Dear Dish Network

Thank you, Dish Network, for creating the DPTC Channel. What's this, you may ask? Why, it's the DOUBLE PITS TO CHESTY CHANNEL. Since I didn't know what DPTC meant, I had to do a bit of investigation, and learned a couple things.

It's nice to see that you are truly educating people, Dish Network and Unknown Body Spray Company. Thank you for teaching men how to bathe in cheap cologne. Did you know that it's summer? Did you know that heat (summer) makes fellas sweat? Did you know that women have much more sensitive sniffers than guys do? I have indescribably vivid memories of being on the job with these fellas who used that particular technique, to my olifactory terror.

But do you know what the worst part about the DPTC channel? I watched it for more than an hour, in the hopes that they were going to play more than the one three-minute commercial. Over and over again, I hoped. Possibly after half an hour...nope. An hour? Nope. That's about the part where I lost heart and turned the channel.

But knowing me, I'll watch it tomorrow.

Getting to the Bottom of Things

I posted this one one Myspace on Nov 21, 2008. I know! This year, even!
There may be some other old blogs and postings that I come across, which I will post if I get to it. Heaven knows that I have written enough and I like to have it all in one spot, rather than five or more random spots with too many passwords for me to remember comfortably.
Anyhoo...

Today, while cleaning, I noticed something which disturbed me and I feel the need to share. Be warned, for this is not a topic for the faint of heart. I was picking up my laundry and I noticed a camisole which seemed unfamiliar to me. It was wadded up a little bit, and I bent over to pick it up.

That was when I made The Discovery. This was no camisole. This was a PAIR OF UNDERWEAR. I cannot describe to you the abject horror which pierced my soul as I took a good long look at my Granny Panties, for Granny Panties is the only word which could possibly describe them. They were gigantic, a veritable sail's worth of material. A pair of underwear which could conceivably be cut up and turned into somewhere between five and seven thongs. Which could cover a teenager from shoulders to kneecaps. Which could....which could be the reason why I'm not getting any.

At what point did this happen? When did I become the woman who buys her underwear in a six pack? Why didn't I notice? When did I put my sexuality on the altar of comfort and slit it's throat? I mean, it obviously happened, but why didn't I notice it?

I have been thinking a lot about it, though, since The Discovery. I have come to realize a few differences in my life since my shift into the second of the two great eras of a woman's life: Before Granny Panties and After Granny Panties. I'm comfortable. I am no longer fighting the war of attrition between my butt crack and an overly inquisitive piece of fabric. Granny Panties glue to the backside in such a way that this sort of rabid curiosity is impossible. I win. Granny Panty Elastic, try though it might, cannot pull random hairs from an area which does not appreciate the element of surprise. I cannot say the same thing for my previous sexy looking panties which would pluck anywhere from one to four hairs daily.

So maybe I shouldn't cry foul just yet. I know that in the halcyon days of my youth I swore that I would never ever EVER wear Granny Panties. Ever. But when I was in kindergarten, I think I said the same thing about eating paste.

And now, an important announcement

April 4, 2006

I wanted to announce that it is officially warm enough to start saying things like "twitterpated" and "smitten". Once again, you are allowed to "meander" and "lolligag", as the weather will allow it.

You aren't allowed to say these words until spring....and not official spring, but real spring, when you don't have to worry about losing fingers when you just want to hold hands.

Conversely, you still aren't allowed to "mosey" for at least another three months. Don't make me pull out the strap.

Lovies!

The Horrifying Truth

April 06, 2006

Yesterday I bought a pack of Dubble Bubble bubble gum, something which I hadn't chewed since I was oh...about ten years old. I noticed that they still have the little comics printed, much like Bazooka Joe, around the gum.

Upon closer review, I noticed that most of the comics revolve around the life of a litle boy. And what would his name be, you ask?

Pud.

Personally, I'm thinking about immortalizing it with a tattoo or something. The joy I feel has no words.

M-Azing

April 11. 2006

Am I the only person who is utterly creeped out by M-Azing candy bar commercials? I mean, call me a prude, but the notion of two candy bars humping before I eat them is personally repellant.

M-Azingly icky.

Toys

When this blog says "recently," it actually means May of 2006. Sorry!

Recently, Ness posted a blog commenting about the toys of our childhood. I, being a slacker, didn't leave a comment until I was verbally beaten about the head and neck for not posting. I told her that I would torture her with something , and I feel that I have succeeded. As a matter of fact, I was so proud of the level of torment I threw at her, that I decided to share it with all of you.

Yes, I can tell that you are awed by my unadulterated goodness.

So here begins my post about my personal favorite childhood toys:

This is an absolute no-brainer.STAR WARS ACTION FIGURES!!!

My God, what would my brothers and I have done all year long if it weren't for those little pieces of plastic that held all of us in such a trance. We would pile fallen pine needles into stages, corridors, whatever it took to give us an excuse to have some kind of conflict that could only be solved by a battle royale between Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker.

We would dress the part, too, in the winter, with my hair pinned into giant croissants placed with care just above my ears, in a white nightgown, my eldest brother wearing a long scarf tied in a knot as a sash, trying to do the weird growly noise (which, to this day, is the easiest way for any man to impress me. To do the Chewbacca growl is the epitome of assured masculinity and virility in my eyes.) and look as though he would indeed tear out an arm and beat you with it.

My other two brothers were Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, respectively...although it never did come to blows, to my obviously understandable dismay. I was Leia, dammit, and I wanted some BLOOD!

And where would the world be without WEEBLE WOBBLES? Man I loved me some Weeble Wobbles. Especially the little tree house play set with the slidey slide. God, hours of fun in the back yard on the sand pile.I could actually go on for a lot longer, because, really, I grew up in like the Golden Age of toys, if you ask me...From Hot Wheels to Mr Potato Head to Etch-A-Sketch.

We didn't have Candy Land, but my cousins did, and so we would go to their house and play games over there....Candy Land, Chinese Checkers, Monopoly (where began the lifetime of hatred I feel for that game), Superman, and, of course, War. Not the card game. I hated playing war with my family, hated it with an all consuming passion. This had nothing to do with my purely pacifist stance in conflict, but, rather, reflected my earliest encounters with gender stereotyping. I was a girl, so I had to be the nurse.

For those friends of mine who are indeed, nurses, this may not seem like such a terrible thing, but to me in my 5-9 year bloodlust, this was tantamount to being horsewhipped with barbed wire. There is no thing on earth that I think could possibly compare with the boredom of waiting for my brothers and cousins to get tired, and play wounded so they could get a little rest so that I could play, too. Wow, that sounded so sad. *sniff* But really, it was what it was, and I didn't hate it too terribly or I would have found something else to do.

Little Golden Books...need I say more? I loved them with a passion that wouldn't die. I think I knew I read too much when I hit about age 11 and my mom would yell at me to get out of my room and get my nose out of a book. If I was particularly bad (which occasionally I was, believe it or not), she would threaten to burn all of my books. At that point, she usually got me to heed her.

There is, however, a penultimate toy that we all had as children, and it's one that you really don't run into that often any more, and I think it's a shame. In this world of PS2, Xbox, and portable dvd players so little kids don't get bored while Mom is driving to the store, the toy that I notice as missing more and more often is a very simple one. It's called "imagination". I don't think that we, as adults and children, take enough time to turn off the tv, pause the computer game, go outside, and play games of "What If?."

I think there is something to be said for the ability for people to ENTERTAIN THEMSELVES. When I was young, I heard that only boring people get bored, and really I do hold this to be truth. I notice that as I age, I think back most fondly on the simpler things that I enjoyed. I remember "Pong" like it was yesterday, but better than that I remember the little arrow plants my brothers and I would pick and throw at each other while playing "Chiefs."

I think that if "imagination" was something that was sold in a box or a bag,I would love to buy all of us some.
Lovies!

Trick or Whatever

Halloween-time
You can really tell sometimes, when people are related. Sometimes they look alike, have a similar personality quirk (Tourette's, maybe?), or beat a much loved phrase into the proverbial dirt.
My mother and I have something in common, something which I am convinced surpasses mere habit, but is something carved into the core, the essence, the very fiber of our communal beings.
We hate trick-or-treaters.
Don't get me wrong. We both love Halloween. The costumes, the morbidity (all right that might be a smidge more me), the chocolate in very very big bags.
But the trick-or-treaters? Not so much. Even less than that, actually.
We're cold blooded and lazy. Don't come and knock on our door and beg for candy. It's not a commercial. Don't you see that there's a cat on my lap? I'm on the computer. Go away.
I don't think that children exist that are "precious" enough for me to give a flying never-mind about (and if you think I really mean to say never-mind, you have another thing coming), and get off my soft, comfy couch for. Buy your own candy, Mom and Dad. You cheap so-and so's.
To alleviate the problem of the trick or treaters in this village (it's literally too small to be classified as a town), Mom and I have come to a conclusion.
We're skipping town.
While small children run around getting razored apples, poisoned candy, and frostbite, Mom and I intend to be shopping, or having a bite to eat in a cozy restaurant.
Stop. I can feel your palpible envy.
Lovies!!!!

Rant Down Memory Lane

I literally jumped up and RAN to the computer to tell you all what I have been doing.
Not because I just got in the door from my exciting European vacation where I was French kissed by an Italian man while he was driving a ridiculously expensive German car.....sigh.....but because I was just annoyed all to hell and will share.

I have an open plea to the people who made the video for Johnny Cash's song, "God's Gonna Cut You Down": If you don't know how to make a good video, throw away that ridiculously expensive video equipment.

This is supposed to be a video, people, not a fucking iPod commercial.

I notice that it's apparently not necessary to have a message or a "story" in videos anymore, probably because a bunch of jackasses standing around lipsynching and trying to look relevant is so much cooler.

Wake up, you stupid fucking sheep. You're not offering respect to Johnny Cash by posing for the camera, trying to prove what fans you are. You're looking like a bunch of bandwagon jumping assholes instead.

At the end of it all, do what you want. Just realize that you (this is the collective "you" that encompasses every single person in that damn video) look like an asshole. In case you were wondering why you were smiling vertically.

[...seethe...seethe....seethe...]

All right, I'm feeling a bit less hostile and morally offended...on to other things.
___________________________

In slightly related news.....I just saw the trailer for Spider Man 3, and I have to say that I can't wait.

It's not so much that I just love the movies, although that is true. It's the comic books that the movie represents.

I'm an old school comic book geek...from Spiderman (I remember the Venom story line from the start, how about you?), to X-Men (not just Dark Phoenix, but the Logan and Kitty Pryde in Japan story line), The New Mutants ( which had the misfortune of being subscribed to by me, sealing in the series' doom), Ambush Bug (same fate), Atari Force (same fate), and, my unabashed favorite as a pubescent girl...Amethyst, Princess of Gemworld (same fate).
You may have noticed, had you been perusing my perenthesis (cheeky bugger!), anytime I seek a constant source of my drug of choice, they get shut down (after four tries, I learn!). For this reason, I am more of a fringe dweller now.

However, my oldest brother loves me and gives me a dose every now and again. For Christmas, many many years ago he gave me the "V" for Vendetta series. I was thrilled to see the movie version, because it brought back all the wonder and horror I felt when I read it wayyy back in the day.

A few years ago: The Sandman series by Neil Gaiman. This series (Which I have in comic book form, but is also available in a graphic novel, if I'm remembering right) is fantastic.

I was about to write up a little synapsis, but it could only be damaged by my feeble attempts to describe it. I do however have some useless trivia about it. The character Delerium (who used to be Delight) is based on Tori Amos. I feel that that is a selling point in and of itself.

While I was at the library last week, I came across "Pop Gun War", which was a lovely little graphic novel, well worth the time it took to read.

I woulds also like to mention the thicker, scarier comics that decorated my childhood...Eerie and Creepy.

These comic books MESSED ME UP when I was a little kid, full of gore and horror, by introducing me to the idea that you don't have to do anything wrong for bad things to happen to you.

Just walk into a disco at the wrong time. A handsome man comes up and asks you to dance, and in the midst of the dance, you notice his large, unusually carved gold medallion starting to glow. Transfixed, you cannot look away, although you feel weaker, lighter, strange.......and *thwoop*
You realize, vaguely, that you are laying on the dance floor. The veil of illusion falls from your eyes, and you see things as they really are. The throngs of other dancers are wearing dark robes; eyes glowing under the strobe light. The handsome man now seems frightening...his strong animal magnetism stripped away, you see that his compelling face now has the eyes of a goat.

You notice glowing lines on the dance floor, like a hex sign you saw when you were a little girl on your Grandparent's farm....so long ago.....and then you see the glint of a knife....and all goes dark.

The moral of the story? The rhythm is gonna get you.....for real.

Yeah, I remember those stories....and the nightmares that went with them. I know it warped my childhood mind, and I'm grateful for that to this day.

Anyhoo, I have to run.

Lovies!

This is why I should stop getting emotionally vested in anime

Feb 2007

Today I learned that drinking Amp'd energy drink causes moderate to severe hallucinations. I learned that by watching one of their commercials, the one where a guy [hereafter named Our Hero] takes a drink and begins hallucinating that he is being attacked by a ream-of-wadded-up-paper-demon.

Rather than spitting out the psychotropic beverage, our hero opts to take the road less travelled by forcing the paper demon into a shredder, assurably gaining many experience points for the next level of adventuring which must assuredly take place at our hero's crummy desk job.

One thing I noticed during this addle pated fever dream experienced by our hero was the total lack of used tissues within the demon dustbin. I found the lack kind of disturbing, actually.

If there had been tissues in the garbage can, that demon would have won. No one wants to touch ABC gum or post nasal drip oragami which a real waste basket would have certainly contained.

Not even our hero, intrepid, resourceful and tweaked out though he may be.

Just a thought.

Quizno's- Knock it off already

March 2007

I know, Quizno's, that you have prime rib on your garlic bread sandwich. I applaud your moxie for telling me via a horny Asian lady.

Can you cut her off before she gets to the giggle?

I can tell you that files, rasps, knitting needles, crochet hooks and a sledgehammer haven't removed that demon noise from my ears yet.

It's enough to hear that "....[the sandwich]... has lots of meat, and that's what women want!" The weird, shrill sound that comes from her mouth from that point is vaguely horrifying.

Please make it stop. Please.

I beg.

Fatal Flaw

This is from somewhere in Mid-2007
Jess

People don't realize what the problem is with these, but it's obvious to me.

I was listening to a Family Guy podcast, unfortunately to an episode which I have already seen, and listened to the original commentary for (Sibling Rivalry),and the speakers mentioned a new Family Guy version of Monopoly.

I think you all should know that I'm really partial to Family Guy, or am certifiably insane, being that I have intentionally listened to 25 minutes of commentary in addendum to the original 25 minutes of commentary. Also, I wasn't watching the episode on dvd, but mentally following along with the background noise of the commentary. Also, I was covered in raspberry preserves and masturbating with a belt sander. But then, it WAS Saturday morning.

Anyway, to get back to the issue at hand. I'll put this in capital letters, so it will be easy to read, as well as signify my frustration:

EVEN IF IT'S FAMILY GUY MONOPOLY, IT'S STILL FREAKING MONOPOLY!!!

I would rather slide down a razor blade into a vat of lime juice than play Monopoly. This game sucks to the ends of the Earth. As a matter of fact, there are no Santa Ana Winds. There are just a bunch of chicken lickers in California playing Monopoly. The vaccuum of it's sucking is what creates the illusion of wind.

I'm generally mean and insulting. But that, at least, is no illusion.