I feel the repercussions of this daily. But, I dug my own grave. I dug it fast and hard, using some sort of high-powered digging device that could drill straight through the earth's core to the other side of the globe, apparently.
Unless you have never read Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven before, you know that I'm quite open about my romantic interests. If you are new to HTTO, welcome, and you should probably run away now, lest you get tangled in my web of romantic involvement. Anyway, in 2004 I became involved with a couple different bloggers. I wrote about my crush (also known as crunch). I documented my trip across the country to meet this amazing guy. I wrote about my feelings afterwards, when it didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
When I became involved with yet another blogger, I received a phone call from the first blogger (aka Crunchy). "You'll never learn, will you?" he asked. "No. Probably not," I answered.
"Why are you writing about this? Do you want to go through the same thing you went through with me?"
I knew he was just trying to help protect me. But I replied, "Filters are for coffee makers. Not toaster ovens."
Well, Crunchy was pretty much right on target. I shouldn't have made such a big deal out of my romance with this new interest. But I was so proud and happy. The way he pursued me, asked me out on a real date and treated me wonderfully. And he participated in blogging about our relationship. He joked on his blog about how he and I would decorate our apartment. We both made suggestive remarks about our sexual activities together. We opened up our relationship for the whole world to see. And when it began to grow cold, I think I felt obligated to avoid the topic. I postponed telling the blogsphere that things had gone south. I didn't want to write an unhappy ending to a great story.
Every day I read many other blogs. And I see traces of my old flames everywhere. Both of the boys I fell for are also reading many of the same blogs. They leave comments, they flirt (not with me), and they continue to discuss their romantic involvements (albeit in a much more filtered way than I do) on their blogs. This situation is so unusual compared to what normally happens when you stop dating someone. Unless you run into your old flame at a bar, you don't really see him flirting with other guys or talking about his new interests. But in the blogsphere, you can't avoid it unless you completely change your blogroll and reading habits.
I wonder if it gets easier. I've only been blogging for about a year. Maybe in 2006, I'll look back at past entries and laugh at my ignorance. Or maybe I'll be proud of myself for being so honest. I'll have to wait and see.
It's been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. I never claimed to be sane. Most likely, I'll continue blogging like an insane person. One day, a few months from now, I'll get a phone call from Pony, and he'll say to me, "You'll never learn, will you?"
I checked out just a few of the Bloggie nominees yesterday and hope to read lots more today. I sipped wine in The Vortex last night and read some of the articles I printed off from the category, "Best Article or Essay About Weblogs". Well, first I filled my shirt pocket with lots of pens (yes, I used protection) and then I put tape on my glasses. Then I read the articles.
In one article, the author discusses how to blog. Tony Pierce has some great advice for bloggers, and I had to stop and think (yes, it hurt) for a minute. Do I reveal too much here?
On the one hand, Tony says to write about whatever you want. But he also insists there are certain people who should not be informed of your blog's existence. For example, he recommends that people you want to date shouldn't know of your blog.
Oops. Actually, I can see why he offers this advice. It can be a problem when someone you want to date or, in my case, someone with whom you've been romantically involved, reads your blog. I feel the repercussions of this daily. But, I dug my own grave. I dug it fast and hard, using some sort of high-powered digging device that could drill straight through the earth's core to the other side of the globe, apparently.
Unless you have never read Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven before, you know that I'm quite open about my romantic interests. If you are new to HTTO, welcome, and you should probably run away now, lest you get tangled in my web of romantic involvement. Anyway, in 2004 I became involved with a couple different bloggers. I wrote about my crush (also known as crunch). I documented my trip across the country to meet this amazing guy. I wrote about my feelings afterwards, when it didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
When I became involved with yet another blogger, I received a phone call from the first blogger (aka Crunchy). "You'll never learn, will you?" he asked. "No. Probably not," I answered.
"Why are you writing about this? Do you want to go through the same thing you went through with me?"
I knew he was just trying to help protect me. But I replied, "Filters are for coffee makers. Not toaster ovens."
Well, Crunchy was pretty much right on target. I shouldn't have made such a big deal out of my romance with this new interest. But I was so proud and happy. The way he pursued me, asked me out on a real date and treated me wonderfully. And he participated in blogging about our relationship. He joked on his blog about how he and I would decorate our apartment. We both made suggestive remarks about our sexual activities together. We opened up our relationship for the whole world to see. And when it began to grow cold, I think I felt obligated to avoid the topic. I postponed telling the blogsphere that things had gone south. I didn't want to write an unhappy ending to a great story.
Every day I read many other blogs. And I see traces of my old flames everywhere. Both of the boys I fell for are also reading many of the same blogs. They leave comments, they flirt (not with me), and they continue to discuss their romantic involvements (albeit in a much more filtered way than I do) on their blogs. This situation is so unusual compared to what normally happens when you stop dating someone. Unless you run into your old flame at a bar, you don't really see him flirting with other guys or talking about his new interests. But in the blogsphere, you can't avoid it unless you completely change your blogroll and reading habits.
I wonder if it gets easier. I've only been blogging for about a year. Maybe in 2006, I'll look back at past entries and laugh at my ignorance. Or maybe I'll be proud of myself for being so honest. I'll have to wait and see.
It's been said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. I never claimed to be sane. Most likely, I'll continue blogging like an insane person. One day, a few months from now, I'll get a phone call from Pony, and he'll say to me, "You'll never learn, will you?"
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
2005 Bloggies
The 2005 Bloggie Award site is back up. I just received a very friendly e-mail from Nikolai Nolan, the coordinator of the awards. He apologized for the bandwidth problems, and I definitely think he was coming onto me. He claims his note was sent as a mass e-mail, but I know the emoticon at the end was a special smile for me. Besides, he mentions bandwidth, so I'm thinking he wants to buy me a ring and is trying to figure out my size.
He must have read my post from earlier today. I wonder if he likes wrestling...
You can go here if you want to vote for these awards. I am currently in the midst of reviewing the other sites, and am so impressed. I printed off a bunch of the articles about blogging, so I could vote for my favorite and so that my housemates would think I am nerdier than they already do.
Last year I checked out the 2004 Bloggie nominees and was really envious of these people who gained recognition for their writing, photography, etc. I had only been blogging for about a month and wrote mostly silly entries about karaoke, liquor and boys. (Do you see how far I've come?) I never imagined I could be one of the nominees because there was no category for "Best Attention Deficit Disorder Blog".
So many great blogs were nominated - kinda makes me paranoid that Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven was nominated as a joke. If I win, I'll be looking up in the rafters to see if John Travolta is hiding up there waiting to dump pig's blood on me.
He must have read my post from earlier today. I wonder if he likes wrestling...
You can go here if you want to vote for these awards. I am currently in the midst of reviewing the other sites, and am so impressed. I printed off a bunch of the articles about blogging, so I could vote for my favorite and so that my housemates would think I am nerdier than they already do.
Last year I checked out the 2004 Bloggie nominees and was really envious of these people who gained recognition for their writing, photography, etc. I had only been blogging for about a month and wrote mostly silly entries about karaoke, liquor and boys. (Do you see how far I've come?) I never imagined I could be one of the nominees because there was no category for "Best Attention Deficit Disorder Blog".
So many great blogs were nominated - kinda makes me paranoid that Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven was nominated as a joke. If I win, I'll be looking up in the rafters to see if John Travolta is hiding up there waiting to dump pig's blood on me.
He-MaN BoY HaTeRs CLuB
For the last time, I DO NOT WANT A BOYFRIEND. All boys stay away. You are yucky.
As I talked to The Hunky Bartender at CC Slaughters last night, the one whose biceps I do not want to grope and whose weight I do not want to feel on top of my body as we make love in my bed, I realized that I just want to be alone. The Hunky Bartender and I were discussing the idea that boyfriends only materialize when you don't want them. First you have to love yourself, blah blah fucking blah, and then the love of your life will show up when you least expect him.
Let me just say that the last thing I am expecting right now is a boyfriend. If a sexy Swedish doctor who likes to give massages and has a wrestling fetish showed up today, I would send him away. If he happened to be a bodybuilder, I would laugh in his face and say, "Leave me alone you rich gorgeous musclebound Scandinavian."
In fact, I am sitting here pointing a rifle out the window of my, um, log cabin where I do all my writing, and am just waiting for a man to dare show his face. I will shoot him. I hate men, especially ones who want boyfriends.
I swear to God I will lose it if some Asian hottie with a thing for tall blondes sends me an e-mail today professing his love for me. I will block his e-mail address from this day forward and change the name of this blog to Hot Toddy's Lactose Oven just to scare him off. If one of the ex-boyfriends I am still in love with (shut up - there are only three of them) calls me and asks me to come back to him, I'll slam the cell phone down in his ear. First I will have to tell him I'm slamming it down because you can't tell that a cell phone is being slammed, but, rest assured, I will most definitely be slamming it.
Okay, I've clearly stated my position on not wanting a boyfriend. In the several paragraphs I've written to demonstrate my insistence on remaining unattached my phone has not rung once. No e-mails. No Swedish doctors. Come on, guys, what is the problem? Can't you see I don't want or expect you to show up right now? It is the last thing in the world I can imagine happening. And, even if it did, I would avoid you by hiding under my desk and pretending to be "out sick" - which, sadly, would be so believable to my co-workers since my sick days are as frequent as Cher's farewell tours.
Did I mention how much I love myself? I couldn't love myself more if I tried. I loved myself for about twenty minutes this morning and was running late for work. Imagine how much I love myself on the weekends when I don't have to go into the office! I may even go love myself right after I post this, so if you are waiting for me to love myself before coming into my life, you won't have to wait long.
If you are a romantic man and feel moved to start courting me based on this post, please do not leave me a comment. I will not respond to you. You are not welcome here. Go away or just send me an e-mail (and a picture) so I can delete it and block your address. If you want, you can also call my cell phone (I'll have it with me all day and usually sleep with it next to my bed) but prepare to have me slam it down in your ear. You've been warned.
As I talked to The Hunky Bartender at CC Slaughters last night, the one whose biceps I do not want to grope and whose weight I do not want to feel on top of my body as we make love in my bed, I realized that I just want to be alone. The Hunky Bartender and I were discussing the idea that boyfriends only materialize when you don't want them. First you have to love yourself, blah blah fucking blah, and then the love of your life will show up when you least expect him.
Let me just say that the last thing I am expecting right now is a boyfriend. If a sexy Swedish doctor who likes to give massages and has a wrestling fetish showed up today, I would send him away. If he happened to be a bodybuilder, I would laugh in his face and say, "Leave me alone you rich gorgeous musclebound Scandinavian."
In fact, I am sitting here pointing a rifle out the window of my, um, log cabin where I do all my writing, and am just waiting for a man to dare show his face. I will shoot him. I hate men, especially ones who want boyfriends.
I swear to God I will lose it if some Asian hottie with a thing for tall blondes sends me an e-mail today professing his love for me. I will block his e-mail address from this day forward and change the name of this blog to Hot Toddy's Lactose Oven just to scare him off. If one of the ex-boyfriends I am still in love with (shut up - there are only three of them) calls me and asks me to come back to him, I'll slam the cell phone down in his ear. First I will have to tell him I'm slamming it down because you can't tell that a cell phone is being slammed, but, rest assured, I will most definitely be slamming it.
Okay, I've clearly stated my position on not wanting a boyfriend. In the several paragraphs I've written to demonstrate my insistence on remaining unattached my phone has not rung once. No e-mails. No Swedish doctors. Come on, guys, what is the problem? Can't you see I don't want or expect you to show up right now? It is the last thing in the world I can imagine happening. And, even if it did, I would avoid you by hiding under my desk and pretending to be "out sick" - which, sadly, would be so believable to my co-workers since my sick days are as frequent as Cher's farewell tours.
Did I mention how much I love myself? I couldn't love myself more if I tried. I loved myself for about twenty minutes this morning and was running late for work. Imagine how much I love myself on the weekends when I don't have to go into the office! I may even go love myself right after I post this, so if you are waiting for me to love myself before coming into my life, you won't have to wait long.
If you are a romantic man and feel moved to start courting me based on this post, please do not leave me a comment. I will not respond to you. You are not welcome here. Go away or just send me an e-mail (and a picture) so I can delete it and block your address. If you want, you can also call my cell phone (I'll have it with me all day and usually sleep with it next to my bed) but prepare to have me slam it down in your ear. You've been warned.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Strong Shoulders
My best friend has such strong shoulders. I found that out last night as he sat next to me on my bed. I put my head on his shoulder as I cried. He is awesome, and this morning he made fun of me for breaking down last night. I love our relationship, and that he teases me about anything and everything. I feel completely safe with The Handsome Prince. In the midst of sobbing last night, I started laughing and said to him, "I'm so glad I can act this way in front of you. Nobody ever sees me fall apart quite this much..."
Then, this morning, I sat in The Vortex and began making absurd fake sobbing noises to draw his attention. He just laughed at me, as I intended. Then he told me after I went to bed last night he called all my friends on the phone and told them what a big baby I was. He's kidding. I hope.
The Handsome Prince and I are there for each other. All. The. Time.
You know, in spite of my earlier post today, I have to say that the handsome man who wounded my pride yesterday is a really, really good man. He has a kind heart. He loves me, and I know he wants the best for me. I am bitter and hurt, but it isn't his fault. He did nothing wrong. If only he weren't so awesome, I wouldn't care if he were falling for someone else or not. I want to have strong shoulders and bear up under this relatively minor heartache. In light of brave strong people who fight much bigger battles, I just don't want to whine anymore.
I'm feeling better than I was this morning. Sometimes it helps to just pour out my thoughts here and then move on. Besides, lots of great things are happening in my life. First of all, the official BoB Winners were announced. Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven was voted #1 GLBT Blog, which means I'll have to start blogging more Transgendered posts, but, I want to thank everyone who voted for me. I feel special. Not "special needs" special. Just special. Congratulations to all the winners.
Another amazing development in my life is that, I was offered the position I applied for at my company, in spite of the fact that I joked about calling in sick my first day during the interview. The job pays significantly more than my current position. My job interview was yesterday morning at 9 a.m., and I had an offer by 3 p.m. Isn't that amazingly quick? That's never happened to me before.
As if things weren't great enough, I now have my own theater and tanning salon in Blogdom, thanks to Dantallion.
Thanks to all of you who wrote me nice e-mails this morning. You're all awesome.
Then, this morning, I sat in The Vortex and began making absurd fake sobbing noises to draw his attention. He just laughed at me, as I intended. Then he told me after I went to bed last night he called all my friends on the phone and told them what a big baby I was. He's kidding. I hope.
The Handsome Prince and I are there for each other. All. The. Time.
You know, in spite of my earlier post today, I have to say that the handsome man who wounded my pride yesterday is a really, really good man. He has a kind heart. He loves me, and I know he wants the best for me. I am bitter and hurt, but it isn't his fault. He did nothing wrong. If only he weren't so awesome, I wouldn't care if he were falling for someone else or not. I want to have strong shoulders and bear up under this relatively minor heartache. In light of brave strong people who fight much bigger battles, I just don't want to whine anymore.
I'm feeling better than I was this morning. Sometimes it helps to just pour out my thoughts here and then move on. Besides, lots of great things are happening in my life. First of all, the official BoB Winners were announced. Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven was voted #1 GLBT Blog, which means I'll have to start blogging more Transgendered posts, but, I want to thank everyone who voted for me. I feel special. Not "special needs" special. Just special. Congratulations to all the winners.
Another amazing development in my life is that, I was offered the position I applied for at my company, in spite of the fact that I joked about calling in sick my first day during the interview. The job pays significantly more than my current position. My job interview was yesterday morning at 9 a.m., and I had an offer by 3 p.m. Isn't that amazingly quick? That's never happened to me before.
As if things weren't great enough, I now have my own theater and tanning salon in Blogdom, thanks to Dantallion.
Thanks to all of you who wrote me nice e-mails this morning. You're all awesome.
Backhanded
Thwak! Thwak! CT's words hit me like a backhanded slap to the mouth. Even though it wasn't a physical blow, it felt as if my lip should be bleeding.
He leaned against the wall of our bedroom and said, "I've met someone..."
Eleven days before this, he and I had decided to break up after seven years together. I felt my heart sink and I stammered, "You - you met someone? Wh-when?"
"The day after we broke up," came his monotone reply.
Sometimes, to spare our feelings, those we love will tell us that they don't want to be together anymore because they need to be alone. They don't want a relationship. They just want to be single. Even though it isn't true, they don't say this to be mean. It is a well-intentioned lie. A sweet lie, meant to smoothe over the painful truth that, contrary to their claims, they don't want to be alone. They just don't want to be with you.
Sometimes knowing that someone else has won the heart of the one you adored hurts worse than the initial break up. Would it be better not to know the truth? Or is honesty a kinder gesture?
Last night at the bar I felt a familiar blow. Thwak! Thwak! And I cried, and the bartender brought me coffee, and it felt like my lip was bleeding, but it was just my heart.
He said we didn't work together. Oil and water. "You're just too intense for me."
Someday, when The Love of Hot Toddy's Life appears, I'm going to love him with all the gratitude and intensity of my heart. Love is supposed to be intense, isn't it? I can't tone it down. Sometimes I wish I could. Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to hear that tender lie, "I just want to be alone..."
He leaned against the wall of our bedroom and said, "I've met someone..."
Eleven days before this, he and I had decided to break up after seven years together. I felt my heart sink and I stammered, "You - you met someone? Wh-when?"
"The day after we broke up," came his monotone reply.
Sometimes, to spare our feelings, those we love will tell us that they don't want to be together anymore because they need to be alone. They don't want a relationship. They just want to be single. Even though it isn't true, they don't say this to be mean. It is a well-intentioned lie. A sweet lie, meant to smoothe over the painful truth that, contrary to their claims, they don't want to be alone. They just don't want to be with you.
Sometimes knowing that someone else has won the heart of the one you adored hurts worse than the initial break up. Would it be better not to know the truth? Or is honesty a kinder gesture?
Last night at the bar I felt a familiar blow. Thwak! Thwak! And I cried, and the bartender brought me coffee, and it felt like my lip was bleeding, but it was just my heart.
He said we didn't work together. Oil and water. "You're just too intense for me."
Someday, when The Love of Hot Toddy's Life appears, I'm going to love him with all the gratitude and intensity of my heart. Love is supposed to be intense, isn't it? I can't tone it down. Sometimes I wish I could. Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to hear that tender lie, "I just want to be alone..."
Monday, January 24, 2005
Hot Toddy Sells Out
I am a sell-out. No, I don't mean that I'm a sell-out like Cher, who is currently on her seventh "farewell tour". What I really mean is that the one act play I wrote, "Spud Toppers", was part of a show that consistently sold out during its four-week run.
Over drinks at The New Old Lompoc this Friday night, I found out that Cold Comedy Concoction made a lot of money for the theatre. I was proud to contribute to the highest grossing show in the history of Stark Raving Theatre.
I am not sure I heard correctly because, as I said, I was drinking Maker's Mark when I received this news. Maybe I was being told, "Cold Comedy Concoction was the grossest play ever produced at Stark." Or maybe somebody just said, "Stop drooling on the table, you drunkard. That's gross."
All I know is my play was part of something gross, and that makes me happy.
I am still waiting to hear from the Election Board about the BoB Awards. No official word on the winners, so if I didn't win I'm going to have to find somewhere to live besides BoB's place. I don't know why there has been a delay in announcing the winners. There may be a problem with well-hung Chads like there was in the Presidential Election we had back in 2000. Remember that election? I don't.
Today I just found out Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven is nominated for a Bloggie, and the prize is a DVD of the series, Prisoner Cell Block H. This series has a cult following, and I was in a cult, so we're a perfect match.
2005 has been amazing so far. Nearly every performance of the play I wrote sold out. Then, I received a BoB nomination and spent a month campaigning for a chance to be hosted by BoB. I had to kiss a lot of babies, and I look forward to kissing a lot more of you as I hit the campaign trail for the Bloggie Weblog Awards.
It feels like things are going entirely too well, so in a job interview I had this morning, I felt compelled to ruin my chances of being hired. The interviewer asked what I picture myself doing on my first day in the new job, and I answered, "I'll probably just call in sick."
Don't question my tactics, please. I only want to be hired for this job if there is truly nobody else they can find to take it. There's a certain thrill in being someone's very last choice. I enjoy the feeling of utter relief as I hear someone say, "Good thing you got your drink order in, because last call is in one minute," or, more frequently, "You almost didn't make the U.S. Olympic Diving Team, but that one guy broke his leg,"
If I had a nickel for every time I've heard those words uttered...
Over drinks at The New Old Lompoc this Friday night, I found out that Cold Comedy Concoction made a lot of money for the theatre. I was proud to contribute to the highest grossing show in the history of Stark Raving Theatre.
I am not sure I heard correctly because, as I said, I was drinking Maker's Mark when I received this news. Maybe I was being told, "Cold Comedy Concoction was the grossest play ever produced at Stark." Or maybe somebody just said, "Stop drooling on the table, you drunkard. That's gross."
All I know is my play was part of something gross, and that makes me happy.
I am still waiting to hear from the Election Board about the BoB Awards. No official word on the winners, so if I didn't win I'm going to have to find somewhere to live besides BoB's place. I don't know why there has been a delay in announcing the winners. There may be a problem with well-hung Chads like there was in the Presidential Election we had back in 2000. Remember that election? I don't.
Today I just found out Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven is nominated for a Bloggie, and the prize is a DVD of the series, Prisoner Cell Block H. This series has a cult following, and I was in a cult, so we're a perfect match.
2005 has been amazing so far. Nearly every performance of the play I wrote sold out. Then, I received a BoB nomination and spent a month campaigning for a chance to be hosted by BoB. I had to kiss a lot of babies, and I look forward to kissing a lot more of you as I hit the campaign trail for the Bloggie Weblog Awards.
It feels like things are going entirely too well, so in a job interview I had this morning, I felt compelled to ruin my chances of being hired. The interviewer asked what I picture myself doing on my first day in the new job, and I answered, "I'll probably just call in sick."
Don't question my tactics, please. I only want to be hired for this job if there is truly nobody else they can find to take it. There's a certain thrill in being someone's very last choice. I enjoy the feeling of utter relief as I hear someone say, "Good thing you got your drink order in, because last call is in one minute," or, more frequently, "You almost didn't make the U.S. Olympic Diving Team, but that one guy broke his leg,"
If I had a nickel for every time I've heard those words uttered...
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Saturday Night Post!
This is rare. I don't normally post on the weekends, but since I was at a funeral for Auburn Pisces' brother yesterday, I didn't post. I will give you a full update of the funeral tomorrow. She is holding up well, and I'm proud that she asked me to join her yesterday. I was proud to be her companion, and am happy to report that by the end of the day I managed to make her laugh so hard she almost "had an accident". Each morning when I awake, one of my first thoughts is, '"I hope I can make Auburn Pisces laugh so hard she pees her pants today."
Anyway, I'm just checking in with my loyal readers and writing this tipsy post on a Saturday night to say, "hello" and also to educate you.
Tonight's Gay Lingo Lesson is "Doris Day Parking". If you do not know what "Doris Day Parking" means, let me explain it to you. A "Doris Day" parking place is when you find a gay parking spot right in front of the gay bar to park your gay car. Tonight, so far, has been a glorious night of Doris Day parking. The Handsome Prince and I are at are second of three destinations tonight, and we have had Doris Day parking everywhere we go. One of the guys hanging out with us just recently came out of the closet, so we're showing him around and also teaching him the lingo. Doris Day parking was completely unfamiliar to him until now.
As I type this from a computer terminal at Silverado, I can hear THP talking about the enormous size of his boyfriend's dick - and also he is explaining what kinds of sexual scenarios his boyfriend enjoys. This is information that I am tempted to transcribe for you, but I will refrain, because, after several Maker's Marks, it is all I can do to avoid spelling errors and typos. I know there are many of you who would prefer to read a post about THP's boyfriend's dick, even if it is chock full of spelling errors, but I have integrity. I won't compromise my literary standards simply to entertain your lustful imaginations.
I will simply close this post by proclaiming that I have made an important decision. I have decided to become Portland's "Kissing Bandit". This decision was reached the other night as I made out with a boy named "Zuko" at CC Slaughters. I realized that I have more to offer the world than an interesting blog. I am also an awesome kisser and want to explore this talent further. If I don't post for a couple days, just know that I am still working on becoming a better person. Just not a better writer.
Sincerely,
Doris Day's Toaster Oven
Anyway, I'm just checking in with my loyal readers and writing this tipsy post on a Saturday night to say, "hello" and also to educate you.
Tonight's Gay Lingo Lesson is "Doris Day Parking". If you do not know what "Doris Day Parking" means, let me explain it to you. A "Doris Day" parking place is when you find a gay parking spot right in front of the gay bar to park your gay car. Tonight, so far, has been a glorious night of Doris Day parking. The Handsome Prince and I are at are second of three destinations tonight, and we have had Doris Day parking everywhere we go. One of the guys hanging out with us just recently came out of the closet, so we're showing him around and also teaching him the lingo. Doris Day parking was completely unfamiliar to him until now.
As I type this from a computer terminal at Silverado, I can hear THP talking about the enormous size of his boyfriend's dick - and also he is explaining what kinds of sexual scenarios his boyfriend enjoys. This is information that I am tempted to transcribe for you, but I will refrain, because, after several Maker's Marks, it is all I can do to avoid spelling errors and typos. I know there are many of you who would prefer to read a post about THP's boyfriend's dick, even if it is chock full of spelling errors, but I have integrity. I won't compromise my literary standards simply to entertain your lustful imaginations.
I will simply close this post by proclaiming that I have made an important decision. I have decided to become Portland's "Kissing Bandit". This decision was reached the other night as I made out with a boy named "Zuko" at CC Slaughters. I realized that I have more to offer the world than an interesting blog. I am also an awesome kisser and want to explore this talent further. If I don't post for a couple days, just know that I am still working on becoming a better person. Just not a better writer.
Sincerely,
Doris Day's Toaster Oven
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Hot Toddy's Diversity Post
Last night's episode of Alias could have been perfect. Sydney disguised herself as a Peace Corps volunteer and transformed her appearance by wearing glasses. See, normally she doesn't wear glasses. But this was a disguise. And she put her hair up, so people were thinking "there's no way that's a CIA agent. She has her hair up and wears glasses."
But, alas, the episode did not achieve perfection. I was very disappointed in the writers, producers, actors, grips and caterers for the show last night. They set the episode in Monteafrican-american. But they didn't use the politically correct term. Instead, the archaic and horribly politically incorrect term was used. When the name of the country flashed upon the screen, it said, "Montenegro". I gasped, threw my veggie chicken nuggets with Heinz Ketchup against the wall, and fought back my tears of anger.
I decided that I had to take action. After I watched the rest of the episode and stayed tuned for scenes from next week's Alias (it looks great!), I pulled out my Powerpuff Girls stationary and dashed off a letter to ABC (Always Broadcast Caucasians). While I was at it, I decided to write the NAACP too.
See, I've always been angry with the NAACP because they use the term "Colored People" instead of the more correct, "Persons of Color". I know the organization has a long history. They have worked for equality since, like, 1980 or something. But, would it be so hard to change the name of the organization to NAAPC"? Are they concerned about the cost of buying new letterhead stationary? I will let them use my Powerpuff Girls stationary while they make the transition. It's no big deal.
On the way to work, I asked my African-American/Native-American housemate, The Math Whiz, what he thought about the situation. First he asked me to stop referring to him as "Nubian", and then he tried to answer my questions.
"Hey Math Whiz," I said, "since you are Nubian - I mean African-American and Native-American, could you tell me what you people want us to call you?"
He replied, "what do you mean 'you people', Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven?"
Exasperated with his kind of people, I replied with patient exasperation, "I mean you people who are not like the rest of us. You different people."
He still seemed to have difficulty understanding my very intelligent questions, and I thought about giving up on him and all his kind of people, but I persevered.
"Let me see if I can clarify this for you. The normal people run everything in this country, and I'm just wondering if you different people are irritated when racist networks set their television shows in racist countries like Monteafrican-american. And does the NAACP piss you off as much as it pisses off us normal people?"
He asked me to let him out of the car so he could walk the rest of the way to work, but I refused to stop. "You will get picked up by the police if they see you walking along the side of the road. They will assume you are a hobo. I can't allow that to happen. Trust me, I know all about the way we normal people think."
I was starting to get upset with The Math Whiz, and I felt short of breath. I could barely drive, because my throat was closing up, and my eyes were filling with tears. When The Math Whiz took his hands from around my throat, I coughed up some blood and asked, "Don't you see that I'm trying to help? I'm an advocate for all the people who are different. I'm like Harriet Tubman. I want to take you north to freedom."
"Is that why we're headed to Seattle instead of my job in Downtown Portland?" he asked. I have always admired his people's sense of humor. It is because of all the injustice experienced by his kind. It has built their character, and they are much wittier than normal people. They are also better dancers and are mostly lactose intolerant, because they are so different from most of us.
See, Martin Luther, who fought for both Lutheran rights and civil rights, wasn't the only one with a dream. I have a dream too. The other night it was a dream that all my cute straight male friends came over to my house for an orgy, but I am talking about a different dream right now. I have a dream that someday even the people who are not like me will magically become more like me. If only they could sound and look more like me, I know things could be better for them.
That is why I work so hard for equal rights. Even for people that are so different from me. They do not have a voice in this country, and even the ones with a voice don't use the proper dialect to be understood.
I could go on and on. The reason I could go on and on is that I sometimes don't know when to shut up. The other reason I could go on and on is that I have a lot of passion about this subject, which is unusual for my people, because we don't have a history of hardship like the people who are different. Hardship makes those people more passionate. Or maybe it is calcium deprivation from the lactose intolerance. Either way, they're more passionate than my people.
Unfortnately, I can't continue my tirade right now, because I'm off to write more letters. First I'm going to write to the country of Nigeria, for obvious reasons. I just hope the Nubian Queen of that Country will listen to my plea for justice.
But, alas, the episode did not achieve perfection. I was very disappointed in the writers, producers, actors, grips and caterers for the show last night. They set the episode in Monteafrican-american. But they didn't use the politically correct term. Instead, the archaic and horribly politically incorrect term was used. When the name of the country flashed upon the screen, it said, "Montenegro". I gasped, threw my veggie chicken nuggets with Heinz Ketchup against the wall, and fought back my tears of anger.
I decided that I had to take action. After I watched the rest of the episode and stayed tuned for scenes from next week's Alias (it looks great!), I pulled out my Powerpuff Girls stationary and dashed off a letter to ABC (Always Broadcast Caucasians). While I was at it, I decided to write the NAACP too.
See, I've always been angry with the NAACP because they use the term "Colored People" instead of the more correct, "Persons of Color". I know the organization has a long history. They have worked for equality since, like, 1980 or something. But, would it be so hard to change the name of the organization to NAAPC"? Are they concerned about the cost of buying new letterhead stationary? I will let them use my Powerpuff Girls stationary while they make the transition. It's no big deal.
On the way to work, I asked my African-American/Native-American housemate, The Math Whiz, what he thought about the situation. First he asked me to stop referring to him as "Nubian", and then he tried to answer my questions.
"Hey Math Whiz," I said, "since you are Nubian - I mean African-American and Native-American, could you tell me what you people want us to call you?"
He replied, "what do you mean 'you people', Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven?"
Exasperated with his kind of people, I replied with patient exasperation, "I mean you people who are not like the rest of us. You different people."
He still seemed to have difficulty understanding my very intelligent questions, and I thought about giving up on him and all his kind of people, but I persevered.
"Let me see if I can clarify this for you. The normal people run everything in this country, and I'm just wondering if you different people are irritated when racist networks set their television shows in racist countries like Monteafrican-american. And does the NAACP piss you off as much as it pisses off us normal people?"
He asked me to let him out of the car so he could walk the rest of the way to work, but I refused to stop. "You will get picked up by the police if they see you walking along the side of the road. They will assume you are a hobo. I can't allow that to happen. Trust me, I know all about the way we normal people think."
I was starting to get upset with The Math Whiz, and I felt short of breath. I could barely drive, because my throat was closing up, and my eyes were filling with tears. When The Math Whiz took his hands from around my throat, I coughed up some blood and asked, "Don't you see that I'm trying to help? I'm an advocate for all the people who are different. I'm like Harriet Tubman. I want to take you north to freedom."
"Is that why we're headed to Seattle instead of my job in Downtown Portland?" he asked. I have always admired his people's sense of humor. It is because of all the injustice experienced by his kind. It has built their character, and they are much wittier than normal people. They are also better dancers and are mostly lactose intolerant, because they are so different from most of us.
See, Martin Luther, who fought for both Lutheran rights and civil rights, wasn't the only one with a dream. I have a dream too. The other night it was a dream that all my cute straight male friends came over to my house for an orgy, but I am talking about a different dream right now. I have a dream that someday even the people who are not like me will magically become more like me. If only they could sound and look more like me, I know things could be better for them.
That is why I work so hard for equal rights. Even for people that are so different from me. They do not have a voice in this country, and even the ones with a voice don't use the proper dialect to be understood.
I could go on and on. The reason I could go on and on is that I sometimes don't know when to shut up. The other reason I could go on and on is that I have a lot of passion about this subject, which is unusual for my people, because we don't have a history of hardship like the people who are different. Hardship makes those people more passionate. Or maybe it is calcium deprivation from the lactose intolerance. Either way, they're more passionate than my people.
Unfortnately, I can't continue my tirade right now, because I'm off to write more letters. First I'm going to write to the country of Nigeria, for obvious reasons. I just hope the Nubian Queen of that Country will listen to my plea for justice.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Living the Cause
Oh, sweet Jesus. What am I doing in this company I work for?
One of the basic tenets of our company is that employees should live and own the cause. Whatever "the cause" is, I'm certain it is not my cause. I am not going to live it. I can't even bear to be associated with most of the people in this company. If you could read just one issue of our company newsletter, you would understand why.
In the past couple of weeks two of our employees have had to be saved from choking to death. Not one. Two. One employee used the Heimlich maneuver on Annette, who was choking on a potato chip. I question the reporter's judgment in breaking this story. If you were Annette, or anyone who can't eat potato chips properly, would you want this story published in your company newsletter? I don't know her personally, but I'm relatively sure Annette would not want to be introduced to her coworkers as "that lady who chokes on potato chips". Yet, that's exactly the introduction our company newsletter provides poor Annette. On the other hand, I have decided I definitely want to get to know Heimlich Maneuver Master Andy, who saved her life. He would be a good lunch date, don't you think?
The second employee, Bonnie, who nearly choked to death was reported as having "an obstruction in her throat" and was saved by quick-thinking Judy. I find it curious that Annette's throat obstruction was clearly identified as a potato chip while the cause of Bonnie's throat obstruction is intentionally omitted. This is rather damning evidence that Bonnie probably choked on a paper clip or container of Wite-Out while working at her desk. Even our diligent newsletter reporter didn't have the heart to tell us what Bonnie choked on. Must have been pretty embarrassing.
Speaking of embarrassing, a memo recently came out to all employees requesting that we carefully check the bathroom area before exiting to ensure that we haven't left behind any "foreign substance or offensive items". I refuse to contemplate what horrible occurrence initiated this communication. The memo ended, "Stuff happens".
Clearly, I can't align myself with the employees of this company, and I refuse to be a part of our cause, let alone live it. My friend at work, Ms. Karma, however, is definitely on board with living the cause. Yesterday she had a mishap at the airport. She was holding her boarding pass and went to brush her hair out of her eyes. Unfortunately, she cut her eye with her boarding pass and couldn't come into the office today.
Looks like I might have to brush up on my Heimlich maneuver just in case Ms. Karma ever needs me.
One of the basic tenets of our company is that employees should live and own the cause. Whatever "the cause" is, I'm certain it is not my cause. I am not going to live it. I can't even bear to be associated with most of the people in this company. If you could read just one issue of our company newsletter, you would understand why.
In the past couple of weeks two of our employees have had to be saved from choking to death. Not one. Two. One employee used the Heimlich maneuver on Annette, who was choking on a potato chip. I question the reporter's judgment in breaking this story. If you were Annette, or anyone who can't eat potato chips properly, would you want this story published in your company newsletter? I don't know her personally, but I'm relatively sure Annette would not want to be introduced to her coworkers as "that lady who chokes on potato chips". Yet, that's exactly the introduction our company newsletter provides poor Annette. On the other hand, I have decided I definitely want to get to know Heimlich Maneuver Master Andy, who saved her life. He would be a good lunch date, don't you think?
The second employee, Bonnie, who nearly choked to death was reported as having "an obstruction in her throat" and was saved by quick-thinking Judy. I find it curious that Annette's throat obstruction was clearly identified as a potato chip while the cause of Bonnie's throat obstruction is intentionally omitted. This is rather damning evidence that Bonnie probably choked on a paper clip or container of Wite-Out while working at her desk. Even our diligent newsletter reporter didn't have the heart to tell us what Bonnie choked on. Must have been pretty embarrassing.
Speaking of embarrassing, a memo recently came out to all employees requesting that we carefully check the bathroom area before exiting to ensure that we haven't left behind any "foreign substance or offensive items". I refuse to contemplate what horrible occurrence initiated this communication. The memo ended, "Stuff happens".
Clearly, I can't align myself with the employees of this company, and I refuse to be a part of our cause, let alone live it. My friend at work, Ms. Karma, however, is definitely on board with living the cause. Yesterday she had a mishap at the airport. She was holding her boarding pass and went to brush her hair out of her eyes. Unfortunately, she cut her eye with her boarding pass and couldn't come into the office today.
Looks like I might have to brush up on my Heimlich maneuver just in case Ms. Karma ever needs me.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Thawing Out
In October, days became darker and darker. It began turning colder in Portland. The sun became shy, rarely revealing itself to those of us aching for warmth.
I felt myself slipping into a very sad and lonely place. And it was dark, so dark. Then came November and a Thanksgiving spent with a wonderful and generous family. Nevertheless, that family was not my own, and the longing for a special someone to share the holiday season with began to hammer at my heart. Somehow, the already black days became even darker.
December was cold and felt like betrayal. December didn't care about me. December shared joy with others, but left me out. I was alone at Christmas (by choice) and alone in my room on New Year's Eve. I can't remember the last time I wasn't the center of attention at midnight on New Year's Eve, because, being so tall, I am usually the ball dropper. But 2004 was different. I sank into my bed, relieved at the year's end and a little drunk, at 9:30 on December 31.
This past weekend, Portland streets were covered with ice. The world was dark and cold and frozen. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get warm. My heart was cold, and my lazy body felt frozen and lame.
Last night the world started to warm up. The weather became milder, and I removed my stocking cap and gloves as I walked to the car with a new friend. I felt different inside. Something foreign had taken root in my heart. It was a feeling of "maybe..."
Kisses can warm more than lips. A kiss can plant hope in your heart, and hope grows so quickly. This morning I stood in The Vortex with a cup of coffee and was amazed at how warm the weather has suddenly become. I watched a gray pine tree change colors before my eyes. "Ah, yes. That's right. Pine trees are green, not gray," I suddenly remembered. The whole world changed from dirty gray to vibrant green this morning. The sun peeked through a cloud-covered sky and reminded me it was still there. I smelled rich earth and basked in this welcome feeling of hope. Water dripped from the lush pine boughs, and the ice became a memory. My heart thawed out, took in a gulp of air, and gasped a thankful sigh of relief.
Hope is returning to me after a long dark absence. I've never been more thankful to be reunited with an old friend.
I felt myself slipping into a very sad and lonely place. And it was dark, so dark. Then came November and a Thanksgiving spent with a wonderful and generous family. Nevertheless, that family was not my own, and the longing for a special someone to share the holiday season with began to hammer at my heart. Somehow, the already black days became even darker.
December was cold and felt like betrayal. December didn't care about me. December shared joy with others, but left me out. I was alone at Christmas (by choice) and alone in my room on New Year's Eve. I can't remember the last time I wasn't the center of attention at midnight on New Year's Eve, because, being so tall, I am usually the ball dropper. But 2004 was different. I sank into my bed, relieved at the year's end and a little drunk, at 9:30 on December 31.
This past weekend, Portland streets were covered with ice. The world was dark and cold and frozen. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get warm. My heart was cold, and my lazy body felt frozen and lame.
Last night the world started to warm up. The weather became milder, and I removed my stocking cap and gloves as I walked to the car with a new friend. I felt different inside. Something foreign had taken root in my heart. It was a feeling of "maybe..."
Kisses can warm more than lips. A kiss can plant hope in your heart, and hope grows so quickly. This morning I stood in The Vortex with a cup of coffee and was amazed at how warm the weather has suddenly become. I watched a gray pine tree change colors before my eyes. "Ah, yes. That's right. Pine trees are green, not gray," I suddenly remembered. The whole world changed from dirty gray to vibrant green this morning. The sun peeked through a cloud-covered sky and reminded me it was still there. I smelled rich earth and basked in this welcome feeling of hope. Water dripped from the lush pine boughs, and the ice became a memory. My heart thawed out, took in a gulp of air, and gasped a thankful sigh of relief.
Hope is returning to me after a long dark absence. I've never been more thankful to be reunited with an old friend.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Bored Games
Saturday night me and my housemates stayed in and played board games. Portland had an ice storm, and the roads were treacherous, so all three of us were stuck at home. We took advantage of this rare occasion to pull out some games and have a party with just the three of us.
The Math Whiz was insistent that we try out the Sex & The City Trivia Game that Auburn Pisces bought us. I've been afraid of that game ever since I read a couple of the questions to see if they were hard. Since I can't remember to blow out a candle before bed, I had serious doubts about remembering which newspaper Carrie Bradshaw writes for. To add to the confusion, we were playing the trivia game while intoxicated, so we had to read the instructions over and over again. This is pretty much how the entire game went:
Toddy: Whose turn is it?
The Handsome Prince: You are always after me. I just went.
Toddy: So, it's my turn? Wait! I forgot to move my piece last time.
The Math Whiz: No you didn't. Remember, you were accidentally moving it backwards on the board?
Toddy: Right. So it's my turn.
Prince: Just roll!!!!
(Todd takes a drink of whiskey and rolls the die)
Whiz: Toddy, here is your question. What color was the scarf that Carrie wore on that one date with the guy who was quirky and that one funny situation happened?
Toddy: This game is ridiculous. I don't know. I'll guess "seven".
Prince: Wrong!
Toddy: Now what happens.
At this point all three of us consulted the directions to read, for the hundredth time, that my options were to dispose of a Lifestyle Card or draw a new one. Each time one of us answered a question, we had to check the directions. It wasn't complicated, really. But in the alcoholic haze of our living room, playing Sex & The City trivia seemed like rocket science. After more frustrating questions about things like "the name of the person Charlotte gave her dog to" or "who snored in LA", we gave up. The Math Whiz was so disappointed. He loves Sex & The City Trivia. I can't remember who won. I'll guess "seven".
We also played "Compatibility" and discovered that I am more compatible with The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz than they are with each other. So we packed up the game and had a threesome.
Not really. Instead we ate Jerk Pork (Jerk Veggie Burger, in my case) that made us choke when it was cooking because it was so spicy. While The Handsome Prince cooked, The Math Whiz and I coughed and choked and laughed at the intensity of spices.
As we ate, the three of us watched Margaret Cho's "I'm the One That I Want". A phone call interrupted our viewing, and one of us came back from the phone call sobbing. Bad news for one of The Vortex Boys. The two of us who weren't crying united forces and The Power of Three defeated the evil lurking sadness demon. Once the demon was vanquished, we went back to watching Margaret Cho.
I love a good ice storm. I love being stranded with people who make me laugh. In my opinion, any good night at home should involve drunken board games, spicy food that makes you choke, great comedy, and a few tears wiped away by people who love you. My life is good. Really good.
The Math Whiz was insistent that we try out the Sex & The City Trivia Game that Auburn Pisces bought us. I've been afraid of that game ever since I read a couple of the questions to see if they were hard. Since I can't remember to blow out a candle before bed, I had serious doubts about remembering which newspaper Carrie Bradshaw writes for. To add to the confusion, we were playing the trivia game while intoxicated, so we had to read the instructions over and over again. This is pretty much how the entire game went:
Toddy: Whose turn is it?
The Handsome Prince: You are always after me. I just went.
Toddy: So, it's my turn? Wait! I forgot to move my piece last time.
The Math Whiz: No you didn't. Remember, you were accidentally moving it backwards on the board?
Toddy: Right. So it's my turn.
Prince: Just roll!!!!
(Todd takes a drink of whiskey and rolls the die)
Whiz: Toddy, here is your question. What color was the scarf that Carrie wore on that one date with the guy who was quirky and that one funny situation happened?
Toddy: This game is ridiculous. I don't know. I'll guess "seven".
Prince: Wrong!
Toddy: Now what happens.
At this point all three of us consulted the directions to read, for the hundredth time, that my options were to dispose of a Lifestyle Card or draw a new one. Each time one of us answered a question, we had to check the directions. It wasn't complicated, really. But in the alcoholic haze of our living room, playing Sex & The City trivia seemed like rocket science. After more frustrating questions about things like "the name of the person Charlotte gave her dog to" or "who snored in LA", we gave up. The Math Whiz was so disappointed. He loves Sex & The City Trivia. I can't remember who won. I'll guess "seven".
We also played "Compatibility" and discovered that I am more compatible with The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz than they are with each other. So we packed up the game and had a threesome.
Not really. Instead we ate Jerk Pork (Jerk Veggie Burger, in my case) that made us choke when it was cooking because it was so spicy. While The Handsome Prince cooked, The Math Whiz and I coughed and choked and laughed at the intensity of spices.
As we ate, the three of us watched Margaret Cho's "I'm the One That I Want". A phone call interrupted our viewing, and one of us came back from the phone call sobbing. Bad news for one of The Vortex Boys. The two of us who weren't crying united forces and The Power of Three defeated the evil lurking sadness demon. Once the demon was vanquished, we went back to watching Margaret Cho.
I love a good ice storm. I love being stranded with people who make me laugh. In my opinion, any good night at home should involve drunken board games, spicy food that makes you choke, great comedy, and a few tears wiped away by people who love you. My life is good. Really good.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Mayo Tramps
I recently met this tramp online who insists that ketchup is not to be used on hot dogs. Now, I'm usually a very peace-loving person, but this woman is pissing me off. I am trying to keep my cool, but am not succeeding. She and I are currently arguing back and forth via e-mail. Tonight I am going to pretend to be her and phone in an order for 12 pizzas. I can be a force to be reckoned with, I'm warning you.
It seems Trampy has a problem with my ketchup usage. It was horribly upsetting to her to find out I put ketchup on pizza. Heinz ketchup. It has to be Heinz.
Why is it strange to put ketchup on pizza? It is a tomato-based condiment, much like the tomato sauce used in making pizza (only tastier). And when I put ketchup on burritos, I'm just enhancing the salsa.
When I put ketchup on corn, it is like adding diced tomatoes to corn, only the tomatoes are pureed and add a nice texture to the corn.
When I put ketchup on veggie chicken nuggets, it is like using an extremely mild barbecue sauce.
Ketchup on garlic bread is like bruschetta. Ketchup on macaroni and cheese brings out the cheese flavor, somehow. Ketchup is kinda magic, if you didn't know. You can use ketchup on anything, and it will taste better.
I have a fantasy that someday I will find aweirdo nice guy who will let me lick ketchup off his body. If the nice guy turns out to be The Rock, we don't have to use Heinz ketchup. Any ketchup will do. I don't care if we use foil packets of Hunt's ketchup. Or we can even use catsup, whatever the hell that is. Actually, we can use anti-freeze. If I'm licking anything off The Rock, I will be a happy man.
It's almost over. I guess voting continues until January 17, so this may be the last time you have to watch me pathetically beg for votes. Just so you know, my mother said I have to move out of her basement if I don't win.
It seems Trampy has a problem with my ketchup usage. It was horribly upsetting to her to find out I put ketchup on pizza. Heinz ketchup. It has to be Heinz.
Why is it strange to put ketchup on pizza? It is a tomato-based condiment, much like the tomato sauce used in making pizza (only tastier). And when I put ketchup on burritos, I'm just enhancing the salsa.
When I put ketchup on corn, it is like adding diced tomatoes to corn, only the tomatoes are pureed and add a nice texture to the corn.
When I put ketchup on veggie chicken nuggets, it is like using an extremely mild barbecue sauce.
Ketchup on garlic bread is like bruschetta. Ketchup on macaroni and cheese brings out the cheese flavor, somehow. Ketchup is kinda magic, if you didn't know. You can use ketchup on anything, and it will taste better.
I have a fantasy that someday I will find a
It's almost over. I guess voting continues until January 17, so this may be the last time you have to watch me pathetically beg for votes. Just so you know, my mother said I have to move out of her basement if I don't win.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Vortex Boys
This morning I was about to play an Indigo Girls DVD as I got dressed for work, but before I could push the play button, I heard the opening "conch call" of Survivor. The Math Whiz and The Handsome Prince had the television on in their room, and I shouted out to them in the kitchen, "Survivor!?"
"There are hot guys on Survivor this year," yelled The Handsome Prince, and we all scrambled into their bedroom to sit on the bed and watch the special preview. I imagine the three of us resembled The Simpsons clamoring to get a seat on the couch during the opening credits.
Our lust for footage of beautiful male bodies was definitely satisfied. As THP says, Survivor Palau promises "the hottest of the hot". As we sat there drooling over Ibrehem, I thought about how muchI wanted him to take me from behind I love my housemates.
The three of us regularly have such funny conversations, especially as Dolly takes us to work. One person will make a statement and, before you know it, we're each adding our two cents, building one long joke that makes the trip to work highly amusing.
For example, The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz were teasing me in the car this morning. I had lunch with a cool guy yesterday, and I told The Handsome Prince about how much fun I had. Then he told his boyfriend, The Math Whiz. But because I never personally discussed the lunch with The Whiz, he was prying for details from me.
Whiz: I think this morning on the way to work we should all talk about our lunches for the past day or so.
(At this point, I started blushing a bit)
Prince: I had pizza and some fruit. And the day before that, I had a sandwich.
Whiz: Okay, I had a burger with Rob and Kenny. Those are the people I had lunch with.
Prince: Oh, I get it. I see what you're doing.
Toddy: Okay, okay. I had lunch with someone. But I have to say that I love the fact that The Handsome Prince actually thought you wanted to hear about what we ate, not who ate with us...
The rest of the way to work I talked about lunch yesterday. I will gladly share the details with you. I had a veggie wrap.
Moving on...
After we passed a certain house, The Handsome Prince gasped, "Oh my god. That's horrible! I could see through the front windows of that house and someone had painted 'HELP ME, HELP ME' in red paint on the living room wall!!"
"That's kind of weird," I said.
"What if someone is in trouble? I think I will call the police," he said, in all seriousness.
"Yes. Call the police. I'm sure someone is about to be killed and their soon-to-be murderer is standing there waiting for them to finish painting the second 'HELP ME' on the wall," I said.
"Hang on, Killer! I need to dip my brush again," added The Math Whiz. (Get it? Added? Math Whiz?)
In my opinion, the best friends in the world are the ones who make you laugh. I adore people who spark funny conversations and know how to highlight the humor of living. I'm lucky to live with two such people, and I love them both.
My friend Auburn Pisces (another friend who cracks me up regularly) shared some thoughts on love at her blog today. Once again she and I are, as our dimwit boss would say, "on the same plate".
Just a reminder to vote. A few more days, and I will never speak of it again, unless I am nominated next year for Best Abstinence Blog.
"There are hot guys on Survivor this year," yelled The Handsome Prince, and we all scrambled into their bedroom to sit on the bed and watch the special preview. I imagine the three of us resembled The Simpsons clamoring to get a seat on the couch during the opening credits.
Our lust for footage of beautiful male bodies was definitely satisfied. As THP says, Survivor Palau promises "the hottest of the hot". As we sat there drooling over Ibrehem, I thought about how much
The three of us regularly have such funny conversations, especially as Dolly takes us to work. One person will make a statement and, before you know it, we're each adding our two cents, building one long joke that makes the trip to work highly amusing.
For example, The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz were teasing me in the car this morning. I had lunch with a cool guy yesterday, and I told The Handsome Prince about how much fun I had. Then he told his boyfriend, The Math Whiz. But because I never personally discussed the lunch with The Whiz, he was prying for details from me.
Whiz: I think this morning on the way to work we should all talk about our lunches for the past day or so.
(At this point, I started blushing a bit)
Prince: I had pizza and some fruit. And the day before that, I had a sandwich.
Whiz: Okay, I had a burger with Rob and Kenny. Those are the people I had lunch with.
Prince: Oh, I get it. I see what you're doing.
Toddy: Okay, okay. I had lunch with someone. But I have to say that I love the fact that The Handsome Prince actually thought you wanted to hear about what we ate, not who ate with us...
The rest of the way to work I talked about lunch yesterday. I will gladly share the details with you. I had a veggie wrap.
Moving on...
After we passed a certain house, The Handsome Prince gasped, "Oh my god. That's horrible! I could see through the front windows of that house and someone had painted 'HELP ME, HELP ME' in red paint on the living room wall!!"
"That's kind of weird," I said.
"What if someone is in trouble? I think I will call the police," he said, in all seriousness.
"Yes. Call the police. I'm sure someone is about to be killed and their soon-to-be murderer is standing there waiting for them to finish painting the second 'HELP ME' on the wall," I said.
"Hang on, Killer! I need to dip my brush again," added The Math Whiz. (Get it? Added? Math Whiz?)
In my opinion, the best friends in the world are the ones who make you laugh. I adore people who spark funny conversations and know how to highlight the humor of living. I'm lucky to live with two such people, and I love them both.
My friend Auburn Pisces (another friend who cracks me up regularly) shared some thoughts on love at her blog today. Once again she and I are, as our dimwit boss would say, "on the same plate".
Just a reminder to vote. A few more days, and I will never speak of it again, unless I am nominated next year for Best Abstinence Blog.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Performance Anxiety
I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry. Please don't ask me right now.
Yeah, yeah. I know. It happens to every guy sooner or later. But the pressure is too much. I've lost my comic hard-on. I can't get it up.
You people are just sitting there - um - you know. Reading me. Judging me. Trying to decide if I am worthy of your votes. Well, no thank you. I'm done. Finished, I tell you.
Okay, yes, I know you are sick of hearing about the BoB Award. Just humor me, okay? In a few more days the whole thing will be over, and I'll go back to having absolutely nothing to write about other than the massive quantities of Maker's Mark I consume and the fact that I am unable to keep my mind focused for more than five seconds before it drifts off in a thousand directions. I can't wait to see the hunky bartender tonight at CC Slaughters. Did you know the next season of The Apprentice pits the "Street Smarts" against the "Book Smarts"? Guess which one I would be? Hint: It isn't Street Smarts.
Besides, not everyone is bored by the Best of Blog talk. My friend Ms. Karma says she thinks the whole voting thing is "exciting". Yes, she needs to get out more, and I'm taking her to CC Slaughters after work, so don't worry about her. She'll be fine aftertwelve a couple gin and tonics.
Anyway. As I was saying.
A bunch of new people are starting to visit Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, and you're making me nervous. I am glad you are visiting, but I can't be funny when I know you are sitting there trying to decide what you think of me. It is like trying to pee when your boss is at the urinal next to you. Or, worse, when your mother is at the urinal next to you.
You can't imagine the pressure. I am a Libra. Do you understand what that means?! Crash course in astrology: Libras Must Please Every Single Person On The Planet. Does that clarify the situation? It wasn't my choice to be a Libra. It was written in the stars the way that LeAnn Rimes and Elton John's love was written in the stars. So, my Libraness or Librahood or Librarian Tendencies cause me to care about your needs, not simply my own needs.
What do you need from me? Well, according to BoB, who is going to host me free for a whole year if I win (and I hope to God that BoB has a jacuzzi and french doors leading to a sundeck off my bedroom) I have to be a good representative of LGBT blogs. Based on that fact, I threw in that comment the other day about ecstasy - even though I have never done it. Because you know how all those lesbians are on The X. Or The E. Or whatever. Seriously, those lesbians can't live without their ecstasy or their L Word. And I want their votes.
And as for you gay guys who are checking out Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I know you just want your bloggers hot. Come on, you know that's why you're here. You like to imagine that I am boy band hot. I've seen the way you look at my picture. (No, really, I can see you. Get your hand off your crotch, Rob). I'm sure you probably are in love with me. When I look at that picture, I'm even in love with me. But remember that it is a headshot that was taken for me by my friend The Midget. And not only that, it has been - um - "interpreted" by the talented Aaron Edwards. If you saw me walking down the street in Portland, you would know that I do not look like a movie star from 1930 who has been colorized. I am a huge dork. So don't vote for me based on the hotness factor, because that's just marketing.
Am I funny? Maybe. Sometimes. I could live with people voting for me because I'm funny. But, in all honesty, I am sure that you'd meet a lot of people as funny as I am if everyone would just quit making those poor junior high school kids take Ritalin. My humor comes from the fact that I am not medicated and probably should be. So, please don't vote for me because you think I'm funny. Because I will let you down. I promise.
I feel as if I need to make this blog more gay or something. Sexier. But I can't get it up. As I said before, I am through whoring myself out for votes.
Instead, I will post this picture of my best friend and housemate, The Handsome Prince.
Isn't he so hot? Isn't he so gay?
Now go vote for me, because pimping out your best friend for votes is about as LGBT as you can get. Besides, BoB's offer to host me is desperately needed. I will definitely need a place to live after THP finds out I did this.
Yeah, yeah. I know. It happens to every guy sooner or later. But the pressure is too much. I've lost my comic hard-on. I can't get it up.
You people are just sitting there - um - you know. Reading me. Judging me. Trying to decide if I am worthy of your votes. Well, no thank you. I'm done. Finished, I tell you.
Okay, yes, I know you are sick of hearing about the BoB Award. Just humor me, okay? In a few more days the whole thing will be over, and I'll go back to having absolutely nothing to write about other than the massive quantities of Maker's Mark I consume and the fact that I am unable to keep my mind focused for more than five seconds before it drifts off in a thousand directions. I can't wait to see the hunky bartender tonight at CC Slaughters. Did you know the next season of The Apprentice pits the "Street Smarts" against the "Book Smarts"? Guess which one I would be? Hint: It isn't Street Smarts.
Besides, not everyone is bored by the Best of Blog talk. My friend Ms. Karma says she thinks the whole voting thing is "exciting". Yes, she needs to get out more, and I'm taking her to CC Slaughters after work, so don't worry about her. She'll be fine after
Anyway. As I was saying.
A bunch of new people are starting to visit Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, and you're making me nervous. I am glad you are visiting, but I can't be funny when I know you are sitting there trying to decide what you think of me. It is like trying to pee when your boss is at the urinal next to you. Or, worse, when your mother is at the urinal next to you.
You can't imagine the pressure. I am a Libra. Do you understand what that means?! Crash course in astrology: Libras Must Please Every Single Person On The Planet. Does that clarify the situation? It wasn't my choice to be a Libra. It was written in the stars the way that LeAnn Rimes and Elton John's love was written in the stars. So, my Libraness or Librahood or Librarian Tendencies cause me to care about your needs, not simply my own needs.
What do you need from me? Well, according to BoB, who is going to host me free for a whole year if I win (and I hope to God that BoB has a jacuzzi and french doors leading to a sundeck off my bedroom) I have to be a good representative of LGBT blogs. Based on that fact, I threw in that comment the other day about ecstasy - even though I have never done it. Because you know how all those lesbians are on The X. Or The E. Or whatever. Seriously, those lesbians can't live without their ecstasy or their L Word. And I want their votes.
And as for you gay guys who are checking out Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I know you just want your bloggers hot. Come on, you know that's why you're here. You like to imagine that I am boy band hot. I've seen the way you look at my picture. (No, really, I can see you. Get your hand off your crotch, Rob). I'm sure you probably are in love with me. When I look at that picture, I'm even in love with me. But remember that it is a headshot that was taken for me by my friend The Midget. And not only that, it has been - um - "interpreted" by the talented Aaron Edwards. If you saw me walking down the street in Portland, you would know that I do not look like a movie star from 1930 who has been colorized. I am a huge dork. So don't vote for me based on the hotness factor, because that's just marketing.
Am I funny? Maybe. Sometimes. I could live with people voting for me because I'm funny. But, in all honesty, I am sure that you'd meet a lot of people as funny as I am if everyone would just quit making those poor junior high school kids take Ritalin. My humor comes from the fact that I am not medicated and probably should be. So, please don't vote for me because you think I'm funny. Because I will let you down. I promise.
I feel as if I need to make this blog more gay or something. Sexier. But I can't get it up. As I said before, I am through whoring myself out for votes.
Instead, I will post this picture of my best friend and housemate, The Handsome Prince.
Isn't he so hot? Isn't he so gay?
Now go vote for me, because pimping out your best friend for votes is about as LGBT as you can get. Besides, BoB's offer to host me is desperately needed. I will definitely need a place to live after THP finds out I did this.
Vogue
I received an awesome drunk dial this weekend. It must have been fifteen minutes long, and it made me laugh out loud when I finally listened to it Sunday morning. It's too long to transcribe, but let's just say I got a complete rundown on Jaden's weekend. I can't wait to party with her soon.
Actually, I'm having a "lucky streak" or something. I have so many reasons to be happy today:
1. I had a fantastic time at a party this weekend.
2. I'm not going to elaborate on my fantastic time, because I'm finally starting to learn from my past mistakes. I guess I don't have to blog every detail of my life...
3. I celebrated The Politician's retirement party on Sunday night. Some of us Yum Yum Brothers sat together and made fun of people. We did not make fun of The Politician, of course, (I only do that to his face) but some of the toasts were just begging to be mocked. Unfortunately, I had to leave a little early due to a certain drunken handsome prince who couldn't sit upright in his chair at the dinner table. But I am so proud of my friend, The Politician, and was impressed by the number of people in attendance for the event. If I retired right now, I'd have, maybe, eight people at my party.
4. I received a CD in the mail from my friend Jeff.
5. The sweet mother of The Math Whiz clipped out a review of my play and mailed it to me. She enclosed a note that said, "Make sure you send a copy of this to your Mom - proud to know you - will look forward to saying 'we knew him when'..."
That thoughtful little note and gesture launched fifteen minutes of weepy gratitude. Some people are just so kind that all I can do is cry when I think about it.
6. The Cold Comedy Concoction is selling out, by the way. There have only been two performances that did not sell out, and those shows were still very well attended. I want to write more plays. I'm almost feeling confident enough to actually call myself a playwright. Almost.
7. My best friend, The Handsome Prince, scraped the ice off my car this morning. He takes great care of me. I can live with the fact that he grabbed the ice scraper out of my hand and said, "You're really bad at that," while I was scraping my windshield. The important thing is, he ended up doing the work.
8. My friend, Buffy, is pregnant. She and her husband have been trying for a few years. Also, she has always wished I would call her Buffy, so I know this post will make her happy. Not as happy as having a baby, I'm sure. But it will make her smile.
9. Lately, I've been getting to know a lot of new people who have dropped by to visit Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven after seeing the nomination here:
(Does it count as "whoring for votes" if I just sort of casually mention that you can click that button to vote for me? You don't have to. I don't care. But if you want to, you can. You probably should. But, whatever.....Please?)
10. Last night, a wonderful thing happened: The new SIM I created, Will, learned to vogue. Will vogued for hours last night. Then he learned how to belch fire. Will and I are going to have a lot of fun together in the next few weeks.
Actually, I'm having a "lucky streak" or something. I have so many reasons to be happy today:
1. I had a fantastic time at a party this weekend.
2. I'm not going to elaborate on my fantastic time, because I'm finally starting to learn from my past mistakes. I guess I don't have to blog every detail of my life...
3. I celebrated The Politician's retirement party on Sunday night. Some of us Yum Yum Brothers sat together and made fun of people. We did not make fun of The Politician, of course, (I only do that to his face) but some of the toasts were just begging to be mocked. Unfortunately, I had to leave a little early due to a certain drunken handsome prince who couldn't sit upright in his chair at the dinner table. But I am so proud of my friend, The Politician, and was impressed by the number of people in attendance for the event. If I retired right now, I'd have, maybe, eight people at my party.
4. I received a CD in the mail from my friend Jeff.
5. The sweet mother of The Math Whiz clipped out a review of my play and mailed it to me. She enclosed a note that said, "Make sure you send a copy of this to your Mom - proud to know you - will look forward to saying 'we knew him when'..."
That thoughtful little note and gesture launched fifteen minutes of weepy gratitude. Some people are just so kind that all I can do is cry when I think about it.
6. The Cold Comedy Concoction is selling out, by the way. There have only been two performances that did not sell out, and those shows were still very well attended. I want to write more plays. I'm almost feeling confident enough to actually call myself a playwright. Almost.
7. My best friend, The Handsome Prince, scraped the ice off my car this morning. He takes great care of me. I can live with the fact that he grabbed the ice scraper out of my hand and said, "You're really bad at that," while I was scraping my windshield. The important thing is, he ended up doing the work.
8. My friend, Buffy, is pregnant. She and her husband have been trying for a few years. Also, she has always wished I would call her Buffy, so I know this post will make her happy. Not as happy as having a baby, I'm sure. But it will make her smile.
9. Lately, I've been getting to know a lot of new people who have dropped by to visit Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven after seeing the nomination here:
(Does it count as "whoring for votes" if I just sort of casually mention that you can click that button to vote for me? You don't have to. I don't care. But if you want to, you can. You probably should. But, whatever.....Please?)
10. Last night, a wonderful thing happened: The new SIM I created, Will, learned to vogue. Will vogued for hours last night. Then he learned how to belch fire. Will and I are going to have a lot of fun together in the next few weeks.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Agony. I Need Ecstasy.
Today will be miserable. I will be in so much pain by the end of the day that I will be craving morphine. I am about to endure torture like you wouldn't believe.
No, I am not having dental work done without painkillers. I am going to be in an ALL-DAY MEETING.
I'll have no access to the blogs and e-mails that keep my sane all day at work. I will be confined to a room with people who want to know what I am doing with my time every day. While my fictional accounts of my job performance exercise my imagination and help generate ideas for novels I may write some day, I don't enjoy pretending to care about my job. They will also probably forget to order a vegetarian lunch for me, so I'll just have to eat the apple and the potato chips that come with the roast beef sandwich.
Oh, the agony. And I'm all out of Ecstasy today.
As a sidenote, my super smart Blogger spellcheck feature suggests that maybe I meant "Binuclear" instead of "painkillers". So helpful, that spellcheck. Yes, I am having dental work done without binuclear today.
Do you feel sorry for me today? You could vote for me. It might help.
No, I am not having dental work done without painkillers. I am going to be in an ALL-DAY MEETING.
I'll have no access to the blogs and e-mails that keep my sane all day at work. I will be confined to a room with people who want to know what I am doing with my time every day. While my fictional accounts of my job performance exercise my imagination and help generate ideas for novels I may write some day, I don't enjoy pretending to care about my job. They will also probably forget to order a vegetarian lunch for me, so I'll just have to eat the apple and the potato chips that come with the roast beef sandwich.
Oh, the agony. And I'm all out of Ecstasy today.
As a sidenote, my super smart Blogger spellcheck feature suggests that maybe I meant "Binuclear" instead of "painkillers". So helpful, that spellcheck. Yes, I am having dental work done without binuclear today.
Do you feel sorry for me today? You could vote for me. It might help.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Alias
Have you ever seen the television show, "Alias", starring Jennifer Garner? It is a great show. After waiting for months and months, we faithful viewers were reunited with Sidney Bristow and Michael Vaughn this week on the season premiere.
If you've never seen the show, I have prepared a nice synopsis of what's happened so far so that you can start watching and still understand what's going on. In spite of my raging Attention Deficit Disorder, I think I did a fairly good job of summarizing the plot thus far:
In Season One Sydney Bristow was recruited out of college to work for the CIA. She got to work with a really hot guy named Michael Vaughn. Michael Vaughn has a cleft chin, so that makes him good at fighting and shooting guns and disarming bombs. Sydney can put on a blonde wig or a pair of glasses without lenses in them and completely transform her appearance except that her face and body look exactly the same no matter what she wears. Obviously, this is a match made in heaven and any viewer of any television series since "Cheers" or "Moonlighting" is already rooting for Sydney and Michael to hook up.
But they don't. Viewers wait for them to hook up, but there is always something getting in the way. Just when it looks like they are close to getting together, Rachel finds out Ross slept with another girl while they were "on a break" and everything falls apart. No, wait. That's another show. But what a coincidence that there have been other shows that use the same plot element. It's almost like a formula or something. No, that can't be right.
Anyway, Sydney tells her roommate and best friend that she works for a bank, but she really works for the CIA. But not really. She later finds out she really works for an evil organization called STD 6 or something. Then STD 6 kills Sydney's fiance when they find out she told him about - no - first she tells her fiance she works for the CIA and then STD 6 kills him. Whatever. She's mad, because now she has to find someone else to marry, which means she has to go through all the hassle of picking out a new china pattern and convincing her new fiance to go to Branson, Missouri for the honeymoon, which is no easy task.
Then, later, either in the first or second season, Sydney's roommate is killed and replaced with a Francie look-alike. Using that drug that changes your appearance so that you look like someone else (I assume it's not available over-the-counter, so check with your doctor if you think it might be right for you), the new Francie starts spying on Sydney and tries to kill her. Then some more stuff happens, and Sydney wakes up in Hong Kong or Tokyo (same thing) and has lost two years of her life. Then she finds out Michael Vaughn got married because he thought Sydney was dead and that they were on a break.
The new wife seems nice, but she's not. She's eviller than Francie, and, oh I forgot to tell you there is a bunch of stuff about Sydney's mom being a spy for the KGB, but you never can really tell if she's really evil or not. But she's beautiful, like Sydney, and can also fight and disarm bombs really well like Michael Vaughn. So you would assume with all these beautiful fighting bomb-disarming people involved with each other everyone would end up happy and in love, but somehow the writers of the show are able to keep messing with these characters lives so nobody is ever happy.
So now I think I have you caught up to Season Two or Three even though I forgot to tell you some stuff about Season One. I think the show is on the fourth season now. I think this is going to be the best season of all. Based on the previews, I think Sydney wears more blonde wigs this year. The blonde wigs disguise her better than any other wigs, in my opinion. Oh, and the evil wife who married Michael Vaughn is gone now. I won't tell you what happened, because I don't want to spoil any surprises if you haven't seen the show. Let's just say if you think the ex-wife gets mad because Michael Vaughn accidentally says, "I, Michael, take thee, Sydney - " during the wedding ceremony, you are wrong.
I hope you enjoy Alias as much as I do. If you have any questions about a character or plot element that I may have missed (doubtful), just let me know.
If you've never seen the show, I have prepared a nice synopsis of what's happened so far so that you can start watching and still understand what's going on. In spite of my raging Attention Deficit Disorder, I think I did a fairly good job of summarizing the plot thus far:
In Season One Sydney Bristow was recruited out of college to work for the CIA. She got to work with a really hot guy named Michael Vaughn. Michael Vaughn has a cleft chin, so that makes him good at fighting and shooting guns and disarming bombs. Sydney can put on a blonde wig or a pair of glasses without lenses in them and completely transform her appearance except that her face and body look exactly the same no matter what she wears. Obviously, this is a match made in heaven and any viewer of any television series since "Cheers" or "Moonlighting" is already rooting for Sydney and Michael to hook up.
But they don't. Viewers wait for them to hook up, but there is always something getting in the way. Just when it looks like they are close to getting together, Rachel finds out Ross slept with another girl while they were "on a break" and everything falls apart. No, wait. That's another show. But what a coincidence that there have been other shows that use the same plot element. It's almost like a formula or something. No, that can't be right.
Anyway, Sydney tells her roommate and best friend that she works for a bank, but she really works for the CIA. But not really. She later finds out she really works for an evil organization called STD 6 or something. Then STD 6 kills Sydney's fiance when they find out she told him about - no - first she tells her fiance she works for the CIA and then STD 6 kills him. Whatever. She's mad, because now she has to find someone else to marry, which means she has to go through all the hassle of picking out a new china pattern and convincing her new fiance to go to Branson, Missouri for the honeymoon, which is no easy task.
Then, later, either in the first or second season, Sydney's roommate is killed and replaced with a Francie look-alike. Using that drug that changes your appearance so that you look like someone else (I assume it's not available over-the-counter, so check with your doctor if you think it might be right for you), the new Francie starts spying on Sydney and tries to kill her. Then some more stuff happens, and Sydney wakes up in Hong Kong or Tokyo (same thing) and has lost two years of her life. Then she finds out Michael Vaughn got married because he thought Sydney was dead and that they were on a break.
The new wife seems nice, but she's not. She's eviller than Francie, and, oh I forgot to tell you there is a bunch of stuff about Sydney's mom being a spy for the KGB, but you never can really tell if she's really evil or not. But she's beautiful, like Sydney, and can also fight and disarm bombs really well like Michael Vaughn. So you would assume with all these beautiful fighting bomb-disarming people involved with each other everyone would end up happy and in love, but somehow the writers of the show are able to keep messing with these characters lives so nobody is ever happy.
So now I think I have you caught up to Season Two or Three even though I forgot to tell you some stuff about Season One. I think the show is on the fourth season now. I think this is going to be the best season of all. Based on the previews, I think Sydney wears more blonde wigs this year. The blonde wigs disguise her better than any other wigs, in my opinion. Oh, and the evil wife who married Michael Vaughn is gone now. I won't tell you what happened, because I don't want to spoil any surprises if you haven't seen the show. Let's just say if you think the ex-wife gets mad because Michael Vaughn accidentally says, "I, Michael, take thee, Sydney - " during the wedding ceremony, you are wrong.
I hope you enjoy Alias as much as I do. If you have any questions about a character or plot element that I may have missed (doubtful), just let me know.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Life in Bed
After my wonderful housemate, The Handsome Prince, prepared dinner for me last night, I sat in bed feeling full and happy and watching the episode of The Ellen Degeneres Show I had taped earlier. THP made pesto pasta and garlic bread. It was carb heaven. Have you ever realized how lazy you feel after eating lots of carbs? It has been so cold lately, but my down comforter kept me toasty warm. I thought about how much I love my bed, and I've decided I'm never leaving it again.
Before I went to sleep, I moved the coffee maker next to my bed. I also made sure to stock filters and beans. I brought a pitcher of water into my room so it would be handy for making coffee in the morning. I got a clean mug and set it on my nightstand. Then I realized I would also be hungry for breakfast in bed, so I brought my toaster oven and a loaf of bread into my room. I placed them on the bookshelf next to my bed. I lovingly placed butter and jam into a small cooler right by the bookshelf.
The bedpan slides right under my bed, so that won't be a problem. And a small washbasin on the floor next to the cooler will ensure proper hygiene afterwards. I had to put my computer at the food of the bed, which is fine as long as I am careful not to thrash around too much in my sleep.
Since there was room next to my nightstand, I brought my dumbbells into my room and put them on the floor so I can work out in bed. My cell phone will keep me in touch with the outside world until spring as long as I remember to plug it into the charger every night. The charger is in the outlet next to my bed.
I was supposed to go sing karaoke tonight, but all my friends were very understanding when I explained to them that I am no longer leaving my bed. They will arrive at about 8:30, and we'll have a potluck in my bed. I requested only white wine since my sheets are white and I don't want red wine stains all over my new home.
When I called my boss and told him I was bed-ridden, he sent flowers. There was no room for them next to my bed due to the coffee maker, toaster oven, dumbbells and cooler, so I put the flowers under my pillow. This was a brilliant plan. Now it smells like I am in the countryside as I snuggle in bed. I realize that saying I was bed-ridden may be bending the truth. You may think I am dishonest, but I am.
My grandmother's funeral will be videotaped this weekend so I can view it from bed. My mother pretended to be upset by screaming and yelling at me and calling me a lazy wretch. But I know she understands how comfortable my bed is. No, that didn't come out right. My mother has never been in my bed. I just mean that she is a perceptive woman who can appreciate my need for comfort. I tried to reassure my mother that I will probably leave my bed for her funeral, but this was a grandparent. Not a parent. She threatened to disown me. Such an actress, my mother.
Besides, the funeral is way across the country. I have a date on Friday night and can't leave Portland or my room right now. My date was really happy to hear that we would for sure spend some time in bed together on our date. I hope he won't be disappointed when he realizes that's all we're doing.
Some of you ambitious go-getter types who don't live in your bed will probably try to lecture me. Don't waste your time. I don't feel bad about this decision to spend my life in bed. Not one bit. Why would my bed be so comfortable and warm if I weren't meant to live in it?
Did you vote today? Remember, I'm bed-ridden.
Before I went to sleep, I moved the coffee maker next to my bed. I also made sure to stock filters and beans. I brought a pitcher of water into my room so it would be handy for making coffee in the morning. I got a clean mug and set it on my nightstand. Then I realized I would also be hungry for breakfast in bed, so I brought my toaster oven and a loaf of bread into my room. I placed them on the bookshelf next to my bed. I lovingly placed butter and jam into a small cooler right by the bookshelf.
The bedpan slides right under my bed, so that won't be a problem. And a small washbasin on the floor next to the cooler will ensure proper hygiene afterwards. I had to put my computer at the food of the bed, which is fine as long as I am careful not to thrash around too much in my sleep.
Since there was room next to my nightstand, I brought my dumbbells into my room and put them on the floor so I can work out in bed. My cell phone will keep me in touch with the outside world until spring as long as I remember to plug it into the charger every night. The charger is in the outlet next to my bed.
I was supposed to go sing karaoke tonight, but all my friends were very understanding when I explained to them that I am no longer leaving my bed. They will arrive at about 8:30, and we'll have a potluck in my bed. I requested only white wine since my sheets are white and I don't want red wine stains all over my new home.
When I called my boss and told him I was bed-ridden, he sent flowers. There was no room for them next to my bed due to the coffee maker, toaster oven, dumbbells and cooler, so I put the flowers under my pillow. This was a brilliant plan. Now it smells like I am in the countryside as I snuggle in bed. I realize that saying I was bed-ridden may be bending the truth. You may think I am dishonest, but I am.
My grandmother's funeral will be videotaped this weekend so I can view it from bed. My mother pretended to be upset by screaming and yelling at me and calling me a lazy wretch. But I know she understands how comfortable my bed is. No, that didn't come out right. My mother has never been in my bed. I just mean that she is a perceptive woman who can appreciate my need for comfort. I tried to reassure my mother that I will probably leave my bed for her funeral, but this was a grandparent. Not a parent. She threatened to disown me. Such an actress, my mother.
Besides, the funeral is way across the country. I have a date on Friday night and can't leave Portland or my room right now. My date was really happy to hear that we would for sure spend some time in bed together on our date. I hope he won't be disappointed when he realizes that's all we're doing.
Some of you ambitious go-getter types who don't live in your bed will probably try to lecture me. Don't waste your time. I don't feel bad about this decision to spend my life in bed. Not one bit. Why would my bed be so comfortable and warm if I weren't meant to live in it?
Did you vote today? Remember, I'm bed-ridden.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
My Addictions
I have a bottle of Heinz Ketchup on my desk at work. Heinz Ketchup is The Nectar of the Gods. I love Heinz Ketchup so much that even my friends' kids buy it for me at the grocery store. Auburn Aries found the new upside-down bottle of Heinz Ketchup at the store the other day and made her mother buy it for me. So now the bottle is sitting on my desk at work. Auburn Aries even signed the bottle, "Love Auburn Aries".
When I love something (or someone) I obsess about it. Growing up, I loved Donny & Marie Osmond so much that I pretended to be Toddy Osmond. I sang along with all the songs and did choreography as though I were on stage with them. This morning I made The Handsome Prince listen to Donny & Marie all the way to work. I sang every single word of every single song and was amazed at my own ability to remember the lyrics of songs I hadn't heard for years and years. Clearly, I have an Osmond Obsession.
Lately, I've been addicted to my Playstation 2. I can't stop playing Final Fantasy X-2 until I get 100% completion on the game. If you don't play video games, you may not realize that you have to perform all sorts of mundane little tasks in order to score 100% on the game. For example, until I achieve 400 points on a publicity campaign for Open Air, Inc., I can't gain access to the Mascot Dressphere. (THP has started calling me "Nerd Boy", by the way.) I have to get the Mascot Dressphere. You have no idea how important it is that I get this dressphere. It means everything to me.
Ketchup. The Osmonds. Video games. Harmless addictions, really. The one addiction that gets me in the most trouble is my addiction to boys. That is the addiction that makes me drink and listen to sad love songs and send drunk text messages. That's the addiction that causes me to lie awake at night feeling frustrated. My addiction to boys doesn't soothe the soul like ketchup. It's not as fun as defeating every fiend in the Via Infinito dungeon. It doesn't lift my spirit the way harmonizing with Donny & Marie does. So, why can't I shake this addiction? What does it really give me?
Loving, in spite of the pain and frustration it brings, let's you know you're alive. Ketchup doesn't taste as good as a kiss. Video games can't make me feel warm and romantic (unless you count that one scene where Tidus leads Yuna out of the Farplane). Donny & Marie never call. They never write. So I guess I'm stuck with this one silly addiction for life. The addiction that hurts as much as it soothes.
Did you know you can vote once every 24 hours? Just saying.
When I love something (or someone) I obsess about it. Growing up, I loved Donny & Marie Osmond so much that I pretended to be Toddy Osmond. I sang along with all the songs and did choreography as though I were on stage with them. This morning I made The Handsome Prince listen to Donny & Marie all the way to work. I sang every single word of every single song and was amazed at my own ability to remember the lyrics of songs I hadn't heard for years and years. Clearly, I have an Osmond Obsession.
Lately, I've been addicted to my Playstation 2. I can't stop playing Final Fantasy X-2 until I get 100% completion on the game. If you don't play video games, you may not realize that you have to perform all sorts of mundane little tasks in order to score 100% on the game. For example, until I achieve 400 points on a publicity campaign for Open Air, Inc., I can't gain access to the Mascot Dressphere. (THP has started calling me "Nerd Boy", by the way.) I have to get the Mascot Dressphere. You have no idea how important it is that I get this dressphere. It means everything to me.
Ketchup. The Osmonds. Video games. Harmless addictions, really. The one addiction that gets me in the most trouble is my addiction to boys. That is the addiction that makes me drink and listen to sad love songs and send drunk text messages. That's the addiction that causes me to lie awake at night feeling frustrated. My addiction to boys doesn't soothe the soul like ketchup. It's not as fun as defeating every fiend in the Via Infinito dungeon. It doesn't lift my spirit the way harmonizing with Donny & Marie does. So, why can't I shake this addiction? What does it really give me?
Loving, in spite of the pain and frustration it brings, let's you know you're alive. Ketchup doesn't taste as good as a kiss. Video games can't make me feel warm and romantic (unless you count that one scene where Tidus leads Yuna out of the Farplane). Donny & Marie never call. They never write. So I guess I'm stuck with this one silly addiction for life. The addiction that hurts as much as it soothes.
Did you know you can vote once every 24 hours? Just saying.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Mad Human Disease
I'm a little frightened right now. I work with a Mad Lesbian, who seems ready to lose it at any moment. Don't take an angry lesbian lightly. Those women have power tools and are not afraid to use them.
Also, The Handsome Prince and his boyfriend, The Math Whiz, were mad at each other several times this weekend. To avoid the tension, I hid in my room on New Year's Day. (When I was a kid and my parents fought, I always went in my room and listened to Donny & Marie through my headphones, but now that I have porn and my own DVD player, I have better ways of dealing with stress.)
Unlike lesbians, when gay guys get mad at each other there are generally no power tools involved. They resolve their differences by either getting drunk or having angry sex. Or both. I couldn't tell for sure how THP and TMW chose to resolve their differences. I tried that trick where you hold a glass of water up to the wall and put your ear against it. But I couldn't hear anything, and my clothes got all wet. Now I have swimmer's ear on top of everything else.
This morning I heard on NPR (ooh, Hot Toddy is cultured!) that there are more Mad Cows in Canada. That one makes sense to me, though. Of course the cows are mad. Why does that surprise anyone? The cows are obviously mad because we are eating them. I can guarantee you there would be an outbreak of Mad Human Disease if cows started eating people.
With all this madness in the world, I began thinking about how we could bring happiness and peace to the masses. There is a solution, if we are willing to do what it takes. Click on the link below and vote for Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven if you want to make the world a better place. It would be nice to win, but I promise not to get mad if you don't vote for me.
I have to go now. I could swear Auburn Pisces just fired up a chainsaw in her cubicle.
Also, The Handsome Prince and his boyfriend, The Math Whiz, were mad at each other several times this weekend. To avoid the tension, I hid in my room on New Year's Day. (When I was a kid and my parents fought, I always went in my room and listened to Donny & Marie through my headphones, but now that I have porn and my own DVD player, I have better ways of dealing with stress.)
Unlike lesbians, when gay guys get mad at each other there are generally no power tools involved. They resolve their differences by either getting drunk or having angry sex. Or both. I couldn't tell for sure how THP and TMW chose to resolve their differences. I tried that trick where you hold a glass of water up to the wall and put your ear against it. But I couldn't hear anything, and my clothes got all wet. Now I have swimmer's ear on top of everything else.
This morning I heard on NPR (ooh, Hot Toddy is cultured!) that there are more Mad Cows in Canada. That one makes sense to me, though. Of course the cows are mad. Why does that surprise anyone? The cows are obviously mad because we are eating them. I can guarantee you there would be an outbreak of Mad Human Disease if cows started eating people.
With all this madness in the world, I began thinking about how we could bring happiness and peace to the masses. There is a solution, if we are willing to do what it takes. Click on the link below and vote for Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven if you want to make the world a better place. It would be nice to win, but I promise not to get mad if you don't vote for me.
I have to go now. I could swear Auburn Pisces just fired up a chainsaw in her cubicle.
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