This is not what my mother had in mind when she called my little sister "babycakes." Speaking of little sister, for her 6th birthday she wanted a barbie doll cake. It was just a barbie doll standing through a cake dome decorated to resemble an insanely large and disproportionate-to-barbie's-frame dress. Oh well, at least it was good eats and little sis got to keep the doll.
THIS, on the other hand, does not qualify as a doll in a cake. OK, OK, I know it technically qualifies seeing as it is a plastic doll that is baked on its back (WTF, right?) into a pastry. But look at it! I mean, really look at it. It's reaching for freedom only to have its cries of pain go unheard from within the bowels of an industrial refrigerator! Baby-on-back cake is the most sinister and malevolent pastry I have ever seen. And I have seen some evil pastries, people. This abomination is neither cake nor plastic child, rather, a creation from the 9th circle of hell most foul.
And can we talk about what it means to serve (or should I say "unearth?") the Baby-on-back cake? The careful and meticulous carving-around-plastic-doll would be entrancing and ritualistic. One would hear ominus latin phrases chanted over and over by "people" in dark robes and veiled faces. The feasting activities revolved around this kind of medieval cruciation would probably best be studied through the eyes of vampires or modern-day Evangelicals. And the ostensible purpose of eating the cake is to reveal the inert, hollow plastic body of a nude baby.
It was a very productive weekend on Ventura Avenue. Robin and I spent a considerable amount of time prepping, painting, cleaning and shopping. Our master bath is now fully cleaned, caulked and painted, the hallway is sparkling white and amongst other various cleaning projects, I returned $27.20 worth of cans and bottles to Safeway. Just how many items is that, you ask? Allow me to show you:
Junk in the Trunk (four rows, two or three six packs high)
Backseat Barrage
Full-Frontal Front
Basking in a profound sense of home improvement accomplishery, I wanted to decompress with a Pinot Noir. With my $27, I went to Safeway where they had a terrific wine sale. I saw a row of Benton Lane '07s on sale for $18 (from $28). I didn't want to pay that much for an '07 necessarily, so I wondered if there were any '06s hiding in the back. The Holy Unicorn must have heard my plea because three bottles back sat a sparkling, velvety, luscious Benton Lane '06 Pinot Noir.
I returned home, decanted the wine and waited for Robin to finish the final coat of paint in our bathroom. We ended the night laughing at the Fox Sunday lineup, sipping a very fine Pinot and enjoying the visible reward of hard work.
I have long been searching for a way to cheer myself up after a rough day. Sometimes I pretend I'm talking to a unicorn, sometimes I pretend I am a unicorn, and sometimes I pretend to pretend to be being a unicorn. Unfortunately, if I come home with a slew of bad days behind me, the unicorns tire of my mopey attitude. They are, after all, the happiest and most bestest creatures ever. After years of searching, I finally found a way to happy myself up without bothering the unicorns so much:
2009 has crested the horizon and is currently burying us with its 2009-ness. Rather than look forward like everyone else seems to be doing, I will instead heave backwards and rekindle blog posts from 2008. The following will be a melange of paragraphs, a cacophony of sentences, a collage of wit that will surely stun and amaze you. Or if not, you can at least waste a few minutes of your life. Enjoy!
Dr. Lushington proceeded to take off his stethoscope and touch the cold tip to Mrs. Pennywell's blouse. When she shrieked and pushed the good doctor off of her breast, Dr. Lushington tried his best to calm her down, "Mishus Penwel, I'm a profeshnul and I need to take ur breth rate". Mrs. Pennywell was unconvinced that Dr. Lushington's firm grab on her breast with his other hand was an attempt to get anything other than a cheap thrill, so she stormed out of the room.
As irritated as I can be, I take comfort (yes, comfort!) in the fact that this is a really good learning process for me. As someone who has a tendency to get emotionally invested and reactive to stimuli ("I love and want THAT house, NOW"), I know that no matter how emotionally invested I get will guarantee anything other than heartburn and indigestion. And so far, science hasn't invented the super strength Pepto that can quell House Hunting Indigestion. I am uncharacteristically calm today. In most cases, even when I know there is nothing I can do, I'm still hacked off and want something to blame. But in hunting for houses, that attitude will only take me down a spiral of irritation, ending in my eventual insanity. The best we can do is keep looking, keep offering, and someday, someway, our huge pile of money will transform into our first home.
I awoke Sunday morning to Robin's voice. "Oh my GOD," he said while leaning off the bed and looking outside. Something about the white glow bathing our room suggested to me that a monumental event had occurred. What could it be? A new billboard sign constructed overnight? A unicorn? A nuclear holocaust? (GASP!!) It must be SNOW!!! I peered over the window ledge to see that my suspicions were confirmed. It wasn't just snowing; it was dumping. I consider myself to be up on the latest weather affecting our lovely state, so you can imagine my surprise when I leaned out to see this unbelievable sight when just the night before, the forecast foretold of 37 degrees and rain. It was nowhere near 37 degrees. I was so dumbfounded that I went to our trusty computer to take a look at what the reports were saying (after the tubes warmed up of course). It was actually 27 degrees and the snow had no plans on letting up.
And can I just ask? Who the hell answers their phone while dropping a load? Who? Unless you have spectacular ass muscles that could pinch off Niagra Falls like me, you should not be picking up your phone. The doody is going to come out. If you know these people, please inform them that the worst time to answer your phone is in times like these. Other times to be included: during a symphony, during a wedding, or during a funeral. There are probably other inappropriate times but all I have to say is that if I call you and I hear the distinct splashes of your waste plunging into a toilet bowl, you can bet I'm going to hang up. Send me to voice mail and call me back when you're done taking your nasty shit! Dude!
Just what makes a country great? And a stretch further, what makes one the greatest? In my opinion, it is not economic might or the powerful war machine. It is that country's ability to uphold each of its citizens' rights and encourage individual freedom. It is that country's ability to adhere to founding principles of justice and equality, regardless of differences in race or culture. I think that in times such as these, when all a minority group wants is equal treatment under the law, the problem doesn't lie with their request. The problem lies in the fact that their basic request exposes the blatant and abhorrent discrimination people take for granted. It is much easier to fight for the way something "has always been" than to open oneself to change. A country stagnated by popular opinion and bloated on a false sense of security is not a great one, it is a deluded one.
The barrage of invitations overwhelms me every day. Each morning, my mailbox is absolutely quivering with a slew of new pointless Facebook activities I could add. Every time one of my "friends" adds something super life-changing, the application demands that they invite their "friends" which means me. I repeatedly and seziurously* click "ignore" like a blind man searching for the meaning in his life, but they just keep coming. Eager programmers with far too much time on their hands and a thirst for money are cranking out the applications every day. What's next? The Hunter S. Thompson application where subscribers recruit unsuspecting victims with swarms of bats and ether? The Gravedigger application where new members are tasked with routine cemetery maintenance? The Captain Planet application where subscribers win points for empowering others with the five elements (yes I said five; Heart is totally an element). I'm over this. If I keep going on, no doubt one of you is going to put on your filthy programmer hat and make serious money off one of these suggestions**.
*Word I think should exist but doesn't due to the constraints of syntax and the demise of our society brought on by alcoholism and hot gay sex.
**I get 20% if you do.
For those of you who still keep up with my ramblings, you may have noticed a newcomer in the comments section. Rest assured that April does indeed exist and is in no way a desperate fabrication of mine created to make you think more people read this blog. April is a delicate flower of poise and grace but I wouldn't get into a fight with her because of a certain "colored" history.
I feel like the Wicked Witch of the East. I was just minding my own business, lording over hoards of frightened munchkins, contemplating how many I would eat for lunch, when KA-BAM!!! A giant, 1300+ square foot house off 50th and Donald surrounded by gorgeous oak trees and located in the most perfectneighborhood ever fell on top of me.
Of course, the above fantasy is not at all how this will shake down (crazy, I know!); It'll be much nastier. Because you see, a proxy fight just isn't a proxy fight without some blood-thirsty, $600/hour attorneys on your side. It just isn't! How sexy is this going to be?! Microsoft attorneys will be like, "Yeah. Yeah we wanna take you over. You like that don't ya?" and the Yahoo sluts will be all, "Ooh, but you're so big Microsoft! We don't think we can take it!" Then Microsoft will flex and be like, "You like my buyout options don't ya? You like it when I give you stock options, don't ya?", and Yahoo will bend over and be all, "Oh yeah! Buy me out! BUY IT ALL OUT!"
So if plagiarism exists on a level as fundamental as DNA, how can we even begin to deal with the written word? All the words in this blog and all the words I have ever used weren't invented by me. They were invented by someone else long ago. It's just fortunate that the creator of English didn't have the good sense to copyright all their words. Otherwise we wouldn't speak at all for fear of being sued for copyright infringement. Even though I sat for countless hours at my computer typing paper after paper in college, each one was plagiarized. I borrowed words, used thesauruses, even copied whole sections of a draft and moved them to where they would fit more appropriately!
There is a measure of beauty, a standard if you will, to which all other art is compared. I call this standard "Absolute Beauty." If you remember back to 7th Grade science class, Absolute Zero is the temperature at which all molecular movement stops. Similarly, Absolute Beauty is the measure of a piece so profound that no other work will ever be able to compare. The experience of Absolute Beauty is marked by a loss of time, as though everything were standing still, and a deep sense of connectedness and oneness with the universe. So far, science has failed in achieving the modest task of reaching Absolute Zero, but art has not. Art has found its Absolute and words cannot do justice to what you will surely agree is the most stunning display of artistic genius ever in the history of time. As with all great discoveries, these great works of art were found unexpectedly and in an unlikely place - Jerry's Home Improvement Center. Eat your heart out, Louvre:
The Efficient German Moving Model:
1. Find place to move 2. Mach schnell! 3. Lay out time line and indicate when things must be ready to move. 4. Arrange for change of mail and cable. 5. SCHNELL! 6. Call bank, loan companies, family, friends and others who need your new address. 7. Email and call your friends to help on moving day. Promise pizza and beer even if there won't be any. Reward those who wonder where their pizza and beer is with a quick kick in the gut. No time for sympathy! 8. Goodwill everything you don't need. This is not the time for sentimentality or remorse! If you do not use it any longer, it is of no use to you! Mach schnell! 9. Box absolutely everything possible in the weeks that precede the move. The night before, box up everything else. 10. MACH. SCHNELL. 11. On moving day, have your boxes properly labeled with what area of the new house you want them in along with "light" or "heavy." Anything not labeled with a weight is to be considered of medium weight that the average human can carry! If you cannot carry it, you are not average and therefore may be disposed of! 12. Listen to your commanding officers! If they request your help moving or unpacking something, do not hesitate! The system will collapse if you take ONE SECOND to contemplate your action!
Don't get me wrong, I understand what the student was trying to say. But if you're going to call yourself a graduate student, at least try and use words correctly. Or if not, go big and use a word that has absolutely no relevance but sounds cool. For instance, they could have said, "I am confident the agenda will be reviewed with laconic mellifluousness."
When mom and dad arrived, they found Satan reading The Hardy Boys: The Search for the Snow Leopard silently in his room. Noticing the new walls, mom said quizzically, "Honey? Why do you have newspaper on your walls?" Satan brightened up and walked excitedly to the nearest wall. "Waddya think? Cool, huh? I thought my walls could use an extra kick!" Satan waited for the inevitable line of questions, the probing, and the eventual persecution once he tearfully explained the real reason for the papered wall. Instead, his parents just gave each other a look and didn't seem to mind. His dad shrugged, "Well, it's something, I'll give you that," and they walked out of the room.
But enough with all that. It's great that the Kentucky Colonels have broadened their organization to include women, black people and popes, but let's cut the shit. The real purpose of being a colonel is to behave in the manner I described above - to watch people tend my crops and say "suh" to everyone. For this weekend, that is the stereotype from which I will draw my mannerisms and verbiage.
Maybe the 200th post is about something after all. If I stand for anything, it is the wish that each person can freely express themselves, THEIR LOVE INCLUDED, provided such expression doesn't bring harm to others. And don't try to play the "mental harm" card when you see two dudes necking. If you're mentally hurt by two people in love, you have way, waaaaayyyy more issues than I can even go into. It's called therapy and it totally works.
So, when someone says, "I know, right?," what they are doing is validating with personal knowledge and adding a half-assed objective validation based on what they think should be objective knowledge. "Dude. Croissants are the best invention ever!," says a well-informed gentleman to his friend who replies, "I know, right?" Both of them agree that croissants are the best invention ever, but frankly, it should be objective FACT that croissants are the best invention ever. However, croissants have not yet been objectively proven to be the best invention ever, and because the well-informed gentlemen and his friend wouldn't want to come off as pretentiously all-knowing (right though they are), they use "I know, right?," to soften the blow.
This past weekend, we celebrated our nation's liberation from those sissy Brits by camping, drinking, swimming and overall shenanniganing in the woods. We were joined by Eric, Chandra and Bryan on Friday afternoon and they stayed through Saturday afternoon. Saturday night, however, was when the party really got started. And by "really got started," I mean we all got naked around the fire and played a rousing game of Slap Ass and had what was indeed a Sexy Party. Both Sara and I forgot our cribbage board, which could have ended in a vicious smiting by the hands of the Cribbage Gods, but instead we drew a nice board in the CLOG and thus appeased their unbridled aggression.
18. Have you ever hit a parked car and failed to leave a note?
If by "parked car" you mean "child" and by "leave a note" you mean "stuffed their lifeless body into my trunk with considerable difficulty," then no I haven't failed.
22. Do you believe in the death sentence?
Well, plenty of people have said "I'm gonna KILL YOU," and so far it hasn't happened, so no. I don't believe in it.
23. Do you believe in Santa?
You mean that bloated, half-drunk, red-nosed dude who wears a ridiculous outfit and talks to reindeer? We just call him Grandpa.
I've all but given up hope that the world will ever care about grammar as much as I do. It's all I can do to keep from flipping out every time someone uses "too" instead of "to." But this, THIS is just blatant disregard for everything sane and pure in this world.
Our dear friend and his roommate had a housewarming party last weekend. I celebrated by taking a burning log out of the fire and setting it on the couch to see what would happen. When all it did was melt the polyester material and create an unbearable odor, I grated my teeth in frustration. I grabbed another flaming log to set on the couch, but first I doused the couch in lighter fluid and ammonia. The results were much more entertaining. The hazmat teams had to fumigate the surrounding five blocks!
Sadly, another week passed and seen the close of Paris Fashion Week. I don't know why I like fashion as much as I do, particularly considering the fact that I'll never pay that much for clothing, but I find it fascinating as an art form. It is therefore no wonder that I'm drawn to artists whose clothes are completely unwearable, impractical and outrageous. I enjoy the artists who aren't trying to actually sell their clothes, but rather present some kind of experience. Of course, there are all sorts of art and all sorts of wearable collections that one can easily argue are presenting an experience. For me, however, if I'm not shocked, I get bored very quickly. But for all the glamour and colour and loveliness that are the European designers best offerings, none of them can compare to the one true fashion icon: Queen Elizabeth. 'Cuz bitch knew how to rock a collar.
Robin and I were on one of our excursions to Costco in the end of August this year. We walked through the entrance, past the electronics and my eyes set upon a sight so horrifying, so inappropriate, so vile that I immediately gagged. Gleaming before me, fifty feet away, was a display of LED Christmas trees, er holiday trees, blinking and gyrating atop metal shelves. One was all white while the others were various colors. Each more offensive than the last, they all had their own special way of evoking from me cringes of disgust.
So there you have it. Three weeks ago I'm in surgery for Meckel's Diverticulum and this Thursday, I'll be getting all four of my wisdom teeth out. I'm very thankful to be working in a flexible environment and have enough time off saved up to deal with all this craziness. I'll even have enough vacation time to take the last two weeks of December off. So wish me luck and sacrifice a goat in the hopes that the rest of my body parts decide to stick around for a bit longer.
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