Traffic Court
For many months, I have remained silent (as is my right) regarding some criminal charges I have been facing. I have told no one of this plight save my roomie juju and her boyfriend, Metro. I also told my pet chimpanzee, Cathy, because it is impossible to keep a secret from her.
Today a trial was held against me for charges of failure to obey a traffic sign. The sign in question stands on the Morrison Bridge and tells everyone, in a very bossy tone, NO LANE CHANGES ON STEEL GRATING.
One morning in December, I flipped off the sign and changed lanes on the Morrison Bridge, although I was not yet on the steel grating. Then an officer in the watchtower got on his little Radio Shack walky-talky and told another officer on a motorcycle to pull me over. I received a ticket and a fine for $257, in spite of the way I flexed my arm as it dangled out the car window.
I pled bullshit. Or Not Guilty. Whatever the proper term is.
Today in court, I came prepared for the battle ahead. After my name was mispronounced and called three times, I took my seat at the table. The judge really slaughtered my last name, and I muttered "dumb ass" under my breath.
Next, the officers read their notes describing the incident. They did it in unison, like a choral reading, which is when I knew I had some heavy competition. I had some surprises up my sleeve, however, and was undeterred.
The officers made no mention of my biceps on the morning of the citation, in spite of the fact that I had just done a heavy upper body workout before I was pulled over. They seemed completely unimpressed. This was disappointing to me, but I did not let myself get discouraged. This was war.
Sitting at the Defendant's table with me was Cathy the chimp. She had a very small harmonica, which I had coached her to play at appropriate moments during my testimony. I had also written special theme music for my trial. As she softly played a plaintive (not plaintiff) tune, I proclaimed my innocence.
"Your Honor, I was framed. I had just completed a strenuous set of hammer curls and was headed to work when the officer on the motorcycle pulled me over. I was excited at first, but when I realized he was not hot, I became agitated. My biceps were engorged with blood and looked very large as I pulled to the side of the road. I want you to know that I did not change lanes with my big arms on the steel grating (not so loud, Cathy) and I resent the implication that I am anything other than a law abiding citizen.
Tru, I did not argue with the officer because Portland police officers will shoot you at the slightest provocation. Also, as I previously stated, the officer was not hot, and I only speak to hot cops. My point is, I was innocent and remain so to this day unless you count the Dilly Bar I stole from Dairy Queen yesterday."
At this point Cathy played a boisterous pirate jig, which was actually supposed to be played after the verdict of Not Guilty was delivered, but it did fit in quite nicely so I didn't strike her.
The Judge then began to deliver the verdict.
"STOP. I HAVE A SURPRISE WITNESS," I shouted using all caps. A dissonant and very dramatic chord was produced by Cathy. That is when Metro walked through the courtroom doors wearing a chiffon prom dress and swim fins. And the surprise in the hallowed halls of justice was palpable, let me tell you.
"Your Honor, I know that the officer in the watchtower could not possibly have seen the Defendant commit this traffic violation, because I was with him in the tower administering oral sex to said officer."
"What is the meaning of this," shouted juju as she stood up wearing her very stately red suit with matching pillbox hat. "This man in the swim fins is my boyfriend! I declare a mistrial."
After forcing me to put on a tight-fitting glove and explaining some strange stains on one of my shirts, the state dropped the charges against me. Cathy inappropriately played the Song of the Volga Boatmen (stupid ape), and Metro and I embraced.
Then juju slapped Metro, and the four of us went to get coffee.
Okay, I confess.
The truth is, the officer who issued the citation did not show up for court and my case was dismissed, but who wants to read about that?
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Quiet
I am sitting here at work in an empty office. People in my department tend to get in early and leave by 4pm.
It's quiet, and I'm feeling like a parade of noise just marched through my head all day. Work was hectic, my e-mails with you were fun and silly and HOT and exciting.
I went to lunch with friends, and I tried not to mention you, but I failed. Twice.
I checked your blog over and over, read my comments, took an astrological test about sex, and answered tons of phone calls from frantic co-workers.
This is a ghost town. The office is deadly silent now.
Now that the parade has passed, the street is quiet and covered in horse manure. A wind blows through the abandoned streets, and I'm standing here looking around at the emptiness. I'm holding a single balloon in my hand, and it's already starting to sag as the helium leaks out.
The question keeps coming up in my mind...What am I doing? What am I doing?
I have nobody to blame but myself.
I didn't try very hard to keep you from mattering. I could have fought it, and I didn't. I welcomed you in and welcomed the 48% chance that all of this would be just two guys acting silly. The 48% of you that tells you to go for it makes me indecisive.
But that damn 2% chance that you would sell plasma to pay for the airfare to come meet me somehow made this whole thing seem like something worth giving a chance.
I am trying to keep it in check, as I know you are. There's no reason to rush. No need to make plans to meet in person. No reason to consider this flirtation to mean anything. No reason to do anything but have fun.
But you are starting to matter. Like, if you stopped writing or decided to curb the flirtation, I would be disappointed. Already, I would miss you.
God, I hate that.
I am sitting here at work in an empty office. People in my department tend to get in early and leave by 4pm.
It's quiet, and I'm feeling like a parade of noise just marched through my head all day. Work was hectic, my e-mails with you were fun and silly and HOT and exciting.
I went to lunch with friends, and I tried not to mention you, but I failed. Twice.
I checked your blog over and over, read my comments, took an astrological test about sex, and answered tons of phone calls from frantic co-workers.
This is a ghost town. The office is deadly silent now.
Now that the parade has passed, the street is quiet and covered in horse manure. A wind blows through the abandoned streets, and I'm standing here looking around at the emptiness. I'm holding a single balloon in my hand, and it's already starting to sag as the helium leaks out.
The question keeps coming up in my mind...What am I doing? What am I doing?
I have nobody to blame but myself.
I didn't try very hard to keep you from mattering. I could have fought it, and I didn't. I welcomed you in and welcomed the 48% chance that all of this would be just two guys acting silly. The 48% of you that tells you to go for it makes me indecisive.
But that damn 2% chance that you would sell plasma to pay for the airfare to come meet me somehow made this whole thing seem like something worth giving a chance.
I am trying to keep it in check, as I know you are. There's no reason to rush. No need to make plans to meet in person. No reason to consider this flirtation to mean anything. No reason to do anything but have fun.
But you are starting to matter. Like, if you stopped writing or decided to curb the flirtation, I would be disappointed. Already, I would miss you.
God, I hate that.
It's a Boy!
The Toaster Oven has given birth again. Meet J-Bo.
Not to brag or anything, but J-Bo and I rolled around together on a bed piled with money in Vegas.
He caught Metro spooning with me the next morning.
I am probably stating the obvious here, but straight guys are so cute.
Prepare for conversational whiplash:
Isn't it dumb the way the Wicked Witch screamed, "I'm melting! Melting!" after Dorothy threw water on her? Talk about stating the obvious.
The Toaster Oven has given birth again. Meet J-Bo.
Not to brag or anything, but J-Bo and I rolled around together on a bed piled with money in Vegas.
He caught Metro spooning with me the next morning.
I am probably stating the obvious here, but straight guys are so cute.
Prepare for conversational whiplash:
Isn't it dumb the way the Wicked Witch screamed, "I'm melting! Melting!" after Dorothy threw water on her? Talk about stating the obvious.
Warning
If you are a cute funny guy with a seven-inch scar on your ass, you might want to sleep with your cell phone turned off this weekend. There is a 90% chance I will drunk dial you.
I am counting down the days until the road trip of the century.
If you are a cute funny guy with a seven-inch scar on your ass, you might want to sleep with your cell phone turned off this weekend. There is a 90% chance I will drunk dial you.
I am counting down the days until the road trip of the century.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Lefties
My friend, Carolyn, called with some upsetting news this weekend. She is marrying Russ, her boyfriend of over 7 years. She and I got into an argument on the phone, because I told her that I will always be her friend, but I will not support this marriage. She even wanted me to be in the wedding party, and I was surprised she thought I would even consider it.
I don't think I am narrow-minded at all. I have always accepted that she is an adult and can date, or even live with, whomever she chooses. But I can't condone the marriage. You see, Russ is left-handed.
Marriage has traditionally been between two right-handed people. There are numerous studies showing that a child functions best in a home with two right-handed parents. It is hard enough to be a child without having the added burden of a left-handed parent. Can you imagine what it would be like to sit at a dinner table next to a left-handed parent and have to endure the torture of being elbowed by them when they cut their steak? Why subject a poor child to the taunts of other children who have normal parents? The humiliation of a left-handed parent coming to open house at school would be unbearable for such an unfortunate child.
Aside from the burden placed on the child, there are many other reasons I do not support left-handed marriage. Historically, marriage has been reserved for right-handed people. Everything that has ever been done historically is absolutely 100 percent correct and should not be meddled with. That is why it is historical. Historical = right. (Notice the word is RIGHT, not left?) Why can't people see this?
The Holy Bible does not once mention marriage for left-handed people. If left-handed marriage was not sinful, I believe God would have grabbed the right hand of one of the Bible's authors and forced him to write a Bible verse giving lefties permission to marry. In fact, I am pretty sure the Bible says right-handed people should marry, so it is implied that left-handed people should not. It's in there somewhere. Look it up.
I worry about the state of affairs if people like Russ and Carolyn marry. Yes, I know they love each other, and even though that is not my choice, I support their right to sleep together. But I will not participate in a wedding between a left-handed man and a right-handed woman. If they were to have some sort of civil union, that would be fine. I would send flowers and say "congratulations" because that is much less threatening to me than a "marriage".
If left-handed people are allowed to marry, what is next? They will want to marry horses and bicycles. If a left-handed person married a bicycle, can you imagine the burden that places on a child? Imagine a woman who has been raised by a left-handed mother and a bicycle father. On her wedding day, she will have to wheel a bicycle down the aisle instead of having a normal father escort her to her groom.
You can see what a mess things are becoming. And there is no way to stop this unless we amend the Constitution of the United States. Unfortunately, we can't allow states to decide the issue, because the only states that have any morals are the southern ones. Those northern states and the fruity west coast states will not have the morality to make the correct choice.
The RIGHT choice.
My friend, Carolyn, called with some upsetting news this weekend. She is marrying Russ, her boyfriend of over 7 years. She and I got into an argument on the phone, because I told her that I will always be her friend, but I will not support this marriage. She even wanted me to be in the wedding party, and I was surprised she thought I would even consider it.
I don't think I am narrow-minded at all. I have always accepted that she is an adult and can date, or even live with, whomever she chooses. But I can't condone the marriage. You see, Russ is left-handed.
Marriage has traditionally been between two right-handed people. There are numerous studies showing that a child functions best in a home with two right-handed parents. It is hard enough to be a child without having the added burden of a left-handed parent. Can you imagine what it would be like to sit at a dinner table next to a left-handed parent and have to endure the torture of being elbowed by them when they cut their steak? Why subject a poor child to the taunts of other children who have normal parents? The humiliation of a left-handed parent coming to open house at school would be unbearable for such an unfortunate child.
Aside from the burden placed on the child, there are many other reasons I do not support left-handed marriage. Historically, marriage has been reserved for right-handed people. Everything that has ever been done historically is absolutely 100 percent correct and should not be meddled with. That is why it is historical. Historical = right. (Notice the word is RIGHT, not left?) Why can't people see this?
The Holy Bible does not once mention marriage for left-handed people. If left-handed marriage was not sinful, I believe God would have grabbed the right hand of one of the Bible's authors and forced him to write a Bible verse giving lefties permission to marry. In fact, I am pretty sure the Bible says right-handed people should marry, so it is implied that left-handed people should not. It's in there somewhere. Look it up.
I worry about the state of affairs if people like Russ and Carolyn marry. Yes, I know they love each other, and even though that is not my choice, I support their right to sleep together. But I will not participate in a wedding between a left-handed man and a right-handed woman. If they were to have some sort of civil union, that would be fine. I would send flowers and say "congratulations" because that is much less threatening to me than a "marriage".
If left-handed people are allowed to marry, what is next? They will want to marry horses and bicycles. If a left-handed person married a bicycle, can you imagine the burden that places on a child? Imagine a woman who has been raised by a left-handed mother and a bicycle father. On her wedding day, she will have to wheel a bicycle down the aisle instead of having a normal father escort her to her groom.
You can see what a mess things are becoming. And there is no way to stop this unless we amend the Constitution of the United States. Unfortunately, we can't allow states to decide the issue, because the only states that have any morals are the southern ones. Those northern states and the fruity west coast states will not have the morality to make the correct choice.
The RIGHT choice.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Crunch
At least two of my friends don't approve of the word "crush". Erin suggested I call it a crunch. Okay, whatever, so I have a crunch. I don't even know why I am humoring someone who drinks the sweetest sugary syrupy vodka drinks on the planet, but I am. Erin, your drinks taste like tree sap. But I love you.
Last week, I gave my cell phone number to my crunch, and he gave me his cell phone number.
Then he raised my cell phone number and gave me his home phone number.
So I countered with a work e-mail.
He met my work e-mail and raised it by calling me this morning. So far he is winning the game of who will be less fearful of this crunch.
Can anybody truly win in this kind of situation? I suppose it is possible.
I rehearsed a show from 11 p.m. until 1:30 a.m. this morning (and again I say to my fellow cast members, it should NOT be this hard to stage an orgy!) and I knew Crunch was going to call this morning. I thought I would be so tired that I might sleep through the sound of my phone ringing, but it turned out quite differently. I woke up at 8:30 and couldn't sleep because of the impending phone call. I tossed and turned and finally just got up and made coffee.
I expected the call around 9 a.m. and wrote in my journal for a while. A few minutes before 9 a.m., I suddenly felt my cellphone vibrating in my orange pajama pants from The Gap. I pulled the phone out and in my usual coy and nonchalant manner blurted out, "Oh, thank god. I couldn't take much more of this anxiety."
So, he'll never be able to say, "you had me at hello." No, he will have to say, "you had me at oh-thank-god-i-couldn't-take-much-more-of-this-anxiety."
Why, oh why can't I be enigmatic?
We talked for an hour and damn if I don't still think he is the neatest thing since ketchup.
I was hoping he would say something like, "I don't have no more time to talk" or at least use the word, "irregardless" so that I could put him out of my head. Apparently, I am not getting out of it so easily.
Whenever I feel a lack of control over something in my life, I like to balance it out by taking charge of a different situation. For example, when M. and I broke up (the first time - one short month) I couldn't handle the feeling of powerlessness. I was especially sad one day as I sat alone having my lunch at a cafe, so I jumped up from my lunch, ran to a pay phone, and came out to my mom on the telephone. "Mom, I broke up with M., who as you know, is a man, but we were dating and not just friends, and so obviously I am gay, just so you know."
In retrospect, perhaps there may have been a better way to handle that.
So, here I am feeling helpless to stop this crunch. I already came out to everyone, so the only action I can take now is to make this promise to my faithful Toaster Oven readers:
I will not blog about Crunch every day. I promise. I am not going to turn into one of those people. I have way too much to say and don't want to waste time gushing about boys or fretting about crunches. I am far too clever for such lunacy.
Did I mention he has a cute laugh?
At least two of my friends don't approve of the word "crush". Erin suggested I call it a crunch. Okay, whatever, so I have a crunch. I don't even know why I am humoring someone who drinks the sweetest sugary syrupy vodka drinks on the planet, but I am. Erin, your drinks taste like tree sap. But I love you.
Last week, I gave my cell phone number to my crunch, and he gave me his cell phone number.
Then he raised my cell phone number and gave me his home phone number.
So I countered with a work e-mail.
He met my work e-mail and raised it by calling me this morning. So far he is winning the game of who will be less fearful of this crunch.
Can anybody truly win in this kind of situation? I suppose it is possible.
I rehearsed a show from 11 p.m. until 1:30 a.m. this morning (and again I say to my fellow cast members, it should NOT be this hard to stage an orgy!) and I knew Crunch was going to call this morning. I thought I would be so tired that I might sleep through the sound of my phone ringing, but it turned out quite differently. I woke up at 8:30 and couldn't sleep because of the impending phone call. I tossed and turned and finally just got up and made coffee.
I expected the call around 9 a.m. and wrote in my journal for a while. A few minutes before 9 a.m., I suddenly felt my cellphone vibrating in my orange pajama pants from The Gap. I pulled the phone out and in my usual coy and nonchalant manner blurted out, "Oh, thank god. I couldn't take much more of this anxiety."
So, he'll never be able to say, "you had me at hello." No, he will have to say, "you had me at oh-thank-god-i-couldn't-take-much-more-of-this-anxiety."
Why, oh why can't I be enigmatic?
We talked for an hour and damn if I don't still think he is the neatest thing since ketchup.
I was hoping he would say something like, "I don't have no more time to talk" or at least use the word, "irregardless" so that I could put him out of my head. Apparently, I am not getting out of it so easily.
Whenever I feel a lack of control over something in my life, I like to balance it out by taking charge of a different situation. For example, when M. and I broke up (the first time - one short month) I couldn't handle the feeling of powerlessness. I was especially sad one day as I sat alone having my lunch at a cafe, so I jumped up from my lunch, ran to a pay phone, and came out to my mom on the telephone. "Mom, I broke up with M., who as you know, is a man, but we were dating and not just friends, and so obviously I am gay, just so you know."
In retrospect, perhaps there may have been a better way to handle that.
So, here I am feeling helpless to stop this crunch. I already came out to everyone, so the only action I can take now is to make this promise to my faithful Toaster Oven readers:
I will not blog about Crunch every day. I promise. I am not going to turn into one of those people. I have way too much to say and don't want to waste time gushing about boys or fretting about crunches. I am far too clever for such lunacy.
Did I mention he has a cute laugh?
Friday, March 26, 2004
Good or Evil?
Sometimes I can't figure out which side The Handsome Prince is fighting on. Imagine Han Solo suddenly turning on Princess Leia and firing his laser gun thingy at her. Can you imagine how unexpected this attack would be to her? (Sorry for the extremely dated reference, but I didn't watch the new Star Wars trilogy). This is how it feels to hang out with my best friend. You never know when you will have to duck behind Chewbacca for protection.
When I arrived at the bar last night, THP greeted me warmly and said, "Guess what song I have been singing all day?"
"I'll Cover You," I answered.
THP exclaimed, "Yes!"
The other Yum Yums rolled their eyes at us and mocked us for knowing each other's thoughts. "Oooh, look," snarled Bobo, "they are SO connected. They are on the same wave length!"
If you roll your eyes at me and attempt to berate me, I won't sit there and feel embarrassed. I will taunt you. Don't people know this by now?
"Hey, Handsome Prince, guess which state I am thinking of," I asked him.
"Utah," he shouted.
"Yes!"
We could have done it for hours. We think we are so funny.
A few minutes later, THP puts his hand on my chest and says to the other Yum Yums, "I bet Todd could bench press more than any of us," I felt all warm and silly, because complimenting a Libra pushes more buttons than you can begin to imagine.
"In fact, he could probably bench press ME," said THP. At this point I am feeling like someone pushed ALL the buttons on the elevator before they got off, only I'm not frustrated that I will have to stop at every floor. I am just impressed at how pretty all the buttons look when they are pressed.
THP can make me feel so awesome sometimes, but he has an evil mischievous side that catches me off guard. I am learning how to have a gay best friend, and that means preparing for attack at any moment. Claws will come out unexpectedly, and you better prepare to retaliate. I never had a gay best friend before THP. In fact, I didn't used to really get along with gay men, a fact which now surprises me given that I hang with some wicked cool homos now. (I can't pull off the street lingo, can I?)
"I read your blog today," he said.
Thinking there are no more buttons he can push except for the emergency STOP button, I brace myself for more compliments. "Did you like it?" I asked.
"No. It was boring," answered THP. "But I like how when you click on the word ketchup there is a picture of a ketchup bottle."
"If you think my blog is boring, why don't you leave a comment about how much you hate it," I asked, knowing that my faithful readers would blast him to kingdom come if he tried any such thing. (You got my back, and I know it.)
"I don't know how to leave a comment," he said.
You're so stupid, Handsome Prince. That's why I love you.
And the nice thing is, I can say whatever I want about him here and he won't be able to retaliate because he can't figure out how to leave a comment.
Sometimes I can't figure out which side The Handsome Prince is fighting on. Imagine Han Solo suddenly turning on Princess Leia and firing his laser gun thingy at her. Can you imagine how unexpected this attack would be to her? (Sorry for the extremely dated reference, but I didn't watch the new Star Wars trilogy). This is how it feels to hang out with my best friend. You never know when you will have to duck behind Chewbacca for protection.
When I arrived at the bar last night, THP greeted me warmly and said, "Guess what song I have been singing all day?"
"I'll Cover You," I answered.
THP exclaimed, "Yes!"
The other Yum Yums rolled their eyes at us and mocked us for knowing each other's thoughts. "Oooh, look," snarled Bobo, "they are SO connected. They are on the same wave length!"
If you roll your eyes at me and attempt to berate me, I won't sit there and feel embarrassed. I will taunt you. Don't people know this by now?
"Hey, Handsome Prince, guess which state I am thinking of," I asked him.
"Utah," he shouted.
"Yes!"
We could have done it for hours. We think we are so funny.
A few minutes later, THP puts his hand on my chest and says to the other Yum Yums, "I bet Todd could bench press more than any of us," I felt all warm and silly, because complimenting a Libra pushes more buttons than you can begin to imagine.
"In fact, he could probably bench press ME," said THP. At this point I am feeling like someone pushed ALL the buttons on the elevator before they got off, only I'm not frustrated that I will have to stop at every floor. I am just impressed at how pretty all the buttons look when they are pressed.
THP can make me feel so awesome sometimes, but he has an evil mischievous side that catches me off guard. I am learning how to have a gay best friend, and that means preparing for attack at any moment. Claws will come out unexpectedly, and you better prepare to retaliate. I never had a gay best friend before THP. In fact, I didn't used to really get along with gay men, a fact which now surprises me given that I hang with some wicked cool homos now. (I can't pull off the street lingo, can I?)
"I read your blog today," he said.
Thinking there are no more buttons he can push except for the emergency STOP button, I brace myself for more compliments. "Did you like it?" I asked.
"No. It was boring," answered THP. "But I like how when you click on the word ketchup there is a picture of a ketchup bottle."
"If you think my blog is boring, why don't you leave a comment about how much you hate it," I asked, knowing that my faithful readers would blast him to kingdom come if he tried any such thing. (You got my back, and I know it.)
"I don't know how to leave a comment," he said.
You're so stupid, Handsome Prince. That's why I love you.
And the nice thing is, I can say whatever I want about him here and he won't be able to retaliate because he can't figure out how to leave a comment.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Useless Stuff
As I drove to work this morning (I only hit three people, yay me!) and listened to "The Watermelon Crawl" on the radio, I was struck with the idea of how useless that song is. What purpose does it serve other than sparking an idea for this morning's Toaster Oven entree? Furthermore, what is this watermelon wine he sings about, and why would you want to go to all the trouble of making wine out of watermelon when you can get a nice bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot for $2.99 at Trader Joe's?
There are so many useless things cluttering up my life right now, and I think it is time to step up to the plate like Eminem and clean out my closet. I am going to be ruthless in getting rid of anything that serves no purpose. If I were Archie, Betty would be so kicked out of the band right now. All she did was play the tambourine. Useless. Oh, and little Tracy Partridge? In the words of Donald Trump, "You're fired."
Five or six years ago I purchased a pennywhistle, which I planned on learning to play so that I could go on tour with The Corrs someday. (I would be Todd Corr, the brother who was put in an orphanage and later reunites with his family and begins a somewhat scandalous affair with his brother Jim Corr). The pennywhistle comes with an instruction booklet and a tape and has never been opened. Why am I hanging on to this thing?
Pennywhistle, be gone!
On my bookshelf in my room is a copy of Orlando, by Virginia Woolf, who was actually me. I have never read beyond the first chapter of the book and have no idea why I even wrote it. I enjoyed the film, but the book is just tedious and was definitely a contributing factor to my suicide (along with the split ends).
Goodbye, Orlando. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
Three years ago I had 42% body fat. I hit my damn plateau recently and hover comfortably at about 14%, and I'm pissed. Damn you whiskey and beer and salt. You are my enemies, but if loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right. I do, however, want to get rid of some more body fat, and I definitely need to if I am going to do the shows I'm supposed to perform in this summer. I have no use for fat, especially abdominal fat.
Sayonara, remaining stubborn 4-6% body fat!
Just when my closet is almost cleaned out, this new development pops up. At least I think it is a new development. If you read someone's entire blog in one day (including almost a year of archives) does that mean you have a crush on him? (It is not who you think, Jaden, so there is no need for you to chime in here although I know how you love to chime.)
I have no use for a crush right now. A blogger crush serves no practical purpose. It makes me think stupid thoughts and fantasize about stuff that will probably never ever happen. Crushes make me check e-mail three times an hour. Crushes distract me from my job as a technical writer, which I love deeply, of course. Crushes are silly.
Goodbye, crush!
I feel so much better. It feels good to get rid of clutter. Yesterday, a tow truck took away juju's old car that has been sitting in front of our house for over a year. Our plan was to put the non-functioning car up on blocks and sit on lawn chairs in the yard drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while we sang "The Watermelon Crawl" and picked hay out of our teeth. But now that the car is gone, there is a feeling of relief flowing through our household.
Still, sometimes you just can't let go. When Joan Crawford's children received their Christmas presents, they were allowed to choose only one gift to keep. The rest of the toys went to charity. This taught them to value what they had and also taught them how to avoid being hit over the head with cans of Ajax by Mommie Dearest.
Tentatively, I reach for one of my gifts and examine it. Hmmm. I think I would like to keep this crush and play with it for a little while. Please may I, Mommie Dearest?
As I drove to work this morning (I only hit three people, yay me!) and listened to "The Watermelon Crawl" on the radio, I was struck with the idea of how useless that song is. What purpose does it serve other than sparking an idea for this morning's Toaster Oven entree? Furthermore, what is this watermelon wine he sings about, and why would you want to go to all the trouble of making wine out of watermelon when you can get a nice bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot for $2.99 at Trader Joe's?
There are so many useless things cluttering up my life right now, and I think it is time to step up to the plate like Eminem and clean out my closet. I am going to be ruthless in getting rid of anything that serves no purpose. If I were Archie, Betty would be so kicked out of the band right now. All she did was play the tambourine. Useless. Oh, and little Tracy Partridge? In the words of Donald Trump, "You're fired."
Five or six years ago I purchased a pennywhistle, which I planned on learning to play so that I could go on tour with The Corrs someday. (I would be Todd Corr, the brother who was put in an orphanage and later reunites with his family and begins a somewhat scandalous affair with his brother Jim Corr). The pennywhistle comes with an instruction booklet and a tape and has never been opened. Why am I hanging on to this thing?
Pennywhistle, be gone!
On my bookshelf in my room is a copy of Orlando, by Virginia Woolf, who was actually me. I have never read beyond the first chapter of the book and have no idea why I even wrote it. I enjoyed the film, but the book is just tedious and was definitely a contributing factor to my suicide (along with the split ends).
Goodbye, Orlando. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
Three years ago I had 42% body fat. I hit my damn plateau recently and hover comfortably at about 14%, and I'm pissed. Damn you whiskey and beer and salt. You are my enemies, but if loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right. I do, however, want to get rid of some more body fat, and I definitely need to if I am going to do the shows I'm supposed to perform in this summer. I have no use for fat, especially abdominal fat.
Sayonara, remaining stubborn 4-6% body fat!
Just when my closet is almost cleaned out, this new development pops up. At least I think it is a new development. If you read someone's entire blog in one day (including almost a year of archives) does that mean you have a crush on him? (It is not who you think, Jaden, so there is no need for you to chime in here although I know how you love to chime.)
I have no use for a crush right now. A blogger crush serves no practical purpose. It makes me think stupid thoughts and fantasize about stuff that will probably never ever happen. Crushes make me check e-mail three times an hour. Crushes distract me from my job as a technical writer, which I love deeply, of course. Crushes are silly.
Goodbye, crush!
I feel so much better. It feels good to get rid of clutter. Yesterday, a tow truck took away juju's old car that has been sitting in front of our house for over a year. Our plan was to put the non-functioning car up on blocks and sit on lawn chairs in the yard drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while we sang "The Watermelon Crawl" and picked hay out of our teeth. But now that the car is gone, there is a feeling of relief flowing through our household.
Still, sometimes you just can't let go. When Joan Crawford's children received their Christmas presents, they were allowed to choose only one gift to keep. The rest of the toys went to charity. This taught them to value what they had and also taught them how to avoid being hit over the head with cans of Ajax by Mommie Dearest.
Tentatively, I reach for one of my gifts and examine it. Hmmm. I think I would like to keep this crush and play with it for a little while. Please may I, Mommie Dearest?
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
News Update (Closed Captioned)
Okay, so Mars used to have water on it. Things change. Move on. My partner used to love me until he decided he needed to be single for a while and started dating someone 24 hours after we broke up. Get over it people. There's nothing to drink on Mars. Don't go there. Even if there were still water on Mars, there certainly wouldn't be any Vodka Tonics, so what is the point?
I bet you think I don't ever watch the news, right? Based on the fact that I treat every precious little anecdote of my failed dating exploits like a CBS Special Report and spend hours writing love letters to wrestlers, I can understand why you might think that. But you would be wrong. Sometimes I do watch the news.
Last night after work I viewed the local news from a stool at JOQ's while downing a couple Mirror Ponds. On the television, the news was airing with the sound turned down and the closed captioning turned on. I glanced up in time to see a story about a gorilla that escaped at the Dallas Zoo and began praying for Mark's safety. Now, I know the animal was killed, but for some reason the closed captioning claimed it was in protective cuss body.
I would like to have protective cuss body. If someone attempted to harass me or steal the flask off my key chain, my protective cuss body would make them get the fuck away from me, of that you can be sure. My protective cuss body would fire off expletives that would make Howard Stern tremble.
The next story was about an old family restaurant in Portland called "Waddles". Waddles is closing after something like 3 billion years of serving grease browns and eggs to health conscious Oregonians. The old restaurant is going to become a Krispy Kreoughnut store.
I love me some Krispy Kreoughnuts. I like to drive by the Krispy Kreoughnut store and see if the neon sign says the Kreoughnuts are ready and are extra Krispy.
Next came a feature story on an auto recycler in Portland. This auto recycler is the largest auto recycler in the nersorth. Do you understand how huge that is? I mean, of all the auto recyclers in the entire nersorth, this is the biggest. Wow. It is probably because the owner speaks fo languages!
Burger King's slumping sales have resulted in an overhaul to The Whopper. From now on the burgers will be made with bigger bee. I didn't realize there was small bee in the original burgers, but knowing this certainly makes me glad I'm a vegetarian. How many bees have people been unknowingly eating with their fries? Well, if Burger King feels bigger bee will help their product sales, more power to them. I am no marketing expert.
During the weather report, the KATU news team switched cameras over to the pee near Pioneer Park.. I strained my eyes, but could see no pee. The transcribers for closed captioning have apparently mastered Portland weather terms and can probably type "rain" and "cloudy" with their eyes closed by now. So not much to report in the way of weather.
The newscast ended with the standard sign off: Have gat night.
So, there I was at JOQ's scribbling notes on trick pads so that I could report my closed captioned news to you, my beloved readers. I endured critical looks as I giggled and jotted down misspellings. Nobody bought me a drink or approached me to say hello, and do you know why? I looked like a crazy person. And I did it all for you.
No wonder I'm single, but at least I'm well-informed. Have gat day!!!
Okay, so Mars used to have water on it. Things change. Move on. My partner used to love me until he decided he needed to be single for a while and started dating someone 24 hours after we broke up. Get over it people. There's nothing to drink on Mars. Don't go there. Even if there were still water on Mars, there certainly wouldn't be any Vodka Tonics, so what is the point?
I bet you think I don't ever watch the news, right? Based on the fact that I treat every precious little anecdote of my failed dating exploits like a CBS Special Report and spend hours writing love letters to wrestlers, I can understand why you might think that. But you would be wrong. Sometimes I do watch the news.
Last night after work I viewed the local news from a stool at JOQ's while downing a couple Mirror Ponds. On the television, the news was airing with the sound turned down and the closed captioning turned on. I glanced up in time to see a story about a gorilla that escaped at the Dallas Zoo and began praying for Mark's safety. Now, I know the animal was killed, but for some reason the closed captioning claimed it was in protective cuss body.
I would like to have protective cuss body. If someone attempted to harass me or steal the flask off my key chain, my protective cuss body would make them get the fuck away from me, of that you can be sure. My protective cuss body would fire off expletives that would make Howard Stern tremble.
The next story was about an old family restaurant in Portland called "Waddles". Waddles is closing after something like 3 billion years of serving grease browns and eggs to health conscious Oregonians. The old restaurant is going to become a Krispy Kreoughnut store.
I love me some Krispy Kreoughnuts. I like to drive by the Krispy Kreoughnut store and see if the neon sign says the Kreoughnuts are ready and are extra Krispy.
Next came a feature story on an auto recycler in Portland. This auto recycler is the largest auto recycler in the nersorth. Do you understand how huge that is? I mean, of all the auto recyclers in the entire nersorth, this is the biggest. Wow. It is probably because the owner speaks fo languages!
Burger King's slumping sales have resulted in an overhaul to The Whopper. From now on the burgers will be made with bigger bee. I didn't realize there was small bee in the original burgers, but knowing this certainly makes me glad I'm a vegetarian. How many bees have people been unknowingly eating with their fries? Well, if Burger King feels bigger bee will help their product sales, more power to them. I am no marketing expert.
During the weather report, the KATU news team switched cameras over to the pee near Pioneer Park.. I strained my eyes, but could see no pee. The transcribers for closed captioning have apparently mastered Portland weather terms and can probably type "rain" and "cloudy" with their eyes closed by now. So not much to report in the way of weather.
The newscast ended with the standard sign off: Have gat night.
So, there I was at JOQ's scribbling notes on trick pads so that I could report my closed captioned news to you, my beloved readers. I endured critical looks as I giggled and jotted down misspellings. Nobody bought me a drink or approached me to say hello, and do you know why? I looked like a crazy person. And I did it all for you.
No wonder I'm single, but at least I'm well-informed. Have gat day!!!
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Dear The Rock:
I'm addicted to you. Don't you know that you're toxic?
I love you, The Rock. May I call you The? Your muscular body and cocky attitude make me want to touch myself appropriately, and I would give up almost anything except ketchup to be with you. You are so hot. Like Vin Diesel if he were handsome.
The fact that you are a wrestler probably has a lot to do with my attraction, because when I was 13 and watching wrestling on TV I got excited and fidgety. I was investigating my body to find the source of the tension, and when I found it some magic things happened to me. After the magic things happened, I found that wrestling matches could always bring more magic, and I was hooked. If VCRs and you had been around when I was 13, I would have never left the house. I would have pretended to be paralyzed so my parents wouldn't make me go to middle school. I know this would have worked because Phoebe Tyler tricked her husband Charles and everyone in Pine Valley with this same ruse. Of course Phoebe wasn't trying to stay home and masturbate while watching wrestling, but I still think it is a good idea.
Oh, The, you are the perfect man. You are an inch shorter than me, and I bet you have never dated someone taller than you! Wouldn't that be exciting to try? Please say yes!
Even if you do not want to date me or be my magician, I would like to ask you for a favor. There are some people I would like you to beat up, and I will list them here for you. I hope you can help.
1. Please beat up the woman on my block who drives an SUV and has a stupid bumper sticker with a picture of a kitty cat that says: "I AM NOT IN HEAT. GET OFF MY TAIL." She has an underdeveloped sense of humor, and is of no use to anybody. I'm sure nobody has ever laughed at this bumper sticker, and it won't come off when I go out late at night with my flashlight and try to peel it off her bumper. I am sick of running back to my house after she scrambles to her front porch and screams threats that she will call the police. Just once I would like to be able to yell back at her, "You are about to smell what The Rock is cooking, woman."
2. I would like you to beat up the guy who gave me a cold on Sunday after I kissed him at Silverado. This can be narrowed down to two or three guys, but if you can't figure out which one is responsible just beat them all up. None of them were great kissers anyway.
3. Please beat up Omarosa from The Apprentice. For obvious reasons. I thought it would be enough for me when she got fired, but I feel I need more closure.
I should let you go work out your biceps, but before I do I want to tell you one more thing, The. You should run for governor somewhere. People always vote for the most muscular candidate. Also, I have heard that votes are guaranteed if you have a boyfriend who is taller than you. Let's conquer the world together.
I know you might not be gay. Might not. But even if you would just come over to my house and put me in holds (bear hug, please) that would be fine. If parts of your body accidentally got in my mouth, then so be it. Let the cheeks fall where they may.
I love you, The.
Hot Toddy
I'm addicted to you. Don't you know that you're toxic?
I love you, The Rock. May I call you The? Your muscular body and cocky attitude make me want to touch myself appropriately, and I would give up almost anything except ketchup to be with you. You are so hot. Like Vin Diesel if he were handsome.
The fact that you are a wrestler probably has a lot to do with my attraction, because when I was 13 and watching wrestling on TV I got excited and fidgety. I was investigating my body to find the source of the tension, and when I found it some magic things happened to me. After the magic things happened, I found that wrestling matches could always bring more magic, and I was hooked. If VCRs and you had been around when I was 13, I would have never left the house. I would have pretended to be paralyzed so my parents wouldn't make me go to middle school. I know this would have worked because Phoebe Tyler tricked her husband Charles and everyone in Pine Valley with this same ruse. Of course Phoebe wasn't trying to stay home and masturbate while watching wrestling, but I still think it is a good idea.
Oh, The, you are the perfect man. You are an inch shorter than me, and I bet you have never dated someone taller than you! Wouldn't that be exciting to try? Please say yes!
Even if you do not want to date me or be my magician, I would like to ask you for a favor. There are some people I would like you to beat up, and I will list them here for you. I hope you can help.
1. Please beat up the woman on my block who drives an SUV and has a stupid bumper sticker with a picture of a kitty cat that says: "I AM NOT IN HEAT. GET OFF MY TAIL." She has an underdeveloped sense of humor, and is of no use to anybody. I'm sure nobody has ever laughed at this bumper sticker, and it won't come off when I go out late at night with my flashlight and try to peel it off her bumper. I am sick of running back to my house after she scrambles to her front porch and screams threats that she will call the police. Just once I would like to be able to yell back at her, "You are about to smell what The Rock is cooking, woman."
2. I would like you to beat up the guy who gave me a cold on Sunday after I kissed him at Silverado. This can be narrowed down to two or three guys, but if you can't figure out which one is responsible just beat them all up. None of them were great kissers anyway.
3. Please beat up Omarosa from The Apprentice. For obvious reasons. I thought it would be enough for me when she got fired, but I feel I need more closure.
I should let you go work out your biceps, but before I do I want to tell you one more thing, The. You should run for governor somewhere. People always vote for the most muscular candidate. Also, I have heard that votes are guaranteed if you have a boyfriend who is taller than you. Let's conquer the world together.
I know you might not be gay. Might not. But even if you would just come over to my house and put me in holds (bear hug, please) that would be fine. If parts of your body accidentally got in my mouth, then so be it. Let the cheeks fall where they may.
I love you, The.
Hot Toddy
Monday, March 22, 2004
Yum Yum Marco spent two and a half hours with me on Saturday discussing my writing and where it can take me. It was an honor to have a writer invest so much of his day that way. I gained valuable insight from Marco and learned a lot about my personal writing style. He pointed out that I seem to do my best work when there is an element of pressure to write combined with the promise of an audience and instant gratification.
Until I found the wonderful world of blogging, I was used to writing and then performing my pieces onstage as monologues, plays or sketches. But we talked a lot about other venues for reading my work, and I'm looking forward to scouting for those opportunities.
Receiving encouragement from another writer is such a motivator. Famous Author Rob Byrnes has encouraged me more than once with a positive comment about my writing. I love reading comments left by people who read Toaster Oven. Comments feed my need for instant gratification. Money would work too, if anybody felt like sending me some. Oh, sex works too if anybody felt like giving me some.
I'm so thankful for people like Rob and Marco who are successful at writing and want to encourage others who are a little "lower on the totem pole" than they are. I don't know why I put Rob on a pedestal, though, because he can't even spell "ciao" correctly.
Bonkers went home yesterday, but I didn't let myself cry until I finished working out. When I completed the last rep of the very last set of my upper body workout, I put the bar into the rack, sat on the bench and let the tears flow. Fortunately, I work out at a private fitness center at the office, so nobody was around to witness it. My house feels so empty without that dog. Last night when I got home, I missed his nose poking through the door to greet me. Maybe I can get juju to start poking her nose through the door when I come home, but I doubt that she will tap dance for me while I make dinner like Bonkers did.
Until I found the wonderful world of blogging, I was used to writing and then performing my pieces onstage as monologues, plays or sketches. But we talked a lot about other venues for reading my work, and I'm looking forward to scouting for those opportunities.
Receiving encouragement from another writer is such a motivator. Famous Author Rob Byrnes has encouraged me more than once with a positive comment about my writing. I love reading comments left by people who read Toaster Oven. Comments feed my need for instant gratification. Money would work too, if anybody felt like sending me some. Oh, sex works too if anybody felt like giving me some.
I'm so thankful for people like Rob and Marco who are successful at writing and want to encourage others who are a little "lower on the totem pole" than they are. I don't know why I put Rob on a pedestal, though, because he can't even spell "ciao" correctly.
Bonkers went home yesterday, but I didn't let myself cry until I finished working out. When I completed the last rep of the very last set of my upper body workout, I put the bar into the rack, sat on the bench and let the tears flow. Fortunately, I work out at a private fitness center at the office, so nobody was around to witness it. My house feels so empty without that dog. Last night when I got home, I missed his nose poking through the door to greet me. Maybe I can get juju to start poking her nose through the door when I come home, but I doubt that she will tap dance for me while I make dinner like Bonkers did.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Workout at CC Slaughters
I got an entire full-body workout last night at the bar, and I realized that Thursday night at CC Slaughters is better than an hour at the gym.
I warmed up by working my abs. Erin helped me with this. We laughed heartily for almost an hour, and it felt just as effective as crunches on the Swiss ball. Crunches on the Swiss ball sounds like a sexual innuendo, doesn't it?
Erin told me a bunch of secrets that I promised not to blog about, but if we ever get in an argument, I'm totally breaking my promise. And she also dared me to respond to this guy's ad, but I'm kind of freaked out. She even double dared me.
Last night I told Erin about one of the most bizarre and consistently funny blogs I read. A Taste of Moles is a carnival freak show narrated by the sarcastic and slightly crazed tour guide, antimony. Somehow this site attracts some of the most creative comments I've ever seen. I often laugh more at the comments than I do at the original post. Antimony has a crafty reply for almost anything I throw out there, as you can see in the comments from this day.
Back to my workout. After working out abs, I moved onto some cardio on the dance floor. My loins were stirred as well (that's an exercise, right? loin stirs?) because I was dancing with Yum Yum Marco. If he weren't married to Yum Yum Floyd, I would be on my knees in front of him... and that is not what I mean so stop it.
The upper body workout focused on the biceps. First I watched Marco's bulging biceps as he was defeated in an arm wrestling match by Boy Hunk. After feeling Marco's biceps for a minute or twelve, I went up against the almighty 6'5 strapping hunk of gorgeousness that is Boy Hunk. I am a stud, that's all I have to say. No, that's not all I have to say. I beat Boy Hunk both right-handed and left-handed. My masculinity turned me on so much that I went home and slept with myself afterwards.
Yum Yum Bobo was a funny drunk. Come to think of it he gave a half-hearted effort at arm wrestling Boy Hunk too. But I think it was more of an excuse to hold hands with him for a minute. Bobo and Boy Hunk and Erin all bought me drinks. I love that.
I ended the night with a full on complete body workout. I pretty much carried Metro around the bar because he couldn't walk very well, although he seemed to have no problem jumping up and down on the dance floor to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun". Any questions about why I call him Metro should now be resolved.
Since juju was home taking care of my dog, I felt it was only fair to take care of her boyfriend. He is less obedient than Bonkers, but his breath smells just as bad. Metro is pretty heavy. Actually, Metro is just plain pretty, so it wasn't too terrible to have him hanging on me. And I have to say, it was good to be the sober one for a change.
I got an entire full-body workout last night at the bar, and I realized that Thursday night at CC Slaughters is better than an hour at the gym.
I warmed up by working my abs. Erin helped me with this. We laughed heartily for almost an hour, and it felt just as effective as crunches on the Swiss ball. Crunches on the Swiss ball sounds like a sexual innuendo, doesn't it?
Erin told me a bunch of secrets that I promised not to blog about, but if we ever get in an argument, I'm totally breaking my promise. And she also dared me to respond to this guy's ad, but I'm kind of freaked out. She even double dared me.
Last night I told Erin about one of the most bizarre and consistently funny blogs I read. A Taste of Moles is a carnival freak show narrated by the sarcastic and slightly crazed tour guide, antimony. Somehow this site attracts some of the most creative comments I've ever seen. I often laugh more at the comments than I do at the original post. Antimony has a crafty reply for almost anything I throw out there, as you can see in the comments from this day.
Back to my workout. After working out abs, I moved onto some cardio on the dance floor. My loins were stirred as well (that's an exercise, right? loin stirs?) because I was dancing with Yum Yum Marco. If he weren't married to Yum Yum Floyd, I would be on my knees in front of him... and that is not what I mean so stop it.
The upper body workout focused on the biceps. First I watched Marco's bulging biceps as he was defeated in an arm wrestling match by Boy Hunk. After feeling Marco's biceps for a minute or twelve, I went up against the almighty 6'5 strapping hunk of gorgeousness that is Boy Hunk. I am a stud, that's all I have to say. No, that's not all I have to say. I beat Boy Hunk both right-handed and left-handed. My masculinity turned me on so much that I went home and slept with myself afterwards.
Yum Yum Bobo was a funny drunk. Come to think of it he gave a half-hearted effort at arm wrestling Boy Hunk too. But I think it was more of an excuse to hold hands with him for a minute. Bobo and Boy Hunk and Erin all bought me drinks. I love that.
I ended the night with a full on complete body workout. I pretty much carried Metro around the bar because he couldn't walk very well, although he seemed to have no problem jumping up and down on the dance floor to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun". Any questions about why I call him Metro should now be resolved.
Since juju was home taking care of my dog, I felt it was only fair to take care of her boyfriend. He is less obedient than Bonkers, but his breath smells just as bad. Metro is pretty heavy. Actually, Metro is just plain pretty, so it wasn't too terrible to have him hanging on me. And I have to say, it was good to be the sober one for a change.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Bonkers
The hardest thing about walking out of my house in the morning to go to work is leaving Bonkers.
Bonkers is my dog, and he is the love of my life.
There are a few reasons I never discuss him here:
1. I know that not everyone enjoys reading paragraph after paragraph about someone else's pet. It is like watching someone's home movies. Nobody cares.
2. I don't get to spend much time with him. When M. and I split up, he said I could keep Bonkers because it was obvious we were inseparable. But then M. changed his mind, and since Bonkers was his dog first, I had to let him go.
3. Bonkers has never given me his permission to write about him.
I am breaking my silence this morning, because I only have 3 more days with Bonkers before I have to take him back to M's place, and I'm starting to feel sad. My beloved dog has been staying with me for the past two weeks while M. is in Australia spending the money he should have given to me after our house was sold. (Sorry, I got bitter for a second there...)
Bonkers and I have been taking lots of walks and having a great time. He also watched seven episodes of "The L Word" yesterday with juju while I was at work. He likes girl on girl action because it is something completely different from what he's used to seeing at home.
Bonkers tap dances (click, click, click) while I fix his breakfast. He wags his tail so hard he can't stand still. He has fur like a rabbit, and he always smells good even if he hasn't had a bath in awhile.
He smiles like The Joker, only not evil. He has brown almond-shaped eyes that look at me with trust and loyalty. He is innocent and obedient. I love him more than anything, and it breaks my heart to have to be separated from him every day. If I ever get an acting role where I have to cry on stage, I will just have to glance at a picture of Bonkers before I make my entrance.
This Sunday, I will return Bonkers to his home and will resume life without him. I will see him occasionally, but I won't be his caretaker. He won't sleep in my bed anymore. I won't give him his breakfast and take him on walks. He won't sit with me and cuddle with me while I watch tv. He won't fake sneezing fits in the morning to make me wake up and take him outside.
I scheduled a "second date" for Sunday after I take Bonkers home. I hope that is a good idea, since I will be pretty sad about Bonkers. I'm hoping the date will give me something to focus on and take my mind off my dog.
It is also nice to have a second chance with Mr. Peru, because I was so incredibly ridiculous about our first date. He called me out of the blue this week and said he had been thinking about me.
Honestly, I think I would never date again if it meant I could have my dog with me every day. When I think about that statement, it is probably a good thing Bonkers is living with my ex-partner. I obviously have issues.
The hardest thing about walking out of my house in the morning to go to work is leaving Bonkers.
Bonkers is my dog, and he is the love of my life.
There are a few reasons I never discuss him here:
1. I know that not everyone enjoys reading paragraph after paragraph about someone else's pet. It is like watching someone's home movies. Nobody cares.
2. I don't get to spend much time with him. When M. and I split up, he said I could keep Bonkers because it was obvious we were inseparable. But then M. changed his mind, and since Bonkers was his dog first, I had to let him go.
3. Bonkers has never given me his permission to write about him.
I am breaking my silence this morning, because I only have 3 more days with Bonkers before I have to take him back to M's place, and I'm starting to feel sad. My beloved dog has been staying with me for the past two weeks while M. is in Australia spending the money he should have given to me after our house was sold. (Sorry, I got bitter for a second there...)
Bonkers and I have been taking lots of walks and having a great time. He also watched seven episodes of "The L Word" yesterday with juju while I was at work. He likes girl on girl action because it is something completely different from what he's used to seeing at home.
Bonkers tap dances (click, click, click) while I fix his breakfast. He wags his tail so hard he can't stand still. He has fur like a rabbit, and he always smells good even if he hasn't had a bath in awhile.
He smiles like The Joker, only not evil. He has brown almond-shaped eyes that look at me with trust and loyalty. He is innocent and obedient. I love him more than anything, and it breaks my heart to have to be separated from him every day. If I ever get an acting role where I have to cry on stage, I will just have to glance at a picture of Bonkers before I make my entrance.
This Sunday, I will return Bonkers to his home and will resume life without him. I will see him occasionally, but I won't be his caretaker. He won't sleep in my bed anymore. I won't give him his breakfast and take him on walks. He won't sit with me and cuddle with me while I watch tv. He won't fake sneezing fits in the morning to make me wake up and take him outside.
I scheduled a "second date" for Sunday after I take Bonkers home. I hope that is a good idea, since I will be pretty sad about Bonkers. I'm hoping the date will give me something to focus on and take my mind off my dog.
It is also nice to have a second chance with Mr. Peru, because I was so incredibly ridiculous about our first date. He called me out of the blue this week and said he had been thinking about me.
Honestly, I think I would never date again if it meant I could have my dog with me every day. When I think about that statement, it is probably a good thing Bonkers is living with my ex-partner. I obviously have issues.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Open Call
The Hindu community is pissed off.
Tina Turner has been cast as a Hindu goddess in the upcoming film, "The Goddess".
I. Am. OUTRAGED.
Why, oh why wasn't an authentic Hindu Goddess cast in this film!? Is it too much to ask that we honor deities by allowing them to play themselves in movies? Kali is the goddess of dissolution and destruction, and, frankly, I fear for Tina's safety. Better to anger a gentle goddess instead of the one most likely to kick your ass. Tina thought Ike was bad. She better get ready to run across the highway and check herself into another hotel and pray the manager is as kind as the one she encountered in 1975.
The madness doesn't stop with Tina's sacrilege. The last time I checked, James Caviezel, who played Jesus Christ in "The Passion of Christ" was NOT the product of an immaculate conception. In fact, he is clearly immoral (not immortal) evidenced by the fact that he played an airline clerk in Gus Van Sant's "My Own Private Idaho". That movie had GAY PEOPLE in it!!! Of all the movies for The Lord Jesus to star in! I bet Jesus would be turning over in his grave had he not risen from the dead.
This complete disregard for authentic casting is driving me crazy. Jessica Simpson wants to play Jeannie? Come on, I think we all know who the real Jeannie is.
I'm sorry if I seem a bit obsessive about casting. It's just that this hits home with me.
Recently my gorgeous FEMALE roommate played Richard Nixon, and I know for a fact she is not a crook. I've seen The Handsome Prince play Bing Crosby, in spite of the fact that Bing slept with women. Metro recently played Loki, a Norse god who was a "wise fool" with a pleasing and handsome appearance. Never mind. That casting was spot on.
My fear is that this trend will continue. Someday we will see a white actress playing Oprah Winfrey, the Goddess of A-Ha Moments, or a smart actor playing George Bush. Or gay people wanting to marry dogs. (Hey, that argument seems to work for everything else...)
Stop the madness!
The Hindu community is pissed off.
Tina Turner has been cast as a Hindu goddess in the upcoming film, "The Goddess".
I. Am. OUTRAGED.
Why, oh why wasn't an authentic Hindu Goddess cast in this film!? Is it too much to ask that we honor deities by allowing them to play themselves in movies? Kali is the goddess of dissolution and destruction, and, frankly, I fear for Tina's safety. Better to anger a gentle goddess instead of the one most likely to kick your ass. Tina thought Ike was bad. She better get ready to run across the highway and check herself into another hotel and pray the manager is as kind as the one she encountered in 1975.
The madness doesn't stop with Tina's sacrilege. The last time I checked, James Caviezel, who played Jesus Christ in "The Passion of Christ" was NOT the product of an immaculate conception. In fact, he is clearly immoral (not immortal) evidenced by the fact that he played an airline clerk in Gus Van Sant's "My Own Private Idaho". That movie had GAY PEOPLE in it!!! Of all the movies for The Lord Jesus to star in! I bet Jesus would be turning over in his grave had he not risen from the dead.
This complete disregard for authentic casting is driving me crazy. Jessica Simpson wants to play Jeannie? Come on, I think we all know who the real Jeannie is.
I'm sorry if I seem a bit obsessive about casting. It's just that this hits home with me.
Recently my gorgeous FEMALE roommate played Richard Nixon, and I know for a fact she is not a crook. I've seen The Handsome Prince play Bing Crosby, in spite of the fact that Bing slept with women. Metro recently played Loki, a Norse god who was a "wise fool" with a pleasing and handsome appearance. Never mind. That casting was spot on.
My fear is that this trend will continue. Someday we will see a white actress playing Oprah Winfrey, the Goddess of A-Ha Moments, or a smart actor playing George Bush. Or gay people wanting to marry dogs. (Hey, that argument seems to work for everything else...)
Stop the madness!
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
How to Kill a Tumor
Buttercup, of Candy Vendors fame (see link to the left - I'm in a hurry) called to tell me she has a foot tumor and has to go to the doctor. I didn't know you could get a foot tumor, but she likes to be unconventional. One day while cruising in St. Paul/MN during a stint as camp counselors/lifeguards, we passed a car with the numbers "999" on the license plate.
Buttercup shouted, "Look! The Anti-Christ is in that car and he's standing on his head!" Gotta love my Buttercup.
She said the doctor advised her to put electrical tape on her foot. Presumably, to electrocute the tumor.
I think it would be fun to experiment with different methods of killing a foot tumor. Poison tape would be good. Do they sell that at Home Depot?
I am holding off on a post (like - a real post with a theme or a point of any kind) until after lunch. I am meeting the Yum Yums today, and there is always a wealth of blog material when we get together, so this may be a two-post kind of day. We'll see.
If you think of any good ways to kill a foot tumor, please let me know and I'll pass them on to Buttercup.
Buttercup, of Candy Vendors fame (see link to the left - I'm in a hurry) called to tell me she has a foot tumor and has to go to the doctor. I didn't know you could get a foot tumor, but she likes to be unconventional. One day while cruising in St. Paul/MN during a stint as camp counselors/lifeguards, we passed a car with the numbers "999" on the license plate.
Buttercup shouted, "Look! The Anti-Christ is in that car and he's standing on his head!" Gotta love my Buttercup.
She said the doctor advised her to put electrical tape on her foot. Presumably, to electrocute the tumor.
I think it would be fun to experiment with different methods of killing a foot tumor. Poison tape would be good. Do they sell that at Home Depot?
I am holding off on a post (like - a real post with a theme or a point of any kind) until after lunch. I am meeting the Yum Yums today, and there is always a wealth of blog material when we get together, so this may be a two-post kind of day. We'll see.
If you think of any good ways to kill a foot tumor, please let me know and I'll pass them on to Buttercup.
Monday, March 15, 2004
The Ides of March
Today is a sad day for me. My lover, Julius Caesar, was killed on this day.
I have been reincarnated several times. In addition to living my life as a reindeer in Scandinavia and as Queen Victoria's valet, I was also Sacajawea and Virginia Woolf (that was a downer, let me tell you).
But the Ides of March always reminds me of my life as Julius' secret lover. My name was Whorus Antonius. Julius and I only had five wonderful days together before he was killed. We were so in love. He called me "Hot Whorus" and he was my Big Toolius Julius.
[Begin romantic movie "falling in love" montage]
Whorus and Julius are at an open air market looking at pomegranate. Whorus pulls one from the pile and all the pomegranates tumble to the ground. Julius grins and shakes his head. Whorus covers his eyes in embarrassment and laughs. Close-up of a calendar page, indicating it is the 10th of March (The "Tides of March" as we called it).
Cut to Julius and Whorus flying kites. They run in slow motion as they look up at the sky gleefully. Calendar shot: The Rides of March.
Cut to scene of a fire blazing in the hearth. Whorus and Julius lie on an animal skin rug (I can't remember what kind of animals we had in Rome...it was a long time ago.) They are making love. Calendar shot: The Hides of March.
Cut to daylight in a meadow. Whorus is fashioning a crown of laurel leaves. Julius kisses Whorus, and Whorus places the crown on Julius' head. Calendar shot: The Brides of March...
[end romantic movie montage]
We were happy. Then came his assassination. That day is burned into my memory like Bjork's swan dress at the Academy Awards. I will never forget the sight of those blades slicing into my poor lover's flesh. Right before he died, Julius turned to Brutus and said, "Et tu, Brute?" I stood in the crowd and yelled through my tears, "Good one, Julius," and I meant it. He was always quick with a comeback.
Our time was short, but I will never forget the laughs, the joy, the romance. Shortly afterwards, I took up with Brutus. He was not nearly as dear to me as Julius, but he had big arms and could bench press me. That was pretty hot.
Although it was painful to witness this murder, I do not regret my time in Rome. It's somewhat surprising to me that I never wrote about it in my books when I was Virginia Woolf, but I was so damn depressed all the time that reflecting on Julius would have just pushed me over the edge. Instead, it was the frustration of dealing with my horribly damaged unkempt hair that caused me to kill myself, but that is another story for another day.
I know that I, Whorus, made a huge contribution to the life of Big Toolius Julius and the lives of all Romans. It was my idea to start the toga parties, for example.
You're welcome.
Today is a sad day for me. My lover, Julius Caesar, was killed on this day.
I have been reincarnated several times. In addition to living my life as a reindeer in Scandinavia and as Queen Victoria's valet, I was also Sacajawea and Virginia Woolf (that was a downer, let me tell you).
But the Ides of March always reminds me of my life as Julius' secret lover. My name was Whorus Antonius. Julius and I only had five wonderful days together before he was killed. We were so in love. He called me "Hot Whorus" and he was my Big Toolius Julius.
[Begin romantic movie "falling in love" montage]
Whorus and Julius are at an open air market looking at pomegranate. Whorus pulls one from the pile and all the pomegranates tumble to the ground. Julius grins and shakes his head. Whorus covers his eyes in embarrassment and laughs. Close-up of a calendar page, indicating it is the 10th of March (The "Tides of March" as we called it).
Cut to Julius and Whorus flying kites. They run in slow motion as they look up at the sky gleefully. Calendar shot: The Rides of March.
Cut to scene of a fire blazing in the hearth. Whorus and Julius lie on an animal skin rug (I can't remember what kind of animals we had in Rome...it was a long time ago.) They are making love. Calendar shot: The Hides of March.
Cut to daylight in a meadow. Whorus is fashioning a crown of laurel leaves. Julius kisses Whorus, and Whorus places the crown on Julius' head. Calendar shot: The Brides of March...
[end romantic movie montage]
We were happy. Then came his assassination. That day is burned into my memory like Bjork's swan dress at the Academy Awards. I will never forget the sight of those blades slicing into my poor lover's flesh. Right before he died, Julius turned to Brutus and said, "Et tu, Brute?" I stood in the crowd and yelled through my tears, "Good one, Julius," and I meant it. He was always quick with a comeback.
Our time was short, but I will never forget the laughs, the joy, the romance. Shortly afterwards, I took up with Brutus. He was not nearly as dear to me as Julius, but he had big arms and could bench press me. That was pretty hot.
Although it was painful to witness this murder, I do not regret my time in Rome. It's somewhat surprising to me that I never wrote about it in my books when I was Virginia Woolf, but I was so damn depressed all the time that reflecting on Julius would have just pushed me over the edge. Instead, it was the frustration of dealing with my horribly damaged unkempt hair that caused me to kill myself, but that is another story for another day.
I know that I, Whorus, made a huge contribution to the life of Big Toolius Julius and the lives of all Romans. It was my idea to start the toga parties, for example.
You're welcome.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Brad or Brian or Letha or Reba
Just when you thought the saga of Brad was over, I made a fool of myself once again.
Brad shaved his head and got an earring. Fortunately, my friend Brian, who actually used to date Brad, pointed him out to me at the bar last night. Brian had mercy on me after reading my entry on Brad, Poor, Brad. (It's linked above - you should go read it if you want to really get maximum pleasure out of this story).
So, I smile and walk over to Brad and say, "I remember you. Hi Brad."
Now I am thinking I am the coolest person in the world. He then introduces me to his cousin, Letha.
"Hi, Reba," I say.
"No. Letha," says Letha.
Later on we run into each other again. I introduce my roommate Juju and her boyfriend Metro to Brad and his cousin.
"This is Brad and his cousin, Reba."
"Letha," Brad says.
I can officially no longer face Brad.
For the rest of the night, I drank and danced. And drank. And drank.
Today juju called me at work to remind me of "Hot Toddy's Greatest Moments" last night. Hearing stories of things I said while drunk is one of my favorite pastimes. I only wish you could hear the slurred impression of me that juju does.
Sometimes I am cool drunk. Sometimes I am stupid drunk. Guess which one I was last night?
Curtain up on the Martini Lounge at CC Slaughters:
We see four cool people and one not very cool drunk blogger sitting at a table.
(Hot guy walks by our table)
Me: WOW, THAT GUY IS HOT!!
juju: Todd, he can hear you. You're being very loud.
Me: SO WHAT! WHAT IS THE WORST THING THAT CAN HAPPEN? I DON'T CARE IF HE HEARS ME.
juju: The worst thing that could happen is that you could say and do things you wouldn't do sober.
Me: I DON'T CARE. HE'S JUST HOT.
(Suddenly I completely lose interest in the hot guy for no apparent reason)
Me: DID YOU KNOW THAT WHEN I WAS DANCING WITH R. I GOT A HARD ON?
juju: Todd, shhh.
Me: I DID. I DON'T CARE IF ANYBODY KNOWS.
juju: Todd, everybody in the bar knows.
Metro: I love you Todd, you are so funny.
Me: I HAD SUCH A HARD ON.
Boy Hunk: I'll be right back. (goes off to look for girls)
Me: R. WAS GRINDING UP AGAINST ME. I AM SO HORNY.
(Metro laughs because he knows this encourages me to keep talking)
Me: SEE THAT GUY OVER THERE? BOY HUNK TOLD ME NOT TO WASTE MY TIME TALKING TO HIM.
(juju gives up trying to remind me to keep my volume down and wisely allows me to rant)
Me: BOY HUNK SAYS THAT GUY BRINGS NOTHING TO THE TABLE AND THAT I SHOULD NOT GO HOME WITH HIM.
Juju drove us home, and in the car I told her that I wish there was a place where gay men could go to show off their minds instead of their bodies. That would be great, huh? I'm sure everyone at the bar was deeply impressed with my intellect last night. Nothing sexier than a loud drunk guy with no social boundaries.
I never did get to say goodnight to Brad and Reba.
I mean Letha.
Just when you thought the saga of Brad was over, I made a fool of myself once again.
Brad shaved his head and got an earring. Fortunately, my friend Brian, who actually used to date Brad, pointed him out to me at the bar last night. Brian had mercy on me after reading my entry on Brad, Poor, Brad. (It's linked above - you should go read it if you want to really get maximum pleasure out of this story).
So, I smile and walk over to Brad and say, "I remember you. Hi Brad."
Now I am thinking I am the coolest person in the world. He then introduces me to his cousin, Letha.
"Hi, Reba," I say.
"No. Letha," says Letha.
Later on we run into each other again. I introduce my roommate Juju and her boyfriend Metro to Brad and his cousin.
"This is Brad and his cousin, Reba."
"Letha," Brad says.
I can officially no longer face Brad.
For the rest of the night, I drank and danced. And drank. And drank.
Today juju called me at work to remind me of "Hot Toddy's Greatest Moments" last night. Hearing stories of things I said while drunk is one of my favorite pastimes. I only wish you could hear the slurred impression of me that juju does.
Sometimes I am cool drunk. Sometimes I am stupid drunk. Guess which one I was last night?
Curtain up on the Martini Lounge at CC Slaughters:
We see four cool people and one not very cool drunk blogger sitting at a table.
(Hot guy walks by our table)
Me: WOW, THAT GUY IS HOT!!
juju: Todd, he can hear you. You're being very loud.
Me: SO WHAT! WHAT IS THE WORST THING THAT CAN HAPPEN? I DON'T CARE IF HE HEARS ME.
juju: The worst thing that could happen is that you could say and do things you wouldn't do sober.
Me: I DON'T CARE. HE'S JUST HOT.
(Suddenly I completely lose interest in the hot guy for no apparent reason)
Me: DID YOU KNOW THAT WHEN I WAS DANCING WITH R. I GOT A HARD ON?
juju: Todd, shhh.
Me: I DID. I DON'T CARE IF ANYBODY KNOWS.
juju: Todd, everybody in the bar knows.
Metro: I love you Todd, you are so funny.
Me: I HAD SUCH A HARD ON.
Boy Hunk: I'll be right back. (goes off to look for girls)
Me: R. WAS GRINDING UP AGAINST ME. I AM SO HORNY.
(Metro laughs because he knows this encourages me to keep talking)
Me: SEE THAT GUY OVER THERE? BOY HUNK TOLD ME NOT TO WASTE MY TIME TALKING TO HIM.
(juju gives up trying to remind me to keep my volume down and wisely allows me to rant)
Me: BOY HUNK SAYS THAT GUY BRINGS NOTHING TO THE TABLE AND THAT I SHOULD NOT GO HOME WITH HIM.
Juju drove us home, and in the car I told her that I wish there was a place where gay men could go to show off their minds instead of their bodies. That would be great, huh? I'm sure everyone at the bar was deeply impressed with my intellect last night. Nothing sexier than a loud drunk guy with no social boundaries.
I never did get to say goodnight to Brad and Reba.
I mean Letha.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Eenie Meenie Minie Moe
Still trying to decide if gay marriage should be legal or not? Talking with someone who just made a life commitment to their partner is the easiest way to reach a conclusion.
I had a great talk with Ubergirl on the phone today. She and her partner of four years just got married a week ago. Ubergirl can't stop crying tears of joy over her marriage. She has a beautiful daughter and a wonderful partner, and now they have a legal marriage. To Ubergirl's daughter, she knows her parents have made a commitment to one another. It's no longer just "mommy's girlfriend living with us". Now it's spouses for life.
Lately, I've been wondering how I would personally make a decision about gay marriage if I, myself, were not gay. What if I had no opportunity to talk with a gay person in a committed relationship and no past experience being committed to someone myself? I would still decide it is the right way to go. I would make this decision strictly based on the actions of same-sex marriage supporters and opponents. I don't think it would take me very long to come to the conclusion that I support gay marriage.
First of all, I have this little problem with tolerance. I am not tolerant of poor spelling. Sorry, but it seems to me that most of the opponents of gay marriage can't spell. You've seen the comments in various blogs. You've seen the protest signs. I mean, they seem to have mastered short three-letter words like "God" and "fag", and of course they have the four-letter words down like "hate" and "hell". But, if you are going to threaten a queer-loving, tree-hugging, devil-worshipping liberal don't address them as "The Mayer of Portland".
I'm not saying that opponents of gay marriage are ignorant, just that they are stupid.
Okay, so that's not a very good legal argument, but I never claimed to be a lawyer. Can I just say that a lot of the opponents say really stupid things? Karen Minnis, House Speaker, says that we have over 3,000 years of tradition in this country being violated by allowing same-sex marriage. This will be a very convincing argument in 1,000 more years, Karen.
But I am editorializing. Let's go straight to a couple sources and allow them to speak for themselves.
Exhibit One: Phone message from an opponent of gay marriage
Several of the county commissioners have received death threats because they took action to allow same-sex marriage licenses in Multnomah County. Here is a transcript of one of the messages:
"Hi, my name is Brandon Rogers. I hope you get AIDS from your f------ brother and before you're run out of the commission, you little b----. I hope your whole family is killed. I hope it with all my heart that you guys are gunned down and killed."
***
Mr. Rogers (ironic name) attacked the camera crew during his interview. Not a very beautiful day in HIS neighborhood.
Now, let's hear an argument from the other side.
Exhibit Two: Statement from Portland Mayor Vera Katz
"Marriage is the place where we create a home for children - and gay men and lesbian women have children and throughout history have had children. Those children have the right to be raised within the loving confines of a marriage, not within an ambiguously named civil union.
In a world where we worry that promiscuity is rampant, why would we not embrace those who are pledging fidelity?
In a world racked with instability, why would we not embrace those who seek permanence?
In a world where we worry about a lack of commitment, why would we not embrace those building a lifetime of devotion?"
***
Thanks, Vera. I love you. I would marry you if you weren't a woman.
If you have ever had the opportunity of seeing the LOVE shared by a same-sex couple standing in line for a marriage license or even seen one picture of a same-sex wedding ceremony, the decision is easy.
If you have ever seen or heard the HATE spewing forth from those opposed, well, it's just sad.
Court is adjourned.
Still trying to decide if gay marriage should be legal or not? Talking with someone who just made a life commitment to their partner is the easiest way to reach a conclusion.
I had a great talk with Ubergirl on the phone today. She and her partner of four years just got married a week ago. Ubergirl can't stop crying tears of joy over her marriage. She has a beautiful daughter and a wonderful partner, and now they have a legal marriage. To Ubergirl's daughter, she knows her parents have made a commitment to one another. It's no longer just "mommy's girlfriend living with us". Now it's spouses for life.
Lately, I've been wondering how I would personally make a decision about gay marriage if I, myself, were not gay. What if I had no opportunity to talk with a gay person in a committed relationship and no past experience being committed to someone myself? I would still decide it is the right way to go. I would make this decision strictly based on the actions of same-sex marriage supporters and opponents. I don't think it would take me very long to come to the conclusion that I support gay marriage.
First of all, I have this little problem with tolerance. I am not tolerant of poor spelling. Sorry, but it seems to me that most of the opponents of gay marriage can't spell. You've seen the comments in various blogs. You've seen the protest signs. I mean, they seem to have mastered short three-letter words like "God" and "fag", and of course they have the four-letter words down like "hate" and "hell". But, if you are going to threaten a queer-loving, tree-hugging, devil-worshipping liberal don't address them as "The Mayer of Portland".
I'm not saying that opponents of gay marriage are ignorant, just that they are stupid.
Okay, so that's not a very good legal argument, but I never claimed to be a lawyer. Can I just say that a lot of the opponents say really stupid things? Karen Minnis, House Speaker, says that we have over 3,000 years of tradition in this country being violated by allowing same-sex marriage. This will be a very convincing argument in 1,000 more years, Karen.
But I am editorializing. Let's go straight to a couple sources and allow them to speak for themselves.
Exhibit One: Phone message from an opponent of gay marriage
Several of the county commissioners have received death threats because they took action to allow same-sex marriage licenses in Multnomah County. Here is a transcript of one of the messages:
"Hi, my name is Brandon Rogers. I hope you get AIDS from your f------ brother and before you're run out of the commission, you little b----. I hope your whole family is killed. I hope it with all my heart that you guys are gunned down and killed."
***
Mr. Rogers (ironic name) attacked the camera crew during his interview. Not a very beautiful day in HIS neighborhood.
Now, let's hear an argument from the other side.
Exhibit Two: Statement from Portland Mayor Vera Katz
"Marriage is the place where we create a home for children - and gay men and lesbian women have children and throughout history have had children. Those children have the right to be raised within the loving confines of a marriage, not within an ambiguously named civil union.
In a world where we worry that promiscuity is rampant, why would we not embrace those who are pledging fidelity?
In a world racked with instability, why would we not embrace those who seek permanence?
In a world where we worry about a lack of commitment, why would we not embrace those building a lifetime of devotion?"
***
Thanks, Vera. I love you. I would marry you if you weren't a woman.
If you have ever had the opportunity of seeing the LOVE shared by a same-sex couple standing in line for a marriage license or even seen one picture of a same-sex wedding ceremony, the decision is easy.
If you have ever seen or heard the HATE spewing forth from those opposed, well, it's just sad.
Court is adjourned.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Snapple Lids
Author's note: Warning! This entry has caused choking, loss of bladder control, and projectile vomiting among certain readers. Proceed at your own risk.
My Snapple lid is scaring me.
"Real Fact" #32 on my Snapple lid says "There are 1 million ants for every person in the world."
They should call this lid trivia Snapple Facts of Terror or, if they are very attached to their inappropriate use of quotation marks, "Facts of Terror".
According to Snapple, there are 1 million ants for each of us. Including me. Is this a threat, Snapple? Can you give me a little more detail? Are the ants going to be delivered to me at some point, or am I supposed to gather them myself? What will I do with 1 million ants? If I remember correctly, they can lift several times their body weight, so I may start a moving company or something with mine. Anyone out there already have their 1 million ants? What did you do with them? I need suggestions!
What happens if someone dies? If there were 1 million ants for that person, does ownership simply transfer to a newborn? Or are my million ants mine for all eternity? Are they exterminated when I die (inhumane!) or is there some sort of ant orphanage?
When people set ant traps, are they killing someone else's ants, or are we to assume the ants around our homes are actually ours? Are we even allowed to kill our million ants? If we kill them, will more come to take their place so that we will always have an even million?
Hey, Snapple, who counted? I'm not good with numbers, but if you claim there are a million ants for every person in the world, then there must be something like - god - 7 million ants?
You don't quote your source on the lid, so I don't even know how to follow up on this claim. I went to the website to see if there was any way I could request my ants be donated to someone else or sent to an animal sanctuary, but there was no useful information there.
Just telling me there are a million ants for me isn't sufficient, Snapple. I need to know how to process this information. Pardon me for sounding all project management-y but what are the next steps?
Anyone who has already received your million ants, please contact me immediately. I didn't know about this until this morning when I almost threw away my Snapple lid. Good lord, what if I had actually thrown it away without reading it? I think this information needs a better method of dissemination. If there are people who don't drink Snapple, they will never know about their million ants. It would be horrible to wake up with them on your doorstep if you weren't expecting them.
I'm going to go get another Snapple and see what else I can find out. I'll let you know.
My Snapple lid is scaring me.
"Real Fact" #32 on my Snapple lid says "There are 1 million ants for every person in the world."
They should call this lid trivia Snapple Facts of Terror or, if they are very attached to their inappropriate use of quotation marks, "Facts of Terror".
According to Snapple, there are 1 million ants for each of us. Including me. Is this a threat, Snapple? Can you give me a little more detail? Are the ants going to be delivered to me at some point, or am I supposed to gather them myself? What will I do with 1 million ants? If I remember correctly, they can lift several times their body weight, so I may start a moving company or something with mine. Anyone out there already have their 1 million ants? What did you do with them? I need suggestions!
What happens if someone dies? If there were 1 million ants for that person, does ownership simply transfer to a newborn? Or are my million ants mine for all eternity? Are they exterminated when I die (inhumane!) or is there some sort of ant orphanage?
When people set ant traps, are they killing someone else's ants, or are we to assume the ants around our homes are actually ours? Are we even allowed to kill our million ants? If we kill them, will more come to take their place so that we will always have an even million?
Hey, Snapple, who counted? I'm not good with numbers, but if you claim there are a million ants for every person in the world, then there must be something like - god - 7 million ants?
You don't quote your source on the lid, so I don't even know how to follow up on this claim. I went to the website to see if there was any way I could request my ants be donated to someone else or sent to an animal sanctuary, but there was no useful information there.
Just telling me there are a million ants for me isn't sufficient, Snapple. I need to know how to process this information. Pardon me for sounding all project management-y but what are the next steps?
Anyone who has already received your million ants, please contact me immediately. I didn't know about this until this morning when I almost threw away my Snapple lid. Good lord, what if I had actually thrown it away without reading it? I think this information needs a better method of dissemination. If there are people who don't drink Snapple, they will never know about their million ants. It would be horrible to wake up with them on your doorstep if you weren't expecting them.
I'm going to go get another Snapple and see what else I can find out. I'll let you know.
I Heart My Theater Critic
Steffen Silvis has been mean to me for a long time. He called my sketch comedy show "masturbatory" (like masturbation could somehow be a bad thing?) and claims that anyone who laughed at the production was obviously an outpatient at a mental hospital. His Portland theatre reviews are scathing, sarcastic, cruel and often unreasonable. I'm constantly angered by his bitchy rants. If he hates a show, I will probably love it. If he loves a show, there is no way I'm going to see it.
But, damn it, Steffen made me love him today. He reviewed a book on gay marriage, and I found his words to be informative, inspiring and wise. I'm sort of in shock over this sudden development. I find myself respecting him, not just because I agree with him for, perhaps, the first time EVER, but because he actually demonstrates human kindness. I am thinking of asking him to marry me, because I'm currently only engaged to three (or four?) other people. Calm down, religious right, I'm only joking.
Steffen Silvis has been mean to me for a long time. He called my sketch comedy show "masturbatory" (like masturbation could somehow be a bad thing?) and claims that anyone who laughed at the production was obviously an outpatient at a mental hospital. His Portland theatre reviews are scathing, sarcastic, cruel and often unreasonable. I'm constantly angered by his bitchy rants. If he hates a show, I will probably love it. If he loves a show, there is no way I'm going to see it.
But, damn it, Steffen made me love him today. He reviewed a book on gay marriage, and I found his words to be informative, inspiring and wise. I'm sort of in shock over this sudden development. I find myself respecting him, not just because I agree with him for, perhaps, the first time EVER, but because he actually demonstrates human kindness. I am thinking of asking him to marry me, because I'm currently only engaged to three (or four?) other people. Calm down, religious right, I'm only joking.
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