A New Sheriff in Town

Corporations are people, Mitt?  http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-pn-romney-state-fair-20110811,0,1863810.story  I’m not sure what disturbs me more…that you said it, or that the comment “earned [you] a sustained round of applause”.  Stupid is as stupid does?  Hmm.

Should it surprise me that you and your cronies at Standard and Poor want to fuck with the world economy, too?  Nope, it doesn’t.  But here’s why you’re all heading south…FAAAAR south my friend.  You aren’t allowed to criticize someone else, or pretend like you are deserving of some self-served, sleazy patting of yourself on your own back for any credit rating that’s been issued by people you keep in your back pocket, asshat.  http://www.seasonalmagazine.com/2011/08/s-downgrade-of-us-debt-5-reasons-why-it.html  Can you say conflict of interest?  *eye roll*

Yes, dear reader, it’s times like these that I am SO happy that at the end of my days I am going to Hell…

First, all the really cool (albeit poor) kids are going.  It isn’t going to just be those hateful dumbasses like Michelle Bachmann, George W., Rummy, Walker, and Mitt.  (Rumor has it that Sarah’s petitioning for Heaven…course that’ll probably go as well as her previous vice-presidential bid.  No worries, I’ll save you a seat, Pretty Princess…NOT.  You’ll stand and sweat like a lipsticked pig in the heat like the rest of us and like it.)  

Truth is, in Moo Hell, I don’t even want them there…which is precisely why they’ll be there.  And why I’ll be there to irritate them in retaliation.  Talk about a hellacious symbiotic relationship!  (You can’t be condemned to Hell and not have it be…well…Hell.  It’s the whole point of the thing.  No red wine and stuck with Pretty Princess Palin.  It’s the crystal clear definition of it...probably for both of us.)

But I'm not even talking about the evil minions that actually belong there; some of us will probably end up there due to stupid shit done whilst under the influence at some point in our lives.  (I’ve got stories…damn, one that comes to mind involves two besties from back in the day—both of whom shall remain nameless to spare the quasi-innocent—an unknowing chaperone—also nameless—and a pair or two of pantyhose used for questionable means.  What do you want??  We were in our twenties, married, bombed and ready for trouble.  But I digress…)

So, cool kids + booze-soaked sin = Hell-bound?  Check.  It’s nice to know, that in part, I’ll be amongst close friends.

Reason number two:  it gives me an opportunity to demonstrate my leadership abilities (and the fact that I really can be mean as…well…Hell). When I arrive, I am planning to tell the guy dressed in red to get the fuck out of my chair.  “You’ve been mishandling Hell, Beelzebub, and I’m gonna show you how it’s done proper, pally.”  Mitt?  Is your seat warm enough?  No?  I’ll turn it up, honey.  Michelle?  Meet your new wife Sarah.  I figured you’d be happy because I hooked you up with someone with which you have something in common.  (You’re both homophobic, antifeminist, political freak wannabes.)

Finally…y’all gotta know that with my love for heat I’m gonna decide how hot it’s going to be.  And it’s gonna be scorching, kiddies.  Just how Mama Satana likes it.  Those of you riding on my rocket sled with the super-duper turbo-boosters should be sure to pack light because Hell’s gone clothing optional (which, when I think of it, could be everyone’s personal Hell in one way or another).

Yeah, Me + Hell = Good Times.  Oh, and if a Mr. G. Reaper shows up, knocking with a special ticket for you, don’t let the turbo-boostered toboggan disturb you.  Light speed is the best way to go.  Everyone knows the anticipation of the ride is the worst part anyway.  Besides, if you’re reading this, no worries for you anyway.  You’re probably already in good with the new sheriff in town…

And the winner is??

What.

The.

Fuck???

I’ve struggled with sleep lately, but there are moments when my inability to catch my winks at night has the potential to create future nightmares of epic proportions.  So it is when I get to channel surfing and see a massive disaster like Toddlers and Tiaras.

When is it ever okay to dress up a four year-old like a hooker (fake eyelashes and heavy eyeliner, low-cutting, short-skirted dresses, and big, crazy, 80’s slutty-girl hair) and send her out on stage to win a supposed “beauty pageant”?

Crazy stage moms (and dads)?  They are in ample supply here, folks.  Many of them not that attractive themselves, you can see they are trying to vicariously live out their own pageant dreams through their way too young to be told to “shake your butt, but not like a stripper” children. 

Seriously??  Should a four year-old even know what a stripper is let alone know how she should shake her booty just right so the kid won’t cross that invisible boundary of decorum and good taste??

Look.  I’m not completely against the whole pageant thing.  I did the Junior Miss thing back in the day.  Thing is I was a junior…in HIGH SCHOOL.  There were scholarships involved.  But the point is that I was old enough to apply my own fake lashes, and I actually had real boobies and nice gams to put in the dress I borrowed from my friend Jill.  Oh, and let’s not forget that it actually was the 1980’s, so my big ole poof hair was era appropriate.

My problem isn’t the pageant idea; it’s when you take a toddler and dress her like a hoochiemama and try to pretend that the whole sitch isn’t a very messed up train wreck.  Let her look like a kid and have her do kid things because, well, she IS one.

Alaska just finished her striptease routine where she rips her jacket off and swings it around her head, all the while spinning and shaking her booty, but, naturally NOT like a stripper—even though she technically is acting out that role, all in front of the many grown males in the audience.  My mouth is agape.  (Not sure if this is because of the striptease or the fact that her name is perfect for the stripper she is playing out at the moment.  *shakes head*  I’m at a loss here.)

Yeah, then I started thinking.  What are these little girls going to be like when they reach adulthood?  Will they ever believe that it’s okay to walk through their world without wearing make-up?  Will they figure that they have to use their looks/sex to get what they want in life?  Or worse, that what is important is how you look not who you are, particularly as a woman?  As a card carrying member of NOW, I find the whole thing most disturbing.

Well, I gotta flip channels again for my own sanity and safety.  Maybe comedy channel has something on that will make the disgust fade away, though I doubt it…

Brain cells? We don't need no stinkin' brain cells...

I lost brain cells last night, of this I am sure.

Okay, I should explain.  It wasn’t because I over-served myself (although in all honesty I did, in fact, drink a little wine—red, natch).  No. In my effort to transform into the ultimate corpulent, dumpy, slacker-loser, I have developed an addiction to watching inane television.  Why read a book and learn something when you can sit your ass all potato-style, drooling in front of the dummy box?  Make mine mashed oozing with sharp cheddar and butter (keep your damn healthy broccoli) these days.

My latest greatest distraction from participating in the real world is my weekly dose of “The Bachelorette”.  I’m so irritatingly invested in this stupid show that I sometimes find myself actually screaming at Ashley on TV, which we all know is not even remotely helpful since she can’t hear me.  I’ve even coaxed my honey into watching with me.  And while, if I’m being honest, he probably plays along because he wants to spend time with me (reads: he wants to get laid when the show is over), he does get hooked into my mental measurements over Ashley’s very poor judgment, too.

So there we sit, pooled in spit, when the realization hits that not only am I invested in the psychology of what is going on, but I have to own up to having a fave guy, though all I know about him is that he makes wine (which I’m not sure says the right thing about me…or maybe says exactly the right thing about me, depending upon how you look at it).  Don’t even know the guys name.  Heh.  Maybe I’m not as devoted a fan as I previously thought.  Gee.  What a relief.

What a variety of guys; all with some level of hotness, some smoking, but all playing a game.  Ash, sweetheart, I don’t know if you know this or not because you’re only, like, twelve years old, but guys like to compete.  Especially with each other.  Super-duper especially when it’s against each other for a girl’s affections.  But here’s the rub, darlin’…I don’t know many guys that aren’t almost more into the chase than the catch.  

You’re all concerned, Ash sweetie, (and you should be if you’re taking this whole bit seriously) that these guys aren’t being honest about their intentions and that they’re playing a game, which they are.  Duh.  So how in the world can you truly think that one of these men is seriously into you? 

Yes, they all want to woo and win you, but I’m betting that it has more to do with beating each other out of the opportunity to be the winner winner chicken dinner than it has to do with banging you for the rest of their lives. 

Honey, just deal with the historical facts.  Oh, sure, maybe one of these guys is excited to become Mr. Ashley, but if we’re being realists here, there’s a better chance of getting hit by lightening. 

Twice. 

On a sunny day.

It.

Is.

A.

Game.  *smirks*

When you look at all of the bachelor/ette shows, have any actually worked out?  Maybe that one way in the beginning.  I say take your fifteen minutes of fame and go the way that others have gone: pretend that you can act or something.  You’re pretty enough to make it on Lifetime or SciFi channel, I guess, and why reinvent the wheel with trying to become the next reality star?  Oh, wait.  You did that already.  Nevermind.

And for God’s sake, ditch this whole Bentley idea.  You think there’s a connection??  Really?  (Why are the young ones so bloomin' dense?)  Yes, I know that I get to see all the details of his extensive douchebaggery that you were unaware of, and he’s definitely a master manipulator, but come on.  The man is plant food.  Go with the wine maker guy (what the hell is his name??  Now I’m going to have to go look that up).

You know folks, all of it still leaves me at a serious loss though.  Not because I’m concerned about which guy Ashley will end up with, because who gives a shit?  It’s not like she’ll stay with the guy for longer than it takes to start a new season anyway, but because I’ve developed the horrible habit of wasting two hours every week on this dumb show instead of doing something productive, like reading or writing or doing my laundry.

Right now I’m write-avoiding by watching “The Voice”, but only after watching “America’s Got Talent” (though I find the title of the latter show somewhat misleading).  Point is that I keep doing things that keep me from doing the things that I want to be doing…or rather say that I want to be doing.

This got me thinking, which outside of drooling in front of the boob-tube is something I seem to be doing a lot of lately.  Maybe I don’t really want to be doing what I say I want to be doing.  But then what?  I could go for becoming a professional wine drinker, on account of the fact that I like my red, but I’d really like to keep the liver I’ve got because I’m kind of attached to it.  Transplants can be so…sketchy, and dialysis doesn’t really seem to be the way to go.

Television critic?  Lord knows I distract myself with enough of it these days.  Internet surf queen?  I’m beyond pro in that department, too.  See?  Now this is requiring WAY too much thinking and the confusion is impeding my ability to enjoy “The Voice” so I’d better shut up shutting up and get back to it.   

I mean, I have far more pressing matters to consider than my future anyway.  Rumor has it Bentley (the guy with a name fit for the dog that he is) is coming back.  Wonder what will happen?  If she lets him back and I was the nameless wine maker, I’d ditch her and go looking for his true match—a married woman in Wisconsin (or at least that’s what I’ve heard). 

You hear me, Ash? 

Don’t fuck up your chance to be with one of the guys who is sincerely pretending like you’re “the one” for the guy that’s pretending like he’s “the one”, except anytime he’s in front of a camera. 

Besides, FREE WINE, girl.  How can you go wrong with anything that’s free?  The fact that it’s wine…mmm…

A word about writing...

Writer’s block sucks.

Okay, that’s probably not news for the writers out there, and there’re a lot worse things in the world, but it is—at the very least—a tremendous pain in the ass.  And while I am a fan of whining (clearly, and not to be confused with “wining”, which I am also quite fond of), I’d really not like to have to whine about not being able to write.  (Wow.  Two glasses of wine and I can barely understand that last sentence.  Apparently I became a lightweight when the block set in?  *grumble*)

Wouldn’t it be MUCH more fun to whine about not getting enough sex?  Or to bellyache about the cost of gas?  Or that I have gas?  (Ate soy today.  Sorry, honey.)

Needless to say, I’ve got nothing to say.  No.  That isn’t exactly true.  I have LOTS to say, but my words won’t come.  I have whole movies playing repeatedly in my head, and they’re truncated by my own ineptitude in expressing clear thoughts without reading them back to myself and thinking, “AUGH!!!!  Awful!”  I can’t make the English fit the mind-film, so to speak.

Perhaps I should write in Spanish?  Yes, it’s true that it’s helpful to be fluent in a language if you plan to create in it, and I’m not…exactly, but I was thinking maybe the extra challenge would take my mind off of how bad I suck at this art, and how the words sometimes don’t find their way to the page, and that’s frustrating.  Sigh.

Okay, back to writing fiction.  Maybe.  Or maybe I’ll just go play on facebook for a while instead, drinking the rest of this glass of vino, and then go to bed. 

All I know is writer’s block bites ass…

Where, oh, where has my discipline gone...

Remember when I was single-mindedly focused, disciplined and motivated??

Yeah, me neither.  Seems it’s been such a long-assed time since I saw my old friend Discipline that I’ve developed an inability to look down and see my own feet as of late.

Okay, maybe my newest friend, Eggs Agerator, has taken over here.  Or perhaps it's my other friend Miss Taken.  My food baby has grown plump, but I can still see my shoes…when they’re sitting on the steps across the room, and I’m not too far from the stairs (my eyesight’s failing a bit these days).  And I can still button my pants, albeit barely, though a belt is completely unnecessary at the moment.

You’d think that the ole workhorse Mo Tivator would step in to help me give birth to this food baby by forcing me to eat raw veggies and hit the workouts instead of munching down the little bowl of potato chips I’m thinking of refilling as we speak.  (Uh, isn’t it considered exercise to walk all the way to the kitchen to fill the bowl and then all the way back here to the recliner in the living room??  Hmph.)  “Put the chips down, and get on the damned exercise bike, you lazy cow!!”  That’s what Mo would say, if A. Pathy wasn’t pinning him down on the floor, helped out by Dee Pressed’s hand held tight over Mo’s mouth.

It’s not that I’m a lazy personality.  Or maybe, it’s not that I wasn’t a lazy personality…damn, those double negatives are nastiness.  What I mean to say is once upon a time, laziness would not have been a characteristic that one would have attached to the picture of me in a dictionary.  (In truth, my picture would be on the page where one finds the word “unphotogenic”, but I digress…)

Energetic.  That’s how I would have characterized myself back in the day.  Then life happened.  Again.  And again.  And again.  Yeah, life sure kicks the crap out of you, and the past ten years, give or take, I’ve been taking more than my share of beatings.  Not as many as some, but more than my energetic system can recover from.  (Shit.  Remember when I cared enough about written English that I didn’t end a sentence with a preposition?  *waxes nostalgic* Yeah, those were the days.)  Point is: perpetual emotional pain drains the life right out of you.

All I know is that, somehow, I’d better figure it out before I make it as Biggest Loser (on so very many levels) material.  With Jillian gone in the upcoming seasons, who would tell me that puking isn’t an excuse to get off the treadmill to go hide and feel all sorry for myself??  Nope.  I’m going to have to ride my own ass here, people.  Get up and get going, recliner potato!!  Tired?!?  So is everyone else on the planet, you big whiiiner!!

Well, chip bowl is empty.  It’s a war of wills.  Me against Myself and I.  Now to figure out which side says, “Fill the bowl!!”, and TAKE. IT. OUT…

…for sushi.  Sushi’s healthy, right?  *sighs, shaking head* Just pathetic…

Bed bugs, bed bugs, whatcha gonna do...whatcha gonna do when they come for you??

Remember the good ole days?  When you were admitted to the hospital and all you had to worry about was dying from some random, careless act of malpractice?  You know, a cotton gauze sewn into your gut during an emergency surgery that spirals into a fatal infection?  Or a flesh eating nosocomial one from someone neglecting to observe the “sterile environment” rules?  Or the newest antibiotic resistant disease?

Yeah.  Good ole days.  But no more, kiddies.  Now we have something even more insidious to deal with in our local hospitals…

http://bedbugger.com/2010/11/17/milwaukee-hospital-quarantines-suspected-bed-bug-victims-based-on-suspected-bite-marks-alone/

Itchy all of a sudden?  Me, too.  In fact, just typing the words makes me itchy-scratchy all over, and even though I probably wouldn’t die from them I am highly allergic to any buggies that bite me. *scratches arm*

If you’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with these little bastards, you know that they will be here long after the roaches, rats and Keith Richards float off to the Big Party in the sky.  Oh yes.  Yes, they will.  They will be laughing at those stupid roaches.  Cause even though roaches are rather hardy, they can be squished.  Granted, you may have to use your car to do it (everything's bigger in Texas), at least they crunch. 

Ever try to squish a teeeeeny bed bug?  Impossible is the word that comes to mind.  And they’re the size that can sneak into and hide…well, everywhere.  *scratches leg*

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the little buggars have found their way into hospitals.  I mean, if you travel at all, you put yourself at risk of bringing home a few “souveniers” that will keep the love giving and giving and giving.  But unless you’re getting a fantastic boob job, hospitals aren’t exactly the end all be all vacation, right?  All the same, you’re there, in an environment where many others convene so the risk factor is high.  *scratches knee*

However, when you leave the hospital, I think the only thing you should be bringing home with you is total health (and maybe a med or two).  What. The. Fuck?  *starts scratching all over*

I mean…YUCK.  Yuck, yuck, yuck.  Yuck.  Did I mention yuck?  *scratches buttcheek* 

What is it about bugs that make it worse than any other possible fatal disease?  Creepy crawliness?  Ugh.  Especially those really little ones.  *continues scratching furiously*

Well, I’d love to sit and chat about gross things like this, but perhaps I should go and investigate mattress cracks and crevasses.  (EEEEWWWW…)  I don’t live that far from hospitals.  Don’t work that far from one where those icky things were found.  Creepy-crawly days.  *blech*  Anyway, wish me luck.  *scratches at head*  Hopefully there isn’t anything to see here folks.  *tries to scratch back*  (Not finding bites so hopefully that’s a good sign.)  *scratches bottom of foot*

Shit.  It occurs to me that I’m traveling to my beloved NOLA soon.  Let’s hope that seriously drunken bed bugs get lost on their way to my clothes and suitcase so that they don’t find their way back to my home sweet home.  I’m willing to drink more to take home less.  “Souvs” of that variety?  Who needs those??  *scratches wildly*  I say the food and music alone should be enough for those nasties to stay right were they are.  But just in case, little bedbug, do you really want to party hardy all summer just to freeze come September?  (Yes, I know that the bitter cold doesn’t really come till a bit later, but shhhh…*whispers*  work with me here, people.)

Did I mention yuck?  *double shudder*

A New, Better Prayer

Okay, sometimes when you ask for trouble, you actually get it.  I stupidly forgot about that.  So before we move on to anything else, please call off the smiting, Goddess.  Call. It. Off.  Please?

Here’s the thing…I’m not overly afraid of death (You know that, for the most part, my spirit has never fully integrated in this body anyway) although I guess given the choice, I would prefer to not kick the bucket and give up this human form yet.  What I do know is that I don’t want to see others—innocent or no—be taken out.  So in this whole smiting request thingy, well, somewhere along the line, a few well-worded thoughts from others got me considering things differently.  (Thank you to those with better, kinder, more loving ideas.)  I managed to figure some things out about fear and love.  And smiting, while it seemed like a really good idea at the time, is not such a good idea after all.  That original request for planetary death and destruction?  Yeah, cancel that, please.

Instead, I have a better idea.  A way better idea.  I few small favors that I am sure You won’t mind fulfilling:

Favor number one:  If I am only allowed one request, this is the one I’m most looking to fulfill, okay?  Please, stop the nuclear problems that the Japanese are dealing with right now.  Actually, stop all of the problems they are experiencing.  Please.  The huge earthquake was bad; the ginormous tsunami was horrible.  The continued barrage on this area of the world is over the top.  These people have suffered enough.  Too much, actually.  So if You wouldn’t mind getting those powerful Hands in there, please, stop the issues, particularly the nuclear ones.  Save these people, please.

Favor number two:  Please inspire us human beings to start interacting with each other and our world from a state of love and empathy.  Allow us to see the world from each others’ spaces.  Allow us to release our own victimhood so that we can stop feeling sorry for ourselves, which always results in the attempts to undermine each other.  Let us feel sincere and complete gratitude.  Help us to work together.  Show us that polarization serves no one and that the only way peace can happen is if we all compromise, that there is no weakness in negotiation.  Help us to see that we all gain if we pull each other up and give instead of ripping away from the other—whether we're talking the material, emotional or spiritual.  Bring those who suffer from greed to a new understanding about their wealth; help those with everything realize that their wealth has immense responsibility.  Forgive those who just don’t seem to get that and bring them to the fullest understanding.  Allow us all to see our hypocrisies, but even more, to strive for complete authenticity.  In essence, help us to realize our fullest potential, and to be grateful for it.

Favor number three:  Please continue to love, support and forgive us.  We need Your positive Divine influence, in whatever way it’s best seen by each and every person (even to those who don’t know You—they see Your magic; they just label it differently).  Allow us to see our mistakes clearly.  Inspire us to be better humans.  Allow Your hand to guide this “art project” with more involvement.  (But feel free to let us think it's our idea.  You know how we humans love to think we're the ones in control.)

Okay, I think that does it for now.  I’ll let You know if I think of anything else.  Remember, it’d be really great if You’d be a good Sport and put the kibosh on the smiting thing.  Especially the Japan issue.  We need You to step in on that and stop it super-stat, please.  (I don’t mean to sound pushy-You know how I get, but things are getting to a point where very bad things are happening.  Seriously.)

And please, remember, I am just a stupid human like everyone else.  It may have taken me some time, but I see the error in the thought process of that original request.  *raises right hand and puts left on a wrestling puppy pile* I promise to try to be a better person and to make a stronger effort to have a positive affect on the world around me.  Maybe I’m not deserving, but hopefully You’ll see me worthy enough of forgiveness of my ignorance and arrogance anyway.

Oh, and Lady?  Thank You in advance...