Thursday, February 14. 2008
Press Conference
Good Evening, and thank you all for coming today.
I'd like to read a prepared statement, and then we'll have a brief question and answer period. This is my Press Secretary, Mr. Munns, and to my right is my Highland Spiritual Advisor, Dear Roommate. Even though we're no longer roommates, and he's not very spiritual. He's still a Highlander. I digress.
Ahem.
I'll now take some questions.
"Auntie Willow, is it true that you have been positively identified as the third person in the room on the new Amy Winehouse Drunken Sex-and-Drug orgy tape just released?"
THIS Press Conference IS OVER.
I'd like to read a prepared statement, and then we'll have a brief question and answer period. This is my Press Secretary, Mr. Munns, and to my right is my Highland Spiritual Advisor, Dear Roommate. Even though we're no longer roommates, and he's not very spiritual. He's still a Highlander. I digress.
Ahem.
First, I would like to thank you for your concern and prayers during the past 18 months.
The difficult transition from Librarian to overstressed corporate knowledge drone has been fraught with difficulty on several fronts.
The replenished bank account has brought with it an increase in caloric intake. Coupled with the sedentary work environment of no longer having to chase homeless people or break up sexual liaisons in the public areas of the library, the ensuing battle with weight has been at best, a draw.
Having my own apartment now, with a washer and dryer is fabulous, although to make myself feel more at home I have been leaving piles of dirty lingerie on the floor of my bedroom.
My new duties as Queen of the Amazons can be tiring, but the work on behalf of my people is ultimately rewarding in a spiritual sense.
As you have no doubt heard the rumors, I will confirm that I am now the proud owner of a Black Harley-Davidson Motorcycle, and have successfully made the transition to tough biker chick.
To accommodate safety concerns about riding the motorcycle, I have had to swap out my beloved wooden rulers for a black riding crop. Although I miss my rulers on a day to day basis, I felt the danger of having one break and stab me with splinters in case of an accident is too great. Therefore I made the switch to a more flexible instrument of enforcing discipline. To my long-time fans I can only say that I'm still the same person, I just have a slightly longer reach with my new "Crop of Integrity".
Indeed, I beg you to see that although there have been many changes on the surface; the overall themes, attitude and desire to enforce Library Discipline are all the same.
On the one hand I no longer have homeless minions fishing change out of the library fountain and bringing me shots of their Thunderbird wine, I now have Paolo, my Brazilian Cabana Boy bringing me fresh Martinis as needed. I no longer have access to the Library's extensive section on psychology and how to abuse the human consciousness; I have been able to purchase parts to bring my Killer Robot to near completion.
I'm still the same person. Beating Republicans still makes me smile. The coffee is still as sweet, and the sex is just as casual.
I ask you to remember this as I ride through your town pepper-spraying Conservative Party County Chairmen. Don't forget to take the time to appreciate a sobbing Fox News pundit as they run naked and handcuffed through the streets. My Handiwork is there to keep YOU safe!
After all, while some think that I do these things for fun, remember, I do them for all of you, My Special Dear Sweet Ones.
I'll now take some questions.
"Auntie Willow, is it true that you have been positively identified as the third person in the room on the new Amy Winehouse Drunken Sex-and-Drug orgy tape just released?"
THIS Press Conference IS OVER.
Thursday, June 7. 2007
Help us Paris: Save Scooter
Well Dearies, I've been worried about your Uncle Scooter.
As I reported to you yesterday, Uncle Scooter has to go to the "Big House" after an eensie little misunderstanding about whether or not it is a felony to lie to the G-Men (That's the FBI, dear ones!).
Why is it they always take the good ones away? I mean, he had a FAMILY to support: Us! Without his firm hand guiding the wheel, I don't know that the Vice President's office will be nearly as effective! I mean just look at all the bad things that have happened since: Sanjaya voted off American Idol, The TB Guy, and something or other over someplace where we're blowing stuff up. I mean Uncle Dick was so sad over his buddy Scooter's problems he shot some old guy in the face! And was forced to endure a humiliating apology from said Old Guy, who was sorry for all the problems he'd caused! If Scooter was still on top of making Uncle Dick's whims reality, that old fart would have been whacked before he got out the final y in "I'm Sorry!" Now Uncle Dick's Chief Of Staff doesn't even have the brains to finish off a septuagenarian lawyer. Obviously, when Dick shoots someone, they are supposed to DIE. Not stagger around saying "I'm Sorry!" It's unseemly.
But I was afraid that there was nothing to do about it. Uncle Scooter was bound for Jail. Uncle George was so bummed out about it that people were told not to mention Scooter in the White House. Although to tell you the truth, I personally don't believe this. I mean, President Uncle George has "Characteristics." Does sticking his head in the sand really sound like something a man with Characteristics would do?
Then it happened: Paris Hilton was set free from Jail! That's right, she was let out early for (reports vary) good behaviour, flawless skin-care regimen (very important for ex-cons!) and either a) A funny little rash OR b) being psychologically bummed. It all depends on whose paid source inside the Jail you ask. I know it's confusing, but things like that happen all the time. For example, when she first went in, there was a question as to whether or not she had a full "Body Cavity Search."
So now is the time for us to help your Uncle Scooter, kids. Normally, of course, he never thinks of himself first. But in this instance, we need to make SURE that he does what's right for him. By which I mean he must first contract an embarrassing skin (and possibly social) disease, then get all mopey and frowny-faced about it. If he shows up for HIS body-cavity search with an odd little rash and a tear in his eye, then I just KNOW those meanies with the stupid ole' Justice Department (Hey! Why didn't Uncle Alberto Help Him? Or did he not get the e-mail about it?) would let him go home!
The only question is: who could help him? Who's life is so hard, it's guaranteed to make him cry? Who has a social disease and odd skin rash? Who knows all about the big house, making shivs out of acne cream bottles, and understands what it's like to be devastatingly beautiful?
I don't know. But maybe Paris could help him.
As I reported to you yesterday, Uncle Scooter has to go to the "Big House" after an eensie little misunderstanding about whether or not it is a felony to lie to the G-Men (That's the FBI, dear ones!).
Why is it they always take the good ones away? I mean, he had a FAMILY to support: Us! Without his firm hand guiding the wheel, I don't know that the Vice President's office will be nearly as effective! I mean just look at all the bad things that have happened since: Sanjaya voted off American Idol, The TB Guy, and something or other over someplace where we're blowing stuff up. I mean Uncle Dick was so sad over his buddy Scooter's problems he shot some old guy in the face! And was forced to endure a humiliating apology from said Old Guy, who was sorry for all the problems he'd caused! If Scooter was still on top of making Uncle Dick's whims reality, that old fart would have been whacked before he got out the final y in "I'm Sorry!" Now Uncle Dick's Chief Of Staff doesn't even have the brains to finish off a septuagenarian lawyer. Obviously, when Dick shoots someone, they are supposed to DIE. Not stagger around saying "I'm Sorry!" It's unseemly.
But I was afraid that there was nothing to do about it. Uncle Scooter was bound for Jail. Uncle George was so bummed out about it that people were told not to mention Scooter in the White House. Although to tell you the truth, I personally don't believe this. I mean, President Uncle George has "Characteristics." Does sticking his head in the sand really sound like something a man with Characteristics would do?
Then it happened: Paris Hilton was set free from Jail! That's right, she was let out early for (reports vary) good behaviour, flawless skin-care regimen (very important for ex-cons!) and either a) A funny little rash OR b) being psychologically bummed. It all depends on whose paid source inside the Jail you ask. I know it's confusing, but things like that happen all the time. For example, when she first went in, there was a question as to whether or not she had a full "Body Cavity Search."
So now is the time for us to help your Uncle Scooter, kids. Normally, of course, he never thinks of himself first. But in this instance, we need to make SURE that he does what's right for him. By which I mean he must first contract an embarrassing skin (and possibly social) disease, then get all mopey and frowny-faced about it. If he shows up for HIS body-cavity search with an odd little rash and a tear in his eye, then I just KNOW those meanies with the stupid ole' Justice Department (Hey! Why didn't Uncle Alberto Help Him? Or did he not get the e-mail about it?) would let him go home!
The only question is: who could help him? Who's life is so hard, it's guaranteed to make him cry? Who has a social disease and odd skin rash? Who knows all about the big house, making shivs out of acne cream bottles, and understands what it's like to be devastatingly beautiful?
I don't know. But maybe Paris could help him.
Tuesday, June 5. 2007
Hearse
So Dearies, I'm sitting at my computer (as always) waiting on an SQL Query to execute (as always).
Still, with my new salary I don't have to worry anymore when I break a ruler (or five), I can just go out and buy a new one!
But, as I stare fuzzily at the thousands of lines of computer code that I'm executing, waiting the hours it will take to prove my genius (once again) to the world, my thoughts will inevitably wander.
I think about your poor Uncle George, that mean old bird making an editorial statement on his blazer!. And him wiping it off with his fingers, the poor little guy.
Or poor Scooter, crying alone in jail without your Uncle Dick to keep him company. Don't worry too much, though, if anyone knows how to shank someone, it's a friend of your Uncle Dick!
No, sometimes it's just too tiring to keep up with your various Uncles as they pillage, plunder and generally behave like boys. I swear it would give me a headache if they all weren't so darned adorable!
But I'm not going to think about that tonight. Instead, I'm going to think about something different: a Hearse.
See Dear Ones, I recently made a trip to the city of my childhood (not much has changed since I'm only 23!).
A small mid-southern city of about 175,000 people, whose name rhymes with "Little Rock, Arkansas", I thought I knew the city very well. A happy place, where neighbors will only occasionally wander over to urinate on your bushes, (but that was usually in retaliation for Darling Roommates nightly "watering" escapades), it is considered by most to be idyllic, depending on whether or not there is a lot of gang activity that week.
And yet, just beneath the gentle façade, there lurked MURDER.
No, no Dearies, stop crying! Auntie didn't mean to scare you! I just had a flashback to that City Confidential series on A & E. They're always doing that!
No, seriously. This city has always been slow paced. I think another word might be "Bland, Boring, Vanilla". Ok, that's three words. But you get the point.
So imagine my surprise when I met someone that drove a Hearse! That's right, one of those cars used to haul caskets around. In the US, that would be considered "odd" or "creepy". And I must tell you, it was scary! I only rode around in it for about 5 or so Hours before I started getting uncomfortable! (maybe it was the lumbar support in the front seat. Or that I needed to pee. I might have to ride around in it another 5 or so hours to be sure!).
Now, this is one of those little societal rules that DOES NOT have a law forbidding it. It's just that, well, nobody does it!
And my beloved ex-home is not THAT big of a town! If you see an unusual car, and the person drives it a fair amount, trust me, you'll keep bumping into it on the streets! (Hopefully not literally. I mean, that could raise insurance rates!).
So, you can imagine that after spending 25 or so of my 23 years on this planet there, I was shocked to find that someone drove a hearse. Then I find out there's not one person with a hearse: there are Three!
I found out because I met a SECOND person who drives a Hearse. To be sure, her hearse needs an eensie paint-job (much like my own beloved Oldsmobile. It's a collector's item, doncha know!). But it is a magnificent vehicle, and it's only about one coat of wax away from shiny black perfection.
So I've decided: I'm going to meet everyone in Little Rock who drives a Hearse (not in the funeral home business). By my count, that leaves just one person. His name is Skullcrusher.
Now first off, let me just say that he is the first person that I have heard of named Skullcrusher. Let me also say that I have never actually met him. Here are all of the facts that I know about Mr. Skullcrusher (no Dearies, he's not Uncle Skullcrusher. At least not yet!).
1. He drives a Hearse.
2. His name is Skullcrusher.
So I think you can safely assume that I haven't invited him to the Ice-Cream Social I was thinking about throwing. (I was going to serve Vanilla. I'm not sure what Mr. Skullcrusher would want. Gothberry Crunch? Or, I shudder to think, the "Devil's Stripe": Neapolitan! Come on, Chocolate, Vanilla and Strawberry in the same Container? That's what they call Miscegenation! And it's unnatural).
So I'm not sure how to meet him, to find out the various answers to the many questions that have arisen about him. Let's face it, the man drives a Hearse, he's probably got some interesting stories to tell. Is he a Republican? Does he go to Sunday School? Is he a Vegan? I have many more questions than answers.
So, I made stuff up. It's ok to do that, sometimes. What follows is my Latte-Love (my soon to be up dating website) profile of Mr. SkullCrusher.
On second thought, I might just see if he wants to have a bowl of ice cream. If he'll watch Emma Thompson's version of Pride and Prejudice, I just might even be persuaded to buy Neapolitan for the occasion!
Still, with my new salary I don't have to worry anymore when I break a ruler (or five), I can just go out and buy a new one!
But, as I stare fuzzily at the thousands of lines of computer code that I'm executing, waiting the hours it will take to prove my genius (once again) to the world, my thoughts will inevitably wander.
I think about your poor Uncle George, that mean old bird making an editorial statement on his blazer!. And him wiping it off with his fingers, the poor little guy.
Or poor Scooter, crying alone in jail without your Uncle Dick to keep him company. Don't worry too much, though, if anyone knows how to shank someone, it's a friend of your Uncle Dick!
No, sometimes it's just too tiring to keep up with your various Uncles as they pillage, plunder and generally behave like boys. I swear it would give me a headache if they all weren't so darned adorable!
But I'm not going to think about that tonight. Instead, I'm going to think about something different: a Hearse.
See Dear Ones, I recently made a trip to the city of my childhood (not much has changed since I'm only 23!).
A small mid-southern city of about 175,000 people, whose name rhymes with "Little Rock, Arkansas", I thought I knew the city very well. A happy place, where neighbors will only occasionally wander over to urinate on your bushes, (but that was usually in retaliation for Darling Roommates nightly "watering" escapades), it is considered by most to be idyllic, depending on whether or not there is a lot of gang activity that week.
And yet, just beneath the gentle façade, there lurked MURDER.
No, no Dearies, stop crying! Auntie didn't mean to scare you! I just had a flashback to that City Confidential series on A & E. They're always doing that!
No, seriously. This city has always been slow paced. I think another word might be "Bland, Boring, Vanilla". Ok, that's three words. But you get the point.
So imagine my surprise when I met someone that drove a Hearse! That's right, one of those cars used to haul caskets around. In the US, that would be considered "odd" or "creepy". And I must tell you, it was scary! I only rode around in it for about 5 or so Hours before I started getting uncomfortable! (maybe it was the lumbar support in the front seat. Or that I needed to pee. I might have to ride around in it another 5 or so hours to be sure!).
Now, this is one of those little societal rules that DOES NOT have a law forbidding it. It's just that, well, nobody does it!
And my beloved ex-home is not THAT big of a town! If you see an unusual car, and the person drives it a fair amount, trust me, you'll keep bumping into it on the streets! (Hopefully not literally. I mean, that could raise insurance rates!).
So, you can imagine that after spending 25 or so of my 23 years on this planet there, I was shocked to find that someone drove a hearse. Then I find out there's not one person with a hearse: there are Three!
I found out because I met a SECOND person who drives a Hearse. To be sure, her hearse needs an eensie paint-job (much like my own beloved Oldsmobile. It's a collector's item, doncha know!). But it is a magnificent vehicle, and it's only about one coat of wax away from shiny black perfection.
So I've decided: I'm going to meet everyone in Little Rock who drives a Hearse (not in the funeral home business). By my count, that leaves just one person. His name is Skullcrusher.
Now first off, let me just say that he is the first person that I have heard of named Skullcrusher. Let me also say that I have never actually met him. Here are all of the facts that I know about Mr. Skullcrusher (no Dearies, he's not Uncle Skullcrusher. At least not yet!).
1. He drives a Hearse.
2. His name is Skullcrusher.
So I think you can safely assume that I haven't invited him to the Ice-Cream Social I was thinking about throwing. (I was going to serve Vanilla. I'm not sure what Mr. Skullcrusher would want. Gothberry Crunch? Or, I shudder to think, the "Devil's Stripe": Neapolitan! Come on, Chocolate, Vanilla and Strawberry in the same Container? That's what they call Miscegenation! And it's unnatural).
So I'm not sure how to meet him, to find out the various answers to the many questions that have arisen about him. Let's face it, the man drives a Hearse, he's probably got some interesting stories to tell. Is he a Republican? Does he go to Sunday School? Is he a Vegan? I have many more questions than answers.
So, I made stuff up. It's ok to do that, sometimes. What follows is my Latte-Love (my soon to be up dating website) profile of Mr. SkullCrusher.
Name: SkullCrusherWow! Quite a catch! And although he's in a relationship, he was thinking about leaving because she just doesn't like to watch Victorian Romance movies with him! Sensitive AND caring.
Occupation: Florist
Turn Ons: Puppies. Walks on the Beach. Lynne Cheney (wife of US Vice-President Dick Cheney. I LOVE her novels!)
Turn Offs: Country and Western. Any movie where the guy doesn't exhibit sensitivity. Tattoos of Superheroes.
Hobbies: Arranging flowers is my life, not just my job!
Quote: I would never leave the toilet-seat up after I'm done
On second thought, I might just see if he wants to have a bowl of ice cream. If he'll watch Emma Thompson's version of Pride and Prejudice, I just might even be persuaded to buy Neapolitan for the occasion!
Wednesday, May 30. 2007
Rock and Roll
Well Dearies, I had a wonderful time this weekend.
I went to a Rocky-Roll show, which I know you kids just love that kind of music. To be honest with you, it was just an eensie bit loud, and I couldn't really make out the words, but I'm sure that the nice young man on the stage with the fake blood and chainsaw was singing about something nice.
Just one question, and perhaps you kids can answer this for your Auntie, do all Rock shows have chainsaws and fake blood? I've only ever been to two, the one this weekend and one a while ago for some gentleman named Osborne (can't remember his first name). He didn't have a chainsaw, but he did bite the head off a small animal, though I assumed he was just hungry.
That's why I brought some granola bars to this show, because if they got hungry I thought they might want something a little healthier than a bat-head to snack on. Plus they have fiber, and although I hate to do it, the grunting made me think the poor dear was a little (ahem) constipated. Anyway, it was a fantastic time, I think; I don't quite remember all of it. This nice gentlemen named Snake bought me a club-soda, then things got a little hazy. When I woke up the next morning, Snake was whimpering to be unbound. This happens sometimes, dears. Apparently Snake wanted to play some "Grown-Up Games", and thought he would give me something called a Roofie to help lower my inhibitions. Next time he should really check with your Auntie first, because A) I don't have that many inhibitions and B) he should really find out what kind of games I play with Grown-ups. All I know is apparently, thanks to him, I wasn't coherent enough to find out his "Safe-Word", which is not something you kids need to worry about. Snake will remember that next time, though. After all, he has that lengthy hospital stay to think about it.
I went to a Rocky-Roll show, which I know you kids just love that kind of music. To be honest with you, it was just an eensie bit loud, and I couldn't really make out the words, but I'm sure that the nice young man on the stage with the fake blood and chainsaw was singing about something nice.
Just one question, and perhaps you kids can answer this for your Auntie, do all Rock shows have chainsaws and fake blood? I've only ever been to two, the one this weekend and one a while ago for some gentleman named Osborne (can't remember his first name). He didn't have a chainsaw, but he did bite the head off a small animal, though I assumed he was just hungry.
That's why I brought some granola bars to this show, because if they got hungry I thought they might want something a little healthier than a bat-head to snack on. Plus they have fiber, and although I hate to do it, the grunting made me think the poor dear was a little (ahem) constipated. Anyway, it was a fantastic time, I think; I don't quite remember all of it. This nice gentlemen named Snake bought me a club-soda, then things got a little hazy. When I woke up the next morning, Snake was whimpering to be unbound. This happens sometimes, dears. Apparently Snake wanted to play some "Grown-Up Games", and thought he would give me something called a Roofie to help lower my inhibitions. Next time he should really check with your Auntie first, because A) I don't have that many inhibitions and B) he should really find out what kind of games I play with Grown-ups. All I know is apparently, thanks to him, I wasn't coherent enough to find out his "Safe-Word", which is not something you kids need to worry about. Snake will remember that next time, though. After all, he has that lengthy hospital stay to think about it.
Friday, May 18. 2007
God Needs You To Send Me Money!
Well Dearies, I'm sorry.
Auntie has a giant project (Librarians didn't have projects) that is going to be taking up massive amounts of my free time for the next two months. It's kind of funny, if I work insane amounts in the next two months then the last year will have been a smashing success. If not, then, well, it was just a smashing success, but not as smashing as it would be if the success were smashinger due to workaholic exhaustion.
See Dears? The grown up world isn't THAT terribly complicated.
So, I'm afraid that I will be forced to post just once a week. I'm thinking Friday Mornings, so that the Friday magic will imbue the post with some extra-specialness, the kind of magic that will make your cereal sweeter and your cartoons brighter on Saturday morning!
But then again, I don't know that this Saturday will be that for you. You see, something very bad happened. Your Uncle Jerry is dead. That's Jerry Falwell. Your Other very spiritual Uncle Jerry, Jerry Garcia, passed away several years ago (and he was so healthy! None of us saw THAT one coming).
But that's not the worst part. See, the worst part is that I'm basically to blame for Uncle Jerry (Falwell) passing on.
It's kind of a long story, but we have a little time, and I missed you so much! So I'll take a minute out to tell you about it.
See, God needs cash. Apparently lots of it. Because every time I turn on my TV, some man in a polyester suit with more hair-products than I have is asking me to give some money because God needs it. I'm not sure what he's doing with all this cash, but I can imagine that running the Universe is quite expensive, and the "Suggested Donation $5" box at the entrance to Heaven hasn't been quite pulling in enough of late. Probably because God loves poor people so much, and Uncle George decided to make a lot more of them here to make God smile (or is that smirk? I don't know).
But the long and the short of it is that God needs cash. Desperately.
Well, apparently a couple of years ago, he hit upon a grand idea: Kill Oral Roberts.
Now be nice. See, God knew how much we loved Oral, so he knew that we would pony up the 8 million dollars (American mind you, not Canadian) to keep Oral with us. And contrary to popular belief, the fund to raise 16 million to get God to take Oral Roberts wasn’t successful, 'cause God didn't start it.
So anyway, the Big G (only friends get to call him that, though) got Oral to raise 9.1 million in 3 months back in 1987. But gosh, that was 20 years ago (that means I would have been 3, Dears). Given inflation, and how much it costs to fill the tank on the ole' GodMobile (a Cadillac Escalade upholstered in the fur of Baby Harp Seals, doncha'know) well, let's just say the Big Guys running a little short on Funds.
So, he figures "Hey, lightning always strikes twice, right? I'll just do the same thing again."
Which brings us to Jerry Falwell. You must understand, Dear Ones, that God is VERY SERIOUS about this money thing. I mean, DEADLY Serious.
I didn't realize how serious when he first told me to start hitting you guys up for cash. As a matter of fact, I used a response that was not a very polite one. And it included a bad word, which apparently is one that the Bible told me not to use (I guess. I mean, that's what he told me when he expressed his displeasure). Anyway, After he said not to talk to him like that, and I was sweeping the last of the locusts off my apartment balcony, I heard the horrible news: Jerry Falwell had died!
Now people have mixed feelings about this poor man's passing. Some people are really sad, some people are really indifferent, and some people are really stocking up on Gatorade so that they can make "wee-wee" on his grave.
I have a different take on it: I get the message, big guy.
See, the Big G knew that after telling me to raise money, a little thing like a rain of frogs wouldn't be enough to make me change my mind when I told him to "buzz off". But by taking one so young and pure as Mr. Falwell, well, like I said, "point taken".
A few people have asked me as I embarked on this mission "Auntie, why didn't God just ask Uncle Jerry to raise the money". That's a good question, although asking such questions of the almighty is a great way to ensure that your buns will roast in H-E-Double-Toothpicks. But the answer is twofold: One, the Guy upstairs moves in mysterious ways; and TWO, Falwell lacked the serious street cred in the rap community that your Dear Auntie has.
So, here we are. The boils on my behind are pretty much gone, and I'm asking you kids to tell your parents to send me a miserable pittance. I can't ask for a paltry 8 million like Uncle Oral did, because of inflation, you know. So, through a combination of crappy merchandise sales and direct donations, we just need to have Auntie's bank account (you'll have one of your own, someday) bumped up to around 12.8 million by October, or else I'll be saying "Hi" to Uncle Jerry. But we only have to raise the difference between my current balance and 12.8 million. Let's see, 12.8 minus fifty dollars means….We're real close. Just get that cash!
Auntie has a giant project (Librarians didn't have projects) that is going to be taking up massive amounts of my free time for the next two months. It's kind of funny, if I work insane amounts in the next two months then the last year will have been a smashing success. If not, then, well, it was just a smashing success, but not as smashing as it would be if the success were smashinger due to workaholic exhaustion.
See Dears? The grown up world isn't THAT terribly complicated.
So, I'm afraid that I will be forced to post just once a week. I'm thinking Friday Mornings, so that the Friday magic will imbue the post with some extra-specialness, the kind of magic that will make your cereal sweeter and your cartoons brighter on Saturday morning!
But then again, I don't know that this Saturday will be that for you. You see, something very bad happened. Your Uncle Jerry is dead. That's Jerry Falwell. Your Other very spiritual Uncle Jerry, Jerry Garcia, passed away several years ago (and he was so healthy! None of us saw THAT one coming).
But that's not the worst part. See, the worst part is that I'm basically to blame for Uncle Jerry (Falwell) passing on.
It's kind of a long story, but we have a little time, and I missed you so much! So I'll take a minute out to tell you about it.
See, God needs cash. Apparently lots of it. Because every time I turn on my TV, some man in a polyester suit with more hair-products than I have is asking me to give some money because God needs it. I'm not sure what he's doing with all this cash, but I can imagine that running the Universe is quite expensive, and the "Suggested Donation $5" box at the entrance to Heaven hasn't been quite pulling in enough of late. Probably because God loves poor people so much, and Uncle George decided to make a lot more of them here to make God smile (or is that smirk? I don't know).
But the long and the short of it is that God needs cash. Desperately.
Well, apparently a couple of years ago, he hit upon a grand idea: Kill Oral Roberts.
Now be nice. See, God knew how much we loved Oral, so he knew that we would pony up the 8 million dollars (American mind you, not Canadian) to keep Oral with us. And contrary to popular belief, the fund to raise 16 million to get God to take Oral Roberts wasn’t successful, 'cause God didn't start it.
So anyway, the Big G (only friends get to call him that, though) got Oral to raise 9.1 million in 3 months back in 1987. But gosh, that was 20 years ago (that means I would have been 3, Dears). Given inflation, and how much it costs to fill the tank on the ole' GodMobile (a Cadillac Escalade upholstered in the fur of Baby Harp Seals, doncha'know) well, let's just say the Big Guys running a little short on Funds.
So, he figures "Hey, lightning always strikes twice, right? I'll just do the same thing again."
Which brings us to Jerry Falwell. You must understand, Dear Ones, that God is VERY SERIOUS about this money thing. I mean, DEADLY Serious.
I didn't realize how serious when he first told me to start hitting you guys up for cash. As a matter of fact, I used a response that was not a very polite one. And it included a bad word, which apparently is one that the Bible told me not to use (I guess. I mean, that's what he told me when he expressed his displeasure). Anyway, After he said not to talk to him like that, and I was sweeping the last of the locusts off my apartment balcony, I heard the horrible news: Jerry Falwell had died!
Now people have mixed feelings about this poor man's passing. Some people are really sad, some people are really indifferent, and some people are really stocking up on Gatorade so that they can make "wee-wee" on his grave.
I have a different take on it: I get the message, big guy.
See, the Big G knew that after telling me to raise money, a little thing like a rain of frogs wouldn't be enough to make me change my mind when I told him to "buzz off". But by taking one so young and pure as Mr. Falwell, well, like I said, "point taken".
A few people have asked me as I embarked on this mission "Auntie, why didn't God just ask Uncle Jerry to raise the money". That's a good question, although asking such questions of the almighty is a great way to ensure that your buns will roast in H-E-Double-Toothpicks. But the answer is twofold: One, the Guy upstairs moves in mysterious ways; and TWO, Falwell lacked the serious street cred in the rap community that your Dear Auntie has.
So, here we are. The boils on my behind are pretty much gone, and I'm asking you kids to tell your parents to send me a miserable pittance. I can't ask for a paltry 8 million like Uncle Oral did, because of inflation, you know. So, through a combination of crappy merchandise sales and direct donations, we just need to have Auntie's bank account (you'll have one of your own, someday) bumped up to around 12.8 million by October, or else I'll be saying "Hi" to Uncle Jerry. But we only have to raise the difference between my current balance and 12.8 million. Let's see, 12.8 minus fifty dollars means….We're real close. Just get that cash!
Thursday, May 10. 2007
Highland Spiritual Advisor
Well dearies, it's been an interesting few weeks. It seems like the last thing that I remember is 4/20. Which for those of you that don't know is a horrid little holiday celebrated by the less desirable members of society. I usually require a few days off after 4/20, because my arm is so sore from slapping those odd little cigarettes out of hippie-hands. Just say nope to dope, Dear Ones!
Where was I? Oh yes. This year, however has been a little bit different. After that, you see, a gentleman offered to make me his fifth wife! I know, how exciting, you say! I must say I was left speechless by the offer. I think that he had already divorced wives one through four, although you can never be quite sure about these things.
Now, what can I say? I was flattered. To think, this gentleman wanted me to watch him, and I quote "drink myself to death like my Father and Grandfather". After telling me that he had only 7 DUI's (that's when adults drive after they have too many Happy Adult Drinks, just like Paris Hilton!) I could hardly see how I could refuse. Yet something held me back. I don't know if it is that on a scale of one to alcoholic he seemed to surpass even my own dear "You'd do anything for a beer except get off the couch to get it your own damn-self" ex, or the fact that I suspect his next pick-up line might be "You know, CSI can't really match Duct-Tape tears as well as they say on TV".
Seriously, though, the gentleman was very persistent in his advances! So persistent, in fact, that I have been incommunicado for several weeks. Keeping the old phone lines clear to call the local constabulary, doncha know! So if you wondered what took me out of pocket THIS time, well, what can I say? But I was traveling around, avoiding a person who was just, umm, what can I say? Oh yes, STALKING Me!
Here are some notes for you sweet children to remember:
The most awkward part is this: this has never happened to me before. I was taken aback, flabbergasted and speechless because of the joy I felt at such attention. I realize that other women have had the pleasure of this type of attention, but let's just say I'm not used to someone trying to jump to the head of the "Uncle" line, especially considering my widely-known penchant for meting out physical discipline. I guess slapping a man until he cries just doesn't have quite the deterrent effect that it used to. I blame Hollywood for that.
So who does your Sweet Auntie turn to in times of confusing existential crises? Why my Highland Spiritual Advisor, of course!
By Highland Spiritual Advisor, I of course refer to a large man of Scots-American descent who has on several occasions ripped bathroom fixtures out of pub walls when it was discovered that the drink-specials had ended for the evening. A man who is truly in touch with his inner Scotsman. My very own Darling Roommate (who's really not in the same city I am, since I moved. Otherwise there would be one stalker in a Bodycast right now!)
So I approached the Holy-Man of the Heather with my humble request: O beefy-one, how should I repay the unexpected kindness of this stranger?
His granite brow furrowed in thought. I wondered what the reply would be: "A fusillade of gunfire" or perhaps "two pit-bulls wouldn't leave much of a body to dispose of" or even "Once you cuff him to the bed, you can pretty much do what you want."
But although those answers are certainly useful, and applicable, they are too simple for such an enlightened soul. His only relply: "Fire the fields and steal the sheep."
Hmmmmm. I immediately began pondering this reply (the first thought, I hate to admit, was "I gave you a fifth of scotch for THIS BS?").
Are the fields the metaphysical fields of our struggles against others unrealistic expectations? The bitter harvest of millennia of misogyny? Or did he mean the actual grass border in front of my apartment? And what sheep am I taking? The sheep of fear that would herd through my brain? The woolly harvest of hate brought on by rap videos? Or should I just shear my head and become a Buddhist nun?
Angered, I raised my hand to strike the inebriated Brahmin. As I rained blows upon his pointy (and I must say concrete) head, a smile played upon his lips. "Now you have taken your power back; now you will prevail." Of course, at about that point, he lost consciousness.
Realization slowly dawned on me. He was talking about empowering myself to deal with the problem! He wanted ME to arm myself spiritually and physically to resist: to call the police and if necessary physically defend myself. To keep some random drunken jackass who thinks I have a nice ass from stealing my life!
So, today I begin looking for self-defense classes in my area. I'm turning on my lights and TV when I get home. If the man who thinks he's my future ex-husband shows up tonight to bang on my door, then all he will hear is the speed-dial of my telephone calling the police. And maybe the sound of wooden ruler being hauled from my drawer, ready for a beating that he won't soon forget.
And I'm buying a fifth of scotch for one slightly-bruised spiritual adviser.
Where was I? Oh yes. This year, however has been a little bit different. After that, you see, a gentleman offered to make me his fifth wife! I know, how exciting, you say! I must say I was left speechless by the offer. I think that he had already divorced wives one through four, although you can never be quite sure about these things.
Now, what can I say? I was flattered. To think, this gentleman wanted me to watch him, and I quote "drink myself to death like my Father and Grandfather". After telling me that he had only 7 DUI's (that's when adults drive after they have too many Happy Adult Drinks, just like Paris Hilton!) I could hardly see how I could refuse. Yet something held me back. I don't know if it is that on a scale of one to alcoholic he seemed to surpass even my own dear "You'd do anything for a beer except get off the couch to get it your own damn-self" ex, or the fact that I suspect his next pick-up line might be "You know, CSI can't really match Duct-Tape tears as well as they say on TV".
Seriously, though, the gentleman was very persistent in his advances! So persistent, in fact, that I have been incommunicado for several weeks. Keeping the old phone lines clear to call the local constabulary, doncha know! So if you wondered what took me out of pocket THIS time, well, what can I say? But I was traveling around, avoiding a person who was just, umm, what can I say? Oh yes, STALKING Me!
Here are some notes for you sweet children to remember:
- Two of the three pick-up lines I mentioned were actually used by this person. Please don't use them; they weren't as effective as they sounded.
- if a woman (or even a man) doesn't answer the fifth time in an evening you bang on their door and ask them to service you, consider packing it in for the night.
- calling someone a "Freak" as part of a sexual proposition is not as effective as you might think. Oh that's right! I almost forgot about your abstinence pledges!
- Listen carefully for the sound of a pistol cocking when you are peering through the peephole to determine if the person you are "courting" is home. If you hear that, chances are the "special someone" whom you've been following might not be in an entertaining mood!
The most awkward part is this: this has never happened to me before. I was taken aback, flabbergasted and speechless because of the joy I felt at such attention. I realize that other women have had the pleasure of this type of attention, but let's just say I'm not used to someone trying to jump to the head of the "Uncle" line, especially considering my widely-known penchant for meting out physical discipline. I guess slapping a man until he cries just doesn't have quite the deterrent effect that it used to. I blame Hollywood for that.
So who does your Sweet Auntie turn to in times of confusing existential crises? Why my Highland Spiritual Advisor, of course!
By Highland Spiritual Advisor, I of course refer to a large man of Scots-American descent who has on several occasions ripped bathroom fixtures out of pub walls when it was discovered that the drink-specials had ended for the evening. A man who is truly in touch with his inner Scotsman. My very own Darling Roommate (who's really not in the same city I am, since I moved. Otherwise there would be one stalker in a Bodycast right now!)
So I approached the Holy-Man of the Heather with my humble request: O beefy-one, how should I repay the unexpected kindness of this stranger?
His granite brow furrowed in thought. I wondered what the reply would be: "A fusillade of gunfire" or perhaps "two pit-bulls wouldn't leave much of a body to dispose of" or even "Once you cuff him to the bed, you can pretty much do what you want."
But although those answers are certainly useful, and applicable, they are too simple for such an enlightened soul. His only relply: "Fire the fields and steal the sheep."
Hmmmmm. I immediately began pondering this reply (the first thought, I hate to admit, was "I gave you a fifth of scotch for THIS BS?").
Are the fields the metaphysical fields of our struggles against others unrealistic expectations? The bitter harvest of millennia of misogyny? Or did he mean the actual grass border in front of my apartment? And what sheep am I taking? The sheep of fear that would herd through my brain? The woolly harvest of hate brought on by rap videos? Or should I just shear my head and become a Buddhist nun?
Angered, I raised my hand to strike the inebriated Brahmin. As I rained blows upon his pointy (and I must say concrete) head, a smile played upon his lips. "Now you have taken your power back; now you will prevail." Of course, at about that point, he lost consciousness.
Realization slowly dawned on me. He was talking about empowering myself to deal with the problem! He wanted ME to arm myself spiritually and physically to resist: to call the police and if necessary physically defend myself. To keep some random drunken jackass who thinks I have a nice ass from stealing my life!
So, today I begin looking for self-defense classes in my area. I'm turning on my lights and TV when I get home. If the man who thinks he's my future ex-husband shows up tonight to bang on my door, then all he will hear is the speed-dial of my telephone calling the police. And maybe the sound of wooden ruler being hauled from my drawer, ready for a beating that he won't soon forget.
And I'm buying a fifth of scotch for one slightly-bruised spiritual adviser.
Thursday, April 12. 2007
Kurt Vonnegut, RIP
Kurt Vonnegut, you were a genius.
I would say that words can't describe just how great you were, but then you wouldn't need to keep reading!
And reading was what Vonnegut was all about.
No, strike that. Humanity was what Vonnegut was all about. Humanity at its most absurd, colorful, quirky, hateful and beautiful moments.
His observations about the things that humans do for and to one another are striking in their ability to boil down the crazy and complex tapestry that is human life into something that is both true and profoundly funny. True because he saw to the heart of the matter, and funny because if you didn't laugh at these things then you would probably cry in frustration at the lost potential.
Vonnegut said he was a pessimist. He wasn't. He was an idealist. For your Auntie's world the biggest pessimists and satirists are usually the biggest idealists and optimists! Stung by imperfection, some of them can turn bitter, or biting, or caustic. But really, it's seeing humanity's hope and humanity's promise glittering beneath all that garbage that makes them sour.
They know, as well as I do, that we have the chance to better things, to live in a fantastic world of hope and happiness, but that something is holding people back from it. They know that the US represents the best chance for a great and free society, and they weep when petty-minded morons savage it. But really, deep down inside, they still have hope.
Kurt Vonnegut, the world is a richer, better place for your having been here.
I would say that words can't describe just how great you were, but then you wouldn't need to keep reading!
And reading was what Vonnegut was all about.
No, strike that. Humanity was what Vonnegut was all about. Humanity at its most absurd, colorful, quirky, hateful and beautiful moments.
His observations about the things that humans do for and to one another are striking in their ability to boil down the crazy and complex tapestry that is human life into something that is both true and profoundly funny. True because he saw to the heart of the matter, and funny because if you didn't laugh at these things then you would probably cry in frustration at the lost potential.
Vonnegut said he was a pessimist. He wasn't. He was an idealist. For your Auntie's world the biggest pessimists and satirists are usually the biggest idealists and optimists! Stung by imperfection, some of them can turn bitter, or biting, or caustic. But really, it's seeing humanity's hope and humanity's promise glittering beneath all that garbage that makes them sour.
They know, as well as I do, that we have the chance to better things, to live in a fantastic world of hope and happiness, but that something is holding people back from it. They know that the US represents the best chance for a great and free society, and they weep when petty-minded morons savage it. But really, deep down inside, they still have hope.
Kurt Vonnegut, the world is a richer, better place for your having been here.
Monday, April 9. 2007
The Tragedy of PPD
Well Dearies,
I've been doing some other little side projects lately.
And today I'm not going to talk to you about stupid ole' politics. Instead, this week I'm going to show you some of the other things that Auntie has been, ahhhh, "Whipping Up" so to speak.
Today I'm going to talk to you about a very serious condition that afflicts all too many people. An affliction that is both debilitating and heart-wrenching.
I'm talking about "Prophylactic Personality Disorder" or as I have dubbed it (being the daring yet beautiful scientist to give the world this breakthrough) PPD.
Don't worry Dear Ones, you can look up Prophylactic in your dictionaries. I'm all about teaching the little ones, doncha know!
Your Mommies would probably pee the carpet (I giggle just thinking about it!) if they heard you use that word. Instead, you just point out that we all know Prophylactic means a preventative, or something that stops something from happening. You know how your Mommy makes you drink Orange Juice before that little kid she calls "Wheezy Timmy" comes around to play? Or she makes you shampoo with that Special Shampoo and use the special comb when you get back from a sleepover with the Hodgkiss Twins, the ones that are always scratching their heads? That's an example of a PROPHYLACTIC use of something.
What your Mommy is probably thinking of is something that is nasty and sinful. I won't talk about that right now. Actually, it's safer to get on with the definition of PPD.
Simply put, Prophylactic Personality Disorder is something that will safely prevent an affected person from EVER having what your Mommy and Daddy call a "Date" (where people meet and decide to become Mommies and Daddies. Sometimes when they first meet. Sometimes the first time they meet and in the backseat of a Buick!) Anyway, these unlucky people will never meet that special someone: because of their own Personalities! (At least not without Fifty-Bucks and one of those Prophylactics that your Mommy doesn't want you to know about!).
I can give you an example. We all know that little Timmy (remember, the wheezy little kid) EATS HIS OWN BOOGERS! We also all know how gross that is. Now imagine that Timmy is all grown up. Say his 35th birthday is June the 12th (I'm just pulling this one out of the air) and that he drives a Kia automobile and lives at the corner of Main and Tremont. I'm just saying. No, I don't mean anyone in particular. Yes Dearies, my ex does happen to live in that neighborhood. Why yes, he does also drive a Kia. No, I'm just p….OK STOP!
Where were we? Oh yes. Now, you can see how he's SO ICKY that no girl wants to talk to him, even though he's Thirty-five years old? THAT'S Prophylactic Personality Disorder! His very personality is preventing him from meeting someone else! And unless he can CHANGE his personality, he's never going to meet anybody, either!
No Dearies, I don't have PPD. I choose to be alone. To tell you the truth Significant Others are too demanding. ALWAYS whining with the "Please let me eat" or "I beg you for the love of God Uncuff me I swear I will never again mention that you're two kitties shy of being a crazy cat lady" and stuff like that.
No, Dears, these people WANT significant Others, but as long as there is cheap pepper spray on the market, they are unable to get a date.
Which would be a shame, Dear Ones, except if you actually MET any of these people, you would TOTALLY understand why that is so.
Yet never one to shirk her humanitarian duty, I have taken it upon myself to discover a cure for this terrible malady.
I am convinced that with Corrective Behavioral Conditioning (that means Spanking Dear Ones) I could help many of these people achieve their pathetic little goals of talking to a real-live other human being without being assaulted.
But funds are limited! I only have so many hours in the day, Dears, and I don't want to get "Tennis Elbow" again from laying down so much corrective discipline! Won't you please have your Mommy and Daddy Send whatever that can to help in this vital work?My Nobel Prize The well-being of these unfortunate souls could hang in the Balance!
But if one of them calls me "Sugar Tits", you can look for him at the F*$<'n Morgue.
I'm just sayin!
Now, I must go rehearse my Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech.
I've been doing some other little side projects lately.
And today I'm not going to talk to you about stupid ole' politics. Instead, this week I'm going to show you some of the other things that Auntie has been, ahhhh, "Whipping Up" so to speak.
Today I'm going to talk to you about a very serious condition that afflicts all too many people. An affliction that is both debilitating and heart-wrenching.
I'm talking about "Prophylactic Personality Disorder" or as I have dubbed it (being the daring yet beautiful scientist to give the world this breakthrough) PPD.
Don't worry Dear Ones, you can look up Prophylactic in your dictionaries. I'm all about teaching the little ones, doncha know!
Your Mommies would probably pee the carpet (I giggle just thinking about it!) if they heard you use that word. Instead, you just point out that we all know Prophylactic means a preventative, or something that stops something from happening. You know how your Mommy makes you drink Orange Juice before that little kid she calls "Wheezy Timmy" comes around to play? Or she makes you shampoo with that Special Shampoo and use the special comb when you get back from a sleepover with the Hodgkiss Twins, the ones that are always scratching their heads? That's an example of a PROPHYLACTIC use of something.
What your Mommy is probably thinking of is something that is nasty and sinful. I won't talk about that right now. Actually, it's safer to get on with the definition of PPD.
Simply put, Prophylactic Personality Disorder is something that will safely prevent an affected person from EVER having what your Mommy and Daddy call a "Date" (where people meet and decide to become Mommies and Daddies. Sometimes when they first meet. Sometimes the first time they meet and in the backseat of a Buick!) Anyway, these unlucky people will never meet that special someone: because of their own Personalities! (At least not without Fifty-Bucks and one of those Prophylactics that your Mommy doesn't want you to know about!).
I can give you an example. We all know that little Timmy (remember, the wheezy little kid) EATS HIS OWN BOOGERS! We also all know how gross that is. Now imagine that Timmy is all grown up. Say his 35th birthday is June the 12th (I'm just pulling this one out of the air) and that he drives a Kia automobile and lives at the corner of Main and Tremont. I'm just saying. No, I don't mean anyone in particular. Yes Dearies, my ex does happen to live in that neighborhood. Why yes, he does also drive a Kia. No, I'm just p….OK STOP!
Where were we? Oh yes. Now, you can see how he's SO ICKY that no girl wants to talk to him, even though he's Thirty-five years old? THAT'S Prophylactic Personality Disorder! His very personality is preventing him from meeting someone else! And unless he can CHANGE his personality, he's never going to meet anybody, either!
No Dearies, I don't have PPD. I choose to be alone. To tell you the truth Significant Others are too demanding. ALWAYS whining with the "Please let me eat" or "I beg you for the love of God Uncuff me I swear I will never again mention that you're two kitties shy of being a crazy cat lady" and stuff like that.
No, Dears, these people WANT significant Others, but as long as there is cheap pepper spray on the market, they are unable to get a date.
Which would be a shame, Dear Ones, except if you actually MET any of these people, you would TOTALLY understand why that is so.
Yet never one to shirk her humanitarian duty, I have taken it upon myself to discover a cure for this terrible malady.
I am convinced that with Corrective Behavioral Conditioning (that means Spanking Dear Ones) I could help many of these people achieve their pathetic little goals of talking to a real-live other human being without being assaulted.
But funds are limited! I only have so many hours in the day, Dears, and I don't want to get "Tennis Elbow" again from laying down so much corrective discipline! Won't you please have your Mommy and Daddy Send whatever that can to help in this vital work?
But if one of them calls me "Sugar Tits", you can look for him at the F*$<'n Morgue.
I'm just sayin!
Now, I must go rehearse my Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech.
Thursday, April 5. 2007
Welcome Home Guys!
Whoa!
I hope you both had fun on your Fantastic Voyage!
Haggis stains on your pale-ale scented “jumpers” as you shuffle towards the customs agent, hoping that the single tube of lubricant you brought will be enough to cover the obligatory extra “Customer Service” that you will get when they see that you just disembarked from the Amsterdam flight, hoping that the illegal Spice-World DVD you bought in London won’t land you in the pokey because they don’t notice that your underwear appears to be rectangular. Ahhh, the joys of international travel! Are the Cinnabons still as sweet overseas? Did you miss cheap barbecue and the sound of gunfire in the distance as you wandered through relatively old city after relatively old city, where the muggers call you “Guv’nor” and “Miss”?
Were you about to go crazy at the prospect of being able to use a modestly priced mass transit system? Was it the first time that you realized that the subway smell is particular to New York, that application of soap-and-water technology will yield clean busses and snooty waiters?
Admit it; you pined for us….just a little bit! Sure, you’re kind of on your own, back in the states, but just because they make Glocks over there doesn’t mean that just anybody can have one! I mean, hey! You can’t even get the matte-black personal Taser without a permit, much less the Hot Pink one!
And the food! Bangers and Mash? Come on! What the hell is a "Banger" anyway? Is it delicious, like Sausage in a pancake on a Stick? (I hear you can't get those over there!)
Preachers over there don’t snort meth off a male-hooker’s ass! They have vacations and only work 60 or so hours a week! What the hell would they do with all that free-time? Not watch the tele since they’ve only got like 3 channels and their news isn’t entertaining, it’s informative. I mean seriously…Did the BBC even know who the hell Anna Nicole Smith was? No, they’re too “busy” blah blah blah about like world events and stuff.
The long and the short of it is….. Europe is sane: but they're all BORING.
The US may be a little crazy (ok, a lot crazy), but we're FUN!
C’mon, you KNOW you missed us!
XXOO
The U S of A
I hope you both had fun on your Fantastic Voyage!
Haggis stains on your pale-ale scented “jumpers” as you shuffle towards the customs agent, hoping that the single tube of lubricant you brought will be enough to cover the obligatory extra “Customer Service” that you will get when they see that you just disembarked from the Amsterdam flight, hoping that the illegal Spice-World DVD you bought in London won’t land you in the pokey because they don’t notice that your underwear appears to be rectangular. Ahhh, the joys of international travel! Are the Cinnabons still as sweet overseas? Did you miss cheap barbecue and the sound of gunfire in the distance as you wandered through relatively old city after relatively old city, where the muggers call you “Guv’nor” and “Miss”?
Were you about to go crazy at the prospect of being able to use a modestly priced mass transit system? Was it the first time that you realized that the subway smell is particular to New York, that application of soap-and-water technology will yield clean busses and snooty waiters?
Admit it; you pined for us….just a little bit! Sure, you’re kind of on your own, back in the states, but just because they make Glocks over there doesn’t mean that just anybody can have one! I mean, hey! You can’t even get the matte-black personal Taser without a permit, much less the Hot Pink one!
And the food! Bangers and Mash? Come on! What the hell is a "Banger" anyway? Is it delicious, like Sausage in a pancake on a Stick? (I hear you can't get those over there!)
Preachers over there don’t snort meth off a male-hooker’s ass! They have vacations and only work 60 or so hours a week! What the hell would they do with all that free-time? Not watch the tele since they’ve only got like 3 channels and their news isn’t entertaining, it’s informative. I mean seriously…Did the BBC even know who the hell Anna Nicole Smith was? No, they’re too “busy” blah blah blah about like world events and stuff.
The long and the short of it is….. Europe is sane: but they're all BORING.
The US may be a little crazy (ok, a lot crazy), but we're FUN!
C’mon, you KNOW you missed us!
XXOO
The U S of A
Wednesday, April 4. 2007
Of Cream-Pies and Kings
Oh my goodness Dearies!
I hope your Uncle Karl is all right!
Apparently, he was Pelted by students at some liberal university in the DC area! You can tell it's liberal because it's got a commie name like "American University". Bunch of darned Yippies!
And what's worse….No reports on what they pelted him with! Who knows what could happen if they decided to take your Uncle George's nick name for him (I'm embarrassed to repeat it, but it's T-U-R-D Blossom) too seriously? That suit he was wearing was dry-clean only! Ewwww!
Note to the Yippies: Dearies, if you **REALLY** want to throw something in protest, might I humbly suggest: The Banana Cream pie! (I've got a very simple recipe for it too! Take one bakery, combine with 1 twenty-dollar bill, and Voila! Banana Cream Pie!)
Anyway, Who could get upset over getting hit in the face with a banana cream pie, anyway? Except for those idiot Stooges! That Curly, he always makes me giggle. I digress Dear Ones.
See, Karl Rove is not worth getting hassled by "The Man" (I'm learning to speak with you kids! See! Auntie Willow is a "Hep-Cat!").
Well, Ok, American Democracy is worth getting hassled by the man over. But even though we know those poor misguided dears didn't mean to HURT Uncle Karl (and take it from me: he bruises so easily!), they could now be charged with attempted assassination of a Dark Lord via small pebbles or rubber bands or whatever those kids hurled at him.
And that vindicates him. And it makes those American-Hating Republicans smirk and whine about how nasty we are all to them (and don't be nasty to them dearies, they're "Special". You know, Special.
No, the way to handle Uncle Karl is to LAUGH at him. See, he is only destroying human civilization because he was such a, well, DWEEB in high school! But no one laughs now that he's sold the entire country's soul to the Dark Master of Evil (that's your Uncle Dick, Dearies).
But take it from me, when he's sitting there all flabby and naked, laughing at him will REALLY demolish his poor little ego. I usually have to start all over again at that point (that's why I know how easily he bruises).
So if you throw trash at him, everyone calls you ill-tempered.
But if you throw a Banana Cream Pie at him, I mean, come on, what? They gonna charge you with COMEDY?
Really Dears! I can hear the charges being read in Federal Court:
Cue the Laughter.
I hope your Uncle Karl is all right!
Apparently, he was Pelted by students at some liberal university in the DC area! You can tell it's liberal because it's got a commie name like "American University". Bunch of darned Yippies!
And what's worse….No reports on what they pelted him with! Who knows what could happen if they decided to take your Uncle George's nick name for him (I'm embarrassed to repeat it, but it's T-U-R-D Blossom) too seriously? That suit he was wearing was dry-clean only! Ewwww!
Note to the Yippies: Dearies, if you **REALLY** want to throw something in protest, might I humbly suggest: The Banana Cream pie! (I've got a very simple recipe for it too! Take one bakery, combine with 1 twenty-dollar bill, and Voila! Banana Cream Pie!)
Anyway, Who could get upset over getting hit in the face with a banana cream pie, anyway? Except for those idiot Stooges! That Curly, he always makes me giggle. I digress Dear Ones.
See, Karl Rove is not worth getting hassled by "The Man" (I'm learning to speak with you kids! See! Auntie Willow is a "Hep-Cat!").
Well, Ok, American Democracy is worth getting hassled by the man over. But even though we know those poor misguided dears didn't mean to HURT Uncle Karl (and take it from me: he bruises so easily!), they could now be charged with attempted assassination of a Dark Lord via small pebbles or rubber bands or whatever those kids hurled at him.
And that vindicates him. And it makes those American-Hating Republicans smirk and whine about how nasty we are all to them (and don't be nasty to them dearies, they're "Special". You know, Special.
No, the way to handle Uncle Karl is to LAUGH at him. See, he is only destroying human civilization because he was such a, well, DWEEB in high school! But no one laughs now that he's sold the entire country's soul to the Dark Master of Evil (that's your Uncle Dick, Dearies).
But take it from me, when he's sitting there all flabby and naked, laughing at him will REALLY demolish his poor little ego. I usually have to start all over again at that point (that's why I know how easily he bruises).
So if you throw trash at him, everyone calls you ill-tempered.
But if you throw a Banana Cream Pie at him, I mean, come on, what? They gonna charge you with COMEDY?
Really Dears! I can hear the charges being read in Federal Court:
"And attempted assassination."
"Your Honor, I must protest. Nothing Lethal was used! It was an exercise in Political Speech."
"I protest, your Honor. objects were thrown at the person in question."
"Your honor, may I point out: It was a Banana Cream pie."
"But Your Honor: That cream pie could have dangerously raised the victim's Cholesterol!"
Cue the Laughter.
Friday, March 30. 2007
A Promise to Promise
Dear Ones, I am SO excited!
I don't want to Jinx it, but I might have met a TRULY special someone! I mean someone that would be FULL-TIME Uncle for You! Someone that I only have to discipline within the bonds of the most sacred of vows….That's right, I might have a new PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE!
Whew! I'm so excited I might need to catch my breath. Well, as you all know, I'm ALL ABOUT the Republican Party! But I was so worried this year, because even with like thirty people running as Republicans, I didn't feel that there was one that really spoke to ME, you know, the typical Disciplinarian Attractive Librarian Programmer World Empresses (or DALPWE's as we're called in marketing circles! But be careful Dearies, that's a Trademark!). And you can imagine that me and the millions of others just like me (Thanks to Dr. VonVerruckt for getting my clone army FINALLY ready!) were feeling left out of the whole political process this year.
Then HE showed up! He's DREAMY! I mean he's TALL, and has dark hair (both of them, well, he's follicly challenged). He's got a Deep, Boomy voice, and when the director yells "Action", well, he can Gravitas like nobody's business!
Oh, didn't I mention that he's an actor? His name is Fred Thompson. I know dears, you think that as an Actor he's about as likely to make a commitment as, well, an ACTOR. But he's serious Dearies, he's not just messing with me! I mean, really!
I don't want to jinx it, because we're just talking right now, but he said he plans to think about forming an "Exploratory Committee". That means he's practically taking the oath of office right now!
Let's face it, the Exploratory Committee is Presidential Race equivalent of the Promise Ring. That means that Fred Thompson is SERIOUSLY considering promising to seriously consider trying to do something! Just like a promise ring is a promise to think about a promise to think about getting married. I should stop all of this romantic talk, I'm getting all giggly just thinking about it!
Oh sure, we've had other slick talking men try with their exploratory committees, but they just weren't RIGHT, you know? Not like Fred, he's Dreamy. Every time I watch him put away another scumbag on Law and Order, I start to daydream of him: taking the oath of office, just like he took an oath to protect us on Law and Order. Telling people what to do around the "big table" in the sit room, just like he did in Hunt for Red October. Playing with A Bombs, just like he did in "Fat Man and Little Boy". And of course, stealing our hearts, just like his was stolen by plucky little Alisan Porter in "Curly Sue". He's sure already stolen mine!
Pardon me Dearies, I need to go get my "Mrs. President Fred Thompson tattoo now!
And then I'm going to pop in Aces: Iron Eagle III. I'll need a moment alone for that!
I don't want to Jinx it, but I might have met a TRULY special someone! I mean someone that would be FULL-TIME Uncle for You! Someone that I only have to discipline within the bonds of the most sacred of vows….That's right, I might have a new PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE!
Whew! I'm so excited I might need to catch my breath. Well, as you all know, I'm ALL ABOUT the Republican Party! But I was so worried this year, because even with like thirty people running as Republicans, I didn't feel that there was one that really spoke to ME, you know, the typical Disciplinarian Attractive Librarian Programmer World Empresses (or DALPWE's as we're called in marketing circles! But be careful Dearies, that's a Trademark!). And you can imagine that me and the millions of others just like me (Thanks to Dr. VonVerruckt for getting my clone army FINALLY ready!) were feeling left out of the whole political process this year.
Then HE showed up! He's DREAMY! I mean he's TALL, and has dark hair (both of them, well, he's follicly challenged). He's got a Deep, Boomy voice, and when the director yells "Action", well, he can Gravitas like nobody's business!
Oh, didn't I mention that he's an actor? His name is Fred Thompson. I know dears, you think that as an Actor he's about as likely to make a commitment as, well, an ACTOR. But he's serious Dearies, he's not just messing with me! I mean, really!
I don't want to jinx it, because we're just talking right now, but he said he plans to think about forming an "Exploratory Committee". That means he's practically taking the oath of office right now!
Let's face it, the Exploratory Committee is Presidential Race equivalent of the Promise Ring. That means that Fred Thompson is SERIOUSLY considering promising to seriously consider trying to do something! Just like a promise ring is a promise to think about a promise to think about getting married. I should stop all of this romantic talk, I'm getting all giggly just thinking about it!
Oh sure, we've had other slick talking men try with their exploratory committees, but they just weren't RIGHT, you know? Not like Fred, he's Dreamy. Every time I watch him put away another scumbag on Law and Order, I start to daydream of him: taking the oath of office, just like he took an oath to protect us on Law and Order. Telling people what to do around the "big table" in the sit room, just like he did in Hunt for Red October. Playing with A Bombs, just like he did in "Fat Man and Little Boy". And of course, stealing our hearts, just like his was stolen by plucky little Alisan Porter in "Curly Sue". He's sure already stolen mine!
Pardon me Dearies, I need to go get my "Mrs. President Fred Thompson tattoo now!
And then I'm going to pop in Aces: Iron Eagle III. I'll need a moment alone for that!
Tuesday, March 27. 2007
Let's Talk Salvation with our Friends!
Dearies, I figured it out!
No, not that.
No, not why Sanjaya keeps winning on American Idol.
No, not which Demon-Lord Cheney pledged his soul too (I've got an answer for Bush, he pledged his soul to Cheney).
Ok, now stop. This is important.
See, I have a few friends who are Christian. I would even go so far as to say some of my dearest friends are Christian (no, not my "Special" Friends, but people I allow myself to be photographed with). I know you might have heard of it on the news or in your classes, but seriously, there are people out there right now who have the strength of will to belong to the country's largest religion.
Now, most of my Christian friends are nice people, and if they weren't always going around being nice to everybody, you would never even suspect.
These aren't the people I'm talking about.
Instead I'm talking about what you might call the "stereotypical" Christian, which means pretty much every one of them who as screamed that I'm going to hell just because I happen to be sleeping with their husband at the time. Ok, long story. But it was late. And he was too tired to drive. I don't let shoes on the bed, but he had showered, so to keep the covers clean he took off his clothes and….You DO believe me, don't you?
Never mind. The important thing is that THESE PEOPLE Exist.
And they're being oppressed. Sort of. I mean, they control the executive branch and have managed to swap the framework of debate in this country so that if you disagree that women should all be branded to show their shame at having given Adam the Apple, well you were probably in bed with me and their husband. If you are another boy then your only hope is getting "cured".
Which is kind of a problem. Since they also don't believe in Science. Or literacy. Or their own eyes. Which is Ok, as long as they stop coming to my door at 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning to ask me to "Pray With Them". (Sometimes I'm out a little late!).
But there is kind of a problem. See, there's a minor little thing known as "Global Climate Disruption" or as they say on what passes for network news "Global Warming". It's actually kind of a problem, and we've got to keep the good Christian people from dumping dioxin into the ground, which they seem to feel is their right. Yeah, I know. But they really believe that God promised them the right to dump dioxin, to drive a Hummer (but not GET a Hummer!), and even invade a random Middle-Eastern country or two. I don't know if it's this whole "a-crap-alypse" thing or whatever they say when they point out that I'm as good as dead and going to burn in a lake of fire, or if they just have nothing better to do with their time since all the fun hobbies are technically a sin.
Which brings us to our little conundrum. See, Global Warming is the kind of thing that is, well, umm, scientific. You know, those eggheads at those liberal universities with their fancy thermometers and things, just running around writing stuff down and remembering it and stuff.
Basically, it's not in the bible.
Which means that these people won't believe us. I mean heck! They don't even believe most of the stuff that's IN the bible, like the whole "love thy neighbor" thing. So what can we do to convince them?
Then it hit me. Last night in a dream. I was speaking with my extremely conservative ex-mother-in-law (let, see, ex-mother-in-law….that makes her, umm, nothing to me). I was trying to explain it. Then Shazaam! Inspiration (ummm, Divine Inspiration?).
Put it in terms that they can understand. They're always talking about "God The Father" and stuff. So what did your Dad do when you wanted something really special? He like setup a task for you to do to show that you were capable of handling it. Want a puppy? Feed this Goldfish and keep it alive for like 3 months. Want a videogame? Show how well you can finish your homework! Want a new leather riding crop? Break the spirit of the next-door neighbor (I made him think he was a Chihuahua! It was cool 'cause it was like I got both the dog and the riding crop. And I didn't have to feed the stupid Fish!).
You get the idea.
The problem with this particular type of person is they don't think they can break God's creation, or if they do, then they get bonus points 'cause the World just ended! We need to point out that maybe he's testing them so he can give them something REALLY neat. I mean after all, if your Dad didn't buy you that videogame 'cause you didn't do your homework, what makes you think he'll get you a new car if you sink all of the Carolinas (North AND South)? Point out how mad they are if they see their kids (they'll have kids. No condoms or abortions, remember?) leave dirty underwear laying around. Try to help them picture how the big G's gonna feel with them leaving Mercury in huge standing pools outside a playground just so they save some moolah on the ole' Superfund.
Let me just stress one more time that not every one of these "Christians" is mean or shortsighted (Just Brunhilda J of Minot, ND. Sorry Brunhilda!) But for those that are, just give it a little try! Tell them that your Auntie was (Divinely?) inspired. Don't be too specific about what they'll get, because that wasn't revealed unto me.
No really, It wasn't! Oh heck, I dunno.
Maybe a Pony?
No, not that.
No, not why Sanjaya keeps winning on American Idol.
No, not which Demon-Lord Cheney pledged his soul too (I've got an answer for Bush, he pledged his soul to Cheney).
Ok, now stop. This is important.
See, I have a few friends who are Christian. I would even go so far as to say some of my dearest friends are Christian (no, not my "Special" Friends, but people I allow myself to be photographed with). I know you might have heard of it on the news or in your classes, but seriously, there are people out there right now who have the strength of will to belong to the country's largest religion.
Now, most of my Christian friends are nice people, and if they weren't always going around being nice to everybody, you would never even suspect.
These aren't the people I'm talking about.
Instead I'm talking about what you might call the "stereotypical" Christian, which means pretty much every one of them who as screamed that I'm going to hell just because I happen to be sleeping with their husband at the time. Ok, long story. But it was late. And he was too tired to drive. I don't let shoes on the bed, but he had showered, so to keep the covers clean he took off his clothes and….You DO believe me, don't you?
Never mind. The important thing is that THESE PEOPLE Exist.
And they're being oppressed. Sort of. I mean, they control the executive branch and have managed to swap the framework of debate in this country so that if you disagree that women should all be branded to show their shame at having given Adam the Apple, well you were probably in bed with me and their husband. If you are another boy then your only hope is getting "cured".
Which is kind of a problem. Since they also don't believe in Science. Or literacy. Or their own eyes. Which is Ok, as long as they stop coming to my door at 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning to ask me to "Pray With Them". (Sometimes I'm out a little late!).
But there is kind of a problem. See, there's a minor little thing known as "Global Climate Disruption" or as they say on what passes for network news "Global Warming". It's actually kind of a problem, and we've got to keep the good Christian people from dumping dioxin into the ground, which they seem to feel is their right. Yeah, I know. But they really believe that God promised them the right to dump dioxin, to drive a Hummer (but not GET a Hummer!), and even invade a random Middle-Eastern country or two. I don't know if it's this whole "a-crap-alypse" thing or whatever they say when they point out that I'm as good as dead and going to burn in a lake of fire, or if they just have nothing better to do with their time since all the fun hobbies are technically a sin.
Which brings us to our little conundrum. See, Global Warming is the kind of thing that is, well, umm, scientific. You know, those eggheads at those liberal universities with their fancy thermometers and things, just running around writing stuff down and remembering it and stuff.
Basically, it's not in the bible.
Which means that these people won't believe us. I mean heck! They don't even believe most of the stuff that's IN the bible, like the whole "love thy neighbor" thing. So what can we do to convince them?
Then it hit me. Last night in a dream. I was speaking with my extremely conservative ex-mother-in-law (let, see, ex-mother-in-law….that makes her, umm, nothing to me). I was trying to explain it. Then Shazaam! Inspiration (ummm, Divine Inspiration?).
Put it in terms that they can understand. They're always talking about "God The Father" and stuff. So what did your Dad do when you wanted something really special? He like setup a task for you to do to show that you were capable of handling it. Want a puppy? Feed this Goldfish and keep it alive for like 3 months. Want a videogame? Show how well you can finish your homework! Want a new leather riding crop? Break the spirit of the next-door neighbor (I made him think he was a Chihuahua! It was cool 'cause it was like I got both the dog and the riding crop. And I didn't have to feed the stupid Fish!).
You get the idea.
The problem with this particular type of person is they don't think they can break God's creation, or if they do, then they get bonus points 'cause the World just ended! We need to point out that maybe he's testing them so he can give them something REALLY neat. I mean after all, if your Dad didn't buy you that videogame 'cause you didn't do your homework, what makes you think he'll get you a new car if you sink all of the Carolinas (North AND South)? Point out how mad they are if they see their kids (they'll have kids. No condoms or abortions, remember?) leave dirty underwear laying around. Try to help them picture how the big G's gonna feel with them leaving Mercury in huge standing pools outside a playground just so they save some moolah on the ole' Superfund.
Let me just stress one more time that not every one of these "Christians" is mean or shortsighted (Just Brunhilda J of Minot, ND. Sorry Brunhilda!) But for those that are, just give it a little try! Tell them that your Auntie was (Divinely?) inspired. Don't be too specific about what they'll get, because that wasn't revealed unto me.
No really, It wasn't! Oh heck, I dunno.
Maybe a Pony?
Sunday, March 25. 2007
Spring Fancy
Well Dearies, I must confess that spring is in the air, and eve your dear Auntie has removed the hairpins from her bun and gone dancing barefoot through the grass this weekend.
Which is why this post will be done in Stream Of Consciousness style!
Spring always finds a way to make you feel youthful, and a desire to celebrate the joy of life bubbles up in the hearts of all but the most dour and repressed of us. Sorry James Dobson!
Still even I must maintain a sense of decorum….Oh, that Reminds me! My dear friend Spencer called me his Madonna this week! Ok, well, not in those exact words. And no, Sweet Ones, he's married. So he's not "Uncle Spencer" (I'll post the rules on who gets the coveted title of "Uncle" to my Auntie another day, Dears! The process is lengthy and I'm afraid I must take the time to make a Diagram to explain it all!).
But still, he basically said I was a Madonna! See, Auntie has been having an eensie bit of tummy trouble of late (never take the red pills at the same time as the white pills. They don't work the same as the pink pills!) Anyway, for whatever reason I have been having an upset tummy. So Spencer helpfully suggested, in front of my boss I might add, that I might be pregnant. So, since I'm a chaste priestess of knowledge, (no hanky-panky!), that means he thinks I'm divine enough to give Virgin Birth! Thank you, Spencer! That meant that he also thought perhaps I might have a wee bit of swelling in the tummy region! Now, a lesser woman might have taken that as a statement such as "Gosh! You look fat and Hormonal!" But as we all know, your beloved Auntie tries to be special! So I thought carefully, and I realized he meant that he thinks I'm Divine! Which is good for him, because if I thought he meant the other thing then he WOULD become one of your Uncles, earning the title through Uncle-Trac™ # 36A, or what we like to call the "Path of Pain". But I know that's not what he meant, so instead we Celebrate Spencer today!
So what does that teach us Dears? Just say no to dirty ole' sex, and you have to go through one of several intensive and exhaustive rituals before I will introduce you to the kiddies as "Uncle" somebody or other.
Well anyway, so what would a Librarian/Computer Programmer do when she feels the pull of the seasons, and experiences a desire to have some well formed men in her life? I went to see the 300 of course!
(Note to the movie marketing team. You totally missed the boat on a promotion. Imagine the buzz you would have generated if one lucky winner had received the right to grime all those Men up everyday for filming! You KNOW someone had to do it! Ok, I'm not greedy: TWO lucky winners!)
Anyway Dears, anytime there is a well-orchestrated attack on Persian Culture you know your Auntie has got to be there! So I of course took your Uncle Dear Roommate (Uncle-Trac™ # 13F) to go see the 300.
Now, one thing I must mention is that of course your Uncle Dear Roommate is not gay. Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot that you are too young to understand what that word means! Uhh, you'll have to ask your Mommy and Daddy what that means. Just say something like "Mommy, Daddy, I'm curious. I want to know why Uncle George Michael is so Tan?" or maybe "Why does that man in the Village people wear Leather Pants without a seat to them?" Or possibly "I want to be just like Richard Simmons when I grow up!" I promise you they'll explain that word to you!
But for right now, you'll just have to trust me: We're (pretty darned) Sure that your Uncle Dear Roommate is NOT gay!
But there's a funny thing about being NOT gay that he shares with many other NOT gay men. That is the desire to watch other muscular men sweat and do MANLY things! That's right dears, men who spend a lot of time with beautiful women, touching them and holding them closely for hours a day, are considered gay. Men who spend a lot of time with other sweaty, grimy mean touching them and holding them closely for hours a day, are considered "straight". Which is why, for example, a male figure skater like Brian Boitano is considered Gay, but a professional "Athlete" like Tim Hardaway is considered straight. Because Brian Boitano spends most of his days putting his hand on Kristy Yamaguchi's and Katarina Witt's crotch, while Tim Hardaway spends his evenings showering with 20 other guys. So male Ballet dancers are "gay", but professional wrestlers are "straight". That's why people don't get tattoos of Rudolf Nurayev, but WWE fans will spend 50 bucks to watch a guy named "ultimate warrior" wrap his legs around another man's hips. It's ok dear, they're "Straight".
So anyhow, I took Uncle Dear Roommate to see the 300. There was so much testosterone in the movie that I needed to shave afterwards! Which brings us to an attack on Persian culture. Which I didn't really see. I mean yes, the Spartans could fight and all, and they were tall and manly, with rippling pecs, six-pack abs, tight-leather loincloths and nothing else……uhhh, right. Let me get to my point before I need to take a moment alone. So anyway, these Spartans were certainly, ahem, attractive, but I mean they weren't as attractive as your pallid ole' Uncle Dear Roommate! Or any potatoey type people who might or might not have said I looked fat and hormonal this week (no names)! Or any lumpy type people who listen to their i-pods during an evening meal (no NAMES!). Or even florid little dumplings who laugh at the trousseau that I wore for them! Hmmm, where was I, Oh Yes!
So the Persians DID win the battle and all! I mean, they like kicked their asses. Sure, the Spartans killed a lot, but I mean, come on, when you're outnumbered like 2000 to one, of course you'd bring your "A" game (a sports metaphor for all my little guys out there!). And Dearies check the score at the end: Persians 1, Spartans 0….. Now, some people were upset by the way that Xerxes was portrayed in the movie, but I must confess, when I saw that massive platform that they carried him on, and watched those men Hop down so that he could walk on them, I was thinking "I've gotta get me one of those." And that PARTY in his tent! Where do I go to get on that guest list? By contrast the Spartans weren't exactly "Dinner Date" material! I mean, their grimy, sweaty thing totally works out in spring, but eventually he has to take a bath, right? Apparently not so much in Sparta. I'm supposed to go to a nice restaurant and get Sushi with these guys? The leather loincloths are nice on Saturday Nights, but hey….That's ALL they had in their closets! Really, do you think they'd let him escort me to the Opera in that? Sorry dears, chances are that I'd party during the afternoons with the Spartans but after that it's a quick shower and Xerxes' pad by 11:00 p.m.! Musn't arrive TOO early, you know. Plus, I'd be carried over there on one of those giant portable thrones. Carried by Spartans (they certainly seemed to have the stamina!).
And, of course, your Uncle Dear Roommate, who really enjoyed the movie!
Which is why this post will be done in Stream Of Consciousness style!
Spring always finds a way to make you feel youthful, and a desire to celebrate the joy of life bubbles up in the hearts of all but the most dour and repressed of us. Sorry James Dobson!
Still even I must maintain a sense of decorum….Oh, that Reminds me! My dear friend Spencer called me his Madonna this week! Ok, well, not in those exact words. And no, Sweet Ones, he's married. So he's not "Uncle Spencer" (I'll post the rules on who gets the coveted title of "Uncle" to my Auntie another day, Dears! The process is lengthy and I'm afraid I must take the time to make a Diagram to explain it all!).
But still, he basically said I was a Madonna! See, Auntie has been having an eensie bit of tummy trouble of late (never take the red pills at the same time as the white pills. They don't work the same as the pink pills!) Anyway, for whatever reason I have been having an upset tummy. So Spencer helpfully suggested, in front of my boss I might add, that I might be pregnant. So, since I'm a chaste priestess of knowledge, (no hanky-panky!), that means he thinks I'm divine enough to give Virgin Birth! Thank you, Spencer! That meant that he also thought perhaps I might have a wee bit of swelling in the tummy region! Now, a lesser woman might have taken that as a statement such as "Gosh! You look fat and Hormonal!" But as we all know, your beloved Auntie tries to be special! So I thought carefully, and I realized he meant that he thinks I'm Divine! Which is good for him, because if I thought he meant the other thing then he WOULD become one of your Uncles, earning the title through Uncle-Trac™ # 36A, or what we like to call the "Path of Pain". But I know that's not what he meant, so instead we Celebrate Spencer today!
So what does that teach us Dears? Just say no to dirty ole' sex, and you have to go through one of several intensive and exhaustive rituals before I will introduce you to the kiddies as "Uncle" somebody or other.
Well anyway, so what would a Librarian/Computer Programmer do when she feels the pull of the seasons, and experiences a desire to have some well formed men in her life? I went to see the 300 of course!
(Note to the movie marketing team. You totally missed the boat on a promotion. Imagine the buzz you would have generated if one lucky winner had received the right to grime all those Men up everyday for filming! You KNOW someone had to do it! Ok, I'm not greedy: TWO lucky winners!)
Anyway Dears, anytime there is a well-orchestrated attack on Persian Culture you know your Auntie has got to be there! So I of course took your Uncle Dear Roommate (Uncle-Trac™ # 13F) to go see the 300.
Now, one thing I must mention is that of course your Uncle Dear Roommate is not gay. Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot that you are too young to understand what that word means! Uhh, you'll have to ask your Mommy and Daddy what that means. Just say something like "Mommy, Daddy, I'm curious. I want to know why Uncle George Michael is so Tan?" or maybe "Why does that man in the Village people wear Leather Pants without a seat to them?" Or possibly "I want to be just like Richard Simmons when I grow up!" I promise you they'll explain that word to you!
But for right now, you'll just have to trust me: We're (pretty darned) Sure that your Uncle Dear Roommate is NOT gay!
But there's a funny thing about being NOT gay that he shares with many other NOT gay men. That is the desire to watch other muscular men sweat and do MANLY things! That's right dears, men who spend a lot of time with beautiful women, touching them and holding them closely for hours a day, are considered gay. Men who spend a lot of time with other sweaty, grimy mean touching them and holding them closely for hours a day, are considered "straight". Which is why, for example, a male figure skater like Brian Boitano is considered Gay, but a professional "Athlete" like Tim Hardaway is considered straight. Because Brian Boitano spends most of his days putting his hand on Kristy Yamaguchi's and Katarina Witt's crotch, while Tim Hardaway spends his evenings showering with 20 other guys. So male Ballet dancers are "gay", but professional wrestlers are "straight". That's why people don't get tattoos of Rudolf Nurayev, but WWE fans will spend 50 bucks to watch a guy named "ultimate warrior" wrap his legs around another man's hips. It's ok dear, they're "Straight".
So anyhow, I took Uncle Dear Roommate to see the 300. There was so much testosterone in the movie that I needed to shave afterwards! Which brings us to an attack on Persian culture. Which I didn't really see. I mean yes, the Spartans could fight and all, and they were tall and manly, with rippling pecs, six-pack abs, tight-leather loincloths and nothing else……uhhh, right. Let me get to my point before I need to take a moment alone. So anyway, these Spartans were certainly, ahem, attractive, but I mean they weren't as attractive as your pallid ole' Uncle Dear Roommate! Or any potatoey type people who might or might not have said I looked fat and hormonal this week (no names)! Or any lumpy type people who listen to their i-pods during an evening meal (no NAMES!). Or even florid little dumplings who laugh at the trousseau that I wore for them! Hmmm, where was I, Oh Yes!
So the Persians DID win the battle and all! I mean, they like kicked their asses. Sure, the Spartans killed a lot, but I mean, come on, when you're outnumbered like 2000 to one, of course you'd bring your "A" game (a sports metaphor for all my little guys out there!). And Dearies check the score at the end: Persians 1, Spartans 0….. Now, some people were upset by the way that Xerxes was portrayed in the movie, but I must confess, when I saw that massive platform that they carried him on, and watched those men Hop down so that he could walk on them, I was thinking "I've gotta get me one of those." And that PARTY in his tent! Where do I go to get on that guest list? By contrast the Spartans weren't exactly "Dinner Date" material! I mean, their grimy, sweaty thing totally works out in spring, but eventually he has to take a bath, right? Apparently not so much in Sparta. I'm supposed to go to a nice restaurant and get Sushi with these guys? The leather loincloths are nice on Saturday Nights, but hey….That's ALL they had in their closets! Really, do you think they'd let him escort me to the Opera in that? Sorry dears, chances are that I'd party during the afternoons with the Spartans but after that it's a quick shower and Xerxes' pad by 11:00 p.m.! Musn't arrive TOO early, you know. Plus, I'd be carried over there on one of those giant portable thrones. Carried by Spartans (they certainly seemed to have the stamina!).
And, of course, your Uncle Dear Roommate, who really enjoyed the movie!
Tuesday, March 20. 2007
Happy Anniversary, Baby!
Gosh Dearies,
It was my FOUR YEAR Anniversary yesterday! That's right, Four Years ago Yesterday your Uncle George promised to keep me safe over here! And you'll never guess what Uncle George got me! OK, Ok, ok, it was the head of Taha Yassin Ramadan.
I know, not quite what I was hoping for. Actually, I was hoping for a complete troop withdrawal.
Or maybe a diamond. I say this only to point out that I did not get a diamond, or in fact anything I wanted at all. No, all I got was a stupid ole' head and a "Surge" (which let me tell you is VASTLY overrated. No I didn't tell him that, you know how proud little men are of their "prowess").
Nope, not a thing worthwhile. If he's going to drop off a human head, why couldn't it have been Kevin Federline's? He didn't have any problem getting Kayne West's head for me after he said all those mean things about Uncle George! Just because a Major American city was destroyed! That was a hard time for your poor Decider of an Uncle. People were saying that he was doing all this stuff for Iraq but nothing for America. Well GUESS WHAT! We now know that he's been doing the EXACT same things for Iraq that he has for America! They've lost a couple of major cities too, so I don't even want to hear about it!
Why do you even bring up the past? Didn't he say that he was going to rebuild Trent Lott's house?
Sorry Dears, I got carried away. You know how these anniversary's can lead you down some things that haven't gone so well in the past. Then there can be some yelling, and screaming, and beating, well, you get the rest.
Really Dear Ones, I'm over that. I swear. Now I can focus on your Uncle George for the things he does TODAY. Like, why does Uncle Karl have to sit there and tell Uncle George EVERYTHING to say. I mean, I've been around the block, and it won't be the first time that three people were in the old bed, if you know what I mean, but Uncle Karl? He's so…SO…well, PUFFY. Like a big marshmallow. Plus, and I don't want to get too personal, but Dearies he BLUBBERS. No! Not like that, I mean you're right, he is blubbery, but no, he cries, like all the time. We'll just be sitting there, George whispering to me whatever Karl says, then all of a sudden Karl's crying again! What's worse is that George doesn't always get the fact that he's NOT supposed to Cry, because your Uncle George is still in Parrot Mode, and then it's REALLY pathetic.
Then FINALLY George will catch on, and sometimes he even asks what's wrong (which he never does for me!) and then Karl will say something like "Oh, I just keep thinking of Scooter in that horrible place, being somebody's" then he uses a word I won't repeat, and goes into great length about a scenario that you kids DEFINITELY don't need to know about, involving cigarettes and someone named "Tiny" who's actually rather large. Anyway, it's all rather complicated. But then Karl asks George if he "loves him, but you know, not in that way" and so forth, and it always ends up with Bush promising to pardon him, so he won't have to go to jail, and so nobody will find out his real first name is Maurice and that he only goes by Karl to sound all tough, and pretty much the whole night is shot.
That's right, I could have been disciplining somebody, instead I'm listening to your Uncle George console some blubbery (ok, in both senses of the word!) evil overlord whine about how he's afraid of a little anal sex.
But does Uncle George Remember to tell ME how he loves me and will slap down a presidential pardon? No.
So it usually ends up the same way. I sit downstairs drinking martinis, listening to the sound of blubbering coming from my boudoir.
I swear it would have been cheaper and easier to buy me a diamond.
It was my FOUR YEAR Anniversary yesterday! That's right, Four Years ago Yesterday your Uncle George promised to keep me safe over here! And you'll never guess what Uncle George got me! OK, Ok, ok, it was the head of Taha Yassin Ramadan.
I know, not quite what I was hoping for. Actually, I was hoping for a complete troop withdrawal.
Or maybe a diamond. I say this only to point out that I did not get a diamond, or in fact anything I wanted at all. No, all I got was a stupid ole' head and a "Surge" (which let me tell you is VASTLY overrated. No I didn't tell him that, you know how proud little men are of their "prowess").
Nope, not a thing worthwhile. If he's going to drop off a human head, why couldn't it have been Kevin Federline's? He didn't have any problem getting Kayne West's head for me after he said all those mean things about Uncle George! Just because a Major American city was destroyed! That was a hard time for your poor Decider of an Uncle. People were saying that he was doing all this stuff for Iraq but nothing for America. Well GUESS WHAT! We now know that he's been doing the EXACT same things for Iraq that he has for America! They've lost a couple of major cities too, so I don't even want to hear about it!
Why do you even bring up the past? Didn't he say that he was going to rebuild Trent Lott's house?
Sorry Dears, I got carried away. You know how these anniversary's can lead you down some things that haven't gone so well in the past. Then there can be some yelling, and screaming, and beating, well, you get the rest.
Really Dear Ones, I'm over that. I swear. Now I can focus on your Uncle George for the things he does TODAY. Like, why does Uncle Karl have to sit there and tell Uncle George EVERYTHING to say. I mean, I've been around the block, and it won't be the first time that three people were in the old bed, if you know what I mean, but Uncle Karl? He's so…SO…well, PUFFY. Like a big marshmallow. Plus, and I don't want to get too personal, but Dearies he BLUBBERS. No! Not like that, I mean you're right, he is blubbery, but no, he cries, like all the time. We'll just be sitting there, George whispering to me whatever Karl says, then all of a sudden Karl's crying again! What's worse is that George doesn't always get the fact that he's NOT supposed to Cry, because your Uncle George is still in Parrot Mode, and then it's REALLY pathetic.
Then FINALLY George will catch on, and sometimes he even asks what's wrong (which he never does for me!) and then Karl will say something like "Oh, I just keep thinking of Scooter in that horrible place, being somebody's" then he uses a word I won't repeat, and goes into great length about a scenario that you kids DEFINITELY don't need to know about, involving cigarettes and someone named "Tiny" who's actually rather large. Anyway, it's all rather complicated. But then Karl asks George if he "loves him, but you know, not in that way" and so forth, and it always ends up with Bush promising to pardon him, so he won't have to go to jail, and so nobody will find out his real first name is Maurice and that he only goes by Karl to sound all tough, and pretty much the whole night is shot.
That's right, I could have been disciplining somebody, instead I'm listening to your Uncle George console some blubbery (ok, in both senses of the word!) evil overlord whine about how he's afraid of a little anal sex.
But does Uncle George Remember to tell ME how he loves me and will slap down a presidential pardon? No.
So it usually ends up the same way. I sit downstairs drinking martinis, listening to the sound of blubbering coming from my boudoir.
I swear it would have been cheaper and easier to buy me a diamond.
Monday, March 19. 2007
Did anything happen while I was gone?
Fortunately, I compiled a list of things that surely didn't happen while I was away.
Continue reading "Did anything happen while I was gone?"
(Page 1 of 9, totalling 127 entries)
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Willow
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Auntie Willow
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