Monday, October 31, 2005

I Heart the Boomtown Rats. But Not Mondays.

I was reading a magazine with a headline that said “Always Tired? Diabetes Could Be the Cause.” Right. I love how magazines (and the local news…this means you, Ben Salt) try to whip people into a frenzy by doing stories like “Eating Three Times a Day? You Probably Have Cancer.” or “Do You Blink Your Eyes? You Have a Brain Tumor.” or, the most accurate, “Getting Medical Advice from Glamour? You’re Definitely Retarded.” Call me crazy, but I rarely take seriously any health information sandwiched between articles like “Turn Him On With a Flyswatter” and “I Whipped Bulima- By Star Jones”.

Also, I overheard someone today (we'll call him Freakshow) talking about how he and his family were going to eat dinner by candlelight tonight so they could turn all the lights out to prevent any trick-or-treaters from stopping at their house. I hope that rather than set a bag of dog shit on fire on his porch, someone sets him on fire. A 2 pound bag of KitKats are about $2.50 at Harris Teeter--isn't that a small price to pay for not having to scrape poop out of your birdhouse tomorrow or put a piece of cardboard over the nasty phrase someone scraped into your car, just like Cary Elwes had to do in that movie where Alicia Silverstone was obsessed with him, enough to attack his girlfriend with bees and take used condoms out of his trash? Am I the only one who watched that? Anyway, I swear if I knew where this guy lived, I would hand out fliers with his address on them, pointing out that he's not out of town, he's just cheap. And deserves to have to stomp out a flaming pile of Alicia Silverstone movies.

I wish I had some trick-or-treaters, just because I'd love to see their faces light up when I gave them each their very own tampon.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Sweeping those Freakin' Clouds Away

Life Lesson #732- Never groom your eyebrows after you’ve been drinking. Absolut mixed with cranberry juice can make you look great to your dinner date. Absolut mixed with tweezers can make you look like a Fraggle. One who is in a permanent state of surprise. While there supposedly aren’t any straight lines found in nature (told to me by my middle school art teacher who I’m pretty sure found the occasional straight line on a mirror, if you know what I’m saying… there’s no other explanation for her unwavering commitment to building a replica of Big Ben out of crepe paper and popcicle sticks, which, based on her greyhound-looking ribcage that was visible through her vinyl smock, she did not consume herself. Moving on…) Anyway, there may not be any straight lines in nature, but there now are two of them right above my eyes. I look like Wembley after discovering that the freakin’ Trash Heap could talk.

Let me point out here that the other day, I typed the phrase “Sesame Street” in Microsoft Word (you know, just working on some Luis the Handyman fan fiction) and I got a prompt asking me if I’d like it to display a map or driving directions for it. Apparently when the theme song asks “can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?” the correct answer is “, and they’ll show you several Denny’s and Red Roof Inns along the way.”

After said drinking binge on Friday, I found myself at home riveted to a show on Discovery called “I Survived a 200 Pound Tumor”, a premise that I have several problems with. Anyway, this woman who basically had the equivalent of Kirstie Alley growing out of her abdomen, had to undergo this incredibly risky operation and they kept cutting to commercials after the narrator said something menacing like “Will Brenda’s family ever see her alive again?” or “Will she be able to endure 40 hours of surgery?” Um, yeah, she will. It’s in the TITLE of the program. The show’s not called “I Died From a Big Ass Tumor” or “My Family Is Reading My Will Because I Was Eaten By a Tumor”. Seriously, Discovery Channel, if you want to keep me interested, don’t list the outcome of the show in the TV Guide.

What kind of person lets a tumor grow so large that they can claim it as a dependent before going to see a doctor? I mean, do they just look at it thinking “OK, when it gets bigger than a basketball, I’m really making an appointment.” Or “Yeah, it’s the size of my daughter, I really need to call the doctor.” This is the same problem I have with people who end up weighing 900 pounds and sob to Maury Povich that they can’t get out of their house anymore. Apparently, eating until the only thing you can wear is a duvet cover is fine, but when you can’t fit in your carport, that’s when it’s gotten out of control.

Confidential to this woman I see at the Y whose name, I think, is Marsha: Putting an airbrushed license plate reading “A Touch of Class” on the front of your Cavalier doesn’t really add one. Oh yeah, I’d also appreciate if you stopped wearing those shorts that say “SALEM” across your ass. I know you’re proud to be in Salem College’s continuing education program, but seriously, you’re damn near 50… do you really want us to know you’re in Basic Math? I will give you extra credit if you can measure the angle of my eyebrows though.