Archive | March, 2011

I Hate People

27 Mar

My husband and I have unintentionally created this routine. It goes something like this:

Me: I hate people

Him: I know.

Me: No, I really, really hate people.

Him: I know you do, sweetie. I know you do.

We go through this several times a week and twice on Sundays.  Generally there was a conversation that preceded my statement of ill-will towards my fellow man. That conversation usually goes something like this:

Me: Yeah, and another thing—what’s up with those stupid corporate care programs?

Him: I dunno. Corporations don’t care.

Me: That’s my point. I mean, corporations aren’t inherently evil. They’re not inherently good either, but one can only exist in opposition to the other, right?

Him: Yes?

Me: Right. So Corporation X wants me to buy its toilet paper because it supports troops, breast cancer research, and reforestation of the Amazonian rainforest. Now, I have to ask you: What’s that got to do with my butt, huh?

Him: Nothing. It’s all perception.

Me: Right! The measure of a corporation isn’t what it gives to charity. It’s three things: Is the product any good? Does it treat employees fairly? Does it treat customers with respect?

Him: That you give to the Coalition To Protect The Mississippi Slow-Crawling Bubba has nothing to do with toilet paper.

Me: Right! My great-grandfather…

Him: Oh boy…

Me: Was fired…FIRED…

Him: Yes, from the sawmill because he said if you’re going to house your workers—and you are—you have to give them a decent place to live.

Me: You have to give them a decent place to live because if a man’s got to worry about the roof over his family’s head…

Him: He’s not going to be focused on the job he gets paid for.

Me: That’s right. Could the sawmill have elected not to house workers?

Him: Yes.

Me: Right. But they did.  So if you’re all in…

Him: You gotta be all in…

Me: Exactly. EXACTLY.  Oh, and another thing! The bears? The bears with the toilet paper stuck to their asses?

Him: Yes?

Me: What is that? You’re a bear, in the woods, crapping quarters and getting toilet paper stuck to your hiney? Does that make me want to buy your toilet paper?

Him: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me: You agree with me. If you knew what I was talking about, you’d agree with me.

Him: I’m sure.

Me: So I have this whole conversation with Marie about how she’s only buying this one brand of sun-dried tomatoes because they give 10% back to charity…

Him: Ten percent of what? You know what that means, right? They throw their dented cans out to a food pantry, use it as a tax write-off, call it a donation and actually make money on the deal.

Me: I KNOW! So ask me if she likes sun-dried tomatoes.

Him: Does she like…

Me: NO! She HATES sun-dried tomatoes. But she thinks she can get all Kiva on some woman in Bangladesh by…

Him: Buying tomatoes instead of giving 20 bucks to Kiva?

Me: YES! I hate people.



23 Mar

A couple have the following discussion while filling out forms in the waiting room of a doctor’s office:

Maw: (reading the form out loud) It says, present years married. What’s that?

Paw: What?

Maw: Present. Years. Married. What do I put?

Paw: Well, I reckon 38. Put 38.

Maw: Present years married.

Paw: Or 72. Put 72.

Maw: Present years…alright. Seventy-two.

Take Back America From Radical Followers Of Greek Mythology

10 Mar

I have a confession to make. I’m really embarrassed and upset, but I need help. I don’t know where to turn.

My seven-year-old nephew is self-identifying as Hellenistic.

It started innocently enough (we thought) in his second grade public school class. The teacher (obviously planted in the school by the radical Hellenistic group Dodekatheon to recruit bright, impressionable elementary school children) ostensibly wanted “her pedia” to learn the stories of the ancient Greeks and the tales behind many of the items and products named after so-called Greek gods and goddesses. We were concerned because, as Western Christians, we didn’t really want him learning such myths. I mean, a deity supposedly wrapped in swaddling clothes to protect him from those who meant him harm? A deity, worshipped from a young age, whose followers gathered at a cave where a supposed death and rebirth by fire happened? It was a story we were not entirely comfortable with, to say the least.

My nephew, we’ll call him Hugo, would come home every afternoon telling us stories of other gods and goddesses. That Hera is responsible for the Milky Way. That Dionysus frees people from self-consciousness and worry. That Olympia was a sacred city to those who worshipped Zeus. That the festival of Lykaia involved going to a mountain-top for human sacrifice. That Apollo could heal the sick, but could also spread death and plague. It just got to the point of the ridiculous.

But the stories were so ridiculous that we just knew Hugo wouldn’t believe any of them. But then, one day last week, while in the car with my mother, Hugo began to pray. To Zeus. My mother asked him why he was praying to Zeus and he said he’d learned about it in school. He figured he might as well take his prayers to the top. Not one to panic, my mother figured it was the folly of childhood, but made a mental note to watch him more carefully.

Hugo began to talk more and more about these Greek myths. On Monday he was found in his bedroom, dressed in a sheet designed as a toga. His parents tried not to panic, but how could they not? On Tuesday, my brother found him in the street, wearing Nikes, chewing Trident gum, and taking pictures of a bridge and power lines with an Olympus camera. He stopped eating tzatziki sauce on his gyros. He said plain yogurt was more pure.

Honestly, I knew something was up week before last. He sent me a Flat Stanley with instructions to “put him in an envelope and send him around the country,” to “learn about our postal system”. Stanley was colored red and purple, colors known to be associated with radical mythology.

I’m using my blog as a forum to warn you all: It could happen to you! These people like Hugo’s teacher work slowly, almost undetected, preying on young, immature minds. They teach them about explosions in science class. They make them familiar with the traditional dress of ancient Greeks. If we allow this so-called education to continue, where will we be in five years? I’ll tell you where—speaking ancient Greek, drinking wine from deerskin flacons, and marrying our sisters. That’s where.

We are not safe. None of us. For years we’ve let them infiltrate our colleges under the guise of “fraternal social organizations”. Will we let them take our babies now? The enemy is here, and they want us dead because they hate our Big Macs, and our Chryslers, and our Christian values.

Write your Congressman. Tell him you want our schools to stop indoctrinating our children with radical Hellenism. Boycott Nike, Trident, Olympus, Atlas Van Lines, Midas, Orion Pictures, and Trojan condoms (our children do not need to be indoctrinated with sex education either, so be careful with that one). No more travel to Phoenix! I am currently contacting some really big names in the music business for a protest song called “I Ain’t Gonna Play Camelback Mountain Resort”. We cannot let this infiltration and indoctrination continue.

Please, if you care about the future of a (single) Godly America, get the word out. Forward the link to this story to as many people as you can. Talk about it on The Facebook, on The Twitter. We cannot stand idly by. I want MY America back. Don’t you?


It’s Just All Crrrrrap

9 Mar

I have these friends. They are wonderful, awesome, funny, sarcastic, sardonic, strange, smart, curious…what else? Oh, mine. They are my friends. And I love them.

Today has been a particularly horrendous day. This is the kind of day that should have been drowned at birth. This is the kind of day you toss back in the lake…or use as bait for something bigger. Today is the kind of day where—even if you’re atheist—you find yourself looking up and screaming, WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS? WHO ORDERED THIS SHIT? THIS IS NOT WHAT I ORDERED! I WANTED GUACOMOLE!! WHERE ARE MY AVOCADOS, HUH?

(By the way: A friend said to me, you know, maybe you could try to write something and take your mind off more pressing issues for a minute. I said I’d been thinking that just writing a little crap like, oh, about avocados might help. And he, because he’s just got a way with words, says, “Mmmmm…guac.” Then he follows it up with how “unfair that is to the tasty avocado that it’s instantly associated with guacamole. And further, while tasty, the avocado can be so many more things like…like…well, there has to be other stuff.” I have the coolest friends.)

And because I’m a girl who enjoys a little Facebook stalking in my free time, I noticed that there were a lot of us having really crappy days. Flat tires, vacation problems, burned food, noisy children, such like. I like to think we’re in the crappy day together. Really go on, make it a terrible day for all of us and then maybe we can start inching toward stasis and something good happens. Like I get guacamole.

Either that, or we’re storming something, bitches.

So, because I believe that after Xanax, Tums, and Motrin, laughter is the best medicine, I’m posting some things that make me giggle. I hope they work for you.


See, What Happened Was…

8 Mar

See, what had happened was my drugs kicked in. Not like in a speeding through the desert like a bastard sort of way. Like in a, wow, wonders of modern psychopharmacology way. (At this point I say PRESCRIBED modern psychopharmacology way for my friends who, well, you know who you are and what the rest of that thought is.) So I’m all dopamine-ed and serotonin-ed and tetracyclic-ed. And it is the damndest thing, but did you know—and don’t let me lose you here because this is some revolutionary shit I’m about to lay on you—that if you get out of bed, every day, and get dressed, every day, you can go and do stuff?



Other than the need to wear pants—or a facsimile thereof—most days this getting up and dressed stuff is awesome. So because I’m not all Howard Hughes-y anymore I’ve got all these projects going on. Writing sort of got pushed to the side.

Which is where I went wrong.

You see, I wrote a little ditty a few months ago about Sandra Lee and how it would be so cool if she went all TableSkape™ on the New York governor’s mansion. Then I wrote a couple more pieces, then, well, honestly that’s when different drugs kicked in because I hurt my knees. Anyway, then I miss—and here’s where I make a point—that has linked to the blog.


The good news is you got traffic like you’ve never had. The bad news is now­­ they’ve moved on to The Sheen Family Circus.

But see, here’s the good part…I’m supposed to be renovating this website, and it’s not going well. I am overwhelmed. I hate everything. All websites, all templates, I even had mean words with several Adobe products.

What I’m saying is that it’s the perfect time to procrastinate and write!! So here I am.

I could use your help with another project. The other day, my husband brought home–TO ME–the last pork bun from the neighborhood Asian market. If that’s not love, my friend, I don’t know what is. I suppose it could have been the last one because he ate the second-to-last-one in the car, but I think I’d have smelled it on him. So it started me thinking about ways you know you and your honey are a team.

Then, I took that idea, and set it to some awesome Tangerine Dream for this beautiful interpretive dance involving balloons.

Shut up. I did not.

I started listing ways you know you’ve got your honey’s back. And I’d like to hear from you. What are ways you know your and your honey are a team? Tell me in the comments or email me at

I’m going to totally steal your ideas. But the winning entry will receive a digital print customized with his or her Ways You Know submission.