Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Team Name Here

OK, it's time for fantasy football season, which means that my patient boyfriend will have to endure 16 weeks of me being insanely concerned about the outcome of the Browns-Dolphins game and wondering about the opportunities for 9th string running backs to contribute to the team (That means you, Avion Cason).

Some people enjoy fantasy football because they say it gives them an interest in teams they wouldn't normally watch. Those people are wrong. I enjoy fantasy football because I now have a concrete reason to hope that Randy Moss falls asleep by the fireplace and his legs melt (you know, like in the creepy non-Disney version of "Pinocchio". Or was I the only one whose first grade teacher thought it was a good idea to read that story to a group of 6 year olds? Pair that with the "Velveteen Rabbit", and I was terrified that at any time I would either burst into flames or contract scarlet fever and be promptly incinerated. Hats off to you, Iris Cooper.) Anyway, if Randy's tibias are reduced to charred stumps, Jerry Porter and I will rejoice.

So I haven't named my team yet. I have posted my potential names below and would appreciate any feedback that you, loyal readers, have on these:

Fightin' Scientologists
Amber Alert!
Angelina Ate My Baby
Faulkin' A
I Drive a Dodge Stratus
Janosz Poha
Garfield Isn't Funny
Pierce Film to Vent
You're Glib, Matt
Blanket aka Prince Michael II

Happy Little Trees
Mr. Belvedere
The United Way
Your Mother Has Loose Morals
6th Commandment
Can You Hear Me Now?

Happy Hands Club
Ninjas Are Mammals.
staphylococcus aureus
SWF, 26
If I Lose, A Unicorn Dies
Tell Your Dad to Call Me
World's Greatest Grandma

The Lilting Banshees
Your Premiums Never Increase

Monday, August 29, 2005

You Can Tuna Piano...

A friend of mine from the gym brought me a large quantity of fish this morning, the fish that he caught yesterday. First, allow me to point out that this is wicked hot, the whole “man as food provider” thing. For real, I never took any Women's Studies classes so I can say that shit. Anyway, the gift of meat is sort of a primal throwback to when men would approach women and grunt some witticism like “Want go back my cave for sex and mastodon?” and then when she would drag her knuckles elsewhere, he’d shout “What? Not like mastodon?” Of course, if you’re George W. Bush, the above scenario would never take place because all the people were riding the dinosaurs onto Noah’s Ark.

Next, allow me to point out that I don’t really understand people who live in the suburbs but choose to hunt and gather their food (my fisherman friend being exempt, of course) because I haven’t spent any part of my adult life more than ten minutes away from a Harris Teeter. Until life on Earth resembles a disaster movie and I am forced to build a trap for a raccoon or a collie or something out of a box propped on a stick that I will pull away when the “prey” lunges for the Pottery Barn catalog or whatever I’m using as a lure (little known fact: most small mammals love a nice leather ottoman), I prefer that all of my food come wrapped in cellophane and stamped with a ‘sell-by’ date.

Despite having grown up on a mountain lake--one that begs to be the setting of a beer commercial--surrounded by woodland creatures and their various parasites, I have had zero interest in ever pulling my dinner from the woods or especially from the water. Why? Because there are fish in it (not in the woods). And I have also on occasion peed in it (both the woods and the water). Not to mention the fact that I will avoid interacting with any animal/fish/bird that is larger than the trunk of my car. For some reason, “car trunk” seems like a reasonable standard of measurement, in that something smaller than a set of golf clubs is probably less apt to drag me back to its lair and either feed me to its offspring or use me as bedding. Although I’m guessing I’m kind of gristly and I do have sort of bony parts, which probably wouldn’t make for the most pleasant night’s rest. If any mountain lions are reading this, I hope they pass that along.

That said, I do have a ridiculous fascination with sharks. I spent the weekend reading a book called The Devil’s Teeth about a group of scientists who study Great Whites (the sharks), which are not to be confused with Great White (the band) which should not be studied by anyone. Although if I were a pro wrestler who had survived a shark attack, I would sure as hell enter the ring to “Once Bitten, Twice Shy”. Same if I had survived a vampire attack. Oh yeah, in the shark attack case, my wrestler-name would be “Remora”. I’ll take suggestions for the vampire one.

Anyway, I learned some interesting things about sharks, such as:

1) You often hear about their length, but the impressive thing is their width. They can be 8 feet across, which the author described as “as wide as Yao Ming”. I cannot wait until my size is used as a standard of measurement. My all-time favorite measuring tool is the apple, because we all know that each and every Smurf stands three apples high. And yes, I know how insanely dirty that first sentence sounds.

2) The skin of a Great White is composed of denticles, which are like scales made of tiny teeth. How badass is that? The shark can kill you with its skin, which is a trait that I always thought was unique to Joan Rivers.

3) This incarnation of the Great White, Carcharodon carcharias, is thought to have evolved over 40 million years ago. Again, similar to Joan Rivers.

4) Sharks prefer Crate & Barrel over Pottery Barn.
And Food Lion over Harris Teeter. And they wish to God I'd stop peeing in the water.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Paradise by the Desk Lamp

OK, I love me some Sitemeter. Someone actually googled "Cryptoquote Longfellow". Perhaps that person can explain to me how what looks like a regurgitated Wheel of Fortune clue can be unscrambled into an obscure passage from Titus Andronicus. Or how someone can type Titus Andronicus without giggling about the word "Tit".

My handsome boyfriend and I went to visit his parents this weekend for his mother's 84th birthday. Actually, if I were 84, I would eat a damn Carvel cake every single day but that's beside the point. Anyway, his father (a youthful 81) had a list of things for me to do, including installing their Bellsouth DSL hardware. It's amazing to me that his parents are 30 years older than mine, yet have a better grasp of technology. My mother refuses to sit within 4 feet of the computer screen not because of the eyestrain but because she's afraid she's going to be sucked into the internet. I wish I were kidding.

I spent about an hour in his father's home office installing all the computer bits and while I was waiting for the software to load, I started perusing his gigantic bookshelf. His dad is quite the coin collector and 98% of the shelves were loaded with books on the value of coins dating back to, uh, like when his other car was a Stegosaurus. Then I noticed at the far left of the middle shelf a gigundo volume entitled "Secrets to Great Sex". Right beside it was a smaller title, "Better Public Speaking". After being creeped out on an epic "Shining"-like level, it began to make sense, cause if I were 84 and still having sex (forget great sex, just anything even slightly involving friction with another person who was not my caregiver or an undertaker) I would tell absolutely everyone about it.

Sample dialogues:

Him: May I help you?
Me: I am 84 and am able to have sex. Yes, that kind of sex.
Him: This is the post office.
Me: A book of stamps and more sex, please.

Her: Welcome to Fresh Market. What can I get for you?
Me: A willing partner.
Her: Excuse me?
Me: Because I'm 84 and still having sex. With others.
Her: Would you like to try our tortellini salad?
Me: Are those shells stuffed?
Her: Yes.
Me: Cause I've recently had my shell stuffed. With sex.

Yeah, that was nasty.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Insert Loverboy Song Title Here

OK first I would like to acknowledge the insane amount of people who have located this blog by searching for "passive aggressive". Kudos also to the person who googled "IHOP Funnel Cake Recipe". I can't tell you how many times I've gone to IHOP and wished that there was some way for me to recreate that experience in my own home. Or how many dinners have been trashed after my version of the Rooty Tooty Fresh & Fruity failed to reach the standards set by the International House. Apparently, it just doesn't taste right unless it's being served by a toothless woman with a tattoo of Dale Jr. on her forearm who is one more Goody's powder away from an overdose and who regards her apron as an essential culinary tool, much like a cast iron skillet, and cannot ever wash it, lest it loses some of its "flavor".

I also enjoy the Cracker Barrel, where occasionally you are seated and served by what appears to be a 4-star General. Sometimes I'm terrified to eat there, because in the case of an earthquake, tornado, or other natural disaster, the antique pitchforks, hacksaws, and pickaxes that provide the decor could fall and impale me, and that would be one undignified way to die. I pray that my life doesn't end within 50 feet of a bin full of Saltwater taffy, a John Deere music box, or a clearance priced Big Mouth Billy Bass.

And now, Starbucks. They have to be enjoying the ridiculous gas prices. Crude oil is now so expensive, it makes paying $7.32 for a cup of coffee seem like a reasonable thing to do. I rarely visit Daddy Starbucks because 1) I'm not a fan of warm beverages and 2) I hate hipsters (which is the same reason I have an aversion to Che Guevara. I did see a guy wearing that ubiquitous C-Guev t-shirt and the caption read "I have no idea who this is". Thank you, sir. P.S. I would appreciate if someone would stab me in the thigh for using the word 'ubiquitous'.) Anyway, I went the other day, mainly to feel better about myself because I'm not one of the girls currently staring out onto US-311, writing poems and wondering what rhymes with "empty".

So I order the "Venti", hating myself for not referring to it as a small or whatever and the barista (or as I like to call them, "the Duke graduates") actually corrects me and says, "It's pronounced Benti." No, Josh, I believe it's prounounced Buck you and the Dodge Stratus you rode in on. You're wearing an apron with your name stitched on it-- you cannot POSSIBLY be condescending...at least not until you've earned at least 3 stars or sold four "Little Rascals" DVD sets.

Anybody know where I can get some AAA batteries? This singing fish is awesome. "Take me to the river..." Damn, that's clever.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Good Charlotte, NC

Oh yeah kids, my comedy career has taken me to Mecklenburg County… On Tuesday night, my stack of John Mellencamp CDs and I (because I too know what it’s like to be riding high in the Rumbleseat) drove to the Comedy Zone in Charlotte to audition for the Carnival Comedy Challenge. The winner of the competition would receive a paid gig on a Carnival ship, a destination I have longed for ever since I saw those commercials with Kathie Lee Gifford singing “If they could see us now/Out on a Fun Ship Cruise/Words, words, words, words/I believe she completed the rhyme with the word ‘choose’!” K-Giff made it look awesome. And Carnival was totally the best “Wheel of Fortune” sponsor ever, surpassing both Kwai Garlic Supplement and Eggland’s best eggs.

So Tuesday was audition night and it was a rough. Imagine that you’ve been hired to beat the shit out of Mr. Peanut…at the George Washington Carver Memorial Celebration. That’s the level of awkwardness that occurs when performing to a room full of comedians. But somehow, I was one of the twelve finalists selected out of seventy auditionees to perform last night, putting me one step closer to my Fun Ship Fantasy…

Fade in. The Finals. Twelve comedians, one Carnival Fun Ship. I wish Fox would turn that into a reality show. Maybe in the process we could find a new singer for INXS or locate a new arm for Def Leppard’s drummer. The lineup was chosen at random and I was batting #5, right in the heart of the order. And holy crap, the other guys (and woman) were killer. All of the others were professional comedians—I’m the only one with a day job, at least until upper management realizes how much of my time is spent reading Vibe magazine and wondering if anyone in the word can ever solve those 'Cryptoquote' puzzles from the paper. How the hell does “XA43DEvjU@*^1” translate into “Longfellow”?

They had an "American Idol" format which meant there was a panel of judges at the front of the house who offered comments and suggestions after your set and then immediately were solicited by Corey Clark.

Brief "American Idol" note- I admit it. I think Simon Cowell is smokin’ and if I ever bumped into him at Big Lots, I would totally try to seduce him. I read that he’s slept with 200 women but I’m unsure what kind of woman would stick around for the post-coital analysis where he’d wrap himself up in his (black) sheets and say something like, “That was absolutely dreadful. I would rather spend time alone with a jar of Noxema and some clothespins than to ever endure that again. You make me wish that at the 11th week of gestation, I’d developed a second X-chromosome so I would have never been sexually attracted to a malignancy like you.” At least he has that hot accent.

So my set was pretty solid, despite the fact that I was more nervous than Rafael Palmiero holding a specimen cup. The audience laughed, which is awesome. The judges represented several of the major national comedy club chains, Carnival Cruises, and Jagermeister (which I have represented during several altercations with my neighbors). They all gave positive feedback and said that I was doing incredibly well for someone who was this early in her career. The phrase “you’ll go a long way” was used and I was told that I had lots of potential. Cool. I also spoke with a couple of clubs who told me to call them in a few months when I had some more experience. I’ll definitely take them up on it, the whole time hoping it won’t be like when my friends’ older brothers would tell me to call them when I got to college so I would and they’d feign interest by saying things like “Um, good to see you t—uh, why do you still collect baseball cards?” or “Hey, I really thought you’d have breasts by now”. Seriously, here’s hoping I’ll get some work out of this down the road.

I didn’t win. No Fun Ship. Not even an Ennui Ship or a Jaded Ship. But I did get a duffle bag and a “Deuce Bigalo: European Gigolo” t-shirt, so I’ve got that going for me. Actually after my set I wasn’t really thinking about winning anymore, because I was so wicked stoked (hello, 1993!) to be a finalist. I know what you’re thinking: “That’s the kind of shit losers say.” But seriously, I’m still in my first few months of Funnytime so I went into the finals feeling like the Permian High School Mojo, baby…I know I’m totally outmatched by Midland Lee, but dammit, I’m going to bring all I got, cause I’m not a quitter. And then Tim McGraw threw his class ring at me and kicked my ass.

Two notes:
1. Thank you to both of Billy Bob Thornton’s fans for understanding the last sentence. I heart “Friday Night Lights”
2. That is the same logic that led me to eat an entire ½ lb bag of Reese’s Pieces last weekend.

All in all, it’s been a good week. My first ever corporate gig is tomorrow which is leading to my first ever stay at a Red Roof Inn. I’ve got some material to work on...
Today's clue is : FAE#59bV!k = Pythagorus.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

Things to Do in Denver

1) Looking out my office window, I watched a woman park her car so horrendously that she is simultaneously in two parking spaces, on the curb, and blocking the stairs to the lower level of the parking lot. I applaud her though, because she has a "handicapped" tag on her rearview mirror. She has the right idea. If you get a pass for being disabled--and I'll add that her only handicap appeared to be purchasing the teal and pink windsuit she was wearing--you should enjoy the hell out of it. If I had one of those stickers, I would ignore the lot altogether and instead drive onto the sidewalk. Not only that, but I'd make sure that my bumper was always triggering the automatic door sensor so they would open and close constantly, and so people would have to scale the hood in order to get in the building, timing their entrance--like Indiana Jones when he has to slide out of that tomb--so they don't get smashed in the door. Don't forget your fedora... That would be the most fun at hospitals. Either that or I would park in the cart return space. Sideways. Not parallel, I would actually try to flip my car onto its side so it would fit into the corral.

2) The personal trainers at my gym are all horribly out of shape. The woman who's there in the mornings has a physique resembling a Ziploc bag full of cottage cheese. She always has clients, but I can't understand why someone would pay her to get her advice. If you look at her, you'll notice that when she's standing, her legs touch each other at every point from waist to floor. How do you develop a gut on your ankle bones? I'm convinced her thermos is full of Crisco. Seriously, isn't getting fitness advice from a fat woman a little like taking a soccer lesson from Larry Flynt?

3) I'm not a fan of the vanity license plate. I couldn't ever be friends with anyone who paid additional money to outfit their Dodge Stratus with a "UGOGIRL" tag...although I've never been friends with anyone who's ever said that either, so maybe that's a bad example. I also shun people who say "co-inky-dink", "Git 'r done", and "You're fired". (No, not in that Donald Trump/"Apprentice" way...I'm talking about people who have actually fired me.) Anyway, the vanity tag just doesn't seem practical and I'll give you three reasons why: Hit. And. Run. If someone remembers seeing a red Kia in the vicinity, that could be anyone, but I guarantee some meddling witness would recall a "KIDSDOC" or a "NSCARFAN" mowing down the Scout troop. Actually, if your plate actually IS "NSCARFAN", you deserve to be run over.

4) Note to the Defense Department: you may want to add "blue jeans out of the dryer" to your list of approved "interrogation techniques" for war prisoners. Nothing hurts worse than those red hot rivets searing into your pelvis, aka "The Abercrombie Bone". Nothing. Pull a pair of Levis out of my Kenmore and threaten to put 'em on me and I'm talking, whatever you want to know. Get an old priest and a young priest, because I'll confess everything before I'll get branded. I'll even give up my handicapped space.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude

In an ever changing world, there are only a few things we can count on: that Ted Kennedy's head will always increase in size and girth, that you can actually hear Ryan Seacrest getting gayer, that comedy clubs will always put a fake brick wall onstage, and that Al-Qaeda videos will always be shot in front of a big rock with a bunch of machine guns in the background.

Where the hell do they tape these things? It looks like they're sitting on Big Thunder Mountain at Disney World, although surely someone else standing in line would notice the tall guys in turbans with the Handycam and the automatic weapons...unless they just thought they were extras from the "Aladdin" dinner show. Actually, most people at amusement parks are so focused on either not dying of heat stroke, contracting food poisoning from the homemade tartar sauce at Cap'n Crazy's Shrimp-n-Scurvy Buffett, or trying to resist making mean faces at the triplets sitting in the SiblingStroller(TM) until they cry to notice that the Grand Dragon of Al-Qaeda is taping a live remote from Frontierland.

As someone who has witnessed her mother laying face down in a tulip garden at Busch Gardens following an unpleasant incident involving garlic bread and a ride on the Pirate Ship, I can attest to this.

All I'm asking is for a little set decoration from these people. They can mastermind all sorts of criminal activity and manage to be the scourge of society, but they can't purchase a little bookcase, a fern, a desk or something to make it a little less rustic?

If Al-Qaeda's Line Producer happens to be reading this, I have two words for him: PARTY CITY. I fully expect to see two inflatable palm trees, a pinata, and a Parrothead hat. Show us your silly side, would you? It's always anger, anger, anger at the infidels, which frankly gets a little boring.

Secondly, why is the term "mastermind" only applied to evil pursuits? You always read about "terrorist masterminds" or "criminal masterminds" but where are the all the "butterfly collecting masterminds" or the "macrame masterminds"? I know they're out there somewhere and I sure wish USA Today would write about them...or maybe just do a pie chart.

Monday, August 01, 2005

The More You Know...

OK, our HR department sends a 'health and wellness' newsletter with every paycheck, hoping I guess that you'll take the advice so that you can work here until you're well into your 90s. Below please find a verbatim listing of travel tips offered "For a Bon Voyage!":

1) Stop for shots.
2) Stow the right stuff.
3) Keep legs limber.
4) Be good to your body.
5) Regulate your re-entry.

Shots? Flexibility? Re-freakin' entry? Either my next business trip is to the Hedonism resort or we're hosting a Pi Beta Phi mixer.

If the latter occurs, we'll need shots of both varieties: alcoholic and antibacterial. Remember, there's no "i" in "team", but there is in "Hepatitis".

'Cause Zygotes are Sexy

Disturbing Song Lyrics: Bryan Adams edition
Welcome back to the work week, which means more mind-numbing soft rock. They just played that hardcore song "Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman" or some combination of the words "Love", "Woman", and "You", which could be any song from the WMAG playlist with the exception of the ones by Elton John, because, well, you know...

Anyway, it was the theme song from "Don Juan DiMarco", a Johnny Depp movie from the period of his career known as "the Arena League Years", when he was past his college playing days (21 Jump Street, "Edward Scissorhands") but hadn't been picked up by an NFL team yet ("That Keith Richards-as-a-Pirate Movie", "Charlie, the Chocolate Factory, and Neverland Ranch"). "Don Juan" and "The Astronaut's Wife" are the cinematic equivalent of the Barcelona Dragons. Moving on...

That song has a lyric that says "When you see your unborn children in her eyes/You know you really love a woman." Um, no, when you start seeing pupils-as-fetuses, you've taken the brown acid. If a man looked at me and referenced seeing anything in my eyes other than allergy-induced redness, I would kick him in the teeth. No questions asked.

Who writes shit like that? Bryan? Even if you're seeing the kids as 4 or 5 year olds, staring at your lover and seeing children's faces etched on their retinas is a little too "Omen"-like.

Nothing is hotter in bed than a man calling out baby names. "Oh yeah, right there, hey, what about Austin? Do you like Austin? Do that again...how 'bout Kelsey if it's a girl?"

On an unrelated note, nothing is a bigger ball of suck than having a rainy ass weekend and then on Monday morning watching the sun come up at about 3:30 a.m., mocking you. Stupid life-sustaining star.